Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Halloween Candy Apple Pie & Coffee

The picture on the left is posted in the spirit of Halloween. The only thing scarier than Donald Rumsfeld is Donald Rumsfeld poking at his own brain through his eyes. He looks like he's up to at least one nuckle. I thought he was human, but also an unscrupulous bastard who may also be a psychopath. Now I'm thinking that he may be a cyborg. Intelligent people can disagree. I've seen most of his press conferences, and there is an electricity in the air as he doubletalks his way past Helen Thomas, Dana Bash, and other journalists. It's like watching a baboon fart the Star-Spangled Banner while walking across a tightrope. It's disgusting and ridiculous, but you have to appreciate the spectacle of it.

George Bush, on the other hand, is an abomination. Like that kid in The Omen who drives the poor monkeys at the zoo crazy. Everyone feels vaguely ill at ease in his company and just wants to get away from the black void that occupies the space where his soul should be. I can't imagine what it's like to actually be in the room with him. Yikes. The way he earnestly repeats absurd claims about the war over and over again. It just can't be good. Chavez was onto something. He may not be El Diablo, but he's at least a lesser demon of some kind.

Either that or he's just a fucking idiot who was propped up by Karl Rove.

Anyway. Enjoy your Halloween, everyone. Eat some candy, smash a pumpkin, all that good stuff.

Of Punks and Paranoia

Well, friends, unfortunately I have to report a major setback as I slowly travel along the road to soft, pink mental health. It's a long story, but basically an 18 year old supercilious kid offered me "advice" to overcome bipolar disorder and anxiety; think positive thoughts and shun negativity. In retrospect, it was so painfully trite and quaint that I don't know why I got so upset. But even at the age of 18, he should have been intelligent enough to know that mental illness is quite a bit more stubborn than, say, having a song stuck in your head.

I don't really blame him for my reaction. He just doesn't know of what he speaks. And he chose a condescending tone, as adolescents are oft want to do. The profound heartache I felt in the wake of our little talk was due to my inability to rid myself of the stench of failure. I succumbed to paranoia and self-loathing that raged into a perfect storm. He was just being a jerk, something I have been on countless occasions. But I was being fragile, weak and gutless. This must be remedied if I'm ever to return to work. And if I ever give up hope of that happening, I'm screwed.

Something amusing did happen today, though. Actually, I'm sure countless amusing things happened, but I noticed this one so I'll relate it. An attractive man sent me an instant message via Yahoo!, and he made it clear that he was interested in getting to know me for reasons beyond mere friendship. He wanted to bang me, methinks. I'm bisexual, but I heavily travel in the heterosexual quarter, simply because most men are nasty little creatures. But who knows, he could have been the love of my life. He knew me from a discussion group for GLBTQ liberation online. He kindly spoke of how he thought I was wise and funny, and he thought my profile picture was "adorable." Sure! Then he asked if I had a full body picture, which I did. I sent him a picture of me waving the Venezuelan flag. There was a pause, and he wrote back, "I'm sorry, I like petite guys."

So basically I was rejected without even having made any kind of overture. Like losing a bet that you never placed, or getting sick from a sandwich from which you never took a bite. I expect a phone call from an employer telling me I didn't get the job that I never even knew existed, and for which I certainly did not apply. A new age of abnegation is at hand! One has to admit that antecedent dismissals are a great way to save time and energy. Forget about all those nervous days and nights leading up to the big moment when you ask the attractive girl in the cafe out on a date. Wouldn't it save time if she shot you down in advance, giving you time back that you would have otherwise wasted on nervous kvetching?

Sure.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

My Cats Want Me Dead

I love my cats. Impy is an adorable little kitten we rescued out from under a neighbors stoop. Fluffy is Impy's mother, and was rescued that day, as well. Panther (who isn't black, but orange) was abandonded by a newly engaged couple. Apparently the new guy was allergic to cats. And finally, Toulouse, who was adopted by Donna and I. Like any parent, a loving pet owner could talk endlessly about their "children." I could, too, so I'll move on.

I just want there to be written evidence of my premonition, which is that my cats are trying to kill me. While taking a load of wash down to the basement, arms laden with socks, shirts, and underwear, Impy bolted by my feet and I tripped. By some miracle, I fell into the side wall instead of dead ahead, and thus survived. Then she just looked up at me, so innocent and cute, and my anger immediately disappeared. I stopped the bleeding on my elbow and put ice on my knee, and she purred and purred.

Something like this happens every day, without exception. Usually several times a day. But my premonition is about the flight of stairs between the first and second floors of my flat. It's really steep, and if one of those fucking cats gets the "foot fly-by" timed right, I'm a goner. And, like a terrorist, they only have to succeed once. Meanwhile, I have to be vigilant.

Panther, Toulouse and Impy are all guilty of the attempted murderous stair trip-up. Fluffy has a different strategy. She hides in the glass cabinet and tries to give you a heart attack when you reach for something. She almost got my brother Kent that way. And since I'm up very late most nights, Toulouse and Impy use my fondness for a dark, quiet room while writing to scare the fuck out of me. Sometimes, I'm sitting here at my desk, focused on the monitor, and all is quiet for an hour or two. Then, suddenly, a cat flings itself onto the keyboard from out of the darkness. When I regain consciousness, I'm usually not mad, just happy to be alive. And they are free to try again.

The question is, "why?" Why the hell do they want me dead? I'm such a good pet owner. They hae plenty of food, and love, and grooming and all that. The only reason that comes to mind is this: They want to get outside, and they see me as an obstacle. How do I make it clear to them that killing me won't get them outside, it will only make them homeless. Or, at best, in the care of friends like Clare, Melanie and Donna. Hmmm, maybe that's it. Clare, Melanie and Donna all live in a house, with a yard, and they sometimes let their cats out. Donna is 3,000 miles away, and already has three cats. Clare and Melanie have plenty o' cats, too, so they would have a hard time taking them in.

Or maybe it's more abstract than that. All they know is that it will be easier to get out with me out of the way. Oh, man. I feel like I'm in an abusive relationship. But as I said, if I go flying down the stairs and bounce off the front door, look to the cats...the cats did it.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Have You Hugged A Federal Judge Today?

I wish Madonna would adopt me. If she did, my father wouldn't object. I'm not of a mind to write much today, but I feel like writing something. The classic science fiction film The Day The Earth Stood Still was on earlier, and now the original King Kong is playing. Excellent. Sometimes life just smiles on you.

While the big ape is being tracked on-screen, I'm reading about a famous court case from 1989, Texas v. Johnson. In that case, the Texas courts decided that there couldn't be a law against flag desecration. Surprising that any wisdom would come out of Texas, but there you go. That led to King George the Elder to try and get a national law passed. About a year later, In the United States v. Eichman, the Supreme Court backed up the Texas courts and thus gave birth to the insane right-wing push for a "flag-burning" amendment to the US Constitution.

It's kind of fun (for me) to see how a simple court decision can motivate the creation of a massive public campaign, like the push for such a ridiculous amendment. Of the three branches of government, the courts are the least corrupt. They are also less likely to give in to the mob due to lifetime appointments by elected officials, not directly by the people. So the least democratic branch of our government does the best job of defending the sacred principles of the Republic. Judges are also the hardest group for corporations and special interests to manipulate. The Christian right fundamentalists are really annoyed at their inability to fuck around with the courts, and as a result they advocate the direct election of judges and eliminating lifetime appointments.

I believe strongly in democracy, but at the same time I know that there needs to be as big a buffer as possible between the mob and the mechanisms of law and government. Direct democracy is as fearful a thing as fascism. Throughout the history of the country, the courts have frequently done things that have really pissed off the majority, but were the right things to do. Like Brown v. Board of Education, which eliminated segregation in the schools. And Edwards v. California, which struck down a law that was passed in California that made it illegal for "poor people" to travel into the state! They were really sick of those "Okies."

The courts are very far from perfect, but they really are the best hope for the shit-upon to get a fair shake. Now we've had six years to see how pathetic Congress can be when the majority party also holds the presidency. Yikes. The courts annoy King Bush the Younger. That alone indicates how valuable they are in defending the country against itself.

Just a thought.

Have You Hugged A Federal Judge Today?

I wish Madonna would adopt me. If she did, my father wouldn't object. I'm not of a mind to write much today, but I feel like writing something. The classic science fiction film The Day The Earth Stood Still was on earlier, and now the original King Kong is playing. Excellent. Sometimes life just smiles on you.

While the big ape is being tracked on-screen, I'm reading about a famous court case from 1989, Texas v. Johnson. In that case, the Texas courts decided that there couldn't be a law against flag desecration. Surprising that any wisdom would come out of Texas, but there you go. That led to King George the Elder to try and get a national law passed. About a year later, In the United States v. Eichman, the Supreme Court backed up the Texas courts and thus gave birth to the insane right-wing push for a "flag-burning" amendment to the US Constitution.

It's kind of fun (for me) to see how a simple court decision can motivate the creation of a massive public campaign, like the push for such a ridiculous amendment. Of the three branches of government, the courts are the least corrupt. They are also less likely to give in to the mob due to lifetime appointments by elected officials, not directly by the people. So the least democratic branch of our government does the best job of defending the sacred principles of the Republic. Judges are also the hardest group for corporations and special interests to manipulate. The Christian right fundamentalists are really annoyed at their inability to fuck around with the courts, and as a result they advocate the direct election of judges and eliminating lifetime appointments.

I believe strongly in democracy, but at the same time I know that there needs to be as big a buffer as possible between the mob and the mechanisms of law and government. Direct democracy is as fearful a thing as fascism. Throughout the history of the country, the courts have frequently done things that have really pissed off the majority, but were the right things to do. Like Brown v. Board of Education, which eliminated segregation in the schools. And Edwards v. California, which struck down a law that was passed in California that made it illegal for "poor people" to travel into the state! They were really sick of those "Okies."

The courts are very far from perfect, but they really are the best hope for the shit-upon to get a fair shake. Now we've had six years to see how pathetic Congress can be when the majority party also holds the presidency. Yikes. The courts annoy King Bush the Younger. That alone indicates how valuable they are in defending the country against itself.

Just a thought.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Of Pants and Massacres

A few minutes ago I was reading an article by Paul Street, who writes for NZet, where he has a blog. It was an excellent piece that warned against "Obamania," a reference to a growing affinity for Democratic Senator Barak Obama among progressives. As a real radical (he quotes Eugene V. Debs to make his point), he's not as taken with the young Senator from Illinois. And when I read or listen to left-wing radicals slam the Democratic Party, it starts a schizophrenic debate in my mind. It's the same one that comes up every election. Do I vote for the radical with whom I agree, or the Democrat who is a corporate whore but still infinitely better than Republican?

So I was reading the article. At the same time, the original 1974 The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was playing on FUSE, and I wasn't really watching it but it was on the television. I don't know what FUSE is supposed to be, or more precisely what demographic they are targeting. There seemed to be a lot promos that were clearly trying to make me think that I was watching an "edgy" channel. In the way that a beer commercial is edgy, though. Big corporations flinging tons of money around to encourage young people to be loyal to their brand. So, like every other channel. The movie is over, and a game show called, "The No-Pants Dance-Off" just started.

Yeah, sure, bring it on. I have no will to fight left. Stick it in me.

Perhaps not. I have standards...I'm not just going to sit and take this heinous crap. I'm going to change the channel! Turn it off and read a book? Write a book? Go for a walk? Play with my dolls? No, I can't do that...Adam's Rib is on TCM. It's starting to make sense why I'm such a Milquetoast when it comes to my politics. But c'mon, it's Spencer Tracy and Kate Hepburn, man.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Pardon Me, Would You Gently Cram It?

I enjoy membership in an online dating site for fucked-up fat retards with absolutely no redeeming features whatsoever. That's pretty much how the field looks, anyway, and I'm in the field. I'm ĂȘtre cĂ©libataire, as the Frenchies would have it. Every week or so I toddle over to this website to see what hack-nosed granny or porcine lunatic wants to talk to me. About a month ago, I started mentioning this blog in the part of the profile where I'm supposed to be witty, smart and funny as a way of tricking a member of the opposite sex into giving me the time of day. I couldn't help but notice that the number of respondants trickled down to a fraction of what they were before I mentioned this blog. Sublime! There were about 5 or 6 who in some way contacted me before. In the cyber-universe provided, that could mean that a woman "smiled" at me, or actually wrote a letter. There is actually a "smile" button. There should be other buttons on there to express the myriad of human emotions and subtle interactions of which we humans are capable. Something like, "Pick a tick out of his back hair and eat it" or "Suck a lollipop like you're in an '80's glam rock video."

Now, I'm down to 1 or 2 people a week, at best. The only thing I changed is the address for Zeitgeist Expatriate. Or maybe that was around the time I put a picture of my cock on my profile. No, I didn't, that's a joke...and a different website altogether. But I don't know why I'm so earnestly trying to get a date at all. Yes, it's great to be in love and to fuck and all that, but is it worth the abject humiliation? Is it? For every one positive dating experience I have about ten horror stories. In all but a handful of sexual experiences in my life, my proposed partner slept with me on the first date. That indicates to me a heinous reality; If I haven't sold whatever it is they think I have the first night out, I'm not going to. If you think about that as I have, it's disturbing. Really.

One time, I blew a date in the first 30 seconds. I sat down with a fellow UMass student at the now defunct Someday Cafe. As I motioned to speak, my cough drop flew out of my mouth and hit the table. But it didn't just hit the table, it shattered all over the table. The drop had been sucked down to the width of a human hair, so when it went sailing out over my raspberry scone and crashed, bits of Hall's Mentho-Lyptus shot to every corner of the (albeit small) table. My comeback was fairly decent...I said something about the mating rituals in my country. But when you so violently display your inability to suck on a lozenge like a normal person, there's a huge hole to get out of. Not to mention the spectacle of me cleaning the bits off the table, and then missing a couple that remained to stand in silent testimony against me.

Fuck that noise. And in the spirit of that attitude, I'm off to wank into a cup at 7am. And away we go!

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Snicker Tuba God Thing

This advertisement for Snickers scared the beejeesus out of me. On the bottom there on the right it says, It's what you would want. And the picture is supposed to be a woman giving miniature versions of herself the candy of her deepest desires, Snickers. It has a combined Twilight Zone, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and The Brood feel about it. Take it away, please.

Right now, my neighbor is practicing some sort of wind instrument. Either that, or he just fell down the stairs with his tuba. I'm not sure what it is, but I think the fall killed them both. Ah, sweet mercy on the three of us.

It's worth mentioning that it has been 4,000 days since I challenged God to a fight, and that wuss has yet to show. I'm right here, you prick. You know the rules...bring it on. I haven't been in a fight since kindergarten at the Brown School in Somerville, so I figure the you'll have a chance. That's how I roll.

Monday, October 23, 2006

The Day I Took Seven Pictures And Thought About Greta Garbo

For reasons that are unclear to me, I'm shaking like a leaf, whatever that means. Earlier this morning I awoke in a fine mood and endeavored to take a modest step in the right direction. It may not look it, but the soft pink joy bomb of mental health is always in my crosshairs. I'm never going to be well, though, but the brief moments of emotional stability and related joie de vivre really mean a lot to me.

With my ancient 35mm camera in hand, I headed out to snap some early morning fall pictures. Photography helps create the illusion that the present matters at all, at least so much that it is worth capturing on film. The reality is that it is all a big, fat lie. Everything is in transit from one form to another, and no one form speaks to a higher truth than any other form. Why look to a photograph to find beauty (or anything else) when all it is is a record of what is happening around you all the time? Naturally, it has to be about the "artist" taking the photograph. So in that sense, a photo is like a mirror image of the artists' mind and aesthetic disposition. Or soul, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Most photographs are terrible. The subject matter is maudlin, the composition is cluttered, and the artist is pretentious and unworthy of my valuable attention. That's why I stash my photos away, like my poetry and short stories. Most of them anyway. Incidentally, my photographs are trash, too. They are all in black and white, and I justify that by insisting on a connection between the beginning of photography and modern times. The predominance of colour photography, even in family photos, creates an ugly borderline between the world of our ancestors and the world today. I despise that disconnect. Aesthetically, I'm also fond of black and white. It makes the familiar look a little alien to me, provides me with useful distance.

What a ton of magniloquent ego debris, right? That's why, as Greta Garbo said in the 1932 classic film Grand Hotel, "I want to be alone." By being alone, I eliminate the risk of making a fool out of myself. But this 'blog provides that service nicely. By the way, Garbo actually said, "I want to be let alone" in that movie, but everyone remembers it the other way. A picture of her then lively and attractive form is on my wall next to me, along with Edith Piaf and Eugene V. Debs. None of them look very good now.

I stopped for something to drink at Boyle's Spa, which is right down the street. I got a Diet Coke, but also picked up a chocolate drink called, Godiva Belgian Blends dark chocolate mocha beverage. It cost nearly $2 for 9.5 ounces of the stuff, which is supposed to be, "a revitalizing taste inspired by Godiva's Belgian heritage." How could I say no to something like that? Unfortunately, it tasted like a $2 bottle of Yoo-Hoo. Yuck.

Some fellows were busy doing some construction on Mass. Ave., so I took a picture or two. I made my way to the cemetery across from the medical building and Teamster's Credit Union. For some reason, I have some nice memories of that cemetery. The leaves were brilliant, and most of the people around were dead and buried so they didn't bother me. Even if they were alive, it would be hard to hear them through the concrete shell and coffin and six feet of rocks and dirt. So it was enjoyable.

Eventually, I found myself getting angry at the condominium developers who built six new $550,000 units right next to the cemetery. I don't know why, but I wanted to slap them. It's such a cowardly investment....oooh, let's build yet another set of condos! Fuck you. But my little trip close to my flat ended with my dropping in to say hello to the secretery at my doctor's clinic. She likes me, and my father thinks I should ask her out, but I think that she is just happy to have someone under 65 to talk to sometimes. She is cute as all hell. For those of you in the know, I'm going to take a very long breather from relationships. Like, a LIFE-LONG breather. Frienships only, methinks. What a loss to everyone, I know.

And now I'm home. I took 7 pictures. Yay.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To

The arms of Morpheus never found me last night, so I got up and rumbled around my room. I considered going for a walk at around 1am, but it was quite cold out and I had no interest in putting clothes on. No more than my night-shirt and socks, anyway. I never took my socks off from the day before so as to avoid the ritual of painstakingly arranging them on the floor. So in various ways I endeavored to spend the time before me as best I could. It wasn't easy, as I was really looking forward to a sleep-induced time warp to get me through the night. My friends were very much on my mind, and lately I feel truly despised. Have you ever been sick, and your partner and/or family was forced to take care of you for a bit? In return, you feel like a terrible burden. That's how I feel all the fucking time.

But I had my closest friend to comfort me last night, my Donna. I genuinely believe she loves me, and I even think that she understands me as much as any one person can understand another. I talked to other people, but their contributions weren't of any consquence. That's not a criticism, it's just the way things are, and the way they went. The only other interaction of importance never happened, with a young girl I happen to love; I got the brush off. I'm not angry, or even irritated, it's all very predictable.

Here's how the rest of the early morning went:

2am: Listened to the music of Cole Porter, Nina Simone, Tchaikovsky, The Kinks and Prince on my computer while playing World of Warcraft. You can't fathom how satisfying it is to kill a "mosshide gnoll" with Prince's Pussy Control blaring in the background. Priceless.

3:30am: Tried and failed to get aforementioned young lady on the phone to discuss status of "relationship." Then spoke, via Yahoo! Messenger with a friend from Florida. Took a Zomig and 800mg ibuprofen for a migraine, along with 5 single miligram lorazepam for sleep. Headache was dimmed, but sleep remained elusive.

4:00am: Made an Asiago and cream cheese sandwich on an Everything bagel, became vaguely ill. Watched the second half of Joss Whedon's Serenity. My conclusion is that it was better than I thought it would be.

4:45am: Picked my nose for a couple of minutes, then read Sheryl Monks' A Girl at his Show, a piece of short fiction that won some sort of award and was printed in Backwards City Review. They print comics, prose and poetry and have contests...good magazine. I accidentally underpaid for my subscription ($10 instead of $12) but they let me have it anyway. Out of North Carolina, I believe.

5:45am: Considered masturbating to a picture of Nicole Kidman's ass (from Eyes Wide Shut) that I have on my cork board. But I was too depressed, anxious, tired and suicidal to do that.

5:47am: Masturbated anyway.

6:07am: Got into a fierce argument with some fellow in a religious chatroom about meta-ethical relativism and the differences between the Christian and Zoroastrian worldview concerning good vs. evil. I ended up calling him a "douchebag" and told him that I pray for President Bush's death every day. He said that it is illegal to say that, and is going to report me to the FBI. I responded, "Go ahead, you walking cunt."

7:25am: Made coffee and threw pistachios for Impy to chase.

That's about it. I'm probably going to vomit soon from the lack of sleep...ever get that? Cole Porter is magnificent. Actually, this song isn't his, but man it's beautiful. Anyway, Cheers.

You'd be so nice to come to
You'd be so nice by the fire
While the breeze on high, sang a lullaby
You'd be all that I could desire
Under stars chilled by the winter
Under an August moon burning above
You'd be so nice
You'd be paradise, to come home to and love

Friday, October 20, 2006

Malarkey

Good day to you all, you wonderful people, you. It's raining, which puts me in a good mood. It prevents the neighborhood kids from playing football in the small courtyard below my window, so I am blessed with some peace and quiet. And the sugar maple in that courtyard is brilliantly coloured in red and yellow. I like a sunny day now and again, but this is my kind of weather; the world feels more forgiving of my pathetic pseudo-existence. One feels hidden from the cruel and revealing bright sunshine, and I don't like being mocked by the blue sky, either.

Anyway, a couple of friends o' mine expressed concern over my upcoming surgery. I wrote to Anne, my bird from London, and let her know that it is routine surgery. I'll probably go home later the same day, drugged and sore, but home free. She didn't seem to be any more at ease, however, and said something like, "In the states, they send you home as soon as they stitch you up." While there is some truth to that, I really want to say that the surgery is considered minor. You can see an illustration of it in my last post. Nothing like the gastric bypass. But thanks to those who wrote or called out of concern.

Of greater concern to me is my increasing need to engage in certain obsessive rituals during the day. Like the left/right sock thing, and the need to lay them out correctly every night (see picture). I also have a pen mark on my pillow case to make sure that a specific part is always on the bottom right. The container of half & half always has to be lined up correctly in the refridgerator after use. And sometimes I have to read the full descriptions of every movie on every cable channel for the whole night. So odd, and so damn time consuming. I guess I'll have to talk to my psychiatrist and therapist about all this malarkey.

Get out, or in, and enjoy this weather everyone. And get laid. Yeah.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

My Search For "Health" Advice

Those of you who know me know all about my non-functioning, one remaining ball that is soon to be removed. I talk about it frequently, as there is an undeniable psychological impact that goes along with being ball-less. And minor surgery is just something that one is inclined to be concerned about. This will be the fourth time I've had surgery and at least the 20th time I've been anesthetized for a medical procedure (there were about 15 ECT sessions). Whenever I feel inclined to complain, I think about a young lady I know out in California who had a heart/lung transplant at age 19. It's all about perspective.

That said, aspects of this do amuse me, though. I'm supposed to take a fertility test to see if I am producing any viable sperm. I was told in my early twenties that that is impossible, but the doc just wants to make sure. Therefore, I have to go to a clinic and jerk-off into a cup. It's humiliating for some reason, even though I know everyone does it. You're probably doing it right now. But I get a little embarrassed when the nurse hands me a cup to collect urine. On the plus side, I'm looking forward to basking in the surreal experience of being encouraged to enjoy poronography in a clinic.

But I would never do this if I didn't have to do it. I'm in a modicum of pain that won't go away until the surgery. And he won't do the surgery if I don't do this. He's not going to do any tests, he just wants me to do it. OK, I'm kidding.

The email below was sent to the "Toys-in-Babeland" sex advice column. Toys in Babeland sells vibrators, butt plugs, sleeves, dolls, books, DVD's and just about anything having to do with sex. It is owned by a lesbian couple, and they do a fabulous job. When a woman owns a sex toy store, it's fun and genuine. People are encouraged to ditch shame and have a good time. When a man owns a sex toy shop, the atmosphere is usually very different. People alternately giggle and feel ashamed of what they are doing, like ripping a fart in a gun store.

Anyway, the letter below was actually sent to provide amusement to them and myself. I'll let you know when I get a response.

"Hello, and thank you in advance. This will be the second time I've gone to you for help. I also once purchased a Hummingbird vibrator for my girlfriend on your advice. It was a hit, she came so hard I was a little afraid of her.

My question is about my having to go to a fertility clinic and leave a sperm sample. Masturbation isn't a problem for me, it's actually my favorite pastime next to World of Warcraft. Sometimes I do them at the same time. Those elves are real teases. Anyway, I'm afraid that I'll be unable to come when I'm in a clinic, with a group of medical professionals outside waiting for me to do it. It may turn me on, but it may not. And lately I've had the terrible misfortune of having Dennis Hastert appear in my masturbation fantasies. Any thought of Republicans in general renders me anorgasmic and limp, but Hastert is particularly unattractive. At first, I'm fine. I think of the women I've been with, both in relationships and "one-night" stands. And then I invite Scarlett Johannsen and a young Rita Hayworth into the mix. Then there is a pleasant amalgam of every girl I saw on the subway or in public. I want them all, really.

And then "Bap!" there is Senator fucking Hastert, with his ill-fitting suit and triple chin and douchebag politics. If I'm lucky, I can get him to morph into Brad Pitt from Fight Club, but what if I can't next week? It's so absurd. I've been masturbating since I realized I could. When I was 19, I did it twelve times in one day. Ah, 19...what a fine age.

Do you have any recommendations on how to get an unappealing party crasher out of my head?

Signed,
Ball-less In Boston"

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Among The Living

I've not heard from some friends in awhile, and it's in my nature to think that they are distancing themselves from the rotten stench of failure and isolated despondency eminating from whatever compartment they have me occupying. There may or may not be any truth behind my take on what is happening, but I do know that the avenues and thoroughfares that connect me to my closest friends are virtually barren. There is very little in the way of correspondence, and when I do reach out in a moment of weakness and search for a word of encouragement, it either isn't there or requires fantastic effort to rouse it.

This is a very emotional issue for me, because I shun the attention of all but a very small group of friends. As they continue down a road that includes a career, a steady relationship, and their own larger circle of friends, I'm bound to be left behind. It isn't anyone's fault, not even mine, it's just the way of things. That way also leads to my total isolation from the world, and then my death, which will be of little or no concern to anyone. And that will be the story of me. Right now, I'm teary-eyed and a little angry that the story of my life will read like that, but I've known for a long time that it would.

I do long for it to be over. If they hadn't put me on a ventilator in the hospital during the last overdose, I would have died. They did, and I'm alive. I do some good, and hopefully I have made it clear to people how much they mean to me. I really do love people, with all their eccentricities and love affairs and ill-conceived notions. And every act of sincere compassion and concern for the welfare of others leaves me drifting in thought, and I am filled with awe. Yes, I'm a romantic. Who gives a fucking shit?

Fundamentally, what I miss is intercouse with the world. The comfort and company and challeges of other people. I miss telling a funny joke, making a pretty girl smile, rushing from one class to the next, and being a face people recognize. But while I was once human and one among many, now I am one alone. I could try to develop an interesting poem about how my attempted suicide was successful in reality, or about how I wanted to be dead and outside the world and I got my wish. Something melodramatic and ironic. The truth is that I'm a very sick man who suffers from mental illness. I've been responsible, and sought help via ECT, therapy, and psychopharmocology. I take my pills and go to all my meetings, but this is it, this is as good as it gets. And while I enjoy a modicum of comfort, I would give the next twenty years of my life to be able to live one year free of my illness. I remember what it was like back when I was 20 or 25, and it was far from perfect. But unlike now, back then I was among the living.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Nobody Fucks You When You're Dead

I need a shave, and a shower wouldn't hurt, either. My boudoir is clean and painfully well-organized, so I can get away with a little poor hygeine without feeling as if I'm falling apart. As we used to say in the psych ward, "There's nothing wrong that a shower wouldn't cure." Sometimes, I take two a day, and I enjoy cleaning every inch of my naked body. When I'm like that, I put the water up so high that I feel like I'm being sterilized in an autoclave. My favorite part to render immaculate and free of oil and grime is behind and inside my ears. It is, in the parlance of the day, "da bomb."

Incidentally, I know that a "boudoir" is a woman's bedroom. But I've never been big on the binary gender way of looking at things. Besides, I have boobs and I'm sans testicles, so I can use whatever fucking word I want.

Some days, however, I can barely force myself into a lukewarm shower, and I find the whole process irritating and disconcerting. Fortunately, for myself and those near me, this is rare. A gentleman told me that the cause is connected to my non-functioning thyroid gland. Something about sensitive skin and muscles. I can accept that...there are worse things out there.

I'm getting a serious case of déjà vu. If I've written this before, please forgive me.

An atheist organization to which I belong has an online discussion group. Somebody was talking about death and funerals, and how her mother (an alzheimer's victim) recently died. She was cremated and had no memorial. Since they knew she was dying, she argued, anyone who cared paid their respects while she was among the living. I'm strongly inclined against having a memorial, too. The discussion made me think of my own plans for the disposition of my fat body. I'm already a lifetime member of the Cremation Society of Massachusetts, and my desire to have a cremation with no memorial service is on file. For months, I was torn between flinging my ashes into the ocean off of Cape Cod (in an area specially sanctioned for such a thing) and having them stored next to my mother and father in Burlington; my mother is already there, and my father and I will be joining her in time. I've finally decided on the latter option, which means just a little more paperwork and I'm done. That comforts me, as does the knowledge that I carefully chose the cheapest way to get rid of my body short of a vat of acid or a shark-infested tank. Both of those seem a little James Bond, so this is as good as I can do. By the way, if you find my body, take out the CSM membership card (behind the picture of Donna) and call the toll-free number on the front, under my name. That way, they'll know to come get me and burn me and put me in a cardboard urn.

That's the other thing, the fucking urn. You should see the brochure I have, called, "Impressions." Some of these things are undeniably classy. One looks like a mini-sarcophagus, and many are very simple and elegant. Like your ashes are being held in the lobby of the headquarters of a mini-corporation. Or perhaps the main gallery of the MFA that you never visited in life, lost of clean lines and marble, and you're the art on display. That's not how I'd describe the one I scanned and posted above to the right, but hey, every asshole gets his or her own urn. A giant cigar that actually functions as a humidor in life to be used as an urn upon the owners death. Wow. If I had my choice, and money were no object, I'd want my fat-dust blown into Anne Coulter's face. Or Hannity or Limbaugh or any of those douchebags, you get the idea.

So my thoughts today are on death, and for that I apologize. Death takes care of itself, and should only be helped along if you are in some sort of pain that cannot be relieved. Think of the cutest person you know, the one you think about while pleasuring yourself. Well, so long as you're alive there is some chance you'll get into his or her pants. But nobody fucks a dead person. Just remember that, ladies and germs. Yes, it's crude and lacks the working-class genius of, "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'." But there is definitely a crowd out there that will respond to my, "Life may be hard, but nobody fucks a dead guy." Or girl...you fill it in. Unfortunately, depression (and the medication frequently used to treat it) usually robs you of a libido. But for a ten-word slogan, I bet the The Samaritans would have a hard time improving on it.
The Samaritans. And for the suicidal teen, there is The Samara-Teens. Fuck off. I called that suicide hotline number precisely two times in my life, and they really pissed me off. They are trained to say nothing, just to listen. I called for advice, knowing that they weren't going to say, "Yeah, you should just kill yourself." So I wanted to hear things like, "You have a lot to live for, you're just in a bad place right now" and "You're in pain, my friend, go to the hospital and get some help...it will get better." Is that so hard? Instead, one hears some jackass play therapist poorly. Around the 10th time I heard, "Tell me how you felt about that," I snapped. I vaguely remember standing near the Boylston Street "T" stop in Boston, not too far from the Colonial Theatre, which I had been taking pictures of in an effort to distract myself from the void; didn't work. I said something like, "Listen you little turd, I didn't call this fucking thing to be mocked by a psychology grad student or a do-gooder prick with no social life. Propose this strategy at your next fucking meeting...talk like a human being and not Mr. Movie-Fone."

I know what I said, because I wrote it down after I said it in a notebook for a human evolutionary biology course called, "Human Variation" taught by Dr. Larry Green. Tough course. Quinine taste sensitivity or some fucking thing. Anyway, it amused me. And calling the couselor a "turd" actually carried emotional weight for me. I used the word around a girl I had fallen in love with and she said it was really gross. And it seemed to anger her a bit. Two months later, we had broken up. I don't think "turd" did it, but I never forgot my lack of couth. So I wore that "turd" like a badge in conversation. When I got upset, out came a "turd."

If you're ever suicidal, save yourself the trouble of calling The Samaritans and talk to your sock. It's bound to be more helpful. Try to enjoy life while you're alive, because nobody fucks you when you're dead.

Friday, October 06, 2006

Crazy McFatfuck Has Nightmares

Every night, with rare exception, finds me fitfully roaming through nightmare after nightmare. No drug will stop them, nor will an enjoyable evening or happy telephone conversation just before I go to sleep. They are consistent only in their power to disturb me, and always leave me feeling much abused and cruelly manipulated by morning. In a fashion similar to an excellent novel or film, which can provide a transendent emotional experience that adds up to a whole lot more than a series of images or words. But not quite like that, as the emotional currency that we use against ourselves can be more evocative than the works of all but a few truly gifted artists. The language of a nightmare draws upon a rich lexicon that is made up of more than thoughts of people and things meant to create an emotional response. That would be bad enough, and sometimes, for whatever reason, the power of a dream ends there. But sometimes, a dream (or more often a nightmare), cheats and uses emotion itself to create a response that is unearned. One may only remember a collection of random events of little or no importance; walking to the store, getting on a trolley car, or enjoying coffee with a friend. If it were a play or novel, we would be waiting for something to happen. But the mind is a stage where you (all of you) is both the performing artist and the audience. You are relating something to yourself, and it that's what I mean by efficiency. Perhaps a better word would be elegance.

In that sense, every dream and every nightmare is sentimental. It is an unearned appeal to emotion. But the emotional power is found to an astounding degree, regardless. That's why you can never explain the dream or nightmare to other people. It's usually embarrassing to try to do so. For example, the things that happened to me in my nightmare last night made me wince upon remembing. I awoke covered in a cold sweat and with a terrific headache. From there, I sought only to escape myself via some distraction, via the television or even stroking the cat. One way or another, I had to get the fuck away from me. Pills help. But if I tried to tell you about it (which I wouldn't), you would laugh at the seemingly random imagery and get really uncomfortable as I earnestly tried to related something unrelatable. Your dreams are produced, composed, written, choreographed, acted and performed by and for you.

Intuitively, one would assume that crazy people have stanger dreams and more horrifying nightmares. I'm not so sure, and I think that I'm inclined to believe that because I doubt other people are as fucked up as me. And to some degree, that may be true. The sane people I know tell me about dreams where they are knitting an enormous sweater while Dane Cook plays darts with Ned Flanders in the background, or some such shit. I ache for that kind of enjoyable simplicity. I suspect that my stupidity and mental instability leads to indecipherable iconography and random imagery, coupled with very disturbing feelings. More intelligent and stable people perhaps have more ordered dreams, with less spillover from one part of the brain to another. They may find themselves having sex with a set of bagpipes in the back seat of '57 Chevy, and wake up feeling violated, but it is still vaguely coherent.

As for me, I don't know what the fuck happened last night. Anxiety was in the background, guilt was absolutely dripping from everywhere, the images were horrifying and complex but they could be related and still have power. One part that I can remember will go with me to my grave, but most of it is thankfully gone. But I still feel like a used rubber, flung from a speeding car (perhaps a '57 Chevy), smeared and stuck to the windshield of a tractor trailor. And this happens five nights a week. I kick my own ass beneath the sheets. As for the other two nights I don't sleep at all. Yeah, I know, woe is me. But it does suck.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Mallard Fillmore Is A Pedophile

So many compelling topics to write about lately, yet it took great effort to prop myself up in front of this thing and do so. The Boston Globe never printed my response to Jeff Jacoby's bullshit article about Venezuela, which irked me. Jacoby is so wrong and I am so right. Fuck him. For those of you who aren't familiar with his column, he's a douchebag moron who drools, shits himself, and writes nonsense for a living. The only true thing he ever said was that Deval Patrick won the first gubernatorial debate. Everything else comes across like the banal and intellectually defunct grunts and squeaks of a head injury victim who had ADD and autism even before the accident. When reading his column, which I'm inclined to do out of morbid curiosity (the same reason I read Mallard Fillmore), it is best to imagine him sitting at his Commodore Vic-20 with a screwdriver sticking out of his parietal lobe and wearing a diaper full of shit. That way, you'll feel a modicum of pity instead of wanting to punch him in his snearing, "frat boy" grin wearing face. He is that kind of Republican; sarcastic, narcissistic, and virtually always wrong, wrong, wrong.

As a democratic socialist in a very capitalist world, I'm used to disagreeing with people. Fortunately, I live near Cambridge, Massachusetts, so there are a few of my kind floating about. But I also despise organized religion (generally), people who think Jeff Foxworthy is funny, and cell phones. And I passionately support sex education in public schools, legalizing marijuana, national health care, and dumping corporate capitalism. Then there are writers, musicians, movies, and my loathing of "reality shows" like Fear Factor. Yes, I'm opinionated. I've almost been punched in the beak many times for refusing to let an argument go. As I've become more hopeless and demoralized over the years, I'm a bit more likely to let something slide, but only slightly.

The reason I mention this is to help explain my actions regarding a series of emails sent to MassResistance, an organization that is comprised of bigots, homophobes and irrational boobs. They hope to end gay marriage in Massachusetts by spreading lies about homosexuals and "gay culture." The really enjoy celebrating a central myth that informs their whole half-baked, insensate world-view; that pedophilia is pathologically connected to homosexuality. Or more simply, that all gays and lesbians are child-molesters.

Naturally, this is totally false. At one time, most people thought that there was a correlation between pedophilia and homosexuality. A Kinsey Institute study done 35 years ago found that 70% of the US population agreed with the statement: "Homosexuals are dangerous as teachers or youth leaders because they try to get sexually involved with children." In 1999, Gallup conducted a poll that showed a radical shift in thinking; only 19% of men, and 10% of women, thought there was any connection. Knowing that really reduces my terrific anger and hatred for groups like MassResistance. They are pathetic, ignorant and impotent to change anything. Here in Massachusetts, support for gay marriage is at an all-time high in every poll I've seen. If they were getting any tread in their campaign, I'd be a tight-ball of tension and concern every minute of the day. Fortunately, for those of you who don't want to see me as a tight-ball, that's not happening. Even with millions of dollars flowing into their coffers from out-of-state religious fundamentalists who want to meddle in the commonwealth's affairs. Well, fuck them...it's not working.

Knowing all that, however, I couldn't resist sending these boobs a nasty email. I was Googling for pictures of Boston's Gay Pride Parade, and I was directed to one of their articles. Needless to say, it was sad and irritating. I clicked the contact button and sent a quick missive, eagerly relating my feelings. Our "conversation" went like this, and was spread out over three emails. These are all quotes taken verbatim.

Me, in a letter sent on October 3rd: Why don't you just shut the fuck up. You're making Massachusetts look silly. And you're a bunch of assholes. Just knock it off and go home. Criminy.

MassResistance, in a reply sent ten minutes later: You homosexuals really love to talk about that part of the body a lot, dont you?

Me, the next day: What makes you think I'm a homosexual? I'm not. And I'd rather call you an "asshole" than BE an asshole. You're a bunch of hate-mongers who don't get any facts right at all. For example, there is no connection between pedophilia and homosexuality. A stronger connection exists between being a priest and being a pedophile. As a Catholic organization, that should be your focus. As a Catholic man, were you molested? If not, you're in the minority. Those priests are fond of diddlin' kids. I'm not anti-Catholic, but come on. You should really try to figure out what's going on there. What tiny minds you have. Pathetic. And your cause is lost...gay marriage isn't going anywhere. HAHAHAHA!

MassResistance: You said on your phone message to our office (which we've forwarded to the police) that you are homosexual. And only those kinds of people think of the rectum as much as you seem to.

This is really funny to me for two main reasons. One, I didn't call them, which indicates that they are getting a lot of flack and have a short fuse when it comes to mockery. And two, he's so enamored with his "gays love assholes" schtick! I like to think that they really did call the police. I hope a gay fellow was working the city desk.

And this conversation, full of wit and verve, ended as follows:

I never called you, not once. If you can't take the heat of criticism, don't set up the website with a public email address, you douchebag. And you seem pretty "focused" on the rectum yourself. A lot of right-wing religious fanatics mask homosexual thoughts and feelings with aggressive homophobia. That's very sad, and I hope you get strong enough some day to be honest with yourself about your sexuality. Keep reachin' for that rainbow.

But let's get back to the threat of bringing in the police. Have you no self-respect at all? You are part of a nasty political organization that equates homosexuality with pedophilia, and you act surprised when you get insulted? Maybe I should call the police about your site bothering me with hatred and poor logic. That makes about as much sense as your calling the police on me for writing three emails to you so far (and you've sent two to me). The police are generally very reasonable people who are bound by principles and the law. So if you want me to talk to them, you'll find them on my side. Especially since I never even called you! You're such cowards under all this talk of "revolution." I've rarely known such pussies! No wonder your movement is a failure.

You are intellectually bankrupt and spineless.

What good did any of this do? None, of course. Although it did briefly amuse me. As does the drawing of an asshole at the top of this entry, which was done by Kurt Vonnegut.