Is Bush the Antichrist?

Is Bush the Antichrist?

I'd look up this guy's book, but I've been saying the same thing for years. The patterns fit, all too well.

With Apologies to Weber & Rice

"Don't Schiavo me, my beloved
In truth, I've already left you
This is not living, it's just existing
You have my body, my soul's gone drifting"

The more I hear and read about the Schiavo case, the more the phrase "Don't Schiavo me" implants itself in my mind as shorthand for "Don't keep my body hanging around if all it can do is hold my mind (whatever may be left of it) captive."

Today, the above verse volunteered, so I decided to inflict share it with you.

shrugs

To paraphrase Forrest Gump:
My mind - and by extension this blog - is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you're going to get until you bite.

Congress Calls Schiavo to Testify

Today's New York Times reports that Congress is going to pass a law forbidding the removal of feeding tubes, etc., from patients in a "persistent vegetative state" if they've left no written instructions. Click here for the full story.

From other stories I've read on this case, and what I've seen on the news, she may, in fact, still be in there somewhere. But it appears that the only thing she can still do on her own is blink. The only way to be sure whether that's an attempt at communication or a random tic would be to set her up for the kind of computerized gear that Stephen Hawking is using. Is that likely to happen? I don't think so. Is she going to be able to communicate otherwise? Only with those who have the patience to play "20 (thousand) quesions", and what kind of conversation is that, really? Only intense frustration for everyone concerned.

I say, either let her try a Hawking-style communication rig, or let her go. I can imagine no worse torture than to be trapped inside my own head for the rest of my artificially-sustained life.

Every time I see a story like this, I think of Stephen Hawking. I imagine him without the communication gear, living on machines, slowly going insane from the inability to communicate his ideas to anyone. And I think of myself, an artist and writer (day job to the contrary). I've thought about how I could continue to create if I lost various abilities: my sight, or the use of my hands, for example. Even if I lost the use of my whole body, I could still create; I could still write. But only if I had something like what Hawking has: a computer that could respond to the tracking of my eyes. But I very much doubt that any health insurance policy covers that sort of thing, and I doubt that my honey could afford to buy it for me (or I for her, if it came to that).

So consider these my written instructions regarding artificially sustaining my body if I am no longer able to operate it on my own:

Let me try a Hawking-style communication system. If I am unable to use it, or it cannot be made available to me, then by all you hold sacred, let me go.

Wearing Black on St. Patrick's Day

I know it's the custom to wear green (except for a friends I've known who wear orange), but I wear black.

Ostensibly, this holiday is to honor St. Patrick for "driving the snakes out of Ireland". That may have been the original intent of the Irish who've been transplanted to America when they created it as a way to remember their homeland.

What's happened since is the idea that everybody's honorary Irish on St. Patrick's Day, which basically becomes an excuse for people to be drunk and disorderly in public - even those who normally have more sense.

As an Irish person, I resent the idea that "drunk and disorderly" is the defining characteristic of the Irish. Somehow the rich cultural and literary tradition of the Irish gets missed. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised at that, considering the effort the English put into wiping it out. For generations, it was illegal to speak Gaelic or play the harp. To do so could get you jailed or killed.

But that's not why I wear black. I wear it to honor the serpents of wisdom - the symbol of the old faith that was driven underground by Christianity. That's right, I said driven underground, not driven out. The wonderful Celtic interlacing that permeates Irish Christian symbols is from the old faith, representing the interconnectedness of all things. Why do you think there are so many serpents in the Book of Kells? Many of the Irish saints are simply translations of the old elemental spirits that we worshipped. We didn't go away; we just learned how to hide - more or less in plain sight.

Slainte!

Do straight couples get questions like this?

Last week I was very depressed and upset about my financial situation, of which my honey's medical expenses are a fairly major factor (at least until my health benefits kick in at my new job). I was explaining some of this to a concerned co-worker (later in the week, when I was calmer, that is), and she was responding with the standard chorus of "this too shall pass".

She asked if honey was getting any kind of assistance or disability income. I explained that, because we're domestic partners, they look at my income as well as her lack of it, and determine that we make too much money for her to qualify for any kind of aid. :-( I said that being domestic partners in California means we now have most of the responsibilities, but only a few of the rights, of hetero married couples.

So she asks: "Why don't you divorce her?" Into my stunned silence, she blunders on: "Just temporarily...you know..." before she realizes that her suggestion is not really falling on receptive ears.

I realize that she probably thought it was a helpful suggestion. I know that an increasing number of straight couples are choosing to stop short of legal marriage because to do so would screw up one or both partner's government benefits; or, if they're both working for high salaries, throw them into a painfully high tax bracket. Personally, I think that's a rotten situation to have to be in, either way. but at least they have the choice.

And I don't think that any straight couple, once married, chooses divorce when one partner's health gets expensive. First of all, even a no-fault divorce is cost-free; and for my honey and me to divorce (this is one of the areas where domestic partners are treated the same as married couples) would require all the same paperwork, complete with a court appearance to explain to the judge why we're splitting. Second, I don't think that "I can't afford her any more" constitutes valid grounds for divorce.

Do straight couples take that vow so lightly?

Relativity

I'm currently working on a university campus, and I like it. But it's a bit disconcerting at times to be surrounded by youth and beauty and not really be part of it. Some people in such a setting ask themselves "Was I ever that young?" I don't. What confuses me is "When did I get so old?"

Don't get me wrong. I don't feel old (except when I'm overwhelmed by the feeling of carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, but that's a different rant). Mostly, I still feel like a college student. Certainly, the way I'd prefer to operate my life is still much the way it was when I was in college. My mental image of myself has put on far fewer pounds than the mirror says I have.

But then I'll have a conversation like one I had the other day with a guy who works here in the department, but who's also a professional musician. And just when I felt that music might give us some common ground, he says, "but at 34, I'm getting kind of long in the tooth to be going around playing in bars and such." ?!?!?! I couldn't think of anything to say to that at the time, but I'll say it here.

I'm 47, as of a couple of weeks ago, and if I honestly believed that there was a market for my music - that people would pay to hear me sing my songs, and especially if anyone asked me to - I'd be on the road in a heartbeat. I haven't sung for anyone but myself in years, and I miss it terribly. I miss knowing that people want to hear me sing. I miss being able to really open up my throat and sing at full voice so that hundreds can hear me, instead of singing softly so as not to disturb anyone. I miss being asked to sing. The closest I can come to it now is karaoke night with the gang, and it's just not the same at all. I have to be pretty lubricated to get past the embarrassment of asking to have a turn to sing someone else's song, with their accompaniment, etc. I miss being asked to sing my own songs in my own way, with friends playing live harmonies with me. "Long in the tooth?!?!" Kid, I'd spend the rest of my life performing, if only someone would ask.

Charlie Brown

Show of hands: who remembers Charlie Brown and the rest of the gang from Peanuts?

Sure you do. In the spring, he gets out his kite, hoping to soar among the clouds, only to have it - inevitably - wind up tangled in a tree before it even gets truly off the ground. In the summer, he stands on that pitcher's mound, pitching his heart out, hoping that this time they'll win a game, only to be knocked out of his shoes by a line drive. In the fall, Lucy promises she'll hold the football for him to kick, and he believes, and runs to kick it, only to find she's pulled it away just as he's fully committed to the kick, so that he lands flat on his back once again.

Poor, trusting soul. He wants so badly to believe in the inherent goodness of the world, and he tries to everything right, even though almost every time, the world just gives him the finger. What keeps him going - what lets him hang on to hope - is the fact that every now and then, the world gives him a taste of something decent. His friends act like friends, and decorate his little orphan branch of a tree, and show him that, at least sometimes, it really is okay.

I find myself feeling like Charlie Brown a lot lately. Especially where money is concerned. That's my football. Every time I think I'm actually gonna get caught up, and maybe even manage to save a little toward making our life better, it gets yanked away and I wind up flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me. And then, just when I'm about to tip over the edge into utter disaster, something comes along to hold me up awhile longer. Never enough to get me safely away from that edge, mind you, and never before the moment when I begin to fall. Just enough to keep me hanging on. And when that happens, I remind myself that it always has, in one way or another, so I really should quit panicking. But every time I find myself teetering at that edge, I panic. It's too scary not to.

Some people balance their budgets. I feel more like I'm juggling live badgers.

Rich, to me, is not having a six-figure income - from your investments. I mean, I'd love to have the big house and the staff to maintain it, and all of that but really...to me, "rich" means having enough money that I can quit worrying about having enough money. Is that really so much to ask?

"Don't be stupid. It's only the third floor."

It's funny to think that such simple words, delivered in a casual, offhand manner, could save a life. But they did. Mine.

We were in college, and I was having one of "those days" - one of many, to tell the truth - when everything is wrong, and it all hurts so deeply, and it's so frustrating to see no way out of it. And I said (not for the first time - or the last), "I've had it; if one more thing goes wrong, I'm gonna go right through that window."

And he laid his hand on my shoulder - calm, gentle, strong - and he said, "Don't be stupid. It's only the third floor. You'll most likely just break a few bones and have to spend a couple months eating hospital food - yecchh - and then you'll be right back here again, and nothing will have changed."

When he put it that way, we could laugh about the impulse, at least, and let the moment pass. If it had been the guy I was dating in the room, he'd have said something like, "Don't leave me; I need you!" And I'd have thrown him first, and then jumped. Which, come to think of it, would have been even more stupid, because he'd have broken my fall.

But it wasn't sweet, dense Gary. It was my best friend Bill. I often joke about that episode, but he really did save my life that day, and many time since, though I doubt he knows it. So many times I've heard his voice in my head: "Don't be stupid; it's only the third floor (or a Honda, or whatever)". That memory of his voice is like a calm, steady, strong hand helping me once again lash down the wildly flailing tiller of my storm-tossed soul.

Bill is one of those guys who make it all look so easy. You know the sort; everyone knows at least one guy like this. He's tall and slim, so handsome with his black hair and deep blue eyes. Especially when we were young, he was a right knockout, and still pretty fine, some two dozen years later. He's got that casual grace; moves like a cat, utterly at home in his body and well aware of the effect he has on people. Everyone wanted to have him, or to be him, or both. Tangled creature that I am, I fell into that last category.

I always felt a bond with him, and half a memory of us in a past life (circa Robin Hood), hunting with hawks and bows, sparring with swords. I spent awhile in the first few years I knew him wishing that we were lovers, and trying to make it so. It just never worked that way. Eventually, I came to accept that we're brothers in spirit, and things got a bit easier. We'd hang out together, talking about whatever, helping each other through our various troubles.

One of our little rituals had to do with matches. We each kept a box of those big wooden matches in our quarters, and sometimes on our persons. When we were angry and frustrated by life, and couldn't think of a way to fix whatever it was, one of us would get out the matches. We'd sit there taking turns striking matches, watching them burn away our anger and frustration one small flame at a time.

We've been in and out of touch since college. I remember our surprise when we discovered that we had made our separate ways across the country to the same general area. But even when we're out of touch, I still hear his voice when I need to be reminded:

"Don't be stupid; it's only the third floor."

Not Enough Money

Those who know me may think I'm referring to my usual financial state, which is to say, chronically underfunded. And while that condition led to the inspiration for this post, that's not what this post is about.

No, the full title of this post is (or should be:)

There does not exist enough money in the world to induce me to work in a customer service call center.

Nope. Not nearly. Not even close.

I don't have anything like the patience necessary to carry on a conversation calmly with an upset customer. I've been practicing patience for years, but I'm not that good at it. I don't know if I ever will be.

So, I have to give a great deal of credit to the young man at PG&E who took my call this afternoon. He was patient and polite, and tried to be reasonable with someone who was not feeling at all reasonable. I can't tell you his name, not only out of respect for his privacy, but also (mainly) because when he told it to me it slid right out the other ear. Sorry about that, but I was too busy being unhappy/frustrated/angry about the situation that prompted the call to register such details.

(I was going to post about the situation itself, but I'll just leave it at this: I'm on my way to a payment center to make a duplicate payment to the one I made online yesterday, just in case the latter doesn't get posted in time to keep them from shutting off the power. Does that suck, or what? The upside is that there will then be a credit balance on the account, so they won't pester me again for a little while.)

Dead Fish Handshake

I have heard of this phenomenon before, but today I encountered it for the first time. At a work-related luncheon, I was introduced to the head of another department. She seems a nice enough woman, but when she offered her hand to shake, I suddenly found myself holding a hand that was so completely relaxed I was at a loss as to what to do with it. I felt that if I shook it with my usual gentle firmness, I might hurt her. On the other hand, if I held it too loosely, it might just slip out of my hand altogether. I opted simply to hold it gently for a moment, and then let it go, but it was a very weird moment for me.

What do you do with that?