$1 beers always sound like a good idea. In praxis, the outcome can be debated. The morning after tells its own tales. A drizzle of a hangover blog today.

We spent the evening at the Acme, a faux-biker bar in Berkeley. There are bikers there, leather and all, but they wear full-face helmets and all appear to be well-off and in their mid 20s/30s, so I call them faux. But it's an allright scene -- friendly, good juke box. Luke and I had one of our famous booze-fueled arguments; debating the relative value of selling out vis-a-vis Ozzy Ozbourne and college and pro atheletes. He gave me a little better understanding of the sociological term "fields" as a middle ground between structure and agency. We had a good bumbling time riding home, me on Kim's girly bike, basket and all.

Praxis... this was supposed to be the summer of it. I haven't touched that document in months. Sad. Perhaps a resurrection is in order.

I'm trying to get on the rebound, the upswing, the return flight from shitsville. I remember after my bike crash this winter how afraid I was, the intense fear of running into things, a new fear, heretofore unknown. My tooth was loose and sore, and it would physically throb when I got a scare, a truck cutting me off or whatever. It took a while to get past that, to get back into the locomotive biker groove.

Continuing with my bike crash/relationship running analogy, I observe similar processes underway emotionally. Even when the immediate helaing process is complete, damage control, scabs formed and all, the psychology of beaten-dog persists. I'm hamfisted lonesome, clumsy and afraid of being touched. No one likes to cuddle the broken-hearted. Or at least this is my perspective on the world, flawed as it is known to be.

So I muddle. It's one of those times in life where you start to hear music differently, you start really listening to sappy love songs. I remember this happening about four or five months after I broke up with Amanda, my first love. I was a lot younger then, more reckless and obscure to myself. I didn't really know what I was doing, visions of sugar-plum faries dancing in my head. What happened was that she moved on quicker than I did, and in a much more real and mature fashion -- she's got a steady girlfriend now, fabulous woman, and they're moving to China together, no fucking joke -- and it knocked my 20-year-old ass for a loop. I recall sitting down for a friendly coffee and talking about our respective lives, the realization coming like a blow to the head, dizzy, seeing stars. Helter skelter. Not that I let on, but that kicked off a period of confusion and vulnerability that lasted about a year. I really didn't move out of it until after college.

However, as long as we're looking at history to be a teacher, it's worth remembering that I did some great creative things in the mean time. Even if I can't be girl-crazy I can be another kind of dynamo. It might even be fun, or at the very least productive. Yes, I know there's light at the end of this tunnel. It's probably a lonely light, cold and cyan-tinted, but it's bright and true and it will bathe me in what I need.

But you know me. I'm nothing if not impatient. I want the world and I want it now. I want to keep drinking coffee all day and night, never sleep, bleeding from my eyes and full of spirit. I want to run, duck, ride and fly. I want to slip free the bonds and space and time and financial circumstances, exist as a being of pure energy, moving at the speed of light, singing hearty songs of anger and redemption, an electric viking sailing off to sea. I want to be there.