Display by Label: Favorites

The book says that accidents will happen with these puppy creatures, but I had no idea how quickly the shit would drop. Literally. On my kitchen floor. It took all of twenty minutes for that first turd to fall. And it really fell, flat and hot and reeking like something dishonest, on the dog's water bowl. Dog's aren't supposed to crap on their own water bowl, are they? Don't they know about not shitting where they eat? I have to assume that normally she would not have considered this option. But this wasn't a normal time for her. And in the altered mental state she was in—still a bit out of sorts from having just been spayed a day earlier, and now finding herself in a strange home after a strange ride in a strange truck with a strange guy sporting a strange goatee on his strange face—for her, up was down, right was left. Water bowl was poop depository.

I accept the blame, because I didn't appreciate just how finely-tuned an instrument was the puppy digestive system. The book does indeed say that when a puppy eats, it will immediately need to poop. But I figured "immediately" meant, you know, something reasonable. Like within a half-hour. Turns out pups are supremely unreasonable. And immediately ... means immediately. If food goes in, poop is going to come out. It's actually kind of beautiful in its simplicity, when it isn't happening in your kitchen.

Anyway, for this pup, disoriented and maybe a bit scared, if poop was going to come out, it might as well go in the water bowl. I think this is why I have always been a cat person. I don't care what altered state of mind a cat is in, or how scared it might be, or if she happens to be riding the crest of a blue-fuzz, anus-tingling pot (catnip) high, that cat won't be shitting in her water bowl. Under the bed, maybe. Or behind the sofa. Or in the closet. But not in the bowl. Lord no. Not a cat. That would be barbaric.

Let me back up a bit ... I was supposed to pick the pup up around 4 pm on Tuesday. Thinking ahead, I had asked the foster parent not to feed the pup her afternoon meal so that she'd have an empty stomach for the ride home. The book informed me that this was a good idea. The book is full of good ideas. And we're going by the book. But it's impossible to remember everything you've read in this book. Because it's full of the kind of detailed information that only somebody who has raised dogs all his life could possibly absorb. For this reason, we have a backup book, to clearly outline the basics. Even with these two books, I can tell it's not going to be enough. Because knowledge washes over you—as knowledge is apt to do—slowly, like one of those energy-saver light bulbs that are so popular these days. It takes a second to heat up, but then it burns strong and bright.

See, I remembered the food-in, shit-out rule. I did. I just remembered it a moment too late.

When the pup and I got home, I took her right outside to pee in her pee spot. Then I showed her around the house. Then I fed her. Check. Check. Check. Man, going by the book is easy. If I keep on like this, there won't be any accidents and the dog will be potty trained tomorrow! Idealism is such a neat trick our minds play on us.

I texted C:

Got home. She peed outside. I showed her the house and she's eating. I wasn't sure how much to give her.

I sent that message and watched her eat a little while. Then I started another text message. I've still got the incomplete message in my 'Drafts' on my phone. It begins like this:

She cried a lot in the truck ...

See the ellipsis at the end there? That wasn't actually part of the message. I added that in. It marks the exact moment when I looked up to discover this pretty pup, so cute and cuddly, squatting over her water bowl and taking a dump. As the book tells one to do in situations like this, I did not scold her. I just raised my voice. I intended it to sound strong and confident and alarming. Like this: Ahhhhh!! But I think it came out sort of questioning and confused, tinged with a bit of plea. Like this: Ahhhhh?!? Are you kidding me?!? I just lifted her up and took her outside. Once there, she promptly set to work not shitting. Instead, she decided this was a perfect time to hop around in the grass and look cute and play and do just about everything else but expel poop from her butt.

I brought her back inside and went to work cleaning the bowl. I'm not sure how many fractions of a second transpired upon re-entering the kitchen before another round of poop, this one more explosive and terrible and foul, began flowing out of this innocent-looking puppy's ass onto the floor.

The book says when you clean up puppy poop you should make sure the pup doesn't see you do it. Otherwise, she might come to think of you as her maid.

Probably some more good advice. But once again, too late.

I canceled the text I had been composing to C and began a new one:

PLEASE BRING ODOR NEUTRALIZER.

So ... in case it's not clear already, C and I have a new pup. And her name is Tawny, for her color. She's half German Shepherd and half Pit Bull. (A little heavier on the Pit Bull.) Her story is that she was rescued several weeks ago from a crack house somewhere in Plainview, NY, where she was living with her sisters and brothers underneath a porch. She and all her siblings were taken in by the good folks at All Star Pet Rescue in Linden, NJ, where they remained for the last several weeks until C and I saw her photo on the Internets and got all mushy-hearted over her. She's only eleven weeks old, so she's got a lot of growing yet to do. She has pretty eyes and a beautiful coat and she's really very smart (aside from that water-bowl pooping incident, which we won't bring up ever again.) She fetches balls (and kongs) like a pro, and one out of three times, if she's not too distracted, she'll sit when prompted. (Actually, this might be completely accidental.) Her favorite thing in the world is to sit on my lap and chew a bone.

We have commenced the crate training, so hopefully she'll be house-broken in the next three weeks. That's also around the time she'll get her final round of shots and can go out and explore and meet other dogs in the neighborhood.

The book says she should be getting lots of human contact right now. But that's been sort of a problem since we don't know too many people here yet. So hopefully this doesn't mean she'll be afraid of visitors. Since she was rescued at such a young age, she probably didn't inherit any emotional or psychological trauma from her poor, early living conditions. And that's really great. Because it means I have a clean slate upon which to instill my own neurosis and powerful psychological baggage. Yee-haw!

UPDATE: We've changed her name to Honey. Tawny just wasn't working.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Honey 

You'd think that on its second mow, a brand new mower would be hungry to eat some grass. You'd think it would just be getting warmed up.

Apparently, my mower decided it had had enough of this grass-cutting shit. It died on me yesterday.

My neighbor, Ax (not his real name), was outside later that evening and I walked over to our fence to tell him my bad news. He and I are establishing a relationship not unlike the one between Tim and Wilson on Home Improvement. I'm Tim. Things tend to break when I get my hands on them. I go to him seeking consolation and advice. He's Wilson. He's older and wiser and he just knows shit. And dammit he's got a great freakin' lawn.

Ax also owns a classic muscle car, which he showed me the first day we met. I have to admit, it's pretty sweet. And shiny. Ax works on it in his free time. Also, he drives a Ford F-350 4x4, a truck that continually lobs taunts over at Remington from Ax's driveway. Damn bully trucks. The only thing that's a little pansy-ass about Ax is he's got two Dachshunds. I mean one would be unfortunate. But two is tragic.

As I walked over to Ax, the two "dogs"—a term I use loosely—greeted me as they always do, with furious barking and yipping. Have you ever seen a Dachshund when he's furious? It's kind of like when real dogs are being playful. Because of the commotion, Ax didn't hear me too well when I said, "My mower died." I could tell by the expression on his face and the way he said, "I'm so sorry" that he had misunderstood me. So I bent down and offered the dogs my hand to sniff, which shut them up. Then I said, no not my mother, my mower. God, who walks up to his neighbor, who he's only known for a couple of months, and says with a sort of flabbergasted, aw-shucks, can-you-believe-it atttitude, "guess what, my mother died." Nice weather we're having, isn't it? He must have thought I was crazy. Oh well, it won't be the last time for that. He'd better get used to it.

So I'm not sure if I set a record for killing a lawn mower, but I was going to look into it. I brought it back to Fred, who doesn't seem like so much of an angel to me anymore. He went to start the thing, only to find that the pull-chord wouldn't budge. Like I said, it was fed up. He admitted that this definitely seemed a little fishy. "But don't worry about a thing!" he said. He would figure out what was going on and I wouldn't have to pay for a thing. He's damn right I'm not paying for a thing. It's a Toro. And I bought it last week, remember? I wasn't worried about paying for things. But I do want to get up all this thatch I raked up the other day so that I can get some seed and fertilizer on the lawn before it rains this weekend. I'm on a time crunch, here Fred. I can't deal with mowers that die on me on the second mow, brother.

So if I find out more bad news today, and I can't get my mower back, I'm going to ask Fred for a replacement. And if that one dies, then I'll know God is pissed at me for last week's post. Maybe I should go ahead and apologize now.

link to this | comments (11) | File:  Oogah  Lawn  House  Grunt  Remington 

One thing you learn when you're self-employed and working from home is that it is entirely possible to wear the same brown, zip-in-the-front sweater every day for two weeks straight and not offend anybody. Not even yourself. Oh, you still change the t-shirt underneath, of course. On a daily basis. Because you're no animal, after all. But the sweater? The jeans? The footwear? Why change them? Who are you trying to impress? The mail carrier? Who is she to judge? She wears the same thing everyday, too. The bottom line is nobody knows. Because all of your "face-to-face" conversations take place via the phone, and while you have a very real appearance to yourself in the mirror, your appearance to the five people conferencing with you on a Friday morning at 8 am from different parts of the US is completely imaginary. To these people, your state is forever fixed in their consciousness, and you are always, at any given time, sitting in front of your computer, beneath an array of florescent lighting, wearing business casual, and sipping from a coffee mug that says, I hate Mondays or You want it when?! They don't know that only seconds ago you were putting the garbage out and that currently you're lying on your back doing some stretches on the berber carpet in your spare room while they go on about whether or not the icon looks better on the right or left, or if a certain word or phrase requires quotation marks around it. And you probably should care about these things. But you don't. And now you're throwing a squishy ball at the ceiling. Or watching the Obama speech in Philly (muted of course). Or applying some apricot jam to a gluten-free biscuit which you made earlier that morning. And suddenly you come to your senses and realize that—god-dammit—all this time you've been on this call, and your coffee cup has been empty. So you place it in your palm and weigh it there and regard its cold, vacant interior with sadness, and then you shuffle into the kitchen to make another cappuccino while the voices continue through your earpiece. And in the kitchen, you mute the phone, and you use this time you have to yourself to reflect upon your life and contemplate the finer details of this existence you've chosen. And, in that moment, it occurs to you that perhaps you've grown unhealthily attached to your blue, paint-speckled crocs. Because you actually noticed this morning that you felt uneasy and scared at the thought of putting on real shoes. And your reluctance to take off those crocs to do the normal things people do—like shower, or sleep—could be an indication that things are getting a little out of control. And, okay, you do take them off for those activities. But you have a suspicion it's only because your wife is there. And you don't want to alarm her.

And while the espresso machine pushes the silky brown stuff into your cup and your phone is on mute and the people on the other end are continuing to talk and talk, you gaze outside. And you realize that it's quickly becoming spring out there. And pretty soon you're going to need to get that lawn thing figured out. Because where you come from, men take their lawns seriously. And there's this whole business of laying down mulch and, well, when exactly should that happen? And then there's the lawnmower you need to purchase. And the trimmer. And probably a leaf-blower would be useful—even now, even in spring—to get rid of the leftovers from last year that are under your deck. And come to think of it, you should really get a rake. And some fertilizer and a fertilizer application device. And you'll store all of this in the empty shed out back. Or rather, the shed you hope is empty. Because you've yet to look inside of it. And that's probably something you should have done by now. But every time you've thought to do it, there's been a river of ice or water between your house and it. And so you've figured it's not going anywhere, and you'll take a look inside when the time comes. And maybe now that time has come. Because you do live in Soprano country. And sheds are great places to store a great many things, not just lawn equipment. And the more you think about it, the more daunting it seems. And maybe it's best to just keep it closed up. And to not deal with it. And maybe somehow spring won't actually come this year. And the lawn won't grow. And you can just keep the shed empty—in your mind.

And just then a question comes your way from over the phone line, interrupting your quiet lawn musings. It seems your opinion is requested. So you de-mute. And you tell the phone—and hopefully the people on the other end of it—what you think. And there's no response, and you realize that people aren't picking up what you're laying down. And it's not even that what you said was all that technical. It's just that you're the "technical guy," and people's eyes tend to glaze over and their ears go all deaf when you start uttering phrases. Because even though it's these people's jobs to deal with things like Web sites, and to sit on committees to help populate them with content, they refuse to learn the language necessary to talk about them in any meaningful way. And so you find yourself using words and speaking in tongues that you haven't used since 2001. And that whole plea of "I'm not that tech savvy, so you'll need to explain this to me in laymen's terms" is one you've heard uttered hundreds of times, but this particular time, you want to reach through the phone and shake them and say, "All I'm talking about here is an email form and when you click "submit" it emails the information you entered to another person! I'm not asking you to program the thing, just to imagine it on the site!" And you consider asking this person if not knowing how to bake bread from scratch or slaughter a pig means they don't know how to talk about a ham sandwich. But then you think better of it and you patiently repeat what you said in a different way. And there's a silent pause and then somebody suggests that we get Bob on the phone. Because Bob is technical. And he'll understand. He'll understand the concept of ... an email form. But you don't get upset, because you've had this conversation before, a million times actually, and chances are, at the rate you're going, you'll have it again. And so you take a sip of your coffee beverage and you eye the Dewars and wonder if 8:30 in the morning is too early for "Happy Hour."

If you look closely at the backyard of your soul, you'll find a shed. And it's something you've gazed at a million times before and it's always remained closed and mysterious. And surrounded by ice. Familiar, but strange. Holding so much promise, but surrounded by challenge and danger. You think you may have a key to it somewhere, but you're not really sure where it is, and even if you found it, you're not sure you want to know what's inside. Because it could be something you're not ready to find, and then you'll have to deal with whatever it is that's in there. And if there's nothing? If it's empty? An entirely different problem. The potential to do the wrong thing, or worse, to do the right thing poorly. And so even though the ice is melting and the opportunity is ripe to go out and see what you can do in this new place, the temptation is to stay in these other rooms you've occupied, and walk in your crocs in the well-worn paths that connect one room to the other. Until you wake up one morning and realize that safe is another word for dead. And pretty soon there'll be a lawn growing around you whether you want it to or not.

Rebirth. Renewal. It's happening, brother. And you're missing it. And another couple years of this and you'll be in the weeds. And you won't even be able to see the shed. And the other paths will be that much more worn. And it's only going to get harder to tread someplace new.

And it's time, brother—it's time to figure this thing out.

So you hang up from your call and you go upstairs and you put on a different sweater. Because you have to start somewhere. And tomorrow maybe you'll take on the shed.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Weather  Chewing  Work 

After a post I made last week in which I linked to HH's blog (careful: adult content), a couple of you wrote to point out that one of the men HH refers to on her site is named "Dave" or "David" and holy crap what's up with that ... Dave? What's C going to think? First of all, let me just say that if I were having an illicit email relationship with a woman, posting a link to that woman's blog from my very public blog, which is read by a good percentage of my friends, a few family members, and—most importantly—my wife, probably wouldn't be a very smart thing to do. That said, you're absolutely right not to put it past me. Because I weren't always known for my smartness.

But look, here's the real point: if I were having an affair with a woman—a heated, sexy-email type of a thing like the one described on HH's blog—I would see to it that under no circumstances would she call me "Dave." I mean, how plain. I'd have to insist on "Ramrod" or "Bronco" or "Meat" or something equally virile.

To clarify, HH was the first person to say "hi" to me after I joined a Ning group called Thirty Something Bloggers (a group which, by the way, I'm increasingly finding should be called "Thirty-Something Female Bloggers.") We had an exchange over ... grits. And even though, as you can imagine, it's extremely difficult to steer clear of sexual innuendo when you're talking grits, I think we kept it pretty tame. I didn't even share with her my fantasy of bathing in grits while watching live grit-wrestling on TV. See?

Curiously, C never once questioned me about HH. Which cuts to the truth of the matter: she knows exactly how improbable it is, this idea of me having an affair. Which is why I thought about letting this one sort of hang out there and leaving a little shadow of a doubt for people. Because for me, people thinking I'm having an affair is a little like people thinking John McCain is having an affair: It seems so unlikely, that it's almost kind of nice for people to think it could be true, if for no other reason than it means people think you're somebody that somebody else would have an affair with. And that kinda makes you want to give people high-fives or something, not publicly deny it.

But back to C ... don't worry about her. I actually have a feeling she might like me to have an affair. That way she'd have somebody with whom she could commiserate, perhaps while the two of them shop for shoes or something.

link to this | comments (15) | File:  Ho_Hum 

It was fitting that I was in Montréal the day Oscar Peterson died. It's weird, because I've actually discovered a number of interesting parallels between my life and the life of my favorite piano player. Of course, there's the obvious one in that we both loved the piano. (Though there is an entire universe of difference between what he heard and produced with that instrument and what I hear and produce with it.) But here are a few other similarities: Peterson was born and got his start in Montréal, which is a city that, for an entirely unrelated set of reasons, has become dear to my heart in the last 10 years. Peterson's birthday was the same as my mom's (though he was many years her senior.) He lived the latter part of his life in Mississauga, Ontario which is where C was born. He had a life-long interest in photography (Quicktime Movie). And get this, he was a freakin' blogger, which is something I only recently discovered. How cool is that?

And you might say: Come on Dave, these are just coincidences. Millions of people, for one reason or another, love Montréal. And so what if he had the same birthday as your mom. Or that he blogged. A lot of people blog these days. A lot of people enjoy photography. Don't you think it's a stretch to call these things "life parallels?"

Well, maybe . . . okay, okay . . . probably. I mean, yes, I hear what you're saying. But I've always believed there are no coincidences in life. That lives cross, planets align, systems spin . . . because they were meant to. And if given the chance, things will ultimately come full circle. But this post isn't about all that . . . well, not outwardly, anyway . . . though, in a way, I kind of think . . . well, isn't every post about that in one way or another? Okay. Sorry. Enough.

Let's focus on the important thing here: Oscar Peterson. He was quite probably the best jazz pianist, hell the best pianist period in our lifetime. And perhaps ever. And I know . . . this is a whole lot of hyperbole I'm throwing out. I mean, this kind of thing is subjective, after all. Isn't it? Calling an artist or musician "the best" is like an Italian kid calling his grandmother's meatballs "the best." One day that kid realizes that every other Italian kid he meets thinks their grandmother's meatballs are "the best." There are definitely people out there who are not crazy about OP's style. They think, perhaps, that he played "too many notes." This is a criticism which I think is crazy, by the way. I do happen to think there are jazz pianists out there who play too many notes. But that's only because they're the wrong fucking notes. When the notes being played are all the right notes at all the right times, there can't be too many of them. It doesn't make sense. It's like somebody complaining that there are too many gorgeous women in skimpy two-pieces at the beach. What are you saying? Do we speak the same language? Sorry . . . I tend to get emotional about this stuff. I will just have to concede that not everybody loves OP's style. But I think you'll find that, even among OP's critics, there isn't too much debate about his reign as a technical virtuoso on the keys. And when you add that technical expertise to his impeccable sense of rhythm and his natural talent for improvisation, which he always seemed to make sound more like an "instant composition" (his words) than some random, conceptual mixture of scales, what you wind up with is somebody more akin to a modern-day Beethoven then perhaps any other pianist/composer since his time. There. I said it. You disagree? What, you think your grandmother makes better meatballs than mine, too? Okay, that's fine. It's just that, unfortunately, you're wrong. On both fronts. But that's okay. Really. Don't feel bad. We can't all be right about everything. There's plenty I've been wrong about as well. Just read my archives.

For the record, I had several false starts in writing this post. For one thing, I didn't want the tone to be too heavy or somber. It's sad news that Oscar Peterson died, but he was 82, after all, and I kind of think he wouldn't want people drowning in tears or anything. His music was celebratory. The other problem I had getting this post off the ground was that each time I wound up going off on this conceptual, academic-sounding tangent about improvisation and competition in jazz music. About how all great art comes from these elements and Peterson is a prime example of that. About how, in Peterson's words, improvisation and one-upmanship allows "moments of great beauty to emerge." And this is all great stuff, to me. I kind of love talking theory when it comes to art and the creative process. And believe me, I'll definitely find ways to work this stuff into future riffs (and do it in a way that hopefully does not induce sleep or glazed eyes). But for this riff here it seems less important to dwell on that stuff (even though I just did — damn I need an editor) when what I really want to talk about is Peterson's music, and the great effect it had on me over the years, and how yeah it's sad he's gone, but how wonderful it is that his music will stay with us indefinitely, and how lucky we are that we live in an age where all of those many improvisations are recorded for history, unlike with Beethoven, who's stuff only survives on the page.

I figured the best contribution I could make to the fray of voices out there on blogs who are all writing about Peterson's death and what it means to them and to the world of music would be to simply describe why I liked his playing so much, and why it had the effect on me it did. And that seems easy at first. But it's not. The problem is that it's always difficult to describe why art appeals to you, or to explain the emotional response you get from a certain artist, or "art object" or performance. It usually boils down to some version of "I like it." That's really as far as you can go with the thing, because you can't "implant" the feeling in somebody else. You get a little closer to being able to describe it when you find other people who appreciate the same piece of art. Then, you have a shared language with them. Or rather, the communication doesn't rely so much on the language. And you get that affirmation. That conversation might go something like this: "Shit. Do you hear that?" And the response: "I hear it. It's good." Ah, sweet validation.

The best way I've found to describe that moment when a piece of art hits you in all the right ways is to say it's like I'm catching glimpses of God. Now, I'm not particularly religious. I mean, don't get me wrong, I do have a "spiritual side." But I haven't managed to consistently dedicate myself to going to church or anything. I've just never felt that going to church and "practicing" religion would necessarily make me any more liked or disliked by what I believe to be a benevolent God. I can't imagine that an all-knowing, all-seeing Being would be that petty. And if God isn't benevolent? If he's all brimstone and damnation? Well, I guess I wouldn't necessarily want to be loved by that kind of God, anyway. I like to think God is the type of God that would just show up at your door one day with a really cool object and just be like, "Hey man, take a look at this thing I brought you. Isn't it fucking amazing? I'm partly responsible for it existing, you know. Don't forget it, brother." And what I can tell you — and it would be the truth — is that when I listen to Oscar Peterson, I believe I'm running into this kind of God. Because I can't imagine any other way those sounds could be produced other than through some divine communion. And when it happens, when I'm witness to this kind of thing, my reaction is usually a combination of wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. And my heart races a little bit. And it's hard to breathe. And for a moment I think there can't possible be anything better in the world than this right here. And yeah man, I hear it. I won't forget.

So there it is. And instead of talking about it at any more length, I'm just going to point to a couple of my favorite Oscar Peterson recordings. The first I happened to find video for on YouTube, which is very lucky and convenient. Hopefully it'll stay up there for at least the next couple of weeks or so. It's a recording of "You Look Good to Me" and it's from a session he did at the Montreux Jazz Festival in '77. There are two great Oscar Peterson live recordings that came out of the festival that year. One is titled, simply, The Oscar Peterson Jam. In this one, he's joined by Neils Orsted Pedersen on bass, Bobby Durham on drums, Dizzy Gillespie and Clark Terry on trumpets, and Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis on tenor sax. It is an unbelievable session. The other is titled The Bassists, and it's just Peterson playing with the two bassists he played with most often in his career: Ray Brown and Niels Orsted Pedersen. The clip below is from that session and it's great to watch because it really cuts to the heart of what I love about jazz — the tension between the two types of games being played here, one of just having fun and "getting high," the other a good natured competition propelling things forward. Watch their expressions. The sweat. The casual trade off of licks. (If you've got headphones, plug 'em in.)



The other recording I wanted to share is one I couldn't find already online anywhere, so I'm putting it on my server. It's the first time I've posted music on my site and it could prove to be a bad idea. But I love the track and had to include it in this post. This track plays like a story to me. And just for the record, if anybody out there with an expensive lawyer ever wants me to take this recording down, I'd be more than happy to do so. Just let me know. :-). The track is called "Peace for South Africa." It's a bluesy ballad Peterson himself wrote. This performance was recorded during the "Live at the Blue Note" series he did with Ray Brown, Bobby Durham, and Herb Ellis in 1990. I highly recommend any of the CD's from this concert series, particularly the first one, which is where this recording comes from (note: if you're in a Feed Reader, you may have to click through to the post to listen):


A few years after this concert, Peterson suffered a stroke which laid him up for a couple of years. But eventually, even with limited hand strength, he still continued to play shows in the late 90's and early 2000's. Peterson died of kidney failure on December 23rd, 2007. He was 82. Thank you, Mr. Peterson for your music. And I hope wherever you are you're still jamming, and catching your own brief glimpses of God.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Serendipity  Oscar_Peterson  Music  Game_Theory  Art 

You've had this happen. I know you have. You wake up in the dark of night. Or morning. And your head is buzzing with this great idea for something. A story. A business idea. A song. No . . . it's more than that. This is the story. The business idea. This is the song, dammit. And there you are with the knowledge that . . . Well, I'll be damned. Here it is. By God, I've found it. Finally. But you're in that in-between state — not quite asleep, not quite awake. And in the hyper-clarity of that moment, you forget that you can forget. You have absolute trust in your own memory. And so you smile away the thought of getting up and writing this thing down. Because the bed is warm. And the air outside is cold. And you don't even want to get out of bed to pee, much less find pen and paper. There's no need . . . because you'll remember. And in the morning it will be glorious. Like walking around naked in cowboy boots. Yeah, that kind of glorious. And you'll get up and out of bed and have coffee and maybe some grits. And you'll find your notebook. And you'll use ink to jot it down. Because when it's all real and electric like that, you use ink. And all will be right in the world. And you'll listen to Renee Montagne and Steve Inskeep through the mono speaker in your kitchen. And the news will be good. And the dishes will clean themselves. And your work will be fun. And the only phone calls you will get will be from people who want to pay you to be funny. And you'll feel young and strong. And maybe your chest will puff a little. And your shit won't stink.

So you close your eyes. And you mull over the idea a little more, burning it firmly in the grooves of this think wax you're spinning, laying down the track of this fucking great thought, before fading back inside the envelope of your easy slumber.

But then you wake. Daylight. And the urge to pee is still there, only more pressing. And when you roll out of bed the cowboy boots don't seem to fit right. Renee and Steve insist on giving you all bad news. The dishes get dirty just by looking at them. And your work is not fun. And people only pay you to do excruciatingly boring chores. And, holy God, it's impossible to mistake it, your shit most definitely stinks. But worst of all, you realize that the thought is gone. And you feel kind of cheated. And like an idiot for being so stupid and letting it slip by. For succumbing to sleep. Again.

But sometimes it's not even the fault of sleep. Sometimes, you're driving North of Newark toward Essex County. And you're in the middle of saying something to the person next to you. And it occurs to you: this would be a great post. Maybe the greatest post. And you pause a moment and file it somewhere in that steel trap of yours. And then you go on talking about some shit that happened to you the day before. And the person you're talking to, well she felt it too, that thing that just slipped by. But she doesn't interrupt, even though she wants to. She just puts it away. Because it's Saturday morning and there's all the time in the world to go back and recall and discuss. And just like that, the day is gone. And you've looked at a million houses. And they blur together at the edges of your mind. And it's not until you're driving back to Baltimore that you remember that moment from this morning. And you're squinting your eyes and you're trying to remember what it was that you thought would make such a great post. You turn to her and you say, "You know I had this idea for a post earlier. Something that happened this morning." And she says, "Yeah, I remember it. I felt it too." And now you have corroboration that yes, there had been this moment. And it was a good one. And you say, "Please, for the love of God, can you help me remember? Because I think I might have to scratch my eyeballs out." And she says, "Me too, I will do it too. And I will also gnash my teeth and wave my fists and curse the gods." And this does make you feel better for a little while. And after you both have done that all the way to Delaware, you begin to throw volleys at one another, hoping something will jar the thing loose. You re-hash all the conversations you had, the houses you saw, the miles you covered.

And at the end of it all, what you have is a bunch of possibilities but no absolutes. It is gone. It has escaped. But I'm telling you people — it was there. You'll just have to believe us. Because this, friends, is not the greatest post in the world. This is a tribute.

Tenacious D would be proud.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Ho_Hum  Blog 

Yesterday morning, around 10:30 am I was struggling under the lead weight of a caffeine-low headache. Sitting in the doctor's office waiting to have, of all things, a cardiac stress test. I had been instructed not to drink caffeine before-hand. And that was unfortunate. Because 10:30 am is no time of day to face head-on without at least two cups of strong coffee. And yet there I was. Floating low and heavy like a hangover, plotting the fastest route to Common Ground on the Avenue when I was done.

But the real question I was asking myself, right, was how did I end up being this person having a cardiac stress test? At age 33. Me — who swam twice a day, 6 days a week in junior high and high school. Who still exercises regularly today. Who's anal about what he eats. Who, okay, smoked on and off for several years. But who was always ridiculed by "real" smokers for my pack-a-week or for a while there pack-a-month habit. Bottom line: the heart should be strong. And I guess I've always kind of felt a little flip about it — a sort of "yeah, whatever" attitude — because I figured of all the organs in my body, it was sure to last the longest. You know, for all the above reasons. But apparently I have a murmur. An "aortic insufficiency," which was found on a recent echocardiogram (another test I'm surprised to have had), and which was probably brought on by the AS. Or it could also be because I have a bicuspid aortic valve. Most people's aortic valve is tricuspid. The bicuspid variety tends to become leaky. It tends to break sooner than one with three, um, cuspids. So they sometimes need to be replaced. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger's did about ten years ago.

And I'm really skirting the border of my comfort zone with this one. Honestly. Because with people dying of things that are difficult to imagine and getting legs blown off and just bad, bad shit, I find it hard writing about my health without coming across as whiny. Or melodramatic. Or both. But what is a writer, after all, if not naked and shivering in a transparent sheet of his own melodrama? I mean, we sport it well, don't we? Like professors in tweed. Like farmers in overalls. Like gym teachers in warm-ups.

So fuck it . . . here goes. Except, since this is a long one, I think I'll do it in three parts. Because one thing I've learned about the blogging is it's not a medium for length.

So . . . more tomorrow.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Heart  Health  AS 

I've been reading and re-reading Hemingway lately, partly because I'm just enjoying his style, but partly because I'm hoping to learn, through osmosis, the art of writing while pleasantly pissed. Unfortunately, I haven't had much luck in this pursuit. I've tried varying the type of alcohol, speeding up or slowing down the pace of consumption . . . but the result is usually the same: crap. So I guess I'm doomed to be a sober writer. And while I suppose that's a noble thing to be, it's definitely not as fun, and makes it all the more necessary to be profoundly intoxicated while not writing.

Anyway, I'm currently involved in A Moveable Feast, Hemingway's personal account of his early years in Paris, struggling to make it as a writer. There are a number of passages where he discusses the craft of writing. This one, I think is particularly good:


I think what Hemingway is mainly referring to here is getting past that point where style begins to stand in the way of content. But I also think he's speaking to how discovering the true content can actually give way to style. Good writing—hell, good anything—involves starting with that one true thing. That spark. A feeling, an emotion: bare-skinned and honest. And when you've found that, the rest falls into place. The style, to a certain degree, is secondary. It will unfold around that initial thrust. People are good at recognizing the non-true. People are good at recognizing bullshit. It'll show.

But writing something true—something that rings true—does not necessarily mean writing the truth. One of Hemingway's biographers (and friends) A.E. Hotchner writes in the 1999 preface to Papa Hemingway, "Part of the mystique about Ernest stems from the manner in which he blurred the demarcation between fiction and fact." He adds that Hemingway once remarked that "Fiction is a magnification of reality." And this is particularly interesting in the context of A Moveable Feast since it is something of a memoir.

So I've been thinking lately about these ideas of truth and fiction and how they relate to blogs. To my blog, in particular of course (because it is, after all, all about me, isn't it?) But also to all "personal blogs." Because people kind of have a different standard for these, don't they? They expect them to be . . . the truth. And people tend to get very upset when this does not turn out to be the case. I sat in on a panel at SXSW last March about fictional blogs. The subject was interesting, though the panel itself was way too short. There was one panelist who had maintained a fictional blog for several years and there was a good discussion revolving around how readers of that blog had felt "duped" when they found out the blog was "not real." Because these readers had related to the narrator and had come to see her as a real person. But my take is this: these people were "duped" because they allowed themselves to be duped. It doesn't change the fact that when these people read the blog it spoke to them on some level. And I think it was that "speaking-to," that conversation, that is what was true. Without it, the blog wouldn't have held their attention. And if they had known that the blog was fiction to begin with, would it have struck them in the same way?

Despite the fact that this blog—my blog—is named after a fictional character, I am not a "fictional blogger." That said, I'll be the first to admit that there are elements of fiction in almost everything I write here. I don't see any other way of doing it really. What I'm always trying to arrive at, though, is something honest and unaffected, and hopefully those are things that come across independent of "fact" or "fiction." Either way, you must get to the one true sentence. And that usually involves baring yourself in ways you don't always feel comfortable doing (regardless of the fact that you might be an exhibitionist at heart.) Because sometimes the fear sets in. A fear of offending, maybe. Or a fear of people not understanding or misinterpreting. And the fear tends to be stifling when you allow it free reign. Of course, this isn't necessarily a problem unique to somebody who blogs. It's a problem with any form of public self-expression or art. And, holy crap, I worry constantly that I don't have the courage necessary to be a writer.

I have toyed with the idea of writing out-right fiction on this blog. Because in some ways, fiction would open up some new possibilities. But it has just always seemed out of place here. And so I've been tossing around some ideas for a different blog, something more fictional that I can do alongside this one, and hopefully one of these days it will become a reality. (Oops. No pun intended.) But if it does come about one of these days, I don't want it to necessarily be defined by the fact that it's fiction. Because even if it is fiction, it's going to be based in some sort of truth. Because, to be honest, I'm just not that imaginative . . .

I read a lot of personal blogs. Some of them are written by people who give their "real" faces and names to the Internets. Some are people who prefer to remain anonymous. Some of them are people I know "in real life" others are people I've never met. Some of them are probably entirely "factual" accounts of "real" life. Others probably contain a good deal of fiction. Either way, it doesn't really matter to me. The way I see it, every "true story" has elements of fiction. And any good fiction is filled with elements of truth. The "true thing" —the one true sentence—is what speaks to people. That's what matters. Without it, there's nothing.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Writing  Chewing  Blog 

A man and a woman are in the lingerie section at Macy's. It seems like they've been shopping for a while. It seems this way by the number of bags they are carrying. White House | Black Market, Nordstrom, Gap. And maybe this is their last stop, and also something of an afterthought. But I wouldn't know this. I couldn't know this. It also seems, by the looks of things, they don't go shopping all that often. It's possible they have a real impatience when it comes to this sort of thing. It's possible the only reason they are doing it now, in fact, is because it has become absolutely necessary. Jeans that no longer fit—the current pair barely held up by a thick brown belt. A black blazer that has been lost, perhaps while traveling in areas north of here. Maybe it's undershirts that bring them to this particular location in the mall. Or bras.

Who knows, though? I'm just making this stuff up.

By the looks of things, it also seems there might be a TiVo recording a football game somewhere in these people's lives. It might be that the football game has been billed as the "Battle of the Unbeatens," and the knowledge of this game being played right now while their eyes itch from the dry air of the department store, and their feet swell, and their minds hum—well, it seems to be distracting them. It's possible they're both fans of the football. They look a little tired. A little antsy, maybe. There could be a cold IPA in this man's imminent future.

All of this, of course, is conjecture.

"Do you like this?" says the woman, motioning to a slight mannequin wearing a bra-and-panties ensemble. The panties have a gold and black pattern. They are lacy around the edges and they are square-cut. The bra is patterned similarly. Gold and black and lace.

"Mmm-hmm," says the man, affirmatively. "Yes, I do." He seems like the kind of guy that really goes for those square-cut-panty numbers. You can spot the type from a mile away.

The woman fingers a strap on the bra. "They always make these cute sets for small-breasted women," she says.

The man takes a step closer and assesses the mannequin. He extends his hand and cups it over the right breast. The breast disappears under his hand, fitting neatly in his palm. "You're right," he says, turning to the woman. "Small." He smiles proudly. It might be he thinks he made a pretty funny joke. Though it's hard to say for sure.

There is some head-shaking from the woman now. Maybe a sigh could be heard. Some exasperation, perhaps. "I really didn't need the illustration," she says, looking around them to see if any of the other respectable women shopping for lingerie had noticed the lowbred oaf standing next to her feeling up the mannequin. She turns, muttering something about embarrassment.

Moments like these, it's easier to write about myself in the third person.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Ho_Hum  Football  Cath 

My neighbor grunts. A lot. To call it a grunt, however, doesn't really do it justice. Maybe growl—or even bark—would be more accurate. Want to know what these noises sound like? Here, try this: imagine if somebody (for this exercise, it might be helpful if the "somebody" was the type of "somebody" you might find at a biker bar in Montana) were attempting—very enthusiastically—to imitate a bear. No, that's not quite it. How about Frankenstein . . . no, no, too human. Ah, I know: a werewolf. Imagine he's trying to imitate a werewolf. Now, I don't know exactly what a werewolf would sound like, so largely, this exercise is something open to interpretation. But I think it paints a pretty good conceptual picture of what we're talking about here.

I hear the noises mostly at night, when I'm doing my stretches. I do my stretches on the floor of the long narrow hallway upstairs. A long, narrow hallway that, no doubt, butts up against my neighbor's long, narrow hallway. I do these stretches on a thin air mattress used for camping. I position the mattress just outside our bedroom door so I can use the door frame as a prop to stretch my hamstrings, one at a time. When my ears are next to the hardwoods, my leg up against the door frame, the sounds of my neighbor's growls are difficult to miss. Because believe me, I do try to miss them. Because they sort of scare me.

There are several possible explanations as to why my neighbor makes these sounds. At first, I was worried they might have to do with sex. I say "worried" for three reasons. First, and most importantly, with the possible exception that one day I might find myself living next to Salma Hayek, I can honestly say that I don't want to be privy to my neighbor's sex life. Ever. In my many years of apartment dwelling, it's happened on more than one occasion that I've accidently heard the stray moan or scream. And no matter who it is, it's just weird. And creepy. It makes for awkwardness when you run into them outside. It's one of the reasons I like to sleep with a fan on or the A/C running—to drown out background noise like that. The second reason I was worried about the sounds being sex is that they were never accompanied with the sounds of another person, which would only imply that the sex was being had with himself. And that would multiply the creepiness factor by several times. Third, if these were the sounds he made while having sex—either with himself or with somebody else—I'd hate to hear the sounds he made while sick to his stomach or dying.

Which brings me to another possibility: he is ill. For a while, this definitely ranked up there high on my possibility index until I began to realize that these sounds weren't a "temporary" condition. They have continued for some time. And I suppose this could signify some kind of chronic condition, but I've sort of ruled that out because, as I've begun to notice, the noises are far too ludicrous and affected to be anything serious.

So that leaves a couple of other possibilities:

• He plays X-Box, and he grunts and growls each time he loses or does something stupid (which evidently is a lot).
• He's watching some kind of sport and expresses his frustration vociferously when his team loses (which again, seems to happen a lot).
• He's drunk (I know. You get it . . . a lot).
• He is indeed practicing to be a bear, Frankenstein, Big Foot, or a werewolf for Halloween. If this is the case, I really admire his dedication since Halloween is still a good ways away.
• He's not practicing at all. He is a werewolf.

Now I don't mean to poke too much fun here. I mean, there might actually be some logical explanation for all of this. And maybe it is something serious, in which case I'd feel kind of bad. I mean, I make noises in our house all the time. Noises which are natural, but nevertheless if other people heard them out of context, they might be disgusted or offended, or both. They might think somebody was ill, or dying. Certainly the word "unwell" might come to mind. When I sing, for instance. This is one noise that could certainly be mistaken for some serious sickness. I also tend to carry on conversations with myself. Most often these conversations involve some coding problem I'm working out in my head, but there is usually at least one conversation a day about poop. And I'd be really embarrassed to know anybody was listening in on one of those. Which is why—given the fact that I live in a row house—I use my "inside voice" at all times. Because if I didn't—if I spoke loudly—then I'd realize that almost anything I uttered could be heard by anybody on either side of me or—if I'm near an open window—across the street, even.

And maybe he realizes this too, my neighbor. And maybe he just wants to make me think he's a werewolf. Well, it's not working. Because werewolves don't exist. I'm almost 100% positive.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Ho_Hum