Leave The Key In The Old Front Door Lock

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Can’t Get You Out Of My Head

After spending half of my life dealing with Crohn’s disease I’ve become pretty good at soldiering through pain. Sometimes that’s an asset, and sometimes not. For example: the toothache. Over the last few months, the nagging pain at the back of my mouth had become steadily worse, to the point that cold beverages and any amount of sugar sent mind-erasing bolts of pain through my skull that made me want to kill strangers. I finally decided to do something about it, if for no other reason than the fact that soon the pain would surely make me strangle a screaming baby, and I’m way too pretty for prison.

So I call my dentist, for the first time since 2002, and make an appointment. Four on a Friday afternoon. No cleaning, no foreplay, just hot metal-on-tooth action. I leave work early, pop in a stick of gum to freshen the breath (pointless, I know, but whatever), and drive off to my dental fate. I’m the last appointment of the day, and I show up 7 minutes late. My dentist is polite, but it’s obviously been a long week and I can tell he wants to get out of the office without too much delay.

I can’t decide if that comforts me or not.

We go back to the exam room, which I notice has clouds printed on the fluorescent light covers and the soothing tones of 104.1 KMGL on the radio (for those of you not in the OKC area, KMGL is that station that your Mom thinks is kind of bland). There is some more small talk, and soon the procedure begins. He pokes around for a bit, unable to see any cavities or any sticky spots (which would indicate decay). Eventually his poking is rewarded by explosions of pain in my brain. Success! We have located the offending spot. But, no. Bad news, old boy. It seems that the weak link is a wisdom tooth, which has come down in such a way as to make it impossible to clean. The little bastard, whom I’ve now named Reginald Crapworth, has an extra cusp (turns out that I am a mutant) that has a compromised edge and is more porous than our Canadian border. Bits of sugar and cold water flowed into the tooth unimpeded and caused the above-mentioned blinding pain. It could be repaired, but Reginald’s placement in my mouth made it nigh impossible to keep him clean through normal means. As such, there’s a pretty good chance that I’d be back in again with the same problem. Add to it all that Reginald doesn’t bite down on any other teeth, and it was fairly easy to make the decision to remove the useless Mr. Crapworth from my skull.

However, Mr. Crapworth was a tenacious tenant, refusing to leave peacefully. All told, Reginald’s eviction took about 40 minutes, 82 dollars, and more than a few soft rock songs (Wilson Phillips’ “Hold On” did ask the important question: Are you comfortable with the pain?).

End results? I can drink ice cold drinks again! I can eat cookies! I’m also in incredible, constant, wicked pain! The pain will fade, I know. What won’t fade is the realization that I now have an odd number of teeth in my head.

And I’m not too happy about that.

As If It Matters

I met Rudy Guiliani today, and now I know that I’ll never be a major force in American politics. My first reaction was to moon him, but I was too pragmatic to do it. Instead, I smiled and shook his hand. I didn’t even bother to get a handful of my patented ass-stink beforehand. Also, I can’t say “Senator Brownback” without snickering. It probably doesn’t help that I’m a bleeding-heart-soy-latte-drinking-former-volvo-driving liberal in a state that loves Bush more than Texas does. I’ve never felt all that powerful in the whole democratic process, mainly because I’ve only voted for one person who has been elected to office. That was Bill Clinton, in 1996.

There was a really sweet time in my life when I didn’t care at all about politics. It was also the time in my life that I drank the most. Correlation? I’m not saying no.

I don’t drink anymore, and my apathy has been replaced with anger. The last two years have helped with that. It’s pointless to talk about the myriad ways in which my country horrifies me. That’s not helpful. What are we going to do about it? There’s Unity08, a nonpartisan (or rather, third-partisan) group on the Internet hoping to nominate and propel an electable centrist into the White House, or at least close enough to scare the shit out of the established parties. I can’t see a reason not to support their efforts. The disastrous policies of the Neo-Conservative GOP have done more to destroy this country than Stalin ever did, but the Democratic Party’s absurd pattern of Chamberlain-esque appeasement has not left them much credibility when they criticize the status quo they helped create. There are notable exceptions, of course. Farsighted leaders (LEADERS!) who had the spine to oppose the USAPATRIOT Act, to oppose war in Iraq, to come out in favor of a living wage instead of a minimum wage, to demand that government expenditures bear some resemblance to government income. Nowhere in there did I mention immigration, a national language, flag-burning, or gay marriage. Those issues, while worthy of discussion, are political sleight-of-hand that will never matter in odd-numbered years, and pretending that they are the fulcrum upon which our nation rises or falls simply makes me sick.

And that’s just another reason why I’ll never be a major force in American politics.

[Yes, I did liken the Neo-Conservative movement to both Nazi Germany and Soviet Union under Stalin.]

Can’t You Understand, Oh My Little Girl?

Gmail thinks I’m a sad, angry loner. I use Gmail to to make notes about the videos I’m cataloging for my job (it’s a long story as to why, but the short version is: my office was not designed for the job I have to do), and then send the the e-mails to myself. I do that a lot. Between 10 to 20 times per day. As a result, the majority of the e-mails I send and receive include such great key words as: corpse, rage, dead children, anger, fear, destruction, coping, emotional damage, lingering effects, execution, burning cars, and tree-planting ceremony. The best part of all this is how it plays havoc with their marketing information, and even caused them to try and tempt me with sponsored links about anger management classes and finding strength through prayer. I’m curious as to just how massively a concerted effort could contaminate the data that organizations like Google collect. Throw in a few choice words and phrases, like “Salt Lake City” or “toaster oven” for absolutely no reason, and then click through all the absurd links that come back. We could start a network, with code books, and each week would bring a new code word for everyday phrases. Like, “hello” could be replaced by “Johnny Carson” for one week in everyone’s e-mail. Google would think there’s some sort of Gen-X groundswell that needs “Tonight Show” DVDs. Would it be worth it, though? I mean, as corporations go, Google is fairly lacking in malevolence (unless you count their stomach-turning indulgence of the PRC’s fetish for censorship), and perhaps they should be able to make a living without molestation from ungrateful grad students who use their free e-mail every day. And Google does make it pretty easy to ignore their advertisements, so I’m not all that annoyed.

After all, it wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the “Meet Sexy Zombie Singles” advertisement I got last year. And I am NOT meeting any sexy zombie singles without my equally sexy shotgun at the ready.

And You, You Are No Fun

I have a great many things that I’m angry about. Of those things, the ones that are not petty and banal are shared by so many other people that they barely merit mention. I would imagine that 90% of us (and 99% of bloggers) could cut and paste that sentence directly into our lives. Knowing that is the first step in taking yourself less seriously, and becoming less of a pain in the ass to the people around you. Make no mistake: I am not jumping onto the Emo-riffic train to Self-Deprecatia. I kick more ass than seems possible. I know this. But I also suck. I just don’t suck nearly as badly as most people.

Not you, of course.

But back to my original point, or rather the original pointlessness of that which pisses us off. Most of it is very inconsequential, and not worth the time we spend dealing with it. There are very few things in my life that still piss me off years after they happen (quick list: Crohn’s disease, W, terrorism, and evil elves that fuck with my GPA). All the rest of it is really not worth holding on to, and certainly not worth hurting other people. I have to remind myself of that. It’s all fine and good to stand up for yourself, but retribution against others just to get even is pretty pointless and will probably make you look (and feel) small and petty.

I had to remind myself of that last night. There was a heated discussion over the recent vandalism to my myspace profile (believe it or not, I did not bring it up), and how it was my fault. Pretty fucking pointless, right? But I was outnumbered, which led to me quickly becoming defensive and more pissed off than I was about the original act (first because I didn’t want to talk about it, then because I was being blamed). I came precious close to saying some really mean shit that I knew, even in my monkey-rage state, was completely uncalled-for and would have served no purpose.

Not exactly MacBeth, I know. And it seems important in the moment, but then the blood pressure goes back to normal and you remember that these people are (mostly) your friends, and that inflicting pain upon them is not going to make you feel any better. I guess it’s thoughts like those which remind me that I’m not actually evil, and probably why I’m not more exciting to be around.

But What’s Puzzling You Is The Nature Of My Game

I take a perverse pleasure in depriving people of that which they so desperately want. Bear in mind, I did not use the word “need.” Need is different from want. Want is what turns animals into assholes. If you screw me out of a piece of bread because you need it to eat in order to stay alive, I’m not happy about it but I understand (and I’ll do my best to get that bread back or find some more). But if you ride my bumper through a construction zone on the highway because you want to go faster, I am likely to turn into an asshole. Ask the charming young lady who drove behind me this morning. I don’t know sign language, but I’m pretty good at reading lips and I could tell that she had accurately identified me as an “asshole.” She seemed to be very concerned that I know she had correctly understood the situation, so she repeated it over and over and drove as close to my bumper as possible in order to make sure I could see her. I was pleased that we were able to communicate so well even though we were in different cars. “Could this be the beginning of a lifelong friendship,” I wondered. I looked into my rearview mirror and smiled at her. I waved. She did not wave back. I smiled again, but still no response.

Soon the highway widened back to four lanes, and she changed lanes. As she drove past me, I knew that our chances of friendship were quickly running out. So I waved again, and smiled at her. She merely mouthed “ASSHOLE” again as she sped out of my life. Kind of a one-trick pony, I guess. Here’s the craigslist "missed connections" I posted:

“Why Can’t We Be Friends?”
You: curly brown hair, a foul mouth, and some worthless silver car
Me: extremely handsome “asshole” in a Pontiac Sunfire obeying the speed limit
Where: I-35, northbound through Moore
When: Not soon enough for you, apparently
My morning drive is usually the low point of my day, but thanks to you this morning was one of the high points of my life. As we drove together through the narrow, exciting two lane portion of I-35, I was enchanted by you and your angry, angry face. I don’t want to scare you off, but I immediately imagined what life with a gentle soul like you would be like. It may have been the Red Bull I had just finished, or the Belle & Sebastian song playing on my iPod, but I cherished every second of our time together. I do hope that I can see you again sometime, screaming and cursing in my rearview mirror.

I Want To Shoot The Whole Day Down

Is it really Friday? ‘Cause this shit feels a lot like Monday.

This morning began with my iPod slipping back into Disk Mode, continued to slide into shit as I discovered that the USB ports on my iBook were not functioning, and then that the hard disk has errors that need repair (again). And then, before I left home, I made a nice vegetable-burger bagel sandwich and packed it into my lunch box. I of course left it on my couch when I went to work. And someone was parked in my spot last night, so I parked on the street and discovered that someone else was parked in my spot this morning. I really hope it is still there when I get home this evening, because I have the overwhelming urge to be a dick to a total stranger today and it has been way too long since I taught someone an object lesson about how parking spaces that seem too good to be true probably are. Oh, will I ever outgrow my pet peeves? I sincerely hope not. I would much rather everyone else learn not to piss me off.