Time's Up

For the record, if I ever end up like Terri Schiavo, for the love of god, PULL THE PLUG.

Thank you.

In Heinlein We Trust

A friend with some medical troubles said her doctor rather obliquely suggested she needed to find Jesus/Buddha/Mohammed/L. Ron Hubbard/Ganesh and get happy. For those of us who regard organized religion as a pathology, that's not much of an option. Fresh out of deities, I couldn't offer much help. On the other hand, I did survive a hellish year, which is worth something. So, in a presumptuous bit of grandstanding, I offered my strategies for not killing myself:

-- Develop a simplistic and vaguely positive mantra, like, "It's gonna be okay," or, "You're gonna be all right."
-- Walk or hike a lot. Trail therapy works.
-- Avoid TV.
-- Remember that there are people who love you.
-- Exercise. Sweating is usually more therapeutic than crying.
-- Read, even those books that hit a little too close to home. "Anna Karenina," for instance.
-- Eat well. You know what your body likes.
-- Keep in mind this advice from Robert A. Heinlein: "To enjoy the flavor of life, take big bites. Moderation is for monks."

Hangover in W-minor

So here we are, blinking in the grim light of a morning in which we find ourselves married to George W. Bush for another four years. And sorry, this is the new and improved America, where there is no divorce, silly kids, because God said so. Or Dubya. Whoever. It seems that slightly more than half our blessed citizens can't tell the difference.

It's enough to make anyone long for a twelve-pack and .50-caliber sniper rifle.

But we'll hang on, won't we? Even if our friends are overwhelming Canada's immigration Web site or brushing up on their Spanish, we'll keep it together, surviving and fighting the venality and dullness of a country we barely recognize.