Doctor Malamud
The Archive's of:
Dr. Malamud©

The mostly unedited ramblings
of a broken-hearted man

"There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company than a good marriage."
Martin Luther
(1483 - 1546)

2003 "Luther"
movie review

Archived Page Number 4:
August through some
September 2003

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The Book of Psalms
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in spirit."
Psalms 34:18

The Book of Proverbs
"The first to present his case seems right,
till another comes forward and questions him."
Proverbs 18:17

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www.doctormalamud.com       The top of my head is buzzing from the carefully administered sole double-shot of tequila. I recently returned from a run to Albertson's and Blockbuster after first spending 3 ½ hours working on the yard. Usually, I feel better after I accomplish something, like mowing the massive yard, but today I did not. It's probably because I wasn't able to complete the work to the usual level of perfection I adhere to. Due to brief periods of faintness, I was forced cease my sweaty labors prior to their completion. Although it is a mere 104F degrees in the shade, the temperature in the direct sunlight was 25 to 30 degrees higher. And as much as I wouldn't mind dropping face first on the newly cut lawn, mowed down from a stroke, I know that today's medical industry is geared to drain every single penny out of each patient's checking account, savings account, piggy bank and mattress before letting them straight-line, so that a stroke would only compound my problems. I was emailing some friends telling them I was hoping to accidentally cut off my medulla oblongata while pruning the fig tree, but that would be a highly unlikely incident. My soul is tired. I just want to stop. Home of Dr.Malamud's medulla oblangata It's like I know I should be doing something, anything, to secure my future, while at the same time I'm weaving a web tightly around any hopes or dreams or wants. All I want is my wife back. I just want to sit and watch our 160 channel satellite tv with her. Just to have her next to me again. But, that doesn't seem likely to happen in the near future. She phoned today. At work again on her day off. And she'll probably be at work tomorrow on her other day off. It just struck me that she's traded the drudgery of being Dr. Malamud's wife for being married to her job. And the so very, very sad part is, she gets more attention from her job than she ever got from me. Shit. And before long, some millionaire, or billionaire, or fireman, impressed by her class, sophistication and intelligence will sweep her off her feet and I will only be occasionally mentioned as her "ex-husband". Shit. On the phone today she told me she wouldn't be able to make the signing for the sale of the house or help me pack up her stuff. That's all right. It'd probably be too much, way too much, to watch her place her stuff in her carton's to be sent to her new house. Her stuff that I thought would never be separated from my stuff. www.doctormalamud.com       Back at Starbuck's tonight. But inside. Outside it's in the 80s but too humid to be comfortable. Went to Office Max to buy a pad to write these notes on. Drove by an empty gas station, Danny's Mega Pumper. Emptied by the empty gasoline pipeline from Tucson to Phoenix. I noticed all the restaurants were pretty much full though. It's odd so many people seem to have so much money. I checked my cellphone before I left for the office supply store. Mrs. Malamud's phone number looked back at me, flashing "Missed Call", "Missed Call". I missed it because I had been taking my well-earned depression-fighting afternoon nap. That and, out of courtesy forgotten by many, I had my cell phone's ringer set to "silent." I watch curiously as the two attractive 30ish lady's charge into my coffeetarium laughing and giggling - then I figure they must be behaving in that manner because of the expensive liquids they carefully sipped at the nearby pickup bar that is cleverly disguised as a high-end Mexican food eatery. They must be single ladies. Or hookers. But they aren't dressed like hookers. Married ladies rarely display such animation in public. Married ladies are rarely that happy. Is marriage only to make the male happy? I see that they've finally upped the closing time at my coffee cantina to 9:30PM. I don't know how many evenings I've sat at 9:01 PM - the former closing time - only to witness a steady street of frappuccino® addicts bang their heads against the locked glass portal. OBL: my piggy bank? Some of these really fat people, you've got to wonder if they have any mirrors around their homes. My gawd, why would they dress in a way that draws even more attention to their uncontrollable gluttony? Having dropped fifty five pounds this year I have earned the right to pick on the fatties. I did not return M.M.'s missed call. She's so busy at work it's better that she call me on her schedule. The other day, thinking she was on the job, I phoned her and woke her up. With her consciously hardened-heart tenderized by the sprinkling of dreams, she sounded as sweet as ever. And lonely. After I rang off, my own heart went out to her. I wished I could end her loneliness. Or did I forget? She was so very, very lonely when I was around her every single day. She was lonely as she lay next to me in the massive Malamud marriage mattress. Each of us afraid of the other. Each hoping that ignoring the problem would solve it. She was lonely on her many out of state or out of country business trips. Absolutely alone and waiting for a phone call from me, her husband. A phone call she rarely got. Before I took my nap this afternoon, tears streamed down my face as I read a concerned and lovingly conceived email from a female friend. She had written that I needed to financially protect myself. I needed to accept facts and leave the limbo I've been living in for way too long. I, in turn, emailed the Missus that within eighteen months, I may be leaving for Chicago, New York, Burbank or Kabul. Why Kabul? To hunt down Osama bin Laden and collect the $25 million reward, of course. (As I edit this two days after I penned it, my heart begins its familiar throb, throb, throb against my breastbone. Sometimes I miss her so much.) www.doctormalamud.com       Too crowded here tonight. I am sitting so close to other Starbuckian's that I feel as if they can read what I'm printing. For all I know, I could be surrounded by a handful of the thousand or so readers who visit my pages each day. That's the awe-inspiring thing about the Internet. Your reader's could literally be anywhere on the planet. I think back to the E-mail I received that had originated from a friendly actor in a hostile country situated in the Middle East. And in these days of terrorism, I am also assured that of few of the individuals perusing my pages will be located in buildings with an alphabet soup of letters on the outside: FBI, CIA, NSA. French Bulldog StatuetteHowever, other than Dr.Malamud appearing to be of Arabic descent, my pages should be safe from serious scrutiny by my government's secret soldiers. Of course just listing their initials will get my web page into their search engines. An old, white, male French Bulldog, sporting huge bat-like ears with a belly so large, at first I thought he was pregnant, is outside and getting all the attention he can handle. He's such a sweetheart as he makes his languid stroll from the front door to table to table. I regret not bringing my camera. Both inside and outside high school students litter the TCBY and Starbucks arenas. Group studying. All girls. No boys. Not that I'm complaining. Some of these North Scottsdale Teenager's are just gorgeous with dynamite bodies composed of both a sexy muscle firmness and skin softness that will sadly, not survive into their later years. The couple with the French Bulldog both walk in with cellphones to their ears. Incredible. I watch as people stroll by . . . also with cellphones to their heads. I remember when I had one of the very first analog Motorola phones hard-wired into my gray-market European 745i BMW. It cost 3,500 1983 dollars, or over 7,000 of our 21st Century greenbacks. I look up and see the same track light bulb burnt out that was burnt out the last time I was here. I spot a man who reminds me of my company's former sales manager, Ernie. Ernie is, as they say, "Deader than Elvis." After he had sued us for 500,000 plus dollars, Missus Malamud never could figure out how I could forgive him. $500,000 that we had already given him once. I knew his lawsuit was one of desperation and without merit, even though it cost us $30,000 in lawyers fees. I figured that he had to live with himself. We did nothing wrong. For once, I was in the the position of holding the high moral ground. I'm fairly consistent about forgiveness and forgiving. I've even forgiven my former business partner, who by his neglect (fueled by my own naiveté) for running the corporation, that afforded me the means to be able to spend $3,500 on a phone, into the ground. All my Christian acquaintances say Missus Malamud should forgive me. More than once, she's already told me, "There is nothing to forgive, Doc." Oddly, it's a good sign that she can't address the issue of forgiveness. That indicates that the word has some significance in her life. And that maybe the word "forgiveness" also entails reconciliation? Of course, my challenge lies not in her ability to forgive, but in my own capacity for change after half a century of living.
www.doctormalamud.com       I pried open the Mar's shaped maroon tin that the Total Recall DVD lived in. Slipping it off its gray foam rubber resting place I carefully fed it to my DVD player. After marvelling at the beauty of the soon-to-be-single Sharon Stone and her accompanying lack of talent, and again being reminded how much Arnold's muscled torso resembled my own, and his even bigger . . . lack of talent, I'd had enough. Fueled by twin tall shots of tequila, in need of ocular agitation that could only be satisfied by yet unseen films, I set out for Blockbuster. On their perimeter shelves I found a recent and mindless 'action' flic. Over in the drama aisle, usually crowded by walkers, electric carts, and slow moving seniors, I chose the movie consistently rated as the best ever. "Citizen Kane." At home again, I put down the blue and white Blockbuster DVD cases and decided to fry up four frozen chicken thighs. Kroger's/Fry's thighs complete with bones and feather-free skin, thank you. Two, I carefully coated with the tasty and all purpose Beau Monde Spice Islands® seasoning and two with McCormick's Mesquite chicken powder. As I negotiated my precisely timed, nine minute thirty second turns of the fowl meat, I chatted with my English Bulldog over the way living in Phoenix was before refrigeration. Unlike most Arizona-born canines, he is bilingual, speaking both the ancient Barkian dialect and American-English. In the 1950s, prior to average homes being cooled by, the contrary sounding, heat-pumps, the only locales that featured refrigerated air conditioning were the always-crowded movie theaters (remember, this was before the invention of VHS, DVDs or cable-tv) the new Phoenix Public Library and the latest models of the City buses. Buses that middle class Phoenician's of all races unflinchingly and unashamedly rode into downtown Phoenix, which was then centered on the corner of Central and Washington Avenues. After George Foreman finished charring my chicken parts, I ate two legs and zip-locked a pair for work the next day. Then I stumbled off to bed still early in the evening - leaving the DVDs where I had lain them thirty minutes earlier.
www.doctormalamud.com       I lay down the folded, two week old employment-wanted section of the newspaper on the large, rectangular, oaken table that is designed to draw in students who wish to spread out and study. A limping lady, weighted down by her huge breasts, picks up the folded and yellowed paper and wanders outside to fill those same magnificent mammaries with malignant cigarette smoke. So sad. Today is my birthday and I wonder if anyone feels as alone as I do. Studying the faces passing by, I am certain other individuals are as sad as I am. Sadder. Even though both my son's currently live with me, minutes ago they both took off. The older one to stay with his latest girlfriend, the younger to talk his wealthy classmate out of the notion of going bowling and into something more productive. For my birthday dinner, my teen boy did insist on going out to IHOP, rather than Chili's. "I want real food", he explained. Of course, my debit card ate the bill. One day he will understand the immense joy the father of a young man feels, simply listening, anxiously listening, to his own son talk as he spills his dreams onto the Formica table top, between beverages of sweating iced tea and Coca-Cola. With the house sold, I have more than enough chores to do and I'm stymied. I worked at my place of employment until 7AM this morning. During the early evening I downloaded an e-mail from my daughter who lives with her mother and works the swing-shift. I slept until 1PM this Sunday. I listened, immovable while a faraway phone rang in my dreams. Moments later, my teen boy awakens me while simultaneously holding out the portable phone with an abrupt: