32 Flavors

As you know from recent headlines (and some not-so-recent), public spaces have become rife "hotspots" for all sorts of crimes, like mass murder, which is also not new to human society. I've always known that people were unsafe. Just ask my family. A more vicious set of scavenging predators you're less likely to meet. We have/had: convicted murderers doing hard time, prostitutes, drug dealers, prostituting drug dealers also doing hard time, mobsters, gangsters, punks, etc. You name it, we've had it, and those were/are just the more openly active criminals from my father's side. The lazy people from my maternal line are much savvier at hiding their crimes, because "guineas" are like that. You know, mafiasos. Not my grandparents, but probably yours, paisans.

It's made my aggressive good health (not that that wasn't attacked constantly and/or mocked, like any other illnesses I might have/had, too, because it was) stand out in sharp relief to any family functions I attend(ed), or if I just wanted to use the upstairs bathroom where it was warmer before getting ready for school as a kid, with my two brothers pushing me around. It didn't matter what I said, did, wore, performed, or, apparently, wrote to millions of reading people. No change. That's sort of an anti-good health policy, isn't it? It certainly is! 

In retaliation to my relative patience and composure, I was attacked for being "boring", or, in the words of one criminal dyke at work in a dull office that could be anywhere, "vanilla", because after the best-looking fighter at our dojo turned her down hard, she pretended he was "too young" for her anyway (like I had already told her) and, besides, he was ugly from "cauliflower ears" (which all fighters have), so if he did prefer me to her (and they all do), it was because we were just a couple of bland nobodies next to her, as one out of http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/06/03/commuters-nearly-double-manhattans-daytime-population-census-says/ admins working in the city. 

The strangest part behind the rather unsavory and highly ineffective tactics of using one's mental illnesses and psychiatric disorders to decorate oneself with, like, say, a pretentiously-colored beret to cover up your ineffectiveness as a real working artist by pretending to look like one instead, is that the severely mentally ill and psychotic actually become rote and predictable, the way a "goth kid" telegraphs his belonging to a group of millions by wearing the exact same outfit as a million other goth kids. You know? Black eyeliner, all black clothes, black hair dye, chain wallets from the mall store catering to sulky teens living in the 'burbs (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hot_Topic): their seemingly "alternative" cultural stance became as standard as their rather boring juvenile behavior.

In the strangest twist of all, in response to the poor secretary who went around a bland midtown office for weeks bragging about liking "hard sex"—because her infamous "Unibomber rape" in Central Park made her feel shame about her body's natural responses to sex, even when it's "unwanted", and that usually slays them in group—we just started making fun of her for pretending that her mental illness was kinky. Yeah, bitch...we know. You like choking people and being choked. In time, I learned about more fucking weirdos at dojos, like the porn fetish that caters to sick fucks who like punching women in the stomach. 

You know, typical weirdo shit on the Internet that you can find in a 5-second search, just like I did, and you know what? Still wasn't weirder than me typing it in during the brave new days of online engagements, because I already done wrote the book about it, bitch. See it right here, haters: http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2012/01/hes-very-loving-cat.html. Midget porn: you have to be weirder than that. Because I got 99 problems, but a stupid weird bitch like you ain't one of them. Feel me? Not in the real way, but mentally, like. Yeah, you do. You fucking get it. I can tell. Totally.


"99 Problems"

If you're having girl problems I feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
[Verse One]
I got the rap patrol on the gat patrol
Foes that wanna make sure my casket's closed
Rap critics that say he's "Money Cash Hoes"
I'm from the hood stupid what type of facts are those
If you grew up with holes in your zapatos
You'd celebrate the minute you was having dough
I'm like fuck critics you can kiss my whole asshole
If you don't like my lyrics you can press fast forward
Got beef with radio if I don't play they show
They don't play my hits well I don't give a shit SO
Rap mags try and use my black ass
So advertisers can give em more cash for ads...fuckers
I don't know what you take me as
or understand the intelligence that Jay-Z has
I'm from rags to riches nigga I ain't dumb
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
Hit me
[Chorus]
99 Problems but a bitch ain't one
If you having girl problems I feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
Hit me
[Verse Two]
The year is '94 and in my trunk is raw
In my rear view mirror is the mother fucking law
I got two choices yall pull over the car or
bounce on the double put the pedal to the floor
Now I ain't trying to see no highway chase with jake
Plus I got a few dollars I can fight the case
So I...pull over to the side of the road
And I heard "Son do you know why I'm stopping you for?"
Cause I'm young and I'm black and my hat's real low
Do I look like a mind reader sir, I don't know
Am I under arrest or should I guess some mo?
"Well you was doing fifty five in a fifty four"
"License and registration and step out of the car"
"Are you carrying a weapon on you I know a lot of you are"
I ain't stepping out of shit all my papers legit
"Do you mind if I look round the car a little bit?"
Well my glove compartment is locked so is the trunk and the back
And I know my rights so you gon' need a warrant for that
"Aren't you sharp as a tack are some type of lawyer or something?"
"Or somebody important or something?"
Nah I ain't passed the bar but I know a little bit
Enough that you won't illegally search my shit
"Well see how smart you are when the K-9's come"
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
Hit me
[Chorus X2]
[Verse Three]
Now once upon a time not too long ago
A nigga like myself had to strong arm a hoe
This is not a hoe in the sense of having a pussy
But a pussy having no God Damn sense, try and push me
I tried to ignore him and talk to the Lord
Pray for him, cause some fools just love to perform
You know the type loud as a motor bike
But wouldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight
The only thing that's gonna happen is i'mma get to clapping
He and his boys gon' be yapping to the captain
And there I go trapped in the kit kat again
Back through the system with the riff raff again
Fiends on the floor scratching again
Paparazzi's with they cameras snapping them
D.A. tried to give the nigga the shaft again
Half-a-mil for bail cause I'm African
All because this fool was harrassin' them
Trying to play the boy like hes saccarin
But ain't nothing sweet 'bout how I hold my gun
I got 99 problems but being a bitch ain't one
Hit me
[Chorus X3]
You're crazy for this one Rick
It's your boy

Ghetto Movie Theater

Back in the day, when America's air often buzzed with a thousand flying bullets in broad daylight—like that was the sane thing to do with twin concepts like "new" and "people"—we had an attitude of social looseness that constantly imposed upon the needs of others with an impunity that was artificially called "freedom", when, really, it was often a smokescreen for insanity committed in public spaces without fear of censure. Take, for instance, the ghetto movie theater (see also, Times Square in the 70s: http://gothamist.com/2013/03/27/photos_of_times_square_in_the_1970s.php#photo-2). 

Kids dared one another to run into a peepshow theater and back as if we were risking our young lives like western gunslingers of yore, and we were. Yeah, we had the buses of the Port Authority to take us back home, but if you missed the last sane commuter bus leaving the station, it was just you and your friends with hours of time in an almost empty bus depot, trapped with bums who got much scarier, louder, and active with each passing sip from their cheap bottle of wine. 

We were terrified of getting caught in the city's rain, because we knew a trickle of water could rouse a bum if it reached him before the rains stopped, like the time me and my boyfriend watched water fall down in torrents, stuck underneath a Central Park overpass. We only had so much time left before the water woke him up, and then it finally did. He was pissed off until he suddenly noticed us, which sent him flying towards us in a greatly renewed psychotic rage.

Which meant that we were constantly searching for safe places and happy diversions to combat the hellish scenes popping off around us. It was, uh, a little stressful, to put it mildly. People chain-smoked and drank like "The Final Days of Judgment" were being visited upon them any second, and if you believed the signs of the ranting religious zealots who frequented the midtown tourist areas, the end was always near. Ditto with the bald white "Hari Krishnas" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hare_Krishna_(mantra), who were usually ex-hippie burn-outs from the 60s looking to wind down (or amp up) from their tense neurosis "the natural way", which meant spinning around like a "Whirling Dervish" for hours (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mevlevi_Order), banging tambourines and asking for money from onlookers.

There were also door-knocking, tie-wearing, short-haired Jehovah's Witnesses, robotic over-groomed Mormons who looked like extras from a 1950s-era movie, or "Moonies" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moonie_%28nickname%29) who would turn aggressive on you in a New York minute, which made the average New Yorker play this weird game of pretending not to notice that bleeding guy sitting next to you on the train, because he might stab you if you tried to help him out. Eye contact was also a serious no-no that kept us from helping out one another, because my dad repeated the same line about it over and over again with "no good deed goes unpunished", as an illustration of that very principle we used to live by. 

And so, our public lives were rife with strangely surreal scenes from horror movies or prescient sci-fi movies like "Escape from New York", that warned of The Second Coming as an apocalypse for the damned. Behavior was at an all-time low, and public life reflected the lesser of two evils that presented itself to us at any time. Sure, smoking a big stinky cigar in a movie was rude, oppressive, and unhealthy for everyone around you, but heck, it was better than rape, right? Right?! People sneaked booze and pot into theaters all the time under their jackets, and gay men used the movie's bathrooms as frequent hook-up spots that became so notorious for city people, we avoided public restrooms like The Plague. Anything could happen to you in there.

Like the worst of the human experience that becomes repetitive over time, we got used to extremely fucked-up people. Not comfortable or complacent, but accustomed to seriously violent offenders who'd snap at the slightest excuse to do so. People shouted back at the movie screen, or hissed their questions loudly to each other, in bad stage whispers that were clearly audible to everyone around them. My mom is so bad with watching movies, that I got used to prepping my friends about her odd behavior, because she loses the thread of the narrative quicker than anyone I've ever met. 

At home it was better, because we could stop the movie for food and drinks, or bathroom runs, or funky relatives with serious impairments, which my parents are not nice about. They're New Yorkers from the Bronx and Bed-Stuy, ya feel me? They aren't "nice" about anything, including their own ignorance that they self-defend like embarrassed kids at the rough local playground for tough kids in leather jackets, with switchblades and greased-back hair, smoking unfiltered cigarettes while snapping their chewing gum loudly. In other words, "assholes" presenting themselves in quick visual shorthand. 

"Who is that?!" my mother would yell out loud, and if you ignored her, she'd just abuse you until you had to give her the answer, which she argued about through her constant sense of befuddlement and misunderstanding, especially if she objected to the highbrow intellectualism that surpassed her grasp of the subject matter, like an offended two year-old after their lollipop is ripped out of their hands. It was histrionic bullshit, but look where they came from. Horror shows.

Years later, after we escaped our own individually tragic fates that working class people like us were often fated to, we could sit back and relax over something as simple as watching a t.v. show or a movie without being molested with uncommon violence for our presence or preferences. And, lo and behold, along came a show that addressed our humble city roots with a fun twist: we were safe now, and we also had homemade hand puppets to help spread the fun around to our friends. We'd say to each other in asides: "Yeah, check out that guy's hat and hairdo! Historically accurate, n'est ce-pas?" Or: "Yo, did you see that karate move?", quickly followed by "Hey, I wonder what he'll do next?" "Oh, I don't know! Let's pretend to be surprised by hammy bad acting and a cliched script!" Ahhh! Look out!! He's right behind you! Nooo!!! Don't go into that scary dark basement! 

Thousand Yard Stare

Being the sole sane member of the many social groups I've encountered throughout my life is fraught with difficulties, especially if any one person (or group of people) is used to gaming the system through secrecy, and I, unfortunately, know very quickly about their true state of mind, which is uncomfortable for both of us—as the authority figure assessing it correctly (yet again), and the liar perpetrating the fraud right in my face. Not the the "New Gen" has done much better with it, as an issue. Now, it's considered "hip" to have as many complex issues as possible (great for reality t.v.), especially with the single children of so many modernly unhealthy couples who're used to almost constant enabling, and who also bear the weight of their broken dreams, in addition to carrying around their poor genetics. 

Before we began a voluntary militia, anyone could be drafted into military service and made to fight a brutally violent war, with the size and scope of your collective psychosis allowing for heinous acts of violence—sometimes including child murder—that would almost certainly get you sentenced to death back home. The warrior mindset is traditionally for those who seek out that particular type of service because we know we can come back from it; not unscathed from battle without recovery time built in for healing from our war wounds, but enough to know that we will endure and survive it, because we've already done so through similar life conditions as civilians. Every social group full of mentally ill people is a potential battlefield, and conversation is typically marred by a defensive passive-aggressiveness that makes it really hard work for me.

Suffice to say, those who seek to "escape" the dreaded horrors of medication and healthcare, pretend to shrink from their falsely overblown fears about exposure and revelation like a mythical vampire shirks the light of day. Really? With fucking Oprah being a American gazillionaire?! She's famous for saying lines on television like "My 'va-jay-jay is a-painin'!", so how do you reconcile this sudden coyness with your reality? It's a complete fucking sham, as I am forced to endure yet another game of pretending that I don't know you suffer from insanity, you know, because people like me who work under the conditions I do, on the budget I have, consistently delivering at an extremely high level on almost nothing, cave in the face of your healthcare. Really? You really expect me to believe that?

And it's everywhere I go, every single day; family, friends, co-workers, bosses, acquaintances—no one is immune from living life and the human condition. Of course, we know you're nuts, but that's rude to say over a company dinner that you're paying for, isn't it? But, that doesn't stop 'em from trying it with me anyway, because compulsive addictive disorders kinda come with some obvious behavioral markers that you can't exactly shave off like beard. Nice try, though, really. Yes, we know, and we have tons of tests to prove it anytime we want to, in a variety of ways, but if you're selfishly demanding a class in avoiding detection like you're Meryl Streep at the Oscars, then class is now in session, and here's your first clue: see the picture above. 

For the residents of my town: see that crazy old guy who hoards on his property that's right next to the Methodist church (Amen!) with a misbuttoned shirt on almost everyday, walking around "shell-shocked" like he just survived the bombing at D-Day, but he didn't. He doesn't actually do anything, besides walk around town like a zombie. It also includes: the closeted country lesbo at the local grocery store who licks her lips when she looks at you, just to be a complete fucking bitch to a gorgeous heterosexual woman (you hateful piece of shit), and when that doesn't work, pretends not to see you standing prominently in the middle of the aisle so she can "accidentally" bump into you like the psychotic stalker she really is. Or, the way someone lingers near you at the library, pretending to be absorbed by a book on the shelf for ten minutes like a fucking retard, or a hoarder in a bargain store lingering over plastic junk like she's fondling a ten year-old girl. It's obviously repulsive, and you can't hide it or control it.

And yes, to answer your question again: it is now mandatory to take a healthcare screening —that includes tests for psychological readiness—before leaving the hospital with your newborn, so you don't abuse your baby at home behind closed doors, where you feel safe to do so. Isn't technology great? Oh, that's right. You "hate" that, too. I must have forgot! My memory, you know....it isn't what it used to be. Sigh. Anyway, I don't get the Internet reliably like you do, with 24/7 access to answers at my fingertips whenever I want them, so I also have that excuse in my back pocket, with a dozen others that I've cleverly rehearsed ahead of time just to "stump" you, when, really, it isn't possible to do so, but don't ever say that to me in person or write in down. I might "know" it then, like the aliens can do without your tinfoil hat in hand. Yeah. That sounds good. That makes sense. 

 

http://www.postpartum.net/professionals/legislation/

 

Palette Knife

 

Judging by the amount of press "celebrities" receive for their illegal exploits, it's no surprise that they've co-opted t.v. for their publicity purposes, by using their prison mugshots as their latest head shot, and their crimes as the press that nabs producers looking for a "hot" star, as long as they can get insurance for a project that'll cover an abusive alcoholic who sometimes sets random fires. (Thanks for that, Bart). What's the point in reigning it in? They get as much attention for their misdeeds as they do for their phony charities, set up as tax shelters to funnel their money into. What does it matter if it's "good" or "bad"? That's entertainment! It's a twisted kind of logic.

And those are just the psychopaths who know how to channel their inner demons into violent emotions onscreen, as if on cue. You don't want to meet Special Ed/Needs without a drama queen attached to it. Much. Less. Fun. My younger cousin with autism (and a few other serious brain disorders) learned early to fake emotions by spewing crocodile tears that seemed to clear up as soon as your head turned away from him. That was even scarier, because his face fell into a dead mask with nothing behind the eyes, the heart of mental illness itself.

Because he hid his mental disorders behind closed doors (and his family refused to talk about his problems), life itself was acting to him. It was all fake, because he lives in a disassociated state of surreal unreality and, kids, if you think that sounds like some sort of fun party trick, let me assure you, it is not a good ride. Schizophrenic sufferers randomly hallucinate screaming, streaking black shadows right in the middle of a typical day, or because they were stressed out when you asked them a direct question made with appropriate eye contact.

He simply didn't know what to feel, or when to feel it, or why it was happening, and what he should do about it. It was either freak-show fireworks or nothing; temper tantrums or dead numbness. With brain disorders, patients don't understand what's happening, let alone how to process the strong feelings that are a normal part of  life. It's the range of experiences that completely throw them into illness. Imagine this: you think about a rather stressful but common event (like paying bills or going to the dentist), and just thinking about it causes you to have excruciating pains throughout your body, starting with your head. Can't imagine it? Neither can I, but that's what a mental illness does. Thinking = pain.

For addictive disorders, it's a deadly combination of personality defects, character flaws, mental instability, physical handicap, learning impairments, and emotional misfiring. I've seen psychosis in people who vacillate between a depressive blankness to a caffeinated, motor-mouthed mania, up close and personal, because we all have. Every single person on this planet knows someone in their family sickened with these illnesses, because we're the healthy ones who take care of them. Or avoid them. Or they avoid us, the next time they "fall off the wagon" (again) because it rained yesterday, and you weren't "nice" to them, or "sensitive" enough to meet their needs that always take precedence over yours, because you're healthy and they're not.

As with the most adept family member, the burden falls onto the healthiest person, who then becomes the crux upon which the balance of the entire family rests, or not, as the case may be, as it is with me. If mama ain't doin' well, ain't nobody doin' well, get it? It's a message that I have to constantly reinforce with my sick family (and there's a lot of them), by reminding them accurately of my timeline and theirs, which seems like a magical parlor trick to the insane, when it's really called "memory", and it's a normal thing to have. On most days, the  emotional range I will get back from my sickest family members will be like a game of "Spin The Wheel in Hell!", because they find mature subject matter <spin the wheel> "bad", or "sad", or is it "mad"?

And that's it. That's sometimes all I will get from the people I raised/grew up with (besides avoidance and communication blackouts), which is my direct cue that they have become sick in my absence again, and then it's time for me to perform Anne Sullivan to their Helen Keller (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Sullivan), except instead of an inner super-genius, I have to get them to react to basic skills like caring and sharing, so I don't starve to death. Weird, right? You should try it sober. Like most heads-of-household, it's only by the grace of G-d and my own hard-working excellence that I avoided their diseases and addictions, because it turns out that you can't actually beat the life out of someone who's healthy. I'm living proof of that.

Yesterday, I watched a chilling episode of an old t.v. show called "American Justice" that highlighted a psychotic man who decided the only way out of his "problems" was to kill his entire family. He calmly ate breakfast, shot his wife, dragged her body to their empty ballroom (he felt "pressure" to provide for his family), then talked to his elderly mother who inquired after the noise. That's when he shot her in the head, too, but he had to leave her where she was, because she was too heavy for him to carry, and that stressed him out more. He also shot his children as they arrived home from school one-by-one, though the soccer-playing boy didn't drop right away like the other two, so he HAD TO shoot him ten times instead.

We know all of this detail about his hideous crimes because he sat down after dinner (killing is tiring, but he was feeling relaxed now that his "problems" were gone), and wrote a five page letter to his pastor, full of bullshit, half-truths, lies, excuses, finger-pointing, and blame. He left his dead family on plastic tarps in the ballroom that he felt "pressured" to buy for them, because his mother supposedly nagged him into becoming successful, then he withdrew thousands of dollars from the family's bank account (he said he was bankrupt and that was the last straw, after being fired again for aberrant behavior at work), and then he disappeared for fifteen years. He was finally free!

After his time on the road, he even married again, happily changing his name to avoid capture, working as an accountant (he blamed his OCD personality disorder for the killing spree, after finally being correctly diagnosed by a court-appointed psychiatrist, because in his arrogant delusion he never thought, "Gee, I should go talk to someone like my doctor"), and then appearing on the show to give his point of view. In between monotone recounts of a story he's told a million times (he loved the show "America's Most Wanted" and bragged to his co-workers about it, which led to his capture, like every other common criminal before him), he finally broke out into the gleeful laughter that played around his mouth the entire time he told his side of the story.

You see, he enjoyed it. He loved the fact that he excellently executed his demented plan, so much so, that he was disappointed by the lack of attention. He loved the artist rendition of him as an old man shown on "his" episode of A.M.W.; he couldn't believe how accurate it was. It looked just like him! He didn't know they had aging technology like that, told with a cagey look to his watery eyes. He knew he couldn't cop an insanity plea because of the calmly meticulous planning behind his sick crimes, but he tried it in court anyway. Worth a shot, right? I mean, as long as the cameras were rolling, why not give it a "go"? Maybe someone in "T.V. Land" would feel bad for him. Heck, he might even get married again!  He had the rest of his life to live.

 http://nypost.com/2015/02/08/charles-mansons-fiancee-wanted-to-marry-him-for-his-corpse-source/