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?

The "war" is over. I realized today that the enemy is so clueless that it would serve no purpose to escalate this conflict. I received an e-mail from the head of The Children's Television Sweatshop (the Autocrat of the Children's Table, as it were) and realized that my rage was wasted on one as oblivious to the feelings of others as the Generalissimo:


Hi Andy,
I was disappointed to hear from T____ that you and your wife had decided not to continue with the radio station project. If you have any concerns you would like to discuss with me, please feel free to do so.

I was hoping you might be interested in appearing on [The Children's Television Sweatshop] this fall, if you'd like to discuss it please let me know.

Ron


Maybe he didn't realize just who he was calling a coward for taking insulin--but I don't think so. He's just so dense that he believes he can say ANYTHING to ANYBODY and they'll still think he's wonderful and want to do his bidding. Mad? Not anymore. I spent the afternoon laughing my ass off.

Perhaps "war" is too mild a word for the conflict I am engaged in. "War" is subject to the Geneva Convention. I could quite cheerfully--almost offhandedly--rip the lungs out of certain persons associated with the Children's Television Sweatshop. I have never quite gotten along with the Generalissimo, but another kid, who I always rather considered a friend, is indeed more rabid a guerilla warrior than his Leader. This is why I am particularly resentful of their attitudes. I love animals, but when I reflect on their no-doubt sincere beliefs--that anyone who must survive using products tested on animals should feel guilty for merely being alive (punctuating these assertions with ripe vivisection porn)--I feel like going downstairs and sticking forks in my cats. I used to think these animal-rights jerks were just cranks, but now I realize that they're the Khmer Rouge. Forget the cats; I'm sharpening my forks for the Children's Television Sweatshop.

I am offically at war with The Children's Television Sweatshop. These sanctimonious, Greener-than-thou, vegan-or-die types eat serious dog hockey, and their bullying, egomaniacal leader is an asshole bigger than all outdoors. (I am getting my quiet revenge as we speak.) The main problem with having a fascist, corrupt regime in power is that I have to rub elbows with all these hemp-suckers at politcal gatherings. Well, the minute we get a nice, safe Democrat in the White House, I'm going back to being the Conservative I've always been deep down, anyway. (A bleeding heart Conservative--but a Conservative nonetheless.) Of course, anyone to the right of Pol Pot is a Conservative to these ultra-Rousseauvian levelers. They should ALL get diabetes and have to deal with the "ethical dilemma" of taking insulin. (Originally tested on DOGS by those two monsters, Banting and Best.) Green? I hope they get GANGRENE.

Add to the list of typewriters a Smith Premier # 2 and a little Remington portable with Scandinavian characters. I have finally abandoned all pretense of trying to control my writing-machine habit--I have absolutely lost my steering and my brakes. Rather than wince as I accelerate toward doom, I am now determined to enjoy the ride. It is most exhilarating.

I forgot to mention this amusing sidelight: I received an invitiation (an E-vitation, actually) to the Children's Television Sweatshop's "Green" Summer Picnic/Vegetarian Barbecue. This begs the question: what the fuck does a VEGETARIAN barbecue? These types probably eschew tofu dogs because they IMITATE meat products. Can you think of a prospect more dismal than such a convocation? Egad, if I slapped a mosquito they'd call the ASPCA. The Generalissimo also requested that these cheerful vegans "please bring a dish to pass, your own beverage and recyclable/reusable place setting." If I HAD to attend this funeral, I personally know what beverage I would bring--but these drips would make me pour it out in case I accidentally had too much fun. Nope, no guilt here. I hope the Generalissimo sits in the grass, gets a tick on his ass (which he refuses to remove on humanitarian grounds), and gets a nice case of Lyme disease to kick off the new Fall season.

The Blog is to literature what the high colonic is to bodily health. Sometimes a good purge is all that is required to bring the sun out from behind the clouds, so that all is serene once more. Damn, that last one felt good! (Though, like a successful irrigation, it is likely to provide less delight to the bystander than to the patient.) I am finally at peace regarding the matter of the Children's Television Sweatshop and all parties connected thereto. I no longer feel guilty about refusing to climb eight flights of stairs to be bullied by CTS brass. (I really DID used to ascend four stories to be lorded over by this public-access Tartikoff, this little-league Silverman--a hundred pounds ago. At my current weight, I have no taste for such martyrdom.)

I just bought three more typewriters. (A Remington #16, an Oliver #5, and a double-keyboard, front stroke Smith Premier #10.) I have been searching also for remaindered copies of "Skidding Into Insolvency: The Fun With Ramen Cookbook"--to absolutely no avail.

If this is the Silly Season, why don't I feel sillier? In spite of cutting way down on my beer consumption (or perhaps because of it) I feel disinclined to chase down any of the several trucks seem to have run me over. If this keeps up, I might just start taking Wellbutrin again. (I don't know why I always feel I have to arm-wrestle my depression--especially since I can't beat it.) I will just have to find the energy to cut the lawn, which seems a Herculean task from this morose perspective. Susan is going to register voters tomorrow--I barely have the energy to put on my shoes. I can't walk for a few minutes without needing to sit, and I cannot sit without wanting to sleep. Part of my problem is my susceptibility to (continued) bad news, the burden of my great weight, my general hopelessness with regard to the prospects of my own projects, and my dread of handling complex relationships with people--and of letting those people down, as I ultimately must.

One such impediment to my greater happiness is the matter of The Children's Television Sweatshop. For six months, in the summer and autumn of 1996, I participated in the viewer-access fiasco that I shall refer to by that name. I found a certain amount of satisfaction in the venture, contributing video essays to the Sweatshop, until at last its egomaniacal proprietor and president-for-life, a local animal-rights and gay-rights activist, had issued a sufficient number of micromanaging memoranda. I sent a tart and irrevocable letter of resignation, and that, I thought, was that. (He had, after all, refused to run my prize footage--that of the mayor of our city cursing at me from his office window as I was taping a none-too-complimentary piece next to City Hall. THAT, I felt, was unforgiveable.)

Fast forward to this year--some of the people in our Howard Dean group had gotten a tentative license to build a low-power FM station--which I expressed a keen interest in. The unfortunate matter is that the license is in the name of The Children's Television Sweatshop. (It was the only certified non-profit in sight willing to sponsor the FM, apparently.) So after assurances that the generalissimo of the Sweatshop had "no interest in radio"--and I having pledged my fealty to the FM project--The Sweatshop and its Fearless Leader suddenly became VERY interested in radio. Moreover, one of the "conditions" under which they would actually let us build the station was that I WOULD HAVE TO REJOIN THE CHILDREN'S TELEVISION SWEATSHOP AND SERVE ON ITS BOARD OF DIRECTORS. Two words: NO WAY. So I am in the unenviable position of having single-handedly killed low-power community FM in Utica. I am the villain--the well-meaning asshole once again. And the fun part is, I still get to face all these people I disappointed at every other meeting for all the other organizations Sue and I belong to. Yowzah.

Since my last post, I have won--and received--what I pledge will be my eBay last typewriter for a while--a Monarch Visible #2 from 1910. It looks good, and works decently, but the sheet metal side panels its seems to have once had are missing. Still, it is a good enough example of the Monarch (another machine made down the road in Syracuse) that I don't regret the missing parts. Until I looked at a vintage Monarch ad, I wasn't even aware that it lacked anything. And it types smoothly enough that I am using it to write a letter to my friend in prison (unwired, but not unbound).

The Howard Dean meet-up Wednesday night was great--the best ever turnout. Even some members of the media covered the event--the O-D (our local daily) and the Life & Times (the paper that will actually print my letters to the editor) showed up, to our delight. In fact, the group has ALREADY OUTGROWN the lobby of the Hotel Utica--half the group couldn't hear the other half speak, because the circle of chairs had grown too wide. Sue and I were also delighted to drink some beers with the proprietor of the website republicansareidiots.com, who, it occurred to us, would be a good congressional candidate against our local entrenched, ferret-faced Bush idolator. Our man is funny, smart, and knows where all the bodies are buried, so to speak--and whether he wins or not, would present a real and useful pain to the ferret-incumbent. If Dean is going to be President, he will need a Democratic congress to help clean up the mess Awol C Minus has made of this country.

We made a visit today that I had been dreading--to my aunt in the nursing home. Sue insisted we pay that call, much against my (or anyone else's) better judgement. Aunt Betty was weaker than I had ever seen her--an extremely OLD seventy-five--and meaner than ever. I have a feeling that her last breath will be expelled as a put-down. She USED to be nice--when she had my grandmother to snarl at, that provided her a focus. After Grandma died, Betty started unloading her animosity on anyone within earshot. On sundry occasions, she always took time out of her schedule to criticize my piano-playing, my songwriting, my weight (even 100 pounds ago) or whatever other sensitive spot she could poke at to make us more equally miserable. Today was no exception. Of course it was my obesity--my mere presence had handed her that weapon. Why should I be happy in momentary ignorace of my flaws when it was my duty as a member of this family to be aware of them at all times? The whole purpose of a family is to undermine joy. If one can find transport in, say, music or art or literature, then one needs to be slapped down to earth immediately by a Concerned Relative. Why find absurd delight in a symphony when you can just as easily leave the television on, half-attended to, and be numb? Don't get above yourself, young man--don't forget for a moment that you're from Utica and you're just as hopeless as we are. Doomed! Sit up straight and be bitter like the rest of us!

I know. You're thinking, "Cut the old broad some slack." Perhaps I should--but if YOU met her, YOU'D hate her, too. And, it's not just her--it's everyone else in my family. (If you don't have anything nice to say, you must be related to me.) Perhaps it is no surprise that I decided my line would stop with me. I know the seeds of dysfunction I carry. I have seen those seeds ripen into my RELATIVES. I will continue to squander them in my (blessedly) childless, deliriously happy marriage.

We saw a charming local production of Gilbert and Sullivan's "Iolanthe" this evening--it's refreshing to see G & S operas other than the "big three"--Mikado, Pirates, and Pinafore. Two years ago the same group of dedicated amateurs did "Ruddigore"--and that was equally delightful. (Sue and I lobbied for "Patience"--our personal favorite.) Of course, I would enjoy seeing a good try at the Mikado--anything but another "Pirates" or "HMS Pinafore." (We saw the Doyly C'arte production of the latter a few years ago in New Haven--an "art deco" version reintroducing one number deleted by Gilbert. It's fun to see high school and college drama departments tackle "Pinafore" or "Pirates"--but I've had my fill of both for the time being. Despite their enduring popularity, they are rather weak shows--Gilbert in particular really began hitting his stride with "Patience.")

One idea I had was that "Patience" could be revisualized as taking place in a Coffee House, with the "Twenty Love-sick Maidens" being cheerleaders turned goth-girls under the influence of Bunthorne. The Dragoons, of course, would become a football team. And Patience would be the hapless operator of the espresso machine. I think this really would work, with Bunthorne and Grosvenor being "slam poets." It's just that I've been too caught up in all this other trivia to attempt to write it. I still might--I'd really like to. (I have plenty of coffee house poetry experience of my own to draw upon.) (Egad! Another facet!)

The flatbed Royal #5 arrived since I last wrote--and it is beautiful! Save for the platen and one rubber foot, it was in nearly showroom condition. For a typewriter nearly a century old, it is in a remarkable state of preservation. Even the pock-marked platen is manageable--I wrote a brief note on the machine this evening. And the thing was PACKED BEAUTIFULLY. (After my experience last week, THAT is something I appreciate!)

Speaking of breaking down, it turns out that the Guardian did not accept my credit card information, so I guess I didn't subscribe. It would have been so much easier if they just kept the damn thing free. I am naturally parsimonious when it comes to certain things--with notable exceptions, the less I pay for something, the more I enjoy it. I have a vast collection of 78s--none of which I have paid more than a dollar for--and most considerably less. If I find a copy of the New York Post discarded--I seize upon it and do the Times of London crossword with gusto--thrilled at not having to give Rupert Murdoch my fifty cents. (The other week I spotted a Post drifting in the street right outside my house--wasn't I the lucky beachcomber!) I never had much money--being severely allergic to regular gainful employment--and so I learned to live luxuriously on nothing. (Living at home until age 34 under the suveillance of a Depression baby helped develop my inner cheapskate.)

So now that I'm married to Sue--little-miss-debutante-Garden-City-I-always-had-shoes--I feel like a millionaire. I can actually spend money on fun things occasionally without getting a lecture. I still find myself physically unable to waste anything--and I can't quite bring myself to be extravagant--but I'm getting better. The mere fact that I would even CONSIDER paying for on-line crosswords is evidence of that. Of course, I'm sure as hell not going to tell my mother.

As much as it pains me to admit it, I broke down today and subscribed to the Guardian Crossword. I had absolutely no intention of doing so--and had, in fact, been saving the past week or so of cryptics for the coming drought. But the Guardian puzzle is arguably the best in the world--and it does somewhat counteract the effect on my brain of all the beer I drink. So I shelled out--and opted for the free book instead of the five pound discount. If I have to spend money on an on-line service--which still seems vaguely like a swindle, since I'm printing everything out with my ink on my paper--this would be the one, I suppose.

My eBay fever hasn't tapered off much yet--we haven't run out of money yet. I did hit a speed bump Saturday when one of my machines arrived in a deplorable state--packed upside-down in a too-small flimsy carton with crumpled paper as protection. It is more of a jigsaw puzzle than a typewriter--but I expressed my disappointment courteously to the seller (I am ALWAYS polite) and due restitution was made. My flatbed Royal is still in transit--a special machine, in beautiful shape, on a par with the Smith #2. I hope the postman, growing clearly disgruntled at having to pump all that cast iron, doesn't bounce THAT one on my back step as well.

"Utica is the chief market for cheese in the United States."
--Encyclopaedia Britannica (Ninth Edition--1890)

Some things never change. This would explain our asses, which are unparalleled in magnitude. As a third-generation Utican, my own is a matter of destiny--and decadence. My typewriter-shaped chickens are at last coming home to roost--and our dining room resembles a Mailboxes, Etc. outlet. The L.C.Smith #2 is a doll--the serial number places it in about January 1906. I have restored it to full showroom condition, save for a frozen tabulator and a couple of missing rubber feet. Its ugly step-sister arrived today--a #1 from 1910, as it turns out. A piece of cast iron has been snapped off the carriage, the spring seems broken, and a few parts are missing--thus making it only more of a challenge. The older noiseless arrived the same day as the l890 Britannicas, and it works nicely (I have been too mesmerized by the good Smith to focus on it)--with only the other Remington and a nifty "flatbed" Royal #5 (purchased the other night) to come. Oh, and the partial set of the Britannica Eleventh I JUST won (to upgrade and fill in volumes on my Kirkland Book Sale set)--plus some cheap red/black ribbons and a kitschy pug t-shirt (for Sue).

What the frig. If all this keeps me from thinking about politics for half a minute, it's worth every blessed cent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go eat some cheese.

"Nothing succeeds like excess."
--Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Excess update: It seems I am going to be receiving yet ANOTHER typewriter in the mail--I was offered a second chance on one that I bid on a while ago (the other buyer backed out) and it was so cheap to send that I couldn't resist--$20.00, total. It's another old L.C.Smith--not as nice as the #2 but it promises to be a fun restoration project nonetheless. So, FOUR typewriters and TWO big boxes of books are on the way. Poor USPS! Poor UPS!

"What do you need another goddamn typewriter for?"
--Patricia Senior (1930- ) to her son (on numerous occasions)

It occurs to me that I have three typewriters and two boxes of 1890 encyclopedias in transit. I imagine I should feel very guilty if the mail carrier or UPS guy had to deliver all that stuff on the same day! (I am starting to think that I should offer a gratuity, or perhaps some ointment.)

(Or maybe it's just my conscience that needs a salve.)

I meant "English WORDS," not "English WORKS." Sorry for any inconvenience this typo may have caused.

It is one of the great ironies of owning a computer that I have been buying more TYPEWRITERS than ever, now that I am an eBay fanatic. (I'm like Doris Day at the Animal Shelter--they're all so CUTE--I wish I could save them ALL!) Seriously, I have found a few machines that I have been wanting examples of for years--Remington Noiseless office jobs (one is in the mail to me--another has to be paid for) and a neat old L.C.Smith #2. (I arm-wrestled another collector for this one--a beauty!) (The L.C.Smith #2 was actually the first one made--the Smith #1 came out later, with fewer keys. The incomparable Smith Premier--whatever number--is still on my wish list.) This typewriter mania is in a way theraputic--it gets my mind off POLITICS.

I have also been buying dozens of books, and, of course, DRINKING. (I had some Saranac Pilseners last night--what a treat after solacing myself with Saranac Light for weeks. No homage phrased in mere English works could begin to express how highly I esteem the Pilsener. "Golden Nectar of the Gods?" "Mother's Milk?" "Sweet Dew of Heaven Distilled and Made Corporeal Under a Cumulus Head Halo?" All inadequate.) With politics as they are in these United States, I need all the anodynes I can muster.

"'I wondher,' said Mr. Hennessy, 'if us dimmycrats will iver ilict a prisidint again.'"
--Finley Peter Dunne (1867-1936) "Mr. Dooley Discusses Party Prospects" (1901)

Today was the one day that the city of Utica briefly appears on the map before sinking back into comatose obscurity--the occasion of the annual Boilermaker Road Race. People come to town from all over the world to participate in the 14 K run--the course of which passes right in front of my house. Then, after having a few of our fine local beers at 10 am or so (the brewery is the finish line) they haul ass before our bad vibes (also world-famous) begin to interfere with their "runner's high."

In characteristic fashion, I contrived to sleep through the whole thing--not an easy feat, considering that some civic-minded soul pulls his car up to the corner and blasts rock music to "raise the morale" of the runners. To remain unconscious during this local festival, I stayed up past 5 am, got very drunk, and slept in the middle bedroom with the air conditioner turned on. The only jarring moment was when an Air Force jet (ostensibly not flown by Airman Bush) swooped low over the city, sounding as if it were about to hit the house and releasing a series of sonic booms. (Your tax $$$ at play.) But for that, the "toiletbreaker" rolled past me with hardly a murmur.

Today was rare and strange--one of my better days, considering. Immediately after declaring that the magnificent Britannica Eleventh was "too bloody expensive these days" (and consoling myself with the Ninth Edition), one of the former turned up at the Kirkland Library book sale for $100! It is far from perfect, missing the index and Vol. XII (so much for the glory that was Greece)--but it is THE Eleventh, and now it is MINE. (My words to Sue as she went to the sale were--"Check to see if they have the Britannica Eleventh." Little did I imagine they would actually have one!)

Then, as if to add extra cheese to the grand pizza of life, my letter to Bartcop appeared in today's edition--concerning Bush's statement that it didn't really matter if Saddam had WMDs, as long as the American people BELIEVED that he did. (Sue and I were just trying to track down the original quote, uttered at a press conference in Pretoria, which NO ONE AT ALL SEEMS TO HAVE REMARKED UPON.)

I seem to have found the Free Parking space on my personal Monopoly board, where Life is Good.

"I grow old. . . . I grow old. . . ."
--T.S.Eliot (1888-1965)

True enough. And as if I needed any reminders in that department, I got my new bifocal lenses today. Now I can begin to plow through all those magazines I brushed off to the side because I just couldn't deal with those acres of teensy print. (Not that I will read ALL that verbiage--since having the Electric Internet installed in May, I've been too obsessed with the new toy to do any reading AT ALL, bad vision or no.)

To add to the backlog of printed matter, I just bought an 1890 Encyclopaedia Britannica (9th Ed.) on eBay--the 11th Edition (the supposed "best" one) is just too bloody expensive these days. The books were only fifty bucks, but the postage on 24 volumes will probably kill me, even at Book Rate. I also bought the first two of three facsimile volumes of the First Edition--I have Volume Three, as it turns out. What's the chance of THAT happening? Typewriters, encyclopaedias--I should probably start collecting something that is cheaper to mail.

How can anyone bear to live in these times without large, regular doses of alcohol? I'm surprised that AA is doing any business at all, what with the Bush administration's daily offenses against all that is true, good, and kind. And not just the Bushes--my wife inspired me to drink a prodigious amount of Saranac Light last night merely by reading me all the rotten things the CIA has done in Central America, particularly Guatemala. Why must our country be so terrible to EVERYONE? We might not be as bad as the Third Reich--but only in terms of SCALE, not intent. As long as some mega-corporation is waving dollar bills at us, we'll kill ANYONE, for whatever reason--and rape them first, because that's one of the perks. I love America--I love our music, our culture, our ideals. We have a great civilization. So why can't we actually be CIVILIZED?

And if that all isn't unpleasant enough, the Guardian is going to start charging for its on-line crossword puzzles. I'd hate to have to start buying the New York Post again for the Times of London cryptic. Rupert Murdoch doesn't need my fifty cents. He'd only give it to Bill O'Reilly or some other cheerleader for the Poisonous Monkeyhead.

At least I got my little LineX FM broadcaster from England. Now I can listen to The Big Broadcast (from WFUV) on any FM radio in the house--which I did in the living room last night while I self-medicated. Life can't be all bad if you can listen to great 20's and 30's jazz and pop while numbing yourself to the seamier side of the Monroe Doctrine.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
--Charles Dickens (1812-1870)

It may have been the order of Denny's nachos (blameless in themselves) that I shared with Sue for this night's repast, but the summer evening sits heavily on my chest like a bushel of used rocks. I need caffeine, insulin--something.

We are watching the twins while their mother cavorts at her 20th high school reunion. They are well behaved girls, but culture shock hit me when one of them asked where we kept the "spins." The spins? I said, "I don't even know what you're talking about." "The spins," she insisted. When I finally understood that what she was looking for were the SPOONS, I felt considerable relief. The last thing I wanted or needed was "The Spins"--and the sense that we might have such on hand in the house filled me with a wave of nausea. (Actually, I used to get The Spins quite a lot until I found the Saranac line of beers, and did not veer from their gyroscopic stability throughout a long night of drinking. )

And we all thought regional accents were dead. Hardly. These girls are now living in Tennessee, and they must find our harsh upstate nasality just as incomprehensible as all this talk of "spins." If so, they have shown the good manners not to make fun of us. After all, we've ALL heard Southern speech--but, not for nothing, who can make sense of a UTICA accent? He would truly have to think who he is.

"Cogito, ergo sum."
--Rene "Cheech" Descartes (1596-1650)

I received shipment of my Oliver Number 3 (with cover) from Iowa today--and within four hours I had it operating and looking a whole lot better than before. It still needs attention--but it sure as hell ain't costume jewelry!

We went to the track tonight--the girls broke even, but the FOOD was excellent. It's a shame the Oneida casino will probably drive the place out of business. It was the best buffet I ever ate--I cleaned a very full plate--and it was CHEAP. I have grown so weary of restaurant cookery of late that I was surprised to find myself eating so much. It even made the lackluster program of harness racing--and the whining of eight-year-old twins--tolerable.

"There's a broken light for every heart in Utica."
--me, age 17, loaded on cheap red wine

Well, when I was a teenager, I would drink pretty much whatever was available. Now that I am a great big adult, I can imbibe the select few beverages that don't actually make me violently ill. Certain beers from our local Saranac line, Pilsner Urquell (preferably on tap at Clark's Ale House in Syracuse), and practically nothing else alcoholic. Saranac Light is not as delightful as their Pilsener, but since we bought 18 cases for the summer, and it does not affect me adversely, I guess I'll be drinking that for quite a while.

The flurry of cleaning is over. The girls have arrived for their visit, and Sue's daughter expressed an interest in having a "real" New York pizza, such being unavailable in Tennessee. The only delicacy they seem to have in their city (north of Memphis) is BARBECUE. (If some of our Italians moved Down South, they'd CLEAN UP.) (Only Applebee's and Barbecue? The very thought makes me gag. Today this truly IS The DYSPEPTIC Tank.) So a real Utica, N.Y. pizza it is tonight, then!

"It is genuine Pilsner from Bohemia! It has expelled the sugar from my blood!"
--James Gibbons Huneker (1860-1921), letter to H.L. Mencken

I am feeling considerably better today, though it has taken me a full twenty-four hours to achieve this equilibrium. (American) Pilsener from Utica is part of the reason, but also I bask in the afterglow of a happy deed. It is akin to the feeling of reprieving a condemned mutt from being "put to sleep" at the dog pound--I saved a 100-year-old Oliver #3 typewriter from being made into costume jewelry. I had been watching the auction all week on e-bay, and when I noticed that the only bid on the poor old beast was from the bracelet person (who--I can scarcely bear to type this--tears apart vintage machines, turning the keys into "fashion statements"), I jumped in with my nominal offer--and WON. So, I'm going to be getting a nice big package from Iowa next week with my treasure in it (shipping wasn't THAT bad)--there is no such thing as an "unwanted" typewriter at the Utica "Bide-a-Wee" Home for Aged Office Equipment.

The cleaning process proceeds apace (or half-apace) in preparation for the girls' visit. Mainly, it consists of putting books on shelves and creating a clear path of floorspace. The white-glove standard shall not apply. It is merely enough that this place no longer resembles the Collier Brothers' last digs. My office (so neglected since we installed this electric time-waster in the dining room) now looks as if one MIGHT do some actual writing there--not that one WILL, of course.

"Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live."
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

DANGER: BITCHFEST UP AHEAD
Did I mention that diabetes really, truly SUCKS? Oh, sure--"they" say that with "proper care" one can live a "normal life." HAH! I've had this sonofabitch for 29 years, and my life has been anything BUT normal. Oh, it's normal, if you consider a TOTAL LACK OF SPONTANEITY normal. I made the mistake of assuming a dinnertime meeting tonight was going to actually include DINNER. It was basically drinks, canapes, and dessert--which had the effect of driving my sugar up around 500 without actually satisfying my need for a MEAL. I came home, took a slew of insulin, and passed out in my chair for an hour. Of course, I had forgotten to take the PILL my doctor prescribed to help me process my shots better--so I'm STILL all messed up. I do so much better when I eat my own cooking at home--I can even swill pilsener and remain somewhat in control. As a recluse, I'm fine. But cocktail parties? Forget it. Trying to navigate like a NORMAL human being is suicide.

I live a NORMAL life insofar as the contraption of a life I have come to live has become NORMAL for me. (And the Sanctimonious Monkeyhead squashed stem-cell research--He should have to live with MY diabetes for a month. That'd learn him, real good.)

I finally contributed to WFUV for all the enjoyment I'm deriving from "The Big Broadcast" show and archives. For all my many failings as a human being, I have never been comfortable being entertained at someone else's expense. And "The Big Broadcast" entertains the hell out of me.

At this writing, I have one aunt who is trying to escape from a nursing home--and who called me to see if I would abet her in the getaway, one uncle who is headed to state prison for probably nine years for repeatedly harassing and threatening a former girlfriend, another aunt who is my biological mother (whom I haven't spoken to in six years, and who has cancer), a mother who is my biological aunt (and with whom I get along much better since I left home at age 34, but who has worse cancer than her sister--but not as bad cancer as her OTHER sister had who died last year), and a President who couldn't give a flying fuck about any of us. Is it any wonder I look forward so to the first Saranac Pilsener of the evening?

Misery loves company so much that it forms service clubs called "families."

There is so much sorrow in the world that, without beer, life would be intolerable. Good jazz helps, too. If I have to endure four more years of Bush (in addition to all my real personal problems), I shall probably be a confirmed alcoholic--with one kick-ass record collection.

Everything I have written tonight has slipped into a parallel universe--not that it will do any good THERE, either. I started to write the same rant three times, and three times it disappeared. Now I know why I love manual typewriters so much.

It's bad enough trying to get letters printed in the lousy Utica O-D. THIS is really pissing me off. I think I'll finish up here before I wind up smashing $2,000 worth of computer equipment that isn't yet paid for, and drink a beer or do a crossword or something--something ANALOG.

"Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday."
--Don Marquis (1878-1937)

For all its myriad boons, the Electric Internet is pernicious in one particular--it has enhanced my tendency to avoid doing what must be done. Sue's daughter and granddaughters are coming for a stay one week from Tuesday, and the house is in deplorable condition. Susan and I have become web-addicts in the eight weeks since we became citizens of the New Century. Not that I was conscientious about cleaning when I was still living in the analog universe--but this is much, much worse. My new obsession, besides reading Bartcop, is drooling over the fountain pens and typewriters on e-bay. I love pens and old typewriters--and the virtual garage sale offers DOZENS of items to covet. I'm a sick man. Miss September? The Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue? Forget it. Who needs porn when there are full-color photos of old Smith Premiers, and Olivers, and Parker Duofolds? Sometimes the dishes sit in the sink for days while I scour the web for new beauties. The irony is just too obvious--the digital world has made me the uber-analog guy. And, as I type this, I'm listening the my favorite music show, "The Big Broadcast" on WFUV.org--1920s and 30s music, played off old 78s! And still the kitchen floor languishes, unmopped.

Yes, I'll get around to it. I must, of course. It would be most unpleasant for the Board of Health to issue a citation just as the girls are arriving. Yet here sits the computer, with its come-hither glow and promises of new treasures, just waiting for me to log on. . .

"Politics make strange bedfellows."
--Charles Dudley Warner (1829-1900)

Okay, I admit it--I had to look up the source of the quote in "Bartlett's." (I always thought it was one of those things that were just THERE without anyone having actually said it first.) But somebody DID say it, and it's TRUE. So much for exploding old saws. ("Watch out for exploding saws!"--Robert Benchley)

Susan and I attended our mid-month Howard Dean meeting at the Hotel Utica last evening, and it was a great turnout. There was even a truncated notice in the (lousy) O-D--which at least was accurate regarding time and location. Though two key members could not be there, we drew a dozen supporters, including a medical-school classmate of Howard Dean's, a local global warming activist, my apolitical friend Alex, and Sue's ex-husband, Mr. Wonderful. "And," he said, "Sue's ex-husband, Mr. Wonderful."

My little girl is growing up. I'm so proud. Instead of leaping from her chair and stabbing him in the carotid artery with her pen when she finally recognized him (he had changed so) Sue kept her temper under control for the good of the group. In fact, he presented such a benign aspect to her that she actually said "Hi" to him before she realized who he was. (She did not address him directly thereafter, but remained civil.)

How quaint a juxtaposition! She had just JUST finished paying off her divorce lawyer (thus reallocating funds that we could have spent on frivolities like roof repairs)--in fact, "the check," as they say, "was in the mail." (Anon.) So here was this phony, tax-evading, philandering waste of flesh who had taken food from our mouths, and SUSAN DID NOT KILL HIM.

Well, we wanted to be able use the lobby for future meetings. (The carpet-cleaning bills ALONE would have been DEVASTATING.) Plus, it would have reflected poorly on the Dean organization as a whole. There ARE more important things than revenge. The main one is voting the Psychopathic Cowboy out of office. So, for the time being, Mr. Wonderful is in our group. He's another vote for Howard Dean, at any rate. (I guess this is what they mean by "realpolitik.")

Out of respect for Sue, I did not offer to shake the man's hand. It was the least I could do.

"I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal, you."
--Louis Armstrong (1901?-1971)

"You'll find you're so incredibly moronic
You'll wish you'd kept your love affair platonic."

--Andy Senior (1962- ), "Love Isn't Blind, It's Retarded"


One of the great mixed blessings of married life is that, having left the savage blender of singleness, one is often called upon to act as a consultant in the affairs of others. Last Saturday evening Susan and I were pressed into the capacity of tag-team relationship counselors by my best friend and his former long term girlfriend, both suffering in their new relationships. These two are still deeply involved in each other's lives and see more of each other than many actual married couples. Sue has been trying to get them back together--as if they'd ever really been apart. My friend is still trailing after this young artist chick, practically begging to get his heart stomped on. His ex, who left him because he was marriage-phobic and reluctant to evince signs of adulthood, is now living with a sweet-natured young man who seems to have tried every medication in the Physicians' Desk Reference (as well as those not officially sanctioned).

Ah, young love. Ah, phooey.

Here's another romantic snippet from one of my old songs:

"I want a Brain Enema--
A minty Brain Enema;
Oh, please rinse my love away--
Let me think again TODAY!"

"At that, there might be worse things than being left in Utica."

--Robert Benchley (1889-1945)


I used to think so too, Bob. But now I am REALLY stuck in Utica. Shecters, the local fat-ass store, is closing. This shatters my world. Wal-Mart, et alia, do not cater to my ass size. (Though the "alia" isn't as many retailers as it used to be.) Simply put, I have been tried in the Court of Ass Sizes and found "homebound." I might as well start trying recipes out of the Sylvia Plath Cookbook. ("Insert head in oven, blow out pilot, wait for bright light at end of tunnel. . .")

Seriously, this truly depresses me. Hey there, Mister National Retailer, I have a fat ass and I am NOT about to stay off the street as if this were some low-rent Potemkin villiage. This is the Internet, is it not--where are all the the fat people who have nothing better to do than net-surf who will join me in protesting such things? I want to declare a NATIONAL DAY WITHOUT PANTS. Is anybody with me on this one? "Fat asses of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your pants!" How about a "Donald Duck" march to the nearest Wal-Mart to shock and disgust those sizist bastards into relenting and carrying a full line of fat clothes? "I regret I have but one ass to give for my country." Soon Wal-Mart will be the ONLY major retailer in America (having killed all the competition) and they need to know that there are good Americans who CANNOT FIND TROUSERS IN THE PROPER SIZE.

Now that the independent fat-ass store in Utica is CLOSING, I demand satisfaction! I WILL NOT BE HELD HOSTAGE BY MY OWN ASS! This July Fourth, I will be PANTS-FREE. This is MY DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE! GOD BLESS (PANTSLESS) AMERICA!

"I often think it comical--Fal, lal, la!
Now Nature always does contrive--Fal, lal, la!
That every boy and every gal
That's born into this world alive
Is either a little Liberal
Or else a little Conservative!"

--William Schwenk Gilbert (1836-1911), "Iolanthe"


Maybe. Perhaps I am an anomaly, but I have always been somewhat double-jointed in the above regard. I evince a strong Conservative streak when I feel the minions of the Nanny-State breathing down my neck, imploring me to desist in my self-destructive (Pilsener swilling) healthstyle. But when I see right-wingers beating up on one of their stock scapegoats, my heart begins to bleed like a Romanov family reunion. This current regime is overtly nasty, cynical, avaricious, sanctimonious, hypocritical, puritanical, and monochromatic. Thus, I am a proud registered Democrat who loves America, with liberty and justice for all--not that I don't think that most Republicans share those values. It's just those Radical Righties who now hold the reins that make me want to sigh in technicolor.

As of this writing, this is a LIBERAL SITE. (Maybe not musically, but it is politically, for certain.) When I see atop the archived entries for The Dyspeptic Tank, that THE LEFT HATES AMERICA (advt.) only a sense of fairness keeps me from screaming, "NO! FUCK YOU MAN! THE RIGHT HATES AMERICA!" Maybe SOME members of the right demonstrably hate America (at least the "freedom and justice for all" part). And there are some on the far radical left who hate America, for whatever reason. But you can sure as fuck LOVE AMERICA and still believe that the Chief Executive is a Monkey-faced, Earth-raping, sociopathic, imperialistic, people-hating, murderous son-of-a-bitch. GOD BLESS AMERICA, IN SPITE OF BUSH!

Pertinent to the above quote, Tony Blair has abolished the 1,400-year-old post of Lord Chancellor in favor of a U.S.-style Supreme Court. Jesus Christ! Just what they need! It's obvious that that little jug-eared Bush-licker wants to keep his job. (Could he grant Rhenquist and Scalia dual citizenship?)

At least I managed to fix my e-mail. Thank heaven for small miracles.

"Up in the air, sky-high, sky-high,
Free from Wards in Chancery,
He will be much happier, for
He's a very susceptible Chancellor."

--ibid.

"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or entered some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk;"

--John Keats (1795-1821)

You said it, Johnny baby! It's really been one of those decades. In addition to being depressed about the incorrigible romantic idiocy of my best friend, and overwhelmed by house and yard work that I have absolutely no inclination to do, I am now completely unable to send anything through my primary e-mail account (a possible computer virus) and I grow increasingly weary of politics. I managed to drag myself out of bed today and even do the dishes, but all I feel like doing is lolling about languidly like some Lake Poet, doing British crossword puzzles.

I have been having second (and third) thoughts about Dennis Kucinich. I admire the hell out of the man, but he did vote in favor of that legislative Trojan Horse, the Flag Desecration Amendment. I got involved in a heated discussion on the Kucinich4President newsgroup, discovering that there are practitioners of Flagianity on the left as well as the right. Howard Dean (whatever his perceived shortcomings when viewed beside St. Dennis) might be the one to whoop for after all. I don't want to burn Old Glory, but if the Amendment is passed I might just be tempted. Codified PATRIAUTISM is just another tool of the far right to stifle dissent and make questioning our (unelected) leaders seem un-American.

I have to unsubscribe to all these newsgroups. They are just sapping my energy and wasting hours of my life. To Hell with it. To Hell with politics, religion, controversy, EVERYTHING. That Keats kid (obviously a Democrat) gets the last word:

"And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing."

It occurs to me that I am repeating certain phrases, with slight variations. I suppose it would pay for me to re-read the previous post before launching forth into my rant du jour. I will retire the locution "trigger-happy pseudo-cowboy" and the stock sentence that trails after it forthwith. I apologize for any tedium this may have caused.

On a different note, one day I noticed that they were advertising the Venuti & Lang Box Set up top here. I couldn't believe it--Eddie Lang is my all-time favorite guitarist, the WHOLE REASON I took up playing the guitar. (I actually SOUND like Eddie, too--on one of his bad days, and with much lighter gauge strings, when the lobster-claws I call hands are unswollen enough to permit such musical attempts.) Really--Eddie Lang is the BEST GUITARIST EVER. (I'll rhapsodize about ART TATUM and his influence on my piano playing another day.)

Sue was on the computer all evening, trying to gather every scrap of evidence that she could find that the whole purpose of the Bush "government" is to put itself out of business--which is to say, put only business into "government." Every one of their happy little laws seems calculated to kick workers out of the public sector and privatize their positions (with no collective bargaining or benefits or anything). I used to be a Libertarian until I realized that such "freedom" could go haywire and actually be more oppressive than a Nanny-State. (I admit I was mighty pissed off at Mario Cuomo for all his seatbelt and alcohol control laws--and the so-called Republicans here in New York--Pataki and Blumberg--overstepped their bounds in banning SMOKING in BARS. Where else WOULD you smoke, if not in a saloon? BARS are not health clubs, for God's sake--except perhaps for developing elbow muscles.) Sue thinks the whole "No Child Left Behind" unfunded mandate is a master plan to dismantle public education--and replace public schools with private charter schools (with no tenure, unions, or health benefits). The charter schools would also keep people "in their place"--filling their heads with shit about the dinosaurs drowning in Noah's flood and whatever prevailing hooey the Corporate/Christian right deems sanitary. That trigger-happy, remote-controlled pseudo-cowboy seems intent on dismantling this country like it was some defunct Montgomery Wards store and auctioning it off to his buddies for scrap.

And so, while Sue was going through a rainforest worth of paper and a whole ink cartridge to unearth her various smoking guns (I know--shitty metaphor), I composed a concise Letter to the Editor on my 1937 Underwood about the crying need to IMPEACH BUSH. He lied about those weapons. I saw the clip of Dennis Kucinich at that Iowa picnic--how different he was from the day we saw him in Lake Placid! He was magnificent--I am proud to have shaken his hand. "Where are the weapons, Mr. Bush?" Even people here in Utica are starting to ask that question now.

Listen: I know what I posted last evening was terribly cryptic. Well, it HAD it be. I have so much spleen to vent on so many issues, and the spectres of Libel and Slander never lurk far from my keyboard when I am in Full Vinegar Mode. (Hence the suppression of the first piece I composed.) I promise the Adminstrator (a person I visualize as being a black-hooded figure, with axe at the ready to execute careless Bloggers and their slurs against recognizable fellow humans) that I shall be more circumspect from here on, hiding my actionable depictions in labyrinthine sarcasm. (I am no stranger to such methods--it was a favorite device of mine to write letters to the editor that NOBODY COULD POSSIBLY BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND.)

I am starting to weigh the whole Howard Dean versus Dennis Kucinich issue again--apparently Kucinich has made an impressive showing at certain venues lately, thus causing me to reevaluate his chances. Would it be terribly wrong of me to support BOTH candidates until it becomes clear which one has a prayer? Sue and I plan to send checks to both campaigns. Both Dean and Kucinich would be wonderful presidents--much better than the trigger-happy pseudo-cowboy who seems determined to dismantle this country and sell it for scrap. Kucinich is a true idealist, and his group backs him with zeal. His retro-New Deal plan might inspire those who feel we are headed for a retro-Depression. (If only we could bring back that MUSIC--if we are going to have another Depression, we need music like Rich Conaty plays on "The Big Broadcast.") Maybe Kucinich will keep us from getting Depressed.

But we like Dean as well--he is not so much our second choice as another FIRST choice. So, whichever. We will just have to deal with our ambivalence.

A PANEGYRIC UPON LOCAL URINALISTS

Oft times the local urinalists are derided, decried. disparaged, and dishonored. My heart aches when those who have given a certain percentage of their all have been so maligned--not merely blameless, they shine as sterling beacons, beckoning us all to heed their clarion examples. There is Dave, noble Dave (he of the moonlight polka rhythms, in his prose as well as in his music) who applies his deft surgical skill to the errant musings of those who would fain march to their own drums. If, in his hands, a patient dies--why it is contumely--ingratitude--for he has done his best, whatever that may be. If his head resembles a hedgehog, then that is just life imitating art, and we must accept it.

And how I miss the wise chortles of Father Joe and the stern (though benevolent) gaze of the incomparable Rusty. Father Joe's rough-hewn wit would keep us smiling for minutes on end. When he would attempt to find anagrams for the name of our town--a futile endeavor, for there are none--we would gasp in admiration. He is in a better place now, somewhat North of here (though some would have hoped SOUTH). Peace be unto his gentle Personage!

Rusty was as long among us as old Father Joe. He judged us severely, and I felt the sting of his disfavor oftener, perhaps, than most. My recalcitrance displeased him, yet I know he could be made to laugh, particularly at his own inventions. When his fancies surpassed his capacity to order them he left us, and not unwillingly. I would like to think I had some hand in that transformation--he is a POLITICIAN now.

Then there is the head of all--the Queen of local urinalists. What name could I apply to her that would do her splendor justice? There is none. She must remain unnamed. To me, she is Athena, Minerva, Diana, Rosie the Riveter--a panoply of divinities! Her wisdom is unparalleled.
When the aged and sagacious citizens of our locality concurred that more shall not be spent upon the education of the young, she reaffirmed their decree. She said, why should the educators of this city have recourse to free appendectomies, when all others must pay? This is selfishness! Let the old ones pay not more tribute, that they may enjoy their lottery wagers and QVC purchases even unto the last day! An appendectomy, after all, may be performed at home with an ordinary can-opener and a simple sewing kit. And then a salute of twenty-one guns was fired, as befitting such a pronouncement.

She is regal, and none dare cross her. I must close my eyes now, lest I be blinded by her glory.

I rather liked the piece I wrote--apparently the Administrator did not. So much for free speech. I'm going to have a beer.

Romance is the pornography of the heart. My entire day was dominated by the plight of a close friend who is trying to bring an extremely messy love affair to a close. Messy? Think: "Of Human Bondage." Think: "The Blue Angel." Think: just about any Woody Allen movie. The whole smitten older man/cute little sociopath thing. My friend (who is my best friend) is an incurable romantic--as if that were a GOOD thing. Unfortunately, romance, in addition to being the smut of the ticker, is (or should be) a childhood disease. A 42-year-old man falling ass-over-teakettle for a 22-year-old free-love-practicing bohemian chick is a preordained train wreck. A third party, a local "shaman" (with the accent on the first syllable) who reminds me of Rasputin without the stamina and Svengali without the staying power, who received regular financial contributions from my friend, knew of his attraction to this girl, and not only did not inform my friend of his prior history with her, he (to put it plainly) fucked her in my friend's bathtub. Sweet, huh?

Well, my friend finally decided (after a brief and overwrought fling with the girl) to save his sanity. He was going to send her a rip-snorter of a break-up letter, one that reminded me of nothing so much as the Spanish translations of certain old popular songs (that have nothing to do with the original lyrics--all tearing one's beating heart from one's own chest to hand to one's love if she will only turn and smile, etc.)--fortunately, some of us were able to dissuade him from sending the girl such a screed. (He posted it to about five of us as an e-mail!) His final draft was terse, cordial, and without romantic bombast. I hope he'll be all right. We'll have a Beer Therapy session soon. (Time and Pilsener heal all wounds.)

"Love is the fart/Of every heart;/It pains one when 'tis kept close/and others doth offend, when 'tis let loose." --Sir John Suckling (1609-1642)

Today was the vote on our local school budget, and if there is one fact as immutable as the law of gravity, it is that the Utica City School budget is ALWAYS voted down. Now, I would have no particular reason to root for its passage under normal circumstances--I attended (note that I did not say "graduated from") Utica schools, and found them only slightly more cheerful than Devil's Island. (When my high school principal died two years ago, it was very nearly the happiest day of my life.) But, irony of supreme ironies, I MARRIED a teacher in the Utica system. So I do have a reason to cheer for budget passage, not that budget passage will ever actually occur--it puts food on the table and Saranac Pilsener in the fridge.

(The "education gap" between my wife and I is nothing worth mentioning--I am Sue's third husband, and the first without a PhD. She asserts that I am smarter than either one, even as a GED-toting autodidact.)

Now, you might get the idea that the people of Utica, N.Y. are narrow-minded skinflints--and your idea would not be wrong. People have been hopping over the city line for decades to the suburban towns that invest much more in education--Clinton, Whitesboro, and New Hartford. So, who's left? You guessed it--the old cheapskates who think everything should cost what it did in 1932, and the poor whites, blacks, and latinos who can't afford to relocate. The resentment between those two groups is so thick you could spread it on toast. And the schools, as a result, are way underfunded.

So Sue and I live in the city, within one half-mile of her middle school--which makes her an exception even among teachers in the district. (Many reside in the aforementioned suburbs.) So we voted for the budget--not that it will do any good. Until we start funding our schools decently, Utica will continue to lurch toward oblivion--only the Saranac Brewery will remain standing.

(Apropos of nothing, I am listening to my Joseph Robichaux CD as I compose this--great stuff! I looked for the New Orleans Rhythm Boys reissues for years until we got the Electric Internet in our house--and found them within hours. Hooray for the Internet!)

Speech is free because talk is cheap and has absolutely no effect whatsoever. Both Monkeyhead and Malignant Polyp heard the impotent roar of the crowd and did what they were going to do anyway. Complaining is our most plentiful renewable resource, rivalled only by urine. On those days when I feel a true sense of what my considered opinion is worth, I sit at the piano and bathe my tired brain in ideas whose force needs no words. Saranac Pilsener does the trick, too. Whichever.

"A day without disappointment is like a day without sunshine." Well, maybe not--but very few days in this city are without their disappointments. (Sunshine in Utica is altogether another matter--we are Seattle without the latte.) Uncle Charlie really disappointed me today--I don't mean MY Uncle Charlie, but OUR "Uncle Charlie." (Truckers of a certain age will get my meaning.) The airwaves are to be further prostituted to the highest bidder, as the Head Pimp, "Malignant Polyp" (son of General Colon Polyp), has intended. No matter that millions of Americans protested this action--what is the limited "focus group" of the citizenry of America compared to the Will to Monopolize of the Truly Greedy? That's okay. I don't watch television, listen to commercial radio, or even read newspapers when I can possibly avoid it. (I used to read the N.Y. Post, but just for the Times of London Crossword.) (Right now I am listening to archives of The Big Broadcast, Rich Conaty's magnificent show on wfuv.org--the REAL STUFF. Check it out!)

Seriously, the new media ownership rules really, really suck. You've heard of "word processors"--the new monopoly papers/TV/radio stations will be employing meat grinders. Whether the great American public will notice a difference in the consistency of their daily tripe, I cannot say. It will certainly encourage that "unity" that everyone is trying to whip up--the bland leading the blind. All I can say is: if you want the truth, stick to the Internet.

(Conaty's playing Bennie Moten's 1932 recording of "Moten Swing"--one of the best records ever recorded! You won't hear THAT on Clear Charnel.)

I am still somewhat in denial about my novel being turned down YET AGAIN. I only spent a year writing that sucker--in blood. Despite what all standard authorities may think, it really IS very funny. (I wrote it on a 1937 Underwood Standard--a very funny typewriter.) Right now I am far too depressed by the FCC (et al.) to be much dented by my own puny concerns.

Yesterday my wife Sue and I were up in Lake Placid to attend the Democratic Rural Conference and see the leading presidential contenders up close. A steamroller had preceeded us into town--clean-cut young men in black suits were tacking "Kerry" signs to every available lamppost, like so many rottweilers marking their territory. Johnny Haircut's paid publicity machine was out in full force, and was doing its best to turn the multi-candidate conference into a Kerry rally.

Inside the hall, the first dozen or so rows had been "reserved" (for Kerry supporters); Kerry literature, signs, and stickers covered every chair, and it was announced that he would be given "more time to speak" since he had to catch a flight to Chicago. My wife, ever-intrepid, ignored the signs and sat us down in the front row, directly in front of the podium. Thus we were among the few to see Rep. Dennis Kucinich at close hand. Our hearts went out to him immediately. He had all the best, most progressive ideas, and the scrappy demeanor of a bantamweight fighter. Too bad the Kerry gang sabotaged his big moment in Lake Placid.

After Kucinich made his stand, the Man of the Hour appeared to hoots, stomping, and sounds reminiscent of the Jerry Springer show: "Kerry, Kerry, Kerry!" As Coiffure Boy stepped up and began to orate, my wife insisted on moving to the back of the hall before she lost her breakfast. We both heard enough to feel nausea. John Kerry is truly Master Thespian--a third-rate tragedian playing Kennedy as a funeral director. The oil in his demeanor could prove a valuable natural resource.

Kerry may have had the money, the matinee-idol looks, and the renegade Mormons on his side, but the next candidate who spoke lifted our spirits skyward. Sue and I felt hope for the first time in over two years. Howard Dean was bright, funny, relevant, and real. (And he got more real applause than Scary Kerry.) Though we both really liked Kucinich, we realized that Howard Dean could actually WIN. If the grass roots surge can keep the rottweilers at bay and the DNC from punting the election, Howard Dean could be the next President of the United States.

When we got back to Utica, we both felt so good that it didn't even matter that we were bone-tired and that I had received a letter from an agent rejecting my novel, telling me she "just didn't find it funny enough." (Everyone else who didn't throw it across the room immediately thought it was HILARIOUS.) Even today, I still feel pretty good.

As I grow older, I find that many of my early friendships, which I was always at great pains to maintain through phone calls, visits, correspondence, etc. have withered or fallen into a state of suspended animation. There is just one person I have known since kindergarten that I am still on any sort of speaking terms with. It is to be expected that friends grow apart over the years--expected, but always somewhat painful. My BEST friend--or who I thought was my best friend--who I met on the first day of kindergarten almost 36 years ago, has become someone I no longer recognize or even much like. At one point, philosophically, we passed each other going in opposite directions--he went from being a Hippie to being a Yuppie, and I went from being Conservative to being Countercultural. When I was the reactionary (as some children are) we got along fine--though he took delight in teasing me and putting me down. As I reflect on it now, I think I liked his FAMILY better than I liked HIM. His mother was the sweetest human being who ever lived--I still miss her. But he laughed at my witticisms, listened to my rants, and was, well, THERE. There is that old chestnut about being able to pick your friends, but not your family--and to a great extent it is a lie. Our friends are basically the people we're thrown together with in life--it's all proximity.

I think that friendship really started to go sour after his parents died, and his wife (who reminds me of Margaret Dumont, from the old Marx Bros. films) began to mold his tastes. One evening he started talking about WINE--the whole Yuppie oenophile spiel. But what changed our association most was when he took the small business begun by his father and expanded it. It was a small shop, and his father treated the men working for him like members of his own family. All the Christmas parties were held at the shop, with beer and tomato pie being consumed on the same floor as the machinery. ("Old Fezziwig" comes to mind.) Under the new regime, the parties were held at the Ramada Inn--more for the clients than the workers. His wife showed up in an elegant evening gown--and the workers appeared in their jeans, their thick boots, and their flannel shirts. (You can imagine Margaret Dumont's expression at such impudence.) When the business began to grow, and modernize, the old artisans could not adjust to the new computer controlled equipment--and were assigned custodial positions by the new shop manager. One such, "Vern," who had a position of some authority before the "improvements," and was a close friend of my friend (who teased him mercilessly) quit rather than being demoted to janitor. At this writing, none of the old gang--the old "shop family" are working there. My friend is making bushels of money--but the old camaraderie is gone. It must be very lonely there, with no Vern to tease.

"Why does a man work? To help those he loves." -- Alfred Dolge (1848-1922)

For all the talk about the so-called "Obesity Epidemic," some of us so cursed with that condition have a hell of a time trying to buy pants. I am not a glutton, nor do I spend endless hours in front of the tube stuffing my face with snacks. I just don't exercise very much, and have been trying to keep my type-one diabetes in some sort of control for the past 29 years. (Taking insulin puts on the weight even as it metabolizes blood sugar.) Those factors, and my enjoyment (not OVER-enjoyment) of cheese and Pilsener have led to substantial personal growth in the past eight years or so. Thus, being one of a multitude of fat men in the country, why do I find it impossible to locate trousers at, say, Wal*Mart? Why does no major retailer in this country cater to us in the throes of this "epidemic?" Sure, there are catalog sales, but a FAT lot of good that does one in searching for immediate coverage. The bizarre thing is, most of these stores carry shirts in sizes up to 4X--just nothing to go with them. Perhaps the rationale is that with a nice, big, billowy sport shirt, you really don't NEED pants. (I am not as yet willing to test this theory out on an unsuspecting public.) Larger women are not so afflicted--"Catherine's" is there in every strip mall to save the day. Why is there no "Catherine's" for men? I would gladly patronize a "Fat-Ass City" if such existed. The one real fat store in my community has erratic business hours and is a mite too expensive. And this is Utica, N.Y.--we're, by-and-large, a city of large people. My wife and I went shopping tonight and it was, for me, a soul-crushing experience. It cannot be helpful that such frustration drives me to solace myself with the afore-mentioned cheese and Pilsener, my twin Nemeses. (Cheers.)

Joseph Robichaux and the New Orleans Rhythm Boys are the forgotten wizards of jazz. Their l933 recordings throb with the pulse of life. I remember finding one of their 78s at a house sale, and how amazed I was at the sound. It was the best rendition of "Stormy Weather" ever recorded. I sold the record several years ago (to my regret) but Document Records in the UK has released all their sides. Buy the CD, but TURN UP THE BASS. (You'll be glad you did.)