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Then there's the whole problem of choice. Goddamit. We like to think having choices makes us happy. But we now know the great paradox about that, don't we? That the more choices we have, in general, the less happy we seem to be. Because there's the fear of making the "wrong" choice. And there's the regret that comes with making a bad one. And, of course, in a certain time and place, every choice can seem like a bad one. At root, I think is the illusion of control we like to maintain—that we have power over our lives and that our choices give us this power. That we determine our fate, in part, through the decisions we make. And shit, when you think of it like that, it's paralyzing, isn't it?

It's why I like to feel the burden of self-imposed boundaries. It's also why I like to be addicted to things. Because when you're addicted to things, when you set up boundaries for yourself, you remove the element of choice from your day. When you're operating under compulsion, you take away the risk of making the wrong decision. Because it's already been made. Long ago. And now you're just carrying through, brother. And I'm good at the carry-through.

Everybody sets up these boundaries for themselves. Some people call the construct of boundaries "religion." Some people call it "the law." Some people go green, or vegan, or organic, or sans gluten...or only the orange ones, daddy, only the orange ones. At root, though, they're all the same—huge constructs of self-imposed limits, of socially-shared burdens, which help people whittle down the decisions they have to make and at the same time feel like they're participating in something larger than their own isolated, random preference. If I believe I will be healthier by using all-natural shampoo and eating organic, free-range chickens that were raised on a farm where at least 15 percent of the diet is flies and all the people working there are left-handed, well that helps me decide which products among the hundreds out there I will pick up the next time I go to the store. And if other people share this belief with me, well that just reinforces my decision and helps me feel...right. Bonus. (Just to be clear, my shampoo ain't natural. But my chicken sure is organic and free-ranging, doncha know. I compromise on the left-handed thing.)

I listened to a great Radio Lab episode on choice recently. There was this story about a guy who, because of an injury to his brain, had lost the ability to experience emotion. And the gist of the thing was, hey, wouldn't this make him a better decision maker? If you think in terms of Star Trek, which I have to admit sometimes I do, this would be the equivalent of being a Vulcan. Without emotion, you'd be hyper-rational. And the usual logic, um...dictates...that this would allow you to be a better decision maker. Well the irony in the Radio Lab piece (and there's pretty much always an irony in Radio Lab pieces) was this: without emotion, this person actually lost the ability to make a decision at all. About anything. Because he was constantly rationalizing. Should he use the pen with the blue ink or black ink? Should he buy Grape Nuts or Wheaties...or the Honey Nut Cheerios? For a person who can only be rational, these seemingly simple decisions become impossible. And so he became paralyzed by them. It turns out we need emotion. Because in the end, some things can't be rationalized. In the end, we have to go with something.

Moses and I are grilling free-range chicken in my back yard. He spits in the grass and takes a drag on a fat cigar. Honey is next to us waiting for the drop of deliciousness that's sure to come.

"Maybe I suffer from a lack of emotion," I tell him.

"Maybe you're deciding not to choose," says Moses. "How's that working out for you?"

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Chewing  TheLine 

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."

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On my days off, I'd visit Juan. It was like my day at school. Because I was young and new to bartending. And Juan, who was a good ten years my senior, worked at one of the busiest Mexican cantinas in Dallas. He was, unequivocally, a bad-ass. And I felt like if I put in enough time observing him, that I too would be a bad-ass. So I'd drop in during happy hour and order an appetizer of chicken-spinach quesadillas. And Juan would hook me up with free margaritas because he knew I was good for it. And we'd talk about the business and I'd try to get him to tell me what made the margaritas there so damn good. But he was tight-lipped about that shit, and I respected him for it.

It's going to sound like hyperbole for me to say this, but Juan was a great bartender. He was, perhaps, the greatest bartender, at least for the type of place where he worked. And in the buzzing hurricane of that restaurant on a Friday or Saturday night, he was the calm absence of wind at the center. People standing five deep at that small bar, Chopper rumble all around in the warm Texas air, the service well ticking off orders from the floor, the flicking of bottle caps, the pouring of drinks, the placement of limes, the thwap-thwaping of dollar bills, the clinking of change—little snapshots of action taking place outside the context of time.

It's difficult to explain what exactly made him great. You could point to how he would hold the arch of a tequila pour in the air with the bottle high above it, keeping it all suspended there for a second, frozen in place, and then bringing the whole thing back, like a film wound in reverse, double speed, cutting off the pour with a snip and dropping the bottle back in the well. Then the click of the metal tumbler on glass, a twirl, before pouring it through a salted rim. You could point to that. And that would be part of it. Or you could point to more abstract things, like a correctly-placed smile to the right girl. Because even though he had a bit of a spare tire and wasn't some tall, handsome stereotype of good-looking-ness, he had the charm, and the girls would flirt with him. So yeah, you could point to that, and you'd be partially right.

But I guess if I had to peg it down, I would say the thing that made him a "great" bartender had something to do with the fact that he was always aware of what was going on at his bar, and he always knew what he was going to do next. And here's the key: when he did it, he did it in such a way that it didn't call attention to itself. It would happen, and then only afterwards you would realize, oh ... that just happened. Because he didn't move in a way that was calculated or deliberate. He didn't seem to be thinking about it. And most likely, he wasn't.

Watching instinct and muscle memory in action is a funny thing. They behave differently than premeditation, and carefully considered, conscious movement. And you can see the difference when you watch people who are good at what they do. Something takes over their presence. A sort of voodoo happens. You know it when you see it. And you know when you don't see it. And that's about all you can say about it. Instinct, muscle memory—combined with knowledge, they lead to an ability to improvise. And that's when you know you're watching something unique and remarkable. We tend to speak of this sort of thing when we talk about musicians and artists, but we don't always bring it up when we talk about everyday professions.

But it's there.

Do this: put a bottle of beer on a rubber bar mat and take a flat-style bottle opener and, without holding onto the bottle with your free hand, snap the cap off of it. Do it as quick as you can. Just lift that sucker off with one quick motion. It's doable, but not easy. And you'll look awkward doing it. And you'll probably knock the beer over on your first couple of attempts. Now, try this: with your free hand, try pouring a drink while the other hand opens the bottle. Knocked anything over yet? I think the first time I knew Juan was "great" at what he did, was when he did this. He was in the middle of pouring a drink, and as he held the pour with one hand, he took his opener out of his back pocket with the other, popped the caps on a couple of Corona bottles. Then he stuck the opener back in his pocket as he finished the pour, the caps clapping on the floor at his feet, the bottles just standing there on the mat, frozen in place, like a couple of stone pillars. It had been so effortless, non-calculating. He didn't think, I will pour this drink while I open these bottles. He just did it. And the expression on his face—that was part of it, too. Nonchalant, he didn't expect to be congratulated or anything. Part of what made it cool was that he did it all. But most of what made it cool was how he did it. And the fact that there was some doubt in my mind as to whether or not he even consciously knew he had done it.

I'm going to sound pretentious and haughty saying this, but I'm going to say it anyway, because I really don't think I sound pretentious and haughty nearly enough these days: if you sit at enough bars, you'll notice that the vast majority of bartenders really shouldn't be there. They don't really understand the job, and the truth is they don't really care. And most of them get by just fine that way. Because in general, we don't really care, either. We don't expect a lot from our bartenders. We just need bartenders to pour our drink and do it in the least amount of time possible. Also, the drinks we order, in general, are no-brainers. As a result, old-style bartenders who know "real" cocktails are on the decline. When we do find a bartender who knows a bit more, or who goes above and beyond, we're pleasantly surprised maybe, but we don't give it more thought than that. We don't necessarily want or need our bartenders to be "professionals" anymore.

But the problem isn't just that we expect less. It's also the fact that most establishments seem to care more that their bartenders are sexy than whether or not they're any good at what they do. As a result, you tend to find a lot of bartenders who think being professional means being beautiful and having attitude. They think it's those things that make them a bad-ass. I'm all for having attitude. Sometimes it can be important, as a means to an end. But it's not an end in itself. Also, I'm all for being beautiful, but if I wanted to have those people pouring my beer, with their cleavage and manicured nails everywhere, I'd go to Hooters or a just skip the pretense altogether and visit a titty bar. Frankly, I'd much rather somebody like Juan serve my drinks. The pros, the ones who seem to have nothing to prove, who wipe out your ashtray before you even realize it, who pay attention to your pace and who know even before you do that you'll want another drink or that you're finished, who can carry on a conversation while holding down the bar, who make their presence known by the fact that you never really need to ask them for anything, they're the ones operating on instinct and an understanding of the game. And they're increasingly hard to find.

Okay. Pretentious and haughty diatribe over. Back to your regularly scheduled programming ...

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Game_Theory  Dallas  Chewing  Art 

Sometimes this spot—the one on my glasses, the right lens—sometimes, it doesn't bother me that much. But sometimes, like right now, it's all I can see. And I have to cock my head back in an abnormal way in order to get it out of my line of sight. It's not a spot that I can just rub out, either. So maybe spot is a bad word for it. Because spot might imply something akin to gunk or a smudge. Like the sort from a greasy finger that's been dipping into the chunks of rotisserie chicken treats in a coat pocket. (Canine motivation.) Or spots, plural, might indicate the things you get from a fine mist or drizzle. And it's not like either of those things, really. It's more like a chink in the lens. Like the lens connected with something hard and sharp and it just put...well, a goddamned chink in it, you know? Or a dent. Maybe that's the word. Either way, it's not a spot. I shouldn't have called it that.

Look, I'm sorry for saying spot.

I hope you know, I don't go around using words like that all willy-nilly. I should have thought about it more carefully.

I was just sitting here thinking about that and looking out over Baltimore Harbor at the smokestacks. Just thinking about what a glorious shithole this town is, and listening to the strung-out woman across the street screaming at the hard-candy mess stuck to her shoe, an unlit cigarette butt glued to her dry, brown lips. Her hair, an elaborate straw roost for all matter of the hinky.

And just screaming, brother. Screaming with an anger and a crazy. Screaming the bloody murder bellow of a sanity shredded and tossed to the fire.

This is Charm City, and there are demons here. Believe. In the neighborhood corner bars. The cobblestone streets of Fells Point. The pink flamingos of Hampden. And I've come two-hundred miles just to commune. Because despite the gangrenous streets filled with the feet filth frenzy, something about this place seems right and holy. And if you put your ear to the ground you can hear it. You can smell it. Among the brick scum and the shit. An inspiration. These are the right demons, brother. These are the demons Poe knew.

"When there's a spot on your conscience, everything else is clouded by it," I say. "And it doesn't go away, no matter how much you scream at it."

"It's not a spot," says Moses. "It's a chink. It's not supposed to go away. Dig?"

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

Of course, there's the whole issue of balance. I'm sure part of the problem has to do with that.

Some people go along doing this one thing. Because that's what they've decided they will do. And other things are secondary to the one thing and they're treated like secondary things should be treated. Because they are less important. Or maybe not. Maybe they're important, too. It's just that sometimes you've got to make a sacrifice for the one thing, you know? It's right. And proper. It's one of the things I admire about circus performers.

I tend to treat the secondary things like the one thing. But because the one thing is what it is—the one fucking thing—I never really put it away. I can't put it away. So, the whole time I'm doing the other thing, the one thing is still there. I just carry it around and do tricks with it and flip it like an empty beer bottle. It's all about show. And looking cool. But there's no real substance to it. Not like the man on the wire who juggles the fire batons. That takes talent.

Then I remember—holy shit!—there's this other other thing. You know? Like a second other thing. And I wanted to do that thing, too. And so I put the one thing in my back pocket and the first other thing, well, I stick that through my hair like a pencil. Or a syringe. And with it safely tucked away, I work on the third thing for a while. And there are various clangs and dings and tweets. Then this fourth thing comes along and, wow, that thing looks interesting and it's really something I'd like to do. So I balance the third thing on my forehead and I look down the bridge of my nose at the fourth and, you know, maybe I should save the fourth thing for later. Maybe I'll just stick that right ... and that's when I realize—fuck-it-all!—how long has this thing been in my back pocket? Goddammit! I've been ignoring the one thing again.

And it goes along like this. And it allows me to maintain a dependable feeling of alarm, which I've grown accustomed to. And it also leads to a state in which I'm never quite able to forget and I'm never quite able to remember. I'll call this state, "barely functional."

I know what Moses would say. Something about priorities. Something about doing what you've got to do. So I don't bring it up with him. Because I don't need to hear that shit.

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

Moses has been showing up at the dog park lately. He wears a hoodie over layers of other clothes. His face is all eyebrows and a beard the color of road snow. We talk about the economy. He says things like, "When you're an architect, nobody wants to put you on retainer." I nod my head. I have been an architect. Of Web, of stories, of drinks. Nobody wants to put me on retainer, either. Moses speaks a lot of truths, and I like listening to him talk.

He brings Oliver with him—a bounding, white Labradoodle. When Moses wants Oliver to poop, he says, "Mooshy, mooshy, mooshy!" I like that. Honey poops when I say "Business." Now, that seems boring. I wish I had trained her with something more fun. Something like ... "Tucumcari."

Like Honey, Oliver has a lot of energy. But Honey is much faster. She's always beating him to the ball. But she lets him get it, anyway. It's because Honey likes older men. She listens to them. She follows them around. And she'll eventually let them win at games of chase. It's the girls her age she likes to antagonize. She never lets them win at anything. And she barks at them relentlessly. She's alpha to the core.

We like to meet there in the morning, Moses and I, while the temperature is still in the teens. It's mostly quiet then. It's good when there is a fresh snow and it's still white and powdery, before there are footprints in it, and before it's turned to the crunchy, icy stuff. We throw our tennis balls and the dogs fetch them and our fingers get numb in the sharp morning air. We make the first footprints in the snow, and we construct the day. And this is about as real and important as it gets.

"There's no real blueprint out there for how to do this thing," I say.

"Then you need to make one."

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

Last week, untroubled, drinking Irish-whiskey lethe, forgetting words as soon as they were spoken and not really minding, I thought it would be easy to go where I intended to go. But sometimes arriving in a good place means going to a lot of other places first. And you just have to wait that shit out, brother. And sometimes waiting that shit out is worth it. Sometimes it's the best part.

So I went outside in the morning dark. The town already wide awake, excited, true. Like the quick intake of breath. Like the root and the stir. Like the clutch of a tongue-tied pinky swear. And packed purposefully into layers of clothes, I went chasing the down and the din.

And in those moments—before, during, after—I think we all found ourselves in the place we had gone searching for. And that was the place we wanted to be.

Today, I start the early things. The bedroom air is cold. By the bed, Honey tumbles over herself and makes morning sounds. Snorts. Collar clangs. She paws at my hands. She pulls herself across the berber carpet on her belly. As I put on socks and crocks, she angles for a tummy rub. I give in. We go downstairs and outside and then return and I put food in the bowl and she eats it.

And then, a switching on: of breakfast, of coffee, of radio. I stir up the grits. I try to stir up the living things. C is showering upstairs. Then her footsteps. Then her lips touching mine goodbye.

The heater begins it's loud surge from the night's off, pushing warmth through the vents. The oven hisses and I stand near it and look out the window. Outside it is all hard and freezing and beautiful. I click in the button on the espresso machine. I listen. I wait. I breath.

Moses thinks there's no such thing as arriving someplace you didn't intend. He says you find what you seek. He says it's that freakin' easy. I tell him I hope he's right. That there's a lot that's good here. But there's a lot I miss. And a lot I just don't get.

He thinks I will. He says he has a good feeling about me. But I'm not sure.

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Right now, I have several pairs of wearable jeans. But not one of them is my favorite. My favorites all have big holes in them. And that leaves me with no old standby to wear to anything that isn't a Poison concert or my monthly Grunge Club social. Even then, it's really just too cold to wear these swathes of denim. So instead, I wear one of The Others.

The Others are okay, but they ain't my favorites. They've survived this long because they're not. Something about them doesn't set quite right with my ass. And my ass objects to this.

There is still one pair, though. A little high in the ankles, but good for the house. Speckled with paint and dried things I can't discern. In these, I do the dishes with headphones on. For some reason, this activity helps me focus. I need more things in my life to help me focus. Because I'm horribly unfocused these days.

Smoking is another activity that used to help me focus. I think because it helped me remember I was going to die. And made now seem more urgent. This was always a double-edged sword for me. I don't smoke anymore. And now never seems very urgent.

My todo list has fifteen items on it. I have to add "read [insert title of current book I'm reading here]" as a todo item. Otherwise, I won't do it.

Writing is not on my todo list, because I will do that whether I put it there or not. But methinks I should add it to the todo list. That way, after I've done it, I'll feel something other than blinding futility.

Blinding Futility would be a good name for a rock band. Much better than Poison.

Last week, I remembered that I could delegate things. And this made me happy. And optimistic.

Optimism has been elusive lately. She hides in shady back alleys. And cavorts with men much tougher than me. Men who probably own several pairs of favorite jeans. All of which probably set right with their asses.

For the most part, I've stopped frequenting shady back alleys. Because I no longer carry a shank. Which is sort of tragic, really. I have been known to carry a flask, though. And I guess that's something.

Before going to bed, Honey will often set her bone on an object of mine—a book on the floor by the bed, or a shoe, or a sock. I'm not sure what it means, but I like to think it's got something to do with love. Last night, she dropped it on a pair of my jeans. She probably didn't know or care that they weren't my favorites.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Writing  Honey  Chewing 

Out of all the things I lose each day—my keys, my hat, my sweater ... my sobriety, my dignity—the thing that bothers me the most is a lost voice. And I'm not talking about a spell of the hoarseness, though that can indeed be dreadful awful stuff. I'm talking about the hollow ache of a flow turned trickle, like the belly of the Queens Midtown tunnel early on a Sunday morning.

Losing the voice is worse than losing the story.

But finding the voice—oh, finding the voice!—it's like the secret taco-heaven handshake.

It's like the smooth sake, chilled and overflowing into a box, and served up with ancient Japanese tradition, deep inside the pounding, underground decibel heartbeat. Twice.

It's like the Manhattan skyline from Queens at 7 am Sunday morning, strong and irrefutable and painted purple and orange by the crusty-eyed sun, the buildings holding quiet communion with the East River. Both oblivious to your hangover. Both entirely unsympathetic. Nonplussed.

These things swirl and steam and spit. And for a second I can see it: The great delivery mechanism. The burping, bubbling well of raw shit spewing.

And it occurs to me that I need to do more of this in 2009—Connect with old friends. Pursue old interests. Re-examine old careers. Discover places that remind me of the old places, like my new favorite bar in Brooklyn. And sometimes doing these things can bring back the voice.

People often take change to mean doing something new, especially during this time of year. Finding new passions, new places, new people, new loves. And all that can be good and positive and meaningful. I'm not knocking new.

But sometimes it's simply about finding a few old things you lost. And remembering why you felt so good about them in the first place.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  NY  New_Year  Chewing  Brooklyn