Archive for April, 2013


George+Jones+George+and+guitar“What a night–who are we honoring?”

–Don Rickles

It’s been that kind of night!  I haven’t been this drunk since I don’t know when!

Has to do with my Anafranil (clomipramine hydrochloride)–the primary medication I take for my OCD.  See, I’ve been on 75 mg. a day for at least a year.  But it causes so much dehydration that I can’t get any exercise on this dosage.  So I’m attempting to reduce the daily dosage to 50 mg.  Every time I’ve tried this, it’s failed–but I’m trying again. 

For some bizarre reason, the more Anafranil I take, the less alcohol I drink (and I typically only drink alcohol once a week, when dining with the Singletons).  So tonight I drank more alcohol than usual–because I’d only taken 50 mg. Anafranil.  I dined with the Singletons at Carrabba’s–a nice Italian place with a Greek-sounding name.   And after the bartender told me I’d had enough, the manager, Stephen, gave me $25 for a cab home.   Now that’s pretty nice.  He assured me my truck would be well looked-after, so I took the cab home.  At the time, I was conversing with a waitress from McGuire’s Irish Pub named Sarah.  She was beautiful, and she and I thought alike–so I asked her out for a date, and she said she had a boyfriend.  Bullshit!  I asked her why she hadn’t told me that, to begin with, and her answer was not adequate, in the least.  Stephen told me the girls at the bar at Carrabba’s were “high-maintenance”, but that they especially appreciated a man who didn’t drink alcohol.  But Sarah was drinking alcohol–so what the hell?  I hate hypocrisy–almost as much as I hate injustice. 

But Stephen gave me $25 for the cab fare, so he’s a decent guy anyhow.  And to hell with Sarah!

I’ll pick up my pickup truck tomorrow, after I’ve slept this off!

Still, it was nice to drink alcohol again, after about three weeks without it.  Honestly, I’m more a caffeine addict–and I’ve especially been “bad” lately–driving every day to Starbucks for a Vente blonde, before I even eat breakfast!  Yet–at least according to my beautiful psychologist–this is better than smoking–or drinking alcohol on a daily basis.

As my best friend ever, Mr. Vogel, said it: “So there ya are!”

I have a CD of David Alan Coe music–on which he sings “You Never Even Called Me By My Name”–in which he says something like this toward the end:  “My good friend Steve Goodman wrote this song [I have the CD of Steve Goodman’s version]–he said it was the perfect country/western song.  I wrote back to him, said it wasn’t the perfect country/western song because it didn’t say anything about mama, or prison, or gettin’ drunk, or trucks, or trains.  And he replied by writing this verse–which I felt made it the perfect country/western song.  And I feel obliged to share it tonight:

Well I was drunk the day that Mama got out of prison,

And I went to pick her up, in the rain.

But before I could get to the station in my pickup truck,

She got run over by a damned old train…”

Isn’t that fantastic–ingenious to me!  I saw that George Jones died yesterday.  I thought George Jones died several years ago–so I was shocked.  But one thing’s for sure:  country music died with George Jones.  That crap they call “country” isn’t country!  Faith Hill, Garth Brooks, Clint Black–bullshit!  I knew there was something wrong in the 1990’s when all these perfect-looking people emerged on the “country” scene.  I knew they weren’t sincere.  I grew up with “Hee-Haw”–some of the ugliest people singing country music.  But they were sincere.  They were real.  Country music is supposed to be the White man’s equivalent to the blues.  It’s supposed to be “tear in your beer” music–it’s supposed to be about the lives of poor Whites.  It’s not supposed to be happy-twatsy music about a fucking kiss or not taking a girl.  It’s supposed to be sad, it’s supposed to be sincere, real.  There is no more country music on the radio anymore–just as there is no more rock ‘n roll. 

For real country, for real rock ‘n roll–look to the past, before most of you were even born, and you’ll find it.

The world didn’t end on December 21, 2012.  But in a sense, it began to end.  If I were Christian, I’d believe the Rapture were approaching–and I can certainly understand why so many Christians believe this.  Yet I’m not–I belong to no organized religion.  I simply believe that everyone in the world believes in the Creator–just has a different idea what the Creator is.  Still, there is a science fiction story entitled, “End As a World”.  Notice it’s not “End of the World”, but “End As a World”.  That’s a small, yet very significant difference in this story by F.L. Wallace. 

“End As a World”–every day, the world ends, as it is–something changes.  And these days, the changes are almost always for the worse.  I have more hope for my own future than for the future of the human species–that’s how little hope I have for us all.  We’re doomed.  We’re doomed because we are not advancing, socially, as much as we are advancing technologically.  In short, cellphones, and other such gadgets, will destroy us.


fcedb0617415a539_large6502796_124033933419Got your attention, huh?  Just a reminder that I’m sober most of the time!

I received neither power nor peace on my 47th birthday (just as I’d received neither love nor courage on previous ones).  So I’d like to move beyond it, with some pictures of Irene Vernon–the first Mrs. Tate on the TV series Bewitched.