the futile! the futile!

[star studded]

Patient File #145135
Patient start date: 4/03
Compiled from: Robert Leechman (social worker/case worker) (2/97 - 4/99), Dr. Edward Walsh (5/99 - 3/03), Dr. Elissa Larson (4/03 - present)

Name: Adler, Lincoln R.
Birthdate: 10/27/82
SSN: 026 47 9871

Lincoln Adler
Diagnostic discussion - 4/99:

Over the course of working with Lincoln Adler, the patient has exhibited symptoms and behaviors both typical and atypical of a struggle with adolescence. While a significant amount of boys at the age of sixteen develop stereotypically aggressive male behaviors, both physical and societal, Lincoln's seem to have surpassed the acceptable level and continued into a dangerous territory. Over our two years of work, Lincoln was involved in countless physical fights, one of which escalated to a level of legal action, wherein he was arrested, tried as a minor, and charged with assault and battery. Among the other charges he faced over two years were misdemeanor shoplifting and vandalism, and finally a major auto theft. The patient was served with 100 hours of community service, which he chose to serve at a local homeless shelter. In discussion, these behaviors seemed like very little to the patient, as if they were inconsequential.

In my sessions with him, Lincoln was very good at diverting discussion to casual conversation: movies, books he was reading, and he seemed to have a fixation with late night television that I could only help but recognize as some sort of comfort for him. He exhibited great intelligence and an uncanny ability to grasp complex concepts (example: he'd breeze through calculus homework within fifteen to twenty minutes, and every answer I checked with my own limited skill seemed to be correct), but it seemed that the simpler I tried to make things for him, the more difficult they were for him to understand. He didn't understand concepts of bonds and friendships, of familial ties, of disappointing his family with his outstanding criminal record and difficult behavior.

Since I only acted as Lincoln's case-worker, I'm in no position to place a medical or psychological diagnosis on him. However, I can say with great confidence that we are dealing with a very fragile boy who has somehow been conditioned to maintain a convincingly steeled exterior. I can only recommend a series of trusting relationships, foundational support and a network of people that Lincoln feels he can comfortably confide in.

-Robert Leechman

Diagnostic discussion - 3/03

Lincoln came to see me first while he was in juvenile detention for the arson of his father's home in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Under my supervision, Lincoln exhibited several disconcerting neuroses that I attributed to, and still insist are examples of a child who has suffered severe physical or emotional abuse. Briefly, some examples of the signs he exhibited were: low self-esteem, self-destructive behavior, impaired social development, exclusion, isolation and difficulties with relationships and physical closeness.

After thoroughly examining his home situation, much to the shock and sometimes indignant reactions from his mother, we found no evidence of physical abuse stemming from life at home. With divorced parents, it is exceedingly difficult to manage to form a thorough picture of the home life, and in this case, Lincoln's father was very difficult to reach for discussion. I imagine Mr. Adler is the perpetrator of some emotional stress and possible neglect on behalf of his son, which would obviously explain the brash measures taken by Lincoln against his father's home.

Lincoln suffered panic attacks rather frequently over the period of about six months. With medical examinations (see attached), Lincoln was diagnosed as having a mild anxiety disorder and was put on a drug called Aprazolam, commonly known as Xanax. Though the panic attacks slowed in their frequency and severity, Lincoln frequently complained of feeling sleepy and uncoordinated. He had trouble concentrating, and his mother approached me about her concerns with his personality shift. Under the supervision of a medical doctor, Lincoln went off Aprazolam after several months of taking it.

His anxieties seemed to present themselves once more, but the patient seemed more intent on handling them himself, through our sessions together. He exhibited his usual behaviors, attempting to speak only casually with me, avoiding specifics of his family life or friendships unless directly confronted about them. During my sessions with Lincoln, I found it notable that he made very little mention about girlfriends or other romantic endeavors. It seemed he had no interest in sex, or sexuality, and had no interest in being proactive towards developing those parts of his personality, which I noted as being atypical of a boy his age (see attached session notes).

However, I did take note of his aggression and anger, which commonly appeared in our more intensive sessions. He commonly used foul language when we touched on topics he found stressful or difficult, such as family history, friendships, etc. Though he was never physically threatening, he did exhibit hostile behaviors, shouting, storming out, only to prolifically apologize at our next meeting, if I chose to bring up the past events.

After asking Lincoln to start keeping a daily journal that we would discuss together, I found a few excerpts that might be of note for his future therapist. They are as follows:

August 15th, 2000
... haven't heard from dad in an entire month now, I started keeping track on my calendar. Mom says he's just taking time to get settled in his new place, but I think she's full of shit. Dad finally has a reason not to talk to me anymore and he's taking it and running with it. Maybe this means I can stop feeling so bad about all of this, because I don't have to look it in the face every weekend anymore...

October 28th, 2001
... so sick and tired of Nick's bullshit. I'm the only one of us who ever has to invest anything and it always gets thrown back in my face. I'm disgusted and angry and I don't feel bad about what I did last night because he deserves it after everything I did for him. I think people are programmed to just be ultimately disappointing, because we keep building them up into something they're not, and then it all crumbles down. But it's his fault for making me think he ever gave a shit about me. <u>No one ever gives a shit about me, or anyone else but themselves.</u>...

The other excerpts are attached and can be referenced as needed.

In conclusion, my projected treatment plan for Lincoln was to focus our sessions together on his perception of relationships, starting broad and funneling down to his more personal ones, including emotional, recreational, familial, friendships and romantic/sexual relationships. If panic attacks present themselves again, I would to recommend revisiting prescription benzodiazepines. The problems Lincoln complained of were common side-effects of taking these drugs, and would wear away with time.

-Dr. Edward Walsh
Director of Counseling and Therapy - Brownell Juvenile Center, Boston MA.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 20, 2005 09:59 PM: Message edited by: godawful champagne ]</font>

[star studded]

<center>

And sometimes when you're on, you're really fuckin' on
And your friends they sing along and they love you
But the lows are so extreme that the good seems fuckin' cheap
And it teases you for weeks in its absence
But you'll fight and you'll make it through
You'll fake it if you have to
And you'll show up for work with a smile
And you'll be better and you'll be smarter
And more grown up and a better daughter or son
And a real good friend
You'll be awake, you'll be alert, you'll be positive though it hurts
And you'll laugh and embrace all your friends
And you'll be a real good listener, you'll be honest, you'll be brave
You'll be handsome and you'll be beautiful
And you'll be happy

Your ship may be comin' in, you're weak but not giving in
To the cries and the wails of the valley below
And your ship may be comin' in, you're weak but not giving in
And you'll fight it, you'll go out fighting all of 'em </center>

[star studded]

Though already assured of his new status as Lucy's strong-arm help, Lincoln still couldn't help but feel the twinging nervousness of failure shaking at his stomach. The back storage room of Filth looked like a department store to him, well-lit and covered in miscellaneous clothing that had no real matching quality, or category. In front of him, Lucy clicked sharp heels across the floor and motioned to the unpacked boxes. "There's seven items in every box, because usually, that's all they can fit. They're vaccuum sealed in airtight bags. Your job, is to unload them from the truck, count how many boxes and how many items, mark it on this, and then unpack and unseal all the bags. I can show you how to hang certain things once we get there. So.."

"Seventeen boxes, one-hundred-and-nineteen items." Lincoln rattled easily.

Lucy shot him a quick look. "How'd you do that?"

"Uhh.." His hands dug into pockets, fingers curling. "Well, like.. okay, so it looks like you grouped them in stacks of four, and there's like four stacks of four and then one left over. That's sixteen in the stacks, and one left over, so that's seventeen boxes, and then you just multiply--"

"Whatever." Lucy cut him off with a sweep of her hand. "Good job. Bravo or some shit." Tossing him the boxcutter, she watched as he caught it quickly and clicked it up a few notches. "Cut 'em open and start unpacking. When all the bags are unsealed, call me and I'll show you how to hang the shit." Pausing, she propped a hand on her hip. "If I like you, maybe you can start keeping the books for me."

Lincoln's eyes widened jokingly. "Oh boy!" He exclaimed, twisting towards the boxes and starting to tear into one.

"You slice any of that merchandise and I'll have Seven take you out back and rough you up a little bit."

Lincoln's hands lifted and waggled, his face contorting in terror. Standing in front of Jude Eden's desk was much more terrifying than her idle threats.

The Red Room during closed hours was a little more uncomfortable than the Red Room when it was filled to the brim with high fashion party goers and women servers in next to nothing. Here, in the daylight, all the wiring was exposed and shown off. The sleek beauty of the place, crafted out of its owner's mind, was little more than a construction of metal and red plastic.

Jude's office was a mess of clutter and semi important things. Drawn past where all alcohol was stored, through the underbelly of the place, past dressing rooms and a few scattered girls he recognized from Liv's stories, he found himself thrust into the stretch of space that echoed with ringing phones and glinted with a few pictures of wide-eyed, sticky-smiled blonde girls.

"So," Jude began, pushing up from his seat. He didn't cut an intimidating figure at all -- it was clearly in attitude where the odd, instinctual fear of the man bred itself. "Liv says you need a job."

"Yeah." Lincoln's voice rasped before he cleared it and tried again. "Yeah."

"Can you make a drink?"

"Well, yeah, for the most part, but I didn't go to bartending school or whatever, and I can't flip glasses like Cocktail, or some shit."

"Well, the glass-flipping you can be taught, I guess," Jude answered sarcastically. "Friday and Saturday nights it's usually me back there with whoever's on, but now it can be you on there with whoever's on. I'll give you a hand the first night and you can go on your own from there. It gets pretty nuts, but you go home with a hell of a lot in tips."

"Okay." Lincoln's head nodded obediently, enthusiastically.

"Any guy that works here instantly works security. You look like a big enough kid. You see someone causing trouble, being a pain in the ass, or just someone who looks up to something, they're outta here, y'got it? Sometimes the girls'll ask you to remove someone, sometimes it's just your gut."

"What if they don't wanna go?"

Jude grinned. "Then you call me, and we'll take care of 'em. That's my favorite part."

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 02, 2006 04:20 PM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font>

[star studded]

Part One.
Full Name: Lincoln Reverin Adler
Goes by: Linc. Lincoln.
Current location: Queens, New York
Description: Small, with a dog in it.
Occupation: Stock and bookkeeping for Lucia, bartender and security for The Red Room.

Current age: Twenty three.
Date of birth: October 27th.
Birthplace: Women and Infants in Boston.
Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of parent(s):

Jonathan Adler - Pilot for American Airlines.
Rosemary Hawkins - Art dealer.

Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of sibling(s):

Althea Adler - Waitress and aspiring drama queen.

Height: 5'10"
Weight: 160
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Blue
Left-, right-handed, or ambidextrous: Left-handed

Heritage/Nationality: American, Czech, French.
Religion: Jewish.
Education: Diploma from Boston Latin.
Marital status: Unwed.
Children: I have a dog, that is enough.

Part Two.

Likes: Music, numbers, beer, drums, a good fight.
Dislikes: Bad movies, bad music, excuses.
Phobias: A couple.

Part Three: Do you...

Smoke: Marlboro.
Cuss: Yes.
Sing well: Not really.
Sing in the shower: Yes.
Talk to yourself: Not usually.
Believe in yourself: Why not.
Play an instrument: Drums, trumpet, piano, guitar.
Want to go to college?: Not at the moment.
Want to get married?: Are you proposing?
Want to have children?: ...is there something I should know?
Think you're a health freak?: Not particularly.
Get along with your parents?: When I'm not around them.
Get along with your siblings?: Yes.

Part Four: Favorites:

Food: Mushroom Pizza
Drink: Dr. Pepper (NO ICE.)
Color: Blue.
Album: Aerosmith - Toys in the Attic.
Shoes: Doc Martins.
Candy: I'm a fan of Funny Bones. Those are more pastry.
Animal: Dog, I guess.
TV Show: Saturday Night Live, before it started to blow.
Movie: Old School.
Song: Love in an Elevator - Aerosmith
Girl's name: Ivy.
Boy's name: Jack.
Vegetable: Asparagus.
Fruit: Pomegranate.

Part Five:

If I were a month, I'd be: August.
If I were a day of the week, I'd be: Saturday.
If I were a time of day, I'd be: Noon.
If I were a planet, I'd be: Mars.
If I were a sea animal, I'd be: Shark.
If I were a direction, I'd be: Falling.
If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be: A chair.
If I were a sin, I'd be: Sloth.
If I were a historical figure, I'd be: James Dean.
If I were a liquid, I'd be: Blood.
If I were a tree, I'd be: An elm.
If I were a bird, I'd be: A robin.
If I were a flower, I'd be: Poison Ivy? Plant, I guess.
If I were a kind of weather, I'd be: Clear.
If I were a mythical creature, I'd be: A troll.
If I were a musical instrument, I'd be: Snare drum.
If I were an animal, I'd be: A snapping turtle.
If I were a color, I'd be: Blue.
If I were an emotion, I'd be: Contemplative.
If I were a vegetable, I'd be: Spinach.
If I were a sound, I'd be: A clap-track.
If I were an element, I'd be: Barium.
If I were a car, I'd be: One that runs.
If I were a song, I'd be: Pink - Aerosmith.
If I were a movie, I'd be: Armageddon? I have no idea.
If I were a food, I'd be: No clue.
If I were a place, I'd be: Boston Common.
If I were a material, I'd be: Concrete.
If I were a taste, I'd be: Cotton candy.
If I were a scent, I'd be: Cooking pizza.
If I were a religion, I'd be: Catholicism
If I were a word, I'd be: Harrowing.
If I were an object, I'd be: An alarm clock.
If I were a body part, I'd be: Hands.
If I were a facial expression, I'd be: Examining.
If I were a part of a house, I'd be: The hallway.
If I were a subject in school, I'd be: Music theory.
If I were a cartoon character, I'd be: Trent Lane. Where did Daria go?
If I were a shape, I'd be a: Half circle.
If I were a number, I'd be: 10.

[star studded]

He had immediately tensed, loose muscles and all. The airport condensed him, packed him into a locked up succession of bones and skin. He white knuckled the handles of his two bags, and in the swarm of LAX, on the sunny west coast, found himself grappling for air.

Beside him, his twin sister perused the magazine rack, her fingers flickering from page to page, glossy images spitting back at her. "Britney's tits are going to fall out of this dress," she commented, a finger pointing to the tiny picture, nail polish chipped and hacked away.

"There are too many people here," her brother supplied. His voice was strangled, like a knot had been tightened. The line for security that they stood in moved slowly. In front of them, passengers inched. Lincoln stood still.

"Once we get on the plane, there'll hardly be anyone. Don't sweat it, Linc, it'll be fine. Once we get through security, we're golden, the crowds go away." She attempted not to coddle and comfort -- the attention would only reinforce his mad notion that something was wrong. Outside, the sun shone on the tarmac. Inside, the chatter was almost deafening.

"I can't. I can't get on the plane."

"Lincoln, you have to. You told Ma you were coming. You're supposed to surprise Jake, remember? Don't you want to see everyone at Thanksgiving?"

His head shook left to right. No. Not on the plane. Not anywhere. The line moved and Althea inched forward, nearly dragging her brother with her. The line where dark hair met skin had started to bead with sweat. His blue eyes darted wildly side to side, in search of something. She could watch his chest heave with breath.

"Next," the security guard called, waving Althea through. She emptied her pockets, plucked off gaudy cocktail rings and tossed them all into the tray while her bag passed through the x-ray machine.

"It'll be fine. You're going to be fine," she assured him.

"Something wrong with your friend, Miss?" The guard took one look at the sweating, nervous Lincoln and quirked a brow at her.

"No. He gets nervous about getting on planes. He... Lincoln." She stepped through the metal detector, free and clear, stuffing her pockets full again and pressing rings onto her hands. "C'mon."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"I can't!"

"You fucking have to!"

Althea's voice had kicked up a notch higher. Her blue eyes were narrowed sharply at him, fingers pointing to the ground on the other end of the metal detector. "Walk through, Lincoln. Just walk through."

"Something he should be nervous about, ma'am?"

"He's not smuggling anything onto the fucking plane, he doesn't like flying and I'm not strong enough to drag him by the hair if he pops a valium to get through your fucking medieval torture methods."

"Take your shoes off."

"Oh for Christ's sake," she grunted, pulling off her shoes and letting the security monitor examine pointy toed heels and the space between her toes.

"Next."

"Althea."

"Walk through, Lincoln."

"Next!"

"I don't want--"

"What're you gonna do, wait until Christmas to see Jake and the dog? Don't be a baby. Walk through."

Like it was a leap over some gap in the ground three thousand feet down, she outstretched her hand, a pale limb extended to her brother. Fingers curled. "C'mon."

Palms clasped, he stepped over. New York was still a thousand miles away.

[star studded]

The Hotel Rumor is coursing through the underground circuit like an earthquake tremor. They're two twins, two styles, two distinct sets of music and their double disc first album is practically a sixteen dollar two-for-one special. For us with our hearts in our hands and our brains beating us up, there's disc one, Lincoln Adler's gut-wrenching poetry mixed hard with crunching guitars and the sort of wail that only someone with real fucking experience can spit out. For those of us who like the softer side of things there's disc two, Althea Adler's half-acoustic half-synthesized, all pretty in pink pop album (that surprisingly, her brother had a hand in writing, go figure.)

Their first single is a testament to something terrible, but fuck, underneath it all, when the frontman breaks it down for us, he's really shouting out a message of hope. And it's not for us. No, this song is selfishly (and refreshingly) all about him, and we can't relate to it a bit. We think he meant it that way.

-Jan 18th, 2007, VICIOUS magazine.

<center>



I've watched you all succeed with the highest marks in greed
From my cave where your discs play like photographs that bleed
If I took the names into their ivory membranes
I am hate everlasting
With each sickly spell I'm casting

Discard all feelings
The stars scar my ceilings

Sun, I won't spare you
Moon, I won't spare you

And my pain is mine, it's become my friend with time
Chia-like it grows, watch it fester for my foes
One day I'm gonna get up, get right back into the city
With my flame-thrower mouth
You bet your life it won't be pretty

I discard all my feelings
As the stars still scar my ceiling

Oh, I won't spare you!
Whoa, I, I won't spare you!

No!

Photograph (bath!)
Photograph (bath!)
Photograph!

Why'd you have to go and take a picture of a life like that?

You aren't new enough
I give up
I give up
I give up on you!

Look at you (you!)
Look at you (you!)
Look at you

Pretty boy
Funny face
Down in a pond of glue

You aren't new enough
We give up
We give up
We give up on all those like you!

Discard all feelings
The stars scar my ceiling

Whoa!

I won't spare you, whoa, I won't spare you!

Won't spare you
Won't spare you
Won't spare you
I won't spare you

I shall grow and grow
Oh, I shall grown and grow
I'll grow

Oh, I shall grow and grow
Oh, I shall grow and grow
I'll grow!

</center>


(lyrics are say anything)

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 18, 2007 08:48 PM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font>