318

no matter how many times i watch secretariat's 1973 belmont stakes performance i always find myself a little more at peace with my inner demons.

watch the video and find four minutes of awesome respite in a world where unbridled exaltation is at a massive premium.

i dont find horseracing particularly exciting but i live and die for historic moments in sports; secretariat ran the guttiest race of any horse's life all the while authoritatively demonstrating that you dont need to have 46 chromosomes to be a tremendous athlete.

on june 9th, 1973, he ran the fastest, most captivating one-and-a-half miles in the annals of equestrian sports.

according to wikipedia, ron turcotte, secretariat's jockey, "could sense secretariat wanted to be let loose, and he did so, letting him shift into high gear and run his own race."

in perhaps the most spine-tingling race ever captured on film, secretariat exploded at the halfway marker and proceeded to annihilate his world-class competition in electric fashion. the final stretch saw secretariat so ridiculously far in front of his opposition that even with the camera pulled all the way back he was the only horse visible in frame as he barrelled across the finish line.

the camera operator had to widely pan left once secretariat crossed the line just to find the other horses.

i find it difficult not to smile and feel a surge of overwhelming empowerment as i listen to track announcer chic anderson's voice become increasingly strained with an eclectic mix of incredulity, exasperation and hysteria as his now legendary call described history in the making:

"...he is moving like a tremendous machine! secretariat by 12, secretariat by 14 lengths...secretariat is all alone! hes out there almost a 1/16 of a mile away from the rest of the horses! secretariat leads this field by 18 lengths...secretariat has opened up a 22 length lead! an unbelievable, an amazing performance!"

secretariat ran one-and-a-half miles in two minutes and twenty-four seconds, thirty-one lengths ahead of the runner-up.




nearly 35 years later secretariat's record time still stands.

319

hey you.

>tap tap<

wake up.

ive been suckin' on fuckin' tree roots for seventeen years.

now i have a huge cicada load with your name on it, babycakes.

320

in defiance of springtime.

321

dramatic music plays as a woman's voice boldly narrates the commercial:

"holes...the advanced technology behind tylenol extra strength rapid release gels."

hmm.

either advanced technology just aint what it used to be or mcneil's think tank is riding the 13th hour e-train.


"wheels...the advanced technology behind moving automobiles."

322

914,544,000 seconds later...

323

its time to stop comparing low prices to the cost of a few cups of coffee.

has the barrel run so fucking dry that marketers, companies and salespeople cant think of anything but coffee when they try to pawn their bullshit wares?

the analogy was terrible when sally struthers' disgusting face flooded our living rooms ad infinitum throughout the 80s and it was equally horrifying when i read "lets say you start by putting just $7 a week into your 401k...the price of a few cups of coffee..." in my company's profit-sharing newsletter this afternoon.

at least make it amusing by writing "lets say you start by putting just $7 a week into your 401k...the price of a few days wages of the people who harvest your coffee." the mere thought of how financially secure we are compared to many other folks around the world might tempt me enough to donate a few bucks to greenpeace or buy a subscription to swank or send away for a set of the u.s. government's latest shitty state quarters.

"we'll send your gem-mint, uncirculated state quarters with an absolutely free, fuzzy, purple velvet-lined display folder so everyone who comes to your house can see what a fucking moron you are!"

enough.



in other news, i knew the day would eventually arrive but i never realized how soon.

depaul university has sent me their first alumni solicitation for a donation one month shy of my first graduation anniversary.

i guess they figured since im no longer dropping twenty thousand bucks a year on tuition i can afford to just send them money for no reason whatsofuckinever.

i must admit im a little amused by how accomodating they are when it comes to donating which lies in stark contrast to the billions of holds and bullshit restrictions they placed on my student account as soon as it became eight femtoseconds past due.

not only can i donate by check, credit card, electronic funds transfer or even securities but theyre also kind enough to send me, at my request, "information on including depaul university in my will or estate plan."

thats right, my friends:

depaul wants to chase my assets right into the fuckin' cemetary.

i bet theyd send university president rev. holtschneider himself to serve as a pall bearer if i agreed to sign over my rare vinyl collection in the event of my death.

the following is written in boldface, exaggerated font, colored letters on the upper right quadrant of the cover page directly underneath a nauseating photograph of four students smiling as though theyre auditioning for a fucking terry schiavo colgate commercial:

"your donation will help keep depaul going strong."

i dont recall receiving a single such letter before depaul decided to close the barat campus.

then again, college is a business and depaul university represents the chief executive officer.

you unbelievably greedy motherfuckers.




i have donated forty-one cents to the united states postal service.

324

"so what medications have you taken?"

"it would be easier to name the ones i havent."

"wellbutrin?"

"yes."

"effexor?"

"yes."

"lexapro?"

"yes."

"depakote?"

"yes."

"you have taken quite a few, havent you?"

"yes, hence it being easier to name the ones i havent."

"the problem with xanax is that its very addictive."

"uh huh."

"you have to keep taking more and more."

"yep."

"some patients have come to see me while theyre taking ten, twelve milligrams."

"okay."

"why did you stop taking the other medications?"

"they didnt work."

"how do you know?"

"because they didnt help."

"how long did you take them?"

"at least four months each."

"i see, i see."

"what do you see?"

a pause.

"when did you have the ct scan?"

"five or six years ago."

"and what was the reason?"

"the neurologist wanted to make sure there was nothing physiologically wrong with my brain."

"and she prescribed you seroquel."

"yes."

"what effect did it have?"

"none."

"everyone has a response to seroquel."

"everyone has a response to every drug."

"how much did you take?"

"i dont remember."

"was it a little red pill?"

"i dont remember and im not going to guess."

"sometimes you have to take more to have a noticeable effect."

"okay."

"why didnt she prescribe you a higher dosage?"

"im not a neurologist. i dont know."

"and you dont remember the shape?"

exhale.

"nope."

"are you open to trying something new?"

"thats why im here."

"i want you to try taking klonopin to get you off xanax."

"alright."

"its stronger."

"so it has a longer half-life?"

she looks up.

"you know about this?"

"uh huh."

"yes, it has a longer half-life."

"good."

"i want you to take one milligram twice daily. we can go up to three milligrams."

"how is this not substituting one addiction for another?"

"we have to wean you off the xanax."

"thats not what i asked."

she looks up.

"klonopin doesnt have the same problems xanax does."

"theyre both benzodiazepines."

"klonopin works another way."

"all benzodiazepines augment the effects of gaba."

she looks down.

"if three milligrams doesnt help enough we can also add seroquel."

325

as my colossal case of writer's block enters the realm of aching drought known only to those who love the craft i find myself thinking about a suitable title for my book.

ive always been partial to "versus gravity" for the simple reason that it encapsulates the most effective release mechanism in my coping arsenal. i press more than a metal bar off my chest when i lift.

and by the way, you hackjob, cartage motherfuckers who dont bring the bar all the way down to your chest: youre a fucking disgrace to the sport.

throw your fucking gloves away, put your belt back in mommies house, lose the tank top, get off your cell phone for eight seconds, dont bring attention to yourself and do it right.

you know who you are.

another potential choice for my memoirs, you ask?

"as raindrops inexorably pound the earth."

i like carnage, chaos, contention and concatenation. i love films and novels about the demise of civilization, society and humankind.

if i was the last person on earth i would be the crazy motherfucker who meticulously plotted rube goldbergian ways of setting gigantic firework warehouses ablaze as i watched from the comfort of a plush, fully reclined la-z-boy. i would be stephen king's "trashcan man" as i made my merry way across the country dropping fuses in gasoline tankers whilst cinematically snapping my trusty zippo. i would launch everything i possibly could off the top of chicago's 'cock and watch the devastation unfold on high-speed camera film. i would see how quickly i could level a seventeen-story office building using nothing but wwii hand grenades and then i would watch as the building toppled like a lumberjacked oak tree.

i like snow that knows no woes. i like foggy october shadows. i like the rain that accumulates between wiper cycles. i like wind that flirts with the foundation of my house. i like storms that froth at the mouth. i like vacation footage of tsunamis and eruptions and earthquakes and typhoons and monsoons and wildfires and avalanches and mudslides and hurricanes and blizzards and tornadoes and floods, fires, frost and frippery.

i cant wait for earth to win.


i think ill throw one more candidate in the mix for good measure.

i was sitting in a biology lecture several years ago when i heard my professor say "where the xylem meets the phloem." the phrase rolls off the tongue like warm butterscotch.

i never had to etch the words on the back of my left hand because it represented one of those marvelous acoustic moments that all humans experience; its as if specific, designated neurons exist for the sole purpose of being entombed in glial concrete the instant a predestined consortium of words enters consciousness.

perhaps its your octogenarian grandmother telling you to have a strong will as she succumbs to the atrocities of pancreatic cancer. perhaps its the onomatopoeia of your baseball leaving a dent in the left field scoreboard. perhaps its the last few lines of a poem youll recite to your wife as you journey into the great wide open.

our limitless senses limit us as we seek meaning in a meaningless world.



and that, my friends, is where the xylem meets the phloem.