Poppy Z. Brite's Blog, page 69
March 15, 2011
Get Going
I've got to snap out of this a little or I'll be completely useless this week, and that can't happen, because I have to help my mother move. So last night I pretty much informed Chris that he was making me risotto with asparagus for dinner -- I needed comfort food made by loving hands. He makes the best risotto I've had outside of Italy, and in addition to the asparagus, it had prosciutto crisps and dandelion greens. Most substantial meal I've had in days.
Here is a timely joke that made Chris wince in pain last night:
Q. What's Irish and can stay out back of the house even when it rains?
A. Paddy O'Furniture.
I think that's from the Blaine the Mono riddle battle in the Dark Tower. I love it for its sheer stupidity.
Also, so far this spring I've planted cherry tomatoes, Greek oregano, and many flowers. I also have some apparently indestructible peppers that survived several freezes and are already producing peppers again.
Here is a timely joke that made Chris wince in pain last night:
Q. What's Irish and can stay out back of the house even when it rains?
A. Paddy O'Furniture.
I think that's from the Blaine the Mono riddle battle in the Dark Tower. I love it for its sheer stupidity.
Also, so far this spring I've planted cherry tomatoes, Greek oregano, and many flowers. I also have some apparently indestructible peppers that survived several freezes and are already producing peppers again.
March 14, 2011
A Tide of Bodies
Oh God. Just when I thought the news out of Japan couldn't get any worse. Actually, I never thought that; I know things can always get worse. But this is horrific almost beyond comprehension.
And the Governor of Tokyo sounds about as helpful as Ray Nagin.
I feel sick most of the time lately. I know it's OK to give myself a break from thinking about these disasters, but I can't seem to do it. Last night I tried to cheer myself up by reading about Ted Bundy. I never did like him, but at least he's diverting.
And the Governor of Tokyo sounds about as helpful as Ray Nagin.
I feel sick most of the time lately. I know it's OK to give myself a break from thinking about these disasters, but I can't seem to do it. Last night I tried to cheer myself up by reading about Ted Bundy. I never did like him, but at least he's diverting.
March 13, 2011
Disasters
I'm sorry I haven't updated sooner. I no longer have the vocabulary to talk about the hideous disasters happening in New Zealand, Japan, and elsewhere, not to mention the ongoing struggle in places whose disasters are already yesterday's news, and there doesn't seem to be anything else worth talking about. I get very agitated reading the newspaper. Chris says, "Well, then don't read it."
I say, "They deserve for me to!"
He says, "Well, not if it's going to freak you out. Those people don't want you freaking out on their behalf."
I say, "THEY DO! I DID!"
Yes. In the early days of August-September 2005, it made me unreasonably furious to think anyone anywhere was leading a normal life. Later on, it was comforting to spend a few days in a place (Chicago) that wasn't full of gas lines, MREs, and other refugees before coming back to New Orleans and trying to rebuild some kind of life. Right after it happened, though, the whole world was turned upside down as far as I was concerned. I'm not saying this is right or wrong, only that it's how I felt.
I say, "They deserve for me to!"
He says, "Well, not if it's going to freak you out. Those people don't want you freaking out on their behalf."
I say, "THEY DO! I DID!"
Yes. In the early days of August-September 2005, it made me unreasonably furious to think anyone anywhere was leading a normal life. Later on, it was comforting to spend a few days in a place (Chicago) that wasn't full of gas lines, MREs, and other refugees before coming back to New Orleans and trying to rebuild some kind of life. Right after it happened, though, the whole world was turned upside down as far as I was concerned. I'm not saying this is right or wrong, only that it's how I felt.
March 2, 2011
Addendum: "Reverend" Storms
Here's a wonderful update that includes the "Reverend" Grant Storms' hilarious denials, complete police report, and the tantalizing possibility (in comments) that he held today's press conference in the parking lot of a motel because his wife kicked him out and refused to make bail for him, which would also explain why he spent two nights in jail. I haven't enjoyed the news this much since the Saints won the Super Bowl.
March 1, 2011
Ain't Karma A Bitch?
I'm more or less over my Captain Trips, but I made great strides in my recovery and found new joy in my heart when I opened today's newspaper and saw this:
Anti-gay pastor booked with obscenity
Chris and I came within an ace of killing this loathsome shithead in the Quarter several years ago. Or I did, anyway. I was picking Chris up from work (Dickie Brennan's, I think), and I pulled up to see him shouting abuse at the "Reverend" Storms, who was out harassing tourists with his bullhorn. Storms called me a "truck driver" (???) and I called him a hateful piece of shit, and as Chris got into the car, I had to exercise every ounce of my will (I had more back then) to keep from simply running the car up over the sidewalk and mashing him flat against the building. Now I'm glad I didn't, because I would be in jail for vehicular homicide and Storms would not have lived to, literally, expose himself in this beautiful fashion. I just hope he hasn't hurt any children, and that he'll be put away before he can.
It all goes to show: whether you're a self-proclaimed "horror" "writer" on the Internet or the leader of your own "church," there's no reason to be so obsessed with other people's sexuality unless there is something deeply twisted and wrong about your own.
Anti-gay pastor booked with obscenity
Chris and I came within an ace of killing this loathsome shithead in the Quarter several years ago. Or I did, anyway. I was picking Chris up from work (Dickie Brennan's, I think), and I pulled up to see him shouting abuse at the "Reverend" Storms, who was out harassing tourists with his bullhorn. Storms called me a "truck driver" (???) and I called him a hateful piece of shit, and as Chris got into the car, I had to exercise every ounce of my will (I had more back then) to keep from simply running the car up over the sidewalk and mashing him flat against the building. Now I'm glad I didn't, because I would be in jail for vehicular homicide and Storms would not have lived to, literally, expose himself in this beautiful fashion. I just hope he hasn't hurt any children, and that he'll be put away before he can.
It all goes to show: whether you're a self-proclaimed "horror" "writer" on the Internet or the leader of your own "church," there's no reason to be so obsessed with other people's sexuality unless there is something deeply twisted and wrong about your own.
February 20, 2011
Brain Damage Is Teh Funny
I've been totally out of commission with some weird germ Chris brought home last week, though I'm not recovering as fast as he did. Weird symptom-cluster of horrible nauseating dizziness (only for the first day or so, thank God), head and body ache, congestion, and a bad cough. I always call such things Captain Trips because when I'm in their throes, I wish they would just go ahead and kill me, but I don't think this one is going to.
I'm reading a fascinating book by Melanie Thernstrom, The Pain Chronicles: Cures, Myths, Mysteries, Prayers, Diaries, Brain Scans, Healing, and the Science of Suffering (which, it strikes me typing it, is one of the longest subtitles I've ever seen). Here's the excerpt that roused me from my sickbed to send out an inarticulate Livejournal howl:
There is increasing evidence that over time, untreated pain eventually rewrites the central nervous system, causing pathological changes to the brain and spinal cord, and that these in turn cause greater pain.
Translation: You're gonna hurt for the rest of your life, and it will probably get worse. OK, I already knew that. I don't like it, but I've come to some kind of terms with it. Digested the probability, if you will. But Thernstrom goes on to say:
Even more disturbingly, recent evidence suggests that prolonged pain actually damages parts of the brain, including those involved in cognition.
"WELL, ISN'T THAT JUST FUCKING GREAT," I said out loud to myself when I read that, then got up and paced (well, limped) around the room for a while. Then I sat back down and grabbed my notebook from the bedside table to copy down that sentence. I did so, then flipped back a few pages to the increasingly awful cartoons I had been drawing before the Wellbutrin. Bored with these, I stared off into space for a while, then glanced at the bedside table, which looked oddly empty. "Isn't my notebook supposed to be there?" I thought. "Where the hell's my notebook? Did I leave it in my office or ... "
I looked down at the notebook still open on the bed in front of me. And, you know, all I could really do was laugh. Because, even when it may be irrevocably damaged, the mind is a pretty funny monkey.
I'm reading a fascinating book by Melanie Thernstrom, The Pain Chronicles: Cures, Myths, Mysteries, Prayers, Diaries, Brain Scans, Healing, and the Science of Suffering (which, it strikes me typing it, is one of the longest subtitles I've ever seen). Here's the excerpt that roused me from my sickbed to send out an inarticulate Livejournal howl:
There is increasing evidence that over time, untreated pain eventually rewrites the central nervous system, causing pathological changes to the brain and spinal cord, and that these in turn cause greater pain.
Translation: You're gonna hurt for the rest of your life, and it will probably get worse. OK, I already knew that. I don't like it, but I've come to some kind of terms with it. Digested the probability, if you will. But Thernstrom goes on to say:
Even more disturbingly, recent evidence suggests that prolonged pain actually damages parts of the brain, including those involved in cognition.
"WELL, ISN'T THAT JUST FUCKING GREAT," I said out loud to myself when I read that, then got up and paced (well, limped) around the room for a while. Then I sat back down and grabbed my notebook from the bedside table to copy down that sentence. I did so, then flipped back a few pages to the increasingly awful cartoons I had been drawing before the Wellbutrin. Bored with these, I stared off into space for a while, then glanced at the bedside table, which looked oddly empty. "Isn't my notebook supposed to be there?" I thought. "Where the hell's my notebook? Did I leave it in my office or ... "
I looked down at the notebook still open on the bed in front of me. And, you know, all I could really do was laugh. Because, even when it may be irrevocably damaged, the mind is a pretty funny monkey.
February 14, 2011
Happy Valentine's Day!
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February 13, 2011
Fortuna's Wheel Swings Upward (?)
Well, hell, I feel positively perky. I'm ready to make a commercial for Wellbutrin. Tonight I started, yet again, the Sisyphean and never-ending task of cleaning out and organizing my office. Compare this with my sad self-portrait from eleven days ago (with my thoughts purposely cropped out due to being far too embarrassing for public consumption, even by my numerous new spouses):
(There are TWO cats in this picture. Can you find the other one?)
And I'm itching to replace the frozen dead flowers in my front planters, but I have a feeling we might get one more freeze, and I don't want any more petunias or pansies (the only flowers that seem to bloom through anything a New Orleans winter can throw at them) as I have loads of them already. I'm tired of looking at those shriveled-up marigolds, though.
Going out today (even with Chris) was a little difficult, but I hope that's improving too. We had lunch at Mandina's on Canal, where Dick Hallorann (lately of the Overlook Hotel) is apparently cooking now; at any rate I reread The Shining last night and the ending made me hungry for shrimp Creole, and when we went in, there it was on the Saturday specials menu, and just as good as he promised. They even had the little green peas to go with it.
Having been more or less here before, I know I need to be careful not to wear myself out physically just because I feel like doing something besides lying in bed. But damn, does that office ever need a good filing swoop. I don't even know what I need an office for these days, but Chris sometimes uses the printer, and it's a beautiful big-windowed room that brightens up the whole front part of the house when we can have it open (i.e. when there aren't giant piles of loose paper for the cats to knock down/pee on/nest in), and maybe I'll start doing eBay auctions again one of these days. Maybe even making blank books and other objects again; I really enjoyed that.
None of the crazy-vivid Wellbutrin dreams people have warned me about yet. I'm kind of looking forward to them and kind of dreading them, if they come at all. I didn't have those horrible brain-zaps people talk about when I went off Cymbalta, so maybe I won't get these dreams either. I could use some different dreams as long as they aren't horrible. I'm sick of school/packing/transporting cats/moving/being-unwelcome dreams, and I don't really need to go to Amsterdam every night, especially since my mind seldom lets me have any actual fun there.
(There are TWO cats in this picture. Can you find the other one?)
And I'm itching to replace the frozen dead flowers in my front planters, but I have a feeling we might get one more freeze, and I don't want any more petunias or pansies (the only flowers that seem to bloom through anything a New Orleans winter can throw at them) as I have loads of them already. I'm tired of looking at those shriveled-up marigolds, though.
Going out today (even with Chris) was a little difficult, but I hope that's improving too. We had lunch at Mandina's on Canal, where Dick Hallorann (lately of the Overlook Hotel) is apparently cooking now; at any rate I reread The Shining last night and the ending made me hungry for shrimp Creole, and when we went in, there it was on the Saturday specials menu, and just as good as he promised. They even had the little green peas to go with it.
Having been more or less here before, I know I need to be careful not to wear myself out physically just because I feel like doing something besides lying in bed. But damn, does that office ever need a good filing swoop. I don't even know what I need an office for these days, but Chris sometimes uses the printer, and it's a beautiful big-windowed room that brightens up the whole front part of the house when we can have it open (i.e. when there aren't giant piles of loose paper for the cats to knock down/pee on/nest in), and maybe I'll start doing eBay auctions again one of these days. Maybe even making blank books and other objects again; I really enjoyed that.
None of the crazy-vivid Wellbutrin dreams people have warned me about yet. I'm kind of looking forward to them and kind of dreading them, if they come at all. I didn't have those horrible brain-zaps people talk about when I went off Cymbalta, so maybe I won't get these dreams either. I could use some different dreams as long as they aren't horrible. I'm sick of school/packing/transporting cats/moving/being-unwelcome dreams, and I don't really need to go to Amsterdam every night, especially since my mind seldom lets me have any actual fun there.
February 11, 2011
No, Really, He Hates Me!
Elton John (the real one) is starting to get on my nerves. TAKE A HINT AND DROP THE SUBJECT, DUDE.* Billy is obviously not going to give you whatever pathetic validation you're looking for here. Now go listen to "My Life" and hush up. I tell you what, if Ramsey Campbell ever goes to rehab and then calls me out in Rolling Stone for still smoking pot, it's over between us. OVER, RAMSEY, DO YOU HEAR ME?
So. This is my first day on Wellbutrin, which is supposed to "boost" the Prozac rather than replacing it. My gratuitous use of caps would suggest that it's already working, but I don't think that can be. Also, I decided while half-awake this morning that you all have to marry me. All of you. Everyone who reads and comments (nicely) on this journal. If you are already married, I'll marry your spouses too. Awake, I think it's probably not a workable plan, and I'm not dumping Chris anyway, but I thought you might be flattered to hear about it.
*I do love the picture, though.
So. This is my first day on Wellbutrin, which is supposed to "boost" the Prozac rather than replacing it. My gratuitous use of caps would suggest that it's already working, but I don't think that can be. Also, I decided while half-awake this morning that you all have to marry me. All of you. Everyone who reads and comments (nicely) on this journal. If you are already married, I'll marry your spouses too. Awake, I think it's probably not a workable plan, and I'm not dumping Chris anyway, but I thought you might be flattered to hear about it.
*I do love the picture, though.
A True Story
Another brief word, and then we can leave this tiresome subject alone ... but just in case anyone else ever gets ideas about going all Dr. Phil on my ass:
One time Chris and I were driving back from a vacation on Grand Isle. We stopped at a little sandwich and ice cream shop along Bayou Lafourche to get a bite to eat. Parked between our car and the nearby picnic area was a pickup truck with its bed half full of dead nutria. (Nutria are an invasive and destructive species, so the state put a bounty on them several years ago -- $4 or $5 a tail, I think.) It was a sunny day and they were starting to get a little ripe, but no big deal; it's a good way for bayou folks to make some extra cash.
We went inside and ordered food. And then we sat down to wait for it. And there was a TV up in the corner. And Dr. Phil was on it. I had read about him and thought he sounded incredibly annoying, but this was the first time I'd seen his show. I sat with my back to it, but I could still hear his horrible hectoring voice as he berated some stupid teenager for acting like a stupid teenager. I could still see his maliciously glittering little eyes. He was so intrusive that I even imagined I could smell his stinky breath filtering through his mustache as he ranted. I wanted to ask the employees to turn off the TV, but they were obviously watching it and I didn't like to be rude. So, in order to get away from him, I took my grilled cheese sandwich outside and ate it in the picnic area next to the truck bed full of stinky dead nutria.
That's how I feel about Dr. Phil.
One time Chris and I were driving back from a vacation on Grand Isle. We stopped at a little sandwich and ice cream shop along Bayou Lafourche to get a bite to eat. Parked between our car and the nearby picnic area was a pickup truck with its bed half full of dead nutria. (Nutria are an invasive and destructive species, so the state put a bounty on them several years ago -- $4 or $5 a tail, I think.) It was a sunny day and they were starting to get a little ripe, but no big deal; it's a good way for bayou folks to make some extra cash.
We went inside and ordered food. And then we sat down to wait for it. And there was a TV up in the corner. And Dr. Phil was on it. I had read about him and thought he sounded incredibly annoying, but this was the first time I'd seen his show. I sat with my back to it, but I could still hear his horrible hectoring voice as he berated some stupid teenager for acting like a stupid teenager. I could still see his maliciously glittering little eyes. He was so intrusive that I even imagined I could smell his stinky breath filtering through his mustache as he ranted. I wanted to ask the employees to turn off the TV, but they were obviously watching it and I didn't like to be rude. So, in order to get away from him, I took my grilled cheese sandwich outside and ate it in the picnic area next to the truck bed full of stinky dead nutria.
That's how I feel about Dr. Phil.
