Friday, June 30, 2006

The Amazing 7-Minute Painting

how found at: http://www.houseoffourcats.blogspot.com


Have we all been keeping up with the high drama surrounding Star Jones and the post-menopausal female smackdown, lovingly called The View? I sure hope so...the future of the republic demands that you know exactly how Ms. Jones feels about Rosie O'Donnell and Barbara Walters. Granted, there are issues of great importance facing this nation on a regular basis, like the Flag Burning and Gay Marriage Amendments. Or are they the Marriage Burning and Gay Flagging Amendments? Eh. Either way, you have a responsibility to stay informed.

The more you know...

Take a minute to allow my painting, The 7-Minute Painting, to soak in and change your life, almost unavoidably for the better. This opus took seven minutes to paint, thus the name. If you're interested in purchasing it, get in touch with the Stomp Toot Artists' Collective in Pepperell, Massachusetts. Give it time, and it will speak to you. In addition to acrylic paint, newspaper clippings and a condom (unused) were stuck on the canvas. J'accuse!

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Mrs. Freshley Is A Tortured Nihilist.


Many thanks to A. Kyrie for her fantastic quote from our late night/early morning conversation. I'm not sure why, but she veered from whatever we were talking about to observe, "When you flush the toilet, shit flies around the bathroom and lands on your toothbrush." That gets my coveted "Quote of the Day" award for Thursday, June 29, 2006.

On a very different note, this be my response to a letter from a perfect stranger who stated that globalization does not necessarily help the spread of democracy.

Dear Sir,

Any reasonable person would agree with you. I would go a big step further and say that capitalism acts as a cancer on democratic government. The inequalities that travel naturally with capitalism get extended to political democracy. As the markets of the world become less regulated, this becomes more of a problem. Globalization creates a toxic environment for the organic growth of republican government. Struggling nations are quaintly referred to as, "emerging markets" and elected leaders in those countries are forced to de-regulate and often ignore the wishes of the people they represent in hopes of attracting capital investment.

If an elected leader does stand up to foreign pressure and chooses to represent the best interests of his or her people, then he or she runs the risk of being branded as an enemy of freedom, even in the free media of western nations. I'm thinking of Hugo Chavez, who is funneling hundreds of billions of dollars back into the Venezuelan economy after decades of theft by those who profited by vast oil fields under that nation's western frontier. Even though Chavez has been elected repeatedly and with growing support in elections that are monitored by the OAS and Carter Center, he is labeled a "left-wing dictator" by many in the so-called "mainstream" media.

This is so ironic for those who are familiar with the history of capitalism. If you go back to the 18th and 19th centuries, and look at how France, Britain, and the US thrived via capitalism, you'll see that they certainly did not do so via a laissez-faire system. On the contrary, they embraced restrictions, tariffs and regulations on imports. When a young nation does that today, they do so at their own peril. Simply put, they must roll over for international capitalism or rot within their borders.

Once again, ignorance rules the day. The romantic notion that an elegantly-functioning free market made America wealthy simply isn't based in reality. I have a hard time seeing that as a debatable point. I would go a lot farther, of course, given that I'm a socialist. I'd start by pointing out that this little experiment called, "America" probably wouldn't be around if it wasn't saved from capitalism by, ironically, a wealthy capitalist named "Roosevelt" in the 1930's. Anyone remember him? He was hardly a radical socialist. But if it weren't for his government "intrusions" on the market, we'd probably be calling each other "comrade" right now. Heck, I would argue that the FDIC alone saved the banks by guaranteeing deposits, and that led to the restoration of an environment necessary for simple money investment that fuels entrepreneurship.

Unregulated (or perhaps "under-regulated") capitalism almost killed itself, but the republic saved it. Now we have money-soaked pseudo-intellectuals with no knowledge of history telling us that capitalism spreads democracy, and that regulation needs to be cut back to allow the market to flourish.

You can't buy irony like that.

In Solidarity,
D

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

The Pitter-Pander of Little Republicans


You heard correctly. The Senate came within one vote of passing an amendment to the U.S. Constitution aimed at putting a stop to the epidemic of flag-burning in this country. The L.A. Times had a great article about this stupid thing, which you can read here. I won't beat it to death, but this debate is the most overwhelmingly stupid thing I recall seeing, hearing, reading about or imagining. If the Republicans were a TV show (and they pretty much are, on all the time on Fox News), then they just "jumped the shark." Oh, yes, that is a picture of Bush desecrating a flag.

Just A Little Note Today

For the past two weeks or so I've been engaged in a sort of courtship with a young lady. She has brought a bit of magic back to my life, and for that alone I hold her dear. The physical, emotional and intellectual exploration of another human being that makes up a significant part of the early stages of an romantic relationship is intoxicating. I don't know what the future holds for us, but I'll always be thankful to this young lady for making me feel desired and allowing me to pursue.

Monday, June 26, 2006

The Passing Of Susan Ross

You never know what sad news the next day will bring. This morning I learned via email from several sources that Comrade Susan Ross has passed away. Her husband, Gabe, said that it was "very peaceful and dignified," and there is comfort in knowing that.

I didn't know Susan, and in my whole life I've only spoken to Gabe a half dozen times. I met him in 1990, if memory serves, and I know both he and Susan worked very hard for the cause of socialism. The passing of a comrade is always very sad. The world always needs people like Susan, moreso now it seems. Gabe and Susan were always seen as kindred spirits. Very much alike in what they felt as comrades, one often spoke of Gabe if talking about Susan, and Susan if talking about Gabe. They went together so perfectly.

David A. Hacker sent a lovely letter about Susan this morning where he wrote, "I found Susan to be a very sensitive soul. She was sensitive to in-justice, hatred, and in-difference." He went on to say, "The fact that her pre-mature death was caused as a result of a blow to the head by a student in the high school class she was teaching, who was a neo-Nazi, over a decade ago, should inspire us to work ever harder to end the racism and bigotry that still stains our land."

It's also worth mentioning that she was upset at the schisms that have split the party, and the movement, over the years, and that she called for more civility in the discorse.

Goodbye comrade, you are well-remembered.

Saturday, June 24, 2006

71st Floor Smudge Fly-By

Some people hate life, others love it. Most alternate, but some of us don't feel strongly one way or the other. One of these days, I'm going to "wake up dead" as they say in old gangster movies. As in, "You keep messin' with the wrong people, you're gonna wake up dead." In that sense, we're all messing with the wrong people. We're messing around with the wrong fucking universe.

I'm one of those people who, by all rights, shouldn't be among the living. If this were Lord of the Flies, I would have been killed like that fat kid a long time ago. I don't have that killer instinct. You probably don't, either, but you might think you do. If so, you're an asshole. You're one of those people who says things like, "If you cross me, you'd better watch out." But the only time you've really been "crossed" in your whole life is when the kid at the movie theatre put too much butter on your popcorn. Remember that? You tore him a new one. No guff you take.

If you're reading this 'blog, though, you're probably not concerned with guff. If you're like me, you know that the world is an ugly place and life is a lonely business. Guff, which I define as life's little annoyances, is something that you've managed to put into perspective. You're just happy that you're not being eaten alive, on fire, starving to death, or an Iraqi.

Don't get me wrong, though, I bitch and moan more than anyone. I'm as neurotic as Woody Allen. But at least I know that the universe isn't out to get me by fucking up my take-out order or by having me step in shit. A sophisticated complainer like myself knows that the universe is indifferent. It's not out to get me, it doesn't even know I'm getting mail. In fact, I wish I thought the universe was out to get me. What an exciting life that would be! Every victory would be a heroic triumph. Getting the Pepsi machine to take that wrinkled dollar bill would be on par with slaying a dragon. It's so romantic. I swoon.

In reality, life is about making one sacrifice after another for the people you care about, then you die. Sort of like jumping off a building and washing the windows on the way down, just less interesting than that.

I'm a selfish prick, and I don't live in the high country with other people who make such sacrifices. But I appreciate the work of those who do. Without them, then I would have been bashed in the noggin a long time ago like "Fatty" or "Piggy" or whatever the hell they call that kid. So, being a sycophant, I at least have the scruples to want to fling myself off a skyscraper. I'll try to get that tricky smudge on the 71st floor on the way down.

Apart from that, I just want to post this story out of Utah. If I owned a corporation, I'd make this guy my CEO.

SOUTH SALT LAKE, Utah - A man accused of not paying for his Pop-Tarts has a troubled getaway. First, the clerk at the convenience store ripped off the man's shirt as they struggled when she confronted him for pocketing the toaster pastries Friday, police said. Then after the man punched the clerk in the stomach and made it out the door, he was hit by a pickup truck in the parking lot. Policesaid he got up and kept running - into the path of a minivan while he was crossing the street. He got up again, but didn't make it far. "It knocks him to the ground. He get up and continues to run, but responding police officers caught up with him just a short distance later and he was taken into custody," police Capt. Tracy Tingey said. Police said the man suffered only minor injuries.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Epic Of Absurdity (A Darren W. Lyle Joint)


In order to get some feedback on a screenplay that I've been working on for many years, I've decided to post some of it here. Just a taste, people, but don't worry...there's plenty of idiocy to draw from the well. And now, a little o' this from Epic of Absurdity! That's a drawing for the movie poster on the right...that's Bobo.

The scene is a jail cell, there appears to have been an explosion. Pipes jut out from the floor and walls, which is empty except for three people. An adjecent jail cell is visible, and inside is a chimpanzee wearing a top hat and monocle. The other cell contains Abraham Lincoln, Adolph Hitler, and Nina Simone. Water is rushing in through a pipe in the chimpazee's cell, and it has almost reached the ceiling. Our heroes have only minutes to live if that water is not stopped.

HITLER: (In thick German accent, naturally) You better have taught ze chimp how to tighten that screw and shutten offen ze valve or we are all kaput!

LINCOLN: Shut up, you kraut bastard, you're making him nervous! Do it, Bobo...show the Fuhrer how I taught you...go ahead. It's just a simple little #5 flushed housing aluminum draft screw.

CHIMP: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

HITLER: Mein gott! That scheisse thing wouldn't know a screw from a cashew!

LINCOLN: Everybody calm the fuck down! Bobo, follow my instructions. (Lincoln takes several minutes to frantically relate a series of hand gestures to Bobo.)

SIMONE: Mississippi Goddamn!

Bobo slowly and clumsily produces a small screwdriver from his top hat and swims to a box near the open pipe. He deftly inserts the screw into one of the many holes on the surface of the metal box, and with a skill that could only have come from years of training, he turns the screw and the water begins to stop. The water level begins to recede.

SIMONE: (singing) I loves' you, Bobo!

LINCOLN: (sighing with relief) I knew that training would pay off one day. (His eyes meet with Bobo's, and they nod at each other). I knew you could do it, Bobo.

BOBO: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

HITLER: Abe, I'm sorry zat I doubted you and your exsquisite primate friend. Thank you, my friend...thank you.

LINCOLN: (embracing Hitler and Simone) We can still save those poor people at the zoo, but only if we hurry.

Hitler: Those people are doomed! Dr. Fashabular will now use his mutation ray on the marmosets! Only god can save us now.

LINCOLN: (smile) Either god, or a chimpanzee named, "Bobo" who knows how to pick a lock with his monocle.

They all look to Bobo's cell, and see that his door is already open.

BOBO: (in a Cockney accent) Looking for me, gentleman?

They all turn and see Bobo holding his monocle just outside their own cell. They all look at each other and smile.

LINCOLN: I told you he was special. (he reaches out and strokes Bobo) He's my special...little...guy.

BOBO: I will let you out, but I need a promise from you all...and time is running out.

---------------

And that's all you get for now! Isn't it exciting, though? What does Bobo want? How did such a strange collection of people, from different times, no less, get into a flooded cell? Why did Abraham Lincoln spend years training a chimpanzee how to turn a #5 aluminum housing draft screw? So many compelling questions...it can't miss!

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Of Vincent Sherman, A Lying Jackass, And Peaceniks


Today, just a dispatch or two from the front, along with a mention of the passing of a fine human being. When you're done reading my 'blog, take a gander at a first-rate website that does a good job at revealing what a lying egomaniac is Bill O'Relly.

If you're sitting out there with a "grant worthy" idea for peaceful social change, check out what the A.J. Muste Memorial Institute has to offer in the way of financial support. Even if you're just looking for information about what's happening in the peace movement, I'd highly recommend the site. They also sell inexpensive essays, in pamphlet form, written by Rosa Luxembourg and David McReynolds. Every time I talk to David, I grow fonder of the human race. I need to talk to him more often. He has a cat named, "Gandalf" who has a very unusual facial expression. If I can find the picture David sent, I'll post it here. By the way, the deadline for the grant proposal is July 21, and it will be acted upon in September.

Congratulations to Greg Pason for setting up a fine campaign for US Senator from New Jersey. My experiences with Greg lead me to believe that I'm not exactly his favorite fellow. But we are comrades in the cause against capitalism and for socialized health care for all, an immediate withdrawal from Iraq, repealing Taft-Hartley and all anti-union laws, and a guaranteed living wage. So in that sense, I love him. And I know as well as any activist how hard it is to get on the ballot in any state, and he managed to pull that off. Again, congratulations Greg. If you can (because I know you are all swimming in the filthy green), give a little to his campaign: Greg Pason for US Senate c/o 92 E. Hunter Ave. #1 Maywood, NJ 07607.

Finally, I'd like to relate the passing of Vincent Sherman, a Hollywood director who took a stand against the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) and the "blacklist." He later directed shows like "Trapper John, M.D." and "The Waltons." Sherman said that he wasn't a Communist, but that he couldn't stand what was being done to people in Hollywood, Communist or not. He paid the price for standing by his principles, and his friends, by not naming people before HUAC. His contract with Warner Brothers was cancelled, with no reason given, in the early '50's. But he survived the Fascist tactics of McCarthy and Cohen and eventually became very successful, working until the late 1980's. He died Sunday at the age of 99.

He stood up against the bad guys and won, living a long and prosperous life. He is even known for having affairs with the likes of Bette Davis, Joan Crawford and Rita Hayworth. Three more reasons to admire him. Adieu, Mr. Sherman, you done good.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Of Santorum, An Astronomical Analogy, And Cynicism

I'm a huge fan of the absurd. Given how things are going these days, I should be in a state of constant amusement and heartfelt appreciation for the likes of Senators Ted Stevens, Bill Frist, Dennis Hastert and Rick Santorum. Not to mention Dick Cheney, Condi Rice, and the Lexis-Nexus from Texas himself, George Bush the Younger. What a crew. When they get together, it must be like the Algonquin Roundtable in the Bizzaro World.

If an intellectual is described as "bright," they must surely be the darkest of the dark. Knowledge and wisdom shed light and heat, and from that grows civilization. Like the sun that slowly transformed our lifeless planet into a wet, warm oasis in the cold, empty universe. Ignorance, bigotry, corruption and cynical manipulation are the guiding principles of this regime. Each of these characters is like a black hole from which nothing of substance can exist without being warped and distorted.

Some leaders endeavor to guide others with compassion, respect and intelligence. These things do not. Every public concern is an opportunity that they seek to crassly use to their favor. If you've been paying attention at all, you know that this regime never hesitates to use fear to get what they want. From terrorism to Schiavo to stem cell research to delicate matters surrounding spirituality, they can't feel shame and have no moral scruples. They are each a muse for those who celebrate irony, either as an artist or an aesthete.

The problem with this brand of absurdity is that it's not funny. On the contrary, it is excrutiating and tragic. But not in any kind of romantic or poetic way that makes your heart swell or brings a tear to your eye. No, they bring the sort of sadness that leads to despair and shame at being human. If you're not paying attention, or you don't know mmuch about how the United States operates these days, this analogy may help you understand. Imagine an ethically bankrupt car salesman trying to use the recent death of a dear friend to get you to buy a car you don't want. If you can do that, you can begin to understand how these people operate.

A comrade recently asked me why I don't write about politics more on my 'blog. Since I'm a very politically-minded man, it only seems natural. Especially given my inclination towards activism when I was younger. This post is my answer to that question. I don't write about politics often because it is both trite and profoundly upsetting at the same time; like deconstructing a comic book in an insane asylum.

Of Cows And Midgets And Chickens


Many years ago I got to know a true hero in the struggle against all things banal, inane and sucky. That's her on the right. We worked together at an art museum near Boston, and the experience of working together in that environment is impossible to describe. Try to imagine what "Clerks" would have been like if it had been directed by Federico Fellini. Instead of midgets, though, try to work chickens into the mix. That's a good approach to life in any context.

Her name was, and still is, Mary Galli. She works with paint, found objects, and just about anything else. Take a moment to soak in her latest work, MOO-chas Gracias, which can be seen up close and personal (for now) at the Old North Church in Boston's North End. It will speak to you, haunt you, and compell you in a way that only a life-sized plaster cow ever could.

So up there is Mary, Madre de Cow, with Mexico on her mind, and shirt. I wish I could still drop into Disk Diggers and bug you. We shall get together soon and discuss holograms over coffee.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Hot Tar, Blue Ice And FIfteen Statements

I just got back from a visit to the doctor, where tests were done and health was assessed in a manner one would expect from a doctor within this context. It's natural to think about mortality and experience existential angst after a visit to the hospital, but I do it every few weeks so the experience has been robbed of that currency with me. I'm insane, and I suffer from various hormonal disorders, so I'm comfortable with being poked and prodded. Sometimes there is an ad on television for a tractor pull somewhere in western Massachusetts ("Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!"), and that causes me extreme neurotic anxiety. Actually, that sort of anxiety is common with me, just not associated with doctors.

When I was walking back from the clinic, however, something happened that made me think about the big questions. Some roofers were working on, well, a roof. They were peeling shingles off the roof of this building and flinging the debris onto the sidewalk below. It's hot out, like Africa hot, so the tar is really sticky. Since the sidewalk is roped off, they weren't worried about hitting fat people walking nearby. Naturally, a shingle caught some air and went sailing into my head. I said, "What the fuck?" Had it been a chunk of blue ice or a clumsy roofer, those would have been my last words. More like, "What the...?" Instead, I just had a ball of tar in my hair that I promptly washed out when I got home. Unlike that black chick from "The Apprentice," I just walked it off.

It got me thinking about how we are all hanging onto life by a thread, and how at any moment we could have our final, "What the fuck?!" moment. It's a great reaction to have, though. It really speaks to the bumbling confusion that goes along with being human. Life can be summed up with a series of exclamations, from birth to death. I'll give it a try.

FIFTEEN STATEMENTS THAT SUM UP THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE

1. "Wah!" (little baby)
2. "I can hardly wait to start school!" (age 4)
3. "School is a fucking nightmare, I can't wait to graduate." (age 5-22)
4. "Nobody is hiring except McDonald's...I'm going back to college." (if you're lucky, skip to end)
5. "I hate this fucking job." (from the first time you punch-in until you retire or die)
6. "I wonder if I should join the army?" (potential fast-track to statement #15)
7. "Of course I love you." (or "I love you, do you love me?" Could happen anytime)
8. "Pregnant? Oh, fuck me...fuck me!!!!" (again, could happen anytime)
9. "I do."
10. "I don't know when it happend, but at some point I started hating your fucking guts, you god-awful douchebag, you ruined my life!" (married couples only)
11. "I can't retire, I have $9.20 in the bank."
12. "What did my doctor mean by, 'Don't buy any green bananas?'"
13. "Huh?"
14. "My arm is killing me." (peaceful death)
15. "What the fu..?!?" (violent death)

My favorite is number 13, which seems to be a sort of implied, unanswered question that floats above every human being.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

An Open Letter (Apology) To My Brother Kent

A passionate disposition has always been something of a virtue in our family, at least between you and I. We feel strongly about religion, politics, absurdity, culture, art, and just about everything else. This disposition is more appealing when it is in more of a romantic/artistic vein. You mentioned earlier that the strongly principled "tortured artist" is a good personae to use when in pursuit of women, especially given my poverty. The implication, of course, is that such a noble failure can get away with living in squalor (and never picking up a check) because he is too tortured to be of any practical use to anyone. He's deep, dark, and on the prowl for meaning.

Such a person is incapable of figuring out 20% of a tab, he must instead muse. Friends and family can only hope that the day will come when truth and/or beauty will be revealed to this dead-beat, so he can finally make a living sharing it with everyone else. Unfortunately, the "tortured artist" is more likely to end up blowing his brains out, or worse, working at "Staples" or "The Yankee Candle Company."

But that is strangely irrelevant here. You're right about the potential value of embracing this cliche as a way of helping women justify sleeping with me. I won't have to lie about my income, and they can maintain a modicum of self-respect. After all, I wouldn't be lying to them; I am dark and disturbed, and certainly strange. So in that ridiculous fashion, it works out for everyone.

I'm not writing this letter to thank you for helping me develop this scheme. It's just ironic that we were talking about what an emotional pain-in-the-ass I can be just a few short hours before our argument. I really feel terrible for all the yelling and class warfare rhetoric I spouted in the passenger seat of your Nissan Murano. I'm not sure why we started talking about gentrification and class. But before I knew it, you looked like you wanted to punch me. And I was on my soapbox and probably should have been punched. You know I love and respect you, and we both roam on the left to one degree or the other; you as a liberal and I as a revolutionary socialist. But we share the same deoxyribonucleic acid, and we both screamed passionately for our respective cause. But I shouldn't have called you "petty bourgeois" and "classist."

I don't even use rhetoric from the right century.

So I'm sorry, and ask your forgiveness. I was a bit hot-blooded and arrogant, which is directly related to our Scottish/French ancestry. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go work on my controversial novel that will most likely end up unpublished, due to it's tortured realness. See! I'm already trying it on.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Of The Aznavour Farewell Tour And The Cool Universe


Charles Aznavour, the "French Frank Sinatra," was discovered by the great Edith Piaf many years ago. The "Sparrow" went to that great cabaret in the sky in 1963, but Aznavour continues to do his thing. Last Sunday I was perusing the Boston Globe when I found an advertisement for "Charles Aznavour's Farewell World Tour" performance, which is to take place here in Boston at the newly refurbished Opera House. Oh, fuck, would I love to be there on September 21 when Frenchie takes the stage. Partly because I admire the man, but it would also be pretty wild to sit and listen to the man who chilled with Edith. She exists in a sort of alternate universe in my mind, along with Frodo, Luke Skywalker and Burt Lancaster. While I do recognize that people like Edith Piaf and Burt Lancaster actually did exist, it seems rather hard to believe. How could a world this square produce people as cool as that? Along with Humphrey Bogart, Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet, Katherine Hepburn, and Ingrid Bergman...just to name a few. Senator Rick Santorum (PA) and Larry the Cable Guy breathe the same air that they did? They are all carbon based life-forms? Damned Hard to believe.

But I reconciled with that reality long ago. And now I have a chance to experience a truly somptueux, doué romantique enfant de dieux. Unfortunately, the price for this opportunity is $305 per ticket. Since I'm what the French call, "extrêmement pauvre." Edith Piaf sang about the poor Paris versions of me in La Goualante De Pauvre Jean. If I were inclined to be crass, I would say that I haven't a pot to piss in, nor a window to throw it out.

Even if I did, spending $305 to see anyone sing feels a bit ostentatious, French or not. But it still feels good to know that Aznavour is floating around the world, breathing the same air as our douchebag president and counter-balancing the evil of Ann Coulter.

I'd like to take a moment to thank Adam Sulkowski and Mikhail Zeldovich for introducing me to the magic of Edith Piaf, and Charles Aznavour by extension. Back then, Adam, Mikhail and I weren't above getting into a food fight at 3am with hummus and flat-bread. Adam is a business professor now, and Mikhail is a big-time attorney in London. I'm insane and like to complain about politics and pet my kitties. So I'm guessing they are too dignified for a food fight after an evening of drinking Russian vodka, but I'm not. For some reason, they broke out the Piaf that night and I was enchanted.

Oh, my beautiful torch singer, how le monde misses you! But it's good to see your protege, Aznavour, still walking the Earth...even if he is asking for $305 fucking dollars for a ticket. Jeez.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Save The Crazy Garden

The garden sits on a small sliver of land carved out on the south lawn of Bellevue Hospital, flanked by the main hospital building. It covers approximately 15,000 square feet. Part of it is cultivated in vegetables, much of it in flowers; its paths are created from mosaics and stones, heavily accented with found objects that have emotional weight to those who most often frequent the garden. It was created and is maintained by the poor and homeless patients that Bellevue serves. Naturally, something so beautiful and fragile is always under threat of destruction. In this case, Bellevue endeavors to eliminate the garden and replace it with about 265 parking spaces. I'm sure that such a thing wouldn't be done without a long and careful assessment of the situation. Yeah. But my visceral reaction is the most important thing for everyone to consider. And this pisses me off. If the addicts and nut jobs need a place to enjoy the wonders of nature in the concrete jungle of New York City, then they should have it. I mean, come on Bellevue mucky-mucks, have a heart. A heart, I tells ya!

So sit on your ass and visit http://www.saveourgarden.org. And then get off your ass and go to the community board meeting at NYU Medical Center (530 First Avenue, near 32nd Street) on Wednesday, June 14, to support the crazies and volunteers who will lobby for the garden's protection.

The go home a have a cookie. A big one.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Jeff M. Brindle For Pennsylvania's 26th District Representative

Earlier today I ranted a bit about how being a socialist in the United States ensures that you'll be dismissed as a quaint, political oddity. I wish I would stop doing that, given that so many people are working so very hard to keep the proverbial flame burning. Cynicism is a disease that can sneak into your brain through your eyes and ears and suck hope out of your system like a sneaky little vampire bat. It's a painless process, but one day you'll wake up and realize that you're leading an unprincipled life. That's no fun.

Jeff M. Brindle and I had a little chat via the wonders of the Internet today. He's running for a state assembly seat, Pennsylvania's 26th District. I thought I'd use my little 'blog to congratulate him on a well-run campaign. I don't agree with him on several issues, even though we are both socialists. We've both held office within the Socialist Party USA, and we're both members of Democratic Socialists of America. His campaign is even endorsed by the DSA.

What I love about his campaign is that he is very straightforward about what he stands for, with very little rhetoric. He took the National Political Awareness Test (NPAT), which is part of Project Vote Smart. As a result, you know precisely where he stands on many issues. I don't agree with him on everything, but the important thing is that he knows that capitalism is a failure, that we need socialized medicine, and a stronger social welfare system that includes a higher minimum wage.

Thank you, Jeff, for working so hard for the cause and taking the time earlier today to smack some sense into me. We can't ever give up in the struggle for social and economic justice.

Check him out at http://www.brindle2006.com/

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Flashback To Pajamas


Earlier today I stopped by Der FoodMeister to pick up some asiago cheese. Melt some asiago on a bagel and eat it with some cream cheese. Do it now. You will think you done died and went to heaven. It's a savory delight in every bite.

As I was strolling through the parking lot, I saw a car with a Kennedy/Johnson bumper sticker. You can get them at the Kennedy Library. It triggered a memory from my youth. Aren't we all lucky that this picture was taken to capture this moment from Christmas Day back in 1989? You can see why I recognized the bumper sticker. I'm the jerk with the guitar.

My brother and I always got new pajamas on Christmas Eve. I'm not sure how long we would actually wear them, as neither one of us are very fond of sleeping so attired. Obviously, there are two Kennedy campaign posters, and a Rebel Without A Cause poster, as well. That was my side of the room. My brother's posters are on the other side of an invisible boundary line that we apparently guarded very, very well. Look at that typewriter! I have a small collection of typewriters, but when it comes to actually writing anything you really can't beat a computer. I'm sorry. I'm a romantic, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Saying, "Aw, fuck!" repeatedly and using gallons of White Out is about where I draw that line.

My brother is playing Nintendo. Probably some game that you can download in less than a minute and play with an emulator on your computer. I'm doing some sort of mock cool pose that is so unbelievably unflattering that it's, well, hard to believe. It was only a matter of months after this that I joined the Socialist Party and began the journey leading to psychosomatic illnesses brought about by political frustration. In return I got to learn from, and enjoy the company of, radicals and intellectuals like Anne Rosenhaft, Frank P. Zeidler, David McReynolds, J. Quinn Brisben and Bill S.

Well, that's about all I have today. I'm getting a little choked up here thinking about the first time I met Quinn Brisben. I was totally blown away. He and his wife Andrea took me to dinner and they told me about how they smuggled condoms into the Soviet Union. He then insisted on taking me out to see as many plays as possible, in MY home town. But I digress...again. Do you mind?

Monday, June 12, 2006

Ms.Chouette Levee And The Post Too Long

This is a strange conversation I had with a woman on an online atheist discussion list. It is presented here with the expressed written consent of Major League Baseball.

DWLyle,

Recently you wrote an extremely long email about the roots of empathy in the brain. The study you provided backed up what you said, that there is evidence that empathy can be traced physically to the insula between the frontal and parietal lobes. It added a lot to the discussion. In the future, however, could you try to write posts that aren't quite so long? My inbox is full of email, and it takes me forever to get through them all. Thank you!

MsChouetteLevee@care2.com

-----

Dear MsChouetteLevee,

Don't thank me yet, because I think your request is absurd. If you can't keep up with your inbox, that's your problem, not mine. My post was long because it needed to be. I don't know what else to say. Learn to scan.

Darren W. Lyle

------

Dear Mr. Lyle,

I kindly ask that you shorten the length of your posts and you tell me to "learn to scan." Very nice...sort of an asshole, aren't you? I guess I got that vibe from your posts. You think you're so damn smart with all your castaway intellectual references. My request was simple, just do what I ask. Otherwise, I'll report you to the moderator. There are rules to be followed.

------

Dear Unstable French Woman,

Do what you ask, or you'll report me to the moderator? How curious! You're not really asking so much as demanding. And what "castaway" references are you talking about? Do you mean the Tom Hanks movie? Oh, well. Try looking at it like this in the future. When you see a post from me, just imagine that it was twice as long originally, but that I cut the length in half for you. That way, we can both walk away from this ridiculous conversation happy. I can write as much as I want, but from your point of view they'll be half the length. Good enough? Also, don't bother reporting any of this to the moderator, because I'm the moderator. Thanks.

Darren W. Lyle

------

Dear Mr. Lyle,

I'm going to be in Boston on business next month, perhaps we could get together. Sorry for calling you names.

MsChouetteLevee

------

Chouette,

You're very odd, and a bit obnoxious. I think I will have to meet you for dinner. Your treat, of course. Don't worry about calling me an, "asshole." If you get to know me better, you'll come to realize that people swear at me frequently. I'm pretty anti-social these days, so I'll most likely cancel any date or meeting we set up. I'm an enigma.

D'Lisle

------

Darren,

Well, thank you for cutting down on your posts. I'll see you on the list.

CHOUETTE

Saturday, June 10, 2006

My Chat With Comcastic Brian

Comcast Online HelpDesk
chat id : 61410747-d322-402e-87c0-35f3150bb924
Problem : General Inquiry

Brian > Thank you for contacting Comcast. My name is Brian, how may I assist you today?
Darren > It says that you're an "analyst."
Brian > That's right. How can I help you?
Darren > My analyst told me that I have borderline personality disorder. Do you concur?

There was a long pause here.

Brian > Can I help you?
Darren > Oh, man. Yeah, I want to shut off my voicemail.
Brian > One momnt please.
Darren > I can wait a momnt.
Brian > To shut off voicemail would require having it removed from the account by calling our Digital Voice support at 1-800-COMCAST
Darren > That's unnecessarily elaborate. Could I do it from the phone menu?
Brian > No.
Darren > That makes me angry. Then how can I set the number of rings so high that my answering machine will pick-up before the voicemail system?
Brian > Let me check.
Darren > I'll wait for you to cut and paste the answer.
Brian > I can do that.
Darren > Sing it sister!
Brian > ?
Darren > !
Brian > What?
Darren > SING IT, SISTER!!!!!
Brian > If needed, I can change the number of rings for the voicemail. For security purposes, please provide the last 4 numbers of the Social Security or PIN number on the account.

At this point, I had to give the last four digits of my Social Security number so I could access my account and change the number of rings on my voicemail. I'm sure this is what Roosevelt had in mind.

Brian > I have updated the rings for you.
Darren > Excellent, thank you. Do you like your job?
Brian > No. Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Darren > Yeah, I need to refill a prescription.

Analyst has closed chat and left the room

Friday, June 09, 2006

That Clinking, Clanking Sound


Why do people on the left listen to, and then complain about, Ann Coulter? She's clearly just looking for a reaction. Like some pathetic fat guy trying to kill himself, she's just looking for attention. That's right. Like me, she needs psychiatric help. I'm sure that with psychopharmacology and intense therapy, she can lead a somewhat normal life. Much like "Snarf" from Thundercats.

In other news, Walter Lippman of Venezuela Today and Hands Off Venezuela sent this out today, just as a reminder. Wisdom!

Money makes the world go round
The world go round, the world go round
Money makes the world go round
It makes the world go round

A mark, a yen, a buck or a pound
A buck or a pound, a buck or a pound
Is all that makes the world go round
That clinking, clanking sound
Can make the world go round

Money, money, money, money
Money, money, money, money
Money, money, money, money

And finally, this from Judith Pasternak and the War Resisters League. Four conscientious objectors, Diedra Cobb, Anita Cole, Kelly Dougherty, and Katherine Jashinski, will be honored at the War Resisters League Annual Dinner tonight in New York City. Each of these women refused to serve in Iraq, which naturally got them into trouble given that they are officers. Katherine Jashinski is currently serving a three month sentence for "refusal to obey a legal order."

I do so admire these women, and will never forget what they have done to further the cause of peace. Usually, I spend all my time on this 'blog whining about my problems or embracing irony and absurdity in a desperate plea for laughter. Either that, or I'm trying to make some sort of statement. But no joke here. There is no greater cause on earth than the one taken up by the War Resisters League.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Irritable Bowel or Cartagena Kid?



Women of the world, don't take advice from Cosmopolitan. It should be called, Provincial. The less education and experience a woman has in life, the more likely a magazine like Cosmopolitan will have currency. And to all the men of the world, don't take any advice from Maxim. This is a magazine that has a demographic made up primarily of 10-40 year old men who share a dream: To find a woman who likes anal sex, the taste of semen, football, posing in lingerie, and if she is mildly retarded, all the better.

Both magazines are interesting only if you're horny, or want to be horny. But you can prod your libido without losing your self-respect. Maxim and Cosmo are to sex what farts are to humor. Check out my link to Facettes de la Petite Mort for something really erotic, but I'm getting off subject.

I scanned the image above from an advice column that I tore out of a Cosmopolitan which I found in a Lahey Clinic doctor's office waiting room. It's meant to help women deconstruct the behavior of their asshole boyfriends. Naturally, it gives specious advice that will cause untold misery in countless American relationships. The receptionist saw me laughing, then saw what I was reading. We get along really well, as I'm at my doctor's office frequently for blood tests and whatnot. But she looked at me like I reading Hustler or National Review. I didn't bring it in! There were two choices on the table, Golf Digest and Cosmopolitan. Which would you choose?

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to use the loo again. Again! I'm going for the record!

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Please Talk About Something Remotely Life-Affirming...like Ziggy

I'm a big, fat cry baby ensconced in existential angst. For that reason, and since I have an actual diagnosis from a real doctor who says I'm bat-shit, I joined an online support group for equally disfunctional people. The group focuses on depression, which is by far the least interesting mental illness from which one can suffer. Schizophrenia and personality disorders are at least entertaining, and oddly compelling. When someone claims that the refrigerator is being used by the Department of Commerce to spy on the goings-on in their kitchen, you know you have the beginning of a story that is likely to heat up. Why is the DoC spying? Why the refridgerator? Is anyone in danger? Are any other appliances listening or giving orders?

The best part about being around a crazy son of a bitch is that the future is unpredictable. You may hear something insane, or you may get your nose bitten off like that guy in "Silence of the Lambs." Either way, your mind isn't likely to wander. It is the one virtue of madness.

Depression certainly qualifies as crazy. But the depressed person is very predictable, and has nothing of interest to relate. I say this as a bipolar fuck who knows depression, and has a personality disorder or two (or four). I'm not ranking on anyone here. Actually, that's one of the curses of depression. Your friends and family will run for the hills every time you emerge, disheveled and unshaven, from your flat. You radiate ennui and hopelessness and it's clear to everyone that you are a sad-sack who will:

1. Be unable to see the good in anything.
2. Think every negative thought, comment, and image is aimed at you.
3. Not stop talking about yourself and how much you suck.
4. Bore the life out of people, plants and animals.

Naturally, people will flee. And rightly so. Even when in a good mood, your average human (if he or she has any scruples) will have to suppress the urge to stick their face in the fan. A black-hole of a depressed fuck can only attract other people who are also walking insults to the gift of life. Therefore, a support group for depressed people is a place where unbearable people can join together and talk about what a suck-fest is life. Strangely, knowing that other people are going through this is actually a comfort. It really is. Conversations in groups like this, both on the Interent and off, go something like this:

Darren (that's me): I haven't slept for three days, and I can't stop thinking about trying to kill myself. I don't want to die, really, I just want to disappear.
Zeke: Oh, I totally know that feeling. I just want to disappear, too.
Barbara: Me, too. When I look my husband, I just want it all to end. All of it.
Darren: I'm such a loser.
Zeke: Me, too.
Barbara: Yeah.

That's how it goes for however long people can stand it. Group therapy in real-life is worse, of course, because you're sitting in a circle and staring at each other. The Interent takes the misery up a notch in a different way, because people are encouraged to explain their plight in fantastic detail. They can sit in front of their computers and stab out a litany of banal observations and mental health diagnoses. Every once in a while, someone throws something into the mix that is terrifying and/or strange, just to see if you're paying attention (it seems like). For example:

Jeff and I went to the Waffle-Hut on 5th and Amsterdam yesterday. I wasn't hungry, but I had some pancakes. Jeff didn't say much, but he seems to want to say something to me. I, too, want to communicate my pain and share it, but I can't. I just want to die. When we got home, he sat and watched football while I played, "Slingo" on the computer.

This could go on like this for pages, then suddenly:

After tea, I went into the bathroom and cut, "DIE CUNT DIE" into my right thigh.

What the fuck?! You see, depression rarely travels alone. Frequently, something else is in there. But even if that's interesting, it's not in a good way. It unbearably sad, and really awful, but what can be done? I'm searching, myself.

Every once in a while, the fog lifts and depression wanes. Life (cruelly) seems doable again. The very first thing a depressed person does when they have a reprieve from depression is to GET AWAY FROM DEPRESSED PEOPLE IN GROUP. Seeing other people like that is bound to get you down again. So the group is always cycling people in who are in the worst frame of mind. Online groups frequently get posts from people who are at rock bottom. They go on a tirade against themselves, and it's all death and emptiness and sadness. Then you don't hear from them again for 2 months.

I try to stick around my group when I'm doing well. Although this is sure to annoy some people. My advice is basically, "Don't kill yourself, take your pills, go to therapy, and wait around for it to get better." That plan usually works. If it doesn't, if you wait around long enough, you'll die anyway.

New and Exciting Colors and Shapes


This is how my 'blog will look from now on, until I decide to change it again. Isn't that just the balls? The balls! While I adding images and posting this and that, I might as well share this image. It's a "presidential knife" with Clinton's name and face on it. It's part of a complete set of knives, each with a different president on it.

I could make some deadpan comment about how bizarre this is, but instead I ask that you just take a moment to enjoy this picture. What they call on "The Daily Show" a "moment of zen." Enjoy!

Great Quote: "If you sense wacky happenings or kooky goings-on in your immediate vicinity that's a good sign that an orangutan attack is already underway."