She sat alone at a small table in the darkened bar. A slender forefinger lazily traced a pattern on the tabletop while a cigarette cocked upwards in her other hand gave her look of decadent sophistication. She had class, yes, but the surrounding crowd of chunky women with too-tight jeans and good old boys with their cowboy hats accentuated her style. She wore dark hose and a high cut slit in her long black dress revealed a shapely leg. She seemed oblivious to all around her save for the three-piece band on stage. A seated guitarist played a slow blues number while a bass player and a drummer offered subtle accompaniment. Her head nodded slowly to the music, her black, shoulder length hair gently swaying to the beat.
While I watched her trying not to stare, she gave me a cursory glance that I tried to acknowledge, but her attention immediately returned to the source of the music. The smooth sound of the jazz guitar filled the room, but it seemed that only she and I were listening. The crowd, who all seemed to be in conversation, would have been happier with a country music tune from a jukebox.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
crazy dream stuff from the hospital
Sometime in our future or perhaps in an alternate universe the US Capitol building is a high-rise, and our congressmen have apartments. Picture a jumbo jet poised for takeoff on a balcony, solid fuel rocket boosters strapped to get the big bird into the air. Sounds crazy? Yeah, I'll tell ya. But such was the case. I just can't figure out how they managed to land in the first place.
I was playing online poker, and I was doing quite well, when it suddenly struck me to bet everything I had on a sure loser. And this wasn't chump change. We are talking hundreds of thousands of dollars. Not a chance in hell I could have won. My opponents couldn't believe I tossed in everything. They were flabbergasted, shocked, dismayed, disappointed, and they asked me why I did it. I was terribly embarrassed, but trying to save face I claimed that's just the way it did things.
Then I was playing online poker again only with a different group, and I did it again. It was as if I couldn't help myself. As if whatever choice I made, left or right, up or down, yes or no, it was the wrong choice. My fate predetermined by some perverse divinity.
Four more times, the same scenario, with different players. Each time I was shamed by my actions. Then as if that wasn't bad enough my unseen poker opponents from each room revealed themselves as a steel trap shutter opened to a room smoky from cigarettes and with analog clocks on the walls. Each guy, I think it was all men, introduced himself and told me what kind of cigarettes he smoked, as if that was of extreme importance. Each told me little things about his strategy. It was as if since I had lost everything anonymity wasn't important anymore. It was all very strange as if I had died and they were paying their last respects.
There was some more stuff, but I can't remember what it was now. It will come to me.
I was playing online poker, and I was doing quite well, when it suddenly struck me to bet everything I had on a sure loser. And this wasn't chump change. We are talking hundreds of thousands of dollars. Not a chance in hell I could have won. My opponents couldn't believe I tossed in everything. They were flabbergasted, shocked, dismayed, disappointed, and they asked me why I did it. I was terribly embarrassed, but trying to save face I claimed that's just the way it did things.
Then I was playing online poker again only with a different group, and I did it again. It was as if I couldn't help myself. As if whatever choice I made, left or right, up or down, yes or no, it was the wrong choice. My fate predetermined by some perverse divinity.
Four more times, the same scenario, with different players. Each time I was shamed by my actions. Then as if that wasn't bad enough my unseen poker opponents from each room revealed themselves as a steel trap shutter opened to a room smoky from cigarettes and with analog clocks on the walls. Each guy, I think it was all men, introduced himself and told me what kind of cigarettes he smoked, as if that was of extreme importance. Each told me little things about his strategy. It was as if since I had lost everything anonymity wasn't important anymore. It was all very strange as if I had died and they were paying their last respects.
There was some more stuff, but I can't remember what it was now. It will come to me.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Death
I think my cat might be dying. He's not sick -- far from it -- in fact he's getting very playful. That's what scares me. Maybe this is his last hurrah. He knows the end is near, and he wants to get in a little fun time while he can.
I've been thinking a lot about death lately. I haven't been sick in such a long time I feel as if my days are numbered. I might have one good struggle left, and then it's bye-bye birdie.
I damn near died once. It was almost two years ago exactly. I was in the hospital for some relatively minor thing, and then the next thing I know I'm in the ICU, and they're trying to kill me. There was no doubt in my mind they were trying to kill me, and they tried for a week. Luckily they were unsuccessful.
They weren't really trying to kill me of course. I was hallucinating that whole week, but they were such vivid hallucinations. And it wasn't like a dream and where I find myself in a different place and in an unusual situation. This involved everything that was going on around me, my entire surroundings. And my brain just worked everything into its warped outlook.
I don't know why I thought everyone was trying to kill me, but I did. And this involved the entire hospital staff from janitors to administration. And I remember exactly how it started out.
Two nurses came in, and they had an IV to hang. They were arguing as to which one was going to hang it, because the juice in the bag was designed to kill me, and neither one of them wanted my death on their conscience. Actually, it wasn't their conscience that was bothering them. It was just bad luck to kill someone. So they were playing odds and evens to decide.
From that little escapade blossomed an entire plot. Somehow the hospital's computer was tapping in to my thought waves and was using them to hatch devious schemes. It used my own fear against me. In fact, there was a 24-hour computer program designed with only one purpose: for killing. And it scared its victims to death.
One relived the 24 hours preceding and including the 9/11 mass murderers. And it put one on the passenger list of one of the ill-fated flights. With all five senses and mind prescient to the danger, one would feel the horror of impending doom culminating in a slow fiery death -- the main event slowed down so that one felt flame and heat melting one's skin an agonizing pain.
Over the course of the week this program was started many times with me going to sleep thinking I would wake horribly, or if I was lucky I wouldn't wake at all. For one reason or another the program never ran its course, but there were a host of other concocted conspiracies. Invariably I was tricked into causing my own demise. But it was subtle.
CNN broadcast news of my suicide. People that knew me were interviewed saying what a tragedy it was. I wondered why I had killed myself. Surely the hospital had something to do with it.
Sometimes I saw the Earth as if from a satellite, and once I was given an eagle eyes view of Kensington, Maryland, a town I frequented, and the voice of the computer asked me if I had friends there, and when I answered yes, I saw a mushroom cloud and then a crater, and the computer said "not anymore."
The computer was always finding ways to hurt the ones I cared about most, and I knew it listened in to all my thoughts, so when I had visitors I was afraid to open my eyes and look at them for fear the computer would seek to hurt them. My father and brother lost their photography company. My sister and mother lost their homes. Every piece of property was taken and given to some stranger for pennies on the dollar.
If I wasn't fearing for my own life, the lives of those around me were in peril. And the computer taunted me relentlessly. I kept flashing to the interior of one of the 9/11 planes, and much to my horror the seats filled up one by one with family members and close friends.
At one point I was walking in downtown DC and some artist had left huge unfinished paintings of Jesus on the sidewalks and streets. One image might cover a whole city block or more. When I finally met the man I mentioned he should finish his work, and as he put the final touches to each piece, it came alive. Looking back on it, I was experiencing my version of the second coming, and I had a good talk with Jesus. He told me exactly how to pray to removal my sins, and I was so happy that I was going to make it into heaven until I remembered that I had committed the one unforgivable sin. That was a blow.
When I finally came out of my hallucinatory state, I was so shaken by the experience I asked for a do not resuscitate order be put on my file. I had been on a respirator during the experience, and I didn't want to go through that again, being scared for my life every minute of the day, hour after hour. After a few days the trauma subsided and I rescinded the DNR. Lucky for that, he does it wasn't more than a year before I was on a respirator again. But that's another story.
I've been thinking a lot about death lately. I haven't been sick in such a long time I feel as if my days are numbered. I might have one good struggle left, and then it's bye-bye birdie.
I damn near died once. It was almost two years ago exactly. I was in the hospital for some relatively minor thing, and then the next thing I know I'm in the ICU, and they're trying to kill me. There was no doubt in my mind they were trying to kill me, and they tried for a week. Luckily they were unsuccessful.
They weren't really trying to kill me of course. I was hallucinating that whole week, but they were such vivid hallucinations. And it wasn't like a dream and where I find myself in a different place and in an unusual situation. This involved everything that was going on around me, my entire surroundings. And my brain just worked everything into its warped outlook.
I don't know why I thought everyone was trying to kill me, but I did. And this involved the entire hospital staff from janitors to administration. And I remember exactly how it started out.
Two nurses came in, and they had an IV to hang. They were arguing as to which one was going to hang it, because the juice in the bag was designed to kill me, and neither one of them wanted my death on their conscience. Actually, it wasn't their conscience that was bothering them. It was just bad luck to kill someone. So they were playing odds and evens to decide.
From that little escapade blossomed an entire plot. Somehow the hospital's computer was tapping in to my thought waves and was using them to hatch devious schemes. It used my own fear against me. In fact, there was a 24-hour computer program designed with only one purpose: for killing. And it scared its victims to death.
One relived the 24 hours preceding and including the 9/11 mass murderers. And it put one on the passenger list of one of the ill-fated flights. With all five senses and mind prescient to the danger, one would feel the horror of impending doom culminating in a slow fiery death -- the main event slowed down so that one felt flame and heat melting one's skin an agonizing pain.
Over the course of the week this program was started many times with me going to sleep thinking I would wake horribly, or if I was lucky I wouldn't wake at all. For one reason or another the program never ran its course, but there were a host of other concocted conspiracies. Invariably I was tricked into causing my own demise. But it was subtle.
CNN broadcast news of my suicide. People that knew me were interviewed saying what a tragedy it was. I wondered why I had killed myself. Surely the hospital had something to do with it.
Sometimes I saw the Earth as if from a satellite, and once I was given an eagle eyes view of Kensington, Maryland, a town I frequented, and the voice of the computer asked me if I had friends there, and when I answered yes, I saw a mushroom cloud and then a crater, and the computer said "not anymore."
The computer was always finding ways to hurt the ones I cared about most, and I knew it listened in to all my thoughts, so when I had visitors I was afraid to open my eyes and look at them for fear the computer would seek to hurt them. My father and brother lost their photography company. My sister and mother lost their homes. Every piece of property was taken and given to some stranger for pennies on the dollar.
If I wasn't fearing for my own life, the lives of those around me were in peril. And the computer taunted me relentlessly. I kept flashing to the interior of one of the 9/11 planes, and much to my horror the seats filled up one by one with family members and close friends.
At one point I was walking in downtown DC and some artist had left huge unfinished paintings of Jesus on the sidewalks and streets. One image might cover a whole city block or more. When I finally met the man I mentioned he should finish his work, and as he put the final touches to each piece, it came alive. Looking back on it, I was experiencing my version of the second coming, and I had a good talk with Jesus. He told me exactly how to pray to removal my sins, and I was so happy that I was going to make it into heaven until I remembered that I had committed the one unforgivable sin. That was a blow.
When I finally came out of my hallucinatory state, I was so shaken by the experience I asked for a do not resuscitate order be put on my file. I had been on a respirator during the experience, and I didn't want to go through that again, being scared for my life every minute of the day, hour after hour. After a few days the trauma subsided and I rescinded the DNR. Lucky for that, he does it wasn't more than a year before I was on a respirator again. But that's another story.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Teeth
I think my teeth get more crooked by the day. Seriously, I don't think I have one straight tooth in my mouth. Every single one seems to be at least slightly askew. No two teeth are perfectly aligned. Such was my lament to the dentist this last visit, but she pointed out at least I had teeth, which was a good observation, being that she's a dentist and all.
My dentist is from France and very good-looking, but that's not why I go to her. She's inexpensive and local. She gave me a good tip, too -- rinse with a fluoride treatment after brushing. I have a couple superficial cavities formed below where the gum line used to be -- my gums having receded with age -- and a steady diet of fluoride should help them fill back in. If not, then she drills. I hope it won't come to that. I kind of like getting my teeth cleaned in a masochistic sort of way, but drilling can be unpleasant even when numbed with Novocain.
Now I'm trying to whiten my teeth. I even bought the stuff they sell at the dentist office. Some years ago, I had the trays made for my teeth, and now all I have to do is fill them up with hydrogen peroxide gel and properly position them. But I've been doing it for a week now with no results. I think I may have gotten gypped, though they don't usually rip you off at the dentist's -- not so blatantly anyway. I'll have to call them up and see what they say. Maybe the stuff went bad. It still foams up though. We'll see.
I always had at least a couple cavities every time I went to the dentist as a kid -- a steady diet of sodas will do that to you -- and our family dentist didn't use Novocain when he drilled. The movie "Marathon Man" brings back those memories every time I see it. Whoever directed that movie knew how to tap into our irrational (or rational) fears of the dentist. Now I've learned to embrace the wonders of Novocain.
Now they have a numbing gel they put on your gum before injecting the Novocain. That in itself is a big step forwards in dentistry. I remember it being watermelon flavored, but I may be mistaken. I suppose it could taste like crap, and I'd still use it.
My dad used to complain about having to wear a bridge, which is a type of semi-false teeth. They hook onto your regular teeth via metal bridgework, hence the name. I remember one evening in the living room. I might've been 10 years old at the time. The whole family was there including my older brother Joe and even maybe some of the neighbors. Somehow my father in attempting to replace his bridge had actually hooked a sharp part of it through his tongue, and he was trying to get someone to help them to no avail. I think there was blood. He finally ended up going up to the bathroom and unhooking himself looking in the mirror. He returned rather angry that no one had helped him, but after that he reveled in telling the story of how he knew how a fish felt when getting hooked.
I remember my dad once complaining how a dentist pulled out his upper eyeteeth. At the time, I didn't know what eyeteeth were, but now... ouch. It's interesting how specialized our teeth are -- they cut, tear and grind depending on their placement and shape. I'm missing one of my grinding teeth, a big molar. It was one of those teeth that had been drilled out so much from cavities that it just broke off one day from pressure. It didn't help that I used to bite down on fireballs.
I have to give my old man credit, though, he instilled a good brushing ethic in all of us kids I think. It took a while to take on me, but it took. But the main thing that saved my teeth was going to the dentist on a regular basis. I think the last few years was the longest I went without going, and that was due to frequent hospital visits. I think I'm back on track now. I'll let you know in six months.
My dentist is from France and very good-looking, but that's not why I go to her. She's inexpensive and local. She gave me a good tip, too -- rinse with a fluoride treatment after brushing. I have a couple superficial cavities formed below where the gum line used to be -- my gums having receded with age -- and a steady diet of fluoride should help them fill back in. If not, then she drills. I hope it won't come to that. I kind of like getting my teeth cleaned in a masochistic sort of way, but drilling can be unpleasant even when numbed with Novocain.
Now I'm trying to whiten my teeth. I even bought the stuff they sell at the dentist office. Some years ago, I had the trays made for my teeth, and now all I have to do is fill them up with hydrogen peroxide gel and properly position them. But I've been doing it for a week now with no results. I think I may have gotten gypped, though they don't usually rip you off at the dentist's -- not so blatantly anyway. I'll have to call them up and see what they say. Maybe the stuff went bad. It still foams up though. We'll see.
I always had at least a couple cavities every time I went to the dentist as a kid -- a steady diet of sodas will do that to you -- and our family dentist didn't use Novocain when he drilled. The movie "Marathon Man" brings back those memories every time I see it. Whoever directed that movie knew how to tap into our irrational (or rational) fears of the dentist. Now I've learned to embrace the wonders of Novocain.
Now they have a numbing gel they put on your gum before injecting the Novocain. That in itself is a big step forwards in dentistry. I remember it being watermelon flavored, but I may be mistaken. I suppose it could taste like crap, and I'd still use it.
My dad used to complain about having to wear a bridge, which is a type of semi-false teeth. They hook onto your regular teeth via metal bridgework, hence the name. I remember one evening in the living room. I might've been 10 years old at the time. The whole family was there including my older brother Joe and even maybe some of the neighbors. Somehow my father in attempting to replace his bridge had actually hooked a sharp part of it through his tongue, and he was trying to get someone to help them to no avail. I think there was blood. He finally ended up going up to the bathroom and unhooking himself looking in the mirror. He returned rather angry that no one had helped him, but after that he reveled in telling the story of how he knew how a fish felt when getting hooked.
I remember my dad once complaining how a dentist pulled out his upper eyeteeth. At the time, I didn't know what eyeteeth were, but now... ouch. It's interesting how specialized our teeth are -- they cut, tear and grind depending on their placement and shape. I'm missing one of my grinding teeth, a big molar. It was one of those teeth that had been drilled out so much from cavities that it just broke off one day from pressure. It didn't help that I used to bite down on fireballs.
I have to give my old man credit, though, he instilled a good brushing ethic in all of us kids I think. It took a while to take on me, but it took. But the main thing that saved my teeth was going to the dentist on a regular basis. I think the last few years was the longest I went without going, and that was due to frequent hospital visits. I think I'm back on track now. I'll let you know in six months.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Haircut and a Shave
I got my hair cut and beard trimmed today. I clean up pretty good sometimes. It's funny, though, I have more hair on my face than I do on my head, but the haircut cost more. I guess it evens out in the long run. The barber spent more time on my beard.
Sometimes I wonder if I am narcissistic. Actually, scratch the wondering part. I AM narcissistic. And I hate to admit it, but I'm getting older, AND ITS SHOWING. Dark circles under my eyes and permanent frown lines in my forehand, and I don't frown that much. Oh well, I suppose I can't stay young forever. No, nix that... I CAN stay young forever... I just won't look young forever.
I made it through three songs today until Eva Cassidy's cover of Sting’s Fields of Gold got me a little bit emotional. But that one always does it. Even Sting himself admits being moved to tears by her version, and he wrote the thing. I suppose one's authorship of a song does not preclude one from being moved by it.
The 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong's historic moonwalk occurs on July 20 of this year. As much as I was into space stuff when I was in elementary school, I completely missed the first man on the moon event thing (I think that's the official name for it). What was I doing back then except for hanging out at Fort Scott Park with my cousin? The Laurel Pop Festival had been on July 11 and 12 of that year. I don't even remember that that well. I've got the days mixed up thinking I saw the Mothers of Invention on Friday instead of Saturday.
I've been on twitter for a couple weeks now. I follow a few friends and also Brent Spiner (who is very funny), Newt Gingrich and Nancy Pelosi. I figure it's good to keep a balanced viewpoint. Oh yeah, I also follow Obama news.
Up until this last election, I was never very involved in politics, but the fact that a good friend of mine was dreadfully afraid of Obama getting elected prompted me to try to dig up some facts that would support my liberal views. I knew that I favored the social democracies of Europe, in particular that of the Netherlands, mainly for their tolerant views on marijuana use and prostitution. But did I really want that for America? Of course I did.
As distasteful as prostitution is to some Americans, the unwelcome truth is that it's going to exist nevertheless, so why not legalize it and regulate it to minimize the human suffering factor? Legalizing marijuana is more straightforward. It is by far the most recreational of all illicit drugs, and keeping it illegal creates criminals of its users and keeps certain criminal elements involved in its sales. In the infamous Amsterdam (and Holland in general) marijuana is not legal per se, but its sale and use is tolerated in the "coffee houses," and so pot smokers don't have to associate with drug dealers. It's no longer a gateway drug. Who would've thought? I would go one step further and legalize all drugs and just tax and regulate them. We could put the big drug dealers out of business, and maybe all this bloodshed in Mexico would stop.
The good friend who was afraid of Obama is a libertarian, and they have a pretty good philosophy. They pretty much believe in a laissez-faire government (French for "let it alone). But they don't believe in free medicine. So I have to beg to differ. But now I'm watching a PBS special (on DVD courtesy Netflix) entitled "I.O.U.S.A." and it is stressing fiscal responsibility for government (as well as individuals). Robert Rubin, Sec. of treasury under Clinton, said that by the end of the 20th century the United States federal government had reached a crowning achievement in balancing annual budgets and creating revenue surpluses. It was a turning point for both political parties for it was Republicans and Democrats working together. Now they fight again, and our deficit is being increased dramatically by unprecedented government spending (for better or worse -- there are arguments both ways). I like Obama, but is he right? That's the big question. I'm still searching for the answer.
Sometimes I wonder if I am narcissistic. Actually, scratch the wondering part. I AM narcissistic. And I hate to admit it, but I'm getting older, AND ITS SHOWING. Dark circles under my eyes and permanent frown lines in my forehand, and I don't frown that much. Oh well, I suppose I can't stay young forever. No, nix that... I CAN stay young forever... I just won't look young forever.
I made it through three songs today until Eva Cassidy's cover of Sting’s Fields of Gold got me a little bit emotional. But that one always does it. Even Sting himself admits being moved to tears by her version, and he wrote the thing. I suppose one's authorship of a song does not preclude one from being moved by it.
The 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong's historic moonwalk occurs on July 20 of this year. As much as I was into space stuff when I was in elementary school, I completely missed the first man on the moon event thing (I think that's the official name for it). What was I doing back then except for hanging out at Fort Scott Park with my cousin? The Laurel Pop Festival had been on July 11 and 12 of that year. I don't even remember that that well. I've got the days mixed up thinking I saw the Mothers of Invention on Friday instead of Saturday.
I've been on twitter for a couple weeks now. I follow a few friends and also Brent Spiner (who is very funny), Newt Gingrich and Nancy Pelosi. I figure it's good to keep a balanced viewpoint. Oh yeah, I also follow Obama news.
Up until this last election, I was never very involved in politics, but the fact that a good friend of mine was dreadfully afraid of Obama getting elected prompted me to try to dig up some facts that would support my liberal views. I knew that I favored the social democracies of Europe, in particular that of the Netherlands, mainly for their tolerant views on marijuana use and prostitution. But did I really want that for America? Of course I did.
As distasteful as prostitution is to some Americans, the unwelcome truth is that it's going to exist nevertheless, so why not legalize it and regulate it to minimize the human suffering factor? Legalizing marijuana is more straightforward. It is by far the most recreational of all illicit drugs, and keeping it illegal creates criminals of its users and keeps certain criminal elements involved in its sales. In the infamous Amsterdam (and Holland in general) marijuana is not legal per se, but its sale and use is tolerated in the "coffee houses," and so pot smokers don't have to associate with drug dealers. It's no longer a gateway drug. Who would've thought? I would go one step further and legalize all drugs and just tax and regulate them. We could put the big drug dealers out of business, and maybe all this bloodshed in Mexico would stop.
The good friend who was afraid of Obama is a libertarian, and they have a pretty good philosophy. They pretty much believe in a laissez-faire government (French for "let it alone). But they don't believe in free medicine. So I have to beg to differ. But now I'm watching a PBS special (on DVD courtesy Netflix) entitled "I.O.U.S.A." and it is stressing fiscal responsibility for government (as well as individuals). Robert Rubin, Sec. of treasury under Clinton, said that by the end of the 20th century the United States federal government had reached a crowning achievement in balancing annual budgets and creating revenue surpluses. It was a turning point for both political parties for it was Republicans and Democrats working together. Now they fight again, and our deficit is being increased dramatically by unprecedented government spending (for better or worse -- there are arguments both ways). I like Obama, but is he right? That's the big question. I'm still searching for the answer.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
"What Is This Salty Discharge?"
Sometimes I get very emotional to the point that I cry when I listen to sad songs (and happy songs for that matter). And I'm notorious for getting sniffly watching romantic movies. Actually it doesn't have to be romantic but just have poignant moments. But it seems lately that I haven't seen any touching scenes in any media. Until today...
I'm a Netflix member, and I end up ordering movies that by the time I get them I forget what they are about, and today was such the case when Juno arrived. It's about a 16-year-old girl who gets pregnant by one of her high school chums. She's smart, funny, sarcastic, sensitive and clever, and when the waiting room of an abortion clinic gets absolutely on her nerves she decides against terminating the fetus. What ensues is her journey through pregnancy, which turns out to have some rather emotional moments.
When I'm in my wheelchair I have to do weight shifts every half-hour, which entails tilting back until I am like an astronaut getting ready to blast off. While doing so I am supposed to stay in said position for one minute, but I get impatient, so I pause what I'm doing on the computer and put on some music (actually what I do is pull up my blog page and listen to whatever song comes up on the shuffle playlist). Today, Hank Williams’ I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry came on, and that has to be one of the saddest songs ever written, and I got all blubbery on it. Then She and Him performed Dream a Little Dream for Me, and Zooey Deschanel's beautiful voice moved me to tears. So now I am in this heightened emotional state and the least little thing really gets to me.
It's not such a bad thing to be emotional and easily moved to tears, but it can still be a problem if you can't wipe your eyes, and such is the case with me. So I try to stay away from romantic movies and poignant films unless I have a willing partner to wipe my tears. Even with a close friend I get embarrassed, and it's hard for me to ask for the tissue treatment.
I remember the Seinfeld episode where he has a girlfriend who claims he doesn't get angry and he's not in touch with his emotions. At some point he does actually get emotional and he exclaims, "What--what is this salty discharge?" That was funny.
So now I am having all this salty discharge from my eyes. Life could be worse.
I'm a Netflix member, and I end up ordering movies that by the time I get them I forget what they are about, and today was such the case when Juno arrived. It's about a 16-year-old girl who gets pregnant by one of her high school chums. She's smart, funny, sarcastic, sensitive and clever, and when the waiting room of an abortion clinic gets absolutely on her nerves she decides against terminating the fetus. What ensues is her journey through pregnancy, which turns out to have some rather emotional moments.
When I'm in my wheelchair I have to do weight shifts every half-hour, which entails tilting back until I am like an astronaut getting ready to blast off. While doing so I am supposed to stay in said position for one minute, but I get impatient, so I pause what I'm doing on the computer and put on some music (actually what I do is pull up my blog page and listen to whatever song comes up on the shuffle playlist). Today, Hank Williams’ I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry came on, and that has to be one of the saddest songs ever written, and I got all blubbery on it. Then She and Him performed Dream a Little Dream for Me, and Zooey Deschanel's beautiful voice moved me to tears. So now I am in this heightened emotional state and the least little thing really gets to me.
It's not such a bad thing to be emotional and easily moved to tears, but it can still be a problem if you can't wipe your eyes, and such is the case with me. So I try to stay away from romantic movies and poignant films unless I have a willing partner to wipe my tears. Even with a close friend I get embarrassed, and it's hard for me to ask for the tissue treatment.
I remember the Seinfeld episode where he has a girlfriend who claims he doesn't get angry and he's not in touch with his emotions. At some point he does actually get emotional and he exclaims, "What--what is this salty discharge?" That was funny.
So now I am having all this salty discharge from my eyes. Life could be worse.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Where Is the Science in Scientology?
I couldn't have been more than 20 when my cousin and my younger brother and I went for a bar hop night on Connecticut Avenue. I think I drove, and after parking somewhere above Dupont Circle, we all headed down one of the side streets in that area that would take us down to the drinking establishments.
Along the way, we were approached by another young man our age who told us to come see a movie about some new way of doing things. Little did I know that we were being up to be indoctrinated into a religious cult.
We three followed the guy to a neighborhood townhouse, and inside we all watched a 16 mm film, and I cannot remember one iota of what it was about. Afterwards I wanted to stick around and find out more, but my brother and cousin begged off so I stayed with them but not before accepting an invitation to come back the next day.
I have to admit that I was an impressionable and somewhat troubled young individual, and I was seeking answers, not unlike many others of my generation, but I wasn't completely gullible. I went back the next day as planned and I was given a small pamphlet to read -- which I did diligently -- and I remember finding some inherent flaws in its logic.
I brought it up to the fellow who seemed to be in charge, but he claimed that there was no such fault in the written material. I attempted to argue my point to no avail. The guy just wouldn't listen. Finally, I was to take a test on the stuff. Fine, we'd get to the bottom of this.
In another room a man sat behind a table in front of him was a kind of rinky-dink device consisting of a couple recycled soup cans sans labels wired to a resistance meter of sorts. I was instructed to hold a can in each hand, and I was asked if I understood what I had just read and if it made sense to me. The machine would tell if my answer was truthful or not. I answered in the affirmative and was amused when I was told that I had passed.
I was disappointed, too. I had been hoping that there was more to this thing they called Scientology. But I was totally disillusioned by that day's events.
I tell that story not so much to discredit Scientology but to illustrate how I became involved with the establishment. And now to this very day they still seek to bring me into their fold. I just opened an e-mail tonight, and a certain Darren Kennedy wants to know if I received a particular Scientology DVD... and he has my name and address.
Now I've been getting Scientology junk mail for a long time, and I was curious if it was just coincidence or if they were targeting me specifically from them knowing me back in the day. I mean how would they know if I was the same John Ivey? I guess they wouldn't, but I must say they are certainly persistent. And my address and phone number are public record -- I'm not exactly in hiding -- but that was 35 years ago. You would think they would let it be.
I do remember getting a phone call a year or so after my initial dealings with the outfit. They wooed me with a job offer and wanted me to come downtown to talk about it. I was intrigued and perhaps flattered that they remembered me, but when they wanted me to work for minimum wage I was not impressed. Now years later I wonder what people like John Travolta and Tom Cruise gets out of Scientology. To me it's just an L. Ron Hubbard religion scam.
Along the way, we were approached by another young man our age who told us to come see a movie about some new way of doing things. Little did I know that we were being up to be indoctrinated into a religious cult.
We three followed the guy to a neighborhood townhouse, and inside we all watched a 16 mm film, and I cannot remember one iota of what it was about. Afterwards I wanted to stick around and find out more, but my brother and cousin begged off so I stayed with them but not before accepting an invitation to come back the next day.
I have to admit that I was an impressionable and somewhat troubled young individual, and I was seeking answers, not unlike many others of my generation, but I wasn't completely gullible. I went back the next day as planned and I was given a small pamphlet to read -- which I did diligently -- and I remember finding some inherent flaws in its logic.
I brought it up to the fellow who seemed to be in charge, but he claimed that there was no such fault in the written material. I attempted to argue my point to no avail. The guy just wouldn't listen. Finally, I was to take a test on the stuff. Fine, we'd get to the bottom of this.
In another room a man sat behind a table in front of him was a kind of rinky-dink device consisting of a couple recycled soup cans sans labels wired to a resistance meter of sorts. I was instructed to hold a can in each hand, and I was asked if I understood what I had just read and if it made sense to me. The machine would tell if my answer was truthful or not. I answered in the affirmative and was amused when I was told that I had passed.
I was disappointed, too. I had been hoping that there was more to this thing they called Scientology. But I was totally disillusioned by that day's events.
I tell that story not so much to discredit Scientology but to illustrate how I became involved with the establishment. And now to this very day they still seek to bring me into their fold. I just opened an e-mail tonight, and a certain Darren Kennedy wants to know if I received a particular Scientology DVD... and he has my name and address.
Now I've been getting Scientology junk mail for a long time, and I was curious if it was just coincidence or if they were targeting me specifically from them knowing me back in the day. I mean how would they know if I was the same John Ivey? I guess they wouldn't, but I must say they are certainly persistent. And my address and phone number are public record -- I'm not exactly in hiding -- but that was 35 years ago. You would think they would let it be.
I do remember getting a phone call a year or so after my initial dealings with the outfit. They wooed me with a job offer and wanted me to come downtown to talk about it. I was intrigued and perhaps flattered that they remembered me, but when they wanted me to work for minimum wage I was not impressed. Now years later I wonder what people like John Travolta and Tom Cruise gets out of Scientology. To me it's just an L. Ron Hubbard religion scam.
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