April 09, 2003

Man, I've got the big blue wobblies today.

I think it's the result of carbohydrate overindulgence. See, my ancestors lived on the heath and painted themselves blue, or somewhere in the Rhein valley, or just off the big bendy bit in the Thames, over by that pile of rocks. They ate moss and the occasional deer, and didn't have refined wheat products or white sugar or beer (well, maybe beer, but it was flat and warm and yeasty and gross). Then like civilization happened. Now my genes think that I'm having a Really Good Season and they're storing up the big big fat so that I don't have to eat my young when winter comes. But I've got a house and lots of vitamins and a cat that's plump like a Christmas goose but won't get eaten if I can possibly avoid it, so all this genetic machinery is just doing me wrong, see?

When I crash-landed at my mother's house after fleeing Mexico City, I noticed one day as I hiked up the street to hop on the bus to get to work at the copy shop that I was highly susceptible to the Sugar Blues. I put two and two together: stuffing the face with TastyHostKakes results in loooowww spirits for the next couple of days. So I stopped it with the face-stuffing TastyHostKakeness and took up theater, which worked well for a time. Now I'm older and a bit less dramatic, and while there's not much of the face-stuffing TastyHostKakeness going on--except for the odd bucket of ice cream covered with miniature pies--there is an awful lot of carbo loading, which consists of pancakes and syrup and oval fried-potato things and tortillas and pasta and the occasional spoonful of apricot jam. I think I'm discovering that it's not the Sugar Blues with which I am afflicted, but the Carbo Crappiness, which means a loooowww spirit for the next couple of days following the ingestion of too many carbolicious substances.

This morning I oooozed out of bed and didn't even wake up during the Pea-ride to the train station, and once on the train I cracked open the Jornada but couldn't put myself in the midst of the fantastic sparkly cathedral rave chapter. Yesterday: 1200 words. Today: nada-zip-bupkus.

So, as an experiment, I'm going to eat nothing but moss and deer for the next few days, and see what happens.

If that fails, I'm going to hit the boards again, I swear to god. Look for me in this summer's production of I Was A Fat Modern Man Who Couldn't Dance.