That time when Elizabeth Warren stabbed Stephen Colbert with a fork.

Notwithstanding everyone's horrible behavior at the last Democratic debate, I've decided I'm sold on Elizabeth Warren. I've always agreed with most of her policies (although I still doubt whether any Democrat can get them through), but the vibe I got was, like, she's shushing me in the library for talking too loud.

This video has me completely charmed, and has erased every one of my reservations. This woman will make a wonderful president.

Watch the whole thing. It's totally worth your time.

I fell asleep during the Guns of Navarone.

It's a reference to The Dick Van Dyke Show, season 5, episode 12, December 15, 1965. Rob has to defend himself against accusations that he beat up an old lady. Nobody is buying his alibi because he says he was at a drive through movie -- The Guns of Navarone. When asked the plot of the movie, he can't remember because he slept through the whole thing. So there's this running gag throughout the episode as he's grilled by the police: "You slept through The Guns of Navarone??"

Well, yes, yes, I did. Last night I slept through The Guns of Navarone.

I tried to watch, I really did. It was hard to make out what anyone was saying because it was so chaotic and loud. It was downright traumatic. Yet somehow, I fell fast asleep, and that was that.

But I stayed awake long enough to see one thing very clearly: Warren, Buttigieg, Sanders, Biden, Klobuchar, Bloomberg, and Steyer -- the whole miserable bunch of them -- need to get their shit together. Or we're looking at four more years and the end of the American Dream.

I am fighting off despair.

Nerd heaven

I've got, like, six half written blog.posts, and I'm about halfway done with a video for work. So baby, I'm creating, albeit in a chaotic, haphazard and possibly unproductive way.

But nothing I'm doing can possibly compete with this video. Light, filmed at various speeds up to 10 trillion frames per second. My mind is blown. It's like seeing God.

https://youtu.be/7Ys_yKGNFRQ

In support of Michael Bloomberg.

Wait! Please don't leave!

Yes, I know Bloomberg is trying to buy the election. I know he's a capitalist boor with a sketchy history. I'm also quite aware that he's not the best choice for president. 

Unless it turns out he is, at least for this one moment in time.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Michael Bloomberg knows how to get inside Trump's head. He's the only one with whom Trump has a history, and I believe he's the only one that Trump really fears. He's willing to exchange insults at Trump's level. He knows what insiders are saying behind Trump's back and, more importantly, Trump knows he knows it. And it's going to be very hard to call the guy a socialist, which screws up about 50 percent of Trump's campaign strategy.

Apparently Bloomberg's campaign has hired an expert in narcissism and a comedy writer. I mean, how delicious is that? 

No, I don't particularly want him as my president. But the republic can survive Michael Bloomberg, and I don't think it can withstand another four years of the Orange Menace, or the Republicans' one-branch vision of government.

I'm not endorsing Bloomberg, and I doubt I'll vote for him in the primary. His values don't match mine. But maybe in this time, in this place, he's the guy who can save the nation.  

The good itch.

I imagine you've noticed things have been a little rough lately. My brain has been going to some pretty dark places, even more than usual, and I haven't hesitated to dump it here. Sorry for that.

When I was raising my daughter, I would hear experts -- the ones I trusted -- say that when your kid seems impossible all of a sudden, it's because they're in the process of growth. Something big is in the works, like starting to walk, and they're working through it.

Maybe that's what this is.

Because I've had this itch lately. It seems to be irresistible and I'm not sure where it came from. It's always been there, but now it seems that no combination of fear and self loathing will relieve it.

This is harder to share with you than all the bile I've been spewing lately. Until now, I've only told my therapist.

It's about being creative, and it's really weird. I just want to create in every way I can. I'm writing again, that's good. But then I think, Acting! Singing! Photography! Podcast! YouTube! 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Is it a second childhood? Or my first? Maybe I'm becoming aware that time is going to run out. Or maybe it's just winter in upstate New York and I'm bored.

Whatever it is, it's outrageous, and I'm deeply, profoundly embarrassed to share it. 

And yet, the Universe is swirling and opportunities are falling in my lap. My playwriting class this semester is in a dance studio and involves acting and improv. The library's only podcast and video expert has moved to DC and somebody needs to learn and teach the technology. And the college recently gave me free access to some pretty fancy media software.

The wind is blowing in every direction. I'm told I should follow it.

Lesson in three parts.

One.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of watching a production I co-wrote for a recovery roundup. It was awesome, but I had some trouble watching myself. That’s an understatement. I went home and wrote a blog post in which I attacked myself pretty viciously. I posted it, but then quickly took it down. I know at least one person saw it. 

Two.

A few weeks later on Instagram I saw that someone had posted a meme saying, hey, you’re not perfect, but you’re better than you were, so acknowledge your progress. It was a really lovely post.

Here was one of the responses:

Just_more_shit This makes me so sad and ashamed. If past me knew I would become this worthless disgusting filthy parasitic trash she would have done everything to stop it, she would have killed herself rather than let this monster free.

And there it was. I was looking in the mirror, face to face with myself. Because what I wrote in my post was, well, close.

It's almost seductive.  I lay out a gleaming set of serrated verbal knives and cut myself over and over and over again with words, watching -- feeling -- myself bleed out. A slice for how I look. Then my finances. A few cuts comparing myself to others. Then my singing, my acting, my weight, how I dress, how I walk. Nothing is off limits. Then several deep, long cuts for my failings as a parent. There are never enough cuts for that one. The deeper the cut, the truer it feels, and I don't quit until nothing is left but shredded meat.

Do I believe the stuff I'm saying? Yes, at least when I'm saying it. Does it serve any purpose other than creating more hurt? No. But maybe the pain is the point.

And when I post this stuff, I am asking you to witness the carnage too. In that sense, I'm treating you as badly as I treat myself.

But then there’s this woman’s post, and I see its effect. It’s all very tidy, isn’t it? I hurt for her, I see myself, and I learn my lesson.

Or maybe I don’t.

Three.

I was looking at old emails a few nights ago and found something unsettling. Ten years ago, I was in another show -- the first in which I acted.  It was fun, it was life-changing, it turned out great overall, and we watched it at the cast party. But watching myself was nearly unbearable. So ten years ago, I went right home and wrote the very same invective I wrote just a few weeks ago. Some of it was even word for word.

Ten years and not a bit of progress. What the fuck is wrong with me?  

I feel great compassion for that other woman. I know I should feel it for myself, but I don’t know how. Needless to say, my therapist and I are getting lots of mileage out of this set of facts.

There is no promise in this post. I’m not even sure there’s a prayer. I just know that the other woman’s post broke my heart, and she is me.

Shooting in raw.

Oh boy oh boy oh boy! Tax refund! I paid some bills and still had enough to do something I've wanted to do for many years: get a decent camera (in other words, something other than my phone or a cheap point-and-shoot). And boy, am I having a good time with it!

After a shitload of research, I decided on a Canon M50, which is basically an entry-level mirrorless camera. It's smaller than a DSLR but otherwise does pretty much the same stuff. So I've been voraciously consuming YouTube videos on all things photographic (as well as videographic). And I've made a wonderful, wonderful discovery: Shooting in raw.

Oh. My. God.

I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but I guess raw files contain a lot more information than jpeg files (which I guess you can think of as regular digital pictures), so you can do a lot more in post production. In fact, you can pretty much work miracles. Plus, you get to use words like "post production," which makes you sound cooler than maybe you actually are.

Here's the picture I took (Yes, yes, I know it's just my bathroom ceiling. Whatever.):

I took the raw file, worked with it in Lightbook, and I turned it into this, which is actually what my eyes were seeing at the time I took the shot:

I mean, it's just fucking awesome, is all, and now I'm hooked.

The problem with self-awareness.

I'm 62 years old. Almost 63. That’s a really big deal. It means I can retire right now and get some Social Security, although not nearly as much as if I wait a few more years. How wonderful to know that I no longer have to work! If something happens where I can't work anymore, or the job goes away, I’ll be okay. Not great, but marginally okay enough.

Some people insist that retirement is bad for you. They say you start to decline once you don’t have something useful to do. You need a Purpose, with a capital P. They also point out that if I wait until I'm 70 I’ll get the biggest possible monthly benefit.

Yeah, that's not happening, at least not voluntarily. Work has never provided a purpose for me. It’s a means to an end, period, and if I can be lucky enough to like what I’m doing (which is currently the case), that’s a gift, but work doesn’t feed my soul, and it never really has.

I don’t know how we got on the topic, but my therapist asked me last week how I would feel if I stopped working. I told her it would be a huge relief, which seemed to surprise her. So I explained that I’ve never been able to build up vacation or sick time because some days I just can’t function, and I’ve often wondered if I’m really even capable of sustaining full-time work for extended periods of time.

Her response really surprised me: “Maybe you’re not.”

And she’s right, I’m not. I’m exhausted. I’ve spent decades swimming against a disability I didn’t know I had, and I’m fucking exhausted.

So my therapist has given me some homework:  figure out a way to take at least one or two planned days off every month. I’ve got April and May worked out. February and March, not so much.

The problem with facing facts is that now it’s harder than ever to show up, but show up I must. And show up I will, at least for today.

But yeah. Self-awareness is not all it’s cracked up to be.

On Thirteenth Stepping.

If you already know what thirteenth stepping is, then I suspect I've got your attention.

But for those who don’t:  in twelve-step recovery, “thirteenth stepping” is basically slang for sleeping with newcomers. Although it’s not official, this is considered harmful because newcomers are generally encouraged to avoid new relationships during the first year of recovery.

Now, I don’t consider myself a recovery fundamentalist by any means. I don’t get my panties in a wad if someone talks about drug addiction in an AA meeting. I don’t smile condescendingly at people who don’t believe in God, telling them that sooner or later they’ll come to believe. I don’t believe for a minute that all of life’s answers are in the Big Book. I believe that sometimes the best sponsor is someone of the opposite sex. And although I don’t rule it out for myself, there’s no way I’m telling someone else to get on their knees to pray.

But the thirteenth stepping thing? I’m hard core on that one, and I include “just sex” as well as relationships.

The reason we’re advised not to sleep with newcomers is because when you’re first getting clean you’re not generally thinking straight, and a relationship can distract you from the hard work of early recovery. Assuming you’ve decided to go the twelve-step route, it’s a lot of work, and it’s a full-time gig.

The one-year rule isn’t official, but it’s nearly universal. And that means anyone who’s been around a while knows it. So they know perfectly well that their newcomer target has probably been advised not to do the relationship thing just yet.

So what does it say if I decide to pursue a newcomer?

I’ll tell you what it says. It says that I don’t care whether or not they stay sober.

I had a sponsee once, barely yet sober, who was being seduced by someone with many years of sobriety – someone whose recovery I had previously respected. That person actually told the sponsee not to tell me about it. That’s predatory. There’s no other word for it.

But what if a newcomer and an oldtimer really do have something worth pursuing before that first year is up? What then?

Well, then you each talk to your sponsors. You’re up front, you’re honest, and you remain open to the idea that maybe it’s not such a good idea. You are willing to go to any lengths to stay sober, and you want the other person to do the same, and so maybe you just don’t do it.

Here’s the bottom line: If you are a newcomer, and you are being pursued by anyone in the rooms who has some time, that person doesn’t give a shit about you. And that’s true no matter how often they tell you that sobriety comes first, that they’ll help you stay clean, that blah blah blah... Talk to your sponsor, and don’t engage until they’ve talked to their own sponsor as well.

Because chances are, this person is a predator who cares more about their own desires than about whether you stay sober. Drape them in red flags and move on.