Friday, March 30, 2007

Planet of the Apes

The picture on the right was captured by moi, yesterday around 4:45pm, strolling back to my car in Davis Square. I think that's the silhouette of a couple in the middle of a slap fight while defying gravity. The fire plug makes it for me. It was pretty mild, and a lot of women had unpacked their legs and breasts to take them out for an early run. Magnifiques filles, toute l'attention de mérite! Nothing wrong with glancing at a twist, just don't gawk or glare. Glance, don't gawk or glare...I like that. It's also not good to fondle, spank, sniff, squeeze, slap, bite, clutch, squash, jostle, clasp or yell things. Just sip your coffee and take it all in.

And for every 1 attractive man or woman out there, there are at least 10 grotesque trogs floating around. Give them all your brief attention, for in the dark we are all God's children. It's just that in the light most people look like a monkey wearing a fanny pack. That reminds me of a comment made by Jerry Remy, the "color man" for the Red Sox who also owns a restaurant in Kenmore Square that sells $12 hot dogs. During a game on one hot, summer night, the camera panned the crowd at Fenway. There was a pause in the commentary, and then Remy said, "Now there's a good-looking crowd." They were laughing so hard in the media booth that they turned the microphones off. It wasn't even the bleachers.

Now I have to go to Walgreen's and pick up some prescriptions and perhaps a bag of Twizzlers. I'm not going to say anything about the Karl Rove dance at the little media shindig the other day. It's all been said before, and frankly I just want to wash my eyes and forget I ever saw it. I wish Cheney shot that poor, evil bastard in the face a long time ago.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Reach On Up

There's an enormous black man downstairs right now, his name is Dobie. He's my father's visiting nurse. This is his third visit. He's a very thorough fellow with a good bedside manner and an affable disposition. He speaks at least one more language than I do, and that makes me feel inferior. Then again, he's a nurse and I'm a mentally ill fat fuck, so there's that, too. It doesn't matter though, as I'm used to feeling low about myself. Except when I'm talking to a Republican, that is...especially a Bush supporter. Fortunately, around here that's a rare encounter. Sure, I like to feel superior, but that's too high a price to pay. All of my friends are more intelligent than I, and that's the way I want it. It raises you up. When I'm in the room with a talkative Bush supporter, I feel a black hole of stupidity and ignorance tearing through time and space and putting us all at risk. I should run, but I have yet to do that. I always get sucked into a debate with a person who thinks Jesus spoke English, or that Iraq was behind 9/11.

These encounters are a complete waste of time, something my brother figured out a long time ago. Kent (that's his name) has never hit a person (other than me) that I'm aware of. But if you say something about how Bush is a great president, I'll be all over you. Kent, however, will usually stand silent. If he ever does feel compelled to speak, look out. He turns red, pushes me gently out of the way, and approaches whomever is making an ass out of himself. At that point, people generally back down a bit. Not because Kent is a master of debate, but because everyone gets the vague sense that he is going to beat the shit out of someone. Being my brother, I know that he wouldn't do such a thing. Physically, though, he could...he really could.

If Toulouse, the largest cat I'm aware of, tries to jump into my lap one more time I'm going to pick him up and let him outside, via one of the 2nd floor windows. And now here comes Panther. I just can't keep the pussy away from my lap. La la la.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Time and Space

A chronological list of the things I've done so far today.

I woke up all panicky, like my plane was going down
Watched a show about how to pickle...pickles
Took a shower and cleaned things on my body
Put on the exact same clothes as yesterday, except for underwear
Threw out old bread to the birds
Went to the store to get new bread
Noticed that there are gum drops on the ground all around my neighbor's flat
A guy at the FoodMaster said, "Fake it 'til you make it."
Talked to my psychiatrist's secretary on the way home
Took some of the pills I'm supposed to take
Wrote one paragraph for "19."
Cleaned what looked like dried semen off my black pants

Those are the highlights. I'm putting together a highlights list for my life, which may or may not be longer. I'll post it later. "19" is a story I'm writing. It's about a soldier who finds out that his commanding officer is a pan-dimensional being who is using that power to solve a strategic problem. So he is putting the same people throught the same thing, 19 different ways. Only one way is correct, so the soldiers who live in 18 of the 19 dimensions are getting "spent" for no good reason. The CO then chooses to live in the dimension where his strategy is successful, to great acclaim. Nobody can move back or forward through time, unfortunately for them.

That's the way it goes.

Depression and paranoid self-loathing have sucked from me my will to live, like the cream from a cannoli. Wah. That's the way the flag flaps. I need narcotics. The only two people I know with access to them also happen to need them. I may be an asshole, but I'm not a fucking asshole...I won't take pain pills from people who need them. So I'll have to walk around as myself for awhile. What a fucking drag.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

A Mighty Name

Yeah, depression is fun. Anyway, my brother asked me if I have any ideas for a name for his new puppy. The puppy is adorable, and very small (about the size of a book of matches), and is a cross between a poodle and something else...a marmoset, I think. Regardless, I have a recommendation. "Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwyll-llantysiliogogogoch," is grand, and is the real name of a town in Wales. It's a bitch to pronounce, but it will do wonders for his confidence. Nobody will forget a dog with a handle like that.

Monday, March 26, 2007

The Bright Side

Crashed badly earlier tonight, with unspeakably nasty thoughts about myself swirling in my head. Right now, I'm just trying not to think. I feel less than human, like I'm something else, less than living, even. Every kind word about me, or action towards me, is undeserved. What right have I to speak or write or even breath? As if I have anything to say. I feel like empty space, between people and natural phenomenae. The rocky plateau between the volcano and the sea. I am a pet. I am a retarded fellow who keeps a little blog. Nothing honest or real about me, nothing worth taking the time to understand even if immediately understood. I'm surprised I've a drop of blood in me, or a Social Security number. Who made the mistake of thinking me alive? The one who starts a dirty rumor. That's what I am, a rumor, or suggestion, of a human being. But I'm something else in reality, something humanlike, but also not even organic. Like a hunk of plastic with fake eyes to look into.

Soon I'm going to curl up in bed and take a couple of lorazepam and hopefully start with something else tomorrow. Perhaps a Zyprexa would be good tonight.

Face Of The Screaming Werewolf

A few days ago, I was talking to an intellectual fellow about the possibility that the terms "existential" and "nihilism" are mutually exclusive. I disagreed, but that's a boring discussion (though if you want in, email me). Anyway, this quote was provided by my online friend, from the book Face of the Screaming Werewolf by Ken Gage. I dig it:

"Cover the belief that this life is transitory in a literal sense and that the afterlife is the better one — justification for religious men and women and handpuppets to perpetuate their worldly evils: to decimate forests; to extinguish animal lives so routinely, both human and non-human ones; to poison the human food supply and the oceans; to wreak every manner of ecological disaster upon the one and only home planet. Such things are insignificant in that they
occur to flesh in transition, but occur for what reasoning? To generate profits for corporate shareholders and other wealth accumulation goals in this life, this transitory insignificant life?
If this life is so meaningless that these worldly evils ought not to matter, then why should wealth accumulation play so centrally to so many institutions and individuals? The great leaders who pretend in the supremacy of their dollar-creation schemes in this transitory
world are — one and all — frauds, liars, charlatans, tricksters, bullshitters and kings who would say anything to live closer to the top of the shit pile; they drive the gullible and faithful masses to toil away their one and only lifetime using the old spiritual con of transition as a mask to hide their own greed engines that deliver the lion's share of worldly material benefits to the luxury classes higher up the pyramid. You working class imbeciles, maybe it is better that you die toiling away for your illusions than know the sad disappointment of the actual situation. Yes, in the afterlife you will finally have your reward — 72 virgins, too, and whatever other promises your spiritual leaders have made. To die with the happiest dreams, though even in dire earthly poverty, is reward enough for dreamers; leave all earthly pleasures to the wicked leisure class, for they certainly shall not pass through those gates of paradise in the next world, having seen and tasted so much paradise here along these earthly shores."

As it turns out, I was talking to the author himself, Ken Gage. I like what I've read so far, and I just ordered the book.

Dobie the nurse his here! More later...

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Smee for President

I screwed in one of those new fangled, high falootin' light bulbs in the bathroom. It takes exactly 1 second for it to light after I hit the switch, which is dangerous. In the dead of night I float into the bathroom and turn on the switch, but I'm not used to waiting that second. I blindly, and with misplaced confidence, sail right on in. One of these days I'm going to trip over the toilet or the scale in the pitch blackness and fall out the window. They'll find me in my nightshirt on the street. On the street! All because I'm trying to save the whales with a $5 lightbulb.

The picture there on the right is from Disney's Peter Pan. A sailor, Smee, I think, is shaving a duck's ass for reasons I don't recall and are unclear to me. The duck looks pleased, but it must hurt like hell to have one's ass shaved with a straight edge razor. Not a duck, maybe a seagull...I don't know.

I'm a real intellectual, writing about shaving a bird's ass.

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Saturday Morning And The 12-Pack

Awoke this morning very groggy, probably from taking too many lorazepam too late at night. If memory serves, Linda left around midnight and I returned to my computer to check my email. Nothing of consequence there, but I made my way back to an excellent website about the Triangle Waist Company fire of 1911. It's run by Cornell University's School of Industrial and Labor Relations and can be found here. It's a seemingly rare example of how the Internet can be used to take scanned historical documents, transcripts, testimony, etc. and present them to lay people and scholars, and for free. A lot of the material presented was almost lost, as it sat decaying in various libraries around New York City. Go to this page to read more about that. It's almost as interesting as the tragedy itself. I read about the Cornell/Unite! project in New Yorker magazine (I think) many months ago, and I keep going back to the site.

I've lost 15 lbs in the last month, but I'm still a fat fucker. I was born a fat fuck and a fat fuck I will always be, but the lost weight feels good. I'm bound to get depressed or something and find solace in inactivity and food and gain it back. Or maybe a safe will fall on my head, or an insane Vietnamese midget will sneak into my flat in the dead of night and Crazy Glue my nostrils shut. One never knows.

This morning I went out to pick up the Globe, and while I was out I remembered that I needed toilet paper. I got so self-conscious as I stood in line holding just a 12-pack of toilet paper (they were out of the Globe, and I'd rather set my hair on fire than read the Herald). By the time I got up to the cashier I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So I paid, put my head down, and made for the door. Because I wasn't looking I walked into the "In" door and everyone within 30 feet looked at me. It felt like everyone within 10 miles stopped and stared. And they all got a gander at the fat fuck trying to scamper out of the Stop and Shop without people knowing that he shits. When I got outside, I yelled, "That's right, you fucking pricks, I wipe my ass!"

On the way home, I got a French cruller at the donut shop. Or shoppe, if you'd like. It was smoking a cigarette and wearing a beret...that's what made it French. Ha ha.

Here's a fun fact for everyone. I'm sure you've all heard of the pet food recall. Well, Menu Foods, the company that makes the 95 or so different brands of pet food tainted with rat poison, actually does animal testing on dogs and cats. That is, when they first got complaints about the poisoned food, they gave the deadly food to dogs and cats that they have in a laboratory to see if it was really killing pets. They then euthanized and autopsied the animals to look at the liver, kidneys, etc. How could a compassionate pet owner be relieved to learn that the company making the pet food they use is engaged in vivisection on stray dogs and cats?

Yeah.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Ding! Ding! Ding!

I'm so fucking tired of the desktop background on my computer. It's a picture of the Eiffel Tower, and it's very classy and interesting, but I need to find something else. Nobody will see it, because I live a life of quiet desperation, but evenso. I'm not sure if I want to go with something quirky and random, like an orangutan in a tuxedo, or perhaps just a tasteful, "arty" picture of a naked chick. Or maybe a picture of a big, yellow chick...I don't know. I'll be sure to post my decision.

Ever been down to Lincoln Park down in Rhode Island? It's essentially a warehouse full of old people smoking and playing slot machines. There are no table games, shows, glamorous people or hotel rooms. Just bad food and low-return gambling. At best, a high-roller can get a hot dog and a Screwdriver "comped" by the casino. It's pretty bleak. Well, it just opened up a whole new section, doubling it's size to 5,000 slot machines. They also changed their name to, "Twin Rivers." Probably meant to represent the river of money flowing out of your pocket, and the river next to it that you'll feel strongly compelled to put a hole in. If for whatever reason you decide to go, be sure to bring a portable oxygen tank, a walker or wheelchair, and a pack of Camels...you'll fit right in.

It's worth mentioning that one of the most pathetic things I've ever seen (my brother, too) was at what is now Twin Rivers. A fat, poorly-dressed, homely person was really upset because she couldn't get a cash advance off her credit card at the ATM. She kept trying over and over and over again. Actually, my memory may be off a bit. That could have happened on the Horizon's Edge casino boat out of Lynn, Massachusetts. In case you're not familiar, they actually fill a boat full of old people, slot machines and table games and then rush out to international waters so people can gamble out upon the lawless sea. In a way, it's not as bad as Twin Rivers, because you can stare at the ocean when you piss your money away, vainly looking for a whale or...your soul. On the other hand, the ocean generally compells people to reflect upon their lives and thoughtfully consider the meaning of it all. That's not something you want to do after dropping $80 on a nickel slot called, Pirate's Booty.

Enough of that.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Ban Ki-moon And The Big Sin

For some reason, I find it comforting to leave the television on in my boudoir all night. I'll take three or four milligrams of lorazepam and then go to sleep watching a movie. The sound is always turned way down, and I use the closed captioning to vaguely keep up with what is going on. This is a habit that needs to be broken, however. For about the fifth night in a row, I've woken up to really bizarre early morning children's programming. One of them has a character with a tennis ball for a head, and some of his or her cohorts talk in squeaky voices about nonsense. Sort of like C-SPAN with a helium leak.

From now on, the fucking television goes off.

A lot of interesting stories in the news today. One is about two dogs trained to sniff out the chemicals used to produce CDs and DVDs. Some organization in the Phillipines is using them to find production plants where these things are illegally produced. The dogs were apparently trained with funding from the Motion Picture Association of America, in an attempt to stamp out pirates. In response, the DVD pirates have put a bounty on the dogs. I'm not sure how much it is, but the two female black labs, Lucky and Flo, are now in hiding.

Also, if you have the time, check out the video of a mortar landing in the Green Zone in Baghdad. The Sec-Gen of the UN, Ban Ki-moon was giving a news conference with Iraqi PM Maliki when the mortar landed outside the building. In response to the explosion, Ki-moon looks like he's about to run for the hills. I don't blame him. But Maliki, who lives in Baghdad, of course, just looks annoyed.

Yesterday morning I achieved 100% of my pissed-off potential, for good reason. I'm happy that I could be so angry, and still resist the urge to kill anyone. I went to pick up my father after being in the hospital for over a month. After rolling him out to the car and putting his walker and bag in the trunk, I found that the car wouldn't start up. It was stone-cold dead. All I could do was go call for a ride, which I did. On the way back into the rehab place, I did a running kick against a pole (not someone from Poland) and went sailing into a snowbank and then landed on the cement. It hurt like hell, but did little to assuage my hatred of the Universe. I stormed into the rehab center, and calmed a bit so I could ask the receptionist for use of the phone.

This prick. This fucking prick I could have killed. I tell him I need a cab, so he offers to dial the phone for me. Fair enough. At that point I didn't know that he had the IQ of an air freshener. So he dials the phone, and then hands the receiver to me. I take it, and hear, "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" and then nothing. I just grind my teeth and hand it back to him. He tries again, and the same thing happens. The third time, he actually mistakenly dials the other receptionist sitting next to him. We say "hello" back and forth before we realize that we're ten feet from each other. Everyone laughs, except me. I just say, "Yeah, that's funny...that's real funny."

In the end, it worked out. My uncle picked me up, not the cab, and the car was towed to the shop. Or a shop. Or a garage, or whatever. Could be on the fucking moon right now, for all I know. I'm supposed to hear back soon about how badly I'm going to be screwed for committing the sin of needing a mechanic.

Anyway, father-san is home and convalescing. I'm still fat and mentally ill. And the Keebler Elves were arraigned in Middlesex County Court in Cambridge.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Moderate Infatuation

There is a thin marble slab in the threshold of the bathroom. I'm not sure if my old flat had one, but if it did, it was set deeper than this and was thus less of a threat. This fucking thing is going to kill me, or hurt me bad. Because if I trip, I'm either going to break my neck on the toilet, or sail down the stairs, depending on which way I'm going at the time.

But who gives a shit!

Last night I had a dream that I was beaten to death with a Hawai'ian lap guitar by a Polish performance artist outside of Club Xenon in New York City. The year was 1981 or '82, I think. Probably just a dream. Strictly speaking, I don't know if she killed me, or just beat me senseless. I woke up. Sort of hip and interesting way to go, though. Better than a heart attack.

More later, I gotta move now. My tooth is killing me and I don't have an appointment until Thursday morning.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Fondle Top Crafty McMillan

Tucker Carlson and Pat Buchanan are on my television right now, "analyzing" the war in Iraq and Bush. A real meeting of the minds. The best take on Bush and the war comes from Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, who said that Bush is, "More dangerous than a monkey with a razor blade." He really said that...so excellent.

It was a very good weekend for me. I got out of my flat and spent most of my time with Linda, who took me out to meet some of her many friends while enjoying The Summer Street Band at a club. And I even broke my scratch ticket losing streak with a $1 ticket purchased from a machine near the bar. Unfortunately, the left side of my face is swollen and my jaw and several teeth are radiating pain. I managed to put it out of my mind for most of the weekend, though.

I'm a little annoyed that I bought a 12-pack of the wrong brand of toilet paper. It's "quilted" and thick, which means it's like wiping your ass with a throw pillow. I can't say I'm fond of that. My mind is a little foggy, too, which is probably from all the pain meds I'm taking for my swollen temperomandibular joint and throbbing tooth. Focusing on any sort of mental task is like trying to do eye surgery with a banana peel.

51% of Iraqis feel that the insurgent attacks on the US are "justified." Hearts and minds, baby!

Friday, March 16, 2007

Swollen Fat Face

Awoke this morning to a raging tooth, a molar, and a swollen left cheek. Not my ass, my face. I've no clue why my cheek is swollen, as the pain is in my tooth and jaw. The snow that the sky is promising, and the coming weekend, are going to make it difficult to find a dentist. Can one go to an emergency room for a dental problem? Perhaps they would give me Vicodin until I can get into my dentist on Monday. Too good to be true, but I may try it.

My computer desk is here, and I screwed that fucker together within 10 minutes. Usually it takes me longer to screw.

That's a joke for all you 12 year old boys out there.

I'm off to pick up some Orajel or cloves or whatever for this tooth, and possibly get the pliers out of the trunk of the car. I'll let you all know how that works out. If anyone has any cocaine toothache drops, let me know, by all means.

More later!

Thursday, March 15, 2007

A Dead Goose And Some Bagels For His Friends

It was a strange morning. I found myself awake around 6am, which is quite early considering that I took 4 lorazepam, 2 Flexeril and five or so hits off the marijuana pipe last night around 10pm. That usually puts me away until at least 8 or 9. And, par usual, I awoke sweaty and a little scared of something. But I got up, made some coffee, fed the cats, and started doing some unpacking.

Around 10pm, I went out to run some errands, and decided to visit my father in rehab while I was out. I found him in good health and spirits, although we are both concerned about his low blood pressure, which is keeping him in hospital. I may visit him again later today.

As I drove home, I had the window open (as it is quite warm, albeit gray and rainy) and was listening to one of Dvorak's symphonies. I'm not sure which one, but it was definitely Dvorak. What a pleasure it was to drive like that, with the window open and music blaring. Driving is a fine thing, 'tis a shame that it's something I can do only rarely due to my seizure disorder.

As I made my way towards the Gulf station on the Alewife Brook Parkway, I took note of a sad sight; a dead Canadian goose, an apparent victim of a speeding car. It was so large, and I didn't like the idea of it being repeatedly hit by cars until ground into the asphalt. So I pulled over at the nearest side street, took a trash bag out from the trunk, and made my way back to the poor creature. When I first approached it, I was gripped with a fear that perhaps it wasn't dead. That it was only terribly injured and would have to be dispatched. However, as I drew near I realized that it was stone dead. There weren't many cars, thankfully, so I carefully covered the beautiful bird with the plastic bag, and then lifted it inside. The rain would wash the blood away, and I looked to the water for another solution. I walked down to the banks of the Mystic River and gingerly set the goose in the water, and then pushed it away with a long stick I found nearby. Over several minutes, it gently floated out and caught the current. The terrible wound was such that it allowed the body to be filled with water, and it sank lower and lower. As far as I could see, though, it never sank.

I somehow managed to get a little blood on my hands, and I washed them in the river before setting back for the car with the now empty trashbag. After returning the bag to the trunk (to be thrown away later), I noticed that I had some bagels in the back seat of my car. A friend had given them to me and I had forgotten they were there. So I took them back to banks of the river and attracted some ducks and two geese. That was the last time I saw the dead thing I never knew, moving very slowly now and almost submerged.

After getting back to the car, I started wondering if what I had done was somehow strange. Or was it noble? Or both? I don't know, but now I feel weird. One has to avoid being overly sensitive or too easily tormented by what we see in this life. I know that better than anyone. But a very large part of me doesn't care one whit, and I'm encouraged to maintain my strangeness, and sadness, and even horror, at all the ongoing brutality, meaningless death and pain that is fundamental to living.

The desk should be here soon. Very exciting.

Gonzalez and Desk Screwing

They're finally going after Attorney General Gonzalez, and they may have enough to get him to resign. The "they" I'm talking about are the Democrats in Congress, and the press. He may be the worst AG in US history. Coupled with Bush, the worst president, we have got ourselves a deadly combo! One two!

Yesterday, UPS tried to deliver my computer desk when I was out visiting my father in rehab. They left a little "where the fuck were you" note, and said they'd be here today between 2 and 5. Oh, I'll be here. And I'm going to screw that desk together like a desk-screwing maniac. Screw it.

I was reading the paper and feeding the pigeons earlier this morning and I saw a headline in The Metro, in the entertainment section, about Angelina Jolie getting another baby. What the fuck is up with this woman? How many babies can a woman eat?

More later, my pretties.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Sunny Day With No Ghosts

It's a beautiful day here at the House of Four Cats, at least weather-wise. My new flat is exactly like my old one, so basically it was like spending a couple of weeks moving into a cleaner version of your own apartment. I don't believe in ghosts or any of that jazz, so my time in this sparsely-furnished flat didn't lead to sleepless nights with me analyzing every sound. I also have the lorazepam to thank for that. Last night I took 6mg of it, along with a few muscle relaxants. Well, it did the trick, but I still woke up panicked at 6am. Eh, that's how most of the world wakes up.

Sometimes, mental illness makes me want to cram a stick in my ear and root out whatever part of my brain is bothering me at any given moment. Instead, I smoke dope and take pills, or bang my head on the wall and cry like a big, fat hairy baby. Not that I have a lot of hair, but if I were a baby I'd be a big, hairy one. With an enormous wang.

Right now, I'm sitting on the floor of my bedroom, with the keyboard in my lap and the monitor on top of the computer. I'm waiting for my new computer table to be delivered later today. My leg is asleep and totally numb...I'm a little afraid of it. Of straigtening it out, I mean. Pretty soon, I'll take a handful of pain pills that will provide vim and vigour, allowing me to hang pictures and curtains and shit. I fell down the stairs a couple of days ago and actually ricocheted off the right side wall and rolled head first over to the left. It was spectacular. But I didn't feel so well after that...like a mountain gorilla had his way with me. So I went in the house, toked-up, and floated out the window.

After all this moving business is done, I can crawl back under my bed and listen to the clock tick away the hours. I plan to emerge from that chrysalis one day several years from now, like Mothra, and lay waste to all you bastards.

More later.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Of Muffins and Cunts

This morning I was at Broadway Diner enjoying an english muffin and coffee and thought some things over. Sitting in a dinner, alone, is a great way to cause an existential crisis. I hadn't considered that, and rather thought that it would be good to get out of the house. Instead, I had a panic attack that caused a terrific chest tightness, and I felt totally alone and wretched. That didn't stop me from finishing my undertoasted muffin, or from getting a second cup of perfectly mediocre coffee. I tried to think positive thoughts and all that shit, but I kept imagining critical, humiliating commentary from friends and acquaintances. I felt ashamed and guilty for my 34 years, and the panic continued. When it started to get a little hard to breathe, I put a few bucks down on the counter, put on my gloves and coat, and went outside. The icy cold wind slapped me in the face, but the air felt good. I always keep a fan on in my bedroom because it helps me deal with the feeling of being smothered. Panic and anxiety makes me feel like that.

I drove home, which is about a minute away. The bitter cold and high winds made me drive instead of walk, however. My thoughts were stuck on my time at UMass Boston. This morning, while packing for the move, I found some photographs I took back in 1994 around the campus. None of the pictures had people in them. They were all of secluded spots near the ocean, or in the art gallery, or theatre, or of this building or that. They were all taken between classes, of course, when my natural disposition compelled me to seek out the comfort of an empty space. I had many friends, and a few girlfriends, among my classmates. But I was sure to keep them all at a distance. I was afraid of saying something stupid or thought I was ugly, or something, so I never wanted to be around my friends for long. It was different for girlfriends...for them, I would open up totally. It is in that fashion that they were ultimately driven away.

That's what I thought about during my panic attack. That's what caused it. I sat in the parking lot behind my flat weeping like an idiot. I think I was crying because of all the lost friendships, and because two suicide attempts, 5 hospitalizations, ECT and crippling mental illness was ahead of me; March 1998 to be exact. I'm so lucky to have benefited from therapy and medication, and for the close friends who stood by me through all that. But why the fuck can't I eat an english muffin in a diner without having an emotional meltdown like this?

I got out of the car and walked to my flat. As I passed a bagel on the ground, I took note of some nibble marks, probably from a squirrel. At that moment, I slipped on a patch of ice and landed flat on my back. Fortunately, my head broke the fall. Nobody saw this spectacle, thankfully, or heard me yell, "Ah, fucking cunts!" That would have been unfortunate.

As I walked into my kitchen, I realized my back was killing me. Not really a problem, as I have plenty of ibuprofen. I took one, and thought of calling Jen, Donna, Clare, Eva, Linda, Clare, Julia or perhaps just writing to someone I know only online...like Amanda, perhaps. Yes, I am concerned about that young lady. But I didn't call anyone. It was easier to take a pill.

Complain Your Ass Off

Bleary-eyed and fat, I saw a story this morning about a church in Missouri that is behind a campaign to stop people from complaining. One is supposed to pledge not to be cynical or sarcastic, and not to whine, for 21 days. And you're supposed to wear a purple bracelet to signify your stoicism. The news story on NBC was very positive, and apparently this idea is extremely popular. But I think the people behind it are a bunch of simpletons, and that's more of an insult than a complaint. Nobody wants to be around a whiner, granted. As far as I'm concerned, however, people don't complain enough, they just complain about the wrong things. Generally speaking, of course. There's no point in grousing about things that cannot be helped, like penis size or ice cream headaches. But dissent and critical thinking are virtues, especially in our culture. People increasingly get their information about the world from websites that provide news from a subjectively agreeable point of view. And the best way to be marginalized is to criticize popular culture, or have a political philosophy that isn't easily summed up and presented by either of the two political parties in this country. It's much easier to sit in front of the TV or computer and eat up the latest offering from MicroSoft or Apple or McDonald's or whatever corporation pays enough to get your attention. Just consume and shut up.

Yes, dissent is good, and "complaining" is a critical part of what is necessary for positive change. You know who complained a lot? Martin Luther King, jr. So did the Suffragists, and the Abolitionists, and Robert Kennedy and Eugene V. Debs and Franklin Delano Roosevelt. The Jews and socialists and homosexuals and gypsies in Nazi Germany complained a lot, too. Change always begins with seeing an ill and complaining about it. Some of us are gifted enough to take it beyond that, and forge real, systemic, positive change. Most of us will never do more than debate our friends and cast a vote. But that's good, too.

And I get nervous when there is too much agreement. People are always talking about the need for more bipartisanism in Washington. The Hell with that. There are real disagreements out there, and real need for change. Idealism. Sticking your head up your ass may make things quiet and peaceful, but it's not good for your fellow man and woman. Nothing would make Bush supporters happier than if this campaign really took off. Twenty one days of sheep. Complaining about something is a prelude to action. So be happy for what you have, and whatever random mercies you are granted by an indifferent universe. At the same time, however, work for a better world and complain your ass off. Just don't do it around your friends too much.

Anyway, I need to pack and clean and pick up a prescription. Oh, yeah...doesn't Ann Coulter sound like a complete fucking moron? Like a baboon with Tourette's fucking a football.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Bread and Beer

My neighbor gave me a rye bread a couple of days ago, which is a long story in itself. It sat in my kitchen for awhile and I had no intention of eating it. I took it with me when I went to visit my father in rehab. As I passed the banks of the Mystic River I saw some Canadian geese. So I rolled down that window and sent that fucking rye bread flying through the air. It landed perfectly mid-gaggle after caroming off a snow bank. It made me happier than any rye bread has a right to.

In an attempt to drown the anxiety that has me grinding my teeth and yelling in my sleep, I picked up some Pilsner Urquell beer. I'm sipping some now, and I'll report back later if it works. If history is any guide, it won't really do much to help, but it will make me sleepy. Every once in a while I return to alcohol with renewed hope. I'm an idiot.

Friday, March 02, 2007

Of Stinky Cats and Hair

Woke up at 5:41 this morning and found myself moaning and even yelling a bit, as if in the middle of a nightmare. There was no nightmare, though, just a very large cat with bad breath sleeping next to me. Well, my vocalizations kept the poor lad from sleeping. He just looked at me, and I scratched his ears. For awhile I listened to the rain falling outside, and resisted the urge to take a lorazepam for the state of near panic in which I found myself. I didn't want to put myself to sleep just as I was supposed to be waking up. Instead, I got dressed, made coffee and tried some of those mental exercises that they teach you in therapy. Yes, "they" do. It didn't really work, though, and anxiety persists. I'll live.

I shaved my chest a couple of months ago, but it has grown back with a vengeance. It looks like an Italian guy on Revere Beach in August. Well, his chest, anyway. Hell knows what my ass looks like, I once shaved that, too. Eh, I give up. Let it grow and grow and grow until my dick disappears and my nipples are just a memory. Let it grow until I can go sky-diving without a parachute. I don't care...the fat under the hair is a greater concern, anyway. Actually, the man under the fat is causing me the most unease. And I can't shave that bastard away. Wax won't work, either.

What the hell am I talking about?

Anyway, people, write me...you know who you are.

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Of Butterflies and Gummi Bears

I was pounding down some Haribo Gold-Bears about an hour ago when I lost a filling. A "Gold-Bear" is a gummi candy made in Hungary and eaten by fat fucks like me all over the world. If you haven't had the pleasure, it's like chewing on a fruity pencil eraser shaped somewhat like a bear, although more like a little coffee table. I'm not sure yet which tooth lost the filling. Feh, who cares. That cavity is now filled with corn syrup, gelatin and hell knows whatever else Haribo threw into the vat.

I continue to bring box after box of crap over to the new flat. Back and forth I shlep, across the muddy courtyard with little islands of ice. Boy howdy. Each time I make the trip, I feel as if all my neighbors are watching me, making comments about what an asshole I am. I'm so anxious about something. My mind is racing and I have those proverbial butterflies in my stomach.

My goodness how I miss people. I heard from a friend of mine earlier today, and it touched me to know that I was in the fond memory of another. And yesterday I got a notice in the mail from an ex-girlfriend from almost 10 years ago. It was a picture of her new baby, a girl, born earlier this month. She seems very happy as a mother and wife, and I'm past feeling any pain for having "lost" her. But there is something like pain, and like regret. I suppose it's just sentimentality. Of the same sort that one feels when listening to music. Nostalgia about a place you've never been, and for a time you've never lived through. But it somehow feels like home. Only something unreal could be so perfect. I'm not sure of what it is I think I lost with that girl, but it's better than whatever really existed between us. An illusion of love? How pathetic! Regardless, I hope she is finding what she was looking for with her growing family.

I'm off to the hospital to see if my pop is still kicking. And then back here tonight for some lorazepam and perhaps a modicum of relief from this nasty anxiety. Hey, maybe I'll even pick up a paper and see what's happening in the world.