Who the bloody fuck am I? At 50-years-old, I find myself with no real idea what the answer to that question is. I don’t know if I’ve ever known. I’m not sure I care. I’m not sure it matters. I’m not even sure that it matters that I’m not sure that it matters…(And down the rabbit hole we go.) There are selves that exist in other people’s eyes. There are selves that exist in other people’s hearts. There are selves that only exist in the unique electrical impulses in your own crusty noggin. There are selves that have always existed and never existed. All these things make “self” feel like an ephemeral thing to me.
I am some things though. Maybe the sum of them make up some of me. (Full disclosure, I’m actually finding this difficult for so many reasons. I’m afraid some people that I love are going to take some of this personally. This is in no way being aimed at anyone here but myself. This is me trying to show you more of myself rather than it being a way to blame anyone for why I’m me. Despite not knowing who I am…and we’re back here and now I’m cross-eyed.)
Even asking someone that I KNOW loves me to do something as simple as getting a cup of coffee for reasons as varied as I’m lonely, thirsty, bored, upset, thrilled, (You get it, yet?), takes an enormous amount of effort for me for even more reasons than why I'd want the coffee. Every. Single. Time.
I cry almost every single time I hear the song “Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd for reasons I have yet to discover. To be fair, as I'm getting older, I find I'm a weeper. I'm not even mad about it.
I legitimately thought the Mets lost that first game of the doubleheader because I turned the game on at work and was nearly in tears. Yeah, I’m a Mets fan and in need of some therapy. Don’t judge me. Them pulling out that win took my head out of a fog it had been in for years(?). The success in spite of me (I’m getting there) was like the shock therapy I needed to get that toxic stupidity out of my system. It was like a bag of rocks I didn't know I was carrying. I’ve never been more grateful for sports in my life.
Reading The Power Broker opened my brain up much the same way The Mets shook off different cobwebs. When I saw that monster (of which I’m working on a review) in the library I was straight up intimidated. It was great and challenging and exactly what I needed to start this year. That’s all I’m saying for fear I’ll shoot my load and not write something more later.
If you don’t ask for help, I never will.
Rooting for you is one of my favorite things to do, so long as you are rooting for it too. I don’t know that I’ve always been this guy. I am today though. I find I’m at my happiest when people are succeeding. Doesn’t even always matter if I know them. I’ve never really a misery loves company guy. I am definitely a success loves company guy now. It’s weird to say something that positive and mean it.
I’m not really sure if I’m a writer. No exaggeration, I’m hyperventilating right now. This is me typing with tears because some of this is occurring to me as I’m writing it. From as long as I can remember being Michael, he’s been a writer. He wrote a poem in 1st grade called “Here I Am A Drunken Dog” about my dad. Mrs’ Goodman called my parents up. I can actually still hear myself thinking the words the first time. That was the first avenue available to me and I don’t know that I’ve ever really tried another. Could I be a “communicator”? I don’t know if I’m driven to write or just to share in any way I can.
I’ve made a woman laugh so hard she spontaneously got her period and I am SO proud of that. (I did not ask for proof. You people are sick.)
Back when there were 9 planets and $2 packs of cigarettes, illegal pot and afterhours joints up the wazoo, I was an editor and writer on a “zine”, I guess you'd call it, although we wouldn't have. We had the unmitigated gall to refer to it as “The Paper”. This institution was named The Presidential Journal and thinking backwards, we might've been a little ahead of our time. You’ll have to forgive all the fucks I'm throwing in this piece. I recently played around in that 25-year-old voice and the residue is still there.
I don’t know why this is the collection of things that come to mind. That’s probably a whole different world of rabbit-holing (Did I just coin a term?). I’m not at all certain what I was trying to accomplish here other than a little honesty and some soul-purging I guess. This feels like one of those things that I should spellcheck and not read. Otherwise it’ll wind up in a folder of “To Honest for Public Consumption” or “To Shitty for Public Consumption”.
Peace out from your former President. (I used to feel good about being one of those. Fuck, man!)