Monday, December 29, 2008

Bush's Beans and Rice

Condaleeza Rice, the Secretary of State until January 20th, said that the American people will soon "thank Bush." You all remember Ms. Rice, almost certainly the most intelligent (if not scrupulous) member of the Bush Administration. She's the one who told us all that the very evidence we need to justify a preemptive invasion of Iraq could destroy us. "We don't want the smoking gun to be a mushroom cloud." she told the world.

This is precisely the same logic that could be used to justify a war on Belgium. That may or may not be a good idea, I don't know. But the pseudo-logic used here could be an avatar for a entire mode of thought, a very different view of the world and how we move in it than anyone you know. The major points of this way of thinking and acting are difficult to define. Rice and Bush are hard to define. I feel as if I could walk right through them. They are phantoms. But I do know that Bush people adhere to a collective approach. For example, to Bushies, everything is a hustle, a grift. There isn't an ounce of intellectual honesty or integrity here. Bush never spoke with a reporter, or to the American people and just talked to us. He was always trying to talk us into something. Also, to a Bushie the law is just an obstacle course to be negotiated in order to get what you want. Ethics, simply put, do not exist in any capacity. Ethics are for academics and children...that's the vibe I get from Bush. In addition, he's probably mentally ill, as he seems to worship the God of "us vs. them."

One last thing about Bush and how we'll "thank him." I'm confident that he will be remembered as the worst president in American history, up until this point, anyway. There's a good chance he'll be remembered frequently, too.

I feel rather odd, and may benefit by taking another pill. That impulse doesn't fail me often. Adieu, comrades!

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Day of the Hangover

By all accounts, via email and blog commentary, "Night of the Sake" played like a horror movie. Most of the elements that contributed to that aesthetic were accidental, like the black void of my bedroom with no candles or lights. And naturally it didn't help that I was shirtless. There is some sort of correlation between dark thoughts, angst and shedding one's shirt. I'm seen enough episodes of cops to know about this phenomenon. For men, anyway. When women get angry with me, or depressed, they never just decide to go topless.

That's the kind of world we live in. Don't look at me, Choochie, you live in it, too.

I apologize for my lack of eloquence, but in fairness I polished off that whole bottle of sake myself. A young lady and friend asked me this morning, via email, if I was depressed. No, I'm not, but I'm fixated on physical and emotional pain. It's no wonder that people need the pleasant fiction of religion to get through the day.

Today I went to my doctor, the man responsible for keeping me healthy. I'm meant to address my B12 and vitamin "D" deficiencies, which is easy enough to do with a syringe and needle. He also felt this and that, we talked, we laughed, and he kissed me full on the lips during the "strip to your underwear" exam. Well, that last part is my attempt at humor. An amusing lie.

What I learned, though, is that there is nerve damage from my second orchiectomy, which is causing frequent low level pain in the place where my balls are supposed to be. This isn't a complaint, as I'm acutely aware of how lucky I am to have had those nuts removed before cancer ate me.

Lou Gehrig, who by coincidence died of Lou Gehrig's disease, once said (in a famous speech) that he was "the luckiest man on the face of the Earth." With all sincerity, I feel that way about myself. I'm the beneficiary of incredible kindness. In the spirit of the holiday bullshit season, I'm going to name five people who have changed my life with a modicum of compassion. Consider it well. In my opinion, compassion is the greatest thing we humans have brought into the world. Nothing compels it but empathy. Religion tries to scare it into us, but that won't work without a threat of action in this world, not the next or the one after.

Here's my list of people who have been compassionate towards me, and should be canonized as far as I'm concerned. In no particular order.

Linda N. - My girlfriend, lover and friend. She is on this list because she is the very picture of kindness, to me and every living thing that crosses her path. She has the tough tenderness of a mother, and grandmother. Before we met, she made the world a better place for three children and one grandson, numerous horses, countless cats and dogs a'plenty. It's in her nature to empathize. His Holiness the Dali Lama once said, "If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion." I've found her easy to love.

Kent L. - My brother. Older brothers have a reputation for being brutes. Through all my electroshock treatments, hospitalizations, suicide attempts and various and sundry tomfoolery over the years, he has always been there. I know I'm in his mind when I'm in pain, and he knows that I'm there for him, too. Helping each other get through life, whatever it is.


Quinn Brisben - I have to mention Quinn, the man is physically incapable of judging someone. Kind and tough. Worked for disability rights via ADAPT in Chicago, the SP, and traveled the world. He once smuggled condoms into the USSR. Kind and tough go together well.

Dr. Michael Gibbons - When I was at UMass Boston, Dr. Gibbons was my degree advisor and frequent lunch companion. He'd take me off campus to a nearby restaurant and we'd just talk and eat. If memory serves, he drank a bit. He was all advice, good humor and rugged affability.

I could go on, about all these people. When I speak of luck, and how lucky I've been, I think of these people, among others. I've certainly tasted enough hardship to know that life can always get much, much worse. But for now, I have my friends, and memories of friends past. At my core I'm grateful. The pernicious schemes of men, the power of money to rob decent people of their principles, and the random visitations of hardship and death. That's life, yes. Partly, anyway. But so is the rest of it.

There you go. As sappy as it may be, enjoy this quote from George Washington Carver, the man who had a thing for peanuts.

"How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in life you will have been all of these."

Monday, December 22, 2008

Night of the Sake

Go bed now

Right now I'm drunk off my ass on Gekkeikan sake, my personal favorite brand because it's crazy cheap and manufactured in Folsom, California. License plates, prison outfits and sake. Yeah. My name is Darren and I am fat but not as fat as I used to be. I'm pretty thin, relatively speaking. I'm not all that bright. I have a blog. My balls are gone, and sometimes I wear my girlfriend's panties. With the exception of my huge cock, the panties fit.

Go figure.

Right now I'm sweating a lot. I'm really drunk. Good thing I have a doctor's appointment on the morrow. I'm going to say funny and good things to that doctor. We'll laugh and celebrate some fucking social relationship and I'll fly home and enjoy being alone. Away from all you rubes.

In actuality, I'm just waiting...longing...for merciful death to rob me of horrific awareness. Jerry Lewis is an abomination. Michael Jackson has lung cancer from fucking llamas. Llama lung, they call it. But between you and me there are a lot of people who can go die for all I care. Bush, Rice, Cheney, the guy who sold me the wrong FUCKING bagel at Dunkin' Donuts.

Vampires. Teenage chicks want to fuck them. They'd rather fuck a damned, undead James Dean impersonator than the fat kid. Fuck the fat kid. He's there and alive, dammit.

I should go bed now.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Of Sports, Sex and Pink Floyd

I've lost my girlfriend for the afternoon, to the National Football League. For my European friends, that's not soccer. In the US, "football" refers to a game that rarely involves the use of feet. They could have called it "noseball" and only been slightly off.

Soccer, of course, is all feet, all the time. That's why they call it "football" over there. We call soccer "boring" over here, but we have feet of clay on that one. If you've ever sat through a 5 hour baseball game (or more), you know of what I speak. Part of me despises all sports, as they remind me of gym class, particularly in middle and high school. I enjoyed all my other classes, even math, but I just skipped gym a lot.

One time, my "physical education" teacher asked me, "Why don't you ever come to class?" I didn't say anything of consequence, but my weight should have been a clue. But if gym teachers could think properly they'd be teaching something else. Anything else. If I could answer him today, I'd say, "Because I'm grossly overweight, which makes it hard to engage in your nonsense, and also makes my body look like the Michelin man, thus making cruel jibes & group showers another compelling reason to skip. You got that, Jumping Jack?"

The patina of my angst lingers today. Linda, the woman whose heart I made a nest within, loves football, especially the Patriots, of course. No problem. I can reconcile her enjoyment of an absurdly stupid sport with no redeeming aspects whatsoever with my love, via respect. There is more to love than finding a clone of yourself. I definitely do not want that, friends and neighbors. She puts up with my occasional enjoyment of Red Sox baseball, Socialist rants, insanity, and small pecker sans balls. In turn, she can watch football, House, engage in rampant cell phone use (she answers the phone during sex) and watch Days of Our Lives on her day off.

Believe me, I got the better deal. And she doesn't like NASCAR, thankfully. Whew.

Sometimes I feel compelled to shop for a strange sport that may appeal. Like AC, who is a Sumo wrestling fan. It looks like an interesting spectacle. But it never works out. The interest just isn't there...I'm not a sports guy. The only "sport" that has me watching in genuine admiration is marathon running. My friend Adam is a very adept runner, and a thoughtful intellectual. Great abs, too.

Adam, you are one sexy bastard.

Tennis is fun. Kickball is also fun, but who plays that but kids. When I was 10 we played "Trog" in our neighborhood, which was based on the Creature Double Feature "classic" of the same name. It was basically a cross between tag and hide-and-seek, with bad acting mixed in.

At 14, I discovered sex and any chance I had at pursuing a hobby (other than boning) with zeal went out the window. My "sport" became trying to convince girls to touch my willy. Fucking is a good sport. It burns calories, you don't have to go near men, and you never have to worry about being motivated.

That's why I thought that women's beach volleyball was so magnificent when I first discovered it. But that didn't work out, either, unless Linda was around to help me sate my base sexual desire. Oh, yeah.

So that's my thing about sports.

PS-To everyone who took a moment to tell me how much they liked my video posts, thank you. It means a lot to me, seriously, when someone says I'm funny or clever. It may be pathetic that I need that, and I suppose I don't need it, but I do enjoy it. Thanks GSP, AC, Eve, Linda, all of you.

Bye the way, AC, I'm getting into Pink Floyd and if you have any thoughts as a fan, let me know.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Out of Town News to Close

This comes from a friend of mine, in a recent comment left on a previous blog entry:

not sure if you know this, but "out of town news" in Harvard Square is going out of business. Figured it would be something that would interest you, as OOTN is one of the last bastions of non-ass in the whole square. Good bye, Wursthaus, good bye Bow and Arrow, good bye House of Blues(the original), good bye anything non-sucky. I guess the only thing left that I would go there for is Pandemonium.

I'd like to second what he has to say. Out of Town News was right outside of the T station, before you crossed over to the Harvard Co-op, or went the other way to the smoke shop Leavitt & Peirce. My father used to clean the Wursthaus after hours. I remember hanging out in the "pit" behind the T stop. That girl with a pet rat.

Harvard Square will continue to be in business, but whatever made it interesting is bleeding away. It hasn't sunk in yet...this OOTN business. It's more upsetting than Someday Cafe. Is Million Year Picnic and Tokyo Kid still there?

If so, not for long. Thank you, AC.

Family Circus Homage

Today, Darren has decided to take the day off and fight the Demon in his mind with a pitchfork and a small novelty baseball bat. Good luck, Dar! Until he returns, "Jeffy," Darren's psychotic pen pal will take over the blog. Enjoy the hi-jinks!

-Impy

Hi, I'm Jeffy.

The exciting and challenging act of being myself requires that I take many prescribed drugs. Just like that crazy fat fuck Darren. After one of the drugs killed my boner, I became a serial killer in a violent, pathological attempt to regain a modicum of dignity and, in a twisted fashion, regain the loss of what I've come to think of as my "manhood." I'm not above having sex with a houseplant or piercing my nipples at home with a meat thermometer.

I wish I could eat chicken wings all the time. We all like them, but I really like them, you know? I'm a bit worried. I asked Darren what he thought, but whenever he comes home and finds me in his flat, he's all about dialing 9-1-1 with his fat little digits.

J'accuse!

It is possible, but highly undesirable, to "fuck a duck."

My nipples are totally numb, so it wasn't a good idea, apparently. I'm sure it's temporary. In fact, one of my nipples rubbed off and fell out of my T-shirt near the Harvard Square T station, near the "Coop." If you find a nipple around there, it is so totally mine.

Can't be a lot of nipples just out there.

Low fat cookies are a scam perpetrated by an international cabal of Jews and Australians. The government!

Monday, December 08, 2008

Where's The Romance?

Some coffee is steaming in my favorite "Le Chien" mug next to me. It's a fearsome, strong blend that I'm inclined to make. Instead of cream or half & half I used some store brand dry coffee creamer. It's a real pro and con situation with this unsavory white powder. It keeps the coffee from getting too cold too fast, and makes it taste a bit richer. But no matter how much I stir and stir, there are little white balls floating around, like Japanese men in a jacuzzi. Each one needs special attention and must be squashed against the side. Also, strangely, like Japanese men in a jacuzzi.

It's a whole production.

But that's done now. I'm alone in my flat listening to the heat turn on and off. For such a small place we have an extremely powerful gas burner, or whatever you call it. The heat just appears. I'm a lucky man.

I've managed to string a few good days together, days without tears or self-injury or panic. If I feel compelled to burst out of my flat and into the night, where I can shout protests and insults at the moon, it never lasts very long; it's freezing out. Medication is helping, even if I do keep skipping appointments. I've got one this week, one I have to attend. The heart pill I take is especially helpful against panic attacks. As I said, a lucky man.

A modicum of melancholy is expected around the holidays, although it is an urban myth that suicides are highest this time of year. Actually, it's in the summer that most people off themselves. But this time of year does lend itself to remembrances, especially for one as sentimental as I. Atheists like myself (and there aren't many like me) romanticize the world to make the brutality and meaninglessness more endurable. Is there anything more romantic than tragedy? Is there anything more tragic than the pointless life we're all living? Anything more beautiful than two people finding love while framed by an endless void of time and space?

The most beautiful noise to me is Tchaikovsky's violin concerto. The Russians of his time were very Romantic, in music and literature. And borscht. The way people like to remember Tchaikovsky is that he was a homosexual in a time and place when that sort of thing was not kosher. Like Texas today, or South Carolina. So he struggled. He felt he was struggling against Fate. All Russians do, and why not? It makes you a hero just by living.

Tchaikovsky had a wealthy patron, Madame Von Meck, and they never met once. Sad, but to me painfully romantic. All this drama in a godless universe.

In the end, he may have committed suicide, or just had a drink of water that was teeming with germs. People were supposed to boil their drinking water at that time and place. It doesn't matter, though. His torment and struggle is perfectly evident in his music. Nothing I've read about Tchaikovsky, not even his letters, touches me like his music. This is news to no one, but music is powerful stuff.

My dead Russian friend was miserable and a closet homosexual who may have killed himself, possibly at the urging of his classmates at the Law Conservatory, who feared an embarrassing scandal if his sexual orientation were made public. I don't think he did, though. In my professional opinion, he simply drank the wrong glass of water.

Either way, he was around long enough to produce six symphonies (among many other opi). I'm fond of the last three in particular. Music critics will say that his 6th is truly special, and I'm inclined to agree. If you're unfamiliar with his music, I urge you to listen to the 4th symphony first, and then move to the 6th. It will aid in your appreciation, with perhaps a bit of consternation the price you'll pay. If you see the 6th performed live, don't get up to applaud until others do. Standing after the third movement and applauding is embarrassing as all hell.

I'm so lucky to live in a world where unhappy people can record, in a beautiful fashion, their interaction with the world. Happy people, too. I can listen in on, or read, whatever they felt compelled to shout out. Whatever they wanted remembered. A little bit of themselves and a little bit of shared experience. So we know what they were talking about.

Few artists know what to do with angst. Use it in a proper way. Record the fear but know well the desire to be unafraid. And have the scruples to detest hateful thoughts and actions but recognize that they live within most of us, maybe you. That will get your stomach roiling if you give the matter proper consideration. And never make the mistake of thinking that cynicism makes you wise.

A cynic is usually apathetic, and apathy is boring. Either way life is a struggle, so you may as well embrace what is either a pleasant fiction or a simple truth, that we're here to help each other get through life, whatever it is. It adds a bit of nobility to the cold fire of empty space, in the soft gray matter of our brains, and thus our minds. There's the romance, too.

Find one person, take his or her hand, and grow old together, all the while committed. It's a struggle, but there's romance there.

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Stream of Stupidity

I'm floating with the deliberate speed of a turd down the toilet into a period of mild depression and increased suicidal ideation. I'm doing quite well, and putting up a sporting fight. It's either that or hang myself, and I'm terrible with knots. All thumbs. Besides, suicidal thoughts hold little sway with me right now.

I'm a lucky man and have absolutely no cause to complain. But I don't see these little missives from the frontal lobe as complaints.

This site is for entertainment purposes only.

Part of my mind is constantly occupied with this one question: Am I totally out of my fucking mind, but everyone is too afraid to say anything to me? It haunts me, and there are many other questions that float around with it, and they are all incredibly negative and withering. I know we all have some crazy thoughts, but I can top whatever you got.

It has a nice, tidy name. Bipolar disorder. Along with Avoidant Personality Disorder. They sound quaint. Bipolar disorder effects 2% of the population, but they advertise bipolar drugs on national television. So everyone has heard of it. There's a stigma, but it's not terrible.

Right now I'm daily flinging drugs into my yap, all prescribed. I'm on board with The Whitecoats. They are going to take the pain away. Shock your noggin and give you an English muffin. Who else is going to give you a deal like that? Huh? Then drugs to numb your delicate little brain and fragile little arms and lets. It takes the edge off a very edgy world. You can pop your balloon in a world like this in 2 seconds flat. So many pointy, edgy parts.

The French had a red balloon. He thought he would live forever like DeGaul, but he was popped at the Canne Film Festival in the late '70's.

I refer to the balloon as a "he," but in truth I don't think there is any sexual dimorphism among balloons. Not even alive. So that story can't be true. Newsflash, balloons are not living, sexual beings.

But I'm pretty sure the French had a red balloon.

The French seem to enjoy smoking, as it gives them some street cred among the existential nihilists in all those little cafes that everyone blows a load for. For which people blow a load. There. I'm an existential nihilist and I can't smoke cigarettes. I tried smoking Galoit cigarettes when my girlfriend smoked them. About 10 years ago. It didn't go over, the cigs or the relationship.

But the French. They just keep going to town on those things. The French make and eat a lot of cheese. It's like a law or something. Every family must keep a mold or fungus working its magic on a dairy product. I wonder how many French people have ever tried to smoke cheese. You know someone did. Personally I'd go with bleu cheese, if I were going to try.

Then you got wine. It's a whole thing.

Monday, December 01, 2008

Creative Endeavor

At about five this morning I woke up and it occurred to me that getting back to sleep just was not going to happen. As it happens, my father was also awake at this early hour, smoking his brains out and watching MSNBC, or the Today Show. One of those. It was too early to join him for coffee, and instead I leafed through the pages of my incomplete, unpublished and mostly unseen novel/script. Over the years some scenes were added while others were thrown in the trash. I like what I'm left with, even though it would make little sense to anyone but me.

A creative endeavor that intrigues and entertains me, and nothing more. And my poems, too. They are mostly unseen by any eyes other than mine, but I don't mind. It's a mercy to my friends, who have better things to do than read the overwrought poetry of Fatty McCrazy (me). My friend Clare wrote a 50,000 word novel just for the fun of it, for National Novel Writing Month a few years back. She seemed to enjoy it, and it was well done. The joy of writing for the sake of writing.

There are a few people out there who dislike me in the extreme, mainly because of my political disposition coupled with how I enjoy debating philosophy and politics. If you want to talk about Skinner's Problem of Evil, I'm your man. Existential nihilism, Keynesian economics, "The Invisible Hand" of laissez-faire economics, national health care, the Red Shift in physics, NAFTA, Obama, a woman's right to choose, gay marriage...whatever you want to talk about, I'm sure to have a strong opinion on it. Out there on the Internet, there are some people who want to pop me in the nose for my socialist/atheist philosophy.

These people get angry, because I'm much smarter than they are, and they mock my attempts at creative writing. It's one of the few criticisms that bothers me not a bit. Not a jot or a tittle. Most of what I write is for me, and it's writing that I like, not having written something. One I'm done with a short story or chapter or paragraph or line, I tend to just throw it out. It's not the key to heaven, and warrants at most a long last look. Then I move on to something else.

Writing for fun is a blast. Writing for others, to show off or tell a story, is an anxious festival of fear and loathing.

That said, I'm working on a summary of Last American on Earth. I'll show it to friends and family and get some feedback. If there is anything there worth a serious effort, maybe I'll work on that. I don't know.

Now if you'll excuse me, there is a fellow outside hammering and one of us has got to go.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Presidential Portraits

My fat ass just strolled in from the pharmacy, where I go for my legal drugs, and I had a mildly upsetting run-in with the cashier. A skinny, merry fellow who is as socially retarded as I, but doesn't seem to know it.

Every time a customer paid for something, or he gave change, he threw in some painful banter. Like when co-anchors on the news converse in an awkward way that has people reaching for the remote control. But the remote control wouldn't work on this guy. He kept loudly pointing out the name of the president on each bill. Give him a five and he'd yell, "One portrait of Abe Lincoln!" A dollar, naturally, was a portrait of George Washington. He did the same thing with the coins.

My anxiety rose, and I inched closer with the size and speed of a Macy's balloon.

When I got to the cashier, I thought about bolting, but he nailed me before I could give it serious consideration. "Good morning, sir, would you like a million dollars?" he asked. Jovial. But I wasn't sure what the hell he meant, until I thought of the Big Bank Bailout (BBB). Confident that I had an amusing, amiable reply, I said, "Yeah, I could use a bailout!"

Silence.

He scanned my items, both of them (wink, wink) and weakly responded a full 10 or 15 seconds later. "A bailout..." he said. It was like I killed a mentally disabled songbird. I out-stranged him and murdered the jolly. It was like an enormous fart during sex, but much worse. And as I sauntered out the door (I saunter), I looked back on the wreckage left behind. A wake, if you will, behind the SS Fucknut. He was totally clammed up and stymied. Before I got to the register, there was joy. After, a strange little man in a blue shirt, with nothing to say.

Outside in the parking lot I took a deep breath and completed a pirouette to avoid the Salvation Army bell-clanger outside.

About 10 minutes ago I found out that they closed the pharmacy because of what I did. Well, not really.

So, pirates...that's pretty crazy, huh?

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Everyone Wants To Hug Yang-Yang

But DO NOT hug Yang-Yang. Read all about it! I did not make this up. Sometimes, it's good right out of the box.

Student Bitten By Panda

BEIJING — A college student in southern China was bitten by a panda after he broke into the bear's enclosure hoping to get a hug, state media and a park employee said Saturday.

The student was visiting Qixing Park with classmates on Friday when he jumped the 6.5-foot (2-meter) -high fence around the panda's habitat, said the park employee, who refused to give his name.

The park in Guilin, a popular tourist town in the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region, houses a small zoo and a panda exhibit. It was virtually deserted when the student scaled the fence surrounding the panda, named Yang Yang, the employee said.

He said the student was bitten in the arms and legs. Two foreign visitors who saw the attack ran to get help from workers at a nearby refreshment stand, who notified park officials, the employee said.

The student was pale as he was taken away by medics but appeared clear-headed, he said.

"Yang Yang was so cute and I just wanted to cuddle him. I didn't expect he would attack," the 20-year-old student, surnamed Liu, said in a local hospital, according to the official Xinhua News Agency.

Liu underwent surgery Friday evening and was out of danger, but will remain in the hospital for several days, Xinhua said.

Yang Yang, who was flown to Guilin last year from Sichuan province, was behaving normally on Saturday and did not seem to suffer any negative psychological effects, the park employee said.

He said it was not clear whether the facility would add more signs around the enclosure or put more fences up.

"We cannot make it like a prison. We already have signs up warning people not to climb in," he said. "There are no fences along roads but people know not to cross if there are cars. This is basic knowledge."

Pandas, which generally have a public image as cute, gentle creatures, are nonetheless wild animals that can be violent when provoked or startled.

Last year, a panda at the Beijing Zoo attacked a teenager, ripping chunks out of his legs, when he jumped a barrier while the bear was being fed.

The same panda was in the news in 2006 when he bit a drunk tourist who broke into his enclosure and tried to hug him while he was asleep.The tourist retaliated by biting the bear in the back.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Midnight Notes

About twenty minutes ago it occurred to me that a bath and shave may make me feel better. Because studies have shown that shaving lotion and a hairbrush kill germs. Shit, why not. It does make me feel a bit better. That and 3 tramadol, 6 ibuprofen, nasal spray and a lorazepam or two.

I'm hoping what I'm about to write is in some way interesting to someone. Last night I had the chills and was coughing like an asshole mere inches from Linda's face (made me think of Doc Holliday and "Big Nose" Kate). So I emerged from that warm bed, like a Macy's float in an updraft, naked and sick, and went into the television room, also known as the "Green Room." There I found a pen and paper, and started to write for "Last American on Earth." This is what my feverish noggin produced.

The unfamiliar horror of living in a place empty of freedom and rational law made him think of terrible suffering he'd seen; the food shortages, the brutalization of a once delicate and compassionate people, and the cheapening of life that was once seen as a treasure beyond value. Thoughts of vengeance and cruelty mocked his now dead principles and stood astride them, cackling. Besides, his oppressor was not some raving lunatic, or cold, paternalistic bureaucrat committing crimes in the name of righteousness. Instead, his oppressor was just a frightened Ursine, willing to do anything to maintain control (wouldn't you?) while his master was away. To him, it was understandable, logical even, to use violence as a tool to keep his seat of power. Otherwise, it would be visited upon him and his 1000 fold. Everyone was correctly motivated in juxtaposition for a revolution. But for now, there was no talk of attack. People moved and spoke carefully, and time passed.

It seemed that, given enough time, such an arrangement would lead us backwards to the very moment when humankind first distinguished itself from his brutal, animal ancestors. To the moment of the Divine Spark, if there was one. He wanted desperately to believe one existed in him, and not in the thing ruling him. We are God's children, all us humans. That's the ticket. If he could believe that, that God was on his side, the revolution could begin the very next moment.

Stopping the Ursine would require an equal measure of brutality. The humans were ready for it, they thirsted for it. The Ursine and his governing body would need to be killed, as would their families. Their bodies would have to be displayed in the same way human bodies were hung upside down from trees, naked, and creatively mutilated by a psychopath, for unknown crimes.

As Garrett thought of these things, a vole scurried past his door, followed by more than a few hungry, desperate people.

Ta da!

Bit by bit, it shall be done one day!!

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Fond Of It

On Thursday, November 13, I found myself taking everything I own out into the rain, where it was then taken to another apartment. I'm meant to fill in the space in the same manner as I did before, or at least in a way that won't offend anyone. So far I'm doing well. Linda and I did most of the work, as my father is weak and somewhat ill, and age 76.

I underestimated the emotional impact that this move would have on me. More than a couple of times, I totally fucking freaked out. Like tear your shirt off "Bruce Banister" style freaked out.

But enough of that. Those episodes where I lose control and become very self destructive are rare, but they leave a feeling of distrust and sadness behind. And for me, guilt. I've started taking Effexor again, and it seems to be quite efficacious. A proper lithium level has been restored, and that has helped with depression, as well. If need be, I'll tap into my reserves of Risperdal, a potent but highly undesirable anti-psychotic. With me, it causes flu-like feelings and headache with chills. I'd rather that than telling my girlfriend that I want her to kill me.

Going back into a psych ward was something for me to consider. But I couldn't think of how I would benefit. I've been so many times, after all. So I took some lorazepam, slept, and found myself again over time. Both my girlfriend Linda and my father said, "It's so good to have you back." the day after my mania stopped. I wept like a babe when I found heard them say both exactly the same thing, a couple of hours apart. Linda got the tears as she said it second.

A kind gentleman left some information in a comment for me to consider about lithium. I'm going to look at it. I'm confident that lithium has worked well for me these past 8 years. But with lithium toxicity being such a concern, I can see how there would be many bad stories about lithium poisoning.

Tonight I'm battling a rather nasty cold. So much to talk about, but I feel strongly compelled to shed my clothes and seek the warmth of my other self under the covers on the bed behind me. Sleeping with the woman you love is an accidental gift of wondrous exctasy in a random universe. I'm fond of it.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Auto Extortion

The government is being extorted by GM and Ford to the tune of 25 billion of your Earth dollars. They say that they are too big to fail, and if they are allowed to, two and a half million people will be out of work, the sun will go black, and you'll have to eat turd sandwiches to survive.

I have a modest proposal. Let us instead purchase GM and Ford, as taxpayers, and then set up each company (or one combined company) as a not-for-profit corporation.

The capitalists are waving the white flag, here. A low interest loan will only delay the inevitable. But if you go my Socialist way, you don't have to even make a profit. Workers' wages could continue to be negotiated via unions. The board of this new corporation could be compensated through a salary and benefits package approved by Congress. A trust for profits could be established, and used to fund expansion and investment.

Just an idea, folks. A big, fat RED one.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Obama as "Mutt"

In his first press conference, President-Elect Barack Obama made a joke, one of two that have people with nothing else to do talking. I'm one of those people, apparently. There is something interesting here worth looking at, perhaps as a way of reminding you that most people need to be slapped. After election day, you may have noticed a general optimism about the future of mankind. Party-poopers are already at work. Give them a parade and they will bring the rain.

The wet blankets I have in mind are the biracial cry babies who take offense at Obama referring to himself as a "mutt." Specifically, found in Kimchi Mamas, a blog written by a Korean-American woman. By all means, check it out. She seems like a nice woman, but she's being too damn sensitive. If Obama is comfortable calling himself a fucking "mutt," then he can do so. If some biracial people find the term upsetting, you're just going to have to get over it.

Some people have this thing called a "sense of humor" and often try to inject conversation and speeches with good natured self-deprecation, thus providing levity, even approachability.

This chick doesn't have one. Kimchi Mama! Otherwise a good blog.

Friday, November 07, 2008

A Major Opus

This morning I was catching up on some old emails, and this and that, and discovered the final Opus comic, where he apparently doesn't quite die but instead goes to sleep dreaming of a better, kinder world. That's a fine ending as far as I'm concerned, but I'm sorry to see it go. Bloom County went off into the great beyond several years ago, and I remember it well.

For those who don't know, Bloom County by Berkley Breathed was a comic strip that ran in the '80's and probably into the '90's (memory fails). The main character, or one of them, was Opus the Penguin. Such was the popularity of Bloom County that Opus was brought back for "Opus," a couple of years ago. It ran only in the Sunday paper and was frequently, like Bloom County, the funniest and best illustrated comic in the comics. It was political, but lacked the poisonous, unfunny air of Mallard Fillmore or Prickly City. Even if you disagreed with the little penguin, you had to admire his fundamental humanity. Or penguinanity.

Among his possessions at his "death" was a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. It's compelling, and deeply moving to me, that Breathed chose that book. An innocent's desire for innocence and kindess in this world. I will miss you, Opus, as well as Steve Dallas, Bill the Cat and Bloom County.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

The Day After

I'll happily enjoy a bong hit with you Man in Black. At this point, a lobotomy would help, as well. Despite this magnificent success and a most happy day (except for Question 8 in California) for Obamamites like myself and Linda, I'm in a terrible, suicidal depression. A perfect example of how it's all in the mind, this mental illness stuff.

Most of the morning found me on the virge of tears, as did the afternoon. For much of the day, I've been drugged with lorazepam, Effexor and propranolol. It's difficult to explain, but I'm ensconsced in guilt, self-loathing and physical weakness. I'll not give into suicidal ideation, but I find it withering. A constant barrage of thoughts and feelings that almost seemed designed to reduce me to quivering jelly.

Irritability travels with it, as it would with anyone in emotional survival mode.

I'd like to say Congratulations to everyone. It is truly a magnificent victory.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Obama

This is just wonderful. Bye bye Neo-Con douchebags.

King of the Kangaroo People

But anything can happen. Do not be surprised if Friday morning's Boston Globe headline reads, "Xeitythotl, King of the Kangaroo People, ascends Glorious Throne of Buv'Tok." Well, that would be pretty fucking crazy, but it doesn't seem as crazy as planes knocking down the World Trade Center or Bush stealing the election. Or Gallagher.

I beg anyone out there with a gun of any kind, if this election is a 269-269 tie, come to my flat and blow my head off. Just do it in a cool way, like Anton Saguro from No Country for Old Men. Not with a bowling pin, like that crazy son of a bitch in There Will Be Blood.

I'm just saying, if you're going to kill me and base how you do it on a movie you saw, pick the method that will, you know, hurt me less. Think of me as a zombie and shoot me in the head.

You know what? Just scratch the whole idea, ok? Buncha fucking rubes, the lot of you.

Election Day Coverage

Earlier today I voted at the Precinct 1 polling place in my town. The crowd was above average for a big election, if memory serves. The kids in the school had a bake sale, which I thought was a clever way to raise money. One had to walk past sticky buns and hot coffee to vote.

This being a predominately white area, there were no lines and I was in and out in fifteen minutes. Reminds me of when I lost my virginity. The picture box reports long lines, and the people waiting in those lines (in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia and Florida) are mostly brown or black. I'm one of about 100 people in the whole country that thinks this is a national disgrace. It was just reported that 500 voters in an "almost all African American district" in Virginia were told to come back later, since the electronic voting machines were not working.

This may sound like hyperbole, but (mistake or not) these problems are dangerous. If Obama loses, these "kinks" will be seen very differently by various segments of the population.

Anyway, I'm beating away suicidal thoughts with drugs, the kindness of strangers, and the affection of my love. It has nothing to do with the election. I'm confident about every victory except for Question 3 (dog racing ban). For reasons that are unclear to me, vast numbers of people who wouldn't be caught dead at Wonderland Dog Park are defending dog racing. It's on the same level as cock-fighting, and I've been to Wonderland countless times. Even before I could bet, my father would take my brother and I to the races all the time.

That's how I know that Wonderland is NOT a wonderland. It feels as if it were built on an ancient Indian burial ground, next to a slaughterhouse or rank paper mill. It's the most depressing place on Earth, except for Twin Rivers in Rhode Island. That's because of what I witnessed there...a woman trying repeatedly to get a cash advance on her credit card so she could go back to the slots. I imagine that she is still there now, trying to get that cash advance. But the atmosphere is no better than Wonderland. Despair. Poverty. Terrible food. Animal abuse for fun and prizes. The patrons lurch around like those demons in Jacob's Ladder, and 3/4 of the people are wearing sweatpants.

So Wonderland is a Void, and it needs to be closed. It's fine to be pathetic, I'm all for that, but don't hurt animals or other people when doing it. My brother and I worked on the Grey2K campaign back in, of course, 2000. It failed, which shocked me, then Bush won, which shocked me. Within three years, I was at McLean's Hospital in Belmont literally getting electroshocked. It's been a shocking decade all around.

Tonight, and in the coming days, I'd like to medidate over all the right choices people made, from gay rights to marijuana legalization to the presidency. That would be nice. If McCain wins, I'll just take a deep breath and join the riots if there are any. If not, I'll enjoy watching McCain and Palin take this country right off a cliff, like Thelma and Louise.

Monday, November 03, 2008

Eve of the Vote

It's getting close to midnight and tomorrow is election day. My vote is going to Barack Obama, and the reasons are scattered throughout my posts. Linda and I have supported Obama since the early days of the campaign, when everyone assumed Hillary would get the nod. I genuinely like the man, and feel that he is decent, bright and principled. In all the best ways.

So I'll vote for him. And "No" on Question 1, and "Yes" on the other two questions.

Goodnight, everyone. I've not been in the best of health lately, but hopefully will have some more thoughts in the coming days and new posts.

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Studs Terkel

Obituary of Studs Terkel. I thought of him, and will ever think of him, as an artist and political activist. A wonderful man.

CHICAGO — Studs Terkel captured the essence of Chicago in the pages of his best-selling oral histories, chronicling common people and celebrities alike.

Along the way he became an ageless master of listening and speaking, a broadcaster, activist and Pulitzer Prize-winning author. Terkel died Friday at age 96.

"He found his home in Chicago and he found it in the gritty aspect of Chicago life," said Russell Lewis, chief historian at the Chicago History Museum. "The ne'er-do-wells, the outcasts, the bums, all these people were people he was curious about. They intrigued him."

Dan Terkell said his father died at home, and described his death as "peaceful, no agony. This is what he wanted."

"My dad led a long, full, eventful, sometimes tempestuous, but very satisfying life," Terkell, who spells his name with an extra letter, said in a statement issued through his father's colleague and close friend Thom Clark.

Terkel was a native New Yorker who moved to Chicago as a child and came to embrace and embody his adopted town, with all its "carbuncles and warts," as he recalled in his 2007 memoir, "Touch and Go." He was a cigar and martini man, white-haired and elegantly rumpled in his trademark red-checkered shirts, an old rebel who never mellowed, never retired, never forgot, and "never met a picket line or petition I didn't like."

"A lot of people feel, 'What can I do, (it's) hopeless,'" Terkel told The Associated Press in 2003. "Well, through all these years there have been the people I'm talking about, whom we call activists ... who give us hope and through them we have hope."

The tougher the subject, the harder Terkel took it on. He put out an oral history collection on race relations in 1992 called "Race: How Blacks and Whites Think and Feel About The American Obsession," and, in 1995, "Coming of Age," recollections of men and women 70 and older.

He cared about what divided us, and what united us: death — in his 2001 "Will the Circle Be Unbroken? Reflections on Death, Rebirth, and Hunger for a Faith," and hope, in his 2003 "Hope Dies Last."

Terkel won a 1985 Pulitzer Prize for "The Good War," remembrances of World War II; contrasted rich and poor along the same Chicago street in "Division Street: America," 1966; limned the Depression in "Hard Times," 1970; and chronicled how people feel about their jobs in "Working," 1974.

Said Andre Schiffrin, Terkel's longtime editor, publisher and close friend: "He liked to tell the story of an interview with a woman in a public housing unit in Chicago. At the end of the interview, the woman said, `My goodness, I didn't know I felt that way.' That was his genius."

He also was a syndicated radio talk show host, voice of gangsters on old radio soaps, jazz critic, actor in the 1988 film "Eight Men Out," and survivor of the 1950s blacklist.

Terkel's politics were liberal, vintage FDR. He would never forget the many New Deal programs from the Great Depression and worried that the country suffered from "a national Alzheimer's disease" that made government the perceived enemy.

Terkel was born Louis Terkel on May 16, 1912, in the Bronx. His father, Samuel, was a tailor; his mother, Anna, a seamstress. The family moved to Chicago in 1922 and ran a rooming house where young Louis would meet the workers and activists who would profoundly influence his view of the world.

He got the nickname Studs as a young man, from the character Studs Lonigan, the protagonist of James T. Farrell's beloved trilogy of novels about an Irish-American youth from Chicago's South Side.

Terkel graduated from the University of Chicago in 1932, studying philosophy, and also picked up a law degree. But instead of choosing law, he worked briefly in the civil service and then found employment in radio with one of his beloved "alphabet agencies" from the New Deal, the WPA Writers Project.

His early work as a stage actor led to radio acting, disc jockey jobs and then to radio interview shows beginning in the 1940s. From 1949 to 1952, he was the star of a national TV show, "Studs' Place," a program of largely improvised stories and songs set in a fictional bar (later a restaurant) owned by Studs. Some viewers even thought it was a real place and would go looking for it in Chicago.

The McCarthy-era antipathy toward activists cost him his national TV outlet. But his radio interview show flourished, first at WFMT in Chicago and then, through syndication, in many markets.

Alton Miller, an associate dean of the School of Media Arts at Columbia College Chicago and a friend of Terkel's for more than 20 years, said Terkel hoped to live to see Barack Obama elected president.

Obama called Terkel a Chicago institution and national treasure.

"His writings, broadcasts, and interviews shed light on what it meant to be an American in the 20th century," Obama said in a statement Friday night. "He will be deeply missed by all who knew him, all who loved him, and all whose lives were enriched by the American stories he told."

In 1939, he married social worker Ida Goldberg, a marriage that lasted 60 years even though she couldn't get him to dance and always called him Louis, not Studs. "Ida was a far better person than I, that's the reality of it," Terkel later wrote of Ida, who died in 1999.

"She had a certain empathy I lack. And she was more politically active than I. ... Did she play a tremendous role in my life? Yeah, you could say so."

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

I'm Going to Make a Pot of Coffee After This Post

"We're not one at a timin' here today, we're mass communicatin'!"
- 'Pappy' O'Daniel

Just another political comment today, and that in pencil. This was written to someone I know online, and, well, there it is. We are now a week away...gonna be a long week.

--

Word is that the extreme Right, the Evangelical portion, anyway, is behind Palin for 2012. They see her as their last hope to get back into power. Which is interesting, as they are already conceding the election, and that Palin is anyone's "last hope" is just fabulous.

Attacking Muslims is a Republican trick, and a good one. Use a label in a demeaning, negative way long enough and viola!, people have a negative opinion and not even know why. They call that "Rovian" but it's an old strategy. It requires a total lack of self-respect and/or scruples to implement, however.

And Republicans' say "Liberal" like "child molester." It has served them well in the past, even Democrats backed off using the term for years, but seem to be relatively comfortable with it again. But the Socialist stuff is just silly. Just take my word, those of you who disagree. I'm a two time "Socialist Scholar" at the Borough of Manhattan Community College Socialist Scholars' Conference in New York City. My Socialist Party activity has meant living in the margins, politically, since age 17. I'm happy to pay that price, and in return I just happen to know what I'm talking about when it comes to social democracy, Democratic Socialism, Anarcho-Socialism, the whole nut. Nobody in this presidential campaign who has more than 20,000 votes in the entire country is a "Socialist."And 20,000 is being kind.

Obama just isn't a Socialist. An annoying and damaging detail for McCain/Palin.

Republicans think that terrorist and red-baiting and "usage redefinition" of words is a debate of the issues. That's why they're losing in Virginia and Colorado by double digits, states that haven't gone Dem since 1964.

I'm not cocky, though. Hell, I'm gong to vote several times just to make sure my vote is counted. You have to do that these days, you know. As Daley said, "Vote early and often." I think it was Mayor Daley of Chicago. If not, I'll wear a funny hat and sit in the corner.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Worried About Obama

These last days of the campaign are more tense than they should be, at least for me. As I look at Barack Obamas' numbers in states like Ohio, Virginia, Florida and Pennsylvania, thoughts and feelings rise to the surface, or evolve. There is leftover angst, cynicism and anger from 2000 and 2004, and I can't help but fear that something will happen in these final days to put McCain in the White House.

Some Lefties are worried about somebody literally taking a shot at Obama, but that is one of those things that is beyond our control. Political assassination is woven into the fabric of the American political experience, they have repeatedly changed history. We can't ignore that, but unless you're working for the Secret Service, it's not something we can work to prevent. We've learned from Bobby and Jack and Martin, and we must hope we've learned enough.

I'm also inclined to feel that, if such a horrible thing were to happen, McCain and Palin would be partially, if abstractly, to blame. If I said that on a mainstream television show, I'd probably be mocked for it; a paranoid, Socialist radical demonizing the Right. While I'm sure that McCain and Palin are not accomplices to assassination, I can't ignore my deep and profound worry that accusations of being "anti-American" and "a terrorists' friend" have a bit too much emotional currency with many on the Right. And as Obama moves closer and closer to an apparent landslide, it wouldn't surprise me at all if an individual, or even a group, decided to do something about an anti-American about to take office. Would you? Especially when combined with the charge that Obama is a "secret Muslim." The implication being that Muslim=terrorist.

There is such a thing as dangerous rhetoric. Most of us probably know that McCain had to calm a woman down at one of his rallies, a woman deeply upset that a secret Muslim friend with terrorists could win the White House. Depending on how you feel about McCain, you may think that he deserves credit for what he did. Some say that it was a brief flash of the McCain who ran in 2000. Maybe so. Maybe so.

But if McCain is reigning in the mob, Palin is lighting their torches. She isn't a candidate for Vice President, she's a candidate, that's it (see "The Candidate" with Robert Redford). It's an occupational step-up for her, so she wants it. Bad. She attacks the media and Obama, back and forth. To her, "intellectual" is an epithet. Simply put, she is a thug who feels god is on her side. Her rhetoric against the New York Times one day after another compelled someone to send a harmless white powder to that newspaper. It brought back memories of ricin-laced envelopes after 9/11, and caused another bout of deep and profound fear to descend on a newspaper. People with opinions and reporting the news being made to be terrified.

Naturally, Palin can't control all supporters, and if something happens to Obama I wouldn't blame rhetoric alone. But is it so far-fetched so be concerned that a self-described "patriot" may decide to stop an anti-American terrorist consorter from being president? Out of a total lack of any cohesive campaign message that reaches beyond the Far Right, McCain/Palin is/are embracing these shameless attacks. Indeed, if somehow McCain wins, it will be because of the fear and intellectual dishonesty that has become that campaign's "strategy."

So if they may benefit by their hateful, stupid labeling, why not blame them if it gets out of hand? The Republicans are either blind to the hate and ignorance they are tapping into, or are acutely aware of it. Either way, they aren't fit to run anything, let alone a country of 330 million people.

There are echoes of McCarthyism whenever a politician questions the patriotism of another for political gain. Palin has embraced something deeper and more insidious than Red-baiting, she's into creating the illusion of a fundamental division in this country between an American and a "real" American. Her accusations are more toxic than anything old Joe ever cooked up, to the point that she has lost touch with reality. Anyone who disagrees with her Right Wing Evangelism isn't wrong, they are not even a part of the country she is campaigning so hard to lead. That is not only idiotic, but it's dangerous. McCain knows that a line was crossed at many, many rallies, and perhaps a fundamental decency compelled him to apply the brakes. I'm convinced, however, that Palin would not hesitate to say or do anything to get elected. As much as I dislike McCain, I know there is a good man in there with whom I disagree, but a good man nonetheless. And it looks to me that he is struggling with the question of how far to go to get elected. Palin, however, is either a megalomaniac or just an arrogant prick, and she's shockingly stupid. If she can get away with it, she'll do it or say it. The word I'd use is, "reckless."

Remember, if Obama meets an unsavory end, now or at any time in his presidency (if he wins) don't be so quick to join hands with your fellow American Republicans in mourning the tragedy. First ask yourself if some of those "real American" leaders may have contributed to it. American politicians who accuse their colleagues of being anti-American have lost the right to lead all Americans, and that's what a president does. Even the ones he or she doesn't like.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Of Zippy the Pinhead and Cosmic Accidents

One of my proudest moments is having written a Zippy the Pinhead comic strip. About half of it, anyway. I wrote the "script" and sent it to Bill Griffith and voila! When my light goes out I want it chiseled on my tombstone. When I sent an email to Bill Griffith saying that, he seemed...disturbed. But it makes sense that I would be proud of this nonsense. I have 200 pages of an unpublished novel in my closet, countless poems, and a series of articles written for marginal left-wing party organs and magazines.

That's not exactly good enough to be called an "author." The only time I've been paid for my handiwork is when I wrote a paper for a friend at UMass Boston. It was about cellular biology...wasn't even for Theatre Arts or English. Le sigh.

Anyway, that's what I have today. I had to post something because the "Palin" picture is freaking me out. Can't have it sitting there as the first post you see. It's not really Palin. Surprisingly, some of my regular readers think it is her. Hell, what do I know, maybe it is. Maybe it's McCain for all I know. But I put the words on there. It would have to be a cosmic accident. Like Cool Whip or Japanese television.

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

Courtin' The Electorate

I'm optimistic that Obama is going to win this election, and that scares me. While I was never confident about Kerry in 2004, I did take it for granted that he would win. A form of confidence that leads to madness.

This time around I'm determined to be cautious in my optimism.

Still, there is a stubborn, bedrock faith that I have in my fellow Americans that will not die despite it's lack of justification.

In other words, Americans simply cannot be so stupid as to fall for McCain and Palin's nonsense. William Ayers? Are you fucking kidding me? Palling around with terrorists? Oi vey.

Friday, October 03, 2008

You're Darn Tootin' Palin Sucked!

I'm not going to say a great deal about the Vice Presidential debate last night, which is a mercy both to you and myself. Darren the Merciful! But I will say that (big surprise) Biden cleaned Palin's proverbial clock, as she went down a list of memorized responses so tenaciously that it required her to ignore the actual questions. When Biden said that Cheney is, "The most dangerous VP in American history" I swooned. His comment about being a single parent after his wife and son were killed in a car crash was a direct hit on Palin's "hockey mom" malarkey.

Basically, Palin's expectations were so low that all she had to do was talk. Preferably about politics. That's it. That's both a joke and, in my opinion, an accurate analysis of what happened last night. But if you look beyond the folksy nonsense (Joe Six Pack? Come on) what you'll find in Palin is a cute Fascist. Think about it. She loves capitalism and the free market, wants to reduce freedom (no more abortion rights), and wants to go to war with everyone without even talking to them first; Iran, Darfur, Pakistan, Russia and probably Australia.

I submit that ANYONE who wants to cut funding for every social program (and nail the poor) and increase military spending and adventures should NEVER use a phrase like "doggone it." Then she spoke past the moderator and via "straight talk" talked to "the people" I'm sure the douchebags out there who think the media is run by Liberal Jews just ate it up.

Of course the media is actually run by a conspiracy of internationalist Communists hell-bent on making us all read "Family Circus."

Last night, I had a dream. Palin was president and Commander-In-Chief and just cut Social Security and Medicare. Strangely, or appropriately, she insisted on telling everyone in person that their benefits were cut. Thus, she knocked on my door and I looked through my little eye-hole, and had to let her in. "Hi there! Are you Darren W. Lyle?" I nodded, and she continued, "Well that's super! Just want to let you know that, doggone it, your benefits were cut, and you betcha it didn't happen a moment too soon!"

At that point, I strangled her to death. The end.

I told you it was a dream, not a nightmare. Onward!

Thursday, October 02, 2008

Of Voids and 300 Yards To My New Toilet

A voice whispering, not into my ears but into my mind. Whomever is behind the voice is relating a bitter fact (it is presented as one) about my life. The thought enters my mind and instantly makes a home, among self-loathing, guilt, disgust, depression, and then goes deeper to find dark thoughts of suicide, and even murder. Specific memories related to these general feelings begin to percolate to the surface, where the whispered idea will find an ally in the simple goal of becoming the predominate thought in my mind.

The whispered fact is but 10 words, and it is a fact about life, death, and religion. Mel Gibson once said that, "Life is a shit sandwich for everyone, the only difference is some get more bread." But beyond the shit sandwich that is life, there are some mighty fine moments sprinkled about. Falling in love has to be among the greatest and most enjoyable experiences in the universe. And how easily does such a wonderful thing turn to unspeakable pain. The heat that kept you warm suddenly burns you horribly.

She said to me loudly near the Park St. T stop, "Thankfully, life is fragile and it should be over soon!" loudly because there was a band playing nearby, we were at some sort of protest. We were together for a month before breaking up, and I spent my weekends at her place in Revere, very close to the sea. It was autumn. The smell of the see helped us create the illusion that we were hidden away, and it was seemingly always overcast. We were celebrating surrender and welcoming death, which is wrong when one is only 26. She was even younger. It was my idea to break up, but she was not surprised or hurt. For various reasons, it was a hard relationship on both of us. Two dead ends trying to find a way out. We were both carrying a torch for someone else, as they say.

There were two phone conversations after that day on Beacon Hill, but that was the very last time I saw her, saying that. Such nihilism. A variation on that question that can't be put into words has soaked into my brain and distracted my mind. No self defense exists against depression or isolation or whatever other crazy shit I feel.

Nothing but the void.

I will survive this bout of melancholy. This is my time of year, after all. The cold weather cools my brain, like a cold snap makes the local dump less fetid. Or something. And the occasional smell of the ocean that reaches my flat is rife with a million different meanings and feelings, I have but to choose.

A lack of enthusiasm for life is embarrassing to a thinking person, as life is rare, and at worst interesting. It makes sense to live life to the fullest, and all that shit, until the big finale. The "Big Finale" for most of us is a heart attack, but cancer gets a lot of us, too. Accidents are statistically less common, but still it's a good chance you'll die in one.

Anyway, I have trouble keeping my eye off the void, of not thinking of what that girl said almost 10 years ago this fall. And life is easy for me, relatively, compared to most human beings. Even so, there is so much pain and fear and anxiety and guilt. And everything beautiful, like music and romantic love, will end one day, never to be experiences or appreciated again. I'm trying to keep that thought from ruining my enjoyment of living, and I've been successful. Love is perhaps the very best thing, and Tchaikovsky's violin concerto is a mighty fine group of sounds.

Just yesterday we found out that the House of Four Cats will be moving, about 300 yards south-west. It will be a lovely new flat with all sorts of modern conveniences, like a "toilet" or "seat of ease" as it's called elsewhere. Also, a device that allows you to shower your body with water, thus cleaning it and making it less offensive to others. Also, electric lights, a new stove and a state-of-the-art doorbell. When you press it, Die Internationale plays.

November 19th Oh, fuck!

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Of Bailin' and Palin

As I sit here drinking my coffee in my favorite "Le Chien" mug from France, a vague desire for this life to end is pestering me. They call it "suicidal ideation" and it has got to be connected to this fucking election. It's looking good for Obama, whom I support and, for reasons that are unclear to everyone, I want to play with his ears. Obama has cute ears, what do you want from me.

Despite how well Obama is looking right now, I have a feeling that McCain is going to swoop down like a vulture and, well, win. This sort of negativity did not evolve without the help of experience. In 2004 I just knew that Kerry was going to win. He didn't, and now we pay the price. The "price" for me includes no small amount of my sanity, a will to live and faith in my fellow man.

But Bush won, and I learned a lesson; the American people (at least half of them) are stupid. Thus, I'm taking nothing for granted. In fact, I'm expecting a McCain win just to desensitize myself against the spectacle. There has never been a candidate, or ticket, more clueless and scary than McCain/Palin.

I've been asked if I "really" support Obama, given that I'm a Socialist Party USA member (until they get around to booting me for supporting the Fist and Rose split) and my politics are far to the left of the brown man from Chicago. The answer is that I really do support Obama. He's not perfect, of course, but he's smart and communicates his ideas well. That alone puts him far ahead of McCain or Bush. Moral scruples help, too. Remember those? I miss the days when we had leaders who didn't have to be told that torture was beneath us and bad. Le sigh.

Beyond the election there are the markets, which are just a joy to watch these days. Capitalism is collapsing, as it tends to do, without government assistance and regulation. Eventually they will throw $700 billion at the banking crisis, but until they do, suck on it Wall Street.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Prince Swears Off Sex

As everyone knows, Prince is a sexy motherfucker. And his ambiguous sexuality means that anyone can justify trying to bang the son of a bitch. He's a musical genius, to boot. But because Prince is such a fucking weirdo, he recently swore off sex. The man...the man is not well upstairs. But who gives a shit, he's still putting out great music.

Read the exciting story here.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Rain, World of WarCraft and Matt & Megan Tie The Knot

As I write this little missive from the Front, it is raining steadily outside. This weather is a total delight for me; it feels nice to walk in, there is no annoying sunshine to urge me outside, and the sound of raindrops hitting the green copper roof over the stoop is vaguely sad, and inspires feelings of melancholy and nostalgia in me.

When I was 15ish when I took a mail order writing course. Many an evening was spent hanging over my ancient Royal typewriter. I wrote a lot. Our place in Billerica had, and may still have, a large porch. If it were raining, I would take my Royal outside, onto the porch, with the idea of letting the rain and wind inspire me. It didn't, but the memory of typing away on the porch as the rain fell has stayed with me. Even electro-convulsive therapy didn't kill it.

But enough of the finer things, let's talk about getting a warning from Blizzard Software for calling a McCain supporter some nasty names. To whom did this happen? Me! The transcript of what was said is below. I have it because they put it in my warning. I'm "Kam," for these purposes.

Account Action: 1st Warning
Offenses: Harassment Policy Violation - Inappropriate
This category includes both clear and masked language which:
* Is a mildly inappropriate reference to human anatomy or bodily functions
* Is otherwise considered objectionable

Details (Note - Times are listed in Greenwich Mean Time, GMT):
2008/09/24 23:51:26 (GMT) - X says "GO MCCAIN/PALIN YOUR AWESOME"
2008/09/24 23:51:59 (GMT) - Kam says "What a fucking idiot. The Special Olympics in town?"
2008/09/24 23:53:06 (GMT) - X says "im gong to report you, bye bye asshole"
2008/09/24 23:53:46 (GMT) - Kam says "Now you've sworn, as well. Ha! You can report me all you want, but you're still a cunt, a douchebag, and an asshole. Oh, yes, and a fucking idiot, to boot. Deadly combo."

That's about how it went. I needed to get a warning from World of WarCraft, otherwise I'd be afraid I didn't have a pulse. You either talk about your +4 Frost Damage Mace of the Owl or the last episode of Fringe. Generally, I choose to be silent, but this asshole has a limit, baby!


Before I role away, break on through to the other side and do whatever it is I do, I'd like to congratulate Matt & Megan on their nuptials. The photograph below gives you an idea of how beautiful is Megan, and how adorable and affable is Matt, the most gregarious man I've known since Adam Sulkowski. Our regular readers may remember Adam, who teaches some variation on international business law over at UMass Dartmouth and is featured in some earlier posts. He's too busy for me now, what with the end of the financial world and all.

But I digress. This is the best pairing of human beings since, well, they started doing that. In Megan and Matt you have two people who are actually in love with each other. And they kept looking at each other as if they were the last two people on Earth. Naturally, people getting married love each other, but these two are in love. Generally, being in love causes Hellish problems, because it's only going one way. So many people fall in love with someone who simply refuses to do so in return. Or can't.

But M & M are just wonderful for each other and so clearly in love. The wedding was perfect, elegant and simply spot-on in every detail. Methinks it will mirror the marriage in exquisite harmony.

I'm happy they found each other, and that I could be a part of the wedding in a small way by being there. It was memorable because it is not often that one sees love like this, two people so complimentary of each other in so many ways.

Yes, I'm an romantic. You can be an romantic existential nihilist! It comes from listening to Russian music. Anyway, Cheers M&M!

PS- Megan, I have your dress stored in my closet. I only tried it on once. Well, twice. But that's it.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Extreme Pogo Jumping

I'm thinking of a hard-core sport, something to flush out the wimps and poseurs. Extreme pogo jumping, or "expog," is becoming the extreme sport du jour among brave, innovative young men like Pierre Panoyan. In an interview before his tragic first jump near Medicine Hat, New Mexico, Pierre displayed more than a little nervousness as he told an AP reporter, "This may be a big mistake."

As it turned out, he was right.

Expog is a simple sport in theory, but it does require the use of a helicopter with an experienced pilot. The expogger is taken to a height of 3,000 feet, whereupon he or she leaps, sans parachute and holding only a pogo stick, into thin air. No parachute is used because the whole idea of ascending to such height is to slam into the ground with your pogo stick as fast as possible. Again, in theory, the expogger will bound back up to 1,500 feet, then 750, etc.

That critical part of the stunt has never been completed. All 14 people who tried are either dead or, in one case, living a machine-dependant life in a mason jar in the basement of St. Anne's Hospital in Font-du-Lac, Minnesotta. Despite that, the enthusiasts who are dedicated to Expog are a hardy sort. "We're stubborn, landing this move is the most important thing in my life," says Michael Sanders, the world's leading expogger, "...it's who I am."

UPDATE: Michael Sanders was killed earlier today in a bizarre bowling accident.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Another Monday Morning

Our unregulated market economy continues to show near fatal flaws in the absence of functioning regulation, at the very least. What we really need is to put to death, finally, the idea that a free market (laissez-faire) works. It doesn't. Now that the mortgage collapse has spread from Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac into the the banking industry, in a manner of speaking, there will be a lot of talk of the need for more regulation, or no regulation at all. Lehman Brothers is pretty much all done, and the market analysts look terrified.

I enjoy watching the stock market drop. Just as I take great pleasure in hearing about hunting accidents. A wonderful, heart-warming story to me would involve a group of stock brokers or commodities speculators out on a hunting trip together, only to end up trapped in the wilderness, forced to answer the question, "Who do we eat first?" Before they can answer the question, however, a grizzly bear breaks into their camp and tears them all to pieces. Slowly. The hunting capitalist cunts beg for merciful death as the giant bear begins to eat them alive over 28 hours of agonizing pain. Eventually, the bear poops them out near an oak tree.

What I'm trying to say is that I don't like hunters or capitalists. Yeah.

In other news, sad news, it looks like race is going to play a part in this election, moreso than any of us hoped. Race was going to be an issue, no doubt, but I was hoping against hope that as a country we would rise above it; I was wrong. If McCain wins, racism will have played a part, along with other varieties of stupid.

Obama is so far above McCain, and his ridiculous running mate, Palin. It's worth noting that the rest of the world is behind Obama. Our allies are really pulling for us to avoid making yet another stupid mistake. But we all know the reasons that Obama must win, but probably won't.

My politics are left, left, lefty left left of center. I can imagine a violent overthrow of the US government, but I'd prefer a non-violent election. There isn't any point to laughing at Bush or McCain, the jokes on us. Every "accomplishment" of these two twits represents another star in a constellation of mendacity, manipulation, deceit, cruelty, war-mongering, imperialism, classism, ineptitude and greed. Twisted and sick and in need of having their power taken away. Instead, McCain and Palin may very well be standing at the beginning of a political empire. President McCain, with his feeble mind and warped view of things. Not to mention long balls. The eventually (or pretty quickly) President Palin, which her childish attachment to gun games, annoying voice and weak (to non-existent) knowledge of...anything.

They sicken me. Obama is 100 times the human being they are together.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Why Republicans Suck: The Movie

Wondering if you should vote Republican? Here are some reasons, in lovely video form.

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Notes from Cahill

Recently, I was held in a locked facility in Cambridge, Massachusetts which was designed to hold mentally ill people. This is done, I'm told, to prevent anyone from getting hurt or dying, almost always through suicide. Homicidal behavior is extremely rare, but most of the mentally ill people are keen on committing suicide. To slip away, unseen and unremembered.

Anyhow, that's also why they have no silverware, mirrors, shower heads or any hooks on which one may hang oneself, that sort of thing. This may mean restraints, which are sort of fun, for about 5 minutes. After that, panic. For the most part, people just walk around like normal. Talk. Eat. You know.

The last time I was in one of these places, Called "Cahill House," I spent most of my free time writing like, well, a lunatic. I did most of the writing with a contraband pen. Yay for me!

Here is what I wrote one hot day in July. I told myself at the time that I'd post what I write, but I'll try to spread it out. La de da.

"Looking through any of these windows is a frustrating experience. Not because I'm trying to escape, although being here and not home is deeply upsetting. The problem with the window, however, is a thick mesh screen to keep the nuts in. The windows are also locked and barred. But that damn screen, combined with the heat and humidity, makes it well-nigh impossible to see the city teeming below. The Prudential Building is visible, but barely, because of the screen and hot-fog outside.

I'm in some sort of relaxation room, that's where you'll find the window with a view of the Pru. Keep that in mind if you're ever committed to Cahill 4. There are small plastic boxes, shoe box size, each containing seemingly random objects; sunflower seeds, rice, dry beans, sponges, that sort of thing. Tactile relaxation. If you're stressed, you're supposed to stroke some beans and feel some rice and you'll be as right as rain.

So basically I come into this room to read, because nobody is ever here feeling the beans.

The Men's dorm Shower/bathroom has a good window, but I can't linger in there. I'm in there getting raped enough as it is! Ha! A joke.

Saturday night I could spy a happy looking couple walking down the street, but briefly as I could only look out the window at an angle. He was holding a pizza box, while she laughed heartily at something, and the two of them made their way down the avenue. When she laughed, she touched the young lad's arm. From where I sit right now, it was a little cute and a little sexy, but most importantly it was real. I'm not sure why, but I'm glad I saw it. Romantic nihilism. Gosh."

Friday, August 29, 2008

My Very Short Story

Jeremiah tore into his Pop Tart with the hunger of a man who hadn't eaten for days. He had, in point of fact, just eaten a Nutella sandwich minutes before. He was ravenous. In his haste, he didn't recognize that his meal was too hot for comfortable eating. Impossibly hot raspberry Pop Tart filling scorched his lower lip and his hunger was quickly forgotten. With disdain and more than a little anger, Jeremiah threw the rest of his meal into the sink. "Jesus" he exclaimed as he reached for a Brawny paper towel.

Minutes later, Jeremiah left a note for his mother before leaving to catch the 96 bus into Albany. It read:

Mother,

I burnt my lip on a Pop Tart and killed Dad. He's hanging in the downstairs closet. Well, most of him is, anyway. I'm sorry but I just lost it.

Jeremiah

PS-You're out of Pop Tarts.

Old Man Manipulates Young, Naive Fisherwoman

Women of American, can you feel it?! The hazy energy radiating from the McCain campaign is being emitted by new Vice Presidential candidate, Alaska Governor Sarah Palin! She may be against reproductive freedom, but you gals are going to love her! While it's true that she was only chosen by McCain in a crass, ham-handed attempt at grabbing up disaffected Hillary Clinton voters, but don't think McCain is pandering. He wouldn't do that. Would he?

Methinks he did. Palin mentioned Hillary Clinton several times in her speech, and John McCain mentioned the universal suffrage movement. It's no surprise that her anti-choice, NRA Lifetime Member thing makes her undesirable in the extreme in my book. And I'm sure many women will reject her for her stand on reproductive rights alone. But I must ask, would Palin be where she is right now if not for Hillary losing the nomination?

If not, that means that McCain found pretty much the only female Conservative with any experience and put her a heartbeat away from the presidency solely because of a crude strategy to pander to women.

And I'm hearing some Republicans on the tele tell me that the Republicans are "also for change" because they nominated a woman for VP. Well, apparently the future for a Republican is 1984 for a Democrat. That's when the Democratic Party first nominated a woman for VP, Geraldine Ferraro. Republicans are at least a quarter century behind.

McCain looks and sounds nervous and old, and Palin looks way out of her depth. They both cling to a harmful and stupid political and economic philosophy that would make them unappealing no matter what their gender, appearance, age, size, color, or species. McCain/Palin is a sad, pathetic but oddly arrogant ticket that has turned to pandering on their very first day together. I'm not talking about pandering in rhetoric. Oh, no. I'm referring to pandering in important decisions for political gain.

That's my early take. Can't wait for the debates. Hoochey Mama.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Little Joey Beck

Perhaps I'm settling into some sort of 30-something funk, but I feel far less compelled to act on my social and political concerns than when I was younger. It could also be the crippling social anxiety and mental illness, but I'm less comfortable with that analysis. Not that getting older and not giving a rat's ass about activism anymore is any better.

There was a time when someone in the Socialist Party, or a letter from Jobs With Justice or some other organization, would compel me towards action. Back in the day, I'd pull my 440lb ass from door to door, getting signatures for this or that; health care reform, abortion rights, banning greyhound racing, that sort of thing. I even worked a phone bank and held a sign for Mike Dukakis back in 1988. These days, it would literally take a gun to my head (or anywhere else on me) to get me to canvas, work a phone bank, or do visibility.

McCain is almost as bad as a gunshot wound, and I have to admit I'm enthusiastic about Obama, even though I'm much farther to the left. I've been told that some members of Democratic Socialists of America are so unhappy with Obama that they are shopping for hopeless third-party candidates for which to vote. I've been there. The Socialist Party USA has a couple of good people, Moore and Alexander, as their ticket, although you'll have to write them in.

It saddens me deeply that the radical Left is in such disarray (it is). Eugene Debs was a long time ago, although that doesn't detract from his being a beautiful, thoughtful man whom I love in some ways. The same way I love Kurt Vonnegut and David McReynolds (a comrade with whom I still correspond). It's unlikely that I'll ever love Obama like that, but I don't have to love him, I just have to think he would do more to lessen economic injustice, maintain social programs and bolster them, and reduce American imperialism. And I do think that about him, particularly when cast in bas relief against McCain.

So Obama it is, and I'll vote for him with enthusiasm. Someone on Fox News called Obama a "socialist" and a "Marxist" the other day. If that's true, what the hell am I? If the spectrum has moved that far to the Right I must have fallen off the Left Wing and am now floating in some sort of Void. Maybe I'm dead. Like Bruce Willis in that movie with the kid that used to be cute but is now sort of ugly.

Many people still support a national, universal health care system that is publicly-funded. I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing. Maybe there are even a few who want to nationalize the oil and pharmaceutical companies, as well as the airlines. Perhaps not as many, but still.

Obama is definitely not a socialist (come on), and "Marxist" is just silly. He's a Centrist Democrat, no matter what Glenn Beck tries to tell you.

As I vote for Obama, though, I'll be thinking of Debs, who once said:

Years ago I recognized my kinship with all living things, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on the earth. I said then and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it; while there is a criminal element, I am of it; while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.

I'll probably be stone-cold dead before the pendulum swings back to the radical Left, but swing it will. And then Glenn Beck will have a real Socialist to complain about. Or maybe his kids. Little Joey Beck.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Actually, 19 Cannibals

According to the highly-scientific calculations provided by this website, an advertisement for an online dating service, my body would feed 19 cannibals. The "10 cannibal" comes from a calculation involving a 115lb woman I know. I just know that if she can feed 10 people, I can feed WAY more than 19. But anyway, check out the link.

How many cannibals could your body feed?

The compulsion to write about my painfully uninteresting stupidity and mental illness has mercifully waned of late. Although, clearly I'm still motivated to engage in self-deprecation. Really, that's a brutal combination. It's amazing anyone can exist near the black hole that is me.

Blah, blah, blah, woe is me, splat, fart.

The Olympics just ended. Quite a spectacle. An explosion of Chinese people in bicycle helmets climbing a five-story tower, jumping off, and climbing it again. China is a country of 700 million hot Asian women. Think of that. China is the country that cares not about Darfur, and a genocide they could have stopped. China has the largest military and navy in the world. Everything you and I own is made in China. At the last Olympics, and obviously at this one, Taiwan was terrified by China into calling herself, "Chinese Taipei." But worst of all, China told a cute little girl that she was too fucking ugly to sing at the Olympics.

These are not nice people. Then again, they are no worse than the US or Britain when they were emerging nations and centers of commerce. The USA is on the fast track to becoming a quaint little former superpower on the opposite side of the globe from the biggest, wealthiest and most powerful nation on Earth.

I think we should set up committees, like Draft Boards of old, to find our own cutest little boys and girls. You know, just to be cautious.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Some Vonnegut

It's no secret that I'm extremely fond of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. A quote of his popped into my head, but the title of the book eluded me. Good thing, as I found this article on my search. Really good stuff here.

D

15 Things Kurt Vonnegut Said Better Than Anyone Else Ever Has Or Will

by Scott Gordon, Josh Modell, Noel Murray, Sean O'Neal, Tasha Robinson, Kyle Ryan

1. "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"

The actual advice here is technically a quote from Kurt Vonnegut's "good uncle" Alex, but Vonnegut was nice enough to pass it on at speeches and in A Man Without A Country. Though he was sometimes derided as too gloomy and cynical, Vonnegut's most resonant messages have always been hopeful in the face of almost-certain doom. And his best advice seems almost ridiculously simple: Give your own happiness a bit of brainspace.

2. "Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God."

In Cat's Cradle, the narrator haplessly stumbles across the cynical, cultish figure Bokonon, who populates his religious writings with moronic, twee aphorisms. The great joke of Bokononism is that it forces meaning on what's essentially chaos, and Bokonon himself admits that his writings are lies. If the protagonist's trip to the island nation of San Lorenzo has any cosmic purpose, it's to catalyze a massive tragedy, but the experience makes him a devout Bokononist. It's a religion for people who believe religions are absurd, and an ideal one for Vonnegut-style humanists.

3. "Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder, 'Why, why, why?' Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand."

Another koan of sorts from Cat's Cradle and the Bokononist religion (which phrases many of its teachings as calypsos, as part of its absurdist bent), this piece of doggerel is simple and catchy, but it unpacks into a resonant, meaningful philosophy that reads as sympathetic to humanity, albeit from a removed, humoring, alien viewpoint. Man's just another animal, it implies, with his own peculiar instincts, and his own way of shutting them down. This is horrifically cynical when considered closely: If people deciding they understand the world is just another instinct, then enlightenment is little more than a pit-stop between insoluble questions, a necessary but ultimately meaningless way of taking a sanity break. At the same time, there's a kindness to Bokonon's belief that this is all inevitable and just part of being a person. Life is frustrating and full of pitfalls and dead ends, but everybody's gotta do it.

4. "There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind."

This line from God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater comes as part of a baptismal speech the protagonist says he's planning for his neighbors' twins: "Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind." It's an odd speech to make over a couple of infants, but it's playful, sweet, yet keenly precise in its summation of everything a new addition to the planet should need to know. By narrowing down all his advice for the future down to a few simple words, Vonnegut emphasizes what's most important in life. At the same time, he lets his frustration with all the people who obviously don't get it leak through just a little.

5. "She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is doing."

A couple of pages into Cat's Cradle, protagonist Jonah/John recalls being hired to design and build a doghouse for a lady in Newport, R.I., who "claimed to understand God and His Ways of Working perfectly." With such knowledge, "she could not understand why anyone should be puzzled about what had been or about what was going to be." When Jonah shows her the doghouse's blueprint, she says she can't read it. He suggests taking it to her minister to pass along to God, who, when he finds a minute, will explain it "in a way that even you can understand." She fires him. Jonah recalls her with a bemused fondness, ending the anecdote with this Bokonon quote. It's a typical Vonnegut zinger that perfectly summarizes the inherent flaw of religious fundamentalism: No one really knows God's ways.

6. "Many people need desperately to receive this message: 'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.'"

In this response to his own question—"Why bother?"—in Timequake, his last novel, Vonnegut doesn't give a tired response about the urge to create; instead, he offers a pointed answer about how writing (and reading) make a lonesome world a little less so. The idea of connectedness—familial and otherwise—ran through much of his work, and it's nice to see that toward the end of his career, he hadn't lost the feeling that words can have an intimate, powerful impact.

7. "There are plenty of good reasons for fighting, but no good reason ever to hate without reservation, to imagine that God Almighty Himself hates with you, too."

Though this quote comes from the World War II-centered Mother Night (published in 1961), its wisdom and ugly truth still ring. Vonnegut (who often said "The only difference between Bush and Hitler is that Hitler was elected") was righteously skeptical about war, having famously survived the only one worth fighting in his lifetime. And it's never been more true: Left or right, Christian or Muslim, those convinced they're doing violence in service of a higher power and against an irretrievably inhuman enemy are the most dangerous creatures of all.

8. "Since Alice had never received any religious instruction, and since she had led a blameless life, she never thought of her awful luck as being anything but accidents in a very busy place. Good for her."

Vonnegut's excellent-but-underrated Slapstick (he himself graded it a "D") was inspired by his sister Alice, who died of cancer just days after her husband was killed in an accident. Vonnegut's assessment of Alice's character—both in this introduction and in her fictional stand-in, Eliza Mellon Swain—is glowing and remarkable, and in this quote from the book's introduction, he manages to swipe at a favorite enemy (organized religion) and quietly, humbly embrace someone he clearly still missed a lot.

9. "That is my principal objection to life, I think: It's too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes."

The narrator delivering this line at the end of the first chapter of Deadeye Dick is alluding both to his father's befriending of Hitler and his own accidental murder of his neighbor, but like so many of these quotes, it resonates well beyond its context. The underlying philosophy of Vonnegut's work was always that existence is capricious and senseless, a difficult sentiment that he captured time and again with a bemused shake of the head. Indeed, the idea that life is just a series of small decisions that culminate into some sort of "destiny" is maddening, because you could easily ruin it all simply by making the wrong one. Ordering the fish, stepping onto a balcony, booking the wrong flight, getting married—a single misstep, and you're done for. At least when you're dead, you don't have to make any more damn choices. Wherever Vonnegut is, he's no doubt grateful for that.

10. "Literature should not disappear up its own asshole, so to speak."

Vonnegut touchstones like life on Tralfamadore and the absurd Bokononist religion don't help people escape the world so much as see it with clearer reason, which probably had a lot to do with Vonnegut's education as a chemist and anthropologist. So it's unsurprising that in a "self-interview" for The Paris Review, collected in his non-fiction anthology Palm Sunday, he said the literary world should really be looking for talent among scientists and doctors. Even when taking part in such a stultifying, masturbatory exercise for a prestigious journal, Vonnegut was perfectly readable, because he never forgot where his true audience was.

11. "All persons, living and dead, are purely coincidental."

In Vonnegut's final novel, 1997's Timequake, he interacts freely with Kilgore Trout and other fictional characters after the end of a "timequake," which forces humanity to re-enact an entire decade. (Trout winds up too worn out to exercise free will again.) Vonnegut writes his own fitting epigram for this fatalistic book: "All persons, living and dead, are purely coincidental," which sounds more funny than grim. Vonnegut surrounds his characters—especially Trout—with meaninglessness and hopelessness, and gives them little reason for existing in the first place, but within that, they find liberty and courage.

12. "Why don't you take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? Why don't you take a flying fuck at the mooooooooooooon?"

Even when Vonnegut dared to propose a utopian scheme, it was a happily dysfunctional one. In Slapstick, Wilbur Swain wins the presidency with a scheme to eliminate loneliness by issuing people complicated middle names (he becomes Wilbur Daffodil-11 Swain) which make them part of new extended families. He advises people to tell new relatives they hate, or members of other families asking for help: "Why don't you take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? Why don't you take a flying fuck at the mooooooooooooon?" Of course, this fails to prevent plagues, the breakdown of his government, and civil wars later in the story.

13. "So it goes."

Unlike many of these quotes, the repeated refrain from Vonnegut's classic Slaughterhouse-Five isn't notable for its unique wording so much as for how much emotion—and dismissal of emotion—it packs into three simple, world-weary words that simultaneously accept and dismiss everything. There's a reason this quote graced practically every elegy written for Vonnegut over the past two weeks (yes, including ours): It neatly encompasses a whole way of life. More crudely put: "Shit happens, and it's awful, but it's also okay. We deal with it because we have to."

14. "I have been a soreheaded occupant of a file drawer labeled 'science fiction' ever since, and I would like out, particularly since so many serious critics regularly mistake the drawer for a urinal."

Vonnegut was as trenchant when talking about his life as when talking about life in general, and this quote from an essay in Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons is particularly apt; as he explains it, he wrote Player Piano while working for General Electric, "completely surrounded by machines and ideas for machines," which led him to put some ideas about machines on paper. Then it was published, "and I learned from the reviewers that I was a science-fiction writer." The entire essay is wry, hilarious, and biting, but this line stands out in particular as typifying the kind of snappishness that made Vonnegut's works so memorable.

15. "We must be careful about what we pretend to be."

In Mother Night, apolitical expatriate American playwright Howard W. Campbell, Jr. refashions himself as a Nazi propagandist in order to pass coded messages on to the U.S. generals and preserve his marriage to a German woman—their "nation of two," as he calls it. But in serving multiple masters, Campbell ends up ruining his life and becoming an unwitting inspiration to bigots. In his 1966 introduction to the paperback edition, Vonnegut underlines Mother Night's moral: "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." That lesson springs to mind every time a comedian whose shtick relies on hoaxes and audience-baiting—or a political pundit who traffics in shock and hyperbole—gets hauled in front of the court of public opinion for pushing the act too far. Why can't people just say what they mean? It's a question Don Imus and Michael Richards—and maybe someday Ann Coulter—must ask themselves on their many sleepless nights.