Hello again!
The latest and most-delayed newsletter update comes after a LONG month on my end.
June was especially tough thanks to a brutal stint of insomnia in the early part of the month. For the first week and a half of the month, I didn’t sleep more than two hours a night — less on a few occasions — thanks to a combination of stress and a tweak to my neck that just wouldn’t let up. During this stint, I’d generally pass out around 11 p.m. or midnight and wake up at one or two in morning. And when I was awoken — I was W-I-D-E Awake. It felt like the equivalent of chasing a pot of coffee with smelling salts and a shot of epinephrine to the heart. If I could start my normal days with this type of energy, I’d be more productive than Tim Ferriss. But to be ripped from sleep in the middle of the night with this type of energy is more than a little upsetting.
The occasional — and sometimes prolonged — bout of insomnia is nothing new for me. I’ve had sleep problems since high school, and even the Navy SEALs couldn’t fix them. It’s always quite the process for me to fall asleep at night in the first place, and a few time a year, I also wait up in the middle of the night. Normally when these mid-morning wake-ups happen, I can get myself back to sleep after a few hours of meditating and reading, stringing together a little bit of sleep before morning.
Not this time.
I don’t remember feeling “tired” during my June insomnia visit — just anxious and generally uncomfortable. By the middle of the week, I felt crazy and began wondering if I’d ever sleep normally again. So why am I telling you all this? And what the hell does this have to do with a newsletter about natural disasters? Because in the middle of my worst insomnia bout in a decade or so, a heavy, oppressive haze began blanketing everything as far as the eye could see.
“Is something on fire around here?” my wife asked coming home from work one day.
Of course, something was on fire — Canada. The wildfire smoke made its way south, causing air quality advisories and cancelling outdoor events everywhere including Fun Day, an event my six and seven-year-old had been looking forward to for months. We were prepared for a wash out due to rain but had never even considered wildfire smoke could foil the most anticipated day of the school year.
Then I received this email:
Fun Day Postponed
Arrowhead Elementary
Unfortunately, due to the air quality today Fun Day is postponed from today, Wednesday, June 7th to tomorrow, Thursday, June 8th. Please revisit your sign up to see if you can still make it and look for more information from the Fun Day committee.
Had I been getting a semi-healthy amount of sleep when the Fun Day email came into my inbox, it still would’ve been a shock, surreal even. But in my comprised state, it felt downright apocalyptic.
New Reader Question on Non-Natural-Disaster Disasters!
This month’s question comes from Scott L. in Ohio.
Have you ever experienced a non-natural-disaster ‘disaster’ that happened to you?
Thanks, Scott. Whatever I said about Ohio previously was purely in jest. It’s a majestic state — really. What a term! Non-natural-disaster disaster is pretty broad, and I’m going to take some liberties here and assume that embarrassing, socially traumatizing screw-ups qualify here. This is a story about why three little words — Bell Biv and DeVoe — immediately fill me with shame the minute I hear them.Here’s what happened: I’m around 11 or 12, and I’m visiting my Aunt Jo up in the Scranton. My mom sends me out to “play” with some older distant cousins who are huddled together on the porch. I don’t remember what any of them looked like, but the word “greasy” comes to mind every time I try to conjure the memory. That and the fact that one of these older kids, who seemed like grown men to my scrawny prepubescent ass, was listening to a walkman. For anyone under 30, a walkman was a small, portable device with headphones that played cassette tapes — what people listened to right before CDs and right after eight-tracks.
I walked up to these kid-men and, trying to make conversation, asked the walkman one: “Whatcha listening to?”
Walkman guy (pausing his tape and eying me suspiciously): “What?”
Me (pointing to the walman): “What are you listening to?”
Walkman guy: “Poison.”
Me: “Nice! I love that jam!”
What happened next, I simply can’t explain. For some inexplicable reason, I decided to sing the song I thought Walkman guy was referring to with the passion and gusto one reserves for a drunken karaoke performance. It’s worth noting that at the time I was wearing overalls with one strap off, a trend I believe Fresh Prince era Will Smith had something to do with. I also had buck teeth, giant ears I hadn’t grown into yet and two lines shaved into each side of my head. I should’ve been doing everything in my power to remain as invisible as possible. Instead, I raised my rapidly changing preteen voice to the heavens and belted out the following lines from Bell Biv DeVoe’s classic:
Can’t get it outta my head
Miss her, kiss her, love her …
That girl is POISON (voice cracks)https://twitter.com/JaredBilski/status/1675948918725570572?s=20
Walkman guy narrowed his eyes, cocked his head to the side like a confused dog and set me straight. He wasn’t listening to the smooth, soulful sounds of Mr. Bell, Mr. Biv and Mr. DeVoe, he was listening to Poison, the 80s hair metal band that burst out of Mechanicsburg, Pa., and onto rock radio stations across the globe with hits like “Talk Dirty to Me,” “Ride the Wind” and, of course, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.”
I can’t remember how this emotional tragedy ended. I vaguely remember derisive laughter and the sound of my unhooked overall strap swinging and making contact with another metal button on my hip as sulked off from the porch. What I do know is that ever six months or so for the past three decades, I’ve replayed the unfortunate Bell Biv DeVoe incident in my mind, and it never fails to make me cringe. So, yes, Scott, I have most definitely experienced a non-natural-disaster disaster — a social faux pas that may have caused lesser men to enter into a monastic life of pure solitude reflecting on why they don’t belong in public. But I lived to tell the tale.
As always, leave your in the comments section (or in any post) or email me directly at jrdbilski@gmail. Finally, if you’re enjoying what you read, consider sharing with others using either of buttons below my signature (or on any of the Share buttons sprinkled throughout). Remember, word-of-mouth is the best way for me to grow this thing.
Til Next Time,
Jared