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The Bipolar Perspective: Can You Afford to be Bipolar?   1 comment

FINANCING YOUR MEDS

When I heard the final tally I got kind of light headed and grabbed a walker from an old man to steady myself. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I had walked into Walgreen’s Pharmacy a month ago and ordered refills for the cocktail of medications I take for Bipolar II. Topamax and Seroquel alone ripped into me for one-thousand dollars EACH for a monthly supply. I suddenly realized I was priced out of the Bipolar Market and had to find a disease with more reasonably priced medications. Or, find a bank that will finance my pills at a decent interest rate.

NO DOGS OR PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS ALLOWED

I left my job on May first in search of greener pastures, or ones that at least weren’t littered with as much dog shit. With it I lost my health insurance. Then I accepted a job as a private contractor, which meant I’d have to get my own insurance. And with mention of a pre-existing illness, insurance companies squeal and run away like little girls to hide behind the golf-bags of their lobbyists in Washington.

As a matter of fact, if you do get coverage, you get treated to a deductible in the thousands, and they do not cover prescriptions or any doctor’s care for one year if related to your pre-existing condition. It’s like buying auto insurance that doesn’t cover body work on your car for the first year if it has a pre-existing dent. Yet you pay through the hairy nostrils for it.

GO ONLINE AND HAVE IT RINGING OFF THE HOOK

Really want to get taken to the cleaners for carelessly being born Bipolar? Request information about insurance coverage online. Your phone won’t stop ringing for forty-eight hours straight with pitch-men and women trying to sell you coverage from companies of which you’ve never heard.

Can you imagine presenting a “Three Stooges Insurance” card to your dermatologist? The doctor has the melanoma half hanging off your rear-end in a bloody fleshy mess, and the receptionist suddenly yells in “Doctor, he’s got “Stooge Coverage!” Suddenly you are handed the scalpel, a mirror and instructions for how to finish up the rest of the surgery on your own. “Moe, Larry and Curly’s” policy only covers the first slice.

ALL ABOARD!

I finally decided to go with a company who offered a good prescription discount card, although it was not part of or administered by “their” plan. They were very careful to make this crystal clear. Everything else was even more ambiguous. In fact, nothing appeared part of the coverage except major medical and dental. And there were so many different providers mixed up in this policy I didn’t know who I was actually being insured by. It actually felt like more of a gang rape.

And the only thing the prescription discount card was good for is picking food out of your teeth. It had a million codes and membership numbers on it. And when the pharmacist called to get my discounts, I was not even in the system. And they had no idea who to call to get me in. And my new “un-sure company” wanted nothing to do with this “outside” prescription plan.

Funny thing is my “agent,” who is probably not that smart if she is working for these-second-story-men, called to let me know my ID cards were in the mail. I told her I had ten days to rescind and I wanted to do so. She said she’d call me back and then vanished like “Casper the Un-Friendly Insurance Ghost.”

SWITCHING TO A MORE AFFORDABLE DISEASE

So in the mean-time, I have cut back on some medications and eliminated others. Now I feel depressed, which is making it hard to concentrate on my new job. And I can only afford to buy a few pills at a time, as I can’t pony up thousands of dollars at once each month.

I have finally come to terms with the fact that I can not afford to be Bipolar anymore and will have to stop. I’ll just have to cease taking my medications and deal with the self-destructive mania and severe depression like a man, if the intense withdraw symptoms don’t kill me first. I’ll simply tell myself to “snap out of it.” And maybe the hopelessness and obsessive compulsive disorder will go away, kind of like a bad cold.

Actually, I heard the medications for Shingles are pretty reasonably priced. Maybe I’ll switch diagnosis. A little physical pain might be nice for a change.

It’s hard to believe every single insurance company and pharmaceutical manufacturer can be so cold-blooded and gaping-mouth-profit-hungry that they are leaving people who truly need their medications to survive unable to afford them. And now the only thing to do is find a way to survive until Obamacare in January 2014 takes affect.

AFFORDABLE AND PORTABLE

I like Obamacare. The president is giving the big insurance and drug companies a major kick in the balls for being greedy and cold-hearted. And, he’ll make it possible for people to get insurance without being penalized for having a pre-existing illness. Did I stress this will be affordable insurance as well?

It’s also portable insurance, which means if you change jobs your insurance goes with you. You’re not out on your own trying to cobble something together with Scotch tape and bailing wire until you can find a new job with full coverage.

PRICED OUT OF YOUR OWN ILLNESS

You’re Bipolar. A treatment is out there. But you can’t have it because it costs too much. We are not talking about a heart transplant. We are talking about getting pills from the fucking drugstore.

Moreover, many of these uninsured people with pre-existing conditions like Bipolar Illness requiring expensive medications are not all poor or destitute by any means. Bipolar professionals, teachers, craftspeople, etc. making good money still can’t manage to lay out thousands of dollars a month for medications. Being priced out of your illness can happen to anyone.

BE VIGILANT

So I leave you with this.. If you are Bipolar trying to get health insurance and are caught up in the pre-existing condition quagmire of insurance company irresponsibility, call your doctor and tell them the situation. He or she might have samples. Also, some local municipalities have programs to help you afford your medications or get them at no-charge. Public hospitals may have similar accommodations. And, I’ve heard there are several pharmaceutical manufacturer web sites that help people in these situations, although I don’t know enough about them to make a recommendation.

DOGS FLYING PLANES

Health insurance providers know nothing about medicine, yet they take control of your treatment, or lack there-of. It’s like letting a dog fly an airplane full of passengers. The only thing they understand is getting fed, so you know you’re in trouble no matter where you’re seated. Consequently, if you are planning on being Bipolar, you might want to wait until after you are insured.

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The Bipolar Perspective: And Then It Hits You   Leave a comment

GRAY BALLS OF FIRE

Ever see the poorly conceived television commercial for Capella University, where an old lady in a wheel chair is teetering at the top of a flight of steps about to take an unscheduled ride to the bottom?  All the while the voiceover is talking about your ailing professional career?  Then the camera zooms in on the constipated looking octogenarian about to take a concrete header and the announcer says, “And then it hits you.  Capella University,”  as if their degree will keep granny from tumbling down the steps in a great ball of gray hair, sagging skin, misapplied lipstick, metal, rubber and wheel chair spokes.

MY CAPELLA MOMENT

A few weeks ago I had my “Capella moment.”  I was sitting in my 2011 Mustang 5.0 outside San Jose California, inert in a freeway traffic jam enjoying my coffee and listening to The Dandy Warhols sing “Minnesoter.”  Then it hit me.  Instantaneously a woman texting while driving her SUV slammed into me at 40 something miles per hour hurling my car into the one in front of me and then rebounded me backward to hit her again like a super-ball.  Literally when the smoke cleared, my Pony was DOA with flaccid airbags, glass everywhere, no visibility in the front or back due to the twisted metal and all I could do was wonder where my coffee and sunglasses were.

MY FORD FORTUNE COOKIE

After five minutes and nobody coming to my aid, smoke started coming out of my air conditioning vents so I bailed out on to the busy four lane freeway.   Still unaided, cars were just driving around this “inconvenience.”  I walked back to the SUV who ran into me.  The middle-aged Asia lady was on the telephone but glad I was OK.  I thanked her for her concern.  The car I was pushed into was barely damaged and the male Asian college student driving was preoccupied with missing a crucial college exam.  He did ask if I was OK.   The only person who seemed to care was the California Highway Patrolman who couldn’t believe I walked away unscathed.  I was injured though, he just couldn’t see it.

The driver of the flatbed hauling my dead Pony to its final resting place gave me a lift to the San Jose Airport so I could rent a car and get back home to San Francisco.  I thanked him, climbed out and watched him drive away with my prized possession contorted  and bleeding until it disappeared into the traffic on the freeway.  And then it hit me;  My car is gone.  I’m all alone at the San Jose International Airport.  I have little cash and no credit cards.  And, I was about to spend time with the three people I despise the most:  An attorney, an insurance agent and a car salesman.   Fuck Capella University.

WITH A GUN

The depression didn’t take long to set in.  When I finally made it back to San Francisco, I got into bed and hid under my blankets for days.  All I could think of was if I got out I’d kill myself.  I wanted to use a gun so I couldn’t screw up not taking enough pills, as I had in the past.  With a gun all you need is the gumption to quickly pull the trigger and it’s over.   A week earlier I had been assaulted over a parking space, had my car unfairly towed costing me $850, paid hundreds of dollars in bogus parking tickets, filed for bankruptcy and finally was able to get a neighborhood parking permit worth it’s weight in gold.  Now I just fell down the proverbial steps in the wheel chair to my demise.

Actually, I was pushed.  Nobody can have luck this bad.   I was convinced of it.  Someone or something was doing this to me.  I didn’t know why but if I stayed in bed I was safe, unless the house caught on fire.  The Bipolar jinx was alive, well and inescapable    All the negative forces in my life converged and took one big shit on me.  I wanted to die before the next act.

WHERE SUICIDE RESIDES

Well obviously I’m out of bed and I’m not dead.   Everybody keeps checking to see if I am still suicidal and I keep explaining that being Bipolar means suicide never leaves your mind.  It just becomes a manageable thought you can push to the side when things aren’t directly blowing your life to pieces.   When things get bad it shoves its way to the forefront and takes over your mind, offering up helpful suggestions on how to rub yourself out.

My psychiatrist ended up raising my Effexor dose to 400mg and has me taking an extra 1mg of Lorazepam each day.   I don’t know if it’s making a difference.  I am still convinced nobody can have as bad luck as I.   Even dropping off the rental car turned into a fiasco.  They couldn’t find the car for three days after it was returned and accused me of still having it, even though they had they keys and rental papers.  Am I a magician now?

A BERLIN SPECIAL

A couple of days ago I went back to work newly medicated and slightly calmer.   I had bought a used car.  Financing it with a bankruptcy was like walking over hot coals while banks chucked poisonous spears at my neck and torso.   But as I drove my new used car through downtown San Francisco enjoying my coffee and listening to NPR, then it hit me.  A German tourist opened her car door into traffic and conveniently clipped off my diver side mirror, giving it a Berlin special.  She caused $1,900 in damage to my 2002 used Mercedes-Benz.

I firmly believe life is a bitch and then you die.  And if you’re Bipolar everything is magnified ten times bigger than life.  You can become unglued about every little thing that happens, or you can roll with it and save the hysterics for the really big stuff.   Sometimes you have to fight to maintain your composure.   But if you are going to stick around you have to take it one day at a time.

INCH BY INCH.  PIECE BY PIECE.

I always thought “take it one day at a time” was a stupid English colloquialism I’d wanted to shove up the ass of anyone who dare say it to me.  However now I think it was written specifically for Bipolar people like me.   If you look at everything that’s wrong and unfair in your life all at once it’s going to consume you.   But if you just do the best you can each day and worry about tomorrow when it comes, life is suddenly a little more manageable.

So if you’re Bipolar and the world is taking you apart piece by piece, deal with it as it comes… In pieces.  Capella University will not come to your rescue with a degree to make it all go away.   It’s a rebuilding process.  And it takes patience.

And then it fucking hit me again.  I am the old woman in the wheel chair at the top of the steps.  Fragile and teetering on the precipice of losing control.  I can either wait for a strong gust of wind to push me over or slowly wheel myself away from the steps.   But I do have the control.

THE TRUE MEANING OF CAPELLA

Whenever I see it I marvel how Capella University’s advertising campaign makes no sense whatsoever.  They never explain how a degree from their school relates to an old woman in a wheel chair sitting precariously at the top of a flight of steps.   And then it hits you.   They teach the lost art of armor suit-making.  If the woman were wearing one, it would protect her from the fall.  If only they could teach me to make one for my mind.

A Bipolar Perspective: Eat Your Froot Loops   Leave a comment

JOB INSECURITY

There is nothing like going back to the office after you’ve just had to take a week off due to a manic shopping spree followed by several days of suicidal depression.   Even if you managed to have your meltdown outside the workplace, you still have to let management know why you suddenly fell off the grid.

In your mind, no matter how understanding they seem, you are forever marked as a Bipolar firecracker that can go off anytime, dramatically jerking, flinching and angrily sputtering out vile insults to potential and existing clients.   And although you can not be fired for having Bipolar Disorder under The Federal Employees with Disabilities Act, management will start talking to you in calibrated calmer tones so you don’t have a sudden freak-out and assign all future stressful assignments to the receptionist.

ONE PILL SHORT OF A FULL PRESCRIPTION

Moreover, although management pledged to keep this to themselves, when walking into the office on your first day back from “sick in the head” leave, you smack right into The Great Wall of Rumors.   And unlike The Great Wall in China, there isn’t a Starbucks at the end for your co-workers to enjoy.  It seems everyone knows bits and pieces of your ordeal. Furthermore, embellished tales of you in a straight jacket and a padded room have rounded things out.  But nobody will acknowledge you were ever even gone, although you’re forever labeled as one pill short of a full prescription.

BOTTOM OF THE BARREL

This same scenario can play out in other areas of your life with Bipolar Disorder.   The quickest way to distance yourself from a long time friend is to tell them you are Bipolar and on medication.  If they are closed-minded,  the words “mental disorder” and “medication” will earn you the same respect as saying you are sexually interested in young boys.  To them, “You’re not right in the head.   You need medication to keep you from becoming a monster.  You are not the person they thought you were.”   In their brain that never breaks wind, your entire history together needs to be re-examined.

Basically just like in the workplace, you’ve suffered a loss of dignity.   There is nothing dignified about mental illness.   With cancer you are a hero every day you fight to stay alive.  A Quadriplegic in a wheel chair is courageous for carrying on with such a pronounced disability.   Even those with brain damage caused by an accident or stroke are looked upon with sympathy and hope.  But if you have Bipolar Disorder, you’re just an emotional mess taking a handful of psych-meds to keep a handle on your compulsions, since you lack the ability to control them on your own.   Bipolar Disease is among the bottom of the barrel in regard to human afflictions.  You can’t even make gravy out of it.

AGING WITH INDIGNITY

One of the nicest comments I ever received was from a girl working in a coffee shop in my neighborhood.   Somehow we got on the topic of age, and I mentioned I was 46.  She was surprised, as she thought I was in my late 30’s, and commented I was “aging gracefully.”  I was flattered.   For a moment I was Steve McQueen.

What she didn’t know is that I am Bipolar, and sometimes feel as if  I am actually “aging with indignity.”   Maybe you can’t see it on the outside, but inside my cranium my brain in being pushed around in a wheel chair wearing a food stained bib and hospital gown begging for its meds.

Those who know me have seen my life go from right on track to me having to hit the “start over” button.  Many have seen my rocky slide from owner to renter, and whether it’s true, partially-true or not at all, attribute it to my Bipolar Disorder.  It’s impossible to simply “screw up” with this disorder.   Accidentally slice your finger cooking dinner?  “He’s a cutter!  Hold him down!  I’ll get the spit mask!  Someone call 911!  Hello, Rampart? Yes, I’ll start two CC’s of Ringers Lactate.”

THE AMISH METHOD

I can’t change who I am or the fact that I basically dumped my life in a Cuisinart and hit “chop” during several bouts of mania and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  Moreover, almost everyone I know has some inkling that something in my life has not gone quite right, if not being privy to the whole disturbing tale.

This is why the only thing I can think to do is adhere to the “Amish Method” of coping.   I figuratively tumble through life ignoring all the cars cutting me off in my horse and buggy and people jumping out trying to tip it over.   Because if I ruminate on how bad it sucks to be stuck in the 1800’s in the 21st Century,  I’ll never get out of bed in the morning.  So I live my life as if everything is status quo and I like getting some teat action at four in the morning.  I can’t stop to think about the time I was hauled off to the psychiatric ward in an ambulance in front of my entire neighborhood. The sheer humiliation will cause me to melt into a puddle of Prozac.  I was drunk, depressed and mentioned suicide.  Did the driver have to flash the lights and sound the siren?  I wasn’t dying.  At least not physically.

TURDS UNDER THE CARPET

If you are suffering from Bipolar Disorder, you are going to have turds under the carpet.   The less turds the luckier you are.   The more turds and you’ve probably dealt with a lot of shit in your life.   But we’ve all got a few hidden kernels.   It’s how you manage them that will make the difference in how you relate to the world.  And, how the world relates to you.

FROOT LOOPS

My solution is to start-off each morning with a big heaping bowl of Froot Loops.   I love the irony in it.  It helps put everything into perspective.   Also, it gives me the ability the laugh at my insecurities and get on with my day.   And for those who say you are what you eat, then I’m colorful, sweet and packed with 8 essential vitamins and minerals.   So if you still think I’m incapable of handling life’s challenges… Eat me.

The Bipolar Perspective: The Season of Reason   2 comments

FIGHT NIGHT

Friday night was fight night.  Or, at least it was for me.   While talking with an irrational foul-mouthed balding and bloated neighbor with bad breath over my car being towed, his deceivingly meek looking son came out of nowhere and slammed me to the ground, fracturing my wrist and cutting up my arm.   I make it a rule not to fight back unless in dire straights.   Hit someone the wrong way and you could be the one going to the big house.  Plus, fighting solves nothing.   I prefer to use words.  Aren’t we even taught as children to “use our words?”  He must have missed that lesson.

Was the confrontation avoidable?  Absolutely.   I could have dismissed it and let this vindictive Porsche laden aristocrat go on with his elitist life having cars towed off his block, as he feels not only does he own his house, but the entire street.  But I was out a $650 towing fee and wanted to know why.  So when I saw him getting out of his four door Porsche which resembles the Fred Flintstone mobile, I went up to ask him about it and a small riot broke out.

GROUND HOGS DON’T TAKE HOLIDAYS

I am Bipolar II.  I suffer from rapid cycling.  If I’m not careful I can turn from depressed to manic in a matter of seconds.  Consequently, I always have to keep myself in check.  And for years I have done a relatively good job.

But no matter how hard I try I always have a major incident during the holiday season. It could be a serious problem at work, a car accident, a deep depression, a drunken mishap… Something to make me wish I could have gone to sleep on the day before Thanksgiving and wake up January 2nd, skipping all the drama.  The holidays for me are an annual Ground Hog’s Day, the likes of the Bill Murray movie with the same name.  Problems ever year.  Same miserable results where I end up forlorn, depressed and suicidal.

SEASON OF THE WITCH

This year I made a conscious effort not to fuck up.  Starting last week I decided to make no major decisions, to drive very carefully and not get into any arguments.  At work I kept my head low and concentrated on my tasks.   I decided not to go overboard with the unavoidable holiday drinking so I wouldn’t do or say anything stupid.  Basically I was putting myself on parole.  If I started to screw up I decided to put a David Yurman Bracelet around my ankle and voluntarily submit to house arrest.

However as Donovan said in the 1960’s, “It’s The Season of the Witch.”  Some get the holiday blues and others get the witches’ brew.  I think one slipped me a mickey when I left my water bottle briefly unattended at the office last week.  I thought something tasted funny.

THE BITTER-SWEET TASTE OF REVENGE

As advised by the doctor who saw me in the emergency room when I went to have my wrist taken care of the next day, I filed assault and battery charges against the slap-happy looking son who blindsided me.  I felt kind of bad, because it was the vermin-ridden father who I wished I could have arrested.   I think he misread the situation and was protecting his dad.

Who knows what will become of the case?  With my luck it will somehow backfire on me and I’ll end up doing five to ten in San Quentin.   Most probably nothing will happen.  So then my manic brain will start thinking of all the ways of seeking revenge;  Painting “Ass Hole” on his garage door, camouflaging some spike strips at the end of his driveway or some other completely juvenile, but highly rewarding payback.

But revenge is bitter-sweet.   It’s sweet at first because you are getting back at the person who has escaped the consequences of their abusive temper-tantrum.   However it’s bitter because they will surmise it’s you and you will forever be looking over your shoulder in fear of retaliation.  Moreover, take the low road of vengeance and you’ll have another confrontation in the future.  This guy is obviously is a bottom feeder.  Take the high road and you’ll never run into miscreants like these again.

HOLIDAY BLACK AND BLUES

So as I sit here licking my wounds, my dog is sitting next to me licking his ass.   It reminds me of all my Bipolar friends and acquaintances who have told me “cheerful holiday revelers can take the whole season and shove it up their asses.”   It depresses them too.

Many researches believe people with Bipolar Disorder cycle at specific times of the year.  If it’s around the holidays, it could have to do with the colder weather and it getting dark earlier.  Or, something about the season can be a trigger.  Some people feel left out or lonely during the holidays, and it causes depression or manic behavior.

It all makes sense to me.  The issue I have is why, through all my behavioral vigilance, did I still end up black and blue this holiday season?  Was it wrong not to stand up for myself and approach the tow-happy father and son duo?  Maybe considering the time of year I should have refrained?  Should I just have accepted the $650 tow charge as just another Holiday blow and let it go at that?   Could I have guessed there could be trouble and leave it alone?  Hind site is twenty-twenty.  Maybe my dog is not so stupid for licking his ass.

THE SEASON OF REASON

For Lexus it’s “the December to remember.”  For me the holidays are “the season of reason.” Every year when I have my holiday trauma, I remind myself with extra vigilance of all the reasons not to kill myself.   If you are Bipolar, thoughts of suicide are frequent occurrences that would scare the Juicy Coutures right off “normal people.”   We see thoughts of suicide as part of the mind-scape we navigate on a daily basis.

I have them every day and night.  But around the holidays, I spend the month thinking of reasons not to go ahead and do it.  And every year it becomes harder.  Is this the season I’ll run out of reasons?

DEPARTMENT OF PARKING AND EXTORTION

Just when I thought it was all over came the encore.  I went to the San Francisco Department of Parking and Extortion to get a neighborhood parking permit so I can park without it raining tickets on me anymore.  But the city worker who resembled a potato with only half a brain would not give me the sticker unless I paid for the two tickets I received the day I was towed.  And not having my briefcase full of money with me, I couldn’t get the permit.  So as soon as my car is spotted on the street by the parking authority, it will get booted.   It’s a never-ending cycle specially created by the City of San Francisco to punish people for living and working in the city and contributing hundreds of millions of dollars in tax revenue.

It was all I could do not to drag the bored looking potato-headed clerk out from behind the glass via the little pass-through slot where she takes your money head first.  But I heard there is a city surcharge if you do that.  And then you are responsible for stuffing her back in.

DEATH WISH 

The easiest thing to do is sit down and die.  I have a suicide plan.  Many Bipolars that suffer deep depression do.   But I have a hard time pulling the euphemistic trigger.   I’d rather someone else do it.

So I am walking through the worst neighborhoods alone and at night.  I am crossing streets against on coming traffic.  When I’m driving near canyons I speed up, hoping to lose control, crashing through the guard rail and over the side exploding in a fireball of magnificent Mustang.  I even wash my Bipolar medication down with a couple of glasses of wine at night.  And, at the end of the day I’m secretly glad I’m alive.

I don’t really want to die.  Or at least not quite yet.  I just want Holiday Ground Hogs Day to have its final showing.  To make it through next year’s holidays without incident.  To keep my Bipolar Disorder in check instead of thinking of ways to check-out.  Medication can not do all the work.  I have to do my part by avoiding the triggers and talking to my therapist.   There is no “easy button.” Maybe reaffirming this is my holiday gift to myself.   I’d like to give this gift of wisdom to you as well this holiday season.  I hope it will help.   Sorry it’s not wrapped.

The Bipolar Perspective: Liberalism is a Mental Illness   2 comments

I DO IT TO MYSELF

Nothing is more frustrating than to spend a couple of days in a ultra conservative chat room debating US politics.  Actually, you aren’t really debating anything.   You’re just reading the most twisted viewpoints you’ve every heard outside of an institution for the criminally insane.  No matter what you say, they can quote figures from obscure ultra right wing conservative web sites run by grown men who refer to liberals as “libby libs” or “demmy dems.”  It’s a third grade mentality from those who rode to school on the short bus.

But I put myself in that chat group.  At first it was just to hear other viewpoints.  I like to vigorously debate politics.  But then came the hostility for anybody who isn’t paranoid the liberal government is out to control their lives and that god will seek revenge on them, peppered with slurs against gays and inferences of prejudice against blacks.   And I have to admit, I gave it back to them and then some.   When you are talking to a bunch of rednecks in the swamps of Florida and the underbelly of Texas, there is tons of great fodder to hurl back.  It almost seemed unfair because all they could think to call me was a fag, homo and “Petey.”

OBAMA’S ULTIMATE SOLUTION

Eventually I stopped with the insult-fest and everyone else followed suit, to the best of their sophomoric abilities.   I have to admit, I made nice, threw around a few veiled compliments and semi-agreed on a several borderline lucid arguments.   I wanted to hear more of this gibberish.   It was so grotesquely absurd I couldn’t stay away from it.   It’s like a bad car wreck you can’t help looking at on the side of the road.

Basically, their distilled argument is that “President Obama wants to increase the amount of people on welfare so he’ll have a bigger voter base dependent on him via entitlements (conservative code word for “free stuff” from the government). Then, he will change campaign term limits and continue his reign of “king.”  That is the bitter syrup of the conservative venom toward Obama.

The details may differ a little, depending the conservative, like “Obama just hates America and wants to destroy it,”  or, “he is in a secret alliance with the Muslims and he wants to force the country to worship Islam.”  All of these late night radio talk show caller conservatives are never at a loss for these far fetched seizmic scenarios.

LIBERALISM IS A MENTAL ILLNESS

“I’m a dunce and piece of shit.”  At least so I’ve been told by the moderator of this chat group. He’s an Orthodox Christian in Wichita Kansas who threatened to “cut me down like a stalk of wheat” because I commented that he does not even read the plethora of right wing propaganda he so virally posts.  He just slaps it up there.   I think that’s the real definition of a dunce.

Moreover, he also held the contention liberalism is a mental illness.   Now on this I am an expert.  I’m Bipolar II. I know what it is to suffer from deep depression, exhaustive mania and the two mixed together.  Bipolar is mental illness.  Liberalism is political philosophy.

THE BIPOLAR CONNECTION

What set my head a reelin’ is that the moderater later posted a sort of apology t.  He explained he was recently diagnosed with Bipolar Illness and is trying to control it without medication.   Apparently he is having difficulty controlling is anger.  I salute him for his honesty.

Ironically, he has no idea I authored “Buzzkill,” One Man’s Disorderly Struggle with Bipolar Disorder in 2011.   I was sure Bipolar Illness would be ridiculed by conservatives as god’s punishment for liberals, in spite of the fact a disease is politically neutral.  I wanted to extend my support to him as a lifetime sufferer, but I find it hard to believe he’d accept help from a liberal.

Ironically, up until now, unless your employer offers insurance, someone with Bipolar Disorder can not get insured.   Obama care will allow people with pre-existing conditions, like Bipolar Disorder, to get affordable insurance for the first time ever.  I wonder how this newly diagnosed Bipolar conservative will turn this around to be a negative?

WELCOME COMRADE

Obamacare.  The big bad government option.  I get chills every time I think of a poor family being able to get affordable health insurance so they can save a little more from each pay check.  This could keep some get off government assistance.  However, it would also ruin the ultra conservative argument that we are becoming a communists nation through socialized medicine.

Well then welcome Comrade!  First Mitt Romney turned Massachusetts communist with Romneycare, and now the entire county is doing it with Obmamcare.   The chat group said the rest of the United States are going to fall like dominos under communist rule.  Personally I am already being sized for a fur hat before there is a run on them.

Romney really fucked up in Massachusetts.  He did something people liked.  And now Obama is bringing it to the entire nation.  Now it’s a bad thing.   No matter what the President does he can not win with the conservatives.

WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS

The last thing I learned being in this ultra conservative chat room is that when all else fails and you can’t make your point, just say “It’s gods will.”   One hollow headed woman in the group who usually just quotes scripture  and thinks “grits are yummy,” also said “Jesus is pissed.  He ain’t no baby anymore and he’s mad. He’s going to get the liberals and good.”

When did Jesus turn god’s son into a Hell’s Angel?  I must have missed that sermon.   With all this talk of Texas seceding from the United States I’ve been up all night celebrating with the rest of the country.  I’d actually like the President to put them on a time-table.  It would be like getting rid of a wicked case of hemorrhoids.

THE FINAL CONFUSION

As a Bipolar Disorder sufferer there is always the temptation to go manic on these misguided political and religious narrow minded misanthropes.   Either that or they can make you completely depressed to live in a world with human beings that are so completely irrational and warped.  You must keep your head and remain logical.  Better yet, just ignore them as the fearful, hateful narrow-minded walking contradictions that they are.  Do not let them be your trigger.   You can not win an argument with irrational fear-mongers.

If everyone in this world agreed it would be a very boring existence.   I thrive on diversity and spirited debate.   Some of the best ideas are born of compromise.   And if you don’t have the capacity to admit you are not always right,  you belong on the right.   They are never wrong.   Just ask one.

The Blessing of a Fetish   6 comments

PUGSLEY

Fetish.  Even the word sounds creepy.  You picture a fat red-headed thirty-year-old guy in a gravy-stained striped shirt resembling Pugsley from the Addams Family.  He’s voraciously wringing his freckled hands together while he has deviant sexual thoughts, much too abnormal to verbalize. He’ll later masturbate for hours in the privacy of his bedroom to his favorite website depicting female gynecological medical procedures, suppressing his moans of ecstasy as he completes all over his keyboard.

The truth is, although even the word fetish sounds perverted, it’s far from it.  We all have at least one.  Some of them are relatively tame and barely on the cusp of being taboo.  Others are really shocking to those of us who are simply turned on by things like having sex in pubic.  But fetishes are an innate part of the human sexual psyche that can not be simply cast off or ignored because they are too embarrassing for public consumption.

NATIONAL FETISH APPRECIATION DAY

People with taboo fetishes, or fetishes they consider taboo, go through life suppressing this embarrassing “abnormality” they are constantly tempted to act on.   However acting on one is often out of the question by the extreme fear someone will find out.   If you’re a guy, you’ll have to join the mafia, later turn government informant and consequently disappear into the witness protection program where you can start life again without being known as the guy who sniffs the chair every time a woman stands up.

You can not “give-up” a fetish like you can playing a sport.  It owns you.  It’s like being a homosexual and deciding you will not be attracted to your own sex anymore.  Try and convince your genitals of that.  And unless it involves something to do with minors, violence or death, why in the world would you want to get rid of it?   There should be a National Fetish Appreciation Day.  People should be grateful they have something that makes them completely sexually charged simply by just the thought of it.   Sexual stimulation and orgasms are the perks of having to drag around a human body and deal with all its inconveniences, aches and pains.   You should enjoy whatever can put you in that state ecstasy.  Unless you are living in the state of Alabama.  Then it’s probably illegal.

And if you think you are the only person who wants to be put in diapers and treated like a baby, go online.   There are countless web sites, videos, picture galleries and groups for almost any fetish you can imagine.  Plus you can browse to your heart’s content in complete anonymity.  The days of hiding in the back of an adult book store with your feet stuck to the floor searching for something that kind of depicts your fetish are long gone.   Just the fact that there are all these web sites dealing with your particular fetish proves you are not alone.   Chances are, you’ll find you are not all that over the top either.

THE POLICE DON”T GIVE SPANKINGS

Want to be spanked by someone in a position of authority?  I once had a friend who actually called the police and requested a police woman come over and spank him for real.   I actually saw him slumping down in the front seat of a police car as a police-woman drove him to an empty parking lot to explain why what he did was inappropriate.   I think that turned him on even more.  And when she was done lecturing him he still asked for his spanking.

But for those of you who don’t chose to interact with the law, there are service providers out there catering to every fetish imaginable.   Naturally, you can find them on the internet.   And these men and women are professionals, not prostitutes.   They will not have sex, although clients are encouraged to have a sexual release.   They will however help you explore your fetish by creating your ultimate fetish fantasy.  I think this is an important service long overdue.

BECOMING YOUR FETISH

For those with a really open line of communication with their significant other, spouse or friend with benefits, you might feel comfortable about sharing your fetish with them.   And if it doesn’t involve an animal they might be willing to help you indulge    Your partner might even enjoy it as well.   But you must be cognizant of their sexual needs too.   If every time you get in bed you want your man to slap your face and treat you like a slut, he’s going to want some regular loving sex as well.  Be careful not to become your fetish.

BLESSING OF THE FETISHES

Every year in San Francisco’s grand Grace Cathedral atop prestigious Nob Hill, there is a Blessing of the Animals.   People come in droves to have their dogs, cats, birds, snakes and other pets blessed by St. Francis, the Patron Saint of Animals.   This is because animals are a blessing on earth.   They are loyal, loving and harbor no ill will unless defending themselves.

Fetishes are the same way.   They are completely harmless and bring joy to people’s lives.   And if you are religious they are even God-given, although many would argue the almighty fucked up.  Yet many of the people who have them are humiliated to entertain such thoughts.  That’s why Grace Cathedral needs to have a Blessing of the Fetishes once a year.   People can go there without revealing their fetishes, but still be blessed.   It would be a way of letting them know not only is it alright to have them, but they are a blessing.

Think what your life would be like if you are a man and didn’t have the daily excitement of possibly hearing a woman fart?    Or the building crescendo if you’re a woman from peering at guys crotches all day because the bulge makes you almost orgasmic.   What would you do to fill the void?  Concentrate on work?   Volunteer to help the homeless?  Become a right-wing Christian?  Farts and bulges are far more titillating.

FANTASY ISLAND

I can’t tell you not to be embarrassed about your fetish or fetishes.  I’m certainly embarrassed about mine.  And unless you find an island where everyone is into the same behavior, you’ll probably always keep it on the QT.   But it doesn’t mean you still can’t enjoy them.  Some just use their minds.  Some use the internet.  Some find willing partners.  However it’s all good.  Furthermore, you can not call fetishes a deviation if everybody has them.  They are in our brains for a reason.   I feel it’s for our pleasure.  It is human beings who have labeled them taboo.   It’s our society who has framed them too humiliating to share.   But we can change this.   We must open our minds to what’s out there.  Consequently, in the long run we’ll all feel less abnormal about our fetishes.   Now, please excuse me while I drink from the toilet.

WILL THE REAL VEGETARIAN PLEASE STAND UP?   Leave a comment

DIRTY DINING

I am tired of self-righteous people looking down on my rib eye steak.   I don’t eat one every day.   Probably because I can’t afford to.   But when I can, am in a good restaurant and have a hankerin’ for one, I want my moo.  And as I’m enjoying its marbled fat clogging my arteries and shortening my lifespan, there is always some single young urban professional woman with short hair a few tables away eating a salad flashing me cutting looks of disapproval.  It’s as if I were munching on a shriveled up human cadaver with a frozen in time gaping open-mouthed “please help me” expression on its face pointed her way.

For a moment I look down on my plate and feel bad about myself.  I love animals.  I would never harm one.  Yet, I’m actually eating a dead one.  But as long as I don’t have to slaughter and butcher the cow myself, I can stomach it just fine.   Yes, I am weak.  A weak man when it comes to eating morality.   I can not suppress my taste for meat, no matter how many vegetarians give me the dirty dining look.

JESUS DIED FOR OUR SINS.  A COW DIED FOR OUR LOAFERS.

I think if you can abstain from eating meat on anti-cruelty to animal principles, you are a marvelous person.  Not only do you have strong convictions, but you practice what you preach.   A far better individual than I.  However, most of the vegetarians I have met are self-righteous hypocrites.  They castigate you for eating meat, yet they are wearing leather shoes, jackets and carry leather bags.

You may or may not believe Jesus died for our sins.  But a cow definitely died for those loafers.  Vogue vegetarians are not saving lives as long as they are using products made of leather.  And since many claim vegetarian status out of fashion,  they are not prepared to give up their fashionable leather apparel.   It’s in vogue to abstain from eating meat, not to shop at Payless Shoes.

And the fact that many “vegetarians” eat fish and chicken further perplexes me.  Does it hurt a chicken or fish any less to be slaughtered?  Are their lives any less important than a cow’s just because their brains are not as developed?   That’s like saying it’s OK to kill a retarded person because he or she won’t really understand what’s going on.  Killing is killing.  You either do it or you don’t.   There isn’t a happy medium.   It’s like supporting the death penalty.  You’re either for killing people or you’re not.

VEGAN VITRIOL

However the pendulum swings both ways.   There are nobel individuals out there, mostly in San Francisco, who see the hypocrisy of “vogue vegetarians” and make their statement by becoming vegans, by not eating any kind of meat or food that has any animal origins.  A cow can’t even have looked at their plate of jicama or it’s inedible.  Moreover, they do not wear any animal products either.  This is why most vegans are readily identifiable by their garb;  Canvas sneakers, pants falling down because they don’t have leather belts, canvass messenger bags and t-shirts promoting no-kill animal shelters.

But the best way to identify vegans is by the scowl on their faces.   These people are not doing this to be fashionable.   They are 100% committed to not killing any animal for any reason.  And if you are not fully on board, you get “the look.”   Head cocked to the side, lips pursed together and a cold stare through squinted eyes that penetrates your soul. Even all the way from the sidewalk and through a McDonald’s plate-glass window while you have a mouthful of Big Mac.  To a vegan you are not just eating a hamburger, you are disposing of a dead body.

So while I admire vegans for their commitment, many are seething with vitriol at those who are not in step.   And if you do find a vegan who can tolerate you, going out to eat with them is like looking for a French restaurant in Texas.   Most restaurants don’t even know the requirements for vegan cooking.  And when you finally locate one with a vegan menu, you feel like you are eating perfumed flowers and crayon flavored polenta.   You can’t wait to get home and scarf down a bowl of Count Chocula in Chocolate Milk to get that humane vegan taste out of your mouth.

PLEASE LIGHT A MATCH!

Equally annoying are the healthy eating food movements that have arisen to foul our collective kitchens;  Eating raw, eating natural and eating a turkey leg while the bird is under anesthesia so you don’t have to kill it.  Every self-styled Dr. Phil of Food has a new way of eating that is going to “change everything.”   They put out DVD’s, books, create special web sites, have seminars and even PBS specials.

One “groundbreaking program” supposed to change the way the world eats was called Food Forward, which had a single episode life span on PBS’ “starved for free programming” affiliates in Anchorage Alaska, Columbus Ohio and other major minor markets.   Surprisingly  eating plants and dirt (packed with iron you know) never caught on with the mainstream.

So, the Food Forward producers tried to cross-fund more episodes with a cheap reality series of videos called Food Rebels, staring the self-styled road warrior in search of great grub Greg Roden, who is also the show’s producer.  He aimlessly drove around the country in a trailer looking for ordinary people eating unordinary things.  It’s a total reach when programs like this find a food fool in Oregon who eats wood and calamities like Food Rebels try to convince viewers this is a newly discovered “kind of food” and way of eating.  Apparently we need to take more nutritional cues from termites.

The only thing I can say is that whenever you hear or see anything from the bowels of Food Forward’s rag-tag collection of stupid food tricks, light a match when you are done.   Please be considerate and don’t stink up the world for the rest of us.

ITS BEEN DONE BEFORE

Food has already been invented.  As much as people like the producers of Food Forward would have you believe, they are not going to discover a new food.  Ancient cultures have beat them to the punch.  The Chinese eat cow stomach lining called tripe, a delicacy left over from when they were starving in ancient China and could not waste any part of the animal.   African slaves in America made delicacies out of pigs knuckles and black-eyed peas, which were scraps left over from white people.  And Aborigines still eat insects to survive out in the bush.

Moreover, people have been even drinking their own urine for years, but I’d hardly call it a new food, or even beverage.   Plus, I’m sure it doesn’t taste all that great either.   But Food Forward, Food Rebels or whatever the producers are now calling it, might designate drinking urine a new food.   And the strange person in the little house in the woods with no electricity guzzling it down daily?  A “Food Hero.”

CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED

My response to all of the people with their eating idiosyncrasies, whether they be out of fashion, true conscious or a desire to be famous, “is to chew with your mouths closed.”  Nobody wants to see what you’re eating.   Nor does anyone want to be told how to eat.   People know whats good and bad for you.   They chose to eat what they want for their own reasons.  I know eating meat is a complete juxtaposition against of my love for animals.   However I unabashedly admit my shortcoming. And, its my decision if I want to reorganize my priorities.

DON’T JUST CLEAN YOUR PLATE, EAT IT.

So enough of all these “great new foods” and ways of eating.  There are no new foods and ways of eating.   Delicacies and diets just come in and out of fashion.   The only thing original are new and more delicious ways of preparing food.  Moreover, as long as there are delectable things to eat in the world, people are not going to eat out of their gardens, get their iron from consuming dirt, drink their own urine or stop eying that sizzling rib eye with the garlic butter.   So mind your manners and eat off your own plate.   Or as  Food Forward might recommend, don’t just clean your plate, eat it.  It’s loaded with calcium and they can shoot an entire episode about it!