On pissing one-tenth of my life away

It was great — suddenly, everything had come together.

Two years earlier, I had walked away from 15 years in data networking to chase a dream: I wanted to own amd operate a sexually focused business with my partner. We'd both found great strength and encouragement within San Francisco's sex-positive community, and the chance of finding a place where our personal, professional, and social lives could be intertwined, reinforcing each other, was too enticing not to try.

Amazingly enough, it worked. After a couple years' of consulting gigs, I somehow managed to buy an 80% interest in a truly iconic publication, one I had read and admired for more than a decade: *Spectator*.

It was by no means a slam-dunk — the paper had steadily been losing money for a number of years — but it wasn't a lost cause, either. The hours were long, the work never-ending, but after a few months we were definitely moving forward: Improved editorial, expanded distribution, more visibility in the community, and a hugely increased web presence.

It was like coming home.

I was deeply, intensely happy — happier than I'd been in years. Like that annoying bald guy on those Bowflex ads, I truly was living my dream.

—and suddenly, it's five years later: No home, no relationship. No business, no career, no position, no title, no community. No savings, no credit. I don't even have a car.

Essentially, I'm where I was 25 years ago, fresh out of grad school — except I was in better financial (and physical) shape back then. Not to put too fine a point on it, I'm essentially broke; living in a dump (a dump I can't even afford) in a not-so-nice section of Berkeley; working a dead-end job, with no benefits and no paid vacations, holidays, or sick leave; earning about two-thirds of what it costs me to live; and having lost touch with virtually everyone from my past.

In other words, I'm starting over.

At 21, that held both challenge and promise.

At 48, it simply sucks.

And, yes, I realize I'm an asshole to complain. So many people I know have *real* issues to face: serious health problems; near-crippling emotional issues; undeniable responsibilities to family or friends; the need to provide care for a child, elder, or partner with special needs. By comparison, most of my problems are my own damn fault: Bad choices, missed opportunities, half-baked ideas. Sure, someone else might have brewed the cup of coffee — but I'm the fellow who dumped it in my lap. I *know* that.

I know it the same way I know that even though I'm not happy with where I am, and I'm certainly not pleased by how it was I got here, allowing myself to obsess over the things that happened or why they happened is, at best, pointless and, at worse, dangerously self-indulgent.

Instead, I also know the only thing that could possibly matter is whatever it is I choose to do as a result.

And *that's* what scares me shitless — because not only have I *not* been able to fix anything, even after five years' of trying, I don't seem to have even the faintest idea where to begin.

Now, this is coming from a guy whose life has pretty much revolved around fixing things. Just look at the jobs I've held: proofreader, editor, technical support rep (tech, supervisor, manager), quality and process improvement, systems development, organizational design, network management systems (NMS) engineering, NMS design, NMS sales and marketing, product management and design, strategic development, publisher. For much of my friends and family, I'm *the* guy to see when you need help with an absurdly broad range of problems — everything from fixing a door on the minivan, to performing a background check on the new minister, to finding the cousins with whom we lost touch during the Holocaust.

Think of it as Applied ADD: While I don't have the drive and focus needed to become truly great at any one thing, I have random enough interests and am quick enough of a learner to have become reasonably good at a number of things.

And after all that, I've *still* allowed the events of five years ago to cripple me.

Now, there are those who claim everything always came too easily to me — and perhaps they're right. For instance, take my three most glaring failures since 2003:

o I haven't been able to find meaningful work,
o I haven't been able to find and retain meaningful relationships, and
o I've horribly, horribly squandered the resources I should have used to carry me through to the next phase of life.

At first blush, I'd have to say, Yes, maybe in the past things *did* come to me too easily — and now I'm actually having to work, my inadequacies are rising to the surface.

o For instance, until that day in 2003 I discovered my key would no longer unlock the *Spectator* office, I'd last applied for a job in December, 1983; likewise, July, 1989, was the last time I held a position not created specially for me.
o As far as relationships go, for 21.5 of the 25 years that ended when Dara moved out, I was living with a spouse or significant other. What's more, I never had to go looking for such relationships; instead, they had always just appeared at my door — sometimes literally so.
o Finally, until a few months ago, no matter how bad a shape my finances were in, no matter how dire the situation appeared, at the last minute, something always came through — or someone always stepped up to save me.

Maybe the wheel of fate has simply continued to spin, leaving me to pay off karmic debts incurred in earlier, more fortunate days. If so, I trust it's not *too* self-pitying to note that age 50 probably *is* a little late to be learning for the first time how to job-hunt, date, and balance a checkbook. (On a similar topic, should one be inclined toward pissing away five years of one's life, may I suggest it's probably far easier to recover from the loss of years 23 through 28 than from a similar loss two decades later.)

Still, no matter how unpleasant each of these skills may be to learn, they just don't strike me as insurmountable — either alone or together. Instead, I seem to be suffering more of a structural — or perhaps existential — defect: It's not necessarily I don't know *what* to do (although it's quite possible I don't); it's more I don't know *why* I could ever want to do it.

For example, if someone asks in what sort of job I might be interested, what immediately springs to mind is "Publisher of *Spectator*." I'm forever coming across stories to add to "Topping the News," finding books and movies we really must review, discovering ideal candidates for joint promotions and partnerships, or learning how to implement some sort of AJAX widgetry that would be a perfect enhancement for Spectator.net 2.0.

What's worse, I find it virtually impossible to imagine myself holding down the kind of position I once held, working in an area where I once worked — being a product manager, for instance, or leading a matrix-managed team of developers. Again, it's not that I don't believe I could do something like that, again; I just can't seem to get back to a place where it's something I might want to do.

Likewise, I'll find myself watching a happy loving couple somewhere — at a restaurant, perhaps, or riding on BART — and realize I have absolutely no concept, no memory, of what it might be like to be part of such a couple. I remember how much I enjoyed being part of something larger than myself, how wonderful it was to know there was someone with whom I shared hopes and dreams and goals — but I remember nothing of how it felt beyond knowing that I liked it.

(And need I add that I still miss Dara fiercely, that a dozen times each day I'm reminded of something she said, or I read or hear something she would so much enjoy, or I have a question to which I'm certain she'd know the answer. The memory of a trip I took with her a decade ago is so much more vibrant and real than my recollections of last week.)

So I guess maybe *that's* it: I've not been crippled by the events of five years past; instead, I've been trapped in the world of five years past.

—wait; that's not quite right, either.

It's more like: I'm refusing to leave the world of five years past, clinging stubbornly to my memories of it, long after the world itself has crumbled away. Meanwhile, my "life" in the here-and-now — which scarcely deserves that title — thrashes itself to pieces a bit more every day, like the misaligned and unmonitored machine it is.

And there I sit. It's almost as though I am so upset over never knowing whether *Spectator* would have triumphed or failed if I'd been allowed to remain at its helm, I've chosen a future of unquestionable failure rather than risk not knowing again.

I can see this; I understand it; I realize what it is I'm doing — but I just can't seem to catch my own attention long enough to make a change.

I can save this child — or, rather, this increasingly pathetic middle-aged man.

Or I can turn the page.

Starry Eyes: Two Cautionary Tales

1. "Starry Eyes," by The Records. Quite possibly the greatest power-pop song of all times, dedicated to their incompetent former manager. An object lesson for all fledgling bands — and an unalloyed joy for the rest of us. It's on my MySpace profile ( www.myspace.com/mazoola ): Give it a listen. (BTW, there's an entire album's worth of unreleased live tracks from 1979 available as a free download from John Wicks' website: www.johnwicksandtherecords.com/th...htm .)

2. There should be a jumper one could set, a bit to flip, a DIP to switch, a flag to throw that would inform Whoever Is In Charge Of Karma that one is busy trying to make one's existence a little less upgefukt, so please hold off delivery of any random complications for at least a week or two….

As most of you know, I've spent the past few years pretty much bollixing up my life. (Let me hasten to add I don't mean to hog all the credit; I had simply oodles of help from a handful of energetic, dedicated, and incredibly creative individuals. However, I do like to think I managed to give at least the major blow-outs and crises my own special touch.) And as some of you know, over the past 10 – 12 months I've taken great strides not only to slow the rate at which I spread disaster but on occasion even to set right past disasters. Needless to say, it's been slow going [insert your favorite metaphor involving buckets and oceans, here], but there doesn't seem to be much of an alternative.

Now, I'll be blunt: Unless you're channelling Isaac Newton, don't tell me "everything happens for a reason." Nor am I much inclined to view any seemingly random or unconnected challenges to the stability of my health, finances, living situation, or mental wellbeing as "character-building," "invigorating," or "stimulating" — or, frankly, as anything more than totally unnecessary pains in my ass, distractions to ignore for as long as possible. As the poet Da5id Fox says, "What doesn't make you stronger can only kill you." Let those whose lives are spun from candy floss and unicorns revel in the novelty of unwarranted adversity; my daily routine is a hard-enough row for me to hoe. (Or ho'.)

In other words, as a firm believer in that Jubilo of loose shoes, tight pussy, and indoor plumbing, on those occasions I actually launch myself into a flurry of self-repair, the last thing I want is for some Imp of the Perverse to follow along behind me, untying knots, loosing bolts, and reversing positive and ground.

So you can imagine my delight when, after a day full of sending out job applications and dealing with the Franchise Tax Board, I started getting weird reflections in my right contact lens while driving to buy catfood. "Great," I thought, "I guess I've put off replacing these lenses for too long. Just what I need to go through right now: Two weeks of breaking in a new pair of bifocal contacts, with repeated fittings and lens exchanges — not to mention having to find $600 for the privilege." However, once I got to Safeway and put in some drops, the reflections stopped, and I had no further problems driving home later, even when looking into oncoming traffic. Happy with my quick, two-bit fix for the problem, I fed the cats and went to bed.

After spending a couple hours at the résumé mines the next morning, though, I reluctantly decided my right contact lens had bitten the dust, as I was having to peer through a veil of scratches and deposits. Grabbing the bottle of kick-ass cleaner I should have used the night before, I headed upstairs to the bathroom, popped out the lens — and discovered the lens was spotless.

The irritating junk was in my eye.

Now, I've had floaters ( en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Floater ) since I was a kid. They'd occasionally drift across my field of vision, but unless I was concentrating on seeing them, my brain simply edited them out. Occasionally one would disappear, or a new one might take its place, but overall numbers held steadily. It's like returning to a strip club after an extended absence: You know there'll be a Tiffany and a Crystal and a Lexus, just not necessarily the same ones as last time. But now in my right eye it was Showtime! and all the lovely ladies in their evening gowns were lining up on stage… and blocking my vision. Even worse, all the Tiffanys who'd ever danced at that club had shown up to work this shift.

My housemate called down to ask what I was bitching about this time. I told her, and it turns out she'd never heard of floaters. Remarking once again that my greatest gift to future generations will likely be the fact I didn't procreate, she said I should call my doctor, because a normal, healthy person doesn't have things swimming around in his eyes. Sitting down at the computer, I pulled up a couple web pages on floaters, intending to prove her wrong.

And that's when I realized I had a torn retina.

Now, a couple weeks later and a couple thousand dollars poorer, I have a retina spot-welded to the back of my eyeball with a high-powered laser beam. As procedures go, laser photocoagulation ( www.optimedica.com/pascal/video.aspx ) probably ties with bronchoscopy as My Least Pleasant Experience (Medical). Retinal repair is to Lasik as trepination is to a haircut; all pain and bright light, when that laser starts pulsing, it's like being at a rave and having an ice-pick shoved into your eye — on beat. Or perhaps it's more like going to Burningman and paying a visit to the folks at Camp Mob Hit….

But my sight was saved; the tear shouldn't turn into a full-blown retinal detachment, at least. The welds seem to be holding just fine, and I'm pretty much back to normal. In fact, I can do everything I did before the injury — well, [irony]everything other than read or work on the computer[/irony]. It's not because of damage to the retina, either from the tear itself or from laser burns; instead, it's from the Showtime! of floaters strutting their stuff, leaning over to ask if I want a dance and blocking my view of whoever's onstage. Turns out that The Tear of Retina Breeds Floaters, as protein debris and blood cells are released into the eye.

Now, as I said earlier, I've had floaters ever since I can remember, but they were always pretty innocuous sorts; one I remember particularly well because it looked like the letter "R" in Morse code. Unless I was looking up (into the sky, or out the window of a plane, thaks to all the polarized light) or looking down (using a microscope could be a real pain), most of the time I wouldn't even notice they were there. What I have today, though, is an order or two of magnitude different: Against a slow snowfall of black pepper flakes, a squadron of yarn, hair, wire, and steel wool tangles tumble madly, as a handful of jet-black hummingbirds and barn swallows hover off to one side, avidly watching. I'm finally able to suppress the urge, when I sit down to eat, to sweep the ants off the table first, but I still wave away an occasional phantom beetle.

Over time — pretty serious time, that is — the body may reabsorb some of them, but the great majority are likely now my life-long companions. All I can do is to figure out how to minimize their impact — like cutting down on microscope use — while I wait for my brain to get bored with perceiving them. I'm learning to read again, discovering how best to hold my head and where best to put the book. However, for a non-touch-typist like me, the PC presents some additional complications; every time I glance down at the keyboard and then look back up to the monitor, it's like I'm standing alongside New York Harbor, watching as another trash-filled wave washes over the shore. I've experimented with dictation software — no need to glance down at my lips every half-sentence — and had some success, but my eye still gets tired more quickly than it used to.

So that's where I've been for the past few weeks, and that's probably why I never responded to your email or SMS. It's taking me even longer than before to return emails — and by the end of the night I'm manipulating shapes as much as words; if something I send you makes particularly little sense, it may only indicate the writer is experiencing a physical, not a mental, problem.

Gee, [foreshadowing]I hope nothing else bad happens any time soon![/foreshadowing]