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.

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.

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.

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?'

Absolutely.

-'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.

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.

Die, Klosterman

I'm currently reading 'Heloise and Abelard: A New Biography' by James Burge, 'God Bless you, Dr. Kevorkian' by the late Kurt Vonnegut (may he find peace) and 'Killing yourself to Live' by Chuck Klosterman.
Now is as good a time as any to talk about why Chuck Klosterman must die. And he must. You can tell me ten million reasons why Chuck can live, and I'll give you twenty million why he can't.
The first and most childish way to argue this point is best illustrated by a heated debate that took place in Government class during my senior year in high school. I don't remember what hot-button issue was on the table, so let's just say it was the death penalty. Rodney Gourde, best known for his half-bored, couldn't-be-bothered disdain for nearly everyone and everything, made some maddenly smug point. It was a good one, one with which Craig Schultz took supreme and personal issue. He held out his freshly sharpened pencil, with the veins in his temples pulsing out the beat to 'Boom, Boom, Boom, Let's Go Back to my Room,' and, by way of rebuttal, loudly invited Rodney to 'SIT AND SPIN!'
This happened.
Rodney now runs a successful veterinary clinic.
So, the first minute of my argument will go something like this:

-'Chuck Klosterman is a freak of nature, granted, but surely he doesn't deserve to die.'
-'Sit and spin!'

The next minute will go similarly:

-'But he's an important writer, a voice of his generation! He's a novelty, man! You can't just kill a farm kid from North Dakota!'
-'Can so!'
-'But why? What did Chuck Klosterman ever do to you?'

Now we get to the bare bones of the issue. What did Chuck Klosterman ever do to me?
What didn't Chuck Klosterman ever to do me?
His crimes - his capital crimes - follow:
He's the best writer ever. When I read Chuck Klosterman I want to die myself. I can only read a chapter or so before I feel the despair wash over me with such totality that I must take a break. I sit, my lips in a death grip between my thumb and forefinger, unblinking, and silently mourn all the things I would not mourn if Chuck Klosterman were dead. This encompasses everything, beginning with how much better a writer he is than I, and ending with the very real probability that we will never marry.
My need for Chuck's demise is merely my survival instinct asserting itself.
It's either he or I.
To quote the most famous fictional manic-depressive ever, Romeo - after his rival kills his best (maybe even like, super-best, if you know what I mean) friend: 'Either thou, or I, or both must go with him!'
So seriously, Chuck; throw your mistempered weapons to the ground. I'll call the dogs off if you quietly go away and never write another thing. I'll send you a case of shitty tequila, whatever, just shut the fuck up. Don't you understand that your existence negates mine? I'm at the end of my rope, here.
Now, let's assume that my next-door neighbor comes over to use my fax. In exchange, he lets me use his time machine. I get in, punch in the date, whatever it was, back to the year 1987. I will be 16 and Chuck will be 14. We will both be at the same state speech competition. We will actually be competing against each other in the catagory of extemperaneous speaking. Chuck will snag the gold. I will not. Now keep in mind, this happened. I simply had no way of knowing the future significance of the event. I get out of the time machine just in time to introduce us: 'Chuck, Gretchen, Gretchen, Chuck. Gotta go!' I return to the present just as my neighbor's fax is successfully sent.

Chuck asks me if I would like some tea. I don't want any, but I say yes anyway. He is doing shots of Durango tequila and chasing them with warm Mountain Dew. He is doing this over the sink in case he vomits.

Okay, obvious flaw. I must return to a time before now, let's say, like, four years ago. Yes, 2003, perfect. I will still be allowed to consume alcoholic beverages for four more years, and I can do the bulk of this with Chuck.

Chuck asks me if I want some shitty tequila. We finish the bottle, over the sink, in case we vomit, and somewhere in the middle Chuck fires up a J the size of a toilet paper roll. We drink and smoke contentedly until we should be dead and still manage to come to a successful conclusion about why no one seemed to understand 'The Royal Tenenbaums.' It is 3:24 in the afternoon.

All this bliss, because I went back in time and introduced us when Chuck was young and impressionable. I would have practically been Mrs. Robinson to 14-year-old Chuck.
Please do not entertain the notion that I believe myself to be making one ration of sense.
I know that I am not.
I'm just trying to be fair, to come up with a loophole, one where Chuck doesn't have to die.
And so this ends as it began:

-'Chuck Klosterman surely doesn't deserve to die, simply because he's alive!'
-'Rodney, SIT AND SPIN!'


Till later.

Your faithful and deranged chronicler, who clearly needs a hobby.

lau tzu would have a spaz

There's this thing that's kinda been bugging the shit out of me that I need to address. The inanity of the phrase 'it is what it is.' Don't get me wrong. It is what it is. Technically, it can't really be anything else. If there' s a fire, or if someone ate your yogurt out of the employee fridge, hey man, what is it? Among other things, for sure it is. You'll get no arguement from me on this fundamental point. Whatever I'm saying, I'm not saying that it isn't what it is.

My issue stems from a) soul-torturing overuse and b) the people who use it. 'Wow, Mr. McZen, you're so, like deep!'

So, Gandhi-Lite, explain yourself. What exactly do you mean when you inform me that what is is what is? My take on this phrase is that by saying it, by acknowledging it, you are in fact coping with and accepting the fact that no matter how much you wish your blueberry yogurt was still in the fridge, it isn't. And that's okay, because, after all, it is what it is.

But do you usually get that? Don't the people who say that give you the impression that they're totally not accepting this simple fact of life? I think we can find a middle ground, maybe replace this formerly deep comment with something like, 'it is what it shouldn't be.' This can imply any old thing; you can beat the shit out of the yogurt eater, go home and cry while masturbating to internet porn, whatever. There's no implied reaction to your realization that 'it is what it shouldn't be.' But then, that's not so deep. Or short. You might have to make up an actual sentence to go along with this.

So, whatever. Say what you mean, don't say what you don't mean, and if you can't cope with what is, then please refrain from blithely stating the obvious. It's not going to help any of us get any better.

Which brings me to drag queens.

Let me say this: I fucking love drag queens. As a gay man in the body of a woman, technically, I myself am a drag queen. I don't love drag queens 'that way,' I simply relate in a molecular way to their desire to costume. I personally get a lot more positive attention when I'm wearing mascara. Which is why I wear it. I don't reckon it's going to raise my I.Q., but what can I do? I'm a drag queen. Which, I'll grant you, is weird.

I'd like to close with a short discussion of 'expectation' vs. 'faith.' Keep in mind that whether you're expecation or faith driven, you're still forseeing things for yourself that are good. The differentiation comes from the how of it. Expectation implies entitlement, where faith involves surrender. One, ego-driven, one, other-driven. I think, in the end, realizing you're not necessarily driving the bus at all times can help you toward what you want without falling into the trap that it's just going to happen because you're deserving. You need a lot of humility to have a little faith. My arguement is not a) that faith is God. Simply that we may all be part of something that's bigger than us, and when our hearts are open and our egos are in check, good things seem to somehow happen.

I personally have faith that I'll have Chuck Klosterman's head on a plate, but that's a subject for another day. For probably a lot of days, because I obscess about Chuck Klosterman for maybe one to two hours a day. I'll give you the full scoop if you don't know who he is.

Until then,

Your faithful chronicler

my selfishness knows no bounds

I received a forwarded e-mail today, and the 'goal' of the e-mail was to complete a list of 5,000 people who want to stand up, be counted, and tell the world they think drunk driving is wrong. Okay. Fine. I get that. Sure, drunk driving is like, super-wrong, everyone knows that; most of us have done it, most of us got away with it, probably all of us feel bad. Now, the point here is not that I was given an opportunity to loudly state this opinion; I was threatened into it. The e-mail tells me this: if I do not add my name to the list, (a remarkably simple thing to do), then 'my selfishness knows no bounds.' My selfishness knows no bounds. So now I know. If I don't do what forwarded e-mails tell me to do, this is an accurate gauge of how selfish I am.

And here I thought it was all about whether I stole money from my mom's purse or broke the TV antenna because I was sick of Andy Rooney.

Nope. Turns out selfishness, and its ceiling, has everything to do with whether or not you bow to the threats of forwarded e-mails.

Now that I know this, that there are no known boundaries which could possibly contain my selfishness, I feel entirely free to help myself to a twenty, get Andy Rooney out of my life, and perhaps even send out a few threatening e-mails.

Signing out,
The Most Boundlessly Selfish Person in all the World