Bitter as kale and goldenseal.

"Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine."
                              --Ralph Waldo Emerson

I'm done with my career. My current one. And I'm moving on to a new one...one that is more in line with my values, my strengths, and my passion. And fortunately, it is in a field for which there is a need, one that will contribute to the betterment of society.

Over the past eight years, I have gone from being the only person in my practice (read: no admin help, no assistants of ANY sort...I was everything and everyone rolled up in one), to being quasikindasortabutnotreally part of another chiropractic practice (and oh boy was THAT not fun), to being business-wise on my own but with administrative support in a building with practitioners of a similar bent (the best situation). Each iteration has resulted in less-than-stellar results to the bottom line, and much personal and professional struggle. It's hard to be in this field when you're surrounded by people (including the spouse you are around more than anyone) who are at least dubious, if not outright skeptical and dismissive of your field and the good you can do/have done in it. Such a lack of support tears at you like daily paper cuts made with a razor-sharp sheet of copper.

I'm leaving this line of work with not a little bit of bitterness. In retrospect, so many of the signs were there all along. I was never that much into the medical field originally. In school, anatomy and physiology never really grabbed me. Nutrition bored me. My fellow students' foul stench of entitlement and political correctness grated on my nerves to no end. The woo-woo component irked the solid, grounded side of me tremendously. Heck, even one of the most prominent members of the naturopathic community, Dr. Michael Cronin, once told me, point-blank, "Don't do it" when I asked him advice about going into naturopathic medicine back in 1997. Maybe he saw something incongruent in me I didn't...or maybe he was just similarly bitter about the profession at the time.

Having said that, botanical medicine and homeopathy were fascinating. (And no, the irony of being enamored by homeopathy while cringing at the woo does not escape me.) I cannot overstate the joy I had upon drinking licorice tea for a week and, as a result, obliterating a cold which otherwise would have given me bronchitis for months on end. Nor can I deny how one particular homeopathic remedy helped me mature tremendously over the span of six months, helping me emotionally feel no longer like a boy trapped in a man's body, but as a full-grown man. And I've seen homeopathy successfully treat - and sometimes end - depression, anxiety, alcoholism, food cravings, allergies, asthma, food poisoning, minor hemorrhages, PMS...the list goes on and on.

Conventional medicine is very well established, with plenty of infrastructure and plenty of opportunity for students, residents, fellows, and doctors to observe, learn, teach, and otherwise apply their knowledge for (hopefully) the betterment of their patients. Unfortunately, my experience - and that of many of my patients - has only borne this conclusion through significantly less often than is ideal. Hence the need for the medicine I have been practicing for eight years. But the support in conventional medicine is profound compared with the brittle infrastructure of much of what I consider traditional medicine. Few residencies exist after school, be it naturopathic, acupuncture, chiropractic, or some similar practice. Hospital privileges are virtually unheard of. Students are graduated and given diplomas and licenses, and are shoved out into the business world to start their practices with naught but the most menial of business education, frequently placed on a quicksand foundation of little interest or acumen in business in the first place.

Bitterness also rears its ugly head when I watch the nightly news and see minute-long pharmaceutical commercials, with lists of side effects that take up half the ad. Pharm companies spend millions to get these commercials out there. And the medicine I practice gets swept under the rug, or at most gets tolerated by the media outlets. So I shake my fist impotently at the universe.

More bitterness? I am sick of playing Cassandra. She was a woman in Greek mythology who had the gift of prophecy, but the curse of having no one believe her. I'm sick of people complaining online about their illnesses while knowing that knowledge I have could help them tremendously, even more than the conventional medicine they rely on. For example, hearing people complain about having the flu for weeks on end grated on my nerves, knowing that a tasty syrup made from black elderberries could cure them of the flu within 3 days, and powerfully alleviate symptoms within 24 hours. And my advice - from a doctor! - to take said syrup went unheeded I can't tell you how often. Lesson learned: I shouldn't dole out free advice on the internet.

I resent the sentiment that caring about the food you eat is elitist. Sure, people can have a legitimate beef with Whole Foods/Whole Paycheck, which has an undeniable elitist bent. When you bring that sentiment to the realm of farmers markets, though, it's just invalid. Besides, why would you not want to feed yourself with the best food possible, when tremendous evidence exists that pesticides (stored in containers marked with skulls and crossbones) are the basis for a wide swath of diseases? The same claims exist for genetically modified organisms. Or how about the current obesity epidemic? Among a multitude of other factors, it seems pretty plausible that the growth hormones that we give cattle and swine to help them grow to insane and unhealthy sizes for our dinner plates might also be helping us humans to grow to insane and unhealthy sizes, too. Why is wanting to avoid these things elitist?

Tangentially, I had a brother-in-law who was the epitome of the salt of the earth. Great guy, but our politics diverged diametrically, and while I was trying to build a career on optimizing one's diet (among other things), he scorned the idea of eating for your health, and despite a dangerous lifestyle that shot his cardiac risk factors through the roof, he wouldn't budge his habits for the sake of his health - nor for the sake of those around him who loved him. (Whole Foods, I'm certain, represented an unpatriotic way of life, anathema to him.) And six months ago, he stopped having to worry about health forevermore thanks to a massive heart attack, leaving behind a fiancee with a debilitating chronic neurologic condition, bills to pay, and a full house to take care of. Not caring about what you eat can, in some cases, be tremendously selfish and hurtful to those around you.

One more thing that gets to me: had I listened to myself and heeded myself years ago and followed my love of words to its conclusion, I might not be in this situation. Or maybe I might. But I harbor even more resentment about taking to heart the advice of disinterested adults at dinner parties who smiled indulgently at my passion for language, then derided my choice of linguistics as a major as being too boring. Or what about journalism? Oh, but that's stupid, see, because then you'll only write about what other people do, instead of doing those things yourself. (Not a word said about how journalism ends up requiring you in some cases to go out and explore said things, instead of merely reading about them in the newspaper or seeing them on TV.) God forfend I should consider music...total dead end. Only but so I graduated from one of the top music schools in the nation, and while many of my music major friends were being placed into jobs directly out of school, I graduated with a degree that never earned me one penny.

So I give up. I'm leaving the tribe. This profession is made for those with steelier spines than mine, for people who can walk their talk more firmly and passionately than I, for people who refuse to let their world view be tainted with bitterness, for people who are damn near superhuman. These doctors deserve a world of respect and acknowledgement. And more practically, they deserve a world of patients...and patients deserve them. And I will be a lifetime patient of naturopathic doctors.

I have few illusions about the field I'm going into. It is not the most lucrative. It is highly specialized. Heck, I can count the number of professionals in this field on one hand. But there is undeniably a demand, and I'm not sure I will be idle for long. And I can honestly say it is where my heart lies right now. Is it as prestigious as being a doctor? Not really, but what is? I can get used to shaking my fist at the universe - the one I've already used - for the injustice that being a professional educator is a fraction as prestigious as being a doctor. Oh well. I guess the lesson here is that you'll find injustice everywhere you look.

Having said that, I'm adhering to the Tammy Wynette school of philosophy. Despite being so successful in music, she maintained her beautician's license all her life, because...well, you never know what life may deal you, and she always wanted that safety net. I admire that kind of pragmatism. Similarly, maybe I'll come back around to this field in some capacity in the future, so I'll keep my licenses active, quite possibly for life.

But for now, I'm leaving, with a big fat gluten-filled chip on my shoulder and a lot of self-learning to do.

"And we liked it! We LOVED IT!"

A FB friend I met in Provincetown this summer just griped about how, for the millionth time, he and his husband were accused of being twins, let alone brothers. And it was all I could do to bite my tongue and not say something snarky in reply.

Gay men are narcissists. And I mean that in more than the obvious way. For many guys, it comes through in who they are attracted to. These guys both have a heavyset, almost fireplug build, with narrow eyes and dark, short hair. They both wear the same type of eyeglasses - narrow and rectangular. They both are slightly above average height. Other facial characteristics are similar, including a slightly forced smile. IMO, both are quite handsome. It's not a leap to suggest they are both attracted to themselves. (From what I know of them, they are not emotionally narcissistic.) But it is a potentially friendship-killing leap. So I keep my mouth shut. Oh well.

I'm seriously considering starting a FB profile so I can masquerade as a grumpy old man who just can't keep his mouth shut about stupid shit he sees on the world wide webiverse and the world around him. Just to have an outlet for my opinion...until FB shuts it down for some reason or other. I'm not quite ready to be such an asshat from my own profile. Give me a few years and a few more gray hairs.

I'd like to be positive...I just don't have the energy.

Things that really don't affect me, (despite everyone around me insisting that they do, or else they wouldn't be posting them on Facebook with such gravitas and insistence), and my admittedly asshole-ish responses.

• James Gandolfini - Really could care less. I never watched The Sopranos. Never had any desire to. My interest, passing as it was, with the Mafia began and ended with watching Goodfellas. Joe Pesci's "You think I'm funny?" scene was beyond chilling, but holy paregoric, Batman, I am forevermore turned off of "Layla" because of that neverending...uh...ending. And the movie was just fuckin' deathless. Anyhoo, the guy never did a thing for me. As my oh-so-compassionate dad would say, "We all die. It just happens. Move on." (Said most recently about my sister-in-law's mom dying suddenly of cancer, while said sister-in-law was still, understandably, grieving a few months later.)
• Paula Deen - A Southern woman being racist. Is this where I'm supposed to act shocked? Pass the butter, please.
• Another of my colleagues - First off, let me say that I'm a traitor to the cause, and my colleagues are becoming less and less my people every day. I've mentioned my annoyance with astrology and a certain doc's reliance on it for her life's direction (despite the fact that, yes indeed, I do fit the picture of a Pisces perfectly), but this post, with no context whatsoever, implying its universal application, just...I just can't. "Hang on to your haciendas. There is a huge energetic clearing afoot. Trade 'pushing through it' to surrendering to the moment today..."
• Still, anything bear-related - For me, this is the equivalent of girls/women looking at fashion magazines and the perfect models therein, and alternately desiring those bodies for themselves, and seething with jealousy, frustration, and self-loathing that no matter how they try, they will never be able to measure up. And yes, I am going to one of the biggest bear-related events of the year (a good friend is on this page, bottom center.) I have such mixed emotions about it. Anyhow, I see endless posts about this bear event, that woofy guy (worst term ever, by the way), this bear group, and I die a bit inside. How ironic that the bear community sprang from annoyance about big hairy guys not fitting into the clone/twink culture of the '70s and '80s. I'm closer to being a bear than a twink or a clone, but nope, it ain't me. I know, I know...breathe, breathe, you're perfect as you are, don't compare yourself to others, just be yourself...sometimes it ain't easy.

Maybe this means that I should spend less time on Faceplace, or just cull my friends more judiciously. Of course, the whole Gandolfini worship and anguish seems pretty endemic, so I'll just have to ride this one out.

The grumpy old contrarian strikes!

- I do not like David Sedaris.
- I do not like alcohol...at least, in huge amounts.
- I am a natural doctor who has little interest in nutrition.
- In particular, I hate pushing nutritional supplements.
- It is "brrr" when describing how cold you feel. Not "burrr." That's a misspelling of a thorn. So there.
- I hate Michelangelo Signorile. Simply because he has such an infuriatingly long, pretentious name that's hard to pronounce. And he insists on the full version, too. I don't care that he's a gay activist/writer. Of course he's gay. No one who's straight would go by "Michelangelo" nowadays, unless they're Italian.
- David Beckham can suck my left nut.
- And Victoria Beckham can rot for all I care. She's not worthy to suck either of my nuts.
- Not going to my 20 year high school reunion. The people all in charge of it were the people I abhorred back in the day. The pictures they're posting (particularly of 20 years ago) nauseate me. And if people really want to see how I'm doing, it's not like I'm hard to find online. (Only thing that may change my mind: if the Silver Skating Dame herself actually ends up showing up, but that's kinda doubtful. She keeps a pretty low profile online as well.)
- I'm not gluten free. And I won't go gluten free until I personally decide it's worth it, despite what the vast majority of my colleagues say.

Speaking of where my colleagues and I are concerned:
- I am NOT a fan of Breitenbush Hot Springs.
- I am not a fan of much that is new-agey.
- I HAAATE, with a withering hatred, The Four Agreements.
- I likewise hate the egomaniac Wayne Dyer. (Publishing an audiobook where you recite the Tao te Ching, then give your personal interpretation of it immediately pushes you into the realm of douchebaggery.)
- Many of my colleagues with whom I shared Portland for four years, believe that the sterile, often warehouse-like Powell's Books is the best bookstore in the universe. These ignorant, misguided dolts have never been to Tattered Cover here in Denver.

Obviously, you'll see more. Go ahead and judge me as bitter. So are you, deep inside. Give in to it. Cold pricklies are your friends.

RAPE CULTURE MUST DIE.

There. I said it. And I fully believe it, too.

I haven't been camping out at the Steubenville courthouse, so anything I hear has been second-hand, but the media aren't looking too good for making the boys out to appear victims. As well they shouldn't. As far as rape goes, that looked awfully premeditated and...well, isn't that the definition of "first-degree"? And yet again, the young woman was blamed for being...what? Overly seductive? Too much of a tease? REALLY? Have some respect - for yourself and DEFINTELY for her. Think about her family. Her friends. Her future. Think beyond your crotch and the next 15 minutes.

So. How not to annihilate rape culture: Exhibit A.

A good friend posted this tonight, and again, I agree with the sentiment. But GOD. As a man (and yes, I place myself in the company of all my brothers, straight and otherwise), this reeeeeallly rubs me the wrong way. Allow me to retort to certain of these 10 tips to end rape.

1. Don't put drugs in women's drinks? Fine. (Already biting my tongue to hold back the snark here.)
2. Got it. The next time I see a woman walking alone, I will leave her the HELL alone.
3. I will do my damndest to hold back my animal urges when I pull over to help a woman whose car has broken down. Actually, tellya what. I won't even bother pulling over. My animal urges might get the best of me.
4. I will make sure not to rape a woman if I happen to get in a lift/elevator and she's the only one there. In fact, I will just stay the hell away from her. Won't even get in the goddamned elevator. Who knows what awful impulse could come over me?
5. I will stay the HELL away from the window of a woman's house. I will stay the HELL away from a woman if she is anywhere near two parked cars. And I SURE AS HELL will not rape her.
6. I am so fucking stupid and violent that I can't keep from assaulting myself, let alone assaulting other people. I am the very embodiment of why the buddy system is so badly needed to protect the citizenry of our good society. Ya know, why don't you just arrest me on account of I may do something rash anyway. Probably better for all involved. Consider it a preemptive strike in the war against rape.

Okay. I can't go on. You see how twisted and perverse I get? This graphic is so incredibly demeaning and condescending and disrespectful and sexist that it just makes my skin curdle. Makes me want to have absolutely NOTHING to do with women. And it definitely makes me want to have absolutely NOTHING to do with anything rape-related. Including helping those who have been raped.

I know that my sentiments come across as infantile when compared to the very legitimate anguish that a rape survivor has to deal with for the rest of his (yes, I said "his"...it's not a crime exclusive to women) or her life. And I admit that I have my emotional funny bones - hit me in just the right spot, and you'll cause a deep, irrational, lingering response. This graphic does exactly that. This is NOT the way to address the issue of rape. It may be a way for women to get their anger and frustration out, but it's perilously close to counterproductive.

Reminds me once of seeing a woman on the college lecture circuit. She was incredibly brave to come forward and talk about her experience of being raped repeatedly one night in college. It was brutal to hear. It was also tremendously unnerving to hear how she had to muster up the courage to report to her RA about it. His response? Silence, at first. Then getting up from the chair, and punching a hole in the wall. Because that's what she really needed to experience after such a violent attack: another indirect form of violence.

Annihilating rape culture. As if that's something that could just be permanently and quickly erased. But here's a start. Once again, our man Hank here to save the day. Key quote: "To me, the problem that needs to be addressed is where in the information chain were the two offenders made to understand that what they did was not wrong on every possible level?" Another key, kickass quote: "...let young people understand that women have been kicking ass in high threat conditions for ages and they are worthy of respect." THAT'S what I'm talking about.

(No. Seriously. If you didn't click on Hank's link above, fucking click on it and read it in its entirety.)

Good God, North Carolina...

Really? What the everloving fuck?

The language of Amendment One in North Carolina, passed today: "Marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be valid or recognized in this State.” Hmm...think about that. A "domestic legal union." This basically means that not only would same-sex gay & lesbian unions would not be legal, but any sort of common law living arrangements (and the benefits appertaining thereto) would also not be legal. Never mind that there is already a law banning same-sex marriages. The fucktards in NC decided that wasn't enough. Now, this law pretty much undermines some domestic violence protection, screws with child custody issues, and - yes, that most visible of rights - curtails hospital visitation privileges. Way to preserve the sanctity of good old-fashioned one man-one woman Christian marriage (because of course, there's only one kind, right?) and ensure the stability of society.

Of course, the fact that many people didn't understand what they were voting for didn't help matters, either. Gotta love those informed voters.

About five years ago, I attended a cousin's wedding in Fayetteville. The minister, douchenozzle that he was, saw fit to insert some political comment during the blessing about how a marriage should only be between a man and a woman. Were I not surrounded by loving and supportive family (and loving and supportive of my cousin's marriage myself), I would have stood up and stomped out of that church posthaste. As loudly and obtrusively as possible. Just infuriated me.

Now, because I can be a cruel-hearted and vindictive bitch, if I lived in North Carolina, and were a law enforcement official of some sort, I would gleefully enforce this law to its fullest extent, making damn well and sure that those who voted for it and failed to understand its ramifications would be punished to the fullest extent of the law for their ignorance. Of course, for those who voted against it, I'd feel pretty heavy-hearted and frustratingly duty-bound to follow through with state-mandated responsibility, dragging my feet the entire way.

The requisite disclaimer: I have plenty of family and a few friends who hail from North Carolina (see above). With a possible exception (and even then, I kinda doubt...), I know for a fact all of them would have voted against this hateful amendment. A few of them even went out of their way to campaign against it, which I'm grateful for. So I can't make a blanket statement on how all North Carolinians are ignent and hateful.

Still...way to go, North Carolina. Congratulations on becoming this nation's newest hate state. (Said with mockery from another erstwhile hate state...which incidentally, at this very hour, is coming awfully close to making civil unions legal.)

=====

UPDATE: Check that. Apparently, when you have a Republican-controlled House, they see fit to filibuster this bill until the midnight deadline, and you don't have room to gloat. Once again, on the wrong side of history.)

"Tim Tebow is not a religious symbol."

...so don't write about him using religious imagery, alright?

Good sweet godforsaken Jeebus in a frozen pillbox, people. I am SICK of it.

I've already written about the phenomenon that is Tim Tebow before. I was repulsed before, and I am utterly sick to my stomach now. Because I live in Denver, I get to read headlines once a week about this boy. Sometimes more, because, well, now his very un-Christian way of showing his Christianity at the end of games or in the end zone has become something of a national phenomenon, no longer simply a local thang. But everyone loves him. A friend of mine (whom, yes, I have also written about before) actually has Tebow's name written backwards as his middle name on Facebook, so deep does his enthusiasm go. And I throw up in my mouth a little whenever I see it.

People, this is making me about as nauseated as it did to have to handle eight years of having to utter the phrase "President Bush." And that, my fellow Americans, was well-nigh intolerable. (Ohio, I hold you and your, uh, questionable voting/counting methods in '04 responsible. I don't care you voted Obama in '08...we didn't need you after all the votes were tallied. Send my regards to Pennsylvania, Indiana, and Virginia for that one.)

Now I've heard it all. Tebow is...oh, God, I can barely bring myself to type it. Suffice it to say that I got this from Fox Sports. (See? Why am I even reading this tripe? Fox Sports? That should be kryptonite to me. But there it was, and my addled mind chose to read the article. Effective headline, though: "Tebow might be a true revelation"; it sickened me and made me want to read more.)

Okay: here's the quote.

"Tebow’s birth — a product of his mother’s faith and refusal to listen to doctors advising her to abort — might very well have been a religious miracle."

Great. The last thing we need is for our ailing football franchise - because that's really the most important thing here, to support our local sports team, right? - is for the latest golden boy to be branded a religious miracle because his parents did not abort. Regarding this situation, Tebow is the product of some dedicated and stubborn parents who wanted to keep their child, damn what the doctors said. And that he turned out alright is certainly much to their credit. And from a Whitman/Emersonian standpoint, yes, life is a miraculous thing, no sarcasm intended. But c'mon, people. A religious miracle? That goes about 100 steps too far.

But that's not all. Let's go one sentence previous.

"He’s a shrine to the power of a strong, committed, passionate two-parent upbringing."

A shrine!? Someone stop me before I slap this sports columnist silly. The point here is that Tebow's success is because he had two parents (heterosexual, bien sûr). The comparison is to other QBs like Michael Vick (that paragon of perfection who should still be serving time, and someone whom I sincerely hope karma will address at some point). Apparently, Vick limped along in a single-parent home, and that's why he fails. Tebow was lucky (no, sorry, my fellow Christians. You're right. Luck doesn't exist. It's blessed) blessed enough to have two parents. But seriously? That's the reason for his success? Dude, let me take you aside. (I reserve my "Honey, honey, honey, what's all this?" Karen Walker routine for my fellow gay boys. "Dude" makes more sense here.) There are millions upon millions of people here who were fortunate enough to grow up in two-parent families. I'm sure lots of quarterbacks, too. And I'd imagine that the vast majority of those QBs aren't bringing football teams back from ignominy. The vast majority of children raised by two parents aren't making headlines because of their successes. So don't ascribe Tebow's success to that. And STOP with the religious imagery, and do NOT call him a shrine or a miracle. Because everytime you do that, even God spits up in His mouth a little.

The estimated blackboard pauses opposite his thesis.

Prefab Sprout - Jordan: The Comeback: Painful. Critics swoon over Prefab Sprout. And I demand that they justify themselves. This overlong album (by about 17 songs) grates horrendously. Twee and kaleidoscopic. It's so bad, I'm reduced to poor commentary with incomplete sentences made only of adjectives. The only song I really think is worthwhile is "Scarlet Nights," a touching yet rollicking farewell to a dying relative. (And if you can't tolerate even that, you're completely forgiven.)

The Iron Lady: I was too young to really get Margaret Thatcher. To me, Maggie was just a stern British headmistress on the news who was the last person you wanted as a babysitter. Oh, and the punks hated her. Normally, a movie about her would barely raise an eyebrow. But this has me itching to see more. And Meryl Streep could clinch an Oscar - or at least a nomination - on the basis of this trailer alone. Hell, she's not even onscreen for half her part!

Uh...um...this. This actually outdoes People of Wal-Mart. I mean, I kind of slightly enjoy POWM once every few years. But then I get to thinking...hmm. These people are genetically related to me. I could, theoretically, breed with one of these people and we could turn out a specimen that is not incompatible with life. All the DNA fits, we share the same number of chromosomes...it could happen. (Though, of course, the same could be said about a chihuahua and a Great Dane. Theoretically.) And it's at that point that I'm out.
See, with these two glass-eyed walking poster children for Ugly Anorexics of America, I don't even enjoy looking at them. There's no schadenfreude, no amusing rolling of the eyes. It's just disgust that paparazzi have deemed these genetic freaks somehow worthy of tabloids. I mean, they don't do anything interesting. They don't even move. They just stand, wear expensive, ugly...uh...clothes, and look homely. But combine this phenomenon with some of the most nauseating conspicuous consumption and saddest use for reptiles, and we have reached the level of obscenity. If this is what these twins are good for, then put 'em out of my misery. I have a garden to cultivate. Ship 'em off to Siberia. Or a cat farm. (I'm convinced they're gonna be the subject of the next Grey Gardens.)