An Open Letter to Mr. Agassi

Dear Mr. Agassi,

So I understand you had a bit of a problem. A drug problem, with a particularly nasty dance partner. I guess the millions from tennis and shitty camera ads, a model wife, a long career doing something you love that typically has a shelf-life of about ten years tops, that didn't cut it. The swooning of a certain branch of the intelligentsia females who hold a particular sport in high-regards, usually playing it what with those skimpy skirts, and you, with your place in the throne of said competition, were anointed to make their hearts moisten and melt. But that wasn't enough.

No, when it all came down to it, you had to develop a drug habit. Now, this is not unheard of in your profession -- as athlete, but even as professional entertainer, what with the annals cutting back to everything from opium to mescalin to scips and what-have-you. In fact, this would be room for celebration in a lot of places, a comeback story, but really, and maybe this is the truest testament to bad decisions, it was the substance: Crystal Meth. Because really, your fame would have grown, you could have used it as something to showcase your further bravery (we can't all be Lance Armstrong, after all), but instead you picked up a drug that, for all intents and purposes, is left to the likes of truck stop whores in the most barren stretches of Oregon and Wyoming.

But I understand. Maybe you didn't know. Maybe you were unaware that there is a hierarchy to these things. A habit is a habit after all, but quite frankly the habit you chose could easily have been a boon, a statement, an altogether triumphal second (third?) career as university- or rally-lecturing shill. And it's all about the social acceptability.

Well, I've taken that into account. In fact, I've done something better. Below you'll find a list of the top drugs by social acceptability, with explainers as to why and how each could have affected your image. In fact, how you could have used them to advantage yourself and exactly the career choice you could have made.

So Mr. Agassi, for your perusal:
1) Weed. The Fountain of Youth doesn't exist. But this thing -- a former mainstay of college life now far removed from that environ -- has enabled children of all ages to maintain that sense of immaturity, slackerness, detachment. Best of all, it's apparently been found by the same people who promise all those helpful things on dietary supplements to be a veritable cure-all. Granted, the field is a bit crowded, what with Woody Harrelson and Willie Nelson taking all the spotlight glare, but don't let a couple of bloodshot eyes get in the way of the fact that you were number one in one arena, you can be number one in another. With the cache it has in the current arts community (and California, for that matter), could you imagine the cash in with the Rebel commercials (idea: play tennis, then smoke a spliff).

2) Prescription drugs. Now we're talking the proper, more age appropriate stuff. Vicodin, Percocet, Valium for god's sakes. Now, I don't want to get on my high horse, but I understand where you were at. A little older, a little paler and not so spry, but frankly this would have paved the way for exactly the new spokesperson. Let's face it: Prescription drugs are the new laudanum, and it's not just for women and feinting couches anymore. Yes, there is a bit more of a celebrity angle (think Brett Favre and Rush Limbaugh, among others), but those aside, you can most certainly get a few people interested in your life story with a few misplaced tears in a press conference and a trip to Betty Ford.

3) Cocaine. Teeth grinding and disintegrated nasal cavities aside, the juice behind power brokers and PR chicks can be your ticket to stardom. There's not too much to say here, but if it's good enough for Bernie Madoff, maybe it would have been a good enough choice for you. Besides, when somebody asks you how it all got started, you can respond with: "Five words: Now Sampras with the serve."

4) Alcohol. You know the drill, and being from Las Vegas I am almost positive you've seen it, you've seen the stories. Granted, the story has been a little bit done, but it's always good for a few sob stories and a quick day of reckoning from the more sociable of drinkers out there. Unfortunately, unless you're trying out for a role in Mad Men or a Bukowski novel, you might want to pass. The drug that has fueled many an Irish bout of black rage might not be the best choice, but it still has some points and is something many a person can identify with. My recommendation would be to put a contemporary spin on it: a $4 mil a day habit on this stuff. And really, who can cry about those bottles?

5) Nicotine. You know what I'm taking about: those filthy tar-drenched filters lining the gutter, padding an old coffee can, the clothes that smell like the inside of a defunct coal-furnace. The black lung, the morning cough, the twitches, headaches, and cravings, cravings, cravings. And after all that, I have a hard time recommending this one. Unfortunately, the drug of choice for near-on the twentieth century and the plant that built the American empire has really lost its luster as society moved to a post-industrial, less smelling of a chimney swoop day-in-day-out existence. With the effects being largely mild and fast, this could be a tough one to sell. However, if spinned properly, this could really work to your advantage: "I just needed a smoke while I driving with the baby on my lap" or "When those cravings hit, I couldn't help but break out a stick at the casket." This has its third rails, but with the proper massaging, could be quite lucrative.

6) Heroin. I know what you're thinking: I'm not sitting on a gritty novel in a loft somewhere in Edinburgh/San Francisco/Williamsburg. And you're right. I understand that's tough. And yes, the drug's limelight and heyday really was somewhere between the release of 1994'sPulp Fiction and 2000's Requiem for a Dream, but the drug really has a certain bohemian quality to it. You're a rebel, and it puts you in the same league as Billie Holiday, Miles Davis and Robert Downey Jr. Not bad company. And if all else fails, there's a spot on Celebrity Rehab waiting for you.

7) Hallucinogenics. While the stories you could tell would be interesting -- and who doesn't like day-to-day life looking like Pole Position on the Colecovision? -- its luster has long since rubbed off and is now really more of a curio and frankly a point of sadness mixed with indifference for everyone around. Although it still has the white vote, I'd recommend a pass on this.

8) MDMA, Ecstacy, Speed, etc. While this might get you a bit of attention and an invite to Blackrock City, in general the respectability of this is passed even among the youths, who have sine moved on to item 2. I'd suggest a pass on this as well, if only because it's still considered too recreational to merit anything but scorn.

9) Crack. Now, I have heard an account from a friend of mine, who has gone a bit native among the savages, that in fact this is a substance that best codifies and embodies that sensation of love. Cheap, dirty, alley sex with a cuddle session afterwards, like we all wished we had while we were still suckling. Unfortunately, it's also a dirty, cheap version of number 3, and as Whitney Houston proved a quick grounds to obscurity and Republicanism. Bobby Brown aside.

10) Crystal Methamphetamine. See comments in the intro. The drug of desert trailer parks and places with bar closings of ten p.m.

So in summation, Mr. Agassi, I hope this has been informative for when the sequel to the memoir is published. While I can't condone the use of any of these substances, cashing in on them can be an entirely different matter, if the particular substance has been chosen properly.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go back to my bourbon.

Sincerely,

-Geof

Excuse me while I attend to my Brecht

Having been slightly chided for my last, football-referencing post, the Good Addler will now refrain for exactly fifteen minutes and instead talk about his weekend. In tones mauve and taupe. Think of it as his summer vacation post, a one-day snippet from the permanent vacation that is his life, and rather only two events from it. Like canoeing and poison sumac, only not in that order and not comparable in the enjoyability department.

First off: Bronson. Saw the movie, had some thoughts. But to get you all caught up, here's the trailer --

Now, to catch you guys up, this was the same director as the well-regarded Pusher series, which I have not seen but understand that it gives him some indie street cred. The story: A biopic based on the most dangerous man in the UK prison system. The story on the story: The prisoner realizes that he's always wanted to be famous, and further realizes he's become so in prison by beating up guards. The story behind all that: You have to do something to be famous, you idiot. Besides beat up guards. Now cue the Brecht, now cue A Clockwork Orange.

So I guess the best news of all of this is that it's oh-so timely (I should probably underline that, but it'd be too much). A black comedy to the point that when Tom Hardy strips to his skin-suit (literally, he fights the guards in the buff), all I can think as his junk is dangling there is how hilarious it all looks. The mustache doesn't help. Of course, I didn't realize I was going in costume, what with the neglect for getting dressed and the mustache and chrome-top I was rocking at the theater. You get the idea, and that is an aside.

Tom Hardy, however, is the reason to see this. Some of the direction I'm not sure about, but Hardy pulls off both menacing wild dog and and absolute dopiness at the same time. Which seemed about right for the character -- the character is essentially a big mewling baby, and the facial expressions, the fighting angry, the craving for attention, the general cluelessness. As an artistic direction, they also threw in some cabaret elements. Again, interesting, and Hardy pulls it off, but ultimately I'm not convinced it couldn't have been a better film.

And if we could just get the guy a loincloth.

@ @ @

And on the other front, I went to see roller derby on Saturday. All female, naturally, tons of hip checks, women displaying inhumanity to other women. With cheerleaders and bondage gear on the sideline. There should be pictures, but I couldn't sneak into the locker room.

There's your sumac.

The college blog

In an odd turn of events, I walked through the apartment to the kitchen today to find out that one of my roommates, the MD student, was engaging in the medical history portion of a medical examination today. Odd, and I felt like I was walking through something I shouldn't have, which is true because I really shouldn't have.

I haven't said much about the roommates yet, have I? The one mentioned above is a med student at SUNY downstate hospital, Syrian, actually a very affable guy. The other, a painting student at Pratt, I have now not seen in about a week. Oddly enough, this situation makes me feel like I'm perpetually imposing. Which I'm sure I am.

In other odd, much more banal news, I've been getting back to following Delaware football. Delaware, being part of the FCS, is basically impossible to find on TV, but I had established years ago that it was possible to find them online through the radio station. And so I've been listening to them when I have the chance. Now, the Blue Hens are currently ranked 23, which is really irrelevant within itself, but they've lost two games to Bill and the Bitch (William and Mary to those not in the know) and #1 Richmond.

Which gets to the reason I'm bringing this up: the team at #2: Montana. The only reason why this has any bearing -- really, it should be completely irrelevant -- is that I dated a girl from Montana, and, being first off FCS and so just as impossible to know anything about, I didn't realize that they had a decent football team, in Delaware's NCAA class. So the words were thrown about, a little friendly gibing and sparring as to which program is better (it's still Delaware, Jenn, championships won be damned), but frankly now they're on my radar, and now I'm curious, for no rational reason, to see the two teams play. Hopefully in the playoffs.

I guess this is chalked up to the "What you take from the people around you" category. You should hear my rants against Massachusetts. At least, the old ones.

Nothing to report in my balloon here, kids

Except that this might be the luckiest man alive, or the start of a new summer sport:

Okay, so I lied. The balloon boy thing -- yes, that balloon boy, the one with the mysterious flying saucer, a mysterious falling (or not) box, and a mysterious appearance on a tv show after the hoax was all but exposed (including on-cue projectile vomiting).

Now, all I'm going to say is that if you feed the animals (in this case the food is late-20th century narcissism via the construct of the reality tv show. To pull an out-of-context quote from an article in this month's Atlantic: "Is it possible that being on television was not good for these people?").

Ahem -- that parenthetical was too long, so I'll restart the thought: If you feed the animals, don't be surprised when you can't get rid of them. It's a lesson to us all.

Nor'easter ghosts

It's 11:30 at night, I'm listening to spirituals in the form of chorale music while waiting for the melatonin to kick in. In my incredibly comfortable, warm cozy bed setup. Now, which of these things does not make sense? That's right, the melatonin. Why am I taking melatonin you might ask? I understand, I'm having a conversation with an imaginary audience which in general means nobody at all, so I'll cut with the pretense and have a dialogue with myself:

G1: Geof 2, why exactly are you popping the melatonin?
G2: Well, Geof 1, there's a funny story about that. See, I was wracked with insomnia all last week...
G1: I knew that. That's been well-established and in some ways very incredibly not surprising -- Geof can't sleep, maybe Geof drinks too much coffee, maybe he should lay off the nicotine and the caffeine and just let his body do what it's designed to do.
G2: Are you done?
G1: You have to let it shut down every now and then. It's sort of a given. Now I'm done.
G2: Did you save up any energy for the punchline, or is that narcolepsy you're so proposing interfering with your usefulness as a listening partner.
G1: No, I'm really done. And awake. You're not letting me not stay awake.
G2: I'm going to start.
G1: About the alarm clock?
G2: Yes about the alarm clock, you frakking ninny. Of course you know my stories, you're just the vessel of my brain that contains my left ear in its vicinity. Take a pillow. You're more interesting sleeping.
G1: When you let me.
G2: I'm letting you right now.
G1: Right.
G2: Now, as I was saying. I've been known to become so used to my alarm clocks they don't wake me.
G1: And you still buy them.
G2: You're sleeping and not interrupting. Emphasis on the not interrupting. And I buy them -- no words -- because I enjoy being, upon occasion, a functioning member of society.
G1: And yet.
G2: Anymore or I smother you.

So the story is essentially true -- I'd been using the alarm on my cell phone to cajole me out of sleep, which, although useful for the first few months, has now stopped allowing me to wake. Meaning I'm suddenly in the twilight zone of figuring which buttons to depress on the cruise model my parents sent me from a west Indies trip. There's a reason why zombies originate there.

@ @ @

Shit, melatonin is starting to take hold, so this might become a little incoherent. Or it might be to-be-continued. MOst likely the latter.

UPDATE: Today there is sun. The air is still a little crisp and birds are still singing. This weekend was a nor'easter-ish nightmare, what with the wind and the rain and the frightening damp, dank cold. I'd experienced some of these during my time at delaware, but even then my understanding was this was nothing like the cold of the climes farther north. So I got my first taste. I survived, but need a damned scarf.

@ @ @

As for the ghost. You don't get to hear about it. Grand Central is a small microcosm of the world, east and west. Last week was filled with psychological pop rocks of the type that get screened and grabbed at the airport. It's been a rarity.

Insomnia ruminations

As should be gathered by the title and the fruitlessness of my melatonin, I can't sleep and am officially annoyed by this. Again. It's turning into an old story. So you get a blog post in return.

Thoughts:

1) The slate gabfest plugged an article which I cannot find, but sounds freaking great: The breakdown of all sounds considered's top albums list. Which, long story short and to further prove my disdain, simply reminds me of the middlebrow banality of the entire NPR franchise. Half the time I think Congress would be doing the country a favor if they followed through on the cutting of the damned funding, if only for the fact that people might actually experience

2) I made a batch of chili last night, which should have turned out delicious and actually was quite tasty, but the damned thing smells like someone upchucked in the frakkin soup. Now, I don't know if this is a bad beer experiment or what, but it's overall quite annoying. Which leads to point three:

3) The fridge in the apartment here is actually not working. Seriously. The freezer is absolutely fine, but the fridge? It's noticeably cooler in the kitchen than there. And we've had the windows shut in this nor'easter.

4) I need some more coffee right now. But I need sleep even more. Enjoy this, enjoy the nothingness of this post, nihilism sucks, creation ex nihilo is a lie (but the truth isn't that compelling, either). Later, kids.

One last thing, and yes, I know this is a postscript but I'm still sleep-optional at this point:

Monday morning one-off

I'm procrastinating getting ready for work, and so in doing I stumbled on this article in the NYtimes: "A Quest to Read a Book a Day for 365 Days." Okay, so this is admirable: basically, this woman has decided to read a book every day for a year. I'm cool with that, to a point. But really, browsing her blog (Read All Day), her assessments are largely superficial. How many book are "beautiful," "wonderful," "one of the best"? Really, while I appreciate what this is, the act of reading, reading a piece of art should elicit a response beyond just the "hey, look, I'm reading."

Now, my father used to read quite a bit as well. Mack Bolan, Marcinko, the occasional Ludlum. Which is fine also, but nobody is going to equate this to reading of depth. These are novels designed for consumption, serving much the same purpose as a big loud explosiony hollywood blockbuster, and should be considered as such. What's my point here? Basically, reading a lot can dangerously lead to treating all books as crap.

To my avid readers out there, take stock. I'm talking (somewhat) to you. Not to complain, but mainly to say that there's more to a novel that sheer rampant consumption is not going to help. It's like physics: every action has its consequences. Reading is still a slow activity, that's where it gets its power. Reading fast is just wasting time.

Hmmm...this post felt like a waste of time. I'll revise it when I think of a point later.