Of Fame And A Card Table in Cambridge

I'm of a mind this morning to grab a broomstick, tie on my hobo bindle and head out into the world and make a name for myself. One way to make a name for oneself is to fling a pie at a famous person, like Amy Winehouse or the corpse of William F. Buckley. Another way is to create a great work of art, win high political office or get rich and make people acknowledge your meaty manhood by prostrating themselves. Certainly a wide range of choices...maybe it's not fame I'm looking for this morning. It's more likely that I'm simply misjudging my craving for a fried egg.

So I had a fried egg, and it turns out that was it.

Linda is at work right now, going about the newspaper business in myriad capacities. She does a little bit of everything, except deliver the fucking thing. She's suffering from an as yet unidentified virus that looks extremely unpleasant from my side of the bed. It's likely that all the screwing will lead to my getting whatever ungodly affliction that is afflicting her. And I can feel it percolating in my system, causing a cough and a stuffed-up schnozz.

Pity me.

Yesterday my issue of "The Socialist" arrived in the mail, along with a reminder to pay my dues, which are $25 a year. I can easily get around that by writing to the National Secretary about my pathetic inability to pay any amount of money for such an esoteric concern. What are they going to do, kick me out? One less schmuck to sit around a card table in Cambridge once a month and carefully root out the political margins, like swine for truffles. And between you and me, I don't read most of "The Socialist." I look for my name and that's about it. Just like the police blotter in the local paper.

"Dear Comrade Secretary,

Enclosed you will find a $4.17 Remeron class action settlement check which I've signed over to The Party to cover my annual dues. The rest of my money is tied up in anything else. Please stamp my dues book and return it to me. Thank you.

Solidarity Forever,
Darren W. Lyle"

I really do have a $4.17 settlement check for the psychiatric drug Remeron, and I'm still unclear as to what exactly they did to me that requires a "settlement." It's a market manipulation thing, not a deadly poison in my system thing. Isn't that good?

The Milkshake Line

As I've probably mentioned before, I'm not fond of posting articles lifted from other places around the net, although I do so on occasion. Usually, as I peruse the news of the day, and the opinions of others, I have thoughts that diverge, an opinion takes shape and then I write a stupid little observation on here. But Josh Ozersky writes so painfully well about There Will Be Blood's soon to be ubiquitous line, "I drink your milkshake!" that I'm just going to cut and paste it here. It helps that he's right. As famous lines quoted out of context go, the milkshake line is unique. It also happens to come from one of the most riveting, beautiful and strangely romantic movies ever made. When I saw it again last night, I felt that I was watching an artist struggling to compose a life as one would a masterpiece; passion, conviction and a god-like ego.

Anyway, read this, I urge you.

Grub Street's Josh Ozersky writes:

We have no doubt that “I drink your milkshake,” the volcanically dramatic, mind-bendingly cool line with which Daniel Plainview devastates his enemy in There Will Be Blood's final sequence, will soon enter the pop-culture catchphrase lexicon, nestling alongside such former lazy-writer tropes as “I see dead people,” “Say hello to my little friend,” “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in,” and all the rest. Personally, we would like to see a federal law passed preventing this from happening. “I drink your milkshake” has such Dickensian grandeur that its miniaturization in the mouths of SportsCenter anchors, scab gag writers, bloggers, and their ilk is practically a national tragedy. Nonetheless, if somebody is going to do it, it’s going to be us. The question is, what is its proper use? What situation demands the milkshake treatment?

As a sports metaphor? (“Let’s face it. The Celtics drank the Knicks’ milkshake last night.”) An amorphously obscene double entendre, hearkening back to its Kelis-ian roots? (“I’d like to drink your milkshake!”) Or maybe, in a nod to the godlike venom of its utterer, a taunt: “You best back down before I drink your milkshake, bitch.” In the end, none of these seem quite right, especially as they all omit the special genius of the line’s coda, a burst of half-mad juvenilia that captures the demented feeling of the scene better even than the line itself: “I drink your milkshake! I drink it up!” Because the child is the father of the man, and the milkshake too. —Josh Ozersky

Fit For A Queen And The Missing Scheider

It's about twenty past 10 in the morning and I'm sipping on my fourth cup of coffee and using the computer to amuse myself. It's amazing how much fun a thoughtful person can have with just his or her hands. Beyond that, I'm letting Linda sleep-in this morning due to a nasty bout of the plague. We certainly have a great deal of work to do here, including getting out to purchase a new Queen size bed to replace the twin bed that we are sharing. We make it work, but it requires cramming my plastic body into a nook by the wall when it comes time for sleep. Sex is dangerous, what with all the gyrations and flailing about; It's only a matter of time before we fall off the bed and break out necks. We can't have that. Buying a new bed is one of the few required large purchases of our new household.

So I was pretty happy with the 80th Academy Awards, with Lewis and Cotillard both winning. Although it has no impact on my little life, so what the hell do I care. A matter of greater concern to me personally is that I'm unable to shave without looking as if I've been shot in the face. I suspect that I purchased cheap disposable razors that do not work as well as whatever brand of cheap disposable razors I used to use. My recent strategy has been to shave right before I go to bed. That way, when I wake up it looks like The Fly has been using my pillow.

One last thought about the Academy Awards. During the In Memorium tribute portion, dedicated to all the stars of varying degrees of staritude, they forgot to mention Brad Renfro, a young actor who did something that most actors never do, act well in an exceptional movie. The movie I'm thinking of is Telling Lies In America, and both he and Kevin Bacon are outstanding. But even beyond that he showed that he had a lot to offer. Apt Pupil is a flawed, but still an exceptional movie.

And what of Roy Scheider? He wasn't mentioned at all in the tribute. It sounds like an epic fuck-up, but actually it was just a technicality. The memorial is for movie folk who croaked in the year before January 31st.

Oscar Predictions

I'm getting set here with Linda and my father for the Academy Awards, which for some reason I greatly enjoy. I suppose I just love film so much, that's the explanation. Here are a few of my choices. Daniel Day-Lewis will win for There Will Be Blood; Casey Affleck for The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, a supporting award. Marion Cotillard will win for Best Actress for La Vie En Rose. An outstanding performance. Ruby Dee will win for American Gangster, but Tilda Swinton for Michael Clayton would get my vote. Julian Schnabel will win for The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, although I'd much rather see PT Anderson get it for There Will Be Blood.

As for best picture, it will be No Country for Old Men. I can definitely live with that, although I'll be pulling for There Will Be Blood.

The DeadBeat

Thank you, Chica, for saying that I'm not easily ignored. In a fashion, that's a very high compliment. Nobody with any style wants to go unnoticed. Even I, with my social phobia and paranoia, long to get published one day and have people fumbling to spend time in my company. Then I could act all aloof and pass them right by, but not before saying something faux wise and borderline cryptic, and perhaps a little kind.

Linda and I are in the very early stages of living together, and I'm finding that it suits me. When I awaken in an empty bed I feel as if I'm falling, in addition to a harder to define feeling of panic. I can happily report that this is much less pronounced in the company of my beloved. Hopefully that will remain the case.

Unfortunately, however, I'm a little paranoid. I'm afraid that I'm doing something to annoy her (or worse) and she is afraid to tell me. So basically I'm fearful of her compassion and love, that it will compel her to lie to protect my feelings. Do I have any annoying habits that are evident already? Are my many scars more upsetting, or just aesthetically unappealing, than I tend to imagine? And most bothersome, is she irritated at me for not keeping a steady job? I certainly didn't mislead her about my difficulties in that department. I still feel like a dead-beat. That's the way the watch is wound.

More later, ladies and germs.

The morning has found me at the doorstep to melancholy, but generally in a good mood. My brother and his wife will meet my girlfriend for the first time (save one brief handshake last month), so I'm a bit nervous. The little pills on which I rely have purged my misgivings and anxiety for the most part, however.

Cat Stevens' Tea for the Tillerman is playing on my computer as I write this little post. I've grown quite fond of his older material. As always, I'm on the hunt for good music. I've reached the age where most heavily promoted music sucks to my ears. Bryant, your recommendation of Meet John Doe was received. I'm sure I've seen it, but it's been many years. When I get the chance, I'll find and watch it again.

Chica, you're very kind...I'm really not very sweet. At best I'm easy to ignore.

Of E.T. And Deadly Satellites

As I write this, I'm listening to the sounds of men working on the row of flats across the courtyard. That's not sexist, there just aren't any women. If one shows up, I'll be sure to update to gender neutral noun usage. It's curious that the kitchen in my old flat has a plastic curtain up, decorated with warnings of asbestos exposure. There's also a large apparatus engaged in the business of sucking particles out of the air and then depositing them into the air by the back stoop. I lived in that place for 17 years, so I'm naturally curious about what exactly has everyone dressed like they're harboring E.T. in my place. It's rather disconcerting.

I know all this because, under cover of darkness, I snoop around.

In other news, by now I'm sure that everyone is familiar with the Pentagon's plan to fire a missile at a falling satellite. Ostensibly, this is to protect some poor sucker from getting creamed when it hits the Earth, although that is statistically about as likely as getting struck by lightning and attacked by a shark at the same time. Everyone agrees that they're really doing this to play with their missile defense shield. I've seen enough science fiction movies to know that they're playing a dangerous game. There is something on that satellite, and it wants to suck spinal fluid out of your ear. And don't count on Kurt Russell to protect you this time. Besides, if we just let the satellite fall out of the sky it will most likely hit either nothing or one of our enemies. We have a lot of enemies.

I'd like to raise my glass to Jane Fonda for saying, "cunt" on The Today Show. It's about time we broke the "C" barrier here in the States.

Finally, I want to mention Chica's blog. She truly understands the unpleasant ebb and flow of bipolar disorder, and manages to channel her manic creativity wonderfully.

Fun times indeed!

The Super Delicates

It's Valentine's Day, which is potentially a day for great romance, declarations of undying love, a good fuck (in the name of a saint) and, if you haven't got any money, a fine time to feel like a piker cunt. Money is the end all be all, most especially if you don't have any. But you all knew that, didn't you?

Happy St. Valentine's Day, my darling Linda.

My whole life revolves around pills. Some for anxiety, some to "stabilize" my mood somewhere between batshit manic and depressed milquetoast, and others to complete various and sundry tasks like regulate my thyroid, boost testosterone and prevent B12 anemia. Occasionally, I forget to take something and I end up hanging from the ceiling like some godforsaken thing out of an H.P. Lovecraft novel. That happened earlier this week. I crawled across the ceiling, the wall, out the window, and I ended up killing a homeless man on Alewife Brook Parkway.

The truth is less interesting than that, and nobody was killed. But it does blow. I can and often do withdraw so far into my own noggin that I'm not really in the room with my fat ass. How fun I must be when I'm in that state. When I was in the nuthouse a fellow crazy person told me that bipolar disorder is better than clinical depression (or "unipolar" depression) because at least with the former you sometimes get manic. There may be something to that. When I'm manic I may try to fly out the window, but at least I'd be doing something.

The title of this post comes from a brief conversation I had with my father earlier today. He said "Super Delegates" and I thought he said "Super Delicates." For close to a minute I thought he was talking about laundry, no shit.

We Botched And Bungled

I'd like to thank Chica, Eve, Bryant and Linda for their advice and kind words in the comment section of my little blog. We botched and bungled people need that. I'm not of a mind to say much more than that this morning.

Of Waterboarding and Cat's Cradle

I'm not sure why, but a portion of my last post was prevented from being displayed, even though I can see it when I try to edit it. Odd. Here's the part that will not pass into sight.

"These are also most likely stereotypes, too, so I have nobody to blame but myself. I'm ashamed. Oh, the shame!

Regarding the primary yesterday, I voted for Barack Obama, who lost in my town by about 200 votes. A friend tells me that Obama actually won in Cambridge. Well, the results one town over in Cambridge are interesting on many levels. Here they are..."

I'm rather emotional lately, perhaps even somewhat overwrought, and I can't find the thread that might lead to an explanation. Almost a crippling sentimentalism. Late last night I put down Sartre's The Wall and started into a re-read of Cat's Cradle by Vonnegut. After about twenty pages or so, I put the book down and listened to the voices in my head. One voice, actually, my own, but saying many different things. My gut was pierced with an overwhelming sense of regret, and I wept. So pathetic and impossibly soft-hearted.

Every day that you pass through is mostly just passing by, but a little sticks. Some of what sticks gives you pause, and a bit will change you. Change has a good reputation that is undeserved. It's just as likely to be a bad thing. Some of the things that changed me over time occasionally give me pause, and I wonder stupidly if anything of value was lost. Almost certainly not, but the sense of loss is impossible to deny.

You've had those moments, too. How did I get from there to here? It means mourning what is lost even if you weren't particularly fond of the thing that was lost to begin with. Sadness over loss itself.

Could I possibly be as awful a human being as I think I am? I think that is the question that causes my morning anxiety attacks. The ones that have me practically leaping from the bed every morning.

I want to say something about a verbal clash between Senator Ted Kennedy and Attorney General Michael Mukasey. I at least want to relate it. In a hearing about the legality of waterboarding, Kennedy asked Mukasey a simple question.

Kennedy asked. "Would waterboarding be torture if it was done to you?"

"I would feel that it was," Mukasey answered.

I'm of the opinion that this is the most important issue to be discussed in Washington DC in my lifetime. And do the other five hours of the hearing really matter in the face of an answer like this? Bravo Senator Kennedy.

Of Frenchies, Bathing and Cambridge

An email from the town says it all, "You are hereby notified that the town's Youth Badminton Program has been canceled due to low enrollment numbers." As an elected official in this town, elected by myself in a write-in, I need to know about these things. It's sad. There are sure to be a handful of passionate Badminton players in this precinct who are devastated about this news.

I slept in late this morning, probably due to the large amount of drugs I scarfed down last night to squash an anxiety attack. I felt low and rotten, a pitied and mocked pathetic little fat man who only has one pair of socks. This morning I found a book, taken out of my little bookcase, on the floor near my bed. I know I put it there, of course, and I sometimes sit on the floor there and read. The book was, and probably still is, Leland M. Roth's A Concise History of American Architecture. I didn't remember what I was reading in that book until about an hour ago, when I opened it and found the chapter on Frank Lloyd Wright's Johnson Wax Administration Building in Racine, Wisconsin. My signed photograph of former WHDH Meteorologist Chikage Windler served as a bookmark.

But why did I dig up that book, read that chapter, take Ms. Windler's picture off the wall and use it to mark the page? I'll never know, and only the vague memory exists of what exactly I read about. As for the picture of Ms. Windler, that was obtained as part of my effort at collecting signed photographs of all of Boston's weather men and women. After Chikage moved to Alaska to report on snow to the cold hicks of the Great White North, I lost interest in my little project.

I haven't taken a shower in three days, which is usually indicative of a depressed mindset, because I don't like how I feel after two days of no showing. During a particularly bad bout of suicidal depression in the Spring of 2002, I noticed that going a week without a shower didn't bother me so much. But every day up to a week was increasingly uncomfortable. I'm not depressed at present, so I can't easily explain away my fragrant disregard for hygiene. I've been on a Francophile reading kick of late, so maybe the lack of bathing can be blamed on the influence of Sartre and Maeterlinck (although the latter is Belgian, I'm told they stink, too).

These are also most likely stereotypes, too, so I have nobody to blame but myself. I'm ashamed. Oh, the shame!

Regarding the primary yesterday, I voted for Barack Obama, who lost in my town by about 200 votes. A friend tells me that Obama actually won in Cambridge. Well, the results one town over in Cambridge are interesting on many levels. Here they are...

DEMOCRATIC
John R. Edwards 252
Hillary Clinton 9,416
Joseph R. Biden, Jr. 32
Christopher J. Dodd 16
Mike Gravel 25
Barack Obama 17,213
Dennis J. Kucinich 113
Bill Richardson 35

REPUBLICAN
John McCain 1177
Fred Thompson 3
Tom Tancredo 1
Duncan Hunter 2
Mike Huckabee 69
Mitt Romney 904
Ron Paul 196
Rudy Giuliani 13

Check out the very low number of Republicans in Cambridge, which isn't surprising. Huckabee lost out to Kucinich, who isn't even in the race.

Some Thoughts

A strange night seems to be in the making. In my nightshirt and prepared for sleep I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and promptly had a massive anxiety attack; heart pounding, stomach pain, stiff joints. I'm determined to finish Yukio Mishima's novel, "The Temple of the Golden Pavilion." I'm so fascinated by the life of that man. There's a good movie about his life floating around out there.

Some thoughts.

I'm too philosophical.

I sometimes laugh to relieve tension when in social situations..."nervous" laughter. Not a good trait.

I take this small razor blade that I found in a tool box, wrapped with a piece of cardboard, and I cut into the inside of my left ankle, and cut deeply. I flick the blade down several inches of my leg, and watch as the angles of the void disappear as bloody rivulets emerge. I don't know why I do this.

I'm dependent on prescribed medication. Medication is a wonderful thing.

I should volunteer my flat for monthly Socialist Party meetings, but I'm not going to.

Love you, my darling Linda.