I Can Feel Bad All By Myself

Q

uestion to my at-the-time girlfriend:  “Ever get into a foggy funk, and for just a moment, you have to question  whether you actually exist?  (Am I actually in my car driving along a rainy two-lane stretch of road on my way to…where was I going…the Post Office?)  You know what I mean?   

    

    Answer:  “Yeah… but not during sex.  Jesus.”

    I’m a spacy person.  If I push myself physically when the viscera aren’t right, strange things can happen.  Once, in a tennis tournament, foam began to appear around my mouth.  (That’s as good a time as any to stop.)  And when you’re still sweating 90 minutes after the match is over, something’s not quite right.  I like to exercise, and I like to sweat, but the latter without the former?  

    Growing up in the ‘70s  and early ‘80s I naturally tried some substances, but my physical make-up has always prevented me from turning  any one of them into a habit, at least for any extended period of time.  The stomach trouble acts as a governor, a safety valve, so  becoming addicted to anything just doesn’t happen.  I simply have too many days where I don’t feel like partaking.  “I’m good, thanks.” 

    Which is not to say that I haven’t still gotten carried away at times and had my brushes with disaster.    The combination of a little alcohol, a little weed and very little oxygen causes me to check out.  You know, theaters and concert halls tend to have low oxygen levels.  One minute I’m taking in the music, and the next thing I know my underwear is wet and people are yelling down, “You missed ‘Every Breath You Take.’”  “Damn.  Did I miss ‘Canary in a Coalmine’?”  “Dude, you are the canary in the coalmine.” 

           

    Call me the anti-Artie Lange.  Apparently I’m not cut out for high times down front at the show.  “One pill makes you nauseous, and one pill makes you fall…”

    Breaking SAG news:  In the category of Best Documentary Film, strong support for The Tennis Whisperer, in which Roger Federer teaches  Sharapova and Azarenka how to strike the ball without shrieking.  It will tug at your heartstrings as the ball comes off the racquet strings.  And we learn that Maria's favorite band is (what else?) Shriekback.