Often, I get labeled a "pessimist." This is not wholly absurd, but it is inaccurate. In the recent past, I understand how such a moniker could fall on me. Any positive event would diminish due to my grumbling, no matter how fickle or momentous. To the untrained eye, perhaps, not much has changed. This is not true. I do have an excuse that would make pessimism acceptable--multiple sclerosis is a bitch, so I can bitch. Ultimately, this gets old and boring, and I recognized this and changed my mindset. I'm certainly not a pie-eyed optimist, but I am a staunch realist and, subsequently, a pragmatist.
I still don't wantonly revel in good news. This would not only be disingenuous but foolish. The hammer could come down at any time, and rather than be prepared (which would necessitate a fatalism that would bring me down consistently), I am removed and dispassionate. I received some "good news" earlier today, because my recent MRI didn't display any new lesions on my brain. Like a dentist always telling me that I had cavities (until recently, after I had been using my Sonicare), I have come to expect a doctor telling me that there were new lesions (by the way, I still think of Tom Hanks's character in Philadelphia when I hear that word). Each time I saw a doctor after an MRI, I expected to hear news about a new finding. Or findings. Not this time. Yippee--but it's still early.
That's not necessarily a negative thought. It actually shows an acknowledgment of a possibility, rather than an inevitability. I would not have been stunned if such news had been given, but I was relieved when it wasn't. This shows the crucial distinction between the two mindsets, because a pessimist would have expected only the worst.
One could hardly have been blamed, though, since MS only affects 0.001% of the population. That minuscule wrench has to come from somewhere, or someone. Since whenever I first became formally diagnosed (I have forgotten the exact month/timeframe, because I can and don't want to dwell on precise dates), I have become only more aloof and lazily accepting of the fact that I could be that one aberration, and am, in this instance. Like the Al Franken book of the same title, I proceed with the attitude of "Why Not Me?"
I didn't want to hear about new lesions found on the MRI, but I was prepared to accept them. Next week, I have an appointment with a neurologist at Rush University Medical Center, and would only have added a "Where do we go from here?" inquiry to my litany, which almost certainly will be forgotten. One such question surrounds Tysabri, an intravenous drug administered once a month. It has been fatal in at least two patients, and may cause multifocal leukoencephalopathy--a long medical term, which is never a good thing. I figure, though, that if you're unlucky enough to be struck by lightning once, twice would be poetic overkill. Yes, some people have died, but the numbers are incredibly small and inconsequential, so I've come to regard them as negligible. Furthermore, chemo is more likely to be fatal, and I've already done that, so another brush with remote death seems nowhere near as frightening as it might once have been.
Like Hillary Clinton and later John McCain, I've adopted a "kitchen-sink" approach to my treatment. I figure that's less disturbing than "scorch the earth," although I recognize the natural inclination to do that.
R
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
"I'll Take the GOP to Block"
Earlier tonight, President Obama gave his first "State of the Union" speech. It didn't have the florid rhetorical flourishes or powerful turns of phrase that he, as an orator, is known for. Those are more representative of his contentious primary battle with Hillary Clinton. After that arduous campaign, as well as the sniping of the national romp that ensued against John McCain & Co. (with Sarah Palin used shamelessly as a blunt tool powered by stupidity), he could hardly have delivered the same Lincoln-esque eloquence each time he walked up to the microphone. What he also hasn't done much of, so far, has been to use his tongue as a cudgel to confuse Republicans (not very hard, really) and take them on.
Tonight hopefully marked the end of the reticence that has plagued the administration so far. I've been extremely critical and fatalistic about Obama's remove from the act of actual governance. Sure, he, like about every politician that sat in the House Chamber of the Capitol's rotunda listening to the speech, has chosen to parse his words strategically, but this particular moment in American history calls for hard talk to his detractors. The GOP, though, has selfishly placed its own party ahead of national interests.
With their tolerance and indulgence of idiotic ideologues like Rush Limbaugh, etc., the GOP squirms like a frantic insect moments before its inevitable death. It's extra-disturbing, though, because it has chosen to burn anything down that emanates from the pen of Democratic legislators. I forget who it was specifically--let's say it was House Minority Leader (by the way, I wonder how xenophobic Republicans feel about being labeled "the minority") John Boehner, from Ohio--but someone explicitly urged his fellow Republicans to act like recalcitrant brats and foil any attempt to pass anything in Congress. So far, this frustrating strategy of defiance has worked quite well. Take the health care bill, for example--earmarks of tepid, craven Democrats have made it disgustingly bloated, like the gluttonous murder victim in Se7en. I want to dismiss it wholly like Matt Taibbi, but realistically something has to be passed so I find myself grudgingly agreeing with the "pass something--anything" argument espoused by numerous pundits and commentators like Paul Krugman. Too much time has passed to do nothing.
That's what the GOP would like to do, though, and attempts at meaningful bipartisanship have failed. Now, with the election of Scott Brown over Martha Coakley in the Massachusetts Senate race, further compromise looks inevitable. Who knows, though? Maybe Brown will be the maverick that McCain never really was, although I doubt it so much that the mere idea of a Republican crossing the aisle in the name of pragmatism is ludicrous. I remember when John Roberts was going through all the confirmation rigmarole that ended anticlimactically with him being named the new Chief Justice. People optimistically (see: foolishly) thought that maybe he'd vote against his political affiliations. Lo and behold, he hasn't, and now oversees a dangerous razor-thin conservative majority on the Supreme Court.
The Court's recent decision to allow corporations to contribute nearly heedlessly to political campaigns served as a stark reminder that a reckless Republican agenda is still very much alive, and needs to be quashed. Obama campaigned on the hope of bipartisanship, but it has become clearer and clearer that this is an impossibility. Lest we forget, many Americans are really fucking stupid and their opinions should be immediately disregarded and jettisoned. Anyone who's ever seriously participated in a "Tea Party" that didn't spring from the mind of a puerile girl should face a firing squad. Now.
It was heartening to hear Obama talk tough to a divided Congress. I hope he continues to do so, and doesn't lapse into the same pusillanimous mindset that led him to leave health care up to Congress. Bad idea.
Previously, the Republican/Democrat dichotomy was summarized as "the party of bad ideas vs. the party of no ideas." Over the past year, that has confusingly switched to "Democrat vs. Republican." Obama sounded like he's finally ready to acknowledge this, but his struggle will be even tougher now with the possibility of a filibuster.
TS--the party is over, you are President, so now you have to do something. Like, oh, be President. And Republicans--get out of the way if you can't/won't lend a hand. This isn't Hollywood Squares, and your "no no no" attitude needs to be thrown out as violently as I always wanted to toss Whoopi from the center square.
R
Tonight hopefully marked the end of the reticence that has plagued the administration so far. I've been extremely critical and fatalistic about Obama's remove from the act of actual governance. Sure, he, like about every politician that sat in the House Chamber of the Capitol's rotunda listening to the speech, has chosen to parse his words strategically, but this particular moment in American history calls for hard talk to his detractors. The GOP, though, has selfishly placed its own party ahead of national interests.
With their tolerance and indulgence of idiotic ideologues like Rush Limbaugh, etc., the GOP squirms like a frantic insect moments before its inevitable death. It's extra-disturbing, though, because it has chosen to burn anything down that emanates from the pen of Democratic legislators. I forget who it was specifically--let's say it was House Minority Leader (by the way, I wonder how xenophobic Republicans feel about being labeled "the minority") John Boehner, from Ohio--but someone explicitly urged his fellow Republicans to act like recalcitrant brats and foil any attempt to pass anything in Congress. So far, this frustrating strategy of defiance has worked quite well. Take the health care bill, for example--earmarks of tepid, craven Democrats have made it disgustingly bloated, like the gluttonous murder victim in Se7en. I want to dismiss it wholly like Matt Taibbi, but realistically something has to be passed so I find myself grudgingly agreeing with the "pass something--anything" argument espoused by numerous pundits and commentators like Paul Krugman. Too much time has passed to do nothing.
That's what the GOP would like to do, though, and attempts at meaningful bipartisanship have failed. Now, with the election of Scott Brown over Martha Coakley in the Massachusetts Senate race, further compromise looks inevitable. Who knows, though? Maybe Brown will be the maverick that McCain never really was, although I doubt it so much that the mere idea of a Republican crossing the aisle in the name of pragmatism is ludicrous. I remember when John Roberts was going through all the confirmation rigmarole that ended anticlimactically with him being named the new Chief Justice. People optimistically (see: foolishly) thought that maybe he'd vote against his political affiliations. Lo and behold, he hasn't, and now oversees a dangerous razor-thin conservative majority on the Supreme Court.
The Court's recent decision to allow corporations to contribute nearly heedlessly to political campaigns served as a stark reminder that a reckless Republican agenda is still very much alive, and needs to be quashed. Obama campaigned on the hope of bipartisanship, but it has become clearer and clearer that this is an impossibility. Lest we forget, many Americans are really fucking stupid and their opinions should be immediately disregarded and jettisoned. Anyone who's ever seriously participated in a "Tea Party" that didn't spring from the mind of a puerile girl should face a firing squad. Now.
It was heartening to hear Obama talk tough to a divided Congress. I hope he continues to do so, and doesn't lapse into the same pusillanimous mindset that led him to leave health care up to Congress. Bad idea.
Previously, the Republican/Democrat dichotomy was summarized as "the party of bad ideas vs. the party of no ideas." Over the past year, that has confusingly switched to "Democrat vs. Republican." Obama sounded like he's finally ready to acknowledge this, but his struggle will be even tougher now with the possibility of a filibuster.
TS--the party is over, you are President, so now you have to do something. Like, oh, be President. And Republicans--get out of the way if you can't/won't lend a hand. This isn't Hollywood Squares, and your "no no no" attitude needs to be thrown out as violently as I always wanted to toss Whoopi from the center square.
R
Thursday, January 21, 2010
When Redolence Becomes Cloying
I watched a bit of Ghostbusters yesterday, and one line in particular jumped out at me. Actually, dozens of snippets of dialogue stood out, but the one that seemed particularly relevant was when Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray stand outside a particularly hulking building on the Columbia campus. After they've been told by the dean that the board has voted to revoke their grant, the two discuss what they're going to do next. Murray's Peter Venkman is blase about their prospects, and Aykroyd's Ray Stanz is worried about being fired and pessimistic about the future. "You don't know what it's like out there. I've worked in the private sector. They expect results." Unfortunately, this is now more pertinent than ever.
Anyone who has done comparably little in his job (I count myself among those in these ranks, because no matter how you spin it, a Bates label is just a sticker) understands this, and since the inauguration it has strikingly been applicable to President Obama. I've said it before, but Bush Mach 2 was easily the worst president in American history. At the very least, though, he DID things. They were short-sighted, stupid, and altogether reckless, but he made sure that they got done. Obama, on the other hand, means well--and his influence stops there. The immediate picture that I have of him in my mind shows the bottom of his shoes. "Oh--they're scuffed!," we thought then. Now, though, I'm more struck by the fact that his feet were even up. I dismissed this sort of square thinking a while ago because he had so much to do and such a gesture was the least of the problems he faced.
He hasn't faced them, though. Obama perpetually seems to have his feet up. Take health care, for example. He made it clear that reform was a major concern for his administration, but then punted (feet still up--in the air) to let Congress deal with it. Congress has now become the "vast wasteland" that Newton Minow, then the FCC chairman, said television had become in 1961. The bloated (I wish I could call it "bombastic," but pages of dry legislation hardly warrants it) bill now contains so many earmarks and disclaimers that it now should be used as the valueless wallpaper it so closely resembles. And what do we get from Obama? A metaphorical shrug presented as more eloquent words. This has become incorrect, because his speeches have become less and less impactful, both in their poise and in their message. Whereas during the campaign we had great speeches on various issues like race and the future of America, now we get fortune cookies that deliver the same message as during Bush's term.
The 2010 Senate election in Massachusetts, which pitted Democrat Martha Coakley against Republican Scott Brown, underscored how removed Obama has been. Sure, it's a Massachusetts election, and Coakley blundered many times in her repeated gaffes, but it's truly an affront that Ted Kennedy's long-held seat will be occupied by a Republican for the next six years (at least). Coakley said things on the campaign trail that were reminiscent of Dan Quayle--like referring to Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling as a "Yankee fan." She obviously was an awful choice to take Kennedy's place, but it's not as if her Republican counterpart was any better. Brown infamously posed nude for Cosmopolitan in 1982, and the photos could have been an example of one mistakenly inserted into his roll by George Costanza. This didn't matter, evidently, because Brown beat Coakley (about 52% to 47%) and will take over Ted Kennedy's Senate seat. I know that a lot has been made of this, but it's still not nearly enough. Ted Kennedy's seat will go to a REPUBLICAN.
Just before the election, Obama went to Boston to campaign for Coakley. With his track record of uselessly campaigning for the Olympics in Chicago, his lack of pull and utility was wholly evident when she, too, lost. Remember Teddy Roosevelt's credo of "speak softly and carry a big stick"? Obama has seemingly misheard it and changed it, in a year, to "speak flowerily and brandish a twig." The pen may, aphoristically, be mightier than the sword, but the sword can leave some unrecognizably disfigured. With Obama, neither his pen nor his sword intimidates me.
The "cool" tag for Obama has frozen over. Now he just seems like a dick. Careful deliberation seems like he's stalling. Occasional whiffs of contemplation are fine, but his jaunts of insouciance now register as arrogance rather than thoughtfulness. Doing nothing is easy--ask him. I always hear people say things like, "It's only his first year. Give him a break." Siren songs don't have to be symphonies, though. Once they do their job, the rest happens imperceptibly.
I still hope that he'll surprise me somehow, but so far he's lulled me to sleep like the poppies in The Wizard of Oz. (Almost. My conscious brain functions as the snow that vanquishes the danger of the opium.) Bush did terrible things, but at least I was always awake and alert to marvel at them incredulously. With Obama, I just want to nap.
R
Anyone who has done comparably little in his job (I count myself among those in these ranks, because no matter how you spin it, a Bates label is just a sticker) understands this, and since the inauguration it has strikingly been applicable to President Obama. I've said it before, but Bush Mach 2 was easily the worst president in American history. At the very least, though, he DID things. They were short-sighted, stupid, and altogether reckless, but he made sure that they got done. Obama, on the other hand, means well--and his influence stops there. The immediate picture that I have of him in my mind shows the bottom of his shoes. "Oh--they're scuffed!," we thought then. Now, though, I'm more struck by the fact that his feet were even up. I dismissed this sort of square thinking a while ago because he had so much to do and such a gesture was the least of the problems he faced.
He hasn't faced them, though. Obama perpetually seems to have his feet up. Take health care, for example. He made it clear that reform was a major concern for his administration, but then punted (feet still up--in the air) to let Congress deal with it. Congress has now become the "vast wasteland" that Newton Minow, then the FCC chairman, said television had become in 1961. The bloated (I wish I could call it "bombastic," but pages of dry legislation hardly warrants it) bill now contains so many earmarks and disclaimers that it now should be used as the valueless wallpaper it so closely resembles. And what do we get from Obama? A metaphorical shrug presented as more eloquent words. This has become incorrect, because his speeches have become less and less impactful, both in their poise and in their message. Whereas during the campaign we had great speeches on various issues like race and the future of America, now we get fortune cookies that deliver the same message as during Bush's term.
The 2010 Senate election in Massachusetts, which pitted Democrat Martha Coakley against Republican Scott Brown, underscored how removed Obama has been. Sure, it's a Massachusetts election, and Coakley blundered many times in her repeated gaffes, but it's truly an affront that Ted Kennedy's long-held seat will be occupied by a Republican for the next six years (at least). Coakley said things on the campaign trail that were reminiscent of Dan Quayle--like referring to Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling as a "Yankee fan." She obviously was an awful choice to take Kennedy's place, but it's not as if her Republican counterpart was any better. Brown infamously posed nude for Cosmopolitan in 1982, and the photos could have been an example of one mistakenly inserted into his roll by George Costanza. This didn't matter, evidently, because Brown beat Coakley (about 52% to 47%) and will take over Ted Kennedy's Senate seat. I know that a lot has been made of this, but it's still not nearly enough. Ted Kennedy's seat will go to a REPUBLICAN.
Just before the election, Obama went to Boston to campaign for Coakley. With his track record of uselessly campaigning for the Olympics in Chicago, his lack of pull and utility was wholly evident when she, too, lost. Remember Teddy Roosevelt's credo of "speak softly and carry a big stick"? Obama has seemingly misheard it and changed it, in a year, to "speak flowerily and brandish a twig." The pen may, aphoristically, be mightier than the sword, but the sword can leave some unrecognizably disfigured. With Obama, neither his pen nor his sword intimidates me.
The "cool" tag for Obama has frozen over. Now he just seems like a dick. Careful deliberation seems like he's stalling. Occasional whiffs of contemplation are fine, but his jaunts of insouciance now register as arrogance rather than thoughtfulness. Doing nothing is easy--ask him. I always hear people say things like, "It's only his first year. Give him a break." Siren songs don't have to be symphonies, though. Once they do their job, the rest happens imperceptibly.
I still hope that he'll surprise me somehow, but so far he's lulled me to sleep like the poppies in The Wizard of Oz. (Almost. My conscious brain functions as the snow that vanquishes the danger of the opium.) Bush did terrible things, but at least I was always awake and alert to marvel at them incredulously. With Obama, I just want to nap.
R
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Haiti: Not the Time for Sadism, or Schadenfreude
Leave it to shameless partisans (on the right) and religious lunatics/zealots (also on the right) to politicize a natural disaster. Shit happens, and cannot be attributed to anything other than dumb luck--bad luck. When a jackass like Rush Limbaugh or Pat Robertson spews anything controversial, it cannot be dissected. This would validate the inanity of its sensational idiocy. It only gets worse when an insidious loser like David Brooks throws his hat into the ring. I refuse to offer a link to his column for the New York Times, but I will provide access to Matt Taibbi's pointed, blunt rebuttal.
Amid such complete disaster and horrors, it's an easy, and cheap, rhetorical sophistry to use something atrocious as a blunt, awkward cudgel to illustrate a point. The problem, though, is that it reeks of bad taste and utter insouciance to do so. Limbaugh is an idiot, and regularly says nonsense that his listeners frequently follow. So I wasn't surprised to hear that he said something uncouth about the tragedy, although I was disgusted with his coldness. And just him in general.
The same goes for Pat Robertson. He has attained the tolerability of age, but this does not mitigate the crazy proclamations he makes. He said similar despicable things about New Orleans and its denizens when Hurricane Katrina hit. That disaster was horrible, but the earthquake in Haiti makes it look like a fickle rainshower (the mind can hold something that results in dozens dead, but thousands is incomprehensible, especially when the culprit cannot be embodied. The Holocaust was more devastating, of course, but at least it could demonize, rightfully, Hitler & Co.). So translating it into religious terms is both irresponsible and infuriating.
Both disasters exposed the rampant incompetence of those who responded. FEMA, as run by Michael "Brownie" Brown, did little to contain the devastation of Hurricane Katrina and the hard-hit poor of New Orleans, and it's hard to think of one person who could be held responsible for the Haiti earthquake--although someone, no doubt, will. In the early days after the calamity, awful images regularly still flash on television screens. Turning the earthquake into an instrument of propaganda is a cheap, crass gambit that should shame whoever wants to do it. Yes, this happened and that should have happened, but it did and that didn't, so move on. Sitting in front of a microphone and talking is easy, and listening is easier, except when what is being said is an affront to decency. Irony runs out when something is as offensive as what any of these people said. We're humans, and it's wrong--just wrong--to think dismissively about such desolation.
You may wish harm on someone else, but this has its limits. No one who's not a reckless psychopath can envision something as, pardon the pun, earth-shattering as the earthquake and its fall-out in Haiti. I could never develop a scenario as big and terrible as the one there. Perhaps this also says something about my limited imagination. On the plus side, though, I'd never subject anyone to sitting through something as inane as 2012. I might not think up such catastrophes, but I can--and do--wish them on those who choose to use it as an opportunity to air their dumb political thoughts and inclinations. Limbaugh is deaf, and relies on a cochlear implant, but he can still talk, which is heaven for a moron. You can talk and talk and never hear the audible objections from rational dissenters.
Not once--even for an instant--did I think about fantastically switching places with a Haitian resident who, unlike me, does not have MS. There is irony in mentioning something and then denying its potential existence, but screw it--I'm chalking it up to empathy and not to aloof selfishness. I, clearly, do not even consider this a possibility. I do, though, recognize that the impulse toward that sort of magical thinking exists.
Sadism and schadenfreude may not be acceptable with regard to victims of capacious natural disasters, but they're oddly applicable to tone-deaf asses like Limbaugh or Robertson. Or intellectual charlatans like David Brooks.
R
Amid such complete disaster and horrors, it's an easy, and cheap, rhetorical sophistry to use something atrocious as a blunt, awkward cudgel to illustrate a point. The problem, though, is that it reeks of bad taste and utter insouciance to do so. Limbaugh is an idiot, and regularly says nonsense that his listeners frequently follow. So I wasn't surprised to hear that he said something uncouth about the tragedy, although I was disgusted with his coldness. And just him in general.
The same goes for Pat Robertson. He has attained the tolerability of age, but this does not mitigate the crazy proclamations he makes. He said similar despicable things about New Orleans and its denizens when Hurricane Katrina hit. That disaster was horrible, but the earthquake in Haiti makes it look like a fickle rainshower (the mind can hold something that results in dozens dead, but thousands is incomprehensible, especially when the culprit cannot be embodied. The Holocaust was more devastating, of course, but at least it could demonize, rightfully, Hitler & Co.). So translating it into religious terms is both irresponsible and infuriating.
Both disasters exposed the rampant incompetence of those who responded. FEMA, as run by Michael "Brownie" Brown, did little to contain the devastation of Hurricane Katrina and the hard-hit poor of New Orleans, and it's hard to think of one person who could be held responsible for the Haiti earthquake--although someone, no doubt, will. In the early days after the calamity, awful images regularly still flash on television screens. Turning the earthquake into an instrument of propaganda is a cheap, crass gambit that should shame whoever wants to do it. Yes, this happened and that should have happened, but it did and that didn't, so move on. Sitting in front of a microphone and talking is easy, and listening is easier, except when what is being said is an affront to decency. Irony runs out when something is as offensive as what any of these people said. We're humans, and it's wrong--just wrong--to think dismissively about such desolation.
You may wish harm on someone else, but this has its limits. No one who's not a reckless psychopath can envision something as, pardon the pun, earth-shattering as the earthquake and its fall-out in Haiti. I could never develop a scenario as big and terrible as the one there. Perhaps this also says something about my limited imagination. On the plus side, though, I'd never subject anyone to sitting through something as inane as 2012. I might not think up such catastrophes, but I can--and do--wish them on those who choose to use it as an opportunity to air their dumb political thoughts and inclinations. Limbaugh is deaf, and relies on a cochlear implant, but he can still talk, which is heaven for a moron. You can talk and talk and never hear the audible objections from rational dissenters.
Not once--even for an instant--did I think about fantastically switching places with a Haitian resident who, unlike me, does not have MS. There is irony in mentioning something and then denying its potential existence, but screw it--I'm chalking it up to empathy and not to aloof selfishness. I, clearly, do not even consider this a possibility. I do, though, recognize that the impulse toward that sort of magical thinking exists.
Sadism and schadenfreude may not be acceptable with regard to victims of capacious natural disasters, but they're oddly applicable to tone-deaf asses like Limbaugh or Robertson. Or intellectual charlatans like David Brooks.
R
Thursday, January 14, 2010
I'm Not Kidding
Often, I get the impression that people don't believe me when I say that I don't care. In the past, this may have been a shrewd stance to take, because I was probably acting or saying things histrionically just to gauge reactions. Now, though, I really don't give a shit. I'm almost geriatric in my complete nonchalance. Old people have stopped caring about impressions because they realize, in their advanced age, that whatever they say or do could be misconstrued, and so they have resolved to be as they are, for better or worse. Certain societal pleasantries strike them as absurd, or simply extraneous, and so they cut them out or off before they have a chance to take hold.
The problem with this is that some choose to express their remove with insults or barbs. Luckily, I've curtailed this impulse considerably. I can still be acerbic, but now I am content to be aloof. The mental image one has when the word "aloof" gets thrown around is an oaf shrugging. This connotes confusion (born of stupidity), which, I assure you, is not the case. Either that, or someone napping springs to mind. I may be more willing to nap than usual, but am frequently prevented from doing so because of Provigil. I used to resent not being able to sleep, but now it is like a burner under my ass that makes me get up and move. If not, I might really be the picture of a typical depressive.
It irks me when someone mopes around noticeably. Trying not to be noticed ironically, and hypocritically, is its own form of attention-seeking. This is one of the reasons that the goth look is bullshit. You can't really espouse a "don't look at me" attitude wearing a dog collar and jackboots. Flamboyance always attracts attention, and nail polish is actually no different than shouting at the sky, a mohawk, or a Harley Davidson. This last one annoys me considerably in that it gives tools a platform and a megaphone in the form of a loud sputtering tailpipe, and I'm so glad that South Park (which also made fun of goths' ethos of nonconformity, which of course becomes its own form of conformity) chose to call these enthusiasts just what they are: idiots. (Or something more crude that I've grown out of saying since high school.)
As you can see, I'm not totally without boundaries or guidance. This is what drives me insane when it comes to condescension from theists. Like I've said, I'm an aloof nontheist. So when somebody associates not believing in God with a sociopathic, or psychopathic, streak, it's insulting. You know what keeps me from walking into a mall and killing dozens of people with some sort of gun? 1. Guns scare me, and 2. That's fucking WRONG. Beyond being an indicator of severe mental illness, mass murder takes a lot of effort. I've said it before, but I'm lazy. I'm also not (some may disagree, but fuck them) crazy.
I do a lot of things that may seem rude. I may not immediately say "Hello" or respond to someone's inane question. In fact, though, I likely am trying to orient myself and so miss such overt cues to speak. It still occurs to me to do things that I don't, but now some impulses disappear like dust in the wind (to quote Kansas, of all horrible bands. I just saw Old School again, though, so that song permeates my psyche way more than it ever should. And Red Dawn was on cable too, so I might shout, apropos of nothing, "WOLVERINES!")
Last Friday, I got sufficiently sick of waiting for the stem cell procedure results to be felt and seen, so I gave myself a shot of Avonex. The point of the procedure was to render that mode of treatment moot. I still adamantly believe that interferons are ultimately deceptive and insufficient in their treatment, but I figured, "What the hell?" The injection is traumatic in its application--the needle is huge, as I've shown--and horribly annoying when it comes to the twelve-hour flu-like side effects that are the trademark of any interferon. Still, I gave myself the shot because I thought, "Why not?" I thought about the stem cell study and how this may cloud the findings, but I quickly dismissed this apprehension and adopted the attitude that, I'm guessing, a lot of prospective mothers have before they decide on having an abortion: "What the hell? It's my body."
It's unclear whether the noticeable improvement I felt was the result of the shot or the procedure, but both can coexist as far as I'm concerned. I told my nurse that the two should not be mutually exclusive. I understand that one may pollute the findings of the other, but I'm really not concerned with the purity of the study at the expense of my own personal health. It's my body, for better or worse, and I'll do with it what I please--which is a limited smorgasbord of options as it is. This may sound like the callow Cartman--"I do what I want!"--and it may be querulous, but whateva. I do what I want!
I refuse to be beholden to parameters that have been set up by the directors of the study. I have nothing against them, and understand why they would rather I not do this. However, I did what I did because I wanted to do it. This sounds bratty, but, with multiple sclerosis and other ailments, it's important to do whatever you believe will help you. In my case, it was starting Avonex again.
It's not like I enjoy taking the shot. Everything about it sucks--the needle, the blood, the side effects, etc.--so it's not as if I took it because I like it. That's crazy, and I'm not a clinical maniac. Anything that may improve my quality of life will be tried. Except Farmville.
It may upset some people, but I don't care. I'm not kidding. I DON'T CARE.
R
The problem with this is that some choose to express their remove with insults or barbs. Luckily, I've curtailed this impulse considerably. I can still be acerbic, but now I am content to be aloof. The mental image one has when the word "aloof" gets thrown around is an oaf shrugging. This connotes confusion (born of stupidity), which, I assure you, is not the case. Either that, or someone napping springs to mind. I may be more willing to nap than usual, but am frequently prevented from doing so because of Provigil. I used to resent not being able to sleep, but now it is like a burner under my ass that makes me get up and move. If not, I might really be the picture of a typical depressive.
It irks me when someone mopes around noticeably. Trying not to be noticed ironically, and hypocritically, is its own form of attention-seeking. This is one of the reasons that the goth look is bullshit. You can't really espouse a "don't look at me" attitude wearing a dog collar and jackboots. Flamboyance always attracts attention, and nail polish is actually no different than shouting at the sky, a mohawk, or a Harley Davidson. This last one annoys me considerably in that it gives tools a platform and a megaphone in the form of a loud sputtering tailpipe, and I'm so glad that South Park (which also made fun of goths' ethos of nonconformity, which of course becomes its own form of conformity) chose to call these enthusiasts just what they are: idiots. (Or something more crude that I've grown out of saying since high school.)
As you can see, I'm not totally without boundaries or guidance. This is what drives me insane when it comes to condescension from theists. Like I've said, I'm an aloof nontheist. So when somebody associates not believing in God with a sociopathic, or psychopathic, streak, it's insulting. You know what keeps me from walking into a mall and killing dozens of people with some sort of gun? 1. Guns scare me, and 2. That's fucking WRONG. Beyond being an indicator of severe mental illness, mass murder takes a lot of effort. I've said it before, but I'm lazy. I'm also not (some may disagree, but fuck them) crazy.
I do a lot of things that may seem rude. I may not immediately say "Hello" or respond to someone's inane question. In fact, though, I likely am trying to orient myself and so miss such overt cues to speak. It still occurs to me to do things that I don't, but now some impulses disappear like dust in the wind (to quote Kansas, of all horrible bands. I just saw Old School again, though, so that song permeates my psyche way more than it ever should. And Red Dawn was on cable too, so I might shout, apropos of nothing, "WOLVERINES!")
Last Friday, I got sufficiently sick of waiting for the stem cell procedure results to be felt and seen, so I gave myself a shot of Avonex. The point of the procedure was to render that mode of treatment moot. I still adamantly believe that interferons are ultimately deceptive and insufficient in their treatment, but I figured, "What the hell?" The injection is traumatic in its application--the needle is huge, as I've shown--and horribly annoying when it comes to the twelve-hour flu-like side effects that are the trademark of any interferon. Still, I gave myself the shot because I thought, "Why not?" I thought about the stem cell study and how this may cloud the findings, but I quickly dismissed this apprehension and adopted the attitude that, I'm guessing, a lot of prospective mothers have before they decide on having an abortion: "What the hell? It's my body."
It's unclear whether the noticeable improvement I felt was the result of the shot or the procedure, but both can coexist as far as I'm concerned. I told my nurse that the two should not be mutually exclusive. I understand that one may pollute the findings of the other, but I'm really not concerned with the purity of the study at the expense of my own personal health. It's my body, for better or worse, and I'll do with it what I please--which is a limited smorgasbord of options as it is. This may sound like the callow Cartman--"I do what I want!"--and it may be querulous, but whateva. I do what I want!
I refuse to be beholden to parameters that have been set up by the directors of the study. I have nothing against them, and understand why they would rather I not do this. However, I did what I did because I wanted to do it. This sounds bratty, but, with multiple sclerosis and other ailments, it's important to do whatever you believe will help you. In my case, it was starting Avonex again.
It's not like I enjoy taking the shot. Everything about it sucks--the needle, the blood, the side effects, etc.--so it's not as if I took it because I like it. That's crazy, and I'm not a clinical maniac. Anything that may improve my quality of life will be tried. Except Farmville.
It may upset some people, but I don't care. I'm not kidding. I DON'T CARE.
R
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Bittersweet Playoffs
Often, I do not blindly enjoy things while they are still happening, because I know that everything will end eventually. I've gotten better at recognizing the ephemeralness of, well, everything. Sometimes, though, an imminent deadline will knock me on my ass. I was shaken back into coherence this past weekend when I remembered that the NFL regular season is over, and now the playoffs are under way.
The playoffs themselves are great. What else could they be? Each year eclipses the year before, and really the previous 16 games. Nobody remembers that the New England Patriots went undefeated in the 2007 regular season. Well, obviously not nobody, but that achievement was diminished because of the team's loss to the New York Giants in the Super Bowl. The Giants' win was that much more astounding because they beat an unbeatable (until then) team, and I remembered it recently thinking about the exemplary play of then-heralded but now reviled Plaxico Burress. He's a moron, no doubt, and I wish that everyone who owns a gun would be so lucky as to shoot himself in the leg. He did, though, catch the pass that beat the Patriots, so I irrationally overlook the obviously deplorable circumstances of his future idiocy. The same goes for my willingness to turn my head at the despicable Roman Polanski. I mean, the guy made Chinatown. And his fiance was killed by the minions of Charles Manson. I know that nothing excuses his terrible treatment of that 13-year-old girl, but he also survived the Holocaust, so I sometimes let this tidbit obscure his "alleged" brutality. (After such a rash act like his evasive flight from the country, possibilities harden into facts, in my mind.)
Earlier I listened to Patton Oswalt talk about the prowess of Gale Sayers. (Really.) He said that even if you could never do anything that compared to his running, you can still appreciate the grace and indomitability of his technique moving with a football. It is one of the most immediate gratification available these days, on YouTube and the like. I understand that about Sayers, and also feel that way when I see Adrian Peterson rush. Sometimes. He didn't exactly set the world on fire this year, but Brett Favre did. When he turned 40 last year, subtle insults from commentators came pouring in. "Does he still have it?" He's 40, you asshole, not 400.
Here's the thing, though: the playoffs remind me that an imminent hiatus is immanent. From February to August I'll have to rely on the NFL Network to satiate my thirst for the NFL (college football, as I've said, bores me). There's baseball, I know, but watching the MLB is like getting a fistful of methadone when you're a heroin addict. It's absurdly insufficient. So I've been told.
I get to watch teams that have tried to be elusive. I still don't give a shit about the Bengals, but I respect the Saints, even if they have lost some of their luster in recent weeks after losing their perfect season. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise (see: the 2007 Patriots again.) They get to play Kurt Warner & the Cardinals next, and I hope that Drew Brees makes the older QB look even older.
What's funny, too, is that I actually watch the NFL so I know what the hell the commentators are talking about. Except Troy Aikman, who's replaced Bill Walton at the head of the line of sports analysts that should never be allowed near a microphone. My favorite quote of Walton's was his trenchant observation that "The Lakers need to put the ball in the basket" during the 1991 Finals against the Bulls. Joe Buck is no Marv Albert, though, and every time he opens his mouth I get Vietnam flashbacks of irrational rage. All you need to know about Joe Buck is that he's probably looking forward to the upcoming baseball season. So am I, sort of, but for a very different reason: I don't have to endure inane commentary, although I do have to put up with 162 games that cannot convince me of the beauty of a perfectly-placed bunt. Yawn. What Al Michaels or Cris Collinsworth says, though, I pay attention to.
Joe Buck deals with such luminaries as Troy Aikman, though, so comments like "The [insert team name] need to win this game" go unchecked. Also, in case you're wondering, the team with the most points wins.
Aikman gets a pass because he admirably served his time in the league. Buck represents the worst of nepotism. His dad was Jack Buck, the famous voice of the St. Louis Cardinals.
Again, that's baseball. Ugh. & I'll be really crestfallen if a threatened lockout happens, & squashes the 2010 NFL season. I may even start watching European football aka soccer.
Just kidding--that would never happen.
R
The playoffs themselves are great. What else could they be? Each year eclipses the year before, and really the previous 16 games. Nobody remembers that the New England Patriots went undefeated in the 2007 regular season. Well, obviously not nobody, but that achievement was diminished because of the team's loss to the New York Giants in the Super Bowl. The Giants' win was that much more astounding because they beat an unbeatable (until then) team, and I remembered it recently thinking about the exemplary play of then-heralded but now reviled Plaxico Burress. He's a moron, no doubt, and I wish that everyone who owns a gun would be so lucky as to shoot himself in the leg. He did, though, catch the pass that beat the Patriots, so I irrationally overlook the obviously deplorable circumstances of his future idiocy. The same goes for my willingness to turn my head at the despicable Roman Polanski. I mean, the guy made Chinatown. And his fiance was killed by the minions of Charles Manson. I know that nothing excuses his terrible treatment of that 13-year-old girl, but he also survived the Holocaust, so I sometimes let this tidbit obscure his "alleged" brutality. (After such a rash act like his evasive flight from the country, possibilities harden into facts, in my mind.)
Earlier I listened to Patton Oswalt talk about the prowess of Gale Sayers. (Really.) He said that even if you could never do anything that compared to his running, you can still appreciate the grace and indomitability of his technique moving with a football. It is one of the most immediate gratification available these days, on YouTube and the like. I understand that about Sayers, and also feel that way when I see Adrian Peterson rush. Sometimes. He didn't exactly set the world on fire this year, but Brett Favre did. When he turned 40 last year, subtle insults from commentators came pouring in. "Does he still have it?" He's 40, you asshole, not 400.
Here's the thing, though: the playoffs remind me that an imminent hiatus is immanent. From February to August I'll have to rely on the NFL Network to satiate my thirst for the NFL (college football, as I've said, bores me). There's baseball, I know, but watching the MLB is like getting a fistful of methadone when you're a heroin addict. It's absurdly insufficient. So I've been told.
I get to watch teams that have tried to be elusive. I still don't give a shit about the Bengals, but I respect the Saints, even if they have lost some of their luster in recent weeks after losing their perfect season. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise (see: the 2007 Patriots again.) They get to play Kurt Warner & the Cardinals next, and I hope that Drew Brees makes the older QB look even older.
What's funny, too, is that I actually watch the NFL so I know what the hell the commentators are talking about. Except Troy Aikman, who's replaced Bill Walton at the head of the line of sports analysts that should never be allowed near a microphone. My favorite quote of Walton's was his trenchant observation that "The Lakers need to put the ball in the basket" during the 1991 Finals against the Bulls. Joe Buck is no Marv Albert, though, and every time he opens his mouth I get Vietnam flashbacks of irrational rage. All you need to know about Joe Buck is that he's probably looking forward to the upcoming baseball season. So am I, sort of, but for a very different reason: I don't have to endure inane commentary, although I do have to put up with 162 games that cannot convince me of the beauty of a perfectly-placed bunt. Yawn. What Al Michaels or Cris Collinsworth says, though, I pay attention to.
Joe Buck deals with such luminaries as Troy Aikman, though, so comments like "The [insert team name] need to win this game" go unchecked. Also, in case you're wondering, the team with the most points wins.
Aikman gets a pass because he admirably served his time in the league. Buck represents the worst of nepotism. His dad was Jack Buck, the famous voice of the St. Louis Cardinals.
Again, that's baseball. Ugh. & I'll be really crestfallen if a threatened lockout happens, & squashes the 2010 NFL season. I may even start watching European football aka soccer.
Just kidding--that would never happen.
R
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Better Late Than Never
Yesterday I listened to Blakroc's eponymous album, and was blown away by its accomplished fusion of hip-hop and rock. A few years ago, I remember when such pairings were all the rage. Early examples went as far back as Run-DMC's collaboration with Aerosmith on "Walk This Way." Then, there were terrible other examples that became grouped under the awful heading of "rap/rock." Think Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park, but not for too long. The idea itself, though, should not have been disregarded because early stabs at the mixture of distinctly different genres were abysmal.
Around this time of the year (ie New Year's), we have to endure endless lists that gather the "best of" the previous twelve months. If December 31st happens to signal the end of a whole decade, these months usually become years. In 2009, this happened like, pardon the pun, clockwork. One particularly egregious list came from David Wild, a hack music critic who regularly contributes to Rolling Stone. He reminds me of Wallace Shawn, but more fat and repulsive. I remember seeing an episode of some TV show where he interviewed Lou Reed and I kept waiting for Reed to silence him, but he indulged Wild's inane requests. I think that he was being polite by obliging Wild's annoying clamors for demonstration. He could have leveled the dumb "journalist," but instead spared him. I wish, though, that he had released some of the vitriol I'm sure he felt.
Enough of that--if I think about David Wild for too long, my muscles clench and subsequently receive no release in the form of a swift punch or kick to his teeth. I did read, however, a bunch of year-end lists that didn't piss me off. For instance, Jim DeRogatis, of the Chicago Sun-Times, delighted me as he normally does. He's not a great writer, but his opinions of popular music don't cause me to chortle as much as others do--I'm thinking of Greg Kot of the Tribune, and his dependably annoying quota of world music that he places on his lists. DeRogatis put Ida Maria's Fortress 'Round My Heart at the top of his list. When I saw this, I nodded approvingly, even though it really came out in 2008.
I didn't see one mention of "Blakroc," though. It's an album with tracks controlled by the two members of The Black Keys, with a rotating roster of unappreciated emcees. I myself came to it late, but at least I appreciate how awesome it is. There are at least two distinct types of blues: Delta and Mississippi hill country. The former adheres to the predictable I-IV-V chord structure. The latter also may use only those inimitable three chords, but it chugs along rather than punching the changes emphatically.
This framework, championed by such artists as RL Burnside, Junior Kimbrough, and other artists on the Fat Possum label, works amazingly well with the grooves of hip-hop. I can't believe that a worthwhile collaboration took so long to materialize. The Black Keys stay away from the histrionic, flashy solos that come along with innumerable artists, both good and bad. Sometimes, in the case of The White Stripes, this showboating works, and, like the aforementioned Aerosmith, it can be a disaster. Either way, bands have tended to forget about blues without a reliance on the screaming scales. The Black Keys, though, have not. They have always played blues without the popular crutch of gaudy solos, and perhaps because of this have not enjoyed the success of several of their less original peers.
With Blakroc, it appears that they have finally broken through, and now command the ears of several less-well-known hip-hop acts. This is the culmination of attempts at maturation. It is probably good that it took so long for this merger to take place. Kinks were subsequently avoided, like the grandstanding that's so prevalent in hip-hop. It may have taken long to happen, but several easy missteps were dodged. Eventually, though, it's time to move along.
I don't mean neglect, but bold action. Too often, people are too concerned with their reception, and this fear renders the inevitable inaction, along with all of its dilatory dithering, pathetic and empty. Deadbeat dads, you know what I mean.
R
Around this time of the year (ie New Year's), we have to endure endless lists that gather the "best of" the previous twelve months. If December 31st happens to signal the end of a whole decade, these months usually become years. In 2009, this happened like, pardon the pun, clockwork. One particularly egregious list came from David Wild, a hack music critic who regularly contributes to Rolling Stone. He reminds me of Wallace Shawn, but more fat and repulsive. I remember seeing an episode of some TV show where he interviewed Lou Reed and I kept waiting for Reed to silence him, but he indulged Wild's inane requests. I think that he was being polite by obliging Wild's annoying clamors for demonstration. He could have leveled the dumb "journalist," but instead spared him. I wish, though, that he had released some of the vitriol I'm sure he felt.
Enough of that--if I think about David Wild for too long, my muscles clench and subsequently receive no release in the form of a swift punch or kick to his teeth. I did read, however, a bunch of year-end lists that didn't piss me off. For instance, Jim DeRogatis, of the Chicago Sun-Times, delighted me as he normally does. He's not a great writer, but his opinions of popular music don't cause me to chortle as much as others do--I'm thinking of Greg Kot of the Tribune, and his dependably annoying quota of world music that he places on his lists. DeRogatis put Ida Maria's Fortress 'Round My Heart at the top of his list. When I saw this, I nodded approvingly, even though it really came out in 2008.
I didn't see one mention of "Blakroc," though. It's an album with tracks controlled by the two members of The Black Keys, with a rotating roster of unappreciated emcees. I myself came to it late, but at least I appreciate how awesome it is. There are at least two distinct types of blues: Delta and Mississippi hill country. The former adheres to the predictable I-IV-V chord structure. The latter also may use only those inimitable three chords, but it chugs along rather than punching the changes emphatically.
This framework, championed by such artists as RL Burnside, Junior Kimbrough, and other artists on the Fat Possum label, works amazingly well with the grooves of hip-hop. I can't believe that a worthwhile collaboration took so long to materialize. The Black Keys stay away from the histrionic, flashy solos that come along with innumerable artists, both good and bad. Sometimes, in the case of The White Stripes, this showboating works, and, like the aforementioned Aerosmith, it can be a disaster. Either way, bands have tended to forget about blues without a reliance on the screaming scales. The Black Keys, though, have not. They have always played blues without the popular crutch of gaudy solos, and perhaps because of this have not enjoyed the success of several of their less original peers.
With Blakroc, it appears that they have finally broken through, and now command the ears of several less-well-known hip-hop acts. This is the culmination of attempts at maturation. It is probably good that it took so long for this merger to take place. Kinks were subsequently avoided, like the grandstanding that's so prevalent in hip-hop. It may have taken long to happen, but several easy missteps were dodged. Eventually, though, it's time to move along.
I don't mean neglect, but bold action. Too often, people are too concerned with their reception, and this fear renders the inevitable inaction, along with all of its dilatory dithering, pathetic and empty. Deadbeat dads, you know what I mean.
R
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