Feeling and Not Feeling So Much

Our Metro Detroit radio station’s morning DJ has apparently signed a sweet deal with Healthy Trim because this is the third month in a row he has pretended to use their diet pill. Every week is a new scenario slid into their casual dialogue about how full it kept him, how many pounds he has lost and how much of a miracle the drug is – always followed by plugging the URL and 30-day guarantee.

I’ve seen photos of DJ Mojo who “has lost over 30 pounds” and it looks like he weighs over 300 pounds; the guy has at least 30 pounds of water to shed before he even gets to the fat on his ass.

It was bad enough that every other song was either “Boom boom boom” or “tonight’s gonna be a good night…” but now the absurd bullshit is carrying over into what is supposed to be genuine information. I guess that’s the nature of a pop station, though, in the criss-crossing lines of temporary, artificial joy. Everything is sugarcoated, swallowed quickly and eventually thrown out.

Pop is catchy. Pop moves treadmill belts. Pop is yummy, but pop can feel empty.

Bruce Springsteen, one my favorite singer/songwriters, has explained how his single “Radio Nowhere” comes from the ideas and sounds of fantasy. He said that the scenario, lyrically, wasn’t literal and that it was recorded with intentional aim at the pop genre by tweaking his natural folksinger tone and adding other techniques such as the fade-out.

“Radio Nowhere” is special to me because it conjures the image of a rock and roll hero, a source of quality, drifting across an ocean of airwaves in search of some other sound with content. My dad has looked lost, unable to adapt in the evolution of music, having heard his favorite oldies so many times that it seemed he was running out of songs to listen to. And every year I wait for that small, special amount to skim off from a ton of noise and blah, oftentimes wondering if I’m tuning in or tuning out.

I was spinning round a dead dial

Just another lost number in a file

Trying to find my way home

But all I heard was a drone

This is Radio Nowhere…

Is there anybody alive out there?

Perhaps the secret in enough Healthy Trim tablets is the ability to suppress individual taste.<!–[if !supportEmptyParas]–>


Sometimes you just have to buy stuff.

I love shopping.

First of all, I got a bunch of new clothes for the change in season and my teller forgot to ring up my fall jacket. I knew I’d saved a lot of money but I had no idea that over $100 of it was due to negligence until I was out of town, evaluating my receipt. Honestly, I’m glad that the mistake worked out in my favor because I had recently slid my credit card for some Xmas additions:

which I prepared My Guy for as soon as he walked through the front door.

"Guess what!"
"You ordered pizza!"
"…no! I got us a little santa."
(looking up and over) "He’s not exactly little."

But for now I’m sporting the spooky stuff. Halloween USA is selling some pretty white roses decorated with blood splatter. Makes the table look spirited.

And with the Prezzy Euphoria on high, I’m off to finish the week’s chores. I took this upcoming Friday off for a 3 day weekend with no plans. Can’t wait! Hope everyone is well.

And Back Again

Looking at the landscape photos I took of home, longingly, all teary-eyed, I had to remind myself that the beauty of it – the endless silence, the isolation from common chaos – did not include the key to growing stronger or getting farther. As much as I’d like to be back there right this second, feeling the breeze, getting lost in an impossible amount of field and forest, it does not see me through my troubles to the other side. That same land was, at one time, limited and frustrating.

Besides, I can go back there for a visit or a walk whenever I have the chance. For right now, in this period, it’s still all there.

And here I am. My brain has been firing a bit more brightly, as of late. In between bounces of the tennis ball, before my serve, rubber soles rolling over the court, there is a simple voice-over accompanying my view of the net’s other side:


Bounce, catch. Bounce, catch. Dream.

I’m sitting on the couch, trying to explain to My Guy that I don’t know what makes my brain switch sides, but that I want to stay this person for as long as I can, because I’m happier when I’m in this mind frame


It seems that the decisions I make, the answers I give and the things I weigh – they alternate. They follow my mood or my mood follows them and it’s like two separate circuits inside that can never be running simultaneously. One mode has more energy, the other one is much harder to offend. One is more creative, the other is stubborn.

The last time I sat down to write was months ago, over half a year, when I was unable to sleep. I wrote about two pages that rambled on in conversation with myself as if there were two people talking. The screen was blinding, I was strung out, and it was short-lived. I can’t remember where I ended up in theory but the passage was unsaved, abandoned the moment sleep caught up with me. I disapproved of the material’s quality and, in retrospect, woke up the next day feeling as though I had switched over to a simpler, more sedated self.

My dreams are like stale peeps, I thought, returning My Guy’s serve. I don’t always think while I’m actively focused on something else. A few puddles on the court, a crack running down the center, new shoes getting old fast and stale peeps. Stale peeps floating in the pool next to us, on the other side of the fence, closed for the season.

Man, that’s shit. ‘Stale peeps’ is all you got? Backhand. In, over, forehand. Out.

Turn over a peep and you might win a prize.

It made sense, though. Not everyone would still care for them, these dreams that have been kicking around. I’ve had a few of em for a while, now. But suddenly, they seem new. A little different. Remembered.

One thing that I, personally, know about stale peeps – and I thought this with confidence as the point drove home with my ball – is that they’re awfully damn good.