Jane is Bi? Gone Polar too? sheez.

None of this is meant to be a critique of mental illness as a whole.

Looks like Jane Pauley has decided to come clean with her "disease": Bipolar disorder. Awesome. Looks like we got another one. Anyone else see this the same way they see ADD/ADHD/AOADD what-the-fuck-ever? A bunch of hooey? Not that there aren't any legitimate cases. The statistics are all over the board, and no one can honestly rule out the possibility that there are personality "defects" (moodiness, daredevil tendencies, suicidal thoughts, difficulty concentrating sometimes, etc) which can be measured as existing in varying degrees between humans, thereby giving way to the theory that some individuals may be "overcome" by the magnitude of their "defect" and may require treatment for it.

But come on. Let's be reasonable with how relaxed the definitions are allowed to get. A 7-year old child that cannot seem to sit still, tends to endanger themselves (maybe others), has no discernable control over their immediate mood, exhibits emotional mania, and refuses to follow directions... sounds like your garden variety 7-year old to me. They're just trying everything out, pushing boundaries, and breaking everything to figure out how it ticks. Destructive: yes. Disturbed: no. Just like puppies, it is usually the quiet and well-behaved ones that have issues (or are soon to parish). The obnoxious ones who refuse to fall in line, recognize order, or control themselves in public are the ones who survive and prosper. Seems like the use of drugs like Lithium and Prozac (most mood stabilizers, or even stimulants) are the result of parental laziness above anything else. Don't get me wrong, I'm lazy too, and I'm not even a parent. Hell, I understand. Ever try to corral a 9-year old at a busy mall, ten minutes after they inhaled a triple banana split? I wanted a tranquilizer gun, full sedation formula, hair trigger, and quick release. And a really strong net.

But that wasn't the child's fault. My desire to drug the kid into a mold that I could handle was the result of my laziness. In the face of judgment in society, I didn't want to "deal" with or be wholly responsible for a being who has no concept of:

Mortality (kids play in full dumpsters)
Social grace (kids eat their boogers at napkined restaurants)
Shame (children will pick their butts and pee themselves)
Lewd behavior(s) (all children strive to be naked in public)
Rule of law (shoplifting, reckless behavior, and arson are kid-acceptable)

So, to curtail my responsibility (and thus my risk of running into any extraneous trouble) I would consider drugging the kid into a pliable zombie. Then put them on a leash. Inside a crate. In a basement somewhere (preferably not at my crib). That way, there's no risk, and I can lazily continue to do my worthless bit of parenting with no effort whatsoever.

Ten years later, I'll be wondering why: my teenager already has kids of their own, hasn't talked to me since being paroled, and had a limb chopped off because getting their privates pierced "wouldn't make [them] feel alive enough."

Maybe it is just me, but the diagnosis of what I would hope is a very complex disorder seems to happen too often, and too quickly. I would not surprise me to learn that the pharm companies that bank on the distribution of mood enhancers, stabilizers, and stimulants back a majority of the muddled research.

To anyone who honestly believes that they have the following personality "defects", you are not alone. Here is a quick rundown of several "indicators" or "symptoms" used to mark Bipolar and/or ADHD.

1. Hyperenergetic (too much sugar)
2. Distractibility (too much sugar)
3. Grandiosity (you haven't failed enough to humble, but you will)
4. Elated Mood (everyone gets happy every now and again)
5. Daredevil Acts (risk is inherent in everything)
6. Flight of ideas (everyone has ambitions, and then thinks better of it)
7. Racing thoughts (welcome to the post-Nintendo era)
8. Hypersexuality (Procreation is our most obvious purpose in life)
9. Decreased need for sleep (common sign of aging)
10. Suicidal thoughts (everyone gets down every now and again)
11. Suicidal thoughts WITH plan (this is indicative or symptomatic of nothing other than being suicidal, if you ask me)

I hope my comments make my opinion clear, because I cannot really think of a better way to state the obvious.

So. Jane is Bipolar, according to herself and her psychiatrist. She's on Lithium now. If she was feeling bad before, and this diagnosis and subsequent treatment have made her feel better, then that is fantastic (cure by placebo is just as valid to the patient, as long as it cures). Good for her, or whoever owns that patent. But I shall remain skeptical of the hype.

oooohhhh sharks.

By report, a 16 - 18 footer took a 50 year-old abalone diver for his head, off the coast of Cali (Mendocino). I have what would probably be seen as an unhealthy fascination with sharks. Especially the apex predators of the group (however, the Six/Seven Gills-Goblin-and Greenland sharks are all very fascinating niche predators) - the Pointer (White), Tiger, Bull, Mako, Thresher, Galapagos, Lemon, Blue, and Oceanic White Tip (Pelagics are hella tight, son!) in particular (and in that order).

This Mendocino incident could only have been the half-assed work of a curious (or confused) Pointer or Tiger. I don't believe any other shark in that region has the size necessary to decapitate a human.

Side note: the 16-18 foot size estimate comes from an "eye witness" account - this has not been expertly verified, the shark has yet to be identified, and witnesses usually have understandable difficulty in estimating the size of some underwater creature that was devouring their friend. So, for all we really know, this whole shark-attack-story is little more than a red-herring, and that Peterson fellow may have slit home-skillets throat and blamed it on a shark. But, I will plot forward with shark comments with the comforting knowledge that that dude is locked up while his P.T. Barnum-sponsored trial plays itself out like a Milli Vanilli record.

A Pointer could have done it, easy. Probability points to the Pointer. Their tendency to attack abalone fishermen is well documented. Abalone are a standard part of any healthy seal's diet, and seals are a standard part of any healthy Pointer's diet. So, any human standing between a healthy White and his healthy prey, may be in for some deep sea menacing. I would bet the guy was surfacing, knowing that the shark was in the area (curious Pointers typically pester abalone fishermen for a spell, before taking a chunk out of them. Which is why they have what are called "abalone cages", which fit like a big, reversed umpire mask-like backpack for diving fishermen to guard them from a sneaky nibble by a White from behind while the fisherman carves abalone from the sea floor) and the Pointer seized the moment to strike from below, after stalking the dude for a bit. The Pointer got his head, decided that whatever the hell kind of animal he was: was not very meaty (human skull rarely is), and turned its attention elsewhere.

Leaving the headless body for the current to dance with.

A Tiger would have returned, I believe. They have shown a tendency to do so with surfers in Hawaii (but only when the surfer stays in the water long enough). Normally, when attacking large enough prey, a shark will strike and then allow time for massive blood loss to bring the victim death. That way, there is no struggle (sharks don't have hands to hold something still while they eat it, so they really prefer it be either dead-limp. or a wholly willing meal), that way they don't lose as many teeth during the process. So, they will typically stick and move, then lurk in the vicinity, watching their victim pass, and protecting their well-earned meal from any opportunistic passers-by.

Plus, Tigers will eat anything (tires, license plates, jugs of bottled water, Louis Vitton luggage sets, etc...). So that whole body would have been gnawed on, at the very least, if not completely devoured.

Sleek and cruelly efficient creatures.

Anyhoo...

Gay governor? Who the hell cares?

Gay governor in Jersey. That, to me, is absolutely awesome. The best thing about it? No one is outwardly denouncing the guy for being gay. Awesome. That tells me that our society is showing signs of honest acceptance of the fact that not everyone will fit into the hetero mold. Not that I am patting us on the back for finally recognizing the historical facts surrounding sexual preference. But, better late than never.

They are, however, denouncing the guy for being what I consider a "standard case" politician. He is a philanderer. Seriously? No. Say it ain't so! A politician? Immoral? No fucking way!

Of course he was an adulterer. I believe it stands to reason that many who get involved in politics do so because they have control issues, not because they believe that they will fight the good fight. They enjoy competition, they enjoy the squabble, they enjoy the scratch and claw of debate, they revel in the destruction of their opponent, and they typically love - above most other things - admiring their trophy cabinet. You may disagree, but I believe it would be to your detriment to ignore the simplicity of the thing. Public offices are not won by those who are most capable of doing the duties as assigned (voters rarely understand the nature of these duties anyway, so how could they judge intelligently on that basis?), they are won by those who are most capable of winning, whatever basis that may require.

That being the unfortunate state of affairs (term carefully selected), it definitely stands to reason that most public offices will be held by those most capable of winning (some exceptions and statistical outliers to this rule, I am sure). This would, more than likely, be comprised almost entirely by: Lawyers, the most successful sales people, and those born into huge sums of money and "turn-key" political connections. To expect a governing body made up of such substance to refrain from taking liberties borders on the idiotically absurd. I don't believe it fair to require the winners of such competitions (public office) be held to the same moral constraints as you and me. After all, they typically come from backgrounds where ethics and morality are only studied for purposes of "work-arounds", "loop-holes", and harness/control. Within their lines of work, morality and ethics are a severe handicap rather than a strict behavioral guideline. To ask them to suddenly change gears might be downright cruel. If you hire a wolf to guard the chicken house to protect against other wolves, then you have to hire the biggest wolf, and the biggest wolf didn't come to be the biggest by being a vegetarian. You will lose some chickens. More than likely, you will lose all your chickens. But honestly, it would be your fault for considering the problem (wolf) as a potential solution (wolf) to begin with. “We" elect them because they are winners, not because they are capable or good people. Winners take all. That includes extra-marital sexual encounters (highly coveted, even amongst the most staunch moralist), bribes, land-grabs, kick-back schemes, and every ounce of your support. All gratis.

Quick counter-point: to avoid being suckered into believing the above load of caca, push to actually educate yourself before voting. Figure out who is up for what office, what that office entails, what the proper qualities are, and what qualities the candidates have. And after any election, always continue to judge the judgment of whoever was elected (regardless of who you voted for), and if they (or their supporters) don't like it: fuck 'em. They're un-American for allowing what would be a perfect system of checks and balances to fritter away by lack of use. Questioning authority is no longer the mark of a revolutionary, it is the mark of responsibility (understanding that ultimately YOU are responsible for what your elected leaders do and do not do).
As for me? Hell, I might even vote in this upcoming election. But I won't be voting for anyone. Think about it...

Fatty boom-ba-latty pants

The button for my pants broke while I was in the bathroom dropping the kids off at the pool. It shot off and ricocheted between the tiled walls, coming to rest in a corner. Broken. Very entertaining. Makes me feel so fit n' trim, when the buttons on my pants shoot off like a bad comedy sketch. Now my pants are uber saggy. Oh well. I'm hoping that the "living in the mean streets" look will be in style by the time I leave work.

Fashion changes so rapidly, I'm hoping this accident will be a serendipitous move to make me a front-runner within the ranks of Austin's fashionistas.

Or, I'll just get a styrofoam cup and collect change. Awesome. Good times, good times.

The future? Guaranteed, regardless.

I just don't know about tomorrow. Do you? Does that bother you in any measurable way? It irks me a bit. The future... Seems like a grayish, confused mass of jumbled events-to-be, which I have no current intentions of inventing/preventing/denying/directing. It only makes sense in hindsight, looking back at what happened, after the smoke has cleared and all the debris comes to rest. When gazing into what my life will be in five years, I don't see any clear paths, obvious horizons, or fully fleshed-out achievements.

Yet even in my confusion I notice that there always seem to be a few people out there with a plan. Soldiers of clarity, in a sense. And their plans provide them comfort. And comfort deals out confidence. Confidence leads one to make more/better plans. So and so forth on down the life line. Self-made millionaires, back-woods politicians, Lance Armstrong, and Francis Ford Copolla. These are those who combine to be Extreme Group A.

Extreme Group B: There also appear to be a handful of ill-directed souls with no discernable life-design whatsoever. A few who live completely outside order. Completely devoid of purpose and seemingly resigned to an existence below that of a limbless jellyfish - directed solely by currents beyond their control. Crack junkies, the mentally afflicted, Vanilla Ice, and every character John Cusack has ever played in a movie.

I believe the vast majority of us reside in between these two extremes. We want to plan, we really do. But we're easily dissuaded from such efforts, after a mere couple of failed attempts. Yet we never throw in the towel and live on the streets, eating refuse, audibly arguing with ourselves, selling out to shitty record companies, and peeing our pants while shooting horse tranquilizers into our necks. We stay in the middle, muddling along, molasses fast, paying our taxes yet rarely impressing ourselves (or anyone else for that matter). But is there an extreme which makes more sense? Logically if not empirically?

I will pit these two extremes within their opposing environments and see how they fare. I believe it says something interesting about where one should tilt.

If I were to assume that life really is what Extreme Group B would claim: after I put on my pessimist hat, my atheist eyeliner, and my (oh so trendy) existentialist dungarees, I might offer the following opinion. Outside of procreation, it is doubtful that anyone has a higher purpose beyond their all-consuming search for what is probably a non-existent "purpose". No grand plan, no big picture, no Neo in the Matrix, no Shadow amongst American Gods... just you and your ridiculous ambition to be ambitious. So, what's the point? There is none. Life is the ride, not the destination. So get yourself some smack, a bottle of cheap whiskey, start jumping out of planes, sell-out to Universal Records, "invest" in the Marlboro Man, crap wherever you please, and burn your voter registration card. Life begins and ends without reason or purpose. It is, only unto itself (and bad pop music).

That, obviously, is the darker end of the life-purpose spectrum. Pitch dark, I would say.

Cast the Extreme Group A folks into that dark reality, and you will see them continue to achieve, albeit humbly. They'll simply move their goals in. "No afterlife to work toward? Alright then, I'll settle for making this one the heaven I was trying to put off." Or: "no perpetual society to build and maintain? Okey dokey, then I'll just have to get by on planning order for my life, during my limited existence." Their efforts would be pointless. Only if there was the possibility of "creating" purpose would their efforts make any sense. So, in the world of Extreme Group B, I would argue that it makes no difference who you are (A or B). Everyone lives a pointless life and ceases to be without achieving anything of real substance. 50/50 flip.

But what about casting Extreme Group B characters into the world of Extreme Group A?

In A's world, life has grand "purpose". Who knows what that overall purpose may be (heaven, fame, wealth, cure for cancer, threesomes, whatever), but it is a moot point for this argument. The main point being that there is "purpose" beyond yourself (spatially, and chronologically), and that it takes recognition and self-direction to realize it. Obviously, Group B characters would be exactly as they were in their own reality construct: nowhere, doing nothing of import or interest, ever. Yet Group A characters would be thriving in their own ways (different "purposes" leading to different ways). Their plans would always lead to accomplishments, and those accomplishments would always lead to more/better planning.

I believe it fair to assume that the majority of us live in between these two groups for good reason. Our actual world is a blend of the two extremes. Sometimes our efforts are worthless, and the results disastrous. But other times, a good plan comes together and executes with success. The difficulty is in looking past the pessimistic failures, not in looking for the elusive nature of success.

Bottom line: I would prefer to be a planner in either extreme world. Note that being an optimist is not a requirement to be a planner. At least you have some semblance of control, whereas the Extreme Group B folks never bother (and it shows).

Either way: the future? I haven't a clue. But I'd rather spend my days planning to figure it out, even if there's nothing to figure out, then spend it waiting to die a pointless death. Whatever it actually is, it's guaranteed, regardless.

Whoooaaa.... some kinda irritated.

Holy shit. I managed to REALLY piss myself off today. Over nothing. Oh, but how it does bother me. I mean, really-really-really f*cking does bother me. I consider myself a pretty laid back fellow, of most topics, most of the time. But some things... remain unforgivable in my eyes. Amongst the forbidden:
1) Murder for sport
2) Designing devices to torture disabled children
3) Aiming for puppies while driving
4) Telemarketing
5) Allowing your account to be overdrawn through negligence

Yes, number 5 fits in perfectly with the others. In my mind, anyway. Well, maybe not the telemarketers, for they occupy the lowest depths of Hades, and number 1 sometimes feels like a reasonable solution to them.

That being over-stated, here's my itch:

Somehow or another, within what might be described as "creative" constructs of my personal financial management menagerie, I "managed" to get overdrawn on my checking account. How f*cking college freshman is that? Uhhh...errrr I can't seem to add or subtract right... uhhh... Goddamnit.

I've done some pretty unacceptable and repugnant things in my life. All of them, in the eyes of Johnny Law (and the general public), are considerably worse than bouncing a check-card purchase (or two, or five). But somehow, the inability of a person to manage their cash has always been, in my eyes, a strong indicator of general ineptitude and definite fiscal clumsiness. And somewhere, somehow, that contempt for those who refuse to balance a f*cking checkbook produced a seed of idiocy, which (yesterday) grew into a magnificent beanstalk of magnificent, irreverent stupidity. And I shimmied right up that mother f*cker, laughing and splaying middle fingers at my responsibilities like some sort of silver-spooned, adult-sized, profoundly and hysterically retarded six-year-old who had never heard of money. Hell, I might as well have peed myself, then touched the wet spot, and raise my fingers up to my nose, in a most curious fashion, to sniff them while giggling and drooling.

Why the hell not? I can't seem to be able to get my arithmetic straight, why not just degrade all the way down to where things are truly simple: entertainment through excrement, happiness through humors secretion. F*ck it. Why the hell not?

You can relate, can't you? To my pain? My frustration? Ah, forget it. You're right. Who am I kidding? It really isn't that big a deal when compared to Telemarketing.

Grocery stores are weak.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004 

Went to the grocery store near my crib yesterday evening. I'm not a big fan of the place. Some sad bastard is always "working on" their car in the parking lot, taking up two spaces, with tools and parts spread out around and in a couple of shopping carts. I must have grabbed last-week's "tool dolly", because my cart was bent to hell, greased up, and sporting some three-wheel-motion. It would catch-and-lurch, kind of a stutter step, as it squeaked and squawked down the random-tiled aisles. Some dude with a lazy eye, patchy beard, and at least two missing teeth was mysteriously mirroring my movements as I criss-crossed my way through the consumers' habitat. And he would stare me down as we passed one another. Every Aisle. Like fuckin' clockwork.

Eventually, I doubled back so I could stare him down, out of rhythm, on the soup aisle. Plus, I forgot to pick up a couple cans of minestrone (piss off, that shit's good).

Some strange carb-swap occurred on the bread aisle. For reasons unknown (but I'll attribute them to the cultural setting of my neighborhood), all the loaves of BREAD on the BREAD aisle (as marked on the aisle header) had been replaced by bag-stacks of shitty HEB tortillas. Not the freshly made ones mind you, but the ones processed and bagged in some distant place, shipped in the back of someone's pickup truck for three days, dropped on the front porch of my HEB like a morning newspaper, a week earlier. Dirty damn tortillas.

Regardless of the complete lack of tortilla quality at my local grocery, I wanted a loaf of bread. A normal, cheap-ass loaf of Mrs. Baird's would have been fine. But no. Oh no sir. Amongst the virtually empty shelves where bread once thrived on the BREAD aisle, I found three mutated loaves of buttercrust (I prefer this) which had obviously been assaulted by a gang of rabid two-year-olds (as evidenced by the open packaging, size 3-4 footprints, and several slices were missing but not the heals), and two loaves of the rocks-and-twigs bread (pristinely kept, on the highest shelf, out of youngsters' reach and beyond the interest of any human being under the influence of working taste buds). What I call "rocks-and-twigs" bread is really nothing more than pulp-combination of lawn clippings, fish tank rocks, what look like marijuana stems/seeds, and various fruit/nut parts indigestible by birds, formed together in a rude attempt to resemble the standard wheat product we call "bread". For any of you sad souls who sadly *choose* this "product" as your preferred method of couching lunchmeats, I say: at least your colon is clear, you dumbass.

Ah... I feel my rant coming to an end. I feel a weight being lifted from me. I have a sensation of impending relief! I feel pre-purged. Or, maybe that's the "bread" doing its "magic"... 'tis time.