Your mission Mr. Phelps, should you chose to accept it....

Meeting recently at a popular local coffee house, Regular Beans/Regular BM's, my monthly bookclub de-constructed Dr. Seuss' "The Cat In the Hat", our book-of-the-month selection. The discussion became heated as several Revisionists attempted to present this post-modern children's classic as an examination of Neo-Freudian psychoanalytic theory. I interjected in my best Strother Martin impression that I considered the Cat to be 'one mean som-a-bitch'. Sitting there I was reminded of what Melville is rumoured to have slurred when asked about "Moby Dick". 'Hell of a fish tale!', he had hiccupped as he staggered back to his cubicle at the Patent Office.

Having not read Freud since the summer between grades 4 and 5 , when "Interpretation of Dreams" was on the mandatory summer reading list, I was loathe to join the debate. Come to think of it I was in my Latent Stage at that time and may have been out skateboarding or playing ball that summer of 1967. (That was not me in the back row of the balcony of the cinema having a wank at the image of Raquel Welch in a fur bikini in the film, One Million Years BC) If I had read "Dreams" I don't remember. It occurs to me now the genius of Freud lay in his recognition of the "unconscious".

Viennese woman began to come to his home with various unexplained physical ailments. Paralysis being the most common. Under hypnosis these women told of the incestuous abuse they had experienced from their fathers, brothers, uncles. Freud's initial reaction was disgust and disbelief. He could not wrap his Victorian morality around what his patients were telling him. Even today, incest remains one of those dirty little family secrets. The damage it has caused untold millions of adults who live with the unresolved conflicts sexual abuse causes is monumental. This trauma colours and taints relationships. No child who has experienced being victimized by a relative lives as an healthy adult without proper mental health care.

The idea of the "unconscious" is Freud's greatest contribution. It is perhaps one of the greatest concepts to emerge from the 19th century. A professor of mine had a favourite exercise for lecture on this topic. He would place his hand in his trouser's pocket and rattle what was there. He would ask, "What's in my hand?" We students would call out answers. He would shake his head and withdraw his keys. He would then ask, "Where are my keys now?" Again, we would say various innane things and he would smile and say "They are in my un-pocket". Like cyberspace, the unconscious exists but we can't see it or touch it. It dictates what we do, what we think. What we aren't conscious of about ourselves; our actions and reactions, is what causes us so much distress.

My bookclub's selection for next month is Maurice Sendak's, "Where The Wild Things Are". I've enough anger of my own these days I really don't need to read about someone elses. I may skip the next get together.

Freedom is the privilege to starve beneath the Brooklyn Bridge

Aside from Law enforcement the lowest form of employment is working as a temp. Like a cop no one wants a temp around until they need you. And when you show up at your assignment you're treated as if you've just landed at Kalaupapa. Full-timers believe you're taking bread from them, supervisors recoil at the thought of training yet another person who may or may not show up for the next shift, management struggles with mountains of paperwork. Temps even disdain one another; the competition is fierce at the job site as workers vie for attention and recognition. The only thing worse than working is looking for work. Temp agencies know this and go to great lengths to get workers in their data banks.
Temp agents are skillful liars. They promise potential employees incentives such as health insurance, choice of assignments, and performance bonuses. The health insurance they offer is expensive and covers almost nothing. Your choice of assignments generally implies, "Take this position or we won't be calling again, evah". Performance bonuses get eaten up in taxes. If you have been collecting state employment benefits for being out of work you can lose those benefits if you are released from an assignment. The temp agency simply tells the state employment office you were sacked. Maybe being a cop is a step above being a temp. At least as a cop one can legitimately chase someone down, beat them, and steal their drugs and cash.
Job sites vary. Depending on your skills and education you have a choice of light production, office work, or labourer. All for a dollar above the minimum wage. With three university degrees I was assigned to light production, second shift. The temp agency assured me that this was a "temp to hire position". When I inquired about permanent full-time employment I was told the company has no plans to hire new workers. Not that I want to work for this faceless multi-national, natural resource wasting corporation. The only pride I take in my work is the knowledge I have that everything in life is temporary.
Things could be worse for me on the employment front. I could be harvesting produce in unsanitary working conditions spreading e coli and salmonella. I could be teaching in the public school system suburban white middle class children whose sole ambitions in life are to be inner-city African American hip-hop "artists". Or, perhaps I could take the civil service exam for law enforcement officer. "Here's your car, your pepper spray, and your firearm, Officer Bill. Now go out there and make the criminal justice system work for you."

The Thirteenth Floor

Formally a frequent traveler I always stayed at the same low-rent hotel on Desolation Row. It is about a dozen steps from the airport. I always booked the same room. The 13th floor has a 24-hour party going on. Mostly musician types attend playing out their latest dramas in front of one another; seeking acceptance for their insecurities, coming and going at the speed of light. The register at the front desk is full of pseudonyms and esoteric signatures. No one wants anyone on the outside to know they attend the party. The only thing genuine about the guests is their inability to reflect one another's moods.
A supporting cast in this theatre of the absurd features a range of performers whose credits read like a Who's Who of the DSM IV-TR. The best of the lot have achieved their accolades not for their supporting roles but as antagonists and anti-heroes. Sincerity is measured out with an eyedropper. Roles are exchanged, credits confused, everyone talks at once. There is a great deal of noise but not a sound is heard. A Pantomime occurs within scripted text. A circle in Dante's taxonomy would closely resemble the party on the 13th floor.
Nothing of consequence ever happens. Stream of consciousness flows much like the Sirocco winds from across the Sahara. Each cast member has their role to play and if someone's line is stepped on the group collectively descends on the usurper and they are denounced. To be expelled from the party is a great shame for a performer. The party goes on, often in whispers. Love, Hate, Death, Avarice, Gluttony go unchecked. The play is over but the performances never cease. The Playbill promises around the clock action.
I won't be traveling to Desolation Row any time soon. I have a few cans of soup, cigarettes, a lighter, a rubber sheet, and a pail to vomit in to. With the dawn comes a new day bright with the promise of a thousand tomorrows; each unique but with a memory of what might have been.