My exquisite paramour, a delightful and comely young lass of robust character, is suffering from something called, Eustachian Tube Disorder. It's a malady of the inner ear that may require surgery. There is also tinnitus, which is a constant ringing of the ears. Aside from the distress that comes from the fear of going deaf, she is perpetually annoyed by the noise that nobody else can hear. It strikes me as a perfectly awful problem, but she is handling it well. I'd pray for her, but that's just silly. Instead, I'll try to make her laugh.
Halloween is a month away, and it is by far my favorite holiday. I'll write more about that later, which I'm sure you can't wait to read. What made me think of it is the bag of lollipops I just found in the pantry. They're from last year, and they represent an attempt to get through Halloween as cheaply as possible without turning out the lights and hiding from the kids. I'll pass them out, provided they are not all fused together into one huge lollipop. I'll throw in a mini Hershey bar to soften the disappointment that will naturally flow from getting a lollipop. And a nip of brandy for the parents.
Massachusetts is the second most densely-populated state, behind only New Jersey. So kids get a lot of candy for very little walking. My dear Amanda lives in Montana, which has a population roughly equal to Bermuda spread out over an area the size of, well, Montana. That means a LOT of walking for very little candy. One is about as likely to get shot as to get a tasty treat. A marathon is 26 miles and some change. For about that distance you would hit 4 or 5 houses, and possibly get eaten by a bear or mountain lion or back-woods survivalist. Candy is wonderful, but it's not worth hearing, "You've got a pretty mouth." Yes, I'm perpetuating a stereotype. Somebody has to.
When I was a kid there was always one douchebag who would give out toothpase and/or a toothbrush instead of candy. Later on, we would always sneak back and shit down their chimney. That's what they get for caring about my health enough to give me something for free. But I did later find out that toothpaste is delicious when slathered on a Zagnut.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
Don't Read
This weekend I'm going to paint my bedroom white. Right now, it's sort of green, and that's not kosher with the housing authority, not that they know. I want it to be white, so white it will be. That gives me a task for the weekend, and I feel good about that. Generally speaking, I'm pretty useless these days. A single dutiful parent is incalculably more useful than I. I know that I'm a drain on society, and that borderline schizophrenia has rendered me useless, despite my very best efforts to recover. As the days and months pass by, I'm becoming more detached from life and thinking about my death. If it could only get here soon. My friends are tired of me and my need for reassurance. And there are several people who need to outlive me. Without them, I don't know if I could make it a single day.
I shouldn't write when I'm like this, for obvious reasons. I'm not suicidal, but I'm in this cage that I've fashioned for myself and I haven't the will to leave it. Occassionally, a wisp of life rises to my window and I catch a whiff; of love, passion, sex, empathy, curiosity, erudition, hatred, envy, and all that jazz. And I know as I sit here, terribly tired from having taken 2 lorazepam (nightly ritual), that deep down not a single one of you cares about me one little bit. Either you think I'm strange, or stupid, or perhaps even potentially dangerous. Maybe I annoy you or remind you of a past you'd prefer to forget. I don't know. I'm living the life of a phantom these days. A sycophant in both financial and emotional terms that most would prefer to give a wide berth.
And that's that, the story of me. I plopped out of my mother on July 26, 1972 and lived under a series of delusions for awhile; That Santa exists, that god exists, that I am intelligent, that I am a loving and compassionate partner, that I would teach and be a person of consequence, and finally I grappled with and savagely murdered the last delusion, that any of this matters. People are fond of telling me that I live with many false negative delusions about myself. I'm so tired of hearing that. So the tale of me, at this point, has evolved into a ghost story. A ghost is defined as, "A vague, shadowy or evanescent form, as wandering among or haunting living persons." I did exist once, but in this room right now at this moment that's hard to imagine.
Goodnight.
I shouldn't write when I'm like this, for obvious reasons. I'm not suicidal, but I'm in this cage that I've fashioned for myself and I haven't the will to leave it. Occassionally, a wisp of life rises to my window and I catch a whiff; of love, passion, sex, empathy, curiosity, erudition, hatred, envy, and all that jazz. And I know as I sit here, terribly tired from having taken 2 lorazepam (nightly ritual), that deep down not a single one of you cares about me one little bit. Either you think I'm strange, or stupid, or perhaps even potentially dangerous. Maybe I annoy you or remind you of a past you'd prefer to forget. I don't know. I'm living the life of a phantom these days. A sycophant in both financial and emotional terms that most would prefer to give a wide berth.
And that's that, the story of me. I plopped out of my mother on July 26, 1972 and lived under a series of delusions for awhile; That Santa exists, that god exists, that I am intelligent, that I am a loving and compassionate partner, that I would teach and be a person of consequence, and finally I grappled with and savagely murdered the last delusion, that any of this matters. People are fond of telling me that I live with many false negative delusions about myself. I'm so tired of hearing that. So the tale of me, at this point, has evolved into a ghost story. A ghost is defined as, "A vague, shadowy or evanescent form, as wandering among or haunting living persons." I did exist once, but in this room right now at this moment that's hard to imagine.
Goodnight.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
A Little Poe
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
by Edgar Allan Poe
(1827)
by Edgar Allan Poe
(1827)
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
The Hair's The Thing
My exquisite paramour, Amanda, tells me that she likes my hair as pictured on the right. It's slicked back with some pomade that's been manufacted since the 19th century. But I'm avoiding the inevitable, I need my hairs cut. It's been way too long between visits to the barbershop. Occassionally I will go to a salon in Harvard Square, but usually I find myself in a small, cluttered storefront shop getting a haircut from the owner and operator of the establishment. Two women own such a place in Davis Square (mother and daughter), but they are only open half the time, and it's tough to predict when. Going to Supercuts is like going to Starbuck's; I get what I need but a tiny part of my soul dies. Another problem with Supercuts is the random quality of the haircut. One day you might get Tina, and look fine. A few weeks later and you draw Bernice from the deck, and as a result can't go out without a hat for awhile.My favorite barbershop experience is going to the one my father visits. Nobody there is under 70, the there are always at least three men talking and waiting their turn. They are often talking to each other in Greek, so I'm inclined to think that they are saying something about me in that ancient language. The last time I was there, several months ago, I got a lecture from the barber about the Greek battle for freedom against the invading Nazi horde. It was an appreciated lesson in history, but because of my relative youth I'm seen as a kid who should know this stuff already. As I sat there listening about the freedom fighters, I surveyed the eclectic mix of newspaper articles (now brown with age), religious icons, fishing trophies and a collection of hair-cutting equipment and styling products that look like they were taken from some sort of barber museum. The Hair in Face Museum, perhaps? And by "styling products" I mean cheap aftershave and Vaseline...lots of it. And over everything, including the statue of a bald eagle on the wall that stands as a maudlin testament to the owner's love and devotion to his new country, is dust. There is a lot of dust in that place, which makes it clear that the long-established routine is to unlock the door, cut hair, sweep it up, and go home. After my cut, I try to wave off the gob of Vaseline that, despite my best efforts, is bound for my noggin. Then they give me a lollipop.
The time has come for me to get a haircut. I'll try the place in Davis Square, and if that doesn't work I'll humiliate myself at Supercuts. I hope I get Tina.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Lies The Vacuum Told Me
My brother expressed a modicum of incredulity regarding my claim that I suffer from agoraphobia. Clinically, he's correct. My diagnosis is Avoidant Personality Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Bipolar Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder. Social phobia and AvPD are pretty much the same thing. Regardless, I'm not afraid of being in public, so long as there is no social interaction.
Isn't that exciting? Nothing so interesting as refining the clinical labels of another person's mental illness. Today I managed to actually leave my flat, thus ending my isolation streak. Whilst strolling in the clement autumn air today in my newly unpacked sweater, my mind turned to the absurdity of social anxiety. To perpetually despair, with paranoid fervor, about how I am perceived and if I'm a decent person or not is impossible to justify given how inconsequential is life. My life will leave no footprint, nor will civilization or any organism. When such a thing is true, is there anything more ridiculous than agonizing about the way people think of you? That's a funny way of looking at it, though, as it indicates how crazy it is to work at living in any fashion. The intensity of pleasure and pain in life, emotional and physical, represents an intrinsic lie that is told by the universe in a loud, neverending series of harsh statements! One can't help but hear it, and feel it, and be compelled by how earnestly experience insists that this is all for something.
But it's a big, fat, hairy lie. Or not a lie, really, but a miscommunication within the void. Living isn't easy, and having the ability to reason is like falling nose first into fetid offal. Feeling is heinous enough, but awareness of our meaningless struggle is the harshest proof we have that there is no god watching our proverbial backs. The greatest comfort we have is the knowledge that it will end one day, and we will go deaf to the constant sermon of shock and horror and joy and love that is pounded into us through our nerves and minds. There will be the final, peaceful lack of awareness.
As I made my way past the Arlington Center for the Arts, where I stopped to look at a brochure about belly-dancing, I decided to get some lunch at Junior's Spa on Broadway. I got a couple of subs for my father and I. After that, I walked in the warm sun and cool air past the new bank they are building, and down North Union street. As I got to the school near my flat, I tripped on the uneven sidewalk and almost fell on my ass. My poor little toe cried out in pain, and I felt that the children playing nearby surely had seen what had happened and were laughing at me. A fat guy with a couple of subs tripping in a humorous fashion. The searing humiliation, and a faintly aching toe, insisted that this all mattered somehow. But I know better, even if it doesn't feel that way.
Isn't that exciting? Nothing so interesting as refining the clinical labels of another person's mental illness. Today I managed to actually leave my flat, thus ending my isolation streak. Whilst strolling in the clement autumn air today in my newly unpacked sweater, my mind turned to the absurdity of social anxiety. To perpetually despair, with paranoid fervor, about how I am perceived and if I'm a decent person or not is impossible to justify given how inconsequential is life. My life will leave no footprint, nor will civilization or any organism. When such a thing is true, is there anything more ridiculous than agonizing about the way people think of you? That's a funny way of looking at it, though, as it indicates how crazy it is to work at living in any fashion. The intensity of pleasure and pain in life, emotional and physical, represents an intrinsic lie that is told by the universe in a loud, neverending series of harsh statements! One can't help but hear it, and feel it, and be compelled by how earnestly experience insists that this is all for something.
But it's a big, fat, hairy lie. Or not a lie, really, but a miscommunication within the void. Living isn't easy, and having the ability to reason is like falling nose first into fetid offal. Feeling is heinous enough, but awareness of our meaningless struggle is the harshest proof we have that there is no god watching our proverbial backs. The greatest comfort we have is the knowledge that it will end one day, and we will go deaf to the constant sermon of shock and horror and joy and love that is pounded into us through our nerves and minds. There will be the final, peaceful lack of awareness.
As I made my way past the Arlington Center for the Arts, where I stopped to look at a brochure about belly-dancing, I decided to get some lunch at Junior's Spa on Broadway. I got a couple of subs for my father and I. After that, I walked in the warm sun and cool air past the new bank they are building, and down North Union street. As I got to the school near my flat, I tripped on the uneven sidewalk and almost fell on my ass. My poor little toe cried out in pain, and I felt that the children playing nearby surely had seen what had happened and were laughing at me. A fat guy with a couple of subs tripping in a humorous fashion. The searing humiliation, and a faintly aching toe, insisted that this all mattered somehow. But I know better, even if it doesn't feel that way.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
The Vile Wraith
I haven't left my flat in seven days, which feels like a very long time when one isn't suffering from influenza, strep throat, or some such malady. Strictly speaking, I did leave to put the trash out on the curb, and to get some grass for the cats. And two days ago I had a fairly long political discussion with neighbor. To me, that felt like a grand social outing. Later that day, however, I was reminded why I endeavor towards isolation. Merciless anxiety, self-loathing, guilt and suicidal ideation turned me into a quivering, pathetic freak. The details are inconsequential, but banal interaction with human beings give flight to thoughts and feelings better left unmolested. And now I'm moving beyond Avoidant Personality Disorder (and social paranoia) into agoraphobia. At least that's my half-assed assessment.
Years ago, a very intelligent and snobby friend told me to take comfort in routine. That was back when I enjoyed cutting myself with a razor blade and then putting muriatic acid on the wound. My reaction to her advice was to blow it off. But now I definitely see the value of routine, of careful action with preparation. I'm not in a wheelchair, or hooked up to a piece of luggage via a hose coming out of my chest, but I have to reconcile that I'm not well. Clare told me, during my visit to Maine a few months ago, that I'm smart, funny, compassionate and I think she even used the word "genius" in there (way to go, Clare), but I just don't interact normally with people in social situations. With friends and lovers I'm fine, apparently. She's right, except for the genius and funny stuff.
So basically my mind is trying to make me embrace self-loathing so I'll fling myself off the Tobin Bridge. I can think of so very many times in my life when I did fine speaking in public, approaching a girl, or working a job. What was building up every day, however, was a growing chorus of voices telling me every horrible thing, aimed at me. Every interaction with the world was like shoveling more coal into the boiler. And at one point I was doing quite a bit. I was working full-time, going to college full-time, and acting as Chairperson of the Socialist Party of Massachusetts. Along with that there were the radical conventions, the Socialist Scholars' Conference in New York City, the little political newsletter I put out. The whole time I was doing that there was a constant voice that spoke a language of pure emotion and vile, subversive invalidation. Any feeling of pride or accomplishment was twisted against me.
Eventually, I couldn't fight it anymore and began what started as a calculated withdrawal but before long turned into a frenetic retreat. Sadly for those who made the mistake of caring about me, it was too late. I tried to make an exit, twice. And after years of treatment and electro-shock, I'm sitting here in my flat, just trying to hold steady and maintain routine. Old activists still write and call sometimes, to ask if I would help out. I tell them I can't. Friends and neighbors ask me out, but that's not going to happen. I can't! If I do, I know that my self-hatred will find an eloquent speaker and cold manipulator and awaken it for duty. This hideous thing that I've created, that is a part of me, will open its black, blood-soaked wings and embrace me. The wings will close around me, and I'll be unable to move. And then this wraith will tell me, convincingly and repeatedly, why I am less than human, an abomination, who must embrace life in isolation. That, or emotional torture that will have to end in suicide or restraints in another hospital. And this thing is so very convincing, as it has more than words on its side.
Despite all that, I will try again tomorrow to walk beyond the courtyard outside my back stoop. I'll carefully avoid people and enjoy my little bit of treason. Given enough time, perhaps hard work and therapy and medication will buy me some freedom and a new routine. I'm not an optimist, but I am an idealist and a romantic. Vive le Revolution!
Years ago, a very intelligent and snobby friend told me to take comfort in routine. That was back when I enjoyed cutting myself with a razor blade and then putting muriatic acid on the wound. My reaction to her advice was to blow it off. But now I definitely see the value of routine, of careful action with preparation. I'm not in a wheelchair, or hooked up to a piece of luggage via a hose coming out of my chest, but I have to reconcile that I'm not well. Clare told me, during my visit to Maine a few months ago, that I'm smart, funny, compassionate and I think she even used the word "genius" in there (way to go, Clare), but I just don't interact normally with people in social situations. With friends and lovers I'm fine, apparently. She's right, except for the genius and funny stuff.
So basically my mind is trying to make me embrace self-loathing so I'll fling myself off the Tobin Bridge. I can think of so very many times in my life when I did fine speaking in public, approaching a girl, or working a job. What was building up every day, however, was a growing chorus of voices telling me every horrible thing, aimed at me. Every interaction with the world was like shoveling more coal into the boiler. And at one point I was doing quite a bit. I was working full-time, going to college full-time, and acting as Chairperson of the Socialist Party of Massachusetts. Along with that there were the radical conventions, the Socialist Scholars' Conference in New York City, the little political newsletter I put out. The whole time I was doing that there was a constant voice that spoke a language of pure emotion and vile, subversive invalidation. Any feeling of pride or accomplishment was twisted against me.
Eventually, I couldn't fight it anymore and began what started as a calculated withdrawal but before long turned into a frenetic retreat. Sadly for those who made the mistake of caring about me, it was too late. I tried to make an exit, twice. And after years of treatment and electro-shock, I'm sitting here in my flat, just trying to hold steady and maintain routine. Old activists still write and call sometimes, to ask if I would help out. I tell them I can't. Friends and neighbors ask me out, but that's not going to happen. I can't! If I do, I know that my self-hatred will find an eloquent speaker and cold manipulator and awaken it for duty. This hideous thing that I've created, that is a part of me, will open its black, blood-soaked wings and embrace me. The wings will close around me, and I'll be unable to move. And then this wraith will tell me, convincingly and repeatedly, why I am less than human, an abomination, who must embrace life in isolation. That, or emotional torture that will have to end in suicide or restraints in another hospital. And this thing is so very convincing, as it has more than words on its side.
Despite all that, I will try again tomorrow to walk beyond the courtyard outside my back stoop. I'll carefully avoid people and enjoy my little bit of treason. Given enough time, perhaps hard work and therapy and medication will buy me some freedom and a new routine. I'm not an optimist, but I am an idealist and a romantic. Vive le Revolution!
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Devil? Jackass? You Decide!
It's a rainy day here in Boston, and I have one of those dreadful migraine headaches that serves to make it very clear how fragile are we humans. We are all at the mercy of genetics, germs, viruses, and all sorts of other things that we can't see. Filthy buggers. Those of you who know me know that I've undergone test after test in an etiological bender that has not revealed the cause of my aching cranium. That's true of most people with my affliction, so I pop a Zomig and take a nap. I'm enjoying the rain, though.
Before I rest my weary, though, I wanted to write about Hugo Chavez for a bit. As everyone knows by now, he rather bluntly revealed in his UN speech this week that our president is the Prince of Darkness, aka Beelzebub, aka The Devil. Some Americans were upset by this, mostly politicians who have a Pavlovian response to any anti-American comment. New York Congressman Charles B. Rangel went bananas in a videotaped response, saying that he was upset that anyone would personally attack the president. In a written response, however, Rangel (who represents Harlem, the beneficiaries of cheap, Venezuelan oil) said:
"I feel that I must speak out now since the Venezuelan government has been instrumental in providing oil at discounted prices to people in low income communities who have suffered increases in rent as heating oil prices have risen sharply. By offering this benefit to people in need, Venezuela has won many friends in poor communities of New York and other states. I am surprised that American oil companies have not stepped up to provide that kind of assistance to the poor."
I think that this pretty well sums up how most lefties feel about Chavez this week. Yes, it is unlikely that Bush is El Diablo, and Chavez really belted his insults out to the back row. But there's no denying that Bush is a lesser demon of some kind, and that the United States is behaving in an evil fashion. Why quibble over how wicked is Bush and nefarious are his plots and schemes? Let's just make a "big-tent" appeal here and simply point out that Bush is either evil, or a hideous man-child who is retarded and/or psychotic. We can all agree on that! The disagreement here is over the cause of his horrible actions, but that's just a detail.
As an atheist, I have to go with the latter assessment. Chavez apparently has a Christian worldview, and there is not a thing wrong with that. The man smelled sulfur and put 2+2 together. And I can't prove that Bush is not the devil. Whatever he is, it ain't good. And when a man is trying to fuck up the world and kill people, it doesn't matter if you call him The Devil, a boob, or Rin Tin Tin, he must be stopped, regardless.
Think beyond the labels, people, and agree on the principle. That's my take, anyway. So I applaud Chavez and Vice Presidente Harry Belafonte. And as us Massachusetts "commies" did last year, we'll take some of that reduced-price oil again. And don't worry about the Citgo sign in Kenmore Square, it's not going anywhere. Keep up the good work!
Off to bed.
Before I rest my weary, though, I wanted to write about Hugo Chavez for a bit. As everyone knows by now, he rather bluntly revealed in his UN speech this week that our president is the Prince of Darkness, aka Beelzebub, aka The Devil. Some Americans were upset by this, mostly politicians who have a Pavlovian response to any anti-American comment. New York Congressman Charles B. Rangel went bananas in a videotaped response, saying that he was upset that anyone would personally attack the president. In a written response, however, Rangel (who represents Harlem, the beneficiaries of cheap, Venezuelan oil) said:
"I feel that I must speak out now since the Venezuelan government has been instrumental in providing oil at discounted prices to people in low income communities who have suffered increases in rent as heating oil prices have risen sharply. By offering this benefit to people in need, Venezuela has won many friends in poor communities of New York and other states. I am surprised that American oil companies have not stepped up to provide that kind of assistance to the poor."
I think that this pretty well sums up how most lefties feel about Chavez this week. Yes, it is unlikely that Bush is El Diablo, and Chavez really belted his insults out to the back row. But there's no denying that Bush is a lesser demon of some kind, and that the United States is behaving in an evil fashion. Why quibble over how wicked is Bush and nefarious are his plots and schemes? Let's just make a "big-tent" appeal here and simply point out that Bush is either evil, or a hideous man-child who is retarded and/or psychotic. We can all agree on that! The disagreement here is over the cause of his horrible actions, but that's just a detail.
As an atheist, I have to go with the latter assessment. Chavez apparently has a Christian worldview, and there is not a thing wrong with that. The man smelled sulfur and put 2+2 together. And I can't prove that Bush is not the devil. Whatever he is, it ain't good. And when a man is trying to fuck up the world and kill people, it doesn't matter if you call him The Devil, a boob, or Rin Tin Tin, he must be stopped, regardless.
Think beyond the labels, people, and agree on the principle. That's my take, anyway. So I applaud Chavez and Vice Presidente Harry Belafonte. And as us Massachusetts "commies" did last year, we'll take some of that reduced-price oil again. And don't worry about the Citgo sign in Kenmore Square, it's not going anywhere. Keep up the good work!
Off to bed.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Hello God? This Is George
The United States is out of control and represents a terrible threat to world peace. We're not the only "bad guys" by a long shot, but we spend more on our defense than China, Russia and the nations of the European Union combined. We have more resources to cause mayhem, and we've embraced a post Cold War foreign policy that compells us to use those deadly resources. In addition, the integrity of our electoral process is in question. We know that there was some manipulation of the vote totals in Florida and Ohio in 2000 and 2004. They weren't mistakes, as some will claim. If that's all they were, then Gore and Kerry would have picked up roughly half of the votes that were miscounted. In reality, close to 100% of the miscounted votes were in Bush's favor.
I'm no conspiracy theorist, but as Rodney Dangerfield so eloquently puts it in Caddyshack, "I ain't no door-knob, neither." I have a brain, and something is amiss. What the Bush Cult doesn't realize is that they are playing with revolution when they call into question the probity of our elections. If people start to lose faith that their vote will be counted, they will turn to other methods of influencing expressing dissent. We may retain the patina of republican government for propaganda purposes, but in reality we'll be ruled by an oligarchy. In a sense, we already are, but at least we have (or had up until recently) the power to select who runs our government.
When you mix religious fanatacism into the potion, and talk of "crusades" and a world conflict between Judeo-Christian "civilization" and the rest of humanity, you have all the elements in place to create a dangerous rogue nation. A huge gap between the rich and poor aids the centralization of power within, and we have that in spades. And you want to see something really scary? According to a BBC documentary entitled, "Elusive Peace: Israel and the Arabs," Bush claims to get advice directly from Jesus. He doesn't just pray, he talks to god. The BBC reports that Bush spoke with former Palestinian foreign minister Nabil Shaath along with Mahmud Abbas in 2003. Shaath recalls our president saying, "I'm driven with a mission from God." Also, it seems that King Bush is on a first name basis with the Almighty. "God would tell me, 'George, go and fight those terrorists in Afghanistan'," he told the assembled Palestinians. Bush also kindly relates a conversation he had with the Great Sky-King where he is told to, "'Go and end tyrrany in Iraq...' and I did." Shaath also remembers Bush saying that he would bring peace to the Middle East by securing Israel and creating a Palestinian state, at God's command.
This doesn't inspire confidence. If you think god is talking to you, then whatever he is saying is bound to take precedence over reason, compassion or the expressed will of the people. The man thinks that god is talking to him! I knew a fellow who spoke to god. He was a couple of beds away from me in the Men's Dormitory at The Arbour, a nuthouse in Jamaica Plain, Boston. God told him to jump off the third-floor of his aunt's "triple-decker" in Chelsea. It didn't work out for him. After they screwed him back together, they gave him a cot near me. I never thought he'd be president.
Our republic is in pathetic shape. It is run by a total douchebag who really wanted to be president, and won. Now he is busy using his power to give flight to his insane notions, paranoia, narcissism and delusions. It's too bad that Massachusetts can't break off from the U.S. and become a new nation-state. Well, perhaps it's worth a try. While "red states" bitch about the federal government, they get more money back from the federal system than they pay in. New Mexico, for example, gets $2 back for every dollar in federal taxes it spends. It's ironic that Massachusetts, the "bluest of the blue states" according to just about every political analyst, including Tim Russert, gets back a mere 77 cents for every federal dollar sent. So we're losing money by being a part of this joke of a country, the laughingstock of thinking people and the nation behind the murder of 100,000 Iraqi people. The U.S. wouldn't sign the Kyoto Treaty, violates the Geneva Conventions, and refuses to agree to a worldwide ban on the use of mines.
The Commonwealth of Massachusetts needs to break free. Let's do it. They probably won't mind, anyway. More than one Republican has said that Massachusetts is like a foreign country. So let's be a foreign country. Cram it, America.
By the way, Chavez speaks the truth. A cloud of sulphur follows Bush around wherever he goes. I don't think he's the devil, I think he's just a flatulent little mental patient.
I'm no conspiracy theorist, but as Rodney Dangerfield so eloquently puts it in Caddyshack, "I ain't no door-knob, neither." I have a brain, and something is amiss. What the Bush Cult doesn't realize is that they are playing with revolution when they call into question the probity of our elections. If people start to lose faith that their vote will be counted, they will turn to other methods of influencing expressing dissent. We may retain the patina of republican government for propaganda purposes, but in reality we'll be ruled by an oligarchy. In a sense, we already are, but at least we have (or had up until recently) the power to select who runs our government.
When you mix religious fanatacism into the potion, and talk of "crusades" and a world conflict between Judeo-Christian "civilization" and the rest of humanity, you have all the elements in place to create a dangerous rogue nation. A huge gap between the rich and poor aids the centralization of power within, and we have that in spades. And you want to see something really scary? According to a BBC documentary entitled, "Elusive Peace: Israel and the Arabs," Bush claims to get advice directly from Jesus. He doesn't just pray, he talks to god. The BBC reports that Bush spoke with former Palestinian foreign minister Nabil Shaath along with Mahmud Abbas in 2003. Shaath recalls our president saying, "I'm driven with a mission from God." Also, it seems that King Bush is on a first name basis with the Almighty. "God would tell me, 'George, go and fight those terrorists in Afghanistan'," he told the assembled Palestinians. Bush also kindly relates a conversation he had with the Great Sky-King where he is told to, "'Go and end tyrrany in Iraq...' and I did." Shaath also remembers Bush saying that he would bring peace to the Middle East by securing Israel and creating a Palestinian state, at God's command.
This doesn't inspire confidence. If you think god is talking to you, then whatever he is saying is bound to take precedence over reason, compassion or the expressed will of the people. The man thinks that god is talking to him! I knew a fellow who spoke to god. He was a couple of beds away from me in the Men's Dormitory at The Arbour, a nuthouse in Jamaica Plain, Boston. God told him to jump off the third-floor of his aunt's "triple-decker" in Chelsea. It didn't work out for him. After they screwed him back together, they gave him a cot near me. I never thought he'd be president.
Our republic is in pathetic shape. It is run by a total douchebag who really wanted to be president, and won. Now he is busy using his power to give flight to his insane notions, paranoia, narcissism and delusions. It's too bad that Massachusetts can't break off from the U.S. and become a new nation-state. Well, perhaps it's worth a try. While "red states" bitch about the federal government, they get more money back from the federal system than they pay in. New Mexico, for example, gets $2 back for every dollar in federal taxes it spends. It's ironic that Massachusetts, the "bluest of the blue states" according to just about every political analyst, including Tim Russert, gets back a mere 77 cents for every federal dollar sent. So we're losing money by being a part of this joke of a country, the laughingstock of thinking people and the nation behind the murder of 100,000 Iraqi people. The U.S. wouldn't sign the Kyoto Treaty, violates the Geneva Conventions, and refuses to agree to a worldwide ban on the use of mines.
The Commonwealth of Massachusetts needs to break free. Let's do it. They probably won't mind, anyway. More than one Republican has said that Massachusetts is like a foreign country. So let's be a foreign country. Cram it, America.
By the way, Chavez speaks the truth. A cloud of sulphur follows Bush around wherever he goes. I don't think he's the devil, I think he's just a flatulent little mental patient.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Medical Record Highlights And A Hawai'ian Shirt
It's awfully warm for this time of year, and this late at night. I find it annoying...it annoys me. I took a shower and donned my comfortable night shirt, only to find cat fur on it. That's bad when one is sweating, as the fur invariably floats up and adheres to the schnozz. I'm all itchy and can't stop swiping at real or imagined fur stuck to my face. And the humidity is causing my cold drink to "sweat" onto my desk, or the papers thereupon.
Hardly Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell, but what is a blog for if not to complain. I was having a pretty good night, actually, until I pulled out my medical records in search of a doctor's name. An hour later, I was still pouring over the file, which is about the size of a telephone book. I've had several surgeries, and have been admitted (either voluntarily or unconsciously) to various nuthouses. And a seizure disorder of unknown etiology continues to emerge now and again to irritate me. The last time I had one, I was just walking down the street. Twenty minutes later I awoke in an ambulance, and assumed that I passed out. I remember being so pissed-off that my day was ruined, and that my family would be worried for nothing.
I'm happy that my record of Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT) is in my file. One side effect of ECT is memory loss. For that reason, the last half of '03 and the first half of '04 are no longer recorded in my noggin. And it seems that while I was in that black hole, I overdosed on Seroquel and had to have my stomach pumped. My records go on to say that I was a "hostile patient" and that I kept trying to pull the stomach tube out. That does not sound like me at all. My strategy for surviving hospital is to put up no resistance and become passive. Weird.
Who knows what other memories were wiped clean. Maybe I tried out for the Red Sox or entered a sand castle building contest at Revere Beach. Not that I'd complain about losing the memory of hanging around the motorcycle gangs, skanks and banana hammocks that give Revere Beach it's strange, preternatural allure. But since some time periods were so thoroughly washed away, I can't shake the nagging thought that there will someday be a reckoning for something I have absolutely no recollection of doing. Maybe it will be a good thing...maybe somebody owes me money.
I do remember the gastric bypass surgery. It hurt like hell. They really should have used anaesthesia. Actually, they did...yes...definitely. With morbid curiousity, I read the surgeon's notes, which were extensive. Taking intestines out of a fat fucker, along with stapling his stomach and taking his gall bladder, is bound to require a "wordy" explanation. This is from that report:
Exploration of the gallbladder revealed a gallbladder with gallstones, a large fatty liver and extensive intra-abdominal fat deposits. A Buchwalter retractor was then used to obtain exposure to the upper abdomen.
Later, the device used to staple my stomach failed:
The common defect of the enteroenterotomy was performed by the GIA 55 stapler and repaired with a TA-60 stapler...hemostasis was achieved using electrocautery.
So a whole team of men and women literally looked into me. I was wide open, which would explain the hideous pain for the next couple of days. And I have a scar that looks like I survived alien ovum implantation by a face-hugger. I should have more profound thoughts about something so drastic, but I really don't. These days, being opened up in this fashion is almost common. One could die in surgery, but one could die swimming with stingrays or crossing Charles Street against the signal.
The portions of my medical record that deal with my insanity are the most compelling; to me, anyway. I have the notes of the intake nurses, psychiatrists and therapists who helped guide me through the maze of treatment options, medications, and diagnoses. One intake interview goes, in part, like this:
Stance, Behavior, Attitude: clean-cut in Hawaiian shirt and black jeans...somewhat pressured, anxious, logical thought process, unfocused guilt, good insight of problems.
Notes: likeable, very intelligent, thoughtful, motivated.
Why the hell didn't that woman tell me that at the time? I'm sure that I went home after this (it was an outpatient intake) thinking that I made an ass out of myself, and that everyone thinks I'm retarded and crazy and disgusting...all sorts of dysphoria and self-loathing and anxiety. Now, years later, I find out that she liked that Hawai'ian shirt! I thought I was the only one who liked that thing. And clean-cut? That's a new one. And yes, that says, "motivated." I swear she wrote that, it's right here, man.
The final entry in this evaluation goes like this:
Summary: Patient strangely emits the aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and makes me feel happy for the first time since my idyllic childhood. He is handsome, much like a young Kirk Douglas or Burt Lancaster, except with man boobs. When I look into his eyes I experience a moment of pseudo-sexual satisfaction that no man I know could match. I could listen to him talk all day...he has yet to say anything that isn't extremely interesting or funny. I am distracted, however, by my erotic fantasies about him. Who is this Adonis before me? I must get away, lest I risk ruining my marriage and risk violating medical ethics. This fat little mental patient will haunt me forever.
Now this one took me by surprise for several reasons. One, I don't look anything like Kirk Douglas or Burt Lancaster. I'm more like Sydney Greenstreet. And I don't smell of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. It's more like oatmeal raisin, with a hint of freshly cut cantalope.
OK, that last one was bullshit. I'd rather have a mental illness where I thought that people thought of me like that, instead of this depression, anxiety and self-loathing malarkey. Malarkey!
Now go out tomorrow and vote for Deval Patrick. He is the choice of fat little mental patients. Every Republican must be driven from office. Wiped away by the mighty hand of the electorate. Unfortunately, that mighty hand is often connected to millions of drooling idiots who will vote, despite not having a CLUE what is going on, anywhere. But don't worry about that, this is just the primary. The good news is that Deval Patrick will win, and he is a smart campaigner who will be good for the commonwealth. If he doesn't win, it's not the end of the world. We just have to make sure that Ms. Healey gets beaten in November. There are some politicians whom I would love to see literally beaten, like Rick Santorum, Dennis Hastert, and Joe Lieberman. But their time will come...oh, yes.
Hardly Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell, but what is a blog for if not to complain. I was having a pretty good night, actually, until I pulled out my medical records in search of a doctor's name. An hour later, I was still pouring over the file, which is about the size of a telephone book. I've had several surgeries, and have been admitted (either voluntarily or unconsciously) to various nuthouses. And a seizure disorder of unknown etiology continues to emerge now and again to irritate me. The last time I had one, I was just walking down the street. Twenty minutes later I awoke in an ambulance, and assumed that I passed out. I remember being so pissed-off that my day was ruined, and that my family would be worried for nothing.
I'm happy that my record of Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT) is in my file. One side effect of ECT is memory loss. For that reason, the last half of '03 and the first half of '04 are no longer recorded in my noggin. And it seems that while I was in that black hole, I overdosed on Seroquel and had to have my stomach pumped. My records go on to say that I was a "hostile patient" and that I kept trying to pull the stomach tube out. That does not sound like me at all. My strategy for surviving hospital is to put up no resistance and become passive. Weird.
Who knows what other memories were wiped clean. Maybe I tried out for the Red Sox or entered a sand castle building contest at Revere Beach. Not that I'd complain about losing the memory of hanging around the motorcycle gangs, skanks and banana hammocks that give Revere Beach it's strange, preternatural allure. But since some time periods were so thoroughly washed away, I can't shake the nagging thought that there will someday be a reckoning for something I have absolutely no recollection of doing. Maybe it will be a good thing...maybe somebody owes me money.
I do remember the gastric bypass surgery. It hurt like hell. They really should have used anaesthesia. Actually, they did...yes...definitely. With morbid curiousity, I read the surgeon's notes, which were extensive. Taking intestines out of a fat fucker, along with stapling his stomach and taking his gall bladder, is bound to require a "wordy" explanation. This is from that report:
Exploration of the gallbladder revealed a gallbladder with gallstones, a large fatty liver and extensive intra-abdominal fat deposits. A Buchwalter retractor was then used to obtain exposure to the upper abdomen.
Later, the device used to staple my stomach failed:
The common defect of the enteroenterotomy was performed by the GIA 55 stapler and repaired with a TA-60 stapler...hemostasis was achieved using electrocautery.
So a whole team of men and women literally looked into me. I was wide open, which would explain the hideous pain for the next couple of days. And I have a scar that looks like I survived alien ovum implantation by a face-hugger. I should have more profound thoughts about something so drastic, but I really don't. These days, being opened up in this fashion is almost common. One could die in surgery, but one could die swimming with stingrays or crossing Charles Street against the signal.
The portions of my medical record that deal with my insanity are the most compelling; to me, anyway. I have the notes of the intake nurses, psychiatrists and therapists who helped guide me through the maze of treatment options, medications, and diagnoses. One intake interview goes, in part, like this:
Stance, Behavior, Attitude: clean-cut in Hawaiian shirt and black jeans...somewhat pressured, anxious, logical thought process, unfocused guilt, good insight of problems.
Notes: likeable, very intelligent, thoughtful, motivated.
Why the hell didn't that woman tell me that at the time? I'm sure that I went home after this (it was an outpatient intake) thinking that I made an ass out of myself, and that everyone thinks I'm retarded and crazy and disgusting...all sorts of dysphoria and self-loathing and anxiety. Now, years later, I find out that she liked that Hawai'ian shirt! I thought I was the only one who liked that thing. And clean-cut? That's a new one. And yes, that says, "motivated." I swear she wrote that, it's right here, man.
The final entry in this evaluation goes like this:
Summary: Patient strangely emits the aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and makes me feel happy for the first time since my idyllic childhood. He is handsome, much like a young Kirk Douglas or Burt Lancaster, except with man boobs. When I look into his eyes I experience a moment of pseudo-sexual satisfaction that no man I know could match. I could listen to him talk all day...he has yet to say anything that isn't extremely interesting or funny. I am distracted, however, by my erotic fantasies about him. Who is this Adonis before me? I must get away, lest I risk ruining my marriage and risk violating medical ethics. This fat little mental patient will haunt me forever.
Now this one took me by surprise for several reasons. One, I don't look anything like Kirk Douglas or Burt Lancaster. I'm more like Sydney Greenstreet. And I don't smell of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. It's more like oatmeal raisin, with a hint of freshly cut cantalope.
OK, that last one was bullshit. I'd rather have a mental illness where I thought that people thought of me like that, instead of this depression, anxiety and self-loathing malarkey. Malarkey!
Now go out tomorrow and vote for Deval Patrick. He is the choice of fat little mental patients. Every Republican must be driven from office. Wiped away by the mighty hand of the electorate. Unfortunately, that mighty hand is often connected to millions of drooling idiots who will vote, despite not having a CLUE what is going on, anywhere. But don't worry about that, this is just the primary. The good news is that Deval Patrick will win, and he is a smart campaigner who will be good for the commonwealth. If he doesn't win, it's not the end of the world. We just have to make sure that Ms. Healey gets beaten in November. There are some politicians whom I would love to see literally beaten, like Rick Santorum, Dennis Hastert, and Joe Lieberman. But their time will come...oh, yes.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Nameless Dread and "Impy" Fur
It's a bit mild out for a mid-September evening, and the humidity makes cat fur stick to my face every time I kiss, "Impy." We were playing earlier, so I'm still picking fur off my schnozz. I'm fond of lifting her up and kissing her back, and then setting her back down to chase something; usually a pistachio or a penny. I do so love that cat. Miller's Crossing is on IFC, which is a pleasant surprise.
Other than that I haven't much to report. Most of my thoughts are focused on the Nameless Dread of existential angst. There was an article about a widow in the Boston Sunday Globe. It got me thinking about death. This woman refuses to take off her wedding ring three years after her husband's death. He died suddenly of a massive heart attack at 50 years of age. Some people die suddenly, while others slowly succumb to a withering disease like cancer. That's how my mother died, slowly and painfully. Several heart operations, lung cancer, a broken hip, and finally a more general cancer that did not respond to painful radiation treatments. My grandfather presented himself in my mind as the opposite of that kind of hideous death. He died of a massive heart attack while carrying groceries.
I asked my father which kind of death is generally more difficult. When my mother died, I was almost relieved that her suffering was over. And I had so much time to prepare myself emotionally, even during a time in my life when I was a wreck for other reasons. My sister was devastated because she didn't live with her and witness her painful decline. Naturally, a quick death is easier on the person doing the dying. But if my father or brother or someone else I care about and love dies before me, I hope I have some time to prepare while at the same time they go free of pain.
I think about death a lot. Unlike most people, though, I mainly think about other people. I don't want loved ones to suffer, but death comes to us all. It is a lonely business, but it doesn't have to be agonizing. In Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim, the protagonist fears death above everything else. In one scene, he is tortured horribly. But pain doesn't move him, only the lifeless void that will one day take us all.
I'm the opposite of that, and my prior attempt to kill myself should help add weight to that claim. Non-existence is a fine fate, far better than the eternity of boredom or torture that the Christians are offering. The universe is indifferent, so it's not concerned with a farewell kindness after an anguished existence. We're just lucky that that is what's in store, by chance. There is no god, so there can't be anything out there to create something as horrible as inescapable immortality. The thought of it gives me the willies.
So my fear centers around the passing from life to death. For me, and everyone I love. Death is like a mysterious border town, with all sorts of exotic adventures. It's a strange place, and you are given a new perspective on the life behind you, and the death ahead. Nobody knows what it will feel like, or how you will judge (or just consider) yourself in those last moments. You may have minutes, or days, or months...you just don't know yet. You won't know what was really important until you're poised to lose it. And in that little border town you will have some fine, profound thoughts about the country you're leaving. Or perhaps not. As you sit on the border to the undiscovered country ahead, I like to think that at that moment the existential dread and angst disappears. To look back at life through fearless eyes, with true understanding about the meaninglessness of it all, would be wonderfully liberating. Sort of like finally finding out how the magician saws the lady in half, or pulls the bunny out of his hat. To look back at the stage I was just dancing upon and see how it looks from afar.
Other than that I haven't much to report. Most of my thoughts are focused on the Nameless Dread of existential angst. There was an article about a widow in the Boston Sunday Globe. It got me thinking about death. This woman refuses to take off her wedding ring three years after her husband's death. He died suddenly of a massive heart attack at 50 years of age. Some people die suddenly, while others slowly succumb to a withering disease like cancer. That's how my mother died, slowly and painfully. Several heart operations, lung cancer, a broken hip, and finally a more general cancer that did not respond to painful radiation treatments. My grandfather presented himself in my mind as the opposite of that kind of hideous death. He died of a massive heart attack while carrying groceries.
I asked my father which kind of death is generally more difficult. When my mother died, I was almost relieved that her suffering was over. And I had so much time to prepare myself emotionally, even during a time in my life when I was a wreck for other reasons. My sister was devastated because she didn't live with her and witness her painful decline. Naturally, a quick death is easier on the person doing the dying. But if my father or brother or someone else I care about and love dies before me, I hope I have some time to prepare while at the same time they go free of pain.
I think about death a lot. Unlike most people, though, I mainly think about other people. I don't want loved ones to suffer, but death comes to us all. It is a lonely business, but it doesn't have to be agonizing. In Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim, the protagonist fears death above everything else. In one scene, he is tortured horribly. But pain doesn't move him, only the lifeless void that will one day take us all.
I'm the opposite of that, and my prior attempt to kill myself should help add weight to that claim. Non-existence is a fine fate, far better than the eternity of boredom or torture that the Christians are offering. The universe is indifferent, so it's not concerned with a farewell kindness after an anguished existence. We're just lucky that that is what's in store, by chance. There is no god, so there can't be anything out there to create something as horrible as inescapable immortality. The thought of it gives me the willies.
So my fear centers around the passing from life to death. For me, and everyone I love. Death is like a mysterious border town, with all sorts of exotic adventures. It's a strange place, and you are given a new perspective on the life behind you, and the death ahead. Nobody knows what it will feel like, or how you will judge (or just consider) yourself in those last moments. You may have minutes, or days, or months...you just don't know yet. You won't know what was really important until you're poised to lose it. And in that little border town you will have some fine, profound thoughts about the country you're leaving. Or perhaps not. As you sit on the border to the undiscovered country ahead, I like to think that at that moment the existential dread and angst disappears. To look back at life through fearless eyes, with true understanding about the meaninglessness of it all, would be wonderfully liberating. Sort of like finally finding out how the magician saws the lady in half, or pulls the bunny out of his hat. To look back at the stage I was just dancing upon and see how it looks from afar.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
America The Violent And Stupid
The idea of the U.S. taking action against Venezuela is absurd to anyone I can imagine reading this 'blog. I've been writing about the Bolivarian Revolution for awhile. And it really honks me off when a journalist refers to Chavez as a, "dictator." The man was democratically elected, and is expected to will again in December! Even with dozens of candidates running, Chavez' level of support is around 60%. Man is that irritating. As I write this, a Venezuelan flag flaps in the breeze from my fan. The picture on the left is of me, just a few minutes ago via my webcam. I'm such a supporter of Chavez that I'm afraid of what I might do to protest any military action we may take in Venezuela. That's sounds ominous, but given my natural timidity I'll probably just pee on an American flag or something.Earlier this summer, I read a story from Hands of Venezuela. It was about the Commission for Assistance to a Free Cuba, a group that is co-chaired by Condi Rice and Secretery of Commerce Carlos Gutierrez. At this point, they have an approved budget of nearly $80 million to help bring about a "transition" away from Castro and Communism. Large portions of the 93 page report are classified, mainly the parts that speak of Venezuela's role in helping Cuba and the details of the anticipated "transition to freedom." Since Venezuela is seen as Cuba's closest friend, both abstractly and in the form of the relationship between Hugo Chavez and Fidel Castro, it will have to be dealt with, as well.
Chavez is sometimes accused of paranoia. He often speaks about U.S. involvement in the 2002 coup against him (which is true), and about the future hostilities that Washington has planned. But Chavez is anything but paranoid. It was recently discovered that the United States has been funding opposition parties in Venezuela through non-governmental organizations (NGO). It is a violation of Venezuelan law to accept money from another country for use in a domestic political campaign. Chavez took action to reduce and regulate this activity, but it provides us an edifying look into the way the U.S. operates. And in the west, the U.S. gives $850 million annually to Columbia, ostensibly for the "War on Drugs." In reality, most of it is specifically set aside for military operations unrelated to drugs of any kind. Many analysts are of the opinion that that money could end up in the hands of mercenaries (or even Columbian special operations soldiers). Why is this a threat to Venezuela? Because her valuable oil fields, which are in the west near the Columbian border, are vulnerable to attack. Those fields have been shut down before, by corrupt union people during the coup.
So Chavez isn't paranoid, he is letting experience and what he knows about the U.S. be his guide. And as a U.S. citizen, I think he has reason to be on edge. A strong argument could be made that the United States is the biggest threat to world peace. And Cuba and Venezuela should be concerned. The U.S. is dangerous, stupid and influential. Not a good combination.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Of Goya, Scrimshaw and The Vagina Lady
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Monday, September 11, 2006
Get Back On The Chosen Path
One never knows what will arrive via email. Every time I look in my inbox I find find a few letters from friends and comrades, or a reply to something I said in a mailing list; usually about politics, religion, or being insane. Most of my email, however, is from an anonymous source who knows only one thing about me, that I have an email address. This spam makes up about 90% of what I get. It doesn't really bother me that much. Some people get really bent out of shape over it, but I just erase it and wonder why my "spam filter" doesn't catch more of it. That's not much of a help, anyway, as I check that almost as carefully for something important that may have been sent by someone I actually care about.
And I'm concerned about that Nigerian banker. I hope things work out for that poor bastard.
Today I got some spam that really got my attention, and for once it wasn't pornography. Neh, it was a letter from Christian Debt Trust, a debt consolidation company. With all the subtlety of a bowling ball to the groin, they draw wisdom from the Bible as a way to get your business. For example, when you go to the site you are greeted with a quote from Proverbs: "The rich rule over the poor, and the borrower is servant to the lender... Proverbs 22:7." And that's only the beginning. The organization claims that it can put you back on the "chosen path" regarding your debt. It later says, "Money is the root of all evil." Fair enough, although I would argue that the lack of money is the root of all evil.
So what's my problem with good religious folk trying to help a brotha, or sista, out? As with most religious endeavors, this one is more about making money than helping anyone. The Consumer Federation of America put out a press release warning about debt management and consolidation companies, particularly those with "Christian" in their name. Some of these groups are reputable, but most of them are not. An article in Business Week Online states that the CEOs of these "non-profit" companies frequently make hundreds of thousands of dollars more than the CEOs of other non-profits. They go on to say that even the best companies in the industry are rarely able to do a better job at debt consolidation than people can themselves.
So, like any scam, they lie and make false promises...that's called, "advertising." And, in this case, they invoke the name of the Lord to get your business. People are so creative, it's really inspiring. Really. They also spend a lot of money buying lists of names of people who are in debt. That wouldn't be objectionable if they had moral scruples and were trying to help. But since they are out to make a buck by adding to your misery, that makes the practice all the more despicable. Sort of like buying a list of names of people who are in AARP as a way of targeting little old ladies for purse-snatching. Actually, that's not a bad idea.
I do admire Christian Debt Trust for having the cojones to do something so unapologetically crass and immoral in god's name. Churches do it all the time, but many of them actually believe their own bullshit (most likely). And the Bible is so abstract that you can pick and choose in what you believe; it's handy like that. These people happen to be focusing on the passages that will get your Christian ass off the couch and on the phone to them. Thou art a deadbeat. I never look for wisdom in the Bible, but sometimes I find the poetry of it interesting, like the Sermon on the Mount, which I think is in Beatitudes. That's also the part that makes it clear that Jesus was a Commie. A sandal-wearing, little left-wing Jewish intellectual; a "Red," not a "Red-stater." But I digress.
The whole tone of the website is so seemingly helpful and honest and good. And with the help of the Bible, they show you that not only do they think you should call them, but god insists that you do. They tell you to love god, and do what He would do and consolidate your credit card bills. Now, you heathen. I will close this little entry with the same passage found on the CDT website. Peace be with you, my children. Amen.
"Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for he who loves his fellowman has fulfilled the law." - Romans 13:8
And I'm concerned about that Nigerian banker. I hope things work out for that poor bastard.
Today I got some spam that really got my attention, and for once it wasn't pornography. Neh, it was a letter from Christian Debt Trust, a debt consolidation company. With all the subtlety of a bowling ball to the groin, they draw wisdom from the Bible as a way to get your business. For example, when you go to the site you are greeted with a quote from Proverbs: "The rich rule over the poor, and the borrower is servant to the lender... Proverbs 22:7." And that's only the beginning. The organization claims that it can put you back on the "chosen path" regarding your debt. It later says, "Money is the root of all evil." Fair enough, although I would argue that the lack of money is the root of all evil.
So what's my problem with good religious folk trying to help a brotha, or sista, out? As with most religious endeavors, this one is more about making money than helping anyone. The Consumer Federation of America put out a press release warning about debt management and consolidation companies, particularly those with "Christian" in their name. Some of these groups are reputable, but most of them are not. An article in Business Week Online states that the CEOs of these "non-profit" companies frequently make hundreds of thousands of dollars more than the CEOs of other non-profits. They go on to say that even the best companies in the industry are rarely able to do a better job at debt consolidation than people can themselves.
So, like any scam, they lie and make false promises...that's called, "advertising." And, in this case, they invoke the name of the Lord to get your business. People are so creative, it's really inspiring. Really. They also spend a lot of money buying lists of names of people who are in debt. That wouldn't be objectionable if they had moral scruples and were trying to help. But since they are out to make a buck by adding to your misery, that makes the practice all the more despicable. Sort of like buying a list of names of people who are in AARP as a way of targeting little old ladies for purse-snatching. Actually, that's not a bad idea.
I do admire Christian Debt Trust for having the cojones to do something so unapologetically crass and immoral in god's name. Churches do it all the time, but many of them actually believe their own bullshit (most likely). And the Bible is so abstract that you can pick and choose in what you believe; it's handy like that. These people happen to be focusing on the passages that will get your Christian ass off the couch and on the phone to them. Thou art a deadbeat. I never look for wisdom in the Bible, but sometimes I find the poetry of it interesting, like the Sermon on the Mount, which I think is in Beatitudes. That's also the part that makes it clear that Jesus was a Commie. A sandal-wearing, little left-wing Jewish intellectual; a "Red," not a "Red-stater." But I digress.
The whole tone of the website is so seemingly helpful and honest and good. And with the help of the Bible, they show you that not only do they think you should call them, but god insists that you do. They tell you to love god, and do what He would do and consolidate your credit card bills. Now, you heathen. I will close this little entry with the same passage found on the CDT website. Peace be with you, my children. Amen.
"Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for he who loves his fellowman has fulfilled the law." - Romans 13:8
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Moron, Psychopath or Cynical Prick? The Bloody Hands of a Spoiled Brat
What would you say about someone who crassly, and repeatedly, invokes the memory of a horrible tragedy for personal gain? It certainly doesn't speak well about his or her character. And beyond that, it makes you wonder if such a person is mentally and/or emotionally stable. So at the very best, such a person is cynical and manipulative. And it may indicate a personality disorder, or even the possibility that the person is a psychopath. The American Heritage Dictionary (4th edition) defines a psychopath as, "A person with an antisocial personality disorder, manifested in aggressive, perverted, criminal, or amoral behavior without empathy or remorse." From a clinical perspective, the lack of empathy is at the root of a psychopaths' troubles. Without empathy, there is no compassion or understanding beyond the self.
It's probably not going to surprise anyone when I posit that President George W. Bush, the man who currently runs the executive branch of our government directly, and the legislative branch indirectly (given that his party holds a strong majority), is either "cynical and manipulative" and/or a psychopath. And obviously I submit that he is using the terrorist attacks of September, 11 2001 for political gain.
Many would argue that he is not. Instead, they see a man who was genuinely moved by what happened, and he is just doing the best job he can. That may make him pathetic, and the worst president in the history of the republic, but that assessment leaves his character intact. His presidency is analagous to a severly mentally disabled man trying to put out a burning building with a yo-yo. Too tragic to be funny, and too inept to be left in charge. And yet here we are, with 862 days left in his presidency.
Naturally, there are those who say that Bush is doing a great job. Anyone who reads this blog, knows me, or has never suffered a terribly brain injury knows that is absurd. In order to be a Bush supporter, one would have to follow him as if he were the leader of a cult. And in a way, that is exactly how they see him. Did you ever hear the term, "Papal Infallability?" That's the belief held in the Catholic Church that the Pope gets his orders from god, and is therefore never wrong. He can't be wrong. Being the Pope means exemption from the possibility of error. That also means that no matter how ugly is the decision making process, the final decision is that's important. So in the unlikely event that the Pope uses porn stars and the women on The View as his advisors, his final decision is just as unquestionably correct as if he listened to cardinals and intellectuals.
I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that Bush's people are like that, and that Bush could do nothing to shake their support. Therefore, they are not driven by reason or compassion and are only important when it comes to the political strategies of the right and left. As in, how will they be used? But if you're trying to figure out what kind of person President Bush is, their input irrelevant, no matter how loudly they try to make their case.
So we're back to three possibilities:
1. Bush is a good man, but he is completely incompetent; or
2. Bush is cynical and cares more about advancement than people; or
3. Bush is a psychopath and needs to be hospitalized.
As I said before, I'm big on 2 and 3, but any of these means he is a unworthy of such high office. Strangely enough, none of these would get him impeached directly, as in cause-and-effect. He'd have to do something else.
There can be no doubt at all that Bush is using 9/11 to help justify a war, to frighten people as a way to justify NSA wiretaps, CIA secret prisons, and the use of torture against suspected terrorists. He also draws from the emotional lexicon of 9/11 to help make a case for a broad war against, "Islamofascists." I could go on and on. Just listen to the man speak. Now he's busy telling people that Clinton is responsible for 9/11. He can't NOT use this terrible time in our history to his advantage. Earlier today, I heard Senator John Kerry say, "It is immoral to treat 9/11 as a political pawn (to) excuse the invasion of Iraq, they were attacked and killed not by Saddam Hussein but by Osama bin Laden.”
More and more politicians are pointing the finger at Bush, and it's about time. It's one thing for a Country "music" star to write a sappy song about 9/11 to sell CD's. That's bad enough, but this is our president. It's hard to imagine that Bush doesn't say to himself, late at night when the mind tends to race and we all find ourselves examining our lives, "9/11 is the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank Jesus." Either that, or he's a psychopath who sleeps like a baby, with no regrets.
As of right now, Bush is personally responsible for the deaths of 2,667 American troops (or 2,900 "coalition" troops). Not to mention the 19,910 American soldiers who have been injured. And President Bush has admitted that 30,000 innocent Iraqi people have been killed. Although the British medical journal The Lancet puts that number at 100,000.
As far as I'm concerned, anyone who could launch a pre-emptive war with manipulated intelligence against another country for no reason (he's tried to sell so many reasons...none worked) is a dangerous psychotic. Not to mention he claims to have conversations with Jesus, the Messiah, not the gardener. And he has all this blood on his brush-clearing hands. So many people who would still be alive if he hadn't been elected.
Looking at it from that point of view, it doesn't matter what motivates him. He's like that guy in Sling Blade, walking around the house in the middle of the night with a hammer. When you see that, you have to take the hammer away and get the fellow some help; it doesn't matter if he's stupid or crazy, you just don't want to be beaten with a hammer. Bush is just like that, except he has the world's largest military at his disposal, and a pack of ardent supporters. Actually, if memory serves, Billy Bob at least took out one bad guy with a lawn-mower blade. So in that sense, his record is much better than Bush's.
But seriously, as more people die every day, and as both our friends and enemies hate us more and more, can you say that you're not as angry and nervous as I am?
It's probably not going to surprise anyone when I posit that President George W. Bush, the man who currently runs the executive branch of our government directly, and the legislative branch indirectly (given that his party holds a strong majority), is either "cynical and manipulative" and/or a psychopath. And obviously I submit that he is using the terrorist attacks of September, 11 2001 for political gain.
Many would argue that he is not. Instead, they see a man who was genuinely moved by what happened, and he is just doing the best job he can. That may make him pathetic, and the worst president in the history of the republic, but that assessment leaves his character intact. His presidency is analagous to a severly mentally disabled man trying to put out a burning building with a yo-yo. Too tragic to be funny, and too inept to be left in charge. And yet here we are, with 862 days left in his presidency.
Naturally, there are those who say that Bush is doing a great job. Anyone who reads this blog, knows me, or has never suffered a terribly brain injury knows that is absurd. In order to be a Bush supporter, one would have to follow him as if he were the leader of a cult. And in a way, that is exactly how they see him. Did you ever hear the term, "Papal Infallability?" That's the belief held in the Catholic Church that the Pope gets his orders from god, and is therefore never wrong. He can't be wrong. Being the Pope means exemption from the possibility of error. That also means that no matter how ugly is the decision making process, the final decision is that's important. So in the unlikely event that the Pope uses porn stars and the women on The View as his advisors, his final decision is just as unquestionably correct as if he listened to cardinals and intellectuals.
I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that Bush's people are like that, and that Bush could do nothing to shake their support. Therefore, they are not driven by reason or compassion and are only important when it comes to the political strategies of the right and left. As in, how will they be used? But if you're trying to figure out what kind of person President Bush is, their input irrelevant, no matter how loudly they try to make their case.
So we're back to three possibilities:
1. Bush is a good man, but he is completely incompetent; or
2. Bush is cynical and cares more about advancement than people; or
3. Bush is a psychopath and needs to be hospitalized.
As I said before, I'm big on 2 and 3, but any of these means he is a unworthy of such high office. Strangely enough, none of these would get him impeached directly, as in cause-and-effect. He'd have to do something else.
There can be no doubt at all that Bush is using 9/11 to help justify a war, to frighten people as a way to justify NSA wiretaps, CIA secret prisons, and the use of torture against suspected terrorists. He also draws from the emotional lexicon of 9/11 to help make a case for a broad war against, "Islamofascists." I could go on and on. Just listen to the man speak. Now he's busy telling people that Clinton is responsible for 9/11. He can't NOT use this terrible time in our history to his advantage. Earlier today, I heard Senator John Kerry say, "It is immoral to treat 9/11 as a political pawn (to) excuse the invasion of Iraq, they were attacked and killed not by Saddam Hussein but by Osama bin Laden.”
More and more politicians are pointing the finger at Bush, and it's about time. It's one thing for a Country "music" star to write a sappy song about 9/11 to sell CD's. That's bad enough, but this is our president. It's hard to imagine that Bush doesn't say to himself, late at night when the mind tends to race and we all find ourselves examining our lives, "9/11 is the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank Jesus." Either that, or he's a psychopath who sleeps like a baby, with no regrets.
As of right now, Bush is personally responsible for the deaths of 2,667 American troops (or 2,900 "coalition" troops). Not to mention the 19,910 American soldiers who have been injured. And President Bush has admitted that 30,000 innocent Iraqi people have been killed. Although the British medical journal The Lancet puts that number at 100,000.
As far as I'm concerned, anyone who could launch a pre-emptive war with manipulated intelligence against another country for no reason (he's tried to sell so many reasons...none worked) is a dangerous psychotic. Not to mention he claims to have conversations with Jesus, the Messiah, not the gardener. And he has all this blood on his brush-clearing hands. So many people who would still be alive if he hadn't been elected.
Looking at it from that point of view, it doesn't matter what motivates him. He's like that guy in Sling Blade, walking around the house in the middle of the night with a hammer. When you see that, you have to take the hammer away and get the fellow some help; it doesn't matter if he's stupid or crazy, you just don't want to be beaten with a hammer. Bush is just like that, except he has the world's largest military at his disposal, and a pack of ardent supporters. Actually, if memory serves, Billy Bob at least took out one bad guy with a lawn-mower blade. So in that sense, his record is much better than Bush's.
But seriously, as more people die every day, and as both our friends and enemies hate us more and more, can you say that you're not as angry and nervous as I am?
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
What Do Suri Cruise and Sam Donaldson Have In Common
Late last night I surfed into a website that has a mildly amusing article about the worst celebrity toupees. The usual suspects were rounded up; Sam Donaldson, Marv Albert, Elton John, et al. Those are certainly worthy nominations, although Marv Albert isn't really a "celebrity." I'm not sure what he is. Then again, I'm not exactly sure who you are or what I am, either. Regardless, the list did not include what has to be the clear winner of this contest. It couldn't have, given that this person didn't exist until very recently. I'm talking about Suri Cruise, the crotch-dropping of Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise (what a repulsive dysphemism). The happy couple recently appeared with this thing on the cover of Vanity Fair magazine, and you can clearly see that she is wearing a rug. I don't know why she would need one, even in the vain and superficial world of show business. My guess is that they are covering her head to conceal...what? Given what we know of Tom Cruise, it could be anything. Maybe he wanted to sniff her brain, or allow her body Thetan to float out through her fontanelle (see Church of Scientology for a description of Thetans and related crackpot boobery).But we'll probably never know for sure what's happening here. Poor kid. It really is sad, and we can only hope that Suri doesn't find daddy's lunatic rantings depressing. We know that she's more likely to play basketball with Xenu than have access to a psychiatrist. Papa Wacko would never let her take...anti-depressants! Nooooo! The scientologists' solution to depression is a large dose of vitamins, sweating out "impurities," and starring in Top Gun.
It's an ugly baby, and I hope Katie Holmes (who can't act...seriously) kicks her captor in the balls to limit Cruise's progeny to little Suri; the ugly, toupee-wearing baby with a brainwashed dad.
On The Road To Fitness
An endocrinologist recently revealed to me that I have the metabolism of a door knob. I keep track of what I eat, and I've been averaging around 1,000 calories a day for the last 5 weeks. For a fellow of my girth, I should be losing weight, or so I thought. So now I have to increase my metabolism. If you have any amphetamines, contact me.
In lieu of that, however, I've purchased a Freestyle digital pedometer (as opposed to the 45 pound analog pedometer). It has many features...too many. I just want to monitor my heart rate, but this thing does temperature, steps taken, calories burned, thighs chaffed, etc. I've yet to program it, and last night this fuckin' thing beeped loudly every 20 minutes or so. Perhaps it was nagging me to get my fat ass out of bed. That could be one of the features.
At around 4am I gave up all hope of sleeping. As I was sitting at my computer, I was hit with an insistent beep. Instead of taking out a tiny screwdriver and taking the battery out, I ever so gently stuffed it into a rubber vagina given to me by a friend several months ago. It muffled it perfectly (muffled!), but unfortunately it took me almost a half hour to get it out, a task that I just now finished. So it spent almost 5 hours in there. When you spend 25 minutes trying to dislodge something from a purple rubber vagina you're bound to have a moment of existential angst. That's just common sense.
But it was all worth it. The pedometer doesn't beep anymore, it sits silently on my desk, it's spirit broken. Thus I have established that I am the alpha-thing in my bedroom. I take no guff. If any other electronic devices misbehave, they're going right into the hole.
Mercy but I'm odd.
In lieu of that, however, I've purchased a Freestyle digital pedometer (as opposed to the 45 pound analog pedometer). It has many features...too many. I just want to monitor my heart rate, but this thing does temperature, steps taken, calories burned, thighs chaffed, etc. I've yet to program it, and last night this fuckin' thing beeped loudly every 20 minutes or so. Perhaps it was nagging me to get my fat ass out of bed. That could be one of the features.
At around 4am I gave up all hope of sleeping. As I was sitting at my computer, I was hit with an insistent beep. Instead of taking out a tiny screwdriver and taking the battery out, I ever so gently stuffed it into a rubber vagina given to me by a friend several months ago. It muffled it perfectly (muffled!), but unfortunately it took me almost a half hour to get it out, a task that I just now finished. So it spent almost 5 hours in there. When you spend 25 minutes trying to dislodge something from a purple rubber vagina you're bound to have a moment of existential angst. That's just common sense.
But it was all worth it. The pedometer doesn't beep anymore, it sits silently on my desk, it's spirit broken. Thus I have established that I am the alpha-thing in my bedroom. I take no guff. If any other electronic devices misbehave, they're going right into the hole.
Mercy but I'm odd.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
There's A Bug In My Bagel
And a square bagel at that, and that ain't no lie. Earlier today, I stopped at a local frommagier and picked up some Asiago cheese, of which I'm rather fond. I'm not afraid to say it, either, even though it smells like feet. Most quality cheese smells like feet (at best), or possible like something that crawled (or flew) behind a radiator and died. Asiago cheese is delicious if you melt it on a bagel and eat it with a little cream cheese. Unfortunately, heated Asiago cheese smells like feet times 1,000.
Some of you may be familiar with the pseudo-famous German Industrial Punk band, "Feet Times 1,000." Or perhaps not.
Regardless of that, a couple of days ago, I picked up some "everything" bagels (which is the very height of hyperbole) that were square. At first I was excited, as if so many of life's unanswered questions would be answered by a new bagel shape. I felt bad when I got home, though, as if I had been talked into sending a Nigerian banker some money to help him out of a jam; I had buyer's remorse. It's no big deal, but some food purchases really say a lot about who you are. Imagine the person who buys Lunchables. Yeesh. I don't want to think about what a square bagel says about me. Perhaps that I'm a petty fat fuck who eagerly purchases every new food product as soon as corporate America can shit it out. Like I'm really stymied in my daily life by the problem of a round bagel and a square toaster.
Square bagels I had, so earlier today I tried to make the aformentioned sandwich, and that's when I found a tiny insect crawling around. It was a poppy-seed with legs. Needless to say, I didn't make a sandwich. I gave the remaining bagels to the birds in the courtyard (they didn't mind the bug) and then sought to recover from a bout of the heebie-jeebies. They should sell a pill for that...the heebie jeebies. I suppose they do. It's much worse than chronic dry eye. Later on, I made an Asiago cheese sandwich with French bread, but it just wasn't the same. Although it was nice to find it bug free.
I can't help but think that I brought about this plague myself. A square bagel just isn't right. It's like a Jew that puts up a Christmas tree. Or maybe not, I don't know. I'm an atheist, but I have the brains to hedge my bets. I don't mess with the number 13, I don't put a hat on the bed, if I spill salt I fling some over my left shoulder, and I'm not going to buy or eat any more square bagels. It may not seem reasonable, but dammit it just seems right.
For some reason, I also lay my socks flat out on the floor every night with the soles pointing East. So I'm either really in tune with the mystical forces in the universe or I'm pathetically obsessive-compulsive. You decide. Surely, the little-bitty black bug on my bagel played a major role in my decision to avoid Thomas' square bagels. Nothing subtle about that. I just hope I never find a bug in my sweet, sweet lorazepam.
Some of you may be familiar with the pseudo-famous German Industrial Punk band, "Feet Times 1,000." Or perhaps not.
Regardless of that, a couple of days ago, I picked up some "everything" bagels (which is the very height of hyperbole) that were square. At first I was excited, as if so many of life's unanswered questions would be answered by a new bagel shape. I felt bad when I got home, though, as if I had been talked into sending a Nigerian banker some money to help him out of a jam; I had buyer's remorse. It's no big deal, but some food purchases really say a lot about who you are. Imagine the person who buys Lunchables. Yeesh. I don't want to think about what a square bagel says about me. Perhaps that I'm a petty fat fuck who eagerly purchases every new food product as soon as corporate America can shit it out. Like I'm really stymied in my daily life by the problem of a round bagel and a square toaster.
Square bagels I had, so earlier today I tried to make the aformentioned sandwich, and that's when I found a tiny insect crawling around. It was a poppy-seed with legs. Needless to say, I didn't make a sandwich. I gave the remaining bagels to the birds in the courtyard (they didn't mind the bug) and then sought to recover from a bout of the heebie-jeebies. They should sell a pill for that...the heebie jeebies. I suppose they do. It's much worse than chronic dry eye. Later on, I made an Asiago cheese sandwich with French bread, but it just wasn't the same. Although it was nice to find it bug free.
I can't help but think that I brought about this plague myself. A square bagel just isn't right. It's like a Jew that puts up a Christmas tree. Or maybe not, I don't know. I'm an atheist, but I have the brains to hedge my bets. I don't mess with the number 13, I don't put a hat on the bed, if I spill salt I fling some over my left shoulder, and I'm not going to buy or eat any more square bagels. It may not seem reasonable, but dammit it just seems right.
For some reason, I also lay my socks flat out on the floor every night with the soles pointing East. So I'm either really in tune with the mystical forces in the universe or I'm pathetically obsessive-compulsive. You decide. Surely, the little-bitty black bug on my bagel played a major role in my decision to avoid Thomas' square bagels. Nothing subtle about that. I just hope I never find a bug in my sweet, sweet lorazepam.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Of Killers And That Little Prick Below My Window
When I was younger, roughly between the ages of 8 and 16, I spent a great deal of time trying to reconcile the kindness of which human beings are capable with the unspeakable cruelty. There were the respectable and compassionate people whom I looked at with admiration. If ever I was restless and unhappy when thinking about them, it was only because I questioned my ability to be as forgiving and reasonable as they. But the dark thoughts that we all have found a toe-hold in my mind, and I could not shake them loose. Every news story about a serial killer, war crime, or any act of gory brutality stopped me cold wherever I was and demanded to be dealt with immediately. Sort of like an intelligent person obsessively working on a math problem. As an emotional person, I found the coexistence of these two extremes vexing.
That was merely the beginning of it. And I'm not overstating how painful this was for me. It soured the taste of the world. I should have been somewhat able to put the truculence around me out of my mind, at least until I was older and more prepared to deal with it. I write, "around me" in a way that only a victim of the "age of information" could understand it. In truth, I was surrounded by a loving family and a fair number of friends in neighborhoods that were always free of crime or anything to be feared, except boredom. But the world beyond could seep into your ear and eye holes long before the Internet. Movies, newspapers and television made sure that you never had to go a minute without hearing about the Hellish "wonders" of the world.
What a jerk I was to so many people. So often I was in a foul mood and irritated. If only I could go back and tell people what was going on. I was brooding, man! Although I'm not sure if that would help. It does make you look crazy, doesn't it? So crazy I was, apparently. Not a thing I could do about it, no more than I can wish myself sane today. I like to think that I've a kind disposition, and that these disturbing thoughts bothered me so much because I was and am such a compassionate bloke. And happily, that take follows logically.
For years and years my nightmares were full of serial killers, and anyone else who took life and caused pain without reason. To kill for money had a logic to it, so it bothered me a bit less. My greatest fear was that I would one day wake up and see the world as Dahmer or Gein saw it. That fucking Jeffrey Dahmer haunted me. Again, not because I was afraid a skinny, strange man with a bad haircut was going to eat me. Oh, no. But maybe Dahmer had been like me, and one day everything just went "pop!" and he found himself eating people. Yeesh.
I've since found out a few lovely factoids about serial killers. They don't just go, "pop!" and start killing people, like Bush and company. They are often victims of hideous cruelty themselves, which is both ironic and logical. Right now, there is a kid yelling in the courtyard beneath my window. If I could get away with it, I'd kill that fucker stone-cold with a mallet. Such a desire may have bothered me when I was a kid. Today, however, I know how to relax, and take comfort in knowing that, like all of us, he's going to die sooner or later without me doing anything. Some disease will ravage his organs, or a stroke will turn him into a vegetable. If he doesn't die young, then he gets to watch his body painfully waste away.
That's what you have to do to get through life. Don't let it bother you. Rest your weary, it will all be over soon! Accentuate the positive!
That was merely the beginning of it. And I'm not overstating how painful this was for me. It soured the taste of the world. I should have been somewhat able to put the truculence around me out of my mind, at least until I was older and more prepared to deal with it. I write, "around me" in a way that only a victim of the "age of information" could understand it. In truth, I was surrounded by a loving family and a fair number of friends in neighborhoods that were always free of crime or anything to be feared, except boredom. But the world beyond could seep into your ear and eye holes long before the Internet. Movies, newspapers and television made sure that you never had to go a minute without hearing about the Hellish "wonders" of the world.
What a jerk I was to so many people. So often I was in a foul mood and irritated. If only I could go back and tell people what was going on. I was brooding, man! Although I'm not sure if that would help. It does make you look crazy, doesn't it? So crazy I was, apparently. Not a thing I could do about it, no more than I can wish myself sane today. I like to think that I've a kind disposition, and that these disturbing thoughts bothered me so much because I was and am such a compassionate bloke. And happily, that take follows logically.
For years and years my nightmares were full of serial killers, and anyone else who took life and caused pain without reason. To kill for money had a logic to it, so it bothered me a bit less. My greatest fear was that I would one day wake up and see the world as Dahmer or Gein saw it. That fucking Jeffrey Dahmer haunted me. Again, not because I was afraid a skinny, strange man with a bad haircut was going to eat me. Oh, no. But maybe Dahmer had been like me, and one day everything just went "pop!" and he found himself eating people. Yeesh.
I've since found out a few lovely factoids about serial killers. They don't just go, "pop!" and start killing people, like Bush and company. They are often victims of hideous cruelty themselves, which is both ironic and logical. Right now, there is a kid yelling in the courtyard beneath my window. If I could get away with it, I'd kill that fucker stone-cold with a mallet. Such a desire may have bothered me when I was a kid. Today, however, I know how to relax, and take comfort in knowing that, like all of us, he's going to die sooner or later without me doing anything. Some disease will ravage his organs, or a stroke will turn him into a vegetable. If he doesn't die young, then he gets to watch his body painfully waste away.
That's what you have to do to get through life. Don't let it bother you. Rest your weary, it will all be over soon! Accentuate the positive!
Days of Thunder Made Me Suicidal
I understand that Tom Cruise apologized to Brooke Shields for his comments about anti-depressants. As you may recall, Cruise is a member of a cult that encourages depressed members to eat large doses of Flintstone's Chewables instead of seeking professional help. As a mentally ill person who needs a lot more than vitamins, I think Mr. Cruise owes me an apology, as well. Why? Because after his little anti-psychiatry schpiel last year, I had to listen to every Tom Cruise fan tell me that, "Maybe he is on to something." On to something? After years of extensive research into psychopharmacology, in between making "Risky Business" and "Mission Impossible" he is going to doctor the world into moist, pink mental health? Fuck him! If it weren't for his hired help, he probably couldn't boil an egg or make a cup of coffee. I think I'll stick with the advice of my psychiatrist, thank you.So enjoy the apology Ms. Shields. I hope he was prostrate before you and weeping when he made it. It would have been nice if you had, for all of us, hauled off and kicked that handsome mother fucker right in the balls. Let him take vitamins for that.
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