This letter also appeared in the March 19, 2003 issue of Honolulu Weekly


Date: Mon, 17 Mar 2003 14:11:57 -1000
From: "H. Doug Matsuoka's Vanity"
To: "Ian Lind" <diary@ilind.net>
Subject: Not so Fresh

This is long and not very pointed and not a farewell note, and needless to
say like all DougWords of Vanity provides no particular benefit greater
than any of the other pieces of junk mail you will receive today.

It's just that I've been very very depressed lately. Just THINGS, y'know?
-- and the WORLD, y'know? I've done the usual things to cheer up, and they
help a little: Watched "Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl" (let's
all sing together, "Sit on my face and tell me that you love me..."); drove
really fast (which safely simulates impending self-destruction as long as
you stay within the limits of your skill and the design parameters of your
car); listened to two Mozart "suicide concerti," [KV 488 and KV 595 to the
snotty] so called by me because they are full enough of warmth and grace to
persuade anyone to stick around a little longer. Just a little longer will
do the trick.

Years ago my dad handed down to me this story: Someone asks the Wise Old
Man, "What is the happiest thing that can happen?" The WOM answers,
"Grandfather dies, father dies, son dies." When asked to explain why this
is happy, he responds, "It's the proper order of things -- if these events
happen out of order, then that's tragic."

I find myself in a tragic realm where the usual sequence of events has been
strangely rearranged. There are worldwide protests against a war that has
not yet happened, the war that the U.S. will launch to preempt the war
against the U.S. that will not happen. The news media dutifully reports
post-war stories.

And I mourn the death of people while they are still alive, before the
first bomb has detonated. Before a single one of them has been
incinerated, or crushed, or fragmented. Before the indiscriminate massacre
of the guilty and innocent. Even before God has had a chance to separate
the evil from the righteous.

They shouldn't have to participate in their own mourning. Hey, call in
sick and take a walk in the park. Or just watch the soaps over at your
girlfriend's place. Steal a fancy car and see how fast it'll go. Paint a
set of titties on Saddam's portrait. Hit the ATM machine and withdraw ALL
your cash. Scratch the cat behind the ears and make him purr. The bombs
are coming. Gonna die. So have fun, or get wild, or do anything but be
sad. I'll do the mourning.

It's like I'm standing on a wharf waving goodbye to boatloads of people.
Bye! Bye! Don't be scared, everything's gonna be alright, save a seat at
the bar for me, see you again soon, until we meet again, love you guys.
But that's just my brain making things up. They're just gonna be stone
cold fucking dead.

I wonder who they really are, what they're really like. What they look
like when they get up in the morning. What they're like when they get drunk
or pissed. What they were like as kids. What they want to be when they grow
up. They'll all be leaving soon. G'bye! G'bye! And sorry! No hard
feelings, I hope.

And yes yes yes, don't remind me. There are things we can do, and proper
attitudes we should have, and perspectives we shouldn't lose, and meanings
we should grasp... but later. Don't bother me now, I'm mourning.
Sometimes there's nothing I can do but be sad.

dougo!