Light of Day
I love you all. I can't respond to you all. Not right now. But your thoughts and prayers and advice reduced me to a quivering mass of humanity this morning. In a good way. I've felt so starved for affection lately. My wife flinches when I move to touch her. And, well, let's say I feel wrapped up in a big fucking hug right now.
Please don't feel sorry for me. I'd hate that. Just because I'm throwing everything into this online pot, doesn't mean I'm mining for pity. I NEED this. And it's gonna be unexpurgated, because that's just how I roll.
I just got done reading Vonnegut's "Man Without a Country," the prevailing theme of which is that we have fucked up our planet so royally that our grandchildren will be lucky to see it survive. And faced with dire circumstances, all we have is humor. Kurt says he's not funny any more, has been beaten down by pessimism as he reaches the end of his life. I can relate. But I'm still funny. I NEED that, too.
Some of you know what I do for a living. At it's most basic, I find information. I told Pauly yesterday that I could track down Robbie Rist in 20 minutes if he gave the word. I wasn't joking. If Robbie's taken a dump in an LA public bathroom in the last decade, I'll know about it.
Yet, for all my powers, I never tried to find this Michael. It wouldn't have been hard. Quick check of the wife's cell phone records, reverse directory search and boom. But I had--have--no interest in confronting him, no desire to know anything about him.
Which is why it's funny that I just accidentally happened upon ALL his info. Apparently, the wife doesn't clear her internet trollings. I got halfway through typing in my Yahoo! profile address when two others popped up in the dropdown menu. My wife's and Michael's. He's a poet. For some reason, that makes me want to smash things. People who dress in all black and wear berets have always tilted me. But the best he can manage on his profile page is, "Life is a gift, so wrap yourself well." Which is hackneyed shit.
And it doesn't even rhyme.