The Humans and I

It cannot be avoided in any examination or discussion of my psyche that my mantra is "I fucking hate humans." I really didn't seek out this mantra and I'm not sure how to get rid of it. A very few persons in this world give me momentary respite from my overall bleak outlook. Mostly I do not understand humans, what they think, how they feel, how they behave. It is not in any way fanciful or exaggerative to say, as I did yesterday, 'I'm really disappointed in my species. They seem inevitably to go for the Obamas, Tyler Clippards, and 59th Street Bridge Songs of this world.' (The last in response to Séain's disclosure that that song was a favorite of his UU congregation during 'Flower Communion'. Out of Paul Simon's entire body of work, the sheer number of people who giddily adore this piece of insipid tripe makes my teeth itch.)

I find so many facets of popular culture and the common discourse downright appalling. The overwhelming need to believe in invisible intelligences selling supernatural insurance plans for post-mortem domiciles. The overwhelming need to believe the most wealthy and powerful persons on earth are not super-villains—that, for example, that corporate shill in the White House has one lousy shred of integrity or principle. The circular assurances that a thing must be right or true because so many people believe it is right or true.

In Section 319 Row A of Nationals Stadium yesterday afternoon, I (quietly and with a bit of nausea) came as close to suicide as I ever have in my life. Over nothing, as it were—but every suicide is over nothing and every suicide is over everything. It was top of the 8th inning, and Coach Davey Johnson had just called to the mound the sole representative of the Washington Nationals at the All-Star game this weekend: right-handed pitcher Tyler Clippard.

A few folks who've read my statuses at The Other Place over the last year-and-change will be familiar with my longstanding loathing of this young man. I watched him throw away game after game last season when brought in as a relief pitcher. Lord Fomo and I settled on the theory that then-coach Jim Riggleman knew he wouldn't get to stick his tongue up Clippard's ass on any night he didn't put Clip in for a disastrous inning... but it wasn't just Riggleman: among all the commentators and a vast, loud throng of fans, there seldom was heard a discouraging word. What rheumy-eyed, back-alley djin shored up Clippard's charisma points?

[Geek-aside: My backup theory was that Clippard cast a powerful spell on the world, like Jonathan in Ep. 4.17 Superstar...

Buffy: I think that Jonathan may be doing something so that he's manipulating the world, and we're all like his pawns.
Anya: Or prawns.
Buffy: Stop with the shrimp! I am trying to do something here!

... but just recently I'm feeling more like Buffy in Ep. 4.2 Living Conditions, which means I'm going to have to kill him myself.]

Anyway. Clippard's performance this season has been marginally better—in some games he delivers a single flawless inning—but he's still erratic: you never know what his performance will be like, and yesterday, he was throwing more balls than strikes and threatening to negate the single-run lead the Nats were enjoying. After he had allowed a single and issued a walk, putting the first runner in scoring position with one out, I was inspired to voice my opinion: YOU SUCK, CLIPPARD! Unimaginative but heartfelt. A nearby fan immediately says, kinda sotto voce or to his people rather than to me, "If he sucks so bad, why are we sending him to the All-Star Game?"

And my mind just spiraled. I was speechless. "Yes, very good question" is what should have distilled from the brain chaos, "Why in the blistering fuck ARE you sending this asshole to the All-Star Game? You really think THIS is the best this team has to offer?" And a ton of mental detritus, a towering shitpile heretofore secured with duct tape, came tumbling down on my head; the Obama and Christ similes sauntered by; my utter, desolate distance from the rest of the species flashed in momentary LDS-neon-spiderweb clarity; and I really wanted for a second to jump over the fucking railing.

I mean, imagine a world where virtually all the arts were dominated by lackluster semi-talented sellouts whom people slavishly adored... no, wait, that IS the world. Hmmm. Imagine a world where everyone is so profoundly stupid, they can't see that there is no "opposite of evil" in politics? Shit, that doesn't work either. Imagine a world where people boss and bully and ostracize and even attack and kill each other because invisible beings tell them to do so...

Nope, I'm having a hard time thinking of how the species as a whole could be one fucking bit worse.

Tynchre update

The staff at Dogs & Cats Veterinary Referral agree, Tynchre's mast cell disease has not responded to the course of Vinblastine, with which he's twice been dosed. They switched him to Lomustine as of today. The problem with the latter drug is that it is more likely than the former to suppress the animal's white blood cell count (leukopenia), so it's possible Tynchre could tolerate treatments only every 4 to 6 weeks—which may make them ineffective. So... so far, no good. I've been steeling myself for loss.