2017: My Own ‘La Cote Basque 1965’

truman sofa louch potato

It’s been my custom since I began this blog to do a year-end blog, sharing my favourite memories and favourite film/TV show/song of the year. Admittedly in years past, this is something I relished publishing to the point I believe one of them was published in mid-December and I found myself wanting to change my answer to one of the “faves.” (Who would’ve known–or even noticed–if I had edited it, except me?) This year I was going to do away with all of the niceties and write a blog no one would forget; my own “La Cote Basque 1965,” to borrow from Truman Capote’s slanderous, quasi-fiction short story which effectively signalled his descent into madness when it was excerpted in ‘Esquire’ magazine in November 1975. One would be warranted in wondering why I would do such a thing, and rightfully also question *my* sanity.

To fulfill the traditional formula, my faves for the year are ‘Call Me By Your Name’ (film), ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ (TV show), and “Something Just Like This” (song). Now back to the regularly scheduled losing-my-mind part: I won’t be doing that. I’ve had enough therapy this year to tame the dragon, so to speak. Nine months of sobriety doesn’t hurt, either. Where the urge to publish a knowingly socially disastrous tell-all blog came from hearkens back to what happened here in Vegas on October 1st. Fun fact: For those of you tired of hearing about it or who might say, “Get over it,” I genuinely hope and pray you never live/work/drive home from work through something like the events of that night. (The following month was perhaps the longest October of my life; just to be able to start a new month was psychologically freeing.) A good example of the slight PTSD that comes with it is me arriving home tonight–Christmas Eve–to an empty house (two roommates have moved out and one is at work), and I was fully convinced that someone is either hiding in the house with a gun, or will be breaking in with a gun. These are things I never would’ve been prone to think of before, but now they are nearly a daily thought pattern. Most of the time it’s not hard to put the thoughts aside, pray, and move on about my day or night. A quiet Christmas Eve in an empty five-bedroom, two-story house is a bit different, hence I’m blogging to keep myself company.

The need to write the tell-all of tell-alls comes from a place of fear, a place of being afraid I won’t be remembered for anything but a glorified book report of a blog on a Lee Radziwill biography I blogged about four years ago. It comes from the need to shock, to appall, to perhaps self-sabotage. (Note to self: Consider going back to therapy twice a week!) It also bizarrely comes from a place of being quite happy and content at the moment, and wanting to flip over the apple cart on myself to create some chaos and drama, which I’m admittedly addicted to in surging doses. The drama is not so fun without the alcohol, though. This theory has been put to the test several times in the last month; I’d write about the instances, but I’m not going that route. My point is, I was setting myself up. The people who know me best know what I would’ve written in the blog, so it’s not quite the “La Cote Basque 1965” confessional that I made it out to be. It would just be documented for anyone to see, as opposed to hearsay or private Instagram pics/Facebook posts/group texts. As someone close to me is fond of saying, I’ve successfully talked myself off the branch and down the tree.

In closing, I have a lot to be grateful for this year. I was afforded the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to attend Sundance in January, I sobered up in March, stayed at The Madonna Inn in May (that was on my bucket list), went to what’s left of Heritage USA in June (also on my bucket list), stepped on glass in July (definitely not on my bucket list, but I’m grateful to be walking again even with the glass still in my foot), soaked up a plethora of sun out at the pool the rest of the summer, went to the Biltmore with my family over Thanksgiving, and am enjoying Christmas with my work family today at a job I’m still amazed I ever got (three years later and counting). Speaking of which, one of the girls at work jokingly told me I was middle-aged a couple of weeks ago. According to the latest statistics on the lifespan of Americans, she’s not far off. All that to say there’s still plenty of time for my lecherous tell-all…if I can remember it by 2054. Life is so very, very fleeting that I’ll probably have forgotten all about it by next week. There’s so many more positive ways to funnel my energy and soak up good vibes.

Nourish yourself, forgive yourself, and joyfully move forward.–brt

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