One of the wonderful, terrible things about the internet is the way in which it allows us to peer into the minds of other people with unfettered internet access (which should not of course be mistaken for the general population). One need only start a Google search with the word “is” and a few other letters (and then wait for suggested previous popular searches to present themselves) to understand that Google is serving as Ouija board/physician/Sunday school teacher/life coach/friend who backs up your particular brand of crazy to the vast (or perhaps tiny?) universe of disconnected human beings to whom all of this information and access and Facebook herding of people you went to second grade with might feel like a bit too MUCH.
Is it dangerous to drink half of a bottle of Oloroso sherry on an empty stomach?
Does the UPS man judge me?
Is there something deeply toxic in Bisquick?
At what point does my child’s recurring fungal diaper rash mean that I should expect a visit from a social worker?
If I deeply wound with a dirty kitchen knife someone to whom I am legally wed because his snoring and sleep-thrashing wake me up every goddamn fucking night, will I still go to jail?
Which person should I believe: the lady in the laundry room who says my baby and I will die if we don’t get the swine flu vaccine, or the lady on the internet who says my baby and I will die if we do get the swine flu vaccine?
Trolling web in search of people referencing their experience being “back at the bottom.” Shufflin Dance has given up an ostensible career-track job to step back in time seven years and be an assistant. Came across this quip, which I don’t truly understand because of the technical jargon, but enjoyed nonetheless.
“In the days of open cholecystectomies we used to guess the patient’s weight by how many fingers I broke holding the liver retractor.”
From ‘Starting back at the bottom,’ an essay by Dr. Judith Lindeck, who gave up surgery because she kept breaking her own bones during the course of her workday, because of some degenrative disease she has, and so became a general practitioner and found it humbling.
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Here’s two episodes:
-Department Store Elf Lunch Buffet for Harried, Unwell Employees on a “Special Diet”
-Cheftestants drive in groups of four to LA in their Toyota, stopping every 50 miles to humiliate themselves in front of people who cook in rest-stop fast-food outlets
trying to organize baby shit for a week’s vacation. felt all week that we have already missed the 1:45 pm ferry from jerz to delaware. even in this supposed low season, there are too many people in new york, or maybe specifically too many people on the 7 train and in grand central station. we need to leave here for a week or longer.
-a can of formula, two jars of baby food, a handful of rubber-covered spoons (plus a plastic one), two plastic bowls and one plastic spoon. applesauce with prunes, yogurt, avocados, spinach, a peach. the jarred baby food is like chicken and squash, and turkey corn or something. i am skeptical but curious. i bet max will like it.
an appeal from the southern poverty law center sits next to me on the dining room table. it says that a girl named M.P. contracted scabies and had a walkie talkie slammed across her skull while in a youth detention center in Mississippi. “M.P.’s story is similar to the experiences of many other children who are locked up in juvenile detention centers.” fuck.
