If you have ever wondered where those single socks go that never seem to come back out of the washer or dryer and you are sure you put them in there (after all, you know your socks, right?). Well, rest easy.  They are all in my sock drawer.  Until about an hour ago.

 

 

I have taken the liberty of disposing of a number of pairs of socks today - if I find any of yours, they will on Ebay shortly.  I've been retired now  for two and half years and have discovered that, aside from two weddings and one funeral, I do not need 18 pairs of dark colored socks that can reach halfway to my knee.  I took a whiff of some of them. They had a slightly dusky odor, the smell of the streets of Albany, New York.  They picked up the scent as I walked from my car to work, and then back to my car, with maybe a stroll at lunch. Dead cigarettes, black gum cemented to the sidewalks, weeds and car exhaust.  Nope. Long gone.

I've kept a few business oldie shirts and ties (including Mickey Mouse and Jerry Garcia versions) for the wedding and funeral days, plus slacks so that I can quickly respond when Jackie asks me "Oh, you're wearing that?" when a more formal outing has been announced.  Otherwise for the last 30 months it's been t-shirts-sweatshirts-shorts-or jeans in some combination with ball cap that corresponds with team logos.  One pair of boots for winter shlogging, and "nice shoes" for the more formal days (see above question). Jackets for colder days, hoodies on others. There is Tom's fashion sense.  Oh, and sneakers. Not no athletic shoes, running shoes, or trainers, nothing endorsed by any athlete.  If they fit, they're fine.

Thoreau was right: Simplify.  And when your lesion filled brain is making everything just a little harder, the less you have to concern yourself with on the outside the better.

Clothes get donated to the Salvation Army and the odd bins you see all over that ask for clothes and shoes which are sent off to who knows where by unknown people who may or may not be making profits on it. The local media checks on this stuff on slow days.  I just hope that somewhere some child in a Third or Fourth World country is wearing my Saturday Night Fever t-shirt with the upside down logo.

Stuff, like people, TV shows, and poorly maintained cars come and go in your life all the time. Some things do stay, like my wife, some friends, and autoimmune diseases.  I treasure them (not the diseases per se yet they remind me time is short), but there are pieces of clothing I have that I shall try my darndest never to part with:

My Mets Jacket from 1986.

 

 

My Jean Jacket from High School with the Apollo 13 logo I sewed on it, and this was long before any Tom Hanks movie.

 

 

This is the actual Mets uniform worn by a pitcher named Tom Martin who played for the Mets in 2001. The best time with this was standing on the place where the pitching mound was in Shea Stadium and throwing a fastball to my nephew catching behind home plate. OK, it may have bounced and rolled to him, but it got there.  The other Tom M is long retired and involved in business with present day big leaguers.

 

But as nice as that is, nothing compares with this:

 

My sister Barb made this jersey for me. It's just a grey jersey but she asked me once about the history of baseball and she knew I was a Mets fan, of course, but I did say I always liked the Washington Senators.  This was in the mid 70's when both Washington teams had absconded for more lucrative areas.  No professional baseball for the Washington until the former Expos of Montreal moved there last decade. The capital region has a long history of baseball, the main one being the Albany Senators.  We've got an A-ball franchise of the Astros here now, and their season starts this Sunday.  So anyway, Barb took the time to make this and give it to me, and I treasure it even though it's not really all that comfy to wear.  Alas, I can not get in my Star Trek uniform, either, having gone the route of William Shatner.

 

The baseball cap is an actual Senators cap from the late 1960s.  The present day Washington Nationals have a cap with the same design, but this is the real thing bought at the store across from Fenway in 1977, along with a Senators logo plaque that the guy was kind enough to rip off the wall for me.  The plaque has a hole in it where the nail was pulled out.  Still hangs in my den, the plaque does, not the nail.

 

Sometimes on your journey, the inanimate objects that travel with you tell more about you than most people can say.  These help mine.  Think of what you have or no longer have and what they mean do you.  Recently I built a model of the Frankenstein Monster, the same one I had made during the first Nixon administration but had lost to time and the foolish thought of what mattered and didn't.

 

The monster is back, along with other nicer memories than I can no longer place on my body, but fits fine on my soul. And the monster on the outside can't hurt me.

 

 

 

 



How to be normal, Part 1 - Root for the Yankees

OK, this one is for the actual bipolar/MS or some version of both gang.  You may get the feeling that even on your best days, the world seems a little off.  Do you?  I mean do you see families together at a restaurant or mall, or some place, laughing and having a good time, and then you are sitting with the people you've been told you are related to, and they do not or will not acknowledge that anything is wrong, or let you know its is your own fault (Cheer Up! What? Another nap?) you are "that way", if they even acknowledge it at all.  Or maybe they just whisper about it later, and if you think they might be, well, you're paranoid.

This is assuming they associate with you at all, of course.  Now many families are nurturing and helpful and are fully there for any member of their clan who has challenges. They truly do want to help, but we all can't go live with Glen Close.  She just hasn't got enough rooms.

Thanks for what you do, Glen, and I know you suffer as well.  Glen is a Mets fan, and boy, do we know suffering.  But we can walk away and root for another team, but we also can't.  Normal is rooting for the Yankees, living vicariously through their triumphs, even when not totally successful, always there near the top, entertaining their fan base and giving thrills galore.  You pass that down to your kids and even when the team goes into minor troughs, you know they will bounce back.  Someone will come and do it.

Mets fans are happy finishing third.  Oh, its not like we haven't had our moments, wonderful moments of manic play, great performances and championships.  We just know there's a lot more deep, deep lows.  We came from ineptitude in 1962, losers dismissed for season upon season.  Then suddenly came a miracle in 1969, the same thing as when a bipolar person wins a Pulitzer or some other big reward.  Yes, there's something more going on than the odd behavior.  We can succeed and do very well.  Maybe not for long, and we will hide our problems in drugs, alcohol, and poor performing bullpens.  We will let wonderful people leave our lives because we think, or letting the somebody who is doing the thinking for us say, it will be helpful.  Please see the departure of Hall of Famer Tom Seaver (twice) and the recent departure of 2012 Cy Young Award winner R.A. Dickey.  It leads to longer times or holding things together before depressingly empty stadium, old and new. Right?

Mets fans will now say, well what about the 1986 team? That team won the World Series. Yes, and fun it was, but that team, despite its talent, and the work behind the scenes that built up to one crazy victory that barely squeaked by two talented teams.  If it wasn't for some bad pitching in the bottom of the tenth inning in Game 6 of the World Series (not so much Buckner), the Red Sox would have gotten their Curse of the Bambino thing out of the way 18 years sooner.  The late 80's Mets then floundered through the next five years and fell back into terrible.  A team that should have dominated fell short due its own excesses. Like drugs, and the manic thought of its greatness.

Then the Mets tried again around 2000.  A good group held together by a manager whose number one fan was himself played better than they should have to get into the playoffs, and then into the World Series, against of all teams, the Yankees, the one team I was praying for them not to play.  As figured, it was a quick one.  The Normals overwhelmed the Bipolars in five games.  Another slide, and recognition that help was needed stabilized the team in the mid-decade, but self doubt brought it crashing down once again to now, even with a change of scenery at a new stadium, nothing has worked since. We blamed Carlos Beltran for striking out to end the Championship game (I blamed Carlos Beltran). He stood there and watched strike three go by.  His fault.  Back to depression. He did this.  Dump the doctors again. Try something else.

The new doctor in charge of the team, Sandy Alderson, is building from the bottom up, hoping long term treatment will  better than shock therapy.  The Mets remain moribund, looking out the window and waiting for something to happen, something no doubt terrible.  Now the Normals, that is, the Yankees have not spent as they used to, and look like they may be making changes, with confidence in a farm system that will fill their needs as superstars Jeter, A-Rod, and company age out.  Still some great players there.  So life goes on in the Bronx. A hiccup here and there, and the Normals take it in stride.

The Mets don't really have an outfield yet.  I mean you need three people in the outfield, and we've got maybe two, or two and a half.  Might mean a lot of doubles for the other team.

So there it is.  The Mets are the team of the bipolar.  At least Glen Close and me.

So if you want to be Normal, like "those people", pull for teams and organizations that just keep rolling along - the Yankees, Microsoft, anybody with the last name Kardashian, Alec Baldwin, and the Department of Defense. 

So this summer, I'll be sitting in half empty Citifield, rooting for the guys in Orange and Blue, whoever they are.  Come sit next to me and I will tell you stories of a place that's only a shadow now, and of the men who played on that field, and what, now and then, can happen to make your life feel amazing.  Makes it all Amazin'.

Bipolar Stadium.  That's where we play.  Spring training begins in two weeks. Hang in there.