This isn't going to be just another year for us.

Of course all the perfect ones are taken.  They're not you.

I wonder what the next girl will enjoy that makes me smile while listening to a lecture.

Can you make it so I wake up one morning and I'm your relationship status?

Smile and admit you want me home.

Winter is hard, but not seeing you smile and get excited on a warm summer day is going to ruin me.  Let's not wait that long.

Single beds were always better with you.  I'll take the cold wall if you hold onto me all night and won't fall.

There is a Dewey Hall at school.  Every time I read it I say it in my head like the Italian word for "two."  I know it would make you laugh.

After days like today I lay in bed and fantasize that you immediately started looking up flight costs to fly up for New Year's Eve.  A time to start again, fresh, without the bothersome baggage of the past.  That you'll bring all your warmest clothes, but still need me to hold you to stop your shivering.  That this bed, though small, will keep us as close as we should have been.

Grandpa's writing was nearly illegible in the tiny note tied to the lamp.  It said, "When I get home we'll put this on our mantle."  I don't have a lamp, but I do have the will to grow old with you, and I've never wanted to get old with anyone before.  Even myself.

The next chapter begins today.  I couldn't find the perfect way to end the preceding chapter, so characters will probably come back and emotions may change.  This is certainly not the end of anything, but a way to show the main character in my story isn't as static as you thought.

When all is said and done, if you met me on the street right now I know you'd have some serious second thoughts about who you're with.

I think you misunderstood something major.  Kissing before you was like pushing two lumps of fat together.  Kissing you taught me what the act should be, and we had some really great acts before the curtain fell.

Could I interest you in being snowed in with me?

Somedays it's not so hard to believe you're thinking about me.

There's a tiny island within five minutes of here that has a tiny stone fireplace.  The water around the island is frozen to a dark, bubbly glass finish.  We could walk out there with firewood and sit close to stay warm.  The sun would come and go and our phones would mysteriously stop working.  We'd kiss as the fire died, and look at your heavier ring finger and it would be perfect.

Our Christmas would have been better.

Tonight I'd like to be visited by these ghosts.  The first to show me when we were happy, and when I messed up.  The second to show me that you're better without me.  The last to show when I'll be better off.

A lot of thoughts on that long drive up.  Some angry.  Some sad.  Some happier than they should be.  What it basically came down to is, I wanted your hand to grab my leg and make it jump while we sang our favorite songs to one another.

Even More Advent Quotes

"Most of the shadows of this life are caused by our standing in our own sunshine."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

"What a strange narrowness of mind now is that, to think the things we have not known are better than the things we have known."
- Samuel Johnson

My dick is so big it has tolls.

My dick is so big it has fatty nubbins.

My dick is so big it has 5.1 surround sound.

My dick is so big OSHA has handling guidelines for it.

My dick is so big it goes to Chick-fil-A to eat on Sundays.

I wonder what she'll look like, sitting across from her, among our friends at Christmas dinner, when I've known her 30 years and we're still happily married.

We were atheists for so long that we forgot how to believe in each other.

I try to workout early on Sunday.  It's more fun to pretend that I have to get in and get done so I can race home, shower, kiss you awake and get to Coquette for excellent coffee and crepes.  And then I wake up and it's all make believe and a protein bar is all I get.

I'm having one of those moments when House hears something and suddenly everything connects and makes sense.  This is good.  Dangerous, but good.

It amazes me some of the things I've done and accomplished without the pseudo-courage of alcohol.  Makes me feel stronger than most people.

I miss you so much.

Advent Quotes

"Never miss an opportunity to make others happy, even if you have to leave them alone in order to do it."
- Unknown

"The important thing is this: To be able, at any moment, to sacrifice that which we are for what we could become."
- Charles DuBois

"Dare to be imperfect and one day there will tug at your sleeve a soulmate."
- Robert Brault

There is nothing in this world as nice as a threadbare shirt around the right person's curves.

That corduroy jacket looks amazing on you.  The little bits of fur sticking out around the collar make you look tan in this grey winter.  Could you love me?  Or at least keep me warm for a few months?

I know you're essential, so please get to work safely and drive slow.  Or just cozy up in a bed at the hospital.  Just stay safe.

Can we work out a deal where you send me your guacamole every week of the summer if I send you something you need?

She'll have dark grey tank tops that are a little loose from wear.  They'll hit right below the small of her back and little cotton shorts will peek out from underneath.  She'll brew coffee as I fold omelettes.  Onions, green peppers, mushrooms and salsa.  And then we'll squeeze orange juice.

I hope I get to be the dramatic rain scene you've always wanted.  And then I hope something behind us explodes and we walk away in slow motion while the fire rages.

I can drive an hour out of my way for a cat, but not the woman I love?  What the hell?

The other night, on a vocabulary quiz at the center, a young girl wrote the definition of "senses" as, "What daddy lets you feel."  If that's not a Tom Waits song waiting to happen then I don't know what is.

Despite everything, I'm really glad you're not with the physicist.

This job has nearly taken everything from me.  I'm sorry.  Time to fight complacency.

Now I wake every morning and look for two women missing from my life.

I text, half awake, in the morning because I just want to be talking in bed, drifting in and out of sleep.

People keep telling me the person I love will show up in my life when I least expect it.  That would be right now.  Where is she?

Tonight we might be saying goodbye to the cat.  This year sucks.

I was with Bonnie this past weekend and she was telling me that she's an LPN, and from habit I almost blurted out, "Oh!  My girlfriend would be your boss."

Target isn't the same without you.  I miss immediately ducking into the women's clothing with you, working to the lingerie and onto men's clothes so you can tell me what I would look good in.  Ikea will never be as classy.  All the things we were going to get for my office, the bedroom and our new couch.  Charlotte Russe and Forever 21 just sit empty without your business.

Eat fresh, bitch.

This goes out to the lady at Subway attempting to order a veggie sub.  First off, you're fifty some years old.  How have you never been to a Subway restaurant before?  Secondly, those are vegetables.  Just because they aren't the ones you want doesn't give you carte blanche to berate the sandwich artist in front of other customers.  And what kind of vegetables do you put on your sandwiches at home?  I've looked through their selection and Subway has so many options that there are vegetables I wouldn't put on a sandwich ever.  Next time you want a sandwich, take your attitude and cankles to Harris Teeter and pick out the ingredients you want.

Sincerely,
Ian

Just remembered this song, and thought of you.  Thank you for the autograph.  I miss you every second.

These dreams make it better before they make it worse

Last night, I watched you take him home to what was to be our house.  The street where we lived was dark and ready for Christmas.  The woods were dark, and the house was dark, and I watched you shut the door and go for the night.  The next night, you welcomed me in.  He was gone for the evening and wouldn't be home.  We made dinner.  Something spicy and Asian with bean sprouts and noodles and broth.  Then, you walked over to the couch and slipped your pants down.  You beckoned me over and then began beckoning yourself, and I finished it by slipping my tongue over you, kissing you, taking you in.  You were smiling again, like I could feel when you told me you were happy on the phone.  We watched the neighbors get taken away in an ambulance.  And when we were finished, it was a new beginning.  We cleaned up the kitchen and took our turns welcoming each other back.  I took a seat in my warm and cozy study with the rows of books and antique origami.  I began reading Ginsberg.  And then I heard soft words exchanged through teeth.  He was angry.  His father had driven him to see you.  To surprise you.  He was in our house and he was upsetting you.  He walked by the study after it got quiet.  In the bedroom were a few of his clothes.  Remnants of nights you would soon be forgetting.  On the way out, he stepped in the office with an old Charlie McCarthy puppet missing its head and congratulated me.  I was worth fighting for.  I had you back.  Nothing would ever be as classy, beautiful or true.  After some more yelling and the slamming door you came into the study.  You weren't crying and you weren't mad.  He was gone and you were happy with me, like it's supposed to be.  Like it could be.  Like you want it to be.  You sat with me in the large office chair and we read Ginsberg to each other for the night.

Stumbling through the ice and snow to Mac's.  God knows if it's even open.  We can barely walk, so driving is out.  I drove through fear and winter storm dark to be there with you because there was no place else I would rather be snowed in.  The blankets and dark, cozy living room we huddled in to watch the orange snow in the street lamps.  Horrible movies and life changing ones.  Our buddy's first snow and his first bumbling steps into it on his red leash.

I miss my kitty today.  Very much.  Wouldn't it be nice to drive an hour home and make stew with you and then cuddle in the bed upstairs and read while we toss the lettuce tie off the bed for him to do backflips.

I'm hoping I don't have to love someone as well as I can love you.  I'm hoping someone else doesn't get the life you deserve.

If this were some dramatic movie I'd take you by the arms and shake you, saying, "Dammit!  I didn't work on us for six years to be without you!"  And you'd come to your senses.  The shaking would help.

I would much rather be reading Kerouac to you in bed tonight than anything else.  Fake, ridiculous accent and all.

The old cycle begins again.

Starting into Anthony Bourdain's Medium Raw I'm reminded of something: All this shit, this incredibly long, nitrogen-induced depression and horrible break up; it all came from somewhere.  Bourdain writes about a dinner he was invited to that, by all means, he shouldn't have been.  He's surrounded by chefs he looks up to, and feels he'll never touch culinarily.  This dinner causes him to reflect on the road up to that point.  Strife with trials, drug abuse and heartbreak, he knows that life can get better, and has.

I've been doing a lot of reflecting lately.  Self-depricating reflection, and with the help of others (because I can't do it on my own), helpful introspection.  It took years, but I finally realize that Depression is my drug.  I lead a boring life. Sure, I try and dress it up every once in a while by taking a vacation or never stepping into the same restaurant twice.  I try anything I can.  Fencing and waltzing come to mind.  Look for me on any average Tuesday night, though, and you'll find me sitting on the couch watching recorded TV shows I didn't really need to record because I was home anyway.  It all feeds the Depression.  When I was nine or ten, I knew what suicide was.  At least, I had a vague idea, and Mom had an abusive boyfriend.  Not abusive towards her, you see, but I caught a lot of it.  He drug me around the house once by my hair because he felt I hadn't cleaned the shower well enough before Mom got home.  He just wanted to show me, and I wasn't walking fast enough, apparently.  There wasn't too much physical abuse.  A push and some yelling matches occasionally.  It was hard though, and I was seeing a counselor at the time because the problem was with me, I guess.  Right.  Eventually, the idea of suicide seemed like a release.  I went to the kitchen, opened the knife drawer and started running the knives along my wrist.  Even at that young age I knew to go down the arm instead of across.  Creepy how kids grow up so fast.  Mom walked up the stairs from the basement at that moment, and caught me.  There was some yelling, and a lot of crying and explaining, but she realized that I was sad.  Things turned around after that.  The boyfriend came around less and less, eventually disappearing.  Good riddance.

What did I learn from this?  Being sad and desperate for a way out can get you what you want.  That's one of the few lessons from this life that sticks in my head.  That, and tying the cords together between a power tool and an extension cord so you can't pull them apart accidentally.
I wasn't always sad.  I was a very happy kid.  People tell me stories about myself, and I see the possibility of that again.  Flash back five years and you'd find me back on top.  Senior year of college I was not someone you fucked with.  I was fast, hard and riding the crest of a wave so beautiful and round you could start at the Outer Banks and finish the day sipping mojitos in Hemingway's old stomping grounds in the Keys.  I was the Associate Editor of a nationally recognized literary magazine.  Yeah.  I was the asshole that you called and couldn't get ahold of, and I returned calls at ridiculous hours when you were sure to be out of the office.  Maybe telling your significant other in bed about how you needed to talk to me for approval on the proofs before the margins were set and printed.  You were lucky if I returned your calls.  Days and long nights spent in an office with more cobwebs than an Indiana Jones movie and haunted house combined.  I was working on a Mac that processed words a sentence slower than I typed.  Corralling the student interns and getting them to try and proof ten poems in a week, and then revising all their work was near impossible.  It was irritating, beyond difficult, and I was amazing at it.  You know those movies where the computer hacker guy flies around the room in a desk chair and always seems to be six steps ahead?  I was that guy.  I budgeted money; I signed time sheets; I was the face and the behind the curtain guy of one of the only undergraduate presses in the country.

Women?  I got the woman of my dreams back doing that job.  She'd sneak down from her work-study job to my private office and sit on the desk talking about our weekend plans with friends.  I'd visit her at her work-study job and we'd flirt over the mailing machine.  I had rug burns on my knees from that girl.  Granted, it was a bamboo rug, but I would have gotten them from any other softer rug too.  We went at it every day at one point.  This is a girl that has to be obsessively sure about a guy before she'll sleep with him, and we were doing all kinds of crazy shit and not even officially dating.  There are probably still handprints on the walls of our dorm rooms from some of the stuff we did.  I was sexy.  I was too busy for you and your problems.  I was very close to the peak of human existence.  I was the fucking Übermensch and you couldn't touch me.  I had a full-time student load, two majors and two theses to write.  There were three work-study jobs.  One for credit, and two for pay.  I was making my own hours, staying up late, partying, running myself ragged, dragging myself to class and stabbing my arm with a pencil to stay awake through it all.  This girl thought I was amazing, and all my friends looked up to me.  My professors were in awe, and knew I would succeed.

So, when I graduated I was going to lose it all.  My big plan A had fallen through, and there was no plan B.  I just figured those same professors would help a little more for someone that did so much for the college.  Guess not.  But, that's when I went back to the Depression.  For months after graduating, I sat in my room, doing what I wanted, watching movies and playing video games every day.  Eating shitty peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  What made it worse?  They let me carry the school banner at the commencement ceremony, and they gave me an award for being selfless and community focused.  Just a knife in the gut saying I was good enough there, but the real world was going to swallow me whole.  The girl?  She was gone to Roanoke to be a zookeeper.  She had worked the summer before for nothing except to smell like animal refuse at the end of the day.  She had earned her place as a paid employee.  We began a long-distance relationship, and we were happy.  She would get upset that I wasn't looking hard enough for a job, and I would look for a few days and get bored.  Eventually, my back was against the wall.  I had to start paying back substantial student loans, so I had to start working.  A job came for the Christmas season with a retail bookseller, and three months later I was fired for not being able to learn the operations of the position I was promoted to after being a lowly cashier.  After taking every elitist customer's shit for the holiday season, and working Black Friday, I was gone with no appreciation.  Then I spent six months feeling sorry for myself and trying to find another job.  It got to us both a little more this time.  I was talking a lot about how I didn't matter anymore in the world and it would be better without me.  If I was able to be so successful in college why couldn't the real world see my potential?  The normal depressed shit.  She just couldn't listen anymore, and she left.  I don't blame her.  I would have left me too.

That's how it works, the Depression.  I use it for the maximum amount of attention I can get.  Telling myself I'm great and worthwhile doesn't matter as much as someone else telling me.  Being depressed gets people to come out and try to build me back up.  I'm a solitary person that doesn't like to go out in groups too much.  It's hard to put on a smile and fake having fun.  However, I can hit you up with a text message and tell you how sad I am hoping you'll write back to make me smile or make me feel a little more positive about myself.  But, friends can only do that for so long.  They have to work on themselves too.  I distanced myself from a lot of friends at that point.  Actual hard work and job hunting brought about a new job with a great company, and the girl and I started going on dates again.  Nights spent at restaurants and watching movies got longer and longer until I was sleeping over again.  At one point she came home a little tipsy and sad, and said something to the effect of, "Why fight it?"  Like Bourdain's story, she was my Zelda Fitzgerald.  A little crazy, and probably bad for me, but I love her and she lets me put my hand in her pants occasionally.

Getting older makes things a lot scarier.  Eventually, the great job and money wasn't enough for either of us.  Turning 25 hit me hard, and she saw that.  She got sad as I got sad.  She lost faith in me as I lost faith in myself.  Things got bleak, and with the fall, she left again.  Now, I spend my time thinking of every possible way to get her back.  I keep waiting for her to call and say, "why fight it?" again.  I wasted so much time thinking she would keep feeling sorry for me.  It wasn't going to work.  She fell in love with a totally different person.  A person that made decisions instead of waiting for them to come down from a higher authority.  A person with the confidence to know I was right and did what needed doing.  Now that she's gone, and I've spent weeks eating and sleeping like shit I can see that person starting to come back.  I see him every time I put up a little more weight at the gym.  I see him when my veins bulge.  When I forget to cry for a day because the pain never really goes away.  It just recedes.  When I want her to be happy no matter what she finds happiness doing.  When I realize she won't be happy with the next guy because I was the right one.  No one was as successful as I was when I was on top, and I'll be there again.  She couldn't even do it.  I'm getting there.  She'll see that.  When I get some really good lines written.

We woke up early and headed into Raleigh, and even though it wasn't on the way to the airport we went to Coquette for coffee and crepes.  I miss you every second.

The new Express commercial made me want to buy you a new dress and a reason to wear it.  A wedding would be an occasion.

Finishing Big Sur was going to be the end of all my problems and pain. That's how I built it up.  Finished it tonight.

I imagine us being done traveling for the day and getting drowsy on the way home.  Then we crash into bed in loose fitting pants and watch some Anthony Bourdain on Netflix as we kiss goodnight.

A bowl of pistachios looks so much better with a diamond engagement ring buried in it.  Love you quietly from afar.

When it was time to go around the table and say what we were thankful for I couldn't keep my voice about me.  It sputtered and cracked and I wiped my nose with the good cloth napkin and strained to say, "You."

I can't stop thinking of what I was going to say tomorrow to your Dad.  My hands are all nervous and fidgity.  He was going to shake that hand though, and smile.  The same way he would have next year as he passed you off.

Thanksgiving was better two years ago when I knew at the end of the day I was driving down to be with you for it.

While everyone else talked about spending the holidays with their significant other's families I held back the tears.  I truly made myself believe tonight would change things.  Flowers and all.

Really needed you in the backseat of the car today for knowing sideways glances and head shaking.  You know why.  We were never that bad.  I think you know that.

I know today is your Dad's birthday, so I'm probably not likely to see you today.  I wish we were driving down there to cook for him and celebrate.  I'll drive home while you sleep.

While I was showering you snuck in, pulled the curtain back letting the cold air in like you always do.  You made it up by kissing me under the water for 15 minutes.

It's truly ridiculous you weren't here tonight.  If you thought the Roaring 20's party you went to was awesome this was like being transported back to that time, hanging out with Gatsby and getting to spend the night in his mansion.  You could have worn your Flapper hat and we would have looked great together.  Pearls and all.  We wouldn't have stopped smiling since we got here.  I miss you so much.

Tired of being without you.  Please let me back in.  Honey?

I would give up every second of this trip for a call saying this was a horrible mistake and I should come home.  Nothing is the same.

It's cold today.  You're working and it's crappy, but those patients need you more than I do.  The house is toasty warm from all four burners, and it smells so good.  I'm going to start working on a good way to get the buddy to carry the ring out to you when you get home.  At the moment he's trying to tear it off his red collar.  Good thing he's cuddly in the cold, winter months.

I keep hoping the letter changed your mind and you're driving down here and you'll knock on the door, and we'll cry a little.  We'll kiss.  I'll probably cry some more, and you'll tell me to stop being ridiculous.  And I won't stop smiling ever again.  Atlanta isn't the same without you. Scott and Pat missed you tonight.  Athena's ring looks kind of like yours.  Not white gold, but I know what makes you happy.  We'd probably be kissing in bed now.  The heat works this time.  I miss you so much.  Please come back.  The bed still smells a little like us.

Standing here, in the sun and cool Fall wind, it would be so much better with you.  The promise of a weekend to ourselves.

haiku

Got home late tonight.
You uncovered, smiled, pulled back the sheet.
Dark hairs again on the sheets.

Too long.

"Do you think we can get through this?"

"I promise we will.  You'll never wait on me again."

"Can you come home?"

"I believe curiosity can be a virtue."

Tonight, in a pathetic attempt to move forward, I went to see Anthony Bourdain's lecture at the Progress Energy Center for the Performing Arts in downtown Raleigh.  It struck some chords.  I don't even know that much about the guy, but his drive, knowledge and confidence make me want to be just like him.  Sort of like Henry Rollins or Chuck Palahniuk, some people just exude this extraordinary brilliance of truth and honesty with themselves.  And they're able to reflect that honesty back onto the world around them and say, "You're fucking idiots, and here's why."  And they tell them!  This is something, as of late, I have not been able to do.  My confidence has just been shattered and trampled by a slow and meandering break up.  The kind I thought would never happen again after the first one like that.  You know the one: the girl says everything is fine, and you know it's not, and you don't look at each other the same.  Suspicion and jealousy take over, and you'd have to have a serious case of autism to not read in their face that something is going on behind those eyes.  And it's all the time.  Like I said, it just drags itself out, leaving you questioning what kind of person you are more than what she did to you, or how she was wrong.  How could you be so stupid to not know what to change way back then?  You're left with a billion questions, and they're different for each individual.  That's just the one churning in my head, over and over, until you're too tired to keep your eyes open so you pass out, and get a few hours of peace until you wake and that empty feeling pulls everything from your guts that was keeping you whole.

But I digress.

So, Tony (yeah, we all called him Tony after the show) was talking about what it is to be civil and respectful and open when traveling.  Something I've always believed in, but some of my travel partners have been bad at.  He spoke on how the worst vacations always end up being so because you plan them out too much.  There's not enough time to truly explore your new environs because the time schedule won't allow it.  Every minute of every hour is nailed down with a place and activity you need to be doing, and that's no way to vacation.  You don't live that way (hopefully), so why would you vacation that way.  I can't pretend to be naive to the fact that making plans and following a schedule makes you feel like you can get more done in the short time you have between the days you spend at work in the real world.  I know the minute I leave work the day before a vacation, I'm already thinking of what time I need to go to bed that night so I can get up early and get in the car and on the road.  And that's not so bad.  Maybe.  At least it gets me to where I want to be more.

It's in how you dress, and how you carry yourself and what you eat and how you walk and where you walk.  It's that confidence that makes me admire Mr. Bourdain in the first place.  But it's also having the humility to admit you are a stranger in a land not your own.  To admit when you've screwed up some local custom and apologize.  To turn the wrong way down a one-way street and say, "I am not local, and I apologize for overlooking your signage and putting your community at risk."  And if that seems like a terrifically acute example, it's an inside joke.

My best vacations have been the one's where I admitted I was there to be curious and explore.  My worst vacations were the ones where I tried to be a local, and that gets you nowhere.  If you think you can blend in so well, go to a local attraction in your city and see if you can tell who the locals are and the tourists.  I guarantee you'll correctly pin them 98% of the time.

One vacation in particular that comes to mind was a business trip my Mom took one summer.  It was to Asheville, North Carolina, and her company was putting us up at the Grove Park Inn - a nationally recognized resort for the rich and jet set crowd.  Lots of golfing and spa treatments and history and all that.  For three days I got to hang out in this palace of a hotel with little shops, restaurants and endless hallways and hidden nooks to run around.  We had visited this place before to sit on the large sun deck they have in the rear of the main wing.  We would sip drinks and watch the sunset and have family time before leaving to come back to the capital city, back to the drudgery of our daily lives.  It was always great, and something I look forward to every time I'm in the mountains.

One night, my Mom and sister had gone to bed, and I couldn't sleep so I got up and went to walk around the hotel.  I wanted to see the place for what it was.  I had heard stories of all the famous people that had stayed in the original old wing of the resort; presidents, actors, F. Scott Fitzgerald stayed there!  He had a room named after him.  So, there are these old elevators built into the sides of a massive stone fireplace in the main hall.  They are still operated by lift attendants.  They go up two floors and down one from the main floor.  I had to ride in one.  Once I stepped inside I was instantly transported back to a time when Fitzgerald or Roosevelt could have been riding alongside me. The attendant was in a nicely pressed suit and tie with white gloves, and the elevator itself looked to be bronze.  It shone inside like the Statue of Liberty must have right after it was built.  The attendant and I were talking, and he got into the history of the old building.  I'm sure he did this with everyone that showed even the slightest interest, but I showed genuine curiosity, and it was rewarded.  I got the dirt on the old building.  I got the story of the haunted room, the Pink Lady, who will tear apart your suitcase while you're out of the room, and leave the bed in shambles after the housekeepers have made it up for the day.  She haunts one room, and he pointed it out, showing me where she fell from the inner balcony overlooking the common hall in the middle of the antique building.  Of course it sent shivers down my spine.  Then, we went back down and he showed me the lower floors where the laundry and other services take place.  He was able to do this because his shift was ending, so he stepped off the elevator and showed me around the basement where guests weren't allowed.  This may seem boring, but to someone who was into the history of this hotel, it was breathtaking.  He told me all kinds of things, and when he was ready to go, we rode the elevator back to the main floor and said good evening, and he went to his home and family.

If I wasn't tired before, then I was buzzing now.  I needed to calm down.  I had my bag with my writing notebook in it, and I walked out to the deck with a cranberry and seltzer cocktail and sat down to write a bit.  I was getting some good stuff down when a couple called me over to their table.  I forget why they called me over, but they wanted me to join them.  Probably wanted to know what I was writing.  We exchanged our stories.  I was a junior at St. Andrews Presbyterian College.  They were Canadians on a vacation to bury her father.  Turns out he had been the elevator attendant for some fifty years, and had just died a few days before, having spent the entirety of his working life with the hotel.  Carolyn and Dave Turpie were their names.  We talked about writing and life and watched the stars pass overhead for a good while.  They told me the hotel, for her father's years of service, had put them up in the presidential cabin for the week.  Actually, the hotel manager said they could stay as long as they wanted (or until a president showed, or Tom Hanks, who apparently stays there when in Asheville).  They said the place was littered with snack trays and drinks and I should come back with them and help them finish some food off, and get a night cap.  So, having had an advantageous night of curiosity, I strolled through the main hall, out the front doors and off into the wooded land beyond the front parking lot.  It was massive.  The size of a large home, and appointed in a style befitting Gatsby or Rockefeller.  Mission furniture and large Oriental and animal skin rugs. It was the typical hunting lodge from any period film.  And like they said, there were deli trays covering a giant table in the dining room.  We sat and ate rolled cold cuts on butter crackers.  We drank our drinks, cranberry juice for me, and they had beers.  We were cooling down.  Carolyn took my notebook and began reading through the few pages I had filled.  It was new at the time.  I still have it.  I was about five pages in at the time, and it was mostly angsty freshman-in-college crap.  I was still working through some things that had followed me from high school.  But she was moved by them.  She was a little tipsy at that point in the night, but she was really moved by my writing.  That was kind of the first time a stranger had really given me any notice just reading my work for the first time.  Without knowing anything about me.  It made me feel really good.  As I look back tonight, maybe not that good because I'm still working on filling up the same notebook, but at the time, I was flying.  Dave didn't read it.  He went on the review his wife gave, but we exchanged addresses, and talked late into the night.  When I left the night air was cold, and we smiled and waved, and they said I should stop by the next night, but we left the next day.

That night and the way everything fell into place, I'll always remember that.  Knowing that a smile and positive attitude towards the world can open so many doors.  Doors you would never be able to get through if you didn't have $10,000 a night to spend on a cabin on top of a hill.  I loved that night, and there have been a few more nights like that.  Things you can't capture in photos, and most of the time, you're the only one that is going to know they happened, and you can tell people the story repeatedly, but they'll never appreciate the gravity of that night, under those stars and pines, on top of a hill in the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Thanks Tony.

At one point in my life there was a song written for me.

Lay your head on my shoulder

Come love and sit by me

And watch the stars fall by

on their respective galactic itineraries

Lay your head on my shoulder

And I will rock you to sleep

And the touch of your breath on my neck

Will make everything feel so temporary

If we don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breath

Maybe the universe will get bored with us both

And pack up and leave

So now we’re stuck out in orbit

You and me and my enemy

All these lessons I’ve learned

And these truths I’ve turned

Just won’t let me be

Don’t know where we’re headed

Don’t know where we’ll end up

But with you here tonight

and your hands around mine

is more than enough

But if we don’t stop, don’t land, don’t fall

I’ll still be here

at the end of it all

'Cause I am here with you, my love

I’m here with you

(home)

Found some more pictures of my dream home.  This is the bedroom.  Picture a grey cat sitting on the edge of the bed, getting shed hair all over the white comforter.

There will be no birch logs standing in any fireplaces.  All fireplaces will be functional.

One perfect pineapple pizza.

Like most great achievements through time, this started with a bet.  A simple, and stupid bet that should have been researched a little more, or never made at all.  Think of Horatio Jackson or Simon and Ehrlich.  But, late-night ignorance and exhaustion will make you do strange things (i.e. this blog posting).  Comfort will make you do even stranger things.  It was a warm night in August when I was both exhausted and on the verge of comfort.  It took a good three weeks, but I got to a comfort point rallying and herding campers where I thought, "This bet might work out in my favor."  Honestly, I can't even remember now what was in it for me.

So, this started with a bet with Haluk.  It seemed he was back too soon from serving a punishment, and I bet him if he had actually served it I would buy him his own personal pizza with one topping.  We had a small pizza party coming up, you see, and this would be a little reward for being a great camper and not causing too many problems my first go round.  After calling and confirming he had actually served his time, he won the bet.  Anti-climactic, but true.  He wanted a cheese pizza with pineapple on it.  Now, whether this was his favorite, or he was trying to think of something that might be difficult to obtain, I don't know.  I couldn't use the normal pizza place the camp always uses because they don't offer pineapple as a topping.  So, after finding a place in downtown Saratoga Springs, I went out one night and got his pizza.

Before this I had never been a huge fan of the idea of pineapple on a pizza.  Long ago, I was known to tear into a sauerkraut pizza with Canadian bacon on top and love it.  But something about the sweet/sour of the pineapple and the savory of the cheese had turned me off.  That night, when I picked it up, a light rain had begun to fall which turned into a torrential downpour by the time I got back to campus.  The boxes were soaked within seconds of stepping out of the car, and Haluk's pizza fell to the ground.  Suddenly, popping open, I saw the glisten of the pineapple, baked, but not dry, shining bright just on the surface of the cheese.  As if they took the time to take it out of the oven right before finishing and threw those fresh chunks on.  It looked delicious - even as jostled as it was after falling to the ground.  But, I had to eventually hand it over.  I never got to try that pizza, but it stuck with me for another week until I had to head back to North Carolina.

In Herndon, VA, I found myself starving at the end of a long, eight-hour day of driving.  My room was comfortable and cool, and finally, after three weeks of sweating the night away, I was comfortable and cozy.  Mangino's Pizza menu also promised to deliver a freshly baked pizza to my room.  I could lay around watching cable in my shorts and not worry about going back down to the lobby.  And they had a Hawaiian pizza.  I was sold.  After the delivery guy dropped it off I devoured every slice.  Now, I haven't done this since, and eating every piece is not a testament to its flavor, as, so far, this has been the worst pineapple pizza I've eaten.  It was dry, and most of the cheese was cooked so that it came off as a sheet when you bit into the pizza.  The pineapple pieces were tiny and hopeless.  The Canadian bacon (which was just tiny pieces of chopped ham) was tasteless as well, and too much.  I was unimpressed, and vowed to find a decent pineapple pizza.  I'll keep trying them and letting you know what I find.  Hopefully, my quest will help someone out there, and I can only hope that, someday, I can return to that promised land of pizza and try that delicious looking pie that gave Haluk so much joy.

Time Spent Worrying

  “We, the American working population/ Hate the fact that eight hours a day/ Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn’t us/ And we may not hate our jobs,/ But we hate jobs in general/ That don’t have to do with fighting our own causes.”  I recently filled out a survey from Best Buy.  Offers come printed on the receipt with a website and a 16 digit code, along with promises of $10,000 shopping sprees.  Now, after years of buying things at Best Buy, I know that for every dollar I spend, I’ll be spending two to three more within the span of five years.  Upgrades.  It’s all about the toy you have being the newest, and the manufacturer’s know it, but the customers aren’t ignorant to it either.  We need the newest toys because the old ones get boring.  They get boring quickly, and as time passes that boredom occurs faster and faster.  We’ve been given too much time to play.  Too much time to think.  I know, working in a factory where little to no thought is required, that thinking too much can be dangerous.  Many days I can leave work in a foul mood, only to realize that I’ve done it to myself, and have nothing of any real consequence to be upset about.

     So, you can imagine my frustration when I read that a professor - a learned person - has gone off the handle with an employee of a chain coffee store.  Apparently, her problem with the global chain is their use of language in ordering.  She feels that when a customer orders a “plain” bagel that means your standard bagel with nothing on it.  I am, because of the reporting, unaware of whether this also includes toasting or not.  Starbucks’ website describes the plain bagel as, “‘plain’ because it’s your simple, classic bagel.  But don’t take that to mean it’s anything less than superb.  It’s got a lustrous, golden crust with a subtle crisp.  A moist, chewy texture with just the right bounce for toothy, satisfying bites.  And the mild yeasty tang that every bagel worth its salt should deliver.  In other words, it’s plain delicious.”  Unfortunately, for Ms. Rosenthal (the professor involved in the incident) this is not the only flavor of bagel that Starbucks offers.  There are 4 other types of bagels included in the bakery section of the menu, and the fact that one of them is called a “plain bagel” only makes this argument so much more frustrating.  Ordering a “plain bagel” determines the type of ingredients used in the production of the bagel.  As to toppings (i.e. cream cheese, butter, etc.), just stating “plain” in the order does not qualify towards condiment request.

  Ms. Rosenthal is an idiot.  This isn’t even a case of overeducation, as one commentator put it.  This is a case of a woman whose social strengths must shine on Facebook or eHarmony.  Face-to-face interactions are simply too much for this person.  I get the feeling that she might enjoy commenting on web posts and claiming that everyone else has the wrong opinion if it’s not her opinion.  Working in a bakery, I can attest to the fact that saying you want a crusty loaf of bread is vague, at best.  We sell several loaves of crusty bread, all white bread inside, but with subtle flavor variations.  In certain areas of the country it’s okay to call all sodas “Coke” or “pop.”  If you order the wrong way outside of those areas no one will know what you’re talking about.  Why wouldn’t you want to make sure you’re order comes out correct?  What value does that hold?  In an economy where money is tight and prices keep rising, why would you risk spending money on something that isn’t what you want?

It seems that Ms. Rosenthal was just looking for a way to vent some other frustration on another human being.  The reason she was able to do all this, and get kicked out of Starbucks, is too much time.  When anyone else in a rush would have just gone ahead and given the cashier the ordering language they were looking for, Ms. Rosenthal was just going to Starbucks to use their wireless internet.  It was guilt that made her decide to buy a bagel anyway.  She was only going to Starbucks to get out and sit and stare at a computer.  Something, in the 21st century, we do to make ourselves look like we’re actually doing something.  What might have happened if she had decided to order coffee?  With all the possible configurations of drinks (Starbucks claims the number is around 87,000) one can truly see the importance of order specificity.  The “I’m right, you’re wrong” mentality just came through too strong in this case.

The same goes for worrying about iris scanners.  I know what you’re saying.  “Woah, how did we get from a woman accosting a Starbucks employee because of language to iris scanners?”  Well, the only reason that I can see people might be afraid that iris scanners will take over as our standard forms of identification is a lack of more important things to worry about.  People refuse to look at issues that cannot be solved.  They’ll throw endless amounts of cash at them to reconcile the fact that they aren’t smart enough or involved enough to make a difference.  So what do they do?  They pick small things that have not yet come to pass, and latch onto them.  They listen to gossip and read rumor blogs that support a consensus that change is bad.

Cast your mind back, and you may have to go a little farther than you expect, to a time when accomplishment was the reward of hard work.  Seeing a task fulfilled was what made you proud to have done the work of the day.  If it didn’t make you proud, then you survived because of it.  Toil in the fields led to food on the table and money in the bank.  Now, we focus on doing the least work for the most profit, and most of our jobs don’t heavily weigh on our survival.  A number cruncher or an IT professional can be sick for a week, and never be missed.  Yet we pay them the most, when people that serve your food and make sure you’re comfortable in your day to day life are paid a pittance, if not paid in tips that the customer can chose to ignore.

We have too much time on our hands.  The days of watering the lawn and washing the dishes, scrubbing the clothes and ringing them are over.  Machines have made our lives easy and stress free (until they break).  It’s just a question of finding what to worry about, and what to leave alone.  Let change happen, and you’ll see unimpeded progress.  Only time can say if that progress will be worth it, but you can’t know until you try.  Unfortunately, we may never see the progress that comes with an adventurous spirit if people continue to fret over every little change.  As for iris scanners linking all aspects of my life, great!  I look forward to my bank account being more secure; my security in public more secure; my locations known in case some harm should befall me.  We live in a society of huddled masturbators who feel everything should be hidden.  All blinds should be pulled and doors locked.  Let’s work on getting ourselves out in the open a bit more, feeling secure and confident.

Second Floor, One-Room Apartment

     Can't sleep tonight.  At least right now.  I've been laying in there for a half hour and something is nagging at me keeping me awake.  I don't know what it is.  This is the first time since I've been back that sleeping has been a problem.  Perhaps it's a sign that sleep is a luxury again.  For the three weeks I was in Saratoga Springs, sleep was the necessity.  Now, I guess my body can take it or leave it.
     Martha's bed is cozy enough.  Kind of fluffy for my taste, but I've not had trouble sleeping here before.  And I am tired.  I can feel my eyes burn dry in the cool night, and my lids are heavy.  Avi is awake, and jacked up.  I'm watching him flip over a twist tie, trying to conquer it.  I'll probably put on some Dr. Who in a moment.  Haven't watched any since I got home.
     I have to say, there was something so cozy about being on the second floor, in a single room, twin bed against a wall with an industrial lock on the door.  That is absolute comfort to me.  The idea that no one can get in except me and a security guard sworn to protect me.  Just being on the second floor is good enough, sometimes.  Checking into a hotel: give me the highest floor possible, please.  I've never slept so good as when I'm at moderately higher altitudes.  Sleepless nights like these make me miss the necessity of sleep and my one-room apartment, so far away.

It's like a big salad on top.

     As usual, I have overlooked something.  Something very important.  I'll explain.  Last week at work was very difficult, as this week is proving to be.  The entire summer has the possibility of being the same way.  We're rolling out a lot of new products that are all very labor intensive since the Atlanta Bakehouse closed.  Apparently, they had a staff that could handle bagging and labeling 900 pound cakes every day.  We do not.
     So, after that week I was in a terrible mood.  Cameron was coming to town for the weekend, and I knew she was having a party at the house for her friend who got engaged.  I didn't want to be any part of that.  I did have a lot to do, and I was playing golf with my Uncle Mark on Sunday morning.  Martha called me mid-day to suggest that I drive down there to spend the evening with her.  She said she would make me dinner (anything I wanted) and we could relax and watch a movie and just have a good night.  I was hesitant.  I had already planned to go out that night and buy myself an external DVD burner as the one in the iMac has been acting up.  Yeah.  That was my big plan for Friday night.  Also, and I almost forgot this, I was supposed to help Dan from work move on Saturday morning.  I found out that he wasn't going to call me until Saturday morning if he needed me, and that was an inconvenience.  So, after work on Friday, I sped home, changed into some shorts and drove down to Southern Pines.  Martha had just started dinner when I arrived, and she said there wasn't anything I could do to help, so I took a shower.  When I got out, the tacos were ready.  She made these delicious Tuna tacos with a lime/jalapeno marinade.  There was fresh guacamole and jicama for some crunch.  I found sweet tea in the fridge, which I had bought the weekend before when we moved into the new house.  We sat back, ate and watched Spartacus episodes on Netflix.  It was a great night.  I loved everything about it.  I actually wished I had gotten to her house sooner so we could have enjoyed a good episode of Jeopardy.  We are competitive with one another.  We fell asleep with the A/C blowing and Avi sleeping between us.
     The next day we woke and I did the dishes.  We looked for my sunglasses, which I had lost the weekend prior.  And then I showered and we went for hot dogs at this little stand down in historic Aberdeen.  They were delicious!  I had my very first Chicago style hot dog, which I've been trying to do for a long time.  It's like a hot dog with a big salad on top.  Watching Food Network gives me weird goals.  On the way to the ATM down the street to get more money for hot dogs I ran into Glenn, the bartender at Tripp's, and a friend of Martha.  He and I walked back and enjoyed another hot dog.  This time I had a reuben style hot dog complete with 1,000 island dressing, which wasn't so bad.  It was a good day.  Another good day.  And it was barely noon when I left (with my newly found sunglasses).
     Martha made it all possible.
     I have mood swings.  I subject people to attitudes and comments that I shouldn't.  Martha sometimes gets the brunt of this because I talk to her more than anyone else.  It's not fair to her, and I do my best to keep some things hidden so I don't unleash on her.  Sometimes things are just too much and they spill over.  I've just been irritated a lot lately at some things.  Things I can't control.  My inability to say no to people is also a problem.  Martha makes it all better.  She makes me smile when I think I can't.  She cooks for me when I have a crappy week.  She's been supportive while my Mom has been going through this breast cancer period.  She's great.  I love her.  I would probably be resigning myself to staying at Whole Foods for a lot longer without her encouragement.  But, now I'm going to be enrolled in school come December and we will live together soon!  In our own little house.  It's all very exciting, and I'm happy in that aspect of my life.  Martha is everything I want.  She's everything I strive to keep going in my life.  It's like she's got a big salad on top.

Reminder: I'm cool.

Every now and then I have to reassure myself that I'm pretty cool.  This is one of those times.  No big-headedness about it.

Almost got it.

I don't see why I should recycle when you can't do math.

Assume there exists an elephant (x).  x = 9,600 lbs.

8 elephant(s) = 8x.

8 multiplied by the accepted value of x (9,600 lbs.) is equal to 76,800 lbs.

Now, don't go thinking you have to convert pounds to metrics because all measurements are the same.  We're just dealing with pounds.  Unfortunately, the drop-out that made this flyer was about 75 elephants off, give or take a trunk or two.  Is this what we're teaching our children?

{found poetry}

You are the only person who/ has blocked out the sun./ You & you, only one who ever smeared their faces, their/ actions, in a blur behind us/ here, doing a crossword/ @ six am -- all love/ I do not [unreadable], you said.

hang curtains

WHOLD FOODS:

- flax oil

- salt

- luna (less fat)

- chips 4 sunday

- salsa too

- tomato to add

clean

laundary

pillow

run

Everyone says "Hi," except David Bowie.

     I won't bore you with the fabulous details of the first dream I remember having last night.  The second one would be more interesting to everyone.  Unless you're a frat boy.  Then the first one would be quite entertaining.  I say this only on the basis that there were frat boys in it, and frat boys love other frat boys, right?

     So, the dream started and I was walking through a mall.  Departments store entrances and Christmas displays.  It wasn't Christmas though.  The mall was dead.  Just a few people lingering around.  I remember passing some kids playing on a display, and smiling that approving smile that you do when you wish you were small enough to do the same, but have to act like an adult.  Outside of the department store was a grand lobby of sorts with a couple small stores.  It was mostly just a tucked away entrance, but this is where the music store was, and that's where I was headed.  This, apparently, was before the little music stores had shut down in the malls and been replaced by Hot Topics.  I went in, and began looking around.  The cashier actually greeted me, which made me feel cool.  To my left was a tall blonde man and a slightly shorter, but not much, blonde woman.  He was wearing well-cut grey slacks and a thin, Summery button-down shirt.  She was in tan, but stylish, slacks and a wrap around white shirt.  They were together, but not romantically.  Their body language was that of old friends.  I went to look next to the man and found that it was David Bowie!  I was shocked.  What was he doing in a small record store wherever I was in the dream in a mall?  As soon as I noticed, he was rushed.  A gaggle of screaming fans were asking for autographs, and I watched him pull out a pen and start signing.  I had my pockets filled with things, and I started looking for stuff that could be signed.  Receipts and money were what I found, but in my back pocket I found a thick napkin.  This would be it!  I waited patiently, pretending to be too cool to be phased by the throngs of people.  He signed and didn't smile, but didn't frown.  The daily life of a rock star legend.  Soon, the store was empty again.  Just David Bowie, his friend and I.  One more person came on the scene soon after.  "David.  I have this killer demo to play for you.  I think you'll really dig it.  My sound is [this obscure band] mixed with [another obscure band] with a little bit of a playful cadence of [a poetic description of Summer sounds].  Bowie agreed to sit down and listen, and this boy, who gave me evil looks from the time I approached, sat beside him with a tape player.  They both began listening, and the worst part is that Bowie was really getting into it.  I snuck inside the inner circle, and asked David for his autograph.  He took the napkin and a pen that I lent to him.  He turned away and the boy jumped out of his chair.  He began moshing with himself.  Slamming his head around and flinging his arms.  I heard the high drone of bagpipes in the boy's demo.  I said, "Oh, bagpipes.  Nice."  They both looked at me at that instant and stared.  Bowie handed me back my napkin, folded neatly into quarters.  I held it, warm from his concentrated hand, and then put it into my pocket.  The two got up and walked away to a back room to continue listening uninterrupted.  I stayed in the store and looked around a little more.  No one was there now except for some young kids looking at buttons in a display case and laughing.  I turned to leave and the cashier gave me a "that was pretty cool" look.  I smiled and took the napkin out of my pocket.  I was so much cooler than everyone in that store.  In that mall, maybe.  Definitely in that city.  I unfolded it carefully, and scanned one side.  Nothing.  I scanned the other and no dark marks were to be found.  Then I looked to the top edge.  There were two small splotches of a pale color near the top.  They were somewhat perfect reflections of one another.  A Rorschach if you will, of snot.  David Bowie had blown his nose on my napkin while I was watching the boy jump around.  I was crestfallen, and disillusioned and I awoke.  Who was he but a rock star anyway?  It's four in the morning.  More time for sleep.

[Something of New York is]

     Something of New York is something of New York is something of New York she's moving through the kitchen she's moving, knows the cups, knows her hands, knows the cups and the tearing torn clothes tearing torn tearing torn clothes and skin where clothes would be shouldn't and all the fumblings of something of New York is her waist and pulling her close is her waist is her pulling her close. And the tear of clothes and her hands and the waist of her pants and she breaths in and the waist of her pants and the tear of clothes is New York and she breaths in and the waist of her jeans and we're sliding down hard is New York.

Engulf a system.

Engulf a system.  Remember it so you can adhere to it.  Adhere to it, and engulf it.  With time, everything that comes in will go out, and that system has to save everything.  There need to be tape recorders and file cabinets.  A keyboard's keys should be worn, and muscle memory will be the only thing that lets you know which stroke is which.  There need to be file cabinets, dated and alphabetized.  Never trust a man with a clean desk.  There is too much going on.  Too much in my head these days.  I've saved it up and let it fester and age.  Don't grow old.  I hear all their voices: the curse of listening.  There's nothing original because you all came up with it.  You sat in your cafes with your cigarettes and coffee and your typewriters lubricating everything until it spilled out in shapes and colors no one would appreciate as stern years later.  But you had fun.  You taught and you watched.  You watched the world get sick and old.  "America is old."  It's stories and history are lost to loneliness.  A lonely continent existing before oral tradition and long before anal tradition, shitting America falling off the wagon again.  This is what happens when you hold it in.  This constipation of thought and energy until you want to scream.  You want to fight.  Fight me.  Take me on.  Drop me.  Challenge me.  Rub me to raw and tearing.  I'll fight you because I'd miss you if you were gone.  I've got ideas written on pages of journals and word documents lost in the ether of terabytes.  I've been writing to miss you.  Writing to get over you.  Old loves.  New loves.  Loves that should have been, but got complicated.  Writing to apologize.  Writing to prove myself.  That's what it all is.  Proving myself.  When will it stop?  When will you know me to be just like you, full of passion and power?  I think of you with him now.  Do you still wear that little silk robe?  Do you make him sit in the cold morning air?  When will he be leaving?  When will the next one move in?  I know he's there. And you.  We parted with such harsh emotions and fresh scars.  That emergency room still holds dark words and cold. Believe me.  How can I say I'm sorry?  Just keep trying.  Just keep trying.  There is so much good now I know I can spare some for all.  It just needs to be written down.  Engulf a system.  Remember it so you can adhere to it.

If it's good enough for Jesus...

I want to build this desk.  Right now, carpentry might be my hobby when I start grad school.  I come from a long line of carpenters, and it's only proper that I should continue.  How else will I get good enough to build my own boat?