Opening Myself Up To Weird

I got home tonight beat down like an unloved, scrap eating dog.

Got myself sick over the weekend but I would not give in. We had dinner plans with Phil & Betty on Saturday night, super close friends of ours who will soon be slipping away to Florida for the winter so there was NO WAY I was going to cancel and sit home blowing my super sized Testa nose.

I packed my pockets full of kleenex and talked and laughed and got intimate with lifelong friends as I blew my nose through a magnificent dinner and a great night.

Hope I was not too disgusting.

Sunday I had to be there for my brother. I would never let him down in any situation as long as I can help it. And especially now when I understand the depth of his pain. Went down to participate in the ceremony and after-gathering commemorating the one year anniversary of Jonathan's death - my brother's only son.

Left early because I was feeling poorly; came home and sat like a lump on my recliner for a few hours before falling into bed.

Did the Monday thing at work and the Tuesday thing at work - got home Monday night at 10:00, had to be back at work for 7:30 this morning.

Retail. Christmas. Absolutely horrendous.

All I wanted today was to get home and melt into my recliner.

I was supposed to get out of work at 4:00 - I left at 5:45. But I made it, threw two slices of meat lovers pizza on a plate, poured myself a Blue Moon with a chunk of orange, and dialed up the Keith Richards special on Netflix. Second time around.

My plan was to dig it while I ate and then undertake the arduous task of searching Netflix for a movie that would heal my soul. I was already halfway through the special; I had watched a chunk of it the other night.

I fell right into it. Could not turn away.

It hit me - why the hell would I cut it short to search for a movie when what I was watching was feeding my soul?

So I dug it to the end. Again.

Really, really dug it. Focused on it, picked up on stuff I had missed last time around, laughed with Keith, dug in deep to who the man really is. This man that I love.

Shit it was good.

Came to an end and I immediately dialed up "A Very Murray Christmas."

For the third time.

Crawled all the way into it again. Loved it, felt it, laughed with it, lost my hurt in it.

I am continuously amazed when the things that connect with me heal me. When they lift me up and help me forget and inspire me to notice and to feel and to just fucking be.

These things are me. Keith Richards ain't for everybody. Bill Murray ain't for everybody.

But they are for me and I will never apologize for that.

Why should I apologize for people who make me feel alive? Why should I apologize for who I am - who I really fucking am?

It was a random night, unplanned and unexpected.

It settled me beautifully.

Got Springsteen on the tube right now as I write these words - a concert I taped a while ago.

It is delicious.

I have only been home for 3 hours and I feel whole except for the absence of my lovely wife who is bowling tonight.

I came home feeling ripped up, beat down, sick and tired and lost.

I am now back in sync with my soul.

I am weird and I like weird.

I plan on celebrating that loudly from now on.

I came home smacked down.

Keith and Bill lifted me back up.

Pretty good night.

I am grateful for nights like tonight.