Wednesday, September 28, 2005
suicide
As I'm sure by now you are well aware, my dear reader, The Wife is in her third semester of a two year program to become a Registered Nurse. This semester she is doing her clinicals, the part of her schooling that provides real world experience caring for real patients in real hospitals, in a local state run psychiatric facility.
Yes, that's right, this semester The Wife is nursing The Crazy.
As this is a state run facility, the patient population is largely, if not entirely, composed of people who's behavior poses a serious and significant threat to the health and well-being of themselves or others. As this is a state run facility, these are typically people who lack the means or support to wind up at a more cushy private insurance fed facility.
So yes, they're The Poor and The Crazy.
So much so that a court has decided to put them there to keep them safe. The patients are generally not in agreement with the judge's decision.
This has lead to many enertaining, interesting and sometimes outright enraging stories about people with serious mental illnesses, along with the follies and failures of the system set up to deal with them.
As they are The Wife's stories, you'll just have to wait for her tell you about folks like the man who walks around all day spitting in a cup trying to get the taste out because in his world E.T. ejaculates in his mouth each night while he's sleeping.
Sorry. It's just not my place, and besides they are not the purpose of tonight's rantings.
This is. . .
Suicide.
Shocking, I know. Not like the title gave up the topic or anything.
During her recent lecture class discussing mental illness and all of its finery, The Wife's instructor made reference multiple times to people who "suicided".
People who what?
Suicided.
You mean people who committed suicide?
Yes, that's right, they suicided.
They killed themselves?
Yes, we are talking about people who suicided. Thousands of people suicide every year.
They "suicided"? What the fuck?
WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!
Whoa, that's the sound of my Liberal Hippie Polictially Correct Bullshit Detector going off.
First off, I'm pretty sure the word "suicide" is a noun, not a verb. I looked it up just to make sure.
"Honey," I sweetly inquired of The Wife, "Who's trying to change our language and why are they doing it?"
The Wife, being as sensible as she is sexy (which is a mighty considerable amount on both counts and of course one of the reasons I married her), asked the instructor of her class the same question earlier today. In response to her question she was told that these people are the culprits.
Okay, that's the "who?", what about the "why?"
Let me take a deep breath before I begin because I'm feeling like I might possibly come unglued and then I'd mind myself in the ironic position of possibly needing the services of those whom I am about to bemoan, belittle, and berate.
Hold on now, let's review: it's the National Alliance for Mental Illness? Hmm. . .
Mental illness? Are they saying that suicide is a mental illness? Well if they are, they're fucking wrong.
Going by what The Wife was told by her instructor. . . well, they’re plain fucking wrong. This is a paraphrased transcription of the conversation:
This subject is not unfamiliar territory.
As perhaps you have, my dear reader, I have thought about it.
Not once, but but twice this year suicide has intruded with its profound ugliness upon my life.
Talk about being kicked in the balls by the steel-toed boots of Fate. Twice. I thought for sure I was through with all that shit. I survived the sickness of Plano in the 1980's. Many of my friends did not.
I know suicide all too well.
Suicide is not an illness. Suicide is an action.
In many, but certainly not all cases it may be the ultimate terminal symptom, but suicide is not in and of itself an illness.
Not a fucking choice? Not a fucking chance.
Curtis made the decision to drive to his parent's house and sit in the back yard with his dad's gun. Chris made the decision to sit in his living room and use a gun paint the walls with his head.
We all make decisions everyday. Then we have to live, or not, with the consequences of those actions. They both made their choices. They made bad ones. Very bad ones. But choices nonetheless.
To imply otherwise, to suggest that they were somehow victims of some sort of mental illness, degrades their lives and insults their memory. Curtis and Chris were not victims.
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Yes, that's right, this semester The Wife is nursing The Crazy.
As this is a state run facility, the patient population is largely, if not entirely, composed of people who's behavior poses a serious and significant threat to the health and well-being of themselves or others. As this is a state run facility, these are typically people who lack the means or support to wind up at a more cushy private insurance fed facility.
So yes, they're The Poor and The Crazy.
So much so that a court has decided to put them there to keep them safe. The patients are generally not in agreement with the judge's decision.
This has lead to many enertaining, interesting and sometimes outright enraging stories about people with serious mental illnesses, along with the follies and failures of the system set up to deal with them.
As they are The Wife's stories, you'll just have to wait for her tell you about folks like the man who walks around all day spitting in a cup trying to get the taste out because in his world E.T. ejaculates in his mouth each night while he's sleeping.
Sorry. It's just not my place, and besides they are not the purpose of tonight's rantings.
This is. . .
Suicide.
Shocking, I know. Not like the title gave up the topic or anything.
During her recent lecture class discussing mental illness and all of its finery, The Wife's instructor made reference multiple times to people who "suicided".
People who what?
Suicided.
You mean people who committed suicide?
Yes, that's right, they suicided.
They killed themselves?
Yes, we are talking about people who suicided. Thousands of people suicide every year.
They "suicided"? What the fuck?
WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!
Whoa, that's the sound of my Liberal Hippie Polictially Correct Bullshit Detector going off.
First off, I'm pretty sure the word "suicide" is a noun, not a verb. I looked it up just to make sure.
"Honey," I sweetly inquired of The Wife, "Who's trying to change our language and why are they doing it?"
The Wife, being as sensible as she is sexy (which is a mighty considerable amount on both counts and of course one of the reasons I married her), asked the instructor of her class the same question earlier today. In response to her question she was told that these people are the culprits.
Okay, that's the "who?", what about the "why?"
Let me take a deep breath before I begin because I'm feeling like I might possibly come unglued and then I'd mind myself in the ironic position of possibly needing the services of those whom I am about to bemoan, belittle, and berate.
Hold on now, let's review: it's the National Alliance for Mental Illness? Hmm. . .
Mental illness? Are they saying that suicide is a mental illness? Well if they are, they're fucking wrong.
Going by what The Wife was told by her instructor. . . well, they’re plain fucking wrong. This is a paraphrased transcription of the conversation:
“Why?” I asked The Wife, “why is this organization attempting to change the language and make a verb out of a noun? Why try to make a disease out of a behavior?”And now I will tell you, my dear reader, exactly why.
“Well,” The Wife explained as she was earlier instructed, “saying someone ‘committed suicide’ implies that person made a decision, that it was a choice, they chose 'to commit’ something. The new official opinion apparently is people who kill themselves do so because they have lost the ability to make that choice."
"Now wait just a second sugar britches. Are you telling me that people who have committed suicide, er, my mistake, 'suicided', did so because they were afllicted by a mental illness called 'suicide'? And that having this mental illness called 'suicide' deprived them of the ability to chose otherwise?"
"Yes. That basically explains what we were taught today in class."
“That’s fucking stupid and makes absolutely no fucking sense.”
"But wait my loving stud muffin," The Wife interupted, "there's more. Additionally, they are trying to remove the stigma associated with suicide."
"Remove the stigma!?" My head almost exploded, "Remove the fucking stigma!" I felt my voice raise in pitch and volume in bewilderment, "what a load of complete and total fucking shit!"
This subject is not unfamiliar territory.
As perhaps you have, my dear reader, I have thought about it.
Not once, but but twice this year suicide has intruded with its profound ugliness upon my life.
Talk about being kicked in the balls by the steel-toed boots of Fate. Twice. I thought for sure I was through with all that shit. I survived the sickness of Plano in the 1980's. Many of my friends did not.
I know suicide all too well.
Suicide is not an illness. Suicide is an action.
In many, but certainly not all cases it may be the ultimate terminal symptom, but suicide is not in and of itself an illness.
Not a fucking choice? Not a fucking chance.
Curtis made the decision to drive to his parent's house and sit in the back yard with his dad's gun. Chris made the decision to sit in his living room and use a gun paint the walls with his head.
We all make decisions everyday. Then we have to live, or not, with the consequences of those actions. They both made their choices. They made bad ones. Very bad ones. But choices nonetheless.
To imply otherwise, to suggest that they were somehow victims of some sort of mental illness, degrades their lives and insults their memory. Curtis and Chris were not victims.
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Tuesday, September 27, 2005
preaching to the choir
C'mon now, my dear reader, admit it, at least to yourself. Deep inside you've always suspected this is true:
Societies worse off 'when they have God on their side'
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Societies worse off 'when they have God on their side'
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Thursday, September 22, 2005
lemmings
Please allow me to begin, my dear reader, by stating quite clearly for the record that I am not a gambling man. I'm just not. I'll sometimes make a small wager for the sport of it, and I play the weekly numbers with a gang of folks at work. But all things considered, I'm neither a big risk taker nor much of a gambler.
Although in all honesty I'll admit to sometimes after I've had a few. . .
. . . well, you just try to cast the first stone.
Despite the immortal wisdom of the Great Song (and there are few who will argue that point, because really now, how can you disagree with greatness?), you will not soon find me counting my money sitting at the table. Yes, yes, yes, of course I know there will be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.
It's just that, well, to be perfectly honest, I doubt you will find me sitting anywhere near the table.
Particularly if the stakes are any higher than who's buying the next round.
I guess what I am leading up to saying in a rather round about way is something like this:
I would certainly never do anything to jeopardize the safety and security of my family. I will take no chance that endangers or puts at risk the life and liberty of The Wife and The Boy.
Which is basically something that goes without saying. Because any man who would do otherwise cannot claim the title of Husband or Father.
Unless he's a dick.
Okay, now that I've made myself perfectly clear.
As I know we are all painfully aware by this point and time, there is a storm coming. And yes, it is one big bad ass mother fucking dogs and cats living together real wrath of God type storm.
There is no denying the wisdom of planning and preparation, or just flat out hauling ass if the circumstances dictate.
However. . .
Come the fuck on people.
Really now, at the closest point I live, along with the other fine people in my community around 150 miles from the coast, give or take a few.
We are also over 200 miles from where the storm is anticipated to come ashore.
So, given the worst case scenario, it basically, what. . . rains really hard for a day or two. . . gets a little windy. . . maybe the lights go out for a little while. . . (which on a slightly related note has me wondering if there will be a post-Katrina/Rita spike in the birthrate in many of the lesser affected areas about eight or nine months from now. "Ah c'mon honey, you can't watch your stories on the TV now anyhow. Wha'd'ya say?")
Which is different from spring time around here. . . how?
I know we've got literally tens of thousands of most likely a little freaked and in some cases outright traumatized people coming up from the coast seeking refuge in our fair city.
There's kinda that crazy impending catastophe vibe in the air.
So much that it has apparently clouded reason.
The grocery stores in my area are currently experiencing big shortages, if not outright outages, of water, batteries, etc. There have been huge lines at gas stations as fears of running out begin to spread like the vaporous fumes of the product.
Again I say, we are over 200 miles from where the thing is expected to hit. Even if it traveled straight up the current parking lot of a highway from the coast to our city, it would basically just be a big storm by the time it got here.
Okay yes, in all likelihood still a really really outright freakishly big storm, but no longer the Killer Hurricane sent by God to Destroy the Sinner Heathens and Punish the Non-Believers.
Everybody knows those people live in Houston, or New Orleans.
So show some sense, just a little, please.
No really, please.
That being said. . .
It was with some sense of relief that when I stopped at the neighborhood convenience store this afternoon I noticed seemingly ample supplies of both bottled water and batteries.
Ah, the good people of my neighborhood have not succumbed to the panic.
I also noticed that the store's supplies of beer and cigarettes seemed to be a little low.
My faith in humanity has been restored.
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Although in all honesty I'll admit to sometimes after I've had a few. . .
. . . well, you just try to cast the first stone.
Despite the immortal wisdom of the Great Song (and there are few who will argue that point, because really now, how can you disagree with greatness?), you will not soon find me counting my money sitting at the table. Yes, yes, yes, of course I know there will be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.
It's just that, well, to be perfectly honest, I doubt you will find me sitting anywhere near the table.
Particularly if the stakes are any higher than who's buying the next round.
I guess what I am leading up to saying in a rather round about way is something like this:
I would certainly never do anything to jeopardize the safety and security of my family. I will take no chance that endangers or puts at risk the life and liberty of The Wife and The Boy.
Which is basically something that goes without saying. Because any man who would do otherwise cannot claim the title of Husband or Father.
Unless he's a dick.
Okay, now that I've made myself perfectly clear.
As I know we are all painfully aware by this point and time, there is a storm coming. And yes, it is one big bad ass mother fucking dogs and cats living together real wrath of God type storm.
There is no denying the wisdom of planning and preparation, or just flat out hauling ass if the circumstances dictate.
However. . .
Come the fuck on people.
Really now, at the closest point I live, along with the other fine people in my community around 150 miles from the coast, give or take a few.
We are also over 200 miles from where the storm is anticipated to come ashore.
So, given the worst case scenario, it basically, what. . . rains really hard for a day or two. . . gets a little windy. . . maybe the lights go out for a little while. . . (which on a slightly related note has me wondering if there will be a post-Katrina/Rita spike in the birthrate in many of the lesser affected areas about eight or nine months from now. "Ah c'mon honey, you can't watch your stories on the TV now anyhow. Wha'd'ya say?")
Which is different from spring time around here. . . how?
I know we've got literally tens of thousands of most likely a little freaked and in some cases outright traumatized people coming up from the coast seeking refuge in our fair city.
There's kinda that crazy impending catastophe vibe in the air.
So much that it has apparently clouded reason.
The grocery stores in my area are currently experiencing big shortages, if not outright outages, of water, batteries, etc. There have been huge lines at gas stations as fears of running out begin to spread like the vaporous fumes of the product.
Again I say, we are over 200 miles from where the thing is expected to hit. Even if it traveled straight up the current parking lot of a highway from the coast to our city, it would basically just be a big storm by the time it got here.
Okay yes, in all likelihood still a really really outright freakishly big storm, but no longer the Killer Hurricane sent by God to Destroy the Sinner Heathens and Punish the Non-Believers.
Everybody knows those people live in Houston, or New Orleans.
So show some sense, just a little, please.
No really, please.
That being said. . .
It was with some sense of relief that when I stopped at the neighborhood convenience store this afternoon I noticed seemingly ample supplies of both bottled water and batteries.
Ah, the good people of my neighborhood have not succumbed to the panic.
I also noticed that the store's supplies of beer and cigarettes seemed to be a little low.
My faith in humanity has been restored.
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Sunday, September 18, 2005
prayer
"Prayer... the last refuge of a scoundrel." - Lisa SimpsonSo on Saturday, as in Friday's brief remarks at a national prayer service at the National Cathedral, Bush asked on behalf of the nation for God's healing and help.
"We ask God's comfort for the men and women who have suffered so much," he said. "We pray that the missing find safe return, and those who were lost find holy rest. And we sought the strength of the Almighty for the difficult work that lies ahead."
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Thursday, September 15, 2005
lightbulb joke
How many Republicans does it take to change a lightbulb?
None. There's nothing wrong with the lightbulb.
(with props to my co-worker Vince for sharing)
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None. There's nothing wrong with the lightbulb.
(with props to my co-worker Vince for sharing)
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another haunting
Scanning the FM dial this morning during the daily commute, I heard "I've Seen All Good People" by Yes playing on the local classic rock station.
I suddenly felt all choked up, with a brief sense of serene sadness. Tears began to well up in my eyes.
I glanced in the rearview at The Boy snuggly secured in his wheelchair behind me in our version of The Short Bus, a 1999 Ford van equipped with a large clunky metal fold out wheelchair ramp.
He was bright eyed and broadly grinning. He "ooohed" and "aahed" and giggled to sing along. I don't think he'd ever heard the song before. He was obviously enjoying it.
You are obviously with me, part of me, with us.
A few minutes later, as if in answer to my acknowledgement of your presence:
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I suddenly felt all choked up, with a brief sense of serene sadness. Tears began to well up in my eyes.
I glanced in the rearview at The Boy snuggly secured in his wheelchair behind me in our version of The Short Bus, a 1999 Ford van equipped with a large clunky metal fold out wheelchair ramp.
He was bright eyed and broadly grinning. He "ooohed" and "aahed" and giggled to sing along. I don't think he'd ever heard the song before. He was obviously enjoying it.
You are obviously with me, part of me, with us.
A few minutes later, as if in answer to my acknowledgement of your presence:
And scars are souvenirs you never lose
The past is never far
Did you lose yourself somewhere out there?
Did you get to be a star?
And don't it make you sad to know that life
Is more than who we are
We grew up way too fast
And now there's nothing to believe
And reruns all become our history
A tired song keeps playing on a tired radio
And I won't tell no one your name
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Tuesday, September 13, 2005
going back to where?
Earlier this evening, whilst enjoying the season premiere episode of The World's Greatest So Bad And Completely Unrealistic That It's Freaking Awesome Medical Drama, I had a revelation:
While I have absolutely no idea what the "L" or the other "L" or the "J" stand for, I do know this. . .
The "Cool" stands for cool.
Momma said knock you out.
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While I have absolutely no idea what the "L" or the other "L" or the "J" stand for, I do know this. . .
The "Cool" stands for cool.
Momma said knock you out.
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Saturday, September 10, 2005
not so super heroes
Coming straight out of Texas and streaking across the nation, leaving an ever widening trail of corruption and cronyism in their wake, it's Mr. Oblivious. . .
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At a news conference, Pelosi, D-Calif., said Bush's choice for head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency had "absolutely no credentials."
She related that she had urged Bush at the White House on Tuesday to fire Michael Brown.
"He said 'Why would I do that?'" Pelosi said.
"'I said because of all that went wrong, of all that didn't go right last week.' And he said 'What didn't go right?'"
"Oblivious, in denial, dangerous," she added.
And his faithful sidekick, always there for (a)moral support and comic relief, The Big Fucking Idiot. . .
This morning, U.S. House Majority Leader Tom DeLay's visit to the Reliant Park this offered him a glimpse of what it's like to be living in shelter.
While on the tour of a shelter with top administration officials from Washington, including U.S. Secretary of Labor Elaine L. Chao and U.S. Treasury Secretary John W. Snow, DeLay stopped to chat with three young boys resting on cots.
The congressman likened their stay to being at camp and asked, ``Now tell me the truth boys, is this kind of fun?''
- Houston Chronicle, September 9, 2005
Ick. Blechk. Ugh.
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Tuesday, September 06, 2005
most politically incorrect, maybe
Okay, so for like months I've been trying to find away to get this rant out. The idea first started bouncing around last winter during the holiday season and had a mental working title of "Christians are ruining Christmas", or something like that.
Well they are.
As that didn't exactly fit the spirit of the "peace on Earth and goodwill to men" sentiment that permeates the season the timing didn't seem quite right. And then The Boy got sick and there was all the associated drama. So I filed it away in the back of my mind on the pile with the other half-conceived notions and half-assed ideas.
And there it sat, until now.
I don't know exactly why, but I'm sure it has something to do with the endless parade of those lame ass magnetic ribbons I saw plastered all over big-ass trucks and SUVs cruising around during the weekend's trip to The Wife's hometown.
I must say I was impressed with the variety of combinations involving the Cross and the U.S. Flag.
Okay, um. . . impressed isn't exactly the right word.
Something reached critical mass.
I've had enough of, about, and from Justice Sunday, The Family Research Council, James Dobson, Pat "The Devil" Robertson (have you ever really looked closely at his face?), and their followers and kind.
I've heard enough whining from the "persecuted minority" whose persecution is so severe their members and the politicians who pander to them control not just two, but soon to be all three branches of the Federal Government.
Fundamentalism or Conservatism? Call it whatever the fuck you want, either way it's dangerous and wrong.
I may be going way out on the logical limb here, but as this is my forum I guess that's allowed. So take a little quiz with me to see if you know, my dear reader, which group of fundamentalist idealogues pose the greater threat to the longterm safety and security of our Freedom and the Founding Principals of the Idealistic America:
Group A) Individuals and Organizations who burn The Flag and conspire to hijack planes in order to bend America to its version of God and Reality.
Group B) Individuals and Organizations who wrap themselves in The Flag and conspire to hijack the whole damn nation to bend America to its version of God and Reality.
If you answered Group B, well then yes sir, I'd say you are correct.
If you answered Group A, or read feverishly onward hoping to find Groups C, D, and E, well then sir, while I apologize for my laziness in creating the above little quiz I make no apologies if you soon take offense.
Before we proceed, I shall first tell you, my dear reader, about an interview with John Cleese I read many many years ago, probably after the opening of "A Fish Called Wanda". In the interview he basically stated that some people need to be offended.
I wholeheartedly agree.
So it is in that spirit, and somewhat I hope in the spirit of Jonathan Swift, I humbly offer the following, presented in rather concise form for today's bullet pointed talking points bumper sticker political message world:
MARY SHOULD'VE HAD AN ABORTION
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Well they are.
As that didn't exactly fit the spirit of the "peace on Earth and goodwill to men" sentiment that permeates the season the timing didn't seem quite right. And then The Boy got sick and there was all the associated drama. So I filed it away in the back of my mind on the pile with the other half-conceived notions and half-assed ideas.
And there it sat, until now.
I don't know exactly why, but I'm sure it has something to do with the endless parade of those lame ass magnetic ribbons I saw plastered all over big-ass trucks and SUVs cruising around during the weekend's trip to The Wife's hometown.
I must say I was impressed with the variety of combinations involving the Cross and the U.S. Flag.
Okay, um. . . impressed isn't exactly the right word.
Something reached critical mass.
I've had enough of, about, and from Justice Sunday, The Family Research Council, James Dobson, Pat "The Devil" Robertson (have you ever really looked closely at his face?), and their followers and kind.
I've heard enough whining from the "persecuted minority" whose persecution is so severe their members and the politicians who pander to them control not just two, but soon to be all three branches of the Federal Government.
Fundamentalism or Conservatism? Call it whatever the fuck you want, either way it's dangerous and wrong.
I may be going way out on the logical limb here, but as this is my forum I guess that's allowed. So take a little quiz with me to see if you know, my dear reader, which group of fundamentalist idealogues pose the greater threat to the longterm safety and security of our Freedom and the Founding Principals of the Idealistic America:
Group A) Individuals and Organizations who burn The Flag and conspire to hijack planes in order to bend America to its version of God and Reality.
Group B) Individuals and Organizations who wrap themselves in The Flag and conspire to hijack the whole damn nation to bend America to its version of God and Reality.
If you answered Group B, well then yes sir, I'd say you are correct.
If you answered Group A, or read feverishly onward hoping to find Groups C, D, and E, well then sir, while I apologize for my laziness in creating the above little quiz I make no apologies if you soon take offense.
Before we proceed, I shall first tell you, my dear reader, about an interview with John Cleese I read many many years ago, probably after the opening of "A Fish Called Wanda". In the interview he basically stated that some people need to be offended.
I wholeheartedly agree.
So it is in that spirit, and somewhat I hope in the spirit of Jonathan Swift, I humbly offer the following, presented in rather concise form for today's bullet pointed talking points bumper sticker political message world:
MARY SHOULD'VE HAD AN ABORTION
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Monday, September 05, 2005
flatland
“Flatter than a tabletopOver the holiday weekend The Wife and I loaded up The Boy and all the essential Boy Gear into our brand spankin' new Family Truckster and journeyed west, into the Flatlands to visit The Wife’s family in her hometown.
Makes you wonder why they stopped here
Wagon must have lost a wheel or they lacked ambition one”
- James McMurtry
Some observations:
And I thought The Sprawl of my adolescence was a wasteland.
It has the look and feel of a suburb.
Except it sprawls in geometric order on the fringes of nothing but a vast and barren landscape. A more insulated border one could never hope to find.
Extending the metaphor that my family lives in the proudly beating blue heart of the reddest of states. . .
We have traveled into its red-blooded backbone.
Although it’s quite fascinating, it is a little frightening at the same time.
Prior to this weekend I could not say that I had shopped at a grocery store that had camoflage painted deer blinds on display and for sale in front of the store.
Prior to this weekend I could not say I had visited a community where this man was held in such high esteem. I even witnessed his catch phrase, "Git-R-Done", emblazoned in large letters across the back window of a pick-up truck.
People in these parts are fervent believers in the Holy Trinity of the “Three G’s”: God, Gridiron, and George W. Bush.
Not always in that order.
On Saturday the faithful were rewarded for their devotion.
UT won, OU and A&M both lost in big upsets. The Good Lord blessed His Servant Here On Earth, George W. Bush, with another opportunity to appoint a Good and Sensible Man to the Supreme Court who will thwart the efforts of Liberal Activist Judges to separate His People from Him.
Seriously.
I am most grateful to be home with my family and sleeping in my own bed tonight.
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Friday, September 02, 2005
new orleans
