Day 160: All Aboard the Crazy Train

When I worked at WHERE Magazine, at least once every production cycle either Dulcy or I would end up crying. We called it the Crazy Train. Well, she coined it. I jumped on board.

When life is swirling so fast you can't possibly survive the Mach 10 insanity. When you're yelling at the carny to stop the ride only he can't hear you because he bailed out five miles back. When you're punch-drunk from all the shit hitting the fan. That's the Crazy Train.

At WHERE it was always that point in the process when we couldn't see how making a magazine was humanly possible because so many things had gone wrong and so many people were assholes. Sales closed late. Nothing was ready. And no one seemed to see the disaster looming except one of us.

Usually, I'd get an email from Dulce about how she didn't sleep the night before and was trapped on the express route to Crazytown. I'd dial her extension and say, 'Get over here.' And we'd hang out until both of us were laughing.

My Crazy Train journeys frequently had to do with my divorce. Dulce was there when it happened and was like oxygen to me during the worst of it. She was the one who held me up on days I didn't think I could fake it for another second.

Later, after we both left the magazine and everything changed, I'd get an email every once and awhile with a subtext of: HANG ON. Sometimes, I'd feel a ripple in the fabric of space-time and I'd send a similar note. These emails were always right on time. Just when the swirl of black oblivion had opened up and whispered, "Jump!"

It's encouraging to have someone well-tuned to my insanity.

It's also nice not to have to explain what's going on or why it's turned you into a clawing, shrieking jungle cat. You just say Crazy Train and that's enough. It's shorthand for, "I'm drowning, now throw a fucking rope."

I could wish our friendship was something different. And she might wish that, too. Maybe that we were soul mates for things like cupcake cravings or the deep need to watch Meg Ryan movies in our jammies. But that ain't us.

We're dark and sticky with railroad tar. Our hair is messy and we smell a little burnt. We're bonded by the Crazy Train. It isn't pretty sometimes, but I wouldn't have it any other way.