Piano-Players' Paranoia

Paranoia

Part 13 of 30

One of the things I never learned was to play the piano, and really all it is is a typewriter that sings. I had a guitar I kept on my back. I got so used to wearing it I'd forget it before sitting down. Then one day I decided I had no talent. But of course I found myself able to hammer out a few chords and ended up playing three or four songs for some folks in the nursing home one time. None of them shrieked bloody murder and ran out the door, but they would’ve if they could’ve. Even today the survivors are still talking about it. I'm just guessing.

We actually had a piano where I grew up, along with a chord organ. But no one in my family ever learned to do anything with either one. I remember trying to figure out the chord organ and having my finger on the button a little too long and my Dad shrieked bloody murder and hollering up the stairs, “Play a different note!” That was a setback for me. But he didn’t run out the door, so I kept trying to up my game. It turned out I was never good at it, a disaster. I’m not sure if Einstein was ever a great piano player either. But we both probably could've been.

So it wasn’t my fate to be a musical genius, which I wanted to be. I heard a line about a particular guy though, who ate beans and was considered a musical genius. Something like that is true of most of us.

I’m going to propose something for myself, and see how well I stick to it. Every time I’m at a place and someone starts playing the piano or organ, I'll just throw up my hands and mutter, “It’s all been done to death,” and walk out. It really is true. I may not know how to play, but I know how to hear, and it’s the same old boring grind time after time. They start somewhere in the middle, they toss in a bunch of lower notes, then a bunch of higher notes -- the area of the keyboard supposedly meant for flair and flourishes -- and you’re supposed to sit there and take it. So you lightly applaud, then grasp your stomach, “I think I’m having an aneurysm,” and run for the door, “Get me the hell out of here!”

Things that have literally been done to death are my kryptonite, the source of a lot of my paranoia. If you’re going to play the damned piano -- how boring -- at least acknowledge that you're not the first and probably not the best. Otherwise they'll just think you're showing off.

Therapy For Paranoia (Dangerous)

Paranoia

Part 12 of 30

Of course there’s therapy for paranoia. Although I’ve forgotten the details from the many times I've looked into it. The idea of showing up for therapy in anything -- while I guess it’s a good concept -- is something I’ve never actually done. Why? I'm afraid it’d incriminate me if I said why, so I won’t go into too much detail. But just leave it with a vague, “To each his own.” I don't want to be incriminated, having something like that on my personal record.

So that's it, count me out. As long as it’s a matter of your own choice, I’m good. Although if this is truly a picture of it, it might be tempting. Just looking around the room, everyone seems to be definitely zoned out in a positive way. There’s old Madame Grimaldi at the switch. Then young Flora, Fauna, Frizzy, and Weedette zoned out. With -- what have we here? -- his sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind him and zoned out in his own way, Danny.

Leading to a question I’ve asked myself many times, When you’re trapped and strapped down in a paranoid fit, is it better to take proactive measures against it or is it an important part of your life that you shouldn’t miss for anything? I know I’m in the minority here, but I think it’s important not to miss too much. There are exceptions, which, if I can keep it together in this moment I might sketch out. Eh, what the hell, let’s get to that first: The exceptions would be if you pose a threat to others.

In this case, if I’m reading Danny right -- and as dull as he looks his condition’s still clear as a bell -- if he scooched one inch closer to Grimaldi, or moved in any direction toward one of the sleeping belles, I’d be on him with the burliest attendants I could rouse. Safety is first and foremost, saving the victims and going as easily on the perpetrator as we can. But as we all know -- any newbies, please step out, this is an advanced course -- sometimes we have to reinforce a perp’s paranoia with a strong response. Taking him out … of the room with all due prejudice, then freeing the victims and getting them safely back to their rooms.

And I don’t like the arrangement one bit. Look at the short straight line between Danny’s dull eyes and Madame Grimaldi’s soft exposed neck. I see a serious threat of displaced identity in his eyes, which can only manifest itself in agitation and a quick lunge. He looks calm. But most wolves look equally calm just before they spring and tear the throat out of their prey. Which is nature’s way, no doubt, with no possibility of institute-threatening lawsuits. If there’s no chance of lawsuits, or inconvenient damage to property, I suppose, let him go. But a real threat, you simply have to take the perp out.

My Dog Safe With Buddha

(Not part of the Paranoia series)

When they came out with the latest virus, naturally I was concerned. What am I going to do, drop dead with all the other losers? I always heard it growing up, “Get your exercise. If you don’t, you’ll deserve what you get.” By which they didn’t mean all the boys, but a short life, a sudden death, maybe dangling from a rope, depending on the crime.

My concerns are like everyone’s. I came into the world a few years back, relatively speaking. My memory’s hazy on the subject, but there were apparently 15 billion years when I wasn’t here. Then at the end of that vast span, I popped into the world like clockwork and since then have hung on for dear life. Saying, “I will not willingly go back into the void. I’m here, deal with it.” I said this through times of war and peace, although I didn't serve in either. With some regret, though, because I think it would've been great to serve in the war. Maybe you remember my pitiful longing for the service in my post, “Sarge: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

My big problem with the Corona virus these days is, "What’s going to happen to my dog if it happens to me?” My dog I got on a fluke. Her mother was in the yard minding her business when a smaller dog got through a crawlspace in the fence and consummated a brief relationship. Yielding five puppies, one of which became mine. So it was someone else’s problem and we’ve been joined at the hip now all these years. Had I been a block away, had I not answered the phone that day, we would’ve never met.

But we did meet, and we’ve had a special bond ever since. I’ve seen her through many things, learning to love dog food, etc., and I get her only the best. We have to keep going. I’m all she’s got, but with my advanced years naturally I worry what could happen. Now, all of a sudden, there’s a virus going around that threatens people of my demographic, older gentlemen who breathe and touch their faces. The store’s even out of paper towels, that’s how hard up we are. Because I use paper towels to clean up my dog’s poop. And suddenly they’re more precious than gold...

Anyway, have I mentioned, I can’t die! Because what would become of her? She’d wake up and not get her expensive food, not go out to poop, etc., She’s already kind of upset about the paper towel shortage. This other thing, my demise, I don’t want to have to lay that on her too. She might stroke out and I’d be left alone, with my last roll of paper towels that I was holding on to for special times, her birthday, the day she was spayed, etc.

Beyond the frills of paper towels and things, there’s the sorrow she would feel if I were suddenly stricken by viruses and died. “Why'd he have to abandon me? Was he thinking of the time I accidentally peed on the kitchen floor?” That’s terrible, I don’t want this dog to have one ounce of troubles or sorrows. You might remember, that’s how Buddha started out. His dad kept him from troubles and sorrows. Then he discovered suffering and found out, “Shit happens.” He sat under the bodhi tree and was enlightened. If I die, my dog will have things to deal with, heavy stuff, and might even be peeing at the base of a similar tree and come to a place of inner knowledge. I hope to impart enlightenment to her, but so far my attempts have been met with resistance. She'd rather play with dog toys than meditate. So I just breathe and wait.

But so far I’m still alive, so Buddha can meditate and keep his gentle arms and hands folded until that day, if ever, when I'm not.

Day 940, No One In Sight

Paranoia

Part 11 of 30

I don’t actually have a gun -- no guns at all -- but I probably should have. Packing heat could very well come in handy. I can certainly imagine all the scenarios, like hiding away in a cave for 940 days and it'd be tough without a gun. If nothing else, you could shoot fruit from a tree and with it bring into your precious system the building blocks of nutrition. Anything that helps me stagger across the finish line of Day 941 would be good, probably, although at some point I could start wondering what the point is. Then it becomes dangerous.

But 941 days, that’s pretty long. 365 days in a year, and multiply it out, it’s something under 10 years. Definitely a long time to hold out, being as it is -- wow! --  something under 10 years. How time flies when you’re in the midst of a standoff whether with yourself or others, and whatever else may be out there.

I’ll tell you right now, I’ve thought of this before, because I’ve been in a cave: A cave is a great natural shelter, meaning, Other animals have noticed the same thing. And if I’m in a cave very long, it won’t be long till the animals and their families start showing up for the night. Meaning, a cave is a terrible place to live unless you have some way of securing it (1), and some way of (2) of stilling your conscience about the idea of displacing animals. I don’t think I could do it. I’ve camped before, then the paranoia of animals becomes too much.

I was talking with a guy a couple years ago -- homeless dude, but the county gave him a tent and let him stay at the state park without paying -- who totally turned me off to the idea of camping, roughing it in the wild. He told me about raccoons continually tearing through the sides of his tent, looking for food or whatever. He said they have razor-sharp teeth and claws like a bear. He was on his third free tent, which started to sound to me more like a way for the county to kill off the riff-raff and blame it on raccoons!

At that time I was living in a camper and I was paranoid enough about a camper. The wind rocks it. You hear rain like metal pellets. The furnace is hard to turn off. There’s no easy access points to it if you had to do emergency maintenance. Half your stuff’s outside, a easy mark for predators, including other people. But I considered myself lucky because another guy had an animal trailer he lived in. Which looked very cramped. He and I never spoke. I wasn't sure about him. Probably had seen a lot of stuff in his life.

Then there’s the mosquitoes, and ticks, and every godforsaken creature of the night, mostly raccoons clawing at that guy’s place. Which is actually only one step up from a cave -- because no creature of the wild has ever missed an entire cave. A cave wouldn't be good enough for me. They'd storm it and drive me out with fire.

Skeletons, Torment In Heaven

 

Paranoia

Part 10 of 30

It’s always -- every stinking day -- with the death paranoia! I truly think my mind senses it could be any minute now. But it can’t be now because I’m doing this now. And I don’t just want to drop dead minutes from now, having my neck snapped as in a lynching. That’s an interesting thing, though, the way they dangle the bad news in front of you: “I sentence you to death by hanging from the neck until you are dead,” something like that. You’re like, Thank you for clarifying that, the exact sentence, the technique, and the result...

It would be worse, but certainly just as authoritative, if hideous skeletons who’ve “been there, done that,” came back with their bones and a tormented grin -- insistent as only an enlivened skeleton can be -- cackling the same words and taking glee in your torment. From their point of view, the more the merrier. “As you are morose, so I have been. And as you have been gleeful and morbid at the passing of others, so we shall be for unending centuries to come!”

Half the fun for them is getting there. Not just putting you in your place but keeping you on full display with the most morbid context they can muster: “What you’ve done was terrible, and the penalty will match your deeds, tormenting your mind every moment between now and then. What you have done is so heinous you will never lose the freshness of your punishment!”

Heh, this kind of reminds me of my dreams as a kid, but back then it was more of a heavenly situation I beheld. The great throne-room and a hallway like in The Wizard of Oz, and the bitter realization that there could be no escape. Heaven is known for many things, but one thing it’s known for above all things, and according to every source, if you look hard enough and are diligent in your interpretation: There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no broom closet in heaven for a sanctuary. Meaning, whoever the heavenly janitors are, they don’t keep their equipment and rags in a typical broom closet. They’re either in the open in the hallway or they're materialized as necessary when a blot on Heaven’s purity demands cleansing.

Look at our hero. There’s two things hovering. A bare light bulb, known of course for the torment it causes when swinging to and fro and stirring up eerie shadows. A skeleton gets its bony fingers close enough, and the thing’s swinging, downright terrifying. And there’s a horn or megaphone, a primitive speaker, perhaps, announcing the verdict, the disappointment, and finally the sentence of your hanging. O! I hope that doesn't loom out there for me! But if it does, my last act in this mortal existence will be peeing my pants and leaving the mess for others.

Nature's Buddy Rubbers

 

Paranoia

Part 9 of 30

This is one of those especially bad days. I hate to admit it gets this way once in a while, but, hey, life obviously runs the gamut in its greater and more despicable extremes. You want to be happy all the time, then the slightest thing -- the winds of change blow in -- and you’re at your wit's end.

Being oppressed like this is an occasional thing, so I'm not trying to drive anyone away as though I’m an escapee from a clinic. Good news for the system, I haven’t escaped yet, but if I could just clasp the key in my hot little hand really hard for three or four hours, I’d have a good enough impression for Dirk -- one of the more resourceful inmates -- to make a working key. Then with enough of a diversion on the south side of the clinic, we’d be out again. Now, if we could only coordinate the escape with the time the train goes by, it’d be a piece of cake. Speaking of which, we might just hide the key in the cake.

Anyway, who among us doesn’t have bad days, whether you’re free to come and go (which must be nice) or you find your permanent residence a little more permanent than living creatures typically relish? And how about this for a sign of the institution’s failure: They know we’re all down and they still make us paint the walls gray! You probably know my theory on this stuff; it’s purely job security for them. So the crazier we are, the less we can see straight -- and with the paranoia and shaking I invented four new dances in the last week alone -- the better off they are.

Actually, I have so many problems that I don’t mind the institution as much as you’d think. Because if I weren’t here, I’d still be bothered with the same problems, only more on my own without the free medicine. On the other hand -- and I won’t get too graphic and thereby reduce my readership beyond the last three or four of you -- the sex is terrible. Although hope springs eternal -- Amen? -- so I’m still packing this condom. Because that’s the kind of guy I am, always wanting the best for all parties, happiness for me, yet being able to deprive the world of my offspring. Who’d be such mental giants, supermen, superwomen, my bloodline no doubt would take over the world! We’d pick up where my Dad left off, and big respect for Dad in Heaven. Hope he’s proud of his old sonny boy.

But maybe he's not that proud. Realizing this is the Creme de la Crap for me. Why do I exist, only to suffer this paranoia, the whole bitter landscape, one problem after another? Because of one stinking guy, my aforementioned Dad in heaven! He should not have gone all the way back when he had a chance, so here I am. Or if he planned to go all the way, he could’ve planned on protection. How hard is it to put a Nature's Buddy on? Then everyone's happy. Next time, step up your game, Dude! Give me a damned break!

Daughter of The Gods

 Paranoia

Part 8 of 30

Hmm, I want to be therapeutic about paranoia. I've had problems with it for centuries and I don’t want the so-called relief to be more of the same, driving me and everyone down into deeper and even more treacherous depths. I'm like anyone, I see a naked lady tied and surrounded by crocodiles or alligators -- aren’t they like one chromosome off? -- and I’m thinking, Pessimistic! She's a goner...

But then I realize, Damn it, you fool, you're giving up on the gods a little too soon! Where's your faith? Where's your patience? Haven’t you learned by now that the gods tend to be on the surprising side? Inscrutable, in the end aroused, certainly not incapable, not quick to yield or cede territory, especially among their own. Is there a pantywaist god among them who'd send his or her only begotten daughter into a world of sickness and sin only to be had, to be a mark, to be defeated? I think to myself, How many questions was that? Then repeat the whole spiel back in my head, counting fingers. Five questions. I quickly answer, “No, no, no, no, hell no...”

Among the gods everything (potentially) has a quick reversal, the rug pulled out from under the enemy’s feet, the establishment of justice, a claiming of glory that was never really lost, and a surprise ending that should be no surprise. They like to get the enemy right where they want him. In the sweet zone for leveling them, flattening them, going nuclear, boom! Of course there’s no real blame for the alligators, so their death is incidental. They’re only doing what’s in their nature, and if their nature says the chick's indeed fit for eatin’ on, that can’t be wrong. But they still must be defeated, because ... this is the daughter of the gods.

Which could be true of any of us. Explaining in terms anyone can understand why it is that bad things simply never come to fruition, but are thwarted just in the nick of time. And certainly any foe that felt it might have it over on the very daughter of the gods, eating her and justifying it lightly, would have to be deluded, or to put a positive spin on it, more optimistic than the situation warrants, given a considered examination of the circumstances. Enough for theodicy, albeit explained in simple terms. The gods wipe the shit off their shoes on the enemy.

How about me -- I'm no crocodile -- could I possibly have the hots for the daughter of the gods? I feel that is too personal a question and a question wrought with potential consequences via-a-vis my continued existence in the world and in the presence of the gods to answer truthfully. So let me answer it by really not answering it, while not quite not answering it: Given the right circumstances, anything is possible if the gods are not offended. If they're happy with a potential son-in-law like me, who first wants to sample the goods, that’s their business. I can only accede to their desires, although I would not be quick to give alligators the same rights. There would definitely not be a joining together of them in my thoughts as a party to any menage a trois, her, me, and them.

I guess what I should really say is, the gods are a psychological help to us, and the daughter of the gods would be a salvific figure, a metaphor, of the communications from that realm to this. As the alligators of sin threaten us -- even raising paranoia in me, and other unfortunate folks -- we desire the sweet and innocent nudity of this precious daughter, bestowing the goodness of heaven to take away our paranoia and allow us to swim free. Just to make everything crystal clear, so there’s nothing left to chance between the gods and us, I want to lose paranoia, not gain piranha.

King Paranoia In Heaven

Paranoia

Part 7 of 30

Here’s a truth you should know, definitely worth the price of admission, zero. It’s biggest value is there’s nothing in it that anyone should dispute. But I fear some of you will and so go on your merry way to a well-deserved destruction. Got your attention? The truth is, It’s not love that makes the world go ‘round, it’s paranoia. Which you come to love, since however things are is what we should love. If we don’t love reality -- as bleak and hopeless as it appears -- we’ve lost the way.

I’ve been seriously pondering -- occasionally splashing my drink from nervousness -- whether to unleash the hounds of this knowledge. Because the whole truth is usually kept from us, mercifully, mostly for our own good, and in large part because it’s frowned upon to watch helpless morons colliding into each other, messing up their hopes and existence and reaping folly. Is it the great tragedy that we think of when that happens? Probably at some level, yes, but the basic gist of it is, it doesn't matter; existence always resets and is back on track with us or without us.

Sometimes I walk through the cemetery up the hill and wonder about the lives at my feet. Were they really anything at all, like this guy over here -- sentimental picture of him encased on the stone? I'd guess like all of us. Paranoid cogs in the machine. Then there’s the others, the vast majority, where vandals have smashed their pictures to smithereens, a terrible thing to see. Or is it? Maybe in the vast hereafter, once they've received their wings they've flitted to their eternal reward and it doesn't matter. Or, it could be, they’re saying, “I totally missed the truth, went in for counseling for paranoia when I should’ve seen it as my inspiration. I became a boring simpleton when I could've gone hog-wild and at least had a story to tell.” So they make the sign of the cross from their perch in heaven, a blessing upon anyone who would so graciously -- but without apparent wisdom -- destroy their picture.

All right, paranoia makes the world go ‘round, we all agree. But who’s in charge of seeing to it that it gets done? That’s one of my biggest complaints about co-workers and slipshod supervision; let’s cut the crap and get things done! In these matters, it’s King Paranoia, and whomever the queen for the day is, because King Paranoia totally suspects her of cheating with other anthropomorphic concepts.

King Paranoia sees those with the promise to fill the many important sectors of existence. And before you know it, you -- all us lowly peons -- are in a slot of society: farming, manufacturing, science, holding down the fort, screwing up, and the list goes on. Maybe you’re a list-maker, no one could be more paranoid, being a completist, but always a hopeless failure. I'm giving it my all and usually see when paranoia is about to trap me into spending the whole day on something. The best weapon against paranoia, then, are ellipses, you’re just saying … “Let someone else do the grunt work. There’s a whole sector out there for me to worry and fret over.” King Paranoia sees our good deeds and says, “At last, someone I can use!”

The Paranoia Debate

Paranoia

Part 6 of 30

Please forgive a little diversion into my debate notes from 7th grade. They gave us our assignment and we went off to do the research. Then the third day of class I was the debate foreman for the affirmative of this proposition: "Exposure of anything to the light of day and the careful study of those qualified to judge, not swayed by prejudice or simply a mind already made up, is among life's greatest antiseptics and stimulants toward truth, hereby spurred on." I'll never forget it. We wiped out the other team, and to this day the question to me is irrefutable. It was such a moment, really, and everyone was so blown away that we spent the rest of the semester arguing about the merits of particular baked goods. And brownies won!

Along those same lines, I used to hear the great beloved song, “Count Your Blessings,:which was a decent song that also had a lot to do with your attitude. Because no matter how bad things are -- there are always great antiseptics and stimulants, and, yes, you can accomplish anything, and that's the truth! But enough about debate, now to real life...

The setting here is a town dump, which allowed public access. And our parents didn't care if we played there, killing rats, blowing up aerosol cans, anything. It was great. Among the personnel there, let’s see, Edgar was the first manager, then a guy named Stubby took over, then a guy named Harmon. That’s when I left home. Anyway, we did go to the dump to play, shoot rats with bows and arrows and watch them bleed and seek out the quarters where the poorer rats go, their holes.

I suppose some of my bad luck is karma from those days, because I couldn’t stifle my killer instincts, thinking it was so fun. I caught a piece of the karma even as a kid, cutting myself on a tin can and needing shots. Mom asked WTF happened, and what could I say but the truth? We were throwing bricks through old TVs and watching them explode. But I was too close to this one -- a Philco -- and the blast carried me 40 feet through the air. Quite a flight, too. Half hour later I landed in some rubbish and sliced my finger pretty bad. I went through the rubbish and found an old chunk of cotton, a little sticky with something, and bandaged it good enough to survive the walk home. And so forth, I threw myself on Mom's mercy, she sewed it up, and I went to bed and had dreams and nightmares, most of them in quick succession, some of them on a seemingly endless hold while they threaded the projector, a type you couldn’t get parts for today.

So what happened next? I can’t remember what just happened! Ever since that time, my memory has been very faulty. I’m hoping to find the cure someday but have had great difficulty … My memory’s so bad … I have vast experience with paranoia ... I hope they can cure me. Something happened. Whatever it was is, what was it I said? Anyway, I believe there’s a whole slate of enemies, see? Out to get me, see? My life was essentially ruined, somehow. People from the old days who see me also wonder what happened. I’m always like, “What are you talking about? Nothing happened to me.” Then I fall asleep and wake up crying out. It’s a bastard. Whatever I said. Somethings out there, just biding its time, somewhere nearby, waiting to get me.

They took me to a doctor. His favorite word was “Interesting.” He'd put the listening thing up to my chest and say “interesting,” and so forth. I just lost my train of thought again. And this might be too much a downer. I’m fearful it is. It really gets to me. Look at my hand, that’s some shaking, huh?

Really, though, that’s nothing. I could shake it twice as fast if I needed to, and I just might...

Reaching The Happy Land

Paranoia

Part 5 of 30

Do you get the distinct feeling these days that there’s a lot more outright glee when people die than there used to be? I’m running over it in my thoughts and that's how it seems. We may not hear a lot of happiness about deaths but I don’t hear much sorrow either. And if the sorrow isn't there, we're left with some degree of happiness. But then again I might not be the best witness on the subject, since I don’t hear much about anything. Essentially in my own little bubble.

Now that I think of it, I was always in a kind of bubble. No one was coming to me with their problems, their joys and sorrows, but I still heard it. The widow would be in seclusion, walking in slow motion around her house dressed in flowing black. If you ever saw her the veil was so dark you thought you were in a horror movie. Just hanging there, about three inches from her face. Flowing forth from a full-headed outer veil holder, probably mostly so the veil wouldn’t bump against her nose and get wet, like if she were crying a lot and her nose running.

It’s the kind of thing I remember we never felt comfortable to stare at. But back then they practically closed up the house, and really got into the full art of grief. And this also went for men although they didn’t wear a veil, just hung around the house poking into the cupboard trying to figure out how to cook food. And they may not have been very hungry, because grief took their appetite away. Those were the good old days when people really took grief to heart and sometimes howled for a month.

I hate to go overboard characterizing grief these days in the full negative way I imagine it. Suffice to say, these days if you’re inclined to do anything at all in the face of death, people think there's something wrong with you. “Eww, you’re morbid. Death is a fact of life, get over it. Grief? We remember your husband, something of a bastard, good riddance to bad rubbish.” I’d hate to have someone say that about me, but in these coarse days -- “La la la, he died!” -- there’s nothing so scurrilous that one of our modern-day shallow grievers wouldn’t say. “C’mon, Maude, let’s strap on the bikinis and hit the beach!” An actual quote by a couple of 20-something widows. Their guys supposedly died of grease fumes at the factory, but I suspected foul play, leading me to surmise the love of sunbathing and swimming overrode the supposed love of their lives! But I haven’t got the proof. It's under lock and key. The police would throw me out on a writ of nolo contendre, a confusing topic for those who don’t know the law.

OK, well it’s no secret that I’ve thought a few times about my own death. It hasn’t happened yet, but when it does… Let me repeat that slowly, When-it-does… Don’t assume the worst in my intentions. Because there’s no there there. Look to my family. Are they grieving apparently too little? Or similarly, are they grieving too much? And we may as well throw in, Are they grieving just right? That might be a BINGO. Because they’ve given a little too much thought to the subject to be completely innocent. I’d round up the usual suspects, which with my well-placed, fully-justified paranoia, includes every stinking one of my survivors and friends. Make sure you give them the third degree before a single cent is distributed!

Scavenging For Acorns

Paranoia

Part 4 of 30

My life of paranoia is one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had. But that’s not to say I’m miserable every moment of every day, because I’m not. I’ve really worked on it to the extent I can, and have been doing the things a doctor so wisely told me, “Try to make the best of things. And remember, there’s lots of other losers worse off than you.” That one took me by surprise, because, really, when it’s just me in my constant thoughts, I have a constant nagging pain. But when I compare myself to others, it helps me to know I'm leading the pack even if it's only narrowly.

So this guy's a pretty good doctor, and the insurance company isn’t paying him because he’s a quack. He obviously can make some halfway decent pronouncements. And if I can’t believe him, who am I going to believe? Some guys at the local bar talking dirt against him? I mean, they might be right, but there’s a big difference between him and them. The insurance company wouldn’t pay squat for the opinion of guys at the bar. And they’re a profit-making company, so you can trust them.

It's really going pretty well. Maybe not everyday’s a good day, but on the good days I'm following his advice to the letter. And for the most part, two thumbs up. The more miserable others are, the better. The other day there was a guy bleeding from the leg. Apparently too dumb to handle an ax. We were trying to call the ambulance -- not so much me but this other dude -- and he and the ambulance driver got in such an argument about the case, thinking that the guy had something to do with it, or was perhaps the innocent victim’s brother. I myself was confused, and he had a towel wrapped around his leg, but maybe it didn’t look as bad as it was. But the ambulance guys, confused, just fingered us all and sped off. It took me to pronounce the guy dead, and I’m not even medically sure when the exact moment of death came. The police came back and called him “A. John Doe.” So, my condolences to the Doe family. It could be that he was a nice guy, but I'm not really his judge.

Anyway, fast forward. I’m always looking for people worse off than me and trying to make the best of it. So imagine the valuable goldmine I inherited when my neighbor’s furnace wasn’t working. Right about the time of the biggest blizzard in the state since the time of Christ. Cold? Like my dad used to say, “Colder than a well-digger’s butt,” and something about a witch’s tit.

So, again, it was very therapeutic to watch my neighbor out foraging for acorns to burn to keep his house heated. My own paranoia receded and it was one of those rare times of comfort that I’d almost forgotten existed. The only problem with the whole scene, I needed to put some caulking around my own picture window. It’s a little drafty. And, dammit, a draft like keeps my furnace running, money down the drain. It's always something, but this is ridiculous. Things were going pretty well, then this. I just can’t catch a break...

The Terror of Meeting People

Paranoia

Part 3 of 30

You know me, Mr. Social, yes, perhaps a little paranoid. But I also know you. And skittish isn't the right word. More like damaged. But in your favor, you're always optimistic that you can do better and make progress. I pray for you daily, "Lord, take away his crippling skittishness, but -- high five -- Thy will be done." So you're you and I'm me. And I'm pretty close to being right in my element. Give me a group of people, none of whom I know and I’m comfortable going around the circle, getting this guy’s name, and her name, right around the room. I do my best to remember their names so I can impress everyone by making it personal. Sometimes it works, and sometimes I accidentally spit out the mental device I use, “Hello, Chick With The Fat Calves, er, I mean, Nancy.” That's when I collapse.

In all seriousness, Nancy should be an easy one because I’ve known other Nancys that look similar. And the way life operates, they’re not ever going to show up together in the same room. Life seems to have a way of doing things like that in a helpful order. You meet Nancy in kindergarten, then a different one a few years later in college, then a different one yet at work, where it’s almost impossible to make friends because you’re too focused on job evaluations. Right now, just skimming through my head, I don’t know any Nancys that are actually likely to show up. But if I do meet one -- it might happen today! -- I’ll tag-pneumonic her with this blog post...

I kind of like meeting people, and yet most of me sees the downside from the start. I’ve been going to church, trying to broaden my horizons, and I’m seeing how hard it is to keep people’s names in line. So far none of them are Nancy. I’ve been there probably 6 months and I know about eight names. Whether they’re paranoid about me or my paranoia about them is the hindrance, I haven’t figured it out yet. I remember in some of the churches of old, very judgmental, the direction of the paranoia was easy to see. But the new way of doing things -- I’m OK, You're OK -- no one’s quick to judge me, at least orally. And I’m not quick to judge them. I'm very wary.. So far -- it might be easy to guess -- I fit in OK in the general activities, but the interpersonal stuff’s a rough go, a hellish nightmare.

The obvious downside of meeting them and investing the time is you might get sick of it and want to drop off. Which is easy enough to do, it’s true, if you move out of state, to a different country, or have a facelift. But even in The Big City you have a smaller area you’re ranging in, so it’s much like a small town, and now you’re suddenly needing to take alternate routes to get anywhere. With the hope -- hope against hope -- that you won’t meet anyone else, because there’s only so much one guy can handle.

If you feel the same way, please don’t tell me. It might lead to something. It might even turn out that you live only a block from me. Then we’re waving, then we’re speaking, then something horrible happens -- your landlord throws you out because your cat’s pregnant -- and I’m left alone. Or you want to move in with me and ... that's not something I could allow.

Paranoia: Greatly Challenged

 

Paranoia

Part 2 of 30

No, not ill, haven’t coughed all day, except for the bacon I swallowed wrong. Am I right? What is it with bacon? How come it’s so hard to cook it so the meat of the goodie -- the non-fatty parts -- aren’t hard as hell? I don’t remember this growing up back when Grandma used to cook it. It was uniformly soft, from stem to stern, particularly if you were taking extra care while it was in the pan. But these days, whether they’ve changed bacon's secret formula to compensate for tougher times, it’s always hard. And all the trying I do, my level best, nothing I do makes a difference.

But that’s one for my cookbook series, not yet planned. There is, though, an element of paranoia that goes with it. And if the problem originates with me, I’d like to know it. But there’s no way to know it unless a huge group has the same experience. And I know a lot of people have given up bacon entirely for health reasons. Was it the impact on their health from the weird hard bits that you really can’t give your dog?

I’ve gotten real sensitive about what I give my dog, real careful, that is. Because she had some bowel obstructions that I was a slow to realize. And here I am, her only full-time caregiver. I definitely don’t want her death on my conscience, even though, yes, it would be mostly her fault. Because she’s extremely undiscerning about what’s good for her and what’s not. Anyway, the bowel obstructions: Those came from dog treats and the fact that some of the ingredients of dog treats are relatively hard. And they get harder over the course of a month or so, especially if they’re exposed to the air on a daily basis. For some reason they don’t tell you that. And it’s not in the fine print on the bag like we’d expect human food to come with warnings if it were so dangerous.

It’s funny I haven’t even lifted a finger for my cookbook series; I’m sure there’d be all kinds of stuff that'd appeal to the average person. Like my Grandpa used to say -- I think it was him, maybe some other guy entirely, “Everyone’s gotta eat.” That’d be a decent series for that reason alone, I'd be getting the traffic from the vast pool of people who have to eat. Whereas with paranoia, they say not everyone has it, and most are too paranoid to admit it. It's just the unfortunate few, I guess, like me and a few other guys I know who not only have it but explore it. Not that that makes it anything to be proud of. I’m not proud, and if I were I’d be afraid to admit it, because how much grief can an innocent guy stand?

About these dog treats, though, I took her to the vet a couple times. And the last time they kept her overnight. Then I paid my $100 and got her home. They told me only, “She had a bowel obstruction.” No word about what the obstruction was, and I didn’t ask. And she went back to pooping like normal. I resumed her normal diet, including the dog treats. And after a couple weeks, guess what, the same signs of a bowel obstruction started in. Then I thought, What could it possibly be? She gets her normal food and two dog treats a day, nothing else. Wait! Replay that last piece, “and two dog treats a day.” I grabbed a dog treat and examined it. As the month goes on, they become very hard.

How did I fail so badly on that? What other problems are coming that I should know about? One interesting thing about the bowel obstruction is it wasn't all bad. I had to walk her farther to get her to go. Which led one day to me finding $100 on the ground. I was happy with that, but the vet was over $100. Meaning I nearly broke even, just a little short. About how my luck goes, better than nothing, but nothing worth writing home about either.

Alas In Paranoialand

Paranoia

Part 1 of 30

Alas, I've died and gone to the land where paranoia reigns supreme, everyday one pitfall after another. I’ve ventured these parts before, the sights and the whole spectacle. But really, I'm likely not really dead, but this is my sad lot in life. It happens a lot, these universal shoves into the mud, the bony cosmological knee to the metaphorical crotch, a seemingly beautiful conch at my ear but no reassuring sound of the sea. Just a far off voice from the past -- traveling light years to arrive and just in time to say, “Your party's not available. Hang up and try again later, loser.”

I slam the phone to the table and the murmuring voice goes dead. The vastness of space then reminds me, I'm a slug. So how’s that for luck? It sums up my life experiences, sour from day one. And now I’m out of trust, out of hope, my optimism's shot, and I am, above all, paranoid. A strain of paranoia for every occasion. From “Woe is me” to “What’s a guy gotta do to catch a break?” Plus, it might sound trivial and I should leave it out, but I'm also out of Pepsi.

I hesitate to go on -- I have big plans for the blog but I'm reluctant. And yet, when there's grief for one, there’s joy for the rest. I could help so many other people just by plummeting through all the usual supports and landing with a thud. Just my luck, the role of the redeemer. All this time with the huge grief and now you're cheered up. The same thing used to happen to me. I'd hear of someone with a terrible life and I'd thank my lucky stars it wasn't me. I'd even get giddy, call a few friends, they'd come over and we'd jump on the bed and throw bags of confetti into the air. When we were real happy we'd open the bags.

But, please, don't worry about me. Whatever you might've done for me, that time is long past. Please, not one pathetic syllable. But there are other worthless sufferers out there moaning and groaning, turning over in their bed, falling out occasionally, crying like babies, shrieking at their window, raising a ruckus and driving everyone crazy. Possibly say a little prayer for them. I'm still able to talk in sentences, so I'm actually doing pretty well. My blog helps me. Ten years ago a reader told me "Attaboy" about something, my good spelling. So when I'm real down I find his friendly word and reread it. I also emit forth a cleansing shriek now and then. Let me see if I'm in good voice: "Shriek!" I bet they heard that across the street!

Anyway, what's a constant 24/7 paranoia really like? First, possibly to shake up your assumptions, it’s not sooo terrible. It’s not great, but there are worse things. This is mostly mental, which is still painful. But no one’s twisting my arm behind my back, no one’s depriving me of meals, and despite the constant fears, no one's broken down the front door and made off with my TV. It helps that I pay for security, an alarm. But I do have the paranoia that it might be false security, just an empty box that'll do nothing in my time of need.

Come by this month and I’ll let you know if things get any better. Spoiler alert: I already know you won't show up. Who would? But maybe by the end of the month I’ll somehow be magically reconciled to life even with this horrendous burden. It's hard to picture. This ain't flag football, it ain't beanbag. It's real life with real life consequences, one cruddy thing after another. And I’m very aware of what I’m up against. I know how life turns out, in wretched bloody shambles, the main beam of the house crushing me.

Oh well. As Aunt Alice used to say, “Cheers dears!”