The Unguided Thoughts of a Very Sick Man

Originally Posted Monday, November 24, 2014

I will rename this blog "The Unguided Thoughts of a Very Sick Man."  That should arouse some interest--at first.  I just don't seem to be getting better.  Some.  Look.  Nobody--and I mean N-O-B-O-D-Y--wants to hear the whining and moaning of a sick person.  There are people who will take care of you for money.  There are a few Sister Teresas who will do it for whatever confused reasons they have about God and duty.  But normal people don't want to hear about illness.  I sure as hell don't.  Never have.  There are good evolutionary reasons for this, I am sure.  You know how all the healthy hyenas help the sick ones?  Me either.  You can point out some anomalies like elephants and chimps and maybe orangutans. . . I don't know.  But my feeling is that illness is a thing to be avoided and people will ask you if you need anything and will bring you some Gatorade, but don't ask for too much.  Get well.  That is the only thing to do. 

And if you can't. . . .

So. . . I indulge myself here.  It is my blog, the place for my unfettered thoughts willy-nilly as they may be.  C.C. told me that.  It's his fault. 

Maybe I've been lying about too long, I think, and maybe I should return to work at the factory, maybe for at least a little while, just to get the old blood flowing.  People are taking off for Thanksgiving already anyway.  Nobody will be there really.  I might.  I might drive in and drive out, pick up some much needed things at the grocery store, then come back and crash on the couch and watch "Californication."  Seasons One and Two were pretty good.  Season Three is a hack job.  And that, I am told, is when ratings picked up.  Doesn't bode well for future episodes. Still, sitting ill in front of the tube without energy to read or do anything else, it is fun to watch.  Any t.v. show that starts with the protagonist making love to a sixteen year old girl and not getting punished and then getting popular and winning Golden Globe and Emmy awards--well. . . as Elliot Gould's Phillip Marlowe said in Robert Altman's "The Long Goodbye". . . it's O.K. with me. 

He didn't mean to do it. 

Not like Bill Cosby.  Do you think he really did it?  When a "supermodel" goes on t.v. (I've only read about this) and says that he gave her a pill and a glass of wine (wait! what!) and the last thing she remembers is Cosby in a patchwork robe climbing on top of her and then a lot of pain. . . what are you supposed to think! 

I never liked Cosby.  I always thought he was a dick.  I hated Fat Albert and all the rest of it. 

Maybe I am a little better than I was.  I mean, I read the news today.  Police shot another black kid in Cleveland.  He had a realistic looking b.b. gun.  The kid was twelve.  Now I'm going to tell you this without bragging.  Just saying.  I've chased two--maybe three--men with handguns in my life, the theory being that they couldn't hit a garage door with the thing.  And I'm not trained.  I'm thinking that if we took guns away from policemen, they would figure out some other ways of dealing with people other than shooting them.  Especially scary twelve year olds.  WTF?  If you are that fearful, you shouldn't be a policeman. 

But maybe the kid mouthed off.  Kids aren't that well behaved today, so there is a good possibility. 

Really, I just want to feel my old self again.  That isn't much to ask.  I don't mean my twenty-year-old self, either.  I want that, but I'll take the fellow I was a year ago.  No, wait. . . I haven't rubbed the lamp yet.  Ten years ago.  Phew.  I almost blew that one. 

And actually, I have been deeply touched by the sweetness of a lot of people who have called, written, and texted me.  I'm a sarcastic asshole, you know.  It is the only defense I know against a cruel and unusual universe.  You know what I mean.