Back to the Well

I visited my ailing father in Reno recently. During a brief stop at my childhood home, I rescued a VCR and my VHS collection and smuggled them home in an old suitcase. Yesterday I found a 13” TV/VCR combo for an acceptable price at a Tacoma Goodwill and have spent the weekend recalibrating it. Been revisiting movies I’ve seen 100 times. There are currently more VCRs in my house than condiments. This is not an exaggeration.

 

Nostalgia is something we casually prod the movie industry for. A cynical cash grab. A lack of new ideas. A creative void where hapless movie executives molest your childhood. All these are true in their own way. But they do not explain why I violated my longstanding travel policy of never checking a bag. They do not account for the fact that I can count on one hand the new movies I’ve watched this year, but I watched five over the weekend. 

There’s a few explanations afoot. First, I love thrifting. Sifting through trash with my keen eyes and deal-seeking heart. I have a champagne taste on a High Life budget. I refuse to pay appropriate prices for the things I love. Any asshole audiophile can drop a month’s salary on a killer system. Un-fucking-interesting. Much like I know for a fact my car drives faster after I wash it, I can hear my system punch above its weight because it was purchased for pennies on the dollar. I love using an otherwise worthless database of knowledge of consumer electronics to service a budget hifi fantasy.

My combo TV/VCR was under $30. But the red push was awful. Consumers react positively to a picture where images are exceedingly bright and tinted red. Manufactures identified this and set their defaults to emphasize red and blow out contrast to stand out in a retail firing-squad shelf. This can easily be remedied with some deft picture adjustments. However, on many small budget sets, only the remote can access the controls. Sadly the remote was lost to the world some time ago. My Logitech Harmony remote was unable to program some of the esoteric functions. I was forced to dig into the service menu options and play reckless god with the settings.

After making the 24-year-old 240P picture shine, I proceeded to dig into my collection. I’ve got a bunch of rare shit I acquired two decades ago. It was rare then, and it’s fucking Rosebud now. But, none of that matters for the purposes of this exercise. What interests me are the 3PM Saturday movies,  the ones which litter the Value Village for $1 each. The ones I grew to love not because got me punk points in 2003, but the ones I couldn’t help but stop channel surfing to watch. Even half way through, you’d watch it to the end.

It is here, dear reader, we discover the lifeblood of nostalgia. Mainlining familiarity. A little taste of Saturday’s gone by. I was an angsty little prick growing up. I do not yearn for the halcyon days of yore. Nor do I want to relive them. I yearn for the part of me that dared to fantasize about a better future. At this stage of life, I’ve come to terms with my dead dreams, a relentless unsatisfying career, a series of self-induced icebergs on my romantic cruise.

And let’s not do the, “It’s not too late to turn everything around and fundamentally change your life” song and dance. Let’s just agree that we’re here for the time being. At some point we must all reckon with the death of our potential. Settle for where the dust settled.

Nostalgia lets you live in the rear view. Even if it wasn’t that great. But it is less terrifying than the dead end road ahead. It’s the charm of being close while being far away. It’s a drug that numbs the future. It’s low-risk  low-reward, but it’s still better than nothing. But at least now I can recite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles from memory. So I got that going for me.

No Time Off Requests Will Be Granted

Holidays don’t mean much to me. After two decades in retail, I’ve mostly come to associate the season with vacation blackout and entitled shoppers. I’m a middle management Grinch. Your magical day means the start of my hell period. It’s how I imagine service industry folks feel about brunch. Scrumptious for you; a war zone for them. For the past quarter century, I’ve largely resented the end of the year.   

I used to have to be dragged through the Nevada sagebrush to come to holiday events. I was too punk. Too broody. But I’d show up. I had to. My family is small. It’s pretty much my pops and I. My absence would be noted. 

He’d always cook Thanksgiving dinner. The standard fare: unhappy-marriage-dry-pussy turkey, frozen peas microwaved and drained of nutrients and color into the sink, and Pillsbury crescent rolls. Oh, and Martinelli’s Apple Cider. The champagne of fruit juices. That part fucked.  

Through no fault of his own, the food kinda sucked. Who am I to judge? I didn’t do shit. I didn’t help. One of my many Achillies character flaws is that I can’t cook.  I’m a walking bachelor cliche. One nondescript Thanksgiving Day, my Dad looks up from his desert-kissed turkey, and says, “Fuck this. Fucking thing never turns out. It’s always dry. Why the hell do we do this?” 

It is at this moment he has an epiphany that changes the course of our culinary future. “We could just be having crab legs and steak. Next year, that’s what we do. Crab legs and steak.” And my father is a man of his word. Next year, that’s exactly what we had. My father trashed tradition. Turkey be damned. Stuffing, get fucked. In the Delehanty household, it was dick-thick crab legs and steak for Thanksgiving. We never looked back. Throw on a Rocky movie and the new guard of holiday traditions was born. 

I did not appreciate these magnificent feasts as an adolescent. I was still kicking rocks about how phony the holidays were. I was up in my Holden Caulfield, Ennegram-4-in-stress feelings about it. It is only now, as I sit alone in my sub 300 sq-ft cat-less apartment that I’m aware of how good I had it. We ate steak. We crushed the limbs of sea bugs. We were men. We ate until it hurt. 

My father taught me to never trust authority, that adults didn’t know shit. They were fat, old kids. He eschewed tradition. The holy voice from above that demanded turkey and cranberry sludge,  and fucking yams. He said, “No fate but what we make.” Well, I mean, Sarah Connor said that, but we watched T2 so many times it practically could have been him. I know my Dad best doing his thoroughly competent Rocky impression. And I can say with confidence, we did not hear no bell.  

He’s far from me now, and there’s no crab. There’s no steak. There’s just the realization I had it better than I had the capacity to understand. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. It was a Delehanty holiday and it’s not clear there will ever be another one.

I’m still a grinch. But, I’m a grinch that the times I used to be grinchy about aren’t around anymore. Ain’t that a fucking stubbed toe. Out here yearning for the times I was a little bitch about while they were happening? This is the tragedy of youth. 

Hug your Dad.      

The Weed of Hope

Grief gets its own five-stage video game: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Only there’s no Game Genie for this one. Controller throwing is a must. But, it’s incomplete. There’s a level no one talks about. 

Pre-grief. Every tragedy begins with a stubborn ember of hope. The quiet haunting of the yet.  Stir the fire and you’ll see the light’s not gone out. Not yet. It’s the slow-motion preplay of getting punched in the face. It’s inevitable, but then again, maybe it isn’t? 

The stubbornness of hope persists. It is the Rocky of emotions, refusing to stay down. There isn’t much more I love in the world than the triumph of human persistence. Tenacity is my favorite human trait. I can’t think of anything more romantic than the refusal to submit to despair. To declare in your darkest hour, we got this.

I get chills just thinking about it.

Trouble is, you’re not saving the sacred realm from the forces of evil. You’re in grief’s waiting room. Sometimes your never-give-up disposition is masquerading as denial. It’s neither romantic, nor brave. It’s barely dignified. It’s just good, old fashioned, denial. 

The sneaky fuck grief had you the whole time. The secretary will see you now. All your gnashing of teeth, and Goonies-never-say-die bravado just nestles you deeper into the sleeping bag of grief. Sometimes hope is an impediment to progress. It is the handsome brother of denial. But make no mistake, they are family. It plants you firmly in your tracks, paralyzing you. The weed of hope slips through the cracks and stubbornly refuses to die. If we ever want to walk on this sidewalk again, we’re going to have to do some landscaping.

Stage 1, Motherfucker. Press start.

Games are Not Supposed to Be Fun

Theoretically, I love the Olympics. I don’t watch them, follow them, or support them financially, but intellectually I’m obsessed. It’s Mortal Kombat for athletes. All the Rocky’s from across the globe united to do battle. Every one of them going full Whiplash to be the best in their field. Sacrificing everything for 7/10ths of a second. It’s a festival of singular focus. Pushing the human body to its absolute limits. Even just thinking about it makes the hair on my arms stand up. There’s not much more about the universe I love than when people devote themselves to being excellent at a task. It’s inspiring and fills me with the vibrant and unyielding desire to be better. 

Rocky, for me, works because of his juxtaposition to the larger boxing world. Just a lonely thumb-breaker from Philly trying to hit the pet shop girl and prove he’s not a bum. I can relate. But, when every country sends their genetic equivalent to Achilles, something about it feels a little absurd. What does it even mean to achieve victory by .005 seconds. Certainly, not much to the man on the top of the podium. But, to those eight others who go home with rocks in their shoes rather than gold medals, it must be maddening. What feels like a margin of error, becomes the beginning and end of your fame. This post is dedicated to the eight others whose lips could feel the moisture on the brim of the holy grail, and only got to smell it. To the countless 4th place contestants whose trophy case remains woefully empty.

My respect for the discipline, grit, and tenacity these athletes possess is immeasurable. They’ve dedicated every waking moment (and surely numerous dream hours) to being the best in their field. To becoming the human that runs faster, jumps higher, or whose body most most closely mimics a fish.

The question is this: at this level, have we removed the human element? Conceivably, each of these athletes has a fairly compelling why. They all have family they don’t get to see because they’re up at 4AM training. All of them have fathers they’re tying to impress. Presumably, they’ve all worked through pain, and suffering and injuries. But when your victory is separated by roughly the same time as the flash on your photo finish, what does this victory mean? Or, perhaps more importantly, what does the loss mean?

Lance Armstrong has a VO 2 max (the amount of oxygen the body can use in a given period); one of the highest ever recorded. With an extra long torso and feet like flippers, Michael Phelps is literally what would happen if you engineered a man to be built like a fish. Shaq was 7’ 1”. Only .000038% of the population reaching this height. In their own right, all three are world class athletes who possess an inhuman dedication to their craft. But at this level, shouldn’t we just give medals to everyone for being one of the dozen best in their field of all time? It feels criminal to reward 1st, 2nd, and 3rd in a room full of exceptional people.

The loss means nothing. This is an absurd contest. Those who compete are modern gladiators who deserve to have The Odyssey sung to them in the original Greek. They push the limits of human conviction and achievement. And I celebrate all of them. Every single athlete. Those with semi-precious medals are entitled to their sponsorships, Only Fans subscriptions, and social media clout, but every single one has my respect and admiration. You make me want to be better and are a ferocious reminder that we can make more of ourselves. In a game rigged by God for casting light on his well-born victors, fortune favors the bold.

Cheers to all the Olympic athletes. You make me want to be a better man.

Take the W

I was a black cat for a golden retriever lover. A clean shaven face for a beard enthusiast. A ferocious down-picking savant playing in a ska band. Straight black hair for fingers that dream of twisting blonde curls. Pulling twentieth century continental European existentialism out of a bedside drawer instead of the good book. A dry quiet wit falling flat for a fan of peacock feathers. I could feel you decorating my inkless skin with your eyes. A wordsmith on your film set. 

And yet I landed you.

You were my milkshake with the tin. Medium rare steak rested for six minutes. The last Biscoff pocket at Stan’s. A neat barrel proof whiskey in a Glen Carrin glass. The sound of a needle hitting a record on my hifi system. Johnny Mnemonic spinner millions with hold bonus. The double seasoned Dorito. Fresh warm sheets. An ice cold Coke with the windows down and the air conditioning on. The first shirt out of the wash. Seasons 1-4 of the West Wing. A perfect airport pickup. Sleeping in on a Saturday. Double coupon day. A three point parallel park. Jordan in game six. The first time I saw Shawshank Redemption. Christmas morning. A leather couch that remembers your ass. The fast line at the grocery store. The soundtrack to a Tarantino movie. 

You loved me. Everywhere except in my head.

Drove three hours in a snow storm to visit my tiny shoebox. Took the bus to a strange city. Made me a cheese board and chocolate chip cookies every time you saw me. Sewed my buttons. Wore your hair the way I love. Left me notes every morning. Always let me have the Aux.

I didn’t know how to be loved in a healthy way.

And it cost me you. 

I do now.

Stray Cats

I grew up with dogs and have always considered myself a dog person. They are lovely and magnificent creatures. If you ever need to me to cry, ask me to remember putting down my childhood dog, Tramp. My family got her the same week I was born. She was my #1 pal. In my adult life, I’ve not owned a pet. Not sure what that means, but it feels relevant. I’ve been a pet step dad, an uncle, and a sitter. 

Over the last few years, I’ve become a cat guy. 

As I type this on my porch, an adorable neighborhood cat named Felix is contently cleaning himself just out of arm’s reach. My neurotransmitters are chanting in unison, “Scoop him up! Scoop him up” while my better angels hold me back. I know he’s content where he is, sprawled in the grass, basking in the cool night breeze. My desire to snuggle him within an inch of his life has almost nothing to do with what would make him happy. And it is here, dear reader, where we discover the upshot.

It should be noted that I do not speak ill of dog people. To some extent, I still am one. Until recently, I didn’t have what it takes to love a cat. And I’m still working on it.

To love a dog is easy. More specifically, being loved by a dog is easy. Their love is uncomplicated. It’s pure. It’s true. Their love rises as surely as the sun. And it feels magnificent. Cats, on the other hand, are a fickle and mysterious beast.

Sorry. Had to take a break to play with Felix. He started pouncing on my feet and that was my cue to get his catnip soaked dangle toy and let him pretend to be a murderer.

It’s not easy to love cats. They exist fully autonomous of you. Their lives are full and complete without you. They often don’t come when you call them. If you force yourself on them, they will run. They scare easily and don’t forget. In short, they exist beyond your control. To be loved by a cat, is to relinquish the reins. Their schedule of affection is not up to you. But when the sun peaks through the clouds, God’s finger reaches out and chooses you. This is Felix’s love. In the claw game of life, I have been chosen. 

My instinct is to smother. To suffocate with my oppressive love. To subject my beloved to a relentless assault of my needs. Hug me. Come to me. Sit with me. It works wonders with dogs. They don’t seem to mind at all. Cats, on the other hand, will vanish like marked down Easter candy. You scare them away, and you’re done. No second chances.

Loving a cat is patient, gentle, and slow. They think you’re a big dumb idiot and they’re rightly suspicious. It takes time to earn their trust. Days. Weeks of consistency. It’s taken me years to refine. All I want in this miserable universe is to hold them captive in air jail while I nearly crush their tiny body with my big dumb love. But time has afforded me wisdom. My love is no longer suffocating. It’s encouraging and safe. It’s for them and only tangentially for me. 

If you do it right, you will be handsomely rewarded. They show up on your doorstep every morning meowing for you. They wait up for you to get home. They become a pillar of your mental health. The reward is astounding. Not just their love, but for the change in you. You learn to love unselfishly. To care about their needs and wants.

I used to be a bulldozer of love. And speaking from experience, you ruin a lot fewer flower beds with a gentle spade. I was a dog person because I didn’t know how to love anything else. Currently, I own neither a cat nor dog. But, for the first time, I’ve started to understand how to make them happy. To be worthy of their love. For now, I’m tilling lightly.

Goodnight, Mr. Felix. Come by anytime. I’ll be here. Love you, Buddy. 

 

A Mild Sense of Relief

I’m bad at gambling. I suppose that requires elaboration. In the early 2000s, poker enjoyed a kind of renaissance. They put it on TV. John Malkovich donned a legendarily strange accent in Rounders. And college campuses across the country were filled with low stakes home games. But they felt like the World Series of Poker. In Tim and I’s one bedroom casino, we used clay chips, used a felt table which was easily the most expensive piece of furniture in the apartment, and kept a running ledger of the P&L of every kid who walked through the door. Weinhard’s Root Beer flowed like water while Tom Waits serenaded us. We were 20 and laying the groundwork for future degeneracy.

They say it’s a lifetime of poker.

And if you go by the ledger, I’m up. I’m a profitable player. By a lot. I make money. But to quote Mike quoting someone else, “In his book Confessions of a Winning Poker Player, Jack King said, ‘Few players recall big pots they have won— strange as it seems— but every player can remember with remarkable accuracy the outstanding tough beats of his career.’” 

Like I said, my lack of prowess stems from a strange place. Poker is painful to me. Winning produces a dim reprieve from the burden of not having accomplished my goal. It’s negative reinforcement. Removing the boot of success from off my throat so I can breathe. Accomplishment evaporates. It is cotton candy in the mouth leaving you haunted by the ghost of your previous self. Losing, however, is carved in your chest with a knife. To complicate matters, losing is a tremendous motivator. Aaron Sorkin’s Billie Bean said, “I hate losing. I hate it. I hate losing more than I want to win. And believe me. There’s a difference.” 

If only losing were discouraging. I could just quit and we could be done with this nonsense. But, it sets fire to my guts. It isn’t a righteous, “Lose Yourself” fire. It’s a dull, throbbing pain. And victory is the extinguisher. It makes me better. Forces me to learn from my mistakes. To study my tactics and improve them. The feeling is so potent, it verges on worrisome. I become a man of singular focus: the John Wick of never feeling this way again. The line between determination and obsession is virtually non-existent. They are neighboring shades of gray. Only history decides which side of the fence you end up on.

Not enough people talk about what a maniac Michael Jordan was. Mamba mentality is a productive mental illness. With great achievement comes magnificent sacrifice. Greatness requires emotional anorexia. It demands you look in the mirror and not see your achievements. Only what is lacking. Only what you haven’t done. Victory dysmorphia. It is precisely this unfillable void which propels us to a  Sisyphean nightmare of success. 

I once lamented I wouldn’t make a good parent because I can’t stand the sound of a baby crying. The shriek accosts my eardrums in a way that I can’t ignore. My friend’s reply shocked me. She said, “You’re supposed to hate the sound of a baby crying. It’s precisely because you can’t ignore it that you’d be a good Dad. It would be concerning if you could ignore it.” Aversion can be productive. Perhaps necessarily so.

So when I say I’m bad at gambling, that isn’t quite accurate. The ledger says I’m fantastic at gambling. My chest says otherwise. What worries me is that I can’t have one without the other. 

We

It’s America Day. My US-based company gave me the paid day off. Bruce Springsteen blaring from my tape deck before heading to a BBQ with my friends. Felix is basking in the God’s sunshine pouring through my kitchen window. After the gym, Ima watch ID4 and get teary eyed at the We Will Not Go Quietly into the Night speech.

I’m a goddamn meat-eating, personal responsibility preaching, crushing-Budweiser-on-hot-day American. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and making something of yourself. I’m an existentialist. And I subscribe to the radical freedom newsletter. 

There’s a lot to love about this place. We forget that sometimes.

But also.

“Born in the USA” is about a disillusioned Vietnam vet’s return to an unwelcoming America. The beef industry ravages the environment as one of the leading causes of climate change and criminally mistreats the animals I conveniently divorce from their face-having origins. Steak tastes better when it comes from blue styrofoam and not from a calf suckling at her mother’s teat. Felix is my neighbor’s cat. The sun is nice though. No notes. Independence Day is a power fantasy about how the US is the world’s savior. But time has shown Will Smith to bear little resemblance to the charming, brave, and noble hero he portrays. Budweiser is owned by a Belgium company called AB InBev. Jean Paul Sartre abandoned existentialism in favor of Marxist ideals.

There’s a lot to lament about this place. We forget that sometimes.

America is that boyfriend who eschewed authority, tread his own path, and smoked cigarettes in a leather jacket in 100° heat. And we’ve been together for a while and we’re a little tired of his shit. Instead of a rebel maverick, they seem like petulant children refusing to put their shoes on. America is the season 8 of Game of Thrones we deserved. We’re munching popcorn watching crumbling ideals give way to selfishness and tyranny. We landed on the moon, and we hosted the most recent presidential debate. Sit with both of those for a while. 

Our fierce insistence on independence propelled this country. It made us great. But “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me” only takes you so far. At some point, we must relearn to collaborate. To grow. To realize there are systemic issues which plague our meritocracy fantasy. Yes, we worked hard. Yes, we never gave up. But we had the wind at our back and we refuse to acknowledge anything but our own sweat is responsible for our success. Faster alone, further together. America was built by the “I,” but will only survive as a “We.”  

To love anything is to be conflicted. Being a fan requires a lot of nuance. From Woody Allen to Anti-Flag, we must sit in the uncomfortable place of loving and respecting their work, and being ashamed and embarrassed by their behavior. Cancel culture will give way to uncomfortable love. The longer we live, the more ambiguity we must reckon with. We are always A-in-the-mode-of-not-quite-being-A. Our identity will always be unstable, in flux, and at issue.  

America is neither the greatest country on earth, nor are we heathen infidels. We made rock and roll, but we stole it from the blues. We built an empire of prosperity on the backs of slaves. Tonight I encourage you to celebrate this country. It’s ours and it’s special. It has a lot to love. But it’s certainly not perfect, and its greatness is up for debate. Before the fireworks tonight, before the America, Fuck Yeahs, before the hot dogs and sparklers, listen to the demo version of “Born in the USA.” 

It hits different.

And I Took That Personally

I was a Mathlete at a school most known for teenage pregnancy. No student in the history of my school ever got past the first round. And I was no different. Got my ass handed to me by smart kids. I was turned down by all the PhD programs I applied to. I’ve been fired from music gigs for not being able to pick things up fast enough.

I’m a little dumb. I read slowly. No one has ever mistaken me for a prodigy.   

And yet, I will outwork you. 

I’m a mutant for repetition. I may not get it the first time. Nor the second time. But I will trench neural pathways until you could drive a truck through them.   

I’ve got grit on tap. Curiosity to spare. More Rocky than Will Hunting. I will beat you on sheer determination. I don’t care how long it takes; I ain’t going nowhere. I have a biological deficiency which precludes me from quitting. The hammer of practice forges ugly metal. 

Call Thor. He’s got his work cut out for him.  

You’re smarter than me? For now, Motherfucker. You’re better than me? For now, Motherfucker. I’m an abyss of discipline. I’m coming for you. Incrementally. Creepin’ while you’re sleepin’. A montage in slow motion.

Any asshole can be naturally good at something. Nothing about me is elegant, natural, or as the Greeks would say, well born.

Talent can eat my ass after a long run on a hot summer day. You’re favored by God? I’m favored by time. Because my desire to best you in unquenchable. I want to hurt you with my wins. I want to make your father disappointed in you.

I’m a weed that refuses to die, pushing my way through the cracks in cement. I grow in abhorrent conditions. It might not be pretty, but crush carbon and see what happens.

I’ve spent a life playing catchup, staring at your bumper. Embarrassed I can’t get it right the first time. I’ve focused the shame, the ugliness, and the failure into a laser beam. A goddamn laser beam.

It takes a special kind of idiot to devote their life to the pursuit of being good at something. I am that special kind of idiot. This busted piece of desert casino trash runs on spite and tenacity alone.    

Don’t give up on me. I’ll get there. I’ll be better. I’ll stick the landing. Like math class, you might have to sift through pages of notes, scribbles, and erasure marks, but the answer will be spot on. 

I promise.

Thrift Store Audiophile

(This post is a requel (half reboot / half sequel) to It’s Getting Thrifty in Here)

I used to play Pokemon Go. Like a lot. Open-the-app-100-times-a-day-defending-a-gym-at-3AM-late-to-work a lot. I was a master of min/maxing and resource management. I was free-to-play user which necessitated calculated and precise resource management to perform at an elite level. One night, curating my IV power breakdown spreadsheet, a haunting thought overcame me. If I were able to channel this effort, energy, and expertise into my financial planning, I would have retired at 30.

Arrested Development Narrator Voice: He did not.

Though hung up my Pokeballs long ago, retirement is a distant and horrifying dream. The vague outline of an uncertain future got me firing up spreadsheets again.

Two score into this savage game of late-stage capitalism, I’ve been forced to reckon with my financial nature. And under the rock of my checking account, I’ve discovered a deeply contradictory and incompatible creature in the morass.

I despise work. Not necessarily my job, but the act of working. There’s a price on your existence. If you don’t believe me, look at your paycheck. You’ve got a dollar amount for what your life is worth.

My MacBook Pro is from 2009. I’ve nursed it along life-support for the last decade. It powers off the moment it can no longer suckle at the loving teat of A/C power adapter. It’s been begging to be pulled from life support, but I refuse to let it go gently into that good night. 

At the moment I’m typing into my phone on thrifted iPad Bluetooth keyboard. The abomination apparatus is attached to a folding eyeglass case velcroed to a MagSafe charger. Total cost: $25. Or, in my stark terms, a half an hour of my life paid to the soul-crushing work machine.

Then why subject myself to this?  Why do I refuse to throw money at these problems? Why do I grind everything on hard mode?

Could I buy a fucking iPad with a sick-ass Magic Keyboard? Of course. Would it greatly improve the quality of my writing life and improve my workflow? No doubt. But is it worth twenty hours of your life? That’s the exchange rate. Is it worth 2.5 days of commuting, receiving “per my previous email” emails, and not seeing your loved ones?  

All purchases exist on an x-y axis of value and functionality. Buying a new iPad Pro setup is 10 functionality with 0 value. My trash panda setup is 9 value and 4 functionality.  

Anyone can throw money at something and get the best stuff. I could have paid for Pokecoins and dominated Wicker Park even harder. My record collector friends drop triple digits for some killer records. And I just can’t do it. I have a, perhaps misguided, belief that if I’m patient enough, I’ll find it at a reasonable price. I’ve been to enough record stores in my life, I’m certain to find it eventually. Then, when I do find it a decade from now, I appreciate it even more since I got a good deal.

There’s a saying among music enthusiasts: An audiophile and his money are quickly parted. Sure, you can be the Yankees and just drop a month’s salary on a McIntosh setup with a Nakamichi Dragon. Max function. Or, you could rescue something from Goodwill, clean, calibrate, and replace the belts for the cost of a big bag of dog food. What can the Oakland A’s make from scraps? 

My system is pieced together from Facebook Marketplace, Goodwill, and garage sales. All my Monster Cables were purchased for less than two dollars. My Pioneer Elite CD player acquired in a Panera parking lot 45 minutes outside of Indianapolis for $25. My Nakamichi CD2 tape deck came free when I bought a bunch of old Gen X tapes from this dude whose new wife said she’d leave him if he didn’t downsize. My amplifier’s volume knob hasn’t worked in ten years, but I just programmed a Logitech multi-function remote I got for $10 off a guy who wanted really bad to get me in his house for some reason. My system has been cultivated over the last twenty-five years. She might not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts. 

I’m desert casino trash, but I punch above my weight. I was a Mathlete out of tHug High. Should be dumber and poorer than I am, but I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of this ‘83 clunker. If you are resourceful enough, trash can do some pretty miraculous things. Seeing old, broken, forgotten, and disregarded things brought back to life makes me romantic. Let’s hope this skill for rescuing vintage garbage works on myself.

 

Steady as She Goes

Problematic old white guy, Thomas Jefferson, once wrote, “In matters of style, swim with the current. In matters of principle, stand like a rock.” I love a good aphorism, and it’s damn near persuasive. Style evolves and flows, but principles are foundational. On its face, the quote is quite agreeable, but wrestling with this phrase, I’ve discovered something quietly sinister at its core.

No one who knows me would accuse me of having good style. I’ve been on team jeans and band tee for a quarter century. But, it is my style. It is my minimalist, functional, and punk philosophy made manifest.

And it is here where we enter a quandary. How do we indulge the spirt of the times while maintaining our sense of self? Is fashion an essential part of selfhood? Or, do seasonal trends float above individual identity? Are we anchored to the world in a way which allows us to float along the whims of trends without losing our identity?

Our values manifest themselves in the choices we make. An unbranded Kirkland Signature tee embodies a very different aesthetic than the $95 German loopwheeled Merz b. Schwanen designed piece Carmy dons in The Bear. Even with a white tee, we express our sense of self in everything we do.

We make a statement with our selections: economy, comfort, quality, aesthetics. Our decisions are informed by the hierarchy of our values. To this extent, fashion represents a public-facing manifestation of ourselves. But outside of a wearing a meat-dress, we choose from a few designated buckets.  

However, as Tyler Durden, noted in the proto-incel manifesto Fight Club, “You are not your fucking khakis.” Clearly our sense of self must be deeper and more permanent than our fashion choices. On the most charitable read of the Jefferson quote, one could argue nothing is lost by an absorption into trendiness. That our character and core personality is unaffected by such pedestrian choices. Principles are what matter. 

It is here where I find the rock in my shoe of Jefferson’s pithy remark. Style is not inextricable from selfhood. Diligent adherence to fashion and trends I find ugly and lacking any core identity. A number of my aging Millennial counterparts have lamented the demise of the skinny-jean and the rise of the crew neck sock. And yet, they give deference to the youth. Two decades of no show socks find their way to the Goodwill donation bin.

I am intentionally leaving aside ethical concerns of fair wage, environmentally sustainable practices, and corporate defensibility. Though our choices certainly resonate through those rungs of the industry as a whole. For the moment, I prefer to focus simply on the aesthetic element. 

Those who adopt trends instinctually and habitually, lack a foundational element of self. As chameleons, they don the uniform of their time and blend seamlessly into the crowd. They-style is ubiquitous. It is everywhere and nowhere. The rootless can grow anywhere. Those who can blow in the wind end up anywhere. 

Defend style from the whims of time. Style is a watermark of selfhood. An indelible stamp that makes your statement endure over time. This is not to say it shouldn’t evolve or change. But instead of being carried by the currents of Tik Tok, we should instead say, “What among this current batch of trends, suit me? Where do I find myself among them?”

The pendulum of fashion swings mercilessly. And it is no accident current styles recur every thirty years. Just about the time a 15 year old gets curious to raid Mom’s closet. Like a Polaroid in reverse, the dream of fitting into them fades until a new generation discovers them. And the cycle begins anew.

Honor your core and you’ll never look back at pictures of your farmhouse chic home, or a boucle fabric couch, and fail to recognize yourself in your own home. Midcentury modern is over. And I couldn’t be happier. Because I want your used Eames Lounge. It being out of fashion means I might finally track down the Keane “The Stray” and “No Dogs Allowed” triptych.   

Style is a banner of selfhood. You can add stars, but it waves best like a lighthouse welcoming friends and family back to a familiar harbor. May your ship be steadfast and the waves of trend impotently crash against your hull.  Despite its upgrades and repairs, Theseus’ ship will be recognizable when it returns to port. 

In matters of style and principle, stand like a rock. Continue course and speed.    

Adam, Not the Atom

At this moment, I am connected to a Bluetooth keyboard typing on an iPhone 15 Pro connected to Wi-Fi 30k feet in the air and listening to Midwest emo losslessly streaming through noise cancelling headphones. 

Holy shit we live in a miraculous time. I have every knowable fact at my fingertips. I learned how to reverse park my car on YouTube, watched a full set of Drive Like Jehu in live in Corvallis, OR from 1992, and tracked down a limited to 275 screen print of American Psycho done in the style of Patrick Nagel. That was fucking yesterday. 

Every knowable fact is at our fingertips. Up to the moment news and information. Endless access to the most niche interests. The tiny screen in front of me is a portal to anywhere. It guarantees I’ll never be lost, points me to the nearest pinball machine when I’m traveling, and let’s me shitpost memes with one of my best friends in France.

Future now. 

Yet there is a generation of Luddites who want to demonize technology. Are we at the beginning of the reverse hockey stick part of technology? Yes. Do we have any idea what the world will look like in five years? No. Do we have to hear finance bros pontificate endlessly about the blockchain? Unfortunately. There are costs to doing business.

The blank slate in front of you is pregnant with your genius and your flaws. Flagged by your ISP for downloading a terabyte of feet pics? Can’t stop hate-scrolling your more successful artist friend? Up until 2AM doom-scrolling Tik Tok? The black mirror in your hands is only as cracked as you are.

What is horrifying about technology is what it reveals about us. What do you really value? The box is empty. It’s for you to fill with your dreams and nightmares. You can build or destroy. Serve or perve. Produce or reduce. It’s a bulldozer waiting for direction.   

This is what makes technology terrifying. It is us. Our desire to pacify, stave off, and nullify the relentless anxiety which pervades our everyday is immeasurable. 

The dopamine feeder bar no longer lurks in the seedy part of town, closing at midnight. It’s in your pocket, tugging on your coat like a kid begging you to play with it. It is a playfield multiplier for our nature.      

Hell, Adam and Eve got up to no good without even an Aux cord. No one thought to blame the apple, but now we sending Apple the bill. Our sin isn’t knowledge. It’s being heartbreakingly, profoundly, and perpetually wack.

The I in Ennui

It is my day off. I’m drinking unconscionably carbonated Topo Chico on my porch, with a jet black neighborhood kitty fighting my keyboard for a spot on my lap.  It’s in the mid-seventies and I’m in the shade. I put on real pants to grab a bagel from the spot down the street from my house with Kendrick disassembling Drake on the Aux.

This is not how I imagined happiness. If I’m lucky, I’m just about past the staples of my life. I had assumed there would be something more than this. Something more persistent and profound. Where’s the  mythical oasis rolling the red carpet and ushering you into a festival of fireworks and mouth stuff?

Today I understand a bit of philosophy I studied over twenty years ago. This asshole, Jean Paul Sartre describes a phenomena called the negatite: the origin of negation. For my three friends who all understand Sartre better than me, don’t @ me.  Be with me in spirit as I water down this concentrate. To be a person, is to experience the world as a special kind of being. One whose very existence is an issue for it. Stuff is designated as in-itself. Human consciousness is a for-itself. And we demonstrate this through negation. Don’t swipe yet. We’re almost there. Essentially, to be human is to project our desires onto the world. We experience the world as incomplete because we desire something more. But the world is solid through and through. It lacks nothing. We create the holes in the universe. It is our unfulfilled desires which create nothingness.

And this tiny afternoon, I felt the lack subside. The life I hoped for is gone, but the world remains the same. It is us that lacks, not the universe. We are entitled to nothing. The world does not owe us a dream. It doesn’t care about your self-fulfillment, your art, or your happiness.

Today I choose to shut up and enjoy a lovely day, a bunting kitty, and a schmear thick enough for the FBI to identify dental records after a good chomp. Maybe this is all there is. And maybe that’s enough. 

…

Goddamn it. I was going to end it there, but then something annoying dawned on me. It’s not enough. I’ve been advocating for renunciation. Give up your dreams, and hopes. Renounce your desires and you can be happy. But that’s not quite right. That’s bad faith. That’s treating yourself like stuff. It’s ignoring the part of you that is supposed to dream, to reach for something more than what is. We must project the lack. The TL:DR of Sartre is shut up or kill yourself. Ultimately, you are subjected to radical freedom. It’s a burden. It’s not always a righteous guitar solo. We hide from it. It’s too unwieldy.  Fucking hell. Fine. I get it. I still need to dream. We can’t shake the feeling of being perpetually unfulfilled. Good game, Sartre. Perpetual discomfort. Copy. Incessant wrestling with our nature and purpose. Got it. This shit is exhausting.

Data Points

I’m a fan of data. It’s a hobby of mine. I keep a spreadsheet for my house plants, gas mileage, and cassette calibration. Lately, I’ve been reviewing the data for my relationships, and I need to say that it has been sobering.

In your twenties, you can attribute much of the deviation to noise. However, as the cruel mistress of time marches forward, a common denominator emerges: your dumb ass.

And to my chagrin, it turns out that the Clue murder mystery is solved. It was me with the unresolved trauma in the studio apartment.

I heard somewhere there is a moment when the man you might have been must face the man you’ve become. And that moment is now-ish. The results are shockingly underwhelming. Survey says: more than a villain and less than a monster.

Who’s betting on a late-night comeback? A ninth inning rally. Another tired sports metaphor.

I got a real job. I wake up early and pay my bills. I save 15% for retirement and care for neighborhood cats. I check in on my friends, and wash behind my ears. And yet, there is an immutable truth that anchors my neck. I am mediocre trash.

Before the sympathetic among you chime in, it’s important to look in the mirror in unflattering lighting. That cruel Platonic truth only provided by overhead florescent can lighting.

I’m kinda a piece of shit. The Sartreian intellectual in me backpedals and corrects me: I have been a piece of shit. I am a for-itself and only been a piece of shit in the mode of not quite being a piece of shit. The kind of piece of shit who’s being is in question for it.

Ball don’t lie. Scoreboard. Check the graphs. This VLookup spitting facts.

At this point, I usually pivot to some shit about Rocky II and using the eye of the tiger to overcome. To rise above and be better. But I ain’t at that point yet. At the moment, I’m wrestling with the data. Looking at the ROI on these KPIs and trying to reconcile these two shitty Q2 (centuries) of poor performance. But that a tomorrow Nick problem. Today is about looking at the red on the spreadsheet. Understanding how we got here. How our poor decisions led us here. Accepting responsibility for the selfish, destructive, hurtful evil I’ve done.

This don’t make up for it. This doesn’t correct anything. But it is a first step. It’s a pen to paper. Awww shit. I caught myself trying to write myself out of this one. Trying to have a righteous philosophical upshot which give a ray of hope on to this bleak evening of self reflection.

Not today, Fuckface.

Today you get your nose rubbed in it like a dog who peed on the carpet. Breathe deep and fuck off.

   

Insert Loved One Here

While I've lost the chance to say it to you, I will say it in my heart today. Happy Fucking Birthday. Most of the time, I get hung up on the regrets, remorse, and grief, but today I'd rather just hit your highlight reel. Not that where you are, it matters that much. It's only a distance I can see the beautiful subtlety of your character. It occurs to me I never sung these praises. To borrow a phrase, "I loved you worst than most, but to the best of my ability."   

Happy Birthday to the artist without anguish. A Four-less creator with an unparalleled sense of color and composition. Someday, I hope the world recognizes your unassuming skill and talent. If there were any justice in the world, it would have afforded you a low bandwidth existence with near infinite nesting opportunities.

Your selflessness and generosity never made sense to me. That's not quite enough. It baffled me. My base heart couldn't process that much care for another person. And it came so easily to you. And it sticks with me; still rattles my tree.

A giant of resourcefulness and ingenuity, never a slave to functional-fixedness. You could MacGyver a fix with nothing but spit and a junk drawer. It wasn't pretty, but it got done. I would have been on my tenth YouTube tutorial, frantically scribbling notes.

With the bitter gift of time, what I've come to appreciate most about you is the myriad of ways in which you are not me. It is your unassuming and implicit inversion of my ideals I find most the most challenging, endearing, and aspirational. Chipping away at a monolith one day at a time, I've been improved at your expense. It is an unplayable debt, but I craft this birthday message channeling my inner Sam Seaborn.

You may be a quiet Nine, but you'll always be a ten to me. 

Happy Birthday.

Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother

I used to be averse to therapy. Armed with a cursory BA in Psychology and the blistering over-confidence of youth, there was no trauma mountain I couldn’t scale. I was the Alex Honnold of mental health. Despite the vast majority of the people who’ve ever loved me encouraging me, I persisted in my steadfast refusal. Over the last few years, I’ve given up free soloing and opted for a belay. 

Therapy does not fix you. It helps you uncover why you’re broken. It’s preventative maintenance on your meat car. The road is nasty out there. And unless you change the oil and look under the hood once in a while, you gonna break down. Sometimes you’re the fuckface swerving selfishly through the HOV lane because your soul is dog shit and everything about you is ugly. And other times, you blame it on your parents.

I’ve never had a therapist I liked. Well, that’s not true. I had one that was incisive and sharp, but the telehealth app made me fill out a form every time I scheduled an appointment, so I gave that up. I’ll spend six hours straight no-lifing a pinball machine chasing a GC from a person I’ve never met, but I won’t fill out three extra questions for my mental health.  

Hold on, jotting this down for next session.

I’ve never had a therapist I liked. But it doesn’t matter. The point is to show up. Set time aside from scrolling, drinking, and devolving to look at your soul in the mirror. And let me tell you, the light in that bathroom is not flattering. But you gotta look. You gotta. There are other people on the road and you’re a goddamn liability.

It isn’t magic. It’s an oil change. Every couple weeks you gotta take your busted old clunker to the soul mechanic. And they look at you with a veiled disapproval at how disrespectful you’ve been to yourself. And you promise you’ll stop riding the brakes, and putting in shit gas, and speeding through school zones. 

Over a long enough timeline, you actually learn how to take care of your little car. It’s its kinda nice. I only hope they start giving out little “I’m sorry for parking like an asshole” business cards so you can apologize to the other cars you dinged up along the way.   

   

Nickisms

Art by @carvesteady

Fourteen years. That’s how long I’ve been plugging away at this little corner of the Internet. Panic and Fear. I remember being late to blogging in 2010. Maybe if I keep at it long enough it will become popular again. Bloggers were proto-influencers. And in a dim sense, I hoped it would be a springboard to my creative success. That I would set the world in fire with my words and join the rarified air of real writers everywhere. Fun fact: I still work the job I had when I started writing this. I’ve neglected it for years at a time, but always came back. It’s a stubborn cold sore that tells everyone my business.

Grad school paralyzed me. I started studying philosophy to broaden my perspective in the hopes of becoming a better reader and writer, but became entangled in minutia. My time studying philosophy made me obsess with getting things right. Creatively, it was stifling. I was rejected from doctorate programs because they hated the essay I submitted about the ethics of humor. I was rejected from an iO Harold Team because I was too analytical. I know this because I was taking notes during my evaluation, like a fucking dufus. I wasn’t serious enough for academia and too serious for improv comedy. Orphaned by my institutions, I sought refuge here. Two failed sides of myself finding harmony.

As I write this, I realize it would be so much more impactful if this were the prologue to my soon-to-be-published best-selling anthology of essays where I recount how I overcame adversity and achieved success. Rather, this is the last bastion of my artistic life. It’s the iron lung of my creativity. My life is budget meetings and spreadsheets now. What I make here is carved from the scraps.

And I’ve returned to the well so many times, I’ve started to pull the curtain back on my own machinery. The writing conventions I exploit. The vaguely inspirational upshot, hinting at being rescued from despair. The lists of three declarative sentences which I use to drive my point home like a slam poet. You work your whole life to develop your voice, only to hate it once you recognize it.

This must be how bands feel. Play the hits, but do something new. I liked their early stuff. Every record sounds the same. The new album doesn’t even sound like the same band.

For the last decade, I have obsessed about the creative process and exalted my artistic identity above all else. Post-Covid, I have laid that version of myself to rest. I had not considered what it would mean to choose a different path. And yet, at the halfway mark, we find ourselves starting over. The tenor of my writing has changed. From an optimism about a future filled with possibility to a reckoning of what we sacrificed for a flawed dream.   

Let’s see if we can teach an old dog new tricks. Haha. Goddamnit. Even in trying to expose my patterns and tendencies, I caught myself doing the exact thing I’ve always done. Same Nick, different day; feigning intimacy with the entire Internet. Charming the void. 

In his writing on habits, Aristotle said we are what we do most often. To be candid, I am not thrilled with what my most-often list has become. Books, gym, writing, friends, and self-improvement have all fallen off the top ten. Goodbye for now, Dear Readers. I’m heading to the gym. I will try to be a better Nick tomorrow than I was today. Thank you for keeping me company as I roll this boulder up a hill.

* Art by @carvesteady

Say Uncle

In matters of love, there are uncles and there are fathers. Aunts and mothers. Both are valid, but require vastly different levels of commitment. The tireless, iron clad, heroic level of love offered by parenthood is beyond reproach. Their sacrifice commensurate with their legendary status. And then, somewhere in the margins, on the occasional weekend, there is the peculiar love offered by those one step removed.

I uncle neighborhood cats. I’ve loved a half dozen cats in my life, and not one of their collars had my phone number engraved on it. All of them have owners, and my affection for them is stitched together during bouts of outside time or incidental cohabitation. I travel frequently for work, and I sleep in hotel rooms with the same regularity as my own bed. And while my work life is a convenient excuse, there are a myriad of confounding reasons I do not have a cat to call my own.

Uncling is a genuine form of love. I love those little fuckers. All of them. Lady. Ollie. Tux. Timber. Sal. Felix. We play laser. Share snacks. Snuggle when it’s cold. There are few joys in my life more profound that seeing one of them waiting on my doorstep after a long day. My heart flutters when I hear the tiny mew from outside by door. There’s not much I wouldn’t drop to tend to their needs. As I write this, I’m wresting with a capricious black kitty vying for my lap’s attention.

And the vast majority of the time, it’s enough. My love car runs just fine on a quarter tank. I get some of the care and attention I need without consequence or responsibility. I don’t change litter boxes. I don’t pay vet bills. I am the fun uncle. But increasingly, after midnight, I’ll find myself obsessively cracking my front door hoping to find one of my part-time loves. 

As my door creaks closed, my heart sinks. I hope they are warm, cared for, and happy. The fate of an uncle is to love something that isn’t yours. If you aren’t willing to make the sacrifices, you don’t get the security. You can’t win what you don’t put in the middle. 

I’m a fantastic uncle. My love is kind, patient, and selfless. I’ve gotten so used to being loved by other people’s things, anything else feels terrifying. I fear I don’t have what it takes to be a father. Not sure I’m built for it. To uncle is to be a tourist to love. It is a jovial, marginally-fulfilling derivative form of love. It is the girl dinner of satisfaction.

I’ve spent my life as an uncle. It’s served my needs. Gave me an IV drip of joy. I’ve made countless meals of Ritz crackers. But I fear it might be time to learn to cook.

Maybe this has nothing to do with cats, parenthood, or cooking.

True North

What do you do when you're lonely? Do you scroll deep in your texts for a person you haven't connected with in years? Only to be reminded of why you left it behind fifteen minutes later? Do you drink? Do you obsessively snuggle your dogs? Do you numb yourself with hyper-stimulating video games? Do you weaponize your maladies into chores and productivity? Do you work so many hours it quietly literally doesn't leave time for you to contemplate the onerous nature of existence? Do you double down on a modestly competent partner fearing the Valentine's Day abyss? We choose our brand of isolation cigarettes and we are loyal customers. But what fascinates me is how varied the manifestations are. For such a rudimentary human emotion, you'd expect some overlap in the social Venn diagram. Yet, loneliness is evasive, shameful, and hidden by our society. Even our art fails to address loneliness head on. At best our Taxi Driver's circle the drain. No one is willing to say it out loud.

I am lonely. I mean it in the conditional, temporary sense and in the chronic foundational sense. And what surprises me is how difficult it is to write. I am lonely. Squeezing the three words from my chest feels like an exorcism. I'm not sure I've ever attributed those three words in that particular order to myself. Yet, I've felt it inexorably since puberty. Why did it take thirty years to shake the cat out of this tree? 

For the purposes of this exercise, I am going to consider romantic loneliness as merely a breed of its larger emotional phylum. To be alone is a matter of objective fact. To feel alone is to suffocate under the oppressive weight of shackles chained to nothing. Loneliness is not only possible, but paradoxically common in the company of others. There is no more powerful magnifying glass for feeling misunderstood, irrelevant, or unheard than a group. Sometimes it comes from a bullhorn. Sometimes it creeps up on you. But the next time you find yourself doom-scrolling on your fifth beer after a twelve hour shift while realizing a celebrity looks like your ex, know that the ghost of loneliness present is knocking on your door.   

If we all want to be loved and accepted, why are we so fucking incredibly bad at expressing it? How do we all end up like this? I've been loved from the opposite ends of the spectrum. I've basked in oppressive, unhealthy, toxic love and withered from being cast aside. And what's left is an unreliable barometer for love, care, and understanding. What the living hell does a reasonable amount of love even look like?

Drinking from the firehose or languishing in the vapid emotional desert. There has to be a freeway exit in-between. This bus runs express between two poles. At least it has since for as long as I can remember. 

I ain't no civil engineer. Not going to solve a goddamn thing. Except to say, I said it: I'm lonely. In life, we get a compass, not a map. I don't know where we are going or how we'll get there, but pack your shit. Cause this sucks.

Silver

 "He who has his why can endure any how." - Nietzsche

Greatness, as it pertains to sport, the arts, and achievement, is the result of majestically broken individuals. It shines the most forgiving light on the most productive illnesses. I've been seduced by the pursuit of greatness. But make no mistake, all greatness is born of sickness. It is for those who dedicate their lives to unclimbable hills, who will give everything to edge their competitors, and sacrifice their sanity to make a dent in the universe. And while I do not sit on the throne of Mount Olympus gazing at the peasants below, a fire burns within me to join them at the summit. 

But, like, who gives a fuck? The podium won't bring you Gatorade and magazines when you're sick. Your trophy room won't call you on your birthday. Awards can't spoon you at night, nestling your Achilles heel between their big and long toe.

Why then? Every Olympian dedicates their life to an endeavor. They all can't be Rocky. Some of it has to be biology. Lance Armstrong has a super human lung capacity. Michael Phelps is biologically engineered like a fish. Alex Honnold's Amygdala literally doesn't fire. He is sinewy Daredevil, the man without fear. Let's leave aside the GOATs.

Let's assume it a pure meritocracy. That effort in approximates performance output. Competition measures our proximity to gods. To what extent can we leave behind our bone shelves and skin curtains and execute perfectly? 

Every GOAT necessitates a generation of losers. Imagine a world where Gauguin fucked off to the tropics and painted like shit? What fascinates me are the ones who sacrificed everything and came up short. The gamblers who bet big and had to answer to the loan sharks.

What drives a person to chase achievement rather than human connection? My first thought is that they are interrelated. People seek out the best. However, this argument quickly disintegrates under scrutiny. Experience shows us a long history of those who would leave behind personal connection for the pursuit of excellence.

Excellence is a chronic disease. Once it's infected you, there is no turning back. It's a high whose withdrawals are crippling. And anyone who's glimpsed it, who's basked in that sun, knows there is no substitute. The faint echo of greatness is a siren song louder than a Black Sabbath concert. It whispers to you like the One Ring.

My best friend's Dad once said, "We're all heroin addicts. Some of us just don't know it yet." To those who've never been haunted by the ghost of greatness, be thankful. This life is a drag.  

Bad Manners

There is an injustice afoot. A dining practice so egregious, I am compelled to speak out. I pray my words spur you to end this archaic and devastating social convention.

Food is fragile. It hangs precariously between groceries and compost. It's preparation is a dark art which I am not privy to. It is altogether foreign to me. It is the Achilles heel in an otherwise impenetrable fortress knowledge, a particular set of skills I do not possess.   

To this end, I dine out relentlessly. Regrettably, it has become cripplingly expensive of late. However, the quality, efficiency, and variety is unparalleled. I have two spices in my house and I'll give you a hint: both of them are kinds of pepper. I have leveled up my character in a precariously lopsided way. I've maxed out the sliders on pinball rules and hi-fi gear, but never allocated resources to food gathering. And while this makes me easy to kill in the jungle, I make a mean mix tape on new old stock Type II cassettes.

During my many years of co-op dining, I've learned immutable truths: the third breadstick always goes to your fellow diner, milkshakes served without the tin is a war crime, and you don't show up a half hour before close.

Hot food is sacred. It has the lifespan of a drug-addicted rock star. There is a window of perfection which gives way to a cliff of mediocrity. Consider the humble mozzarella stick. It hits the table True Detective S1, but by the time you get back from the bathroom, it's Game of Thrones S8. Reduced to a dim promise of what what could have been. 

There is a practice in our culture which I find abhorrent. And it ends tonight.

Picture this: the food runner comes to drop plates at your table for everyone except you. Your compatriots unfurl their napkins, rustle their silverware, but do not touch their plates. They are waiting for your food to arrive until they can tear into their meals which are aging in dog years. Under the guise of politeness, we let our meals wither. The Bear (I've only seen the Instagram Reels, but it looks intense) taught me the kitchen is a chaotic laboratory of food chemistry. And this is how we respect their blood, sweat, and tears?

I propose an amendment to the social dining contract.

We must operate under the veil of food delivery ignorance. None among us knows if it will be our food which was goofed in the kitchen and need to be remade. Thus, we accept the dining lottery and the moment food arrives at the table, we are compelled to partake. Politeness has no place at this table. It stands as an affront to the collective good. 

Some among you might shout, but what if we finish our meals before the other person has theirs? So be it. We will never leave them behind. We shall smile as they enjoy their piping hot food as we hope they did while we had ours. We have an obligation to reduce the collective suffering.

As citizens of this planet, we must accept that we will occasionally lose the mastication lottery, that our food will be the straggler to the table. And collectively, we must press forward with delicious meals and lively conversation. We must exalt the withering rose lifespan of the humble mozzarella stick and acknowledge a world bigger than the individual. We must ensure the survival of the species. We must respect the work of food artisans, and the ephemeral beauty of hot food.

In order to move forward, we must leave others behind. I consent to this agreement. I do of sound mind and in service of creating a better world, not just for myself but my children's children. If it is I who draws the short straw of tardy food, I shall be sated knowing my friends have food at the temperature god intended. And their joy brings me joy. Making them wait is selfishness in the guise of civility.  

I present the amendment to the social dining constitution and humbly await your signature. All those in favor of hot food, say aye. 

40

Adulthood is where dreams come to die. Not long ago, I caught myself talking to my best friend about our 401ks debating the merits of a traditional versus Roth. And I wanted to take a pre-tax razor blade to my wrists. At end of an absurd work week, I am fantasizing about a finding a few hours to myself to play some pinball, listen to some tapes, and pet some neighbor cats.

I took a position at my company which, by all rights, is a mark of success. I wear slacks to work and have a clunky work assigned laptop. And none of it matters at all. I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me.

For the past twenty plus years, I've spent my days chasing artistic endeavors. Though they morphed and changed over the years, in some capacity I was writing, performing, or creating something trivial with my friends. But, however inconsequential our pursuits were, they were heroically important to us. I loved each of my tiny projects like a child. My friends and I poured over every frame of our terrible comedy sketches. I've stayed up until 3AM rounding corners of a 'zine twenty people have ever read. And I once played my guitar for so long in preparation of a studio session, I had to record the record with duck tape thimbles on my fingers so I wouldn't bleed all over the strings.

Now, I make spreadsheets. The inflation machine is a meat grinder of dreams. I never thought twice about having a checking account balance roughly in line with temperature of a hot summer day.

But like a horror movie, I watched my cohorts drop off one by one. To marriage, children, careers, and the other trappings of adulthood. Suddenly my ocean of talented peers became a kiddie pool with a used Band-Aids clogging the drain. And, dear reader, I am among them. My alarm is set for 5:15AM tomorrow, my suitcase is packed, and my shirts are ironed and hanging neatly in the closet. Tired eyes, 12 hour days, will lose.

My bank account bled out like a stomach gunshot wound. Something had to be done. My life of leisure and carefree creativity was no longer sustainable. It was bedtime for the Lost Boys. But holy shit, I was not prepared for this.

For context, I've been working for Company X for twenty-two years. I started out at $10 an hour and lived in an apartment the year I graduated high school that is larger than my current apartment at like four times the cost. Late-stage capitalism is no joke. I feel like I'm keeping my head above water and can order Door Dash without financially crippling myself. But that's as far as the money goes. And I'm being fairly compensated. That's the insane part. I've traded my dreams for financial stability and my finances are not even that fucking stable. 

The Pandemic fucked so many people's lives. They lost both their creative freedom and their financial security. And some of them lost family, loved ones, and friends. I don't even qualify for the Pain Olympics Junior Varsity B-Team. But, in a minor way, I still lament the loss of the life I had. I wasn't necessarily happier. But, I was more satisfied. And I feel like the choice to chase that life became untenable.

So to Snow Burial, The Griffin Theatre company, Extra Ballsy, Now Playing Soon, NED Productions, my friends, family, every woman who's ever given me her love, and the countless other buckets I've crammed my dreams into, I offer the best line from an improv show I've ever heard, "I loved you worst than most, but to the best of my ability."

I'm off to work.    

  

Physical. Let's Get Physical...Media

I own both nothing and a ridiculous amount of things. To explain. There are no pots nor pans in my home, but over a hundred new old stock sealed audio cassette tapes. There are three vintage chairs in a space not much bigger than my work cubicle, but no condiments in my refrigerator. There are literally thousands of tapes, VHS, records, CDs, and DVDs under my bed, but nothing in my freezer except a Wintersmiths ice cube mold contraption. It took my two years to figure out how to make perfectly clear ice.  

I've been doing some arm chair (1977 Selig Leather Egg Chair with matching ottoman) psychology and trying to figure out why I've been collecting since I was 12.

Come with me, Marty, and let's go back to the future.

It's 1995 and I'm going through my little black book. Nary a teenage girl is to be found within the pages of this tome. Neigh. Rather, it contains the names and phone numbers of every toy store in Reno.

A spiritually accurate transcription: "Hello, KB Toys, I'm looking for Luke with a short lightsaber in the long tray. Oh you have it? Fantastic. Can you confirm for me the there is blank space between the lightsaber and the plastic packaging? No, I understand there's a lightsaber in the plastic molding, but I'm looking for the one with the short saber and the long tray. Is the cardboard surrounding the action figure mint? Is it free of bends, creases, or dents? Can you hold it for me for two hours? Fantastic. Thank you."

Click.

"Dad!!!"

Cut to home a few hours later.

I am putting a drop of Zippo lighter fluid on the price tag to dissolve the adhesive without damaging the card. I ask the clerk of the original shipping box and wax paper dividers so I can re-pack the figures in the future. To this day, none of my action figures are opened. They are still in those boxes in the attic of my Dad's house. 

:::Temporary break to pet the neighborhood cats who poked their heads in my window::::

After toys it was comic books. After comic books it was records, CDs, and tapes. And that pretty much brings us up to speed.

I've been collecting records since I was 15. I've never sold one. I'm eternally grateful to my pubescent self for obsessively caring for them, lightly dusting them with a Discwasher D4, and dutifully utilizing the dust jacket. Not much has changed in the last 25 years. Except I upgraded to the vintage 70s black Discwasher kit and Mo-Fi poly bags. There is a magnificent irony to caring for punk records in this way.

* Photos of my collection intentionally omitted. I ain't looking to impress no one. A collection ain't about size. It's about which records you choose not to get. All killer. No filler.*  

I love stuff. I fucking love it. I despise collectors who flip things for money. The stuff is the reward. The stuff is the stuff. I refuse to pay collector prices. When my friends and I used to tour, we'd keep lists of all our white whales. Life was long and the record stores were plentiful. It was shameful to shell out $30 for a record on eBay (oh how I yearn for the halcyon days of $30 LPs). It was practically sacrilegious. The hunt was everything. Any asshole with an AMEX can buy out Discogs and get a killer setup on Amazon. Cultivating slowly over a lifetime is where the real juice is. Finding a copper chassis Pioneer Elite CD player on Facebook Marketplace for $25 and driving to a Panera in the middle of Indiana means my gear and I are bonded. If you are not mine yet, you will be. I am patience. I ain't goin' nowhere. 

For those who come from a time when not knowing someone who owned the record, mean you didn't hear it, owning a rare record was a badge of honor. But more than that, it was proof you were there. It was the humble brag IG post before cell phones existed. And, somewhere in the depths of my adolescent mind, I conjured a time when a woman gingerly flipped through my record collection and was impressed by its carefully curated girth.

Like many of the white whales, those dreams are out of print and never been seen in the wild. 

And as I went to watch one of my comfort movies that recently disappeared from Netflix, I am reminded why my collection will always trump streaming. I'll never remove Seinfeld. I'll never edit out a sketch because the studio lost rights to the soundtrack. I won't only have a couple of the Tarantino movies. I'ma have 'em all. In the best resolution. To be enjoyed at my discretion into perpetuity. I subscribe to Spotify. It's fine. But I don't explore with it. Everything is too much. I don't even know where to start. And I end up listening to like five bands. When I thumb through my collection, I'm reminded of things I'd forgotten to want to listen to. 

But all this is pre-rational and doesn't explain away the enduring persistence of collecting.  I didn't have a philosophical defensible argument for collecting when I was 12. I've been relentlessly, tirelessly, and exhaustingly me my whole life. I'm wired to collect, database, and analyze. It's in my bones. And the spider-webs of a perfectly innocent and harmless hobby intertwine with a dangerous cocktail of my obsessions, compulsions, and maladaptive personality traits. But unlike Doc's assessment of Marty's presence in 1985, this is not heavy. My love for physical media can only be properly demonstrated via my profound and inverse hatred for moving. Over a dozen moves later, across three timezones and four states: stuff remains. Stuff remains. If that's not love, I don't know what is. Here's to another 25 years together. I just bought a dehumidifier to ensure mold doesn't rob us of a future.      

If you ever want to listen, watch, or experience with me, it would literally be my dream to host you and share my ferocious love of stuff.

Tux, Timber, Match, and Han

One fall night in Indiana, four little adorable fuckers showed up in my back yard: Tux, Timber, Han, and Match. They frolicked and galavanted. They pounced and played. And they stole my heart. Never much saw Han after the first couple nights. Match was terrified coming inside. But the other two. They were very special to me. It turns out, I'm a cat man.

Over the next few months, I would go to the window every night hoping to catch a glimpse of my stray cat buddies. I bought them treats. I snuggled. I sneezed and obliterated tissue boxes. Commensurate with my love of cats are my equally powerful allergies. I broke out into silver dollar sized hives. Nevertheless, I persisted. 

One of the lil guys seemed to particularly take to me. His name was Timber.  Timber liked to climb in the sink. He liked to be In Sink. NSYNC. Justin Timberlake. Timber. He would be waiting for me in the parking lot and walk me home. Early in our relationship, he would sit on my lap in the kitchen. And I refused to move until he did. On more than one occasion, I sat alone in the kitchen with a sleeping kitten on my lap until 2AM. My legs numb and asleep, but my heart full and awake. His favorite thing was to snuggle up during long bouts of Halo. I think he liked to see the birds on the title screen and to watch me get wrecked by teenagers. 

The other brothers didn't come by much. Timber kind of took ownership of the house.  And it was fine with me. I bonded hard with him. I hid the struggles with work in my affection with him. I preferred his company to humans. I didn't want to talk or explain. I was suffering in ways I'm just now beginning to process. And that dumb little idiot made my days better.

It was around this time I found out one of my neighbors claimed ownership of the kittens. That they were not, in fact, strays. They had an owner. And I was just some sucker in the neighborhood who gave them wet food. Maybe one of many. 

At first I was devastated. I took a battering ram to the chest. And I looked upon my time with him differently. 

Then Timbi got hit by a car. And with the final bits of strength he could muster, he crawled up the 16 stairs to my house, and parked himself on my doorstep to die. I thought he'd just been in a fight with another cat (he had a big mouth). But after watching his listless face for hours, I realized something more sinister was afoot. In a midnight run to the 24 hour vet, I held my little friend in my arms while he took his final breaths. 

A crying, sobbing mess I called off work for the first time in a decade. I knew he would never be waiting on my porch again. Never nap while I tea-bagged the enemy. And in his final hours, he clawed his way home. Not to his owner. To me. 

The next day I peeked out the window knowing I'd never see my little scruffy boy again. 

But, that day, and every day after, his brother Tux showed up on my doorstep. My rational brain knows cats are territorial and he probably only showed up because this was where snacks were, but my stupid heart believes he knew I needed him. I hadn't seen Tux in months. But from the day Timber died forward, he showed up every day. 

And Tux and I formed a special bond. One that temporally outstretched Timber and I. And I loved his handsome little douche bag face. I put way too much on him. The pain of his brother. A hefty dose of regret and sorrow. And for reasons I don't have the bandwidth to talk about, when I moved away from him, I wasn't able to take him. And I think about him all the time. And how I wish I could have expressed my pain in words instead of a blind affection for a neighborhood cat. I was in tremendous pain. And rather than deal with it, I hyperfocused on an adorable inhuman creature. And I realize now I should have dialed back my obsessive care and allocated it to the people in my life who loved me. 

But that doesn't get you very far. Some things can't be fixed. I've posted a picture of Tux every day on my Instagram. I hope he's out there. Chasin' birds and bein' handsome. I've had to start working on my own life. And I'm sad I don't have my little tuxedo buddy to distract me. And I'm sad for how it all ended up. 

And there's no righteous philosophical upshot. There's no stellar literary turn. I'm just sad. And I miss so many things.