Day 60

A picture of something I'm excited about:

Dude, Winter is Coming so hard you aren't even ready for it.

I am prepared for the TV series Game of Thrones not to rock my world the particular way the A Song of Ice and Fire novels did - in fact, I'm rather excited for the different breed of rocking.

Reading the books, I'd get thoroughly invested in the characters' journey as they each navigated the grey-scale of their particular moral landscape; then I'd get thoroughly annoyed as every other character up and died for no apparent reason.  Not even a good deus ex machina; it just seems like Martin doesn't want us to be too invested in each character.

Now in theory, I admire this: too often in sci-fi/fantasy books, it's clear as day (clearer; I live in LA) who's going to live and who's gonna bite it by the end.  However, I need those deaths to mean something.  In practice, I hate feeling like I've been taken on an interesting ride only to have it terminate at the halfway point with nary an explanation as to why.

Now that I know what's coming - in the broad strokes - it should be interesting to see the TV interpretation.  The fine layers of intrigue many of the characters lay have to be present in some aspect, but I can't imagine they'll be quite as fine or quite as many as in the books.  Plus, Sean Bean is Eddard Stark, so I'm watching.

This whole 60 Pictures in 60 Days thing took more than 60 pictures, and far more than 60 days - which is the only way it could happen, if it was to be anything like an accurate peek into my mind.  It's been fun; I may just start photoblogging random crap at you from time to time.  My internal purpose has been served; I've been reminded to write more.  I've learned a little bit about brevity; we'll see if that particular lesson sticks.  I've been almost totally no-holds-barred about it; the only things I haven't felt comfortable writing about are really other people's stories.  I have enough of my own to tell.  And there are more, so keep an eye out.

Gooooo bye-bye!!

Day 59

A picture of a random item I own:

The Wheel of Time.

Well, it don't get any more random than walking around my room and taking a picture of the first thing that catches my fancy.  And what caught my fancy this afternoon is The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan, with Brandon Sanderson picking up the writing duties since the former's death.  It's expansive, which I always appreciate, and nowhere near as depressing as A Song of Ice and Fire...

Day 58

A picture of my favorite animal:

you knew that was coming, right?

Best. "Fever." Ever.

Also: did you know that Dave Coulier was the voice of Animal and Bunsen on Muppet Babies?  I just learned that.  Somehow, this surprises me more than learning he was the inspiration for "You Oughtta Know."


(Okay, no, it doesn't really surprise me more than that.  Nothing will ever surprise me more than that.)

Day 57

A picture of my favorite holiday:

I never thought it was such a bad little tree either, Linus.

Every year, I wait for that moment - that moment when it starts to feel like Christmas.  Lately, it's been hard to get that feeling, but I think that's just because my insomnia has been getting worse with each passing year and Baby Sis still insists on opening presents at seven in the damned morning.

Christmas is midnight services at church and the Hallelujah Chorus; picking out the perfect gift and spending five minutes wrapping it, even though I know it'll be torn into in ten seconds.  But most importantly, Christmas is when I force myself to shed my depression (which isn't entirely seasonal, but gets worse in the winter) and spread some damned good will.

I may not be a good little Christian any more, but I still believe in miracles.  And it remains miraculous to me that, whatever their faith or purpose, people take advantage of this holiday - sullied as it is, in Charlie's words, by "crass commercialism" - to give to one another.  That's the part I never lose sight of; that's why, even in the midst of my depression, my sleeplessness, and my early-morning frustration, I still love Christmas.

The Short List

After two hours of talking, my old friend looked at me and said, "I can't tell if you're happy.  You seem happy, but I can't tell if you really are.  You're grateful, but are you happy?"

Um, hell if I know.

I spun a very nice, intellectual answer, while I was trying to a) understand the answer to her question and b) keep her from looking too closely at it.  It ended with, "I'm not content - but I'm content with that fact."

"You are so full of shit!" was the reply.  And granted, this is something most of my friends know.  But they don't always know when I'm spreading it around.  And even among those who do, how many will tread there, behind my occasionally-obvious barriers, without my expressed prior consent?

That's a short list.


I need those people.  It's not healthy, to get away with whatever self-deceptions I feel like peddling.  That's the quick path back to not knowing which end is up when I look in the mirror.

So thanks, old friend, for still being on the short list.  I owe you.

Day 56

A picture of something that makes me happy:

Back in Indy, May 2010.

There is a more sedate version of this picture, but this one has more of her essence.

Behold the baby sister.

I was a bad big brother, growing up.  Granted, she was a bad little sister, but that's not my responsibility.  I didn't treat her well, and few were the occasions on which I felt the need to defend her to outsiders.  I ignored her whenever possible...but then that's part of the "older sibling" job description during a certain phase of development.

When she came out to me, I was drunk.  I'd already known, but still: here's yet another important moment in the life of a loved one for which I was only partially present. 

One of the more glaring signals of my alcoholism, among the first red flags that planted itself beneath my denial, occurred during one of our famous fights.  She and I both have raging tempers, when set loose, and nobody knows how to unlock your temper like your family.  The fight wasn't important, though.  The key moment was when she looked at me, full of scorn, and said "Whatever David, just have another drink."

Yeah, that tastefully cinematic moment was brought to you by sibling revulsion and the letter C.

So I've been trying to make it up to her.  And the thought that makes me happy is that I've been succeeding - I'm an actual big brother, now, and maybe a pretty good one.  At least, I'm present and empathetic and supportive and proud. We still argue, but then we're still family, so that's gonna happen.  It's pretty rare that we fight.  Mostly, we just laugh, trade updates and share our particularly sardonic perspectives on family current events.

Day 55

A picture of the last movie I saw in the theater:

getting chills right now.

I would have missed this experience if my buddy Bill hadn't been in town and looking for something to do.  Creeped me right the hell out.  What's strange to me is that Portman followed this up with Your Highness.

Isn't there anyone around to slap good actors upside the head and say, "Don't do that!"

Because if you pay me, I'll do it.

Day 54

A picture of the one thing I would bring if I were stranded on a deserted island:

Not pictured: the GPS module that damn well better be inside.

I mean, if I know in advance that I'm going to be stranded on a deserted island, this seems like a no-brainer.

Day 53

A picture of someone I think is hot:

I couldn't decide how to do this.  First, I thought about posting a picture of a friend I thought was hot, but that seemed weird.  I thought about picking out one actress or other public figure I think is hot, but I couldn't really pin one down.  So I ran a Google Image search for "hot" - and so far, the visage most repeated belongs to Kristen Stewart.

Okay, she's cute - and I think she's fairly talented - but I dunno about "hot".  Part of her appeal to me is precisely that she's not hot.

None of this gets me anywhere with this prompt.  So here's a picture of a bunch of attractive women standing next to Johnny Storm of the Fantastic Four.

Because if you're standing that close to the Human Torch, you're probably pretty hot.

Day 52

A picture of my favorite sport:

 Old Sissypants is: Ex-LAX, The Strip, Magnum, King of the Hill, The Little German Girl, Ol' Dirty Rabbi, The Ringer, Fitch, Dribble Baby, Swingin' Dixie the Badminton Boy, Thundercrotch, and The Traitor.  Not pictured: Philly, Cuddlewhore, and our honorary member Greenthumb, MD.

I was Magnum; my number, π.  The Selleck reference was serendipitous - I just wanted my number to be π.

Softball is just good fun, people!  It combines my affection for baseball with a pacing that doesn't have snails behind you tailgating and honking.  There's little athletic prowess required, so any you have is pure bonus.

Plus, I love anything that comes with swag.  I'm sporting my 2000-2001 Intramural Champion shirt right now.

Day 51

A picture of my dream car:

1994 Camry Sedan V6 XLE.

I could show you a picture of the various cars I once dreamed of having, or I could show you a picture of the car I sometimes dream of still having.  This is my first car, my baby, the HSG (the three letters in the non-vanity CA plate, which were unanimously and tacitly understood to stand for "High-School G").

She had get-up like you would not have expected, and she was comfy to boot.  There are tons of pictures of friends piled in the back seat for whatever adventures the day brought us - the Disneyland trip stands out, but bowling was a good go-to.  She had incredible gas mileage, which I cared less about at the time than I presently do.

I had the handicapped spot in the Senior Parking Lot, mostly because the lot was large enough to require one by law and I was the only senior with a handicapped placard.  Music was bumped, occasionally with vocal accompaniment.

As was the case whenever "If I Ever Fall..." by Shai was played.

The HSG got totaled in '03. It was nobody's fault, and the damage wasn't really that bad - but the car was nine years old by that point. While Toyotas are functionally immortal, auto insurance companies have...tougher standards.

The car I drive now is an homage to my baby - it's a 2005 Camry Sedan, same color, same tan leather interior.  She doesn't have the gas mileage or as much get-up, but she's got it where it counts.  We thought of naming her like we did the HSG, but the three letters in the non-vanity plate are CRY, and the only appropriate name to come from that would be the Emo-bile.

If you think my wistfulness borne of materialism, consider how much time your average Angeleno spends in his/her car.  It's less like losing a prized possession, and more like having your bedroom burn down.

Day 50

A picture of my most frequented place:

Culver City, CA.  Yeah, I used to leave the Valleys.

I grew up near this establishment, and often passed it in my travels - it's on Sepulveda Blvd., pretty much the main north-south non-highway artery in LA.  Look at the facade; I think young Dash can be forgiven for assuming it was a strip joint.

In 2004, one of the Vassar alums (not yet a friend, exactly) tipped us off to this place.  Good karaoke, she said, and you can smoke inside.  The latter was only appealing to her and to me, but the VC crew came in force - and fell in love.  It's a tiny room, but still makes space for the karaoke jockey, the bar, two pool tables, and a large framed print of Queen's Bicycle Race/Fat Bottomed Girls poster...you know which one I mean.  At the Tatt, I sang for my 'supper' - on karaoke nights, I hardly ever paid for a drink.

It was in this room that karaoke replaced collegiate a cappella as my dominant performance medium; it was in this room that my alcoholism progressed well past "functional."  Leaving this room and heading back to the Valley, I was arrested for driving under the influence.  It was August 12th, 2005 - Matt's birthday, the first he'd not live to see.

Since getting sober, I've maintained my deep affection for karaoke; I've peddled my vocal wares about town in many establishments of varying respectability.  I haven't returned to the Tattle Tale.  Something inside me knows: if I head back there, it won't be just to sing.

Actually, now that I think about it, this place has probably become Dive Bar: Hipster Central since last I crossed its threshold.  So if I ever return, it'll be with a frag grenade and a mission from God.

Day 49

A picture of where I live:

Studio City, CA.  Kick off yer shoes, set a spell.

My parents' house.  It's beautiful, inside and out.  Our neighbors rather frequently lend out their houses for film shoots - which reminds me, I need to go vacate my parking spot so a trailer can have it tomorrow morning. We haven't really been able to put that together.  It brings in a pretty decent sum of money, but I don't really think Dad wants the camera people crawling all over his house.

We moved to this address in 1996; this house has only stood on the property for the last three years.  It's not quite the parents' dream house, as there were all sorts of features Mom wanted that Dad deemed too expensive...but there is the elevator.  And the water feature in the back yard.  And that nice little place on the porch where people would sit if anyone in my family was sociable enough to relax in the front yard.

My piano - well, it's not mine, but nobody else plays anymore - is right there in the front bay window.  I have a tendency to play while awaiting guests - I think I'm going to start playing them off too.  A little incidental music just to say, "Here's your hat; what's your hurry?"

Day 48

A picture of my favorite actor/actress:

It's not fair! The girl had no awkward phase...I lost a bet.

Three days after we moved into the dorms, and five days before school started, we had one of those getting-to-know you deals - titled, in the most highfalutin way possible, the "Before School Conferences."  Like we were getting together to discuss the future of Eastern liberal-arts education instead of playing Two Truths and a Lie.

There was a girl at the Drama BSC (I hate being predictable, but I hate being bored much more) named Natalie.  Everyone was whispering about this girl.  She'd played Medea in her senior-year show.  Natalie and I both went to similar schools in the same city (had several mutual friends, as it turned out) - except, y'know, I played Harold Hill and she played Medea. I remember being automatically wowed, in a way that my natural cynicism should have prevented.  It doesn't matter what role you play, after all, if you suck at it.  Natalie didn't suck, as she proved the next semester in Lear.

My point: I have a thing - a soft spot, you'd call it, if I had any spots that weren't soft - for the preternaturally gifted.  And here's a girl too young to have factored into a certain...discussion...concerning the best actor of our generation.  Here's another no-joke but well-deserved reputation.  The chick scares me.  Or at least she used to; somehow Man on Fire had a little more punch than The Runaways.

I once said I wanted to marry her talent.  Now, I don't think so - I'd just resent it, to the point of cheating on it with Kristen Stewart's, cheapening all three of us.

Day 47

A picture of my favorite place to shop:

This is a picture of the favorite place I go and actually occasionally buy stuff; my favorite place to go that sells stuff is Best Buy, but I can so rarely justify buying a single thing they sell.  I discovered Best Buy freshman year of college...back when a purchase there could surely be said to be the best possible buy.

(Hmm, maybe I could use a new camera before friend Kelly's wedding...)

But Target provides the foundation of my wardrobe.  Oh, I dress up the basics with Banana Republic and Macy's (you can take the preppy out of prep school, yadda yadda yadda), but really it's all about the black T-shirts and jeans.  Then I wander past the electronics section and see if there's anything interesting for me to buy on Amazon when I get home.

Besides, I cannot stand the button- and zipper-infested madness I found at the mall last time I shopped there.

A Sickle Cell Sufferer's Guide, Part 4

You make your way to the hospital.  There was once a time when my hematologist could admit me without visiting the ER; that was many iterations of American health care ago. Now, it's a tromp through the red tape and the waiting room and the interminable anticipation of someone actually treating your pain.


Once you have passed the gates, gotten your bed, and the leading edge of the pain has been taken away, you have a decision to make.  Are you going back home with a prescription for something a little more powerful than Pez?  Or are you headed upstairs to a room?  I tend to opt for the room.  Painkillers won't hasten the end of a Sickle Cell crisis; they just make the journey tolerable.  It's the fluids and oxygen we need, friends.  Those are our saviors.


However you decide - and enduring a lengthy hospital stay is a topic for another time - it is now time to confront those emotions.  If there are family and friends willing to support you, use them.  If you have some spiritual connection/affiliation: use it.  If you've got a therapist, make the call.  There is no use to suffering in silence when doing so increases your suffering; you cannot confront this challenge alone.  When your greatest enemy is inside you, your greatest allies are to be found outside of you. 


And here are the platitudes you've already heard: it's not your fault.  This can't be helped.  You can still live a full and meaningful life.  There will be other chances to ________.  No, your life is not just an endless cycle of pain and recovery from pain (and later on, the side-effects spiraling down off of that cycle). So hard, when we're in the middle of it, to accept those as the truths they usually are - "usually," because sometimes there really won't be another chance to ________.  But then, "normal" people miss once-in-a-lifetime chances, too.


Take heart, at least enough to see yourself through this crisis.  Realize this, if you can't hold on to any of those other truths: the amount of pain you're in is having a profoundly negative effect on your emotions and on your ability to regulate them.  My short-term solution?  Gallows humor works every time.  Make it all a cosmic joke, and refuse to stop laughing at it. Come on!  You suffer from a debilitating condition for which the best solution is frequent exposure to addictive medication!  Somewhere, Something is rubbing its hands together and wondering how you're gonna handle it - are you gonna give It the satisfaction of caving all the time?  Naw, scoff in the face of pain - actually say "Scoff" a bunch of times and paint a scheming sneer on your face! Cackle like a villain!


Laugh through the pain - both kinds.  It's a temporary sop to your emotions; it works just as well and as poorly as the Morphine's working on your pain.

Day 46

A picture of where I wish I was right now:

Maui, 1998

Not that a human being with a functioning soul needs a reason to want to be in Maui, but I've never felt peace like I did during the two vacations we spent there.

Well, the rest of the fam went a third time, but I stayed back to throw a party.  Possibly the most questionable decision I've ever made, which is saying quite a bit.

When I meditate, which I don't do often enough, this is where I take myself.  Right out there where the sand meets the water, while the sun hits the horizon and sets the sky on psychedelic fire; right then, when everything is timeless.

Maybe to go there as I am now would strip the moment of some of its magic; I don't think so.  I think such places are a bottomless well of serenity, available to any who know how to tap it.

Day 45

A picture of my room:

Vassar, Spring '01

"It has been said of the college male that he is a predictable beast, and perhaps this is truest when he is considered in his home environment.  Pictures of scantily-clad sex objects, favored sports-team paraphernalia, pilfered road signs, and second-hand furniture abound amidst the wreckage of his nightly ritualistic alcohol consumption.  Perhaps, shortly after our intrepid sociologist snapped this photo, these three college males engaged in "video gaming" using the now-archaic Nintendo 64 and television set.  Note the lava lamp to the right of that set; odds are, it saw considerable use as a mood enhancer whenever marijuana was smoked.  The Dunkin' Donuts box suggests to this analyst that, perhaps, marijuana would be smoked that very night."

Ah, the two-room triple, sophomore year.  Adam, Paul and I more or less lived together for three years; there were really rough spots along the way, but we were good enough friends to get through the passive-aggressive bullshit between us.  This picture was taken after our softball team, Old Sissypants and the Little German Girl, won the intramural softball championship.

Regarding our team name, it should be noted: a) Paul's girlfriend Meredith was the girl in question; b) while our team name freshman year was Old Man Sissypants and a Barrel of Poon, we quickly stopped letting Matt's roommate Greg have that particular responsibility...of course trusting Matt wasn't a big step forward; c) our jerseys (professionally screen-printed, natch) read simply "Old Sissypants" because that shit cost money and we were college sophomores.

Of all the things in my Vassar experience that gladden me to this day, I think my room situation makes me the happiest, resulting as it did from random chance.  I grew close to my roommate and to my hallmates - this was how I met Matt, that first day.  I'm glad because having Adam and Paul around meant being socially well-rounded: my friends weren't all performers, and as years passed this proved to be a real protective factor for my sanity.  It made my room a retreat from the drama.

Day 44

A picture of someone I'm told I look like:

coincidentally, I do a pretty good impersonation.

It was the summer before sophomore year.  My father came out to NY with me - I didn't need his help moving into the dorm, it was just a nice excuse for a father-son trip.  I had this sweet leather jacket at the time.

My mother's college roommate (VC '74 - they're all nuts) was a BFD at NBC at the time, and she scored us field-section seats to a Mets game while we were in the city.  Dad and I enjoy the game for several innings before the woman two seats to Dad's left leans over and asks - in that nasally Queens snarl that so endears New Yorkers to Angelenos - "Ah yew Chris Rahck?"

I say no - she's not entirely convinced.  I confess that I've heard it before; she claims it was my sweet leather jacket.  I don't give her the "No ma'am, we don't all look alike" spiel; while I don't see the resemblance, I'm told it's there too often to put down to that trope.

Some time later, a woman in the section two to my right gets cracked in the head with a foul ball.  Terrifying, I gotta tell you.  The EMTs are called out.  One of them stands idly in the aisle next to our row - I have the aisle seat.  I'm wondering whether an EMT should really be doing anything idly when he asks - in a voice that conjures to mind Mike Seaver with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels, whistling Dixie and desperately trying to conjur a halo over his head - "Good game, huh?"

I have no clue what this is about, but I'll play along, because I want to know: "How's the woman who got hit?"

"Oh, she'll be fine, just a bruise."  I'm busy not buying that during the excruciating pause that follows, when:

"Can I have your autograph?"

I sputter.  I'm ashamed that my gift of gab, my talent for the retort, has completely failed me in this comedic crisis moment.  This is the improv theater of life, people, and I failed.  My dad had to answer for me, as it was clear from my agog expression that no English would issue forth for several more seconds.  "I don't think he is who you think he is," Dad says.  "Oh," says the dejected - and dubious - worst EMT ever; he shuffles away, perhaps to actually provide emergency medical care.

The fact that Dad said "I don't think..." leads me to believe that he somehow figures an EMT might want my autograph (d'aww...).  And my friends, with the gift of humorous hindsight, later reprove me: that's exactly what I should have given him.

Day 43

A picture of something I can't function without:

Why yes, my sweater does say don't stop believin'!  Bless you, Neighborhoodies.

 
At first, it was going to be a picture of music - then I started thinking of how I could find a picture of music.  Then I thought, "Duh, a picture of Dash on the mic."  That's when I realized that music isn't the thing I can't live without - it's my voice.

If you took away my music, I could just make some more.  I'd feel miserable, but I'd function - in fact, I have.  I was pissed when I lost every mp3 in my music collection, but mp3's are replaceable.  A lot of time, a lot of money, and I'm back in business.  If you took away my slightly-above-mediocre piano skills, I'd probably spend more time learning the guitar.

But if you took away my singing voice...I'm getting misty-eyed.  That's neither exaggeration nor artistic license.  I've been singing since before I could speak.  If I had to listen to music - because I'd be driven, uncontrollably, to do so - but I couldn't sing...it would take a psychological intervention beyond my imagining to keep me from serious suicidal ideation.  Again - not exaggerating.

Look - I'm good at it.  I know most of you haven't heard me sing, and the proof is in the proverbial pudding - but you don't actually need to believe me for this to make sense to you.  I'm not at the top of my game anymore and haven't been for years; I'm mostly okay with that, but when I notice the symptoms of rustiness I occasionally get frustrated.  So I know what would happen, if you took away my voice entirely.

It's my passion, my coping mechanism, my moment of zen.  It's my bliss.

I couldn't function.

Day 42

A picture of my dream house:

It'd be like Rivendell, but with central A/C.  And modern plumbing.

Here's something I've never thought of before.  Honestly, if I ever own a house, that will in and of itself constitute a dream.  But I suppose there's some image percolating around in my head.  It's on a hill, but it doesn't stand out of it; it sort of grows out of it.  So I think of Rivendell.  (Or, I suppose, a hobbit-hole, but I'm just a little too grandiose for that.)

I always think of having just enough space, but I realize that crap (especially my crap) expands to fill the space available. Vistas - infinity pool - some sort of sanctuary for me and my 360 - lots of social gathering areas...which I hope will encourage me to have frequent social gatherings.

Some day...nah, I can't even pretend that.  It's about as likely as me actually living in Rivendell.