The Elegent Podiatrist

When I was a kid, I had an ingrown toenail. I went to a podiatrists, but only after it was infected and terribly painful. After I was treated, I got another ingrown nail on my other big toe. It was treated, but then I got another ingrown nail in my other toe. And back and forth it went. They were pure agony. When I was 13, a "friend" of mine, a prick named Danny Howell, thought it would be funny to stomp on one. I nearly blacked out from the pain.

I hope he's out there up to his ass in debt, with 5 smartass kids and a wife who cheats on him.

Anyway, the podiatrist decided to kill the nerve on each big toe, since I seemed to have a bizarre inclination towards the problem. Now, my big toes don't grow on one side, they sort of grow on a slant. It's all true.

There's a lot to be said for the elegance of that solution. Of just killing the nerve that was causing the problem. These days, I find myself unbearably lonely as a result of successfully isolating myself. Virtually all of my problems exist in my head, in the form of depression, self-loathing, anxiety, insomnia, suicidal ideation, and all that jazz. More than anything else, I would like to kill the nerve that is causing me so much pain. The bloody, pus-oozing injury is not in my sock this time, it is atop my shoulders. And if Danny Howell were here, I'm sure he'd stomp on my head to make it worse.

Just a snip at the base of my brain, or perhaps an old-fashioned lobotomy, and suddenly I'd be free of this nonsense. The thoughts of death and feelings of worthlessness would end. The branch would break, and down would come baby, cradle and all. There is nothing wrong with being alone and pathetic if you're not around to judge yourself that way. The world as it is gets sifted through my brain, and I'm left with a series of images, expressions, and thoughts that lead to a devestating conclusion. Whispered in my ear, that assessment becomes a mantra, "Your life has no meaning, you suffer alone."

Does Dignity Have Cookies?

As many of you know, and many of you don't, I had a little tangle with the law (also known as, "The Man") a couple of years ago. I'm not comfortable with sharing the details, but it had something to do with an unwise act with a public telephone. Despite my having done it, I adamantly maintain my innocence. Regardless of that, I've been on probation for a couple of years now. As of April 2006, that will be over and I won't have to report to a probation officer once a month.

It will be a bittersweet time for me, as I've developed an affinity for being watched by the criminal justice system. Well, perhaps not, but there is something so degrading about the whole affair that I feel as if it is good training for the police state currently under construction by the Bush Administration. And every month, over the past two years, I have used my cable bill as proof of my current address. I can't help by be amused that my parole officer knows that I rented, "Devil's Rejects" and "March of the Penguins" in the same week. He had to have noticed that on my bill, I know I did. It compelled me into a mode of deep introspection that has yet to abate.

But I don't really care what my parole officer thinks of my taste in movies. That is a moon-cast shadow compared to the anxiety and concern I feel regarding the attempt by some in the government to find out what people like myself are searching for on Google. Yes, the scope of the government's request is very limited, mainly to children and pornography. But it's only a matter of time before They are monitoring what each and every one of us are doing on the Internet. I don't like that, because some of the stuff I do on the 'net isn't exactly a source of pride. How can I defend my searching for "Al-Jazeera" one day, and the chick who plays the receptionist on, "The Office" the next?

And that is just scratching the surface. I'm not sure why, but over the years I've searched for fart noises, porno bloopers, gambling, Edith Piaf, marijuana recipes, ex girlfriends, and fainting goats.

And again, we're just scratching the surface.

I'm getting ahead of myself, as Google is the least of my concerns when it comes to personal privacy and civil liberties. The White House (actually, the people in it) have told us not to worry, that only overseas phone calls are possibly being tapped by the NSA. I don't know why that is supposed to make me relax. I have friends in France, England, and Canada. How can I rail against the Bush Regime with my friends across the sea, particularly France? I just know that they're bugging my calls to France. I'm just glad that I don't know anyone in Pakistan. Although my Russian friend who now lives in London did spend some time in Pakistan. Is it legal to tap his phone calls to the US, given that he spent some time in the place that Osama bin Laden probably calls home? I don't know...I don't think anyone does, as "legal" isn't a consideration.

I fuck around with one phone and I get two years probation. Bush fucks around with thousands of phones, and we're supposed to thank him for protecting us. I thought the rule of law applied to everyone in our fair republic? Apparently not...it's good to be the King!

Chocolate Hushpuppy Hot-Almond Nugget

What word would best describe the opposite of surprise? Whatever the word, and whatever the feeling, I felt that earlier tonight when I made myself a little snack to eat. It was the sort of thing you put together when two factors are at work. The first is hunger and the second is that lack of anything to eat in my apartment. A strong desire for something, combined with an inability to sate that desire, can lead to frustration and the perpetration of activities better left undone. I know, for tonight I created the, "Chocolate Hushpuppy Hot-Almond Nugget."

It reads worse that it is, for it is not a euphamism for a turd. It's actually a monstrosity I cooked up in the microwave about an hour ago, using a cold hushpuppy and a piece of a chocolate bar with almonds. My father made a batch of hushpuppies earlier in the evening, out of a mix sent up from my sister, who lives in North Carolina. We don't really have hushpuppy mix around Boston, but I suspect that it wouldn't be too difficult to whip-up. I'm not sure why he suddenly got the urge to make a batch of hushpuppies, or why he had the urge to put cinnamon in them (he was rebuffed), but there they were, in all their crusty glory.

And I enjoyed them. But they somehow didn't hit the spot. I'm a fat man, so I have a lot of spots to hit. Earlier in the day, I bought a Hershy's bar with almonds, to fill a spot that apparently needed filling at the time. But as the clock ticked towards 9pm, I felt a hunger that the chocolate bar nor the hushpuppies could sate. For reasons that are unclear to me, I thought that cramming a piece of chocolate into a hushpuppy and applying heat would create a taste sensation.

It didn't. With my fat, oily fingers, I made one out of two over the kitchen sink. It's important to mention that my fingers, while always fat, are not usually oily. Doing surgery on a deep-fat fried ball of corn meal made them that way. Eating shit like this is what made my fingers fat, though. But if they weren't fat they wouldn't match the rest of me. Anyway, I dropped this thing in the microwave for 10 seconds.

Why would I make such a thing? Have I no self-respect? Is this how my mind works? Trying to figure out unique ways of cramming things into other things to make them more appetizing? As I stood in my kitchen holding a hot hushpuppy filled with chocolate, and possibly an almond, I had an epiphany, sort of. This moment of profound realization wasn't coupled with any deeper understanding of anything. There was no truth revealed, only an awareness that something very important was happening. Moments like that are really fucking frustrating. All the emotional currency of a guiding revelation, but no actual revelation.

So I ate it, and there was an almond, and I saw that it was good. It certainly wasn't great, but it was better than a sharp stick in my eye. But it did make me sick. And in that moment of sickness, I told myself to stop eating such ungodly crap. Now that I look back on the events of the evening, from the buying of the candy bar and the cooking of the hushpuppies, to the (inevitable?) creation of the CHHAN, I ask myself, "What lessons have I learned?"

None, apparently, as I'm about to go make another one. Mazel tov!

God is Hoggin' the Dip

This morning I found myself watching The 700 Club on one of those religious channels available via cable, like Trinity Broadcasting Network and C-Span. The man on the show was telling me that I'm a terrible sinner, and that I'm doomed without God. If I recognize and seek forgiveness for this sin, apparently, I can gain entrance into Heaven, which by all accounts is quite a nice place to be. If I don't, I'll be sent to a place that is a lot like Revere Beach in August. A mercilessly hot place full of hideous, grotesque abominations. And there will be sand in my crack.

This religious show had me asking myself why God is so eager to punish people. Not only does He set up a very, very long list of sinful activities (coveting!), but we all carry the weight of Original Sin. Because of that minor apple-picking incident decades ago, I'm going to be denied access to paradise and tortured forever if I don't kiss some serious ass.

We all know that most people are not getting into Heaven. A weekend in New Jersey will tell you that. You've already excuded 5/6th of the world's population when you punish non-Christians. And even among Christians, only a very small number of them are prostrate enough to get in.

So God has a party and lets only a few people in. Then he hogs the dip. Meanwhile, the rest of us burn for eternity because our neighbor had a really hot wife.

Triskaidekaphobia Awareness Day

This is just a reminder that tomorrow is Friday the 13th. I'm a little frightened of Friday the 13th, and the number 13 in general. It seems right that a day should be set aside for those suffering from this far from debilitating illness. Tomorrow should be that day, a day for understanding and compassion and sympathy.

Wouldn't that be ironic? Friday the 13th as "Triskaidekaphobia Day?" Big fuckin' ha ha. How droll. Just so damn witty you could jam a hot penny between your toes.

So I'll try like hell to forget that tomorrow is the 13th, but that will ensure that I'll be acutely aware of the date all day.

Happy Triskaidekaphobia Day!