Blitzed By Wolf

Check out the comments section of my last post to see a fine example of Republican spin. You can read what Boehner said in the CNN transcript. Blitzer and everyone else interpreted his comments as I did, and John Kerry and Howard Dean demanded an apology. Countless newspaper columnists and editorial boards around the country correctly understood Boehner's insanely insensitive remarks.

But Republicans can't accept reality, so they spin their collective asses off. Part of the spin process is to point the finger at the person reporting the story and accuse him or her of being a liar, or delusional. The fact is that Wolf Blitzer not only mentioned troop casualties in his question, but he emphasized them as part of the cost of the Iraq war.

When the shit hit the fan after House Minority Leader Boehner's callous remark the word went out from the Republican propaganda machine. They tried to argue that he didn't hear Blitzer include troop deaths as part of the cost of the war, and that he was only talking about money.

Give me a break. Republicans are endlessly trying to manufacture an alternate reality and then force us all to accept it. All one has to do is read the question, or watch the video. You can find it here, along with John Kerry's excellent commentary.

The Tao of being a Republican: Say something callous and stupid and pretend it wasn't said and/or do something stupid and pretend it never happened or was done by someone else. Repeat over and over and over again.

Unlike The Fonz (nice glasses and jacket) who left the last comment, I do not maintain a political 'blog. I write about everything here, and I don't take my marching orders from any Democrat. You said it yourself, Fonzie, I'm a socialist. Actually, I'm a capital "S" Socialist, as in I'm a member of the Socialist Party USA. My dues are current. You clearly drink the Republican Kool-Aid. At least some bloggers out there had the balls, or ovaries, to attempt to justify Boehner's comments by arguing that the cost in lives has been worth it. Instead, Fonzie sticks his fingers in his ears and closes his eyes and pathetically recites the Republican Central Committee mantra.

Donne Too Soon

Good day to all the brainy, beautiful and stylish readers of my little 'blog. It's New Year's Eve and there is great potential for mischief, drug abuse and sex for tonight, which is how I like to celebrate taking one step closer to the grave; either my birthday or New Year's. Of course, every day is a step closer to the horizontal underground, but one can't celebrate every day, now can one.

Nope, this is special. It's a great opportunity to reflect on the past year, particularly to mourn those who didn't make it. First and foremost on my mind is Kurt Vonnegut. We never met, yet I feel his absence as if a member of my family died. But he had a good life, and not one that ended while still young. A lot of young people bought it in 2007, long before they had to. The 899 American servicemen and women who died in Iraq come to mind. I'm reminded of what House Minority Leader John Boehner (R-OH) said about those deaths. He referred to the 3,774 deaths in Iraq as an "investment" and a "small price if we're able to stop al Qaeda." Remarks like that make me hate Republicans. It's not just the callousness itself, or the way he tried to play down all those deaths and injuries for political reasons. No, what really gets under my skin is the reference to stopping al Qaeda. Iraq, everyone should know by now, had nothing to do with al Qaeda. Boehner knows this, but he continues to lie anyway. Sunni and Shia violence is one major cause, as is the Taliban in Afghanistan. And many of the insurgents are fighting against the US occupation of Iraq. So the men and women who died over there weren't fighting the people who were responsible for 9/11. They were over there fighting because Bush lied his ass off to get is into Iraq. Boehner and countless other dipshits use fear to manipulate reality...it's mainly a Republican thing.

Anyway, enough about that. Actually, one more thing. I was watching the news yesterday and my father told me about something that General David H. Petraeus (the man in charge of all coalition forces) said when asked about progress in Iraq. He quoted John Donne, the poet, and said, "Any man's death diminishes me." That comes from Donne's Meditation XVII. The paragraph goes as follows:

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

My father and I are both romantics, which can be an exhausting way to go through life, but it's a price worth paying. We all have plenty of time to be dead after we die. My father was so moved in the telling of this story that he wept. We're both inclined to let a well-crafted poem get to us, especially the works of Longfellow and Donne. It was a profoundly moving and powerful (and beautiful) thing for the general to have said.

So I suppose it would be appropriate for me to post my New Year's resolution, since part of this time of year is looking back, but the other part is looking forward. I have two resolutions. The first one is to kick my addiction to painkillers like Vicodin, which will be brutally hard, but for many reasons it needs to be done. My second resolution is to get off my ass and visit Prince Edward Island, Canada, where my grandmother once owned a farm. I've never been up there at all.

Finally, a message to Chica. I've tried Risperdal and had a very unpleasant experience; aches and pains and a general feeling like I had influenza. But people respond very differently.

Happy New Year Everyone!

Bag of Tricks

In a few hours time, I'll be heading into the mental health center in Cambridge to see my psychiatrist. He and I get along very well, but I still dread every meeting. The process is humiliating to me, but I made my peace with that a long time ago. I'm sick, and there's a price to be had for getting help. That price is that I have to be honest, and let myself be guided by his better judgment. This requires trust, and it must be present in two ways.

Of primary importance is that I trust him not to mock me. Simply put, I must be able to trust his professionalism and intellect. If he were to ever laugh at my pain there is a small chance that I would kill him, or at least hurt him, and I'm strongly inclined towards a peaceful disposition. But a person has limits, and I'm in an awful lot of pain, manifest as paranoia, anxiety, depression, mania and self-loathing.

Equally important is my trust in his abilities. I have to know that he is good at what he does, otherwise I can't take him seriously. And part of being good at what you do when you're a doctor is having scruples and being compassionate.

In every sense, I trust him, which is why I've been his patient for nearly a decade.

Back in 1998, after my first suicide attempt, I told a psychiatrist in a mental hospital that I didn't appreciate the way he spoke to his patients, including me (it was in group). I was rather worked up, and I told the fellow that, "If I had no problem trying to kill myself, why would I hesitate to stick a knife in a cruel, arrogant prick like you?" That got me a very long talking to by another staff psychiatrist. And it probably kept me in the locked hospital for a few more days.

I detest cruelty, especially within a hospital context where people are struggling to get better.

Anyway, I have a lot to talk about with my psychiatrist today. Practically, of greatest concern is the prospect of starting a new anti-psychotic medication; I'm thinking of Zyprexa or Seroquel. Either way, I may find a modicum of peace, but at a price. Neither one of these drugs are really new to me, I just haven't touched them for at least a couple of years. My file is like the Tokyo telephone book; very thick. I've tried just about every single psychiatric medication at one time or another, and found a few (like lithium carbonate) which work.

Must go now. More later.

The Little Black Keebler Elf...Complete With Cookies

This morning finds me feeling terrible, but in good spirits. Another December has past, and New Year's Eve is on the horizon, which is an enjoyable holiday. You take a moment to look back, then forward, perhaps make a resolution that you'll almost certainly break, and then have Chinese food and do some drugs while waiting patiently for the big ball to drop. It's almost as much fun as Halloween.

Unfortunately, New Year's Day marks the beginning of the long, interminable Purgatory between the cold, short days of Winter and the long, green days of Spring. January through April in New England is a depressing affair. It's worth it to live here, though. When leaves and grass begin to reappear, and the forsythia pop out with their canary yellow flowers, life actually seems like it's good for awhile. Before we get there, however, we have this "waiting room of the world" as C.S. Lewis put it. I actually like the cold, but the early sunset, that's the killer.

My favorite moment, by far, of this holiday season was last week when my beloved Linda and I went to Governor Deval Patrick's First Annual Holiday Ball at the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel, where I used to work as a "Houseman." That's the person who cleans and helps get guests whatever they want, at any hour of the day or night. I worked the overnight shift, 11pm-7am, and loved it. Some crazy shit went on there, and by going back there for a party I was halfway to a good time already.

I got a letter from Deval Patrick's people several weeks ago, since I did some "visibility" for them and am listed as a volunteer on their mailing list. The "suggested" donation to attend this ball was "$100 or $250" (one imagines that any amount in between would have sufficed, as well). I told them that I wanted to go, but had not a dollar to donate. So Linda and I ended up as volunteers at the big ball, if only for an hour or so, signing people in as they showed up.

Now, a few words about how this event was advertised. The invitation spoke of "desserts and dancing until 11pm" and requested "festive attire." Both Linda and I imagined well-dressed, stylish and wealthy people mixed with college student activists, perhaps dressed more casually. We had that pretty well pinned. Some people were dressed to kill, mostly women. But three African American gentlemen joined the party who looked fabulous, and festive. Linda postulated that they were gay, which seems likely. Eloquent, funny, well-educated and well-dressed people are usually gay. Ha!

We also expected that the desserts to be served would be wonderful pastries, pies and cakes. When we started our brief volunteer stint, we were given a list of donors. Some people gave as much as $5000. We figured that a donation like that would bring out some sinful delights to go with the free coffee. We figured wrong. The "desserts" that circulated around the room were actually just cookies. Some were jazzed up with fresh fruit or drizzled chocolate, but I know a cookie when I see one. More importantly, I know a cookie when I taste one. These were cookies.

No matter. There was a live band and a ballroom full of rich people dancing poorly. Linda and I danced, and I kept the lid on my furious sexual power so nobody would get hurt. Visions of my YouTube dance festival come to mind.

After dancing and filling up on cookies and free coffee (or tap water..."sparkling water" cost $6), we set out into the huge ballroom to find Deval Patrick. Easier said than done, given that Deval is only 11 inches tall. Ha! He's actually just a bit shorter than I am. Linda and I shook his little black hand and I told him that he was doing a "good job." I'm sure he's relieved to get my seal of approval.

Before we left, I revisited my days as a Houseman and showed Linda the spot where I rode the floor buffer for two seconds before it sent me flying into a table. And I pointed out the Oak Room, a very fancy and expensive steakhouse in the lobby. I used to sleep in that bar, with my co-workers, for an hour or so every night. And of course I had to show her the bathroom where I tried to commit suicide via overdose, and the sidewalk outside where I collapsed and was surrounded by dozens of people. Ah, those were the days. The shitty, suicide, sex addicted days that I'm glad to be rid of.

Linda and I had fun, we didn't slip on the ice and we got to party with the rich hippies. Hopefully something equally fun will happen on New Year's Day. And if you're out there, Deval, feel free to drop by anytime for coffee and cookies.

Scarecrow

It has been a fine week for me, and I'd like to write a little bit about why. Something is happening right now, though, emotionally and intellectually that is of some concern. I've spoken with several friends in the last couple of hours, as well as my brother. My father and I had a fun conversation about politics and movies (Fellini and the "War on Christmas"). The House of Four Cats is full of cats and people, including a stray cat that is now being treated like royalty.

All is well. But for some reason I was suddenly overwhelmed by a need to apologize to everyone in my life. Suddenly I just starting weeping, my heart was pounding and my breathing was uncomfortable and tight. That is my chest was tight. So I apologized to Ken first, emphatically, desperately seeking a comforting word. This is what he said:

You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.

Then I moved on to Linda, Jenifer, my brother Kent, and people I haven't seen in years. In my mind, I poured over everything...I felt that I did something horrific, just terrible. I say this in the past tense because I'm getting better now. But these anxiety attacks, that travel with a heavy dose of guilt, really make me angry. If only I could be a psychopath and be free of a conscience. That would be so sweet.

For what it's worth, I'm sorry everyone. I'm doing the best I can with that I have. If I could be more, do more, offer more, I would.

What a boring entry. This is what I'm doing, though, it's where I'm at mentally. It's withering.

Public Service

I received something in the mail that has terrified me and I'm considering living under my bed for the foreseeable future. The dreaded dispatch is the Town Meeting Warrant, and a meeting is scheduled for January. It's for the elected town meeting members, of which I am one, because I stupidly voted for myself in the 2006 election for my precinct. Four other people did (my father and three neighbors) and now I have to go to the town meeting...because I had to be a smart-ass.

One reason that I don't want to go is my insanity. At the meeting, there are two possibilities regarding how I'll act and feel. I break it down like this; there's a 75% chance of my being withdrawn, sullen, quiet and uninterested in the proceedings. Frankly, I don't give a rat's ass about zoning issues, or hearing the report from the 2008 Town Day Planning Committee. I want it done, just not by me.

So I'll sit there and let my apathy wash over me, and perhaps take in the architecture of the building, of which I'm fond. Also on the agenda is how I'll go to great lengths to avoid talking to the people I know, or even worse the strangers who want to talk to me at random. I mean Jesus Christ is there anything worse than talking to people? It's why I stopped going to the Unitarian Universalist Church. Even though I'm an atheist, I thought I'd enjoy coffee and an intellectual discussion about the nature of god; I was wrong.

I couldn't get the fuck out of there fast enough.

But there is another possibility, especially where politics is concerned. I estimate a 25% chance that someone will really piss me off about something. Not zoning, but they tack on larger issues at the end of the meeting, like passing resolutions against the war or making a statement about the evils of torture. Most people at the town meeting don't care about these large issues because it's all symbolic and very divisive. The bigger the issue, the fewer people give a shit what we have to say about it.

That said, if one cunt takes the stage and says something off the wall like, "We need to pass a resolution against gay marriage" I'll do an Incredible Hulk impression and wake up in a dumpster the following morning. What I mean is that I'll get so worked up that I'll make a spectacle of myself.

On the plus side, I'll know in advance what is on the agenda and will be able to do a feet don't fail me now out the door, thus avoiding a shouting match over a meaningless political vote at the end of the meeting.

Basically, I just shouldn't leave my flat...ever.

Why did I have to vote for Darren W. Lyle?

The Deer Hunter Hunter

I was asked if I'd rather go deer hunting or quail hunting by someone, not a friend of mine. Internet flotsam. But I'll be honest here, I'm proud of what I wrote back. I'm going to post the letter here.

Cheers.

I'd much rather stalk deer hunters. To follow one into the wood. Pretend to be his friend, share a cold one with him, then as he turns and walks into the woods ahead of you, you take your pocket knife a ram it ever-so-gently into the area just under the occipital lobe of his skull. Just about where the spine and skull meet in an Achilles' Heel of nerves and arteries just below the surface. A 6 inch knife would do it quickly and painlessly, which is why you're glad you're using a 3 inch knife.

As the big hunter spasmodically gesticulates on the ground, in the process of going paralyzed, he looks like a Parkinson's patient is giving a one man puppet show. There is blood, and spinal fluid, but it's not too messy. A tidy way to bring down of the Earth's largest animals, the human being. But to ease his passing, you consider dropping a boulder on his little head. Then you remember that people who hunt for the fun of it, instead of out of necessity, are douchebags. So you let the bastard thrash around some more. Before the big hunter dies, you cut his eyes out, turn them around, and cram them back in; the optic nerves hanging on each side of the nose. In between laughs of glee, mingled with quiet moments of deep, serious concentration, you cut his nose and lips off, too. He finally dies, chocking on his own nose shoved down his throat.

You'll let him ripen until morning, then you'll blow him up with 30 sticks of dynamite in a raft on that little pond. It will be like he never existed. In a way, he never did. I defy you to find him.

The Golden Calf

I have to relate what I think is 2007's Hard Luck Story of the Year, and just under the wire as we approach '08, which I'm sure will also be a picnic of despair; some fresh Hells and old, familiar ones, as well. Anyway, this story is about a fellow named, "Yanadi Kondaiah." Imagine you're him, and you're 80 years old. People revere you as a holy man, but they pretty much revere every old man as holy, because you live in a place rife with ignorance and superstition; a remote place in India. Chittoor Province, India, to be exact.

So you're probably not used to living the Life of Riley, as they used to say. You drew a crap lot in life but you've made the best of it. Some things give you comfort in a world full of abject poverty, squalor, disease and brutality. Oh, and probably a fair share of hunger, as well. Your family makes you happy. Enjoying a meal near a hot fire on a cold night is good, too. You have been in love, and you cherish your memories. You have nothing to lose and you sleep easy and have more friends than you can count. All of it and more makes life a good thing. But nothing comes close to giving you the kind of happiness that your magic leg radiates onto you and those who touch it. Your leg, a part of your own body, is an instrument of God. He works in mysterious ways...He's even known for it. And he's chosen to give you a leg that people will beg you, even pay you, just to touch. It's a Holy Leg is what it is.

You can survive and even enjoy your awful, difficult life because of the leg, and the fame that comes from it. The adoration and admiration. You may be hungry, but you feel blessed.

Then a couple of friends off to buy you a drink...

Attackers Chop Off Man's 'Magic' Leg

By OMER FAROOQ, AP
Thu Dec 13, 4:30 PM EST

Two men attacked an 80-year-old, self-proclaimed holy man in southern India and chopped off his right leg, apparently believing it had magical powers, police said Thursday.

Yanadi Kondaiah, who claimed that those who touched his leg would be cured of illness or have wishes granted, was hospitalized in serious condition after the attack Tuesday, said R. Ravindranath Reddy, a senior police officer.

"We are looking for the miscreants as well as the leg," Reddy told The Associated Press by telephone from the Chittoor district, a remote area 340 miles south of Hyderabad, the capital of Andhra Pradesh state.

"This seems to be a case of superstition. The two people might have taken away the leg hoping to benefit from its magical powers," said Pendakanti Dastgiri, the police officer handling the case.

Superstitions, belief in magic and the occult remain widespread in much of rural India.

Kondaiah told police that two men offered him a drink as thanks for previously helping them with his magical touch.

After he passed out drunk, the men chopped off the leg below the knee with a sickle and left him to die, said Dastgiri, adding that passing villagers found him and took him to a hospital.

Copyright 2007 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

My Bedroom Window

Over the years, I've managed to amass a smashing circle of friends. Some I see frequently, some every few months, some every few years. That's how it goes, I'm sure for you, too. As I sat here doing Winter Solstice, Christmas, and Hanukkah cards last night (how social of me), I made a mental note of the last time I spoke to the person to whom I was sending the card. It ranges from two weeks to twelve years. There's an ex-girlfriend in there who may or may not wish me dead. More likely, she doesn't care one way or the other.

This time of year is like a birthday that everyone shares. Not because of the gifts, but because of the opportunity it provides to catch up with friends.

Family is another issue.

There's some sort of work crew from the city outside my bedroom window, working on a telephone pole. Almost certainly damage from the storm last night. I moved my desk so I could see out my window because the snow was painfully beautiful to watch. Mesmerizing. There are two cats sleeping on my cot, and on the table next to my bed is a book, an old Royal typewriter (part of my collection) and Linda's gift, which I just got in the mail from Britain. The "Royal Mail."

Last week, I had what is referred to as a "nervous breakdown," and hit my arm with a cleaver, which caused a minor cut and later a black and blue mark. Luckily for me, the cleaver was dull. I'm too old for such nonsense, despite my being mentally-ill. Perhaps a change, or increase, in medication is needed...one of them. Or a decrease. I don't know.

Of Guliani, Honegger and "Standing Up To Terrorism"

Does anyone remember the Iran/Contra hearing and Barbara Honegger? She's been on my mind lately because of the Guliani television advertisements about the 1981 release of the Iran hostages after 444 days. Guliani is using that little episode in history to make Reagan out to be a badass who the Iranians were so afraid of, they released the hostages a mere one hour after Ronnie was sworn in as president.

This is a total, absolute and complete "misremembering" of those days. And before I get into all that, I'm just curious if anyone else remembers those heady days.

Honegger, pictured in a tiny photograph up there on the right, was a member of the 1980 Reagan-Bush campaign team and Reagan White House policy analyst. She and others allege that the Reagan-Bush campaign negotiated with Iran to delay the release of American hostages until after the Presidential election, and that arms sales to Iran were a part of that bargain. Interesting, eh? More on that later. If there is any justice, Guliani will pay for bringing that episode up again and attempting to cast it in a positive light for the Republicans, and Reagan.

Someone in power...with influence...please notice!

King Ghidorah's Last Known Photograph: Whereabouts Unknown

It's coming up on ten in the morning, although it feels much later, as I've been up since 4am. The five milligrams of lorazepam I took at 11pm last night certainly went to work and did what I hope every pill, drink and toke will do; get me the fuck away from me. But a nightmare awoke me early, a nasty dream that benefited from feeling as if it really happened. Here's how it went down, in italics.

After attending a Red Sox game, and probably sitting in the bleachers (I get screwed on tickets even in my imagination), I was walking over the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge towards Kenmore Square. Clare, Melanie, Donna and my beloved Linda were all with me. Linda and I were holding hands, and everyone else was to her right. It's worth mentioning that I was wearing a very flattering Alan Ladd trenchcoat, so in my incubus I must have lost some weight. Right now, a trenchcoat makes me look even rounder than I already am. Imagine a medicine ball hiding behind a curtain. Anyway, a non-sequitur follows here, as happens in dreams often. Someone attacked us with a burnished knife, all agleam, and Linda was in his sights. I'm very brave in my dreams, so I knocked him down and ended up with a knife in my paunch. Linda was hysterical, and Clare and Melanie strangely seemed at peace with my getting impaled...it was a large knife.

That's it. What was most disturbing to me wasn't the cold blast of air on my intestines, or that I somehow got Clare and Melanie to go to a sporting event. Instead, it was crushing guilt over having done something to anger a knife wielding maniac and thus almost getting Linda killed; as I said, he went for her first. And last meal was probably a $4 bottle of water and a $6 hotdog. Oh, the humanity!

I managed to get back to sleep about an hour before I had to walk down to the service station nearby and pick up my much abused '93 Mercury Tracer. I'll spare you the details of that. Feel fortunate for that tiny mercy.

I'd like to thank Apocalypse Cow for his comments after my last entry. Everything he says is true, and it reduces my sense of urgency about having to write an entry about atheism. It's something I feel rather strongly about. Atheists get knocked around quite a bit, but that's ok with people because (apparently) any belief is better than none at all. But we atheists are stone-cold undeniably right, and AC does a good job of succinctly explaining why. I'm not going to be ashamed because I do not believe in a Bronze Age sky king who acts like a retarded psychopath as He inconsistently gets involved, and then doesn't get involved, in human affairs. If god does exist, he's a total douchebag, and not a good inspiration for us humans. King Ghidorah died for your sins!

Anyway, enough of that for now. But more on it later, especially as the likes of Mitt Romney, Mike Huckabee and Joe Lieberman, a group of men I wouldn't trust to clean my tub, passionately try to make the case that if it weren't for religion we'd all be masturbating in caves and eating our young. Cue the calliope music.

Hermit Crab

It's been awhile since I posted on my quaint little 'blog. Or this one. The past week has been, for me, rather busy. Last week I helped my brother and his wife open up their store, Go Fetch Pet Supplies, and after that I bolted out to see my beloved; I just got back last night. Linda sometimes has difficulty persuading me to "be social," as I'm perfectly content to be with her and her alone forever. Well, not just her, but my brother and my circle of friends and comrades. Outside of that, I'm also of a mind to be totally alone for long periods of time. I'm so much more comfortable alone, reading and listening to music or watching Double Indemnity for the 100th time. In this godless universe, when I'm alone and there are no strange eyes taking me in, I can relax a bit more than I could possibly otherwise. And that brings a modicum of relief from the paranoia and anxiety that, I'll say yet again, really disturbs and troubles me. Thus, if it weren't for those who love me working so hard to drag me out into the world, I'd no doubt wither in this little flat. So Linda's affable, social nature is exactly what I need to avoid turning into a hermit, or worse, and disappearing into my own mind. One of the many reasons that I love her.

But why would I want to spend so much time alone with by brain, which is clearly not functioning properly? Not to mention a source of vexation, annoyance and crushing depression and mania? I have an answer for that...perhaps for another time. Something to look forward to! Also, later today I'm going to write something about atheism, because the woman I love said something yesterday that really surprised me. She's a theist, and her family is very religious. Naturally, I'm an atheist, and I didn't become one lightly. It was a long process from believing in god (or something), then at age 9 I remember having anxiety attacks and vomiting because I started to think that there was no god. A few years later, I was a full-blown atheist. I take my atheism seriously...again, I'll kick that around later.

The conversation with Linda, and her surprising response, was about morality, compassion and some kind of god, or "sky king" as I called it. I simply asked if she thought it was necessary to believe in god in order to be a good person. She said, "I'm not sure." I felt my stomach clench tight and a wave of warm, tingling anxiety spread within my chest. Like a bat taking flight in the small cave that also contains my heart. I didn't want to tell her then, but not only do I not believe in god, but if a Christian god did exist, I would hate Him. I refer you all to B.F. Skinner's "Problem of Evil" if you're interested in knowing why. Although that shouldn't be hard to figure out, either.

But as it is right now, I don't hate god because I know that there isn't one. I'm also a compassionate person. If I thought for a second that I wasn't, I would slit my wrists. Compassion and reason are needed in bulk if we're going to survive against fanatics of any kind, and the unscrupulously ambitious. There is nothing more dangerous than someone who puts their beliefs before simple kindness, to help each other get through life as happily, or even just as painlessly, as possible. And life can be unspeakably, seemingly impossibly, agonizing. Life can continue even when pain becomes crippling. It does all the time, physically and emotionally. Imagine all the mothers out there who lost a child, or children who lost parents, and the physical and emotional agony, and the sadness and horror that travels with it. I could go on. Not to mention the loneliness that is fundamental to living. And the more you struggle, the more alone you are, and the more you reach out. As far as I can see, nobility comes from helping each other survive comfortably past all that and feel less alone.

So I have to convince my girlfriend that it is possible to be good and not believe in god. In case you're wondering, she thinks I'm a good person (I'm not, but I try, I really do) who is in denial about god. Deep down, she thinks I believe. I love her like no other, but she is wrong.

Again, more on that later.

I think I've said enough for now. Shalom!

Back On The Horse With Frank

When one has an ego the size of an electron and is ensconced in withering, pathetic guilt, as I am, it doesn't take much to cause emotional upset. Earlier this week, I found out that I forgot to pay one of my bills, a rather large one, and the money for that bill is missing. The details are inconsequential, but if you're kith or kin to me, my reaction was probably upsetting; I took my fuck-up rather hard.

To boost my spirits and escape my gelatinous prison I've decided to pretend I'm Frank (Henry Fonda) from Once Upon A Time In The West, the classic Sergio Leone "spaghetti western" featuring the profoundly moving and powerful music of Ennio Morricone. If you know the movie, you know that Frank is one bad dude. He also has more than his fair share of style. This is not a fellow who is inclined towards feelings of self-doubt or guilt. He's a psychopath on a horse, a leader of men, and a sex bomb. And his eyes...damn.

I probably shouldn't take this too far. After all, it's still not legal in Massachusetts to shoot people who annoy you...this isn't Texas. But I'm being too literal. I just want the Frank attitude. To just mosey through life, taking what I want, free of my annoying, neurotic mind ruining the fun. If I can get Linda to show me how to ride a horse, so much the better to complete the transformation. In terms of neuroses, I'm like a fat Woody Allen, except I'm not a pedophile.

Death

I'm tired of failure, of not being reliable, and of being a joke. I just want to die, and for everyone I know to forget me, and the world to finally be rid of me. That's my wish...my Christmas wish. I want death and the end of me. I'm a failure across the board, and I have not a thing to offer anyone. If you want to murder someone, find me and murder me. Kill me, please.

Festivus Crap-a-Thon

Earlier today I found myself standing in line at the pharmacy at Walgreen's. The store was crammed with people, all searching for Hell knows what, moving up and down the aisles with their miniature shopping carts. Many had the Sunday flier opened up before them and were determined to find a good deal. They sell a lot of impedimenta at Walgreen's, like plush stuffed monkeys wearing Santa hats, plastic toys and Maxim magazine. Everyone there was carefully going about the business of being an American, which means they were buying stuff. And this is the time of year for it; a veritable crap-a-thon.

I was there to buy drugs, which is also fashionable, particularly around the holidays. I've been cuddling up with pharmaceuticals for years now, not to mention marijuana which I only occasionally get to enjoy. And alcohol isn't my poison, so I'm relying on patented molecules distributed by enormous corporations to get me through until January. I bitch about Thanksgiving and Christmas more than I should, though, considering I don't buy many gifts and never go to holiday functions. And on some level I suppose I'm happy that so many people get off on shopping at 4am. As far as I can tell, people really dig shopping. And like NASCAR, the attraction is mysterious.

Aside from the confusion over why people buy the shit that they buy, this time of year doesn't bother me, I suppose. Except for minor irritations, like how it gets dark at 1pm, and the way I have to dodge the Salvation Army whenever I go to the market. They do great work, but back the fuck off, man. If I want to give you money, I'll go over and give you money. And I feel so guilty when I stroll on by. I try to radiate affability, but that ain't easy. You go try to radiate affability. See? I told you. But at the same time I'm trying to seem gregarious and kind, I want to be left alone...with my change. But it's so difficult not to feel guilty coming out of FoodMeister with a 12 pack of Coke and a box of Devil Dogs, but no money for the collection tin.

Recently I discovered Diet Coke Plus, which is Diet Coke infused with b12, b6, magnesium, zinc and niacin. I think they used the term, "infused," which seems a bit generous. I think "dropped in the tank" is more accurate a description. As near as I can tell, though, this new product hasn't improved my life at all. I remain hopeful.

I haven't written much lately, but it's not due to withering depression, jail or rickets. I've spent a lot of time with my beloved, and things have been going pretty well. My tooth is killing me, and a complete stranger called me a "gelatinous pedophile" yesterday, which I think is one of the best insults I've heard in awhile. That's a long story, but I felt compelled to share. Also, I've been having merciless morning anxiety attacks that leave my heart pounding and mind racing. I need to work on that, but I haven't a clue about what to do.

I love you, Linda, and I miss you already. The small of your back exists in an enchanted realm, your body, a place I hope to visit again soon.

More later, Kittens.

Proper Condition

Today finds me suffering from an indelicate migraine, coupled with nausea and a tingling sensation in the back of my neck that promises to grow and make me dizzy as the afternoon progresses. I'm not without an effective, and expensive, tablet given to me for just such an occassion. Migraines, seizures and mental illness; my brain is perhaps a bit too frail and flimsy for life's rugged work.

I can feel the Zomig tablet going to work. It creates a heavy sensation in the gut, and I've generally found it to be effective for migraines, so I'm hopeful. Beyond that, I'm reading a novel sent to me from a friend now living in London. An ambitious project and I'm damn proud of the lad.

More later, when my head is in it's proper condition.

A Little Of This...

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I'm working on a little study of the evolution of the mental health system of the Commonwealth. There's a little timeline on my wall that starts with the Boston Female Asylum for Orphans (1800) and ends with the creation of the Board of Health, Lunacy and Charity in 1879. And there's some stuff in there about Horace Mann and Samuel Gridley Howe. The methods used to "take care" of crazy people have changed a great deal over the years. One major change is that they no longer put you in the nuthouse, give you a cot, and let you live there. That started to change in the '70's, and President Reagan embraced that approach in the '80's and basically emptied the psychiatric hospitals and put thousands of people on the street.

When I'm done with my little analysis I'll fold it up, very tight, and fling it out the window. Avert your eyes, people, nothing of consequence happening here!

One of the most unpleasant things that anyone has to do in this life is ask a friend or relation for a large sum of money. Or any amount, really. I was in a bind that required money to get out of, so I went, hat in hand, to my uncle. Total humiliation. But he cheerfully helped me and I'm out of a jam, and life goes on. It's a car related problem. Owning a car is an expensive proposition; gas, insurance, things that break. The good thing about being poor and crazy is that the poverty distracts you with other, more pressing, issues. Still, I think it would be good to have a shitload of money. Yeah, I'm pretty solid in that opinion.

Of Russian Composers and Vulnerability

It's a relatively mild day, and I've opened a window at the House of Four cats to provide a vent for the smell of cigarette smoke and cats. My father is out somewhere, the cats are spread about, and I'm cleaning. I'm listening to Rhapsodie D'auvergne by Saint-Saëns. I discovered this composer through his piece The Aquarium, which is used to profound effect in the amazing film, Days of Heaven. It's always exciting to find an artist that speaks to you more than the rest, whatever the media. When I was a child, I discovered the works of Tchaikovsky, Dvořák, Rimsky-Korsakov, Mussorgsky, Borodin, to name a few. I was, and still am, greatly moved by the music they created. Specifically, Dvořák's 9th Symphony and Slavonic Dances; Tchaikovsky's violin concerto #1, Marche Slav and 5th Symphony; and the piece that I've listened to probably hundreds of times in my life, Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherezade. The same is true with Pictures at an Exhibition by Mussorgsky.

Something about the Russians that works for me...that's true of literature, too. I'm pouring through Dostoevsky's works right now. Not to mention the unpublished novel of a Ukrainian friend of mine, almost complete, that he sent to me yesterday. One time I called him years ago and I heard Marche Slav playing in the background. He doesn't know it, but my opinion of him soared after that. Not that I didn't already have a high opinion of Moisha. I was so honored that he sent me the manuscript and asked my opinion. I intend to work hard to provide a thoughtful commentary. Showing your novel to others for the first time must make one feel terribly vulnerable, like the first time you stand naked before your lover.

In the past few days I've had a nasty time with mental illness, and I do admit that I've been lessening my dosage of lithium because I thought I was doing well. It happens all the time, to all the crazy people, at one time or another. Especially given the unpleasant side effects some medications have. But I have to stick to the program and just resign myself to accept the simple fact that I'm nuts.

Could be worse, could be raining.

Last night, I was speaking (via IM) with a fellow who has bipolar disorder, as I do. He said something about being happy that he is not normal, that he finds his mental illness is a source of creative energy. I told him that if he felt that way, he isn't really mentally ill, which isn't true, but he really pissed me off. In my opinion, there is nothing romantic or interesting about the mess in my head. Racing thoughts leave me weeping and begging for some peace, nightmares disturb me, depression is withering on myself and others, and paranoia makes it almost impossible to function normally in a social setting. I have trouble looking others in the eye, I mumble, and I relentlessly attack myself in my head as being just about every bad thing a person can be. I'm used to this voice, and I am able to ignore it somewhat, but it takes a toll. It never stops. And the guilt...that's another thing.

How boring for you to read this. If I do end up flinging myself in front of the 87 bus, this will serve as a record of my deteriorating mind. Today, at least, I don't see that happening. The most disturbing trend in my behavior is my desire for solitude. I crave it and seek it out to get the eyes off me, as it were. That provides a modicum of peace, but it's no way to live. I love Linda and my friends, and they can draw me out. But every time I go out it's like holding my breath. I can go for awhile, but I need to get back to my flat. So much for my dream of traveling the globe. Social phobia...good times.

More later.

I Do So Love Her

A cold breeze that smells of rain just moved under the blind, over the bed, past the cat and down across the floor, around my naked feet. Pure bliss at the House of Four Cats. These have been some happy days of late. For some time now, I've been in love with Linda, and she's grown to mean quite a great deal to me. I know what love looks like, and the joy and pain that seems to insist on traveling with it. The oldest stories in the oldest books are about this thing that is very much a living part of my life right now. I have to reconcile two distinctly different aspects of my personality. Something like this...

I'm an existential nihilist and an atheist who believes in class struggle. I'm a Socialist in a world without very many socialists. I don't believe in life everlasting, no heaven, only nothingness after death. But I do believe that, through rational thought and compassion, we might be able to create a better world here on the physical plane. I'm suicidal every day. I used to cut my wrists and once poured muriatic acid onto a cut in my foot. I absolutely despise myself in every way, which is disconcerting and terrifying sometimes. I'm in a waiting room, waiting to die of something. Waiting for it to do the right thing, or the kind thing, and end already.

The other aspect is that I'm an romantic who sees value in whatever is all this. Life is bleak and painful, but it can be made better, even beautiful, if you consider the Muse and take in the scenery. And there is so much beauty in the world, even the death and horror is beautiful in a sad way. I love people, the lies, the way we pursue each other, all of it. My dreadful, horrific fear of social interaction, humiliation, and eventually to be feasted upon out there in the Fens. And when this romantic fool sees a woman like Linda Noble, he finds his whole self motioning as if to speak, seeking her attention, wooing her, holding her and loving her. Those moments with her are priceless and limited in supply. Her by my side in bed, watching a movie, cuddling and fooling around. We try to make each other laugh and we're good at it. She is my confidante, and I will do anything to protect her. I do so love her.

But I'm a grotesque mess. My mind is so flawed, so weak, so pathetic. Oh, mercy.

Trick Or Treat

Surrealism and Halloween. On the right is a picture of British "supermodel" Naomi Campbell and Venezuelan Socialist (and/or Populist) President Hugo Chavez. She had a "private meeting" with Chavez, as have many other celebrities; Danny Glover, Kevin Spacey, Harry Belafonte and Sean Penn, to name a few. I'm not sure what is going on in these meetings. I know Harry Belafonte is a radical Lefty, as is Danny Glover. Methinks Spacey is, as well, but I'm not sure why I think that, except his previous inclination towards playing theatre roles written by Lefty playwrights. Then again, aren't most artists, especially writers, usually Lefties, if they're political?

It's Halloween, my favorite holiday, at least in the abstract. It's kind of lame when it lands in the middle of the week, but what can you do. Nothin'. Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday, to the extent that I dislike any holiday. It's a forced dinner obligation with your family...what's to like? Every year I try in vain to duck out of the forced merriment. And there is something about that Macy's parade that really freaks me out. Yes, the giant balloons and floats and whatnot are bad enough, but what really has me clamoring for the exit is how it's all about consumerism. It's a big fucking parade celebrating consumption; a cavalcade of popular products. It's almost like they're making fun of us. Oh, you like cream corn? Here's a 200 foot tall dancing balloon that looks like a can of cream corn. Yay! U..S...A! U...S...A!

Halloween is great for corporate America, too. In fact, Halloween is second only to Christmas in the amount of business it stirs up. But I can't dislike a holiday that has kids dressing up like pirates, serial killers and superheroes and knocking on random doors in search of candy. And the threat, too, is unique. No other holiday has a threat like, "Trick or treat!" Give us candy or we will do something unpleasant to you, or more likely your house or car.

And the aesthetics of it appeal. Foliage and crisp, Autumn air, with the smell of leaves. And the whole nature, Wicca riff is profoundly enjoyable. Plus candy. I was just at Walgreen's getting some drugs and noticed that they already have the Christmas trees up, along side the plastic Jack o' lanterns. Christmas is encroaching on my holiday. This represents a war on Halloween. I'm upset.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm joining a posse and we're going after the wolf-man.

Planet Earth Right Now

They got Kurds on the border in Turkey, and Turks shooting Kurds in Kurdistan. Meanwhile, a newborn, flightless bird gathers its strength on the Galapagos Island of Isabella; perhaps a blue-footed boobie. That little bird doesn't know about the severely constipated 14 year old girl in Hobard, Tasmania, or the fictional border dispute on Ansion. In West Kensington, London, Sue and Jean-Pierre Benoit are on the down slope and nearing the end of a 14 year marriage; they've decided on a trial separation. About two miles off the coast of Manteo, North Carolina, a spotted eagle ray is struggling with a plastic bag wrapped around its head; it will lose strength and be dead before the end of the day. In Japan, a single mother and freelance photographer saw her 13 year old son put his hand on his girlfriends inner thigh at a school function. She sighed deeply and decided she had to have a talk with him about sex. She felt uneasy about it.

As for me, I'm sitting in the living room of my girlfriend's house in Framingham, Massachusetts, sipping coffee.

Of Russian Serial Killers and Cramming

On Linda's new blog, NobleNonsense, a tale of my fat ass versus a new love seat (the love seat lost) was recently related. It's all true, and run-ins with furniture frequently happen to large people like myself. On a positive note, to the extent that any of my stories end on one, I'm extremely soft and pliable (that's right, ladies) so I can literally cram myself into even a Fenway Park seat. I cram, I crumple, I crease, I do fine. And it's also true that we contemplated what it would be like if our bloated, rotting corpses were pulled from the "wreckage" by local firefighters, and how a grisly photograph would be circulated on the Internet.

It wouldn't be any worse than my no-pants dance video, which just topped the 1,000 views mark.

In other news, Apocalypse Cow, who maintains a blog that is another Friend of the House of Four Cats, took a political quiz and was discovered to be a liberal. I took the quiz years ago, at the Socialist Scholars' Conference in New York City. The Libertarian Party set up a table there, and gave people the "Shortest Political Quiz In The World." I imagine that they were invited out of 3rd Party solidarity. I forget what I scored at the time, but today when I took the quiz I scored 100. The questions are worded a little differently to keep up with the times, but it's the same thing. My score means that I'm once again crammed somewhere, this time on the far, far left that the quiz-makers had in mind. I'm not surprised, except at the predictability of how I did. Surprised at predictability...isn't that witty?

I'm sad to learn, again, of Ron Paul's growing poll numbers. Mainly because I really think that most of his even most adamant supporters don't have a clue of what he stands for, beyond eliminating gun control and the 16th Amendment (which allows the income tax). But maybe they do know. I don't exactly have my finger on the pulse of the nation. The Wikipedia article on Paul is replete with effusive, loving commentary like, "Paul's opposition to the Federal Reserve is supported by the Austrian Business Cycle Theory..." and "His warnings of impending economic crisis...were derided by many economists, however events in 2007 seem to vindicate his positions." The latter has a "reference needed" citation.

I've grown to really dislike Wikipedia and the "experiment" of relying on rubes to provide encyclopedia entries.

In other news, Alexander Pichushkin, a Russian serial killer, was just convicted of killing 48 people. He claims that he killed 63, and that he was going for 64, one for every square on a chess board. You can read about it here. Since he preyed primarily, if not exclusively, on homeless people, he probably did kill 63 people, but they only found 48. They even discovered a chess board in his home that had 63 places blacked-out in pen, or something like that. He lured his victims to a park via vodka (what else, it's Russia) and a promise that they were going to bury Pichushkin's dog. A sort of dog-funeral bender. I could easily see myself getting duped by this ploy, although not with vodka. Maybe weed or Vicodin. And at the same time it's likely that I'll end my life as a homeless person, so I really feel for his victims. Killing people to fill a chess board is cool, if it were a novel. But a dog-funeral with booze sounds a lot more interesting and enjoyable, as a novel or real-life anecdote.

Regarding Apocalypse Cow's Comment

Funding a national health care system is easy, surprisingly. A for-profit health care system is insanely wasteful, in the sense that it seeks to provide coverage as well as draw a profit. If you run it as a non-profit corporation (like German "sickness funds"), you get so much more for your money.

Our private health care system is very poorly run, at great waste. Through Social Security Medicare Part D, and state programs like MassHealth, the disabled and low income are skimmed off and covered by the government. Even with by far the costliest people taken by those programs, private for-profit insurers still struggle.

And that doesn't in any way include the 47 million Americans at any given time who don't pay into any system at all, but use costly emergency room visits for things better handled by a personal physician. Taxpayers pick-up that tab.

For those reasons, and many others, we are the only industrialized nation in the world without a universal health care plan. So I think the Socialist Party platform regarding health care coverage reform is dead accurate. And that approach can be used for all types of insurance. So taxes wouldn't have to be increased, except to the extent that people would be paying into a public system instead of a private corporation. If you spend $500 a month on health coverage at work, or through the Small Business Association, or wherever, and you no longer pay that, but instead pay $400 to a public, universal system via taxes, is that a tax increase? I suppose so, but overall you are paying less for health care.

Radically expanded public housing is equally possible for the same reason. For example, I live in public housing and I pay a percentage of my income for rent. If I make more, I pay more. And public and "rent control" housing further makes it possible for working class people to live within 100 miles of where they actually work.

The "guaranteed job" portion of the sentence you quoted is tricky, but founded in the logical notion that if someone is willing and able to work, he or she shouldn't be out of work. That said, this is an extremely complex topic, approached differently by social democrats and democratic socialists.

Naturally, I think there are flaws in the platform...nothing is perfect. I will defend it to the extent that I support it, which is more than any other party's platform. Ron Paul (who is meeting with some success) will hopefully morph into a 3rd party candidate and suck votes away from the Republican in greater measure than we, or any other left-wing 3rd party, will siphon votes from the Democrat in the next presidential election. I mention him because I read his platform a few nights ago and it makes our platform look easily executed. Not to mention the bizarre irony of a former Libertarian Party candidate running on an anti-abortion rights platform. The SP has had a good history, at least in Massachusetts, of working with the Libertarian Party in an effort to make it easier for 3rd, 4th, etc. party candidates to get on the ballot. I just don't understand why one of the most appealing aspects of the LP, which is it's strong stance of civil liberties (instead of just eliminating cabinet departments and the 16th Amendment), has been abandoned by the strongest libertarian candidate ever. Unless he is so successful in the margins because of support from mainstream Conservatives, who are unhappy with the Republican slate because they are not Conservative enough.

Yikes. But that's the way the wind is blowing, to the Radical Right. So at a time when that is happening, it's perfectly understandable that the SP platform would look off the charts Leftie. Keep in mind that the change we are advocating is anti-capitalist, and there is a lot more there than tax the rich and create social programs, although that is part of it.

Moore-Alexander for President/Vice President

SOCIALIST PARTY NOMINATES MOORE FOR PRESIDENT

Antiwar Activist Nominated on Third Ballot at Party's National Convention in St. Louis

ST. LOUIS — Antiwar activist Brian P. Moore of Spring Hill, Florida, was nominated for President of the United States at the Socialist Party USA national convention in St. Louis late Saturday afternoon. The 64-year-old Moore, a former independent candidate for the U.S. Senate, defeated longtime party activist and author Eric Chester of Massachusetts, a retired economics professor, on the convention's third ballot to win the party's nomination. Stewart A. Alexander, a longtime civil rights activist from Murietta, California, was tapped as Moore's vice-presidential running mate. Alexander was the Peace & Freedom Party's candidate for lieutenant governor of California in 2006.

A graduate of Mission San Luis Rey College in California with a Master's degree in Public Administration from Arizona State University, Moore once studied in a Franciscan seminary before joining the Peace Corps in 1969. As a Peace Corps volunteer and later working for a non-profit agency, Moore was heavily involved in community development and infrastructure projects in some of the poorest neighborhoods of Bolivia, Panama and Peru. Conversant in Spanish and familiar with Brazilian Portuguese, he later helped design and implement several public health projects in other Latin American countries. He also raised $3 million for a de-worming project that successfully protected more than one million children from parasitic infections in some of the most poverty-stricken areas of Brazil, Guatemala and the Dominican Republic.

No stranger to long-shot political campaigns, Moore waged several unsuccessful bids for mayor and city council in Washington, D.C., and twice ran for the U.S. House of Representatives from Florida's fifth congressional district. Last year, he polled 19,695 votes as independent antiwar candidate against Sen. Bill Nelson and Republican challenger Katherine Harris. During that campaign, he called for the impeachment of President Bush and Vice President Cheney and traveled to Cuba to underscore his opposition to the four decades-long U.S. embargo against that island nation and to learn more about that country's national health care system and its economic development programs.

A founder and chair of the Nature Coast Coalition for Peace & Justice, an antiwar group founded in 2002, Moore has been a persistent critic of U.S. military involvement in Iraq. In accepting the Socialist Party's nomination, the Florida gadfly said that he will make the immediate and total withdrawal of all U.S. troops from Iraq and Afghanistan and opposition to a potential attack on Iran central themes of his campaign. "Stopping the war is our highest priority," he said. "More than a million Iraqis, including tens of thousands of innocent men, women and children, have died in this tragic and misguided debacle, not to mention more than 3,800 of our own men and women — and for no legitimate reason," added Moore.

The Socialist nominee also favors public-financing of elections to lessen the effects of corporate influence in American politics and to help usher in a multi-party system. Citing a recent report by the Wall Street Journal, Moore stressed that he will also focus on the widening gap between the rich and the poor in the United States, a disparity greater than at any time since the 1920s. "The wealthy have benefited tremendously from the recent boom in the financial markets, while the working poor in this country are struggling more than ever just to make ends meet," said Moore, whose party's economic program includes guaranteed jobs, housing, and health care for every American.

Moore is also seeking the California-based Peace & Freedom Party's nomination and will compete against longtime consumer advocate Ralph Nader — a man who endorsed Moore's Senate campaign last year — and several others in the party's February 5 presidential primary.

http://www.votebrianmoore.com

Honkin' The Wizard

I always knew Albus Dumbledore was a pillow-biter.

Love, New England And A Goat With A Dress

I really love my girlfriend, but experience has taught me to constantly be on guard for the words, "We need to talk..." I'm not an easy fellow with whom to be in love. I'm inclined towards self-destruction, and can annoy the piss out of those close to me by insisting on a regular basis that I'm not worth the time and effort. And that is boring. I know boring when I hear it, and depression and self-loathing is tedious. If you were a little birdy perched on my shoulder, methinks that you would give me some credit for seriously cutting back on some of the more wearying aspects of my personality in this regard. Still, I have a ways to go.

After the last time I fell in love, like many other people I promised myself not to do that again. But my actions betrayed my desire to take a lover, and a partner. I found solace in a couple of "one night stands" and the close friendships I share, mostly with women. The goal here was to embrace intimacy and friendship, and fuck as much as possible. But I'm not aloof by nature (that's what they call an understatement) and I found a woman that I connect with deeply and profoundly. Trust was gained, and eventually we fell in love. So here I am again, at the mercy of another human being. It was either that, or nail my doors and windows shut and communicate with the world exclusively via a Compaq Presario. So I dated and often found myself in loveless relationships that had a lot of awkward moments which were only bearable because of base sexual "fulfillment."

The world has her fair share of people who speak highly of sex without love, and I'm kind of one of them. But I'm also an romantic, and I absolutely have to be at least friends with the person with whom I'm having sex, otherwise I instantly develop a deep, nauseating sense of loneliness after getting off; the infamous male desire to flee the scene of a casual fuck. So while I'm a fellow-traveler with liberated people who screw for fun, I have to admit that it's just not for me as a way of life. With that in mind, over a year ago I placed a bunch of personal advertisements, and tried hitting on a couple of female friends. In time, I found a truly wonderful woman, my girlfriend, the woman I love.

That brings me to where I am now. As in love as I've ever been, with a woman who is compassionate and intelligent and demure, and a damn good writer. At some point, I learned the lesson that fear of losing someone is the price you pay for loving someone. Another trite observation, but meaningful to me considering how adamant I was just a few years ago about not falling in love ever again. We all have stories like that, or most of us do. But you're reading about mine because this is my 'blog.

The picture on the right (pending) was taken at a Republican presidential candidate debate in New Hampshire, and represents the finest the GOP has to offer. A visual approximation, if you will, of how fucking insane are Republicans.

Well, I lied. The picture was taken by Linda at the Fryeburg Faire in Maine. If you're one of my friends from abroad and don't know what Maine is, it's an East coast state on the Canadian border known for lobster, misanthropic Yankees ("You can't get there from here."), insane hermits and pristine ocean beaches with water that is way too cold for swimming. Way too cold for anything, actually. The next time you think of a clown walking a dress-wearing goat, think of Maine. The Southern portion of that state has myriad colleges of high-repute, culture and a left-of-center political disposition. The Northern portion of Maine, however, is a vast wasteland of gun-toting maniacs who will kill a man on sight to protect the only two things of value up there; blueberries and potatoes. Think of the movie Deliverance with three feet of snow 8 months a year. Politically, they are right-wing whackos, but nowhere near as bad as South Carolina, South Dakota, or Texas. I also happen to know that people from Massachusetts are known as MassHoles up there, and that for the most part it's a well-deserved slur.

Just for the record, Maine is a cosmopolitan delight, a veritable Utopia, compared to it's neighbor New Hampshire. While it is a state of great natural beauty (bucolic and quaint with a sea coast on one side and mountains on the other), New Hampshire has absolutely nothing to offer the civilized world. It is home to a hare-brained group of big "L" Libertarians from around the country who moved there to turn the Libertarian Party into a politically viable entity in at least one state; so far, that hasn't worked. Cow Hampshire, as it is know in Boston, also has something called The Old Man In The Mountain, a rock formation that vaguely looks like a profile of Jared from the Subway commercials. They're so proud of that fucking thing, it's amazing. It's on the license plate and recently issued commemorative quarter. New Hampshire also reminds me of that song from Sesame Street, One Of These Things Is Doing It's Own Thing. It sits between Massachusetts, Southern Maine and Vermont. As I mentioned earlier, Southern Maine is slightly liberal, but Massachusetts is full of Commies. People in the midwest aren't even sure if it's part of the United States. It's the only commonwealth or state in our fair republic that has embraced gay marriage.

Again, for my friends in Europe, Massachusetts is like a sexually repressed Sweden; it's social democratic, freezing cold, and the people here speak with an almost indecipherable accent. We like to pretend that we have more political influence than we actually have, and one way we do that is by running at least one doomed presidential candidate every four years. People here are also less blond and a little fatter than Swedes. The rest of the country hates our guts. A source of pride for a Pinko like me.

There is only one state that is farther left on the political spectrum and that's Vermont. They actually have a socialist Senator, Bernie Sanders. They also have the most towns of any state that have voted to impeach Bush. Vermont is a wonderful place with progressive, open-minded people that is unfortunately locked in ice for 11 months of the year.

In my next post, I'll talk about Rhode Island, a very small and very strange state that has many cultural treasures and a strong progressive inclination but is also ruthlessly corrupt and run by the mob. Nice beaches, too.

Do I Have Enough Water?

The picture to the right is of me sitting in a recreational vehicle up in Fryeburg, Maine, for a mind-numbingly huge faire they do up there every year. A population of 3,000 people turns into 300,000 people; whoopie pies are deep fat fried, livestock roam free and NASCAR novelty items are for sale every three feet. I'm going to write more about this phenomenon, but for now I'm busy here with my girlfriend, doing couple things (we're baking a pie!). And I don't mean that as a sexual euphamism, we're actually baking an apple pie. More later, enjoy the rest of the weekend, my pretties!

Shell Fish

The "selfish" parent debate has certainly taken off. Good to see Lindsay on here. I'm a bit concerned that typing "workplace democracy" into Google will bring up my little blog. Back in my activist days, at places like the Socialist Scholars' Conference in NYC, that term was thrown around a lot. We'll do a merry jig to that subject later. Right now, a note about selfish parenting.

Methinks we have a difference of opinion based on a semantic misunderstanding. When I used the word "selfish" I meant it as the great philosopher Hobbes might have meant it; to describe the motivation of most human activity. It's not a negative or positive judgement, it's just a description of movitation. And as I said before, the motive for having children is about personal desire.

There is a negative connotation to the word "selfish" and unfortunately that may have muddied the waters here. As Lindsay mentioned, there is an urge to procreate. Libido motivates sexual desire and probably activity, but sexual urges can be satisfied via, well, sex. With yourself or countless others. Libido is satisfied via fucking. But the urge to procreate transcends all that. That's part of the problem. People feel almost spiritually compelled to make children. The question is why?

And I maintain that the answer is selfish. People overcome natural "urges" all the time. As rational beings we have the ability to carefully consider our behavior and not be governed by instinct. So if you are making children, the answer "instinct" isn't an adequate answer. You're not a woodchuck. People have kids because of the reasons AC gave, and more. But it all comes down to something you want, and the wants of others are irrelevent. That makes it selfish.

As I mentioned, I sincerely don't mean to attach any negative currency to the meaning of the word "selfish." I simply meant that people have kids because they want to have children. There's nothing bad about it, but there is nothing noble, either. It just is. AC makes a valid point about the possible NEGATIVE selfish aspect of having a baby in a world with literally millions of orphans.

Just for the record, and just to make it clear that I'm really not a prick, I think parenthood is the most difficult undertaking a responsible human being can...undertake.

Chewin' On The Cud With Apocalypse Cow

Apocalypse Cow wrote a substantial comment to my last post, for which I thank him. Contrary to what he thinks, it won't end up "sparking a big debate" (unfortunately) between us. I'm not a Utopian Socialist, and the corruption of which he speaks is impossible to avoid. I just want to make a couple of points, and I hope they make sense. I took one too many tramadol, and the room is spinning a bit. If it spins a lot, ala Dorothy's house, I'll take a powder and return to the post later.

Equality is both impossible to achieve and, most of the time, undesirable. What I seek is class consciousness that will give the laborers of the world the intellectual foundation for international unionization. Unions exist primarily to collective bargain, and that is the heart of the whole concept of socialism, at least as it has evolved. One worker alone is nothing, but united they are a force greater than any cabal, corporation or capitalist institution. Anyone with a brother knows that there will be fighting and disagreements, but the key ideal here is to stand together to overcome wage slavery and tyranny.

And that has happened, again and again, in the real world. The impact of unions is still seen in the workplace. But if you'll allow me to skip ahead a bit, my problem is with capitalism. And there are many ways to deal with it. First, let me quickly justify my hatred of capitalism.

Capitalism is a messy term to define. For brevity's sake, I'll stick to corporations, which represent a major institutions and a functioning mechanism that is critical to capitalism. A corporation has a single goal above all others; to make a profit. That puts corporations at odds with the rest of society. Whether the corporation is public or private, it doesn't matter, it exists to make a profit for the owners/investors. Without regulation, corporations will do absolutely anything if it means making money. Without corporate regulation there are no corporate ethics, as ethics are tied to regulation. I don't know if you buy that or not, but here is a short list of things unregulated corporations have done:

Hire and take advantage of children, pollute without restraint, ignore safety needs in the workplace, pay next to nothing, callously manipulate legislation, and price fix with other corporations.

That list goes on and on, but you get the point. I don't believe in evil, and that people are evil, but corporations may as well be. They are the enemy of anyone who can't afford to or is disinclined to buy stock or buy the company outright. Check out the movie The Corporation to get the whole schpiel. I'm trying not to bore people too much, here. My point, however, is that individuals in a company are just people trying to live well and are usually decent. Put them together in a corporation, however, and they can do unspeakably nasty things to the world and the people living in it.

So then the big question is what to do about these corporations? You can regulate them, ala the New Deal and the social democracies of Western Europe. Or you can destroy them and replace them with "state capitalism" like the Soviet Union. Just for the record, China is a sort of hybrid that has combined "free trade zones" inside a Communist/military state. Socialists talk about a "third way" that combines a democracy with strong civil liberties with something called "workplace democracy." That's basically forcing corporations to accept a union structure via elected workers' committees. It's worth mentioning that in political science terms, you can't have socialism without democracy. By definition, socialists are pro-democratic. That's one reason that Hitler rounded up the socialists even before he got to the Jews; politically, they were a threat to his desire for absolute control. Ironically, "national socialism" was strongly pro-capitalist and industrialist. They called themselves "socialists" because socialism was popular among the German people at the time.

Class equality is a straw man. The key is class-consciousness. In this country, the working class has a tendency towards self-loathing. Feeling like a failure for being poor or even middle class is a distinctly American pathology. Corruption in trade unions is recognized and most people take the attitude that it is an unacceptable price to pay for the right to collective bargain. Strangely, corporate malfeasance is seen as just the way things are, and accepted. Closer inspection reveals the cause for this, and it has to do with self-loathing among an entire class of people.

There is no big argument, though, because we fundamentally agree as best as I can see. We agree that total equality is impossible, and possibly undesirable (lumpen proletariat). But greater equality is very possible by doing two simple things:

1. Public ownership and regulation of non-profit corporations aimed at utilities and those services deemed too important for the game of profit-seeking; national health insurance, car insurance, flood insurance (insurance of any kind), airlines, oil and gas companies, utilities.

2. For the private businesses that are left, we have the aforementioned institutionalized unions and very strong regulation.

That's all it would take to level the playing field a great deal and increase the quality of life dramatically. Capitalists, still left in a limited capacity, will still try to subvert democracy (as they do now in countless ways, just look at the Bankruptcy Bill passed a couple of summers ago). Seeking total equality is like hunting ghosts, but my humble demands will go a long way to making a better country and world.

One last point, about the term survival of the fittest. I'd be remiss if I didn't say that that is a reference to procreation. The fitness of an organism is defined by it's ability to produce viable offspring. So the innate survival instinct to which you refer isn't akin to a general desire to procreate. The instinct itself IS (generally speaking) the desire to procreate, or rather the vague compulsion. Having children is a selfish act, an act people engage in less when there is no abject poverty and a high standard of living. Birth rates are lowest in places where the quality of life is highest; W. European and Scandinavian countries.

My only point there is that "instincts" can be impacted by economics and social engineering for greater general welfare. It's ironic that you chose an example of human behavior that can be affected by socio-economic policy to make the point that human animals can't be deterred in their instinctual compulsions. Another way to say it is that greed is not part of our DNA, at least to the degree that we encourage and cultivate it in our current world economy. Aspects of our natural inclinations can be embraced. They can also be measurably reduced by a society that has the right value system.

In conclusion, my goal is to reduce inequality, celebrate class warfare to increase class consciousness, and strategically undermine the goals of corporate capitalism via unions, a free press, free elections, and general hell-raising. But we do agree that there is no Utopia, and total equality is impossible.

When it comes to scholarly matters, I'm downright elitist. The people behind Wikipedia have more faith in the academic wisdom of the masses than I do. And these days, in addition to being an existential nihilist and a meta-ethical relativist, I'm insanely negative about what is going to happen in the future. My ideals are attainable, but they won't be attained in my lifetime, or probably for 1,000 years, if ever. My only point here is that what I want is possible, and with the same DNA we have now.

Of Murray, Reds And The Internationale

One of the most profound and deeply moving scenes in movie history, as far as I'm concerned, is in The Cradle Will Rock, written and directed by Tim Robbins. The movie makes no apologies for being unabashadly left-wing, and the writing occasionally swings close to being sentimental and even maudlin. But it never makes the mistake of being either. Robbins is just carefully (and masterfully) pressing the right buttons, like he does along with Morgan Freeman as an actor in The Shawshank Redemption. And Cradle has a real sharp edge, which Robbins uses to slash playfully at "wealthy Communists" and "Jewish Fascists," and more seriously to stab at capitalism and the ruling class. The funeral at the end, featuring Murray's damaged dummy (symbolizing Crickshaw's dead youthful idealism, as he was a Communist in his youth) is a perfect end to the film. As the procession of clowns, actors, and entertainers of all sorts carry the "corpse" into modern day Times Square. Just in case you were deluded into thinking that things are fundamentally any different today.

The scene I'm writing about has washed-up ventriliquist Crickshaw (Bill Murray) essentially confronting his younger self on stage. The "young Crickshaw" sarcastically calls himself "comrade" and ends up singing The Internationale. The emotional power of this scene is even stronger for those of us who actually do believe, or did, in the dream of class-consciousness and a united human race. One Big Union and all that (any Wobblies' out there?).It's too bad that the Soviet Union officially embraced The Internationale as an anthem. It doesn't belong to any state. But that's another story. I've sung The Internationale countless times over the years, at conferences, meeting and conventions among socialists, communists, and fellow-travelers. In Milwaukee, I think it was, I heard a Cuban opera singer lead in the singing of it. In Chicago, I heard it sung for the first time by more than a handful of people. Apparently, I'm a very emotional person, and almost every time I've sang it with a group I've gotten teary-eyed, or wept outright. Pathetic or not, good or bad, it's the truth.

Here are the words to The Internationale. Bob Seeger has a good version, but ironically I'd have to pay to download it. There's also a fantastic documentary about the song, which I highly recommend, for what that's worth.

The Internationale (Translated into English)

Arise ye workers from your slumbers
Arise ye criminals of want
For reason in revolt now thunders
and at last ends the age of cant.
Now away with all your superstitions
Servile masses arise, arise!
We'll change forthwith the old conditions
And spurn the dust to win the prize.

CHORUS

Then come comrades rally
And the last fight let us face
The Internationale
Unites the human race.

We peasants, artisans and others,
Enrolled amongst the sons of toil
Let's claim the earth henceforth for brothers
Drive the indolent from the soil.
On our flesh for too long has fed the raven
We've too long been the vultures prey.
But now farewell to spirit craven
The dawn brings in a brighter day.

CHORUS

No saviour from on high delivers
No trust we have in prince or peer
Our own right hand the chains must shiver
Chains of hatred, greed and fear.
Ere the thieves will out with their booty
And to all give a happier lot.
Each at his forge must do his duty
And strike the iron while its hot.

CHORUS

Is This Email Telling Me Something?

It's bad enough that last week I looked up and saw a huge black vulture perched above me in a tree; in Massachusetts, no less. Now I get this cryptic email that almost jarred my brain into a seizure. Like a Japanese kids' show but more sinister and weird, if that's possible. I know some of what happened. Random paragraphs of the English language find their way into email advertisements, to help get past "spam" filters. Fair enough. But how about something out of Faulkner, or the minutes from a meeting of the June, 1883 Board of Health, Lunacy and Charity (which really did exist). Shit, anything else, except a Bible verse, perhaps, would be fine. Naturally, it was a cheap drug/Viagra ad. Cheap drugs and boners. Anyway, here's the email:

"Unaccustomed herself to the surprise of finding her divorce unopposed,
Americans have been to Mount Vernon and Gettysburg?
at Antietam and at Gettysburg, but the Union army never thought of
Accurate and murderous they seem when you drop low behind a
against a man by one who has power over him. The personal
An hour passed and all were not by. One sat down for a few minutes
afterward put it, a mere stick to hang clothes on (but they _did_
as the ticks of a clock made almost no smoke, as they brought some
about gunnery; which is one reason for writing this chapter.
are always making reports. Everybody is, so that whoever is superior
Apparently, when the French fought they left red tape behind with the
afterward put it, a mere stick to hang clothes on (but they _did_
as he put faith and backbone into a soldier by their very manner; and
a town of brick and mortar and pavements whose very defencelessness
approached one noted an eagerness, a tightening of nerves. Natural
another one hundred and fifty yards away and fire a rifle occasionally
A vice-admiral at forty-four! A man who is a rear-admiral with us at
army he represents stand for. The blows which the demons from the..."

Broken Down, Break Down, Will Break Down

Yesterday I had what used to be called a nervous breakdown. I'm disinclined to tell the story, but I felt myself walk to the edge, and consider it. Apparently, I walked back. Tennessee Williams once wrote, in Night of the Iguana, that, "acceptance of life is the first requisite for living it." It's certainly necessary for living it well. I'm undecided about the inherent value of my life, so when the blue demon comes calling (also from that play) I run to the boundary between life and death and consider crossing it. It's so easy to do, life is fragile. One has tall buildings, guns (hard to come by in my circle of friends), poisons, gases, and what not. It reminds me of a great little poem by Dorothy Parker, which I'm sure most of you will recognize:

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

The name of that poem is Enough Rope, and was published, I think, in The New Yorker back in the 1920's. I'm not going to look it up online, as that goes against some kind of misguided romantic notion I have about writing from the mind, or something.

Were I alone, my little wild-eyed rants and distant excursions from myself, or maybe to myself, would fall harmlessly. Like that tree in the forest, nobody would hear it, or care. Unfortunately (for them), some people do care about me. Some are friends, some are family, one is my lover and partner. One of the things that contribute greatly to the discord in my life is my desire on one hand to be loved, and my desire to be dead and away from the emotional disaster that is my mind on the other. And perhaps the chemical cocktail in my brain. Although I don't want to blame that. The fault has to lie with me, no excuses.

Yesterday, when I moved to the line and didn't cross it I was as deeply insane as when I was hospitalized almost 7 years ago. Not depressed, like when I decided to undergo ECT, but sort of making a spectacle as I left the room, as it were. If I'm going to off myself, I wish I would do it. Along the same line, if I'm going to accept life and live it, I wish I'd do that, too. I'm a fence-sitter on the issue of the value of living. That makes me a pain in the ass, a jerk, a milquetoast, and a weak and pathetic human being.

Why do I lash out and hurt those around me? I've given that question a lot of thought over the years. Ironically, I'm only hurting those who love me because they nearby. And they are nearby because they love me. So they feel the Wrath of the Poor Idiot while complete strangers do not. Nor do my enemies. It's a sad state of affairs. The wall suffered, too, when I punched a hole in it. I mention that out of a bizarre and unfortunate feeling of pride over having been strong enough to punch a hole in a wall.

I hope the young lady who writes Fia Fatal (among other things) overcomes her writers' block. I'll never be an author because the pressure of a deadline, or even just the need to write to make a living, is too much. It leads to a spiral downward that leads to wall-punching and loved-one upsetting, like any attempt to become a person of consequence.

That's Right, I Dance...I Pour It On HOT!

I can't say that I'm proud of this video, but it just happened. I wasn't drunk, or threatened, just compelled. You might say that the Muse inspired me to dance for all you bastards. So dance I did. And I broke the top right off da muffin.

Red Sox Win The Pennant!

I'm a Red Sox fan, and was happy to see them clinch the pennant last night. The Yankees never had the lead in the AL East, and that's all right by me. I liked this picture the best. People watched the Yankees' game on the big screen at Fenway, and a few thousand waited to see who would win, despite the Yankees having a lead up until the ninth inning. They were rewarded with a champagne bath from the players. Very cool.

That's about all the sports you're ever going to see on here. I like the picture on the bottom, as well.