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God's shishkebob handiwork

2004-09-23 -

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

- Carl Jung (1875-1961)


When people ask you that question about who you would be with on a desert island if you could only pick one person, I think they ask you that because some of them feel as though they are already on a desert island with those they're stuck with. Not everyone. Just the ones that love to ask that question.

Everything is the way it is, contingent on its surroundings, as we know. I couldn't be a sheep herder living in Jersey. But I think it's really interesting when certain groups of people spend any considerable period of time together. I wish I were a little clearer, then I could really explain this. Follow along, or forget it.

You find your people eventually. But what if you don't have a choice and you're stuck with roommates you attained during your mental breakdown, for example? That's the kind of alchemy that reality television bets its money on.

When I was out of college, and interviewing for a counselor position at a home for mentally retarded adults, who I'm sure have aquired a newer, more appropriate title by now, like Capable but Not as Effective Adults, I was asked a few 'what would you do' questions.

"Ohell what would you do if one of the residents attacked you? How would you handle it?"

"Well, I think I'd do the WRAP technique you guys showed me, wherein I'd "hug him" and safely lower him to the ground, and then calm him down with gentle soothing talkniques. Talk about his brother being a fireman, things he likes to do when he's not angry, that sort of thing. "

"That's great, that's great. Ok, what do you think would be a good idea for an outing with the house?"

"Like I could come up with so many things, just - not now because I'm nervous about the interview. But you'll just have to see."

"Honest. I like that."

"Yeah."

So when Chris did attack me for the second time, I was way done with the WRAP technique. Get in his way once, shame on you, get in his way twice, I'd be a fool to. I had him WRAPPED pretty well the first time, did the talking technique and he ended up laughing eventually. But I had to hold him there for an hour, while the other wussy counselor Brenda took ludicrous pleasure in telling him his soda ticket was revoked. Number one, this was a two man job, and I was only one. Second, taking his soda ticket agitated Chris all over again and since he was retarded, he got confused as to whether to take it out on me or on Brenda. Luckily she was more retarded, and got in his face a few times while he was being WRAPPED. He never forgot her for that. Patty, the deaf drooling redhead with the blunt china doll haircut, that I'm sure I've mentioned here at some point, tried to stop him, if only in vain. She intercepted him with her cerebral palsy arm, but he worked around her (more like knocked her around) and he pushed over the two ton t.v. and the stereo. Are you crazy? Let those two hash it out, this was not a high paying job. Add to that, whenever he was going to "go off", he would talk about his fireman brother first, and it was creepy.

"Firetruck. Firetruck. Push fire alarm. Fire alarm. Fire truck. Fuckin fire truck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "

That's when you knew. But I stopped intervening because I was not a solo act. On a good day, Chris was calm and harmless, like a teddy bear with his stuffing pulled out.

"I like firetwucks, hee hee."

The residents managed to tolerate each other the way any other screwed up group did. Very badly, with love. When we brought them to another group home for dinner, redhead Patty hooked up with a guy from the home team house who has been in a bad accident, and was now brain dead, in a highchair. She drooled all over him and laughing, fed him string beans (from her mouth) He was beyond grateful, and we were sick to our stomach. She wore this Pinky Tuscadero one zipper unitard, and the guy kept unzipping it while everyone was eating. 9 1/2 Weeks was a cotton candy snow day, comparatively. But how else were they gonna find each other?

In Arizona, the bulk of the people where I lived were Cowboys, Indians or confused Caucasians wearing Wranglers. The cowboys rode pickup trucks and it kicked up a lot of dust, and when they stepped out of the truck into the inevitable gorgeous sunset, well, there were dusty cowgirls there waiting, let's say. I actually heard a girl tell a guy he had a Wrangler butt. (a complement) One of the first commercials I saw in Arizona was a guy in a cowboy hat playing his guitar in front of his truck, with a beer. I thought it was a fake commercial, until I noticed no one else was laughing with me. But at some of the bars in town, the guys get up and sing cowboy songs to impress (some of)the women. I felt like the whole city was putting me on. They were not. The one girl I met and connected with was a really angry but fun loving person who shot her ex boyfriend once and then got back with him a few weeks later. She didn't speak cowboy either. How else were we gonna find each other? And who knew, now I have an affinity for cowboy music.

I once heard someone say that putting any random group of people together is like throwing together a few rough cut diamonds; over time as they bump into each other, they manage to become a smooth certainty.

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