Leather and Cigarettes

I have been watching all this Denis Leary stuff this weekend, and it has been really interesting. His movies are amazing. His sitcom was hilarious. His stand up is totally mediocre and the more recent stand up is just crap. Angry rantings of a old man. Dude. Change the tune.

When he started . . . when I first saw him . . . he was that leather coat wearing rant machine on MTV . . . and he was electrifying. He stopped me dead and my jaw dropped. A million years ago we had never seen anything like it. Now? Denis, honey. Young, edgy men can rant like that. 40+ . . . not so much.

But watching Denis Leary is reminding me of pieces of myself that seem really really far away. I was telling my sister about it on the phone and I think, since it keeps coming up, that I probably need to pay attention a bit.

I used to go to the movies all the time. I used to wander around town on the weekends by myself just to see what was happening. I used to know current music. I used to have really cool clothes. Not expensive, but in fashion. I used to be edgy and urban and modern.

I used to believe art mattered.

Let's think about this last one, because I know exactly what happened. I stopped performing and I stopped doing art. I was in my debt spiral. I was depressed. I felt like theatre and performance let me down. It abandoned me and I betrayed it and we split irreconcilably forever. And being poverty stricken and spiraling downward I jumped ship and buried myself in Antarctica. Sure, it was a life changing journey with a shit ton of lessons and gifts and wonderful people and I still like it very much. But surviving in Antarctica -- even in modern Antarctica where it really is rather cush -- surviving doesn't require any of my old skills. I learned pretty early that none of my old skills were of value there.

And this is a hard one to explain, because in truth my ability to understand people comes in very handy and, I don't know, being able to read helps. But I don't have any trade skills. I don't know how engines work. I don't know how to run a fork-lift or weld a bar joist or fuel an aircraft. I'm not super fit. I don't camp. I can't make the stupid camp stove light. I would be crap if the plane went down because I would tired very quickly of cutting blocks of ice for the shelter. And this sounds really strange . . . but these are actually skills people have who work in Antarctica. And even though many know their art history and plenty can act and draw and talk philosophy . . . they don't. Those kinds of conversations are really rare and hidden and shared only after you know who you're really talking to . . . and flippant little dilettantey asides are absolutely forbidden. They are elitist and snotty. Makes you look up yourself.

And all the sudden, only recently, this seems like a very strange place to find myself. What did I do? Why did I swim so far away and stay gone? Did leaving Comedy Sports, and in reality leaving all of theatre behind, hurt so much that I had to go to Mars to escape it?

Must have.

While away, I did feed some other interests of mine . . . big heavy construction, understanding power plants, knowing all about military transport aircraft and radio communications and how to talk to senators. That's cool and all.

But now . . . now I drive downtown and I LONG for it. I drove by the Wynkoop last weekend and 100,000 memories flooded in. Stuff I couldn't bare to remember came back. And it wasn't so unpleasant. I drove by the Wazee Super Club and was surprised to see the old ghost standing. I went to the Merc for brunch and didn't run in to all those devils, but had a wonderful time and drank blueberry juice. Just like old times.

Today I'm going to a movie. Downtown. At the Mayan.

I've been to the Art Museum three times this summer.

I'm watching that Denis Leary and remembering the black and white rants . . . with the leather and the cigarettes, and I am seeing that glimpse of me left behind. All that I wanted and all that I was and all that I hoped would come to pass. There are tiny little strings -- strong as fish wire -- between me and her. And I just might be able to real her back in.

You know, it takes a long time to admit that you might actually still want what was once so viciously tossed aside.

Gluttony

This morning I woke up thinking about gluttony. Mostly because I engaged in it completely last night. I have been sick and haven't seemed to be getting any better yet. I have a stuffy head and a cough, but I don't feel terrible. It's one of those head-colds that could be allergies if there wasn't a fever involved. Nothing too terrible. Just enough to make me crabby and snap at people if they try to talk to me. Needless to say, I have missed two days of work.

Last night was Friday night. I had just received a box full of Denis Leary from Amazon and I just . . . well, I went for it. I put in the first disc of "The Job", which was a TV series from 2000/2001 that ran only one season. Denis Leary wrote it and starred in it and I had never heard of it, but bought it anyway because I'm such a fan.

I ordered a pizza -- that came wrong but I ate it anyway. What part of "burger" didn't she hear? Ham and black olive? Gross.

I opened a bottle of wine.

And I sat upstairs, blowing my nose, eating pizza and drinking wine and I watched the entire series front to back. It took seven hours. I was completely immersed in Denis Leary and it was fantastic.

Complete, indulgent, relaxing ecstasy.

What's wrong with wallowing in joy every once in a while? What's wrong with fulfilling your every want?

What's wrong with that?

Ahhhhhhh.

The Death of a Finch

Yesterday, as I puttered around the house, I noticed that one of the finches that feeds at my feeder out back wasn't looking so good. He rarely left the ground. He was listless and his feathers were puffed up. He looked tired and kept closing his eyes and breathing heavily. As the day wore on, it was obvious that this little fellow had chosen my back patio to die. It isn't unusual. Over the course of the four years living here, I have scooped up many little finch bodies. If you think about it, it makes sense. There's food on the ground from the feeder, there's water so long as you can still jump up to get it, and there are no predators. Why not die here?

In the evening, before dinner, I made banana bread. As I was washing up, I looked out and there he was, hunkered down, eyes closed, breathing hard. All the other birds were gone from the feeder, but next to him stood a solitary mourning dove, still and gently waiting. The dove stood for more than 15 minutes, quiet, dozing. Sitting vigil with his small, dying friend. I have never seen anything like it.

A short while later I took the trash out. The dove was gone and the little sick finch was over by the sage bush. He hopped away as I stepped off the patio. When I came back to the house I noticed he was perched on the edge of the uncovered window well, looking down.

I knew where I would find him in the morning.

Opposite Impulses

This summer I have been tracking my finances. I log every cent that flows away from me. I now have several months of data. I spend my money on rent, food and liquor.

This summer I have vowed to take my lunch to work, both the stop the steady stream of money flowing away from me, and to try to curb the 10 - 15 pounds I gain when I come home from the Ice.

This summer I wanted to open my own business and write an HBO series and read books and hike and get more social and get outside more often.

This summer I wanted to stop drinking myself to sleep.

This summer I read a great book. "The Tender Bar" by J.R. Moehringer.

In the epilogue he wrote this:

"I didn't go into a long explanation. I didn't want to list all the reasons that drinking - along with smoking and gambling and most other vices - had lost its appeal after I left Pulicans. I didn't want to tell Jimbo that sobering up had felt like growing up, and vice versa. I didn't want to say that drinking and trying felt like opposite impulses, that when I stopped the one I automatically started the other."

Isn't that interesting?

Like opposite impulses.

Bridges

A friend wrote this today . . .

"It's that surreal nature that I think is really hard for us humans to cope with or even understand. If a bridge isn't reality, what are the implications for so many other facets of life?"

Ugh.