Sometimes life offers up some truly surrealistic moments, even for those of us who no longer imbibe or inhale. Yesterday we drove up to Cleveland to see the Vatican Splendors exhibit at the Western Reserve Historical Society in the morning, and the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame in the afternoon. Further adding to the cosmic juxtopositional mix was a recent re-reading of an old favorite, Gospel by Wilton Barnhardt. Gospel is about the discovery and decrypting of an original gospel written by the disciple hired on to replace Judas, Mathias. The protagonist, Patrick O’Hanrahan, is an embittered ex-Jesuit who spends a great portion of the book regaling his assistant Lucy Dantan with all the terrible things the Catholic Church has done down the centuries. He is a man struggling with faith in the face of institutional religion. He’s ashamed of himself, and of his Church. And yet I believe this is a very reverent and religious work. Barnhardt tears the Church apart, and yet, at the end, Patrick and Lucy each find their way to God, despite their own — and the Church’s — human frailty. We don’t need to be perfect in order to be loved by God.

So here I am, visiting this Vatican exhibit, which tells the official story of the Church, and meanwhile I’m mentally comparing that story to the seamy underside I’ve just read about in Barnhardt’s novel. As a long-lapsed Catholic, I tried not to smirk too much as I went through exhibit. I’m not angry with the Church anymore, and I have raised my children as Catholic, as per my wife’s wishes. It was just so weird, to have just finished reading about all these things, and here they were on display, with so much not being said. Here’s the Swiss Guard, bravely defending the Pope during the Sack of Rome. Why was Rome being sacked? It doesn’t say. Apparently the Swiss Guard saved the day, though. Gospel claims, however, that “Only the arrival of the plague and the worst fire since Nero drove the troops away, convinced finally there was nothing left to plunder. (p. 277). ” Pius XII is present at the exhibition in the form of a rather menacing bronze (he seems to be trying to poke someone’s eyes out with his blessing fingers), but no mention is made of his collusion with Hitler. And so on.

Another, more subtle connection was the exhibit’s rather surprising emphasis on the fact that St. Peter lies buried on the site of the basilica in Rome bearing his name. Lots of evidence to support this, which I guess is the Church’s attempt to shore up it’s relevance (“See, we’re the real deal.”). There was also a reliquary with fragments of Peter on display. The connection here is that, in Gospel, in the actual gospel by Matthias, there comes a point where the disciple is led to the underground hiding place of the body of Jesus, kept in some crude mummified state. Matthias is about to see if this is indeed Jesus, and if, indeed, he was not resurrected. Matthias decides, at the last second, that he does not want to know. As he says, “I preferred, dear brother, in this final gesture, Faith to Truth. I recall it is said that at His shameful trial, Our Master was asked by the Roman procurator, “What is Truth?” Our Master made no answer…The Master of the Universe’s gift to us is not Truth, which we clearly don’t have the capacity to perceive; it is instead the capacity for Faith.”

This seems to have been the theme of the day, both at the Vatican exhibit, and then later, as we toured the relics and artifacts left by the gods of Rock. It was impossible not to see the similarities. I’m not being facetious when I point out how striking it was to see how similar the jewel-encrusted finery of the popes were to that of Elvis. It’s like they were the rock stars of an earlier age. Through these idols and their articles of clothing, their instruments (whether they be cruets and chalices or guitars and amplifiers), and their performances on the stage, we in the audience reach out to something divine, something Other, and Greater.

Perhaps the most surreal moment was, only a few hours after viewing the bone fragments of St. Peter, I found a lock of hair, belonging to former Rolling Stone Brian Jones, for sale. One in a reliquary, one in a plastic case, but both holy relics to help the faithful draw closer to the Divine.

The Rock Hall is a strange place, like touring some huge attic filled with antiques. It is, despite its name (the “Hall of Fame”), a museum. I stood inches away from the actual hand-written lyrics of famous songs, and the actual guitars played during historic performances, and it made me feel…old. These scratched-up, dusty instruments may have been genuine, but they bore little relation to the memories I have in my heart of those days, years ago. I saw the hand of time in those scratches, not the hand of Hendrix. The heroes of my youth could not have worn these clothes, or played these old, worn guitars. They are up in rock n’ roll heaven, with all the other gods, immortal and untouchable.

In the future, we won't need windshields, apparently

We have two bright, curious teenagers in the house, so I thought I’d try to find a good magazine for them to read. Some kind of science magazine, something with a hopeful outlook, to show them the wonderful possibilities that lie ahead for them. I decided to subscribe to Popular Science, since it focuses on upcoming technology. Turns out most of the stuff Popular Science covers is very fringe, and unlikely to ever become reality. I mean, fifty years ago they were predicting “cars without wheels.” Seen any of those flying by lately? We are, after all, in the future.

We are living in the future
I’ll tell you how I know
I read it in the paper
Fifteen years ago
We’re all driving rocket ships
And talking with our minds
And wearing turquoise jewelry
And standing in soup lines
We are standing in soup lines
-John Prine

I think the mistake I made was in taking Popular Science at face value. It’s really not about the future at all. It’s about satisfying a certain geeky male fantasy about saving the world through technology. Is this really the message I want to convey to my kids? That no matter what the problem is, science can solve it for us? That’s right, folks, no need to change your lifestyle or make sacrifices: science will take care of it.

Population out of control? No problem, we’ll build hydroponic skyscrapers! (That’s on the current cover, by the way.) Gasoline running out? We’ll engineer some bacteria that’ll turn sludge into fuel. The city of the future is coming, folks! Step right up! More and more, PopSci is talking green, but their solutions all have to do with more, and better, so that we can continue to live the high tech lifestyle without interruption.

Excuse me, guys, but wasn’t it technology that gave us greenhouse gases and global warming and nuclear waste and toxic waste and shopping malls and four cars in every driveway and…oh, never mind.

This magazine isn’t really interested in predicting the future after all. It’s just about the love of gadgets. It celebrates the New, with an unwavering belief that new is always better, and that all problems can and should be solved through inventions. Science leads the way, and things are always getting better. Don’t believe me? Just look at the cool new stuff every month. Scientific progress! Even interpersonal problems have a technological solution. Can’t get it up? Just check out the ads in the back for the male enhancement wonders of science. Having a little PTSD from seeing your buddies blown up in Iraq? No problem: science has found a way to make it all go away. (No, I’m not making this up.)

Definitely not the sort of thing I had in mind for my kids when I subscribed. It’s just a Wired magazine for the pocket protector crowd. Oh well. Excuse me while I hop in my personal, hydrogen-powered helicopter and fly on down to the spaceport. I’m telling ya: the future is just around the corner! It’s gonna be great!

It’s fair to say that my interest in what constitutes normalcy owes alot to when I was born. Last month, I turned 50, which means I was born in 1958, towards the tail end of the Baby Boom. I attended high school in the mid-1970’s, in the shadow of Woodstock. At age 13 I read The Greening of America by Charles Reich, sitting in the back seat of my parent’s car on our way down to the Jersey shore. This book had an enormous effect on me, at that impressionable age. It’s a very naive book, written by an academic, and attempts to explain, in dry sociologial language, the so-called counter-culture movement of the late Sixties. To me, it was a guide book, initiating me into the mysteries of the party I had just missed by a few years. I can’t say it changed my life, but at the time it was earth-shattering.

Suddenly, my middle-class family, squashed into the Plymouth Valiant crawling down the Parkway towards the beach, seemed very different from me. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, I felt very different from them. This marked the beginning of my journey away from Normal. By age 14 I was smoking pot for the first time, and by 15 I was smoking it every day, cutting classes with my comrades. The fact that I maintained my place on the Honor Roll merely added to a growing sense of alienation. I could fit in, do the expected things, while teachers and parents had no idea that I saw through it all. They didn’t know how things “really” were. Only we did: the cool ones. The ones who got high, and knew what was really going on. Straight people didn’t have a clue.

Professor Reich was wrong, though. The Revolution never came. The hippies got bored, bought SUVs and got jobs as stock brokers (there’s a great song by the Bobs about that) in three-piece suits, snorting coke instead of smoking hash. They sold out, as we used to say. No one questions authority anymore. No one normal, that is.

It’s supposed to take a week or two for Prozac to take effect, but here it is, day four, and I’m feeling pretty much my old self again. Does this mean the Prozac is working again? Or does it mean that the withdrawal symptoms are gone because I’m back on the sauce? Is this a physical addiction problem? I don’t think anyone knows, which is odd. There’s millions of people who have taken or are taking Prozac. It was first developed in the 1970’s, and released in the US in 1987, so it’s definitely been around for a very long time. But do a search on the Web and you’ll find all kinds of conflicting information about Prozac, including the recent study announcing that it doesn’t work. I guess 40 million people can be wrong. Because, if a scientific study says it’s so, it must be so. Thus is reality defined.

The lack of clear information about one of the most widely-prescribed drugs in history is very odd. Chances are, if you’re reading this blog entry, it’s because you were desperately trying to find out what the withdrawal symptoms of Prozac are. And I’ll bet what you found was something like this: “Since Prozac has such a long half-life, withdrawal symptoms are usually minor. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” What are those symptoms, though? Good luck finding a mention of them. For Prozac, it’s just not a problem.

Um, okay, but what just happened to me over the last seven weeks? Lack of energy, inability to read and comprehend, irritability, nausea, dizziness, sudden anger, sleep disruptions, and even a day when suicide was looking pretty inviting. After seven weeks, things were getting worse, not better, and so I decided to put myself back on Prozac. (Luckily, I still had some refills on my prescription.)

I suppose it seems obvious that I cannot stop taking Prozac, now or ever. I don’t think the withdrawal symptoms were “the real me”. And it is possible that had I waited long enough, I may have ridden out the symptoms and gotten free of it.

Luckily, I am self-employed. God knows what would’ve happened had I been trying to hold down an office job while going through that. Quite likely I would have lost my job, or at the very least performed very badly. According to the experts, Prozac doesn’t work, and getting off of it is no big deal. Well, in my case, they were wrong on both counts. Does this mean I’m not normal?

Wall-E

I’m beginning to see a theme running through most, if not all, the Pixar movies. Since I’m not a film student, just a DVD renter, I turned to Roger Ebert’s site for his review of Wall-E, which recently came out. Ebert doesn’t seem to have made this connection, and that may be an indication that I missed the point of the movie. Be that as it may, the theme I see is, for want of an official term, “Misfits Triumph.” I’m sure this is a very well-known theme, it’s in so many movies, but especially the better kids movies (the ones adults go to see). Think of Babe, the pig that aspired to be a sheep-herding dog. Or how about ET: The Extraterrestrial, perhaps the best example of all, with an alien from space (talk about an outsider!) that no one understands but a little boy. Or the Shrek movies, especially the first one (which is the only one I remember, actually). In Shrek, the heavy-handed lesson is “it’s okay to be who you are.” Which harkens back all the way to Dumbo.  In the Pixar movies, to be a misfit is to be better than the rest. In other words, being normal is not a good thing; it’s a disadvantage. I say this without really knowing what to make of it. I am merely pointing it out.

Monsters, Inc.

In Wall-E and The Incredibles, the misfits save the day. In Monsters, Inc. and Ratatouille, the misfits find their way in the world, even though it means going against convention. Wall-E is sort of ET in reverse: the humans have left for space, and he is left behind, on Earth. Wall-E is not so much a misfit as a guy looking for love, but he is soon caught up with his new love’s mission (no plot spoiler here). They rescue (or accidentally release) a bunch of misfit robots from a repair ward, which brings to mind One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (another movie in this genre), and off they go to battle the forces of the entrenched status quo.

The Incredibles

Ratatouille gives us a rat who is born to be a French chef, and we see how he pulls it off. This is Pixar encouraging misfits everywhere to follow their dreams, more so than in any of the movies mentioned here. And in Monsters, Inc., assumptions about the status quo are brought into question. “That’s the way it’s always been done” is seen to be not a good reason for doing things. So again, the message is “Misfits! Unite! The World is wrong and you can change it!”

Ratatouille

So here ends my brief look at Pixar’s “misfit propaganda”. It’s a message that resonates with me, and perhaps helps explain why I love these movies so much. They seem to be talking to me. I wonder why it’s not mentioned by movie critics. Possibly it’s just so common in children’s movies as to be not worth mentioning. What do you think?

So what is normal, anyway?

This has become a topic of more than passing interest to me lately, so much so that I’ve decided to finally begin my first personal blog, as a way to journal, and perhaps shed a little light on the question. What brought all this on is that after 15 or so years of being on Prozac, I decided I no longer needed to be on it, and took my last dose on May 20, 2008, which was about seven weeks ago. I had gradually reduced the dosage over several years, from a high of 60mg down to 20 for the last year. And then took 20 every other day for two weeks, and stopped.

Since Prozac has a long half-life (it takes weeks to leave your system completely), it’s sort of “self-weening” anyway. Just stop and it will gradually decrease all by itself, the thinking goes. So I was being extra careful, I thought. I was surprised that there were withdrawal symptoms (if that’s what they are). I’ve come to the conclusion that I cannot get off, as the symptoms have only gotten worse.

Is this just who I am?

So if all the Prozac is out of my system now, then the question arises: are these withdrawal symptoms, or is this just who I am? Maybe this, for me, is normal. Good god, I hope not! Am I really so irritable? So quick to anger? So impulsive? So incredibly critical? During the last seven weeks, I seem to have alternating “good days” and “bad days.” On good days I have what I consider “normal” (that word again) levels of energy and well being. On bad days, I can’t think straight, have low energy, sort of like the flu. This situation has led me to think I am going through withdrawal. So what about the other nastiness? Is that withdrawal, too? Or is this the person I am when I’m not on Prozac?

Despite what you hear, Prozac does work

Prozac entered my life 15 years ago, and maybe in another post, another time, I will tell that tale. Let’s just say, for now, that it literally saved my life. There is not a doubt in my mind that, had I not begun taking Prozac, I would not be here today. Things were that desperate. So I’m surprised, to say the least, to hear that it doesn’t work. If it doesn’t work, I should not have any difficulty getting off it, right? But there it is, all over the media: Prozac is a big hoax.

Now, to me this is obviously not true, and it calls into question how we arrive at scientific truth, and the nature of reality, and other big stuff. If they are right, what does that mean about my experience? Am I deluded? Or am I just different (aka, “not normal”)?

Which is what this blog is all about. What is normal?