Friday, February 27, 2009

NPR Thinks You're Poorly-Educated

There is a really stupid conversation taking place right at this moment on NPR. It's about the link between Obama's leadership skills and his being a pick-up basketball player. The guest on the show even claimed that Michelle Obama decided to date Barack after he played a pick-up game with her brother.

I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean. An odd courtship maneuver. And there are many stories about how Michelle made Barack jump through hoops to get her affection. Had to get a better apartment, job and haircut. No wonder he is president, she never got off his ass. But I kid the Obamas, they love me.

Stevie Wonder claims responsibility for helping get their juices flowing.

Just a note about National Public Radio. It produces the highest quality talk/news radio on the radio, except when Mo Roca is on. That's not saying much, given that Rush Limbaugh dominates the airwaves. Still, it good. What sometimes ruins the NPR experience for me is the confident awareness of everyone on it that only smart people listen. This is a mild delusion shared by the listeners, of course. If you're a graduate student, you almost have to listen to it. Peer pressure.

I would say that NPR listeners and hosts and guests are more thoughtful than intelligent. Doris Kearns Goodwin is on there right now, and she is wicked smaht. She is also wonderfully unassuming and affable. That's rare on there. More important than that, however, are the aesthetics of intellectualism. You know how your favorite radio station plays blues on Sunday morning? NPR is like that, but all the time. They give you attitude, man.

Saying that you listen to NPR helps to get you taken seriously among academics, lefties, gays and lesbians, and people who can't stomach popular culture. I'm not an academic, but I'm a bisexual left wing activist, or was (the activist part). And I enjoy the absurdity of popular culture, but I can totally understand the need to get away from it. Far away.

But sometimes I need to get away from NPR. Certainly when they are fundraising is a very good time. The puns about Balzac and casual references to Proust and Nietzche during an interview with the maker of the "Snuggie" get to be too much sometimes. Just once in a while.

The rest of talk radio is a wasteland.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Where to Store Your Oscar

My dentist asked me to "stop by" at 8am this morning. I can happily report that the xylocaine works. Beyond that, I'm having suicidal thoughts and am a bit emotional, at least for someone who isn't a pregnant woman. While this is going on, the Price is Right is on the gigglebox. It's so interesting how they use sex to sell everything; a trip to St. Louis, a new car, Ex-Lax, whatever. No matter what it is, a very attractive woman is slinking around, smiling broadly, showing at least as many teeth as a healthy adult should have. Probably more. Sometimes the "showcase" involves a sailboat or trip to Aruba, something water related. Sure enough, a bikini-clad model shows up to entice.

As a side note, that picture of Bob and the "Barker Beauties" is now my wallpaper. On my computer.

They are successful in arousing my interest, but not in sailing. Yeah, that's right, they make me a bit horny. And it's not because I'm especially attracted to overly-coiffed Barbie dolls. I find Arwa Damon, CNN's Iraq/Middle East correspondant, far more pleasing to the eye and mind. Whenever she is reporting, free of makeup and seemingly incapable of small talk (with the anchor), I can't help but wonder what she is like in private life. That she is half-Syrian must give her some street cred over there. No matter how complex the situation, Damon breaks it down like a mutha-fucker. And any reporter who covers the Middle East needs to be melancholy, precise and dead serious. Very sexy, but I also wonder if she ever laughs.

The Academy Awards were a feast for the eyes. Men and women of every age, color, size and shape were at least trying to be sexy. And truth be told, there weren't many fat people around, except Al Gore. One of my favorite actresses Kate Winslet was there with one naked shoulder, in a dress that fashion "experts" mocked. The funny thing about the fashion world is that most people in it look as if they were dressed by a retarded, gay man-child. Or perhaps an ape, or a retarded, gay ape-child.

Angelina Jolie tried to look sexy, and pulled it off. Her alabaster boobs were just popping out of her black dress. Like a photo finish in a zeppelin race. Brad Pitt was as cute as a button (I'm so witty). They must look just fantastic when they're fucking. Then again, they probably look great taking a shit or making a bologna sandwich.

Attractive movie stars have to fuck each other; Angelina's vagina would kill most mortals. If a hot movie star screwed me, he or she would never let me forget it. Ever. No matter what we argue about, it would always end with something like, "You're lucky I even go near you, Fattie." You can't have a relationship with someone who treats you like a worshipper. Even a casual fuck-fest type of relationship. Not only that, but there is a package deal. If you boink Angelina, you have to commit to being "dad" to 28 African and Asian toddlers.

Even Mickey Rourke looked good to me. Although methinks it would be more fun drinking with him, or smoking, than screwing. But my standards are different for men than women. Just about all women are attractive to me, except Ann Coulter (gender unclear, though) and the woman who works at the local library. Men, however, are a harder sell. That said, I wouldn't mind a George Clooney/Kate Winslet sandwich. I have the perfect line for Clooney, too. He works with the UN in trying to get attention on Darfur. "Hey, George, I have a starving refuge in my pants. He's very short."

Sometimes I wonder what Oscar sex is like. Imagine you're sexy, in shape, beautiful, adored, half-naked (most of the women, anyway) and you've just won an Academy Award. I imagine it as really...energetic. And Hell knows what naughty things are done with the golden phallus. You just know someone in the history of the award took that Oscar and crammed it up his ass.

Warren Beatty? Elizabeth Taylor? Mr. Bean? The mind boggles.

One last thing about the Oscars. Joan Rivers, you need to give up the ghost. It's time to die. Go into the light. Take Jerry Lewis and Michael Bay with you.

That's all I got right now. I should say that I love my Linda. She is one fine woman. Sexy as hell, an romantic disposition, adventurous (nudist colony!) and the best thing that every happened to me.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Man Who Looks Exactly Like Me Smokes Tobacco From A Bong

Sunday Missing a Friend

I haven't much to say today. My oldest friend has my attention today. Her name is "Chloe" and she lives up in Maine, not too far away. She's funny, fairly smart and I found her a joy to be around. We used to date, and were a couple for awhile. I don't miss that time together. After she found herself and committed to another woman, I was very happy for her.

She and I knew each other for about a decade, making her my oldest and best friend, until Linda came along. But Chloe was still my friend, a young lady who knew me very well. Time was I could make her laugh.

For reasons that I've chosen not to share, Chloe and I have parted ways totally and completely. We rarely saw each other, anyway, which should make it easier. It doesn't, though, because she just didn't want me in her life anymore, even as we saw each other so rarely. Spoke and wrote rarely, too, over the past year.

So I'm spending my Sunday driving myself crazy looking for answers. Nothing feels right today, and this morning had me crying for over an hour. I'm a little strange, but I'm kind and would never hurt anyone. What am I doing wrong amongst people? I'm bad at small talk, but I give good advice and listen when people ask for it. I've also been known to make people laugh.

That should be good enough for a friend. But I'm also loyal.

It's as if I'm sub-human, a freak. The day will come when I'm going to put a gun in my mouth and none of this will matter. Right now, though, I'm just in pain. Nothing anyone can do.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Stimulate Me

This morning I enjoyed the spectacle of Wall Street traders bitching about the Stimulus Bill. Apparently, bailing out banks is super-fine, but helping out homeowners on the brink of foreclosure is morally reprehensible. You may wonder, as I did, how seemingly intelligent people can be so irrational and hypocritical. What "logic" are they using?

You've probably heard the expression, "Too big to fail." When I first heard it used, to justify the $750,000,000,000 bank bailout, I reasoned that it was both a scam and probably a rational necessity at the same time. I'm not crazy about capitalism for reasons that I won't go into here, but I never expected a push to nationalize the banks (surprisingly there is talk that this may be done temporarily). So that means they had to let them fail or bail them out.

So before and after the election, scores of economists and market analysts appeared on television and spoke of how there really wasn't a choice for Bush or the incoming Obama administration; the banks had to be saved to rescue America. Otherwise, everything would fall apart and we'd have to eat our pets.

Hans Gruber from Die Hard had a good plan to get away with an obscene amount of money. I'm sure you all remember that. It failed, but only because of John McLane and that fat, black cop. That was Romper Room stuff compared to the "too big to fail" bank bailout. Here we have most of $750 billion just disappearing, with shockingly little oversight, from the government or the press.

Meditate on that for awhile.

Now we have the Stimulus Bill, recently signed by Obama. Part of which is a $75 billion foreclosure bailout program, headed by Shaun Donovan, formerly of HUD. The idea is that home ownership is highly desirable, and that the government should do everything it can to prevent millions of people from losing their homes, which are also the largest investments most people ever make. A worthwile endeavor.

Capitalists need to shut the fuck up, as they have the stink of failure all over them. Banking regulation, like most regulation, has been cut back over many years in a scheme to create an unfettered, vigorous market. Ironically, and clearly, the less regulation the quicker the system self-destructs and requires massive government intervention. A totally unregulated system would last about 8 seconds, which is good for a rodeo but not for an economy. The angry, self-righteous reaction to the homeowner bailout should raise a few eyebrows, at least. Classist? Yeah, I'd say so, and it shows how the most ardent supporters of capitalism see the system. The governing principles are the same for them as they are for any grifter; get yours, and fuck everyone else.

So it shouldn't have surprised me to see a bunch of douchebag traders complaining about the "injustice" of increasing the national debt. The bank bailout increased the debt 10 times more than the foreclosure program. But surprise me it did. It took balls upon balls upon balls, especially considering that beyond Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, private banks also bear most of the responsibility for handing out "exotic" loans to people who couldn't pay them. Of course the individual borrower is partially responsible, but banks are in the business of providing financial advice. They are the experts, the professionals. The failure to properly assess the ability of a borrower to pay his or her mortgage is primarily a failure in the system.

Permanently nationalize the banks. Provide universal, socialized health care to prevent half of all personal bankruptcy. Arrange a takeover of the automakers, as well, and run them at cost through a non-profit corporation.

But nobody asks my advice, what with all the craziness.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Sir Crazy-A-Lot Meets Papa Pill

A bowl of oatmeal is perched precariously on the arm rest of the loveseat on which my pale, pasty ass has found a home. The oatmeal has brown sugar and a touch o' molasses and will line what is left of my stomach for the pills that will soon follow. The cute little brown pill bottles have directions for me, and "take with food" is one of them. One has to be careful not to blindly follow all instructions, however. That's something I learned when my shampoo told me to "lather, rinse, repeat." Following those directions had me caught in a Sisyphean loop. Two days later the fire department knocked down the door to my flat and pulled me, naked and babbling, out of the then ice cold shower.

Pills.

The first pill I sucked into my face at around 6:15 this morning was 0.112 micrograms of levoxythyroxine. That's for my lack of a functioning thyroid. After that, surgical nerve damage to my crotch, on either side of my wang, caused a dull ache that ever so gently mocks me almost every day. It's strange to feel that my body is mocking me, and I'm sure it's yet another sign that I'm touched. Not by an angel, more like Lenny from "Of Mice and Men." My painful balls were removed, and the incision that was made is now painful. Savor the hilarious irony.

My ghost balls are rattling around and haunting my groin. Boo! "Ghost Balls" is also the name of a surprisingly successful Don Knott's vehicle.

The day will have me inhaling 2-8 mgs of lorazepam, 225 mgs of Effexor XR, as well as 900mgs of lithium carbonate and a bit of propranolol, a heart medication that has found use against panic attacks and anxiety. Tramadol for the groin pain, as well.

At this moment, my cat, Impy, is begging for lap space. She will get it. She gets whatever she wants. It's a hard world for the little things, but in this flat I can spoil the beasts. Spoiling your pet is like creating an umbrella of compassion in a harsh and random world. God clearly wants it harsh out there, so every time I spoil a pet it's like a little "fuck you" to the Almighty.

You have to savor the good times.

Anyway, at around 9am I rubbed testosterone all over my shoulders. It's an alcohol gel, and it dries very quickly. Good thing, as it is also very flammable.

If you add up all these drugs, the cost, that is, along with drugs taken only in crisis (like Risperdal) you get $5,971 worth of pills and gel per year. And that doesn't include therapy, a ten day hospitalization, and psychiatric drug management clinics every six weeks.

You don't need to know any of this, but I like for people to know that I work very hard at trying to get better. Unfortunately, there may not be any room to get better. This may be as good as I get. If that's true, I desperately need to make peace with who I am.

If I do, I'll be the first prick in history to do so.

I should try to enjoy the ride, appreciate the absurdity, laugh at the moon, that sort of thing. Not that I don't, I just need to do so more often...and feel it, as the cornerstone of a life philosophy. To cast false guilt aside as worthless, as it is.

Self-acceptance. It comes in pill and herb form, and I'm not hesitant about finding salvation from myself via what my father calls, "magic pills." The magic ones are usually hard to find, and are rarely prescribed. The prescribed ones I mentioned lovingly take the edge off and give you a fighting chance, if you're of a disposition to put up a fight. That's the trick of it, however.

Vicodin fights for you. Marijuana makes you a lover, not a fighter. Sake...emboldens.

Mental illness like mine can be treated, to quiet the voices and rob the distortion of its power to compel self-destruction. But even a 100% "cured" mental illness (nobody speaks of a "cure" in psychiatry, patient or provider) leaves a fragile, very mortal human animal.

In other words, normalcy does not relieve you of pain, uncertainty, loneliness, any of it. So in order to find happiness, we have to reach past "normal" and find something truly rare for anyone: contentment.

It's rare to find people who are at peace with themselves, the world, and Margaret Cho.

It's also rare to find a really good pickle.

Monday, February 09, 2009

Never Forget and Shindig

I'm about to go on a date with Linda, to a party at the Boston Center for the Arts in the South End. How I got in is a long story. I'm nervous, as I rarely go anywhere. Other than to the local pharmacy, supermarket or sake distributor. To prepare for the big date, I got some Always Mandarin artificially-flavored Stride gum, to keep my breath pleasant. Horrible, horrible stuff. It's like trick gum. One assumes that it's supposed to taste like an orange, as in Mandarin orange, but it tastes more like an actual Mandarin.

That it! This fucking gum tastes like a Chinese guy. Always.

Normally at a function such as this, with monied patrons about, I'd assume that I'm the craziest son of a bitch in the room, but given that the people invited to this thing are live theatre fans and artists, I'll back it up to the top 5.

One thing is for sure, though. I'm the poorest motherfucker in the room. That was true at the Deval Patrick Christmas Gala at the Copley Plaza. Also true at every DeCordova Museum event I worked at or attended. Shit, you could spend all day throwing darts out the window in the South End and never hit a poorer person.

Maybe we'll meet a celebrity. Perhaps Vanilla Ice is working the bar. Mmmmm, Vanilla Ice. At Deval Patrick's party, which we got into by finagling a deal regarding a very small amount of volunteer work, Linda and I actually spoke to The Gov. He's about two feet tall, and had a smile screwed onto his face.

Anyway, got to go. Also, I like the picture, "Never Forget." Cracked me up for some reason.

Friday, February 06, 2009

Notes from Cambridge City Hospital

As most of you know, this past Summer found me in Cahill 4, which is the fourth floor of Cahill House, part of the campus of Cambridge City Hospital. That particular floor, along with the one beneath it, Cahill 3, is locked. If you try to leave, particularly if you do so with vigor, they will calmly wrestle you to the ground and give you a syringe full of magic. Eventually (hopefully) you'll come back to the world, where you'll find yourself in restraints.

In case it was unclear, I was in a nuthouse.

Seven times in a decade I've either admitted myself to, or been literally into, either The Arbour or Cahill House. I prefer the latter, The Arbour has a "Men's dorm" that is no fun. No fun at all. Unless living in a room full of 30 mentally ill, flatulent and aromatic vagrants strikes your fancy. Most of them were quite nice, actually.

Anyway, when I was in Cahill House, I wrote quite a bit. Here you will find some of what I wrote, because that is what I do on this blog. I write. Sorry.

Summer, 2008, Cahill House, 4th Floor

I'm sitting in the "library" at Cahill 4, which is actually just a room with beige walls, three tables, one couch, five chairs, numerous puzzles, an awful painting, and about 30 books crammed into a small bookcase. On the table in front of me is a massive gold & white reference Bible with Jesus and some wise men on the cover. Some sort of Cracker Jack technology has been utilized to make a 3D image out of the fictional scene. Some of the sheep appear blurry. I'm getting a headache. Oy.

It's the only thing in the room not tied down, padded or too heavy to be used as a murder weapon. It's huge...just chock full of beebobabble.

Most of the rest of the books are pulp novels that any rube might read; easy, breezy and of absolutely no consequence. Not that most people here seem to mind. The nuts, cranks, drug addicts and chronically depressed don't seem to be doing a lot of reading. My mates here don't do much of anything, except eat, complain and/or try to talk to people like myself who want to be left alone. My roommate looks about as likely to read a book as fly out the window, which is no easy task given the bars. But I don't do anything, either, except read and write and try to go to all the classes and sessions so that I may get the fuck out of here. Every so often I partake of a free graham cracker and some free ginger ale. Well, free to me.

It's hard to imagine why graham crackers and ginger ale are consistently offered to the botched and the bungled like myself, when in psychiatric hospital. Is there something about a Ritz cracker that would be dangerous to my delicate frame of mind? An oyster cracker may have me trying to commit suicide by sticking my head in the freezer. Except they lock the kitchen at night. Of course they do. Someone may have gotten a Ritz.

Several people here seem well-educated, thoughtful and of a kind disposition. Were I a more social animal, imagine the things I could find out about the young man whom I've heard frantically masturbating in the bed next to mine. I've gleaned that he is in a pre-med program at whatever college he attends. His partner visits him almost nightly. When people talk in group, you realize how tortured are so many people by the mind.

During visiting hours, I just see a happy couple. He will remain a mystery, though, as I'm strongly disinclined to talk to a single soul in here unless they are prescribing medication, or can sign me out.

A counselor and addictions therapist took an interest in me this morning, after he stopped complaining about the heat outside, he took notice of a novel I was reading while waiting for my morning ration of pills. Michael is his name, and he is too tall, handsome and affable for me to have any chance of getting away from for more than one minute, if he has something to say. As it happens, this morning he had something to say about my book.

I was taking comfort in Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle at that moment.

Naturally, if you're head isn't up your ass, you have some appreciation of Vonnegut, and he related his opinions of high regard to me. In the murderously long, anxiety-filled twenty minute conversation that followed, he recommended Magnus Mills, Thom Jones and Will Self. It was hard to have a conversation this morning, but I have some new authors to check out.

Michael is Scottish, apparently. Another useless bastard. And I mean that with love. Really.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Unbearable Blindness

It's probably best to be somewhat gregarious and affable, or at least social, when sitting down to write this thing. I'm not of such a disposition. A gaggle of 3 or 4 Vicodin would go down easy right now and take the edge off this ennui and self-loathing. Not that it matters, as I don't have any. No marijuana, either. Just the drugs the doctor gave me and the silent presence of myself. There are chores to do, dishes to clean, a car to clear off and warm up, that sort of thing. The nerve pain in my groin is singing to me, but 2 Tramadol and 4 Ibuprofen will at least muffle the song.

Yesterday I paid the cable bill, heat and rent.

It's not easy when you come face to face with the void. Of both time and space. You may as well make a home for yourself on the vast steppes, because this is it. Take a look around and bother in the now because the now is here to stay and the future is you, and all of us, dead and gone.

Yesterday I spoke with an old Comrade in the Socialist Party. We hadn't spoken for years, but at one time we worked together frequently (1990's). We even traveled a bit together, to the Milwaukee convention.

When I spoke to him yesterday, though, it was brief, snarky and critical of my contention. Actually, it wasn't even my contention, just one that he assumed I'd agree with, and he was wrong. None of that matters, of course, but I'm left with wondering this and that. That and this. Backward and forward.

The only message I have for people who dislike me for no apparent reason is a simple one that you've certainly heard before. It's a long message, but it comes down to mortality. I may be fixated on it, and my own failures, but it's not just I who is going to die after a meaningless life of pain and occassional happiness, it's you, too. It will almost certainly happen before you expect it to, as well. Your death, that is. Most people act surprised.

The next part is controversial, but I'm certain that when you die, nothing happens. There is nothing, and no soul or consciousness to take it all in (that's a happy accident). So you live for awhile, then you get sick or old or are hit by the 87 bus to Davis Square, then there is pain to one degree or another, then you're gone forever.

Kind of makes that argument we had about the Fist and Rose Manifesto seem silly. Then again, given that life is so short (or long, depending on perspective) why would you want to hang around a bunch of cunts you don't like?