Archive for November, 2007

Help Rate Republicans!

Friday, November 30th, 2007

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I was transfixed by the silly Republican debate, this week.   The obsession with immigrants was particularly stupid and tragic. What a pathetic distraction!   I am left with a need to determine who is more loathsome, Mitt Romney or Fred Thompson.

I know it’s a pointless exercise but I don’t care. Can you help? I am using shameless phoniness and hypocrisy as the criteria. I keep flip-flopping between Romney and Thompson.

Here is my provisional rating of hatefulness, in descending order.

Mitt Romney
Fred Thompson
Rudy Giuliani
Tom Tancredo
John McCain
Mike Huckabee
Ron Paul.

The Crazy Cellphone Judge

Thursday, November 29th, 2007

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You’ve probably read about the crazy judge in New York who sent 46 people to jail when no one would confess to being the owner of an annoying cellphone.

When I read that Judge Robert Restaino was fired after an investigation by the state Commission on Judicail Conduct, I was intrigued by their finding that Restaino “engaged in what can only be described as two hours of inexplicable madness.”

Now that I’ve found the Commission’s report, I can only add that this guy is a complete fucking maniac. Read it here.

Naturally, he is appealing his removal from the bench.

  

Daddy Issues

Wednesday, November 28th, 2007

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How many times have you listened to a female friend lamenting about the asshole who mistreats her?   Often, there will be a whole string of assholes, all who treated her like shit, but held some addictive power that made her keep calling him.

Obviously, these women have Daddy Issues. Not just the usual Daddy Issues, but rather the Issues you get from a Bad Daddy. Every girl needs approval from Daddy, in order to grow up feeling worthy and lovable. Daddies, if you reject your daughter, she will grow up to be a Needy Doormat or a Self Destructive Whore. It’s just that simple.

The woman who can’t give up on a man who clearly doesn’t value her affection is a woman who needs Daddy to assure her that she’s his special girl, after all!   A Nice Daddy to call when you’re feeling lonely and bad-about-yourself would soothe the nerves like a nice shot of methadone, only better. A comforting chat with a Nice Daddy would leave you feeling adored and validated, with no down-side at all.

I would like to set up a service that many women are desperately longing for, even though they don’t know it yet. Kind of like the ipod, but not. A call to 1-800-MY-DADDY would connect you to a menu that offers a selection of Daddy Voices, and the Daddy you select will praise you for up to five minutes.

I personally would like a Daddy Voice that sounds like Cary Grant. My own daddy has a nice voice, but of course he’d just be undermining and withholding. Those women with Alcoholic Daddies might want a Daddy who slurs his words, who knows. Anyway, you could either have a pay-per-call plan, or if you need constant praise and reassurance like many women do, a monthly plan would be more economical.

The Nice Daddy will be there for you, whenever you feel an urge to call some bastard who’s already proven to be incapable of intimacy, fidelity, or paying back the money he owes you. He will call you a genius, and he’ll say that even though you look a little thin, you could be Miss America!

No More Peterson Crimes!

Tuesday, November 27th, 2007

For the love of god, how are we supposed to keep track of these Peterson crimes?!

First, there’s the cop who killed his “missing wife,” Drew Peterson. Natually, his wife has to be named Stacey, to remind us of Laci, may she rest in peace.

Now, there’s this nutcase Hans Peterson, who killed his doctor and went to  St. Martin,  to claim French citizenship. This Peterson has confessed to the murder,  an act of revenge for becoming impotent after taking Accutane.  

Without wishing to seem ungrateful for this bonanza of sordid crime, may I ask that anyone with the name Peterson kindly put off murdering anyone for the moment?

Thanks!

A Disgruntled Crackhead to Avoid

Saturday, November 24th, 2007

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Washington Post classical music critic Tim Page has been put on leave after sending an irate email to DC council member Marion Barry. Remember when Barry was Mayor, until he was arrested and convicted for possession of cocaine?

Tim Page was sick of receiving email from Barry’s staff and sent this response:

Must we hear about it every time this Crack Addict attempts to rehabilitate himself with some new – and typically half-witted – political grandstanding? I’d be grateful if you would take me off your mailing list. I cannot think of anything the useless Marion Barry could do that would interest me in the slightest, up to and including overdose. Sincerely, Tim Page.

Awesome, right? Well, that stupid Crackhead Marion Barry has demanded that the Post fire Tim page. Here is Barry’s position:

Barry said in an interview that he was “outraged” and “incredulous” at the “despicable” e-mail, “particularly coming from a reporter at a reputable newspaper like The Washington Post, not a rag.” He said the note amounted to “character assassination” at a time when “around the nation, it’s almost open season on black people.”

Whoa! Can you believe that Crack Addict played the Race Card?!

Meanwhile, Mr. Page, who recently wrote a wonderful piece in the New Yorker about growing up with Asperger’s Syndrome, has only grown in stature as far as I’m concerned.

I think it’s a shame that you can’t even call a spade a spade. Tim Page has issued an apology  and I would like to issue an apology to him:

Dear Mr Page, Sorry that you worked for a bunch of spineless   hacks and morons. Please run for President. Yours admiringly, Sister Wolf.

Thanksgiving

Wednesday, November 21st, 2007

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I am thankful for my best friend, who looks just like Madonna, and hates when anyone points this out.

Isn’t she beautiful?

The Loss of Sadness

Wednesday, November 21st, 2007

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The Loss of Sadness: What a uniquely poignant phrase. A new book with that title examines ‘How psychiatry transformed normal sorrow into depressive disorder.’

Normal sorrow seems like a hard thing to quantify. Remember how Freud hoped to transform hysterical misery into common unhappiness? Things have changed. Now, our society has little tolerance for common unhappiness. Being unhappy is both a personal shortcoming and a huge source of concern to the World Health Organization, which now projects that by 2020 depression will be the second leading cause of disability for people in midlife and women of all ages.

The DMS-IV doesn’t allow for factors such as stress, hardship or socioeconomic class in its checklist for depression. Maybe the DMS-V (due in 2012) will de-pathologize some instances of depression, but that seems doubtful. There was a time when shyness wasn’t considered a treatable illness, but that’s over. Social Anxiety is another pox, defined as such in a brilliant and wide-reaching publicity campaign launched in 2002 by GlaxoSmithKline, makers of Paxil.

I am a product of Big Pharma’s influence on our culture, specifically, Wyeth Pharmaceuticals. Effexor has transformed me from an introverted self-loathing misanthrope into an outgoing people-person. Once, I writhed in an agony of self-consciousness in any social gathering. Now, I have to be dragged away from all the new ‘friends’ I’ve made. Once, I looked around and saw strangers who seemed boring or repellent. Now, I see potential soul-mates. My social confidence is almost sickening.

What bothers me is that no one knows exactly what happens systemically when you tamper with serotonin. Depressed people and their physicians have been led to think it’s as simple as ‘the brain needs more serotonin to reduce depression.’ Studies showing conclusively that Proxac causes an increase in both suicidal and violent behavior have been brushed aside until recently. Getting off antidepressants is a well-documented nightmare. So much for the innocent non-addictive medications we thought we were taking. “No Free Lunch” comes to mind. Also, “Shit, what if Wyeth goes out of business?”

I would like to hear what Freud would say now. Probably something about his mother or his penis. Maybe we need more philosophers who are physicians, or vice versa.

A society that promotes changing one’s personality to achieve a very limited standard of normal is kind of depressing, but my meds keep me from despairing about it. If the ideal character type is now a cheerful extrovert, fine, but our inability to be reserved or reflective or despondent is bound to have a profound effect on every aspect of our culture. Maybe reality shows are an early warning sign.

Those of us on antidepressants who have traded our libidos and intestinal functioning for a sunnier disposition would not likely join the argument that depression fuels creativity. But I believe it does involve a certain pessimistic clarity that we forfeit as part of the deal. Studies suggest that optimists are actually less able to perceive things realistically than pessimists. For many of us, though, the clarity is unbearable. One psychiatrist I met compared it to an allergy; reality was the pollen.

Among my friends and loved ones are people with difficulties they haven’t chosen to medicate…yet. For the most part, I salute them for being able to stand themselves. And for holding out when they could be calmer, perkier, or more even-tempered. Perhaps they just aren’t sad enough to seek relief. The best way I can communicate my own process on Effexor is this: I still feel kind of hopeless, but I just don’t care that I do.

The pharmaceutical   companies are probably working around the clock to perfect a drug that creates a sense of detachment, at the same time producing an insatiable urge for consumer goods. (As I type this, I realize that I’ve just described TV!) Okay, then maybe we need a drug that allows the perfect interface for sadness, allowing us to cry at “Forrest Gump” and funerals and stories about abused dogs, but filtering out any deeper sense of existential discomfort.

What I’d like is to alleviate my worry that I’ve become the person I used to hate at cocktail parties.

  

Long Live the King (of Spain!)

Saturday, November 17th, 2007

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Just like any decent American, I used to  admire Hugo Chavez for his vigorous Bush-bating. Now, I see he’s just a big baby.

When Chavez wouldn’t stop interrupting Spain’s Prime Minister, who was defending the honor of his predecessor,   King Juan Carlos of Spain quite rightly leaned over and said to Chavez: “Por que no te callas!” (“Why don’t you shut up?”)

Now, Venezuela’s fiery leader is threatening to stop doing business with Spain. He says the King was being imperialist by telling him to shut up. He’s so mad that today, he threatened the US that OPEC would punish it with oil prices if there were any aggression towards Iran. King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia managed to override this blustering threat, but he neglected to tell Chavez to shut up.

I love that Juan Carlos! This shows why that dude is a King. Maybe he can tell Bush to shut up, too, or even better, to resign.

Cougars

Wednesday, November 14th, 2007

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I’ve only just discovered the term ‘cougar’ for sexually aggressive older women, and it’s hugely annoying. I don’t know its origins and I don’t care. It’s just really sickening. I will assume that the cougar poster girl is Demi Moore, or maybe Kim Cattrall? Ugh. At least Kim hasn’t hexed her own daughter like Demi did to Rumor, but she’s no bargain even so.

I guess people are talking about cougars on Oprah and Geraldo, and I see there are plenty of online dating services for cougars and their prey. Is there a name for the young men who date cougars? There must be a correlating term, like bears and cubs or plushies and furries or bro’s and bro-ho’s.

Some awful woman named Linda Franklin seems to be trying to corner the cougar market by offering ‘The Real Cougar Club,’ where cougars can network, let their hair down, and talk about menopause. Yeah, baby, that’s what I’m looking for. I am actually thinking of joining, but I’m afraid it might make me kill myself.

I know I’m acutely sensitive to words, but surely ‘cougar’ is creepy to anyone! What could be good about it? Why don’t they just call older women ‘vultures’ or ‘scavenger fish?’ It’s bad enough to be losing one’s value in a youth-based market, without this crap.   And when Mrs. Robinson is brought up to bolster the cougar image, no one wants to recall that Anne Bancroft was only 36 when she played that role in The Graduate.

Just last week, I saw an unusual and very compelling movie called “Vers le sud” (or “Heading South”, as it was called in the US.) Set in Haiti during the Papa Doc regime, it depicts a resort where aging women from Europe and America come to find sexual pleasure with beautiful Haitian boys. It’s a story about power and ignorance, but the women come across largely as either desperate or deluded. They want to feel lovable, more than anything, and to them, desire equals love.

Older women seeking validation through younger men are just pathetic, Demi included. What’s the point of getting old if the best you can hope for is a lover who doesn’t know anything that happened before 1980? If god wanted older women to mess around with young men, we wouldn’t have to get so much Botox and plastic surgery to attract them. And Rumor Willis would not be living proof of the lord’s wrath.

Creflo A. Dollar: Name of the Month

Tuesday, November 13th, 2007

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I’ve just learned about the ministry of Rev. Creflo A. Dollar, a televangelist who preaches Prosperity Theology. His ministry is currently under investigation by a US Senate Committee, along with a few others. Rev. Dollar has refused to turn over his financial records, not only because he owns two Rolls Royces,  a gulfstream jet and a $2.5 million apartment in Manhattan. It’s the principle of separation between church and state, godammit!

My personal interest in this case is the Reverend’s name. Creflo A. Dollar! What more could you ask for in a shady minister? God bless him. I watched a few minutes of him on his website, and all he does is preach the joy of giving him money. He also has a wife named Taffi, who’s kind of a classier Tammy Faye.

Fight the power, Reverend Dollar!