My favorite Monty Python sketch, for a touch of good natured Lunacy.
Friday, August 31, 2007
The Obligatory Closeted Gay Senator from Idaho Post
What else can be said about Larry Craig that hasn't been constantly hashed, rehashed, analyzed, and dissected?
No doubt there is a massive amount of hypocrisy inside the GOP, particularly in its members who are fulfilling a long tradition of closeted behavior. I feel the same way about gay Republicans as I feel about Mormons of color. Have you ever met a black Mormon? I certainly haven't.
Until the 1970s, the official church position regarding African-Americans was this: "We're not saying you're going to hell, we're just saying that hell is where you came from."
An article today in the local paper asked us to think of Senator Craig as a tragic figure. I'm not sure I buy it. His very hypocritical posture as a family values conservative is justification enough. His behavior immediately after arrest lends itself not to sympathy but to scorn. He was the perfect example of an elected legislator trying to use his power and influence to place himself above the law. He comes across as yet another elected official graced with the heavy tint of sleaze.
I do not absolve him of sin because of the tragedy of his homosexuality. I instead hold him responsible for his behavior because it reinforces a stereotype of gay men as amoral and hyper-sexual. Granted, if we really wanted to dissect this issue further, we would acknowledge that sex is a powerful force among men and that many heterosexual males would engage in such behavior if women were inclined to the practice.
I have a lot of problems with any party claiming it has some sort of monopoly over moral purity, as the GOP has done for the past several years. Most of them stem from the fact that politicians are, by in large, amoral and corrupt. It doesn't matter what side of the aisle to which you ascribe. I've seen and read about decent people who have sold their souls for the good graces of power and greed. There are too many temptations for any good person to remain pious for very long.
I'll be honest with you. Politics have always been a dirty business. No era of American history has been blessed by moral politicians despite heavily nostalgic musings otherwise. Ethical politics is an oxymoron. What we call a clean office is likely one that either covers its tracks well or doesn't engage in flagrant lawbreaking.
I pose a question to all of you out there. We're very good at throwing rocks at politicians, but if we were placed in their position, could we do any better?
Would you be strong enough to fight human temptation on a scale almost beyond human conception? Would you decline the advances of lobbyists? Would you use your power judiciously? Would you decline the ability to pad your own pockets?
If you didn't make concessions, there would be any number of people around you who would.
No doubt there is a massive amount of hypocrisy inside the GOP, particularly in its members who are fulfilling a long tradition of closeted behavior. I feel the same way about gay Republicans as I feel about Mormons of color. Have you ever met a black Mormon? I certainly haven't.
Until the 1970s, the official church position regarding African-Americans was this: "We're not saying you're going to hell, we're just saying that hell is where you came from."
An article today in the local paper asked us to think of Senator Craig as a tragic figure. I'm not sure I buy it. His very hypocritical posture as a family values conservative is justification enough. His behavior immediately after arrest lends itself not to sympathy but to scorn. He was the perfect example of an elected legislator trying to use his power and influence to place himself above the law. He comes across as yet another elected official graced with the heavy tint of sleaze.
I do not absolve him of sin because of the tragedy of his homosexuality. I instead hold him responsible for his behavior because it reinforces a stereotype of gay men as amoral and hyper-sexual. Granted, if we really wanted to dissect this issue further, we would acknowledge that sex is a powerful force among men and that many heterosexual males would engage in such behavior if women were inclined to the practice.
I have a lot of problems with any party claiming it has some sort of monopoly over moral purity, as the GOP has done for the past several years. Most of them stem from the fact that politicians are, by in large, amoral and corrupt. It doesn't matter what side of the aisle to which you ascribe. I've seen and read about decent people who have sold their souls for the good graces of power and greed. There are too many temptations for any good person to remain pious for very long.
I'll be honest with you. Politics have always been a dirty business. No era of American history has been blessed by moral politicians despite heavily nostalgic musings otherwise. Ethical politics is an oxymoron. What we call a clean office is likely one that either covers its tracks well or doesn't engage in flagrant lawbreaking.
I pose a question to all of you out there. We're very good at throwing rocks at politicians, but if we were placed in their position, could we do any better?
Would you be strong enough to fight human temptation on a scale almost beyond human conception? Would you decline the advances of lobbyists? Would you use your power judiciously? Would you decline the ability to pad your own pockets?
If you didn't make concessions, there would be any number of people around you who would.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
In The Days...
In the days before our hero Comrade Kevin became a virtual recluse, he had many exciting experiences in the music scene.
One such adventure concerned a red headed, fashionably tattooed female troubadour who sang songs of loss and frustration. She bummed him a cigarette when he asked for it. It was no small gesture on her part because money for much of anything was a struggle. Couches were to be pilfered for change to feed her addiction. Couches were to be slept on as well, since mattresses and box springs were merely distant memories.
He pictured the dirty house where she must have lived. He pictured the cluttered living room and the visitors and the inevitable drama that swirls around such places. His life had been more or less analogous to hers at some point in time. He had left it behind because he valued his privacy and enjoyed the ability to leave his few valuable possessions unlocked and unhidden.
Flirtation was a defense mechanism. As she sat across from him and stroked his cheek with a bony, white finger, she revealed the hair on top matched the hair below. This was said with a particularly seductive smile, but the aim was merely to tease. He looked her square in the face and upped the flirtation a notch whereupon she drew the line in the sand.
Good try, she said, with a smirk. But our hero feigned that his real interest had not been on her body but rather her alluded to former success upon the stage. She was caught off balance and her smirk turned quickly to a look of pain. It said I don't know how to help you.
Her successes had been years in the past. They had long ago drifted into a state of romanticized mythology. The irony among many ironies was that what passed for success was merely a long succession of close calls which left her with some degree of name recognition within the scene. Musicians know each other by variously decreasing degrees of separation.
Unused to someone who played romance with the dodges and dives of a boxer, she came clean with her true thoughts. I have cancer, she said. No way to pay for it and no desire to fix it, either. Instead it served as her ace in the hole when called into compromising situations. She lit a cigarette and stared off into space, her leer now transformed into a worried frown.
One such adventure concerned a red headed, fashionably tattooed female troubadour who sang songs of loss and frustration. She bummed him a cigarette when he asked for it. It was no small gesture on her part because money for much of anything was a struggle. Couches were to be pilfered for change to feed her addiction. Couches were to be slept on as well, since mattresses and box springs were merely distant memories.
He pictured the dirty house where she must have lived. He pictured the cluttered living room and the visitors and the inevitable drama that swirls around such places. His life had been more or less analogous to hers at some point in time. He had left it behind because he valued his privacy and enjoyed the ability to leave his few valuable possessions unlocked and unhidden.
Flirtation was a defense mechanism. As she sat across from him and stroked his cheek with a bony, white finger, she revealed the hair on top matched the hair below. This was said with a particularly seductive smile, but the aim was merely to tease. He looked her square in the face and upped the flirtation a notch whereupon she drew the line in the sand.
Good try, she said, with a smirk. But our hero feigned that his real interest had not been on her body but rather her alluded to former success upon the stage. She was caught off balance and her smirk turned quickly to a look of pain. It said I don't know how to help you.
Her successes had been years in the past. They had long ago drifted into a state of romanticized mythology. The irony among many ironies was that what passed for success was merely a long succession of close calls which left her with some degree of name recognition within the scene. Musicians know each other by variously decreasing degrees of separation.
Unused to someone who played romance with the dodges and dives of a boxer, she came clean with her true thoughts. I have cancer, she said. No way to pay for it and no desire to fix it, either. Instead it served as her ace in the hole when called into compromising situations. She lit a cigarette and stared off into space, her leer now transformed into a worried frown.
A Heap of Broken Images
We play the eye contact game, you and I. I look at you and you look at me briefly, hesitantly, then break gaze. When you think I’m not paying attention to you, you look at me. Sometimes I notice your stares and pretend not to; sometimes I’m utterly oblivious.
When I know you are looking at me, I involuntarily run my fingers through both sides of my hair, right at the temples. This game proceeds in fashion until one of us approaches the other and speaks. I usually make the first move.
Even though you had a steady partner, I teased you. Even though I tested the bonds of fidelity, you responded. You were much older than me and the first male I had ever been interested in pursuing. In situations like this, the person in my position often asserts that I “should have known better”. I’m not sure I buy that.
If we want to think in terms of blame, I was equally at fault.
Belfast explosions make me rush out in the streets—hoping someone I know hasn’t been maimed or killed. The blasts often disconnect phone and power service. I do not often leave my quadrant.
I do not want to see you harmed—but you fight with an assault weapon and defend the boundaries of this Catholic-controlled sector. Loyalists do not stray into the domain of the ski-masks and code words, under penalty of death.
The first time we had sex, you bragged about it to all your friends at the pub.
She was a right Fenian whore.
Though I was embarrassed, I didn’t show it. I am young, but not in spirit. More than a few people I know have been killed in an effort to free Ireland.
Espousing brainwashing doctrine, I speak in manifestos. I am too young to know better. The moronic arrogance of youth insists that if I believe enough in the cause, all of my dreams will come true. I do not focus my intense zeal towards the Pope—rather I cast a religious hatred towards Britain.
The movement tells me that if we put enough pressure on London, they eventually acquiesce. Hundreds of years of history belies this assertion. My boyfriend expresses a vague allegiance to the cause of the PLO. I’m not completely sure we would know what to do if several Arabic men in head scarves forced their way in and asked for our support. I don’t question him. You don’t ask questions of the INLA. Our faction was asked to disband, but we refused.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Lioness
A lioness appeared
shaky of paw
a weakness for flattery
Imbued with regal silliness
the sort all her kind possess
a clumsy pollyanna
desperate for worship
and I
kissed
caressed
massaged
the royal paws.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Mustache Man
I don’t like you, mustache man.
When I was a boy, the family would visit my grandparents every weekend. They lived in a small textile mill town out in the country. Most Saturdays were spent in the nook of a large oak tree. The bark was scaly and crumbled in your hands as you pulled yourself up to the top. A strange smelling, sappy black residue clung to your hands; it took much scrubbing with soap to make it go away.
My Aunt had a prison romance. He was ugly and hairy and they produced grotesquely obese children.
The mustache man was one of these. He said, open your mouth boy open your mouth. He was instructive. Rodent face. Red flushed cheeks. Gangster smile. Cracker dialect.
Grandfather said, “look at the difference between the red oak and the white oak. The leaves of the red oak are jagged like the red man’s arrow points. The leaves of the white oak are round like the white man’s bullets.”
Don’t play in the well. Don’t taunt the dogs.
Jerome said this. He spray painted his name across the doghouse. He was older than you.
While it is true that such things happen everywhere. It is true that sixteen-year-old girls get married and remarried to the same aimless boy and then pop out two unwanted children in rapid succession. Girls in rodeo clown makeup with light blue cheeks. Orange faces. Girls who don’t know the meaning of “understated”, in life or in artificial pigment. Can’t even spell the word.
Don’t play near the old well.
The top was secured shut with a piece of scrap iron and dusty with red clay. The fire ants ran beneath your feet and invaded rotting crab apples.
Reading crackly old encyclopedias with yellowing pages stuck together with the adhesive of neglect and time and no air conditioning. Forty years old with no color pictures, no entry on sex other than to distinguish between penis and vagina. The Civil War was labeled War Between the States, The. On the mantle was a grey ceramic cup commemorating the centennial of the conflict.
So you sat quietly in what had formerly been your aunt’s bedroom. It was bare except for a brown vinyl covered sofa with stuffing leaking from the divet hole. A quarter sized massive cigarette burn.
Mustache man, you were there. You were the one in the bedroom with the cheap white-washing and the closed-in side door.
You can’t go out the back anymore.
Ruddy-face intoxication open your mouth boy open your mouth.
Monday, August 27, 2007
G_d
I have to say that I've never really questioned the existence of God throughout my life. Certainly lots of other conceptions formulated in early childhood have fallen by the wayside but the idea of God never has. I have to say that my own personifications of God have gone through significant revision over the years from the man with the white beard in the clouds of my early childhood, to the multi-hued and highly complex being that I choose to call my higher power.
As an artist, I have been in touch with powerful emotional responses that I have had to attribute to some force beyond myself. This isn't a result of mere modesty or self-effacement alone. God has always made sense to me. It would be tempting to take sole credit for certain turns of phrase or particular artistic formulations but I don't think I'm that great, nor that brilliant.
Perhaps it's because I've always been aware of my own fragility and my own mortality. I couldn't see myself as my own God because I never felt comfortable in assuming that much responsibility for myself. The more I tried to believe I was the sole force in control, the more that events beyond my control would arise and make me aware of my own limitations.
I don't think belief in a higher power is the domain of the sick, powerless, and disenfranchised. I think maybe people like me have been granted a sense of irrefutable proof rather than this clinging, needy response to reach for a sense of control beyond oneself.
It was downright trendy in adolescence and among my band of dissident friends to thrust aside all the sacred cows for the sake of rebellion and rejection of the status quo. Had I bothered to look outside myself and my acquaintances, I would have found a wholesale sort of response among my peers.
And since that point in time, I have been treated to the beautiful postulates, theories, and general banter of several committed atheists. And to my credit, I have pondered each treatise with an open mind, but found each to be wholly insufficient. I hasten to call these viewpoints to be soulless, barren, and empty because I think they all have the hand of God upon them. I think that's the supreme irony of the Atheist--he or she only THINKS he or she is somehow apart from some higher force.
As an artist, I have been in touch with powerful emotional responses that I have had to attribute to some force beyond myself. This isn't a result of mere modesty or self-effacement alone. God has always made sense to me. It would be tempting to take sole credit for certain turns of phrase or particular artistic formulations but I don't think I'm that great, nor that brilliant.
Perhaps it's because I've always been aware of my own fragility and my own mortality. I couldn't see myself as my own God because I never felt comfortable in assuming that much responsibility for myself. The more I tried to believe I was the sole force in control, the more that events beyond my control would arise and make me aware of my own limitations.
I don't think belief in a higher power is the domain of the sick, powerless, and disenfranchised. I think maybe people like me have been granted a sense of irrefutable proof rather than this clinging, needy response to reach for a sense of control beyond oneself.
It was downright trendy in adolescence and among my band of dissident friends to thrust aside all the sacred cows for the sake of rebellion and rejection of the status quo. Had I bothered to look outside myself and my acquaintances, I would have found a wholesale sort of response among my peers.
And since that point in time, I have been treated to the beautiful postulates, theories, and general banter of several committed atheists. And to my credit, I have pondered each treatise with an open mind, but found each to be wholly insufficient. I hasten to call these viewpoints to be soulless, barren, and empty because I think they all have the hand of God upon them. I think that's the supreme irony of the Atheist--he or she only THINKS he or she is somehow apart from some higher force.
Liberals with Guns!
The proof that even liberals like guns.Please caption this picture and say hello to our lovely gun model, Norah.
*This post is neither paid for, nor authorized by the National Rifle Association.
** Okay, okay, this wasn't a REAL gun, per se, but notice how happy our model looks.
*** Guns are American, for the right of the people to bear.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
A Tree
Who knows what forces
combined together to
make this tree
mean something profound
and utterly life-affirming
Must have been that strong trunk.
those green leaves
and the root structure
Which reminded me of
Buddhism
Cubism
and Parasitism
Must have been the black soil.
the way the wind
rustles the leaves
the shade it provides
That reminded me of
infant mortality
morbid obesity
and varicose veins
Must have been the luscious fruit.
The seed pit patterns
and their numeric significance
That remind me of
the placebo effect
the lone bullet theory
and the atomic weight of zinc
or maybe
maybe,
it’s just a tree.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Steps for Buying a Hooker
1. Look in the Yellow Pages.
2. Find the “E” section, then find “Escort”.
3. “Escort”, contrary to what you might think, doesn’t mean someone who shuttles you safely from one destination to another. In actuality, “Escort” is one of those euphemisms we use to mean a person of the night, or, to put it bluntly, a prostitute.
4. You have many options to choose from. You will find, rather quickly, that the biggest chains accept credit cards and are actually cleverly networked together by a series of disjointed phone lines.
The reason for this is because you’re actually about to do something illegal. In fact, in some states it’s a misdeameanor. If, the first few times you call, you are hung up on without the person on the end of the line saying as much as a hello, this is to be expected. They merely believe that you are an undercover vice agent eager to bust their whole operation.
5. If, by chance, you connect to someone, you will find these operations are run either by one of two types of people: a Madam, who calls everyone, regardless of gender and age, “baby” and is nastily impatient with you due to her rampant cocaine addiction, or a man who answers the phone gruffly. You picture him hunched over a vast switchboard, chain smoking, inside a grimy room lit only by one overhead lightbulb that hangs downward from a chain.
6. The price is then agreed upon. Normally, a trick will run you two-hundred dollars or so, just for the benefit of the effort to come out to see you. Most escorts want extra money in the form of tips, since they see almost nothing of that two-hundred. Tips are the ways in which you cull special favors like oral sex, anal sex, and intercourse.
7. The women that characterize the occupation are ordinarily working-class sorts with provincial accents. They’re usually from the countryside. Often they will want to show off their Wal-Mart lingerie. Occasionally they will have stretch-marks.
8. They will mutter all kinds of down-home commentary like oh baby, take me now, ah like fuckin’ best of all, and you gonna need to cum now cause you last long’r than a sixty-year-old man who can’t get it up and ah got places to go
9. The instant you ejaculate, they will whisk their clothes back on, decline your offer of a shower, and head back into their cars. Pimps and madams are vicious sorts, always obsessed with profits, which normally go towards their substance abuse problems. Some of the girls work for two days solid without a break.
10. Don’t ever fall in love with an escort girl. You’ll probably find some hooker with a heart of gold who is foolish enough to not be able to separate business from pleasure.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Can't You Figure it Out?
Do you remember
When I totally disappeared in a flash?
And by December
Reluctantly we live in the past
Well I had to go
You see the sign said so
A well-known title comes to mind
Did you ever have to make up your mind?
Can't you figure it out?
Figure it out?
So orchestrated
Divinely put together far in advance
Your underrated
Appearance at the Halloween dance
So we meet at last
before the moment passed
Staying up 'til half past two
writing this song for you
Can't you figure it out?
Figure it out?
An incantation like a spell has been cast
Now I'm under and I'm tied to the mast
where I'll be
Adrift at half past three
dreaming of the melody
Can't you figure it out?
Figure it out?
(so orchestrated)
Figure it out?
(you're underrated)
When I totally disappeared in a flash?
And by December
Reluctantly we live in the past
Well I had to go
You see the sign said so
A well-known title comes to mind
Did you ever have to make up your mind?
Can't you figure it out?
Figure it out?
So orchestrated
Divinely put together far in advance
Your underrated
Appearance at the Halloween dance
So we meet at last
before the moment passed
Staying up 'til half past two
writing this song for you
Can't you figure it out?
Figure it out?
An incantation like a spell has been cast
Now I'm under and I'm tied to the mast
where I'll be
Adrift at half past three
dreaming of the melody
Can't you figure it out?
Figure it out?
(so orchestrated)
Figure it out?
(you're underrated)
Set in Motion
They're coming out
with the movie version
of my life
Based on the novel
that shouldn't
have been written, either.
I called them up
and asked
to meet the director
to see who would play me
And he said
we talked about actors
but thought instead
that playing yourself
might lend some cred
All this time
I'm trying to halt the production
Apparently one day long ago
I gave them all my permission
If that's the case
Let's hammer out some details
Remember I already told them once
I don't do nude scenes or my own stunts
The movie's a failure
on all fronts
Just accept that these things
are going to happen
Everything is set in motion
It will happen anyway
And on and on
we argued
After all that
the thing was bad
To try and drum up
popular demand
Asked the director
"Where do I stand?"
with the movie version
of my life
Based on the novel
that shouldn't
have been written, either.
I called them up
and asked
to meet the director
to see who would play me
And he said
we talked about actors
but thought instead
that playing yourself
might lend some cred
All this time
I'm trying to halt the production
Apparently one day long ago
I gave them all my permission
If that's the case
Let's hammer out some details
Remember I already told them once
I don't do nude scenes or my own stunts
The movie's a failure
on all fronts
Just accept that these things
are going to happen
Everything is set in motion
It will happen anyway
And on and on
we argued
After all that
the thing was bad
To try and drum up
popular demand
Asked the director
"Where do I stand?"
Welcome to the Club
They said,
“Welcome to the top,”
Kid
patting me on the back
a fellowship of misery
a million over-wrung hands
lukewarm cups of coffee
and heartbreak.
The cliched
clique
of the classist
classroom.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Ill-Placed Trust
I'm going to take a break from politics and religion for a moment and instead share with you an anecdote recanting my riotous college years, where I believed I was the epitome of my Converse All-Stars and cheaply dyed hair.
I was the perfect stereotype of the rude American, thrusting my autograph paper in front of Supergrass drummer Danny Goffey.
The picture to your left makes him look actually presentable. In reality, he looks quite a bit like a trogloydyte, but not nearly as much as his bandmate Gaz Coombes. (See below). Coombes makes Neil Young look attractive, unbelievably.
The picture doesn't do justice to the look Goffey flashed me. It was a look of hatred so profound that I immediately shrank away to a neutral corner. Fortunately, he did sign, with no small amount of resentment. It was as if he had no choice but to aquiesce to my arrogance.
Gaz was more blase about affixing his John Hancock to the yellow-lined paper, but he gave the appearance of having not bathed in five days or so. The stench was profound, but this didn't stop him from winning the attention of three groupies, one of whom I later spied with her arm round his waist around 2 am or so. That was later, however.
In the meantime, I talked to the members of The Coral, who were all around my age and in much better spirits. I had an awkward, but nonetheless jovial conversation with the lead singer, James Skelly, who is as shy as I am.
Introverts understand each other better than most and I had a pleasant chat with him despite the fact that he had a rough time deciphering my slight southern American drawl and I had a difficult time with his northern scouse. Our taste in music was quite similar.
Supergrass were old hands at touring America so they were more or less unfazed by their surrounding. It was The Coral's first American tour so they acted like tourists, soaking in their surroundings. They had the wide-eyed stares I've seen on many Brits perusing the U.S.A. on their first trip across the pond. All of the members and I got on like a roof on fire and I much preferred their company to that of Supergrass.
In the meantime, my friend was chatting up Supergrass bassist Mick Quinn who proved to be one of the most jovial, nicest people I have ever met. In response to the cavorting of his bandmate Gaz, he mentioned only that he had a wife and kids back home.
In the meantime, I was further embarrassing myself by doing lame Tony Wilson impersonations, much to the chagrin of the young black woman with 24 Hour Party People t-shirt on who was part of someone's entourage. From her sarcastic attitude, I assumed she must be somehow connected with Supergrass. When I was wasn't humored I was outright mocked. I was the perfect stereotype of the Yank: loud, pushy, idiotic, frequently doltish.
The scene backstage was kind of bizarre. Hangers-on and stragglers either intoxicated or inebriated on some unknown substance reigned supreme. I tried talking to a girl who couldn't string together anything more than a long string of non sequiturs, albeit with bitchy attitude.
I was the perfect stereotype of the rude American, thrusting my autograph paper in front of Supergrass drummer Danny Goffey.
The picture to your left makes him look actually presentable. In reality, he looks quite a bit like a trogloydyte, but not nearly as much as his bandmate Gaz Coombes. (See below). Coombes makes Neil Young look attractive, unbelievably.
The picture doesn't do justice to the look Goffey flashed me. It was a look of hatred so profound that I immediately shrank away to a neutral corner. Fortunately, he did sign, with no small amount of resentment. It was as if he had no choice but to aquiesce to my arrogance.
Gaz was more blase about affixing his John Hancock to the yellow-lined paper, but he gave the appearance of having not bathed in five days or so. The stench was profound, but this didn't stop him from winning the attention of three groupies, one of whom I later spied with her arm round his waist around 2 am or so. That was later, however.
In the meantime, I talked to the members of The Coral, who were all around my age and in much better spirits. I had an awkward, but nonetheless jovial conversation with the lead singer, James Skelly, who is as shy as I am.
Introverts understand each other better than most and I had a pleasant chat with him despite the fact that he had a rough time deciphering my slight southern American drawl and I had a difficult time with his northern scouse. Our taste in music was quite similar.
Supergrass were old hands at touring America so they were more or less unfazed by their surrounding. It was The Coral's first American tour so they acted like tourists, soaking in their surroundings. They had the wide-eyed stares I've seen on many Brits perusing the U.S.A. on their first trip across the pond. All of the members and I got on like a roof on fire and I much preferred their company to that of Supergrass.
In the meantime, my friend was chatting up Supergrass bassist Mick Quinn who proved to be one of the most jovial, nicest people I have ever met. In response to the cavorting of his bandmate Gaz, he mentioned only that he had a wife and kids back home.
In the meantime, I was further embarrassing myself by doing lame Tony Wilson impersonations, much to the chagrin of the young black woman with 24 Hour Party People t-shirt on who was part of someone's entourage. From her sarcastic attitude, I assumed she must be somehow connected with Supergrass. When I was wasn't humored I was outright mocked. I was the perfect stereotype of the Yank: loud, pushy, idiotic, frequently doltish.
The scene backstage was kind of bizarre. Hangers-on and stragglers either intoxicated or inebriated on some unknown substance reigned supreme. I tried talking to a girl who couldn't string together anything more than a long string of non sequiturs, albeit with bitchy attitude.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Fading into Obscurity
So many stories
I can tell
I had the world
under my spell
Does this even ring a bell?
I wonder because
Don't you know who I was?
Interest in me dissipated
All my methods antiquated
I've been cast away
Lost and friendless today
I made a name for myself
When one could do such a thing
A reputation that's held together by string
And so I chose to cherish those
who seem there's some purity
to fading into obscurity
What words on paper
Has the tendency to ride on vapor?
Sometimes what's not to love
But then other times, what's to like?
I'm unable to tell if I know who I am
I'm honest success
A shiv or a sham
I'm not afraid of what I'm made of
But my trajectory has me
Fading into obscurity
You kids will have to fend for yourselves
Because your mother's gone and
asked for the elves
Who used to do all the work around here
Well they're not gonna do it anymore
You kids can kiss your mother goodbye
And I'll give you twenty minutes to cry
She used to do all the work around here
But she's not going to do it anymore
And you're getting to old to be cared for
by me
And for that matter
This cake is baked but I much
prefer the batter
Perhaps in part
because it had so much potential
To be delicious and
still be influential
I'm undecided
If the eminence that I provided
Explains what I mean
Is true that now as I
can see or be seen
And I know that you'll only shrug
Through my tears
So I'm not going to shed them anymore
Out of favor
With the flavor of the week's where I'll be
and fading into obscurity
An outsider but
in good company.
I'm fading into obscurity.
I'm undecided.
I can tell
I had the world
under my spell
Does this even ring a bell?
I wonder because
Don't you know who I was?
Interest in me dissipated
All my methods antiquated
I've been cast away
Lost and friendless today
I made a name for myself
When one could do such a thing
A reputation that's held together by string
And so I chose to cherish those
who seem there's some purity
to fading into obscurity
What words on paper
Has the tendency to ride on vapor?
Sometimes what's not to love
But then other times, what's to like?
I'm unable to tell if I know who I am
I'm honest success
A shiv or a sham
I'm not afraid of what I'm made of
But my trajectory has me
Fading into obscurity
You kids will have to fend for yourselves
Because your mother's gone and
asked for the elves
Who used to do all the work around here
Well they're not gonna do it anymore
You kids can kiss your mother goodbye
And I'll give you twenty minutes to cry
She used to do all the work around here
But she's not going to do it anymore
And you're getting to old to be cared for
by me
And for that matter
This cake is baked but I much
prefer the batter
Perhaps in part
because it had so much potential
To be delicious and
still be influential
I'm undecided
If the eminence that I provided
Explains what I mean
Is true that now as I
can see or be seen
And I know that you'll only shrug
Through my tears
So I'm not going to shed them anymore
Out of favor
With the flavor of the week's where I'll be
and fading into obscurity
An outsider but
in good company.
I'm fading into obscurity.
I'm undecided.
Medicaid
Somehow forgotten in the debate for and against universal health care is the fact that since 1965, the US has had some semblance of coverage for its low-income and impoverished citizens. It's probably one of the few successes reaped from LBJ's Great Society.
The program is called Medicaid. Ever since I have been back home in Alabama, I've had to rely on Medicaid to provide prescription drugs for my bipolar disorder. The problem with Medicaid is that it takes a very intelligent person to cut through the red tape and successfully obtain it. Another key problem with Medicaid is that it is lacks many of the amenities that a Blue Cross/Blue Shield excellent quality insurance provides. Medicaid will only fill 30 days worth of prescription drugs at a time. Additionally, as a cost-cutting measure, two of my medication, Effexor and Strattera, are placed on Physician Advisory (PA) status. This means that my physician has to go to the trouble of stating firmly why I should specifically be prescribed these particular meds rather than a lower cost alternative.
But even so, it's absolutely ridiculous how much a 30 day supply of medication costs without insurance. Effexor would cost upwards of $500 a bottle. Strattera would cost $400. This is an excellent example of unbridled greed. The pharmaceutical industry has milked so many people dry that many ailing individuals have been forced to not be able to afford to take their medication. That is a total travesty. Mental illness, in particular, is endemic among the homeless and the drug addicted. I have no doubt that we could prevent many crimes of property and illegal drug offenses if we ensured prescription drugs would cost less than street drugs.
Medicaid works fairly well for just prescription drugs alone, but fat chance getting it to work for anything beyond that. Therapy, a crucial element along with pharmaceuticals in successful treatment of mental illness is an impossibility so long as one only has Medicaid. Few therapists will take it because it a) pays out at such a low rate and b) often pays out delinquently, months behind when it is supposed to.
The point of this post is to recommend strongly that if baseline universal coverage comes to these shores, we would be wise to avoid the pitfalls of Medicaid.
The program is called Medicaid. Ever since I have been back home in Alabama, I've had to rely on Medicaid to provide prescription drugs for my bipolar disorder. The problem with Medicaid is that it takes a very intelligent person to cut through the red tape and successfully obtain it. Another key problem with Medicaid is that it is lacks many of the amenities that a Blue Cross/Blue Shield excellent quality insurance provides. Medicaid will only fill 30 days worth of prescription drugs at a time. Additionally, as a cost-cutting measure, two of my medication, Effexor and Strattera, are placed on Physician Advisory (PA) status. This means that my physician has to go to the trouble of stating firmly why I should specifically be prescribed these particular meds rather than a lower cost alternative.
But even so, it's absolutely ridiculous how much a 30 day supply of medication costs without insurance. Effexor would cost upwards of $500 a bottle. Strattera would cost $400. This is an excellent example of unbridled greed. The pharmaceutical industry has milked so many people dry that many ailing individuals have been forced to not be able to afford to take their medication. That is a total travesty. Mental illness, in particular, is endemic among the homeless and the drug addicted. I have no doubt that we could prevent many crimes of property and illegal drug offenses if we ensured prescription drugs would cost less than street drugs.
Medicaid works fairly well for just prescription drugs alone, but fat chance getting it to work for anything beyond that. Therapy, a crucial element along with pharmaceuticals in successful treatment of mental illness is an impossibility so long as one only has Medicaid. Few therapists will take it because it a) pays out at such a low rate and b) often pays out delinquently, months behind when it is supposed to.
The point of this post is to recommend strongly that if baseline universal coverage comes to these shores, we would be wise to avoid the pitfalls of Medicaid.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Patterns
I saw something of myself in you
Too much, in fact
The way you preened
before a mirror
talked a little too loudly
Projectile vomited
your life story
in the direction
of anyone within earshot
They only rolled their eyes
clucked their tongues
make circular motions
around their temples
when you weren’t looking
I tried not to notice
the intoxicated swagger
you seemed to mistake
for self-confidence
I never pointed out
the brightly lit stage
you strode upon
was held up by
contradiction and condescension
I knew
that myths and fairy tales
kept your heart beating
Thus I wasn’t surprised
to find the death
of your last panacea
covered in your own blood
Monday, August 20, 2007
Generic Rock Star
acts like he owns this
overgrown cow town
expects the
holier-than-thou
adoration
that started to fizzle away
ten years ago
unsubtle
male pattern baldness
shaved head
not fooling anyone
generic rock star
drives around and around town
stopping by the coffee shop
thrusting autographs into the
hands of the disinterested
we all know him here
he is no stranger
the worst kept secret
the carnal cravings
desire for youth
conquest
it scares off many a young man
cruising the street corners
the bars
the parks
unaccustomed to the advances
of those hairy knuckles
and drooping eyelids
we townspeople say
he’s creepy
but predictable
at least he’s a native
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