Donn Speaks Plane-ly (Or: Panic At 39,000 Feet)

"There are no atheists on turbulent airplanes." -Erica Jong, "Fear of Flying"

I was just as surprised as you.

As I readjust to the everyday, I am compiling lists of blogging topics inspired by my trip to Bali and Hong Kong. Posts of the adventure will assuredly follow, but for the time being I'm just putting my thoughts in order. The foremost right now is that I was so worried about John wigging out on airport juntas that I really failed to inspect my own fear of flying. Damn, sometimes I really *bleeping* hate irony.

I needn't have worried about John at all. He was wonderfully calm and cooperative with all security personnel and checkpoints, plane trips and airline crews, and fellow travelers. He didn't even need to take all of the prescribed sedatives. I am insanely proud of him. And I'm not trying to sound like Mother Teresa here, but I am really, truly grateful that I was the one who ended up having the panic attacks and not him. I want no one, especially my Johnny, to experience the absolute terror of an anxiety blitzkrieg.

While John's panic comes from a different (and more sensible) place, mine is rooted in a good old fashioned fear of flying. This is something I genuinely believed I was over and done with. When I was younger, I was petrified to get on a plane, but a 20-hour journey to Australia when I was 18 changed that. Over the years, I've flown, on average, twice a year, and with the rare exception of one horrendous flight (thank Christ I was still drinking then), all of my air travel has been unremarkable and without incident.

That Australia trip was my first real plane ride, not counting the Pan-Am trek to Orlando when I wasn't even a year old. (Incidentally, my parents tell me I screamed bloody murder all the way to Florida. So, you see, I've never been good on planes.) Before we left for Sydney, I worked for months with my therapist on my fear, and at one point, she asked me to imagine my fear as an object. The first thing that popped into my head was "potato". This is interesting because, as I'm sure you well know, the potato is a root vegetable: rooted firmly, unshakably, in the ground. My mascot for that maiden voyage became a Mister Potato Head, to remind me that no matter how high in the air I soared, I was always planted squarely on the ground. Nothing could change that. Not even a Boeing 747 with bad chunky coffee and a hunky Aussie flight attendant named Dirk.

So how is it that, after 13 years of relatively panic-free air travel, my old fear reemerged on the return flight from Asia? The plane rides on the way there were fine, or, more accurately, I was fine on them. This could be because John's whole family was with me on those departing flights; on the way home, it was just John and myself (we all left on different days). I was seated between John and his sister Lisa, who, though just a few years older than me, has always had a very motherly energy toward me. It could also be because those flights were, for the most part, very smooth and tremor-free. On the flight back to the States, it was a different story. There was turbulence. A lot of it.

And ah, there's the rub. My fear is not about control issues (I'm perfectly happy letting the professionals fly the plane). Or claustrophobia (though I can sometimes be slightly claustrophobic, it doesn't happen on airplanes). Or hijacking (that thought honestly never occurs to me). Or moral quandary (I once had a friend I was half in-love with, who thought she was Greta Garbo, and felt morally conflicted about flying because it just didn't seem right that there was this big mechanical bird soaring through the sky, taking us to strange new lands).

It's about the turbulence. I hate it. I *bleeping* hate it (let's see how many times I can say "bleeping" in this post).

Now I know that turbulence is nothing to be afraid of, that it's perfectly normal and planes don't crash because of it, that those big hulking intricate vessels cannot possibly be undone by a little uneven air. But fear is not rational. Fear does not listen to the experts. Fear does not buy the unwavering, ever-smiling, perpetually-bubbly faces of the flight attendants (which, I suspect, is a class in Stewardess School: "How to Keep Your Face Unfazed & Beaming Beatifically While the Plane Shakes Faster Than A Loco Vibrator").

My unreasonable fright introduced a whole series of terrifying symptoms as soon as that plane started to rattle and the seat belt like ding-donged on. First, I couldn't breathe, and the exertion and focus it took to simply draw breath was nearly impossible. Then my heart started beating faster than Charo's chi-chis. Next my stomach tightened sickeningly, and I felt as if I would lose my surprisingly-delicious vegan meal all over the sleeping Asian in front of me. I mean, how could that freak sleep?!?!? Didn't she know we were about to go down??? Didn't she realize that at any moment one of the wings was going to snap off and we were going to plummet into the ocean??? I may seem angry at the soundly-dozing chick, but in reality I was just wildly jealous of her calm. Erica Jong was right, as she so often is: there really are no atheists on turbulent plane rides. As soon as that jet commenced its awful hurdling, I was praying to Jesus, Buddha, Allah, The Goddess, The Flying Spaghetti Monster, anyone. You name it, I invoked it.

It also doesn't help that I've seen one-too-many disaster flicks. "Fearless" is one of my favorite films, and the plane crash scene is both beautiful and barf-inducingly realistic. All those 80s TV movies about air disasters are also firmly submerged in my mind. I remember one starring Ana "Falcon Crest" Alicia, where the roof of a Hawaii-bound jet is ripped off during flight over the Pacific. It was a true story.

Which leads me to believe that the airline industry, which always seems to be in need of money, should have little pharmacies on every plane. Each one should be staffed by a doctor/pharmacist, who can freely supply meds at passenger request. Don't laugh, this is a very good idea. Everybody wins. The airlines make a cut of the sale. The drug companies, ever eager to continue their quest of world domination, could now claim ownership of the clouds. And the fearful passengers like me could be drooling contentedly in La La Land while the plane lurches, shakes, and shimmies toward its destination.

So it came to pass that my husband, who I feared would panic-attack himself all the way across the Pacific, ended up comforting me. He offered me his sedatives (I took one, but it didn't help). He soothed me with comforting words. He sang me funny songs he learned 25 years ago at camp ("'Someone's been eatin' my porridge!' said the Papa Bear..."). He held my hand. That helped most of all.

Right now I'm at a place where I don't want to fly at all. This is challenging because I travel for my job, and I love to travel for leisure. But I'm just scared that the next time I'm in my fully-upright seat (I think reclining an airplane seat is the height of rudeness, since it pretty much prostrates you into the lap of the person sitting behind you), and that big mechanical bird starts fluttering its wings, I'm going to end up in a straight-jacket before we touch ground.

And that's the *bleeping* truth.

A Return From the Sublime

Before I go any further, please be aware that I have not slept in over 24 hours and am currently marveling at the sea of magenta dots and neon blue starfish swimming around the room. Yeah, I'm tired. Really tired.

Over the coming days, I will of course blog all about my amazing spiritual and cultural odyssey in Bali. We arrived home a few hours ago. I can only say that I feel like someone who's had an out-of-body experience and is still trying to wake up and readjust to this old, earthly body. Long story short, I'm not quite back yet.

Once I get my bearings, I'll relate some tales from my travels. But for the time being, all I want to know is who the hell let that green, beret-wearing armadillo in the house?

(Make that really, really tired.)

"My Bags Are Packed, I'm Ready To Go...."

Okey-dokey. The bags are packed, the sedatives are in the carry-on, and I have enough reading material to wallpaper midtown Manhattan. It's a cold, rainy day in Boston, and in just a few minutes we will be making our way to the Clusterfuck Mecca known as Logan Airport.

To my loyal readers -- all two of you, I'm still unsure if I will be posting while on vacation. John will have his laptop, so I may feel the need to blog. Then again, I might be too busy getting rubbed by strange Balinese men. I'm talking massages here -- get your minds outta the gutter!

Ta.

"Tickets, Money, Passports! Tickets, Money, Passports": My Last Minute Packing List

Can I just say something?

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

There. I feel better.

Who knew a relaxing three-week vacation in Bali would require such stress-inducing preparation? Well, OK, I did sorta have an idea that I would suffer some last-minute freak-outs when deciding what to pack and prep. Here's my list:

-Benzodiazepines: A) to keep my husband from spontaneously combusting when confronted with TSA, Homeland Security, and foreign government officials; and B) to keep yours truly from having a total nervous breakdown (I'm not the best flier), regressing to a fetal position, and soiling my undies.

-Underwear. Lots of it. In case those benzos don't work.

-Picture of the cats, so I can pull out the photograph exactly five minutes after we leave and start talking to it in my Baby Daddy voice: "Who loves his little orange man? Who loves his black-and-white cookie? It's Li'l Daddy! Li'l Daddy loves you, yes he does!"

-Guided meditations on my iPod. Because I am deluded enough to believe that it is my concentration, and my concentration alone, that keeps that plane aloft.

-Sweaters, even though we are going to the Tropics. The subzero temperatures onboard commercial aircrafts are extreme enough to store venison, build igloos, embark upon sleigh rides, and cause my nipples to sprout icicles.

-Sunblock. If one day on the Caribbean turned me into Sebastian from "The Little Mermaid", I fear what will happen during three weeks on the Equator. I could possibly come home looking like a bucket of Colonel Sanders' Extra Crispy recipe.

-Clif Bars. I don't know how to say "vegan" in either Indonesian or Chinese.

-A currency conversion cheat sheet, because whenever I visit a foreign country and make a purchase, I tend to just hand all my cash to the cashier. I realize now that's probably not the most savvy thing to do.

-Deodorant. Anxiety/fear = sweat. Sweat = stinky pits. Stinky pits = fried onion rings. And I highly doubt anyone will believe there is a deep fat fryer on the plane.

-In the immortal words of Edina "AbFab" Monsoon: "Tickets, money, passports! Tickets, money, passports!". Cuz those things are important, and none of the above items would be useful without them.

All right. Time to pack. But before I do, can I just say one last thing?

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Now. Where did I put my suitcase....?

Poem in an Election Year

Do any of you
believe in me?

With your sugary
ideals like
pacifiers;
with your simpering
name-calling:
schoolyard bullies
in bigger, shiner
bodies;
with your savory
promises
bursting like
Kalamata olives upon
my tongue.

Have any of you
tread my path?

Have you ever
woken up
in a psych ward,
drowsy and
delirious and
distraught,
with the residue
of fistfuls
of pills
lining the
inside of your
skin,
pissed off that
you somehow
failed
at even this?

Have you ever
been to rehab,
sitting in sterile
circles
with other drunks,
addicts, and
crazies,
and heard their
stories
of turning
tricks for crack,
of being raped
at knife-point,
of begging in a
four year-old’s voice
to
Stop, Mama,
Stop,
as the snake of an
electrical cord
detonates the
flesh?

Have you ever
fallen totally,
helplessly,
in love,
only to be told
that you can’t
marry in 49
states, and in
many of those
states, what you
do in your
bedroom
is considered
illegal,
immoral, and
monstrous?

Have you ever
worked for
minimum wage,
scrimping and
saving and
struggling and
still—
dammit!—
still there’s not nearly
enough
to take the baby
to the doctor?

Have you ever
lived off
Ramen noodles
and Wonder bread
and Wondered
what four-course
meal
those big-wigs in
Hollywood, or
Washington,
are dining on
tonight?

Have you ever
sent your
children
off to war,
wracking with
sobs and orchestrating
a silent
internal
dirge,
all the while
trying to work out
how you can
send them
armor and bulletproof
vests
because the
government
can’t “afford” it?

Have you ever
been stripped
of your
humanity,
by just doing the
simplest
things, like
boarding an airplane,
or using your
telephone,
knowing that because
you think
you feel
you question,
anyone in a
uniform
can walk in at any
minute
and arrest you for
no
reason?

This is a poem
written
in an election year,
and I will,
of course,
vote.

But not because
you
don’t know
me,
but because
someday,
I
hope
you
might.

In Search of History

After Molly

This proved to be a fascinating glimpse into the workings of my true monkey mind. I looked at my search history for the last few weeks and compiled some of the more interesting answers here, in alphabetical order.

A
"adrien brody" naked

B
bald

C
catsitters boston

D
Diane Arbus

E
earthquake california 1855

F
fodor's

G
Gavin Henson

H
hunk du jour

I
insert hyperlink html code

J
Je ne regrette rien

K
Klaus Gerhart

L
Lady Elaine

M
"milord" piaf lyrics

N
Nicolò Circignani

O
Ogilvie home perm

P
pia zadora

Q
quart-sized ziplock bags

R
Ramon Novarro

S
Sendhil Ramamurthy

T
telecommuting jobs

U
Upstate Guide Dog Association

V
vaccinations bali

W
whores of war

X
xenu

Y
ymca hong kong

Z
Zoe Leonard

Elegy For Innocence (Or: If You See My Youth, Please Return It C.O.D.)

"Feeling old by twenty-one,
Never thought my day would come." -Tori Amos, "Jackie's Strength"


I never wanted to become one of "those" queers.

We all know the type. The once-vivacious gay man who ages into a bitter, cynical old queen, firmly planted to the end barstool in his Member's Only jacket, lost in a swirling haze of menthol smoke and perpetual cattiness. He drinks entirely too much and peppers his conversations (when people actually talk to him) with exasperated and dramatic sighs. He mourns the passing of a simpler, kinder time, and desperately despises anyone younger, or in shape, or with a full head of hair. He feels himself a hopeless victim of the times: another useless, aging fag that made it through...only to disappear into the woodwork of a ratty old bar.

This afternoon, while waiting for my doctor, I decided to weigh myself. As I did, I looked into the mirror over the scale and caught glimpse of a strange and maturing man. Truth be told, it took me a moment to realize who the hell it even was. It wasn't until I looked at the scale (156 -- oy vey!) and back up again that it hit me like a truckload of Botox.

It's me. And I'm suddenly old.

What happened to that sloe-eyed, baby-faced young thing who could walk into a bar and turn heads and flirt coyly (I've always been more coquettish than slutty, though some might argue that point) with whatever handsome face that caught his attention? Where is that stylish yet approachable twenty-something who could hold a dozen scotch-and-sodas and still be coherent and lusty enough to dance on a stage (yes, I did that once)? What became of the happy youthful guy that sang bad karaoke and knew how to seduce "Days of Our Lives" actors (yeah, I did that too)?

Somewhere along the way, I've misplaced him.

Don't misread me here. I have no desire whatsoever to revisit those drunken, bar-centric days of yore. It is the essence of that young man that I truly miss.

He of course manifested himself in other ways too. He went to an audition a few days after arriving in L.A., with no agent, headshot, or resume, and proceeded to impress the director so much that he was invited to a callback. He didn't settle for sub-par day jobs that didn't wholly cater to his talent, his dreams, his creative strengths. He looked at life with new, fresh eyes in every single moment and with every single breath. He believed that, despite it all, people are inherently good, suffering is conceivably expendable, and The Golden Rule is the only one, true guideline to which one should adhere one's life.

My initial, gut-level response was, Maybe this happens to all gay men. But then I look at some of the gay men older than me that I know personally (Johnny, Tony, Peter). And when I scrutinize them, I don't see this grieving loss off innocence and surrender. I see vibrant, handsome, compassionate men who aren't battling regret, lost opportunities, and/or fading looks.

So my conclusion is simply No, I don't think this is a "gay thing". I think it's a human thing. That old man in the bar could be any of us, of any gender, of any sexual identity. The stresses of growing older are not discriminating. The gay men older than me that I examined probably went through these same thoughts at some point, and, if they didn't, they are fortunate indeed. All the more reason to look up to and admire them, which I do. Greatly. The courage it takes to investigate our spent youth, and then calmly put it away, is something terrifically commendable.

Another interesting point is that I've always felt old. Even when I was that starry-eyed kid, I felt old inside. It's just that now the outside seems to be catching up to the inside, and that scares me. It's natural, I know. Growing old is matter-of-course. Sure it is. Tell that to the 90% of Hollywood that has had plastic surgery. Tell that to the septuagenarian who is full of anxiety because he/she can't even think young anymore. Tell that to the bitter old queen at the end of the bar.

There is, however, the possibility that I did not lose my youth. Perhaps it's still there, buried beneath the rubble of a life not fully lived. A few weeks ago, my mother-in-law Phyllis turned 70 (and, may I add, a damn fiiiiiiiine 70). John asked her how she felt about it, and her response was this: "It's just my body that's 70. I feel the same inside as I felt at 20 or 40. I've learned more, definitely, but I'm still the same on the inside. The mirror is the only thing that reminds me that I'm growing old."

So, after all, maybe my youth is not M.I.A. I hold fast to the idea that it's still somewhere inside of me, metamorphosing into something more age-appropriate to the old carcass that now adorns it.

Maybe by the time I'm 70, I'll feel young again.

The Stumble Down Memory Lane Continues: Sesame Street & The Muppets

Since yesterday's post about Mister Rogers, I've been thinking a lot about another great mind of children's television (and one I enjoyed even more than Mister Rogers): Jim Henson. Both Henson's "Sesame Street" and "The Muppet Show" were staples of my childhood. Even today, I could ramble endlessly about the genius of these two programs, especially The Muppets. While the denizens of "Sesame Street" were undoubtedly tailored to kids, The Muppets definitely appealed to a broader audience. The originality of both casts of characters, though, is still of great interest and entertainment to me.

One thing I always used to ask people, as a way of getting to know them, as a sort of ice-breaker, was to ask who their favorite "Sesame Street" character or Muppet was. I believed I could tell a lot about a person by the puppet they chose. However, my beloved John failed this test miserably, and I've since retired it as a faulty indicator of the human soul.

Let me explain.

On our first date, I asked John the million dollar question. Our conversation went like this:

Fade in.

Me: Tell me, John, who is your favorite "Sesame Street" character or Muppet?

John thinks long and hard, which I take to be a good sign. Then:

John: Gordon.

Me (dropping my tofu burrito): Gordon?!? He wasn't even a puppet!

John: Yeah, but he was HOT!

Fade out.

Don't get me wrong, the big bald ebony yumminess of Gordon is obvious, but he wasn't really remarkable in any way. He was just a second fiddle, as all the humans were, to the puppets. I just couldn't analyze John's response. Thus, my perfect ice-breaker question proved itself fallible.

There were many characters I liked immensely, and others in which I found no appeal whatsoever.

Take Fozzy the Bear. I always found him really annoying, and I just wanted to take that vagrant's bowler hat of his and shove it down his throat. Then there's Rolf the Dog. I didn't mind him so much at first, but then a girl I used to know showed up at school with an atrocious Ogilvie home perm and she looked exactly like Rolf. That killed it for me. Oh, and Elmo; despite his popularity, I was never a big fan. All that baby babble and talking in the third person, it was like watching a mental patient off his meds.

Many of the more central puppets left me ambivalent. I didn't have much opinion on Kermit, Big Bird, Cookie Monster, or Gonzo. They were interesting enough, no doubt, but the ones I really came to see were these:

-Miss Piggy. I once knew someone who wrote her entire college thesis on Miss Piggy and why she is an icon of feminism, female revolution, and girl power. Miss Piggy was assertive, hilarious, and determined. By God, she was going to nail that pipsqueak frog if she had to lie, cheat, steal, kill, or ride out-of-control roller skates through Central Park. She could also be wonderfully sensitive and reflective, but her staunch optimism and drive were always intact.

-Mr. Snuffalopagus. We still don't know what the hell kind of creature he was, other than Big Bird's imaginary friend, but Snuffy was always so languid and loving and supportive. He had big droopy stoner eyes and an unhurried, lumbering gait. Cuddly and safe, Mr. Snuffalopagus was a comforting daydream that fueled my creative young imagination.

-Oscar the Grouch. As a kid, I was never much into Oscar, though I didn't dislike him. It's only as an adult that I started to identify with his anti-humanity attitude. Oscar hated just about everyone, wasn't ashamed or unapologetic about it, and wasn't afraid to say "That sucks!" (in so many words). I think he was a highly-evolved, self-actualized puppet. AND he had that kick-ass little worm, Slimy. Who couldn't love Slimy?!?

-Prairie Dawn. Without question, my favorite character on "Sesame Street". This hot little tramp was bright pink with straw-yellow pigtails and always wore the same gingham dress. She also played the piano, and is mostly known for one line: "And now it's time for the show." She would then proceed to bang out a virtuoso number on the piano...all with her two tiny pink felt fingers! Miraculous indeed! Prairie Dawn didn't need such trivial things as movable digits.

-The Count. The voice, the monocle, the European accent. *Sigh*

-Janice. Quite simply, the greatest Jim Henson creation. I. LOVE. JANICE. Perpetually stoned (she never opened her eyes!), massive lips frozen in a "Give peace a chance" grin, and a fabulous command of language that was typically little more than "Fer sure!", Janice has a special place in my heart. She was a musician, a tambourine player to be exact, often playing with the band; she dated the band's bass player, Floyd Pepper. She had some uproarious one-liners on "The Muppet Show" and in the Muppet movies. It's a little-known fact that Janice is the only muppet to ever swear (she said "damn" in one of the movies). My favorite Janice line will always be from "The Muppet Movie", in which she declares her artistic integrity when discussing what she will and won't do in the proposed film the Muppets intend to make. She says, "I'm not taking my clothes off for anyone. Not even for artistic purposes!" You see, our Janice was a lady.

Ah, Jim Henson. An undisputed genius of puppetry. Fer sure!

Beautiful Day: A Tribute to Mister Rogers

Family Communications, Inc., the production company founded by the late Fred Rogers (aka Mister Rogers), is spearheading a tribute to the iconic kid-show host on what would be his 80th birthday. This March 20, they are urging Mister Rogers' fans to show some love and wear a Rogersesque sweater in honor of the children's public television trailblazer.

Ah, Mister Rogers. Like most people, I grew up with that soft-voiced, sensible-shoe-wearing old fella. His messages and lessons were always so simple and sweet. He entertained and educated with an easy friendliness fueled by genuine warmth. Heck, even Bette Midler was a fan: when I saw her "Kiss My Brass" show a few years ago, Bette (in a red, zip-up cardigan) sang a duet with Mister Rogers magnified on a screen behind her. In this age of "reality" television, banal situation comedies, and tabloid magazine shows masquerading as news, it's easy to see why Mister Rogers remains, to this day, an appealing and authentic source of entertainment and solace.

If nothing else, he could be depended upon to provide consistency, which in and of itself is a greatly comforting gift. We all knew that when he popped in that never-locked front door, he was going to sing his signature tune. We came to rely on the gentle flourish of his hands peppering the aquarium with a sprinkling of fish food. We also knew that during some moment of our time with him, he would inevitably welcome the jittery Mr. "Speedy Delivery" McFeely into his home. And, of course, we always looked forward to The Neighborhood of Make Believe.

How I loved The Neighborhood of Make Believe. A bizarre cross section of the human and animal kingdom living in total harmony in a linoleum-floored utopia. Our journey always began with my favorite Mister Rogers character, Trolley. Mister Rogers would have an entire conversation with Trolley, who didn't talk so much as ding in reply.

Example:
Mister Rogers: "Good morning, Trolley!"
Trolley (sliding back and forth excitedly on his track): "Ding-ding-ding, ding-ding."

I'm not sure either, but c'mon, did we ever doubt that Trolley was in anything but the best of spirits?

And off we would go to The Neighborhood, presided over by the square-jawed King Friday, his wife Queen Sarah, and their son, Prince Tuesday. Henrietta the cat, adorned in a long flowing Laura Ashley number, lived in a surprisingly-ornate treehouse with her next-door neighbor, the know-it-all X (or X-ey) the Owl, just a few feet away. There was a platypus family that lived in a giant grandfather clock, and a cute little tiger named Daniel that wore a Rolex. My second favorite character, though, was definitely that old dyke Lady Elaine Fairchilde. Lady Elaine had a buzzcut and was, I suspect, an alcoholic. Her cheeks and pointy Pinocchio nose were always way too red and she tended to be on the bossy side -- not to mention the fact that she lived in a constantly-spinning museum! That would drive anyone to drink! A bottle of Jack and a handful of Secanol was probably the only way the old girl could sleep. There was also a human who oftentimes showed up in The Neighborhood, a waifish hippie named Lady Aberlin. I don't remember much about her, except that I assumed Lady Elaine, on more than one occasion, gave her a private tour of the museum. If you know what I mean.

So this March 20, wear a Mister Rogers sweater in honor of the kind-hearted host-with-the-most. If that isn't your cup of tea, then wear a burgundy tweed turtleneck in honor of the puppet world's first drunken lesbian. Either way, it's for a good cause.

Meh (Or, Insert Clever Title Here)

In one of my favorite songs, Stevie Nicks declares, "Time makes you bolder/Even children get older/I'm getting older too". I've always loved those lines. It's only recently, though, that I've come to terms with the fact that the first four words of that verse are, in my case, just not true. I've always been under the impression -- and heard from a lot of aging folks -- that with age, comes wisdom. With the years, comes fearlessness. With growing older, comes some shred of authenticity. As I sit here tonight, admittedly not an Oldie Olsen with a walker and colostomy bag, but still old enough to not be called "young", I'm all sorts of pissed. Why, oh why, would Stevie lie to me? I'm more scared and cowardly now than I was at 18. Now I just have male pattern baldness and crow's feet on top of it.

Before I go any further, I want you to know that I'm aware of something important as I write this post. My fear when starting this blog was that I would eventually use it as a place to process all my "baggage": a sort of free association therapy with the world. I did not want that then, and I do not want that now. I have no intention of spewing up the dramas and messes of my life. My only aim in this post is to get some feelings out, since I feel I'm clogged with way too many right now to even see clearly. It's tremendously beneficial for me to write of my internal struggles because, as the great Joan Didion once said, "I don't think unless I'm writing." If I can touch upon some essence of my truth, and maybe yours too, then maybe this cautious soul-baring will not be in vain. I simply write what I know at this time, in the hope that maybe someone, somewhere can identify. Isn't that, when it's all said and done, the purpose of writing in the first place? To feel less alone?

The winter months have always been rough for me, and this year has been a doozy. I feel the lack of light not just in the waning days, but in the furthest reaches of my soul. Years ago, I was told I had Seasonal Affective Disorder (otherwise known by its more-than-appropriate acronym: SAD). I invested in one of those light boxes, but the damn thing is so artificial and bright that I get nauseous and have to wear my shades in front of it. I look like a gay Jack Nicholson sprawled out in my chair under the harsh lights, sunglasses intact and brutal fluorescent high-beams reverberating off my bald head; and thus blinding anyone in a six-block radius. I feel your pain, Jack.

Now I'm the first to admit that when things get rough, I make bad decisions. When I felt this disorientation setting in, way back in November, I immediately started smoking again. I tend to lose touch with all normalcy and order in the parameters of my life. Things like paying bills, cleaning the house, and even staying awake throughout the day are next to impossible for me. If I tally up all the hours I've slept this winter, you might as well just slap a green hat and tie on me and give me a sidekick named Boo Boo. Even the hours I've been awake -- or, more appropriately, have had my eyes open -- I've walked around in a perpetual fog.

Yes, I've seen doctors about this. A lot of them. I've tried everything from testosterone patches to gluten-free diets to medication changes to vitamin supplements. Nothing seems terribly effective. Last week, I even had to go to the emergency room because of some horrible, incapacitating chest pains that spread to the entire upper left side of my body, gripping me in a vise-like agony for days. Luckily, my ticker is fine: apparently, I have the heart and lungs of an athlete. Told to a smoker, this news is worthy of a Happy Dance.

The E.R.'s diagnosis? Stress.

I didn't look at my job as particularly stressful before this. I mean, I spend eight hours a day waiting for the phone to ring, reading Wikipedia, and trying to stay conscious. But in proper perspective, I can trace this to be the root of my troubles. Searching Wikipedia, attempting to keep my eyes open, hoping against hope that someone will call and order a book, is not my idea of a job. Yeah, I might be getting paid to look up useless trivia (Did you know that Tang Dynasty chancellor Cui Shi was believed to have risen to power through affairs with Shanggun Wan'er and Princess Taiping?), but this is not how I want to spend my life. There's no work to be done, we are over-staffed, under-managed, under-supplied, and in the middle of a battle of egos that is oftentimes laughable in its outrageousness.

This is never what I wanted. Instead of growing closer to who I want to be with the advancing years, I step further and further from it. Cowardice is abundant, but so is that dreaded human necessity of money. I've chosen to live in the most expensive city in America, and as a result I must settle for this unchallenging mind-paralysis. If I had my way, I'd leave tomorrow, move to the country, and write for a living, but these things are all so much easier said (dreamed) than done. I'm stuck, and I can see no way out. Saving up money to move is impossible; saving up money for any reason at all when you live in this city is impossible. Switching to yet another soulless, brainless job is daunting and unappealing. I wish I could just muster up a little bit of courage to do something, but all I really want to do is sleep.

A week from Wednesday, John and I leave for Bali for three weeks. This will no doubt be an exciting adventure, and one that I hope provides me with the time and space to just get a friggin' grip and decide where I'm headed. Hell, maybe I'll stay in Bali. That might be just the ticket. If you don't hear from me in a month or so, you can safely assume that I've become a rice farmer, toiling the days away in my lush green paddies, marveling at how close I've come to my ultimate goal of blissful, welcome obscurity.

If you'll excuse me, I must go get fitted for my conical bamboo hat. After all, if there's one thing I learned from my light box, it's that bald heads need extra protection.

Famous Last Words

I'm not sure why, but I've been researching the last words of notable, and not-so-notable, people. Some of the statements are dreadfully boring. Others are fiercely powerful, a few even laden with vengeance or political assertions. Many are quite eloquent and beautiful. And some are downright fabulous.

I've compiled many of my favorites here. I can only hope that when it's my time to go, I can whip up something as memorable, powerful, and/or funny as these.

-When she woke briefly during a long illness, Lady Nancy Astor saw her entire family gathered around her bedside and noted, just before expiring: "Am I dying, or is this my birthday?"

-"I should never have switched from Scotch to martinis." -Humphrey Bogart

-"I'm bored with it all." - Winston Churchill

-"That was the best ice cream soda I ever tasted!" -Lou Costello (of Abbot & Costello)

-Joan Crawford, upon noticing her housekeeper praying aloud at her deathbed: "Damn it...Don't you dare ask God to help me."

-"My God. What's happened?" -Diana, Princess of Wales

-"I must go in, the fog is rising." -Emily Dickinson

-"Adieu, mes amis. Je vais la gloire." (Farewell my friends! I go to glory!) -Isadora Duncan

-"All my possessions for a moment of time." -Elizabeth I

-"I've had a lot of a lot of fun, and I've enjoyed every minute of it." -Errol Flynn

-"I'd hate to die twice. It's so boring." -Richard Feynman (physicist)

-"I see black light." -Victor Hugo

-"Does nobody understand?" -James Joyce

-"Why not? Yeah." -Timothy Leary (spoken with true acid-trippy abstractedness)

-"Go on, get out. Last words are for fools who haven't said enough." -Karl Marx

-"Nothing matters. Nothing matters." -Louis B. Mayer

-"I knew it. I knew it. Born in a hotel room -- and God damn it! -- died in a hotel room." -Eugene O'Neill

-"Get my swan costume ready." -Anna Pavlova (ballerina; this line would also be suitable upon Bjork's death)

-"Lord help my poor soul." -Edgar Allen Poe

-"Put out the light." -Teddy Roosevelt

-"They couldn't hit an elephant at this dist--" -Civil War General John Sedgwick

-"God bless....God damn." -James Thurber

-"Well gentleman, you are about to see a baked Appel." -convicted criminal George Appel, in the electric chair

-"Remember: the death penalty is murder." -convicted criminal Robert Drew, moments before his lethal injection

-"I love you." -last words spoken by convicted criminal Sean Flanagan to his executioner

-"How about this headline for tomorrow's paper? French fries." -convicted criminal James French, in the electric chair

-"I'd like to thank my family for loving me and taking care of me. And the rest of the world can kiss my ass." -convicted criminal Johnny Frank Garrett, Sr., moments before his lethal injection

-"I did not get my Spaghetti-O's, I got spaghetti. I want the press to know this." -convicted criminal Thomas J. Grasso, moments before his lethal injection

-After stepping on her executioner's foot, Marie-Antoinette's last words were: "Monsieur, I beg your pardon." (She never said "Let them eat cake.")

-"Capital punishment: them without the capital get the punishment." -convicted criminal John Spenkelink, in the electric chair

-Virginia Woolf's suicide note:

"Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that -- everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

V."

-"Codeine....Bourbon...." -Tallulah Bankhead

-And the winner of this morbid contest is, hands-down, the great Oscar Wilde's last words: "My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go."