watching horror movies since 1974

…(and then attempt to repent)

ironic image courtesy of PostSecret

I was brushing my teeth last night and feeling sorry for myself. I have one of those Oral-B battery-powered brushes, and as its harmonic buzzing lulled me into a trance-like state, one clear thought popped out of the white noise of self-pity: we have had more than our fair share of sadness these last three years.

And immediately, I felt ashamed. Our fair share? What’s a “fair share” of sadness, really? It’s not like either of us has lost a limb, or each other. Neither of us were in a tall building when it was hit with an airplane. We don’t have debilitating diseases or foreclosure looming. I mean, we just bought a storm door! We’re really fine.

But, if you tilt your head and squint, it would seem that things have had a way of not working out for us ever since Kokoro was diagnosed with an aggressively progressing cancer in 2006. It would seem. After all, three months later (to the day, minus one) we were on the road back home to tend to my father-in-law’s last three weeks of life. But you know that story. And really, who doesn’t have a true life tale of extraordinary hardship? Life is a roller coaster of overused metaphors. It jerks us around.

I am not proud of my funk.  Having been told all of my life that I am a brat, I tend to want to hold my adult self to certain standards of gratitude. Namely, I want to be grateful for every shit sandwich life hands me because, after all, isn’t it fortunate that I have a mouth with which to eat them? Some little children in Botswana don’t even have mouths. So, I torture myself with self-pity and then torture myself some more with guilt.  Which, when you get down to it it really just more self-pity.  Brat!

I know this, yet losing a little dog last week that we’d so recently adopted has thrown me into an inescapable existential loop. The little pleasures in life leave me flat, and I’m questioning the very reasons for stars to be in the sky. In philosophical terms: Why am I on the edge of this cliff? Am I more scared of falling or of throwing myself off? Or is what I’m really scared of the more frightening possibility that there is no force in the cosmos that can compel me to do either because the universe is an empty, cold, dog-less void?

I guess the real question here is do I get a dog, or not? If not, can someone explain this decision to me, maybe in writing?

I know you probably have a different question in mind: what happened? In short: the sweet little dog could not stay in our family. The situation was bad for her and for Lanty.  Sometimes the best decision for your pets is the suckiest one for you. Doing the right thing is as simple and as pissy as that. So, I have no dog. And dear, darling Lanty is sick again. Angst.

But, we’re going to see Rifftrax Live on Thursday night, and we now have a Wii. Conspicuous consumption makes everything better.

You know that love survives, so we can rock forever on.

There will never be another Michael.

I love Chicago. I love it like that uncle you skirt around at family reunions; the one who laughs way too loud and invariably gets jello salad stuck in his yellowing beard.  It frightens me; It makes me laugh.

On my lunch hour today, I ran into this fellow, an unsettling pirate relaxing in a sparse flower bed.

I tried to ignore him, but to no avail.  His jaunty pose and Yul Brenner-esque eyebrows had bewitched me, in a I-must-capture-this-horror kind of way, and, after fleeing the Sketchers store which boasts the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen, I was standing in front of him again.  I  flipped open my phone to snap a pic and behind me a handful of people slowed their noontime rushing to watch.  One woman asked, “What is that?  Is that a PIRATE?”  Her disdain could not have been more clear.  Someone else answered that it has something to do with The Field.  Now, I doubt the wisdom of calling Him an It, honestly, because who knows what He gets up to at night, but Disdainful Woman was immediately mollified.  The Field has that kind of power.

Christian Sex Toy Guide: That was the subject line of an email I received at work today.  Love it.  I was a little disappointed to open the mail and find that apparently only discount Cialis and the awkwardly named “Soft Viagra” are Christian sex toys.  Must have something to do with those megachurches.

But I do think Viagra must be important because later this morning I received an email with an equation in the subject: Hard Wank = Her Moans.  And even though I sort of doubt the efficacy of a product with “soft” in the name, who am I to argue with the Christians?

Deja-vu All Over Again. I’ve been excavating the archives of old journals in an effort to revive my flagging (dormant?) writing skills and remember what it was like to be me a year or two or three ago.  I found an unpublished bit from March, 2006 that made me chuckle:

Guys, I’m tired.  Now there’s something new.

Perhaps I should establish our assumptions for any entry between March of 2006 and when I finish my degree program (next Spring, IhopeIhopeIhope):

1. I will be tired every day, consistently and constantly.

2. I will have walked too many dogs for too many days in a row with too little sleep.

3. I will have eaten something odd in large quantities until I could no longer even look at the packaging of said product (ie. Nabisco brand Nilla Wafers® throughout the end of March).

So, in assessing my life then vs now, what’s changed?

1. I am still tired. Nothing new there.

2. While I haven’t walked any dogs for any days for a long time (weep for me), I have ridden too many train for too many days on too little sleep.

3. Right now it’s Lunchables® (turkey) and Lays® potato chips, and I’m getting kind of woozy thinking about either of them.

I need some air.  Maybe I’ll go talk to The Pirate.

My friend Angie is the mother is a beautiful little boy with a hereditary disease called Galactosemia. For a few days in April, those of you in the Chicagoland area can help the little guy by doing what you’d normally do: shop at Jewel.

Says Angie:

Galactosemia is a rare disorder and funding for research comes primarily from people like us, the parents of a galactosemic child.  However, during April 6-8, Jewel-Osco stores will donate 5% of sales made during the Galactosemia Shop and Share days. This fundraiser has the potential to raise much money for research–and all you have to do is what you would normally do during the week!  Of course, we’d love it if everyone waited and made their big grocery shopping trip during those days, but please know every little bit helps and is appreciated!

Attached is a copy of the Shop and Share Identification Slips.  It’s very easy–just print out a slip and sign it.  Present the slip when you shop during April 6-8.  Jewel-Osco will do the rest.  There is no limit to how often you can present a slip, but there are restrictions on what counts (for example, liquor, gift cards and tobacco don’t).

So, when you head out to Jewel next Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, please bring one of these slips along.  Help give Jonah a chance at a rich, healthy life.  Thanks, kids!

Even though it’s almost April, the snow is back and so am I.  Please to enjoy the new site.  I hope to deliver a more inclusive, lifestreamy experience, where my life online is more integrated with my actual life.  Could I use life a few more times?

Having put D on a plane this afternoon, I spent the bulk of the evening fixing some widgets and plugins and cursing over the CSSes, but I’m happy with where the place landed, and tired of that darn maintenance page, so here were are!

For a reward, I’m watching Iron Chef America, and Bobby Flay is freaking out, which seems par for the course.  And whatever happened to Wolfgang Puck?  Like all remakes, the original Japanese version was better, anyway.   Actually, I just finished Kingdom of the Spiders (1977), which I half-watched in the background, and could only screen because D is out of town.  It was a gruesome bit of campy crap – a spider invasion of Shatnerian proportions, as D said when I told him it starred TVs T.J. Hooker.

I do love The Shatner.

So, welcome back to The House of Mirth.  I’ll make you a cocktail while you look in the closets and try out the new furniture.