My Gift to You

It's been so long since I've done this. Writing about myself feels weird; I'm used to writing about my characters. Before the end of this post, I will have waded hip-deep through a sewer in search of a kidnapped dog or something. You know, something heroic and ridiculous.

Tomorrow I travel north and see the family which is both exciting and instantly tedious. My Christmas break is like sand slipping through fingers and I need to web that shit up. Spending time with my family is great; spending days is going to be a hassle. But the booze flows freely and there are sure to be numerous gaffes. Ought to be a bizarrely good time.

There is always a crunch to see long-lost friends during the holidays, because everyone left the MOTHERLAND and moved to some far-off locale and good for them, right? But unless the Venn diagram of our lives coincides serendipitously, I have a hard time making the effort. This is probably the reason why most people remember me fondly but loath me in actuality. Honestly, I can live with that.

What else? My generosity with Christmas gifts--at least monetarily--has reached a new level this year. In regard to creativity and personality, not so much. Getting someone a gift they like is great. Getting them the means to get something they love is better, though. Sure, it's basically the gift of more work, but if you don't want the fucking free money I'll find a use for it.

Of course, this is all preemptive. Maybe everyone will love the opportunity to get out and enjoy some after Christmas sales! We are in a recession, assholes. Do your part.

Once again, I'm convinced I'm dying. That's pretty much it. I'm not sure what's killing me, but it's not me. The lack of control in the matter is distressing. I persevere still, because why not? My inner super-villain (Jungle Jim, who takes the powers of all animals in the jungle one at a time) loves torturing those around me.

National Dust: Primo

It should affect me more, but my inability to escape the teenage ennui that I embraced before really is the shits. The worst part about it is that as a form of existential torture its not even fuckin' unique; my entire generation (the lamentable, irascible, irrelevant Millennials)suffers from this. Or would suffer, if we'd get off our couches, put down the cookie-cutter fads, pull up the pants, and get our shit together.

What bothers me most is that this used to be a credible yet ridiculous lifestyle choice. Squares wouldn't give you the time of day on the street but deep inside those double-breasted jackets a dark seed of respect would gestate. It wasn't being crazy to make a point, it was being crazy because the fire was at your feet and joining the race looked so good when the beers wore off, but they never did, did they? Today you've got people killing themselves for hours about which pair of shoes looked more ironic with their ensemble. Open a newspaper and watch it bleed; it still won't make you puke like the tragically hip.

Awash in a sea of post-modern, post-post, post-transcendence troglodytes and the only thing keeping you afloat in the jetsam of fixed-gear bikes and flotsam of scarves-in-summer is your own two fuckin' hands, broken from pounding on your head to drown out the indomitable noise. But I ain't spilling bile on these good-natured folks, no sir; when family falls all you have is your peer group. I wouldn't piss on another person if they were burning, but I would point towards the nearest latrine.

No, what gets my teeth a-grindin' is the helplessness. And that big middle finger I give the high-brow Ivory Tower Society gets shoved right back in the old mug. As kid, it was running to and fro, trying to score ladies and flee from responsibility and the culture feeds on that. Being the clown is all fun and games until the paint comes off and then what? Just a fuckin' slob with greasy hands and a silly wig. You can cram 15 people into a phone booth but you can't pick up the goddamn receiver.

While it may sound all bleak and boo-hoo, remember that a fella's gotta have a little respite every now and then. You got to strip yourself bare, go find a cave, and throw a bone through your nose. Live like a wild person and fight for supremacy. Don't misunderstand: I'm not sayin' go join a commune with their psychosomatic dogma what makes you feel guilty for living and even guiltier trying to find the escape hatch. All it is is this: sometimes, you gotta go just a little crazy. If people push you away, bite the motherfuckers. Like, with your goddamn teeth. Supersanity is the deadliest disease sweeping this great United States of America, and if you vaccinate yourself with a little crazy they wrap you in a blanket and toss you on the fire.

And that, suckers, is when those toes start to get red hot again...

Psychotic Reactions

A potpourri of thoughts. For instance:

--While I haven't seen it, there is no way "The Social Network" makes up for the myriad ways in which Facebook ruined my life. If we can have cars with built-in breathalizers, we need computer monitors with the same. Facebook chat and cheap rum mix like George W. Bush and the NAACP.

--Some entrepreneurial young person will put together a montage of Julia Roberts' face over the past fifteen years, and it will horrify you. Also, she played herself in Ocean's Twelve, a movie which is primarily blamed for my skin cancer.

--Blogger has a few suggestions for labels for this post, and they include the following: scooters, vacation, and fall. Prescient in all the right ways. Did you hear? The CEO of Segway died whilst riding a Segway. While not the literal definition of "irony," that's a pretty fucking close shave.

--It's fall in the Midwest, which can mean only one thing: hipsters in Uptown now feel vindicated for never taking that scarf off. Without knowing it, I just fulfilled one of Blogger's labels! Thanks for the tip, computer.

--My entire stereo system was built in the early 1990s; I either have to replace the entire setup or shell out big bucks for a new turntable. At times like this, I have to ask myself: "How much do I want to listen that goddamn 'Mountain' album?" And the answer is always "a lot."

--Looking back, the only celebrity deaths that have really made me feel shitty have been comedians. I didn't go to class for a week when Richard Pryor died and I called in sick the day after Greg Giraldo passed. I also did a shit-load of prescription drugs those days, so their legacy lives on!

--O.J. Simpson beats the murder rap. Kobe Bryant is acquitted of rape charges. Magic Johnson beats AIDS. I'm just saying.

That's it for tonight! Hooray!

Carrying the Zero

As a skeptic, I am very interested in how the universe works. Currenlty I'm reading a book by Michio Kaku called Parallel Worlds, which has been the source of many, many nightmares. Theoretical physics has always been a weird interest of mine, because these guys are spitballing reasons as to why the universe is the way it is--philosophers in a scientific sense. But the things these cats can do... We've got scientists, probably somewhere in Switzerland, teleporting atoms across the room. Ladies and gentlemen creating blueprints for a physically-accurate time machine... These things terrify me. I have had nightmares about this.

In Back to the Future II, Marty travels into the future, and meets his future self, a loser. According to this book, this type of travel is not only possible, but likely on a quantum level--we could travel through a wormhole into a parallel universe and meet a different version of our own person. And this is the idea that I find mortifying: what if parallel Adam is more success than me? Better looking? What if he's some secret agent? Is that version more real than me? It's terrible to think about unrealized potential, but that's the lynch pin of M-Theory, and it really scares me.

It's hard to describe, but the feeling is like, "What would I do if I disappointed myself?" In a solitary universe, who cares? Who you are is who you are. But I've got millions--infinite!--versions of myself I have to live up to. As self-centered and sociopathic as it may seem, the one person I'm afraid to let down is myself. Somewhere in the jetsam of the multiverse, a version of me is lounging on a yacht, firing nuclear missiles at some Eastern European country. He just doesn't care. Adam Prime, though? Feeding his fat cat, writing his blog. How unfortunate.

On the other hand, how can you compare? A million different versions of myself won the lottery, bought big houses, and bet on contests that required a human being to die. Only one version is as messed up, vulnerable, crazy, and self-aware as me. That must count for something. I mean, on the bright side, all these geniuses can't figure out how to reach these alternate realities, so who do I have to impress? Myself? I'm not there yet, but it's coming. In the meantime, things are going to work out just fine.

Fooled With the Wrong Guy

When it comes to other people, I'm terrified. I've written about falling in love, about death and how it changes me; in the past, I've written (in a comedic fashion) about the fallacy of caring about the world and modern notions of the modern man, and how they are anything but. I've always felt like I had a pretty good handle on reality, but then things go changing.

In my mind, my grasp on life is absolute. I wear a suit, expensive ties, and shoes that denote not class but status. When I tell a story, people listen, rapturously. Tiny lives revolve around tiny me, with tiny celestial events occurring in between. Literally and figuratively, I am a star.

In reality, my personal style is mid-1990s grunge with sprinkles of modern metro-sexual--a truly confused visage. My command of a room is tenuous; for each person I feel is into my tale, another is repulsed. Life does not revolve around me. Copernicus was right, and he was a shitwizard. What happened? I thought I had this locked down.

It would be easy to point to a sickness, an illness, and ascribe my shortcomings to it. "I am depressed." I don't feel very sad. Mostly, I just feel solitary. The difference is palpable and horrible. If I was depressed, medications and therapy could cure me. As a singular entity, external help doesn't exist. I have always hated the guy who described himself as a "people person." But the only way to form meaningful connections is to work and accept and, metaphorically, be singular.

At this point, I'm not sure what else to do. I am exhausted and I have exhausted all outlets of personal connection. What happened? Why am I compelled to concoct elaborate lies to avoid personal interaction? What am I running from? When I first moved here, I felt like I was finally at home. All I can do now is scour the landscape for an escape path. What happened in between?

Recently, I saw many of my high school friends at a concert. We hugged and shook hands and exchanged tales of what we had been doing. It was a reality existing parallel to my own. We were doing the right things but the outcome was different. Did I outgrow them? Did they outgrow me? It should have been a celebration of old friends reuniting, but I've never felt more like an anchor.

You can't go home again. There is no home, really. There is now and there is then, and they exist simultaneously but not together. And you can't be in both. Life is the choice between the two. I've never had to make a choice like this before, and it's pretty scary. If life is choice, then making no decision is suicide. What do you do when both seem wrong? What then?

On Death

Everything I know about my maternal grandfather is based upon a story; George Paul died before I could remember him. He was a fighter pilot in World War II, and his plane was hit by German flak. He was a member of the Free Masons up to a point. He disagreed with one of their rituals and attempted to quit. Rumor has it he took issue with their racial policies. Years later, when he died, the Masons stepped in took care of all of the finances—the funeral, the coffin, and his old membership dues. Apparently, they took care of their own, and respected a secret taken to the grave.

My paternal grandfather, Vaughan Robinson, died long before I had a chance to meet him. After the death of my father’s mother, Vaughan, a truck driver, retreated into himself and died shortly after. A broken heart can be, and often is, fatal. After Vaughan passed, my father, only a teenager then, took it upon himself to care for his three siblings. He grew old and became a parent before his time, and it wasn’t fair to him. But there was a common thread among my forbearers: they understood responsibility.

Apparently, at the dinner table, George Paul would ask basic trivia questions to his children and grandchildren, and those who answered incorrectly were met with a rap from the handle of a butter knife. Why, after his heroic and selfless life, this is the only thing I remember about him, I have no idea. It just goes to show how death informs life, and how questions left unanswered remain mysteries. There is no denouement.

When I was a child, I used to ride my Big Wheel around the driveway, pretending I was Rodimus Prime or something. Kid stuff, I guess. One day, when I was too young to accurately remember things, I was adventuring through Cybertron when my father pulled into the driveway with a screech. He moved briskly and said little which was not unusual for him. But on this particular day, my brother, always the Megatron to my Prime, was poised on the deck overlooking the driveway, carefully lining up his shot. He was trying to drop an empty milk crate on my head. My father saw this, and, wordlessly, stormed into the house, emerged onto the deck, and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his neck. Luke received a spanking. At one point, Luke tried to block my father’s hand, resulting in a broken thumb. I can’t remember what happened after that.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned what happened: my uncle Sean, my father’s brother, had died. This came as a surprise, because I had no idea my father even had a brother! I had a good relationship with my aunt, Beth, and had spoken to my other aunt, Patti, on the phone. But, incredibly, there was another sibling. One day, when my father was at work, my mother took me into our basement and showed me some artwork. The photorealistic style was impressive, even to an amateur such as me. My mother explained that nearly all of the art that hung in my house was created by my uncle Sean, my father’s younger brother, whom he had taken care of since the passing of their parents.

No one had mentioned Sean to me because Sean died of AIDS. He was gay. My father, for all of his inherent greatness and faults, decided it was better that my brother and I just kind of knew about this guy in the periphery of our lives. Dad was old-fashioned, and when he discovered Sean wasn’t “normal,” took it personally: he felt like he failed as a surrogate parent. I can’t imagine that: only 17 and thinking you had failed at raising one of your three children. Life is rarely fair.

And still, the idea of death existed tangentially. I knew neither Sean nor George nor Vaughan. Death seemed to be a vacation to me; you saw the time share and just bought unlimited access. Then I went to college and did what everyone does. I grew up.

While I never knew the person—male or female, name, age, whatever—when I saw that person jump from the sixth story window, an unknown gear turned. Things changed irreparably. Later, when I saw the picture in the school paper, I convinced myself that we’d never had an encounter in dining hall or the elevator. I convinced myself that I was still innocent. And then I went home.

We had had Beau since she was a puppy. Her name was delightfully ironic; a girl dog named after the French word for male beauty, she was rambunctious and loyal and she was mine. We grew up together. Beau was the only friend that made the journey from Alaska to Minnesota with me. She loved her new life, what with three acres of prime land to explore and be wild. One day, while walking to the end of the drive way to get on the bus, I heard a gunshot and, for a split second, a yelp. I knew immediately it was Beau. I ran back to my house and tearfully told my parents what had happened. They did all they could: they told me it was probably nothing, and solemnly drove me to school. Later that day, they took me from classes early. Beau had been shot, and was at the local veterinarian’s. We always knew who had shot her, and that it was done simply out of spite, but never took any vengeance. This is frequently something I think about before falling asleep; it is my private shame.

Beau survived the attack, but lost a leg. She lost none of her personality and spunk, however. We placed boxes all over the house so that she could jump to her favorite spots: the living room couch, my bed. She was more timid, and more reserved, but she was still Beau. And when I would leave my house to go to high school and later to college, Beau was on the forefront of my mind. Loyalty is, sometimes, just a word. And sometimes, it’s palpable.

When Beau was diagnosed with cancer, my parents again did all they could. They invited me into their home, and they gave me plenty of time to spend with her. And on that Saturday, they took Beau in for a routine appointment, but returned red-eyed and puffy-cheeked. We didn’t talk about what happened. I went into the driveway, sat down, and cried harder than I ever had before. And when the rain started, I walked back inside, and I gathered my laundry, and I drove back to college.

Today, I frequently think about my own death. I don’t think about taking my own life, but I often wonder what people would think about me. With Beau, I had lost a companion, and a pet, and a part of me, and in a way, my innocence. Will I be missed? Will I be mourned? Part of me, the shameful, tragic part, wants there to be a tearful woman in attendance at my funeral, lamenting my loss. But mostly, I envy Sean. Those who knew and loved him mourned, and those who didn’t were able to look back at his life’s passion and work, and be inspired. But I’ve grown up, and life is rarely fair.

The Unspoken Things

I fall in love on a daily basis, many times with the same person. This has been a constant source of personal turmoil for me. Much of the time, my love goes both unspoken and unrequited; this is to be expected, because I am cowardly and vainglorious and stupid. But girls don’t make it easy.

When I was in the third grade, the librarian at my elementary school, a warm but homely woman named Mrs. Adams, stormed into my class and sternly asked me to join her. Because I was a nerd, this immediately reminded me of the scene in The Empire Strikes Back, in which Darth Vader unsuccessfully asks Luke to join him on the dark side—ha!—and rule the galaxy together. I was never interested in sleeping with my sister, so I would have gone with him. That inclination proved well-minded.

Our library was relatively small, but only when you weren’t looking. The stacks held all the usual suspects—Shel Silverstein, Bernstein Bears, etc.—along with a small bank of computers used primarily to kill daughters of dysentery in Oregon Trail. Tucked away behind the furthest wall, past the “big kid books” like Dune and such, was a dusty old door. Through this door was a small, windowless room filled with ancient machinery used to test the senses; basic visual tests, hearing tests, and the like were performed in here. When I walked in, I was administered these tests, and I assume I had passed, as Mrs. Adams seemed coldly placated. She then sat opposite me at the tiny table in the room, and asked me some of the toughest questions of my life.

“What is a group of crows called?” She asked.

“Spell ‘garage’.”

“What’s the square root of 64?”

And so on. Although I spelled it correctly, the fact that I had to think about how to spell “garage” and eventually pinned my success on a guess wakes me in the night. After she was finished, I was sent back to class with a terse “Well done,” and that was it. Or so I thought.

The next day, Mrs. Adams appeared to me, this time much more excited to see me. After lunch, she told me to meet her in the library. Met with a brief wave, I was whisked to the opposite corner of the library that hid a massive staircase cordoned off with a velvet rope. How I had never seen this before, I have no idea. She led me up the staircase to a loft littered with real books—dictionaries, thesauruses, collections of poems—globes, maps, computers, and a large round table, around which sat five kids I had never seen before.

This was my first introduction to ELP, the extended learning program, a new initiative at our school that sought out the brightest kids and brought them together to thrive. It was in the fucking loft of our library! The librarian was the group’s administrator! J.K. Rowling would have creamed her jeans if she knew. It was incredible; we’d do mind-teasers, engineering projects, algebra, and general smart-kid stuff. We probably solved a crime or two, I don’t know. But none of that interested me. I was interested in Laura.

She didn’t exist in my universe before then. She had a soft personality, delicate, and freckles on her nose. She was constantly brushing her hair behind her ear. Almost twenty years later, I remember how she chewed on the end of her pencil, not out of frustration, but out of a kind of curiosity. She was quiet, and we had shared classes since kindergarten. During ELP, we would share jokes about transcribing miles to kilometers and planetary orbits. She would smile, and softly tap the back of my hand with her pencil. It was a whirlwind romance. It occurred during a single day.

The next day, at lunch, I looked for her, hoping to sit next to her and be smart together. And, from across the lunch room, we locked eyes. They widened slightly. Although I knew who was there, I couldn’t bring myself to look to her left. She said nothing, but her eyes desperately sent me a message, which I received. These unspoken things have a bizarre capacity to unleash oceans of pure pain upon a person.

At ELP, she sat next to me, took my hand, and squeezed. We never looked at each other, but she squeezed my hand the entire forty-five minutes. Third grade was psychologically destructive. I saw her everyday over the next four years, and every day I fell in love with her again, sometimes for weeks, but mostly for minutes. It was the same with Amanda, and Theresa, and Nicole, and Sara, and all the rest. The times I’ve been legitimately in love were similar, but stretched out over months and years. I like to think my real relationships could have worked, had I gotten the unspoken things. I like to think that.

I’m not complaining. I love the girls I’m interested in today, mostly because I can be myself around them. And that cowardly, vainglorious, stupid man will always love them, because he can’t help himself.

When I visited Alaska, two years after I had abruptly moved, I saw her again. At 16, she was industrious; she made sandwiches at Subway. She recognized me, she had to, but clearly she didn’t remember. I ordered my sandwich, and like always, she was delicate: tenderly laying the ham in the bread, spreading the mustard, sprinkling the lettuce. It was just like our first encounter, shifted a few degrees to the left. When I paid, she gave me the scripted “thank you” her employed required. The restaurant was empty, and I could have eaten there, but she didn’t want me to. It was in her eyes. It was one of those unspoken things.

Just like that: in love, and out. A terrifying oscillation.