Tropical Storm Isaac as seen from Key West, Florida
The fact
that I’m writing this on Monday and you’re reading it sometime after, tells us
that this wasn’t written on Sunday, August 26, in the year of our Lord 2012.
Thank you, Dr. Watson. It wasn’t that I blew it off, or didn’t have anything to
say, although I was in a state of mental muddle. Usually when I triangulate on
a subject, it’s pretty clear; lightning in a bottle. Bolt out of the blue; a
spark and my brain takes off, up and down many alleys. In and out of the labyrinth.
Am I the
only one who has this visual image of a brain, trailing its little cortex tail,
on a pair of squeaky, little tricycle wheels, zipping up and down endless, immense DOD aisles,
chumming around for trivia, ideas, inspirations, all while humming “March to
the Scaffold,” by Hector Berlioz? Yeah, me neither.
Well, my
little bean was busy or not busy doing other stuff on Sunday. First, we needed
to kind of spruce up the house a bit. I was going to cook some ribs and make
potato salad and corn on the cob last week, but no. I had a visit from the
Nuclear Flu instead. That left by itself without medical intervention, and I’m
tickled by that. I usually end up in the ER at the very least. Once, I got a
dandy case of pleurisy, 2 broken ribs from coughing and pneumonia while flu-ridden. It took me 3
months to recover. The fact that I lived very near to the University of
Michigan hospital didn’t hurt a bit.
Anyway, I’ve
been feeling better; getting over the flu, but the whole Bipolar-PD thing has just run right off the rails. I have this huge cat fight going on in my head and body.
It’s bizarre. It hurts, then it doesn’t. I can feel everything intensely, and
then I can’t. My visual disturbances (this is different than my blindness) are
on my left side, where they’re normally on my right. This is the best part.
Being bipolar? I just want to go, go, go. I don’t care where, let’s just go
somewhere.
As if. Let’s
recap. Legally blind? (or "Legally Bland." I just thought of that; patent pending. I want business cards,
or a web site with that as my logo) Check; I use a cane, (canne de Combat, anyone?) Balance,
walking problems. Not so much anymore. Sensory problems. Check. Problems with
motor control. Yes. Mental problems. YES! Impulse control/decision making
problems? You betcha. The two things that still work well are my speed and
strength. This is not a recipe for happy when mixed up with either the RNC or
some of the fruit loops that will be protesting. I once got in trouble in Ann
Arbor for throwing rocks at the KKK. I could end up biting some
Romney/Ryan/Akin lover.
Okay, now
we are talking! This sounds like my idea of a good time. I really am my mother’s
daughter. Once, when asked what her party affiliation was she said “If I’m in a
good mood, I’m an anarchist. Piss me off, and I throw bombs.” I can relate. So,
let’s take a bus and ride downtown to the RNC. That will calm me right down!
Not happening. My happy ass would find the inside of a jail cell at Orient Road
in 2 minutes. I’d sit there and holler about my Americans with Disabilities
Acts being violated. I’d be sitting
there with all the deaf people. I’d make gestures at them, although I know not
one word of ASL. An aside, JC is fluent in ASL. I could have him teach my bad
words before I get arrested. After an exchange of gestures, meaningless on my part, small items would begin to fly.
A riot
would break out at the Jail. Yippee. First, the deaf peeps, ‘bangers, tat girls,
led by me, begin making noise by rubbing our tin cups up and down the jail bar
cells. All the big bads are for me, ‘cause the sheriff’s deputy*, not at all
the what-we-have-here-is-a-failure-to-communicate type of sheriff’s deputy*,
but more the polyester-pants-one-size-too-small-wadded-up-his-bunghole type has
deprived me of whackamole and the big bads are bissed, er, pissed. So me, being
the opportunistic and heedless sort that I am, start whining about how I need
my "binkie." Any excuse for fuckery will do at the Jail and I am always ready for that; it starts with tin mugs
and rapidly moves to barricades made from table and chairs thrown. The Red Side
v. the Blue Side numbers are fluid. Hostages come and go, combatants change
sides and sheriff’s deputies* are trying to get all of us hooligans to calm
down.
Usually
the sheriff’s deputies* don’t give a good Goddamned if the prisoners brain each
other because it means less paperwork for them. And, boy are they tired.
Instead of just the usual gang of idiots, there’s a whole bunch of out-of-town
idiots that are locked up in the cell next door. They are wearing suits and
ties. At least the boy ones are, although some of them may be girls. Androgyny
is no stranger to that crowd. It’s some of the GOP. They are looking rather
askance at the goings-on with the bangers, deafies, and whores, and who’s that
evil-looking bitch in dark glasses, and what is she screeching hellishly in
Urdu? Some of the suited types are a bit worse for the wear. Ties askew; broken glasses. One guy looks like a Picasso print; a starred lens on the left side. The right is at a 45° angle to his nose.
Gah! At
this point, my postis going nowhere. I think I’m going to take author DaveBarry’s sage, but extremely lazy, literary advice and end this gracefully: “And suddenly, they were
all run over by a truck!”
There! It’s
all fixed now.
*I know
several members of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Deputies and Tampa Police
Department. These are some of the finest men and women I have ever met and they
know how I feel about them. This is all in fun. They know I’m silly.
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