It happened in a psychiatrist’s office.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked. “Why are you even at _____?” and she named the place where I work.

I should stop here to add that I don’t know this woman, and have never been in her office. You see, I’m a fat guy; A fat guy who’s currently in the process of getting approval for bariatric surgery and one of those steps is to meet with a psychiatrist. I didn’t know anything about this woman other than what I've learned from sitting in her office:

• The waiting room had an unused feel to it. The shelves were dusted, and the magazines arranged neatly, but you got the impression the room was rarely used. Maybe it was the way the children’s toys in the corner were put away a little too nicely. Plus, it hadn’t been vacuumed recently, further adding to the forgotten vibe of the room.

• She had been a panelist on the Oprah Winfrey Show back in the mid-nineties. There was an autographed 8X10 glossy framed beside a signed form letter from Oprah thanking her for being part of the show.

• She was a force of nature. As I was sitting in the room, first filling out the initial paperwork and then beginning on the first of my three assigned personality tests, she came in through the door. Her voice was a cannon that blasted the stuffy air out of the room and hid the thin simper of her assistant’s soft rock radio. Wiping at her nose with a wad of tissues, she called me “Steve” and welcomed me to her office. “Come on back, come on back! You’ll finish those up after we talk.” Then to her assistant: “Sonya, he’ll finish up after, OK?” as if she hadn’t heard the booming instructions when they were shot at me.

We went back into one of the offices where between sniffles she explained that she didn’t see many patients these days and mostly worked with litigators serving as an expert witness. “I do maybe one or two of these bariatric cases per month lately” she explained. “I like to do them, of course. I’m just really busy.”

The conversation was fast and easy. I had never been to a psychiatrist before, but went into it with the thought that I would be completely open and as forthcoming as possible. We chatted about general addiction, my past, my daughter, and the back and forth came naturally. I felt like we were both enjoying the discussion. She was quick-witted and personable, sharing antidotes from her own past here and there when appropriate.

Interruped briefly for a nose blowing break, talk turned to work. She knows some people who have worked at the company I work, so was familiar somewhat with the environment. I explained that while not passionate about the work I do, I enjoy doing a good job and see myself as a constant that people can depend on. I could tell she didn’t like the answer.

“Look, it’s really none of my business. I don’t even know you and I’m not your therapist. Still though…Can I ask you a question? Why are you even at _____?”

She knew the answer before I did, but she waited for me to say it.

“Because I don’t know what I really want.”

We chatted some more about going back to school or changing careers before the rest of the answer came to me: “I think there’s something missing in me. There are people that I know who are creative and successful, not necessarily money-wise, but successful with what they do. They all seem to have this drive inside that pushes them to do what they love. I don’t seem to have that.”

This wasn’t groundbreaking. It was no epiphany. It was something I had considered previously before pushing the thought away. This was the first time I had really said it aloud though. It all boiled down to “I don’t know what to do” or, worse: “I don’t want to do anything”.

My newfound one-time-only therapist didn’t settle down on that topic though, and so we touched on childhood and moving around and she drew parallels between my father and I which while maybe not flattering, were again not groundbreaking material.  It was a really great conversation. At the end of the day, there are only a few people who don’t enjoy talking about themselves to someone who declares it all fascinating material.

We stood, shook hands, and as we stepped back out into the waiting area where I would have to finish my personality tests, she declared me a delight to her assistant who said “Oh, that’s wonderful!” before discussing the rest of her schedule. I sat back down in the chair I had left 55 minutes before, and started on my tests with something bothering me just slightly about the experience. It wasn’t until I was walking to the car that I realized what it was.

It’s a cliché now, a man sitting in a chair at a gentleman’s club getting a lap dance on a Tuesday afternoon, thinking that the girl rubbing against him has really come to like him over time. In the face of all that skin, it’s easy for some to forget that she’s working and that when you ask for one more dance she’s thinking how she’s one step closer to paying rent on time. I knew guys like this, especially in high school. They’d come back from the clubs they’d managed to get in with Polaroids of them paired with Destiny or Chablis, smiles wide on their faces. They’d talk about how she even stuck around for a few minutes after the dance was over and really seemed interested when they described the car they were going to buy next month. (“She told me to go back and I can give her a ride in it!”)

I realized, putting my key into my compact car (so normal it’s nearly invisible), that in my way, I was very similar to these guys. Here I was enjoying a talk with a bright woman who was being paid (well, I might add) to be interested. Whether or not she was actually pretending wasn’t the point. She was good enough at her job that I forgot she was making rent money while I was busy being engaging.

Don’t misread me; I’m not so cynical that I’m directly comparing the two professions. I’m just saying that when money is exchanged, intentions are clouded. Just because she gets you hard doesn’t mean she’s in love, and just because she helps you find insight doesn’t mean she finds you interesting. It’s a job.

Driving home, I decided it didn’t matter. I wasn’t less engaging if she made $250 out of the deal. I’m a charming motherfucker.

I also decided on that drive that I would write about my time with my single-use therapist who had her fifteen minutes of fame with Oprah.

See? I do want to do something.

Labor Day Blues

I love having a Monday that feels like a Sunday. I slept in until I knew Jen would be getting antsy for some company. Sure enough, just as I put on my glasses she rounds the corner and pounces. We hung out there for a few, talking about what we wanted to do for the day. I really wanted to see Halloween II this weekend, but could tell from Jen's noncommittal response that it might not be happening. So, I opt for Plan B. After breakfast and some quality time in front of the tube, I head out.

First order of business was a haircut. I'm painfully overdue. So, I head up the road a piece, get out of the car, walk to the door, only to find it locked. Shit. So, I head directly across the street to a Sports themed haircut joint. First, I don't care that much about sports. The one sport that holds my interest long term is hockey, and I sure as heck don't want a hockey-inspired do. Second, they do the whole shampoo thing before they cut your hair. For a guy who doesn't care much for physical contact with strangers, it's a painful proposition. But, such is the state of my hair that I consider it. Lesson learned from my first stop though, I stare into the darkened waiting area and see the silent plasma screens that confirm that I won't be getting a mullet today.

I give up on a haircut, stop by Blockbuster only to leave with some popcorn and no movie, and then head out record shopping. First stop is Singing Dog Records. I pull into the garage and park and walk to the two blocks to the store before realizing hippies must believe in Labor Day too. Fucking hippies. So, back to the car and over to another garage further up on campus so I can check out Used Kids Records. They have some great stuff, but I'm being really picky and only leave with a Mudhoney / Sonic Youth split 12". I figure I'll hit Magnolia Thunderpussy on the way home, but they too are closed. I give up.

I hate it when people say "In this economy" (because we're always in "this economy", you douche bag), but for real...In this economy you would think more people would be heading off to work if they could. This is the US of A and I couldn't get some freaking manscaping done or buy a copy of the No Age record I've been coveting for months just because it's the wrong Monday of the year to try to get shit done. What's gone wrong with this country?

Places To Be

Last night I got so hot I still don't think I've cooled off. The room was large, and stuffed with a hundred and fifty people. The corporate issued air conditioning struggled with the crowd. I was standing around waiting, sweating, breathing in the air the person standing beside me just exhaled, and making a list of all the places I'd rather be:

A windswept field.
The walk-in cooler at the Pizza Hutt in McKinney, TX.
Flipping through the racks at Magnolia Thunderpussy Records.

There was a girl in a mini skirt and a super tight top walking through the room. Really? I thought. You're going to go interview at a bank today, and that's what you pick?. The girl in question stepped up on the riser to speak with the HR representative, and in her elevated position revealed the black boy-short underwear she was wearing. I immediately looked away, not wanting to be the kind of guy who gets caught looking at the kind of girl who would wear that to an interview.

A bar. Any bar.
Standing in front of my fridge with the door open.
Getting a virtual enema from the big fountain in Easton.

You can tell the sales managers a mile away. It's the walk and the nearly visible haze of aftershave rising from their shoulders like gasoline fumes. The pronounced strut didn't entirely fade in 1979, and they use it to communicate that the room belongs to them every moment they're in it. A nervous kid with a look in his eyes that tells you this is his first interview asks where he should sit. "Anywhere you want, tough guy. Pick a chair you think you can hold down. As long as you can remember your name, we'll find you when we're ready for you."

On the porch with my wife, talking about nothing.
Breathing the overwhelming air inside a walk in humidor.
Half Price Books.

I got home and the air conditioning was off because of the nicer weather earlier in the week, but now the upstairs was a sweatbox. I flipped the switch on the thermostat and went out to sit on the porch with Jen while the house regained its sanity. She's worried because I'm worried and she's trying to get my head screwed back on straight. We chatted for a while, and I told her about the skirt and the heat, but forgot to mention the sales manager guy. I realized I was being a prick, and finally asked her about her day. We talked for a few more minutes while watching the birds at the feeders, and then she bribed me with an ice cream cone from DQ. I stopped making my list of places I'd rather be.

Bring Out Your Dead

I believe in ghosts as much as anyone who's never seen or experienced one can. I want them to be real, but I'm not at all certain that they are. I wish they were, though.

I've known lots of people who say they've had experiences, but I normally chalk it up to bullshit. Still, every once in awhile, I'll have a conversation with someone that I've already come to like and trust, and they'll tell me about an experience they've had. I still can't say I believe the stories, but I do believe that they believe them.

I was talking to a friend about this earlier today and it got me thinking about this haunted tour of New Orleans that I went on. It was a walking tour of the city that set out shortly before dark. Our guide was a medium and worked for a company who was contracted to come out and investigate hauntings. She told us stories about working on the shoot for Oliver Stone's JFK and how they had trouble keeping night security staff because they were tormented by a presence.

We walked around the city, and even spent some time in a haunted hotel room and then a lobby that used to be a holding area for incoming slaves. At one point in this former slave holding tank, she asked us to focus, hold our hands out in front of us, and see if we felt anything. I walked around, trying as hard as I could. What I did feel was the heavy atmosphere of the history of that room, but I had no flashes of the past. My arms tingled with lack of blood flow, and when she saw me wiggling my hands she spoke to me and said that she could tell I felt something. I didn't correct her.

For me, it almost doesn't matter if they're real or not though. It's the stories that come with them that's fascinating. It's the horror of life, the sudden unfairness of death, and a soul refusing to accept the natural order of things that draw me in. Like any tale, a hint of truth will enhance it, but it doesn't make or break it for me.

I've been accused of not believing in ghosts because I'm an atheist, and having to accept the existence of ghosts means I would have to redefine my beliefs in other spiritual matters. Again, I call bullshit on that. First, I've never been afraid of my many glaring contradictions, and can't imagine this would be any different. I would have no trouble hanging out with the Ghost of Christmas Past and still saying I don't believe in God. Second, I don't mind being proven wrong from time to time. You show me the face of God, and I'll be the first one to let you know I was fucking up.

Ghost stories are my favorite though. Other supernatural tales are fine. I like zombies, vampires, and werewolves, but when it comes to spookiness and stories that make me look over my shoulder as I'm reading, it's all about the ghosts.

So, if you know where I can find one, holla at your boy. Jen and I are ready for a road trip. But, if we drive all the way out to the middle of nowhere for nothing, you're buying us beer.

Sleepy

So, I'm sitting here wondering to myself about when a new friend can become an old friend when I don't really have many friends at all so I don't want to transition the ones I have too soon lest I tip the scales too far in one direction and be caught without a new friend and just a bunch of tired old ones that I'm a little bit sick of.

I'm going to be then.

Night.

Hi-5, More Dead Than Alive!

For many years my brother has asked me to go white water rafting with him. It's something that a handful of people in my family have done regularly, but for whatever reason I decided long ago it's just not my thing. So, every year my brother would go with a group of friends or family members and come home telling stories of how amazing it was.

"Seriously, bro. You should just come. You don't even have to raft if you don't want to. Just hang out around the camp with us, have some drinks and some laughs. It'd just be good to have you there."

I felt bad. I knew this was something that he loved doing and I hadn't at least given it a shot, so when he asked if I would be interested a few months ago I said "yes" almost immediately. I called The Rivermen and paid for my trip the day my brother called and told me the trip had been booked.

I knew I would have a good time. That wasn't really the question. I thought I would go hang out, have some laughs, and then survive the raft trip. I expected it to be something that I was glad I had done, but glad it was over. I thought the whole time I was out there I would be thinking about how I just wanted it done so I could say I did it. So, I was surprised when I really loved it.

This is us, skimming past Pillow Rock. I'm the guy in the blue helmet. Clicky-clicky makes biggy-biggy.

Being a hermit, it's strange for me to find myself in a mix of people that I might not normally hang with. When I find myself in that situation, I always say that I'm going to keep my mouth shut and just have a good time, but that never lasts for long. Sooner or later, I'm making fun of pretty much everything, and it's usually funny to everyone except the person who's getting picked on. Not, that I don't take my beatings too, I just seem unable to shut up sometimes. Oh well, so be it. I went rafting with my brother and some other really good company, and it was all a good thing. It was important for me to be there.

You know, for years I have drug my poor Van Halen loving brother to concerts that he had no interest in seeing, simply because I am a hermit and don't know anyone else to go with. Over the years he has been forced to see The Afghan Whigs, Radiohead, Silversun Pickups, Wolfmother, and Ben Folds. While he's usually a good sport, these are all bands that he couldn't care less about. There was one exception though.

I had tickets to see Ben Folds at The Newport Music Hall. I was excited, Paul was tolerant. We showed up early and the opening band hit the stage. It was a group I hadn't heard of at the time named Train. They were really good. I hadn't heard any of their stuff before, though some people in the audience were singing along. They were all jangly guitar pop, and sounded clean, so Paul was instantly hooked. We kept looking at each other saying "These guys are great" with smiles and appreciative nods in the loud club.

We were packed in on the floor with hundreds of geeky young men and sensitive looking art students, standing out like a sore thumb. The whole night I had been noticing that I no longer fit in with the usual concert goers and was slowly becoming the older guy that happened to like some cool music. Not exactly what I was aspiring to be.

Train ended their set, and my brother turned to me with his hand in the air and said "Those guys were awesome!"

Normally, I'm not a high-five kind of guy. It's never been my thing. Standing in that club, feeling like a geeky old guy, high-fiving was even less an option for me. I left my brother hanging.

As his hand came down, I grabbed it awkwardly and have him the man-hug mix of clenched hands and a pat on the back, but the damage had already been done. He had been left standing in the middle of a floor full of kids with dyed red hair with his lonely hand in the air.

I try not to lie to my brother ever. I've never done anything bad to him intentionally, though my own selfishness has hurt him over the years. So while it's a little thing, it's still something I think about from time to time, and I thought about it this weekend while we were out.

After the raft trip, we load back onto a bus with our gear and a can of beer and start riding back to camp. The bus was loud with mostly young men recounting their trips down the river as they downed cans of cheap lite beer. It would have been the perfect opportunity for a high-five, but there were none. Maybe this is because they have really lost their place in society outside of sports. Maybe because it's just fucking difficult to look cool when in the act of a high-five. But I wondered if my brother was holding back because of that night at the Ben Folds show.

Maybe he was sitting there in his bus seat, forcing himself not to stand up and start high-fiving everyone within arms reach. Maybe he actually stood, and then looked over to where I sat and then remembered I was there before retaking his seat. OK, probably not. He probably doesn't remember a thing about that. He probably doesn't know that I killed the high-five that once dwelt within his heart.

So, after arriving back in his house I gave him a hug and thanked him for everything. If it hadn't been for him, I never would have been in that beautiful place doing such an amazing thing. I wouldn't have had the chance to get to know some of his friends better. I made a point of making sure he knew how amazing it all was for me, and I'm going to make sure I remind him of it all again soon. And if we're sitting around the fire pit at his house or out somewhere at a restaurant or bar recounting the weekend, and he wants to high-five, I'll be right there with him, the sound of our slapping hands cracking through the night.

You're goddamn right I will.

A Veritable Potpourri of Whatnots

Every morning when I drive to work, and then each evening when I drive home, I look for deer along the edges of yards and in the fields along the highway. While I often see them, I don't know why I spend so much time looking for them in the first place.

---

Most days I will chew an entire pack of Orbit gum at work. It first started because the diet I'm on gives you funny smelling breath. They say it has something to do with being in ketosis. Well, it started with that, but now it's an obsession. Unless I am having the one cup of coffee I allow myself in the morning, I am chewing gum while at work. Rarely do I chew gum at home though.

---

The other day I got home from work and was talking to Jen. I turned to go to upstairs and she called me back. She had noticed that the back of the jeans I was wearing had ripped from the top of the pocket down to the top of my thigh. I had worn the jeans all day at work, but have no idea when or how they ripped. It's possible I spent the entire day at work with my butt hanging out, although everyone denies having noticed. Fortunately, I was rockin' some super swanky boxers.

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I like being outside on Wednesday's at noon when the city does the Tornado Siren testing each week. I didn't realize that until today, but every time I'm out and about at that time and I hear the whine in the air I like it. Although,I liked the sirens considerably less last year when they went off for real and Jen and I had to hang out in our downstairs bathroom waiting for the funnel clouds to pass.

---

I preordered Wii Fit today. I'm going to get the new Mario Kart soon too. Bask in my geekiness! I SAID BASK!

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I love tattoos. Well, some tattoos. I've always wanted some ink done, but never had anything in mind that I loved enough to get on my own skin. I see other people's tatts and think that they look cool, but they're never anything I would want on my own skin. A long time ago I read East of Eden and fell in love with the book. It's still my favorite book of all time. In the book, they discuss the word "timshel" which in Hebrew translates to "Thou Mayest". Biblically it refers to free will. The reference is to the passage that says "Thou mayest rule over sin". I love affirmation of free will. You may rule over sin. You may choose not to. You may choose to romp and roll in it. For me, not being a born again (the first time was enough, thanks) gentleman, I just like the idea it conveys about personal choice, and the responsibility that comes with it.

I decided years ago that if I got work done, it would be the original Hebrew characters on one inner arm, and then "timshel" inside the other arm. I always said that I would wait until I dropped some pounds first though. 100 of them to be exact. Well, here I am, realistically within three weeks of hitting that goal and still not sure if I want to do it. I really love tattoos, but again, I really love other people's tattoos. We'll see.