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.