Somehow, last week at a conference I managed to get into about a bottle of free Chivas Regal. Very poor decision making indeed. There are a number of people out in my work realm who know me, and probably know me a little better after that night. Hopefully they chocked it up the natural affinity between whiskey and reporters. Call it Gonzo tech journalism — Hunter S. Thompson does data centers.
As ridiculous as the night’s events apparently were (as recounted to me by others), I haven’t yet suffered any career-ending fallout. That said, I still haven’t recovered. I must have literally poisoned my psyche — that’s all I can figure. Flying home from this business trip, floating in a sterile tube 30,000 feet over the continent, I felt hollow and tired.
Crusing through my 30th birthday festivities, I waved to the crowd, drank beers on autopilot, threatened to knock a guy out at a local bar (without really meaning it) — dislocated, strange behavior.
I’m half way through three great books, but the weight of them is more stimying than inspiring (Nicholas Carr’s Big Switch, John Geirach’s Death Taxes and Leaky Waders, and Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal Vegetable Miracle… if you’re interested).
I’m weeding the garden, doing some fishing, going through the motions on the work and fly fishing blogs. One of my blog heroes, BP came down and we had an awesome afternoon tooling around my house, and beating some common sense into my brain.
But the big picture, the “My Life at 30” promises to myself to run, write (and I mean, write — not blog) just aren’t materializing. I’m actually snapping awake in the morning and hour earlier, thinking “I should go do something”, but I don’t. And for now, I’m blaming it on the scotch until I snap out of it.