Pacemaker Starlight

I just had a chicken strip and a biscuit from Kentucky Fried Chicken. It was meant to be a "treat" after spending two hours at a urology appointment. Now I just feel queasy in a way that's difficult to accurately describe, except by saying again that I just had a meal from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Or is it supposed to be "KFC" these days, or "Kitchen Fresh Chicken." Give me a fucking break...I don't even know what that means. How about, "Killed Friendly Chickens." I didn't plan on going on a schpiel about chicken, but it's hard to resist. There's a place over in East Cambridge that sells dead chickens. A huge yellow sign above the front door reads, "Fresh Killed." This is right in the middle of a city neighborhood. My father tells me that on some days feathers can be seen blowing around the street outside, making it clear to all that this is not the best of all possible worlds for chickens.

Let's talk about my testicle, shall we? For all you ladies out there who have had a taste of Darren cake, let it be known that I saw the test results and I'm officially sans sperm. I don't have any now, and I never had any. So let's pause for a moment and thank the universe for tiny mercies. The only person I want to call me "Daddy" is the hot chick sitting on my face.

OK, I apologize for that...there's just no excuse for that kind of talk. Really...grow up. You make me sick.

Anyway, the nurse took me from the large waiting room at this Boston area hospital (there are a few) and led me into a small examination room. I spent a really long time in this room. There was a model of a swollen prostate on the table near the door, a poster showing just about everything that can go wrong with a kidney, and a "pain meter" that explains how to rate your pain on a scale from 1-10. I decided that the constant ache radiating from my right testicle is about a three. I really like the illustrations that go along with the numbers. The thing suffering from level one pain is smiling like an idiot, almost gleeful. The level ten face, however, is puffy, frowning and crying like a big, fat baby. I considered working up some fake tears, like when Ralphie almost shot his eye out in, "A Christmas Story" to stay out of trouble. Except I was going to do it to get some Vicodin. But I didn't...really. What I did do, however, is steal some surgical gloves and gauze. Sort of like making the hospital pay a penalty for making me wait a very long time.

Finally, Dr. Nuts walked in and we chatted for about ten minutes. It became increasingly clear to me that he was telling me that surgery was necessary to get rid of the pain. But there was hope. He could try something called a "cord block" to prevent any pain from getting past the nerve that connects the ball to the body. While it certainly didn't sound fun on any level, I did like the idea of ruling out the need for an orchiectomy. After all, this was my only nut left and I'm not keen on giving it up, even if it is tiny and useless. Delaware is tiny and useless, too, but nobody talks about getting rid of it.

What a fantastic analogy.

So, to make a long story long, they used novocaine first and then some other numbing agent. I held the gauze on the bleeding, iodine soaked spot next to my junk for five minutes and then pulled my pants up. The doctor instructed me to, "swing it around and see how it feels." If the "cord block" cut out the pain, then I would need surgery. If not, then the pain was coming from something else. Sadly, as I swung "it" about, I realized that the pain was gone and any lingering chance of avoiding surgery went bye-bye. As I sit here writing this, I'm still numb down there, and woozy from the xylophone. Or maybe it's the xylocaine...yeah, that's it.

On Monday, I'm to call the hospital and schedule the surgery...I'll keep you all posted. And then I'll find out if you love me for who I am, or for my balls. Also, "Pacemaker Starlight" isn't the name of a Broadway show, or a fingernail polish, it's the name I saw on the sink in the examination room. It represents either a model or a brand or something. I noticed it whilst splashing water on my face after the procedure. Like I said, I was woozy. Naturally, because I'm an idiot, I laughed my ass off.

The Medical and the Romantic Concerns

A few minutes ago I was chewing on some microwave "Kettle Corn," which is a slightly sweet popcorn, and I broke a damn tooth. I spit out a heavy piece of silver amalgam, cursed the non-existant almighty, and happily discovered that my next dentist appointment is on Monday. Healthwise, however, the big news will come tomorrow. I see my urologist at 11:45 am to discuss the possible necessity of an orchiectomy. An orchiectomy is when a testicle is removed for whatever reason; cancer, cryptorchidism, personality conflict, or some other such problem. One of my nuts was removed a couple of years ago because it was non-functional and at risk for developing cancer. My one remaining nut is 1/5 the size is should be, and is also non-functional. And since it is causing me constant low-level pain, it probably will have to go. But I'm really hoping that surgery won't be necessary.

Tomorrow afternoon I'll report on that, for anyone who is interested. It's not a major surgical procedure, but I'm just tired of hospitals and medications and doctors. Over the last five years I've had one orchiectomy, gastric bypass, pneumonia, 18 stitches on two cuts, 17 electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) treatments, two hospitalizations due to seizures and at least 70 psychiatrist and/or therapy sessions. On one hand, I'm very thankful for having access to some of the best health care in the world. But at 34 I've had a lot of medical experience. I don't believe in god, but I want to make it clear that I'm not complaining. Things can always get a LOT worse. Like that guy who had his pecker cut off by his girlfriend, or Schiavo. Remember her? Not only was she a vegetable, but Bill Frist used her for political gain and even keeps a picture of her in his office to this day. One minute you're walking down the street, the next you have a stroke or get hit by a car and you're a cucumber with lips.

And happy news does exist. I risked humiliation and asked a beautiful, funny, intelligent woman out on a date and she said, "That sounds good." So this coming Saturday night will find me enjoying the company of "L." And for her, I share this poem, a favorite of mine:

Entry April 28 - W. Benton

Because hate is legislated...written into the primer and the testament, show into our blood and brains like vaccine or vitamins

Because our day is of time, of hours-and the clock-hand turns, closes the circle upon us: and black timeless night sucks us in like quicksand, receives us totally-without a raincheck or a parachute, a key to heaven or the last long look

I need love more than ever now...I need your love, I need love more than hope or money, wisdom or a drink

Because slow negative death withers the world-and only yes can turn the tide

Because love has your face and body...and your hands are tender and your mouth is sweet-and God had made no other eyes like yours.

A Bit Morbid But Hopefully Amusing

Given my morbid fixation with death, and my previously discussed attempts to off myself, I've been concerned about what my loved ones are going to do with my fat, bloated corpse when I'm gone. I certainly don't want the cost of cremation and interrement to fall upon my brother, or perhaps some relative who rarely saw me in life. Life insurance won't work, either, as they won't sell it to me for health reasons. I'll never forget the conversation with the agent from Global Life Insurance several months ago. He insisted that we could, "make this work." The "this" in question was, of course, getting me life insurance. After 20 minutes of conversation he concluded, "Sorry, this just won't work." La, la, la. And suicide nullifies any life insurance policy anyway, so there were other factors at work.

After that, I turned to the Massachusetts Cremation Society. It sounds like a group of people who get together every so often and cremate people, sort of as a hobby. But instead they offer low cost cremations to members, and a membership for life costs a mere $25. A card in my wallet reads, "This certifies that the Cremation Society of Massachusetts has been authorized by me...to handle all details after my death, I have requested a simple and direct cremation." Ta da! The only problem with that is that it will still cost about $1,400 to roast me. If I come into money, I'll pay it in advance, but I'm not likely to come into money...unless I jerk off into a dollar bill.

Ok, I'm sorry for that.

Recently I discovered a company that would be more than happy to cart my body away, play with it for a few weeks, and then cremate it. All for free. No, it's not an organization of necrophiliacs with a fat fetish. It's a group called MedCure. They will use my body, "for science." That's a lovely euphemism. Once you get past the idea of medical students making fun of your penis size and cramming your dead index finger up your dead nose, it's not so bad. Certainly, the form I had to sign was really disturbing, particularly the part about the possibility of "disarticulation and segmentation" of my body. Yeesh.

I need to focus on the positive aspects of my choice to donate my body for research. They will use it to seek all sorts of cures and treatments, and may even come up with something for "man boobs" because of me. And to get into the spirit of things even more, I was thinking of getting a tattoo to make the medical students laugh, something like, "Refrigerate after opening."

My Day At The Boston Public Library Back in '99

Back in 1999 I was working at the Massachusetts Bankers' Association on Tremont Street in Boston and I rather enjoyed it. There was a lot of stress, but generally it was a pleasant way to earn a dollar. My job was to make sure all the mail got out, and to deliver all the mail coming in; that's right, I ran the mail room. Actually, I was the mail room. Not literally, but there was no other mail staff...just me. With only about 30 people at the MBA that was enough. And everyone but the office manager pretty much left me to myself. My favorite task was inexplicably depositing a very large check at the bank down the street. I don't know from where the money came or why, but the large sums involved made me feel like a big shot for some reason. Anyway, I got to know the cute teller, a tall girl with black hair who radiated ennui but masked it nicely out of a practical need to be affable for the customers. We had lunch together several times, and I learned that she was an excellent artist. She could draw so well I was amazed. I forget her name. For all I know, she is living the dream of having her graphic novel published. Or more likely is still working at the bank.

The reason that all ended is me. While I was tooling around work one day, I got a call from an ex-girlfriend and (at the time) friend. She told me she wanted to set up a blind date between me and someone who was "perfect" for me. I imagined a blind woman who liked to talk about bones and apes, for at that time I was studying evolutionary biology at UMass Boston. And blindness would be good due to my repugnant countenance. Get it? Anyway, I agreed, and she gave me the name of this young lady. I then proceeded to look up her name in the phone book and call her. Big mistake. I was supposed to wait until I got a call back from my ex.

That relatively small miscalculation cost me a lot more than a date with the blind monkey chick. My ex called me back at work and tore me a new one, in the parlance of the day. I responded by flipping out myself. I was not well, you see, which is why I'm on many drugs today. At the time, though, the depths of my insanity had not yet been plumbed. So she plumbed them. I lost it, thinking that I was a menace who couldn't do anything right and who should be put out of his misery. And a thousand other things were in there, too. It's hard to relate. I kicked into suicide mode and grabbed my coat and flew out the door in the middle of the day, thus kissing my job goodbye.

With deft sinuosity, nihilism, self-loathing and revulsion coiled into my brain and expanded outward against the inside of my skull. "This is it," I thought, "I need to kill myself today." I had already tried once the year before, and had been hospitalized 3 times at this point. I knew how to do it correctly if so disposed. By the time the elevator hit the ground floor, I had a plan. An romantic undertaking that would have me overdosing on diphenhydramine (found in Benadryl) and dying amid the stacks of books at the Boston Public Library just a few stops away from Park Street station nearby. So I picked up what I needed at a couple of stores and was off.

I don't really remember walking into the library, but I'm pretty sure I was sitting at a table in the mezzanine. My mind was on fire, and I started attending to knocking it down with pill after pill after pill, in between sips of Coke. So my last meal would have been Coke and Benadryl had my little undertaking worked. My final disposition would have been profound annoyance, too, because I had to pry each pill out of the fucking blister it was sold in. After freeing around 100 pills, I started shovelling them into my face. But not after finishing my suicide note. I'd share what it says, as I still have it, but it's just what you'd expect from a suicide note.

There just weren't any profound thoughts at that moment. And as I approached the 100th pill or therabouts, I had no intention of stopping. I do remember hoping that it wouldn't hurt. Some people say it is selfish to commit suicide, but they don't understand that a person in my frame of mind considers it an act of kindness to loved ones. A favor to all those who have to put up with your nonsense. In a perverted way, suicide is done out of love, too, as much as a desire to end one's own bumbling.

Things began to unravel when an African-American security guard, an older gentleman, approached me and told me that there was not eating or drinking allowed in the building. At that point, the pills and blister packs were gone, but the bottle of Coke (almost empty) remained. I panicked because I didn't want to be grabbed and forced to drink dirt at the hospital and have my stomach pumped and all that...I don't like that. So I bolted down to the Men's Room in the basement of the BPL. Naturally, I was feeling woozy at this point. I could fake a clean walk, but thinks were spinning a bit and I started getting cramps that quickly got very bad. In the Men's Room, I sat in a stall and started to sleep. But not after chuckling a bit at the whole, "I'm sorry but you can't eat or drink in the library" episode a moment earler.

About a minute later, a janitor woke me up. She was yelling, "We need to clean in here, so hurry up everyone!" What the fuck! I couldn't believe my luck, and I swear this is all true. Even though I could barely see straight, I was sort of happy to be leaving, as it smelled of urine in there. A far cry from croaking near the works of Dostoevsky and D.H. Lawrence upstairs. Things were just not going to plan.

A year before, I had worked at the Fairmont Copley Plaze hotel across the street. They have a beautiful, large lobby and pristine bathrooms with stalls that have doors that reach the floor. So over there I toddled, dodging traffic and entering through that lovely front entrance. The diphenhydramine had really kicked-in with a vengeance, and I had a hard time walking the length of that lobby, across the marble and thick, faux oriental rugs. A former fellow employee passed nearby and said, "Hey, man!" and I just kept walking. My arms were to heavy to wave, and I didn't dare try to speak. He probably just thought I was being a douchebag.

In the Men's Room, I collapsed. Blue fluid ran out of my mouth and I felt as if I weighed 10,000 pounds. The pain from the cramps kept getting worse, and everything was spinning. I was terrified. Something snapped at this point, but it wasn't a desire to live, dammit, live! It was more about ending this ridiculous pain, which compelled me up, out the door, where I stumbled over to the phone bank and called 911. I couldn't speak, but I knew they would send an ambulance. That's when I went to the front entrance and waited for as long as I could. Seemed like a very long time. I was doubled over, weeping, and people just walked on by...most of them. Then the street rushed up to my face and all was black. I just wanted to sleep.

I awoke on the sidewalk a few minutes later (I guess) and dozens of people were all around me, looking down. I couldn't see Copley Square or even the side of the hotel, just blue sky and a ring of unfamiliar faces. I couldn't hear anything, or move, but I did see a fellow I used to work with, the security guard at the hotel. He looked down at me so sadly. His eyes were large, and I really think he thought that I was going to die. Then I went out again.

They tell me that my heart went into some kind of flutter, and they obviously had to pump my stomach. I don't remember. I woke up with in four-point restraints, meaning that both arms and both legs are chained to the bed. The doctor told me that if the ambulance had been a couple of minutes slower, I'd be dead. Close, but no cigar. From there, the nuthouse.

I wonder what ever happened to the girl at the bank, the one with whom I shared those lunches. Or that security guard, or the fellow employee I ignored. I think about that day sometimes and wonder if I learned anything at all from it. Not to eat or drink in the library is one thing, I guess. Some darker things, too.

But it's just something that happened, like brushing one's teeth or genocide. The black oak grows and pays no mind.

Joe Hill Remembered

I absent-mindedly let November 19 pass without mention of Joe Hill, an I.W.W. organizer and songwriter. He was an amazing human being who was tried for a crime he didn't commit and then executed on November 19, 1915 in Utah. This is his will, and the picture on the right is of his funeral in Chicago.

The last will of Joe Hill:

My will is easy to decide,
For there is nothing to divide,
My kin don't need to fuss and moan-
"Moss does not cling to a rolling stone."
My body? Ah, If I could choose,
I would to ashes it reduce,
And let the merry breezes blow
My dust to where some flowers grow.
Perhaps some fading flower then
Would come to life and bloom again.
This is my last and final will,
Good luck to all of you, Joe Hill

Joe Hill was a great songwriter, poet and organizer.

The Monotony of the Coconut

Incidentally, the pill is saying, "Bah!" as it angrily shuffles to music unheard. You don't get much more "incidental" than that. But I'm going to say a word or two about my credit report, so pay attention, or don't. I was repeatedly hassled by a website that offered me a free credit report, and eventually I gave in and filled out an application. Apparently, "free" means "$12.95 a month" in the parlance of the day, so I gave up and moved on. After all, the news can't be good. The $35,000 I owe in student loans is probably a bad thing, not to mention the fantastic lack of concern I exhibited regarding my credit card debt when I was in the looney bin. When you're sleeping on a cot in a room with 11 homeless people, some of whom seem to refuse to sleep or even lie down, it's hard to focus on finances. At the same time, it's really easy to talk yourself into cramming your finger into a wall socket. That and a lack of money kept me from settling up with Bank of America.

You've taken your first step towards total credit peace of mind!

That's what the "free" credit report people told me before I fled the scene. How presumptuous! Knowing my credit rating is only going to make me more aware of how irrelevant am I. Right now, my pathetic failures are ill-defined and obscure. In other words, you have to know me a little bit to know what a mook I am, so I'm fortunate in that I'm not well-known. A credit "score" won't make me any better known, but it will put slap an actual number on me, thus defining me with pinpoint accuracy. Sort of how if you're walking around fat and you know that you're fat but you don't get really upset about it until you weigh yourself. You feel like someone just held you down with their foot and burned a number into your ass. The only time I was pleasantly surprised by a number was when I took my SATs. That's because I thought I was an idiot beforehand. As it turns out, I'm merely a boob.

I just had a memory flash, and now I want a graham cracker. It's from mentioning the nut-house, where the only thing to eat between meals were individually-wrapped crackers of graham. In between group therapy, staring at each other, meals, talking to each other and meeting with psychiatrists, we ate mounds of those things.

Fuckin' Mounds are good, too. Almond Joys are better, as they break-up the monotony of the coconut. Or cocoanut.

You See, Every Reality Is A Snowflake...

I very rarely post articles from elsewhere, but I thought this was both amusing and true. A few years ago, a Bush Administration flunky was sarcastically asked if he was afraid of reality hurting the propaganda campaign. He responded by saying something like, "No, through the press we redefine reality as we want it every day." Fundamental to that endeavor is the manipulation of language, which is nothing new. The Republicans, however, have been taking it to another level for years. Rove usually gets the credit, and he probably deserves most of it. After all, he's the man responsible for making Kerry seem a coward and Bush a war hero.

Yesterday I heard a news report about how the federal government has started to refer to hungry Americans as those who live in, "food insecure households." I'm not sure how new that is, but it certainly squeezes a reference to "security" in there very creatively. Anyway, enjoy.

Darren

The GOP-to-English Dictionary: Cracking the Republican Code
June 6, 2002
By Michael Barry

Finding it difficult to reconcile Republican rhetoric with their actions? Maybe you just aren't speaking the same language. Use this handy guide to translate GOP dialog, and get on the same page as the corporate millionaires running the country!

Never be left out again--use this guide while listening to GOP politicians, or reading their shills in the press.

Think how happy you'll be to finally know what they're really saying. No more unpleasant surprises, no more false hope of bipartisanship Impress your friends at parties with seemingly prescient predictions--only you'll know what programs will be cut, what regulations will be rescinded, which documents will be released, and which will remain classified as a matter of "national security". Your friends will think you're a genius!

Simply substitute any words you encounter from the left-hand column with ones from the right, and you'll be speaking GOP in no time. It really works!

When Republicans Say...............What it means

Initiative....................Acquired Wealth
Merit.........................Inherited Wealth
Local Stakeholders............Polluters
Affirmative Access............The Good Old Days
Recognized Expert.............Industry Lobbyist
Entrepreneur..................Campaign Donor
Voluntary Compliance..........Dumping waste in rivers
Un-needed Fed. Regulation.....Any Federal Regulation
Protecting the environment....Building strip malls on toxic waste sites
Family Values.................Heterosexuality
Freedom.......................Money
National Security.............Gravy
Missile Defense...............Lots of Gravy
Initiative....................Money
Class Warfare.................Communism
Europeans.....................Communists
Communist Regime..............Massachusetts
Massachusetts.................Ted Kennedy
Ted Kennedy...................Karl Marx
Bill Clintn...................The Sixties
The Sixties...................Drugs
Drugs.........................Terrorism
Compassionate Conservatives........Republicans with PR agents
The Right To Bear Arms........The Right to Sell Guns
Tort Reform...................Corporate Control of the Judiciary

Try it yourself! Translate the following sentences:

Example 1: "Freedom-loving people understand that local stakeholders are best able to decide what's best for their industries, and not those who advocate irresponsible Federal regulation. Recognized experts have demonstrated that voluntary compliance is the right way to strike a balance between protecting the environment and rewarding entrepreneurs."

Example 2: "I know there are those who think the estate tax--the death tax--is a good idea. They think that initiative--and merit--shouldn't be rewarded. Well, that may suit Massachusetts; it may suit Ted Kennedy; it may suit others mired in their sixties-induced class-warfare. But it won't work here in the sovereign state of Mississippi!"

Now get out there and start translating!

Of Abe Lincoln And A Woman's Sublime Laughter

"The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, peculiar to myself and to a few other solitary men, is the central and inevitable fact of human existence." Thomas Wolfe

I've done a great deal of meditating on loneliness of late, partially because of a nasty argument with someone whom I was fond of, but mainly because I just feel it terribly. Getting an email or phone call from a friend mercifully provides relief. And in the rare instance that I actually leave my flat on a date or do something social I break free of it almost totally for as long as I'm out there with another.

The idea that one can ever escape a sequestered existence and truly escape isolation is a pipe dream, and one certainly not shared by everyone. When in a close relationship with someone, the desire to be left alone on occassion is strongly held. But for me, a fellow out of a relationship for over a year and only briefly involved with a woman whom I later found out to be a poor match (I loathe snobs), the nights are mercilessly long. The firm yet delicate power of a woman's embrace, the smell of her hair and clothes, and a look in her eyes that shows no evidence of judgement, only love and comity, that is what I miss. My memory is poor, due to ECT and some medications, but I can remember how every single one of my girlfriend's laughed during our first rendevous. There is no victory in life like it. To put her at ease and see her luminous eyes and sweet little mouth curl-up into a smile, and finally hear the sublime music of heartfelt joy. To feel clever and witty and even desired. Those are the moments you remember when you think you're on your way out.

I wonder if anyone thinks fondly of isolation as they get ready to enter the void. Does anyone say, "I was so lucky in life, I never had to worry about a partner getting in the way or stealing the covers at night." I'm sure some do, but doubt that it's very many. Because deep down I think we all know that there is nothing after death, and in non-existence we are eternally alone, without even the company of ourselves. And we certainly won't have to worry about anyone stealing the covers.

I don't take my lack of a social life these days personally. Given my health problems and inclination towards isolation due to pathological anxiety, I know that I'm not putting myself out there. I do have my eye on a couple of young ladies, but I'm far from a social butterfly...very far. Every woman I've been with has agreed that I'm both funny and interesting. And that sex with me is a religious experience that puts other men to shame. So I know not to be too hard on myself here.

Before I go, I have to post this painting I found. I think it's the worst painting I've every put my peepers on. It's by Carlo Pittore, and is entitled, "#21 Surprised." What puts it over the top for me isn't the bizarre implied gyration of the nude, which is reminiscent of a turtle on its back. but the inexplicable presence of a framed picture of Abe Lincoln. I don't know, maybe it's brilliant.

Soft, Pink Mental Health

Today I find myself with another prescription, an older generation anti-psychotic named Trilafon. I'm "psychotic" in the sense that I suffer from "extreme anxiety" over fear of being hated and shunned by those I love. How pathetic. I woke up this morning in my closet, buck naked, wrapped in a comforter. I had crawled in there in the dead of night, barely awake. My psychiatrist told me that it makes me feel better to hide sometimes. That on some level I like to conceal myself from a world that I'm convinced loathes me, and is judging my every thought and move. The picture is of me holding my new and old scripts. Yeah.

I'll let you know if it works. Ha!

Save the cheerleader, save the world.

Did Someone Order Chinese?

A couple of news stories tickled my parts this past week, and I'd just love to share them. I'm a bit of a newshound, and I read a ridiculous amount of analysis and reporting from all the fucking place. This doesn't make me smarter than anyone else, it simply indicates an emptier life. One of the things I like to talk about is China and her always growing social, economic and military influence. And about how I'm oddly afraid of China beating me up in the playground. Some people refer to the United States as, "the world's only superpower." An ability to take pride in something as abstract as a nation of 300,000,000 people is strange to me, but it's required as a set up to the last superpower delusion. A fanatical love of sports also helps. To believe that, though, it's also necessary to work hard at ignoring a bountiful array of cold, hard facts. I'm not of a mind to vomit up statistics and quotes and perhaps a drawing or two to make the case that the near and distant future is all China, baby. But I'll point out a few things here.

People who have a clue know that China is a few years away from having the largest navy in the world, which is pretty amazing given how HUGE ours is. They are crammin' submarines into the Pacific so fast that we can't keep track of them all. One of the subs we lost track of, apparently, scared the pussybirds out of the USS Kitty Hawk carrier group last month when it popped-up within firing range of the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk itself. It was only discovered when it wanted to be discovered, and had been following the group around the Pacific for Confucious knows how long.

In my sad little opinion, that sits stuffed into this fat little body, which is crammed into this dinky flat, is that we are in a new Cold War. Somebody tell Tom Clancy. The difference is that China has 1.1 billion more people than we do and is needed by every capitalist the world over who wants to manufacture anything. China is the biggest lender in the world, and the US is the biggest borrower. Jim Jubak, an economist for MSN Money who looks like a substitute teacher (see above), but who understands this issue very well writes:

In the second quarter, the Commerce Department announced this month, the United States paid more to its foreign creditors than it took in from its overseas investments -- the first time that's happened in 91 years. At the end of September, China's foreign-exchange reserves topped $1 trillion. Thanks to foreign investment in China and the country's huge trade surplus, China's foreign-exchange reserves are climbing by about $20 billion a month. In recent months, China's reserves have grown so quickly that the country has taken over first place from Japan, with reserves of $880 billion at the end of August.

China is growing so quickly that it can't get oil fast enough. Enter Venezuela, who is wisely hitching her wagon to China's five-pointed star. You know, Hugo, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

What China is lacking is a charismatic leader, someone like Vlad Putin of Russia or Darth Vader, a Goldfinger who can take on James Bond or slam his or her shoe on a UN podium. I'll bet you haven't a clue who the president of China even is, although it's not all that important as the country is run by committee. The president is Hu Jintao. Yeah. The Communist Party Central Committee membership sounds like your companies IT Department, or the finalists in an online poker tournament; Huang Ju, Luo Gan, Jia Quinglin, Hu Jintao, and all on and on. It's interesting that Hu Jintao's resume includes a four year stint as Secretary of the Party Committee of Tibet Autonomous Region. Awesome. So at least we know he's a people person.

It's worth mentioning as I finish up that China is guilty of more human rights abuses than The Horde on World of WarCraft. Sorry, that's the best I could do. Remember Tiananmen Square? I sure as fuck do. I've never cried before or since like that for anyone or anything that wasn't directly a part of my life. There is a problem? It gets solved. There will be no revolution in China for a very, very long time. And when China had ONE report of rabies from a dog in Mouding County, all 50,000 dogs (all pets) were put to death. Simple, cold, and effective. I just read that the people of Beijing aren't taking to this brutal policy without a fight. We'll see how that goes. And you don't want to be a Bible salesperson in China, it never seems to work out for anyone. Sales are fine, but they kill you...so they're not all bad.

The other story I had to mention is the leaked FOX memorandum that appeared on The Huffington Post. In part it reads, "Be On The Lookout For Any Statements From The Iraqi Insurgents...Thrilled At The Prospect Of A Dem Controlled Congress..." So much for Fair and Balanced! You really should check it out, it's damn funny.

I think that's all for right now. More later today.

XXOO,

D

Three Way Light Bulb Near The Little Debbie Snack Cakes

Just a few thoughts today, then I'll put the baby to bed. My crack o' dawn dentist appointment went well. After injecting the novocaine he was distracted by his assistant long enough for it to go to work. He then filled a small cavity so quickly I thought the building was on fire. And I stole an Entertainment Weekly from the waiting room that had a really good article about the DVD release of Reds. I emerged onto Broadway with numb lips, dodged some traffic, and stopped over at the Salvation Army store. There I purchased an attractive lamp for my bedroom that is almost certainly a fire hazard. Perhaps there is a scam at work here, where the Salvation Army sells sparky lamps that burn down houses. After the blaze, the lamps are collected by the family and donated back and the cycle starts again. I don't mind, though, it's a good-looking lamp for $9.

In the parking lot of the FoodMaster I saw one of the ugliest people I've ever seen. There are different kinds of ugly, like English bulldog ugly, or Peter Lorre ugly, where there is ugliness, but it's sort of appealing. Then there is a level of homely where you just get sad. It stirs up feelings of hopelessness and despair, kind of like the guy selling hot dogs and pretzels at a flea market. Yeah, I am thinking of somebody, but maybe you know what I mean. I can't remember the last time I was at a flea market, but I remember the guy working the snack bar and how he made me want to kill myself. Not that the Salvation Army Thrift Store offers up a joyful experience, but at least there you run into poor college students and "colourful" people shopping for clothes and potentially useful items...like lamps. Although you do occasionally see someone carefully considering the purchase of a stuffed animal, or a mug that has World's Greatest Dad written on the side. And then all you can do is run like the wind.

Anyway, the ugly thing floating around outside of FoodMaster had clearly given up all hope. It wore sweatpants and had hair that looked like it was brushed with an oily coathanger. A few moments later I beheld an attractive woman in the store, over near the Kashi, and she took the pain away when she smiled at me from behind her round little glasses. It was a polite smile, the result of almost bumping into her whilst searching for a three-way light bulb. I know I'm coming across as a jerk right now, picking on Gollum out in the parking lot and praising the adorable woman in the store. It really is perfectly fine to be ugly...I'm an romantic, I see that beauty is on the inside. And the Woman Near The Kashi was far from mainstream attractive. She was plump, mid 30's, and had an air of somber detachment. Sort of the way you should look in a grocery store. But she also looked intelligent, thoughtful and like a person of character.

Meanwhile, that poor thing out in the parking lot lumbered around. Sweatpants? If you don't want to radiate despair all over your fellow humans then please don't wear sweatpants out of your flat. As I think about it, I'm getting a little pissed at Sweatpants Gollum for not taking others into consideration. No matter how pathetic I get, I put on a clean white shirt and black pants, Mister. And I have the scruples not to be caught DEAD in sweatpants. Why? Not for me, but for everyone who has to look at me. Because as mediocre and bland as I look (and fat), at least I'm making an effort. I'm doing laundry, washing my ding-a-ling every morning and brushing my teeth. And I could easily skip on washing my ding-a-ling, because these days it's rarely seen. But for fuck's sake, you don't have to be attractive, just don't suck the will to live out of everyone who looks your way. It's about compassion, it really is. Life has absolutely no meaning whatsoever. What keeps most people going is that everyone else seems so think that it does. The lemmings can provide a false sense of purpose for each other just as easily as they can guide each other off of the cliff.

For the sake of your brothers and sisters, wash your ding-a-ling and put the sweatpants away. Wear them only for comfort, and to test your partner to see if he or she really loves you. I'm poor, fat and ugly but I make enough effort (it doesn't take much) to not look like a walking fart with sneakers. J'accuse, Thing, I have seen the sweatpants on your very soul and I stand in judgement.

OK, yeah, sure, maybe It has a story and that story adds up to sweatpants and perhaps a bedazzled denim jacket. You're right, I shouldn't be judging anyone. After all, I've been to Lincoln Park and danced with despondency with the worst of them. Maybe I'm a little on edge because my boxer shorts are a little loose and I'm flippin' and floppin' all over the place. That's probably it. Never underestimate the negative impact of ill-fitting panties...I think Trotsky said that in Mexico City the morning before his assassination. Maybe not. I put on my night shirt last evening (or my evening shirt last night) and took off my underwear, which was just a bit too tight. Actually, it was an ex-girlfriend's panties that were left behind. Hey, why not? But the fit was just a little off, and my mood immediately improved as I shed them, like I had taken an oxycontin. My wang was free and the shirt loosely tickled my ass and legs as I walked about. It was really awesome...almost worth putting on tight underwear in the first place. Like swinging a bat with weighted donuts before stepping up to the plate.

Actually, it was nothing like that...at all.

I hope you've enjoyed today's entry. And, like me, I hope you think that, "three way light bulb" sounds vaguely dirty.

Rain, Rain, Rain, Rain, Rain

I'm having one of those days where you get up so late that you never get out of your pajamas. Under the magical spell of lorazepam, I got some serious sleep last night. It felt real good, and I took so many that I managed to stifle any dreams or nightmares. Outstanding. Now I'm enjoying a rainstorm as it strips the leaves off the maple tree in the courtyard outside my bedroom window. A good day, so far, and I almost don't care that a close friend seems to be ignoring my calls. Almost.

Just a little update from the world beyond the House of Four Cats. The last shipment of AK-103 Kalashnikovs left Russia for Venezuela earlier this week. That completes a shipment of 100,000 of those rifles, along with an unknown amoung of ammunition (unknown to me). In addition to that, 2 of the 24 Russian Sukhoi warplanes that Venezuela ordered are to be delivered by November 30. The company behind the sale is Rosoboronexport, and I don't know a thing about them. I do know that Venezuela is keeping her promise to bolster her defenses and develop a stronger relationship with those countries willing to sell various and sundry armaments.

So that's the update. I have opinions, but who cares.

I could use a shower, and perhaps a little World of Warcraft. Enjoy your Sunday, everyone.

Fish Sticks and Babbling

For two nights I went sleepless, and to maintain function I kept flinging pills into my mouth. What a scene...what a fucking wreck. A diet of coffee and Diet Coke, along with the occassional "Cup o' Noodles," sustained me. What I really needed, however, was sleep. And not to recharge the proverbial batteries for another day, but to get the hell away from myself for a few blissful hours (provided there are no nightmares). But it was not to be, and on that third day I collapsed at the top of the stairs near my bedroom. I'm told that I had a seizure that went on for several minutes, after which I lie unconscious. Finally, I awoke, babbling incoherently to my father. At least he thinks I was babbling. I know what I was saying; "I love you...I'm sorry," over and over again. I also mentioned my love of Donna, Clare and Kent, and even said "goodbye" to Amanda. Although I'm pretty sure she could care less. I said other things, too, but nobody anywhere knows what they were. After almost an hour, I crawled to my bed and then into it. Two days later, the only reminders of the incident are countless aches and pains, all of the sort one would expect from falling unconscious and face-first. If I were five steps farther along I would have fallen that way down the stairs. Gravity being what it is, that would have sucked.

Last night I had to go to a public hearing about the housing unit in which I live. People asked the stupidest questions, and I couldn't wait to ask my question so I could get the fuck out of there. It was near the end of the hearing when I got my answer, pulled on my coat, and fled into the night. I didn't even pause to take in the atmosphere of the public school cafeteria. This was an elementary school, not a high or even middle school. I do have fond memories of being that young, and even of school at that age. So I didn't mind squeezing into the cafeteria table/seat combination beneath the American flag and sucking in the aroma of fish sticks and chalk. People like to blame school for crushing their spirit, ala "Life in Hell," but I think it has more to do with our growing awareness as we get older that we're nothing special. And it's not school that tells us this, but the entire fucking universe and everything in it.

High School, on the other hand, is like a full-time job that you're not free to quit and that doesn't pay anything. Along the line you learn new things, like how many different ways a person can be called, "fat" and that a nice car alone can get you laid.

But I digress. I'm a lonely son of a bitch these days, but I haven't the fortitude to challenge isolation or kill myself. I read an awful lot, which is supposed to be good for you.

Tate's Chicken Knickers

Enjoy some of Sarah Lucas' artwork. I'd love to meet her someday. I can't imagine what I'd say, though. I'm fond of her and her art.

Be sure to get out and vote against a Republican tomorrow.

D

A Hefty Price For Google And Toilet Paper

It's not easy for a human being to poke about in the world today and not lose something of his or her self as a result. It's like trying to stick your hand in a combine without drawing back a bloody stump. That's a simile. And I honestly can't say that I have anything better than a vague notion of what a "combine" looks like, or what it does. It has something to do with agriculture, and my simile would have been a lot better if I used a piece of industrial machinery to represent the modern world. I'm drawing a blank, though. Ours is a "post-modern" economy that doesn't manufacture anything remotely useful to anyone. It's considered tres gauche among the world's post-industrial economies to grow a banana or manufacture a television set.

What a world. With a rigid global economy and a consumer culture that offers countless "choices" but no alternatives, we are all set upon a path that we pretty much have to follow if you don't want to sleep in a refrigerator box, or eat muffin stumps at the homeless shelter. Freedom is a lie. You can always try to fly off a skyscaper if you don't like your limited options, so there is that, anyway. Like it or lump it. Most people decide to lump it, but they find solace in knowing that time will eventually do what they lack the courage to do themselves; which is to end it. Mercy!

Basically, what I'm saying is that people did not evolve to function well in the reality that we've created to replace nature. Not that nature isn't an unholy bitch, but I suspect that the ennui and detached isolation that most people feel today was rare, say, 500 years ago. People were too worried about their nose falling off, or trying to turn turds into gold, or picking fleas out of their crevices. In an environment like that, the complaint, "I'm depressed" would not stir people to sympathy. More likely, people would say, "No shit, we're all depressed...have you seen my nose?"

But enlightment and prosperity didn't have to come with the cost of our humanity, whatever that is. Every few months, someone releases a study that basically says that workers could be 847% more "productive" if they didn't waste precious time scratching their asses. They sometimes put a dollar amount on the "wasted" time, as in, "Corporations lost $300 billion last year due to lost productivity caused by employee defecation. A study is currently underway to assess the practicality of colostomy bags for all employees." How can you possibly keep your mind healthy in such a universe? And I refuse to believe that we have to accept such nonsense as the price we have to pay for a progressing civilization. And accepting a globalized, capitalist world with all of it's associated insane and fucked-up personal and institutional relationships comes at the hefty price of our contented sanity.

No More Blog

I'm fond of writing. The drawer next to me is full of stories, poems and simple ideas. Well, perhaps not "full." And this silly little blog certainly provides more than evidence of my predilection for scribbling. I prefer that to typing, although I must admit that I don't do it very often, only for letters.

Regardless of all that, the time has come for me to put an end to this silly little blog. It serves no purpose, amuses no one, and falsely provides me with an albeit modest feeling of creative accomplishment. There is nothing inherently wrong with that, as we all need our illusions. But it is wrong for me to subject people, many of whom are friends, to these unfunny, boring tirades. What I'm posting here isn't even good enough to distract from most other blogs!

I've been a fool for so long, thinking that I'm funny and interesting when in reality I'm just a pitiful loner who needs to reconcile his hopes of what he could have been with what he really is, and always will be; a mentally-ill loner with nothing to offer. There is nothing wrong with being that, unless you think you are something else, something better than that.

If I'm going to get though life, I have to shut down as much as I can and focus on being a good friend, brother and son. Whatever ego I have needs to be crushed and eradicated so that I may reconcile with myself, as I wrote before. I'm a small man, but I need to become smaller. My microscopic presence must not be felt or seen, except by those very few who really want to. My odds of living another 10 or 20 years are best if that is the case. It just hurts too much when people talk about how much they enjoy this blog. Or when they say I should write a novel or something. I know that I'm stupid and strange, and that people like to keep me at a distance because I talk about myself too much.

Eventually, I need to find fulfillment in life in very, very simple things. In being alone, taking care of my cats, getting out for a walk on occasion, listening to music, and trying to be there for my friends. It's time to stop playing "writer" and using things like this blog to make myself out to be a person of any consequence whatsoever.

That's about it. Bye.