The "New Me" Turns a Year Older

Some random observations upon turning 59 with a newly refurbished brain

Today I turn 59 and this post was supposed to be about how I’m not afraid to die.

IT’S MY PARTY AND I’LL DIE IF I WANT TO.

In last year’s birthday post celebrating my life as a childless rebel, I did make mention of going to Switzerland to obtain assistance in ending my life on my own terms if the situation became dire. I still believe that is a dignified option, regardless if it’s not “God’s plan.” Any god that wants a person to suffer indignities to the bitter end just to squeeze some more time on the calendar isn’t any deity I can get behind.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?) my shiny newly implanted brain electrodes cannot be cremated as they will explode. Way to go out with a bang, right? And the Swiss House of See You Again Never burns their customers as a rule. So it does appear that I’m committed to making this whole “life” experience work out after all.

What’s that sound? *THE HUM OF PEOPLE UNSUBSCRIBING IN DROVES* 

Cool.

Well, now that all the death fearing weenies are gone, let’s speak frankly. I promise it won’t be depressing. Unless you would like it to be. You do you.

I’m not afraid to die because I’ve already done a ton of cool shit. I mean, I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain.

Time to die.

Hang on, I’m not Roy Batty, replicant and supreme villain in 1982’s extraordinary neo-noir film Blade Runner. Perhaps you remember, way back when artificial intelligence was artful and not a fuckload of chatbot crap designed to manipulate your political opinions and/or steal your money? 

Perhaps Chat GPT got confused because Roy and I have similar hair. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I’m not about to rattle off all my bucket list worthy adventures for a number of reasons. They might involve experiences that would not be on your list and spark debate, I have to keep some memories just for myself and most of all, you kinda had to be there. 

I will summarize by saying I moved to Chicago in 2009 newly single and brokenhearted. I opted to start writing as I didn’t know what else to do with the noise in my head. It was my good fortune to land in a city driven by extremes: the hot, the cold, the wind, the sports, the laughing, the yelling, the smoking, the politics. The city of big shoulders can be a portal to a life of stunt eating, binge drinking, and sport fucking, but it also has a soft and gooey “Midwest nice” center. There are miles of gorgeous greenspace downtown as well as nearby Oak Street beach, a sandy strip full of suits walking on their lunch hour (a Chicago native once sneered at it, saying “Fuck business beach”), as well as little reminders of how big everyone lives here. A friend once told me you can tell how alive a city’s art scene is by how many stickers there are on light poles and crosswalk signs and such. Chicago is adorned with small shoutouts. Those stickers aren’t vandalism; they proclaim someone was here and had something to say. I threw myself into the life of being an artist full stop and Chicago welcomed and celebrated me.

I suppose if I were to compile a list of regrets (which I refuse to dwell upon), I wish there would have been more romance in my life. I figured out while sticking my toe back in the dating pool (not enough chlorine) at 43 that being a “romantic” is a characteristic, a personality trait, like being agreeable or thoughtful or neurotic. It’s not a product of the right two people together. I feel like I didn’t possess the tools to find a proper partner; in fact I was fairly certain my philosophy of “just shapeshift to be whatever they seem to want” felt pretty sound for a majority of my life. 

Finding creative focus later in life made me think I would be more compelling to potential love interests. I was not only wrong, but continually surprised to find that my writing and storytelling stuff often made things more tense, causing jealousy and insecurity in the people I chose. I was still picking with a feeling of scarcity rather than abundance; the “You can make anything work if you try hard enough” self-sabotaging swindle that generally ends badly. After a while, “putting myself out there” seemed akin to strolling through a gun range with a FUCK THE NRA t-shirt on. I’m not fishing for “You have to keep trying!” feedback as I am fine with anything that happens organically and that’s about it. Online dating was recently explained to me as “Amazon for humans but with a shitty return policy” and I want zero percent of my newly generated energy to go towards that cesspool. 

I mean, this is what passes for a love ballad these days (yes I know it’s a 25 year old song but it’s as fresh as last month’s “Kiss Cam” news)

Look at the stars

Look how they shine for you

And everything you do

Yeah, they were all yellow

I came along

I wrote a song for you

And all the things you do

And it was called, "Yellow"

If those are not the laziest lyrics on earth, I will eat a bowl of dirt. If someone tried to convince me this was a romantic gesture, I would not hesitate to punch them in the face. 

This pathetically scored news story brings up some questions about privacy concerns, blah, blah, blah and I recently heard the gentleman involved is suing Coldplay for “ruining his life.” Interesting way to take accountability for having an extramarital affair when statistics show such dalliances have ruined a few lives before. In my not so humble opinion if you’re taking your down low lady to a Coldplay concert, your life is on the brink of ruin because you are mid as hell. I don’t usually embrace Gen Z slang but MID is the perfect descriptor for Chris Martin and company. Mid means average, mediocre, lacking in quality and impressiveness, and generally MEH. When they first came on the scene I proclaimed them a poor man’s U2, but in this economy, we can’t afford that shit. All non-Bonos off the dance floor, please.

Perhaps you feel like that’s a cheap shot at a band you’ve cozied up to on occasion; perhaps you play “Fix You” to center your nerves after a hard day or “Viva La Vida” to liven up the mood. I’m not made of wood, I get that they are well crafted songs by whatever industry standards determine such things. I also feel like they are made of Cheez Whiz; pleasing if you don’t think about it too much or preferably not at all. Nothing to stick to your soul. Convenient. Uncomplicated. Easy to digest.

I DON’T WANT EASY AND BORING. I prefer my art to have rough edges. I want to feel like I inhabit the soul of the creator for even a split second and for that soul to say something palpable. I want to be offended, or joyous, or wake up the next morning still trying to solve questions it brought up or possibly feel all of those feelings at the same time. 

If you’re wondering why I’m single (I seriously doubt you are by this point), it’s probably arguments like this that really shine a light on my solo status. A former therapist once advised me to devote zero time looking for a significant other because “You’re an odd bird in general and now that you’re looking for someone healthy, that’s going to be some real needle in a haystack type of work”. 

You know what they say around here, come for the death talk, stay for the therapy blather and elevator music bashing.

I chose this post to not feature my Parkinson’s situation (I generally avoid the word “journey” unless it involves Steve Perry wailing about a small town girl on the midnight train going anywhere) because I am feeling much better. Like fingers crossed at my next DBS programming visit I might get off ALL THE MEDS better. Like the medical professionals cleared me to do all the things better. I still have some balance and proprioception issues, but they aren’t keeping me down. I wouldn’t say I feel like the “old me” as I honestly do not recall what old me felt like. I just know I have a chance to treat this me a bit better. Starting with not running back to the airplane. In every other medical leave situation I’ve been put through, I’ve gone back as soon as I was deemed physically able by the docs because PRODUCTIVITY and all that. Not this time.

August is my gift to myself. To develop some better habits, sure (the usual stuff, exercising with an accountability buddy, eating more mindfully, choosing alcohol as an occasional indulgence rather than a recommended daily requirement, drinking an absurd and annoying amount of water) but also to acknowledge that I have survived some traumatic shit and going back to the grind and acting like it all never happened is not my path this time.

I require time to look at life through softer eyes. There will be time to appreciate these beauties creeping over our neighbors’ fence that bring joy.

I’m sure there is an app that will tell me what they are but I’m fine with not knowing. I am making time to listen to the cardinals having a boisterous conversation on the wires above our yard. I read the stickers on the light poles while I wait to cross the street.

“Old Me” 2018 hair no longer available. This pic taken in Austin, also an arty town.

I understand my disease is degenerative and I am not cured. But I have been given an opportunity to be me again, but a bit better. Not reborn, mind you, but let’s just say new and ever so slightly and reasonably improved, now available with 93% less “whatever.”

I do know that old me would approve of this post. My salty tone reminds that I haven’t given up. As the 1986 Peter Gabriel/Kate Bush duet reminds me, I have friends. I have chosen family everywhere who are proud of who I am. My love thugs from across the country and across the world are part of the family I count on to support me and I intend to support them in return.

I will leave you with the aforementioned song performed in the first episode of Somebody Somewhere, sung by the incredible Bridget Everett and Jeff Hiller. The show is a perfect example of people coming together to make their own love collective, an alternative support system. Diverse people with messy problems that made me feel all the feels at once. Nothing mediocre or uninspired about that. 

ps also a little something from Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata for Wendy: and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Can’t always promise cheerful, Max. It’s just not how I roll. But if you’re doing something from the heart, I will be here to cheer you on.

LOVE THUG cheerleader beautifully drawn by the multitalented Wendy Wolf.

pls send me pix of yourself wearing LOVE THUG buttons! I will feature them in this space. DM me your address if you want a button. Getting snail mail is fun!