The thought that so many people and places still struggling to recover from Katrina may soon have to endure another similarly devastating experience is heartbreaking. And it's not even so much the property damage, the financial ramifications, or even the 'normal' (whatever that is) human suffering that accompanies natural disasters that really gets to me. It's callous to say, but natural disasters happen all the time. They are all uniquely tragic, but they are a part of life. A horrible, horrible part, but a part nonetheless.

There's never a 'bright side' to these situations, and I don't mean to insinuate that there is, or that they're ever 'worth it', but as horrid as many of the personal stories after a natural disaster are, there are often just as many amazing, emotional stories of human courage, endurance, and most of all, kindness and compassion. People coming together and helping one another.

But what hurts me most is that the messages coming out of Katrina were: YOU ARE ALONE. There is no one coming for you. You are unwanted.

And it was true.

There was SO MUCH racism and classism wrapped up in that situation, from the slowness and inadequacy of aid provided (which I have no problem believing was just as much due to the ineptitude of government on several levels) to the media coverage ("acting like savages!") and the eventual backlash ("why didn't they just leave/they must be stupid/they asked for it by living there").

And if it weren't for a media spotlight aimed at politicians and their desperation to 'make things right this time', do you think these people would be any better cared for this time around?

(And yes, I'm working on the optimistic assumption that they will be.)

Trouble the Water, a documentary about the Katrina disaster, was made using footage shot by aspiring rap artist Kimberly Rivers Roberts, all on a video camera she bought on the street for $20 just the week before.

Go. See it. And HELP.

For those of us highly evolved people (my readers, I'm sure) who are too efficient to just watch TV or just drink themselves into a stupor (no, we like to kill our brain cells in multiple ways! At once!), I bring you the DNC drinking game:

Take a drink if either Iraq or the environment are described as a "shitstorm."

Take a drink every time Obama reminds you of JFK, but only because your knowledge of historical figures is limited.

Take a drink of champagne when you're filled with excitement as you realize, "Oh my god, this can really happen. A black man named Barack Obama might be elected president."

In honor of Ted Kennedy, take a million drinks.

(Follow the link above for more.)

So...who has two thumbs and will be seeing double by 11pm or so?

THAT'S RIGHT.

(I knew you guys would get that one. You are so smart. And you have good hair. Why yes, all of these fantastic speeches [regardless of how I feel about certain people, or even who I plan to vote for, you gotta admit that the speech writers, for the most part -I'm looking at yours, Biden, WTF?- have hit it outta the park] and shots of whiskey have put me in a good mood. And the whiskey is only a small part of it. I KNOW.)

Cheers!

Just added a link to my Twitter page in the menu, directly above, so you didn't have to keep scrolling down to find that one damn entry where I had linked it, you're welcome, stop emailing, thank you.

So...how many of you saw this post coming a mile away? (Thanks a lot, ASSHOLES.)

It's finally happened. I've hit bottom. I can't go on like this. This monster is eating up my time, and my money. Especially my money. And I love money. I would like to have more money. It's The Money that pays for The Things, like The Shoes, and is therefore vital to my very existence.

But I don't know how to break what has become a vicious cycle, an indisputable part of my normal routine. Every day, as my lunch or dinner break approaches, I begin to count down the minutes, the seconds, until I can go and get my sushi fix.

Wait, what? You thought I was talking about what? Fool, you better check yourself, cause I ain't hearing none of that shit. I do not have a drug or alcohol problem (you have no idea how sick I get of saying this! You wake up on the front lawn ONE TIME...). I don't care what you say, I can't hear you, la la la la la la. But really, no drug or alcohol problems here. I wouldn't call it a problem, per se, since I love them. Ha, I kid! Really, coworkers. Totally kidding. Except for alcohol, that is, and the legal kind of drugs. I can totally cop to loving those. More than I love people, even. Wow, this went somewhere bad quickly. (I blame the drugs.)

Where were we? Oh yeah, my sushi addiction. Even though I leave for work every morning with a sack lunch in my (not at all trembling from detox) hands, by the time my break rolls around I'm all 'Fuck that shit, who wants to sit in the back room when I can go out to SUSHI? That place with the fish! And the beer! But only one beer! And no sake! Because I have to go back to work! Fuck fuck FUCK!". It's pretty much no contest. Especially when compared to some of the lunches I pack. All bland, healthy shit. Who the fuck am I kidding?

I generally hit up the same spot, just a few minutes away from work. The goods are served up rotating buffet style, which is so, so awesome. I wish everything in life floated by on a conveyor belt, awaiting my approval and selection. It makes the whole sitting on my ass thing really, really easy.

And hey, I'm even eating healthy, which is important, what with all of the ass-sitting:

Eating healthy for the most part, anyways:

That sign says "Fresh Fruits and Pastries". I love that they group those two together, like they're even close to being the same thing. It really facilitates the "Oopsies! I meant to grab that cubed watermelon bowl, but instead I wound up with this fluffy, chocolate-covered yumminess" move. Which I know all about.

And no, I don't ever really say 'oopsies'. Or do drugs. Both of those things are very, very bad. Unlike sushi and beer, which are very, very good. Yeah...I don't really see this addiction ending anytime soon. Eh, fuck it.

Kampai!

Think these are the key to peace? Cause I SURE DO!

Yeah, I kid...but I'm totally rocking these fuckers, anyways, because it sure as hell can't hurt anything. Except for my neck, when I fall off these stilts and break it. Hm. Looks like I'll have to enlist someone to pick me up and carry me from the car to the barstool. In the arms, or piggyback; I'm open.

Cheers!

A short, vague explanation of what I've been doing the past month or so:

Somehow I've managed to traipse through the summer with a reckless abandon that would have you utterly convinced I was without a care in the world. And truly, I pretty much didn't have a care. About much of anything, really. An easy, breezy, careless summer.

And then, quite recently, something happened that forced me to care. It stopped me dead in my tracks, and complicated an already convoluted and painful situation. Immediately I lashed out, cause that's how I do. But after a few days, each filled every single damn minute with mental turmoil so great I'm pretty sure I actually gave myself a stroke or three, I finally, and completely unexpectedly, arrived at peace.

Peace.

I had a decision to make, and I made the right one. Without a doubt. There are excruciatingly few things about which I'm certain, and this decision was one of them. I knew I made the right decision the second I made it.

I planned, I made changes, I moved forward. All with this decision, this very right decision, in mind.

And then, in an unexpected rush, it all went away. The peace followed.

Since then I've been scrambling to grasp a hold of it all again, just a sliver of the promise that things would be ok, because they had to be, because there was no other option but shaping the fuck up. I tried to find it, peace, again, and too quickly. In other people, by burying myself in a dizzying number of distractions, and in the cold, hollow center of pain, which has its own kind of peace, just not the right kind.

Surprisingly, it wasn't in any of those places. I, too, am SHOCKED.

So now I've get the lovely chance to work on this shit. Because spinning around in madness is only fun when you're utterly lost in it, not when you get it, get that your tendency to feel things so acutely they sting, even the good things, has every potential to tear you up.

Yeah, fuck me.

I need peace, I need it like I need air, and whiskey. I don't have a damn idea how to go about this (although it seems that everyone else sure does!), but I'm working on it. I'm trying to find what I lost. My arms are wide fucking open, for reals. Even my eyes, this time.

And dudes, no worries, I really am ok. We all have bad days, right? This is just a bad...time. But it's on the way out! Just, for the love of all that is holy, do not let me listen to any Elliot Smith, because if I do I'll cry, and not even the pretty cry. The other kind.

And yes, I'm way sorry that lately I only drop in here to bitch and moan about sad sack bullshit, and in a vague manner, at that. Allow me to make it up to you:

Even? Rad.