I’m a prolific Asthmatic Kitty Sidebar contributor, so I think it will come as a shock to no one when I say that I have a tendency towards mental instability. Manic/depression is a constant battle. The bouts of hypomania are the nice part of my life because they make me feel good and allow me to produce a lot of Pulitzer-prize-winning Sidebar contributions. The bouts of depression, however, are not fun. If I don’t feel I’ve gotten a post just right, a dark fog descends upon my brain; and I become severely melancholic. My world begins to read like a Baudelaire poem, to reek of imbalanced-hormonal regret. I start eyeing the oven in the kitchen, bemoaning the fact that it is electric. It’s awful. Now, most people who struggle with this mental illness are on some sort of medication. Well, I am, too: Carlson’s mercury-free, Norwegian fish oil!

Whenever my mother finds me in one of the aforementioned depressed states, she always says, “Megan Michelle, back away from the oven, and go take your meds.” Being the good, little Sidebar contributor I am, I always obey her and lumber on over to the fridge, take my bottle of Carlson’s mercury-free, Norwegian fish oil out, unscrew the cap, kick my head back, and guzzle down about two, heaping teaspoon-fulls. Every single time I do so, my serotonin and artistic self-confidence levels shoot straight to the sky. Every single time I do so, my life returns to reading like a Browning poem, and all is made right with my world. Because of my bottle of mercury-free, Norwegian fish oil—because of my meds—I know that those mad moments of melancholia have got nothin’ on me, that I’m always just one guzzle away from hormonally-balanced bliss.

Carlson’s fish oil isn’t just for people who are mentally ill, though: It promotes good brain development in a fetus, so it’s great for any woman who’s pregnant. It stops sugar cravings, so it’s great for any woman who isn’t pregnant. It helps give the body muscle definition, so it’s great for any man who looks like a woman. It helps prevent heart attacks, cancer, arthritis, and inflammatory diseases; so it’s great for any man who lives with a woman. In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s not a single man or woman out there who wouldn’t benefit from a guzzle of fish oil in some way or another, so if someone’s reading this and is thinking about trying some, do it! If anything, you’ll feel that much more like Megan, which, obviously, is the best feeling in the whole, wide world!

Ms. Megan Michelle is a former Classics Major, a proud Preschool Teacher, a greatly-skilled Goatherdess, and a full-time Romantic who has always loved the Living Logos. Feel free to cyberspacingly stalk her here.

The modern world we live in is a dangerous one. We eat, sleep, and breathe deadly toxins—poisonous pesticides, harmful herbicides, cancer-causing chemical compounds. Our bodies are constantly battling lethal, unseen enemies. Having experienced one too many near-death toxic exposures for myself, I’ve come to learn that these enemies must be taken seriously. Having overcome one too many near-death toxic exposures all by myself, I’ve also come to learn that some of the best weapons one can use to fight against them are a bottle of raw, unfiltered apple cider vinegar, a shot glass, and a very open mind.

For millenia apple cider vinegar has been known for its myriad of healing properties—Hippocrates used it as an energizing tonic and a healing elixir. Only recently, though, has humanity figured out why apple cider vinegar is the superhero of supplements. Only recently have we discovered that toxins are acidic substances, that destroying them requires a neutralization, an onslaught of alkalinity. Only recently have we come to understand that apple cider vinegar is able to vanquish those acidic, unseen enemies because it is an alkaline substance, because it balances out the body’s pH level.

To keep those evil toxins at bay, then, I consume at least two tablespoons of Bragg’s apple cider vinegar a day. Every evening at around eight o’ clock, I grab a shot glass and a bottle of Bragg’s, pour myself a dose, and down that thing in one rapid, melodramatic swig. My eyes water; my throat burns; and my mind seriously questions the state/point of my existence. But within seconds that storm of physical and mental discomfort passes. Within seconds my mind, body, and spirit become balanced, once again. I bask in the effervescent feeling of healthy-pH-level-ness the apple cider vinegar bestows upon me, and I know, full well, that you can overcome acidic Evil with alkaline Good.

For more information on the incredibleness of raw, unfiltered apple cider vinegar, google it.

Ms. Megan Michelle is a former Classics Major, a proud Preschool Teacher, a greatly-skilled Goatherdess, and a full-time Romantic who has always loved the Living Logos. Feel free to cyberspacingly stalk her here.

It’s that time of year, Dude: Wal-Marts are filling up with heart-shaped boxes; Targets are teeming with candy hearts; and girlish hopes are being hung by hearts’ hearth-fires with care. Yes, Valentine’s Day is a-comin’. If you’re like most single men, you’re probably nervously pacing around your studio apartment right now, wondering how to even begin woo-ing that Woman o’ Your Dreams. But you need not fear, Li’l Feller! Wonder Woo-ing Woman is here.

Step One: Groom Your Appearance in an Un-Groomed Fashion

Relax, Honey. Bathing, grooming: It’s all overrated. That Woman o’ Your Dreams wants an un-groomed, manly man so she’s able to look all the fairer and beautiful-er in contrast. So, grow your hair out; let those facial follicles be fruitful and multiply; let the sweat and dirt cleave to your epidermis; and proceed onto the next step. Trust me. The more you look like a Wild Savage whilst you woo, the better.

Step Two: Dress Yourself in a Laborious Fashion

Put away the tight-fitting t-shirts! Toss out the designer jeans! We ladies want a man who is ready, dressed, and willing to labor for our love. So, put on a tattered plaid shirt; strap on some durable overalls; lace up the lumberjack-looking boots; don a straw hat; and strut that stuff. Trust me. The Woman o’ Your Dreams has been waiting a long time for a hard-working peasant to sweep her off her feet.

Step Three: Demonstrate Your Athletic Abilities to Her

The age of big muscles is over. The time of spending hours in front of Gold’s Gym’s mirrors is through. We ladies just want a guy who participates in such pansy-like physical exertions as Frolic-ing, Traipse-ing, and/or Sauntering. So, grab that Woman o’ Your Dreams by the hand; take her to the nearest open meadow; and unabashedly demonstrate those awe-inspiring athletic abilities of yours. Trust me. Upon seeing those lithe muscles, that woman will definitely be feelin’ the woo-age.

Step Four: Learn to Play a Non-Reed-ed Woodwind and Play a Solo for Her

It’s cliché, but it’s still true: Music is the key to a woman’s locked heart-gate. But the egotistical finger-picking and the narcissistic piano-prelude-ing just ain’t gonna do it, Fella. The Woman o’ Your Dreams wants a humble man, a man who plays such unassuming instruments as the lute, the flute, or the recorder. So, pay for some one-on-one instruction; take a few lessons; and play a soothing solo for that woman. Trust me. I’ve never seen one woman’s heartstrings not be tenderly tugged by a good lute solo before.

Step Five: Compose Her Lyrical Pieces/Musical Orchestrations

Using this instrument as your musical foundation, then, compose that Woman o’ Your Dreams a few Odes to Her Occipital Lobes, a few Paeans to Her Pericardium, and a couple of Hymns to Her Hamstrings. Why? Because The Woman o’ Your Dreams, like all women, has always been secretly harboring hopes that a mentally unstable man would fall so madly in love with her, he’d obsessive/compulsively compose original, anatomically-specific musical orations/lyrical pieces, just for her. Trust me. She totally has.

Step Six: Give Her a Biblically-Alluded Compliment Eye to Eye

The boring compliments are getting old, Honey. Don’t put, “You’re gorgeous,” onto that woman’s Facebook profile page. Don’t tweet, “You’re hot,” onto her twitter feed. Simply look her in the eye and say, “Your hair is like a flock of goats descending from Mt. Gilead.” Trust me. No woman can resist a good Biblically-alluded compliment given eye to eye.

Step Seven: Recite Her Some Archaic Poetry

Put away the didactic dissertation! Let the philosophical treatises alone! We women are not logical creatures—no, no! We are Poetry Incarnate, and we love us some good metre-d metaphors. So, crack out the erotic Catullus; dust off the seductive Sir Walter Raleigh; and start reciting that out-dated poetry. Trust me. The Woman o’ Your Dreams has always been just a few archaic poems away from the warmth of your embrace.

Step Eight: Make Her Handmade Tokens o’ Affection

That Woman o’ Your Dreams doesn’t want ropes of diamonds or strings of pearls! She just wants a man who can put his kind, sensitive, deft hand where his mouth is. So, whittle her a jewelry box out of a piece of driftwood; embroider her a Peter Paul Rubens painting onto a pillowcase; and hand those tokens of affection on over to her. Trust me. The Woman o’ Your Dreams has been waiting a long time for a man who knows the age-old adage: “Hand-Embroidered, Renaissance-Painting Pillowcases and Whittled-Driftwood Jewelry Boxes speak a helluva lot louder than words.”

Step Nine: Prepare Her a Meal

Show her what a good provider you are: Prepare her a meal. Don’t just heat up some Hunt’s spaghetti sauce, though—no, no! Go organic. Go green. Take out the longbow that’s been collecting dust at the bottom of your hope chest, and go hunt down a few cage-free, grass-fed, wild boars. Then, skewer ‘em; roast ‘em over a spit for a few hours; and plop those babies onto the table in front of her. Trust me. Upon seeing the bountiful, organic boar-feast you so benevolently prepared for her, that Woman will be officially woo-ed.

Yes, by simply following these easy steps, The Woman o’ Your Dreams will be all yours, Li’l Feller. So, stop wasting that precious time and fecundity, and get out there, Honey! Grab the sword of Literate Thoughtfulness and the shield of Insane Passion, and woo away.

Ms. Megan Michelle is a former Classics Major, a proud Preschool Teacher, a greatly-skilled Goatherdess, and a full-time Romantic who has always loved the Living Logos. Feel free to cyberspacingly stalk her here.

I can’t think of many better things than springtime. Summer’s great but it cheats because it comes after the cushion of spring which makes the transition easier. Spring, of course, follows (what always seems to be) a death-march of a winter season.

This winter wasn’t so bad, but it was long and it was gray and it’s nice to see the sun again.

So in that spirit, here’s a list of some great things to do and check out in the Greatest Season.

1. Chesapeake by James Michener. More than 300 years of life along the Chesapeake Bay. Good thing to sit outside with and feel the sun while you go deep into some historical fiction.

2. 40s. Winter for me was all dark, dark red wine. It’s spring so I’m starting it off with a big bruiser like the one in the photo below.

3. Haircut. Give yourself one. Clear-cut your skull and nurture some new-growth forest. (Same goes for your face. How long have you had that beard? Do you even remember what your face looks like Will you look like your dad when you shave it off? Facial hair will always grow back; it’s good like that. Check in with your real face.)

4. “The Gentlest Gentleman” by My Brightest Diamond. Been listening to this on repeat. The MOKB version.

5. Make Your Place by Raleigh Briggs. DIY home-life book. (“Affordable sustainable nesting skills,” says the front cover.) Build a compost heap, make a planting bed, mix up a tincture, beat the Great Depression #II blues.

6. Ditch the bummer music. Look for these HI-NRG positive vibes punks: White Fang. Their album on Marriage Records is called Pure Evil and it’s a party straight through. Especially the track “Green Beanz.” When I hear Erik sing, “I will sing until the day I die/yes, I will sing until the day I die” I’m, like, “YES YES YES.”

7. Potatoes. Hardly anyone I know has a real job these days and we’re all looking for new ways to get through the same ol’ hard times. Potatoes. They’re cheap, filling, nutritious, and you can add a couple bucks worth of fresh vegetables and make a feast for 10. Last night I collected everybody’s spare change and bought a bag of 30 russet potatoes for $1.79. I added a handful of spinach, two cloves of garlic, and two tomatoes and fried up a massive supper for a bunch of really hungry people.

8. Fresh ginger. Clears your head. Heats up your chest. Easy to shoplift from mega chain stores. Go spring-clean your body.

9. Foxfire book series. Collected Appalachian folk-wisdom, ancient DIY tricks, and general cheap-living how-to’s handed down by people who were alive during the Civil War. Read up on haint and snake lore; build your own dulcimer; learn to keep bees; make soap, etc. First five books (1972-’79) are the best.

10. Anything by Frederick Douglass. Pure reason and calm-minded eloquence from a time in American history that was anything BUT. Start off the season with a big hot flashlight of genius (1818-1895) that’ll illuminate everything in your path.

Oh, and go outside.

BIO: Adam Gnade's (guh nah dee) work is released as a series of books and records that share characters and themes; the fiction writing continuing plot-lines left open by the self-described "talking songs" in an attempt to compile a vast, detailed, interconnected, personal history of contemporary American life. Check out recent writing here and songs here. Contact: adam@asthmatickitty.com

I’m not a crab and I’m sure you’re not either but I recently got a little insight into what it’s like to be one. Like us, James Michener isn’t a crab but he won the Pulitzer for fiction (Tales of the South Pacific, 1948) and his 1978 historical epic, Chesapeake, is a damn fine thing. And then there’s the crab, but we’ll get to him in a second.

Michener’s book documents the lives of four families over the course of more than 300 years (1583-1978) alongside the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay. It’s a big read; nation building and colonial expansion and political upheaval all set to the quiet rhythms of the bay waters. Over the course of 1082 pages (I’m on 832) you get a saga of American life at its most panoramic and real and messy. Economical dynasties rise and fall. Great men and women establish themselves as masters of their space and trade only to succumb to illness or musket balls–or age.

The book is an inspiring thing to get caught up in; all that trying and failure and hope. We see first-hand the Quaker shipbuilders and iron-hot abolitionists; seasonal hunting cycles and pro-slavery sermons. War comes like a big steel-toe boot and stomps flat everything then, like an aside, revitalizes a snuffed-out human spirit. Industry furthers expansion and breaks old ties. Racism spits its poison then slips back under the skin and festers until the infection is too widespread for anything but eruption (and it does, with a wild, pus-sputtering fury.)

It’s a grounding piece of work–and it’s humbling. The center of it, of course, is the main character, the bay. Throughout, it’s a sweeping geographic love poem, from ol’ James M. to Mama Chesapeake’s dirty salt/fresh waters.

And she has crabs. Haha, right, yeah, but no. The Chesapeake Bay is full of them. I’ve lived on her banks twice before and I’ve seen ‘em in action… black mud crabs, hermits, the brave little fiddler with his big ol’ slugger thug arm, even that nasty prehistoric mofo the horseshoe crab (which isn’t actually a crab and is closer related to the tick, spider, and scorpion families.)

But it’s the blue crab I want to talk about here, specifically their moulting period, which blew my mind when I read about in the book.

I grew up in the fishing industry. My father was a commericial fisherman and abalone diver before the California coast abalone morarium was imposed (Senate Bill 463, 1997) so I know all about moulting. But I never really thought about it; never really broke down what exactly it means and the steps by which it happens.

Here’s what Michener had to say about the day “Jimmy” the blue crab shed his shell: “Swimming easily to the bottom of the bay, he found a sandy area, a place he would never have considered for a moult in normal times, and there began his gyrations. First he had to break the seal along the edge of his present shell, and he did this by contracting and expanding his body, forcing water through his system and building up a considerable hydraulic pressure that slowly forced the shell apart, not conspicuously, but far enough for the difficult part of the moult to proceed.

“Now he began the slow and almost agonizing business of withdrawing his boneless legs from their protective coverings and manipulating them so that they protruded from the slight opening. With wrenching movements he dislodged the main portion of his body, thrusting it toward the opening, which now widened under pressure from the legs. He had no skeleton, of course, so that he could contort and compress his body into whatever shape was most effective, but he did continue to generate hydraulic pressures through various parts of his body so that the shell was forced apart.

“Three hours and twenty minutes after he started this bizarre procedure, he swam free of the old shell and was now adrift in the deep waters of the bay, totally without protection. He had no bony structure in any part of his body, no covering thicker than the sheerest tissue paper, no capacity for self-defense… And yet, even at his most defenseless moment his new armor was beginning to form. Eighty minutes after the moult he would have a paper-thin covering. After three hours he would have the beginning of a solid shell. And in five hours he would be a hard-shelled crab once more, and would remain that way until his next moult.”

That’s on page 814 but you should read the whole book. It’s worth your time.

BIO: Adam Gnade's (guh nah dee) work is released as a series of books and records that share characters and themes; the fiction writing continuing plot-lines left open by the self-described "talking songs" in an attempt to compile a vast, detailed, interconnected, personal history of contemporary American life. Check out recent writing here and songs here. Contact: adam@asthmatickitty.com

I’m not sure who clued me in on the “Zen haircut” but I’ve been practicing it for years. Basic idea is finding inner calm by savagely cutting your own hair and doing so without regard to any traditional conceptualization of beauty or style. Grab the scissors, grab a handful of hair, hack it off, and keep hacking until you feel right with yourself.  (Use this mantra: “Arbitrary and Harmless Self-Violence Leads to Experiential Wisdom.” Seriously though, it doesn’t matter if you can read Sanskrit or recite the Lotus Sutra, the whole thing is more intuitive than spiritual.)

I guess it’s the counterintuitive recklessness that shocks you into a calm. Whatever it is, it’s a nice, zoned-out/zoned-in, cleansing sensation somewhere between shotgunning a beer and a long session of meditation. Post-Zen haircut I feel strong, focused, and clear-eyed. This is when I work (write) best and to me that’s a very important thing. (Also, I hate going to the barber. Hate it with a murderousness unequaled.)

Couple days ago I was in a recording session and everything felt wrong (sort of sedentary and unsettled at the same time if that makes any sense.) So I set down my guitar, went into a back room, turned up the Wavves record, and gave myself a vicious two-minute Zen haircut.

That was Monday. Today’s Wednesday and I still feel like like I just got back from a year sailing around the world on a yacht as a missionary for Dr. Bronner.

Join the cult.

BEFORE: MONDAY, BUMMED OUT AND HAVING TROUBLE RECORDING

AFTER: WEDNESDAY, NO TROUBLE! NO PROBLEMS!

BIO: Adam Gnade's (guh nah dee) work is released as a series of books and records that share characters and themes; the fiction writing continuing plot-lines left open by the self-described "talking songs" in an attempt to compile a vast, detailed, interconnected, personal history of contemporary American life. Check out recent writing here and songs here. Contact: adam@asthmatickitty.com