My butt is sore, as in, "oh, my aching butt". I know you needed to know that, so I rattled it right off. Otherwise I am alive and well, even though my prostate probably looks like a Swiss cheese or one of those bullet riddled road signs you see in movies about Texas. Maybe my butt did a long weekend in Texas and neglected to mention it. So I sit, sore butt and all, wall heater on high, Wuss complaining about dinner, the news playing, me thinking, well, the week is half over. That's good. They will tell me what they found next week. In the meantime I'm not going to worry about it.
I came home early after the biopsy (The doctor's office is located right across the street from the ribs place where we had lunch last week - that's where the photographs were taken - so I said the hell with it, I've been butt kicked by people against whom I can't even retaliate, so why not at least have some barbecue, potato salad and a piece of that evil cheese cake they sell at the bakery next door? So I did. Fuck it.) and crawled into bed and pulled up the covers. Oprah was on, so I watched some Oprah.
Today's "read my book and feel better in four days" guest was talking about compulsive behavior and passionate behavior. Do you work ninety hours a week because you love your job or do you work ninety hours a week because you're a fucked up compulsive? Good question. The test is to stop doing whatever it is you're doing (ninety hours a week) and see if you experience any physical symptoms, stuff like anxiety, upset stomach, pacing the halls and shortness of breath. Physical symptoms and you're compulsive (Which means you're ducking out on something like love, committment, personal hygiene, social interaction or calling your mother on weekends.).
OK, I don't work ninety hours a week, but I do spend a lot of time shooting pictures and writing this journal. I don't think I've had physical symptoms during times when I haven't posted. I took something of a hiatus over the weekend, for example, and felt pretty good for it. I'm thinking of doing it again. I got things done. Good things. They made me happy.
Which means I'm probably kidding myself. I'm good at kidding myself. Some people have said I've taken it to new levels. I don't think they're right. I don't think any of the fifty eight people who have specifically said this to me over these last fifty eight years are right. I am right. They are wrong. Clear as the pale afternoon sun. I never kid myself. I know exactly where the lines are drawn and I dance, in and out, up and about, like the heavily hop scotched daddy that I am. Or like a guy who watches his every step so he doesn't step on any sidewalk cracks. Like Jack Nicholson in "As Good As It Gets". Or maybe Bill Murray in "What About Bob?". Nothing compulsive about avoiding cracks in the sidewalk, for God's sake. Did you know anthrax spores collect in sidewalks? In Texas?
I dunno. I enjoyed writing that, but you've gotta be careful and make it tight, go back and ratchet down that very last line or it ends up dumb. But, as I said, it's fun. Fun dumb.