Beat Your Heart Out
The year’s pretty much sucked it so far.
I raced home from the Bahamas on New Year’s Eve only to fall asleep watching (how embarassing) “I, Robot.” I slept clear through the countdown and all the accompanying ballyhoo. Which might have been for the best, except that as a result, there’s no symbolic demarcation for the end of one thing and the beginning of another. There was no transition for me. It was just another night alone in my big apartment, and another early morning wandering quiet Upper West Side streets. Alone.
I was a total shut in all weekend. I chalked it up to having to wait on on Delta to deliver my luggage. It finally arrived 36 hours late. But the truth is, I didn’t much feel like going out, seeing people, or being seen.
I edited the “Live Forever” video three times, but kept bungling the export. Then I inadvertantly deleted all of the files. So that’s a bust. My primary thought upon looking over a full year’s worth of photography was, ‘Jesus Christ dude, what the fuck? Were you in one place for more than five days at a time? Do less this year!” Seems like I didn’t sit still for a minute. Which may mean I’m some kind of achiever. Or that I was running to avoid standing still. Heaven forbid I sit still long enough to, I dunno’, actually see what’s going on around me. Or worse, inside of me.
I recorded two takes on Semisonic’s “This’ll Be My Year” (hopeful, and hopeless versions). They turned out well enough. But I don’t really believe it. I mean, this’ll be a year, but my year? Probably not. It’ll be another year of highs and lows, ups and downs. Hopefully none as down as what I now simply refer to as Q4 ’04.
I dreaded returning to work this morning, but found myself kinda’ glad to be there. I shaved, and put on a collared shirt and jacket, and felt the part. And for a minute there I was thinking, ‘Hey, I know how to do this. I’m pretty good at this.’
I got an email from a friend asking “What’s the very best thing you’ve done in ’05, B?” I was like, “Um, I went running this morning. Does that count? Seriously, I’ve done very little thus far other than suck.” She wrote back, simply, “’05 – Less Suck & More Rock!” Nice.
But after work I was splashed by a cab as I stepped out of the subway, and then again waiting to cross Broadway. I was soaked straight through by the time I got home from Zabars and H&H. I ate dinner in the red chair watching reality television. Oy.
I guess the very best thing I’ve done so far this year going to a dermatologist this morning. I’ve had this annoying little red spot between the ever-deepening furrow in my brow for, like, ever. Which would be cool if I were rockin’ the Gwen Stefani, but I’m not. It just looked like a permenant zit. So the guy tells me it’s a broken blood vessel, no big deal. He can laser it and it’ll disappear. But insurance won’t cover it. So in a heartbeat I drop $250 to zap it. I won’t spend forty bucks on jeans. There’s no couch or dining room table in my apartment, but I’ll drop two and a half bills on this microscopic spot on my forehead. Strange.
So he takes me into the laser room, puts some sunglasses on me, slathers some “cooling gel” on me and zap! Two minutes and at least half a couch later it’s just a little gray splotch. I felt kinda’ dizzy and weird, but I walked down Lexington Avenue just a little bit taller. I felt like I’d done something. I felt like I’d affected change or something. Like I was just a tiny bit better than just an hour earlier.
Now, if only there was a laser treatment that could zap whatever’s really wrong with me. You know, on the insides? Heck, then I’d be golden.