Friday, April 27, 2007

My Little Green Friend

I've never actually given, or heard, a eulogy for a plant, but after the death of what I think is a Dracaena of some kind (pictured here on the right) I feel compelled to say a few words. Years ago, I failed miserably at growing a single marijuana plant. It grew to a height of nine inches, and I kept it in a closet at my flat in Lawrence. Under a grow light, of course. But it died. Like that pot plant, I don't know what killed my Dracaena. It could have been something subtle like soil acidity or that I never watered it. Well, that's not true. I watered...maybe too much.

Who the hell knows. It's dead, man.

All I want to say about it is that the now dead plant, whom I'll call, "Floyd," was adopted by my father and I after it's original owner, a client of the Lyle Cleaning Service, moved to Houston, Texas. It flourished for a short period, but as my brand of "care" took effect, it began to suffer. It had some ups and downs. I carefully dusted Floyd's leaves with Leaf Shine, a product I learned about during my tenure as a "plant guy" for various offices in Boston. I sometimes spoke to it, and put it outside when the weather allowed.

After a bitter argument early last year, Floyd tried to find another owner. But we patched things up and grew quite close. Towards the end, which was extremely difficult for little Floyd, we all knew that life was short and time was fleeting. He never let it ruin his sense of humor, though. He may not have had a brain, spine, eyes or any ability to develop and/or communicate a single thought, but he could always make me laugh.

So now I have to put this behind me and focus on my new plant. I'm getting back on the proverbial saddle and putting aside $20 for a new green friend. I'm considering a dieffenbachia, or perhaps a spathyphillium, which are both fairly hard to kill. But since I apparently suck at plant care, I should find something unkillable. Perhaps a sanserveria, or a yucca.

That's right...a yucca.

That's all for now. If you have a plant to recommend, by all means do so. And I'm not in the market for a fake plant. I just can't do it. That's just giving up. Once you go down that route, you may as well wear sweat pants and stop brushing your teeth. I'm trying to make an effort here, for Christ's sake.

Oh, Floyd!

Luis Posada Carriles, US Backed Terrorist

Luis Posada Carriles, the anti-Castro terrorist who killed 73 people when he blew up an airliner back in 1976 is now free. The United States had him in custody up until April 19, when they let him go. He's somewhere in the US, probably Little Havana in Miami, free as a little birdy. This development proves beyond any shadow of a doubt that the USA is, pound for pound, more full of shit than any other nation on Earth. And that is really saying something.

Here we have a fellow who was on the CIA payroll when he killed civilians in Cuba in an anti-Castro terrorist campaign. He is wanted in both Cuba and Venezuela for trial (the airliner he blew up was based out of Venezuela). The US is supposed to be in the middle of a "War on Terror," but out of some bizarre Cold War Era impulse we've decided to side with a terrorist in this case.

Because of the recent decision to let him go, there is stuff all over the Internet about Carriles. I've been hearing about him and his case for a while now, through GRANMA International and Hands Off Venezuela! (HOV). In my very humble opinion, this should be the top news story on every television and radio station. But nobody asks me for my opinion, which is why I cram it on people via this blog.

Poop.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Pharmacy Fun!

After I got home this morning, I had an english muffin and some coffee before my dentist appointment. The sole purpose of the appointment was to either have the wisdom tooth that is bothering me removed, or to get something for the pain. The last bottle of Percocet given to me, 12 in all, lasted me about two weeks. But I still have two weeks until my appt. with the oral
surgeon.

My dentist looked at me this morning and said, in an attractive Eastern European accent that I can't quite place, "You have some swelling and an infection, so I'm going to leave it to [the oral surgeon] to pull. In the meantime, I'll give you something for the pain."

So basically, my little trip to the dentist was going to plan. Since I'm actually in pain, the urge to seek a high by taking five or six Percocet is gone. In other words, I really am in pain, and don't want to run out of pills before the date of surgery.

She gave me a script for 15 Percocet, and I went to have it filled at a chain pharmacy across the street. I dropped it off, and they told me it would be 10 minutes. So I went out for a little walk to kill the time, picked up the paper and read the funnies, and then went back to the pharmacy to find that the script had been cancelled. I prepared myself for an explanation. Years of being insane and more than my fair share of medical problems has prepared me for just about anything from a pharmacist.

Here's what happened...two weeks ago I got a prescription filled for a non-narcotic pain
killer, tramadol. It's an almost useless drug that does little for pain, and won't provide a high, no matter how many are taken. That's why they give it to me for an unrelated pain I have, no chance of abuse. Anyway, the pharmacist said, "That should be enough for the tooth pain." I told her that it wouldn't do anything for the tooth pain, because I cannot take it, due to an interaction with an anti-depressant I'm also taking, Venlafaxine. Taking them together has already caused one seizure in the past, and my psychiatrist told me to never take them on the same day. So while I'm investigating how efficacious venlafaxine is (also known as Effexor), I can't take tramadol (also known as Ultram). So the pharmacist responded with, "Then why did you pick it up on April 10th?" This is when I started to get angry. I reached into my pocket and took out three 1mg lorazepam (for panic/anxiety attacks) and popped them. "Because," I answered, "I didn't know about the interaction until I actually picked up the tramadol. The interaction warning was written on the monograph. At home right now, I have a bottle of 100 tramadol that I can't and won't take unless I stop taking venlafaxine. That's why they are useless for my current toothache, and thus need something else...like Percocet."

Upon learning this, the pharmacist suddenly lost her arrogance, and then told me to go back to the dentist. "But this time, " she lectured, "tell her all the drugs you are taking. Because this looks sort of suspicious." Well, that did it. I said, "She KNOWS all the drugs I'm taking. Since I'm NOT taking tramadol, I didn't tell her about it. You want me to tell her about all the drugs I'm NOT taking, you glorified cashier?"

At that point I realized that I was going to have to leave. But I was so pissed at that "suspicious" line. Tramadol is a non-narcotic. And my infected tooth and swollen jaw were enough to compell a dentist to give me just enough Percocet to get me through to the surgery date. I felt a little like Julianne Moore in "Magnolia." Just a little.

Anyway, I'm over it. My dentist apologized and offered to call in some Vicodin. To my astonishment, I told her not to. "I don't blame you at all, but I'm too angry to pursue this any further. I can live with it. If it gets too painful, I'll pull it myself." She advised me not to, but I have to admit that that option gets more appealing with every passing day with this toothache.

Maybe the Three Stooges were on to something with that string tied to a doorknob thing.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Stepping Out

Linda has invited me to the Big Apple Circus later this week. It should be fun, and I need to get out of my flat a little more often. My instinct, given my current bout of depression and paranoia, is to stay here and leave the apartment as little as possible. But that leads to cutting and banging my head against the wall and watching "Blade" for the 10th time. Not that I don't get out and do things. Besides visiting my father in hospital, I've also washed the car, fed some geese, picked up some trash in the courtyard outside, ran all sorts of errands and even went to watch some of a little league baseball game. With the warm weather, I do some reading outside, as well. Eric Chester, a former comrade of mine in the Socialist Party of Massachusetts, also writes non-fiction. I finished his Socialists and the Ballot Box late last night, under the light of the streetlamp that shines on my front stoop. Does that count as "going out?"

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

The Dark Side and Being "Abbie" Normal

Awoke this morning on the floor. I don't know how I got there, but outside of a few aches and pains, I'm delicious. Before I stood up and took a shower (at 7:05am), I noticed a fine patina of dust all over a treasured box of correspondance and writing (my own and my friends and comrades) that I keep under my bed. I don't mind revealing that, as it has no value to anyone but me. So I carefully dusted it while standing in my nightshirt on my back stoop, and then put it back under my bed. But before that, I cracked it open and took a peek.

I found a matchbook I got from Cafe Algiers about 10 years ago, whilst on a date. I sniffed it and smiled. I thought of witty conversation, apple tobacco, and hookahs. After that I moved on to a folder that contains "Last American on Earth" and "Two Hills." If you know me, you know that they are both pieces of fiction that I sometimes contribute to, but will never complete. I enjoy having them around. Both endeavors will meet the same fate as Sibelius' 8th symphony.

An obscure classical music reference proves I'm smart.

However, what really got my attention was a recent letter from a former friend, Abbie. Actually, it's an email I printed out and decided to save for some reason. It really freaked me out. I'm going to share it, but first a little background.

Abbie and I had a short, unpleasant relationship a long time ago. We both wanted sex, methinks, and then to get as far away from each other as possible. We were introduced by a mutual friend who now lives in London. At some point, Abbie decided to psychoanalyze me, as she does to herself and everyone else. Just so you know, not that you need to, but "Abbie" is not her real name. One must protect the innocent.

That said, I'm going to put some of her nasty "break-up" letter on here now. As I said, it bothered me a lot this morning, and I'm sort of looking for the comfortable commentary of my current friends, acquaintances and comrades. Oh, and one more thing, she knew at the time that I despise the nickname, "DW." She also "cc'd" this letter to 4 of her friends. Here goes:

DW,

Before we both go separate ways, I feel that I need to say a few things about you. At Commie's place last night you made quite an impression with my lady friends. For some reason, women like you, but I can't figure out why. It's not because you're a feminist or because of your nauseating testicle thing, or any of that shit, because most women I know hate men who are feminists. And they hate ball-less pussies even more. And we both know that you like to clash with other men, about politics and everything else. You're just a big ol' mess. But I think I have something pinned down, you fat pile of fuck.

People like to joke about being "crazy" and then laughing about it. Ha ha. Or about having a "dark side." DW my boy, that's what you have, a real dark side. You're no tourist over there, you're a regular. So and so said that you are kind of a pussy, with all this talk about feeling guilty and saying that you want "reason and compassion" to be your guide, I tended to agree. But there is a lot more going on. Your (sic) disturbed.

You wrote to me once about how when you were a kid you would have terrible nightmares about serial killers. That news reports about them made you vomit out of fear. But you weren't afraid of being killed by one, you were instead afraid of turning into one. "What if," you told me once, "you woke up tomorrow morning and had no conscience, or even got enjoyment out of killing and torturing? Turning into a psychopath is far more terrifying than being killed or tortured by one." Lovely pillow talk.

All this talk about the importance of compassion and understanding and helping each other through life. Are you trying to convince yourself of something, DW? See, I think you're a crazy mother fucker running from who you really are. Most people have a dark side, but they never really go there, they just sometimes visit it, like a tourist. But I think you live there, and you want out. Nobody can hate himself the way you do and be a well-adjusted human being. And all those cuts on your arms and legs, you make me sick.

You told so and so last night that the "universe is indifferent to suffering and pleasure." So the living must work to comfort the living, or some shit like that. I heard you. You were laying it on pretty thick. I know you're sincere, dahling, but you need to get help. You supposedly hate men because men are far more disposed to violence and cruelty than women, at least physically, and you even said once how 99% of psychopathic killers are men. "Pathologically unable to be trusted," you once said.

That's why you're so argumentative with men, and seek out women, whom you see as more compassionate, understanding, thoughtful, mature and intelligent. Ohhh, how charming. Besides so and so, who you never see, do you even have any male friends? And you're so protective of your precious Clare and Donna and Melanie and Anne. Most women mistake this as a good thing. Some feminist. But from whom are you protecting them? Hmmm.

Your (sic) a very intelligent guy, no doubt about it, Anne was right. And women do seem to like you a lot. But all your guilt and self-hatred is going to blow up in your face one day, and people will see your black soul. Until then, you have fun with your amigas. Maybe you'll get what you want one day and die nobly protecting one of them.

That's about all I really want to share, but it goes on from there into a festival of insults. Our mutual friend, Anne (her real name, used with permission...it's just a blog), has cut off contact with "Abbie" and told me that she got extremely jealous when I spoke with her friends at a get-together the night before she sent this email. Anne nor I know where Abbie is right now, and I had totally forgotten about this bizarre "Dear John" letter. Until this morning.

I'd like to say that finding it this morning and reading it didn't upset me a little, but I can't. I can't remember for the life of me what I did to inspire such hatred. I have a "black soul?" Jesus Christ. Yes, I have only two male friends, but so what? Anne told me once that Abbie hates women, and that that helped to explain why my having so many women friends bugged her so.

Anyway, do any of you, my readers (tee hee), have a "Dear John" or "Jane" letter you'd like to share? And for those of you who know me, is there any truth about me in this bizarre letter? It freaked me out, folks.

These days I travel with Linda, who has never accused me of being a psychopath. And my "black soul" has never made an appearance once. Last I heard it was backpacking through Finland.

On to something else.

I want to mention that I saw "Grindhouse" with my brother this past weekend. The second story, "Death Proof" is one of my favorite films. Hopefully, they'll be re-releasing it on it's own. If they do, go see it. Go see it, anway, everyone, just know that the first film, "Planet Terror" is absolutely disgusting. Amusing and fun, but really nasty.

But I digress. This morning, I drove to the post office and was listening to 90.3FM, WZBC, aka Boston College radio. They played "Hold Tight" by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Tich. Which is from Death Proof. Driving down Mass. Ave. with that blasting on the radio was a wild ride. If you've seen Death Proof, you know of what I speak. Just too cool.

More later, Beans!

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Weed, Segolene, and Chinese Farming

Do I look like a square or something? I've had a difficult time finding a weed source lately, so I've been compelled to ask people who exhibit all the visible symptoms of being a stoner if they have any green goodness. I've done this exactly seven times in my life, and each time I've been rebuffed with extreme prejudice. I can live with that, but what bothers me is the look I always get. It's a combination of disdain, fear, indignation, amusement, confusion and stupefaction. Afterwards, I flee the scene and promise myself to let my friends find marijuana for me. Then slowly over many months I get my courage back, and the cycle repeats.

The only explanation is that I must look like a narc or an asshole or something. It is, however, impossible for me to reconcile the way I see myself with the idea that anyone, for any reason, could think that I'm a cop. What a blow to my fragile ego. I'm not even all that fond of donuts. Perhaps I just don't look like a man who enjoys a good bowl now and then, whatever that look is supposed to be. I don't know.

About a year ago, I heard my barber talking to her sister about getting high. So the next time in, I pounced. Makes sense, right? But it didn't work out. Then there was the woman at "Tokyo Kid" in Harvard Square. She looked at me like I took a shit on the Hello Kitty display. And we're all familiar with that look. Sometimes I ask someone who simply can't deny being a stoner. Like the fellow I asked at the Freedom Rally five or six years ago on Boston Common. That son of a bitch lied right to my face. I don't get it. I'm cool. I'm hip. I have no ambition and desperately crave any and every escape from reality. I'm also a member of MassCann, dammit.

As an aside, for those of you who know me and are unfamiliar with my affection for marijuana, it's worth noting that I only do it in the evening, when I'm in for the night. I NEVER drive high, or "wake and bake," unless I'm certain that I don't need to go out all day. It's a shame that I have it so very rarely. Generally speaking, I pop lots of pills. But marijuana is a magical and beautiful thing; it's not addictive, and it can make just about anything funny, even a Bush press conference.

So, you got any?

On to something else. The Frenchies had a national election this past weekend, and Socialist candidate and hottie Segolene Royal came in second to Right-winger Nicolas Sarkozy. That means that she will be in a run-off election with him on May 6. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. It's good to see socialists doing so well around the world, and painful that we're so marginalized here. A comrade of mine in New Jersey sent me some of Royal's speeches, given this past weekend. I'm fond of this comment she made:

I call on all those who ... believe it is possible to reform France without brutalizing it, who want a triumph of human values over the stock market, who want an end to the painful rise of insecurity and precariousness...


Outstanding.

One last thing before I head out to the hospital and visit papa. Mother Jones magazine has a short article (actually, a collection of statistics about online gaming) in the May/June '07 issue. It's the one with a bare-assed guy on the cover. Anyway, according to author Dave Gilson, 500,000 Chinese gamers earn an average of $100 a month "gold farming" on World of WarCraft and other online role-playing games. Gold farmers are defined as people who, "...perform menial tasks inside online worlds to create virtual goods to sell to players in the West."

The people of China must think we're the biggest bunch of douchebags going. Not only do we think we NEED the cheap labor in Chinese "free trade zones," we can't even play video games without their help. If we could outsource nose-picking and ass-wiping, we would. No wonder they're working so hard to get an aircraft carrier, and are putting submarines to sea as fast as they can build them. They're just aching to beat us up. It seems that the entire world either hates us like poison or is really annoyed by everything we do.

Well, that's the extent of my in-depth analysis of world affairs right now. I'm certainly happy that you decided to drop by and chat over coffee. And weren't those cookies delicious? Go ahead and take a couple home with you, I'm trying to lose weight. Go ahead, they'll just go to waste here. Oh, and drive carefully and enjoy the nice weather we're having. Bye bye...talk to you soon.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

The Blocked Call

Sometimes one doesn't even have to leave home to find someone that they want to kill. I just got back from the hospital, where I found my father in a sweet suite and doing much better. That improved my day quite a bit. Then I stopped at a spa on the way home and purchased a rug deodorizer and a bag of Ore-Ida french fries. The cashier and I joked to each other about the strange combination, and from there I came home. So far, so good.

As I was vacuuming the living room rug (yes, after deodorizing it) the telephone rang. Half of all calls received here are either bill collectors or political organizations for which I have an affinity, but not a cent to give. So I just hang up the phone a great deal. I'm sure you do, too. That "Caller ID" thing is wonderful.

Anyway, I put down the vacuum and looked to see who was calling. It was blocked, which will usually get you ignored, but I threw caution to the wind and picked it up just as the answering machine went on. The following is a verbatim record of the conversation, and the name of the guy turned out to be "Mr. Reilley." I will use my nickname, "Rone" (rhymes with phone) because it interplays better with "Reilley." This whole thing happened less than 20 minutes ago.

Reilley: Hello, Kenneth Lyle, please?
Rone: I'm sorry, he isn't here right now, may I take a message?
Reilley: Sure...let me give you my number...
Rone: Ah, what is this about?
Reilley: (ignoring me) 1-800-000-0000 (I didn't write it down)
Rone: OK. What is this about?
Reilley: It's an important matter for Kenneth Lyle. Do you know when he might be in?
Rone: He's in the hospital, I'm his son. Who are you?
Reilley: So when will he be in?

This is roughly where I snapped.

Rone: Well, if he survives it should be within the next month or two.
Reilley: Well, have him call me...could you repeat back the number I gave you? (Angrily) Did you write it down?
Rone: No, of course not, I know not who you are and what you want.
Reilley: Write my number down and repeat it back to me, please.
Rone: Are you out of your fucking mind? I will not, because I don't know what this is about or who you are, you asshole. For all I know, you're trying to sell something. Is that what you're doing, "Mr. Reilley?" And this is a "blocked" call, which makes me think that if you're not a telemarketer you're a bill collector. Is that what you are? Why the fuck would I write down the number for a bill collector that we've been avoiding? (Yelling) Huh? Were my father here, he would tell me to hang up on the asshole. That's you, you're the asshole. So let's try this again, I'll write down the number if you tell me who you are or what this is about...either one will do, "Reilley Boy."

Long pause.

Rone: (holding the phone up and screaming into it) What's the matter?!?! YOU NO SPEAKEY THE ENGLISH?"

Then I hung up on him.

After all that, I finished vacuuming, and my flat smells springtime fresh.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Sweet Confusion

Here's a puzzle for everyone. If you figure it out, write back and carefully explain it to me. I got it at first, now it just doesn't make sense. It's from Marilyn vos Savant's article that appears every week in the Parade section of the Sunday paper. She is supposed to have the highest recorded IQ. Here goes...

A beautiful box of candy costs $20. If the box itself is valued at $19 more than the candy inside, what is the candy worth?

Naturally, one would immediately think that the candy is worth $1.00. But that's wrong, according to Marilyn. She says that the candy is worth 50 cents, making the value of the box $19.50.

Now maybe I'm missing something really obvious. I probably am, but I still don't get it. If you can explain it, do so! Use the comments section.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

So It Goes

Having just learned from my brother that Kurt Vonnegut has died, I'm having a difficult time this morning. When he first told me I was hoping that it was a joke, but that only lasted for about two seconds. He was, after all, 84 years old. After that I had to sit down and find the obituary, and when I did I felt sick to my stomach. Tears welled up in my eyes, but it wasn't until I started to print the obituary that I started bawling. It's hard to explain why it hit me so hard; I never even met the man. But I have read every one of his novels at least once. I'm even in the midst of re-reading Slaughterhouse-Five, for the third or fourth time.

A friend of mine, Mary, introduced me to Vonnegut when I was working as a security guard at the DeCordova Museum and Sculpture Park in Lincoln, Massachusetts. I was, and still am, very fond of Mary's intellect and creativity. She's an artist out of Somerville, and you can check out some of her work here. She's one of the few people I know of who get better looking with age. Anyway, back around 1997 she gave me Slaughterhouse-Five. Vonnegut's writing blew my mind, and I read every one of his novels as soon as I could get them. Reading one of his books is like having a marvelous conversation with a genius, a cynic, and a deeply compassionate human being. He taught me that one can be saddened at the state of the world and want things to be better, while at the same time fully understanding that (because of who we are) they never will be.

As soon as I became familar with Vonnegut, I felt less alone in the world. His words were comforting on one level, but profoundly challenging on another. After my own bout with mental illness, and my suicide attempts and hospitalizations, I became even closer to the man and his works. His mother killed herself, and he tried to overdose in 1984, having been diagnosed with severe depression. In the men's dormitory at the Arbour Psychiatric Hospital in Jamaica Plain, Boston, I passed some of the time reading, Cat's Cradle, which a friend brought to me. I had read it once before and loved it.

I don't know what else to say, as I sit here with red eyes and a heavy heart. I've taken some pills to take the edge off, as his death is harder to cope with than I thought it would be. At first I felt a bit suicidal, not wanting to live in a world without my friend. And I treasure the feeling I had when I discovered his novels, about a decade ago.

In one of his novels, perhaps it was Hocus Pocus from 1990, he wrote about his career in the forward. He said, "Enough already" about his life. He felt that he had said everything he wanted to say, and it was time to be rid of life. But inside this sad genius there was strength, and he managed to stay with us until yesterday. There's even a lesson for me there, one that I'll be chewing on for awhile.

One last thing. Kurt's son, Mark, who is a pediatrician, once sent a letter to his father that read in part, "We are here to help each other get through life, whatever it is." Kurt liked that, and put it in one of his novels. I like it, too. It speaks to me more than the most elaborate philosphy or ardent religous belief.

Thank you, Kurt Vonnegut, for breaking out the typewriter and talking to us. You will be missed.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Strollin' Down The Avenue

I had a whole bunch of stuff I wanted to write about on this thing, but I've forgotten most of it. I need to keep notes or something. That may be good, though, as some of my thoughts are pretty obscure. Author Paul Theroux wrote the cover article for Smithsonian a few months ago and I just read it yesterday. It's about the lives of geese and the anthropomorphization of animals in film, books, and television. He made some good points, but he also made some irritating bad ones. And what kind of prick angrily ranks on E.B. White, one of the most gentle, thoughtful people of whom I'm aware.

Sounds riveting, doesn't it? Probably good I didn't keep notes.

With any luck, the Anna Nicole Smith slow-motion train wreck will soon end. It's been distracting people nicely from what has been happening in Iraq, particularly over the past few days. That's rather relevant because John McCain, a fellow whom I once thought was sane and fairly wise for a Republican, has been laying it on pretty thick lately about how safe is Iraq. After walking through a Baghdad market under the protection of over 100 Marines and two attack helicopters he declared that the press is wrong about the way things are over there. He went on to say that General Petreus, the man in charge of the "coalition," could "ride through that Baghdad marketplace in an unarmored Humvee." He later backed off that comment with a vengeance, on 60 Minutes, but that means nothing. McCain gave us a peek into pro-war Republican thinking, and that revealed shocking naiveté by the Bush Administration is it's supporters. There is a very wide and deep chasm between the way they want things to be and the way they really are. They want things to be better after the troop surge, and they want vindication for the war so badly that they have become delusional. Either that, or they are so cynical and arrogant that they don't care what happens, so long as they don't get the blame and pay any political price. There is a dark vision for the Middle East behind this, and that's what motivates the lack of reason or scruples.

So what has the Smith baby trial nonsense distracted the media from? Well, a battle in a Sunni neighborhood in Southern Baghdad (yes, actually in the city) that required hours of hard fighting and air support is probably a matter of importance. Especially since it happened after John McCain's magical visit. There were many casualties; 16 wounded American soldiers and 20-40 dead Iraqi civilians. It's also noteworthy because the attack was so brazen.

I've never been to Iraq, but every war correspondent I know of is talking about how asinine the Republican's take on things actually is. People like Anne Garrels, Arwa Damon, Bob Woodruff, Allen Pizzey (who called McCain's comments "Rubbish") and, of course, Michael Ware, have all been very outspoken lately, and they have all spent a lot of time in Iraq. Ware actually said this about John McCain in an interview with Wolf Blitzer:

I mean, Sen. McCain’s credibility now on Iraq, which has been so solid to this point, is now being left out hanging to dry. To suggest that there’s any neighborhood in this city where an American can walk freely is beyond ludicrous. I’d love Sen. McCain to tell me where that neighborhood is and he and I can go for a stroll.

Yikes. The aforementioned under-reported attacks of the last week are certainly working to make McCain and the Bushies look even more foolish. If you ask me, that's a train wreck worth talking about.

You didn't ask me? Oh. Ok...carry on.

Saturday, April 07, 2007

The Odds

I'm trying on a new look, which is difficult to do on my limited budget. The media loves doing "makeover" stories, on people, flats, houses, that sort of thing. And they always talk about pissing away a huge amount of money to do it. I'm a fat retard, and I'm poor (which is really the core of the problem), so my big Spring makeover is to buy an $11 shirt (really) and shoplift a pair of sunglasses. Pretty sad, eh? Yeah? Well, fuck you. Odds are you're nothing much to look at, either.

There's also a picture of me concentrating really hard. Or, rather, pretending to. I can't concentrate on anything anymore. I found a long lost exam I took for a biology class in college. I got an A, and it had all sorts of difficult questions about surface area/body mass cell ratio and base pairs. If I tried to study for and take that exam today...oh, man.

And it's all DOWNHILL from here!



Das Ist Und Mini Pooch!

There's my brother and his new dog, Milo, who just a week ago could only be seen with a microscope. We're talkin' small here. Beyond that, there isn't too much to report, and certainly nothing of any consequence. I just ate a bagel with swiss cheese on it, and for reasons that aren't clear to me I'm sort of regretting it. I feel fat. I know I AM fat, but I'm not keen on feeling fat, if you know what I mean.

Perhaps I should color my hair black. Right now it's pretty gray. Jet black hair may be just the thing I need. And I could walk around with a begonia planted in my shirt pocket and frozen peas crammed in between my toes. That will show all you bastards. At night, I'll perch on the roof of my building and sing Bavarian folk songs and invite everyone to the Oktoberfest in my pants. If anyone looks at me or laughs, I'll jam my fingers in my ears and cry, "Vous n'êtes tout rien par la volaille à moi!" Which, translated, means, "You are all nothing but poultry to me!" It sounds really good in French, though, so I could care less. J'Accuse!

My girlfriend, Linda, knows that I suffer from what is lovingly called, "mental illness." But in the time that we've been together, I've not done anything insane. A little here and there, but nothing terrible. I get the feeling that she is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I'm going to casually whip out my collection of freeze-dried fingers, or try to fly out the window. None of that is going to happen, as my particular brand of insanity is really quite boring to other people. Keeps me on my toes, though. My stupid and bizarre sense of humor, however, is often manifest, and people generally incorrectly chalk it up as part of my fucked up brain.

Tomorrow I'm going to have Easter dinner with some of Linda's family. My plan is to be introduced, say something witty and hopefully funny, and then curl up in the nearest closet until it's time to go. Naturally, that's not going to work, but I tell myself that I'll be able to get away with it as a way of coping with my crushing anxiety and paranoia. Actually, it may be the perfect opportunity to try to fly out the window.

Friday, April 06, 2007

Teeth, Donuts, And The Passing Of An Old Broad

Another favorite establishment of mine will bite the dust this month. La Contessa Bakery, which has been in Davis Square for over 60 years, will close in three weeks. Not too long ago, Verna's Coffee and Donut Shop in Cambridge closed, although I hear it may open up under new management. That place has been around forever, too. I remember dropping in for coffee and a "figure 8" after cleaning some houses with my father every Saturday. La Contessa is set to be closed permanently, and a sushi bar is going to open in it's place.

Just like a fat fuck like me to lament the closing of another donut shop. And I'm still bitter about Someday Cafe. But in the grand scheme one can't get too upset about this sort of thing. Instead, I could choose to get upset about my dentist appointment. My denist, an attractive Russian immigrant named, "Elena" threatened me this morning. She told me that I must stop drinking diet and regular soda. "You can drink only water, coffee, tea, and juice" She told me. "If you don't do what I tell you, none of my efforts will be worthwhile and we may as well pull all your teeth right now and put in dentures." Yow. The Jack Bauer approach to dentistry. So no more Coke for me. Wah.

On the plus side, I got a check in the mail today from Complete Claim Solutions LLC. Apparently, the company that makes mirtazapine (AKA Remeron), an anti-depressant that I was once taking, was sued for anti-trust violations. According to the letter, "The Attorneys General from every state and End Payor Plaintiffs alleged that pharmaceutical companies Organon USA Inc. and Akzo Nobel N.V. improperly monopolized the U.S. market for Remeron® and mirtazapine." The lawsuit resulted in a $36 million settlement and my share is exactly $2.12. The world feels like a fairer place, doesn't it? I'm glad that a group of lawyers whom I never met fought so hard to fix a problem on my behalf. A couple of bucks sounds right. Even though I received a check, I feel somehow violated.

I feel compelled to mention the passing of an outstanding old broad, Isobel Cheney, who died earlier this week at age 99 at the Little Sisters of the Poor Jeanne Jugan Residence in Somerville. She wrote a book about the history of Somerville, and knew more about that city than anyone. I met her in the early '90's, at McIntyre and Moore in Davis Square. I knew someone then who knew her. All we did was acknowledge each other, but I was impressed that she was an author. I always am. She seemed like quite the personality at the time, and judging by her obituary, that impression was justified. I've heard a few stories about her that made me like her, but I haven't heard her name in a long time. I read that she returned from a teaching gig in Germany in 1959 with a white Karmenn Ghia, which is supposed to be some car. It made an impression in working class Somerville. I remember her fighting to get landmark status for the Someville Theatre, too, which it now has.

Bye Isobel, I'm glad I met you.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Something About A First Pitch

As many of you know, I'm a Red Sox fan. For some reason, given who I am, I feel compelled to apologize for that. Something about how a fat, mentally ill little radical socialist atheist shouldn't embrace something so American and mainstream. A sport, no less. But I am a Red Sox fan, and I'll even watch baseball in general. The billion dollar salaries don't bother me, but that lack of team loyalty does, and that is (of course) connected to the billion dollar salaries. The first time I saw Damon in pinstripes and sans beard or long hair I felt like something very wrong had just happened. Filthy lucre! But that is the way of things, and I'm over it now. So I root for my beloved Red Sox every year, before I even know exactly who is wearing all the uniforms.

Did anyone else notice that George Bush didn't throw out the ball at the opening game in Washington DC? The presidential first pitch is a tradition that goes back to President Taft in 1910. And Bush through out the ball every other year of his presidency. So what happened? An article I read in the Washington Post says that there was a scheduling conflict. Closer inspection reveals that Bush was presenting an award to the Naval Academy football team at the exact time he could have been at RFK stadium. So why didn't he? I suspect Bushie was afraid of the reception that 41,000 Washingtonites were likely to provide. Either that, or his "handlers" were afraid of that April frost. So Bush must be aware, on some level, just how hated he is. Is it that he just doesn't care? Probably not. It's likely that he sees himself as a martyr for a wonderful cause; the establishment of a peaceful Republic in the Middle East. He's an romantic idiot, endlessly searching for his rabbits. An romantic is a great thing to be if you're an artist, and even if you're a politician it's a disposition that can serve you well. But Bush refuses to let reality get in and ruin what has evolved into a fairy tale in his mind. The war for Iraq is lost. It was a mistake to begin with, and we never should have set foot in that country. We lost as soon as we did. His father knew that, which is why he never took Baghdad. But Bush Jr. is watching a movie in his head, and in that movie he is the hero and visionary. Why would he want to risk queering that by paying attention to what is actually happening outside his noggin?

That brings me back to the first pitch that he avoided throwing out. How can such a delusional president, fragile but narcissistic, be expected to face over 40,000 of his people, most of whom would be yelling rather nasty things, and challenging Bush's view of himself? Simply put, he can't...and didn't. He stayed the hell away from there.

Sunday, April 01, 2007

Lovely Little Pills

I just sent an email to a boob. His name is Allen Darman, and he sent an email to an online discussion group about treating bipolar disorder and depression with vitamins and minerals. Don't trust doctors pushing poisonous pills, he advises us, and instead eat your vegetables and think positively. Actually, the article he wrote is to his mentally ill son, "Willy." He ends his article with the advice to heal thyself, and tells his son, "You can heal yourself, Willy. I know that you can." What a fantastic way to fuck up another human being. Tell him or her that the need for medical assistance and drug treatment is a sign of weakness and ignorance. Excellent.

Personally, psychiatric medications saved my life. I regret only electro-convulsive therapy (ECT), which for me just wiped out many a memory. But Effexor, Zyprexa, lithium, lorazepam, Lexapro and levoxythyroxine (thyroid) have done a lot to reduce the racing thoughts, sleepless nights, self-injury, suicidal ideation and depression. I'm still a wreck a lot of the time, but I think I'd be a dead wreck if not for these medications. It's so asinine to ignore doctors and researchers and embrace an romantic approach that has no evidence of working.

As a socialist, I share his hatred of corporations, and drugs are almost certainly over-prescribed. But his advice is just plain dangerous for his son, and for anyone who knows anything about mental illness it's frustrating to hear such potentially hurtful nonsense.

Anyway, enough of that. I broke out my $12 Hawai'ian shirt today. Boo-yah!