The universal sales event

If I get one more of those GIVE THE GIFT OF DEATH & DISMEMBERMENT INSURANCE! or LAST CHANCE TO SHOW YOU CARE WITH AN ARBY’S GIFT CERTIFICATE or ORDER TODAY FOR CHRISTMAS DELIVERY OF NO-LEAKS-MLADY BEDPANS I may… just… become…

… a little less Christmasy.

I do understand that people who sell children’s bicycles or fine chocolates or sex toys are going to be advertising a lot this time of year, and I can make my peace with that. The inappropriate products and services sold as “holiday gifts” are astounding, though. All services have gift certificates and all products have special Gift-Pak stupidity.

I salute the energy and inventiveness of advertisers, but come on: prepaid oil changes? donations in your name to contentious and controversial nonprofits? A subscription to the Arthritis Health Letter? A new garage door opener? A genuine Third Reich swizzle stick! A dream date with Paul Williams in knee pads! A BABY’S ARM HOLDING AN APPLE

who shall deliver me from the body of this death?

Even when I’m in a good mood (I have been since last brain lady appointment, as she predicted), it’s impossible to imagine my situation improving. I know from various experts that this is a symptom and consequence of my weird PTSD-like situation, but it’s still a huge barrier.

It’s as though if I could just draw a line or two from here to some place I’d actually want to be, and believe that I could get there for real, it’d be so much easier dealing with the day to day.

It’s a strange situation to know reasonably and intellectually that at least some of my beliefs about myself and the world are untrue, unreasonable, even a little insane, and still not be able to dislodge myself from them. I could write a ten page third-person analysis that would be completely accurate and still read it to myself and say to myself “you don’t understand”.

And it’s even stranger to see myself doing or not doing things that I can’t stand, or that seem alien to my personality. I’m the slob who hates a mess, for example. And I’m the outgoing, socially successful person who likes women and wants to be close to one, and I never have. There are a host of other minor things like that that leave me thinking “who the hell put the brain slug in when I wasn’t looking?” The technical term for this is “ego dystonia”. Brain lady says it’s consistent with my injuries.

I’m no longer a Christian, but I still have a lot in common with poor old grumpy self-deprecating Paul. There’s no better statement of ego dystonia than Romans 7:14:

I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.

URGH.

I managed to bittorrent a Beta videotape rip of the classic 1981 concert film URGH! A Music War.

Locals who want a DVD, let me know.

Others who are patient, the bittorrent is on demonoid.com here. I’m leaving my seed running for a while.

The film is an amazing document of early 80s new wave. XTC, Oingo Boingo, Wall of Voodoo, an amazing version of Devo’s “Uncontrollable Urge”, etc etc. It’s not on DVD and only available on ratty old overpriced VHS or Beta (!) tapes.

Excerpt from a BBS

Forwarded from a friend, an Air Force transport pilot responds to a kid who wants to know how to become a fighter pilot.

I really enjoy this kind of grumpy, cynical military humor. Not sure why.

Obviously, through no fault of your own, your young, impressionable brain has been poisoned by the superfluous, hyped-up, “Top Gun” media portrayal of fighter pilots.

Unfortunately, this portrayal could not be further from the truth. In my experience, I’ve found most fighter pilots pompous, back-stabbing, momma’s boys with inferiority complexes, as well as being extremely over-rated aeronautically. However, rather than dash your budding dreams of becoming a USAF pilot, I offer the following alternative:

What you REALLY want to aspire to is the exciting, challenging, and rewarding world of TACTICAL AIRLIFT. And this, young DJ, means one thing….the venerable, workhorse, THE C-130!

I can guarantee no fighter pilot can brag that he has led a 12-ship formation down a valley at 300 ft above the ground, while trying to interpret a 9-line to a new DZ, avoiding pop-up threats, and coordinating with AWACS, all while eating a box lunch, with the engineer in the back taking a piss and the navigator puking in his trash can! I tell you, DJ, TAC Airlift is where it’s at!

Where else is it legal to throw tanks, HMVees, and other crap out the back of an airplane, and not even worry about it when the chute doesn’t open and it torpedoes the General’s staff car! No where else can you land on a 3000′ dirt strip, kick a bunch of ammo and stuff off the ramp without even stopping, then take off again before range control can call to tell you you’ve landed on the wrong LZ!

The rest cut because unfunny and lame.