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It’s half past four on Christmas morning and we just finished cooking and cleaning crabs for tomorrow night’s dinner. Someone has been kind enough to adopt me for the holiday, and we’ve been hard at work preparing to make dinner for her parents and relatives. I’ve been looking forward to it, and I know it will be a marvelous Christmas. Of course, I have one Christmas wish, which I know won’t come true. Yet, at the same time, if asked with whom I most want to spend this day, I would say with all honesty there is no one in the world I’d rather be with this Christmas than exactly whom I will be with. I may be far from “over” the past, but the present has been a little bit better of late. I don’t believe in fate in any way, shape, or form, but it is remarkable how things sometimes work out. HHGFF. And ever.

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Thank you for a lifetime of love and guidance. I would never have made it this far, or done as well, without you. You gave me the raw material to work with, and the drive and vision to use it. I would not be the man I am today without you. Whenever people compliment me on my manners, I always tell them that they should be thanking you. I learned from your example. That and the yardstick you could mysteriously produce from thin air under seemingly any circumstances. If I ever failed to follow the etiquette lessons you provided, or misbehaved in any fashion, then wham! I would get a not-so-gentle reminder from the Yardstick of Etiquette across my backside. But in all seriousness, you taught me how to be a good human being. You always put your children and your family first, but you never took advantage of any other person. I never once knew you to lie to anyone about anything for any reason, nor did I ever know you to fail to keep your word to anyone. You seemed always to do the right thing, and instilled in me a belief in doing likewise.

We became even closer in recent years. When Dad passed away, we leaned on each other. When you needed a date for your 50th high school reunion, you asked me to the dance. When Vernon Bean annihilated Pinky, you were by my side. When Sue disappeared, I turned to you for solace and guidance. I tried to brighten your remaining days and made sure you received the best treatment available. You always made a big deal out of the weekly trips I made to get you to the doctor, but for me they were a joy. I got to know you, and through you my father, so much better in these past two years than I think I did in all the years we had together before them.

Until I grew up and left home, I assumed all families were like ours– always happy. I never realized that so many people had fights with their siblings and/ or parents. That other people sometimes left home, or went to bed angry. I took for granted, and was probably spoiled by, the fact that you and Dad taught all four of us to be moral, honest, caring individuals who love one another, and work to make the world around us a better place first, and for ourselves second.

I miss you already. I’m still continuing your quest to pay that man back for the milkshake. Maybe some day, together we’ll have paid the debt. Goodbye, Mom.

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This is the only entry that is too cubbing to re-post to the new blog.

If I change my mind, I’ll post it. *cub ears*

The comment exchange with my stalker is pretty rad though. At least you can still see that bit of lore.

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My first crush came when I was about 10 or 11 years old, which would put me in the 5th or 6th grade. Her name was Heather, and I can’t really recall much else about her beyond that. But at the time I thought she was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Of course, since I wasn’t a popular kid by any stretch, I never did anything about it other than silently admire her from afar. Our sole interaction came in a class project during which her hands became messy with some sort of clay or paste. She asked me to roll her sleeves up for her, as my hands were clean. It was the highlight of my week, but for her it was surely just the dorky kid doing her a meaningless favor.

I’d like to think that as I’ve aged I’ve become more sophisticated, or at least more able to express my feelings to members of the opposite sex, but that moment has pretty much repeated itself with every crush I’ve had since then. From age 10 on into adulthood I periodically crushed on various girls, never finding a way to express my feelings. I usually found myself in the role of the uncool outcast with whom they would not associate. When I was able to initiate a relationship, I seemed forever relegated to the role of the platonic friend who occasionally does a meaningless favor.

All the ridiculing and teasing, ostracization, and outright abuse was painful of course, but for the most part it rolled off my back like water from a duck. I didn’t have enough of an emotional investment in anyone to give them the ability to truly hurt me. But that eventually changed. I met Fizzy.

We spent nearly two years courting one another before we became a couple. After that came a long period of absolute bliss, and without a doubt the happiest time of my life. For the first time I was content and confident about my future. My older blogs are peppered with tales of happiness and love, and even a cursory glance at my older posts demonstrates how important she was to me. In short, Fizzy turned my world around. I dropped my guard completely, and let myself love and trust her unconditionally. Had someone asked me six months ago if she would ever lie to me or hurt me on purpose, I’d have staked my life that she wouldn’t. I knew that the same way I knew the sky is blue…she was my absolute in a world full of uncertainty. Or so I thought.

Now I don’t know what to think, because I don’t know where she is. I mentioned last time that I have it on good authority that she is not dead, but beyond that– I have no idea where she is or why she left. I hope she isn’t sick, or hurt, or in jail, or… well, I could go on forever. I really don’t know what happened, but the more that time passes, the more I am starting to realize that she isn’t in any sort of trouble, she’s just gone.

I never saw any of this coming. I didn’t even acknowledge the risk I ran by putting such faith in her, because it seemed so impossible that she could betray that trust. That only made it worse when she did, because I realized that so many years of my life were devoted to someone I wrongly believed cared about me enough to be honest and fair with me when it mattered most. I don’t pretend to have been perfect by any stretch, but I was a devoted, honest, and caring boyfriend/fiance. Am I wrong to think I deserve some sort of closure?

Still, there is something sadly liberating about having had my heart so thoroughly destroyed by Fizzy. I realize now that *anyone* can betray you, and as such I shan’t be betrayed again because I simply won’t trust again. I can’t. She has left me utterly unable to ever trust or love anyone the same way. And while I may never completely heal, I will eventually get past this pain. And then I will never, ever feel this way again, because I just won’t be emotionally capable of giving another person the power to do this to me. See what I mean? Sad, but liberating.

But first I have to get past this pain. And it seems every day I am, one tear at a time.

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Well, if I could tame all of my desires
Wait out the weather that howls in my brain
Because it seems that it’s always changing
The winds indecision, the sorrowful rain

Yeah, I was a postcard, I was a record
I was a camera until I went blind
Now I’m riding all over this island
Looking for something to open my eyes

I have a funny, somewhat paradoxical attitude towards my prowess with members of the opposite sex, and it’s hard for me to know exactly why. Sometimes I feel like I am completely inept at meeting women, and that none ever take an interest in me, while at other times it seems like there is always some girl chasing me, at least when I’m single (and occasionally when I’m not). And while most of the women I meet don’t take a romantic interest in me, enough do that I should be confident, if not downright cocky about my sex appeal.

I know that at least part of my reluctance to admit to myself that I’m attractive to women stems from my first experiences with dating. Ever since my early teens, girls have flirted with me, but I’ve never felt like I deserved it. I think part of that disbelief stems from the way the girls who actually knew me ignored me. Throughout grade school and most of high school I was always the least popular kid in my class, and no girls ever asked me out or agreed to go out with me when I was the one asking. It was only when I went somewhere else that girls occasionally showed interest. Obviously, I attributed this to the fact that the people who knew me well disliked me; strangers were more easily duped into finding me attractive.

Once I got to college, and the slate was wiped clean, and I was surrounded by others with interests similar to my own, I was surprised by how many girls were into me. I just wasn’t sure what to do about it. I’m pretty sure that all those years of being ostracized by my peers taught me to expect to be ignored by others, so I wasn’t prepared for a girl showing interest in me, hence my uncertainty. Even today, all grown up and years removed from being unpopular in any sense of the word, when a girl tells me I’m cute or fun or interesting, or anything of that nature, I don’t believe it. I feel I must somehow have tricked her into thinking so, because I know the real me is plain and uninteresting. No matter how old I get, or how often girls seem attracted to me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just a heartbeat away from being exposed as unworthy of such affection. Or that there must be something wrong with the girl saying nice things about me. That sounds really harsh, but it’s true. I honestly feel this way.

There is another aspect to this that I have yet to mention, and while using math to explain love is seldom an effective route to take, I think this time it is justified. So here goes… let’s try to graph love! Throughout my life, there have been a number of girls for whom I was utterly smitten– crushes, or what have you. Let’s plot all of those girls on a line called something like “Girls What That I Like.” Granted, I don’t crush easily or often, so it is a small line, but it is a significant line nonetheless. The other line on our graph is “Girls What That Like Me.” This is a noticeably longer line. Unfortunately, the two lines never intersect. That is pretty much the point of our math exercise. I’ve liked some girls, a bunch of girls have liked me, but none of the ones I liked ever liked me back. Until…

Fizzy was the big exception to that. I liked her, and she liked me. More than that, when she became my girlfriend, it didn’t feel as though I’d pulled a fast one on her; we seemed like a perfect fit. And she became, for better or worse, a sort of badge of honor for me. I extolled her virtues to anyone who would listen (not to mention the entire blogging world), and I guess in retrospect maybe it seemed like I was bragging. In a way, I suppose I was. I never imagined someone so wonderful would ever take an interest in me, much less agree to marry me, and I wanted to shout it from rooftops.

Whenever friends would consult me about problems with their love lives, I’d remind them that true love and happiness is possible. I’d tell them how I never thought I’d find it, but then one day it happened. I never meant to gloat or boast, but maybe it came out that way. Now I feel sort of foolish– I was obviously wrong. True love is harder to hold on to than I ever imagined, and even someone you trust and love unconditionally can unexpectedly lie to you or hurt you without reason. Even when things seem perfect, they don’t always work out.

I have no idea why I’m writing about this. Wait, yes I do. I think it has something to do with the gradual realization that I may very well be single again. I mean, I am not entirely sure that I am, and I don’t want to go into all sorts of personal details here, but Fizzy vanished without a trace (or a goodbye) about three months ago. I have it on good authority that she is not dead, but beyond that I know nothing. So yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s over, which means I no longer have an excuse to ignore flirtatious women. That sounds weird, doesn’t it? Why would I want to ignore them?? I wish I knew. I’ve always been this way– it’s as if I actively try to make women disinterested in me so I won’t feel surprised when it turns out to be the case. At least when I was with Fizzy, I had an excuse to ignore other women. I was taken. Now I have no excuse. But I still find myself doing the same thing. I think it is the lack of closure that has me in this holding pattern. Without resolution it’s hard to move on. Not to mention the fact that I don’t really want to move on. I was very happy for a long time, and the last thing I want to do now is “get back out there” and try to meet girls again, but it seems that eventually I am going to have to do so. Rats.

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I’ve been through many times when I thought I might lose it
The only thing to save me has always been music

At one point in time it would have been difficult to imagine a Beastie Boy lyric being used as the epigram for any bit of serious prose, but there you have it. Today I turn to Michael Diamond for inspiration. The above couplet resonated with me when I first heard it, and it has never rang true so clearly as of late. A while back, a groom’s request of Fifty Cent prompted me to write in semi-jest about the power of music, but in all seriousness– music has always been integral to my life (which I’m sure it is to many people’s lives), and a never-ending source of solace when circumstance deals an unexpected or difficult blow.

I think it was also Mike D. who rapped:

Life ain’t nothing but a good groove
A good mix tape can put you in the right mood

Of course, mix tapes gave way to the mix CD, which has in turn been replaced by the iTunes playlist. I’ve concocted a fair number of playlists since the advent of the mp3, and lately I’ve put together a new one. At the risk of appearing old-fashioned, I will confess that mp3 playlists always feel more than a little bit sterile to me. I’m not a hardcore vinyl purist, but I still prefer whenever possible to listen to an actual record. I often consider selling my vinyl collection– after all, most of it is languishing in storage– but I reconsider whenever I play one. A song feels so much more alive on vinyl, whether it be from the physical act of dropping the needle into the groove, or the faint crackle of dust in the background… Tangent aside, I’m here to talk playlists. The title of this one says it all– Melancholy. And before anyone chimes in with a comment advising me to avoid playing sad songs when I’m sad, let me offer this bit of, well, for a lack of a better word, wisdom.

There seems to be two general ways that one can deal with great sorrow– either hide from it, i.e. bottle it up, push it deep down inside of yourself, and try to forget about it, or embrace it and let it take you places within your psyche that you would otherwise never dare go. I am a big proponent of the latter method. It has always been the saddest times in my life that have taught me who I really am, and allowed me opportunities to improve myself. Often it seems that only by listening to my darkest emotions and visiting the farthest reaches of my soul can I get to the bottom of what ails me. Sure, my method is not a happy one. You’ll visit dark places, and you’ll suffer, but when you emerge from mourning, you are a better person for the experience. Conversely, I think the people who ignore or bury the sad feelings find those feelings cropping up to haunt them later in life, usually in altered, unrecognizable forms which take years of therapy to identify and conquer.

What does this all mean? It means that lately I’ve been listening to a lot of sad songs. This trend has not been the result of a conscious effort; I haven’t trawled my iTunes folders on a quest for unhappiness. It was more of an organic process, but the resultant playlist, which I’ll share below, definitely has a consistent vibe to it, hence the aforementioned name I assigned to it. For me, music and poetry have long been my main access points to my inner self. I frequently find myself aware of an attitude or emotion I didn’t realize I had, or at least had been unable to crystallize into coherent thought, after hearing a similar sentiment expressed in a song.

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I live in Berkeley, California, which is pretty much ground zero for liberal philosophy, socialist ideology, and progressive thought in general. Yet, I see so many Berkeley residents living lavish, decadent lives while putting up what seems like little more than a front of caring for the less fortunate. Perhaps they occasionally volunteer somewhere, or dash off a check to a charity now and then, but by and large they live selfishly. I remember the patrons (and managers) at Fizzy’s former workplace who saw nothing wrong with spending $100 on a thermos or $80 on a dustpan. In fact, they seemed to revel in doing so, almost as if they needed to flaunt their wealth and supposed good taste as some misguided way of publicly defining their self-worth. And all the while they espoused the politically correct, “goodwill to fellow man” rhetoric that every self-respecting Berkeley liberal knows by heart. It seemed to be no better than lip service, but no one ever called them out on it.

I don’t pretend for a moment that I am any better. Of course, I don’t have the income of the people I am chastising, but if I did, I wonder how I would behave. Knowing my frugal and bashful nature, I doubt I’d spend money on conspicuous consumption, but doesn’t mean I would rival Mother Teresa were I suddenly to strike it rich. As it stands now, I don’t do much more than the occasional good deed. I volunteered for a time at the San Francisco Food Bank, but that was years ago. Pretty much the extent of my charitable efforts and contributions is whatever money I give to beggars, which can’t amount to more than a few dollars per week on average. Even without a massive bank account, I know I could still do better. In short, I’m no better than the folks I chastise for hypocrisy.

What you ask, prompted me to consider all this stuff? Well, as it happens, the closest residential parking to my apartment is adjacent to the infamous tract of land known as People’s Park. Because of this, I have come to know quite a few of the homeless people who spend their time hanging out at the park. One in particular, Lisa, has taken quite a liking to me. I once bought her a hot dog at Top Dog, and ever since she chats with me. Usually it’s just idle chit chat, but she has asked me a few times now to bring her some fried chicken. Yesterday I was on my way home, and knew I’d be parking by the park, so I made a quick detour to Colonel Sanders’ and bought a 20-piece bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Sure enough, Lisa was at the park when I arrived.

I wasn’t prepared for the reaction. I knew they’d be happy to get it– who wouldn’t be happy? It’s fried chicken! but the outpouring of love and gratitude shocked me. Several people hugged me. I was just glad to feed them, but they seemed to see it as more than just that, which is was what set my mind to thinking on this topic.

I realized something yesterday. Happiness is not something I can find within myself. No amount of logic or rational thought is going to provide me with the key to personal satisfaction. Since youth I have been of the opinion that the key to my happiness is centered around finding my place in this universe, and understanding how I can make the lives of those around me better. It’s about interaction, not solitude. For most of my life, I’ve been able (by circumstance or effort I can’t say with certainty) to stay happy. I’ve seldom even thought about the matter– I’ve just been content with life, and felt I was on a path towards satisfaction and success. Lately, I don’t feel that way at all. Instead, I feel more than a little bit lost. I can’t seem to figure out what I’m supposed to do now, or next, and I don’t quite understand my role in life anymore. I think that is the key right there– when I again feel I have a purpose or goal for which to strive, I think I’ll fall back into my naturally happy rhythm.

I’ve been moping and soul-searching for a couple months now. Along the way I’ve improved myself. I’ve identified and corrected many personal character flaws heretofore unbeknownst to me, and I’m working on fixing others. I still have a long way to go; I’m far from “better,” but I’m doing my best to change that. This seems like the time for it– what better time to focus on self-enrichment and personal growth than while I feel sidelined by life? Hopefully before long I’ll get back into a nice groove, and be a better person than I was before. And hopefully I won’t post anymore rambling, introspective blogs like this! Apologies!

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I grew up about a mile and a half from a cemetery. About the time I started high school, I got into the habit of walking there and wandering about amongst the monuments and trees whenever I had any deep thinking to do. If something in my life was uncertain or upsetting, I’d usually find myself able to sort through it while meandering through the cemetery. Even throughout college, anytime I was visiting my parents and had some school issue, career question, or girl problem, I’d hike out to Pleasant Hill and contemplate that which was on my mind.

Cemeteries are possessed of a serenity that is lacking from most other places in this world, and seemingly one of the last places people treat with any sort of dignity or respect. That is, when you even meet another person there, as a cemetery is also a wonderful place for solitude.

Nowadays, the nearest one to me is Oakland’s Mountain View Cemetery. The higher up the hills you go, the grander the markers and mausoleums become, and the more familiar the names become, too. Merritt, Wheeler, Peralta– it’s a veritable who’s who, or rather who was once who, of Oakland history. I sometimes sneak in after closing time and roam about under the moonlight. I’ve spent many nights perched atop various mausoleums, a living gargoyle, motionless except for the occasional movement required to sip from a flask. The Black Dahlia is buried in that cemetery; her grave makes me feel profoundly sad, as though I’ve already outlived my allotted lifespan.

Maybe you are like most of the friends to whom I’ve mentioned this, and you find it creepy or morbid that I like to walk through a burial ground when I need to think, but it’s just something I’ve done for so long that it’s a part of me. To this day, whenever I pass a cemetery, almost as a reflex I momentarily reflect on my life and the events that have shaped me into the person I am today.

In recent years I’ve had a long run of good luck, and I haven’t had much confusion or sorrow to assimilate, but all the recent turmoil in my life has left me with a lot of unsorted thoughts. Yesterday I spent the better part of the afternoon drifting though the vast expanses of Arlington Cemetery.

Seeing row after row of headstones, endless lists of names and dates, and all the loving memories etched into stone, I am reminded that some day I too will be laid to rest in such a place. It helps me put my own problems in perspective, and reinforces the idea that life is ephemeral, and meant to be enjoyed. Whatever task, deadline, girl, loss, or woe looms over me somehow becomes less frightening when taken in that big picture context.

I’ve never been one to dwell on the past, and I tend to look to the unknown of the future with gusto. I’ve been a bit reluctant to do so of late, but I know I have no other choice. As Seneca wrote (though I can’t swear I remember this verbatim) “Fates lead the willing, and drags along the reluctant.” Or something like that. Perhaps more fitting, shown in the picture below, are the words I found etched into a statue outside the National Archives– What is Past is Prologue.

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I wake up every day to find her back again
Screaming my name through the astral plane

Were I to list my favorite bands, nearly all of them would be bands that no longer exist, or if they do, have stopped releasing albums. Joy Division, The Smiths, Pulp, Suede– all no more. Even my favorite local band, The Aislers Set, seems to have stopped recording and touring. Were I pressed to list favorite bands still in existence I’d say Radiohead, Arcade Fire, Franz Ferdinand, and Bright Eyes but none of those bands hold sway over me quite like those in the first list. While I cannot necessarily say they are hands down my favorite band of all time, no band better represents my coming-of-age years than Suede.

Oh, but when she is calling, here in my head
Can you hear her calling, and what she has said?
Oh, but when she is calling, here in my head
It’s like a new generation calling
Can you hear it call?

Suede really did usher in a new generation of music, and were arguably the original Brit Pop band. Their success heralded a radical stylistic shift in the sound of British rock, one that had last shifted with the advent of The Stone Roses, and paved the way for bands such as Blur, Oasis, Pulp, and Elastica. Suede was Britain’s answer to American grunge rock– a throwback to the glam days of David Bowie and Roxy Music tempered by the ‘it’s okay to be an outsider’ mentality of The Smiths– and made an ideal rallying point for misfits and dreamers the world over.

Suede’s best songs, taken together, form an unending narrative of of detached lovers, sexual experimentation, drug use, and life outside the lines of traditional British society, and “New Generation” is no exception.

And like all the boys in all the cities
I take the poison, take the pity
But she and I, we soon discovered
We’d take the pills to find each other

“New Generation” is from the Dog Man Star album, a massive, larger-than-life masterpiece of epic rock and roll, and quite possibly the single greatest rock album ever recorded, at least by my reckoning. It is definitely in my top five all time, and is probably my favorite of all. It soars to heights I’ve never heard another album attain.

Though this entry is really about one song, I would be remiss if I did not say a bit about the significance of the album. Dog Man Star is a record already heavily laced with melancholy themes and sounds, and the story surrounding its release only serves to amplify that despair. After a Mercury Prize winning debut album, and a brilliant EP, Suede had fans and critics alike eager for their second full-length album. Almost at the same time as the record was reported to have been completed, Bernard Butler, the guitarist and half of the song-writing team, left the band. Dog Man Star would seemingly be the last we would ever hear from Suede.

Things grew worse– it became unclear if the album would even be released– legal matters were likely to keep it shelved indefinitely. There was never a lower point in the life of a Suede fan. (Meanwhile, bands like Blur and Oasis, formally relegated to the back burner, took the implosion of Suede as an opportunity to rise to the forefront of the Brit Pop movement, and cash in on the next wave of British musical invaders to conquer the American airwaves.) Eventually, the album was released, and it was a huge success, albeit possibly the last effort by so promising a band.

I wake up every day, to find her back again
Breeding disease on her hands and knees
While the styles turn and the books still burn
It’s there in the platinum spires
It’s there in the telephone wires
And we spread it around to the techno sound
And like a new generation rise

To complete the story of Suede, much like in the song, we fans woke up one morning to find them back again. They didn’t break up. Instead they launched a crazy guitarist search and wound up with some teenaged Bernard Butler look-alike. I will not lie– skepticism ran rampant in the circles of Suede fandom, and when it was announced that Suede was to have a new single in stores, it was big news. The song was to be called “Trash.” Would it be just that? I remember standing at the cash register of the local record shop with the single in my hand, and my heart full of anticipation. I came home and fearfully popped “Trash” into my CD player. While totally different than Butler-era Suede, it was utterly fantastic in its own right, and it instantly became my anthem for that summer.

Sadly, post-Butler Suede is remembered best today not for their brief resurgence but for their subsequent failure, and even though I know in hindsight how it’s going to end (watch out for that iceberg, Suede!), it’s still nice to reminisce about the moment in time when, to a new generation of youth, Suede had in seemingly miraculous fashion survived what seemed at the time to have been a cataclysmic loss. Perhaps there really was hope for the rest of us.

It’s like a new generation calling
Can you hear it call?
And I’m losing myself, losing myself to you

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Today I went in for my annual physical. I am in perfect health, but I’ve lost 20 pounds in the last six weeks. I was on the thin side to begin with (6’3 185 lbs.) so this is not exactly a good thing. This whole “missing Fizzy” thing is the first time in my life that something has really gotten to me so drastically. I need to worry less and eat more.