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Happy Easter to you and yours. Hope it’s a great day.

March’s Resolution for the YOR was exercise…five days a week. I’m saying it was a successful month, despite being sick for the last couple of weeks. I plan to continue on with it, even if the local Y isn’t yet offering Tantric Yoga classes.

I meant for this month to be totally different when it comes to the April Resolution. I’m gonna put that one off till maybe next month. Instead, I’m going with something that the Matrix Therapist mentioned last week in our session.

Reconnecting.

I haven’t yet figured out the metrics portion of this Resolution. Basically, it all comes down to my girls and reestablishing a connection. Long story I’ve alluded to before, but in my really Dark Days, I thought they were better off without me around. A self-fulfilling prophecy. I was very mistaken, it’s plagued me for years, and I’m trying to do something about it. Again.

But there’s more to the reconnecting than my girls. I have quite a few people I need to reconnect with, and this is the month I start making that happen. I have emails to write, blogs to read for the first time in forever, phone calls, texts.

My myopia tends to shove friends and even family to the outskirts of my attention. And the more depressed I get, the more powerful those blinders get. This might make sense somewhere in the dust bunny farm known as my brain, but it’s counterproductive. My support group is largely online. The bulk of my friends are elsewhere, so it’s time to reach out and bring some of these long-lost folks back to the fold.

So don’t be too surprised if you suddenly see me on your blog, or if you get an email from me from out of the blue. Crawling out of this Funk ain’t easy, but I’m still trying to push through it.

In the meantime, here’s to hoping Jesus doesn’t see his shadow today, or there will be six more weeks of Apocalypse.

a

Finally went to Tai Chi this morning, and it’s a good thing I missed Tuesday and Thursday. Saturday is the beginner class. I followed along pretty well…having a full mirrored wall really helped. No idea what the hell I’m doing, but everyone says I did great.

There’s a lot of pointing fingers in the right direction, choreographed moves in slow motion that make me feel like I’m in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon or some such shit. Breathing in while squeezing imaginary balls of energy. I don’t get it, but it was calming and that’s not a bad thing.

I’ll squeeze in some Wii Fit today, too. This week has been a total success. I exercised Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and today. Not a big fan of the water aerobics, and haven’t yet tried the Zumba, but I will when they start a new class in a couple of weeks.

How do I feel? Meh. Emotionally, still down in the dumps. I still feel exercise is boring, but I’ll keep it up. There are only 22 days left, after all. Physically, I still wind very easily, and hate sweating or pushing myself. On the treadmill, I stay in the “weight loss zone” and never make it to “cardio zone,” but hey…baby steps.

I may set up a date with a personal trainer, though I don’t have a lot of money to drop. There are a lot of machines in that gym and I should be using them. I just don’t know how, so a trainer would be most helpful. Though they’ll probably kick my ever-loving ass.

On to another topic. Men. And women. As a dude with 95% female friends, I find myself in a unique position much of the time. First of all, the Drama Quotient with mostly women buds is far higher than it is with mostly males. It’s just a fact. My male friends never ask me if their ass looks big in these jeans. They never drop gossip on my lap. “Did you hear what Joe did? He told his wife to ’shush’ while the game was on, and she was all, ‘Oh no you din’t!’” Or maybe, “Shenaynay looked at me weird at BlogHer. She better watch her back.”

No.

I have adjusted to the occasional Drama flare-ups and, honestly, it doesn’t bother me. Mostly. I still relate better to women, thanks to all my therapizing.

The other thing about having all these girlie friends is that someone is always going through relationship troubles. Mostly because men are (mostly) douchebags. I get that. Commitment issues, breakups via text, men are generally clueless dicks who wouldn’t know how to communicate if they absorbed every Rosetta Stone course there is.

I’m not here to defend the men. It’s a maturity thing, as far as I’m concerned. And let’s face facts: women usually trump men in maturity hands-down.

What I don’t understand is why so many women put up with shitty men/relationships to begin with. Insecurity, I guess? It’s perhaps the only explanation I can think of. Why else would you stay somewhere you’re not happy?

I’m not even talking about abusive men, necessarily, though there’s a lot of that, too. But if a guy is a rude ass, why stay with him? Because you think you can change him? Because you think you can’t get anyone better? Bullshit.

Listen, if a guy shows you no respect – the woman he purports to love – then you need to either have a heart-to-heart or get the fuck out of Dodge. If he doesn’t want to spend time with you. If he talks down to you, belittles you. If the only time he looks at you is when he’s hungry or horny. There are a million ways to show someone you love them, and a million ways to show you don’t think shit of them.

It’s frustrating, especially when some women give the prunts third, fourth, tenth chances…only to come crying about him again weeks or months later. Because he doesn’t change. Douchebags rarely do. Oh, sure, for  a little while, perhaps. He’ll be all flowers and taking out the trash for a time. Then it’s back to business as usual. And the older the guy is, the more likely it is he’s not changing. Especially for you.

Believe me, if you’re in a bad relationship, you can do better. A friend gave me advice once about judging a person’s character. Watch how they treat a waitress. If they’re rude to her, they’ll be rude to you. If they ogle her and flirt with her and treat her like a blow-up doll, you can be sure that’s gonna happen frequently both with you and with people that aren’t you. And if they tip shoddily, they’re cheap bastards.

Other little things. Does he open your door for you? Does he actually listen and pay attention when you’re talking, look you in the eye and engage with you? Does he do special little things for you?

This seems common sense to me, but it must not be because I see women putting up with utter bullshit all the time. Women that have settled. Ugh. It’s nauseating.

You deserve better. And sometimes better is all by yourself.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikebaird/ / CC BY 2.0

a

I’m slacking. I feel it. Losing my momentum is not a feeling I like. The mania has subsided. My brain is much calmer (and dumber), though that’s relative. It’s still busier than most people’s, I get that. But compared to the manic shit? It’s like my brain finally said no to steroids or something.

Tomorrow I have my first real session with the new shrink, via videoconference. Amazing the V.A. even knows such technology exists, but I’m not bitching. If it weren’t for the video thing, I’d have to drive 90 minutes to meet up with her.

I’m not slamming the V.A. in any way. I’ve heard horror stories, but to be fair, I’ve not experienced many problems with the care I’ve received. And I’m very thankful for that. I don’t have regular health care. The jobs I’ve had of late are contracting positions. No bennies provided. Sure, once upon a time, when I got $43/hour for my time, I could afford it. But not now.

I’m already impressed with this new shrink of mine. She called me a few weeks ago, unsolicited, just to check on me and my meds. On a Friday. At 5:15 in the afternoon. That speaks volumes to me.

So we’ll be discussing meds, mostly that the current regime isn’t doing shit. We stepped up the Geodon. I’m now taking twice as much as I was a few weeks ago and…nothing. That’s the bitch with being treatment-resistant. Lots of meds don’t touch me, then there are those that require a much higher dose than what others find effective.

The trial-and-error associated with medication is exhausting and nerve-wracking. I’m far from the most patient man on Earth, and adjusting meds (and trying new ones) pretty much requires patience, and lots of it. That’s how it is, particularly with the meds designed to hit your brain instead of just your body. They take WEEKS to build up efficacy in the body. And if they don’t work, many of them take weeks to get OUT of your body, which is sometimes needed before adding something NEW.

For me, I’ve pretty much always required a Magic Cocktail, a mix of different meds. I wish like hell that there was a pill that did it all, but there’s not. My chemistry is different than yours, which is different than everyone else’s. So, yeah, trial-and-error. With all the technology we have today, that’s still the way it works. I long for the days of Star Trek, when they scan you with a Tricorder and have you fixed up with a simple shot.

I read an interesting article last month about a pretty major discovery regarding Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (and yeah, I’ve got that, too). They’ve found a way to definitively diagnose PTSD using pictures of the brain. Remarkable, since the only way to diagnose before was through a series of questionnaires and a laundry list of symptomology.

Unfortunately, this discovery probably won’t lead to helping ME…not for a long time. Not until they can point to a brain scan and say, “Ah, see that squiggle there in Karl’s hippocampus? We need to give him Miracle Drug Alpha for that.” Until they know how to correspond the brain pics with specific forms of treatment? Not gonna do much for me. But it’s hopeful for future PTSD’ers, and I’ll take that.

I started out talking about me losing momentum, and that’s really what I’m feeling right now. A lot of hopelessness, lack of motivation, simply losing my give-a-shit attitude. Depression. An overwhelming sense of, well, being overwhelmed. Yes, I’m still checking my sugar and taking my meds, but I really don’t care about it.

I knew this was going to come, the return to the old me. Trying to find some shrivel of happiness in this mode is daunting, at the very least. I can’t survive in full-blown mania all the time – I’d die from sheer exhaustion, from insanity. But I wish I had a way to harness the motivation, the good attitude, the Happy.

Think I’m treatment-resistant in the attitude department, too.

For now, I’ll just take what little pieces of enjoyment I can get. I like the winter Olympics (tons more than the summer Olympics), even though I’m not a sports guy. I never watch baseball, or football, or basketball, or hockey. None of it. That shit bores me to tears. But the Olympics has something for everyone. Plus, it’s only two weeks long. I’m in, I’m out, I’m done for another 4 years. My fave events, by the way, are figure skating, snowboarding, and the skiing…none of which I’ve ever tried.

I also found some meditation podcasts, thanks to Angel. A friend has offered to help me with meditation – something I’ve never tried before – and I plan to take her up on that offer. But the podcast I listened to yesterday really helped to calm me down. I like that. I say I’ve never tried meditation, but the truth is I’ve probably achieved that “nothingness” mindset on my own many times. I may be wrong, but all the dissociating I’ve done in my life kind of mirrors that calming void sensation in meditation. I suppose there are positives to being a Survivor, after all.

I’m gearing up for 2HT’s redesign, and I am excited about that. Should be happening within the next month or so. My original launch date was going to be April Fool’s Day (seems appropriate), which also happens to be both my Mom’s AND my twin daughters’ birthdays. But it’s going to be sooner than that. Can’t wait to see it all come together.

I’d really like a dog. I think that’d do wonders for me. Mom hasn’t been so keen on getting a pet, though. Her rationale has always been, “If you can’t keep your room clean, how are you going to take care of a dog or a cat?” My rationale has always been, “Those two things aren’t even closely related.”

And yes, I’m 43 and live with my mother. I’m also depressed, anxious as Monk, and unemployed. Put me on “The Bachelor” now, ladies. I’m available. *cough*

Like my brain, this post is all over the board. I’m tired of that, too.

a

Tuesday night, Mom and I had our first TNT night out since her accident. The TNT’s, for those that don’t know, are otherwise known as the Dynamite Divas. In my head, I call them the Tuesday Night Supper Club, but it’s basically the Meatsuite mentality…just a couple decades down the line.

Every Tuesday, the TNT’s gather round a dinner table at a different restaurant. There’s laughing and crying and everything in between. I happen to be a member, even though I technically lack a vagina. Don’t mock, I paid my dues (which involved a coconut bra and grass skirt).

Mom did great, walking all the way from the car to the table (using a walker). Everyone was happy to see her out and about. Lots of laughter is a good thing.

At some point, the girls were discussing the obituaries. Half the girls read them daily. I suppose when *I* hit the ripe old age of 36 (the age my mother has claimed to be for decades now), I’ll have to read the obituaries every day, too. Isn’t that what old people are supposed to do? That, and eating dinner at 4:30pm, wearing shades that engulf your entire head, and donning black socks with shorts and sandals.

Seems a morbid thing to me, looking to see who died, but whatever. I’m not here to judge (outside my head, anyway).

The stress levels for me of late are through the roof. I maintain some vestiges of my mania, I think, though it’s getting harder and harder to tell. This Natural Calm shit isn’t making me feel very calm, but I’m still taking it…along with the multivitamins, L-Theanine, and melatonin. And my pharmaceuticals.

There’s this thing I do – a lot of survivors do it, actually – called Trauma Breathing. Essentially, it’s very shallow breathing, interspersed with a lot of breath-holding. I rarely breathe deeply. It’s a physiological manifestation of my PTSD. And from what I understand, it’s not good for me.

Somewhere down the road, and sooner rather than later, I plan to undertake meditation. I may find Meditation for Dummies somewhere cheaper than what I saw at Books A Million over the weekend. As an aside, I think it’s ridiculous that you’re expected to become a BAM “member” by paying $20, just so you can get 10% off all your purchases for a year. That means I need to buy at least $200 worth of books in order to make it worthwhile. And that’s a shitty business practice. Why not just GIVE me 10% off? I can already find everything cheaper online. Again, though, nobody ever consults me on these things.

The Resolution, right. Well, it’s not going well, I admit. But I did post my first work story yesterday, so that’s a good thing. (Please Digg and Stumble it, I’d be most appreciative. The more traffic I get, the better it is for me.)

A while back I started my Bucket List, which looked like this:

KARL’S BUCKET LIST

• Great Fucking Road Trip
• Bungee jump
• Meet Flight of the Conchords and get them on my show
• Go to Australia
• Get my own medical marijuana card
• Fix my smile
• Write my story in a book. Have at least one book signing.
• Do the largest dancing in my boxers video ever with dozens of women at least
• Have some random stranger recognize me on the street in any place other than home
• Meet Jaime Murray
• Do a video with @jennyonthespot
• Karaoke in Tokyo (EDIT: a country song)
• Fall in love and get married
• Party in Vegas
• Get paid to do a talk show on radio

I’m going to keep adding to this and editing as need be. I really liked a post that Adam wrote a while back. He was contemplating all the things he wants to accomplish before he’s 40. Adam and I seem to have a lot going on at the moment in the Change Department.

I’m already past 40, but I think I’m going to create a second list of things I want to accomplish before I’m 50. Some of them may crossover onto my Bucket List, but that’s OK.

Making goals is not something I’m well-versed at. I’m not a future-thinking kinda guy. I can barely think about what I’m having for dinner tonight, let alone goals for the next 7 years. It’s a Survivor thing, I’ve learned. Just focus on getting through THIS MOMENT. Survival IS the goal. But surviving isn’t enough, people. That’s not LIVING, that’s just existing. Maggots do as much.

But still, this is the Year of Resolutions, a time when I’m working hard to make mental shifts. I want to see the positive instead of constantly focusing on the negative. Fuck, I want to be – dare I say it? – happy.

So here are some of the things I’d like to get done before I’m 50.

1. Do stand-up comedy. My friend, Mic (who I still call Mike, but whatever), is doing this now in L.A. As a teenager, I’d walk to and from school with Mike and Rob and my brother, Chris. We’d make each other laugh constantly. And play Dungeons & Dragons. Mike’s been telling me I should do stand-up for a while now, and I’ve always pooh-pooh’d the idea because I’m laden with anxieties and neuroses. But lately, I’ve been feeling more and more like I want to try this.
2. Finish and publish a book. Doesn’t have to be my autobiography, but it probably will be. Haven’t touched that damn manuscript in a decade, but I plan on changing that.
3. Get back to England. I lived there for three years, and loved it, even if that was also the time that led to the end of my marriage. I have friends there still, and now I have NEW friends there, thanks to the InterWebz.
4. Drive all of Route 66. This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Big road trip.
5. Become my own boss. I love writing, and I’m happy that I’ve had the opportunities to make a living at it. Ultimately, though, I want to answer to myself. Sure, I don’t know shit about business or even budgeting, but I can get there. And I’m hoping to get a business venture launched in the near future, something I’ve been mulling over for a while now. (That’ll come after I relaunch SecondHand Tryptophan, which is happening in the next month.) Ultimately, this is about not being poor any more.
6. Move out of Sebring. I never intended to stay here this long. I’ve come to appreciate the town, but it’s not enough for me. I want to be somewhere else. Not sure where, exactly, but it needs to be bigger than Sebring. And it’s probably going to be somewhere relatively warm because I’m so not a snow person.

I think those are enough for now. Again, it’s another list in progress.

I’ll bring these lists with me to my Matrix Therapy session this afternoon. The MT was off last week, and I’m in heavy need of some therapizing. I’m also bringing my old IOP journal, the one that lists my med regimen, including the meds that were WORKING. If I don’t find some fucking relief, and soon, I don’t know that I’ll be in any position to get any of the things on my lists accomplished.

In the meantime, who needs a drink?

a

So I mentioned that my Resolution this month hit a snag. Big time. Bottom line is, I got fired. From one of my gigs, not both.

Not that it’s a huge shock, mind you. After all, I haven’t worked in quite a while. I take the blame for that.

I won’t say exactly which site fired me, but it doesn’t involve travel blogging, and it might rhyme loosely with Brain Trawler.

No matter. It’s lit a fire under my ass. I plan on doing more travel stories until I find another gig to add to the hotel blogging. So if you know of anything, please let me know. Especially if it involves me writing more humor’ish, slice-of-life stuff. I’m also going to get my other little project going. I told you, I have ideas.

Course, this reaffirms what I’ve already said. TequilaCon is definitely out for me this year. And it doesn’t look good for BlogHer, either. Disappointing, to say the least. For you, I mean. Ahem.

In the meantime, I thought I’d write a little letter to any future employers I have. I’m sure they’re all reading this and are interested in anything and everything I have to say.

Dear Future Employers:

Hi, I wanted to take a moment to give you a list of things you might try in order to make my life with you more pleasant. Or more professional. Whatever.

1. You should know up front that I prefer being notified when I get fired. You know, as close to when you hire my replacements as is convenient for you. To clarify, telling me months later – only after I am ready to return to work – is just a tad late for my taste. I realize it’s a personal preference, but it’s MY personal preference.
2. If you simply must fire me, I prefer getting a phone call over getting an email 15 minutes before end-of-business. It’s more professional and, as an added bonus, it doesn’t make your company seem like it truly doesn’t give a fuck about their employees.
3. Please don’t try to explain your decisions for firing me, unless you’re giving me REAL reasons. I’m not as dumb as I look. For example, saying that it’s because of “budgetary constraints” when you only have a finite number of writing slots per day, and it doesn’t matter who writes them or gets paid for them, is kinda bogus’ish.
4. If you’re going to fire me, please do me the kindness of removing me from the company email lists first. I have enough email to wrestle with every day, I don’t need more.
5. If you happen to be in, say, the gossip industry, please don’t pretend to class up the joint by not using words like “butt” or “nude.” Especially if it’s a blog skewed toward mommies. Because moms happen to be nude a lot, and they also have butts. And they’re also there to read GOSSIP. Running a gossip blog – and again, this is only if you happen to be in that industry – and telling the writers they can’t use words like “sex” or “boobs” is a little like telling TMZ not to take photos. It can be done, mind you, but no one is going to want to read it any more. And I think the traffic reflects that. Or *would*…sorry.
6. I like employers who send me things like free coffee or Cherry Coke Zero. And massage gift certificates. Even without the Happy Ending added on, it’s still a nice perk.

I have other ideas, too, if you care to ask for my input. Most involve naked women, but I do have a great one that includes a shaved giraffe.

Sincerely,

Karl Erikson

a

So the skinny on my doctor visit Monday, which I mentioned on Twitter and Facebook:

• Check my sugar 4 times a day. Before every meal, and two hours after dinner. This helps provide a good picture of my sugars throughout the day. Which, in turn, helps to know where (and what time of day) we need to adjust meds.
• No long-acting insulin till further notice. We may not even get me back on that at all.
• One of my diabetes meds only, the others are dropped.
• 5 units of regular insulin before every meal. I suppose that’s for coverage.
• My A1C is 9.2. Ideally, these days the American Diabetic Association says your A1C should be below 6.5. For those of you that don’t have to know what the fuck Hemoglobin A1C is, here ya go. It’s the 3-month average of your blood sugar readings. When I prick my finger (4x a day) to check my sugar, that gives me my sugar for that particular moment in time. But just because I get a 294 on the meter (80-120 is normal), doesn’t mean I’m that high all the time. That’s where the A1C reading comes in. It shows a truer picture, because it lets them know what my OVERALL sugar has been over the last 3 months. I could explain how it works and shit, but it’s not important. Hell, all this right here probably wasn’t important. Unless you’re diabetic. And me.
• My cholesterol, remarkably, is 118. I haven’t seen numbers below 200 since my 20’s. So there’s that.
• She wants me to email my numbers to her weekly.
• We have a follow-up appointment in 3 weeks. More adjustments from there, as needed. Unless I need her sooner.

But I don’t think I will. I think I’m getting it. Yes, I’m not perfect. Today, for instance, I took most of my meds, but then went out for dinner (thank God for Tuesday nights). Didn’t check my sugar before leaving the house, or take my dinner meds. But I get back on the horse. I’ll take my bedtime meds and start all over tomorrow.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Ad nauseum.

My body has been in such pain. I ache everywhere. The trouble with only sleeping 3-4 hours a night for a few weeks straight (save a couple nights here or there) is that your body is vertical that much more. That puts a lot more stress on the bones and joints. Heh, I said joints.

So my neck, shoulders, and ESPECIALLY my lower back have been killing me. All this extra activity I’m experiencing in order to take care of Mom exacerbates it. Or maybe it’s the non-sleep that exacerbates the activity. I dunno. The point is, I’ve been miserable physically, as well as mentally.

Today I went and got a 90-minute massage. And it made an enormous difference. I fell asleep twice on the table, and was told that’s the highest compliment you can give a masseuse. She’s good. And I didn’t even get a Happy Ending. Bigger shock? I didn’t even care.

I just wanted relief. I got it. And perhaps the best part? My masseuse’s name is Cher. I so wanted to ask her if she was a Cherokee, but she was even whiter than me, so it’s unlikely. Amazing hands, though. I pretty much melted into that table, let me tell you.

The REAL best part is that my head is quieter. No, not quieter, that’s not right. It’s more unified. There’s still way too much shit going on between my ears, but I feel calmer now. The racing thoughts are not back down to normal level, but they don’t feel like they’re where they were last night at this time.

Which, by the way, was a really bad time for me. It’s like being able to view all the alternate universes at one time. I mull over every single possibility, every single outcome…dozens…hundreds of times. Even the ridiculous possibilities. And even those crazy-ass potential outcomes seem reasonable, which only serves to freak me the hell out even more.

I’m insecure enough, but my manic brain makes me paranoid like you wouldn’t believe. Thank fucking God I have my logic. Somehow I manage to talk myself out of my most ludicrous insecurities. Well, I talk myself out of ACTING on them, at any rate. And that’s enough. Mostly. Still torturous, and the self-restraint manacles are getting mighty frayed, but I’m doing it.

And I’m trying to acknowledge that I’m doing it. Because in my mind, what I hear when someone says, “I’m proud of you Karl, you’re making it happen” is this: “What other option do I have?” Dismissing the positive. That freaking Permeable Teflon skin of mine…damn tough. It’s how I describe myself, Permeable Teflon. The bad goes in, but the good slides off…

I’ve talked about the downside of bipolar disorder. It’s bad, yeah. But that’s not the whole picture. There IS an upside…a lot of upside. I think I’ll save that for next time.

I’m actually tired. And I want to take advantage of that.

Mom’s follow-up appointment (first one post surgery) is in the morning. I need some sleep. A LOT of sleep.

a

I had a great freaking holiday weekend. I really needed it. So much stress, so much bad juju floating around my neck of the blogosphere. Many loved ones in pain right now, myself included.

So I really needed the laughs, and I got them. You can’t not laugh around children; and if you can, we probably won’t get along.

A dear friend of mine - Faith, 6 - routinely makes me spew beverages through my nostrils. She’s a lover of fine cereals, as am I. Her favorite is Lucky Charms, mine is Crunchberries…whatever, it’s a personal preference.

Faith was disappointed to find that the Bob Evans restaurant does not have cereal on their menu. (Course, even if they did, they probably wouldn’t have Lucky Charms.) So the other night, we were all talking about where to go for dinner and I suggested this buffet place.

Before we left, I asked her if she knew where we were going.

“Yes,” she said. “The buffet.”

“You know something, Faith? I’m not sure I understand what a buffet is. Can you explain it to me?”

She nodded. “A buffet,” she said, with big sweeping arm gestures, “is a place where you can have aaaaaaanything you want…except cereal.”

Had I been drinking at the time, I’m sure I would have spewed said beverage about 20 yards through my nostrils. I need more of that for the new year. Laughter. Less stress. I’d forgotten what it feels like to truly relax, to play and be childlike. I hope it’s not something I forget again.

It’s the last day of 2009. Time for me to get my crap together, snap out of the fucking fog that this year has been for me. Time for me to work, get back on the horse, make life a lot less stressful by earning some money.

I have a lot of ideas I want to see happen, a couple of them could really take off.

I want a blog redesign. I want to blog. I want to READ blogs.

I want to continue cutting toxic people out of my life. I simply don’t have the patience to deal with them. And even if I did, I don’t have the desire.

2010 is going to be different. I can feel it. Big things are coming. Good things. The final season of Lost, for one. Listen, I’m not ashamed to tell you this… in my darkest hours, when I’ve all but given up on life? It’s my need to know all the answers on Lost that keeps me hanging on. And they damn well better give me those answers. And if, in the last 3 minutes of the last episode, they show that John Locke IS the Smoke Monster, I’m gonna go postal.

Right, the good things. It’s going to rain Butterfingers in 2010. Cancer will die forever. A Greatest American Hero/Quantum Leap TV reunion mashup movie will be announced. Tiger Woods will join Sexaholics Anonymous. Balloon Boy will inspire a new cult, filled with Balloon Boys and Balloon Girls, and the skies will be filled with mylar and Twitter will freak the fuck out. Again. Dickish ex-spouses and ex-significant-others will stop harassing my friends. Sarah Palin will announce her candidacy for President in 2012, thus assuring that I will vote Democrat for the second time in my life.  Fox TV will stop being an asshole about trying to charge people for broadcast fucking television, like the ads aren’t enough revenue for them.

A shiny new 32GB iPhone will be mine.

People around the world will realize that we all have far more in common than not, and they’ll all stop fighting and killing each other over stupid ass shit, like land and drugs and politics and (for the love of God) God. The lion will lay down with the lamb and all that jazz. OK, maybe I’m getting a little crazy.

It’s gonna be good, people, that’s all I’m saying. I demand it.

I’m off to celebrate the end of this hot mess known as 2009. I hope you all have a great night and that none of you drinks and drives (cuz then I’d have to disown you). For those alone tonight, I hope you’ll take in some warm, fuzzy movies on the telly…or some schlocky B-movie sci-fi. And those of my friends that have my cell can call me, of course. Or text. Just know that I plan on getting my drink on tonight, so I can’t guarantee a speedy delivery on the response track.

So all of you have a great New Year.

2010 - now with Improved Flavor and 90% less injunctions!

a

Odd, just a day after Christmas, I was sitting at the computer, wanting to listen to music. I love Pandora, have it on my iPhone, too. Personalized radio is the future, people, believe it. And even more than Pandora, I love Slacker (also on the iPhone). I think Slacker has a better mix of artists. If I create a station around, say, Beth Hart on Pandora, and do the same on Slacker? Slacker comes out with a more organic-sounding mix, I think.

But I was on the Last.fm site the other day. And I saw Lisa’s profile there. I’ve been using Last.fm longer than any other music site, and I like that it scrobbles the music from my iPod. Anyway, Last.fm says that Lisa and I have a High Musical Compatibility…Buckcherry, The Cars, INXS. Cool. Hmm, I think I’ll listen to Lisa’s station.

Then I saw the artists on Lisa’s station.

Audioslave. Rob Zombie. Metallica. System of a Down.

Fuck.

Lisa is way more hardcore than me. I went with a station based on a mix of New Order and Duran Duran instead.

I still think of her daily. Any time someone comments on Lisa’s blog, I get an email. Two or three times a week, Facebook reminds me I should put something on Lisa’s wall. Clusterfook.com sends people to my blog nearly every day.

I miss her.

Happy Birthday, Lisa. You really ARE the Rock Bitch.

a