Lava Lamp

Two weeks since my last post, and my mind is a ridiculous lava lamp.

I continue to feel less scattered, more integrated, which is a welcome relief. Feels healthy.  Announcing to myself that I can set comedy aside has allowed me to shed the weighty, negative feelings of isolation and regret that were jabbing at me.

What's ironic is that now that I feel stronger, I feel tempted to do more, including comedy! My April 7th comedy gig now includes an hour's stint on local morning radio; new opportunities like this seduce and excite my mercurially unreliable intellect. I have the technical ability to do websites, podcasts, live shows and more. How tempting it is to try; they are wonderful, exciting productions (and huge responsibilities to shoulder once my manic buzz is gone).  Agh! These bursts of optimism are most frustrating! As you can see I have trouble managing the rise and fall.  If you're a mental health professional, feel free to Comment.

I feel like I used to be more at peace with these things, finding ways to swim in the tide's ebb and flow, rejoicing successes more and regretting less the areas where I've "failed" myself. I'd like to return to that level of harmony one of these days. Maybe it's just a conscious decision to let myself off the hook. What a concept, to simply live in a joyful state of mind. I am suspicious of the idea that humans are built to do that, but it's excruciatingly tantalizing.

If I could clone myself, the first thing I would do is turn around and slap myself for these constant, jarring reversals of fortune. I will work more on loving myself for the silly human I am.

A strange and intrinsic longing

I'm surprised at how quickly nostalgia sets in.

My trip to Paris is well under two months old, and you can already find me mooning pathetically over Google Maps's street view of the unromantic location of the hotel in which I stayed. This, even though the second week of my trip served nothing if not to confirm that it was a week too long.

I met two people in my travels who were the sufficient combination of interesting and approachable that I could suggest keeping in touch. Both readily shared their contact information, but neither have responded to my attempts at contact. The cynic in me is quick to nod and say: "I knew it," and remind me that they're in the hospitality industry, one that people don't necessarily choose there so much as they capitulate to it until other arrangements can be made. The cynic goes on to speculate (he's still long-winded despite my efforts to deprive him of oxygen) that even the friendliest waiters and hotel clerks must gnash their teeth at the thought of extra-curricular contact with their guests.

That perspective doesn't save me from the sad disappointment of unanswered e-mails. I also admit to the internal (if not eternal) optimist, who fancifully and unrealistically hoped to make a distant contact or two, fostering a human connection that would span geographic and cultural divides. The optimist takes these setbacks with as much dignity as can be expected, and struggles to endure, even despite the extra coaxing and oxygen that's been diverted to him from his pessimist sibling.

Still, it's not all gloom: I hope to make an appointment with a local friend and fellow Paris-lover to go over the details of my trip and wistfully mull the charms of the city we both love. Also, I recently took inventory of the remaining souvenirs and scraps of paper from my trip, sharing them with my son. While he is immune to the effects of nostalgia, he did find a surprising degree of joy in the sugar candies I saved for him. Nothing fancy, just the shiny-wrapped bits you get in the tray with your bill at a restaurant.

It's funny where you can find life's little rewards.

The pleasure of anticipation

The first time I went to Paris, I spent weeks or even months planning the trip. I agonized over the air fares and hotel packages among different offers, and ran the numbers like a coked-out Accountant with OCD. I noodled over sights and how the Metro worked. Already a student of the language, I kicked my studies into a higher gear, and made a lot of progress.

Not long from now, I'll go again. The thought of returning was just as dream-like as the first time, right up until the time I booked the flight. At that moment, when it became real, a combination of events began churning into reality and quietly began to erode what I didn't realize were some of the best parts of the trip: the anticipation.

The run-up is the dance before the kiss, when all things are possible, a story not yet written. It's all potential: the dreamy, cartoonish whimsy where imagination and expectation meet, and jerk each other off. (Egads, what a jarringly crass turn of phrase. I think I'll keep it.)

As soon as I pulled the trigger on this little event, stuff started happening. Some pending items in my personal life, much like my trip, went from "someday" to "pretty frigging soon." My work life was much the same, taking a typically lax span of time and filling it with strife and tension. Even my stand up comedy life, deep in the drowsy doldrums, twitched and demanded attention.

In short, all the slack was pulled out of my line, and it was all I could do to hold on.

I had hoped to renew my love affair with the French language (which never should have lapsed). It's currently what I'd call "passable," but I wanted it to be so much better. I wanted to study art so that when I went to the Louvre and other museums, the things I'll see would have more meaning. I had hoped to scout out my sights online; for my last trip, I cyber-stalked cemeteries, streets and sights within an inch of their lives.

What will I see in Paris this time? I've barely put together a list, and even that was fairly flung together.

When will I see it? I hastily threw sights into a calendar like darts at a dartboard, and who knows if reality will reflect the slots I've chosen.

Where will I eat? I've got a wonderful book my wife bought for me, describing all sorts of restaurants there. I haven't read nearly enough of it.

I've barely been able to keep track of the paperwork I'll need to get on planes and trains involved in the plans I have cobbled together. I almost lost one of them this morning. My shit is not wired tight.

I feel sad and cheated that I haven't managed my time well in advance of the voyage. I've got to get a better mastery over the way the data is arranged in my noggin. I can do better than this.

...

Often, these blog posts give me perspective. The emotion I note here isn't the only one; sometimes, not even the dominant one. Still, it's useful to look back and see where my head was at, and that's reason enough to register my disappointment here.

So, on the bright side, I'm going to Paris, punk! If you had told me six months ago that I could go to Paris without a moment to plan, I'd have kissed you on the mouth and gotten on the plane. Things aren't so bad. I could happily sit on the street and consume cheese and wine and stare at the buildings and people and be as happy as a dog eating shit.

Here's to the happy dog!

Dime store wisdom is still wisdom

As further evidence that FaceBook is cheating my blog out of all my good brain droppings, I submit the hard-earned knowledge below, originally posted to answer a question that nobody asked (much like all the other posts in this blog):

I don't know much, but I know this: "drama" is like a sickness, it weakens you. The only person it helps is those who hope to catch you slippin'. Abandon and ignore the haters. Let go of the negativity when you can. The heat from flame wars burns down your house long before it touches anyone else's. (They're fun, though!)

Build your alliances with those who have treated you well; those investments pay dividends early and often.

Since I'm adopting a professor's tone, here's some extra credit: try to forgive the lesser slights against you. With time, you may even come to realize that you were as much to blame for what amounted to a misunderstanding, and your empire will be built that much bigger.

Class dismissed.

It's written all over my face

I have and love a singular inability to control my face.

If I inwardly suspect that you are full of shit, the muscles behind my eyebrows will contract, pulling the corners just a few centimeters to the left. My face will betray the rest of my body and silently but undeniably broadcast undiluted skepticism.

Similarly, if you've just barfed a half-baked conspiracy theory into my face or displayed a staggering ignorance of the subject upon which you're expounding, my eyelids will flap rapidly up and down, like psychic windshield wipers, trying to flick away the stupid before it really sets in.

This all amounts to a low-grade sort of mental telepathy, and over time I've noticed that my interlocutors have the ability to read my mind. What would seem like a disadvantage often turns out to be a subtle plus. Where it can be prohibitively awkward to verbally reject someone's whole program, it can be equally advantageous to do so visually. I've found that when people are trying to rent space inside your head for their own shabby luggage, the very wisps of doubt about their motives (or indeed their mental stability) can be expressed so quickly and directly that they themselves don't consciously perceive it, but nonetheless will pack up their ideological goods and make their way to the next sucker without so much as a sour puss and tip of the hat.

I do notice that I am more skilled at expressing hostility than welcome, but hey - stick with what you know. I wouldn't change a thing.

Bobbing in the surf

Holy crap.

The tempo of my day job has gone from Hank Williams to Metallica. Chores at home lay incomplete. Comedy and other interests have taken a back seat to... to what? Nothing, apparently.

Life has got me by the tail, and I struggle to catch up, keep up. Keeping a minimum of commitments is the most I can do right now. I am the master of nothing. I feel like a sock trapped at the bottom of a load of laundry, jostled and sloshed about.

I expect that balance, strength and confidence will return eventually, but for now, I am treading water.

Creative myopia

I am blessed and cursed with a powerful combination of cognitive short-circuits.

I am blessed in that I find many topics wildly fascinating at the outset. This is a blessing in that I can summon great amounts of interest and energy, sufficient to support an initial onslaught of research and genuine engrossment, some of which actually survives the rigors of time and occasional intoxication.

I am cursed in that this interest and energy necessarily abate over the medium term, at best. Always! No matter what the subject - computers, guitar, comedy and others - my fascination and ability wane after the first blush, and I am frustratingly unable to generate the wondrous blossoming of creativity (that sounds admittedly flowery, but it really is wondrous to me) that originally characterized my introduction or re-introduction.

Take comedy for example: for the longest time, questions abounded. "How do you start an open mike comedy night?" "What's the best way to light a comedy show?" "How much do comedians command for a given performance?" (If you've searched your way to this blog entry for answers to these types of questions, by all means, go to my comedy-related website, www.HumorMeComedy.com, for answers to questions like these, and more!) As I've progressed, I'm proud of the fact that I've answered many of these questions to my own satisfaction, and moved on to new ones. However, the levels of wonder and fascination have waned.

It's not that I don't still love comedy (for example); I certainly do. But I am no longer on the outside looking in. I am still near the outside of course, but have passed the most daunting palace gates. The waves of lust have broken against the honeymoon period regarding a topic, and at the end of it I find the reservoir of "I must know" drawn low. I feel like a honeybee or hummingbird flitting maniacally from flower to flower, sucking up nectar but rarely finding a reserve that lasts.

Currently, I maintain the will to see through the content-building necessitated to continue an endeavor like my comedy website - it's a potentially huge draw to create content of any kind for public consumption; the only constant requirement is to produce more - only because I remember, with active (though minimal) effort how much joy it has brought to me. The camaraderie of others with a similar love of the art, the creative challenge of putting a few minutes' material together, the joy when its success brings laughter from others, and the technical challenge of coordinating a real, live, no-shit comedy show like those I've attended myself and thought "I must be involved with that, too."

Even with that happiness firmly in recent memory, I can feel the intoxicating romance of firsts dim. Although it's never quite drudgery, my legs become heavy as I trudge around in my mind, trying to arouse again the springtime of wonder I felt before. I am not discouraged, because I find that I still can rouse it readily enough, but it does cause me to wonder if it's like this for everyone. It also causes me to suspect that genius may simply the ability to maintain a grip on this mental inertia, this wonder, allowing it to ford the obstructions of weariness, ignorance and other difficulties that keep us from excellence and success.

I'm glad I don't ultimately tire of writing/blogging, though. Although I tend to repeatedly (maybe tediously) revisit and dissect topics like this over periods of time, it still feels good and useful to me.

Sometimes you eat the gator, sometimes it eats you

I went to our local meat market, minutes from closing time. As I scanned the displays, the clerk behind the counter asked if he could help me find anything. I said: "Yeah, ya got anything weird? Snake, alligator, anything unusual like that?"

And by golly, he had a deep-frozen plastic pouch packed with alligator portions. My dubious wife sauteed the meat for me and my son, using her patented, secret spice recipe. By the time she was done, well, I can say that was the best damned alligator I've ever had.

My wife thought that it (the one whole bite of "it" she had) tasted like chicken. I disagree: it tasted like alligator. I'm beginning to think that that oft-noted chicken reference is the product of a limited frame of reference, both of vocabulary and culinary comparison. I'll take my own whack at it:

It had a mild flavor, similar to pork. I didn't know that alligator meat had light and dark portions (you know, like chicken! and other meats). Although I've read it has a low fat content, the dark meat had the luxurious, gelatino-fatty texture I would compare to catfish or pork. The white meat was a leaner, stiffer version of the same, but I've always been partial to dark meat.

I guess it should be no surprise that a land-and-water creature should have comparisons to land and water creatures, but I was pleasantly surprised that the comparisons are so favorable. I look forward to having alligator again, although its expense ($20 for two, hand-sized gobs of meat) will relegate it to "special treat" status.

I knew it

No political issues stick in my craw like those associated with "The Nanny State." The government putting its nose in your business and its hand up your shirt, telling you what to drink, smoke, eat, wear, do - it drives me absolutely mad. "Sin taxes" are among the worst, with elected officials (and don't forget, they're just a bunch of clumsy dicks like you and me, only less intelligent on average) deciding it's appropriate to discourage you from doing things that it thinks are naughty (though not naughty enough to be illegal) through exorbitant taxation - and by the way, if it fills their coffers quite a bit faster, so much the better, yes?

That's why I'm glad to see this study: Cell phone bans don't reduce accidents - CNN.com. I shudder to think of the slicing and chiseling of personal freedoms in pursuit of the illusion of a little more safety, while it's been determined that another of the measures that crowd your personal rights don't have any beneficial effect (except to extract funds for government accounts, of course).

Bah!

What if...

Given the amount of unnecessary anxiety and negativity that I for some reason inject into my every waking thought (I do, and it only sounds unnatural when I say it externally like this), it occurred to me to wonder the other day: what if I were to replace all that tension with joy?

Odd, introspective and to me, bizarrely revolutionary, but a useful proposition nonetheless. What if I just unclenched my butt cheeks, trusted that the universe is one of plenty, and just let it go? What if I replaced the sniveling, risk-averse functions of my thought process with those that have a measure of hope, trust and (if I must say it) faith in them?

Other people do it; live without making every decision like there is a Murphy's-law boogeyman, gunning for them around every corner. It seems to me that it serves them really well for the most part.

With that, I also realize that choosing joy is a tricky maneuver on several levels. For one thing, I imagine that doing or not doing it is largely a matter of psychology and/or chemistry, and unless I devoted the next two lifetimes to developing the physiological control of a Tibetan monk until I can choose to sweat out of only every other pore, I'll not likely achieve such a degree of control over this flabby vessel of mine. Indeed, it would be something of a miracle if I could simply lose 30 pounds.

Back on the other hand, negativity and fear are a choice, and changing my mind to think more positively is the type of incremental, ongoing task that I think suits me.

I get these minor epiphanies, and not only do I wonder how such a departure would manifest itself, I wonder what my wife would think of me embracing such a core change, to make a true break with the reservations I've known much longer than I've known her. There are a number of weird-ass things I might have done by now, if not for her to keep me grounded. Some good, some potentially not-so-much. She said something to me recently, something she'd never said before: "I just want you to be happy." I nearly collapsed!

Now, I know she loves me and it's no surprise to hear it said out loud, but I know she feels the same worries and responsibilities as I do, at least as keenly. Maybe I'm not explaining it sufficiently, but to hear my stoic darling say such a thing out loud, it was overwhelming. Maybe it's because I've been pondering these things on the sputtering back-burner of my consciousness. Maybe it's because my woman, as my delicate, late, saintly mother used to say: "wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful."

In any event, such a change, like all change, involves fear and uncertainty, which is the subject at hand, isn't it? Dragging others into such trepidating exploration sounds selfish to me. On the other hand (Daddy has a lot of hands), maybe it's just one more excuse not to make a hard decision, to stay on the same, dumb, apparently-safe path I'm on.

Don't be a pussy, Tom.

Middle Age

I was talking to a friend last week about middle age. He is older than I am, and told me not to worry about that, because it's still a few years out yet. I looked at him quizzically (which isn't easy because I haven't perfected that expression), and it brought up the meaning of middle age. I always took it to mean the forties, or roughly half your reasonable life expectancy. At the rate I'm going, I would consider myself fortunate to be at the halfway point now, and I'd less surprised if the sun didn't come up tomorrow than if my true, chronological midway point was still ahead of me. The only useful observation I have on the subject is that I've recognized one warning sign of maturity: you become the one who sends holiday greeting cards, as much as or more than you were the one who sits around waiting for them.

In any event, it raised the question of middle age, including an ever-popular subject inside my head, the midlife crisis.

I have always been the first to admit that I am an odd duck. If I were a cow among the mooing herd, I have no doubt that I would stand around all day going: "Mehhhhh..." in an innate, irrepressible expression of individuality, and giggling when I fart, with a conspicuous distance between me and the other, rightly-nervous cows. If midlife crisis is a time in a person's life where he is hit with a jangling, unavoidable reflection of his life and its direction, then I've been in such a crisis since my preteens. I've been trapped in a pulsating, recurring loop of myopic introspection, complete with gaping blind spots, for years. I've always been had this sensation of rudderless self-doubt, and I suspect I always will. My friend Joe would likely decide that I have a lesson to learn about certainty, or confidence or some shit. It's as good an explanation as any I have thus far.

The good news is that my wife and employer can expect that I won't thrash about in a sudden, flailing attempt to right my leaky, wandering vessel and change its heading on the ocean of my life, especially by taking up abruptly with some skank or buying a Corvette (not that my credit would allow it anyway). It's just not in me.

The bad news is that I certainly will thrash about, reliably and often, with moderate, less-frightening but still-moderately-bizarre decisions like doing stand up comedy when I have the chance (and enthusiastically seeking out more of those chances), and keep a vigilant vigil for a lifetime pursuit that feels right and true and rewarding. That is most definitely within me. Lots of people can happily watch television for years on end and not feel like they're missing anything. Although I have a lot in common with those folks, I can't quite escape the nagging feeling that something truly fantastic is whistling quietly by, and that if I don't snap out of it I'll wake up at the end of a very steady, boring ride to discover that I've slept through the best parts. It's a very petulant, fearful feeling, but that's usually the only thing that will motivate me, so I guess it's as good as anything.

The above paragraph is a fair description of midlife crisis as I understand it, but it's always been there. The only difference today from when I was twelve is that I'm not getting any taller or thinner, and the bottom of my hourglass is getting noticeably fuller and it makes me sweaty thinking about it. Maybe this is just splitting hairs so that I can still feel set apart from the other cattle, but it's a distinct enough distinction that I feel it's worth noting.

Empty

Just feeling empty this week. Desolate, running on "E." I don't feel strong, and I don't like it. Maybe I need more Jesus in my life.

Hah! That felt good; I needed a laugh.

I've been lower than this, often and recently, so I know it could be worse and that gives me some strength. Still, I feel spent and I get the sense that a remarkable change is necessary to alter this course; half measures won't cut it. If I knew what to do, I'd do it. I guess that's the fun of free will and the human condition: we're all just scrambling around in the dark, hoping to stumble into something that smells like joy.

If I bump into you, try to smell like joy, will you? It's not really that much to ask. I'd do it for you.

Overdose

My wife made a stop on the way back from an out-of-town trip this weekend, and picked up a treat for the two of us: sushi! As requested, she also picked up extra Wasabi, which is a spicy spice that I prefer over those found in Mexican cuisine, because it typically only burns once.

Skilled sushi-snarfers will attest that mixing soy sauce and Wasabi (is "Wasabi" capitalized?) make for a most excellent paste that tastes fantastic and is easier to apply to your food. Therefore, I mixed up a lean batch of Wasoybi (trademark, Liberated Pachyderm Productions) and enjoyed it.

The trouble came when I, rather than dipping a fat morsel into my soylent green concoction, I lost control of it and splopped the entire gob into a small, homemade vat of Japan's revenge for Nagasaki. Dumb as I am, I thought: "No matter - if I enjoy a dollop of this culinary battery acid, think how much I'll enjoy an entire fistful of octopus and rice that's been dumped, turned over and fished out of such a potent potash!" Into my stupid maw it went.

At first, I tried to tough it out. "No need to panic; we've been here before... I've taken borderline-regrettable hits of Wasabi before, and survived; I'll be fine." It only took a moment to realize that I was in over my head. First, the pain. The great thing about the Wasabi experience is its purity on multiple levels. If used correctly, you don't just taste the sting; it wafts through your sinuses and slaps your stupid brain for allowing the body to consume such a wonderful abomination, and then continues to scald its way out your nose. In small doses, a pleasurable extreme. In larger doses...?

In the blink of a watery eye, I couldn't breathe, couldn't chew, and was concerned that swallowing would lead to hideous some combination of barfing, snorting and shitting my pants, none of which had any future (although there are those upon whom I could call, had I needed the voice of experience).

As I wondered idly about the number for the Poison Control Center, I made the decision to cut bait (unfortunate fish reference noted). Eyes watering freely now and with my wife by my side (surely feigning concern while she stifle inward torrents of laughter), I nodded at her questions about whether I was about to die and leave her with two mortgages and a five year-old psychopath who's just learning to spell, and I expelled the entire unholy mess back into the styrofoam tray where the painful nightmare had begun.

Having rejected the malignant mass, I coughed and choked entirely without dignity until my eyes pointed in the same direction again, at which point I assumed the stance of a cat who'd just clambered drunkenly off a bookshelf and careened into an aquarium, strutting away as if to say: "Yes I meant to do that, and what's more, I stuck the landing. I can teach you that, you know."

Can't wait to see what's for dinner.

Passion II

Following some good advice, I took another look at what I love to do, rather than the things I must do. I departed from the comfortable norm, and drove two and a half hours to downtown Manteca last night, performing a four-minute set at a two-hour comedy show for a good crowd.

The upside: I got a respectable amount of laughs. I stolidly acknowledge that I didn't bring down the house and that there were many funnier, more experienced comics in attendance. No posing here.

That said, I must also say that it was thoroughly exhilarating to have done some time and not only not embarrassed myself, but to have acquitted myself reasonably among local peers. As wordy and mild as that last sentence is, the buzz of the experience carried me home and kept me awake for hours last night. Opiates have nothing on the joy I felt last night.

Passion, and lack thereof

While I had a few days off, I never really got much done, other than housework and minor fiddling around. I can't seem to muster enough passion about any one subject or endeavor to really dig into it. This must be what ADHD feels like: a broad-but-not-deep fascination pool, and the inability to focus on anything for long.

When I do try to burrow into something that attracts my interest, I find the interest flagging after not too long. The only good news is that it always comes around again, like some great merry-go-round. Trouble is, progress is disjointed, scattered, and many things must be re-learned, sometimes several times.

This is no way to run a psyche...

Big Day

I woke up this morning with the realization that today is my son's first day of kindergarten. It was no surprise and the anticipation hasn't really affected me in the preceding days, other than logistical concerns involving who drives where and when.

Still, as I opened my eyes I had the distinct sensation of a roller coaster car reaching the final, clanking, uphill procession, and that of a passenger looking down at an unstoppable, exponentially speedy trip down a nearly incomprehensible and frightening series of twists, loops, volcanic leaps and stomach-torquing drops.

Here we go. Too late to get off now. And breakfast isn't sitting so well at the moment.

I am... Superman

I just realized something about myself, and it's taken some getting used to. I'm Superman.

I know; I didn't believe it either at first, but I've proven it. For example: I'm looking for my shoes this morning, and I look where they belong, right next to the bed. Nothing. I go to look in the living room, fail, come back, and there they are, right next to the bed! Another example: the sugar bowl is running low, and I know we have a bag in the refrigerator, from which I can fill it. I looked on every shelf of the fridge three times, moved things around, and fully explored the 18 cubic feet of this unit, top to bottom. I ask my wife, she tells me where it is, and >poof< there it is.

Clearly, I have X-ray vision. In the space of two days, I have looked completely through two solid objects! Now, if I can just control it, I'll really have something.

Look! Up in the sky! It's a dork! It's a dipshit! No, it's Clueless Man!!

Beer is an inferior intoxicant

It's been too long since I've written anything. Pardon me while yank some malformed, misshapen thoughts out of my head:

I'm so bored with beer. It's just lost all its promise and mystery for me. To examine the reasons, I start with the mystery:

I must acknowledge the zero-sum game inherent in its intoxicating effects. Every evening (or early afternoon, as it happens) the decision to imbibe is necessarily accompanied in a mature person by another decision, that of sacrificing the following morning's sense of wellness for the revelry of today. While that has a certain fatalist, write-a-bad-check appeal to it, I am sick of the bargain. I am coming to realize that the sensation of waking up with internal organs that are well-rested and pumping out essential juices and chemicals in their appropriate amounts is a valuable thing indeed. I don't wanna get all "ABC After School Special" on you, but it's almost a "high" in itself. The loss of that near-euphoria is deceptively undetectable, like a slow erosion, but it's real. Maybe it's just my age and my historical affinity for the "research" on this subject that have taken their toll, but the more I comprehend that value, the more I am overcome with buyer's remorse.

On to the promise: that implication that I might have more fun with a few belts in me. Certainly, I'm a jolly ass for a while, but the loss of the senses and logical thought robs me of something whose use I miss more and more lately. Some people can drink and enjoy reading, playing music or other mentally proactive pursuits, but I don't find myself among them. Since I rarely get outright sloshed anymore, I find that there are few tasks I cannot perform after having my fill of lager, but do I enjoy those activities? I really don't.

Add to that the fact that I tend to get cranky and impatient between drying out and hitting the sack, and as you may imagine, the balance of the day is much less fun.

So, scratch fun, as well as my own experiences in the matter. I'm not swearing off beer altogether, but clearly, I've turned my own little corner. But is beer inferior?

A little objective thought will reveal that anything you can cook up in your bathtub or a prison toilet is suspect, whether it's gin, brandy or beer. In my mind, it compels comparisons to methamphetamine and other homemade drugs, and it's not a flattering comparison. Granted, Heineken and the Glenlivet warrant some form of exemption in this analysis, if only because they bring a lot more to the "enjoyment" side of the equation. They are quality products, and deserve to be set apart from the cheap shit with which I've been poisoning myself in for years. Unfortunately, the downside effects are equally deleterious, if not worse.

All this begs to lead to comparisons to other choices of intoxicants, alternative versions of mental bubble gum. Certainly, it's not an exercise to leapfrog past that and wonder why not just abstain, and leave your poor brain alone? Surely it has enough to contend with absent all these chemical disruptions and distractions.

That's a worthwhile question, too.

Must... stop... the pain!

I went and lifted some weights yesterday, and then I've somehow contracted the Brown Bottle Flu. It's not as bad as swine flu in that it's more fun to catch, but I imagine it no less painful.

Both have left me moaning and torpid this morning, and I want very little so much as I want a good night's sleep. That's one argument for legalizing marijuana you don't hear often enough: hangovers are less-severe or even non-existent. So I've heard, anyway, being clean and all.

Ow.

Stupid Thing of the Week

Last Sunday I got ambitious and threw myself into some yard work. I'd thought we had some white, cotton masks so I didn't grab any at the hardware store. I returned home to find that I was mistaken. "I'll just tough it out," I thought to myself.

Two-and-a-half hours later, I had mowed and weedwhacked my way through quite a bit of fire safety and beautification chores, and settled in for the evening. I had also inhaled my own body weight in powdered grasses and weeds, and my histamine levels quietly climbed through the roof.

That night my sinuses locked up tighter than a frog's butthole, my sample of Nasonex ran out (that shit's magic) and I didn't sleep worth a damn. The next day I realized that not only were my sinuses doomed, but that my upper respiratory didn't like the idea of me snorting a fat line of ragweed, either.

I've spent the last week metabolizing mother nature's insidious fluff, and coughing long, dry and hoarse, like a dog trying to hack up a block of wood. It sounds worse than it is, but it's still pretty f*%&ed up. I'm looking forward to sitting in a movie theater today and gagging and hacking and snorting. In between fits I plan to wheeze and squeal piglike, to summon up unspoken references of swine flu amongst the captive moviegoers who share my air.

Feeling better, though.