These Days Are Strange

Four months since my last entry. It’s strange to read my last posting only to find that I’ve drifted a million miles away from that author. When in truth, I calculated it, and it’s really only about 53,500.

A few minutes ago, I was cleaning off my desk at home when I came across something. It was a copy of Mark Spragg’s “An Unfinished Life.” I had forgotten about the book, buried deep beneath other books.

You have to understand, I keep all my books. People don’t get why I can’t borrow books, and only a few comprehend my need to possess them. Believing that association is everything, I think I read mostly because books are time capsules. So much of what you experience during a time in your life when you are reading a certain book gets tied in to those pages. I once heard that Cameron Crowe makes a CD once a month with a mix of songs he was listening to during those weeks, so that when he wanted to revisit any point in his past, he only had to pull out the CD from that month. It’s not an entirely novel idea, but brilliant nonetheless.

Books are the same. Hardbacks even more so, I’ve found, as was my copy of “An Unfinished Life.” My pops had given it to me a few months before I left to California. He said he liked it, and that I should read it.

I remember taking the book from him. The cover was interesting; one antler loosely tied with thin wire to another antler, over a worn aquamarine backdrop. I casually opened the book to find massive words filling the pages. It was a large print version, where a handful of sentences could actually fill a page.

“What the hell is this?” I asked him.

My pops explained to me that he discovered the large print version, and that he liked it since it was easier to read.

My heart fucking broke.

Pops had always been a tremendously young-at-heart guy, plus he looked it. No one could believe he was in his mid-sixties. But sitting there holding that book, it dawned on me that he was aging. Matter of fact, he’d been aging all my life.

I started reading the book, but I would read only a page at a time. As I explained to a few of my friends, the book represented my father, and that I was afraid to finish it because he had given it to me and its life was the clearest representation of his life. And just like the book would reach an end, so would he.

Some friends will remember me telling them this at a time when my father was vibrant and healthy and adventurous, with a new child in his life.

A few months ago I put down the book, having read only half. Then soon after, my father’s heart quietly stopped.

This morning, it’s hard to believe, I was above the clouds. I was above the clouds with my hand out in the air, reaching for them. It wasn’t a dream. They were around me, still and billowing and majestic. I was in a tiny helicopter in Central America gazing down at volcanoes. It was incredible seeing the steam rise. It was strange reaching my arm out the window and taking in air ten thousand feet above sea level. But I couldn’t help but look for my pops.

I do that a lot now. I try to find him whenever I’m not too busy with work.

Now I’m in my apartment in Los Angeles, and the sun is still out and the weather is still perfect.

These days are strange.

And Nicholson Baker is perverse. He is perverse and brilliant and wrote a bestseller called “Vox,” a novel that consisted entirely of a single phone sex conversation. That’s how a few of you may have heard of him.

I remember reading “Vox” while walking back and forth to my car when I worked at PBS in Virginia. It was my first year with the company and the parking lot was a good distance from the building. I remember what the air felt like during those hundred and some pages. I remember the confusion I had in my failing relationship. I remember how my hair felt and how uncomfortably hot my pants would get as I walked, even in the cool temperature.

Just a few weeks ago I was telling a friend about another one of his books. It was called “Fermata” and it was about a guy who could stop time. Cheeky premise, but the mind of Baker turned it into a masterpiece. The protagonist makes a profound decision not to stop time to help people, because if he is compelled to help one person, he would have to help more. But there were too many people; letting time resume would only harm them. Therein lies the grand paradox. If he was to protect people, then he should never let time move at all. So instead, he uses his ability in stopping time to remove women’s clothes.

I guess “The Unfinished Life” was my attempt at stopping time. It was my attempt to protect my father from harm; a shot at trying to control his mortality. Foolish, you may figure. But though it didn’t work out exactly as I would have hoped, I’ve discovered something wonderful.

In the pages of that book, I can find my pops. In fact, every book that I’d read before my pops died contains him in it, and now I’m glad as hell that I'd read a shit load of them.

So I don’t mean to evoke sympathy by saying that I search for my pops everywhere I go and in most things that I do. I don’t mind so much looking for him all over the place, because I find him everywhere. And god, it’s beautiful out there. If you just look.

Sometimes you have so many things you want to share that you get afraid to let any of it out, because you’re worried it won’t stop. And you can’t have that because you need it to stop, so you can do things like sleep and eat and pay rent and bathe. No one will want to share anything with you if you smell, so you need to bathe. But when will you bathe if you never stop?

To My Sisters

The plan for this weekend was to join a friend and his students as they went down to Mexico and spent Saturday with children in various orphanages in the ramshackle city of Tijuana. I almost didn’t make it after buying a ticket to Denver for the All-Star Game, until my roommate made fun of me for bailing on orphans to fawn over millionaire basketball players. After she said that, I got sick and called Orbitz. Luckily, I discovered Orbitz allows one courtesy cancellation within 24 hours of making your reservation, and I got my money back.

My roommate felt horrible for making a joke that altered my entire weekend. All I can say to her is, “Thank you.”

The ride down on Saturday was entertaining, as my friend and I passed a little time discussing particle physics and string theory with his students; topics that couldn’t have seemed further from what we were driving toward. Then we crossed the border, and I came to realize that mere miles from the paradise setting of San Diego was a city so impoverished that it reminded me of the decrepitude and filth in the poorest areas of Thailand. But Thailand was on the other side of the planet, and that’s how I made sense of it. Imagine, now, having only to walk across a border no more foreboding than a strip mall.

We arrived at an orphanage and entered a room filled with small children and bunk beds. It was dark and raided by flies, smelling like sewage with mud covering the floor. The place was close to squalor. It reminded me of the Thai orphanage my sister was from.

In third grade, I’d visited the orphanage before we had “picked her out.” These tiny children were bald, ate dirt, and were covered head to toe in baby powder since the caretakers couldn’t wash them regularly. Then, after one tiny girl in the lot joined our family, it still took her months to be rid of the worms in her body.

By then her hair grew back and her distended belly grew in, and Sarah has since grown into a beautiful young woman.

Then there’s my new sister, who was left for dead in an orphanage in Cambodia. She was lying in a basket, only a few months old, sweating in the heat beside a handicapped child. The orphanage determined she was HIV positive and could only reserve their very limited resources for the healthy children. My mom took her in to live her life out comfortably, but Sophie turned out to be free of any virus and she is now a full-fledged Fleming.

But before I could even feel pity for these poor children in Mexico, a young boy around the age of five ran up to me and found his way into my arms. So many of the kids were like that; laughing and smiling, and for the next few hours we forgot about the poor plumbing and the dearth of potable water. The flies also seemed to disappear, and when the children weren't climbing all over my friend, I'd find him with one infant or another in his arms.

And these were the lucky ones. They were the small percentage of kids that were able to find their way to an orphanage as opposed to living on the streets.

Now, I’m in my apartment, writing this posting when a friend called to ask me if I was watching the All-Star Game. I’d forgotten it was on.

Thinking about the possibilities of where my two sisters could be now if not for such chance encounters and simple decisions can throw a person into an existential tailspin. But string theory, which is the best explanation we have on our physical existence as yet, poses that there is a fantastic amount of parallel universes out there. Combine that with basic probability, and that must mean there is a universe out there that is filled with all the missed chances and regrets that we couldn’t already pack into this one.

But, conversely, that also means we exist in one of those slices of universe that just happens to have limitless opportunity and, thankfully, many second chances.

"I'll do what I want with my pants."

"Don't Give Me Quotations..."

"...Give me what you know."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

As I try to find time to work, have a life, and maintain a blog, one thing has become unequivocally clear: I can't do all three.

Fortunately I wasn't too invested in having a life anyway, so I'll stick with work and the blog. It wasn't a tough choice, really. With Valentine's Day approaching, what better way to dodge the imminent self-loathing than to declare it a personal choice, not circumstance, that I spend my free time in front of a computer in a small apartment bedroom in Culver City adjacent.

But I am still adjusting, and it is late, so I will have to use a few words that belong to someone else to fill my posting for the time being.

Something I wanted to mention recently is an article I read that mentioned some anniversary of Ayn Rand or her works or her philosophy.

Now, Objectivism is an interesting thing. I had applied it generously in my past to rationalize why it was okay to date shallow girls. Girls that only cared about cars and purses and whatever only affected their lives, I reasoned, were not paper-thin. Rather, they were levels above the quotidian philosophies of the common man. These girls were Objectivists, I felt. They staunchly believed in, as Ayn Rand described it, "...the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life."

Senses and sensation were paramount. It was the height of all reason.

Then, of course, these girls started to bother me.

But on the anniversary of whatever Rand, I remembered some words a good friend had forwarded on to me from a professor or someone at the University of Maryland, and I liked it and I thought to share it.

“Somewhere Aldous Huxley says that if we human beings were truly sensitive creatures, we would not know the meaning of happiness. At any and every moment someone is being tortured--by his fellowman, by her cancer, by their internal demons. If we were aware of and truly sensitive to all this suffering, we could never enjoy anything. We probably could not go on living. I suspect sometimes that one of the most fundamental goals in life has to be to try to find a balance between caring and staying sane. If we become so calloused that we don't notice the pain of others, are we really human anymore? But if we become so torn by the pain inthe world that we cannot function, we go mad. Finding a balance is very difficult. But it is essential if we are to continue as human beings. If this makes any sense to you, good luck in figuring out for yourself the ways you can help, the pain you can afford to respond to, and the things you have to let pass lest you lose your ability to remain sane and human. I think there are no tidy rules in this area: much of civilization tells us we need to care and help if we are to survive as a species, but the precise balance is left wonderfully and dauntingly up to each of us. But then that's just another part of the grand and terrible effect of human freedom."

Although I didn't write this article, I did take the liberty of heavily editing out parts I didn't think helped the piece, and I will take credit for that. But either case, I went to UM for two years and I want to give props to the author, whoever he is.

Yes, I said "he."

Fear the Turtle, please.

The Early Worm Gets Eaten

Man, I got a job so I am out the door before sunrise every morning and in bed by 10pm. It's hard to maintain a blog when going to bed by 10pm everynight, but don't give up on me.

I'll figure this out soon.

The West Coast Cold, Pessimistic, Emotional Deconstructionist

Someone has asked me to comment further on dating, and I will honor that request because it is one of the few things that can set off every human emotion.

Like life, you can only become really good at dating by being really bad at it. So, at this point I am only left to reason that I must be really good at it. Especially after heeding the only advice my mother has ever shared with me on the topic. You’ve probably heard me quote her before.

“If you find someone you like, run the other way.”

If you do not take this to heart, you will either lose the person you are seeing, or otherwise stall in your pursuit of being really good at dating.

Run the other way.

I hate it when people call this Playing Games. Civilization, work, family, physics, checkers, friendship, cooking; all these things have rules. So it doesn’t make sense that you have such a hard time accepting that Eagerness and Accessibility have the stench of rotted death. No one wants to be around that. Neither do you.

Fine, it may be a little messed up. As we’ve established, the truth is that everyone is messed up. You are messed up, and I am messed up. It’s only fitting that the process be messed up.

A close friend of mine said it best one evening as I was driving him home from the airport. Mind you, this friend has failed in his pursuit of being a really good dater, as he has found himself in love with a remarkable girl. I still place great value on his words, though. And he shared with me this:

“A relationship is really just two fucked up people trying to figure their shit out together.”

Beautiful and succinct. Riccio, you are a brilliant man.

Check him out at www.cathexismusic.net

As for me, I will return to the life of being a really good dater. I will head back out onto that meandering track. For the race is long, and it’s always best to kept your laces untied.

And remember, as you all should, the last moments of Chariots of Fire,

“God made me. But he also made me fast.”

The Culinary Landscape of America

The West Coast has a couple of fast food restaurants that you can’t find back East. The common thread of these eateries lies in their dubious names.

In and Out Burger
Jack in the Box
Astro Burger
Carl’s Jr.

Now, I’m sure this is not an original observation. As a matter of fact, Peter Farrelly wrote in The Comedy Writer,

“Carl’s Junior grammatically disturbed me, sort of like Howard’s Johnson.”

After reading that, I could never return to the place. But it was no big loss since, personally, burgers aren’t my thing. I’m more of a hoagie type of guy. Don’t even mention Subway to me, though. My loathing for that place is going to be a whole other posting.

So if you’re like me and have an undying love affair with subs, you’re really left with only a few choices. Any sub joint that’s possessive in title is bad news. Potbelly’s, Quizno’s, and Togo’s are so poorly ventilated that you’re essentially throwing your clothes in a dryer with burnt toast. So we have to rule them out. Instead, there are only two things I can suggest:

Wawa and Penn Station.

The meat and ingredients at these places are top quality. Wawa itself is regional, which explains why most people outside of Pennsylvania think I'm baby-talking when I suggest it. Well, that, and I also baby-talk a lot.

Then we have Penn Station, which is East Coast subs. It even says so right on its insignia.





Thing is, you can only find a Penn Station in the Midwest. This was the reason why I took such a winding route through middle America. I had to have it breakfast, lunch, supper, and dinner. It was my personal version of Chicken Trek. The sandwiches and the boardwalk fries are so good that it would explain, if not justify, why one third of all Americans in the middle of the country are morbidly obese. So please, reserve judgment on them until you have a bite.

By the way, Chicken Trek is a cult classic children’s book. Think Kerouac, only instead of the search for Subtle Profundity, it’s fried chicken. It’s also a book you’d actually want to finish. If you have not read Chicken Trek, that would explain why you’ve forgotten how to dream.

"Don’t Tell Anyone Anything, Or Else You’ll End Up Missing Everyone.”

I miss D.C.

Less than two months ago I went cross-country and visited a few places. And all I really have to say is that the world’s largest McDonald’s was a major disappointment. It couldn’t have been more unimpressive and was clearly something done in principle, like everyone who goes around wearing those yellow Livestrong wristbands. Principle in accomplishment; in saying “I Care,” while not really caring.

Donate 75 cents to cancer research and then vote against universal healthcare. It actually makes some sad sense.

As for the rest of the country, I loved it, but you have to see it for yourself. Commenting on cross-country is like going through a photo album of strangers. Unless you want to sleep with the person involved, you could hardly care less.

The point is I miss D.C.

Last month I spent a little time in a few other cities. While a friend was showing me around Louisville, she told me that it was trying really hard to be a big city. We even passed a billboard that boasted Louisville recently becoming a Top 25 city in the U.S.

Louisville seems to share with all small major cities this ambition to be big. But even the big cities have their own identity anxieties. A few years ago Philadelphia applauded itself for no longer being the fattest city in America, and Los Angeles celebrated no longer being the most polluted. Seattle is making itself into a hip space station, while Boston is applying to be its own accredited university. Chicago hopes to be New York City, and New York City is just busy trying to be itself.

Meanwhile, Washington, D.C. is content.

And I missed it, and I miss my friends and family. So I made reservations to fly back for the weekend, though there were some initial missteps since the last days of the calendar year are the most confusing time to book a flight online. You forget to change everything to 2005. But I eventually found my way home.

It was weird being back. Great to see my friends and siblings, but sad to spend so little with each. A weekend is the perfect amount of time to inspire you to want to catch all you can, but guarantees that you will fail and drop pretty much everything.

Of course, part of me wanted to stay, but the automated warning said it best while I was struggling to book my flight:

This airline cannot make reservations in the past.


Fine, this may be a little much. But be wary of those you come across in your life who aren't sentimental. It only means they've surrounded themselves with people they don't really care for. And there's no need to mix with that sort.