Thursday, May 31, 2007

Symptoms of Lycanthropy

Hey, ramblers. I've been working hard to come up with a good 'share,' so I'm thinking, hey, let's talk about the media. Here's all you need to know about everything you read or see on TV: LIES, ALL LIES. I'll refine that by saying the core truths may be there, but they're presented to us in a way that guarantees fear. And hear's what I know about fear: frightened people are easier to manipulate. Your life will not end if you decide to stop reading the newspaper. For real! You don't have to be a participant in this. I read the funnies. And Kurt Vonnegut. This works for me. The front page of the newspaper can get fucked. The world is the same as it ever was. The only difference is the current 'trend' of 'reporting' the 'news' in a way that's specifically designed to trick us into thinking the apocalypse is right around the corner. And why is this? It sells newspapers. So it's your choice. I'm choosing not to buy into this. I'm calling 'bullshit' on this 'trend.' Why start your day with death, death and more death when you can find out what Dilbert's doing and call it good? Continue your newspaper subscription, by all means. It's good to have the papers on hand if you decide to get a puppy.
I urge you all to get deprogrammed. Dare to have it good! We're the richest country in the world, and all the choices we have only serve to isolate us from each other. Remember the old days when we had three channels? We were all connected by Johnny Carson. We shared something. We no longer have anything remotely like this now. 100 channels later, and no one knows each other anymore. TV makes us lonely. TV tells us to take drugs if we're lonely. TV lets us know that buying the right mop will change our lives. Bill Hicks hit the nail on the head: those in advertising and marketing should forteit their right to breathe, stat.

I'm preaching.
Forgive me if you can.
The moon is full tonight, so these words are being written by a werewolf. My claws are making typing difficult. My cat remains under the bed.
I may join her.

Much love to you all. Being my friend is your treasured gift to me. I'll try not to tell you what to do next time.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

The Drunke Identity

I have this sinking feeling that the only things I can comment upon - with any sincerity or depth - are things that have already happened. No one ever told me how to be interesting once the train wreck was cleared off the tracks. My whole 'adult' life, my whole 'persona,' has been built around one true thing: 'I am a mess.' Now I am not, and I don't know what to say anymore. It's pretty easy to sit around at 3AM, lamenting about how no one understands you - 'gets' you - when the only thing there is to 'get' is that you're hammered. Self-pity seems like good writing, so when the self-pity is gone, what do you write about?
Here's what I know:
I spent 22 years drinking, presumably to avoid any feelings associated with my daddy leaving us. In so doing, I created a situation that was ten billion times worse than anything I could have ironed out with a child psychologist.
Which is so something I wish I'd known then.
Why do we have to kill ourselves to understand that the pain we're running from simply can't be outrun?
As if I know.
So now, and help me out if you can, I must live within a construct wherein 1) I am not the life of the party, 2) I'm not sure I have anything interesting to say, 3) nothing is about me, and 4) I'm not mad anymore. When you define yourself with anger, resentment, temper-tantrums and self-destruction, something has to take its place when you get over it.
Which is where I am right now.
Who is Gretchen now? Is she still crazy?
I no longer crave death. I care more about what I have in common with people than what makes us different. I am not afraid of people anymore. I have begun to say 'fuck off' to my gozillion-pound ego. I expect good things, and I'm getting them. There are people who love me. I let them.
In short, who I am now is not drunk.
Which, after 22 years, is weird.

I'd like to think I'm still 'fun,' but I'm not sure it matters anymore. I don't know for sure what I am, so in the meantime I'm just gonna practice being Gretchen.

And vascillate between despising and revering Chuck Klosterman.

Your basic.

Chuck Klosterman, please accept my apology

Okay, ramblers. I have blown yet another opportunity to do something kind and wonderful. Yep, a forwarded e-mail, again telling me what a selfish prick I am. What the fuck, over? So from here on out. . . Why, I want to know, do I even read these? I know the answer to life is not contained therein. I know the powerball lottery numbers are not, either. I know that the only thing that will come of it is a) super-duper bad luck, which I deserve, because 2) I'm a thoughtless, selfish person. I know I'm beating the dead horse, here, and I promise to stop, really. I just needed an ear, and a forum within which to gently remind you: please, pretty please with sugar on top, don't send me forwarded fucking e-mails. Wash off your hate!!!
The good news is, I think I've finally gotten over Chuck Klosterman. People who do art are never who you think they are. Case in point: getting smashed with David Cross, only to discover that he's not that fun or even that nice, really, just smart and funny, which aren't the same things at all. I think, with Klosterman, that the North Dakota connection really struck a chord with me; when you're pretty smart and insane and from ND, you end up with a sort of identity crisis. It soothed me to know he was out there. I don't know why I insisted on getting so jealous. (?) I'd have been the big loser if he had never written 'Fargo Rock City,' because that goddamn book kept me alive when nothing else could. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed, at a time in my life when nothing was funny. At all. Except 'Fargo Rock City.' Chuck, sorry for dissing you. I won't ever do it again. Keep writing.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Hey, sorry about the 'go get fucked' thing. It was horrible and negative, but I was provoked, man. It gets tiring always having to do, feel and say the 'right thing,' particularly when no one else has to live within these parameters. So feel free to not 'go get fucked.' Not that you need my permission.

I spent today, my birthday, at an assisted living facility, having Mother's Day brunch with my mom, her husband, and his mom.
What can I tell you? Just because it's your birthday doesn't mean 1) you get to do what you want or 2) shit.
So the gifts I received: I made it to 37, and my friend Jason, dead these16 years, came to me in a dream for the first time. It was really beautiful to see him again. He knew I was sad and really lonely, and I don't feel those things now. I feel strangely calm. And fat, but whose fault is that? A good rule of thumb is, just because you feel sick is no reason to quit shoveling it in. It takes dedication to really make yourself primo uncomfortable. Which I have, as evidenced by the lemon pastry and the large piece of Dairy Queen cake in front of me, just five hours after consuming so many calories I could not breathe. It's just like smoking, and no lie: 'I feel like such shit I can't wait to do it again!'
We humans are pretty much of an oddball species.

So, today's lesson: keep your wants and needs out of it. They're being fulfilled behind your back, anyway.

Tomorrow I go back into the working world -yikes!- so wish me luck. I'm pretty anxious about the whole thing. In response to that, I'm going to take a bite of my cake and think of something else.

Drag queens, maybe.

Peace out.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Vitriol 101

Saw a book today, called '14,000 Things to be Happy About.'
Which led me to today's topic:
'14,000 Reasons to Go Get Fucked.'
What do you guys say we start this meeting?

#1) Because you're dumber than me.
#2) Because I had to buy a new DVD player after the breakup.
#3) Because my cat understands me better than you do.
#4) Because, whatever you might think, your kid is not 'special.'
#5) Because your dreams are not interesting to me.
#6) Because you will not sway me when you rant about your political viewpoints.
#7) Because you think having god on your side makes you righteous, when all it really does is
make you a jackass.
#8) Because you quit smoking and I didn't.
#9) Because you have a better car.
#10) Because you think Larry Niven is some kind of literary god, and I don't even know who the
fuck he is.
#11) Because you're Chuck Klosterman.

Okay, whew. I'm worn out now. Please feel free to add to this list.

Q and A

Dear Limited, Patience-strained Audience,

It seems I got nothin but shit to say, so on that note I'd like to field a couple questions.

-'Why do Norwegians eat so much flour and still don't seem to be particularly fat?'

Hey, glad you asked that. It's a subject I seem to be hearing a lot about lately. My gut tells me that the reason has to do with not being able to eat while hungover.

-'Are you a bad person?'


-'When my roommate cleans the apartment, she seems to focus primarily on gathering everything that's mine and putting it in front of my bedroom door. What's going on here?'

Your roommate is sending out a clear psychological message: 'I don't want you here.' She is, in effect, attempting to 'erase' you by 'erasing' the evidence of your presence. I don't know if this roommate is a friend of yours, but if she is she won't be one for long. Move. Now.

Feel free to send your questions to the Manor, and I'll answer them as succinctly as I can.
Keep analysing your dreams.

Friday, May 11, 2007

Klosterman Redux

Strange things afoot at the Manor today. I awoke with pupils so huge they looked like black olives. My right pupil was visibly larger than my left. The only thing I can think is that a) I sustained brain damage in my sleep or b) someone dosed me with magic mushrooms, in my sleep, or c) both. It's probably 'C,' and it's probably divine retribution for puplicly demanding Klosterman's head. So I might as well do it again. I figure as long as I've sustained brain damage I'll rant about Klosterman all I want, seeing's how I paid the toll already.
In the words of The Pet Shop Boys, I must ask myself: 'was it worth it?'
Fuck, yeah.
If it's worth living for, it's worth dying for. And keep in mind, yesterday, today was tomorrow. The future moves just that fast.
Klosterman, you better hurry up and die.
Please keep in mind that this is a very inflammatory issue, in the minds of me and my North Dakota expatriates. This is not to be taken lightly, whatever side of this fence you're on. Unless it is. In which case it is what it is, but we've already covered that.