Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Put Saturn Back In Saturnalia

The "War on Christmas" has been manufactured by the religious right, as a way of mobilizing troops against secularization. My father and I were talking about this the other day. As far back as he can remember, people would say "happy holidays" or "season's greetings," and he was born in 1932. As far as I can tell, it is only an issue this year because of Wal-Mart's decision to use "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" in store decorations. And then Boston was attacked for calling the tree lighting ceremony on the Common a "Holiday Tree Lighting." That drove Pat Robertson ape. Big fucking deal.

Now we are being manipulated into believing that atheists, communists, socialists, and (gasp!) the ACLU are out to kill Santa Claus. Why is the right-wing doing this? To raise money, of course. In January, their cofers will be full and they will turn their attention to "intelligent design" and getting Samuel Alito confirmed.

Every year people get into discussions about the origins of Christmas. We know that Christmas predates Christianity. Before the reformation of the Julian calendar, the winter solstice fell on December 25. The Romans celebrated the Saturnalia during the solstice, to honor Saturn, the god of agriculture.

Nothing Christian about that.

It's impossible to know for sure, but most scholars say that the birth of Jesus likely came in the spring. But we celebrate it in December as a way of taking attention away from a pagan celebration. Once the wine is out, people don't care what they're celebrating. The first observation of Christmas as the birthday of Jesus wasn't until the late 4th century AD.

Worshiping the god of agriculture makes more sense to me than celebrating Jesus' birthday a few months too early. So I say, put Saturn back on Christmas.

Happy Saturnalia, everyone!

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

The Worst Kid in the World

Today finds me sitting at my computer, as usual, listening to music and writing endlessly. Modern technology allows idiots like me to write about matters of little or no concern to anyone without wasting paper. In the past, idiots like me had to use lots of paper to say nothing.

One of my cats, Toulouse, is curled up in a drawer in my desk just to my right. Another cat, Impy, is sleeping on a laundry bag a few feet away. The three of us are waiting for something to happen, but are satisfied to know that, if nothing does, that is probably for the best. Yes, it contributes to a feeling of irrelevance and even run-of-the-mill boredom. However, the last thing we want is attention. Except to occassionally have parts of ourselves scratched that we can't scratch ourselves.

Yesterday, I was pouring through some papers of mine. There were a lot of them, as I keep just about everything. I found an email from someone who wrote, "Why don't you take your wan Fabianism and go fuck yourself." Apparently, I thought the email was worth printing and saving. Strangely, I have absolutely no recollection of who this man is, why he thought I was a Fabian (I'm not), and most importantly, why he wanted me to go fuck myself. I threw the letter away, as there is no shortage of people who want me to go fuck myself. Generally, if I've never met you in real life, I probably don't really care what you think of me. Although there are a few exceptions.

But you should see the things I did keep. Volumes of letters and cards and whatnot, some from girlfriends, others from friends, comrades, and family. Most of these are too personal to relate to random people on the 'net. Some are not, and I want to share one with you right now.

My aunt sent me a birthday card last July. She chose to fill the card with her personal thoughts about me, which is rare these days. It was a letter in a card, if you will. One line stood out in a not so flattering way, however, but I don't remember seeing it back when I first got the card. I definitely noticed it yesterday. The line reads, "When your dear, loving Ma said you were the worst kid in the world she just meant you were so damned active."

My mother said that I was the worst kid in the world? Holy shit! Sure, the card also says that I'm a "loving, kind, helpful person" (in reality, I'm not that helpful). But it's hard to counter Worst Kid in the World status.

When I was five, I did shit in the pool at the White Owl Resort in New Hampshire. But that's not much of a crime when you're five years old. It's not like I was twenty-five. And haven't we all taken a shit in the White Owl pool? Who am I, Oswald?

But I'll survive this revelation. Besides, I'm a much bigger asshole now than when I was a kid. A close friend of mine said that I am "eccentric, with a lot going on upstairs." Friends can put things in reassuring ways. I guess the biggest insult would be to tell someone that he or she doesn't stand out at all. "Harry, you are definitely just one of the crowd." It would be hard to recover from that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go online and see if the While Owl Resort still exists, and if they still have a pool.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

A Careful Eye On Hurricane Hanes

I'm not sure why, but I haven't had much to say recently and therefore haven't posted to my little 'blog for almost two weeks. Part of the reason is due to crippling depression...that tends to clog the toilet of the mind. But I still find myself entranced by what is happening in the world. Well, some of the things, anyway. I wasn't "entranced" by the annoying bastard who was yelling outside my window last night, and he is as surely as much a part of this world as anyone.

One of the things happening these days that has grabbed my attention is the number of hurricanes we've experienced. Although I really have had my fill of television reporters standing in the windswept rain of some coastal city. As I write this, we have started naming hurricanes with the Greek alphabet and are now looking at Hurricane "Beta." I think the people at NOAA should have gone with a different naming scheme, like the "Muppets," for example. I don't know about you, but hurricane "Beeker" or "Animal" just strikes me as more compelling. Or even better, why not let corporate America come to our aid by sponsoring hurricanes. Who among us could ignore hurricane "Viagra" or tropical storm "Virgin Atlantic?"

Right now, I find my T-shirt to be a source of great consternation. For me, it eclipses the disturbing impact of any earthquake or storm. In an attempt to save minor ducets, I purchased a gross of "irregular" T-shirts. There is nothing preventing them from selling a totally unwearable undershirt, so long as they put "irregular" on there. For all I knew, there might have been no neck-hole. That certainly would challenge the boundaries of "regular." But my torment comes in a more subtle form, a minor demon, if you will. This undershirt just isn't right in some way that I can't figure out. I took it off the other day and really analyzed it, but found nothing I can report. Is it all in my head? Am I the irregular here?

Compelling stuff, to be sure.

Monday, October 17, 2005

At a loss...

Greetings, everyone. I haven't posted a single comment to my 'blog in the last month due to a long-awaited trip to Little Rock, Arkansas to visit my beloved Donna. Seeing Donna again was the "long-awaited" part, not the part about seeing Little Rock. Before my trip was all over, I had traveled 3,200 miles via Greyhound Bus. It truly is an unpleasant way to travel, and should only be done if a lack of money prevents any other means. Naturally, I'm poor, so I took my place among the rubes, hicks, boobs, and dips. Perhaps I'll write about it later, perhaps not. We'll see what comes up in therapy.

Donna has a lovely place in Little Rock that is a sort of enclave of progressive thinking. Not just her apartment, but the whole neighborhood. While I was there I took in the Clinton Presidential Center and Park, which comes complete with a lone protester calling for Clinton's impeachment. I think the ship has sailed on that one.

Before leaving for the South, I told myself not to get into any arguments that might end up with my getting my nose pushed in. When I visited North Carolina, my brother-in-law withstood a withering attack by yours truly (I forget what about), and I'm pretty sure he was a minute away from knocking me out. As a drill sergeant, it would have been easy for him. Actually, just about anyone could take me in a fight, which is why I avoid them. But I am passionate about my socialist, left-wing wacko philosophy, so I have to learn to tone it down a bit. When the conversation turned to bow hunting on the bus, which it seemed bound to do and did, I just turned up my headphones and listened to The Kinks.

But I'm home now, just in time to check in with my probation officer for my minor shoplifting charge. I already miss Donna again, and her three cats, Rosie, Bodhi, and Madeline. But the comforts of home help soften that blow, like my cats, my father's debate, and his coffee, which is almost supernatural in its power.

Anyone want to talk? I'm right here.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

I (HEART) Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela

I recently received a dispatch from "Hands Off Venezuela,"
an international group that is adamant about the right of
Venezuela to rule herself, which is rather distressing.
Personally, I see Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez as an
eloquent and forceful representative of the power of democratic
socialism. He has done more to end poverty in Venezuela since
taking office in 1998 than any other president in the history of
the republic. Absurdly, a man who won his office with 56.1% of
the vote in 1998, and who won an opposition-led recall
vote in 2004, is called a "dictator" by American conservative
leaders. This is from Widipedia.com:

"The recall vote was held on August 15, 2004. Record
numbers of voters turned out, and polling hours were
extended by at least eight hours. 59.25% of the vote was
against the recall, for Chávez remaining in office. Election
observers Jimmy Carter of the Carter Center and OAS
Secretary General César Gaviria endorsed the results of
Venezuelas' recall referendum."

While embracing democracy and a campaign against corruption,
Chavez has re-organized Petróleos de Venezuela (PDVSA) to
pay huge dividends to the people via elaborate socialist programs.
He calls himself a "21st Century Socialist." This year, almost
half a billion dollars has flowed in from Citgo alone (the PDVSA
owns half of Citgo) to fund socialist programs like the "Inside
the Barrio" program. That program provides free health and
dental care to people who live in heinous poverty. And through
an oil deal with Cuba, over 20,000 Cuban doctors have been flown
into the barrios of Venezuela to fight disease and promote
health programs.

Venezuela also has seven privately-owned and openly-critical
television stations and newspapers.

If embracing republican government, the existance of a vibrant,
free press, and fighting to end poverty are the acts of a tyrant,
what do the actions of our own president represent?

I understand why Chavez and the Movement for the Fifth
Republic (his party)are annoying American imperialists. He
openly states that he fears assassination by the US, and that he
thinks Condi Rice has a crush on him. He is also reducing the
amount of oil sold to the US by Venezuela and instead selling
to China, Cuba, and "PetroCaribe," a group of Caribbean islands
that will buy oil at almost $25 less a barrel than the market
dictates. His first deal beyond China and Cuba was made
earlier this week, with Jamaica, for 20,000 barrels a day at $40
a barrel. This while oil prices are at $66 a barrel.

That's bound to piss off the Estados Unidos.

The unification of Latin American socialists (the Bolivarian
Revolution, named for the revolutionary anti-imperialist
Simon de Bolivar), the end of poverty, and a desire to see
the world evolve beyond capitalist degradation are all
nice changes from US puppet-governments, corruption,
and unspeakable greed.

That is how I feel about the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela.
Unfortunately, my feelings and thoughts and everything I
mentioned probably won't save my beloved comrade. The
aforementioned letter from "Hands Off Venezuela" contains
a piece from NewsMax about how many in the CIA and US
Military agree with Pat Robertson's assessment that Chavez
should be "taken out." This comes from the article,

"'Chavez is a dangerous guy,'" retired Col. David Hunt told Bill
Bennett's "Morning in America" fill-in host Steve Malzberg on
Wednesday. "We helped to elect the son of a gun [and] after 9/11
you don't get to threaten us."

It gets better.

"The issue of assassination 'should be on the table,' Hunt said.
'I'm suggesting that we use it as a tool . . . to get those guys
nervous.'

Former CIA Operative Wayne Simmons agreed. 'He should have
been killed a long time ago,' Simmons said."

The Bush Administration doesn't speak out against these
comments, instead he simply says that they are legal coming
from citizens and not government representatives. As a US citizen,
I'm going to have to politely insist that our government speak
with greater force against those who threaten acts of terrorism. For
isn't an assassination the ultimate act of terrorism?

Atheism And The Wheel

As an atheist, I respect life more than any theist. This has been discussed among friends and comrades lately. It's true that I personally see life as pointless, at least my life, but that doesn't by definition devalue life in general. And atheism has no apparent impact on how much the numerous atheists in my life appreciate how exotic is life in the universe; atheism can make life quite precious. I don't value my own life, but that has nothing to do with my atheism; I despise myself and would eradicate my existence (meaning never have been born) in a minute. I ache inside and wistfully imagine a wonderful world that didn't have to endure my having helped poison it. Suicide is awful, as it hurts the living, and there is enough pain in the world; I know that now. I have tricked people into loving me, and they would feel betrayed by another suicide attempt, nevermind a successful suicide. Therefore, as an atheist, I can say that I appreciate the spectacle of life, in all of its splendor and horror. But the whole wheel could have turned without me, and I wish it had.

Call me a "whiner" and I will nod, and go on wishing it.

But it's a mistake to blame my lack of spirituality on my self-loathing. If I were a devout anything, I would find myself hating god; it's better this way. For one, I get to pity myself and every little thing. And being pissed-off at the Almighty for all the pain and cruelty hidden in the garbage is pointless. What do I know about being a deity? Besides, I can't help but know that there isn't a god...there isn't. It's been the Issue of Greatest Concern in my noggin' since I was age 9. If you know of a god out there, have the fucker drop me a line.

So in short, atheism sees life in contrast with the void. Look around the universe and see how rare is life. They should put "Life" on the Periodic Table of the Elements and rate how infrequently we uncover it here and there. Perhaps not.

Again, the rules change for everyone when we look at ourselves alone within the world. Then I can understand the desire to want to let things move without you. I hope that makes sense to those who love me.

But above everything there is compassion, that I know. I never knew of anything that didn't benefit by it, or suffer from its opposite, cruelty.

So there's that.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Of Kids and Their Penguin Stares

I'm sure you understand that I agree that there are too many children, and by extension too many people. I get really, really pissed when I see people with large families, and frankly I don't see many. But when I was down at Roger Williams Park in RI three weeks ago and they had an event for kids that night (some dinosaur thing), there were HUGE families everywhere, and I don't like it. And what I don't like needs to go away from me.

I don't know why, but I hate people who stupidly decide to have nine kids, or even one. Sure, they're kicking my evolutionary ass. But is there anything more fucking annoying than a kid who isn't yours? I almost kicked about 50 of them. Their fat little fingers up their fat, little noses, their blank penguin stares, the screaming and yelling, the demands for this and that. Shut the fuck up and exit my life.

My balls never worked, and to avoid a life threatening cancer they removed one. By "they" I mean the ice cream man and the UPS girl. Actually, it was a urologist. Sadly, I'll never be the father to a testicular cancer, either. But even before that, my thunder had no lightning. I wish they took both of my testicles, though, as then I could get kicked in the crotch without the painful aftermath. I was kicked in the nuts exactly once, by a guy, and I literally almost passed out. I'm not sure, but I think it was Admiral James Stockdale, Ross Perot's running mate in 1992. Anyway, I could do without the dangling "off" button betwixt my legs.

Over the years, several therapists have considered, as have I, that my infertility and numerous other health problems have made me feel abnormal. That could be, yes. But there is a big difference between wanting to be free of suicidal thoughts, self-destructive adventures and mind-crushing depression and anxiety, and wanting to be "normal."

I've seen "normal," and I don't like it. I mean I REALLY don't like it. Smart people giving up risky ambition to feed a child? Sure, that's normal. But I don't like it. I hate it, actually. A friend of mine sent out invitations to his daughter's birthday, her FIRST birthday. The kid is sitting in her own shit and I'm supposed to thoughtfully consider a present? Buy a fucking Carvel cake and cut it with a hot knife. Jesus.

So maybe it would have been interesting to me to have once been fertile. However, I don't think it would have ever been more than "interesting." And as we've been discussing, it may have been just awful. I'm a self-centered, neurotic, nihilistic prick who seriously looks forward to non-existence. You don't call an abomination like that, "Daddy!"

It would be nice to have the feeling back where they made the incision on the right side of my crotch, but that's only because it's a strange numbness that compels me to fondle it as I recline in bed at night.

Would you like to feel my numb crotch scar? What? I'm insulted! Now somebody cut the fucking cake.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Anal Sex Test Used By Real Anal Sex Gurus


Find out if you enjoy anal sex in 4 simple steps!
For continuity reasons, this has to be done with the same partner:

1. Have sex ten times and rate each time on a scale of 1-10.
2. Eliminate your best sexual experience and your worst, develop a mean number rating.
3. Shove something up your ass.
4. Repeat the first two steps.
If your mean rating is higher after shoving a lamp or something up your ass, you like anal sex!

Here are my results...

Initial mean rating of 49
(marble ashtray then shoved up my ass)
Secondary mean rating of 3
Therefore, I don't like anal sex...at least not when using a dirty ashtray with a cigarette still burning in it.

More later!

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Fear and Distrust and a Mind Full of Memories Alone

I'm "on disability" and to some people this sounds like Heaven. I guess I can understand this, as work is usually hell. I've worked long enough to know that, but it doesn't provide a person like me with much comfort.

I miss the world. I miss the accidental friendships and stupid stories that come with being somewhat within the mainstream. I used to work the overnight shift at a Boston Hotel, and that job provided me with dozens of stories. One night, the groom at a Jewish wedding dropped dead 2 minutes after getting married. The night crew coming into the hotel at 11pm were all told to "look solemn" and not to laugh at anything.

Another night, I stood on a floor-buffing machine and turned it on when my friend Napoleon dared me to. I was thrown 30 feet away, and the security people came downstairs and said they would never erase that security tape; it was the funniest thing they ever saw. "John," a Gulf War I veteran was there.

I think I have a lot of funny stories from school and work. I was approved for Social Security Disability shortly after my heart fluttered and nearly stopped due to an overdose in Boston's Copley Square. John from the hotel was there, too, looking into my eyes and clearing the crowd around me. I remember that just before I passed out. After I was diagnosed with "severe anxiety and panic disorder, bipolar disorder, PTSD, and borderline personality disorder, dysthymic disorder, and severe depression," I was pretty much on disability. I didn't care. Now I do, and perhaps that's a good thing. Maybe one day I will work again. Maybe I won't.

But all that schooling went to waste. A shame they didn't know that the brain getting the education was rotted-out. They could've saved money and provided it to someone else. A bag of rats would've been better.

Since 1998, my first suicide attempt, I have become a person of no consequence, by design. Being a person of consequence is too taxing on me, apparently. I'm a shadow, and am totally irrelevent.

It may sound good to some of us, but it's not very much fun, to miss the living while fearing them. To want to travel but suffer from agoraphobia. It's a big, fucking joke. Dr. Gibbons used to take me out to lunch every week to talk about everything from politics to planes (he was a pilot). He was the chair of the Anthropology Dept. We especially like to talk forensic osteology. Gone now, though. A friend of mine at university told me I would make a great teacher. Can you imagine? I can't...Darren W. Lyle as anything but the living dead.

I do miss hope and potential. UMass Boston isn't my school anymore, and I have no workplace...I'm not emotionally capable of tolerating random human contact for long periods of time. So I have no place at all. I'm such an asshole.

Isn't it pathetic? To seek such comfort in memories? To be unable to cut new experiences out of fear and distrust of oneself.

The Mantra: Life will end one day, I'm not a bad person for being sick.

Underwear and Strife

Less than five minutes ago a trip to the bathroom to urinate revealed something to me that went un-noticed the previous 4 times I went to urinate today; that my underwear is on backwards. Life is a constant voyage of discovery. Sometimes you discover that your girlfriend hates your guts, and that destroys your being faster than a Humvee outside the Green Zone. Sometimes it's the underwear thing. Who knows what I'll learn next time I pee, or boil an egg, or step off a subway platform. I can take comfort in knowing that what I learn will be either really boring, to the point that I want to die, or really painful, to the point that I really want to die. There is, I suppose, a possibility that I may learn something new tomorrow that will inspire me and make me happy. Here are three possibilities:

1. As it turns out, all my mirrors are distorted in the same way and I am not fat, lumpy and kind of odd-looking. No, I look exactly like Brad Pitt.
2. I find out that there is a gene responsible for my lameness, and it can be yanked out and replaced with a coolness gene.
3. My therapist reveals to me her growing sexual appetite for all things me. She insists that she take me to Paris for a month to "explore what we both may have to offer each other sexually."

My voyage of discovery, however, is more likely to reveal that I got a drop of bleach on my black jeans, or that those kids in the corner of the "T" station are making fun of my ass.

When life isn't painful, it's boring and/or humiliating. That's the most you can hope for...boredom, and that humiliation doesn't fuck up the only good thing, sex.

I'm going to subject everyone to a poem in a moment or two. It's called, "Bloodsport: Miles a' Guts." Actually, I'm kidding. It's called, "Strife," and it's about how life whittles away at our higher aspirations and possible comradeship and replaces it with an inclination to hide away from truly awful existence. It's in two, short parts, and I hope you enjoy.

Strife

1.

No more, the dead resisting
Base want replaces Hope
Armies gone, that were persisting
Romantic misanthropes

How easily bold dreams subside
Outwardly, so strong
Within, a rotting frame, un-eyed
A hoax? A lie? A wrong?

Perpetrated not by me
but one I used to know
Wonders dreamed, not to be,
Like rocks the seeds I sow

Like rocks in that they sit in soil
Natural, constant, and pure
But these rocks will never boil
With green vine, strong and sure

These stones, however, were heavier made
with need and expectation
Nothing this crop would do but fade
against all propagation

2.

The Future, ahead, sits never reached
An unconquered state, bright and rich
Whose borders siege has never breached
and flag diminished, not a stitch

Soldiers marching, never reaching
Always searching, never ceasing
Chaplains mercilessly preaching
"It's our destiny!"

But let it go! Please, let it go!
That holy city cannot be found
Within it, our hearts will never grow
That city is not border bound

Eyes go peeking, then feet sneaking
It's walls I sometimes see
With experience, however, I am reeking
Alarmed, it shuts it's gate to me

Again, perhaps, I'll turn once more
to rocks, and from them bricks provide
And make four wall walls with earthen floor
In the Present I'll reside

In doing so, I will create
A new destination, here today
A home to live in, not as great
As Future's unreached bright, new day.

Stones, thought seeds, now bricks, preserve
A place to stop and live a life
No longer needed soldiers' nerve
Now untouched by fear of strife

fini

Isn't that just a peach?

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Sex and The Towel

For some reason, I decided to map some of my thoughts and feelings that travel along with the base physical arousal, climax, and resolution stages of sexuality. Sex is a really funny thing, partially because we pursue it relentlessly and engage in it voraciously. We definitely lose more than a modicum of control. But if you can get a little distance, or better yet, watch porn, you can see how absurd is seeking out and engaging in the act of physical love. That includes the faces and noises we make.

I don't have to apologize to any of my partners, as nothing personal or revealing is here. Although I do have to apologize to myself for being suck a jackass.

Well, here it be.

Stage 1: Arousal
At this point, nothing is disgusting and I'm open to any suggestions. Anything super-freaky will be considered. This is a time of great determination for me, as if I'm trying to build a bird-house with a gun to my head; I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I'm 100% sure that it is going to get done. If I held a strong desire to stick my head up my own ass, I'm sure that I could do it during this stage.

Arousal, and the play that goes with it, is supposed to lead up to the orgasm, and then the "resolution plateau." Only a fool would focus too heavily on the orgasm alone, and I'm fond of exploring. I'll leave it at that. With all the engorgement and blushing and heart-racing and mind-numbing desire, I'm most blind to the absurdity of sex during this phase. Afterwards, though, the arousal stage amuses me the most

At some point during this stage, I always say to my partner something like, "We should fuck more often!" This is usually taken as a joke, but I'm speaking in complete earnestness.

Stage 2: Climax
After a little bit or a lot of the first stage, it's time to get your partner off and then go for broke yourself. My background thought is always the same at this time...I get pissed at myself for being so fat. It seems a bit random, as I'm already getting it on and any timidity should have been left behind. And for the most part, it has. But simply put, I want to look like Brad Pitt when I fuck. Mr. Pitt could have any facial expression when he comes that he wants, but even if he looks and sounds ridiculous, who would complain?

If Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt vomit and fart when they climax together they would still be sexy. It's just how I see it. Women have said that I'm cute, and two even said that I'm sexy (after they've had a drink or two). But I'm still fat, and I imagine that I look like a ball of Jello getting slapped with a yo-yo when I climax.

That's about all I want to share regarding that. When I come, I want to shout, "Look away, I'm hideous!"

It's important to make note of the brief moment of genuine, balanced happiness after orgasm. It exists nowhere else in life, except perhaps for when you don't have to wait very long for a table at a restaurant on a Friday night. And if the "apps" are good, all the better.

Stage 3: Resolution
Stage 3 involves a flood of thoughts and feelings...here is a quick inventory: The first is a need to find a towel, or "cum-rag." This is followed by an odd desire to be ANYWHERE else, like you just did something wrong. Finally, there is a frantic search for the remote control. Occasionally, regret is felt over having said or done something really embarrassing during the first two stages.

After sex, I once said, "Is there any hummus left?" Another time I asked, "We should have kids? Are you out of your fucking mind?" It's like waking up from a spell.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Little Educated Fleas and Beans

I finally found it. It was sitting in my portable CD player; very retro. The "it" was a small flightless bird named "Wren." Wren is an Emperor penguin, not a wren. Had I known that before I "let him go" out my window, there'd be one more Emperor penguin in the world.

They don't bounce as much as you might think; more of a spectacular splat.

In truth, that was a stupid joke. No arctic birds getting killed 'round here, who am I, Jodie Foster? (If you get that joke, I'll clean your house). The "it" I couldn't find was a CD entitled, "Billie Holiday, The Finest." I love this CD, and I don't care what anyone says, the Blues and Jazz have got Country music beat when it comes to great titles. Here are my three favorite titles on this album of 25; Love Me or Leave Me, Let's Do It (Let's Fall in Love), Practice Makes Perfect.

Ms. Holiday, you SEXY woman, you! And here's a great lyric, "Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it, let's do it...let's fall in love!" And "People say in Boston even beans do it! Let's do it, let's fall in love." At least fleas require an education to "do it." And I don't want the beans to do it at all. What a farting/fucking disaster that would be.

So now I have my CD, and have decided to go out for a walk and listen to music and ruminate on nothing. You don't have to be physically busy to make yourself tired. A total lack of sleep and a mind-riding Thing called "Self-Pity" that looks like the coal-stoker from "The Hairy Ape" by Eugene O'Neill will do the trick.

I'm sorry, blame the technology.

I used to love to wear Donna's panties now and again. Why did fate make us love but have to be apart. Perhaps I can get her to send me a couple. Oh, shit...did I leave this thing on? Well that's humilia....

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Superman Kill Me

While it is still early, I found myself ready to retire for the evening not more than a half-hour ago. It would be wise of me to do so, as I have nothing of interest to contribute tonight. This is made particularly unfortunate by the inexplicable desire to post something, even if it is unfit for human consumption.

I decided recently that I don't want to die via suicide anymore, that suicide doesn't interest me the way it once did (as a borderline fetish). I don't cut my arms or legs to get the mock rush of impending death, nor do I burn my feet and arms with fire and acid. I'm glad for this, as doing such things makes the world an ugly place, on an emotional level even moreso than in terms of appearance. But without my recently stitched wounds and hospital stays, where is the evidence of the battle that is taking place every fucking day of my miserable life? To burn painfully, alone, and with as little complaint as possible. That is apparently my goal now.

Where once dominated at least the aesthetics of nobility through strife are now the silences of a defeated soldier long after the war is over.

I don't want to romanticize this shit too much. But trying to kill myself may have been the best career choice I ever made. I never had a single thing going for me, despite having everything going for me. And what nearly killed me twice? Affection!

But now that those moments are past me, hopefully for good. I almost died in hospital after taking 200 Benadryl in 1999, and I briefly went into a heart fluctuation in Copley Place (Although I had no problems with allergies that say.) I have many stories, about that and getting attacked in the Men's Dorm, and ECT.

I should be dead, but instead I float around and plague the living with money problems or emotional problems or whatever. I'm an energy grease spot.

I have a story idea. We all know the story of how Superman arrived in a pod of some kind in the American mid-west (ostensibly the home of values and peace and justice). He was raised to take care of the wee folk and defend truth, justice, and the American-way (that one still makes me nervous).

Imagine if the little tyke didn't land in Kansas or Idaho or some fucking place in the USA. What if he landed in the small Polish village of Smopka, where he was picked up by Adam and Mikhail (a transplanted Russian Jew). Adam and Moishka represent everything there is to be Poland before the fall of the Soviet Union; they are Communists, atheists, losers, nihilists, and an acid-tongued homosexual couple. After 20 years of reading Nietzsche (Superman!) and 30 year old Saturday Evening Posts', Superman has been transformed into...

What? I picture him as a guy using his powers to help turn a good price on transmitter radios, who dreams of schilling the rubes in NYC, and can always find a HUGE potato if need be.

My story is more inspiring to the average man, and more believable. But I don't care. I should have gone to be earlier tonight. Talking to me is like talking to a streetlamp.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Stop Bitchin', You Anxious Fuck

Hello, everyone. I feel compelled to point out a couple of reasons why I haven't been posting to my beloved 'blog as of late. It has little to do with ennui, and even less to do with an industrial accident. It has to do with the level of mental clarity I currently possess, and the existential crisis that lives within the fog.

Naturally, I'll explain.

About three weeks ago, I got the hankerin' for a new psychiatric drug that may help stave off the mind-blowing anxiety I feel for no good reason. Pretending to be Anne Coulter at a dinner conference of angry feminists would cause me less anxiety than going to buy a hot dog down the street. Incidentally, both scenarios are equally outlandish. I get HOT DOGS from outside the home, and make a HOT DOG from within. I don't go out just to get a one hot dog.

Anyway, mundane daily events cause mucho panic, agoraphobia and anxiety. So I thought I'd try a drug called, "Shutthefuckup" by Merck. Actually, it's called, "Abilify." It's an anti-psychotic that has been used for anxiety. I was happy to be trying it, but soon after my first pill I realized that I might have mistakenly trusted a pharmaceutical ad. Imagine my disappointment.

The short story is that I got really sick, with the fever and the vomiting and all that. While the drug did work to the extent that I wasn't anxious anymore, the fear of death caused me to stop.

But ever since then, a permafrost exists betwixt my ears and the stuffin' seems to have been permanently knocked off my mental Egg McMuffin, in psychiatric terms. It's a little scary to think that one may be on the road to the Special Olympics (the one where they don't let you hold a torch). And I don't mean as a volunteer.

I just hope that if my brain melts and flows back through my foramen magnum and into my spinal column, I'll get to leave this life with as much dignity as Ms. Schiavo.

My touch typing ability sucks recently, too. And that really pisses me off. It's the only fucking thing that came out of that "computer" course from high school that isn't obsolete. But my typing, and my brain, are getting better, thus this missive.

Cram it.

Friday, August 05, 2005

My Letter To Santa, Revisited

It's hot, folks. Stinky hot. So I decided to post a reminder of the impending winter, and the absurd holiday called, "Christmas" that goes with it. Draw it mild.

Dear Santa,

I haven't been a good boy this year. It's difficult to admit that to you, but you must be aware of that anyway. That I'm certifiably insane should not be used as an excuse, but it might go a long way towards an explanation.

They say that you are jolly, which is good. I've been jolly a few times, and I remember it fondly. I'm asking that you look past the shoplifting, consumption of illegal substances, and creative financing and find it in your heart to give me things. I want to be rewarded for the time I gave a young woman a dollar so she could get on the #87 bus to Davis Square. And for buying "Spare Change" even though I didn't want it. There is also the time, I think it was in July, when I didn't laugh at the guy for walking into the door at Someday Cafe. These acts will hopefully help you to forgive my theft of that "Bush/Cheney" sign, and for masturbating every day since I was nine.

Provided that you decide to bring me goodies, I thought I'd let you know that I want only one thing: A couple of pounds of fine marijuana from British Columbia. I know you can get it. Nobody is that jolly without a little help. So please take me off the "Naughty" list.

If not, you can go fuck yourself.

Peace,
Darren W. Lyle

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Of Obesity and Personal Responsibility

It bothers me that obese people get more shit for their addiction and lack of self-control than other addicts. Clearly, some people have a pathological need for tasty delights. Most often, this is the result of a desire to find a "comfort zone." Food simultaneously helps some people cope, and also helps to kill them.

And while people need to be responsible for their own bodies, that doesn't let parents and corporations off the hook for how they fuck up kids when it comes to food. Ronald Reagan said that ketchup was a vegetable to help justify cuts in the nutritional value of school lunches. And today, unspeakably nasty shit is targeted at children via the use of movie tie-ins and commercials that practically qualify as mind control. And vending machines in schools? We're all whores.

A parent should never take their kid to McDonald's. Ever. In my opinion, it's like giving a kid a shot of Wild Turkey. Yes, it's tough being a parent, nobody ever said it was easy. I'm sure the appeal of a cheap, convenient dinner at McDonald's is strong. But so is the desire to leave an infant in a hot car while you "just run in" to the fucking Wal-Mart to buy a "Support the Troops" maget that was made in China. It's just easier that taking him or her with you. But if you do the latter and get caught, they take your kid away while your fitness as a parent is assessed.

How is sticking a 6 piece chicken McNugget meal down your kid's throat any different than that? Is it so hard to figure out that a deep-fried meat product called a "McNugget" is bad for you?

So culture does play a part, as do economics; a significant number of people work in a job that barely requires any movement whatsoever. That doesn't help the obesity problem. And asses are widening in other countries, too, like China and Japan and Europe.

I remember a Libertarian brain-teaser about the limits of personal responsibility. It goes like this...

You're walking in a desert and slowly going mad with thirst. Just before you pass out, you see a man walking toward you. As it turns out, he is selling ice cold spring water. So the dying man begs him for some. "Sure!" says the salesman, "The cost is $1 million dollars a bottle." (which is close to what they get at Fenway Park) "But I don't have that!" says the dying man. The salesman replies, "Well, if you just sign this contract, you can have the water now and pay me back the million, along with a smidgen of interest." Now, given that the other fellow is dying horribly, he can't sign the contract fast enough. He gets the water and survives. A week later, he is forced to start making payments that will go on for the rest of his life.

Is the person really bound to pay the $1 million? If not, why not? He made the decision to sign the contract. On the other hand, should motivating factors be considered when it comes to making such a decision? If he refuses to pay, should he be forced to pay by the courts, given that he signed a legally binding contract? Is he a dead-beat or a victim?

So I will extend this to the problem of obesity. If a person was raised under a constant barrage of corporate messages to drink Coke, eat fat, and play video games, can we really BLAME people for being obese? Again, personal responsibility is there, but is it wise to ignore the rest of the picture? Is anyone really being helped with judgement and a lack of empathy, particularly in a society that is hardly known for restraint when it comes to consumption. And that goes beyond food. I'm talking about gas guzzling SUV's, a bizarre need for everyone in your family to have a cell phone camera, overpriced crap from Old Navy, etc.

And if health lectures piss us off, as so many of my comrades claim, why can't we see the hypocrisy of lecturing others?

Be Vigilant, America, and don't just sit there, east something...
Darren the Fat

Friday, July 29, 2005

Tsunami Relief

This is a bit of a delayed reaction, by about 8 months, to something I saw during the campaign to help the victims of the big tsunami. I want all three of you who are reading this to know that what I'm going to say isn't a criticism. On the contrary, what I saw is rather touching. It just also happens to be really funny to me.

Some small town somewhere in our fair nation decided to put together aid packages to the millions of people who were punished by God for not being Christian. The wrath of God comes in many forms, including a big wave, which is another indication that God is a total prick. That's called sarcasm, and it is the coin of the realm in the magical land of Darren.

These people, out of the goodness of their hearts (seriously) wanted badly to help. It's not like life in Sri Lanka is a bag of apples to begin with, and natural disasters don't help. And what an outpouring of support for these poor people! So people busily put together little packages of soap, toothbrushes, baby food, and various other sundries. In my opinion, a mass export of sponges would have been a good idea. But I have no right to mock, given that I didn't do a single solitary thing to help any one of them.

Somebody has to take the time to watch all the Internet porn, play Flash games, and maintain self-indulgent 'blogs. And let's not forget the dancing bacon...I should set up a link for that.

But people, don't tell me that sending toothbrushes to orphans on Phuket isn't funny. I can just imagine a child, whose family was recently consumed by the big foamy, holding a toothbrush in the middle of a town that was wiped off the faced of the Earth, ala Dresden or Hiroshima. It's like getting a John Tesh CD for your birthday; you appreciate the thought amid confusion and a strong desire to forget it ever happened.

And baby food was a poor choice, given the number of babies found floating around in the Indian Ocean. That's probably why the United Nations immediately told people to send MONEY. You can buy toothbrushes with money if you like, but something tells me that most aid agencies used it to buy anything else. Literally, anything else.

If you think I'm a crass bastard, just tell yourself that I'm a sensitive soul who uses humor to cope with the crushing pain that comes with being an empathetic and compassionate human being. But if that dog won't hunt (thank you Ross Perot), then "crass bastard" will do nicely.

End Communication.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Neighborhood children talking and whistling


It's 9pm on a Sunday night and there are children playing outside. There are a lot of kids around here, and it's a warm summer night, so it's not unusual. But some son of a bitch gave one of the kids a whistle. It sounds like the whistle used by British cops in old movies. For all I know, Jack the Ripper is loose out there. Perhaps not. I'm trying to resist the compulsion to go find that kid and, you know, take his fucking whistle. What if it doesn't stop? Worse yet, what if I'm the only one who hears it?

Earlier today I was out for my morning constitutional, which was strange because it was 3:00 in the afternoon. A six year old child on an itty-bitty bike with itty-bitty training wheels rolled by, and he looked at me. As our eyes met, I smiled and he said, "I don't quit." I quickly replied, "That's good." What do you say to that? Naturally, I do quit, and I'm acutely aware of that, so for me the air was thick with an implicit challenge. Was he zinging me for being a pessimistic sad-sack? I doubt it, but I'm still thinking about it. Then again, I probably would have attached meaning to anything the little bugger spat. If he said, "I don't eat ice cream" I would have taken it as a crack about my weight. This is a 6 year old kid we're talking about. He's probably the kid out there with that fucking whistle. The little uber-toddler should be in bed, not out looking for criminals in the fog.

My therapist tells me that I think I'm surrounded by people who hate and mock me because I despise myself. My anxiety, he says, is partially rooted in paranoia. There's some truth there. If I don't hear from a friend for a few weeks, I start to imagine that he or she has come to the conclusion that I'm worthless and need to be avoided. And when I pass strangers on the street, I get the feeling that they think I'm a hideous freak. I guess on some level I know that this is nuts. But that doesn't explain why neighborhood children feel the need to make fun of me via cruel innuendo. Hah!

Monday, July 11, 2005

The Dark Chuckle


Early this morning I read a story about a fellow who slipped on a subway platform and fell in front of a train. He was, of course, pulverized with extreme prejudice. Because of the myriad miracles of modern technology, these nasty tales are brought to our attention at the speed of light every single day. It's not so much withering as it is numbing. Still, the ignominious end of this guy struck a nerve with me. I could have easily have met such an end countless times, with trains, buses, inexplicably angry people with weapons, etc.

But there is always an asshole nearby who says something to make it worse. If I'm killed in such an accident I really hope that nobody sees it. And if it has to be seen by anyone, let it be a poet or a painter or some such gentle soul. Perhaps not a musician, though. I wouldn't want the end of me put to music by a band like Gwar or 'N Sync (that about covers both extreme ends of the spectrum). More than likely, however, the comment on the nightly news will be made by a rube, yokel, jackass, or boob.

The witness to the afformentioned tragedy was, I think, a yokel...it's tough to say. And what did he say? "It's really horrible, he never saw it coming." I'm harshly critical of what this guy said for a couple of reasons. For one, it's a cliche. And for such a unique and horrible tragedy! I can tolerate banality as much as the next fat person, but some moments require thoughtful consideration. It reminded me of the scene in the movie "Titanic," when Kathy Bates says, "You don't see that every day" as she witnesses the epic demise of a big, floating thing with lots of people on it. I'm the only person in the theatre who laughed at that line in that context, which doesn't speak highly of me. But I digress.

And isn't it a blessing that he never saw it coming? I'm happy for him. Otherwise, his last words might have been, "What the f---!" Or perhaps he would have just said, "Fuck!" Personally, I'm working on something to say in advance, in case something happens. My favorite is, "Life's too short for fat-free pretzels!" That may be too long, though. One word is practically best. Something mysterious like "Rosebud!" would be good. Or British, "My word!" Perhaps an ode to "The Simpsons" would be most appropriate; you can't do much better than, "D'oh!"

But like everything else, it all comes back to movies, as in "Caddyshack." How can you beat a guy yelling, "Rat farts!" just before getting hit by lightning. And that may be the best route to go. To provide one final chuckle, albeit a dark one, to the shocked and horrified crowd.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Listen for the sausage that ISN'T served.

Who would want to read the rantings of a man who is a self-loathing, neurotic nihilist? Of a man whose entire philosophical and spiritual outlook is couched in the belief that his life is of no consequence among the living, and that he will soon become nothing upon his death?

No one really likes that shit, which is why so few people claim to be fans of independent French cinema. Even among the coffee house crowd, most people are talking about sex, art, college and careers. I've spent enough time in Someday Cafe to know that the quality of overheard conversation is excellent, and wonderful works of art hang on the wall. But even on the darkest, coldest, bleakest February evening, most people would rather nail their genitals to a car battery than listen to a depressive complain about his or her existential plight.

I'm fond of the notion that nobody is reading the musings posted to this web-blog. At least I am half the time. The other half, I want everyone to read them. It's annoying, but I'm not concerned with that may be annoying right now. Today I find myself in a horrible depression, and am beyond even music for comfort. I'm listening to music right now, but I don't really hear it. Stop the presses.

My lips ache from biting them, which I do whenever I get nervous and/or depressed. As a result, I do it often. I'm dirty, my body feels very, very wrong, and I just want to sleep, but I can't. So many people get up on a Sunday morning and go out for brunch, and then read the paper while listening to music they don't listen to the rest of the week. Or watch televised news shows that exude a rarefied air, as if what they show is of greater importance than what is seen on the news every night of the week. Imagine being a musician playing at a "Jazz brunch," surrounded by people who never, ever listen to Jazz except when it's accompanied by Canadian bacon and waffles. That has to be Hell for someone. Heaven and Hell are right here on Earth, it's all a question of timing and location.

I think I'm going to take my psychiatric medications for the day. Marijuana and Vicodin would help, but they won't give it to me. Aspirin will help the headache go away, though, and I have that. Happy Sunday, everyone...today is somebody's birthday.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

How to fly a flag the way God intended

As we all know, a great deal of respect and proper protocol is required when displaying the American flag; whether it be in front of a school, courthouse, or private residence. A flag must be taken down when it is raining, and illuminated or taken down at night. Many times in our lives, after a national tragedy, the flag has been flown at half-staff. This is meant to indicate our collective, and usually feigned, sorrow. What most of us do not know, however, is that the flag is supposed to be lowered in degrees, depending on the extent of the tragedy being recognized. The varying degrees of recognition of national catastrophes are listed below. It is very important for the collective dignity of this country for anyone who flies Old Glory to follow these instructions. God Bless America, support the troops, and embrace the march of freedom and democracy. If you don't, then go back to France you cheese-eating surrender monkey.

CIRCUMSTANCES AND CATASTROPHES REPRESENTED IN FLAG HEIGHT, BY 10THS

10 - Normal flag-flying day. America is proud, dumb, and happy. And usually flying faded, tattered flags from China.

9/10 - Congressional sky-diving mishap

8/10 - Karl Rove crushes the collective will of all who oppose the Bush Administration, on any conceivable issue.

7/10 - Four words: Bad batch of fudge.

6/10 - A vegetable with a half-sized brain gains the earnest attention of the entire executive and legislative branch.

5/10 - Generic tragedy that almost certainly has less impact on your life than running out of toilet paper or getting a hole in your sock.

4/10 - Secretary of the Interior can't get Pepsi machine to take his dollar bill.

3/10 - AOL sends out a mass mailing of CD's

2/10 - Any high-ranking member of the administration travels to another country and promptly talks down to the people of that country, thus alienating yet another segment of the world population.

1/10 - Republicans childishly advocate changing the name of French fries to "freedom fries."

Let the eagle soar,
Darren

Sunday, July 03, 2005

Favorite Comments & Questions

"You're not going to eat that, are you?"

"A meatball fell out of my sandwich."

"I'm giving you 30 Vicodin for pain."

"You really are tactless, you fucking douchebag turd."

"When will Garrison Keilor shut the fuck up about the lost innocence of his mid-western childhood?"

"You can't stab me with that, that's a letter-opener, not a knife."

"That place had more mimes than a French circus."

"I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free."

"Why is it that everyone has a story about shitting themselves at the fair, carnival or amusement park?"

"What's a plantain? It's essentially a banana with attitude."

Saturday, July 02, 2005

Of Carthaginian Cobblers and Anonymous Departures

The great Carthaginian general Hannibal is known for giving ancient Rome a hard time during his 63 years among the living. He was all the rage during the 2nd Punic War, with the elephants and the cunning strategy and all that. I'm oddly appreciative of anyone who managed to piss-off Rome, probably because the Roman Empire reminds me of the American Empire. Although I have to admit that I admire the Roman Patriarchs for their incredible decadence, Christian killing, orgies and bacchanalia; and don't get me started on the vomitoriums. Now THAT'S a culture! America doesn't have the good sense to at least be interesting. Our empire embraces all of the violence, but none of the sex, that comes with the role of "World's Biggest Asshole."

But I digress. About 35 years after the end of the 2nd Punic War, Carthage finally fell to the Romans. With spectacular cruelty (and a sense of theatre) Rome murdered 450,000 citizens of Carthage, razed the city, and then sowed salt into the soil so nothing would grow there again. Needless to say, Hannibal REALLY honked-off Rome.

As I was reading a book about all this late last night, I couldn't help but wonder about a few things. The very first thing I thought about was the cost of the book, which I bought several years ago for a university class. The price sticker says $60, which is obscene. Really. But my natural inclination to identify with a bunch of losers got me thinking about the half million people who were murdered by the Romans, essentially for dramatic effect. I imagine Roman soldiers eating, vomiting, fucking, and then getting drunk before riding off to stick sharp metal into people. And how creative they were at killing! Nailing people to wood, propping them up, and then leaving them to suffer is an astoundingly fiendish "zinger." There's no retort to that.

But back to Carthage. Imagine the untold stories and unspeakable suffering that became a mere footnote to history. Beyond an estimate of the number of people killed, does anyone care about what they went through? Of course not...we have enough tragedies and genocide that was actually captured on film to care about the distant past. But I'm sure that the few people who escaped the annihilation of Carthage thought something like, "Holy crap, certainly no one will ever forget that." But to empathize you have to look beyond the numbers and approach things on a human level. Sometimes the best way to get at a truth is through fiction. Consider Hammi the Cobbler, a citizen of Carthage. I made him up, but it puts a human face on the whole affair. And ignore that there weren't any cobblers back then.

Hammi isn't a fighter, but he does his best to keep Rome out of Carthage, which isn't much. He fancies himself more of an aesthete. People frequently tell him that he is kind and makes the most comfortable sandals around. Naturally, I'm fond of Hammi. But I have the good sense not to get to attached to him. Why? Because Roman soldiers will soon break in, set him on fire, nail him to a cow and fling him a quarter mile away via catapult. They'll probably go find him and do it again just for good measure. Then eat him.

But nobody will remember Hammi, who is a mere statistic. So what is different about me? Nothing...except I will probably die of a heart attack or get hit by a bus. Mercifully, I most likely won't be nailed to, or fired out of, anything. Although I can't be sure. I call this an "anonymous departure," and it is the fate of all but a very small number of people. But ultimately it is the fate of every single one of us. At any moment, a chunk of rock and ice could sail into us and after that it won't matter that you won the spelling bee in 4th grade; permanent record my ass.

It's wise not to dwell on this, as it doesn't contribute to the creation of a sunny disposition. People who happily whistle as they stroll down the street almost certainly aren't nihilists. Then again, knowing that none of this matters makes it far easier to endure...in a way. Some "its" are impossible to endure, regardless of lofty spiritual and/or philosophical notions. I'm only a pacifist, perhaps, because I've never known hunger.

As an atheist and a nihilist, I've reached the point in my life where the existence of god strikes me as a very scary notion. Most religions have judgment and the possibility of neverending agony as part of their sales pitch. If it comes down to having to choose between an anonymous departure and fearing the undying attention of a very unpredictable, all-powerful god, I'd rather travel with Hammi.

Thursday, June 30, 2005

Of Chicken Dinners and Condoms

A comrade of mine, J. Quinn Brisben, is a fellow I greatly admire. For many years he taught in the Chicago Public School system, and he published a book of poetry entitled, "The Significance of the Frontier: Selected Poems 1966-2002" that is quite exceptional. I met him in 1992, at the Socialist Party USA National Convention in Chicago. Within minutes of meeting me, he insisted that I join him and his wife Andrea for a chicken dinner.

Over dinner, Quinn told me how he had recently smuggled 3,000 condoms into Russia for a gay and lesbian rights organization. It was love at first sight. Smuggling contraceptives anywhere is just plain cool. Quinn was and is used to talking to young people who don't say very much, so he didn't find fault in my general silence. I did mention, on occasion, my high level of admiration.

As a result of that convention, Quinn ran for president with a fellow named "Big" Bill Edwards as his vice-president. In case you're wondering, they lost. In 1996, Quinn visited me here in Boston and stayed at my flat for a day. Andrea, his wife and the owner of Changing Woman Design needlepoint, stayed here, as well. I've never actually seen them apart.

When Quinn Brisben passes on, he almost certainly won't be remembered and considered as much as he deserves to be. As a tireless activist, primarily for civil rights and people with disabilities, and as a poet who has traveled to every US state and 38 foreign countries. Tireless intellectual activists who modestly try to improve the world are rare these days. People with loud mouths and nothing thoughtful, compassionate or even interesting to say clog the airwaves. If you want to meet Quinn and discuss the direction of our species, you have to go out and hear him speak at a venue, which can be a university or a bookstore or out in the rain during a protest. Right now, he's toddling around London with his grand daughter.

So to you, Quinn, I tip my cup of coffee in deep respect. And to David McReynolds, Bill S, Greg Pason, and the late Ann Rosenhaft, know that I will always love you. My lack of activism may seem to indicate my apathy, but that's not accurate. Mental illness has made me a man of little consequence to the movement. My passionate concern for those around me, and strong class consciousness, compel me towards activity that I am too cowardly to take. But it's anything but apathy. Think of me as a startled, hunted animal that hasn't the feet to flee nor the ability to defend himself. Pathetic, eh?

Bread & Roses,
Darren W. Lyle

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

The Big Enchilada

A woman in Wisconsin recently gave birth to a 14lb baby girl who at this point remains unnamed. The father, however, in the grand tradition of men saying and doing stupid and/or wildly innappriate things, has dubbed the massive flesh dump, "The Big Enchilada." This thing was born via the use of a C-section, which means they cut the mother open and ever so gently yanked the baby out of her body. A vaginal birth was clearly out of the question; the mother's taco wasn't nearly large enough for the enchilada to pass through. That being the case, the doctors had to think outside the bun and ditch the vaginal birth.

Just remember to be courteous if your baby is as large as this abomination. Flush twice and spray the bathroom with Lysol, or at least light a match.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Of Solidarity Among Flies and Getting Lost

I find myself digesting the opinions and comments of countless people every day. Unfortunately, this doesn't happen over a cup of coffee at Someday Cafe, or while listening to the rarefied and erudite members of our cultural and political elite. Instead, it comes from the television and radio. Sometimes a friend will email me with a compelling observation, which I appreciate greatly. This doesn't happen very often, however, as people are busy...I am not.

For four days last week the mainstream media was totally focused on a Cub Scout who made the poor aesthetic choice of getting lost in Utah. On the list of places to get lost, the wilds of Utah has got to be near the bottom. Because I'm an idiot, I get lost all the time. A couple of weeks ago, I took the wrong bus from Lechmere Station in Cambridge and ended up in some sort of alternate universe that, luckily, was connected to Harvard Square. I wonder if the little fucker in Utah will get a badge for getting lost. They could call it the "Christopher Columbus Badge." I do know that I won't get a badge.

I find it hard to feign concern for imperiled people I do not know. If they found the kid impaled on the antlers of an elk or ripped in half by a skunk-ape, it would have no impact on my life. Little black children die every day, and they had the good sense to stay at home...and away from Utah.

I have a couple of comments to finish out this entry (my first) to my 'blog. Regarding those fly-covered kids in Africa who were unfortunately born black and in Africa, and poor to boot, I have to ask: Do the flies ever get together and try to fly away with a kid. I bet they could do it. I would guess that 1,000 flies working together could lift little Mbugua to a place where they could eat in peace. That would be a World Health Organization report worth reading. "In the last ten years alone over 100,000 children were carried away by small, but well organized, flies."

My other comment is about insults. When I hear someone say something really stupid, which happens frequently, I think, "Cram it, Fatty!" I automatically go to that insult for some reason. Sometimes I add, "...you douchebag!" to the mix. But I'm fat...and may even be a douchebag. That gives my opponent a really easy comeback. I don't want to give it up, though. I may have to actually lose weight so I can use it. I also like, "Go fuck yourself," but that's a little severe; I don't want to get whacked in the schnozz.

Keep it fake.

Don't Mock Me, Duck Boat Fiends

About once every month I head out to Boston Common, walk up Beacon Hill to the State House, and stand and consider the Massachusetts 54th Memorial by Saint-Gaudens. I decided to do that a little earlier today, as it is so beautiful out and medical matters had me leaving my flat anyway. It's tradition for romantics and history buffs to place flowers on Robert Gould Shaw's lap at the center of the memorial. So I cut a cluster of roses off my rose bush (the one plant I have that housing will allow) and headed on my way.

When I got to my destination, I sat and waited for the right moment to put the roses in their place. Someone had already put small bunch of carnations there, but I would add my roses anyway. Tour buses and Duck Boats were driving down Beacon Street with noisy regularity. The State House is right across the street, so there are a lot of visitors. Defying my anxiety, I rose and stood on my toes reached just high enough to deposit the roses in their place.

Then I slipped. My right forearm took the brunt of the fall, and is now black and blue. People rose to help me, but I waved them off and smiled. I felt like a complete jack-ass. If I had fallen and broken my neck, would it be my romantic inclinations that killed me? And if so, would it then have been a noble death? I think not. Like every other noble intention, it ends either in banality or absurdity.

Love, D

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Rage Against the Dying of the Snack

I was just drinking coffee and eating a popover whilst checking my email. The content of one of my emails required a lot of my attention, and I had to check my facts with some papers on my desk. Here's where the story takes a horrific turn, so brace yourselves. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that I had some popover left, sitting on my address book. Without looking I reached for it and found that it wasn't there. I thought I saw a piece of popover where no popover existed.

It is no small thing to be mocked by the void. Death will soon stick to us like an ill-fitting track suit on a fat, honey-covered jogger. Before I yell, "cannonball!" and fling myself into the abyss, I just want to be able to correctly gauge how much food I have left as I eat it. The bitter disappointment of unexpectedly living in a popover-free bedroom has me ensconced in ennui.

There is no achingly beautiful tragedy here, nor light-hearted comedy, nor base desire compelling me towards recklessness. There is only a banal contemplation of the abyss. I'm perched here on my little chair, sadly remembering my beloved popover, done too soon. My fat body perched on this stool like a water balloon on a flagpole. Oh, whither this pain!

I will mock the void back...and go downstairs and get another popover. Oh, yes, there is one more, and this time it will be different. I'm wiser now, and will no longer be tormented by my peripheral vision.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Happy Memorial Day!

It is Memorial Day, so be sure to take a moment to get very serious about what this holiday means. But don't let that get in the way of a trip to the beach, an afternoon of playing "Halo 2," or breaking out the grill. I'm not going to do any of these things, but I do feel compelled to put together a list of the worst cliches/myths that we tenaciously cling to on a daily basis and then attempt to reaffirm with vigor on Memorial Day. Some of them apply only to Iraq and Afghanistan, but most apply to every veteran-creating exercise in which we engage. Enjoy!

1.) "We will never forget the sacrifice made by our fallen veterans." In truth, we will forget...and with astonishing speed. The deaths of 30,000 in Korea and 58,000 in Vietnam (among others) have had absolutely no negative impact on our desire to take part in unnecessary military adventures. Unless you personally know and love someone killed in war you're pretty much feigning sadness just so you don't feel like an asshole. In that sense, the pain of young men and women getting killed overseas is never even felt by most people, so there is nothing
to forget.

2.) "They gave their lives' for freedom." Not true of any conflict since World War II. Any freedom gained in Iraq is an indirect consequence of our primary motives, those being oil and the ability to establish permanent military bases in that part of the world. Elections aside, the people of Iraq are about as "free" as the people of China. The "police actions" of Vietnam and Korea had nothing to do with freedom; quite the opposite.

3.) "They died to protect our nation." Possibly true in World War II, but again, totally untrue in EVERY conflict since then.

4.) "They made a sacrifice so future generations wouldn't have to." You can always bet that there will be a fresh hell for each generation, sometimes several. Our delusions of grandeur, bipolar morality, culture that celebrates "bravery" and "heroism" and military-industrial economy means that we will never stop preparing for, and engaging in, war.

5.) "We are united behind our men and women overseas." It's a nice thought, but magnetic bumper ribbons aside, most people turn a blind eye to cuts in programs designed to help returning veterans, like VA hospitals (this happened in Vietnam and Korea, as well). We also embrace a "back-door draft" that keeps soldiers overseas long after they were promised they could return home. That's not a good sort of unity.

Well, those are the top 5 myths/cliches that bother me the most. I'm going to spend Memorial Day doing chores, reading, watching television, and writing emails like this one. I will, however, pause as I do every other day and think about how horrible it is that so many people have died for nebulous reasons. Naturally, I'm particularly bothered by the 1,650 Americans killed in Iraq and Afghanistan so far, not to mention the tens of thousands of civilians who are just trying to live with a modicum of peace and dignity. And when I think of how over 1,100 troops have been killed since Bush declared that "major military operations" were over in Iraq, I have an anxiety attack, but I'm prone to those.

So, this Memorial Day be sure to take a moment and consider how many people have died because of specious reasoning and a lack of moral scruples. That is my greatest tribute to the fallen. At least I, and others like me, can honestly remember the dead, and how they tragically trusted the people who led them from afar.

Peace,
Darren