No, this isn’t going to be about my eating habits.
Michael Moore’s new movie, Sicko, comes out this weekend. I know I’m the resident pinko but, sadly, I have no plans to see it. This is not to say I don’t want to see it. I just don’t have plans.
… MAYBE I SHOULD SUBTLY SUGGEST TO VICKY THAT WE GO ON SUNDAY…
Sunday’s our only free day and even that’s not free. We just seem to go from busy to busy and end up at busy these days. It sucks.
Tonight, I’m going to be meeting my brother at Garf’s in Costa Mesa. In case you’ve never been to Garf’s, let me congratulate you. It’s decorated in early-disaster but it has a smoking patio. Actually, I’m the kind of person who can be sitting in a toxic waste dump, if it has a smoking patio I’ll be there! This place was introduced to me by Chris Anzalone back when we were acting together and it was sort of a hang-out where my actor-friends (not unlike my super-friends… after we got kicked out of the Hall of Justice… for smoking… damn you, Wonder Twins….) and I would hang out. Now, it’s the spot where Keith and I meet when he comes into town. It ain’t bad… for crap.
He’s sure to tell me all about his new projects and I’m sure to not get a word in edgewise. (For those wondering, that’s why I “blog”, so I can get a chance to speak!)
On Saturday, I’ll be Vicky’s arm decoration for her 20-year high school reunion. So, I’ll need to look nice. (Don’t you feel sorry for Vicky?)
I still haven’t attended any of my own high school reunions for reasons already amply stated. But I have no problem going to this one because, basically, nobody will know me. Oh wait. Scratch that. A couple of Vicky’s “born again” friends will know me… and I will be forced to play nice. Let’s see how many drinks it takes to get to the bitter, bastard center of Ken.
But I’m hoping we have a little free time to see Sicko this weekend.
If you look at Moore’s films, he’s been pretty spot on. His first was about outsourcing and anemic corporate citizenship – check! His second was about the problem we American’s have with violence, and it’s still amusing to see right-wing nutbars deny that one. Finally, there’s Fahrenheit 9/11, where he predicts most of the things we later found out were true about 9/11 and Iraq and that criminal in the White House.
… No, that one.
… No, THAT one.
… fine! THOSE criminals in the White House.
(Remember the “good old days”, when a blowjob was a travesty?)
Anyway, we haven’t seen a single film in a theater since… well, it’s just embarrassing. Hopefully, we’ll catch this one.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Which might explain why Vicky doesn’t like taking long drives with me…
I just saw a website called “Wine Across America”.
Before you say it, I can see it coming: Sounds like a trip with Ken.
(Do I know my demo or what?)
Before you say it, I can see it coming: Sounds like a trip with Ken.
(Do I know my demo or what?)
Fair and balanced…
Probably not what you’re thinking – though there is a bit about Faux Noose.
It seems strange to me that the politically right-leaning (wackos) are so afraid of the fairness doctrine. After all, aren’t they supposed to be… fair…?
Mind you, the fairness doctrine no longer exists… in case you couldn’t tell… If you couldn’t, you really worry me.
As for balanced, well that goes back to the bedroom and a little more information about Vicky and me than you probably want to know.
(Cue the “Bow Chika Bow Bow” music…)
I tend to be the first one to rise in the morning…. No, wait. Actually, I tend to have the alarm that goes off first – my awakening has little to do with that. Some mornings, I catch the alarm shortly after it starts. Other mornings… say today… the alarm was going off for several minutes before Vicky (who functions as my secondary alarm) blew up, screaming, “WILL YOU TURN OFF YOUR GOD-DAMNED ALARM OR DO I HAVE TO KILL YOU?!?!”
I, judiciously, turned off the alarm.
See, Vicky is just the opposite. She smacks her alarm so fast I wonder if she actually lies awake, waiting for the – first – hint - - of - - - BAMMMM! She really a great hunter when she sleeps; it’s no wonder our cat, Harley, likes to stay close. She’s learning from a master!
Meanwhile, my alarm can go off for 15 minutes, 20 minutes, half an hour – until Vicky finally beats me senseless to wake me up.
The way I figure, it all balances out.
It seems strange to me that the politically right-leaning (wackos) are so afraid of the fairness doctrine. After all, aren’t they supposed to be… fair…?
Mind you, the fairness doctrine no longer exists… in case you couldn’t tell… If you couldn’t, you really worry me.
As for balanced, well that goes back to the bedroom and a little more information about Vicky and me than you probably want to know.
(Cue the “Bow Chika Bow Bow” music…)
I tend to be the first one to rise in the morning…. No, wait. Actually, I tend to have the alarm that goes off first – my awakening has little to do with that. Some mornings, I catch the alarm shortly after it starts. Other mornings… say today… the alarm was going off for several minutes before Vicky (who functions as my secondary alarm) blew up, screaming, “WILL YOU TURN OFF YOUR GOD-DAMNED ALARM OR DO I HAVE TO KILL YOU?!?!”
I, judiciously, turned off the alarm.
See, Vicky is just the opposite. She smacks her alarm so fast I wonder if she actually lies awake, waiting for the – first – hint - - of - - - BAMMMM! She really a great hunter when she sleeps; it’s no wonder our cat, Harley, likes to stay close. She’s learning from a master!
Meanwhile, my alarm can go off for 15 minutes, 20 minutes, half an hour – until Vicky finally beats me senseless to wake me up.
The way I figure, it all balances out.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Decades…
So, I went into the clinic today to get my blood work done… bear with me…
The place opened at 8am and, though I arrived at 8:10, I was fifth in line. I was just behind this woman (who I saw from her sign-in info was born in 1920!) with a walker who wobbled like a Scalia being questioned on ethics. She obviously needed to sit down but she waited patiently for her turn. Then, this bitch at the counter kept making her wait. It looked like this was going to be her last day. She even asked, “Can I sit down while I wait?” And the bitch said, “It’s only going to be a few more minutes!” So, I pretty much hated her.
I was called into a room, a while later, with three dental chairs and one phlebotomist. He circled us one by one, swabbing, prodding, and poking. After he swabbed my arm, I thought that this was the point where the usually tell you, “Now, this is going to pinch a bit.” I knew that once he said, “Now, this is going to pinch a bit,” I would get the needle. He came back to me – I waited for him to speak – and he jammed a needle deep into my arm! With no warning, I flinched – and he slammed my elbow down with his other hand… let’s just say, he wasn’t gentle. When he was done, he put a cotton ball on my arm and said, “Now hold this down or it’s really gonna bleed.” Oh, thanks.
Then, they gave me a large cup and said, “There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall.” I supposed they wanted a urine sample.
… But I didn’t need to go!
The worst thing, though, was the size of the cup. You could fit a Slurpee in the damned thing! Surely, they didn’t expect… Oh, what the hell. I walked back and asked, “You don’t seriously want all this, right?”
He didn’t even look at me. “No, just to the first line.” The first line was about a quarter of an inch (less than a centimeter) probably, up the side. So, what the fuck?
So, I left the lab and headed down the hall… and headed… and headed… and headed… and then, the hallway came to an end. The bathroom was occupied… and there was a line.
Oh well. We must all know why we’re here…
You’d think a lab that KNOWS it’s going to be taking pee samples will, at least, be close to a bathroom!
I guess I was a little irritable. Driving down to the lab, I felt a strong stabbing in the center of my chest and my breath was stopped. On my CD, Joe Walsh sang:
Minutes turn to hours, counting seconds tick away.
Another day tomorrow, tomorrow's just another day.
Days turn into years, and time goes by, over and over,
Again and again, and then, years turn into decades.
Decades.
Start another decade...
And, as much as I tried to fight it, I burst into tears. Whatever internal filter I might have hasn’t been working too well of late. Last night, as my sleep was punctuated by the strangest dreams, I felt compelled to tell Vicky about every one of them. Some of them featured Rosa and the guy she’s with… and Rosa… And, sitting in my car, with a shiv in my gut that seemed to have her name on it, tears streamed down my face.
None of it made sense but I guess that’s par for the course this week.
I’m not having the best week ever.
After the lab, I headed into work. At a light, I noticed a red stain on my sleeve. Dammit, the vampire was right! It’s bleeding! Then, I noticed the underside of my sleeve. Like the juice from a juicy sandwich, blood had run all the way down my arm. My shirt was drenched and cold from the air conditioning. For a second, I thought of going to the emergency room.
… then I realized that I wasn’t bleeding. There was no blood at all.
Dammit.
So, I did what I always do. I did what you’re taught to do as a child when you screw up or what you’re taught to do on stage when you flub a line. I shut that away in my mind and I continued going about my business.
The place opened at 8am and, though I arrived at 8:10, I was fifth in line. I was just behind this woman (who I saw from her sign-in info was born in 1920!) with a walker who wobbled like a Scalia being questioned on ethics. She obviously needed to sit down but she waited patiently for her turn. Then, this bitch at the counter kept making her wait. It looked like this was going to be her last day. She even asked, “Can I sit down while I wait?” And the bitch said, “It’s only going to be a few more minutes!” So, I pretty much hated her.
I was called into a room, a while later, with three dental chairs and one phlebotomist. He circled us one by one, swabbing, prodding, and poking. After he swabbed my arm, I thought that this was the point where the usually tell you, “Now, this is going to pinch a bit.” I knew that once he said, “Now, this is going to pinch a bit,” I would get the needle. He came back to me – I waited for him to speak – and he jammed a needle deep into my arm! With no warning, I flinched – and he slammed my elbow down with his other hand… let’s just say, he wasn’t gentle. When he was done, he put a cotton ball on my arm and said, “Now hold this down or it’s really gonna bleed.” Oh, thanks.
Then, they gave me a large cup and said, “There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall.” I supposed they wanted a urine sample.
… But I didn’t need to go!
The worst thing, though, was the size of the cup. You could fit a Slurpee in the damned thing! Surely, they didn’t expect… Oh, what the hell. I walked back and asked, “You don’t seriously want all this, right?”
He didn’t even look at me. “No, just to the first line.” The first line was about a quarter of an inch (less than a centimeter) probably, up the side. So, what the fuck?
So, I left the lab and headed down the hall… and headed… and headed… and headed… and then, the hallway came to an end. The bathroom was occupied… and there was a line.
Oh well. We must all know why we’re here…
You’d think a lab that KNOWS it’s going to be taking pee samples will, at least, be close to a bathroom!
I guess I was a little irritable. Driving down to the lab, I felt a strong stabbing in the center of my chest and my breath was stopped. On my CD, Joe Walsh sang:
Minutes turn to hours, counting seconds tick away.
Another day tomorrow, tomorrow's just another day.
Days turn into years, and time goes by, over and over,
Again and again, and then, years turn into decades.
Decades.
Start another decade...
And, as much as I tried to fight it, I burst into tears. Whatever internal filter I might have hasn’t been working too well of late. Last night, as my sleep was punctuated by the strangest dreams, I felt compelled to tell Vicky about every one of them. Some of them featured Rosa and the guy she’s with… and Rosa… And, sitting in my car, with a shiv in my gut that seemed to have her name on it, tears streamed down my face.
None of it made sense but I guess that’s par for the course this week.
I’m not having the best week ever.
After the lab, I headed into work. At a light, I noticed a red stain on my sleeve. Dammit, the vampire was right! It’s bleeding! Then, I noticed the underside of my sleeve. Like the juice from a juicy sandwich, blood had run all the way down my arm. My shirt was drenched and cold from the air conditioning. For a second, I thought of going to the emergency room.
… then I realized that I wasn’t bleeding. There was no blood at all.
Dammit.
So, I did what I always do. I did what you’re taught to do as a child when you screw up or what you’re taught to do on stage when you flub a line. I shut that away in my mind and I continued going about my business.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
I’m going to regret I ever said this…
What is it about Paris Hilton without makeup? She looks almost… normal… in a way…
almost...
... attractive???
almost...
... attractive???
File this under sketch comedy that nearly was…
The Apostles got a bum deal…
You’ve all heard of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John: the Apostles. They had some big hits in their days but, like all bands, they had their problems. Sure, Matthew had everything in balance like all good drummers. But John was too cosmic, penning the ballad, “Something in the way HE heals the lepers”. But the band held together until the big fallout before Mark and Luke. Luke called Mark obtuse and Mark accused Luke of just wanting to write hits. Indeed, Luke went solo on Acts, which still gets spun to this day.
… in the middle of this parallel between the Beatles and the Gospels (who I named The Apostles because, well, not only does is sound better but there was actually a punk group by that name), everything kind of fell apart.
I mean, look who’s calling who obtuse!
Anyway, I’m a little stretched today. Yesterday really drew me in all sorts of directions and I’m just trying to yank myself together.
I told you all about my hallucinatory funk but I thought I’d fill you in on how you get back from that spot, as well. What’s going on could be stress related but I doubt it’s emotion; it’s probably chemical. Basically, when it was over, which wasn’t until nearly 6pm, I was just very, very tired. I had gone to the gym after work and found, to my immense relief, that having headphones blaring in your ears shuts out the voices. That’s nice! I’d bring my iPod to work if I didn’t have to… you know, work. But it didn’t shut down the light show. I try not to avoid hallucinations when I have them; I think it’s important to look them dead on. So, I can report that by this late in the day it was kind of like a thin film over my eyes (like when you wake up) with localized “distortions”, which is the only way I can think of phrasing “weak hallucinations”. What is that? Cheap special effects. It’s like your brain says, “We can’t afford a full-on visitation from the undead so let’s just give him something in the corner of his eye – really fast.” The trick there is not allowing your natural instinct to compel you to look, just knowing that your brain has its own agenda and going with the flow.
Actually, as I write that I can’t help but realize how very different it must sound to someone who doesn’t hallucinate. So, let’s liken it to someone who gets a lot of backaches… my wife, say. She lives with it; it’s that simple. So, do I.
Today, whatever chemicals were causing my brain to go nuts (so to speak) are not as strong. So, I have a strong sense of someone hovering just out of my vision but I know that nobody’s there. So, I’m trying to ignore it. It is irritating. I want to look over my shoulder and ask, “Don’t you have something better to do?” But, I know that nobody is there. So…
One interesting note is that I’m going in for lab tests tomorrow, requested by my doc for my physical exam. I can’t help think that my mental state is going to affect my physical in some way. She might say, “Your blood pressure is very high.”
But here’s the thing. I went in for a physical for two reasons. 1) To have a mole removed, which should happen when I go for my follow-up visit. 2) To get a referral to a shrink. I figure that, in order to get a good referral, I’ll need to give her some information. So, when she asks about my blood pressure, I’ll probably respond with, “Here’s the thing, doc. I was hallucinating more or less non-stop that week. You know of any shrinks who might be able to help me?”
Getting help is important because, for as wonderfully understanding as Vicky has been, it’s not fair to her to go without help. And I can just imagine what she’s thinking about the child we plan to have together…
Is it any wonder I’m having a problem writing something funny?
You’ve all heard of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John: the Apostles. They had some big hits in their days but, like all bands, they had their problems. Sure, Matthew had everything in balance like all good drummers. But John was too cosmic, penning the ballad, “Something in the way HE heals the lepers”. But the band held together until the big fallout before Mark and Luke. Luke called Mark obtuse and Mark accused Luke of just wanting to write hits. Indeed, Luke went solo on Acts, which still gets spun to this day.
… in the middle of this parallel between the Beatles and the Gospels (who I named The Apostles because, well, not only does is sound better but there was actually a punk group by that name), everything kind of fell apart.
I mean, look who’s calling who obtuse!
Anyway, I’m a little stretched today. Yesterday really drew me in all sorts of directions and I’m just trying to yank myself together.
I told you all about my hallucinatory funk but I thought I’d fill you in on how you get back from that spot, as well. What’s going on could be stress related but I doubt it’s emotion; it’s probably chemical. Basically, when it was over, which wasn’t until nearly 6pm, I was just very, very tired. I had gone to the gym after work and found, to my immense relief, that having headphones blaring in your ears shuts out the voices. That’s nice! I’d bring my iPod to work if I didn’t have to… you know, work. But it didn’t shut down the light show. I try not to avoid hallucinations when I have them; I think it’s important to look them dead on. So, I can report that by this late in the day it was kind of like a thin film over my eyes (like when you wake up) with localized “distortions”, which is the only way I can think of phrasing “weak hallucinations”. What is that? Cheap special effects. It’s like your brain says, “We can’t afford a full-on visitation from the undead so let’s just give him something in the corner of his eye – really fast.” The trick there is not allowing your natural instinct to compel you to look, just knowing that your brain has its own agenda and going with the flow.
Actually, as I write that I can’t help but realize how very different it must sound to someone who doesn’t hallucinate. So, let’s liken it to someone who gets a lot of backaches… my wife, say. She lives with it; it’s that simple. So, do I.
Today, whatever chemicals were causing my brain to go nuts (so to speak) are not as strong. So, I have a strong sense of someone hovering just out of my vision but I know that nobody’s there. So, I’m trying to ignore it. It is irritating. I want to look over my shoulder and ask, “Don’t you have something better to do?” But, I know that nobody is there. So…
One interesting note is that I’m going in for lab tests tomorrow, requested by my doc for my physical exam. I can’t help think that my mental state is going to affect my physical in some way. She might say, “Your blood pressure is very high.”
But here’s the thing. I went in for a physical for two reasons. 1) To have a mole removed, which should happen when I go for my follow-up visit. 2) To get a referral to a shrink. I figure that, in order to get a good referral, I’ll need to give her some information. So, when she asks about my blood pressure, I’ll probably respond with, “Here’s the thing, doc. I was hallucinating more or less non-stop that week. You know of any shrinks who might be able to help me?”
Getting help is important because, for as wonderfully understanding as Vicky has been, it’s not fair to her to go without help. And I can just imagine what she’s thinking about the child we plan to have together…
Is it any wonder I’m having a problem writing something funny?
Monday, June 25, 2007
Seriously, though. When does this shit stop?...
The problem with thinking up snappy witticisms every time you sleepwalk is that, if you sleepwalk as often as I do, eventually you run out.
As of this morning, I’ve run out.
At just about one o’clock this morning, I found myself standing beside my bed. My hands were filled with paper and I knew there was more. The rest of my research lay elsewhere. I didn’t know how it had become so scattered. There was some behind the dresser. My hands empty, I knelt down beside the dresser to reach back there and…
I realized something was wrong. Wasn’t it too late to be doing research? Shouldn’t I be in bed?
But my research…
Wasn’t I supposed to be sleeping?
The research…
As my bicameral mind slugged it out, I thought I’d do something else. It looked like I was awake, anyway. Earlier, I’d flossed rather viciously as one of my back teeth and it was bugging me so I rinsed with a little Listerine and…
The research…
I couldn’t shake it. Something was wrong.
Maybe it’s downstairs.
If the thought of someone sleepwalking down a flight of stairs strikes you as scary – well, it does me, too, because last night was the first time I remembered what it was like. Vic, can we pad the stairs? You see, I realize now just how much sleepwalking is like getting two signals on a TV. Eventually, as I wake up, they blend together but it’s really hard to make that happen. And I think this might come close to explaining my hallucinations, too. (What else is sleepwalking if not hallucinating in your sleep?) Going down stairs is like having two, transparent images of stairs, dancing about in front of each other. So, I stepped onto the first step and – thankfully, just about then, I remembered something Vicky had said about a stair railing and grabbed onto ours – there were two sets of stairs, one wavering before another. It was a slow descent.
After a while, I made my way down to the livingroom… then, I realized that I’d been sleepwalking. No research. No papers. Just me in my pajama bottoms.
After an hour or so, a strange realization occurred to me. Whether it be about codes or plans or research, most of my sleepwalking while I’ve been with Vicky has been about searching for knowledge. Obviously, I’m looking for some kind of answer. (Climbing Maya asked “What is success?” Daughter of a One-Armed Man asks “What is love?”) But I don’t know how I’m going to find it in my sleep.
Vicky and I have been talking about getting me help – mental help. The plan is to get a referral from my family doctor, which sucks because I have to go in and say, “Hi. I’m a loony. Can you tell me where to get some help?” Maybe that’s what’s causing the delay? That and I remember my sessions with “Dr. Doom” and how fruitful they were.
But I gotta do something. One reality is hard enough.
Sometimes I feel like the human equivalent of Jenga.
And it doesn’t end there, either. I figure I should write these things down for a time when I do get treatment. Today, as I write this, I’m having my worst day in some time. I’ve already had three people talking to me who weren’t here. (I can’t remember what they said or who they were.) I’m running into a lot of problems with what can only be described as interference. It’s like I’m receiving another signal. Sometimes, it’s verbal and my words are all flummoxed. Other times, it’s worse than that and I can’t even understand words. This changes minute by minute. It’s kind of like a storm, too, in the sense that I’m waiting for it to blow over.
An important distinction to make at this point is that, for the most part, I can tell what is real and what is just in my head. Some small things are slightly confusing but I’m handling it. My point is that I can still function; it’s just difficult.
Anyway, yeah, I need help.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting at work and doing as little as possible… just in case.
As of this morning, I’ve run out.
At just about one o’clock this morning, I found myself standing beside my bed. My hands were filled with paper and I knew there was more. The rest of my research lay elsewhere. I didn’t know how it had become so scattered. There was some behind the dresser. My hands empty, I knelt down beside the dresser to reach back there and…
I realized something was wrong. Wasn’t it too late to be doing research? Shouldn’t I be in bed?
But my research…
Wasn’t I supposed to be sleeping?
The research…
As my bicameral mind slugged it out, I thought I’d do something else. It looked like I was awake, anyway. Earlier, I’d flossed rather viciously as one of my back teeth and it was bugging me so I rinsed with a little Listerine and…
The research…
I couldn’t shake it. Something was wrong.
Maybe it’s downstairs.
If the thought of someone sleepwalking down a flight of stairs strikes you as scary – well, it does me, too, because last night was the first time I remembered what it was like. Vic, can we pad the stairs? You see, I realize now just how much sleepwalking is like getting two signals on a TV. Eventually, as I wake up, they blend together but it’s really hard to make that happen. And I think this might come close to explaining my hallucinations, too. (What else is sleepwalking if not hallucinating in your sleep?) Going down stairs is like having two, transparent images of stairs, dancing about in front of each other. So, I stepped onto the first step and – thankfully, just about then, I remembered something Vicky had said about a stair railing and grabbed onto ours – there were two sets of stairs, one wavering before another. It was a slow descent.
After a while, I made my way down to the livingroom… then, I realized that I’d been sleepwalking. No research. No papers. Just me in my pajama bottoms.
After an hour or so, a strange realization occurred to me. Whether it be about codes or plans or research, most of my sleepwalking while I’ve been with Vicky has been about searching for knowledge. Obviously, I’m looking for some kind of answer. (Climbing Maya asked “What is success?” Daughter of a One-Armed Man asks “What is love?”) But I don’t know how I’m going to find it in my sleep.
Vicky and I have been talking about getting me help – mental help. The plan is to get a referral from my family doctor, which sucks because I have to go in and say, “Hi. I’m a loony. Can you tell me where to get some help?” Maybe that’s what’s causing the delay? That and I remember my sessions with “Dr. Doom” and how fruitful they were.
But I gotta do something. One reality is hard enough.
Sometimes I feel like the human equivalent of Jenga.
And it doesn’t end there, either. I figure I should write these things down for a time when I do get treatment. Today, as I write this, I’m having my worst day in some time. I’ve already had three people talking to me who weren’t here. (I can’t remember what they said or who they were.) I’m running into a lot of problems with what can only be described as interference. It’s like I’m receiving another signal. Sometimes, it’s verbal and my words are all flummoxed. Other times, it’s worse than that and I can’t even understand words. This changes minute by minute. It’s kind of like a storm, too, in the sense that I’m waiting for it to blow over.
An important distinction to make at this point is that, for the most part, I can tell what is real and what is just in my head. Some small things are slightly confusing but I’m handling it. My point is that I can still function; it’s just difficult.
Anyway, yeah, I need help.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting at work and doing as little as possible… just in case.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
A Day at Indian Beach, Oregon
My brother, the videographer, is making relaxation videos. See if you can watch this one without falling asleep!
... yes, it IS intentional!
Friday, June 22, 2007
And now, a word about fatness…
I know I regularly give myself 31 flavors of shit over how fat I am. This entry is not about that.
Look, I know I’m overweight. That can’t be denied. I am twenty or so pounds over my “acting weight”. Yes, I need to be more active. I admit that.
But, come on, people! What the fuck is the deal with all you fat motherfuckers out there? Holy shit! I read an article today on teenagers getting gastric bypass surgery. Teenagers! What the fuck ever happened to taking a walk, for fuck’s sake? Haven’t you people ever heard of the starving people in the third world? Ever think of leaving them a cookie?
No shit, man. We are a bunch of fat, lazy fucks who don’t deserve the Twinkie we gorge on if our kids are turning to gastric bypass surgery! Whatever happened to that being a last resort? Now, it’s a fucking fad! The scar is a fucking fashion statement!
Listen to me: “I ate 46 cows” is not a bragging right! Okay? Put down that Moon Pie and cut it the fuck out!
….
(Odds are I’ll be ending up at Tommy’s sometime soon… maybe not tomorrow but soon… so I’ll call “hypocrite” before anyone else can.)
Look, I know I’m overweight. That can’t be denied. I am twenty or so pounds over my “acting weight”. Yes, I need to be more active. I admit that.
But, come on, people! What the fuck is the deal with all you fat motherfuckers out there? Holy shit! I read an article today on teenagers getting gastric bypass surgery. Teenagers! What the fuck ever happened to taking a walk, for fuck’s sake? Haven’t you people ever heard of the starving people in the third world? Ever think of leaving them a cookie?
No shit, man. We are a bunch of fat, lazy fucks who don’t deserve the Twinkie we gorge on if our kids are turning to gastric bypass surgery! Whatever happened to that being a last resort? Now, it’s a fucking fad! The scar is a fucking fashion statement!
Listen to me: “I ate 46 cows” is not a bragging right! Okay? Put down that Moon Pie and cut it the fuck out!
….
(Odds are I’ll be ending up at Tommy’s sometime soon… maybe not tomorrow but soon… so I’ll call “hypocrite” before anyone else can.)
Thursday, June 21, 2007
I once wrote a book that insisted God is love…
Last night, Vicky and I were sitting out on our patio, talking. (Something we seem to be doing less and less of as we get busier and busier.) We were talking about the new book I’m working on, where I mention the religion is a dangerous distraction, up there with materialism, social order, and pop culture. Now, Vicky was raised in a nice, Lutheran church filled with nice, Lutheran people. She has some difficulty as seeing religion as being anything but a power for good.
But she’s not so naïve that she can’t. “I guess I’d be okay with a religion that didn’t teach hatred.”
“Which one’s that?” I asked.
“You know. One that taught love.”
“Which one’s that?” I honestly wanted to know.
(I wouldn’t include Buddhism, because Buddhism isn’t even a religion in the Western sense, with a personal deity to worship.)
Sadly, even her nice Lutheran church filled with nice Lutheran people taught hate. Just look at the Bible. It’s filled with hate. And, as much as you might want to claim that the God of the New Testament is a God of Love (see the Sermon on the Mount for some really good sentiments), you honestly have to admit – at the very least – that the hate taught in the Bible dulls the shine just a bit. As for myself, I wouldn’t want any child of mine being taught that a book of hate should instruct them on how to live.
You can toss out the Old Testament right away. That book is filled with hatred towards non-Jews, women, and nearly everyone else. And believers in an Old Testament god are still out there, which is scary enough. But then, you get to the New Testament – the “feel good” Bible. Almost immediately, however, you have to throw out Revelation, a book based on the Return of the Old Testament God. Revelation, which was never written to be about the end of the world as we know it, says that if you don’t love a loving god, he will FUCK YOU UP! Okay, so that’s gone, then.
Surely, the remaining bits of the Bible must be filled with love?
Matthew has Jesus saying he’ll destroy families (10:34-37), condemns those who don’t care for his preaching (11:20-24), talks in “Bush Speak” (12:30), condemns questioners (12:31-32), and justifies anti-Semitism (27:25). John has Jesus giving some of that old-time religious hatred: if you’re “unclean” you go to hell (3:29), if you don’t kowtow to Christians you get fucked (6:11), and non-believers go straight to hell (16:16). Luke casts God himself as a violent slave-owner (12:46-47), says that only a few people actually get saved (13:23-30), and other viciousness (19:22-27). Finally, John casts people into hell for thought crime (3:18, 36), is anti-Semitic (5:16, 18) (7:1) (7:13) (8:44) (11:8) (19:7, 12, 14-15) (20:19), says that non-believers will go to hell (8:24) (12:48) (14:6) (15:6).
And those are just the Apostles… makes Jesus sound like a hell of a guy, doesn’t it?
Then, we get into the rest… I won't bore you with the details suffice it to say there are more than 80 more bits of anti-Semitic, anti-gay, anti-woman, anti-unbeliever crap.
I, too, would probably have less of a problem with a religion that didn’t teach hate.
But what of those nice Lutherans? What of nice people of faith who are good despite their religion? Well, that’s the answer, isn’t it? They aren’t good because of their religion but, rather, in spite of it. I’m not saying there are no good people out there. I’m saying that good, religious people are overcoming a handicap. For that, I am grateful.
But think how much better we’d all be without our handicaps and without anyone teaching us to hate…
But she’s not so naïve that she can’t. “I guess I’d be okay with a religion that didn’t teach hatred.”
“Which one’s that?” I asked.
“You know. One that taught love.”
“Which one’s that?” I honestly wanted to know.
(I wouldn’t include Buddhism, because Buddhism isn’t even a religion in the Western sense, with a personal deity to worship.)
Sadly, even her nice Lutheran church filled with nice Lutheran people taught hate. Just look at the Bible. It’s filled with hate. And, as much as you might want to claim that the God of the New Testament is a God of Love (see the Sermon on the Mount for some really good sentiments), you honestly have to admit – at the very least – that the hate taught in the Bible dulls the shine just a bit. As for myself, I wouldn’t want any child of mine being taught that a book of hate should instruct them on how to live.
You can toss out the Old Testament right away. That book is filled with hatred towards non-Jews, women, and nearly everyone else. And believers in an Old Testament god are still out there, which is scary enough. But then, you get to the New Testament – the “feel good” Bible. Almost immediately, however, you have to throw out Revelation, a book based on the Return of the Old Testament God. Revelation, which was never written to be about the end of the world as we know it, says that if you don’t love a loving god, he will FUCK YOU UP! Okay, so that’s gone, then.
Surely, the remaining bits of the Bible must be filled with love?
Matthew has Jesus saying he’ll destroy families (10:34-37), condemns those who don’t care for his preaching (11:20-24), talks in “Bush Speak” (12:30), condemns questioners (12:31-32), and justifies anti-Semitism (27:25). John has Jesus giving some of that old-time religious hatred: if you’re “unclean” you go to hell (3:29), if you don’t kowtow to Christians you get fucked (6:11), and non-believers go straight to hell (16:16). Luke casts God himself as a violent slave-owner (12:46-47), says that only a few people actually get saved (13:23-30), and other viciousness (19:22-27). Finally, John casts people into hell for thought crime (3:18, 36), is anti-Semitic (5:16, 18) (7:1) (7:13) (8:44) (11:8) (19:7, 12, 14-15) (20:19), says that non-believers will go to hell (8:24) (12:48) (14:6) (15:6).
And those are just the Apostles… makes Jesus sound like a hell of a guy, doesn’t it?
Then, we get into the rest… I won't bore you with the details suffice it to say there are more than 80 more bits of anti-Semitic, anti-gay, anti-woman, anti-unbeliever crap.
I, too, would probably have less of a problem with a religion that didn’t teach hate.
But what of those nice Lutherans? What of nice people of faith who are good despite their religion? Well, that’s the answer, isn’t it? They aren’t good because of their religion but, rather, in spite of it. I’m not saying there are no good people out there. I’m saying that good, religious people are overcoming a handicap. For that, I am grateful.
But think how much better we’d all be without our handicaps and without anyone teaching us to hate…
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Three small words…
(I thought I’d grab the lyrics to an old, old song called “Three small words” for this blog… and came up with a bajillion hits for Josie & The Pussycats! NO!)
Every morning, before I leave from work, Vicky and I have our ritual. It may sound familiar to some of you married folk out there.
I leave first so, before I do, I creep up to Vicky’s bedside. I lean over her. I kiss her on the cheek. “I love you, darling,” I tell her. “Have a good day.”
Vicky, her eyes squinched tightly, gives me a kind of grumble and says, “Mmmme Mmmmmu Mmmmmem.”
This means "I Love You, too"... I think...
Every morning, before I leave from work, Vicky and I have our ritual. It may sound familiar to some of you married folk out there.
I leave first so, before I do, I creep up to Vicky’s bedside. I lean over her. I kiss her on the cheek. “I love you, darling,” I tell her. “Have a good day.”
Vicky, her eyes squinched tightly, gives me a kind of grumble and says, “Mmmme Mmmmmu Mmmmmem.”
This means "I Love You, too"... I think...
Rules to live by…
Calling them Commandments just sounds so didactic, so immutable. This is probably why so many Christian fundamentalists want the big 10 posted, well, everywhere. But didn’t Jesus himself say (or get quoted as saying) that his word wiped out everything that came before it? Wouldn’t even a good Christian need to throw away the big 10 in favor of HIS word?
I’ve been reading a lot on alternate commandments recently. (This thanks to Richard Dawkins' book, The God Delusion, which is recommendably excellent.) Even the Jews have moved past Moses’ tired, old rules, in favor of a more humane way of living. So, here are some alternatives snatched off the web. Not bad ways to live, really. I wouldn’t mind seeing more people living along these lines.
(1) Do not do to others what you would not want them to do to you.
(2) In all things, strive to cause no harm.
(3) Treat your fellow human beings, your fellow living things, and the world in general with love, honesty, faithfulness and respect.
(4) Do not overlook evil or shrink from administering justice, but always be ready to forgive wrongdoing freely admitted and honestly regretted.
(5) Live life with a sense of joy and wonder.
(6) Always seek to be learning something new.
(7) Test all things; always check your ideas against the facts, and be ready to discard even a cherished belief if it does not conform to them.
(8) Never seek to censor or cut yourself off from dissent; always respect the right of others to disagree with you.
(9) Form independent opinions on the basis of your own reason and experience; do not allow yourself to be led blindly by others.
(10) Question everything.
I’ve been reading a lot on alternate commandments recently. (This thanks to Richard Dawkins' book, The God Delusion, which is recommendably excellent.) Even the Jews have moved past Moses’ tired, old rules, in favor of a more humane way of living. So, here are some alternatives snatched off the web. Not bad ways to live, really. I wouldn’t mind seeing more people living along these lines.
(1) Do not do to others what you would not want them to do to you.
(2) In all things, strive to cause no harm.
(3) Treat your fellow human beings, your fellow living things, and the world in general with love, honesty, faithfulness and respect.
(4) Do not overlook evil or shrink from administering justice, but always be ready to forgive wrongdoing freely admitted and honestly regretted.
(5) Live life with a sense of joy and wonder.
(6) Always seek to be learning something new.
(7) Test all things; always check your ideas against the facts, and be ready to discard even a cherished belief if it does not conform to them.
(8) Never seek to censor or cut yourself off from dissent; always respect the right of others to disagree with you.
(9) Form independent opinions on the basis of your own reason and experience; do not allow yourself to be led blindly by others.
(10) Question everything.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Lift the ban...
Personally, I don't want to see anyone in the armed forces - call me a commie. But when faced with such discrimination, I have to admit I am torn.
Is there a way we can ban both straights and gays?
Sunday, June 17, 2007
You are judged by the company you keep…
What can we say about “Scooter” Libby, we who were not privy to the inner workings of his trial?
Well, we can say – as Vicky often says – that any grown man who calls himself “Scooter” is definitely suspect, if only of severely arrested development.
We can also say, after this past week, that if we are to judge people by the company they keep this man is horribly guilty.
Look at his prime defenders, those who are pushing hardest for a Presidential Pardon: Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, Delay, Wolfowitz. All known liars. All responsible for leading our nation into bloody and illegal war. All power brokers for the rich and defilers of the rights of the meek.
With a sentence of 30 months of easy time, you’d think this man was going to Guantanamo, or worse. But having constructed a life of lies with friends who are equally and infamously known for lies, it’s important to keep in mind that the company he keeps shows us that worse is exactly what he should have received.
Well, we can say – as Vicky often says – that any grown man who calls himself “Scooter” is definitely suspect, if only of severely arrested development.
We can also say, after this past week, that if we are to judge people by the company they keep this man is horribly guilty.
Look at his prime defenders, those who are pushing hardest for a Presidential Pardon: Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, Delay, Wolfowitz. All known liars. All responsible for leading our nation into bloody and illegal war. All power brokers for the rich and defilers of the rights of the meek.
With a sentence of 30 months of easy time, you’d think this man was going to Guantanamo, or worse. But having constructed a life of lies with friends who are equally and infamously known for lies, it’s important to keep in mind that the company he keeps shows us that worse is exactly what he should have received.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Key-riste!...
So, I've been wondering why Christians get so offended when you insult their religion.
... It's cause he's hanging on a cross, isn't it? Picking on a God that gets himself nailed up onto a cross is kind of like teasing the slow kid.
This probably also explains why Christians are so warlike...
Compensate much?
... It's cause he's hanging on a cross, isn't it? Picking on a God that gets himself nailed up onto a cross is kind of like teasing the slow kid.
This probably also explains why Christians are so warlike...
Compensate much?
Friday, June 15, 2007
Hate the war, love the warrior…
As part of my job, I’ve been doing some research on Military Spouses… and I’ve been making myself sick.
I just don’t get it. Reading page after page written by military spouses, I get the distinct feeling like they really get absorbed in the drama of having their spouse at risk. It’s like, “Oh, poor me! My husband/wife is risking his/her life and I’ll be all alone!” It’s truly pathetic.
How can I say this? Well, consider the fact that we have an all-volunteer army/navy/marine/etc. These people wanted to be in the service; no one forced them. (You could say that economic conditions forced them, which is entirely true in some cases but a conversation for another time. Right now, let’s assume they could have made the same amount working at Wal-Mart… which, in some cases, they could.) So, their spouses could have told them not to. I mean, seriously, if they loved their spouse, they could have said, “I don’t want you joining up and risking your life.” (Before you say that maybe they didn’t know, I’d add that ignorance is no excuse. What the hell did they expect joining the army to mean, anyway?) They could have also refrained from marrying someone in the service or with the inclination to join the service. There’s also divorce.
So, there are a lot of ways NOT to be a military spouse.
But what offends me most, what really sickens me, isn’t the amount of drama these people bring on themselves. No. What really sickens me is how these people can claim to support their spouse – love their spouse – but have no qualms with the war itself. If anyone should be protesting the war, it should be the friends and families of everyone who is over there! Are they really so blind that they still think we’re clearing out those WMDs (there were none, folks!) or bringing the benefits of Democracy to those people (hello, Vietnam!)?
Imagine how quickly this war would be over if everyone with a loved on in Iraq took to the streets? Hundreds of thousands of people marching would quickly get every person they claim to love out of harm’s way. But they can’t be bothered with that, for the most part. (I applaud anyone who speaks out in protest.)
I just don’t get it. Reading page after page written by military spouses, I get the distinct feeling like they really get absorbed in the drama of having their spouse at risk. It’s like, “Oh, poor me! My husband/wife is risking his/her life and I’ll be all alone!” It’s truly pathetic.
How can I say this? Well, consider the fact that we have an all-volunteer army/navy/marine/etc. These people wanted to be in the service; no one forced them. (You could say that economic conditions forced them, which is entirely true in some cases but a conversation for another time. Right now, let’s assume they could have made the same amount working at Wal-Mart… which, in some cases, they could.) So, their spouses could have told them not to. I mean, seriously, if they loved their spouse, they could have said, “I don’t want you joining up and risking your life.” (Before you say that maybe they didn’t know, I’d add that ignorance is no excuse. What the hell did they expect joining the army to mean, anyway?) They could have also refrained from marrying someone in the service or with the inclination to join the service. There’s also divorce.
So, there are a lot of ways NOT to be a military spouse.
But what offends me most, what really sickens me, isn’t the amount of drama these people bring on themselves. No. What really sickens me is how these people can claim to support their spouse – love their spouse – but have no qualms with the war itself. If anyone should be protesting the war, it should be the friends and families of everyone who is over there! Are they really so blind that they still think we’re clearing out those WMDs (there were none, folks!) or bringing the benefits of Democracy to those people (hello, Vietnam!)?
Imagine how quickly this war would be over if everyone with a loved on in Iraq took to the streets? Hundreds of thousands of people marching would quickly get every person they claim to love out of harm’s way. But they can’t be bothered with that, for the most part. (I applaud anyone who speaks out in protest.)
And don't tell me they are "providing support" because the argument that allowing your loved one to engage in life-threatening and downright stupid behavior is "supportive" just doesn't hold up.
The same goes for any parent who isn’t outraged about global warming. How can you claim to love your children while giving them the gift of a ruined world?
It makes me sick.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
1/10th of 15…
You heard me right… those of you who know what the hell I’m talking about… I’ve reached the 10,000 word mark in my new novel, Daughter of a One-Armed Man. (It’s a working title – what can I say?) You may know that I use 100,000 words as the benchmark for novel length and this puts me 1/10th of the way through.
This is also the time when I usually tell you what the hell this is all about and when I look for readers to see what kind of response the book elicits. My stock of readers is running very weak right about now. I have Jenn proofreading Climbing Maya for me – and, at the rate she keeps conveniently losing her copy, I’m not feeling particularly good about that one. Vicky’s proofreading A Grand Canyon – Part Two. (It’s like an industry, I tell you!) What I need to do is kidnap some literary critic and chain him up in my basement.
… What I need to do is build a basement…
Oh well. I’ve just gotta find someone.
Meanwhile, what the hell is this book all about, anyway?
As with all of my books, I’m trying to do something just a little different. First of all, this is definitely a “Big Message” book. So, to keep people focused, I’ve decided to write without any of the seven or so words people sometimes find offensive. (Though I’m still allowing myself to use words such as “war” and “peace” and “science” and “global warming”.) I don’t want to hear people telling me that the book is no good because the word “shit” appears in it, which is what those who wish to avoid the argument so often tend to do.
So, what’s the argument about?
This book, in its own round-about way, is a book with a question at its core. At the core of Climbing Maya was the question, “What is success?” At the core of Daughter of a One-Armed Man lies the question, “What is love?” (What can I say? I decided to give myself a little break after Climbing Maya.)
What is love? How can anyone who claims to love their child allow them to fight in a war? How can anyone who claims to love someone allow them to be bamboozled by religions that promote intolerance and war? Could I really say I loved Vicky if I was ambivalent to global warming, something that’s going to make her life quite difficult in coming years? How can anyone tolerate capitalist greed and claim to love their children?
Do people believe that oil spills don’t affect the quality of the world in which they live, the quality of the world in which their loved ones live? Wouldn’t the eradication of the bees and the frogs and the polar bears have some affect on the life of your loved one?
How can we be willing to say, “I love you but could care less about the crappy world in which you live?”
It seems to me that our fundamental understanding of the concept of love is faulty, just as our understanding of the concept of success is – as mine was before I wrote Climbing Maya. It needs to be corrected… and I have nothing better to do.
Is this a serious, philosophical novel? Yes… it also includes a cab-driving polar bear in Bermuda shorts named Peanut Butter… and a godlike fisherman who refuses to admit to being god… the daughter of a wood nymph who travels to Los Angeles to find her true love… and the ultimate answer that is bound to have a lot of readers disagreeing. What? Where’s the philosophy, you ask? Well, there are also arguments about overpopulation, plants the bring power and power plants, saying goodbye to the birds and bees and frogs and so much else, the usefulness of hemp, the death of coral reefs, Wal-Mart guilt, cell phone waste, whatever happened to brotherly love, Las Vegas logic, what could be gained by simply not being so goddamed greedy, and so much more…
…
This book also holds a special place in my heart. In the 15 years I was with Rosa, I wrote seven novels. By writing this book, I’ll have completed eight in the three years I’ve been with Vicky. (Which is to say that maybe, then, I’ll take a little break…)
This is also the time when I usually tell you what the hell this is all about and when I look for readers to see what kind of response the book elicits. My stock of readers is running very weak right about now. I have Jenn proofreading Climbing Maya for me – and, at the rate she keeps conveniently losing her copy, I’m not feeling particularly good about that one. Vicky’s proofreading A Grand Canyon – Part Two. (It’s like an industry, I tell you!) What I need to do is kidnap some literary critic and chain him up in my basement.
… What I need to do is build a basement…
Oh well. I’ve just gotta find someone.
Meanwhile, what the hell is this book all about, anyway?
As with all of my books, I’m trying to do something just a little different. First of all, this is definitely a “Big Message” book. So, to keep people focused, I’ve decided to write without any of the seven or so words people sometimes find offensive. (Though I’m still allowing myself to use words such as “war” and “peace” and “science” and “global warming”.) I don’t want to hear people telling me that the book is no good because the word “shit” appears in it, which is what those who wish to avoid the argument so often tend to do.
So, what’s the argument about?
This book, in its own round-about way, is a book with a question at its core. At the core of Climbing Maya was the question, “What is success?” At the core of Daughter of a One-Armed Man lies the question, “What is love?” (What can I say? I decided to give myself a little break after Climbing Maya.)
What is love? How can anyone who claims to love their child allow them to fight in a war? How can anyone who claims to love someone allow them to be bamboozled by religions that promote intolerance and war? Could I really say I loved Vicky if I was ambivalent to global warming, something that’s going to make her life quite difficult in coming years? How can anyone tolerate capitalist greed and claim to love their children?
Do people believe that oil spills don’t affect the quality of the world in which they live, the quality of the world in which their loved ones live? Wouldn’t the eradication of the bees and the frogs and the polar bears have some affect on the life of your loved one?
How can we be willing to say, “I love you but could care less about the crappy world in which you live?”
It seems to me that our fundamental understanding of the concept of love is faulty, just as our understanding of the concept of success is – as mine was before I wrote Climbing Maya. It needs to be corrected… and I have nothing better to do.
Is this a serious, philosophical novel? Yes… it also includes a cab-driving polar bear in Bermuda shorts named Peanut Butter… and a godlike fisherman who refuses to admit to being god… the daughter of a wood nymph who travels to Los Angeles to find her true love… and the ultimate answer that is bound to have a lot of readers disagreeing. What? Where’s the philosophy, you ask? Well, there are also arguments about overpopulation, plants the bring power and power plants, saying goodbye to the birds and bees and frogs and so much else, the usefulness of hemp, the death of coral reefs, Wal-Mart guilt, cell phone waste, whatever happened to brotherly love, Las Vegas logic, what could be gained by simply not being so goddamed greedy, and so much more…
…
This book also holds a special place in my heart. In the 15 years I was with Rosa, I wrote seven novels. By writing this book, I’ll have completed eight in the three years I’ve been with Vicky. (Which is to say that maybe, then, I’ll take a little break…)
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
And what of the fine people on Coffee Cake Island?...
So, if you’re Danish you come from Denmark.
But what if you’re blueberry muffin?
But what if you’re blueberry muffin?
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