bring the noyz

As I start this it is slightly past 11:30 Halloween night.

I should be writing about The Boy and trick-or treating. I should be writing about his kick-ass Oompa Loompa costume The Wife and I made for him to wear.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I have no doubt that in the near future I will do just that. Right now, I'm in the freakin' mood to rant and to vent and that's really the whole freakin' reason behind starting this damn 'blog in the first place.

So please, my dear reader, indulge me.

This afternoon, I made a quick trip to the arts and crafts store to get a couple of last minute detail things for The Boy's costume.

When I was checking out, I noticed that they had some of those stupid annoying ribbon magnets right there by the register.

(Now please allow me to take you back a step and explain a thing or two.)

I think the whole concept behind wearing a ribbon to show "support" or "awareness" of anything basically amounts to a big pile of feel good crap.

You want to support the troops?

Send them fucking supplies. Take up a collection at the office to buy prepaid calling cards the troops can use to phone home. Write your fucking congressman a letter with your plan to win the peace and bring the boys back home. Do something, anything, REAL!

I'm fucking sure that the poor kid who enlisted for the college tuition loves the fact that you put a yellow magnetic ribbon on your Hummer to show your "support" when he's dodging sniper fire hoping not to run over a mine in his.

If you want to do something about a cause then do something about it.

Putting a ribbon on your bumber or lapel amounts to little more than egocentric vanity to show other people how "cool" or "compassionate" or "caring" or "patriotic" you are.

(Thank you. Now let's go back to the present)

Now, these magnetic ribbons at the arts and crafts store were available at the low, low price of $1.99.

I realize this smacks of hypocrisy, but how could I not buy one?

As soon as I got it home I unwrapped it from its packaging and spray-painted it black.

When I did this, The Wife expressed a concern that some SUV-driving woman with a yellow ribbon on her bumper might take offense at the black ribbon on mine. The Wife expressed a concern that some would think that I am mocking their yellow magnetic bumper ribbon with my black one.

True, quite true. On one level, yes, I am.

I am also praying that they find no reason to replace their yellow ribbon with one of black.

More later. I gotta get some sleep. . .
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Yes, yes, yes. . . I know that with the election coming up in just a coupla' days you, my dear reader, are anxiously awaiting the Official Good Doctor Noyz Presidential Election 2004 Endorsement.

Right?

(It's okay to lie and patronize me a little here.)

Well, okay then, let's get on with it shall we?

You know, when it comes right down to it. The answer is obvious.

America, if you care at all about the future, and for THE CHILDREN, there is really only one choice you can make on Tuesday:



Thank you, good night, and may The "Angry Old Man In The Clouds" Old Testament White Anglo-Saxon Protestant God Bless America.
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I just discovered that there is this guy in Japan who calls himself me and for some strange reason thinks The Hard Rock Cafe is cool.

I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so

maybe.


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Having a non-toddling toddler can really put a damper on your social life. That's one of the many things The Wife and I have learned since The Boy was placed with us in March.

(And I'm sure all parents know any child, toddling or not, can have a significant impact on other more personal areas of your relationships as well.)

We have realized that rather than us going out to socialize, it is frequently a much simpler task to bring other people in. To this end we have begun having happy hour gatherings at our home a few times a month.

Last night was once such ocassion.

In honor of the season, we declared it "Pumpkinfest 2004". We ate pumpkin bars, chocolate pumpkin cheesecake (which was freakin' awesome) and drank pumpkin ale that I think really kicks ass. We carved pumpkins. I wore lots of orange!

And, I as I am sometimes apt to do, I may have had a beer or two or three or five more than was prudent.

One advantage of having these little social gatherings at home as you don't have to worry about driving. Like Booger said to Tom Cruise in "Risky Business", sometimes you just have to say "what the fuck."

This morning, when I awoke, I did as I do most every morning, which is to say I follow most, if not all, of the steps outlined by my dear friend Fang many years ago when he defined the routine for the Most Manly Way to Wake Up and Get ouf of Bed: stretch, burp, fart, scratch your balls, and say "fuck".

This morning, right before I got to the part where I say "fuck", I reached down and felt something odd. It almost startled me. Instead of saying "fuck," I thought, "What the hell is this?" There was most definitely something attached to my scrotum. (And no, I am sorry to report, it was not the loving lips of The Wife.)

Well, what would you do? I grabbed hold of the object and gave it a little tug. Much to my relief it came off with little resistance.

I looked to see what it was.

I don't know how or why. The Wife neither admits responsibility nor claims knowledge, and as I'm fairly sure she fell asleep before I did I have no reason to be suspicious.

But for some reason, however mysterious, when I awoke this morning I had one of those small orange "thank you" stickers, like they use at the grocery store on items that won't fit in a bag, stuck to my left testicle.
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(and by that I refer to the quality of the joke, not necessarily the quality of the celebrity. . . but my dear reader, you be the judge.)

Cheap Celebrity Joke #1

[the set-up]

I saw on one of those celebrity "news" shows that David Hasselhoff got a DUI.

[and now, the punchline]

According to the police report, Mr Hasselhoff was so intoxicated he completely forgot he has a talking car that drives itself.

[bada bing bada boom]

Cheap Celebrity Joke #2

[the set-up]

Earlier this evening I saw a commercial advertising tonight's episode of Without a Trace, the CBS crime drama where each week the FBI investigates a missing person. Elizabeth Berkley guest stars as the missing person in this week's episode.

[and now, the punchline]

Yeah, um. . . apparently the show starts at the premiere of Showgirls.

[ba dum ba ching]

Thank you very much, thank you. You're a great audience, you really are. I'll be here all week, doing two shows nightly. I've got a happy hour show at six; and a late show at eleven, where I bring out my blue material. So once again, thank you, thank you very much thank you, good day!
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The Good Doctor Noyz is paradoxically humbled and proud to have been selected as a hotspot by Ms. Coolbeans.

I thank you for your support and welcome you and your readers.

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Earlier this evening, while The Wife was sequestered in our bedroom studying for another in an endless series of nursing school exams, The Boy and I adjurned to the couch, as I imagine fathers and sons often do, to watch some quality television.

It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown was on.

In my mind, the memory of every childhood Halloween involves watching this classic cartoon.

It seems as though some of my earliest childhood memories involve Halloween, although I cannot be certain whether the memory is one of the real event or of watching my dad's old Super-8 home movies later in life. Either way, my childhood Halloweens are remembered as exciting and fun times, filled as much with the guidance and nurturing support of my parents as with costumes and candy.

So, I thought to myself, "This is great! It's our first official Halloween with The Boy. We'll watch this show together. Just like I did when I was a child."

[as an aside: Last year for Halloween, although The Boy was not yet ours, The Wife and I were still his strongest advocates and virtual family. We took The Boy out from Ms. von Munchausen and her so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs. We made him an Elvis costume. Vegas Elvis, with the rhinestone and sequined jumpsuit. My heart still fills with pride when I report that our special little lumpy headed crazy curly haired boy in a wheelchair beat out all the perfect little blonde haired blue eyed princesses and Barneyed-up costumed yuppie babies last year at the local Babies R Us Costume Contest. He came in first place in a SUV driving suburban soccer mom customer judged contest. He won a $20 gift certificate. Remind me, my dear reader, next month after the adoption is final and I'll post a photo. You'll see. It was freakin' awesome.]

I sat with The Boy in my lap and together we watched Charlie Brown, Snoopy and the gang. He seemed to really dig the Vince Guaraldi music.

They were so mean to Charlie Brown. Why was everybody so mean to him? The poor kid. Then I got to thinking. . .

You couldn't make this Peanuts cartoon in today's world. Those kids got popcorn balls, cookies, and other good home-made and thus not tamper-resistant factory sealed treats for Halloween.

The world has indeed changed, for the cartoon world is the world I remember from my small town childhood trick-or-treating.

And besides, those other kids were so mean to Linus and Charlie Brown. You can't get away with that in today's world. They might be traumatized and grow up to be Harris and Klebold.

So The Boy and I watch the show. It's every bit as wonderful I as recall. I'm busy running down memory lane in my head and freely sharing these recollections. The Boy is listening and looking, his attention goes between the television and me. He is smiling and and seems very content just to be sitting in my lap.

When the program ends, I reach down to adjust The Boy's position in my lap.

It is at that time I notice there is a damp spot on my shorts beneath him. I then notice his shorts are also damp and his diaper is bulging.

Then I realize the prune juice The home health care Nurse gave him earlier that afternoon had the desired effect.

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Friday evening I packed up The Boy and a bag. We travelled 200 some miles up the concrete and asphalt modern American Mississippi to the vast homogenous soul crushing wasteland of The Sprawl. The Wife stayed behind for some respite and for an opportunity to get caught up on her studies.

The ocassion? A wedding. My father's brother's son (aka my cousin) got married on Saturday.

My cousin imported the preacher that performed the ceremony from the land of our anscestors, the land where the tall corn grows. He performed the ceremony with a Bible that once belonged to my dearly departed paternal grandmother.

My grandmother was a very devout and religious woman. She practiced the very conservative Protestant faith her family brought from Germany in the late 19th century. She held deep Christian convictions of helping those less fortunate: the impoverished, the sick, children. She also had an innocent naivete about the world. She never imagined that someone would subvert those Christian virtures for personal profit. Subsequently, in her later years she was swindled out of much of the little money she had by televangelists. The pig sodomizing bastards. Long snuffed anger begins to rekindle at the thought of it.

It was strange holding my grandmother's Bible. I felt closer to her than I have felt since my summer stays at her house as a child.

For some reason that will forever remain unknown, inside the front cover of her Bible, my grandmother had written my name and the address of an apartment I lived in while I was in college. Family speculation is that she wrote it in her Bible because at that time in my life I was not exactly on the path of righteousness and so subsequently I needed lots of prayin'.

True.

During the ceremony the preacherman spoke of three words starting with the letter "c" that he said were the keys to a long and happy marriage:

Commitment - blah blah blah
Compliment - yada yada yada
Complete - something something

I immediately thought of a fourth one and recognized my familial obligation to share this with my cousin at some point during the reception.

As the event was winding down I found myself exiting the men's room as my cousin entered. We were the only people around. "Ah, the perfect time," I thought.

We shared pleasantries and I reminded him of the three words of which the preacher spoke.

"Yes, I remember," he replied.

"Well," I said, "There is a fourth 'c' word, equally, if not more important to a long and happy marriage."

"Yeah, what?"

"Cunnilingus."

His puzzled facial expression answered before his words, "What's that?"

"Ah," I thought, "this marriage is doomed."
_______________

Just kidding. Best wishes and congratulations to my cousin and his new bride.
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Call me a glutton for punishment, but I like FOX News.

I enjoy their lack of the pretense of objectivity. I find it somewhat refreshing.

C'mon, my dear reader, don't act all shocked and surprised or like you don't agree with me.

I'm sure that you, like me, recall watching many of Reagan's press conferences during the 1980's. It was obvious that Sam Donaldson thought Reagan was a senile old fool or a complete idiot. Wouldn't it have been great if he had just been honest and had the balls to say so?

I'm not one to believe in the conspiracy of the "liberal media". I'm more likely to believe in the conspiracy of the "corporate media". The big-media news networks will first and foremost remain slaves to their corporate masters and will sell out the journalistic ideal of "truth" quicker than it takes to make change for a dollar with a pocket full of quarters if it bolsters the bottom line.

Have you ever seen a story critical of General Electric on NBC? Did ABC News cover the fracas over Disney's rejection of the latest Michael Moore film?

You are deluding yourself if you think that Rupert Murdoch gives half a rat's ass about the politics of his programs or his audience. He is a businessman. And a damn fine one at that. He saw a need. He created and now sells a product to fill that need. That's what successful businessmen do.

Murdoch recognized that right or wrong (it's immaterial which is actually true) there are millions of folks in America who believe in the "liberal bias of the mainstream media". Hell, the head cheerleader for the "conservative" movement in America espouses that view almost daily.
__________

Without rambling on for hours more, which I reserve the right to do in the future. . . my point, I guess, is this. . .

There's battle lines being drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong

damn hippies.
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Here's yet another example of why I love my job as a special education teacher.

When people ask me how my day at work went, I respond by saying things such as:

Today I got punched in the testicles by a man without pants.

There is seldom a dull moment when working with people with profound autism. I've got all the best stories at happy hour.
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"Now broom, you must now sweep for me
The dust it fills my room
No, john, I will not sweep for you
For I am not your broom

What nonsense are you speaking, broom
My words you must obey
Another life awaits me and
I'm leaving you today

I am not your broom
I am not your broom
I've had enough, I'm throwing off
My chains of servitude

I am not your broom
I am not your broom
No longer must I sweep for you
For I am not your broom" - They Might Be Giants

Five years ago yesterday, October 20, 1999, my divorce from the Wife the First became official. I celebrated by pawning my ring and spending the proceeds on a lap dance and a couple of Shiner Bocks.

I marked the occasion last night by tucking The Boy in his bed then curling up next to The Wife in our bed after watching The Daily Show.

Ain't it funny how things change?

I'm living the life I imagined I would have when I was sixteen: a beautiful young wife, a beautiful and amazing child, the latest electronic toys and video games, guitars, an accomplished and successful career, etc. . .

I can't even fathom the notion that I could still be living life with this.
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As the National Trainwreck that will surely be Election 2004 draws nearer, I have noticed something about the news coverage of the campaigns.

Almost every time I turn on the news, I hear the results of the latest polls. It seems as though everybody and their dog has conducted a poll about the upcoming presidential drama.

I don't understand the fascination. Are Americans as a whole obsessed with the opinions of others because they largely lack the critical thinking skills to adequately form their own opinions?
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It is barely two weeks before the the politicos poll their punches, their suits fling the lawsuits, and their pundits sling the pablum in what will in all probability be the greatest electoral mess in the history of the United States.

I am pleased to report that not all elections are destined to become complete and utter trainwrecks.

Angelina Jolie has just been voted the "Sexiest Woman Alive".

Surely, the result of this election will give reason for the people in both the red and the blue states to join their hands and nod their heads in complete agreement.

If, for some weird reason you disagree with the fine folks at Esquire magazine I can only say this:

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

If you need further evidence, I recommend you take the advice of The Good Doctor and click here. Oooh that's good, now click here. Yeah, ah, ah, ah, yes. . . more to the right. . . lightly. . . oh that's the spot. Ah, ah, ah, ooooh. . . click it, baby, click it! Yes, yes, oh yes, that's freaking great. Aaaaah. Oooh, slow it down, move the mouse slowly. . . yes, ooh, slowly, gently. . . AAAGH! Click it, click it! Click, click here, please, oh yeah, baby! Yes! Yes! Oh, freaking yes! Mmmmm. . . ah. . . uh. . . ah. . . YEAH!

(insert long awkward silence here)
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My dear reader, The Good Doctor may not be exactly that right now. Please accept my most humble of apologies. You see. . . um. . . this is most delicate. How shall I put this?

Perhaps you are familiar with the phrase, "physician, heal thyself". Yes? Good.

Well, you see, my dear reader, every once in a great while The Good Doctor Noyz, um. . . in the interest of healthy living, obviously. . . shall we say, "overprescribes" his cure for "what ails ya", as it were.

I must confess that the possibility exists that the previous instance may have been one such of those occurences. It subsequently may have lead to a lack of discretion and a complete disregard for societal rules of common decency on my part. I am most dreadfully sorry.

I thank you for your continued patronage and support.

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One of my oldest and most dearest of friends, Cardinal Fang, recently posted excerpts from our personal correspondence. I am quite honored to be so extensively quoted, so I extend my gratitude. However, I must confess to a certain degree of ignorance.

While The Good Cardinal was reading the classics of literature I was sitting on a couch with a bong in one hand, a 40 of Mickey's in the other, watching Sabado Gigante.

Or more likely, I was busy devising new ways to steal and smuggle wine coolers out of the loading dock of the grocery store I worked at in high school in another vainglorious scheme to get a girl drunk enough to reach third base. Or was it second?

Whatever.

My props go out to Biggles for directing my attention to the source of the posting's title.

My dear friend Cardinal Fang refers to, what a Google search revealed is a quote from THE GREAT GATSBY, by F. Scott Fitzgerald:

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

What? Wow. . .

As I write this I frequently pause and glance over my shoulder at the television. VH1 Classic is on. I take no comfort in the fact that I am now older than the band members in all of the music videos I see from the bands I hold most dear. Pete is wrong, I don't hope that at all.

Over one decade and three lifetimes ago, I once fancied myself a bit of a writer.

[AN ASIDE: My dearest Fang, I beseech thee from the bowels of Christ, do you recall and/or still possess the tale of our protagonists happening upon and subsequently stealing a convertible Camaro from a South Texas County Fair that had a shoe box in the back seat containing President Kennedy's brain? Or something like that?]

The final sentence in the first chapter of my eternally unfinished Great American Novel, written during the reign of Bush the Elder, reads:

"As a small ship without rudder or keel is tossed about the great oceans, lives too, can progress without course or direction."

I did not consider the fact that currents sometimes carry you where they will, irregardless of your efforts to row, swim, or sail against them.
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FEC May Regulate Web Political Activity

"I don't think anybody here wants to impede the free flow of information over the Internet," Weintraub said. "The question then is, where do you draw the line?"

If the government does not want to impede the free flow of information then why do we need a line? Who gets to decide where to draw it? What happens if you cross it? Who gets to decide that?

Sheep?

Or Frogs in Pots?
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When I sat down this evening, I had every intention of ranting and raving against the 90 some minutes of scripted and carefully orchestrated political theater that passes for debate in America. As if that charade is not bad enough. . .

Basically, I think both candidates pulled their punches. There were barbs and jabs that connected on both sides, but no follow through with the big punch to knock the other guy down. I hypothesize that this is at least in part, due to a variation on the Dr. Strangelovish Mutually Assured Destruction theory that the Reaganites subscribed to as one of the reasons for the 'nucular' arms race with the Soviets in the 80's -- "if I attack, he'll counterattack with everything, and then I'll have to counter that with everything and we'll both be destroyed" (or somesuch gibberish).

Pussies and panderers, the lot of them. I kinda like to see them settle the whole "who will lead us" nonsense the way the leaders of our ancestors did: with swords.

But after sitting here a moment or two, I changed my mind.

Not about having the candidates settle the matter with swords. That would still be pretty damn cool, and an Ultimate Reality TV Special, I'm sure. I've changed my mind about the topic of tonight's rant.

I changed my mind, because, as some say, all politics are local.

And you can't get much more local than what happens under your roof.

So please join me, my dear reader, in celebrating (drink!) the remarkable recent accomplishments of The Boy:

Seven months ago, while under the Iron Hand and Dark Heart of Ms. von Munchausen, The Boy was not allowed to eat. Yes, that's right. He was denied the most basic of life's pleasures: food. Ms. von Munchausen fabricated medical conditions and falsified medical records to deny The Boy's right to eat. He was connected to a machine that pumped formula into his stomach 12 hours a day to meet his nutritional needs.

The Wife and I have always considered that to be one of Ms. von Munchausen's most egregious violations and have been making steady progress while working with The Boy's doctor and therapists to rectify the situation.

I am quite proud to report that for the past two weeks, The Boy has met his nutritional needs the same way you and I do, my dear reader. Well, maybe not the same way. . . he's too young for beer. But, he eats three squares a day, Jack. He's still learning to chew, so a food processor does a lot of that for him, but he eats a healthier more balanced diet than most folks do.

Seven months ago, while under the Iron Hand and Dark Heart of Ms. von Munchausen, The Boy was not allowed to sit up. Yes, that's right. He was not allowed to sit up. He spent his days lying down, being turned evey few hours from one side to the other. The rationale for this was, according to the fabricated and false medical information created by Ms. von Munchausen, allowing The Boy to sit up would cause him aspirate on his own saliva and subsequently lead to pneumonia. In his records we found three instances where she claimed this happened but have yet to find one piece of medical documentation to support her erroneous claims. As The Boy was allegedly unable to even handle his own saliva without risking his health, consideration of ever drinking liquids was out of the question.

Today, The Boy drank three ounces of juice from a sippy cup without incident. (Yes, a "sippy cup", you know, the kind with the lid and the little spout with holes. Please pardon my toddler parent vocabulary.) He enjoyed it. He wanted more. Tomorrow we'll go for four.

Seven months ago, while under the Iron Hand and Dark Heart of Ms. von Munchausen, The Boy was plagued by contradicting and alternating episodes of constipation and chronic diarrhea. Ms. von Munchausen, claimed that in part, this was due to The Boy's neurological impairments. She believed that his brain and nervous system lacked the ability to process and communicate the information with his body to regulate and control the involuntary and voluntary functions of his gastro-intestinal tract. Once again, there is no evidence of this. She made it up, ran with it, and then used a litany of laxatives and fiber supplements on The Boy.

Today (and get ready, my dear reader, this is one of those proud parent moments. If I could add a trumpet fanfare right here I would). . .

The Boy pooped in his potty chair! (Once again, please pardon my toddler-speak language, it's just how such things are discussed in my home. Such is now the language of my life).

So, won't you my dear reader, join a very proud father in celebrating (drink!) the recent accomplishments of The Boy!

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Everything you love about fraternities, except for the gang rape. . .

Frat brothers scrawled slurs on dying pledge

Ah, the sweet folly of youth.
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I recently checked my electronic correspondence and noticed that my dog, yes that's correct, my dog, has been receiving credit offers via electronic correspondence delivered in care of The Good Doctor Noyz.

Hmmm. . . this is most curious, most curious indeed.



What could he possibly want the money for? How did he manipulate the mouse to make internet inquiries into credit offers? And c'mon, it's a damned free hotmail account. Why didn't he set up his own and not be fillin' up my mailbox with his junk mail?

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So the Smithsonian has a new exhibit where they display Abraham Lincoln's handball.

Abraham Lincoln's what? His handball?

Okay, I'm as big a fan of history as the next guy.

Okay, most likely bigger.

But really now, does anyone really care? What else have they got?

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Lincoln. I know. I know. Freed the slaves, civil war and all that. But it's not like it's a draft copy of the Gettysburg Address or anything. Are we really that close to scraping the bottom of the barrel of American Historical Artifacts? I think most Americans (or at least the ones I know) would rather see George Washington's bong.

I imagine some poor retired Kansas farmer and his wife who saved for decades for their big trip to the Nation's Capital. They're wandering through the hallowed halls of one of the many museums that make up America's History and Culture with some high school kid guide on her summer job as they walk up to a slightly oval wooden bowl shaped thingy in a glass case. The guide begins in her best faux-enthusiastic peppy "Oh God, I can't believe I have to say this and I've already said this three times today and get to say it three more times after this but then I get to go to the mall and get those new cute capri pants at The Gap" way. . .

Abraham Lincoln carved this from a single piece of oak while sitting on the banks of the Illinois River at the age of sixteen. Oak was the preferred substance at that time because oak has a hardness and durability that far surpasses maple or spruce, the other common carving woods of that era and region.

Folklore has it that young Mr. Lincoln was inspired to carve the piece following a school yard boxing match with a classmate that ended with a particularly low blow. It served as Mr. Lincoln's althetic protector for many years, until his election to the Presidency, when he replaced it with the traditional brass athletic protector, or "cup", commonly worn by elected officials and other gentlemen of affluence and authority at that time.

The intricate detailing in the scalloped engraving around the edge makes the piece an excellent example a nineteenth century "cup". The craftmanship in the interior of the piece is quite remarkable. Unlike traditional athletic protectors of both the past and the present, Mr. Lincoln delicately handcarved three connected yet separate compartments. This design insured maximum comfort and support for the various genitalia organs while insuring the safety of the future Mr. Lincolns.

And as you can clearly see from looking at the artifact, Mr. Lincoln was, indeed, a very tall man.
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"You're a Mellon!"


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The Republicans tell you that you should vote for them because the Democrats can not be trusted because they keep changing their mind.

The Democrats tell you that you should vote for them because the Republicans can not be trusted because they won't change their mind.

So really now, who ya gonna trust? A Son of Privilege Yale Skull and Crossbones Member Class of 1968 or a Son of Privilege Yale Skull and Crossbones Member Class of 1966?

My dear reader, as your Good Doctor, I recommend the following:

First. Vote.

I beseech thee from the bowels of Christ not to turn your back on the process just because it's controlled by self-serving arrogant hypocritical two-party grandstanding bastards who condescendingly present a not so thinly veiled illusion that Americans really have a choice in who will lead them.

Wanna liven up Election Day and have a reason to be excited about voting? Try this.

Then, when the big day is at hand. . .

Vote Libertarian and smoke Green.

Peace. Out.
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(with mad props to my homegirl, Sasha, all the way from the big New M)
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