When Defense Becomes Defensive

Last night I watched Bruno, Sacha Baron Cohen's mockumentary about a flamboyant gay German fashionisto who wants his own television show. All of his characters--Bruno, Borat, Ali G--want their own American show, and they participate in any event that involves them. Each scene that ensues places him and an unknowing celebrity or private citizen in a situation that make all of the active participants look ridiculous. I remember someone taking umbrage with Bruno's homophobia, but that person, along with GLAAD and PETA and the ACLU, doesn't understand the implicit irony of the whole thing. Yes, Bruno is a caricature, but his exaggerated stereotypical attributes are not strictly a homophobic cartoon of homosexuality. His depravity and shamelessness are as much, if not more, statements about Germany. (I've said it before, but that country's due for a roast.) Or, for that matter, the befuddled reactions of American rubes. It doesn't matter, because he doesn't care.

Baron Cohen's brazen shamelessness and chutzpah are trademarks of all of his characters. In the same way, sort of, I do not care about reactions to me or my words. What's the old adage? Sticks and stones? Well, prove it. I've become impermeable to anyone else's criticisms, so I instantly ignore anything hurled at me that I can otherwise ignore. In this respect, I envy the senile (I was repeatedly taught that this means simply "old," but I think everybody now, reluctantly in the case of some editors, accepts the popular definition of "old person plagued by Alzheimer's."), because nothing gets through their cranial shell. Unfortunately, I have to process what enters my head. Then, I disregard it.

I've said it before, but this does not connote or condone rudeness. It may seem like a fine line, but the distinction is important. Once someone reacts in a way that reveals their true core, I see nothing wrong with poking him until this core is visible, if it's rotten. I have been besieged by MS, and there's nobody to blame (unfortunately, MS is not genetic, so my parents are safe, in this regard). I wish I could take the limitless obstacles of the disease out on somebody, but I can't. Hence, it's not really an option. So I concede the reality of the situation, and thus forgo a number of possible rants aimed at someone else.

The embattled target invariably cries that he (or "she" or "they") is being unfairly focused on, like an insect with a magnifying glass poised inches from its body. I grasp this reaction. It turns from justified anger to undeniable insanity, though, when the "target" sees things that aren't there. Isn't that the definition of "crazy"? At one point, a middle-aged man in an orgy becomes incredulous and then indignant at Bruno's contextual advances toward him. If anything, the swinger looks defective by virtue of being a swinger. Bruno only inserts himself into the mix to underline this, as well as to instigate a reaction that reveals the target's true self, which, in this case, is a homophobic hick who is also sexually perverse.

Like Germans. When someone describes something as "German," odds are that they're talking about something prurient. Conversely, they may also be referring to efficiency and precision.

Context means everything.

R

Don't Ask, I Don't Want To Tell

I understand that a menial way to begin a run-of-mill personal interaction is to ask, "How are you?" In my case--even before MS overrode everything--I loathe such ham-handed ice-breakers. The answer used to be bland and innocuous, but now a simple "Fine. You?" does not suffice. First of all, I really don't care how you're doing. I realize that this makes me sound supercilious, but at least I'm halfway honest. Plus, MS has provided all sorts of twists and digressions that a simple and laconic "Fine" won't do. And also, it would generally be a lie. In both senses...

I don't have any pain, luckily, so I'm not susceptible to lashing out just to shut you up. Well, less so... A lot of people assume I'm in pain, but I can assure you that my particular brand of MS does not come with pain. Or cognitive impairment. Mainly it fucks with my equilibrium, makes me lethargic, and attacks my muscles. I can hold a pen, but what forms on paper will likely not be legible. I can walk, but a) I don't want to because I'm too tired, and b) I move like the Tin Man before he gets oiled.

My patience is at an all-time low when it comes to social courtesy. If I don't say "hello," move it along, because nothing can shame me into walking over and shaking a hand. It's not that I despise the act. I do, but that has nothing to do with it. The simplest gesture is difficult, and fraught with potential landmines that could further impair my restricted mobility. So, I have no patience with regard to anything, but manners in particular.

Other people in my position can bore you incessantly with uninterrupted complaining. I may spin verbally into any number of topics, but not about my personal bitching. I could prattle on and on about certain symptoms, but I'm positive that this would get extremely annoying. And depressing. Nobody wants to be stuck with the proverbial stick in the mud. It sounds fatalistic, but the stick eventually drags other people into the mud. Nobody wants to provide the platform that allows someone to springboard from, because eventually the afflicted person burdens the unafflicted and dominates the conversation with personal complaints. I've encountered this phenomenon, and I resolutely refuse to be the one who makes quicksand a, pardon the pun, diffuse disease.

Having said that, I implore you to reciprocate. Leave the flood walls alone. If you provide the smallest opening, I understand why some people jump on the opportunity to unload numerous, and ultimately innumerable, complaints. I understand this more than I'd care to admit. I complain about even the smallest minutiae, but I stay away from MS stuff because I'd rather bitch about the GOP, and its alarmist modus operandi, than my optic neuritis.

Both impulses exist, but I stifle the latter. It's tempting to say that I'm overcompensating for my silent misgivings about my shaky vision, as well as a number of other things, but, as I've said, I'm fine cognitively. Hence I can sense and sympathize with a reluctance to be a mere sounding board.

In exchange for not boring you with an endless diatribe and discourse on my impaired neurological function, I would like not to be bothered with an empty pleasantry. In the words of the idiotic and insultingly homophobic military policy, "Don't Ask, Don't Tell."

Don't ask, because I won't tell. Now that's courteous.

R

Stand by Me, Just in Case

Last week, one of my three weekly sessions of physical therapy ended and I walked out of the building. One of my therapists--whose name I can confidently now say is "Amber," although I'll never say this aloud (I never say anyone's name, and am taken aback when someone else does. Why? Some of the reasons are obvious--"just because" and so on--but I rarely say anyone's name. This is probably a defense mechanism that allows me to continue forgetting/not caring/etc.)--walked next to me on the way out the door. This happens frequently, and I suspect this is because the other patients, for the most part, are boring and/or too dumb to say anything interesting (I have the same relationship with all other vocational professionals, be they doctors, nurses, hairdressers, cooks, priests, and so on.) This easy rapport can be attributed to what one of my ex-girlfriends, somewhat rudely and insultingly, attributed to my sense of entitlement. It's not that I feel superior to anyone. I might, but that is neither here nor there. Actually, I am not intimidated by, well, anything. Who gives a shit if someone has a graduate degree or some other worthless accreditation? Anyways, let's get out of this skid. I steered into it by indulging myself and now it should be safe to proceed.

So I exited the building after another arduous hour of physical therapy and felt myself pitch to the left. Without thinking, I reached over and steadied myself by grabbing my therapist's left arm. I can't confidently say that nothing would have happened if I had done nothing, but she was there so I reached out and defused the situation before it became pitiful. Luckily, she was standing right next to me, so grabbing her arm was as natural to me as "taking the arm of an elm-tree," as Emerson said of walking with Thoreau.

In the glass of the doors through which we were headed, I caught my reflection as we passed through. I was walking fine, and even confidently. I've grown quite accustomed to walking with my arm inside that of another. I even have a joke about this. Once, my brother was walking with me, and I looked at him and said, in a genteel Southern accent that was straight out of Tennessee Wilson, "Do you think we're dressed okay for the cotillion?" Like Blanche DuBois as played by Vivien Leigh, grabbing someone's arm does not bother me.

It might be possible that my reliance on someone's arm for balance is entirely mental, but I don't want to find out. The short walk from the gym to the car could have been disastrous. Theoretically, I could have tumbled over, but nothing this dramatic seems to happen, thankfully. In fact, I get asked this question a lot by medical personnel: "When was the last time you fell?" I have never fallen, although now I may have cursed and doomed myself. In a month, I'll probably be in a cast. However, I have never broken a bone, nor been stung by a bee. Knock on wood.

I'm not worried, though, because I've witnessed innumerable bee stings, or at least heard stories of them, and have yet to be stung. Ditto for breaking a bone. This evens out in the end because of my use of a cane, of which I have six (I think) and also "Preferred Customer" status at FashionableCanes.com. As I've said before, I use one mainly to deflect accusations of drunkenness.

I would love to be tethered to a zip-line that runs over my head wherever I go. Not a leash, mind you. Semantics, you say? Well, I was an English major, so sometimes semantics is all I have.

R

The White Noise of Obstruction

When I finally turn on my iPod in the day, the structures and intangible imaginative variations can influence the way in which I move. A blast of drums or horns can topple me, and a flute can subdue me and render me totally static. These are the extremes, obviously, but they are also perfect examples of what I've found necessary to drown out.

Don't get me wrong--if I have no plans to move (which is generally the case), I can play anything I want. In fact, sometimes the brasher the better. It's weird that I'm more likely to listen to "Jesus," though, than "Sister Ray" when I'm lying down because, confusingly, I'm really trying not to fall asleep when I'm horizontal. Those are both songs by the Velvet Underground, by the way, and if I have to explain the difference between the two, I do so begrudgingly.

"Jesus" is a quiet, minimalist ballad built around two notes, with some, but not much, variation. Lou Reed mimics this melodic figure with his already limited range. It's hard to tell whether he rewrote the song to account for his voice. Four tracks earlier, with "Candy Says," he handed over the lead vocals to the precociously sweet Doug Yule (who unwisely took over the reins when Reed fled to Long Island when he was 28, and continued to tour under the name "The Velvet Underground," with pity from all. But I digress.). Nevertheless, the song stands up strongly today.

I still don't get the song. I mean, Reed is/was not exactly the embodiment of Christian virtue. Thankfully. That would make him boring and, ultimately, stagnant. Instead, he writes atmospheric ambient pieces for, I kid you not, Tai Chi. And this comes after decades of debauchery and then decades of sobriety. His polarity can place him easily on the emblem of any "Yin/Yang" t-shirt or poster.

When I met the man, a few years ago in the Union Square Barnes & Noble upon the release of his album The Raven, I told him how much I appreciated "Fire Music," an extension of his notoriously impermeable Metal Machine Music. There was no way I could have known how prescient I was being.

When I get up and move around, I usually have headphones on. This is not a new phenomenon, and one which is unlikely to go away. If I walk around with Motown playing, though, I'm much more prone to a startled stumble (I still haven't completely fallen yet--knock on wood). At least with drone and ambient feedback (anything eventually becomes a drone, if repeated enough), I know what to expect. It's hard to be startled with something that sounds no different from the previous ten seconds. If I head to the refrigerator at two am, I know when to expect the explosive chorus of "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" by Wilco. This is a skill I learned to hone in college, and, like a high school typing class, it has paid dividends. Three minutes and fifty-seven seconds after I press play, it will kick in. Then again at 7:41 and one last time at 10:09. I think that's right. Before and about twenty seconds after these times, I can do what I want because the song drones. But I'm sure to be seated again when time runs out once more.

To anyone, the initial blasts can be overwhelming. This is especially true of "Fire Music," which is sandwiched between a spoken-word interlude and a quiet, almost silent, acoustic song like "Guardian Angel." After the first shock dissipates, a constancy lulls you in in a way that is salubrious. You get used to the noise, because it keeps you alert but also relaxes you. It is a very different sensation from the unremitting pokes that the latest Flaming Lips album give.

It may seem crazy, but this is my "ambient" music. I don't fall asleep, but can move fluidly (relatively) from the bathroom to the living room. Brian Eno has nothing on Lou Reed when it comes to providing the soundtrack to my treks to the kitchen.

R

Dumb Actors (& Actresses)

This may seem like an excuse for me to be bitter and vindictive. In college and afterward, I dated actresses. I assure you, though, that I'm not trying to slip in a snide barb directed at their pipe dreams. As a matter of fact, I'll focus primarily on male actors and their inferior intellects. Some former girlfriends would take issue with my use of the word "actress" to refer to female actors, but screw it. I hate political correctness when it renders certain subjects objectionable when there is nothing to object to. Hence, female actors are "actresses." Get used to it, even though I'll talk about the other gender.

Everyone mentions Robert DeNiro as one of the great actors of his generation. Fine. I have no issue here, but you must acknowledge that he's also one of the great boneheads of his generation. Thankfully, he doesn't give many interviews. I suspect this is due to his publicist, who understands that you might realize, finally, that he's as dumb as a canary. If you ever watch him in the middle of an interview, you can see the wrinkles of confusion form on his forehead. He doesn't know how to respond to a simple question, and instead recites, by rote, an answer that doesn't really reply to that question.

When politics get involved, watch out. I like Sean Penn, and admit that he has performed remarkably in a few of his movies. However, any cache of credibility that he has built up gets leveled when he opens his mouth. The man cannot give a weighty interview without looking like an idiot. His reticence hides any overt, glaring idiocy that may spill from his lips. Nothing he says about national politics has new insight. He simply recites, by rote, a handful of buzzwords and trite cliches that are meant to whip the crowd into a frenzy. When Bush was president, we heard about Katrina and economic inequality and Iraq. Yes, he was an abysmal president, but you should be able to speak articulately why this is if you're courting the cameras of the national media. When you're Sean Penn, and prone to repeated catchphrases as much as the man you're lambasting, you should at least be able to form a simple declarative sentence and deliver it easily. Without maneuvers of distraction that you're criticizing Bush for.

I had an innocuous exchange with my friend Jess about the true stupidity of actors, which motivated this post, and I felt the need to say, finally, actors are dumb and worthy of mockery, not adulation. They get accolades like Academy Awards &/or some other golden trophy of distinction. My simple rejoinder is that Gary Busey has a Golden Globe. Game, set, and match.

People frequently think about actors as untouchable emblems of art. This is bullshit, and actually insulting to the person who actually wrote the words that the actors are reciting. I constantly hear about Marlon Brando's iconic performance as Stanley Kowalski in Elia Kazan's film adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire. He did a fine job of delivering Tennessee Williams's words, but we should not neglect the brilliance of the playwright.

This happens all the time whenever I'm forced to suffer through a dramatic production of a Shakespeare play. Any interpretation of his words make them lose some of their impact. The worst unflappable demolition man in this regard is Kenneth Branagh. His glib, over-the-top but still insufficient movies never make you forget that a much better version of the debacle you're watching lies on your bookshelf (if you're halfway literate). I can't watch more than thirty seconds of his Hamlet without jumping for the remote control. Less infuriating, but just as pathetic, is his musical version of Love's Labours Lost. I won't elaborate, but you'll have to take my word for it that it's a steaming pile of shit.

I haven't figured out whether or not this phenomenon applies to actresses. Meryl Streep, for instance, is constantly offered as the high-water mark of acting. This may be true, and this is edified further by her reticence and shyness when it comes to press interviews and, thus, politics. I also don't think she has written a banal children's book, so she may also have dodged that entrapment that has caught so many previously-esteemed actors.

Julianne Moore, I'm looking in your direction.

R

Heathen

I articulated my views on God and other tangential mythologies while I was in rehab in Maryland. There, we had to recognize a "higher power," and I thought this was a stupid, pointless, and ultimately fatalistic exercise. For most people, who, as I petulantly thought, had drunk the Kool-Aid, this was easy. They only had to say "God," and that was that. Unfortunately, I dismissed this as so much insanity that I wouldn't deign to acknowledge. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and let their delusions wash over me.

I say I was "petulant," which connotes childishness, not because I dismissed such ridiculous theology, but because I said nothing to contradict the insanity I faced. Some would probably interpret this as honorable and mature. Let's get serious, though. A few crazy Christians may act okay with non-belief, but really they hide their supercilious air of superiority and privileged absurd "knowledge." It drives me insane when someone looks at me condescendingly and says something like, "You'll come around." No, asshole--you're a mindless sheep without a brain or hint of intellectual curiosity in your sieve-like head. I don't believe in any of your bullshit. I emphatically will not drink the Kool-Aid. Furthermore, they need to be argued with, because a) discourse would confuse them and b) their claim to moral superiority is both arrogant and directly insulting.

Earlier, I was watching The Godfathers, and was struck by the cloying religious overtones. At the same time, such instances were interspersed with episodes of violence and blood. It's important to note that the two episodes had nothing to do with the other, besides the obvious moral hypocrisy constantly voiced by proponents of religion. They then advocate, and have advocated, massive campaigns of subjective (I'm being gracious) totalitarianism. It is such a cliche, but that doesn't mean it's wrong--innumerable deaths can be attributed to a, so I was taught, all-benevolent, all-knowing, infallible, and invisible deity. "That's man, though," might be the objection, with nary a hint of consideration of their beloved Ark. Or the annihilation of the citizens of Sodom & Gomorrah, whose most glaring crime was the objectionable (to them) practice of homosexuality, and who've been caricatured in our minds and the media. Lest we forget, we are the supreme culture that keeps visual lobotomies like Jerry Springer, Two and a Half Men, and Flavor of Love on the air. I watched Idiocracy and thought, "Is this supposed to be a parody?" To me, it looked like more of a documentary.

Before, I've stated that I'm an atheist, but this is not accurate enough. In rehab, I encountered the question of what I believed in constantly. Well, I'll tell you. I believe in what I can see, feel, hear, touch, and smell. That's what I "believe" in. The concept of faith comes up whenever I say this, and I can't help but laugh at the specious untruths of empty platitudes like "Believing is seeing."

However, I'm not simply an atheist. I am more of a non-theist. I'm not so concerned with convincing anyone that there is no "God," because that perpetrates the concept. "God" is such a primitive notion that I cannot even consider it as a valid one. I said then (in Maryland), and I say it now--I don't even think about a "God." There is too much beauty, both in nature and in the minds of others who ironically probably believe(d) in a "God," that to credit an invisible guy in the sky would diminish the accomplishments of the very real human(s) that deserve the attention and recognition.

One thing that drives me nuts is the glib criticism that to contradict religion, one invariably ends up quoting religious "literature." Yes, it's true. Someone could also cite numerous scientific facts, but the most effective way to illustrate absurdity is to use the same blunt tool as the faithful. For Christians, this means the Bible. I guarantee that nobody who takes it seriously even considers how patronizing it is to call the first and second halves "Old" and "New." If I were Jewish, I'd be pissed. I guess, though, that silence is golden, for the most part, for them--not in the Middle East, though.

Another thing that confounds me is the sadistic pleasure that one of the "faithful" feels when confronted with opposition or aversion of any kind. Someone may not say anything, but you can see and feel the smile that they have in the pit of their stomach. (That's if they're polite.) Such a smug provocation would not occur on a darkened street, I'm sure.

I wish that religious fanatics, overt or quiet, would have to deal with an arbitrary spate of violence. Something tells me that martyrdom is a concept that they would not tolerate. They shouldn't, because it is another dumb notion.

Conversely, converting out of fear would make it impossible for me to look in a mirror. I'm not going to convert out of fear, like Constantine did on his deathbed, and hopehopehope for a divine cure for my MS. Shit happens, like the bumper sticker says, and you/I have to roll with the setbacks.

I sure as hell won't be bored weekly for an hour (if you're lucky) in church and hope for a divine resolution that won't come.

R

Between Thought & Expression

One of the frequently cited symptoms of multiple sclerosis is cognitive impairment. I don't have this. I have nearly everything else, so you might think I'd consider this trade-off a push, but I'm relieved that I have none of the cognitive difficulties that many others have. This can manifest itself in various ways, with memory problems, aphasia, and malapropisms being the chief signs. Fortunately, I remember everything, remain articulate, and choose my words deliberately.

Occasionally my memory can be burdensome. Nobody should want to remember half of the nonsense I do. For instance, it must be nearly intolerable to watch Rocky IV with me, because I know and recite the dialogue of the movie while it plays. The same goes for countless other movies, but this is the most humorous example I can think of right now. (This is probably due to Dolph Lundgren's recent cameo on Conan, which I can't seem to expel from my mind.) It's hard not to remember nuggets like "I must break you." Or "If he dies, he dies." Or "You will lose." Or "I cannot be defeated." Okay, I think those are all of his lines as Ivan Drago, in English at least (he also says "I win for me. For me!" and "He is not human. He is a piece of iron," but those lines are in Russian.). That was off the top of my head, by the way, so I think I've proven my memory acuity simply with this little aside.

It may seem at times like I'm stalling while my mind tries to catch up to whatever is being thrown at it. Again, this is not entirely the case. In fact, I'm considering what to say, and scanning my mind for the best words to use to express myself. I understand that, at times, especially in this ADD culture, impatience may set in, but TS--you can wait two seconds while I think of the word that I want to use. Sure, I can call you a "moron," but "dolt" is much more blunt and concrete.

Also, my mouth resists what I want to say. I have to twist my tongue deliberately in order to form the words I want to use. I can still be effusive--don't get me wrong--but I am less prone to rambling. This is a matter of opinion, because I'm still quite prone to ranting. Some may think that my thoughts on the interminability of a baseball game or the whole season, or the utterly boring spectacle of a soccer game, are aimless. Those who would object, though, probably love baseball, so they should be use to enduring pointless acts, like a strikeout in game 53 of 162.

Another aspect of recall comes when I hear a name or see a face. I probably shouldn't disclose this, but it's okay because I can just deny it later. This happens quite frequently with my friend Neal, who I went to high school with. I wish I could forget the bulk of those four years, but the fact is that I remember most everyone he mentions. It may take a few seconds to conjure a face mentally, but often I come up with one. Since I don't want to hear about kids or nuptials, because they are truly, truly boring, I'll furrow my brow and feign aloofness if he or someone else mentions some random former classmate. If I went to college with you, though, I was probably intoxicated with any chemical (this includes, notably, alcohol), so my lack of recognition might be valid. Plus, now with MS, I really don't care.

I say this constantly, but I cannot emphasize enough how little I care about mundane personal anecdotes. I assure you--I'm all there, so any perceived forgetfulness is really indifference. I find that I stop listening to boring stories immediately. Oblivious raconteours even get a chance to develop a soporic story into something interesting if they drag from the outset of their telling, and I see no enticing disclosures on the horizon. I know that this can be interpreted as dick-ish on my part, but again, I must repeat that I don't give a shit what impressions I leave behind. Whereas in the past my eyes might glaze over and maintain eye contact while I would think of an excuse I could use to exit the conversation, now I'll abruptly change the subject to something interesting. I don't care about your phone conversation with your mother, but I absolutely love Neko Case--don't you love this song? That last sentence actually was said by me, I think, like a year ago to my then-girlfriend. Needless to say, that relationship ran its course...

If what I am about to hear could be interesting, I'll gladly wait. My appreciation for words chosen carefully has peaked recently. This may be due to my fascination with oral constructions of language, which I've always had, that I've been allowed to indulge in considerably over the last year, or in my mildly pretentious love of good poetry (no Maya Angelou or Jewel here, in case you were wondering). However, I must reiterate that I've become aware of this just in the last year, because I wouldn't do trade interviews for my awful, debilitating, soul-wasting last job. I might love language, but I don't love it sickly enough for me to take pleasure in some anonymous person's recitations of sales figures of toilet paper or wet dog food. Ugh--whenever I think about that job I shudder. It was insane to me that my company expected me to write eighty or so pages of insipid single-spaced analyses of various sectors of industries in which I had, honestly, no interest.

One good thing about the MS is that it gave me an excuse not to suffer through little bursts of common (see: dull) trifles. Little perks such as this have to come to the forefront of my mind whenever I want to lament the limits that MS has placed on me. Sure, I can't play basketball, but I don't have to work for the man in a job that I would, definitely, resent.

This is where you should envision me weighing invisible scales in either hand, trying to think which one holds what I'd rather have.

R

The Preposterous Health Care Boondoggle

I've tried to contain my urges to scream at the television whenever I see someone opposed to universal health care. For the most part, I've succeeded. Sometimes, though, it's hard to ignore the extreme ignorance and paranoid xenophobia that accompany calls for no-brainer legislation like this. Hearing about nonexistent "death panels" and seeing Sarah Palin add her own two cents (she's so dumb that she probably thinks this is an actual denomination of currency) have riled me up enough to scream, inside my head, at the ease with which these morons eat up television air-time.

It is insane to pay for health care as a US citizen. It has become a cliche, but the notions that we have a middling system as well as one that demands that we pay for it are maddening. But doesn't that sound like socialism? YES. To morons who don't even know who Joseph McCarthy was, this is insidious. To them, they think of scary Russian, Communist leaders. It goes without saying that they could name maybe one--everyone knows Stalin. There's no way these chimps could name Brezhnev, and the ideological spectrum would not register a blip of recognition in their puny minds. That doesn't stop them, though, from defensively slinging barbs that actually make them look even stupider. Case in point: that stupid woman who was against universal health care and wrote a letter to President Obama decrying the socialist bent of government-ru health care and then saying, "And don't touch my Medicare." This woman embodies, in a faceless quote, what people make fun of America for. She's brash, crotchety, and stupid. I refuse to elucidate, again, the reason that she's stupid.

Often, when I think about this issue, I find myself arguing the same point with myself. It's the purest form of tautology: Q. Why are Americans so stupid? A. Because they/we are. I don't even want to devise theories of explanation. We elected Simple Jack twice to the highest office in, arguably, the world. We're not dumb? I can hardly think of George W. Bush without cringing.

So I shouldn't be shocked when mentions of death panels and socialism fail to make me laugh. People believe that nonsense, and freak the fuck out, then stall, if not doom, the entire process. Congress echoes the fecklessness of its constituents, unsurprisingly. Representatives and senators should immediately disregard the paranoia of the populace, but the irony of democracy is that they need to resort to demagoguery in order to rally their respective gaggles of voters. Politicians horde those votes, and court and guard them like an abusive husband who shields his battered wife because he fears that she may wise up and leave the prick. Likewise, we need to abandon elitist Washington politicians. Republicans famously labeled John Kerry as "elitist," with no sense of the old "pot/kettle" joke, nor how it should have been turned inward.

I've mentioned how much I hate the Blue Dog Democrats, and how they call themselves "Democrats" but typify none of the modern attributes of the term. Because of their hesitation, the health care bill now puts forth an "opt out" clause that allows state legislatures to decide whether or not they want to participate in the public option. Really, I should like this stipulation because ultimately it could potentially lead to the deaths of thousands of Republicans. However, I recognize that just as many pragmatists could die with the disposable, stagnant conservatives. Many reasonable people live in treacherous states, for whatever reason. Lest we forget, we are supposed to be "united," no matter what anachronistic secessionists say.

As I've said, universal health care should be a slam-dunk. Since we have to tolerate the intolerant, and intolerable, America deserves the limp bill it will get whenever Congress gets around to voting on it.

I especially don't give a shit now that I'm on the socialist Medicare program for the disabled. Without it, I could never have received the stem cell procedure because of its exorbitantly expensive cost and my former insurance company's repeated refusals to cover it. With it, I can afford not to care as America eats itself, like the proverbial snake that chews its own tail.

Furthermore, who would've thought that Benjamin Franklin's political cartoon from over 200 years ago would still be relevant--acutely literal, in fact--today?

R