Woke up around noon and due to the warm, pounding rain outside the window, stayed in bed with Tessa until 2pm which always makes for a bad blog entry, I'd imagine. It almost seemed unfair to have to go to the city at 8pm to meet Ben Feldman, Andrew Cohen and an assortment of guests for dinner – I mean, we'd just gotten up.
It was one of those New York nights, with both townie and B&T chicks and dudes with their usual nightwear and expensive shoes clanking down wet sidewalks in the Village. We ate at Jane, a place Tessa half-jokingly referred to as "important," where I accidentally got the worst thing on the menu (some fish I didn't recognize). Being a schlub is sometimes the only thing keeping me honest.
The Celextant, April 20, 2002
There's a weird buzz going about my brain, imperceptibly higher than yesterday or the days before, something of a white, high-intensity feeling that is the emotional equivalent of turning the "tint" button on the TV slightly too high. It's a little stronger outside when the light is brighter, but it's never noticeably unpleasant. And it's not altogether visual. It feels a little like the sheen you get before those "zaps" that occur when you're coming off Prozac, even though I know those little seizures aren't imminent.
Well, I have to describe it, right? What the hell is the Celextant for, anyway? All this to say, I'm feeling pretty good. It's a better experience than Prozac, seemingly a little more delicate, although I admit I'm only ten days in.
Kent mentioned that this site domain name looks a lot like a Christian (Xian) or some XTC-raver-christian-based deal, and I have to say he's probably right. Nothing's a bigger turn-off than being on the God Squad, but then again, a few sentences of my drippingly sarcastic prose and all thoughts of Jesus would probably evaporate into ether. Which reminds me of the bracelet I want, one that says "WWDLD" for "What Would the Dalai Lama Do?"
Of course, the Dalai Lama is currently battling stomach cancer or something equally distressing thus canceling this weekend's Radio City Music Hall show. I would like to have gone – Tessa even tried to buy tickets, and I was prepared to spend the weekend in various states of uncomfortability. That's the problem with being a Buddhist; they offer very little lumbar support.
I had my first real shrink appointment today with Dr. Bloch, a very intelligent guy who lives, no lie, 2000 feet from my apartment. He's proactive and insightful, and worth the $115 it costs each time I go besides, what price can you put on your own sanity? We talked about family, dorkdom, terrorism, psychopharmacology and the Chaos Theory. I like him.
Later on we went into the city and watched the "film out" from a post-production company vying to be our dudes for the Pink House movie. It was a terrific disappointment, and we've basically decided to go with the first company we tested, even though they make the interim Afghan government look organized. It's just that you have to go with the best quality of craftmanship, I mean, you totally owe it to your audience. Sure, they don't have a Coke machine and they use carrier pigeons and shit, but their footage is beautiful.
After a tornado-like squall swept through the city (causing Chopin to try and crawl his way into my womb, since Tessa wasn't around) we saw Enigma at Broadway and 19th, where a casually A-minus time was had by all!
The Celextant, April 19, 2002
Dr. Bloch recommended a psychiatrist today who, by the time I talked to her on the cell phone, already knew I was taking Celexa on the down-low. I think I have residual guilt about taking anyone else's medications, and my Prozac ordeal of 1998 was certainly not smiled upon by the health professionals in the know, but a man's gotta take care of business, is what I say. Bloch reiterated the fact that therapy + medicine > therapy or medicine alone. As for the Celexa, I am feeling a very small low-level buzz, almost so small to be imperceptible to all those who don't possess my gargantuan control issues.
It's hard for me to type right now because I just finished a 3-hour basketball marathon on Mulberry Street, in a gym that was at least 95 degrees with no breeze whatsoever. I played moderately well considering my absence from the "running game" for a month, but I did jam my thumb into someone's back so hard that I can scarcely move it now. Still, the games were great, and we all retreated into this heatstroke-addled haze, playing confusingly well even as we sweated months of winter liquid out of our bodies.
We had a staff meeting for The Pink House today that raced along at a brisk clip; Kim Ludlow has to be one of the more efficient people I know, her skills forged in the dungeons of Microsoft. We're planning to have an Animation Brainstorm Meeting on Sunday, and I have every expectation that it will also be a tight ship; that is, unless the animators turn out to be oogly-woogly and don't play well with each other. It may be hard for people who normally sweat their craft alone to be thrust in a room full of slightly different versions of themselves, I don't know. In music, it usually turns out great. Violinists, even the truly dorky ones, like nothing better than to play in quartets.
The Chix of Asset all went to see Voices on the Verge tonight whilst I was at hoops, but I met up with Erin McKeown, her manager Emily, and Tessa at Molly's (3rd and 22nd) where we gossiped and held forth about issues generational and musical. I feel blessed to be in the company of such strong, talented women and thanks to to my own mom, raised by one as well.
The Celextant, April 18, 2002
I wonder if headaches are a common occurrence in the early days of a new SSRI; the last few have been fuckin' doozies. I'm finding that I'm still able to think about some pretty awful things, but I'm a little less able to worry as much about them. Probably 28% less worry, which is a nice edge off.
God, I hate all our utilities (except Con Edison, who seem like honest guys and our bill is only $13). Verizon, who reside in the 9th circle of horseshit along with Time Warner Cable, have a technological standard that doesn't allow you to send email unless YOU USE THEIR EMAIL ADDRESS in the From: line. In other words, you have to give up your old email address and use the one they give you, which in my case, is something like vggt56gvhhvgth@verizon.net. After spending all morning on the phones verifying that they were indeed that awful, I wholesale switched over to Earthlink's DSL service, which I should have done all along. Earthlink was nice, as they have been since 1995 Verizon answers every call with the detached insouciance of the warden who takes all your stuff from your pockets when you go to jail.
In the afternoon, we grabbed the Land Rover (which still has the CHECK ENGINE SOON light on, even after Tessa spent $1.3 million on fixing it) and got Chopes from the New York Dog Spa & Hotel, where he emerged with his usual mixture of effervescence and crankiness. We took both dog and car to a Pink House music meeting that began well, but then devolved into a bit of a philosophical mess.
Afterwards, we took Michelle to Haveli on 2nd Avenue, which - by my esteemed estimation - is the best Indian food in the East Village. We spoke of Dad, Mom, Napa, Mountain View, and all the delightful memories in between. I'm becoming mindful of the limitations I have with this blog, assuming anyone bothers to read it - it's not quite a diary (which is private, intimate, and because of its lack of publication, somewhat quixotic) and it's not quite a newsletter. The internet always seems to hover in the liminal, never achieving true intimacy yet always hinting at it. It may be the biggest technological tease ever.
Oh yes, saw "Kissing Jessica Stein" tonight with Tessa, which I thought had an uneven ending and some groaners but was overall pretty damned satisfying. Tessa dug it wholeheartedly, but then again she's bisexual and half her friends were in it. Maybe I should make a movie called "The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me."
Shit, that's already been done.
The Celextant, April 17, 2002
I was informed by the fine folks at the Mr. Henry mail list, Michaela Murphy in particular, that Effexor was the drug for her. The website sure looks promising too, but then again, I'm a sucker for a good Flash interface. Could it be Celexa has a big brother that works better? Then do I re-name this section "The Effextant"? Either way, I am feeling a dull sort of goodness around me. Something's working, which is better than spirals of anxious misery, I guess.
I did two of my least favorite things today: got up nightmarishly early and spent the day on a plane. Apart from turbulence rocking us around from Nebraska to Ohio, the Xanax took care of most of my worries, and I ended up watching "Animal Planet" for the better part of three hours. At least until "Celebrity Pets" came on fuck if I'm going to watch everyone fawn over their poodles. Why can't rich people have Labs?
When we got home, it was 9pm and there went the day. Still, it's balmy here in Brooklyn, about 70 degrees even in the middle of the night, and I'm getting that familiar sense of what it's like to be hot. Up until recently, I always thought of winter really meaning three months, but here it means seven. It begs the question: why does anyone live in Duluth, Minnesota? I mean, besides family ties and gainful employment? Why did we live in Cedar Rapids, Iowa for so many years? And yet we did.
I mean, Napa Valley isn't all that expensive, and the town of Napa itself is hardly full, you know? It has the same population as Eau Claire, and yet in Napa you get a bit of culture and it's only bad weather for a month. Living in Brooklyn (or Columbia County, for that matter) makes sense culturally, but nowhere above the 35th parallel really does. I don't get the perverse nature of humans when it comes to their environment. At least I'm honest; whenever people asked me why I lived in Chapel Hill for so many years, "the weather" was always 3rd on the list.
The Celextant, April 16, 2002
I didn't take my pill until the middle of the night because I was a little afraid of Xanax + Celexa = ? and I was afraid it might have amped me up instead of letting me be comatose. That said, I feel wonderful to be in Brooklyn. But could it be the weather?
Jesus, a whole blog about the weather. I've got to do better than this.
I had a tooth made (to replace a crown) at some point last year in Napa Valley, and since I couldn't wait two weeks for the thing to be molded out of ceramic, the dentist said he'd mail the tooth to New York, where another dentist could affix it to my mouth. Of course, they sent the tooth to the wrong place, where it was forwarded to Skillgames at the Woolworth Building (vacated since 9/11), then forwarded up to Skillgames' parent company in Connecticut, who found an old home address and sent it to Scott's place in Durham, NC. I happened to pick it up there, drove it to New York, then flew with it to Napa Valley last week. Most people don't let their teeth travel that far outside of them before they start getting used for food and language, but I thought this tooth should see a bit of the world first.
The Celextant, April 15, 2002
I have the kind of headache that would fell lesser men. It feels like a hangover, kind of buzzy and awful. As with everything, I now ask: "Is it the drug? Or am I just not very well put together?"
I know it's rough and all, but I got another massage at Meadowood today. It's not so much that I'm taking advantage of Tessa's free week there I am – but I've done something in the last few days to my back that has set it at about Defcon 3 and it needed some defusing. The man giving the "deep tissue" treatment stuck his hand into my back and twanged the muscles like he was playing a fuckin' banjo. By the time I got out of there, I felt like I'd been mangled by a cheese grater.
After eating another meal at Taylor's (my 2nd fave take-out place in America next to, of course, the Verti Marte in New Orleans) we went to Syd Greer's house to talk about her new art program for kids, called Artspring. Instead, her husband joined us and we ended up talking about their son Andy, who is obviously a brilliant visual artist, obviously a great musician, and being in fifth grade, obviously gets the shit beat out of him on a weekly basis. I told them some of my horror stories, and the husband seemed genuinely appreciative that someone understood just how horrible boys can be to one another. Andy had just come back from a sleepover (fun!) but of course, some brilliant bon homme had painted a jaunty moustache on him while he was sleeping (a pre-cursor to the Dirty Juanita). Last Wednesday a bunch of the kids tried to force him to eat mud. I have half a mind to walk him to school, sit behind him in class, and beat the living shit out of anyone who comes near him at recess. Of course, he'll grow up to be nationally-revered performance artist, but in the meantime, we all need a bodyguard, right?
The Celextant, April 14, 2002
Had trouble, um, shall we say, "finishing the deal" with my beloved this morning. Had no problem "starting the deal," just "finishing" it. Is it the drug, or is it the morning biorhythm? And could it be working that quickly?
I'm wondering how Celexa mixes with Xanax and a bourbon & ginger. They're going to have to put me in an autoclave when I get off the plane.
After a nasty little encounter with the Meadowood staff concerning our "incidentals" (croquet lessons, the Toblerone candy bar I ate, the tennis balls) we dropped by Dad's place to walk their just-this-side-of-feral dog Dolce, who neither pooped nor peed in what I can imagine is a rare trip outside. The dog apparently isn't bright enough to avoid poison ivy, then tracks it inside to infect everybody. She also doesn't "sit," "stay" or understand "no," but I guess some dogs are late bloomers, eh?
By 3pm we made it to Summer Burkes' place in San Francisco, where she played Tessa the "Stick You" song she wrote for Daphne and Celeste, as well as a new one that talks about "shaking your ta-ta's." I love Summer. She's the only person who digs on unconscious brotherhoods as much as I do. She took us to a barbeque where Archers of Loaf posters were on the wall and Smiths wailed from the Mac G4. I thought, "truly, I am home here."
Tessa and I ate at Betelnut, one of my fave restaurants in America, then walked around the Marina, stopping at bookstore helmed by two cute ladies listening to "Reminiscing" by the Little River Band, petting a 19-year-old cat. I thought, "truly, I am home here."
Then we trucked over to Berkeley to see Seth and a couple of his girlfriends. I'd never been on the campus before, and though I appreciated the stateliness, it was no Chapel Hill. It felt strange to be walking around the only hotbed of liberalism left on academic lawns; signs for pro-Palestinian rallies littered the walkways. Seth, being Jewish and a little skittish, admitted to being a little freaked out by it all.
The Celextant, April 13, 2002
Could there be a slight change in my biochemistry? I admit to a slight feeling of giddiness tonight as we walked around both San Fran and Berkeley, a little like being on a buzz. I know I like the area and all, but I felt a little amped. I hope this feeling can carry me through the flight home.
I thought of the land that Celexa would take me to: Seratonia.