An Ode to the Hometown!

Raging Against the Machines.

Ok, Paul Ryan. In your plaid button-down and khakis, with that shit-eating grin on your smug mug, we're supposed to not only believe your virtue-less, insincere and grandiose promises to rebuild America while you, in the same breath, claim that Rage Against the Machine is your favorite band. Sorry, but the Generation of Cool doesn't quite believe you, least of all Rage's guitarist Tom Morello, who is sickened at having his band remotely associated with you. The Silversun Pickups aren't terribly happy with Ryan either, since he bastardized their music as well at a recent campaign event to the point where they had a cease-and-desist order obtained against further use of their music in tandem with the Romney/Ryan campaign. Ryan's the douchiest type of douche that probably really listens to Dave Matthews. As if irony needs to be explained to the Republican VP nominee, dude...you're "the machine."

Meanwhile, the US State Dept is rallying in support of the freedom of the now-convicted and sentenced (to 2 years in prison) Russian riot grrl punk group Pussy Riot. After cries out from some of the world's most influential artists and musicians, Russia dipped its toes back in the Stalin River and Putin's bruised ego is now back intact inside his big, ugly head. My ex-husband, a part-time music journalist, indie DJ and chronic NPR listener (zzzzz....) and I had a laugh last night as he was regaling listening to a story about Pussy Riot on the radio, and was trying to count how many times the word "pussy" was mentioned on-air. Given it's on the extensive list of FCC-sanctioned no-no words, we could only guess at the amount of incurred fines the FCC was rolling out to NPR and/or the DJ. Look, if the FCC was paying SUCH close attention that they fined ME $25 in 1993 for saying either "fuck" or "shit" (I don't even remember which anymore) on the air at my college radio station, their censorship minions must be cracking a whip at NPR. (*Note: I never lost my FCC license, which is valid life-long, unlike my expired K-12 teaching certificate. Not only am I a legal member of the technical clergy, I can cross-market my many talents and be your wedding DJ.)

Some see Pussy Riot's incarceration as a failure for modern art & music and an overt act of injustice, a huge step back in the freedom of expression Russians have been trying to enjoy almost as much as not having to wait in 3-block long lines to procure scratchy toilet paper. While my hope is that the verdict is overturned and Pussy Riot is set free, they get double-the-balls credit for being SO punk that they are willing to risk jail time in the name of artistic freedom and authority-questioning. Several people have asked me to gauge an opinion with regard to the Pussy Riot trial, so I have. Yoko Ono, in her official statement, in-kind, in-peace deemed Putin a "wise man," but I think she was being too gracious, in a kill-him-with-kindness attempt to assert peace within the humanity of the art world. I've been asked what I personally think of Putin. I think he's a hard-blowing cocksucker with peacock feathers who wants all the credit for reforming a post-USSR disaster. He's no Lech Walesa, that's for damn sure. He's an elitist prick. Fortunately, I live in the USA and haven't (yet) bombarded an orthodox church rocking it out against the leader of the country who's doing a crappy job. But back to Paul Ryan? If the Romney/Ryan ticket makes it to the White House, my legion of artist friends and I might have to do some serious occupying in protest.  And you all KNOW I'm not a big politico. I don't bear the Coyne/Drozd 2012 sticker on the back of my car for love's sake alone.

Knowing my voluminous knowledge of pop culture and music, "The Cardiologist," as he's referred as by a friend, once suggested I write for Rolling Stone magazine. At the time, I believe I explained that I'd sooner die than contribute to Jann Wenner's wankfest publication, the veritable Hustler of the music industry. If Rolling Stone can fire my former Q101 broadcasting boss over a bad Hootie & the Blowfish review, (why Jim DeRo sold his soul to work for them is anybody's guess), which I always considered a low blow, the magazine has topped itself. In an article quoting Flaming Lips' lead singer, Wayne Coyne, the magazine blatantly sensationalized and contextually altered Coyne's statements regarding the writing, recording and production of what's planned to be the band's next full-length LP release, during which Coyne referenced drug addiction struggles endured by the group's multi-instrumentalist, Steven Drozd. The manner by which Coyne's statements were twisted and presented framed Drozd's addiction(s) being contemporary, emergent issues within the band. In actuality, in an effort to connect the songs written for the new record to their polishing recently, and Wayne scrambling at, well, marketing ideas (I guess he was all tapped out after the Guinness Book of World Records achievement), the vibe of the article intimated that Drozd was, at present, drug-addicted and on the brink of suicide. Steven is no novice to substance abuse issues and anyone with even a layman's knowledge of the band knows this. Hell, yes, he was *so* strung out on heroin years ago, and in need of money for a fix, that he agreed to documentary filmmaker and band friend, Brad Beesley, a graphic scene of him actually administering a shot of heroin to himself in "The Fearless Freaks," for $50 with which to buy more heroin.

"Superfans," as they're sometimes deemed, flooded the band's message board on their web site (which I, oddly enough, am not a member of and don't feel the need to follow...why would I?), plowed Twitter with alarmist ferocity and frankly hunted down anyone who might have a more intimate knowledge of Steven's current state, including me. For this, I am miffed at both Rolling Stone magazine and Coyne himself, though I know both RS's love of gossipy rock/pop breaking news and Wayne's sometimes over-the-top public shenanigans that grab attention. (And I love Wayne, he's awesome, but this wasn't the smartest promotional ploy, in my opinion.) The interview and subsequent article were more than a little misleading. Having absorbed a decent brunt of frantic, concerned fan-dom yesterday, and understanding that quite literally, EVERYONE loves Steven and wants him to be healthy, by the time I was en route to Luke's therapy session last night, I was totally tired of the superfans' speculation, Twitter messages and Facebook links to the "OMG, have you SEEN this article??" to the point where I went to my friend myself, with a sort of "Um, hey, I know I, like, just talked to you yesterday, and you're doing really fucking well, but is there something you haven't told me?" If *I* was irked at it all, I can only imagine how Steven must have felt when the story hit online.

My feeling was "Well, let's see...we were casually talking about putting paper towels on my drums to dampen their volume, and how beautiful my vintage kit was, but Steven? If you're a suicidal drug addict at this very moment, I wish for nothing but light to emerge from your personal darkness and have love in my heart for you in any case and perhaps our conversational communication energy would be better directed towards, you know, your health and safety, though it's beneath me to pry overtly if this is something between you, your band, and your family." (Not in so many words.)

I was rapidly reassured by Steven that the time period during which the songs were written, that Coyne made sound like they were spanking new (e.g. Wayne had mentioned the band's recent release "Heady Fwends" in one breath, and in the next breath exclaimed that Steven was in the throes of despair and addiction), were actually products of a true, dark period Drozd endured 3 summers ago with both drugs and alcohol, of which I already knew and figured was the case, but wanted reassurance because, as I told him, sensationalism and hype sort of concerned me.

No, at first, when Steven sought help for his alcohol addiction in the spring of 2010, it was not made public knowledge and was passed off to the press and the superfan collective as "dehydration and exhaustion" as the reason for his "hospitalization." It sure as fuck wasn't my place to "out him" to ANYBODY, because a) it's nobody's business but Steven, his family and his friends, and b) only HE would know when he was ready to disclose his personal information WHEN and IF he so chose. Bravely, he eventually did, which took balls and courage. What is true of Steven at the present moment? He IS doing really fucking well, all things being equal. His life's not perfect, but neither is mine...or yours...and he deserves privacy and respect as much as anyone who otherwise leads a more or less public, relatively famous life. Take away THE FLAMING LIPS! and you have a man with a family just like anybody else, who's demons, which are enough for him to conquer himself, have, for better or worse, played out publicly.

For all I know, I might be further feeding the beast, but I felt the need, in light of the Superfans inundating me yesterday, while I had enough on my plate (I was being Twitter-messaged relentlessly by one superfan in particular, my phone buzzing constantly, while I was in the middle of writing my Adler School timed, impromptu pop culture, on-demand essay) that rumors should be dispelled, frantic fanaticism should be quelled and for God's sake, let him veg out, do his yoga, and take his wife out for her birthday and everybody calm the fuck down. Write for Rolling Stone. Yeah, not so much, My Beloved Cardiologist. As Steven says, that magazine's been passe since like '78. Wayne, dear? Your tact-o-meter needs adjusting. CASE CLOSED. Work on freeing Pussy Riot and be sure to buy the next Flaming Lips album.

According to Rolling Stone magazine, it's supposed to be a real pip.

(For those of you who want to read the original Rolling Stone article, it's at http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/flaming-lips-cut-dark-spontaneous-new-album-20120816 )

Fodder for Bears, or This Week So Far.

Wednesday night:

Wow, it's been a week to remember, and to not remember, and it's only Wednesday. (Or Thursday, depending on when I publish this entry.)

Rep. Jesse Jackson Jr. is suffering from Bipolar II depression?

Rule #1 of public relations? Everyone who's either addicted to something and receiving treatment, or is in the psych ward for something, or has a total mental breakdown like JJJR did is suffering from "exhaustion." If I had a nickel for every public figure or famous person who's been hospitalized for "exhaustion," I'd be a zillionaire. Having heard conflicting reports as to *why* he first went to a treatment center in Tucson that specializes in dual-diagnosis (substance abuse and mental disorders concurrently) has me guesstimating that he was, in fact, abusing some substance of some kind. Ain't nothing, JJJR. Lots of us have self-medicated. Now he's convalescing at the Mayo Clinic. A veritable bed of luxury on taxpayer paid-leave. How utterly nice that he gets to recover in a cushy hospital setting where I do hope they're medicating and counseling him. I certainly feel his pain, but still think the guy's kind of a pussy.

ABC News, who can't spell "Seroquel" in an article, and mistook "hypermania" and "hypomania," speculated today as to whether or not JJJR's bariatric weight loss surgery was the CAUSE of his depression. That's not how mood disorders operate, folks. Consider first that the patient is either  a) genetically pre-disposed to a mood disorder, b) symptoms can present out of nowhere, but most often in late teenage or the early 20's and c) the surgery which JJJR had more than a number of years ago wouldn't be blamed for his present-day depression.

Sure, the Bipolar II could've been latent in his brain & an outside stressor caused him to become symptomatic, but just as my hysterectomy didn't "cause" my depressive episode, JJJR's political woes within the crooked IL Democratic party (of which I'm a card carrier, FYI) and whatever the hell is going on his life...re-election? The Blago-proposed sale of Obama's former Senate seat and how he could get in trouble for being part of that? I don't know.Something, somewhere was triggered. Bottom line? Buckle up, Buttercup. Bipolar's one HELL of a wild ride. Also, be glad I'm not your therapist, because I'd flat out call you a douchebag to your face and would have trouble grinding my teeth in seething distaste for you while dispensing helpful cognitive advice.

We don't call them "nervous breakdowns" anymore, but whatever happened to JJJR had him call his womanizing Daddy, who said he really sounded awful. Prayers go out to you, brother, but once you're stable, do us all a favor and stop behaving like such a dickwad. The only caveat of the whole shenanigans is that it's put Bipolar Disorder into the mainstream news, and on people's minds, so that could work in our favor in terms of a greater level of acceptance and tolerance, which I champion, as you all know.

But JJJR? Grow a pair of fucking balls. Every bipolar patient has bouts of major depression, some more severe and long-term than others, but the toughest of us learn to ride them out, adjust our meds, and don't flee to 2 states to relax and rewind to functionality. The vast majority of bipolar patients either suffer in silence or go through hoop after hoop to even stabilize. As for right now, and I say this suffering from the same disorder, that all the secrecy surrounding JJR's condition, the bullshit claims and the trip to a substance abuse SPA, was a little over-the-top but money talks, you're a VIP, and further proof of your douchery is in consideration of Sir Elton John, who did his alcohol/drug rehab and mental rehabilitation quietly at Lutheran General Hospital in my town, Park Ridge, about 25 years ago. It wasn't a spa, it wasn't exotic, it didn't kowtow to his celebrity and he survived intact despite the fact the town was all a'buzz that he was there.

Best psychology-related headline of the week so far, other than JJJR's proclamation? 

That a psychologist in Portsmouth, NH was arrested for running a prostitution ring. I found this incredibly funny and falls under the umbrella of "Why didn't I think of that?" They're revoking his license. D'ya think? I don't know what's better...if your psychologist is a pimp or if your pimp is secretly a psychologist. In any event, this was all sortsa awesome. Dr. Alexander Morino? Yeah, you're kind of fucked.

"What? My bad." Would YOU go to a psychologist who looked like a homeless man? I might be tattooed and pierced, but I shave, goddamnit.

Separately, no wonder those Happy Meal apples that I eat taste like bleach. Preservatives, my fellow friends. Now featuring listeria! :) Which causes Happy Meal-eating youngsters to be full of glee, for now their junk food can be just plain junk food.Good, more fries, til they get recalled as well for deadly bacteria. 

Only the most bizarre news story of the day? Via Mother Jones? 

"No, Menstruating Women Do Not Cause Bear Attacks." The more I study science, the more research statistics and empirical data fascinate me. I'm beyond curious as to how the researchers in this particular project recruited their study subjects. Best line in the study report?

"The NPS paper gleaned its conclusions from separate studies performed on grizzly bears, black bears and polar bears. For grizzly bears, hundreds of attacks on humans were analyzed, finding no link between menstruation and the attacks. Such a link was also debunked regarding black bears, after a 1991 study recorded the responses of 26 free-ranging black bears to used tampons collected from 26 different women. Not a single instance of a black bear being attracted to the tampons was observed." 

Like, how'd they get volunteers to surrender their dirty tampons? How on EARTH did they randomly sample BEARS in the first place? "26 free-ranging black bears." "Hey, bear! Scoot over here and sniff this tampon!" 

And the article makes no mention as to whether or not women who wear pads suffer the same fate. A friend on Facebook asked me if the same statistic would be true if a menstruating woman is confronted with a shark attack? I answered that by saying that the research ad tag line should read: "Women of childbearing age who are currently menstruating for research study to ascertain what might happen if you were in a shark pit WITH a bear." Put some serious research money into THAT, motherfuckers. This particular study on bears' attraction (or lack thereof) to menstruating women was funded by the National Park Service, or whatever they're called. So once again, your tax dollars put to excellent use. (Not so much.)

Biggest thrills of the week so far?

Well, my brother gave me back my vintage Rogers acoustic drum kit which Steve grossly underestimates the value thereof. We managed to haul it somehow in my mom's Ford Taurus and I went to church today to begin dismantling the electronic kit and say buh-bye to it. Surprisingly, there were only like 10 cords to unplug, I removed all the head pads and folded up the tri-fold frame and that was about the extent of effort it took. Luke and I hauled it down to the church basement into that secret room to which my key will not work, so I asked around and got one. My Dynasonic snare, stand, splash cymbal and boom were all in there, so lugged them up. Luke and I worked to take the electronic kit down to the basement which, at the end of the day, I could care less about "borrowing. The Rogers is now officially mine, and sounds fucking awesome. 

The sanctuary was empty and echo-ey, and I began to play the kit. Luke was like, "Mom? Do you realize how LOUD that IS?" I took into account the church was empty and I was echoing everywhere. I asked Steven (Drozd, not my brother) what I should do to dampen the sound. He said moon gels (little rubber rectangular tabs that stick to the drum heads) don't work as well as the tried-and-true drummer solution that he said "has worked for 1,000's of drummers since the 1970's" and was a trick he employed since he was 10 and played with his dad's polka band at the local VFW. He suggested I fold up a piece of paper towel, tape it to the edge of the drum head so I don't hit it, and tune the drums really low, all of which will definitely reduce the booming noise of the kit. I told him I was just glad I would be able to hear myself PERIOD, which I couldn't with the electronic kit. 

Being the snarky bitch I am sometimes, I texted a picture of the Rogers kit set up and sent it to my former guitarist, who was the "brains" (??) behind getting the electronic kit in the first place. His return text was nice about it, though he said it was too bad, because the electronic kit could make so many different sounds and kit styles, and that he knew I never took a liking to the kit, but played it because I had no choice in the matter. The New Sheriff in town sided with me on this one, not the church, and his word is the final word, that trumps any board's decision, or congregational complaints about the volume of my acoustic kit. It's what Pastor, the guitarist and I decided. Happy drummer? Happier band.

The church wants to get a drum shield, which, when you play behind one, causes all the noise of the drums to bounce back into your head while you're playing, which generally sucks. That's why we're trying the paper towel trick. I told Steven I'd rather have sound bouncing back at me than not be able to hear anything I'm playing, as was the case with the electronic drums. In any event, Steven thought it was (via pictures) a really beautiful kit, which it is, and that I should never get rid of it (which I never intend to). Solid maple Rogers mid-1970's kit with a Dynasonic snare. In the picture below, the kit pre-set up. I didn't have the cymbals raised, and you can't see the floor tom, but it's bitchin'. 

Luke taking it for a spin:

Huge thrill this week:

Three days ago, I passed the sobriety marker and getiting-your-shit together litmus test of 6 consecutive sober months..., so as a milestone, my sponsor kindly gave me her very own 6 month coin (think they're either made of plastic or something now).  Jenny will celebrate 21 YEARS of sobriety this year. I've got 3.0999 years and 6 months under my belt. That says something.  This is a picture of my coin, which was a generous and heart-felt gift from sponsor to sponsee ,who are friends to boot:

Certainly Biggest Thrill of the Week?

Going for a ride on the back of my brother's Honda crotch rocket motorcycle. I can totally understand why he got it, because it totally rocks to be on it. He took Luke for a spin around the block at 20mph, no helmets. When it was my turn, I hopped on and put my arms around my brother, who kept insisting I was squeezing him too hard, but I was trying not to fall off, especially during the turns in the road.  There's nothing on the back of the bike to put your hands on to hold on--you have to hold onto the driver for dear life "Just sway in the direction we're turning in," Steve said. We went on a more open road and went 40mph, which felt like 80. I could easily see myself turning into an adrenaline junkie like my brother if that bike were at my house. (Yes, Steve normally wears his helmet.) But I swear, riding on the bike was more thrilling a rush than I've ever received from any drug or other substance. In other words, it fucking ruled.

I don't know which rocked more...her 2 adrenaline junkie kids taking off on the motorcycle, or hearing my mom screaming "No! No! No! at the top of her lungs as we pulled away.

Thursday morning:

Ok, I'm feeling less frantic now. My Oakton psychology professor got her letter of recommendation into Adler, and Guy Friend finished his letter and submitted it last night. I don't know what Oakton prof said, but Guy Friend's letter was oozing and gooey with praise. He really outdid himself and now I understand what took him so long. Scientists aren't writers. He agonized over getting it perfected, and it was perfect. Given how much I fucked up at my job with Balderdash & Verities, Guy Friend was remarkably kind, eloquent and positive and I love him for it.  And Kate's husband, Tim, my old Russian prof, is still planning to do a letter, which would give me 4 in total. The Complete Annie package is coming together nicely, my undergrad grades notwithstanding, but we've been over that ad nauseum. 

My Adler School admissions counselor called Tuesday to catch up, and said everything looked good so far, and that he was just waiting on those letters of recommendation to move me to the next phase of applying quickly. He said there's still some time left to get me in for Fall of 2012. I won't know the outcome of the financial aid package until I get accepted to the school, which Guy Friend said Adler would be foolish not to have me on board. Not having seen the Oakton professor's letter, I don't know if she told Adler what a fucktard I am taking standardized tests (Adler said they don't do those often--it's all paper writing, BIG YAY!) and I can only hope she said things that get me accepted, not rejected. 

*UPDATE!* The Adler School said my application is completed, the next step being a personal interview. I asked if the interview is a bad thing, and he said it's a very good thing, actually, because I have moved into the next phase of applying and the "train "is moving along at a fast pace. The Admissions folks have already reviewed my total application. While anxiety-filled, I think if I can manage interviews with the docs at Balderdash & Verities trying to sell myself and land a job before I was medicated for bipolar and loony, I will do even better with Adler. My counselor at Adler said I was a "quality candidate on paper" and they want to meet me in person.The interview is scheduled for Monday at 11am. I'll dress meekly and appropriately and not swear at them.

In the interim, I was asked to submit an impromptu writing sample based on one of 3 random questions related to pop culture. It could be no more than 500 words long and was timed to one hour. It had to be completed by 2pm tomorrow or I wouldn't be granted my admission interview. I think it was an attempt for the Adler School to gauge my ability to write on-the-spot. I wasn't arrogant towards my admissions counselor, but was sort of laughing under my breath. 1) Me answering a complex question with only 500 words is close to impossible. 2) It'll take me 10 minutes to write and 45 minutes to edit coherently. 3) I have a fucking degree in writing. I did a MS Word count of my blurb above about Jesse Jackson Jr, which took maybe 5-10 minutes to write and even THAT clocked in at 572 words.

The question I chose was, "Choose any character from any film and explain why they are psychologically interesting."

First, I toyed with Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina," since I relate to her struggles of unrequited love for Count Vronsky, drug use, being trapped with the wrong man, only to throw her fucking ass in front of a train and kill herself. But she's more of a literary character than a film character.

Next, I thought of Charlie Brown. Every therapist I've EVER had has compared me to Charlie Brown. I guess I can't dispute the analogies, as I can be a fatalist who thinks the whole world's conspiring against her, awakens every day with a sense of pending doom and has a bitchy friend who perpetually robs Charlie of the ball he so desperately wants to successfully kick.  If you've read my work for any length of time, or know me personally, I think you could get the correlation.  But he's not a film character either.

When in doubt, my credo is always to run with what you know best. My favorite film of all-time is "Rosemary's Baby." Say what you want about the questionable morals and ethics of director Roman Polanski and his personal history. Next to Woody Allen, he's my favorite film director. Plus, I am reasonably sure absolutely no one else would pick the character of "Guy Woodhouse," the husband in the film, who, for the purposes of professional success, financial gain and fame, sacrifices his entire moral compass, sense of humanity, and conscience to a satanic cult to whom he's drugged into coercion his young wife, who is then impregnated by the spawn of the devil, a baby Guy promises to the satanic cult. Coyly conspiring with the cult that seems to be intertwined with literally almost everyone the couple comes to know, Guy distances Rosemary from her friends and loved ones, carries out witchcrafty plans in order for anyone who might be onto his nefarious plot to suddenly die, and transforms from a modestly successful actor and loving husband into an utter soulless, narcissistic sociopath who's empire is built on sand that will eventually melt away, but who won a major part in a dramatic Broadway production. Naturally, he reminds me of Christopher. Totally.

That aspect of "Guy," as a character, is what psychologically drew me in. As I said in my essay today, Guy wasn't naive. He wasn't stupid. He knew everything he was bargaining and at what cost and he did it anyway. 

The lure of the passion of earthly gain at whatever cost...to lose your conscience and abandon your humanity for yourself--people, that's what drives people like the Ted Bundys and John Wayne Gacys of the world. You don't have to be a famously pathological serial murderer in order to have no soul and build your earthly empire, with the notion that your money and power will get you everything. They just emitted their horrors more sensationally, more publicly, more deathly than my ex-boyfriend, but otherwise, in all honesty, Chris isn't really very different than any other narcissistic sociopath. 

Chris didn't make it into the 500 word essay, thank God, and it would've veered me off-course. But I think I explained "Guy" pretty damn well. 

Bummer of the week?

I went to run errands with Luke on Weds and noticed my car key--my only copy of my car key--was missing off of my key ring. I couldn't imagine where it was, though I looked everywhere. Finally, I checked near the car in the alley. Secured with a locking black twist tie, with a loop run through the ley hole, was my car key, attached to the driver's side door handle. 

Someone who knows me or knows it's a Chrysler key, or found it near the car, was benevolent enough to see to it that I got it back safely. Why don't I have a spare key? They're about $100 and have to be programmed at the dealer. You can't just go get a copy of it made. I am SO fortunate it was found. I'll have to ask around the neighbors who the wonderful soul was, who saved my ass.

I am hoping and praying it all works out w/school next week. Leaving it up to the Lord on this one. Or a genie.

A Parable.

Pretend it's not 30 AD. It's 2012.

Jesus came upon a man thoroughly worn out from having to walk everywhere for years without ceasing and who had stopped beside the road. His calloused feet were dirty and weary and blistered, his muscles worn out, he was exhausted and in horrible pain. He was very depressed and hopeless, and would frequently, abruptly stop his journey, sit by the roadside and cry, yet other times he would appear very elated and full of energy, sleeping little, whereupon he'd walk and walk without slowing down. He didn't understand why, but his abrupt change of moods unnerved him. He thought that he was going mad.

Jesus happened to be walking by with his gaggle of followers, having performed miracles all along His journey when the man cried out to Him.

After the man told Jesus about his problems, he asked Jesus, "I've seen you before and heard your Word. I believe in You and that you're the Savior, the Son of God, and that you perform miracles. Can't you at least make it easier for me? I'm so tired and I don't think I can walk any more. My brain feels sick, just as my body is worn out. I was admonished from my village because they all thought I was crazy. Different. I tried to be normal but I just couldn't. Could you help me by giving me a donkey to ride, Lord? I have to be somewhere and I will never get there by walking."

Jesus thought for a moment, could see the man was struggling and broken down, and, being merciful, He knelt down beside the man alongside the road where the man had fallen down, dismissing the disciples, who urged him to continue down the road.  Contemplative but full of love, Jesus turned to the man.

He offered a couple of solutions. "I could carry you everywhere, physically," Jesus said, "But you'd forget how to walk on your own. Any muscles you had would atrophy. Yes, I can pick you up when you fall down, and trust that I always will, if you follow me and come to me in prayer, but that's only part of it," He told the man. "I understand that you either feel hopeless and sad or elated and full of energy. I know this because God made you this way. As for the donkey... I don't think a donkey will get you where you need to go, even though you wish for one." 

"I feel stuck," said the man. "I can't walk any further and I have so far to go to get to my destination," he said.  "Where I'm supposed to be just seems so far away," he said, nearly breathless.

Knowing Jesus could and did perform miracles, the man begged Jesus to calm his mind, and to renew his body and spirit. "But Lord!" he cried out, "I've prayed for you to heal me, so many times. I prayed to the Father. I've told others about you. Should I pray more? Should I pray differently? What more can I do?"

"I could heal your body and your mind, most definitely," Jesus said. "But I'm choosing not to. The Father and I have different plans for you." "What I think you really need is a car," decided the Lord. "There are two cars from which you can choose," He told the man.

The first car was very attractive on the outside, brightly colored, without any dents or rust, had a 5-CD changer and it got 60 mpg. "This car is brand new, totally automatic," Jesus said. "It runs smoothly. It will require no repair. You will have to wax it and Armor All the wheels, and keep it looking wonderful on the outside all of the time, though. The windows are even tinted darkly so no one can see how bedraggled you look inside the car. This beautiful car can be yours. You don't even have to pay money for it. I should tell you, though, that this car only holds one person and the GPS will perpetually redirect you incorrectly." The man asked, "Ok, but will it get me to where I'm going?”

Jesus answered, “That depends on where it is you want to go on your journey.”

The man questioned, “For how long will I get to keep the car, Lord?" Jesus said, "That's all up to Satan, actually, because it's his car to give, not Mine, and he'll probably want you to trade it in every year for a newer, shinier car, and you'll have to promise him things I would never ask of you. Satan will promise to heal you in return, but he cannot, for all of Satan's promises are empty."

The man certainly thought the new, beautiful car was an attractive option, and with just his mind and not his soul, he leaned towards it. Relying on his instincts, he figured he could do without the GPS. He thought he wouldn't mind traveling alone. Surely, he could find someone to wash and wax the car for him, the wearier he became. "Ok, I'll take Satan's car, I think," he told Jesus. "Yes, I think I can manage it."

"Oh really? You sure about that?" the Lord asked. "You say you've listened to my Word. That you've prayed. That you believe Me to be your Savior. Why, then, would you choose what Satan has to offer you?"

“Because it seems easy to drive and looks very nice,” the man said.

"Well, wait. What about the other car, Jesus?" the man wondered. "What's the other car like? Your car?" 

Jesus explained the second car to the man. It was a big, ungainly SUV full of dents and scratches, that was rusting, had no front bumper and a cracked taillight, got 12 mpg and it made strange noises when it ran, had clear windows, wasn't very attractive, and, while very clearly used, never needed to impetuously traded in. "This car requires a lot of maintenance, and frequently needs repairs. It barely runs, and the upkeep is very expensive. It needs premium fuel, special oil, a gallon of washer fluid every day, anti-freeze, and the tires tend to lose their air a lot, and it really gets worse the older it gets, but if you choose it, it will be yours forever."

"Throughout the rest of your life, this car will run for millions of miles if you keep up with the maintenance as I have asked of you. If you choose this car, there's enough room to bring many other people along, and to take them wherever they need to go. This car, I have purchased by myself. I bought it FOR you, and am offering it to you.  All I ask in return is that you obey what I have taught you and spread my word wherever you may stop. I will sacrifice my very life for you to drive this car. But you have to believe in and trust ME. You have to take the hand of the Holy Spirit and let Him guide you and those who are in your care."

The man was confounded. The car Satan offered was certainly very alluring. The car Jesus offered, though, didn't seem like it'd make his life that much easier than it was when he was walking, given all the hassle owning it would entail, though in his heart he wanted to be able to help others reach their destinations, knowing how hard it'd been for him to walk for so long.

"It's totally up to you," Jesus told him. "I can't make the decision for you," He said. "You needn't have walked this far all by yourself, you know. I was here all along. You knew of Me but you didn’t seek Me. You seemed to ignore the Holy Spirit."

The man answered, "But when I prayed for you to stop my pain, my pain didn't stop. When I prayed to you to ease my suffering, it only got worse. You're the one who said with You, anything was possible. If I choose the car you're offering me, will I be strong and well again? Will you heal my body and mind?"

"Unfortunately, no, you won't heal completely," Jesus said. "You might suffer for the remainder of your days on earth. If you continue to ask me why, I will keep telling you that it is My will. If you decide to take my car, though, the Holy Spirit will help direct you towards doctors who can counsel and aid you, who have medications that will ease you. Towards educators who will teach you how to help the people alongside you on your journey."

"So you're saying I have to live with this for the rest of my life?" the man questioned. "Yes," Jesus answered, "But with faith in God's wisdom, I will bestow upon you the tools to use your afflictions to mend the torture of others with whom you decide to travel. 

Realize, if you ride without tinted windows, everyone will see what you look like, and you're very flawed, even more so than most of your brothers and sisters. The GPS on my car will never lead you in the wrong direction, no matter how many times the car breaks down. I will understand and forgive you if you curse my name and come to me for repentance, because I love ALL of you, not just part of you. I know you might get angry with me sometimes, or question why I’ve chosen this life for you. But after all is said and done, and your work here is through, and you've driven everyone you can to their destinations, I promise that you will reap eternity with Me in paradise, unless I come back to get you first!"

"And if I choose Satan's car?" the man said.

Jesus replied, "I'm sorry, but you'll be on your own. Satan will promise you great reward. He’ll tell you that if you follow him, and give him your soul, that you’ll be healed. Satan will invariably test you, over and over again, and cause you to question Me. Even though his car looks good, it comes with a price of spirit, not of money. But understand: Satan has no power to help you. He’ll only hurt you.”

The man answered, “I want to be able to take as many people as I can on my journey. I don’t really want to be alone. Even if they admonish me from my own village—away from the people who said they loved me…” Jesus said, “The Father created all of you in His own image. While sin has caused you to fall short of God’s glory, believe when I say that it was because we have greater plans for you.”

“Do you trust Me?” Jesus asked. “Do you truly believe that you were afflicted with illness of body and mind so that you could help others on their own journeys?”

“I do,” said the man. “I have felt your calling for a long time. But I had no way to get there. I walked and walked until I could walk no more, and I need your saving grace to carry on. Your car isn’t the easier car to drive, but I am willing to give it up to You.”

“You still have a choice, you know. You can drive Satan’s car or My car, as I have explained it to you,” Jesus said. “I love you unconditionally. I will pick you up when you fall along the way. I will forgive your mistakes. Your suffering will not be in vain. You may never be ‘normal’ but to Me, you’ll always be loved and special.”

Giving the man a few moments to think, Jesus idly built a pile of rocks beside the road into a little mountain. “Look at it this way,” He said. “All of you who follow me are like this little mountain of rocks. When one of you veers in the wrong direction, and the mountain falls down, I am here to pick all of you up and rebuild the mountain.”

“Jesus, I am putting my trust in You. I will take Your car,” the man said. While hesitant in his voice, he felt confident in his decision.

“And you realize you will continue to suffer. That your brain and your body won’t heal, but that My will guides you to pick up countless others who need your help. “

“Yes, Lord. I understand now,” the man replied. “Come to me in prayer and worship. Partake of my body and blood. Know that I died and rose again for your soul. Know that I am not choosing you to suffer out of malice; rather, it is out of my love for you and for all of those who need your help. Here is the key to my car,” Jesus said, handing the man the key. “Use it wisely, for a greater good,” He said. “I am here for you always, whenever you call upon Me and even when you don’t. I will never leave you and will always bless your journey. I won’t make it easy for you to find the doctors, or the medication, or the educators. I won’t make it easy for you to help other people. But I will walk beside you the whole way. I chose you. I am counting on you to do some of my work here on earth, because soon I will have to return to My father in Heaven until it is time for Me to return.”

The Lord bid the man his peace and prayed quietly with him, knowing He had a lot of other people who needed His blessings that day. “Thank you for the car, Jesus,” the man said. “I will put it to good use, as you have commanded. I can't promise you I'll be perfect or righteous all the time, for I am a sinner. I'm human, you know that. I will hurt people just as I heal people. But I am ready to have your Spirit guide me.”

“Of course, you are welcome. I love you and just as you believe in Me, I believe in YOU." Jesus said as he got up off the ground and brushed off the dust from where he was sitting. "There's your car. Now get in it and DRIVE. Just keep on trusting Me."

The weary man put the key in the ignition, hearing the immediate rattle of the engine. Trusting in God's promises, he began his journey of picking up others on the side of the road who looked worse off than he was. The Lord was pleased. Satan was embittered, as usual. The man took the car to the gas station, filled the car with gas, and put air in the tires. "This'll have to do for today," he said, knowing the work he had ahead of him and that he had been given a very special gift. One step at a time.
____________________________________________________________________

That's sort of what it's like to be a recovering addict/alcoholic/bipolar patient training to become a psychologist specializing in substance abuse. As with any chronic, incurable illness, which could be bipolar, or diabetes, or epilepsy, or Crohn's Disease, it seems as if we plead with and bargain with God constantly in favor of us becoming well and for our diseases to just go away. As humans, we usually don't understand God's bigger plan. We want everything on our terms, and spar with God when things don't turn out the way we wanted them to work out. 

With bipolar disorder, you clearly know *something* is wrong with you, but it takes years to finally figure out WHAT it is. Diagnosis and treatment are insurmountably challenging notions, and while you try your hardest to "act normally" or "just forget about it" and carry on with your life, it's always THERE. Just like any prevalent, chronic illness or sickness, you have it, that's how your body or mind works, and apart from intermittent relief, there's not a damn thing you can do to make it go away. "Normal" or "healthy" people don't GET that. Other folks are so wrapped up in denial, they also fail to see the bigger picture, the greater plan. Everything's surely somebody's fault--be that the individual's, God's, his/her parents...somebody is always ultimately to blame. And that's not it at all. 

When I'm asked to stop talking about bipolar disorder, or the struggles I have with my sobriety...or my anxiety...whichever...and to pretend it isn't a major facet of my personality and my core being, it's merely a clear sign of the ignorance, stigma and embarrassment that this disease causes OTHER people. I have NO shame in being chronically ill. As I've said before, the reason why I'm so open and honest in public about bipolar and addiction is because it HELPS other people, which I firmly believe is God's calling for me to do with my life. 

People who know and love me have suggested I defy what my doctors feel is the right answer for me, medication-wise. My doctors know that while my medications help curb the symptoms of bipolar and anxiety, nothing ever makes it disappear, and while some people who love me say "Get off all those drugs," they don't understand that my brain has an illness which is no different than being diabetic, or epileptic. Would you deny a cancer patient radiation or chemotherapy because of its side effects? Would you tell the diabetic, "Just stop taking your insulin, you don't need it?" An illness of the brain is absolutely no different. My heart races too quickly--I have chronic tachycardia--so I take medication every day for it. Same with my brain. It either races or depresses, or I'm faced with sometimes paralyzing anxiety in certain situations or moods. So I take medication for that too.  

Intimating to me that I shouldn't be on all of the medication I take is like this analogy: A doctor sees his patient who has had both legs amputated.The patient has been going through the hassle and difficulty in getting prosthetic legs, but for now is wheelchair-bound. Me going off of my medications--any of them--is no different than telling the amputee, "I realize and see you have no legs, but you need to get up and walk." 

Others close to me say that if I go to God in prayer for healing and deliverance, He will cure me. I don't think that's true either. While God has the power to heal me, and has certainly seen to it that my rusty old car gets me from point A to point B, He has seen fit for every part of my journey to be daunting and difficult, which has caused me to question God's love for and mercy towards me, which is exactly what Satan wants. 

God made me special and different for His own reasons, and I'm very clear as to why He did that. Most of the time, I just wish He didn't make things SO damn hard to achieve, that He'd keep the "car" maintained longer, and that He'd cut down on the expenses I have to put forth towards owning the car Jesus paid for with his life vs. the shiny, new, easy car that Satan has to offer.

Anyone battling chronic illness will tell you they've tried bargaining with God, praying for a cure, and questioning why God, if He loves us, would let us go through as much crap as we do on a daily basis. It seems as though half the reason why I'll relate to and help so many of my own future patients in due time is because I come from a standpoint of having suffered with mental illness and addiction. If helping people reach their destinations is in the beat-up car, I take comfort that it holds 6 people at a time vs. the car Satan offered the man in my parable, which only holds ME, and while life might look prettier on the outside, it can only go in one direction, and it's always the wrong direction. With the Spirit guiding me, and loving people to help and encourage me in any ways they can, I fail to see how God would let me fail...

I am capable, as God has willed, to endure my many mental diagnoses, because God did indeed promise release and relief for me when I go to Heaven. I am not ashamed of the challenges I have, though people from older generations, or different lines of thinking, wish I could just adopt a better attitude about what's wrong with me and be quiet about it. That it's not that big a deal. I, on the other hand, am and choose to be as open and public about it to indeed help erase the stigma of mental illness, to say "It's ok if your feet are blistered and your clothes tattered. It's ok if you don't feel like walking alone anymore. God has sent me to help you." As Jesus told the man in the story, "You could've come to me sooner. You needn't have walked this far alone." That's also very true. God doesn't inflict upon us injury or illness because we, at some point, did something wrong in our lives. 

Even when we make horrible mistakes on our journey, God shows us mercy, love and forgiveness. We have to learn that "our will" isn't always "His will" and accept life as it's been granted us. Anyone with chronic illness will tell you how they wish "His will" would be different, but it's not. And for a reason. 

I don't even know if my little parable makes any practical sense, but the thought popped into my head on my way home from therapy at Swedish Covenant on Friday, only to find that one of my tires was going flat, which was the week's icing on a very ugly cake that was disintegrating in my hands. Who'd I go to first to get advice? As I am wont to do lately, Pastor Dave. (He's my resident car expert anyway, in addition to being my chief spiritual advisor.) 

I'd just taken my computer in for some expensive repair (due to me being a dumbass), school  for the fall was still being worked out (and isn't yet), and I had Luke's school registration to manage this week. I felt that the Lord gave me more than what I could bear at one moment, but I also didn't pick up a drink, though the temptation was very strong. I talked it out with Kate, to whom I'd sent a desperate email, who helped me immeasurably. I went out with my sponsor from AA on Saturday night after church to talk and help her out w/something of her own. I utilized the resources God has so richly provided me with to keep me on the right course.

I still don't know what's happening with grad school, which is causing me a huge amount of unnecessary anxiety. The leak in my tire is slow and steady, but I can't even afford to get THAT repaired right now, so I keep adding air and God sees fit to spare me, for the moment, and I press forward. It'll all work out the way it's supposed to, that I believe. In the meantime, I am grateful for the support and love of friends and loved ones who have made such a fervent effort to understand and assist me in my journey. 

I continue to pray for patience, for time, and for grace and forgiveness. 

The Stationary Ringo

With the mindset that I have absolutely zero context in which to place this picture of The Beatles, other than it appearing to be between 1965-early 1966, it stands in my collection as The Strangest Beatles Picture Ever.

It's not that I don't *understand* promotional television clips where bands would perform to pre-recorded music and lip sync. But more often than not, said television show would at least set up the band's amps and drum kits and microphones to make it *appear* as if the performance was live.

What the fuck is happening in this picture, exactly?

Also keep in mind that I have zero knowledge of what song The Beatles were "playing," but evidently, it had to be something that didn't at all feature the drums, e.g. "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away" or "And I Love Her," something like that. There's just an otherwise utterly illogical reasoning as to why Ringo Starr is riding a stationary bike. The punching bag in front of George? Bizarre, but ok The barbells between John's feet? Strange, but whatever. But why Starr is riding a stationary bike? I couldn't even begin to guess.

Jesus, make him look like he's doing SOMETHING! Tambourine? Castanets? Maracas? Phony congo banging? The man is riding a bike. I told  Pastor Dave that henceforth, I was ceasing to play the drums in our band and was bringing a stationary bike to the next practice. Hey, whatever keeps time, right?

One classic example of The Beatles not giving Ringo anything percussive to do was in the promo clip for "Paperback Writer." The rest of them are all playing guitars (or pretending to).

Speaking of drum kits, I'm ecstatic to report that my vintage Rogers kit is coming home for good on Tuesday. After a lengthy meeting between my guitarist, the Pastor and I, it was unanimously decided that the electronic piece of shit the church wasted $2500 on is getting the boot. Presumably, for the time being, it'll be stored in the locked room that houses my Rogers Dynasonic snare, its stand, my Zildjian splash cymbal and other hardware that I have no key to access. We're going to try and sell the kit either on eBay or craigslist soon, after Dave and I figure out how to dismantle the fucking thing and drag it downstairs.

When I asked Dave how we were going to dismantle it, he said, "Anything can be dismantled with a big enough hammer." True.But from the looks of the damn thing, we'll also need a couple of screwdrivers.

In any event, it'll be SO refreshing and better for me, as a musician, to actually be able to HEAR myself playing, cocooned in the warmth of my acoustics, surrounded by the tones and beats I'm playing. What's been the hardest since the electronic kit was suddenly thrust upon me, my crappy Tama kit left for dead (I gave it to my brother)? Trying to hear myself play out of a single amp behind me & off to the side, where, if I missed a beat or did something either great or awful, I couldn't tell. If I misfired onto one of the tiny drum pads, you'd hear no sound at all.

Kind of as effective as having the drummer ride a stationary bike..

Ba Ba, The Black Sheep's Black Sheep. And,uh, Sam Waterston.

One of my recommendation letters (out of 4 requests) was completed today, that of my former colleague/supervisor at WKQX-FM, James Van Osdol, who wrote me a glowing letter and emailed it promptly in less than 8 hours' time, emailing me the results. He said I owe him a cookie. I owe him more than that, like my deepest indebted gratitude, and while we haven't seen one another in a long time, I was able to catch him up on my life recently via the medium of Twitter, and trust me, that's a lot to pack into 18 years in 140-character increments, which began a couple of weeks ago over our mutual disdain for anyone (Luke's pet peeve too) who doesn't spell Spider-Man as Spider-Man and reduces it to one word. So thank you again, James. The rest of ya'll? Please. For my sanity. Please. I know you're busy. Deadlines. Manic-depressive. Please.

Luke overtook my computer this afternoon (mistake #1) and while he was doing whatever he was doing, I lied down on my bed (mistake #2). For the next 3 hours, I drifted in and out of consciousness thinking about my son, when he was a toddler, and seeing him sing "Ba, Ba Black Sheep" (which I knew I had on video online somewhere) and walking around our old living room in his footie pajamas with his curly hair. My subconscious also remembered him sitting on the kitchen counter. Like this, where he was no doubt looking quizzically at a VHS tape and wondering why in hell I was making him watch the PBS series "Caillou" in French, given neither his father nor I speak French:

And, while I was drooling on my Curious George this afternoon, I was having bizarre visions of aged actor Sam Waterston (separate story), in the context of a leading romantic role he had in Woody Allen's film, "September," which is one of the few DVD's I have on-hand at my mom's house (mediocre Allen film, Sam looks HAWT!). Having taken 2mg of my anxiety medication this afternoon, warding off acute mania, I guess it kinda knocked me loopy, during which I missed 14 emails. (No, BMF, I'm not going to make it up there tomorrow. There's too much to manage in the virtual world of Burgeoning Grad Student Annie.I step away for 3 hours and the whole world emails me...)

Wracking my brain to think of where online I put the video I had of Luke when he was 2, which is, I guess, my only film capture of him in toddlerhood, I remembered that it was on my defunct myspace (remember that site, kids?). Luckily, it's still active. We had this camera, at the time, and while digital, it could only shoot videos up to 30 seconds in length. I caught Luke on an uncharacteristically immodest day, I guess, for he was normally quite camera-shy at that age. 

What did I long for, ultimately, this afternoon? Peace. Rest. My little boy to be my little, little boy again. And, it would seem, a roll in the hay with Sam Waterston.

I mean, seriously. How brutally hot IS this guy? 

The Parade Of Recent Clusterfuckedness, or My Academic Career Thus Far

Monday:

When I asked on Twitter what I should wear for today's extensive psychiatric evaluation, and what confounding book I should bring along a) for the wait and to b) irritate and disturb this psychologist, I dressed the part but forgot a damn book. Alas, I had a litany of forms to fill out when I got there anyway, and sat alone in the waiting room, when I was looking forward to people-watching some of Maine Township's Resident Loonies, er, fellow patients.I ended up not wearing, against my friend Wampus' advice, bedazzled cullotes and a reading a Glenn Beck book. I chose my t-shirt with a sad-faced snare drum on it that says, "I have a headache."

It was a toss-up of a couple of books I haven't finished, Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason" and Keith Richards' "Life." They both seemed too obvious. I strongly considered my parody book, "Goodnight Keith Moon," but was so busy throwing my evident medicine bottles in my purse, that it slipped my mind.

I had been caught up in getting the veritable gaggle of potential Adler School materials together all weekend, a statement to the school about my intentions/history, and lining up my 3 letters of recommendation. Knox miraculously released my transcript after, I suppose, forgiving the private loan I took out as a student of the college almost 20 years ago, even though I openly said that I still was in possession of their entire Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg collections from Seymour Library. (I'm happy to will them back to the alma mater when I die.) Applied for Federal student financial aid, touched base with Adler today, and am having a helluva time navigating the College of Du Page's website to attempt to sign up for Research Methods, since Oakton requires either a) evidence of mathematical coursework elsewhere (18 years ago!) or taking a math placement test. Me + a math placement test? Um.....no.

Guy Friend's home from his week of Controlled Boredom and is doing one of my letters of recommendation, which he has to do online, save his mustached soul. As is my Abnormal Psych professor and my former Russian Lit professor, who happens to be Kate's husband. Let's go, guys, classes start before you know it!

(Dang, Rabid Remarried Mom is gone. And all these great ecards came out today:)

Putting away the academics for a few hours today, I answered two hours' worth of questions regarding my mental health, during which I actually emerged looking a lot saner than most of the people who walk in the door. Nothing was left to chance in this interview, and I wasn't cocky, well, until SHE TOO, a licensed clinical psychologist, didn't know what NSSI stood for, couldn't spell Estazolam, her computer fucked up & she had to call for backup, couldn't spell Vicodin, and was impressed with how much knowledge I had about all of my mental afflictions. In any event, I tried to not outsmart or snark her to death, since she's trying to get me help, and an appointment with a psychiatrist for med management is slated for September 4th, with a female psychiatrist. I've never seen a female psychiatrist, but I can only hope she's more with it and compassionate than Dr. K was, and understands why I take everything I take, when and how.  Coincidentally, many of their in-resident therapists are Adler students. What a coup! (Though I found great humor in the question, "Do you have any friends?" Um, duh. She should've asked me if I had any enemies. That list is even longer, it would seem.) Why schlep to Swedish Covenant in the city if I can get therapy in my own township, given I was just assigned a new intern (the other one who didn't know what NSSI was) and I could work with interns from the school I want to attend? Meh, I'll address all of that at my September appointment, during which I've been granted a whopping 40 minutes, when a typical psychiatric appointment is 15. I'll have to go monthly for the first few months, as I did with Dr. K, then can spread it out to every 3 months. Beautiful.

Speaking of friends, talked to Kate tonight. If we were Daria and Jane, she'd totally be Jane. I'm perpetually Daria. Except I would never steal Jane's boyfriend away. Kate's back in MA and in ill health, but her delightful giggle on the phone is perpetual, her sharp wit intact, and it's always a delight when the phone rings and it's her, even when the news is less than, er, good, and my friend is suffering. Somehow or another, even when we're both in shitty moods and the world is falling apart, we manage to laugh. That's the mark of a best friend, and I could go on and on about her, but you all already know how much I love Kate.

Nothing ever came of the short, I can only assume was surveillance of my blog after the debacle betwixt Rabid Remarried Mom, her Snippy Daughter, Luke and me. And "the cops." She evidently *didn't* unfriend Luke, so we still get to see a lot of what she posts. Big surprise! To this day, Pastor Dave still hasn't cast me aside and notified me of my reprehensible sins towards this particularly unimaginative, shit-for-brains family. P'Dave and I have texted back and forth several times since RRM's proclamation and he hasn't said boo about anything either I or Luke may have done. Our biggest mutual worry is getting the squabbling singers to become a unified front for the contemporary band, ASAP.

Kind of like gristle in a piece of meat one stumbles upon accidentally, which grosses one out for the remainder of the meal, Rabid Remarried Mom appeared on my intellectual radar last week, and the fight was soon over, with Camp Miklasz/Bechtel the resident heroes. My blogs pointing out the error of her lying ways helped, I'm sure. The last status update she penned regarding the matter HAD to have been ghost-written, because it lacked spelling or grammatical errors. I can only assume. Read: It was intelligible.

Tuesday:

Wow. Woke up at 5:12 am, wished Jordan Zevon a happy birthday, had half a pot of coffee and was totally snoozing by 7:30 am, re-awaking at 10:30 am. The goal for the day? Shower and dress before Luke gets home at 2pm. I'm sure I have more disparaging grad school paperwork to deal with, or is today a declared day off? I'm honestly not sure.

Wow, I spoke too soon. I'm trying to register for this online sociology stats course through the College of Du Page (another community college, for cripe's sake) and there's all this bullshit about math or behavioral science prerequisites. One *can* gain entry via the instructor's permission, so I shot him an email with my recent coursework vitae (my 2 psych classes count towards behavioral science classes) and the fact that I did, in fact, duh, take not only a "How to Take Math" class and got a B+ but also a math class 18 years ago, pass/fail that I passed!  (One also must pass a reading competency test. Jesus H. Christ. No, I don't know how to read. You're, however, exempt from this ridiculous test if you have a BA/BS from an accredited undergraduate institution. Ack. Another transcript request to fill out.) 

I pretty much have to do a class online if I get into Adler so it won't conflict with my graduate coursework. Always a wrench in the system. Aggravating. Some would argue I'm just getting what's coming to me in terms of my aggravation. Thank you. And fuck you.

Absolutely nothing, as it were, is working out today. I'm the one eating the Karma cake, for fucking sure. After Knox told me they'd happily (yesterday) send my transcripts out to the various institutions of note (today including the College of Du Page), the ol' alma mater, "The Harvard of the Midwest," emails me that they can't *get* my transcripts out today because their copier is broken. And apparently, there are no other copiers at the entirety of the Knox College institution. The whole college. No other copiers they could use. That was Glitch A.

Glitch B came later this afternoon, when my karmic wheel came to a complete stop. The Registrar at Knox bitch slapped me with my 20-year old debt of $425.00 that I privately owed the College, which, if it wasn't paid TODAY, my transcripts would be indefinitely held and I'd never get into grad school, ever. Right now, collectively, I have about $15 to my name. My mom, yellingly, begrudgingly, angrily but ultimately lovingly coughed up her credit card (they only, apparently, take MC/Discover/AMEX, otherwise I would've asked my emergency lifesaver w/a Visa) & ripped me Asshole #615 for fucking up the entirety of my young adulthood (my 20's and 30's) yet again, deservedly so. Made the goddamn payment, and Knox said "Thanks!!!!" and said they'd probably release my transcript tomorrow, you know, when the copier gets fixed. 

Glitch C. I'm dizzy with fret, haven't eaten anything since 7am, and am chain smoking, and I haven't even begun my email to Craig about how he needs to pay for Luke's school registration fees next week. Between my mother and I, we handle his tuition, and he gets scholarships, but I have to get over to the school and get all the financial aid nonsense taken care of, at the same time I'm doing my own. Luke's school owes me 3 months' worth of lunch ticket money from last year when they neglected to inform us that Luke qualified for the free lunch program due to my lack of income and I kept paying $35 a month, which they said they'd credit towards his registration fees. 

Craig always complains that if Luke went to the public school, it'd be cheaper, but registration fees for our public district are even higher than that for Luke's school. Camps Miklasz/Bechtel are just BLEEDING money out right now between school, my medication, therapy, medical bills, etc. I have to see if Luke needs pre-school physicals or dental exams, blah blah blah. It's literally more than I can manage by myself with my schooling and its urgency taking seeming precedence. I need Craig's help, and not just his checkbook. I can't do all of this. I'm not manic, but I feel like I'm going to have an utter and complete mental breakdown, citing to my mother earlier that perhaps it'd been best I not, in actuality, survived all this bullshit just to deal with more bullshit piled on top of more bullshit.

I gave Craig a sheet of paper re: my Oakton transcript to be sent to Adler yesterday, that he said he'd fax today. It had my signature on it, a bar code, and everything Adler needed to get my information from Oakton, which I paid for myself. What just bounced back in my email? An "urgent reminder" that this hasn't been taken care of yet. I gave Craig one sheet of paper to please fax for me today. Listen all o'ya'll, this is sabotage.

Wait. It got better. Please, Jesus. Pull me up by my boot straps, man, I'm sinking!

OMFG. OMFFFGGG. Knox just emailed me my "unofficial" transcript. It's really, really not good. Fuckin' bipolar disorder, tomfoolery and "All My Children." I'll say this: Only 24 students in the 1995 January graduating class did *worse* than I did as an undergraduate. I think that "Rite" in Latin means, "You're really, really fucking lucky that we graduated you 'in good standing' given there was no option for a BA/BS in Fucktardery." I realize I'm being too hard on myself, and that I was really sick a lot of that time, but it's still, on paper, veritably awful. 

The Entire Annie Package better very well be SPECFUCKINGTACULAR, for the Adler School, or else I'm screwed. My undergrad grades reflect clearly and definitely a woman who was suffering from severe mental illness. I can pinpoint distinct episodes of major depression or mania just by the reflective grades. Clearly, I'm an intelligent person capable of graduate studies. Clearly, I had some trouble as an undergrad.  But I wrote a bitchin' personal statement, my letters of rec should be really good, and there's always the personal interview and the Oakton GPA. My saving graces, please Lord. 

I didn't do as poorly as I had remembered in studio art, remember where I painted the studio floor with my artwork and was threatened to fail if I didn't paint it over into its natural hue of army green? I got a B! Who knew!? Yet, things like Romantic Lit, in which I'm not terribly interested, while in my major, I got a C-. In fact, most of my English Lit classes were less than stellar. I pulled a B in Russian Lit, because we read books that were hellla good, and while I don't think it worked in my favor that my best friend was the professor's wife, and he's a notoriously tough grader, I managed. God knows why I took Irish History or Genetics (in the hopes I'd some day fall in love with an Irish scientist, perhaps?) because I got D's in both of them. 

My Chicago Arts semester, my final semester of college, off campus? I got a B+ on my Music Criticism independent study, an A- on my Q101 internship (over which I debated with James Van Osdol, my former supervisor today...I was like "You couldn't have given me a straight A? Dude. Was it the Sting promo CD I lifted? Too many smoke breaks? Flirting with The Flaming Lips? Come on!" and he heartily apologized.) I got an A in Music Composing and Recording, though I can't read music, can't write music and am an average drummer, which no one knew at the time. Then there was the mysterious D+ from this really bitchy art prof on "Negotiating the Chicago Art World." Fuck that. I don't remember much about the class itself, other than the "professor" was a real piece of work. Anyway, my graduating GPA remained a mystery, as the unofficial transcript didn't reflect the work that final Semester in the Arts. Up until then, I had a 2.5. Adler sort of requires at least a 3.5 for admission to grad school. My sweet Lord. Perhaps had I been mentally stable at the time, that would've happened. 

Kate called during a crucial time in my wallowing last night, of all reasons, to troubleshoot her laptop, oh which she spilled pop. "Did you shake it upside down?" I asked her. "Yes," she said. "It won't boot up?" I asked. "No," she said. Then I got the idea to spray it with a can of compressed air, which she luckily had. I reminded Kate to put the straw in the shooter, and let her at it. Waiting a couple of minutes and chit chatting, soon thereafter her computer booted up with no problem. Yay, I did something right today!! She cheered me up about my uber-paltry Knox grades and I used what was left of my ingenuity to help her with her computer. "The keys might be a little sticky for a while," I said. Ironically, she'd been trying to look at a picture of Steven's missing tooth at the time. 

Craig finally texted back that he did, in fact, fact the document I asked him to fax. 

Wednesday

I sat at the keyboard trying to finish this last night and at about 10:30 pm, my eyes were closing. For once, which is uncharacteristic of me, I gave in to the sleepiness and put the computer to rest, channeling my Pandora ambient music and falling dead ass asleep as soon as I hit the sheets. I had a lengthy email I was trying to simultaneously respond to whilst finishing the blog, to an old college friend, but just couldn't stay awake. 

Papa Nez wrote a riveting status update last night about having made gazpacho, and happened to throw in there that he, Peter Tork and Micky Dolenz were planning to do a dozen dates in the US in November! Holy crap, it's the Monkees!! It's sad that it took Davy dying to bring Nez out of his Monkees shell, but it's a can't-miss event for sure. Consider it a Christmas present to whomever I can wrangle into buying me a ticket. I know Guy Friend won't want to go...we've already had the Monkees discussion.

Today pretty much has to trump yesterday in positivity. It can't get much worse than yesterday. Errands to run with Luke today, including getting his financial aid forms from his school, running to Walgreens and blowing a buck and a half at Dominicks for a 6-pack of seltzer water. Luke wants to buy his umpteenth deck of playing cards at Walgreens, which is fine with me, as he's using his own money. That's as much as we can afford until pay day tomorrow at Camp Miklasz.

Darn, the police weren't stalking my blog last week when all those strange IP addresses showed up on the tracker. It was a system error on the server end of the blog tracking company, per their email to me. They apologized for the heart attack they nearly gave me. All is well.

Guy Friend texted that he was dizzy reading my bullet points of the events of yesterday, to which I answered that I was, in fact, going into cardiac arrest and while he said he hasn't forgotten about my letter of rec, I urged him to Please! Get! It! Done!

That's all I've got this morning. Could've posted the original of this, my favorite Sebadoh song, but I've just awakened and am feeling hush-hushy. I don't even have the energy yet to edit this entry and bother with it sounding all awesomely-written, like all of my other not-awesomely-written crap. My coffee hasn't kicked in yet. What you saw was what you got.

"I gotta find a way to loosen up. I'm wound tighter than a magnet's coil..." (Oh, Lou, I hear you.)