All I can say is, I must be crazy for taking advice from Harry Pothead, the forgetful wizard. His parting words as he drove off into the hills around Fairfax were, "Remember get an adult ADHD diagnosis, the meds have better street value. He'll want to prescribe the non-stimulant kind, because of minor side effects like weight loss, sleep disturbance, manic episodes, sudden death from cardiac arrest. Nothing to worry about, now that you're on a health and wellness kick. You could stand to lose that gut, anyway. Tell him you're always sleepy. Make sure you get the pre-crushed pills, kids are so lazy these days."
We'd gone over all this in the coffee shop, before he gave me Dr. Fihlgut's card. "And wear this tin foil helmet, it'll protect you from the cell phone microwaves."

"They're taking all that fucking money back? All the money you guys stole from those poor grandmothers of California?" energy trader to Enron executive.

The shrink had his office in downtown San Anselmo. I'd have to walk, unless I could find a boat. The rain was drenching, but I had a garbage bag poncho. Too bad it was black, walking the streets of Marin was going to be dangerous once it got dark. The aluminum foil hat was reflective at least and it kept my head dry, too. Triple protection.

What with kamikaze cyclists running stop signs, distracted, arrogant drivers on cellphones and sk8ter punks with an attitude, I was going to need to pay attention if I wanted to survive the mean streets of Marin. The meds were supposed to help with that. I might have to actually use some, even though their resale was supposed to provide rent.

Harry had coached me. "Just start picking up things on Fihlgut's desk, look through his books, forget what he just asked you. He'll come around quick enough."

I'd have to go to Dr. Feylbtr for the pain meds because Fihlgut was afraid of the DEA. Harry suggested fibromyalgia, a nice amorphous condition, can't be tested for. Docs just throw their hands up and ladle out free samples and opiate analog scrips, especially if you threatened to go postal without adequate pain management, Harry said. He's the expert.

"He just fucks California. He steals money from California to the tune of a million bucks or two a day." Enron employee about one of their hardest working energy traders.

Harry had gotten his adult ADHD diagnosis for a psychiatric disability to get into subsidized housing in San Rafael. He claimed it made him unfit for any kind of work, except video game beta testing. And his carpal tunnel nixed that. From obsessively manipulating his joystick.

Harry lived for scams. Not me. I was on an odyssey to find affordable housing in Marin. Did I mention that I was a hurricane refugee. Katrina, Rita, Zeta, some powerful female anyways. Although that got zero sympathy by now. I'd sworn to complete this hero's quest, find affordable housing in Marin, destroy the Ring of Power in Mt. Mordor, end winter in Narnia, capture the giant gorilla, errÉmy inner world was a little confusing, thanks to Hollywood.

A diagnosis seemed like a viable option. Maybe I was unemployable, after all. I don't think it's unreasonable to make homicidal threats unless you're treated with a little respect at work. People don't take you seriously, unless you follow through on promises either.

Entrepreneurial activity hadn't gone that well either. I still had high hopes for the Kevorkian Center concept, if California approved the Death with Dignity train. The Abandon Hope suicide hotline was the key, promise free prizes to attend a no obligation presentation, kinda like time share sales.

"Yeah, Grandma Millie, man. But she's the one who couldn't figure out how to vote on the butterfly ballot." Enron executive.

Fihlgut had a snooty secretary, but a real hottie. I told her she reminded me of an old girlfriend, whom I was no longer stalking. She said there was a six week wait list for new clients. No problem, I'd hang in the waiting room. Nowhere else to go. Started reading through an old Psychology Today mag, fascinating article on How to Love the One You're With, with pheromones, when he called me in. Fihlgut was all bubbly, must be on Zoloft, I thought. "Mr. Slimac, how exciting, I've been reading all about you." I noticed a thick file on his desk. "The wife you thought was dead is now living in Montana. Ooops, you're not supposed to know that, she's in a witness protection program."

"Huh? I'm not the marrying kind, are you sure that isn't an ex-GF."

"Weren't you training to fly, but not land a jumbo jet at flying schools and military air force training bases?"

"Uh, no, but some of the 9/11 hijackers were, where'd you get this file anyways, from the Intelligence over sight committee, connect the dots subcommittee?"

"Now she wants her money back for all the power you've charged É, jammed right up her ass for $250 a megawatt hour" energy trader.

"Hmmm. These federal security letters must be mixing up their info, not surprising when you have over 80,000 of them. Oops, I'm not supposed to tell you they're investigating you, either. Looks like an old girlfriend wasn't too complimentary about your penis size."

Ouch. Ex GF's are notoriously unreliable about that kind of info. What are they going to say, it was the best sex they ever had. Maybe I should order those guaranteed penis enlarging pills offered in an e-mail from Vicky F, a real friendly woman.

"Listen Doc, I'm just here to, uhh, why did I come here again? Hey cool jade vase" casually tossing a Ming piece from hand to hand. "It's a fake, did you get this from the Hill House of Antiquities? Nice ink blot painting, is that a Rorschach? Looks like a naked lady serving a latte. Could you have your secretary bring in some coffee? I'm feeling sleepy. Mind if I nod off for a sec?"

Fihlgut was looking panicky, this was working rather well. Usually Harry's advice was worthless, understandable, considering he dispensed it so freely. He reverted to the file. "Don't worry, we know you're here for a diagnosis, that bug in the lattŽ was not just a fly off the wall. NSA nanotechnology has developed some wonderful tools."

"They're so fucked. They should just bring back fucking horses and carriages, fucking kerosene lamps." Enron executive

"Aahh, here you are, Slimac, in black and white, my you're a prolific writer. You believe that 9/11 could have been prevented, but was allowed to happen to jump start the War on Terrorism. Mercury in vaccines and dental fillings causes autism, neurological problems, SIDS. Fluoride in the water is poisoning the population. HIV doesn't cause AIDS. The War on Cancer is a trillion dollar boondoggle searching for a Cure, but ignoring the causes. HAARP is not just some angelic instrument in Alaska. Classic stuff. I can give you an Axis I Delusional disorder, Axis II Paranoid Personality disorder, healthy as a horse, so we'll skip III and put no daily structure for IV."

I thought about using the Alito defense, I just wrote that to get a job, I don't recall that organization, but I have a shorter fuse than Scalito. "Wait a waterlogged minute, you quack. I'm not paranoid, or delusional. Maybe at odds with consensus reality, but then look how skewed that is." I knew the meds prescribed for those diagnoses and wasn't about to walk the streets of Marin with a Haldol shuffle. "I was just reporting on information out there, that wasn't being examined by mainstream media. There'd be no point in reading the Coastal Post if it was just rehashing stuff you'd already heard about. That doesn't necessarily mean I believe what I report on. That would be advocacy journalism. And the New York Times frowns on that, unless it's advocating War with Iraq, or Iran or Syria." I still harbor fantasies about writing for the Times, now that Jayson Blair and Judy Miller have retired to write novels. "I'm not crazy, I just have a rich inner life."

"Kenny Who?", George W. Bush, after Enron's bankruptcy, who called CEO Kenneth Lay "Kenny Boy" while using his private jet during presidential campaign 2000. Ken Lay was also on the board of Theresa Heinz Kerry's charitable foundation, in charge of their Global Warming initiative.

Fihlgut gave me a patronizing look. "That's what they all say, I'm not crazy, it's all true, I know it because the CIA is beaming messages into my dental fillings. What about military jets spraying Chemtrails to weaken citizens immune systems for the coming pandemics, come on, even my dog scoffs at that. Tell you what, my extremely high fees will be waived, and I'll write up your case in a prestigious journal. We've got meds that can help you, with only minor side effects, like Diabetes, seizures, Parkinson's, etcÉ Don't worry there's meds to alleviate those side effects, and more meds for their side effects, and on and onÉ"

This wasn't going as planned. Nothing Harry ever got me into did. The meds prescribed for psychotic disorders had minimal street value, unless you told people they were like exotic Quaaludes or Rohypnol, and I wasn't about to deal date rape drugs. Although it was probably the only way I'd get anywhere with his snooty secretary. She probably read about the size thing.

It looked like my only option was finding work as a luxury servant in Marin. I grabbed the file off his desk before I stalked out. We wrestled with it, until I assured him that I'd jam his spectacles up where his gerbils normally roamed if he didn't relinquish. That worked.

See what else my so called friends had to say about me. Hmm, "troglodyte", must have me confused with a Jack Abramoff client. At least my email messages were up to date. Vicky F was promising to Love me Long Time if I bought these warrantied Chinese herbs.

Due to memoir accuracy snoopers, the author feels obliged to declare that certain details in this true lies memoir while providing an "underlying message of redemption", do rely on "an individual's perception". In other words my recollection might be elided, conflated, distorted, exaggerated, confabulated, or otherwise completely made up.

All quotes in bold, even the really nasty words, are from actual transcripts unearthed in a lawsuit by Judicial Watch, plucked from a 9/7/04 CounterPunch article by Jeffrey St. Clair, "How the Two Parties Serve Big Oil". Readers of Coastal Post would likely enjoy this excellent newsletter, also known as CP out of Petrolia, CA. Online at counterpunch.org