Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Of Lady Slippers and Magic Bullets

A previous comment made by Apocalypse Cow deserves a modicum of attention, as I agree with him so heartily. The comment was about lawns, and why people are so crazy about killing crabgrass and dandelions. He doesn't get it, and neither do I. The act of killing one plant and then spending big money to bring in other plants, or use chemicals, is so odd. Now that it is Spring, I welcome anything and everything alive to grow wild and with vigor. That goes for dandelions, too, which are beautiful and arrive early. Indeed, the very first sign of Spring I remember this year is a dandelion poking through a crack in the concrete just outside my flat. It put me in a better mood. After months of a lifeless, shit brown landscape (or white with snow), every bit of flora is like an affirmation.

So leave the dandelions and crabgrass alone. Instead of green lawns, we could have yards from coast to coast growing wild. No two yards would be exactly alike. You could have flowers and blueberry bushes and an assortment of lady-slippers. Some tall grass, which is quite something to see on a windy day, may fill in here or there. It won't look as anti-septic as lawn and lawn lined up through the heart of an entire continent. But that's the idea, of course.

On another note, I just heard received a frantic call from a friend who called to tell me that Arlen Specter of Pennsylvania, a powerful Republican up until now, is now becoming a Democrat! These are happy times for those of us anywhere on the Left. Le sigh.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Flowers of El Salvador

Earlier today I went to a local church which provides a food pantry for the poor of my city. Given that I am one of the poor of my city, I got in line and waited about an hour to get some coffee, mainly, and cereal. There is always a can of Spaghettio's in the bag, and it won't get eaten unless there is some serious starvation at hand. Usually I pass it on to single mothers who have kids who'll eat anything, even Spaghettio's.

My mind wandered quite a bit as I waited for the red door to open. The woman next to me insisted on talking about the flora of her home, El Salvador, and how people "around here" don't know something fundamental about trees and flowers; that if you water them, and it's warm, they will do just fine. It was a strangely comforting assertion. Especially with so many people busily dropping expensive chemicals on their lawn to make it radioactive green. Soon she pointed out the blooming yellow forsythia, the red buds on a crab apple tree, and the green strands of a weeping willow. In her hand was a thin branch, about a foot long, with tiny white flowers. She sniffed it perhaps 20 times.

The woman behind me in line was talking loudly to her friend about "Jim." Apparently, Jim is a pain in the ass and a danger to others. "You can't let him drive to the Christening for Christ's sake! The last time he drove he was on the wrong side of the highway! Take the distributor cap out of the car, and the spark plugs if you have to," was her impassioned plea to the dip standing next to her. She sold me. Although both the cap and the plugs are probably overkill. Either one will do the trick. The Dip was dressed like, well, a dip. He has sweatpants on and an undershirt with some sort of missive printed on the front. It looked like he fell down a lot. He was not a good-looking fellow. There was a kind moment when the woman told The Dip that he should wear his only suit to the Christening. "Everyone would just die," she said, "you look so good in that." I couldn't see it, but that's love for you. To her, he was Prince Charming in that suit. To everyone else, a disheveled dip.

The whole affair spewed a fog of melancholy over me. But over what? The strong correlation between poverty and coarseness? The understated dignity of an old lady thinking of the flowers of her homeland? I think perhaps more the former.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

How To Make Red Dots On Your Kisser

New Crazy and Texas

I'm writing today's missive from The Green Room at the House of Four Cats. There haven't been many postings of late, and I wonder if a high dose of a new psychiatric drug isn't to blame. Not that it matters. The Good Ship Wonder-Nut.

This is my 500th post, which means I get a free sub at Captain Nemo's Pizzeria on Broadway in Cambridge. If I weren't so pre-occupied with suicide, death in general, self injury, sex, and a deep and unabiding concern about my sanity than I might have a witty, or even funny, observation. Instead, a story or two I will relate.

This has never happened to me before, but every so often tinges of a deeper mental illness manifest and frighten. Paranoia regarding the people I love, my neighbors, my family and crowds. Sometimes I'm convinced that everyone I know is talking about me, mocking me. That I have no firm place in the minds of anyone, and that I don't exist. Sometimes I feel as if I'm living in a dream, or alternate universe. The "real" me is still working, has his MA, perhaps, and is normal.

Most of the time, however, I tool around the flat and make love to Linda and clean the flat and read and do normal things, feeling pretty normal when I do them. The weed helps, too.

I need to mention Texas in this post. Odd, perhaps, but the governor of that shithole state, Rick Perry, is speaking of seceding from the USA. Apparently 25% of Texans, so upset about Obama and the $500 million in aid he wants to give Texas, feel the need to go to war.

Bring 'em on, as Bush would say. Texas is where John F. Kennedy was shot, it's Africa hot, people are generally functionally retarded, Bush lives and clears brush, and everyone has a superiority complex that masks how ridiculous they feel deep-fat frying a whole turkey in an old oil drum. They have to go. Bye bye, Texas, we hardly knew ye.

Well, we knew ye pretty well and we didn't like you. Buncha cowboy, homophobic cunts.

Tomorrow, it's post 501!