24 October, 2011
Mark Ganzer
1004 S Grove Ave
Barrington, IL 60010-5025
To: Georgine C#####
My Dear Georgine,
Thank you for attending mom's memorial service. Given your inevitably jaundiced view on life, it is safe for me to assume that at least someone saw the service through my eyes, and that's enough for me.
Unto me has fallen the rather interesting role of archivist and curator – what with my own Spring House Cleaning Project, 2000, begun 17 September, 2010, and on-going, the passing of Annie-Belle has afforded a momentuous opportunity, the likes of which make Disaster Capitalism such a profitable theroy in practice for its practitioners, of going through the boxes of letters, not well-marked, but not haphazardly collected; case-in-point, have just found a collection of Marianne's River Run Upcoming announcements (that the event is upcoming and to where you can send your check) and the RiverRunCompletionLetter, documenting her sensory observations that remain in the memory banks upon digestion of the exhaustion and careful refleciton upon arising from that achey dream-like sleep which is the sleep of those who have done well, even if they have done for naught that which they set out to accomplish. Anne, with her pack-rat mentality and squirrel it away habits honed handsomely over the years when we had perhaps not even little in the way of material things, save for the children's drawings, the childrens' school papers, and the children's voluntarily entered into creative writing – poetry – stories. Treasures such as these are priceless; historical evidence of interesting lives well-lived.
Had been focusing on my own creative writing stuffers, which I thought I had all in one big pile (several thousand pages high) on the coffee table in the family room downstairs, which, sadly, I had recontaminated (the family room that is) after having spent 30 hours dissinfecting it (I am flourishingly using metaphorical language here; in point of fact, the gorgeous ganzer bachelor boys are doing quite a bit better with hygeiene and house cleaning than mom would have ever dreamt. I can just see her up in heaven with John, and her older sister Cathy (Cottie), settin' at the bar, where they are amusing John and Werner Von Klemper who were, prior to being so rudely interrupted, smoking big thick cuban cigars and drinking VERY expensively priced brandy out of 24 ounce snifters.
JEEZUS FUCKIN' CHRIST COTTIE – DO YOU BELIEVE THAT? ASS HOLE RALPH IS CLEANING THE FRIGGIN' TOILET WITH THE RIGHT PRODUCT! 83-YEARS OLD AND HE NEVER BEFORE KNEW THAT BATHROOMS HAD TO BE CLEANED. OMFGIH! LOOKS AT THE ASS-HOLE MAMA'S BOY – CLEANING THE DAMN GRUNGE FROM THE BATH TUB. COTTIE, THESE SONS-OF-BITCHES HAVE THE FUCKIN' HOUSE LOOKIN' MORE ORDERLY AND CLEANER THAN I EVER GOT IT TO. WHAT THE FUCK'S WITH THAT?
Annie, I tried to tell you, Ginny Bonne tried to tell you, Barbara Grace tried to tell you: “As long as you keep doing it for them, and don't force them to do it for themselves, and don't make such responsibilitites part and parcel of the requirements for them to get served food, THEY HAVE NO MOTIVATION TO LEARN. Annie, you have taught them to be willfully ignorant of house-up-keeping 101, and quite frankly, the only valid excuse you might have for that is that you wanted them to die (from stupidity) as quickly as possible so you can gather the clan all here together in heaven, like you used to fantasize about buying that house out on Lake Zurich Road and having EVERYBODY move in – kinda' like with Verna, Dale, you, me, Lynne, Jimmie, Gramma Hockett, Uncle Harold, and the farm girl; one big happy family livin' in a commune in Barrington.
Annie, just think about it! Ralph, clearly never the sharpest knife in the drawer, STILL has a Master's Degree plus 60 hours beyond. Mark is quite clearly capable of doing anything he sets his mind to, and some things he even does, almost in his sleep. Did you really think they were gonna miss you for your HOUSEKEEPING SKILLS (which, btw, love, were never anywhere near as good as you liked to think they were; which is why you always got depressed in the fall and in the winter months after Thanksgiving, and after Christmas, because your house, quite frankly, to any one who took an interest in such things (and none of your good friends do – which is why they are your good friends in the first place), a quick glance would have revealed you to be the imposter you always have been. You ain't organized; you're a disaster a-waitin' to misplace an important document, probably even shred it; you don't really pay attention to details any more, and you ain't no 18-year old kid seeing the whole world as your oyster! Annie, you never gave a good god-damn about the housekeeping EXCEPT TO THE EXTENT that you came up short of the rich bitches you always were trying to impress with your sophistication (and Annie, you were NEVER sophisticated, no matter how many damn sophisticated books you read, or how many damn sophistitcated people you think about.
Yeah, Annie, they can take care of themselves. Oh, and Mark – note please: He's having NO difficulty whatsoever cooking for two, and he's even got Ralphie boy trained to boil his own damn water when Mark's not at h ome, and Ralphie-boy might get his stomach all up in a knot if he didn't feed his sad sack face exactly at 11:00 am.
See, Annie, you spoiled them, and RALPH took your spoilin' his stinky ass for granted (no, Mark never did, but he was never really quite like a guy any way; I actually think you had the fag son, the lezbo-daughter, and that Mark's a hermaphrodite, trending homo. Remember when I told you, “It is not natural for children to be this well-behaved,” well, Annie, I married the pedopheliac pediatrician with whom I popped out another baby every time we had sex. Who in the world would have ever suspected, back in the day, that my five kids, including the fucked-up pot head boys, well, not Craig, would all be happily married (to the extent that such a state of bliss can even be envisioned) for 25+ years, all with children (leaving me with GRAND CHILDREN – why ain't chew got no grand kids Annie? Wazzup wid dat?) and you'd end up with two homo's, an alchey-bipolar, and one narmal kid (who was your least favorite, and the ONLY one you ever disciplined; WTF was THAT all about? AND FURTHERMORE, she was the first one to move out of the house, get her own place, etc, etc, etc, she is in SO many ways the only fully functioning adult you raised; and you managed to do it by loving her the least!
So, ain't it funny no, ironic is the proper and most descriptive term), Annie, sure, here, have another glass of wine, by loving them the least, we love them the best, and we love them the most. Are you still willfully clueless? Chrissakes alive, Annie, we got the front row seats here, I'm just sayin', and I don't give a damn if you get all pouty, cry-baby face mad or what, you got to DEAL with this reality. You were a shitty mother and a shitty wife, and you raised (most) of your kids to be willfully dependent on you and your husband too, so that you would always feel as if you were needed. Do you think it isi NATURAL for a 60-year old to come back to live with his folks? Do you think he was all “cured” as he spent 22 hours a day either laying in bed or sitting at the computer, in his underwear, his bathrobe, his unwashed body (which, Annie, admit it, stunk after 3 days, although he had the “class” to shower twice a week, whether or not he needed to)? Did you think everything was hunky dory as you watched his weight go from 180 to 278 in merely three years? Did you think that the man that converted to Islam in January, 2007, who taught Sunday School in the Mosque, who was BELOVED in the Mosque, and honored above all other Muslims in the Mosque who were botn into Islam, because HE CHOSE Islam, did you think that he only flirted with the faith because he was having one of them “manicky moments? Well, let's conceed you that debatable point. Then why in the fucking hell didn't he ever go to Atonement? NOT EVEN ONCE, Not Christmas, Not Easter, Not to see even his beloved son Adam James play drums AT LEAST ONCE in that three year period, when you were assured he was getting so much better. That he did not even go to the library once in that period (he, who used to take out 30 books / magazines / CDs / DVD's a month, going way back to the 90's when he was just popping his Tegretol regular That he did not even go to the Rainbow Record Store to see his beloved friend John Thominet, with whom he would spend 20 hours a week, back in the day, before he got “well” again, from his meds – his Effexor, and his Equitro. And aren'tcha' glad he got hisself up and hooked up with SSSDI? Where they sent you his check for $435 and change a month, of which $388 a month went for meds, and you were kind enough to give him $10 a week, so he could get his hair cut once a month. (Did you know that he tipped the damned barber, Fat Phil the Lip who never misses a quip and is always so quick, to put down queers and homos, did you know her tipped Fat Phil $4 every hair cut Phil ever game him; but, it wasn't just Phil, nope, he'd give Dennis or Warren the same $20 for the $16 hair cut. Hey, Annie, don'tcha' think that if Mark really gave a damn about “his” SSSDI money, he might have figured out to get his hair clipped at one of the discount hair places where the lovely young ladies cut it? He could have left a 20% tip and had an extra $2 to spend each week of the month. Annie, he didn't play in one duplicate bridge game in that 3-year period when you were so happy that he was “getting better, doing fine.”
Christ alive, Annie, you were the worst mother in the whole wide world, and (almost) ALL of your kids know it. And, no, it doesn't really matter that “you didn't know.” You were willfully ignorant! And you see, just like Mark would sometimes tell you and Ralph, “You only like me when I'm depressed.”
He wasn't wrong. It's just that he didn't SEEM depressed, (except for the weight gain, the bad hygiene, the laying in bed for hours, the not going out for exercise, not going to church, not seeing his son, and that long-distance girl friend of his? What the fuck was the matter with her? She was such a lovely creature that her oldest son blows his face off with a shot gun and her own husband drives the pick up, STRAIGHT THE FUCK INTO THE SWAMP, he didn't even TRY to turn the goddamned wheel, and then, they do his BAL, and he's at .40, and this is 12 hours AFTER HE died. And Annie, did you ever see how FAT she was? Damn near 200 pounds, on a 4' 11½” frame. What the hell did he ever see in her? What the hell did she ever see in him? Face it, Annie, your son would rather have a virtual girl friend than go to church; than go to the relatives; than talk to his son. But, like Mark says (behind your back) “Out of sight, out of mind.”
And did you READ that poem he wrote 'bout you from the nuthouse? The little mother fucker even had the audacity to post it to his blog site. Anne, that Mark is a spiteful shit head. You are SO much better off here in heaven without the little shit. Just write him off. He's a worthless piece of garbage. HERE it is, READ THAT ASSHOLE's BLOG!!!
THAT ASSHOLE'S BLOG
While house cleaning, I FINALLY found my poetry written from the mental hospital to which I was confined from August 2-August 13 this past summer, during which time a memorial service was held for my mother, and her visitation was also held. She had a stroke, driving through the lovely countryside of Barrington Hills, IL, as we were returning from shopping at ALDI's where we had a most enjoyable time.
At the stop sign, her jaw went slack, her head went back, and her eyes rolled up into their sockets. I put a compress mirror under her nostrils, but she was not breathing. I dialed 9-1-1 on the cell, and they told me to lay her back. This I did, her foot was still firmly attached to the brake pedal, and was heavy to remove. Then they told me to get her to flat ground and administer mouth-to-mouth rescusitation. An angel who lived near by returned from his home to help. I tried, but could not get her to breath. The emergency vehicle arrived within six minutes of my call, and they tried for 25 minutes before driving her off to the hospital. In addition to her stroke, she had pneumonia in both lungs (she had congenitive heart failure), and this made it impossible for any air to enter her lungs. Four days later, they pulled the plug on her in the hospital. She never regained consciousness.
I sent out over 550 e-mails to keep people advised on her status. Our neighbors up the block stayed with her 10 hours a day in the visitors room, they held a constant vigil. But she was, for all practical intents and purposes, dead once she had the stroke, because she could not get any oxygen soon enough.
Fortunately, she and father had made plans for just such an event, and both of them have stipulated that there will be no extraordinary means applied to keep them alive in a vegatative state. So those choices were easy.
While in the hospital (for threatening to kill my parents' pastor, who had kicked me out of church back in February, for singing too high, and for talking to the praise band as they set up for 3rd service - and would not even let me enter the church where I was confirmed, and for 47 years a memmber - and only my mother even once came to my defense, on that Easter Sunday when the Roman Catholics let me be an usher, but the Lutherans would not even let me attend one of their services - so, I thought it inappropriate for the pastor to officiate her memorial service; he disagreed, as did my father and sister, which was very disappointing to me) we had an exercise where we were told to keep a free form writing journal. Until just this afternoon, I had lost track of where I had left it, but, voila! C'est ici!
WRITE ABOUT YOUR HOPES & DREAMS & GOALS
I hope to see my grandchildren
(although as of now, I have none).
I dream to sing at the Super Dome
In New Orleans, Lousianna, in front of 40,000 ninth ward residents.
My goal is to stumble the
Fuck out of this nutzoid place
That allows Alchoholic-Bipolar-Weenie Waggers
out in three (working) days
But keeps me in for ever And ever and evah
AH, MEN?
(they would ultimately confine me for nine working days
(although all other patients were discharged within five
(they wanted me to take a $1,000+ injection rather than
(the $13 / month medications that I had taken for more
(than 10 years during which time my mood was stable
(and no one felt as if I had to be controled.
(Clearly, at some point in time, I stopped being a patient
(to be healed, and started to become a profit center
(to be exploited. Ass hole bastards!
It seems as if tomorrow I shall be released
Today, now, finally, from this place of incarceration which is in no way
unpleasant and, in fact, offers me the one thing (besides intimacy)
that I most crave – companionship.
And in this absolutely delightful circumstance Fellowship too -
the best of all companioships; With cable TV, sometimes
a mere backdrop, And sometimes a focal point, an interesting
Collection of CDs, DVDx and cassettes, and a Crowd which,
for the most part, would accept Whatever -
no one's in control of the remote And every one's in control,
and snacks and Drinks (nno booze, no surprise, no coffee regular, dammit
(to hell in a hand basket and back) are available Virtually 24/7,
and you can wander the halls Even after lights out, and talk,
again, even after Lights out, in hushed tones.
So I'm going to miss this place More than I'll ever miss my mother
albeit only Loopy Audrey (Who is in No manner Loopy)
and pot-headed Sue afre left, and one of my favorites,
Tree-man-Mike, has displayed enough Anger issues to have his discharge
Revoked (WHEW - he barely made it out). So what will I take
from this experience?
Five friends - four girls and Tom S. Who will share with me the Magical
Mystery Tour Just about time To hop on the bus,
FLY AWAY, FLY AWAY, FLY AWAY
(And always - to visit pot-head Sue)
LIKE SHEEP TO THE SLAUGHTER
(OR LIKE LEMMINGS TO THEIR DESTINY)
Pot-head Sue (the former care giver) was kind enough
to gently put the crappy socks they dole out
here on my feet. With this particular second
shift crew, I probably could have made it
past 7:00 am without being told to stuff
'em into socks. But, I don't want to cause trouble.
And they have kindly asked, twice already,
"Mark, would you please put your socks on? We
"know not what evil stuff resides 'twixt the tiles."
But, as with most things, I need help to put
on my socks - either a chair to sit in (end
even then, it's a stretch), or a step to step up
on, since my overly fat belly is an
obstacle to socking up. And also to
wiping my ass after I shit. Sad state
of affairs.
But, Angel Pot-Head Sue is here now for me,
and freely offers to have socks with me,
and thus I with her, and, sadly to say,
this as as erotic as anything I have
engaged in (with a woman) since August, 2008,
with my beloved Natalie Jean, in Galesburg.
I need a dog. Amen.
