Wednesday, January 31, 2007

We've Already Lost The "War on Terror"

Our beloved president has been laying on the war rhetoric pretty thick lately, and not about Iraq, either. The other one. Besides warning Iran against supporting Shiite militias in Iraq, the US is actually placing not one but two carrier groups into the Persian Gulf, ostensibly to make Iran nervous. Meanwhile, Bush claims that he isn't considering any action against Iran, just against the militias Iran supports. An article in The Guardian states that US officials think that Iranian agents "masterminded" the January 20 Karbala raid that ended with 5 dead American soldiers. When Bush makes these threats against Iran, however, he is being unnecessarily belligerent and provocative. We're already fighting on the ground in Iraq. It's no secret that Iran supports the Shiite militias, or that Saudi Arabia supports the Sunni minority (which ruled Iraq under Hussein). Those battle lines are drawn and clearly evident to anyone with even a tertiary understanding of what is happening in the Persian Gulf region.

So what is the point of railing against Iran instead of just doing what we've been doing all along, which is to attack the Iraqi Shiite militias with bombs and bombast? It must be because Bush actually has a military strike against Iran in mind. He couldn't possible be considering any kind of invasion, and if he is then the crazy vs. stupid debate about him will be answered; he'd have to be both. There are some fundamental differences between Iran and Iraq that are a bit more important than a one-letter difference in their names. Iran has a population of almost 80 million people, most of whom are under 35 years of age. They are also a more unified nation, with none of the Kurd/Sunni/Shiite religious and ethnic strife that is currently making life hell for Iraq's 27 million people.

None of this even takes into account how spent our military is, with many US troops on their 3rd or 4th tour of duty in Iraq. And with a job approval rating hovering around 30%, a big, fat question hovers above the bellicose balderdash that Bush is spewing: What the fuck is this president thinking? He must think that we're on the verge of some sort of stunning breakthrough in Iraq, and that Iran will blanche when they see the Eisenhower and Stennis carrier strike groups sailing past the Straight of Hormuz. The combination of success in Iraq and American firepower in the gulf will also force Iran to abandon her nuclear (or "nucular") ambitions. So, he thinks, time will prove that he was not a boob, after all. Instead, he was a masterful strategist who ignored his critics and crafted a safe and flourishing Middle East in the wake of the worst terrorist attack in the history of the world. Bush as realpolitik manipulor extraordinairre. Yes, he must think that, or something like it. Such dreams would help explain his otherwise inexplicable, on-going zeal for a series of politically unpopular military policies that have met with nothing but failure and criticism.

But that would mean that our president is delusional. That he has little or no understanding of what he is doing, and he is doing an awful lot. An awful lot. That would also make him the most dangerous man in the history of the world, given the proverbial buttons he is pushing and the powerful finger he is pushing them with.

Just think for a second how many people have died because Al Gore didn't win his home state of Tennessee in the 2000 election. Or that he actually won the popular vote outright. Or that, without the 9/11 attack, Bush would have been a pathetic, one term president like his father. Not doing much...just clearing brush in Crawford, Texas and passing favorable tax legislation for his wealthy friends. But with 9/11 he gets to play war and throw away civil liberties as if they were only put there to annoy him, the Great Decider.

I can't help but think that when those planes hit the World Trade Center, with Bush Jr. as president, we lost the War on Terror before it started.

Priceless Humility

Idiocy does have some virtues, particularly when coupled with innocence and humility. A lack of intelligence frequently travels with a large ego. At best, that makes the idiot annoying. At worst, the megalomaniacal president of the 3rd largest country in the world. Innocence cannot be regained when it is lost...it wouldn't even be desirable to do so if one could.

So there is humility, which a wise person knows is priceless. Since we all experience and interact with the world subjectively, wisdom tells us to hedge all bets and assume a humble disposition. By doing so, the idiot and the genius can travel together quietly and find virtue wherever it is.

If you're out there, and you have a moment, write me an email or leave a comment. I feel as if nobody knows I exist. At times I feel like I'm losing an already lost mind.

Monday, January 29, 2007

Three Thoughts And A Kvetch

If a sky-diving clown with a bad parachute lands in the woods at 35 ft per second, does anyone hear his little red nose go honky honk honk?

What's more likely? Me getting my life together and living a life of consequence, or a web-toed autistic grandmother splitting the atom with a crayon?

Has anyone ever poked their brain after getting into a car accident while picking their nose?

Recently I've been obsessing about a couple of friends who have fallen out of regular contact. We haven't even exchanged an email for many weeks. I get nostalgic for the time we were friends, and a cold loneliness makes my nipples hard. Ultimately, we're all going to have to part company and take the big dirt nap. But knowing that does little to assuage what can only be described as pain. I really feel the loss, something fierce. And along with that I feel judged. Like I didn't measure up as a friend and needed to be dumped as ballast or something. If any of you bastards think I'm holding you back, I'm not. It's you. So fuck you if you decide you don't like me anymore or choose not to be my friend. I'm not going to kvetch over this anymore. My heart feels like it's being squashed into a diamond, or spent plutonium...or something else hard and dense. I don't know, who am I, Mr. Fuckin' Wizard over here?

So there it is, my new disposition. Hey man, I'm loose...take me or leave me. I'm just another muffin in the case. I don't pay no mind. Mr. Takin' It Easy drawing it mild and chilling out, just hanging around. Ain't no guff. I don't have any stinkin' insecurities, you donut eating cow fucker. So don't write me back...fine. It's no skin off my stiff upper lip. Yeah.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Seafaring Bard

The International Herald Tribune reports that Hugo Chavez says he has no plans to seize private property like Castro did in Cuba in the wake of the revolution there. Chavez' opposition has been pushing that rumor for years now, and it's a threat that has a great deal of currency among the wealthy of Caracas. The people who live in squalor in the barrios, however, are probably less concerned. I support private ownership of property even as a socialist, although I don't see anything wrong with taxing the hell out of investment properties, or even cars with poor mileage. But the most interesting part of Chavez' speech wasn't the part where he stamped out the big, scary rumor of his eliminating private property. It was the part where he made it clear that capitalism is an enemy of his 21st-century socialism. Most interesting to me, anyway, and all my comrades out there. And I love this quote, "Nobody should allow themselves to be imbued with fear. If anybody should be scared, we should be scared of capitalism, which destroys society, people and the planet."

It's the simple truths I like the most.

Not much else to report on tonight. I returned from my lady friend's home on the Commuter Rail earlier this evening. A young African-American lady, perhaps in her twenties, a student I think, left her scarf on the train in the seat fairly close to mine. By the time I noticed, she had disappeared out the door. I followed, but lost her in South Station. If you're out there, pretty girl, I have your scarf. Just email me and describe it and tell me what you're studying and I'll return in to you. Oh, you're not out there and you've never heard of this blog? Too bad. I'd rather have a 1 minute long encounter with another human being, albeit a meaningless one, than this fucking scarf.

Anyway, Linda and I had a lovely weekend. I'm the sort of person who likes the company of one other person, not people in general. And Linda and I shared something really special, which is time and understanding. Life is a lonely business and would be unbearable without these intimate subterfuges. I look forward to being with her again. As always, I wish I had more to offer as a friend and a lover, but in the words of the great philosopher Popeye, "I am what I am."

Thursday, January 25, 2007

A Little Solace

There was a story on CNN the other day about how January 22nd is considered by some psychiatric organization to be the more depressing day of the year. A combination of the weather, the holidays being over, and a sort of hangover from all the money pissed away to spread holiday cheer is supposedly responsible. There's an agreeable logic to it. I lack a healthy emotional disposition, so I can't complain that the 22nd of January is any worse than the 5th of May or 7th of August. How tiresome and boring depression is, my friends.

We've all been through bad break-ups and unrequited love. There's no pain like it, and I think that only music can really capture and relate the horror of it adequately. Recently a friend of mine was complaining to me about a relationship gone sour. She went on and on about it, and I tried to comfort her. But every response seemed trite, every word fell with a thud and did little to take some of her pain away, or at least let her know that she isn't alone. I think we should make up a word that combines many other words and make the language a true comfort other than a banal comeback. Something that really says, "I understand, I cannot help you or alleviate your pain, but I'm here for you." In addition, the word will bring to mind a series of images; a beam of light through a dark and empty room, a loved one laughing, and perhaps a crowd of people. Music will come to mind when the word is uttered, like Tchaikovsky's violin concerto or aria #5 from Bachianas Brasileiras by Villa Lobos. But music is so personal a thing that the word would have to evoke a harmony that spoke to the suffering soul. And there would be poetry, too. Perhaps the words of Walter Benton, Longfellow, or whomever would be included in the emotional currency traded with this word. A beautifully expressed phrase of exquisite empathy. And finally, the word would provide a modicum of comfort, as one friend takes the hand of another and briefly guides him or her through a hideous bout of melancholy, away from the anguish of that broken heart.

But no such word exists. Because when you are suffering through the agony that I'm talking about, you feel like you're the first person ever to go through it. The loneliness is unspeakably gloomy. One is truly beyond consolation. So in my attempt to help my dear friend I fumbled about sadly. I'm a fairly eloquent person, even when talking and not writing. But I guess the reason that there is no such word is due to the truth of the pain. That the person going through it really is alone, and there's not a damned thing anyone can do about it. At least beyond the meager comforts of words, words, words. By knowing that we can perhaps provide the best advice to a dejected friend; look to art, particularly music, to find a little solace.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Floating Around

Upon reflection, I've realized that I spend a great deal of time in a terrible state of fear; over losing my brother and father, of homelessness, of maddness, of being left alone, of hurting someone I care about. That fear fuels my preoccupation with suicide. Death is the ultimate liberation from pain and sorrow itself, as well as the accompanying anxiety and fear that travels with it. Suicide represents escape, flight from interminable suffering over the long term or potentially from an immediate tragedy that suddenly makes life unworthy of being lived. It's an out. There's nothing particularly profound about any of this, but I confess that it truly amazes me how many people desperately want to believe that there is something on the other side of death. Every poll, survey, study or whatnot that I'm aware of has the vast majority of people believing in some sort of afterlife. Probably because they want there to be one. I panic at the thought, and the desire to live forever is so alien to me...I just don't understand. What if we really do have a soul and life, in a sense, never ends? Oy vey. And I'm not talking about eternal "life" in some funky scientific pantheistic sense. I mean consciously floating through time, and it never, ever ends. How rotten that would be. Like almost drowning throughout eternity. Getting just enough air as one gasps and thrashes about to go on living, but never finding peace in the deep, or comfort on the surface. That's how I imagine it, anyway. Struggling in the middle of a vast ocean, alone within oneself for all eternity. If I die, and then wake up in some sort of afterlife, I already know what I'm going to say, and it doesn't matter if I'm in Heaven or Hell or limbo or Des Moines, Iowa. I'm going to say, "Oh, fuck me...fuck me."

My existential nihilism is fed by my compassion. If pain is a part of existing then neverending life is an "all you can eat" buffet of grief. The ancient Greeks had the most horrific idea of what happens after death. They imagined that we all exist in purgatory in the afterlife, walking endlessly through time. Nice. I don't want any part of any of it. I think that speaks to my compassion for all living things, including myself.

What a fucking sad sack am I. I wish I had a Chunky.

Baboon Ass

Bon jour, dear friends. I haven't been posting much lately due to a debilitating bout of depression and what they call in the business, "suicidal ideation." If I'm writing here I must be doing better. It has been very rough, though. On the plus side, I've lost a bit of weight. With any luck, one of the myriad drugs I'm taking will will further lift the veil and reveal the world the way it is, instead of how I see it. Unfortunately, I won't know when that happens because the world IS how I see it, but you know what I mean. The greatest truth I know, besides women being magnificent creatures, is that life indeed does suck baboon ass but what else have we got to do?

Friday, January 19, 2007

South Dakota and Maggots

The world entire needs to be pounded flat, set on fire, swept into a pile, burned again, and then cast into the air and blown back to the four courners. Shiva is the Hindu God of Destruction. Does anyone know his email? Or how about the White Lady, the Celtic Dryad of death, destruction and annihilation? A person like that must be be easy to find. Most mainstream religions have an end of the world story that could be made into an exciting movie, perhaps starring Keanu Reeves. The Bible's followers are a sorry lot who can't shut the fuck up about how we will all be judged soon, and that Christ is coming back, and all that. From Matthew 13:40-43:

Just as the weeds are collected and burned up with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and they will throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!

The Q'uran, another book of fables that people like to take rather seriously, tells us that all humans who have ever lived will stand before God and be judged worthy of eternal reward in Heaven or eternal damnation in Hell (Surah 39:60-75). I'm not sure when that this nonsense is to occur. Holy books are always a bit fuzzy on the details, particularly regarding the date for this sequestration.

Every religion talks a good game about the end of life and the end of it all. But as far as I can tell, human beings die in exactly the same way that animals do. We go stiff and bug-eyed and stop having to pee or pick our nose. Pretty soon, we start to stink up the place. If we don't get buried, the maggots move in and we develop the texture of Jell-O. Usually we're spared that spectacle via the funerary arts.

But the end I'm looking for is the end of it all. No more George Fucking Bush, no more Bob's furniture stores, or Rick Santorum, or Bill O'Reilly, or Focus on the Family, or NRA, or Cato Institute, or religion, or Donald Trump, or South Dakota, or Wall Street, or brain freeze, or Jeff Jacoby, or Bruce Tinsley, or Katherine Harris, or Anne Coulter, or The O.C., or anything. Anything.

Let's just start over the same way we did before. Only this time, no human beings. What a marvelous success it would be without human beings to fuck things up. We have a lot to offer, yes I know. But I've thought about it...all the good and all the bad we do. And the world is better off without us. Yup.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Delicate Thoughts On Religion

I detest organized religion like a sickness. A personal spiritual journey is one thing, but the institution of the Church is quite another. I hate religion like a sickness and long for the day when reason and compassion will triumph over the fairy tales and ghosts and goblins of the Bible, Q'uran, or any other bullshit book. I'm just tired of it. Telling my gay friends that they can't get married because the Bible says so. The Bible is an absurd little tome that has a few interesting stories and nothing else. Flush the Bible. The world would be so much better off without any religion. Fuck it, and fuck them.

And if there were a god I would punch that fat slob in the face and piss on him. He or she wouldn't fight back because he/she is a coward. For thousands of years he/she has done nothing to help reduce pain or bring about justice. Pathetic. Fuck God.

We are alone in the universe, so leave me be. Fuck off all you religious folk, your words fall on my very deaf ears. I've heard it all before and you sicken me. Fuck you. I shit in your face.

No Balls, Homosexuality and Death

I'm poor, but I get all the medications I need, my flat is warm, and my belly is full. And I live with my father, who is my best friend. It was so nice when Linda met him last week. I want to bring her into my world, and he is definitely part of that. My fear of crowds and people in general is quite strong, and other aspects of my illness are proving hard to overcome. It's likely that I'm less inclined to try than I once was, although I hope that isn't true.

I fear my father's death more than anything else. He is 74 and is to have surgery on February 16 that is not without risks. He has to die sometime, and when he does I just may decide to end my life at the same time. I'm fighting really hard though to not take that way out. At least for my brother's sake. If I lose it and become actively suicidal after my father's demise, which could be twenty years away or could happen tomorrow. So I should probably tell Kent that I may be in the nuthouse when that happens. That's better than death, I suppose.

The scar tissue on my scrotal incision is very thick and sore, but I'll live. I'm so lucky to have Linda in my life right now. I don't know where our relationship will go, but I hope we're together for a long time. She's a great comfort to me. I'm not like most people. I hate myself and never stop thinking about the past and future and can never really relax. You people don't have to deal with that, I know you don't. I was raped by a guy when I was 8 years old, his name was Scott McKenzie and he was 17. That has had an impact on my adult sexuality. Part of me wants a homosexual experience. I just don't get along with men, though, and I fear a homosexual encounter.
Every few months I start approaching men on the 'net, nice and safe. I even exchange a picture, something innocent. Then when I get an offer to go out on a date, I just shut down. There is so much fear that I'll reveal that part of myself to someone, that desire, and in return I'll be mocked, fucked, beaten and left behind emotionally and physically. I'm just comfortable around women, and I find them generally as desirable as any young
man would...particularly one taking testosterone. But I can't ignore that there is a slight attraction to men. Maybe I have an odd fetish for a "normal" man, with all the working machinery. If so, that isn't the proper foundation of a healthy relationship, even a purely sexual one. There is also a chance that part of me wants to revisit that day back in 1980 when my "friend" fucked me, left me bleeding and sore, and then went on his merry way. Perhaps I want to go back and confront him, and by having sex with a man on my terms, as an equal, I would find some emotional healing.

But that's not going to happen. I'm a coward and I'm going to keep ignoring that
nagging desire. It's a shame that I can't connect with one half of the world's population because of a little rape. I'm getting so emotional, thinking about the male friends I've shut out over the years because of some hidden inclination to avoid their company. And when I do keep male friends they are usually at least 25 years older than I. What's that all about? So I find a reason to pick a fight with any potential male friend, usually something political will do. There's always some transgression I can use to push them away. It's so fucked up, I'm so fucked up. I'm sure that Scott, the guy who fucked me as a child, thinks that what he did was somehow good for me. Or that it was just part of growing up, innocence lost. Except I was many years too young and it wasn't consentual. Details. What a bastard. What a fucking bastard. I think I could kill him.

I wish I could stop thinking and measuring myself and worrying and just never relaxing for a second. I just want to live a small life with people I love around me, to one degree or another.

Friday, January 12, 2007

Post-Surgery Hullabaloo and Empty Sack Attack

It's Friday, January 11th, so it must be time for Darren's Post-Surgery Hullabaloo and Empty Sack Attack! Whooohoooo! The surgery went very well, and despite some achey pain and a very sore crotch, I'm doing fine. And I have Vicodin, so there's that. Unlike most hullabali, my hulabaloo isn't much of a party. It's just me and the cats and a lot of phone calls, emails, and later World of Warcraft and Civilization IV. But it is a bit of a celebration. I'm psyched about not having that constant, mildly-irritating testicle pain just radiating around my fat body all the time. It felt like I was making a pearl down there. It's also good to know that I'll be alive and well when my father goes into surgery on February 16 for an abdominal aortic aneurysm.

The Empty Sack Attack party that I arranged for tonight will, of course, take place without me. That's was the plan, and naturally I can't dance. I can barely walk. So if you know how to get it kickin', you're invited out to Venu on Warrenton St. in the Theatre District. If I know DJ Roger M like I think I do, the place will be jammin' and smokin' with hotties all night long. In my honor, he's going to spin some old school rap and techno that will knock your balls off. Just be warned that it's not easy getting past the velvet rope at Venu, so drop a name bomb. Just say you're there for the Empty Sack Formal. If they still give you a hard time, drop my spinmeister name, Floatin' Fattie. Man, it just brings back so many memories of when I was a club rat on da Boston scene. Spank it up, flip it, rub it down, oh nooooooo!

Still can't get it? You must be ugly or without style. If that's the case, just go fling some sweat at The Roxy.

Peace out.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Segolene Royal: Red Hot Socialist

Later this year the Frenchies will go to the polls and vote for the next president of France. I'm pretty sure that it's on April 22nd. One of the leading candidates is the brilliant, beautiful 53 year old Socialist Segolene Royal. What a name...what a woman. There she is on the left, as she should be. Recently some pictures of her in a bikini surfaced in European tabloids, and that put her in the news here more than ever before. She's hardly new to French politics. As a graduate of the École nationale d'administration she's in very good company among French politicians, and she's already a governor of a province. And naturally I'm fond of her as a Socialist. She's much more attractive than Hugo Chavez, although he was cute in his little yellow, blue and red sash during his swearing in ceremony yesterday.

Have you ever heard of Arwa Damon? Another amazing woman. She's a CNN correspondant who knows no fear as she darts through the streets of Baghdad embedded with American soldiers or interviews masked insurgents. She doesn't just hang around the Green Zone. While bullets wiz by, she keeps her cool and never so much as raises her voice. In addition, her commentary and analysis are better than just about anyone elses'. My god, I admire her. She is fearless, smart and also happens to be adorable. How many correspondants are adorable? Really. Wolf Blitzer is Pentagon Bureau Chief and Anderson Cooper has his own show, but neither one is particularly smart or huggable.

Anyway, I have surgery tomorrow at 1:45 in the afternoon, which is a ridiculous time for surgery in my opinion. I can't eat or drink anything and have to mill around my flat all morning waiting for the cutting and removing and sewing. Around 10pm I'll return here to convalesce with Toulouse. I've spent most day so far doing laundry and cleaning in case I croak. Hey, that's just being responsible. My next post will probably be post surgery. Adieu.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

A Fat Man's Sad Dream

Tomorrow I have to call the hospital at 10:30am to find out the exact time for my surgery. It will probably be early in the morning. That way I can go home in the evening. I have a dream about Thursday that I hold like a precious gem, and I'm afraid of telling anyone about it. Nobody will try to take it away, so I guess the analogy sucks. But some will chastise me for having it. It's a sad little dream, and it's not all that interesting. But I want it to happen, like winning the lottery or going to the prom with the prettiest girl in school. It's heartfelt, and honest, and says something about me. Dreams say a lot about a person, perhaps more than anything else.

On this little blog that few people read I feel compelled to reveal that I hope I never wake up after my surgery. That something goes wrong, something painless to me, and I just go to sleep forever. To be delivered from the loneliness, the worry, the sorrow, and the isolation that, by definition, we all exist within. It's not true that no man is an island. Every man is an island. We are all alone and I despise it. I don't get along well with the world, despite my efforts, because I can't become passive about that reality. I can't pretend that certain things are, or are not, there. I'm stunned at the absurdity, and the awful truth of how empty it is.

I know of a little game that makes me laugh a little, a game I play with one of my cats. I take a pistachio and pretend to throw it and she chases it as if I did. It's like she really sees it. She gets excited and frantically races around the room. I can do it again and again and again.

Of Movies And Sex And What Feels Good

When it comes to sex on the Silver Screen, my tastes run the gambit from phoney and air-brushed to sweaty and realistic. We've all seen the scripted pornography where two incredibly sexy people fuck for twenty minutes, and then orgasm together. If a fellow can thrust inside a woman for more than five minutes he either suffers from a disorder or he put a dab of benzocaine on his man-clit. Either that, or he's wearing a condom the thickness of a banana peel. In reality, the meeting of a stone hard cock and the moist flower of a vagina leads to, at best, a few minutes of classic, old-fashioned "fucking." Usually, it's over in less than two minutes. Sometimes it's over in less than two seconds, and then you say, "Aw, honey, that's never happened to me before" or "I couldn't help it, you're so damn hot."

For the woman, if there is no tongue there is no orgasm. It's a fallacy that cunnilingus is a new phenomenon. I was looking at a book of Victorian Era pornography a couple of months ago, and commenting on it with a female friend of mine. The first thing she noticed is that there was a lot of muff-diving. We probably think that people only fucked in the missionary position, and women never got off, because we equate the past with old people. As if old people were always old. And that people of the past were somehow more uptight. That attitude feeds a lot of myths. One myth is that in the colonial period people fucked through a hole in a sheet. Sometimes you hear it as Orthodox Jews fucking through a sheet. Either way, it's not true. Every generation likes to think that they are more open-minded than the last. It's nice to think that you're living in a time when every taboo is being challenged, at least if you're a person who admits to liking sex a great deal. But I can assure you that every generation has done it before, and that there is nothing new under her bun.

Personally, I admit that there are times when I like to get really freaky in bed, and there are times when I want my pecker left alone. Depression is like that, and mania is the opposite. When I'm manic, I want every hole crammed with goodness; hers and mine. So what I'm doing in bed, if anything, reflects the status of my mental health. That makes sense. If I'm in too good a mood, I start pointing out attractive women to my lesbian friends, which annoys them. It's hard not to, though, when you're manic and horny. And if I my occasional observation that a man is sexy makes you nervous, you're too square to be my kind of cat. I'm so hep. And when I'm in a good mood, I just can't hold it in.

This leads me to my point about sex and movies. I just saw a movie called, "Perfume" that recently opened in theatres. It's a very sexy movie based on a very sexy novel. And it does idealize the classic image of feminine sexuality as youthful and wide-eyed and just breaking with innocence. Girl, you'll be a woman soon. Remember that Neil Diamond song? Anyway. The movie also does something very rare in movies. Perhaps because it's not a very mainstream product. It shows average looking people fucking their brains out. Here in a fantastic orgy scene. I won't ruin the story and explain why, but in one scene a whole crowd of people just decide to fuck the person standing next to them. It's wild, man. Men on men, women on women, along with fat, skinny, hairy, old, young, you name it. The odds of your neighbor looking like Natalie Portman or Brad Pitt are pretty slim. And this movie honestly reflects that. That alone is compelling cinema.

Sex doesn't belong only to the young and gorgeous. Your ass doesn't have to be sublime to be spanked, and if your lover isn't an idiot, he or she will forgive your tiny cock. A friend of mine complains that her marvelous tits are flawed because one is slightly larger than the other. That's the kind of fucked up world we live in. Perfection is sought everywhere. Honestly, though, if you have skin and a libido, sex is for you. We all like to look at models, and see a fine, tight ass or cute little glistening clit mounted before the camera. But I never knew any pornography that was more than a moon-cast shadow next to a willing partner lying naked in the bed beside you. I'm not even talking about love here, just lust. Love adds another dimension. The poets have that covered. If you're lucky enough to be fucking the person you love, then you are fortunate indeed.

The best sex I've ever had was with a woman who was not pretty by any standard. The worst sex was with a woman who would only fuck with her underwear on. She would pull it to one side. I kid you not. She became vaguely catatonic after penetration. I'm not picking on her, I don't know what she's been through. Perhaps she was abused (that's my theory). But Madison Avenue presumes to know what you want in the sack, and they define it primarily as young, immaculate and enticing. I'd like to tell them a little secret; young people don't know how to fuck. It's a generalization, I know, but advertisers think in generalizations. I'm sure there are some wunderkinds out there who really know what they are doing. For the most part, though, knowing how to fuck well is something you learn, coupled with a modicum of empathy, humility and geneuine concern for your partner's enjoyment. So you can't be selfish, either. Experience is important, though, and that can only come with age. Another pun. This post is rife with them. Like fleas in cheap African hotel. Personally, I think people generally fuck best in their 30's thru 50's. Those years combine physical well-being with hard-earned knowledge. And that doesn't necessarily mean multiple partners, either. A couple that communicates their wants well will learn more in a week than a couple that stays quiet and just hopes by some miracle that the sex will get better year after year.

So I'm still going to spend some of my time looking at womens' asses on the Internet. And most of those asses will be young asses, like age 5 or 6. I'm kidding. Probably mostly asses in their 20's and 30's.. But as Bruce Willis' girlfriend says in Pulp Fiction, "What is pleasing to the eye and what is pleasing to the touch are seldom the same." Excellent, I ended with a movie quote.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

A Matter Of Civil Rights

My response to what happened here in Massachusetts this week, regarding gay marriage, is simple. The legislature is not legally or ethically bound to vote on any proposed referenda. And precedent shows that "taking action" on a referendum doesn't mean having to have a vote. In fact, six out of seven referenda have gone without a vote in the past few years. So this is all sad and pathetic, and hopefully the new legislature will kill it by choosing not to take a vote.

That a matter of civil rights might be put up for a popular vote sickens me. You can't vote away a person's right to get married! Just like you can't vote to have different bathrooms for blacks and whites, or different drinking fountains. Preventing gay marriage is just as stupid and cruel as segregation.

And what could possibly be at the root of such truculence? What motivates the leaders of the "defense of marriage" organizations that spit venom at loving couples who want to be married? Naturally, they are compelled by religion! Only religion could rob a person of his or her ability to reason, or blunt our natural predilection towards compassion. Empathy is the analogue of compassion, and it naturally travels in the minds of every human being. Only a herd of believers of an imaginary super being full of intolerance, malice and stupidity could abandon logic and lenity without collapsing in shame. Without compassion or reason one may as well be a psychopath; a threat to every thinking, feeling person. And when it comes to protecting the civil rights of a minority, a turn to violence is justifiable. If you saw a crowd beating up a fellow on the street, wouldn't you think it right to step in and stop the slaughter? What we have in Massachusetts is a gang of thugs, motivated by their sky-king and funded mostly by out-of-state money, trying to destroy the lives of a small group of people. If they win, the time will have arrived to hit back, literally. I will take pleasure in touching one of those barbarians on the nose, with my fist. I despise violence, but I believe in self-defense.

I'll end with a fantastic quote from Inherit The Wind. It's speaks of a different from of bigotry, the one against science. It also shows how religion can rob people of their brains and hearts. Enjoy.

Can't you understand? That if you take a law like evolution and you make it a crime to teach it in the public schools, tomorrow you can make it a crime to teach it in the private schools? And tomorrow you may make it a crime to read about it. And soon you may ban books and newspapers. And then you may turn Catholic against Protestant, and Protestant against Protestant, and try to foist your own religion upon the mind of man. If you can do one, you can do the other. Because fanaticism and ignorance is forever busy, and needs feeding. And soon, your Honor, with banners flying and with drums beating we'll be marching backward, BACKWARD, through the glorious ages of that Sixteenth Century when bigots burned the man who dared bring enlightenment and intelligence to the human mind!

Saturday, January 06, 2007

A Failed Attempt At Heroism and My Flitting Ego

Last night I danced like a fat penguin back into the world of bachelorhood and burst from my cocoon of isolation. A social butterfly emerged! Well, for one night, anyway. I know that social anxiety and paranoia will return, it's the nature of my illness. Crippling me with strange thoughts, a desire for self-destruction and a world view that has everyone hating and/or mocking me is what my illness does. It sucks, but at least medication and therapy triumphs on occassion and I'm allowed to feel good about myself, and perhaps even desirable. Those moments fucking rock.

Now I'm back in my flat, of course, with nothing of interest standing between me and surgery on Thursday. I'm a little on edge about it, but for the most part I'm doing well. It will be good to feel the pain go away. I think about the well-being of my friends, and my brother and father, a lot these days. Hideous nightmares and an almost constant sense of urgency plague me. I imagine that something terrible is about to happen, or just has, and I need to do something RIGHT NOW. I deal with it the same way as I deal with most of my insane notions, I take a pill.

Pills, wonderful pills.

I made a major design decision when I removed the "Blue Nude" painting from my wall. I'm still getting used to it's absence. In it's place I've put an enormous wall map that will allow me to track who the US is invading. At some point I'll memorize all those African countries. Perhaps when I'm convalescing next week. You may have seen the "Blue Nude" in some of my webcam photographs. It was painted by a friend of Donna's several years ago, and it's painfully mediocre. It was getting on my nerves, so it had to go...it just had to. If it were awful it would bother me less. In an odd way, a failed attempt at creating art is more compelling than a moderately successful one. We all aspire to greatness, and have experienced and understand failure. But the stink of mediocrity is a foul one. At least when we fail, we can pretend we didn't try. Oh, how cynical. Yes, I'm aware. If you want it, let me know. With the map behind me I look like I'm doing the nightly news when I'm on my webcam.

You can't pick your nose with an oven mitt on.

Returning to my abode this morning, something wild happened on the subway. We call it the "T" here in Boston, because we're so fucking clever. Actually, an advertising firm in the 1960's came up with that at the request of Mayor Kevin White. Now you know. Anyway...the wild thing. I was running down the stairs to jump onboard the waiting train at South Station, and as I made it through the doors I caught the eyes of a young lad who smiled at my Indiana Jones-like last minute leap. Well, it was good for a fat fuck like me, anyway. Then I suddenly heard people yelling, and the guy who was smiling at me looked horrified. I turned around and saw a Korean woman screaming because her ankle was caught in the doors of the subway car. Naturally, people were yelling, "Don't start the train!" and "Open the doors!", that sort of thing. I dropped my stuff and did a Samson immitation, trying to use my pathetic, weak arms to force the doors open. She didn't stand a chance of me releasing her. Then the train started to move, and everyone went batshit. I went batshit. I thought this poor woman would be getting a new nickname..."Stumpy." People were pulling on her, I was pulling on the doors, and in Paris a small dog peed on the Rue de Madelaine. To my amazement, the train did stop and the doors opened. The middle-car conductor showed up and said she should go to a doctor, but she didn't speak English very well and just repeated, "No, I OK" over and over again. I didn't have to hear her spotty English to know that she was visiting, or an immigrant. No American would give up the chance to sue for some fast cash.

When everyone calmed down, I sat and caught an occassional glance at an attractive middle-aged woman who was reading, "Lolita." That book keeps showing up around me. As sweat poured down my fat face, I started to feel proud about what I did. It wasn't much, and I didn't even force the doors open. But most people just screamed and looked on. I caught a glimpse of what it must feel like to be needed. To be of assistance instead of relying on the kindness of strangers myself. It was nice. For a brief moment, my ego developed from a gross little maggot into a fat fly, which was subsequently squashed flat again in due course. Yes, a fly is tiny and disgusting, and look what one of those things did to Jeff Goldblum. But it was good to have even a tiny ego for a moment or two. Although I do have a huge ego when it comes to religion, philosophy and politics. On the subject of me, however, I got nothing. But if you tell me that the invisible hand of laissez-faire economics works...well, then, we have something to talk about. I'd destroy you in a debate. If you try to get me to believe in an omnipotent, omniscent, loving god, then I'd like to talk to you about the Problem of Evil. And if you think gay marriage is wrong and shouldn't be treated as a civil rights issue, go fuck yourself. So that's good, I'm not ego-free. I can prick it up with the best of them.

Cram that in your bong and smoke it, Picard.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Benjamin, Mitt And The Nasty Pie We Share

Just spoke to the hospital to go over the last details before my orchiectomy. Barring a terrorist attack or my getting hit by a bus or something, my right testicle, Professor Benjamin T. Ramthorne, will be removed a week from Thursday. Yes, I named the little fella. I also imagine that he speaks in what is known among linguists as a "non-dominant vocal accent," much like Bob Dylan. Unlike Bob Dylan, however, he can't write music at all, and his lyrics are maudlin and sentimental.

The surgery is to take about two hours, but I should be allowed to go home the same day! I can't remember if that was the case last time. So with a positive attitude and a modicum of surgical skill this whole affair should be merely unpleasant and not much more. And I'll have a four inch long scar on the right side to match the left. Finally. I hope they give me a big honkin' bottle of Vicodin.

Depression and anxiety in general is really nasty right now, but that's just the way of things. I simply cannot shake the feeling that my brother, and most of my friends, are very angry with me about something. That's the paranoia, I suppose. It's extremely unpleasant, and there is an ongoing sense of urgency and a feeling of panic. My gut aches because of it. But I can't complain, as I have a place to flop, happy cats, a relatively healthy father and food for my face.

Mitt Romney, the Republican douchebag governor of Massachusetts, is apparently inching closer to a formal declaration that he is going to run for president. He's been a terrible governor, and there is no reason to think that he wouldn't be a terrible president, and we can't afford any more bad presidents. We've had our fill. He needs to be taken seriously by the Democratic Party. In my view, being a Mormon won't hurt him. Red state goobers want a believer as president. Polls indicate that the specific religion is less important than one might think. After Bush won in 2004 (2000 was shocking enough) I vowed never to dismiss any boob as "unelectable" ever again.

I suppose it's too early to ruminate on who will run and how they will do. Right now I'm more concerned with how the Massachusetts legislature is going to handle the referendum petition to put gay marriage on the ballot in 2008. They don't have to do anything and the petition will die, as it should. Most referenda die in the legislature without a vote, and not voting is completely ethical and legal. The legislature is called upon to act on referenda, and not voting represents action. It has precedent and it's the letter of the law. Mitt Romney is only coming out strong against civil liberties for gay couples because he knows that South Carolina is watching him. That's the most important of the early primaries, particularly for Republicans. Romney doesn't do ANYTHING without an eye on his political aspirations. What an asshole.

If you've ever tried to get signatures for anything, you know it's a pain in the ass. I've worked on numerous campaigns in my life, and on the surface getting 170,000 signatures seems like quite the accomplishment. That's what the enemies of gay marriage managed to get. But a closer inspection reveals the truth here. For one, many of the signature-takers lied about what people were being asked to sign. Professional petitioners with a record of unethical behavior were hired with money that has flowed into Right-Wing coffers from outside the commonwealth. In addition, many conservative Protestant churches crammed the petition down the throats of their parishioners. Using these methods it's very believable that they could get 170,000 signatures in a commonwealth of 7 million people. I wonder how many of that number knew that the hell they were signing.

And a matter of civil liberties shouldn't be on the fucking ballot to begin with. Right-wingers want you to get upset about two consenting adults getting married. This while they try to rationalize invading Iraq after 9/11. And that's just the upper layer of crust on the shit pie that Republicans have been serving up for years. They literally stand in opposition to a loving couple getting married while supporting the murder of innocent people and the crass, unscrupulous use of our armed forces. How evil do they have to get before they are run out of town?

Anyway, that's my take.

Monday, January 01, 2007

Peace And Quiet After The Age Of Pills

For reasons unclear, the week between Christmas and New Year's Eve seems like a month. I'm glad that the holidays are over and we can finally enter what C.S. Lewis called, "The waiting room of the world." Those months between the festivities of December and the warm, green blanket of spring. We have yet to experience a single snowstorm here in Boston. Not an Alberta Clipper or a Nor'easter in sight. It's tempting to blame the strangely warm weather on global warming, but few scientists predict such a rapid transformation. But it is a preview of the future, and that saddens me profoundly. I don't want to live long enough to see 70 degree winters here in Boston, or the extinction of polar bears, or the spectacle of countless refugees fleeing the rising sea. Technology is the cause of global warming, but it could also have been the solution. The nature of capitalism will prevent the best and brightest men and women from solving this problem. There's too much money to be made in not solving it. If you disagree that capitalism sucks, by all means, write me. Please do.

But that's enough of that for now. I'm in a rather affable and social mood today, so I've found myself on the phone frequently. I'm looking forward to my date with Linda on Friday. I've come to think very highly of her. I told her about my psychiatric hospitalizations and she didn't freak out, so I'm practically giddy about that. She probably knows that I'm a pill-popper, but if she doesn't I'll tell her that, too. I'm always putting something in my mouth to make the thoughts in my head go away. Sometimes I take too many and I get dizzy, then I stop for a bit. Soon after I start up again. Survival. I talk about the suicidal thoughts less than I used to, and I'm disinclined to talk about the harrowing, black fear of so many things.

I despise my illness, my disability. When I say that I suffer from depression, I'm leaving out much of the story. There's also paranoia and a frenzied anxiety that pulls at my gut until, of course, I take a pill. I'm tired of being disliked and of people having such a low opinion of me. I endlessly wonder what I'm doing wrong. Am I a pariah, or are my friends merely busy on the avenue or on the job? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know, and no matter how many times I run it through my rancid brain I'm never going to know for sure if my brother is embarrassed by me or if he really likes me, or both. I'm not sure of anything. Pop a pill. I'm sure of them, anyway. My poor father must shake his head before he drifts off to sleep every night, thinking about what a stinking failure is his youngest son. That's me. And I know for a fact that my mother was ashamed of me, and that that quickened her death. All of my friends dislike me or resent me or are ashamed of me in a very specific and unique way. And I can never leave those thoughts behind. I'm allergic to whatever the hell it is that I'm supposed to be.

The time of yelling into my pillow, "Leave me alone!" and eating fistfulls of pills grows closer every day. I'm not right in the head, and it's worse than sensitivity or depression. And depression is pretty awful. Before I go, I'm going to make some people happy, do some good. But for the most part, the story of me is written. The great thing about being an atheist is knowing that the story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. When the end comes and they pull that black plastic over my face and cart me off to MedCure there will be no more need of pills. Quiet, just quiet.

But first, a little good, please just a little bit for those I care about. Just something to make them happy to know me. For fuck's sake, something.