The bitch is, they weren't even good drugs. (Except the weed for the nausea. Weed is truly a miracle drug.) Did you know-I surely did not-that if you clean your weed as always and throw it in a pan with a hunk of butter. Put it in a ramekan or other appropriate vessel, let the butter reharden. Voila! You have weed butter. Pop a piece of bread in the toaster, and you don't come back to earth for hours. Since I can't smoke, and I will turn into a fat load with brownies, the occasional slice of toast will take away my anxiety as well as a tranquilizer and a whole lot more fun. Shit, I could really use some right now.
To get myself reacquainted with myself, I just looked back at my old posts, and I can't believe how much crap I've written. If I were confronted with them- these ridiculously lengthy posts, they'd intimidate the hell out of me. The question, my dear honey bears, should I try to make them shorter, because, it has become clear to me that once I'm on a roll, I don't stop. I think it would defeat the purpose of a Blog making it unreadable. That's a problem.
I have always been plagued by a need to please or said another way, never wanting to disappoint. In the case of this Blog, I may have, am, or will post some piece of shit that would embarrass us all. And question might (if it hasn't already) arise for all you readers, why the fuck am I wasting my precious time here? A good question indeed, and I can't answer it for you. (Neither could bob Dylan. He was just annoyed by being snookered.) I apologize profusely. So, I'll change the subject to get away from the things that get me weepy. (No one will notice that I've done this. With the skill of a surgeon (or a sturgeon- I love sturgeon), I return to a topic that was vexing me Friday.)
Back to rethinking Since When (which is already written). The damned thing covering my family from 1900 - 1945 makes it a holocaust story. I find it difficult if not impossible, how anyone could try and turn it into a cookbook. Maybe an Aryan Nation cookbook. Quite possibly. Assuming we leave Aryan Nation out of this project, it is impossible to just snip the nasty parts out (so introducing recipes throughout the thing isn't quite so gruesome.) A rigo jancsi with your Zyklon B? Maybe the dobos torta is a better go with?) I am going straight to hell. Might as well go for it. Grab that brass ring, girlfriend!
And why Since When as a title? I have my darling, kickass gorgeous Lydon to thank for it. The Since when...originated for our family regarding my brother and gefilte fish. "Since when, Dougie, don't you eat gefilte fish?" All Jews must experience this kind of question sometime in his lifetime. Questions that have no answers. Questions that should never be asked. "Your grandmother slaved to make those gefilte fish. And what, you're not eating?"
Our version of "you're not eating?" is when we were kids, we weren't allowed to leave the table without trying the disgusting food at issue. "Just take a bite." My mother never learned that we couldn't eat these very few items, because they just didn't taste good to us. We are not a family of picky eaters. But the hell of pushing your food around your plate after everyone had already left the table was torment. And the goofy thing about this is that the very few things we hated to eat, we still hate. C'mon Ma, we ate everything else. You had it easy. We ate 98% of what you put in front of us. But this was our cross to bear. (For a Jew that's saying a lot.)
The other way to create guilt, you're not eating enough: "We serve gefilte fish to make sure you don't get too skinny. Kinahora, look at your father. He's eating everything." Including that vile flanken that even my mother admits is pretty horrible. My brother and I think something happens to Jewish middle-aged men who one morning wake up craving boiled beef. No one here is yet having this craving. Some of us are male and middle aged. Maybe this only worked for middle aged Jewish men of a time long ago and far away. (Isn't that something from Star Wars? Good god.) I apologize. No one is ever going to make flanken to find out once and for all the truth. If you do, please let me know.
Another one of those Jewish mysteries, like do we really rule the world? Well yeah, we do. What are you gonna do about it? Huh, white boy?" Pogroms, holocaust...all a distraction to keep the rest of you from the Truth. Subterfuge. Okay, we had to crack a few eggs...but it worked like a charm, didn't it? Who really believes we're in control? Mel Gibson, that's who. That man should be bound and gagged. Among the other mean and nasty things we can do to him with a crystal-clear conscience. Where can I sign up?
By the time I was born, the originally svelte Dad was still handsome, but he had a round belly. Blame Grandma. She was upset that when he and Mom married, he was skinny and had a greenish pallor. Mom liked skinny men. One bite of Grandma's food, it was all over. Anyone who used my father as an example of the physique that all the young men in the family should aspire to is cuckoo. Check him out on FB, he was one hot number in, the big one, WWII. The Dad I knew was a squeezable, sweet, lovable mush. Svelte and hot. Not so much. If he were, he wouldn't be "daddy." He'd be "father," and that would be just too goyish. (And I'd look like Grace Kelly. Or at the very least, January Jones.)
What's the real truth, mein bubelehs, tell me? I can't figure a damn thing out three years out of that goddamned hospital. I just see so few people. I am lonely and sad. I'm the boy in the bubble. (And was he one angry dude. Now I get it.) Oh no, I can't shake weepy tonight. My apologies. Maybe tomorrow.
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