Last night I dreamed I was plugged right in
To a bubblin' hookah so high,
When all of a sudden some Arab jinni
Jump up just a-winkin' his eye.
"I'm here to obey all your wishes," he told me,
As for words I was trying to grope.
"Good buddy," I cried, "you could surely oblige me
By turnin' me on to some dope!"
With a bigfat smile he took ahold of my hand,
And we flew down the sky in a flash,
And the first thing I saw in the land where he took me
Was a whole solid mountain of hash!
All the tress was a-bloomin' with pink 'n' purple pills,
Whur the Romilar River flowed by,
To the magic mushrooms as wild as a rainbow,
So pretty that I wanted to cry.
All the girls come to greet us, so sweet in slow motion,
Morning glories woven into their hair,
Bringin' great big handfuls of snowy cocaine,
All their dope they were eager to share.
Well we dallied for days, just a-ballin' and smokin',
In the flowering Panama Red,
Just piggin' on peyote and nutmeg tea,
And those brownies so kind to your head.
Now I could've passed that good time forever,
And I really was fixing to stay,
But you know that jinni turned out t'be a narco man,
And he busted me right whur I lay.
And he took me back, to this cold, cold, cold world,
'N' now m' prison's whurever I be…
And I dream of the days back in Doperland
And I wonder, will I ever go free?


I am so sick of music, theatre, and all the bullshit that goes along with it.

You may think you win, but you don't. I won't let you.

All the world's a stage, and the men and women merely players. Nothing else is truer. You people don't just play someone else onstage. No, you come here to act, to play another part, because you're so good at it in real life.

Too bad for you I recognise bullshit quickly. Too bad for you I don't buy into it.
Well, I have something to tell you: Life doesn't hold tryouts. There's going to be a day when everything isn't handed to you on a silver platter. It's just theatre now, but one day, it will become school. Then work. And before you know it, you're going to be poor, jobless, friendless, and wondering where you went wrong.

Yeah, Shakespeare was right, all the world IS a stage. It's all an illusion. Nothing is real anymore. Life is like some sort of really, really rotten play.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

I don’t like getting into bed at night, It’s cold and I have no one to warm my hands and feet on. Mr moose isn’t very warm, but he is cuddly. Though if I get too close his fur tries to run up my nose.

When I can’t sleep I can’t really blame anyone, but when I do: I have nobody to beat up as I get rid of all the spiders in my sleep. They always crawl on me when I sleep but I can never find them. When the sound of snoring wakes me up I have no one else to blame for it. Then if I get bored at night there’s nobody there to entertain me. In fact, its quite boring having a whole quilt and bed to myself with no one to try and claim it from me.

The worst part is waking up; I don’t even get breakfast in bed! But I do get it sooner as I don’t spend as long convincing myself to go get it. But then when I do get it I can’t complain about the ratio of milk to cereal not being right.
My father's coming into town today. He's mainly coming to go with me to my consultation with the surgeon on Monday, but he's coming in a early so we have time to hang out and do something. We're going to see Bringing Down The House at some point, and I'm sure we'll watch The Simpsons like we always do when we get together. My parents moved to Omaha, NE past year, and before that they lived in Illiois for 2 years. Meanwhile, I've been in my apartment since 1999. Because of the long distances I only get to see them for a week in the summer and two weeks in December, so it'll be good to have him here for a few days.

As for the consultation, I have a list of questions to ask and hopefully won't go totally numb when I hear them. I'm still not looking forward to being sliced open, but it's a better alternative than wasting away to nothing in bed. My illness problems have grown worse, and now it's getting hard to keep down liquids. I've been basically in bed since Wednesday of last week. I've been thinking about all the things I'm going to eat when I am able to digest food again. I've thought about using steak meat for a pizza topping, among other things. I know I shouldn't be thinking about food right now, but the commercials on television just make it so hard; especially Checkers and their "You gotta eat" campaign.

Ah, the pain pills are kicking in. Time to go back to bed.

When I first met you, you were defrosting your freezer with a flaming spray can of ether. You asked me to pierce your ear, and when I did your lips turned white. It wasn't love at first sight. I thought you were one of the strangest looking people I had ever seen.

You were so funny, though. Not very many people could make me laugh when I was sixteen. And you were patient. I made you wait a whole year to kiss me, and you never complained.

All I ever wanted was to be your home, but you kept running away. You disappeared for days, and didn't tell me where you were going or when you would come back. Most of the time, you didn't even tell me you were leaving. Do you remember the morning you came home with a broken nose? You'd been wandering through the steam tunnels at MIT all night, and a manhole cover had fallen on your face. Do you remember all the times you lied to me - about Robin and Lois and Rachel and Lucinda. I could always tell when you were lying. You were so earnest.

Four years later, you couldn't believe I would rather stay home and defrost my freezer than go to dinner with you. What can I say? The freezer wasn't frost-free, and neither is my heart.

It's been 20 years, and I still think of you every time I defrost the freezer. Happy birthday, dumbass. I can't believe you're still alive.

Do you know I had wild flowers for you that day Dad? Before you were the first one to leave? I was not in kindergarten yet. I went with Mum for the daily trip to the hospital. I asked her to stop by the side of the road and picked them carefully. They were in my hand as we walked up the hospital hall and we heard crazed, desperate screaming. ‘Who is that?’ mum asked astonished. ‘your husband’. The doctors were so kind to me that day. They pulled me away from Mum, who thought she had to say her last goodbyes. They brought me to a small lounge. They had coffee and I had apple juice. They were probably pretty busy Dad, but they had so much time on that particular day to hear my name, my age, and all my stories. I don’t remember their faces. Mum came back, so sad and we left as I clutched the wild flowers wilting in my hand.

One thing I don’t remember, Dad, is the last day I saw you. The last time the ambulance took you away. The last thing you did was play a game of ‘Crazy 8s’ with your youngest daughter. Your wife told me she sobbed as she watched you mechanically lay down your cards while I was just thrilled that someone was playing with me. I’m so sorry I forgot that but one day after that, after fighting Cancer for two years, you were the first person to leave.

I remember the neighborhood husbands taking over your son’s paper route so he had time for his grief. I remember he tried so hard to help me. He coached my soccer team, went on school field trips as a parental guardian, accepted my father’s day gifts. He was only 18, but he was a dad. I guess it was too much for him. I didn’t understand why at the time, but he had to be the second person to leave.

Your oldest daughter felt so bad for being afraid of you during your illness. She tried her best to make up for it. She made us dinner all the time because mum worked such long hours. She brought me to high school with her. She brought me shopping with her friends. I used to sit under her desk while she studied and I ‘helped’. We were best friends but she was also another parent. She was more strict and protective of me than a mother. She was just a teenager though, and had to live her own life. She was the third person to leave.

And… your wife, she tried her best. Your so-called friends pursued her after you died. One gave her a job to support us. One left his wife for her. He was not an evil man. We went to exotic destinations on holidays, to his yacht on weekends. We moved into an estate in the country with apple trees and two kitchens. I was a guest in the house, I had to be polite. He was not an evil man but not a kind man. He gave us no choice. We had to leave, but this one does not count.

With your wife, a lonely, single mum, the scotch and the gin flowed. I was 14 and free. I could do what I wanted. No one knew where I was. I came home whenever. Lots of times, when I did make it home, she was passed out on the floor. I helped her onto her bed and dressed her. I cleaned her up, helped her avoid embarrassment. She was the fourth person to leave.

But you know what Dad? I know all four had to leave but…Everybody but you came back. They are different, but they came back. Your wife does not drink anymore and she fell in love with a poor but kind man. Your oldest daughter has her own family to make dinner for, and your son takes on more responsibility than anyone else, as a surgeon who saves lives. They all came back, but they came back different and that is fine with me. They were able to forget and be casual.

And here I am, the only one missing the first one who left, with these flowers, these wild flowers I never had a chance to give you. With the card game I forgot. I hardly forget anything anymore Dad. I missed you for my whole life Dad. I prove myself over and over and over again Dad, hoping to impress you. Some people think it is sad but it is beautiful. I went to school on full-scholarship Dad. I speak three languages Dad. I’ve read all your favorite authors Dad. I have a good job Dad. I’ve had a lot of help from people Dad - sometimes I forget their faces and sometimes I love them. I do stupid, undignified things sometimes Dad but I learn from my mistakes. I will never leave and I will never forget and be casual. If you want to find your flowers, they’ll always be right here with me.

This movie has been edited for content and to be run in time allotted...

You know, there are certain movies which simply should not be played on TV. I refer you now to the fact that my local UPN station is showing American History X for the seven-o'clock movie.

Now, in principle, I have no problem with that. I think it's a very good and well-made film. However, given the nature of its subject and the kinds of things normally censored on American television either by law or to prevent protest by angry consumers, I get the feeling that so much of it is going to be edited or completely cut as to make it a caricature of the original. Just offhand, this is what, in my opinion, may be either edited or cut out completely:

  • Any use of the word 'nigger'
  • Any depiction of a swatstika; in some instances this will require entire scenes to be removed
  • Parts of several argument scenes
  • Possibly, Danny's recitation of the "declaration of white superiority" or whatever it is
  • The murder scene at the beginning
  • The scene of Derek's, er, deflowering - Parts of the fight at the "White Power" rally - The entire final scene
In other words, they're probably going to cut a little less out of it than they would of, say, The Search for the Snow Leopard. Of course, it can do without some of this (I can certainly do without seeing Edward Norton's ass getting plowed, even if it isn't very graphic), but a lot of it is at the least mood-setting. I don't think you'll really get a sense of how deep the hate runs without it. Which pretty much is the point of the movie.

COMMIE INFILTRATORS (well, one of them's red, anyhow)

There are at least two cats who keep trespassing into my backyard - a gray one with a long tail, and a mottled reddish-brown one. I don't know what it is they find so fascinating about it, but I think they've been there almost every day for at least a month. The odd part is that they always seem to be there at around the same time; I always see them leaving sometime around 5-6PM while I'm preparing or eating dinner. I've yelled at them a couple times, just to scare them, but instead of hurrying off they just stare at me. (Walking towards them at all, however, usually makes them take off on a mad dash.)

It wouldn't really bother me *that* much, except they've apparently decided that my backyard is just one big litterbox. Jazzy (my parents' dog) hasn't been here for something like six months, so I know little if any of the neatly-piled crap that I've found around the yard is from her. And what makes this even more irritating is that I'm pretty sure that these are not strays; they look pretty well-fed, and considering there isn't a whole lot in this neighborhood for a housecat to be hunting or foraging for, that indicates to me that they're owned by one (or more) of my neighbors. Considering I don't know whose they would be and that neither I nor my parents are on friendly terms with anybody here, though, it wouldn't make much sense for me to go around confronting anybody about it.

Your tax dollars at work

The House bill, "Recognizing the public need for fasting and prayer in order to secure the blessings and protection of Providence for the people of the United States and our Armed Forces during the conflict in Iraq and under te threat ot terrorism at home", passed 346-49. Every Republican Representative voted yes for it except seven who abstained from voting. Nearly 3/4 of all voting Democrats voted yes on it. (The one Independent, Rep. Sanders, voted no.)

Quite apart from the church-state issues here, I'd just like to give the President, the House of Representatives, and the Senate (which will almost certainly pass it) a great big THANKS MUCHLY, FUCK OFF for verifying in the eyes of much of the rest of the world that this series of wars in the Middle East (and it *will* be a series by the time it's over) is at least partially religious in nature, thereby no doubt increasing the number of angry young Muslims who will be bent on America's destruction.

If you need me, I think I'll be going somewhere a little safer soon. Like Antarctica. At least there, only my own stupidity can get my killed.


Rebecca is one of the sweetest people I've ever known. And I think there are few people in this world who are better at their jobs than she is at hers.

I arrived at Red Robin this evening and was pleased to see that she was working. Quickly I arrived at a decision of Oriental Chicken Salad and strawberry lemonade. Rebecca brought me the lemonade, and when the salad was ready, she brought it along with a glass of Dr Pepper. Why would she do that? Why is that significant?

A few visits back, on a night when, to my disappointment, she did not appear to be working, I'd had a Dr Pepper with my Bleu Ribbon Burger. Near the end of my meal, Rebecca arrived at work and apparently saw me from afar and noticed my order. She came by my table and mentioned it to me, and apologized for perhaps having been pushing the lemonade on me against my will. (While it is true that she always brings it to me without my ordering it, that has never struck me as a burden I had to bear.) So tonight, setting the DP on my table, she said "I know you were just being nice". As I mentioned to her later, while I do vary my drink selection from time to time, I'm always glad to drink the lemonade that she so personably brings.

I've been feeling depressed for the last month or so. I feel guilty about that, because I am so lucky to have Edward in my life. Nonetheless, it's helpful to have such a beautiful and radiant visitor to my life on occasion, personified in her warm smile and gentle voice. In these days of tumult in the world, I would wish that there were more Edwards and Rebeccas in it.

P.S. I'm happy to say that Rebecca was also the first person I asked for an Amaretto Sour after I was introduced to that comforting drink by Ouroboros in Las Vegas. There was a slight defect – it was served on the rocks – and she insisted on getting me another one. She's like that.

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