Friday, November 27, 2009


Ths was too long for one post. I'll post the second half in a day or two.

I'm not trying to be funny in this one. It is actually what happened today, this craziest of all days. Black Friday, aka, kill your fellowman with the mace and kill your fellowwoman with the bow and kill those shorter than you with a great trampling--for 5 bucks off a TV.

Let me just preface it by saying it is 1 am, so any typos or anything are just going to have to be in there. I'm not fixing them.

There were no fights this time around. Well, I accidentally knocked a girl out cold, but that was just weird. And there were no Black Friday Gramma attacks.

Black Friday Grammas (yes it should be capitalized, as it's a title) are the worst, and the smaller the fiercer. They're like cranky little Cambodian commandos. I'm a 270 pound ogre, and I don't want anything to do with any of them. If they feel their grandkids need that $9 MP3 player bad enough that they're willing to shank the three people in line ahead of them for it, then more power to them. They can have it. Or all of them, as the case may usually be.

So here's the breakdown, chronologically:

As mentioned in the last post, I am manic again. This is a bad one, as it's pushing through both the anti-psychotic and the lithium with a vengeance. I can't afford the sedative, so I've been sleeping about 3 hours a night for the last few weeks. On top of that, I worked over 40 hours--not counting drive time--just in Mon, Tues, Wed. of this week. Then I was up most of Thursday, either playing with Little Joe (who was so happy I was home after basically not seeing me all week, he hung off me like a necklace all day), or making out with the hot wife (who was so happy I was home after basically not seeing me all week, she hung off me like a necklace all day). Dropped the bumpkin off at Grammy's house, fell asleep cuddling the hot wife, and got up at 2:30 am.

Lydia (we'll use her blogger surname for the sake of the blog) had to be at work at around 3:30, so I dropped her off and headed to Wal-Mart. Yes, I headed to Wal-Mart. I realize that's like the part in the Vincent Price movie where you're like, "DON'T OPEN THAT DOOR!!!", but I had to.

Our local Wal-Mart is a Super Wal-Mart. Each aisle has its own little LCD TV at the end, playing Wal-Mart commercials. I am not joking. Everything except for a few sections of the store. There are large LCD's in the meat department. Why, I don't know.

Anyway, they stayed open 24 hours. People were in line next to what they wanted. At midnight, they grabbed it and got in line. The lines took FOREVER because they were actually letting people check out with their Black Friday stuff. If you had the ad, they were price-adjusting. So you have a line with people rifling through an ad the size of those Sears catalogs we used as booster seats when we were kids, pointing to one item every five minutes, then moving on to the next of the 4 bazillion things that needed pointed to in the ad.

I waited for an hour to get Excedrin, a Milky Way, Halls cough drops (has to be Halls. Ricola is just nasty candy and Luden's is just castrated Halls. Halls turns into vaporized Drano for your nostrils when you suck on them), and a bottle of Aquafina.

This was all for the baby brother, Caleb, who had come up from Nashville since we all had time off. He was in line at Target. Since 12:30 am. Target had the stuff we were both looking for, so we were going there first. Neither of us was messing with Wal-Mart. That place is a zoo on Black Friday.

Yeah, I know, I was already in line there...look, just go with it, okay?

So I get to the front of the line, after an hour. An hour. And the only girl ahead of me puts her 3-pack of boy's size 6 Spongebob Squarepants briefs on the counter. Don't ask. I don't know why the girl stood in line for an hour for boys skivvies. She looked like they might fit her, but, I mean, would you question someone that stood line that long for Spongebob drawers? No.

So she puts them on the counter. And then passes out. Like, running backwards, trying to stay up but vertigo is pulling her down drops.

I tried to catch her. I've gotten slow in my old age, and couldn't get my arms under her in time. I had, however, gotten to her with a very first quick step. So as she tucked against me, and I didn't have my arms under her, my momentum proceeded to hip-check her into the pop cooler, where she smashed her head and promptly knocked herself out.

Oops. I still think it was better to glance off the pop cooler than smack full force on the ground.

She kind of thrashed a few seconds later, but her eyes were gone. I put my coat up under her head and tried to hold her down, gingerly, so that I wouldn't do anything that could be misconstrued as worthy of litigation.

Employees showed up, and even though I told them she needed to lie still and that her eyes were glazed, they lifted her to her feet and dragged her to the nearest bench. Whatever.

As the line re-opened, I looked at the couple behind me.

"We're all terrible people," I said. "Admit it. The first thought you had when she went down was,
'Oh, God, please don't let them shut the line over this'."

So over to Target now. I meet up with Caleb by hopping the barricade. We were surrounded by teenage kids. It's usually housewives and families, with the occasional gang of thuggish Black Friday Grammas (they tend to congregate before hand--concentrated fire). So me and Caleb are cracking jokes, as we usually do, and everyone is laughing, because we're funny, and I notice this little blonde girl behind us that is just staring. She smiled every time I looked at her, and I knew I knew her. Her boyfriend noticed it, and obviously wasn't too pleased.

She cuts me off and goes, "You go into (pizza joint in the country we frequent), all the time. You're Joe?"

And I recognized her. The pizza joint in question is one that we frequent. It's in the little country town we used to live in, and it's one of those small-town places on a beautiful stretch of road that you go to forget about stuff. Just has that vibe.

The thing with heris that she's adorable. Spare me the look. I want a daughter, and this girl is tiny. She's also very cheerful and pleasant. Like I want my daughter to be. Of course, Little Joe is quite enamored with her...

She knows she's adorable, though, and that little hint of arrogance is a little offsetting. And she had always been REALLY nice when we went in. Except when Lydia was there. Then she was only (lowercase) really nice.

Back to that later. The Target employees come out at 4:30, half-hour to open, and ask if anyone needs directions. And I asked them where the Play-Doh was. And everyone laughed, but I was there to get two things: a Polaroid digital camcorder for 30 bucks, and Play-Doh. 24 color superpack--with molds!--for 5 bucks? Heck yeah. The trail of broken souls--even Black Friday Grammas--would be long and piled to the sky on my way to the Play-Doh!

I then proceeded to ask if they were giving out tickets, and he said no. And I asked if it was not even for the Play-Doh. And he cocked his head and just blinked, and said there was plenty of Play-Doh.

"Okay. So I don't get a ticket. What the heck happens if I get back there and there's no Play-Doh? I swear to GAWD I will find you."

He shook it off like a joke and walked away.

Doors open, sprint for the back. I get my camcorder (which I'm going to return), Caleb got the GPS for Jackie (his beautiful wife), and then I stumbled up to the ring of employees by the toys, stood there, teetering from sleep, and just grunted, "Play-Doh?"

Caleb lost it behind me, but the women at the toy section all looked terrified. But they divulged the info I needed. As I'm looking at the various kinds, little blonde farmgirl from the pizza joint waltzes up, darts between me'n Caleb, and grabs a Play-Doh pack without even looking at what kind it was, then flashes a smile and runs away.

My brother agrees that she is curiously crossing our path quite a bit--as we walk out of the aisle and she happens to be there, uh-genn, smiling. We saw her a couple more times on the way to the register. I've told Lydia. I only hope my wife kills the poor child quickly.

Caleb's the first in line. He gets rung out. I'm the second in line. The camcorder rings out fine. Then the register freezes on the Play-Doh and we have to wait a few minutes for the computer to be reset.

Monday, November 23, 2009


I am seriously rapid-cycling right now, so all of the coherence I had hoped to post with is not jiving. I can't find the notebook I write informative posts in when I'm actually cognizant, so I'll go on a minor rant.

I was watching Mel Gibson's The Patriot while doing laundry, and, like everyone else that studies the warfare of the time, I just remembered how stupid their battles were. Thank goodness for guerrilla tactics. Not many Americans can afford tea in this economy.

Anyway, I think the whole thing was laziness:

Redcoat chases Colonial. They both stop, stooped with palms on knees, trying to catch their breath.

Redcoat: "You can just go, man. I'm tired of running in this uniform."

Colonial: "I'm tired of running, too."

Both stand, panting.

Redcoat: "There has to be an easier way. You wanna just stand still and shoot at each other?"

And so musket warfare was born.

Yes, I know it was fought like that for years before the Revolutionary War. Stop harshing my history buzz.

The main thing I don't understand is how they determined where the fight would take place. It wasn't always done with one army marching to the other's camp. They pre-arranged some. Did they call each other?

Cell phone rings.

Unnamed Colonial Officer: "Hello?"

Cornwallace: "Hey, it's Cornwallace."

UCO: "Oh. Hey." *voice is obviously miffed he answered the phone*

Cw: "So, uh, you doing anything Sunday?"

UCO: "Oh, gee, uh...I don't know. I'll have to check with my wife. I don't think so, but she may have made plans already--"

Cw: "Whatever, dude. You're lying cause you don't want to do anything. If you had plans, you'd know. Look, there's an empty field that would be perfect for a battle."

UCO: "I don't know, man. Last time we did that a whole bunch of people shot each other.

Cw: "Seriously? You're going to bail on me? We agreed it would happen. My men are going to look awful stupid standing out there in bright red coats and white pants with no one on the other end."

UCO: "Dude, you want us to line up across a field and shoot at each other. And die. We're both going to look silly if we do that."

*long pause*

Cw: "But you'll be there, right?"


Friday, November 20, 2009


All of the above will be explained. Whether you want them to be or not.

First off, the links. I added some. For the il-link-erate (ow! pain from my brain to my loser fingers for typing that), you can click on them and black unicorns will bring the websites to your computer. Which is awesome.

Unicorns = lame. Black unicorns = awesome.

Manboobs. I posted a link and inquiry for this blog on the Writer's Digest forum. Another member who suffers from clinical depression, Fleurdelis, sent me an experience (which I will eventually get pared down to fit in a post and put up here). Below is an exchange we had. GrinningBear is my screen name:

My brain is broke, too. I'd love to contribute. I'll just use the email addy at the site.

GrinningBear: I got it, but life has been hectic. I just posted today about there is no time to post and left a comment about Ovaltine. Or something like that.

I'll get you in there, though.

Fleurdelis: Take your sweet ass time. I just spent 26 of the last 48 hours at Houston Methodist Hospital.

If my brother didn't have man-boobs, we never would have found out about my mother's two inch aneurysm.

That sounds like a bad writing prompt.

GrinningBear:Ah, life.

You win. Seriously, dude. A "normal" person wouldn't have come up with something like that. And the best part is you didn't explain. That is going up in the next post, I swear.

I actually (kind of) posted today. Something about going off gets compared to women PMS'ing. Only I used harsher language.

WTF? Manboobs? GAAH, LOL!!!

I called my boss in to read that and he goes, "Wait, you're congregating other people like you? I don't think that's a good idea."

I cut/pasted that exchange on another forum, and got responses about how people with mental illness are still people. Which then prompted the following response from one Miss Emily White:

"Yup. I couldn't agree more. You guys are like midgets--just people, but people that make everyone else laugh.

Okay, I realize that sounds horrible, but G-bear will get the joke."

This may be the greatest single line about bipolar ever. I don't care how sensitive you are--I don't care if you're Mother-Freaking-Theresa--that crap's funny. Or Midget-Freaking-Theresa. Hehe.

Upcoming, I will get a little more serious. My dad's suicide, my own initial psychiatric appointment that led to the march to the ER surrounded by twitchy cops (I'm not exactly a small or unimposing guy), messing with the schizophrenic woman and giving the kid with some kind of palsy too many M&M's (Orangey was flyin--you'll see what that means) while in the psych ward, generally giving the staff a sarcastic hard time, etc.

But for now, manboobs and midgets.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009


I am beyond crabby today. Medical term would be "irritable". I'm that.

One quick thing that bugs me: when you are bipolar, you cannot express opinions or get upset without people telling you you're "being all bipolar".


This makes about as much sense as those chauvinists that constantly tell women that may have a moment of crankiness that "they must be on the rag again". Um, excuse me, you inbred hilljack sexist Skoal-sucking hog. There is a reason the only breasts you have seen were in magazines or on the computer screen. You keep telling a woman that disagrees with something that it's because it's that time of the month and tell us how that works out in terms of a love life. Oh, and keep scratching your armpit and smelling your fingers. That's okay, nobody wants you to actually procreate, anyway.

The above doesn't hold true for married men. I don't care if anyone thinks it's insensitive, when my dearest wife is noticeably hormonal, I like to further poke the tiger and tell her she is PMS'ing early. You know why I can do that? Because I know her timeline. I can tell when she's PMS'ing early.

Also, I learned massotherapy when she was pregnant, and she got used to massages. She gets lower backrubs whenever she needs them, especially those times she needs them more. So I can further agitate her all I want. It's a trade-off in the contract.

Back to the topic. If I dislike something, or disagree with something, or paint the wall with someone I dislike's innards, I'm being all bipolar again.

Do I do things that are illness caused? Yes. Does that include irrational irritability towards certain topics? Absolutely. But it drives me nuts when I can't go on a "normal" rant like a "normal" person.

You know what, **** you, person (people, voices in my head, whatever) saying that to me. I'm allowed to be a dissenter.

(See, he just dropped an Asterisk Bomb. He's being all bipolar again)

Nice. Keep talking. I'm almost done sharpening this railroad spike. As soon as I'm finished, I'll wrap an athletic tape handle around it and bring it into the discussion, mmkay?

Monday, November 16, 2009

Life gets in the way of living sometimes

So much to post. Zero time to actually do it. Overwhelmed at work and the wireless at home is spotty, at best. I don't know if the guy we're "borrowing" it from is to blame, but I threw a rock through his window with a note that said, "Pay your Cable bill, deadbeat!". Just in case.

In lieu of actually putting something up, I will leave you with this thought: Ovaltine (both flavors) is a superior milk additive to both Hershey's chocolate syrup and the Nestle Carnation malted milk--especially the vanilla. Blech. The chocolate flavor is close, but Ovaltine wins out due to superior absorption and dispersal while stirring. The Nestle stuff leaves clumps.

Hope to return soon. I don't want this blog to die before it has a chance. If it hasn't already.

I did finally respond to the comments below.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Welcome to the insanity!!!



No degree of profanity can emphasize how much I hate the title of that post. So cliche'. Some idiot may even call it insensitive, which is the kind of idiocy an idiot would display. I'm crazy. I can call myself and my illness anything I danged well please, so go run into a wall until you pass out.


That assumes anyone actually reads this, of course. There are a small-to-moderate grouping of idiots in society: politicians, highway drivers when I'm late for work, protesters of anything (your stupid sign is not going to change the world, idiot), Yankees fans, those people who say Lebron James is going to New York, Ben Roethlisberger (if I cared about spelling his last name right, I would have looked it up. I don't, so I didn't), regular people who just happen to be idiots, etc. I doubt I get enough readers to actually warrant that cross-section of idiots.

As you have surmised by now, this blog will be my meanderings through Nutjobland. If you haven't surmised that, you are on the wrong floor. Behavioral health (read: too dumb to technically be crazy) is on the 6th floor of the Cleveland Clinic S building.

I'm telling you right now, the above is how I roll. Translation for our caucasian visitors: I sincerely hope I didn't offend you. I use politically incorrect humor or general crankiness from time to time. It doesn't mean I necessarily dislike that group or individual--except those mentioned in my idiots section--or don't feel their plight. I'm and equal opportunity annoyer. I hate and love just about everyone. Now back to regular speech. Whitey.

In all seriousness, about the only things you will not see me disparage are children, others' families, and victims of rape. My family is the only reason I wake up in the morning. I will not put anyone down anyone else's.

Some of my nonsense is going to spread awareness, blah blah, blah--I'll try to make you learn something. Some of it will be just rants. And I go to some very weird places when my mind is kicking the electrical jolt of thoughts to whatever random synaptic path it danged well chooses. I mean WEIRD.

I have family and friends--oh, okay, just family, as I have no friends--that read this site, so I will be tempering stuff to the best of my ability. I won't get vulgar, but I will get crass. I promise you that.

My wife will be a regular on here as we share nearly everything, including our writing blog, (shameless blog, er, plug, forthcoming) The Sharp Angle. Hopefully she'll add some insights of her own. Spouses of bipolar folk are actually referred to as caregivers, and are looked at the same from a medical perspective as those who are caregivers for other ailments. It is not an easy task, believe me. Of course, how can you believe me if I'm not the caregiver? Such conundrums keeps one up at night, do they not?

Welcome, check back often, and feel free to post. Don't worry about looking like a idiot. If you are, we can tell by your post. Or your Yankees hat.

(incidentally, if you caught I put "a" idiot, that does not necessarily make you not "an" idiot. Just grammatically aware. Though it's a good start...