(EW*): Always, No, Sometimes Think It's Me, But You Know When It's A Dream

I think a no, I mean a yes, but it's all wrong
That is I think I disagree

This song popped in my head and this train of thought left the station before it could be derailed by the later day's events.

Strawberry Fields. As a child I disliked the circular lyrics, the inexplicably monotonous sing-song of the chorus, the wildly vacillating lyrical tempo--I didn't sound right and easy and kind like some of their other songs.

As I grew, my love for the Beatles in their 907 Glorious Forms grew as well. Strawberry Fields seemed like another not-so-secret drug ode. (In my arrogant youth I also dismissed Chicago's 25 or 6 to 4 as pandering. Oh, the assured omnipotence of youth!) I heard there was a plaque somewhere, Times Square? Whatever.

But the lyrics had wormed their way into my personal soundtrack. I owned not only solo John Lennon albums, I owned Julian Lennon albums.  (PS, Julian, it's none of my business, but I can't help but feel that your dad was kind of a tool. I'm glad it didn't stop you from going into music. There's a darkness in the air that seems to guide me.)

And from Papa Lennon, I was grooving to tasty treats like,
 
No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low
That is you can't you know tune in but it's all right

But it wasn't until today that chanced to look up Strawberry Fields lyrics and stumble across an annotated version. 

I didn't know it was about Lennon's child hood. I didn't know it was about the ineffable sadness of knowing how profoundly different you are from the other kids. I didn't know that the title shared its name with a park Lennon frequented as a youth. I didn't know John Lennon was scared to sing it, as he considered it one of his most personal songs.

To quote Lennon himself:

I was different all my life. The second verse goes, ‘No one I think is in my tree.’ Well, I was too shy and self-doubting. Nobody seems to be as hip as me is what I was saying. Therefore, I must be crazy or a genius — ‘I mean it must be high or low,’ the next line. There was something wrong with me, I thought, because I seemed to see things other people didn’t see

I fully recognized that quote could be interpreted in a grandiose, arrogant way. It certainly seems to lean that way, no? But that's not how I took it. I took it as that terrible and constant feeling that you can't talk about the things you think with your peers--you scare them. You can't use logic or science in this debate, it makes your friends cry. You are different and you know it and if you're lucky some well meaning adult doesn't take a special interest in you because we all know how well that's gonna go, outcome irrelevant. 

Well, shut my mouth wide open: I just made a profoundly emotional connection to John Lennon--somebody I would never consider to have anything in common with me. I'd like to believe I'm like a lot of clever, witty, talented people, but it never occurred to me to be able to relate to Lennon.

So I told you all that just in case it has any bearing on what followed, which followed so very quickly I had no choice but to consider it a Result.

********************************************

It gets harder than it should be. Even though it's probably you making it hard in the first place, you just can't get away from it.

In my objective assessments, I feel like a sponge. In my self pitying moments, I consider myself a sin-eater.

It's just People: there's so many of them and they are all bleeding emotion in every direction and their thoughts are so loud and their sadness and anger is even louder. So many people, so many stories.

And you can't respond to all that. They'd cart you away in the next available straight jacket. Sometimes I wonder if insanity is just the absence of the ability to control all the input. Besides being institutionalized for trying to communicate with Everything All At Once, you also wouldn't then be able to accomplish anything your needed to do. Ever again.

So you fake it. You chant litanies in your head that become magical wards against interloping thoughts. You fall into a meditation and don't let it touch you. You put on armor and remind yourself to keep breathing.

Unfortunately, and perhaps what drives me here today, is the realization that you can put on your armor and shield yourself from Humanity, but you're still going to Witness it. You're Marked. All the defense systems in the world can't save you, there will be a chink here and there and all the back-burnered pain of Humanity will come surging in. 

Maybe it will dissipate in the wisps of uncomfortable dreams you don't remember, but that leave you feeling unrested. Could take the form of one too many beers and subsequent hangover pain that mutes the thoughts, but also serves the urge for penitent self-flagellation. You find a way to distract yourself, you choose a different poison.

But it's killing you all the same. The pills to stop the pain are just as harmful as the pain itself. Slow poisons, bad risks, self loathing, rage--whichever or all, you're going down.

*EW = Experimental Writing

In Cold Weather, A Man Needs A Glove

In times like this, a lonely man like me needs love. . . 

My silly DJ subconscious strikes again.

Got up this morning at made myself finish resume overhaul. Granted, it may be less of a stunning resume than I intended, but I did manage to get two job applications submitted today. I feel that this evens it out.

Gah--is there anything more torturous than working on your own resume? I can go gangbusters on anybody else's, but mine always puts me in a quagmire of uninspired blather.

Been back on the West Coast a week, still haven't unpacked completely. I'm getting a terrible urge to reorganize my room. I'm trying to stomp it down, but I have a feeling it's going to run amok here pretty soon. Which wouldn't be such a big deal, except that there's really not much point in reorganized anything because it doesn't make much difference to the space I'm living in. I have the room I have, and no amount of box-switching shall change that figure.

hmmmmmm

Controversial Opinion Piece

I'm just gonna say it: Dudes, a shop vac IS NOT an acceptable replacement for a conventional upright vacuum cleaner.

It's not. You are lying to yourself and others by spreading this disinformation.

If you have Carpet, you need a real (i.e. NON-shop) vacuum. I don't care how many horsepower/rpm/btu thingies you got on that shop vac---it doesn't work as well.

I don't care that you can vacuum up wet stuff. So what? I've done that with a regular vacuum. Newsflash: I misuse common household appliances and products. Damn straight I've run over some spilled water and sucked up some soggy napkins. Too much water for the vac? No problem--just means you need to wait a while for the water to dry on/soak in. Go take yourself a smoke break.

The shop vac cannot compete when it comes to cleaning fibers. The lack of a motorized brush head along with the suction differential at the floor height means the shop vac will never, NEVER, be as efficient as an upright at cleaning carpets.

THIS IS SCIENCE. DOMESTIC SCIENCE.

It can literally take up to five times as long to clean an area with a shop vac as it does an up right. And I'm not talking just time here, but actual labor. You got to get your back into it with a shop vac; gotta scrub that floor like your brushing some teeth! That apron ain't staying pretty for this!

Literally five times as much work. I can say this because I literally just did 5 times as much work vacuuming a small area. I was freaking out of breath at the end of it. From vacuuming. My arm is still burning. This is both embarrassing and vexing.

SHOP VACS: THEY ARE SO NOT THE SAME THING

A Quick Guide For Driving On The Interstate

Louisiana may be a pit of bottomless despair littered with the broken dreams of the unfortunate. Or it could be a great place.

One thing that is not in contention are the state mandated rules for highway driving. Namely, Louisiana has mandated that "The Left Lane Is For Passing Only."

This is common freeway/highway/interstate etiquette: traffic should flow in the right hand lane, with the left hand lane left open for passing. The left hand lane should also be used whenever there are people/vehicles on the right shoulder. It's pretty cool that LA has gone to the trouble of making it a legal requirement as well as posted plenty of signage about it. Good form, you drunken swamp rats.

However, my travels today reveal that many people seem to be confused about the proper use of our beloved interstates--specifically, which lane they should be in. I've compiled a list of helpful hints.

If you are being passed by vehicles to your right, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

If you are towing a trailer, U-Haul, horses, or your home, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

If there is a line of cars behind you and a rig/18 wheeler to your right, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

If the person behind you has begun slamming their head against the steering wheel while you putter between 1 mile over and 5 miles under the speed limit, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

If you find yourself on the interstate for any reason, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

Thank you and jah bless.

The Business of Keeping Promises

As I prepare to head back West, there is the inevitable flurry to finish the myriad things I have, for no good reason, heretofore been unable to accomplish.

Today is a duty which could be described as grim. I suppose I could also try to view it as . . . (wow, I just paused for a really long time here) peaceful, as closure.

I've become a rather useless person in the last few years. There are promises, small but promises nonetheless, that I have failed to keep. Minor vows I have broken.

But I still have a sense of duty, tattered and careworn though it might be. And this is what drives me out of the bed, out of the house, into the heat and towards this task.

We do what we can, what very little we can, because that's just how it is. And you know, I'm grateful to be of some service. And somewhere deep inside it settles me down. For all the attempted altruism in the world, there is always the motivation of shushing your own demons.

We do what we have to do. We often wish it could be more.

(the post brought to you by the navel gazing before caffeine awareness group--strongly advising people not to wank on and on before being properly awake since 1483)

Why Am I Even Surprised?

Filed back in Feb or Jan for my "Obamacare" status. Just now received a packet.

Looky here--this is a rather info-poor packet, but it seems like this "Managed Care" option (which is the only option) is built like an HMO. Okay.

Oh ho ho---what's this? None of my doctors seem to be listed as providers. And there are options that only pop up in certain places. Let me call the helpline.

Helpline is woefully mis-titled. They tell me I can't be on Medi-Cal anymore. Which is okay, because I was never on Medi-Cal. Final advice is "Call your doctors and see what they say."

The doctors say "No." Turns out most private practice doctors in LA county do not accept anything other than PPO or straight payment.

That's a little vexing in general, and perhaps very vexing when it comes to my endo, who is basically my oncologist as well and has to run regular tests from pre-surgical samples that exist in some lab, some where. I'm sure there's a way around it. And I'm sure it's horrifically complex and gadawful.

Most private practice docs don't accept Medi-Cal (which I think is what used to be Medicaid) because they lose money on the payments. Medi-Cal's reimbursement is too low, so the docs won't contract with them.

There may be some errors in my apprehension--this is what I've managed to cobble together from the packet, helpline, pointless web search, and conversations with a few doctors' offices.

But, hey--I think this might work out as disaster-type insurance. That's good.

Summary: Your state is probably running their "Obamacare/Medicaid" through HMO's, so be prepared for limited availability on practitioners. Also, get ready to hang out at some county clinics. America, where your ability to be healthy is decided by your pocketbook and credit score. Poor people don't deserve any better.

Robin Williams Dead

At age 63, Robin Williams has been found dead in his home, apparently due to self-asphyxiation.

:(

:(

:(


A sweet link from Omey-pie:

4:30 A.M CDT Is No Time To Be Eating Porkchops & Chicken

But if not now, when?

Though this seems like a wholly inappropriate hour to be arriving home, it was a good night.

Friends were there, and there again in the form of rides and late night companionship. I got to play shuffleboard, badly, and ping pong, fairly badly.

I got to listen to Al Green, Asia, AC/DC, and Dean Martin on vinyl.

I bowled some shittay games today, but finished with a 148.

A dear friend danced me around the living room, not dropping me once. :)

Another dear friend took ten seconds to tell me I was worth more than I thought.

I was asked a very personal questions that I declined to answer. But it was very interesting, because I've been thinking about those kinds of things, and specifically the fact that I don't talk about them, quite a bit recently. Don't know why.

Home again. A bit of rest before furhter adventures.

Climatologist Says, "We're F****D," Time To Worry?

http://motherboard.vice.com/read/if-we-release-a-small-fraction-of-arctic-carbon-were-fucked-climatologist

So, I find this disturbing. It's weird that there's so much debate about whether climate change is real or not. When I was growing up, the Greenhouse Effect and our responsibility to pollute less was a given. It wasn't up for discussion as to "if," people were just negotiating "when."

Is greed so powerful that it can trump everything, even self preservation? I don't have kids, I don't have a legacy, and I worry about this planet. How do these CEO fucks sleep at night? How do the legislators? How can I worry more when I have no vested interest in any of this?

It would be one thing if we were just destroying ourselves. But we are taking the whole interconnected ecosystem with us.

This is so depressing. I need some ice cream.

CatWatch! 2014: The Reign Of Sweetie Man Draws To A Close

Well, Saturday morning marked the end of Ket Relocation Project in District Feline.

Due to some personal issues, Sweetie Man was not able to return to DF in the evening, but the owner was home by then.

The prior evening revealed that the kets have decided to work on the owner's plumbing problems.

Kets say: You gotta watch out for the old tarpaper and cast iron pipes in these old houses. Mind the 4 foot drop.

Saturday marked our first "Provisions on Back Deck Only" day. So I went extra early and set up a lovely little ket environment.

Ket füd. Bonus wet füd not shown.

Ket treats and ket shelter (bed tucked under pool).

Then it was time to seek out Ket contact in the front yard.

Firstly, we set a bowl of delicious, nutritious wet ket füd out front. TWEEST: füd is 3 feet from me.

Secondly, we lob some dry treats at kets, creating trail to wet füd.

Thirdly, we bring ket toy to tempt otherwise sated kets.

Kets sighted, but no one is approaching.

Why, hello there. What's this?

Pretending to be disinterested.

Casually checking it out.

Preparing skillful pounce.

Raaah! Ket Atteck!

Dragging off kill.

I don't know if that video will come through. That's essentially my version of forcing you to look at endless pictures of my kids on my phone. In other words: it is essentially pointless and probably very boring.

After a day of big kills on the savannah, some kets seemed to be a little more confident about Sweeties.

That's right, follow the Sweetie Trail.

Closer, closer. . . .

BAM! Less than 3 feet away!

Aww yeah. Sweetie Man Strikes Again!

Despite all my attempts, these kets were clearly not ready for petting or snuggles of any kind. Which is disappointing. Let's take a look at our goals for this Ket Project:

Goals:

1. Get kittehs used to eating around people, shamelessly leverage Pavlovian techniques.
2. Convince kitteh to come within a 4 ft radius of a person.
3. Relocate eating area from under the house to the back porch. The long way. Erg.

Well, maybe 2.5 out of 3 goals accomplished. It's a start, at least.

Sweetie Man, out.

Credit for all Wikus manips used in CatWatch! 2014 to MizHowlinMad over at deviantart. http://mizhowlinmad.deviantart.com/

CatWatch! 2014: Day Five

Day Five dawns on our Ket Relocation and Domestication Project. You could call it a "cat's in the bag" effort. If by "in the bag" you mean "desperately trying to trap small furry animals on a back porch."

Sweetie Man would like to take this moment for a personal note: this iPhone camera sucks. I am so disappoint. SM misses the simple, lost flip phone who's AI wasn't smarter than SM.

Armed with supplies, it was time to implement the next phase: Come to District Porch, It's Totally Not Like A Concentration Camp!

Utilizing new strategeries and careful ket füd placement, the game is afoot!

The trap is set!

Erik the Red makes the first move. He's about 4 feet from me right now.

But ho! What ket through yonder window breaks? Tis Gizmo!

Look at that wonky little head. Adorable.

Giz and Bigfoot. I get the feeling Biggie there isn't quite onboard the Sweetie Train yet.

First sighting of Daddeh Ket. He looks very thin and is quite skittish. He still got some Sweeites, though. SM made sure of it.

Look who is interested in the ket toy.

How did I balance the subtle motions needed for the cat toy with stillness and the ability to take this picture? Incredible Toe-Fu. Practice, grasshopper. And always wear sandals.

 Apologies for unintentionally artsy photos. Really need to make myself learn how to work this stupid phone. Maybe motivation will strike and these pics will be shopped into a better quality. Don't wait on that.

Handing out Sweeties is serious business, but it's important to be comfortable. That may explain why it's possible that Sweetie Man was at District Feline today in jim jams and without the appropriate support garments. Which is fine. Until the owner's landlord AND best friend show up. That's when you realize you should have worn regulation gear into the field.

Whoops.

Tomorrow marks the final day of the Ket Project, as the owner will be returning. It does not look as though we will reach our goal of Ket Encounters of the Third Kind, but some progress has been made. Maybe we will have a Momma Ket feeding sighting tomorrow. Here's to hoping!

Credit for all Wikus manips used in CatWatch! 2014 to MizHowlinMad over at deviantart. http://mizhowlinmad.deviantart.com/

CatWatch! 2014: Setbacks and Bribery

At the end of the last shift, we returned to District Feline to find that shenanigans had been afoot.

Vandals! Also, not real impressed with this phone camera.

Sweetie Man was back on the case the next day, but there was trouble down in DF. A Cat Whisperer and I arrived to an empty front yard--no Erik insouciantly sunning himself.

All kets were hiding and except for a few furtive darts, even Erik the Bold was in seclusion. It was an unsettling development. We ultimately concluded that something or someone had been in the yard and scared them.

What does one do in such a situation? Well, if you are Sweetie Man, you have a few tricks up your sleeve. Namely, Canned Ket Füd.

You see, you can only get so far with a ket on normal food. Fortunately for the progression of the Trans Catlantic Migration, Sweetie Man had shown up with these special cat treats on this day.

Can you spot the ket?

One, Two, Two Kets At Vonce! Ahahahaha!

My Cat Whispering companion made a sizable donation of time and funds to our project, and many new lovely ket bowls, ket beds, ket füdz and other supplies were purchased. Which Sweetie Man promptly forget to photograph. But the efforts and support are much appreciated.

Our benefactor also asked why Sweetie Man was running around town speaking with a Pakistani accent. Suspect this is shade thrown on dubious Afrikaans dialect. However, did not stop Sweetie Man from continuing to use accent. All. Damn. Day.

So, a bit of setback for Ket-SweeiteMan relations, but the power of Wet Füd won out in the end.