The problem with others

Are you a chosen one? Are you a Google Plus Person (GPP)?

If not, stop reading, because, most of what follows really will be too technical and too sophisticated for you to understand. Go on, run to Facebook and update your sill little status.

OK, are they gone? Is it just us Plussers?

Gather in. Come closer.

Is it just us? Good.

I am tired of communicating. Thank you for the offer, but really, my life is boring, although, have you heard, I have a blog?

Here's the deal, people need time alone. With email and Facebook and cellphones, it is almost impossible to have a creative moment for yourself anymore. I was dating a Tone Deaf Dork for a few hours once and I kept getting text messages. Now, I had warned TDD that I paint and when I paint, I don't answer phones, or email, or communicate, I play loud music and paint. Then I sleep and when I wake up the next day, I check mail and messages.

So TDD lost it one night, texting me literally every 5 minutes, where was I, what's up, was everything OK, why no answer, sup, whats going on, on and on and on.

It was soon after that night that I realized that TDD was way too crazy and in my business to be a part of my life. It's kind of funny when you are dating someone and you tell them something, like I paint and don't bother with phones and such from the start, and yet, soon after, they are bothering you when you phone is at least 100 yards away and turned off. People often times do not listen.

When I was a teenager I would be going to this or that and right as I was about to leave, my mother would be lounging in a chair, a python, coiled, ready to attack. As my hand began to turn the doorknob a voice from over my shoulder, "where are you going? Who are you going with? When will you be back?" At first, the questions were welcome, but as my life became more clandestine, so did my need for non-disclosure. Then one day I realized something, she was asking the questions, but only out of habit, there had been others before me, the older ones, already having escaped, to me, as a teenager, they no longer existed, but the old Jewish python, she knew the routine, she must ask the questions. What I realized is, she did not care what the answers were, at first I would say a name, any name, Joe and I were going to a movie, be back in a couple of hours. I did not know a Joe. We did not go to a movie, a couple hours could be anything. Then I realized even those answers did not matter, soon I could say, Hitler and I are invading England, should be a week or two, be back when I'm dead. She would say good night and that would be it.

I didn't have a cellphone. There was no expectation that I would call. We could not text every five minutes with meaningless updates. No, I was considered almost an adult, do what I must, just be responsible for what I did. One night I got shot at and the police were called. I believe the response was, you are obviously guilty of something, you are a fuck up.

I have been getting a lot of painting done this summer and it has dawned on me how that has been possible. First, there is no one here. The kids are somewhere, my fiance is in a coma, the dog got hit by a car, the cat is making lesbian cat porn, the Polish immigrant family that had been illegally living in my basement may have died, the brain surgeon that performs illegal botox operations in my bedroom is here, but she passed out a few nights ago and only wakes to use the restroom, inject more botox into her neck and pass out again near the body of my dead dog. Which means I have plenty of time to focus.

That said last night I had a text conversation with the father of my son. I know, read it again and you will understand. Anyway, at some point he called me Staten Island Matt, which brought back a slew of memories. For a short period of time many thousands of years ago, I lived at a kennel on Staten Island, which is near New York City, I think it might officially be a borough, but because of the racial makeup and the abundance of back hair, it might as well be a borough of Tuscany, if you know what I mean.

I lived with Captain Zucchini and for the most part, life was excellent, but when life is excellent at the start of your adult life, you don't realize it. You think it could be a hell of a lot better, so you pass on excellent and begin searching for something better. Captain Zucchini was a Seal Team leader, a tri-athlete, a model and a CB radio icon. He fell in love with an old smart man named Iggy, in fact, I think we both did, but Captain and Iggy would soon high tail it for Maine and I would leave for Los Angeles. The point is, it was a good moment that I was unable to realize at the time. The other point is, I get this late night text from someone who has that memory of me.

So I texted my sons father back and reminded him of a night when I rode on the back of his motorcycle through the canyons of Manhattan on into the wilds of Connecticut to see the Clash in concert. We texted back and forth like that for a moment, because when you know someone for a long time, you can recall things that seem to have been long forgotten.

Strange fact, a year or so after the motorcycle concert I would end up cooking dinner for the Clash on Long Island. I will not go into details except to say that I did ask Joe Strummer if he remembered the show in Hartford from a year earlier and he looked at me like I might be insane.

The point of this is, if you are like me, and thank the good lord sweet jesus you are not, but just in case you are, do not fear the silence. Leave the phone in a drawer. Turn off the computer. Take a walk, or a bike ride, make love to someone you enjoy, and above all else, bury the dead dog long before she starts to smell.

All the important news

"Here's some gross and pretty unsurprising Dominique Strauss-Kahn news: The mother of the French woman who has accused DSK of attempted rape, Anne Mansouret said they did it (consensually) and he "took me with the vulgarity of a soldier."
Wait a second, DSK just gets better and better.

""Birds should not have to suffer for donuts." So argues vegan blogger Annie Hartnett, who has penned a petition protesting a menu offering at Brooklyn's Do or Dine restaurant: the foie gras doughnut, a high-end dessert running $11 per fatted-goose-liver-filled fritter.

Tammy Lee Hinton, a 50-year-old woman from Florida, was arrested Saturday — at her own wedding in Michigan, on a felony identity theft warrant. On a more uplifting note, the cops had the decency to wait until vows had been exchanged before immediately taking her into custody. She's currently registered with the Michigan Department of Corrections and Pottery Barn.

Oh, and my friend Rupert Murdoch is about to become unemployed.

If you were more like me

I recently was lucky enough to have well over 35 gallons of my blood removed from my body, "all for testing" is what the young Dr. Frankenstein said as he wheeled the barrel of blood out of the back of his truck. That should have been the first clue that this might not be a legitimate clinic, seeing patients in the back of a Ford 150 is probably not up to most medical standards.

All that said, I did sign up for a service that sends me an email to tell me I can log in and find out the various results from the gallons of blood that did make it past the good doctors dinner table and into some foreign blood testing facility in Bulgaria. The nice thing about Bulgarian blood testing centers is that 9 times out of ten, part of each test contains a positive notation for Borsht.

Now, if you read this blog at all, you have probably figured out that I am a complete boob. I am about 3 IQ points higher than a donut, and not a fancy donut either. So imagine the joy when I get an email alert telling me there is some sort of medical test data that I can log in and review.

If you are like me, and thank the good lord sweet Jesus you are not, but if you were, you would log in and pretend to know what you were reading. So far, what I know is I might be pregnant.

Modern medicine.

I do have an appointment in three months to see my doctor, and I am sure that at that point the good Dr. Frankenstein will need a bit more blood to fill his habit, I mean run more tests.

A little boys lifetime away...

The diagnosis

Even my doctors office feels dreadful. It has no natural light, and the modern energy efficient bulbs it is lit with leave a mechanical glare on the walls that make you feel as though you have entered a new world, and not a pleasant one.

Old magazines, some specialized reading material for people who have suffered in many of the ways I have. I sit down on a small couch and stare off into the paneling.

There is a wall of accomplishment next to me, diplomas, certifications, annual reports, I believe a Hooters girl signed personal photo and a photo of my doctor and former president George Bush, both smiling. Nice. One of the diplomas was from Ardvark university, at least that’s what it appeared to say, it had that strange font they use on diplomas, either Adrvark or Harvard, I made a note in my phone to check on Ardvark University.

I make notes on my phone, messages to myself, reminding my future self of something I know must be done, but something so unimportant that my future self would never be bothered to remember to do it. So I make the notes and a beep goes off and my future self will read the note, check Ardvark University, and it will be done.

The door opened, a large older woman, who once was possibly a man, called my name, I followed, a small dark room. I sat on an overstuffed chair, she left. Dr. Meesvian came in. He is neither a small man, nor a large man. He is just a man, about my height, a little heavier, badly dressed, like he went to Nordstrom and just bought a bunch of the same thing so every day he appears to be wearing what he was wearing yesterday, except it is fresh and clean. I forget who recommended Dr. Meesvian, or who sent me here, it’s been a while. I do think we are making progress.

“I have some news,” he said, hruskly, which is not his style, “there is a diagnosis, I think you are skitzofrentic.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not even how it’s spelled.”

“Either way, that’s the diagnosis. Take a minute and think about it, I have to make a personal call, I’m going to the parking lot and smoke a cigarette and make a personal call. You stay and think about the diagnosis. I’ll be back, but I need to make this call. And smoke a cigarette. I really smoke very few cigarettes, but this is one of those calls, a personal call mind you, but one that almost requires a smoke. Hell, what’d you say, you never smoked a cigarette, right? Right. I’d bet, you make this personal call for me, you’d be smoking 45 seconds in. Anyway, you think about that diagnosis, I have a call to make.”

He was gone, the door closed. The diagnosis floored me, but it did seem to make sense. There, alone in his empty office, I relaxed backinto the overstuffed chair and I called a meeting of all my personalities. I closed my eyes and the cabinet room began to fill up.

First to speak up was Billy Joe, the angry transgendered lesbian.

BJ: “First off, this is bullshit. I think we can all agree on that. Second. I think it’s also bullshit that we even go to therapy. It’s been about 2 years and I sit here listening, quiet, never a fucking word. It’s bullshit. Finally, it’s also bullshit that if he was to write dialog about me, he would use BJ as my name. Bullshit.”

David, a confirmed bachelor, cleared his throat and began with a mumble, “If I may, I said, if I may. Excuse me Billy Joe, but seriously. I think we all need to step back.”

BJ: “You know what Nancy, might be time for you to shut the fuck up.”

Father Johnny Redneck: “Billy Joe, enough now, girl, you calm yourself. This is some serious stuff. This sort of diagnosis, it can change a man.”

David: “They could drug him.”

BJ: “Fine by me, I could use a good high.”

There was a silence in the room, finally, in a bright red dress and outlandish makeup, Octopus Nanny spoke up.

ON: “ You axe me, this shit been all fucked up for long time anyways.”

David: “Speak it sister.”

ON: “Shut your mouth girl. I say we abandon shit fore we get all clogged up with morphine and shit.”

Father Johnny Redneck: “Ship.”

ON: “What you say?”

Father Johnny Redneck: “You said we should done abandon the shit. Honey, you don’t go abandoning no shit, you abandon the damn ship. S H I P.”

ON: “Well, you abandon your own shit sucker. I am leaving. This place is done for. You freaks and (looking at BJ) confused little kitty cats, you stick around and see what happens.”

With that, there was a second of silence, and she was gone. She did not really disappear, and there was no smoke or anything, she was just gone.

Then Barney the Dinosaur said, “Why, I think we should beat it too?”

BJ: “Take off fatso, no big loss.”

David: “’Cept at the dinner table.”

Barney the Dinosaur: “Now, be nice everyone. Everyone should be nice. Nice is how everyone should be.”

David: “Dude, even for a dinosaur, you’re a tard.”

Barney the Dinosaur: “Now, there you go again. Nice is the word of the day everyone. That much I know. That and I am out of here, the game is up, the diagnosis is probably as close to what I would consider…”

At this point Turnpike Lou, who sat in the corner, his back turned to everyone, continuing to wear the dunce cap for the 1417th day in a row, cleared his throat.

BJ: “Hold on. I have an idea. Lets light the dinosaur on fire and roll him through the brain, catch the fat guys attention, then we can make some demands.”

David: “Really, the “light the dinosaur on fire” again routine? Again?”

Barney the Dinosaur: “Been there, done that. Last time, he took those meds that had us all out for days.”

BJ: “Good times.”

David: “I’ll light him, open the portal.”

With that, David lit Barney on fire, BJ opened the portal and he was more or less flushed into the brain of the fat guy.

Wait a minute, I am the fat guy. How did that happen? Does that mean the assorted asshole voices in my head actually refer to me as the fat guy? How can that even be possible? Shouldn’t the voices in my head have a much more positive self image?

The office door opened and the doctor walked in. “Well, that was one fucked up phone call. Sorry, it’s personal and it would cross a lot of ethical lines to even begin to allude to any aspect of it, suffice to say, (dramatic pause) ex-wife. Anyway, the diagnosis for you stands. Let’s meet again, next week, same time.”

He stood, opened the office door, I stood, walked out and left the nondescript office building.

A couple of days later I googled Ardvark University in Omaha. It’s a college for Clowns, Dog Whisperers and Muffler Repair. I believe this will impact the diagnosis.

Changing faces

There are many changes going on in our world, heck even the Republican party finally got rid of the Swastika from its press releases, but change is slow when it comes to publishing because, really, since the printing press, what could really happen?

I have been editing a novel I wrote back in a time when people wrote novels on paper and people read books that were published on paper, but I was too lazy to get it published back in the olden times, so what I have been doing is updating the book for a more modern palette.

Then I saw this.

The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore iPad App Trailer from Moonbot Studios on Vimeo.

Psychopaths I have known

Why just yesterday my little texting device jingled a little bit, alerting me to the fact that a psychopath was trying to communicate with me. It's true, my phone has a special signal for drunks, addicts and assorted other nut jobs and when they text or call, it has a special ring. I like that.

So there I was, in the midst of heated negotiations and the theme music from Hawaii 5-0 started to play from my nearby briefcase. That is the sound that comes from my phone to let me know a psychopath would like to correspond. I was busy, but during a break I checked my messages and there is was, Drunky McDrunkington was texting, out of the blue, saying something drunk-like and that was it.

The remainder of this post has been removed for further editing.