Sunday, December 31, 2006

New Year's Eve's Dropping Ball

Tonight the ball drops and we jump around and celebrate having made it to yet another year. If the damn ball had dropped for me at the right time, I wouldn't need that damn surgery in less than two weeks. Ha! Happy New Year to all my friends, both online and offline, and both. My New Year's resolution is to lose 50lbs by doing more exercise. Yes, I know it's a common resolution, but it's important to me, damnit. I also resolve to show Linda what a beautiful and remarkable woman she is, and how happy I am to have her in my life. May 2007 find us together as much as possible.

We're here to help each other get through life, people. Whatever life may be. So let there be love and compassion and music, music, music! May you fearlessly seek out what you desire and take it in 2007. We don't live forever, you know. Peace!

Friday, December 29, 2006

Gun Oil And My Royal Typewriter

There's a diconcerting ache throbbing betwixt my legs right now, like a hernia or a slipped disc in the back. But it's not either one of those things, of course. I've been looking for reasons to put off my surgery. I told my father to try to get into surgery earlier, which would "force" me into putting my orchiectomy off until who knows when. But he's certain that his date isn't until late January or early February, so mine doesn't represent a logictical problem. Right now, however, I'm glad that my ruse didn't work. This hurts.

I wonder how all my friends are doing, and my brother, too. I'm a lonely son of a bitch these days, which isn't uncommon for a person with Avoidant Personality Disorder. Social phobia prevents social activity, but loneliness triggers depression. Not clinical depression, just the natural sort of enervation and ennui that anyone would experience in the absence of human company. I've taken up reading Ray Bradbuy's "The Martian Chronicles" and "Dandelion Wine," both of which I read when I was a teenager. They're ascomforting as a warm blanket on a cold night. I'm probably going to take up reading some Kurt Vonnegut again, too. They make me feel less alone, for different reasons. Bradbury reminds me of when I thought I could become an author. Back in the day I used a very old Royal typewriter that wasn't even electric. The clakitty-clack-clack of those keys is like music. I still have it, but all romance aside, it's an awful pain in the ass to use. Computers are ruthlessly efficient tools. Bradbury brings a little of that optimism to mind. Sometimes I get the smell of gun oil in my nose, which I used to keep my Royal in tip-top shape. Vonnegut was introduced to me by a co-worker and friend of mine at the DeCordova Museum, Mary. His novels transport me to a time before I went batshit, when I was a full-time university student. And both authors are just so fucking good at their craft, particularly Vonnegut.

I'm probably mentioned it before, but I'm also fond of Dostoevsky. His short story, "White Nights" really speaks to me. Adam and I, working at the aforementioned museum, would make fun of anyone who used that phrase. When a pretentious museum supporter stood in front of a piece and said, "That speaks to me," we both had to sneak away to the kitchen, where we could laugh our asses off. But Nastenka and her lonely, passionate lover really do speak to me. That story has been with me for awhile now. It's probably the most comforting thing I could read. That's why I've read it at least 20 times.

I do have friends, but I try not to write, call or otherwise try to contact them. I try, but I find it difficult. If they want to talk, they know where to find me and, since they know me so well, they know that I always look forward to it. People get busy, and when I don't hear from someone for awhile I try to keep that in mind. But my stomach also twists up and I become afraid. "Have I done something wrong?" I ask myself over and over again. Invariably, this leads to self-loathing and that to the comfort of those novels.

My friends are very, very important to me. I sometimes wonder if they know that they are in my mind, to one degree or another, almost all the time. I would do anything for them, they have but to ask. That may be why I seek solitude. Perhaps the greatest gift I could give to those I love is to leave them alone. To die, in a fashion. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) teaches that negative thoughts like that can be avoided, and by avoiding them so can depression and anxiety, at least to some degree. I swear, though, that I'll be wondering until the day I die if it is true.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Of Dr. Who and That Chinese Guy

I just went through some kind of Dr. Who time warp playing Civilization IV. Without regret or any sense of loss, I pissed away 2 hours. Just like that, boink!, gone. The part of the game I enjoyed the most, by far, was waging war on some Chinese guy for absolutely no reason. Every few turn he would ask me, "Isn't it time for this bloodshed to end?" Basically, my response was, "No!" Every time he asked for the madness to stop, I would refuse and attack him with renewed vigor. I imagined him getting increasingly vexed and confused at my pointless aggression. Sort of like how the whole world feels towards Bush. I felt regret when I toppled his last city. I'm sure he died wondering what the hell my problem was.

For those who don't know, Dr. Who was a big show on the BBC. It was about aliens and drugs and time travel. You never knew what was going to happen next. One minute, the protagonist would be running from bipedal, intelligent salamanders and the next minute a floating banana peel would be barking commands. It was enjoyably fucked-up in a way that only British television can be. Civilization IV, for those who don't know, is a video game about world domination, usually played by people who can't balance their check books. It's an incredibly hard game, and the only reason I did so well on my first outing is because I had it set on "retard."

Letter From The Front

Dear Mr. Lyle,

Thank you so much for all your support in 2006, but in the coming year we are facing a huge challenge. More money and activism are needed to continue our pivotal role in moving this campaign forward. This past year we took a major step forward by hiring a full-time executive director. Benjamin Honeycutt is a highly-motivated organizer who has made it possible to act preemptively on many fronts. The future looks bright for our cause.

Or not, it's tough to say. Frankly we've lost interest since you've gotten involved. Your existential nihilism and morose disposition have combined to form a dark cloud that hangs over anyone who spends more than 5 minutes with you. In addition, you radiate a flavorless indifference that has poisoned our entire staff like that Russian guy that Putin killed. A passionate desire to improve the world fuels every activist, except you. You seem to be motivated to volunteer by a rusty bayonet at your back with the word "Guilt" written on it. You make Catholic guilt look like a minor headache. How did you ever get so neurotic and fucked-up?

Our cause is a noble one, and we endeavor to persevere and relieve unspeakable suffering in our lifetime. We can best achieve this if you stay as far away as possible. Perhaps we will find our spark again in the springtime. Perhaps not. But if we are to have a chance, you must refrain from trying to help. Did you know that in the wake of your taking over the Cambridge Local we've had 2 suicides, and 11 members joined either Narcotics Anonymous or Alcoholics Anonymous? And that was just in the week following your "motivational" speech.

I'm sorry to be so blunt, but Jesus Christ...Jesus Christ.


Sincerely,
Deborah Bernard

Sunday, December 24, 2006

Silly Med Prosthetics

Here we see prosthetic testicles made by a company called, "SiliMed." I kid you not. I'm not sure why anyone who isn't actually in the porn industry would want such a thing, but apparently many men do. If only I could have mine set up to as a change purse, or just another pocket. Perhaps a place to keep an emergency condom...in my scrotal pocket. My urologist did mention the possible use of a pair of silicom balls to me, but I rejected due to the nagging presence of a modicum of self-respect. Plus, who besides my girlfriend is going to see them? They're not like breast implants, where everyone can gaze in awe and wonder at a pair of perfect breasts. And I can't imagine coming out of the shower at the YMCA and hearing a fellow say, "Hey, man, those are some nice, symmetrical balls you have there!" Not without starting a nasty fight, anyway. There just aren't enough people looking at my scrotum to justify prosthetic balls. Perhaps if I join a nudist colony, or get as famous as Paris Hilton and need to look get for when I get out of my limo without underwear on.

Friday, December 22, 2006

Surgery Date Now Official

Finally there is a confirmed date for my orchiectomy; January 11, 2007. It's good to have a mere 20 days between me and the end of two decades of testicular tomfoolery. This should have been done when I was in my teens, when there may have even been a chance at saving my fertility. I'm not complaining, though. There's too much suffering all over the damn place to complain about this, I'm just happy to have a target date. Up above you can see exactly what they do in the surgery. I should be on my feet in 2 or 4 days, and completely healed in 2 or 3 weeks. Hey, I've done it before.

My friend Charlie, a female-to-male transexual, just had "top" surgery done. That is, the removal of breast tissue while maintaining nipple sensitivity. It's not as easy as it sounds, but Charlie came out of surgery doing absolutely spectacularly. I think he was up and around the very next day. Naturally, they are very different surgeries, but his strength has inspired me to fight my inclination towards self-pity and get this thing done. Like Charlie, however, I'm a man and I'm going to stay that way. Balls...who needs 'em.

Send me a get well card, people.

My father is another story. We don't have a surgery date for him yet, but his surgery is far more serious than mine. It's for an abdominal aortic aneurysm, a potentially life-threatening condition. There is reason for optimism, though, and with my surgery out of the way soon, I'll be able to aid him during his period of convalescence.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

My Admiration For Michelle's Death Glance

I sincerely admire my sister-in-law, and like most people whom I admire, I think she really dislikes everything about me. And since I despise myself, I couldn't agree with her more. The most powerful early memory of Michelle (that's her name), is from her wedding, way back in 1994. Ostensibly, I was the Best Man at the wedding, but in reality I wasn't of any great use to anyone. A fellow named Matt LeDuc did most of the official business, like keeping an eye on the caterer and whatever other menial tasks needed to be done. My mind floated around the wedding and I basically tried to exculpate myself to a certain degree. The "degree" I was aiming for was somewhere close to "strangely detached" and away from "complete boob." I'm of the opinion that I succeeded, and most people left the wedding with no opinion of me whatsoever.

I don't drink, and I generally don't like things like weddings, so I wasn't very outgoing. But I was ensconced in thought about the institution of marriage, my brother, the way in which I fucked up the bachelor party, and, of course, Michelle. There were probably more inane thoughts in there, as well. Like, "When do I get cake?" or "Why couldn't I find a date for this thing?" All of that was in addition to the ongoing chant of, "Holy shit am I fat." over and over again.

At one point I spoke with Matt LeDuc about my poor Best Manship and he was totally cool with the way things worked out, and I felt better. As I sailed across the yard and pushed past the guests, I was happy and at peace that my brother had found love. I'm fond of love, having been in love three times. Two of those love affairs ended well, although painfully, in friendship. One ended with my heart being squashed like a wormy apple on a hot summer day. Regardless, I'm an romantic by nature, so despite my feelings on marriage in general, I celebrated in sincere exultation. I love my brother, and that's how it works.

The memory of Michelle I spoke of earlier is all about what happened next. It's very simple, I just carelessly bumped into her as she was holding an alcoholic beverage of some kind. Actually, she had two, and she was probably taking the other drink to my brother. Time stopped and space contracted as an indifferent universe suddenly seemed to be greatly interested in how I fucked up and almost caused the bride to spill her drink on her wedding dress. If memory serves, I didn't, but she looked at me with an angry desire to see me crushed. After it happened, I clumsily spat out an apology and slinked away. I half expected to get hit in the back of the head with a rock. I didn't.

In retrospect, I imagine that she was putting me in my place as a new member of the Lyle family. Sort of like in prison movies where the new guy picks a fight with the toughest prick around as a way of ascending the heirarchy. My brother is fond of me, so I may have been, in a sense, the "toughest prick around." With that one look she booted me right off the ladder. I didn't know at that point that she is smart and funny, or that she can't spell, or that she is an incredibly hard worker (just look at www.Maxxsdoodads.com). All I knew at the time is that my new sister-in-law had no qualms about flattening any fat fuck who got in her way, brother or no brother.

The psychological impact of that hideous glare is impossible to overstate. Several years ago I was involved in a sexual dalliance with a young married woman, let's call her Ann..After an episode of vigorous lovemaking, Ann rose from the bed and asked if I wanted something to drink. I asked for a Coke and she left the bedroom, naked and magnificent. While she was gone, I realized that I needed to pee (one of those erratic, post intercourse urinations). So I got up and walked to the bathroom. Along the way, I bumped into my partner, causing her to spill ice cold Coke on her naked breasts. She made some sort of exclamation, and we laughed. But as I stood in the bathroom and tried like hell to focus my stream into the toilet, I had what Vietnam veterans call a flashback.Despite my best efforts, I remembered the glare and how I felt afterward; like a roach with body odor. Later on, Ann and I started to make love again, and after pleasuring her orally, I went in for the 60 second thrust to satisfy me. Incidentally, that's my most oft used blueprint for sex. Pleasure her with the lips and tongue, starting with the neck down and moving down to the genitals over about 20-45 minutes, finishing with a fantastic clitoral flourish. After she orgasms, I poke her and then we have a slice of pizza. But after the memory flash, I found myself without an erection. As my partner moaned and spread her legs, reaching out for me to penetrate her and get her bed sticky, I just looked down at my limp penis. That is very, very, very rare for me. Synthetic testosterone gives me erections just about anytime I want one. Usually even when I don't want one, like when I'm walking past the playground down the street. That thing is going to get me into trouble. I just can't control it sometimes...arousal may or may not be cause a stiffy. But that early morning, my pecker went unused, like a library card in George W. Bush's pocket.

You may think that I'm blaming Michelle for something that is clearly not her fault. After all, I was with a woman who was cheating on her husband, and he was due home in less than two hours. While he was plowing snow, I was plowing his wife. So yes, I was very nervous about getting killed by a vengeful husband. But I just like sex so much...I do, I really do! But as my brother once said, "That's just not right, man." But I performed well in her car the day we went to the Museum of Fine Arts. I even did very well earlier that same morning. So it wasn't fear of getting caught. And it wasn't that I was torn about the morality...Ann was an adult, and I respected her right and choice to bang me in a meaningless, base series of sexual encounters. It wasn't until I bumped into her and I had that memory flash of Michelle's dirty look that I went limp.

I deeply admire Michelle for what she did, though. Most people are simply not as adept as she is at conveying a message with a single glance. Since then, she's grown to love me, and I her. I tell her everything about my love life and mental illness, and seek out her advice because I think she is very intelligent. Although, again, she can't spell for beans. But that's just not her bag. So I raise my glass to Michelle, and hope to one day master the art of the glance.

It's all true, kids. And she makes a fine doggie treat. I tried one, and they are wicked good.

Gym Class, Hippies and a Fat Library Volunteer

Once upon a time there was an oak tree. It stood next to my high school, and perhaps it still does. Minuteman is an enormous school, bigger than some community colleges and just as full of mediocre minds. The middling mind in charge of my hideous body decided to drop out of school, since I weighed 450lbs and was failing a required class, gym. Whatever douchebag made "physical education" a required class should shampoo my crotch. When my gym "teacher" asked me once, "Why can't you just come to class?" I should have taken all my clothes off, pointed to my rolls of fat, and shit on the floor in contempt. Instead, I just left. But I went back to night school, and the tree.

Every night I would take classes and then volunteer 2 hours in the school library, mainly putting books back. So I mastered the Dewey decimal system, and had some great conversations with a teacher I had who happened to be a hippy. And I read a lot. I forget why, but I compiled a list of public companies that sold stock and private companies that, of course, didn't. It had something to do with my early socialism. I was trying to make a point long forgotten.

If an alien race ever floats over our greatest cities and explores our cathedrals and museums and malls, they'll almost certainly come to the conclusion that we were trying to make a point about something long forgotten.

After an evening of classes and volunteering, I would wait outside, usually in the cold, at the front entrance. Out in Lexington it is far enough from the city to appreciate the bright stars and darkness around it. And the bright, white moon is burned into my memory. It was mezmerizing. And now the black oak tree comes into the picture. A black oak is a species of oak tree, by the way, and isn't just me trying to relate how alight the moon seemed in comparison. If I stood in the right place, the moon rays would cut through the bare branches of the tree. Sometimes I could obscure the moon entirely behind a thick branch, and the light would put the branches in bold bas relief. The light was flat and the dark weaved atop it. On a special night, the tree was covered with ice from a storm, but the sky was free of clouds. It was magnificent, and made me swallow hard and I even found myself getting truly emotional. And it wasn't a faux profound moment where you feel that you should be emotional, so you pretend you are. This was different. If I could explain exactly what it is that got to me so, I could author a masterpiece. As it is, I'll just leave it alone. But I did write a poem about it long ago.

Still black oak along a path
denuded branches arc and twist
against the frozen white face
of the moon
A glowing Siren's call, tempting us
to step outside ourselves
And see everything we love
as the moon does
All framed in time and space
in nothingness
We try to resist the void it speaks of
while the black oak stands
and pays no mind.

Isn't that uplifting!

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

High Thoughts and Misdemeanors

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy...oh, yeah, the lyrics from Queen's masterpiece, Bohemian Rhapsody. I'm listening to that right now as I wait for the 6mg of lorazepam to put the lid on some unpleasant nightmares and every so gently, and with a loving hand, put me in an unconscious place far from those who would hurt me. Or hurt me by ignoring me. Or at least deliver me into a world where I didn't put my cream cheese and asiago bagel sandwich on a newly purchased book, thus getting cream cheese on it. Such a world must exist, at least as a projection of my mind onto the a stack of corned beef from the market.

Don't you think for a second that I would defend your bourgeous values and risk spilling my revolutionary red blood. That is not an ambulance you hear, it is the dues paying comrades of the One Big Union singing The Internationale in harmony!

Arise, the damned of the earth,
Arise, prisoners of hunger,
For reason thunders in its crater,
It is the eruption of the end!
Let us make a blank slate of the past,
Army of slaves, arise, arise!
The world is changing at the base,
We who have been nothing, let's be everything!

This is the final struggle
Let us gather, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be mankind!

"Intellectuals don't harmonize well," the old opera singer from Cuba reminded me, "and their passion is sapped by psychosomatic illnesses ranging from alcoholism to game legs to asthma...a pathetic lot." With that, she stabbed out her cigar and rose. One of her attendants moved to aid her, but she slapped him away. We were standing together. I half-turned to look at her, and saw that she was staring at me. "Let's get a drink, young man, while this lot sings poorly I'll allow you to entertain me in the hotel bar."

Then I felt myself being ripped open, and I looked down to gauge the damage. I sought solitude so I could measure the pain. The smell of shit was in the air, and I then realized that I had an accident, in euphamistic terms. Blood was everywhere, and my long fingers flitted over the buttons on my shirt. But soon my shirt was off, and I realized that my intestines were spilling onto the table and one particularly frenetic artery was sending blood across a painting of Tip O'Neil in the lobby. The removal of my pants proved ever more disasterous. My erect cock was a fountain of semen, and shit flowed from my anus. I tried to speak, to beg forgiveness for embarrassing my comrades for being so bourgeouis, but nothing but grunts and squeaks came out. I noticed, too, that I was lactating, and blood was starting to pour from my mouth.

Things were starting to get embarrassing. All the pills I've taken over the last 6 years started spewing out of every orifice. Harold Lagothip proposed that I call it an evening, although the opera singer didn't understand the fuss. I put my overcoast on, and it acted to redirect the vomitus onto the floor. Meanwhile, blood, urine and feces still flowed without end. Lady Joratio T. Alastus offered a kerchief, but it wasn't enough.

The revolutonary could see me for what I was, and I left the hotel by bending back my fingers and cracking them all the while saying, "Toot toot arosu isduf." With That, I awoke on the corner of 5th and Main St. There was an exciting sale on MP3 players at a nearby Best Buy.

Some stupid cunt got into trouble with Donald Trump, Miss USA. Who cares. Once you realize that you're truly alone, you have nothing else to worry about, no hell could possibly top that. Twas a brillig and a slithy po and a gire and a gimble in the wabe. Death death death death deaht death death death death...that's what the powers that be want. I wish Bush would find a little death, and his whole cabinet. I'd like to blow them up, if I weren't a pacifist. Compassion. Why is empathy and compassion so fucking hard to relate to the next generation. Why does compassion exist in opposition to the interests of those in power. It's insane. Makes me want to overdose and put an end to the madness. But I won't. I despise my political enemies too much to kill myself. I look forward to the day that I learn of Bush's death, from whatever cause. I'll dance a jig...a merry jig, even.

Nobody noticed when my hero, Frank P. Zeidler died. He was 1,000,000 times the man Bush ever thought of being. They don't honor my heroes, and I mock their heroes. Why is compassion so hard to embrace. Just embrace compassion. A little love and understanding for your fellow brothers and sisters.

Compassion.

Compassion.

Tell me not in mournful numbers life is but an empty dream, for the soul is dead that slumbers and things are not what they seem. Life is strong and life is earnest and the grave is not it's goal. Dust thou art to dust returnest was NOT spoken for the soul.

I'm going to curl up in the closet and weep for the dead and wonder why there is no class consciousness.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Plastic Ashes

This morning death was on the menu. No, that's not the first line of a hard-boiled pulp fiction novel, although it could be. Instead, I'm referring to my father giving me detailed instructions on what to do in the event he dies during his upcoming abdominal aortic aneurysm surgery. He told me all about probate court, Social Security, and how he wants to be cremated. It was a bit depressing, but since he is 74 and has this health problem, it's a practical concern. He's like me in that we don't want to be embalmed and put on display for a memorial ceremony. I'm donating my body to a research company, which will play with it for three weeks and then burn it. After that, they can fling my ashes off the Citgo sign for all I care. My father wants his ashes given to me so I can sneak into the cemetery and bury them next to my mother, thus avoiding the $75 fee that I'd have to pay the funeral home for interrement. I wish I were kidding.

I'd like to thank the young lady from Texas, a fellow blogger, who has been leaving comments on Zeitgeist Expatriate. She sounds, or reads, adorable and interesting. Also, thanks to Bryant, Clare, Donna, Amanda, Eve, Captain Fellatio, Charlie, Linda, and all the other good folks who take the time to read my rantings. It makes me feel a little less like The Man Who Wasn't There.

Why won't the world's tallest man come to Boston and pull the plastic out of my dolphin? Is that too much to ask?

Monday, December 18, 2006

The Angelus & Intercourse With The World

Late last week I left my flat and headed into Davis Square, Somerville, which is about a mile away. In a coffee shop that was not Someday Cafe (I'm still angry about them closing), I perused a book on the world history of art which I had purchased at McIntyre and Moore Booksellers moments before. Cramming the entire history of art and architecture into about 700 pages is an absurd undertaking, but useful to freshman in college for a survery course. I didn't buy the book for the words, though, but for the fantastic color prints.

As I savored my $4 cup of coffee and scowled at a bourgeois prick who wouldn't stop talking loudly about himself, I started to get lost in the art. Edward Hopper is in there, and he's my favorite artist...probably. Before long I discovered emotions stirring in my sorry little mind. As I contemplated each familiar painting my chest began to constrict, and I felt heavy all over. My breathing breathing became shallow, as well, and I thought that I was having an anxiety attack, but I wasn't. It was more like the feeling one gets reading an old love letter. There was no bitterness, only a feeling of fond remembrance and sadness from loss.

Then I got to a painting by Jean-Francois Millet called, The Angelus. I posted it here on my blog, above. I swallowed hard and bit my tongue in a way that one might in an attempt to fight back tears, perhaps to avoid embarrassment at being moved by a sentimental movie or song. Why was I reacting in this fashion? I wasn't so moved at university when I looked at these very same works of art. Well, this morning at around 3am it occured to me why this happened. Sadly, I see myself as a man, or a thing, apart from the world, as malformed and sickly. In a sense, this book was a love letter from a time when I felt roughly normal. And it reminded me of my love of my fellow human beings. My hatred of myself is real, but my cynicism is faux; I'm an romantic.

I stopped looking at the book when I got to American Realism, and perused The Boston Globe instead. At some point a woman, probably in her 40's and very tall, laughed genuinely and loudly at an unheard comment by her friend. It was a lovely spontaneous human melody, and it alone made her comely. Otherwise, she seemed distant and locked in an unpleasant frame of mind. But what a laugh. I would have liked to have gotten to know her.

I'm ambivalent about what happened next. I had 17 pages of research for a short story in a UMass Boston folder that I've had for years. The story is all about how disconnected we all are from each other, and that we use hate as much as love to come together. Intercourse with the world is what we desire most, and what motivates it is a secondary concern. Anyway, I had my little folder in my little hand and I accidentally left it on the table in Diesel Cafe. It's strange to me that I don't care. Perhaps I'm happy to be free of the way those 17 pages insisted on being used to write something.

Well, that's all I have today. Be well. I'm going to go have a Cup o' Noodles.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

The Poor Little Bastards And Carnival Story Revisited

I haven't been of a mind lately to write for my little blog, or really do much of anything useful, constructive or interesting. But the "little people" occupy my thoughts this time of year. I'm not having lunatic imaginings of tiny folk, not yet. I'm actually sort of looking forward to that phase of my insanity. Instead, though, I'm speaking about the little people who appear as elves in Christmas advertisements this time of year. Many use people actually suffering from Dwarfism, or some other condition that makes them just so small and cute. I just saw a Black and Decker commercial on television that had a whole mess of those poor bastards acting as Santa's Elves, all decked in green. But you know that each and every one of them is at least annoyed, and more likely really pissed-off. And without any planned sequel to The Station Agent or The Wizard of Oz anytime soon, that's pretty much the only acting gig you can get if you're a tiny little freak.

Years and years ago, when I was about 10, I went to a carnaval. I was already somewhat aware that that was not a place to go, but I went anyway. One of the "attractions" was Lobster Boy. For some reason (why do you do anything), I paid a dollar and went inside, where I found a middle aged man, very short, with a terribly deformed hand. He sat in the middle of his tent with bottle of whiskey, and never looked up as I filed past. I nearly vomited afterward. Not from the deformity, but from the swirling black-hole of sadness that had this poor bastard at the center.

That fucking Black and Decker commercial made me think of poor whomever he was, or is. I've probably told that story before, which is embarrasing, but what can you do.

Feliz Navidad.

Monday, December 11, 2006

Of Fat, Stupid Sycophants

I recall a conversation I had with my brother at a Chinese restaurant that used to be down the street. It was quite a long time ago; I was 17 and he was 20. We were talking about my plans to take a bus to Chicago for the 1990 Socialist Party National Convention. That Chinese Restaurant, The Kalok, is long gone now, but I can still remember that my favorite dish was the 11B. I'm not sure what it was, except that it was greasy and delicious. That conversation sometimes comes back to me at the strangest moments, like in the middle of the night or when I'm making a pot of coffee. It's so random. Why do I keep thinking of it?

It must be because I had an adventure ahead of me, albeit an odd one. To travel by bus for days to an awful motel with the misleading name, "Heart of Chicago Motel." Chicago has many hearts, and this place was near none of them. And after settling in, to act as the sole attending Socialist Party of Massachusetts Delegate, and to speak as the chair of the Health Care Work Group. And along the way meet some amazing activists and eccentric intellectuals. Granted, it's not the sort of dream that many would share, but it really appealed to me.

And I did it. To Chicago, and to Milwaukee a couple of years later, and to New York for the Socialist Scholar's Conference. I also went to UMass Boston and studied physical anthropology and did damn well. There were even a couple of interesting jobs along the way. Now I'm not that anymore, I'm this, whatever this is. And there was nothing great about me back then, to say the least, but I managed to do more than just function.

The memory of that conversation keeps popping up because I would give anything to have that sense of ability and normalcy again. I've never thought myself exceptional, and I'm not romanticizing my past. But as I muddle through another brutal bout of depression I find myself wondering what it must be like to feel normal. Or at least roughly on par with everyone else. Right now, I see myself as a pathetic villain trying to move unseen through the days on my way towards a merciful death. Every day I get a little closer, and my highest hopes center around death at least not hurting.

Surely, I didn't always go through life like this, right? I think it's true that I didn't. And my memory of lunch with my brother that day clearly reveals that fact to me. I may not have thought I was going to be president or write the Great American novel, but I did at one time envision someone different than the fat, stupid sycophant that is writing this 'blog.

Cheers!

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Post Number 150-Nothing Of Interest Today

I'm the architect of the lonely life I'm leading, but having nobody else to blame for my isolation doesn't mean that I'm content with it. The older I get the more I realize that there is an emotional instability, along with a fundamental nihilism, social anxiety and self-loathing, that makes most human interaction extremely difficult. While I do extremely well most of the time in one to one conversation, particularly with women, anything beyond that can trigger an anxiety attack that usually has me savaging every aspect of my physical appearance, intelligence and character. My psychiatrist tells me that it's like paranoia; I think that others are unreasonably and tenaciously mocking me mercilessly. And generally speaking I'm a reasonable person, so I'm aware of how absurd I'm being. But that does nothing to stop it. It's crippling, and motivates a barrage of "suicidal ideation."

I also have chapped lips.

So over the years I've been slowly backing up, first from school, then from political activism, and on and on. These days, my interactions with the world exist primarily via the telephone and the Internet. I've even found it hard to go on a date, and that's always been something I could do. Suicide, while not in the immediate future, feels inevitable. I feel like a fat Howard Hughes without money.

Thank goodness for the friends I do have. I try not to contact them very often out of fear of annoying them, especially my ex's. Donna, Linda and Clare have put up with my "eccentricities" (to put it nicely) so I try to give them the gift of my silence as much as possible. I love my other friends, and my brother, so I try to keep away from them, as well. But I still contact them frequently, as isolation is something I've found to be more painful than I ever thought it would be. I try to take comfort in knowing that I'm 34, and that the end can't be all that far off.

Sorry to anyone who actually may be reading this, for being a nihilistic prick, but that's where my mind is today. It's been a rough weekend.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Twelve "Mitram," Balls & A Poem

The script on the right was given to me by my dentist a few days ago, and it took me over an hour to figure out what it's supposed to say. At first I thought it was, "Mitram." It's not. I did eventually nail it down, but decided not to have it filled. It's nothing juicy or delightful.

On another note, it's a bad sign when you send a woman a poem and she never says anything about it one way or the other. Passionate hatred would be better than cyber-crickets. The poem, entitled, "The Idea of You" is fairly good in my opinion. I'll cram it in at the bottom of this post.

Still haven't heard about my ball surgery. Ball surgery! Ball surgery!

-D

The Idea of You

Before the flooded bog
on a chill autumn morn
revealed blood-red berries
beneath a broad azure sky

or...

A lush, misty fen
jewel in an Emerald Necklace
drew my eyes from the Boston skyline
and posed endless riddles

or...

A spring Nor'easter
tore away April buds
and thundered like a summer storm
mocking us with flakes instead

or...

Black, hollow jealousy
manifested within and blinded me
made me deaf and hardened my heart
Robbing me of a companion and a friend

Before I experienced any of those, or a million other common spectacles and everyday tragedies

Preceding every blessed milestone; first word, first step, first birthday, first day of school

When there was no me to take you in; no mind to consider our first, lingering gaze in the dark

There was the idea of you

And it was shared by everyone who ever dreamed of getting lost in something uncommon

And now that you are gone, so too is my innocent faith in a promise I thought I heard, but was never made

Now I know that there was a world before you, and a world with you, and despite every weary effort, a world after you.

And a return to the magnificent and common and lonely place where I began, with a hard lesson taught; Nothing lasts forever, and there are no promises.
-DWL

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

La Strada

I'm a little annoyed at not having heard back from the urologist yet. Having this surgery, albeit relatively minor (relative to gastric bypass, that's for sure) is bothing be because it's just hanging out there like a...non-functioning testicle. Just give me a date so I can fret no more. I'm just eager to get it done and over with and finito. I'm not at all nervous about the procedure at all, as I trust in the abilities of my surgeon and the quality of the hospital I've chosen. If I were going to the Casa de los Nut Chop in Oaxaca, Mexico then I'd be worried. Actually, I'm not even sure such a place exists. It would be great if it did, and it were a world-class urology clinic. Somehow I doubt it, though. One of the many benefits of living in Boston, aside from having the best pizza, fried clams and accent, is the access to countless amazing hospitals.

I just want a fucking surgery date, for fuck's sake.

Another thing that's been on my mind, actually to a far greater degree, is my date scheduled for Saturday night. The last date I had was with an insane woman with a great ass who used my like a sex toy. After I got to know her a bit better, I was glad that nothing more was expected from me. It didn't last long. I haven't been in a bona fide relationship since Donna. She also happens to be my best friend. Relationships are very important to me, and as much as I like the idea of having a "friend with benefits," that never works out. You have have gleaned, dear reader, that I'm not an emotionally aloof person. I don't use people and there is nothing Machiavellian about my plans. If I trust you and I like you, you're a friend. I also happen to love a lot of my friends. And I do fall in love on rare occassion. It's not something that I like to do, however, because it inevitably leads to unspeakable joy and bliss that then leads equally indescribable pain and misery that takes years off of your life. It's like that Rubik's Cube thing in Hellraiser, and I'm no good with puzzles.

What's been on my mind is a question about my nature. Since I've been growing more comfortable in my isolation these past months and years, am I going against myself by trying to find love and companionship with a normal human being. This reads like melodrama, but it's an honest question. My emotional state and mental illness is such that I do take relationships very seriously, perhaps too seriously. My being an romantic is part of the problem. I'm pathologically romantic.

I'm wondering if I might be happy with my music and my books and my little walks and friendships, but nothing more intimate than that. When I need romance, I can read Dostoevsky's "White Nights" for the 100th time, or take a walk through Davis Square and see all the young lovers. I'm not sure I'm artist enough to carve that out. Am I strong enough for someone to lean on? Certainly, I can't be relied on financially; I'm barely getting by myself. So what do I have to offer besides a sexual release for both of us? People seem to like talking to me, a lot, but clever conversation and a little kindness does not make a bond, or a "serious relationship" like she is looking for.

And I'm so damn nervous. I'm shaking almost violently as I write this, I'm not sure why. I feel that my decision to go or not to go on this date Saturday night is a very large one that will echo for a long time.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Celebration In The Barrios

I'm off to the dentist in 30 minutes, where I'll enjoy at least a few of the shocks that flesh is heir to. Although the dentist never bothered me. I'm happy to have dental insurance of any kind. Otherwise, I'd be tying this tooth to an open door and then slam in shut, ala The Three Stooges. I found out not to long ago that not a single stooge has a degree in dentistry. Shocking.

Today I have a good reason to celebrate. Hugo Chavez, that marvellous brown man in a red shirt down there in Venezuela, has won yet another election. This time he won with his largest margin of victory, 61% to 38%, over challenger Rosales. The former ruling-class douchebags hiding in the wealthy neighborhoods of Caracas are upset about this...awwww. And now a quote from Chavez to finish out. More blogging later, ladies and gents!

"Long live the socialist revolution! Destiny has been written," Chavez shouted to thousands of flag-waving supporters wearing red shirts and braving a pouring rain.

"That new era has begun," he said, raising a hand in the air. "We have shown that Venezuela is red!... No one should fear socialism... Socialism is human. Socialism is love," Chavez said. "Down with imperialism! We need a new world!"

Saturday, December 02, 2006

Tender Mercies

There's a disturbing, newly-defined medical condition out there, and it impacts children. It's called, Compassion Deficit Disorder and it develops when children grow up with little social interaction with other living things. Technology makes it possible for a child to spend all of his or her time in front of a screen, or pressing buttons, or something along those lines. It's almost like growing up in isolation. While I appreciate the irony of the Internet leading to a breakdown in human interaction instead of increasing it, I find it terribly sad. The story I read about this phenomenon spoke of a 3 year old child who would throw a ball at an instructor's face and then act detached and indifferent while the instructor made it clear that the ball caused her pain. The child acted the same way if the ball was thrown against the wall or onto the floor. In other words, the child saw no difference between another human being and an inanimate object. That lack of empathy, or even sympathy, is at the root of something very ugly.

It would certainly be strange for a luddite to keep a weblog, and I'm no luddite. I see this as a very real problem with poor parenting fundamentally at fault. Granted, it must be tempting for a parent to put a kid in front of a video game or computer and allow the wonders of modern technology to act as an inexpensive baby-sitter. But intuitively, any human being (parents included) would know that isolating a toddler in such a way is a bad thing. If your intuition, or own ability to be empathetic, is so poorly developed then you should not be having children. Compassion is at the core of every well-adjusted, decent, scrupulous human being. And the inability to put compassion above principle has led to countless atrocities. The world is cruel enough without creating a generation of psychopaths.

My tooth is throbbing. Not literally, but that's the style of this particular pain, which stretches from an infection at the base of a premolar down into my jaw. What a production they have planned on Monday morning. Either that, or they'll just rip the bugger out. I'll also find out on Monday when my orchiectomy is to take place. I'll bet that they get it in before the holidays, and that's a good thing. The constant ache of this tiny testicle has been going on long enough. J'accuse!

I have a dark sense of humor and that sometimes fuels an opinion of me that isn't true. That I'm a bit of a jerk. I'm really not, though, for anyone who cares, I just choose to appreciate absurdity rather than being offended by it. I wrote a short story many, many years ago and I described the protagonist in a way that made him seem insane. But I felt a strong affinity with the fellow, who was "down and out" and bitter about it. I don't like to judge people who have found themselves in a rough spot, and that's because I know with all my mind that anything that can happen to one person can happen to another. Knowing that creates a feeling of comraderie with my fellow human beings. And since I'm familiar with my own potential to be a prick, I'm aware of yours. And a homeless person isn't someone to be looked down upon as a failure. Instead, he or she is a human being that took a different path than, say, you or I. And it could've happened to me, and still could, or you. Because the universe has the capacity to crush any one of us without an ounce of pity or hesitation; it is totally indifferent to your hunger, pain, happiness, sorrow, guilt, pleasure, ennui, libido, envy, or your preference for Coke over Pepsi. It just doesn't give a fat fuck because it doesn't even know you exist...it doesn't know anything. When you really understand that, it brings empathy and comraderie together into one thing. We are all alone, but at the same time there is nothing separating any of us. That's both a truth and an absurdity. See how that works?

That's why I chuckle at some things that really aren't funny. It's a fantastic comic pairing, without equal. The universe and the living. One is enthusiastically concerned with every detail; from getting food to avoiding pain to not being eaten. The other is totally indifferent to everything, literally. Here they are, together at last...will the laughs ever stop? Another important consideration is that after I laugh, I stay up all night asking myself how to make it better. I really, really do care about my fellow man. That's gauche these days, but true.

Some of you out there believe in god. If that's the case, I don't know why you're reading this blog. And a belief in god turns this sad-comic spectacle into something very different. In case you haven't noticed, if god exists, he or she is a total douchebag. Really. And there is nothing funny about a bully beating the shit out of a kid who just wants to be loved by that bully. That just pisses me off, and crushes my hope for a better world. At least in an indifferent universe, we can set the rules to some extent. But with a douchebag sky-king, we're all explicitly fucked from the get go.

Years ago I was in a hotel room in New York City and I was reading Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. Truly Outstanding book that my father threw at me and made me read. Anyway, there is a scene in the book where the protagonist, who is living in abject poverty, is heating up some milk in a pan for dinner. That's all he has to eat. As he's waiting for the milk to warm, he spots a roach crawling on his arm. Disgusted, he flicks it away. The bug arcs up through the flat and lands square in the pan of milk on the hotplate. I laughed.

"That's really not supposed to be funny." my father told me.
"I know it's awful, but I think it is supposed to be funny." I replied.

But that left an impression on me. Is there something wrong with me for laughing at the cruel little things life does to us? I hope not. Otherwise, I might seriously lose my mind.

One last thing about the short story I wrote. The character's name was Curtis Garret, and his "I give up, I hate life" comment that struck the teacher as nihilistic was this: "Curtis had grown to hate life and every living thing in the four days that had passed since he moved in with his brother. He had acted out of kindness, to get him off the street. But Curtis wanted none of it now. He was tired of gratitude and found his desire to go on living to be merciless and tiresome. 'Tonight," he thought, 'I will burn my winter coat in the barrel under the 14th St. bridge with the other bums.' His mind raced manically, 'And that will leave me coatless on a freezing night, and I will not return to Jack's place, or the shelter. Instead, I will listed to the fleas pop in the fire as my wool/acrylic coat burns, and the cold will take me when I find seclusion with the wind.' There wasn't any sadness in this decision, and he genuinely found comfort in the knowledge that those irritating little fleas would die before he did."

The flea thing had a setup through the story, so it was oddly amusing. But this was high school, and teachers at that level are really worried that you're going to suck on a tail-pipe. Perhaps that hurt her appreciation for the story. She knew I was a radical lefty and loved me for it. During the semester we watched Norma Rae and Dances With Wolves and I made all the comments she liked. So the story worried her a bit. She was afraid that her fat, socialist student would fling himself off the gymnasium. I didn't seriously consider that sort of thing for several years.

That's that.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Pacemaker Starlight

I just had a chicken strip and a biscuit from Kentucky Fried Chicken. It was meant to be a "treat" after spending two hours at a urology appointment. Now I just feel queasy in a way that's difficult to accurately describe, except by saying again that I just had a meal from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Or is it supposed to be "KFC" these days, or "Kitchen Fresh Chicken." Give me a fucking break...I don't even know what that means. How about, "Killed Friendly Chickens." I didn't plan on going on a schpiel about chicken, but it's hard to resist. There's a place over in East Cambridge that sells dead chickens. A huge yellow sign above the front door reads, "Fresh Killed." This is right in the middle of a city neighborhood. My father tells me that on some days feathers can be seen blowing around the street outside, making it clear to all that this is not the best of all possible worlds for chickens.

Let's talk about my testicle, shall we? For all you ladies out there who have had a taste of Darren cake, let it be known that I saw the test results and I'm officially sans sperm. I don't have any now, and I never had any. So let's pause for a moment and thank the universe for tiny mercies. The only person I want to call me "Daddy" is the hot chick sitting on my face.

OK, I apologize for that...there's just no excuse for that kind of talk. Really...grow up. You make me sick.

Anyway, the nurse took me from the large waiting room at this Boston area hospital (there are a few) and led me into a small examination room. I spent a really long time in this room. There was a model of a swollen prostate on the table near the door, a poster showing just about everything that can go wrong with a kidney, and a "pain meter" that explains how to rate your pain on a scale from 1-10. I decided that the constant ache radiating from my right testicle is about a three. I really like the illustrations that go along with the numbers. The thing suffering from level one pain is smiling like an idiot, almost gleeful. The level ten face, however, is puffy, frowning and crying like a big, fat baby. I considered working up some fake tears, like when Ralphie almost shot his eye out in, "A Christmas Story" to stay out of trouble. Except I was going to do it to get some Vicodin. But I didn't...really. What I did do, however, is steal some surgical gloves and gauze. Sort of like making the hospital pay a penalty for making me wait a very long time.

Finally, Dr. Nuts walked in and we chatted for about ten minutes. It became increasingly clear to me that he was telling me that surgery was necessary to get rid of the pain. But there was hope. He could try something called a "cord block" to prevent any pain from getting past the nerve that connects the ball to the body. While it certainly didn't sound fun on any level, I did like the idea of ruling out the need for an orchiectomy. After all, this was my only nut left and I'm not keen on giving it up, even if it is tiny and useless. Delaware is tiny and useless, too, but nobody talks about getting rid of it.

What a fantastic analogy.

So, to make a long story long, they used novocaine first and then some other numbing agent. I held the gauze on the bleeding, iodine soaked spot next to my junk for five minutes and then pulled my pants up. The doctor instructed me to, "swing it around and see how it feels." If the "cord block" cut out the pain, then I would need surgery. If not, then the pain was coming from something else. Sadly, as I swung "it" about, I realized that the pain was gone and any lingering chance of avoiding surgery went bye-bye. As I sit here writing this, I'm still numb down there, and woozy from the xylophone. Or maybe it's the xylocaine...yeah, that's it.

On Monday, I'm to call the hospital and schedule the surgery...I'll keep you all posted. And then I'll find out if you love me for who I am, or for my balls. Also, "Pacemaker Starlight" isn't the name of a Broadway show, or a fingernail polish, it's the name I saw on the sink in the examination room. It represents either a model or a brand or something. I noticed it whilst splashing water on my face after the procedure. Like I said, I was woozy. Naturally, because I'm an idiot, I laughed my ass off.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

The Medical and the Romantic Concerns

A few minutes ago I was chewing on some microwave "Kettle Corn," which is a slightly sweet popcorn, and I broke a damn tooth. I spit out a heavy piece of silver amalgam, cursed the non-existant almighty, and happily discovered that my next dentist appointment is on Monday. Healthwise, however, the big news will come tomorrow. I see my urologist at 11:45 am to discuss the possible necessity of an orchiectomy. An orchiectomy is when a testicle is removed for whatever reason; cancer, cryptorchidism, personality conflict, or some other such problem. One of my nuts was removed a couple of years ago because it was non-functional and at risk for developing cancer. My one remaining nut is 1/5 the size is should be, and is also non-functional. And since it is causing me constant low-level pain, it probably will have to go. But I'm really hoping that surgery won't be necessary.

Tomorrow afternoon I'll report on that, for anyone who is interested. It's not a major surgical procedure, but I'm just tired of hospitals and medications and doctors. Over the last five years I've had one orchiectomy, gastric bypass, pneumonia, 18 stitches on two cuts, 17 electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) treatments, two hospitalizations due to seizures and at least 70 psychiatrist and/or therapy sessions. On one hand, I'm very thankful for having access to some of the best health care in the world. But at 34 I've had a lot of medical experience. I don't believe in god, but I want to make it clear that I'm not complaining. Things can always get a LOT worse. Like that guy who had his pecker cut off by his girlfriend, or Schiavo. Remember her? Not only was she a vegetable, but Bill Frist used her for political gain and even keeps a picture of her in his office to this day. One minute you're walking down the street, the next you have a stroke or get hit by a car and you're a cucumber with lips.

And happy news does exist. I risked humiliation and asked a beautiful, funny, intelligent woman out on a date and she said, "That sounds good." So this coming Saturday night will find me enjoying the company of "L." And for her, I share this poem, a favorite of mine:

Entry April 28 - W. Benton

Because hate is legislated...written into the primer and the testament, show into our blood and brains like vaccine or vitamins

Because our day is of time, of hours-and the clock-hand turns, closes the circle upon us: and black timeless night sucks us in like quicksand, receives us totally-without a raincheck or a parachute, a key to heaven or the last long look

I need love more than ever now...I need your love, I need love more than hope or money, wisdom or a drink

Because slow negative death withers the world-and only yes can turn the tide

Because love has your face and body...and your hands are tender and your mouth is sweet-and God had made no other eyes like yours.

Monday, November 27, 2006

A Bit Morbid But Hopefully Amusing

Given my morbid fixation with death, and my previously discussed attempts to off myself, I've been concerned about what my loved ones are going to do with my fat, bloated corpse when I'm gone. I certainly don't want the cost of cremation and interrement to fall upon my brother, or perhaps some relative who rarely saw me in life. Life insurance won't work, either, as they won't sell it to me for health reasons. I'll never forget the conversation with the agent from Global Life Insurance several months ago. He insisted that we could, "make this work." The "this" in question was, of course, getting me life insurance. After 20 minutes of conversation he concluded, "Sorry, this just won't work." La, la, la. And suicide nullifies any life insurance policy anyway, so there were other factors at work.

After that, I turned to the Massachusetts Cremation Society. It sounds like a group of people who get together every so often and cremate people, sort of as a hobby. But instead they offer low cost cremations to members, and a membership for life costs a mere $25. A card in my wallet reads, "This certifies that the Cremation Society of Massachusetts has been authorized by me...to handle all details after my death, I have requested a simple and direct cremation." Ta da! The only problem with that is that it will still cost about $1,400 to roast me. If I come into money, I'll pay it in advance, but I'm not likely to come into money...unless I jerk off into a dollar bill.

Ok, I'm sorry for that.

Recently I discovered a company that would be more than happy to cart my body away, play with it for a few weeks, and then cremate it. All for free. No, it's not an organization of necrophiliacs with a fat fetish. It's a group called MedCure. They will use my body, "for science." That's a lovely euphemism. Once you get past the idea of medical students making fun of your penis size and cramming your dead index finger up your dead nose, it's not so bad. Certainly, the form I had to sign was really disturbing, particularly the part about the possibility of "disarticulation and segmentation" of my body. Yeesh.

I need to focus on the positive aspects of my choice to donate my body for research. They will use it to seek all sorts of cures and treatments, and may even come up with something for "man boobs" because of me. And to get into the spirit of things even more, I was thinking of getting a tattoo to make the medical students laugh, something like, "Refrigerate after opening."

Friday, November 24, 2006

My Day At The Boston Public Library Back in '99

Back in 1999 I was working at the Massachusetts Bankers' Association on Tremont Street in Boston and I rather enjoyed it. There was a lot of stress, but generally it was a pleasant way to earn a dollar. My job was to make sure all the mail got out, and to deliver all the mail coming in; that's right, I ran the mail room. Actually, I was the mail room. Not literally, but there was no other mail staff...just me. With only about 30 people at the MBA that was enough. And everyone but the office manager pretty much left me to myself. My favorite task was inexplicably depositing a very large check at the bank down the street. I don't know from where the money came or why, but the large sums involved made me feel like a big shot for some reason. Anyway, I got to know the cute teller, a tall girl with black hair who radiated ennui but masked it nicely out of a practical need to be affable for the customers. We had lunch together several times, and I learned that she was an excellent artist. She could draw so well I was amazed. I forget her name. For all I know, she is living the dream of having her graphic novel published. Or more likely is still working at the bank.

The reason that all ended is me. While I was tooling around work one day, I got a call from an ex-girlfriend and (at the time) friend. She told me she wanted to set up a blind date between me and someone who was "perfect" for me. I imagined a blind woman who liked to talk about bones and apes, for at that time I was studying evolutionary biology at UMass Boston. And blindness would be good due to my repugnant countenance. Get it? Anyway, I agreed, and she gave me the name of this young lady. I then proceeded to look up her name in the phone book and call her. Big mistake. I was supposed to wait until I got a call back from my ex.

That relatively small miscalculation cost me a lot more than a date with the blind monkey chick. My ex called me back at work and tore me a new one, in the parlance of the day. I responded by flipping out myself. I was not well, you see, which is why I'm on many drugs today. At the time, though, the depths of my insanity had not yet been plumbed. So she plumbed them. I lost it, thinking that I was a menace who couldn't do anything right and who should be put out of his misery. And a thousand other things were in there, too. It's hard to relate. I kicked into suicide mode and grabbed my coat and flew out the door in the middle of the day, thus kissing my job goodbye.

With deft sinuosity, nihilism, self-loathing and revulsion coiled into my brain and expanded outward against the inside of my skull. "This is it," I thought, "I need to kill myself today." I had already tried once the year before, and had been hospitalized 3 times at this point. I knew how to do it correctly if so disposed. By the time the elevator hit the ground floor, I had a plan. An romantic undertaking that would have me overdosing on diphenhydramine (found in Benadryl) and dying amid the stacks of books at the Boston Public Library just a few stops away from Park Street station nearby. So I picked up what I needed at a couple of stores and was off.

I don't really remember walking into the library, but I'm pretty sure I was sitting at a table in the mezzanine. My mind was on fire, and I started attending to knocking it down with pill after pill after pill, in between sips of Coke. So my last meal would have been Coke and Benadryl had my little undertaking worked. My final disposition would have been profound annoyance, too, because I had to pry each pill out of the fucking blister it was sold in. After freeing around 100 pills, I started shovelling them into my face. But not after finishing my suicide note. I'd share what it says, as I still have it, but it's just what you'd expect from a suicide note.

There just weren't any profound thoughts at that moment. And as I approached the 100th pill or therabouts, I had no intention of stopping. I do remember hoping that it wouldn't hurt. Some people say it is selfish to commit suicide, but they don't understand that a person in my frame of mind considers it an act of kindness to loved ones. A favor to all those who have to put up with your nonsense. In a perverted way, suicide is done out of love, too, as much as a desire to end one's own bumbling.

Things began to unravel when an African-American security guard, an older gentleman, approached me and told me that there was not eating or drinking allowed in the building. At that point, the pills and blister packs were gone, but the bottle of Coke (almost empty) remained. I panicked because I didn't want to be grabbed and forced to drink dirt at the hospital and have my stomach pumped and all that...I don't like that. So I bolted down to the Men's Room in the basement of the BPL. Naturally, I was feeling woozy at this point. I could fake a clean walk, but thinks were spinning a bit and I started getting cramps that quickly got very bad. In the Men's Room, I sat in a stall and started to sleep. But not after chuckling a bit at the whole, "I'm sorry but you can't eat or drink in the library" episode a moment earler.

About a minute later, a janitor woke me up. She was yelling, "We need to clean in here, so hurry up everyone!" What the fuck! I couldn't believe my luck, and I swear this is all true. Even though I could barely see straight, I was sort of happy to be leaving, as it smelled of urine in there. A far cry from croaking near the works of Dostoevsky and D.H. Lawrence upstairs. Things were just not going to plan.

A year before, I had worked at the Fairmont Copley Plaze hotel across the street. They have a beautiful, large lobby and pristine bathrooms with stalls that have doors that reach the floor. So over there I toddled, dodging traffic and entering through that lovely front entrance. The diphenhydramine had really kicked-in with a vengeance, and I had a hard time walking the length of that lobby, across the marble and thick, faux oriental rugs. A former fellow employee passed nearby and said, "Hey, man!" and I just kept walking. My arms were to heavy to wave, and I didn't dare try to speak. He probably just thought I was being a douchebag.

In the Men's Room, I collapsed. Blue fluid ran out of my mouth and I felt as if I weighed 10,000 pounds. The pain from the cramps kept getting worse, and everything was spinning. I was terrified. Something snapped at this point, but it wasn't a desire to live, dammit, live! It was more about ending this ridiculous pain, which compelled me up, out the door, where I stumbled over to the phone bank and called 911. I couldn't speak, but I knew they would send an ambulance. That's when I went to the front entrance and waited for as long as I could. Seemed like a very long time. I was doubled over, weeping, and people just walked on by...most of them. Then the street rushed up to my face and all was black. I just wanted to sleep.

I awoke on the sidewalk a few minutes later (I guess) and dozens of people were all around me, looking down. I couldn't see Copley Square or even the side of the hotel, just blue sky and a ring of unfamiliar faces. I couldn't hear anything, or move, but I did see a fellow I used to work with, the security guard at the hotel. He looked down at me so sadly. His eyes were large, and I really think he thought that I was going to die. Then I went out again.

They tell me that my heart went into some kind of flutter, and they obviously had to pump my stomach. I don't remember. I woke up with in four-point restraints, meaning that both arms and both legs are chained to the bed. The doctor told me that if the ambulance had been a couple of minutes slower, I'd be dead. Close, but no cigar. From there, the nuthouse.

I wonder what ever happened to the girl at the bank, the one with whom I shared those lunches. Or that security guard, or the fellow employee I ignored. I think about that day sometimes and wonder if I learned anything at all from it. Not to eat or drink in the library is one thing, I guess. Some darker things, too.

But it's just something that happened, like brushing one's teeth or genocide. The black oak grows and pays no mind.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Joe Hill Remembered

I absent-mindedly let November 19 pass without mention of Joe Hill, an I.W.W. organizer and songwriter. He was an amazing human being who was tried for a crime he didn't commit and then executed on November 19, 1915 in Utah. This is his will, and the picture on the right is of his funeral in Chicago.

The last will of Joe Hill:

My will is easy to decide,
For there is nothing to divide,
My kin don't need to fuss and moan-
"Moss does not cling to a rolling stone."
My body? Ah, If I could choose,
I would to ashes it reduce,
And let the merry breezes blow
My dust to where some flowers grow.
Perhaps some fading flower then
Would come to life and bloom again.
This is my last and final will,
Good luck to all of you, Joe Hill

Joe Hill was a great songwriter, poet and organizer.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

The Monotony of the Coconut

Incidentally, the pill is saying, "Bah!" as it angrily shuffles to music unheard. You don't get much more "incidental" than that. But I'm going to say a word or two about my credit report, so pay attention, or don't. I was repeatedly hassled by a website that offered me a free credit report, and eventually I gave in and filled out an application. Apparently, "free" means "$12.95 a month" in the parlance of the day, so I gave up and moved on. After all, the news can't be good. The $35,000 I owe in student loans is probably a bad thing, not to mention the fantastic lack of concern I exhibited regarding my credit card debt when I was in the looney bin. When you're sleeping on a cot in a room with 11 homeless people, some of whom seem to refuse to sleep or even lie down, it's hard to focus on finances. At the same time, it's really easy to talk yourself into cramming your finger into a wall socket. That and a lack of money kept me from settling up with Bank of America.

You've taken your first step towards total credit peace of mind!

That's what the "free" credit report people told me before I fled the scene. How presumptuous! Knowing my credit rating is only going to make me more aware of how irrelevant am I. Right now, my pathetic failures are ill-defined and obscure. In other words, you have to know me a little bit to know what a mook I am, so I'm fortunate in that I'm not well-known. A credit "score" won't make me any better known, but it will put slap an actual number on me, thus defining me with pinpoint accuracy. Sort of how if you're walking around fat and you know that you're fat but you don't get really upset about it until you weigh yourself. You feel like someone just held you down with their foot and burned a number into your ass. The only time I was pleasantly surprised by a number was when I took my SATs. That's because I thought I was an idiot beforehand. As it turns out, I'm merely a boob.

I just had a memory flash, and now I want a graham cracker. It's from mentioning the nut-house, where the only thing to eat between meals were individually-wrapped crackers of graham. In between group therapy, staring at each other, meals, talking to each other and meeting with psychiatrists, we ate mounds of those things.

Fuckin' Mounds are good, too. Almond Joys are better, as they break-up the monotony of the coconut. Or cocoanut.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

You See, Every Reality Is A Snowflake...

I very rarely post articles from elsewhere, but I thought this was both amusing and true. A few years ago, a Bush Administration flunky was sarcastically asked if he was afraid of reality hurting the propaganda campaign. He responded by saying something like, "No, through the press we redefine reality as we want it every day." Fundamental to that endeavor is the manipulation of language, which is nothing new. The Republicans, however, have been taking it to another level for years. Rove usually gets the credit, and he probably deserves most of it. After all, he's the man responsible for making Kerry seem a coward and Bush a war hero.

Yesterday I heard a news report about how the federal government has started to refer to hungry Americans as those who live in, "food insecure households." I'm not sure how new that is, but it certainly squeezes a reference to "security" in there very creatively. Anyway, enjoy.


Darren

The GOP-to-English Dictionary: Cracking the Republican Code

June 6, 2002
By Michael Barry

Finding it difficult to reconcile Republican rhetoric with their actions? Maybe you just aren't speaking the same language. Use this handy guide to translate GOP dialog, and get on the same page as the corporate millionaires running the country!

Never be left out again--use this guide while listening to GOP politicians, or reading their shills in the press.

Think how happy you'll be to finally know what they're really saying. No more unpleasant surprises, no more false hope of bipartisanship Impress your friends at parties with seemingly prescient predictions--only you'll know what programs will be cut, what regulations will be rescinded, which documents will be released, and which will remain classified as a matter of "national security". Your friends will think you're a genius!

Simply substitute any words you encounter from the left-hand column with ones from the right, and you'll be speaking GOP in no time. It really works!

When Republicans Say...............What it means

Initiative....................Acquired Wealth
Merit.........................Inherited Wealth
Local Stakeholders............Polluters
Affirmative Access............The Good Old Days
Recognized Expert.............Industry Lobbyist
Entrepreneur..................Campaign Donor
Voluntary Compliance..........Dumping waste in rivers
Un-needed Fed. Regulation.....Any Federal Regulation
Protecting the environment....Building strip malls on toxic waste sites
Family Values.................Heterosexuality
Freedom.......................Money
National Security.............Gravy
Missile Defense...............Lots of Gravy
Initiative....................Money
Class Warfare.................Communism
Europeans.....................Communists
Communist Regime..............Massachusetts
Massachusetts.................Ted Kennedy
Ted Kennedy...................Karl Marx
Bill Clintn...................The Sixties
The Sixties...................Drugs
Drugs.........................Terrorism
Compassionate Conservatives........Republicans with PR agents
The Right To Bear Arms........The Right to Sell Guns
Tort Reform...................Corporate Control of the Judiciary

Try it yourself! Translate the following sentences:

Example 1: "Freedom-loving people understand that local stakeholders are best able to decide what's best for their industries, and not those who advocate irresponsible Federal regulation. Recognized experts have demonstrated that voluntary compliance is the right way to strike a balance between protecting the environment and rewarding entrepreneurs."

Example 2: "I know there are those who think the estate tax--the death tax--is a good idea. They think that initiative--and merit--shouldn't be rewarded. Well, that may suit Massachusetts; it may suit Ted Kennedy; it may suit others mired in their sixties-induced class-warfare. But it won't work here in the sovereign state of Mississippi!"

Now get out there and start translating!

Friday, November 17, 2006

Of Abe Lincoln And A Woman's Sublime Laughter

"The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, peculiar to myself and to a few other solitary men, is the central and inevitable fact of human existence." Thomas Wolfe

I've done a great deal of meditating on loneliness of late, partially because of a nasty argument with someone whom I was fond of, but mainly because I just feel it terribly. Getting an email or phone call from a friend mercifully provides relief. And in the rare instance that I actually leave my flat on a date or do something social I break free of it almost totally for as long as I'm out there with another.

The idea that one can ever escape a sequestered existence and truly escape isolation is a pipe dream, and one certainly not shared by everyone. When in a close relationship with someone, the desire to be left alone on occassion is strongly held. But for me, a fellow out of a relationship for over a year and only briefly involved with a woman whom I later found out to be a poor match (I loathe snobs), the nights are mercilessly long. The firm yet delicate power of a woman's embrace, the smell of her hair and clothes, and a look in her eyes that shows no evidence of judgement, only love and comity, that is what I miss. My memory is poor, due to ECT and some medications, but I can remember how every single one of my girlfriend's laughed during our first rendevous. There is no victory in life like it. To put her at ease and see her luminous eyes and sweet little mouth curl-up into a smile, and finally hear the sublime music of heartfelt joy. To feel clever and witty and even desired. Those are the moments you remember when you think you're on your way out.

I wonder if anyone thinks fondly of isolation as they get ready to enter the void. Does anyone say, "I was so lucky in life, I never had to worry about a partner getting in the way or stealing the covers at night." I'm sure some do, but doubt that it's very many. Because deep down I think we all know that there is nothing after death, and in non-existence we are eternally alone, without even the company of ourselves. And we certainly won't have to worry about anyone stealing the covers.

I don't take my lack of a social life these days personally. Given my health problems and inclination towards isolation due to pathological anxiety, I know that I'm not putting myself out there. I do have my eye on a couple of young ladies, but I'm far from a social butterfly...very far. Every woman I've been with has agreed that I'm both funny and interesting. And that sex with me is a religious experience that puts other men to shame. So I know not to be too hard on myself here.

Before I go, I have to post this painting I found. I think it's the worst painting I've every put my peepers on. It's by Carlo Pittore, and is entitled, "#21 Surprised." What puts it over the top for me isn't the bizarre implied gyration of the nude, which is reminiscent of a turtle on its back. but the inexplicable presence of a framed picture of Abe Lincoln. I don't know, maybe it's brilliant.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Soft, Pink Mental Health

Today I find myself with another prescription, an older generation anti-psychotic named Trilafon. I'm "psychotic" in the sense that I suffer from "extreme anxiety" over fear of being hated and shunned by those I love. How pathetic. I woke up this morning in my closet, buck naked, wrapped in a comforter. I had crawled in there in the dead of night, barely awake. My psychiatrist told me that it makes me feel better to hide sometimes. That on some level I like to conceal myself from a world that I'm convinced loathes me, and is judging my every thought and move. The picture is of me holding my new and old scripts. Yeah.

I'll let you know if it works. Ha!
Save the cheerleader, save the world.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Did Someone Order Chinese?

A couple of news stories tickled my parts this past week, and I'd just love to share them. I'm a bit of a newshound, and I read a ridiculous amount of analysis and reporting from all the fucking place. This doesn't make me smarter than anyone else, it simply indicates an emptier life. One of the things I like to talk about is China and her always growing social, economic and military influence. And about how I'm oddly afraid of China beating me up in the playground. Some people refer to the United States as, "the world's only superpower." An ability to take pride in something as abstract as a nation of 300,000,000 people is strange to me, but it's required as a set up to the last superpower delusion. A fanatical love of sports also helps. To believe that, though, it's also necessary to work hard at ignoring a bountiful array of cold, hard facts. I'm not of a mind to vomit up statistics and quotes and perhaps a drawing or two to make the case that the near and distant future is all China, baby. But I'll point out a few things here.

People who have a clue know that China is a few years away from having the largest navy in the world, which is pretty amazing given how HUGE ours is. They are crammin' submarines into the Pacific so fast that we can't keep track of them all. One of the subs we lost track of, apparently, scared the pussybirds out of the USS Kitty Hawk carrier group last month when it popped-up within firing range of the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk itself. It was only discovered when it wanted to be discovered, and had been following the group around the Pacific for Confucious knows how long.

In my sad little opinion, that sits stuffed into this fat little body, which is crammed into this dinky flat, is that we are in a new Cold War. Somebody tell Tom Clancy. The difference is that China has 1.1 billion more people than we do and is needed by every capitalist the world over who wants to manufacture anything. China is the biggest lender in the world, and the US is the biggest borrower. Jim Jubak, an economist for MSN Money who looks like a substitute teacher (see above), but who understands this issue very well writes:

In the second quarter, the Commerce Department announced this month, the United States paid more to its foreign creditors than it took in from its overseas investments -- the first time that's happened in 91 years. At the end of September, China's foreign-exchange reserves topped $1 trillion. Thanks to foreign investment in China and the country's huge trade surplus, China's foreign-exchange reserves are climbing by about $20 billion a month. In recent months, China's reserves have grown so quickly that the country has taken over first place from Japan, with reserves of $880 billion at the end of August.

China is growing so quickly that it can't get oil fast enough. Enter Venezuela, who is wisely hitching her wagon to China's five-pointed star. You know, Hugo, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

What China is lacking is a charismatic leader, someone like Vlad Putin of Russia or Darth Vader, a Goldfinger who can take on James Bond or slam his or her shoe on a UN podium. I'll bet you haven't a clue who the president of China even is, although it's not all that important as the country is run by committee. The president is Hu Jintao. Yeah. The Communist Party Central Committee membership sounds like your companies IT Department, or the finalists in an online poker tournament; Huang Ju, Luo Gan, Jia Quinglin, Hu Jintao, and all on and on. It's interesting that Hu Jintao's resume includes a four year stint as Secretary of the Party Committee of Tibet Autonomous Region. Awesome. So at least we know he's a people person.

It's worth mentioning as I finish up that China is guilty of more human rights abuses than The Horde on World of WarCraft. Sorry, that's the best I could do. Remember Tiananmen Square? I sure as fuck do. I've never cried before or since like that for anyone or anything that wasn't directly a part of my life. There is a problem? It gets solved. There will be no revolution in China for a very, very long time. And when China had ONE report of rabies from a dog in Mouding County, all 50,000 dogs (all pets) were put to death. Simple, cold, and effective. I just read that the people of Beijing aren't taking to this brutal policy without a fight. We'll see how that goes. And you don't want to be a Bible salesperson in China, it never seems to work out for anyone. Sales are fine, but they kill you...so they're not all bad.

The other story I had to mention is the leaked FOX memorandum that appeared on The Huffington Post. In part it reads, "Be On The Lookout For Any Statements From The Iraqi Insurgents...Thrilled At The Prospect Of A Dem Controlled Congress..." So much for Fair and Balanced! You really should check it out, it's damn funny.

I think that's all for right now. More later today.

XXOO,
D

Monday, November 13, 2006

Three Way Light Bulb Near The Little Debbie Snack Cakes

Just a few thoughts today, then I'll put the baby to bed. My crack o' dawn dentist appointment went well. After injecting the novocaine he was distracted by his assistant long enough for it to go to work. He then filled a small cavity so quickly I thought the building was on fire. And I stole an Entertainment Weekly from the waiting room that had a really good article about the DVD release of Reds. I emerged onto Broadway with numb lips, dodged some traffic, and stopped over at the Salvation Army store. There I purchased an attractive lamp for my bedroom that is almost certainly a fire hazard. Perhaps there is a scam at work here, where the Salvation Army sells sparky lamps that burn down houses. After the blaze, the lamps are collected by the family and donated back and the cycle starts again. I don't mind, though, it's a good-looking lamp for $9.

In the parking lot of the FoodMaster I saw one of the ugliest people I've ever seen. There are different kinds of ugly, like English bulldog ugly, or Peter Lorre ugly, where there is ugliness, but it's sort of appealing. Then there is a level of homely where you just get sad. It stirs up feelings of hopelessness and despair, kind of like the guy selling hot dogs and pretzels at a flea market. Yeah, I am thinking of somebody, but maybe you know what I mean. I can't remember the last time I was at a flea market, but I remember the guy working the snack bar and how he made me want to kill myself. Not that the Salvation Army Thrift Store offers up a joyful experience, but at least there you run into poor college students and "colourful" people shopping for clothes and potentially useful items...like lamps. Although you do occasionally see someone carefully considering the purchase of a stuffed animal, or a mug that has World's Greatest Dad written on the side. And then all you can do is run like the wind.

Anyway, the ugly thing floating around outside of FoodMaster had clearly given up all hope. It wore sweatpants and had hair that looked like it was brushed with an oily coathanger. A few moments later I beheld an attractive woman in the store, over near the Kashi, and she took the pain away when she smiled at me from behind her round little glasses. It was a polite smile, the result of almost bumping into her whilst searching for a three-way light bulb. I know I'm coming across as a jerk right now, picking on Gollum out in the parking lot and praising the adorable woman in the store. It really is perfectly fine to be ugly...I'm an romantic, I see that beauty is on the inside. And the Woman Near The Kashi was far from mainstream attractive. She was plump, mid 30's, and had an air of somber detachment. Sort of the way you should look in a grocery store. But she also looked intelligent, thoughtful and like a person of character.

Meanwhile, that poor thing out in the parking lot lumbered around. Sweatpants? If you don't want to radiate despair all over your fellow humans then please don't wear sweatpants out of your flat. As I think about it, I'm getting a little pissed at Sweatpants Gollum for not taking others into consideration. No matter how pathetic I get, I put on a clean white shirt and black pants, Mister. And I have the scruples not to be caught DEAD in sweatpants. Why? Not for me, but for everyone who has to look at me. Because as mediocre and bland as I look (and fat), at least I'm making an effort. I'm doing laundry, washing my ding-a-ling every morning and brushing my teeth. And I could easily skip on washing my ding-a-ling, because these days it's rarely seen. But for fuck's sake, you don't have to be attractive, just don't suck the will to live out of everyone who looks your way. It's about compassion, it really is. Life has absolutely no meaning whatsoever. What keeps most people going is that everyone else seems so think that it does. The lemmings can provide a false sense of purpose for each other just as easily as they can guide each other off of the cliff.

For the sake of your brothers and sisters, wash your ding-a-ling and put the sweatpants away. Wear them only for comfort, and to test your partner to see if he or she really loves you. I'm poor, fat and ugly but I make enough effort (it doesn't take much) to not look like a walking fart with sneakers. J'accuse, Thing, I have seen the sweatpants on your very soul and I stand in judgement.

OK, yeah, sure, maybe It has a story and that story adds up to sweatpants and perhaps a bedazzled denim jacket. You're right, I shouldn't be judging anyone. After all, I've been to Lincoln Park and danced with despondency with the worst of them. Maybe I'm a little on edge because my boxer shorts are a little loose and I'm flippin' and floppin' all over the place. That's probably it. Never underestimate the negative impact of ill-fitting panties...I think Trotsky said that in Mexico City the morning before his assassination. Maybe not. I put on my night shirt last evening (or my evening shirt last night) and took off my underwear, which was just a bit too tight. Actually, it was an ex-girlfriend's panties that were left behind. Hey, why not? But the fit was just a little off, and my mood immediately improved as I shed them, like I had taken an oxycontin. My wang was free and the shirt loosely tickled my ass and legs as I walked about. It was really awesome...almost worth putting on tight underwear in the first place. Like swinging a bat with weighted donuts before stepping up to the plate.

Actually, it was nothing like that...at all.

I hope you've enjoyed today's entry. And, like me, I hope you think that, "three way light bulb" sounds vaguely dirty.