Wake the Undertaker

It turns out nothing was wrong with my phone (http://tinyurl.com/3rme8or).  An internal connector wasn't properly lining up with the battery, causing it to shut down every time I tried charging it.  The Sprint Store wasn't crowded, its staff helpful, and the problem was remedied within six minutes.  But yesterday's problem/post perfectly captures the manifestation of my neurosis, how the slightest setback, deviation, obstacle, whatever, can fuck my shit up and ground me, sometimes for days.  I received a number of messages yesterday commenting on the post, most encouraging me to take a deep breath, shut the fuck up, and just go get the phone fixed.  All very good advice (although I always find it funny when someone [Esther] comments to "drop the Holden Caulfield voice."  I named my kid after the fucking character; he's pretty deeply ingrained.  If I were to do that now, I'd be a goddamn phony bastard).  And, of course, this blog is often played for laughs; it's a caricature where features and tendencies of my, for lack of a better term, "mental illness" are self-exploited and poked fun at, because people appreciate honesty and the willingness to admit one's shortcomings, especially when said shortcomings can simultaneously engender feelings of both camaraderie ("I'm not alone") and superiority ("Thank God I'm not that far gone").  And it's not like I was really that mad and displaced over a goddamn broken phone.  But I kind of was.

There's an old X-Files about a child champion chess player, a real whiz kid, able to beat all challengers.  Eventually Mulder deduces that the reason the kid is so good is because he can actually see a few minutes into the future, meaning because he knows his opponents next move, he has a head start to formulate his response to a move before it is even made.  Essentially, the kid's prodigy is nothing more than a psychic parlor trick.  And now for no reason, here' the theme from the X-Files because I A.) fucking love that show, and B.) am too fucking lazy to look up a more relevant clip.

The loose analogy is that repeating the same routine every day isn't all that different. I can't see the future, of course, but intimate familiarity with reoccurring events isn't that far off.

Among yesterday's comments, my former professor Dave Cappella (after telling me to take a deep breath, shut the fuck up, and go get phone fixed) remarked that he doesn't know how I am able to keep up with these (close to) daily blog posts.  To which I responded, Because I treat writing like a mutherfucking job.  Or at least I try to.  I've been ridiculously blessed, afforded a life (at the expense of chronic pain, which is extra chronic today--old people aren't lying when they say their joints hurt in inclement weather) to do just that.

Not that it's always easy.  Some days words are slow to come.  Today is one of those days.  Last night we (Justine, my friend Adam, and Wandering Jew keyboardist/vocalist extraordinaire, Jarret "Secret Weapon" Cooper) traveled to the land of the lost (San Jose) to see Daniel Tosh.

And it fucking wrecked me.  We didn't get back to El Cerrito until, like, 2, and Holden didn't care what time we got home, because he gets up at 6, every day.  So I get up at 6 every day.  Still, Dave, I write.  People check this site, and they want to see a post, and so I give them what they want.  Problem is, by the sheer volume, not to mention expediency with which I am forced to work, means that every post can't be a winner.  Like yesterday's (which sucked).  And today's (which ain't much better).  And I apologize.  But it's my job.  And every day at your job isn't always golden.  When I worked in the print shop, there were several days where I phoned it in because I'd been up too late, doing too many drugs, drinking too much, not sleeping.  Which is how I feel today.  Because I can't stay up past midnight anymore.  In fact, after 10 is rough.  Add to that, yesterday the Wandering Jews practiced with our new drummer, and I am in the middle of reworking my noir novel to send out; I am coasting on creative fumes.  So I hope you'll forgive an old man the lack of a pithy, neatly wrapped up summary.  Yesterday's genius was spent when I (i.e., Jimmy) renamed the novel.

The Lone Palm is now...Wake the Undertaker.  How fucking cool a title is that?

Now I have to go take a steam train to Santa Cruz.  It's family day.

But I promise I'll make it up to you.  We already have next week's topics all lined up.  Very exciting stuff.  I can't tell you everything.  But I'll give you a hint.  Four words.  Paula Deen.  Donut Hamburger.