Category: speech

26 September 2017 

(thanks to Graham Nash for the stolen lyric)

There are many things that I should try to avoid hearing from customers, because an genuine response is apt to make things worse.  For copious examples:

“Don’t work too hard.”
Are you suggesting that I am too stupid to know my limits, or are you encouraging me to deny my employer the best efforts that I’ve promised?

“I guess it’s free.” (said by customers who either don’t see a price tag)
I guess you’re an idiot.
No wait!  I actually DO know better than to say that one out loud, even though it’s what I’m thinking every time I hear it.  What I have actually dared to say in response to that one is, “Do you have any follow-up guesses, because that guess if way off the mark.”  I’ve given up on saying “Okeh” because too many people don’t understand the difference between agreement and acknowledgment.

“Know whum sane?” (see also “Blagga Mau Mau”)
English, please.

“Haaaava Goodwuhn!”
Lick yourself.  Even if I were to concede that “one” was a meaningful pronoun, it would still have no meaning without an antecedent.
Well, that’s pretty abrasive.  A better, but still ill-advised response is,
“Which one?  Bambi Goodwin?  Betty Goodwin?  Kandi Goodwin?”

“Give me…” (or “I want…” or “I need…”)
Please go home and complain to your parents that they have failed to prepare you to interact with civilized grownups.

“Can I ask you a question?”
Isn’t it obvious?

“My bad.”
GET OUT!  Your dismissive two syllable response is the practical OPPOSITE of an actual apology.

“How we doing?”
“WE” is a pronoun that ALWAYS includes the speaker, and we’ve just met, so how am I supposed to know how “we” are doing when you remain a mystery. -or-
Not well, one of us is working right now, and the other is struggling with English.

31 December 2017

I should probably begin by stating that I no more believe in “bad words” than I do “dangerous weapons”. There are good and bad people and they will avail themselves of fitting or inappropriate tools.

“But, Genial Gene,” I hear many bleat, “some words are just nasty!”

Now now, I realize that in the real world some people have a real visceral reaction to certain sequences of phonemes. I get it, and I try to be careful.

George Carlin tried codifying the constraint in 1972 (though I suspect his list adhered more to the demands of his bit than to etymological rigor) with his “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television” (In Dog Latin: feci copulat ure cunnum fellatrix oedipus mammaria — or, in the original Klingon: shit fuck piss cunt cocksucker motherfucker tits).

Carlin’s list didn’t last long. In the late seventies Debbie Reynolds performed a sketch on her television variety special in which she lampooned Jimmy Carter, Walter Mondale, and Dolly Parton, referring to them as “Grits and Fritz and Tits.” Somewhat later, in the early eighties, I was startled to realize how many tough cops and crusading ADAs were routinely “pissed off.” After 10 pm, of course. Clearly the FCC had backed off on a couple of their proscriptions. Still, the rest of the list seemed to remain intact for the rest of the 20th Century.

Today, on many a late night cable drama you’ll hear tough cops and cynical suspects calling each other on their “bullshit excuses” or “bullshit charges.” Four remain, and seemingly firm, in spite of Charles Rocket’s not believing he had been “fucking shot” at the end of Saturday Night Live’s Dallas parody. But that was only in the Eastern and Central Time Zones. Tape delay permitted the offending utterance to be expunged elsewhere.

Culture evolves, often slowly and painfully, sometimes abruptly. Three words have dropped off Carlin’s list, but a couple of others might have since been added. This brings me to what I call “The FCN Rule.” This stipulates that a courteous person will avoid saying (at least) fuck or cunt or nigger in front of strangers unless those strangers have bought tickets to hear his act. There are a lot of other things it is wise to avoid saying in public, but those three are the cream. Conceding the rationale of the list, “Nigger” certainly belongs there, as its history is particularly violent and ugly. It is rich and potent, meaning both subordinate and pariah. It‘s almost too perfect a pejorative, both in its origins, and in the physiognomic effect it has on the speaker. Feel the muscles of your face as you pronounce the word. It begins with a sneer, and it ends with a growl. We couldn‘t come up with a better way to express disdain and contempt and threat all in one breath if we tried to build one from the ground up. (“Faggot” is likely also on the list by now, even though I suspect that many Brits will still bum fags from their mates.)

The whole notion of profanity puzzles me. What puzzles me even more is the notion of insulting someone by calling him a cunt, a dick, an asshole, or a cocksucker. Sure, I get that being equated to a body part is limiting, dehumanizing, and insulting. But those particular parts, and that particular act, are all GOOD things. Granted, not all of us are into anal sex, but the asshole is still for most of the rest of us a regular source of comfort and relief. A good thing. Not that I’m about to start hurling insults, I’m just not the sort myself to be getting all worked up over what seems to me to be a trivial slight or a juvenile jest.

Such circumspection is not an indictment of the words themselves, just taking credit for a little bit of social grace. I will endorse circumspection as long as I’m obliged to live in the real world, but I will never surrender any words unconditionally. As a writer (strictly amateur) and an actor (much more accomplished amateur) I consider the English language to be both my tool kit and my toy box. It is imprudent to surrender useful tools, and it’s no fun giving up your toys.

Still, to avoid Cletus bitch-slapping me for inadvertently insulting his mom, I’ll try to watch the lip. Just be careful ya don’t ask me any direct questions…

update 211105 – An Oedipal Romantic at the Excremental Exhibition
The faculty at Hogwarts know better than to say “Voldemort” because in a fantasy world where magic is real, incantations hurt people.  Meanwhile, in the real world, awkward and embarrassed parents will spell out the words that they’re not yet ready to explain to their children.  Elsewhere, legal departments and broadcast executives will proscribe the use of those same words on the air.  Often, in the name of accurate reporting, it is necessary to allude to the forbidden phrases rather than to quote them, so as not to incur stockholder-unfriendly monetary penalties.  This results in such silly constructions as “F*** Joe Biden” and “S***hole Countries.”  This is just practical business sense.  But when grown-ups are talking to each other, saying such things as “F-bomb” or “N-word” just requires additional effort.  In fact, it’s a little insulting.  The offending utterances may not actually register in our ears, but we can still hear them in our heads.  Unless I misremember, the comedian Louis CK said that he resents it when people say, “the N-word,” because he knows that they mean “nigger.”  They want him to understand that that’s what they mean, but they’re making him do the extra work of filling in the blanks.  I agree with Louis; if you want it in my head, put it in my ear.  Unless you’ve come up with a new and clever euphemism.  In that case, go ahead and impress me with your wit or your inventiveness.  Humor and poetry are always welcome.  Otherwise, if you’re not saying what you mean, then you don’t mean what you say.

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1 April 2022
The evictions are finalized today, though the process has been both protracted and agonizing. And portents presage more anguish to come.

10 September 2022
The letter continues. It’s arguably reconstruction work on a bridge that I never intended to burn. Nor will I now, even though from my side of the stream, it still looks mostly like ashes.

11 September 2022
Finally finished said letter. Began over a week ago and wrote much more than they will ever see. After heavy editing and brutal redactions, it’s finally ready to go into an envelope and of course it is now the “wee, small” hours of Sunday morning, so mail won’t go out until sometime tomorrow. My timing remains superb!

12 October 2022 — “Hard Times for Lovers?”
( or — “Why does fortune smile on some, and let the rest go free?” )

Three strikes and I’m out? That could be the case. I’ll give it another shot and begin to compose the possibly THIRD (and final?) attempt to maintain contact. I’m not very good at quitting, so maybe I should try harder. But that notion just aggravates the sadness and sense of loss. They’ve said they’re done with me in many regards, but still offer caveats on the order of “that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.” But I’m beginning to get the impression that that was one of those “white lies” intended to spare my fuh-fuh-feeeelings. It may have sounded like “good-by” but maybe it was really just “good riddance.” Or maybe not. My durable optimism resists the notion, even in the face of mounting evidence.

So, here goes, but trying to be attentive to the syllable count, as that has also been contentious:

Dear Sugar and Bud,

I think I may have finally beaten the bedbugs. Between the poisonings, washings, airings, “latherings, rinsings, and repeatings,” followed by the suffocation and/or starvation imposed by the move and subsequent storage, there’s been little sign of them. Except… About a month after moving in here, still without my bed and other bits of furniture (more about which anon), I saw a solitary bedbug crawling on Tichelle’s quilt. I immediately stomped it, wrapped it in a tissue, crushed it, and dropped it into the toilet. Somehow, that egg managed to sit for months before quickening, then feasting on microscopic dander until emerging into the light and unto its doom. That was months ago, and since then there has been no sign beyond the residue left on the mattress.

I have found it surprisingly difficult in this town getting people to take my money. Okeh, maybe that sounds like it should be easy, but I predicate the transfer on MY getting stuff in return. Because of the time it took, and the impending storage fees, I took delivery to Willo‘s and L’Historienne‘s garage. Altering the contract after the fact to take delivery on the tenth floor here would likely have cost another kilobuck or so. The smaller items I could move in my car, which left the box spring, mattress, dresser, bicycle, and mirror which all would not fit. I began to look for help, even arranging a local mover to do the job, carefully carving out my time for the event, and nobody showed up. No notice, no cancellation, no explanations, nothing.

L’Historienne walked the bicycle over herself. I met her about halfway and took over. That was the last of them, and the easiest. But before that, on a couple of successive weekends after work, I borrowed a hand-truck from the QuikkStopp, and moved them under cover of night. It was still hot, but out of the direct sun. The four biggest items took two separate nights, two round trips each, at over four hours per episode. They were heavy and awkward, but I am stubborn, and did not hurry.

And speaking of stubborn — Tichelle has gotten a taste of wet canned catfood, and I think she will not be looking back. I’d bemoaned her isolation and separation from the frolicsome outdoors, and thought maybe that was a factor in her declining appetite and energy levels. She was beginning to get pretty thin, and I was worried that she was coming to an end (as are we all) but was unwilling to let her go. When I opened that first can of Li’l Friskies Beef Bits she took immediate notice and started to explain to me that I may have “stumbled blindly into the truth” (aka “the Kondracke Effect”). Her appetite and overall mood seem to have improved, and now, of course, I feel badly for not having thought of it sooner.

So now, she and I are both feeling much better than before.
I hope ya’ll and your multitude of cats are as well.

As usual…

22 October 2022 — “Turn Around Bright Eyes.”

Well I guess three strikes is it.
I also agonized over more specific birthday greetings.
Of course, I was paralyzed with indecision, so I didn’t.
If I had, of course, the action could easily have been perceived as irony, sarcasm, or snark. Whereas not to would be neglect. They had gotten very good at finding the wrong in my every move.
When or whether to write again? I should give them a little more time. They’ve already gotten the space they required, even if they did evince some degree of melancholy during the actual execution.

31 October 2022 — “Where Did We Go Right?“

I thought it involved telling the truth, but that turned out to be disastrously off the mark. But having no taste for casual lies, nor much talent at pretending that broad stereotypes are not rich with humor, I seem (note the use of “I” as in I am taking the blame for my failings, and I am inept at some things, and I don’t know how not to be me without sickening myself — and the use of “seem” as in “not certain, but evident” or “appears to me”) to have cornered myself. So be it.
Still… three strikes is customary in sports wherein there is no crying, but so are four fouls. So… as if they care…

On the other hand, it’s not a case, in the no crying game, of three strikes AND four fouls, but three strikes OR four fouls. I’m not sure yet what a foul might be in this context, and it probably doesn’t really matter, because it HAS been three strikes. What I mean is, that when I write, I have swung. If it is not answered, that is a miss. And it has been three. And it’s been less than two weeks since my last swing, so… Give it a full month, maybe. These are slow pitches, after all, even if Sober October has flown by.

So I’ll risk the accusations of neglect, rather than of deliberate denigration. There’s danger on both sides of this coin. When both options are dangerous, it’s easier to choose the one that is less work. And it may be more fitting to resume a lost cause on the anniversary of Jack Kennedy’s murder. That aligns with the death of my dreams along with the death of the dreams of Camelot.

21 November 2022
And corresponds neatly if not comfortably with the death of Tichelle.

4 December 2022
In this game in which there is “no crying,” you get three strikes and then you’re out. I have swung (or written, or tried, or asked…) three times, and missed, so that should constitute three strikes. But analogies are not perfect. Maybe I can bend it a little. If I haven’t “swung and missed,” maybe I’ve only “fouled” three times. I haven’t literally struck out, so a fourth attempt might not be unreasonable. (But is dead kitty the proper entre? More contemplation seems to be in order.)

17 November 2022
Tichelle’s appetite dropped off considerably about a month ago, and she’d spent most of her time sleeping, but otherwise not complaining. I had tempted her for a while with more expensive savory cat treats, and she’d showed a little interest in the novelty, but that soon had also lost its appeal. I heard her moving under the bed Wednesday night, and when I awoke Thursday morning, she was still there, sleeping. I’d kneel down throughout the day to check on her and scritch her chin or ears and she’d purr softly, and I’d check her again in an hour or so. Finally, a little after five in the afternoon, I found her dead. Her feline dignity had remained intact to the last and she’d rarely missed her cat box, only hanging her ass over the newspapers a couple of times in her last few weeks. She was far from my favorite among cats, being only basically cat smart and probably the scarediest I’ve ever met, but I didn’t dislike her, and we were pack. The nest is pretty quiet these days.

16 December 2022
(Okeh, there’s that. They never said they disliked my cat, so that might work. Then I could say something about how excited I am about “Moebius Trip,” but I can easily see that backfiring. I’ve heard too often that writing, along with masonry and understanding history and Austrian economics and speaking English are just ways of “looking down on people who have given me money!” Maybe news about L’Historienne and Willo would be welcome. But they’ve had their “issues” with L’Historienne, too, so maybe that’s also a sore spot. Or, I suppose, I could get a hint, buy a clue, and maybe just leave them alone. If they’re done with me maybe slamming my head against that wall isn’t such a fruitful notion as I’d hoped. I must do something to tone down this optimism about people. Thinking well of them seems almost as offensive as telling them the truth.)
19 December 2022 — Their additional gift may be the fewer bad jokes that “weren’t even very funny to begin with.”

10 January 2023
Cohabitation and moving are both great opportunities for the blending, confusing, and loss of properties, and in my haste to tease things apart, many errors were committed. And I still mourn the loss of the X-Men &c…
I return these to you, plus bonus (?), with my compliments (and thanks), and confess that one remains with me, proudly standing on my bookshelf next to Nathan’s own “slim volume.”

20 January 2023
Given the “slow pitch” nature of book rate postage, I could very well still be in mid-swing of my fourth foul. Meanwhile, my “nasty” FascBuch comment (“Anybody else getting tired of being right too much?”) probably doesn’t help. Maybe if I’d been less right or less honest, I’d have been more agreeable and therefore now be enjoying the stable-triad semi-retirement life that I’d earlier imagined.
But it wouldn’t be stable at all, if it were based on lies and errors. Maybe they’re better off without me. Maybe I’m better off without them (though it still doesn’t feel like it.)

15 February 2023
After three “strikes” or even four “fouls” I’m probably “out” for good. But, like Molly Tobin (later Brown), “I may give out, but I’ll never give in, least of all to the likes of you*!” So, swing five… (*this unfortunate pronoun, while quoted, also offers the eagerly aggrieved another opportunity to seize offense. So be it…)
Greetings Axes!
Receiving this document (see reverse) was bittersweet. On the one hand, it is nice to be finally getting the care (from the VA) that I was promised for the past several decades. And of course, I am melancholy when I reflect on how much joy reviewing EOBs would bring. But mostly, I am reminded of the many many many times that uninsured Lethargy Lad attempted to settle up on behalf of Drama Queen or any of the young Lethargy League. Rather than being delighted by the token offer (e.g. $14.00) from non-existent bookies, they would demand payment in full (all $87.00) right fucking now! Clearly, it’s better now to be on this side.
I’m still not accustomed to my recent catlessness. While I’ve had offers of kittens, I am hoping to put the hernia surgery behind me first.
Meanwhile, I continue to work (part-time), eat my savings, and struggle with Social Security’s evil website that keeps locking me out because I mis-key (?) needlessly cumbersome passcodes. I guess I’m just going to have to muzzle up and pretend I’m a surgeon or a scrub nurse (the SS office remains F’eral turf), show up, and start crying until I actually get some portion of my money back. I mean, crying should be okeh, right? Social Security ain’t baseball!

1 March 2023
You’d think the solution to trying too hard might be trying less,
but that’s never worked for me, either.

4 March 2023 — So Many Other Hands — So I’ve “swung and missed” five times, clearly striking out at least once. BUT. Doesn’t “Team Gene” have another four “at bats” just this inning alone? Or maybe 76 more for the whole game? A bit of a commitment, sure, but I’ve also written novels on spec. My lack of patience wasn’t on those particular lists of failings, so we shouldn’t be ruling it out. But I’ve also bailed on more novels than I’ve finished. Maybe more countin’ and cogitatin’…

28 March 2023 — A Taste of Fruits and Blossoms
Strawberries on my dishes,
Strawberries on my mind.
Never leaving any pleasant memories behind.
I remember “leave me alone forever,” and wonder what awaits.

9 April 2023 — Before stepping onto the tripwire that launched the quills, I gleaned a brief and ambiguous message of hope, heralding unspecified restoration and recovery. But as I reflect, I recall that it may have been couched in caveats and codicils.
Meanwhile, my printer seems to have spontaneously fixed itself sometime in the last few months, so the laborious hand-written missives should be rather less. During the same period, the first chapter of my new novel was also rendered by hand, for the hardcopy backup of course, though the original text remains online.
Some correspondents have expressed their appreciation for the news and the efforts involved in handwritten letters (“No one puts pen to paper anymore.” — Manny). Others may have… not.
Five strikes may well have to be it, unless I fancy inviting more thorns.

211014  —  Initiative without authority is trespass or vandalism?

On Sunday night, the kitchen drain slowed way down.  I tried coaxing it with agitation from the garbage disposal, and that generated a bit of backwash debris coming back up, but it did not appear to speed anything up.  By Monday it wasn’t moving at all.  Went out to the local ChowMart™ and bought a half a gallon of drain de-clogger solvent and came home.  Spent the rest of the day bailing the sink, dumping in solvent, and hoping for the best.  Still no good.  Repeated the process in accord with product instructions, all to no apparent avail.
Tuesday morning the sink was still filled.  This time, I went to JohnBoy’s™ and scored another half gallon of solvent and spent that day repeating Monday’s dance.  Went to bed with another weighty load on top of the plug, but upon waking on Wednesday the sinks were empty.  A good sign, I thought, but I also realized that a very slow leak was not going to be good enough.  I bailed the sink again, then disassembled the trap underneath, hoping to manually remove the clog in the gooseneck, but I was not so lucky.  The trap was well scrubbed by the persistent solvent treatment, so I peered into the pipe disappearing into the wall and was faced with a painful decision.  I could try untwisting a wire hanger and snake it myself, thereby risking inflicting additional damage to Sugar’s and Bud’s property.  Or I could go to the hardware shop and find a drain snake and spend another day of mostly fruitless labor.  Or I could surrender and contact a bonded plumber who might fix the problem in a matter of minutes and for only a few hundred bucks.
So I filled up the sink again, so that more pressure would rest on that clog, no matter where it was, and I would go look up plumbers on-line.  After about two minutes of just sitting, trying to decide whether I was next going shopping for tools, or surrendering to the pros, I heard a characteristic gurgling from the kitchen.  Walking back in, I found empty sinks again, so I tried filling them, but the drainage now seemed to be working just fine.  So I tightened up the connections on the reassembled trap and decided to be grateful for my efforts that moved that clog far enough to the trunk so that it finally fell out while I agonized over sucking up an expense or risking greater damage.
Sometimes I actually do something right.  But don’t let that around; I’ve got a well-earned reputation to protect.

12 April 2024 — Still no indication from the beneficiaries of my efforts that they were ever aware of this particular issue.  And that’s probably a very good thing, too.  Having learned over and over that no good deed goes unpunished, this could have been seen as an even greater offense than merely enduring a summer of tepid showers before having the water heater replaced.  I remember how much consternation THAT evoked.

“If you think it’s an unfair stereotype, don’t live up to it.”
— Chief Smitherman, The HERO Act

28 October 2021 — Did She Save Me?
Prior to January Ninth I was seriously considering taking the jab if Klint and Ojuxit thought that it would make them more comfortable around me.  I didn’t believe that it was medically necessary, nor even wise, given my previous experimental vaccines, and my own naturally vigorous immune system.  In fact, I thought, and still think, that the injection presents a greater risk than it mitigates (your mileage may vary), but I was in love, and I thought that it was a reciprocal relationship.  On the Ninth I was informed that my ring been removed.  Now that there’s no hope, there’s no point.

update 221009:  A year or so more of data now, indicating spikes in myocarditis and Bell’s Palsy, and an alarming abundance of otherwise healthy young athletes dropping dead on the field, have done much to vindicate my fears, but nothing to mitigate my sadness.  While I’d always expected to outlive them, based on our respective family histories and lifestyles and diets, I now expect even earlier demises for them than before.  I guess on a practical level it makes no difference; I’m already without them.  But, like Tarzan, I believe that “where there is life, there is hope.”  I like to believe (contrary to the evidence) that reason will eventually win out over resentment and that people will come to their senses.  In general, however, they tend to die before that.

230531 — My gratitude continues to grow daily.  Those declining the jab are still experiencing zero side-effects from the experimental “treatment.”  Whereas I, post surgery, remain healthier, stronger, and more vigorous than most ‘Mericans a generation or more behind me.  I was squatting to admire a blossom at the park the other day and L’Historienne remarked, “I don’t think there are very many 67 year olds who can do that.”  I pointed out that people my age (at the time) have been expressing their envy at my flexibility for at least twenty years.  And it ain’t ’cause I’m in such great shape either.  Sadly, it’s that most of the sheeple are complaisant, stupid, and fat.  230601 — And on the subject of gratitude, I’m still drinking Sykson‘s whiskey, thanks to Joguv‘s handing it over to me to keep it out of Sykson, who apparently could no longer handle his alcohol hobby.  It’s cheap whiskey, hardly fit for sippin’, and ice barely helps, but it still goes nicely into that occasional late evening cup of coffee.  Also the money helped a lot. The fact is, in strictly financial terms, I’m in much better shape for having known Joguv and Sykson and Klint and Ojuxit.  I am grateful for them all, even as I continue to fear their particular wraths.

191201 — On Talkin’ ‘Merican  —  In English, one says, “My use of proper grammar and pronunciation tends to alienate many of my colleagues, customers, and confederates.”  Translated, that would be, “Me not talkin’ ‘Merican good wen piss my team members, guests, an’ peeps.”

“I wanna be like – I wanna be like —  most girls.”
“It’s so hard when my girls aren’t around me.”
“We only like the popular bands.”
“We all dress like [her] to express our individuality.”
“Oh man!  It’s got a mean face on it.  Huh-uh!”
It’s inaccurate to refer to these fools as “sheep.”
Sheep don’t write such bad poetry.

Glossaria Vulgaris     19 April 2020  (or, The Tricks of the Treacherous)
When they say “we” it means “you.”
When I say “we” it means “us.”
When they say “kill” it means scold, demean, or belittle.
If I said “kill” it would mean that I’m threatening you.
When I hear “seems” it means appears or resembles.
When they hear “seems” it apparently means “always is.”
When I hear “many” it means “a lot, but not all.”
When they hear “many” it means “all, but especially YOU.”
When they say “Gimme” it means “may I have?”
When I say “Gimme” it means that I am a discourteous jerk.
When they say “what do you mean” it means “why did you?”
When I say “what do you mean” it means “what do you mean?”
When they say “are they not open” it means “are they not closed?”
If I said “are they not open” it would mean “are they closed?”
When they say “I need” it means “Gimme.”
When I say “I need” it means that I think I’m dead without it.
When they say “just” it means nothing.
When I say “just” it means “this, only this, and nothing but this.”
Contemporary social graces demand that I learn their code.  ‘Merican sensibilities demand that they ignore mine, because proper English is muh-muh-muh-mean, and BORRRRRing, and is mos’ def’ not groovy, hep, gear, bitchin’, boss, or sick.  Though it can be a little gnarly.

210109 – I would have to be delusional  —  to suspect that I might have contracted an unknown virus before most people suspected it even existed.  But as I reflect on the facts and the timing, it still seems to be the likeliest of scenarios (see “Black wit versus Vigorous Immune System” elsewhere in this file).  Nevertheless, as an unreliable dource of data, having just received confirmation of my latest sense of dismissal, generously fortified now with distrust, I know that I can never offer any meaningful reassurance.  And yet, still, says we “need to talk” about all this.  Why?  If I am indeed not trusted, what difference does it make what I say?  Every word is from a source that has been deemed deranged or delusional, and certainly not trustworthy.  Aren’t I a threat to the health and safety of strangers AND the people about whom I have claimed to care?  My assiduous observation of the SPIRIT of prudent hygiene has kept me generally healthier than most of the people around me, but history and logic don’t count.  What I understand now is that if a virally laden droplet were to land on the wet welcoming membrane of my eye, or her eye, or his, flourish thereafter, and subsequently produce thousands of offspring who were then released to the wild through exhalation or flatulence, again from which uncertain body, there would be no way of proving that it wasn’t caused by my licking doorknobs and toilet seats.
And therefore I could never be forgiven.
The end, apparently.

210204 — The more I know, the less I say.
I know it’s supposed to be the other way around, but for me, when I learn what else annoys my friends and family, I have learned what else to drop from my social repertoire.  As I say less, the conversation becomes less rich, less honest, and less interesting.  So soon enough, the complaint becomes, “Why don’t you talk to us anymore?”  It’s really very simple.  I don’t understand why it isn’t obvious.  Am I really that much smarter than Earth People?  Okeh, I’ll try to be clearer.
The more things I discover that I should NOT say, the less is left.
I do still care, but I frankly don’t dare.

210324 —  A Great Shopping Day!  Mostly Muzzle Free!
But not for me.  I’m in the middle of my promised “To-the-Letter” compliance exercise, so I entered the local ChowMart™ wearing my customary mask AND bandana, because as long as I’m going to look like a compliant “good citizen” I still prefer to affect the “Full Bandito” self-palliating illusion. Nevertheless, I was delighted to count all the naked faces in the shop.  And the free-breathers had us outnumbered!  In fact, I made it a point to thank the shop clerk who consummated my purchase for the view of his beautifully unclad face.  Between returning sanity, fresh air, and deadly ultra-violet radiation, these tender viri don’t stand a chance.  (Though their fan club will continue to shelter them in dark and damp places near their moist and mottled faces.)
update 210325, clarifications:  “‘To-the-Letter’ compliance” is not only redundant, it is inadequate, insufficient, unsatisfactory, and fruitless.

210801 — Adventures in Bad Lyrics, special edition —

If Mike Campbell & Ian Axel said to me, “Say something, I’m giving up on you,” should my reply have been, “Good-bye?”

If they said, “I’ll be the one if you want me to, anywhere I would follow you,” I would know better. I’ve always known that I had no shot at primacy; the most I could hope for was secondary (and likelier tertiary), and I witnessed no followers for my leads.

Or if they said, “Say something, I’m giving up on you,” maybe I should have said, “please don’t.”

If they said, “I will swallow my pride, you’re the one that I love, and I’m saying good-bye,” I would remain skeptical. Swallow that pride? I don’t see efforts to yield or compromise or accommodate. I either measure up or get out seems to be the case. And again with, “The One.” I’ll never believe that from anyone. Maybe I’m the only one wired this way but NO ONE has ever been “The One” for me. I’m not even sure such a concept makes any sense. Perhaps I was one of a rarefied set, but that’s still not “The One.”

I think leading with “good-bye” would be easier to understand, and ultimately kinder to all. Pretending to preserve what never was just aggravates the anguish.

210830: The Comfort of Trust vs Mutually Assured Destruction
Having someone in your life whom you can trust is a boon.
Unfortunately, according to those I love most, I am no such asset.
I presently have keys to the houses owned by Klint (and Ojuxit.) I expressed my pleasure today at the thought that Ojuxit had found a couple of close neighbors whom she trusted enough to give a key. Later, I reflected that I, dismissed, detached, distrusted and rescinded as I have been, still hold keys to both! Just a matter of time before they finally get fed up and demand their property back. For now, what secures their property in my custody, except perhaps the knowledge that most of mine remains in theirs? Without trust we must instead rely on Mutually Assured Destruction.
Meanwhile, I’ll continue to take advantage of my temporary good fortune.

190719, but a few weeks earlier:  “Do you like living here?” should have been my first and only clue.  Had I simply stood up at that moment and started packing and begun the tedious process of teasing comic books apart, rather than agonizing over it for the last two years, this trauma would be all over by now and I may well be gainfully employed at the QuikkStopp-by-the-Interstate® somewhere in Texas instead.  But I remain trapped by my own optimism, as I keep giving people time to come to their senses.

about 24 months past 19 July 2019:  I will not be moving in with my beloveds (formerly known as “Ojuxit” and “Klint”) after this house is sold.  They no longer wish to be thought of as my beloveds, and I remain unable to pretend that I don’t still love them and that I am not still heartbroken.  Lately, Ojuxit has been starting conversations with “What are your plans?” and she sweetly offers suggestions of employment nearer their new home where I am only intermittently welcome now.  Apparently, they don’t want me or my opinions too close (and grabby?) but still desire enough proximity that I can help out with the heavy lifting now and then.
Texas keeps looking better all the time.
Plus, my Best Girl lives there now.

31 March 2002      Letting It Be Over vs “Getting Over It”
(or “How can we get past this if you won’t dwell on it?”)

I guess I’m not the adversary that Drama Queen craves.

When things are pleasant, I want them to remain pleasant.  And when things are unpleasant, I want them to stop being unpleasant.  So, when I am upset, I want to be less upset, but “talking it out” just tends to aggravate the mood.  I want it to be distant and past, but “discussing issues” keeps it near and present.

Diva Dearest had spent most of the afternoon laying it on, or “getting it off her chest.”  She was fine afterwards, but all she got “off her chest” was dumped all over me and I’m still dripping with it.  Nevertheless, after L’Historienne got home from school, we shelved it and I pouted.  Or sulked.  I’m often not certain.  At dinner, I was still not yet recovered, so rather than risking bringing it up during dinner, I simply remained cordial and polite and mostly quiet.  I thought that by not saying the wrong thing, I couldn’t get any flack for it.

How little I know.  My reserve became the new problem.
“Will you lighten up?  Why the fuck can’t you just get over it?”
“I was trying to.  I thought you had, but it seems we’re back in it now.”
“That’s because YOU won’t get over it!”
“I’m sorry I brought it up again.”

Then she storms off, leaving me and L’Historienne to awkwardly finish our meals, whereupon the young one quietly asks to be excused, leaving me to clean up.  But probably not well.  Or at least not “good enough.”  After all, if I’m cleaning the kitchen, I’m not scrubbing the toilet or folding the laundry.  I expect my new crimes will be revealed in the morning.

update 210715:  correspondent RD offers up the best relationship advice, id est, “Make sure you’re the crazy one.”
That’s clearly where I screwed up.
Earlie Riser left me for Jesus,
Diva Dearest for a successful lawyer,
and Ojuxit for the masked.
But I’m still the common factor and therefore the likeliest suspect.
And not a flattering trend, either.

update 210716:  Okeh… so they never got the generator for Themyscira, but at least they’re getting a new water heater for the Northern Exclave.  That’s gotta count for something, doesn’t it?
update 221009:  Silly optimist!  Forgiveness is for kids!

210928 — additional post mortem
“Silly” may be a necessary condition, but it is not a sufficient one.

210929 — unassailable logistics
Insofar as Ojuxit is old, and tired, and sick to death of taking care of everybody else, she only has the energy anymore to tend to one of us, and it’s certainly less complicated to shed Lethargy Lad than Klint.  How could I quibble?  I’ve always respected practicality and I have little trouble understanding arithmetic.
220707 — probable logistics:  Ceteris parabis, post-menopause, reliable sex-toys (living or otherwise) are apt to be less interesting.

211001 — The Bullies’ Rewards — There wasn’t a whole lot I could do to prevent the regular beatings, beyond struggling to keep my “smart mouth” shut.  Even then, my eyes might betray my contempt.  What I could control a little more reliably were my own tears.  Realizing that tears and cries of anguish are the rewards most craved by cowards and bullies and sadists, I would deny them that.  During beatings (both actual and metaphorical) I retreat to my peaceful interior and let the body or outer mind absorb the buffeting.  “I can’t tell if you’re devastated or relieved.”  Which is the point.  It boils down to basic economics.
If you reward something, you get more of it.
If you reward something, you get more of it.
If you reward something, you get more of it.

“Nobodie can hold a grudje leic hillbillies.” — Martie Stuart

abstract 221229:  on huei it mai have been nesessarie for the sanitie and peass of mind of Earlie Riser, Diva Dearest, and the Acsies, that I be detatjed, dismissed, distrusted, resinded and redjected.  Peass be upon them.

28 April 2018 — If I could onlie have tolerated the inevitable fecal aftertaste, I might have cissed mei wai up the corporate ladder bei nou.
update 190719, or, “No More Fun” — I am sorrie that I do not ecspress meiself uell in speetj, and I am sorrie to learn that I am not muyj better as a hriter.  A historie of failure might be a good reason to give up on something, but I am more comfortable thinking of meiself as a fool or a failure than as a cuitter.
Since the subject arose out of a sitation of an ecsample of a difficult discussion gone good, and blossomed into an issue of temporarilie sentral urdjensir, I am led to believe that it actuallie never uas resolved.
To address the strongly stated belief that “[I] think all [successful professionals] eat shit!  Even those people who have GIVEN [me] MONEY!” — actually, I do not.  I might speak over broadly of a certain type of martinet who tends to top out in middle management and seems to exult in exercising his arbitrary authority.  So again, I apologize for choosing words that suggested that by “coaches” I meant “ALL coaches, without exception, but especially YOU!”  I did not.  I will try to be more careful about choosing qualifying adjectives.
Or perhaps the perception comes from my comments about lying through interviews, or my inability or disinclination to do so.  I believe that the truth that many successful people tell in job interviews exposes the hot properties that they are — competent, accomplished, well-rounded, and socially gracious.  I believe that the truth I tell during job interviews reveals what a monumental prick I am —  uncertain, unconfident, awkward, arrogant, supercilious, and condescending.  And no fun whatsoever in the break room.  For me to fake it, to superficially emulate the nature of the successful interviewee, would be, to me, to use the perilous metaphor, “Eating shit.”  I would be the fraud if I PRETENDED to be the kind of person who is genuinely desirable.  I would be the fraud if I lied about my talents or weaknesses or accomplishments, and I would be the one stuck with the “fecal aftertaste.”
I might be able to lie myself into a position, but eventually the lies are exposed.  One may fool (SOME!) managers, but one cannot fool the job itself.  Fortunately, my failings are not so severe that managers will not tolerate them, as long as I continue to show up on time, not boost the till, and do my job as best I can until the end of my shift.  So I’ve found my niche in the market, and it’s loads better than stealing the dough.
As far as “Klint‘s propertie” or “Ojuxit‘s propertie” or “jour propertie” or “their propertie” — I may have used all of those expressions, depending on to whom I spoke, or the emphasis I was intending.  However, I realize that, as a female chauvinist, I might lean more toward women’s interests.  I view a husband’s accomplishments usually as being a part of the wife’s accomplishments*.  And, in an ideal marriage, vice versa, of course.  (*Thereby expressing the wisdom of Earlie Riser‘s and Diva Dearest‘s throwing me out.)  Nevertheless, because the slight was brought to my attention, I will try harder to use such terms as “HIS property” and “HIS equity.”
And with regard to protecting YOUR equity and YOUR property, I will CONTINUE to believe that if the problem was doing too little, then doing more should be (AT LEAST PART OF) the solution.
How it might have gone:
“What are you doing?”
“Abstracting!  I also like it here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve watched what you and Sugar have done, observed similarities, and now try to do more of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You seemed to have been dissatisfied with the work I’d been doing, so I figured the solution to having done too little would be to do more.”
“What do you mean, ‘dissatisfied?'”
“We were out weeding the front.  Out of a sullen funk you asked if I liked living there.  I remember muttering something to the effect that I liked having a place to live and that there was comfortable.  Later, upon reflection, I realized that the question was either a prelude to an eviction, or rhetorical pouting.  Either way, it was not intended kindly, nor likely was it a sincere enquiry after useful data.”
“You’re right.  I was pouting like a punk.  I was upset by what you hadn’t done and what I hadn’t asked you to do and what you hadn’t agreed to do.”
“If you’d like to go over what else you expect in the way of rent, I’d be [happy?  delighted?  willing?] to entertain these thoughts.  Meanwhile, I’m still following the shade out here.  Why don’t you go back in and draw up a list of what you think would be reasonable while I spend the next half hour or so killing weeds?”
“Good idea.  Maybe after Ojuxit has woken up we can discuss it peacefully.”
“Rightio!”  (Sure, it could have.  “But where’s the self-righteousness in that?“)

190719 — variant definition of “Bully:”
One who speaks English to ‘Mericans.
(yet somehow exerts no power and inflicts no injury)

190811 — “I’m not interested in fixing anything right now;
I just wanted you to cry with me over how broken it WAS.”

190830 —  A sullen funk? If sullen means “morose, sulkie, or showing ill-humor,” and a sulk is “a depressed state,” then YEAH!  We were witnessing a sullen funk indeed.  How was that ever an issue?  And yet it was, because… because…  oh right!  Being right is the WORST possible defense.  How dare I?  And while going from pouting like a punk to barking like a bitch may well constitute an improvement, in CLARITY, ALWAYS helpful, it does little to lift the mood otherwise.

190901 —  “What if I said that I could never be an engineer because I know I could never kiss ass that much?”  I’d wonder what that had to do with me.  Egregious sycophancy has never been a stereotypical complaint about engineers so I would wonder what you meant.  Most folks’ complaints have to do with engineer types being too cold, too objective, too unfeeling, too concerned with facts and figures, and insufficiently obsessed with everybody’s emotional state.
Now, if you’d said you could never be an engineer because you are too nice, too well-adjusted, and too socially adept, I would have no objection.  That’s what I have observed as being CONSISTENT with technical types; we’re all work and no play, unless the boss agrees to pay us to play.
As I have said SO MANY times, to SO MANY apparently willfully deaf ears, if I were to pretend to be something I’m not (affable, garrulous, a team player, or a master of making pleasant noises with my face) then I would be the shit-eating lying scumbag weasel.  ME!  So I don’t fake it.  For me.  Because of MY feelings.
Not that I wouldn’t fake it, under exigent circumstances.  It’s just that, as a policy, fakery doesn’t appeal to me.
So I’ll continue to be the real me:  a condescending, superficial, obsessively honest jerk, and not a lying scumbag weasel pretending to be a socially competent charming team player.

190929 — The Squandered Summer ( — or — Instead of a Good Time )
For such a short trip down Anger Road, it seems an awfully long way back.
Practical solutions are the worst.
Problem 1:  Diva Dearest isn’t getting enough sleep.  How I learn about it:  Lying in bed next to her almost drifting off when she starts sniveling about how little sleep she’s getting.  My clearly simple-minded attempt at a solution:  “Shut up and go to sleep.”  Her response:  if you’re about average (or otherwise less retarded than I am) I probably don’t need to spell it out.
Problem 2:  This next one’s trickier.  Klint doesn’t like to do yard work.  Neither do I, but it’s my job.  And I’ve been doing it, at least according to Ojuxit.  Apparently, he had some expectations he hadn’t shared with us, and when they were not met, he sulked.  When it finally occurred to me what the problem might have been, after some hints, a brilliant notion struck me.  If the problem was my having done too little, maybe the solution was for me to do more.

What a naive fool I am.  I expected logic and clarity to win the day.  Apparently, doing MORE work was NOT the solution.  In fact, upon reflection, it seems mainly to have been an excuse to revisit old insults and make sure they’re still offensive.  Some people are just fans, I guess, of ripping off scabs to make sure old injuries still hurt.

Practical solutions?  Just like courtesy — strictly for chumps.  

191130 —  I don’t talk ‘Merican good.  “Prolly ‘cuz” I’m too credulous, and it sounds so much like English.  I assume that it’s English and I try to make sense out of it, then I respond clearly and coherently.  As a consequence, I don’t talk ‘Merican good.  Know whum sane?

191212 — When the honest answer is the WRONG ANSWER, you are talking to… Sales… Management… HR… Your Spouse…?   
191220 — Puttin it in ‘Merican terms, instead of clearly:
thank you for learnin’ me to talk ‘Merican gooder.

200705 — Sarcasm is the gift of non-violence, and silence is the gift of non-sarcasm.  Unfortunately, many customers, colleagues, and “friends” will not accept silence.

200724 —   Hinters hint, while staters state.
That’s why the hinters hate the staters.

210509 – The Gift of Absence
Klint asks if I no longer wish to “hang out” with them.  I didn’t back away, I was pushed.  When every contact becomes just another opportunity for conflict, I am less motivated to submit to interrogation.
I don’t DISLIKE their company, I FEAR IT.
To quote the unknown sage: “Give the gift of your absence to those who don’t appreciate your presence.”

210727 ( revisiting 190719 — or — Don’t Say “Kilobuck” )
It seems I can get into hot water even without any hot water.  While I brace myself for the issues of the day, I remind myself to avoid saying such provocative things like “playing in the mud” or “Ah seen him on teevee” and, most recently, “kilobuck.”  I know, from bitter experience, that silence will never work, and now, armed with additional knowledge of what not to say, I still dread dredging up acceptable explanations for my latest “crimes.”

210109 reflections on:
Stay away from us; your social skills are horrible.
“Okeh… I’ll just stay at home and practice alone.”

230531 — The Issue with Issues
I’m sorry this never occurred to me before.  (“Well, why DIDN’T you think of it sooner?” sounds so much like “Well, why DIDN’T you know what you didn’t know you didn’t know before you knew you didn’t know it?”  So be it.  That’s where I stand, still not recanting, but sharing new thoughts and possible insights.  (And of course, continuing the general policy of leaving my errors naked and exposed.)  I don’t know.
Anyway, the thing with ISSUES, and this was etched VERY deeply, fairly early on, is that the purpose is two-fold.  First, and probably most important, the goal is to humiliate and debase the accused.  Then of course the other purpose is to determine just how severe the beating to follow will be.
No wonder I dive into them with such gleeful anticipation!