Dear Nanabanana...again!

Hello, hello, hello!  I'm proud to announce that I've spent all my allotted computer time for the last several weeks just wading through the comments, suggestions and requests for my expertise!  Thankfully, quite a few could be addressed simply by forwarding to the FBI.  Some had to be delicately handled, so to speak, and weren't suitable for display, but here's two that are.  Enjoy!


Dear Nanabanana,

I think the 'giving season' should be all year long.  Giving enriches the soul and I live for opportunities to perform random acts of kindness.  Well, it can get a bit rough on the pocket book, to be sure, but Regis gave me a wonderful idea.  Regis is my funny furry kitty cat.  He loves to bring me sweet little dead mouses.  A great many of them and always in pristine condition, but dead.  One day I was feeling a bit blue because I had no money for gifts.  I was looking in the freezer for my Chunky Monkey when I realized I was digging through a treasure trove of frozen mice!  The freezer was full of them!  I keep them there because Regis doesn't like it when I put them in the fridge.

So I wrapped each one in colorful tissue with their little tails sticking out.  Cute enough for a baby shower!  I filled up a satchel with frozen mice and headed out the door.  Silly me, the neighbors were all at work, so I headed for the grocery store.  When I got there I started handing out my little gifts to anyone I saw.  Some people said no thanks without even looking at them.  Several people took them and didn't even open them.  A few people looked at them and behaved rather oddly.  They seemed perplexed and moved down the aisle rather quickly.  Finally, I met the sweetest old fellow!  When I handed him his mouse he smiled and thanked me very nicely.  He opened it and exclaimed with delight.  Then he grasped the mouse by the tail and took a good bite.  "Mmmm!" he said.  "Better than pork rinds!"  I was aglow with joy!  We were chatting happily together when, a few aisles away, a woman screamed, and screamed again!  Everyone ran to her.  When I got there I could see she had stripped her mouse and thrown it on the floor!  She was acting like a lunatic, (no offense) and when she saw me she went completely psychotic!  She charged at me and almost pushed me into the center aisle baked goods bin!  Then the store manager arrived and told me I had to leave and never come back.  I was shocked!  I've never been treated with such rudeness before!  Fore heaven's sake!  I wasn't handing out rats!

I don't know about you, but I think good manners have died in this country.  I never thought I'd encounter such low class behavior in such a nice neighborhood.  Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but good manners define us as civilized human beings.  It's very upsetting.  What do you think?

Signed,
Dazed and Refused
________________________

Dear Dazed,

You poor abused thing!  What an awful experience!  I can only imagine how sad this has made you.  It certainly is true that manners have degraded terribly in this country.  Why, it's even spread, like some vile disease, right into Washington DC!  Frightful.  Of course, that means people like you and me must try even harder to encourage appropriate behavior whenever we can.  It also requires that we try to overlook some of the mistakes people make.  It would be rude, for example, to demand that people open their gifts.  I'm sure you understand.  I do have a few other ideas.  Next time you decide to go gifting, take time to prepare and make your gifts more appealing.  For instance, you could toast the mice until they're crunchy, then cut off their tails, push a skewer up their rears and dip them in melted chocolate.  Roll them in chopped nuts and wrap them in cellophane.  You can get little cellophane bags for just this sort of thing.  Watch the reaction then!  Let me know how that works, but visit a different grocery store next time.  You may have an innovative product in the making, you know.  It could be the next flavor crave!  If you get 20 or 30 more cats you could become a Captain of Industry!  By the way, mice can be used in place of chicken in soups, casseroles and makes a nice change from veal in Scallopini.  It's just wonderful to hear from such a kind, giving person like you.  Don't let anyone stop you from being who you are; a force for good with a style all your own!  Be well, dear, and say hello to Regis for me!

Your friend,

Nanabanana
_________________________________________________________________________________

Dear Nanabanana,

Maybe this is a mistake.  Maybe I should just go find a shrink.  Is this totally confidential?  I have interests to protect, OK?  I've been under a lot of stress lately.  I'm an industry analyst for the SEC, 24 years, and last year I bought a Harley Soft Tail to give myself a little present, you know?  A new hobby.  Relaxing.  Only, after a few months, I started having this problem.  I was lonely when I wasn't with my bike.  I couldn't think of much except my bike.  I couldn't stand to wear anything but my leathers.  All my off hours I'd wear my leathers.  I'd wear them riding to work, take them off at the office and go through my day just dying to put them back on.  So I started putting them on at lunch and riding around a little.  That helped, but it wasn't enough.  I'd take as much time off as I could manage to ride my bike around.  I got suits sized so I could wear my leathers under them.  Everybody thinks I've got some weird disease.  I've had to back out of so many social events that my wife is talking divorce.  I'm seriously freaked out and I don't know what to do.  On top of everything else, I'm fighting an urge to shave my head and have it tattooed with flames reading, "Harley Forever!"  It's like I'm cursed!  I don't know if this will pass by itself or if I need Harley detox.  Maybe you can refer me to a nice, secure rehab program.  If they hear about this at work my career is over.

Signed,
Uneasy Rider
__________________________

Dear Uneasy,

My goodness.  Your Harley has turned you into a Biker.  This has been known to happen, especially to men who live a grueling, soul sucking life such as yours.  There's really only one solution and deep down you know what it is.  Quit your job and give yourself over to the mystery!  Don't tell me you can't!  You've got your cash stashed and you CAN take to the rode!  It isn't a lifestyle choice, it's a calling.  Be glad!  If your wife shows no enthusiasm, let her divorce you.  You can pick up a chick somewhere.  By all means, get as many tattoos as you like.  Who should you please besides yourself?  Seriously.  This is a glorious affirmation!  I wish I could be there to see you ride off to your destiny!  I know you'll be happy soon!  Drop me a note, if you can, and let me know how you are.

Your friend,

Nanabanana


!!!! p.s. to Uneasy Rider!!!

I forgot to mention Sturgis!  Maybe you've already heard about the annual biker festival each July in South Dakota.  You wouldn't want to miss THAT!  Get those tattoos right away so they'll be healed in time!  I suppose it was cheeky of me to assume you have cash stashed for your escape, but isn't that natural given your line of work?  Money guys like you always have money, hopefully where your wife can't find it.  Back in the day, when I was a mud wrestler, I had a biker boyfriend named Scrotum.  Great times!  We'd go on long, aimless rides to places I never heard of and sometimes he'd even bring me home.  I shouldn't have blown up his Harley.  That was the end of my love affair with Scrotum.  So watch out what kind of chick you pick up.  Biker chicks can be a bit twitchy.

Ride and be well,

Nanabanana   

                                   

My Left Eye

Hi everybody!  Sorry I've been gone so long.  I should have mentioned before that I always lose computer privileges in January because it's the anniversary of my arrival to this lovely maximum security psychiatric facility.  Well, it has more to do with the annual reenactment of the reason that I came here.  That and my left eye.  You see, 15 years ago I created my most glorious display of destructive art.  On a Sunday night in January, a full moon in attendance, I blew up a 150,000 sq. ft. herring and sardine canning factory.  Think of it!  The burst of light brighter than epiphany!  Sheets of tin siding as big as billboards spinning up and away like monster frisbees!  Steel I beams tumbling through the air like boomerangs!  But best of all, the fish!  Oh, the sight of tons upon tons of tiny fishes flying free!  I'm welling up just thinking of it.  They went up with such velocity that only a few tons fell around and on me as I lay among the smoking refuse.  The rest were carried off by the clouds and rained down for more than 20 miles east of the factory.  Of course, the force of the blast threw me some 60 feet through air, slammed my guts against my spine and slapped my brain to the back of my skull.  Then I landed on my back so hard that my left eyeball popped right out of my head.

When the police found me I was still looking for my left eyeball in a pile of little fishes.  Thankfully, I found it and tucked it in my pocket until I could get to jail and wash it off.  It popped right back in and it generally stays snug in it's socket.  It only pops out again when we reenact The Great Herring and Sardine Canning Factory Explosion.  The reenactment is a much anticipated event for all the residents here on the 14th floor.  We plan and prepare for weeks, gathering cardboard and making streamers.  Throughout the year we hoard our little fish crackers.  Well, most of us do.  The little fish crackers are key, of course.  There's always a squabble over who gets to be the Fish Cracker Coordinator.  Anyway, this year's reenactment went beautifully.  The audience assembled in the dining hall and took their seats or wandered aimlessly around the room.  I gave the countdown and everybody yelled, "KABOOM!"  The flame and smoke streamers waved, the cardboard flew and bowls of little fish crackers were tossed in the air.  Rita was singing 'Don't Cry For Me Argentina', which wasn't part of the program, but it didn't hurt anything.  Then I launched myself backward off a table and landed on a cardboard box.  Wouldn't you know it, once again, my left eyeball popped out.

So while everybody was scrambling and stuffing their faces with little fish crackers I was yelling, "My left eye!  I can't find it!  Don't step on it!  Don't eat it!"  That's when Dr. Idiot walked in, flanked by the chefs.  He always looks so constipated when he's irritated and he looked just as constipated this year as he has every year before.  Then, true to form, he made us all take a 'shut up' pill and go to our rooms.  I didn't even find my elusive eyeball until the next morning when I caught Feeney talking to it in the hall.  By then it was filthy and had dust bunnies stuck all over it.  Even so, it was a relief.  The dust bunnies were good evidence that Feeney hadn't used it to take a closer look at parts of himself.  There are parts of Feeney that I'd rather not have my left eye exposed to.  Next, I had the meeting with Dr. Idiot to receive my annual dose of recrimination and chastisement for getting everybody so wound up.  Then, as usual, he took away my computer privileges 'until further notice'.  Now, if I hadn't managed to find my left eye by the time I saw him, Dr. Idiot would have upped my meds and I'd be drooling again.  I hate it when that happens.  After all, my eyeball is just a small part of the total ME.  Why should I be penalized because my left eye plays hide and seek?

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result.  Of course it is!  That's why I'm here!  My left eye repeatedly pops out and I'm the one that gets in trouble.  At least my left eye is predictable.  I can count on it popping out at least once a year.  I don't expect a different result, but that never stops me.  On the grander scale, many people behave like my left eye.  For instance, the Shoe Bomber was trying to kill a bunch of infidels, instead, he forever changed how we board airplanes.  He misbehaved and we got dirty socks.  Get enough people in line and the smell of feet must be impressive.  Since 9/11 anybody who even looks like they're Muslim is under suspicion.  Not fair.  Nowadays it's gun owners who are getting a taste of that.  Some people are too crazy to have guns, but it's not fair to look askance at every gun owner.  Including assault gun owners.  Most folks who own guns are perfectly nice, responsible people.  Maybe they don't really need an assault weapon, but one shouldn't assume that a scary looking gun indicates that the owner is as crazy as I am.  If you have grizzly bears in your backyard an assault weapon is a pretty good idea.  It's too bad that some folks are so scared about losing their 2nd Amendment rights, but the more they yell about it the crazier they look.  It reflects badly on all the other gun owners and that's not fair either.  Perhaps Congress can come up with a law that makes people take their shoes off when they shoot scary looking guns.  I'm kidding.  Maybe everybody could just use rubber bullets.  Would that be fair?  Whatever happens, some people are going to yell, "Not FAIR!" and they're right.  It isn't fair.  So which choice is more reasonable?  Letting everybody have scary looking guns and shrugging your shoulders when people are shot?  Or making it harder for everybody to buy scary looking guns?  Doing nothing, repeatedly, is pretty crazy in it's own way. 

It's quite a conundrum.  One thing is certain, people will get shot.  Some will be shot with assault weapons wielded by crazy people.  Others will be the garden variety victims of evil criminals.  A few will get shot by Dick Cheney.  As long as there are guns, people will die.  In that regard, at least, guns are just as predictable as my left eye.

                                                      
                           

Crazy Talk!

Huzzah!  Christmas was a wonderful day!  There were lots of different things to eat.  I really liked my slice of ham.  Added a smear of gravy and it stuck to the wall very nicely.  Rita took all the napkins and stuffed them in her pants.  She said she was a snow man and looked the part so we all applauded.  Earl, Roy and Angus did the Can Can and mooned us, as usual.  When the chefs came in to gather the refuse we saluted them with confetti.  It was actually Chex Mix and popcorn, but they took it with good humor.  I was feeling quite mellow and gazed with tepid affection at all the antics of my psycho buddies.  It's at times like this that I feel much saner than the others and it gives me a heartening sense of superiority.  Who can resist the comforting notion that there are others worse off?  This observation lead my nimble mind to go visiting other ways we quantify and qualify each other.
Everybody knows the ordinary requirements to fit in any given group.  Everything from race to shoe size.  If someone defies inclusion in set categories it's a bit disturbing.  Like those Goth kids.  They're kind of crazy looking.  I knew a guy who lived in a tree.  Very nice guy.  Very quiet.  Many would call that crazy but he was a sculptor too, so it's OK.  If you try to break the world record for eating hot dogs you're not crazy.  If you think you're the reincarnation of Evita Peron you might be riding the crazy fence.  A notch or two up the scale are people who are delusional to their own detriment.  Bennie could tell you about that but he thinks he's Houdini.  When Bennie decided to cut a hole in the frozen Detroit River and act out Houdini's daring escape, he became a problem.  Personally, I think many other people should be included in Bennie's group.  People like Timothy Treadwell, who spent years with the grizzly bears until they ate him.  Or guys who climb Mount Everest.  What are they thinking?  Or my dearly departed husband Dwight, who went to swim with the sharks.  PAID to swim with the sharks.  They ate him.  It was a small funeral.  Or how about NASCAR?  Is that really sane?  You get the picture.

Lots of folks are talking crazy these days.  Crazy talk is in the news.  It's fun to speculate about who might be crazy but it's better to actually learn about crazy.  I found a really great op ed about schizophrenia in the New York Times.  It's by Paul Steinberg and it's very good crazy talk.  Click here:  Very smart, very right.  

The Fourteenth Floor

Hello my dears!  So sorry I've been out of touch the last week or so.  There's been an awful lot of stuff happening all at once here at the facility.  Last week, everybody on my floor caught the stomach flu and overloaded the plumbing.  What a mess!  Of course the chefs caught it too, so we got our meals late which we couldn't keep down anyway.  When we started getting better we were told we were moving all the way up to the fourteenth floor.  That was fine with me since all the floors are pretty much the same and I'd heard that the view of the local land fill is spectacular.  Some of the gang got a bit twitchy, but most of us were too worn out from the flu to mount a genuine protest.  So we all packed and said goodbye to our favorite plastic chairs.  Monty couldn't find his imaginary baboon and we all looked so he'd stop crying.  The big chef found it in the mop closet and Monty was all smiles again.  It seemed like such a lot of trouble for nothing until Dr. Idiot told us why we were moving.  Turns out the state closed ANOTHER maximum security psychiatric facility and all the patients had to be moved to the FEW that are left!  Very irritating!  Thankfully, our fourteenth floor was totally empty and available.  That wouldn't be the case except for poor planning going WAY back.
 
You see, darlings, the fourteenth floor was intended for the most violently dangerous and hopelessly psychotic people our country manages to produce.  There were some of that type up there until some years back, when the last one got really old and died.  He was all alone up there because for many years the state has been sending a lot of the truly dangerous psychotics to prisons where they can be properly stored.  But only the ones who break a big law while they're being truly crazy.  I suppose that makes sense.  Then there's that other little mitigating factor; most dangerously psychotic people kill themselves.  That's REALLY easy in the USA because we have lots and lots of GUNS.  So the number of seriously insane people that wind up in prisons is becoming bigger and bigger and the number that are stopped in time is getting smaller.
 
The TVs are still off and the computer was too until this morning so I just found out about Sandy Hook.  Even psychotics like me cry when children die.  Dr. Idiot wanted to give me a shot but changed his mind.  I've just been sitting here with wet eyes wondering why that sick young man had lots and lots of guns in his house.  How did that happen?  How come NOBODY was smart enough to snatch that guy up and put him on the fourteenth floor?  There's a bunch of people blogging about mental health care and intervention on the Sandy Hook stories.  Everybody should read that!  From what I can tell there's a LOT of folks with violently disturbed kids who can't find help for them.  Now THAT is INSANE!  Everybody should have help when they need it!

WHY ARE THERE LOTS AND LOTS OF GUNS BUT NOT ENOUGH MENTAL HEALTH CARE?  I'm crazy, but I'm not stupid.  There is no logical reason for the gross imbalance between available guns and available mental health care.  I can tell you one excuse.  Nobody wants to deal with it.  It's fine to yap about too many guns, but nothing is done.  Mental health care only gets talked about when people are murdered and then the talk dies down after awhile.  Believe me, I get it!  Mental health is such an uncomfortable subject.  It leads people to think about all the scary things they'd rather not.  Even when they're quite aware of a sick person in their midst, people don't like to talk about it, much less take action.  Meanwhile, the guns are out there and so are the untreated mentally ill.  It takes a story like Sandy Hook to get people wound up, but will it change anything?  Can that even happen in this crazy world?  Crazy doesn't just fix itself!  Period!  The guys who get to run the country are looking pretty crazy themselves these days.  And THAT is what gives crazy such a bad name.   

    

Brain Chips!

What a day!  Dr. Idiot didn't tell us we'd be having visitors!  We'd just finished eating breakfast and these folks walked right in!  There was five of them, all guys wearing white coats like the chefs.  They seemed to be a bit uncomfortable.  Maybe it was the oatmeal and Wheaties splattered all over the place.  One guy reminded me of Barney Fife.  He was all buggy eyed and his adam's apple was hopping up and down.  Naturally, everybody started getting all excited.  First the gigglers started, that set of the twirlers, then the screamers pitched in and everybody else either curled up in a corner or took their clothes off.  I love a floor show!  Then Dr. Idiot came in with the chefs.  That brought the volume down.  Nobody wants to wake up in the mop closet.
Dr. Idiot told us the visitors were going to take samples of our jeans.  We were all very confused.  We don't wear jeans!  We wear these floppy little outfits with Velcro for buttons.  Sometimes we take them off to see how many we can Velcro together.  My buddy the Meth Maker jumped up and yelled, "Piece man!"  Two of the chefs took him out right away.  I heard Dr. Idiot say the Meth Maker was just polluted, not psychotic.  Is that any reason to leave him out of the fun?  So next they started dragging us to one of the dining tables.  They grabbed Rita first.  They whipped out tongue depressors and Q-Tips.  They tried to get in Rita's mouth and she bit off the tongue depressor.  So they stuck the Q-Tip up her nose!  That was a big mistake!  Everybody who saw that started yelling, "Brain chips! Brain chips!" and the floor show started up again.
Brain chips are a big concern around here.  I've never really believed the rumors about brain chips, but the visitors said they wanted samples of jeans.  So who's crazy?  Everybody knows there aren't any jeans up a person's nose!  All the visitors, chefs and Dr. Idiot used their fake comfort voices to say; "now now, just be still, it won't hurt, it only takes a second".  Didn't work, but eventually they got in all our noses.  I kept MY dignity.  After they stuck that Q-Tip up my nose I grabbed a bunch and crammed them in my mouth.  That showed THEM!  Then we were all planted back in our rooms.  Lunch was late and a third of the bunch were still in their rooms.  After the chefs delivered lunch the muttering started.  Every other mutter was, "Brain chips!".
Now, I'm not crazy enough to believe I've got jeans up my nose much less a brain chip.  I've been hearing my looney buddies muttering about brain chips for so long I just figured they were paranoid, which they are.  Still, there was so much muttering about it, I thought I'd go online and see what I could find and...

OH NO!  IT'S TRUE!  THERE REALLY ARE BRAIN CHIPS AND PEOPLE ALREADY HAVE THEM!  The evil scientists are taking over!  Everybody will have brain chips very soon and if there's a power outage WE'LL ALL FALL DOWN!  

Dear Nanabanana

Hi faithful readers!  I was thrilled to see that I'm starting to get messages from you and that you apparently think I know what I'm doing!  I'd like to answer all your requests for advice, but as you know, it's difficult for me to get access to the computer.  Dr. Idiot only allows me to use it for an hour a day.  Two if I claw at my face and promise to stop chewing on the mouse cord.  He's such a fuss pot!  I decided to expose you to the message below because it's so important to be encouraging and supportive.  This poor lady is desperate!  So here goes...


Dear Nanabanana,

I've been suffering from peculiar and inappropriate impulses that have become impossible to suppress.  For instance, I hide under the bushes in front of my house and jump out when the mailman arrives.  He screams, the mail flies up in the air and he falls on his behind.  It makes me laugh, but I know it's WRONG.  Sometimes I eat the cat food right out of his bowl, but it's so tasty I can't resist.  My cat hates me now.  Last week I went next door, emptied the neighbor's hot tub and filled it with composted manure.  I knew my neighbor was at work so I wouldn't get caught.  What surprised me is how pungent composted manure is when you warm it up in a hot tub.  After all, it's composted!  I just stayed in the house when the police arrived. 
Worst of all, I've started doing things to my husband while he's sleeping.  Thankfully, he's a very deep sleeper.  One night, I hooked the pull cord on the window blinds to his big toe.  In the morning he got out of bed, the blinds flew up with a ZING and then the whole set of blinds came crashing down!  I had to hide under the blankets and stuff my mouth with the pillow so he wouldn't know I was laughing!  Amazingly, he didn't figure out how it happened!  Last night he was sleeping in his Lazy Boy while I watched Hoarders and, well, I disrobed, stood on a chair and rubbed my naked lady parts on his HEAD.  When he started to wake up I jumped down, ran in the bathroom and hid in the shower stall.  I laughed so hard, but he just went back to sleep!  I don't understand why I'm doing such things.  Is there any hope for me?

Signed,
Strange in the Suburbs
--------------------------------------

Dear Strange,

No.  There's no hope for you.  It doesn't matter how many mind altering drugs you try.  No amount of therapy or psychiatric care will make the slightest difference.  There's nothing that affects the kind of deranged, perverted behavior you engage in.  You simply have to learn how to forgive and accept yourself for who you are!  You have every right to express yourself, even if it results in social rejection or a few trips to the slammer.  It doesn't matter what others think of you.  It's how you think of yourself that counts!  Embrace the true you!  Celebrate all that makes you a unique entity swirling around in the cosmos!  Also, you might want to grab that lazy husband of yours and demand some sex.  Dr. Idiot says it's very calming.  Other than that, fly free, free bird!  Keep on keepin' on!
Oh, and thanks for the tips!

Your friend,

Nanabanana

Dinner With the Finicky Man

Ok.  Here's a poem I wrote for all my ex-guys whether I married them or just lured them into my house.

Dinner With the Finicky Man
 
I could feed you hot-dogs and potato salad, baked beans and sauerkraut, pickles and onions my finicky man.

Or, I could give you a rare grilled steak and baby red potatoes roasted in mustard sauce and scallions, a salad of young spinach, rosy peppers and Nasturtium blooms.
I could tempt you with Cornish game hens broiled to perfection, nested in wild rice and cashews, grapes sauteed in wine.

Then again, asparagus in Hollandaise is available tonight, medallions of veal scaloppini with artichoke hearts and fat mushrooms.

Or, I could dazzle you with the essence of Provence,
garlic and wine and butter simmering your senses,
perfuming the kitchen with the promise of secrets revealed.
I could serve you pasta in any of a million forms dusted with musty cheeses; Parmesan, Asiago, Romano.
I could toss it before your eyes while singing Figaro
and lavish it with a sauce laden with sausage,
smother it with meatballs or creamy Alfredo.
 
Or, my darling, I could serve you a feast of love.
Spread it out before you, redolent of my ardor,
steeped in my desire, musky spiced morsels,
delectable passion sushi cloaked in murmurs and sighs.

Or, my beloved, we could, perhaps,
we could, if you please,
we could, we COULD,
go out to eat.