First Kiss

My two best friends would talk about her every day, fighting about who would get her. They said she was cute, blonde, real sweet. She was one grade younger, which could have been somewhat of a deal at that age but seems more ridiculous with each passing year. No matter to my best friends, though, who were each convinced that she liked him and not the other. It was the first time I had seen guys boys fighting over a girl since my second grade love triangle that led me to throw playground sand at my girlfriend and run away from her and our love. I hoped we had all grown up enough that this situation wouldn't end like that. I figured we had matured. After all, we now had zits on our brows.

I didn't know this girl, I had no clue what the big deal was, but their constant talking about her did increase my curiosity. One day the three of us were at the mall and they spotted her. The bickering began again, with great points like "She wants me, man," counterpointed by the powers of, "Nuh uhhhhh, man!" We walked over to her table at the food court. They talked for a little, when my friends said they would be right back. My guess is they were going to restate and refine their carefully thought-out cases.

I was left alone with this girl I did not know, which was cool yet terrifying at that age (I've, um, outgrown this phase, um, of course). She was indeed very cute in a preppy-but-artsy way, signs of being smart and passionate in the way I'd be attracted to years later. What we talked about, how long my friends were gone, I no longer remember. It was an insignificant encounter. But now I had a face to this much-discussed girl.

After that day at the mall I'd talk to her whenever I saw her, but since I was a grade higher, we didn't have any classes together, and those encounters were few and far between. By the time the school year had ended my friends seemed to have gotten over their competition, with neither man boy claiming victory. It was at this time, the start of summer and freedom from school, that this girl and I would say more than just hi.

How we got each other's phone numbers I can't remember, but this was the first time I was talking to a girl on the phone "just to talk." My sister never ceased to embarrass me, shrieking, "Ant, it's a girrrrrrrrl!!!" whenever she called. This flustered me to no end, but I don't think the girl on the other side of the phone cared.

We always had good talks, sometimes great talks. Though we were young, our conversations always had some sort of substance behind it, which had confirmed this artsy vibe she initially gave me. She always remembered everything I had told her during the last call. Occasionally she would write poems about things we talked about. One time she mailed me one after I had told her I was having a rough time. This really touched me.

My friends still had mild crushes on her and were blind to how much I'd gotten to know her over the summer. My birthday was coming up, and I didn't care that the only people she'd know were the two that could potentially make a scene fighting over her; after she sent me that poem, there was no way I was not inviting her. When she came in, she looked nervous, a timidity I had never seen from her. I made my rounds as the host of the party, and every time I looked over, she looked sad. Finally after about an hour, she came over to wherever I was.

She told me she had called home for her mom to pick her up. It looked like she was about to cry. When I asked if she was ok, she said she felt very weird and uncomfortable not knowing anyone, and as she said this her eyes reddened and a tear sank down her cheek. I immediately took her to escape the party.

I closed the door to the laundry room and just sat there with her on our washer and dryer. My incessant babbling was a way to distract her from crying until her mom arrived. I must have said something funny because I remember her half-giggling and smiling as she wiped her eyes. She told me that I didn't have to leave my party. I told her I did. We hugged, with a tightness and depth that I wasn't used to. Then she grabbed my shoulders, pushed me down toward the washer, and kissed me. I liked it.

We did variations of this routine for maybe 3 minutes, when I heard my friends calling that her mom had come. I opened the laundry room door and escorted her out through the garage 007-style. She got into the car, said something to the effect of "Happy Birthday" and "sorry," and left. I walked back toward the house and the rest of my friends. The party lasted another four hours.

Only one person saw us come out of the laundry room: one of my two best friends.

I got another poem in the mail a few days later. It's in a box in my closet.

Close to Nothing

There's that scene in Office Space when Peter is asking his neighbor Lawrence what he would do if he had a million dollars and money was no longer a life obstacle(though I don't know how secure a million dollars is in the long term this day and age). After Lawrence's two-chicks-at-the-same-time line he asks Peter for his answer:

"Nothing... I'd relax, I would sit on my ass all day, I would do nothing."

To some, this boundary-less nothingness seems like an ideal freedom. To most of us, though, we soon realize that the thrill of nothing would wear off and turn into sheer boredom. We need something going on in our lives, something to preoccupy us, something to set our sights on, something to give us the energy to get out of bed and embark on a new day. Our lives have a natural structure in place of nurture, growing, learning, maturing, apexing, wilting, and dying. The deeper you sink into nothingness, nothingness is all you know. You'd lose focus, purpose, and will, and you wouldn't know what to do about it, because all you'd know to do is nothing. Life would become a living paradox: without structure, we'd have no freedom.

But what happens when your life temporarily becomes days not of nothing, but something close to it-- a life without immediate deadlines, appointments, or arrangements of any kind-- and you like the taste? What are you supposed to think when for a phase your days become extraordinarily simple, you can do whatever you want but actually do do the things you say you want to do, and you could really imagine yourself enjoying this routine for the long term? What does this say of you that you dread the day this has to stop and you must continue on the path you've set up surrounding this sabbatical? We can't live a life of "nothing", but can we live a life of "nothing required"? Could we sustain the will to set out for a new day of nothing-but-whatever with each rise of the sun? How long could we go?

Of course, you'd have to find a million dollars to pay the electric.

Some Thoughts About Music/Musicians/Bands

Listen to "Burning in the Sun" by Blue Merle and tell me the lead singer has listened to anything but Coldplay in the last two years.

I haven't given the Johnny Cash resurgence a chance. Whether that's fair or not I don't know because, well, I haven't given it a chance.

Eminem manages to make a song I absolutley love on each album.

I need to get back into the jazz scene, and I think my first task will be to dive into James Carter.

The hyping of Norah Jones is moderately excessive, while the hyping of Alicia Keys is only minimally excessive.

We need to look back on the J. Lo era and wonder how it became an era in the first place.

Three words for Epic Records: Free. Fiona. Apple.

Say what you will about Top 40 music, but every once in a while it brings out legitimately good music, and it's doing so at a better rate now than it was a few years ago.

You could tell Dashboard Confessional would break out and lose the intimacy that made him unique in the process. Neither will happen with Bright Eyes.

The praise is overblown for U2, The Arcade Fire, and Wilco.

The praise is on par for The Strokes, Radiohead, and Coldplay.

The praise is not enough for The Shins, Sam Roberts, and Rufus Wainwright.

Dividing Nelly's 2004 tracks into two separate albums was dumb.

The Mars Volta have something special going on.

This will be the final Backstreet Boys album. What was your favorite Backstreet moment?

Though he has the image, charisma, and beats to be a star, 50 Cent is not Tupac, and anyone who thinks he is deserves a Tupac in the chest.

The Tender Crisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch song is growing on me, but Hootie, what are you doing? Seeing you in that Cowboy Gill outfit is like finding out the guy under Albert the Alligator is Danny Wuerffel: it's just too sad a fall.

Why I was in Florida this Weekend

When I was little, my cousin Gerard would always bring his girlfriend over to our house. Of course, it was a new girl each visit, and let's just say there were many visits (many... many... many.). Now he's finally decided to settle down with my wonderful new cousin Stephania. His first words to me minutes before his wedding: "I threw up an hour ago."





I know what you're thinking: the black dress. Well Stephanie has been with my cousin for 5 years and is 7 months pregnant. Who are they fucking kidding?



I guess now I should also mention that Gerard and Stephanie had been engaged for well over a year and the hurricanes postponed their wedding. This wasn't a cover-up wedding, if that's what you were thinking. And if that's what you were thinking, well yeah I would have thought the same about your cousin.






Every person I show this picture to says the same thing: your family looks so mafia. Well first of all, thank you. Second, we have a vowel at the end of our name; we're not gonna pass off as The Smiths. Third, there is no mafia.





My uncle is 65 years old and still sticks out his tongue to the camera. This is what I'm passing on to my children.





See Mom, this is what happens when you don't count "1, 2, 3" before taking a picture: the two kids make fun of their dad's signature expression in pictures, but the master's not ready to perform. He looks all serious. That's not my dad. I mean, did you just see my uncle in the last photo? We're no formal "everyone look slightly to the left" portrait family.





The middle two are totally blasted in this picture and trying to hide it. My cousin Vicki would periodically update me on which part of her body just went numb. She later lectured me for grinding with a 35-year-old friend of the bride I met on the dance floor because "you're still 5 years old to me and you can't be old enough to do that!" Then I showed her what her 15-year-old daughter was doing. I got off the hook really quickly.





I'm on about drink #10 by this point (God bless the open bar!). I'll never tell my family what Gerard whispered to me after this photo, but let's just say the wisdom has been passed, and I think all my problems have been solved.





Did I mention that in two months, little Anthony is coming out of my new cousin? That's right, he's gonna have my name, so it's my responsibility to tell him that before his mom there was Sasha, and Lisa, and Christine, and Amanda, and the one that was my age, and Samantha, and the Puerto Rican one that was a complete bitch, and Lisa again, and... eh, maybe I'll just tell him what his dad whispered to me the night of his wedding. Italian pride!