lettersat3am Left one of the more interesting comments on my is it me or is it ADD post:

There is also the question of whether “functioning” is the so important. Yes, it can cause a lot of suffering if one is unable to, but that suffering teaches you something, in a zen sort of way. Wendell Berry says “productivity is a form of slavery,” as do Thomas Sazs, I think, and John Breeding. They have a point. There is a certain freedom in being unable to function, in being unable to do things the way the world says you’re “supposed” to do them. We don’t always need to be like everyone else. We don’t always need to succeed. In fact, failure teaches us we’re not in control. It teaches us to let go of our egos

An interesting point of view, but not really mine. I have more of a Nietzschean will to power. I guess. Plus a kid going to college and a yearning for sports cars and travel.

But maybe it could work. I could quit my job and move into a trailor. I’d burn incense and play the Tantric Choir all day, make an artform of the staring into space that I do on a regular basis anyway. Hell maybe that’s what I’m really good at, staring into space. I’d probably look great with a shaved head. And orange goes well with my hazel eyes. I like flowers so the flower petal thing might be cool. But I really hate lawn maintanence so I’d probably suck at keeping the sand raked in the rock garden. And then someone would drive by in a Honda S2000 and I’d start thinking of boosting the beggars bowls. And the college thing. Who’s gonna tell L that she’s not going to Iowa State next year, but that she better start saving so she can afford community college. Shit I’ve been sacrificing for those ungrateful little tarts for long enough, it’s payback time.

When I got my cable modem, I cancelled all but the very basic cable for the TV. They sent out the cable guy, who showed up in a rusted out van with the Comcast logo on the side and a thick Russian accent. He went down the basement and took the box from my TV down there and said, “Thank you all done. Sign here.”
To which I replied, “Don’t you have to disconnect something out on the pole?”
“No, just collect box.”
“OK.”

So I’ve been enjoying free cable for about three years. If they show up at my door looking for money or cut me off, I know it’s you that ratted me out, rache, so don’t even think about it. Problem is, there’s several channels I don’t get and CBS doesn’t come in worth shit. But I dasn’t complain, ’cause they’ll figure out I’ve been freeloading. So tonight I had to sit at a bar drinking O’Doul’s so I could watch the Wolves get beat by the Kings.

The window of my office overlooks a pond. Lately a pair of terns have been fishing out there. I think I’m going to stuff some minnows with hashish and put them in the pond. Thus leaving no tern unstoned.

Thanks so much to everyone who added their thoughtful comments. It really helped form the debate in my head. I probably will go on some meds, but I’m going to keep a sharp eye out for any degredation of the Bob in Bob.

Rache mentioned that her workspaces are studies in chaos. That would be a study in understatement for me. In the late eighties I had a studio downtown. It was a building that used to be used by printers, so there were large open press rooms that were ideal for photography studios. So the building was an enclave of creatives. Small agencies and design shops, one person operations and even a printer or two were left. I had a great little space, long and narrow, with a parquet floor and a built in work surface along one side. I was on the sixth floor and had a great view of the east side of downtown. I could see the Metrodome a few blocks away. I even had a sink so I could clean my brushes. It was ideal. What a mess I made of it. Every surface was piled high with papers and supplies and illustration board. Tools would disappear as if into a black hole. It was what my home would look like if I’d stayed single. A scary thought.

The ad business was going into the shitter at that time and it was really tough on marginal operators like me. I used to spend much of my days sitting around with other photographers and artists who weren’t busy and moaning about the situation. One day I found a couch that someone had left out for the garbage collectors. I got my brother-in-law to use his truck to help me get it up to studio. Big mistake. I ended up sleeping most of that last year I was in business for myself.

OK, here’s some food for thought. So I have ADD. My brain waves are different, my frontal lobe is a little on the lazy side. Now I know that there are levels of this condition. I’m certainly squirrelly enough to cause myself and other people problems, but in the squirming puppy catagory, I can’t hold a candle to some of the kids I’ve known over the years. I once coached a girl who was really out there, I’d be explaining some facet of the game and she’d just wander right out of the gym while I was talking. In games she was very athletic but if she got the ball in her hands it was an instant turnover. Definitely a problem, this kids going to have a tough time in life without some help.

So given that I’m somewhere on this personality spectrum, having a certain degree of this particular kind of brain activity, who says that it’s not just my personality? Who says that the harmony of our brain waves isn’t the defining factor of what makes us us. What makes it a “disorder?” What I’m driving at here is that maybe my personality doesn’t make me a great candidate for the standard mainstream version of success, I’m a lousy corporate stooge, but does that mean I should medicate myself into their mold?

This argument takes us down the path to the question whether schizophrenics should be forced to medicate because they’re different from the mainstream, even if they are a danger to themselves and others. I would say yes. So I guess the conclusion is that there is no hard and fast, but a decision that requires the application of some situational calculus. In my case, I have severe problems with parts of my job and the golden handcuffs are completely clamped down right now. So some meds to make my life more comfortable would be nice.

Although I’m feeling a little conflicted about it, I’m leaning toward the medication. I’d like to hear your thoughts on the issue though, whatever they are. I’ve noticed in this little circle of Xanga, we kid around with each other, but there isn’t much in the way of mental fisticuffs. I guess we’re pretty like minded, but I won’t be offended, or love you any less if you point out the extent of bovine excrement spattered on my thought process.

They’re wearing different attire to the prom from when I was a kid. Last night was L’s first of two proms. This one was at a Catholic high school in the area, she went with a kid from the nieghborhood who she sometimes teams up with in mixed doubles. They’ve been sweet on each other since about fourth grade. Since this is a private school there’s some money floating around. The car they rode in was the new BMW 7 series. The big one. Lot’s of similar cars in the parking lot, like a couple of Porsche Cayennes. Hmmm, now there’s a concept, a Porshe SUV. That’s one of the beauties of living in a middle class suburb bordering on an affluent upper mid burb. Your kids get to feel underpriviledged even though they’re more affluent than 99 percent of the world. When they complain about how small our house is, I tell them that if everyone in China had a house like ours there wouldn’t be any trees left in the world. They’ve been pretty good about that lately, it helps that we pack them off to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation every summer to do mission work.

I’ll get in trouble for the picture, but I couldn’t resist. They all looked so beautiful. Young men and women or boys and girls, right on the cusp between adolescence and adulthood. So full of promise. As I sat watching the “Grand March” a dreadful thought crossed my mind. How many of these children would be lost in Iraq. How many killed and how many maimed. How bad will it get before we extricate ourselves. Will there be a draft again? If there is, you know they’ll have to take women too. Won’t they. I once heard that for combat infantry they pick the not so smart ones and the really smart ones. L PMSing with an M-16 in her hands is kind of a scary thought.

Nineteen years ago this morning I was standing unsteadily in the shower, head pounding, stomach churning, experiencing dry heaves and feeling as bad as I’ve ever felt in my life. These kinds of hangovers were getting more and more frequent. I decided, that was it, never again. I called the clinic and made an appointment and went into outpatient treatment. Went to meetings for a few years (I found my 6 year madallion in a drawer last week) but soon drifted away from that. I’ve really not had much of an urge since then.

Last night at the prom festivities (which I just hate by the way) I saw plenty of what Tom Wolf called “Social X-Rays” in Bonfire of the Vanities those tight skined overworked out expensively clothed trophy wives going to seed that are usually behind the wheels of the BMW’s an Escalades.
I just wanted to stress that inspite of my bragging about my wife’s youthfullness and beauty, she is by no means one of those.
It dawns on me that yesterday was also the anniversary of first time I saw my wife. It was at a May Day party at the house in St. Paul that we called the Belvidere Museum, because it was on Belvedere Avenue and was absolutely crammed with kitch advertising paraphenalia, most of which was collected by two of the residents who drove a bar mix delivery route. I was sitting in the living room preparing the herbal party favors for the evening when a group of women came through the door. One of which was the girlfriend of one of my pals. She’d brought some of her coworkers with her. I noticed Beck immediately. It was love at first sight. Who was that tiny beauty with the huge, brilliant blue eyes?
One thing I didn’t mention when I was describing Rebecca in yesterday’s post is that in spite of the fact that she’s five four and I was six one (I’ve shrunk some) her legs are as long as mine! Now, I will tell you that my pickup line was someting like “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.” Which was true, partially because she has beautiful eyes, but also because she was wearing tinted contacts that made them the color of the Aegean Sea. But Beck maintians that the line that I used was, “Look, our crotches just meet!”
I was probably loaded, so what do I remember?

My wife, at least since I’ve known her, has always looked young for her age. When we were married she was 23 and looked 14. She continued to get carded until her mid thirties. Once, while grocery shopping with Beck, I ran into the mother one of the girls I’d coached. We exchanged pleasantries and as I started to introduce her to Rebecca, she blurts out, “So, is this your oldest?” She’s been mistaken for my daughter in obvious fashion a couple of times like that. When we are out in public I’m convinced that half the people assume that I’m her father.
Part of the effect comes from her skin. She has the most amazingly soft skin I’ve ever had the pleasure to touch. There are really no wrinkles on her face and that’s not from surgical stretching or Botox. Although it’s broken by copious moles (sexy!) it is a velvet glove stretched over her petite but muscular frame. When she was younger, her body fat ratio was down in the numbers reserved for top athletes.
We have no scales in our house. We really don’t want our daughters to obsess about wieght. Haven’t had one for over a decade. I wiegh myself at the gym somestimes, but I never fluctuate more than a couple of pounds. I get flabby, but I don’t put on wieght, I just lose density.
When I tended bar, the waitresses were convinced that I would notice a five pound wieght swing. Like most of us, I like to look at peoples bodies. At that time I’d spent hours and hours drawing nude models, so I chalked this skill up to my understanding of the figure. Or was it hereditary, the same genetic combination that allowed my dad to judge cattle so precisely?
What I’m getting to here is that Rebecca lately has lost a significant amount of wieght. She hasn’t looked at a scale, but it’s obvious looking at her. She has not been on any specific diet, she walks and climbs the stairs at work, and works furiously in the garden. So there’s been no obsessive talk about Adkins or whatever the latest diet craze is, just that unstoppable force, Hard Ass Norwegian tough minded willpower. “I just started eating less.” The Norwegians are not loquacious by nature.
That’s the same Hard Ass Norwegian attitude that she brings to her job when she’s saving the client a hundred grand on a talent negotiation, and as Hard Assed as she is, all the vendors love her as well. Because she holds up her end of the bargain and is always fair. Just Hard Nosed.
Today is the nineteenth anniversary of my last drink. I am a very lucky man.