I awoke at 6:13 this morning to the cell phone. It was Riz, my schizo-affective 400 lb. pal.   “Jim, you’re gonna be here at ten, right?” 

 “Of course. Said I would.”

 I was already feeling the hot strong coffee going down my gullet, though it was still 10 minutes away from being there.  That’s how it gets you! 

 Also, the room was strewn with books. I took myself to task, briefly.

The tv beckoned. I turned it on to hear msnbc, fox, and cnn’s take on the post-confession era in the Honorable Mr. Weiner’s life. Maybe I’d see his wife.  Aha, she looks like my lady dentist! See, this personalized it for me. Weinergate.

“Just checking, you know me. Control freak. It’s my anxiety, you know that.” He didn’t ever sound anxious, or look it, though.  Big bearded Italian with 33 years on this earth, the last 7 of which he has been gargantuan. Psych meds are somewhat to blame. Previous to his crackup, in college, before what my (dead) mom calls a “nervous breakdown” , he was a star athlete. Chick magnet extraordinaire.

  OK, big day for me. Walk down to his apartment. 40 minutes. Leave at, oh, 9 am.  Three hours to get caffeinated, medicated (I too am a psych case:bipolar), and up to date on my world. 

 Chest shots of Weiner. Women anchors being hilariously elegantly condescending, but keeping straight faces. Lots of women-radar between em, I would bet.   Something about Obama.  He is shrinking, I think. Very gaunt, very lincolnesque. Wish he’d grow some hair or a beard.  I hope Al Gore is advising him.  But not Clinton. O would do nothing devious. Like “feel anyones’ pain” on national tv. 

 Local weather: oh good, 100 degrees today.

  This story could take forever to tell, one day of adventures for a man who can without hesitation be called a “hermit”. So I shall dwell on salient details only. 

 Itinerary: Riz to doc, me back to Riz’s, then to the dentist at 3 pm.  Then me home. Walking. I am on an exercise kick after 50 feet of snow this winter, wherein my damn love handles, which I anything but love, have come back from 3 year hiatus.__________________________________________________________________________   

Walk to Riz’s was uneventful except for Dylan shrieking and complaining and cajoling in my cranium, on those earplugs that you only put in your ears.  On a…I am embarrassed to say…a cassette Walkman.

 I tape my cds onto cassette tapes. Also I take my own voice reading important shit like Hegel or Whitehead or Camille Paglia.  I used to do that drunk.  I also used to tape my unending observations when high on pot. I am clean now though.

  At Riz’s door I heard a bark. Odd. He has a cat, not a dog. Mean little thing, the cat, sometimes, to me.

  His mom opens the door. Brilliant woman. Helluva mom. But...she is supposed to be at her own place. They did a switcheroo last night, because HER b…ch of a property manager threatened to call the cops on this little gal, this fluffball with the sweetest eyes, her sister’s dog.

 She, or rather he, is dogsitting

.  I soon learn he maintains a firm hand. Like: don’t go out of my sight or especially out the door.

  “Lily” is her name. Needless to say, she is mine within minutes. I believe in a progressive animal-rearing philosophy. Only yell when they are about to make a huge lapse of judgment, like eating the cat’s shit out of her still full cattie bathroom box.__________________________________________________________________

  The doctor looked like a psychiatrist I once had. Indian. Pleasant. Often I wish I had an indian friend, but the last time I did, in college, he gave me a long island ice tea at a bar then asked for a ride home. I always acquiesce to anything a friend asks, so my ass ended up in the campus police station for the night on a dui.  This is not at all reflective of the Indian male gender, I have subsequently learned: to lure waspy smartass smartypants guys into drunken mayhem. Please note this, guys. 

 The doc spoke of “sleep architecture” and said “rem” is not that important. That Riz’s anti-Everything-Crazy drugs were rem suppressants! Well now!! 

I asked the doc if he heard of that famous study I dimly remembered that would poke people awake at the fringe of rem all night, for a few nights, and they ended up “cognitively disturbed”, i.e. psycho.  He shook his head and smiled.  Hm.

 I know I remember that from psych class.

  Anyway: Riz has to use his bed only for sleeping, no facebooking, which he does a lot of. And keep that mask on! The apnea is cured. But he has to “get all his sleep fragments together” instead of waking up and going on his i-little thing-the size-of a wallet.  He nodded and digested it all. 

 I truly wanted to ask the doc , “Doctor, may I presume a philosophical query upon you, an expert? What, sir, is the function of sleep itself”.  I chickened out. He’d think I was trying to be a  smarty pants when I am just asking the most important questions .  Everyone does. I hear it is off-putting. I wouln't know. I only meet myself in dreams,ha.

 I am trying to become clownish & frizzy-hippy-haired and studying the behavior of the young generation, to fool em. So I can get like me, and not a damn contrite struggling fallow shallow presumptuous arrogant punkass, like I am often considered. 

Dylan helps.  That high voice. When I know damn well he can sing deep & low.  _____________

--I shall end it with this, yet another ironic synchronous crazy-making COINCIDENCE that fills just about every day.  The receptionist at the dental clinic said, “name, sir?”  “Emmerling”  “Zimmerman?”

  I was too flabbergasted not to let out a flow of words, but kept it terse. Like I was shocked. Nothing shocks me. Not after struggling (and yes, enjoying) my bipolarity.

 Since birth? Why the f. not, sure. I am a proud bipolar.

  The universe or Fate or God or Goddess or quantum fluctuations are admonishing me to:(you guessed it! J   )  PUT IT ALL BACK TOGETHER.