The last time I saw Frank was a little over 13 years ago on the Vegas strip. Caesars Palace was the exact location, I believe. Or maybe it was Treasure Island. The details are fuzzy. Either way, it's fitting that our next meet-up occurred at nearly the exact same coordinates, only a few Vegas-blocks north on a spot of land which, back then, had been the grounds of the Desert Inn, but today is home to the Wynn/Encore towers.

Frank was one of my closest friends in college. We shared an apartment for two years. We had adventures. We made stories. Some of them we struggle to remember now. Others we try hard to forget. After graduation, Frank went to LA to work in the movie business. I spent the summer in DC interning at the Kennedy Center. By early fall, I still had no idea what I was going to do next. So instead of coming to terms with this reality, I did what any self-respecting escape artist with a penchant for the romantic would do: I took a cross-country road trip, sleeping in the bed of my truck, and charging the entire thing to my one-and-only credit card, on which some crazy bastard at one of our well-run banking institutions had recently given me a $10,000 spending limit.

So after travels through the Smokies and Texas, and an extended stay in New Mexico and The Grand Canyon, I turned up in Vegas with a German hitchhiker in tow. And Frank and I met up for a day of gambling (with limited funds) and dinner at the cheapest buffet we could find on the strip. Frank suggested I keep going on to LA and hang out at his place for a bit, and I wish I had done that. Because then it would have been a true "coast to coast" trip. And who knows what that fork in the road might have brought. I might have wound up with a career in porn and a nickname like "Ramrod." But I had already been traveling for about three or four weeks by that point, and the credit card was filling up fast, and I was starting to think maybe I should get back to my "real" life, whatever that was going to be. Plus, and I'm not proud to admit this, I think there might have been a girl on my mind. Christ. Isn't there always?

So we hung out for the day and then he went back to LA and I started my long trek back to DC, heading north on 15 through Utah and taking 70 through Colorado and the great flat farm country of Kansas. There's no way I would have believed you if you had told me I wouldn't see Frank again for another thirteen years.

We both have some gray hairs now, though I have quite a few more of them than Frank. And we dress nicer than we used to, mainly because we have women in our lives who are good at telling us what looks good on us. (Not plaid, it turns out.) But other than that, we are exactly the same. And it was really, really cool to hang out with him and his other friends this weekend for his bachelor party. I laughed harder this weekend than I have in a long time. It's a horrible cliche to say, but even though I hadn't seen Frank in 13 years, it felt like it was just yesterday. I think one reason people tend to express it this way is that they find there just isn't that need to "catch up." I mean, even though Frank and I chatted some about our lives and what had been going on, that wasn't what was important. Which isn't to say I don't care about those things, it's just that my friendship with him doesn't depend on "facts." It was just cool to hang out, drink, share some stories, exchange wisecracks, and look at women. (Don't worry Kelley, only I looked at women. Frank was a saint.)

CS Lewis nailed it when he wrote: "Friendship...is uninquisitive. You become a man's friend without knowing or caring whether he is married or single or how he earns his living. What have all these "unconcerning things, matters of fact" to do with the real question, Do you see the same truth?" I guess Frank and I see the "same truth," though I don't know if I would necessarily express it that way. I'm uncomfortable with the word "truth" and other forms of "absolutism," so I feel better calling it a "more-or-less shared philosophy." And an appreciation for the same jokes.

Also, I have to add that one of the great things that happens when one of my good friends gets married is I end up meeting a bunch of other people who I also really like. Because close friends of close friends have a way of getting along.

Of course, it didn't hurt that we were inebriated the entire weekend and that we started things off at a titty bar. That's some truth I can feel comfortable with.


(If you're interested, there are pics here.)

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Vegas  Friends 

As it turns out, I have a fear of drawers. God. It's so humiliating. I never thought it would come to this. I really didn't. But I should explain, so you don't get the wrong idea. Let's see...how to...Ah! Okay: When Honey is standing next to an open door and her tail brushes against it and it moves ever so slightly, she jumps about three feet out of her skin and assumes a stance like she's bracing for impact of a nuclear explosion. Ears back, tail between her legs. She doesn't pee, but it's not from lack of want. To her, it must seem that the door has suddenly taken life and begun to move on it's own accord, confirming her deep suspicion that inanimate objects, like her rope-toy for instance, are actually malevolent, supernatural life forms, just waiting to pray upon her, which is why she must take them down. Closet door movement, or kitchen stove door movement, or sliding freezer drawer movement, these all scare the bejeezus out of her. And she's chock full of bejeezus, man.

So I want to make clear, first of all, that my fear of drawers is NOT this kind of fear. They don't cause me to jump in fright. And I lose very little in the way of bejeezus when I see them. However, like Honey's fear, the root cause of my drawer phobia may indeed have something to do with a general uneasiness when it comes to magic and all things supernatural. Because the thing I can't get over is this: once I put something in a drawer or a file cabinet, that item essentially disappears. Not just from sight. But from existence.

I learned from an article I read in the NY Times recently that I'm the type of person who likes to have every document and paper within easy reach, and I don't like using file folders because "out of sight" is indeed "out of mind." It's why everything I'm working on tends to be out in plain view, either on my desk or on the floor around me. This way I can always see it.

On some level, I guess I've always known this about myself—that I need to be able to see things in order to remember they are there. I suppose it's why I've always resisted filing things in any sort of traditional way. The problem has to do with finding the document, or paper, or whatever it is, ever again. I should say, though, that some things are fine to file. Bills, for instance. I don't want to be reminded that bills exist. So putting old bills in a file cabinet is a perfect solution for them. Moreover, figuring out what to call the folder is pretty easy: "Credit Cards, 2008," or "Utilities, 2007" or "Mayonnaise Expenditures, 2004-2006," (those were wild years.)

Once you've labeled the folders, then you just stick those suckers in the file cabinet in some random way and even though you have no idea exactly where in the drawer the folder is, you're fairly sure it's in there and all you've got to do is be able to read the tabs you've marked in order to find it again...IF you ever need to find it again, which hopefully you won't.

But what about the stuff that doesn't lend itself to easy categorization? Where should I put the great New York Traffic Ticket of 2009, for instance? In a folder called "Traffic Tickets," perhaps? But does it really need to have it's own folder? Maybe I should stick it in the car maintenance folder. The car loan folder? The insurance folder, since this is where it will have the biggest impact? I'm usually overwhelmed by the choices at this point and I just opt for someplace on my desk.

You see? It's the fear, baby. The fear of drawers. The fear of putting things away and never finding them again.

Several years ago, I started using a "box" system. It's similar to the system the professional organizer advocates in the article I link to above. Which makes me feel very smart for having come up with it on my own, and like maybe I could make a career out of this. Or maybe not. In any case, my box system has allowed me to have catch-all bins where I can toss things without committing myself too deeply to a specific category. I labeled the four original bins "Do," "Done," "Keep," and "Biz." And recently I added two others: "Receipts" and "Medical." In general, anything that isn't easily fileable will fall into one of these conceptual categories. And even if my brain switches on itself and decides that a different category makes better sense for a particular item after I've already put it in one of the other boxes, there's still only six boxes to choose from and I at least know it's in one of them.

You might say—and you might be right—that this really amounts to the same thing as tucking it inside a file folder and sticking it in a drawer. But I think the difference is that the boxes are right there in front of me at all times. I can SEE them. And the labels are there staring back at me. There's comfort in that. And I can easily take a box down and rifle through it during moments of sheer panic, which is nice. And then when I'm done, I can just throw everything back in it and pretend the whole episode never happened.

Believe me, it's so much simpler this way.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Lifehack  Ho_Hum  Finances 

I had written down some things I wanted to talk about the next time we met. I had written them on a piece of paper, the kind you get from one of those glue-bound, square scratch pads. But not the kind that are sticky underneath, like post-its. Just simple paper. Three inches by three inches. And maybe three inches high, at least to start off. You know the kind of pad I'm talking about. They usually have some sort of corporate logo on them. But you don't know whose it is. Because you've forgotten how you've come into possession of the pad in the first place. Or why.

And none of this actually matters, anyway.

When I asked the girl at the counter for something to write on, she looked all around her, totally ignoring one of those pads I'm talking about, which was right there in front of her. I had to point at it. Then she made a face like Of course! and tore off the top piece from the pad and gave it to me. Funny how we overlook these ubiquitous pads, especially when we're looking for that one thing that can do exactly what they do so perfectly: provide a temporary blank slate to make possible the quick unleashing of an idea or the jotting of a bit of information.

And so I took my pen and I scribbled on the piece of paper three things as I climbed the stairs. So I wouldn't forget the feeling, and so I could describe them in a way that might make sense. So I could explain how and why. And that sometimes this shit scares me. I even numbered them...1, 2, 3.

But I lost the paper. And I've forgotten the three things. Like most of the stuff I care deeply about. Or couldn't give a shit about.

"And isn't that funny?" I say. "I can't tell the difference anymore."

"Maybe there is no difference," says Moses. "Why don't you tell her that."

link to this | comments (1) | File:  TheLine 

At the dog park in the Verdun neighborhood of Montreal, C and I watch Honey play with another crazy Pit. Tongues are out. Panting sounds. It's below freezing in April and my feet are cold and the Quebecois Pit can jump as high as my head. Honey keeps running over to me to ask me why all the dogs there are "talking funny." I say it's not polite to say things like that. I say just roll with it.

We chat with some regulars. An old lady with a deep voice tinged with too many cigarettes and a gruff Quebecois accent tells us that pretty soon a few other dogs will come and then it's time for all the others to leave. This doesn't really make sense to us, but it seems of great importance to the woman and we nod our heads.

The drive up had been rocky. We were hungry. Frazzled. We kept making stops for things. A New York trooper had given C a ticket in a stretch of highway that for no apparent reason had become a 55-mile an hour zone. And we had forgotten some things. And we were just tired.

But we had remembered quite a few other things. And that was good. And at the border, the customs agent smiled at us and wished us well. And now there was maple syrup in our stomachs, and tortiere, and all kinds of other food and beer and wine. And Honey enjoying a good romp around the muddy field, still saturated from melted snow.

And the worries we brought with us too melted, but still formed pools on the surface making it clear to us that a longer break was needed.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Weekend  Travel 

Hi. I am a brand.

On occasion, I write funny things.

Other times, I write things so I don't cry.

I will occasionally be honest.

I will occasionally lie.

And yet, I will never be insincere or falsely sentimental. (Though you may disagree.)

I will never write poetry, because I think poetry is a sham.

Mainly, though...I am just a brand.

Hello.

link to this | comments (12) | File:  Ho_Hum  Chewing  Blog 

There is forever a new set of words each day. We change them like pairs of shoes. And it's harder to hear them over all the other sets of words that make up this grinding sonic landscape. We chirp and croak in these public places we've come to inhabit, all loud and reeking, humid with hot-breathed irony. Hundreds of sincere people all practicing the same sardonic tone.

And if you stop for a moment and you're quiet and you just listen, you'll hear it—frogs in a pond, all going on about this thing we're thinking. Right now, at this moment. This minute. This second. The fat cricket on the cattail. Again. The uncomfortable temperature of the water. Again. What's the trend? What's the topic? Chances are somebody's done it. Chances are somebody's said it. But that's okay. It gives the topic weight. Substance. What matters is that you say it. Do it now, before it's too late! Nobody cares if you say it in a new way. Just rehash it. It's still you. Always you. Now look for the next thing. Because there's a certain see and be seen aspect to this stuff now. It's no longer about the voice. It's about being in the pond. And, holy crap man, you better be in the fucking pond. Because if you're not, what are we to make of you?

What, indeed?

The social Web is killing our voices, not empowering them. Killing style. Quality. The unique, the idiosyncratic, lost among all the others who are unique. And idiosyncratic. There is only the cacophonous symphony of isolated, anonymous frogs, croaking and lonely on our lily pads and just burping these things we've heard...whatever. Whoever. It doesn't matter. Hello? Echo.

We are at the same time more connected and more isolated. More aware of each other and less together. We stand among each other and tell the same jokes, endlessly. We speak at each other. We generate content. We build our fucking brand.

Oh, and have you heard? It's fashionable to be broken. And damn aren't we lucky, that?

Moses is sick of my bitching and carrying on. At Starbucks, he sips his coffee and taps his finger and looks out the window. He has cleaned up a bit. He wears dress slacks. A button up shirt. His hair is slicked back. He looks downright respectable.

"These things I do are kind of ridiculous," I say.

"Everything we do is ridiculous," he says. "So get on with it."

link to this | comments (4) | File:  TheLine  Chewing