I'm Not As Small As I Look

The universe is full of irony and many monstrous pranks. Several years ago, the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton University reported that stars, planets and gases make up a mere 5% of the universe. They say that the rest is "dark matter" and some as yet unknown substance. How much space is taken up by sad, lonely, heartbroken human beings who have only a few years to master this wretched little game before it's time to return to the void? I'm sure that it's a very small amount; infinitesimal and of no consequence. Especially when compared to the amount of noble gases and matter out there.

But I feel bigger than that, much bigger. When I'm in pain, the universe is but a pea, or a puny nut, or perhaps a drop of rain. A contrary appearance is an illusion. Have you ever noticed how love punishes you for simply doing what it insists you do? You want to tell your lover how you feel, but doing that may make you seem needy. Instead, you want to be aloof and casual. That makes you more attractive. People don't really want to be with someone who really needs anyone. That alone is twisted, but it's only the beginning.

Before even leaving high school, you had better have learned that appearance and money mean everything, despite the heartfelt conviction of many that attraction is about, "Who you are on the inside." It's not. Prepare to be judged for your wallet, and/or your weight and looks. That's the way it is, and it matters not how much you like it or don't.

When you fall in love with someone, don't tell them. If you do, repeat it rarely (unless you're married) and, again, act like you don't need anyone. Is it a myth that some women like assholes more than nice guys? I'm sorry to say it, but no, it's not. Some women will enjoy the company of men who steal from then, insult them, and mock them. Kind men who empower and treat with respect may do well to get to know their hand.

I really hate generalizations, and none of this is true of all men or all women. As an romantic, what has me so disgusted is that some of these generalizations are true. These days I find myself alone, and I've made my peace with that, especially since I'm partly to blame. I have a tendency to try and talk girlfriends out of being with me, insisting that they can do better. After all, I have no money and I'm deformed. I have to accept that I have nothing to offer another human being. And that hurts, dear reader. Right now, I may as well be the universe, not simply a part of it. I ache at my memories of those I've loved.

But in my solitude I will not become bitter. I've tasted love, and the flavor of honey will stay on my tongue forever. Perhaps for an idealist, romantic love is best experienced in the mind, and that's where it should stay. For someone like me, with so little to offer, it is only in the realm of the mind that heartache and crass judgement can be avoided. I prefer not to be soured on something that has tested me severely, nearly driven me mad, but also filled me full of joy and companionship. Every time I fall in love I risk losing my affection for it. Recently, I fell in love with a girl named, "Amanda." Who knows.

Of Mitochondria, Dreams, Humiliation and Al Jolson

Generally speaking, I don't enjoy relating my dreams to other people. By "dreams" I mean the nightly cavalcade of bizarre, sometimes grotesque, images and feelings we fall victim to in our sleep. But last night I had a dream that was a fairly accurate depiction of something that happened to me while attending university. First, a little background on my dreams.

When I retire for the evening, I take my clothes off and put on a nightshirt. I'm not sure why, but I love this thing. After that I answer some emails, read, watch television and have a late night phone conversation with my love. With the exception of the phone conversation, this has been a regular routine for years. Habit helps to take ones' mind off of the ensanguined, wretched pageant called, "life." A therapist once said to me, "Habit is a gift from Heaven." I told him that I thought it was a pretty shitty gift, and that the saying is, "a banal platitude." In retrospect, I feel like a jerk for that, but I'm also partly proud. Aren't I complex?

Once I'm in bed and of a mind to finally get some sleep, I pat Toulouse (my familiar) and close my eyes. Even with as many as 2-5 lorazepam in me, sleep often evades me. And that is very bad for someone like me. I suppose it's bad for everyone. But my mind races and I think about one shameful memory after another. Every woman I've ever slept with is lined up, and they all get a chance to rank on me. They say terrible things about my body, mock me for coming too quickly, and make fun of my expression when I climax. In reality, I've never met a woman who would be such a jerk; I have high standards. But in my mind, anything goes. Although I did have a girlfriend who said that I scrunched-up my face and looked like I was about to sneeze when I climaxed. If memory serves, we both thought that was funny as hell. My brain is merciless.

I'm not going to list every humiliating and/or sketchy thing I've ever done. But my gray matter is happy to run down that list every fucking night. And it's bad. Sometimes I say out loud, "Oh, please, no more!" Some of the memories are funny. Like the time I went back to a woman's apartment down in Brockton to spend the night. We were kissing, and it was very passionate and exciting. We had most of our clothes off, and we were both certainly ready, but at that moment I had to go to the bathroom really bad. It was no big deal, she just pointed me to the toilet across the hall. What proceeded was most-definitely a big deal. We went to Grimsby's in Harvard Square, Cambridge that night, and I had the black bean tostada, or something with a lot of black beans. Naturally, on my first date with a woman who was crazy about me I had a case of savage diarrhea. Details will be spared, but I produced a cacophony of farts, some extremely loud. The din also included the occasional splash in the toilet water, along with a grunt or two from me. I was talking to myself, as well. "Only you would get the trots like this when there is a beautiful woman practically throwing herself at you." And I shook my head in disgrace.

When I emerged from the bathroom, she was smoking one of her unfiltered Camel cigarettes. She didn't look me in the face, perhaps out of embarrasment for me. But 5 seconds later we were making love like crazed weasels. So it didn't matter. For some reason, however, the daft goblins in my head love to playback that night. Not the sex part, just the inability to stop shitting part. I think most of us have these strange PowerPoint presentations every night before we drift off. But I know it's worse for me. What with the other problems I have and all. But anyway, that leads me to the university story.

Back when I worked full-time nights (11pm - 7am) and went to UMass Boston full-time, I rarely got any sleep. I missed an exam on cell biology, so I rescheduled to take it in his office. All was going well as I took the test; I'm good at Punnett's Squares, surface area to body mass ratio, mitochondria, and all that stuff. It's a shame I amounted to nothing...back then I was working so hard to be something. Can anyone spare a violin? No? That's fine. Anyway, I finished the exam and found him in the next room. We spoke for about 10 minutes, about biology and gossip, and I felt compelled to ask him something about sleep. Since I had just gotten off from work, and was really feeling it (I hadn't slept in three days), I hazily asked the professor, "What exactly is sleep for, anyway? Why do we need it, and how does a lack of sleep damage cells?" He gave me a funny look, but I explained my interest. He decided to lend me a book from his collection in his office. He pointed to it and said something like, "That book there covers your question." But then, all hell broke loose.

I couldn't reach the book, and neither could he; he was even disinclined to stand up from behind his desk. So I grabbed a chair, stood on it (he let loose a barrage of "be careful" advice), and reached up to the book. It was tightly wedged between two other books. I pulled on it, and it started to move toward me. But the shelf, which had to have 100 books on it as it extended across the wall of his office, buckled and made a, "poink!" sound as it said goodbye to its attachment to the wall. Books went flying everywhere and I jumped off the chair and ran out of the way, a mere 10 feet or so. The prof never took his eyes off me, and I could see that out of the corner of my eye. Finally, I looked at him, but I wish I hadn't. His expression is burned into my memory. He looked like James Cann ("Sonny") in The Godfather. Specifically, the part where he finds out that his brother-in-law is beating his sister. It's the, "I'm going to kill the fucking bastard!" look. I tried to put the books back, but the shelf had ripped the anchor out of the wall. So I stacked his books and papers for him and then beat a hasty retreat.

My dream the other night was a replay of that event. And it was a real dream, not a slideshow before the dream. Cripes, at least in the retelling some of the details could have been changed! Like the part where I trashed the professor's office...could have done without that. I could have done without a retelling at all. How about a dream where I'm Sophia Loren's gynecologist? Or an alternate reality where Gore's victory in 2000 is recognized. I had a dream about Anne Coulter, but it just upset me. What I really want is a plane to fly into Congress while Bush is giving his State of the Union address. Is that sort of dream so hard to muster?

It says in the fucking Talmud, "A dream which is not interpreted is like a letter which is not read." I hope with ever part of me that that isn't true. Otherwise, I'll have to try and figure out why Al Jolson was giving Marcel Duchamp a piggy back ride through The Garment District. And hell knows the significance of the sloth eating the bean dip. I'm not deconstructing that, man.

Thank goodness for lorazepam.

A Novel Idea or Two

Yes, Anne, I do write other things besides this blog. I'm no one-trick pony. I'm more of a two-trick ferret. I find it difficult, however, to add to my novel, which I've been working on since 1997. It's science fiction and called, The Last American on Earth. If I get some balls surgically implanted, I may be able to screw up the courage to post a portion of it on here. I've written about 200 pages of scenes, but I have trouble bringing it all together. And it's heavy on the science, so I have done a lot of research on faster-than-light space travel, relativity, particle resistance and some other interesting things. Naturally, it's a tragedy, heavy on the dialogue and packed lovingly with irony.

Also, I'm working on a short story entitled, simply enough, Two Hills. Unlike Last American on Earth, I've kept the story simple. It's about a young gay man who seeks revenge on the person responsible for the death of his secret lover. The victim's father forgives the man who accidentally killed his son. But our protagonist simply cannot forgive, so he turns to the supernatural for help. When I'm in the right mood, I greatly enjoy writing this story. But it may never see the light of day. I respect my friends too much to ask them to read something that even I don't like.

My father wants me to write the screenplay for Patrick Suskind's amazing novel, Perfume. He gave me the book to read a while ago, and I put it away without reading it. I just recently re-discovered it and I'm sure glad I did. A wild, funky adventure. And it would make an outstanding movie, in the right hands. I may do that yet, write the screenplay, that is.

In addition to poetry, that's all I'm writing write now. Some of my emails are pages long, but that doesn't count. I have a little notebook of ideas, but most of them suck. For example, I wanted to write a musical about the Iran/Contra Hearings back in the mid-1980's. Perhaps an operetta! I imagine a comedy with a partially unsung libretto. At one point, there would be a magnificent show-stopper with Barbara Honegger, Oliver North, and Ronald Reagan himself. It would be great if I could squeeze in a young George Bush, as the son of Reagan's vice-president. I see him wistfully imagining what his presidency will be like; "I'll be king of the world some day, some day, I'll be king of the world SOOOMMMEEDDDAAAYYY!" Actually, something like that could write itself. Perhaps I could get Adam to write the music.

Pale Little Blog in a Sun-Drenched World

I just spent twenty minutes trying to sign into this website and access my blog. The password slipped my mind, and my computer crashed when I tried to set another one. Isn't that riveting! So now I'm on here and I've completely forgotten what I set out to post on here a half hour ago. I'm sure that it was in line with the every other jejune, insipid trifle on here.

Regarding this blog, I have a bit of a conundrum. Actually, the problem is with me, but it is evident on Zeitgeist Expatriate. I'm not right in the head, which is rarely a problem when it comes to writing; certainly not for a feeble scribbler like me. What concerns me is that I bounce between two mindsets, and they are not complimentary. Depression robs me of the ability to take an interest in anything. And my specific pathology in this area includes a strong desire to fling myself in front of a bus. I don't because I also find no activity worth doing. And nothing is funny, interesting or compelling in any way. And the anxiety is merciless. My muscles are sore from tensing myself up. Naturally, I almost never post anything when I'm in detached state, although it does inform my general attitude.

So on one side is all this depression, ennui, self-loathing and all that shit. On the other side (or at the other pole, as the case may be), I find that I read everything I can get my fat little hands on and write emails, posts, letters and even short fiction. So many things are funny and moving and interesting. I look forward to calling a friend just to talk about anything, and I have no problem telling them how much they mean to me. Most importantly, I'm not anxious or so ensconced in self-hatred that I want to eradicate my existence to avoid the pity and disgust of those I care about. Instead, I almost feel normal. Like a failure, perhaps, but a commonplace one.

Obviously, I'm describing bipolar disorder, something I'm diagnosed with along with borderline personality and post-traumatic stress disorders. So when it comes to this blog, I'm worried that my entries are of interest only to me. My logic is that hypomania lowers my standards for what is funny or interesting...or simply worth posting. That I have a strange sense of humor doesn't help matters.

What keeps me going is the knowledge that this is just a blog. If someone were paying me to write, the guilt and self-doubt would be insurmountable. I hope this makes sense, because if it does, it fairly-well illustrates my affliction. Not that you should care, but just in case you do. Every one of my friends has told me that they enjoy this blog. Usually they compliment my intelligence. It makes me feel good, but I know that it isn't true. That they are saying those things because they are my friends. It's appreciated, though. And the blog is fun to write.

Incidentally, I'm not really manic or depressed right now. I'm sort of in the middle. As I sit here grinding my teeth and anxious as hell, I wonder if I'll ever be better. There was a time when I could say, "hello" to a neighbor without my heart racing. A time when mental illness didn't have me avoiding contact with people out of fear. And fear of what? Sometimes I feel like a vampire in a place where the sun never sets. Existing primarily in the shadows and unseen.

A fat little vampire wearing glasses.

God Brings Out The Worst In Us: Let's Fire His Ass

There aren't many things of which I'm certain, but I happen to know that there isn't a god, or gods. And there is no hell, heaven, paradise, Hades, Elysium, purgatory, or any of that bullshit. People believe in this sort of thing for many reasons, but the absurd appeal boils down to just three things; a desire to explain the unknown, a thirst for justice, and a fear of death.

There are many things about the universe, the planet, your body, and even your girlfriend that are a complete mystery. Religion puts a face on the unknown, and a robe, and sometimes a beard. There was a time when people thought germs simply spontaneously generated, no questions asked. God decided where and when to place disease and infection. We stood helplessly by and had to accept it. A French fellow named Louis Pasteur put that theory to rest. God no longer resides under a microscope. But people are determined to find him or her (or them) in every sooty nook and cranny.

Science replaces "common sense" and superstition every day. And those in search of a laugh sardonically question religious mythology with a scientific mind. A paper written by a thermodynamics professor entitled, "How Hot is Hell?" falls into that category. I suppose this sort of thing might offend those of a religious disposition. I've gotten to the point, however, where I don't care. The religious fanatics who run the world, from the Evangelical Christians to the Muslim "Islamofascists," have made it clear that they don't respect my lack of belief in god. In fact, both groups are aggressively attempting to hijack control of every government and institution on Earth. If you think I'm being paranoid, you're not paying attention.

Clearly, I'm indicting a whole batch of people based on the internecine predilections of a fanatical few. But how "few" are these fanatics? They seem to enjoy greater numbers now than ever before. Here in the United States, the "Radical Right" made up of Evangelicals and groups like, "Moral Majority" hold fantastic sway over our humble little republic. That's why we're grappling with evolution and sex education in our public schools, two things that any reasonable person would insist be taught. And how could any logical person insist on placing the Ten Commandments in front of our nation's courthouses? Besides being a violation of the separation of church and state, any thinking person should have some issues with this thing. I won't pick it apart here, that's been done on the Internet 1,000 times over. But I feel compelled to mention the Second Commandment, which states, "Do not fashion idols or any likeness of what is in the heavens above." Given that a statue of the Ten Commandments is an idol, it's ironic that we wish to break the Second Commandment by putting up monuments to the Ten Commandments all over the place! Organized religion is always lampooning itself like that. This celebration of the absurd goes on in all religions. Promising a reward of 70 virgins in paradise to a Muslim suicide bomber? Wow. I have to hand it to them, though, they really know their audience; teenaged males.

There are plenty of good god people out there. They are reasonable, compassionate, reliable and disinclined to hurt me for not believing in their god. Honestly, though, I've come to the conclusion after 30 something years that religion is essentially a confidence scam. An institutional hoodwink that has been around so long that people mistakenly assume that it must be worth keeping around. Aside from food pantries and a few homeless shelters, it's not. The government can easily do what the churches do. After that, revoke the tax exempt status that these bamboozlers enjoy and let them sell their product like every other drug-dealer. They are simply too dangerous to enjoy this favored-dealer status. The product they sell robs people of their ability to reason, to the point where they believe the Earth is 6,000 years old and that pre-marital sex will result in your torture for all eternity. And compassion goes out the door for the victims of this scam, as well. Imagine picketing the funeral of a murder victim, like Matthew Shephard, with signs that read, "FAGS BURN IN HELL, MATT BURNS IN HELL." Or how about speaking as a fetus to a woman going into an abortion clinic, "Don't muder me mommy!" People are normally compassionate and thoughtful. Religion has the power to rob people of it.

Just say, "No!" to the sky-king advocates and con-artists. Tell them you see enough of god's work on CNN's coverage of the middle east.

Nipples On The Pacha London Dance Floor

I'm enjoying a lovely night, eagerly anticipating a thunderstorm whilst watching Angelina Jolie kill people in the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith. She is a fine looking human specimen. Earlier today I spoke with Anne Markova and she asked me what women and/or men I find attractive. I could choose from any time in history. Four people came to mind; Edith Piaf, Ingrid Bergman, Jenna Fischer and Audrey Tautou. Jenna Fischer is the receptionist from the show, The Office. She's cute, and a down to Earth animal lover. Audrey Tautou is the French actress from Amelie.

Now that I've had some time to think about it, I'll add Greta Garbo, Natalie Portman, Montgomery Clift, Burt Lancaster, Katherine Hepburn and Mercedes McCambridge. It's a tough list to make, and sort of obnoxious, anyway. James Dean is a beautiful specimen, and I'm fond of Queen Latifah and Jodie Foster. Lauren Bacall is outstanding, as is Ella Fitzgerald. Attraction is significantly a matter of personality and intellect. I'm not just saying that to avoid being labeled as "shallow." It's true. Stupidity is a real turn-off...just look at Anne Coulter. Yeesh. I can proudly say that every woman I've ever dated (save one) is smarter than I.

Anne revealed a weakness for George Clooney. Fair enough. I feel compelled to relate a story about Anne, something she just told me today. It was much better hearing the story over the phone, as Anne has an exotic, difficult to define accent (she grew up in Russia). She was dancing at a club in London, a place called, Pacha if I heard correctly. Some "ghastly prick" reached around her back and grabbed her breasts. Stunned, she turned around to find the fellow laughing, and as she tells it he just stood there as if that were an ice-breaker. In response, she grabbed both of his nipples through a thin, silk shirt and gave him a "nurple" that was so painful that he fell to his knees and fell backward, "trying to get away from my judgement." J'accuse! What makes this story even better is that Anne is just a bit above five feet tall. I so wish I could have seen this happen. The music pounding, people dancing like idiots, and a tiny woman ripping a man's nipples off. Now that's beautiful.

Not much else to report. I spent most of the day in bed or, when possible, at my computer where I waited patiently for some strange illness to pass. Possibly a seizure of some kind. Sweaty, cold, dizzy, nauseated and shaking like...something that shakes a lot. I also regret my last post, the one about being in love. I'm not going to take it down, but I'm afraid that I revealed too much. That led to a series of anxiety attacks. Wheeeee!

One last thing. I'm listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing the Rodgers & Hart standard, My Funny Valentine. I never noticed it before, but that song is anything but schmaltzy. I love it. It sort of reminds me of the way the Peanuts' mercilessly needled poor Charlie Brown. Of course there was no love there, only the cruel, cutting commentary from that bitch Lucy. The lyrics go like this:

My funny valentine
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart
Your looks are laughable
Unphotographable
Yet you're my favorite work of art

Is your figure less than greek
Is your mouth a little weak
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?

But dont change a hair for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little valentine stay

The Neurotic Taunts The Gorilla

Against my better judgement I've fallen in love, with a woman named, "Amanda." I can't remember the exact moment when it happened. As we all know, falling in love is a stupid and ridiculous thing to do, not to mention hazardous to your health. It's analagous to swatting a mountain gorilla with a rolled-up newspaper. Imagine getting your arms and legs ripped off as a result, and ape feces crammed down your throat for good measure. Somehow, though, you survive. Cutting edge surgical techniques enable the best surgeons in the world to put your arms and legs back where they belong...on your body. This painful surgery is followed by several years of agonizing physical therapy. Eventually, you get your life back together and are able to move on. But for reasons that are unclear to everyone, a couple of weeks later you roll up a newspaper and smack another gorilla in the head, with predictable results.

That's love. There is no pain like a broken heart (although a toothache is no picnic, either). But we want to love and be loved so badly that we're willing to taunt the gorilla and risk a savage beating. You can't do anything with a broken heart, except annoy your friends and family with your melodramatic declarations. You turn into an emotionally brittle sad sack. People close to you will find themselves wishing that you would just die and get it over with. It's a pathetic state of affairs.

Despite having been beaten by the love gorilla, I couldn't help but fall in love with my darling Amanda. She's a wonder to me. And my experience in these matters have served me well. The love gorilla does teach you things while beating you senseless. For example, I know to steer away from being possessive. That way lies disaster. Some people never learn that lesson, so I'm doing well. I also learned that from Buddhism and the Star Wars movies, so it must be true.

It's surprising to me that this happened given the anti-social attitude that I've been enjoying of late. The political realities of our times have compelled me to burrow into the bark of a nearby tree and enter into a state of hibernation. It is in this fashion that I will survive the last two years of the Bush administration. And in this comatose state I am safe from at least the worst cruciations of social anxiety disorder. Generally speaking, people make me want to flee in the opposite direction. As much as I enjoy the company of women, this is true of them, as well. But I immediately felt comfortable with Amanda. After I got to know her, admiration and friendship followed. And after that I rolled up the newspaper and went to the zoo, as it were.

I've tried retracing my steps, and I can't reckon when it happened. I didn't want it to happen, that much I know. Anxiety, and a disposition of detached insouciance, have caused me to isolate myself in this little flat. The lack of social interaction of any consequence made me lonely, perhaps, but also comfortable. My cocoon made it impossible for me to do something that I would later regret. For things that people are always doing in the course of any day, but to me are tremendous sources of unease. That is the nature of my anxiety, depression and self-loathing.

It's fashionable these days to mock neurotic people like myself. I could be called a "whiner" or a "drama queen." This offends me greatly because so many people engage in thoughtless, cruel and stupid behaviour which, for reasons that are unclear to me, seems to offend less than my over-wrought self-analysis. And I'm not complaining about anything, I'm just reporting my emotional state of mind. All of my problems originate with my mental illness. I feel that the world has treated me well, you fuckers! But I'm not happy about the soul-crushing depression and anxiety. Should I be? Eh, Nietzche? I enjoy analysis and empathy, even if it labels me a,"pussy." We live in a time and place that favors simple-minded anger and judgement. Those are the trendy emotions. Just listen to our fucknut president and you'll know of what I speak. There is no room in his lexicon for words like, "thoughtful" and "compassion."

Everyone's a fucking superman. Considerate reflection is seen as a sign of weakness. People like myself who have scruples are kept up at night because of what we're doing in Iraq. We can't stop wondering what the troops and Iraqi people are going through. The horror is impossible to fathom. But that approach is so old hat. You're supposed to cultivate an irony-free consciousness. Leave compassion and empathy and logic at the door. Walk into a room and declare that the US shouldn't, "cut and run," and say things like, "bring 'em on!" Whatever you do, don't get caught in a moment of reflection. That's for pussies.

So I'm not whining, I'm reporting about how I see the world, filtered through my diseased, mottled brain. I have a place to live, health care, food, music, and all the books I can read. Despite that, my brain is going to whisper sour nothings in my ear that will lead me to a ha' penny place, mentally. That is the nature of my struggle. We all have something. Some people like to go to rodeos and tractor pulls. There is always somebody worse off than you.

I've been hibernating and accessible only to my family and a small circle of friends. But I've found a new love. We read Dostoevsky together, the language turns romantic (but not maudlin), and we both decide to celebrate this occurence that is both phenomenal and common. It's so difficult for me to relate what it has meant for me. It feels like a gift that I don't deserve. But one that I'll happily accept. Amanda, I do so love you. We must gently cultivate it. Savor it. Celebrate it. Enjoy how it is a disaster for wretched cynicism.

Love can be a merciless prick. A foul cunt that feasts on our hearts if we're not careful. We must go into love knowing that we are flawed human beings. Romance is a wondrous aspect of love, but let not it distract from our friendship. If love was not meant to be, I'll dance with the gorilla again. I can take it. So long as I may call you my friend until my days are done.

Let us enjoy each other!

Under the Harvest Moon
by Carl Sandburg

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

Stuck in the Nuthouse with You

In an attempt to better my dating odds, I joined an online dating service that caters to those of us who suffer from a mental illness. It's a gathering point for erring encephelons. Truly a moment to truth in advertising. A profile may contain information about favorite music, types of food, height and weight, a photo, and a list of that persons mental disorders. One can even do a member search based on what mental illness you want, or are trying to avoid. The last profile I read said, "I suffer from a serious anxiety disorder, and would like to meet someone who knows what that is like. Please, though, no personality disorders." I hope a compulsive liar contacts her and lies about having anxiety when he really is, well, a compulsive liar. Or a psychopath.

My profile honestly tells my tale of woe. I checked off borderline personality disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, severe depression, bipolar disorder and social anxiety disorder. Why hold back? Some of the people who contact me clearly need to up the dosage. One woman wrote to me, "I get really mean when I'm manic." Excellent! Not just mean, really mean. That means she alternates between really mean and severely depressed. When she's not trying to kill herself, she wants to kill you. And the pictures that sometimes go with the profiles are priceless. A dissheveled person is seen looking angrily back at his or her friend who apparently insists on taking a picture. In some pictures there is a wan smile. The implied tag line on all these photographs is, "Look how normal I am!"

Without a doubt, my favorite part of this website is the mailbox. Once you sign in, it will tell you how many people are interested in you. If two people find you acceptable, it says, "You have 2 people interested in you." But if nobody writes you or expresses interest in any way, the site informs you that, "Nobody is interested in you." Damn! I don't need a computer to tell me that nobody is interested in me. Prick.

I'm not ranking on anyone here. It's a good site for people who have a mental disability. Otherwise, you'd have to explain to your Match.com date that you think god is talking to you through your nose hair trimmer. Or that you can only bring yourself to leave the house after after a shitload of benzodiazepines due to, "crippling paranoid anxiety." At least with the crazy person dating website you're bound to meet someone interesting. Have you seen the commercials for Match.com? Middle-aged people dancing around like teenagers and claiming that they have found "true love" with their "soul-mate." Those people make me nervous. If the relationship doesn't work, they'll be on the crazy person's dating site after a few weeks in a psychiatric ward.

They even have a dating site for Democrats, which I totally understand. What could be more awful than falling in love with a beautiful woman who turns out to be adamantly pro-Bush. It would be like the Crying Game. I'd much rather discover a dick between my partner's legs than a copy of The National Review. Compared to thinking the war in Iraq was a good idea, a dick is nothing. I don't know how James Carville does it.

Of the White Owl, Chimps and Nightly Anxiety Attacks

Twisting and turning in bed at night, my mind races and my thoughts turn random images, thoughts and memories. Usually they blend together as the clock ticks into the wee hours of the morning. Without fail, these innocent flailings of an unquiet mind turn into feelings of regret and humiliation. I never conjure up recollections that boost my ego and allow me to drift off to sleep with a positive self-image. If I work at it, I can think of things of which I'm proud. Whilst cleaning out some boxes the other day, I discovered a paper I wrote at UMass Boston about chimpanzee behaviour. It really kicked ass. And I'm also happy with myself for digging Impy and Fluffy and two other kittens out from under my neighbor's back stoop. There may even be a couple of other things. Over 34 years, you're bound to do something right on occassion...even by accident.

But every night, after my late night phone call, some reading, and perhaps a little World of Warcraft, the curtain goes up on a stage production that has been around longer than, "Cats." It's basically a series of seemingly disconnected vignettes. But there is a coherent theme that runs through the whole show. Every stupid, mean, embarrassing and/or bizarre thing I've ever done is tossed up for my extended, heartfelt consideration. And you never know what exactly is up next, you just know that it will be bad. There will be knots in the stomach, light-headedness, chest tightness and shallow breathing; a nice anxiety attack.

Back in the late '70's, my family would vacation at a place called, "The White Owl" in New Hampshire. I have many fond memories of spending some summer nights in a cabin with my brother, mother, father, and sister. But instead of focusing on that, I replay the time that I shit in the White Owl swimming pool. Granted, I was five, but the guilt and humiliation is still there. Some old woman pointed her boney, white finger at me and yelled, "He just did it, he crapped in the pool!" I got out and ran my fat little ass off, my sister was running behind, trying to catch up. But I was five years old! Granted, if I shit in a swimming pool when I was 30, that would be something to feel guilty about.

Then there was the time I was speaking at the Hotel Wisconsin in Milwaukee. Back in 1992, I was the Chair of the Socialist Party's Health Care Commission. I got pegged the night before the convention to speak about health care issues. "Great," I thought, "I know this stuff every which way." Without hesitation, strangely enough, I agreed. The next day, whilst I was speaking, someone took issue with one of my facts. Instead of letting it go, I argued with him. You don't do that, man!

And so many other things, many of which are too dark and personal to write on the enormous bathroom wall that is the Internet. Two suicide attempts, for example, caused terrific pain for those who made the mistake of loving and caring about me. I don't mean to whine. I'm accutely aware of how lucky I am. Most of my problems, if not all of them, are of my own creation. The source being my mephitic mind. Are you able to regulate the self-loathing ideation that seems designed to keep one in a state of anxious social catatonia? To a slight degree, I can redirect my brainwaves to a place where I can turn my angst into anger. If I start thinking about politics and capitalism, my acrimony refocuses outward. The other night, I had a dream about Anne Coulter. I was yelling at her, and she was making an ass out of herself by simply relating her opinions. It was a nice break from the kind of nightmare where I wake up and feel awful about myself. And when I'm not dreaming, I'm in a state of almost constant consternation and vexation at what the United States is doing in the world and at home. The only person I hate more than myself is that douchebag, motherfucking cunt George Bush (and friends).

So on that level, I can take my mind's eye off of myself and have it gaze at other outrageous nonsense that inspires righteous anger instead of mewling snivels. After all, invading a country for no reason is far worse than shitting in a pool, at any age.

Historic Plant Event!

I got the following email from the Brooklyn Botanical Garden:

Dear Mr. Lyle,
Amorphophallus Titanium at
Brooklyn Botanic Garden
1000 Washington Avenue
Brooklyn, NY

Historic Plant Event
Come Visit!

This plant has only bloomed eight times in the USA. The only other time in NYC was around 1936. It's due to bloom at Brooklyn Botanic Garden (in the conservatory) sometime in next ten days (August 7-14 but not known exactly when).

Check out our home page for details, hours to visit, bloom status, photos, etc.

Brooklyn GreenBridge
Brooklyn Botanic Garden

I've never heard of an, "historic plant event" and I was excited to learn that there is such a thing. Images of late 19th Century gentleman-scientists of a "Jules Verne" sort spring to mind. Those Victorian era empiricists that went out into the natural world to bravely catalogue and record every creeping, crawling, fucking thing out there. These were the sort of people who could shoe a horse, built a boat, create a vaccine, design a rocket, speak Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and swim the English Channel. And that was on a bad day. They called these fellows, "Renaissance men." Think Indiana Jones with a smoking jacket and a parlour.

For some strange reason, that's what I thought of when I read about Amorphophallus Titanium. Botanical gardens and conservatories make me want to be the kind of person who, in a very civilized way, cultivates fungi and orchids in his spare time. Instead, I'm busy looking at Internet shennanigans or watching, "Key Largo" for the 20th time on TCM.

Naturally, I went to the web site for the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. I like plants. And is there anything more interesting than watching a plant via a webcam? They argue that it's better than actually being there, because this thing fills the air with the smell of shit and rotten meat when it blooms. But that makes me really want to be there. A room full of people watching a plant fart. Not to be sarcastic, I'm into seeing this thing open up. Maybe it needs to feed every ninth time it blooms. People may think that they've seen it all these days, but there hasn't been a man-eating plant around since...well, it's been awhile. Roger Corman made a movie about the phenomenon years ago. Or maybe it will open and deliver an incredibly eloquent oration about the need to avoid foreign entanglements. Jimmy Hoffa could roll out. I doubt it. Most likely, it will be no more aesthetically appealing than a dandelion. What makes it interesting is that it happens so rarely. Sort of like when I exercise. That's only happened 8 times on American soil, too.

Anyway, I have to go. Someone just sent me a .jpg of a chimp picking his nose. But knowing me, I'll check into the webcam every 20 minutes when I'm on the Internet. You should, too. You don't have anything better to do. This is a farting plant for Christ's sake! If only the Brooklyn Botanic Garden had billed it like that, they would have had a lot more interest. Get that all important 18-35 demographic.

Why Are The Bagels Attacking?

The conflict in the Middle East is profoundly disturbing for those of us who don't enjoy a psychpath's inability to empathize with other living things. Particularly when they're on the business end of devices specifically designed by very capable people to blow other people to smithereens. It's not easy to have a front seat to that via CNN...or Fox. Fox...yeah...funny stuff on there.

Anyway, if you're looking for something that is Jewish and violent, but also FUN, check out this game posted by Hillel at George Mason University. There's no collateral damage here! Except for the lox...oy, the lox!

Just click on "Bagel Invaders," of course.

The Grand Burlesque

At the request of a young lady friend, I went out into the world yesterday and pissed away some money on a webcam for my computer. It's an amazing device, but it wasn't invented for the likes of me. A video camera in an attractive woman's boudoire is a gateway into a realm of secret delights. The inner sanctum. Is there any feeling of sheer joy that can equal the experience of walking into a woman's bedroom for the first time? The sights and smells, and possibly a stuffed animal on the bed from her youth. You're both so aroused that you're practically throbbing. Hell, you feel as if you're floating around the room. Then you make a move and the stuffed animal goes flying.

With the webcam, though, there is only arousal. At the end of the night there is only my hand. The camera loves her body, her smile, her eyes and...everything else. I may be her boyfriend, and invited into her secret garden where she dances and prances in a celebration of erotic delectation, but I sometimes feel like I'm getting away with something sneaky and voyeuristic. Well, if not sneaky I'm definitely a voyeur. No shame in admitting that, not in this age of Internet pornography and "reality" television.

Now that I have a camera, our romantic interludes and happy conversations are no longer visually one-sided. It didn't seem fair, to her or to me, that we couldn't see each other. The only problem is that the camera doesn't love me like it does her. In fact, I think it hates me. It doesn't help that I'm fat and ugly. By setting up a camera on my monitor, I've invited the world into my inner sanctum. And that's a depressing, gloomy little place with a bad painting of a naked woman on the wall. It's very clean, except for a few papers and books spread around. But the presence of a nihilistic, lugubrious fat-fuck (me) floats around in front of the camera like a giant Woody Woodpecker balloon in front of a 5th Avenue window on Thanksgiving Day. You'll have to excuse me, I borrowed that analogy from Finnegan's Wake. Maybe not. I can only hope that my beloved will continue to see my inner beauty even as my outer homely is propped-up nightly in front of that fucking webcam. It's not like she hadn't seen me before, in various settings and such, but too much of my ghastly simulacrum may compell her to send me packing. Oh, well. In the immortal words of that great philospher, Popeye, "I am what I am."

Perhaps she'll find my attempts at titillation to be somehow charming, or even sexy. They are certainly at least amusing. Last night, I tried to get into a provokative pose and I almost broke the chair. I had a hell of a time. Then my nightshirt got snagged on my stereo and I displayed perhaps a bit more than I had intended. After awhile we settled into conversation, and I dropped my guard. I took some of my prescription medications, but to her eyes, it looked like I was shoveling pills in my mouth. I do take a lot of meds, yes. And I need to work on smiling more often...several people have noted that I don't smile.

The camera sits in the "off" position right now, and that's how it will be most of the time. Every so often, however, I'll invite a trusted friend or lover into my bedroom. Those special few will be treated to the grand burlesque.

So Long, Someday Cafe

Some of you are familiar with Someday Cafe in Davis Square, Somerville. For years, it's been a great place to have a cup of coffee with a friend while seated on a comfortable old chair or couch. Nothing spectacular ever happened to me in there. I didn't meet the love of my life or write a prize-winning novel while sipping on their delicious coffee. So it may be hard to understand why I got choked up when I read that Someday Cafe will close on August 12 to make way for a crepe restaurant.

I read the article about the closing like it was an obituary. The place had such character, and it was about a lot more than the old furniture and fantastic coffee, tea and pastries. It attracted people from all walks of life, and represented the diversity of Somerville better than most elected bodies represent their constituencies. There were intellectuals, students, artists, workers, hoi polloi, plebeians and screwballs of every sort. Whenever I was in Davis Square, I would duck into Someday and have coffee just to do some thinking and people-watching. If I ever had a chance at attaining enlightenment via meditation, it would have been in there.

There was a fellow with a white beard who was there quite a bit. He was always working on an elaborate, fantasy-theme drawing. Sometimes I would see a plain but attractive black woman who had mesmerizing eyes. If I didn't think I was such a loser, I would have approached her. And on the weekends, one frequently had to pass through a phalanx of dogs and their owners who were just outside, enjoying their caffeine treat. And there were always interesting conversations that floated through the air like the aroma of the Fair Trade coffee they served. It felt more like you were dropping in on a friend for a cup than going to a cafe.

When Clare and Melanie would come into town, we invariably met there. Sometimes, we couldn't get a seat, which is the only complaint I could have of the place; it was crowded in the evenings. I used to meet Adam there, just to talk. And Mary. And Eve. And Linda. And that's why I got emotional when I read of the imminent close. Every time I went in there, or just walked or drove by, I fondly thought of the past. As one gets older, there are fewer living connections between now and then. It makes me think of a "cairn." In Gaelic, a cairn is a pile of stones or a single large stone that marks a path or sits as a memorial. It would be nice if I could have a cairn or two to mark the places that mean so much to me. To remind me of a time when I would actually leave my flat and meet a young lady for coffee and conversation.

Am I being melodramatic? Perhaps, but as I said, this does bother me more than it should. An effort is being made to relocate Someday Cafe, and I hope that they do. And I'll do my best to remember the little cafe that meant so much to me. However, I know from ECT and psychiatric medication use that my memory is a fragile thing. Maybe that's why I'm so sad about losing the living reminder. Without the cairns to guide me, the world may become less familiar with each passing day.