The Michael Jackson – Ayn Rand Connection

I know that I’ve said some pretty radical things on this blog, but anyone reading the title to this post must think that I’ve finally gone off the deep end. And yet it is true. Although one might expect that the two belong on opposite ends of the “serious” spectrum, there is nevertheless a link between the career of Michael Jackson and the teachings of Ayn Rand. I only wish that it had occurred to me, on more than an unconscious level, prior to having it pointed out to me in another of the many e-mail notifications I’m subscribed to.

This one came from the site known as The Atlasphere, which exists specifically for the benefit of Ayn Rand admirers. This particular e-mail was an invitation to read the article Eulogy for the King of Pop submitted by columnist Orit Arfa. I strongly urge one and all to read it, for it is brilliantly written and clearly links the value of “pop” culture to what it means to be American.

Here’s a brief excerpt:

Pop music is emblematic of a free society. It’s an American stronghold, combining the Western achievements of melody and harmony with beats inspired by African rhythms. Some people dismiss pop music as mass-marketed, pandering, and unsophisticated, but I believe pop is among the most accessible of romantic art forms.

Pop songs abide by Ayn Rand’s definition of art as “the selective recreation of reality according to an artist’s metaphysical value-judgments” — giving individuals a concise medium to recreate and share an emotional idea so meaningful to them that they must sing about it to the world.

These songs may not involve complex arrangements that spell out an expansive, philosophical view of man; rather, they give us in the matter of a few minutes a “sense of life,” which Rand defines in The Romantic Manifesto as “a pre-conceptual equivalent of metaphysics, an emotional, subconsciously integrated appraisal of man and of existence.”

Now as a person with a long history of “emotional” problems, I have know for many years that certain pieces of art can overwhelm my self-control and reduce me to what I fear would be perceived as a quivering, blubbering fool. This is the primary reason why I hide myself away from those who would not only misunderstand, but might well view my reactions as a sign of vulnerability. I’ve had quite enough of being victimized, thank you.

As I alluded to in The Last Man Standing, one of the very first pieces of art to have this effect on me was the song I’ll Be There by The Jackson 5, when I was about 14 or 15. To this day, I wonder if I was somehow able to sense, in the person of Michael Jackson, another terribly vulnerable “soul” brother. And even years later, despite our vastly different paths through them, the craziness in both our lives only helped to enhance this feeling. I can’t help but wonder if at least some of the craziness going on now because of his death is proof that there are others who feel the same way.

But by far, the most powerful such emotional reaction came when I attempted to read Ayn Rand’s The Romantic Manifesto. The very same book that Ms. Arfa refers to in her article. And I say “attempted” because, well – it’s damned hard to read through tears. Because of Ayn Rand’s death, this book will have to stand as her primary non-fiction effort to define the ultimate importance of her work to the future survival of Mankind. I knew this when I started to read it. This frustrating experience was one of the final dominoes to fall in the months before my first hospitalization and diagnosis.

And now, after years of therapy at the hands of those ill-equipped to grasp its significance, I give my most heartfelt thanks to Ms. Arfa for finally helping me to understand the link between these two experiences.

You know, looking back on it some 14 years after my first breakdown, I now know that it was caused, at least in part, by my belief that Ms. Rand’s work must be continued at all costs and my fear that I was perhaps the only one who understood, and cared, enough to try.

Fortunately for all of us, the existence of places like The Atlasphere is proof that I was wrong. You’d be pleasantly surprised at who some of the other members are. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t.

I want ice water.

Behind My Eyes

Can you see through my eyes? Can you feel what I feel? Can you know my history, my hopes, my dreams, or my pain? No? Then tell me, why would you expect me to be able to see the world as you see it? Why would you even pretend that I could? Do you remember that old saying that no man is an island? Well it’s just as true that no mind is a community.

I can’t “feel your pain.” I don’t “know what you’re saying,” I can only hear you speak. I really don’t “get it.” And you certainly ain’t “got me.” I can’t “lie in your bed,” or “walk a mile in your shoes.” There is no such thing as a “psychic connection.” If we really want to understand one another, then we must get down to the hard work of communicating effectively.

There are two things that I have believed for as long as I can remember. The first is that the root of all evil grows best in the soil of misunderstanding. And the second is that we can do better. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t try so hard to be a good writer. Hell, I wouldn’t try at all. But I keep on trying in the vain hope that, by effectively articulating the life-sustaining imperative that we live our lives as rational beings, my writing will help to inspire a new age of reason.

Unfortunately, all I seem to have achieved so far is an appreciation for the mentality of the sociopath.

The Who – Behind Blue Eyes

No one knows what it’s like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it’s like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies

But my dreams
They aren’t as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That’s never free

No one knows what it’s like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you

No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through

But my dreams
They aren’t as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That’s never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool

And if I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat
If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

No one knows what it’s like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

I want ice water.

The “Human” Stage

When Pink Floyd said, “I was just a child then, now I’m only a man,” they were hinting that we tend to dismiss our failings by minimizing our capacities. Being the idealistic fool that I am, it disturbs me when bad behavior gets written off as “merely human,” especially when the one doing the “writing off” is also the one who has behaved badly. Even when motivated by more “altruistic” concerns, I’m still disturbed that we demand so little from ourselves and each other. And no matter how good we’ve become at settling for less, I have to ask: How has our trying to cheat our way through worked out for us?

An unfortunate fact of reality is that our abilities to conceal, ignore, pretend, and steal help out a lot when dealing with those who would do us harm. And I’ll bet that those same abilities were very useful in all of those hostile environments that our species have had to evolve through. But another unfortunate fact is that those same abilities have also been the root cause of all human conflict. And while we may still face many “natural threats,” the most undeniable fact of all is that, in today’s world, we are our own worst enemy.

As I said in my article, It’s Nature’s Way Of Telling You Something’s Wrong:

But the laws of God or Science (your choice) use volcanism and weather to maintain the Earth’s energy balance. They also use famine and disease to maintain the Earth’s wildlife population balance. And despite our apparent belief that mankind is above the law, those same forces provide the means to keep us in check as well.

It’s called War….

The fact that we have such a knack for behaving badly, combined with that behavior having been so instrumental in getting us to where we are, might lead some to think that we’re locked into a fatal “Catch-22″ that will inevitably result in our destruction. I have to admit that I swing back and forth between excepting that we truly are fated to destroy ourselves, and what I’m afraid is a hopelessly idealistic faith that we can work things out. Considering the epic numbers of prescriptions being written for depression and other anxiety related illnesses, I think that I have more than a little company in that regard.

In a comment thread on What side of your Brian do you use?, I said (talking about yoga):

Building up my strength, balance and flexibility sounds good. Maybe it’ll ease my mind from thoughts like “Peace from the type of troubles we have is going to require another step in our evolution.”

Could it be that we must grow beyond the “Human” stage in our evolution in order to survive yet another great threat to our existence? We’ve done it before. Can we do so again quickly enough to avoid extinction?

Perhaps it’s as they say, “Timing is everything.” What do you think?

I want ice water.

The Sin of Sloth

I was channel surfing earlier this evening when I came across an episode of Biography’s The Seven Deadly Sins. This one was about The Sin of Sloth, and it revealed to me some things about my own condition that I was not aware of. As if I actually needed more reasons to feel pissed off and outcast in this Hell on Earth global nuthouse.

Never having been one for religion, I had always assumed that the sin of sloth referred to people being too lazy to work or to maintain good personal and household hygiene. But apparently that’s only part of it. The sin of sloth also has to do with the causes of such laziness, such as having a weak moral character and being depressed – which many today still think of as being synonymous – and the things those causes lead to, like criminal activity and suicide. Apparently this is the reason the religious folk claim that sloth is the second most deadly sin.

As one who has suffered from depression for many years, I can see how others can confuse my lack of motivation with laziness. After all, I make no effort to “get out and meet people” yet still complain about being so terribly alone. And since I don’t anticipate being around anyone I care to impress, I’m not exactly what you’d call “diligent” when it comes to personal hygiene (I can’t stand an unkempt house, however). But I challenge anyone to label what’s important to me, my writing, as the work of a “lazy” person. And as far as having “a weak moral character” is concerned, I think the subject matter of my writing speaks for itself.

Now I have known lots of people who, just like me, don’t work. And yet most of them have no problem whatsoever when it comes to taking care of their personal hygiene or “getting out and meeting people.” Hell, as far as I can see, there’s nothing in the world more important to them than “feeling good, looking good, and looking for love.” And yet few of them seem to give a damn about cleaning their house and taking care of the property they live in and depend upon. So while you could argue that neither of us have much to show for our time on this Earth, you certainly can’t say that that has anything to do with who we are inside. So much for depression being synonymous with having a weak moral character.

If you’ve read the articles in the My Life volume of this blog, you’ll know that I do have some experience with the subjects of crime and suicide. So the question becomes: was it depression or having a weak moral character that led me to those things? Or perhaps more fundamental questions should be asked: if having a weak moral character and/or being depressed are such horrible personality traits, then why is suicide considered to be the worst sin of all, and why are all those religious folk so determined to prevent it? Why on Earth would they want us to stay?

I have to admit that I really wasn’t certain of where this would end up when I started writing. But then I guess that’s why writing is so therapeutic for me. All I knew when I turned on my old hunk-o-junk was that what was said on the TV show pissed me off, and I needed to deal with it. But now that I’ve worked it through, I’m left with one inescapable, if sickeningly familiar, conclusion: The prohibitions against Sloth and Suicide are “moral” justifications for human bondage.

Every culture that has ever existed has had at least one thing in common: the need for an “underclass” who can be blamed for the all the failings of that culture and who can be forced to do all that culture’s dirty work. Who better to blame for a culture’s lack of success than those who are “unproductive?” And who better to force into menial labor than those who are “shiftless” and “lazy?” Is this starting to sound familiar yet? Haven’t we all been taught that religion is both the “founding” and the “civilizing” force of our societies? What could be better than a justification for slavery that only a “heathen” would argue against?

I’ve spent my whole life resenting people because they’re all too willing to let me do their thinking and their work for them, and resenting religion because it tries to rob me of my individuality and my self-esteem. The problem with this logic is that it has lead me to erroneously think that I’ve been waging a war of two fronts, when the fact that over 95% of people are religious means that I’ve actually been battling an enemy with two faces. Like the character “Two Face” from the Batman comics, who swung from being the best kind of person one moment and the worst kind the next, the real enemy is the one who wants to be the slave-master but is willing to settle for selling his brother into bondage instead.

Now I know that we’ve come a long way since the days of treating those who suffer from depression as if they were possessed by demons, but it’s clear that some degree of animosity, disbelief, and distrust towards those so afflicted still exists, especially within the “less enlightened” segments of society. And it’s also true that the current age of “enlightenment” has brought with it every manner of “snake oil” salesman promising a pricey cure to a very vulnerable group that includes both the afflicted and those who care for them. Perhaps the lunatics are indeed running the asylum.

And now I think that it’s only proper that I include some lyrics from Pink Floyd:

Brain Damage

The lunatic is on the grass
The lunatic is on the grass
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs
Got to keep the loonies on the path

The lunatic is in the hall
The lunatics are in my hall
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And every day the paper boy brings more

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forbodings too
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon

The lunatic is in my head
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You re-arrange me ’till I’m sane
You lock the door and throw away the key
There’s someone in my head but it’s not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear
And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon

“I can’t think of anything to say except…
I think it’s marvellous! HaHaHa!”

I want ice water.

Reruns and Memories

I’m not sure why, but for whatever reason I find it difficult to watch re-runs of some of my favorite, if now defunct, TV shows. This is especially true for comedies. But sometimes there’s nothing else on so I watch one, and almost always end up wondering why I’d been denying myself the chance to renew a pleasure that I had sorely missed. A case in point is WKRP In Cincinnati. A ball game I was watching the other night was in a rain delay and I needed something else to watch that I wasn’t likely to get so wrapped up in that I forgot about the game, and WKRP was playing on the very next channel. Well I ended up watching two episodes back-to-back and missing the resumption of the game. I actually think the time was better spent.

Now I have no idea what the inner workings of a radio station are really like, but I do know that when I watched that show regularly I couldn’t imagine a better job than being a disc jockey. Getting to hear the latest releases before the world at large. Being myself before a huge audience while I’m actually alone in a protective shell of technology. Having an audience that actually wants to hear what I’m playing. What could be better than that? But watching WKRP In Cincinnati also brought back a great memory of an experience I had with a real, also now defunct, local radio station.

It was back in the late 90s and I was just beginning to come to grips with “my terrible illness.” Having been declared “unemployable” because of my reluctance to deal with the world outside my home, I had spent well over $4000 of my “retirement money” on computer equipment that I intended to use for a home-based business providing graphics and printing services to small businesses, as well as computer training to the neighborhood kids. Unfortunately, operating a business, any business, requires that you actually engage in an effort to gain clientèle, so I ended up mainly creating a lot of things to print out on my fancy new $750 color ink-jet printer.

Now don’t get me wrong, I was quite proud of the philosophical pronouncements and song lyrics – with graphics – that I was producing, but they hardly justified the enormous expenditures required to produce them. And trust me, having only a dial-up connection to what was then a very primitive world wide web didn’t help when it came to doing research. Unlike today, there weren’t zillions of sites to go to to get the lyrics for songs, so I reproduced them mainly from memory. And when memory failed, I reproduced them by listening to my old vinyl records over and over again until I was satisfied.

But I was stumped when it came to Don McLean’s American Pie. Like so many other “one hit wonders,” I hadn’t bothered to actually buy the record, so I was attempting to reproduce the lyrics entirely from memory. Unlike the therapeutic value I had gotten from mentally working out the lyrics to other songs, my attempt to do this with such a long and complicated song had rapidly become an exercise in self-torture. But like the fabled monkey with his fist in the jar, I simply could not let it go. Which is what gave me the idea to call up a radio station for help.

I think the station was called “Arrow” or something like that. They specialized in playing classic rock from the 60s and 70s, and seemed the perfect place to call for help. Unfortunately, the guy I talked to told me that their broadcasts were pre-programmed and that they only did requests on an infrequent basis. I guess he caught the disappointment in my voice upon hearing that, so he asked me what was up. Without really meaning to go into such detail, I told him about the depression and how I used working through the lyrics to my favorite songs as a kind of therapy.

Well to my absolute amazement, the guy actually offered to play the song for me over the phone, using a cassette deck he had in his office. He went even further by offering to rewind and replay all or any part of the song until I was happy. Needless to say, I will never forget his understanding and his generosity. I only wish I could remember his name.

I’ve included the lyrics to this song below (downloaded this time – I lost the ones I worked out long ago). I’ve also included the song itself on the associated music playlist.

American Pie by Don McLean

A long long time ago
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they’d be happy for a while.
But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn’t take one more step
I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died

{Refrain}
So bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

Did you write the Book of Love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so
Do you believe in rock ‘n roll
Can music save your mortal soul
And can you teach me how to dance real slow
Well, I know that you’re in love with him
‘Cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I digged those rhythm & blues
I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died

I started singin’
{Refrain}

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone
But that’s not how it used to be
When the jester sang for the King and Queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me
Oh, and while the King was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lenin read a book of Marx
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died

We were singing
{Refrain}

Helter Skelter in a summer swelter
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight miles high and falling fast
It landed foul out on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast
Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the Sergeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
Oh, but we never got the chance
‘Cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died

We started singing
{Refrain}

Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation Lost in Space
With no time left to start again
So come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
‘Cause fire is the Devil’s only friend
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in hell
Could break that Satan’s spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died

He was singing
{Refrain}

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before
But the man there said the music woudn’t play
And in the streets the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died

And they were singing
{Refrain}

They were singing
Bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die

I want ice water.

Dragged Down By The Stone

In the late 70's, during my first attempt at 'higher education,' I wrote an essay on how I thought that Pink Floyd's Animals was an accurate reflection of our society. Sadly, I don't have a copy to share with you today. I do however, find it sweetly ironic that now, some thirty-two years later, the Pigs are in the air with no place to land and the Dogs are in a drop-dead panic because the Sheep are on the rampage.

Please allow me to translate:

The Pigs are those whom we, for one reason or another, have granted 'positions of authority.' While they are mainly elected officials, all those who are looked to for leadership and guidance fall into this category as well.

The Dogs are those well-trained individuals who work so hard to squeeze every penny of profit they can out of the system we provide at the behest of the Pigs.

The Sheep includes pretty much everyone who are not Dogs or Pigs.

It is possible for a member of one group to move into another. And because of the 'special nature' of this wonder-land we live in, it is even possible for a player to exist in more than group at the same time. Isn't that cool?

Sadly though, there is trouble on the board. Paradise has turned into a ball of confusion. The Sheep are out for the Dogs blood now that they've realized their true place on the food chain. The Dogs are begging the Pigs for bail money now that their victims are circling around with leash / noose, in hand. And the Pigs are fluttering about like wounded ducks while simultaneously wagging their fingers at the Dogs and crying for the Sheep to have patience.

As Pink Floyd sang:

"Now it's too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around.
So have a good drown, as you go down, all alone.
Dragged down by the stone."

Unfortunately, the 'you' in that prose might well be all of us.

I want ice water.

Update 3/20/09

I decided to update this article after watching John Oliver's (The Daily Show) stand-up performance on Comedy Central. With his being British and with Pink Floyd being British and with my fascination with that British accent - I think in a British accent at times don't you know, it just seemed appropriate that I include his closing thoughts as an update to this article.

John, and his comic 'scientist' sidekick, made the point that perhaps the reason the U.S. isn't working harder to solve the problems of the world is because the rules of this crazy game say that whoever is on top when the world ends must be declared the winner. Well for a die-hard fatalistic American patriot like myself, I had to consider that perhaps this was a good thing. It's just unfortunate that no one will be around to celebrate our glorious achievement.

Not being one to give up on fame and fortune at any cost, perhaps we can leave some sort of great American Monument bragging of said achievement for future alien visitors to find. That'll wipe the smirk off their proud little green planet-hopping faces!

I want ice water.

Singing The Blues

As I’ve said before, I suffer from depression. Sometimes the bottom just drops out, usually for no rational reason that I can discern. When I’m laying on the bottom of one of these downturns, it’s very difficult for me to do anything, let alone writing. As much as I would like to write about it while it’s happening, I’ve never been able to do so. I’ve just been through one of these phases and I want to share with you, as best I can, what it’s like.

The following is a list of Pink Floyd song lyrics that not only describe the feelings I have when I’m in the middle of one of these funks, but are the actual songs that I sometimes listen to - and sing along with - while it’s happening. Amazingly enough, these songs somehow help me get through it.

The last song, by Emerson, Lake & Palmer, represents my underlying desire to persevere and reclaim my hold on life.

Please note that whether you are reading this on Blogger or on WordPress, I have made it possible for you to listen to these songs. On Blogger, they’ve all been included as individual songs in the Blog Playlist in the sidebar. On WordPress, you’ll find the same playlist on the Songs for this Blog page.

Pink Floyd - Another Brick In The Wall (Part III)

I don’t need no arms around me
I don’t need no drugs to calm me
I have seen the writing on the wall
Don’t think I need anything at all
Oh no! Don’t think I’ll need anything at all

All in all it was all just bricks in the wall
All in all you were just bricks in the wall


Pink Floyd - Goodbye Cruel World

Goodbye cruel world
I’m leaving you today
Goodbye
Goodbye
Goodbye
Goodbye all you people
There’s nothing you can say
To make me change
My mind
Goodbye.


Pink Floyd - Hey You

Hey you!
Out there in the cold. Getting lonely, getting old,
Can you feel me?

Hey you!
Standing in the aisles with itchy feet and fading smiles,
Can you feel me?

Hey you!
Don’t help them to bury the light
Don’t give in without a fight.

Hey you!
Out there on your own sitting naked by the phone
Would you touch me?

Hey you!
With your ear against the wall, Waiting for someone to call out
Would you touch me?

Hey you!
Would you help me to carry the stone?
Open your heart, I’m coming home.

But it was only a fantasy
The wall was too high as you can see
No matter how he tried he could not break free
And the worms ate into his brain.

Hey you!
Out there on the road always doing what you’re told,
Can you help me?

Hey you!
Out there beyond the wall, breaking bottles in the hall,
Can you help me?

Hey you!
Don’t tell me there’s no hope at all
Together we stand, divided we fall.


Pink Floyd - Is There Anybody Out There

Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?

Pink Floyd - Nobody Home

I’ve got a little black book with my poems in
Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in
When I’m a good dog they sometimes throw me the bone in

I got elastic bands keepin’ my shoes on
Got those swollen hand blues
I got thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from

I’ve got electric light
And I’ve got second sight
I got amazing powers of observation

And that is how I know,
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you,
There’ll be nobody home

I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm
And the inevitable pinhole burns
All down the front of my favorite satin shirt

I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers,
I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain
Got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains

I’ve got wild staring eyes
And I’ve got a strong urge to fly,
But I got nowhere to fly to

Ooh, babe when I pick up the phone
There’s still nobody home

I’ve got a pair of Gohills boots
And I got fading roots


Emerson, Lake & Palmer - Still... You Turn Me On

Do you want to be an angel,
Do you want to be a star,
Do you want to play some magic on my guitar?
Do you want to be a poet,
Do you want to be my string?
You could be anything.
Do you want to be the lover of another
Undercover? you could even be the man on the moon.

Do you want to be the player,
Do you want to be the string?
Let me just tell you something,
It just don’t mean a thing.
You see it really doesn’t matter
When you’re buried in disguise
By the dark glass on your eyes,
Though your flesh has crystallized;

Still .... you turn me on.

Do you want to be the pillow where i lay my head,
Do you want to be the feathers lying in my bed?
Do you want to be a colour cover magazine;
Create a scene.
Every day a little sadder,
A little madder,
Someone get me a ladder.

Do you want to be the singer,
Do you want to be the song?
Let me tell you something
You just couldn’t be more wrong.
You see i really have to tell you
That it all gets so intense.
from my experience
It just doesn’t seem to make sense,

Still .... you turn me on.

Hmmn .... you turn me on.

Hmmn .... you turn me on.

I want ice water.

Pride, Respect and Pain

After a very long time, I had the opportunity to talk to my oldest son the other day. I say ’talk to’ because I hardly let him get in a word edgewise. When I realized how much I was hogging the conversation I started to apologize by telling him how rare it has become for me to have someone to talk to, and that was when he told me how much he has in fact missed listening to me. Since we were also discussing his becoming my roommate, I was glad to hear him say that. But his statement planted a thought in my head that didn’t come to the fore until I watched Tavis Smiley’s interview with Mickey Rourke tonight.

Mr. Rourke’s description of the childhood demons that plagued him almost to the point of self-destruction caused me to reflect on my own. Both of us were affected by childhoods filled with violence and pain, and both of us chose to develop a ’hard’ persona to protect us from that pain while attempting to prove that we were a match for the evils that we perceived the world to have set against us. The difference between us lies only in the manner in which we chose to present our ’hardness’ to the world. His choice was the persona of the man who could not be touched through a shield of violence. My choice was the persona of the man who could not be touched through a shield of mental perfection.

I’ve always been so determined to prove that I was too ’smart’ to be affected on any deep level by the chaos and pain of our lives. I did this by attempting to appear to have an answer to everyone’s problem, and of course, an appropriate sermon to go along with my advise. This had both positive and negative consequences. On the positive side, maintaining this persona required me to learn quite a lot about the human condition, and also how to communicate my ideas effectively. On the negative side, this persona made conversing with me a real ’downer’ for some, and made me appear as an arrogant ass to others.

The problem was that perfecting this persona had become the very basis for any sense of pride that I had. I simply never believed that I could ever truly be respected without it. But the harder I worked at it the more difficult the task became, and I seemed to be moving farther and farther away from the respect I wanted. In a very real sense, my ego had become like the planet held up by the shoulders of Atlas, which only grew heavier the harder I strained to hold it up. Eventually it became more than I could bear and I had a mental breakdown as a result. The irony of it all is that as I slid down into addiction and despair, I became in reality both unreachable and untouchable to those around me.

I have to admit that I found comfort for a while in being thought of as ’crazy’ by other people. After all, who would expect a crazy person to have all the answers? But at the same time it really irked me to be judged ’chemically imbalanced’ by doctors and ’unemployable’ by the government. Especially when my mental state seemed to me the logical result of being a sane person living in an insane world. But over time I have come to realize that ’sane’ is a relative term, and that no one is completely sane when compared to some perfectionist ideal. I’ve also come to see that the disappointment that I saw in peoples eyes when I was really screwing up wasn’t because I had been revealed as imperfect after all - everyone already knew I was human, but because it looked like I had given up on striving for perfection - what actually made me special to them in the first place.

It’s now been over two weeks since I started writing this article. Something about the subject matter, in combination with other events in my life, made it too difficult to continue until tonight. What got me going again was seeing Mickey Rourke on Charley Rose last night and helping my oldest son move in with me earlier today. As far as the Rourke interview last night is concerned, I was again struck by the amazing combination of strength and vulnerability that exudes from the man. How can I not feel compassion for a man whose ’shield’ has failed him at least as badly as my own has failed me? But at the same time, how can I not have hope for myself when I see how possible it is for one to survive the failure and come out better for it?

I don’t know if the people who have been disappointed by my failures feel so because I had given them hope and then dashed it, or because I was no longer amusing them by acting like some Don Quixote character battling against impossible odds. And I guess it’s that not knowing that fuels my fear of being a further disappointment or an even bigger fool. But I know that the bottom line that I must stick with is the fact that I do what I do for myself and that it’s my own respect that I must earn. Pain is, after all, an unavoidable consequence of being alive, and genuine pride can only come from self-respect.

I want ice water.

Addiction and The True Calling

When I was in drug rehabilitation, the given definition of addiction was, "a relationship with a mood altering experience that has life damaging consequences." Note that this definition makes no mention of the actual thing to which the person is addicted. Be it alcohol, drugs, gambling, sex, work, or stamp collecting, it’s the consequence of the individual’s relationship with it that transforms that relationship into an addiction.

In short, an addict is a person who allows his pursuit of a thing to ruin the very life he seeks to enhance by pursuing it in the first place. Which brings me to point of this post: the addictive personality. This, I believe, is the true ’disease’ behind the symptom of addiction. You see, I have an addictive personality. When I find something that turns me on, whether it’s drugs, sex, work, computer programming, reading, listening to music, or writing, I fall head over heels into it at the cost of everything else.

It’s like The Neverending Story, where the kid falls into the book whenever he opens it. In fact, that’s the precise image I invoked to describe my addiction to reading. I would literally become so involved in whatever I was reading that I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, I didn’t even go to work. I remember once, when I had finally got my hands on the last book in The Chronicles Of Thomas Covenant, I used speed to allow me to stay awake while I read all six books in four days. Fortunately, if I can even use that word, I did this during an extended work break. But you can bet that my wife wasn’t too pleased.

Using another analogy, I refer you to the episode of The Twilight Zone where Burgess Meredith played a guy who wished for nothing more than the unfettered freedom to pursue his love of reading. He was so happy when a great holocaust left him all alone to do just that - until he broke his glasses! As crazy as it sounds, that was both my dream and my nightmare during those times. I still get chills of anxiety when I think of it.

This particular addiction got so bad that my emotions began to run wild, eventually leading to the choked-down rage and impossible-to-hide crying episodes that have plagued me ever since. To this day, I get so emotional when I read a good book or listen to my favorite songs that it completely ruins the experience. If it weren’t for the anti-depressants I take, I couldn’t even muster the courage to try.

And it’s the same for all the other things that trigger my ’disease.’ In addition to space travel and super-heroes, I was absolutely obsessed with sex as a kid. On the job, I worked more overtime than anyone. When I learned to program, I thought of nothing else. When I could no longer work, I stayed home to binge on marijuana, programming, reading, music, pornography, writing (mostly porn), and all the crack cocaine I could get my hands on to ’help’ me do all those things non-stop. I can’t say why it’s important to me to point this out, but I simply wanted speed during this period and crack was what I was able to find.

Ironically, I was actually looking for a way to kill myself when I stumbled upon crack. And as sick as it might sound, it actually gave me something to live for, at least for a while, since it had a kind of Popeye’s Spinach effect on me. When I finally lost my family and my friends, I lapsed into a hermit-like state that I’m just now beginning to come out of. My misery was so complete at one point that I even tried drinking to numb my pain and shut down my head, and when that didn’t work I turned back to suicide. Fortunately both alcohol and ’downers’ make me puke, so I didn’t succeed at either. Trust me, I haven’t always thought that was such a fortunate thing.

Now as I’ve said before, in addition to being a source of pleasure for me, writing serves as a kind of therapy. But the pen, or rather the keyboard, can be a double-edged sword for me. If you’ve followed this blog at all, you’ll have noticed that I have written quite a lot. In fact, I’ve done little else since I started this blog in the middle of November ’08. Such is the dilemma that I now face. I love what I’m doing so much, and finally feel that I’m really serving a worthwhile cause, that I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve found my ’true calling.’ But my experience forces me to wonder if this is just another symptom of my ’disease.’

You know how it’s said that you can’t see the forest for the trees? It’s like that when I try to weigh the consequences of this continuous writing. I don’t work, other than my writing, and I have no particular place to be. When I do have an appointment, I keep it. I take my med’s and prepare all my own meals. And the lack of a social life is ’normal’ for me. So aside from missing a lot of sleep, drinking too much coffee, and smoking too many cigarettes, it’s hard to find a truly negative consequence. But if I were a ’normal’ person with a job and family to tend to, this behavior would be excessive to say the least.

So for once I am truly at a loss. It’s not like there’s anyone I trust to advise me in this area. The psychiatrists and psychologists can’t seem to see past my drug abuse, ignoring the fact that my ’disease’ predates my drug abuse by many years. And the rehab community can only suggest that I turn my will over to ’a higher power’ or to ’the group’ - neither of which are acceptable to me. So I guess that I’ll just have to keep on doing what feels right. And that is to "Keep On Truckin’."

I welcome your comments. But still, as always,

I want ice water.

My International Incident

This article is about an incident I was involved in during the winter of ’75 and ’76, while I was still in the Air Force and stationed in the Panama Canal Zone. I had arrived there during the most significant ’break’ in my marriage and had spent the time since that break, both before and after moving to Panama, smoking as much marijuana as I could tolerate. And considering that, in Panama at that time, the stuff cost only $10 an ounce and $90 a pound, spending as much of my time as I could get away with stoned out of my mind was pretty easy.

You must understand that I joined the Air Force and got married when I was only seventeen years old. So while I was excited to visit what to me seemed a far off and exotic land, I was still little more than a child who felt trapped and isolated thousands of miles from anything that felt like home. As a matter of fact I had already gotten myself into trouble, only months after my arrival, by being caught in possession of marijuana in my barracks room with a couple of boys my age. Because one of the boys was only seventeen and both were civilian dependents of senior Air Force personnel, I was lucky that I was only fined, given a six month suspension of promotion, and forced to attend drug rehab classes. But despite this very clear warning, I still allowed my desire for companionship and my drug induced blindness to lead me even further down the path towards disaster.

At that time Panama was a virtual police state, which was plainly evident by the many national guardsmen in full military uniform and assault weapons positioned throughout the areas I visited. The people there were so poor and the slums were so heart breaking that the sights rivaled almost any shown in those commercials asking for help for the poor starving children of the world. It seemed that what little economic activity there was was focused almost entirely on catering to the U. S. personnel stationed in the canal zone. And when you consider the stereotypical wants of military men, it’s not surprising that much of that activity was frowned upon.

In addition to the abundance of marijuana and other plant-based drugs, Panama had a burgeoning population of prostitutes. While prostitution was strictly forbidden for Panamanian women it was, oddly enough, openly allowed for the thousands of women from other countries who had come there specifically for that reason. Apparently, these other countries where in such bad economic shape that it had become customary for some of their women to spend time as prostitutes in Panama while sending money back to their families at home. Of course, with the local women having such a hard time, the laws against prostitution did little to deter them from joining in the game.

Now every incoming soldier was warned of the potential danger of being caught up in trouble that might land them in a local jail. Because of the political problems between the U. S. and the government of Panama, American military personnel had been known to disappear into local incarceration with no one bothering to inform anyone of their situation. So it’s should come as no surprise that, despite the flagrant violation of military rules, GI’s preferred to do their ’partying’ on base where they felt a little more safe to enjoy themselves. I know for a fact that, in my barracks at least, hardly a night went by that somebody didn’t have one or more prostitutes in their room.

If you’ve read any of my other articles, you’ve probably already guessed at the kind of nightmare I was walking right into. But there’s no way you would be able to guess at the actual enormity of that nightmare. It all started so innocently, you see. Because I found trips into Panama City to be such sad and nerve wracking events, it was only rarely that I allowed someone to talk me into going with them. And it was on one of these ’adventures’ that an associate of mine approached two girls about getting together at some point to party. Being the extremely shy person that I was, I was just glad when he had finished telling them how to find us on base and we could move on. And I had completely forgotten about it when they actually came looking for us a few nights later.

By the time that night rolled around I had a room to myself, which I made my very own by placing the mattresses for two beds together in a big square on the floor and decorating the walls in a checkerboard pattern of photos and articles from Playboy and Penthouse magazines. I have no idea how I was able to get away with having a room in a military barracks look that way, considering the frowns of disapproval I got whenever inspections came around. But nevertheless it made the perfect spot for my friends to want to party in, so that’s where the four of us spent the evening.

I must make it very clear that this party was not planned by me in any way. In fact, I made it clear at the start that it had to end rather early because I was due to work a midnight to 8 am shift. Also, there was no sexual activity whatsoever, not because I didn’t want to, but because one of the girls was feeling sick and the other was concerned about her friend. So we spent the time we had talking and listening to music. Unfortunately, as the time for me to go to work came closer, the one girl became more and more sick. So sick in fact that by the time I had to go to work I simply didn’t have the heart to send her on the long bus ride back to wherever she lived. As idiotic as it may seem now, I decided to let her stay in my room overnight while I went to work.

What a bad decision that turned out to be! Again, you must understand that I left her in my room because I was trying to do the right thing. But I also acknowledge that I was fully aware of the risk that I was taking by doing so. I even chose leaving her in the room alone instead of seeking medical help for her because I wanted to avoid the trouble I would undoubtedly get into for having her there in the first place. All this I acknowledge without hesitation. Nevertheless, I was still shocked when, five minutes before my shift ended, I was contacted by the base’s chief of security.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but my denials simply flew out the window when he told me what the housekeeping staff had found when they came in my barracks. Like imagery form some TV crime scene, the chief described how they had found a trail of blood leading from a very large pool on my bed to another very large pool originating from the girl’s vagina while she lay half-dead on the bathroom floor. As you might expect, I was in big trouble and my protestations of innocence fell on somewhat deaf ears.

Quite rapidly, this turned into an extremely embarrassing international incident with Panamanian officials accusing me of attempted murder and with the U. S government wanting to simply throw me to the wolves to make it all go away. The commander of the base had quite predictably, considering my record, filed the necessary paperwork to push for immediate court-martial proceedings. It seemed that everyone had turned their backs on me, including my ’friend’ that had been at the party that night. As for the other guys I lived and worked with, all I got from them were sick jokes about how large my penis had to be to cause so much damage.

Fortunately, military law requires that even naive fools like me get legal representation when stuck in such situations. And even more fortunately, I had a very good military lawyer assigned to my case. But even with all the phone calls he made and all the letters he sent out on my behalf, Captain Hood had a very steep hill to climb in order to save my hide. It helped some that it had been a pet peeve of his that enlisted men had these restrictions on who they could have in their barracks while officers could have pretty much any visitors they wanted, but the fact that the girl was in no condition to help with the remainder of the charges still left me with my butt very exposed.

I was all but court-martialed and on my way to prison when one of those amazing ’hallelujah’ things happened to save my ass. The girl came out of her coma and was decent enough to tell what actually happened that night - and what led up to it. As it turned out, she had had one of those back-alley type abortions only hours before she and her friend had come out to the base. I’m pretty sure that the Panamanian government wasn’t pleased at being denied the opportunity to stick it to the Americans more than they already had, and I know for a fact that my commanders were still quite pissed at my having made them look so bad, but in the end they were left with only the charge of having unauthorized personnel in my barracks to hold against me. And the fact that Capt. Hood had been campaigning against that rule as being discriminatory left them in a bad position even when it came down to that.

So to everyone’s great relief, they offered, and I accepted, an honorable discharge a full year before I would have been otherwise eligible. Provided, of course, that I was on a flight back home within a week. Naturally I was happy at the prospect of getting off so easy. I was also looking forward to going home to attempt the reunification of my marriage. But I was not happy that my Air Force career was coming to such a bad ending. You see, despite all of the trouble and my disillusionment with the military, I still had those naive and idealistic hopes that my service would end up being something I could be proud of. I really was quite ashamed that things ended up the way they did.

Well, to wrap up this sad and sordid tale, I spent the next week packing and shipping my stuff home, while at the same time taking all five of the G.E.D. tests in just two sessions with almost no preparation whatsoever. Amazingly, after arriving home from the tropics in the dead of winter, I later received the results from those tests along with a letter from Captain Hood praising me for having gotten above average scores under such difficult circumstances. I was very happy with the results, and with the praise he though that I deserved, but both things were also painful reminders of how little I had done with the potential I had.

This sense of failure stayed with me through all of the years I spent struggling to get a degree while still getting stoned to alleviate some of the pain. It bothered me so much that as soon as I got my Associates Degree, I headed out to try and re-enlist. That’s when I discovered that the Air Force hadn’t let me off so easily after all. While it didn’t matter much in my civilian life according to the recruiter, a re-enlistment rating of 5 was the worst that it got for a anyone hoping to return to the military. According to him, this rating was so bad that he had thought it was reserved only for traitors and such. You know, the ’Benedict Arnold’ types.

After I explained to the recruiter what had happened in Panama, he agreed that a rating of 5 was a bit extreme. He even explained the process through which the rating could be appealed. But he made it clear that such an appeal was long, costly and rarely successful. In the end he advised that, considering that those records were off limits to civilian employers and were automatically erased after a few years anyway, I should just move on with my life away from the military.

So much for working for a happy ending by trying to make things right.

I want ice water.

Love, Loss, Anger, and Faith

Now that My Terrible Ordeal is over, I can get on with trying to salvage the rest of my life. In addition to all of this writing, being sober and temporarily without the distractions of telephone, cable TV and Internet has allowed me to take a more clear headed look at my life up to now. These circumstances have also allowed me, with some difficulty, to resume my love of reading and listening to music. This is difficult because those things are clear evidence of the state of my psyche at the time I chose them. Regular readers of this blog will be familiar with some of my history and of my tendency for idealistic thinking. Well all those books, records, and memories are painful reminders of the choices that tendency has led me to make. Choices like who and what I loved, what I did and did not give up to pursue those loves, and what I did in response to their loss.

I must say that my definition of what ’love’ is has evolved to be quite different from what other people say it is. I now believe that a person can truly love only the people and the things that represent that person’s ideals brought to life. Unfortunately, my definition was nowhere near complete enough to be a proper guide for some very critical choices I made in that area. So although my current beliefs did exist in infant form, they were of little help in preventing me from becoming locked into what later became very painful relationships with women and things. Of the two women important enough to write about, the first was my early childhood sweetheart and the other is the mother of my five children. The things are too numerous to mention other than to say that they were the typical kind that we waste so much time, energy, and money pursuing.

While I have little ambition for things these days, the women have been nowhere near as easy to dismiss. Regardless of how I feel about love and philosophy now, the feelings I have for these two women are still so strong that I literally get a psychic shock whenever either of them cross my mind. I try very hard to tell myself that my feelings aren’t rational because I shouldn’t feel this strongly for anyone not ’qualified’ for my love, but I might as well be spitting into a fan for all the good that does me. And there’s simply no possibility that I can prevent the thoughts altogether, especially when it comes to the mother of my children. So I guess that the only thing left to do is to face those memories and feelings head-on like all the head-shrinkers advise.

Before I can begin to describe either of those relationships, I must delve a little into the circumstances - and my thoughts about them - that surrounded them. I was born into a time of great turmoil and anticipation. If you know anything about the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s, you’ll understand why this was so. And I’m not sure whether it was arrogance or naivete on my part, but somehow I came to believe that I had a special talent for judging right from wrong and for finding the good in anyone. My faith in my abilities gave me the confidence to take on many challenges that I might not otherwise have taken on.

But the belief that I was somehow ’special’ also left me feeling that I had a bit of an unfair advantage over other people. This feeling was reinforced by their apparent lack of faith in their own abilities and by the ’protected’ state I lived in due to having such a dangerous father. In turn, this led me to never want to appear ’superior’ to anyone and to never tell anyone of my fear for them should they be seen by my father as a threat. So I adopted the persona of a non-confrontational person who gave everyone the benefit of doubt, while I secretly strived to keep my true perceptions to myself.

But also behind the mask I wore raged the heart of a romantic idealist who believed himself capable of perceiving both the true pains of the world and the answers needed to alleviate that pain. Thus began the log lasting conflict between the person I let people see and the desire to be recognized as the ’answer’ I wanted to be. I became a person who denied the possibility of finding a ’perfect’ mate for himself while always campaigning to bring everyone to a state of ’perfection.’ As anyone in my family will eagerly tell you, that was not the way to begin a long and healthy life. But that’s how I ended up choosing women for mates not because of who they were but rather who I thought they could be. That’s not to say, despite the opinions of others, that just anyone would do.

My first ’love’ was a little girl that lived next door to me at the time of my earliest memories, when I still thought of myself as Bobby Hart. From then until I was ten years old, we spent practically all of our time together. She seemed so perfect to me. In fact, her family seemed more like my true family than the one I was born to. They even looked like me, which was kind of unusual in those days. My attachment to her was so strong that it inspired the first obsession I had with a song - The Monkees' I'm A Believer. But when I was ten we began to drift apart. I think this was mainly because she was a grade higher than I was in school, and had developed a circle of friends who couldn’t understand why she would spend so much time with a ’lesser’ being.

She had also developed an interest in other boys. The only fight I was ever in that I actually started, was with one of my perceived rivals. As I remember it, the fight pretty much ended in a draw. But I remember quite clearly how embarrassed I was at my behavior and the struggle I had to regain her respect. To me, those results felt like a terrible loss. I kept on trying to keep that relationship alive however, right up to my twelfth birthday when my mom shipped me off to live with my sister in L.A. I’ve seen her only twice since then.

The first time was after I was discharged from the Air Force over eight years later, during a drug-induced search for lost love after my wife revealed that she was pregnant by another man and had refused to resume our broken marriage. She was still just as beautiful as I remembered her, and still cared enough to welcome my visit in spite of the circumstances. But the fairy tale reunion came crashing down when should told me that she was in love with the guy I had started the fight with. The last time was during a road trip for my job. That’s when I found out that she had married that same guy and had a couple of pretty little girls by him. Since he really was a decent guy, and I was back with my wife at the time anyway, I did the best I could to hide my pain. Whether she bought my act or not is anyone’s guess.

I met my now ex-wife right after I moved to Ohio from L.A. in 1970, when I was fourteen and just getting used to being teased about that damned Janis Joplin song. She didn’t look like me the way my first ’love’ did, but I found her athletic grace and stature to be irresistible. Her family lived across the street in the housing project my sister lived in, and when I finally got up the nerve to talk to her, I found that she was a very bright fifteen year old who was very active in track and girl’s basketball. I myself have never been much into sports, but I had a pretty good hook shot and was fast enough to outrun her. And amazingly enough, she was a year ahead of me in school and was born in February - just like the first girl I fell in love with.

Over time I also discovered that, until I actually introduced myself, everyone she knew had wondered why ’a White kid like me’ was such a frequent visitor at my sister’s house. And even after I thought I had made it clear that my interest was in her, she and her sister still tried to fix me up with the White girl down the street. From the perspective of a horny teen-aged boy, it seemed to take forever to convince her that I was worth spending time with. Looking back on it now however, I have to wonder just how convinced she really was. You see, except for my intense attraction to her, we had almost nothing in common. All of our interests in music, in books, and in how we spent our time apart were completely different.

Although she was obviously just as bright as I was, the things she chose to focus her intelligence on made no sense to me whatsoever. I’m sure that she too wondered at the oddity of our relationship, because she introduced me one day to a potential suitor who just had to see it for himself. That really hurt. But I was relieved nonetheless when she chose me over him. And even after I joined the Air Force just to be financially ready to do so, I was still amazed when she agreed to marry me just three years after we met. If you consider the fact that we had to fake a pregnancy in front of a judge because I was only seventeen at the time, you can perhaps empathize a little with how I felt.

Have you ever heard the song I Hope You Dance by Leann Womack? It’s probably a fair bet that my ex-wife hasn’t, but if she had it could have given her some insights into the way I feel about my life today. You see when I was very young, I was so naive and uninhibited that I actually loved to dance all by myself in the bootleg joints frequented by my mother. As long as people kept giving me dimes to put in the jukebox, I danced like I was alone and happy on the moon. Unfortunately for our marriage, I had become increasingly extremely shy and introverted by the time we met. I had also discovered what actually motivated all those gyrations at the parties and nightclubs she wanted us to go to. So when I needed to the most, I just couldn’t bring myself to dance with her in public.

When you add to that the fact that my mental state also denied me the ambition needed to properly provide for our family, the fact that she remained married to me for almost thirty-three years is kind of hard to believe. And through all of those years, through all the highs of our reunions after the lows of our separations, through the successful births of our children and the frequent miscarriages, through all the stupid things I did that should have driven her away, she stuck with me. And the intensity of my feelings for her never diminished one little bit. Even after my spirit-liberating discovery of Ayn Rand’s Objectivism, during the months of separation surrounding my military discharge, I was still unable to give her the life I wanted for us after we got back together - although for an entirely different reason at that point.

And for that same reason, the conflict between the person I showed to the world and the person I actually was became so great that it led to a psychotic breakdown. But she still kept me in her life, even through hospitalizations for mental health, drug abuse, and pancreatitis. However, I knew it was finally over when I awoke from a medically-induced coma, after an almost fatal resurgence of the pancreatitis, to see that she had brought her new man with her to visit me. Ironically, it was the guy she was with when I got out of the Air Force. You know, the guy she chose to be with instead of resuming our marriage. The one who actually fathered my first child - the son who still considers me to be his dad even though he knows otherwise.

But maybe the true irony lies in the fact that, in spite of all the drama, I still miss my ex-wife with an intensity I couldn’t begin to explain. Just hearing her voice on the phone can bring on one of those crying jags I struggle so hard to avoid. If there were no more evidence than that of just how badly twisted my mind has become, I think that should still be quite enough. But her new man is actually a very nice guy despite the animosity between him and our son. She certainly seems to be living a far more comfortable life than the one she had with me. And I truly don’t want to cause them any pain. So I try my best not to let my feelings show. But I’ve always been a very poor liar and I have my doubts about how successful my efforts have been.

Now that I’m nearing end of this article, an amazing thought has occurred to me. While watching the Presidential inauguration earlier, I was once again impressed by the imposing stature of Michelle Obama. If I had to guess, I would lean towards her being the physically stronger of the two. And that’s when it hit me. Do you recall my earlier statement that I believe you can truly love only that which represents your ideals brought to life? Well I realize now that the irresistible attraction I have always felt for my ex-wife derives it’s power from the strength that I first saw in her from across the street when we were kids. And it has been reinforced time and again by the courage and confidence she has demonstrated throughout the years.

Despite all my rationalizations to the contrary, telling myself that it didn’t make sense for me to love her because she didn’t look the way I wanted my woman to look and didn’t have the same goals that I did, I realize now that I did indeed love her. Not because she fit some magazine definition of beauty. Not because we wanted to do the same things and pursue the same goals. Not even because she truly was the best sexual partner I’ve ever had and of all the wonderful children that having sex with her produced. I loved her because she completed me by possessing the courage, confidence, and strength that I have always lacked and was willing to put up with me anyway. I’ve heard it said that, "There’s no fool like an old fool," While I don’t know if such an imbalanced love can ever actually work, knowing the true nature of my love for her might have helped.

To be clear, I have had other, shorter term, relationships with girls and women, all with equally disastrous results. I have not had even a one night stand since the end of my marriage in 2002. That is, other than those of the infrequent and always disappointing pay-to-play variety. The loneliness has gotten to be almost more than I can bear. But I’m so full of unresolved anger at myself and my circumstances that I simply haven’t had the confidence or the courage needed to approach a prospective mate while dragging such a mountain of pain and confusion behind me. Considering my history, I fear that starting a new relationship before dumping some of this baggage will only lead to more disaster.

My regular readers know how I like to include lyrics from my favorite songs in these articles. And when it comes to the subject of love, I’ve certainly had a wide array to choose from. I’ve looked into the soulful sounds of The Temptations, The Spinners, Smokey Robinson, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight, Sly and the Family Stone, Lionel Richie, Hall and Oates, Grand Funk Railroad, Larry Graham, and Whitney Houston. I’ve surfed the melodic waves of The Beatles, The Carpenters, Elton John, Billy Joel, The Doobie Brothers, The Eagles, Led Zeppelin, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Yes, U2, Heart, and REO Speedwagon. I’ve even churned through the dark and angry waters of The Police, John Waite, Def Leppard, The Who, The Eurhythmics and Pink Floyd.

Pink Floyd’s The Final Cut is an excellent reflection of my love life:

"Through the fish-eye lens of tear stained eyes
I can barely discern the shape of this moment in time.
And far from flying high in clear blue skies
I’m spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide.

If you negotiate the minefields in the drive
And beat the dogs and cheat the cold electronic eyes.
And if you make it past the shotgun in the hall.
Dial the combination. Open the priest hole.
And if I’m in I’ll tell you what’s behind the wall.

There’s a kid who had a big hallucination
Of making live to girls in magazines.
He wonders if you’re sleeping with your new found faith?
Could anybody love him? Or is it just a crazy dream?

And if I show you my dark side, will you still hold me tonight?
And if I open my heart to you, show my weak side,
What would you do?
Would you sell your story to Rolling Stone?
Would you take the children away and leave me alone?
And smile in reassurance as you whisper down the phone?
Would you send me packing?
Or would you take me home?

Thought I ought to bare my naked feelings.
Thought I ought to tear the curtain down.
I held the blade in trembling hands, prepared to make it but
Just then the phone rang.
I never had the nerve to make the final cut."

The only significant difference between that story and my actual life is, ironically, the fact that the ringing I heard before attempting suicide was the call of crack cocaine.

Considering the state of my recent ’love’ life, maybe I’d be better off these days looking to groups like The Tube’s when they sang:

"You can step outside your little world.
You can talk to a pretty girl.
She’s everything you dream about...
But don’t fall in love!"

But for the future I’m still hoping for, perhaps the best advice came from the group Toto when they sang:

"Hold the line. Love isn’t always on time."

I have no idea if writing about these things will truly have the exorcising effect I hope for, but I do know that having copies of them outside of my head seems to somehow diminish the power of the ones still inside my head. I’m holding on very tightly to the hope that it’ll all work out in the end. I guess that would be the ’faith’ part of this whole thing. And in the real world, that may just be the best that I can hope for.

I want ice water.

My Terrible Ordeal

In another of those weird synergisms where I manage to find profound connections between the seemingly trivial and the great complexities of my life, I have found tonight’s episode of NCIS to be analogous to my most recent trial by fire.

The show starts with the team investigating an obviously open and shut case of cheating sailor murdered by spurned lover, when out of nowhere a woman wearing a Muslim head covering and shouting in Arabic grabs the murder weapon and uses it to stab the medical examiner, Ducky, through the hand. It turns out, as the story unfolds, that the woman was trying to revenge the death of her brother, some thirty years earlier in Afghanistan, at the hands of none other than Ducky himself. Before they can catch up to her, she presents war crime charges against him at her embassy. And to the teams amazement, Ducky not only admits his guilt but turns himself in the Afghans.

Needless to say, the team was shocked and convinced it was all some terrible mistake that they must resolve to save their friend. Unfortunately Ducky refused to provide any information that will help them to help him. Eventually, through the use of all that techno-investigative-spy stuff I love so much, they discovered that the guy Ducky killed was being tortured repeatedly for military information at the hands of an agent of the so-called good guys. As a young doctor, Ducky had had to repair the damage done to the man over and over again, and decided at last to save him from more suffering in the only way he could - by giving him an overdose of painkillers.

But in Ducky’s mind he had committed murder, and he still felt so badly about it that he continued to refuse all his friend’s efforts to save him. As a last resort, they tracked down the guy who had done the actual torturing and brought them together as two war criminals locked in the same room. You know, the one with the two-way mirror. That was when the torturer finally admitted that Ducky had been the actual target of his efforts, because his compassion was preventing the prisoners from experiencing the level of fear required to get useful information out of them. It had been Ducky he was trying to break, and he succeeded! Of course, the charges were dropped against Ducky because the woman who stabbed him was on the other side of the mirror the whole time.

My sad tale starts at the beginning of November, when instead of my disability check, I got a letter stating that I had been cut off because of a felony warrant that had been issued for my arrest. Furthermore, it stated that I now owed the government for the five months I had received benefits while the warrant was in effect. Needless to say, I was a little disturbed by this. This trouble originated with something that happened at my old apartment almost a full year ago, the consequences of which I tried to ignore for nine months and have struggled to resolve for the past two.

Although I wasn’t surprised that the problem finally came home to roost, I was absolutely shocked at the charges filed against me and at what my avoiding them had cost me. You see, giving in to my addictions to drugs and my lust for companionship, I allowed some ’friends’ to come over to ’party’ a while with me. Eventually, the ’partying’ eventually got to be more than I wanted to deal with. In the end the police were called in - by someone other than me - to resolve the resulting chaos. And because I wasn’t expecting a visit from the police, I tried to hide the remaining evidence of what we had been doing to avoid having the problems escalate. Somehow that turned into me being left holding the bag. It was, after all, my apartment

Well I was so pissed off at my so-called friends, and so frustrated that I was the only one with any consequences to face, that I decided to dodge the issue by getting the hell out of Dodge. This, I thought, got me far away from both the consequences and the activities that led to them. I also thought that at worst I would have to deal with some minor offense at some later date. How wrong I was. It turns out that possession of the substance I had been trying to hide was a felony offense. And even though the citations issued at the time made no mention of my possession of it, I could nonetheless be charged for it at a later date if the authorities chose to do so. They chose to do so.

I of course, having left no way for anyone to reach me, was completely unaware of any of this. Until the beginning of November, that is. Well amazingly enough, I received little more than a slap on the wrist as punishment for my crimes in the end - from the courts that is. I still lost two months of disability benefits, which left me begging for help from my middle son to cover expenses. That leaves me owing him, Social Security, the fine and court costs, and whatever it’s going to cost to get my driver’s licence reinstated. But the greatest punishment by far, and the reason why this story parallels the NCIS episode so well, came from the deranged thoughts bouncing around in my head.

Regular readers of this blog will be familiar with my obsessive attempts to pre-plan every interaction I expect to have with other people. Well, being the mentally ill person that I am, I have spent the last two months working and re-working to build up the scenario I expected to play out at the end of this mess. I imagined myself in an epic courtroom battle to snatch back my freedom from the jaws of a justice system too blinded by outrage at my crimes to care about the circumstances in which they occurred. I expected to have to argue in my defense with verbal eloquence I had never before been able to achieve.

Well earlier today, like in some twisted flashback to Alice’s Restaurant, it turned out that neither the prosecutor or the judge believed my crimes where significant enough to warrant the persecution I anticipated, and I was too tongue-tied to have been of much help in my defense anyway. So, as usual, reality spoiled my nightmare once again.

Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, I can’t resist wondering about how different the outcome might have been if I didn’t look so White or if the judge had been more like Judge Judy or Judge Joe Brown. What can I say? I’m a pessimist.

And as always,

I want ice water.

"Fortunately, I keep 'em numbered..."

"... for just such an emergency." Thus spoke the great Foghorn Leghorn in one of my very favorite cartoons. He was, of course, referring to his feathers, which had been blown off in yet another failed attempt to get than darned hound dog. Although I watched many cartoons as a kid, there's something about that loud-mouthed southern baritone that really appealed to me. And while the Foghorn vs. hound dog conflicts were certainly no less violent than Bugs vs. anyone, that southern accent somehow made them seem more 'civil.' And, of course, it's 'civility' that I like to talk about.

In all of the Foghorn Leghorn cartoons, the plot always involves the two adversaries devising and setting in motion various schemes based on their predictions of how the other would behave in a given set of circumstances. Invariably however, there were unaccounted for events that caused their schemes to blow up in their faces. And that, of course, is what makes them funny. We laugh because it reminds us of our own ill-fated attempts to overcome the unpredictability of life, in a way that's so much less distressing than the memories of our failures.

So, to the double-edged issue at hand: Is there something wrong with wanting to be able to predict the way people will react to things? And is there also something wrong with being predictable to other people? The first side is important to me because my inability to predict the reactions of others leads me to feel that either myself, or everyone else, is insane. The second side is important because I have too often been labeled as 'boring' because I'm so predictableThis last was brought to my attention when someone I cared for deeply revealed that I had been the butt of a secret running joke about it.

To me, a person who thinks and acts in a rational manner should be predictable. After all, isn't predictability part of the definition of rational? But if I'm predictable because I'm rational, what does it mean when people whom I find to be unpredictable are able to predict my reactions so easily? Call me crazy, but I think that other people deliberately behave in a manner that makes them hard to predict and that I'm so predictable because I don't. Which brings us to the issue of spontaneity.

In today's society, predictability equates to a lack of spontaneity and, of course, a lack of spontaneity means that you're boring. And by the same logic, being unpredictable means that you're interesting and/or exciting. If you don't believe me, I invite you to take a look at the statistics on relationships. The fact is that the vast majority of relationships end in disaster precisely because people believe that they must behave in unpredictable ways to be attractive, and that those who behave in unpredictable ways are the ones they want.

Now I will admit that perhaps I'm a little obsessive in my desire to predict everything. But my 'lack of spontaneity' stems from a very rational fear of the unpredictable reactions of others.

Have a listen to Nothing Ever Goes As Planned by Styx for a musical metaphor for this post.

I want ice water.

Tolerance... Not! Gays and Marriage

This, I think, is the easiest of these issues to deal with. Really folks, aren't 'gays' human too? Aren't they just as deserving of 'human rights' as anyone else? And none of that 'but it's not natural' crap. As any self-respecting scientist will tell you, 'unnatural acts' are impossible by definition. Now walking through the air from rooftop to rooftop would be an unnatural act! Are you, whom I assume want to be considered rational, really willing to admit that that you've gotten all bent out of shape over things that don't even exist? Perhaps you think that 'science is just another tool of Satan being used to trick us into doing evil.' Well something is doing the trick alright, but perhaps we should look a little closer to home in our search for the villain. The fact is that homosexuals, bisexuals, and gender bending have always existed, and not just amongst us humans. Get over it!

The big noise these days is over 'Gay Marriage.' Would someone please tell me why Gays should be protected from making the same stupid mistakes as the rest of us! Personally, I can't understand why anyone would want to be legally bound to another person anyway. That smacks of slavery to me, but humans do have a long history of choosing bondage over freedom - no pun intended. I'd rather know that the person I'm with is free to leave at any time - that he or she doesn't really need to be with me at all - because that's the only way I can really know that they're with me because they want to be. That's the kind of 'security' I want. The kind that truly frees me from those psychotic urges to control my mate's activities and associations.

Perhaps you're are now thinking: 'Now wait just a darn minute there. What about the kids?' Well, if you think that the true purpose of marriage to ensure that our kids are properly cared for, then I submit that what's commonly considered 'a proper marriage' has a miserable track record. Let's face it, unless you have the resources available to the rich and powerful, you don't have much hope of providing all that your children need, or of protecting them from the ravages of living in an irrational society. And as we all know, even the rich and powerful can't get it right if they don't know what they're doing. While I don't claim to have any perfect answers, I am sure that kids need be be raised in an environment that encourages free thought and provides examples of rational behavior.

At the risk of inspiring another of those 'pitchforks and torches' moments, may I offer the concept of the Group Family. No, I am not advocating the lifestyles of polygamous cults or kings with harems, although most would consider my thoughts just as radical. I'm referring to a voluntary adult enterprise, with each member investing his or her own set of resources, towards the goal of caring and working for each other and their children. Imagine that, a more highly evolved 'sacred institution' dedicated to the happiness and prosperity of it's members. It's like Freedom breeding freedom! What a concept!

I was first introduced to this idea through the works of author Robert A. Heinlein, and most particularly from his book Time Enough For Love. I urge anyone looking to expand their horizons a bit, or who just simply want a damn good reading experience, to give it a go.

I want ice water.

Tolerance... Not!

With all the news about the massive problems we face, and of the massive attempts to fix them, I'm reminded of other big problems we've tackled and of just how well those efforts have fared. Some of these problems include Gays and Marriage, Racism, Religion, Prostitution, and Drug Abuse. Like the old saying that 'no man is an island,' none of these issues stand on their own. They are all interelated and filled with common threads. I will attempt to give my own 'fair and balanced' look at these issues in a series of upcoming articles.

An initial insight into what I think is reflected in the lyrics to Pink Floyd's Outside The Wall:

"All alone, or in two's,
The ones who really love you
Walk up and down outside the wall.
Some hand in hand
And some gathered together in bands.
The bleeding hearts and artists
Make their stand.

"And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall."

And more in the lyrics to Pink Floyd's The Gunner's Dream:

"A place to stay. Enough to eat.
Somewhere old heroes shuffle safely down the street.
Where you can speak out loud about your doubts and fears.
And what's more, no one ever disappears.
You never hear their Standard Issue kicking in your door.

You can relax on both sides of the tracks. And maniacs
Don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control.
And everyone has recourse to The Law.
And no one kills the children anymore.
No one kills the children anymore...

Take heed of the dream.
Take heed. "

No prose better could reflect how I feel about these issues, not to mention how important it is for me to get it right.

I want ice water.

Enviromental Impact

There was a movie on the other day called October Sky. It was about other 'space heads' with stars in their eyes. Oh, I'm sorry, did you think my old nickname was 'drug-related?' No, that was way before I began 'expanding my consciousness' in that manner. Anyway, the movie, a true story, was about this kid and his friends who were determined to build and launch rockets, despite the fact that nearly everyone around them thought they were crazy. They succeeded, with the help of a supportive teacher and the slowly evolving respect they earned when they didn't give up. The main character even went on to join NASA.

The point is that this story took place in West Virginia during the time that I lived there, when I dreamed of little else but to do precisely what they were doing, and to go on to join NASA myself. Of course, I knew nothing of them and would have preferred to become an actual astronaut, but our dreams and lives were so similar that I can't help but wonder at the differences in final outcome. While I have no desire to repeat what I've already said, I must expand upon my stated history a little for this inquiry to proceed.

I far as I can remember, no one I knew in that environment gave a crap about things like astronomy, science or mathematics. Hell, other than The Bible, I'm not sure I remember seeing anyone even read anything other than the occasional magazine - nothing too 'big headed' of course. I learned basic math skills, before I ever stepped into a school, only because my father used to dump all the change from the cash register at his pool hall on the bed at night and taught me how to add it all up. That was the most fun I ever had with the man, as 'business' was his only true passion. More about him in some later posting.

Around the time I started school, I developed a fascination for all those squiggles older people would scratch onto paper, so naturally that was my main interest in education at that time. My love for the educational experience was short lived however, as I detested school almost from the very first day. I endured though, at least until I developed skills enough to escape and educate myself. You know, public libraries are truly a marvel of human achievement, and back then no one questioned why a kid was in the library instead of school. But that was after the time I'm referring to.

My first exposure to the idea of rockets and space travel came, like most kids, from television and movies. I got money for movies from my father, because that was the only way he could get me to go to church, which, in turn, got my mother off his back. Before my mom had her own, I had to sneak-watch my father's television - the content of which he thought was garbage except for the news. As you can imagine, when the space program became news, I was right there beside him. I don't think that he thought very much for the space program, or for my fascination with it. I think he just thought that serious people paid attention to the news.

After that, the space program became what I think may have been my first true obsession. I read everything I could find, which wasn't much, as this was before I discovered the library. I even managed to get my father, that great detester of childish things, to buy me a couple of models to assemble with no help at all. But I was so determined, so blinded by my obsession to express this new passion that, with no guidance or assistance whatsoever, I actually set about building my own rocket.

As foolish as it seems now, I actually thought that I could assemble a rocket from pipes and other scraps, pack it full of powder I had stolen from shotgun shells (certain that I was giving them a 'higher purpose'), and then launch it, and myself, into history. So inattentive to, and uninterested in, my activities were those around me, that I avoided serious injury and possible death only because I figured out on my own just how dangerous and ineffective my design was. I finally just gave up on the idea.

And that's exactly the point of my ranting - I had all the desire, intelligence, and willingness to work, as those other West Virginia boys - yet I was completely without guidance and support at a time when I could have, as they say, 'gone on to greater things.'

That's not to say that I gave up on learning about these things. Hell, I even joined the Air force in the hopes that I could work my way through the system to become an astronaut. But the feeling that I was on my own, chasing something that everyone else thought was nuts, has never left me. I still love astronomy, science, and the thought of going into space, but these days such thoughts remind me more and more of the movie The Day The Earth Stood Still. Considering the impact we humans have had on our own environment, both psychological and physical, I fear the kind of damage we will do 'out there.'

I'm looking forward to the remake coming out next month. I hope I can force myself to go out and see it.

I want ice water.

Opening Rant

I have been diagnosed with Major Depression since 1995, although I now think that, without all the masks and self-medication I used to hide from the world, I might well have been diagnosed much earlier. Over time, the initial diagnosis has been expanded to include other 'issues' as well. This I know because of helpful 'peeks' into my files provided by friends who thought I should know. These modifications came about, I believe, because the doctors have been confused by both my sessions with them and by the results of all the testing I've submitted to.

One thing they all seem to agree on is that a person who breaks down in tears over what appears to be trivial events, and hides himself away from people to the point where he cannot be trusted to handle his own affairs, must be 'mentally ill.' Also, I'm sure it didn't help when I stated my belief that, rather than myself, it's those who are not depressed while living in the world we live in that are mentally ill. I still don't understand why, in spite of the epidemic-like use of anti-depressants, alcohol and other not-so-legal mood altering drugs, my statement was dismissed outright and regarded only as further proof of my 'illness.'

Okay, so just how did I get to this sad point? To begin with, I was born in Charleston, West Virginia in 1955. I'm of mixed racial heritage, with my mother being half Black, half American-Indian, and my father being half Black, half White. You do the math. Apparently, my appearance has lead most people to assume that I'm White. As you can probably imagine, looking the way I do while living and growing up in mostly Black communities through the 50's, 60's and 70's had a profound impact on my psychological development. Wanted or not, the perspective of 'outsider' was forced upon me.

Another profound impact on my development happened in elementary school, when I was first introduced to the honor rule. I can clearly remember the chill that went down my spine when my adolescent mind grasped the significance of being on my own and responsible for myself. It was both scary and exhilarating at once and, in my own childish way, I knew that this was one of the most important lessons I would ever learn. It meant that I had to think for myself and take responsibility for my own actions. I had to take charge of my own mind so that I could be sure to do the right thing.

These two experiences formed the core of a lifelong quest, out of fear and the need to develop the tools required to survive in a hostile environment. I became driven to question everything I was ever taught, and the motives of everyone I knew, including myself. But I knew enough to realize that such a mentality, if too obvious, would only bring further harm upon my self. So I took on the persona of 'the naive seeker of wisdom' in to appear harmless. I thought it would be easier to be perceived as just another 'space head' than as someone seeking to judge the people with whom I interacted. Oddly enough, 'spacehead' was exactly the nickname given to me by my 'friends' at one time.

Since then, my life has been an extreme roller-coaster ride through other experiences - other lessons, both good and bad. From West Virginia, to California, to Ohio, to marriage and the Air Force, to college and kids and work and debt. I went from wide-eyed optimism and a 'can do' attitude about my ability to handle any problem, to drug abuse, psychological breakdowns, hospitalizations, disability, divorce, and finally, isolation. I've learned a great many things - some of which I'm trying to unlearn. I've done some good, and many things I wish I could undo. Yet, as I don't grant anyone the credit for my successes, I blame only myself for my failures. You see, I knew better!

Today, from a philosophical standpoint, I'm what I think of as a 'backsliding' Objectivist. Objectivism is a philosophy developed by the late novelist Ayn Rand. She believed that, aware of it or not, each of us has a philosophy of life that is behind our every thought and action. This acts as the main survival tool for cognitive beings such as ourselves, who aren't equipped with the instinctual responses of animals and, therefore, should be chosen with deliberate care - because our very lives depend on it. Objectivism is her attempt to provide mankind with such a philosophy. Simply stated, and in the best language I can muster, Objectivism is the philosophy of absolute freedom and it's corollary, absolute responsibility.

When I first started college in 1976, I was accused of sounding just like Ayn Rand by a school library clerk with whom I had frequent friendly 'debates.' I had never heard of Ayn Rand before, so I asked her to show me an example of Rand's works. They didn't have much, so she handed me a copy of The Fountainhead. Whew! Let me tell you, reading that book was like seeing my very own soul, in clear and concise language I couldn't hope to equal, poured out on the pages before me. I was absolutely dumbfounded! Without going into unnecessary detail, it was the story of a man who stood against the merciless tide of collective humanity out to destroy him for his unwavering stance in favor of his individual right to live as a free man - by his own standards and at his own expense. It was after that that I knew!

I knew then that the thing that had been in my gut since elementary school was right. That all the altruistic bullshit I had condoned, both implicitly and explicitly, in order to 'help create a better world,' was just that - Bullshit. That all the talk about 'self-sacrifice' and 'service to man' was just the verbal manifestation of same kind of evil that has been the root cause of all the blood-letting and destruction perpetrated by man throughout the ages. Until then I could justify my poor reasoning as mere 'ignorance.' But after, I knew that this type of ignorance was not 'accidental,' but rather the act of deliberately substituting the beliefs of others in place of my own. I knew then that if I continued to support such beliefs, in any way, that I would be committing the worst kind of sin a man can commit - the sin of moral suicide!

So I threw my self into reading Ayn Rand's books, along with anything else I could find that rang true to me. To this day, with almost no one to hear it, I will preach it to anyone who'll listen. But now, rather than being considered merely 'eccentric,' I'm considered 'delusional' and other not-so-nice labels associated with my having been diagnosed 'mentally ill.' But it's not what I preach that's wrong, it's my compulsion to preach it to people with their fingers in their ears. You see, along with all this 'growth and enlightenment,' I also accumulated quite an attachment to the people in my life. In spite of how wrong I knew it to be, I just couldn't turn my back and walk away. It wasn't until after the bottom fell out that I learned the final lesson. There's a reason why flight attendants tell you, in case of emergency, to put on your own air mask before helping your loved ones with theirs: You can't help those you care about if you're incapacitated!

Okay, I hadn't intended to be so long-winded - but clarity is important to me. I'll now conclude this sad tale, and sum up what I think about myself and the rest of humanity. To my knowledge, and actual experience, we represent the pinnacle of life in what we know of the universe. I have yet to see proof that there are any limitations to what we are capable of, except for those limitations we place on ourselves. And yet, we squander and belittle this capacity in an insane effort to escape the responsibility it represents. I believe the unconscious knowledge of this abdication is the reason behind the one consistent theme in all of the theories of life and morality I have come across: the notion that you get what you deserve. Now tell me, where do you think beings such as us are headed? What final judgement would YOU pass on mankind?

Now I don't personally believe in God or anything else 'supernatural,' but as the evidence for the existence of superior intellect and technology can be seen all around us, I have no problem with the idea that there may be beings 'more evolved' than we are. But such debates serve only, and perhaps deliberately, to distract us from the fact that there does exist a final, and absolute, supreme arbiter - Reality! To paraphrase the cliches thrown around in the rehabilitation community: "Nothing changes if nothing changes" and "Making the same choices while expecting different results is the definition of insanity". Sooner or later reality catches up to you, and if you're caught with your pants down you're going to be, as they say, Ass Out! Please pardon my slang.

I am paying a very high price for my sins and, just in case you're delusional enough to think you won't have to pay for yours, may I point out the state of the world around you. In Ayn Rand's greatest work, Atlas Shrugged, John Galt vowed to 'stop the motor of the world' to punish mankind for the sins I've outlined. Well, what we are now experiencing is justice being delivered by the real John Galt - Reality! And as another character in that book answered when asked what he thought was going to happen to the world, "Exactly what it deserves."

Now, for those of you about to sharpen your pitchforks and fire up the torches, you might begin the assault by crying 'who the hell are you to pass judgment on all of us?' In answer to that question, I resort to another Rand quote: "words do have exact meanings." While assuming that you're even capable of rational thought amidst the fog of rage, I ask this of you: Please examine your question carefully. I am just one individual human exercising his right, as an individual, to express his opinion. For you to have asked such a question, in such a tone, means that you are not thinking as an individual, but acting instead as part of a mindless herd hell-bent on stampeding over the cliff into oblivion. Rather than looking into yourself to find the actual cause of your frustration - and the means to deal with it - you would rather lash out and destroy anyone and anything that reminds you of the truth you seek to deny. But you cannot destroy reality. You can only destroy yourself.

I apologize and wish all the best to those to whom the previous paragraph does not apply. For those to whom it does however, I quote from Pink Floyd's The Wall:

"Sitting in a bunker, here behind my wall. Waiting for the worms to come."

You see, I already know that I've been guilty all this time. And for those who wonder why I obviously still haven't just 'turned and walked away' - why I would even bother to write this? The simple and easy answer is that I'm 'mentally ill' - what else could you expect? For those seeking evidence of 'evil intent,' the answer might be that I'm some mad 'arch-villain' seeking proof that those who read this will act in the manner my 'theory' predicts. The truth is that I just needed to speak my mind, and being able to take the time to get it right before it's heard is simply too cool to pass up.

I want ice water.