Sometimes the universe goads you to keep going. This was the case this morning when I woke up singing "All The Way From Memphis," one of those songs that—after you hear it the first time—makes you wonder how you ever lived without it.
My brain being a database of rock and roll relativity, the song made me think of Joe Elliott (a huge Mott The Hoople fan), which made me think about the Planet Rock radio show he hosts, which made me want to listen online to his most recent playlist.
This, and a pound of Peet's coffee, is what got me out of bed.
Alas, the UK-based Planet Rock radio player wouldn't load on my US-based Mac. I updated my Flash player to no avail. I tried and tried and tried until it became a quest.
But, in the end, I had to give up and load Sirius instead. Which led me to Tom Petty's Buried Treasure, a channel I'd never clicked on before. I like Tom Petty. I like him a lot, but had always assumed his catalog would be flooded with Byrds and Flying Burrito Brothers. And it was, but I heard a Neil Young song I'd never heard before ("The Loner") that, musically if not lyrically (or perhaps both) embodied the essence of my '70s childhood. And a Zombies song I'd never heard before ("This Will Be Our Year"). And a Hendrix song (whose title I've stupidly forgotten) that prompted Petty to say, "Wow. If you listened to that song with headphones every day, I'm not sure you'd be able to walk very well."
Did I say I liked Tom Petty? I love him.
Throw in the three seasons of Veronica Mars I've just begun watching on Amazon Prime (never saw the show before), the David Foster Wallace book I downloaded to my Kindle (never read him before), my new Adobe Creative Cloud subscription (I can't wait to learn Muse), and the fact that I'm getting my eyebrows reshaped and I'd say I'm turning a sucktacular week into one kickass glass of frontier spirit lemonade.
To keep my chi cranked up, I'm creating a collage of framed black and white photos for my hallway of people I aspire to be like, because they inspire me to be myself. Here are a few of them. Who would yours be?
To quote one of my all time favorite film characters, Bob Diamond, from Defending Your Life, I'd tell you where I've been but you wouldn't understand.
And then you'd say, "Try me."
And I'd say (to again quote Bob Diamond), "I was trapped in the inner circle of fault."
And then I'd make fun of your little brain.
So let's skip that awkward moment and just jump back in. Not much has changed. I moved to a new apartment about a week ago, and now I can walk to work. So I don't have panic attacks on the way to work. But now I have them everywhere else. When stuck in traffic in other people's cars. When lost in Olive Garden on my way back from the bathroom. And my favorite, when trying to explain to my therapist, the panic attack specialist, why I can't tell my boss I need to leave early once a week to see my panic attack therapist who refuses to see me outside of her 9–5 office hours.
The best part of that story is that when—during a text conversation with her—I told her I was really sorry my work schedule was inflexible and thanked her for all she'd done to that point, and that I hoped we could work out a schedule in the future, her professional psychiatric method of consoling me (the panic attack sufferer) was to completely blow me off. That's right. She never replied to my text and I never heard from her again.
I did see her from afar while celebrating the holidays with my mom at a local hotel. I don't know if she saw me. I didn't stick around to find out. I think my exact words to my mom were "Shit! My therapist!" and I dropped to the ground and crab-walked into the nearest gift shop.
That pretty much brings us up to date!
I'm only halfway unpacked in my new place, which may very well be my optimal way of life. I have what I need but I'm ready to take off. I signed an eight-month lease here and, without going into it because I don't want to ever talk about work in my blog (or its comments section) because God knows who might find it and read it, it looks like 2014 won't be the year I tour Europe signing hardcover copies of my imminent best-seller: "What Would Rob Halford Do?"
However, I am spending tonight with Rob Halford. After a crushing day that left my psyche shanked and splintered, I consoled myself by eating a really big sandwich, drinking a glass of chocolate almond milk, and watching my favorite two episodes of Metal:Evolution (NWOBHM and Thrash).
So, as I contemplate responsibility, mortality, and Alfonso Cuaron's herpes joke, I am—as Penny Lane instructed—visiting my friends from the record store (okay, so she said to visit them IN the record store, but there aren't any of those anymore, thank you bullshit millennial culture). It's nice to know that after 30 years, no one can cheer me up like those particular friends.
And that, after 30 years, my beloved Sheffield boys can still make the mean reds fade away, back into the inner circle of fault.
