Streeped of Dignity

In a transparent attempt to join the self-proclaimed avant garde of Hollywood, Meryl Streep took her Golden Globe for Best Actress in a TV movie or mini-series as an opportunity to offer random pot shots at my friend GW last night. Her sad attempt at sarcasm went something as follows: "I just want to say I don't think the two biggest problems in America are too many people who want to commit their lives to each other til death do us part, and steroids in sports. "

Thank you, Meryl.

OK, a few freebies for ya, Meryl. First, in order for sarcasm to be effective, people have to know what the hell you are talking about. Of the small percentage of Americans who actually watched the State of the Union address and would have a chance to make the connection to what you were talking about, even fewer can remember or care what the President said. Maybe you thought you were trying to be subtle, but your comments were so unrelated to anything having to do with acting or globes of gold it is a miracle you couldn't be edited out. Also, if you want to toss verbal shrapnel grenades at the President of the United States, try and be a little more confident. Dancing up and down like a little girl and nervously tossing your hair about is not a very convincing facade of confidence. All it says is "I've been carefully planning this ultra-controversial comment for the past three weeks. I can't believe I actually won something and get to share my guilt-ridden liberal-angst with the world." And finally, when lambasting the President, don't wear a dress that makes you effectively naked. Besides distracting from your already confused comments, it doesn't really add to your credibility. Really, I'm not joking and I don't care who designed it.

P.S. It is also worth noting that Streep's award was presented by Keanu Reeves, which is indicative of something, I am sure.

I was more than slightly disturbed to read that the Department of Defense is "underfunded, disjointed and have 'dismal prospects for successful results'" in their attempts, apparently feeble, to develop certain vaccines and treatments to bioterrist agents. While you will undoubtedly be comforted to note that there are working vaccines for anthrax and smallpox, such common maladies as botulism, plague, tularemia and the viral hemorrhagic fever are apparently lower on the list of priorities.

Curious if I should be stock-piling gallon drums of Advil and Therma-Flu in my basement, I did I little bit of reserach on the symptoms of these non-combatted illnesses. Below are the comforting returns of my efforts:

Botulism
The classic symptoms of botulism include double vision, blurred vision, drooping eyelids, slurred speech, difficulty swallowing, dry mouth, and muscle weakness. (Come to think about it, this is how I felt upon waking up this morning.) Infants with botulism appear lethargic, feed poorly, are constipated, and have a weak cry and poor muscle tone. These are all symptoms of the muscle paralysis caused by the bacterial toxin. If untreated, these symptoms may progress to cause paralysis of the arms, legs, trunk and respiratory muscles.

Tulameria
Symptoms of tularemia could include sudden fever, chills, headaches, diarrhea, muscle aches, joint pain, dry cough, progressive weakness. People can also catch pneumonia and develop chest pain, bloody sputum and can have trouble breathing and even sometimes stop breathing. (Bloody sputum?! I don't know neither either, and decided I didn't even want to look it up.) Other symptoms of tularemia depend on how a person was exposed to the tularemia bacteria. These symptoms can include ulcers on the skin or mouth, swollen and painful lymph glands, swollen and painful eyes, and a sore throat.

And, my personal favorite...

Viral Hemorrhagic Fever
Specific signs and symptoms vary by the type of VHF, but initial signs and symptoms often include marked fever, fatigue, dizziness, muscle aches, loss of strength, and exhaustion. Patients with severe cases of VHF often show signs of bleeding under the skin, in internal organs, or from body orifices like the mouth, eyes, or ears. However, although they may bleed from many sites around the body, patients rarely die because of blood loss. Severely ill patient cases may also show shock, nervous system malfunction, coma, delirium, and seizures. Some types of VHF are associated with renal (kidney) failure.

I'm going to go wash my hands and lysol my office.

Perhaps we should consider implementing a tax deduction for exercise equipment... it might save us our not-so-proverbial weight in gold. Or maybe a dollar per pound incentive type program. The state could afford to pay $5 per pound lost and still save money in related medical expenses.

bring on the sarcasm, T

Tired

strong arms of sleep
hold
enfold
pierce the jagged cold
of my lonely heart
push away my fears
kiss away my tears
and sing the silent echo
of eternity
maternity
sweet existence of certainty
simple life you know
child, grow
into something great
and bold
i sold
long ago my heart for a pinch of gold
to buy a last drink
that i'll puke in the sink
sacrificing dignity to the porcelain goddess

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Listening to...

Greenwheel- Breathe


I
Played the fool today
And I
Can see us vanishing into the crowd
Longing for home again
But home
Is a feeling I buried in you

I'm alright
I'm alright
It only hurts when I breathe

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So I am sitting in "The Governor's Cup" this afternoon, which has become my newest weekend homework haunt. It is quite the buzzing coffee shop, as privately owned coffee shops go, and has the making of great fiction, really. There is the multi-studded baristas friendly to a fault, the patron's a varied cross-cut of Americana, and everything from the warehouse-like brick walls to the many chess boards littering the tables very eccentric and bright. Sometimes it has the fuzzy feeling of a happy dream that you want to freeze so you can take time to examine and analyze it's parts and it's whole, playfully rolling in it's homely beauty.

Actually, the whole dream feeling could just be from the second-hand marijuana coming in the front door. As are all non-Starbucks coffee shops the world round, this place is infested with unkempt, unwashed, loud-mouthed, tree-humping, hemp-wearing-and-smoking greenies. But they are nice enough as long as I don't wear my "W '04" hat, in which case I might be taking up residency in the Salem hospital for an unknown period of time. However, I digress, for I could spend the next four hours describing my surroundings and fellow customers. Believe me, it would make for some page-turning reading.

So I'm sitting with my grande cappucino cradled closely to my chest, trying not to be distracted by the fascinating scenes unfolding around me (though really the whole reason I like to study there is so that I am distracted), when I notice one of the afore-mentioned hippies approaching the counter. There really wasn't much to notice about her. She was about as ordinary as U of O dropouts look. However, she had this self-conscious air, a very awkward essence to the way she walked and talked and furtively glanced about. My curiosity aroused, I was very intently listening to see what she ordered, because it never ceases to fascinate me the stereotypes, most true, that can be derived from beverage tastes. That whole line of reasoning was blown sky high however, when she very awkwardly, dare I say shamefully, ordered an "Italian soda, with cherry and coconut flavoring". There really are no stereotypes for someone ordering a cherry and coconut flavored soda. And it was such an odd drink for someone so bashfully aware. As I watched her unwashed dreads walk towards the door, I wanted to grab her arm and ask for a 15 minute biography. What exactly have you lived through that would make you have an affection for cherry and coconut Italian sodas? I spent the next 30 minutes conjecturing about what her answer would be.

It is probably that questionable use of time that would explain why I am at the office now working on homework, instead of home watching American Idol like every other sucker for staged reality put to a soundtrack. The fact that my laptop decided this afternoon it would no longer respond to depression of the "h" "I" or "backspace" keys is also a key reason, no pun intended. (You should try writing a paper without them, it presents some mind-bending challenges.)

The last four pointless paragraphs actually have a point. I have been painfully remiss in not posting recently, due to a long drought in the croplands of creativity, and the absence of a home internet connect. I've left several painfully lack-luster pieces to spearhead my blog, and that is a mistake I daily regret. I'm hoping this exceptionally large buffer of nothingness will distract from the lack-of-quality displayed below. In other words, in the absence of quality, quantity.

Let me know you're out there...

To an epic man, with integrity mined from the deepest mountains, a heart forged in the sun, and eyes that were pulled from the starriest night sky.

wishful

You sat down across from me,
Your Oxford sweater and snow drifted head
Made me smile and cry.
You winked and laughed at me
In gentle reproach,
Amused at my moments of grief.
I wanted to hold you and touch you,
To hear the reassurance of your simple words.
Mostly I wanted to feel your hand on my shoulder
And see your eyes,
To feel your eyes cut into me,
Slice away my inconsistencies,
Carve into my heart:
"It will be better now."
"You will become what He wants you to be."
"You mean the world to me."
"I love you."
But it's just an empty chair.

And silent tears float like the leaves of fall on Salem streets.

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Evil Genius

"Accordingly, I will suppose not a supremely good God, the source of truth, but rather an evil
genius, supremely powerful and clever, who has directed his entire effort at deceiving me. I will regard the heavens, the air, the earth, colors, shapes, sounds, and all external things as nothing but the bedeviling hoaxes of my dreams, with which he lays snares for my credulity. I will regard myself as not having hands, eyes or flesh, or blood, or any senses, but nevertheless falsely believing that I possess all these things...

...But this undertaking is arduous, and a certain laziness brings me back to my customary way of living. I am not unlike a prisoner who enjoyed an imaginary freedom during his sleep, but when he later begins to suspect that he is dreaming, fears being awakened and nonchalantly conspires with these pleasant illusions. ...I dread being awakened, lest the toilsome wakefulness which follows upon a peaceful rest must be spent thenceforward not in the light but among the inextricable shadows of the difficulties now brought forward."

-Rene Descartes
Meditation #2

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The Dream Hypothesis

you are the oldest of the old
and your icy heart you sold
long ago
to the highest bidder of parching self-fulfillment

you climbed the serrated stairs of success
only to find sheared
the only chord you had
to harmonize the song of the loved and revered

it's a life in Descartes' dream
stumbling against his perfect clouds
you scream for the answers
but your answers just scream aloud

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Church St.

Last night was not a good night in the sleep category. I've had this vicious, life-sucking cough for going on two months, and it is beginning to affect on my sanity and over-all grasp of consciousness. So it was no surprise, though still shocking, when on the way to Starbucks in my usual morning stupor I turned the wrong way on to Church Street. After dodging several cars in the oncoming traffic I was able to right my trajectory with several deft if illegal maneuvers of the car (though who am I kidding, driving the wrong way down a one-way isn't legal to begin with). Sitting at Starbucks with my coffee I couldn't help but contemplate if this illicit journey up Church Street isn't somehow indicative of my life in some way, some supernatural sign of my religious course. Paddling up stream is one thing, but opposing semi's head-on is never a recommended path to success. I was tempted to think it time for a re-calibration of compass. But perhaps there would be more cause for concern if I always went with the flow of Salem traffic. It's an interesting thought.

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I'm sure that by posting the following lyrics I am joining several hundred thousand other bloggers who thought themselves insanely clever to post such a timely and angst-ridden song in the past week. They undoubtedly like to imagine their computer screens oozing self-contemplative meditation and beautifully morose objectivity. But my genuine regard for the song is over-powering my normal distaste for conformity.

Listening to...

Counting Crows - Long December

The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl

And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better that the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass

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