HOH Magazine: New Year 2022 Issue

Same year, new me! It's been two years to the Day (St. Patrick's that is) that I started officially quarantining. That's much, much more than eight weeks guys, come on, what's up?

So it's still 2020, and still 2016 as well. I don't make the rules of arrested development, I just serve my time. A lazy, knee-jerk inclination to alter that opening quip to say "same me" was escorted quickly out of my head, because I am still pushing against the ceilings of evermore chrysalis-tine chapels within me, trying slowly but surely to grow and change. Even if the world emphatically doesn't want me to. You will get your David's worth even if you have to choke on it.

So, what do I mean by "same year," besides the emphatically obvious? Well, after an exhaustive four cocoonic blog posts in 2020, and two subsequently lengthy issues of HOH Magazine in 2021, I ...kept making notes for a March issue... then April... then May... then realized I could try issues on a seasonal basis... and then it became January 2022. What am I to do with these endless, unparsed scribbles from my weary mind?

The answer: fuck it, we'll recycle it all! Chances are most of it is still relevant! We're in a great American carousel; letting a new variant fuck up our whole social order (except for the extremely rich for some reason...) And then, just once the cases start to drop, we y'all let go of every one of our y'all's precautions, to try and attain a selfish faux-sense of "normalcy" built on the bones of the dead and dying. A "normal" we we neither can attain nor deserve. And thus, we y'all allow a new variant to come fuck up our whole social order (except for the extremely rich for some reason...)
Thus thus making the unanimous my desire to end the pandemic an impossibility.

Some people want the pandemic to end symbolically. Why is that more attractive? Explain how that is anything other than a condemnable delusion. Their actions take the form of pandemic perpetuation. How is that more attractive? Sure, for your run-of-the-mill idiots it makes sense, but on a fucking bureaucratic level!?!? With the God-damned Executive and Legislative branches ceasing funding to the pandemic apparatus, as weak as it already is!? That just insures that millions more will die. I know evil is easy, but is it really more lustfully arousing than Being Smart And Cool And Kind?

(Yes, because it makes them money somehow.)

731 days and counting...What's it gonna take, bitch?

They are scum. They're the kind of scum that erodes your empathy. Mine, at any rate. Their brains so wrong that even their hearts aren't in the right place. And they're ruining a chance at anything nice for people who are -- and need to be -- taking this seriously.

This dystopia has our ableism (and classism and racism, obviously, of course, as always) on full display. It makes me sick. This masturbatory circus, tugging from the deepest bones of this idiocracy. A never-ending nightmare without reason, but plenty of rhyme. To quote a show I revisited early last year, "people incapable of guilt usually do have a good time."

And "time is a flat circle."

For once, an arrested development not of my doing!

Does that change anything? Well, the feel of it isn't rooted in some wistful shame. I don't have to solve the riddles within myself or overcome the obstacles of the unaccomplished heart. To get out of this one, I sit and wait for others to do the right things. And I struggle with every hair defiantly poking out of my chin to accept that I am already doing what I am supposed to do to unlock the door at the end of this burning hallway. Praying everyone else catch up.

All this is to say, I'll be recycling the thoughts, ideas, insights, observations, and spiteful snark toward fucking morons* from the yet unpublished drafts of 2021's HOH Magazines, into the parallel issues for 2022. Now that we have had vaccines for nearly a year, what the fuck is actually different?

I'm still treating the outside world like it's March 2020, for the most part, since the *brain-damaged onanists keep making variants that transmit and infect vaccinated people, even rendering certain masks less effective! Some of them got vaccinated, but not boosted.

Go to hell, assholes!

Okay, okay, I'm not wiping down my groceries. That is one difference from March 2020. Fomites aren't responsible for infection, we know this. (I still side-eye the mail and never order delivery food, but that's just a patch in the Psychological Damage Quilt.) We also know "6 feet of social distancing" is laughably meaningless since the virus is 100% airborne, actually. Incidentally we also know the CDC is so thoroughly stupid it makes me froth at the mouth.

But aside from an updated knowledge [and one that's even superior to the *boot-licking mass-manslaughterers at the CDC, especially that *hell-bound dolt Rochelle Walensky] about the situation, I'm still wearing [the thoroughly researched and best possible] masks every time I leave the house. There's practically no tangible difference between now and 740 days ago.

If dumb, boring assholes can recycle lame-ass excuses, I'll recycle whatever the fuck I want.

But also...I will try to make this all less encumbering upon myself, since that's the main factor that prevents me from actually starting, continuing, and finishing any writing project. This should be fun! This should be relaxing! This should be a thing of leisurely indulgence...despite the umpteenth pressure to make sure I say literally every thought in my head. I was telling myself exactly this when I decided to restart HOH Magazine last year. I keep telling you, nothing has changed!

So even as my protracted notes intimidate my all-too-easily-distracted eyeballs, I'll find a way to grease the wheels of activation energy, and try not to put too much on my plate around here. I'll still be autistically comprehensive and fastidious about my thoughts, but maybe I'll be more judicious with trimmin' the ole fat from the start.

I'll also do more tweet-dump round-ups to sum up much thought with few words (just many images.) I'm trying to think of a better segment name than "Tweet Roundup." Maybe It's Been Said, or perhaps In Other Words...? Retweets = Endorsements? What about Tweeting to the Choir? Suggestions welcome in the comments.

Furthermore, I'm planning to take certain articles that are themselves essay-length and publish them as separate blog posts, like I did with this one about the Pokémon Diamond and Pearl remakes. Then I'll link to them with the briefest excerpt in a following issue of the magazine. That way I can work as slowly on them as I please, without holding up the HOH Magazine pipeline. They don't need to be timely, so I don't need to hitch them to something I'd like to publish quasi-monthly. This would also allow such essays to be as long as they require without making the magazines that much longer.

A modest length.

Speaking of timeliness, let's dip into the pool of current events:

I went to the dentist recently, my biannual checkup being in late January now. I'm not sure when it stopped being in December, it just sorta was at one point. (Don't ask me to try and remember that type of detail from the last 2 [or 3] to 5 [or 7] years.) I enjoy these checkups, because I'm just so cool going against the grain of pop cultural consensus like that. Me? The dentist? No problem!

However, mid-pandemic it is a bit different: this is a place I must go. A place in which I must remove my mask. For an extended period of time. Uncomfrotbale. But, one of my favorite things about my dentists is that they are taking the pandemic as seriously as I am. I mean, of course, they're mouth doctors and it's a respiratory virus. It is imperative that they go above and beyond by practicing rudimentary responsibility even a fucking three-year-old can understand. They have it on lock. They even double-mask, just like me.

So my dentist is the sole interior on Earth, besides my home, in which I feel safe taking off my mask. At all. Let alone for an hour.

An hour... More than enough time to sit with a unique and novel feeling that came over me, as it did the previous one or two (can't remember) visits: some strange kind of unwanted relief, of having this one ""normal"" before-times experience. And with recognition of that came a profound sadness. The grief of a comfortable public episode.

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Whose Duty Is It Anyway?

I've apparently been summoned for jury duty. I've always had a sense of civic duty radiating in the background, bolstered mostly by never having experienced the dull monotony of actually doing it. (Although, in case you haven't noticed, I am exceedingly capable of patience.) However, since there is a pandemic which isn't ending anytime soon, and since for some reason this particular court hasn't learned of Zoom, Skype, or Google Hangouts yet (???) I am an automatic "nah" for that kind of invite. Sorry, civic.

I'm way past done spending time in public that I don't wish to spend. I'm autistic and self-aware: you can't make me do anything if I refuse to, I don't care how annoying I have to be! I'll only participate in something [as safely as possible] out of a sense of responsibility, enthusiasm, or even quite possibly community... Although that sense is about as dwindly as the autumn leaf on a winter tree.

Also, not that they're the same departments, but if the government refuses to do anything for me, (a modest $14,111.29 for 2020's uncompensated living expenses, please) why should I do anything for it? Jury duty isn't tit for "each household can order 4 rapid tests once every couple of months" tat.

And to be clear, when I say the government "refuses to do anything for me," I don't mean "I, me, David Hoh." I mean "everybody." This isn't some unscrupulous cop-out, or feint toward a facade of the collective as a means of covering a selfish intent (because I'm not rich, I guess?) Because if everybody got their explicitly-promised $2,000 January 2021 stimulus checks, I'd have one too.

When I talk of "me" and "myself" in these certain contexts I sub the text of those pronouns in for "the everyperson." If the government gave a $2,000 stimulus check to me and me alone, I'd still be upset and unsatisfied. Because that's not what I'm fucking asking for. Just because you can't physically burn a direct deposit in protest doesn't mean it wouldn't be bullshit. (I couldn't split it fairly, either! How do you divide 2000 three hundred million ways???) There are many millions more who need it -- and subsequent, monthly $2,000 stimulus checks -- much much much much much much more than I do.

This tweet is from January 12, 2022 so adjust for more depending on when you read this.

I am nothing if not a man of the people. It's why I've been avoiding them for 740 days!

My moral fiber would make me a ripe candidate for jury duty. My respect for the law could whittle me into an essential splinter in the corrupt justice system of a dying nation of prejudice. Hell, I could even be a hero like a young Dan Harmon. Upon notice of my summons I listened to this podcast excerpt posthaste, because it's an inspiring story that makes you feel good to be an American:

...In the end, I was able to get out of it by requesting to postpone in-person jury selection & duty until after the pandemic is over. Graciously, they delayed the summons until 2023...but we'll see, won't we?

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I'm Into This! — 2022 Kickoff

Ghost of Tsushima

Oh hey, a video game that doesn't constantly bombard my psyche with misophonic triggers. I remember those! The multiplayer is fully-cooperative to boot! Samurai action, fun!

Also look how pretty it is.

This is my kinda game right here: the photo mode is quite good.

It's calming and soothing and relaxing.

I don't play it as much as I'd like to, though. Somewhat because I don't want to rush through the main story. Somewhat because I also don't want to forsake the pressing concerns of the characters I'm partnering with to flightily travel a hundred miles away for some hearsay side quests! The narrative of the main, multi-chapter threads I'm already in are ripe with a sense of timeliness, and I enjoy being very role-play with it, to act as close to the realism of the character of Jin Sakai as possible.

And yes, this means occasionally I'll get mildly frustrated by the way some fight or scenario goes down, lamenting that I can't go back to a prior checkpoint and replay it to try and do it better. But, if that's the vibe of the game, I embrace it. However, unlike Spider-Man (2018) where balancing a bunch of responsibilities was woven into the gameplay and story really well (spinning a lot of plates is a core part of Spider-Man's character,) in Ghost of Tsushima, if Jin takes his horse** all the way eastward in the middle of a 9-part saga about a rogue former archery student training Mongol invaders to kill Japanese civilians...it'll feel like days going by where that stuff is just happening out there and, somehow, I decided it was worth taking a weekend off to go investigate some haunted woods.

It also helps the former that Web Head had a smaller map and a faster means of travel.

I'm hesitant to let myself break that kayfabe with dispunctuality. But, I also don't want to rush through all the chapters of that storyline just yet, so I usually go investigate some undiscovered location nearby on the map instead of venturing further afield for side-missions during those in-betweens.

For all its soothing beauty -- replete with haiku meditation and hot spring butt cheek -- I am once again playing a video game I'm too precious to progress through. Why do I have so many mental problems when it comes to this medium of escapism?

The Batman (and its score)

I really want to see this movie. The trailer has kicked my ass every time I've seen it. I hope I can get to see it in IMAX with a low-attendance screening. I'm a little doubtful because it seems like it's gonna be really popular. It's out this later this week (as of writing this segment) but I'll probably see it next at the earliest. In the meantime, I've enjoyed this clip online:

In just 52 seconds we get a lot of great character: the beautiful unspoken moment of Batman realizing he has to punch Gordon to protect him, and that Gordon would probably understand...but also the way they turn their heads when they're talking close to each other. It's like sexual tension but for fighting crime. And we also get a lot of world-building: there's a real texture to this police precinct, and there's a cool sense of suspense with all the cops witnessing Batman talking to the commissioner. This is some kind of big deal. It feels very lived-in. I love that stuff. And then the score:

My God, it's delicious. I've listened to the entire soundtrack and I can't praise Michael Giacchino enough. It's catchy as hell, powerfully pulpy, and fucking distinct. A superhero movie with not one, but several notable and recognizable themes? What a gift!

(Update: I saw the movie on March 11th, in IMAX, with at least 20 people in the theater. But my seating was not bad! It was everything I wanted from a Batman movie and more! There are some minor factual errors in my speculative analysis up-segment, and I've decided not to correct them.)

Riders of Justice

I went into the Danish film Retfærdighedens Ryttere expecting a more traditional revenge movie. Action Dad Mads Mikkelsen. Instead I watched a deconstruction of that kind of film, with themes of how we make sense of chaos, or whether we can. How we make sense of grief, or whether we can. (Spoiler: we can, together.) Atheist, Repressed & Shitty Dad Mads, instead.

It's got that European sense of humor which I guess just means "humor that is organic and in-keeping with the tone of the movie, which is overall more dramatic" because in America, comedy elements in mainstream films generally mean "Dumb quips that feel out of place or stop the movie's dramatic momentum in its tracks, usually because we have a crippling cultural fear of the sincere." ...Anyway my point is this movie is strikingly well-balanced tonally, and really entertaining all-around.

That's all I need say; two of my online friends composed elegant, thoughtful reviews that moved me, and you can read them here and here, whether you want to hear more about the film or if you've seen it and want some really good thoughts on it.

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A Confidence Deficiency

They say it isn't something you are, but something you do. "With confidence you do things." They say. To 'be confident' you must be confident in your actions. One can even achieve this through the adoption of "fake it 'til you make it." Thoughts & behaviors can influence each other in effective ways.

But when it comes to that world known as "dating," I don't have it, and don't even feel like faking it.

I want to tie off this issue already, and get cracking on the "official" March issue, coming in April[?] So I will be brief. I'll be briefer still: you can stop reading now and skip to the au revoir.

This is on my mind again, because I wrote about it last year, and also [like last year] Valentine's Day just happened [a month ago.] I want to make personal changes, to be stronger, and be better. All that good stuff. But also, I don't see 'getting confident with flirting' or 'tryna date' as "being" "stronger."

I mostly see it as a potential to disappoint someone new. Or come across as a jerk. Bother a stranger needlessly, impacting someone in a negative way instead of a neutral way. The neutrality of nothing.

These risks don't sound "better" to me.

But I also recognize that's foolish, and full of myself, to think "I'm That Bad, Potentially" or that my abstaining from 'getting in the pool' is "An Honorable Thing, Keeping My Potential Harm Out Of It." Like, no. That's wrong. I'm keeping my Good Potential out, too! Which of these is actually "strong"-er?

I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I'm being frightened and fretful and dumb and complacent -- I know exactly what I'm doing and not doing. I'm bumped up against a wall; I'm not going to push through it with paragraphs. We're just talking about it. Look at it for a bit, and say "Well, someday I'll break it down."

I have no self-pep-talk ideas. It's a herculean proposition, trying to convince myself that putting myself "out there" is a worthy adventure, right now. (Well, ignoring-the-pandemic "right now," obviously it is not worthy "right now as in mid-pandemic right now." Fucking qualifiers.)

And I know, it is merely me putting the pressures of such contemplation on myself. But I'm 1) not actually putting pressure on myself to do anything and 2) just having a conversation with myself, not succumbing to any sort of influence from one part of me that the rest of me disagrees with. Truthfully perhaps it's just that I've been listening to Future Me Hates Me by The Beths lately (the song, as well as the eponymous album; count this here paragraph as a lil bonus I'm Into This! because I am so very into this album and band. Listen to them!) And thinking about the lyrics in their songs, which talk about the need to have risks being essential to the pursuit of something in that heart-shaped sphere.

Such sentiments swim laps in my head of late. Some helpful (and catchy) reminders of what I already know to be true. Of course "you can't win without entering." That's all well and good.

Hypothetically, then, let's say I were to pull the trigger of the anti-Chekov's gun I touted in the 2016 Reverse-Valentine's Day video, and create a Tinder profile. I've thought a lot about this. It's fascinating, seeing the kinds of bios people make, in screenshots shared elsewhere online. It's like people-watching mixed with spotting vanity plates.

Saying a lot with a little. That's characterization, baby!

One thing's for sure, I'd be fastidious as hell about the presentation of mine: the most important part of such a foolish endeavor is the bio. The first line of defense of "not looking like a stupid asshole." Because I may be stupid, but I try very hard to not be an asshole.

I'd have to include relevant photos of my bearded condition, and since my unkempt push-broom appearance is rather "asshole" in nature (again, not my fault; I voted for the person who had some political experience and wasn't an actual nazi) I'd likely toss in a photo of "the platonic ideal of David," like my Instagram profile picture:

This is what peak performance looks like.

And in the bio I would need to include that the beard is merely there to mark the days. I'd probably fine-tune my bio's text frequently, and use the entire character limit. I'd try to find the best way to open with "I don't know what I'm doing." That is a cardinal point, and true in multiple ways: I'm new to this, I'm uncertain why or what I'm trying to accomplish, and it's pointless anyway because, as I'd also mention, I wear masks everywhere and don't really go to new places. You can't "date" like that. You can't "fuck" like that. You can only "be very cool and smart and kind to everyone else regardless of how *their selfish liberal actions spit in your praxis."

Good time to remind you all that my ability to be a slut was irreparably kiboshed by radical extremists in 2016, who wanted white supremacy so badly that they had to embargo the last few years of my twenties to my vacant bedrooms. Every single day where they and their governments continue to undermine and ignore safety, and refuse to take this seriously, it's [killing millions of people and shit but to focus on this one small, selfish sliver for a second] directly impacting my "so called dating life." Every day is one more day that I can't even begin to express my already heavily-repressed dating curiosities or aspirations. I was literally thinking of getting Tinder in February of 2020. I could've started chipping away to come out of my armor-reinforced shell! This is their fault and not my own. Clinton won the popular vote, even.

At a certain point I can't keep blaming myself for causing the pandemic since I'm one of the few actually trying to end it.

Future me can't hate me now, because I'm stuck in the middle of this no-fun zone. Sure, I hate my past self for not slutting it up pre-pandemic...but he's also totally off-the-hook because nobody saw this goddamned shitshow coming. Maybe if I had known this fate at, say, 19, I'd have started fucking anything that moved.

But who am I kidding I wouldn't have. Even with the forethought to get comfortable interacting with people in that way, it's highly unlikely. Because hypothetically, on Tinder, outside of fidgeting with my bio, I couldn't use the app in "a normal" way. I mean, just fundamentally...swiping left seems mean, you know? Nobody finds out of course, but there's no performativity in my professed discomfort toward the concept; it simply feels mean to do, so I wouldn't like to do it. I'd rather close the app.

And what if I swipe right, and it's a match? I would simply get scared and close the app. What the fuck I'mma do? Message them??

Nope.

If there's one thing I know solidly about myself, it's that I don't make the first move. I will never initiate anything. This is my comfort zone, and I'm at peace with it. Could I grow out of it eventually and make myself a new comfort zone where I am able to make first moves? Sure, it's feasible. But not any dang time soon, I tell you h'what.

At most, I'll set up openings for 'the other party' to make moves. I'll be receptive, but I usually limit my flirtations to the kind that are indistinguishable from friendliness. And that is still honest! Because the key of my 'does not try' methodology is that I treat everyone with the same politeness or friendliness regardless of if I'm attracted to them. This not only protects the wall I've built around my sensitive vulnerability and fear of rejection and whatever else is soft and fragile; it means I treat people equitably. (It also allows for plausible deniability because the wounded 10-year-old inside me still thinks that someone knowing you're interested in them is a death sentence.) The big breakthrough I've have over the last twelve years is, "if you're attracted to someone just treat them the same as you would any friend." That helps you avoid generating an expectation of romantic pursuits, which can cause trouble. And it can lead to a normal friendship, which is terrific!

So I flirt as platonically as possible. (Or used to, back when that was an option.) That could certainly sound bad, but listen chump: I've written ten drafts and counting of a screenplay all about a guy mistaking friendliness as flirtation. Now that may make me some kind of hypocrite, I'm not sure. But what it definitely means is that I've conditioned myself to stop interpreting friendliness as flirtation, to not "get my hopes up" or "my feelings hurt."

The Scars My Chest-Sedation.

Obliviousness is bliss. ...Well it's not exactly bliss. It's not exactly oblivious, either. I'll overthink the smallest social detail as much as the next autistic guy. If someone is clearly leaving an opening for me to make a move, then I'll... Well I can't say what I'll do because that opportunity hasn't exactly presented itself. (Or I was being oblivious.) BUT, my openings do allow for the forwardness of others, and that's worked out pretty well so far.

So if I had a Tinder bio, since I'd save room by not listing my good qualities (which would come off boastful and self-aggrandizing, c'mon!) I'd probably front-load that information: how I can't/won't/don't initiate anything.

...But, that doesn't mean I wouldn't also be too intimidated to click on the direct messages tab. Of course I'd be! (I wouldn't send the first message anyway, "So why click it?" I'd reason to myself.) So I'd swipe > match > close-app and repeat, unless there was a message to me. It would, uh, probably take a while to respond, but I'm much better speaking when spoken to! I don't want to bother others but there's nothing a bother with bothering me.

I know that makes me a hypocrite. Because bothering isn't inherently negative: it's neutral. My problem is assuming I'm negatively bothering others by sending a message (just like, in general) and I never think it's bothersome for anyone to message me...but, if I don't go around saying that, I'm potentially reinforcing the notion that someone might think they're [negatively] bothering me by sending me messages. I gotta break the cycle!!!

Anyway, I'd join a conversation with a match if they send the first message, because that way I'm sure it's not a case of someone accidentally swiping right (fuck's sake I just go straight for the most self-defeating assumptions, don't I?) Since apps send push notifications, I'd see it and know about it. I wouldn't need to check the messages tab, and face those very irrational and minuscule fears.

Although if, for some reason, the app doesn't send push notifications for direct messages, I'll never know about one, will I? But an app probably wouldn't do that. That would be disingenuous, and [self-defeating assumption again] make me look like a big ghosty asshole, wouldn't it?

But I'll never know, if I never know. No push notification = no messages. No profile = no matches.
No app = no worries. No ability to go outside the fucking house = no reason to even think about it.

...and yet I have, here, haven't I?

Could I "snap out of" "it," and pull the trigger? Maybe! But for now I am afraid it would be less of a step outside my comfort zone as a crack at expanding it, and more of a momentary impulsive action that would ultimately be out of character that I would somehow regret instantly. Even if an uncharacteristic, impulsive action is the kind of kick in the ass one needs to get across that border to a new comfort zone, I just...can't swim between this island I'm on, and that next one.

I feel like the emotional catalyst that would get me to send a first message would come from a place of severe self-pitying loneliness. Which, sure, I do feel a little bit, sometimes. But those 'sometimes' are mostly when it's late at night and I can't sleep. I don't typically wallow in self-pity. (Also, don't pity me for this segment, even though external pity is mighty craveable, I won't allow it!) So, if that irregular state of mind should be the trigger for initiating, uh, initiative, I don't think it'd be a good idea just because the behavior gets unlocked by it. If I swam to that island off a transient feeling of self-pitying, wouldn't I likely regret doing it once I'm back to homeostasis?

It's like a letter written in anger, how you're supposed to sleep on it before going to the mailbox. (God knows I've written a handful in the last two years.) In order to initiate something and not feel shame or regret or worry, I should be able to do it in a normal headspace. That's what that "next comfort zone" is, conceptually. I should have a place to stay on that island before I move there, I think (I dunno; this metaphor is wider than I thought.)

To do something comfortably you have to be comfortable in your actions. That's what confidence is. Hey hey, we wrapped it up full-circle.

Sure, there's confidence involved in overcoming discomfort, or at times more importantly, in doing something uncomfortable for the right reasons. But for something as inconsequential as attempting to date, I reckon having a comfortable homeostasis is a level-headed benefit. Even if I know it's not a necessary prerequisite, I'd rather not be terrified of it. Like PDA. The idea of public displays of affection that I'm hypothetically involved in honestly terrifies me. And I don't know why, that's something to unpack another day. I probably hate jogging in public for a similar reason: everybody does it, but DON'T FUCCKKING LOOK AT ME. Treadmill in a windowless room, please.

...Can y'all fucking fix the world already?

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And now for a tweet:

— David "The Pants" Hoh 

**I chose the white one, named it Nobu