GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1017: PROOF THAT WE ARE NOT REPRESENTED IN CONGRESS

 Proof? What kind of proof could I possibly have? It's scientific, actually, so no one is going to listen to me, anyway. But there have been studies done, and because I've had a rough day (I'm going back to work on Monday), I'm going to let Cory Doctorow write my GF tonight.

Harken back to GF #1000 where I made the claim that We the People are no longer represented in Congress. Only our corporate overlords are. You'd think something like that would be hard to measure, but it's not. House or Senate, Democrat or Republican, if they're in Congress, they're doing their true master's bidding. I see these assholes at their townhall meetings, and I don't think it matters what they say at these things. While the voters still need to vote, it's the money that guarantees their positions.

And this article will explain the whole thing for you. There are a lot of links, and I know the last thing you want to do this late at night is to go down this rabbit hole, but think about the rabbit holes you've gone down previously. How many of them were actually worth it? How many did you have to stop and ask, "What the fuck am I doing?"

This rabbit hole is worth it. It will explain why our lives suck, which will help us find a way to do something about it.

If you want the direct study, here you go. Warning: it costs $30 unless you're with an authorized university.

Long story short, We the People want good things. We're the majority, so if the system works as advertised, we should have them. We do not. The system, therefore, does not work as advertised. Congress does not listen to any ol' voice. Just their master's.

Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1016: GOODBYE TO TOM LEHRER

 I first heard of Tom Lehrer through the Dr. Demento cassette collection, the one that's delineated by the decade. It was "The Masochism Tango" that caught my eye (not literally in your left castanet, thank you), and it quickly became one of my favorite songs. On another cassette I found "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park," which quickly became a second favorite. But it never occurred to me that he might have made more songs. (I was a freshman in high school at the time, so I wasn't very bright.)

Around the same time I caught an episode of HBO's Real Sex that featured the song. I giggled, thinking, I know that one! And I also learned that Weird Al Yankovic, the only musician I'd seen in concert at the time (now it's one of two, the other being Alestorm when they were too young to drink at their own show) and someone I respected a great deal, revered Lehrer, which meant he'd made more songs than two.

(Incidentally, I didn't have a bedroom back then, so I didn't have an inner sanctum to escape to with the volume low. I slept on a cot in the living room, but we had a basement where we--meaning, me and my brothers mostly--watched a lot of stuff. I was 14, so I could watch PG-13 movies, but my brothers were still forbidden. So we watched Real Sex with the volume low enough, and if we heard someone on the stairs, they would certainly be someone who would disapprove, so we had the remote set to return us back to another channel just in case.)

Back then we didn't have the internet, so I went to the library to do more research, and lo! and behold! We had one of his live albums! It was Tom Lehrer Revisited, and I listened to that tape so much it practically became my Bible. Imagine my pleasure when I discovered more albums, which I quickly purchased from Borders (because they could order it, and Best Buy wouldn't).

(Another side note: when the library decided to get rid of their cassette collection, I saved this one from the garbage. I recently had to abandon my own cassette collection, but I saved a few, and this is one of them.)

Without Tom Lehrer, I don't know what my sense of humor would be like now. He's an essential part of my building blocks. For the longest time I had a quote of his paraphrased on my wall next to my dinosaur computer (back when it wasn't a dinosaur but top of the line!): "If after [reading] my [stories] just one human being is inspired to say something nasty to a friend or perhaps to strike a loved one, it will have all been worth the while." But there's an even better scenario that he described that works more toward my way of thinking.

I think he was interviewed by the New Yorker back when I was still working at the library (I found it while I was working the periodicals section in the haunted up-upstairs area), but the gist of it was this. He said he described his humor as thus, and I'm going off memory here, so don't be too harsh if it's not exact. He said, "You throw a baby up in the air and catch it, so the baby laughs. But I throw the baby up and don't catch it, so I laugh."

I know for a fact that I've written a GF about Lehrer before, maybe a few, but this is the first time I've done so since he died last week. He was well into his nineties when he passed. He'd left music to go back to his true love, teaching math (he worked at Los Alamos . . . as a spy), but he was always a violently funny musician to me.

Tom Lehrer is gone, and I'm going to miss him, but before he died he released his music into the public domain so anyone could use it. That was pretty nice of him. You can go here for all your Tom Lehrer needs. And if you don't think I'm a big enough fan of Lehrer's, please know that I once got in trouble at Conference Plus, my first big boy office job, for singing one of his songs on the floor. This one, in fact. It's the greatest love song ever written in my opinion.

If you've never heard his songs before, I encourage you to listen. If you think it's too old-timey for your likes (they were mostly written from the 'Fifties to the 'Seventies), just listen to the lyrics. Keep an eye out for the guy who took a knife and monogrammed his wife and dropped her in the pond and watched her drown, oh yes indeed the people there are just plain folks in my hometown!

Goodbye, Tom Lehrer.

PS: He also wrote the greatest end of the world song ever.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1015: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROB TANNAHILL!

 

Right now my hetero lifemate, Rob Tannahill, is probably seething that I've forgotten his birthday. I have not. Surprise, ye bastard ye!

I've known him since I was 14 and he was 15. We briefly went to the same high school, and we met through our English teacher, Mr. Sibley, who was a former player for the Chicago Bulls, himself. We were in separate classes. Mr. Sibley knew we were both writers, so he had us swap stories and tell each other what we thought. Fast forward a few decades, and here we are.

Which reminds me, he's got a bunch of stuff out, including some music, but if you want to get to know him best, you should go for Prince Junkie, which details his life fairly well, or at least the early draft I read did. If you know him and would like to wish him a happy birthday, you should buy this. Or even if you don't know him, this is the easiest way to get into his work. He's also an artist, and if you want to see what he's capable of, check out GF #1000 for a piece I commissioned from him. Or, if you've got a twisted mind, you can check out The Cocaine! Bros., a webcomic by the both of us. Hunter and Tucker are evil and horrible bastards, kind of like what if MAGA assholes were Looney Tunes characters.

Happy birthday, Rob.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1014: GOOD RIDDANCE TO THE CAGE

 

And hello to the cast.

I woke up at 3:30 am this morning to get the fucking cage removed from my bad foot. When I was in preop I was advised that I would have a cast on, but I'd be able to walk short distances. No more walker. However, when I woke up after the operation, they told me that I can't walk anywhere, and I can only put my foot down to balance myself. I still need the fucking walker.

That pisses me off to no end, but at least I'm no longer in agony anytime my bad foot so much as twitches. It's also good to know that if I start to fall over, I can put my bad foot down and not get sent to another galaxy with the shock of pain. And hey, look at that bandage on my toe! The surgeon removed a couple of giant scabs while she got rid of the cage. I got those scabs because . . .

OK, I lived in a friend's basement in Joliet for a while, but the floor down there was hardwood, and I had an air mattress. So I had to roll out of bed every day and climb up the walker, and I couldn't do that without fucking up my toes, which were sticking out of the cage. So yeah, those scabs had been there for quite some time. (I should also mention that once, after rolling out of the air mattress, I noticed that the floor had bent back my big toenail. Good thing I couldn't feel that. I must have done something similar this morning because the same toenail was bent back. I didn't notice until I got to the hospital.)

I'm in a much better mood today, but I'm still kinda fucked in regards to being able to move around. I have a bit more freedom now, but not much more. I was hoping I'd be able to unpack all these boxes and get my study ready for work. With these restrictions, though, it might be a long time before that becomes a reality. I'll do what I can, but that's not going to be much.

I was also hoping to get my microwave from storage. It's pretty far back, and I have to move a lot of stuff to get to it, so that might not happen for another month, either. Holy shit, I really need to get back to work to earn at least two weeks of wages, or I'm going to have some financial issues, too.

I think I'm going to have to go back to work with the walker. Fuck. I was hoping not to do that.

But last night's GF had the desired effect. I did not stop off at the place down the street for a bottle. At least the docs gave me some fentanyl as they rolled me into the recovery room. That was a nice little treat on my way out of surgery.

I haven't felt any pain yet, so I hope that part is over. Not having metal rods going through my leg has improved morale around here, but it's good to know that I still have my laudanum just in case.

It'll be good to sleep in tomorrow. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1013: MY CALENDAR IS STILL PACKED AWAY

 

Yesterday I found my motivational bottle of whiskey. There's maybe a quarter-inch of booze in there, and I'm guaranteed not to drink it because the original cork broke, and there are hundreds of pieces floating in the bottle. But I do like to take a sniff from the neck every once in a while. Sometimes it smells glorious, but most times it grosses me out, the desired effect.

It's been three years and a handful of days since my last drink. I don't know how many days because my calendar is still packed away. However, I made an ugly discovery this morning while refilling my bottle of liquid Vicodin from the cannister CVS gave me. I usually get a little red flask of the stuff, but for some reason I got the cannister this time. I read the label and found, much to my horror, that there is alcohol in this.

So technically I haven't had a drink since the last time I took my medicine.

I'm supposed to take 15 mL every four hours. That is the equivalent of a sip of decent beer at 6.7% ABV.

After some agonizing I decided that it doesn't count against my years and days. #1: I had no idea that there was alcohol in this. #2: It's not like I'm drinking this stuff to get wasted. Sure, the pain gets to be a bit much sometimes, so I'll take 30 mL, but it's not recreational. I'm using this as directed, as a painkiller.

Yes, I can hear myself. I used to drink to kill the pain of a terrible constant months-long headache, and that was how I became an alcoholic.

It gets worse. The temptation to drink in this new home is exceptionally strong. I've almost gotten myself convinced that I can just have a couple of drinks to unwind each night. Right now I have edibles to unwind. My new home is a nonsmoking place. You can't even smoke on the property. So I've stopped smoking weed, but the edibles aren't kicking in like they used to.

Yes, I can still hear myself. I'm looking for an excuse to get fucked up. I'm writing this to convince myself to *not* do that.

Because the rest of me is very much onboard with getting fucked up, but as I write this I can feel myself coming to my senses. Yet: "Hey, man, you don't have *any* days because you fucked up. You took the liquid Vicodin. So give up. Go get some bourbon. There's a place just down the street. It's a college town! There's a place just down *every* street! Let's go, dude!"

The other day I stopped in a Casey's to use the bathroom, and I had to crutch (I'm on a walker, not a crutch, but "walker" my way doesn't sound right) my way past the liquor section. I scowled at Evan Williams, but Larceny? Whoo-boy. I loved Larceny. If I wasn't in dire straits of a piss, I would have stopped and considered. Considering might have lead to something else.

The one thing that stops me flat is the cage on my leg. I can't tell you how many times I've almost fallen over on the walker dead sober. I have stopped myself from eating it each and every time. But if I was drunk . . .

It doesn't matter. The cage is coming off tomorrow. I won't have that to stop me soon. But I will still be in a cast. Maybe that will help.

Speaking of which, I've been advised that it's possible the cage *won't* come off tomorrow. My surgeon asked me to get a CT scan today (last minute) because she's afraid two of my bones haven't fused together. If they haven't, she said she won't take the cage off.

THE CAGE MUST COME OFF. I'm at the very end of my wits on this. I can't have this cage on me anymore. The longer it's on, the higher the risk of a bone infection and a subsequent amputation. But that's not what's eating me. I NEED TO WALK AGAIN. I can't keep crutching around on walkers and actual crutches (I use one for stairs). No matter how much of my liquid Vicodin I take, I'm still in pain, especially when I'm on stairs. I can't take it anymore. I literally can't.

Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, and the surgeon will tell me that the CT scan showed the bones didn't fuse, so the cage isn't coming off. Or I'll go under, and when I wake up the cage will still be there. The cast is supposed to be a walking cast, so I've decided that if I can't walk around tomorrow on my feet, sans cage, I am going to get a bottle of Wild Turkey 101, and I'm going to drink myself into oblivion.

I know that sounds crazy, but have you ever spent approximately three months with a cage around one of your feet? One that keeps several metal rods going through your flesh and bone in place? So that you're in constant pain that whole time?

We're going to find out about a lot of things tomorrow. Things have been going my way lately. I can only assume this will go my way, too. So here's to hoping I walk out of the hospital on two feet tomorrow, and that I'm carrying my folded up walker under one arm. Wish me luck.

I really hope the cage comes off for many, many reasons, but one of the big ones for me is, I'll finally be able to change my boxers. I've been wearing the same pair since the cage was installed. The ones I'm wearing are pretty rank by this point. I spray them with air freshener every day. But hey! No pee stains or skidmarks! 

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1012: PULP FICTION

 I have a fairly decent collection of old pulp magazines, but I've been thinking about selling some of them. Not all of them. I have some pretty good issues, and I couldn't part with them. The covers are, uh, astounding. Here are some of the issues I'm keeping.

The perfect word for these covers is "lurid," I think. I have a bunch of other pulps that I'm going to keep, but they're all still packed up. I mention this because if you want to read pulp fiction for free, you should check this out. It's an archive of pulp magazines from way back when, free to read. You could probably read that site for years and still not reach the end of it. The internet *is* good for something!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1011: THE LAST OUTPOST OF THE EMPIRE . . .

 . . . at least until Iowa.

I've lived in DeKalb for a few days, and it's been pretty nice, but it *is* in the middle of nowhere. I like the middle of nowhere. There's a lot of farmland and woods and prairie out here. You know how, if you're driving, the road signs tell you what the next major town is? When you get to DeKalb, the road signs advise you that Iowa is pretty much the next thing of interest on this road, and there's still about 90 miles of Illinois left.

I spent today trying to put things where they belong, or at least in the room they belong. Unpacking with this fucking cage on my foot is difficult, to say the least. Right now the dinosaur computer I write just about everything on is in my living room, and I'm trying to figure out how to get it all to my study, where I plan to do all my writing going forward. (Yes, I have a study. And yes, you may see it when it is ready.) I have two ideas: I can crawl on my hands and knees, pushing each component one at a time. Or I can put each component on a sheet that I can drag behind me as I make my way with the walker.

I supposedly go back to work next week. I'll bet the doc gives me another week of rest first. I'm taking a practice drive during rush hour tomorrow morning to see what the commute will be like. Better than I expect, I hope. But I'll have a better idea of how much time I'm going to have on work days soon. Which means I'll be deciding the fate of GF soon. I started writing these again because I had unexpected time. I might not have the time soon. I'll probably make that determination tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll keep writing these while I can.

I can't express to you how happy I am sleeping in my own bed every night. Not having to wake up twice (sometimes three times!) to refill the air mattress. It's like I've been given a respite in life.

I have to get up early tomorrow, so I'm heading to that bed right now. It will be glorious, just like you glorious fuckers. Goodnight.