Russian Novelists and Oprah Winfrey

I have been blog-free for what, a whole day? And now here I am, indulging the inner addictive me.
I was in a very quiet library previously (shh!!!) and decided I was unable to blog there. Thus I am back at my friend's apartment (this one in MD, as I have escaped VA and am now back with my good friends here) and am again enjoying the joys of laptop computers. Part of the problem was that the library was housed in a somewhat religious establishment, and I felt like my irreverence would seep through the air, somehow branding me visibly with a giant scarlet letter A. A, for Asinine. Which is probably what these blogs all amount to, but hey, maybe I'm entertaining someone (one person, anyway, God bless 'em).
I read this morning about George Bush's latest nominee to the supreme court. Now the fucker is pissing off his OWN party. OK, he's not a fucker, he's a wanker. Shh, was that a knock on the door? The Feds are coming! The Feds are coming! And the IRS is right behind them. Anyway, I lived in a very liberal town for almost six years, the kind that basically spray-painted signs like "Impeach Bush" everywhere, so no doubt it affected the neurons in my brain, the blood in my veins, you get the picture. As much as I strive for complete objectivity, my knee-jerk passionate tendencies come out anyway, and as we all know, Dr. Freud, no one is wholly objective. Human beings are chock full of many things, but utterly rational behavior ain't one of them.
But politics has been done to death, much like green vegetables on your dinner plate in the Southland, so let's move on, my children. I must say I adore food, enough that I keep a more or less daily walking regimen as part of my feeble attempts to discipline myself. My friends are fabulous cooks and do a lot of Middle Eastern stuff, as one of them is from that mysterious and exotic region, so I get to not only eat well but enjoy it, too. I gotta say babaganoush (sp) is delicious! Especially on little pieces of bread. And so is this spinach phyllo thing they made, and this fiendlishly lovely kind of rice, and on and on and on. Plus they have two kinds of pie. They had three, but now it's down to two, but since one of them is blueberry, I ain't complaining!
Burp.
And now for one of my other favorite topics (see any themes emerging here, yet?): celebrity watching! At least I'm not a stalker. Anyway, I read today online that Katie Holmes is going to have Tom Cruise's love child. This is mildly alarming, considering that Scientologists are legitimized whack-jobs, but I'm still somehow happy for them. They both seem like decent folks, and in any event, without the millions, fancy cars, publicists, and lavish estates they'd be just like you and me! Yes, the rich are eccentric, the poor crazy, but money, as my beloved Dolly Parton says, can't make you happy. But it can make you comfortable if you're smart enough to be happy. Or something like that.
For a great read, I definitely recommend her autobiography Dolly. It will cheer you up on even the rainiest day outside or in your soul. Ms. Parton is one amazing lady, and her voice is heaven-sent IMHO.
The crickets are chirping outside. I'm on a screened-in porch, listening to the frustrated sighs of my friend studying. It's dark out there: this part of MD ain't into providing its inhabitants with streetlamps. Earlier I took a walk and studiously attempted to move my leaden body, but I'm too damned fatigued to feel anything at all. Comfortably Numb is right, Mr. Pink Floyd. I return home on Saturday to stay with my erstwhile barrister brother and his wife and to hopefully get stabilized once more. It's been a long time coming. I also hope to get some quality time in with my book. It's harder to write when you're borrowing other people's computers, but writing keeps me balanced better than anything. That, and writing songs, but lately, it's just been writing. And oh yeah, pretending I am the host of talk shows. Hey, whatever works!
I actually have started to read Crime and Punishment and felt myself relating to it. God, it's depressing when you relate to depressed Russian novelists and their works. This time I'm going to try and finish it, because I think it needs to become a part of my literary soul. Or heart.
And if Oprah endorses it on her Book Club, all the better, right?
Sleep tight, my lovelies.

Saw away, Dr. Ghoul

I am returning from my exploratory vacation from hell on Saturday. Right now I'm blogging to stay alive, although I could desperately use a nap. The Mexican Dog of Tidy Proportions is asleep close to my feet. I've been working on her, you could say, 'cause I love animals, and the poor thing was abused. I'd like to think love and tenderness is something we SHOULD try, dammit. A la that fricking Commmittments song. At least, I think that was the band's name. Names aren't my strong suit. Neither, sometimes, is spelling, but they say even Ernest Hemingway couldn't spell, so I'm in good, if drunken, company.
Kerchoo.
I am so fucking tired. Fatigue is my life these days. I have a really strong desire to plow my way savagely through a large bag of Doritos (screw Dr. Phil and Oprah: Endorse emotional eating, people! It's the only way! Nah, I'm just kidding, you should really BUY HIS BOOKS. I trust everyone has used sarcasm before).
Speaking of Dr. Phil -- and for those who may be reading this I am heavily entertainment-oriented, as I have a sick fascination with the world of celebrities, God help me -- I think he resembles a bowling ball. At least, his head does. I once had a sex dream with Dr. Phil IN IT, I am ashamed to say, so wonder what in hell that means. Repulsion, attraction, let's call the whole thing off. Anyway, he didn't give me any goddamned advice in said dream, praise be, and if he had, I would have thrown some Doritos at him. Nobody gets between me and a bag of those puppies, hydrogenated oils or not! Thank you, Frito-Lay.
Anywho, I do like Oprah, even if she gave birth to Dr. Phil. You can watch the whole thing on an episode of the Dave Chappelle show, which my irreverent friends let me watch recently. I nearly cried. It was really lovely, because as the world morphs more into a frightening mix of Trump's Hairpiece, Bush's policies, and the curvature of Martha's spine, we need the Dave Chapelles of the world. Oh, do we ever.
But, that's just me.
Speaking of the irreverent, back in my tender green college years (I am now in my thirties, which is such a relief) I wrote a guy during my senior year. Friend of a friend type deal. I ultimately lived to regret this, as he turned out to be a mind-fucking type of person (forgive my crudity, it keeps me warm at night) with suicidal tendencies. In my naivete I just thought he liked to send me long obscure pages about his favorite composers. Back then any smart guy was a turn-on, especially one with a twisted sense of humor. Turns out he was just a jerk. Sigh. Don't we all have sad stories like that one?
Now, when I'm in my basement with my tools working on creating the perfect man (oops, did I let that slip? I wish I could remember Dr. Frankenstein's side-kick's name), I generally take time to sip some herbal tea. In-between bloody rounds of sawing, naturally. Because Doritos tend to flake and get on things, to crumble, as it were. Yes, I am demented! Happily!
Speaking of crumbling, my psyche is being gradually rewired now that the last two years of my existence are slowly washing into oblivion. At least, that's what the little pink pills tell me. Heh. I am actually not on any drug besides coffee, which I thank Cortez for discovering. I think it was Cortez, anyway. Coffee is GREAT. I love my coffee.
Doritos, coffee, and Dr. Frankenstein. What were my issues, again? Apparently they have to do with men, but hey, I knew that already.
Bathe in the light, my sweetlings.

DC, Martha, and Probably Sex

Can anyone tell me why it takes thirteen years to create a blog? It always rejects my blogging address, even when I write things so bizarre not even Anna Nicole Smith could understand them. Ah, cheap shots, I love 'em.
I have no particular topic today other than my struggles to stay grounded in something resembling reality. Classical music helps in that department, as does avoiding the television. I think it's a good thing my friends killed The Cable Monster, because no doubt the federal government uses it as a brain-washing tool! To infect our very minds in order to make us more sheep-like than we already are, people!
Ah ha, gotcha, I ain't THAT paranoid. Although I admire those who are truly inhabitants of the dark side, in a strange way, people who have checked out, if you know what I mean. It beats hellacious commutes and the everyday stresses of modern life, I'm sure.
Speaking of, I lived in the DC area for over five years, and in that fair city learned the meaning of being a modern person. Basically it involves pain. I endlessly commuted, I avoided the sniper who terrorized the metro DC region, I was there when 9-11 hit, the whole bit. Not that commuting is in line with those other things, but you get the picture. I spent many hours on the Metro (possibly the worst in the country: it is very slow, constantly single-tracking, and apparently always being repaired) watching other humans, which as a writer comes fairly naturally. People are endlessly fascinating.
I also sensed some very sad things. One time I sat down next to a pretty big black dude who I had the bizarre feeling everyone was avoiding because, as we all know, black men are criminals! I hope people reading this understand irony. Anyway, when he asked me very politely to move so he could get off, he said it in such a nice, almost wistful way that I had the feeling he KNEW that everyone was not sitting next to him because he was a large black man and therefore intimidating to many, possibly racist, people. That made me sad, indeed.
Of course, it's all speculation, but sometimes even the seemingly tiny encounters stick with you.
Living in DC helped me to get my city legs on after growing up in a medium-sized, pretty homogenous town. I never really "got" the city -- it's a strange place in certain ways, although it has its charm. I admit there was a lot to enjoy there. Ultimately I couldn't take the endless rat race and left. I think what got me was how politically correct and competitive it is as the seat of government and our nation's capital, the finest in the world striving to effect change...bladayadayada.
God, I'm in a serious frame of mind today, younglings! And apparently reciting from the Hallmark School of Cards. I apologize, and will now flush out the canned air and let in some oxgyen. We're all starved for that: why, there's even a cable channel by that name!
Speaking of TV (again...I actually don't watch that much, although you'd never know it from the way I write) I do like Conan O'Brien. What a surprise, if you've read my other blogs, me being Irish and Catholic and all, although I'm more mongrel than anything else. I think he's a pure-blooded Irish guy (Don't read into that: I don't attend any meetings involving people with the word "Neo" attached to their nametags). Anyway, he had Martha Stewart on the show, and it was one of the funniest things I've ever seen. She set up a bunch of "Halloween activities" for him to enjoy, like bobbing for apples, and he took the opportunity to flirt with her. It ended up with her blowdrying his wet shirt. Very, very amusing stuff. Who can resist sexing up Martha Stewart, right? I mean, I could, but you get the picture.
Ah, Martha. Please mail me a fifty, will ya?
Thus endeth the latest run-off from my brain.
Sleep well, happy campers.