The American Caliban (substitute) wrote,
The American Caliban

He-man, all too He-man

All of these attempts to fix the soup my brain sits in have been messing with my equilibrium. Literally, in fact. One side effect I’ve noticed this week is poor balance, which isn’t so great. Admittedly it’s not in the class of the Great Medical Side Effects of the Past, but it really shows up once again how medieval mental health care is.

After dinner I had a bit of a post-prandial slump, which I hadn’t done in a while. I awoke from my nap with a sudden memory of an Indian restaurant my friends and I frequented in the early 1990s, on Ventura Boulevard in the Valley. I flashed back to meeting friends there, eating way too much cheap good Indian food that we really couldn’t afford, telling dumb jokes, hanging around too long in the parking lot, etc. It was a shitty time to be a twenty-something in Los Angeles. We all had bad or no jobs. There were citywide riots, earthquakes, floods, the works.

Wandering out of the Indian joint on Ventura full of naan and beer, chewing an anise seed and talking about some new record with Greg, it wasn’t so bad for a moment.

The painful part of all of this was an intense feeling of nostalgia and the realization that as shitty as 1992 in the Valley was, it was better than now. I had to go for a walk to kill that feeling.
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