Rabbit Hole Grab Bag

It started from a newsletter from the beautiful, kind Lowland Hum, who have done an episode of the new-to-me podcast Podsongs, an episode I still haven’t watched/listened to because I immediately noticed an episode with Peter Rollins, and I’m a big fan and still maybe two degrees of separation from based on my intense (pushy, IRL) research into the UK-and-adjacent alt-worship scene of the early ’00s. I’ve mentioned Peter quite a bit on this blog, more so in the late ’00s and early ’10s, although as recently as ‘24.

The next day I finally clicked on Rick Beato’s interview of Billy Joel. Say what you want about Billy Joel, but he gets music.

The next day was the worst day of a series of worst-weeks-in-recent-memory as it relates to my pain related to my broken hip, and I’d taken my last Tramadol the day before and wasn’t allowed to get a refill without my pain doctor’s approval, which I was still waiting on¹. I had observed Tramadol’s other effects on me and knew that stopping was going to be…interesting. Primary among those effects were those due to its SNRI properties.

As I drove to the pharmacy that afternoon I found myself unable to focus enough to track the (very entertaining) podcast I was playing, and switched to music. The music washed over my cranial meat sack, its own SNRI, and I felt tangible gratitude for being able to sleep the night before (Tramadol withdrawl’s most concerning symptom being severe sleepy-time limb spasms) and not being in as much pain that morning.

Last night my wife arranged for the two of us and Penn to go to Urinetown at the Kalita Humphreys Theater. It was significant in being the first time the three of us had attended something as three adults, and because it’s one of two Frank Lloyd Wright buildings in Dallas. Observing Penn’s observations and fascination with the architecture was a delight. And Urinetown was funny. Weird ending² that robbed some of the broader social satire within.

This morning I intended to go to my church, but was once again thwarted by pain and immobility. My other “church”–the secret society of insane sober folks–was also thwarted yesterday³. So on another weekend where I very much needed a community/spiritual recharge, I was resigned to watch rituals on an iPad screen (yesterday’s meeting and today’s service were zoomed and livestreamed, respectively). It’s not the same. The sustained, subtle isolation engendered by even this minor handicap is soul-tiring.

Before (and after) church the YouTube algo pulled me down yet another hole.

I used to watch Matt D’Avella consistently. I also listened to the Minimalists podcast consistently until I realized they, like Rick Rubin, were cringe. (In the 90s we would have said they sold out.) But this one was interesting. Most interesting was his inclusion of a Functional Melancholic clip, a channel I only recently discovered but have mentioned here at least a couple of times already.

Then the algo showed me this one, and wow. I’m probably right down the middle in terms of my standards for YouTube video essayists, but after watching two from this guy, I’d rank him right near the top of all of them.

The other one I’ve watched so far is The brutal poetry of bodies, and even though I don’t like body horror, it’s really the thing that delivers the punchline to my sprinkled injury narrative.

Dogs, more than even other humans, witness us at our most unguarded. They watch us as we’re regularly attacked by spirits, forces they can’t see or hear or smell, that make us scream aimlessly in empty rooms, dissolve into tears on the floor, harm ourselves. We alternately gloat and self-flagellate about the position of dogs in human lives.

But I think even if dogs could understand this, they would be beyond comprehending why we–their charges–would ever consider it wrong to be loved.

Good Boy hits on so many levels and why I say it’s spiritually related to body horror. It’s a film that explores the not uncommon experience of one person watching their loved ones suffer from something incomprehensible to them, completely unable to save them, and the confusion, desperation, and deep wounds that can etch into their mind. And on the other side of it, being someone who is wasting away, watching the toll it takes on your loyal protector and feeling shame for it. The cosmically mysterious and mundane body continues to decay regardless, undeterred by this dynamic…

…he then briefly alludes to his partner’s health struggles, and how their dog, Humphrey, has responded…

…in his eyes, his job is shifted and he’s dutifully performing it. He knows that something is wrong and he doesn’t know what, but his role is clear and that’s all he can really ask for. And despite everything, Humphrey is still clearly a very happy dog. And honestly, we can’t appreciate him enough because he, I think, like all dogs, instinctively knows something that most humans have forgotten.

When someone you love is in pain, it’s not your job to fix it. It’s just your job to be around. Like the genre of body horror itself, Humphrey isn’t in denial about bodies and the suffering they can cause. He doesn’t tell us we’re okay or tell us to look on the bright side or say that it’s not so bad.

He just gives us a knowing look, curls up beside us, and rests his little head on our aching temporary bodies. He’s a good boy.

It made me miss Pavlov, who witnessed so much turbulence in my life. And it made me grateful for the cats, as indifferent as they can appear. When I was absolutely bedridden in the first weeks of this broken hip travailing, Harley hung out with me a lot.