Dad was a WWII Hero & Mine, Too

P-51D_Tika_IV_361st_fgMy father was a WWII flying ace. He flew P-51 Mustangs, he taught cadets to fly them, as well. He wound up having to ditch in the North Sea three times. He lost friends, comrades, and “wings” (wingmates) in that war.  (He flew in the European theatre, flying out of Britain.)  I know he was in the bombing of Dresden as air cover, and I know it was one of his worst nightmares of the war.

He never spoke much about World War II.  But he did share some of his pranks and escapades…like flying a P-51 upside down through an open hanger and having everyone hit the deck. The tower couldn’t believe he did it.  But he did.  And got away with it, too.

Anyway, I miss him. A lot. I miss him so much that I can’t even coherently write about him, but he was MY hero, and always will be.

Psycho Stupidity

A friend of mine has been coerced into abandoning his honor, virtue, and principles. He’s being coerced by vindictiveness, a vindictiveness which was catalyzed by my refusal to continue working with someone who persistently acted out irresponsibly, with petulance, then with violence and viciousness when she didn’t get her way.

Assailed by family on all sides, he stood his ground pretty well…until the stupidity of psychiatry’s answer to the problem after several “suicide chump”* incidents pushed things to the brink. And psychiatry’s answer? To put a band-aide on a festering wound rather than expose the puss and necrosis. Pyschiatry made him buckle, and, finally, made him doubt himself so that he began living the lie everyone wanted him to buy.

I find psychiatrists and counselors who suggest that compromising self simply to mollify a situation without actually addressing the real problem to be abusive and corrupt. They create more problems by their insistence that everyone adjust to the sick. They prescribe modifying the healthy because they can’t modify the sick. In fact, they’re schooled to do just that. Reasoning? The deranged are incapable of successful treatment without their consent and cooperation which they will not give, therefore take the balanced individual and adjust their behavior to compensate, even if that action completely destroys their internal integrity. In short, do anything to avoid sending the deranged into an existential crisis; instead, coerce the healthy into complying with the demands of the lunatic.

It’s criminal, in my opinion.

The results?

The psychotic’s behavior is rewarded because “they get their way”, which was their intent all along, which further reinforces that behavior. Meanwhile, everyone else becomes the continuing victim of the psychotic’s selfish goals and needs.

Sad.

——–

* A “suicide chump” is someone who pretends to want to commit suicide and acts so just enough to scare others into believing they will, even though they have no real intention of committing that self-destructive act. Everyone then pays attention to them and works with them to succor their “needs”–demands and desires. In short, they manipulate to try to get attention and to get their way by using threats of self-destruction.

The answer to a suicide chump is to call their bluff, catch them in the act, and dump them and the evidence of their suicide attempt into the state hospital for the mentally ill.  Of course, the suicide chump never really means to harm themselves, though sometimes they slip up because they miscalculate.  What they want, though, isn’t death (in fact, not death, at all); they just want others to bend to their will.

———–

Suicide Chump, Frank Zappa

You say there ain’t no use in livin’
It’s all a waste of time
‘N you wanna throw your life away, well
People that’s just fine
Go ahead on ‘n get it over with then
Find you a bridge ‘n take a jump
Just make sure you do it right the first time
‘Cause nothin’s worse than a Suicide Chump

You say there ain’t no light a-shinin’
Through the bushes up ahead
‘N we’re all gonna be so sorry
When we find out you are dead
Go head on and get it over with then
Find you a bridge ‘n take a jump
Just make sure you do it right the first time
‘Cause nothin’s worse than a Suicide Chump

Now maybe you’re scared of jumpin’
‘N poison makes you sick
‘N you want a little attention
‘N you need it pretty quick…

Whelp, Yup, He Done Did Break It!

So Friday…hubby broke his pedal.  No, not the guitar pedal, not the car pedal, not the bicycle pedal.  His foot — he broke his foot. 

Now, after x rays, after doctors conferring, he’s literally “on ice and immobilized” until the swelling reduces enough that the orthopedist feels confident that it can be cast. 

I’ve got a feeling that this isn’t going to be any of those nice take-it-off/put-it-on casts, either.  I’m betting they do one of those fiberglass numbers — rigid and lots of fun in the shower.  Hubs is a big man, and the joint got shattered into itty  bitty pieces. 

Needless to say, I’m not getting much work done.  I’m not getting much of anything done.  He needs lots of TLC and tending.

“Honey, can you get me a soda?   …Can you get me a sandwich?  Can you get my painkillers?  Can you….”

So now I’m gonna be even further behind on my various need-tos/have-tos.  Hubs comes first.  Always.  Don’t you wish every “other half” felt that way?  Well, don’t marry until you and your choice are both over thirty, and then work at it.  Remember, all that matters is the love, and also, when it comes to differences of perspective, is your point and your stance in the conflict worth more than your relationship?  Probably not, so don’t fuss the small stuff, okay?

Good.

Several things, though:  Don’t marry someone who prefers alcohol, drugs, or sports, never marry anyone who “gets physical,” and definitely do NOT marry anyone just because the sex is good.  Really.

A Sony Friday; a Sony Saturday, too.  *Sigh*

Husband gets wild hair.  Let’s put all the CDs inside a stereo unit.  In fact, let’s get two or three of these things and put the stuff we mostly listen to on them.

Ah, honey?  Let’s try one.  First.  If it works, we’ll think about running them in series.  Okay?

Awwwww.   Yeah.  Okay.  You’re probably right.

I roll eyes.  He gets so enthusiastic, then, when you suggest just a tad bit of self-restraint, it’s like you dashed cold water on him.  But he dries off fast.  Good thing.

But.  This is going to be a P-R-O-J-E-C-T.  With a super capital P.

Hubs BUYS Sony CDP-CX445.  It arrives, 2nd day air UPS.  I groan when I see, then HEFT, the box.

Okaaaaaay, I think, brace yourself, knowing that means that I’m going to spend all night, all day, all night, all day again, and probably another all day, helping.  There goes the weekend!

He’s so excited when he hears it actually got here.  On time.  In Podunk, Idaho, no less.  He races home.  He unpacks it.  He pulls 400 CD’s, stashing the jewel cases in a box. He dumps the Styrofoam packing into the garbage.  He hasn’t yet broken the box down, though, and I have to keep walking around it to help him when he smartly commands, “Hand me that wire.  Hand me that flashlight.  Hold this.”

P-R-O-J-E-C-T.

He’s in bliss.

So I finally crash.  He stays up till 4AM loading the CD’s into it.  Morning comes.  He’s out of bed in a flash, four hours earlier than usual. 

P-R-O-J-E-C-T.

“Will you type the artists, album names, and slot numbers for me into an Excel spreadsheet?”

Right.  “Okay,” I say, hoping it will only take maybe an hour to do.  I mean 400 slots is a piece of cake to type.  Should only take a little bit of time, right?  Because how bad can a piece of electronics slow something down. 

HINT: It takes almost a full minute for the machine to read the Artist and Album label because it first has to laboriously load the CD, taste it, think about it, then decide if it wants to show you the answer.  (I start twitching after the first five.  I’ll be a basket case after fifty, never mind you might as well call the men in white coats after the full four-hundred.)

We start doing a comedy show to ease the pain as he presses next and I wait patiently like dutiful wife, fingers hovering over keys.

…We get through 200 of them…in two hours.  I’m about buggy.  And…and…and…we’re halfway through.  He does a rah-rah arm pump.  I just want to GET DONE.  “And 201?” I ask.

“It’s not reading it,” says he, which means he has to hit play so we can listen to it to identify artist/album.  And….

THE MACHINE IS SKIPPING.

We check again.  Nope, disc is fine.  Change the CD to somewhere else.  Nope, disc is fine.  Load something else into slot 201.  Skips.  Ummmm.  Go backwards and forwards from 200.  Skip.  Stops skipping when it is at 189.  Everything back of 189 is fine.  Everything forward of 189 skips.

Now what?

Call electronic stores.

Call everybody.

And….

I-Pod. 

No. Not. Never.

And….

…And he’s still researching “another solution.”

So, what are we going to be doing?  Tearing this entire house apart again, laboriously loading CD’s back into their jewel cases, and….

And…I don’t know.

I think I’ll put on some Dokken on the five CD changer and try to ease my migraine.

…I HATE Sony.  Have since they started that proprietary nonsense.  Then they started that invasive crap.  Sony = contemptible.  And their electronics SUX a bad egg.