I know what you’re thinking, and I admit it: my blog entries have been a tad morose and heavy-handed of late. It occurs to me that perhaps you fine people don’t come to the Lionel Show blog to be plunged in to the murky waters of my tortured psyche (although my screeds surely have some kind of “train wreck” appeal). Some of you have even commented favorably on my postcards from the precipice. Yet I know that you will soon tire of my navel-gazing, “mommy-didn’t-love-me” efforts to make sense of the world…a world so mired in meaningless suffering that it gapes before us like the yawning maw of some ravenous beast, single-minded in its quest to devour every last…whoops! There I go again! You nearly got treated to another prose poem about how much I hate myself and this bottomless dumpster of a life in to which I was born (against my will).

Where was I? Ah, yes: I can see how some of you might be sick of the lachrymose, weepy Dermott, the sad-sack S.O.B. who sees only the dark side of life. How do you think I feel? I have to share a bed with the guy! But seriously, folks…

Today will be different. Today, my friends, I have split the blog in to two parts, the better to mirror the acutely painful rift in my soul. Hopefully some balance between light and dark will be achieved. Part I is written by my dark side, Dermott McMarginalized, the maudlin misanthrope who sees the sweet promise of suicide in a butter knife. Part II is written by the Derm you used to know, the lighthearted lampooner, the newborn kitten drunk on ignorance, the goggle-eyed, wet-brained loser who laughs in delight at shiny objects and the basest forms of physical comedy. Good ol’ Derm, the hopelessly lanky simpleton who doesn’t know from politics, and doesn’t care besides…the good-natured boob who is content to drool and giggle his way through life’s many uncertainties.

Yes, my friends, today you get two bloggers for the price of none. On the one hand, you have the Dermott who goes in fear of the world, the cynical shut-in who hears every loud noise as evidence of the coming Apocalypse. On the other hand, you have the Derm who sees the lighter side of life, the Derm who knows that it’s all a joke, albeit a cruel one…yes…a cruel joke played on Man by an uncaring, absentee Father…a God who who watches from the wings with disinterested eyes as we assail each other like monstrous children playing a deadly game of “Butts Up” in the abandoned schoolyard we call Life…

There I go again.

Forgive me, and join me if you will for a double-edged amble down the road called Dermott. One side leads to pain, the other to pleasure, and all lanes are perpetually under construction.

PART I: I’M AFRAID OF CHINA (SORRY, JUICE)

The more I learn about China, that nation of billions poised for world domination, the more I get a mean case of the classic Dermott heebie-jeebies. Now, this is not a simple case of xenophobic fear of “the Other”; there are some tangible things about China that should scare any red-blooded American, and me besides.

As the Olympics approaches, I’ve read more and more about Beijing’s descent in to an Orwellian police-state, and about the over-compensating response to fringe groups on the part of the Chinese government. Being steeped in cynicism, I’m emotionally prepared to deal with standard totalitarianism and government oppression of dissenters. However, even I was shocked to read that the Chinese government recently re-instated public executions. They actually bussed people in from outlying towns to watch three men convicted of hatching terrorist plots (that’s a solid charge) be SHOT before their very eyes.

Add to this the fact that China turns a blind eye to the problems in Darfur because of their oil interests in the region, and you have to wonder: if these folks end up owning us on paper, what kind of 21st Century are we in for?

Not that we’re saints ourselves, but come on…free transportation and a day off from school to watch three people be blown away for what amounts to dissidence and minority status? Talk about “Good Morning!!!”

PART II: THE MYTH OF THE MIRTHFUL MCCAIN

Hello, evra-buddeh!

When John McCain first burst on to the Presidential scene…er, wait, that doesn’t sound right. Lemme try again.

When John McCain first casually decided to bother running for President, he was inexplicably lauded for his sense of humor and his approachable, “just-one-of-the-guys” demeanor. For the love of God (uncaring though He may be), can we please put this canard to bed once and for all?

Personable? Easy-going? Ready to chew the fat? Have you seen any footage of this guy lately? First of all, he smiles like he’s squatting over a pail of ice water, if you catch my drift; the mere act of bearing his teeth in some facsimile of happiness or relaxation seems to cause him pain. His “off-the-cuff” comments, which as a Straight-Talker should presumably come easily to him, sound like a compilation of the most painful best-man speeches you’ve ever heard. What’s more, his conscious attempts at humor nearly always dissolve in to an awkward silence broken only by his own stuttering laughter. This halting chuckle is McCain’s last-ditch, Surge-like effort to remind his entirely un-captive audience that the verbal belly-flop recently issued from his lips was, in fact, supposed to be a joke.

For all the jokes about his advanced age, in one small way John McCain truly is an antique: a few days ago, he actually used the verbal ejector-seat “but seriously” to round off a failed attempt at humor. He’s so ham-fisted and sad that you can easily imagine him employing the weathered bit “take my wife, please”, or even a Youngman line like “I take my wife everywhere, but she finds her way home”. Groan.

He stinks, plain and simple. There’s nothing the least bit funny, laid-back, or smooth about him. Like a stand-up comedian who’s in the wrong business, all he does is make his audience uncomfortable. I don’t want to hear this stuff for the next four years.