Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Driving In Another's Car

Nothing much to report today, and that in 1's and 0's. Many short term goals accomplished, like getting a haircut, procuring boxes for the move, paying the rent, that sort of thing. All of it done using a borrowed car to get around, which is no minor source of anxiety. If I wrap it around a telephone pole I'll never forgive myself. But it's just so damn easy to flit around instead of taking the bus and subway. A friend offered, "Just don't get into an accident." Sage advice. I plan to follow it.

The news about my father is good and, in a fashion, I'm getting used to living in an empty flat. The anxiety is pretty bad, however, and every morning I awaken filled with anxiety that borders on panic. It was so bad this morning I was physically ill. After that, I can't get out of the flat fast enough to run errands. I'm fleeing from the judgement of the cats, methinks.

And then a little bird perched upon my shoulder and whispered gently, "Why don't you shut the fuck up." So I shall, so I shall...

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Additionally Notable For Owning A Poodle

I've been enjoying a little stroll through the works of Schopenhaur and Max Weber, and a bit generally about pessimism and asceticism. My books are mostly packed away, in quivering anticipation of the upcoming move across the courtyard. I'm quivering, not the books. But last night I was looking for a dictionary of philosophy that I've had since university. Some of what I had learned in school came back into bold bas relief with the aid of the text I'd found. I once considered a major in philosophy, but I had a thing for primates and bones and the taxonomical classification of the tree shrew. Thus, I gave up the study of lofty notions for monkeys and early man.

Either road would have taken me here, which is nowhere of consequence.

Recently I've been curious about how an atheist could embrace asceticism. I see great merit in the philosophy, though, when considered against modern day consumerism. The value I see is as a sort of protest against capitalism and inequality. So it's not about virtuous suffering as a way of finding enlightenment. Although in a scientific pantheistic Buddhist sense I could see that, as well. But as an atheist and a radical socialist I'm more compelled by the desire to live simply for economic and class reasons. And a contrarian disposition fuels that notion. Living a ostentatious life indicates a modicum of thoughtlessness regarding the suffering of others.

Anyway, I read and thought about this stuff after Saturday Night Live last night. This morning I awoke in a state of near panic, and I haven't a clue as to why. My stomach felt as a knot and my mind raced, and I shook a bit, as well. I had a difficult time escaping the feeling that I had done something wrong, really wrong. And there was guilt and self-hatred, as well. I wondered for awhile who the hell I was, then I got up and fed the cat.

But who really give a fat fuck? Happier news concerns my father, who improves with the passing of every day. He's been in the hospital for over a week, in the ICU. But they are talking about moving him to the main hospital. From there he can come home, hopefully later this week. He'll need some tending to, which I will do happily. I miss him and our conversations about politics and movies and what-not.

There's a kid outside bouncing a cold, hard basketball. I'd like to go out and bounce it on his fat face. It's like water torture. It has a rhythm, but every so often the little prick stops briefly and then starts again. Go to the park, you little ape, it's right down the street.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Admiral Ohnishi, Mishima, Mortality, and Fear of Driving

I've been meaning to write a little about Admiral Takijiro Ohnishi for a few days now, a man I read about while rattling around my empty flat. Just the cats and I since my father's hospitalization. I'm almost addicted to reading, and I often do so late at night when loneliness finds it's way easily into the heart and mind. Television helps, too...perhaps less the mind than the heart. Admiral Ohnishi is known as the architect of the use of kamikazes in World War II. He committed ritual suicide (seppuku), and left a suicide note apologizing to the 4,000 or so kamikaze pilots. It's beautiful.

I tell the spirits of the kamikazes.
I thank you from my heart for your bravery.
Even though you believed in the final victory of Japan and died gracefully like cherry blossoms, Your faith has never been accomplished.
I apologize to the spirits of my men and their bereaved families with my death.
Next, I bid to all in Japan. It would be bliss if all of you realize that acting rashly and throwing your life away only profits your enemy, and decide with Faith to follow the sacred order of the Emperor his majesty, and endure the pain.
While enduring your pain, do not forget the pride to be Japanese.
You all are the treasure of the country.
Yet in this time of peace, embrace the spirit of kamikaze and do your best for the welfare of the Japanese race and for the Peace of all people around the world.
-Lieutenant General of the Navy Takijiro Onishi

So there are thoughts of death, romanticized and abstract and touching. There is also a closer manifestation of my awareness of my own mortality, and how my father is going to die someday. His latest hospital stay for pneumonia after abdominal aortic aneurysm surgery is terrifying. He is very confused from the anesthesia. I'm so scared.

This morning I summoned the courage to drive to the hospital, instead of just calling. I can't talk to him on the phone while he is in the Intensive Care Unit, anyway. But those who know me from Adam know that I don't have a good driving history. I "totalled" one car after having a petite seizure, and have been in several "fender benders." Strangely enough, I love to drive despite all that. The fear comes from getting into an accident in my father's car. I'd never forgive myself. But I sucked it up and went over there, no problems. I was surprised to find a new protocol in place in the ICU; before visiting my father I had to first put on a paper gown and latex gloves; he has pneumonia. He looks good, all things considered. Apparently the chest x-rays tell a different tale. They show mucus in his lungs that is tenacious. So now it's a matter of waiting for the antibiotics to work and the lungs to dry up. I'm optimistic, and I'm at ease knowing that he isn't in any pain.

I stayed with him for only about 30 minutes. He was trying to sleep and my presence seemed at best pointless. In my estimation, the most important part of a hospital visit just being there. He has to know that people care in general, and that I'm deeply concerned. Surely, during his brief period of being awake, he could see that.

The drive home, like the drive up, was fortunately uneventful. Terrifying, though.

So last night I was thinking about suicide. I'm convinced that my end will most likely come at my own hand, although I have no plans to do so. But I started to think, again, about which way would be best. I've tried pills twice, in earnest, and that obviously didn't work. That's not really relevant, though, but it is ironic that I read this poem around the same time I was thinking about how to off myself.

Today in bloom, tomorrow as scattered petals
Like a delicate flower, life is
How we could aspire this fragrance,
So transitory
To last forever?
- Yukio Mishima


A man's body as a work of art
was something that Mishima
felt strongly about.
Mishima is known for committing seppuku in 1970 after an attempt to bring back the Japanese Emperor via a coup. It was more of an artistic statement about the concept of Japanese honor than a real attempt to bring back the emperor, which was impossible. He planned his suicide, and wanted to bring about his death at the moment when his body was at it's most beautiful. He was a homosexual, a Japanese Nationalist, and one of the most important Japanese artists of the 20th century. His The Temple of the Golden Pavilion is some piece of work, I can tell you that. He felt that, through body sculpting and weight lifting, one could create a work of art out of one's body. The ultimate sacrifice to art is to kill oneself at the height of his beauty.

My body was never close to functioning well, and it has never been beautiful. My body should be celebrated for functioning at all, and my commitment to it represents my lack of vanity and my affinity for compassion. A celebration of imperfection!

Anyway, that's all I'm going to write for now. Linda is coming over later and hopefully I'll be in good spirits and make for decent company.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Another Update

I don't think I've ever been as scared in my life as I am right now. The news regarding my father isn't very good. There is fluid in his lungs which is making it hard for him to breathe. It's not so bad that they need to put him on a respirator, at least not yet. These next few hours are crucial. I fear that all those years of smoking have taken a toll, and now he is paying for it. I don't know. I'm going to call the hospital later. I feel terrible for not being able to visit the hospital, but I don't have the money for the parking garage. Somehow I'm going to have to get up there tomorrow, I'm not sure how.

Of Cats and Hallucinations

It's been a few days since I last posted, and that naturally has to do with my father's surgery. My brother was good enough to take some time off from work, and that made the stress and fear easier to shoulder. He's back to work now, though, and I'm in a strange place mentally and emotionally. My flat near Boston isn't that large, but it feels like an enormous mansion now that it's just me and the cats. Fluffy seems a bit depressed, and Panther is definitely confused. He has been seeking as much attention as he can get, and when he doesn't get it he gets angry. Toulouse has always been my familiar, so as long as I'm around he's relatively happy. And then there is Impy, my darling little girl. Last night she slept on my lap for a record length of time, almost an hour. Methinks they feel the void left by my father. I'm not trying to be melodramatic, but cats are wise creatures and they know that something is up.

As for me, I'm spending my time watching television or cleaning and getting ready for the move. I feel a bit numb, but I'm not suicidal or all that depressed. It's like I'm waiting for something to happen, and I suppose that's true. I'm waiting for my father's medical trial to come to an end, one way or the other. The news has been very good, so at this point I'm hopeful that he will be home within a week. The most disconcerting part of his surgery has been the delusions. On Friday, he was hysterically afraid that the nurses were trying to kill him, and that my brother and I were in terrible danger. It was very disturbing. Since then, he has been getting better, but he still is caught in a sort of dream-world. One of the attending physicians told me that there is no evidence of a stroke or any brain damage, and that these hallucinations are normal and will go away. Good news, that.

More later...thanks for the letters of concern everyone.

Friday, February 16, 2007

More Than A Good Run

My brother Kent and I just took my father to the hospital for his aneurysm surgery. It's 8:02am, and it should be underway right now. The procedure is expected to take 5 hours, and Kent is staying with me all day while we wait for word on how he is doing. While Kent sleeps on my bed, I'm checking emails and writing for this 'blog. It's too early to call friends for support. I'm doing fine right now, anyway. A little anxiety is sneaking past the facade of confidence, but nothing I can't handle. Just before I left the hospital this morning, I hugged my father and he said to me, "Don't worry about it, I'll be OK. But if not, I had a good run." I hope his good run has many years ahead of it.

Naturally, as I find out how the operation went I'll post to the blog with new information. In the meantime, just wish my father well.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

CanadaMerge Arrives!

Today I finally launched an idea that I think has the potential to help make the world a better place. Simply put, my organization, CanadaMerge, seeks to put an end to the American experiment, admit a mistake (the Revolutionary War), and then put us all on the path to a better world. Down below is a portion of my press release, which was read by Marty Popheur (our vice-secretary) on the steps of the Old State House in Boston earlier today.

If you want to subscribe to our discussion group, just write to: CanadaMerge-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

Next month, I'm hoping to launch a political party that will have a platform based on the principles of CanadaMerge. We will run left-wing candidates who are allied behind the notion that ultimately the US needs to be abandoned in favor of a merge with Canada. More on that in a couple of months.

Anyway, here is Marty's speech, written by me:

The American Revolution was a mistake. The United States should have remained as a colony of the United Kingdom. The US Constitution essentially creates an American king via all the powers that are handed to the president. Particularly as Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces. The way that position has evolved over the years, into the nuclear age and through the Cold War, is not good for the world. So let's turn back the clock and pretend the American Revolution never happened and merge with our Canadian brothers and sisters.

All hail the Queen!


And let's face it, the US seems to be unable to rule itself. There is no national health care system, industry is under-regulated, guns are easy to get, and we seem to have a leadership addicted to war. In contrast, Canada has a far superior health care system that is universally available to all citizens. And handguns are difficult to get, labor and environmental regulations have teeth, and when was the last time Canada declared war on anyone? Canadians served honorably in World War II, even before the US formally entered the war. But since then I'm pretty sure they haven't initiated anything more than a hockey fight.
My grandmother moved down to the Boston area from Prince Edward Island many years ago. If I could, I'd return to Canada myself. But I'm pretty sure it would be good for all of us to just put the USA in her grave and do the right thing.

I say, "No more America and God Save the Queen!"

The Love Hustle

This post is more than just an attempt to be humorous, or a list of complaints, or amusement found in altering a Ziggy picture. For Valentine's Day, I offer a public service announcement, what they call in the business a "PSA." I'm not in that business, but that's what I hear. Whether alone, with someone, or with a bunch of people, this can be a hard day for people to endure. I'm lucky enough to have a woman in my life right now, so this day is about letting her know how special she is. But I also can't help but think of past relationships that didn't work out. So this day is a lovely melange of regret, ennui, cynicism, romanticism, nihilism, and affection. That's quite a schizophrenic combination. Wow!

At this moment I'm listening to Tchaikovsky's symphony no. 4, the one with the really spectacular ending. Well, they all have a really big ending, except for the 6th. It's exceptional, anyway. Very romantic and tragic and sad. So for me, it fits any of my moods. But let's talk about love for a second or two.

Anyway, this is the aforementioned PSA, if you happen to be a rich or attractive heterosexual asshole. I heard about a dating service that caters to "beautiful women and affluent men." You can check it out at Sugar Daddy For Me. If a lady is judged to be an attractive woman, and a man can prove that he makes at least $200,000 to $500,000 annually (depending on age), then they can join. After that, it's just a matter of finding the right rivet for the right hole. Isn't that touching? That level of supercilious bitterness almost is. These people make no bones about being a bunch of douchebags. It may be true that the route to true happiness as a couple is to have no brain cells in the head or romance in the heart. If that's the way it is, I say, "Feh." I propose a toast to love as a hassle, not a hustle.

Whether you have a partner today or not, let me leave you with a bit of poetry from Walter Benton. It's an outstanding poem, and I think I've posted it before, but read it again. It's not sentimental or maudlin. It means something profoud and wonderful. It speaks to a truth. Enjoy.

Walter Benton's poem,

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

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

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

Because slow negative death withers the world
and only yes can turn the tide
Because love has your face and body . . . and your hands are tender
and your mouth is sweet ---- and God has made no other eyes like yours.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Eye On The Sky

It's 3:30 in the morning and sleep is elusive, even with the aid of 100mg of Trazodone and 1mg of lorazepam. There's an infomercial on television for Russ Whitney's Guide to Wealth Building, which is mildly amusing. Apparently this fellow has workshops on how to become wealthy by purchasing foreclosed property and then selling it for a pant load of money. The business draws from a rich lexicon, with expressions like "flipping" property and offering ways to "learn from technique." If I call now and order an Entrepreneur Start-Up Kit (in itself an interesting use of the language), I'll get information about the next real estate workshop in my area. I suspect that attending such an event would make me hate myself even more than I already do. There are interviews with very enthusiastic people attending these workshops around the country. For some reason, most of them have stickers that read, "I'm Great!" stuck on their chest. It's so odd. And Russ Whitney, the Wizard of Wealth, is usually dressed informally, wearing Nike sweatshirts and even a track suit at one point. What an asshole. I think that's him wearing a suit with a red power tie, up there on the right. It's the only thing I've seen the bastard wearing that doesn't have a Nike swoosh on it.

I want to sleep, but every time I close my eyes there are painful images, and terrible thoughts. Not nightmares, though, as I'm not asleep when I'm having them. It's better to keep my eyes open and on the television, or in a book. That way I can analyze the world outside myself instead of just myself. When I close my eyes, I don't like what I see. What a morbid prick I am. And I don't think I'm getting better with therapy. Most of the time I have a need to be alone, where I can gauge the length and breadth of my anxiety, depression and paranoia. Only after measuring this cocktail of neuroses can I then work to overcome them. A reconnaissance mission in the mind, followed up by a careful attempt to set my thoughts and feelings right. So as I grow older I have to accept my inclination towards isolation. It's just part of how I'm going to persevere against mental illness.

Well, I changed the channel to one of the movie stations and am now watching Lost in Translation with Bill Murray. What an excellent human being. And Scarlett Johansson is cute as all hell. I keep looking out the window and thinking that I see the sky getting a bit brighter behind the tree in the courtyard, but it's too early for that...it's all in my head. Toulouse is sleeping easily at the foot of my bed. If I climb back in there he'll be all over me. I expect that, but I don't take it for granted. I never take anything for granted these days.

I've said this a thousand times before on this 'blog, but I do so miss my old friends. The ones who rarely call and whom I see even less often. And I can't complain about it directly, lest it drive them away for real. Nobody wants to be, or be around, a pest. So I wait and I hope that the connection is still there, that the friendship is still vital despite our going our separate ways. Somewhere in my noggin I know that they are just busy...I think.

On another note, I want to mention something about World of WarCraft, a game a play often, usually late at night. I'm fond of it, but I'm certainly not addicted. My limit is about an hour or two, then I feel compelled to flee for a bit and do something else. Anything else. One thing that really annoys me is that the game is frequently taken down for maintenance, and a new "patch" needs to be downloaded just about every week. I never paid any attention to what the patches are actually for, I just let them happen. But yesterday I read what was being updated, and it really cracked me up for some reason. I'm trying to put into words what it is that I found so amusing, but I can't. Here's an example of a recent update, though:

Healthstones and summoned warlock pets will no longer cost a soulshard to summon in the Arena preparation area.

There's a poetry to it, almost. Here's my favorite:

"Mangle" will not stack multiple copies from multiple forms or druids anymore. This was never intended behavior. The percentage modification on bleeds has increased from 25% to 30% and "Mangle" now increases the damage from "Shred" as well. In addition, "Mangle" will now benefit from the damage boost from "Tiger's Fury".

Sweet fancy Moses! I haven't a clue what it means, but it speaks to me. It's like another language, one that is spoken by fat little boys covered in Dorito dust. People from all sectors of society play the game, but I'm pretty sure that only the aforementioned demographic really cares about the impact of Tiger's Fury on Mangle.

I'd write more about World of WarCraft, but South Park has already covered it perfectly.

I think the sky is getting brighter. I'm going to lie down with Toulouse for a few minutes and then emerge fat and bleary-eyed from my boudoir, ready to face another day. Yeah.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

A Couple of Thoughts on a Sunday Morning

Just a couple of thoughts this morning, hopefully amusing and of no consequence. I did a wash earlier and one of my white shirts came out of the dryer smelling like something I've never smelled before, and it wasn't a good thing. It wasn't particularly bad, either. So mysterious. But that's what you get for forgetting to use fabric softener.

See what I mean by, "...of no consequence."?

I'm going to go on record and say that James Blunt, the singer, is the sexiest bastard I've ever seen. I'm man enough to say that, yes I am. I'm beautiful, it's true. That's a picture of him on the right, of course. There's a commercial for a collection for love songs that uses his glorious kisser to push CD's. Look at him...I'm only human. At the same time, I feel oddly compelled to punch him in the face.

Here's a top 5 list of things not to say during sex:

5. You remind me of Phyllis Diller.
4. Daddy's making a delivery!
3. Remind me to pick up some kitty litter tomorrow.
2. Sieg heil!
1. This is the best thing to happen to me since I got the high score on Q-Bert...woooot!

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Less Melancholy

What a gut-wrenching depression lately. I haven't heard from so many friends for a long time. Or what feels like a long time. When my mind gets like this, I know it can't be trusted. The world sucks, but not as badly as I think it does when ensconced in this sickening sadness. And these voices in my head, saying nasty things about my loneliness and worthlessness. How boring.

Charlie, if you're out there, I love you, man. That's all I'm going to write for now. I'm going to go take a few lorazepam and try to think less melancholy thoughts.

Friday, February 09, 2007

Broadway Pancakes

This spring I'm looking forward to working in a garden, on some land provided by my girlfriend Linda. There will be tomatoes, and some herbs, perhaps. I'm not sure what else, but I do know that the idea of this garden has provided no small measure of comfort to me. I'm a fragile little man with an romantic dispostion who is unafraid of crying when the mood strikes. Yesterday, in the freezing cold, I was listening to Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherezade while walking back from the local spa. It got to me and made me crazy, I love it so. I get the same way, sort of, when I think of keeping a garden. It makes it harder for that self-loathing part of me to make a convincing argument that I don't exist, and do nothing of worth. When I think of how much my cats need me I get the same feeling. I used to have school and work, now I have cats. The people in my life who care about me tell me that I'm a decent person, even a good person, who acts out of compassion and at least aspires towards reason. But they are trying to life my mood, and change how I see myself, out of affection. So basically, I don't necessarily believe them. It's all so fucked up.

I seem to have the flu, but it's of no consequence. It should pass within a few days. I've been doing a lot of reading, and being sick gives one an excuse for peeling back page after page. Yesterday I was almost killed by a short-stack of pancakes at the newly-opened Broadway Diner, a mere 5 minute walk from my house. I knew I was sick and I shouldn't have eaten it, but the punishment didn't fit the crime. I was violently ill. As most of you know, I've had gastric bypass surgery. That means I don't have a stomach so much as a little pouch that is segregated from the rest of my stomach via a redundant staple line. I was vomiting so much yesterday that I thought I would start coughing up thick metal stapes. And "vomiting" with a pouch is odd. Ech.

Aren't you glad you read this blog? On the political front, I'm still behind the formation of a new political party, the Socialist Party of America. If you'd like to know more about it, or why the Fist & Rose Tendency of the SPUSA is leading the break, just write me. I understand that the secretary of the SPUSA, Greg Pason, knows what we're doing and predicts failure. Shocking.

One of Dvorak's slavonic danses is playing on my MP3 player. What a wonderful Czech bastard. Clare, if you're out there, write me, OK?

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Last Day At The Beach

Not a lot to report today. I've been giving a lot of thought to the method by which I will eventually commit suicide, probably in a few years. I like the idea of taking dozens of lorazepam and walking into the ocean, getting sleepier as I swim, and finally drowning in a groggy haze. Massachusetts has some beautiful beaches for that sort of thing. And teenagers may tell ghost stories, by the light of a bonfire, about me. I'm not suicidal now, but I think about how I will eventually do it. It's just who I am.

I've been going through many papers in anticipation of the upcoming move on March 1, just trying to get organized. Something I found made me think of Sandra Atkins, a young lady I once cared very much about. If you Google her name, you get her Master's Thesis, entitled, The Formation of the League of the Haudenosaunne (Iroquois): Interpreting the Archaeological record through the oral Narrative Gayanashagowa.” We were very close friends when she wrote that. I'm not sure where you are, Sandra Atkins, but I'd like to hear how you're doing. Write me. She went to Trent University up in Ontario, Canada. Oh, well.

And that's just a bit of it. As I go through my papers I find love letters and poems and kind words from people who are now gone from my life. Should I throw them away, or put them in a nice piece of luggage and take them with me? Does it matter? I don't know, but I find it painful.

I haven't posted of late because I'm been ill, sort of a stomach flu thing going on. I hope to write something of greater consequence later in the evening, or tomorrow.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

My Five Cents

The new nickel, like a decorative rhubarb, sits spectacularly in the middle of a small pile of change on top of a copy of Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. It's the first time I've noticed this nickel, so it's new to me. For all I know it's been around for-fucking-ever. But I actually laughed out loud when I first saw it...the side where it reads, "Ocean in view! O, the joy!" It really speaks to this nation's unique history. A country founded by lost white people. It commemorates the Lewis and Clark journey of 1805, when a couple of map-makers and an annoyed Native-American woman found the Pacific. Well, they found it, she showed it to them. I'm supposed to feel somehow that the part of this country between the Mississippi River and the Pacific didn't really exist until white people got a gander at it. But at least the quote speaks well of how lost everyone was.

Today, the quote would be, "Oh, for fuck's sake, there it is."

Saturday, February 03, 2007

Article 203

I've always been a big supporter of Venezuela's socialist revolution, which I'm sure is a huge load off for the people of that country. My opinion holds a lot of sway in Latin America, muchos gravitasse! One of the issues that has always worried me, however, is the possibility that Hugo Chavez may one day pursue a sort of Dictatorship of the Proletariate, ala Cuba and the Soviet Union.

I'm a socialist, as I've said before, and was once an officer in the Socialist Party USA. I'm still an "activist" in the sense that I've joined some comrades in the formation of a new party that will be less top-heavy than the SPUSA. The working title of this party is the Socialist Party of America, although that will probably change. This is what radical left-wing parties do in the USA, they splinter and break-up and work very hard at becoming as politically irrelevent as possible. But I'm still on the vanguard of this new party, as I think it has to be done. The reasons are myriad and boring.

I bring this up to show that I know what I'm talking about when it comes to grassroots political activism, and I know what change I want. Which is the elimination of corporate capitalism, the establishment of a socialized health care system, the nationalization of all utilities, and strong unions that reach across national boundaries. And I'll take that with a big, fat cherry on top. As a delegate from Massachusetts, I've traveled to places like New York City, Milwaukee and Chicago for SP National Conventions, and to participate in the Socialist Scholars' Conference. I've heard, and made, the idealistic speeches; at dinner, in a comrade's hotel room, and on the convention floor. The dreams of a socialist are very lofty, and we travel far from the political mainstream, at least in the United States. We have a lot of pseudo-socialist programs in the US, like Social Security, but it's a moon-cast shadow compared to what we want.

That brings me back to Hugo Chavez down there in Venezuela. Recently, the legislature of that country, which is dominated by Chavez' party, voted to give the president the power to pass laws by decree for the next 18 months. That power allows him to make fundamental changes to the infrastructure, national defense, taxation, and to make reforms to the judiciary. It's called Article 203, and it has precedent; it's been done four times before, and with two other presidents. So it's all lawful, although it raises concern. The Bush Administration is using this to make the argument that Chavez is a dictator. Maria Páez Victor of Hands Off Venezuela wrote an excellent article about all this. She rightly accuses Washington of hypocrisy, for supporting dictatorships that are pro-American, and for a historical lack of concern for the people of Venezuela, who suffered from abject poverty and human rights abuses long before any Bolivarian Revolution. One would have to be incredibly naive to think that Washington cares about poor people anywhere, or democracy. It's absurd. What they care about is capitalists, and a "free" market. Most of Chavez' critics in the US are concerned only about one thing: the nationalization of oil resources. That's not cynicism, it's a conclusion based on reason and a knowledge of history.

But I am concerned about Article 203. Not as much as I was about Article 66 in Star Wars, but still. However, even if Chavez does over reach his powers and Venezuela devolves into dictatorship, it will be better than what they've had under the US-supported presidents of the past 50 years. My concern over a democratically-elected leader taking too much power should be focused here at home.

Anyway, that's my take. The people in the barrios of Venezuela have seen poverty and want that I can't imagine, so who the fuck am I to criticize the one fellow who has done something to alleviate their suffering.

Thursday, February 01, 2007

The Chicken And The Tattoo

As many of you know, my pet chicken, Samantha, got loose in the parking lot of a cheese shop in Brookline, Massachusetts last October. Well, as amazing as it sounds, she turned up in a petting zoo in Lewiston, Maine. I got a phone call from animal control this morning after her ID chip was scanned during a routine veterinary check-up. I'm going to leave her there, as it is a good place for a chicken. It's a total mystery how she traveled so far, and I'm afraid we'll never know. There was even a brief story about all this in the Lewiston Picayune. Quite a tale. It just goes to show that life is full of mysteries, and that happy endings are always possible.

A few posts ago, I wrote about how I have made arrangements with a company called MedCure. Upon my death, my body is to be donated to a local university, hospital or barber shop. They get to play with it for three weeks, and then I will be cremated and interred in the Lyle family plot. There are a lot of good things about this plan, like helping to further science and getting a free cremation. In fact, I can think of only one con; that medical students (or possibly anyone) will play around with my dead body in a crude and humiliating manner. Not that it matters, as I won't be around. But the thought does upset me a bit. As my father says, "You don't want a bunch of students playing basketball with your head." I'm more concerned with my penis size being mocked, or someone saying, "Hey, this dude has bigger tits than my girlfriend." It bothers me because there is no possibility for a snappy comeback. In high school, I was fat and anti-social (some things don't change), and the cutting retort to a nasty remark was all I had. I was a funny bastard, and bullies hesitated to bother me, lest they get mocked and laughed at by the crowd. Well, I wasn't that formidable. But I did take pride in my comebacks, and found solace in them.

When I'm on the slab, however, I'll be fat and naked and wide open to jokes at my expense. Some guy will say something funny about my balls to make the girl he is hitting on laugh out loud. The last thing I want to be is the straight man for some prick trying to show off how amusing he can be.

For that reason, I'm asking people to help me out, on this blog and in the real world. I've decided to get a tattoo, perhaps on my ass or upper arm, that will simply say something delightful and comical, droll and dark but funny as hell. That way, I'll have a sort of last word, probably in an anatomy class (one hopes). It needs to be really great, though. Ideally, the tattoo will read so funny that the med students will have a story to tell at cocktail parties for the rest of their lives. That's asking a lot. Even a chuckle will suffice. Sort of an ice-breaker before they saw my skull open and play with my brain.

If you have any ideas, just write me at DWLyle@comcast.net, or leave it in the comments section. Somethink like, "My other body is George Clooney" or "Can I have a pillow?" or "Just to be safe, use anaesthesia." I'm partial to, "Go ahead and play with my ding-a-ling." I don't know...use your imagination.

Oh, yeah, and the chicken thing is total bullshit, I made it up. The rest is true, though.