Dear Diatribe;

O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper;

I would not be mad!

notice I didn’t cite that quote?

That’s Shakespeare; and don’t consider this a citation of

the source; I just give him mega-dittos. I quote him all the

time; need I be carrying the damned yoke of citation?

I learned this from a cousin. It’s not that he directly

expressed the design to me; he just practiced it. In an e-mail

he spouted his opinions about a possible US Military action. At

least saber rattling which he said was justified. His words

didn’t give any feeling of originality. I did a quick search on

exact phrases.

Not his thoughts at all. They came, nearly word-for-word

from America’s best-known right wing, AM Radio Carnival Barker.

I found that his followers never grant citation when quoting

him. There is a sense that “He says exactly what I would say”.

So there really is no need.

It’s like this as I see it. If I were to sit out on a

sweltering August day with my good friend Al, he might say “Damn

it’s hot!” Am I then relegated to MLA or APA style if I too

mention the heat? Do I need footnotes?

Citing him makes it sound like I don’t agree, or might not

agree. I’m on the same page with King Lear in the above line,

and this actual speaker is fictional.

By this model, when you get the chance to speak to the

poobah you should verbally offer “Mega-Dittos” as a form of

oblation. Dittos refer to quotation marks; Mega-Dittos provide

enough punctuation to cover their whole rap sheet of petty

grammatical sins.

What if my buddy Al were to speak of his suspicions that

the reason Russia didn’t support the American preemptive war was

that AK-47 rifles were both made in Russia and used by the

upcoming enemy? He wouldn’t say that, but what if he did? How is

that different from “Damn, It’s hot”? I could say the machine

gun thing the same way. Somos simpatico

I would just like to offer up my Mega-Dittos to the Bard of

Avon. He says the exact same things that I would. The difference

is …

… his wording is different, his words aren’t in the same order

and they sound more Elizabethan than mine do. Not that my words

aren’t at all, I have been known to speak in same poetic

sixteenth century style. That however is usually when I am

quoting Shakespeare. Our thoughts are still the same. They are

probably the same because his stuff has become a standard in its

more than three hundred years on the page, stage, and screen and

even in Diatribes written by crazy crackers in Chicago.

That bloke is a language-wide standard for thought and

comparison. Billy, you’ve got dittos to spare.

No citations for you! You have too many already! Share the

wealth Willy!

-----------

When writing in a journal, by definition, one should

discuss the goings on of the day. I do love to rant here and

there.

And there, and there

It’s been a week and I am still trying to face up to the

fact that I’ve been shit-canned. That’s not actually true, not

in the most technical sense. I was a contractor. I have been for

a few years now. The reason that companies hire contractors is

so they can shit-can them at any time. I guess that’s the beauty

of it. It’s a relationship with an open door to dump someone and

not feel bad about it.

 Things are different for Geeta. If my wife were in a

position where she was a contractor, she would evoke such love

and adoration from anyone, doing any job, it would be impossible

to show her the door. Someone reading this might think that I am

singing her praises. I guess in a way I am, but if you could

hear me saying it out loud, it would be more evident that I see

something disingenuous in those who consistently win over

others.

Now I will be gig hunting like a whirling dervish. With all

of the technical, cyberspace bullshit that I have access to

nowadays, the daily employment quest is at a maximum of about

two hours. So you would expect that I would be able to really

get our apartment in shipshape during the remaining eight or so

hours I have, while Geeta is gone. That would not be taking into

account all of the neurotic silliness that a man is socially

indoctrinated to engage in.

You must work, and if you don’t

<Here, my prospective reader is invited to go into something

about your penis being short or non-existence. Fill in yourself>

This daily assembly of a cognitive bricolage can sap as

much inertia as Geeta’s full-time job and three graduate

classes.
 You would think there’d be some respect for all of

shvitzing I am required to do. Even with her progressive

multicultural orientation, estrogen seems to block any sympathy

from her. To her, I guess. I’m just being lazy.

“Do you know that you really have to find work soon, or we will

fall behind on bills?”

Really? … No shit?

I was completely unaware.

I just fret so much over the fucking ugliness of our sofa

all day that I miss the basic circumstance of existence. I hate

that sofa!!!

I am shamelessly mocking her with the sofa line. She has

told me that she ‘hates’ that sofa. I can understand that. I

only need to do is relate the way that she feels about our sofa

to the way that I feel about racism, disease, and various forms

of injustice, that kind of thing.

We are going to dinner her boss’s house. I get to meet the

distinguished Dr. Gerhardstein. ”I’ve told him all about you,

he’s really interested in meeting you, I told them about your

open-source drug thing”.

 Lately I’ve been in the Franz Kafka self-esteem club

(thanks Woody), I guess I’ll gain confidence talking to some

overeducated, overachieving, self-actualized sort.

It will give me a break somewhere between my dread of night

and dread of not night.

Tribal Title: MEGA-KAFKA-DITTOS!!!!

From a notebook he kept nonetheless.

This job that she has is the kind of thing that you get

when you have a daddy at Harvard. Another guy from Harvard, this

Gerhardstein, got hired by the University of Chicago to start an

AIDS research center. I’m surprised they don’t have one already.

This guy is an M.D. and has a Ph.D. in biochemistry.

I’m hoping to get out if this thing early. Von Freeman is a

great old tenor man, kind of sour, in a bluesy sort of way,

while playing bop. He is playing that night. Geeta saw it on the

calendar on my phone and bemoaned my interest. She wouldn’t go.

She has before, but we have always left early. I don’t leave

early. Nor do I get anywhere late for that matter. Perhaps I am

wound a bit tighter than I should be. But I have a real mellow

vibe when I am on time.

For me there is a lot of tension in the car or train to

some horribly crowded neighborhood worried that I won’t get a

table. Why would I do that? If I were early, they have drinks

there; they have a decent pianist long before the act comes on.

That is relaxing. There; … I’m good. In this town, being prompt

will cost you a few dollars, but “that’s how they get ya”.

My ex… Let’s call her my former love flame chicky, she

didn’t go that way. She wasn’t my wife, I’ve had but one of

those.

When I would push to be on time, she would fondly reminisce

about times when she was late. How she showed just at the right

time to meet the band or something. Hang out with them, had a

great time. Oh … and fucked them. So being late can be magical.

From the reading of these last few lines; you’d probably

call me a punctual and surly bastard.

I’m being nice about this boss meeting.

Gerhardstein, by the way, is really all one word.

I guess I am going to meet this kraut of hers. The Germans

are nice people one on one. Together they tend to rally.