I Have a Dream, Sort of

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OK, this is maybe the last time I will say this (although - brace yourself - probably not), but I had the hardest time in the world today dragging myself to the computer. To this seat, right here, to type...

In honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. we had the day off of work, which I really don't think was MLK's point, achieving more leisure time - but you know what, not complaining. Now because of the occasion I really do wish I could report having done something super-productive and astounding with all of this extra time, but - as ever - I am afraid I am going to disappoint: I somehow managed to waste the entire day.

Where Martin Luther King strode bravely into hostile Southern towns, I shamelessly made my way over to the couch. Where he sought justice in a nation of divided souls, I tore through kitchen cabinets for something - anything - starchy to eat. By two o'clock, I'd consumed maybe three-and-a-half meals and had downed enough coffee to fill a Yugo. During all this I also became horribly mind-trapped by a Monster Quest marathon on the History Channel. The History Channel. Again, what this has to do with poor MLK I do now know. But, still, I could not stop watching. Finally, exhausted and slothy, I fell asleep for several hours. And this was in bed, mind you, not even on the couch.

Not exactly elevating the human race, me.

I hate days like this, ones that start off with promise, all of my ideas and intentions ahead of me, and yet - by mid-afternoon - you realize that the bloom is off the rose. It's 2:45, almost 3 o'clock, and you have barely sealed an envelope. You stand there wondering where the day went, and why you spent so much of it reorganizing your medicine cabinet. And that's when it happens: your panic-chakra starts freaking the fuck out. Bells and lights and sirens blare a warning that this day is but a tiny fractal of your entire life: time is passing, tires are spinning wildly, but how far have you gotten, really? When my thoughts start whipping around my head like this, like wild octopus parts, that's when I start reaching for my spiritual rope-ladder, my go-to guru: Oprah.

But it's still way too early - Oprah will not be making her appearance for another hour or so - so I eke out my time, rearranging drying dishes and telling the octopus to leave me alone. I gather up my blankets and my grilled cheese sandwich, set up my life raft on the daybed, and turn on the TV. This day, as the show begins, Oprah promises me (in a commanding voiceover) that she will be profiling people around country and their tales of struggle and triumph as a tribute to the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr.

Right, Martin Luther King Day... I feel a slight twinge now, because I am afraid that that perhaps this show might try to be a little too important; I think today I was only looking for ordinary-meaningful... like a show about a dentist, say, who realizes the true meaning of life, but only after losing all his teeth in a batting cage accident. But after a brief flint-spark of doubt I reverse my vote. No, this is OK, this is perfect, I try to tell myself. I really need something perspectivey and purposeful right now anyway. Besides, I have my grilled cheese, I have my blankets. I have Oprah to guide me through (or distract me from) the this thick fog I am in. I couldn't be happier and more reassured. So, the show starts off fine, and she's hitting all the right notes. I say an inward wordless equivalent of You go, O, although admitting that now makes me feel kind of self-conscious and sad. So, anyway, I am watching the show. And then - and even now I don't know why - but things begin to turn. Something is wrong.

True, there were actual people on camera, with actual stories, and they talked and said important things about their lives, but it started to resemble one of those soups you taste and... you can never quite say what, but something is missing. Meanwhile you are still hungry and are left wondering when the main course will come. It reminds me of when you accept an early-evening invite to a friend's, thinking there will be dinner (and so you politely don't eat in advance), but then you get there and instantly see that there are only cheese and crackers, and a small dip resembling paper-mache paste, and in that moment you feel the same horror that Mia Farrow felt upon first seeing her devil-baby. Suddenly it's the Donner Party - but with light jazz - and you just know that you are going to starve to death.

But, despite this, while watching the show I did manage to experience the occasional actual pang of actual emotion. (Let's just forget any talk of tears; I did not even approach a fine mist.) And I really truly held on for as long as I could, trying to be generous to Oprah's intent, giving her the benefit of the doubt. But I think she finally lost me when she had all those children (of the requisite "every nation") start marching up the - well, it wasn't even a peak per se, it was more like a hump... marching up the meadowy hump of a rolling California nature-preserve, all the while reciting the "I Have a Dream" speech against a score of heavy church organ and gospel singing (which, normally I love). But, sadly, what should have been inspiring was in fact anti-inspiring: seeing all these kids, like bad actors forced to do a cold-read, wrestling with these beautiful lofty words when they still can't even write their own name. It was like watching a midget trying to lift a refrigerator. By this point I was squirming. The last straw finally arrived in the form of a helicopter-cam shot, lifting up above all the brightly colored Tide-commercial children, presumably to heaven.

OK, that's it, I'm out. I have dishes to stack.

Even with the lost dream of seeing a good Oprah show, I realized - as I lined up all the big mugs on one side and all the small ones on the other - that I still managed to come away from it with a tiny bit of perspective. (Mind you I can find perspective in a brick, but hey...) My life, compared to what African-Americans have had a history of going through?... I mean, come on. No contest... Even though I will complain about anything and everything until the end of days, I do actually realize that it's not all that hard to be a confused, procrastinating, thinning, 30-something, gay white male. OK, well maybe it is a little. I mean, I have other problems, too: teetering finances come to mind, as does my fear of writing, and getting on airplanes, and speaking in meetings, and feeling nervous and never good enough in just about every situation. Oh!, and saying "sorry"... I say that all the time. Why can't I stop?! It's like an addiction!...

...right... Back to other people's problems.

So anyway... I think that all of us - ok, well, some of us - share the same universal concerns. We all want to get over ourselves, and we all want our lives to matter. We want to figure out what we are doing, and where we should be going, and what's the shortest route to take to get there without having to use Mapquest, because that site is just a problem. But, unfortunately, there are a million tiny reasons why we don't do the things that we should, why we continue to waste one day after another, American Idol being one of them.

The one quote out of this whole Oprah mess that stuck with me was this... OK, actually, it wasn't Oprah who said it, it was Martin Luther King - and I wouldn't exactly call this a quote because we are after all relying on my memory here. But basically he kind of said something like this: "We should not wallow in our fears; we should instead always live and speak from a place of possibility. We should always be dreaming forward." Which, if you think about it, is just another way of saying, "get over yourself," with an added sprinkling of, "look outside your window, decide where you want to go, and - really - just put down the Cheetos and go there." Because you're just not going to get there any other way.

Well, I don't think I will be going on any glorious marches today - it's too late for that - but maybe I can at least put down the junkfood of my inner-bullshit and start stretching a little. Besides, I know I am not ready for The Big Walk - I am still way too whiny and resistant (just ask my workout partner). But that's OK, I'll just take a smallish trip tonight, over to Greg's house for dinner with friends, which is fine by me. Normally I love to tackle the big issues, but I have already spent too much time today, looking within, and have found myself to be not only lacking, but slacking. I am always saying I need more time alone, but - like the crazy-but-cute guy in Target who looks mesmerizing while still two departments away - getting to know yourself is never the magical pairing you dream it will be: it always ends up a lot more messy and court-order-y. So I am standing myself up (ha ha) and heading out the door, all Gloria Gaynor references aside.

One final observation in the Blog Entry That Will Not Die: seeing all of the old footage of Martin Luther King, it struck me that he was always surrounded by people - throngs and throngs of them. I think he had something there. I think this idea we all have of rugged individualism, of self-sufficiency, is a little bit of bullshit. As much as we hate to admit it, we always do best hanging onto the flotation-device of others. Life is just too crazy to fight the sharks alone. Plus, maybe you won't get picked off first.

So I'm done. Time to rejoin the flock. If I can't exemplify any other Martin Luther King qualities today (I guess slack and sloth don't count) then I will at least start with the simplest step, one that I can do. I will surround myself with others, the best defense against life's messiness and confusion.

So it's off to Greg's...

A little post-script: We ended up watching Showgirls. So much for "lofty."

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