Wednesday, April 16, 2003

Rather I should say that I have ideas where we're going, but no clue.

I'm going over to Nissa's tonight. Tomorrow we go on her mystery tour. I have suspicions, but no idea where we're going.
Anyway, I'll be back on Sunday. Then we'll all know where I went.

Tuesday, April 15, 2003

It was an eventful day. It was the first day in a long time that got me out of the house. I went to Orange to buy lotsa books for the business. I got some humdingers, most should sell quickly and some that I like the idea of selling and therefore will probably not sell quickly.
Dr Shrinker and I had a really good talk about how much I'm ruled by fear. I realized, while reading this morning, that a good deal of my reactions and a large portion of my actions revolve around fear. It's fear abuse. I mean, fear is a healthy thing when I'm about to walk between a mamma bear and her bear cub. But it's not so good of a thing when it keeps me from sleeping over at Nissa's or going to visit friends or whatnot. So I'm working on my awareness, always always.
Tonight we went with a good portion of her Buddha friends to the Shambala center in Los Angeles. The speaker was speaking on an "overcoming enemies" type of subject.
We went in, kicked off our shoes and meditated. Soon a speaker got up and started yapping.
Right off the bat, I'll say it was no where near as much fun as the Hare Krishna temple was. That having been said, I got a lot out of his talk. He focused on the Basic Goodness and how self doubt acts as a buffer to our Basic Goodness. It retards our focus on Basic Goodness into things like hate and animosity and the like. Of course, this had a lot to do with what Dr Shrinker and I were talking about. He just used different terms.
Now I'm home. Nissa and I are going on our trip, whatever that may be, on Thursday. She wonders if we might borrow my father's giant, varmint hunting truck and go camping somewhere. I doubt it, but I said I'd ask. She said that would decide which of her trip ideas we would take. I look forward. I've always been a sucker for mystery.
Well, maybe not always, but it's something I'm working on.

I think that Rob might end up being one of the ellusive great writers after Hemingway that I ranted about before.
I know I post a lot of things that I didn't write. Here's a little something that my friend Rob Morris sent me. He wrote it.


I have some secret information I have to tell you, gotten through a long string of reputable sources. I'm not supposed to tell anybody, but I just have to get this out and you seem like a trustworthy person to me.

Apparently, a White House aide, bringing tea to Laura Bush fifteen minutes before the couple's 10:00 bedtime, walked in on George fingering himself in the asshole while his wife was safely inside the First Bathroom down the hall. Immediately upon being discovered, the president put the previously probing finger under his nose and sniffed.

Everything's clean-even there too, he reportedly said, and then told the aide to set the tea on top of Laura's bed stand and take the rest of the night off.

Now, this aide, whose name I was not told for obvious reasons, has a cousin in St. Paul, Minnesota, who lives on the river with a fine view of her twin-city. This woman, a homemaker named Charlene, was told this incredible story by the white house aide on strict orders not to tell anyone. It could mean my job, she said, or even my life-you know how the government is. But she also made clear that the other reason she wanted this kept a secret was that she had always looked up to Bush and still does, despite the incident. And she made sure her cousin understood that there was nothing sexual she could detect about the act-nothing homosexual especially, she added with emphasis, I just had to tell someone.

The next day Charlene told her beautician, one Mrs. Livenbergen of the beauty parlor Rapunzel's Terror, the entire story, on the condition that she not tell it to anybody. Mrs. Livenbergen went home that night, called her brother, and in between conversations about the rising cost of gasoline and how Mr. Livenbergen was laid-off not just two days before, she related the story of the president's strange behavior. He was fingering his own asshole, yes…but nothing sexual about it, apparently…no, not even that, in fact, especially nothing homosexual. She made her brother promise not to tell anyone, and he brought up their lifelong sharing of confidences: Have I ever told any of your secrets before?

Mrs. Livenbergen's brother obviously felt that of course his daughter, Susanna, age 21, junior at the University of Michigan, was in the circle of confidence. Susanna swore to secrecy, then typed up all the details and sent the story to 23 of her college friends by email, including friends at other schools she had met during a semester abroad in Italy.

One of Susanna's former fellow exchange students, a senior at NYU, forwarded this message to a further 51 friends and relatives, one of them being a buddy of the young Pakistani at my local Western Union who takes my cash and wires it across the globe to a contact I have in Malaysia when I make purchases for illegally imported boxes of Propecia which I make a tidy profit with by selling sell for 5 bucks a hit on midtown rush hour subways, and he told me the whole thing in startling detail.

Don't tell anyone, he said to me as he handed me my receipt yesterday, you know the aide might get fired-or worse-if this story ever makes the papers. I reassured him that my lips were sealed, and as I walked out the door he called after me: There was nothing homosexual about it either, I'm pretty sure about that. And remember, don't tell anyone!

So promise me you'll keep this a secret, then spread this as far as Bush's cheeks. And the moral, I think, has something to do with his belief in his own innocence. He sleeps, rises, shits, sleeps again.

April 2, 2003

Monday, April 14, 2003

So much time spent staring at a lighted screen. Actually, I probably spent more time doing other things today. I went to the post office to send books and met all of the penultimate procrastinators in my neighborhood. I don't care if I get any orders tomorrow. I'm not going back to the post office until tax day is over.
I spent all kinds of time with the cats because it's raining. I washed a lot of dishes, did laundry, cleaned my room, got gas in my car, worked on a story I'm starting to write, read some C.S. Lewis, danced, made a peanut butter and banana sandwich for lunch, watched the finches play in the storm. It's probably because most of the day was at home because of the weather, right after a weekend of being at home because of my health. But it's just one of those days where you feel like you've been staring at a monitor all day.

Sunday, April 13, 2003

One of the sucky things about the internet, as far as I'm concerned, is usernames. I just had a heck of a time trying to get into Blogger because they all of the sudden have a sentry at the front who wants your username and password. They had a help screen where you could get your password if you typed in your username. But, I can never remember my username. I sat typing, "RPM.. RevPaul.. RevPaulBooks.. ReverendMathers" and so on.
"Speak friend and enter."

I'm between ninety and ninety-five percent better right now. My ears are all plugged up still. I feel like I've just come out of an Instagon. I decided not to go out tonight because I'm still just barely over the ill county line.