Dead Crush #18

In case you wondering if I was too busy, scared, tired, overworked, stressed, abused, or paranoid to be bothering myself with this lameass blog, you're right. But I'm not too busy to have crushes. Nosiree. Especially a crush like this. I'm so sad he died. So sad. And forgetting temporarily Choad's oh-so-white fixation with soul music. I may be one of the whitest people alive, but I can dance to James Brown. That's one thing I can do.

This is mostly an excuse, I mean it's completely an excuse to tell my favorite James Brown story. It involves dancing, frivolity, and youth. Three things which are painfully missing from my life. One is about to be gone for good (Dude, I'm going to be 33. 33.)

1997. My 23rd birthday. I'm in Liverpool at a giant hostel with no central heating. Morning: I'm lugging my stupid, cursed backpack onto a train--I have 102 degree fever and my friends hate me because I won't get drunk on the train on the way to London. I just want to die. I don't remember being anymore miserable before or since. England in January is not a happy place, especially when you have the flu. When we finally get to the basement apartment that belongs to the son of my parents' friends, I pass out until around 10. Late evening: awaken, take another dose of cold medicine, put on these weird striped stretchy 90s bellbottoms, and head for Madame Jojo's, the transvestite bar someone has told us to go to. We're delighted to learn upon arrival that it's Deep Funk Night as well as Ladies Night. After three vodka drinks and a great deal of UK Nyquil, I was in what could best be described as a trance. There were smoke machines. There were amazingly beautiful women in amazingly dreamlike outfits. There was James Brown. This was one of the best nights of my life--almost ten years ago to the day. Ten years.

My favorite thing about this night was the radical transformation that took place. I transformed my illness into this spectacular hypnotic state of love and celebration, with the help of JB, mild sedatives, and loving friends. I think I can learn something from this that could help me now--I need James Brown. I need him now more than ever.

Dear Ambien,

My moving stress is still happening. I keep pretending like it's over, that I'm all settled in and that everything is cool, but I keep forgetting that 4 months ago I was driving across the country with my dog in cage and my mom riding shotgun and my dad a few miles ahead of us in a giant U-Haul. We stayed in a Red Roof Inn together and I cried the next morning at Bob Evans. Four months ago. That's it. Since then, I've had a total of 4 jobs, one new roomate, one dog with a major separation anxiety problem (still working on this one), several nervous breakdowns, a terrible back problem, an insane boss (the one I have now), one bedroom that is so crowded with furniture that I can't walk around in it, at least 6 incidents where I've either gotten totally lost or ended up in nightmarish traffic situations, and drank approximately 200 beers and 30 bottles of wine. And slept maybe 5 hours a night if I'm lucky. Not to mention the whole RMV incident(s). And having to quit a job in the middle of it. Two jobs, actually. And saying no to two interviews recently even though I'm not so sure about my new job. Through all of this, I haven't gotten sick or hurt (except the back issue, which was completely linked to a terrible job situation). I've moved all of my furniture twice. I'm learning how to live with someone again. Jesus Christ, I deserve some kind of medal. Or flowers (I bought myself some today). Or a vintage black leather Coach shoulder bag (ditto).

And you, Ambien. I forgot you were still around. I'm going to drink a bottle of Chimay with NU tonight, I hope, while we assemble her Christmas tree. Then I will drift into your blissful ether, and hopefully I will awaken feeling human again. Sleeplessness makes me into a robot and robots aren't good writers. They're good office-slaves, but I want to be a writer too. Thank you for understanding this. See you soon.

Love,
Shrew