Rock on Robin!

Robin Williams back at rehab facility to ‘fine-tune’ sobriety July 01, 2014

Mental health professionals nationwide are mobilizing to deal with the situation. Temporary staff has been hired to attend to the quicksilver Williams, who requires four times as much labor as typical rehabilitation patients. Counselors who specialize in PTSD treatment have been pulled from counseling wildfire fighters across the nation, as they will be needed to counsel those who are counseling Williams.

Citing confidentiality protocol, no counselors overseeing his case were able to offer comment. Support staff, however, showed less discretion.

“I don’t give a fuck; I’m just a cleaning lady. I ain’t never really gave a shit about getting my work done too quick. But I sure as hell make record time when I do his room. Two minutes tops. I’m thinking like, ‘Just shut the fuck up!’ He’s trying to tell jokes about some Roosevelt bitch, Bill Clinton, and a filling station or some shit like that.

“Honestly, I don’t even do much cleaning anymore for him ever since I threw away a bunch of wadded up toilet paper next to his bed. He flipped out and said that it was the script for his next big movie. He then said in a weird voice, ‘I could use a stiff one right now.’ Then he starts saying, all crazy again, ‘Hey, did you hear the one about Jefferson…’ and I yelled, ‘No! And I don’t want to!’ and got the hell out of there.”

The overnight receptionist was more understanding, but admitted that his incessant calls throughout the night were a little bothersome. “A lot of them involve ‘Na-Nu Na-Nu. This is Mork calling Orson.’ Sometimes he’ll call, crying and apologizing for calling so often. I was actually kind of flattered when he called to tell me he loved me. The only call that really freaked me out was when he would not stop ranting about the bad reviews that Moscow on the Hudson got, blaming it on a feud with some Eggbert guy.”

The receptionist later admitted that she was on suicide watch, and that her Valium dosage had been doubled.

Williams’s entourage, meanwhile, is taking advantage of the break by having a team-building exercise in Iraq. “It’s really calm here, a nice change of pace,” said the Assistant to the Deputy Director of Public Relations.

Keep calm and carry on, everyone.

I’ve seen humorous First World, White Man, Rich People problems as an ongoing Internet theme. But this has got to take the cake.

Jennifer Aniston sees confidence coach

By Indo Asian News Service | IANS India Private Limited/Yahoo India News – Mon 9 Jun, 2014

“Los Angeles, June 9 (IANS) Actress Jennifer Aniston has reportedly been attending sessions with a confidence coach ahead of actor George Clooney’s wedding as she fears she will run into her ex-husband Brad Pitt at the celebrations…”

This guy could probably use some work, and I’m sure he’d be cheap:

If he’s unavailable, I’m fairly good at impressions.  But I’m unprepared for the inexorable moment when she would fall in love with me.  Astrologically, the fact that Pitt and I are both December 18th-ers would compound that likelihood.  But I’m more of a Phoebe kind of guy.

The Reverse Wilson

I was never a fan of Home Improvement.  Frankly, I think Tim Allen should’ve stuck with dealing coke instead of lowering the collective comedic bar.  Yet I am familiar enough with the show to be aware of the Wilson character.  He’s the sagacious neighbor whose face you never see.  You just see the hat over the fence, if I recall correctly.
My buddy Mike and I occasionally hang out in the morning at the outdoor plaza outside the federal building.  I sometimes imbibe, but he’s always got an open beer with him.  He’s one of those former Marines with that “Fuck it” anarchistic mentality.  And where better to commit minor misdemeanor offenses than on federal property?
The closest bathroom is in the nearby Bank of America building.  You actually need a code to get into the bathroom.  There’s a guy that we suspect lives in one of the stalls.  Seriously, he spends hours in there.  Every day.  And he’s not shy, as evinced by his chattiness.  “Hey man, do you know if the Orioles won last night?”  “I hear it’s supposed to rain all week.”  And so on.
Neither of us has any idea what he actually looks like; we just recognize the shoes.  On those rare occasions when we find ourselves at the spot in the afternoon, the question for whichever of us has just returned is:  “Was he in there?”  No, at some point he moves on.  He probably has an afternoon stall to inhabit.  A “regular” routine, if you will.
The phenomenon raises several questions:
1)  Did the Bank of America foreclose on his house, somehow compromising by allowing him to live in the bathroom?
2)  Does he suffer from some horrifying, Mask-like facial disfigurement?
3)  Per the Home Improvement scenario, should we start asking him for wise advice?
4)  The Fonz had “his office” in Arnold’s bathroom.  Does this guy have the same M.O. and he’s merely a workaholic?
5)  Does his diet consist of foods that entail incessant, around-the-clock diarrhea?
6)  I have three degrees of separation between myself and Phish.  If I ever get to surpass that gulf, I’ll necessarily ask if they know this guy, based on the following data:

I Could Nominate a Number of Musicians for Surreptitious Administration of this Treatment

How a brain treatment for OCD turned a man into a Johnny Cash fanatic

By Fred Barbash; May 21, 2014; The Washington Post 

“…A patient identified only as ‘Mr. B,’ age 59, was referred to doctors at a hospital in the Netherlands for treatment of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) from which he had suffered for 46 years.

“He had made little or no progress with conventional treatment. So, in 2006, he was treated with deep brain stimulation (DBS), better known for making life easier for patients with Parkinson’s disease, but also used for OCD…

“…Before long, however, Mr. B would only listen to Johnny Cash — ‘simply and solely’ to Johnny Cash, the authors reported. Nothing else. No more Dutch songs, Beatles or Rolling Stones. He went out and bought all of Johnny Cash’s CDs and DVDs…”

Facilitated by speed, he began spending up to 14 hours a day walking a line.

Where’s a Birther When You Need One?

Woman, 34, poses as 16-year-old student at private school for 7 months

John Luciew  May 16, 2014; Pennlive

“Charity Johnson passed herself off as sophomore for seven months at New Life Christian School in Longview, Texas. Her teachers and principal say she was a serious student, never any problem in class. Only thing is, she is 34 years old…

“…’Everyone who associated with her accepted her as being 16 years old. She came in saying she had been home-schooled. She filled out a form with her birthday. I didn’t ask for her birth certificate, and that is on my shoulders,’ the principal said…”

A)  She apparently needed education.

B)  She must have been born again.

C)  The school is called “New Life.”

D)  She claimed to enjoy watching music videos on MTV, wondering how you could watch them on “an Internet.”


Whose Krazy Now?

Is Social Media Dependence A Mental Health Issue?

Huffposted: 05/07/2014; Emma Stein
“…Today, social media is praised as a sought-after career skill by plenty of employers, but what if it’s harming the younger generations who can’t even fathom a life without profile pictures and follower counts?”
Should DSM-V Designate “Internet Addiction” a Mental Disorder?
Psychiatry MMC (Edgmont). Feb 2009; 6(2): 31–37. Ronald Pies, MDcorresponding author
“There is considerable controversy with respect to so-called internet addiction and whether it ought to be reified as a diagnosis in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition…”
I intend to soon post a 20,000 word manifesto on this blog relating to this topic.  I will email it to everyone whose address I know, put it on my Facebook site, reduce it to Tweet-able size, and will express it in dance form (different versions for YouTube and Vine).   Mastering one pose that says it all for Instagram will be tricky, though.
I hope you Like it.  Because I love each and every one of you.  Especially the voices in my head.

Working at Nothing All Day

I have confidence that the inordinate amount of time I’ve spent writing two books will prove worthwhile in the long run.  Yet I would be delusional if I did not acknowledge the possibility of failure.  Considering that I’ve never made enough money to bank anyway, the possibility of this endeavor ending as a colossal waste of time is not that daunting.
With that distinction in mind, I can say that writing (for me) is a quite easy and sweet gig.  I can chalk up any conceivable experience as “work.”  Since I write humor, I can regard watching Family Guy as “field research.”  On the other hand, watching an unfunny movie or program is a matter of studying lame attempts at comedy.  I certainly spend way too much time playing with my blog, but I’m effectively building a portfolio.  Since one of my goals is to write for The Onion, that is productive activity.  And any good or bad adventure I experience provides potential material for future books.
On that last note, I have to put the brakes on my creative daydreaming.  I will surely not write a third book if I cannot get either of the finished ones published.  Should that not happen, I will then resign myself to thinking, “At least I gave it a shot.  I guess my destiny is to throw boxes around in a warehouse.”
However, an interesting concept occurred to me last night for a future book.  I could find the craziest, crackheadiest bullshitter–which would not be difficult–and interview them for a biography in which I take everything they say at face value.  It would be like the polar (or bipolar?) opposite of investigative journalism.  Imagine the blurb on the back cover:
“Before the Men in Black stole Bruce’s cure for cancer, he was a gigolo to Hollywood starlets, and he is willing to name names!  This was physically demanding, as his concurrent job at the time involved being a Designated Hitter for the Dodgers–the only one in the National League–and doing free-lance work for the CIA.  Again, he gives details!
“After a concussion led to the realization that he was the Messiah, and that ‘Jack who’s sitting on the bench over there made his wife Jenny that bitch! leave him and that’s why his neck always hurts on Tuesdays and why the government’…”
Of course, “Bruce” would have to be willing to go on book tours and make media appearances.  If anyone likes this idea, they have my “permission” to use it.  I can help find such a person if necessary for the finder’s fee of a bottom shelf bottle of booze.  And pick up a couple cases for yourself; you’re gonna’ need it. 

Just a Thought

They say a classic sign of depression is when one loses interest in things that used to excite them.  But what if what inspired one was morose topics? 

“Gee, I’m worried about Jimmy’s behavior lately.  He used to love torturing animals, cutting himself, and listening to that angry music.  Now he’s lost interest in all that stuff.  Do you think he’s depressed?”

So Proud to Live, So Proud to Lie

Even when insincere, I will at least seem to sympathetically lend an ear to people.  As such, I am often the subject of people’s expressions of their delusions.  They might tell everyone the same nonsense, but I’m the one who nods and says, “Uh-huh.”  I am therefore privileged with hearing their unabridged narratives. 
I don’t know when compulsive lying is operative and when mental illness is at work, but I suspect that they shade into each other.  The severest cases might involve someone who claims to be a member of the Illuminati or the CIA, or maybe that they’re a Ninja.  While often theoretically conceivable if unlikely, a more tempered claim might involve a connection to fame.  So I’ll humor the guy who’s smaller than me yet claims to have played for the Steelers, or the schmuck who claims he dated Cameron Diaz in high school.
I’m sure I could recall more if I thought about it, but I’ve noticed two common claims.  My dad, who was forthright about joining the Navy in the late ’60s so he wouldn’t have to go to ‘Nam, alerted me to the first one.  “Notice,” he told me once, “how many bullshitters you meet in bars who claim to have been snipers in the Marines.”  I subsequently did.
I noticed the second one more recently on my own.  Perhaps if the song “Indian Reservation” hadn’t been about the Cherokee Indians, I would not hear so many nutjobs claim to be of their descent.  It would be interesting to hear a disproportionate number of people allege to be Lakota or Iroquois. 
As I’ve noted before on this blog (“The Zelig”), I’ve been ethnically mistaken for everything except Asian.  (Yet I’ve often been correctly identified as Chinese-eyed when appropriate.)  Perhaps I’ll start bragging about embarrassing ancestry to such people.  “Brian bin Laden; pleasure to meet you, you infidel scum.”  Or maybe, “My grandfather was the first person to gutlessly surrender to the Nazis.”
Alternatively, I could meet grandiose claims with a “Me too!”  We could then engage in an absurd bluffing brinksmanship.
“So you know Keith Richards?”
“Know him?  He practically raised me.  Shame about his boy Rusty.”
“I know.  I love that kid.”
“Meet me here on Sunday if you want to go to the funeral.” 
“Sunday?  Shit, I can’t.  I’ll be in the studio with Springsteen.”
“No shit?!  Tell him Dude says ‘Hi.’  He’ll know who you mean.”

Trial and Air

Paradigm Change: British Docs Turn to Prescribing Books for Depression

Elizabeth Renter
January 15, 2014

“…Titles like ‘The Feeling Good Handbooks’, ‘Mind Over Mood’ and ‘Overcoming Depression’ seem to be the most popular according to Doctors say they see positive results from many of their patients, and their own observations aren’t the only proof of effectiveness…”

In assessing the approach’s merit, it was difficult to assess the results of the control sample.  Those who read titles such as The Diary of a Young Girl (Anne Frank), Being and Nothingness, The Catcher in the Rye, and Steven King novels tended to jump out the window of the study’s headquarters.