the road from there to here (part 1)

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a few years ago i came down with a serious illness and was hospitalized for several weeks. once it became clear i was gonna live, my doctor (who had become concerned about my mental state after my prolonged confinement) had a friend of his, a prominent psychiatrist, drop by a couple times a week for a little chat.

[i was touched by my doctor's concern--gee, he sent so many specialists over to check on me--until, that is, i got the bill and realized that all those specialists, including said psychiatrist, dinged my insurance company an average of $400 for each of their 15-minute visits, but my outrage at doctors feeding like pigs at the insurance trough is a story for another day]

point is, this guy was good. after laying out the long-practiced patter of my background, i asked him one day, "so tell me, doc--what the hell's the matter with me?"

understand: i had asked this same question of every mental-health professional i'd ever encountered and gotten nothing back but bullshit, so i wasn't really expecting anything different from this guy; i was just askin for the hell of it.

but he surprised me; without hesitation, he replied, "is that all you want to know? that's obvious--you have a personality disorder; more particularly, you're schizoid."

"schizoid?! fuck you, i'm not schizophrenic--there's just one of me, thank you very much."

he smiled, shook his head. "schizoid is worlds away from schizophrenic, mike." he then pointed at the laptop on my bed, said "google it--i think you'll find it interesting," and left (my 15 minutes were up, you see).

i did just that, and in a flash my whole life was explained.

[and you can google it for yourself, and/or wait for part 2]

machine of wonder

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so i'm outside the rite-aid with my three-gallon jug, fishing in my pocket for change for the usual biweekly refill, when out the door spills a noisy gaggle of kids, each clutching a hand-packed ice-cream cone (this being the beverly hills rite-aid, it still features such amenities).

they spot me and i'm immediately surrounded--"hey, whatcha doin?" i look up at their accompanying adult--they couldn't possibly all be his kids--and he shrugs, like, "go figure--they get excited by the strangest things."

i tell 'em i'm getting water from the machine; i open the door, place the bottle inside and explain how it works--you put the money in, push the button and voila!, water. electrifying, huh?

well, it is to them--they're totally in. and when i ask if they wanna help, pandemonium breaks out--you'da thought i'd made 'em honorary teenage mutant ninja turtles or something. i line 'em up, they each get a coin to insert (three gallons means three quarters and three nickels and there's six kids, so that works out) and, after some discussion, the three necessary button-pushes are each delegated to teams of two.

the process goes relatively smoothly, with great suspense at the end--"how does it know when it's full?" i tell 'em, "it just knows--watch." they do, breathlessly, and when with less than an inch to go before overflow the water magically stops, there is much jubilation.

when it's all done, i cap the bottle, thank my helpers and reach in to grab it, but i'm beaten to the punch by the oldest boy, who wraps his arms around it, pulls it out--it's almost as big as he is and i just know he's gonna drop it but i resist the urge to help him--turns with a stagger and hands it off to me with a proud grin as the younger kids ooh and aah at his strength.

and then, wham! quick as they came, they're gone--racing off across the parking lot to their next thing. i watch them go, then shlep my water bottle back to my truck and head home.

i long ago came to terms with the fact that i'll never have kids and it's definitely for the best, and i'm totally ok with it.  most of the time, anyway.

guy could get a complex

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came across this tonight while clearing out old drunken shit i wrote last year that didn't make the cut--tonight, though, it made me laugh, so it's going in.

guy responds to my ad, drawn by the X pic, of course. preliminary negotiations ensue and face pics are exchanged, after which he comes back at me with, "you SURE that's your dick?",  the unavoidable implication being that, after having done the pleasure/pain equation, he's willing to endure the face only if that's really the dick that comes with it.

good thing you get more thick-skinned as you get older, eh?

and yeah i probably fucked him, most likely from behind.

home for the holidays

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last night

on the way back from p.f. chang's, she said, from the backseat, conversationally and totally outta the blue, "so i guess if i live another ten years, i'll get to see you ten more times."

a sharp knife through the heart as i realized she might be right--you shouldn't hit people with shit like that while they're driving, i wanted to say when i got my breath back.

instead, i said something like, "don't be silly, ma; we've got lots of time" and changed the subject.

i couldn't explain to my mother, who loves me like nobody else ever will, why i'm a once-a-year son any more than i can explain to my guy v, who loves me even though he shouldn't, why i'm a once-a-week boyfriend.

or how sometimes in the middle of the night i sit bolt-upright in bed, heart pounding and covered in sweat, still half-dreaming that everybody i give a rat's ass about is gone and it's too late.

* * * * *

tonight

my headlights catch maggie bounding down the street to meet me as i turn into the driveway. i pull my bags out and reach down to pet her; she rises on her hind legs and tucks her head into the palm of my outstretched hand.

as i write these words, she's sprawled across my legs and purring. tomorrow she'll be standoffish as ever, but for now she's happy to have me home.

the dark side of change for the better

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i can't write anymore.

while i've rarely been able to write sober--all my self-defeating, overthinking, second-guessing inhibitions come into play and paralysis sets in almost immediately--i could always at least count on being able to write drunk.

until now, anyway.

one of the timeworn cliches of self-improvement is that you have to let go of one side of the pool before you can get to the other, and in the midst of my most recent carefully-constructed quest for something better outta life, i've apparently begun that painful process of letting go.

and it looks like we're starting with alcohol.

the good news is, as a result of recent and ongoing therapies and treatments, i'm growing demonstrably sounder in mind and body--yay for me. the bad news is, said new-found health is seriously getting in the way of my drinking (and thus, my writing--and thus, this blog).

it's weird; the desire to get shitfaced is suddenly not there anymore--apparently, my improving physiology is literally shrinking away from the alcohol and, hard as i try, i can no longer drink with my former wanton fluidity.

it's funny--i still look forward all week to the theory of friday night, that magical time when i can cast all cares of the week aside and start drinking. these days however, when the actuality of friday night arrives, instead of racing for the freezer and grabbing the vodka as in days of yore, i now tend to delay mixing that first drink and then, when finally mixed, let it sit there and sweat for awhile before i force myself to take that first swig. and in the last two weeks i've allowed my work to get in the way of my weekend drinking, a prospect that even recently would've been unthinkable.

in other words, i guess i've let go of one side of the pool; problem is, between letting go of one side and successfully reaching the other, there's this big, scary, seemingly insurmountable stretch of shark-infested water in between, with no life-preservers to be found.

another way of stating the problem? nothing positive has come along to take alcohol's place yet, which is why this blog (among other things in my life) sucks so bad right now.

and it's also why this post is so painfully awkward--i mean, what would you expect from something written on less than one mkf cocktail [look it up--i really don't feel like digging up the original reference to link to], which, in days of yore, woulda been a mere warm-up to the real drinking--and, consequently, to the real writing.

will i turn tail and swim madly back toward the dark safety of the side i know? time will tell, i guess.

* * * * *

i remember back in the eighties all the rich-bitch wives of my uncle's high-living, hard-drinking petroleum-club buddies sitting around twirling their diamonds and complaining incessantly about their husbands' drunken excesses. and then, when after their first heart attacks and/or dui's said husbands dutifully sobered up, leaving them because they weren't fun anymore.

another one of those things i didn't understand then, and totally understand now.

trust me, you'll score a lot better if you don't waste half your alloted time tryin to spell shit like "kyrzykstan"

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someone who knows well my (a) current state of ennui and (b) fondness for ego-boosting time-wasters sent me this link; i have no doubt that at least one of my readers will be able to break 100 (like i damn sure shoulda).

oh, and the time starts counting down the instant the link opens, so don't dawdle.

the night the cynic realized that, deep down, everybody's a romantic

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[yeah i've been gone for awhile and i don't post very often anymore and there's all kinds of stuff i should write about these days but tonight this old story is the best i can come up with, sorry]

so i push my way into spike, drunk and full of my usual dark intent, but before i can even get my bearings i'm hijacked by this tall-dark-&-handsome type decked out in scuffed leather and torn denim who without warning shoves me into a dark recess and launches an assault upon my stunned and unsuspecting person with his hands and his tongue--and in the face of such a concerted attack, what could i (or anybody else in the same position of helplessness) possibly do but leave with him five minutes later?

he wants to go to his place [good], which turns out to be a hotel [even better--he's a transient and i won't have to dodge his calls later]. once there, we pile into the elevator and grope our way up four floors and down the hall to his room, where he fumbles with the keycard as we shove our tongues down each others' throats.

once inside--it's actually a mini-suite--he pushes me down onto the sofa and, instead of immediately piling on top of me, says, "hang on, i wanna put on some music."

he turns to his portable sound system [a cambridge soundworks model twelve--i remember this because i couldn't believe the incredible sound that came outta that small, inauspicious package] and, instead of the typical dance-crap i'd braced myself for, out comes this...calypso music.

he comes back to the sofa, settles down next to me and, in response to my inquiry, replies, "a friend of mine is in this little show that just hit the jackpot, and he sent me this bootleg cd yesterday--isn't it cool?"

i nod "yes" because it is indeed cool, at which point he proceeds to pull my head down onto his lap, look deep into my eyes and, to the background accompaniment of the cd, sing, tenderly and from memory, and in a soft, clear, resonant voice, the entire score of the show--called once on this island--to me, and only me.

do i completely and totally melt? well, what the fuck would you do if some hot, talented guy sang the entire score of a new broadway musical to you while he held you in his arms?

[turns out my levi/leather boy from spike is in actuality not only a musical prodigy, but the orchestra conductor for the road company of les miserables which is currently in town and playing at the pantages theatre.]

eventually the cd ends and he goes from crooning into my ear to wanting to be face-fucked, and i rise to the occasion with my usual panache.

and then for days afterward [what can i say, i was new], i await his promised call, and the promised ticket, and the promised view from third-row center of his tight butt in the tuxedo he'd modeled for me, and the promised toss of the carnation from his lapel...

needless to say, that call never came, but whatever--how many people can say they were given the opportunity to grow more romantic and more cynical on the same night?