Riot On

Halloween Riot; Madison, Wisconsin; 2003

Read this first.

As my friend Machen said, this is all very sad and ridiculous.  I don't want to get in to how I feel about the whole Joe Paterno situation, suffice it to say I think anyone who thinks he has done enough just by telling on someone deserves whatever happens to them when the other shoe drops.  Ire-inducing as that whole mess is, at least it makes some kind of sense.

What doesn't make sense to me is a student body's desire to riot.  Are students jealous that their parents and grandparents got to take part in protests that were actually purposeful back in the '60s?  Imagine if at the end of the Penn State riots if the Board of Trustees came out and said to the mob "you guys have really gotten our attention.  You have made a valid point and expressed yourselves in a productive, mature way.  We are going to rehire Joe Paterno as the head coach of the football team."

After all that is what rioting is about, right?  Using violence to get what we want or to imply or dissatisfaction with the way things are.  Riots provoke change, in theory.  Perhaps a better lens through which to view rioting is that it is senseless aggression and hatefulness for its own sake.  College was/is a hard time in life.  Teenagers and early twenty-somethings are emotional lot prone to flights of whimsy and hysteria.  Ideas are put in to action before they are processed as good, bad, or neutral.  It's easy to see where the firing of lovable grandfather type would ignite negative feelings in the minds of the Penn State student body.  As those students learn how to integrate in to the world, an action like that could easily be construed as a reason to believe the world does not care about their opinions.  It could even be seen as a reason to distrust the world they are expected to become a part of.

Perhaps some of that is too grandiose, but if I don't allow myself to look at it that way it just makes my heart hurt.  Because the alternative is that people are by nature maniacal, cruel, and irrational; and that just makes me sad for those rioting and those of us who have to witness the rioting.  I'd rather believe that the Penn State student body was just being a bunch of kids who didn't know any better.  Not that that makes me feel a lot better.

It all takes me back to my college days and the yearly Halloween riots that would take place in Madison.  Off the top of my head, I believe the first riot started because some girls on a balcony wouldn't show their breasts after they implied that they would.  Rioting because you didn't get to see naked boobs, or rioting because you feel your coach who knew of sexual abuse going on in his program was wrongly fired, which reason is better?

That first Halloween riot would be pathetic in its own right, but the fact that it sparked a yearly "tradition" is depressing.  They got worse every year I was in college until the city finally developed a proper gameplan that was rather fascist in its execution.  But I would rather feel safe celebrating a goofy holiday than feel like I need to tell every out of towner I see to not trash Jamba Juice this year.  My understanding is that things have died down in Madison over the years and are back to "normal"--whatever that means now.  

To me it is tragic things got away from the carefree way they used to be in the first place.  Life is hard enough without riots.

Cute But Kind of Evil

I remember the thrill of my first horror movie at the age of seven. My babysitter let me stay up late to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer on TV. For a sheltered kid, I had captured the trifecta of awesomeness: no parental guidance, movie I shouldn't be watching, and reveling in the glory of life after 8pm. But as I sat huddled on the couch witnessing hapless teenagers get the life drained out of them, I encountered my first true feeling of terror. This was worse than when Mom took my Barbies away in kindergarten or having to eat tuna casserole for dinner. I'd thus far grown up watching Sesame Street, Care Bears, My Little Pony, and Full House. Power Rangers was considered a little too violent and Rugrats sounded like a show with bad kids. The second I saw that vampire laying across clueless Kristy Swanson's pillows, I left my innocence behind.

It's the same feeling you experience when finding out Santa isn't giving Mickey special dog biscuits to keep him from barking against a velvet-clad intruder bearing toys and craving cookies. You lose that sense of assurance you'd possessed as a wide-eyed kid. Everything isn't always as it seems. At some point, I might have had to stake a vamp.

Terrible a movie as it was (Donald Sutherland WHHHHY?) I refused horror flicks until high school when "The Ring" rolled around and everyone thought it would be a fun Friday night to watch Samara crab-walk her way to death-dealing destruction...from a well...flickering across the television screen of her poor victims. I remembered again why I'd abstained from this genre for so long. My brain just wouldn't let it go. I couldn't stop thinking about how creepy it was and what if it really happened and if that TV went snowy on me I would lose my *&%$. Give me a good thriller or a mystery, now that's legit fun. But coupled with a recent viewing of "The Shining," "The Ring" only compacted an intense desire to leave frightening films in the hands of my better-equipped friends. This would also explain the equally frightening collections of rom coms which until very recently counted "The Wedding Planner" among its numbers.

So I missed watching "A Nightmare on Elm Street" and "Friday the 13th" until my twenties. "Saw" will never be on my Christmas list. I can't picture turning to John and saying, "You know, honey, I could really go for a double feature of "The Grudge" and "The Omen"...want to grab some popcorn?" No matter how many times my sister tells me to watch "The Amityville Horror" it won't happen. I am just not built to withstand those kinds of movies.

What spurred this walk down memory lane was part of the game John and I are playing: to watch all of our combined DVD's before being allowed to purchase more. And since I'd never had the pleasure of meeting Freddy Kreuger, watching all of John's Elm Street gems was part of the deal. I was curious, not psyched. I knew very well that Freddy was the terror of my elementary school friends' slumber parties. But I also approached it knowing the bulk of this series were made before the true dawn of CGI. So we began a proper horror education.

Here is what I learned:

1. The first one was scary but dated. I jumped, I yelped, I was delightfully engrossed. Also? Call Stacy and Clinton because Freddy is screaming for a new wardrobe. He clearly needs better friends...which he would have if he didn't kill them while they slept. Rude.

2. The second was unnecessarily "adult-teen" homoerotic and boring. That whole scene in the shower? Where's Benson and Stabler when you need them? I believe it does win the award for most violent bird death since "The Birds" though, and that's something.

3. The third was better, so much better, and saw the return of Nancy. She took some acting lessons, got seriously educated, but unfortunately got bigger hair. I enjoyed the cast of teens and the overall lack of actual Freddy screen time even though he offed our original heroine in a badly wall-papered dream room.

4. Blargh. I fell asleep. I didn't like any of the characters. Mercifully, Freddy performed his kindest deed yet by slaying Patricia Arquette's replacement in the first 30 minutes. Water beds are also a lot more dangerous than I originally thought.

5. Yes! Alice is cooler, blonde, and dating Dan the Stud. Her life is awesome. But as the first storied scene of all her buddies gathered for a grad photo splashes across the screen I groan. "Clearly the girl with a Momager is going to die first, shortly followed by the stoned hipster..." Alice lives and so does her unborn child, but Dan the Stud doesn't make Krueger's cut. Freddy is terribly scared of Mother Mary Helena who he affectionately calls "bitch" instead of "Mom." I'm guessing she didn't hand out hugs and smile rainbows during much of his childhood. Column? Win.

6. I don't like this. They moved the story from Cali to O-Hi-O and we are introduced to our purported hero in a Wizard of Oz like crashdown. His name escapes me, as does any logic of the story. I woke up in time to see Roseanne Barr and Tom Arnold making a hilarious cameo before I fell back asleep. We'll be finishing this up tomorrow. Verdict? Undecided.

"The Nightmare" series is admittedly not that scary...not in the sense of other horror fare gracing our movie screens in this age of advanced computer animation and children reared on information overload. But it's a step in the right direction as far as my horror-tolerance is concerned. John and I realized one of the most interesting things a franchise could do would be to make a movie or show where the townsfolk legitimately tried to figure out why so many teenagers kept dying in weird, gruesome, and often bizarre ways (I'm looking at you Elm Street, Buffy, Supernatural, and even General Hospital). For now, though, a thank you to Freddy Kreuger. I bet that's the first time anyone has ever put that phrase your way.

Strangers with Candy

Have a safe and happy Halloween

It's difficult to avoid falling in to the habit of referring to myself as "dad" when it comes to our dog, Maddie.  I'm not sure what doing so satisfies in me, or anyone, psychologically but I do know if feels natural to do.  Of course I never really wanted any of this being a dog person but that too came naturally.

I was walking Maddie the other day when we crossed paths with an over-exuberant dog enthusiast, and stranger.  After coming at the poor dog way too familiarly for a new person in her world, the woman asked if she could give Maddie a cookie.  I hesitantly said "yes" thinking on why it would be considered rude to deny a stranger the opportunity to feed my dog while it would be totally within reason to deny that same stranger the chance to feed my child.  Why should the trust change?

Now I don't think this woman had any harmful intent, but these are the irrational things we start to believe as we grow to love someone and feel the need to protect them.  I watched intently as the woman reached in to her bag full of random papers and objects that had no discernible association with one another.  In there along with everything else were, not surprisingly, dog treats.  Who knows why she carried dog treats in her backpack.

My worried suspicion was that she lugged them around so that when she saw a dog she could seize the opportunity to feed it one of her arsenic-laced treats and rid the world of another nuisance.  As she held the treat out to Maddie my mind flashed to images from a movie I can't remember the name of (bonus points if someone reading can help me out with this) where a man is asked to show someone his papers and as he reaches to do so he conceals a sharp object under the papers.  The man then stabs the other man in the neck.

Thankfully, Maddie did not take the treat and thus spared me from picturing any more gruesome, illogical imaginings on how the whole situation would play out.  In spite of all this accusatory, distrustful thinking about this woman I still felt bad that Maddie did not take the treat--highly unusual behavior for her.  Maddie did not take the treat when I tried to give it to her.  In fact, she did not even take the treat when we were out of sight from the woman.

My little girl knows not to take candy from strangers and I could not be a prouder papa.


What I've Learned
October 9th: The Cowboys were the first NFL team to racially integrate.
October 10th: The LA Rams were truly the first NFL team to racially integrate.
October 11th: Steven Spielberg was to direct Cape Fear while Martin Scorsese directed Schindler's List.
October 12th: Nothing that I can remember.
October 13th: You can't donate blood when you have a cold.
October 14th: A Glasgow Grin is something Scottish criminals do that leaves their victims with scars like the Joker's from The Dark Knight.
October 15th: Britain's current Queen Elizabeth is not . 22nd:a direct descendant of Queen Elizabeth I.
October 16th: The St Louis Cardinals farm system is located in Florida (explained to me by my six-year-old nephew).
Oct. 17th: The circle by our house is called Pinehurst Circle, not Chevy Chase Circle nor Connecticut Circle.
Oct. 18th: Stephen King has a new book coming out.
Oct. 19th: 72% of black children are born to unwed mothers compared to 29% of whites children.
Oct. 20th: The food with the highest ANDI score is kale.
Oct. 21th: Muamar Gaddafi was killed by Libyan rebels.
Oct. 22nd: At the age of 25 Scott Hall killed a man when he was a bouncer in 1983.

Oct. 23rd: A 2001 survey suggested that 83% of pet owners refer to themselves as "mommy" or "daddy"

Razor's Edge

Scott Hall, or Razor Ramon as many wrestling fans know him, was always one of my favorite characters.  He was supposedly playing a Scarface knockoff.  Maybe it's my hatred for that movie, but I don't see it that way.  Apparently the persona was supposed to be Cuban, but Ramon just seemed cool.  Nationality was irrelevant as Ramon was "oozing machismo" as the announcers would say.  (I can still hear my dad mimicking that line.)

Scott Hall is still cool as a 53-year-old man who is in a very real life and death battle with alcoholism and drug addiction.  But the E:60 video expose I watched about Hall seems to implicitly suggest that Hall's addiction to wrestling is just as detrimental to his health.  I can understand that completely, I am only a fan and I can't quit the stuff myself.  Imagine what it is like to be on the other side.

Wrestling falls under a lot of scrutiny for the early deaths seen in the business and the fact that there doesn't seem to be a very good system in place to take care of these men and women after they retire.  I don't disagree entirely, but I have some serious issues with the way football players are cast off once they've retired. (More on that someday, perhaps.)  As I get older I see a big problem with wrestling--and the major difference between it and other performance-based professions--is that wrestlers are playing a character but they have to be that character in perpetuity.  There is never a down time for a wrestler and the more real they can be in the ring as a character, not an athlete (though wrestlers are ridiculously underrated or entirely unrecognized as real athletes), the better.

So wrestlers have to pretend all the time and that must be confusing.  Talking about it confuses me.  Thus, an intelligent, insightful man such as Scott Hall isn't sure if he is performing or not.  Is his character now a  man who can't quit the business or the excesses in which the business invites him to partake?  As long as people are still willing to pay to see him (and do exposes on him), I guess it probably is.  He knows he is genuinely dying from the choices he is making, but that's who he has been for a long time.  Is that a character, or is that the person he actually is?

I don't know, but I'm scared for him.  Both as a lover of wrestling and a fan of Razor Ramon as well as someone who does not want to watch Scott Hall, the human being, suffer and hurt those who love him.


What I've Learned
October 9th: The Cowboys were the first NFL team to racially integrate.
October 10th: The LA Rams were truly the first NFL team to racially integrate.
October 11th: Steven Spielberg was to direct Cape Fear while Martin Scorsese directed Schindler's List.
October 12th: Nothing that I can remember.
October 13th: You can't donate blood when you have a cold.
October 14th: A Glasgow Grin is something Scottish criminals do that leaves their victims with scars like the Joker's from The Dark Knight.
October 15th: Britain's current Queen Elizabeth is not . 22nd:a direct descendant of Queen Elizabeth I.
October 16th: The St Louis Cardinals farm system is located in Florida (explained to me by my six-year-old nephew).
Oct. 17th: The circle by our house is called Pinehurst Circle, not Chevy Chase Circle nor Connecticut Circle.
Oct. 18th: Stephen King has a new book coming out.
Oct. 19th: 72% of black children are born to unwed mothers compared to 29% of whites children.
Oct. 20th: The food with the highest ANDI score is kale.
Oct. 21th: Muamar Gaddafi was killed by Libyan rebels.
Oct. 22nd: At the age of 25 Scott Hall killed a man when he was a bouncer in 1983.   

Schindler's Fear

I actually didn't learn anything of note yesterday.  At least nothing comes to mind.  Kieley will be the first to tell you how rare this is as I basically never stop reading and I am disseminating some nugget of information probably every fifth sentence or so.  Bless her heart, she indulges me through it all, even when I'm reading an article about "South Park" while she's trying to seduce me.  But I digress.

The point is I am always trying to enhance my knowledge by reading everything I can get my hands on.  Thus, for me to go a day without learning something new, even if it is trivial, is a rarity in my world.  That said, I didn't come here to talk about what I didn't learn yesterday.  Instead, I'm here to talk about what I learned on Tuesday.

Apparently, the remake of Cape Fear was supposed to be directed by Steven Spielberg while Schindler's List would have been helmed by Martin Scorsese.  I found this shocking as Schindler's List is such a definitive film for Spielberg in a career full of definitive films.  The movie has always been presented as Spielberg's labor of love, so it seems weird that he wasn't originally attached to it.  Meanwhile, Cape Fear is so Scorsese it's overwhelming.  I'm not going to go down that road right now, though.  We'll save my disdain for Marty for another time.

However, I will leave you with this thought: what would the "blooper reel" from Schindler's List look like?  Has there ever been a film with a more somber tone?  Did anyone even tell a joke on set?  Or smile?  Something to think about.

What I've Learned this week
October 9th: The Cowboys were the first NFL team to racially integrate.
October 10th: The LA Rams were truly the first NFL team to racially integrate.
October 11th: Steven Spielberg was to direct Cape Fear while Martin Scorsese directed Schindler's List.
October 12th: Nothing that I can remember.
October 13th: You can't donate blood when you have a cold.       

I Still Hate the Cowboys

DC during football season is a place of mixed emotions.  The season starts and the Redskins fluke in to some wins and it looks like they can make the playoffs and the city is full of hope.  Then they drop eight straight in the middle of the season and everyone seems so deflated they refuse to even remotely embrace the perennial contenders, and fairly local, Baltimore Ravens.  The Philadelphia Eagles would be a reasonable team to root for as they too are relatively local.  But what I find most troubling about football season in DC is the abundance of Dallas Cowboys fans.

As a boy who was raised to believe the Redskins going 2-0 against the Cowboys could be deemed a perfect season, I saw it surprising to see so many star-clad supporters cheering the Redskins' most hated rivals.  Yesterday, I asked my co-worker why it was so.  My guess was that one is likely to find a number of contrarians who root for their home team's rival.  But my coworker's answer surprised me.  Apparently, he had been told that the Cowboys were the first team to racially integrate.  If that were true, I could finally support them being referred to as "America's Team."

However, being the good journalist I was trained to be, I checked the facts.  What I discovered was far more interesting, allows me to still hate the Cowboys, and leaves me with my initial question still unanswered.  It seems the first team to integrate was actually the Los Angeles (now St. Louis) Rams.  The story is pretty fascinating, so I will let it speak for itself:

In 1939, UCLA had, arguably until as late as 1962, one of the greatest collegiate football players in history, Kenny Washington,^[5] a senior.^[6] Washington, an African American,^[7] was very popular,^[8][9]and his team had garnered national attention in the print media.^[10] After he played in the College All-Star game in August 1940, George Halas asked him not to return to Los Angeles immediately because Halas wanted to sign him to a contract with the Chicago Bears. After a week or so, Washington returned to Los Angeles without an NFL contract.^{[11][12][13][14]} Washington spent the majority of the early 1940s in the Pacific Coast League with the Hollywood Bears, even during World War II, during which he managed to avoid military service, thanks in part to a timely injury that forced him to miss the 1942 season but likely rendered him ineligible for service. Washington, after his injuries were healed, was a rarity in that he was a healthy, available athlete during a time when the NFL was resorting to using partially handicapped players ineligible for service, but received no interest from any NFL teams at the time. In 1946, after the Rams had received approval to move to Los Angeles, members of the African American print media made the Los Angeles Coliseum commission aware the NFL did not have any African American players^[15] and reminded the commission the Coliseum was supported with public funds. Therefore, its commission had to abide by an 1896 Supreme Court decision, Plessy v. Ferguson, by not leasing the stadium to a segregated team.^[16] Also, they specifically suggested the Rams should give Washington a tryout. The commission advised the Rams that they would have to integrate the team with at least one African American in order to lease the Coliseum, and the Rams agreed to this condition.^{[11][16][17][18]} Subsequently, the Rams signed Washington on March 21, 1946,^[19][20][21] and racial segregation in the NFL was completely ended. The signing of Washington caused "all hell to break loose" among the owners of the NFL franchises.^[22] The Rams added a second black player, Woody Strode, on May 7, 1946, giving them two black players going into the 1946 season.

Credit to Wikipedia which is not always the most trustworthy Website but is typically accurate as it pertains to sports history.  Not only was this fact checking exercise informative, it also allows me to maintain my unfounded hatred of the Dallas Cowboys.

*Other semi-related things I learned:  

     1. The halfback Peyton Hillis of the Cleveland Browns is currently the only white starting running back in the NFL.

     2. The Baltimore (now Indianapolis Colts) were the first NFL team to have cheerleaders beginning in 1954.

John Pricelesworth III

I work as a Whole Foods buyer (as most readers probably know).  Recently, the most interesting part of my day has become seeing what one of the vendors will put as my last name on the invoice.  At first, I thought it was  cute, but after thinking about it I find it kind of offensive.  After all, one's name is a big part of one's identity and it shouldn't be handled just any old way.

However, much as it sort of bothers me, I don't want to say anything lest I give whoever is altering my name the response the are looking for.  It's hard to restrain myself though, I am so curious to find out what would compel someone to tamper with the name of a person (a business partner, no less) they have never met.

If I ever do find out who's doing it I do want to thank them for one thing: giving me an awesome fancy name to use when I become one of the hoi polloi: John Pricelesworth III.

The Threat Level Is "EXTREME"

Yes, the title of this blog is actually an article snippet from a reputable weather source.

I'm going to rage here, and I hope you can tolerate/forgive my furious wrath at the various weather reports flooding television and internet alike as Irene churns its way north.

1) Jim Cantore is an idiot. I grew up in Florida where watching hurricane tracks was a way of life. I knew all about pressure fluctuations, wind speed, flood variations, feeder bands, eye walls, and how to nail up a piece of plywood by the time I was eight. I don't need to see an over-zealous storm worshiper clinging to a telephone pole explaining how the massive flying debris field swirling behind him could kill you if you go outside. Thank you, Captain Obvious, for your grab bag of freak-out reports meant to further alarm an already frantic populace.

2) I understand the need to raise awareness about a storm's seriousness, but every time a reporter reaches for (or clicks on) their thesaurus to find a better word to describe "danger" and its derivatives (i.e. catastrophic, vengeful, extreme, maniacal, perilous, menacing, etc) they succeed in sensationalizing their story, but in turn cause an upsurge in panic. As Linda stands in line at Costco surrounded by a horde of wide-eyed stricken shoppers toting supplies for the apocalypse, she turns to her nearest counterpart and whispers, "Did you hear what they're calling this storm? A decimating widespread threat!" And like a game of grade school telephone, Nearest Counterpart relays to her friend that "This storm is the most destructive hurricane we could ever see here" and so on. I don't mean to make light of a legitimately serious situation, but I wish it could be handled in a way that both stressed the seriousness without causing a stampede at food and hardware stores.

3) The wind-blown, rain-soaked palm tree graphic of doom splashed across the storm page for weather.com. How about a solid blue backdrop which draws attention to the map and other important information without me having to further visualize what the streets will look like this weekend?

I am jaded about hurricanes growing up in Florida. I take them very seriously and stalk the same reports which drive me crazy, though I don't understand the need to overly-dramatize an already dangerous situation. It is what it is: a terrible awful storm which everyone needs to respect and prepare for. Let's stick to the facts, report what's necessary, and keep people informed. Bottom line. People perceive danger pretty easily. If given what they need to react, all of the zeal could easily be disposed of.

Please be safe, everyone, and take care.

Happy Birthday Macaulay Culkin!

Amid all the hubbub about Hurricane Irene one message stood out like a beacon above all else: Happy Birthday Macaulay Culkin!  I read this note on a digital, rotating bus stop advertisement and it made me wonder a few things.

Firstly, why is an advertising space, even a rotating one, wasting any amount of space and time wishing Macaulay Culkin a happy birthday?

Secondly, what happened to Macaulay Culkin?  For such a cute kid he turned in to quite the douchey sleazeball.  Also, why did Mila Kunis date him for so long?

Lastly, why are we still celebrating Macaulay Culkin's birthday?  Home Alone came out 21 years ago (wrap your mind around that, by the way), let's move on.  I mean we can still love that movie (believe me, I do), but no need to continue to make a big deal out of the birthday of the 31-year-old man who twice played Kevin McCallister.

Or, you know, I could spend a whole 10 minutes writing about him.  I guess I am glad to be reminded it is Macaulay Culkin's birthday after all.          

A Book Unread

I don't even remember what we were talking about before the call came.  It doesn't matter anyway because it was one of those calls where your world is totally changed afterward.  It's been so long since I've received the Bad News Call that I wasn't sure what was going on.

But January 1992 came rushing back to me as Kieley slumped to the floor and began to cry.  Her grandfather died today, you see, and that is not an experience I have been through for a very long time.  Still, I am glad I could be there for her, and that I could empathize in some way.

It's hard for me to know quite how to honor the memory of a man whom I have never met, but I felt like I should say something.  I am glad that he is finally relieved of the suffering he was going through.  It's a beautiful thing to know that in his final days he was starting to read again and in the middle of a book he found interesting.  I told Kieley that we should all hope to be so lucky.

I never met him, but I will always know his affect on this world as his writers' spirit lives on every day in his wonderful granddaughter who I love.  When someone dies we are always quick to think of the things that person never had a chance to see or do before we take the opportunity to celebrate all the things that person has seen and done.  And while the book Kieley's grandfather was reading will remain unread, his entire life has finally been lived.  There is no need to lament either notion.

I will be happy to continue to get to know Kieley's grandfather through the stories she has learned to tell so well and the life she is so generous to share with me.  

Sambo

My grandfather died today and I could fill pages with my memories of Samuel Laird, affectionately called "Sambo" by family and friends. And one day I will because my heart won't hurt the way it does and my mind will be clear enough of grief to do him proud of those recollections. He was, first and foremost, a man who loved to create memories. He relished the intricate recollection in the presence of those he loved. So I will be brief for now in saying he inspired me, who taught me how to dance, who nurtured a lifelong love of reading and writing. I'll always be "Kiles" in my memories of us and you'll always be telling me you love me and not to forget my old Grandpa. I never will. I love you.

These Dreams 2

This morning my girlfriend and I met all my high school friends at Taco John's on Water Street (the street with all the bars) in my hometown of Eau Claire.  Even Booker T was there!

I immediately woke up and told Kieley about yet another bizarre dream of mine.  She was a little less inclined to walk out the door after this particular tale.  Perhaps it is because of what this dream symbolized.  After this whirlwind vacation, there are only a handful of important people in my life that Kieley needs to meet.  Many of those people are my friends from high school and we will be meeting them soon...with the exception of Booker T.

It's interesting to think about the little relationship landmarks we pass on our journey, both monumental and mundane.  I remarked to Kieley yesterday that it was our first miniature golf date.  Cliche and corny, no doubt, but important nonetheless.  We can now file that date in with all the other cinematic dates couples are "supposed" to have: going to the fair, walking on the beach, the first weekend together, and so on.

Every time we pass and recognize those landmarks it makes me more and more glad to be doing so with someone I truly believe I will be able to share those memories with 50 years from now.  Maybe someday, if she's lucky, Kieley will finally get to meet my friend Booker T.

More Soul Searching

Note: This is another piece of the introduction to a novel I started, and quickly abandoned, titled Soul Searching.  It was supposed to be a memoir told in noir style that dealt with a person finding himself, "soul searching" if you will, while literally searching for souls.  Living with a novelist as I do now, I can see that the main cause of my derailment was not going in with a general outline in mind.  I was also afraid to let anyone read it, but I am trying to overcome that fear--that's where you come in.  So, in all of it's rough draft glory, here is more Soul Searching:

            Sleep is something of a privilege.  I would never expect those who experience it regularly to understand.  It is the kind of thing that comes to an individual who is satisfied with his day, week, life.  They say “no rest for the wicked.”  If only it were that simple.  I’ve been awake for a week now (something that is not uncommon in my life).  I have been truly awake for eight years.  Unfortunately, both interpretations have left me sleep deprived for far too long.

            I’m in the backyard of my brother’s house in Maryland digging a hole.  His cat died and I am going to give her some assistance.  I’ve found the souls of cats have a difficult time finding their way out—a real shame considering how intelligent those same souls are in life.  Naturally, I don’t have time to do this with every cat.  I wish I did because cats are old souls and it is a damn shame to see such spirits hit a dead end.  Of course there are worse bodies to have inhabited last.

            At any rate, Pippi was a true friend, and the earth would be well served by her walking it in some capacity.  Most times, cats opt to return as cats, but we might get lucky.  The historical influence of human souls that had once been cat souls is profound, but I am not an historian.  The importance of my job can not be read about in textbooks.

            But freeing Pippi’s soul is a matter of personal interest.  A favor for my brother who, though he will not know about it in this lifetime, deserves it.  He’s lucky he is my brother, too because digging this whole is a bitch.  The soil in his yard is the type of rocky shit that reminds me why I get paid for what I do.  That’s alright though, this gives me some time to sober up from the night’s activities and really give some consideration to the offer she approached me with.

            Why can’t I remember her name?                 

Life's a Beach

John and I have been in Nag's Head at "El Sueno" since late last night and I don't remember the last time either of us was this relaxed. I grew up never more than 15 minutes from a Florida beach, but there's something special about staying in this house surrounded by his amazing family. We didn't have to put on shoes today. People played games and put off showering and drank in the hot tub overlooking the ocean. We laughed, made dinner, watched movies and fought over who ate the last clam. I suppose it boils down to just being completely at ease, at home.

I don't want to linger here too long (there's a large puzzle being worked on in the dining room and my OCD is calling for order) but wanted to get a quick entry done. To you, John, I love you more than I can say. Especially with the smell of salt water in your hair and that smile on your face.

M&M Blondies

It's important to remember how fortunate we are to have good things in our lives and I'm feeling pretty lucky right now.  I've been coming to El Sueno with my family every two or three years since 1998.  Never have I had the opportunity to visit this beach house in North Carolina with that someone special.  At long last I have that chance and I can hardly remember what it was like to not have her around.  That is true in many aspects of my life currently; plainly and simply it feels good to finally have that missing piece in place.  Let's leave this entry short and sweet...just like my lady.

Right Here, Right Now

Made it  from Lake Geneva to Nag's Head in a day.  Those who know where both places are know that trip sucks in whatever way it is made, so this entry is obviously not substantial.  See you tomorrow.  Congratualtions Katie and Dan!

These Dreams

Let me start by informing everyone who doesn't know that I have some of the weirdest most vivid dreams.  More entries about these dreams are an inevitably for as long as I am trying to write about things for this blog.  This dream I am about to describe was weird enough to make Kieley question if she was sleeping next to a madman:

I was trying to explain to Kieley and her sister how lucrative a movie based on a tiger, dog, and little girl love triangle would be.

No, not a tiger-dog.  Notice the comma.

Obviously they were disgusted by the premise, but I reassured them it would be animated and wouldn't center on that kind of love.  Plus there would be great side plots such as the tiger going to find his cultural roots in India.  The dog would be dealing with his fear of swimming while living on a sandbar in the river as well as the concern that the tiger might eat him.  Meanwhile, the girl would be coming to terms with people telling her she is too young to fall in love.

Obviously this idea has money written all over it, something my subconscious was even trying to tell me as in the dream I regaled Kieley and her sister with this story as we slept in the parking lot of a gas station rather than a hotel room the night before my friend's wedding. 

Morning Wood

So here's a question: how did "Growing Pains" get away with Michael Sever's best friend being named Boner? Was that word not the euphemism in the late '80s and early '90s that it is now? Somehow, I doubt that is the case.

I wonder if it was one of those cases where the writers thought "let's see what the censors say when we name this kid Boner." Then when it made it through, they must have just ran with it. It makes one wonder what uber-Christian Kirk Cameron thought about the whole affair.

On that note, did you know that Cameron married the actress who played Kate on that show and that they are still together? I guess when you are that God-fearing you need to marry someone even if you are only pretending to have sex with them. I'm not knocking Christianity, just Cameron's crazy approach to it.

Anyway, I wonder if Boner was best man at the wedding. I wonder how long he went by the nickname Boner. I also wonder how he got the nickname Boner. It would almost have to have something to do with an erection, wouldn't it? And what self-respecting adult calls a high schooler by his nickname, especially if that nickname is Boner.

So many questions arise due to that name's existence. What an enduring legacy "Growing Pains" has left us. A tribute to the man:

In searching, I remember now that Boner's last name was Stabone, so that is where the nickname came from supposedly. I still think it was an excuse to say "boner" on TV a whole bunch. Honestly, how many Stabone families do you know?

Further research has also reminded me that the actor who played Boner, Andrew Koenig, committed suicide in 2010. There were some tasteless videos on youtube that make me hope this post is not equally tasteless. It was really just a random musing and I am sorry to be reminded that Koenig took his own life.

Love You Madly, Maddie

Let me apologize about the lack of length, depth, or general epic awesomeness of this blog entry. And now of course I remember my high school drama teacher telling us to never apologize before a performance.

It's been a long week, so far as weeks before a vacation go. You wind down things at work and want to climb the walls in the last few hours as the sweet taste of freedom lingers in the air. I could envision the gleaming linoleum floors of DCA, waiting to welcome us as we boarded our flight. A wedding with friends and days at the beach house were so very close.

And yet the hardest part still remained: dropping the dog off at the sitter's and realizing we were more broken up about leaving her than she us. I figured Maddie would turn around once before being led into the house by her temporary guardians (which she did) and then there would be the expected amount of whimpering and panic at being separated from Mom and Dad.

But this was not to pass. After she glanced back and was assured by us that going with Erica was okay, Maddie happily shot up the stairs without a single lingering pull. I stood beside the car as my eyes filled with tears. And then I recognized it wasn't because I was sad for her transitional ease away from us, but because she was no longer the terrified pup I took home from a kill shelter five years ago.

The Maddie who couldn't stand to be anywhere but by my side had grown up. She was going to be just fine and this wasn't a feeling I was accustomed to. I cried for a minute, reassured by John, and then experienced the euphoric feeling of knowing someone you love is in the best care when not able to provide such care yourself.

I can only imagine what it will be like the day I have to watch my hypothetical kids go to kindergarten. Might need a (very) large sedative.

One-Handed Typing

My favorite picture result when I

searched "one-handed typing"

As Kieley pointed out this entry will probablt lead to some assumptions about the meaing of the title.  No double entendres here, just felt like typing with only my right hand.  For added fun, I am going to leave in asll the typos.

This is difficult to do, mote so than I remember from thre old "hunt and peck" days.  If any onre from South is reading this surely they will remember Ms. mahler's keuyboarding class.  And if anypone from my class specificcally is reading this, I'm sorry for singing the Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin;" every time we had to type the word "jive" from our keyboarding biooks.

In fact, I am sorry to everyone who just took the time to read this.  Take comfort that it took way less time to read this crapo than it did to type it.

Soul Searching

Note: This is the introduction to a novel I started, and quickly abandoned, titled Soul Searching.  It was supposed to be a memoir told in noir style that dealt with a person finding himself, "soul searching" if you will, while literally searching for souls.  Living with a novelist as I do now, I can see that the main cause of my derailment was not going in with a general outline in mind.  I was also afraid to let anyone read it, but I am trying to overcome that fear--that's where you come in.  So, in all of it's rough draft glory, here is the introduction to Soul Searching:

            There is a theory that the human soul is a physical thing which can be verified by the weight a person loses when he dies.  This is an exciting idea for those who want to put the debate of whether or not the soul exists to rest.  Of course it is merely a theory since scientists are unable to consistently prove this weight loss.  By nature science is a field based on answering questions rather than producing them.  The theory that a soul has mass produces questions both basically and fundamentally unanswerable.  But the easiest question to answer remains the most imposing obstacle in the path of proving that the soul exists.  How much does the soul weigh?

            If someone had the answer, the theory would be fact, but where science fails is that if the answer is “I don’t know” the truth remains unfound.  After all, we can only prove what we know.  Fortunately, I do not need hard evidence to know the human soul exists—though I do have it.

            Call me a grave robber if you want, but someday you may be thanking me, or someone like me.  I will admit that I physically steal from the dead, but spiritually, I set them free.  So I am patient with those who don’t understand viewing me as nothing more than a petty criminal.  I would not expect a world that bases its beliefs upon that which it can observe physically to have a grasp on what I do.  In the simplest terms I am a Soul Searcher.  Beyond that, the explanation becomes a muddied puddle that can make people question what they know, or think they know.  I encourage such people to read no further as what follows will surely challenge the way people think.

            However, before those readers run for cover, let it be known that in all of my experiences I have never sexually violated a corpse.  I understand that in this world such actions are frowned upon, and furthermore it is not something that I am into.  I have crossed paths with plenty of necrophiles in my time, and those perverts make me sick.  It seems to me that necrophilia is a lot of risk and effort put into some glorified masturbation.  Anyway, I respect the bodies and families of the souls I save, and fucking dead bodies doesn’t fit into that line of thinking.

            That is not to say that I haven’t wrecked a handful of corpses in my day.  Sometimes it can be difficult to find the path a soul takes out of the body.  Sometimes I have to go in and dig a soul out either because it is trapped or because it is afraid to come out.           

I passed through the seven levels of the Candy Cane forest, through the sea of swirly twirly gum drops, and then I walked through the Lincoln Tunnel.

When I was a little girl, I caught a special on the History Channel about the Loch Ness Monster with my sister. We sat, raptly glued to the fantastic story unfolding before us on the ancient Quasar (which is a very old television for all you of the Apple generation):



Afterward, we stayed up late devising a plan as to how we would catch the mythical beast which involved, quite scientifically, the use of large nets and a tranq dart. We were big enough dorks in our tender pre-teen years to visualize the spread National Geographic would offer us when we had better evidence to offer than this:



Before the cold hard reality of rational skepticism kicks in (and this is by no means a blanket personality trait), most people tend to believe in the odd and unknown at some point in their lives. It's fun, for even a brief moment, to let go of everything you feel compelled to follow and say, "What the hell. No one has actually caught a Yeti so it might as well be me who finds him first."

At the age of 26, I no longer believe that Nessie lurks in a murky Scottish lake or that Bigfoot is terrorizing campers equipped with bad camera skills. The lack of actual evidence is almost too overwhelming, too improbable. How many times are these beasts almost caught or barely seen? Surely someone...somewhere...but no. These fearsome urban legends only continue to stalk our imaginations and make for fun internet memes.

I had all but given up on any truth until my boss walked into work today, declaring he was terrified of the chupacabra captured in nearby Prince George's County. I balked at him before suggesting he keep Puggle the dog locked up inside so he wouldn't get eaten.

"You can't be serious," I said.
"Oh, I am. Have you seen that thing?"
"It'll be waiting for you when you get home."
"I'll shoot it."
"With what? You don't even own a gun."
"My fists. My fists of fury."

All kidding aside, the thing, whatever it was, can be seen in this video:



My first reaction was, "Ugh! It's hideous! But ohhh...it looks so scared, the poor thing." My boss was less kind, declaring it his greatest fear as they are rumored to drain the blood of their victims and that I should be afraid...very afraid. Coming from a six-foot-two former Marine, I considered if my complete lack of fear was wrong. I stared at the hairless fox-like giant rat again, wondering how much damage such a thing could actually do. My guess? Not much.

The most probable explanation for the chupacabra legend are coyotes riddled with a parasitic infection. Scientists at the University of Michigan theorized this as recently as 2010. Our dog had mange several years ago and it wasn't pretty, so I can relate to just how awful and uncomfortable this can make a fuzzy critter look.

I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where everyone believed everything just because it COULD exist. Where no one experienced a drop of doubt until definitive proof landed in their proverbial laps. We'd probably sit around all day smoking weed and discussing the odds of a leprechaun-zombie war, wearing "What Would Justin Bieber Do?" t-shirts while the Beatles played and people stocked their pantries full of canned goods for the upcoming apocalypse. No one would work because money wasn't important. Clothes would be optional if they were ever invented at all. People would only buy houses with chimneys for Santa and sleep with an aspen stake beside their bed and never *ever* summon Bloody Mary three times in front of a dark bathroom mirror since she then stood a legitimate chance of coming to steal your soul.

Perhaps Buddy the Elf, ironically, puts logic best:

Gimbel's Manager: [showing Buddy around the floor] This, is the North Pole.
Buddy: No it isn't.
Gimbel's Manager: Yes it is.
Buddy: No it isn't.
Gimbel's Manager: Yes it is!
Buddy: No it's not. Where's the snow?

Clyde the Spider

In the years to come the spider will get bigger, I will become braver, and it will seem as if I had stared down Death himself. In truth, Clyde the Spider was a fairly inconsequential porch-guest; an orb-weaving spider who made a significant impact (in my mind, anyway) on the number of flies that found their way in to our already insect-friendly basement apartment. But arachnophobia is arachnophobia, and I couldn't let my girlfriend live in fear every night until we moved especially when that fear negatively affected our dog's bladder.

So I did what any boyfriend would do and pulled Clyde off the web. Now, I would love to say that Kieley's fear of spiders was the only reason I was feeling a bit nauseous as I approached Clyde with two giant plastic cups, but the truth is crushing bugs has made me a bit squeamish since long before I met Kieley. So capture and release in to the wild was the strategy. Great plan, right?

As Kieley said " it played like a horror movie" as I caught Clyde but couldn't find him when the time came to dump him elsewhere. I came in the house with the job half done. Hey, at least Clyde was somewhere else besides right in front of our door. That's when I heard the tearful scream: "It's on your back!" as Kieley slumped to her knees cry-gagging (I made that up, you're welcome to use it as necessary).

I headed for the door and threw my shirt in to the street, Clyde and all. I figured that was the last we would see of him, but like any good monster Clyde returned the next morning. It seems his daytime hours were being spent in the mailbox--something I suspected but would never have known for sure if I had not glimpsed a pair of legs crawling back inside on my way to work.

The bastard was cornered and I knew what to do, squeamishness be damned! I crushed him in to bitty pieces as part of him fell through the bottom of the mailbox never to be seen again.

"John, what about when you get mail?" you ask. Turns out the mail never comes to our little basement apartment, but that is a story for another time.

Who I Am

What more is there to tell about myself that isn't said by my admission that I have seen Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel? I never thought I would be that guy. I swore I wouldn't, but in a moment of weakness last Saturday morning I caught myself watching the movie in it's entirety. I wish I had managed to catch the first 15 minutes of Dinner for Schmucks so I could have counted that as our movie that day. Events like this are the exact reason I don't order HBO when I am paying for my cable. I cannot count how many awful movies I have sat through simply because they were on.

Back to Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. I came to realize something while watching their increasingly absurd high school experience: this garbage was no worse than the stuff I loved as a kid. In fact, it holds the added bonus of having better production quality that will hopefully hold up better than say The Chipmunk Adventure:

In truth the Chipmunks was always about peddling pop music sung in high pitched voices ever since "The Witchdoctor":

And darn it if it doesn't still have some appeal when the little guys (and gals) break in to the most obnoxious version of "Bad Romance" ever heard. Like I said, I feel it is very telling about me that I have seen Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel.

It says I am someone who is willing to give anything a chance, if somewhat begrudgingly. It says I am someone who tries to see the merit in all things. Most of all, it says I am someone who is comfortable enough with who he is to admit he has seen a money-grubbing, soulless kids' movie with nary a child in sight.

Don't Drink the Tigerblood

I won’t go on in great length about our most recent two-week challenge as John’s already given a brief overview (a quite witty one at that) and our new project began last night. Watching a movie every night wasn’t easy, compounded by our quest to watch only movies at least one of us hasn’t seen. Inevitably, at least one of us, and almost always both, remained raptly attuned to what unfolded on the screen in our living room. Watching movies in this fashion isn’t like a Law & Order marathon…you’re less inclined to surf the net or paint your nails or lint roll the couch when undivided attention remains a must for following plotlines. Yes, Fool’s Gold, even you forced John to set aside his fantasy football stats for the sake of a meaningful cinematic experience.

What I think this challenge focused most on was the importance of time- how you break it up, how you value what’s available, who you choose to spend it with, etc. Reserving a two-hour minimum every night for 14 days definitely made us reevaluate some things- as in, would we have otherwise just spent that 120 minutes watching Charlie Harper(Sheen) shop for bowling shirts and bad decisions or could we have done something more active like take Maddie on a long walk? We want to enjoy our nights together doing things we enjoy, and now that we have our nights free, we’re more apt to consider alternate activities that don’t necessairily involve a sofa/television combo.

I am guilty as anyone of being exhausted when I get home from work and wanting to steer clear of things which involve mass amounts of brain power or physical prowess as the sun goes down. I want to vegetate. In my pajamas sans make-up. With a bowl of mac and cheese. This is nice once in a while, truly. It’s necessary for my sanity. But I’m certainly more open to considering different ways of using our time now than I was before.

Maybe tonight will be a good night to tell John I signed us up for competitive team knitting…

No, that can wait. In the meantime, get excited about our new challenge of writing a blog entry everyday. We promise not to talk about the weather.

Pulp Fiction

As Pulp Fiction rolled to a close on the third to last night of our challenge to watch a movie every day for two weeks, a few things occurred to me. One, I feel like I am getting old when I am stunned to be going to bed after 10:30. Two, Pulp Fiction (released in 1994) is definitely starting to feel dated. And three--most relevant to this blog--watching a movie every day, and I mean really watching it, is time consuming.

With a day full of work and making future plans and walking dogs and building a strong relationship foundation and trips to CVS for desserts we shouldn't be eating, there seems little time to watch a movie AND blog about the experience. But, I understood that that would be the challenge from the get go: finding the time to accomplish something (no matter how small) and then talk about the experience (no matter how mundane). The guilt I felt watching a movie and not writing about that movie started to weigh on me more each day to the point that this two weeker will be the act of blogging at least once per day by both contributors.

Certainly, this whole project feels like extreme navel-gazing, but it is hard not to notice that a few Facebook friends took the time to take at a least a passing glance at what we have going here. I'd like to have more to offer than a handful of entries and another failed startup to a project I've romanticized for some time. This will be an effort to build that catalog and in the process hopefully hit on a topic that isn't writing about writing a blog.

Success?

Without much incident we made it through our pizza challenge and have moved on to the next. For the record, I did eat my favorite pizza in my area and I am happy to advertise for them: Besta Pizza. If you ever find yourself between Cleveland Park and Friendship Heights, they are worth a try.

And so on to the new challenge we went and within hours Lady Loophole accidentally broke the pact. Not to be disuaded so soon in to our project, we came up with a new challenge. I'm realistic, I know at some point we won't get through a two weeker or we'll slip up, and we will chronicle that because we need to embrace our failures as much as we embrace our successes. Plus if this goes on a while, we should have no trouble once again trying to only eat home cooked meals for two weeks.

But since Surfside (a Mexican restaurant) was paid a visit last night, we will instead be watching a movie every day for two weeks. Given how many movies the two of us watch this should be no problem, but I have tried something akin to this before and I know the difficulties that may arise. We'll worry about them when we get there, for now let's talk about Adventures in Babysitting.

Elisabeth Shue, my first love:



That right there was all it took to get the mojo of little four year-old Johnny going. My dad might not like it but the Crystals version of the Beach Boys' "Then (S)he Kissed Me" is so much catchier. Honestly, my first crush on Elisabeth Shue runs so deep that I don't even think that hair looks dated, though it so clearly is. I always wanted her to be my babysitter minus all the adventures except this one:



Love it!

PS today we watched The Italian Job (2003) and it was okay. Noteworthy in that it was one of the first DVDs that Kieley bought which certainly means something. My first DVD was Gone in 60 Seconds. I am not sure who has better taste.

Nobody's Perfect

The point of this blog is about challenging yourself, and as our successful two-week pizza deprivation comes to a close, I’ve considered other things in my life which I’d like to improve upon. Sure, I can give up delicious Italian fare for 14 days, but what about me as a person? Myself? What are the limitations I face and how can they be broken?

I have no delusions about perfection. Some people believe we are born without flaws and then damaged by nature, nurture, or both. I believe we are born innocent (there’s a distinct difference) with infinite potential to be tainted from a combination of our genetic inheritance and the environment in which we grow. No one is or ever will be perfect. And frankly, who would want to live in a world of Stepford accountability? The best we can do as a human being is make the best of what we’re given and what we’ve got.

It’s taken me a long time to deal with some of the things which shadow my usually upbeat and smile-laden personality. No one wants to step back and say, “Shit, that fucked me up.” Admissions of failure impress upon us a sense of personal doom, and that by owning up to those failures makes us weak. Weakness isn’t admired- no one roots for the lame duck, books or history won’t favor someone who never makes strides of greatness. From a very early age we’re told to be the best, to do our best, to, in the prolific words of Survivor: outwit, outplay, outlast.

But isn’t the greatest mark of achievement realizing what needs to be changed about yourself and actually attaining those goals? What could possibly be harder that acknowledging your own faults, especially under the public social microscope. I don’t need an immunity idol, either. I want to be the metaphorical player running down the beach in her birthday suit who’s still able to win over allies and score a jungle rat for dinner.

Growing up, I didn’t realize that my father was an alcoholic, only that he drank a lot and this made him argumentative, combative, and a chronic liar. He manipulated every situation to his advantage. He put vodka in his morning juice and hid liquor in the garage. I remember walking into our backyard to play and finding it littered with beer bottles he’d never picked up. My father spent the better part of my childhood yelling at my mother, yelling at my sister and me, withholding money, and never following through on the many promises he made us. I realize that as children we perceive things differently, that our memories can be distorted by time and experience, but what I recall of my father did happen and I can see the confirmation shining back in my family’s eyes.

I don't have the slightest problem with drinking; I do it myself, it's a fun social activity and usually provides a dearth of good stories. But the way in which someone handles themselves under the influence, the way in which they do or do not allow it to shape their lives...this is what I always consider.

When he was sober, we’d have adventures. He turned an ordinary walk in the woods into a fairytale, a blanket fort into a mountain hideaway. His imagination knew few, if any bounds when it came to the make believe, though it was always reality he couldn’t grasp. As we grew up, he never listened to his children, never considered their opinion or feelings. We were supposed to love and respect him because he was our father. This was not a rule I agreed with. So we fought. I demanded to be heard and was rewarded with being told I was crazy, that I was as bad as my mother, and that he hated me.

I could go into length and detail about the episodes in which he hurt me, so deeply that I start shaking when I think of running into him on a street. That won’t serve any other purpose than to beat a dead horse. He took away the most precious thing a person has and that is trust in other people. I grew up and grew on, eventually taking the initiative to make my life what I wanted it to be. It wasn’t easy though, and every step of the way he lingered in my subconscious like a whisper in the dark: “You won’t be happy. You don’t deserve it.” I frantically worried over money, that I wouldn't have enough for any matter of disasters, small or large, down the line. What my mom had suffered from his wrongdoings was not a pattern I sought to repeat; I always wanted to make sure I had enough, just in case the world fell out beneath my feet again.

So no, that’s not the happiest thing I've ever written by a long shot as I read it back over. And that’s not to say I don’t have handfuls of happy things to make me smile from my younger years, but those bad times, originating with one of the two people you rely on the most as a kid, changes you. I reflect on those memories of my father from more of a distant vantage, as if observing the events inside a snow globe. They happened to me and my family, but they are part of a different life. I'm not a child anymore and I have so many incredible gifts in life to be grateful for and enjoy. He scarred me in some regards, but pushing past those hurts has made me stronger. I value people and things much more than I ordinarily would. I haven’t seen to or spoken to my father in over five years. I don’t even know where he is. It’s better that way.

For a long time I wondered if I’d find someone, if I’d ever be able to let someone in past all the walls I’d built up so defensively. I knew it would be difficult, if not entirely impossible, especially when you've lived your life feeling like an old soul inside a modern flesh. But everything else was going well- new city, new job, abounding confidence and hope for the future. Surely, amidst all of this, he would find me.

And then I found him, on match.com. A 6’4” English teacher named John. We talked and freely and widely for hours on our first date over margaritas and Mexican food. And at the risk of being cliche, it felt like a puzzle-piece clicking into place. How could it just feel that right, that natural, like somehting we both wanted in such a short span of time? He makes me think, keeps me on my toes, laughs at all my bad jokes, nerds out with me, holds me tight, loves my dog and loves me, loves me deeper than I ever thought anyone would. It’s hard for me to express just how John changed my life and in what wondrous ways he still does every day. With John I can be myself, absolutely and completely. And so even when I have a girl fit and cry because I can’t find a dress to wear for dinner or get bummed because my cookies burned or become a stressball over who’s taking care of Maddie when we go away he still loves me. And this was a revelation to me; love like that, without condition. He loves me for me and though we sometimes disagree or endure a miscommunication, we make quick amends. When you truly love someone, you love them as a whole, down to the last and smallest flaw. We had found the person we always wanted to be with, who completed the other. Most importantly, they are your greatest support when you look toward bettering yourself. They cheer you on, provide words of encouragement or calm rationale, and love you all the more because it’s something you’ve decided to pursue for and by yourself.

Though a little help never hurts. I have to understand that asking for help is not a sign of weakness, but of reality and survival. I don’t have to be strong for everyone, myself included, all the time. I have to accept that people want to help me because they love me, and that I am not going to be used or undermined because of it. John gave me back my trust. He is the love of my life, my soul mate, and my dearest friend. Happiness is not always a fleeting thought. It can live inside you and grow, unbridled and free, until the smile which spreads across your face is a reminder that things can and do change for the better.