Limping.

I work in a shopping mall these days, in retail. I punch a time clock and report to an assistant manager. I remember a certain dignity to retail employees in Manhattan that doesn't seem to exist here. I remember feeling that, in general, people working retail jobs probably led interesting other-lives and, if nothing else, were noteworthy and dignified by virtue of being New Yorkers.

Here, people are nice enough. They have friends and family and hobbies. For me, there's just no sense of being involved in something bigger. Local politics bore me to tears and I couldn't care less about daily news items. I don't think I've ever bothered to pick up a local paper in the year and a half that I've lived here; didn't even consider voting.

Anyway, back to the shopping mall. It's located near the hotel i worked at last year, out in South Portland. It's a one-story affair, trapped in the 80's, with the usual mall suspects: Sears, JC Penny, Macy's, Best Buy. Four or five giant jewelry stores (why?), a food court, a smattering of shitty wagons that sell iPod cases and sunglasses and stuff. Crazily bad piped-in soft-rock (think Lionel Ritchie, Elton John, Michael McDonald).

Oh, and if showing up and pulling open the doors to the shopping mall every morning wasn't bad enough, I'm greeted not only by the likes of Air Supply but to a creepy hodge-podge of elderly exercise enthusiasts: the mall welcomes senior citizens to walk laps around the mall from the early morning before the stores open to the late night.

So as I weave around the geriatrics, through the teal-bathed corridors, forced to listen to god-knows-what, the sickly smell of Cinnabon and BenGay in the air, I ask myself: What the Fuck? What the Fuck am I doing here? Before I got this job I think I went to the mall maybe once during the course of a year. I am 100% alienated.

On my lunch break, I'm forced out into the wilds of the mall to fend for myself for an hour. For the first few weeks, I ate at the food court. McDonalds, Panda Express, Taco Bell, whatever. I can think of few things more depressing than eating shitty fast food in a sea of wiggaz and mall rats, forced to contemplate the lyrics to "Solid as a Rock" or "On the Wings of Love."

If I'm feeling more anxious or have less money, I would go to the TCBY/Pretzel Time at the other end of the mall and just get a frozen yogurt or pretzel dog and sit in a public seating area, often next to mouth-breathing seniors taking a break from their workouts, completing WordFind puzzles and hacking phlegm.

Yesterday, by accident, I was two hours late to work. I forgot that a week ago I'd agreed to come in early to cover my team-leader's dentist appointment. He makes the schedule and he hadn't adjusted it so i forgot. I've been "written up" once already for being late and since then I'd been making a real effort to get to work on time. So yesterday I thought I was 10 minutes early but when I got in I found that I was in danger of receiving a "no-call" infraction which would put me on final notice for termination. It's so humiliating to be treated like a teenager. I mean, I think my boss at Little Cesar's Pizza was more lenient and I was 15 then.

So when lunchtime came around yesterday, I was so depressed that I had to leave the mall during my lunch break. I thought some fresh air would do me good, so I decided to traverse the mall parking lot and cross the main drag to buy some dog food at Petco. All the walkways were blocked by snow piles from the parking lot plows and I had to snake through in a funny way that led me by the Wendy's. I felt depressed and people were looking at me like a homeless person because nobody walks out by the mall.

I decided to drown my sorrows in a Number 2, large, with Dr. Pepper. I saw a manager interviewing a prospective employee and felt so sorry for the kid, before I realized that my job is about the same. By the time I finished the giant box of french fries I was full. I forced myself to eat the hamburger anyway and then, feeling bloated and disgusted with myself, finished the walk to Petco.

I walked back to the dog food section and then realized that I had spent the dog food money at Wendy's. I was $2 short. So I trudged back to the mall, through the teal corridors, past the limping seniors, the chair massage place, past the baby portrait studio and back to my store where I punched back in from lunch. It's a good thing my dog likes cat food.

Cabbin' Fever.

A few years ago I lived in Manhattan. One night, I was returning home from SoHo to TriBeCa, walking down Broadway. It was one of those windy winter Manhattan nights that cuts through layers of winter clothing and burns your face. It had started to snow and the slippery sidewalks were almost empty of people.

As with any bad-weather day, there were no cabs to be had. I craned my neck every few seconds to check their fare lights as they approached and finally i saw one letting someone out a block or so upstream near Spring St. I was on the corner of Grand and I jumped into the street and flapped my arms. The cab hit at a red light at Broome and I felt sure someone would claim it while it sat there. But no-one did and the driver kept on coming, almost passing me up but coming to a stop a few buildings down from where I stood.

I ran toward toward the car and as I did I noticed a man running up from Howard Street, the next corner down. It was a race and I would be damned if I was going to lose. I grabbed the door handle first and tried to open it but the other guy shoved me back and I slipped a bit on the icy street. "I don't think so!" he said. And then I saw he was carrying a young boy in his arms.

I regained my balance. "Fuck you. It stopped for me."

"Hey, I have a child here!"

"That's not my problem asshole." I flung the door open and into the man's body, forcing him to slip and fall to his knees in the street." He began to howl at the cab driver that he and his boy needed to get out of the cold and that he would report the driver to the TLC. I jumped into the warm car and the guy grabbed at the door trying to wrestle it open as I wrestled it closed, which I finally did. He was up on his feet again, slamming his fist on the hood of the cab while the boy stood by startled. The man kept yelling, but the swift wind carried the sound away uptown.

The cab pulled away from the curb and the man and his son watched as I rolled down the window and flipped them off. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, the violence, name-calling and all. That's where I was, in my head, when I lived in the city. Reliving this story now makes me feel terrible. Embarrassed. Sad.

Sketchy Days.

A three-year-old drew this picture of me yesterday. It really captures my state of mind well, i think. When do kids stop being able to see into people's souls so well? Soon he'll be drawing prototypical houses with smokey chimneys and dump trucks and stuff, but for now he's almost clairvoyant. Ellis is the son of a client of mine here in Portland. When he drew this picture, I was three days into major surgery on his dad's only work computer, and I was very stressed about not losing any data and about him being offline for so long.

Also on my mind was the fact that I'm unemployed (I barter with Ellis's dad for picture-framing services). And that rent is past due, and that my former employer is probably not going to give me my final paycheck just to be a dick, and that we can't afford our apartment anymore so in 6 weeks we'll be moving to god-knows-where (someplace where they don't care that I'm unemployed?), and that our car is literally falling apart, and oh yeah, that we're having a daughter two weeks from today.

On the brighter side, I have applied for three good-looking jobs recently, all of which I'm strongly qualified for. Hopefully by the time my daughter can draw pictures of me, I won't look so lost.

Telephone Anxiety.

A symptom of my depression and anxiety is that I hate the telephone. I hate answering it and I hate calling people. Yet I have a fancy phone and lots of minutes and options. I guess maybe the options are all ways to circumvent talking. I rely on voicemail to field the calls, my data plan enables email on my phone, and unlimited text messaging allows me to reply to many voicemails without having to talk to the person. In fact, did you know you can deposit a message in someone's voicemail box without even calling them? I LOVE that!

Ironically, I don't really use my caller ID because it doesn't matter who's calling; I won't answer. Maybe the best thing would be to not have a phone, and maybe subscribe to a voicemail service so I'd have a phone number, but not a thing that rings. This Google service lets you manage a voicemail number via the web.

Researching "telephobia", I have come across some interesting observations. Check out this bizarre poem:

"The telephone, my nemesis! Spawn of Alex Bell.
The 1880 genesis, connecting Earth and Hell!"

I can identify with this person:

"Perhaps you can trace your phone anxiety to something someone said to you on the phone or maybe you have a fear of something that may be said to you on a call. Not many people understand why I don't answer my phone, and I learned not to care what they think. When you turn the ringer off, you will never know if it rings."

A doctor's insight:

"Fear or anxiety accompanying the use of the telephone is a symptom that is not uncommon. In my own experience it has appeared exclusively in male patients. In the majority of cases in which it has been encountered, it is relieved fairly readily by treatment. The symptom most often appears in the patients' discourse at the time when they are occupied with material from the oedipal phase."

I guess the oedipal part means people get anxious about having to be in the middle of a situation, maybe being forced to make a decision about something or to choose a side? Anyway, if you call me and I don't answer, don't take it personally.

Hell, No.

Remember my new job? Yeah, well, that didn't work out so well.

Over the course of seven weeks, my "guaranteed" 20 hours per week had slipped to between 11-13 hours, my initial rate of $45/hour had slipped to $30, and my boss began picking and choosing which hours he felt like paying me for.

According to his twisted logic, you can't charge a client more than he wants to pay. So if a job takes me 6 hours to do, my Korean boss, Hans (what up with that name, dogg?) would chicken out and charge the client for 2 hours, at my expense. Then when I'd object, Hans would attack me, usually via email, CC:ing my colleagues, and insist that I am being naive and tacky.

Hans' accent is eerily Kim Jong Il (in Team America), as is his disposition. He runs a struggling PR firm and I suppose the IT company is a side project to keep himself afloat. He's always swearing at someone or throwing temper tantrums. Every email I would send to the group would immediately be replied to all with a scathing personal attack, usually based on an ESL-related misunderstanding.

So last Wednesday, Hans dramatically called a meeting inviting everyone to attend, the agenda being to discuss my "inability to follow clear instructions." It was during this meeting that Hans screamed across the table at me telling me I am inflexible and difficult to work with and that we should part ways because I'm more of a headache than I'm worth.

I can be stubborn and call people on their attitudes, but I never did that with Hans. I knew from the very beginning that he was an immature drama queen, but I also knew I needed the money so I'd better kiss ass anyway, which I did. I'm actually pretty proud of myself for not walking into his traps on several occasions.

I'm almost expecting a final fuck-you in the form of Hans withholding my last paycheck, even though I gracefully excused myself after he skewered me in Wednesday's meeting. If that turns out to be the case, I will enjoy writing letters to all of the clients I worked with explaining how Hans stole money from a good worker with a baby 3 weeks away and asking them to boycott his firm.

Drunk Blogging.

Although I'm not drunk now, I Treo'd the following stream-of-consciousness when I was drunk indeed, a year or so ago in Brooklyn.

And while I'm not drunk currently, I am at a bar and on my second Moinette. In that spirit, here's what was on my mind this time last year...

stuff:
violent femmes' self-titled.
Dinosaur jr.
Fate. Luck. Love. Sex. Friends. Booze.
irony(/)wit.
Fashion/style.
old/new tom waits.
obesity.
The bus.
Losing weight/gaining.
Touring then/ touring now.
city/suburbs.
$70 per hour/ $30 per hour.
Dating?
family. Sara.
Maine/nyc.
what's so great about nyc? (maybe that ppl have stories and/or are passionate about something. Or are they just lame. Or something in between. Or neither?).

Winter Of Our Discontents.

So I finally finished Wonderful Town, a collection of short stories from the past 80 years or so of The New Yorker, which somehow scores a 4.04 out of 4 stars on LibraryThnig. I do have to agree with the 4.04 though; it really is fantastic.

So last night I picked up a book that I bought from a used book guy on Beaver Street where Broadway turns into Cortlandt Street in Manhattan's Financial District. There are two really good used book guys who set up shop there on weekdays and a legendary lunch wagon vendor known around the area as "The Chicken Man." Oh and in the winter there's a soup stand with great split pea and ham soup. And of course within the aforementioned 100 feet of pavement also sits Yips, the granddaddy of all Chinese buffets, in its surreal basement setting at 18 Beaver.

Oh right, the book. It's called Civilization And Its Discontents, written by Sigmund Freud and published in 1930. My copy, scanned above, was printed in 1960. I think I paid $3.00.

Anyway, I started this book when I still lived in the city. Well, Brooklyn actually. I'm trying but I can't imagine a more boring, desolate book cover (click on it for a super-intense close-up). I have no idea why I bought it, but I'm really enjoying it. It's about the futility of man's search for happiness, the absurdity of religion, and, as Huey Lewis once said, The Power of Love.

Several passages, I thought, were not only breathtakingly honest but also seemed, eerily, to transcend the 75 or so years since being written. I found the following dose of realism particularly salient:

During the last few generations mankind has made an extraordinary advance in the natural sciences and in their technical application and has established his control over nature in a way never before imagined. The single steps of this advance are common knowledge and it is unnecessary to enumerate them. Men are proud of those achievements, and have a right to be. But they seem to have observed that this newly-won power over space and time, this subjugation of the forces of nature, which is the fulfillment of a longing that goes back thousands of years, has not increased the amount of pleasurable satisfaction which they may expect from life and has not made them feel happier. From the recognition of this fact we ought to be content to conclude that power over nature is not the only precondition of human happiness, just as it is not the only goal of cultural endeavor; we ought not to infer from it that technical progress is without value for the economics of our happiness. One would like to ask: is there, then, no positive gain in pleasure, no unequivocal increase in my feeling of happiness, if I can, as often as I please, hear the voice of a child of mine who is living hundreds of miles away or if I can learn in the shortest possible time after a friend has reached his destination that he has come through the long and difficult voyage unharmed? Does it mean nothing that medicine has succeeded in enormously reducing infant mortality and the danger of infection for women in childbirth, and, indeed, in considerably lengthening the average life of a civilized man? And there is a long list that might be added to benefits of this kind which we owe to the much-despised era of scientific and technical advances. But here the voice of pessimistic criticism makes itself heard and warns us that most of these satisfactions follow the model of the 'cheap enjoyment' extolled in the anecdote-the enjoyment obtained by putting a bare leg from under the bedclothes on a cold winter night and drawing it in again. If there had been no railway to conquer distances, my child would never have left his native town and I should need no telephone to hear his voice; if traveling across the ocean by ship had not been introduced, my friend would not have embarked on his sea-voyage and I should not need a cable to relieve my anxiety about him. What is the use of reducing infantile mortality when it is precisely that reduction which imposes the greatest restraint on us in the begetting of children, so that, taken all round, we nevertheless rear no more children than in the days before the reign of hygiene, while at the same time we have created difficult conditions for our sexual life in marriage, and have probably worked against the beneficial effects of natural selection? And, finally, what good to us is a long life if it is difficult and barren of joys, and if it is so full of misery that we can only welcome death as a deliverer?

That was all one paragraph. Actually only part of a paragraph. Freud is one bad motherfucker. I never knew he was so judgmental and poetic. It's really very beautiful.

Atheists Got It Tough.

Christians love to talk about how Atheists are depressed because they have no higher meaning in life. Without God, they figure, of course you'd be depressed and suicidal because there's nothing to live for. The way I see it though, it's because we value life so much that it pisses us off to see people embrace mediocrity the way they do (especially here in the US). To go outside and walk around is to drape yourself in bland. Unless you live in NYC, which is an atheist's Mecca.

Seriously, strip malls, fast food, obese people, traffic, bad art, ugly clothes: these all conspire to bring down a person who has one life to live. It would be like having your wedding day marred by a freak tragedy, killing several of your guests. Or waking up and brewing your favorite coffee only to find out your half-n-half is spoiled!

Spoiled is a good word. All these jerks walking around like life on earth is their time of suffering and they'll be rewarded with gold and chocolates or a big Sharper Image massage chair in the sky are spoiling it for the rest of us, the ones who feel this time is too precious to be spent wearing acid-washed jeans or pretending that it's okay to keep a president in office who utters the word "god." Or going to bad movies or watching commercials or talking to salesmen.

So listen up zealots, just because you have to get up early doesn't mean I have to hear your alarm through the wall every morning. N'um sayin'?

I Feel You, Roz.

CLICK TO ENLARGE

Hat Trick.

For three consecutive nights-- an entire "work week"-- I had no customers at the bar.

Sure, the shifts are only 4-10, but come on. 18 straight business hours with NOT ONE PERSON. Except for my friend David who was out by the mall anyway and stopped in for a Coke because I guilted him.

Not making any money is one thing, as is being bored. But as you may know, I live for the random customers at this place. The occasional bar patrons at this deserted airport hotel are the only solace for a 33-year-old bartender making $135/week. With a BA and 10 years of professional IT experience.

Like last week. I had this guy at the bar, a real NYC artist with works in the permanent collections of the MOMA and the Whitney. He asked for an Absolut with grapefruit juice and soda, then ordered a pizza to the bar and split it with me. He was such a breath of fresh air: not only a living, breathing (smoking) customer, but proof that New York still exists even though I can't see it anymore. We talked about how embarrassed we are by humanity, about Chinatown, where he lives, and about DUMBO, where he has his studio.

He was witty, flamboyant and self-assured-- such the opposite of New Englanders. He seemed genuinely interested in me and how I ended up at the bar. We finished off the pizza, he fielded a few cell phone calls, had a couple more drinks, and signed his check which included a huge tip, even though I ate his pizza and complained to him most of the time.

And then he was gone, and I was again staring at this horrible carpeting and the piped-in musical counterpart to the carpeting. It was an elevator version of No Woman No Cry. The local 10:00 news was on the TV and I suddenly felt so depressed.

Minstrels and Charlatans.

I've mentioned Martin Seligman's book, Learned Optimism here before.
Seligman says that the pessimistic mind, governed by permanent, pervasive and personal explanatory style is also keenly realistic. He says (Page 109) "There is considerable evidence that depressed people, though sadder, are wiser."

I've been feeling sad and wise lately. Say, for the past 8 years or so. This wisdom keeps me from enjoying the dumbed-down blissful ignorance that is my right as an American and it pisses me off. TV, of course, is the lowest common denominator and I expect anything I switch on to be offensive and insulting. Only lately have I realized that this includes public TV too.

Apparently some people have no trouble believing the crap that comes out of the mouths of the Wayne Dyers of the world. But me, I watch "doctor" Wayne Dyer on public TV purely for comic relief. In fact when he came to my town (Seattle), I got some friends together and went and saw him in person. Try as we might, we couldn't keep from laughing out loud during his overly earnest presentation. Why can't everyone just get that any jackass who has written 18 books (not to mention all this other bullshit) is a complete charlatan.

Another thing I see on public TV a lot are these weird doo-wop concerts featuring all-star lineups of old-school doo-wop acts like The Penguins and The Drifters. First of all, these people are minstrels and their acts should be treated the way Sambo dolls are treated these days: preserved for reference of an early, ignorant time in our culture. Not trotted out in front of fat, bearded, Cosby-sweater-wearing crackers.

Secondly, if you've ever seen one of these concerts on PBS, the editing is truly unsettling. Swells of cheers and applause come from seemingly nowhere, at illogical times during the performances and the audience is never shown along with the stage performer, i.e. the audience was most likely shot by itself reacting to prompts rather than having shared time and place with the act they're supposedly watching. You know, the way the America's Funniest Home Videos audience is filmed.

Why do I have to be on guard constantly? Because someone's always trying to trick me. Every day. At least I'm not completely alone.

It ain't.

Joblessness is depressing. You can't pay rent and have to ask the landlord to put you on a payment plan. When it's your girlfriend's birthday, all you can afford is a card. And even the money for the card has to come from the change jar.

I spent my last money on a trip to Boston on Monday to meet with an IT recruiter. I knew she didn't have any jobs and that it was basically an informational interview, but I figured I could use a break from lying at home on the couch combing the Internet for jobs.

What I hadn't thought through was that the trip out there would cost me, and not just the four hours in the car. After all the tolls, gas and parking, the trip cost $90. On Sunday, I did some fluke freelance work before my bar-tending job and made $120 in three hours, the same money as three bar shifts. I was excited because I thought it meant I could pay my phone bill. Today my phone was shut off.

Having recently read Learned Optimism by Martin Seligman (recommended by my last therapist), I know that in order to save myself from the flat-spin of depression, I need to monitor my internal monologue . My explanatory style, says the book, determines how my circumstances effect my state of mind.

If I tell myself that I'm still unemployed because nobody wants me, or that I'm worthless because I'm broke, I'm going to start taking a whole lot of naps and getting into fights with strangers down in the town. The book calls those thoughts "permanent, personal and pervasive." Permanent because the attributes (e.g. "worthless") are not changeable, pervasive because the badness bleeds into other aspects of my life (e.g. 'broke = worthless'). Personal because I'm not recognizing other, external, circumstances that could cause my being unemployed (i.e. it's my fault).

Since finishing Learned Optimism, I have struggled to put the theory into practice. When my cat started sneezing, I imagined the other pets getting sick and the inevitable vet bills. When the recruiters didn't call me back or return my emails, I jumped to the conclusion that they were scam artists and that there are no jobs, only phony postings designed to harvest resumes and personal information. At least that's externalizing.

I'm hoping that the bank pays my bad rent check this month. If so, it will leave me $544 in the red, but at least rent will be paid. It will take me six weeks to make $544 at my bar-tending job. This is the kind of situation where credit cards are probably good to have. I can't get one though because my credit is so bad.

When my friends say they're broke, I get the feeling they mean they're cash-poor, but that they ultimately have savings, credit cards and/or relatives to fall back on. I have none of these. I already owe my best friend $1,500 since last year and my dad $500. I owe three years of back taxes to the IRS, $60,000 in student loans, and about $10,000 to a debt management company. My phone, gas and electric are frequently shut off. My girlfriend is sick of bailing me out and I don't blame her. In four months, she'll need to stop working to have the baby. Then it's all up to me.

And I wish my fucking eye would stop twitching.

Cartoon Therapy.

At the peak of my depression, about two years ago, I felt like my psychotherapy and drugs weren't working at all. I was self-medicating with booze, food, sleep, web surfing and spending money I didn't have. Even so, I still felt like shit all the time. I had the idea one day that I'd draw cartoons to make myself feel better, and it worked-- but only while I was drawing them. Afterward it just made me sad to look at them. I was so at odds with the world that just going through the motions of living wore me out.

That year I was constantly broke and had collectors after me. My stepmother had recently died of cancer leaving my two teenage sisters without a mother. I was badly injured after being beaten up on a visit to Argentina so I was limping around on crutches. I was fired from my job without warning. I was getting divorced and secretly spending nights at work. My new puppy was very sick. I was 70 pounds overweight.

It seemed like everyone in NYC was prospering and loving life except for me. Everyone had more money, was in better shape, had better relationships, was better looking, more talented, and more accomplished. I found enjoyment nowhere and was constantly getting into altercations with strangers on the street.

The Dynamic Shows Ever Bein' Gave.

I got into the cult of 'J&H Productions Guy' a few years ago and I feel it's mandatory listening for all. There's a pretty good site devoted to J&H so I won't get too in-depth. However I will take a moment to identify these audio clips as symbolic of the type of thing that keeps me going spiritually.

I was walking with my friend Michael down Hudson Street in TriBeCa on a lunch break a couple of summers ago when he had a mini-epiphany: a common thread running through all of his friendships was an appreciation of the absurd. I felt the same, but I think it goes deeper than we realized that day.

I think what links Michael to me, etc., is not just an appreciation of the absurdity of human nature but also a deep, unequivocal acceptance and appreciation for its place in the world and for the people (and animals) who embody it. Even when the joke's on us. It's how I lived through the past several years of depression.

It's in this spirit that I present J&H Productions Guy: wonderfully deluded, perhaps clinically, yet with a true zest for life!

J&H Productions: (part 1) (part 2)

Sample quote:

"I would like for a respond to J&H Productions pertaining to these shows that will be giving inside and outside as for as the coliseums that he gave you a picture of on the paper, and he would like for J&H Productions and the labels to give shows together in these places."

A Lot of Dick's in my Pants.

I'm just over six feet tall. After college, in 2001, I weighed 180lbs. I had for several years. By 2006 I weighed 255. Today I'm hovering at 205 and drilling holes in my belts. These pants used to be tight on me.

I had reached the point of not being able to find my size in NYC. First I noticed at Express, when shopping for some wedding clothes. Then Zara, then the Levi's store, then H&M. In the summer of 2006 at my peak weight, I actually resorted to buying a pair of jeans (size 40) at WalMart in Missouri on a trip to see my older sister graduate from Army boot camp.

So why did I gain 75 pounds in six years? It was a lot of alcohol, food and SSRIs. Plus turning 30 I guess, whatever that means. I got so depressed in Seattle (2001) that my doctor at the Pike Market free clinic put me on Wellbutrin. I also started to self-medicate with wine and Belgian beer. And food. Lots of food. Tim's jalepeño potato chips were a favorite. Also "Beer Bites" from Uli's sausage stand at the Pike Market.

And I was eating out a lot, especially on weekends. Glo's on Capitol Hill, The Cyclops, The Crocodile, and Macrina Bakery in Belltown. Lunch and dinner options were innumerable: Shiro's for sushi, Palace Kitchen for burgers, Than Brothers for Pho, Tiger Room for Thai, Mama's for Mexican. Zeek's Pizza, Green Cat Café when vegetarians came to town, Bimbo's Bitchin' Burrito Kitchen, Le Pichet, La Fontana and Mario's for Italian, Jojo Teriyaki, Le Panier bakery for pain au chocolat, Alibi Room for risotto, the Caesar at Rose Bud, hot dogs at the Seattle Center, scones at Bauhaus, donuts at Zeitgeist, Chinese at the Shanghai Garden in the ID, ridiculous sandwiches from Mario Batali's dad at Salumi, and of course Dick's! Oh God, Dick's!

I also was burning through nearly a bottle of wine a day from the Cost Plus near my apartment, stocking up on high-alcohol Belgian beers from the Stumbling Monk, eating crazy amounts of breads and cheeses at home, cooking gigantic meals and going out drinking with friends frequently. The Wellbutrin gave way to Zoloft which yielded to Lexapro, the anti-narcolepsy drug Provigil, Effexor XR, Stratera and finally good ol' Prozac.

Moving to NYC didn't change anything. Only a new and bigger list of food places and just as much booze and pills. So how did I lose 50 pounds in 2007 without stepping foot in a gym or doing a lick of exercise? No more fatty take out food, no morning baked goods, very basic lunches (an Odwalla bar and some carrots for example), portion control at home, no more soda, rarely any preserved or prepackaged foods and 0-1 drinks per day instead of 5.

I'm still overweight by about 20 pounds; might have to exercise after all. Blah.

Is it Road Rage if You're Walking?

So one fine Seattle morning I was strolling down 5th Ave. to my horrible government job at the world's 2nd ugliest office tower (the ugliest is a few blocks from it). Each morning I'd get coffee from the stand on the corner of 5th and Columbia. Coffee stands in Seattle are very popular and people wait in line a very long time for a perfect drink. Oh, and when I say "coffee," I mean an espresso drink of some variety. Mine was the Americano: 2 shots of espresso in a large cup topped off with hot (near boiling) water.

Well, upon getting my coffee, I shuffled off to cross the street. I had the light and stepped into the street when a big fancy Mercedes lays on his horn and starts edging into me from behind and left. He was making a right turn and I was 'in his way.' He was feverishly pointing out that I had a 'flashing red hand' signal.1 Huh.

So I did what anyone would do and pounded my fist on his hood, at which point he rolled his window down and started swearing up and down at me. So I did what anyone would do and spritzed some coffee at him through his open window. Enough came through the hole in my coffee lid to dot his fancy suit.

He grabbed for his coffee Thermos and tried doing the same, but came up a few feet short. So I did what anyone would do and got him again with my coffee.2 Only this time the lid came off.

To simply say that the guy's head was bathed in scalding coffee wouldn't do. His suit was ruined, his face was probably melting off, his foot relaxed from the brake and his car drifted onto the sidewalk silently, coming to rest with the driver hunched over the wheel.

So I did what anyone would do and trotted off to work with a little spring in my step. I sure showed him! A few minutes later I felt sick to my stomach and wondered just what the fuck I had done/become. That's around the time I started on anti-depressants. Unfortunately things would get worse before they got better.


End notes:

1. People in Seattle actually stay put on the curb once the 'red hand' starts flashing. Even if tumbleweeds are blowing across the street and there are no cars within blocks. Maybe it's because the SPD writes a ridiculous number of jaywalking tickets.
2. I hadn't had my coffee yet, obviously.
   

Poor Little Fool.

About the time I started college I began to not believe in things. I had an Ancient History teacher at Augsburg College named Rick Nelson who often cautioned against accepting historical "facts" at face value. There were so many points of failure when attempting to learn about history: political revisions (including lies), details lost in translation or interpolated incorrectly from incomplete records (or even from paintings or other physical artifacts), technology used in dating that can be less than accurate; the list goes on.

Then came other courses: Logic, Argumentation, Media Ethics, Public Speaking, each with its own new way to pick and sort facts and formulate interpretations. Each teaching a strange new precision: precision in the Humanities.

Since receiving my Journalism degree in the winter of 2000 (at age 26), I've been unable to believe in much that can't be proven. I must have been in the perfect malleable, freshman state when I walked into that Ancient History class and I'm sure Rick Nelson knew that. He was an incredibly nice old man, loved all around campus, but sometimes I think he ruined my life.

It was like I was suddenly cursed with the ability to see in another dimension. Like those irritating Magic Eye illustrations in the 90's that suddenly popped out at me when I finally learned to dislocate my eyes.

Magic Eye flap copy:

"Stare into these seemingly abstract fields of color, and an enchanting 3D image will materialize, all from an abstract, seemingly random field of color!

Once you discover your Magic Eye, a whole new world of experience will open to you. You will be astounded by the depth and clarity of the totally hidden image that develops before you like an instant photo! Discover and train your gift of deep vision!"

I discovered my co-worker in the college's A/V department was a pathological liar. And so was my friend Matt who I'd met that year. Everyone had ulterior motives, nothing was as advertised, everything was a trick, nothing deserved to be taken at face value unless it was undoubtedly simple and true. Like hobos, 78s, my Navy pea coat, and my Polaroid camera.

I became extremely critical of everything, especially advertising and art. I spent hours at the Hard Times Café on Riverside Avenue taking a Hi-Liter to my hard-back copy of the Warren Commission's report on the assassination of JFK. I scribbled little notes in the margins like "why?" and "doubtful."

I'd take breaks to play backgammon with homeless guys while they blew smoke everywhere. The large windows out to the street were foggy and icy against the Minneapolis night air. I drank lots of strong coffee even late at night and I had dread-locked hair.

Seattle Sucks: Exhibits 1-3

Even 5 years after my 18-month stint in Seattle, I can get instantly riled-up about how much I hated it. I really and truly hated it. Hopefully through writing here I can say my peace and try to move on, but Seattle offended me on such a deep and personal level as to become an archetype of sorts. I'm not sure I can forgive Seattle, but I'd like to try. For my own sake.

The first step, I think, is airing all of my grievances. This will take many posts. As I write, I'll need to pepper the reader with examples. I'll number them (in no particular order) because there aren't enough letters in the alphabet.

Here's Exhibit 1.

I hesitate to even comment on why a convention of Furries creeps me out. I would actually see people walking around Seattle with Conifur t-shirts (the predecessor to RainFurrest). These are sick, sick people (or "folks" as they like to say in Seattle). Sick 'folks.' If you are a sicko, you should seek help. Please do not try to pretend that this fetish is benign or somehow deserves recognition in society.

This is a good segue into Exhibit 2.

Fat lib has the same air of cavalier ignorance as RainFurrest. Again, instead of fixing problems, people in Seattle celebrate them. Basically giving up and having no respect for themselves. This theme is omnipresent in Seattle. Sort of like the Gum Wall.

People 'let themselves go' in such extreme ways that it sometimes seemed like I was strolling the grounds of a sanitarium. Yet I think somehow they feel like they're 'keepin it real' by not wasting money on clothes, haircuts, razors, deodorant, etc. For example, Seattle is crawling with dudes wearing ponytails and/or nasty unkempt beards (known as unix beards) and/or Drizabone coats (huh?!) and/or fedoras! Frequently ALL of the above in a single ensemble!

So I guess this guy will be Exhibit 3.

Women are no exception, and until I lived in Brooklyn I never could have realized the similarity of "folks" in Seattle to Frum, whose very appearance is a sort of masochistic hair shirt.

sackcloth... sack-dress... coincidence?

Loss Leader.

I've been weaning myself off of 75mg of Effexor XR. Actually I went off cold turkey when I realized that my newly uninsured cost is $140/month. The pharmacist said there isn't a (cheaper) generic version of XR, the extended release version, though it appears there will be in 2010. So for a few weeks now I've been really dizzy and have been having vivid bad dreams. Something else, unexpected, has also occurred: I've been in a better mood.

In fact not only have I noticed it, but so have others. Probably the best example is my extreme reaction to this. I swear to god I find myself lying in bed in the middle of the night laughing so hard I'm afraid I'll wake up my girlfriend. Tears streaming and all. For some reason I think it is SO FUNNY! Also I find myself whistling (WTF?) and not taking naps during the day (WTF??).

The other interesting angle here is that I'm also on Prozac (well, Fluoxetine HCL actually), 40mg to be exact. This is the first time I've ever ONLY been on Prozac. I'll be pissed if that's all I've needed for the past 7 years. I'll also be happy.

The final twist is that I can't afford the Prozac either... or I couldn't until I saw a WalMart TV commercial that encouraged me to go to their website and check to see if Fluoxetine was on their list of over 400 $4 (yes, that's FOUR DOLLAR) prescriptions. It was.

It's what's called a "Loss Leader" in business jargon, and it's a brilliant move on WalMart's part. By offering something that everybody wants and many people NEED (almost-free drugs), they get people like me wandering into the store who would never ever have a reason or desire to set foot in a WalMart.

Of course they take a hit on the drugs but they think they'll make up for it by the hapless new drug customer dropping cash on other stuff while they're in the WalMart picking up their drugs. "No, I'm sorry, sir. your Effexor XR is still not ready. Feel free to browse the store while you wait."

I hate to support WalMart, even a little, but maybe if I go in and just get the prescription and NOTHING ELSE, I can walk out with my head high?

Picking at Scabs.

I have to go back and figure some things out. Firstly I need to untangle a professional train wreck. I'm filing for unemployment benefits because I can't find a damn job here in Maine. I really don't want to file, not because of pride, but because I'd much rather find work, and, to be honest, the process is forcing me to reopen a chapter I thought was closed for good.

My last two jobs in New York were 1099 contracts (freelance jobs in NYC-speak) and therefore do not interest the NY State Dept. of Labor when it comes to assessing my qualifications for receiving unemployment benefits. They want to know who my last "employer" was and by that they mean W2 work. OK, so that would be a job I quit, which sort of disqualifies me for unemployment benefits. But I only quit because I was about to be fired... does that matter?

The answer: maybe.

In order for NYSDL to make a judgment, they need some forms filled in. The exercise of answering their questions brought back memories of being SO frustrated and SO depressed during the six months I worked for (let's call them) "Smacky."

1. Employer name: "Smacky"
2. How long did you work for this employer: 6 months
3. What was the last date you worked for this employer? 3/23/2007
4. What was your rate of pay? $31/hour; no benefits whatsoever.
5. What were your hours and days of work? 10am-6pm Mon-Fri.
6. What kind of work did you do? Computer support for clients of "Smacky."
7. Why did you quit your job? (Give specific reason): My employer was unhappy with my work. It was clear from his feedback and frustration that I was not a good fit for "Smacky." I believed that I would be fired soon and I did not want a termination on my record.
8. What final incident (on or off the job) caused you to quit? (Please describe in detail. If there was no specific incident that resulted in your quitting, please state this.) Several weekly formal meetings and daily informal meetings eventually revealed that our frustration had reached a point requiring action. I asked whether an "exit strategy" should be pursued and my boss indicated that he thought that was the best idea.
9. Were there any previous incidents that influenced you to quit your job? I was put into a situation with a client in which I was expected to produce results in a short time under high-pressure without the tools and information I needed. When I failed under these impossible circumstances, I was made to feel at fault by my employer. Also, my boss reduced my hours and clients which made me feel that I was being "phased out" of the company.
10. Before you quit, did you take any action to resolve the situation? If yes, describe the results of the action. My boss and I met weekly for several weeks to try to find ways for me to continue working at "Smacky." Smacky reduced my hours and clients to try to make me feel less overwhelmed.
11. Did you notify your employer that you were leaving? Yes. On what date? 3/1/2007. What reason did you give for quitting? I was unable to work under "Smacky" management. I felt inadequate and micro-managed. My professional self-confidence was eroded. I felt set up to fail. I was becoming increasingly depressed as a result.

Now I fax the form back and wait three weeks.