Potty Mouth

I am become more and more convinced that the driving force in all societies pretty much boils down to who cleans the toilets and why. And as far as I can see most of modern culture has been a concerted effort by white men to yell “not it!” I used to think social order was pretty much driven by access to pussy but this theory has a correlation in that prime pussy is rarely found in the company of janitors.

Since it has been increasingly difficult to force minorities, women and subjugated cultures to do the deed I’ve noticed a new trend, which is to train “the mentally deficient” into this position. While on the one hand I think it’s great to provide job training for the developmentally disabled or persons with severe mental illnesses, I have issues with assuming that the scut work of society is the perfect niche from which they can can contribute. It’s a bit too “Brave New World” to feel really comfortable.

No one wants to be the “it” in this situation. So in the vein of “if they can put a man on the moon...”
If they can invent a self cleaning oven, why can’t they invent a self cleaning toilet?

It is risen

I got me a fresh sheet of virtual paper and I roll it into the carriage...

I think I’ve been sick of typing. I’ve even found it difficult to effectively do e-mail, and that is one of the few ways to reliably get ahold of me. The FaceBook, 2-3 sentences and I’m out, has been de rigeur around here.

It was a really harsh winter around La cerise de chateau, maison du fumeur de detente. So right now forsythia is like the breath of the atman made manifest on earth.

I had a really, tremendously, bad bout of infection that started just before Thanksgiving. For the most part I missed all the holidays. On Thanksgiving itself I was too sick to even walk next door. About a week of 104 fevers. Since then it’s been a long, slow, road back.

I popped into UBU’s one of the very first good days, that was a good thing, getting out, into town, having lunch. Now I have have to pop back and give him back the books I bought as well as a few additional. I find myself in the market to get rid of, in some cases sell, books. That is something I’ve never been good at at all. It feels pretty free to be in a place where I can let a book go deliberately as opposed to losing it.

I’m ready to let more things go.
I have started sorting out anything I don’t have a pretty legitimate claim on to be sent back. I’m watching the hoarders and I don’t want to be there or leave that for someone else to deal with. Keep the precious and let the chaff blow away. That’s the new mantra. There will be a porch sale this year.

Chemical Castration

I’ve been having a bit of a “flat affect.” You may not have noticed.

So “we” are trying some new things. Massive doses of vitamin D3 is one. Three weeks after taking 5000 IU’s a day my levels are up into the bottom ranges of normal. Therefore I assume, that there was in fact, a previous deficit. Even though it’s one of the least expensive supplements I’ve ever gotten I am glad to say I can now drop on down to 3000 IU’s. Every little bit it helps.

Also it would appear that somewhere a hypo-thyroid thing appeared. I am being told that this nifty new pill will put some zippy in my pip. Am I pzipy yet? You tell me.

Then there’s the perennial favourite, which is that it is no longer February and early March in Michigan. This winter was a straight out bitch. What a long drawn out drag.

And there is the slow burn, subtle furious-ness at government and their insistence and propaganda that as a fat smoker I am THE embodiment of THE problem. Slow burn hatred is never good for my productivity. But again, I’m sure noone noticed.

And there you have it, the word castration is coming from the Greek word kaezein.
And that’s a cheesy movie reference, if you don’t get it it really can’t be helped.

And did I mention the booze?

I accomplished maybe about 60% of the socializing I set out to do over the holiday social season.
I Did:
None of the lunches.
A ll of the dinners.
4 out of 7 of the parties.
2 shows
1 spontaneous go out for a drink.
And what I realize is that, especially if you add in one of the last parties I went to before “the season”, I just don’t really fit in anywhere.

I almost fit with the philosophy students circle except the part where they are mostly 25 years younger than me and pretty dang boozy.

I almost fit in with the folks I know from high school and related crews except for the part where I say things and then get the really, really strange looks. I had realized this before, about 15 years ago, when I was at a cocktail party with that general group of folks. The conversation was about murderers and serial killers, so I bit and started talking about all the murderers and murderees that I’ve known. And they all moved away from me on the couch there. No really, it was just like Alice’s restaurant. I should have immediately claimed to have been arrested for creating a nuisance. But they do have really classy booze.

There’s another group I have occasionally tried to hang around. They all live in places like Whitmore Lake, Howell, Fowlerville, Grass Lake and Belleville. There’s a lot of hairdressers and grownup “bomb dudes”. A lot , a lot, a lot of booze. A lot of conversations about kids and sports and bars and work and concerts and their shared history which I’m not a part of and lawn care and hair products. That one is so not working for me that I had already decided a few weeks ago that I am definitely just not going around that one anymore.

There is an adjunct, related group to that one, which is a slightly closer fit in the sense that it is the musical and entertainment business oriented people derived from the former group. There the boozy mess club has found it’s permanent headquarters. And it smells pretty bad. I can only do quickie fly-bys.

There is my very local, very fabulous, gay men scene. That one is a just a little obvious. I am not a gay man. If I am, then I’m one in a woman's body, which doesn’t get you very far points wise. I do ok in that scene, except that I’m broke, not very fabulous, I don’t care about fashion and therefore don’t have nice clothes to do things in, and I suspect my days of serious hagging are pretty much behind me. And again I don’t dig the bar part, as well as that the shredding really gets to me. If I am going to talk about you, and I definitely am, it’s to analyze, analyze, analyze. That’s just what I do. But I don’t want to savage someone just to get the high score.

There are some singleton folk like DramaMama, Danilo, Psyche, Nigel and Floyd’sMom etc. etc. All fine folk I’m sure but I rarely see some of them and anyway I don’t “hang in their scenes”. I know them and them alone, it’s very likely that I would not be a good match with the rest of their peeps.

As for family, well, I can’t even go there from here.

Shucks and sucks

I am writing a paper, between today and Friday. It gets all, you get none. Even my earworms are all just me lately, so no loss there.
I am, however, verging, all up on, my 1st, vanity press, chap style, poetry book. So that probably gets next priority, probably over us.
Oh, and parties, I have decided that I am, w/out fail, going to every single party, dinner and lunch I am invited to this year. So far one lame party and one, fun happy hour friends band viewing, down, 8 parties and dinners, 3 anticipated lunches to go. I am in DESPERATE need of socialization. I am so very striking some hot iron before the bucket dip.

“and after all, we’re all just ordinary men”

I am normally a person who is very much caught up in an “us and them” struggle. I come quite easily to hate and “despision”. Even when I was much, much, younger and really committed to changing my paradigms I was only able to sublimate my fear and hatred, not cut it by much, and certainly not eliminate or to use the more fitting terminology, cure, it. I am so, still, not cured. However, this new job, has provided me with an un-looked for, surprising, opportunity, at a time when us and them rhetoric is so bitter and pervasive, to get a better understanding of where that dichotomy falls flat in my own psyche.

You see, the gentleman that I work for is a dyed-in-the-wool, old school, white, southern, (possibly Baptist), racist. He’s a Mason and a misogynist. In short, a possessor of oh, so many, of the qualities that exemplifies “them” to me. He barely reads, he’s crabby, picky, demanding, and so very all knowing, with no hesitation in saying whatever shitty, peckerwood thing pops into his head.

But here’s the weird, crazy, and I guess I have to think, great, teaching to me. Not only do I find him lovable but I want to make sure he feels loved and cared for. He is old, he is sick, and life is slipping away from him, while he is simultaneously watching his wife of about sixty five years disappear as she keeps wandering farther and farther down dementia highway.

I now have the perspective that most of “them” is just a whole bunch more of these folks. Life is hard, and they are scared, tired, and baffled that they did just what they were told to, yet things just didn’t turn out at all peachy, or rosy. They did, and do, the best they are/were able, or else they would do/have done better.

I suppose that feeling so threatened by the “thems” is a feeling of looming, oppression by the weight of their historical dominance. The childhood hurt of always being the other. The anger at being churched against my will. Being stared at, talked about, ostracized, it all builds up like keloids. I will keep (at least) trying to calm and cut that hatred.

I will though, reserve the right to feel completely alienated from, angry with, and diametrically opposed to the other them. That cabal of black magicians whose God is the actual mammon, and who have clearly shown that they will throw anyone or anything into the pit to remain our owners.

Fuck you guys. You are the aliens. And I will always fight you in some form, as someone very much wiser than me says, “just because you’re a Buddhist doesn’t mean you have to be a doormat”.

Issues and tissues

I have a new pet peeve.
I live in this town where the average IQ is meant to be a good bit above the norm. I have been playing the myfacespacebook game lately, particularly facespace. And it’s all “HOT” amongst the thirties/forties crowd who didn’t catch onto it lo all those many years ago when it first hit. ( What’s that? All of five now or something? )
What I’ve noticed is, that (a) this is geared to having you use your real name. (b) because these people are in their thirties and forties many of them have young children. (c) A huge percentage of them are posting their profile pictures posed with their children, or as their children, or putting photographs of their children in their photo albums frequently with the child's real name.

DO NOT EVER PUT YOUR CHILD’S PHOTOGRAPH/NAME ON THE INTERNET!!!!!!

My question is this, why would this feel magically safer than any other internet venue? Even if your profile is set to private, if you have a picture of yourself posed with your child as your profile foto THEY now have your child’s last name, usually town of residence and if you are in the phone book, now your address. From that all manner of further information can be extrapolated. For instance, the likelihood of what school that child goes to. Potentially records about you or your child depending on how internet savvy THEY are. The list goes on but name, address and school is horribly, horribly dangerous.

The other issue being that even if you are private and you don’t have your child in your profile picture, if you have a wide range of friends from business, or wide social networking you really don’t know those people that well. Do you really want relative strangers knowing much of anything about your child?

You are supposed to be really clever people. What are you thinking? Yes I have a picture of myself as a four year old for one of my profiles. But it’s me, not my non-consenting child, it’s not under my real name, and even if it was and someone came looking to prey on that four year old person they would be in a big old can of whup ass and finding it quite difficult to put the Alpo back in the can.

I think the level of naiveté here is much higher than I expected, and the actual level of sophistication is much lower than these folks think they are operating from.

Loyalty Schmoyalty

Here’s my issue with it that arose, yet again, yesterday afternoon.

There appears to be almost nothing, short of malicious cruelty, that pisses me off more than abusing my loyalty. Here is the (apparently unforgivable) sin that, time and again, has set me on the path of permanently poofing people.

Be a difficult person. Cultivate our relationship. Share confidences.
Later, when myriad people have come to me on the basis of knowing that we are friends to express their concerns about your behaviors and I have then spent a good bit of energy defending your personal and social ineptitude, utilizing my knowledge of you, your life circumstances, and your real fears, difficulties and vulnerabilities to try to soften the opinion of the harsh and exacting social milieu regarding your inappropriateness or general asshole-ness, let me then find out that you have lied to or about me, dissed me, or in some other way betrayed me.

That is pretty much the sure fire recipe to get me to drop you like a brick. Or perhaps millstone would be the the more fitting descriptor here.

Unfortunately, in this, most recent circumstance, due to certain overlaying conditions, I have to tough it out for a pre-described period. In essence that means that I now have to lie by omission. Pretend that I am not aware of having been juked.

It’s going to be a long, annoying, summer.