It is as I had feared.

I spent a whole month getting in shape, evicting the monkeys from my back, learning to enjoy the purity of living simply. The first week or so, I stopped craving caffeine and sweets, but by the last week those cravings *totally* came back. But what I was unprepared for is that, once I decided to allow myself a return to chemically enhanced life, I wouldn't really enjoy it.

Oh sure, that first chocolate madness was LOVELY. And my body's response to its first straight shot of sugar in a month was dramatic, in a good sort of way. Then, after having woken up at dawn that morning, I couldn't fall asleep until dawn the *next* morning, and the ball started rolling.

I couldn't sleep in late, because I wasn't used to it, so I got no sleep. And caffeine when you need it just to summon the power to stand isn't nearly as pleasant as when you just *want* it. I remember how nice a few cups of tea in the morning were before I got monastic on my ass, and now it just isn't the same.

So far, most of hedonism month has gone as follows: I overindulge, I fuck myself up for the whole next day, and in my attempts to prepare for the next bout of hedonism I end up living like a fucking monk again. I'm not hungry, I don't want to go out or do anything fun, it's boring, boring, boring, and not at all hedonistic.

Next time, I'm taking a month off between the two extremes. Maybe things will pick up as I become happily addicted to bad food and bad behavior, but so far it's like I'm driving a stick shift with only gears one and five.

Anyhow, I have one interesting observation: Goth Night at the Blue Lagoon is about twenty times more Zen than the pre-dawn Buddhist meditation sessions at the local Temple.

The Zen center strains to be austere, but really, it's anything but. Half the people there are strict Buddhist monks, the other half are businessmen and recovering alcoholics in sweatpants, trying to find a positive way to deal with their realization that life is pointless.

Everyone stumbles in at 5:45 AM, and they take their places sitting on comfy black pillows, facing the walls. Someone rings a single bell three times. Then they then begin "silent meditation", which is a little more like "forty minutes of Not Farting", although that plan isn't strictly adhered to. The first five minutes everyone stays pretty silent, although a latecomer or two slips in, hoping not to disturb anyone. Then people start sneezing or clearing their throats, or you start to hear *serious* stomach gurgling. Right before six, a nearby recycling truck backs up to a central dumpster, BEEP BEEP BEEP, and unloads a few cubic meters of glass for a healthy eight foot fall into a metal box. Recycling vs. Buddhism: it's enough to give a good Santa Cruz resident an aneurysm.

And of course, the center is right near the town clock, so at six am you get BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG, and everyone secretly thinks "Ah, only twenty five minutes left..." -- and curses the fact that Meditation didn't start at 5:40 so the clock chimes could be a clean, symmetrical middle point.

Then the sun is up enough for the birds to begin chirping, which is very pleasant, but not really very Zen. I still have fond memories of drinking until dawn during college, and the sound of songbirds always made me feel at peace, because at least *someone* else was still hoping to get laid at this hour.

Then the bell rings again, and the monks start this creepy, creepy off-tone chant about the "Great Robe of Liberation... saving all beings..." which made me feel like I was in a bad Call of Cthulhu scenario and all the monks were about to rip off their face masks to reveal a mass of writhing tentacles. Then the meditation is over, and everyone scurries off somewhere for bagels.

Oh, and a fun statistic: of three Santa Cruz Buddhist monks witnessed driving cars, all three drove white Honda Acuras. I suppose it makes sense.

Now, Goth Night *is* austere. It's a dark room filled with white people in black clothes, moving their bodies rhythmically but without purpose to dark, monotonous music. There you actually get the feeling that people are embracing nothingness, that their minds are clear of conscious thought. Everyone looks sexy as hell, but there doesn't seem to be a lot of pick-up action happening. They are there to create a pure moment. An odd sort of pure moment, punctuated by samples of Soft Cell's "Sex Dwarf", but pure nonetheless.

And of course, no one there actually *is* Goth, or they'd live in San Francisco or be sitting at home contemplating suicide, listening to Fields of the Nephilim on absinthe.

Anyhow, I think it might be fun to drink myself silly at Goth night sometime, load up on sugar and caffeine at the Saturn after closing, and then stumble over to the Temple for the meditation.

Should probably change out of the black vinyl pants, though.