I own 'Brothers in Arms' by Dire Straits because of some lady in a swimming pool

Believe it or not, it has to do with this woman.

Years ago, and we're talking decades here, my mother and father got me a whole stack of books they'd found in a remainder bin,  One of them was this collection of funny and unusual vintage photos from Life magazine. Now, Life has been kind of a mini-obsession with me for a long time. Not the magazine's sad final years of dwindling sales and cultural irrelevance, of course. No, I mean the mag's heyday as a weekly publication, right up to the early 1970s, when it was such an easily-identifiable piece of Americana that even MAD spoofed it. When I was in college -- and I realize how nerdy this will sound -- I spent many hours poring over old Life magazine back issues, which the library had bound in volumes. I was especially transfixed by the photos, but I read the articles, too. I can remember being really psyched to find the issue which contained an article actually written by Frank Zappa called "The Oracle Has It All Psyched Out." To me, issues of Life were much more interesting decades later than they probably had been when they were brand new.

So I usually read before I go to bed, and one night I decided to browse through the aforementioned volume of funny Life photos. One of them was a 1962 black-and-white snapshot of a girl swimmer in what looked like an Olympic-sized pool. She was spitting water like a fountain, and the water in the pool caused a distortion which made it appear that her head had come loose from her body. I noticed a weird detail in the picture, though: a big crucifix on the wall behind her. For some reason, I decided that this was a swim meet at a Catholic high school or college. I was brought up Catholic, so maybe that had something to do with it. With a little Google-fu, I found a site which identified the girl as Kathy Flicker and the locale as Princeton University's Dillon Gym.

Anyway, I was looking at this book before bed, and it made its way into my dreams. I had a very vivid dream in which I was competing in a swim meet at a Catholic high school. In reality, I can swim, but I have never even come close to competing in a swim meet. But, still, that's what was happening in this dream. Before the competition started, I noticed that all the other competitors had these special little slippers that they put on over their feet. I didn't have a pair, and I started to get nervous. Then I really freaked out when the race started, and my competitors were all able to walk on water with their special slippers. I tried it, and I sank to the bottom. And all through this experience, the song "Walk of Life" by Dire Straits was playing in the background. I could still hear it when I was underwater, except it was a bit muted and distant.

The next day -- maybe the first thing, since it was a Saturday -- I drove to a second-hand CD store and bought a copy of Brothers In Arms by Dire Straits, specifically to get the song "Walk of Life." And it's still in my collection to this day. I don't know if I've even played the other songs on it, except for maybe "Money for Nothing." I've told a version of this story to all the therapists I've ever had, and by my count, I'm on my fourth one of those.

So it's been a year. How am I?

(from left to right) Me as I appear now; me as I appeared one year ago. 

"So how have you been?"

Every Wednesday afternoon at around 3:59, I pull into the parking lot of the Arlington Professional Center, an uninspiring complex of squat brown office buildings, in my battered, decade-old silver Cavalier and walk to Suite J for my weekly therapy session. I try not to arrive even a minute early, because I want to spend as little time as possible in the waiting room. Suite J of the Arlington Professional Center has the worst waiting room in the history of people waiting in rooms. Auschwitz had nicer waiting rooms than this place. It is a cramped and ugly space which, if anything, would deepen a patient's sense of hopelessness. There's a faded poster of a wolf on one wall and a table piled high with useless, glossy, oversized magazines filled with pictures of expensive furniture. Certainly, the room's oddest touch is a shelf with a hopelessly outdated and never-used boombox, along with a stack of never-played CDs (classical, new age, lite jazz) and even one sad, neglected cassette. Fortunately, my therapist's own office is much more inviting, with its soothing, dim lighting and comfy, tasteful furniture. Each week, at around 4:01, I haul my depleted husk of a body into this room and plop down on an overstuffed black couch. My therapist, a 50-ish Polish woman with spiky blue hair and the wardrobe of a bohemian artist, asks me how I've been that week.

"Oh, I don't know," I'll usually say. "The same, I guess..."

My therapist stood me up. That's not a joke.

A scrambled portrait of your humble blogger. No,wait, I hate that word. Your humble bloggist.

It sounds like the setup for a joke in Woody Allen movie, but it actually happened to me this week. My therapist did not show up for our weekly appointment. Actually, the office she shares with another doctor was totally locked and empty when I got there. I stood out in the cold, knocking on the door for a few minutes, but to no avail. I have no idea what happened. Maybe she's ducking me. Who knows? I could have been the patient who finally drove her out of the therapist biz. But I kid my therapist. She's actually very nice -- a thin, spiky-haired woman of about 50 with a heavy Polish accent and the wardrobe of a bohemian art teacher. At our last session, she had dyed her hair blue to match her outfit. No kidding.

Anyway, since I live alone and have very little social life, my therapy sessions are pretty much my only opportunity each week to interact with another human being in person and speak as myself. Naturally, when speaking to coworkers or relatives, I have to be on my best behavior. It's very nice, then, to have an hour a week to say whatever I want and speak freely.

Well, guess what? Since I didn't get to have a therapy session this week, I'm going to treat this blog as if it were my therapist's office and you, dear reader, are going to be my therapist for the week. I'm going to say whatever comes into my head, and you're going to nod and say things like "Mm-hmm" and "Very interesting. Please go on."

Do you think you can handle that? Good! Let's get started.

We only have an hour here, so you're going to want to keep at least one eye on the clock at all times, the way a real therapist does.

I usually start out each session by saying how my week has gone. Well, citizens, it was sort of a rough one for me even though nothing much of note actually happened. Work has slowed down to a crawl lately, which puts a damper on my bank account. And naturally, now is the time when seemingly everything I own has to be repaired or replaced. So more money is going out than coming in currently. I think/hope/imagine/pray that the situation will be better in a few months, but it does sort of get depressing to look at my recent bank statements. I really ought to have a better-paying, more stable job. Even my immediate supervisor has said so. I've basically taken a temp job and managed to make it last ten years. I should probably aim a little higher.

But here's the thing about that: I hate business. I hate business people. And worst of all, I hate business people talking about business stuff. I can't even be around those people for long. I can barely survive an elevator ride with corporate-minded folks spouting all that business gibberish.

The great thing about my job is that, for the most part, it involves very little interaction with these people... or any people. I can just put on my headphones and listen to podcasts all day while doing my work, which is great. The pay is lousy, though, and it's sort of humiliating to be in such a menial, low-level job for a decade.

Why don't I try for something better? Well, for one, I'm not the least bit ambitious, at least not in that way. I've seen the people who get promoted at my company. Many have come through my department. But they're driven by a kind of hunger I just don't have. They hear about an opening for "regional associate managing project director" or some such thing, and they go after it like a dog devouring a T-bone steak. Meanwhile, I can't schmooze. I can't network. I can't self-promote. I just can't bring myself to do any of that stuff. I shudder just thinking about it.

So if the corporate thing isn't for me, why don't I quit my job and pursue my dreams? After all, it's not like I have a family to support or anything. But here's the sad truth: I don't have a dream. There's never been anything I've wanted to do as a career. Not one, even when I was a kid and too dumb to be disillusioned. I'm just a dabbler. I dabble. I've tried all sorts of creative pursuits, including this blog, and they're sort of fun and fulfilling. But I've never stumbled across anything I would describe as a passion. I have interests but no passions. Wow. That sounds just awful, but it's the truth.

Ultimately, that's what makes it really difficult to keep going. I have no goals. There's nothing I really want. And that's the essence of life, isn't it? Wanting stuff? The same goes for relationships. I've had maybe five dates in my entire life and never anything close to a girlfriend. But it's not like I've put a whole lot of effort into that arena. I have no dating skills, and I know from my few disastrous dates that I'm not boyfriend material. I don't think I'd really want a girlfriend, and the idea of being married or having kids scares the life out of me.

So what do I do then? Work a crummy, low-paying job and live alone for a few more decades until I finally die? Yikes. That doesn't sound too appealing. That's the upshot of all this: I'm kind of out of options. I've seen and done as much as I want to do, and there's still so much time left. How am I going to fill it?

Well, well! Speaking of time, it looks like ours is just about up. This has been a great session, doc. I really got to express some stuff that's been on my mind lately. Thanks for listening. Same time next week? Super.

ADDENDUM: I feel I should add a little tag to this article for anyone who reads it and thinks it is too dark or depressing. What you have to understand is that I use my therapy sessions to vent all the negativity that builds up in me over the course of the typical week. Once I've said all this terrible stuff, I usually feel much better. As odd as this might sound, I would liken it to an exorcism. The therapist is the Max Von Sydow to my Linda Blair. This week, I'm asking you to be my Max Von Sydow. Thanks.

An oh-so-important (really) update on my life and treatment

Why wouldn't I use the "Sesame Street News Flash" graphic?

That.... was an eventful day. Let me tell you all about it.

Yesterday, I had my first regular visit with a psychiatrist, whom I see once a month, and my second session with a therapist, whom I see once a week. Oh, and also I commuted back and forth to work by train. Work was so hectic that I was scrambling to finish tasks until the very last minute before having to make a mad dash for the train station. But I made it, readers. I made it. I guess I'll find out how well I did when I return to work and look at my inbox. If it's full of complaints, then I'll deal with them one at a time. (I hope it isn't.)

But back to the headshrinker thing...

A hugely under-reported issue in the health field is that many doctors and other medical professionals have their offices in nondescript professional buildings often nestled among a group of other nondescript professional buildings. Therefore, their offices can be damned tricky to find, and this is something which causes me stress. 

You know what else causes me stress? Driving to someplace new, especially if it's more than 20-25 minutes from my apartment. But my psychiatrist's office is in a community called Elgin, and it's maybe 40 minutes from where I live. Much of the drive time is spent on the expressways, which also number among my phobias. I rationally understand that our nation's highways were not deliberately designed as a baffling and cruel psychological experiment to torture me, Joe Blevins, personally. But it feels that way, you know? 

For you Illinois drivers in the audience, I took the 53 to the I-90 to get there. The I-90 is crawling with toll booths, which I hate and fear for multiple reasons. First I'm a cheapskate. Second, getting on and off the highway distracts me and makes me nervous. And third, I can't help but think of Sonny Corleone in The Godfather.

Bob Newhart he ain't.

But I got there and back, and now I'm "seeing a psychiatrist." I put that phrase in quotes because the experience is not at all like The Bob Newhart Show. I don't lie down on a couch and chat with him about my issues or anything. He's just an officious, distant medical professional with whom I spent about five minutes discussing my medications and the effect they were having on me. The good news is that I'm down from four meds to two. The Norvasc and Restoril have been benched, and he swapped out Wellbutrin for Celexa. Hopefully, this change will restore my libido. But, honestly, the whole "psychiatrist" experience is very impersonal. I spent most of the time filling out forms. Seeing a psychiatrist, in truth, is like seeing the Pope as he waves to a crowd from a balcony. My shrink's opening line to me was, "Do I know you?" I reminded him that, yes, we'd met a few weeks ago at the behavioral health center. I must have made a terrific impression on him.

The real "action" here takes place in therapy. Once a week, I meet with a woman in a nice, secluded and comfortable room, and I just vent about whatever's going on in my life. You can discuss a lot in an hour, and I talked through a number of issues, including my recent experience with the woman I call Helen. My therapist pointed out the obvious to me: a psych ward is maybe not the greatest place to pick up women. Whoops! Live and learn, right?

Before I leave you, I want to share a song which pretty much summarizes what it's like to see a therapist. It's called, appropriately enough, "Everything Reminds Me of My Therapist," and it's written and performed by Nancy Tucker.

Being even feels so odd

A pivotal scene from John Waters' A Dirty Shame

John Waters' A Dirty Shame (2004) -- to date, the Baltimore provocateur's latest film --  is a crude, often lowbrow and childish slapstick sex comedy which features CGI squirrels, gigantic fake breasts, obscene shrubbery, and a David Hasselhoff cameo. In other words, even though I'm proud to have it in my DVD collection, it is not exactly Oscar bait.

But it does contain a scene which has been running through my head a lot these last few days.

The plot in a nutshell: uptight Baltimore wife and mother Sylvia Stickles (Tracey Ullman) gets a concussion which turns her into an unapologetic, promiscuous sex addict. Soon, she finds herself part of a cult of sex addicts led by the mysterious Ray Ray (Johnny Knoxville) and realizes that many seemingly "normal" members of her community are sex addicts as well. Ultimately, there is a chaotic war for control of the neighborhood, with sex addicts on one side and the prudish, judgmental "neuters" (led by Waters' resident villainess Mink Stole) on the other. I think you can guess who wins.

Anyway, at one point, Sylvia's concerned husband and mother have a doctor visit the Stickles household, and there he tries to convince both Sylvia and her similarly-libidinous daughter Caprice a.k.a. Ursula Udders (Selma Blair, wearing an absurd prosthetic chest) that their problems can be solved through pharmaceuticals. Selma Blair vehemently protests ("I'm NOT depressed!") but ultimately is coerced into taking the pills.

The uneven John Waters

John Waters always does hilarious, informative commentary tracks on his movies, and his remarks during this scene are fascinating:

"I always have in all my movies, like, different doctors forcing medication on people. You know, I think tranquilizers are good for people that are chemically depressed, but I also think every brand is completely over-prescribed. What happened to 'the talking cure' with psychiatrists? They don't have that anymore! I'm for that! I don't want to be 'even.' I'm on her side here when she says, 'I'm not depressed!' Being 'even' sounds worse than being depressed."

I may well be chemically depressed. I don't know. I'm not a doctor. But I share Waters' skepticism of being "even." If there were one word I wish I could ban from the critical vocabulary, it would be "uneven." Critics, both professional and amateur, are constantly complaining these days about works being "uneven." Since when did evenness become the standard by which art is judged. Whatever happened to consistency being "the hobgoblin of little minds?" To me, evenness is for sideburns, suburban lawns, and wallpaper. It's not for art and definitely not for comedy.

I used to theorize that the rise of the word "uneven" as a critical cliche was a side effect of all the mood-stabilizing drugs we've been gobbling up as a society. Well, now I'm actually on at least two of those drugs, and I worry about being too flat emotionally and losing the highs and lows which make life entertaining. It's true that I have some crushing, even life-threatening lows, but there's a goofy, playful side to my personality, too. I don't want to lose that side of myself. Lately, that part of myself seems to have evaporated.

Fortunately, I had my first meeting with my new therapist today, and it went very well. I explained a lot of these fears to her, and she completely understood what I meant. She said that my body would eventually adjust to the medications and, if it didn't, those medications could be switched until we could find a combination which worked for me. That was extremely encouraging news. I want Joe Blevins to be well, but I don't want "Wayne Kotke" (my silly side) to go away either.

Financially, I think I'm going to be able to handle this treatment without having to ask relatives for help. I'm fortunate to have a bit of a cushion to fall back on and no existing debts or dependents. But if I end up selling pencils on the street, you'll know what happened.