It’s almost BlogHer. I got my cocktail pass yesterday. Looking forward to it as well as being in the area I was born. Seeing family in the homes I grew up in always gets me excited.
For the weekend, here is one of my new favorite songs. Let it be stuck in your head too. Martin, I think you’ll like it if you haven’t heard it yet.
Phosphorescent -- The Mermaid Parade (Dead Oceans)
I haven’t been particularly excited about leaving marketers’ “most coveted age bracket” (although this guy thinks the boomers are changing that). I like knowing companies spend millions of dollars trying to figure out how to please me and how to catch my attention. It’s like dating a Rockefeller.
But not any more. Tomorrow I hit 35. No longer lumped with the 20-somethings. No longer able to tell people “early 30s.”
So, I’ve been trying to curb the effects of aging by refusing to act my age.
How?
Per these clips discovered by local law enforcement on an abandoned iphone in Buckhead, I’ve been encouraging fellow distinguished members of the GA bar to engage in strange behavior involving poles and microphones:
Make that “formerly distinguished.”
I found signs of abuse the next day on my legs and back: indicia that this activity was not without danger:
If ever there were iron clad proof that this behavior was not voluntary, this is decidedly it. Awful:
I like how the dude in the glasses doesn’t even know where the screen showing the lyrics is. It’s like he’s channeling Bret Michaels:
And if ever there were evidence of crossing into the “mid 30s,” it’s breaking out the Biz Markie:
I’m hoping to leave the office at lunchtime to do something I didn’t do a single time during my 34th year: go to the movie theater. I’ve missed it.
Hell, maybe I’ll get a senior discount.
For the past week, my cousin* Leah has been in town from Hawaii by way of Rhode Island, and I've been going out more and staying up later than I probably should have been. After dropping her off at the airport at 5 PM yesterday, I'm taking today to recuperate (and come up with a decent interview with Dennis Hopper for tomorrow) because I have an absolute shitload of work that I need to do to get caught up. I thought an appropriate song to motivate me to work would be Ke$ha's "Tik Tok", but the lyrics needed a bit of updating:
Wake up in the morning feeling like Bea Arthur
Put my manties on, I'm in my chair – I'm gonna work real hard -ah
Before I start, brush my teeth with Colgate Anti-Plaque
'Cause when I start working, I ain't got time to slackI'm talking -
receptionist on my phones, phones
working without any clothes, clothes
paying the people I owe, oweBrainstorming
writing lots of emails
working on all the details
trying to get at least a few salesCHORUS:
Can't stop, drinkin' pop
Monday blows my inbox up
Tonight, Imma write
Til I lose my eyesight
Tick Tock, on the clock
But the work day don't stop
Woah-oh oh oh
Woah-oh oh oh[CHORUS]
Ain't gotta wear pants, but got plenty of clothes
Could be working in an office, but it's the life I chose
Now, employees come to my house cause I pay decent wages
But they gotta put up with my nudity in stagesI'm talkin' about -
Everybody workin' hard, hard
Chargin' lunch to my business card, card
Shushin' Jigsaw if she gets too loud, loudNow, now
Workin' 'til the break of dawn, dawn
Unless there's good TV on, on
There's good TV on, on
Good TV onnnn[CHORUS] X2
I work enough
I'm too tough
On myself, I know,
Yeah, you got meWhen my work's done,
I'll take a break.
And clean my house
Yeah, take a break.I work enough
I'm too tough
On myself, I know,
Yeah, you got meWhen my work's done
It's almost done
Gotta get it doneNo, the work don't stop until I'm dead.
[CHORUS] X2
So the big concert on Saturday (OK Go) was a wash, thanks to a dead car battery the day of the concert. Thankfully, it didn’t happen in Orlando. Had I got out of the show at 11′ish Saturday night, and my car wouldn’t start, I would have been fucked royally. Instead, it happened in the short span of time it took me to get cigarettes from the smoke shop Saturday afternoon.
I was counting on the show to break me out of my funk, even if only for a few hours. But no. The universe had other ideas for me, apparently. After not being able to jump-start the car the first time, I left it in the parking lot and came back a few hours later with a friend. It started up fine the next time, with help of Mom’s car battery.
Got the car back to the house and I stayed home Saturday night, feeling especially melancholy when 8 o’clock rolled around (show time). Sunday I went to the auto parts store to get the battery tested. Surprisingly, when you hook up your battery to a charger – and acid starts frothing out of the top of said battery – it’s not a good thing.
Far better that it was the battery than something more expensive, like a starter or alternator. Still, my weekend was fucked, as was my mood.
I totally forgot about Kevin coming to Orlando this week, too, so when he reminded me Monday via Twitter that he’d be at Downtown Disney Tuesday night, I was like, fuck. Suddenly, not only was I miserable for missing OK Go, but I had to message Kevin and let him know I’d have to bow out. A 90-minute drive, mixed with overpriced dinner (no matter how enjoyable the company), was out of the question.
Sorry I couldn’t hang, Kev. Hope you and Katie are having a smashing time in Florida.
Yesterday, I met with the Matrix Therapist. Didn’t feel like going, much like I haven’t felt like doing most anything lately.
As she ushered me toward her office, she uttered the words “Temple of Tryptophan.” (NOTE: the new design has been up for just over a week now.)
Me: Oh my God, you’ve been to my blog.
Matrix Therapist: It’s not the first time.
Me: Oh my God, you’ve been to my blog…again.
(NOTE TO SELF: Don’t ever write any dirty dreams about the Matrix Therapist here.)
I explained to the Matrix Therapist just how bad the anhedonia is.
Me: Every time I use the word “anhedonia,” I inevitably have to explain to people what it means.
MT: So stop explaining. Tell them to look it up.
Me: I linked to the Wikipedia definition the last couple of times. Doesn’t seem all that difficult to figure out. I mean there’s hedonism – people seem to know what THAT means. Put “an” in front of it…hello, prefixes, ever heard of ‘em?
MT: So what’s going on?
Me: I can’t enjoy anything. TV, music, books, computer. I tried making that list of shit to get out of the house.
MT: And how did that go?
Me: Much like throwing bricks in the Grand Canyon. I went to the movies…
MT: What did you see?
Me: Iron Man 2.
MT: You went by yourself?
Me: I have nobody else to go with.
MT: How was it?
Me: It was okay*. But I found myself wanting it to be over long before it was. Like I’m itchy to move onto something else, though nothing else is satisfying, either. I was just going through the motions.
MT: What else did you try?
Me: Bookstore…more motions. Gym, karaoke…motions, motions. Then, I drove in the pouring rain yesterday to go to the library. Got there and they’re fucking CLOSED Sundays and Mondays.
MT: Were you mad?
Me: Frustrated, but it seems par for the course. In my opinion, the library should be open on all days we have mail delivery, but then, no one ever consults me. So I just said ‘fuck it’ and went home.
It’s this isolation I feel that is part of my paralysis. Once again, I’ve put too many of my eggs into one basket. I lost my best friend recently – one of the only local friends I have. I have other close friends, but they’re all living in my computer, so to speak. And though I do answer my phone most of the time, I rarely reach out by calling them first.
Hate dragging people down into my muck.
In the first of these mugshots above, I was optimistic. Everything was great. I loved 2010, a far better year than 2009 had been. I had a girlfriend, a best friend, the Year of Resolutions, my life was back on track. Or so I thought. Within weeks, no girlfriend, lost my best bud, Mom broke her kneecap, I went manic, fainted twice from low blood sugar, lost my job.
Me: I’ve been ready to write this fucking year off for months. And it’s only getting worse.
MT: Have you thought about going back to school?
Sure, I’ve thought about it. But here’s the problem: go back to school for what, exactly? I’ve often said that the next time I go back to school, it’ll be only classes I WANT to take, as opposed to taking courses toward a degree.
Then there’s all the headache associated with getting a hold of all my previous transcripts. I’ve been to more than a handful of schools (Air Force traveling).
MT: You don’t need that stuff just to take a class.
Me: Oh? Hmm.
But this is how I approach everything, really. I think of something that might be even remotely interesting, then I flashforward and talk myself out of it because whatever it is is insurmountable.
MT: Let me ask you this…what do you feel is lacking from your life?
Me: Local friends, companionship…
MT: OK…
Me: But what do I have to offer a woman? I’m 43, unemployed, living with my mother, and I’m about as much fun lately as The Meat Thawing Network.
And again, we come to this impasse. So the MT starts talking employment, and that’s a whole other kettle of fish. Working. I haven’t worked in a “real” job for 10 years now. That was a 4-month stint as a technical writer in the corporate world, where I started having another breakdown toward the end of that gig. Two years before that, the Great Nervous Meltdown of ‘98. All I imagine when I think about working a “real” job again is freaking the fuck out and having another breakdown. I lack confidence in my ability to work a normal job.
So the MT suggests a few non-traditional things, such as research studies and mock juries. Oddly, she never even brought up gigoloism. She also suggested working in the local bookstore. And while the bookstore might seem a natural fit (I’ve worked in one before, albeit decades ago), the thought of “normal” working hours, having to get dressed and presentable and leave the damn house, gives me the heebie jeebies. Research studies may be the way to go. Put me in a giant maze and make me chase for cheese or some such shit.
I’m simply lost. Overwhelmed and mired in shit. And nothing I do feels right, let alone fun. A total lack of engagement.
Where's the Cheese?
Hmm. Perhaps there’s no pressure being a lab rat. After all, I already feel like one.
* Iron Man 2. SPOILER ALERT. Decent flick, not as good as the first one. Robert Downey, Jr. is great, natch. But I felt it was too slow in many places, lacked a lot of the charm from the original. The action sequences were too few and far between, and the last half hour was just spastic with too MUCH happening. Watching multiple Iron Men duking it out sort of takes the “special” out of Iron Man. And seeing Mickey Rourke – some muscle-bound semi-dreadlocked tattooed gold-toofed Russian – as a nuclear physicist was stretching my disbelief beyond normal limits…even for a comic book movie. Overall grade: B-
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Happy Birthday to one of my great buds, Sybil Law. I hope today brings her lots of gumdrops and gingerbread, maybe some Dave Grohl. Sybil was supposed to be my guest on 2HRadio the other night, but there were technical difficulties, so we had to reschedule. Have a great day, my friend. I’ll be sure to drink one in your honor tonight.
For weeks now, the damn anhedonia has been maddening. Nothing seems to make a dent. When everything you enjoy doing is unenjoyable, believe me, it’s disheartening, to say the least. I’m hoping to kick the anhedonia in the balls tonight.
Tonight, I go to see OK Go. You know, the guys that did the video on the treadmill, plus that other video with the giant Rube Goldberg device? Yeah, them. They don’t like people embedding their videos, apparently, which is insane. I’m really digging the new album. One of my faves is WTF.
I managed to pull this classic Dancing in my Boxers video from my hat (or my Youtube account), which is me dancing to one of their many great songs. Be sure you eat before you watch. It IS me dancing, after all.
If this concert doesn’t work and snap me out of it – at least, temporarily – I’m gonna be highly upset.
UPDATE: I’m highly upset. No concert tonight. My car died. Won’t start even with jumper cables. Grr.
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Desperate times call for desperate measures, so they say. Which is why I found myself today at church. It’s been so long, I expected a Monty-Pythonesque Finger of God to come out of the clouds and squash me like a bug before I could enter the building. No such luck.
God only knows the last time I went to confession. Oops, I mean reconciliation. I have enough material to cause a priest’s ears to spew smoke with the sound of a 1,000 pressure cookers going off at once.
But I need help, and something tells me God already knows all my shit, so I took a chance and went, anyway. Maybe 10 people were at Mass, whole thing lasted 20 minutes, which is like SpeedMass or something.
I got there about 10 minutes early, so I could reacquaint myself. See, God and I have a very tenuous relationship. My doing, not His. Like the story goes, I’ve been rather distant from God. God’s answer: “Well, guess who moved?” Yeah, that’d be me.
I don’t feel Him at all these days. Used to, a lot. Nowadays, I’m too busy being miserable to notice Him. I feel like God’s Punching Bag.
So I did the proper standing, kneeling, sitting, standing again things. Took the Eucharist and hoped for miraculous healing. Did my best to pray in my head (“God, I know it’s been a long time, but Holy Crap, do I need help so please do Your thing and erase all the bad shit in my head and make me feel better…”) but heard no response.
And when I walked out of the church and got back in my car, I felt no improvement…just the furnace heat that Florida is producing of late. Then I heard this song come on my iPod:
Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?
--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan
Having watched a lot of B- and C-grade schlocky horror movies, there’s one theme that I find myself cringing at time and time again. It’s where someone is administered a dose of curare (or some other paralyzing agent), which renders them unable to move, yet totally aware and conscious of their surroundings. The killer then proceeds to bury the person alive or some other such nightmarish demise, all the while the person can’t do a fucking thing (including scream).
Cut to them, hours later, inside a coffin, punching and scratching away at the lid, screaming with no hope of being heard. I’ve had plenty of nightmares (and night terrors) that mirror this scenario.
Lately, I feel like that paralyzed dude, laying there, watching while someone who has it in for me digs my grave. I’ll be walking from, say, the kitchen to the living room or my bedroom…and I’ll
freeze
in the midst of walking. Suddenly, I don’t remember what I was about to do, why I was walking into Room X.
My breath catches, I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate, but I don’t. I just stand there, trying to remember to breathe like a normal person, on the verge of tears. The other day, I just dropped to the floor and sat there for about 10 minutes.
Paralyzed.
Don’t know what to do – most all of my normal “escape” routines are stripped from me. The things that I’d usually do to relieve anxiety and stress (TV, music, computer, books, magazines, iPhone) sit there in front of me, not appealing in the slightest. I zip through page after page of satellite guide listings, but nothing looks good to me. Page after page of apps/games on the iPhone, but nothing seems fun. Etc. etc. ad nauseum.
It’s officially May now, when I should be announcing my next big Resolution for the Year of Resolutions. Yet I don’t give a flying fuck, especially since the ones I’ve chosen thus far have all gone to shit.
Paralyzed. Must breathe.
I don’t think I have to strength to hit bottom (again). Course, at the moment I don’t feel I have the strength to get a single thing done. Consider it a miracle I went out to Office Depot and got Mom a new wireless mouse for her computer this morning. And I got it installed. It feels ridiculous that this is likely going to be all I accomplish today.
I feel pathetic. Every move seems futile, even if I’m just pointing the remote at the TV to pause it or turn the volume down.
Everything is stifling, oppressive. Every little task is this giant thing…making coffee, putting a sandwich together, making a phone call. I go to text someone, or (God forbid) call them and that’s futile, too. The loneliness weighs upon me, yet I don’t know what to say. I’m a broken record, everything coming out of my mouth is this repulsively sick depressive verbiage. Why impose that on my friends, just to drag them down with me?
I hate it. And the negative shit running through my brain, the suicidal ideation, hits hardest at times like these. (I’m safe, no worries about that shit.) I don’t deserve to be here – on this planet – I add nothing to the universe but misery. Sad, sorry little man.
Fucking paralyzed.
a
The last time I had tickets to a David Gray concert, the som’bitch got sick and canceled after Pretty Girlfriend flew down from her PhD program in Pennsylvania, and, having run out of ideas for entertainment with no concert to attend, we decided to get married and start repopulating the great state of Georgia.
We found ourselves, again, with David Gray tickets Saturday night. But here’s the rub: last time, he was slated to perform at the Fox, a rather classy old venue where Gone With the Wind opened. This time, it was at the Civic Center. Do you smell what I’m about to step in here? Not as classy.
Still, the performer, I figured, would attract a more sophisticated crowd, so I was sure all would be well in Muskratville.
Only it wasn’t.
When dude opened with some faster-paced songs on guitar, everyone stood and sang or clapped or smoked weed. But when he slid under the piano, folks started sitting. I didn’t want to sit, but I’m a pussyboy crowd-follower whose under-insured and with hungry children at home, so I sat. However, the two giant women two rows in front of us did not. I could still see. My bride could still see, so I didn’t really give a damn. But the Chesterfield-smelling trailer queen beside me cared. A lot.
She leaned her bulky body across the sitting persons in front of her, stretched out her right hand, and beat on the back of the girl on the right’s shoulder. They exchanged some words. Trailer Queen sat back down. The standers kept standing.
Yells of “sit down” and “down in front” and “chill concert, so sit” came from varying directions to my left and behind me.
But the fleshy monoliths continued their defiant stand.
Trailer Queen then did some serious outside-of-the-box thinking, grabbed a handful of popcorn, and threw it at the back of the fleshy monoliths. At this point, I braced myself for a scrap and, naturally, put it on Twitter:
Throwing popcorn at her back will not make a large woman sit down. In case you were wondering. 9:47 PM Apr 10th via Tweetie
This too failed to make them sit. It did bring some exchanged “f” bombs, though. Then, the popcorn tosser tapped my shoulder.
Trailer Queen: Hey, how does he look?
Me:
Trailer Queen: HOW DOES HE LOOK? CAWS I WOOD-ENT KNOOOOW!
Me (deadpan): Dreamy. I’d totally lick his bottom if these seats were closer.
Trailer Queen (shifting in her seat and leaning away from me now):
A woman in front of us tapped the angry monoliths’ shoulders, whispered something to one, smiled, and they actually sat down. I cringed in anticipation of the clapping and “Finally!” eruptions that came fewer than five seconds later.
Luckily, Trailer Queen had only come to hear “Babylon,” so she left right after it finished.
The rest of the show was dreamy. I would’ve licked his bottom if the seats were closer.
****
Friday night, I totally hung out with Bossy and friends! See how happy we are? Blogging friends are way more considerate than are concert attenders who happen to have nearby seats.
a
Days like today I kinda just want to say “Blow me, world!” and throw in the towel. Stick my head in the sand, make it all go away, leave me the hell alone.
Therapy was a bitch yesterday. I can’t even go into specifics. Let’s just say that one of many recurring themes discussed was my proclivity to take on too much of OTHER PEOPLE’S shit.
Then I listen to this song and try to let it soak in. The meditations of OK Go.
Dear Jeebus, let this garbage pass.
This Too Shall Pass
by OK Go
You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down
And you can’t keep draggin’ that dead weight around.
If there ain’t all that much to lug around,
Better run like hell when you hit the ground.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
You can’t stop these kids from dancin’.
Why would you want to?
Especially when you’re already gettin’ yours.
‘Cause if your mind don’t move and your knees don’t bend,
well don’t go blamin’ the kids again.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
When the morning comes.
Let it go, this too shall pass.
Let it go, this too shall pass.
Let it go, this too shall pass.
(You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
Let it go, this too shall pass.
(You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
Hey!
Let it go, this too shall pass.
(You know you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes.
(You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes.
(You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes.
(You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes.
(You can’t keep lettin’ it get you down. No, you can’t keep lettin’ it get you down.)
When the morning comes!
a
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