Val Kilmer Ruined My Life

Gleaming the Cube and Real Genius are the worst possible things for a young, chubby, pre-adolescent to see.  The hair styling of those two characters is completely unattainable.  Newtowns theory on gravity may well of been lost to time if he had born to see  Val’s and Christian’s locks before that apple fell out of the tree.   One would need at least 3 stylists, 4 gallons of hair spray, hundreds of takes,  and countless cups of a good greaseless pomade to get that.  An army of scissor clad assistants with greasy palms was vital to position each hair just so, but to an ignorant child of the 80’s, with a blossoming need for female attention, this styling was attainable.  There was hope for the hair.  

My quest began with the turn of the key, and countless bottles of Vitalis.  After an hour, the spray nozzle would cease up and pouring would commence.  Compulsion and a huge boner compelled me to lock myself in our one bathroom trying to position each hair follicle perfectly as my poor father banged on the door persuasively. However his endless pleading found no fans and no hope.  In my obsessed mind, him and his overactive bladder could easily use the kitchen sink.  Having suffered in later years from prostate cancer, lord knows how he needed to relieve himself, yet the pursuit of perfect hair would remain his bladders nemesis for years to come.  The mirror became my front line, and visions of Christian Slater looking dough eyed at his Asian love interest fanaticized my young brain.  The perfect angular vectors of those locks could not be overcome.   The sheen and coloring of  those follicles  beckoned me to pursue them.  They became my rallying cry for my own personal hair jihad, as the banging on the bathroom door grew louder and louder.

Deeply entrenched in front of the mirror, waiting for what alcoholics call “a moment of clarity” became my modus operandi.   The vision of Val stepping proudly into the pool party scene with 2 hot chicks near the 73^rd minute of Real Genius became my El Dorado, my city of gold. Hours would fade away, and screams of agony would reverberate through the parking lot in our tiny apartment complex terrorizing animals and the elderly alike. It still doesn’t look like Val’s!!!!I was an artist damn it, hell bent on hair.  Fear, exhaustion and hunger would wash over me as minutes, turned into hours. Sweat would pour down my scalp stinging my eyes and ruining my monumental hair gains. My hands would become caked in gel, and chapped from the wide array of chemical compounds found within those shiny, glittery pomades, that today in Mexico are no doubt used in meth labs.  Breathing became labored from all the aerosol, and a few blackouts did occur, but those minor “speed bumps” could not stop this Ghetto Superstar.   A religious fervor enveloped me like a bible wielding preacher hell bent on being hell bent.  Another 3 minutes….that’s all we need and that cowlick will be suitably in place. THEN….we can eat breakfast.

After 2 years, my poor scalp became a wasteland of broken dreams, and dandruff, but my struggle persevered.    A persistent eye twitch soon developed, born no doubt of the permeation of such stated compounds through my scalp into my brain effecting my motor function, but even Mozart had his bad days.  The screams and banging by my family members on our one bathroom door was a constant nag, yet the dream lived on. Focus, and hair gel remained my closest allies. They  pushed me to dig deeper, to stay in front of the mirror just a little longer. I wasn’t just out too look good anymore, but to redefine what the meaning of perfect hair was.  But alas, after the age of 13 and the discovery of marijuana, the pursuit was abandoned.  The bathroom door magically opened, and out emerged a new me.   The gels and mousses lost their luster.  Hair styles changed, and my personal hair jihad went out with a whisper.

To this day, I am scared by the image of perfect hair.  Images of Josh Duhamel in NBC’s long forgotten semi-hit “Las Vegas” have me reaching for the bottle.   How in god’s name can they ban Catcher in the Rye, but allow Gleaming the Cube to be shown on TNT?  To think of the thousands of hours lost in front of the mirror. The millions of brain cells gone from the over application of L.A. Looks.  My scalp mutilated by combs to the point where medicated shampoos became a necessity to bring back my Ph balance.  The least they could do is add a warning label to all digital and hard copies of those movies.  “Do Not Attempt” or “Impossible Hair” should do. 

The Desecration of America by America

In the U.S., our citizens and government representatives pride ourselves on always being seen on the "right side".  On being the good guys, the hero's that stand above such petty things as exerting influence and money.  Constitutional democracy is above all things our most important invention and export.  It has given us a moral entitlement in the world.  The ability to point at other lands and proclaim there actions unjust. Unlawful. Non-democratic. This same entitlement, has given us the full license to build  the biggest military industrial complex the world has ever seen.  To protect democracy at home and abroad, we would be willing to fight tyranny on all shores.  We, the People, for the people, would be willing to endure the ultimate sacrifice; the  lives of our sons and daughters on the fields of battle. Not just for our own citizens mind you, but for away of life. An idea that our forefathers fought and died to earn.  Through an American lens, our world today, is supposed to be just an extension of those brave writers of the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, the Constitution.  Funny. If he were alive today, I wonder what political cartoon Benjamin Franklin would have drew of the Prism program ?

In the rush to judgement, and with the great power the world has vested in it,  the American government has lost it's way. America is an idea.  The epitome of idealism.  A dream for so many to aspire to be.  When our elected leaders speak, the world attentively listens. But, because of our imperialist behaviour, and Snowden like security leaks,  the last decade has seen our words fall on deaf ears.  Is the world really listening anymore to our democratic idea's or just taking our money?  A better question, why would you listen?

The saddest part to me, is that according to polls, the American public seems oblivious or non-interested in this huge breach of civil rights.  Of course.  Now is not the worry. However, it's the precedent that this program is setting.  As American's, we take our laws seriously.  The supreme court looks to 300 year old documents to formulate answers to the most difficult questions our society faces today.  The legality of Prism now,  is setting up the dictatorship of tomorrow.   You may laugh at this seemingly far fetched equation. But, who is to say that 50 years from now, a seemingly magnanimous leader comes to power and uses the Prism precedent for personal gain?  Even more alarming, is who is to say that isn't happening now? According to the Economist, 1.4 million people in the intelligence community have the same top secret security access as Eric Snowden.  Do you think all of those 1.4 million people are acting honorably? What if a small percentage weren't? Probability wise, there's a good likelyhood of that.   What could these individuals be doing with the ability to eavesdrop on people? I wouldn't want to be an ex-friend of anyone of them!

However, I must defend my country slightly, though I can't forgive what they have done since no remorse has been shown. 9/11 wounded our country deeply.  Our oceans weren't a moat anymore from the intrusion of terrorism on our soil.  The most important city in our empire was the target.  Grief and rage brought us to the depths of hell.  In order to protect our world, we would be willing to do anything. To bargain with the same devil that we have built 300 year's of defenses against; authoritarianism. As in the Dark Night, when the mob made a deal with the Joker. Out of desperation, they made a deal with a man they didn't fully understand.  In order to get there goals now, they gave up everything that made them who they were.  What's sad is that our Batman, our hero, the U.S. government, are the one's making that deal.

The U.S. government says Prism, the NSA's spy program, is "legal" but is it moral?  Now that the cat is out of the bag, and our dirty laundry is in the public eye, how does the U.S. government act?  Our diplomatic decisions are going to come under more debate now.  The entitlement that our democracy has afforded us is going to be questioned more than ever before.  Our usual idealistic words are now prisoners of our own authoritarian like actions.  Maybe the Snowden leak was for the best.  Maybe.   Prism. A pretty name for a horrible thing.

The Struggle Begins...Sign the Petition http://www.thepetitionsite.com/882/135/552/to-end-pms/

Dear World-

I believe there are pivotal moments in the history of things. This is one of them. PMS is one of the oldest diseases known to man kind, and we have all suffered long enough. Families and friends in every land, from every culture and race are torn apart by the ones they love every 30 days or so.   Today, in the year of our lord 2013 this can be the beginning of the long ,hard, bumpy road to change. Sign the petition and lets countdown the end to PMS forever.  http://www.thepetitionsite.com/882/135/552/to-end-pms/

Imagine a world void of  violent outbursts in the frozen food section of your super market. Clean curse free car rides to grandmas house.  Peaceful pleasant vacations. Small disagreements over movie night stay just that, small, inconsequential disagreements. Full scale wars over ice cream flavor or whether or not to make popcorn are avoided. Dinners full of laughter and love, not littered with sniffles and tears. These thoughts bring me too weep uncontrollably. They are beautiful, but alas live only dreams. Until now. 

It is critical to get some scientists up in here to change this vicious cycle of bleeding.  Scientists with white lab coats, clip boards and stethoscopes. Scientists who do scientific things. Scientists, but most likely interns, and a few community college graduates.  Of course the best researchers are pilfered off too AIDS and Cancer research. That's where the money is. But this is where the heart is. The broken, fractured hearts of children, husbands, girlfriends, and wives.  The many who live on the front lines of PMS cramping and bloatedness. Where the pain killers don't work long enough. Where the tears never run dry and the voldka is never too far from ones lips.  

Many believe that Adam and Eve were being influenced by the devil when they ate the forbidden fruit. They have there views, I have mine. Most likely, Eve was having  premenstrual cramping and Adam was forced to do, what he had to do.  Similar instances of coercion happen all over the world, every single minute, every single day.  Children wake wondering where there lovely mommy has gone. Husbands, wives and girlfriends wondering what in God's name is this forked tongue devil that now stands in the place of there loved one. Many times, these episodes are mistaken for demonic possession or misdiagnosed by psychiatrists as bi-polar syndrome.  These misdiagnosis's, skew the global statistics, and keep the fearful quite. Well I am here to invoke Twisted Sister's most reverent lyrics, "We are not going to take it, anymore."

Belief is the ability to believe. Believe is to think about believing. I believe in the belief that PMS's days of effecting our lives is about to be numbered.  That our Christmas mornings, our summer parties, and our most intimate moments are about to be unleashed from the chains of wild mood swings. Where the love we share together will be there, consistently, day after day,hour after hour, minute after minute, second after second.  Join us to end PMS once and for all. Sign the petition. Thank you. 

Regards,

http://www.thepetitionsite.com/882/135/552/to-end-pms/

Jim

jimboswelt@jimboswelt

Man of Steel is da Sheeet.

Dear Asshole Critics,

 Are your dicks that small?  You are writing a review for a super hero movie. Man of Steel  stems from a comic book.  Not exactly a John Steinbeck, Pulitzer Prize winning piece of literature you elitist nutcase. Superman fly's around in his blue PJ's, firing lazer's out of his eyes at Kryptonian's invading earth, and you want too talk about how "the violence feels empty"? That the top end special effects, and destruction of Metropolis lacks "any sense of humanity."  Are you huffing paint?  Are you somehow mistaking Superman for Oscar Schindler?  Do you honestly think that "only if" Superman's script would have exhibited more soul it would be Oscar worthy?  Are you actually doing screen by screen comparisons of Man of Steel with Casablanca while eating dinner with your blow up doll?  

I can not understand why some of you critics would even attempt to write a review for a movie like Superman without first reading the comic book.  If you write quote, "heavy exposition and a huge amount of super-destructive action that leads to nothing" is a bad thing in a super hero movie, that you obviously have no idea what a comic book is.   Lets face it, you spend the majority of your time jerking off to Cookie Roberts voice on NPR.  Why don't you go do something useful and go direct a High School musical?  At least there your false sense of importance and over analization can be put to good use making some god forsaken schools production of Guys and Dolls the best  in county history.

Too complain that Man of Steel has "too many" special effects is like complaining about how your brand new free Ferrari Diablo didn't come with beige interior.  I give Zack Snyder credit for even attempting to reboot such a classic tale of alienation and coming of age.  He didn't force the issue of originality on this timeless tale, nor stay too devoted to the past.  It's Superman for Christ sakes!!!  Give us Superman flying around, saving people in unbelievable ways, while trying to find a balance with his own super powers, while battling at least ONE bad ass super villain and I'm good to go. Mission Accomplished in this latest case.


The movie itself was thin on dialogue, but who gives a shit.  There's plenty of spaceships, and battle scenes to make you walk out of the theater bowlegged. Visually, its incredible.  Sweeping vistas of Krypton during General Zod's failed coup are off the sticks. I was wondering how or if they were going to recreate the Fortress of Solitude. Deciding instead to incorporate the idea that Krypton had a lost colony on Earth, and that one of the lost colony's crafts were buried in the Arctic for 10,000 years played nicely.  This and other elements of realism, like the idea that Kryptonian's have a difficult time breathing in Earth's atmosphere, and that Superman's powers comes from his aliens bodies reaction to the radiation of our Sun, were refreshing frankly.  I missed Lex Luther of course, but props for incorporating a Lex Corp truck into one of Metropolis's destruction sequences. Overall I was impressed, and never for one minute felt cheated out of my money.


Now I'm not bashing movie critics in general. Everybody's got a right to an informed opinion. However, if you review a movie like The Tree of Life, then you shouldn't review Man of Steel. Plain and simple.  Both movies have way different audiences, and come from waaaay different places. Stick to what you know, and don't front.  What I know, is that at its heart, Man of Steel is the story of a man trying to find balance between the man who is father wants him to be, and the aspirations he has for himself.  Along the way, Superman gets to kick a lot of ass, and save a lot of people in spectacularly shot sequences, with some pretty big name actors playing bit roles just to be a part of it. Who can't relate and love that?

Yummy Delicious Horse Meat

During Obama’s free trade address, he talked broadly of a free trade deal with Europe. Both countries, besides Germany, don’t really make anything anymore, so I don’t understand what that will accomplish.  But, I do pray that such a deal happens.  We in Europe are under a blanket of fear.  Somebody killed and ground up Mr. Ed.  The horse meat scandal is reaching a fevered pitch here. One food company, Findus, (ha. Find-Us. ) found that 100% of there all beef lasagna’s was more like 20% beef, 80% horsemeat. Whoops. Somebody has to repeat Kindergarden. In fact, it’s the Romanian Barber of Fleet Street. Findus was buying there product from a French company called Cormel, who in turn was buying it from a Romanian butchery.  The meat game of musical chairs has left those fortunate few with the taste of horse in their mouths. 

Honestly, in most parts of Europe they don’t mind a bit of Philly. But in the UK  (where they have used horses to kill Foxes and other animals for hundreds of years) it’s the worst thing since the Beatles broke up.  Now the British Parliament is screaming for investigations.  Lynchings may be brought back. A reinstatement of the rack as corporal punishment is possible. The Tower may be closed as a museum and re-opened for its “true” purpose. These ideas are being met in the House of Lords with hearty cheers and golf claps.  Pretty soon the BBC will somehow be blamed for everything. Meetings about possible investigations will air live on BBC 1,2,3,4,5, with consequent replays every hour, and live updates every 20 minutes, followed by the weather in Mongolia. There, the horse tribes of Gengas Khan still run around shooting arrows at each other, which is OK because they love horses. 

High off the fumes of the Olympic flame and the old bags Birthday, the little island that used to be are ready to rebuild the empire.  An invasion of Romania is completely possible.  After hundreds of more meetings, and thousands of hours of public tribunals with B-List celebrities like David Beckham, Elton John will be nationalized and forced to sing “A Candle in the Wind” forever.   The war drums will again resonate from Whitehall to the Isle of White.  The Generals, who forgot why they actually wore a uniform, will methodically assemble in top secret locations to prepare the invasion plan. These top secret meetings over division placement and pincer movement will of course all be available online within minutes. No need for phone hacking here.

After days of cucumber sandwiches and tea with milk, David Cameron will call President Obama to ask if it is “OK” to invade Romania. Of course he will say no, and after some pouting, Cameron will go live on BBC 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9.  He will proclaim to the British people that “NATO” and the world need to bring an end to the tyranny of Romanian horsemeat.  That this Libyan like crisis needs to be met with the shield and sword of world opinion.  That Rolls Royce engines are being used in most of the fighter aircraft ready to bomb Romania, and that everyone should stay tuned for a special Horse Meat concert performed by Robbie Williams.  The Queen will take to her royal barge and float down the Thames to the English Channel.  Prince Phillip will simultaneously ride out naked from Buckingham Palace, galloping along the banks of the Thames in some sick show of solidarity.  The British people will all get completely drunk and wave there flags proudly as Phillips raisin-like textured skin flashes before there moist eyes. 

When all is said and done, after 100 days of fireworks, and a few more barge trips by the Queen, the Horse Meat War that wasn’t   will culminate with a live broadcast of the Elton John’s funeral. Worked to death after nationalization, the public will cry out for justice.  Meetings will begin in earnest. Parliament will hold special meetings about who should be involved in those meetings. Subsequent meetings will be held about when those meetings should take place. All of the meetings will be broadcast online and live via the BBC. Elton’s funeral broadcast will be a hot topic of debate. Rupert Murdoch will swoop in to buy the exclusive airing rights for 2 billion pounds. More meetings will be held. A trial will be held live in Trafalgar Square, by 14 wigged judges. Led by Simon Cowell, they will find the BBC guilty of 37 different charges.   A hologram of Elton will be constructed by the same people who brought Tupac back to life at Coachella. And as the last note of Rocket Man airs out over London, Elton’s hologram will be seen by the masses of punters riding on a beautiful black thoroughbred. Monty Python will then air for 100 straight days on BBC 4, 5 and 6 and Romania will be safe to carve up horses again.  The future has never looked so bright.  

SPY GAMES

I am convinced everyone in my language class is a spy.  There I said it. Outwardly, they are all too nice.  It’s as though they are all competing in some sick spy game. The winner gets to kidnap the American.  Of course this pessimism has much to do with my New York heritage, but surprisingly there is more factual evidence then just conjecture .   Number 1: This is and always has been the edge of the western world.   Next stop, the former Iron Curtain.  Number 2: Just over 2 decades ago, spy’s and assassins used this part of the world as there private play ground. If there were a stat for spy’s per capita, Germany would have more professional bullshit artists than there are rice paddies in China. To this day, it is no doubt one of the most important junctions where east meets west.  Number 3: The huge volume of international travel going through the airport is probably the most important factor in  supporting my unease.  With governments slicing and dicing budgets faster that Zorro,  spy’s are flying economy more than ever these days.   I bet the majority are even flying with layovers.  It’s cheaper AND more importantly, it gives a great guise for top secret meetings where the micro film can be transferred.

All of my classmates seem to know something that I don’t. I get the feeling they are all watching me, waiting for me to say something personal so they may text their handlers about it.  The other day, the Syrian began asking me where I lived. I gave him nothing. Vague answers leave vague impressions.    I want each spy in my class to suspect that my incredible ability to evade there interrogation techniques can only be because of my own super spy training.  That perhaps I  very well maybe the O.G. spy.   00 times 10.  James Bond’s top secret son ready  and willing to thwart there terrorist plot with a bit of some nationally financed bullshit, and a big huge gun.  When I enter the room, everyone smiles, and says hello to me. Strange.  Those smiling eyes are hiding something damn it.  The Persian I swear is packing more than just pencils in her purse. The Ethiopian is constantly on her IPHONE looking up to see if anyone is watching her.  What’s with the new attractive Ukrainian huh?  She just happened to come into MY class.  I’ve seen the Manchurian Candidate, and Men in Black.  I know full well they have mind altering, mind erasing thing-a-majigies these days!

The danger reached a fever pitch on Wednesday. The Iranian got up to go to the bathroom AT THE SAME time as me.  As I walked down the hall, I could hear her behind me shuffling through her purse looking for the chloroform.  With panther like quickness, I made it to the bathroom drug-free which was a miracle.  I waited 7 whole minutes, and when I exited, guess who was there!  Thank god for the receptionist at the front desk. Her baring witness is the only reason I am not hanging upside down being electro shocked like Riggs in Lethal Weapon. 

Now that I know I am a target, I have been doing my best to brush up on my spying techniques in order to save my own life.  After watching  Tailor, Tinker, Solider, Spy, I can consider myself an official graduate of I-AM-A-BAD-ASS-SPY University.  If you can stay awake, and understand what the hell is going on, than you can be a bad ass spy too.  Watching Cobra while doing pushups has really been a huge help in developing my confidence.  Even though Cobra has no spying in it, the gun fight at the end is one of the finest pieces of gratuitous violence ever in a 1980’s movie. In honor of Sly and my new found confidence, I now carry a knife with me at all times. Though it’s only a butter knife, it still feels good.  These movies have been essential to my spy training, but most importantly, I try to look mean as hell. I’m talking crack head violent mean.   That seems to at least rattle the elderly Polish lady with the liar eyes.

After today’s class, I believe my teacher is working for British intelligence.  What is a Polish-German women doing eating Cadbury chocolate eggs in May? The distinctive manner in which she rattled off the pages and exercise lessons  for homework leads me to believe  she was speaking in some sort of code.  Friendly? Doubtful.  I now suspect the receptionist maybe working for the Romanians, or maybe the Romulons. The only reason she prevented the Iranian from putting me to sleep, rolling me up in a carpet and throwing me in the back of some van, is because she wants to torture me herself. Who knows? Perhaps all of this is just a lie, a fantasy concocted from a mind filled with too many hours of cable TV.   Perhaps the blue van parked outside for the last 36 hours is just a construction crew doing some work. Perhaps this weird eye twitch I’ve had for the last 12 hours is NOT the after effects of sodium pentothal being slipped into my water bottle.  Perhaps. 

THE FEVER DANCE

Living in this country has done a number on my immune system. Understandable when considering the fact that I am new to the continent, but odd because I am no stranger to the magical world of deadly microbials.  A single NYC subway car when swabbed, and sampled, probably holds enough virulent virus to rival a CDC lab. All of the Purell and hand swipes in the world couldn’t keep a cold away in the Big Apple.  New illnesses and zoological plagues are born each day under the wooden benches  found on the 21^st avenue subway stop in LIC. The only thing that has prohibited a massive outbreak are the bums who sleep and bath on these very same benches daily.  Their populations have been decimated by these super germs (which has sadly taken the thrill and danger of robbery away from  Time SquareL).  Yet there collective sacrifice has kept the rest of NY’ers safe and 8^th avenue free of most loitering for the past 15 years.  (Conspiracy theorists have ascertained that Disney, with its enormous financial stake in the Broadway rendition of The Lion King, with former Mayor Giuliani’s enthusiastic blessing, released Ebola Zaire into the bum population in the mid-90’s but this of course has yet to be conclusively proven.  Many still ascertain he pulled a Robert Irsay and trucked all the homeless people secretly too New Jersey in the middle of the night.)  

Despite all of my immune systems heavy lifting over the years in the mean streets of cold and flu, nothing could prepare me for the biological warfare currently found in the Old World.  The cold strains found here are weaponized ! Escaped germs from former Soviet Lab’s run amuck causing mass hysteria from Kindergartens to Senior centers.  The Germans, well aware of the dangers of living inside a hot zone by now, ride bikes and wear strange equipment when outside in order to evade the deadly diseases.  When riding in parks, these “professionals” whisk past you like Russian diplomatic motorcades indiscriminately knocking down anyone that dares to get in there way.  The elderly go to great lengths in order to ensure their own sanitary sanity.   Traveling in groups through heavily populate areas, they use strange walking canes to protect there fragile immune systems from infected individuals.  The clack-clack sound of these special canes  collectively hitting the pavement is a warning to even healthy patrons to get out of the way!  This healthy train is making no stops for you!

Speaking of the elderly, I now have an all too clear understanding of what Grandma’s everywhere mean when they say they have “caught a chill”. I used to laugh when hearing this seemingly benign phrase mumbled  through old chapped lips. Now, I worry. A chill is no joke!  I caught my first chill a few weeks after landing and it knocked me into another dimension.  Completely broken, bent over and made that cold’s bitch, most of that particular day was spent feeling as though the Borg from Star Trek was attempting to assimilate me.  Sitting there in my mother in laws house, alone, in pain, with withdrawal like symptoms that would make the late Kurt Cobain blush, was not a picture of pretty.  Having no crayons to color in my fever drawings, and with nothing else to do, a rudimentary list was compiled of Things That I Would Rather Do Then Sit In My Mother-In-Laws House Sick Alone 1) play tag on the autobahn blind folded in a fog, 2)play golf during a severe thunderstorm warning while simultaneously flying a kite,3) go mall shopping with my wife.  As I pondered my top 3, a dread began to fill my bones.  At the same time, Vincent Price’s recital of The Raven poem began to play on continuous loop in my mind interlaced with a fierce dance beat. The fever had come.  Now usually, I love a good fever. The sweating. The shaking. The visuals.  It’s like eating mushrooms at a club except you never have to leave your couch.   The scary thing about THIS fever was that it made me feel old.  I’m talking 80 years old, man diaper on, IV drip steady, Seabond subscribing old.  

My body began to stall like a Chevy volt.  Buddy began to smell death in the air.  He climbed up onto my belly and began to look at me with the sympathy of a priest reading the last rites.  I knew all he wanted was a bowl of Aldi’s finest dog food (or for me to take him shit), but  I pretended that he really did care anyways. Shit anywhere Bud!  Godspeed my good friend.  The big ol’ unicorn in the sky will be coming down pretty soon to ride me away to a world of all you can eat China Buffet and unlimited free Champions League soccer games.  Do they use blankets up in heaven, or do the dead just wrap themselves in clouds?  After a few more psychic visions and some alien abduction nightmares, I started watching Top Gun. Being the only English movie that I had, the choice was simple andsomehow kept me alive until the girls got home. 

One good thing has come out of all this disease and depravity; With every sniffle, cough and shudder, a deep connection with the Native American’s has developed.   Let me explain. Here they were living in utopia, one with nature, wearing loin clothes every day (love those), having drum circles and painting each other’s bodies different colors.  Basically, what Greatful Dead and Phish fans have payed handsomely to do for decades.  That is, until my forefathers, the Europeans showed up on their shores.   With their incurable ailments, and bad fashion, they burst that bubble. Like a fat man in an airplane seat, it wasn’t a pretty sight in the America’s after 1609.  White was right, Indian was wrong. Empathy for the systematic destruction of their way of life in that age of innocence is now my new mantra.   When sick in bed, these war painted spirits appear to me, jolting me in the ribs like an old lady’s cane.  After peeing myself, I always apology to these feathered chiefs for the invasion of their lands by my arrogant forefathers.  There greedy hands planted colorful flags in a soil they knew nothing about. The chief always seems to appreciate my sincerity, and has never once raised his massive war axe in anger. Praise god!

Waking up drooling, and incoherent with fever madness, I allow these spirits to take control of me like Whoopi Goldberg in 1990’s Ghost staring the late great Patrick Swayze.  Doing the rain dance stark naked in the middle of the night too my wife’s wide eyed amusement is my way of saying thanks. I think we in this modern pill popping world of treating symptoms, have lost the true definition of what health really is.  We have a lot to learn from the peoples of the past, like my very own Chief Scares -The-Crap-Out-of-Me. Or maybe, this entire blog is simply the Nyquil talking and my impromptu performance is the barbiturates effect on my brain. Regardless, I’m going to keep fever dancing,  talking to the imaginary chief and waking up my neighbors in the middle of the night.