Tag: Creativity

What Flavor Is Your Mood Disorder?

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 2 Comments

“What’re you having?” the rakish twenty-something asks.  Still staring into the fluted dish before me, spoon in hand yet inactive, I respond, “I’m not sure exactly.  I asked for a double-scoop of Desire and was handed this.”

The twenty-something turns so his torso, while dissected by the cafe table, is visible to me, “What’s it taste like?”  Turning my head in his direction I realize he’s: 1) That “guy-in-the-tuxedo” from my cousin’s Mystery Date game; and 2) Sans the tux!  I asked myself, why would “Mr.-Mystery-Date-Man” be sitting in a soda fountain, at a table next to mine, wearing only a smile?  My chagrin whips my gaze back to the disappointing confection now taking the shape of a poached egg.  “Well,” I stammer, still shaken by his cheeky immodesty and dismayed by my immediate craving for carnality, carousal, and covetousness, “It hints at Desire, but clearly an inferior attempt; the delicacy of Desire is overwhelmed by the coarse texture and indulgence.”  I decided to shift my chair and face the tempest of his proximity head-on, “What’s that you seem to be enjoying?” I ask, sounding foolish.

“A Raspberry Restraint,” he said as the spoon scraped and clanked against the spotless bowl.  “I have at least one every day.  I could probably eat fifty.  Moderation, that’s what I hear, everything in moderation.  Who’re they trying to kid?  I can spell; and I assure you that there’s no Mania in moderation,” he said as he slid slowly forward in his seat, the heat of his knees gently toasting my flank; “Sounds like they did the switcheroo. . .gave you a two-scooper of Licentious Lingonberry; they do that when they’re out of Desire.”

Flabbergasted, I now understood why I was staring at the freshly filleted fellow, splayed before me like an all-you-can-eat-buffet stocked with preprocessed food.  “But I wanted Desire. . .gentle, demur Desire. . .subtly prurient, hopeful and hungry. . .Desire. . .in general terms!”  Sounding exasperated, I wave my hand indicating his wanton availability, “Licentious Lingonberry?  No wonder it tasted so obviously. . .bitter. . .each spoonful made me thirstier. . .and there you were, the perfect glass of ice-water.”

I pushed my chair back and stood up trying in vain to disguise my arousal, “Sure, you’re lust personified; carnal; and after, I’m right back here; the one place where we can savor those flavors of humanity lost to us; before we go back to our senseless mockery of life,” I said as I began to leave.

“Sounds to me,” Mr.-Mystery-Date-Sans-Tux shouted, “like you ought to have ordered the Passion Fruit!”

An Open Letter to U.S. Representative Jesse Jackson Jr.’s Mayo Clinic Physicians

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 3 Comments

Dear Dr. So-and-So, et. al.:

I read with tremendous interest and a degree of de ja’ vu the front-page story written by Ms. Michael Sneed in the Sunday, August 5, 2012 Chicago Sun-Times which reported that U.S. Representative Jesse Jackson Jr. recently collapsed and had become completely debilitated by depression.  Upon reading the story, I experienced a staggering degree of recognition, for I too, have (and continue to do so) hit the same kind of wall as Representative Jesse Jackson Jr.: A crippling mental illness diagnosis, specifically major depression (changed later to Bipolar II) following gastric by-pass surgery.

The story reported that Ald. Sandi Jackson (wife of Representative Jesse Jackson Jr.) doesn’t know if her husband’s depression is connected to his weight-loss surgery.  As a person who finds himself in a very similar situation the development of major depression after elective gastric by-pass surgery) I would like to suggest that determining the cause of this on-set of depression is irrelevant and nearly impossible to determine.   Based on the past four years of failed orally administered pharmaceutical treatment attempts, I strongly suggest that you titrate the dosing levels of psychotropic therapies dramatically (50%-75% higher) or increase the potency of the psychotropic therapies to compensate for the substantial degree of malabsorption (the basic tenet of Duodenal Switch Surgery) caused by the significant reduction in stomach volume (up to 70%) and the dissection and rerouting of a large percentage of the small intestine (which is largely responsible for caloric absorption).  If the goal of the Duodenal Switch surgery is to limit volume and reduce absorption of food ingested orally, then common sense suggests that anything ingested orally will greatly lose its effectiveness (especially if the drug’s efficacy during clinical trials was based on subjects that did not undergo weight-loss surgery).  Except now we want the body to absorb what it’s ingesting!

I endured two needless years of trial and error attempting to discover pharmaceutical regimen which would lift me from depression and put a lid on my mania.  My psychopharmacologist knew I’d undergone gastric by-pass surgery a decade earlier yet refused to consider malabsorption as the cause of the ineffectiveness of every single prescription.  Frustrated by my psychiatric team’s myopia, I returned to the care of my internist; he was the first doctor to consider that my body’s ability to absorb oral treatments had been reduced by as much as 75%.  If an increase in dosage is impossible, then a different delivery system (IV, inhalation, transdermal patch, suppository) must be manufactured.   Please don’t waste Representative Jesse Jackson Jr.’s time prescribing the usual litany of drugs at their recommended doses: It’s akin to trying to stop a charging elephant with a water pistol.

Morbidly obese patients who were diagnosed as depressed and were being treated successfully through oral medications prior to gastric by-pass surgery discovered that post surgery their depression worsened and their pre-surgery oral medication treatment failed to reproduce the expected degree of pre-surgery success and relief.   Your patient is in crisis; your patient is experiencing a major depressive episode; your patient’s natural ability to absorb what he ingests has been compromised to the degree of ineffectiveness; your patient needs an extraordinary, preposterous, wholly unimaginable antidote, not a boilerplate solution. 

I salute the Jackson family for supporting Representative Jesse Jackson Jr. through this difficult period and wish them all God’s speed.

Find Humphrey at “www.humphreytales.com”

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 1 Comment

Me-Wow!

“Humphrey Tales” has become the cat’s pajamas in the blogosphere.  Especially in the 11-17 year old female demographic.  Of which I am very happy.

But my initial reaction was, “Uh-oh, what’s this going to do to my blog?”   What about those other subjects of my posts?  Mental illness, bipolar disorder, depression, homosexuality, politics, pedophilia, physically and mentally abusive childhoods?  Sure, most kids nowadays have developed a fairly broad view of their world (thanks in part, to the content found on the internet).  Unfortunately, kids these days face a degree of reality I personally never encountered until college, and even at that age, there were topics I found troubling and behaviors I never understood.  So how might a thirteen-year old girl react when she finishes reading a post about Humphrey conquering a bear rug, then clicks on a post entitled, “My Moral Corruption,” or “And Yet She Cried the Day He Died,” or “Back Then, Ignorance Was De Rigueur?”

“To thine own self be true. . .” isn’t license to write and post anything on the internet without a certain degree of social decorum. civility, and ethical responsibility to your potential audience without due warning.  Writing offensively and then posting it on a publicly available blog site isn’t poetic license, it’s the shameless abuse of liberty and scribbled diarrhea at its most contemptible.  A writer who’s writing in the public arena bears his or her own fundamental responsibility of proscription: Will this post make a difference to anyone but me?  Anyone who thinks proscription doesn’t apply to them isn’t a writer, they’re a propagandist!

And on that note, I am very happy to announce that Humphrey now has his very own blog: www.humphreytales.com.  There you’ll find the past and future adventures of Humphrey and all his friends.  I hope you’ll take a peak!

And to the “Humphrey-Following-11-17-year-old-female-demographic:”  this blog’s got nothing to offer you; take your time growing up; redirect your browser to www.humphreytales.com.

 

Quality Counts

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 3 Comments

I recall favorably the first night I spent in my spouse’s garret twenty years ago.  Naturally, I maintain this memory carefully, doting on it like a delicate photograph that’s aging, edges first, a creeping brown border and satellite-like spots threaten my recollection.  There are certain details which remain as crisp as a carrot because their impact struck me with tremendous velocity: his lingering fragrance hidden in the cotton of yesterday’s white shirt, the organization of his morning rituals: washcloth, cream shave, razor, brush.  I remember these sneak-peaks into his privacy because they played important roles in who he was daily.  All men have similar morning rituals but what impressed me, even back then, was his carefully selected instruments.  Many men could care less, but for him it was important to have the precise razor or brush or after-shave balm.

Another time we’d been invited to a business colleague’s home for dinner.  He orchestrated a wonderful meal which reflected skill, passion, and pride in what he presented to his guests.  But most amazing was the absence of commotion, replaced instead by ease and fluidity and sufficiency produced by efficient use of very few utensils.  I never ask for a recipe, but I did ask the secret to his efficiency.  His reply?  Limit yourself to four knives, but buy the very best knives: spend the extra money in the beginning, rather than repeatedly replacing them.

I allow myself the luxury of paying close attention to my private rituals and the tools by which I perform them.  Personal details or items (whether tool, accessory or peculiarity) does someone select?  These very personal choices provide a glimpse of who they really are, who they are and how they behave in private, when no one is watching or evaluating.  These details are the intimacies of an individual.  They’re not declarations or pronouncements or bravado; they’re not obvious, are often found in private rooms (bedroom, bathroom), are easily overlooked as an insignificant article or one of propriety’s niceties.  But I have found them to contain much more passion than everyday items.

Personal details are often sought out or surreptitiously discovered or introduced by way of kindred spirits.  They’re rarely received as gifts because their personal significance is concealed for fear of ridicule by friends for their dandiness.  Cost is rarely a deterrent; if a person has selected a specific item their determination to acquire it is very strong; they’ll scour the marketplace; they’ll participate in auctions; they’ll keep abreast of discounts; and if all else fails they will happily exchange money for the possession or, if it is simply beyond their reach, they’ll step away and always admire the item with the hope of a giddy teenager meeting her teen idol.

It’s possible to obtain objects which are more than capable of performing the same tasks.  For example fountain pens and ball-point pens; Bulova and Breitling watches; thermograph and letterpress stationery.  It’s not the price that assigns value.  Workmanship, materials, design, style, function and longevity all play important roles in my decisions.

A word of caution if the item is categorized as luxury: the old adage you get what you pay for is very important.  A replica of an item is not an inexpensive version of the item.  A replica is, at its basest, a forgery, misrepresenting itself as authentic at a 75% mark down.  If you find a deal too good to be true, it is too good to be true!  If you’re really in the market for luxury items do a lot of homework first; learn everything you can about the item; understand the difference between worth and value; and don’t buy as an investment unless you’re an aficionado.

These are my personal details: Grooming: Merkur safety razor, Niegeloh Topinox nail trimmer, Erbe scissors (Solingen, Germany); Kent hair brush (UK); Proraso shave cream and after-shave; Burberry Brit Eau de Toilette; Stationery: Letterpress monarch paper and envelopes, fold-over note card and envelopes, calling card, and return address label; Nakaya Urushi-Lacqured Long Writer fountain pen; Kitchen: Victorinox 10-inch Chef’s knife, 3-1/4-inch Paring knife, 12-inch Granton Edge Slicing knife; ARY Hot Gloves with red silicone grip; Polder Digital timer; Kuhn Rikon can opener; Audio: Etymotic Research HF5 in-ear earphones; Etymotic Research High-Fidelity ear plugs; Etymotic Research er89-2 Bluetooth cell phone headset; General: Fenix LED flashlights; Boker Solingen pocket knives; Barking Dalmatian Soap Dispenser.

Called Life This Morn: Took A Sick Day

~ Harlan Didrickson

It took me much longer than I’d expected to find their number.  Having never actually called before, it took me a while to figure out how to reach them.  Liz, one of my friends who decided to resign all together said that they found her.  “Oh yeah,” Liz said, “as soon as I took the exit, there they were at the stoplight.  Waiting.  Walked right up, smiled like we’d known each other forever.  I’m thinking, easy-sneezy: this guy’s going to give me directions!  Then he pokes my shoulder and says “You didn’t call this morning,” he said sounding serious, “Why is it, do you think, that people don’t call?”  I said I just wanted to quit.  Figured if I never showed up you’d get the message.  Then we were nose-to-nose, “The only time I get a message is when people don’t call.  Then I’ve got to waste my time to come out here and drag you back. . .”  That’s when I became aware. . .aware of my failure. . .aware of all the facial. . .”

Liz never finishes that story; she always stops right before she describes her consequence, which is evident when you meet her, but of which she just can’t describe.  The best she can do is, “I avoid mirrors.”

Because I couldn’t find the number and when I did, I was still on the fence about calling and just punching in, I greatly increased my chances that someone would answer.  It’s Saturday I thought, maybe they’re off.  Slowly I dialed the number; by the fifth ring I knew I was in the homestretch and could leave a mes. . .  “Department of Human Services, Life speaking,” he said, and then repeated, “Human Services, Life speaking.  Hello?  Hello?”  Uhm, yes. . .Life this is T.M. Mulligan, I said sheepishly.  “Yes Mr. Mulligan, why do I have the pleasure of this call?” he asked.  I told him I was ill and taking a sick day.  “So you’re taking a day away from the human race, Mr. Mulligan?”  His interrogation could be found on any page of a dime-store detective paperback.  Yes, I replied, I’m just not up to the task today; not even the battalion of amphetamines could take command of depressions beachhead; everyone’s at a block party, my spouse made brownie’s, the dog’s been there twice already.  I just can’t go.

“Can’t be part of the party?  Rather be alone?” Life asked.  Today, yes.  Not every day.  Just today, I answered.  “How many people do you think call Time and tell her they’re taking off?  And Birth, do you think those kids call Birth and threaten a sit in?” he asked.  Well, I don’t think they have phones in there. . .  “Or Death?  Death never answers, and they don’t have voice mail; they’ve dumped their phone into a trash can and threw it in the closet.  But Life?  Life’s phone is always answered; even if I personally believe you could act as if you were having fun, you’ve had your share of suffering recently and, except for once in July, 2008 you’ve always managed to drag yourself out of abysmal despair and try to live life.  I’ll mark you down as sick today, and we’ll see you tomorrow?”  Yes, I stammered, yes I’ll definitely be in tomorrow.  “Until tomorrow, then.  By the way, I’ve sent you a little sunshine.  Good-bye, Mr. Mulligan.”

The line went dead and then the doorbell rang.  Cupped in the hands of a delivery person was the essence of Life: A bouquet of sunflowers.