New Year's Eve's Dropping Ball

Tonight the ball drops and we jump around and celebrate having made it to yet another year. If the damn ball had dropped for me at the right time, I wouldn't need that damn surgery in less than two weeks. Ha! Happy New Year to all my friends, both online and offline, and both. My New Year's resolution is to lose 50lbs by doing more exercise. Yes, I know it's a common resolution, but it's important to me, damnit. I also resolve to show Linda what a beautiful and remarkable woman she is, and how happy I am to have her in my life. May 2007 find us together as much as possible.

We're here to help each other get through life, people. Whatever life may be. So let there be love and compassion and music, music, music! May you fearlessly seek out what you desire and take it in 2007. We don't live forever, you know. Peace!

Gun Oil And My Royal Typewriter

There's a diconcerting ache throbbing betwixt my legs right now, like a hernia or a slipped disc in the back. But it's not either one of those things, of course. I've been looking for reasons to put off my surgery. I told my father to try to get into surgery earlier, which would "force" me into putting my orchiectomy off until who knows when. But he's certain that his date isn't until late January or early February, so mine doesn't represent a logictical problem. Right now, however, I'm glad that my ruse didn't work. This hurts.

I wonder how all my friends are doing, and my brother, too. I'm a lonely son of a bitch these days, which isn't uncommon for a person with Avoidant Personality Disorder. Social phobia prevents social activity, but loneliness triggers depression. Not clinical depression, just the natural sort of enervation and ennui that anyone would experience in the absence of human company. I've taken up reading Ray Bradbuy's "The Martian Chronicles" and "Dandelion Wine," both of which I read when I was a teenager. They're ascomforting as a warm blanket on a cold night. I'm probably going to take up reading some Kurt Vonnegut again, too. They make me feel less alone, for different reasons. Bradbury reminds me of when I thought I could become an author. Back in the day I used a very old Royal typewriter that wasn't even electric. The clakitty-clack-clack of those keys is like music. I still have it, but all romance aside, it's an awful pain in the ass to use. Computers are ruthlessly efficient tools. Bradbury brings a little of that optimism to mind. Sometimes I get the smell of gun oil in my nose, which I used to keep my Royal in tip-top shape. Vonnegut was introduced to me by a co-worker and friend of mine at the DeCordova Museum, Mary. His novels transport me to a time before I went batshit, when I was a full-time university student. And both authors are just so fucking good at their craft, particularly Vonnegut.

I'm probably mentioned it before, but I'm also fond of Dostoevsky. His short story, "White Nights" really speaks to me. Adam and I, working at the aforementioned museum, would make fun of anyone who used that phrase. When a pretentious museum supporter stood in front of a piece and said, "That speaks to me," we both had to sneak away to the kitchen, where we could laugh our asses off. But Nastenka and her lonely, passionate lover really do speak to me. That story has been with me for awhile now. It's probably the most comforting thing I could read. That's why I've read it at least 20 times.

I do have friends, but I try not to write, call or otherwise try to contact them. I try, but I find it difficult. If they want to talk, they know where to find me and, since they know me so well, they know that I always look forward to it. People get busy, and when I don't hear from someone for awhile I try to keep that in mind. But my stomach also twists up and I become afraid. "Have I done something wrong?" I ask myself over and over again. Invariably, this leads to self-loathing and that to the comfort of those novels.

My friends are very, very important to me. I sometimes wonder if they know that they are in my mind, to one degree or another, almost all the time. I would do anything for them, they have but to ask. That may be why I seek solitude. Perhaps the greatest gift I could give to those I love is to leave them alone. To die, in a fashion. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) teaches that negative thoughts like that can be avoided, and by avoiding them so can depression and anxiety, at least to some degree. I swear, though, that I'll be wondering until the day I die if it is true.

Of Dr. Who and That Chinese Guy

I just went through some kind of Dr. Who time warp playing Civilization IV. Without regret or any sense of loss, I pissed away 2 hours. Just like that, boink!, gone. The part of the game I enjoyed the most, by far, was waging war on some Chinese guy for absolutely no reason. Every few turn he would ask me, "Isn't it time for this bloodshed to end?" Basically, my response was, "No!" Every time he asked for the madness to stop, I would refuse and attack him with renewed vigor. I imagined him getting increasingly vexed and confused at my pointless aggression. Sort of like how the whole world feels towards Bush. I felt regret when I toppled his last city. I'm sure he died wondering what the hell my problem was.

For those who don't know, Dr. Who was a big show on the BBC. It was about aliens and drugs and time travel. You never knew what was going to happen next. One minute, the protagonist would be running from bipedal, intelligent salamanders and the next minute a floating banana peel would be barking commands. It was enjoyably fucked-up in a way that only British television can be. Civilization IV, for those who don't know, is a video game about world domination, usually played by people who can't balance their check books. It's an incredibly hard game, and the only reason I did so well on my first outing is because I had it set on "retard."

Letter From The Front

Dear Mr. Lyle,

Thank you so much for all your support in 2006, but in the coming year we are facing a huge challenge. More money and activism are needed to continue our pivotal role in moving this campaign forward. This past year we took a major step forward by hiring a full-time executive director. Benjamin Honeycutt is a highly-motivated organizer who has made it possible to act preemptively on many fronts. The future looks bright for our cause.

Or not, it's tough to say. Frankly we've lost interest since you've gotten involved. Your existential nihilism and morose disposition have combined to form a dark cloud that hangs over anyone who spends more than 5 minutes with you. In addition, you radiate a flavorless indifference that has poisoned our entire staff like that Russian guy that Putin killed. A passionate desire to improve the world fuels every activist, except you. You seem to be motivated to volunteer by a rusty bayonet at your back with the word "Guilt" written on it. You make Catholic guilt look like a minor headache. How did you ever get so neurotic and fucked-up?

Our cause is a noble one, and we endeavor to persevere and relieve unspeakable suffering in our lifetime. We can best achieve this if you stay as far away as possible. Perhaps we will find our spark again in the springtime. Perhaps not. But if we are to have a chance, you must refrain from trying to help. Did you know that in the wake of your taking over the Cambridge Local we've had 2 suicides, and 11 members joined either Narcotics Anonymous or Alcoholics Anonymous? And that was just in the week following your "motivational" speech.

I'm sorry to be so blunt, but Jesus Christ...Jesus Christ.

Sincerely,
Deborah Bernard

Silly Med Prosthetics

Here we see prosthetic testicles made by a company called, "SiliMed." I kid you not. I'm not sure why anyone who isn't actually in the porn industry would want such a thing, but apparently many men do. If only I could have mine set up to as a change purse, or just another pocket. Perhaps a place to keep an emergency condom...in my scrotal pocket. My urologist did mention the possible use of a pair of silicom balls to me, but I rejected due to the nagging presence of a modicum of self-respect. Plus, who besides my girlfriend is going to see them? They're not like breast implants, where everyone can gaze in awe and wonder at a pair of perfect breasts. And I can't imagine coming out of the shower at the YMCA and hearing a fellow say, "Hey, man, those are some nice, symmetrical balls you have there!" Not without starting a nasty fight, anyway. There just aren't enough people looking at my scrotum to justify prosthetic balls. Perhaps if I join a nudist colony, or get as famous as Paris Hilton and need to look get for when I get out of my limo without underwear on.

Surgery Date Now Official

Finally there is a confirmed date for my orchiectomy; January 11, 2007. It's good to have a mere 20 days between me and the end of two decades of testicular tomfoolery. This should have been done when I was in my teens, when there may have even been a chance at saving my fertility. I'm not complaining, though. There's too much suffering all over the damn place to complain about this, I'm just happy to have a target date. Up above you can see exactly what they do in the surgery. I should be on my feet in 2 or 4 days, and completely healed in 2 or 3 weeks. Hey, I've done it before.

My friend Charlie, a female-to-male transexual, just had "top" surgery done. That is, the removal of breast tissue while maintaining nipple sensitivity. It's not as easy as it sounds, but Charlie came out of surgery doing absolutely spectacularly. I think he was up and around the very next day. Naturally, they are very different surgeries, but his strength has inspired me to fight my inclination towards self-pity and get this thing done. Like Charlie, however, I'm a man and I'm going to stay that way. Balls...who needs 'em.

Send me a get well card, people.

My father is another story. We don't have a surgery date for him yet, but his surgery is far more serious than mine. It's for an abdominal aortic aneurysm, a potentially life-threatening condition. There is reason for optimism, though, and with my surgery out of the way soon, I'll be able to aid him during his period of convalescence.

My Admiration For Michelle's Death Glance

I sincerely admire my sister-in-law, and like most people whom I admire, I think she really dislikes everything about me. And since I despise myself, I couldn't agree with her more. The most powerful early memory of Michelle (that's her name), is from her wedding, way back in 1994. Ostensibly, I was the Best Man at the wedding, but in reality I wasn't of any great use to anyone. A fellow named Matt LeDuc did most of the official business, like keeping an eye on the caterer and whatever other menial tasks needed to be done. My mind floated around the wedding and I basically tried to exculpate myself to a certain degree. The "degree" I was aiming for was somewhere close to "strangely detached" and away from "complete boob." I'm of the opinion that I succeeded, and most people left the wedding with no opinion of me whatsoever.

I don't drink, and I generally don't like things like weddings, so I wasn't very outgoing. But I was ensconced in thought about the institution of marriage, my brother, the way in which I fucked up the bachelor party, and, of course, Michelle. There were probably more inane thoughts in there, as well. Like, "When do I get cake?" or "Why couldn't I find a date for this thing?" All of that was in addition to the ongoing chant of, "Holy shit am I fat." over and over again.

At one point I spoke with Matt LeDuc about my poor Best Manship and he was totally cool with the way things worked out, and I felt better. As I sailed across the yard and pushed past the guests, I was happy and at peace that my brother had found love. I'm fond of love, having been in love three times. Two of those love affairs ended well, although painfully, in friendship. One ended with my heart being squashed like a wormy apple on a hot summer day. Regardless, I'm an romantic by nature, so despite my feelings on marriage in general, I celebrated in sincere exultation. I love my brother, and that's how it works.

The memory of Michelle I spoke of earlier is all about what happened next. It's very simple, I just carelessly bumped into her as she was holding an alcoholic beverage of some kind. Actually, she had two, and she was probably taking the other drink to my brother. Time stopped and space contracted as an indifferent universe suddenly seemed to be greatly interested in how I fucked up and almost caused the bride to spill her drink on her wedding dress. If memory serves, I didn't, but she looked at me with an angry desire to see me crushed. After it happened, I clumsily spat out an apology and slinked away. I half expected to get hit in the back of the head with a rock. I didn't.

In retrospect, I imagine that she was putting me in my place as a new member of the Lyle family. Sort of like in prison movies where the new guy picks a fight with the toughest prick around as a way of ascending the heirarchy. My brother is fond of me, so I may have been, in a sense, the "toughest prick around." With that one look she booted me right off the ladder. I didn't know at that point that she is smart and funny, or that she can't spell, or that she is an incredibly hard worker (just look at www.Maxxsdoodads.com). All I knew at the time is that my new sister-in-law had no qualms about flattening any fat fuck who got in her way, brother or no brother.

The psychological impact of that hideous glare is impossible to overstate. Several years ago I was involved in a sexual dalliance with a young married woman, let's call her Ann..After an episode of vigorous lovemaking, Ann rose from the bed and asked if I wanted something to drink. I asked for a Coke and she left the bedroom, naked and magnificent. While she was gone, I realized that I needed to pee (one of those erratic, post intercourse urinations). So I got up and walked to the bathroom. Along the way, I bumped into my partner, causing her to spill ice cold Coke on her naked breasts. She made some sort of exclamation, and we laughed. But as I stood in the bathroom and tried like hell to focus my stream into the toilet, I had what Vietnam veterans call a flashback.Despite my best efforts, I remembered the glare and how I felt afterward; like a roach with body odor. Later on, Ann and I started to make love again, and after pleasuring her orally, I went in for the 60 second thrust to satisfy me. Incidentally, that's my most oft used blueprint for sex. Pleasure her with the lips and tongue, starting with the neck down and moving down to the genitals over about 20-45 minutes, finishing with a fantastic clitoral flourish. After she orgasms, I poke her and then we have a slice of pizza. But after the memory flash, I found myself without an erection. As my partner moaned and spread her legs, reaching out for me to penetrate her and get her bed sticky, I just looked down at my limp penis. That is very, very, very rare for me. Synthetic testosterone gives me erections just about anytime I want one. Usually even when I don't want one, like when I'm walking past the playground down the street. That thing is going to get me into trouble. I just can't control it sometimes...arousal may or may not be cause a stiffy. But that early morning, my pecker went unused, like a library card in George W. Bush's pocket.

You may think that I'm blaming Michelle for something that is clearly not her fault. After all, I was with a woman who was cheating on her husband, and he was due home in less than two hours. While he was plowing snow, I was plowing his wife. So yes, I was very nervous about getting killed by a vengeful husband. But I just like sex so much...I do, I really do! But as my brother once said, "That's just not right, man." But I performed well in her car the day we went to the Museum of Fine Arts. I even did very well earlier that same morning. So it wasn't fear of getting caught. And it wasn't that I was torn about the morality...Ann was an adult, and I respected her right and choice to bang me in a meaningless, base series of sexual encounters. It wasn't until I bumped into her and I had that memory flash of Michelle's dirty look that I went limp.

I deeply admire Michelle for what she did, though. Most people are simply not as adept as she is at conveying a message with a single glance. Since then, she's grown to love me, and I her. I tell her everything about my love life and mental illness, and seek out her advice because I think she is very intelligent. Although, again, she can't spell for beans. But that's just not her bag. So I raise my glass to Michelle, and hope to one day master the art of the glance.

It's all true, kids. And she makes a fine doggie treat. I tried one, and they are wicked good.

Gym Class, Hippies and a Fat Library Volunteer

Once upon a time there was an oak tree. It stood next to my high school, and perhaps it still does. Minuteman is an enormous school, bigger than some community colleges and just as full of mediocre minds. The middling mind in charge of my hideous body decided to drop out of school, since I weighed 450lbs and was failing a required class, gym. Whatever douchebag made "physical education" a required class should shampoo my crotch. When my gym "teacher" asked me once, "Why can't you just come to class?" I should have taken all my clothes off, pointed to my rolls of fat, and shit on the floor in contempt. Instead, I just left. But I went back to night school, and the tree.

Every night I would take classes and then volunteer 2 hours in the school library, mainly putting books back. So I mastered the Dewey decimal system, and had some great conversations with a teacher I had who happened to be a hippy. And I read a lot. I forget why, but I compiled a list of public companies that sold stock and private companies that, of course, didn't. It had something to do with my early socialism. I was trying to make a point long forgotten.

If an alien race ever floats over our greatest cities and explores our cathedrals and museums and malls, they'll almost certainly come to the conclusion that we were trying to make a point about something long forgotten.

After an evening of classes and volunteering, I would wait outside, usually in the cold, at the front entrance. Out in Lexington it is far enough from the city to appreciate the bright stars and darkness around it. And the bright, white moon is burned into my memory. It was mezmerizing. And now the black oak tree comes into the picture. A black oak is a species of oak tree, by the way, and isn't just me trying to relate how alight the moon seemed in comparison. If I stood in the right place, the moon rays would cut through the bare branches of the tree. Sometimes I could obscure the moon entirely behind a thick branch, and the light would put the branches in bold bas relief. The light was flat and the dark weaved atop it. On a special night, the tree was covered with ice from a storm, but the sky was free of clouds. It was magnificent, and made me swallow hard and I even found myself getting truly emotional. And it wasn't a faux profound moment where you feel that you should be emotional, so you pretend you are. This was different. If I could explain exactly what it is that got to me so, I could author a masterpiece. As it is, I'll just leave it alone. But I did write a poem about it long ago.

Still black oak along a path
denuded branches arc and twist
against the frozen white face
of the moon
A glowing Siren's call, tempting us
to step outside ourselves
And see everything we love
as the moon does
All framed in time and space
in nothingness
We try to resist the void it speaks of
while the black oak stands
and pays no mind.

Isn't that uplifting!

High Thoughts and Misdemeanors

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy...oh, yeah, the lyrics from Queen's masterpiece, Bohemian Rhapsody. I'm listening to that right now as I wait for the 6mg of lorazepam to put the lid on some unpleasant nightmares and every so gently, and with a loving hand, put me in an unconscious place far from those who would hurt me. Or hurt me by ignoring me. Or at least deliver me into a world where I didn't put my cream cheese and asiago bagel sandwich on a newly purchased book, thus getting cream cheese on it. Such a world must exist, at least as a projection of my mind onto the a stack of corned beef from the market.

Don't you think for a second that I would defend your bourgeous values and risk spilling my revolutionary red blood. That is not an ambulance you hear, it is the dues paying comrades of the One Big Union singing The Internationale in harmony!

Arise, the damned of the earth,
Arise, prisoners of hunger,
For reason thunders in its crater,
It is the eruption of the end!
Let us make a blank slate of the past,
Army of slaves, arise, arise!
The world is changing at the base,
We who have been nothing, let's be everything!

This is the final struggle
Let us gather, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be mankind!

"Intellectuals don't harmonize well," the old opera singer from Cuba reminded me, "and their passion is sapped by psychosomatic illnesses ranging from alcoholism to game legs to asthma...a pathetic lot." With that, she stabbed out her cigar and rose. One of her attendants moved to aid her, but she slapped him away. We were standing together. I half-turned to look at her, and saw that she was staring at me. "Let's get a drink, young man, while this lot sings poorly I'll allow you to entertain me in the hotel bar."

Then I felt myself being ripped open, and I looked down to gauge the damage. I sought solitude so I could measure the pain. The smell of shit was in the air, and I then realized that I had an accident, in euphamistic terms. Blood was everywhere, and my long fingers flitted over the buttons on my shirt. But soon my shirt was off, and I realized that my intestines were spilling onto the table and one particularly frenetic artery was sending blood across a painting of Tip O'Neil in the lobby. The removal of my pants proved ever more disasterous. My erect cock was a fountain of semen, and shit flowed from my anus. I tried to speak, to beg forgiveness for embarrassing my comrades for being so bourgeouis, but nothing but grunts and squeaks came out. I noticed, too, that I was lactating, and blood was starting to pour from my mouth.

Things were starting to get embarrassing. All the pills I've taken over the last 6 years started spewing out of every orifice. Harold Lagothip proposed that I call it an evening, although the opera singer didn't understand the fuss. I put my overcoast on, and it acted to redirect the vomitus onto the floor. Meanwhile, blood, urine and feces still flowed without end. Lady Joratio T. Alastus offered a kerchief, but it wasn't enough.

The revolutonary could see me for what I was, and I left the hotel by bending back my fingers and cracking them all the while saying, "Toot toot arosu isduf." With That, I awoke on the corner of 5th and Main St. There was an exciting sale on MP3 players at a nearby Best Buy.

Some stupid cunt got into trouble with Donald Trump, Miss USA. Who cares. Once you realize that you're truly alone, you have nothing else to worry about, no hell could possibly top that. Twas a brillig and a slithy po and a gire and a gimble in the wabe. Death death death death deaht death death death death...that's what the powers that be want. I wish Bush would find a little death, and his whole cabinet. I'd like to blow them up, if I weren't a pacifist. Compassion. Why is empathy and compassion so fucking hard to relate to the next generation. Why does compassion exist in opposition to the interests of those in power. It's insane. Makes me want to overdose and put an end to the madness. But I won't. I despise my political enemies too much to kill myself. I look forward to the day that I learn of Bush's death, from whatever cause. I'll dance a jig...a merry jig, even.

Nobody noticed when my hero, Frank P. Zeidler died. He was 1,000,000 times the man Bush ever thought of being. They don't honor my heroes, and I mock their heroes. Why is compassion so hard to embrace. Just embrace compassion. A little love and understanding for your fellow brothers and sisters.

Compassion.

Compassion.

Tell me not in mournful numbers life is but an empty dream, for the soul is dead that slumbers and things are not what they seem. Life is strong and life is earnest and the grave is not it's goal. Dust thou art to dust returnest was NOT spoken for the soul.

I'm going to curl up in the closet and weep for the dead and wonder why there is no class consciousness.

Plastic Ashes

This morning death was on the menu. No, that's not the first line of a hard-boiled pulp fiction novel, although it could be. Instead, I'm referring to my father giving me detailed instructions on what to do in the event he dies during his upcoming abdominal aortic aneurysm surgery. He told me all about probate court, Social Security, and how he wants to be cremated. It was a bit depressing, but since he is 74 and has this health problem, it's a practical concern. He's like me in that we don't want to be embalmed and put on display for a memorial ceremony. I'm donating my body to a research company, which will play with it for three weeks and then burn it. After that, they can fling my ashes off the Citgo sign for all I care. My father wants his ashes given to me so I can sneak into the cemetery and bury them next to my mother, thus avoiding the $75 fee that I'd have to pay the funeral home for interrement. I wish I were kidding.

I'd like to thank the young lady from Texas, a fellow blogger, who has been leaving comments on Zeitgeist Expatriate. She sounds, or reads, adorable and interesting. Also, thanks to Bryant, Clare, Donna, Amanda, Eve, Captain Fellatio, Charlie, Linda, and all the other good folks who take the time to read my rantings. It makes me feel a little less like The Man Who Wasn't There.

Why won't the world's tallest man come to Boston and pull the plastic out of my dolphin? Is that too much to ask?

The Angelus & Intercourse With The World

Late last week I left my flat and headed into Davis Square, Somerville, which is about a mile away. In a coffee shop that was not Someday Cafe (I'm still angry about them closing), I perused a book on the world history of art which I had purchased at McIntyre and Moore Booksellers moments before. Cramming the entire history of art and architecture into about 700 pages is an absurd undertaking, but useful to freshman in college for a survery course. I didn't buy the book for the words, though, but for the fantastic color prints.

As I savored my $4 cup of coffee and scowled at a bourgeois prick who wouldn't stop talking loudly about himself, I started to get lost in the art. Edward Hopper is in there, and he's my favorite artist...probably. Before long I discovered emotions stirring in my sorry little mind. As I contemplated each familiar painting my chest began to constrict, and I felt heavy all over. My breathing breathing became shallow, as well, and I thought that I was having an anxiety attack, but I wasn't. It was more like the feeling one gets reading an old love letter. There was no bitterness, only a feeling of fond remembrance and sadness from loss.

Then I got to a painting by Jean-Francois Millet called, The Angelus. I posted it here on my blog, above. I swallowed hard and bit my tongue in a way that one might in an attempt to fight back tears, perhaps to avoid embarrassment at being moved by a sentimental movie or song. Why was I reacting in this fashion? I wasn't so moved at university when I looked at these very same works of art. Well, this morning at around 3am it occured to me why this happened. Sadly, I see myself as a man, or a thing, apart from the world, as malformed and sickly. In a sense, this book was a love letter from a time when I felt roughly normal. And it reminded me of my love of my fellow human beings. My hatred of myself is real, but my cynicism is faux; I'm an romantic.

I stopped looking at the book when I got to American Realism, and perused The Boston Globe instead. At some point a woman, probably in her 40's and very tall, laughed genuinely and loudly at an unheard comment by her friend. It was a lovely spontaneous human melody, and it alone made her comely. Otherwise, she seemed distant and locked in an unpleasant frame of mind. But what a laugh. I would have liked to have gotten to know her.

I'm ambivalent about what happened next. I had 17 pages of research for a short story in a UMass Boston folder that I've had for years. The story is all about how disconnected we all are from each other, and that we use hate as much as love to come together. Intercourse with the world is what we desire most, and what motivates it is a secondary concern. Anyway, I had my little folder in my little hand and I accidentally left it on the table in Diesel Cafe. It's strange to me that I don't care. Perhaps I'm happy to be free of the way those 17 pages insisted on being used to write something.

Well, that's all I have today. Be well. I'm going to go have a Cup o' Noodles.

The Poor Little Bastards And Carnival Story Revisited

I haven't been of a mind lately to write for my little blog, or really do much of anything useful, constructive or interesting. But the "little people" occupy my thoughts this time of year. I'm not having lunatic imaginings of tiny folk, not yet. I'm actually sort of looking forward to that phase of my insanity. Instead, though, I'm speaking about the little people who appear as elves in Christmas advertisements this time of year. Many use people actually suffering from Dwarfism, or some other condition that makes them just so small and cute. I just saw a Black and Decker commercial on television that had a whole mess of those poor bastards acting as Santa's Elves, all decked in green. But you know that each and every one of them is at least annoyed, and more likely really pissed-off. And without any planned sequel to The Station Agent or The Wizard of Oz anytime soon, that's pretty much the only acting gig you can get if you're a tiny little freak.

Years and years ago, when I was about 10, I went to a carnaval. I was already somewhat aware that that was not a place to go, but I went anyway. One of the "attractions" was Lobster Boy. For some reason (why do you do anything), I paid a dollar and went inside, where I found a middle aged man, very short, with a terribly deformed hand. He sat in the middle of his tent with bottle of whiskey, and never looked up as I filed past. I nearly vomited afterward. Not from the deformity, but from the swirling black-hole of sadness that had this poor bastard at the center.

That fucking Black and Decker commercial made me think of poor whomever he was, or is. I've probably told that story before, which is embarrasing, but what can you do.

Feliz Navidad.

Of Fat, Stupid Sycophants

I recall a conversation I had with my brother at a Chinese restaurant that used to be down the street. It was quite a long time ago; I was 17 and he was 20. We were talking about my plans to take a bus to Chicago for the 1990 Socialist Party National Convention. That Chinese Restaurant, The Kalok, is long gone now, but I can still remember that my favorite dish was the 11B. I'm not sure what it was, except that it was greasy and delicious. That conversation sometimes comes back to me at the strangest moments, like in the middle of the night or when I'm making a pot of coffee. It's so random. Why do I keep thinking of it?

It must be because I had an adventure ahead of me, albeit an odd one. To travel by bus for days to an awful motel with the misleading name, "Heart of Chicago Motel." Chicago has many hearts, and this place was near none of them. And after settling in, to act as the sole attending Socialist Party of Massachusetts Delegate, and to speak as the chair of the Health Care Work Group. And along the way meet some amazing activists and eccentric intellectuals. Granted, it's not the sort of dream that many would share, but it really appealed to me.

And I did it. To Chicago, and to Milwaukee a couple of years later, and to New York for the Socialist Scholar's Conference. I also went to UMass Boston and studied physical anthropology and did damn well. There were even a couple of interesting jobs along the way. Now I'm not that anymore, I'm this, whatever this is. And there was nothing great about me back then, to say the least, but I managed to do more than just function.

The memory of that conversation keeps popping up because I would give anything to have that sense of ability and normalcy again. I've never thought myself exceptional, and I'm not romanticizing my past. But as I muddle through another brutal bout of depression I find myself wondering what it must be like to feel normal. Or at least roughly on par with everyone else. Right now, I see myself as a pathetic villain trying to move unseen through the days on my way towards a merciful death. Every day I get a little closer, and my highest hopes center around death at least not hurting.

Surely, I didn't always go through life like this, right? I think it's true that I didn't. And my memory of lunch with my brother that day clearly reveals that fact to me. I may not have thought I was going to be president or write the Great American novel, but I did at one time envision someone different than the fat, stupid sycophant that is writing this 'blog.

Cheers!

Post Number 150-Nothing Of Interest Today

I'm the architect of the lonely life I'm leading, but having nobody else to blame for my isolation doesn't mean that I'm content with it. The older I get the more I realize that there is an emotional instability, along with a fundamental nihilism, social anxiety and self-loathing, that makes most human interaction extremely difficult. While I do extremely well most of the time in one to one conversation, particularly with women, anything beyond that can trigger an anxiety attack that usually has me savaging every aspect of my physical appearance, intelligence and character. My psychiatrist tells me that it's like paranoia; I think that others are unreasonably and tenaciously mocking me mercilessly. And generally speaking I'm a reasonable person, so I'm aware of how absurd I'm being. But that does nothing to stop it. It's crippling, and motivates a barrage of "suicidal ideation."

I also have chapped lips.

So over the years I've been slowly backing up, first from school, then from political activism, and on and on. These days, my interactions with the world exist primarily via the telephone and the Internet. I've even found it hard to go on a date, and that's always been something I could do. Suicide, while not in the immediate future, feels inevitable. I feel like a fat Howard Hughes without money.

Thank goodness for the friends I do have. I try not to contact them very often out of fear of annoying them, especially my ex's. Donna, Linda and Clare have put up with my "eccentricities" (to put it nicely) so I try to give them the gift of my silence as much as possible. I love my other friends, and my brother, so I try to keep away from them, as well. But I still contact them frequently, as isolation is something I've found to be more painful than I ever thought it would be. I try to take comfort in knowing that I'm 34, and that the end can't be all that far off.

Sorry to anyone who actually may be reading this, for being a nihilistic prick, but that's where my mind is today. It's been a rough weekend.

Twelve "Mitram," Balls & A Poem

The script on the right was given to me by my dentist a few days ago, and it took me over an hour to figure out what it's supposed to say. At first I thought it was, "Mitram." It's not. I did eventually nail it down, but decided not to have it filled. It's nothing juicy or delightful.

On another note, it's a bad sign when you send a woman a poem and she never says anything about it one way or the other. Passionate hatred would be better than cyber-crickets. The poem, entitled, "The Idea of You" is fairly good in my opinion. I'll cram it in at the bottom of this post.

Still haven't heard about my ball surgery. Ball surgery! Ball surgery!

-D

The Idea of You

Before the flooded bog
on a chill autumn morn
revealed blood-red berries
beneath a broad azure sky

or...

A lush, misty fen
jewel in an Emerald Necklace
drew my eyes from the Boston skyline
and posed endless riddles

or...

A spring Nor'easter
tore away April buds
and thundered like a summer storm
mocking us with flakes instead

or...

Black, hollow jealousy
manifested within and blinded me
made me deaf and hardened my heart
Robbing me of a companion and a friend

Before I experienced any of those, or a million other common spectacles and everyday tragedies

Preceding every blessed milestone; first word, first step, first birthday, first day of school

When there was no me to take you in; no mind to consider our first, lingering gaze in the dark

There was the idea of you

And it was shared by everyone who ever dreamed of getting lost in something uncommon

And now that you are gone, so too is my innocent faith in a promise I thought I heard, but was never made

Now I know that there was a world before you, and a world with you, and despite every weary effort, a world after you.

And a return to the magnificent and common and lonely place where I began, with a hard lesson taught; Nothing lasts forever, and there are no promises.
-DWL

La Strada

I'm a little annoyed at not having heard back from the urologist yet. Having this surgery, albeit relatively minor (relative to gastric bypass, that's for sure) is bothing be because it's just hanging out there like a...non-functioning testicle. Just give me a date so I can fret no more. I'm just eager to get it done and over with and finito. I'm not at all nervous about the procedure at all, as I trust in the abilities of my surgeon and the quality of the hospital I've chosen. If I were going to the Casa de los Nut Chop in Oaxaca, Mexico then I'd be worried. Actually, I'm not even sure such a place exists. It would be great if it did, and it were a world-class urology clinic. Somehow I doubt it, though. One of the many benefits of living in Boston, aside from having the best pizza, fried clams and accent, is the access to countless amazing hospitals.

I just want a fucking surgery date, for fuck's sake.

Another thing that's been on my mind, actually to a far greater degree, is my date scheduled for Saturday night. The last date I had was with an insane woman with a great ass who used my like a sex toy. After I got to know her a bit better, I was glad that nothing more was expected from me. It didn't last long. I haven't been in a bona fide relationship since Donna. She also happens to be my best friend. Relationships are very important to me, and as much as I like the idea of having a "friend with benefits," that never works out. You have have gleaned, dear reader, that I'm not an emotionally aloof person. I don't use people and there is nothing Machiavellian about my plans. If I trust you and I like you, you're a friend. I also happen to love a lot of my friends. And I do fall in love on rare occassion. It's not something that I like to do, however, because it inevitably leads to unspeakable joy and bliss that then leads equally indescribable pain and misery that takes years off of your life. It's like that Rubik's Cube thing in Hellraiser, and I'm no good with puzzles.

What's been on my mind is a question about my nature. Since I've been growing more comfortable in my isolation these past months and years, am I going against myself by trying to find love and companionship with a normal human being. This reads like melodrama, but it's an honest question. My emotional state and mental illness is such that I do take relationships very seriously, perhaps too seriously. My being an romantic is part of the problem. I'm pathologically romantic.

I'm wondering if I might be happy with my music and my books and my little walks and friendships, but nothing more intimate than that. When I need romance, I can read Dostoevsky's "White Nights" for the 100th time, or take a walk through Davis Square and see all the young lovers. I'm not sure I'm artist enough to carve that out. Am I strong enough for someone to lean on? Certainly, I can't be relied on financially; I'm barely getting by myself. So what do I have to offer besides a sexual release for both of us? People seem to like talking to me, a lot, but clever conversation and a little kindness does not make a bond, or a "serious relationship" like she is looking for.

And I'm so damn nervous. I'm shaking almost violently as I write this, I'm not sure why. I feel that my decision to go or not to go on this date Saturday night is a very large one that will echo for a long time.

Celebration In The Barrios

I'm off to the dentist in 30 minutes, where I'll enjoy at least a few of the shocks that flesh is heir to. Although the dentist never bothered me. I'm happy to have dental insurance of any kind. Otherwise, I'd be tying this tooth to an open door and then slam in shut, ala The Three Stooges. I found out not to long ago that not a single stooge has a degree in dentistry. Shocking.

Today I have a good reason to celebrate. Hugo Chavez, that marvellous brown man in a red shirt down there in Venezuela, has won yet another election. This time he won with his largest margin of victory, 61% to 38%, over challenger Rosales. The former ruling-class douchebags hiding in the wealthy neighborhoods of Caracas are upset about this...awwww. And now a quote from Chavez to finish out. More blogging later, ladies and gents!

"Long live the socialist revolution! Destiny has been written," Chavez shouted to thousands of flag-waving supporters wearing red shirts and braving a pouring rain.

"That new era has begun," he said, raising a hand in the air. "We have shown that Venezuela is red!... No one should fear socialism... Socialism is human. Socialism is love," Chavez said. "Down with imperialism! We need a new world!"

Tender Mercies

There's a disturbing, newly-defined medical condition out there, and it impacts children. It's called, Compassion Deficit Disorder and it develops when children grow up with little social interaction with other living things. Technology makes it possible for a child to spend all of his or her time in front of a screen, or pressing buttons, or something along those lines. It's almost like growing up in isolation. While I appreciate the irony of the Internet leading to a breakdown in human interaction instead of increasing it, I find it terribly sad. The story I read about this phenomenon spoke of a 3 year old child who would throw a ball at an instructor's face and then act detached and indifferent while the instructor made it clear that the ball caused her pain. The child acted the same way if the ball was thrown against the wall or onto the floor. In other words, the child saw no difference between another human being and an inanimate object. That lack of empathy, or even sympathy, is at the root of something very ugly.

It would certainly be strange for a luddite to keep a weblog, and I'm no luddite. I see this as a very real problem with poor parenting fundamentally at fault. Granted, it must be tempting for a parent to put a kid in front of a video game or computer and allow the wonders of modern technology to act as an inexpensive baby-sitter. But intuitively, any human being (parents included) would know that isolating a toddler in such a way is a bad thing. If your intuition, or own ability to be empathetic, is so poorly developed then you should not be having children. Compassion is at the core of every well-adjusted, decent, scrupulous human being. And the inability to put compassion above principle has led to countless atrocities. The world is cruel enough without creating a generation of psychopaths.

My tooth is throbbing. Not literally, but that's the style of this particular pain, which stretches from an infection at the base of a premolar down into my jaw. What a production they have planned on Monday morning. Either that, or they'll just rip the bugger out. I'll also find out on Monday when my orchiectomy is to take place. I'll bet that they get it in before the holidays, and that's a good thing. The constant ache of this tiny testicle has been going on long enough. J'accuse!

I have a dark sense of humor and that sometimes fuels an opinion of me that isn't true. That I'm a bit of a jerk. I'm really not, though, for anyone who cares, I just choose to appreciate absurdity rather than being offended by it. I wrote a short story many, many years ago and I described the protagonist in a way that made him seem insane. But I felt a strong affinity with the fellow, who was "down and out" and bitter about it. I don't like to judge people who have found themselves in a rough spot, and that's because I know with all my mind that anything that can happen to one person can happen to another. Knowing that creates a feeling of comraderie with my fellow human beings. And since I'm familiar with my own potential to be a prick, I'm aware of yours. And a homeless person isn't someone to be looked down upon as a failure. Instead, he or she is a human being that took a different path than, say, you or I. And it could've happened to me, and still could, or you. Because the universe has the capacity to crush any one of us without an ounce of pity or hesitation; it is totally indifferent to your hunger, pain, happiness, sorrow, guilt, pleasure, ennui, libido, envy, or your preference for Coke over Pepsi. It just doesn't give a fat fuck because it doesn't even know you exist...it doesn't know anything. When you really understand that, it brings empathy and comraderie together into one thing. We are all alone, but at the same time there is nothing separating any of us. That's both a truth and an absurdity. See how that works?

That's why I chuckle at some things that really aren't funny. It's a fantastic comic pairing, without equal. The universe and the living. One is enthusiastically concerned with every detail; from getting food to avoiding pain to not being eaten. The other is totally indifferent to everything, literally. Here they are, together at last...will the laughs ever stop? Another important consideration is that after I laugh, I stay up all night asking myself how to make it better. I really, really do care about my fellow man. That's gauche these days, but true.

Some of you out there believe in god. If that's the case, I don't know why you're reading this blog. And a belief in god turns this sad-comic spectacle into something very different. In case you haven't noticed, if god exists, he or she is a total douchebag. Really. And there is nothing funny about a bully beating the shit out of a kid who just wants to be loved by that bully. That just pisses me off, and crushes my hope for a better world. At least in an indifferent universe, we can set the rules to some extent. But with a douchebag sky-king, we're all explicitly fucked from the get go.

Years ago I was in a hotel room in New York City and I was reading Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. Truly Outstanding book that my father threw at me and made me read. Anyway, there is a scene in the book where the protagonist, who is living in abject poverty, is heating up some milk in a pan for dinner. That's all he has to eat. As he's waiting for the milk to warm, he spots a roach crawling on his arm. Disgusted, he flicks it away. The bug arcs up through the flat and lands square in the pan of milk on the hotplate. I laughed.

"That's really not supposed to be funny." my father told me.
"I know it's awful, but I think it is supposed to be funny." I replied.

But that left an impression on me. Is there something wrong with me for laughing at the cruel little things life does to us? I hope not. Otherwise, I might seriously lose my mind.

One last thing about the short story I wrote. The character's name was Curtis Garret, and his "I give up, I hate life" comment that struck the teacher as nihilistic was this: "Curtis had grown to hate life and every living thing in the four days that had passed since he moved in with his brother. He had acted out of kindness, to get him off the street. But Curtis wanted none of it now. He was tired of gratitude and found his desire to go on living to be merciless and tiresome. 'Tonight," he thought, 'I will burn my winter coat in the barrel under the 14th St. bridge with the other bums.' His mind raced manically, 'And that will leave me coatless on a freezing night, and I will not return to Jack's place, or the shelter. Instead, I will listed to the fleas pop in the fire as my wool/acrylic coat burns, and the cold will take me when I find seclusion with the wind.' There wasn't any sadness in this decision, and he genuinely found comfort in the knowledge that those irritating little fleas would die before he did."

The flea thing had a setup through the story, so it was oddly amusing. But this was high school, and teachers at that level are really worried that you're going to suck on a tail-pipe. Perhaps that hurt her appreciation for the story. She knew I was a radical lefty and loved me for it. During the semester we watched Norma Rae and Dances With Wolves and I made all the comments she liked. So the story worried her a bit. She was afraid that her fat, socialist student would fling himself off the gymnasium. I didn't seriously consider that sort of thing for several years.

That's that.