Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Resolve

This morning, around 3ish, a nightmare had me flailing around like an epileptic gorilla. The "flailing" was about an inability to move or breath, and my subsequent upset. The "gorilla" part is an aesthetic judgment, based on my refusal to wear clothes to bed, and my hairiness. Those two things, combined, created quite a spectacle. I'm not sure where Nancy was, but for her sake I hope she wasn't in bed next to me. Poor woman.

Time for some New Year's Resolutions. The first one is easy, and may be implemented early. It's an obvious one, and the importance of it will be indicated via italics.

Wear clothes to bed.

That little pearl will help keep the bloom on the rose between Nancy and I. It will also make it less necessary to brush the crumbs off the bed before I climb in every night. When one is buck naked in bed, every microscopic speck and fleck grinds against your body. Where do they come from? I don't know. I just don't know. Life is a horror show. But pajamas will help keep rogue crumbs from tormenting me.

The next resolution may kill me. Fix the washing machine. The belt or the Johnson Rod or G-clamp or something is blown on that thing, and the result isn't pretty. Something magical happens in a washing machine. A level of cleanliness is achieved that no amount of sink-scrubbing or rock-beating can achieve.

The dryer works. I'm proud to say that I fixed it with a screwdriver, a file, and a lack of respect for the power of a 220 volt outlet.

Yeah.

Monday, December 27, 2010

Fremont Street Cats

The first major Nor'easter of the winter moved in last night, and is slowly pulling back up the coast to the Gulf of Maine and beyond. I've always enjoyed a snowstorm, particularly one as windy as this one. The coast took a major hit, with flooding in Salem, Revere and all the way down past Boston to the Cape. The damage in Winthrop did not look inconsequential. The waves at high tide must have been quite a sight.

At 5:30 this morning, I woke up, pulled my clothes on and promptly fed the dog. Little Annie. How I love her. Then I look out over the back stoop and couldn't see anything, with the snow caught in the screen. On went my shoes and out I went. A snow dune was pressed against the back door, and I shoveled it away, making a space for the feral cats in the neighborhood to find the fresh bowls of water and food that I will put out.

The wind is strong, with gusts up to 50 miles per hour, and snow is still coming down. The fresh pack revealed not a single cat print, or evidence of life of any kind. They're out there, huddled under stoops and cars. When they are able, they'll find food at my back door. For now, they are hiding from that merciless wind.

Why are there so many out there? A black cat come by frequently for food and attention. He is beautiful. There is a gray cat, and two tabby cats who also visit. I think of them often when the weather is like this, and the lack of consistency in human compassion disturbs me. Many people apparently see pet ownership as something very different from how I see it.

As soon as a dog or cat is welcomed into your home, he or she is bound to you. If it suffers in the cold, it's the owners fault. If it goes hungry, fights with other cats, has kittens...all the owners fault. I imagine that these people think of themselves as good, and caring, and loving to animals. How do they edit out this act of neglect?

Friday, December 24, 2010

Your Creamy, Fragrant Personality

French cheeses. You may not know this, or you may, but an analysis of your taste in moldy, salty, sticky, hard and soft expensive French cheeses can be very revealing. Personality and intelligence tests are all over the Internet, and with varying degrees of success they provide an objective assessment of who you are, really. These personality assessments are generally inaccurate. One has to turn to fromage to really unravel the mysteries of the eating and pooping machine that is you. Or rather, cut the rind off the fermier clacbitou of your mind and reveal the fragrant curd within. The funk of your personality.

Or something.

This unconventional method of assessing personality types, which can also predict the possibility of mental illness, was born in a humble cheese shop, Fromagerie Laurent Dubois, at 2 Rue de Tourmel in Paris. It was there that the proprieter, Monsieur Jean-Luc Sebastian, had an epiphany. While listening to an American tourist complain about the aroma of a Pont l'Eveque soft cheese, Jean-Luc thought to himself, "What a jerk, he's got all the personality of Roquefort!" It amused him to note the parallels. The cheese and the man smelled terrible, each could cause a listeria infection, both are nutty, have a pale, bumpy complexion, and both could compel a pregnant a woman to miscarry (Roquefort was banned in New Zealand and Australia for this fetal risk). The cheese and the man were both repulsive. Remarquable!

If not for a chance meeting with a world-renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Jean-Claude Antieri, this discovery would have led to nothing. According to Antieri, they met at the La Motte-Picquet-Grenelle Metro Station near Monsieur Sebastian's Fromagerie. In a recent interview with both Antieri and Sebastian, the cover story of In Cheese Times, Antieri recalls, "I was sitting just inside the doors of the first car when Jean-Luc entered the train. It was crowded, so he couldn't sit down. Instead, he stood right in front of me, holding the strap." It was then that the cheese hit the fan, so to speak. "A horrible smell filled the Metro car, and it was clearly coming from Jean-Luc." This irritated Dr. Antieri, who quipped,"What did you do, shit yourself? You should change that diaper, you rotten conichon!"This led to a rather nasty kerfuffle. When Jean-Luc shoved a copy of La Monde up Dr. Antieri's nose, the fight was over. The 39 year old cheese-maker had the muscles of a man who lifted big balls of cheese his whole life. It also helped that Dr. Antieri was 89 years old.

This led to an odd conversation. It was revealed to Antieri that nobody had shit their pants, that the smell of feces that permeated the Metro car was a slice of a small, fragrant cheese that Jean-Luc had in his pocket, the dreaded Epoisses. Strictly speaking, Jean-Luc had broken the law by taking the cheese onto the Metro, where it is banned because of the smell. The potent odor is that powerful and, well, shit-like.

These two became unlikely friends, and one day they got to talking over a bottle of Santa Margherita pinot grigio, and the rest is history. The Personnalité comme Mûrs Fromage Evaluation was born! 2 and a half years later, the cheese/personality assessment test was published in Cosmopolitan Magazine, under the title, "Are you a sexy enough cheese for your man-cracker?"

Who are you, if not an expensive cheese that smells like feet? Your mysteries are revealed through a series of questions. Your answers are translated into a cheese that best fits it, and then analyzed. Perhaps a sample question would help you see the wisdom and elegance of using obscure cheeses in this fashion. The following is question 252:

At the pet store, you witness a mother gerbil eating her tiny, pink babies and are disturbed. Your find yourself thinking...

A. Ah, Nature!
B. I'm going to be sick. Right here.
C. I hate nature.
D. I'm definitely not getting a gerbil.

Answer carefully.

I have taken the test (which has over 600 questions like that one) and the result was uncanny. My score is represented as "Brie-Le Venaco-Ewe-8." That translates to, "You linger in the mind and heart like the aftertaste of a Selles-Sur-Cher. Some people like you, but most avoid you like the plague. If you're not homeless and insane now, you will be eventually. There is a 54% chance that you will be known as the 'crazy cat guy' by neighbors, and an 84% chance that you're a boob. And like the sharp smell of apples from a Camembert Affine au Cidre de la Maison, you stink on ice."

How did you answer the test question above? It's only one question, but if you answered...

A-You're leaning towards a Brie de Meaux, which has a thick rind and creamy texture. Thus, You're defensive and hard to get to know, but if one takes the time, your anti-social personality disorder will shine!

B- Bleu de Bresse, a pulverized blue cheese covered in patches of blue mold. Thus, You are constantly afraid, suffer from an anxiety disorder, and hate yourself. If you're a woman, you may have a yeast infection

C- Bûcheron, which has a firm but creamy texture, and has a taste that resembles burnt hair and a lanolin nipple cream used by nursing mothers. Thus, you're a misanthrope, and possibly a pedophile with a tendency to get Nancy Sinatra tunes stuck in your head.

D- Kasseri, a salty,tangy, hard white cheese. If you chose this, you are as gay as Barney Frank.

It's that easy! Look for the complete test in Cosmo and find something out about yourself, you may be surprised. Send in your results, and until then, Bon appetite!

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Nancy and Darren and The Airing of Grievances

Christmas is an unkind holiday. If you happen to have a big family gathering planned, with Aunt Sophie's green bean casserole and Uncle Pete's blank stare, that is a hell of merely one variety. Perhaps you've decided to ignore Christmas, and go with Festivus instead. Wise move, but it's still not going to be pretty. I know because Nancy and I went with Festivus this year. A metal pole, from floor to ceiling, sits in the living room, next to the coffee table. Awkward spot, but there aren't many places to put what is basically a stripper pole.

Festivus Day is planned out as follows:

8am - Breakfast of Nebulous Guilt. Nancy and I will eat breakfast silently, except for polite conversation. We will look to our food, around the room, and at Annie and the cats. Occasionally, we will look at each other and smile wanly. We won't talk about that thing we did. Heaven's no, not that. Anything but that.

1pm - The Polishing of the Pole. The Festivus pole is cleaned with a little bit of Murphy's Oil Soap and then polished with Nevr-Dull metal polish. Brownies are made and eaten.

2pm - Quiet time.

3pm - The Movie of Tension and Fear. Time to watch a movie that only one of us really wants to see, with the other person feigning interest and growing more and more resentful. Original plans to watch The Godfather parts 1 and 2 were scrapped when Nancy threatened me with a screwdriver. Instead, we settled on something neither of us care to see, Terminator: Salvation. I'll be resented, though, as I like the rest of the movies in the series.

6pm- The Bitterly Disputed Chinese Food Order. This is when we spend an hour arguing about what to get. I'll insist on steamed Peking ravioli while Nancy will want to get something remotely healthy, like pea pods. What we will settle on has yet to be decided. It's better for the argument that way. More in keeping with Festivus. More organic.

7pm - The Airing of Grievances. Over dinner, we'll flip a coin to decide who will start. Nancy will most likely focus on the way I do laundry. That I don't hang clothes immediately coming out of the dryer, which makes them wrinkly again. I'll probably complain about the way Nancy writes epithets on my body when I'm asleep. For example, this morning I stumbled into the bathroom to pee, only to find the words, "World's Smallest Pecker" written in lipstick on my thigh, with an arrow pointed at, well, the world's smallest penis. That's not nice.

11pm - Feats of Strength. This is the first time Nancy and I will fight each other. I'm nervous, despite my clear weight advantage. Imagine Yoda fighting Emperor Palpatine, with the speed and the hopping and the ferocity. My strategy will be to bear hug her, but it won't be easy. Nancy is one tough monkey. We also have various things around the apartment to lift, if challenged to do so; A steamer trunk full of old car batteries, an old sewing machine still screwed into a table, an old picture-tube television, that sort of thing. Again, Nancy is not to be underestimated. After what she did to that Jehovah's Witness in Duluth, I'll never make that mistake again. Neither will that Jehovah's Witness. Poor bastard.

Midnight - Make-Up Sex Caroling. Nancy and I love each other with a white-hot intensity. We argue hard, and we make-up hard. We're passionate, crazy people. So we plan on making love loudly, with the hope of spreading Festivus cheer throughout the neighborhood. At least until the police arrive.

What have you got planned?

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Women and Anal Sex

People may be surprised to know that I wrote for a college newspaper, "Puck." The masthead for Puck read, "What fools these mortals be!" from A Midsummer Nights Dream. If you don't recall, Puck is a trickster, and jester for the King of the Fairies, Elton John. Ha! Just kidding, the Fairy King is Oberon. Puck is jerk, screwing with people left and right, although he is doing the bidding of his master, who is also a bit of a jerk. That doesn't get Puck off the hook, though. Ever since World War II, the "I was only following orders" defense just won't work.

Between 1994 and 1996, I wrote a sex advice column, like Dan Savage, except I didn't make fun of fat people like he does all the time. When writing a sex column it is wise to make a good first impression. That's good advice generally. So how do you make a good first impression in a sex advice column? Well, you have to write about anal sex, early and often. It helps to prove that you're not a prude, and that you got your freak on at some point. Albeit minor freakiness.

I'm bipolar, and people like me are get addicted to anything that makes us feel better, including sex. Methinks I've had an above average number of partners, particularly way back when I used cocaine. Sex was like saying hello at those parties. And after a breakdown, there isn't a lot to do when locked in a psychiatric ward, so there were some encounters there.

My first experience with anal sex was with an ex-girlfriend who wanted to fuck me with a strap-on dildo. The scene went like this...

Woman: Let's try something different.
Me: Like what, make homemade candles?

Woman: No, anal sex.

Me: No way. Nope. Why would I want to have sex with your bum when the greatest place in the world is inches away. Vagina trumps anus by...a lot.
Woman: I mean me in you, with my strap-on.
Me: That's not sweetening the deal, lovey.

Woman: Come on, for me.

Me: Oh, ok...sure.


Then we did it.

After I was released from the hospital with an inflatable ring to sit on, I made myself a promise. No more of that. But I did one more time, this time as the top. It wasn't fun there, either. But those experiences gave me some cred that I could use in my sex advice column for Puck. The title of that column was, That Thing You Think About: Sex-Master Advice. No kidding.

As I mentioned before, the first article had to be about anal sex, to show how open-minded and progressive I was. This is basically how my first article went:

Dear Sex-Master, My boyfriend insists that I will enjoy anal sex. I'm a virgin, and committed to remaining one until marriage (I'm afraid of it hurting). We do everything but intercourse, like blowjobs, and he goes down on me. Recently, he talked me into anal sex. It hurt like hell, and there was even a little blood. Why do men enjoy this? Is it me? Thanks in advance for the advice. Signed, Redbum.

Dear Redbum, Your boyfriend doesn't need to play with your asshole, since he is an asshole himself. Many men push for anal sex with their girlfriends, and insist that they are not gay. But avoiding a lovely, moist vagina to get to a tight, dry anus indicates to me that he'd be happier with a Friend of Dorothy. You've decided to avoid intercourse until marriage. Anal sex without a condom is dangerous, and he needs to back off if you don't want to have it. You mention that you're afraid of vaginal sex, that it will hurt and bleed when the hymen is broken. In my experience, this was never very painful for my partners. And friends of mine say it's not bad. However, to help allay your fears, try spreading your legs wide open and feeling inside for the hymen, which can be small and partially attached. You may not even have one, as it is often lost in childhood during play, like falling off a bike or on your bum. A detached hymen is even possible from just riding a bike or horse.
Hymens come in all shapes and sizes, so get to know your little gatekeeper. In rare cases, the hymen can be removed by a gynecologist if it is large and firmly attached. Most of the time, though, the erect penis will hit the hymen, tear it, and give you a bit of a jolt and maybe a little blood, but that's it. A friend of mine was so concerned about this that she used her dildo to crack her maidenhead, as it were. Nothing wrong with that! I hope you've found this helpful, my friend. And never let a man pressure you into anything you are not comfortable with. That's a sign of big trouble. And always use a condom.

That was my advice. One of the first articles I'd ever written! I'm so proud. Every so often, I'll dig another article up from Puck and post it. I think the advice I gave was sound.

Happy New Year, 1995

It doesn't bother me in the least that I've been forced to work on New Year's Eve. The call center I've worked at for 2 years sits at the end of a massive office park. At 5pm, most worker bees stream out of the buildings, all of structures are squat, single level bunkers. A few companies have taken the time to landscape a tiny section of their lot. Here and there a young tree pokes out of the soil, but are no more than 6 feet tall. Everything else is asphalt, glass, parked cars and those little offices, all alike.

As usual, my shift is from 11pm to 7am. For all I know, I'm the only person within a quarter mile, and I'm fond of that. That's a good thing, as people find me to be an odd specimen.

At 11pm, stroll into work, past the conference room and coffee pots. I'm looking for the worker on the 3pm to 11pm shift. She is alone now, and it is time for her to go home. She sees me, smiles, assembles her coffee mug and CD player with headphones, and passes me on the way out. "It's all yours! No calls tonight, not one...it's boring." she says cheerfully. My response is affable and banal, "Happy New Year, and make sure he wears a condom." She laughs, calls me an, "asshole," and is gone. Happy day. I like it boring.

A glance at the computer, and as she said, nothing pressing.

Twenty minutes later, I'm listening to Tchaikovsky's violin concerto very loudly, without headphones, and reading, "Pillars of the Earth" by Ken Follet. Not a single call, and I'm very happy that they are paying me for this, at time and a half. I'm drinking Jolt cola and eating pretzels.

It's now 11:50pm, and I call my family to wish them all a Happy New Year. After the call, I produce a bottle of Champagne from my book bag, twist off the wire cap, and fire the cork towards the drop ceiling, which was unwise. The cork sailed right on through, making a cork sized hole. Oh, well.

No calls came in, and I drank the whole bottle. Champagne goes down really smooth, and it makes me feel...good. That's what it did that night, except for my passing out between two cubicles.

As I slept my haziness off, I dreamed. In my dream, Nina Simone, Abe Lincoln, Gary Busey, and Nicholas Cage were all trapped in a jail cell. The jail was filling up with water. Across the room, a chimpanzee was standing on a filing cabinet, trying to stay dry. Somehow Busey and Cage convinced the chimpanzee to find the source of the flood, which was apparently a clogged toilet. It turned out to be a success, and the last thing I remember in the dream was Nina Simone shouting, "Mississippi, Goddamn!"

At around 4am, I wake up...still no calls. But a headache make me feel like my brain is a pinata at a Mexican kids birthday party.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Of Little People, Actors and Elves

Little people have been on my mind lately. Why? No, it's not a pre-version or fetish. It's because this time of year, the unemployment rate for little actors plummets. Tis the season to humiliate short people by forcing them to play elves in sitcoms, movies, and at the mall. Imagine that you're responsible for casting a commercial that features a hip, rapping elf. Sound ridiculous? It is. But that sure as hell doesn't mean it's not happening. Rapping elves move merchandise, apparently.

So, as a casting agent you pick through your "central casting" files and find a list of unemployed little people. Like Shindler's List, except it's with midgets and has nothing to do with the Holocaust. So, yeah, it's not like Shindler's List, not at all.

Anyway, you pick up the phone and start calling them, or you'd quit before doing that to another human being. I'd quit. But then, I'm a quitter.

It reminds me of a carnival I went to at the age of 12 (what doesn't?). Even at that young age, I'd already started to question the wisdom of climbing onto a hastily assembled contraption, maintained by carnies. Not good. No rides for me. So I did other carnival-type things, like embracing existential nihilism, eating heinous food, getting depressed, and looking down on a person who would get excited about a Lee Greenwood t-shirt. Or a poster featuring a bald eagle perched on a lightning bolt with an American flag waving in the background. Another carnival activity, naturally enough, is getting heckled by the aforementioned carnies and being conned into accepting an impossible challenge in the hopes of winning a stuffed monkey. Beyond that, there is only one thing left to do, and that is to check out the "freak show."

This particular carnival didn't have much in the way of "freaks," beyond the patrons, anyway. The only one I remember was, "Lobster Boy." A banner over a very large tent screamed that, whatever was inside, it would be the most amazing thing I ever set my peepers on. A boy-lobster hybrid. There was even a warning about getting too close. A pissed-off lobster boy could rip your face off.

So I payed a buck, strolled on in, and witnessed one of the most depressing spectacles ever. Ever. In the middle of that tent was a small fellow with a deformed arm, a hay bale to sit on, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He was twenty feet away from the crowd milling in a circle, once around and out the way we came in. I almost threw up. The man's dignity had been crushed like a stale Pall Mall long ago. He was about as dangerous as a goose down pillow. The world, however, had clearly had his way with him.

That brings me back to the use of little people as Christmas elves. Tony Cox, an actor who appeared in Bad Santa and Me, Myself and Irene, is currently appearing in at least two commercials, as a hip, black elf working for Santa. Oh, the humanity.

As far as I can tell, Cox is a fine actor. One could imagine him as "Othello," although the final scene would be awkward. Desdemona is a young woman, and Tony would have a hard time making it believable that he could smother her with a pillow. You could hire a ravishing little actress to play her, though, that would work. Unfortunately, more than one little person per play would be gimmicky.


Then there is Danny Woodburn, who played "Mickey Abbot" on Seinfeld. Compared to most little people parts, it was a good gig. He was somewhat fleshed out as a character, and is memorable for reasons not midget-related. Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld were also wise enough not to ignore his smallness. It was simply no more noteworthy than Newman's weight, George's baldness, or Kramer's tall hipster doofus.


The Robert DeNiro of little actors, however, is Peter Dinklage, who played the lead in the 2003 film "The Station Agent." Dinklage, who suffers from achondroplasia, plays an intelligent, slightly bitter man who is constantly being mocked by strangers. At best, he is treated as a curiosity. His plight makes you hate people. He is so used to people behaving like asses that he just puts it right out of his mind. The audience, however, is compelled to understand just how difficult it is to be different. It's a hard world on the little things, and little people.

Dinklage, who has a degree in drama from Bennington College in Vermont, is also an animal lover and vegetarian who once said, "I like animals, all animals. I wouldn't hurt a cat or a dog - or a chicken or a cow. And I wouldn't ask someone else to hurt them for me. That's why I'm a vegetarian."

If he ends up being forced to play an elf to pay the rent, it will be very upsetting.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Dark Regard And The Road Home

The raven is reaching a junction where a sandy path and a horse trail merge at a perpendicular angle. The former leads to the tree line and the dunes beyond, west to east. The dry, rocky soil of the other trail extends north and south along the shore. Most of the trees are low scrub pines, perhaps 15 feet tall near the dunes. They become taller as one travels west, into the hills where juniper and silver oak trees, and the occasional holly, grow increasingly common.

The large, black bird is caught in a gale fed by the sea. It loops upward, spins and then glides, finally finding a pine branch on which to rest. Sand is blowing in below, and a low fog has settled in just above the trees. There, in a stream of clear, bitter air the raven hops back and forth, calling out as it tries to hold on against the steady wind. A gust rocks the pines and they creak and groan.

On the sandy path below, a woman is quickly walking east, into the wind and toward the dunes. The smell of salt mingles with the sand that stings her eyes. Cape Cod Bay is just out of sight, cropped by those high dunes. She is wearing a black pea coat, black jeans, and gray sweater boots that run halfway up her calf. A hounds-tooth scarf is tucked into her coat, under her chin as she keeps her face fixed downward. Her hair is shoulder length and brown with an intrusion of white at the temple and down the back. Strands fly this way and that as she stops to look around. She appears to be somewhere between 45 to 55 years of age, perhaps a bit overweight, and not much more than 5 and a half feet tall.

The raven cocks his head and watches as the woman slows at the crossroad and exhales warm air onto her cold hands. "Caw, caw, caw!" the raven cries out and startles the woman. She protects her eyes with her right hand and looks upward. The two of them, the bird and the woman, consider each other for a moment. Black eyes high in the tree meet green eyes down below.

Those green eyes turn back downward for a second, but quickly go back up, and the eyes are locked again. This time, they gaze at each other for several minutes. The shroud of fog above the scene begins to sink, and the crisp air gives way to a gauzy blur. The wind has settled down a bit, and the November sky darkens slightly with the hidden sunset. It feels like a cold rain is on the way.

She checks her watch, an expensive looking Cartier, and turns back towards the west, walking slowly and trying to break the gaze of the black bird. She finally does, and kicks up some of the sand that ends just past the horse trail, her hands tucked into her pocket and her head down.

Those black eyes watch her as she passes beyond a juniper tree and quickly out of sight. The branch sways and mist envelops the bird and the perch on which it sits, and slowly the tree below. As it disappears, the wind picks up again, this time throwing grains of sand high into the trees, and it finally starts to rain.

The low, hoarse, "Caw, caw, caw!" of the raven can be heard, unseen now from the ground below. Then quiet except for the storm rolling in from Cape Cod Bay, over the dunes and westward.

Senate Republicans are Dangerous Assholes

Republicans currently serving in the United States Senate comprise the finest collection of giant assholes in the world outside of a pod of Blue Whales. Keep your attention focused on this crew of creeps, boobs, asses, douchebags and bastards. What a spectacle! Senate Democrats are no treat, and it is very fashionable these days to spread disdain in a non-partisan fashion. But a closer examination reveals just how ignorant and nasty is the GOP. They take corruption, fear-mongering and outright lying to the next level. Red-baiting has even been invoked, despite how extremely difficult it is to find a Red. They are Über-scum. But they are even worse than most Americans know.

Consider START (Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty) for a moment. In 1991, Presidents Gorbachev and Bush Sr. signed START in Moscow and enacted the most comprehensive and successful arms control treaty ever. The Senate voted 93-6 in favor of implementing the treaty. It successfully slashed the number of deployed nuclear weapons of the US and the Russian Federation.

Earlier this year, Russia and the United States agreed to continue the arms reduction treaty beyond START II. Presidents Obama and Medvedev signed the New START. Another milestone in the reduction of nuclear stockpiles.

This level of cooperation between the Russian Federation and the United States was not achieved easily. In the decade before the ratification of START (the 1980's), the arms race between these two nations radically increased the number of Inter-Continental Ballistic Missiles, bombers, and nuclear submarines. President Ronald Reagan further aggravated the world by insisting on the development of a missile defense system ("Star Wars"). But Reagan eventually woke up long enough to help lay the groundwork for START before he left office. This, plus radical changes in the former Soviet Union under the leadership of Gorbachev, as well as the end of the Cold War, set the stage for considerable progress.

START put an end to an arms race that was out of control and a threat to every living thing on Earth. Check out the numbers:

In 1990, Russian ICBMs and other missile programs were capable of delivering 9,420 nuclear warheads to the United States and NATO nations. A mere 9 years later, that number was reduced to 3,289. The United States responded in accordance with START requirements and cut her missile arsenal to 4,800, from a high of 8,300 ten years earlier.

That is impressive to me. Even more impressive is the New START, which will cut the number of nuclear missiles and warhead delivering bombers to 700, for each nation.

Now, send in the clowns, those wacky Republicans. The provisions of the new treaty, yet to be ratified by the Senate, are not controversial. The most talked about provision of New START is Article 5, which would prevent the US from converting ICBM stations into missile defense silos. This is something that the US never wanted to do, for reasons related to strategy and cost.

The ratification of New Start by the US Senate should be a no-brainer. It should have been passed already. There is nothing to argue about. Senator Ben Nelson, a Democrat from Nebraska, wrote earlier this week about the bipartisan support for the treaty:

Secretary Clinton and every living former secretary of state—nine in total-- have all publicly voiced their support. Five former secretaries of defense have endorsed the treaty. Seven former Strategic Command commanders have endorsed the treaty. As does STRATCOM, headquartered in my state of Nebraska, which oversees America's strategic nuclear, non-nuclear and cyber defenses. Also, it's important, I believe, that U.S. Strategic Command played a key role in the negotiating the treaty.

The position of Senate Republicans is best expressed by the Junior Senator from Tennessee (the man who took over for Bill Frist, remember him?), Bob Corker. On the Senate floor, Corker threatened to work with his Republican cohorts to kill New Start if Democrats dare to call for a vote to repeal "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." Sickening, but true. Like I said...total assholes. Here is part of what he said.

[the vote to repeal DADT] is poisoning the well on this debate, on something that's very, very important….I'm just hoping that saner minds will prevail and that these issues that have been brought forth that are absolutely partisan, political, issues, brought forth to basically accommodate activist groups around this country. I'm hoping that those will be taken down or else I don't think the future of the START treaty over the next several days is going to be successful, based on what I'm watching.

Take it in, my fellow Americans. How unscrupulous and low can a human being go? And it's not just Corker, it's McCain and many other Senate Republicans, as well. The GOP is using the universal desire to reduce the possibility of a nuclear holocaust, manifest in New START, in a political ploy to keep gays out of the military.

This is just one example of why Senate Republicans are worse than vermin, they may very well be insane. Notice that I haven't even mentioned the extension of the Bush tax cuts and unemployment insurance, or the proposed repeal of the Estate Tax, or the Republican desire to privatize Social Security. There is an overwhelming tidal wave of evidence that Republican Senators are, indeed, dangerous assholes.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Congo Bars

Ingredients:
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup shortening
2 1/4 cups packed brown sugar
3 eggs
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup chopped walnuts
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (180 degrees C).
2. Melt shortening, stir in brown sugar. Let cool.
3. Beat in the eggs.
4. Add dry ingredients.
5. Add chocolate chips, nuts and vanilla.
6. Pour in 10 x 15-inch pan and bake for 30 minutes. Cool and cut into squares.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

The frigid air finally arrived in New England a couple of weeks ago. The temperature dropped to 32 degrees even here in the city, with several nights in the teens. So Nancy, a veteran of heinous winters, started paying attention to the weather reports on the nightly news. "This is nothing." she said, and keeps saying. It takes a person from a very cold place to scoff at a Boston winter. And she does come from a very cold place. A place called, "Minnesota." You've heard of it.

The American Siberia. The Tundra. The Land of 10,000 Frozen Lakes and millions of stiff nipples. A place the Native Americans call, "Haudanotooki," which translates to, "Holy Shit It's Cold."

Okay, I can't back that last one up, but with temperatures routinely below zero, "lake effect" snow, and frozen pipes, Minnesota takes the frozen ice cream cake for cold.

But something else happened when Nancy watched the weather report. She laughed her ass off. So I said, "Lovey, what be so funny?" She told me that, here in Boston, we use very odd and amusing expressions to describe rain, wind, snow, cold, and all that...weathery stuff. Here is a list of the phrases that made my sweetheart laugh. Most of them could be used as euphemisms for sex.

1. "Fingers of moisture" for scattered showers.
2. We don't have flooded and snowed out "back roads," we have "tertiary roads."
3. A nor'easter described as a "wet bomb from the sea."
4. "Astronomical high tides." It just struck her as funny.
5. And, of course, "fat flakes." Which could be wet snow, or a weight loss center for homosexuals.
6. "Snowin' on the fish." A nor'easter that misses and goes out to sea.

Every night, I take a gander at Lake Superior, and reckon the location of Duluth, and Minnesota in general. As we amble on towards Christmas, I can't help but notice that the region has become a snowy Hellscape. Fresh water from the lake crashes onto the shore and covers whatever is nearby in ice. In Boston, we have salt water, which is kind enough to freeze you to death without making it hard to move.

In parts of Greater Boston, including where Nancy and I are huddled together for warmth, there is a wet, snowy problem that afflicts us more than even those lutefisk eatin', Canadian beer drinking, ice fishing denizens of Minnesota. That problem is parking. In Boston, when it snows enough to be shoveled, something happens. People turn tribal. Get violent. After a space is shoveled, something useless (a chair or perhaps a Republican) is propped up in place of the car when it leaves to prevent anyone else from taking the spot. If you are unwise enough to move a space holder and park in someone's pristine spot, well, kiss your tires goodbye. Boston is a very densely populated city, and parking spaces are prime real estate.

Other than that, I agree with Nancy. Minnesota is the Grand High Poo-Bah of Frozen Eyeballs.

Debs Speaks, So To Speak

Len Hart sent this film of Eugene V. Debs, very rarely seen. It features Debs, with an actor reading a speech he delivered in 1904. Enjoy.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Considered in Darkness

The shade is mostly drawn, but the light in the courtyard helps to guide me past the dresser and bookcase in the bedroom. It's almost 11pm, but that bulb is so very bright. My bed is in the far corner, in the darkness except for a streak of light several inches wide. It slips in between the shade and side of the window and cuts across the end table, the bed, and up the wall, almost to the ceiling.

I'm standing at the foot of the bed. My dog, Annie, is anticipating my actions and has already claimed a section of the mattress next to where I sleep, on the left side. One of my cats, Impy, is watching me from atop the bookcase. My eyes are adjusting to the gloom. First my pants come off, then my underwear and shirt. My socks come off carefully, as my feet are raw and bleeding a bit from picking at them the night before.

The room is cold, but a fan is spinning in the corner behind me and my naked body is in front of the stream of air. I've always slept with a fan blowing on me. Sometimes I wake up in the night, sweaty and terrified of being smothered, or of drowning. The air blowing over me, under that heavy blanket, is comforting.

For a moment, I enjoy the brisk breeze and the feeling of being naked. My hands run over my body, first to my face, which is hot, then to my breasts (made large by testosterone therapy), down to my thighs, which are cold. My right hand moves between my legs, and butterflies start to flutter in my stomach as I feel my empty, tight scrotum. There in the darkness, with only my eyes and my hands revealing my flaws, scars, and loose skin, I feel like a freak. Losing 250 pounds should be a source of pride, of confidence, but it's not. My skin hangs off of me. My chest constricts, my head is in a fog, and those butterflies keep winging about in my stomach. I'm having an anxiety attack.

Before I climb into bed, my fingers explore and press each side of my groin. I'm numb in those spots, from the orchiectomies; one in 2005 and one in 2007. There are also strange sensations in those creases. A dull ache that has been a constant source of irritation on the left side. Of tingling and itching somewhere under the numbness. Scratching the spot provides no relief. The nerve damage from the surgery has created a phantom tickle that can never be scratched.

I climb into bed and wrap a sheet around me, and then claim a portion of the blanket. Lorazepam, Lamictal and Tramadol have made me sleepy, and I'm pleased. Few things are more upsetting than insomnia, which always travels with racing thoughts, and they are always withering and unkind. Before I sleep tonight, an unwelcome memory or two will be considered. Uninvited thoughts will force their way in. Nothing can be done to stop this, and my anxiety continues to get worse.

The first memory, very clear and oft considered, is of speaking at the Socialist Party National Convention at the Hotel Wisconsin in 1992. The night before, the National Committee had asked me to talk about health care reform. At that moment, my confidence was high and I was in a fine mood. Earlier in the evening, I had spoken with Ann Rosenhaft, Kari Fischer, Quinn Brisben, and Frank Zeidler. The memory of Frank Zeidler, old but very much alive and vital, is burned into my memory. He was once the mayor of Milwaukee, the last Socialist to be elected as the mayor of a major American city. A "Sewer Socialist." We spoke often at that convention, but not as much as I would have liked.

The night before my presentation, I took notes on what to say. But again, my confidence was high, and I decided to speak off the cuff. And I knew every piece of legislation, and wanted the SPUSA to support Marty Russo's bill. To support the passage of specific legislation.

Every detail of that little speech seems to be whole and stored away in gray, to be considered and re-considered countless times. How well did I do? I really don't know. But I've since decided to be cruel, to mock myself. How many times since 1992 have I attacked myself for being pathetic, stupid and absurd for thinking I could speak to 100 intellectual activists in public? Perhaps 1,000. Perhaps 10,000. A lot.

My stomach is churning now, and my thoughts jump to 2003, when I received 15 sessions of "electric shock therapy." Headaches. There were headaches. And a warning that the sessions would destroy some of my memory. My mother died just before the ECT, but I don't remember her last moments. I'm told that I delivered the eulogy, but that memory is gone, too. In a random universe, some things are bound to feel like mercy. Everything moves about for reasons that are beyond me, out of understanding. Into the light, or hidden in darkness.

What a mercy it would be to forget all of it. To come into the world new again. Whole. To cut the weights loose and appreciate the night and the comfort of my warm bed, to be in my body and not get lost in my mind, in thoughts that mostly seem designed to destroy me. And in a way they are, through a dark place behind my eyes.

Other memories are crowding in now. A cruel thing said to an ex-girlfriend is hovering in the mist, waiting to be considered. Before my mind goes there, I think about suicide for a moment. They say that suicidal people are just trying to escape pain. The loss of memory could be a setting sun that would take the light away from things we don't care to see. Suicide is no longer an option for me, not since another very long night earlier this year. This is going to be a long night, as well, but sleep will cut me down before other thoughts and memories have a chance to be heard, seen, and felt. Another mercy I never take for granted.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Name Your Fear

My left arm is starting to ache, from the flu shot lovingly administered earlier today. The flu isn't really something I worry about, so I tried to say, "no." They would have none of it, and I was overcome with a vague fear of getting beaten up if I kept refusing to get it. An image of my twisted, mangled body came to mind, so I got it. Happy day.

Then the examination. The cold, rubbery hand of my physician poked at my flabby body. It roamed between my legs and checked for lumpiness. He's done that for years, since they took Earl and Rodney (my shriveled testicles) because they were probably going to develop cancer. Removing a testicle is tricky, so don't ever try to do it at home.

We joked about life and death, he told me to get blood labs done, and that was pretty much that. "You look really good." He said. "Well, so long as I look good." was my response.

When I was a kid, shots and blood drawing terrified me. Now, it doesn't bother me in the least. Every three weeks I have to give myself a testosterone shot in the ass, and every month b12 in the arm. As a child, little did I know that Santa would die when I grew up, and that life would show me many, many others things to keep me up at night, grinding my teeth. Here are my top five fears:

5. An ex showing up and claiming that I got her pregnant. Obviously, before Earl and Rodney shriveled and had to be taken out. One of my great comforts in life is knowing that no children rely on me for support. Lord have mercy!

4. A bug in my food, particularly a cockroach. Years ago, my flat was infested with roaches, and it was a traumatic experience for me. If I look down and see a bug in my Grape Nuts, I can't be held responsible for me subsequent actions. Which would most likely include screaming like a little girl, running out of my flat, waving my arms, dancing, and wailing like Glenn Beck.

3. "Locked-In Syndrome." A condition where you can no longer move your body, but can feel pain. This famously happened to French journalist Jean-Dominique Bauby. He wrote The Butterfly and the Diving Bell by communicating with his left eyelid, sort of like blinking in Morse code. It's a very rare neurological condition, thank Christ, but I live in fear of it happening to me. People have trouble putting up with me when I'm ambulatory. Who would wipe my ass? That brings me to...

2. Shitting my pants in public, particularly on a date. How humiliating can you get? No matter how charming and sexy one feels, a dropped load will immediately put an end to that. When I have a grand mal seizure (every 6 months or so), this doesn't happen, and that pleases me. The flopping and twitching I can live with, but not a shit grenade in my pants. Oh, Heaven's not that.

1. Heights. A common fear, but I keep thinking that I have this problem beaten. Every so often I'll get on a Ferris wheel or stand next to the edge of a tall house or building. Big mistake. Rubbery legs and tummy butterflies ensue. Oddly, it's not a fear of death...I don't know what the hell it is. And as everyone knows, carnies are not a well-adjusted lot. Tell them to let you off the roller coaster or Ferris wheel and they will laugh their little asses off. It's all they have, really.

What fears do you have, dear readers? A lot of people say, "clowns" but I can't really believe that. Don't get me wrong, clowns suck, but do people really fear them? And my friend Apocalypse Cow is terrified of horses, which I get. They can kick your head clean off.

Tell me what you fear!

Monday, December 13, 2010

Sid Forgot to Shovel the Metrodome Roof

The 10 acre, snow crusted Metrodome recently collapsed. Over 73 million have visited this sports temple since it opened in 1982. This was something of a revelation for me, as I had no idea Minneapolis was anywhere near that large. I've done some research and discovered a broad-stroke timeline that covers the major events in the Metrodome's storied history.

1982-They build the thing.
2010-It gets squashed like a big, fat bug, finally realizing Robert Cerny's vison.

I'd like to provide some advice for the 73 million people of Minneapolis, and it is this: Don't let these rich weasels push you around when it comes time to build another...dome. I'm from Boston, and lived here all my life. Here in Massachusetts, we love politics and sports. Some years ago, the owners of the Boston Red Sox bullied the Commonwealth into giving them some sweet cash to renovate our beloved Fenway Park. We told them to cram it.

They said some pretty upsetting things in response. A plan was kicked around to put a new baseball park/stadium in New Hampshire. New Hampshire! We knew that wasn't going to happen, what with New Hampshire being a shit-hole and everything. Then they threatened to move to Connecticut. We didn't balk. The general feel around here was, "Yeah, right."

And it payed off. Fenway Park is now a renovated ball park, with seats jammed into any place a seat could be, like on top of the left field wall ("The Green Monster"), put in all sorts of new luxury and media boxes, and generally spruced the place up.

Robert Kraft of the New England Patriots made the same threat. We scoffed. They threatened to move to Malta, and we didn't budge. No tax money for a corporate endeavor was given, but they built a great new stadium anyway. The roads around the stadium were improved with state moula, sure, but that's it.

Our hockey team, The Bruins, got a new Boston Garden, but not because of the Bruins. Because it's hockey, and hockey is ridiculous. It was more for the Celtics, and Elton John, or whomever else plays there.

Never let the capitalists boobs push you around, Minneapolitans! Oh, you'll need a new dome all right, what with the destruction of the old one. But when they start threatening to move to South Dakota or Haiti if the government doesn't cough up some tax breaks, or float some bonds, look 'em in the eye and say, "Go ahead, make my day, punks."

Saturday, December 11, 2010

A Little About Pipes

My last pipe was a hoot. Wherever it is, it's a briar Brebbia Sabbiata Billiard with an acrylic bit. Lost the damn thing after the bit broke. Someone probably found it, regarded it with disdain, and tossed it. Seagulls could be smoking it at the dump. There is a very small chance that some fellow pipe smoker found it and bought a new bit, and is enjoying it. Probably an old fuck, or some stoner who thinks it's a marijuana pipe.

If he or she could pry the broken portion of the acrylic bit out of the stem, find the metal "filter," and return it to glory, then, well, onward and upward.

There is an Indian fellow down at the tobacco store nearby. It's a thriving operation, although most of the people in there are playing the lottery and buying scratch tickets, the rubes. Then again, I'm smoking a pipe, so how can I look down at them. Again, I'm smoking a pipe, for Heaven's sake. The man at the tobacco store answered my question, "Do you have a cheap, used pipe?" by producing a massive bowl of dusty...bowls. The cheapest one was out of my league, and the worn-out used bits gave me the heebies. The last Sherlock to smoke that thing is probably flying the marble kite precisely because he smoked a pipe. Despite looking death in the face, I sought a cheaper pipe at the last place one would expect to find one, Walgreen's.

The woman in front of me at the check out line argued for 10 minutes about a coupon. No shit. The cliched scene wore on me. Every damn time I'm at Walgreen's some old bitty is furious about a coupon misunderstanding. Every single time. "I am a leaf upon the wind," I thought. "Serenity now," I thought. "I am as light as a slice of bread," I thought. It wasn't helping.

After the massive convention convened, I flipped a Kit Kat Dark on the counter (wonderful candy bar, that) and asked for the Dr. Grabow "Grand Duke" straight stem briar pipe with lacquered bowl, up next to a enormous bag of tobacco. It's impossible to relate just how out-of-place both items seem in that environment. Next time you're at a Walgreen's give it a gander. It's very odd. And I've tried the insanely cheap pipe tobacco before and it's like smoking a bowl of wet leaves, with an aftertaste of ass. It's not good.

A ballet ensued. I pointed, the clerk looked at my finger and tried to find what I was asking for, and I spoke as plainly as I could, without my usual mumbling. "The pipe right there, the one in the plastic bubble, yes, right there...no, yes, right there, yup, that's the one." The clerk was affable to begin with, but once he had the pipe in his hot little hand and rang it up, he screwed his face into a knot and thought very, very hard. "Man, the last person I saw with a pipe was...my grandfather, or Sherlock Holmes." He said it with a smile. I decided to be friendly in turn. After all, I was trying to buy a pipe at a Walgreen's. No chance of blending in.

"Yes, there aren't many of us left," I said a bit too loudly, "under 100, that is." The brief conversation ended with a single word, carefully chosen after much thought.

"Wow." he said.

In my 1993 Mercury Tracer outside, I shredded the package and examined the gift I gave to myself. The first thing that occurred to me was, "I'm such an asshole." I'm not sure why, but there you go. It looked so very new. The "instructions" informed me as to how one "breaks-in" a new pipe. My fat little fingers packed the bowl with Super Value "Butter Rum" and I smoked the fucking thing.

The first thing I noticed is that I got dizzy, and the draw was like...sucking a canary through a Bic pen. That's exactly what it was like. Exactly. I popped the bit off and inspected the guts of the pipe. A filter the size of a tampon was crammed into the stem, and it was already black. I sighed, pulled the filter out, and reassembled the Grand Duke. It drew wonderfully now. If I didn't want cancer causing smoke to fill my lungs, I wouldn't be smoking, now would I?

The bowl has been lovingly carbonized over the past week. The taste is getting better. At first it was like smoking a straw, then like smoking a straw with hair in it, now it smokes like a pipe. Yum!

Now, a little about pipe tobacco.

Friday, December 10, 2010

The Befouled Room

The living room is exquisite and clean, with a white carpet, couch and love seat. A fireplace blazes behind thick glass, burning gas and controlled by a dimmer switch nearby. The "logs" never burn, they are made of a ceramic fiber. There is a very large, thin, high-definition television set, placed into an enormous entertainment center. A stack of coasters is at my feet, on the coffee table. They are all there, in a little nest made precisely for that purpose. My coffee is steaming nearby, without a coaster under it. A copy of "PC Magazine" sits in the center of the table.

From where I sit, on the love seat, I can see into the kitchen easily, and beyond that into the dining room and foyer. The affect on me is easy to guess at, given my tiny flat. It all looks big, and expensive. There are no dust bunnies or cat toys on the floor, and for that reason I'm compelled to say that the house is a bit like a museum, it's that spotless to my eye.

To my left, the never-ending fire bakes the ceramic and glass and the heat provided is not inconsiderable. I move to my right. I'm a little hot. There is nothing on the television, and I can hear a clock ticking and the occasional gust outside. It's dark out, and not much brighter in here. Besides the fireplace, four dim light bulbs glow faintly in the kitchen. My thumbs set to fiddling.

Not a damn thing is happening, and that's what I think to myself, "Not a damn thing is happening." Time goes by, but like a dream. Thoughtlessly, except for the aforementioned consideration of the lack of activity. It feels like several hours go by, but something tells me that it has only been minutes. The clock is audibly marking time, but it travels in and out of my attention.

An end table to my right, made of reclaimed barn wood, is empty except for a lamp, a pipe, and a pipe ashtray. A lighter and pouch of "butter rum" pipe tobacco are in my pocket. I'm not sure how, but I know that they are there, just waiting for me to violate the air with plumes of smoke.

The air has waited long enough, and that's what I think to myself, "The air has waited long enough." The pipe is stuffed and in my hand directly after this thought, and I'm puffing and puffing away. The lighter goes back into my pocket, and I set upon keeping the thing alive. It's alive! It breathes smoke up and out of view, and can soon be seen invading the air under the lights in the kitchen. Like a drop of ink in a large fish tank, the cloud moves to every corner. I'm pleased to have something to do, and I'm relaxed. The copy of "PC Magazine" finds a way into my hand, and I'm flipping through articles that do not interest me in the least.

Silence and pleasing isolation. Puff, puff and puff.

Suddenly, the room bursts to life. The television is on, and someone is reporting something urgently. Could be the Super Bowl, or 9/11. It's supposed to be important and that is being related well, but I'm not picking up specifics. The room is bright now. The rug seems whiter, as do the couches. But now there are people walking around on that white rug and sitting and conversing on that white couch. Color is everywhere. A young lady just beyond the coffee table is wearing a dress that comes down almost to her knees. It's a "little black dress." She is holding a glass of red wine and laughing her ass off as she speaks to a handsome man, middle aged, who is wearing an awful "Cosby" sweater. He is holding a rust-colored drink that is certainly harder stuff than wine.

But that's not all, people are everywhere, and some are looking at me. I don't see the clothes they are wearing anymore, or the drinks (if any) in their hands. People are talking and some are looking at me, as if we are in the middle of a conversation and it is my time to speak. The kitchen and dining room and foyer are all out of view now. At some point, I realize music is playing loudly, and the television has been muted.

I can't quite place it. Wait...it's Cee lo Green's Fuck You.

Now, a little about pipes.

Thursday, December 09, 2010

Madame von Meck and Tchaikovsky

Nadezhda von Meck and Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky never spoke to each other, even as they lived as neighbors in Brajlovo, Russia. It is said that they did meet on two separate occasions, by accident, but didn't converse. The relationship between Madame von Meck and Tchaikovsky started in 1877, flourished, and then ended in 1890. By 1894, Meck and Tchaikovsky were both gone. Meck had died of tuberculosis in January of 1894, less than two months after Tchaikovsky had died from cholera, although that remains a controversial conclusion to this day. Many speculate that Tchaikovsky had committed suicide, urged to do so by friends who were concerned about rumors of his homosexuality. These "friends" were classmates from his days at the St. Petersburg School of Jurisprudence. Tchaikovsky had once studied to be an attorney.

The relationship between Meck and Tchaikovsky began formally, with Meck writing to the composer as an appreciator of his work. This quickly developed into an affectionate friendship, and Meck (a woman of great wealth in this period) became a patroness of Tchaikovsky. She considered him a, "great friend, " and they corresponded often.

There are currently 1203 known letters in existence; 768 written by the composer and 435 by Meck. I've read all the letters, and in my opinion, these two people loved each other. She comforted the composer during his many periods of melancholy, and Tchaikovsky responded with love and affection. In 1878, Tchaikovsky wrote his 4th Symphony ( a piece that left a considerable impression on me) and dedicated it to his, "best friend," to Madame von Meck.

If you're interested, there are many books about this relationship. I'm posting video of the first movement his 4th symphony. Enjoy.

Wednesday, December 08, 2010

Imagine a Bag of Corn Chips

I was trying to write something funny tonight. Something about socks and printer ink. At some point, though, melancholy set in. Maybe it's "Sunset Boulevard" on TCM, or John Lennon's, "Imagine." Earlier tonight I had a seizure that set the room rolling back and forth, cold sweats, and blinking lights. Like Times Square breaking to pieces during an earthquake. But the bulbs never broke. They settled into the rubble burning bright.

It's passing now, so I'm going to take a couple of pain pills, snack on corn chips, and watch "Sid and Nancy" with Nancy.

They didn't have to shoot John Lennon, did they? No, they didn't. Chapman didn't. The world is jam-packed with awfulness, perpetrated by people who didn't have a reason. Not one that satisfies anyone but them. Earlier today, a news report informed me of Chapman's living situation for the last 30 years. Attica. Somehow it doesn't satisfy, does it? He could be the King of Siam for all I care, it still wouldn't bring Mr. John Lennon back.

I'm of a mind to post a video of what I consider to be the greatest song of the 20th century (and the the first 10 years of the 21st). Cheers.

Saturday, December 04, 2010

Your Eyes as a Mirror

Warren wrote and spoke and moved, and lived, entirely for himself. Every act was self-serving, and every conversation (every single one!) was deprived of a life of its own, and was forced back to himself. And he forced it vigorously. Certainly no one else would do it for him. You couldn't converse with him without talking about him. At 40 years of age he had become a master, well-practiced and efficient, at sucking the oxygen out of a room.

Not a bad looking fellow, well-dressed and quick with a smile, he attracted a bit of attention at social gatherings. From a distance, he appeared to be engaging and earnest, almost passionate. And in a way he was, but only about his opinions, experiences, observations, thoughts and actions. His own cheerleader, before, during and after the game. A booster club. A Ladies' Auxiliary. An appreciation society.

If you study a thing, the thing changes. If you study a person, the person changes. The thing changes in the mind of the person doing the studying. But a person changes in two minds. If you care enough to consider a fellow like Warren, he is best considered obliquely. From an angle, you could remove yourself from the spectacle of narcissism. But if you spoke to him directly, he would mercilessly hold you there. The outstretched hand of a beggar. He made you feel not only rude, but cruel, if you didn't let him use you. He mistook pity for the attention of an inquiring mind.

There is a nurturing sort of person, almost always a woman, who feels the need to comfort men like Warren, by pretending to find them fascinating. He took and they gave. And gave and gave until there was nothing left to give. The tit was sucked dry. Eventually, these women would withdraw out of a need for self-preservation. As instinctual an impulse as running from a fire.

He thought of these emotional wet nurses as lovers. Charity was mistaken for commerce. Over time, the list of women grew. None of them stayed with him for more than a year or two at most. The absence of one created a void that drew another.

He would never know that no one ever loved him. Not the way he thought, anyway.

Friday, December 03, 2010

Double Clutch

The film, "Knock On Any Door" was on the television, and the room began to sway. The edge of the couch became very important, and I held onto it. Bits of pipe tobacco that I had spilled seemed to float in my mind, creating the impression that I was looking beyond them to the floor below. A space opened up. My eyes were turned downward, and I was afraid to look up for fear of losing my balance and falling off the couch. Distance became very hard to reckon. The brown flecks moved this way and that, like looking down on a cloud of confetti from a great height. But those little bits never settled. No gravity pulled them down, and no wind stirred them. They were just there, those machine cut scraps of tobacco were hovering, fixed in an impossible place. The floor seemed so damned far away, and I gripped the hand rest of the couch as hard as I could.

The silver aluminum mullions of the Empire State Building were pierced by a B-25, lost in the fog. The skyscraper shook, but I held fast. The sound of one of the plane's engines breaking loose and falling into an elevator shaft made me sick to my stomach. Everything shook. Fantastic distances separated everything, the planes and the buildings and the people and the steam pouring from a manhole cover 100 floors below. But all those things gathered together, like bits of driftwood that come together in the sea. All that empty space, but they came together. The sea met the city and they both met the sky, like a T-square. If I could have looked west as well as east, land and sea and the streets and buildings would have merged hundreds of feet below, then shot upward to where I was standing, like a geyser or stalagmite. But I couldn't see west, just horizon down and up through me to the sky.

The stairs were dusty, and speckled with little dried spots of coffee. With cream and sugar. My left hand was flat against the wall, and my right held the banister. Upward I climbed, carefully avoiding the acrylic painting of flowers set behind a gold frame, purchased at a flea market or Salvation Army store. I couldn't remember, but it cost no more than $5. I'd brushed it off the wall before, and didn't want to do it again. My eyes were still set downward. To look up the stairs or to the left or right would have sent me spinning. Fourteen stairs to the top, the second seven were a blur.

A faux antique umbrella stand on the landing. "Paris, 1889," but the second floor was as wide as the first. My neighbor scolded her child, Jay, I could hear her through the wall. A muffle, but the tone was stern and familiar. She has been my neighbor for years, and I saw her son so often, playing alone outside in the courtyard, that he never seemed to age. But he must be 10 now. I've known him for half his life. I spoke softly to myself, although I didn't feel like I was in the room, "Listen to your mother, kid." But I knew he would. A single mother and her child, from another country. American children run roughshod over their parents. But Jay didn't need to hear from his mother twice. All was quiet again.

The second floor landing and my sweaty, cold forehead met. It was soothing. My feet rested on the tail end of that B-25, allowing me to rest for a moment. The sky was spinning above me, but I was comfortably below it now. A fog settled in, and it brought some peace with it. So tired. So weak. Concealed in mist and alone in my flat, the seizure could now be gauged without becoming self-conscious. My exhausted unease was safe from discovery. I would sleep now, deeply and without a dream or nightmare to ruin it. The sky and the sea and the stairs and that flower painting and Jay and the fog-lost B-25 met within me and rose. Moving, but not going anywhere. A rumor of an invisible central point brought everything together.