St. Renegade brutalizes the very concept of brutality with crushing, brutal crushingness

About that last post: I was sad. I remain sad, or more like saddened, but I am buoyed by Best Friend telling me that everyone in Kalamazoo is cranky right now. Then Roommate, who flies around this country for a living, brought back news of national malaise. So I, for one, feel a bit better.

I was so sad and blue that I thought about calling off work, mistakenly thinking that the needs and love of emotionally disturbed children would bring me down. Except I'm me, and I had a great day, my two Js were in top form and my Girl complained that all we do is go to meetings with mean people. In filling out an agency survey she wrote that "caseworkers and clients [Hey! How do you spell 'client'?] should do more fun stuff together." Amidst the endless psychiatric, alternative school, regular school, and drug treatment assessments I drive her to, she thinks I should be showing her a good time. I reminded her of the time I took her to the Gospel McDonalds, and she called me foolish. She's right, though. We went to the cultural center once and saw the Other Nick Cave's fabric installations, and she was deep on a whole other level. Our time together is dwindling. She will be in a group home soon, and maybe I will stay her therapist, or maybe not. She will break my heart. We should go to the Holograph Museum!

There is also painful man-related neurosis and bleakness and even singing in my car could not help me. When Mariah Carepy cannot sooth the self-laceration, it's time to stop resisting. I used Google to look up my Fake Boyfriends of the Past and Maybe the Present. First and foremost is Sam McPheeters, for whom I read 10+ articles in the Orange County Weekly, and had this to say about our shared cultural future:

"This line of thinking continues: 20th century popular culture has secretly devolved into a colossal pyramid scheme in which each subsequent generation gets a little more swindled than the last. The disappointment is there for all to see. It lingers in the hordes of electro-clash enthusiasts gamely ignoring the worship of bands one generation old. It lurks on the faces of teen punkers bumbling down the sidewalk covered in patches like unemployed NASCAR drivers, their tattered costumes advertising bands 20 years dead. Every year the disappointment spreads.

For a long-term forecast, we have the Middle Ages to guide us. Picture filthy, syphilis-encrusted peasants squatting in the ruins of Roman splendor. Dread Zeppelin is but one of many mile markers on this same road to societal collapse. Enjoy."

Sometimes, that's what soothes.