And Now the World Will Never Be the Same; or, The Pause Button Doesnt Work

There really is no good way to pass on the following news: My hero has died. Kurt Vonnegut was a man. It's really plain and simple. And today he is a dead man. April 12 will now become a day of yearly day of mourning for me, a time to remember a truly great man who made a difference in my life.

Perhaps you knew that I hated to read. Despised it actually. Im sure of the reasons why I hated it, but I dont need to get into them now. The important thing is that I learned to love reading after being introduced to Kurt Vonnegut through his marvelous tale "Slaughterhouse 5." Im not going to go into details about the story - if you havent read it, shame on you - yet I will tell you that his descriptive prose and inventive storytelling kept me interested from the moment I cracked the binding to the last word on the last page: Pooteetweet.

The rest is history. I learned to love reading and then writting because of this man who I never even had the opportunity to meet. Ive become a more tolerant and understanding person because of his views on life - many of which I have adopted as my own. Sure Ive expanded those views and took them into different directions, but this isnt about me.

My general point is that in this world, where everything has been blended together - essentially forming the color brown - he was out there being himself, being different, being florescent pink, and loving it. And is there really any better way to live your life than creating your own rules and following them?

If there is one thing I wish people could take away from any Vonnegut story it would be this: Notice the oddities of life, and enjoy them.

And what else is there really to say? A great man has died today, and his point of view will be missed.

My Hero!

Perhaps some of you know that Jonathan Adler is one of my hero's, or perhaps you didnt. Maybe you dont even know who Jonathan Adler is (really, shame on you!)? Well, the short story is that he is a designer/decorator/all around excellent person, his long story can be read here: About Jonathan. He can currently be seen weekly on Top Design on Bravo, where he is a judge and all around wonderful dresser. (Is it wrong for me to think that he is at his most adorable when he kicks someone off the show by saying, "See ya later, decorator," and dont even get me started on his quirky, yet blissful facial expressions! Lord, I have a man-crush).

ANYWAY! He has a website, obviously, and on his website you can ask him questions about, well, anything:



A few weeks ago I sent in a question, wondering where he finds his obscurely glorious neck ties (I am obsessed with ties. I NEED more). And to my amazement, today he answered my question! I feel like a blushing little girl on her first day of school. My patten leather shoes are one on top of the other, my white knee high socks covered knees are buckled, my hands are crossed in front of the pleats in my plaid knee length dress and my head dips down to the collar of my overly starched, pressed, white short sleeve shirt;)

Here is my question, followed by his answer:



For those of you unable to read it, here is my question:

"Dear Jonathan, You are, by far, the most creative and inspired dresser on TV (I'm hoping that truthful flattery will get my question answered). I have a firm belief that you can't trust a man who doesn't know how to properly tie a tie. Obviously, I completely trust you! With that being said, where do you find those amazing ties that you wear? I'm quite jealous, and always looking to expand my collection."

And his answer:

" do like a good tie, Josh. I inherited most of my ties from my dad who had a fierce collection of knitted Rooster ties from the 70s. I love a good Rooster. As for the top-stitched ties that I often wear on Top Design, I bought them in Milan and I can't remember the name of the store but, the last time I was there, it was gone! Very very tragic. I wish I had bought about nineteen squillion of them top-stitched ties.

And, I probably shouldn't be trusted because I don't know how to properly tie a tie. I can do the boring old basic knot, of course, but the super phat double Windsor knot that I rock on Top Design was courtesy of the stylist for the show, Paris. Yes, the stylist is named Paris and I j'adore him but I'm irate that he never taught me how to tie that knot. I'm also mad at my husband, Simon, because he's supposed to be a fashion savant and he's English and used to work on Saville Row and he should know how to tie a bloody double Windsor but he doesn't. Bummer."

My hero knows of me!

Hair of Sanjaya

There is no reason not to visit this blog:

Hair of Sanjaya

Answer: Depitty; Question: What Does Our President Call the Assistant to the Head of Police?

Last night I watched the president speak - for a little bit -like Im sure some of you also did. I know, this isnt a great accomplishment on my behalf, but it happened nevertheless. And I was in a rare mood while watching him, ironically not because of what he was saying. Let me back up....

I got up balls early yesterday morning because I had to be at my companies monthly board meeting. In case you wanted to know, the second Wednesday of every month sees me waking up before 6 AM so that I can drive to far off places to repeat the same thing I say every month. Fine, I change it up a little bit and add some humor, but all that being said, my reports are often strikingly similar.

After the meeting I drove to my office and sat around for hours dealing with boring shit after boring shit, only being kept awake by my elation sparked by my ability to leave work at 3:45 PM since I started at 7:45 AM. My witching hour finally came. I packed up my things and walked out the door.

Not two minutes later my phone rings. It's the assistant director. He has a dinner for me to go to and I cant say no. This sucks, truly. Instead of driving home, I was now headed for the Union League in Downtown Philadelphia for the Sunday Breakfast Club meeting and dinner. It wasnt Sunday, and we werent having breakfast. The Club was formed by Philadelphia's richest of the rich during the Great Depression. It's creator's, the few working businessmen in Philly, wanted to form a think tank to come up with ideas on how to keep business going in the city. The met on Sunday mornings because that was the only time they were free.

Once the depression ended the group remained, but focused their interests on charity. The speaker at this particular dinner was Pennsylvania's Secretary of Transportation. He was giving a report on Transportation Funding and Reform, unfortunately a topic I have heard him speak about at least four times, and this fifth was no different. It was boring, long, and inconclusive towards anything. By the way, I was the next youngest person to me that was at this dinner was at least twice my age

By this point in the story you should be asking, "what does this have to do with a Republican Agenda and President Bush?" Well, I am merely telling you that i worked for 13 hours yesterday and had to sit in a room with the carelessly rich - who's only real reason for being there is to spend money for their ridiculous dues and to give their time to "charity," essentially making themselves feel better - while listening to a boring presentation that I had already heard before. Yes, I was pissed off.

So I get home and turn on the TV to be greeted by our illustrious leader, George Walker Bush. Mr. President is calling for 22,000 more troops and $7 Billion more dollars to essentially destroy everything and everyone in Iraq. If you are against what we are trying to install, we are going to kill you, unless you conform. Resistance is futile. I have the feeling Mr. Bush roots for the Borg each time he watched Star Trek: The Next Generation.

What I originally didnt understand was why he was calling for more troops in a time when a majority of the country has demanded that we invest less lives and dollars into this thriving problem. However, I believe that I have come up with a republican explanation. It is twisted, sad, and horrifying, but I have a feeling that these are his real intentions:

He, and all of the other right wing Republicans (I dont want to lump together all of the republicans, some of them still have their dignity), want the Democrats in charge of the congress to say no to his plan. The increased numbers that he has proposed are so arbitrary that I cant really read anything else into them. Are 22,000 more soldiers and $7 Billion more dollars really going to end all hostilities in Iraq? We currently have over 150,000 troops over there now, I cant see how only 22,000 makes that much of a difference in reality. Of course, back in the US it means something else - Bush completely ignoring the recent elections and the want of the US people. Why does he want the Democrats to say no? More on that later.

Later in his speech, the President brought up the fact (or at least HIS fact) that we are just as susceptible to an attack along the lines of 9-11 to this day, which is odd because I see at least five times as much security around everywhere. But he has to say that we are vulnerable so that he can warrant the increase in troops. It is too bad no one thought through this idea and realized that what he was actually saying is that he and his administration has accomplished nothing since that fateful day. Or maybe he and his speech writers merely believe that the US people arent intelligent enough to put those two ideas together. Lucky for you, I am.

During his speech Bush mentioned that the increase in troops will allow us to go street by street and weed out the insurgents one by one, eliminating all who oppose what the new Iraqi government stands for. He is uttering the same words that the insurgents claim we say, and ultimately making "them" hate "us" even more. His hateful words may even spark renewed violence on US land. At first I thought how idiotic his statements were, but then I thought maybe he wants another attack. But why, WHY would he want another 9-11?

But of course, so that he can say, "See, I told you so. I told you they were out to get us. I asked for more money and troops to get rid of this problem, but the freedom hating, terrorism loving democrats said no." And that plainly and simply ties it all together. Whether this is the first salvo at getting the Democrats quickly out of power during the next elections, or because he thinks he can out-whit the American people, this game plan is skewed and horrifying.

As someone who always wants to get the last word in edge-wise I can understand where the President is coming from, however, I dont play my games on a global level with hundreds of thousands of lives on the line.

We are becoming exactly what they believe we are and his words are only going to increase the hatred the world has towards us. We asked for a change, yet we still arent getting what we want.

I needed a xanax after my day and his speech, and took one, which helped nicely, but Im still agitated. Still angered. Still wanting change. And still tired from having worked 13 hours.

Saddam Hussein Deserves to Live!

Eventually, within the next month, and before January 27th, 2007, Saddam Hussein will be hung and yes, you heard me correctly, the man should not be put to death. Besides the obvious gripes one has had over the course of his ridiculous trial (three defense lawyers killed, another seriously injured, anonymous witnesses, etc) there are obviously reasons why he should live.

First and foremost, this trial's death sentence outcome is over a 1982 incident where he had 150 people tortured, deported and/or killed. I know! 1982! What about all of those other brutal instances where he killed far more people? Why doesnt he get to answer for those crimes? In 1988 he poisoned over 100,000 Kurds, something he and others are currently on trial for, but something he wont be able to answer for if he is killed within the next 30 days or less....

When are we going to hear his side of the story about the occupation of Kuwait, the first Gulf War, the UN inspections, the "weapons of mass destruction", and the second Gulf War? We have so much to hear from this man that his death is an injustice to mankind. We deserve to know what he was thinking during all of these times. What good is knowing our side of the story when we dont have his side? Im not justifying any of the things he has done. I think he is a horrible person who should be punished each and every day that he continues to live. But it has always been said that humanity has to learn from it's mistakes. Mankind cant improve upon itself unless it studies things that have gone wrong and incidents in history. Saddam needs to be our insane leader lab rat. Once we start to delve into his mind imagine how much "saner" someone like Kim Jong-Il becomes.

The sad fact may be that killing Saddam is the quickest way for us Americans to begin our healing from this horrible miscalculation - the second Gulf War. What I mean is that Saddam is the largest piece of evidence that exists, both for and against this war. He can either validate the war by stating that he did stockpile weapons of mass destruction, or he can completely destroy it by categorically denying his ownership of such weapons. Either way, can we believe him? Or is it just easier to kill him, thus burying all hopes of establishing some sort of truth. Im sure it is much easier for our government to swallow the former and hang this bastard. Politically it makes sense, but doesnt it also fly directly in the face of what our government stands for?

I understand that the trial wasnt held in the good ol' US of A, but to think that we arent the puppeteers behind this trial is just plane ignorant, so please if this is your argument, please stop reading. In fact, you shouldnt be here in the first place, but I digress.

And no, just because I share the same birthday (April 28th) with Saddam doesnt mean I have a soft spot in my heart for him.

And has anyone else thought that if Saddam was on ecstasy he would be a much nicer person? Or where those just my thoughts?

While all my previous thoughts are well and good, the reason I hold in the highest regard about why Saddam shouldnt die is that dying is too good for the man. He deserves to live. To live and to suffer.

One of the few biblical sayings that I can get behind with one hundred percent certainty is the idea of an eye for an eye. If you kill one person, you deserve to die, that is if you are proven, without a shadow of a doubt that you are guilty. You even deserve to die if you kill multiple people as long as you are tried for each case, either separately or together, before you are put down.

But when you kill hundreds of thousands of people I can not agree that death is the best answer for you. I imagine that there are many people who have survived his ire, or who had family members hurt or killed by his hand, that want to see Saddam live out his days rotting in a jail cell, far from the opulence he enjoyed while being the enigmatic despot of Iraq for all of those years.

While I want the man to suffer for his atrocities, I am not inferring that he should be tortured. Knowing that his sons, his progeny, his name, were killed by the "infidel" Americans is torture. Living in a confined space for years upon years is torture. Having no outside contact is torture. There are many ways to make this man suffer; killing him should be the last thing we do.

Yet here we are, about to kill him.

Here is my suggestion. First, we try him for every single matter of injustice to human nature that he committed. That is, ever single matter that we can actually prove. Unfortunately, with the amount of bad that he has accomplished some is bound to slip between the cracks. It is a sad fact of quantity that we are faced with in cases such as this.

Second, we sit him at a table with a ball point pen and paper and tell him to write his autobiography, from beginning to end. I cant be the only one interested in the mind of a mad man. I want to learn much from him. I want to know his process of thinking and his rational behind events. We werent given the opportunity to read the crazy mind of Hitler - he went and offed himself before we had the chance - but we are now given the chance to read the mind of a similarly disturbed human being. The chance to learn about these maniacal geniuses (genius is correct) come too few and far between.

Finally, once we are complete running the gamut of tests on him we build him an eight foot by eight foot bullet proof glass enclosure (complete with working see-through toilet) and stick it in the middle of the most popular square in Iraq. This way he suffers. He has to do all of his living (and shitting) in the public eye. If any of the survivors want to confront him they can. And most importantly, other world crazies will see that when you commit crimes of his nature, crimes against humanity on the whole, you wont get the ease of escaping justice at the end neuce tide rope.

We, as Americans, and generally as the world as a whole, have this predisposed notion - possibly derived from too much hollywood imposed on our daily lives - that the bad guy dies in the end. What if some bad guys were meant to live? Not to do more bad, but to serve as a reminder; to serve as a tool of learning; to serve as a relief valve for our inner demons; to serve as an answer to our questions or problems; or to serve as a symbol of where we were and how we need to change for the future.

I say let Saddam live! Who is behind me?

Warm, Fuzzy Dreams - or - Lab Rat part 1

Everything seemed pleasant. I felt warm and good, nothing like I should as a result of what had happened. I was comfortable and dreaming. Dreaming this dream that I cant even remember, but I know it was good and I have been striving to recapture what I was thinking. I felt this sense of wholeness. I was happy and contently sleeping, or so I thought.

I remember being woken up, "Josh," and I remember slowly opening my eyes and the haze creeping out of me as I sat up. Where am I?

"Why are you waking me up," I asked?

I was comfortable after all. Rather, I was comfortable.

I shook a little bit as I sat up more, drank some water, wiped the chilly sweat off of my brow and put myself to bed.

I then woke up just as if no time had elapsed since I went to bed. I was reset. I called the office and told my boss I wasnt going to be able to come to work. He suggested that I go to the hospital. I thought nothing of it and went back to bed for a little while.

An hour later I woke up again and called my father. I had second thoughts about not going to the hospital, so I at least wanted to talk to my doctor. The next thing I know my father is driving to come get me and Im getting dressed.

It turns out my doctor is in Miami, shooting some photos for his self help/back book. I dont have back problems, so I dont ask.

Instead I am taken to the doctor across the hallway from my doctor. I later find out that in addition to being a regular doctor she is also a dermatologist. That fact really plays no part in this story, but it does explain all the plastic faces sitting in the waiting room.

Amongst these faces I certainly stood out. I was scruffy, to say the least - Ive been growing my facial hair, ya know, just to see what I can grow (not much, by the way. I have nothing on 14 year old Mexican boys). My hair was strewn in each and ever direction, more so than usual, due to my presumably restless yet unmemorable sleep from the night before. I had on my yellow puma sweats with the green stripe down the side, a wife-beater and a brown and orange zippered sweater. I always wear vans, these were brown - they matched my sweater. At the very least something always has to match something else. I did moisturize, as I am accustomed to do, so my skin was soft.

As I filled out the mass of paperwork required to visit a doctor I watched as plastic face after plastic face embarked on their voyage to the back rooms to see my new plastic doctor. After signing away the rights to my skin cells upon my death I too joined the throngs of plastics in the back.

The room was little. The white walls were sparse, but contained the necessary tools one always envisions in a doctor's office - the tool that looks into your soul (ears and eyes), and the bio-waste container. There were aqua-green cabinets on the wall which I assumed contained millions of different samples for plastics to try. I dont need samples. Im not plastic.

Three nurses came in, all at different levels in the nurse-dom. The youngest stepped up to take my blood pressure, which was a bit below normal. The eldest attempted to take some blood. Apparently my veins dont like getting poked, which meant that I had to get re-poked countless times before a success was met. Oddly enough I dont mind needles. The middle nurse was content with watching what the other two extremes were up against. We had a joke, we had a laugh.

All three hooked me up to an EKG machine. They huddled around me, gluing on sticky electrodes that will help measure my heart rate. The machine is switched on for 10 seconds, turned off and the stickies are pulled off of me just as quickly as they were put on.

And like a gust of wind, my new plastic doctor rushed in. "Hi pumpkin!" She was short and thin. Dark from tanning. Plastic and leathery, but not yet to an extreme. Her long black hair was pulled back behind her ears. Her blue eyes might not have been blue. She had on a tight sweater with black, teal and tan horizontal stripes. Her corduroy pants were also teal colored and she had black ankle high boots.

Her age? Hard to decipher, but if her personality and energy were an indication she would be in her teens.

She asked why I was there and after I told her I passed out she told me to recount the story.

"Earlier in the night I got up from my couch and went over to the fridge for some yogurt. I knelt over, reached into the back, grabbed my raspberry and white chocolate Dannon fat free yogurt and stood up quickly. I got dizzy, but stabilized myself by grabbing the counter and the wall. After a few seconds I was fine and I sat back down for a while.

"A few hours later I had to go to the bathroom so I ran up the stairs. As I got to the top I felt dizzy again. I looked at myself in the mirror and I noticed that I was sweating, but at the same time I felt cold. I pee'd and continued to feel dizzy. I grabbed onto the bathroom counter to try to stabilize myself, but only felt myself getting dizzier. I sat down on the toilet, leaned my arm up against the counter and put my head on my hand.

"That's all I remember. Although I was dreaming...."

My new plastic doctor checked my vitals, and put her cold stethoscope on my chest and back. She then sat down next to me and told me that she was sending me to the emergency room.

I was shocked and left without words. She told me that she didnt know what was wrong with me and because of that I needed to be seen by the hospital. "They can get blood results done within hours and have the equipment to rule out heart attacks and strokes. I want them to keep you for at least 48 hours.

I sat in the waiting room as she translated her chicken scratch into something legible for the hospital to discern. 48 hours seemed extreme, but Im not a doctor. I really just wanted to remember what I was dreaming about....

Circles

The familiar rush of endorphins finally began to course through my veins. I grinned, slightly, and let out a warm, yet subtle laugh. I sat back, closed my eyes and drifted off into a whirly trance.

A few minutes later, or hours, I opened my eyes only to have them not focus properly. I turned my head to the right and closed my eyes again, returning to my whirly trance and laughed once more. The splendor has decreased, but I am still feeling good. Good enough to FUCK. Good enough to laugh.

Hours pass, or minutes. My skin itches and my brow is moist. I somehow lost a sock and my dick is hanging limply outside of my pants. What happened to me? I used to be different. Im good. Im a good person. My back itches. I laugh it off, what other option do I have.

I try to masturbate, but it wont stay hard. Those are the consequences I suppose. That and this damned itching. Ive become a broken record of my own self-loathing. My dick is still in my hands, although Im not away.

Seconds; minutes; hours; they all blend together as if time were standing still. I feel comatose - dead, yet strangely alive, probably from that itch which has become a persistent reminder of my sustainability and in this case, life itself.

What the fuck is my dick doing in my hand?

I need food. I need to feel better, and not just about myself, just in general. I havent eaten in days or weeks. I used to be good about that, when my parents took care of me. That was a different life. I was better, but I am still good.

I put my dick back in my pants, fall off the sofa and reach up to the table to grab my wallet and my keys. I crawl to the door, open it, and crawl down my front stoop. No one is around, that is, no one who can see me. Im Casper to the world, only less friendly, but still good. My brothers just want to haunt. Ive heard echoes say that I only want to fuck. They echo loudly and constantly.

I slither down the street towards my car. Im covered with red and orange wet leaves from head to toe. I have pine needs in my hair and dirt on my face. A pine cone made its way into my partly torn sweatshirt pocket. It belongs there. It has its place.
The door opens and I hurl myself into the seat. Time stands still. The kids playing in the street dont see me. I drive off, not hearing the soft thuds of flesh meeting with pavement from under me. Im still invisible.

The green light from the store sign appears in the distance. It's warm and welcoming. I want to be there, it's where I belong. Ill be there in a blink of an eye. My eyes gently close.

I smell smoke and hear a ringing. People are yelling, others are screaming and Im still invisible in every sense of the word. I will be for each and every second that I survive. The green is gone. I can only feel a flashing blue and red, and the screams.

My neck is hot and wet. My inner thigh is wet also, but every so cold. Everything around me is crunchy. Im in my whirly trance again. Time doesnt exist. I reach for my dick and laugh a soft, bubbly, whirly laugh.

Im good.

Or I was.