LUDIC LOG

Hey, Ludic Log fans! Don't forget to e-mail me and tell me why I am better than Jesus Christ for my birthday August 7th. Imperil your immortal soul for the sake of a cheap laugh!

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Frankly, I find the whole notion of writing in this journal absurd. In my father's time, in my grandfather's time, in the glory that was home, a man was looked upon as the provider, the champion, the king of his castle. He was not made to crawl upon his metaphorical belly in front of a tedious stranger who was blessed enough to sleepwalk through some sociology classes at a community college or some similar diploma mill. I realize that So-Called Dr. Van Sant will be reading this entry, but I care not! I am a man, Dr. Van Sant! I am a man! A free agent! The master of my house! I am not some toady awaiting your command to fulfill my orders. No lickspittle, I! A storebought plaque outside your rented office in the deceitfully named "Professional Building" does not buy you the right to make a monkey out of me!

What's more, I find this exercise in particular exceptionally demaning. When the master of the house is felt to be in error, a sane household (listen to me speak of sanity, when our entire society has gone mad) would not force him to sit down and draw up a list of his 'mistakes'. They would bear his occasional lapses into melancholy with gentle good graces, or, ideally, they would assess the flaws in their own characters which led them to question him in the first place. I feel certain that had Audrey not led us to the brink of financial ruination with her profligate grocery habits, I would have a househould staff, and they would behave in this way. But I am required by the twisted mores of our world today to attempt to 'save' my marriage, and if this means drafting a list of 'things I would have done differently' (to use Dr. Van Sant's craven terminology), then I suppose I must.

I hope the pocket Stalin who operates these 'family therapy' sessions which provide an opportunity for Audrey to speak ill of me while simultaneously draining my accounts will allow me this brief discursus: unlike my wife, who is fond of your flavor of psychoanalytical mumbo-jumbo, I shall not allow my confession to consist of such meaningless ambiguities such as "I could have been more supportive" or "I should learn to tolerate Victor's eccentricities". I intend to be pinpoint-specific, for if I must engage in this undignified carrying-on, I will bring to it precision and accuracy, not vagary and deception. Harken ye, Dr. Van Sant: this is what the truth looks like.

First, I should be more cognizant of the mental immaturity of our children. My attempts to instill the proper discipline in the ungrateful fruit of my loins has been hampered at every turn by their lack of intellectual development. They seem entirely unable to tell the difference between a threat and a promise, as evinced by the recent disappearance of their irksome Spaniel; and despite my many attempts to imbue in them an appreciation for the classics, they are quite impervious to irony, as became clear at last Wednesday's dinner when I told them they were eating poison. In the future I must strive to remember their egregious intellectual limitations (a genetic disposition which can only have come from their mother's side of the family) and treat them more like dull-witted animals than like the miniature humans I hoped to spawn.

Second, I must recognize that my family are not intellectually equipped to appreciate my scientific acumen. My father, of course, was a brilliant and influential scientist, despite his lack of 'legitimacy' and 'credentials' according to the academic racketeers in whose suspect devices dear Dr. Van Sant places so much trust. Thus, it is clear that I inherited his genius; a simple glimpse at the phrenological and craniectomal charts that constituted his life's work will confirm this. However, my dear wife and children, having been granted volume rather than wit by life's lottery, have little to no interest in my studies. Thus, for the sake of the family harmony I remain unconvinced has any value whatsoever, I suppose I should learn to keep the details of experiments such as the one involving tracking the relative edibility of a sunflower seed before and after its passage through the human digestive system to myself.

Finally, I made an error when telling Audrey I was sorry her mother is a slut. I'm sure that Dr. Van Sant would have preferred I use some spineless, 'non-judgmental' language such as "I am sorry your mother exhibits slut-like behaviors", but in the interest of the honesty I am constantly told is the key to a successful marriage, what I really should have said is "Your mother is a slut" and not mentioned being sorry at all, since I do not, in fact, care that her mother is a slut.

Well, there you are. Proof positive, I dare say, that I am deeply committed to this ridiculous 'process'. I await with great eagerness our next session, Dr. Van Sant, at which I can only assume you will admit at long last that all the friction in this marriage is entirely the fault of my wife. I bid you good evening, madame.