Febuary 16, 2006. Not so much infamy, as a serious case of ennui. More changes coming, but this is the worst of it. Thoughts? Comments? Random punchlines to jokes?

I don’t know if you guys ever take the time to browse through the links I’ve provided for you over on the right, but you should. I’ve painstakingly poured over every single blog in existence on the Interweb, and sorted through all the poorly written, unfunny, and ethically and logically challenged conservative blogs — I’ve swum through shit to find you the pearls.

For instance, Clublife, Boobs… and Dooce are all really well written, and a nice cross section of life and writers from across the States. Falling Sky is similar, and also provides the international flavor around here. Mona and Trix (of Bated Breath) keep the temperature warm in the winter and steamy in the summer. Wade’s got a real talent for words for a guy who has never left Birmingham (don’t fall for his stories — he’s actually a brain in a jar, connected to a word processor and a wireless network card). Warren Ellis is the best writer ever.* And Something Positive is always late (sorry, Randy).

And the newest addition to the herd: Blog of Unfathomable Profundity. The best review I’ve heard so far: “I don’t get it.” But frankly, I think you should visit it, if you’re not afraid of laughing so hard you pee a little. Drennen�s words strike at the core of all that is good and humorous in the world, particularly in his tales of unrepentant pedophilia, and the blackface galleries he sometimes features� There are those who say the running commentary by the profoundly retarded eight year old girl is unnecessary, but in the hands of a master like Drennen, unnecessary is the new 30� Highly recommended by the amputee prostitute who hangs out in front of my apartment building.

*Oh, except for Stephen King and Chuck Pahlaniuk. And Neil Gaiman’s pretty good, so I should probably include him. Oh, and Cait Kiernan, while I’m thinking of it. Clive Barker, of course. You know who else is pretty good is Mick Foley, the wrestler. Yeah, he’s got some talent there. And Steve Martin, too. Jon Stewart is fucking funny, as is Al Franken. But Ellis is good, too.

I hate having that gut feeling that something has shifted away from me, but then questioning whether that feeling is legitimate since being bipolar and not sleeping enough makes that even worse but sometimes insidiously so that you think maybe you’re being affected but then again maybe not, but then the gut kicks in again and you start feeling like an absolute moron for not picking up the signs but you can’t really get confirmation because hey, maybe you’re just being paranoid thanks to a minor dip in the moodswing but then if you keep going forward as though nothing is wrong, things really aren’t going to do anything other than decline further…

Sorry. But a tiny voice in my head wanted all of you to come in for a bit.

This, too, shall pass.

The fuck out, that is.

I am certain that this is what they call “viral video.” And who needs a cure?

http://onegoodmove.org/1gm/1gmarchive/2006/02/cheneys_got_a_g.html

* Yes, damn it. I’m breaking down and using a pseudonym for one of my friends. It’s out of respect for her privacy, which I refuse to show for the other people in my life. That should tell you something right there.

I can’t remember the context, but I’m sitting at the bar and hear Bree call me a motormouth — tells one of the regulars that I haven’t shut up all day. I laugh, of course. For some reason, everything she says makes me smile. I think that it’s her voice, that slightly accented cashmere softness that is so often followed by the most perfect laugh anyone ever imagined. How can I not smile?

That laugh is one of my favorite things in life. You ever had a friend or maybe been really attracted to someone, but then the laugh that comes out of their throat is like an after-school special without the benefit of bourbon, that thing that you sit through wondering when the torture will end? Och, I have. But Bree — god, her laughter makes up for every nails-on-chalkboard giggle I’ve ever put up with in my life.

It puts me at ease, her laugh, her smile. Everything about her, really. And as funny as the motormouth comment is — most people that know me will say I’m withdrawn, reasonably quiet outside of controlled bursts of extroversion — it hits me that yeah, it’s true. I probably have talked her ear off this day. It certainly fits with the three hour phone call records that I’ve set with her.

There’s a lot about Bree that makes it feel okay to just relax, not think, and just be me.

Right now, she’s laughing, by the way. It was the “not thinking” comment that made her laugh. But as much as it seems against my nature to not think and just be, somehow it works out that way.

Bree is captivating. She’s physically stunning. I don’t want to mislead anyone here; she’s not a supermodel. But she’s got a look that you could never accurately capture without an artist’s touch and paints on canvas. That’s a lot of what made my jaw drop the first time I saw her: she’s very real, and very unique. She’s got curves, and imperfections and flaws, just like the rest of us. But she doesn’t hide those things, at least not with an obsessive vengeance like so many other women I’ve known; it’s as though she draws attention to all the sexy things about her by not hiding anything at all. She’s beautiful, I think, because of her flaws, not in spite of them. Her eyes are at times penetrating and intense, at others distant and dreaming, but always the color of dusk. She’s soft without being lazy or weak. She moves with purpose but always with grace and ease. And I can always come full circle to her smile…

She’s a good person, there for both friends and family with an ear or even much needed words. She has, in many, many ways, got her life together, but she’s not predictable or dull, and that’s inspiring to someone who has spent too much time wandering off course. She’s moving forward, and seems to know where she’s headed (and if not, she hides it well). And she seems totally okay with getting there whenever, no real rush.

It strikes me here and now that as much as I might know about Bree, I know very little. I look forward to learning more about her, to learning from her, and to laughing with her. In a perfect world, things would blossom and develop into a life-long love affair, one that I think would be meant for storybooks and moviescreens. But even if that perfect world never comes around, I’m an incredibly lucky person, to have her as a friend, and even luckier to have connected with her across the miles.

This is the closest I could come to a Valentine’s Day wish for someone, and I think I remember someone saying that they’ve never really had a good Valentine’s romance… I hope yours is wonderful and filled with laughs, Bree.

Fortunately for all of you, I’m wide awake in America at 4:30 AM. That’s unfortunate for me, by the way, but hey — this isn’t about me. It’s about a long drive on a Sunday in February of 2006.

The road from Birmingham to Chicago is really an easy drive, especially in a car with cruise control. Set your car to 80 or 85 (mileage may vary, as they say) and just go. There’s not a lot of traffic, if you pick your time wisely — I hit rush hour bullshit on the way out of Birmingham on Thursday afternoon at four, and Chicago at 3 PM is busier than I would have thought, but that was it for busy roads.

For the most part, it’s a really pleasant drive. The spaces between Birmingham, Nashville, Louisville, and Indinanapolis are long enough to relax without getting too hypnotized. Sadly, this does leave the final stretch, from Indianapolis to Chicago (about 150 miles between city and Skyway) — and as either beginning or end of a journey, not a road you particularly want to be endlessly driving. At least, that’s what it feels like.

Thursday’s drive was beyond mindless, punctuated by a single stop for fuel in Louisville and a little ice on the road in Gary, Indiana, just before the changeover to toll roads in Illinois. At that point, I was so excited about returning to Chicago that it didn’t matter, and I picked the right music (Devin Townsend’s Terria) to carry me into the home stretch. It was a little unnerving, hitting the roads that potentially held black ice patches — after driving 8 hours, it would have been what Alanis Morissette would call ironic (translation: not really) to wreck just outside of my destination. But I made it okay, and Bree’s directions were spot on.

The road home, of course, would not be so easy — though somehow, faster. The weather conditions were nearly unbearable: I drove through four states, from snow to rain to snowy rain through country music and finally into a few flurries as far south as twenty miles from home. There were a few moments of whiteout driving in Indiana, not so bad except for the moron driving about 100 mph through the non-existent visibility. It wasn’t until I hit the Tennessee / Kentucky border that I felt genuinely endangered, though — I had somehow let it slip my mind that 95% of southern drivers are incapable of driving in even the most remotely winter-like conditions. From the state line into Nashville, the roads were a mess — no salt + enough snow to cover the asphalt * drivers in awe of nature = accident waiting to happen. Fortunately, the few close calls that I saw or experienced remained just that, and I finally hit the mountains of southern Tennessee, cruising at a cozy 90 mph.

Total time: 8:45:00, give or take something.

The best part of the drive was the area on the midst of dull, rolling Indiana. Snow covered the ground, white as far as the eye could see, and the moon was cresting the horizon in the east, a brilliant eye of yellow-orange greeting the evening. The trees didn’t hold the snow as well as those in Kentucky and Tennessee, but it was still a beautiful sight, the entire land lit up with reflective natural radiance.

It’s unfortunate that those who get the good snow are so accustomed to the sight (and perhaps even irritated by it) as to be unimpressed. The beauty of winter is truly something to be respected and appreciated, no matter where you live or how inconvenient it may prove to be.

“There is only today; tomorrow is an afterthought.”
-Lewis Black

Not a bad idea to live your days with this in mind.

A long time ago, I promised myself that I would shift my living to encapsulate a few things that had become important parts of my philosophy. I determined to live my life in such a way that I no longer have any regrets — no more spending my days wondering what if I had chosen differently, done this or not said that. I determined to discover as much about the world as I possibly could, including and often focusing on me. And I decided to live every day, every minute as though it might be my last; this one struck me as most important, and though I’m still walking a fine line, trying to find the balance of planning for tomorrow while not counting on it, I’ve come a long way.

I’ve seen a fair amount of death in my life. Never an immediate family member or very close friend, but many friends and acquaintances. My three grandparents (my paternal grandfather died well before I was born) passed away over a course of 18 years — my grandfather when I was thirteen, of Alzheimers; his wife, my maternal grandmother, when I was 28, also of Alzheimers; and my father’s mother most recently, in the summer or fall of 2003. Many friends and acquaintances — a few suicides in college, an overdose here and there, and two victims of ex-spousal homicide.

I’ve come to terms with death long ago. Again, who knows how much that will hold true when it’s my parent, or a sibling, or a girlfriend, but that’s a bridge to be burned some other time. That’s not the point of all this.

Knowing that you can go any day, any time, any place, for any reason, should really force you into an awareness of what’s important in your life, where your priorities should lie. And it does me — I try to be conscious of always resolving arguments as quickly as possible with those close to me. I try to always let people know how much they mean to me, and not just when the Jager has been flowing. I especially try to compliment people, whether I know them or not — it’s become too common to hear negative things, to say negative things, to point out the aspects of a person that you don’t like or aren’t impressed with. And — speaking only from perspective — I find that it can’t really make your day, to hear a compliment, whether on your hair, your natural good looks, your writing, your work ethic, whatever.

And yes, Bree’s right: I’m a sap, and cheesy, and incurably romantic. And that’s why. Who knows what will happen tomorrow, or even later today? I don’t, and rather than take chances and gamble, I’m willing to throw all my cards on the table and take the risk that I’ll be thought of as — well, whatever it is that I get called when my back is turned. If a musician plays so well that it actually grabs and holds my attention, I’m going to try to let them know after the show; why wouldn’t I do the same for a woman who is actually capable of capturing my attention?

What’s really funny about this to me is that I am perpetually accused of being withdrawn and not showing my feelings. Which comes largely from learning to live unmedicated with bipolar disorder, I’m sure, but from the inside looking out, I’m completely a heart-on-sleeve kinda guy; according to all but one, I’m too quiet and reserved for my own good.

Hey, if you’re that one, the one that says I don’t stop talking, maybe that might tell you something. Something impressive about yourself, eh?

Take a few minutes today, and drop an email, make a phone call, roll over — whatever. And compliment someone who means a lot to you, or tell them how much better your life is with them in it. And then do it again tomorrow — maybe with the same person, maybe with someone different. Try to do a little something like this every day, if only because there may not be another.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go burn some incense and tie-dye a Dead shirt.

Man, even joking about that makes me need a shower.