Tuesday wrap-up

- No matter what happens in the world, I think we can all take solace in the fact that somewhere out there, a truly hot person thinks you’re hot for no apparent reason. I firmly believe that.

- I love people on Prozac. I really do. There used to be a dude who came to the coffee shop I worked at, an older dude named Bill, and he would tell these crazy stories about working for the mob and killing people and all that. They were pretty insane. And he would sum up these stories by saying, “But now I’m on Prozac and everything is better.” Also, sometimes he would say, “I still think about killing people, but now I don’t have to.” How’s that for a slogan, Prozac? When you’d ask how he was doing he’d say, without fail, “Top Shelf” or “Any better and I’d have to take something for it.” But he was taking something for it. Prozac.

Not too long ago, I went to my God-daughter’s birthday party and someone asked if I still hated my job (yep) and I said something about it being depressing. A woman who I’d just met sprang up (literally ‘sprang’ out of her seat) and asked if I was on Prozac. Nope, said I, and she went on to extol the virtues of it in animated fashion. I tell ya, it almost made me go out and get a prescription. There was a definite air of “the treacherous waters in my soul are being held at bay by a tiny pill” about her.

But here’s the thing about me: I don’t like being doped up. I don’t like not being completely present, no matter how unhappy I am. I’ll drink, sure, and that takes some of the edge off of me, but I’m still on the ride. I’m fairly cognoscente of what’s going on. Most drugs I’ve taken make me feel removed from the situation, like those late night convenience stores with the bullet proof plexi-glass barrier. Everything is all murky and it’s hard to hear them in there, but inside is a person trying to find your Cheetos or figure out what Cheerwine is. That’s what I feel like on drugs. I totally believe in chemical imbalances (believe me, I TOTALLY believe in them; I’m not a scientologist or anything), I just don’t think, if I’m disappointed in the choices I’ve made with my life, it’s a lack of certain chemicals in my brain that’s making that happen. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to happy with my life. So, if I’m actually going to be content with myself and my life, I don’t want it to be because the receptors in my brain have cut off my ‘discontent valve’ and are pouring on the happy. I’d rather it be because I’ve looked at my life and fixed the things that were driving me insane about it. Now if my reasoning for being unhappy seemed unrealistic (like Bill at the coffee shop wanting to kill people), then I’d say “bring on the meds!” I’ll keep you posted.

- Watched one of my favorite boxers get destroyed by another of my favorite boxers this weekend. Sad to watch. I don’t think there’s any sport that shows when an athlete has dropped off more dramatically than boxing. In football and baseball, as a player ages, you say, ‘well, he’s lost a step here and there’ but they still find ways to use the person effectively until they don’t renew their contract or whatever. Same for tennis and sports of that nature. The athlete just isn’t quite as fast as they once were. But in boxing, when a guy falls off, he falls hard, and you see just how far they’ve fallen written all over their faces in bruises and cuts and swelling. Boy, Oscar De La Hoya got his ass handed to him. He could not throw an effective punch to save his face. It doesn’t help that Oscar is only a year older than I am and, in boxing terms, is considered washed up. Still, when all is said and done, he’ll probably make about 35 million dollars (or more) for that hellacious ass whipping. And that’s net, baby, not gross. I imagine folks like you and I will take bigger ass whippings (emotionally and metaphysically) over our lifetimes for a lot less money than that. Still, thanks for the memories Oscar, now go home and enjoy your money and your wife and your kids.