The Undead Zone

You've all heard the phrase "your call will be taken in the order in which it was received" and perhaps wondered: is that grammatically correct? You know The Nutcracker Suite and Eine Kleine Nachtmusik by heart. You have grown to loathe yet tolerate that chirpy automated voice that makes you utter the words "English." "Yes," "Billing," with stoic precision to a machine.

More often than not the automated voice doesn't understand and responds with "I'm sorry, did you say you wanted to slap your thighs and spin in a circle?" You enunciate carefully: "NO." Suddenly you sneeze, and the voice takes this to mean that you would like to be thrown back to the starting menu. Undaunted the voice says "Let's try again!" and so it goes until your blood pressure begins to rise and you find yourself screaming "AGENT!" "HUMAN!" "GIVE ME A HUMAN!"

Some pre-programmed mechanism responds to the word "Agent" and you are miraculously transported to a living, breathing human being (though you suspect that humans have been screening this exchange all along amid stifled hoots of laughter). You are asked to identify yourself. You do so. You are asked for your account number. You don't know it and begin to panic. Your agent says it's ok. It wasn't needed after all. You explain your grievance and the agent listens politely and asks if she/he can put you on hold for a moment. With a sinking feeling you know that you must agree to this, but also that the word "moment" is flexible in its usage...

You move to the couch to recline, and listen to some new age muzak designed to lull you into a stupor. Occasionally the chirpy automated voice rouses you to remind you that your call is very important. You watch as the shadows grow longer, and wonder if you really needed to accomplish anything else today. Eventually, one of two things happens: you lose patience and hang up after listening to the Pina Colada Song once too often, or the disconnected signal pulses through your receiver, and you become aware that the call has cut into the agent's lunch break time. You imagine activity on the other side that resembles some savage scene from Lord of the Flies. The silent flashing hold line issues its distress signal in muted anger. You must start again. But in order to prevail you must have the stamina. It is no sport for the feint of heart...

This seems contrary to the messages we're given through the company's advertising campaign. Yes, we've all seen those creepy commercials where some hapless cell phone user finds himself lost in a cellular dead zone, is then confronted by a character straight out of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and is then relieved to find that a network of folk sporting polo shirts and tan slacks has materialized to enact an intervention. We have seen the ads promising bundles of goodies at sell-out prices that will enable us to watch our digital tvs (and even control content and air time via DVR). We are tempted by their "better" high speed modems. Their landline bells and whistles. Hey, and it's ALL UNDER THE UMBRELLA OF A SINGLE COMPANY. Hell, let's invoke those first amendment rights and call them "Horizon Network." This is the Death Star planet of the digital world. These folks, if you let them, will monopolize your household communications apparati and then will have you by the short hairs. Caveat emptor, fair consumer. We don't have axioms like "don't put all your eggs in one basket" for nothin'.

Nocturnal Doings

Ok, so I was going to write about my nocturnal state of mind, but of course wanted to find an appropriate image to include. So what do I do but wikipedia "ghost"--which is fine, but then I came across the image to your left, which in my state of mind, here in my dark house just after the bewitching hour, is just sort of freaking me out. And yet I keep it there. Now I will have to sleep with all of the animals in my bed.

I can't even do this entry because this photo is scaring me.

It's Time to Kill Your Dog, Folks. Liberty Insurance Says So.

Some folks are cat people, and others are dog people, and in many cases, never the twain shall meet. But in our household we swing both ways. Yes, we are bi-petual, and will lavish attention on all creatures great and small, regardless of race, creed or sexual orientation.

Alas, it's a cold, harsh world outside these walls, and we have recently witnessed some extreme prejudice when it comes to our furry familiars.

Most recently, we made a trek up to Ohio to look for a house. We thought we might rent a place first, and then leisurely peruse the area for a suitable home to purchase in due time.

Eagerly, we consulted the Yellow Pages to source real estate agents and put them to task. At first, sensing our innate decency, no doubt, and our full purses, they were filled with vim and vigor, ready to bring forth addresses galore that might fit our housing needs. That is, until they got to... the "pet" question--thrown casually at the end of the survey, as if an archaic inclusion that surely no one would answer in the affirmative. But we did. Yes, 2 dogs. One cat. Breeds? Umm, mini-greyhound and (more softly) a German Shepherd. Yes, a German Shepherd. The agent would then summon an alternate personality, and his/her tone would invariably assume that officious timbre one uses with children when they engage in outlandish acts ("No, Billy. We do not tinkle on the baby's head.")

Yes, with that final disclosure--our shameful pet status--we joined a special caste of untouchables: the pet people.

Well fuck them, we said. We want to buy a house anyhow, not rent. So with this in mind, we set about finding our dream house. After participating in a bewildering paper chase/busy work extravaganza (see "I Pine..." below), we secured--well almost--a fair approximation of that dream house. And this was no McMansion, but a bona fide vintage dwelling, lovingly constructed in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and ninety, A.D. It is/was? situated on 3 glorious acres on which the dogs could, if allowed, romp and frolic till to their heart's content. Indoors the house has scads of room, ample enough so that man and beast might co-exist in blissful harmony. Perfect! Or not...

We're so close to our closing date that we can almost taste it. But there's a hold up: the pets. Yes, forget those rights to pursuit of happiness and constitution/amendments that say we have some agency here in the land of amber waves of grain. This only applies to those who are NOT in possession of ...firearms? No, that's not it. Drugs? Nope. Pets? Yes, if you dare to flaunt your pet loving ways then you, dear citizen, are putting yourself and others at risk, and Liberty Insurance, for one, is not going to stand for it. You can count on that.

And so our final hurdle before we close--to procure homeowners insurance--is proving to be yet another mindless obstacle constructed by the Special Olympics bureaucrats of the housing world: the insurance company--who notoriously feel that using that lowest common denominator of the academic world--the statistician--justifies the quashing and squashing of dreams. This time, our beloved, middle-aged German Shepherd, Kazan, is holding us up. Now on any given day, Kazan can be seen begging our cat Pissy Boy for clemency, as said cat holds him hostage at dinner time. This dog--did I mention that he's on Liberty's "vicious animal" list??--has been known to cry out in alarm at the sight of the vacuum cleaner, to groom his nether regions with wild abandon, to engage in hostile acts against the monkey sock toy, and finally, to lick the hands of complete strangers before collapsing on the floor at their feet and begging for a belly rub.

Yes, it is fitting that Liberty Insurance is wary of this vicious creature. It is fitting that in these dire economic times, with a domino effect housing crisis in our midst, that the good folks at Liberty have taken it upon themselves to provide some meaningful standards to help the American people participate in the tax base, and to take to heart the task of building our economy back up. With these things in mind, I must concede, it is totally fitting that we are denied home owner's insurance, when this evil miscreant we harbor could be the undoing of the insurance world, and the American people. I applaud you Liberty Insurance, for your sound business practices.

I Want to Lie Shipwrecked and Comatose

Where oh where did the best space opera ever made go? Why has it ended and why has no one thought of something any more clever to take its place? Is it because we're not British? Is it only the British who can compose deeply layered dramadies capable of nuanced black humor, social commentary and acid freak non-linear story lines? Is it? I will think about this some, and hope to come up with a solution in due time. In the meantime, revisit the great old end credit song from the masterpiece series.

Indian UPS Store Man, Why Do You Hate Me?

Here in rural suburbia we don't have a lot of choices when it comes to public services. I've been here for two years and still don't know where (or even if) the post office is. What we do have, located conveniently in the Harris Teeter cloned strip mall near my home is a UPS store. This establishment is run by, I believe, the proprietor, who happens to be a gentleman from India. I use the term gentleman loosely, and with artistic license, for he does not, by any stretch of the imagination, qualify as a gentle man. No, he is a mean spirited tyrant who in no way embodies his countrymen from that fine sub-continent from which he hails.

When I think of India, a number of things come to mind: a population approaching 1.1 billion souls, a rich and antiquated history, the best kind of savory, spicy victuals you ever want to taste, lovely feminine saris worn by raven haired lovelies. And a lilting kind of vocal cadence that shines through even spoken English. I also think of gentle folk and gentle ways when I look through my rose colored eyeglass (yes I know it's a hot mess in terms of economic and social issues, but I'm using broad impressionistic strokes here, so go with it). So, my UPS Store "gentleman" doesn't fit the bill. At all. What's wrong with this man, you ask? Well for one, he hates this country. This country, of course, being America. Now I'm not one of those patriotic zealots who wave a flag at the drop of a hat. I see the good, the bad and the ugly in this fine country of ours. But I do hate ignorance. And more than ignorance I hate mean spiritedness. Now, I try to give folks who are pissy and sour pussed the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they just found out some horrible and life altering news, lost their job, their loved one(s), their house, or who knows what. Bad things happen, and this can put you in a decidedly bad mood. But there are some folks who walk the earth with a chip on their shoulder, and I suspect my UPS Store man is one of them.

I know that this is not a fluke--his bad mood--because I've had dealings with him going on two years now. Ever the poster child for white middle class guilt syndrome (coupled with intensive training in cultural awareness as an anthropologist), I am acutely aware that other people are simply more deserving than I, and as such should be revered as I revel in self-admonishment. That's just the way it is, what with the sins of the fathers and stuff floating around and inhibiting good karma. So be it. So with that in mind, every time I must post a parcel, buy stamps, send a fax or conduct any type of business that requires the diabolical UPS man's services, I am on my best behavior. Polite. Gentle. Submissive. Unquestioning. Patient. All of those things Americans who have to wait in line for a service generally are not. I consider this my penance for having a roof over my head and two known parents. And the UPS man's response to this? He is rude to me. Not so much so that I feel justified in taking my business across town to another UPS guy, but subtly and with deeper undercurrents of detectable loathing.

Since I am the domestic goddess cum hausfrau of my household, it's up to me, generally, to deal with all matters postal. So the spousal never--until recently--had to deal with the surly UPS guy. Every time I reported the rude and generally aggressive posture of the UPS guy, the spouse would pooh-pooh me and tell me I was reading way too much into things. That is, until recently, when HE dealt with this man. Was the UPS man rude to my male, foreign spouse? No, he was not. But it was revealed to me, with acute mirth and hilarity, I must say, that a friendlier and even somewhat conspiratorial side of the UPS man's personality emerged when a fellow foreigner entered the room. The following occurred when my husband dealt with this man:
1. UPS guy pointed to a poster he had behind the counter of the Taj Mahal and asked his patron if he knew the building. Spouse replied "Yes, why that's the Taj Mahal. Everyone knows that." To which UPS guy hissed in response "No Sir. They do not. Americans do not know this fine building. It is only foreigners educated in better schools who know this building. It is a pity and a shame how ignorant these Americans are." [I'm really not exaggerating here]
2. Spouse had to send a fax. He was charged exactly HALF the amount that I was charged when sending a fax, by virtue of his maleness, his foreignness or BOTH (I suspect both).

When I learned these things, I seriously thought about confronting the UPS guy, but then thought, no, maybe he has his reasons. Maybe he had a hard life. Maybe I should go home and don a hair shirt and strike myself repeatedly with a flogger since I was born with means. Maybe...

I Pine, You Pine, We All Pine for Sub-Prime

But those days are long gone, left rotting and festering in the past like so much road kill. It's done and dusted, our national bacchanalia devoted to the attainment of that which we cannot afford.

So my question is: why must I suffer for the sins of the fathers? Why must I beg for alms as Wells Fargo peers nervously through their one-way security mirror, poised to press the panic button at a moment's notice? Where's MY Horatio Alger booty that I was promised in the womb? I am baffled and stunned, but mostly just disappointed in myself for not jumping on the bandwagon while the getting was good.

After all, crack addicts, trailer park denizens and delusional would-be celebrities from all walks of life have had their day in the sun. They've stood in the flimsy shadow of affluence and walked the halls of pressboard mansions. Sure, many a proud home owner was forced to forfeit the spoils when it became clear that the Wallmart cashier's salary was not sufficient to pay the mortgage. And many, with greater math skills than mine, were baffled when the repo man emerged from the humid depths of Hell to reclaim a lost soul. We children of the American Dream--much like dogs--live only in the glorious moment, the moment when Santa Claus bestows a fantastic gift but fails to include batteries for the coveted toy.

At this very moment I'm trying to get my hands on my own celebrity crib. It's modest by Malibu standards, and furthermore situated on a sparsely populated patch of forgotten territory deep in the wilds of Ohio. You'd think Wells Fargo would want to encourage growth in a wasteland such as this. In fact, they are surprisingly timid. The great and entrepreneurial spirit of risk and generosity is gone when I need it most. The high stakes gamblers once employed by lending institutions across the nation have been replaced by officious, shrew-like bureaucrats.

Now I'm not naive. I know that folks like to be assured of a sure thing--like getting their loan money back in due time. But shouldn't the safeguards these lenders use have some meaning? I mean here on planet Earth. Not in the sterile and hermetically sealed halls of the money plant. Is it really true that 20% down, a whopping good salary, money in the bank and a good credit score are not enough for these folks? It is. They must probe more deeply into the anal recesses of one's history, to satisfy their sick need for reassurance. It just makes me want to collect welfare and live in a double wide trailer when I am asked to justify personal banking deposits in the miniscule amount of $100.00. How is that relevant? If it's my tooth fairy money, or the proceeds from a mafia subsidiary, what business is it of theirs?

Additionally, the perky automatron in charge of my application was most interested in a long forgotten American Express account that I had closed out some time in 1992. What, if any, meaningful information could I possibly provide in this matter?

And then there's my poor, beleaguered alien spouse. He's old school, since he's from the old country. He pays cash on demand, does not amass debt, and contributes regularly to his savings account. He therefore has a zero credit rating, which, in the eyes of the interest grubbing creditors, is a far greater crime than HAVING debt and NOT paying your bills. It's a bewildering system, and one I'm hard pressed to explain to my confused immigrant spouse.

Alas, there's not a lot I can do other than don my sequined unitard and jump through the fiery hoops put before me.

Ohio, you are calling, but I cannot yet come to you. And so we wait.

Paula Abdul, what is it pussy cat?

I've actually been thinking about Nancy Grace, not Paula Abdul. But I just Googled NG to see if I'm alone in my feelings of revulsion and awe, and I am not. In fact, there are a number of web sites dedicated to her undoing in the strongest terms. I had planned to devote a long-winded riff to her nasal offensiveness and the sad state of broadcast journalism when a person such as Grace gets dedicated air time, but others have done this already, so I will not. I feel comforted that I am not alone. So I will move along to the next offensive person on my list. This was a toss up between Vladimir Putin and Paula Abdul. Unfortunately, my feelings toward Putin are somewhat ambivalent. Though I fear his desire to reinstate a USSR-style regime in Mother Russia, I admire--against better judgment--his taut and limber frame, his stately swagger, and his penchant for Judo and tiger wrestling. His confidence is seductive, but I will not go there. No. I will talk about Ms. Abdul since my position in this matter is much clearer.

As a devotee of American Idol, and an erstwhile denizen of the 80s, it should follow that I would have greater tolerance than most for Ms. Abdul. I'm sorry to say that this is not the case. I do not care for the way she flaunts her abuse of pharmaceuticals on prime time television, and I especially do not believe she is qualified to be a music critic and judge. This latter point is the reason I'm up now at 1:40 a.m. and not ensconced in my duvet beneath the soothing oscillations of my white noise fan with Pissy Boy entrenched between my legs. It is Ms. Abdul who keeps me awake, thanks to that infomercial I felt compelled to watch earlier this evening. You see, Paula has her own line of costume jewelry. It is, as one would expect, a garish collection of bangles encrusted with rhinestones and sappy maudlin type engravings, which Ms. Abdul admitted on live television to having composed herself. The consumer may buy a gargantuan sparkle bracelet with the following words embossed on the inside cuff: "He Loves Me, I Love Me More." I mean really. What does that tell us? Is she advocating narcissism? And if that much self-love abounded why in god's name would that person resort to such a level of self-bedizenment? I submit to you that one would not waste money on a trinket that would detract from one's natural beauty and innate self-love. Only a self-loathing and attention-seeking philistine would purchase something from Ms. Abdul's insulting line of glitter crap. Truly.

Next: Why is she a featured judge on America's favorite talent show, American Idol? I have some vague recollection of her having had a minor hit in the 80s with accompanying music video that involved Ms. Abdul wrestling a rodent. Prior to that I believe she was a cheerleader. As far as I know, cheerleaders do not sing. They chant. Nor do they work in an industry where singing is even practiced, unless we count the Nation Anthem, which we do not. No, Ms. Abdul is decidedly NOT qualified to pass judgment on others when it comes to vocal ability. The fact that she has slithered her way into the good graces of Simon Fuller, the Faustian producer of the show, means that her talents surely lie elsewhere, and I, for one, find this type of behavior shameless, particularly at her age.

Bedlam, Nocturnalism & Talking to Oneself

I've only been on my own for two days, but already there's been a breakdown in the social order. Yes, the spousal consort has cut a trail to the godforsaken middle of nowhere, leaving the little lady at home until safety and democracy can be established at the new homestead. But that little lady is not home polishing her tea service and sewing bed shams. Oh no, she is becoming rather too comfortable in her own skin. For when social pressures are removed, that is to say, when one has no responsibilities, no obligations, and no appointments with others of the species, well, a strange kind of metamorphosis begins to take place.

First of all, time becomes irrelevant. I don't even know where my watch is these days, and my only sense of passing time has to do with celestial events. Since my shades have been drawn due to a fit of paranoia the other night (a delusional episode involving the belief that the landlady was lurking in the bushes and snapping unflattering photographs), even the sun, the moon and the stars have lost their significance. It is always twilight here. This has an impact on otherwise regimented activities, like meal times. I know instinctively, that coffee must be consumed immediately upon waking. And I know, as do all animals, that solid food is essential for survival. However, it is not until my menagerie of house creatures warns me that dinner time is imminent that I too begin to forage for sustenance. So far this has been strictly vegetarian fare. Not because I am a vegetarian, but because I lack the will to actually prepare and cook something more substantial. Leaving the house for fast food is an equally alarming prospect since that would require changing out of my battle worn night clothes and into something society might deem appropriate.

Then there's the bio-rhythm. Left unchecked and unharassed, I gravitate toward naps. Long, luxurious mid-day naps. This leaves me bright eyed and bushy tailed come night time. Without the natural healing warmth of the sun to guide my disposition into a happy place, I am left feeling haunted, hunted, manic and restless. I naturally try to alleviate these feelings by engaging in meaningful tasks like Face Book and compulsively checking my email. Sometimes, I wander down to the living room and flick through the 800 television stations Direct TV has bestowed upon us, and invariably settle on some program I would never ever usually watch (lately LOGO gay TV, the 700 club, and some Spanish channel that seems to be devoted to soap opera programming.) I watch these things because no one is here to stop me. There's no negotiation required when one is alone. One may engage in flatulence with impunity, sprawl across the entire bed and make use of all bed pillows with impunity, bathe for 2 hours, dine on red hots and beets, externalize internal dialogue (i.e., talk to oneself), use the bathroom with the door wide open, feed the cat on the kitchen counter, let the dogs sleep in the bed, talk to one's mother in London for 3 hours straight, refuse to brush one's hair, and engage in much spontaneous lip-syncing while perambulating around the house...just to name a few.

So what will become of me, I wonder? Will I become a feral suburbanite? Will the spouse be forced to send me back to obedience school when he sees how I've gone to seed? I will just have to wait and see...

Soul Stirrin' Soul

What is it about Jimmy Soul and his insulting treatise against women that makes my heart soar? Well, first of all it is the sheer joy and frenzy of dance this song inspires. It makes no apologies, and deep within the subtext of the lyrics, we find that Jimmy rejects the media-driven status quo and longs for unbridled mirth and companionship. He doesn't need Angelina Jolie to be happy. Nor does he require the beguiling skills of Reese Witherspoon. He craves a simple gal who laughs from the belly and engages in earthy heartfelt passion. It is for this reason that I have chosen this song as my wake-up tune of the week. I suggest we all do this and reflect.

Angels & Demons Movie Review (Spoiler Alert!)

I freely admit that I'm a total sucker for all things papal, demonic, nunish or armageddon-esque. If there's conflict or corruption among the clergy, then all the better. If the world as we know it might be annihilated by cosmic, divine or natural forces, I WILL BE THERE to witness the destruction--albeit on celluloid. If some sporting director has the good sense to combine all of the above, then he/she can be assured of my little contribution to the royalties.

I'm not sure how or why this fetish for clergy developed, but I suspect it has something to do with Mammy (my mother's mother) calling me into her bedroom as she lay on her deathbed, then pressing a rosary into my little 5-year-old palm and hissing "Keep it with you at all times! And don't let your father see it!"

This impressed me greatly in combination with the Wake that soon followed and involved much chanting of Hail Mary's as she lay in state in a white negligee (I know what she was wearing because an evil older cousin and I pried the casket open to have a look...resulting in 6 solid years of nightmares featuring my dead grandmother in her bridalesque negligee). But enough of me. I went to the cinema with the spousal this evening to have a look at Angels & Demons, the much anticipated follow-up to Ron Howard's rendering of The da Vinci Code, the pulp bestseller by the vapid yet damn lucky and now disgustingly affluent Dan Brown. As long as we're invoking the sacrament of confession here, I have to admit that I did read both books (DVC and A&D), all because of the spectacular hype that surrounded them at the time of publication. I remember reading The daVinci Code and thinking "Hmm. This is really badly written," and then later studying both texts for formulaic clues since Mr. Brown was laughing all the way to the bank with his bad writing.

So, since I read the damn books, and then saw the bad first movie, I felt compelled to complete the ordeal by viewing the second movie, Angels & Demons. I will try not to include too much spoiler content, but I do need to address a few concerns if this review is to have any meaning at all (which I doubt it will in any event, but I will pretend that that's my goal).

First, in Tom Hank's opening scene, we see "him" flipping dolphin or Phelps-like through the Harvard University swimming pool, clad in royal blue Speedos. We never get an underwater full shot, so I believe it was a swim stunt body double which I suspect was necessary for Mr. Hanks as he is now approaching later middle age and has no doubt lost his perky glutes. I was not the least bit convinced that it was Hanks in the pool. Also, when the camera cut to another angle (Hanks lurching out of the pool, invigorated yet exhausted by his underwater contortions), I didn't buy for one moment the idea that he was winded. I was very disappointed in the minimal thespian craftmanship, and this cast a pall on the entire viewing experience. I continued to watch while popping excessive amounts of Reeses Pieces and Salt Corn, but I was on guard from that point on.

Next, there was some drama at the Vatican, but I won't tell you what in case you like to be surprised. Suffice to say that the pageant was colorful and yet strangely powerless to move me. I didn't shed a single tear when the old pope died and the cardinals all looked worried. Not one.

So next we cut to a scene at CERN where physicists, but only attractive and/or elderly ones, are trying to get anti-matter to present itself in one of those banking tubes you put your deposit slip in if you do the drive thu banking. It's all very exciting until someone gets hurt. I didn't buy it though, because I didn't get to see the character die his hideous death. Just before: old man genius on physics lab video monitor looking awed at CGI effect contained in banking tube. And then after: stunt double corpse looking corpsely. I didn't buy it at all, and further more, didn't care.

Ok, so of course Tom Hanks is brought to the Vatican to fix things, but many in the Swiss Guard are skeptical, because he is a symbologist, which is a fake academic. No one buys this at all, but still they let him lead the team of investigators to find out why Cardinals are getting kidnapped. What follows then is a cat and mouse style chase through the labyrinthine city of Rome, so that Hanks can save the day and anti-matter can be revisited by the dishy physicist Victoria and then greater questions about science and faith can be explored. Ok, that's part and parcel of this sort of drama, but I didn't buy for ONE MOMENT that they were actually in Rome. I am very disappointed in Ron Howard. I think he filmed the whole thing in San Fernando valley. Because of this I cared nothing for the hapless Cardinals, nor for Victoria and her bank tube of anti-matter. I won't reveal the ending, but you can imagine that nothing bad could ever happen to Tom Hanks, America's favorite Bosom Buddy. Even if his butt is no longer nubile and pert.

So what can I say. Yes, if you--like I--must attend all events devoted to the exploration of clerical annihilation and larger questions concerning how disorganized the human race is, then run immediately to the cinema. If, on the other hand, you require method acting and on-site filming of historic locales, then walk away and wash your hands of it.

On a final note, as I stood in the lobby waiting for spousal to visit the urinals after the film was over, a man with an artificial leg exited the men's room. Immediately another man down the hall began shrieking "We've got something in common, you and I". And indeed they had, because the yelling man also had an artificial leg. They began to talk like old and long lost friends, and I was able to listen to a gruesome retelling of how each had lost a limb. It was as heartwarming an ending as I ever saw to any movie, and the best thing about Ron Howard's Angels & Demons..

Cruel Bio-Rhythm, I Curse You.

4:12 a.m. I would call this unprecedented, but in fact it is not. My adrenal glands have some sort of freakish daily--sometimes hourly--jump start affliction going on, and it's beginning to piss me off. Even my familiars are alarmed. Pissy Boy is perched atop the fridge glaring down at me with that undisguised disdain only true felines can do eloquently, and the dogs are whimpering softly in the corner, knowing in the way they do that it is not yet permissible to tear at the back door histrionically for potty time. It is not, and they must live with that for the time being.

I can account for the bio-rhythmic anomaly, I think. First problem is mortality. All that "shuffle off the mortal coil" Hamlet shit that plagues the addled middle-aged mind. This is nothing new. I've had it for going on 25 years. At 43 years of age, that makes my mid-life crisis chronic. I have had to live with the uncertainty of our heliocentric solar system for some time now, and grow used to the affliction. The second problem, vis-a-vis the whole bio-rhythm thing, is that my life is in flux. Again. Turkey. Ireland. Germany. Back to America. North Carolina. Now...Ohio. And Ohio is by far the most terrifying of my peregrinations. My random destinations. Maybe it's all the vowels contained in this one insidious proper noun. Maybe it's because it seems to be perched precariously close to one of the Great Lakes, which I had previously only known as a trivia question, and anxiety-inducing fifth grade exam question (and one, which I hasten to add, that had been marked incorrectly by the nefarious Ms. Click, the sadistic grade school marm of Beaufort Academy). That they were once glaciers only adds to my anxiety. I also owe my state of uncertainty to the general location of the place, which is near neither mountain nor ocean. Its vast and vapid expanses of "farmland" and the ubiquitous red barns which decorate the landscape all fuel my suspicions.

And then there's the house. The new house. Yes, it's cute. Vintage circa 1890. Possessing character traits that are both charming and spooky, which suits me fine. I have gotten over the radon testing that was insisted on by the housing inspector. But less acceptable is my hyper-sensitive gravity radar that did not detect any forthcoming groundedness in the place. This causes me to suspect that I will fly into random, weightless chaos. So now we have 1) Hamlet shit brought on by mid-life crap, 2) lack of roots brought on by excessive mobility and general roaming, 3) Great Lakes panic, 4) gravitational concerns. I will also add to the list a #5, which may be called the earthly uncertainty principle. Why was I put here? Does this hearken back to the Hamlet crap? It has not yet been revealed to me by way of channeled cosmic energy, evangelical enlightenment, or general telepathy, so I will have to wonder. And wonder I will, as the ancients did, until those venerable lakes freeze over once more.

When Shedding Blood this Season, Hunters Go for the High Waist.

Lake Erie Lake Effect

It has been brought to my attention that a phenomenon known as lake effect causes the land areas adjacent to large meltwater lakes to get/have/manufacture more snow than they would otherwise see. As one who was raised in the torpid tropical flatlands of Florida, I find this unacceptable.

Treadmill Lobotomy, Naked Sauna

I belong to a fitness club--a gym of sorts, housing many square feet of devices designed to help one do unnaturally, what the human species should do naturally.

The bulk of the inventory is comprised of an assortment of electronic apparatuses like treadmills, stationary cycling machines, elliptic peddling stations, and cross-trainers. In and unto themselves, they are not particularly offensive. After all, who has time to walk across country naturally, and where in the Piedmont region of North Carolina, can a person find hills of any stature? Nowhere, that's where.

But there's something more sinister going on here at the prototypical American fitness center. Atop every single solitary exercise machine there is a small TV monitor, and I find this alarming on many levels. By signing the binding-till-death fitness contract, we've already agreed to trade natural locomotion for stationary locomotion (an oxymoron if ever there was one), and on TOP of that, we have tacitly agreed to relinquish control of mental faculties and further to feed directly into a personal boob tube. And it's not optional either. Larger mounted TVs are scattered around the premises, and continuously blast MTV and Fox News programming through the atmosphere. There's no escaping it. Nowhere. Not even in the locker room, where additional TVs are mounted high on the walls, volume set to decibel 10, and channel set to a place that will appeal to the lowest common denominator.

Yesterday, after spending some time on the cross-trainer, staring inanely at the countdown timer and listening to some Fox News commentary promoting witch trials and stockades, I wafted back to the women's locker room, peeled off my sweat saturated exer-uniform and stepped into the sauna. I use the sauna quite frequently, but have never, ever seen another living soul in there. This is a little piece of heaven for me. It is a room devoted to the pursuit of heat. Its sole purpose is, in fact, to project heat. And yet, I never see anyone else in the room. This is fine with me, because in addition to the gym being a kind of media router cum stationary exercise center, it is also a sanctioned community for puritanical notions about nudity--even in the sexually segregated locker rooms. When changing, women huddle down with nun-like modesty and perform impossible maneuvers like removing garments while positioned inside of towels, and I have NEVER, the 2 years I've belonged to this club, seen a set of female buttocks or breasts, or any other portion of the body the moral majority deem unfit for public consumption.

What's going on here? This attitude about nudity is in stark contrast to many spas and facilities I frequented in Europe (the Germans in particular were pro- in the buff) where women folk let it all hang out behind the iron curtain of our women only domain. After all, we are all anatomically the same, aren't we? Is there something different about the American women? Do some possess anomalies? Third breasts? Oddly shaped belly buttons? WHAT?

I don't know. But since I always have the sauna to myself, I can let it all hang out. Here, I can let my towel fall open and bask in the heat until the sweat and toxins pour out of my body. It is a singularly wonderful feeling. I can barely hear the mindless drone of the television while I'm in the sauna, and the only sound capable of drawing me out of my heat worship reverie, is a neurotic motion detector paper towel dispenser which, upon ejecting paper, makes a loud noise that sounds for all the world like someone screaming as they fall off a cliff (complete with doppler effect). But it's not enough to keep me from enjoying my little piece of puritan free and naked nirvana.

Midnight Musings

Herbert is trying to quit smoking, and in an effort to allay murderous thoughts of anguish, irritability and desperation, he went to bed at 9pm. I, a goodly wife if ever there was one (by my standards), chose to knock off to bed with him in sympathy.

But sleep would not come, so I did a breathing exercise a janitor by the name of Ulysses taught me when I was 25 (Ulysses also dispensed general advice pertaining to bowel regularity, how to alleviate migraines and how to defuse stress). He was a coffee colored hulk of a saintly and articulate man, and I never for the life of me understood how or why he was a janitor and not Andrew Weil.

When Ulysses' breathing exercises failed to work (Herbert was, of course, fast asleep by this time), I tried to play a movie in my head from beginning to end. I selected Ben-Hur (Chuck Heston version) but immediately realized that I couldn't remember anything except the scene where Chuck finds his sister and mother at the leper colony and makes that special Heston grimmace of pain because he feels bad. This immediately brought to mind Soylent Green, and Heston's chest heaving out of a khaki button down as he made the revelation--you know the line. But THEN, I could remember nothing more about the film, but did remember that when Soylent Green first aired on TV, I watched it with a male cousin who showed me his pre-pubescent junk. This, oddly, activated a series of mental flash cards with images including 1) a translucent purple skateboard I once owned but didn't know how to ride, but had purchased because a boy named David Obernesser had one when I was 11, 2) the time I vomited Tropicana on the living room rug, 3) that awful flash demon image from The Exorcist (wide awake by this time).

So next, I decided to exit the bedroom quietly so as not to awaken Herbert from his smoke-free slumber, but became disoriented in the dark room, and ended up in a strange part of the room nowhere near the door. Subsequently banged my foot on the wardrobe, waited for Herbert's startled breathing to return to normal (blindly staring into the dark, and listening intently), and then inched my way along the wall until I found the exit.

Now, here I sit, wide awake with 2 dogs, 1 cat, a deep desire to somehow shut my brain down.

Star Trek Beginnings Movie Review (Spoiler Alert!)

I grew up with the Star Trek classic series, and later graduated to Star Trek: The Next Generation when the masses cried out for new blood and politically correct scripting. I have seen all of the movies, based on these series, and even once attended a Star Trek-a-thon marathon (clad in pajamas, me) with fellow geeks and aficionados. So you may understand that I was filled with great hope and enthusiasm when Beginnings was announced.

Like all prequels, I suppose, STB provides us with great and profound insights into character origins and development. We learn how and why Kirk is ruled by his libido; how Uhura looked before she gained weight in later years and acquired man crushing hips, and yes, how Spock struggled with the shame of being a half-breed on the planet Vulcan, and then rebelled against his need for man love in favor of Uhura's budding hip sockets. It all comes together for us in the latest opus in the franchise.

But as I sat in the theater eating salt nuggets disguised as popcorn and reclining gingerly on the scratchy blue upholstery of the cineplex with my spousal consort beside me, it occurred to me that I already knew the story. I knew that no one of interest would die; I knew that Star Fleet Academy would be populated by sprightly nubile students in plum-colored spandex unitards (well, they were actually bi-tards), and I knew that our heroic ensemble would save the day, no matter how ill advised and daunting the situation.

What I hadn't counted on though was the distracting pathos inspired by Leonard Nimoy's dentures writ large on the silver screen. Surely, what with past royalties, no doubt an astronomical salary for his bit part in Beginnings, and his 401K proceedings, the man could find a dental specialist able to fit him with a deluxe set of dentures? But this was and is not the case. The camera often hovered cruelly over his mouth as he said Spockish things, and I feared the false choppers would lose their grip and fly 3-D style into the hapless audience, spraying us with virtual prosthetica. It was unnerving.

I felt so sad for Leonard Nimoy. And where had his upper lip gone? There was no evidence of it, and I must assume it was neatly snapped off by the ill-fitting dentures when he was eating casaba melon or some other forbidden substance.

This all put an alarming spin on the whole movie going experience. I no longer cared that Spock was engaging in raunchy doings with a fellow crew member. Nor did I care that a planet killing weapon conveniently described only as "Red Matter" simply didn't make sense, scientifically speaking. I no longer puzzled over the pedamorphic physique of young Uhura, and no longer asked myself why, after it has been explained to us time and time again, that the director of this film tried to make us believe that we can hear ambient noise in space, when everyone knows that this is just not possible.

I cared for none of this, thanks to Leonard Nimoy's selfish, incompetent dentist. For two cents I'd have his license revoked.

Nuclear Attack is No Longer a Threat

I've had these in my medicine cabinet for 4 years now and thank the good lord above that I have them at my disposal. I refuse to throw them out, because now they have taken on a kind of superterrestrial significance and protect me from all types of dangers--real and perceived. For example, I sleep soundly knowing that I have only to pop one of these tablets and I will become impervious to a nuclear flash and blast, radiation poisoning, and even structural damage caused by the explosion. This provides me with tremendous peace of mind.

Collapsing Man: Let your mind go and your body will follow!

Note to reader(s): I have yet to figure out the mechanics of posting videos, but here is the link to which I refer below: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9i9TZac6Hr4

Is it just me or are others titillated by the rhythmic motions of Collapsing Man? Maybe it's the soft alluring sounds of oud and setar, accompanied by the soulful stylings of some sultry burka-wearing vixen, but add to that the bursting convulsions of collapsing man and what you have is a recipe for seduction.

Underground Zeitgeist is Born

Greetings Minions,
You have now entered a realm devoted to the celebration of thought--profound and absurd. As a general mission, I will endeavor to create a forum which will allow free expression of all pent up insanity, inanity, and general mirth. As this fledgling effort takes flight, I urge you to suggest improvements.