February 2007

For the second time in less than a year, I’m packing up my life and moving on. It’s time to leave New England. It’s time to return to California and the great Pacific’s golden sunset. My stay there will be brief but I’m looking forward to the respite from the cold and opportunity to see old friends.

Oh, but what to do until I’m gone?

I’m sitting in the rented room I once called my office (which many would consider a large closet with a view). Now it is nothing more than a stack of boxes, a few lamps, computer desk, computer, chair and me. Everything that made it mine has been neatly packed away, and soon another will hide their treasures here. We no longer belong to each other - these walls, my curiosity and over-active imagination.

Without my comforting nest of junk, I feel displaced; a contract employee with a laptop, stuffed in any vacant cubicle, surrounded by mangled particle board, broken thumb tacks, an out-dated calender, and some old Dilbert cartoon the previous owner stared at day-after-day, possibly for years, but didn’t take with them and couldn’t throw away. I’m ready to go but have to wait a few more days and, like any bored employee, begin to make up stories about those who were here before me, feel nostalgic for things that never happened and that I wasn’t a part of.

These daydreams (or in my case middle of the night dreams) keep me entertained for 20 minutes.

This is New England. I could imagine the house is haunted.

Nah. Maybe I lived in California too long and developed that “nothing shocks me” attitude you need to survive in a state were the Terminator is governor (and from what I’ve heard a decent one), wealthy neighborhoods arbitrarily grant themselves township to boost property values, and the only town meetings regularly attended are riots, but the whole “eek-there’s-a-ghost” thing doesn’t do much for me.

I’ve been reading a lot of mass market fiction (you know, something you’d find in the stack of books you hide under your bed when your cool friends come over), and love getting caught up in stories that don’t shred my insides or make me question the darker motivations of my soul. I dig the inside shredding, soul-searching crap too, but there are times when I don’t want to stare into the abyss and see its beady eyes looking back at me, times when I’m already there and what I need more than anything is to lighten-the-fuck-up. There’s nothing like a good book about battles between grumpy dwarves and evil goblins, wise-cracking detectives and perennially unlucky crime solving reporters, misunderstood and well-meaning vampires, werewolves, dark elves, cowboys and fighter pilots to take your mind off of beady-eyed abyss monsters eager to introduce you to all of your human frailties.

So, like I said, I’m moving soon and I’m going a little stir-crazy. Too bad my soon-to-be-ex-office isn’t padded.

“It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.” ~ Mark Twain

I can’t sleep. There’s a shocking headline, right?

A few words of advice…

3:00 a.m. is not a good time to begin examining your life, the choices you’ve made, are making, or questioning the motivations of those around you.

It’s the “long dark tea-time of the [paranoid] soul”.

(Oh, admitting your true feelings for a person is also BAD. You might want to save this little tidbit for a footnote in your will or scribble it on a postcard and send it anonymously to PostSecret. I hear messages in bottles work well too, although anything remotely connected to Kevin Costner gives me the willies.)

Adventures in San Francisco - Day 7

December 31, 2006

It’s 4:30 a.m. and my brother and I are on our way to San Francisco International Airport. The week is up and it’s time for me to return to my tepid New Hampshire life. We’re listening to what is lovingly referred to as the sing-a-long station, because (you guessed it) you can sing along to virtually every song played. Even if you don’t know the lyrics, the chorus is rousing enough that you don’t mind mumbling through the rest until it comes around again.

“Oh yes, it’s ladies night
And the feeling’s right
Oh yes, it’s ladies night
Oh what a night (oh what a night)”

“You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you might find
You get what you need”

“Oh, that’s the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh”

I spent a good portion of my 7 days in a car full of 30-somethings singing our collective lungs out to songs of which we knew approximately 25% of the lyrics. We probably looked like one of those ads you see for an affordable yet trendy fuel-efficient car filled with mild-mannered white-collar carpooling tech-geeks rocking out to vintage heavy metal or gangster rap until one of their cell phone/PDAs vibrates and it’s their oh-so-conservative boss. One of them, usually he who looks tagged “weakest in the gene pool”, answers a few yes sir, no sirs before clicking off, thereby signaling an all’s-clear to his rhythmically challenged compatriots, who immediately return to lip syncing and dangerous dance-like gesticulation. We may have looked like the ad, but we are, like, really cool. (And there was NO dancing. Maybe a little head bopping every now and then but sometimes that can’t be helped.)

Another fun thing about the sing-a-long station is playing “guess that 80’s movie”, in which my brother and I try to name the movie the song was featured in before the other; a challenge for two latch-key kids raised by cable television. Occasionally it will turn into a duel of tapping foreheads, as if rattling the gray matter a bit is enough to call forth the song playing during that life-changing moment in John Hughes‘ film The Breakfast Club, when bad boy John Bender puts on one of “You are a BITCH” Claire’s diamond earrings and walks off into the sunset. (Don’t You Forget About Me by Simple Minds.) We were about 90/10 on blurting out the answer at the same time. If forehead tapping failed us both, we finger snapped and pointed clues at each another until one of us slapped our forehead (apparently self-inflicted frontal cranium abuse is a genetic trait) and revealed the answer with embarrassed relief, as if everyone knows this crap. Okay - so there was a bit more gesticulation going on in our trendy yet fuel efficient car than I originally stated but none of us were having fond flashbacks of ordering Dominoes pizza while watching Headbanger’s Ball.

Regardless of the time, our mutual exhaustion and need for caffeine, Rick and I are wide awake and both a little sad the week is up. In between sing-alongs, he tells me he’s glad I came out, he had fun, I’m welcome back anytime, he’ll freeze my 3lbs of ham (another story for another day). Mentioning the ham makes grimace and laugh, both thankful we had such a bountiful Christmas feast and that I got out of eating my portion of it. I have this funny feeling I will never be allowed to forget this, and the thought makes me homesick before I’ve even left the ground - I’m going back to a place where no one teases me.

Another song comes on the radio and I say, “What the hell is this song about? I know one line and I don’t understand it.” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he begins telling me about about the M Theory - the master theory that explains everything. Those who don’t spend their time memorizing 1980’s film soundtracks but study things like particle physics wanted to know why, of the four known interactions in nature, gravity doesn’t fit or behave in a way that makes sense when viewed with the same standard model (Quantum Field Theory) as the other three. The M Theory was created (or a bunch of theories were combined, depending on where/who you read) to address this and other anomalies, and suggests one possible explanation is that there are 11 (or 10, depending on where/who you read) dimensions and “our” gravity doesn’t fit because of its connection to another dimension.

(Or something like that. I spent a great deal of time reading about this and writing one sentence similar to Rick’s abbreviated description is impossible. It’s fascinating, complex stuff, and I fool myself into thinking I “get it” until I read the next sentence. I have concluded I will never truly understand M Theory unless someone with several advanced degrees in the subject explains it to me, and the only reason they’d take the time necessary to do this is if they need a break between vigorous romps, and begin talking to distract me.)

My phone number is at the bottom of this story.

As neither of us are theoretical physicists, we take the subject in directions that relate to our lives, what we don’t know and want to know. One of us asks the “god” question - does it, if it, that sort of thing. I smile, imagining an actual physicist traveling with us, and his or her desire to smack us upside our plebeian heads. What would our imaginary guest think of the zealot I become on laundry day, when I stand proudly at the top of my steep basement stairs tossing dirty clothes down in handfuls, joyfully declaring, “I love gravity!” (I fell down similar stairs shortly after moving to New England and now have this weird thing about needing to be able to see my feet when I ascend/descend.)

My first unspoken reaction to the notion that something is amiss with gravity was, “It works for me.” Maybe he/she read Kurt Vonnegut’s novel, Slapstick: Or Lonesome No More!, and remembers one of the side-effects Earth’s recent problem with fluctuating gravity had on men.

The gravity is very light today. I have an erection as a result of that. All males have erections on days like this.

I’m sure manufacturers of erectile dysfunction medications would find someone to sue. I don’t think the plebeian head-smacker would be amused by my professions of love for gravity in its current state, nor fictional accounts of gravity gone wacky’s pleasant side-effect. However, if I’m imagining hitchhiking physicists, I might as well fantasize about one that likes us.

“Is this the exit?” Rick’s question interrupts my pre-dawn daydream and I wonder how much of our conversation I’ve missed. “Yes,” I say, aware of the sadness in my voice, as I give him the name of my airline and ask him to drop me off near the Check-In/Baggage kiosk. It takes less than 30 seconds for me to “unload” the car and it is time for awkward goodbyes. Rick says, “I’m glad you came out, Kid.” I don’t remember when he started calling me “Kid”, but notice he uses the nickname when he’s worried about me, misses me, or is sad to see me go. We’ve done this too many times. “Me too,” I reply, adding, “Should we hug for the cameras? You know, pretend we’re like those kids on TV, the normal ones comfortable with showing affection, like the Osbournes?” He smiles, gives me a quick hug, and launches into plans for my next visit. “The next Harry Potter’s coming out this summer,” he says, emphasizing his excitement by flashing two thumbs up like a gunslinger ready for the shoot out. Knowing how many times, while in his company, I have done the same exact thing, my heart begins to hurt. I keep the feeling to myself - too Little House on the Prairieish. “I know. It opens on July 13th,” I say with just a dash of bet-ya-didn’t-know-the-release-date neener-neenerism. He is my older brother. We used to fight over whose foot accidentally crossed over onto the other person’s sofa cushion - a clear violation of our peace treaty - and an immediate end to any negotiated cessation of hostilities. We did not fight fair. We fought to win.

“I love you and all that crap,” I say. “Yeah yeah. I love you, too.” He walks around the car, opens the door, and just before getting in says, “Don’t forget you still have 3lbs of ham in my freezer.” I groan. He holds up his hands, as clean as Pontius Pilate’s. “Hey, I did my part. I ate my share. Why she bought a 9lb ham for 3 people is God’s guess but you are still responsible for your portion. I asked you if you wanted turkey or ham and you said either was “fine”. I’ll have 3lbs of “fine” waiting for you in my freezer on July 13th.” Ouch. You win that round, big brother.

I’m still laughing when Rick gets in the car, starts the engine, and turns off the radio. The music’s off, the party’s over, time to leave. I turn away, not wanting to watch him drive off, leaving me to return to a home as temporary as a seat on a bus. The Clash’s “Should I stay or should I go now” a faint whisper in my mind. The possibility of a multi-dimensional universe makes me wonder if one of them accidentally sucked up my life’s compass. It’s a neat idea but a lame excuse. I am captain and navigator of this little life of mine, my map an uninhibited lover. Too often I pretend I’m lost when in reality I’m just lonely. I think about the sing-a-long station, what it means to belong somewhere I cannot live, knowing part of me will never feel quite right as I move from place to place, away from my family, and sigh. I know I must accept that there are things essential to me I cannot see and will never understand, influences powerful yet imperceptible, but that basically, when it comes to figuring it all out, I’m on my own. However, this does not mean I am without moments when not knowing pisses me off and I feel more like a ping pong than master of my destiny.

Something about this reminds me of the song playing on the radio when Rick began telling me about the M Theory, and the question that was never answered. I smile, silently applauding the cosmic prankster in charge of keeping me entertained. I am ready to return to what is home for now. Life is a wonderful mystery and I’ll keep mumbling through the parts of it I don’t know and singing a bit too loudly when I get to the parts that I do, but… If there are 11 dimensions and god does indeed exist in one of them, he “sure plays a mean pinball”.

(You didn’t really think my phone number would be down here, did you?)

Before a recent flight Rick was “randomly” pulled out of line and searched. His bag was wiped down with something that detects trace elements of certain powders/chemicals, and apparently, immediately informs the tester what was detected. After wiping the inside of his bag, the woman running the machine began calling out to her co-workers, “Has this machine been recalibrated since it was last used?” Turning to Rick, she smiled apologetically, “Your bag tested positive for TNT. I think there’s something wrong with our machine.” Rick, in a tone uniquely his - amused, somewhat sarcastic, condescending yet surprisingly endearing - said, “I don’t want you to tell me what my bag tested positive for. I want you to hit the little red button. I want the guys over there with the AK-47s to come over here and toss my ass to the floor while you call the police. I know I’m not the bad guy. You don’t. When the bad guy comes through your line, telling him what his bag tested positive for might set him off, literally.”

My brother, saving America from stupidity, one security specialist at a time.

    I learned to love men in the hour when I tried,

with all my strength, to be loved.

from The Book of Questions Volume I - The Book of Questions

As far as Muppets go, my heart belongs to Kermit. He’s easy-going, plays the banjo, has a bunch of really weird friends, and travels the country with a directionally-challenged comedian, Fozzie the Bear, in Fozzie’s uncle’s Studebaker. Kermit’s got ambition yet doesn’t push others out of his way to achieve his goals - just the opposite. He invites them along. The only thing I question (and it’s not a criticism but an observation) is his taste in the opposite sex. His girlfriend is kind of a bitch. But that’s something said about any female dating a nice guy - no matter how angelic, next to her love, the girl always comes off looking like a coiled viper ready to strike. (Except in this case - Miss Piggy really is a Bitch.) Kermit takes all her nagging, demanding, bullying and whining in stride. He’s this way with his crazy-ass friends too. He’s a good frog.

One of my favorite lines from The Muppet Movie (one of my favorite movies) is when members of The Electric Mayhem Band begin introducing themselves and Zoot forgets his name. Janice says, “Uh Oh, Zoot skipped a grove again.” Anytime I can’t remember something I am tempted to say this, though most people stare cross-eyed at me when I do, and anyone who’s never owned an actual vinyl record doesn’t get it.

My other favorite line is what Fozzie says to Kermit after they meet Gonzo and Gonzo tells them of his lifelong dream.

Gonzo: Well, I wanna go to Bombay, India and become a movie star.
Fozzie: You don’t go to Bombay to become a movie star. You go where we’re going–Hollywood!
Gonzo: Sure, if you wanna do it the easy way.
Fozzie: (to Kermit) We picked up a weirdo.

In grade school, my best friend and I (her name was Anne) sang the duet, Movin’ Right Along, so many times that our parents considered relocating without us. I was Kermit and she was Fozzie. There’s a part in the song where Kermit tells Fozzie to take a left at the fork in the road and when they get to it there’s literally a giant fork in the road. Kermit says, “I don’t believe that.” Years later (we were about 11 or 12), we went camping with her father and father’s friend. We traveled caravan-style, following behind the friend in his full-size Dodge Ram pickup truck (I believe he was a banker, so why the huge truck is anyone’s guess), winding our way through California’s dusty back roads. At some point the friend rolled down his window and flapped his hand, stopping us in the middle of the road. Anne’s father got out of our truck, walked to the passenger side door of the Dodge Ram and got in. After a momentary exchange of mutually confused looks, Anne and I amused ourselves for the next half-hour by singing a song about stinky socks we learned on the bus in Honor Choir. I believe it began with this delightful verse:

Your mama don’t wear no socks
A - Ding - Dong
I saw her when she took ‘em off
A - Ding - Dong
She threw them into the sky
A - Ding - Dong
Now Superman refuses to fly
A - Ding - Dong - Dong
Dinga - Ding - Ding
A - Ding - Dong - Dong
Dinga - Ding - Ding
A - Ding - Dong

Thoroughly pleased with our symphonic wit, we witnessed Mama throw her socks over a fence (and haven’t seen a cat there since), and all over the place, which unfortunately, knocked out the human race. Alas, poor Mama.

Eventually, Anne’s father got out of the truck and returned to us. Anne, suddenly joyless, asked him what was going on. He said, “There’s a fork in the road.” When Anne noticed his friend had started the Dodge Ram and was beginning to move forward she said with complete sincerity, “Isn’t he going to hurt his truck?”

Technorati Tags: Muppet Movie, Zoot, Janice, The Electric Mayhem Band

10:30 p.m. - Yawning, blurry vision, fuzzy thoughts. Preparations for bed begin.

10:50 p.m. - Face washed, teeth brushed, hair brushed and braided, favorite pjs donned, space heater turned on in frigid room, various computer whatits turned off and I am ready to tip tap my way into dreamland.

11:20 p.m. - 30 minutes of relaxation techniques not found in any of Oprah’s top 10 bestselling self-help books, and I’m depleted enough to pass out.

1:20 a.m. - Something wakes me up. It doesn’t matter what it is, although tonight I’m certain a group of neighborhood hooligans attempted to break into my car. My investigation of the crime scene yielded little evidence but I’d say my questionable methods are to blame. Turning on the back porch light, opening the door, and glaring intimidatingly in the general direction of suspected hooligans in my Oscar the Grouch pjs never yields the smoking gun you think it might.

1:30 a.m. - Return to computer. Turn back on various computer whatis. Glare disapprovingly at empty Inbox. Stumble cartoons for 20 minutes. Spend 10 minutes wondering how long I’ll hold out before I attempt to go back to sleep.

2:00 a.m. - Ponder life’s imponderables. Find a way to create lasting peace on earth. Quickly forget it - damn, should have written that one down.

Ponder my ponderables.

1. Where should I move?
2. What do I do when I get there?
3. Where the hell is the beginning?
4. I am happier now than I have ever been.
5. I really like number 4.
6. Things are about to get interesting.
7. When was the last time men blamed man for natural disasters? How did they punish those men? “If you don’t pray, it won’t rain.” “You didn’t have enough faith, that’s why it didn’t rain.”
8. It’s better to sleep alone than to sleep with a lie.
9. I don’t give up. I won’t quit. I won’t back down.
10. So much death, violence, and confusion. I listen and think I’m hearing a retelling of yesterday’s report - No. This is new. More bombings, more death in tens and dozens. Pick a place, fill in the names of the perpetrators and victims, shuffle them around, there will be more tomorrow.
11. I’ll go back to the beginning. Maybe we all should.

I couldn’t sleep, and when I slept
I dreamt of you.

The Ferris wheel ticket taker with crepe paper hands
her eyes as soft as your skin
and our fingers laced like shoe strings
in our shared carriage
that lifted us high above
everything we couldn’t master together.

Your dark eyes, and the way you looked at me
as I was waking up,
or the way I clung to you in my dream
my arms around your waist, face against the stomach
I kissed the summer before I left you.

I feel hollow, and slow, and I remember everything
I said to you that made you cry.

You are so lovely, always, in my dreams
as you were when I kissed you at the top of the Ferris wheel
and told you a joke that made you toss your head back,
laughing, the sun painting your face in a golden light
that made me want to promise you impossible things.

I find you now, when I fall asleep feeling sad,
when I’m not looking for you
as if you’ve come offering shelter, like you did when you found me
sitting on a barroom chair pretending I was old enough
and you whispered in my ear, and I was lost again, but yours.