On one hand I feel sorry for poor Ted. Not only is his image indelibly soiled, his family will be shaken if not shattered. His career aspirations are derailed. The corner office at the right hand of Jesus is now out of reach. He'll certainly never be promoted to "God" now that he's been outed. Perhaps if he hides in rehab for a long-enough period and donates some of his millions to humanitarian efforts he'll be less despised.
Probably not.
On the gripping hand (to quote my long-lost friend, Russell), Ted's soap opera parallels the plight of the billionaire business-mogul who declares bankruptcy. Most of his assets are protected in a legal loophole so that he can climb back on top, using the masses as stepping stones along the way.
Masses. Get it?
He'll be behind the pulpit again in no time, regardless of this whole affair.
Sodomy. Everybody's doing it!
Could it be... SATAN???
Was Teddy tempted by the Dev-il?
My inner cynic screams for justice, while the treacherous tip the scales.
I've done some things in my past about which I am not proud. None of my transgressions were on the scale of Haggard's lies and lack of integrity. Plus, I sent money to the department store from which I stole that bra. I have attempted to take personal responsibility for my past choices, and for my present reality.
I did not stand before crowds and preach the opposite of my practices.
Most of us don't.
Most of us don't speak publicly.
Most of them shouldn't.
This is just another example of human hubris.
What makes someone need that degree of affirmation?
What makes others need to believe the proselytising of criminals?
Dobson, Haggard, Swaggert, Baker - Manson, Gacy, Dahmer, Hitler
Humans.
Ack.
19 December 2019
Horrible Haggard Haiku
Preaching pretty hate
Stand and deliver "good news"
Fingers crossed behind
Satan lures the weak
Waiting, lurking, patiently
If you so believe
Blame it on your God
Free-will was too much to bear
Powerlessness reigns
That which you deny
Puppet, you are made to dance
By your own design
Will your bearing turn?
Or will power and applause
Steer again your bow?
Future lies unknown
Unseen possibilities
All assume the worst
Love was not enough
You sought gratification
Beyond biblical
Soaring t'wards the glare
Flames ignited your descent
Your light shines no more
There once was a liar named Ted
Who couldn't live all that he said
He snorted some meth
And then got undressed
With him for whom Ted had great dread
There once was a preacher named Haggard
Who ranted and raved just like Swaggert
He judged all the gay boys
And lambasted lesbos
But turned out to be a big faggert.
Stand and deliver "good news"
Fingers crossed behind
Satan lures the weak
Waiting, lurking, patiently
If you so believe
Blame it on your God
Free-will was too much to bear
Powerlessness reigns
That which you deny
Puppet, you are made to dance
By your own design
Will your bearing turn?
Or will power and applause
Steer again your bow?
Future lies unknown
Unseen possibilities
All assume the worst
Love was not enough
You sought gratification
Beyond biblical
Soaring t'wards the glare
Flames ignited your descent
Your light shines no more
There once was a liar named Ted
Who couldn't live all that he said
He snorted some meth
And then got undressed
With him for whom Ted had great dread
There once was a preacher named Haggard
Who ranted and raved just like Swaggert
He judged all the gay boys
And lambasted lesbos
But turned out to be a big faggert.
06 November 2012
Compart mentalize ation
Or the mathematical management of mood
Fourteen.
Black coffee, no cream, saccharine – zero.
Apple – eighty.
Gum times three – fifteen.
Walking twenty minutes.
Was it only fifteen?
Fifteen.
Underestimate effort.
Overestimate indulgence.
Tipping the scales in favor of failure.
Lettuce, vinegar, no croutons, celery, less than zero, according to her, and she is winning.
Black coffee, no cream, saccharine – zero.
Ruinous donuts times two lead to pastry and candy topped off with a bubbling soda to stir the mix.
I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can’t tell.
It leaves violently the way it came.
I escape. I am saved. I am gone.
How many remain? How many remain? How many remain?
Two hundred? Three hundred? Better say three.
Better safe than what lies in wait.
Too tired now to worry I wander unnoticed through classes.
Sleep on the bus ride to home.
Languish. Rinse. Repeat.
Twenty-four.
An extra this triggers more of that.
Addition, subtraction, obsessification no longer appeals. No longer controls.
It all blends together, churning, taunting, peeling away my resolve in long dying strips.
I can no longer hold it all in.
I can no longer keep it all out.
I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can’t tell.
I return to the source of escape. Am I saved? I’m still here.
No longer a fix.
Nothing adds up.
Nothing subtracts quite right.
Nothing can balance this dizzying gluttony.
Then, out of nowhere a new cure arrives and I ride this wave over my own drowning glares into new now.
Numbers irrelevant, minimal, managed, and I am winning.
I am saved. I am calm. I am gone.
Inhuman victory smothering weaknesses, cravings – primal need.
Running and cleaning and chatting and chattering.
Crumbling to sleep before waking home.
Gun it! Rinse. Repeat.
Forty-four
Math doesn't matter though it’s always with me in case I may need it to manage my moods.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Sky blue. Red soil. Dog smiles.
Loving hands tethering keep me from flying away while I flail until wind dies down.
I have spoken my truth but sometimes I forget.
I have told all my secrets. No use for them here.
I have walked away knowing one look and I’d never be free.
Some moments my heart beats too fast too loud.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I am no longer under attack from my Self I remind my Self.
Flash-flooding memories sweep me off my ground.
I am buoyant, resilient, a swimmer.
Floating flying gliding home.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.
Descartes
I think therefore I am some days confused
I think it's best I tell you what I think
I think my former silence caused such pain
I think I won't keep quiet once again
I think it bothers those who dare not think
I think, and from this thinking rises grief
I think such pain requires that I pause
I think to sift through pain will cause relief
I think some things I dare not tell to most
I think avoiding offense serves me best
I think the sifting sometimes wastes such hours
I think the better choice is let it rest
I think therefore I am some days so tired
I think these thoughts so heavy thus I sleep
I think I sleep to dream a life surreal
I think my epic dreams hold secrets deep
I think my waking days are often gray
I think illusions sleeping sweeps away
I think day life is better filled with love
I think love is distracting from ennui
I think I think too many things to know
I think I'll never know enough of truth
I think the truth sends many running scared
I think not knowing truth arouses fear
I think creating truth offers some hope
I think to hope is similar to dream
I think we only know things as they seem
I think some things beyond what we can know
I think reality an iceberg forms
I think we comprehend a bit a speck
I think therefore my words are so much dreck
I think it's best I tell you what I think
I think my former silence caused such pain
I think I won't keep quiet once again
I think it bothers those who dare not think
I think, and from this thinking rises grief
I think such pain requires that I pause
I think to sift through pain will cause relief
I think some things I dare not tell to most
I think avoiding offense serves me best
I think the sifting sometimes wastes such hours
I think the better choice is let it rest
I think therefore I am some days so tired
I think these thoughts so heavy thus I sleep
I think I sleep to dream a life surreal
I think my epic dreams hold secrets deep
I think my waking days are often gray
I think illusions sleeping sweeps away
I think day life is better filled with love
I think love is distracting from ennui
I think I think too many things to know
I think I'll never know enough of truth
I think the truth sends many running scared
I think not knowing truth arouses fear
I think creating truth offers some hope
I think to hope is similar to dream
I think we only know things as they seem
I think some things beyond what we can know
I think reality an iceberg forms
I think we comprehend a bit a speck
I think therefore my words are so much dreck
Blogvival
This is a post. This is only a post. This is a post in a previously-deactivated, newly-activated collection of very old blog posts. The older entries here were considered amusing by some (me). Perhaps the newer posts will entertain readers or at least myself. I am generally easily amused, which, I know is ironic considering my general pessimistic cynicism about life the universe and everything. But enough about me. This is about my new (old) blog... and me. This is a post. This is the first post of 2012. There will be more as we approach the apocalypse.
Oh - we'll have our new president-elect by tomorrow. I'm hoping Martin Sheen wins this time.
Oh - we'll have our new president-elect by tomorrow. I'm hoping Martin Sheen wins this time.
02 July 2007
X-Mas in July? Why?
I cannot believe I am still having this same conversation about Christmas, even though it's July. Here's the conversation as I remember it.
Bob: Are you doing any theater or anything?
Megan: No. I wanted to do Hamletmachine with Tom and Lisa McElroy, but I think Tom doesn't want to work with me anymore.
Bob: You mean after the Christmas fiasco?
Megan: Well, yes. But that wasn't really my fault.
Bob: I still can't believe you didn't write some sort of Anti-Christmas show....
Megan: Well - I would have liked that. I thought it was going to be some sort of spoof on Christmas. But Tom and Lisa really like Christmas. Which surprised me. I thought people who didn't really like much of anything about American culture certainly wouldn't like the whole Christmas thing.
Bob: No, Christmas is wonderful. A magical elf, coming to bring you things.... It's so much fun! You're missing out!
Megan: But, Bob, it's a Christian holiday. I'm not Christian.
Bob: You're missing the point. We don't celebrate it as a Christmas holiday. We're not Christians. In fact, none of the people I know who celebrate Christmas are Christians!
Megan: Well, they're not Muslims. Or Jews.
Bob: What?
Megan: Well, you don't see a bunch of Muslims celebrating Christmas, or Jews, if they're actually members of those religions. It's an exclusively Christian holiday. It's about Christ. Christ's name is even in the "title".
Bob: Well they're not Christians either. I don't think I even know anyone Christian.
Megan: I'm sure you do.
Bob: I can't imagine who, really.
Megan: All of the people I know who celebrate Christmas at least grew up in a Christian oriented household. It's a Christian-based holiday.
Bob: But you're missing the point. You're not listening. No one celebrates Christmas as a religious holiday...
Megan: What's the nativity scene about...?
Bob: You're not hearing what I'm saying...
Megan: No, you're not hearing what I'm saying. I'm telling you that only people who did NOT grow up in other religions like Judaism or Buddhism, or Hinduism, celebrate Christmas. In other words, Christians.
Bob: But it's not religious... You're projecting this because you've never felt the magic of...
Megan: Bob, I have to go. Honestly, my break is over. I just called to give you shit about the $100 piano.
Bob: Really, I'm not religious, my mother was Jewish.
Megan: Did she practice Judaism?
Bob: No
Megan: Did she celebrate Christmas?
Bob: Yes, of course...
Megan: Well, that's my point. If she'd practiced Judaism and not given in to Christian traditions you probably wouldn't have celebrated Christmas.
Bob: You're not listening to what I'm really saying. Anyone can celebrate Christmas.
Megan: Right, anyone who is Christian, atheist or agnostic. Anyone who identifies with another actual religion won't celebrate Christmas, usually.
Bob: You just don't understand - it's not about Christ - it's about the magical elf in Moore's poem.
Megan: What "Moore" are you referring to? Thomas?
Bob: What? I don't know his first name. The guy who wrote, "Night before Christmas". The magical elf, and sugarplums and presents. That's what modern day Christmas is all about.
Megan: It's still a Christian holiday, Bob. It's based on Christian ideals, including the baby Jesus thing, and other religions don't celebrate it. I really have to go back to work. I'm done. I can't believe we're talking about this again.
Bob: Ok, bye. (hangs up).
Megan: Bye.
It's a Christian holiday. It's called CHRISTmas for Jesus' sake, literally.
Bob: Are you doing any theater or anything?
Megan: No. I wanted to do Hamletmachine with Tom and Lisa McElroy, but I think Tom doesn't want to work with me anymore.
Bob: You mean after the Christmas fiasco?
Megan: Well, yes. But that wasn't really my fault.
Bob: I still can't believe you didn't write some sort of Anti-Christmas show....
Megan: Well - I would have liked that. I thought it was going to be some sort of spoof on Christmas. But Tom and Lisa really like Christmas. Which surprised me. I thought people who didn't really like much of anything about American culture certainly wouldn't like the whole Christmas thing.
Bob: No, Christmas is wonderful. A magical elf, coming to bring you things.... It's so much fun! You're missing out!
Megan: But, Bob, it's a Christian holiday. I'm not Christian.
Bob: You're missing the point. We don't celebrate it as a Christmas holiday. We're not Christians. In fact, none of the people I know who celebrate Christmas are Christians!
Megan: Well, they're not Muslims. Or Jews.
Bob: What?
Megan: Well, you don't see a bunch of Muslims celebrating Christmas, or Jews, if they're actually members of those religions. It's an exclusively Christian holiday. It's about Christ. Christ's name is even in the "title".
Bob: Well they're not Christians either. I don't think I even know anyone Christian.
Megan: I'm sure you do.
Bob: I can't imagine who, really.
Megan: All of the people I know who celebrate Christmas at least grew up in a Christian oriented household. It's a Christian-based holiday.
Bob: But you're missing the point. You're not listening. No one celebrates Christmas as a religious holiday...
Megan: What's the nativity scene about...?
Bob: You're not hearing what I'm saying...
Megan: No, you're not hearing what I'm saying. I'm telling you that only people who did NOT grow up in other religions like Judaism or Buddhism, or Hinduism, celebrate Christmas. In other words, Christians.
Bob: But it's not religious... You're projecting this because you've never felt the magic of...
Megan: Bob, I have to go. Honestly, my break is over. I just called to give you shit about the $100 piano.
Bob: Really, I'm not religious, my mother was Jewish.
Megan: Did she practice Judaism?
Bob: No
Megan: Did she celebrate Christmas?
Bob: Yes, of course...
Megan: Well, that's my point. If she'd practiced Judaism and not given in to Christian traditions you probably wouldn't have celebrated Christmas.
Bob: You're not listening to what I'm really saying. Anyone can celebrate Christmas.
Megan: Right, anyone who is Christian, atheist or agnostic. Anyone who identifies with another actual religion won't celebrate Christmas, usually.
Bob: You just don't understand - it's not about Christ - it's about the magical elf in Moore's poem.
Megan: What "Moore" are you referring to? Thomas?
Bob: What? I don't know his first name. The guy who wrote, "Night before Christmas". The magical elf, and sugarplums and presents. That's what modern day Christmas is all about.
Megan: It's still a Christian holiday, Bob. It's based on Christian ideals, including the baby Jesus thing, and other religions don't celebrate it. I really have to go back to work. I'm done. I can't believe we're talking about this again.
Bob: Ok, bye. (hangs up).
Megan: Bye.
It's a Christian holiday. It's called CHRISTmas for Jesus' sake, literally.
30 June 2007
Things I hate
My friend Eddie Lopez used to tell me, in his slightly Texan accent, "Megan, you hate everything!" He was cute. Probably still is. Haven't seen him in years, but we chat online occasionally. He was just trying to make me see how negative I am. Was. Still am. Probably he wasn't trying to do anything but got sick of me telling him how much I hated this or that....
My ex-boyfriend hated a lot of things:
Tight shirt collars - bothered his neck.
Scratchy fabric - bothered his body.
Crayon wrappers - the paper around each crayon - he had to remove that before using the crayons.
Coral Reefs. There we were, sitting with other friends at a coffee shop and this peripheral acquaintance of one friend came over to tell us about his deep sea diving photography. He metioned various ocean creatures and fish, and coral reefs. He left. My ex said, with a shiver, "oooargh!!! Achchch! I hate coral reefs!" We all stared at him for a moment because he looked like he had bugs all over him or was going to vomit, and then we all laughed.
I asked, "How could you hate coral reefs? You've never been diving. Plus, how can you hate something like coral reefs?"
"They're just so scratchy!" he exclaimed, looking disgusted again.
There's no response for this. There's no convincing him to like coral reefs, or to want to touch an actual coral reef. I think he's responding to the scratchiness of those little dead pieces of coral that come with the touristy shell collections you can buy at beachside bodegas. Yes, those are scratchy.
My ex is a lot like Monk, the OCD detective on television. I hope he's gotten some help for this, because he was constantly tortured by his tics and dislikes and anxieties when we were together. Perhaps it was in response to me. How egocentric, Megan.
Things I hate....
Pretty, thin women who use their looks to get ahead
The men and others who fall for the shit of pretty, thin women
Cultural pressure to be a pretty, thin woman
Liver
Scratchy hotel sheets
Polyester hotel bedspreads
Hot, sunny, summer days
Not being a bazillionaire
My own laziness and lack of motivation
My OCD tendencies, which I'm not willing to explain here.
The dog poop in my backyard
The fact that dogs poop
The fact that I have to clean up after them
I dunno - there's more. I say that I 'hate' things, but I probably need to find a better word. Things make me feel stuff.
That's deep.
I hate not being closer to perfect.
I hate being hot (I'm referring to temperature). It's Summer. It's hot. I have yardwork to do. It's stinky and poopy in my backyard and I now have to get up and brave the sun and heat (with a lot of sunscreen) and start cleaning.
Woo hoo
I hate not having one of those mini bulldozer things to use to clean the yard.
Whatever, Megan. You hate everything!
Love ya, Eddie.
My ex-boyfriend hated a lot of things:
Tight shirt collars - bothered his neck.
Scratchy fabric - bothered his body.
Crayon wrappers - the paper around each crayon - he had to remove that before using the crayons.
Coral Reefs. There we were, sitting with other friends at a coffee shop and this peripheral acquaintance of one friend came over to tell us about his deep sea diving photography. He metioned various ocean creatures and fish, and coral reefs. He left. My ex said, with a shiver, "oooargh!!! Achchch! I hate coral reefs!" We all stared at him for a moment because he looked like he had bugs all over him or was going to vomit, and then we all laughed.
I asked, "How could you hate coral reefs? You've never been diving. Plus, how can you hate something like coral reefs?"
"They're just so scratchy!" he exclaimed, looking disgusted again.
There's no response for this. There's no convincing him to like coral reefs, or to want to touch an actual coral reef. I think he's responding to the scratchiness of those little dead pieces of coral that come with the touristy shell collections you can buy at beachside bodegas. Yes, those are scratchy.
My ex is a lot like Monk, the OCD detective on television. I hope he's gotten some help for this, because he was constantly tortured by his tics and dislikes and anxieties when we were together. Perhaps it was in response to me. How egocentric, Megan.
Things I hate....
Pretty, thin women who use their looks to get ahead
The men and others who fall for the shit of pretty, thin women
Cultural pressure to be a pretty, thin woman
Liver
Scratchy hotel sheets
Polyester hotel bedspreads
Hot, sunny, summer days
Not being a bazillionaire
My own laziness and lack of motivation
My OCD tendencies, which I'm not willing to explain here.
The dog poop in my backyard
The fact that dogs poop
The fact that I have to clean up after them
I dunno - there's more. I say that I 'hate' things, but I probably need to find a better word. Things make me feel stuff.
That's deep.
I hate not being closer to perfect.
I hate being hot (I'm referring to temperature). It's Summer. It's hot. I have yardwork to do. It's stinky and poopy in my backyard and I now have to get up and brave the sun and heat (with a lot of sunscreen) and start cleaning.
Woo hoo
I hate not having one of those mini bulldozer things to use to clean the yard.
Whatever, Megan. You hate everything!
Love ya, Eddie.
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