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March 31, 2005
stronger
i want to be awake at 6:30am. i want to awake, breathe, go to the gym to make myself strong again. every night, i've pushed the time back, putting myself to bed a little earlier. if i find the will to wake up, to get up, early enough, i might catch up with myself, with who i want to be.
i entered the clumsy sport of football, playing in junior high and my first two years of high school, because i knew nothing else. still a child trying to be loved, trying just to win respect, i gave the only things i thought i had to give - my effort, my will, my body.
i entered the solitude of cycling, and there learned to push, to overcome myself, to love the feel of speed, connected to the earth only on two precarious and narrow patches of rubber, to battle myself harder than anyone else ever would, and that's why few ever beat me.
i entered the art of basketball. it taught me to want the ball, taught me not to fear opportunity. i found grace in my body, desire in my heart. where i lack skill and natural talent, i again give anything else i have to give - i move like i shouldn't be able to, i frustrate the 20 year-olds on the courts at UT, i throw myself to the floor, i take the blows, i transmit force of will and belief to my teammates.
i entered the self-denial of distance running. i battled the question of "why" with the peaceful force of "simply do." with my friends, i have discovered a simpler love that is born of shared sacrifice and shared commitment. i have defeated my own illness-weakened body to cross a finish line. i have run, endured, cheered on by the ghost of a friend, the hand hanging limp at my side reaching up to touch her picture over my heart.
i have fallen. there is a storm in my mind, a deadness in my heart. i run, and i feel the panic of drowning, and i don't know if it's the fear of asphyxiation, or an asphyxiating fear. i drop back, struggle not to quit altogether. but i come back, again and again, with the help of my friends, and i run, and i try every time to still the sense of desperation and anxiety; i try to regain the sense of freedom.
i want to be stronger. i want to feel solid and steady in the winds that buffet me without and within. i want my shoulders and arms back. i want to feel my feet brush lightly on the ground beneath, my body sliding smoothly through the air. i want to feel myself rise up to meet the ball, grab it, and not let anyone wrest it away from me, as if it were life and hope themselves.
i want. i want. i will.
Posted by Rob at 12:08 AM | Comments (1)
March 30, 2005
bossy songs
my iPod is on shuffle. i note the following string of songs forbidding one thing or the other. they all seem to provide sound advice:
don't ask me why
don't be shy
don't cry (guns 'n roses)
don't cry (seal)
don't cry (guns 'n roses' second version)
don't damn me
don't do me like that
don't dream it's over
don't fade away
don't fade on me
don't gimme no lip
don't give up (3 different versions)
don't go breaking my heart
don't go to strangers
don't got to be that way
don't let me down (beatles)
don't let me down (no doubt)
don't let the bastards get you down
don't let the sun go down on me (3 versions)
don't lose your cool
don't lose your head
don't make me come to vegas
don't make me wait
don't panic
don't pass me by
don't point, don't scare it
don't push your foot on the heartbrake
don't smoke in bed
don't speak
don't stand so close to me
don't stand so close to me '86
don't steal our sun
don't stop (madonna)
don't stop (stones)
don't stop until you get enough (which seems more reasonable)
don't stop believ'n (journey, not christian rock)
don't stop by the creek, son
don't stop me now
don't stop swaying
don't think of me
don't wake me
don't worry 'bout me
there are, by contrast, only the following songs encouraging the doing of something:
do i do
do it (uh, huh-huh...)
do me baby
do the evolution
do what you have to do
these do not seem as helpful, except in porno movies.
p.s. - i will buy a six-pack of the favorite beer (or sody water, for the teetotallers) for the person that can identify the most artists that go with these songs. i expect c-bizkit to win, in which case i will buy her several avocado margaritas.
Posted by Rob at 01:23 PM | Comments (0)
Bush Proposes Rumsfeld as Papal Successor
WASHINGTON, D.C. - President Bush confirmed Tuesday that he had been examining potential candidates to succeed the ailing Pope John Paul II, and had forwarded Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld's name as the United States' nominee.
The United States, of course, has no input on the selection of popes. The process is a complex system involving old men gathering together in secret and puffs of smoke, which sounds much like American systems of governance, but is entirely different.
The announcement left many pundits nonplussed, given the President's recent bizarre nominations of Deputy Secretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz to the presidency of the World Bank, and John Bolton as U.S. ambassador to the United Nations.
Wolfowitz has been the leading proponent of armed "regime change" since George H.W. Bush's presidency. It is believed that his rise to power is due primarily to his appropriate name and the results of a late-night poker game with late former ex-President Ronald Reagan aboard Air Force One in 1986.
In an attempt to gain credibility, Wolfowitz had two much-publicized conversations with Irish rock star and activist Bono (also known as as "Boner" by Beavis and Butthead fans) on Thursday. Bono was visibly shaken after the last conversation, and was heard by friends to whisper, "He said they'd carpet bomb Dublin next if I wasn't nice to him."
Bolton (yes, that's a new link)has long delighted United Nations fans with his comments about that organization, which include such favorites as: "If the UN secretary building in New York lost 10 stories, it wouldn't make a bit of difference,"; and, "There is no such thing as the United Nations. There is only an international community that occasionally can be led by the only real power in the world, and that is the United States, when it suits our interest and we can get others to go along."
Bolton is no relation to the ridiculously-haired, histrionic singer Michael Bolton, but is said to be "a huge, almost stalker-y fan."
The President's nomination of Rumsfeld leaves analysts pondering what Bush might do next, particularly considering the fact that his increasingly bizarre actions appear to be garnering less and less attention from the American public. Recent polls indicate that 12% of Americans approve of the Wolfowitz nomination, 16% disapprove, and 69% feel, simply, "Meh." The votes of the remaining 3% polled were rejected, as they were later found to be from a handful of dead cats.
In a telephone interview from her massive puffin farm in Alaska, sell-out folk singer turned pop diva Jewel, who is not a licensed psychologist, said, "Basically, we've got a downward spiral of attention-getting behavior from the President, just as you might get from a recalcitrant 2 year-old, or a teenager. He's testing the boundaries of American acceptance and incredulity. The problem is, his behavior is essentially getting no response from the public, other than that movie by that fat guy."
Based on this theory, many pundits believe Bush's next major move will be either a preemptive nuclear attack on Monrovia, which no longer exists, or taking a massive bowel movement on his Oval Office desk on national television. Sources close to the President claim that a third possibility involves a beer bong, Paris Hilton, and a goat, in a live Pay-Per-View event.
Bush aides say other considerations for the nomination to the papacy included Ashton Kutcher, as a way to "punk" the Catholic Church, and Mel Gibson, who was unavailable due to the filming of "The Passion of the Christ II: Resurrected and Lethal."
The Vatican is no longer accepting Bush's calls.
Posted by Rob at 09:12 AM | Comments (0)
March 28, 2005
westworld is now
although this robot chick is slightly more attractive than yul brynner.
ok, so i went to see the ring 2 this weekend, which i thought would be a very bad idea, because, well, i'm a coward. there were a couple of interesting images, and a weird bit with giant computer-generated deer, and naomi watts is fairly hot, but the movie was not scary at all. samara, the freaky girl that is apparently what baby jessica would have been 12 years later if no one had noticed she had gone down the well, is now just a caricature of herself. yeah, she's evil, yeah, she walks funny - we get it, already.
but today, i ran across some genuinely creepy stuff, care of www.engadget.com. it's like a prequel to "westworld" - it's happening. check out the video...
Posted by Rob at 02:56 PM | Comments (2)
March 27, 2005
monday morning
this three-piece suit is wearing me thin;
i've got an office, but it's much too small to let you in.
i know the difference, cause i'm different from them,
and it's monday afternoon.
"monday afternoon" - ian moore
mondays are hardest for everybody. i know this.
i've spent the last couple of hours in front of the other keyboard, watching the tori amos dvd, struggling to play along. no, i have no training. no, i have no sheet music.
my fingers were so stiff and lifeless at first. i banged clumsily through "crucify." had nice moments in "bells for her," though i couldn't connect the hearing to the playing as well as i once could. i suffered through the weird rhythm of "cloud on my tongue". i figured out most of "your cloud," and i felt that amazingly transcendent joy that only music brings me.
i love and appreciate the music. i turned the keyboard off and just sat and watched "precious things" and my favorite, "hey, jupiter." but as much as i love it, music is a memory of a past i failed and a life i lost.
i screwed up. there's no way around it, no soothsaying for it. i was given something, a history and a heart that lend themselves to music, and i wasted it. the first question my father asked me when we got back in touch with each other after 24-25 years was, "are you a musician?" he just knew. he just didn't know how sidetracked i would get, how unsupported my own dreams were, and how i would prove too weak to just follow those dreams anyway.
i had a conversation with a friend the other night. we talked about a friend of mine she went out with a couple of times, a 35 year-old lawyer. he and i are very different - he embraces the career, the lifestyle, the persona, while i reject those things, and never wanted them, and know they were never supposed to be in my life. but we both wear the same label, and almost the same years. for him, the limitations of the label are part of the deal, the cost of the life he wants. for me, it's the price i pay for something i don't want, and it's the history that replaced a better destiny.
i'm as annoyed to feel these things as you may be to read about them. again. maybe it's partially the 36 thing. it's always been the lawyer thing.
but this is a good chunk of why i feel like i do a lot of the time - it's a crisis of identity, the feeling i'm living the wrong life, wasting my own. the other chunk, the alone thing, is no doubt made more difficult by the fact that i'm not happy with my life.
so most nights, i can't get to bed. time slips by me in sleep, and the morning will be on me too soon. increasingly, i stay awake, trying to affirm, trying to keep alive the dream of who i really am. i write, i play the keyboard, i sing a bit. but i can't fight time, and i give up at a point where i can get just enough sleep.
i can't be here at 40, don't know if i can be here a year from now, or a month, living one lie during the day, living a fantasy at night, giving breath to the same lament, dreading the nightfall on sunday that'll too quickly give way to another monday morning.
i don't want to be the whining middle-aged yuppie. this is what most of us do every day, and we're luckier than so many people that have to do worse, have to work harder in unrewarding jobs just to get by. but just because that's how life is doesn't mean it's right. how much is lost, for me, for you, for so many people, for us all?
it's hard to see the way out sometimes, but my friends encourage me, and amelia's right - for now, maybe it has to be the nights and the moments that i live and go to bed for. it's back to the hope thing, isn't it?
Posted by Rob at 09:38 PM | Comments (2)
March 23, 2005
dude, where's my hair?
i'm in supercuts. 7:00pm on a friday night. la vida loca, you know.
i couldn't stand it anymore, the whole hair thing. i let it go, sort of a graphic representation of everything else i've let go in the past month or so. it's gotten long, which, paradoxically (and again, symbolically), only makes the scalp yamulke on my head that much more noticeable.
a week ago, i plugged in the clippers to get them nice and fully charged. i was ready to do it, to just shave it all off. therer would be a certain practicality to it, and possibly even a new and intriguing look for me.
oh, please don't let me get the mean-looking asian lady. she just grabbed that kid by the skull and said "stop moving." yikes.
but there's a little bit of fear, and a bit of sadness involved in the whole idea of shaving my head. i could very well look horrendous, my noggin lumpy and misshapen. i think of finding my baby book, and seeing recorded there "Mother's First Words on Seeing Baby: 'Ugly, pointed head.'" apparently, i was a fat little kid with a citrus juicer for a brainbox.
there's also the issue that over the years, my steadfast declaration that i'd just shave my head once hair loss reached a certain point has lent the act a sort of never-go-back finality. it seems like growing it back later would be a sort of pitiful act of nostalgia-fueled hopeful desperation. kind of like going back to the ex you just broke up with last week, just because no better options have appeared, and some things were good, like, well, the sex and the shared love of waffles and home improvement shows, never mind the incessant squabbles and her damnedly bizarre hatred of oatmeal, pearl jam's later works, and the color red.
mean-looking asian woman's done with the kid. he looks weirdly pleased with himself. now his dad is getting his cut. he's swanky late 70's hair model guy with a moustache, hair swept back in layers. he stares at himself in the mirror while she works, his head down, just the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. i keep expecting him to give himself the point and shoot with a wink - "looking gooood, baby." i saw the kid watching his own haircut with the same expression. history will repeat itself. women will fall. they should know better.
i know i'm more conscious of the spot than other people. i see it in photos and in the mirror, which causes me to see myself as a slightly younger, barely less bitter version coach dean cady.
but fortunately, i'm right at six feet tall, despite dylan's claim that i'm 5'11", because he was drunk at the time, as he pretty much always is. anyway, having the bald spot six feet up means that few will ever see it, unless i: bow; drop something; or am sitting, like in a restaurant. this means i am unlikely to get dates with royalty or waitresses who demand a full head of hair. it does also make eye contact and not dropping things that much more important.
"lob? lob?" crap. i got the mean-looking asian lady.
ok, she's not so bad, as long as i'm compliant with her demands to stay still. i don't think she understands a word i'm saying. she keeps asking "2, 3, 4?" i think she's talking about clipper guard lengths. she also seems to know "short" and "not short."
actually, the mean-looking asian lady, despite the linguistic impasse, knew what she was doing. my head feels better. the spot is actually less obvious, looking just an area with slightly less foliage, rather than a region of slash-and-burn agriculture in a rainforest.
i get home, and the clippers are waiting, the green light indicating a full charge.
i eye the spot warily in the mirror. i turn, try to catch it by surprise. i give the suave smile and slight bow to the lovely princess of propecia as i pick her up to take her to the pearl jam concert. acceptable. i look up from my plate of imaginary molé enchiladas to smile at the cute waitress. not bad.
i hunker my shoulders and scowl like coach dean cady. no, not there yet.
i unplug the clippers and put them back in the drawer with the unopened box of condoms and the expired hair gel.
postscript - you know who else i've discovered is balding? jon stewart. it's true. check it out. and he's nowhere near six feet tall. he inspires me.
Posted by Rob at 12:00 AM | Comments (4)
March 22, 2005
handling pudding.
ok. it's been a jacked-up few days. a couple of weeks ago, i wrote about the feeling that taking certain medications made me feel less "me". i decided, once again, to experiment with not being medicated, a decision that was helped along by running out of pills and the cost of shelling out for new ones.
last week, i wrote about the results of that decision - not so good. the results of writing about it were also not so good. i was at once touched by the care of a couple of good friends, and a bit shamed that they saw in my life the need for little interventions. they were concerned, disturbed, probably a bit embarassed for me. they understandably fear the repercussions of putting it on the blog.
they were concerned about the issues that were exposed, and i can't really blame them. those interventions did make a difference.
there's the issue of money. in short, i just don't have much of it, almost entirely due to poor decisions on my part in the past. but, i've made dramatic and continuing changes in my habits and my spending, and things are moving quickly to being better, but these past couple of months have been tricky. next month will be phenomenally better, and it just gets better after that.
is it embarassing that i had $5.80 in the bank? hell, yeah. but it's the past that's embarassing. this month, i've taken care of my responsibilities, worked to get myself on a more stable path.
is it embarassing that i borrowed money from a friend? yeah. on the other hand, i've also been doing a ton of legal work for him and his family, gratis, including missing work to attend depositions. he's paid me a little, but knows i've ended up taking on more than we anticipated. instead of taking more money, i took a loan for a week, which i already paid back with money i'm earning for helping someone else with their divorce, at a tenth of the cost other attorneys would charge.
is the drinking a problem? yes and no. i'm still in a phase where i make choices about it - it's a psychological issue rather than a physiological issue. challenged by those friends, though, i've been not drinking. i spent all night out saturday night for a friend's birthday, and had nothing stronger than an iced chai. i do need to cut back to be healthier, in more ways than one, and i'm committed to doing that.
is the self-image a problem? looking up at the mirror from the bottom of depression, yeah. today, i don't look half-bad.
is the bald spot a problem? no, i got a haircut, finally.
is what i choose to write in the blog a problem? with all care and love for my wise and well-intentioned friends that think so, i've gotta say no.
i am in the bad places i am today because i've made poor decisions in my life, but a good chunk of those were decisions to be things i'm not rather than who i really am or wanted to be; to do what was safe rather than true; to base right and wrong on what other people thought.
i started this blog thing last september, and it's become a pillar of my life. it's cause and effect in the long-needed changes that are happening in my life. if all i did was write about how awful things are and what a loser i am, then it would indeed be a bunch of worthless crap. but looking back, it's not that at all. it's been a process - recognize, reflect, choose. having people read it, including, notably, those who were concerned last week, has kept me honest, kept me in that process. i write honestly, but i'm conscious of my audience. like any writer, i hear their response, and while i have to be true to what i write, you can't write this kind of thing in a vacuum. i hear what those voices will say, and i have to consider it, and it shapes what i write, and therefore how i choose to live.
i've written fictional stuff in the past that i couldn't resolve, because in many ways, they were really about me. i couldn't choose an ending when i was failing to choose an ending for myself. at some point, i wrote that i was "living this ending that is writing me."
thanks to the miracle of pudding, i'm writing and choosing my own endings, creating new truths in my life, and that's what you're seeing here. i'm going to be fine because i'm doing this. it may cause problems from time to time, but it's me - who i've been, am, and will be. it will become more positive, because my life will be. it will become more entertaining, because i will.
so, there it is. now shut up and eat your pudding.
(ok, i don't really mean that last line, just wanted to say it...)
Posted by Rob at 09:39 AM | Comments (3)
March 19, 2005
like a virgin, sort of.
last night, i dreamt i was in madonna's "like a virgin" video.
i'm standing there in venice, minding my own business, when i start to hear a cheesy baseline beat. sure enough, here comes madonna. she sings and sachets right past me, not really paying any real attention to me, which is understandable, since she's in a video, and in a dream.
the entourage of hot back-up singers, however, see me and are singing at me.
then i began to worry about the lion, and i woke up.
stupid lion.
Posted by Rob at 07:26 AM | Comments (1)
March 17, 2005
chem lab
WARNING - lots of people didn't like this. we'll talk about that here.
i've been doing chemistry experiments in my head. last week - or was it the week before? - i ran out of medication. the lamictal and depakote cocktail slowly drained out of my body over the days, the week - or was it two?
fittingly, the little amber bottles went empty around the time i began wondering if the effects of the medications, positive and negative, were worth it. not surprisingly, the little amber bottles went empty at about the time i couldn't afford to drop $75 on refills. i actually had a few of the depakote left, but the doubt had begun, and the experiment was on.
so, over the last couple of weeks - or has it been only one? - i've been able to observe the outcomes of deprivation, to map the path back to my own peculiar sort of madness.
sure enough, the draining hopelessness crept back, the narrowing of perspective, the loss of potential energy seeming to weaken not only my will, but my body, as well.
the manic spark did not truly return to my brain until the past couple of days, but it was sporadic, and sputtering, and not the flashes of brilliance i once felt. i think that takes a bit more time, as if mania needs to rebuild its strength, as if there were little tinder in my mind for the sparks to catch fire.
there was lots of drinking to factor in over the last couple of weeks - or did it only start last week? certainly, last week, it was almost daily. last monday night, i played ball with a distinct buzz, which actually seemed to help.
i was freer that night than usual, moving un-selfconsciously, running swiftly, spinning, seeing everything, seeing where people were, had been and would be, and all i had to do was make sure the ball was there for them, too.
every day of my life, every day of my life, every damned day of my life, it's fear and doubt that impair me, frustrate my life, stifle my writing, stymie my relationships, and certainly, absolutely, turn me into a hapless observer on the basketball court. for once, last monday, playing drunk, i played unimpaired, sober, more in touch with the moment than i ever am.
but the game, as always, is a world unto itself. my life bleeds into it, and the game bleeds into my life, yet they are separate worlds. the rest of the week unmedicated was conflict. freedom clashed with doubt, clarity with anxiety.
sunday, at an afternoon birthday party, i went, a wonderfully rich made-from-scratch devil's food cake in hand. i intended to remain sober, to not drink, for dietary and psychiatric reasons. i got there, and found it's nearly impossible to graze on crawfish and burgers on a beautiful day outdoors and ignore the keg.
sometime later, a friend we'll call mcpickle came to me, opened her hand, and told me to take the little red half-pill that lay there.
in the course of my life, i've had friends who acted as trustworthy guide spirits to me, people who i would name as the most important bad influences in my life. mcpickle is one of those people. she has encouraged bouts of badness, but has never left me alone in them. the first (and so far, only) time i tried mushrooms, she was actually not the instigator, but when things went badly, she was there.
i tried the 'shrooms on an evening when i was unmedicated, and in rare manic form. with my mind already firing, the mushrooms opened the throttle up even wider, and my brain simply couldn't take it. ideas i've struggled towards expressing all my life resolved themselves in my mind, but as i tried to communicate them, i could only approach the truth asymptotically - i could draw closer and closer, but not speak the words.
the frustration became maddening. i walked in small circles, talking in small circles, pounding my head, laughing maniacally with frustration. eventually, i recognized the symptoms as aphasia - "without speech."
as i started repeating "it's aphasia. that's it, it's aphasia," mcpickle came out of her room and asked me, "yes, it is, rob. but is it wernicke's or broca's?"
that was one of the few things all evening that stopped the rampage of thought in my head. i struggled. i looked at her. i told her i had no freaking idea.
mcpickle nodded and went back to bed.
for the next couple of hours, i got worse, eventually becoming convinced that everyone around me were only personifications of various elements of my own psyche. at some point, someone gave me pen and a stack of paper. the next morning, the house was strewn with paper bearing the scrawlings of a temporary madman, some of which made a frightening amount of sense. also worth noting were the several times that i wrote down what someone said before they walked into the room.
but, as i so often do, i digress.
the point is, at the end of the night, it was mcpickle that looked for me, found me in the room where i was in a fetal position in the middle of the floor, put a pillow under my head and a blanket over me.
the other point is, the understandable and not-unfounded fear of drugs tends to make people doubt or dismiss the mind-expanding effects as delusional, as false visions. but i know for a fact, empirically, that there's something to it. i have the awkward omnipresence of my hyper-analytical personality and the understanding of my own odd brain chemistry to draw on, to give me the foundation for belief. logic and memory remained inviolate, verified by the accounts of my friends and the written record i often leave scattered around the testing grounds.
so sunday, regardless of my state of mind after taking the little half-pill, truth survived, thrived. the truth of my aloneness remained - there was nowhere in mind to go without still knowing that i was there alone. the best moment of it all was mcpickle herself plopping herself in my lap to examine the contents of my iPod, that we had hooked up to the studio monitors. she sat there, and understood, and held me close, all non-sexual, but comforting.
the moment passed, though. things continued to slide. pressure at work increased, optimism and hope decreased. today, for the first time in months, i didn't go to work because i just couldn't do it, mentally. last night, i went to the store, spending $5.25 of my last $5.85 in the bank on a four-pack of murphy's stout, having already downed a couple. i used the $2.00 cash i had to put gas in the car - click, whirr, click, and done, just that quickly. the fuel warning light remained on.
it was happening again, the drain of will, and the beer was at once an indulgence, a crutch, and a hopeful antidote.
this morning, i wasn't hung over. just hopeless. i got up, leaned over the sink, disgusted with my body, my bald spot, my own face. i wanted to try, tried to want. once again, i could find nothing in today or tomorrow. whatever fun the weekend or yesterday had been, they were gone, done, and the meaning was gone, too. there was nothing to look forward to, nothing to work towards, no ledge of silly, dreamy-eyed hope or desire, no fantastic future to grasp at.
there was only the terrible truth and emptiness of being conscious, the meaninglessness of duty and routine. no love. there was no love in my heart. for a week - or has it been two weeks? or has it been two years, now? - i haven't believed in love, haven't been able to imagine how it feels, what it might mean.
today, my old friend john loaned me some money, $100.
i thanked him. some will go to put some more gas in the car. some will go to pick up my laundry tomorrow morning - i've recycled a handful of sweaters and shirts and pants for a couple of weeks now. some, a bit too much, went to food and drink tonight. and the rest, today, went to buy 30 tiny white pills in a little amber bottle.
Posted by Rob at 12:26 AM | Comments (2)
March 10, 2005
Jackson Tries to Reenact O.J. Chase: Nobody Cares.
Shortly after singer Michael Jackson appeared in court in his pajamas several hours late today, police released tapes and reports documenting an early-morning low-speed chase through downtown Santa Maria, California today.
Police received a report from a motorist at approximately 8:30a.m. of
a white 1997 Kia Sportage moving erratically and at an annoyingly low speed down a local freeway, apparently without a driver, but with an albino black military officer smiling and waving from the passenger seat.
Police officers in pursuit quickly confirmed the identity of the passenger as Jackson. The driver was determined to be longtime Jackson friend Emmanuel Lewis, during a terse exchange between the cars, which could be heard over police radio:
OFFICER: Hello? Is anyone driving?
DRIVER: What the hell do you think, bitch?
OFFICER: Well, can you sit up so we can see you, sir?
DRIVER: I am sitting up, bitch!
OFFICER: OK, alright. let's remain calm, sir. Who am I talking to?
DRIVER: What do you mean, who? I'm Emmanuel Lewis, bitch!
OFFICER:Who?
DRIVER: I'm Webster, bitch! Webster! I... NO, Michael, leave that alone! That's just gross, bitch! I said no!
(slapping noise is heard)
One squad car had to break off from the chase when what seemed to be an albino hummingbird hit the car's windshield, cracking it, and startling the officers inside. On later inspection, the object appeared to be a prosthetic nose.
Media analysts point at the ineffective "chase" as another indication of Jackson's repeated publicity failures, both in the musical and criminal fields.
Apparently, local news stations were aware of the chase, but chose not to air the chase live, because it would not have interfered with anything more interesting, unlike the 1995 O.J. Simpson "White Bronco" chase that inerrupted a perfectly good NBA Finals game between the Houston Rockets and the New York Knicks.
The Rockets would go on to win the series, repeating their championship win over the Orlando Magic from the previous season. Orlando, home of DisneyWorld, the second Disney theme park, remains a popular vacation spot to this day. Vacations are taken by lots of people worldwide. The world is wider than it is tall.
Posted by Rob at 02:32 PM | Comments (0)
March 09, 2005
waiting up til 36 gets home
not sure what i'm doing. i'm sitting here at home, drinking my second young's double chocolate stout. just wrote another blog entry that i'll post soon. i'm listening to songs and trying to sing along, quietly, with my hoarse voice - "in the blue tv screen light, i drew a map of canada... oh, canada... with your face sketched on it twice..."
11:52. at some point i decided i should just be awake until midnight. don't know why this one seems more important. maybe it's the rush to 40.
right now, today, i feel okay. i feel good. i have my problems to face, but they only matter so much. i still miss some things, but you know what we say about trying to force the universe to unfold.
while we're waiting, let's catch you up on a few things.
saturday morning, i got up to run a 5K with my friend katie, from my little running group that still doesn't have a cool name. we were a bit concerned - there was a small field, maybe 100 people - that we might come in last. there were a few kids in the race, and we were determined not to let the 9 year old girl beat us. we would beat her, by any means necessary, literally, if necessary.
we talked about it as an exploratory run - we were without the swiss timing of pacer janay. i really wanted to run it in 27 minutes, which would have meant 9 minute miles. i decided that was unrealistic, and i was hoping for 29 minutes or so.
we started out pretty hard, as usual. katie is competitive. i tend to be competitive. i'm not sure how much we were competing against each other, but i know for damn sure we were competing with everyone else, and especially the damned 9 year old. every time someone passed us, i kept saying, "ignore it. exploratory run. don't get sucked in," and we more or less stuck to that.
we ran past the capitol, down congress, fast, taking advantage of the slight downgrade. but then we turned west briefly, then north, back up colorado, and 16 blocks of gradual uphills.
i stayed with katie for about two and a quarter miles, then she took off. the last mile was pretty difficult for me, and i seemed to be fighting the same demons, the same inability to push myself further.
i managed a bit of a sprint at the very end, passing a few people, and i reached down and stopped my watch as i crossed the finish.
26:05.
8:24 miles. i was stunned. i began to see what i've more fully realized in the days since - that at freescale, at this race, and in the eight miles i'd run the next morning, i didn't push myself farther because there wasn't much farther i could push my body. i did everything i could at freescale in those conditions. i ran harder than ever at the 5k race saturday, and sunday morning, i ran 10:45 miles on a difficult 8-mile course, improving my time there dramatically.
i'm actually pushing myself harder than ever, up to my limits even as they're being pushed back by training. i've been confusing bumping against those physical limits with being mentally weak. it's still a good question to ask, a good battle to fight, but i plan to give myself more credit when i win that battle.
katie finished a good 30-60 seconds ahead of me, and she thought the announcer, some sportscaster from a local station, said something about being the second female finisher.
we hung out, just in case. a 14 year-old girl took first female overall. katie moved off to talk to someone she knew, and the announcer moved through the various female age groups. at the 30-40 age group, which katie, um, falls somewhere in (is that ok? can i say that?), the announcer couldn't read the name and had to ask for help. i was disappointed, thinking that the name must be something like Zebollah Pzybytrska.
as it turned out, the announcer was just an idiot who couldn't read the name "cathleen." katie was startled, and i became a drunken football fan. "WOOOOOOHOOOOOO! YEAH! YEAH! WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" quite inappropriate. but, hey, i was happy, for katie, and for myself.
that morning, as i got ready for the race, i had thought about my seemingly sad but actually grand history in athletics. i sucked in baseball and football. honestly, i was a bad-ass on a road bike in high school, and it's the only athletic thing i'll brag about, largely because it's the only sport i ever personally excelled at.
i entered a series of local races, and arrived late for the juniors race. so i raced against the adults, and finished high. i was told not to bother with the juniors, and to stay with the adults. of course, weeks later, i broke my collarbone the day before my birthday, just screwing around on the bike, and stupidly, i never got seriously back into racing.
i've put together and played on three championship city league basketball teams, and we're headed for a fourth championship. i've coached three seasons of women's basketball. my team won a stunning championship as the underdogs in our second season, and came in second last season.
so, early saturday morning, it occurred to me that i've never done anything athletic without the goal or expectation of winning, until i started running. i still have a team, and it's one of the tightest, most supportive teams i've ever known. the challenge for each of us, though, is entirely personal, and i didn't see any of us ever being in a position to win an event.
and that's cool. in fact, i think it's a refreshing thing for all of us. we're doing it for all the right reasons.
yeah.
it's still pretty fcuking cool that katie won, though.
oh, look. it's 12:26am. happy birthday to me! i can go to bed, now.
postscript - incidentally, something odd's been happening the last week or so... every night, i've dreamt of old friends. i go to them, they come to me. i see their lives, and i'm happy for them, though often a bit sad that i wasn't more of a part. some of them are people i haven't seen in years. i hadn't seen anamaria in over a decade, but there she was, all grown up, with a nice husband. we were in a car dealership, mercedes, i think, and everything was white - the cars, the floor, the walls. anamaria and her husband both wore elegant flowing white clothing, looking modern, but classic and sort of angelic.
another night, i visited lori and her husband in their home. again, everything in white. i know in subsequent nights, i've seen stance, robert, others, though i can't remember the details as well.
i usually have a good sense for dreams and what they're about. not a matter of freudian analysis, but a matter of intuition and first impression, with a bit of jungian ideas about archetypes certainly influencing the interpretation.
but i don't feel comfortable addressing this one. i think it's there, the reason for all this, but maybe i don't want to give it a voice.
Posted by Rob at 12:26 AM | Comments (0)
happy anniversary
disclaimer - i'm happy tonight. with help, i'm working through problems, one at a time. i feel and know the will and love of my friends beneath me. i'm not sad about what i've written, but it is important to me. so, please, let me say what follows. just listen, don't analyze or worry or draw conclusions - just hear it. also, there's a picture that goes with this - it'll be up later...
dreaming of the tenderness,
the tremble in the hips,
of kissing mary's lips.
dreaming of mercy street,
wear your inside out.
- peter gabriel, mercy street
today is 36 years, and it is nine years.
march 9th is, for me, a day to mark beginnings and ends - my birth, and a small sort of death.
i never believed in a simple, easy to come by sort of love. i believed in the love of poetry and shakespeare and love songs. i know relationships aren't perfect, and people aren't flawless, but i still believe that love itself is.
in my life, chances have been missed, passed up, lost. and there's always the compass in my heart that knows which way my soul should go. it's always been there, though sometimes i've denied it, let other things pull me away. but at the end of the day, ignoring its pull would go against what i believe of love, and what i've known of love, and that just won't do.
i've known lots of love, and will likely know more. i've known, in brief flashes, the kind i seek, but only once was it so complete and enduring. from the time i met her, 16 years ago, waiting in a shakespeare class that would end up being canceled altogether, i came to know love as the supernatural force i had always believed it would be.
she was married nine years ago today, on my birthday. i wasn't invited, which was at once horrible, and for the best. she's had two children. she lives in california. we are connected now only by gossamer threads of silence that run through our mutual best friends.
it is 36 years and nine years, but no so easy landmark exists for the day, the moment we last were in love, were still the people in the time and in the place that allowed that love to flourish, for our souls to know each other.
sadly, i can't even remember the dates to celebrate the other moments in that time.
the day that turned to night, sitting together, my face in her hands, the quietly powerful moment we both knew, both remembered, but didn't acknowledge until years later as the moment we saw our own love in the other's eyes.
the nights driving home that i'd look over and watch her asleep in the seat beside me. the roadtrips with my car full, her in the backseat, smiling in the rearview mirror at me, only for me to see.
the night in my car out in the university's farthest parking lot, protected and alone, together and hidden in a heavy downpour. inside, warmth and passion and laughter and quiet. she was late to meet the girls at her dorm, and she and i were a secret then. she needed an alibi, and i see her stepping out into the cold rain, closing the door behind her, smiling, laughing just on the other side of the window, even then, love in her eyes.
36, nine, 16, and it's not so much that girl, or that face that i miss, for they're long gone. it's that love that i miss, that i wait for, the promise of which i look for in the faces of the women moving through the world around me.
so many memories: some of them real, some from the dreams i still have about her, and they all seem so close, just on the other side of the transparent now, as close as her on the other side of the glass that night in the rain. i want to believe it'll happen again, that maybe the future is somehow foretold in those dreams of mary coming to me, all mercy and grace and love, forgiving me, looking into my eyes, smiling at me, and offering me, returning to me, the greatest peace i've ever known. i hope you've found the same. happy anniversary.
Posted by Rob at 12:01 AM | Comments (1)
March 04, 2005
my inner voice makes me sleepy.
so, there's been another hiatus. there's several reasons for it. you may not care, but you're here, so let's discuss.
first, the energy just has not been there. i just have not been able to get healthy in the past few weeks. this issue may or may not have been further compounded by stress, poor diet, inconsistent sleeping habits, a relative lack of exercise and, quite frankly, getting a bit drunk every other night.
work: no sir, i don't like it. i love the people i work with, the location... and, well, that's mostly it. that was all ok, but it looks like i'm having to do more litigation, which i don't feel comfortable with, and have never liked. and no, my not liking it has nothing to do with my not being good at it. i love basketball and sex. ok, actually, i think i'm above average when it comes to sex, and only those i've had sex with might disagree.
anyway. so, the litigation stuff is both stressing me out and annoying me. on top of that, a certain private "non-profit" statewide dental association that will not be named has a certain aggie-assed schmarmy car-dealer representative from bryan-college-station, who will not be named, in their pocket to block my agency's request for appropriations.
basically, our legislative appropriations request seeks something called "pay parity." currently, our employees make, on average, something like 60% of what employees at other state agencies doing similar work are paid. combine that with the auditor's report that across the board, state employees make 17% less than their private-sector counterparts, and you see that currently, what we have is "pay parody," also know as, "crap."
so, hope wanes a bit. we'll see what happens in the next month or so.
the lack of sleep, exercise, and sobriety don't need a lot of explanation.
another big factor is that i've not been happy with what i'm producing. i'm happy with the prose. but i think people are tiring of it. people want to be entertained, and so do i. but it's just not there, and i'm beginning to think that it's because the manic side of me is being muffled by the medication.
i almost think i can go back in the blog and see the change in writing, how it corresponds to when i filled that first prescription for depakote and lamictal. the moody stuff was always there, and always will be - i'm not anxious to let that writing go, either. i'm more stable, but as we've seen, not necessarily happier. the lows aren't as bad. i haven't missed any work on the days where i just couldn't get out of bed, because i had already, in my head, lost the battles of the day, and of life. i don't have the stupid little anxiety attacks where i feel like an elephant or, like, rush limbaugh is standing on my chest.
for me, my best writing, particularly the funny stuff, happens with little effort. any idea becomes a spark, my mind like a shed full of fireworks in a cartoon. chain reactions of connections begin firing in my head like small explosions, the words and ideas flood out, and all i have to do is write as much of it down as i can catch in my hands. at those times, i feel brilliant. my brain is at its best, doing what it was made to do, and it feels active, alive, better.
and the connections are good. for example, i would never usually go with "rush limbaugh." not timely. too obvious. not funny. but right now, i got nothing else.
anyway, there's a matter of taste involved, but i've always loved robin williams from an early age because i recognized something in him. when he's at his best, the words "brilliant" and "manic" are the only words to describe him. i see the explosions going on in his head, and his ability to focus their power, and you get mork, or his early standup work, or even his relatively recent performance on "the actor's studio," which is something i would gladly pay for a copy of.
the medicated robin williams, however, gives you "patch adams." still sort of funny, and surely borne somewhat from his desire for balance, to represent the other, too-long neglected side of his persona... but not quite right.
i still do alright, but it's quieter, calmer in my head these days. funny things happen in short, unsustainable bursts, often helped along by habit and familiarity with a handful of formulas - plug-in comedy. gone is the wonderful, enervating sensation of one idea branching out explosively, exponentially into seemingly endless realms of possibilities, from the literal to the ludicrous.
so. i have a task. first, control the other variables - sleep, diet, exercise, alcohol. try to either find a way to change things at the job, or move on and make more money. then, we'll see where i stand. maybe then, i'll still have a decision to make, a cost-benefit analysis that will determine which version of me i will choose to live with - the safer one, or the freer?
thinking of such a time and such a choice, i immediately think of ben franklin - "he who would give up his freedom for a little bit of security deserves neither freedom, nor security."
Posted by Rob at 11:48 PM | Comments (0)