Archive for the Superstition and OCD Category

Lexiconographical Psychometric Meandering Manglings

Posted in Animal Stuff, Miracles, Narcissisim, Pest Control, Philosophy?, Superstition and OCD with tags , , , on October 18, 2008 by Admin
Bastette

Bastet

While searching for mythology regarding Opossums, I found this, from sacred-texts – “Although native speculation as to the beginning of the world seems undeveloped, the same cannot be said with regard to the origin of mankind, for on that point there are many different beliefs. The myths relating to this topic may be divided into three groups, according as they ascribe to man (a) a wholly independent origin, (b) an independent origin as incomplete beings, who are then finished or completed; or (c) describe a definite making or creation by some deity.”

Hmm. How many beings are actually complete?

Dueling mythologies such as the myth of Narcissus would seem to give evidence that Narcissism is a sort of insecure human incompleteness that is rampant. And, possibly slightly emotionally dangerous. To others.

Anyway–There is a cat living in my building. It is an orange-ish blur spotted by 3 of us now. I put out water and cheese for it. We have a huge mice problem and I am going broke buying peppermint oil and sacredly defending my space by prancing about dropping the oil around the perimeter of my space. But the universe sent me a cat! How perfect, letting the order of things fix … Continue reading

Putin Stole My Jamoka

Posted in Animal Stuff, Miracles, Superstition and OCD, The meaning of life, Therapy with tags , , , , , on October 17, 2008 by Admin

I swear I did not photoshop this. Click it to see the real article on HuffPo.

Remember when I used to photoshop Jamoka into all sorts of things for my art newsletter? Well, he’s not gone. It was a ruse. He was stolen and Putin is now making my Jamoka carry around whole satellites. Shit. This looks so photoshopped. it looks exactly like I photoshopped it. Proof below the caption.

“Wearing a collar containing satellite-guided positioning equipment Putin’s dog Koni walks ahead of his owner, now Russia’s Prime Minister, right, in Putin’s Novo-Ogaryovo residence outside Moscow, on Friday, Oct. 17, 2008. Russia’s GLONASS satellite navigation system isn’t fully operational yet, but it seemed to function Friday at Putin’s Novo-Ogaryovo residence when he tried the equipment on his black labrador. The government had promised to make GLONASS fully operational by the beginning of this year, but it was delayed by equipment flaws and other technical problems. GLONASS was developed during the Soviet times as a response to the U.S. Global Positioning System, or GPS, but it has been slow to take shape amid the post-Soviet economic meltdown.(AP Photo/RIA-Novosti, Alexei Druzhinin, Pool)”

A walk down memory lane below. See!? People don’t die. They go somewhere else. I have always refused to believe otherwise. Jamoka is the dog who miraculously appeared in a huge ice and snow and water sculpture in the canal outside my window almost 2 months after he died. For that. I believe in miracles. Hell, I now believe the Virgin Mary did appear in the window at Mercy Hospital recently. She appeared on what would have been my Grammie’s birthday so of course it is absolutely real. I now believe in everything.That I want to.

Longfellow and I have a quietly thrilling weekend

Posted in Adventures and Interludes, Being a Virgo, FOOD & RESTAURANTS, Philosophy?, Superstition and OCD with tags , , on October 11, 2008 by Admin

This past weekend a dear friend took me to an old inn for a quiet weekend, as a birthday gift to us, because we share a birthday. I went to an inn once last October and rewrote the wine list at a nearby restaurant. October is inn appreciation month. I did not rewrite anything on this trip, but am currently writing a story. But, anyway.

The Wayside Inn, where we stayed, is a living museum. Indeed it felt much like having some sort of connection enabling us to stay, on the sly, in a museum for the night. Like when you go a museum and wish you could hide away and then stay overnight in one of the exhibits–yeah, it was like that.

This inn is so old in fact that it has very low beamed ceilings which made me feel tall. I am not often within reach of any ceilings and don’t often feel tall. This inn is said to be haunted. It has something to do with Longfellow. It is called, officially, Longfellow’s Wayside Inn. I like inns. I like the quiet of no TVs and quiet, tiptoey times.

I drove up to the inn...

I drove up to the inn and pulled in at the sign and thought wow! This is so rustic. I can't believe we are staying here. Then I re-read the sign and realized that this is The Wayside Inn grist mill. oops! Back in the car I go...

Arriving at the real inn

Maureen's thumb, arriving at the real inn

The tavern has brown checked tablecloths.

The tavern has brown checked tablecloths and people. The people can be any pattern they like. .

A glass of wine

A glass of wine at the tavern.

At check-in time we logically checked in. There was an innkeeper.

At check-in time we logically checked in. There was an innkeeper. I imagine this guy who let me take his picture is the innkeeper. but ya know, I didn't actually ask.

And brought our little things to our little rooms.

And brought our little things to our little rooms.

Then walked around the pond...

Then walked around the pond...

And sat by the pond on the little benches and chatted...

And sat by the little pond on the little benches and chatted...

the pond has Lillypads...

The pond has (little) Lillypads...

Things stirred up the pond and made swirlies

Things stirred up the pond and made swirlies

My little room.

My little room.

The gift shop had dolls...

The gift shop had dolls... They were like my little expressionless inn friends.

And ducks...

And expressionless ducks...

The dining room was busy indeed...

The dining room was busy indeed...

Christine took excellent care of us.

Christine took excellent care of us.I loved Christine.

Parts of the inn are roped off and are museumish. That turkey is not real.

Parts of the inn are roped off and are museumish. That turkey is not real.Then we went to bed. But not to sleep because there was a wedding on the grounds and the music and the DJ did not stop louding till 11:18 PM. So as I waited for the quiet to come to the inn, and ghosts to appear, the sounds of Michael Jackson's Thriller were in the background. Hence the thrillingness. Then we checked out the next day and went home. To nap.

JIM THOMPSON’S INSIDE OUT RECIPROCITY HOUSE

Posted in Adventures and Interludes, Life Performance Art, Philosophy?, Superstition and OCD, The meaning of life, Thoughts with tags , , , , , on September 20, 2008 by Admin

I found this in the drafts folder and decided it wanted to be posted off. I have a lot of drafts. I change my mind a lot. I don’t always finish things. These are all traits I heard about ad infinitum growing up. i still have them. That must be arrested development. This is from last October of 2007.

Jim Thompson's Dining Room.

Jim Thompson's Dining Room

A few weeks ago in Maine while staying at The Blue Hill Inn, I had breakfast in the dining room and started chatting with another guest at the next table. He was a retrired CIA agent who spoke 12 languages fluently and had lived all over the world spending the majority of that time in Asia. I told him that while in Bangkok years ago I had visited the house of the American ex-OSS agent, whose name I could not recall, who was credited with being solely responsible for creating an export industry for Thai silk and thus helpfully changing the economy. Naturally this retired CIA Agent knew his name and had been a friend of this Jim Thompson. And for some reason this morning, which should have been yesterday morning, I thought of this guy and his house again.

If you look closely you can see the little riser thingie at the bottom of the doorway

We had a tour of this house, now a museum, and the guide told a fascinating tale, one which I cannot find online exactly. It seems this Jim Thompson bought a house along the Klong Maha Nag (Maha Nag waterway) but it wasn’t big enough. So he bought another house farther up the waterway and had it floated on a raft down to the banks of the existing house. Foreigners are allowed to purchase an exactly measured bit of land providing that the same exact real estate opportunity is made available for purchase by a Thai in said purchaser’s country of origin. Thai law seems to be about reciprocity in this respect. Nice. Reciprocity makes perfect sense to me in this often incomprehensible world.

hhhh

I want to live in a house just like this.

Once he got the pieces of the house and was ready to reassemble it (Thai houses were traditionally built to be movable and so were built with interlocking panels that required no nails or wood screws), he decided he liked the outside so much that we wanted it to be the inside. So he put it back together inside out. Shutters opened inward and the walls were weathered, as outer walls would be, and the overall effect was rather fascinating.

Walking through doorways was tricky because they are different from our doors. Thai doorways have (or maybe “had”) a little riser at the bottom because they believe that evil spirits can only travel horizontally and thus would not be able to get into a house or into various rooms. I suppose this makes sense in a metaphorical way because maybe evil people can only think horizontally. If evil spirits or people could think vertically perhaps they grow or evolve or might look beyond their own eye level perceptions of the world and thus be open-mided and, inevitably, enlightened and this would of course make them nice and not evil. And perhaps they would thus be capable of change, as in change of thought. For if thoughts and people never change… well, who knows.

The notion of an inside-out house is fascinating to me. And if you remove that little space between “out” and “house” it makes for an interesting Freudian slip with further possible redundant metaphorical possibilities. I sometimes think my metaphorical house is an inside-out house but I don’t know if that removable and possibly Freudian space is part of my house or not. Perhaps because I am an oversharer and my neuroses are so fully on display. With neon signs blinkingly heralding their existence. How I live is somewhat inside-out. So Jim’s house made perfect sense to me and I wanted to live in it. Maybe some day I will have an actual inside-out house.

Years later Jim disappeared while on his daily walk in the woods with his trusted guide. Neither of them were ever seen again. There are many theories about this ranging from the more incidental possibility of being attacked by bears or the like, to the more conspiratorial murder theories about his ex-OSS status and etc.

Upon landing at the airport in Bangkok I met my first pickpocket. We were no sooner through customs, at midnight thirty during a monsoon that had rocked the plane enough that I banged my head on the window a few times, than the spectacle bgean much as it said it would in our Lonely Planet guide. We were swarmed. I had a foolish hat in my hand which would later in the hot sun prove to be non-foolish, and my other hand guiding my rolling bag.  My money and passport were in one of those holders on a string tucked into my shirt. I felt hands going through my pocjkets and at first I knida freaked out and flung my hatted hand about at the swarm but then I just resigned to it. And then came the task of getting to our hotel….

TO BE CONTINUED… (this is a serial post)

The Six-Hour Psychic

Posted in Adventures and Interludes, Confusion, Life Performance Art, Narcissisim, Philosophy?, Popular Culture, Science?, Special People, Superstition and OCD, The meaning of life with tags , , , on July 19, 2008 by Admin

A SIX PACK OF OH MY
With
“Clocks scattered throughout the universe beat[ing] to their own drummer.”

I have an appointment with the Psychic tomorrow. I capitalized that because I believe in this Psychic. I saw him last winter as a belated birthday gift from a fabulous friend.

A random card sent by a friend in Mount Airy, North Carolina which seems to somehow support everything I ponder in life.

A random card sent by a friend in Mount Airy, North Carolina (birthplace of Andy Griffith) which seems to somehow support everything I ponder in life.

I have been to many psychics before. I always saw it as entertainment. Back in that day, we would often go to the Boston Tea Room in Downtown Crossing – Boston’s oldest tea room. It was dark, with beaded curtains and incense and you would be assigned a psychic when you went in. They’d serve tea and then read your leaves and then do your cards. After, we’d go to the nearest sushi bar and compare notes and have one of those grand old times. I think about Boston a lot lately and wonder why having lived there for so long nags at me, and if I might like to be living there again. But I also toy with moving to San Francisco and thus escape those pesky annual winters. I wish they were Perennials. I’d disdain to plant them most years. I am about to find out where I am meant to be, perhaps (I can say this here because the Psychic does not read my blog).

I do believe this Psychic is the real deal, the elusive and rare breed that can actually see things. Maybe time is a continuum. Maybe it is not linear. Perhaps everything has already happened and some gifted souls can see how things have been; the things that for us who don’t see that way, will be. The Quantum Physicists, if one is to believe that movie, “What the bleep are we doing here”, maintain that we make associations at a cellular level, based on familiar associations that are perhaps repetitive and based on past events and outcomes. Makes sense. But maybe said associations are also based on the future, which in actuality has already happened but is now playing out linearly, or so we perceive. Who can know? I will ring up Stephen Hawkings and ask. Please hold…

Stephen Hawkings

Stephen Hawkings

Ok–he’s not answering, and I need to buy his theory of everything book, and stop ringing him up every time I have a question. But, I found this at PBS.org: [<–source]

“What in the world (or in the universe) are quarks and quasars, nebulae and neutrinos? How can time be imaginary? Is a wormhole anything like an anthill? For definitions and descriptions of the tricky terminology of the universe, this is where the strange stuff becomes a little less so.” and, “Imaginary numbers can be used to help explain tunnelling, a quantum mechanical process in which, for instance, a particle can spontaneously pass through a barrier. In trying to unify general relativity with quantum mechanics, physicists used a related idea in which they would measure time with imaginary numbers instead of real numbers. By using this so-called imaginary time, physicists Stephen Hawking and Jim Hartle showed that the universe could have been born without a singularity.”

See!? If time is measured in imaginary numbers then of course it can occur in imaginary sequences; imaginary meaning that it is not how we think, and those sequences labeled as imaginary not because they are imaginary but simply because they go against the grain of our willing comprehensive capacity. Commonly-held singularities are just that, which does not leave much room for multiplarities which, being multiple, are more likely to be on target. Like a scattershot approach perhaps with one fired particle or theory hitting that nail on its head. Sniper shots, or singularities, are less likely to be on target in this vast universe. I have it all sorta figured out. Science supports my psychic’s ability. He is a deity of sorts.

Michio Kaku, in his blue period.

Michio Kaku, in his blue period.

And then Michio Kaku says (responding to my email), “Einstein gave us a much more radical picture, Mo. According to Einstein, time was more like a river, which meandered around stars and galaxies, speeding up and slowing down as it passed around massive bodies. One second on the earth was NOT one second on Mars. Clocks scattered throughout the universe beat to their own drummer.

However, before Einstein died, he was faced with an embarrassing problem. Einstein’s neighbor at Princeton, Kurt Gödel, perhaps the greatest mathematical logician of the past 500 years, found a new solution to Einstein’s own equations which allowed for time travel!

The “river of time” now had whirlpools in which time could wrap itself into a circle. Gödel’s solution was quite ingenious: It postulated a universe filled with time that flowed like a rotating fluid. Anyone walking along the direction of rotation would find oneself back at the starting point, but backwards in time!”

<–This all means Aha! Time is not what you think it is. Therefor the Psychic deserves his capital P. I realize now that I am only really a particle but I hope to be a Neutrino one day. And time for me is a whirpool and many eddys and also a meandering river, which explains this blog. I am backed by Science.

By the way, “Neutrinos are elementary particles that travel close to the speed of light, lack an electric charge, are able to pass through ordinary matter almost undisturbed and are thus extremely difficult to detect. As of 1999, it is believed neutrinos have a minuscule, but nonzero mass. They are usually denoted by the Greek letter \nu_{}^{} (nu).” per my pal, Wikipedia. [source]

Fresh-Killed, where Elisabeth lived above.

Fresh-Killed, where Elisabeth lived above.

Back to the Psychic – One time I was on the phone with a very self-absorbed (but lovable) friend; I was recanting what the most recent psychic had said and she interrupted with, “I don’t care about all that. I want to know what he said about me.” I laughed (and sorta gasped) – she was seriously serious. I said, “Actually my whole reading was about you and the fabulous guy you will meet next and all the money you will make.” And she believed me for a minute because she really thought my psychic reading would be about her. That is a true anecdotal aside.

My friend Elisabeth used to do tarot readings for me. She was learning the ropes and I was her willing test subject. She lived above a store in Cambridge that sold fresh-killed chickens. That made her readings seem more real somehow.

I went to a psychic once on a street in New Orleans at midnight. I can not resist psychics when traveling, for it seems so romantic, traveling to far-flung places and finding out who you are and what lies in store. Imagine finding out your destiny at the Iowa 80 Rest Stop or the dirt roads of Chaing Mai. But in counties where I don’t speak the language (that would be almost all of them), I cannot indulge in such romantic searches.

The Mystic Ray, at the Musée Mécanique in San Francisco

The Mystic Ray, at the Musée Mécanique in San Francisco

I went to the Musée Mécanique in San Francisco years ago and put a quarter in the machine of The Mystic Ray, and he spit out a little card that said, “One of the prominent features of your make up is self-reliance and confidence in your ability to accomplish what you undertake; your courage is strong; you do not hesitate to lead. The Mystic ray advises you not to be impetuous…” and I do try to heed that advice although, as the Psychic with the capital P points out, I am very impetuous. But knowledge is power! I can change. I try to choose my impetuousities carefully and dissuade the crazier ones. I often count to ten.

Anyway, the meeting with the Psychic began at 6:30 pm on a night which was wintry, cold and dark, it being winter. He started by reading my palms. He looked at my left palm and said, “This is your past, where you’ve been” and told me things only I know. He moved on to my right and said, “This is your present, where you are at; it is also where you are going and what lies ahead.”

I wonder if that’s where that “On the one hand…., but on the other hand…” thing comes from?

And psychics are easy to find, they can be found in every town. Maybe because we are always searching. And that’s ok. What happens when we stop searching? There’s that infamous road to hell and it’s pavement and maybe sometimes it is perhaps paved with a failure to grow and search, along with breakings of commandments and unbought stuffed racehorses, a la Ernest Hemingway. Oh, the ubiquitous drama.

Bust of Voltaire, of course.

Bust of Voltaire, of course.

So the Psychic looked at my right hand and said, “OMG, were you _______? Are you ______?” I started scribbling notes furiously. I found some orange napkins and an orange pen and tried to balance listening and hearing with note-taking. He was talking my life; strumming telling my fate with his fingers cards, singing my life with his [psychic] song, and all that. The orange on orange looked quite lovely. I have those napkins in a drawer. I kept that orange pen, but I politely asked first. I don’t still have that pen. I hope there will be an orange pen tomorrow.

He said I have a true artists’ hands and went on to speculate that my work was three dimensional. He recounted my path; the people in it; the this and that. He knew all of my neuroses. Although, I wear those on my sleeve so there’s that. But, He was pretty amazing.

"Opium Cathy" from Musée Mécanique, The Zelinsky Collection, Opium Den

"Opium Cathy" from Musée Mécanique, The Zelinsky Collection, Opium Den

And is it really so hard to believe in such psychic phenomena? Scores of books are written about coincidences and fate. Remember the Celestine Prophecies? That sold millions. As we are making plans to be somewhere at a certain time, and elsewhere someone else is making different plans to be in a place at a certain time an alignment is happening perhaps. So many times my path has crossed another’s and one thing has led to another and next thing I know I am in a show or this or that happens as a result, and in retrospect it is clear that, but for said fortuitous paths-crossing, this outcome would not have happened.

After the palm-reading he read my cards. He told me about things relevant to my life which had happened. For some of those things I was not present but had already heard of them. It was uncanny to say the least. When the session ended I got in my car. It seemed that hours had passed. I felt drained (yet enlightened). I looked at the clock in my car and it was almost 1 AM – my reading had lasted 6 hours.

Later, as things unfolded in my life exactly as the Psychic said, I started to wish I could see him again. Last week the feeling was so strong I decided to contact him and set up a meeting. But before I could dial his number I got a voice mail from the same fabulous friend; she had prepaid for two visits and the other person had canceled. Could I take that appointment? And again she insisted it was her treat. See what I mean?

So off I go.

BURNING COLLISIONARY HOLIDAY GIFTS FROM SPACE

Posted in Philosophy?, Science?, Superstition and OCD on December 27, 2007 by Admin

This year I got the gift of a shooting star on that day which we know as Christmas. When you see a shooting star you get to make a wish. And in making this wish during that split second when you spy the shooting star, you learn something about yourself because you didn’t know you were going to see that shooting star and subsequently get that wish so you don’t have more than a bite of a (yes, I meant bite) second to think about what you might want. I think at that moment our subconscious blurts out our most burning desires. And the gift of hope is always a valuable one because it’s so easy to lose, likely due to its elusive and indefinable characteristics. Hope can’t be bought, sold or traded, at least not in its most sincere form. Anyway, because of my shooting star I now know what I want most and therein lies the gift of the gift. Although, there’s the be careful what you wish for thing which I have experienced and now understand but this wish was not a crazy caution-needing thing. Hope is a great gift.

Mo Ringey Photograph

Image: faux free-wishes-meteor-shower as seen by squinting at the bridge outside my studio window.

So I looked up shooting stars at space.com and they aren’t really shooting stars no matter how much we call them that. I wasn’t wearing my glasses and so I read *grit*, below, as *gifts*. I read other words wrong too – like the time I was parking and saw a sign that seemed to say, “It’s really awful to park here”.

Anyway–I thought I’d post what I read at space.com but I fixed it to display how it read to me. I kinda like not wearing my glasses. I like squinting too. If you squint at the canal outside my studio at night it looks like Venice, or at least how I remember it from never having been there ever.


Shooting stars are mostly grit gifts from space colliding comingling at very high speed with air molecules hair follicles high up in the sky. As Earth travels travails in its orbit around the sun it runs into cloudsgrit gifts, generally pulverized pummiced rock that also orbits exhibits the sun. Many shooting stars are produced by grit gifts no larger than a grain of sand. Some of the more spectacular ones are pea-sized and the really stunning (but very rare) fireballs furballs are the size of an orange or larger. These objects slide collide with air molecules some 60 miles (95 kilometers) above Earth’s surface and,due to their very high speed, they begin to glow white hot. We see a streak of light as they burn up.


Then I looked up what I wrote in my newsletter at this time last year when I was in San Francisco and it seems I was waxing scientifically then too. As a matter of fact, I wonder about the me that wrote that as it seems familiar but not. And today I don’t know if I could match that so I will excerpt some of that here today because it was about predictions for the new year which is this one, which is just about to turn over to a new 2008 one:

Still unclear, in a rice crispie kind of way, about 2007 and LIFE, I turned to my favorite nonagenarian blogger, Don to Earth, who starts the new blogging year with a bit about gravity (excerpted):, “There is a limited number of ideas that hold up under examination, however insistent, repeated, or challenging. One of these, so far, is “Everything in the universe attracts everything else with a constant and unfailing force”. We know it here as gravity. In our solar system, the planets zoom about in elliptical orbits that slowly decay over time. Eventually, the sun will win and swallow the planets. Further out, all the stars attract all the others, affecting the motions of stars within groups of stars (galaxies), within groups of groups of stars (galaxy clusters). The attractive nature of stuff, or matter, cannot be denied.”

I then decided to google “Predictions for 2007” today and, of the non-doomsday musings, I found a few snippets interesting:

From OMNI Opinion Poll Results: PREDICTIONS FOR 2007 (From 1987)

“The results of the second OMNI Opinion Poll, concerning predictions for the year 2007, turned up some interesting ideas. The least change is envisioned in terms of religion and the arts, while progress is seen for the medical and educational arenas.”

Straightforward enough. And yet then there was this, “Richard Selzer of Yale Medical School believes boredom will be the major medical problem of the future.” It will be interesting to see what the medical community prescribes as the antidote to ennui. In California medicinal herbs are a commonly prescribed antidote for the nausea that follows chemotherapy and I accidentally discovered that a lot of the cookies in this house are “medicinal”. Just tonight I accidentally found out that even the rice crispie snacks on the counter are “medicinal” (is nothing sacred?) and so perhaps that explains the haircut I gave myself and this random train of thought.

So gravity is like a totally infallible flirt and the universe falls for it every time, sometimes to its detriment, and the medical field will make so much progress that our biggest malady will be ennui. I guess I never thought of it in that way and so I found these posts both comforting and disconcerting. Not comforting was that bit about the sun swallowing up all the planets. But since the arts is one area the Omni Poll sees the least change in, I guess that means that they won’t be swallowed up by the Sun or fall prey to boredom soon. And so I have decided that part of why I am here is to miss being there, which is my usual here. I am feeling the horizontal, gravitational attraction to going home.

P.S. The rice crispie comment was because while in SF, I one day found myself suddenly and inexplicably stoned. Later, after a few hours of total yet unfocused fascination with the satellite TV channels, I learned I had accidentally eaten the medicinal peanut butter-cranberry cookies which had special herbs to combat the resulting nausea from my friend’s chemotherapy and radiation. oops.

LET ME CALL YOU SWEETHEART?

Posted in Popular Culture, Superstition and OCD on August 8, 2007 by Admin

718_liberace.jpgFrom the newsletter archives-

July 18, 2006

Dear Sweetheart,

Lately the world seems tainted with an unhealthy emotional hue. Something crazy has gone retrograde it seems. I have heard from millions of people that everyone they know, selves included, have been struggling with the daily emonuclear fallout and it is grinding them down. Me too. But today Liberace spoke to me from an album cover on a table, in a hallway, in this world, and said, “Let me call you sweetheart” and it hit me. Maybe if we all call each other sweetheart we can break through the nozone layer of gloom. Why me? Why Liberace?

Well, today I had some lovely and well-behaved studio visitors, Frank, Gregory and Tamsen, and as I was showing them around the building we came upon a stack of albums for sale for a dollar on the 2nd floor. I had last picked up that so special Herb Alpert whipped cream album in this spot but on this trip I saw Liberace! My lovely, well-behaved visitors led me to the album as I never go upstairs otherwise.

So I grabbed it and put my dollar in the coffee can. It wasn’t quite like when I discovered Benign Girl but I did immediately feel Liberace tugging at my sleeve with an important message and there it was, the name of the album. My second thought was that Liberace would be the perfect companion for Benign Girl, in a twisted way. He could be her fabulous gay shopping buddy.

They could go to the mall and get makeovers and he could advise her on her dressage, “Think more flash and less tramp, honey, Maybe try a different expression or untilt your head”, and the void in her personality would run over with his overabundance of self.


It was so perfect that it called to mind my favorite spam email subject line this week, “Surplus Predestination”. (Although, “Stop Puglifying” was rather brilliant and is also apropos here). Obsessing over such things seems so much more sane than the current state of the world. It makes me want to call everyone, “Sweetheart”. I guess I can if I want. What if everyone called everyone they met today, “Sweetheart”. I might not try it.

%d bloggers like this: