A sad but inspiring tale

Of a brave little egg The Double Yolker (flash cartoon)

Stolen from MiMi Smartypants

This song just popped into my head and I don't know why...

Sing to the tune of Rubber Ducky

Motherfucker you're the one...
I want to shoot you with a gun...
Motherfucker I want to see you die...

Motherfucker something's got to give...
I no longer want to see you live...
Motherfucker you've really got to die...

Everyday when I
Make my way
to the subway...
I think on a fella who's corrupt
and yella and grubby...
He's that motherfucker...

OK--that's as far as I got. Creativity is such a strange thing, isn't it?

I wonder if this is how the guy who wrote the brilliant "If you're happy and you know it bomb Iraq" song was inspired. Just out of the blue, from the air as it were. Channeling those creative forces of the universe, perhaps.

The Way You Look Tonight...

I know I'm always asking these incredibly stupid questions. Here's another one: Does who you are and what you believe in and what you do change your face?

The reason I ask is that if you sat around and looked at people and thought about it you'd see that you can tell from people's faces (1) Who went to college (2) Who drinks too much (3) Who has a bad marriage (4) Who is a fundamentalist Christian (5) Who votes Republican (6) Who reads Noam Chomsky....etc.

That makes no sense, though. Why are people's faces so revealing? I'm assuming that the person who voted Republican could have grown up to be a person who reads Noam Chomsky and that face structure is genetic and the face they have at 30 is basically a face that could be either a face of someone that voted Republican or reads Noam Chomsky.

But it isn't--the face tells all. It's like 'gaydar.' Isn't it partly one of those 'face' things.

It might be explained by other cues that you pick up from people's body language or their clothes or hairstyle, etc. Think about the fundamentalist Christian thing--they all have this certain kind of face. Don't they? I think I could grow their hair out, put them in a tie-dyed t-shirt and send them to a Phish concert and they would still look like they should be driving an American car and reading USA today. Maybe I'm wrong.

Anyway, try it and see. Check out the faces only and then strike up a conversation (after you guess in advance)--see if I'm wrong.

My fetish

I was reading that free weekly type thing you get in most major cities. And there was this column...a sex advice column. It actually mentioned the 'magic wand for Katie' controversy. The link I posted on my site. Ya know? The girl? Who wrote about her smurf fantasy from childhood and then was promised this Hitachi magic wand but didn't get it and started this whole site about the magic wand, etc?

OK, you don't remember. The internet has a short memory. It seemed exciting to many at the time. Anyway, Katie has been awarded her magic wand by the Supreme Court...of sex toys. The guy who writes the column whose name I cannot recall--oh yea, Dan Savage? Don Savage? said a few insulting things about her but I can't recall what those were.

Anyway...people write in about their fetishes. And then they ask questions. They are dumb questions. I take it there are real limits on what kind of questions you can ask about fetishes. 1. Am I normal? 2. How do I get wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/total stranger to do this thing with me? 3. What's my fetish called? Do others have it? 4. How do I find others with my special fetish?

I'm pretty sure that is about all you can really say about fetishes. However, this man's column must have lasted a while because the magic wand for Katie problem started a while ago. Apparently, there is an interest.

I found the fetishes somewhat--icky. I'm sure the people who try them are not icky. In fact, I have my own voyeur side. I think I've written about my sexually adventurous friends and my fascination with the things they will do.

One of my favorite stories was--back in the early days of internet sex--the whole writing sexual things to strangers on the internet (I guess people still do this but it doesn't seem as surprising as it once did) my friend was doing some kind of S/M online. He got this guy to put on a hood and lock the hood. But then the problem is that the guy lost the key. He felt really bad for the guy. I said: "I guess you couldn't help him find the key but did you at least stay on line and keep him company while he was trapped in that hood?"

Unfortunately not. He had to log off and go do some stuff. He'll never know what happened and how his internet friend got out of the locked hood.

I remember how shocked and even somewhat appalled I was that people would engage in such personal contact/revelation over the internet. And look at me now.

Too boring to analyze.

Anyway, as I was reading this column about fetishes I started to feel bad. I don't have a fetish. I don't have anything even resembling a fetish. As a rather imaginative person I certainly have been able to put myself in the place of those who do and enjoy their enjoyment at times. When it wasn't too icky. I guess that's the side-effect of growing up Catholic--all sex seems pretty wild and dirty and so you don't even bother to have fetishes.

I started to feel bad though--having a fetish is all the rage. It makes you special, it makes you different...It seems to be a crucial part of modern life. So I searched my mind for some kind of fetish--something that could make me unique. A secret--a deep secret. I couldn't find one. However, I did realize that I often daydream about this scenario: I go into a room. There is a table in the room. I take my clothes off. A person comes in. I prefer her to be a woman. Youngish healthy fresh kind of women seem to be better at it. The woman puts some oil or cream on her hands. She kneads my back. My eyes are closed. We don't speak. I am putty in her hands. Oh, yeah... She pushes hard on those muscles surrounding my spinal cord. She....massages my back, my legs, my arms. For a whole hour. Sometimes the oil she uses has the scent of rosemary or lavendar. Then it's over. I say thanks. She leaves the room. She always says: "Take your time getting up." I lie there for a little while...I get up. I put my clothes on. I leave.

I would pay $50 an hour for someone to do this to me. I'd go up to $65 an hour. Oh man...sometimes it's all I can think about.

OK, I'm going to confess. I did that today. I paid this woman to do that kinky oil on the back, pushing on the muscles thing. (She wasn't youngish and fresh faced. She was middle aged and fresh faced.)

Then I took a hot tub. With a lot of other naked girls. Some of them had truly incredible breasts and did stretching exercises--naked. Right next to me. In the sauna.

But that's another story.

I've figured it out

There was this guy's blog that said: Just shut up about the war already!

And I realized why I can't shut up or stop thinking about it. Why I write in my 'diary' (and then post on this blog) all this bla bla about the war.

Well, it's important and all that. But I figured out what it is LIKE: It's just like a bad relationship.

You know how when you have a bad relationship you sit around thinking about all the ways to win the arguments and fights? And when you are breaking up it's the first thing that pops into your head in the morning. You wake up and say to yourself: "ooooooh. Blech." And you keep thinking that if you just said the right thing you would convince the crazy person you are with that they should change their ways?

And then you bore your friends constantly talking about your bad relationship. And how "I CAN'T BELIEVE he said that!" And: "So what I was thinking was..."

On and on and on. You become consumed. It takes over your life.

Then the depression hits. When you aren't obsessing how to 'win' or how to 'stay together' or how to keep from killing him/her/yourself...you are filled with a deep sorrow and loss.

Oh, and then you also realize when faced with the threat of loss how there were all these things you thought might be true or hoped were true that aren't true? You really had more faith in him/her than you thought. You thought you didn't love him/her but you really did. It's like that too--I never knew how much I loved my civil rights and peace and the lack of yammering idiocy every second (although there was lots of that) and all the things I had...Until it was gone.

I can't shut up just like those people in bad relationships can't shut up. I can't stop thinking about it. I have this constant never-ending argument in my head that never ceases. I actually have to write these out in order to have a few moments of mental clarity. And then it starts again.

Except: My bad relationship is with the United States of America. Maybe even with the people of the United States. And I can't get out of this relationship. I'm stuck in this bad relationship forever.

Will I always be this crazy then? Can't we get back to mutual indifference? I liked that so much better. Separate beds. American--you are dragging me into your dysfunctional life. I'm so codependent on you.

As Chico said: America needs therapy. "Yes, you've had a trauma. It was difficult. But you need to get on with your life. Go out, meet people. Have some fun again. Be happy. Don't take it out on everyone else. It's really not good for you. You're headed down a path of self-destruction. Get a grip on yourself...Breath. Take a deep, cleansing breath."

I'm not really sure what kind of therapy would work. Obviously, not talk therapy. 'Cause there sure has been a lot of talking. I think cognitive behavioral therapy would probably be the best--or maybe aversion therapy. Get over your phobia of terrorism, America. You need to go and lead your life.

Actually, what is America's problem. America is like the husband who is going out to the bars drinking with a bunch of assholes. Then he comes home and he thinks: "Why should I be nice to you? None of my buddies are nice to their wives. In fact, they all have chicks on the side."

America--that nice sweet America you fell in love with--is now a jerk you don't recognize anymore. Sure the fire had gone out of your relationship. Still, there was a glimmer of affection. Of hope. You knew it was for life. Now you can't wait to pack your bags and get the hell out. Except: There' s no where else to go.

WAIT! IT'S FEB. 26TH--VIRTUAL MARCH ON WASHINGTON DAY

SIGN UP TO CALL YOUR ELECTED OFFICIALS

Last ditch effort...Every senator is supposed to receive one phone call per minute. The white house is also supposed to be called every minute....

Gee, I really owe alot to people who are organized and organize these things.

I almost forgot but 'everything is wrong' blog reminded me. I forget people's birthdays too.

PS

Daintily Dirty has some hilarious new takes on the little warning drawings.

I highly recommend defective yeti's current piece about Schrodinger's Iraq.

I think I'm falling in love with the woman who writes on the Fussy site. I don't know why. It's probably simple infatuation.

I'm too tired to link to any of these things. You can find them over there somewhere.

What's that CAMERA for?

Suddenly...I just realized--there are these pop up ads for those secret hidden cameras everywhere. Eeep.

Hey, man--what's the deal with the cameras?

The one I just got scrolled up and down the unbuttoned torso of some young babe.

So is that what they are for? You hide one somewhere (where?!?) and then you can scroll up and down a person's body. And then you can see it.

But can't you do that with your eyes? No, in fact you can't if you hide the camera in their bedroom you can watch them undress?

So is that what the cameras are for? I mean who the hell buys these cameras? There are ads everywhere so I assume people must be buying them all the time. Where the hell are they putting them? Are they just...everywhere? Are there these crazy people putting secret hidden cameras all over the place where you can't see them?

I assume they are to spy on your babysitter--hopefully to make sure she is not harming your baby and not so you can watch her make out with her boyfriend.

Or to spy on your teenage children while you are out of the house to make sure they aren't smoking pot, watching porn and drinking your liquor.

Maybe they are designed to spy on cheating spouses or to see if it is your roomates who are drinking all your milk and eating your mallomars?

I don't know about you but those ads are starting to scare me. I console myself with the idea that they are these crazily complicated things and a TV with VCR has to be 2 feet away and no one can figure out how to work them. I hope they are the kinds of scam technology that break right away.

Otherwise, that's just creepy...(This is one of those times I wish I had comments so that someone could tell me what those cameras are for.)

Just a little point...about my manifesto that isn't really very manifesto-like and which I actively advise people not to read...

It addresses the question: Am I an American? What the hell is an American? What does it mean to have any nationality let alone being an American? And then wanders off into nonsense.

Still, I was thinking about this African friend of mine and how he is fascinating and perplexing and sometimes I think that is a cultural thing. At the same time, the fact that it is a cultural thing doesn't mean that anyone from his home culture (which actually turns out to be this super tiny tribe in this village/kingdom place (I'm kind of shaky on the details) would be anything like him. Culture doesn't make any sense to me either.

Being American explains some things but what things does it explain. It explains why I have so many pairs of underwear, tubes of lipstick and varieties of eyeshadow. But not completely...

What the hell was I going on about? Oh yes, I just remembered: Some people here in my fair land are as foreign and strange and inexplicable to me (or more so) than anyone could be anywhere else. The ideas of many of my fellow citizens seem nuttier and crazier and loonier and more nonsensical than I could imagine I would find high in the hills of Rongostan (not a real country, actually). There are probably people in Burkina Faso that I have more in common with than some people in Ohio.

I don't know what that means. But it's really late and I haven't been sleeping much lately.

Laugh...it's so nice to laugh...

Random frost has some links to the ready.gov site and the inevitable parodies...

Prior question

One of my prior questions: Do people know when they get old or do they think they aren't old?

Now why would I ask that?

The obvious reason: When I was nine, thirteen seemed REALLY old. When I was 23, 28 seemed REALLY old. Etc. Then when you are 13 or 28 or 31 you don't think you are old anymore. Does this go on indefinitely. Do you think this when you are 90. Do you say 'heh, heh I remember when I used to think 90 was really, really old....' right before you keel over into your plate of soft and pliable food?

Another reason: It would be weird to think "I'm old! Yup! I'm done for! I'm really old!"

People are always in denial. You always want to be the one with the total handle on the truth. But you never are--you're just as deluded as the next person and they think they know what they're about also.

Which answers an interesting question I have been asking myself lately. It is part of the 'why bother'? question--a much larger question.

(Oh why did I do all that acid in my youth? It seemed to have burned the 'why bother' question deeply and permanently into my brain. It's a real disadvantage career-wise. But that's another issue.)

One question I wonder about is why I bother with what can euphemistically be called 'anti-aging' techniques. Like the vast majority of women I actually spend a certain amount of money on certain kinds of moisturizer. Actually, I buy the cheap kind. It is unclear to me because in the abstract I do not truly care how I look. Nor do I really care how anyone looks. I'm too tired to care. I barely look at people in the first place. I mean--I do but I don't. I register that they are occupying space but when I do look at them I find their face interesting or something and don't often think much about whether they are hot or not.

It is sort of like my approach to food. I like 'space food.' I like dehydrated or pre-created protein bar things that take 45 seconds to eat. That whole 'eating' thing generally seems like a big hassle. So does looking at people. So does looking at myself.

On the other hand I have literally hundreds of pairs of fairly sexy underwear. I need to wear sexy underwear and always have even when there was not the slightest possibility of anyone seeing my underwear. The thought of wearing jocky cotton underwear seems horrific. Sometimes I think the only explanation of this is early brainwashing of some kind--some kind of consumer programming that you undergo when you are asleep. A wave pulsing through the darkness or subliminal messages underneath the muzak.

To get back to the main point I was wondering why I am bothering to preserve my beauty when I hardly care whether I am beautiful or not. To be honest, at this point I can't see why the difference between people's appearance has the profound and deep significance it is so often thought to have.

Maybe I got confused about this when I lived in Los Angeles for 2 years and it seemed that meeting all your human needs--such as love and companionship or even getting directions--would depend on what you looked like. However, once I moved from Los Angeles this no longer seemed plausible.

I have several theories about beauty maintenance but none are satisfying. One is simply fear of change. One is fear of death. I think I crave death while I am still young if only to get out of paying my bills and thereby cheat my creditors. It would help me get out of work and avoid failure to die before I've had a chance to waste my astounding potential. Perhaps I am still a normal person, however, and actually fear death. Aging will remind me that I will die and this daily reminder must be beaten off so that I can enjoy the last few years of the illusion that I won't die.

One explanation is to avoid thinking about the fact that I am highly immature and thus shocking people with my immaturity. So far I have no wrinkles to speak of. And this is good because I am completely irresponsible and when people find out that I am over thirty they always seem confused and somewhat disconcerted by my inability to act like an adult. So at least I can pose for a little while longer.

Actually, I think a kind of social programming is the best explanation of all--Still, I realized something even if I really am just a product of my culture and unable to act freely. And this is that there's something like a game in the idea of avoiding for as long as possible the confrontation with your own decay and mortality.

It's a beating the system thing. I love to beat the system whenever possible. I had weeks of euphoria when I paid my taxes a year late and got out of the fines. (Did you know that the IRS will always let you off the hook if it is your first time fucking up? It's true!)

I like to park in the no parking zone as I've said before because of the thrill of not getting a ticket. I like to let deadlines go by and then see if I can get out of the trouble I've caused for myself. I like to do the minimum or do things the wrong way and see how successful I can be anyway. I used to like to see if I could get A's on tests without studying for them. I like to ask bureaucrats for favors and see if they will break the rules for me thus proving to myself that a flexibility exists in what seems like a seamless consumer hierarchy.

I'm immature--remember?

So at least part of the idea of creams and lotions and good makeup and rosy cheeks is the idea that you might be the one who beats the system. You might be the person who gets to 60 but who can pretend that she is not 60...You might stave off age and entropy longer than everyone else does. You might get some kind of favor and extend your youth far past the moment you were supposed to.

Stretching the boundaries of the normal human life cycle is all the rage nowadays. Finally, I am with the zeitgeist!

Holy God. What am I thinking? There is no way to beat the system on that level. What am I going to do--chop off my head and have it cryogenically frozen? Sheesh. Sometimes I can't believe myself.

Anyway, by the time I get really old they will probably have some kind of special cure for death. Right? Right?

Isn't it amazing that people might read the crap we spew out of our keyboards? Of course one can never tell whether anyone does....still, I find that amazing.

Feng Shui

OK, I was trying to think of something lighthearted to say since I am not really doing so well at the whole 'fun blog' thing lately. I looked around me trying to find something funny that I do. Then I realized that the little things I believe that are based on nothing but what other people believe and are really based on nothing real actually do affect my life.

For example, I made fun of feng shui when I heard that having sharp corners pointing at you can bring bad energy on you. There was this picture in this book of one of those arrow signs and underneath the picture it said some kind of warning. Basically: Don't stand under an arrrow sign or you will DIE. I ridiculed this picture to my friend who owned the book. Oh no! Stay away from sharp corners.

Then today at my desk I noticed that there was this file holder with a sharp corner pointing right at me.

So I moved it away from me to avoid the sharp-corner-bad-energy effect.

In fact, I'm always hedging my bets this way. I bought 'lucky bamboo.' But when I was in Europe I had this fear that my lucky bamboo would die and this could be very, very unlucky. I imagined hoards of thieves breaking into my house as the result of the death of the lucky bamboo. A devastating fire as punishment for my neglect of the lucky bamboo.

I breathed a great sigh of relief when I came home and discovered that my lucky bamboo had survived my absence. That's the last thing I buy anything lucky!

While I was supposed to be working I couldn't stop myself and had to write this absurd, incomplete manifesto. When it got around 7 pages I started to become very ashamed of the fact that I could write a crazy manifesto but didn't finish all my work this weekend. I can't post this on my blog--too long. I'm going to try and upload it now. In case you have some time on your hands and feel the need to read someone else's crazy manifesto.

I don't recommend it but since I spent all that time writing it I feel that I should do something with it. Undoubtedly, this is going to set off some kind of Miel manifesto writing spree and I can't be responsible for the consequences. Sorry.

Well, perhaps I can. I haven't decided whether I am genuinely responsible for any of my actions. I'm still up in the air about that one.

Hmmmm. Let's see if it works. Where Am I.doc