Mending a Broken Life

Let's see if I can get back on track now.  I'm still feeling like an idiot.  But developing some healthy habits might help.  Right action and all that.  "A healthy mind means a healthy body," so I'll work on both.  Continue to.  You know how it goes, though, two steps forward, then you drink a bunch of whiskey with a tab of Soma, and you are right back where you started.  Just remember to keep your fingers off the keyboard if you do that.  That right there shows you're trying to create good habits.  

I read about a British study today that shows that people who don't exercise, people who like to rest and chill around the house and who don't stress about their diets have a 50% less chance of dying from most terminal illnesses.  

No I didn't.  Why?  Why can't that be true?  Rather, we need to worry about getting enough of the right kind of exercises in each day while restricting our diets to plants and a smidgen of fish and poultry.  I've exercised hard my entire life. . . but I should have been doing planks and wall squats.  That's what they say.  And now that my knee is shot, I need to sprint hard for a minute.  WTF?  

I'm sick of science.  I'm going to start living life according to "Dr." Von Naturlich, the man who has rebuilt thousands of broken lives.  

I live a broken life, I'm sure.  I get more lethargic by the day.  I read and write and then. . . I don't know "and then," but every day I get to the gym later than the day before.  Yesterday at noon I was thinking about getting dressed for the gym when I got an email telling me that I had left my storage unit unlocked.  What!  I got dressed in a panic and drove right over.  When I got inside, I found that the lock was secured.  I opened the locker and everything was intact.  Whew!  I was afraid I was going to be the victim of the biggest art heist this town has ever seen.  But thank God, my million dollar investment was still in place.  

It was late when I got to the Physical Fitness Club, and the place was fairly empty.  I didn't really want to work out, but I was there, so I decided to just do a lot of sets of medium weights instead of pyramiding up the way I normally do.  I picked up something light to start and did a bunch of reps.  Then I talked with some fellows and did it again. . . and again. . . and again and again and again and again--and by God, I got a pump unlike anything I've gotten in a long while, and my biceps and triceps were full and beautiful.  I rolled my sleeves higher to impress the pretty blonde girl with what I concluded to be an over-all body tan.  She smiled shyly, raising her bright eyes to meet mine, showing me a nice portion of her beautiful set of choppers.  

I was going to do more, but it was mid-afternoon now and I needed to eat.  

Back home, I made lunch and pretty much wasted the rest of the day.  It was Friday.  I thought I might go out.  But that would have required my getting dressed in something other than what could pass for my sleeping costume, so after my shower, I put on my Japanese shorts and a crisp Haynes white V-neck t-shirt and headed over to mother's.  

We had a beer and chatted about things.  I showed her my biceps and said that an old and dear girlfriend wrote to say that she still dreams about me.  

"How do you look in her dreams?" my mother asked.  Good old mom.  

"You mean am I as I was twenty some years ago, a slim, muscular brunette or am I a fat blond man?"

"Yea," she said.  

"I guess I'll have to ask her. . . but I'll bet I'm the former."  

Good ole mom.  

When I got home, I made a Margarita to celebrate a weekend of not going anywhere and sat out on the deck.  The street was quiet, not a walker passing by.  The Margarita did not last very long.  

Inside, I started a simple dinner.  I wanted shrimp tacos from the Pig up the street, but I settled for brown jasmine rice with a package spicy red beans and lentils with two eggs on top.  And Brussels sprouts.  

Q had reached NYC.  I texted him a picture of my Margarita and told him a rich gymroid had given me some Soma.  I thought I'd try a quarter since I was drinking.  

"You won't even feel a quarter," he said, so I took half.  "I don't know what I was thinking when I told you I had a place for you to stay here.  I'm couch surfing.  Come up and get a nice hotel room and I'll stay with you," he wrote.  

Dinner done, I wasn't really feeling anything from the Soma.  I poured a big whiskey and watched "Blue Velvet."  I don't think I had seen it since it was released.  What a weird movie.  There is something terribly wrong with David Lynch, I would assume, but the question that haunted me was how weird the life of a night club singer must be.  And I wondered who would date a night club singer.  I realized, then, that there were no night clubs any longer.  Holy shit!  All I wanted to do was now was meet a night club singer, and I determined to go on that quest.  

I decided to pop the other half of the Soma.  It was only nine, so I sat down at the computer and started going through another old hard drive looking for those Newport pictures.  Much of this drive's content was redundant of the last.  I decided to open a folder marked "NYC."  I have a bunch of folders with that moniker, not well labelled since I'd been going for decades.  

I started cooking up photos I had never touched before and sending them to Q who told me he had taken his camera with him.  

"Don't try this at home," I wrote.  I cooked up about fifteen pictures before the Soma really kicked in.  Looking at them this morning--holy smokes!--I've got some really good ones there.  I want to post them all here and now, but I will save them and leak them slowly over time until I decide that I was wrong and that they suck just like everything else I do.  But this morning. . . oo-la-la!

I will work on my mind, body, and spirit today.  Right thought, right action.  I believe that Soma straightened me out.  That and watching Frank in "Blue Velvet."  I'll choose the happy, wholesome life, thank you.  

Still. . . I'd like to meet a night club singer.