Now that I am through with my laser treatments and other medical distractions, it is time for me to declare war on stupidity--in particular, the brand of idiocy exhibited by my middle-aged friends who seem actually immune to common sense. Susan and I have been handholding one such chum who, through extreme denseness, manages to sabotage every potential relationship that falls into his lap. He spent months pulling a Prince Hamlet number wondering whether he was attracted to one particular young girl (about half his age) and was on the point of declaring his interest in her last weekend. Unfortunately, he decided to invite a few other people over to his apartment at the same time, including one not very pleasant young woman who overstayed her welcome and forced her way into his bedroom as the real object of his affections lay asleep on the couch. This would not have been so bad if this interloper had not taken the contraceptive device they shared and placed it in the middle of the kitchen floor the next morning as a crude way of marking her territory. My big dumb friend tried to distract the girl of his preference with some clumsy situation comedy manoeuvers, but to no avail. She left in tears--and the big lug had HER drive the Trojan Horsewoman home. Susan and I were supposed to have dinner with the friend and this girl, but she was (obviously) not having any of it. I urged him to call the girl and say that something like, "We really need to talk." He called her and said, "Hey, come on over! Plenty of food! Chili! Chili! Beer! Beer!" So much for romance.

So, how do you fight stupidity that profound? Unless my friend manages to grow up and smarten up, he will just wind up as an increasingly lonely, weird old man. He's 43 now and already visiting neighboring planets, and I don't see him improving any time soon. (His apartment is crammed with his own surreal artwork consisting of glass eyes stuck on otherwise commonplace objects, which are arranged in disturbing juxtaposition. He makes Joseph Cornell look like Norman Rockwell.) I really don't have time for this horseshit, but I can't seem to look away. It's like a bloody train wreck--except that my friend doesn't seem to feel a thing.

My experience at St. Lizzie Borden's was not at all bad except for the 500 or so laser shots I received in my right eye. My regular eye doctor did the procedure, and since he knows what he's doing, I sailed through it, more or less. In fact, the doctor and his assisting nurse remarked on my "stoicism"--yeah, sure it was weird and painful, but I got most of my bitching out of the way before arriving at St. Lizzie's. It felt like someone was trying to shoot holes through the back of my head (via my cornea) with Flash Gordon's ray gun, or like having a tooth drilled (under novocaine) except it was my eye. Naw, I didn't complain. It's the British in me--stiff upper lip, and all that. (My inner Polack was screaming like a sonofabitch.) I felt woozy afterward, and still have the vestiges of a headache. And, just think--only two more sessions to go! Hot damn!

BUT, OH MY BROTHERS! What joy I have to relate, in contrast to this former item. I met the shipment of the elusive SARANAC PILSENER, and have FILLED MY PANTRY THEREWITH! That's right--there's PILSENER IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT! (And, Boy, do I need it now!) The Discount Beverage man having tipped me off in advance, I was able to swoop down and procure 11 cases--264 bottles--of the Golden Nectar for my personal delectation! At this writing, 11 more cases remain in stock--and we may buy more. But at this moment, I am in direct possession of more Saranac Pilsener than anyone else in the United States of America! I am the real, the only PILSENERMAN, able to drink long into the night with a single beverage! This time I mean it--HOT DAMN!

Impending doom is getting me down. Tomorrow I am scheduled for my first laser treatment at the "hospital" that botched my appendectomy 27 years ago. I can't tell you how distressed I am to have to step back into that filthy abattoir for ANY procedure. These are the sons-of-bitches that let my appendix rupture in my body over Christmas vacation--even helping the process along with an enema--in 1976. That was about as much fun as being gored by a bull. I stayed in a month and left with a huge disfiguring scar that embarrassed me so much I couldn't take off my pants in front of a woman until I was 26. We incurred a huge debt--my chickenshit father was afraid to sue the "hospital" for malpractice lest it interfere with his failed political aspirations--so we had to endure collection agencies calling at 11:00 at night until we finally went bankrupt. I have to go back to that butcher shop?

When Sue called the doctor to set up the surgery, the receptionist heard me swear when I heard where it was taking place, and was "terrorized." Please! I'M the one shitting my pants right now! I have to be there in less than five hours to check in for the treatment--and we just had our first major snowstorm of the season. So I have to go across town to St. Lizzie Borden's through six to eight inches of slop just to give those assassins another crack at me. Balls!!

According to the eye surgeon, I'm not going to have to throw away my books just yet. I am still going to need some laser treatments to clear up some of the new blood vessels that have grown in, but I'm not going blind any time soon. This is a great relief, certainly--I spent a week in real turmoil. Having more information, modern medical procedures, and (especially) health insurance at my disposal help considerably. Still, I was in such a state of emotional exhaustion when I got home after the appointment (and a nice dinner) that I sat in a chair immediately and fell asleep for three and a half hours.

For diabetics, the passing of time is palpable. There is no chance of complacency when you actually feel yourself falling apart, however gradually. I still don't have any time for horseshit, not in this life. None of us do.

Speaking of horseshit that one doesn't have time for, that sociopathic turd Rush Limbaugh was back spouting his hooey today. Out of the basest sort of curiousity I tuned in to the first hour of his marathon, and he at least spared everyone a Jimmy Swaggart-style meltdown--his "treatment" apparently consisted of amplifying his selfishness beyond endurance. (He intimated that he turned to opiates because he was too worried about what other people thought of him!) So much for the hope he might have discovered some humility while in rehab. His robotic listeners heaped praise and (unrequited) affection on him, blessing the Lord that Rush was back to save them from "liberals" like Hillary and Ted Kennedy. It was just the same old phony misdirection and bluster. Hillary is hardly a "liberal" and Rush is hardly a "conservative." The battle between "liberals" and "conservatives," Republicans and Democrats (DLC Democrats, at any rate), is little more than a jockeying for position among opportunists. It's as theatrical as Professional Wrestling--and just as fixed. The fun part is getting the hoi polloi to take it seriously--and that's what glorified disc jockeys like Rush are hired for. That he and his ilk are regarded as anything other than hack polemicists and vapid clowns is what is most disturbing about American politics. What surprised me most about Rush was that he didn't just IMPLODE once the drugs were out of his system. As far as egomaniacs go, he must be cast iron.

There's blood in my eye. Literally. When I was at the eye doctor last week, I started hemorrhaging in my right eye as I was being examined. I don't know if it was as a RESULT of being examined, but it happened there. I've had a nasty floater ever since. In four days I'm going in to see a laser surgeon to learn the extent of my problem and to ascertain whether there is anything that can be done to correct the situation. So much for the illusion of invulnerability. I've had Diabetes since 1974, and this is the first real inkling I've had that I'm deteriorating. Well, I've had a good run. I obviously don't have any more time for horseshit--nor do I have the patience for it. "Horseshit" is listening to my middle-aged friends talk about their cocks, and wondering if any of them will ever grow up enough to settle down and get married. One friend keeps chasing after some little 22-year-old slut who openly laughs at him, but gives him just enough tail to keep him interested. Another saves his pennies so he can go up to Canada a few times a year "where the hookers are really nice." I can't bear to hear about their pathetic adventures when I have a house full of books that I probably won't be able to read in a couple of years.

Tonight when I was getting a slow haircut, Susan ran to the Price Chopper to buy some cheese. While there, she happened to meet a former foster-child of ours who had grown to manhood; he was there with his girlfriend and her two little girls. Sounds cute, right? It ain't. This disgusting wretch was a multiple sexual abuser, a pathological liar and a textbook sociopath. When we lived in an apartment nearby, he drilled a hole in his bedroom wall into the bathroom so he could spy on us. He used to break into our bedroom and watch movies--whatever he could find that he though was salacious. And his history of taking advantage of young children (of both sexes) was sick-making. Sue, being true to her inability to think on her feet, didn't get "Larry's" girlfriend's name so we could locate her and warn her of his "little problem." I'm sure he isn't any better--the fact that the girl told Sue that "Larry is better with the girls than their own father" sent chills down my spine. I know I'm going to stay awake nights worrying about what that sick freak is going to do to those little girls. If I ever find he's done anything to harm those kids, I'll find him and make him wish he'd never been born.

I grow weary of politics and all things political. Politics is like eating old cigar butts. The shrill, polemical diatribes exchanged by both sides are tiresome; that I know one side is better than the other does not allay my impatience with either. Conservatives are supposed to be proponents of enlightened self-interest; our so-called "conservative" administration is not enlightened, and, if you look at the long view, hardly self-interested. Unless one is empathetic to others, rather than slamming down the portcullis and raising the drawbridge once a suitable hoard of goods have been obtained, one does nothing to encourage the open-handed civility which makes for gracious living in any society. The siege mentality (as practiced by so-called "conservatives") destroys society and ultimately most human relationships. "Democrat" and "Republican" are team logos, and have been co-opted by corporate forces far out of the hands of those of us sitting in the bleachers. Who could be a cheerleader for sociopathic capitalism? Who can root against his own best interest, and against the best interest of society at large? At present I'm pulling for the Democrats, particularly Howard Dean, with the faint hope that they are not as defiled as the side Now Controlling the Ball. Conservative and Liberal are meaningless epithets: who can we trust, at last, not to be an Asshole?

What is there to say that is truly astonishing? Rush is a pill freak and Arnold is going to be governor of California--real life is turning into an episode of The Simpsons. Forget about the "Death of Outrage" (that old thing trumpeted by Bill "Slot Monkey" Bennett)--what we are experiencing is the Death of the Surreal. If EVERYTHING is normal, what then? How will we know we are "out of whack" when we don't even know what "whack" entails?

I express outrage at people cutting keys off old typewriters to make tacky costume jewelry because that's the level of outrage I can deal with. Anything worse is too horrible to wrap my mind around, and so it flows over the dam, so to speak. Which is not to say that it doesn't register. It does, but I cannot express my reaction to it. If I started crying, I don't think I'd be able to stop. Every time I hear Ethel Waters's recording of "Travelling All Alone" it runs over me like a truck--it's schmaltz, but it kills me. Someday I'll hear it at just the wrong time and probably just explode.

Neo-Conservatives are the lowest form of life on this planet. Crafters are the second lowest. Both are dedicated to destroying the past for their own short-sighted amusement or monetary gain. Whether it be old growth forests, foreign civilizations, or antique typewriters--they destroy, and they destroy irrevocably.

Today was better, for some reason. I managed to repair the large-font Remington with steel epoxy putty, which gave me a great deal of satisfaction. Even before that--since Friday night, in fact--my prospects have been improving. I think my consumption of several beers triggered the upturn. They were Saranac Lights--not the lamented Pilseners--but they had to do. After those are gone, I am strongly considering not bringing any more Saranac products into the house. What would be the point? Pilsner Urquell is increasingly available, and it is the finest beer brewed anywhere. If I drink less, I can drink better. Much better.

THE MOST IRRITABLE MAN IN AMERICA, PART TWO

As if yesterday weren't lousy enough: the Saranac Brewery no longer sells the only domestic beer I truly delight in. They just stopped making Saranac Pilsener, just like that. The man at the discount beverage place said that he will getting a few cases in toward November, when the Pilsener makes a guest appearance in their Christmas sampler. But that's it--all gone. I am trying to think of a reason to keep living.

THE MOST IRRITABLE MAN IN AMERICA

Or so I would have to describe myself, at least today. In the mail was a broadly comic short story I sent out ages ago--I had forgotten it was still under consideration by anyone. (A slap from the past, from an editor who does not appreciate broadly comic stories.) Also was a BIG BOX that I had to chase down the mailman for--and which I did not have time to open since I had an appointment to go and get yelled at by my physician. It wasn't that I am now officially too fat to weigh in on the office scale--it was my goddamn blood sugar, and the fact that I couldn't be bothered to take decent care of myself. What with waiting in the office and the haranguing we didn't get away until about six, too late to get a table at any of the restarants that we would have preferred--I was already in a seriously foul mood. IHOP was okay, but coming home and opening the BIG BOX turned out to be the crowning disappointment--a large font (it types HUGE) Remington typewriter with a piece of the frame broken off in transit. I swore at Sue as she made all sorts of helpful suggestions and tried to console me. (I then remembered I had to fix the washer in the upstairs bathtub.) After two hours of sulking, I answered a forwarded joke email from my friend Alex with a bitter, uncalled-for diatribe. I then alternately screamed at and apologized to Sue. Right now I am listening to WQXR, trying to lower my blood pressure.

I know there are people in this world who have real problems such as the kid who is dying of leukemia at age 22 (the real reason for my doctor's outburst at me today, as it turns out)--but everyone is his own hell. I am thankful not to be bleeding in the street, but I just kind of wish at least one thing (the typewriter) would have gone right today. That would have made up for all else.

A TALE OF TWO PARTIES

It was the worst of days; it was the best of days--no, really. Sue and I got up late Saturday to attend a Dean gathering, "The Electric House Smackdown Party," hosted by the same woman who once promised us dinner and served us lame snacks. Though we smelled a train wreck, we struggled through a loss of hot water (we took saucepan showers with water heated on the stove) in order to attend this debacle out of loyalty to our group. We arrived an hour late to find a delectable spread of pepperoni and pretzels awaiting us. (And it was STICK pepperoni, none of your presliced stuff.) Our hostess rented a tent, tables, and chairs and placed a sizable ad in Saturday's paper announcing the party--and served pepperoni and pretzels! There was also supposed to be a conference call with Howard Dean at 2:45--this was postponed until 8:45. "You can stick around until then," our hostess informed us, "or you can leave and come back. We have chicken gyros." We opted not to stay or return. Sue later informed me that the chicken and a big jar of mayo had been sitting out on the kitchen counter all afternoon--a potential Salmonella Smackdown.

At 7:30 we stopped in on my friend Alex, who had lately returned from a visit to Alaska. Within minutes, he provided us Pilsner Urquells (!) and a spread of snacks including (but not limited to) pepperoni. There was cheese, crackers, oysters--and he then asked us if we'd like some filet mignon. I felt like I had just escaped from Bad Hostess Hell only to be seated at a soiree with Diamond Jim Brady. As he regaled us with stories of his adventures at the top of the world, we ate and drank and drank (Urquells and Stella Artoises) until well after 2:00 am. What a fun evening! What a lousy afternoon!

Here is something that you must type into your browser: http://takebackthemedia.com/true911.html

This is our "heroic" president on the worst day of our history. If this is not the portrait of a true sociopath, then I don't know what is. I found myself weeping after seeing this item--and I am as cynical a bastard as I know. 9/11 is something that we will never "get over" as a country, unless we are in psychotic denial, numbing ourselves with consumer goods and phony wars. It is like a broken heart, or an amputated limb--you never really "heal." You just deal with it, and try to go on as best you can. You always hurt, at some level. No amount of drinking, or shopping, or "revenge" can fix that.

And this FUCKER just SMILED and LET IT HAPPEN. GOD DAMN HIM. GOD DAMN HIM TO HELL.

Last night I roasted and canned sixteen pounds of hot peppers while listening to (among other things) Sydney, Australia, afternoon drive-time talk radio. (Tuning into Internet stations is still a "gee whiz" experience.) I finished with the long hots about 6:00 am, exhausted and ruined for any constructive activity today. When I got tired of hearing the Aussies debate about bus fares I went back to WQXR--another long-lost pleasure. I used to fall asleep listening to WQXR-AM every night, filling my dreams with classical music. (Our local classical station played way too much Schonberg and Max Reger and signed off at midnight.) As much as I love early jazz, I have been craving the classics lately. And WQXR--without static and interference from adjacent stations, and in high-fidelity stereo, and with Nimet STILL doing the overnight program--is the BEST. (If only the connection didn't fail at odd times--as it JUST DID. Still, Real One beats my old longwire roof aerial, for the most part.)

Friday morning a 16-year-old boy living in the next block was fatally stabbed in front of the Nice 'n' Easy convenience store down the street. The assailant, 24 years of age, was caught almost at once. This is a deeply sad extinguishing of a young life, and absolutely needless. If the Utica schools had opened on time this year, perhaps the kid wouldn't have been out on the street at 3:00 am. Sue said he was basically a good kid, not nasty, just sort of a ballbreaker like all kids can be. She taught his younger brother (also a ballbreaker) a year or so ago. Sue thought she might have seen someone resembling the assailant get beat up by two kids across the street from our house Thurday night. The kids ran, the guy got up refusing offers of help--he was clearly angry. Whatever the situation was, nobody deserves to die at 16.

My last attempt at posting was met with ill-fortune, which is probably just as well. I had nothing earth-shattering to impart--nor was it slanderous. I was just embracing autumn, as the season when (after a long summer of sleeping late and drinking heavily) I start to Feel Better. I felt well enough today to cut the front lawn that I had somehow managed to avoid since late June. It was like mowing down a forest. If I confine my alcohol intake to the weekend, I do navigate better, generally. Perhaps I will also be able to master my lethargy in the literary department to the point of sending out some query letters for my book. I think my system is ready to endure another brisk round of daily disappointment. I want to be WORTHY of my rejection letters.

The Smith Premier #2 is another astonishing machine--it is more petite than I thought it would be (compared to a klunker like the New Century Caligraph), wonderfully light and compact. It needs a bit of tweaking here and there, and a new linkage, but it is a marvel of Victorian ingenuity. A vastly, and rightfully, popular typewriter in its day, it is still magnificent. Included in the deal was the original case-cover, an added delight.

All of which makes up for the Remington 16 that arrived along side it with a fractured back. The 16 has been one of my favorite machines for years, and this one, though admittedly not perfect, had potential. Now all I can do is use it for parts to repair my OTHER Remington 16. Fortunately, it had been insured--but I'd still rather have an intact machine than an insurance settlement.

Back to matters of real importance--typewriters. The Smith Premier #10 is an amazing mechanical beast. Some may go all gooey at thoughts of microprocessors, but a marvel of engineering like the double-keyboard, front-stroke #10 really sends me. Eighty-Four typebars all aiming in the same direction! It isn't any easier to use than an Underwood Standard (I keep reaching for that phantom space bar) but I am wowed by the sheer ambition of the design and complexity of the machinery--eating one's cake and having it, too. These Edwardians! "We are going to have a separate typebar for every character AND make them all fit." The microcomputer may be a miracle of science, but everything these people made 100 years ago reached a similar MECHANICAL pinnacle, and much of it STILL WORKS. I defer to the inventors of my great-grandfather's generation and wonder at their prowess. What secrets did these men possess?