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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Tuesday, October 8, 2013

thank you for being a friend...

insomnia for me is like a swarm of killer bees.

not just annoying, but frightening.

that ominous building buzz. from far away a mild drone, like the comforting hum of a jet plane engine that lulls you to sleep on a transatlantic flight. white noise as ambien.

but the engine would rev from mild, medium to red hot as i crashed and burned, electronic screams filling my ears; my soul.

withdrawal, the DT's, dope sickness. all euphemisms for what goes up must come down. hard.

in the past, this buzz was my anti-buzz.

i'd take the assigned position.

which was a sweaty child's pose: a) cramped over the toilet, b) fetal in the bath, c) drenched on our memory foam pillow top or d) all of the above.

but last night, it was none of the above.

it was only Mistress Migraine deciding to pay a visit after 3 months off on a meditatively-mandated sabbatical, arm-in-arm with a simply gushing Aunt Flow!

"we're so happy to see you!!!"

[wish i could say the same.]

so this morning, taking the assigned position meant taking up residence for several pre-dawn hours on the couch.

they are always on.

[what is that saying?]

if i threw a dart at the television guide, i would hit an episode of The Golden Girls.

anytime. any station.

and thank god for small favorites.

what a sight for my squinted, swollen eyes.

from underneath my ice-drenched washcloth and through the pungent fumes of Tiger Balm wafting up from my shoulders, as shimmering icy heat, i saw them.

in all their sophomoric, sitcom silliness.

Rose, Blanche, Dorothy and Sophia.

i didn't bother to surf. i knew all i would find would be infomercials and early morning news broadcasts. i was not in the mood to contemplate erasing the fine lines emerging around my eyes like tree rings. not in the mood for any more news about the Republican shutdown or i'll virtually vomit all over Facebook and beyond. and so not in the mood for some histrionic declaration of why "THIS. PRODUCT. WILL. CHANGE. YOUR. LIFE!!!"

nah. it was all coasting from here.

Dorothy. the Dominatrix of comedic timing. slaying us with her triple takes, her deep-throated quips and those sly nods to her perfect imperfect masculinity. the fucking hilarious way she whacks Rose with a newspaper. and oh, isn't it just the best when she slams the door after, "Hi, it's me Stan!"

Blanche. clip, clip, clipping her perma-hotandbothered buttocks all over the lanai. her mules pounding as metronome to her ferociously accelerated sex drive. the train of her bold-80's-patterned, poly-negligee sets, billowing around her from the heat between her "loins" or the wind from the revolving kitchen door of comedic declarations and misunderstandings. and oh, isn't it just the best when she oozes the word "bosoms!"

Rose. The only one who never got lost on those long and winding tales through St. Olaf. her enthusiastic delivery! the pained looks on their faces! and the moral that somehow always made sense around a kitchen table overflowing with junk food and joviality. and oh, isn't it the best when they scream, "Oh, SHUT UP, Rose!"

And Sophia. Picture it. the tales from Sicily. the tales from Shady Pines and the snappy one-liners that brought the house down. "Rose, that's cause you're an idiot!" and "Blanche, that's cause you're a slut!" and "Dorothy can't get a date!" and oh, isn't it just the best when she holds Dorothy's hand and croons, "I love you, Pussycat..."

and cheesecake. lots and lots of cheesecake.

like "Friends" and "Seinfeld", it was lightning in a bottle. the chemistry a potent potion that flew off the shelves of television's apothecary. a fountain-of-youth like elixir we drank, delivering bright eyes, light hearts and that warm and fuzzy feeling as we snorted and snickered over lines we'll forever quote.

after 2 episodes, i dragged my heavy head and shoulders back to bed, the washcloth dripping down my back, the Tiger Balm fumes stripping my nostrils raw. and as the freeway kick started into the rush of morning, my head still screamed in pain, but the ringing had changed.

from buzzing to laughter.

not canned sitcom laughter, but the real thing.


most of the time, when i look in "The Box" there ain't nothin' but dark.

and sometimes when i look, it's bright, shiny.


thank you for being a friend.

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