Rooster Ghost. No, Gentle Readers, I haven't vanished. Just been getting ready for the big show at Art-O-Matic. Change of time: 8 PM, Nov. 29, Cabaret stage. As of this writing, we're billed as a comedy improv group. This is a problem.

Attempting to mix a crappy 4-track casette to digital has proved to be a challenge. But with luck, we'll be able to give away a 3-song CD at the performance.

Tell your friends, tell your enemas...

Well, there is Al Gore. There's an InstaPundit and a Daily Pundit. There's a Shi'a Pundit, a MuslimPundit, and even a VodkaPundit.

But what I want to see? A ChiaPundit.

Maybe mediation would help.

Nimüe, our cat, pees on the couch regularly. Today K pointed out that she always pees in the same spot: the place where D, our resident cat-chaser, likes to sit.

I guess the verdict is in...

Mention Rooster Spice and get 25% off! Did a little research into anti-consumerism yesterday. It turns out there's a National Buy Nothing Day, and that's what we're supposed to celebrate on our performance (Nov. 29, Art-O-Matic, Cabaret Stage, 10 PM, be there or else), since anti-consumerism is the Theme of the Evening.

Now, the problem with encouraging people to buy nothing is that most bands promote themselves by selling CDs. But if people can't buy them on that day...?

An elegant solution: we'll be cutting a special 3-song EP and will give it away for FREE at the concert! So come on down and get it!

Just don't tell anyone that this 3-song EP will in fact be our first and ONLY compact disc...

I'm so tired.

"It's time I had some time alone..." -- R.E.M.

Today's KidsPost (yes, I get my news from a paper designed for 13-year-olds) asks the following question at its masthead:

What does an English person mean when she says, "Put the bag in the boot"?

The answer they gave was, of course, "Put the suitcase in the trunk." Personally, though, I thought a more accurate translation was, "Put the ugly old woman in the trunk."

Maybe they'll save that for the Mafia KidsPost.

Sincerely, your favorite GBA Yank...

Whiners never quit. Well, I guess I have to admit that I'm probably not going to finish NaNoWriMo on time; the last week just took too much out of me. Sigh.

I'm still writing and will keep updating the meter, at least as long as Jeff keeps it going.

Aside: I've always wanted to fill a post with so many hyperlinks that the entry is rendered completely unreadable. I think this one comes pretty close.

I've got it! I've got it! Anti-Consumerism.... and Uncle Commercialism!

I feel improvocated. My friend Stephanie, who was the heart and soul of RATS, the improv group of which I was a founding member (and which disbanded about a year ago), has started a new one: Improvocation. They had their first performance last night at Art-O-Matic, a D.C. arts festival.

I'm not going to write about how well they did, both because A) I didn't see it; and B) it's not part of my Blog Mandate. Rather, I'm going to tell you how I feel that Stephanie started a new improv group and didn't ask me to join.

Aw, screw that. I'm too happy. You see, the Gonnas are performing at Art-O-Matic, too!

Rex, our lead singer and another former RATS'er, went to see the show, and managed to con the Art-O-Matic folks into giving us a gig. We'll be performing Nov. 29, the day after Turkey Day, on the Cabaret stage at 10 P.M. So, if you're in the area, come on by.

The theme for the evening is anti-consumerism. So I guess I'll have to stifle my neo-conservative leanings. (Well, no, I'm not a neo-conservative, except in comparison to the socialists who run Art-O-Matic.) We also don't have any songs about anti-consumerism. But hey, who's counting?

[Edit: Stephanie did not, in fact, start the Improvocation group--my mistake.]

Slowly. This entry, the one that said "get over it," is probably a little too flip. I do appreciate the hordes--well, okay, the many--well, okay, the three, one of whom was my mother--people who have written in concern and sympathy. It's helped. Not as much as it should, but it has.

Anyway, things are a little better. Not solved, but better. I wish I could have made it clearer--I'm not worried about myself, per se. I'm worried about what I might do to my children. That's what put my undershorts in a twist.

Every day that E smiles, and every day that D sings a Beatles song (gosh, that kid has a great ear!), I feel better about being a father. And I feel more like I'm a good father.

I guess that's progress...

To quote the folks from IKEA: Maybe you feel sorry for this blog? That is because you are crazy! Blogs do not have feelings. And The Raving Atheist is much better!

Because it is stupid. I'm approximately 5,500 words behind. This of course doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, except that I think I was writing a damn good story.

What if it's NaNoWriMo that is killing me? How odd would that be? Write a story on one hand--remain sane on the other. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around--telling stories keeps you sane?

Yes, I am seeing a psychiatrist. On a regular basis. And I have an emergency appointment tomorrow, in fact.

Those of you who are worried about me:

Get over it.

(It is appreciated, though.)

This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This two shell pas. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass.

I have to admit, it's getting better
It's getting better all the time
(Can't get no worse)

I know everyone has bad days.

I know I didn't actually hurt anyone.

I know taking care of a toddler and an infant is a difficult job.

I know all these things, and yet I'm still helpless in the face of all my knowledge.

I lost it again today--not violently, but I had to abdicate all the same. K has to stay up late tonight, in fact, making up work hours, because I made her take care of D and E.

And so I could go to bed on time, I skipped out on band rehearsal. And of course I haven't written a word of the novel. I'd simply quit, but then I'd hate myself even more.

How can I do this? How can I survive? I'm not strong enough.

What will I do if things REALLY get tough, as opposed to the ersatz tough that I find myself enveloped in?

Fuck myself. Fuck the world. Fuck everybody except my family, 'cause they're the only people I really love...

I can't leave that entry festering like a sore. So, things were a little better today. Wa hoo.

There's a dent in the drywall from the chair, too.

My first full-length play was about, in part, a man who was terrified he was an abuser. Today I found out I was writing about myself.

I was tired. I can keep telling myself that; I was tired, so was D, and E is sick and had been screaming all morning. I can keep telling myself that over and over but it will make no difference.

The first thing I did was whack myself upside the head, repeatedly, with a children's book. Just to hurt myself so I wouldn't hurt anyone else.

Then about an hour later, I put E down (she was screaming), curled into a ball, and screamed myself.

When I fixed D lunch (we had to hurry, because K had just called; she's sick, too, and asked to be picked up from work), I gave him milk, which he pushed away. A tiny bit of it spilled. A tiny bit! Nonetheless I screamed at him. "HEY!" A long, drawn out HEY right at his face. I breathed. Caught hold of myself. Apologized and kissed his forehead and told him I loved him.

This is just a minute later, now. E is screaming again. I asked D to please eat his lunch. He refused. And something snapped inside me.

I grabbed the chair next to his and pulled it out from under the table. The table swiveled a bit. It may have actually hit him in the chest or it may have simply stopped as it reached him. . . I'm not sure how much force it had. I didn't notice, I was too busy screaming "SON OF A BITCH! DUMB SHIT!" I don't know who I was addressing this to. Not D. Maybe myself. I threw the chair into the corner, where it hit the closet door and knocked it off its hinges.

I got a hold of myself. D was crying and looking at me with abject terror. Like I was a monster. I was a monster. I am a monster.

My hands were shaking. I pulled the table away from him. There was a little red mark under his shirt, but it didn't look like a bruise. He was okay. E was quiet, fascinated.

I don't think I will ever forget D's face. And he will probably never forget mine. This is one of the moments that defines a child's worldview, like when my own father smashed a dinner plate directly in front of me simply because he couldn't cook the french fries correctly. That image has come back to me again and again and I'm sure today will come back to D, unless, of course, I do something even worse.

I felt like turning myself in to the police or getting myself committed. I'm sick. I'm wrong. I will hurt someone unless someone stops me. I feel like I need to leave them all because I don't want to hurt them, ever; I love them too much.

What am I?

Those of you who have heard my self-loathing before: now do you believe me? Do you understand that I wasn't full of shit when I called myself evil, twisted, and (more prosaically) a putz? I can't stand what I've done. I can barely live with it. How will I survive this? I have to. I have to work it out. But how will I ever regain their trust?

I wish this were a scene out of my stupid novel.

Zzzz. Good night.

And please send all your good karma Erzsebel-way. How about that--I think I spelled it correctly.

THE LITTLE RED DOT MOCKS ME!