Sometimes the search for my next column comes to me with blatant force, and in the instance I am about to describe, the blatant force was as literal as a sharp whack to the head. Actually, I sustained a couple of sharp whacks to the head as my poor noggin bounced off the concrete after I fainted in my friend Bill's basement. The reasons why I fainted are twofold. In short, I took one toke too many with a famished stomach. There was no debased glory in my actions. My complexion turned ghostly wan, my vision blurred with impending darkness, my knees wobbled and then my body went limp. It is with bitter annoyance that I concede that all those people who have told me I simply need to EAT MORE—whether it be with concern from friends and family or with mockery from callous strangers—are entirely justified in their assessment of my food intake.
And of course, the burning green stuff I inhaled was a contributing factor to my woozy spell. (It wounds my manhood, by the way, to use the grandmotherly term “woozy spell,” but those two words are an apt description of what afflicted me.) It's a puzzling paradox for a malcontent, being an unhappy louse and yet realizing you have to cut back on the good times.
Creative fairy tales of serendipity or epiphany didn't exactly apply the moment I discovered what to write about next, when a blatant force jolted the idea into my skull on the concrete floor in my friend's basement. Instead, the thought came to me, as it has before: I've made trouble and now I've got to explain myself. This is going to be awful. I say to myself with steely resolve: I'd better at least get a column out of this mess.
****
After the pipe had taken two tours around the group of my musician friends, my brain, with all its loose and hazardous wiring, began to hum with serene complacence. This complacent feeling was short-lived. My friend Matt was informing me of the state of his fantasy baseball team, a topic that was of some interest to me because I had helped him draft his roster. We had huddled around his laptop the day before April Fool's and studied statistics with neurotic revelry. We determined the preeminence of elite starting pitchers and run-producing middle-infielders, made a list of our top 50 players. It was a rather nerdy endeavor, to be sure, but one that we both embraced. Fulfilling the role of co-manager for Matt's fantasy baseball team was one of the highlights of a dreary and languorous spring.
As I write this Casey McGahee, third baseman for the Milwaukee Brewers, ranks third in the National League in Runs Batted In. Adequate but unexceptional hitting stats were projected for McGahee in 2010. He was the third third baseman Matt and I drafted for our team—named America—and he was one of the last players we added to our roster more out of Matt's home state favoritism than
indisputable merit.
Matt was expounding on the unexpected virtues of Casey McGahee when my senses started to diminish. By the time Matt suspected I was on the verge of collapse and posed the question, “Dude, are you okay?” I was on my way to the ground. My head clunked against the solid surface and seconds passed by before I regained consciousness.
My friends gathered around, panicked and concerned, and somebody retrieved a chair for me to sit down on. Reprieve came to me immediately as I sat up, feeling revived and relieved that my head wasn't gushing blood. My body had reprimanded me for mismanagement but had made its message known and was not relishing in further punishment. I took a seat in the chair and awaited a glass of water brought by Bill.
My friends suspected that I might have sustained a concussion. I felt lucid, however, and told them as such, but when they started asking me questions to verify my mental well-being, it occurred to me that it would be fun to play around with the notion of having a concussion. Think about it. How often does one get the opportunity to make absurd statements and pose preposterous questions because they are possibly concussed? It's liberating! The shackles of tact and decency can be unlocked in the wake of what could be a concussion. I had just made a fool of myself and I wanted some retribution; it was time to behave foolishly (on purpose this time).
***
If the first part of this essay captivated you, you can read the rest by purchasing a copy of "There Will be Blog."
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