The bigger they are, the harder they fall
She says I was lights out, but I dispute it.
I think I was still having conscious thoughts.
She says my fingers were twitching – and that I was snoring.
“Did you enjoy your nap? You were so totally out.”
I dispute that I was out. But then again, I kinda maybe wasn’t quite there.
The day started with a pot of coffee and the dread of knowing that your day has been ordered straight from Hell. A main feature to write; a column to pen; design and construct my entire Outdoors section; and write a profile (like that character sketch of Bill, but a helluva lot longer).
Journalism is a funny thing; it’s like having to be creative on demand. Like pay-per-view movies on satellite. It’s fucking scary.
Just in case, I over-caffeinated, didn’t eat – counted out $2 in change for an afternoon Rockstar – and decided to completely ignore company policy and stream Sirius’ punk channel – very, very loud.
Sometimes, I just imagine my dread. Makes for a good working environment. Motivation by fear.
By 11 a.m., I was feeling cocky. All the Outdoors stuff was completely done – and I have managed to craft a column I actually liked (for once).
I dropped the seven quarters, two dimes and a nickel for a Rockstar (the sugar-free version, but hey, at least they put Rockstar in the vending machines) and wandered the newsroom a bit. With my shoes off.
“You look like a very happy young man,” a buddy said.
A young man headed for a shitload of self-imposed trouble.
I became a babbling idiot, hopped up on little sleep, coffee and God knows what they put in a Rockstar.
And I forgot that I had to give blood. At 3 p.m.
I got Taco Hell; two bean burritos, extra cheese, extra onion (yes, there are better burrito places, but by this time I was kinda sweating and my heart was thumpity-thumping).
And tried to write the profile.
Granted, I love writing profiles. But this one, I was told I had to have it done on Friday. I have a problem with authority. Hence, I had a problem with the motivation to write the profile.
I finished it, in spirit, but it still needs some tweaking. The editor was OK with that.
So now I’m in the big mobile blood-sucking bus, joking with the nurses and other co-workers. And I know there’s a blood pressure check in my future.
I had spent the afternoon writing the profile to fine, fine, musical standards like Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades,” Dead Kennedy’s “Viva Las Vegas,” NOFX “Franco Un-American” and early Replacements: “Buck Hill.”
Drinking copious amounts of water.
On top of the bean burritos.
To get my blood pressure to come down.
Fuck.
“One thirty over ninety,” the nurse said. “That’s a little high.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I explained myself. Explained that I was running on a pot of coffee, a Rockstar, two bean burritos – and a lot of work angst/adrenalin. And I was thinking about dropping another Rockstar (the vending dude refilled the machine, and gave me back the $1 I lost trying to buy little powdered donuts in another moment of weakness).
“You’re nuts.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
There’s always a crash. Drug addicts know this. I knew this. I was burning fumes.
I picked her up to drop her off at her car – it was at the shop – and she followed me home.
I lay down on the bed.
Just to rest before going out (it’s always a running gag; the nurses ask if I know the rules after giving blood and I say, “Lots of drinking, lots of hot-tubbing and lift as much weight as possible;” we actually drank wine and sat in the hot tub at a friend’s house).
“Did you enjoy your nap?”
I continue to dispute that I was asleep.
“You were so relaxed. You were snoring.”
Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t.
I think I was still having conscious thoughts.
She says my fingers were twitching – and that I was snoring.
“Did you enjoy your nap? You were so totally out.”
I dispute that I was out. But then again, I kinda maybe wasn’t quite there.
The day started with a pot of coffee and the dread of knowing that your day has been ordered straight from Hell. A main feature to write; a column to pen; design and construct my entire Outdoors section; and write a profile (like that character sketch of Bill, but a helluva lot longer).
Journalism is a funny thing; it’s like having to be creative on demand. Like pay-per-view movies on satellite. It’s fucking scary.
Just in case, I over-caffeinated, didn’t eat – counted out $2 in change for an afternoon Rockstar – and decided to completely ignore company policy and stream Sirius’ punk channel – very, very loud.
Sometimes, I just imagine my dread. Makes for a good working environment. Motivation by fear.
By 11 a.m., I was feeling cocky. All the Outdoors stuff was completely done – and I have managed to craft a column I actually liked (for once).
I dropped the seven quarters, two dimes and a nickel for a Rockstar (the sugar-free version, but hey, at least they put Rockstar in the vending machines) and wandered the newsroom a bit. With my shoes off.
“You look like a very happy young man,” a buddy said.
A young man headed for a shitload of self-imposed trouble.
I became a babbling idiot, hopped up on little sleep, coffee and God knows what they put in a Rockstar.
And I forgot that I had to give blood. At 3 p.m.
I got Taco Hell; two bean burritos, extra cheese, extra onion (yes, there are better burrito places, but by this time I was kinda sweating and my heart was thumpity-thumping).
And tried to write the profile.
Granted, I love writing profiles. But this one, I was told I had to have it done on Friday. I have a problem with authority. Hence, I had a problem with the motivation to write the profile.
I finished it, in spirit, but it still needs some tweaking. The editor was OK with that.
So now I’m in the big mobile blood-sucking bus, joking with the nurses and other co-workers. And I know there’s a blood pressure check in my future.
I had spent the afternoon writing the profile to fine, fine, musical standards like Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades,” Dead Kennedy’s “Viva Las Vegas,” NOFX “Franco Un-American” and early Replacements: “Buck Hill.”
Drinking copious amounts of water.
On top of the bean burritos.
To get my blood pressure to come down.
Fuck.
“One thirty over ninety,” the nurse said. “That’s a little high.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I explained myself. Explained that I was running on a pot of coffee, a Rockstar, two bean burritos – and a lot of work angst/adrenalin. And I was thinking about dropping another Rockstar (the vending dude refilled the machine, and gave me back the $1 I lost trying to buy little powdered donuts in another moment of weakness).
“You’re nuts.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
There’s always a crash. Drug addicts know this. I knew this. I was burning fumes.
I picked her up to drop her off at her car – it was at the shop – and she followed me home.
I lay down on the bed.
Just to rest before going out (it’s always a running gag; the nurses ask if I know the rules after giving blood and I say, “Lots of drinking, lots of hot-tubbing and lift as much weight as possible;” we actually drank wine and sat in the hot tub at a friend’s house).
“Did you enjoy your nap?”
I continue to dispute that I was asleep.
“You were so relaxed. You were snoring.”
Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t.
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