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10:54 a.m. - 2011-03-06
Cracks in the Black

Boy, you know it's bad with me when I bust out the Pink Floyd. Though it'll really be intervention time if I ever post anything by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Floyd is definitely weirder but ELP has ever been the music of blackest despair for me. That's what I get for coming of age during the late 1970s. Who do younger people listen to when they're in the pit? Nirvana? Nine Inch Nails? My Chemical Romance? And what about rap fans? I don't know much (anything) about rap but despite the lyrics of gun violence and misogyny I can't imagine there's a lot of rap out there that's suitable for putting on endless repeat while you sit staring at a wall regretting your entire life. But like I said, I don't know from rap and perhaps there's tons of sit and stare blankly music by Lil Bongo or Grand Master Hairy Ballz and I'm too white and old to ever hear about it.

And before anybody asks, of course I remember the commandment. Sheesh. I'm in a terrible place but I'm not stupid.

Thou Shall Not Have Tea With Black Dogs.

So yeah, I'm doing the bootstrap thing like a dutiful little depressive. Making with the worthy chores, retail therapy and big fake smiles. Knowing in my top mind that having a scratchy throat/boogery cold, a spazzed out back that is so painful it makes me throw up, getting run over again by the Estrogen Express, and having the bad chemicals slip their bupropion leash to run amok in my poor tired brain would be enough to drive even the toughest Marine to sitting hunkered down in a corner listlessly dribbling tears, so I should cut myself a break already and lay off the miserable self-recrimination and simply wait for this mess to go away. I'm trying, okay?

On the more active end of the healing process I let Mick squire me and my ouchie bod and my bad mood off for a day of shopping, food and cinema yesterday. We had Wolf with us. He was in full teenage ninja mode with an all black outfit and wraparound shades. At lunch he insisted he be allowed to say he was 14 already even though his birthday isn't until June. Someone is totally over being 13. You and me both, kid. Your Bar Mitzvah year has sucked rancid wiener. Your attitude is so bad it has wavy stink lines rising off it. 14 was a good age for me, full of empowerment and soul growth, perhaps it'll be the same for you. If not, at least you won't be 13 anymore and can stop bitching about it already.

I wish for his sake puberty would kick it up a notch. Sure, his voice is getting deeper and he's grown 5 inches this year, and thank goodness the seating hostess didn't offer him a kid's menu and crayons this time, but the smooth hairless face and swizzle stick physique are bumming him out. No amount of counseling patience and reassurance that Mother Nature will do her thing eventually helps him at all. Wolf won't be satisfied until he's 6'3" and covered with hair like a Sasquatch. Which, if he takes after his father won't be until he's about 35 years old. We're in for the long haul, my friends.

I was wrong in my previous entry when I said I couldn't justify any shopping. Lane Bryant was having a 40% off everything in the store sale so I got myself some new underwear. Guess I can't be wholly under the black pall if I can buy a pink bra and flowery underpants. People on the darkest edge of despair don't purchase posy panties. And a veritable flower garden they are too. All shades of Easter-ish colors and prints. Gives me the snorts sometimes to think that beneath my monochromatic, ever more sober and matronly garb there's the underwear of a teenybopper. Well, no. Most teenyboppers these days look like hookers so they're mostly likely wearing g-strings and not much else. Mick says the female students at his school come in wearing such scanty clothing that your average table napkin has more fabric and covers more of your crotch. He's trained himself to scan the far horizon in the hallways and cafeteria, far from being in dirty old man heaven, he finds it embarrassing and nauseating to be amongst 15 year old girls with 4/5ths of their boobs hanging out of a scrap of a t-shirt paired with a denim skirt that might serve as a moderately wide belt. The near nudity is bad enough to have driven an ardent free speech supporter like him to believe it's time to bring back the dress code. If parents won't insist on their children dressing with decency and a modicum of self-respect perhaps it's time for the schools to do it.

And no, this isn't about stifling young women's sexuality, it's about teaching them to see they have so much more to offer than their tits. Mick says the higher the pole dancer quotient gets, the fewer the number of girls who participate in student government, sports, or vie for academic scholarships. Sad. And maddening.

Well it's time for me to call my own dimwit child back inside. Mr Genius thought it was a dandy idea to go out and play in the rain. Fun in the summertime when the temp is in the 80s, dopier than dopey when it's 50 degrees and there's still a knee-deep layer of snow on the yard.

Longing to feel physically better, to shake the black dog, and be done with teenagers and their goofy ways. ~LA

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