I'm Back, Baby

Some of you may remember the following dialogue from "Seinfeld" in October of 1996:

New scene.
Frank and Estelle are in their kitchen.

Estelle: Here's your omelet.

Frank: It's dry.

Estelle: That's the way I always make it.

Frank: Well it sucks.

Estelle: What did you say?

Frank: Your meatloaf is mushy, your salmon croquettes are oily and your
eggplant parmesan is a disgrace to this house!

Estelle: Well that's too bad, because I'm the only one who cooks around here!

Frank: Not any more! Gimme that spatula! I'm back, baby!


I have had the privilege of not having to work for the past month, and it has been nice. Stressful, at times (sense of impending doom), but nice. I kind of feel like Frank Costanza right now...not reborn really, but back to where I was when I liked myself more (oh don't worry, I still love myself).

I have begun reading a book that I purchased nearly 8 years ago. This book was never read due to the erratic nature of my life (work) since I acquired the book. It is called Death Be Not Proud ; it is a very sad book, but a good book nonetheless. I wish that I would have read it in high school, although it very well may not have had the same effect. It was analogous to one of those random lucky finds at the recently extinct, sprawling CD megastores: after browsing through the works of artists that I knew, I would search for anything that looked or sounded interesting, especially if I liked the cover of the album. Once in Chicago, I came across the slightly yellowed photograph of Marina City on the cover of "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot," and bought it for that reason (it is/was my favorite building). Almost as an afterthought, I enjoyed the music as well.

It has been quite some time since I consumed any significant quantity of alcohol (I had been mildly intoxicated nearly two months ago during the hunt for a "Louisiana" cougar). I looked at the Jose Cuervo Black Medallion bottle of tequila sitting on the kitchen counter in an almost nostalgic manner. I then picked it up and stroked it lovingly....(little rogue), after which over the course of maybe 90 minutes, I proceeded to knock back probably two thirds of the bottle. I was fucked like a *^%@#& (Denise Democratic) bicycle. Next, in a stroke of brilliance that can only be followed by the drowning of a majority of the brain's neurotransmitters by ethanol, I decided to (who would have guessed) call people on the phone. I always hate the day after drinking....I mean, it's like being abducted by aliens. It's 3-4 hours of my life that have been lost forever. Oh well, at least I don't remember much. Like the comedian Carrot Top once said, a note pad should be attached to the bottle of tequila so that one could write apologies on it before he was drunk.

Back (stick) to the story.....I read this (nonfiction) book, about a boy who is 17 that ends up dying of a brain tumor. Written in the 1940s, it is a surprisingly accurate depiction of the medical and surgical treatment of such an affliction. That aside, the kid is nearly impossibly likeable, and the story made me rather sad. It is good in that it makes one think and not take things for granted (which I try really, really hard to avoid). Most of all, this kid makes me feel selfish. I know that I am by no means an evil person, and I wish most people well in their endeavors most of the time. Be that as it may, the book makes me see that I have been concerned primarily with looking out for (me, me, me)myself during my 20s. When I was about this kid's age, perhaps, I looked at life in much the same way as he did. I believed in the good of humanity, and I nearly always put others before myself. I pretty much did an about face at the age of 22, however. I felt that society as a whole was greedy, and that they would take full advantage anything and anyone that they could. I felt that people would use me because I was willing to help them; consequently, I became more selfish and less helpful. After all, it was my time ("my way, mine, me"), and most people probably didn't really care about me anyway. Now I'm in my early thirties, and I am trying to reach a point intermediate of these two extremes, especially since I want to have a child (?children) at some point in the future. Just another illustration that nothing is free and that risks have to be taken for anything worth having.

Anyhow, as I thought about Frank Costanza overturning the table with all of the Jewish food on it, I figured hell....I'm back....at least for the time being.....I am fucking tired.

"I found you standing there
When I was seventeen
Now I'm thirty-two
And I can't remember what I'd seen in you
I made a promise
Said it everyday
Now I'm reading romance novels
And I'm dreaming of yesterday"

"Home"
Sheryl Crow