Sex, Death and Rock ‘n Roll

Lately, you are always on my mind

Life, as we knew it, is done. As I’m confident that most of us can agree on that, I’ll add that the last year has left a mark that probably, will never completely fade. Like the tat you regret getting for years after, because you were bombed, and your equally-trashed friend thought it would be “rad.”

You feel this. I know you do. We’ve been bashed upside the head figuratively, for so long now, and in so many ways, that our poor, overworked brains are seeking an escape hatch. Mine is. The empty bottles of Cabernet that our city’s recycle center haul away can attest to this.

But I’ve been good, people. Better, anyway. I’ve finally come to the conclusion that nursing a hangover isn't my jam. Damn, they’re the worst, are they not? And I need whatever energy I can muster up as my husband is completely drained due to his ongoing bout with insomnia, which, due to a new doctor, was under control but has once again spiked. You see, his body gets used to the meds after a time and they stop working. It sucks.

So, yeah, aside from our personal travails, we’ve all been through the shit-mill. Covid and the resulting quarantine. Civil unrest. Racial divide. The storming of the Capitol. The taking of eight innocent lives in Atlanta, thanks to Donald Trump’s rantings about the “China Virus.” And the latest: A maniac with an assault rifle kills ten people in Boulder, Colorado.

Death by shotgun. It’s the American way.

And, lest we forget, President Biden stumbled on the steps of Airforce One. You know what? Big fucking deal. I stumble all the time. Cold-sober. Get over it people.

So, to cope, at least I think that’s what’s going on, my mind wanders to some weird places. Case in point: I think a lot about sex. Especially in the early morning where I’m in that gauzy midpoint between sleep and wakefulness.

I enjoy thinking about sex. Not as much as I enjoy having it mind you, but that’s a moot point and one best left for another time. Or, story.

Death, too, is on my mind far too much. It’s probably not the healthiest of mindsets, but fuck it if I can’t help myself from dwelling on my own mortality and that of my husband. Getting older will do that to a person, no?

And I also can’t help but wonder, “Is there anything…after?” I mean, are we just “here and gone?” What sense does that make? We’re birthed into this world to fuck everything up and then, die?

I don’t know. I hope to hell that’s not the case. I want there to be babbling brooks and flowers and balmy breezes and sunshine all the time and a welcome committee comprised of relatives and pets who have gone before us. And maybe a really grand buffet with every kind of carb imaginable because it won’t matter a damn what, or how much we eat.

Speaking of pets, when my natural morbidity takes over, I think about our cats, and who would commit to their care if something was to happen to me and my husband. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been trying to age in reverse. So I can stick around for them. It’s not so much a vanity thing, as a love thing.

One of the reasons I chose the above image for this story is, I wish I could be one of the faithful, who believes without a doubt that there is an afterlife, a “better place” for those who shuffle off this mortal coil. I don’t know. Does one have to be deserving of this “better place?” Do our deeds past and present determine whether we get to reside next to that brook for all eternity, or drift in limbo, alone and in the dark?

Shit. I’m freaking myself out.

By nature, I’m more “spiritual” than religious as I had no training growing up due to my Catholic mother and Jewish father being “non-practitioners.” But, I like to believe that there is more to be experienced after our time here on earth. It comforts me and these days, I’ll take it where I can get it.

Angels. Of the guardian-kind, specifically. Kristi Keller’s recent story about them got me thinking that maybe, I have a guardian angel, or angels of my own, as I’ve come close to wiping out on a couple of occasions.

One hot, summer day, blistering, actually, I was driving home from work, tired and depressed about something I can’t recall, and fell asleep behind the wheel on a busy road. It was rush hour, so you can imagine the traffic.

I had cranked up the A/C to help me stay awake but it didn’t take. One minute I was there, behind the wheel, and the next, everything went dark. I remember “coming to” just as I started to veer into the oncoming traffic lane. Oddly, I felt no panic and heard no warning honks. Suddenly, my car was back where it was supposed to be and I hit the brake just as we were coming to a red light.

It was the craziest, most surreal experience. When I think of it now, it’s the absolute quiet of that moment, that gets to me. Certainly, I would have been injured and badly, if not killed outright. So, what, or who got me through?

In another instance, on a frigid, wintry morning, I was pulling into the parking lot at work, and being that the right turn lane was covered with snow, my turn fell short and my car shot straight up what I can only call an icy stalagmite bordering the road. It hovered there for a few seconds and then started to tip to the left, which would have put me smack in the middle of a highway rife with trucks. I knew I’d be killed. There was no way my then ride, a Subaru, would withstand getting trashed by a semi.

Again, I felt no panic, just the realization that “Hey, I’m going to fall into the street now and probably be killed.” Suddenly, as I listlessly fiddled with the steering wheel, the car righted itself and went up and over the ice tower and I landed on the other side without a hitch.

One of my gobsmacked coworkers, who saw the whole thing, ran to me to see if I was alright. He couldn’t believe what he’d seen. And I couldn’t believe who I felt. That sense of calm and what I can only describe as “resignation.”

I have to believe that on both occasions, I got an assist. Again, I can’t say for certain from where it came, but damn it, come, it did. As my parents were alive then, I like that perhaps it was my grandparents who stepped in to help me avoid utter calamity.

That’s what I choose to think, anyway.

When I’m not pondering sex and the afterlife, I enjoy dredging up my band days and my lead singer status, as I fucking love the spotlight. I went from somebody who couldn’t handle an oral report in front of the class in grammar school to a big, old, ham. What can I say? It’s a blast to pretend to be someone else, even for a little while.

Now that an increasing number of people have access to the Covid vaccine, I wonder how our lives will change in the coming months. Will we be able to do more, see more, be touched, more? Will there be a resurgence of fun?

I don’t know. And I don’t know what’s going to happen here, on Medium after reading Ev Williams's article on the new path the company is going down. I just hope writers like myself won’t be going down. We’ve all worked too hard, for too long to be dismissed.

I supposed we’ll find out in due course. As for the rest of my brain dump, how are all of you feeling? Do your brains travel to Crazy Town on the reg?

Give it up. I’ll listen.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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