A Proper Postscript

The tour of our friend’s new house was making its way back to the rest of the party when we stopped halfway down the stairwell. This tall, wiry fellow was standing in our way, seemingly as part of his plan. It was the same guy from earlier in the evening, the one who’d made a comment toward Emily that could be taken as eccentric, hilarious, or creepy from different angles. He continued to chat us up, relaxed yet intense, with these occasional off-the-wall remarks. I thought they were hilarious. Emily? The way she restrained a smirk while giving him the side-eye suggested she was either unsure of him or embarrassed to be amused. It took a few hours, but once she started responding back, it became clear that this guy was winning her over.

When Emily went to the kitchen with a friend, the guy leaned toward me and asked, “So, are you two affiliated?” I thought it was a quirky way of asking if we were dating. Quirky but memorable… you know, I guess that could summarize Jon and that whole encounter. I told him we were not an item, which gave him the green light to ask for Emily’s num--

“Oh, I’ve heard this part before,” Jenny interjected, willing to amuse me nonetheless as I completed the story.

The start of Jon and Emily, two friends I was about to visit, was familiar to Jenny. She probably first heard the story before we attended their wedding eight years ago. I’ll bet she’s heard the tale of their beginning at least five or six times. She’s used to me repeating stories. Call me (insert mediocre 90s sitcom you like more than you admittedly should), because I’m always on rerun.

The details of my friends’ first encounter weren’t even important at the time I was sharing them for the fifth sixth Nth occasion. I tell my wife passages like that all the time, sometimes in passing, sometimes to reshape a story with new information, sometimes using context to express a different sentiment, sometimes just because I like to share things with her.

I could apply a lot of that last (run-on) sentence to what it was like writing in this blog.

My dissertation defense was a long time coming. Although the project was completed in 2014, the idea originated seven years prior… give or take a month from the time this blog was last updated. I’ve written a lot in my area of study in that time. It’s funny, though: when it comes to me and “publishing,” I don’t just think of the sexual violence research. I reminisce on my writing prior to this, when I’d sit at a computer writing boxing articles from my bachelor apartment. I’ll say this: my area of research may be controversial among the general public, but I’ve never been called anything like “half breed hack” from someone reading my academic writing. Not to my knowledge, at least.

I experienced plenty of stumbling blocks along the way to completing my dissertation. I was regularly exhausted by a surly, ever-critical colleague who put it upon herself to judge my intentions before “allowing” me to proceed. There was the day I felt that fizzy head dizziness when I’d discovered that not only had my flash drive been corrupted, but also I’d been incorrectly backing up my research database (I’m savvy with computers like my neurotic dog is savvy with boxes blocking his way into a room). The biggest obstacle, though, was Mr. Procrastination. Putting things off a week was more the indirect roadblock. The momentum I lost by getting distracted by things like my clinical cases, deciding what Jenny and I should do to add to our (metaphorical) memory scrapbook, and checking IMDB to confirm which actors from a decades-old movie are now dead hurt my efficiency and really slowed me down.

Despite all the inevitable adversity, the day came for me to defend my years-long work to a small room of scholars and colleagues. I usually feel anxiety in anticipation for a big event by overthinking various scenarios, but I was unusually calm that day. Scratch that: I was unusually calm until I forgot the most up-to-date version of my defense and had Jenny scrambling for it in an adjacent building 10 minutes before showtime. Whatever: I’d been calm long enough to be well-rested and eat a sandwich, so I had enough fuel to get me through.

The details of the actual defense are a blur, but the aftermath was very vivid. I stood outside the door pacing with Jenny, well confident of the outcome but antsy to have this all just come to its proper conclusion. She looked proud of me. In most situations that’s good enough for me… but I wanted that Ph.D., and my university did not include an awesome woman’s pride in the prerequisites for my degree. About ten minutes later, my advisor waved me into the room and looked over with a smile. She offered a nod of respect, shook my hand, and referred to me as “Dr.” to indicate I’d achieved my longtime goal. For all intents and purposes, I’d be able to call myself Dr. the next day, once I deposited my completed dissertation and filled out the proverbial paperwork.

When everything was finalized that next day, I was alone in a room with an administrative person I’d never met before and probably will never see again. I don’t really remember the moment it became official, but I remember what happened immediately after.

I stood up, walked toward the exit, and stumbled head first into the door.

I’d pushed on a door with a large, unambiguous “Pull” sign.

It’s the kind of blunder you would normally edit out of a key moment, but it was quite the visual to me. I knew immediately that this was what I’d remember best about that event. To fail to properly use a door immediately after receiving your Ph.D.: it was an imperfect ending that felt quite fitting.

Imperfect endings rarely transcend big moments the way that did. Most of the time the details just fade away. In other instances, they’ll continue to nag at you, leaving you itching to rewrite the ending. When you can do something to alter those kinds of endings, maybe you should.

The iPhone. President Barack Obama. The popularity of Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber. NFL players Adrian Peterson and Calvin Johnson. The debate over what happened in the finale of The Sopranos. None of these things existed the last time I updated this blog. Michael Jackson, Heath Ledger, Boris Yeltsin, and Anna Nicole Smith were still kicking. Hell, I probably visited MySpace soon after I’d last clicked “publish.”

I never consciously made a decision to stop writing here. I’d say it just gradually happened, but can not doing something happen? In any event, I could pitch a number of reasons for the decline of my recreational writing without resorting to hackneyed “I got so busy” excuses. The efforts and energy put into my research (I know, I know, this sounds like an “I got so busy,” but wait for it…) left me less than inspired to spend my spare time typing in front of a computer screen when that’s what much of my day job involved. I became more social and spent less time by myself (and with my computer). My attention span weakened to the point that I became too distractible to follow through with tasks that don’t work well on the installment plan. Increased use of social media—by the public, colleagues, and prospective employers—made me second-guess what I could/should relay online.

But probably the biggest, yet simplest, reason for the end of my writing here is that my life changed. In most ways (read: Jenny and all she is) this has been for the better, but no matter the changes, life is simply different. Many aspects of my life have stabilized as I sprinted, jogged, limped, danced, and strolled through my mid-to-late 20s and early 30s. In those times I need to express myself, vent, or explore musings on the fly, I have a wonderful partner as my go-to outlet.

This blog was written by an intermittently lonely guy, age 19-24, still finding himself. I liked that guy (though several parts of College Anthony in particular make me cringe), but that version is not entirely around anymore. It’s much like the way a picture of me from those days would only resemble—and by no means represent—how I’d physically look in a picture today. I’m not suggesting I’ve found myself and have life figured out, but the scope of that search has certainly changed. Slowly but surely, sitting for hours to write in a blog no longer filled the purpose it once did.

         

We were sitting alone in the lounge of our loft apartment building, two emptied bottles of homebrew sitting on a nearby end table. The Psych finale was on the television, and we were watching to see how things would end. At one point early on, Jenny giggled at something on the screen. I felt butterflies in my chest, as I tend to experience whenever she does Jenny things. I don’t mean to trivialize what makes her great because she’s an amazing, multi-talented, generous spirit of a woman, but it’s often the little things like that that make me take a mental snapshot of how much her partnership means to me.

The Psych finale was off to a promising start, which we were admittedly surprised about given our feelings toward the shit in the final season. Most of the time, perfect send-offs don’t happen. My dad’s final words to me were, “I love you too.” About as perfect of final words as you can imagine, right? Nonetheless, aside from the obvious fact that he left us way too soon, even that was a flawed send-off since he'd lie unconscious for over 24 hours after those words.

I sometimes wonder if a “perfect ending” is even possible. No matter how much we try to compartmentalize, life and events don’t occur in a vacuum. Going back to my dad, there’s a moment in his final days that always stuck with me. After bringing him outside to see our dog one last time, I was guiding him in his wheelchair back to his hospital floor. As the elevator door opened, I glanced toward the right wing of the floor, an area I hadn't explored. I’m sure I’d read the signs before, but I hadn’t really processed that over to the right was the baby delivery unit. I wondered how many lives had begun that hour, that day, before turning my dad’s wheelchair to the left back to hospice. Within the same bubble, beginnings and endings were occurring in synchrony.

Jenny and I thoroughly enjoyed that hour of watching Psych together. Once the finale actually finale’d, we looked at each other and smiled in relief. Given that this was a show we'd followed over the years, we were invested in the send off. Jenny indicated she was happy with the episode, and I was glad to see the series wrap-up pleased her.

I felt similarly. I knew it wasn't a perfect ending, but it was way better than how it would have been if they hadn’t returned and wrapped things up in a fitting manner.

In my head I thought, “this will definitely do.”

Eventually, we walked back to our apartment together, saying hi to a ridiculously excited puppy and continuing the everydayness of our life together.

2006 Music Awards

Note: this year sucked so badly for music that I could only come up with Top 5's instead of the standard Top 10.

5 Biggest Surprises
5. Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Show Your Bones
4. Mat Kearney, Nothing Left to Lose
3. Bravestate, Farewell to the Castle EP
2. Lily Allen, Alright, Still
1. Albert Hammond, Jr., Yours to Keep

5 Biggest Disappointments
5. John Legend, Once Again
4. Keane, Under the Iron Sea
3. Badly Drawn Boy, Born in the UK
2. Yo La Tengo, I am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
1. Sondre Lerche and the Faces Down Quartet, Duper Sessions

5 Albums That Did Not Suck as Much as Some People Said
5. Actually, most albums I heard pretty much sucked this year.
4. Keane, Under the Iron Sea (No, this is not a contradiction.)
3. Starsailor, On the Outside
2. The Mars Volta, Amputechture
1. The Strokes, First Impressions of Earth

5 Favorite Songs
5. Snow Patrol, "Chasing Cars"
4. Gomez, "Notice"
3. Band of Horses, "The Funeral"
2. Bravestate, "Reign of Terror"
1. Muse, "City of Delusion"

5 Favorite Albums
5. Neko Case, Fox Confessor Brings the Blood
4. Gomez, How to Operate
3. Nas, Hip Hop is Dead
2. Muse, Black Holes and Revelations
1. The Decemberists, The Crane Wife

Don't Know What You Don't Got Til It's There

A few thoughts ran through my head after my parents sat us down and informed us that our house was going up for sale. I couldn't believe that soon I wouldn't be able to jump off the diving board into our Better Homes & Gardens swimming pool, the one fully equipped with the outer picket fence and polaris that shimmied through the water and removed any unsightly debris. I wondered how there could ever be a house to replace this one that would always be my childhood home. My mind passed through a few more thoughts along these lines, until I got to the one where I was scared that I would be pulled away from the girl I loved, the one I needed to be with.

It turned out that we would only be moving one block over, in the same neighborhood, going to the same schools, being with the same people. To my relief, I wouldn't have to lose her, wouldn't have to say goodbye, wouldn't have to make a last-second confession of my true feelings as we embraced in a farewell kiss amidst a suddenly appearing thunderstorm. Not in 13 years of my life had I felt something like this, and I didn't know how it could get any better.

She had it all. She was pretty. She was nice. She was pretty. I knew everything about her: her middle name, what period she had earth science, her favorite movie. I'd never told her how I felt, even though I knew deep down she felt the same. Maybe one day our love would bring us together.



We slowly made our way down the stairs among the masses of people trying to get outside and call for the nearest cab. I censored my real opinions when responding to my friends' questions about what I thought of the opera we'd just seen. It wasn't yet appropriate to say that I found the brass poorly tuned and the solo singers uninspired. That wasn't the bottom line of this night. What really mattered was that we'd just seen the opera, that it was something available for us to experience, and that we did it. In the end, that made the night a success.

A few nights later, these friends were among others gathered in my dining room. It was the second or third of what we hoped would become a tradition: Sunday dinner. It was an event I'd once spoken so fondly of as a staple of my Italian and Puerto Rican roots, something I'd done with my family in my days back home. These people wanted to experience that too. We were still getting to know each other, part of our own new family of aspiring Ph.D.'ers. Among the outstanding food, laughs, photographs, and stories of days past, it became apparent that we could have an invaluable scrapbook together 5 years down the road.

These were things I'd never felt were possible at a similar magnitude in my former city. There were many lonesome days there. I'm not going to lie: I was happy to say goodbye to that town. I'd long grown tired of knowing that about the half the time, the highlight of my slowly crawling day would be whenever I laughed at something said online.

It wasn't that I didn't meet great people there (because I did) or that I didn't find anything there for me (because I did). What happened was that through my occasional visits to the city I'd later call my home, I knew that any happiness I felt I had in my life at the time paled in comparison to what I could have when surrounded by a backdrop that better suited the needs of an inspired guy in his mid-twenties trying to find himself among a diverse culture he'd felt isolated from.



After I gained more years of life and maturity, I was able to laugh at myself and my distorted perceptions of love. To think that despite the warnings from my elders that 13-year-olds don't know what love is, I thought, exactly like everybody else did at the time, that I was like nobody else at the time. I was different.

Years later, with a far-different girl in a far-different life, I knew what it meant to love. I'd never seen that I needed to go beyond knowing what made her laugh and cry to WHY she was touched in those ways, what mattered enough to her to touch her soul. I'd never seen that I could find someone as beautiful lying pale sick in bed as when she'd spent 2 hours getting ready for our date. I'd never seen that many of the sacrifices I made for true love didn't seem at all like sacrifices at the time.

I never knew this until I had it.



When my friends from past lives have called to hear how I'm doing, I never fail to convey how refreshed I am to enjoy the present day. My situation today is what I've been saying I wanted for over a year now, and when the opportunity came for life to call my bluff, I didn't back down. I took the chance and am reaping the benefits.

It has nothing to do with feeling I'm doing something meaningful and special with my days. It has nothing to do with randomly bumping into Bob Dylan or Pootietang. It has nothing to do with the knowledge that I can essentially hear any music I want in a matter of months. It has nothing to do with walking by restaurants serving food I could only pray to experience. It has nothing to do with spending my days surrounded by people of all colors, names of origin, sexualities, ideals, outlooks, and personalities.

It has everything to do with knowing I'm taking full advantage of the entire package.



She called because she was concerned about me. I'd sent her an e-mail the night before and explained the bad news. He probably had cancer, but we'd find out in a few days. It was possible that this could be the last Christmas with him around.

I was taking the news rather well, she said. She'd heard me tell many stories about my grandfather and thought there'd probably be a void there if he were gone. She was right. Having lost my other grandfather when I was 8, he's the only grandfather I've known since I could appreciate those relationships. I'd miss him for sure.

She wondered why I didn't seem sad on the phone. It didn't sound like I was in denial or that I didn't love him. Neither statement would have been true. What happened is that when I'd moved into close-enough distance to him, I'd made the effort to make an ocasional visit. We had new memories and stories the rest of my family didn't share. I didn't know if one day there'd be cancer, but I did know that his funeral would have to come some day.

When we got the news about cancer, I didn't know if I'd see him for much longer, but I did know that I took advantage of the time I'd had. I'd never be satisfied, always wanting one more day with him, but I'd always have comfort in knowing that each present day would pass without regret. I wasn't ready to say goodbye, but if I had to, at least I'd know I did what I could.



I'd always heard you don't see what you've got until it's gone. It seemed to me that with the important things, I didn't see what I was missing until I found it. In the meantime, I'll just keep looking.

Just So You Know...

Almost done with my thesis.
Training for my first boxing match.
Move to New York late August.

Hope to find time and inspiration to write something soon.

Devolution

My hand continues to shake with vibrato after I hang up, maybe even more intensely than during the conversation itself. Over my head lingers a fear that I didn't just end a call, but rather a friendship I've come to realize I've grown more and more dependent on as of late. I am as confused as I've undoubtedly left her tonight. The past 48 hours have been absolutely surreal, staring into space, feeling numb-yet-tense, wanting everything to go into reverse and immediately fast forward simultaneously.

They tell me that the one you adore should be your best friend, but a feeling that is supposed to be bliss has turned into unresolved, unexplainable agony, partly because I've messed up the order of the adoration-best friend development. She and I will never be the same, this I know. Regardless of whether the change will be for better or worse, I had no choice. Maintaining the present status of our friendship would have been a mirage on my part, and this turmoil is a necessary encounter on my way to my only shot at genuine happiness. Who will be part of that happiness is yet to be determined.

I keep telling myself that the not-knowing, the to-be-determined, stuck-in-the-middle pain is the worst. It gets better. It has to get better. That's why I'm doing this, but it doesn't change the fact that I miss her heart and genuineness already.



She sends me a message to let me know she's arrived home safely. I'm happy to receive the message. I don't demand that she check in with me like this on a daily basis; it's just something we’ve gradually grown accustomed to doing. This casual conversation is part of my typical night, as this good friend of mine is always the one who wishes me goodnight as I end my day. If we don't converse at any point during a day, it feels as though we have lots of catching up to do the next day.

I'm willing to talk with her about anything, even the uncomfortable situations I swore couldn't be a part of our talks. I felt that I had to uplift the restrictions out of respect of the friendship. She shows a genuine investment in my life. The feeling is mutual. We value the same things not just in life, but in each other. Hers has really become one of the best, and most surprising, friendships I've ever had.

I'm still excitable over my fun-filled weekend, so I'm a little worked up with energy tonight. I'm even more sarcastic than usual, making her laugh and gasp left and right from my wisecracks. Somehow-- the reason escapes me-- the conversation gets a little risque. Through the course of this change of pace, she lets out a secret, though her withholding of this information seems partly premeditated, partly incidental.

Even though she considers the situation rather minor, this is pretty big news I'm hearing, the news of her and this boy, from someone whom I'd normally assume I know every hour about. But what is going on here? Wait... what?

What is this?

I can't see straight because of the dizziness. The skin on my face tingles. I may have to vomit later. My eyes guard themselves by hiding in my protective hands. On the outside, I am stone, while inside my mind is scrambling at an overwhelming speed. My body is now my preoccupation. What's happened? Why do I feel like this? Why have I suddenly succumbed to feelings of horror, dread, and sorrow?

Oh shit. I know what this means.



I’m finishing the cookies she made me. A few days ago, a small brown package awaited me at my doorstep. She told me she'd make me any kind of cookies I want, and apparently she backs up her word. In my mouth now is sugary, peanut buttery wonderment. This is apparently her way of thanking me for being a good friend, and my stuffed face is in no position to argue at this point.

She tells me that she likes to send little thoughts of hello and care to her friends. No wonder she is liked by so many people; she lets the people that matter in her life know that they do. Today I see a simple online message from her that praises my awesomeness and how awesome it is to be someone as awesome as myself. The note makes me laugh.

This is exactly what I needed today. Things just fell apart with the woman I've been seeing. She doesn't know about this news yet; it's just good timing that she wanted to send me a surprise just as I need a little solace. I know I'll be ok, but I certainly feel better after this gesture.

She calls me after she hears the news, offering to be an open ear and to instill any optimism in me should I need it. This is quite a surprise. We don't really talk live voice-to-voice all that often, both of us being very schedule-heavy people, though we keep pretty steady contact through e-mail and AIM. I let her know that I accept what has happened between me and the woman, but it's good to know there's one more person I can depend on should I need to vent over the next few days. I wish I could return the favor regarding her pain, but it would be a sticky situation consoling the girl who was once dating my buddy.

Her words are comforting. She gets me. We've always seen eye-to-eye on the important things in life. I'm glad someone understands and appreciates where I'm coming from.

She's a good friend. I think I'll keep her around.



I tell her of our plans to fly down for the annual festivities, but we've yet to secure any accommodations. She solves one dilemma by offering to pick us up from the airport. That will work. She knows my buddy from a former life in a manner far more intimate than she's ever known me, but she gives me her phone number in case I need to call when I arrive.

She opens the trunk and steps out of the car to greet us. I give her a novel, but still appropriate, hug as my hello, and we are on our way. My goal here is to get drunk around some good people. I don't see a problem in my company accommodating.

She and I chat periodically between sips of beer. We're joking about tube tops and horrible 80s music. Sometimes when you don't know someone on a terribly deep level, you rely on some of the inside jokes you share to inject adrenaline into the conversation. Regardless of whether we're the closest of friends, we're capable of having a good time together. This is fun.

I miss it down here. She tells me I should come back. Beyond that, she entices me with some plans I'd love to be a part of. I may very well come down and meet up with her for that. There's no mention of my buddy being a part of that proposed trip, as more time apart has made things there slightly awkward. I suppose I'm no longer a third wheel. I guess she and I are no longer just secondhand acquaintances. It's always cool to figure out you have a new friend.



She looks pretty much as I remember, but this could just be guesswork on my part. As good as I am with remembering details, I'm bad at remembering faces, and hers only elicits a vague, minor click in my head. Either way, she's nice enough as far as I remember. I wasn’t sure if she was still on good terms with my buddy, the one she was dating until timing and distance interfered, but apparently things are okay between them. This should be good night.

My buds and I are tossing Blue Moon and obscure 80s band references at an alarming rate. This entertains her to no end, as she leans to the side in laughter more than once. She even takes part in a joke now and then. She's a good sport and carefree enough to have a good time with us.

I sit on the porch feeling slightly dehydrated the next morning. The sliding glass door is being pulled open. She sits in the opposite chair, and we stir up a conversation. I tell her about my current studies, my passion for boxing, the new woman in my life, all the standard stuff. She fills me in on her current studies, her home life, her love of the water and fresh fish, and everything else that gives me a better perspective of what she's all about.

Beyond the story, I see a smart, inspired, accomplished young woman who doesn't take herself too seriously. She seems pretty cool. I'd like to keep in touch and see how things turn out for her. The feeling is mutual. We exchange e-mail addresses.



He nudges my shoulder and points in the distance toward this girl about 50 yards away. This is interrupting my double-fisting of cheap beer, but since he's sort of seeing this girl, we might as well do the courteous thing and meet up as we wait for the game to start. I'm sure she'll turn out to be a nice person.

She's pretty cute: nice tan, athletic-toned, good head of long, brown, wavy hair. When my buddy introduces me to her, I can see a good smile behind her timidity. I'm fine with her being somewhat quiet. That's my nature as well when I meet someone new.

I try to avoid feeling like a third wheel as we chat in our self-made triangle, but she's fine with me being here. I'm happy to be back in Florida, and I can tell she's happy to meet a new person, even if we don't have much to go on regarding conversation. Before you know it, it's time for me to leave and find my seat for the game.

Later she gives us a ride to the airport when our trip reaches its close. I tell her it was nice to meet her, thank her for the ride, and leave to check in for my flight. I tell my buddy that, though I didn't really get to know her that well, she seems like a good enough girl. Overall, this was a pleasant, but admittedly insignificant, encounter. I doubt I'll ever see her again.

Time

A student one row in front calls my name as I'm hanging my coat over the back of my chair. She proceeds to ask me a few general questions about getting an internship. I give her thorough but efficient answers but am forced to elaborate further when the girl to her right chimes in with a couple of follow-ups. I tell them how many hours I've done a week, when I started on my thesis, when I planned things out with my advisor, how many shits I take a day. Everyone wants to know how I'm on track to finish the program in 2 years, considering 1 person has done it since they extended the coursework.

When my professor is ready to start her lecture, the girls turn their chairs back toward the front. I space out during lecture, figuring out what I'm going to have for dinner, trying to think of another Chuck Norris quote, reminding myself to let a friend know who I bumped into earlier. I'm just going through the motions for these required classes until I graduate. I have plenty of work to do; why dedicate time to courses I'm only in because I have to take them (espcially ones where she gives us the questions to the exam beforehand)?

When lecture runs its course, I get up and leave my chair. There's a student waiting for me at the door. She thanks me for my help on an assessment of hers and updates me on her work-related issue we had recently discussed. I was happy to hear that things were resolved peacefully. We part at the bottom of the stairs: she to the parking lot, I to the library. I need to finish this last problem on my statistics assignment.

After I save the completed assignment on my USB card, I walk to my car and head home. I'm tired. I lean back in my computer chair and chat online with a good friend as I unwind after another Wednesday. Then I go to my bedroom and turn off the lights on another day.



The first space directly in front of the restaurant door is free. I turn my car into it and head to the door for some genuine latino lunch. There's an extra kick to my step. I've been craving this food for a while now but just hadn't managed to make the 20-minute drive here to get it. Today I'm in the mood for the roast pork with rice and beans. The little Dominican gentleman at the counter gives me a welcoming grin and puts on his glasses as he gets ready to master the cash register. I go through my order in spanish, idenitifying my choice of meal, what kind of rice I want, and what I'll have to drink.

He responds to me in spanish. I furrow my brow.

He says the same thing, only slightly slower. I got about half of it. Something about it being "here." I figure out that he's asking if I want it "for here or to go." He then asks me another question. I get frustrated and switch to English. I feel a little sheepish and just want to hurry up and pay for my food.

My spanish has regressed a bit lately, I suppose. I haven't been practicing with my old Simpsons dvds. Come to think of it, when was the last time I'd even been here ordering in spanish from my favorite cafe? This couldn't have been my first time back in 2006. I used to come at least once a week!



On the morning drive to internship, another song is selected at random from my ipod. I press the skip button because I'm not particularly in the mood for that song. The next one I've heard too many times, so I skip that one too. I don't even like that next one. What's it even doing on my ipod? Talk radio suddenly seems like a better alternative to skipping through the same songs over and over.

Later when I tell another friend of mine what bands I think she'd like, she informs me that I already gave her those artists. Apparently I don't have much new to offer her. The newest songs I've discovered are ones I got from a friend earlier this year. I haven't been celebrating New CD Day lately. I try to justify this by saying I have plenty of music to choose from, but that excuse is promptly rejected.

"You told me you can never stop finding music that'll change your life," is exactly how she called me out.

It's true that I was fooling myself. Maybe I should find some time to take a trip to Best Buy. I miss New CD Day.



My buddy calls me to let me know he's turning the corner of my parking lot and will be out front in about 45 seconds. I hang up the phone and get ready to meet him at the door. This will be a good visit. We have lots of grilling to catch up on, considering we haven't really been able to hang out for a while.

I open my apartment door and have to avoid stepping on the package that has awaited me. I tear open the manilla envelope as I go down the stairs. What am I getting in the mail from some company whose name I don't recognize? My question is answered just as I make it down to greet my friend. I show him that I finally got the replacement box to my Simpsons dvd collection. I had ordered it maybe 2 months before and had long forgotten about it.

This brings back memories of sitting in my dorm room with the other guys from our floor, watching Simpsons episodes I had taped during my youth (this was just before Fox made my lifelong efforts obsolete with its seasonal dvd compilations). I throw some random Simpsons quotes into the conversation for old time's sake. It's a little bittersweet to remember how often I watched those tapes. I can't remember when I put one in for the hell of it. Last week I even missed an episode, even though I was in the apartment at the time. I got sidetracked on the computer.

I update him on my upcoming start at John Jay, how the old people are treating me in Harrisburg, that I'm no longer particularly interested in meeting older women... all the important aspects of my evolution. We make some phenomenal lemon pepper wings and sit to watch the Gators play for a spot in the Sweet Sixteen.

I'm only watching for fun and for the Gators, I tell him, because my bracket is all but busted. I've been in first or second in every NCAA bracket since college, but this year I'll be lucky to finish in the top half of my pool. When I printed out my bracket before the tournament, I sighed and realized it would all be pure guesswork. I just didn't keep track of college basketball this year.

I'm really enjoying being able to sit back and watch my team play. Perhaps I should do this more often.



There isn't any reason to be nervous about this site visit. I know my supervisor likes me and won't tell my professor anything too incriminating. I take my professor to our office, where my supervisor already has 3 chairs set up. We go through a little small talk-- my professor knows my supervisor from the many visits she's made checking on interns-- before my evaluation begins.

Everything goes about as expected. I'm allowed to chime in about how I've been working hard and have been pleasantly surprised by the variety of work I've gotten here. My supervisor lists for my professor the same strengths he's indirectly told me he's seen in me these last few months. When the time comes for constructive criticism, he jokes that he's failed to get me a dead body to put my future profiling skills to task.

He then positions himself so that he's moreso speaking to me than to my professor. He emphasizes to me that he has a little concern about my egghead habits during slow times in the office. I initially wonder if it's a joke, considering that his criticism is that I, at times, get entrenched in my studies too much. How is that a bad thing?

He elaborates that he doesn't want me to miss out on some good things out there, and that sometimes people can get lost in the game of life because they are too busy with their head in the middle of an opened book.

The site visit is a complete success. On my drive home, I mildly chuckle-- the arrogant bastard I am-- that my supervisor thinks I may need to work on NOT working so hard. Then I think about the little joys in my life, and how some of them have hit the backburner lately. This is just a temporary place for them, I assume, but sometimes change can be so sneakingly gradual that you don't notice you've lost track of what you like about yourself.

I decide that I want to be a good worker but not to the detriment of who I am as a person. As long as I like who I am, there's no need to change... only to enhance. I'm once again shuffling through the same tunes on my ipod, and it hits me that the sly 73-year-old loudmouth that calls himself my supervisor has a point: I can maintain a solid work ethic while keeping track of the things I enjoy in life, be they treating myself to a meal, discovering a new musician, catching a basketball game, or expressing myself through written word.

Superstar

It's a quiet Tuesday night, well deserved after another random crazy fest at crisis intervention. I get out of my dress pants, make a little dinner, and get ready to watch American Idol.* I'm stretched out on my leather couch, waiting for the next tone-deaf auditioner to walk into the judge's room and give us the performace of a lifetime. I laugh, I cringe, and I groan at the horrid sounds that are coming out of some of these mouths. Several dreams are swiftly shot down, much to my disturbing amusement.

What's special about the exceptionally awful singers that audition is that many of them walk into the room imagining that they're really going to make it. They say that all they want to do is sing, that they can't imagine being happier doing anything else, that they are destined to be a star. I'm witnessing delusional ideation at its best. It's like having a friend with a voice like Harvey Firestein tell me her dream is to become a news anchor. No matter her diction, her dedication, or her training, she would always lack one of the innate characteristics necessary for the job. I can't believe some of the voices that come out of these people who are so gung-ho about singing. They were born without a shot in the world.

I'm genuinely entertained by these people and wonder how they could be so clueless, but the truth is that whatever career path any of us choose, most of us will only be able to go so far. The work we put in, the hours of playtime we sacrifice, the mentors we encounter, they all help us move toward our goals. But we all have human limits. There is a point of return, and if you're fortunate enough to hit your wall of ability, more power to you. Even those who maximize their potential are incapable of surpassing it, however.

I continue watching as the delusioned and hopeless are smacked into reality by the people with the outside perspective, the ones who can compare you to the great ones and see how you stack up. I wonder if I could ever be as clueless to my capabilities as they are. Then I remember checking the mailbox on my way upstairs. I rarely receive mail, but I've been checking every day lately. This is what happens when you've applied to graduate schools. You put together your audition, send it to the judges, and eagerly await to discover whether someone else sees the talent you hope rests within you, or if you are among the delusioned.

*Yes, I watch American Idol. Every year I watch to hear the bad auditions, then 2 or 3 randoms with legitimate talent get me invested because I want to see how far they can go. You think I lose all music credibilty for this? Deal with it.



Three weeks after writing the above, I was accepted by my top choice of doctoral program. Today, I said yes. In six months, the future is here.

2005 Music Awards

3 Biggest Surprises
3. Natasha Bedingfield, Unwritten. Wins the annual Dido award for "female pop artist who hits the chart with a catchy-ass single that overshadows a surprisingly solid pop album"
2. Kanye West, Late Registration. Avoided the sophomore slump with catchier hooks and just-as-deep poetry.
1. Jamie Cullum, Catching Tales. Modernized his sound even further to become just as vital a songwriter as he is a gateway to the past.

3 Biggest Disappointments
3. Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine (released version). Not nearly as tight as her previous 2 albums, and the "improvements" made from the bootleg version are often, in fact, not.
2. Switchfoot, Nothing is Sound. Foreman's lyrics get lost in over-produced guitars amd surprisingly forgettable melodies.
1. The Raveonettes, Pretty in Black. Hey, I've got an idea: let's get rid of everything that made our sound so unique! Borrrrrrrrrrring.

Top 10 Songs
10. The Raveonettes, "Love in a Trashcan". The album's saving grace is a cool retro beach rocker.
9. Jamie Cullum, "Catch the Sun". A damn fine cover capped by a majestic piano solo.
8. Kanye West, "Heard 'em Say". Is it just me, or is this a best-case scenario for "Mr. Rogers goes TRL"?
7. Bright Eyes, "Road to Joy". Ode to Joy transformed into a intense, chaotic, hummable tirade.
6. Amos Lee, "Arms of a Woman". Simple, straightforward, earnest, depressing, calming, and pretty.
5. Coldplay, "Fix You". Same as "Arms of a Woman," but with a more dramatic ending.
4. John Legend, "Ordinary People". I'm astonished that someone was able to write and perform this as an amazing pop song.
3. Sufjan Stevens, "John Wayne Gacy, Jr.", "Casimir Pulaski Day", and "Come On! Feel the Illinoise!". A pair of tragic folklore, with lyrics shifting from haunting to humorous to breathtaking, complemented by a bubbly, syncopated melange of classical/jazz/pop goodness.
2. Ed Harcourt, "The Storm Is Coming". It's got it all: aggressive guitar static, triumphant piano chords, a killer hook, and a whistling fade. The perfect album opener.
1. Rosie Thomas, "Pretty Dress". I know, this song emasculates me so bad. It singlehandedly made me wish I had a little girl.

Top 10 Albums
10. Over the Rhine, Drunkard's Prayer. Another round of intimate, complex, genuine songs that sound like they're being played in your own living room.
9. The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema. So damn lovable, sunshiny, and catchy. A perfect album for a warm, summer day.
8. Kanye West, Late Registration. Yeah! The mainstream got it right for a change!
7. Eisley, Room Noises. There's no reason these teen girls can't make it big. They know how to write a tight, hummable, memorable song.
6. Bright Eyes, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning. "Potential" turns into reality. Somewhere, Bob Dylan is smiling (and not because he's still daydreaming about filming that Victoria's Secret commercial)
5. Coldplay, X & Y. Whatever, you haters.
4. The Mars Volta, Frances the Mute. You know that saying "crazy like a fox"? Meet the musical equivalent.
3. John Legend, Get Lifted. Technically it came out in 2004 (Dec. 28), but I don't care. John Legend is one cool mutha with soulful chops, slick beats, and an elegant piano to boot.
2. Jamie Cullum, Catching Tales. Suave, cunning, and ambitious. He's no gimic. This is the real deal, a gift to old and young music lovers alike.
1. Sufjan Stevens, Illinois. Singlehandedly expanded my vision on what can be done in music. Concert band meets folk meets jazz meets rock meets A&E documentary. Absolutely mesmerizing. Absolutely gut-wrenching. Absolutely incredible.

Honorable Mention: Brendan Benson, Alternative to Love; Blackalicious, The Craft; Ed Harcourt, Strangers; Amos Lee, Amos Lee; Rosie Thomas, If Songs Could Be Held.

Then, Later, and Now

I haven't been in the pub for 15 seconds before I hear my last name shouted in a thundering baritone from across the room. Before I can even acknowledge the greeting, I'm being picked up in a massive bear hug, shaken up and down, my ribs slightly crushed against an old friend's burly shoulders. All attention in the pub is now directed at me and the diversion we've created. Actually, it's not the shout or the bear hug that has directed the 200-or-so patrons in my direction, but rather the local musician who abruptly puts a halt to the chorus of "American Pie" to point across the pub to me and my friend.

"Bye, bye, Miss American Pie. Drove my chevy to the-- hey! Adam and Andre, right?"
"No, come on, man! It's Andrew and Anthony!"

Well, at least he got the A's right.

He picks up his guitar and starts a chant. Soon the entire pub is clapping in my direction and shouting, Kiss the moose! Kiss the moose! I'm being shuffled through a sea of drunken sailors. My push to the front of the pub is delayed by all the hands I have to shake. I feel like a celebrity walking the red carpet who has to be selective in recognizing people, or else he'll never make it out alive. People are shoving my body as I try to stop and say hi to familiar faces, faces of people from my days in Pensacola. As soon as a memory floods into my head, someone else is jerking me away from my past.

Kiss the moose! Kiss the moose!

I finally reach center stage, everyone's seats pointed in my direction. The roar of the crowd climaxes upon my lips making contact with the front of this stuffed moose head. I've done what was asked of me, and I'm treated to a room full of applause. I take a bow and shuffle through the crowd again toward the big table with the empty seat. There's an invisible Reserved sign, and I take the seat saved for me by friends of my hometown, people I only have the fortune of encountering once a year.

The waitress comes over, puts her hand on my shoulder, and says, "You're quite the hit tonight. What can I get you to drink?"

I order the house stout, and all is grand.



Making sure to exaggerate the size of the crowd and the intensity of the situation, I retell the story to a friend. I await her reaction, but there's a moment of silence. I use this time to go to the fridge and refill my glass of water. A minute goes by before she responds. When she does, I return to the computer screen to see that she is "lol"ing.

She says goodnight, that she needs to go to sleep early before her return to work. I put up an away message and go to the living room to watch tv, but not before I trip on the junk I'd left on the floor of my messy, one-person Pennsylvania apartment. The crash of my foot creates a giant echo in the room. Then silence. It's eerily quiet in here.



My first morning of 2006 opens with a slightly vomited-on sports coat and a glorious hangover, my first when waking up in my parents' home. I can barely stomach breakfast, which is troublesome because I know I must regain my composure enough to visit the field. Every New Year's Day, a few of my fellow high school alumni set up a bbq at a field where we can meet up and reunite. I'm breathing a little heavily during the drive because the motion of the car makes me dizzy. I cannot throw up in front of these people. What would they think I'd become if I interrupted the prayer with a dry heave?

I spot a guy named James in the distance as I get out of the car, but I don't see this 23-year-old fellow who's on leave from the Navy. Instead, I see Bobo, the 5th grade version of James: the short, bug-collecting kid with the squeaky voice, coke-bottle glasses, and knee high socks. This is how I see everyone here upon first glance: as former yearbook pictures. The extra pounds, the facial hair, the wedding rings, they're all out of vision. I see a reminder of what made this my home.



There's plenty to ask about when you're on a field with people you haven't seen in years, and the questions I'm getting will no doubt help me when I soon interview for doctoral programs. I'm answering the same questions over and over, perfectly reasonable considering I'm asking the same questions in return. The people from my past are listening to me explain my future, and their enthusiasm is likely feeding off the excitement in my voice.

When I talk about these programs I'm applying to, and what paths they'll guide me toward, it hits me that I'm getting closer to a time where I'll be educated in what I've sought to learn. Imagine that: going to classes guiding you toward what you want to become. I tell everyone of all the cool places I may live while getting my education, from South Florida to California to New York City. This has been a long time coming, and the future looks grand.

Some of these people haven't figured out how they want to make a living. They're waiting for the solution to click as they move back home. They find themselves sleeping in the bedrooms that have their former accolades plaqued against the walls, a reminder that when returning home, only the past is glorified and celebrated. While they wait for their life to figure itself out, they go through the motions of getting by until an opportunity knocks. Even though my old frames and trophies rest on a wall in another time zone, I feel like I am very much in the same predicament.



After I give her a hug and kiss goodbye, I get in my car and drive back to my parents' house. The songs I play through the stereo are no longer filled with beat boxes and adrenaline, but rather quiet acoustic guitar and intimate, whispering vocals. I find that we often play music that's conducive to our mood.

I am drained of energy. In a matter of 48 hours, a handful of people I care about more than most everyone else on this Earth have come and gone, said hello and goodbye, asked how long it's been and how long it will be. I've seen my past, and it's been fantastic. We've discussed our futures, and it's promising. And now I'm left here in this car, with an empty passenger seat, to face my present.

The present is my bridge from the past to the future. The good times and hard work I put in down south led me to the man I am today, the quirky, arrogant-yet-humble Floridian getting his Masters in Pennsylvania. What I do here will help me get where I want (and I don't mean specifically New York, though we all know that's something I've long craved). I find myself waiting for that day to come, seeing it on the horizon, and being unable to skip pages on the calendar. Because the future looks as stellar as the past has already been, my current life of Harrisburg vanilla seems downright uninspiring in comparison.

My days in Florida are cemented in the archives. My days in God-knows-where are purely hypothetical, abstract, not real. My day today is the one I must face each morning.



My bags are packed, and I'm ready to head back to Pennsylvania. In the airport, as I'm rushing to transfer gates, I get caught on the conveyor belt. An old lady has chosen to rest idle on the track. Her bag is placed gently to her left. The walkway is completely blocked. I'm now stuck, unable to get around her. I can see everything in front of me but have no way of getting there right away. In these situations, I get tense, inpatient, aggravated. Part of me wants to kick this lady's bag aside and hurry on my way. But I don't. I can't. I just can't do it. Instead, I must patiently wait as I slowly coast to where I need to get. This doesn't please me. This isn't where I want to be. I don't want to sit here waiting.

Thanksgiving

My parents lightly shake my shoulders when we finally make it to Aunt Ann and Uncle Gerard's house. One full hour in the car is way too exhausting for a six-year-old. After I sit up, my first view out the window is of the house. The house stands two stories high, old and of fading brown wood. It looks like a historic landmark, much like their diner that has been a staple in Ft. Walton for three generations and over 50 years. I walk in ahead of my parents and run through the dim hallway toward my uncle. He calls me a turkey, as we've been known to call each other year-round, and kisses the side of my head as he bearhugs me. He always had that same look, tough Italian meets biker, a full head of dark curls and a manly goatee. My aunt is busy in the kitchen and asks Uncle Gerard to watch the turkey (the bird in the oven, not me) so she can have a cigarette. Camille and I run to the guest bedroom where Grandma and Grandpa have left us gifts on the bed. They always have something for us when we visit.

The cousins on this side of the family are much older than I am. My mom congratulates Vicky on the pregnancy, her first baby. Little Gerard is back from college with another girl, and even though I'm not old enough, I can see how naturally pretty she is. Eddie is about to graduate high school, future plans unknown. Camille and I look forward to when Little Gerard will play with us. We shouldn't play favorites, but he's always been the fun one, the charming one, the one that gives my sister and I just a little extra attention with one extra kiss, one extra slap on the head, one extra piggy back ride.

There's a long dining table, big enough to seat 12, piled with food. The dishes are piled with much more than the standard turkey and cranberry dressing. We're Italian, and the turkey goes down even better for us if there's some eggplant parm by it. My mom makes me a plate and brings it over to our kiddie table, the standard fold-out. We're placed in the living room by the TV. I show Camille my mouthful of chewed ham. Her cackle pierces through everyone's ears.

After dinner Little Gerard finds me and Camille playing in the backyard, and by playing, I mean we're running in circles with no particular purpose. We immediately feel his presence, as he's always been into weights, and quickly rush over to him. He grabs my arms (because I'm the oldest) just above the wrists and starts spinning. In a few seconds, I'm helicoptered, my legs 3 feet off the ground and twisting rapidly clockwise with the rest of my body. He lets me down, and I make exaggerated woe-is-me sounds as I stumble from the dizziness. Camille is giggling as she takes Little Gerard by the hand and skips into the living room, where his huge arms grab her by the armpits and throw her into the air. She screams, "weeeee!" as he catches her on the fall down. She goes up and down, up and down, until my mom screams, "Be careful with the fan, Gerard!"

He puts her down, gives her a little slap on the butt, and jogs toward the back door. Now that the food has settled, the guys are ready to play football. I'm too little, so I play throw and catch with my dad until it's time for the game. As they run through the yard and jump up for batted-down passes, I sit on the patio wishing I were big enough to play. It's not like I'll need the energy for the ride home. I'll be long asleep before we cross the bridge either way.



The drive feels about the same, but as soon as my dad makes that unfamiliar right turn, everything feels completely foreign. Vicky and her husband, Cousin Randy, just bought a new house. We've heard it's a nice one. Randy's landscaping business has become increasingly successful, and there wasn't enough room for the three kids (and fourth on the way) in the other place. We only get lost once with the directions. My dad blames me because I have the directions in my hand. It's always easy blaming the 12-year-old.

I miss the old brown posts in the dining room of my aunt and uncle's. I can remember running through the 12-inch gaps between posts pretending I was a running back. I know I'm too old for that now, but I miss looking at them. It's not that they're gone. We just saw them when we visited Uncle Gerard a month ago. It's that they're not here on Thanksgiving like they've always been.

The turkey probably looked beautiful, but it has already been carved by the time we arrive. There's something largely unsatisfying about walking into the kitchen for the first time Thanksgiving and not seeing a proudly standing bird with its tender, oranged, perfectly basted skin. Grandma would have never allowed them to carve the turkey before we got there. Eddie complains that he's starving, though looking at his now slightly protruding gut, it doesn't look like he's been doing any starving. Before we even get a tour, Vicky announces that we're ready now to eat. We pile up in this unfamiliar kitchen, creating a line that snakes around the counters filled with food. It feels like a buffet.

I enjoy all my food. At least this part hasn't changed. Neither has the part where Uncle Gerard calls me a turkey. Eddie asks me how school is going and then noogies my head for getting A's and saying my favorite music is jazz. He really does look bigger than before. It must be from all that training as a cop, both the physical and the Taco Bell. Which girlfriend Little Gerard has brought to this Thanksgiving will escape me by next year. They all sort of blend into each other at this point.

I think I'm big enough at this point to play in the football game. I'm waiting for the right time to ask if I can play in the game. When the grown-ups get up from the adult table, I plan on going to the car to get the football and throwing it with my dad. I'm going to show them that I'm not a little kid anymore. I can go out for long passes and throw a deep ball. I can't wait to play.

An hour goes by, and none of the adults have come by, except when Aunt Ann brings over scratch-off tickets for me and Camille. This has been her new obsession since she quit smoking. She gives each of us a nickel to scratch with. When Camille sees she won 40 dollars, Aunt Ann cheers and gives her a hug. I win a free ticket, which just allows me to lose later rather than immediately. The other adults don't know Camille won $40 because they're in the dining room. Some are telling stories of my Grandma and Grandpa. This is the sixth Thanksgiving without Grandma, the fifth without Grandpa. I remember their faces and voices, but I'll need help from the older generation to tell me anything more about them. The adults not involved in the reminiscing are arguing over hotels and Park Place.

Some of the miscellaneous third-degree relatives aren't at this Thanksgiving. Even though I've never had a conversation with them beyond, Can you pass me the coke please, Mike? I still feel weird that they're not here to look at. Uncle Gerard has been uncharacteristicly quiet throughout the entire dinner. He's still recovering from a quadruple bypass and has to take it slow this year. Little Gerard is yawning as he rolls the dice and his girl rubs his leg. Eddie keeps rubbing his lower back, saying he hurt it on the job last week. My dad is in a chair in the corner, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open.

It looks like there's no football game this year. The adults are too tired. They're going to be playing Monopoly for a while. I don't like Monopoly.



As soon as class is over, I hop into the Camaro and pick up Stanley. Apparently people call him Stan now, but he was Stanley to me since middle school, and that isn't changing now. Stanley and I use the 5-hour drive home to talk about how our first semester of college is going, how weird it's going to be seeing all those faces again after months away, if they're going to think college has changed us. I'm feeling great about seeing everyone and showing them how grown up I've become. I've also lost a little weight and started lifting arm weights in the dorm room. I think I can even see a pec!

One time zone and about six cd's later, I drop Stanley off at his home. He knows to come over the next night for dessert at my house, as I've told most of my high school friends. I call to give the family a heads up that I'm only 10 minutes away, but they've been prepared for a while. The Christmas tree is already standing tall, my dad just picked up Camille from my old high school, and mom already has lots of food made for the big feast tomorrow. This is the third year in a row we're having Thanksgiving at my home, ever since Aunt Neomi and my cousins moved down from Massachusetts. The past 2 Thanksgivings, Uncle Gerard has called me a turkey from over the phone.

We don't play the usual games of catch-up, my parents and I, because I talk to them enough over the weekends that they know the story. After commenting that I look a little skinnier, we're all caught up in our present lives. They ask me which night I'm going out with Crystal. I've planned everything for Friday night. There will be no room for day-after leftovers when a three-course, three-restaurant date is on the agenda.

The feast is decadent. My mom has been looking to revamp the menu, and the additions are all perfect. Everyone raves about how succulent the rib roast is, including my dad, who brushes aside his self-imposed 13-year diet of no red meat to try it. This Italian, Puerto Rican, and American mixture really works for me. Grandma Carmen's pasteles are a welcome addition, especially since I now have something to put hot sauce on. Of course, Grandma Carmen is a jovial woman whose main purpose is to continually offer her grandkids more food. If I'm not too careful, she will stuff me full before I have a chance to visit the desserts. There are enough desserts to cover an entire table, and actually they do. We didn't need the kitchen table anyway. The kiddie table doesn't take as much room this year, since I'm sitting with the adults.

My friends are kind enough to give me a few hours to recover from the feast before they ring the doorbell. I've been picking at the dessert table for about 5 hours, jokingly announcing that I'm on "Round 8" or "Round 12" of eating. My mom told me a few days ago that we would be having a ton of new desserts, and my friends were more than welcome to come and have some. I want to use this opportunity to get back together with my friends. This Thursday doesn't just feel like a holiday anymore, but rather an event. We've been calling each other through the weeks, but I haven't seen these people for over 3 months now. You never realize that will happen until the first time it does.

Before I left for college, I wrote goodbye letters to 4 friends who I imagined would be there for the long-haul. Now all 4 of them, and about 6 or 7 others, are sitting in my living room, laughing and eating cheesecake, Italian love cake, and trifle. Everyone is speaking as though they've OD'd on caffeine, rambling ridiculously quickly. We have so many questions to ask each other, so many stories to tell, that they're all exploding out of us at once.

I've been making a few friends at UF so far, but they can never replace the ones that were around for the days I was marching on the football field with my trumpet. Even with the subtle changes-- new haircuts, new slang words, new people coming out of the closet-- that will probably get bigger and bigger as we spend more time apart, they will never take away the memories. Everyone agrees.

We stand outside at the top of my driveway in the chilly starlight, people intending to drive away in their cars but instead pausing for one more story. My parents come out to remind me to put the desserts in the fridge when I go to bed. I didn't realize it was so late. Eventually a lull hits the conversation. Gary strikes in with his "Seven minutes" theory that conversations always have a pause around the seven-minute mark. He used to say this everytime there was a pause back in high school. Half of us laugh, and the other half jokingly groan. Nonetheless, the pause is a cue that the night has run its course. We all say goodnight to each other, and I remind Crystal that I'll pick her up at 7 tomorrow.

This was a fantastic time. We should do this every year.



I step down cautiously to the ground of the runway and immediately feel the difference in climate. I no longer need the jacket that bundled me in the northeastern cold this morning. Florida knows no limits to 75 degree weather. I take off my jacket and tuck it under my arm as I head toward the inside terminal. It's not a long walk from there to where friends and family wait to pickup their loved ones. Pensacola Regional Airport is rather small.

Never have I really understood why I crack a smile whenever I spot my family in the distant crowd of people awaiting their loved ones at the airport, but I do this everytime I return home. That dopey smile comes up again as I see them in front of the pack. They usually find a spot up front so they can get to me as soon as I cross the restricted threshold. Their arms have reached out and pointed in my direction, so I know they've spotted me. When I get within 100 feet, my dad rubs his chin with his whole hand to mock my 3-day-old stubble. They wish that I'd present myself cleanly shaven. I like how the shadow makes me look older than my 23 years, though I loathe how my thinning hair contributes just the same. We share in some kisses on the cheek and hugs and head down to get my luggage. My dad complains that I should have just carried the bag on the plane with me. He can be a real smartass, though it doesn't change the fact that he's right on this matter. My smartass reply is to tell him with my Christopher from The Sopranos impression to go downstairs and get my bag ready. It's good to know we can pick up where we left off.

I haven't slept much in the days leading to Thanksgiving. Shuffling between work and school projects hasn't allowed me time to sit back and appreciate that my favorite holiday is here. When I get into bed, I press down slightly with the weight from my legs against the waterbed vinyl and quickly lift up. The gentle waves remind me of five years ago, when many of my high school friends came over to hang out. We were in our first semesters of college then. We've all moved on since that time, both emotionally and geographically. It's hard to find a meeting place for Thanksgiving dessert when our dinners will be in different parts of the country.

This spot on the bed is where I wrote those 4 letters, the ones for the high school friends I was sure would stay close. None of them will be over for dessert. I'm in regular contact with the ones in New York and Texas. I haven't seen the one in Illinois in at least 2 years. The other one I heard got married and lives in Boston, but I didn't get an invitation, understandable considering I haven't had direct contact with her in about 4 years.

The aroma of the rib roast is subtly permeating upstairs when I wake up. Bright beams of sunlight are seeping through my blinds. I can't remember the last time I slept until 10 am. Aunt Neomi expects us at her new home at 3, so I figure I should go downstairs and help with the cooking. My mom has March of the Wooden Soldiers playing in the VCR. She loves that movie. We play it every year around Thanksgiving or Christmas. After JR greets me at the bottom of the stairs with some licks and a wagging tail, I go to sample some delicious rainbow cookies Camille made last night. My dad tells me that Uncle Gerard said Happy Thanksgiving. End of message. I missed the call while I was sleeping.

Perhaps I will see this side of the family, the one with which I spent my childhood Thanksgivings, when I come home for Christmas. One thing is for sure, though: we won't be meeting at the diner. At 65, Uncle Gerard is retiring. Three generations of stories will forever rest in the walls of what will soon become characterless office spaces.

My family asks how those high school friends from the Thanksgiving dessert get-togethers are doing. Camille is in shock when I tell her Crystal is getting married in the Spring. There are still one or two friends from those original get-togethers who are in town this year for the holiday. The original 10 or so had dwindled to 8... 6... until last year when I sat on the couch watching music videos with 3 of those old faces, none of the infamous 4 included. Of the dwindled 3, the one I'm closest to isn't here this year, and neither will be the Thanksgiving dessert get-together. I call no one. I'll sample the desserts through 15 rounds with just the family at Aunt Neomi's house.

In the living room is the framed picture Camille and I got mom and dad for their anniversary this year: a black-and-white in front of my dad's childhood home, standing beside a color photo of our reenactment this summer, 18 years later. When I come into town, Camille and I love to watch our old home videos that remind us of times like the ones in the black-and-white photo. It's funny how you can live these experiences, observe them on tape (or now, thanks to our new burner, dvd), and still find new things to laugh at on each watching. Camille checks the collection to see what era of our youth we should watch. She and I are now at the ages our cousins were when we had those Thanksgivings at the old brown house.

I ask my mom how Little Anthony is doing. She says he'll be huge by the time I finally get to see him. I was there when his parents, Little Gerard and Stephanie, got married earlier this year, but I have yet to see the start of the next generation. The picture I have of him and Little Gerard is incredible. I've caught myself randomly opening the file on my computer from time to time. I hope that I'm able to visit often enough that I can see him progressively grow.

Before you know it, he'll be big enough for me to swing him by his wrists and play helicopter.

2 Ways to Explain

ok so im soooooo sorry for the lack of updates lately. you know how crazy it can get LOL! no seriously its been too long, i miss you guys LOL! k so even though i havent had much time to write lately heres a quick update.

• started the new internship. im a crisis worker now. pretty cool, huh? i get to help all the people who come to the hospital and need psychological help, like they tried to commit suicide or something. im psyched!!!
• we had a social for our psychology club that im chair of. we went to a bar for happy hour. it was fun but nobody came :(
• schools ok. i got an a on my paper. hellz yeah!
• sent my first application for grad school in the mail wednesday. yep going for the doctorate. 6 more applications, its so damn expensive! wish me luck!
• i lost my journal design BOOOOOO!!!!! my old school got rid of my webspace for files, guess b/c ive been gone too long.

thats it for now b/c i gotta do some hw. finals are coming up. dont get mad at me if i space out and dont update for a while LOL! laterz

Current Mood: cheerful :)
Current Music: that new laffy taffy song!!!



For the last month or so, you could say that I've been too tied up with academic demands to sit at my computer for an evening and enjoy a few hours of leisure writing, but I've always managed to find time for the things that really matter to me. That's not all there is to it. In late October, I took a step back and felt my life flashing backward and forward, a mixture of archived memories and anticipated futures. I could see obvious parallels between a turning point from my past and the path I could potentially follow in the near future. My experiences were unique, one few can share, yet general enough for the emotion behind them to be universally understood. And apparently, I struck a nerve with many people.

I had never had people call me just to say that they liked what I had written. For days I would receive random thank you's and compliments from people whose names are now, sadly, more familiar than their faces. Friends said they never really understood how I'd felt back then until now. I didn't know how to react when people told me they cried, that my words made them cry. Between the feedback I was receiving and finishing my first boxing article, I really felt like a writer, partaking in a craft that had gradually become more than a mere hobby.

I could hardly wait to write another story. The problem was, however, that I had to do just that, wait. There were nights where I had finished my work in enough to time enjoy a few hours of solace at the computer, but when it came to writing, I had nothing. Correction, I had options, a few ideas here and there, but nothing that really meant something to me. At that point, I decided to save the writing for great, thought-provoking moments of my life.

The sticking point was that I got caught between not settling to write something unless I was truly inspired to write something great and accepting that I can't force those things. The batter that swings for a home run every time has to accept that at times he will strike out (I can't believe I used that horrid analogy, but it's the best-fitting to what I want to convey). Shit, it took me years to write something that made my best friend cry. What makes me think that I'll have something to hit like that every week?

The truth is that most of my days include standard routine. I wake up, make a cup of coffee, go to my internship, come back home, do some schoolwork, hit the heavybag, eat 2.5 meals, take one good shit, and then it's back to bed. Even on those nights where I'm restless in bed because my mind is racing, my thoughts consist of the standard things guys think of in their early-20s. Where will I be a year from now? Am I on the right track? Could I see myself with her long-term? What do I need to do to prepare for tomorrow's presentation? Was that petite brunette who smiled in my direction into me? All of this would be regurgitation of previous posts.

One of my shortcomings is that I desire and expect greatness in whatever I do. This sounds like a strength I'm sure, and in some ways, and at many times, it is. When the greatness doesn't come right away, however, I get discouraged enough to where I lose the hunger whenever my sights inevitably hit another focus. My passions and interests come in cycles. When I get frustrated that I haven't written the perfect song, I put down my notebook and grab a sauce pan. When I fail to conquer French cuisine that rivals a 5-star restaurant, I dissect old boxing matches. When I can't slip the right hook and just want to sit on the couch and have a pizza, I try to speed-learn Spanish.

The one constant in all this has been recreational writing. It's a hobby, a pasttime, a love of mine. It'll be around as long as I still enjoy it. Even if I have to strikeout once in a while.

Beyond The Happy Wanderer

A reputable boxing site just published an article of mine. I don't give a shit if you know nothing about boxing. This is a big deal to me! Check it out:

http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=4956&more=1

Distant

She told me that all the way back when she was a child, she had picked out her first daughter's future name. I laughed and said that I wasn't sure if "Emily Kate" went well with an Italian name like "Perillo". That didn't matter, she said, because she was the mother, had picked out the name in advance, and besides, Emily Kate fits in just fine in the South. This is true, I said, except that I wasn't sure if I wanted to settle down in the South, even though that's where our children's grandparents would be. Leave the South? I was crazy, she thought.

We came from very different places.

A few moments later, we kissed on her front porch. The combination of the moon-lit sky and the fog lights made her face shine even moreso than usual. I rubbed my thumb gently past her cheek, stopping the tear as it cascaded down her soft, pure skin. We knew that the time would come again soon when we could see each other, when we could be together, but what was merely 3 weeks always felt like 21 days. I told her I loved her. She loved me too, she replied back. Then I got into my car and drove away, ready to travel several hundred miles back to school.



The wedding took place on a beautiful fall afternoon, in the very church she had grown up with. It was a church I had come to know better once we started dating. I never felt comfortable there, and I knew I never would about 5 minutes into our first Sunday school class together. I had to bite my tongue after the teacher said in passing that "Gore had the same agenda as bin Laden." Nonetheless, I continued to frequent this church because I knew it was important to her, I knew it was important for us, and I knew that I loved her genuinely.

She deserved to get married in such a beautiful place, though, particularly a place that loved her and understood her so. This was the day she had waited for, a day we had talked about years before. On the third day of our romance, we were making out on my parents' couch, and she pushed my shoulders back, stared me in the eyes, and made it very clear.

"I won't have sex with you unless you marry me," she whispered with the sharpest of conviction.

And on this fall afternoon 4 years later, she could wear that ivory white dress in full honesty. She's always been a wonderful person. I wish God made more people like her. She deserved that day, to walk down her aisle as the women stood open-eyed and the men stood open-jawed at her beauty. I'm sure that deep inside she was beaming as brightly as her famous wide smile. Finally on that day, those magic words were spoken.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride."

She got a kiss from her true love, a man who deeply loved her, a man more than willing to wait, a man who wanted to stay with her in the South, a man who was ok with Emily Kate.

I was several hundred miles away, back at school, a wedding invitation sitting safely on the top corner of my coffee table.



Three years ago, as I drove away from her house for the final time, no U-turn in sight, I thought about how the distance affected our relationship. I didn't attribute the distance to our breakup; there were several rational reasons for that. What being so far away from her did, however, was make the relationship unfairly draining on us both. It was hard to take a break from studying so I could talk to a picture of her after she got home from the gym. It was hard only being able to offer distant words of comfort when she felt scared and helpless. It was hard to drive hours every third weekend to see her for 2 days. It was hard to see her cry when I drove away. It was hard never having a rhythm to the relationship. It was hard to face facts that our relationship could not flourish until one of us was willing to move.

But it was hardest to let go once we realized that we would never do that for each other.

We always stayed on good, friendly terms. Months after our breakup, I thanked her for all the lessons I got from her and from us. I felt blessed for knowing her in such an intimate way. Never before did I have a clue at what it took to make a relationship work. Who ever does, I suppose, but at least I had a better idea now. I was happier with her than I ever had been before, and I was so grateful for our chance to grow together.

But I also told myself that I would never put myself in that position again. I had learned enough about long-distance relationships to decide that I couldn't tolerate the pain that came from always saying goodbye to the one I loved, talking more frequently to a speaker than a beautiful face, with no realistic image of a future together. Any distance could only be short-term. I wouldn't put myself in the position to fall in love with someone I knew I'd never be with.



We had gone on a few dates before, but I had never seen this look on her face. She was far and away the most mature woman I'd ever dated, and I'd always looked at her as this controlled, grounded woman. But on this night, as I warmed her in my arms after hours of incredible conversation in the chilling rain, I saw as giddy and innocent a grin as I'd ever seen. She had been holding in exactly how excited she was to see me. I felt the same. The bond was growing stronger.

On the side of the couch were my dress shoes. I slid them back on my feet, ready to leave her apartment and bid her goodnight. I told her I'd call her in the morning. She knew I meant it. She thanked me for a wonderful night, for all our time together. I was so thankful I had bumped into her on that fateful April night.

Just as I was getting ready to kiss her goodnight and walk out her door, she took a pause and pondered on one thought.

"I wish you lived closer."

Victorious in Defeat

Going back to my elementary days, I've seen countless people that drew my awe because they were just so "cool." As I got older I found myself more and more attracted to these people, though the factors that created this aura of coolness had no doubt changed. When I was more rapidly maturing, I soon recognized that not all who appeared cool actually were; many merely hid behind an image, a mirage whose beauty slowly but surely dissipated as it was more closely approached. I began to notice that not everyone who was cool fit the same bill. Many, in fact, had images that would normally be perceived as anything but cool. They could wear glasses, tuck in their polo shirt, have a big ketchup stain on their jeans. It didn't matter what they looked like. When they spoke, and when they acted, I knew.

You know what made these people ones I'd want to be with, ones I'd want to be? They knew who they were and wore it on their sleeve. They were confident, not in an outward bragging manner, but their words and actions were honest and convicting. There was no effort in hiding their true selves, in creating any fictitious or magnifying image. Far from flawed they were. Just as important as knowing who they were, they knew who they weren't. What separated them from the rest of us was, just as important as holding no reservations in showing who they were, they held no reservations in showing who they weren't.

Do not confuse the person who acknowledges his limitations with the one who is defeated. A fine line exists between the defeated and the determined. Both acknowledge their shortcomings, but one takes a more positive outlook, looking for how outcomes can change, how to better their situation, how to better themselves. They may end up in the same place as the defeated, but the determined get their with heads held highly, prepared for the next journey.

10 Count of Silence

Rest in peace, Leavander Johnson.

You leave this world a champion in all boxing fans' hearts.

You're a Musician?

When you're sitting at your desk doing work, and you turn around and make incidental eye contact with someone you don't know, sometimes you do the half-smile-and-nod, right?

But do you walk over to the person, extend your hand, and say, "Hi, I'm (first name)."? And then walk away?

No?

Well, David Crosby does.

Inspired by Facebook

Ask people what their favorite movies are, and they'll proceed to mention a few Oscar winners, a few classic comedies, and one or two lesser-knowns. Ask people what their favorite foods are, and once they get past pizza, the list is a random menu of savory decadence that leaves you running to the supermarket (unless, of course, their favorite foods are celery and rice cakes). Ask people what their favorite anything is, and they should tell you those choice-selects that give them more enjoyment than whatever the alternatives may be.

You should be able to get a better idea about who someone is when they list their favorites.

But ask people what their favorite music is, and watch as they try nauseatingly to show you that they are the all-encompassing music lover!

Pretty much anything!
Oh man, where do I begin? I pretty much love it all!
All kinds!
Oh God, too much to choose from!
I listen to EVERYTHING!

What is it about music that makes us say this? If you're one of these people, I'll let you in on a secret: nobody believes you! We know that maybe your radio will show some diversity because you had the foresight to program a Top 40, alternative, and hip hop station in the presets (and maybe even a country station and the public access station!), but we also know that at least two of those stations are symbolic and rarely ever get any play. You're a freakin liar, you freakin liar!

I've come up with a few reasons people may do this:

1) To be accepted by the "in" crowd. I'm not talking about in crowd in the sense of what's topping TRL, but rather whoever you're associating with that you want to like you. The music (and musicians) you listen to often says a lot about you and who you identify with. Hip hop, punk, emo, whatever, it can encompass an entire person's life. And if you don't say you listen to that kind of music, how is someone dedicated to it going to relate to and accept you? Actually they'd probably be able to still like you fine, but hey, even if I don't really know anything about classical, Hans won't think I don't if I say I like all kinds of music, right? We still have so much in common now! This is an unconscious motive 99% of the time.

2) To avoid stereotypes or stigmas. Again, on the knowledge that music can be a big indicator of who you are, saying you're a country boy at heart can forever label you as the guy in the pickup who couldn't move to the new Pharrell mix to save his life. We don't want to be labelled by what music we listen to and thus try to make ourselves appear more complex than we actually are. People, it's ok to have simple, easy-to-identify music tastes. We know you're complex. We all are. We just don't need to lie about our music tastes to prove it. If someone bases his whole opinion of you on your 80 Elton John cd's, then fuck him.

3) They honestly believe it. These people lack insight and should consider spending more time alone to figure out who they really are.

4) To be cooler than you. These people are douchebags and should consider spending more time alone to figure out who they really are. And they are not cooler than you. Sadly, I'd probably put myself in this list before any of the above.

5) They haven't really given it much thought. They say it with a shrug, resigned to the fact that they can't give an honest answer. Music isn't the most important thing to these people. And that's fine. If you like wine but aren't an afficionado, it's ok to not know what brands of merlot you like. You can just say "all kinds' of merlot because you like merlot as a whole but haven't dived into Napa Valley.

I need some Pinot Noir now (I'm not drinking any fucking merlot!).

6) Fear of appearing close-minded. I almost labelled this one "Fear of appearing prejudiced" but decided that put too narrow a scope, and an unfair one at that, on the issue. These people are the ones who want you to think they like hip hop so you don't think they're not down with black people, when in actuality they really only like the occasional 50 Cent or Ludacris single. They don't want to alienate an entire fan base by saying they don't really like jazz. The "all kinds" response includes all groups and doesn't leave anyone out. They appear to like all kinds of music; therefore, they appear to like all kinds of people and cultures.

I'm not saying I don't do this stretching of musical tastes myself. When making a compilation for someone, I'll make a conscious attempt to incorporate many flavors to not only give them something new, but also to show off my (self-perceived) extensive tastes. It's hard sometimes to avoid being a music snob when you want to show an eclectic mix of tastes.

But I never say that I like "everything," for two reasons. One, that tells someone dick about what I listen to. And two, it's not true. I don't like everything. If I did, then I'd know nothing about music. To like it all would be to lack a discriminating ear, to like the subpar, the mediocre, to like things I don't really understand. Not everything hits me the same way. I don't mind the occasional techno mix at a club, but I couldn't show you a techno album on my shelf. I'm openly indifferent to Dave Matthews Band and others with a copycat sound. I will forever curse 80s pop for allowing the synthesizer to pollute the mainstream. And if every one of your music videos consists of you bragging about the ho's that want you as you're surrounded by retro jerseys and random girls dancing in the background, you can probably assume I'm not searching you on Ticketmaster anytime soon.

I'm not saying you shouldn't be diverse in your music selection; I actually promote the opposite. There is so much good music out there consisting of many different sounds from the mouths/instruments of people who are telling very different stories. You can enjoy both Tchiakovsky and Stefani, both Tony Bennett and Palo Viejo, both Hanson and Tupac (and yes, I've played the hell out of my 2 Hanson and 7 Tupac albums). In fact, listening to many different types of music will help you become more knowledged of other cultures, different eras, even your own self. But go out there and explore. Find what the things are that you truly like about music. If you settle on saying you like it all, there's not much drive to go out there and explore something new.

You don't like all kinds of music. You like what you like, and that's fine. It's everything to you. It's just not EVERYTHING!

Distraction

I had been waiting in the apartment next door for over 20 minutes, and they had yet to return with the beer from my fridge. The can in my hand was completely seeped of any condensation, and the drops sticking to the bottom were warm. My options in this situation were few. Going on about the current state of elementary schools with the sixty-year-old couple on the nearby couch didn't enthrall me, I couldn't flirt with my friend's cousins at a time like this, and my next visit to the pile of deli meats and brownies would be my sixth.

It took about 10 steps to reach my apartment, but when I got there, the front door rejected me. The two girls inside had turned the locked. Through the door I could hear their surprised giggles when I jerked the unwielding doorknob, much like how second graders react when they hear the word "poop." After they unlocked the door, I grabbed a cold beer and noticed the sparkles now covering my weight machine. They had come off as the girl in the black glitter dress messed around with the levers and pulleys on the machine. The other girl, in a black power suit, said they locked the door so I wouldn't see spread eagle as I walked in. Then they had a laugh, the girl in the black glitter dress and the girl in the black power suit.

Black glitter dress. Black power suit. Me in my black suit pants. We were all dressed in black.

We discussed who would be sober enough to drive in an hour. None of the guests next door knew how to get there, so I decided that I would put my beer back in the fridge and lead the line of cars. I would take the others over in an hour. The girl in the black power suit nodded in approval. Then there was no more laughter. It got quiet rather quickly.

For a brief moment, we had distracted ourselves from the real reason we were together. This girl in the black glitter dress, this girl in the black power suit, I had never met them before. But we were an instant united front, bound for reasons that would make us wish we hadn't yet met. We left my apartment to get ready to bury a loved one.

To bury a woman who died too young, too quickly, too soon.

To bury the mother of this girl in the black power suit.



I'm still relatively unsure of myself when going from Point A to Point B in New York, but on this Friday night, I found the bar in uptown Manhattan with no trouble. As the bouncer took a closer look at my Florida ID, a girl screamed from my left, "It's a fake! Don't let that bitch in!" She was merely a drunkard who didn't deserve my attention, but had she not yelled in inebriated impulse, I would have missed the people person people I had come to see, who happened to pick an outdoor table beside the main entrance. I spread my arms out to announce my presence to the group. A pleased beauty streched out toward me and puckered her pillow lips. I gave them a kiss and sat down in the seat she had saved for me.

We had pitcher upon pitcher of Killian's, a beer pong table, front row seats to a drunkard violently dragged against the ground by bouncers, some overall good times. Things got even better when my buddy Hubbard arrived, sat down, and proceeded to talk me up to the girls at our table. I had a ball pretending to be embarrassed, my face saying "Oh, come on now, stop!" while inside I discreetly told myself, "This is what friends are for, and damn she looks impressed!" When it came out that I may soon be working on my Ph.D. in New York, the girl looked pleasantly surprised, and the others nodded in praise. Inside, however, I felt some of the nerves, frustration, and fear I had travelled 3 hours to escape.

I didn't tell any of them that I had one week to solve a problem with my class schedule, an issue that would push my graduation date back a full year if not resolved. All my talk of leaving Pennsylvania in a year, of pursuing a life in the greatest city I've ever known, it would only accentuate my failure of not backing up my boasting if I couldn't get my shit together. The mystery of where I'll be one year from today is exciting and will be worth it if I end up some place meaningful. To be at a standstill, delaying the next step one year, would feel like I wasted a vital year of my twenties.

For a brief moment, I had distracted myself from the reality that I faced the possibility of putting my life on hold for one more year. I tried not to think about what I couldn't deal with for another few days. New York was one of my points of solace, where I could escape from everything I didn't want to face.

The mess in your home doesn't clean itself up while you're away on vacation. I couldn't avoid what faced me in Harrisburg.



The cute Irish girl and her not-as-cute Irish friend were no longer in the lounge by the time we returned to the hotel. They must have gone to bed early, as I noticed they had already changed from their evening wear to booty-hugging sleep wear before Hubbard and I had stepped out for a quick bite. Either way, we would call it a night at the bar in the hotel lounge. We'd shared in enough wild moments over the previous few days; it was time to sit back and chill.

Even though we're friends from high school, Hubbard and I rarely talk about the good old days of our adolescent years. Most of our talks focus around women, the future, the arts, and mocking lead singers who have disgusting tones to their voices (our personal favorite is the guy from New Found Glory). But as we sat 2 amongst empty tables for 4, the memories and archived tales came one after the other. We tested each other with scenarios, and without fail we were able to fill in the details of each memory:

The time when we found a decapitated stuffed puppy dog on my doorstep, along with a note that read, Leave me alone or you'll end up like Rudolph. Amelia, when we knew our friend Amelia was being set up, and after a few hours of sleuthing, we got confessions from the girls who set her up by the next afternoon.

The time when Pudge shed a tear, one single tear, after getting in a fight with Little Hubbard. And we all laughed.

The time when Hubbard said in the middle of a serious conversation, "I like the dick."

(That last one actually happened last weekend, but I had to get that out there! Seriously, who starts a random sentence like that? I like the dick?)

It felt great to laugh about old times with someone also sharing in present times. We were men remembering when we were boys, grasping pints of Guinness in the hands that once held marching band trumpets. Enjoying the simpler things in life in the middle of a ritzy New York City hotel. Not a stressor in sight. At peace with the world.

For a brief moment, he had distracted himself from the depression, anger, and confusion that had plagued the past 6 months of his life and, in turn, our friendship. No matter how far we deviated from the subject, I knew it was inevitable for his breakup to come into the discussion again. Sure enough, there was a brief pause in conversation. I filled the space by sipping on more Guinness. When I put my glass down, he looked over with that glassy gaze and said a simple phrase that contained every emotion we had put on hold.

I miss her, man.



We all have those moments, a time we spend keeping ourselves busy to avoid what we fear to face. Points in time come where our problems seem to have culminated and encompassed our every minute. We look at everyone around us, arms around their wives or reading on an outside bench, and we ask ourselves, "Why can't life be as simple as that?" So we try to take a breather from our everyday pressures, keeping ourselves occupied with an array of activities as to disallow our minds to go anywhere else. This is ulimately a short-term solution. In a sudden moment, your mind will slow and have no choice but to remember the very things you're trying to forget.

Going away from your everyday life and having fun doesn't give you a pass from the responsibilities and hardships of life. You're running in a track circle, and before you know it, you're in the same spot you ran from, and everything left at the starting point is still waiting for you. But at the same time, dealing with the responsiblities and hardships of life doesn't always give you a pass from going out and finding your own enjoyment. Often we get stuck dedicating all our time to the problems in our immediate future. They encompass our every thought to the point where it feels as though nothing else can be done until this problem goes away. Sometimes this is true. Many times it's not. When it is, we have a duty to act as we should, combat our issues in the best way possible. When it's not, sometimes it's necessary to give ourselves a break, a time to enjoy the people, the happenings, the little distractions that make life worthwhile.