Monday, February 20, 2006

Walking Into A New Girl's Subshop

Anything I do that is healthy is done totally by accident. Like everyone else, I'm armed with all the knowledge I need to live a healthy lifestyle. On television, in books and magazines, and on the Internet, one is simply inundated with unsolicited advice. Energetic and scantily-clad men and women show off their sculpted "abs" and well-toned "glutes." Some of them are salespeople trying to sell some ridiculous contraption that we're supposed to use everyday. These don't bother me so much, because I like looking at the human body...so long as it isn't mine. Oh, how I would like to stroke the man's "abs" and the woman's "glutes."

Like every American, I'm very good at ignoring advertisements, and these ads do little more than force me to question my heterosexuality for a minute or so. There is no way in hell that I would buy such equipment. The oiled-up fellow running on the beach just makes me itchy, what with the sand sticking to the oil. Eek. I'm not even sure what he is selling. And while were on the subject of buff salespeople, there is no chance of me buying a cream or pill that supposedly will make my ass smaller and my dick bigger. I'm skeptical like that.

And there is a skinny, ugly fuck on the Subway's commercial who almost makes me want to be fat. What an annoying prick.

It's not that I don't want to be normal, weight-wise. In my sexual experience, a more svelte physique would have been a great asset. Nobody says, "Oh, baby, lift your belly and flop it on top of me before penetration...oh, I love that." And I never had a girlfriend who enjoyed playing with my man-boobs.

I've had a pretty good sex life up until recently, and that's as a fat guy. If I were svelte and stacked or whatever they call it, I think that I'd be something of a player. But it's just not going to happen.

If I do anything healthy, it's by accident, as I said before. I don't smoke because my father smokes like a maniac, and thusly I hate smoking. I'm safe from base-jumping accidents because I never leave the house. I won't get an STD because, generally speaking, women don't want to fuck mentally-ill guys who have no money and weigh 300lbs. In my life, I've managed to find 7 sex partners. They represent the only women in America who would touch a freak like me. So I've hit the wall.

So I'm fat, I don't eat right, and I get very little exercise. I also take phenytoin, levoxythyroxine, Androgel, Lipitor, lorazepam, buspirone, Lexapro, and lithium. So my liver is taking a pounding. I'm also as crazy as a bed bug.

That doesn't add up to a man who is trying to "do a body good." I'll also happily abuse any narcotic I can find. But I take my vitamins!

Aside from my weight, which is a consequence of my lousy eating habits, I don't mind being such a ticking time bomb, health-wise. I just want to look thin enough to get laid more often. My personality must be good, as all of my relationships were obviously based on personality alone. So if I could get rid of the man boobs, I could be a real Don Juan.

So I need to decide between a complex, sexual, highly-rewarding relationship with another human being, or Coke and Italian sub sandwiches.

Should be an easy decision, shouldn't it?

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Fried Potatoes

I went into TJ Maxx to buy a frying pan the other day, and I had a terrible anxiety attack. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see an employee approaching to ask if I he could be of assistance. I really hate that. Especially when I'm buying a frying pan...anywhere. That I was doing it at a TJ Maxx just puts it on a whole 'nother level.

The helpful employee walked up to me and said, "Can I help you with anything?" All the predictability and awkwardness was overwhelming, and I didn't know what to say because I didn't want to answer truthfully. I just didn't know what the hell to say to get him to leave me alone. So I punched him in the throat and ran out the door.

I made it to the organic food market on the other end of the collection of stores and a parking lot called "Fresh Pond Plaza." The security guard tackled me in front of the pomme de terre display. The last thing I remember thinking before hitting the floor was, "Wow, that is a really pretentious name for a fucking potato."

Naturally, I was arrested. But I did not hit him with 4 glass martini set, regardless of what that little prick says. But you'd be surprised at how much trouble you can get in for punching someone in the throat.

Monday, February 13, 2006

A Letter To Some Agoraphobic Comrades

If interaction with our fellow human beings causes feelings of inadequacy, self-loathing, and nihilism, then it's natural for us to isolate ourselves. When we hurt ourselves physically, we tend to want to be alone so we can gauge and measure the volume of the pain. In that sense, we are writhing and grimacing away from prying eyes and pedestrian (but well-meaning) questions. It's especially true for emotional pain; the last thing we want is attention not on our terms.

But I'm not a misanthrope. I have a great deal of affection for people. If I didn't, I wouldn't be so passionate and affected by the state of things. A true misanthropic nihilist wouldn't cry when he listens to Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto #1. And I do. I have a funny story about that.

My uncle, Jerry, recently died. He was schizophrenic, but he suffered from another affliction, he was an romantic. I didn't know him that well, mainly because he chose to do the same thing I do now, which is to stay away from other people, even family. But through my own experience, I've grown closer to him than I ever could have, by traveling a similar road. But I digress.

One day, back when he lived at home with my father and their brother, Bill, he was listening to Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto #1 on a record player. He was deeply moved, and decided to get his brother Bill to listen to it, as well.

Sometimes, brothers and sisters just refuse to do things to be a pain in the ass. So Bill told Jerry that he didn't want to listen to his record. Jerry pressed him, but Bill refused. This went back and forth until Jerry would have no more of it. He picked up the record player, still playing the record, and threw it out the window. And the window was closed at the time.

Now that's passion! Jerry Lyle was a man of deep emotion, even if he, too isolated himself. He worked only one job in his life, as a painter. He was working with a crew of guys who kept making crass, sexist remarks about women. He told them off, and then walked off the job. He never worked again, but not because he was so offended. He was mentally-ill, like me.

It's almost as if we love people so much, and hate ourselves so much, that we isolate ourselves from the rest of the human race.

Can you think of anything more tragic?

Saturday, February 11, 2006

What the Hell is going on?

Last night I tuned into the Olympic Opening Ceremonies. I like the idea of the Olympics, as athletes from many nations get together to compete in the spirit of brotherhood. Something like that. The best part was the hearing John Lennon's "Imagine," which is truly a great song.

And there were other highlights. The entrance of the athletes by nation is educating and fun to watch, too. I didn't know that Finland only has 5 million people. As each nation's statistics came up, my father and I bet that we could guess the population of each country. Good times. And I was really amused that Taiwan, under an agreement between the Olympic Committee and China, was not allowed to display her flag. Not only that, but it was called, "Chinese Taipei" instead of Taiwan.

So much for leaving politics behind.

The rest of the ceremony, with the acrobats, fire, balloons, and a car doing donuts (no joke), often had me asking myself, "What the hell is going on?" It's not that I don't appreciate abstraction, I do. Really, I do. Hey, fuck you! But the multi-colored, flaming Italians running around, combined with the ever-present Bob Costas voiceover, had me snickering.

I almost pissed my pants when Bob Costas gushed, "The Renaissance was born in Italy!" And Mary Carillo agreed, "Yes, it started here and moved throughout Europe." Meanwhile, an acrobat was hanging from a balloon and a supermodel was portraying Venus from Botticelli's painting, "The Birth of Venus."

On one level, it all made sense; balloons, Costas, supermodels. On another level, I was asking, once again, "What the Hell is going on?"

It all made sense by the time Sophia Loren made her way onto the field, however. She is really sexy, even at 71. And from there, we finally saw the torch-bearer, who was also really hot (Italy, apparently, is packed with fabulous-looking women). Then they lighted the torch that looks like it belongs on an oil refinery, and Pavarotti sang.

It's not over until the fat guy sings.

Then I went to bed.

Fin.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Piaf's "L'accordeoniste" Will Save The Forest, You Selfish Prick

My email inbox is always full of petitions, reports from the front, protest notifications, and stories about one thing or another that are supposed to light my proverbial fire and raise my inclination towards righteous action. And through a little slot in my front door, the mailman brings more petitions and letters from organizations that are convinced, for some reason, that I can help. It doesn't help that at various times in my life I gave money to the Anti-Vivisection Society, Union of Concerned Scientists, American Civil Liberties Union, and Socialist Party USA, among many others. Once you give money to any cause, you're doomed. And I feel bad for them, because it's not very likely they'll see another penny. Except for Alley Cat Allies. Everyone knows I worship the cats.

Should I write them and say,

"To Whom It May Concern,

I really have a high opinion of your organization, and your attempts to do something about seal clubbing/global warming/deforestation/the erosion of civil liberties/capitalism/animal cruelty, but I haven't a pot in which to piss. Without money, I'm not a very good friend for you to have. Frankly, without money I'm not a very good friend for anyone to have. Isn't that sad? Anyway, I know that when you send me a letter to sign, to be sent to my senator and/or congressman, that you're really looking for money. I don't resent it, but it must be awfully frustrating for you when you get the signed letter back and nothing else. So we're just wasting each others time. I wish you the best of luck in saving whatever it is your trying to save, or get rid of, whatever the case may be.

Yours In The Struggle (but keep away),
Darren"

I know that I'd just be eggin' 'em on by doing that. I don't want to taunt them, and I certainly don't want Robert Redford showing up at my door. The last thing I want is the "Sundance Kid" poking through my stuff, telling me that I must have SOME money for the Natural Resources Defense Coalition. And as he leaves with my computer and Edith Piaf CD's, what could I tell him? "I loved you in 'Three Days of the Condor!"