captaincliff

Have you ever taken Ambien, the popular sleeping pill and gotten a relatively decent nights sleep only to wake up to garlic bread crumbs, a stop watch, an empty carton of orange sherbet and one of your neighbors you never met before in your bed?  Ok, I was exaggerating about the neighbor but the rest is the gods honest truth.

Ambien (Zolpidem) is some good stuff for many of us who cant just do as Samuel L. Jackson has eloquently put it in his rendition of the popular childrens book, “Go The Fuck To Sleep!” There are a million reasons people cant fall asleep or stay asleep. The older you get the harder it seems to turn off the mental computer and go into “sleep mode”. I’m sure the 56 different electronic and digital devices in the room all blinking and lighting up and beckoning ones attention dont help. Wait, it’s 3:25 AM, I better check my Facebook status to see if anyone else “liked” it…….or hey, I wonder if anyone has linked to my blog (otherwise known as my post-mortem memoirs) in the middle of the night unnoticed.  How sick is it that I’ve had daydreams about dying and then having people read my blog and murmur to themselves, “Wow, he was so witty…I should have spent more of my busy day (as a full-time neurosurgeon and mother of three toddlers) reading it and commenting”. Clearly this is the modern day version of Huckleberry Finn where Tom Sawyer attends his own funeral to hear what people say about him.

Anyway, back to insomnia and Ambien. If you are one of the 23 million people who take it (thats right, we are all in some kind of bizarre sleeping pill cult) it can have some unusual side effects for a certain zombified minority. Instead of eating peoples brains we apparently sleepwalk, often to the kitchen where we collect and consume an assortment of foodstuff and odd utensils. One morning I found a Ginsu knife and and a plastic ice cream scoop in my room that I had no memory of. Maybe the scooper went with the orange sherbet. I cant say. The point is that weird things happen once the Undead arise and Ambien is the prime suspect for many of us. Some people like my 25 year old son Eli have more obvious so called “paradoxical side effects” like refusal to sleep and having long conversations with items in the refrigerator, including the fresh produce. I’m not kidding or exaggerating. It really happened. Also, Eli is a personal trainer with huge muscles and intervening in his intimate exchange with the carrots and broccoli was not easy. He didnt get belligerent or anything. He just didn’t want to be interrupted. Apparently I dont either when I am under the effects of Ambien, a so called non-benzo hypnotic and then wake up and start shuffling around… without even realizing it. The only funny part about it is my initial reaction of surprise to the seemingly random things strewn around the next morning. I now have a predictable pre-set exclamation that I say aloud for full effect, “Hey, how did THAT get there??” Of course when “that” involves a neighbor’s cat hanging from a ceiling fan or three empty bags of Doritos (big ones) on the floor next to the bed it’s a little hard to deny who was responsible, especially when the car is later found in the driveway with the motor running………If this gets any worse I’m either going to call my shrink or at the very least start checking the car trunk each morning for bodies.

P.S.  Riiight, here’s what kept me up last nite writing this. Is it more correct to say awoke, awaken, awoken, or ewok (out of frustration) in the first sentence? The online arguments on the subject are endless and inconclusive. I gave up and said “wake up to”. Meanwhile, I couldn’t go the fuck to sleep…..

My kids got me one of those Keurig auto-make coffee machines for Fathers Day. The coffee tastes good and there are many choices, ie. Starbucks dark roast, expresso, Caribou breakfast blend, high grade heroin, morning methadone, etc. Apparently anything can be compressed into those little plastic “portion pack” k-cups and then marketed to and from the now exceedingly rich Jewish entrepreneur who probably invented and patented the machine. This time I dont think it was Ron Popiel or by Ronco. The Owners manual and “Welcome to Keurig” literature is longer and more detailed then what I got with my Lexus. They also throw in some French on the box like, “Goutez a la variete” to make it sound European and therefore more gourmet.  Apparently I am no longer just making coffee. According to the manual, I am now a sophisticated “brewer” engaged in the fresh brewing of coffee. It’s still hard for me to adjust to NOT thinking of an automatic coffee maker as something I would use at the gas station (by pushing multiple buttons to make a bizarre concoction) along with a Snickers bar and a pint of motor oil. I went to a store in Miami a few years ago that exclusively sold these high-end coffee machines like they were selling time-share condos and Maseratis. The glistening products lined the walls. Specially trained baristas (all very good looking and perky) ushered us into small groups of wealthy and wealthier people willing to listen to a shtick trying to sell you on buying into a $900 machine and lifetime contract that makes one cup of coffee at a time, but oh what a cup it is……..Anyway, my kids just went to WalMart and bought me the smaller one that was on sale.

As usual I felt a little sad and guilty “putting away” my well worn Mr. Coffee machine. I stuck it under one of my kitchen drawers, “just in case”. Now I have to figure out different places to steal the various compressed k-cups of liquid gold, er I mean coffee……and probably a small (ok huge) handful of Splendas. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sign up for some special “club” that ships me my private blend of futuristic java.

In an about face, so to speak, I will report some “good news” to offset my regular  reporting about weird people sexually abusing animals, themselves, and their stuffed Teddy Bears (see previous blog posts). In Pittsburgh they hold the annual convention of “Furries” known as Anthrocon. This is not to be confused with DragonCon, which involves thousands of sci-fi and cartoon freaks and geeks, like my 25 year old son and  girlfriend. Unlike DragonCon attendees, Furries dont just dress up and go to important meetings and “panel discussions” on Star Wars, Star Trek and a zillion other anime and gaming characters that I’ve never heard of.  “Furry” people enjoy roleplaying and dressing up as animals in elaborate furry costumes and full headgear. Sometimes they stay in character regarding their chosen/preferred animal identity and socialize/ sexualize with one another. In other words, a certain “vocal minority” of Furries sexually get off on playing foxes, bears, coyotes, birds and bees….essentially Disney characters in heat. The good news is that Furries stick together and support each other as well as their out of costume Furry supporters. Here is a news story and video about Furries pitching in to help a certain restaurant owner stay in business. They really know how to get their tails in gear when somebody needs a helping hand…or paw. Sexual fact and Extra credit for readers: Erotic or sexual behavior between Furries is called “yiffing”.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/06/17/anthrocon-furries-fernandos-cafe_n_1603768.html

I just saw the remake of “The Time Machine” (2002). I waited all these years to see it because I just KNEW what I would think of it. How about this summary: A tangled, incomprehensible perversion of the original movie (1960). Nearly as monstrously bad and disfigured as the remake of the classic “Journey to the Center of the Earth”, again the original with James Mason, not the piece of total dog shit starring Brendan Fraser in 2008. Everyone involved with both of these “remakes” should apologize to the Hollywood Motion Picture Guild and immediately tender their resignations as actors, producers and especially card carrying film directors. I dont even WANT to know who re-wrote the screenplays or directed these cinematic abominations. If I met them on the street or at Starbucks I would slap them across the face with a white silk glove and offer some Native American or vulgar Shakespearean insult involving their mothers and needing to eliminate their “family seed” from the Earth. Omg, I just looked it up on Wikipedia. The movie I just watched was directed by Simon Wells, the actual great-grandson of HG Wells. I just cursed the family tree of the original writer…….yegads. Still Simon, did you REALLY have to miscast the great actor Jeremy Irons as the Uber-Morlock vaguely channeling Ricardo Montelban (Khan) from Star Trek?? KHANNNN!!

Next Up: Kate and Colin ruin Total Recall? God, I hope not. Is nothing sacred?

Can you guess that this is my first blog about plushophilia (sex with stuffed animals)? Ok, you know I have to comment about weird sex news. So let’s just say it and get it over with. A man in Ohio got arrested for the fourth time for having sex with a teddy bear. Nobody (especially in that part of Ohio) is really that surprised by now, right? Nothing shocks us anymore and when you think about it, as long as there isn’t a live person or domesticated member of the animal kingdom inside the stuffed animal, what’s the big deal? On second thought, it might just be for the fact that the guy obtains extra enjoyment out of having sex with his Care Bear in public, and that just isn’t very, well, orderly or decent, hence indecent exposure and disorderly conduct.

Still, this seemingly black and white case of “crazy” might also raise deeper questions about human rights and sexual freedom. Are we not free to love whomever and whatever we want? Is there a huge and unmistakable difference between hugging ones well-worn Velveteen Rabbit and sodomizing ones toy teddy in a darkened alleyway? Isn’t Margery Williams timeless tale about the power of transformative love still applicable?  I’m sure Jose Baez and Jerry Sandusky’s attorney would think so. In fact I’m sure there are lawyers somewhere in America right now trying to create a new personality disorder (and hence legal justification) for people who prefer sex with their Cabbage Patch dolls and Muppet collection.  Finally, is the moral of the story something vague, complicated  and debatable or is the real point if you love something enough (or violate it frequently and against its will) it might just come alive and press charges? You decide and let me know. Btw, if it ever comes up in a game of Trivial Pursuit or on Jeopardy, the official name for overly ardent lovers of Teddy Bears is Ursusagalmatophilia. Of course Alec Trebek knows this already.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/06/16/charles-marshall-teddy-bear_n_1602294.html

Not to be insensitive but I noticed recently you can still make Facebook friends with dead people. That’s right. I have clicked onto Facebook profiles of human beings and a few dogs whom I know for a fact are deceased and not only do they still have their Timeline’s intact but they are still adding friends! Some of these dead people and pets are adding more FB friends then I am, and I’m not even dead  yet, which is a little depressing. I feel jealous of some dead people because they are more popular then me. I sort of figured as I got older and got more wrinkles, etc. (see recent FUPA post) that I could at the very least outlast the more popular but far more deceased individuals on Facebook. I was hoping my problem with “social comparison syndrome”, constantly comparing myself and my life with others would resolve itself over time and due to attrition, sort of like the “Turtle and the Hare” parable. How do I compete with really popular dead people? They dont even age and everyone only says great things about them as if they are/were perfect. It’s all so unfair.

If I’m Not a Kangaroo Why do I have a Male FUPA?

FUPA is “Fat Upper Pubic Area”. I looked it up in the Urban Dictionary. I’ve noticed for awhile now, well, especially since I lost weight (about 15 lbs.) that certain parts of my body refuse to shrink in accordance with other adjacent body parts. I thought I read somewhere that the human body is an intricate network of specialized cells and organs in constant communication. Why did my shrunken face and skinny “chicken” legs NOT tell my upper pubic area or FUPA to lose the same amount of mass and circumference? I remember the first time I noticed myself having anything FUPA-like. I believe it was around ten years ago and I assumed it was due to the Medium sized Mellow Mushroom pizza with five toppings and extra cheese I had inhaled whole (and practically unsliced) after smoking a bowl of pot. I used to actually enjoy smoking a little marijuana when I was younger. Now it seems to only act as an anti-nausea aid after having consumed every carbohydrate containing product in my kitchen pantry. The term “munchies” does not begin to explain the intensity of the food cravings that follow my limited late in life marijuana use. In fact, I think I begin to feel hungry before the pipe has even touched my lips. Is there such a thing as second hand cravings? I realize that the intensity and duration of my post pot desires for “sweet and salty” are not normal, particularly because my ravenous hunger never really diminishes once I get high. I just finish eating everything calorie-laden in my house and then collapse into a fetal position while still considering what I could “really go for”. What’s my point? My point is that smoking weed is no longer advisable at my age. They say that THC the active ingredient in marijuana settles into the fat cells of the body and stays there for several weeks. In my case I think it has settled into my FUPA for the duration. I’m glad I lost some weight and lowered my cholesterol but if I’m not a kangaroo, why do I have or need a FUPA?

by Cliff Mazer, Ph.D.

Once when I was 17 years old and a senior in high school I grew a pot plant in my backyard just about 10 feet off the circular concrete patio that our breakfast table faced in Highland Park, Illinois. I really didn’t know what I was doing and I never had much of a green thumb gardening wise (and still dont). I figured the germinating pot seed I had put between wet paper towels and stuck in a drawer would either just dry up and die or wither into nothingness once I stuck it in the ground. Probably it was part adolescent rebellion back in 1971, part curiosity, and part high school science experiment. The thing is…it didn’t die and I noticed one day a tiny little sprout with baby leaves sticking out of the mound of earth where I had planted the seedling. The leaves had that zig-zaggy look that distinguished it from all the other well-tended shrubs and plants. I have to admit I was surprised as hell and my first thought was, “Shit, could I get in big trouble for this?” I wasn’t so worried about the H.P. police or our neighbors since our yard was moderately secluded, but I pretty much figured my parents would not exactly be in support of an illegal substance merrily growing amid the landscaped hydrangeas and the tulips. Again I rationalized  (a popular psychological defense mechanism) that the cute little pot plant wouldn’t survive the intense heat and humidity of a typical suburban Chicago summer. I was wrong again. Within four months that little sucker grew like, well, a weed, and by then it was clearly a “stranger in a strange land” amid the well manicured lawn, aggregate pebble patio and matching outdoor furniture. Every morning at breakfast with my family I would look out the large sliding glass doors in front of me (and everyone elses direct line of sight) and see my by now robust looking marijuana plant. I expected SOMEBODY to say at any time, “Hey, what is that weird looking plant or overgrown weed thing doing there? What is that?”  Amazingly nobody said anything, not even my goody-two-shoes older brother Neal who clearly enjoyed getting me in trouble, especially if it involved something that could easily be labeled as “bad” behavior. I think he thought he was protecting me (from my ADHD self) but I just thought he was a pain in my ass and way too “square” or “straight”. Once I remember actually pointed at an interesting bird in the backyard right next to my marijuana plant and everyone squinted to identify it (the bird that is) not the plant. Somehow they didn’t see it right in front of their eyes!! I was astonished.

Fast forward: At some point, maybe by late in the summer, I sort of forgot about the by now gargantuan pot plant and was busy getting ready to go to college at the University of Colorado in Boulder. I was excited about moving on to the next stage of my life and my much anticipated independence. I didn’t even think twice about my “magic” plant or the fact that it now pretty much towered over its horticultural surroundings. I still figured it would die on its own, especially without additional watering and maintenance. By now all my friends had their own little baggies of “weed” and Boulder was well known as a hippie haven and extreme party school for college kids. I remember reading the practical “Underground Guide for Colleges” and in the specific section about UC Boulder it said, and I quote…. “Entertainment is balling”. I knew they weren’t talking about soccer or baseball. I split for college and didn’t look back or even kiss my unusual science experiment goodbye. I did kiss my parents goodbye and told them I would see them soon, which meant at Thanksgiving vacation.

The Punchline: I was always interested in Psychology and immediately signed up for freshman courses like Psych 101: Intro to Psychology, etc. One of the first things I learned in class was about psychological defense mechanisms, the various mental strategies people use (both functional and dysfunctional) to protect their egos, minimize internal conflict, and maintain a state of repression which basically means keeping things unconscious or subconscious rather then conscious. Kind of like being able to NOT see a giant pot plant right in front of the breakfast, lunch and dinner table. I found out that some people are better at complete denial (and other more primitive defense mechanisms) than others and can literally choose to not see or not acknowledge what is right in front of their face. Anyway, in early October my parents called me to wish me a Happy Birthday. That was nice of them and they are very good about remembering such things. Before my mom got off the phone (my Dad always gets off first because, like me, he’s not a big phone talker) she said, “Oh Cliff, you know that plant in the backyard, the big one? Well, after you left I noticed it started to flower and had rather large buds on it.” I started to panic a little but kept my composure while she continued. “I’m not 100% sure about this but I think it might be a marijuana plant.” I hemmed and hawwed a bit before asking, “How do you know that Mom?”  This is what she then said word for word (I know because it was so classic that I immediately wrote it down and kept the exact quote in my dresser drawer for years). My mom said, “Well I asked the Mexican gardeners and they said it was a female pot plant and have been watering it all summer. I cut it down before it got too cold outside and hung it up in the basement upside down. I saw something about the subject on television and I think it might be worth alot of money! Don’t worry about your father. He has no idea what it is”

Anyway, if you ever think people lack the incredible ability to see what they want to see and not see what they dont want to see or believe, also check out this bizarre story (below)  about a lady who is a “do or die” supporter of Jerry Sandusky (the “tickle monster” at Penn State) and goes to court everyday because she believes in his total innocence no matter how many kids he has lathered up in the shower or played “Hide and Go Touch my Genitals”.

http://sports.yahoo.com/news/ncaaf–jerry-sandusky-joyce-porter-supporters-trial-child-molestation-dottie-down-syndrome.html;_ylt=AkN.rSc4nq6XjcXrf7296aw5nYcB

One of the latest American obsessions is not just with the Kennedy family of Camelot fame but diagnosing their multiple psychiatric disorders. From Newsweek to TMZ (neither of which are exactly scholarly publications in the field of Clinical Psychology) there is much speculation about Mary Kennedy’s depression, drinking problem, DUIs, suicide and now her presumed borderline personality disorder or BPD. In my business, having several co-existing psychiatric disorders is called comorbidity, something that often but not always portends a poorer prognosis. Lurid details follow in these high profile print articles and online stories detailing her multiple incidents of Jekyl and Hyde like behavior, domestic violence and even physical abuse of her husband Bobby Jr. He is (according to legal divorce affidavits) allegedly attacked with scissors by Mary while in the bath, punched in the eye and face and subjected to multiple incidents of premeditated manipulation, coercion, and emotional blackmailing which all are said to stem from her underlying diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder. When Mary Kennedy isn’t busy attacking her husband or haranguing his children from a prior marriage, she is depicted by everyone else as a lovely, highly intelligent, warm, generous, talented architectural designer and meticulous homemaker. The psychological disconnect between her “crazy” side and her seemingly angelic side is chilling and helps one understand how so many neighbors in news stories about serial killers and murderers always start out by saying, “Gee, I thought they were lovely people and a very tight family…She used to come to the door with fresh cookies and milk”. In this case, however Mary Kennedy was not a murderer or serial killer, at least not of other people. Her self-destructive ways are another thing. If Newsweek’s sources are to be believed the best single metaphor for Mary’s sad life and ultimate demise was the home she transformed into an ecologically advanced model of green building and energy savings, except that by the time they were done with the majestic transformation it cost twice its projected budget, the solar panels were breaking down, and both parties were bleeding profusely financially as well as emotionally. They literally could no longer afford to live there. While such renovation nightmares are common, the symbolism of a woman who looked and acted nearly perfect on the outside but ended up hanging herself with a neat hand-tied noose in the backyard barn seems particularly apt, and perhaps something to learn from for the rest of us with or without personality disorders. Maybe the first time there was water flooding into the basement, the original inspiration for the uber-renovation, they should have recognized this as a sign, not to re-do the house, but to look more deeply at what was broken in the foundation of Mary’s psyche as well as in her marriage. Next Up: If Mary was afflicted with BPD…..then what ails Bobby Kennedy, Jr. besides “Man, its a bitch being married to a crazy person” syndrome. In my opinion Newsweek let him off WAY too easy. Not only does it take “two to tango” but for every Sylvia Plath there tends to be a Ted Hughes, and their philandering hands are often not so clean either. Couples create a different kind of toxic comorbidity and that can be just as deadly especially for the more emotionally sensitive partner as well as for the surviving children.

http://www.thedailybeast.com/newsweek/2012/06/10/the-last-days-of-mary-richardson-kennedy.html

Help Wanted: Articulate individuals needed to help me explain to my relatives in Chicago and anyone living out west (especially in Northern California) why the KKK in Georgia where I live want to adopt a stretch of highway and participate as a group in organized clean-up efforts. An alert 18 year old reader, Devon brought this news article to my attention and I am still having trouble wrapping my head around it. Actually, I really want to wrap THEIR hooded heads around a stop sign or utility pole and light them on fire at night in an effort to conserve on public utilities. Now that would be a public service. They are actually having to seriously consider this request due to the fact that these antiquated he-haws are following “proper channels” as well as their stated intentions to “not wear our robes during the public clean-up”.  I say let them wear the full monty, beer belly guts and all but insist that they: 1) walk together down the center of the busy roadway and 2) notify everyone exactly what time and place they will be there working to make America red, white, blue and green ….so that the rest of us can meet them in cars, steamrollers, snowplows and bowling balls. I know I’ll be bringing my “grabber”, the thing I got on QVC. This may not be as bad as Nazis marching in Skokie, but it’s still an insult to humanity and to all the litter these dimwits have previously dumped out of their gun rack toting pick up trucks with Confederate flags.

Sample quote:
“This is about membership building and rebranding their name in a public way,” Brooks said. “What’s next, are we going to let neo-Nazis or the Taliban or al-Qaida adopt highways?”

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/kkk-adopt-highway-georgia-152109663.html