How do you sleep at night? June 22, 1985

 

Two hours sleep.

This all seems so repetitive, a cycle of twists and turns that never seems to find an end: work, sleep, write, work. And to what conclusion?

Certainly not happiness, although the bills get paid and I bounce no checks.

I’m not the only one. Hank so predictable he is a lot like my old hamster on his wheel. Pauly and Garrick call him the “dull man,” because the routine is even more predictable than mine, rising in the morning, yawns, washes, dresses and later goes out to start his car, goes to work, comes home, naps, eats, watches TV, then goes to sleep.

So rigid is his routine, Hank refuses even to talk to Garrick, who lives in his kitchen, and when he does, Garrick gets the feeling he is talking to a machine.

Hank lives his life like a robot, going through the motions of life, but all by habit, lacking any meaning. He is part of a TV generation that has his days programmed out, as if the timing of a VCR. For a man I once saw as the most radical person I ever met, he has become utterly everyday American, addicted to his favorite TV shows (he would never miss, MASH through Johnny Carson) and making heroes of radio personalities (he quote Imus almost daily and still listens to WNEW religiously), and programs his week the same way, celebrating every Wednesday as “Hump Day” since it is half way between weekends when he can relax. He plans his vacations for trips to the beach, where he spends most of his time trying to win record albums at the arcades along the boardwalk.

He is so middle class he makes my dull routines seem exciting, although I’ve ceased being tempted to go out to bars with him as I frequently used to do – even if I had time or money to do so.

His weekends are as rigidly scheduled as his work week is, going to the same bar, seeing the same people, telling the same tall tales, always mocking the bartender who is more family to him than his real family is – with only Pauly’s band as a reprieve, sometimes allowing him to get on stage to sing, all our old friends coming together as we once did, so he stands out less than other barflies.

This idea that we can’t break out of cycles like these scares the crap out of me because these things devour time and we tend to forget what we do in those periods, forget who we met, what we said, and whether those moments had any meaning.

Fortunately, I barely watch TV and so do not get the same daily dose of propaganda Hank gets during the commercial breaks, and I do not bow down to the iconic images, or praise the modern media saints, so somehow do not find myself committed to the same dogma that is being peddled as belief. This might change as I get older, I hope not. I do not want to do everything everybody else does, tolerating routine only out of lack of choice. I never want to turn out to be like Hank, even though when I first met him back in 67, I wanted to be just like him.

Maybe I just need a little more sleep.

 

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