The Doctor Is In; Can You Define Crazy?

 

So. It’s now the morning before the second Presidential Debate and less than a month before the actual elections. Mitt Romney has evened the polls and I’m not concerned in the least. Never before in America’s history has there been such a clear choice between an honest man trying to improve the lives of our common citizens and a man who… A man who, well…

OK, let me ask you a question here—a deadly serious one.

Who, inthefuck, is Mitt Romney? What does he really stand for? I mean besides his willingness to say any fucking thing he thinks he can say to get elected. In the last six years of Herr Schmidt Romney’s Presidential campaigns, Der Field Marshall has taken opposite sides of every important issue facing America.

Think of this Important Issues Score Card:

  1. Abortion: For and Against
  2. Balanced Budget: For and Against
  3. Semi-Universal Health Care: For and Against
  4. Spurious Wars: For and Against
  5. The 47%: Against and “Huh?”
  6. Separation of Church and State: Who Fucking Knows

 

OK, let’s stop for just a moment. Since international policies are a subject with significant news cycle times, let’s examine Herr F.M. Rommel’s recent world views. On Iraq: We needed an extended war; On Afghanistan: We need a war extended beyond Obama’s scheduled conclusions (I think); On Iran: “Fuel-up the jets and load-up the Bunker Buster’s, boys, them Arabs has defied our wishes for way too long,”; On Palestine/Israel: Obama is a pussy, but it can never be solved.

When you listen to that asshole’s speech at Virginia Military Institute—America’s premier war college—you’ll discover that Mssr. Romney has an aggressive military solution for every international issue. It goes something like this: “If you don’t do what I want you to do, I’ll send other American parents’ children—in the form of the “Mightiest Military on the Face of the Earth”—over there to your place and we’ll kill your kids until you relent.

But again, who really gives a shit about what that giant flaming asshole says. He doesn’t mean a word of it. He just wants to be King… Er, President. It’s what he wants.

He’s not going to get it. These next few weeks will see his lies come home to roost and the media will finally put a face on them. We saw the start of that in Thursday night’s VP Debate.

Which reminds me. I rented a suite of offices for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson here to Santa Fe. I received one of those “Get your ass in here for a therapy session or I’m locking you away in the loony bin” phone calls. Since I have no reasonable desire to cross back over the state line and into Texas for psycho therapy, I was forced to find a way to get my therapies locally.

“How about I decorate a room as your office and put you up here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe? You can theraporize me in the office all day and we can sex it up at night,” I told her. “I’ve got one of those dual control air mattress jobbies and we can add air to make one side real bouncy.”

Not to tell her secrets, but my first ex-wife used to love bouncy sex.

“Listen, buster, just because you can’t get laid doesn’t mean that I’m serving double duties for you. I’ll have my architect email my office requirements. I’ve always wanted an office in Santa Fe.”

I finalized the lease and the new office is something quite special. It’s in one of Santa Fe’s few brick buildings, and one of her windows overlooks the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and the other windows have an up-close view of our adorable County Courthouse.

The reason I said, “… one of the few brick buildings in Santa Fe…,” up there in that last paragraph is that at some time in the past, Santa Fe cast in concrete an impressive City Ordnance. Among other stuff, this Ordnance requires that all buildings be built to merge with the land, look like it came from an old Pueblo, and be shorter than the State Capitol Building downtown. Obviously I didn’t quote the ordnance with precision, but if you’ve ever been to Santa Fe, you’d say, “Yep, uh-huh, that pretty much sums it up.”

Beautiful town. Nothing over three stories to block the light and views.

To celebrate the lease signing, I flew the good Doctor up from Austin and took her to dinner with a local couple who are our friends. He’s an attorney—one of only two attorneys I’ve ever met who would get pissed-on if catching fire in my presence—and she’s a straight-A student and ardent political activist. She’s likewise been in the same post-debate funk as my buddy Squatlo. But unlike Squattie, she was greatly heartened by the VP debate.

We ate at this nifty little restaurant on Johnson Street named Trattoria Nostrani—one of the best places I’ve ever eaten snooty food—and we sat in the back next to two quite charming men. As is my habit when someone asks how I feel about the current status of American politics, when asked at dinner, I said, “These neocons scare the ever-loving shit right out of me.”

“You got that one right, brother,” said the dark haired man at the next table.

“Yes, indeed,” was the words of his blond companion, the man sitting next to me across the short space between tables. “Sorry to eavesdrop, but it’s terrible what they are trying to do.”

The six of us then had a spirited discussion about the flippy-flopper and what terrible things this new brand of conservatives are planning for our country if they get control of it.

Which brings up what I wanted to tell you. The two men at the next table were well-dressed and mannered, handsome (as Dr. Sam I. Am later told me in the car headed to her Hotel), and they were quite good conversationalists. Neither had a tattoo on their forehead that said, “I’m a gay man,” but for some reason I believed them to be gay men.

When I got home and lay in bed with nothing to keep me warm, save the two loving puppies, it dawned on me that I have matured in a small way. As a younger, far denser man, I might have asked those two men if they were gay men. I wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass or offend them, but I might have asked.

Why would I ask a potentially offensive question of two interesting and pleasant people? Why would I have risked a fistfight or worse, hurting someone’s feelings stupidly?

Because I would have wanted to know—I would have been curious, because it would effect how I thought of them and how I interpreted their words. It would have mattered because as a much younger man, I still had some lingering prejudice towards not-heterosexual people. Not anything mean or angry, but just the simple fact that I felt that a gay person’s gayness mattered in the bigger scheme of life.

I grew up with a lesbian sister—lesbian from her first breath—and have spent my life supporting and defending gay people. But there is a difference in how I see gay people now. That difference is that now I see no difference.

It dawned on me that I didn’t care if those men were gay in any reference at all. I might have factored their gayness into their discourse re: any gay issues, but otherwise they were two interesting men talking about what a giant flaming asshole Mitt Romney has turned out to be.

When I had thought it through, I awoke the Squirt to tell her of my new-found maturity. The adorable lump of brown fur listened intently as I told her the story and of how I have become a better man.

“Is that it? You woke me up from dreaming of chasing bunnies to tell me what a wonderful man you are?”

Have I ever told you that Squirt dreams of chasing bunny rabbits, factual information that substantiates the old wives’ tale?

“Uh, well, yea, I guess that’s why I woke you.”

“Fuck you, shithead, I was just about to snag the rabbit. And you are not going to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Shut up and let me go back to sleep.”

She’s right, of course. A person with actual maturities wouldn’t brag about having them. In fact, I fear that bragging about what a wonderful man I am is a clear indication that I’m slipping backwards–I’m getting crazier.

Ugh. I guess it’s a good thing the Doctor is in. Manana, y’all.

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4 Responses to “The Doctor Is In; Can You Define Crazy?”

  1. Squatlo says:

    My own ‘younger me regrets’ involve poorly chosen words used to fit in with a crowd I wanted to belong to… and I’m sure I hurt some feelers along the way. In a way, I consider whatever evils have befallen me in life to have been the resultant karma earned on those few occasions when I said hateful things to people I didn’t have the first clue about… and those words haunt me still. I’ve often said I wouldn’t want to go back in life, not a single day, but if I had to it would be to find my younger self and tell him to shut the fuck up.

    Wag more, bark less. Something like that.

    There’s another debate? Seriously?

    Huh…!

  2. bj says:

    Like Herr Rommel and Squatlo’s ‘younger self’ I still dunno when to shut the fuck up …..
    Herr F.M. Rommel is fond of pointing out repeatedly that my President failed to heed the warnings of an escalating security threat and as a result four Americans died in Benghazi, and he wants …. fuckin’ …. ANSWERS! BUT ….. what der Mittschter (and the rest of the republitards) DOESN’T want to talk about is the last Republican President who …. fuckin’ …. ignored warnings of a security threat …. and …. fuckin’ …. THREE THOUSAND Americans died in …. fuckin’ ….. NEW YORK …. fuckin’ …. CITY, USA! Oh NO! He doesn’t want to talk about THAT shit! Now, THERE’S a motherfucker who needs to shut the fuck up!
    and again ….. I dunno when to STFU either! Like when I notice shit … and comment about it. Like …..j’ever notice …. how SOME folks …. when the goin’ gets tough ….. SOME folks get all shaky and shit, start singin’ their “woe is me!” song and wringin’ their soft, lily white hands all while climbing out on a ledge to JUMP? J’ever notice? Meanwhile …. OTHER folks Strengthen Their RESOLVE, gird their loins, and head back into the fray, swingin’ away, re-energized, Eyes Focused On The Prize? J’ever notice?
    Like I said …. I just dunno when to STFU!
    Sumpmmm else I’ve noticed …… J’ever notice ….. that for all the wildly vivid scenes of sexual perversion you paint yourself into with MANY and various women …. you spend a whole lot of time THINKING about, WRITING about and SPECULATING about WHO might BE ……….. homosexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but you DO seem to be preoccupied with that subject. I mean, c’mon …. seriously …. HOW many ex-wives? Over-compensation? Hmmmm ….. but whether you is or whether you ain’t homosexual, the answer is so inconsequential to everyone that knows you (but’cept for yer MOMMA!) that WE see no difference either, could not care less, AND …..would never ask! How’s yer gay sister’s maturation process going? The one who was born “lesbian from her first breath”. I’ll wager she is a VERY mature, upstanding member of her community and a blessing and an asset to her friends and family. The fact is that whether you have it tattooed on your forehead or you keep it buried behind the Nordic Track in the closet …. it doesn’t matter what ANYONE else thinks about your sexuality, only what YOU think about it. Try that one out on yer new found maturities! Ax the good doctor about my supposition …… not that it matters to ME. I loved ya’ before I ever metcha’ ……
    ME? Oh hell yeah …. there was a time in my life when I was ‘BUY-sexual’ and in a former life with a former wife, I was …. fuckin’ ……. “TRY-sexual” !
    and now ….. I WILL …. fuckin’ ……. shut the fuck up. for a minute …… while I take my ass (and my bad karma) back over to my place …………

  3. Mooner Johnson- Loins girded and resolve strengthened says:

    Squat. I thought I had something pithy and poingnant to say to you. But BJ’s lengthy comment wayed my lays. Please allow me to skip you and move on.

    Beej. Holy, fucking, shit!!! OK, first, please allow me to say that while I sometimes wish you’d hold your water, I’ll never ask it. While the stings of your arrows can hurt like a Mo’fo, the wounds always seem to heal quickly.

    Next, I’mma need some time to both untangle the logic strings contained therein your comment, above, and then likewise take some time to construct thoughts cogent to my lesser mind. Having said that, let me respond to those issues I feel worthy to create response.

    First, you and I seem to see the Nazi fuck quotient in Herr Rommel in quite similar ways. Fuck Mitt Romney. Me, I’d like to break his pointy finger off at the third knuckle and shove it up GW Bush’s ass.

    Second, the liberal handwringing has become a sound even more grating than nails on a chalkboard and less desirable to witness than a public whipping. Suck it up, stiffen your spines and grow a set, kids. Did America hide in the closet when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no.

    Third, I think I could be gay if I could just get over that whole pecker-sucking dealio. OK, and sexy kissing another man with intents.

    And as for asking the good doctor if your suppositions hold water, please mail me a cashiers check in the amount of $350.00, my standard business hours hourly rate with her. Better yet, set an appointment for when you drag your shaggy ass out here to Santa fucking Fe for a visit. I can give her the background and save you a few hours on the couch.

    As for your Kharma, bad-to-tha-bone is a good thing, brother. A very good thing.

  4. Squatlo says:

    And here I was all primed for a pithy and “poingnant” (which is how it should be spelled, henceforthward…) comment.

    Don’t interrupt BJ when he’s in full froth. The “Animal House” reference was right on target, BTW… Germans bombing Pearl Harbor!

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