Cataclysm

I love cats. I have two of them, in fact. They're my boon companions. But my cats cannot do tricks. Most cats cannot do tricks. Most cats are not a part of the Moscow Cats Theatre. The Moscow Cats Theatre is best described thus: a smallish group of clowns enticing a larger group of cats (and one dog) to do tricks of varying difficulty and impressiveness. It's more of a Cat Circus. I imagine they call it theater (okay, "Theatre") so that they can charge $50 for it.

I would like to say a thing or two about the Moscow Cats Theatre. First, if you are into psychotropic drugs, it might be advisable to take some before attending this particular theater. Though, I must counsel caution: the experience itself was tantamount to a tab or two of acid, so if you walk into the joint packed full of rum and mescaline, you are headed for a five-alarm, Hunter Thompson-style freakout. The kind that ends with evil fear, large bills, and a confrontation with law enforcement.

But I digress. On to my second thought regarding the Cats Theatre. While I admit I laughed my ass off several times, and that it was far better than much of the real theater I've attended, I can't say that it was really worth $50. Yes, the cats did some pretty nifty things, but the magical clown storyteller/painter in search of love beset by nightmare elephant-clown cat stealers and aided by a fairy catmother storyline felt a bit artificial.

And the "tricks" would be better termed "impressive demonstrations of normal cat behavior." Cats climb things. We saw them climb very high things. They jump. We saw em do that as well. They squeeze themselves into improbable places. Uh huh. They get trussed up in dresses by pathetic clowns. No doubt about it. They hang on with those devlish claws for dear life when something they are on is moved. Yep. That's cat behavior all right. They do handstands. They walk along parallell bars with two feet, as the other two dangle below. Okay, the last two I'll admit into the record as "tricks." But really, wouldn't some quaint square in an aging European capital dotted with unwashed hippies and tourists be a more appropriate venue for this busking act?

And here's the coup de grace: the kids just would not shut up. All the little urchins did was holler and bellow and howl like it was Christmas day. It's like they'd never been to the theater before. theatre that is. Theatre.

Slavior

Trail of Tears

Often, it seems to me that life consists of enduring one trauma after another. Tragedy begets tragedy, and we all smile in spite of it, because it's got to be better than being dead. From Mississippi to Iraq to Sudan to Pakistan to Guatemala, horror approaches, shakes my hand, offers me a seat, and punches me in the groin.

Someone dies, mourning lingers, then another death. There will be a point when I will no longer be attending my friends' weddings, but their funerals.

What has provoked this depressive, bitter, overly general diatribe? Many coincident events of varying crapitude, but one in particular. Someone very close to me has been harrassed sexually by her superior. Her response has been measured and reasonable in bringing it to the attention of management. And what have they done about it? Tried to brush her off. Not taken it seriously. Tried to end it with some ludicrous promise that the offender would get counseling. Take it from someone who likes the sauce a little too much, a couple sessions of sensitivity training will not rein in an out of control alcoholic.

That the company didn't bend over backwards for her sake is shocking to me. If they don't give a shit about the work environment or rights of their employees (which they clearly don't), they should give a shit about getting sued. Which they are about to. Fuckers.

So I go from a general consideration about the ugliness of life to a specific and enraged complaint.

If only I could take a hacksaw to the prick's prick and lob a Molotov into the offending corporate offices.

Letter of Condemnation

When I got to work today, there was an envelope with my name on it on top of the register in the pump hut. I asked Vijay if it was for me, and he asked me if it had stupid written on it. I said no, and he said give it to him. I did, and he said open it, stupid, it's for you.

It was a letter from the Mayor Alein, thanking me for my bravery when the station got robbed. I don't know why I got a letter this time. I guess because my picture was in the paper. I was looking at it, thinking it's a weird thing to get thanked when you get robbed, as if you had something to do with it, when Vijay told me to get to work and clean up a bunch of oil next to pump 3.

I haven't shown it to anyone yet. I'd like to get it framed and put it in the pump hut, because that would be appropriate, but we're not allowed to hang anything except approved materials in there. It's probably a mistake anyway. They probably meant to send it to someone who actually did something besides hit the alarm button and put the money in the drop safe when they got robbed. Besides, I've gotten beat up lots of times, and I never got a letter about it before.

The pump hut is still freezing. I don't think they're ever going to fix the window. It'd get fixed if Vijay had to sit in there all night.

Nothing Left

Not much left anyway. Just enough to let a few lines dribble listlessly out. Each time a project of mine ends, I feel utterly rudderless. I could easily sleep until three in the afternoon and stay up until four in the morning. I force myself to get up and do things, but only because they must be done. Because something must be done, and laying in bed as the world falls to shit is simply unacceptable (tried it in college...not worth the lack of effort), no matter how disagreeable doing stuff may seem.

I think I could classify this post-project mourning period as a symptom of a pervasive and nearly constant depression. Combine that with the feeling of dread that creeps over me from time to time (while I'm watching TV, while riding an elevator, while sitting and reading), and I've got quite an incentive to stay in bed.

What's worse, I've misplaced my glasses. Damn my eyes. At least the LSATs are over. At least there's that.

Sermonade

When life hands you sermons, make Sermonade. We can help you spice up your tired old sermon. Nature is your friend as you introduce your flock to the grandeur of God. Sinners and saved alike can benefit from our visual metaphors and aids.

Genius

Boy am I threatened by it, knee-buckled by it, roiling with envy at it. For some reason I believe it is what I am to be. And I know it is what I am not. As exceptional as I might be. One in a hundred is not one in a million. It upsets me. I've had to come to terms with and let go of several juvenile fantasies later in life than you might expect.

1. I will be neither Air Force pilot nor astronaut
2. I will not play professional baseball
3. I am not now and will not suddenly become a genius

I don't know why this should be so hard to accept. It's not as if geniuses are renowned for being especially happy. And that's if they happen to be renowned. If we're to believe the wisdom of our culture, there are many more geniuses, toiling in obscurity, unrecognized as the prophets they are, and brimming with vitriol at not being renowned. Even renown is known to be a generally unhappy experience.

When I nurtured this fantasy of genius, that things did not come easily was a constant frustration. So not much came at all. Now I understand I have to work (some things can be slow in coming to a self-presumed genius), which has been a surprisingly satisfying experience.

So, no Grand Unified Theories, no As I Lay Dying, no OK Computer from me.

I am not endorsing mediocrity, but an understanding that perfection is unattainable, and even undesirable.

Private Defective

My jaw hurts so bad. It's been bad for a while. As long as I can remember. Sometimes, it just sort of locks closed, so I can't open it more than an inch. It feels like the bones are stuck. Like one of those dreams where you can't scream for help. It always goes away after a little bit, when I'm not even thinking about it.

I don't know why I'm hurt all the time and everyone else is always fine. I never miss work, but my back always hurts. The rest of it I don't even want to talk about.

But there are plenty of people who have it much worse. I mean, at least I'm not in Africa without any food, or getting beat up, or a communist, or anything like that. It's really no big deal, when I really think about it. Most people have it much worse than me.

I've been thinking about asking my doctor if maybe my medicine is what's making my jaw hurt. I think it started before the medicine, but I can't really remember.

It's been two years since I dropped a plate.

Mom

This week wasn't very good. Vijay yelled at me every day. First it was the short money. Then, I couldn't get some guy's hood open. Some other stuff, too. The worst part is, a lady complained about me. She said I was rude. I always follow the training video and smile and greet the customer, so I can't remember being rude to anyone. Vijay told me the only reason I don't fire you is because people think you're retarded and it wouldn't look right

If I don't shape up, I'm gone in a heartbeat.

Maybe I am retarded. I don't want to be fired. I'll never get another job.

So, I called my mom. My mom's been mad at me for long time because I won't live at home with her anymore. But when things go wrong I think of her and still love her and want to talk to her. We mostly talked about her garden, and I asked her about my houseplants, because I knew she wanted me to. She tells me how much to water them and where to put them. I don't really care that much, but it's not too hard, so I do it for her. The thing was, after I started talking to her, I was afraid to talk about the gas station. She said "hello," and I just wanted to hang up. I don't want my mom to know I'm a loser. Or at least how much of one I am.

So we just talked about plants and said it was nice to talk and all that. Then, when we were getting ready to go, I didn't know what to say, so I said, "Mom, what do you think I'm doing wrong?"

She was quiet and I felt something bad coming, and she said, really slowly, "I didn't say you were doing anything wrong, Glen. Why are you so sensitive? Grow up, already"

I told her that's not what I meant but I could already feel my cheeks burning, so I just hung up and punched a hole in my wall.

When I call her in a couple days to apologize, I'll probably have to tell her I got fired, too.

A Few Bad Apples

Katrina is the world right now. This thing just keeps getting worse, and there's no hope in sight. Now the specter of race riots appears. As New Orleans becomes a warzone, there is the distinct possibility that confrontations will spark outpourings of frustration in other destitute communities.

Worrying about rioting, thousands dead and dying, looting, misery, and massive destruction is enough for one, without having to deal with the pundits, the partisans and the party hacks. The waters had barely begun to rise when the opportunists started asking themselves: "How can we use this to our advantage?"

There are folks screaming racism in the coverage because black people have been shown looting. I know I've seen shots of both black and white looting, and that the majority of rescue shots I've seen have involved people of color.

Then there are the people who see this as an opportunity to attack the Bush administration. I am no fan of the nutcases in power at the moment, but give them a few days to mobilize relief. Lesson 1: The hurricane was not caused by Bush's failure to sign the Kyoto treaty, and anyone who says so is either stupid or dishonest.

On the other hand, there are worse faults than criticizing the disaster preparedness of the area or country. You could claim that the storm is sent by god to punish the wicked. Kind of like Robertson did in the past...or this Kuwaiti official just did in the World Tribune. Lesson 2: God doesn't help football players score touchdowns and he doesn't indiscriminately kill thousands of people (many of whom undoubtedly were opposed to the Bush administration's policies in the Middle East) as an act of judgment. Anyone who claims god does such things is insane and an enemy of reason.

Of course nothing compares to the inspiring example of people in times of crisis:
"Police say storm victims are being raped and beaten inside the New Orleans Convention Center. About 15,200 people who had taken shelter at the convention center to await buses grew increasingly hostile. Police Chief Eddie Compass says he sent in 88 officers to quell the situation at the building, but they were quickly beaten back by an angry mob. Compass says, "We have individuals who are getting raped, we have individuals who are getting beaten."He says tourists are walking in that direction and they are getting preyed upon.In hopes of defusing the unrest at the convention center, Mayor Ray Nagin gave the refugees permission to march across a bridge to the city's unflooded west bank for whatever relief they can find. But the bedlam appeared to make leaving difficult."
-AP

As if people needed an excuse not to send money, to turn a blind eye, to say, "Maybe they did deserve it." Lesson 3: People are idiots. I mean what are you going to do with the TV? There's no power! And 20 ft. of water! Take food sure...but beer?...sneakers?

Now ask me why I have such a dim view of humanity.