Howard, Brian and Me

Wash four distinct and separate times, using lots of

lather each time from individual bars of soap.

-Howard Hughes

The only reason I'd ever get a sex change operation is

to see what it's like to be right all the time.

-Brian Wilson

It just amazes me that in this day and age one can live

virtually (pun intended) free of any interference from the outside world.

Modern technology is so cool.

-K. Goorabian

Got a new computer today. The old one was getting too slow and as a writer or porn star, you’re only as good as your tools. Am I right? I also deposited a check from my iPhone for the first time today. I consider it fortunate that I hadn’t discovered these modern conveniences earlier.  Having an itty-bitty (my wife is shaking her head) problem with anxiety, had I been brave enough to explore these new technological marvels on my own I surely would still be hiding in my man-cave, shades drawn, marathon binging America’s Next Top Model with a Little Caesar’s pepperoni pizza (ordered on-line of course) perched precariously on my chubby little belly.

Ah, but fate in the form of a lovey lassie (wife, not the dog) intervened, which is a good thing. My therapist said I was about a year away from becoming a less rich and infinitely less interesting Howard Hughes. I disagreed. After all, I cut my nails and hair on a regular basis and had never made a bad B-Movie. In fact, I considered myself more of a better looking, though not even close to as talented and slightly less crazy Brian Wilson kinda guy. I even briefly flirted with the idea of having artificial grass installed under my computer desk. Sand is way too messy and eventually ends up in the most irritating and embarrassing places. Maybe this is what drove Brian crazy. Just a thought.

Anxiety isn’t so bad though. Through the years it’s kept me from doing a lot of stupid things; like buying a new BMW I probably wouldn’t drive with my first royalty check. Although, having a vintage Beemer with no miles on it might fetch a few dollars. I have enough things I don’t use in the garage already.

I am, thanks to my wife, coming around. I now have a part-time job. I’ve also said goodbye to my therapist, but cling doggedly to my psychiatrist due to the fact she has my best interests at heart and is in control of the prescription pad. She’s a pretty good doctor. Well, except for making me take a drug test because of my incessant use of the word “eat” when talking about my meds. Doesn’t everyone eat their pills? Oh well, I am a product of the ‘60s. I blame the culture. I still get misty eyed when I see a pair of bell bottoms.

Life is good. My waistline is way less than my age, and I have a fabulous wife. All in all, I’m grateful to just be alive and not playing in a country band.

Yet.

K.G.

Skinny Jeans, Macramé and Gummy Worms

I’m kind of excited and anxious this morning. This isn't

too surprising. After all, it’s my first day on the new job, and I haven’t worked in quite a while. Okay, it’s been 5 or 6 years, but who’s counting? A power trio of mental health professionals (therapist, psychiatrist and wife) felt it was necessary for me to get out of the house on a regular basis.

Reasons included:

Pasty complexion due to lack of exposure to the sun made it possible for me to successfully hide from guests by lying on the bathroom floor, thus blending in with snow white tile.  

I had run out of things to say to the chair, the lamp, and the empty macramé plant hanger on the back porch, which was only spoken to on the rare occasion when the lamp and chair were being pissy. I mean, come on, I’m not crazy.

Thirdly, they suggested that meeting strange new people would give me ample material for my writing, which definitely struck a chord. I believe it was a B♭, but don’t take that to the bank. I’m a C♯ kinda guy for sure.

After spending a couple of hours deciding on what to wear, I went with a new pair of skinny jeans, a mandatory “collared” black Polo shirt (does anyone that’s not a golfer look good in these? I think not) and black Converse sneakers. What I call business snazz-ual.

For lunch I chose a simple roasted chicken sandwich on sourdough (I know it’s not healthy, but wheat bread tastes like the cardboard tube from a roll of toilet paper), an orange, and raw almonds (wife snuck in), an individual-sized package of Pringles (I snuck in), a granola bar, and a bottle of water. I wanted to bring a bag of sour gummy worms to share with the other ki… eh… my coworkers, but wife vetoed that; along with dropping me off at the front door. Her reason being all the other employees drove themselves and they might tease me if they saw her, but I think she’s just too lazy to get up.

I must admit it feels pretty good to have somewhere to go in the morning besides the bathroom. And all the new things I have to remember like my locker combination and what time lunch is and stuff will keep my brain sharp. Best of all, my boss said she might let me drive a forklift.

Well, not right away, but I do get to walk in front with the two colored flags like the airport guys.  But I will someday drive the forklift. A guy has to have goals.

K.G.

Fungi, Clowns and Crazy

I had my first visit to a psychiatrist today. And no, I am not crazy unless you count the time I left the house wearing a pair of red jeans and brown tee with a mushroom on the front that said “I’m a Fungi.” I say it was a fashion statement and I’m sticking to it.

My therapist thought a second opinion (and possibly some chemical enhancement) might not be a bad idea.  Then again, she was the one who determined I was an “External Processor” which was about $1,000 worth of “You talk too much.” My wife could have told her that in the first 5 minutes and saved me a bundle.

I did my best to convince her there was nothing wrong with me because there’s a lot of stigma attached to seeking professional help. I mean, who wants to admit they’re two nuggets short of a Happy Meal? Not to say I am, but there may be a connection between this duo of missing nuggets and my fear of people with over-sized shoes and bright red hair. Perhaps a professional could help me sort this out.

Also one must count the cost. For $350 (doctor’s initial visit) I could buy 35 of every item on McDonald’s value menu and make lifetime friends out of every “will work for food” guy within a twenty-mile radius. Okay, that is a little crazy, but I was just spitballing.

Things I’ve learned:

•   The more you try to convince someone you’re not crazy, the crazier you sound.

•   Sitting down on a couch in a psychiatrist’s office and exposing your mental foibles to a complete stranger is no different than the crazy homeless guy who walks around town asking for spare change while carrying on a conversation with Abraham Lincoln. Neither of us will get the answers we seek, but he'll make a few bucks while I'll have to forfeit my daily Starbucks latte for three months.

•   There are worse things than being a few neurons short of normal. I could be Justin Bieber’s mom or Rob Kardashian.

K.G.