I’m Not A President, and I Don’t Play One On TV

But I’m a perfect Asshole everywhere I go!

“Search idiot, get Trump; How activists are manipulating Google Images.”
The Guardian, July 17, 2018

  

What follows are the lyrics of a tune that, though produced in 1993 seems to have foreseen the rise of the current American president (the asshole pictured up there). Watch the video here https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=UrgpZ0fUixs

and sing along with Denis Leary with the lyrics I’ve thoughtfully provided below:

Asshole, by Denis Leary, released January, 1993:

Folks, I'd like to sing a song about the American Dream

About me, about you

About the way our American hearts beat way down in the bottom of our chests
About that special feeling we get in the cockles of our hearts
Maybe below the cockles
Maybe in the sub cockle area
Maybe in the liver, maybe in the kidneys
Maybe even in the colon, we don't know


I'm just a regular Joe, with a regular job
I'm your average white, suburbanite slob
I like football and porno and books about war
I got an average house, with a nice hardwood floor
My wife and my job, my kids and my car
My feet on my table, and a Cuban cigar.

But sometimes that just ain't enough to keep a man like me interested
(Oh no, no way, uh uh)
No I gotta go out and have fun at someone else's expense
(Whoa, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
I drive really slow in the ultra fast lane
While people behind me are going insane

I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, what an asshole)
I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, such an asshole)
I use public toilets and I piss on the seat
I walk around in the summer time saying "how about this heat?"
I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, what an asshole)
I'm an asshole (he's the world's biggest asshole)
Sometimes I park in handicapped spaces
While handicapped people make handicapped faces
I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, what an asshole)
I'm an asshole (he's a real fucking asshole)
Maybe I shouldn't be singing this song
Ranting and raving and carrying on
Maybe they're right when they tell me I'm wrong...
Nah
I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, what an asshole)
I'm an asshole (he's the world's biggest asshole)

You know what I'm gonna do?
I'm gonna get myself a 1967 Cadillac Eldorado convertible
Hot pink, with whale skin hubcaps
And all leather cow interior
And big brown baby seal eyes for head lights (yeah)

And I'm gonna drive in that baby at 115 miles per hour
Gettin' 1 mile per gallon
Sucking down Quarter Pounder cheeseburgers from McDonald's
In the old fashioned non-biodegradable styrofoam containers
And when I'm done sucking down those greaseball burgers
I'm gonna wipe my mouth with the American flag
And then I'm gonna toss the styrofoam containers right out the side
And there ain't a goddamn thing anybody can do about it
You know why, because we've got the bomb, that's why
Two words, nuclear fucking weapons, OK?
Russia, Germany, Romania, they can have all the democracy they want
They can have a big democracy cakewalk
Right through the middle of Tiananmen Square
And it won't make a lick of difference
Because we've got the bombs, OK?
John Wayne's not dead, he's frozen
And as soon as we find a cure for cancer
We're gonna thaw out the Duke and he's gonna be pretty pissed off
You know why
Have you ever taken a cold shower?
Well multiply that by 15 million times
That's how pissed off the Duke's gonna be!
I'm gonna get the Duke, and John Cassavetes
And Lee Marvin, and Sam Peckinpah, and a case of whiskey
And drive down to Texas and
(Hey! You know, you really are an asshole!)
Why don't you just shut up and sing the song, pal?
I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, what an asshole)
I'm an asshole (he's the world's biggest asshole)

A-S-S-H-O-L-E
Everybody
A-S-S-H-O-L-E

I'm an asshole and I'm proud of it

Amen.

Let Freedom Ring 2.0

Our founding fathers "cannot save us. 
We must save ourselves"

- Terry M. Moe and William G. Howell,  

authors of  Relic: How Our Constitution 

Undermines Effective Government – 

And Why We Need a More Powerful

Presidency.

Much is said about America being in a “constitutional crisis” today, And those who say so are correct. However, it’s becoming similarly understood that America has been heading in this direction for decades now. The US Constitution is- and long has been- obsolete.

This, in part is well articulated in this link to the following book excerpt by Moe and Howell:

https://www.hoover.org/research/our-outdated-constitution

My comments below were inspired, of course by the authors’ assertions. in the book excerpt. But they are also tempered by the comments made by some who posted their remarks afterward. I thought this appropriate, given that America is nothing if not a hotbed of discourse on all subjects government and politics.

I agree with the author's main point that the US Constitution is obsolete, and that it needs updating or, preferably rewritten into a contemporary document that reflects America as it is today.

Not to get too far ahead of myself, I feel it important to emphasize the implication that a rewritten Constitution today may well need to again be rewritten in the future to reflect the America that will be then, and so on. This in mind, our efforts today will likely set a tone for the United States of tomorrow.

Along with the Constitution, governance as it currently exists will be changed. The fact that the respondents to this book excerpt is a very good thing, for we as Americans could not enter into such a discussion without approaching it from the heart.

The America of the future is counting on us to set the example in this regard, in the same way our forefathers set the example for us today. The heated discussion that is sure to ensue in contemplating a new or revised Constitution is as uniquely as
American as is our democracy itself.

Such participation is to be welcomed until the day a consensus among all Americans is reached. It’s what the “of the people and by the people“ concept our forefathers envisioned for the America of the late 1700s, and this treasured idea holds just as true today.

This, of course is easier said than done. But there’s no more American quality than that of diligence in attaining a goal that seems unattainable in its scope. Americans who lament our dire political condition today are among the best catalysts for a change of this magnitude. Hopefully they will heed the call and step up and act, as their Constitutional right encourages them to do.

In this sense, let us always remember that our successes in terms of self-governance sets the example for governments worldwide. Thus it isn’t only for our beloved America that we work, but for the history of all mankind.

In this regard America‘s Constitutional crisis can therefore become our Constitutional solution.

I Get By With A Lot Of Help From My Friends

Recently it became clear to me that what I once saw as a deficit of good pals as a young adult I’ve since seen how i’ve more than made up for it as a, quote “mature adult.” Today, with Sophie my canine icebreaker at my side I’m quite the social butterfly.

All of our friends are safe people, special people who always tell us how happy they are to see us and how they “were just thinking about you two the other day.” Like us, many of them carry the outward signs of having traveled a long and sometimes bumpy road. We have tremors, for instance, or weight problems or paralysis or trouble remembering things. The inward signs, I’m sure are there, too but they don’t matter in the context of our camaraderie.

Arthritis, chronic muscle aches and pains, carpal tunnel issues and more exist. We wear attractive, flesh-toned leg and wrist braces that are worn clean through to the metal or plastic, and often permanently blackened where they constantly touch things. Sometimes we wear orthotic walking shoes specifically designed for those of us with high-mileage or otherwise “crooked” feet.

Vestibular problems are quite present, too. As a tall, one-armed, top-heavy man who’s home is rarely level this one’s a biggie for me. Others among us deal with bladder problems, digestive troubles and maybe even adult diapers, too. Thankfully “new, moisture absorbing technology and low-profile design” helps those of us who need such products maintain all the discretion they need.

I must be headed down that road, too for when someone suddenly makes me laugh a little something may toot out before I can stop it. But it’s always okay; if necessary we just “move the conversation over there” without missing a beat, no harm, no foul.

Everyone among us seems to get this simple truth. We embrace our humanness and, to the extent we must we also respect the slow decay of our infrastructure and our undercarriage and know how to make the best of our time here.

At this point in our lives we tend to look at life from “up here” instead of “back there.” And, like the times when we look ahead, when we look back we usually like what we see. It’s what makes us who we are today. What’s not to like about that? Hell, given the closeness many of us may already have come to buying the farm there’s a pretty good chance at least a few of us probably shouldn’t still even be here anymore. Life is unpredictable, and that’s a fact we all live with no matter who we are-or think we are.

Tall or short, upright or down low, fully mobile or partially paralyzed, standing up on crutches or sitting in a wheelchair we always enjoy each other’s company. For me the distraction is wonderful, especially on high-pain days. Just talking with friends, even if only for a few minutes can wipe my pain away for the next hour.

Some of us can’t speak clearly because our throats or voiceboxes causes our voice to wobble. They usually tell the best jokes because everyone figures out the punchline as they’re still stuttering it out! And we all can laugh about it because we know better than to get caught up in or bound by “generally accepted’ societal norms.

Only around each other can we most comfortably laugh at our own foibles, for doing so alone isn’t nearly as much fun. As human beings, no better or worse than anyone else, we’re not immune to the pain of our given condition; it can still hurt profoundly inside. Ruminating over this is perhaps the least productive, most destructive thing anyone can do. So why not always strive to make the best of things even if, or especially if we’re feeling our lowest?

Our mobility issues, limited attention spans and/or outright physical pain seriously impairs any likelihood of extended conversation. But those few joyous minutes we get together are packed with enough intense enjoyment that, like a festively-wrapped Christmas present we can slowly enjoy opening it for the rest of the day. Maybe beyond, too, who knows?

Physically speaking, we never get tired because we always are tired. And no matter how we’re feeling, we always know we have each other to bump into in the days ahead.

People who make me smile-and who let me make them smile - are the only “stuff” I’ll ever want. And if you must consider them to be a “collection” then so be it; I’m proud of the wonderful circle of people, a great group that grows by one or two or more each time Sophie and I meet someone new.

And we usually know one another when we see us, for the pretentiousness that usually lurks inside most folks is absent. Instead there’s a smiling air of calm, of approachability and dignity. Not indignance, mind you but, for lack of a better phrase, open acceptance.

We’re proud of what we stand for, what we sit for, or what we climb, crawl, or crutch for. We’ve earned our place here in this world even if, like me, we still haven’t found that exact place.

In our orbit everyone is welcome, though few among the able-bodied ranks seem to care to join us. Now that I think of it, back in my own so-called able bodied days I was among those who did join them/us. Thanks to my disabled Uncle and Aunt I experienced firsthand the special energy that’s sorely lacking in so many other aspects of life.

And not everyone gets to- or deserves to- be with us anyway. Sounds so snotty but that’s not where I’m coming from. If you understand that then I think you’d be happy to spend some time with us.

Who needs stuff when we have each other? For within each of us you can find The Right Stuff.

NDE Sixth Anniversary, August 2018

Editor’s note: For health reasons the progress on this document is suspended indefinitely. It will likely remain incomplete but, now that it’s posted here could still be completed later.

It’s July 15, 2018. In less than a month, on August 12th, the sixth anniversary of my near death experience (NDE) will arrive. In this case it was a bicycle accident with a car near Boulder, Colorado. It’s one of two major traumas I must plan for each year which, if I’m not particularly self-aware can prove disruptive. I’ve dubbed these two time periods Trauma Season, as they have no exact beginning or end but there’s no mistaking the initial disruptions and the final ones, too.

The week of February 13-20 is the second such trauma, carrying with it the potential for reliving the nightmare of being brutalized alone in the Arizona desert by a lone federal ranger.

Interestingly, these are built upon a lifetime under the Sword of Damocles of incremental childhood trauma, known today as a symptom of complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (cPTSD).

cPTSD is an ex post facto condition, hence it’s name “post-traumatic” stress disorder. Had the experiences of my youth not been so harsh, perhaps the anniversaries on August 10 and in February might ‘just’ be limited to PTSD.

The difference to me now is irrelevant; my six year old NDE has put its indelible stamp among the long list of tinier traumas. Perhaps its severity is what makes it stand out above the others.

That said, I’ve learned to anticipate its aggravated cPTSD symptoms as potentially arising at any span near that time. This can range rom four to six weeks beforehand and, depending upon the associated ailment, eg physical sickness or an increase in seizure activity, recovery may take up to two weeks afterward.

For the past week I’ve been vigilantly looking for signs. Did the bite on my tongue, for example occur during a seizure or when I was eating Cheerios? Hypervigilance is, in itself an symptom of the memories. I may never know, so I can only conclude it’s not very important.

Pushin’ + Pullin’ = A Silly Pissin’ Contest

If phrases like “I’ve got a forty foot pusher” and terms like “toad” frequently come out of your mouth chances are you’re a retired old fart who, though nomadic still thinks like a status obsessed workaday idiot.

As you might expect, I’m the sort of person who calls such people out, for Sophie and I are nomads, too. But our world is real, and we don’t live in an RV that’s as big as a house, with all the “comforts of home.” Though such comforts are occasionally nice, taking them on the road is simply pretentious. If you need such comforts, you’re missing the point.

So I naturally see asexual old timey guys as being too shriveled for any sort of literal whip-‘em-out-and-measure-‘em thank god. While I still admire the sight of my old, currently underserved and largely neglected dick first thing in the morning - when I still “rise” - I don’t want to see some old feller’s prick, thank you very much.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a prick at times and these status-obsessed people tend to draw it out of me. Once I start hearing the gospel these old farts preach about “forty foot pushers” and “toads” I start my own line of bullshit:

“I’ve got a twenty-nine foot puller,” I say, “and I’ll be damned if I know what a toad even is except perhaps a big ol’ lonely boy frog lookin’ for love all night long.”

Boy, the look they give me when I lay that on ‘em is precious, as if they’re suddenly thrust into the position of having to explain to me the meaning of life. I know that feeling, for it’s the same one I get each time I have to decide whether to explain my rights as a service dog handler to some ignorant asshole.

We all have our cross to bear, as it’s said,  and even though it may be a little evil for me to revel in being someone else’s “cross” I suppose it doesn’t hurt to sometimes tell someone, in a roundabout way that’s as polite as possible that they can take their “toad” and drive it up their forty-foot assholes.

George Carlin couldn’t have said it better:

“You’re know what’s nice about living on the ocean? You’ve only got assholes on three sides of you…” Amen. I’ll think of that next time we’re camped on the beach in Mexico.

Stephen Colbert’s Homeless Droptrow Guy On My RV Roof

Driving to the ER at Poudre Valley Hospital in terrible pain after an inadvertent intake of bleach from an improperly rinsed water line was bad enough.

Poor Sophie waited patiently on the filthy floors of the exam room, on what I can only now think of as “urbanized.” Evidently there’s a regular flow of who-knows-what kind of people through there with who-knows-what conditions.

But if you knew what to look for you’d find enough evidence of the medical emergencies right there on the floor, and the stools and the exam table. While Sophie lay stiffly in pain on the floor I couldn’t bear to sit down in there, preferring to stand despite my pain. I did, however open the door to the exam room as opposed to feeling like a kennelled specimen. The ER staff, I could tell wanted nothing to do with us.

The doctor, a gangly, baby-faced redheaded kid had a somewhat condescending approach to what was bothering me, asking then answering questions as if trying to predict what mine might be:

“Well, your tests all came back fine and there’s no evidence of any abnormalities. Does this mean that you shouldn’t follow up with a GI specialist? No, you should do so on Monday, during regular business hours.”

As if I hadn’t or wouldn’t have thought of that myself. “So, does this mean I should have waited until Monday?” I ask “No, Dr. Dipshit, I couldn’t wait until Monday, and that’s why I came to the ER in the middle of the night.”

But forget about all that ridiculous posturing; I walked in to an ER after driving myself there; no gurney, no spurting blood, and I didn’t even want a wheelchair. I couldn’t be that acute, it must be a figment of my imagination..

It was still a big step for me, given how I have such difficulty asking others for help. Oh, yeah and there’s that time I nearly died in a hospital that became my home for several days. Unaware of all this, ER staff draws their own jaded conclusions. But it was a big step for me, indeed.

Anyway, I realized that the pain Sophie was feeling-I put the pillow from the exam table onto the floor for her to curl up on-as far as I know it’s still down there-plus my own discomfort would have best been left for us to suffer alone. Going to the ER was a terrible mistake for, once in there, turning back was not an option. Unless you wanted to be pegged as crazy, I guess.

Speaking of: Upon our discharge, Sophie and I retired to the RV to prepare for the return drive to Cheyenne. First, though I decided to take a nap. The painful drive down from Wyoming, followed by the awkward ER visit left me exhausted.

At some point during my nap I awoke to hear something scuffling along the back of the RV, as if someone were doing calisthenics on the bumper. Still in my boxers I rose and went to the door, opened it and shouted “Hey!” in my most irritated tone. I closed the door and went back to bed. All was quiet, but it didn’t last.

More noises from back there soon followed so I took a minute to throw on some shorts while telling Sophie to “Get ready.” Taking her out to confront some weird situation was the last thing I wanted to ask her to do given her earlier patience. But I knew she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Once dressed I followed Sophie out the door and went around back to see for myself. I was aggravated at having my nap interrupted. To my surprise, I found a nicely dressed young man standing back there. The surprise of it was disarming to me though not enough to make me conceal my irritation.

“What on earth are you doing back here?” I asked him. “I’m the director of hospital security,” he said, then pointed up to the roof of my RV. Sure enough, there sat, cross-legged and without a care in the world an unshaven and clearly homeless, mentally ill man. His prototypical appearance gave him away, a Charles Manson-esque clone, complete with the wild-eyed stare. No swastika carved above his nose, though.

Still, as quite at home as he seemed to be-and as suddenly and rudely awakened as I’d just been pieces of our earlier experience began falling into place. The man, who wore no pants claimed he was up there just to “see what I could see” did happen to wear a hospital wristband.

Oddly enough the police who arrived appeared to have found his pants in the bushes and then it became clear to me: The dismissive sentiment I gathered from the ER staff probably sees this sort of thing from this kind of disturbed person often.

Why would they think that I, having been off-grid with Sophie for the past few weeks was any different? Perhaps more to the point, why would I think of myself as any different? Around these people I’m hard-pressed to not see a lot of myself in them; if it weren’t for the RV Sophie and I would be out on the street, too.

As it stands I’ve nowhere to park it anyway and no gas to get us anywhere, so we’re stuck here in Ft Collins for the duration of the month. Maybe our last ten bucks will get us back to Wyoming where we’ve got a campsite and even a clean, hot shower. It’s right along the highway and some Union Pacific tracks to boot but it seems idyllic right now. Maybe Sophie can convalesce a little from her injuries yesterday.

Though I can’t help but wonder what attracted that weird guy to my camper and to climb the ladder as if he had every right to do so alarms me. What is it about my energy that drew this guy to me? And why did he give me his creepy “What the hell are you looking at?” glance as he stepped off the ladder? It scared me and, quite frankly I’m always scared enough in town now. Ft Collins has changed dramatically over the last twenty years and, from what I can tell not much of it’s for the better.

I’m just biding my time with Sophie until it’s time to go again and then we’re off. Take that as you wish, but that’s a mindset I’ve long had wherever Sophie and I have traveled. Who knows what tomorrow will bring is a loaded question and has been for some time. It’s the essence of a nomadic lifestyle and, as I state in this post title I’m getting too old for this shit. I’m ready to quit and, as soon as Sophie gives me the sign we will glory in our successes and cut our losses and see what awaits us elsewhere.

It’s been a good trip already; I don’t wish to see it spoiled with a sad and/or violent ending. We’ve survived our share of that already and deserve so much better.

I hope we get to the place where we can finally get the goodness we deserve.

Droptrow Homeless Guy On Our Roof

I’m Getting Too Old For This Shtuff-Sophie

...A remark made yesterday by Sophie as we drove north on I-25 between Denver and Ft Collins.

It seems that one of the RV’s tires was suddenly losing its tread at around 60mph, and just when we were making good time, too.

“Just had to take this thing off-road and off-grid one last time didn’tcha,” she said. Now we’re broken down and broke and I’m stuck in a truck stop with a smelly SOB.”

Thank goodness we’re near friends, not far from the Sam’s Club where everyone loves Sophie. In fact I’m pretty sure Sophie is the reason they even remember me.

But that’s okay-we need a tire change and if Sophie’s irresistible face means she can pull a few strings to make it happen then so be it. Nobody needs to know I almost thought I’d have to put her down three times since they last saw her:

Once for a urinary tract problem I thought was an incurable infection. But it turned out to be an obstruction and she’s being treated for it now. She’s clearly much happier now that she can whiz at her usual strength and duration, which was pretty big news in our house.

Another time I thought she was a goner because she lost the ability to walk through Walmart with me. The day before she was flying high on her painkillers, thinking she was still a spry puppy dog. I was enjoying our walk, thinking of how it was a little like our good ol’ days.

Then Wham! A ground squirrel popped out of the bushes ahead and Sophie was off and running before I could stop her. “Gentle!” I shouted, as if it mattered. She probably knew the damned thing was there long before it popped out of the bushes. A few strides later Sophie seemed to hit an invisible brick wall and that was that.

Dr. Lisa, four hours away in Cañon City was gracious enough to squeeze us in for an emergency visit the next morning. In fact, everybody who helped us get on our way to see Dr. Lisa the previous day was gracious:

From Kari in DCMH’s Wound Care department who understood the urgency of the situation to Kathy, the ER nurse who drove Sophie and I across the parking lot after Sophie’s legs refused to go any further. The sheriff’s deputy even expressed his regrets at being unable to use his unmarked police car “I don’t think she’ll fit with the cage back there,” he said.

No matter, “I’m a dog lover, too,” they each said. And it made me feel good, for Sophie always brings out the best in people just by being her quiet, pretty lil’ self.

Three or four X-rays and one strategically placed cortisone shot at Dr. Lisa’s and Sophie was pronounced good to go again. Which was exactly what Sophie did in spades later, in the Walmart parking lot.

I was a couple hundred bucks lighter for the repair bill but what the hell; we’ll just have to live in our van down by the river until next month, when Uncle Sam again graces my checking account with a little love. Ah, the beauty of the American social safety net.

Finally, the third time I thought Sophie was a goner was - and still is - just because. I love her so much, more than any person I’ve ever known. But I can no longer stand the mind game that thinking I’ve lost her, then not losing her, then thinking I’ve lost her again only to yet again involves.

Three times I’ve hugged her and cried and cried, thinking I was losing the Gibraltar upon which all of my codependency is anchored. She knows I can’t live without her and, even if she can’t walk she wants to be there for me

I need to get some shopping done which means we were going to Sam’s anyway.