This Time comes But Once A Year…

I can hardly wait for tomorrow.  It’s Christmas which means a trip to see my a-family.

Mom will be making the traditional goulash.  Not because we are Hungarian, or that she has any idea what real goulash looks or tastes like, because she has some hamburger she needs to use up.  Yep, ground beef and tomato juice, all mixed up with some American Beauty noodles.  Yummy.

I’m feeling more festive all of the time.

Oh and yes, Mom will be getting her Jesus on.  She’ll sit and study her bible.  I’m pretty sure she was using it to prop up a leg on the coffee table when I was there Thanksgiving.  But tomorrow we’ll be treated to her version of the greatest story ever told.

Yep can’t wait for that one.

Dad will be trying to get the thirty year old stereo (that cost over $300) to play his Andy Williams Christmas record.  At some point he will be successful.  We’ll get to hear Andy wishing us a Merry Christmas over and over again.  Dad only has one record.

Ahh Christmas.

Of course there are gifts.  I especially like the inspirational fiction that my Jesus loving sister gives me every year.  She doesn’t just get excited about our lord and savior on Christmas, she has a personal relationship with her savior.  I think she sees these books as a subtle way to recruit me into the ranks of Christ’s army.  Maybe I’ll actually read one of those things this year, and review it here.

There’s something to look forward to.

I will try to make my escape as quickly as possible after the gift giving.  This will take a bit.  Convincing mom that I really just couldn’t eat another bite of goulash, getting my hung over brother-in-law to move his truck so I can get out, never goes easily.

But at some point I’ll be allowed to return home and sleep off that icky holiday feeling.

I can’t wait.


Who the fuck are you?

 Who the fuck are you?

Either Sid said that to Pete, or Pete said that to Sid.  I’ve heard it both ways.  It doesn’t really matter.

The old guard, privileged, used to getting anything the way they want it, rockstar encounters the brash, up and coming, punk.  It didn’t matter that Pete had everything to do with Sid even being there, or that Sid would represent an influence at least equal to Pete’s.  Neither of them gave a shit about the other.

That’s how it works.

Dinosaurs or punks.  Artiste or hack. My Generation or Pretty Vacant.

It comes down to what you want.

The same old shit, used up and longer vibrant, bloated by money, reduced to repeating itself over and over without providing the inspiration it once did.  A form clinging to the status quo, desperately concerned about position, afraid to defy it masters in the corporate offices.  Or something new, rebellious, unconcerned with convention or status, and one hell of a lot more fun.

God Save The Queen.

Spirits In The Material World

Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past.

Ghost stories never held much fascination for me. Stories of spirits held to this world by some traumatic event, reaching out for the living with a cold hand, not allowed to move to the next world, never sounded that frightening.

Maybe it was all just too familiar.

As an adoptee I have often felt that I was living a life un-natural, a life not meant to be. These feelings intensified when I found my birth family. To some of them I was a secret kept safe in the hallowed quiets of the past, to others I was, and may remain, only a thing that might exist, something best not thought of. To all very much like a ghost.

I am a thing not seen, but out there somewhere. Something different and not of their world. To those who only suspect my existence, I could be a interesting thing to ponder, a mystery never to be solved, nothing with a real material presence in their world.

But I can see them. I cannot speak to them. I am held back by a veil of concocted reality, a thing created to forever keep me from their world and they from mine. The ether thins and I get a glimpse, but I cannot know if they look back at me. If they can feel me there, if I am a cold suddenly come over on a warm day, a door slamming in an empty room, a voice from nowhere calling their name, I do not know.

I am a ghost in their world.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Is stupidity contagious? Does it happen to be going around like the flu?

I cannot believe the instances of just plain stupidity that I have seen today alone, and I’m not just talking about the internet here. In fact, I think that the internet displays a lower level of sheer dumbness than my everyday life.

I don’t think that the average person can find their way home consistently, though they seem to be able to find me every time. How does that work? Am I wearing some type of homing device that only the lacking in intelligence can pick up? Why are they so drawn to me?

Was I implanted with a device during those missing weeks when I was a newborn? That’s the only possible explanation that I can figure out. Did someone at some black budgeted government agency decide to take the experiment of adoption one step further? I was born in 1965, this was the era of cats being implanted with listening devices in order to spy on the Ruskies. Would it really be so odd that they might decide to implant adoptees in order to trace them through their lives?

The thing is, I fear this is working out about as well as other covert programs of the era. The Ruskie spying cats were seduced, wandered off, and were hit by cars. It was simply a silly bad idea that didn’t work. I wonder if I was set up to either spy on Regular Upstanding American Citizens like my adoptive parents? Did they want to know what Mr. and Mrs. America were discussing in the privacy of their own home? Did some bright young man in the CIA think that bugging the baby was a great way to do this? Were the details not quite worked out? Was I implanted with something that just sends a signal but doesn’t record, does this signal somehow attract the stupid?

I’m imagining a steady tone. Beep. Beep. Beep. Like some moron drawing Sputnik.

Is it possible?

OK, some idiot is going to think I’m serious. They aren’t going to be smart enough to read this whole thing before they hit the comment button. Could this be the draw of the implant?

Drawing The Line

A few days ago someone left a negative comment on my blog. I get a lot of negative comments, but I noticed this one because it was so filled with the kind of stuff that has almost become a joke among adoption bloggers. Take a look…

Blah, Blah, Blah…can’t you write anything original? You think you are so smart, but you are really totally stupid and SO ungrateful! You could of been aborted you know. I feel sorry for the suckers who took you in. You are such a bitch. Get help.


See. Other than concisely fitting in all the big gripes that every civilian seems to have about adoptees who aren’t spreading sunshine, happiness, and gratitude, like a rancher spreads manure, it a fairly unimaginative comment. I honestly thought it was one of my friends fucking with me. I would think if someone was truly displeased, they would be a bit more creative.

It’s come to my attention that the comment might not have been made in jest. That the comment may have been made by an adoptee who has issues with her own adoption. The thing is, even if this is so, I can’t work up a whole lot of sympathy.

First of all, there’s just the total boringness of the comment. There’s no passion, no originality, hell it gets a 3 out of 10 on style points. I’m surprised that everything is spelled right. I just really don’t think think they are approaching their self-martyrdom with the proper dedication or creativity. Let’s face it, if this is the best they can come up with, what’s the point of even doing it?

My commenter needs to look to some who have been really good at irrationality and get a few pointers. First of all, if my commenter hasn’t already done it, they might want to think about embracing anarchy. This has worked well for nutjobs though out history. Just in the 20th century it’s been the main force behind everything from political assassinations, to music, to t-shirt moguls, to cult leaders. I think the philosophy would be a good fit for our commenter and something they could make their own.

Barring any real interest in Anarchy, try religion, many times it amounts to about the same thing. You might have to bow your head once in a while, a dress up a bit, but those who can embrace one can usually embrace the other with equal gusto, given the same level of mental incapacitation and neediness.

Malcontents also should invest in some education. There’s nothing more embarrassing than railing on and on about a point close to your soul only to find out that it’s based on bogus information. If you want to be a good moonbat, you need to at least be half right. Oh course, not speaking in absolutes helps with this. You’ll sound like you are a little closer to the truth if you employ phrases like. “In my opinion”, “Could it be that?”, and “Is it possible?”. Check out the average documentary about UFOs, or the exact location of Atlantis for great examples of this. The beauty here is you’re not stating fact, only giving the equally mentally challenged something to grab on to. Which leads me to my next point.

Don’t try to hang too much with sane folks. If you want to be a real crazy, too much sanity can wear you down. Just stick with the other whackadoodles. Sure they may too busy raving on their own to fully appreciate your ravings, but at least they’ll let you keep raving.

What I’m getting to here is that my commenter isn’t going to find any success with the sound of mind. Their only (slim) hope is with the irrational. The rational among us do draw a line when instead of attacking the source of pain, one attacks those who understand and acknowledge the pain. They simply will not one person’s insanity run riot over the innocent. No amount of pain justifies attacking ones who have been through the same experience. My commenter has become something worse than the thing that created them. Until such time that they may come to their senses, they should be banished to the planet Moonbat.

They do not belong among us.