captaincliff

(To the Tune of Man of La Mancha)

I’m probably over thinking this but what would you do if one day you decided you needed to become like Don Quixote and seek some new windmills to defeat but in choosing your loyal squire, Sancho Panza, he or she suddenly decides she’s Don Quixote and you are HER Sancho Panza, be-atch?  Should I be offended? Should I demure? Perhaps in this day and age of egalitarian sex roles and relationships one should just split the difference and be a little of both…..a little bit Don and a little bit Sancho, a hybrid kind of Don Sancho, which at least sounds more impressive then Don Panza, who I believe is a lounge singer in Vegas.  Maybe I should back up a bit and let the reader catch up….

 In a previous CaptCliff blog detailing my inner thoughts and IBS related problems with severe gas and bloating, I proposed to journey West, to California, the land of the free and the cosmetically enhanced to seek fame and fortune and really cool upscale bathroom fixtures like the electronic urinal at the Madonna Inn in San Louis Obispo. Echoes of my childhood sang to me as I now, at age 58 years old, languish in my semi-retirement at my abode, the well known Nevercompletelyremodeled Ranch in Sandy Springs Georgia (not to be confused with Michael Jackson’s inspired kiddie porn mansion in Santa Barbara). I knew that such an inspired quest would involve exquisite planning, a detailed intiniery, and alot of gas, both of the petroleum and Gas-X variety. I also realized with my kind of ADD, disorganized type, such a trip would need a loyal sidekick with all the mental strength and organizational skills I genetically lack. For their sake, the epic journey forth should probably also include a gas mask and a strong sense of humor. Fortunately, my friend Amy from the Nordstrom’s Rack saturated suburbs of Chicago practically defines these broadly outlined skill sets. She is smart, spiritually advanced (she has some weird swami like designation due to years of practice in various obscure healing arts), artistically inclined, and is similarly at a time in her life when the road beckons and self-discovery calls….beyond watching Planet Earth  on cable TV for the 5th time, that is. She is my Sancha Panza to my Don Quixote, I thought!! Voila, when she called me coincidentally  from LA, mentioning that her neck wrinkles in Brentwood made her stand out among the surgically enhanced denizens like a Thanksgiving turkey in late November, I knew that the cosmic forces were operating at full force, unlike my intestines and GI tract, I suppose. We quickly compared notes and realized that we both needed not so much a break from life but rather a confrontation with whatever was holding us back. I’m not even going to give you the IBS analogy to THAT one. Do some of the damn metaphoric work, yourself…dammit.

Anyway, I admit to feeling both excited and scared by the prospect of meeting Amy, or Don or Sancho or Sancha in California because it means not only do I have to dip into my Frequent Flyer miles which I hoard like jars of cheap spaghetti sauce from Big Lots (dont mind the superficial dents), but I have to face my own demons and psychological fears. What if I cant get over my Facebook addiction and get stuck in a Holiday Inn in Barstow with no hi-fi signal and a sub-par bathroom lacking adequate ventilation? What if I not only cant operate a GPS or smart phone to find our way on the treacherous Highway I toward the enlightened New Age workshops of Esalen Institute, but , more importantly, cant get my inner GPS to tell me what I want or need to do with the rest of my Baby Boomer life??  I guess I dont need to worry so much if Amy wants to be Don Quixote or Sancho Panza at this point. Maybe what i really need to do is trust that there is a beautiful road called “adventure” stretched out before me and that every journey starts with a first step….and my three pack of Immodium from Costco.

I am more of a hypochondriac than a paranoid type, but let me ask you a question. Assuming your name is Doris or Bill, how would you feel to wake up one morning only to find ads plastered all over the internet for a popular new “anti inflammatory” sports drink called, KILL DORIS or KILL BILL?? Well, actually if it was KILL BILL it wouldn’t be so shocking because there is at least a movie by that name with Uma Thurman all about a ninja chick on a revenge rampage. Just like in the film, I might just know some people I would be tempted to leave a poisonous black mamba in their trailer, but in the end I would never have the guts to do it. Plus, I’m afraid of snakes, especially the kind that kill you in about 5 minutes. I also would love to be able to pluck out somebody’s eye ball in one swift ninja move. That would take an awful lot of practice and few individuals would let you practice on them. However, i digress………Given the fact that there is no movie that I know of involving CaptCliff the Homicidal Ninja Psychologist, I find it rather troubling that somebody randomly decided to name a sports drink, Kill Cliff. I dont even get the premise, and if I dont get it with my vast intelligence, I worry about the epsilon minus semi-morons walking about, or trolling the internet looking for a good idea or direction in life. Cant we just call this campaign off and rename it KILL TRUMP or KILL NEWT? That has a much nicer ring to it and I’m sure would make a lot of people feel better right away.

Holiday Inn Express, North Boulder

“fresh cookies and medicinal marijuana”

by Cliff Mazer, Ph.D.

I had the pleasure of staying at this Boulder property several weeks ago. Boulder is a college town (CU ’75) that has grown into a yuppie mecca with a great view of the Flatiron Mountains. There are not too many places in the United States that one can step out of their rental car in the hotel parking lot (complimentary to guests) and immediately be hit by the strong and unmistakeable smell of high-grade pot wafting not from INSIDE but somewhere OUTSIDE the hotel, probably as part of the 39387 legal pot dispensaries and growing farms/storage facilities nearby. No wonder North Boulder is booming with Italian coffee bars and new restaurants galore. The whole town has a bad case of the munchies and the Holiday Inn North was happy to oblige my own with food recommendations as well as fresh popcorn all day and warm chocolate chip cookies starting at 7 PM. Hotel guests and cookie monsters of various ages and sneaker sizes begin mingling in the lobby around 6PM, all waiting patiently but with the same, “MUST HAVE COOKIE” look on their faces. The rooms, theoretically the most important part of a hotel review were better than expected, spacious and well appointed, with kitchenettes, microwave, fridge, etc.. Again, given the fact that I suspect most of the local population hold “medical cards” and or Groupon coupons enabling them to receive the myriad benefits of the magic hemp plant, the hotel seems especially well stocked as far as vending machines, drinks and a food and beverage services. Their complimentary breakfast, while far from being a stunning Four Seasons buffet is more than adequate with a very earnest server who was even willing to shlep us out free food earlier than usual since we were off to the slopes at Winter Park one morning at 6AM. Plus, I was pretty mesmerized by the automatic pancake making machine…very Willy Wonka. I guess I like places that are willing to bend the rules abit for a good cause and this was displayed further when we returned late from the aforementioned ski trip bent and broken and requiring a midnight soak in the outside hot tub. The staff as young, earnest, professional and appropriate as they appeared, were also pretty cool dudes and dudettes, who knew when to give a “wink and a nod” to an old long-haired hippie now brilliantly disguised as a completely bald Baby Boomer. Come to think of it those fresh cookies did seem to give me a nice little buzz and I dont think it was the chocolate chips! Just kidding. A good, reasonably priced hotel in an up and coming neighborhood in North Boulder that used to (40 years ago) smell like cow shit and now smells like Purple Kush and Italian expresso beans.

I heard Don Cornelius of Soul Train fame passed away. I’m going to miss him. Sometimes its as if I fell asleep in around 1972 and woke up in Stardate 2012.  I sort of feel like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes (the original not the crappy remakes) only instead of apes taking over the planet it’s hipsters, nerds and loud mouthed Republicans with fascist tendencies. All in all, it’s a rather nasty combination of faddish lemmings, talking heads and political extremists currently in vogue that seem to be about as balanced and well matched as Michelle and Marcus Bachman. I grew up in Chicago watching Garfield Goose and Soul Train on TV. I guess I prefer a more middle of the road world view.

As a result, alot of things just dont make sense anymore. The hipsters wear clothes that look way too tight and willingly pay $5 for a coffee drink, especially if you tell them it’s an Italian blend and put a Vespa sticker on the biodegradable cup. The nerds, somewhat like Newt Gingrich, are an angry bunch looking to avenge the bullying they apparently endured in childhood.  They range from the Julian Assange save the world hacker geniuses to 24/7 trollers whose immature and obnoxious comments online still make you want to beat them up and give them a “wedgie” for good measure. The thought of Newt Gingrich with a wedgie both amuses me and sickens me at the same time. As for the Fascist leaning Republicans……..I cant really describe them any better then whoever it was who said they are like a car full of circus clowns that perform at every presidential primary and state caucus. No wonder they are currently in Las Vegas along with Donald Trump.  They pour out en masse and bend your ear both in person and online while foaming at the mouth about how much they hate Obama with every fiber of their being. Somehow Obama, the current POTUS, is even worse then Satan or Hitler to them. How is that even possible?

By the way, have you recently picked up the tv remote and just “channel surfed” your way through the nearly 1000 available stations beginning with channel one? Thanks to my cable provider I can now get groupings of very bad to  horrible television programs that go from blocks of self-righteous religious broadcasts to weight loss and ab exercise promotions to reality “survivor” shows to blood and gore shlock in high definition that just defies description. If this is “reality” then I would prefer the alternate reality. By the time I get to channel 900 I am about ready to put a bullet in my brain or, more likely, right through the infra red eye of the cable box. To preserve my own sanity, I usually end up watching Planet Earth, The Daily Show, South Park or an old movie on TCM. Go ahead and ask me about penguins, i know everything there is to know about them now……..All in all, I think I liked it better in 1960 when there were only 4 stations and at least one of them was off air and either showing a test pattern or a black and white Indian Chief. I miss the Indian Chief and Don Cornelius on Soul Train. Neither of them said very much. We need their kind of quiet leadership and strength today. People like them arent likely to change and show up wearing fedoras and skinny jeans on channel 1001 tomorrow. I would hate to find out that Don Cornelius or the Indian Chief listened to Rush Limbaugh and had Twitter accounts on their iPhones.  Now that they are both gone, may they Rest in Peace (and quiet), Love, and Soul!

Cliff Mazer, Ph.D. is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist who grew up in Highland Park Illinois and  has an inexplicable love of Pirates. He currently resides in Atlanta, Georgia. Contact: 404-932-7193

Draft Only

Title: Good People (sung to the tune of Short People by Randy Newman)

by Cliff Mazer, Ph.D.

Idea: Research and write magazine article about what makes really good people so consistently “good”. Shadow selected individuals and interview them to see what really differentiates them from the rest of us. Consider the practical and evolutionary value of altruism-goodness and being an all around “good person”. 

Start the article with:

 Personally, I’m not that good a person, even tho I know a few individuals who would probably qualify as being legitimately “good”. No, I dont mean just nice guys or polite types or kindly folk or even terrific human beings. Similarly I’m not just talking about regular church goers or supporters of the arts or “big givers” to well deserving philanthropic causes, even tho good people may tend to engage in such selfless behavior.  I’m referring to men and women we all might know and love who are consistently as good as one might imagine, whether they are in public or in solitary confinement, under stress or lounging at a spa in St. Lucia, aware of others watching them or with me hidden surreptitiously behind their living room curtains trying to catch them being bad. The idea of doing just that, following and shadowing several really good people came to me suddenly one evening while I was busy engaged in my regular routine of ruminating on my misfortunes with my typical narcissistic combination of competitive resentment, anger, and self-loathing. Normally I accomplish this by reading the obituaries, watching the Kardashians or Housewives of Whereever on television and by Facebook stalking former friends and schoolmates, particularly the highly successful ones, and then reading their impossibly positive status updates. With a special proprietary admixture of anger and covetous greed-envy, I then imagine them losing their mind and/or their McMansions in a monsoon. Dont get the wrong Idea, I’m not that terribly bad either. I am just acutely aware of having bouts of normal jealousy, hyper-competitive feelings and “the grass is always greener” kind of thinking. Normally I even feel bad for thinking so negatively and chide myself for my petty jealousies and persistent tendency to slip into schaudenfreude like fantasies. Schaudenfreude, which is defined as ………………….

I am I, Don Quixote,

The Lord of La Mancha,

 My destiny calls and I go….to the bathroom.

That’s right. Since being diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome last year my interest in bathrooms and toilet technology has gone from somewhat eccentric to full bore obsessive. Like many others with IBS, I follow the popular bowel related blogs and websites like Flushthisbook, Ratemypoo and Doodie.com for divine inspiration and intellectual stimulation, so to speak. I’ve also been known to use Google Earth and GPS technology to locate the nearest available gas station pitstop, Porta Potty or restaurant restroom. Unfortunately Yelp and Trip Advisor have not yet developed a rating system for same, as I would probably consult that kind of practical guide more often then I would Zagats.  I know that sounds outlandish, but when nature calls often, the errant knight and Jewish Pirate, CaptCliff must answer. Those lucky souls who dont have such difficulties are clueless to the extremes fellow sufferers go through to find some relief. IBS can seriously interfere with normal everyday functioning and even ones ability to make a living as noted by the recent news of a bank robber with IBS in Connecticut. Due to his affliction, he ended up dropping trough in the bank parking lot prior to his stick up, thus leaving a distinctive calling card for the cops. Talk about forensic evidence. He was probably robbing the bank to pay off his Gastroenterology bill, the literal equivalent of robbing Peter to pay Paul Goldstein, M.D.. All colonoscopies aside, the unpredictable course and long duration of IBS can seriously limit the mobility of individuals and make their lives an exercise in frustration and futility. In my own case, and as a licensed Clinical Psychologist, I have noticed how the psychological effects of having unpredictable bouts of diarrhea and constipation can become greater over time, leaving the IBS sufferers not so much bedridden as bathroom bound, and afraid to travel very far or wide. As a result I recently mustered up my strength and decided in two months time to go on a Holy pilgrimage of sorts, and to do as Don Quixote did in Cervantes beloved novel and boldly sang out in the lyrics to the Broadway musical, The Man of La Mancha. Instead of seeking fame and fortune as a knight, I would seek out interesting and exotic bathrooms across the US, beginning with the privvy of my childhood dreams at the Madonna Inn in San Louis Obispo, California. As a child I had stayed there with my family on vacation and then again as a newlywed 15 years later, showing my blushing bride what a giant waterfall urinal with a built in electric eye looks like. The skinny kid with a crew cut and Beatle boots in 1965 was later replaced by a long haired left-leaning U.C. Berkeley Psychology grad student looking to his future in the ghostly reflections of the Madonna Inn’s one of a kind  hammered metallic bath fixtures. My ex-wife passed away from Lung Cancer in 1999, and now, as a 58 year old bald Baby Boomer with bowel problems (try to say that ten times fast)  I am determined to revisit my youth and my glory days. I’m not sure what I will see staring back at me in the mirror this time around, but self-reflection is supposed to be the sine qua non of my profession, so we shall see.  (to be continued)

Cliff Mazer, Ph.D. is a licensed Clinical Psychologist and humorist  in Atlanta who blogs on Facebook under his alter-ego, CaptCliff.  He remembers well his mother’s admonition, ” Oy! What’s with the potty mouth?”  Contact: 404-932-7193