elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Saturday, May 17, 2003
Ann Craig and I have been busy busy busy these last couple days.
Oh yes. Please do come see her brand new blog at the convenient link provided above.
Ann was so inspired by her first-ever viewing of
Repo Man last night that she decided to name
her new blog in remembrance of one of its many esoteric teachings. Many have pondered these
none has fully plumbed them.
"Find one in every car. You'll see."
Terry "Flat-top" Gross, Fresh Air
, August 13, 1984.
1:03 AM | link |
The life of a repo man is always intense
Leila: What about our relationship?
Leila: Our relationship!
12:05 AM | link |
Friday, May 16, 2003
Trance & Dental Medication, Part I
Or: Quick, Somebody Blow Sunshine Up My Ass!
[NOTE: before you start reading this, you might want to download this excellent MP3 rendition of Chariots of Fire by that master "musician" of the New Age: Yani. That way, depending on the speed of your link, it will kick in exactly at the good part, the good part being recursively defined as wherever it kicks in. Reports appreciated. MP3 link provided -- and portions of this article researched -- by Jeneane Sessum, about whom more later.]
It all started yesterday, when I was cruising Borders for something on trauma and dissociation. But first, I had to take a wicked piss. I wondered if anybody noticed me taking the elevator to the second floor instead of the stairs. I'd been reading that morning about how the body releases endorphins in high-stress situations such as trauma, including long-term imprisonment and torture. Such as, e.g., my childhood. Given that endorphins are basically morphine, and that they're also released during strenuous exercise, and moreover, that I will have had 19 years of stone-cold sobriety come the first week in May, I didn't want to fuck up my stainless record of being drug-free for nearly two decades by working up a sweat on those stairs. Drug-free, that is, if you don't count my addiction to Ativan, which I've been taking religiously for that past year so I won't kill anyone. But that's different. Doctor's orders. So to speak.
So where was I? Oh yes, on the way to piss like a racehorse. But even in this extreme state of bodily need, I still had time to stop and check the message board outside the restrooms, or as they call them in the less euphemistically inclined UK: toilets. And there tacked to the cork -- mirabile dictu! -- I spied this:
A Free Presentation to the Community
Sponsored by the Boulder Psychotherapists Guild, Inc.
Understanding the Highly Sensitive Person
Oh wow, I thought to myself, no one else being presently in evidence, this ought to be good! And ripped the flyer down, sending pushpins flying everywhere. I wondered if that was why they were originally called "flyers." But no matter. I would read it in the bathroom, or "toilet," as I always piss sitting down whenever there's any choice (there usually is, if one is willing to wait patiently), so as not to promote undue exertion and the inevitably attendent and untoward endorphin release mentioned above.
However, something distracted me, possibly the prodigious proportions of my own penis. I was amused to receive a spam recently inquiring whether I was prepared to "Handle a Really Large Dick." I thought (again to myself) why yes, I do it constantly. There was a time when I was younger that I used to piss standing up. This is when I was taking large quantities of non-prescription drugs, and therefore less concerned about, one might even say desirous of achieving, the endorphin effect. But I never just zipped down my fly and hauled it out that way. I would rather unbutton my jeans, zip down, pull up my shirt tail, pull down my underpants, and you get the idea, do it like that. One day this guy standing next to me at the adjacent stall was presumptuous enough to inquire why I did it did it like that. "Why don't you just zip down your fly?" he asked. "Do you see that keyhole in the door over there," I asked back. He agreed that he did. "Well imagine," I said, "attempting to pull an Anaconda through it." That shut him up. Presumably he knew what an Anaconda was, even though this was before they made the movie.
Just the other day -- yesterday perhaps -- I was chatting with a friend and I mentioned how much I admired others' ability to produced straightforward exposition, a skill I have never fully mastered. "Nonsense," she said, "you're an excellent writer!" But it was precisely the present sort of broken-field narrative you're reading here that I was referring to, so I discounted her compliment accordingly. People will try to trick you into believing all manner of partial truths about yourself. My policy is to always listen politely but never to get sucked in. So to speak.
Excuse me for a moment. I have to go re-read Portnoy's Complaint.
Anyway, it wasn't until last night that I fished the Highly Sensitive Person flyer out of my back pocket so I could read it to Jeneane in the course of our usual four-hour nightly debriefing on the highlights of each other's notable experiences during the foregoing daylight hours. I should emphasize here, as you might otherwise speculate, that there is nothing the least bit sexual in our relationship. This is a welcome relief, given the demands placed on me by less understanding, less attuned, and yes, less highly sensitive women. The worst of these, in my experience, are certaint calligraphers with artistic pretensions, who for reasons I fail to fully comprehend, insist upon calling me at odd hours of the day and night to ask whether the erectile dysfunction resulting from my four-hundred-dollar-a-day Effexor habit is "still giving me trouble." It's not. But I never dignify these crank calls with a reply. I hang up. Why is it that some individuals never seem to accept that it's over and it's time to move on.
"Move along. Nothing to see here ladies and gentlemen. Move along..."
Of course, as I've already indicated, there's plenty to see, but being a person of impecable integrity, I feel no compunction to discuss such intimate matters with a virtual stranger. Stranger than you can imagine.
At any rate, I say to Jeneane, "Hey, get a load of this," and I give her the relevant background: Borders, the bathroom, the bulletin board, the Boulder Psychotherapists Guild, Inc. sic, etc. In short, Understanding the Highly Sensitive Person. The flyer continues...
Appreciating the Trait in Children, Students, Clients,
Spouses, Colleages ... and Oneself!
A Presentation for Consumers and Professionals
Now, I dunno, maybe it's just me, maybe I'm being over-you-know senstitive, but consumers? Excuse me? Did they maybe mean lay persons? Not to be over-you-know harsh, but it's just possible that the problem is not poor word choice but rank stupidity. I tend to notice these things in my environment and to reflect on them deeply.
But let's, you know, as they say in Scream III, move on...
Are you sometimes overwhelmed...
[I couldn't type any more of this shit. maybe later.]
To be concluded! Watch for the exciting coming segments on...
- Children of the Corn, Part 13;
- Attack of the 50-Foot Narcissist;
- Dissociation a continuum, as with pathological and "healthy" narcissism -- you know, like that dry heat;
- Yani, the dirty fuck;
- Highly Sensitive People -- for Sensitive, Intuitive, Creative and Spiritual Persons; (retch!);
- Message Board for Odyssey of the Soul; (bletch!);
- Trauma, total disgust and the grinning rubber pig mask.
8:17 PM | link |
I Did It My Way
Not that there was any real question... but, for
How are these things
alike? Not alike?
Ann thinks they're
(But at least now she knows what a table is.)
7:57 PM | link |
Link Whoring Tactic A Wild Sucess!
Doc came through again! What a brick. What a mensch! I thought he would surely see through my transparent ruse to get him to link to me even though I haven't posted fuck-all in a month of Sundays. I mean... Well, you know what I mean.
Doc has been a popular butt of EGR jokes and japes for years now.
Why, here's Doc as somebody else, now! And then there's this...
1:46 PM | link |
Annie Rolls a Hoover, Part II (und so weiter)
In addition to the slug-link, above, there's more quasi-informational material on Hoover Rolling in Matt's quizzical mentations on the theme. (Yes, Matt, it got our attention.)
So Ann Craig stopped by this week on her way to Salt Lake and points west, specifically: Seattle. It is hard to know just where to begin. Or, really, whether to... Perhaps the best way to "explain" things is to replicate something we just wrote together (well, sort of) and finally managed to post on her site. For the preamble (not included here), see the original posting over at her place.
|RageBoy made me do this. He was trying to teach me some new HTML moves. He said. But Jesus, what an asshole. He was yelling at me and everything. Bastard! And then he goes poking around in my browser cache -- since we've been doing all this interminable coding and testing this offline, and this laptop has no graphics editor; he keeps swearing at it -- and finds this! I tell him no. I don't WANT this graphic on my blog! But does he listen? Does he give a shit what I want? |
|about me: polly wanna cracker|
|I Roll Hoovers for Fun & Profit |
|about you: the reader
|You Worthless Motherfucker |
|about the links: go away
Matt Rolls a Hoover
Makes Me Angry
12:54 PM | link |
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
I had meant to blog about this at some length today, but unfortunately, I lost the recipe. Trust me though, they're delicious. If your grocer carries a decent selection, choose one with ample breasts, as those are the most scrumptious bits. Invite the neighbors over for your next "Barbie-Q" and you'll be The Talk of the Town in no time. A medium-sized woman serves approximately 16.
On another front, I cut my Effexor dosage in half as of yesterday (down from 75 mg. per day to 37.5). I haven't noticed any particularly alarming changes beyond the usual and expected "sensorium on springs" effect. So far so good. Wish me luck...
9:54 AM | link |
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||More of Chris Locke's photos
Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of.
I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos."
It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.