Mother's Little Helpers (or: "doctor please, some more of these")

The text reads:

ANOTHER STRIKING TRIBUTE TO PHOSFERINE TONIC WINE

"I take Phosferine Tonic Wine at 11 a.m. and at 3 p.m., also as a nightcap, and believe me, I derive from it wonderful nights of sleep. I get up very fresh in the morning, having lost that tired feeling and after taking a couple of bottles I am now a different woman. Phosferine Tonic Wine stimulates, energizes and tones the whole system, and is a wonderful nightcap."

(Signed) Mrs. D. Islwyn Lewis

(I note in the fine print that this woman hails from Swansea,Wales, Dylan Thomas' home town. That explains a lot.)

And how about this. . .

Yes, for superior vacuuming skills, it's DEXIES!


"BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!"

Text reads: 35, single and psychoneurotic. The purser on her cruise ship took the last snapshot of Jan. You probably see many such Jans in your practice. The unmarrieds with low self-esteem. Jan never found a man to measure up to her father. Now she realizes she's in a losing pattern - and that she may never marry.

Valium (diazepam) can be a useful adjunct in the therapy of the tense, over-anxious patient who has a neurotic sense of failure, guilt or loss. Over the years, Valium has proven its value in the relief of psychoneurotic states - anxiety, apprehension, agitation, alone or with depressive symptoms.

Valium 10 mg. tablets help relieve the emotional "storms" of psychoneurotic tension and the depressive symptoms that can go hand-in-hand with it. Valium 2-mg. or 5-mg. tablets are usually sufficient for milder tension and anxiety states. An h. s. dose added to the t. i. d. dose often facilitates a good night's rest.

Oh how I wish I could see those photos more clearly, as I think they demonstrate the sad downward spiral of Jan's life as she dates men who are lower and lower on the social totem pole. At the end, she's taking handfuls of Valium with some drunken and probably gay purser. But hey, if it helps her sleep. . .

Yes, I can just make out some of the captions: Jan and Dad, 1955. Tom, Jan, Ruth and Steve, 1957. Joey, 1959. Jan and Ted, 1961. Jan and Dad, 1962. Jan and Charlie, 19(?). Jan and Danny/Benny, 1966. Jan and Dad, 1969. Jan, 1970.

Whoawww now! This is saying even more than I thought it was! This is a little girl who is hung up on her Daddy. So obviously she needs to be chock full 'o Valium in order to cope, if not survive. Yes, there was a time when her life looked hopeful, when she had lots of friends and even boy friends, but say, didn't she seem to go through an awful LOT of boy friends? Did this mean she was a raving slut, or a pussy-zippered prude? The ad implies that none of these nice young fellers was quite good enough for her - shame on her for being so picky, or could it be - could it be there is actually "something wrong" with Jan, something so awful we dare not speak its name?

I'm just thinking, TEN milligrams? I've been told that drugs that end in "pam" are all in the same family and do more-or-less the same thing. If you were swallowing tens regularly, it wouldn't be long until you were an emotional zombie. I have to take clonazepam for leg cramps at night, and the prescription is HALF A MILLIGRAM. That's right. I have never taken more than that because it wouldn't do me any earthly good, and because I don't want to feel groggy and out-of-it in the morning. I WANT my emotional storms, thank you very much.

But just think of all the women who were addicted, who were lost. It hasn't changed enough to suit me. Women in the psychiatric system are still patronized and treated with more disdain and disrespectfulness than men with similar disorders. They're wrongly or over-medicated, with a cookie cutter approach: just throw this at her, or that. Seroquel seems popular now, but you wait, it'll be another flavor in a year or so.

And nowhere does it mention the possibility that real relief of her "symptoms" will only come by breaking through to a more courageous, more authentic life. Which generally means telling the doctors to go piss up a rope. Because they don't know anything about us anyway, do they?

For more absolutely insane ads that patronize women and paint them as screamimg meemies with no legitimate cause to complain, just click on the magic link, below!

http://www.bonkersinstitute.org/medshow/fem.html

(And sorry about that Mornidine. It's another name for Thalidomide.)

On the brink

This is without a doubt my favorite moment from Safety Last (and I just broke down and bought the Blu-Ray version, which is so sharp and clear I think we see things we weren't even supposed to. In fact I bought a Blu-Ray player just so I could play it.)

Anything I could write now would not help The Cause, which is I don't know what at this point. Any advice I have been given is so bad and offputting that I want to just put my head under the pillow.

I still enjoy Harold and always will. He is an addiction, but quite a pleasant one, with no serious side effects. Unlike a great many poets, I am not likely to fall prey to the seductions of Happy Hour. And to be honest, I think I wrote a pretty good novel, not "about" Harold but "around" him. Where it goes is anyone's guess, but I'll always have Paris.

It's just too bad the news is always so dire around publishing. It shouldn't be, because the truth is people are always going to crave a good story. It gets their minds off their lives, and once in a long time there's an insight, a connecting point that stays with the reader, maybe even tells them something important.

I write because I have to write. It's what I do. Have always done. We're a team. In some ways it's the only thing that makes me feel like myself, makes me feel better when the world closes in. Which it does, sometimes.

This novel was such a labor of love, a highly unlikely thing, like having a baby at age 50. Similarly, I had mixed emotions about writing another book after what I thought of as the failure of my first two. What, try to get pregnant again? Are you out of your mind?

But there it was.

This is the point at which things begin to get complicated. I wasn't born to hustle, and actually loathe the very thought. I can't get into complicated schemes like endorsing someone's work just so they will endorse mine. Don't they cancel each other out? At the same time, I love taking part in readings and other writers' events, and enjoy doing interviews and talking to people about my book. So what's the problem?

It's like I have a son, and I think he's potentially a very talented son, but I can see he's not going to do well. Something will happen to him. I know that's a gloomy attitude and I know I could be wrong. I also know he has much to contribute, and I hope he has a chance to do so.

In closing, ahem, let me quote an article by Russell Smith from the Globe and Mail. I suppose I should have been all huffy and insulted by this piece, but I thought it was one of the best and most honest things I'd read about publishing in a very long time:

There are big winners and there are losers – the middle ground is eroding. Publishers are publishing less, not more. Everybody awaits the fall’s big literary-prize nominations with a make-us-or-break-us terror. Every second-tier author spends an hour every day in the dismal abjection of self-promotion – on Facebook, to an audience of 50 fellow authors who couldn’t care less who just got a nice review in the Raccoonville Sentinel. This practice sells absolutely no books; increases one’s “profile” by not one centimetre; and serves only to increase one’s humiliation at not being in the first tier, where one doesn’t have to do that.

So again, what is to be done? What does any artist do in the age of the blockbuster? Nothing, absolutely nothing, except keep on doing what you like to do. Global economic changes are not your problem (and are nothing you can change with a despairing tweet). Think instead, as you always have, about whether or not you like semicolons and how to describe the black winter sky. There is something romantic about being underground, no?

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Gross but very funny

Since I got nothing done today. . .

It just seems I spend my life waiting. The only real feedback I've had on my new novel The Glass Character is from friends and family, and, well. . . It's not that they don't count at ALL, but let's face it, their bias is plain to see.

It's hard to hold on to anything they say.  I'm not getting much in the way of detail, just the same "I really enjoyed your book. I liked it better than the other two" (and it seems that, as time goes by, the other two steadily get worse). I wish I knew what part of the story people liked. I wish I knew what characters they loved, hated, or were bored with.

Since none of this is forthcoming, at least not yet, I try to content myself with Blingee, an alternate to gif. I'm beginning to realize these backgrounds look sort of like the Ed Sullivan Show when Janis Joplin or Jefferson Airplane came on: there'd be this pulsating, psychedelic goo projected behind them and it would sort of mush around in time to the music.

This is a form of play for me, a way of losing myself, and boy do I need it now. I want this book to succeed, big-time. I don't know how I'll do it. I'll try magic, wishbones, voodoo, anything. But I realize how capricious is success in any endeavour. It's not a matter of trying hard, or persevering, or even of talent. It's supposed to be "who you know", but my own efforts at who-you-know-ing haven't panned out so well. It all breaks down in the execution.

It's hard to place your book in the hands of people who can determine its success or failure. There are hardly any copies left in my box now, I've given away so many, even to exotic locations in Great Britain, from which I have almost no hope of hearing.

But we have come this far by faith. I remember when I wondered if I would ever write seriously again. Just getting through a day was a gargantuan task. Slow step by slow step, year after year after year, I brought myself and Harold to this point, and by God I am determined to continue until one of us wins.

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Harold, cute, on train, yelling

Harold, in car, car on train, does not know why, cannot get off, confused, scared, panic-stricken, hair flopping around, glasses, tie, GOD.

Unbelievable! Mind-blowing pictures that will CHANGE YOUR LIFE!

These are from one of the billion or so Facebook-linked pages, i. e.  Strange and Unusual Photos that will Amaze, Disturb, Sexually Arouse and Bankrupt You/Change Your Life Forever! (etc.)

Actually, they almost do.

This shot of a woman walking her pet lobster is - well - one of the strangest, taking your lunch out for a nice stroll before plunging it in boiling water and devouring it with drawn butter.

Oh, I like this. It's such a neat idea, and should be brought back. It's a portable sidecar/jail cell. This way, the cop can keep a good eye on the guy in case he tries to pry the bars apart.

Uh, a way to stack cars. A LOT of cars. Don't ask me how they got them up there, or, even harder to imagine, how they ever got them down. (Chariots of the Gods, maybe?)

A very famous 1930s swimmer, Hannah B. Lecter. No relation to that other guy.

There are several photos which depict hair-raising treatment of small children. There is a disturbing air of normalcy about it all, queasy-making today. These chain-link cages were attached to the windows of apartments so Little Johnnie could get some sunshine. Don't want him to have a Vitamin D deficiency as he goes hurtling down 20 floors and lands on the cement.

The things these nurses are carrying are babies. Yes, real live babies, wearing a sort of full-body gas mask, presumably during World War II. Note the little feet dangling down from the one on the right.

Do you know what? I must have a dirty mind, or else the military did. These holes in the sides of trains were designed so that soldiers could "kiss" their sweethearts one last time as they headed into battle. Their girl friends were supposed to stick their heads in there, but I think a hand might have been enough. I've heard stories about holes in the dividers of washroom cubicals, but mostly they're MEN's washrooms. But is it such a stretch to extrapolate? (Don't worry, "extrapolate" isn't anything dirty, or at least I don't think so.)

Now that I've had time to reflect on this awful situation, I realize this must be a boat of some kind. Perhaps these are portholes. Oh dear.

Weird things you could do with babies in the '40s. You could have them delivered by mail. Really.  Reminds me of those old Disney cartoons, Dumbo maybe, where babies were delivered by stork. After a while the practice was outlawed. There was no explanation here as to why, how, etc., just that you "could". In case you think this is impossible, during my recent exploration of Phil Spector and his famous "wall of sound", I discovered that he presented his wife with a set of twins for Christmas. No, I mean GAVE her a set of twins, for an actual Christmas present. The twins weren't babies either - they were five years old, and Spector was vague about where they had come from. Unlike many an unwanted Christmas gift, this one couldn't be returned.  Not surprisingly, they grew up with serious "issues". 

(I have to say it. That baby. There is something seriously wrong here. Either that, or it's a Royal. Its eyes are too close together, and slant like Prince Phillip's. Worse, the mailman has the same slant. It's unfortunate. Perhaps he's responsible, not happy about it, and about to surprise someone with it,  like Spector's twins.)

Salvador Dali and Coco Chanel. Whatever happened to this kind of glamour? It has all been airbrushed away.

 I can't tell if this was before or after hemlines went skyward, but it at least proves that ziplines are hardly new. If safety standards were the same as for that baby-in-a-cage, I wonder how many survived.

The invention comes with two sterile bandages to aid healing of the puncture wounds.

My personal favorite. There is a contemporary version of this, but I'll be damned if I can remember the name of  it, and I don't want to look it up because it's 12:22 and I haven't had lunch yet. But look at it: attached to what looks like a fire extinguisher, with all those strange gizmos around. Pretty terrifying, and it must've been hot in there. Why not just stick your fingers in your ears?


POST-BLOG REFLECTIONS. Since Matt begged me not to post any gifs, I'll do the next best thing. How could I NOT Blingee "The Isolator"?

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Court House Crooks (1915)

Happy Birthday, Harold!

Blingee Easter

hey mickey

Nouveau Blingee

So this is what I've been working on, with Blingees. I was  getting a little tired of the sparkles and dancing hearts, and started experimenting with backgrounds on black-and-white photos (of Harold, naturally!). I'm finding out that less is more, and you should leave your foreground figures strictly alone. Thus they stand out rather alarmingly against the pulsating, flashing backgrounds. You could, if you wanted to, just use one type of background, maybe that swirling grey. I see now that it kind of dances up and down, when it's properly supposed to rise like smoke. The thing is, the more "bling" you add, the slower and jerkier the animation. Took me a while to find that out. I don't have Blingee 2, either, because you have to do something to your computer, and they want all sorts of personal info from you that I won't give. The top picture I'm not sure of - might be The Cat's Paw or Welcome Danger, because there's something Chinese about the whole thing, plus there's a dead body on the floor. The bottom one is, of course, my beloved Professor Beware, which I will probably never get to see because it is Lost. In all the stills, and there are hundreds of them, among the best of any of his movies, he looks adorable, with this stunned, panic-stricken look on his face that only Harold Lloyd can do.

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The incredible genius of Yo Yo Ma

Every once in a while a piece of music pops into my head unbidden, from who knows where. We had a record of this piece played by Rostropovich, way back when, and listened the grooves off it. It's a gorgeous and amusing tone poem by Richard Strauss based on the adventures of Don Quixote, the Knight of the Woeful Countenance, and his sidekick Sancho Panza (I nearly said Pancho, but that's the Cisco Kid). This is YouTubed in six parts, but still worth hunting down and piecing together. This is my favorite of many favorite parts, the middle section, shimmering and shining with idealism like The Impossible Dream (and I must look up the best version of that one, sung by Richard Kiley). I always weep and bawl while listening to this, but then it seems I weep and bawl all the time now. Harold-itis. I just get the blues - I know I want this too badly. I can't see how anyone will get it, and I've put so many years in. The unreachable star?

The bunny from hell: an Easter tradition

At this time of year, you start seeing pictures of Easter bunnies so horrific, they make tawdry and terrifying Santas look downright festive.

It's hard for me to believe that this bunny suit was ever designed to be anything but horrible and frightening. This little girl has unusual composure while being forced to sit on the creature's lap. Most of the kids pictured here are screaming for their lives.

This is a good example of the time-honored custom of forcing small children to sit on the lap of, not just a total stranger (and haven't all kids been taught not to talk to strangers? How about sitting on their sweaty, motheaten knee?), but a hideous mythical creature they used to think was cute, fluffy and benevolent. Nothing  good could come from this pointy-eared bastard.

This is the Easter Cat. At least it looks like one. Whoever made the bunny suit kind of went wide of accuracy. The lifeless eyes and sagging body are already causing this little girl to whimper. She probably can't wait to get out of there.

I don't like the posture, here. I don't like way the bunny leans in with that vulpine leer. I don't like the fact that its head, which is supposed to be fluffy, seems to be carved out of  solid wood. I also don't like the fact that it looks as if the mouth opens and shuts.

This is a bad bunny, just bad. The little girl has mustered a smile, but is waiting to flee as soon as he gets his wretched paws off her. Dye this costume red, and it would make a pretty good Satan.

There's a web site called Cats that Look Like Hitler, but here I am proposing a web site called Easter Bunnies from the Third Reich. The large, black-rimmed holes with human eyes staring out of them are particularly menacing, and the moustache. . . that IS a moustache, isn't it? And why are the ears at right angles to the head? This isn't even a real costume, as the guy is slouching around in a cardigan and slacks, with only a hideous head and fur mitts to complete the ensemble. How Goebbels would have loved it.

I call this one the Abilify Bunny. His antidepressant has stopped working and he doesn't have the energy to go to his doctor. One of those little clouds is following him around, like in those ads.

This one I call the WTF??? Bunny. What's the deal with the face? Why is it jutting out of the guy's head? What is that thing in his hand? Is it a carrot or a Subway sandwich? You have to wonder who designs and sews these things. It looks like they may have chopped the head off a big plastic display bunny and welded it on.

 I call this the Action Shot. Did you think you were getting away from me, Little Girl? Think again! NO ONE escapes the Easter Bunny from Hell! You can run, but you can't hide!

Space alien bunny. Beam me up. Quick.

THE EGG HUNT FROM HELL: More creepy-looking, terrifying Easter bunnies!

(I just keep finding more! Take a look! AIEEEEEEEE!!)

Mildew J. Bunny.

Who makes these costumes, and should it be legal?

Wanted for holding up liquor stores.

"Run, little girl! Run for your life!"

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