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.

The Snowbirds Return

For Sandking

The spark of intelligence was obvious from a young age.

WORD

The hippo posted on April 23rd drew some encouragement to do more of the same. Some folks even suggested that they would buy an alphabet book. So, hell, with advanced sales of maybe three, I’m sure I can get a publisher right away. Rache thinks that I should use adult subject matter (no, not porn).
So here’s the deal. I need a word to illustrate. More specifically an “A” word. And “ass” is just too easy, so forget about “ass”. I’ll pick a word to draw and go from there. My choice will be completely arbitrary, the criteria used will be whatever I feel like at the moment, probably based on my inate ability to find the path of least resistance and whatever looks easiest to pull off. Thanks in advance for your participation.

As you can probably tell, I stumbled on a shoebox full of old photos in my basement.

That’s Rick Kane and me at one of the cabins my parents rented during the summers. This one was on one of the Crow Wing chain of lakes. We did crazy things in boats. And caught lots of fish. Rick and I were great pals through junior high when for some reason we drifted apart. I think I might have thought I was too cool for him, since he was a real straight arrow.
All Rick ever wanted to do in life was be an airline pilot. He ended up going to the Air Force Acadamy and getting a gig flying cargo planes. He was back in Colorado Springs with his wife and another couple for homecoming, flying a private plane. Cyd Mataala, my other pal who went to the Acadamy was at the airport when they took off to go home. Cyd watched as they flew into a mountainside and were all killed.
Cyd had been a hundred and forty pound all-state football player in high school. At the acadamy they redesigned their defense around him as a monster back. I’ve never seen anyone with such a nose for the ball. And pound for pound he was the hardest hitter I’ve ever seen. Utterly mild mannered when not on the football field, the nicest guy ever. He became an architect after his Air Force service, that’s what he always wanted to be. He found out early that he had the same congenital heart problem that killed his father at a young age. It got him a couple of years ago.
I suppose at my age I better get used to my pals dying. Better than the alternative though.

How many ADD artists does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Let’s go ride bikes.

My brother-in-law just moved back to town from Phoenix. He’s a Harley guy. He lives an amazingly minimalist lifestyle. He owns almost nothing. A few pieces of furniture, his truck, a bicycle and the requisite Harley Davidson. He’s almost fifty and except for the graying hair, looks like he’s thirty. No fifty year old should have such a flat stomach. I get along with him although we don’t have much in common. Other than being excentric. He’s a hermit and I guess you’d call him a redneck. Prefers to work night shifts, doesn’t show up for family functions, never really has a whole lot to say. But he’s a hard worker, honest and will help you out when you need him.
So we bought some new deck furniture, found a deal at the megastore’s outlet shop. We called him to help us bring it home with his truck. Got the job done and invited him to stay for dinner. I was kind of surprised that he accepted the offer, he usually begs off. So I went to the grocery store to get the fixin’s for my caper and sausage spaghetti. Everything went fine, a pleasant evening. I was thinking that in spite of the differences I’ve had with Beck’s family (right wing Christians for the most part) that the were all right and that they were a divers and interesting lot. She’s got seven siblings, so I guess no one could deny that last statement.
So here’s the problem. Last night Beck told me that while I was gone her brother was dropping the “n” word, talking about his coworkers in his new job. That and ridiculing our neighbors who have a sign promoting the repeal of Minnesota’s new conceal and carry law. I’d fogotten about that side of his personality. How red his neck really is. So just as I felt like I was growing fond of him, my level of esteem for him plummets like a rock.
I wonder what I would have done if he would have said those things in my presence. Would I have done the right thing, told him that that he was welcome to express his ideas about guns, but racism isn’t acceptable in my house. Would he have said anything in front of me? I’ve made my position known a long time ago. Before we were married we were at a family dinner when the gay bashing started. One of her sisters stated that homosexuality is a sin. I made an impassioned, but not very good argument that ended up making my future MIL cry in public. I’ve kind of lain low with my opinions ever since. I’m outgunned, that family has arguing down to a fine art.
I need to prepare myself. I need to be ready to calmly state to him that racist language isn’t acceptable around me. I have to realize I won’t change him and I can’t shut him out because he’s family. But I’m so disappointed. I thought he’d grown up a little. I’m sad.

Last weekend I went grocery shopping with L. She and I usually do the grocery shopping together. We can get it done in about half the time it takes if Beck goes along. She tends to spend a lot of time looking at every item on the shelf, I guess she’s curious about grocery products. Actually Lucia does most of the work, I pretty much just push the cart. I also spend some time looking for inspiration and I get the meat and produce needed for meals I have planned in the near future. But she’s the one that shops the aisles. She’s really quick at doing math in her head to figure out the best deal. There’s no doubt that she’s the most organized and efficient person in the family. Whose going to do the grocery shopping when she goes off to school? Who’s going to run the household?

I’m not so sure it’s a great idea to publish my adventures in therapy here. But since I already told y’all that I was going in for an ADD eval, I guess I owe you some words on the results. Before I made my appointment I spoke to a Psychiatrist on the phone who told me that they would probably do an MMPI before they did anything. The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory is a 400 some question true or false test that’s supposed diagnose a wide spectrum of personality disorders. I’ve taken it twice before, with mixed results. She then added that some people are so obviously ADD that they skip the test and refer you immediately to a psychiatrist. After talking to the psychologist for an hour he told me that there would be no need for the MMPI. He told me not to expect too much, that some people respond to the drug immediately, like a huge revelation, others get some benefit, not so dramatic and still others get no effect. He said that it was an experiment, I’d take some meds and if they worked, great. If not, go from there.

One interestig thing I found out was that they give Ritalin to fighter pilots. Actually, my tennis buddy who’s a shrink told me that, but I thought it was just to keep them hyped. What I found out yesterday is that it’s very common for fighter pilots to have ADD. The profession attracts adrenalin junkies and risk takers, which ADD people gravitate to, because the adrenalin gets there frontal lobes stimulated and they can focus and perform well under pressure. Competition stimulates the adrenal glands as well, that must be why I love hoops and tennis so much. I asked if the drugs would stifle my creativity. He assured me that they wouldn’t.

Sorry that I’ve not been keeping with my reading and commenting lately, I’ve been pretty busy. It’s not that I don’t love y’all. (I’m thinking that with a little effort, I could have made that sentence into a triple negative)

Peace.

I could be found in that position almost every evening, usually with the TV on, from the time I was about five until I went away to college. My dad started bringing pencils and typing paper tablets home from the office so that I wouldn’t draw in the margins of books. I still have some of my very first drawings in an old book. They were of airplanes, dropping bombs.
You see what I was doing was illustrating the constant stories I told myself in my head. Sometimes I narrated the stories out loud. I was really good at sound effects. That’s how I entertained myself, that’s what you do when your brother and sister are already grown up and married. And you suck at sports. And you’re the wierd kid who says stuff in class that everyone makes fun of. Like in third or fourth grade when you proclaim that you’re writing a novel based on the life of Henry Sibley, Minnesota’s first governor. Or announce that you want to be an ornitholigist when you grow up. Or you pee in your pants in class or the girls beat you up on the way home from school because you’re always trying to kiss them. God I was a wierd kid.

Yesterday as I was leaving the Mountain’s house after retrieving my keys (thank god I left them there and not at the bar) I saw a pair of hawks surfing thermals in what must have been some fantastic arial foreplay. When I first saw them they were coming toward me single file in a high speed glide about a hundred yards apart. They found a thermal and started spiraling up on it now only a few feet separating them. Occasionally they would wheel and take swipes at each other and tumble through the air in a face to face stall, then with a single wing beat grab the updraft and resume the gracefull spiral. The third time they broke their glide to play, they went into a dive and picked up another updraft about a quarter of a mile away and started all over again. It looked to me like they were having a great time. It had to be foreplay.

I just finished the Franklin biography. Listening to it that is. If you’re bothered by doubts about the value of your contribution to society avoid this. Ben ran away at seventeen, made his fortune as a printer and publisher, retired at forty one to dabble in the sciences and went on to play a pivotal role in our independence and the forming of the republic. He invented the lightning rod and bifocals as well as a myriad other inventions, none of whch he patented, because he felt it was his duty to improve society. He pretty much created the US Postal Service as well. I was kind of disappointed to learn that all that stuff about his sexual exploits isn’t true. Or at least there was no hard evidence of it.

You may remember me lamenting not having my camera when we saw the turfmobile. Well:

The old farts went rockin’ and rollin’ last night. Yup, we went out for dinner with two other couples and hit a local bar where Mick Sterling and the Stud Brothers were playing. A great R&B outfit with horns and a terrific rythem section. Mick sounds like the guy from Blood Sweat and Tears. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten out on the dance floor, but I can still do a mean funky chicken. They were way too loud though….now Beck and I are going to be evern more deaf. Eh? What’s that?

Somewhere in the course of the night I lost my car keys. Fortunately Beck had hers. Last week I locked the keys in the car. I left my jacket at tennis on Thursday, with my camera in the pocket. Tomorrow I go in for an ADD evaluation. How do you think I’ll do?