Kids are more routinely medicated now in their twenties than we were recreationally in the sixties and seventies. Drugs companies have a prescription for every psychosocial blemish that gets in the way of perfection. The “cures” for acne are now more power and dangerous than casual heroin. The preventions for skin cancer from the sun are slathered on with paint coats so thick children can barely move at the beach. God help the family that is encouraged to medicate their kindergartener because they are too active or fall behind in their learning of the alphabet.
Some kids are smarter than others, some are more active than others, and Lord help us some are even fatter than others. We are a vain and a profoundly competitive culture. We have concocted a generation that believes they are perfect or conversely if they are obviously not so it is somebody else’s fault, never theirs.
This has always been my favorite story.
The Buddha was walking down the road giving out little cakes to the children who followed him. A disciple asks him, ” Master, what is the realization of your existence? The Buddha puts down his bag and sits still for a very long time. Finally, another disciple comes to him and asks, “Master, what is the actualization of your existence? The Buddha gets up and continues to give out cakes.
It might be time to start filming every classroom and allowing parents to watch the tapes of their children’s average day. We could then reveal what is disturbing to the media.
Unionized public school teachers are public servants just like the police. Incompetent educators are equally indictable in my eyes. Police sometimes do terrible things, but they rarely rise to the destructive levels of schools that destroy whole classrooms at a time.
Global warming is a lucky break for us all. I have revolted myself all my life with the foreboding of a swift incineration from an unintended thermonuclear exchange. I feel like some guy on death row handed a two or three-millennium stay of execution. I’ll tell you; my step is much lighter every morning with this news. Thanks, Big Science.
” Ray Donovan.” has just finished the third season on Showtime. It took me all three seasons to get my wife to watch even one segment. Now she wants to have sex with Liev Schreiber, who plays Ray Donovan. In and of itself, this does not represent a disqualifier for me of the series. Secretly I think I do too. He is a real man.
I realise just saying such a thing in this day and age will make some people perspire with resentment over things “real men” have done over the last few millennium. I don’t care. He is an authentic man and he is hot.
The essential features of men have disappeared recently and Ray is in breakneck pursuit of the new and triumphant embodiment of our past. Our hallmark is “We just don’t give a damn” about girlie stuff.
We don’t talk much. That much is for certain. For sure we do not share our murderous past and present with our wives. We provide extravagantly, but we don’t feed them information that will result in their prison time. We drink in a blistering continuum and it never shows until some “babe” or our wives drive an emotion harpoon into our souls. Even then we muffle our tears.
Maybe it helps that I am Irish too, but I doubt this is obligatory.
Ray’s company fixes problems in Hollywood. He has a “cut your throat” lesbian and an ex-Mossad agent who lives with his mother on his staff.
He needs little else.
He has an uneasy relationship with the Catholic Church. It had better watch out if Liev considers a fourth season. His father, Mickey, played by Angelina Jolie’s real father, Jon Voight, will make you take the city of Boston off your travel itinerary. Ray tries to kill him at least three times every season. Mickey has four sons and a daughter. One of his sons is black. Yipes!
If Liev gets testy about doing a fourth season, I am prepared personally to sweeten the pot with my cash.
Did I forget to add that Katie Holmes is in it as well and somebody convinced her to wear blue braces in her mouth?
When the insect raped me.
It knew I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped it in brown paper
and took it home
and hid it.
I never expected it to be pleased.
My every sleep invites it to climb on me.
The claw hands are fiddling my skin flattening my body with its heavy insect carapace.
You do your bug things to me.
The viscous pooled beetle drool,
crusts on my face and breasts.
You murmur to me in the low humming pitch
of warm August night locusts,
“Do you remember our first time?.”
Finished, you drape your antennae over the pillow next to mine,
vainly adjusting your curls.
“Are you dead yet? It won’t be much longer, dear.”
I hear the rustle of its sperm larva starting to hatch inside me.
“I am ready to die,” I say to its pleasure.
It will relax now, in the quiet old chair next to my bed.
To watch me cry until it is ready again
Each night is an empty oath to die.
At breakfast, with it across the table from me,
the question comes, “So what shall we do today?
So casually it says this that I am confused.
So this was how the two of us began.
One of us repulsed while the other pretends to reform.
It’s talons still hurt me while we walk hand in hand.
As the lovers I know it must believe we now are.
My hand curves around its claw, testifying against the bloodless cold casing.
I caress it and raise it gently to my cheek
and then to my kiss.
And my deceit can hold no estate in its soul.
Once we lose all hope of love, we always disappear into what has hurt us most.
Life never allows you to feel nothing at all.
Every time it rains hard I know its a sign of the truth of global warming. When I was little when stubbed my toe, I figured it was God’s doing because I had been bad. We had preachers who on Sunday would affirm that badness was the fast track to stubbed toes. That was a hard row to hoe.
Nowadays I sit at my window and wait for the overflow of melting glaciers to flood my living room. Life is hell.