At this point, I could walk into any community theater group's auditions for a production of The Addams Family musical and have everyone in the room immediately shout out in unison: "We found our Uncle Fester!" But I wasn't always so - I was skinny, until I became muscular, until I became heavy. This is the 1 percent of the reason it happened.
So there were the surgeries - the big one on the left knee and bunion on the left foot that slowed me down. Before that, I was about 180 lbs. As part of the recuperation, I threw myself into yoga and squash, and went up to 194 lbs. - all muscle. My waist stayed at 34 inches. Then came the next knee injury, which slowed me down. Then the right foot bunion surgery. Then the tendonitis in the wrists, elbows, and shoulders from carrying the baby after all the typing. Then the constant discomfort. Then the end of sex as I knew it.
Of my great sensual pleasures, yoga was gone, sex was unreliable, the wandering and exploration of the city was replaced by homebodiness, and what do you know, all was left was the food and drink. I always had an appetite, but the consumption was counterbalanced by the exercise and the impulse to sit around and gorge myself nightly was thwarted by place to go and people to see. As for constructive outlets for my energies and appetites, sorry, that's not how I roll.
The last physical thing I do that doesn't hurt (and yes, it hurts sitting and watching television) is eating and drinking. The thinking of what to cook is the fantasy and anticipation. The shopping for ingredients is the buying flowers and planning the date. The chopping and cooking is the foreplay, the cocktail or first glasses of wine starts the sloughing off of ordinary consciousness that will culminate in surrender to sensual pleasure. Then the meal, the controlled meting out of the deliciousness, tucking in and being immersed in the flavors and filling up, sipping wine and feeling the warm intoxication. Then the satisfaction of being spent, light-headed, and knowing I did good.
So I got heavy. Hey, I used to be really good at yoga and quite the cosmopolite and fun in the sack. Now I'm good at the food, which basically should keep me until I die of the effects of the overeating, a recurrence of the cancer, or not noticing the cab speeding toward me as I check out a woman's bum.
Carriage
Friday, February 17, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Today's missive from the spirit world
To make a long story short, last year a dying musician sat for a bunch of interviews with me, telling me his (fascinating) story for an article I proposed to write. For reasons of my own - tangential to the slygrogging, although at this point the slygrogging may be central to each of my shortcomings - I didn't follow through. He died.
I went to his memorial service this fall. The most moving tribute was from his oldest friend, who shared with the mourners the song he sang to the musician on his deathbed. Playing the autoharp, the friend sang I song I hadn't heard in maybe 25 years or more, Randy Van Warmer's late-70s dreck rock classic "Just When I Needed You Most" (here lip-synched with strange dancing).
His rendition, so pure, so loving, broke all our hearts and, given that this was a guy I intended to speak to, but hadn't and in my laziness maybe never would, filled me with guilt.
Skip ahead a few days, I'm eating breakfast in my local diner, when "Just When I Needed You Most" suddenly comes. Now not only am I guilty, I'm convinced the musician is communicating from the grave. Not only that, everyone I tell about the coincidence agrees, because they know I believe and it gives them pleasure to see me not only as tormented on Earth, but in all possible modes of being.
Skip ahead to today, to the supermarket where I'm shopping after a long drive. Next to the canned tomatoes, the daily guilt over still not having done anything about the story burbles to the surface and I think of the musician and of the song. At that very second, the song begins.
Let me say this succinctly and without hemming, hawing, or qualification - I believe that a dead person is sending me messages from the Great Beyond. Understand that in saying this I am asserting as true several propositions that many will find dubious, among them - that there is a Great Beyond,
that the dead can breach the border and communicate with the living, that a dead person is either angry with me for abusing his trust while he lived or through my laziness I am tormenting the soul of someone recently departed. I believe all of this to be somehow true, not just possible. Why I didn't instantly fall to the linoleum of the Big Y in Pittsfield, MA, shamed by my uselessness and awed by the majesty and mystery of the universe that had been revealed to me, I can not tell you. I should have been rolling on the ground and speaking in tongues, but instead I kept going, wondering where they kept the fresh-baked onion rolls.
In the past, I would have tried to come up with an answer. Now, I leave it at this - I don't have an answer.
I went to his memorial service this fall. The most moving tribute was from his oldest friend, who shared with the mourners the song he sang to the musician on his deathbed. Playing the autoharp, the friend sang I song I hadn't heard in maybe 25 years or more, Randy Van Warmer's late-70s dreck rock classic "Just When I Needed You Most" (here lip-synched with strange dancing).
His rendition, so pure, so loving, broke all our hearts and, given that this was a guy I intended to speak to, but hadn't and in my laziness maybe never would, filled me with guilt.
Skip ahead a few days, I'm eating breakfast in my local diner, when "Just When I Needed You Most" suddenly comes. Now not only am I guilty, I'm convinced the musician is communicating from the grave. Not only that, everyone I tell about the coincidence agrees, because they know I believe and it gives them pleasure to see me not only as tormented on Earth, but in all possible modes of being.
Skip ahead to today, to the supermarket where I'm shopping after a long drive. Next to the canned tomatoes, the daily guilt over still not having done anything about the story burbles to the surface and I think of the musician and of the song. At that very second, the song begins.
Let me say this succinctly and without hemming, hawing, or qualification - I believe that a dead person is sending me messages from the Great Beyond. Understand that in saying this I am asserting as true several propositions that many will find dubious, among them - that there is a Great Beyond,
that the dead can breach the border and communicate with the living, that a dead person is either angry with me for abusing his trust while he lived or through my laziness I am tormenting the soul of someone recently departed. I believe all of this to be somehow true, not just possible. Why I didn't instantly fall to the linoleum of the Big Y in Pittsfield, MA, shamed by my uselessness and awed by the majesty and mystery of the universe that had been revealed to me, I can not tell you. I should have been rolling on the ground and speaking in tongues, but instead I kept going, wondering where they kept the fresh-baked onion rolls.
In the past, I would have tried to come up with an answer. Now, I leave it at this - I don't have an answer.
Slygrog talley, midday 2/1 update
Three 21st Amendment Brewery Back in Black IPAs, succumbed to with a delicious tuna fish salad lunch after a long morning's drive home from NYC. Followed by a nap on the couch that had my name on it from the minute I woke up this morning. I would have fallen asleep anyway - the beer made the nap more definitive, is all.
Some say each IPA should really count as two beers, given the high (in this case 6.8%) alcohol content. I say, that way lays sophistry.
One is one.
Some say each IPA should really count as two beers, given the high (in this case 6.8%) alcohol content. I say, that way lays sophistry.
One is one.
Why I grog
I know no sensation so perfect as when, in the right environment, I drink just the right amount to look around and see how wonderful everything is right now. It is an ephemeral feeling and alas too much time and soul is wasted trying to sustain or recapture that sensation. But the feeling is real and it is perfect and it makes me happy and I drink and drink and drink.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)