According to my local meteorologist and the thermostat I spy out my kitchen window, it is 16 degrees Fahrenheit, with a wind chill factor of negative 1. A temperature deficit. My little New England town owes the universe (and me) warmth. Dreadful. Simply awful. Bitter cold. I understand why we (we as in Californians, distancing myself as far as possible from the lunatics who chose to stay here) packed up and headed West. The Donners have room in their party? Scoot over Suzie! Global warming? If you see a woman arrested for releasing massive amounts of ozone depleting toxins into the air via household products, that will be me. Greenpeace be damned! It is fucking cold.

10 Famous Insomniacs

1. MARLENE DIETRICH, actress

Dietrich said that the only thing that lulled her to sleep was a sardine-and-onion sandwich on rye.

2. AMY LOWELL, poet

Whenever she stayed in a hotel, Lowell would hire five rooms - one
to sleep in, and empty rooms above, below, and on either side, in order
to guarantee quiet.

3. W.C. FIELDS, actor

The aging Fields resorted to unusual methods to go to sleep. He
would stretch out in a barber’s chair (he had always enjoyed getting
haircuts) with towels wrapped around him, until he felt drowsy.
Sometimes he could only get to sleep by stretching out on his pool
table. On his worst nights, he could only fall asleep under a beach
umbrella being sprinkled by a garden hose. He told a friend that
`somehow a moratorium is declared on all my troubles when it is
raining’.

4. ALEXANDRE DUMAS, author

Dumas suffered from terrible insomnia, and after trying many
remedies, he was advised by a famous doctor to get out of bed when he
couldn’t sleep. He began to take late-night strolls, and eventually
started to sleep through the night.

5. JUDY GARLAND, actress

As a teenager, Garland was prescribed amphetamines to control her
weight. As the years went by she took so many that she sometimes stayed
up three or four days running. She added sleeping pills to her regime,
and her insomnia and addiction increased. She eventually died of a drug
overdose.

6. TALLULAH BANKHEAD, actress

Bankhead suffered from severe insomnia. She hired young homosexual
`caddies’ to keep her company, and one of their most important duties
was to hold her hand until she drifted off to sleep.

7. FRANZ KAFKA, author

Kafka, miserable with insomnia, kept a diary detailing his
suffering. For October 2, 1911, he wrote, `Sleepless night. The third
in a row. I fall asleep soundly, but after an hour I wake up, as though
I had laid my head in the wrong hole.’

8. THEODORE ROOSEVELT, US president

His insomnia cure was a shot of cognac in a glass of milk.

9. GROUCHO MARX, comic actor

Marx first began to have insomnia when the stock market crashed in
1929 and he lost $240,000 in 48 hours. When he couldn’t sleep, he would
phone people up in the middle of the night and insult them.

10. MARK TWAIN, author

An irritable insomniac, Twain once threw a pillow at the window of
his bedroom while he was a guest in a friend’s house. When the
satisfying crash let in what he thought was fresh air, he fell asleep
at last. In the morning he discovered that he had broken a
glass-enclosed bookcase.

from The Book of Lists: The Original Compendium of Curious Information

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Unless you have a child, a medical condition, or are on the run, planning to hide out in the woods for the next 10 years, and don’t want to risk a pit stop in baggage claim, you’re not going to need it on the plane. Gravity may not be everything Einstein said it was but it’s enough to bring all that shit down on top of your head as “contents in the overhead compartments may shift during flight.” Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as Karma, because it’s never the head of the over-packer that gets walloped but some poor light-packing bystander with nothing to retrieve that just happens to be seated beneath the compartment used by said over-packer.

Americans are famous for creating stupid laws. We love to criminalize things which were already a crime; our version of Super Size Me law,The Double Big Mac of justice. Why don’t we take our stupidity a step further and create laws that are not only stupid and unjust but enforce the kind sadistic Karmic retribution we all secretly wish for. When the over-packer’s luggage brains a fellow passenger, the victim should be allowed to choose a small but sufficiently humiliating and immediately enforceable punishment, like making Mr. Over-packer wear his tightie whities over his pants until he leaves the airport, signaling to everyone that he’s an inconsiderate prick who wounded a fellow passenger. It’s pedestrian, juvenile, and perfectly suited to America’s seemingly insatiable desire toss fellow citizens in prison or watch them demean themselves by eating bugs and swapping wives on reality TV. Think of it as Lord of the Flies lite. We won’t beat you to death but for about 90 minutes of your life, as you wait for your other luggage, you’ll wish we had.

It’s 3:59 a.m., so unofficially I have one more useless hour of dreary, isolating, haunting, and annoying insomnia left. At 5:00 a.m. (again, unofficially) people will begin to wake up and start baking baked goods, brewing brewables (no - that’s not a real word), delivering deliverables, etcetera, etcetera. My point is, other people will be up, so I will no longer be up too late. After 5:00 a.m., I will be up too early.

When one can’t sleep, it’s important to use the time wisely, and when that fails, have a backup plan that won’t be too taxing on your sleep-deprived brain. Surfing the Internet was made by insomniacs FOR insomniacs. Can you think of another reason the word “surf” was chosen to describe perusing websites? It’s because around 3 or 4 a.m., on day 2 or 3 of a particularly bad bout of insomnia, you begin to hallucinate, and I imagine staring at a monitor for endless hours felt a little “wavy” after a while. Surf’s up, dude. More like surf’s up you delusional sleep deprived swivel chair jockey. Take a nap!

Yes, Kettle, Pot, Black, blah blah…

Well. That little rant wasted 18 minutes. Not nearly good enough if I’m going to make it to 5 a.m. without picking up my phone book and randomly dialing numbers until I find someone else who can’t sleep that I can talk to. Misery loves company.

I can’t believe it took me 18 minutes to write that little paragraph. What better way to illustrate the negative effects of little or no sleep on the brain. You hear that kids? Stay in bed!

How long has this been going on? When was the last time I got a full night’s sleep? Sunday. Right after the Patriots beat the Chargers. I went to bed at 9:30 p.m. and slept until 8 a.m. Before and after Sunday are a sleep/sleepless blur.

It’s after 5 a.m. and way too early for me to be up. Who the hell would be awake at this hour?

Images from Exploring Florida, Social Studies Resources for Students and Teachers

Rat Bastard is moving to Florida with his nubile Retirement Plan; a life of t-shirts, broken alarm clocks, blended drinks, scuba diving, mosquitoes the size of paper airplanes, and sand removal from places sand shouldn’t go, all road-mapped before him into the great golden sunrise.

I recognized him within minutes of our first meeting. I knew he was someone important in my life, and if I listened, trusted my instinct, we would become true friends. I was not disappointed.

He worries. And maybe I should have told him when we met I was going to make a place for myself in his heart. How could I not? Life offers few true friends, whose presence alone make us smile and puts a spring in our step. Here was one in my midst - friendly, funny, intelligent, patient, kind, generous, sincere - who forgave me for those days when I couldn’t say anything at all. Who wouldn’t want to live in the heart of a man who does not need to understand what you cannot say?

Last night, as we said our goodbyes, I told him I loved him for the first time. Normally I prefer using my own private code, nicknames or phrases, like the one Westley used to tell his beloved Buttercup he loved her, in The Princess Bride. Every time the pushy wench asked him to do something unreasonable he said, “As you wish.”  When I learned my friend was moving, I began calling him “Rat Bastard”. The tone and sentiment were clear, but the words were easier to say, listen to, and added enough deflective humor that we could pretend for a little while we would not be parted.

There is no more pretending, and as he hugged me, I knew it was time.

Rat Bastard…You’ve made numerous observations and comments about how happy I seem, and I credit this or that, but there is one thing I have never said. Part of my happiness has been and will always be you.

Photographer dombrassey

Washington Dulles Airport

I am stuck in D.C. without my computer, and my iPod ran out of power. I’ve written a notebook full of miscellanea and have resorted to typing on my cell. It might be time to unplug.

Things are quickly breaking down. It’s clear 700 people are not getting on a plane built to hold 400, and those clutching useless tickets in nervous fists surround the lone ticket agent. A man clears his throat and a path is cleared. Like Gary Cooper in High Noon, Mr. Pseudo-alpha male steps up to punish and preen, begins demanding answers and repentance. He feigns control, and because the other passengers smell fear, they assume it is the jackal’s prey and not the arrogant hunter. I know the truth. Away from the group, as always, I say, “Leave the man some skin, bloodthirsty cannibals.” Mr. TakeCharge turns, intent on putting me in my place with one intimidating glance, sees I am waiting for him to look me in the eye with the same smug expression I’m certain he practices perfecting in a mirror. Showing no signs of backing down, I let him assess me, feel his smarmy eyes moving over my body and face: sinful curves, blond hair, blue eyes, pink lips that telegraph fuck-you-asshole without ruining the Mona Lisa smile. He blushes, looks confused, almost disappointed, and his anger immediately vanishes. I think, “Gotcha.” So easily defeated. This is why his pulse beats a tattoo in his neck as he towers over his cornered opponent, while his opponent, surrounded by a mob, never breaks a sweat.

Somewhere over the states in the middle…

I’m on a plane two rows from the cockpit and the restroom. I’m sitting in an aisle seat, a position I loathe, and am forced to eavesdrop on various chatter. Two gentlemen and an older women exit the restroom in succession, and a foul smell has taken over the front of the cabin. I want to pull down the oxygen mask as demonstrated at the beginning of the flight and on a laminated foldout in the magazine pouch on the seat in front of me. I am certain it would be a violation of some kind of FAA regulation, and I would hate wasting my 5 minutes as “that woman who needed an oxygen mask after someone took a dump.”

The mood from the incident in the terminal carried over into the aircraft and I, having no desire to leave assholes alone, reprimanded a few key players again. They complained about the “rude person behind the counter” as they stowed their carry-ons in the overhead compartment and I said, “With y’all being so nice to him, it’s strange he didn’t bump you up to first class.” An older gentlemen sitting next to me reading a magazine on Zen meditation looked up with warm eyes and smiled an appreciative grin. The assholes took their seats like naughty school children, and their camaraderie and conversation died a quick, embarrassing death.

I felt like I’d scored one for the Underdogs.

Last count
ASSHOLES: 999,999,999,999,998
Underdogs: 2

It’s a start.

Sleep on an aisle seat is like sleep on a stripper’s lap. NOT FUCKING LIKELY. Every time I get comfortable someone bumps me, wakes me up to offer pretzels, bland coffee, a variety of generic sodas, or apologizes profusely as they step over me on their way to stink up the bathroom. It’s moments like these that I understand America’s love-affair with the automobile.

The difference between a brave man and a coward is a coward thinks twice before jumping in the cage with a lion. The brave man does not know what a lion is. He just thinks he does.

~ Charles Bukowski, Notes of a Dirty Old Man

Rick and Jennifer wanted to say “grace”. Having never done this with them, I didn’t know what to expect or do. I spoke without thinking, “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub.” Without missing a beat, they said in unison, “Yeah, God!” And then we ate. It wasn’t the grace they intended but somehow in its humor and spontaneity, a warmth and joy filled the room unlike anything I’d experienced after other, more traditional “graces”. The food was good, conversation light and easy, and nobody seemed to notice my wine glass was full of chocolate milk.

Sometimes being an adult is awesome. I mean…we get to make up all the rules.

It’s cold,
this space and possible loss.
When only yesterday or today
your name
filled every aspect of winter
with warmth.

You made new feel newer.
And I was not so silent
all the time,
but noisy.

How complicating cold is,
when your voice does not reach me.
This silence,
a place so like
winter
and reasons I do not understand.

Singer of songs
I am listening.

Your migratory imagination
is summer on my skin.

I’m going to make a nest inside your treehouse
beneath the waxing moon.
And I’m not coming down
until you come back.