Tuesday, May 29, 2007

From Nods To Nothing

Methinks piehole is funnier than yap. Anyway, it's been a long and exciting weekend that I want to write about later, but I just wanted to post this little tidbit I found in an Internet crevice. I can honestly say that I almost pissed myself laughing about the "Bedbug Letter." Also known as the "Cockroach Letter," apparently. It's a fucking hilarious urban myth that actually turns out to be true.

Jesus Christ is that funny.

Earlier today I ran into Somerville artist extraordiniare, friend and former co-worker Mary Galli on Mass. Ave in Cambridge. She looked great, and the warm weather compelled her to wear a short sleave shirt, so I got a look at her outstanding chicken tattoo on her right arm. I bumped into her as I left Cambridge Trust Company. When I asked her, "What are you up to?" She replied, "I'm about to go into this bank, then I'm going to get a burrito." If only we had a president who was as honest and succinct.

Apocalypse Cow is right; the meatballs in Spaghetti-O's are, indeed, rat testicles. I was shocked myself, but I did some investigating on the Internets and found that it's true. When I was 8 or 10 years old, and apparently a young man of very poor judgment, I loved the meatballs in Spaghetti-O's with meatballs. I had to add "with meatballs" because they make it sans testicles, too.

Stay tuned.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Down And Out And Looking To Cram Something In Your Yap

I'm poor and it doesn't really bother me. As I've said before on this thing, I couldn't be more fortunate regarding the treatment of my mental and physical ailments. Being flat broke a good portion of the time puts me in company with most of humanity. Yes, it would be great if I could travel and see some more of this fucking planet and the fucking people and places on it. Everywhere but North Korea and Texas, anyway. And I miss going to Tanglewood, or out to the theatre, and I haven't had sushi in awhile, which I'm fond of...well, some of it. One needs money to do those things, you see. But that's not a complaint. Five out of six people in the world have never been on the Internet, billions of people live in squalor and countless others eat rocks and sticks for dinner. Tonight I had a grilled cheese.

The most disconcerting, and genuinely upsetting, part of poverty is being seen as a dead-beat by family and friends. I just borrowed $40 off of my brother, one of the kindest and giving human beings ever. Honestly, I don't think he minds since he knows I'll pay him back. But it's still so humiliating. When people ask that question, "What would you do if you were rich?" I invariably come back to one thing time and time again; I would lend people money and let them play the pauper role. Magnanimity would be a nice change. I would also eat out all the time, as I'm a fat fuck and fond of food, but don't like to cook all that much. Drugs would be around a lot, too. I'd dig up the number of a friend of mine in Lawrence and probably start doing cocaine again (I had a brief affair with it years ago). Don't judge me for that if you've never tried it. Actually, it doesn't matter, go ahead. It's just so fine when all that avoidant, bipolar, panic attack, depression, schizophrenic bullshit flies out the window when you do a line, and you're suddenly very happy and have a lot of energy. Come on, I'm only human. One minute you're depressed and low and the next you're scrubbing the kitchen floor whilst humming Queen's We Are The Champions. Eventually, I'd have to go into rehab, but since I'm rich in this scenario I could afford a swanky place.

I'd be a kick-ass philanthropist. My efforts would be focused on animals, because I generally like them more than people. But I'd fling some money at some left-wing groups, too. In support of things like gay marriage, socialized health care, legalized marijuana, etc. I suppose everyone puts charity at the top of the list. Helps to get the guilt monkey off one's back.

I'm sure that everyone who reads this will be familiar with some of the methods one uses to survive when money is hard to find. There are some things you can't fake, like getting gas for the car. I once put $2.40 worth of gas in my car, back when I had one. Floating checks is another popular method of getting through a dry spell, but modern technology is going to eventually make that impossible. And for those of us with refined scruples, shoplifting can also be an invaluable tool. However, it's critical that you don't get caught. The problem is, if you do it long enough, you will get caught. But there was a time when an empty cupboard would compel me to take a plastic shopping bag to a grocery story, fill it up, and then walk out the door. I guess that's cheating. The best honest way to keep your belly full when you have very little money is to seek out pasta. Some spaghetti and a stick of butter and you're on your way to a satisfying meal. Well, a meal, anyway. Ramen noodles are popular with my starving artist friends, and college students. They're insanely cheap...almost too cheap. You start to wonder how they could Ramen a noodle so cheaply.

Earlier today, I was involved in a conversation about Spaghetti-O's. Oh, yeah. I'm of the opinion that it's a vile product that cannot be improved via the use of any spice. The sauce overpowers everything. Everything. But Apocolypse Cow, a friend of the blog, reports that there is a store brand Spaghetti-O's ripoff that is better than the real thing. The mind boggles.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Common

Events of late have made it difficult for me to contribute to my little 'blog. A massive personal failure has decimated my ego, and without going into incriminating details it reminds me of The Iceman Cometh by Eugene O'Neill. In this analogy, I'm not Hickey but rather one of the denizens of Harry Hope's bar, "pipe dreams" and all. Hopefully, I'm not Don, either.

In any event, those close to me for awhile may sense a defeated disposition. As I move about the world, a significant portion of my mind will be engaged in the process of digesting bitter fare; feelings and thoughts that undeniably reveal truths about myself that must be accepted. It's a struggle that must end in reconciliation, between the way I want to be and the way I really am. I'm hoping that eventually I'll be able to take comfort in knowing that it's a common struggle.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Some German Words and Movie Thoughts

Last night I wrote a couple of paragraphs for this blog, and then decided against posting at all. I had written about two wonderful German words, schadenfreude and treppengedanke. The former means to take pleasure in the suffering of others. The latter, (treppen means stairs, gedanke means thoughts) means to pour over what you said, or wanted to say, in a social situation. For example, if you were fired from your job and are thinking of what you should have said by going over the whole conversation in your mind, that's "treppengedanken." A very poetic image. Going up and down the stairs of your thoughts about something that happened.

I went on and on about that, then said to hell with it and just signed out. I do that a lot. What I just wrote above is a more concise and better post.

Now for something completely different. I'm a big fan of movies, and I like to think that my taste is refined. Sure, I enjoy the first two movies of the Blade series (not the third one, despite Jessica Biel, who couldn't act her way out of a paper bag) and the original Dune, directed by David Lynch. I have my guilty pleasures. But I know a great movie when I see one. If you're lucky and gently coax me, I might just post my list of the 100 Greatest Movies According to Me.

Coax me...oh, yeah...coax...coax...

I'm also a big fan of classic movie special effects, before CGI fucked things up. Sure, computers can and have been used to produce some magnificent special effects. King Kong was full of amazing stuff, as was the Lord of the Rings series. Then again, LOTR used a lot of conventional make-up. And I just read in The New Yorker magazine that most of Arnold Schwarzenegger is done through CGI these days.

There's a short and fun conversation in Quentin Tarantino's masterpiece "Death Proof" where Stuntman Mike, played by the wonderful Kurt Russell (I would seriously consider screwing him) explains how special effects used to be done, at least related to cars. Naturally, no computer effects were used back in the day. People would actually drive cars and ride horses and get into accidents and situations that sent people flying all over the place. It was really happening. For my money, that makes an action sequence so much more interesting. But "conventional" special effects really grab me in another area, make-up.

My favorite all-time movie effect (and I have many) is from American Werewolf in London. Witness the first transformation scene, done by Rick Baker, where David Naughton turns painfully into, well, a werewolf. An American one, at that. And in London. It's full of neat tricks and painstaking craftsmanship, and it really leaves an impression.

Compare that with any of the transformation scenes from more recent werewolf movies. Like the sequel, American Werewolf in Paris, or Underworld; they suck. Although Underworld has a good moment or two, thanks to actual make-up effects briefly used. And the final scenes in London, where the werewolf tear-asses through Piccadilly Circus, makes the little hairs stand up on the back of my neck. And those little hairs have strict orders not to do anything.

So let this be the first in a series of posts, now and then, about good old-fashioned special effects. Strictly speaking, the American Werewolf in London isn't my only favorite...a lot come in for a tie. The most disturbing, and most effective, special effect in movie history may have to go to the dog with a human head from the remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. That fucking thing haunted me for weeks. Actually, it still does. The still doesn't do it justice. Then there is the spider/human head (AKA "Norris Spider") from the John Carpenter remake of The Thing.

A general discussion about movies may be fun, too. People can post replies in the comments section and then I can point out where you're wrong and where you're right. Ha! I'm told that Apocalypse Cow, a friend of the blog, doesn't like the movie, "Magnolia." That may have to be covered at some point. Let's just keep it civil.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Falwell Part 2: A Comment From Apocalypse Cow

A comment left by a wise friend, Apocalypse Cow, had me writing a long comment in response. So I just decided to make a post out of it. Here goes. He wrote...

"Whenever I see quotations like that from the Rev, I'm torn. I can't comprehend their thought processes, and I am left really wondering if they really believe what they're saying, or if they're going over the top to get a response from their enemies and a result from their allies. I mean, no one can think that the separation of church and state was thought up by the devil...can they?"

To which I add...

I know of what you speak. Recently I saw a poll which stated that over %60 of Americans take the Biblical story of Noah and the Ark literally. Can that possibly be true? And did Falwell really think that Billy Graham was as agent of Satan? I don't know, of course, but I have to assume that they want people to think they do, which is scary enough.

As far as the separation of church and state, I guess a fundamentalist could believe that taking the church out of government provides an opening for the "evils" of abortion and same sex marriage to slip through.

Neither of us are fanatics, though, so we are applying reason where reason is neither invited nor welcomed. I'm not saying that as a smart assed atheist. Reason and compassion are not guides for fundamentalist theists. The wishes of God are most importation.

That's why fanaticism is so dangerous, in my humble view. It robs a person of his or her natural ability to empathize and be reasonable. How else could someone say something so cruel as, "AIDS cures homosexuality" or walk into a crowded market and blow people up?

I guess what I'm saying is that I agree about being torn on the question of whether or not Falwell and the like actually believe their hurtful, foolish comments. But in the end it doesn't matter. He said it, many of his people were oddly inspired by it, and there it is.

I used to sign my Socialist Party correspondance with, "My thoughts are my own, but my actions change the world." This was at a time when I had some disturbing thoughts that really bothered me. I concluded that it didn't matter. Like I say, what matters is action. So Falwell could have been a wonderful person in private, full of compassion and a head full of noble thouhts. But what matters is how he acted and what he said. That's why I'm glad he's not around anymore.

The only thing I regret writing is that I hope he suffered in his last moments. I didn't mean that one bit. I like to think that we all at least deserve a painless exit, no matter what we've done.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Death of a Bigot

Jerry Falwell dropped dead earlier today. Because people generally don't like to say something bad about someone who recently died, the news media is having a difficult time with his obituary. They're talking about his political influence, and his success as a reverend. Beyond that, it's difficult to talk about Jerry Falwell without coming to the conclusion that the man was a cruel bigot, an anti-Semite, and a political opportunist in the same category as Al Sharpton.

This is not about the death of a politician with whom I respectfully disagree. No, Falwell was more than a politician and a reverend. He sought to make life miserable for anyone who is not a fundamentalist Christian with a politically Conservative outlook. That includes Jews, homosexuals, atheists, people who are pro-choice and those who value the separation of church and state. He was a mean son of a bitch, and no less a bigot than a KKK activist.

Goodbye Reverend Jerry Falwell. Unfortunately, there are many of your ilk to replace you. I hope your death was just a little painful, perhaps to give you a moment to reflect on all the pain you caused the family and friends of AIDS victims when you made the following statement:

AIDS is not just God's punishment for homosexuals; it is God's punishment for the society that tolerates homosexuals. - Jerry Falwell

What a sweet guy. For good measure, here are some more Falwell quotes...enjoy!

I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way -- all of them who have tried to secularize America -- I point the finger in their face and say, "You helped this happen." -
Rev Jerry Falwell, blaming civil libertarians, feminists, homosexuals, and abortion rights supporters for the terrorist attacks of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, quoted from The Washington Post (September 14, 2001)

The Jews are returning to their land of unbelief. They are spiritually blind and desperately in need of their Messiah and Savior. - Jerry Falwell, Listen, America!

I hope I live to see the day when, as in the early days of our country, we won't have any public schools. The churches will have taken them over again and Christians will be running them. What a happy day that will be!
-- Rev Jerry Falwell, America Can Be Saved, 1979 pp. 52-53

Billy Graham is the chief servant of Satan in America. - Jerry Falwell

The idea that religion and politics don't mix was invented by the Devil to keep Christians from running their own country. - Jerry Falwell

Some Stuff About a River and Existential Nihilism

Early this morning sleep was elusive and I found myself picking through a box of books that have no bookcase to call home. Eventually, I pulled Susan Orlean's novel The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup from the pile and read a couple of stories. It's an excellent book. If you want to borrow my copy just email me. Anyway, that got me thinking about this and that, so I went for a short walk around 3am. It was cool, but I enjoyed the smell of lilacs and rain. My little stroll took me past a shabby apartment complex named, "Arizona Terrace" and on to the Mystic River just across the street. It wasn't as dark as I'd have liked, with all the streetlights, but I enjoyed it anyway. The river was black, and is wide and deep enough to move silently, so I stood on the bank (which I could see) and looked out on the river, which I just assumed was still there. It was a fantastic opportunity to murder me, but nobody took advantage of it.

There was a pleasurable moment there when I fondly thought of Ray Bradbury's novel, Dandelion Wine. The river made me think of it, because there was no moon out this morning and the river was so dark that it looked almost like a ravine. And there's a pitch black ravine in Dandelion Wine that every adult in town fears because children insist on cutting through it to get home at night. There is something wretched and evil about the ravine, and everyone is on edge about it. So a mother waits nervously for her child to walk in the door, and until he does she imagines him just disappearing off the face of the Earth, into that murky chasm.

After fondly reminiscing about Bradbury's prose, I had an anxiety attack that had me altering the course of my stroll and heading home. A sort of suffocating guilt hit me and I was overcome with a wave of nausea. With my hands on my knees, I tried to vomit, but I just dry-heaved a few times. A little fun fact...it's almost impossible to throw up after my stomach surgery. After that, I got dizzy and walked purposefully toward home.

When I got home, the cats enjoyed sniffing my shoes, which were covered with wet grass. I analyzed my guilt for awhile, trying to identify and defeat it. As usual, I gave up and took 4mg of lorazepam, which ended up knocking me out until 7:48am. So that was nice. When I woke up, though, I found the guilt curled up on the rug, staring at me. It was relentless and obdurate and it was starting to piss me off. At some point, though, I shook it off and enjoyed my coffee without feeling sick.

Just before I went to sleep last night I stretched out on top of my blanket, on my little bed, naked. I crossed my hands on my chest, held my breath and pretended I was dead. My heart was beating very hard, so the illusion was spoiled a bit. But the thought of lying on the slab, whether tomorrow or twenty years from now, made the pointless guilt look absurd. Ridiculous self-condemnation, that I've apparently anthropomorphized in some way. I enjoyed showing the guilt that eventually I'm going to be totally free of it, and for all time. I was the void and the dark river and the pitch black ravine. Ha! But it smirked back at me, letting me know that it will travel with me until the end, however and wherever I die there it will be, my fellow traveler. Fucker.

At least I won this morning, for awhile. My glorious pills put me to sleep, and luckily there were no dreams. For a little while my guilt and I didn't exist. Just for a little while, and it was nice, too. At least it felt like victory.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Inane Observation

There seems to be an inordinate amount of pollen floating around these days, more than a usual Spring, even. My eyeballs are burning like burning eyeballs. Beyond that, I don't have much to say, so I probably shouldn't say anything. I fucked up royally and forget my sister-in-law's birthday this past weekend. She must think I'm a total douchebag. I'm about to go run some errands, one of which is to go to the pharmacy and get a card. Then I'm going to write something in the card in a fierce attempt at being witty and humorous. Wish me luck.

Friday, May 11, 2007

Of Teeth and Pansies

I've pretty much been awake all night, although I confess to getting in an hour or two of sleep in there somewhere. I have oral surgery to remove a wisdom tooth at 8:15am, and fear of sleeping too late and missing the appointment has made it hard to sleep, even with 4mg of lorazepam and 900mg of lithium carbonate in me. I'm rarely anxious about medical and dental procedures. Not out of bravery, just out of simple faith that they know what they are doing. And I've had a tooth or two pulled with this fellow before.

My pot of pansies is growing nicely outside my front door. It's very exciting.

¡Adelante hasta otro día!

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Off Bugs and Eep

The lifeless limbs that do not energetic move, without a little shot of oily groove. Today it was time to give myself a shot of testosterone enanthate; 1.5ml every three weeks. It goes into the thigh muscle, and despite the size of the needle is usually totally painless. Every once in a while, though, I hit something that makes me go, "eep." So there it is...eep! I'm also due for a shot of cyanocobalamin, also known as B12, as I can't absorb it any other way. That never gets an eep, as the needle is subcutaneous instead of intra-muscular. One shot today is enough, though, except it would be nice if I took the B12 and it gave me a shot of energy and compelled me to vacuum the living room rug.

Yesterday, I took my bedroom rug outside to beat the smell of marijuana, cats, ass, cigars, mildew and who knows what else out of it. It worked well, but when I took it back in and set it out in my boudoir, I discovered an enormous bug on my rug.

Let that be a lesson to all you fuckin' rug beaters. The bug was released into back into the courtyard. It was a beetle, without the gift of flight, and about the size of a bowling ball.

More later.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Dansez-vous le Gras Baise, la Danse!

In terms of mental health, yesterday was the worst day in a long time. I've arrived at the point where I can almost savor, or at least appreciate, how well I torture myself. Despite hundreds of hours of therapy, including Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT), I'm still at the mercy of my subconscious. And probably some of my conscious, too. Hell knows what else. I'm told that there are brain chemicals that help fuck things up. That's important on a diagnosis and treatment level, but when I'm bughouse it may as well be invisible elves who are responsible.

Part of the reason for my difficulty lately has to do with my trying to cut down on lithium, which is more effective than I care to admit. So I'm back up to a full dose, even though it makes me feel very tired and sometimes gives me nasty nausea. But that's betting than flinging myself out the window, or driving myself into a wall at whatever speed I can get out of a '93 Mercury Tracer. At least I'm pretty sure it's better than that. So many people are adamant that it is.

Regardless of the reasons, mental illness for me is a piquant mélange that brings together depression, anxiety and paranoia. A melody, if you will, of various and often conflicting impulses, emotions and persistent thoughts. Depression is familiar to most people, and even "clinical" depression, while uncommon, is hardly rare. It nicely sets the stage for the rest of the merry band by weakening my resolve to "get better." Anxiety is also a near constant, but sometimes it is crippling. More disabling in a sense than anything else. It manifests as stomach pain, dizziness and fear. Other things, too. During a panic attack it makes it rather difficult to breath. It's the main reason I keep a fan in my room, pointed at me while I sleep. Otherwise, it feels as if I'm being smothered. Although I've never been smothered. I can't imagine that it's at all pleasant. At all.

My psychiatrist and psychologist both tell me that this extreme depression, anxiety and panic, in addition to "aggressive and obsessed" self-loathing (as my psych put it) leads to paranoia. When it gets really bad, as it did yesterday, there is a barrage of seemingly random thoughts, feelings and even voices. Although the "voice" I hear is me thinking to myself (if I start hearing schizophrenic voices I'm either going to lick the "third rail" or go back to the looney bin). I lack the fortitude, and the medication, to deal with that alone. But this inner monologue is absolutely merciless, and there is nowhere to hide, except in lorazepam induced sleep, which I almost always refrain from doing until the evening. Otherwise, I lump it. Every mistake, humiliating moment, harmful action and regret that I can remember (a faulty memory, perhaps helped along by ECT, is my only ally) slams into my ego. Every friend and supportive family member is stripped away until I'm left alone and totally immersed in guilt. This process is so familiar and mechanical that it feels as if I'm going down a checklist of ways to make me wince and withdraw in ego-razing thought. There's something inside me that insists that I'm the one responsible for making my family and friends deeply miserable. If I really loved them, I find myself thinking, I'd end it. At the very least I should despise myself for my crimes.

You can call me a wimp all you want for complaining. Maybe I am one. Although I suspect that I'm not. I've at least gotten to the point where I can say with relative confidence that I really do have a serious problem here. And I'm pretty sure that if something else doesn't kill me within the next 10 or 15 years, I'm going to do it myself. That's just being honest, and saying that isn't a cry for help. I'm already getting excellent care, some of the best in the world, really. And I know exactly how to get myself back in hospital if need be. But if every day were as bad as yesterday I wouldn't live long enough to see Hillary Clinton get beaten in the general election. Fortunately (I guess) I have enough good days to balance things out. Maybe that won't change.

That isn't all I have to say about that, but I need to stop writing about it. Especially since I'm feeling a bit less manic today.

One little postscript, sort of. I want to thank Dan Coulter, who told me where to download the soundtrack to the novel, "Battlefield Earth." At some point, I will download it and it will be a funky trip down memory lane. I nearly fell off my chair when I found Chick Corea's name attached to such classics as March of the Psychos and Alien Visitors Attack. Didn't he once jam with Miles Davis? I thought that L. Ron Hubbard pulled a John Carpenter and pretty much wrote and used a keyboard to perform his own opi. I stand corrected.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Vive le...Oh, Cram it.

Socialist Segolene Royal was defeated by Conservative Nicolas Sarkozy in France's presidential election yesterday. In a 53-47 percent victory, Sarkozy claims to now have a "mandate for change." This sounds eerily familiar. Since when did 53% become a mandate? I thought when Bush said it, with an almost identical margin of victory three years ago here in the US, it represented fuzzy thinking and political maneuvering among Bush supporters. And that is almost certainly what Sarkozy is guilty of, as well.

As a candidate of the anti-union party, Union pour un Mouvement Populaire (UMP), Sarkozy has every right to be arrogant about his victory at least in one respect; he took almost 47% of the blue collar vote. In that sense, he looks like a French Ronald Reagan who has duped the working class people of France in the fashion Ronny did. Perhaps it had something to do with an unwillingness to vote for a woman as president. Immigration fears figure in there, too, as Sarkozy aims to make France, "less attractive" to immigrants.

Whatever the reason, the people of France can no longer point their finger and laugh at us for electing Bush. Well, maybe they can, since we did it twice. But they Frenchies pulled a boner here. I hope Sarkozy continues to mirror Bush and the Republican Party and eventually drops to a 27% approval rating. Given his anti-union, "free market" goals, I'm not interested in giving him a chance. But the French apparently are, and have. Not a "mandate" as he says, but he's the president now. Onward!

As for Segolene Royal, I hope she stays active in politics. I'd vote for her. One problem, though...if France isn't ready for a female president then we sure ain't. Maybe people should consider that when they vote in the Democratic Primary. The US isn't as open-minded as France, and Hillary Clinton is no Segolene Royal. Then again, that may save her as she tries to become the first female president of this country. Hillary doesn't have the scruples, integrity or brains of Royal, but she does want the presidency so bad that she'll say or do anything to get it. That may do the trick. It's worked so well for so many before her.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

My Day So Far, or "I Didn't Spell Check This"

It's 11:23am on Saturday, May 5 (Cinco de Mayo!) 2007. I slept pretty late this morning, until around 9am, and then made a ferocious cup of coffee. As I poured "Half and Half" into it, it just got blacker. Scary. Then I got dressed and made my way back to the computer, where I got into a donnybrook about something ludicrous (Roswell is real, moon landings are fake...something like that) and then checked my email.

I get a lot of email, from myriad sources. Friends send me a lot, of course, because they know I may be a dim bulb, but I have varied interests. Sort of like a retarded Renaissance Man. Then there are the organizations to which I belong, like Hands Off Venezuela! and Suffragette Ass Fanatic Digest. Sometimes I have to get emails translated, and fortunately that is easy to do with the "internets." Then I write a response and translate it into Spanish or Portuguese, thus making some people think I speak two languages. I'm OK with that. Little do they know I barely speak one.

One political email, received from a comrade, is about Mumia Abu-Jamal's take on the Don Imus controversy. I couldn't read it because I'm such an infant that the concept of the article made me giggle. If I ever grow up/smarten up, I'll read it. I'm sure it's interesting.

In one of my discussion groups, people are talking about Alec Baldwin and David Hasselhoff and how they mistreat their daughters. The Hasselhoff thing is much creepier in my book, and Baldwin just blew a gasket, which he apologized for and I accept. I'm sure that makes him feel better. As everyone knows, he called his daughter a "little pig" for avoiding his planned phone call. Shakespeare wrote a great play about a little pig, but I can't remember the name right now.

But what parent hasn't said something awful to a child, particularly between the ages of 1 and 35 (the difficult years), that they later regret? I've heard worse than "little pig" in the grocery store. Several months ago, I heard a woman tell her daughter that she was getting "too fat from all the fucking juice (she) drinks." The kid was about 10, give or take two years. I'm not good at guessing things like that. And it could have been the grandmother, but that's not likely. Grandmothers are usually sweet to their grand kids because they can just dump them back on the parents when the whole production gets too annoying.

I can't remember if my parents ever said anything mean to me, and at times I really, really deserved it. Sometimes I would complain endlessly when I had to work with my father, cleaning mansions for rich people. He would just ignore me, although once he said, "If you keep complaining I'm going to take you home and tuck you into your beddy like a little baby." Fair enough. That's a moon-cast shadow compared with "little pig" or "you're getting to fat." My brother, who was a better kid than I, probably never heard anything discouraging at all. Yes, I had excellent parents.

And now I'm a parent myself. Well, not of a human being (yippee for infertility!), but of many cats. If you add up all the pet cats I've had in my life, it comes to about 4,000. And right now, I have four, of course. Sadly, they do aggravate me sometimes and I'm compelled to yell things that I later regret. Panther tried to get out the front door yesterday and I called him a "fucking mother-fucking cunt." There's no call for that. But if he got out at that moment he would have been gone for good. A big German Shepherd was out there at the time, and Panther would have either been eaten or gotten away into da big city, lost for good. He seems to be over it, but an apology is in order.

And then I called Fluffy a "douchebag" but she knows why and I'm NOT taking it back. I love her to death, as I do all my furry little cohorts, but I'm only human. I'll leave it at that.

I miss you, Linda. I hope you're having fun with your girls up in Maine.

Oh, yes...Hamlet. That Shakespeare play I mentioned...it's Hamlet.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Enjoy the Frog Cartoon

I just want to share this cartoon with all of you. I happen to think it's one of the funniest cartoons, or anything, of all time. The scene where the frog is dancing around the guy's shitty apartment is gold.

Frog dancing and singing.

Save Us, Johnny!

I just made a jaw-dropping discovery, which is rare. It's not often that upon finding something out I'm so surprised that my mouth opens, or my monocle flies off. It happens all the time in cartoons, though. Anyway, I just heard that Mitt Romney named L. Ron Hubbard's "Battlefield Earth" as his favorite book. I read that novel, which is sort of awful, when I was 14. It actually came with a soundtrack, written also by L. Ron Hubbard. If memory serves, there was a lot of grunting and a synthesizer.

So Mitt Romney not only read Battlefield Earth, but it's his favorite book. This is going to give more fodder to his enemies than the "varmint" comments a few weeks ago. It's a long book; at least 900 pages, maybe a lot more, so there is plenty to work with. Especially in that book. I was into Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Piers Anthony, Arthur C. Clark, Douglas Adams and just about any Hugo Award winning author back then. This is before the age of John Updike, Kurt Vonnegut and Dostoevsky. Besides being essentially a pulp science fiction novel (check out that cover), Battlefield Earth is rife with Scientology metaphor. The humans only find the ability to overthrow the vicious aliens through the use of a consciousness expanding machine that is, ironically, used by the aliens to make humans more intelligent and useful for slavery. Yup. Without the use of such a machine, we have only Tom Cruise and John Travolta to deliver us from the Thetans which are preventing us from realizing our full potential.

Does anyone out there have the soundtrack, on tape, that came with the book? I remember that "music" more than the book itself.

In other news, I have yet to receive any news about the newspaper writing job. I'm almost certain that I'll be told to, "go piss up a rope" (my late grandmother's favorite insult). It's not bothering me, though, as I'm familiar with my numerous limitations.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

May Day

Happy May Day, comrades and fellow travelers! Consider going to a rally, and sing The Internationale with me...

Arise ye workers from your slumbers
Arise ye prisoners of want
For reason in revolt now thunders
And at last ends the age of can't.
Away with all your superstitions
Servile masses arise, arise
We'll change henceforth the old tradition
And spurn the dust to win the prize.

So comrades, come rally
And the last fight let us face
The Internationale unites the human race.
So comrades, come rally
And the last fight let us face
The Internationale unites the human race.

No more deluded by reaction
On tyrants only we'll make war
The soldiers too will take strike action
They'll break ranks and fight no more
And if those cannibals keep trying
To sacrifice us to their pride
They soon shall hear the bullets flying
We'll shoot the generals on our own side.

No saviour from on high delivers
No faith have we in prince or peer
Our own right hand the chains must shiver
Chains of hatred, greed and fear
E'er the thieves will out with their booty
And give to all a happier lot.
Each at the forge must do their duty
And we'll strike while the iron is hot.

Or perhaps Solidarity Forever is more your speed:

When the union's inspiration through the workers' blood shall run,
There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun;
Yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one,
But the union makes us strong.

CHORUS:
Solidarity forever,
Solidarity forever,
Solidarity forever,
For the union makes us strong.

Is there aught we hold in common with the greedy parasite,
Who would lash us into serfdom and would crush us with his might?
Is there anything left to us but to organize and fight?
For the union makes us strong.

It is we who plowed the prairies; built the cities where they trade;
Dug the mines and built the workshops, endless miles of railroad laid;
Now we stand outcast and starving midst the wonders we have made;
But the union makes us strong.

All the world that's owned by idle drones is ours and ours alone.
We have laid the wide foundations; built it skyward stone by stone.
It is ours, not to slave in, but to master and to own.
While the union makes us strong.

They have taken untold millions that they never toiled to earn,
But without our brain and muscle not a single wheel can turn.
We can break their haughty power, gain our freedom when we learn
That the union makes us strong.

In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold,
Greater than the might of armies, magnified a thousand-fold.
We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old
For the union makes us strong.