Things are so getting done around the house, easing my mind so that I could doze off a bit on the couch. My head isn’t racing with the panicked feeling of undone. I think partially because I finally got my stupid self-eval done for work.

Here’s my report, now give me that spare percentage point or so of extra dough. That’s the dance, in this job as in all the rest as with all jobs in the history of mankind. Somewhere before the combustion engine a young apprentice farrier took a thick grease pencil and checked off whether he had met or exceeded expectations. And, then, he pondered hammering a hob nail through his brain pan.

Anywho. I dozed off which means I didn’t read Howard Dully’s book, which I’ve started. Fascinating local guy and the poster child survivor for lobotomies. Now, if my stepmom signed me up for the ice pick through my eye hole and on to the good stuff of whatever lobe could get poked, I’d be bullshit. I’d be unrepentantly angry. Fucking hell, I was peeved when I realized M. had thrown away my mini marshmallows. But, to lobotomize me and make it so I’d spend a good lot of years bouncing in and out of institutions? Colossally ripshit. Nothing less.

Howard Dully, though, is thoughtful and searching. Calm, evenhanded and reflective about a childhood that included regular beatings. (Maybe it’s a placidness thanks to the procedure). You have to wonder what kind of man, what kind of thoughtful, reflective man, he might have been without modern surgery.

Instead of reading, M. put “Fall from Grace,” a documentary about the Westborough Baptist Church and Fred Phelps and his family, on the TV. Also known as the “God Hates Fags” crew. (Google it, since I ain’t linking.)

A couple of the Reverend Phelps’ offspring, now estranged, were interviewed by phone about their earliest recollections of his utter assholishness. Raging, violent crazy lawyer dad turned preacher and protester and overall fucked up, erroneous agent of the lord, dad. Must have been some kind of fun kiddiehood.

In my dozing, with the familiest of holidays almost upon us, I can’t help but think, “Damn, there’s some shitty parenting out there in the world.” I’m not saying my own dad, about whom I have only heard wonderful tributes, would be a perpetrator. But, maybe it’s not so bad growing up with just the one parent, Pat, whose protection knew no end.

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