28 June 2009

New Chapters


It’s safe to say that I haven’t written anything in a while. There are so many reasons for my lack of activity, and maybe one day, when I get them sorted out, I’ll write them down. So, since I’ve been gone for so long, let me bring you up to speed. I have a new job, one that involves seemingly endless travel. For now I’ll remain in the US, but I’m really hoping that something international comes my way. I’m both excited and apprehensive about traveling, but it is what must be done. For the record, I’m tripling my salary, so you can bet I’m going to find a way to make the best of it. (Some may call me a fool for doing it, and that’s why I chose my picture.)

I’m going to try and keep a loose journal filled with interesting tidbits about the different cities I visit. Just kidding. Mostly, it will contain rants about the things I didn’t foresee or the characters I’ll come across. As always, my entries will be light and fluffy in nature, unless something really poignant or amazing happens. If it does, I’ll get out my emotional words and try to convince you of a great truth that everyone already knows but may enjoy a reminder of. And on that note, I’ll start at the beginning.

I’ve seen several articles on blogs across the web discussing whether or not making friends becomes harder as one grows older. Some say it is and some say it isn’t, and I used to count myself among those who felt that good friends just get fewer and farther between the longer I live. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I’ve been meeting good friends my entire life. I can’t complain about that. I can, however, complain about leaving them. So, for the first entry of my journal, let me start whining right off the bat and relate what is really the first step in my new gypsy life: leaving Florida.

Odd as it may sound, I really enjoyed my previous job. For the first time in my life, I didn’t dread going to work. Now, that’s not to say that what I did was heaven on earth, but for the most part, it wasn’t bad. I think, though, what made it not suck so much was the abundance of really nice people to work with. I’ve never had so much fun and gotten paid for doing it. Anyway, when I said I was leaving, it was arranged that on my last day, we would all go to a restaurant that most of us knew and really liked. That, I thought, was a nice gesture on their part, and lunch for us all one more time sounded like the perfect send-off. I was light-hearted and excited about the future, and I fully expected them to get me a card and some sort of trinket as a reminder of the time I spent there.

In a way it was a little awkward, since we had all become the best of co-workers, always sharing a laugh or a lunch, and sometimes even meeting at someone’s house for a barbecue (read: drinking party), so it’s not like we never socialized outside of work. We were friends, but not really close. I had convinced myself that yes, I was going to miss them and no, I probably won’t ever find such a fun place to work again, but we’re all adults and everything would go smoothly. And that’s what I was thinking when I opened the small gift basket on the table in front of me.

The sudden realization that I’ve been wrong, so totally, wonderfully wrong, is a feeling that I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of. I love the instant when it suddenly becomes crystal clear that the people I think I know prove themselves to be far more than I had ever imagined. I am at once elated and humbled in those moments; it is a euphoric beyond any drug, and the lowest low. All of life’s major turning points have their indelible memories, and my departure from Florida will always mean that in one final lunch with my friends I realized that I was kidding myself when I thought they were just friends. With one simple gift, they did what only good friends do: They let you know that they care about you more than you know.

But what, you may ask, was in the gift basket? Well, it was a pen, but not just any pen. It was a Cross pen, much like any graduate would (or used to) get. By twisting the body, you can have black ink, red ink, or a pencil. There’s even an eraser hidden on top. It’s not a cheapie plastic thing, but a very nice writing instrument, and up near the pocket clip, my name is neatly engraved in a gothic looking font that’s not too big or too small. It is sleek and elegant, not gaudy at all. It is the perfect gift, and they knew that, and suddenly I knew it as I looked across the table at my smiling friends watching me open it. That I’m at a loss for words is a condition that should happen more often, but I really went speechless over the pen. Well, the pen and the sensation that I was floating as I woke up to the fact that I was surrounded by people who cared about me and would miss me. If that’s not bittersweet I don’t know what is.

I won’t bore you with the fluff and stuff of me telling my friends how I felt; it was just as sappy as you might think. I also won’t bore you with a snoozy soliloquy about how much I miss them now that I’ve gone. So, the only thing left to do is to honor the gift and, more importantly, the warmth they’ve shown me by using (the idea behind) the pen to write down stuff that happens to me so they can read it, along with anyone else who cares to. With every entry to my blog from now on, I am proving myself worthy of having friends such as the ones I left behind in Florida. I know I’ll never be famous, but I hope they know that they helped me to get out of my slump and realize that while I may make new friends in the years to come, I will always remember the ones who thought so well of me. There are no words to express how I feel about them. I hugged the ones I could, and that’s the best I could do, but it’ll never be enough.

13 May 2009

Who Loves Ya, Baby?


From the time we first become cognizant of our surroundings until the time we no longer know or care what goes on around us, there isn’t a person on the face of this earth who doesn’t, at one point or another, want to feel loved. From the first smack on the ass to the ringing cacophony that drowns out the sounds of the world for the last time, we have three basic needs: To eat, procreate, and if we’re lucky, to enjoy the warm feeling of being needed. There are countless people on this planet who go through their lives struggling just to eat, and to tell you the truth, it makes me want to moan out loud in empathy for their plight. For all of us who feel that way, the only thing that keeps us from completely breaking down is the sad but true knowledge that we cannot save everyone no matter how badly we want to. The fate of the hungry will have to wait for another essay, though, because I do not have the words for it right now. I may never have them. But I do have some for those of us who, by the simple accident of our birth, are blessed (as it were) with at least a chance to make our world a little brighter by giving more than we take.

You and I both know people who dart through life as if in a shadow, emotional vampires who suck all the fun out of every room they enter, leaving a wake of chaos and bewilderment everywhere they go. Indeed, we often idolize such people, and when they’re gone, we spend years, decades and even centuries trying to understand what made them do the things they do. How about that boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife that you thought was your soul mate whom you found screwing someone else? How much time have you spent trying to understand why they did the things they did? We tell ourselves that the people who hurt us have no clue what they’ve done, but we know that they know, and we know that they simply don’t care. Our feelings mean nothing to them, and yet we still wonder what we could have done to prevent the inevitable. In fact, given the chance, many of us would repeat the same behavior, hoping for a different result. Why do we do that? Because we are the same as them.

John Donne wrote “No man is an island, entire of itself...any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind...” The people who wear their hearts on their sleeves intuitively know this. They don’t need a degree in English or a thorough understanding of philosophy to understand that while there are those among us (too numerous to count and often infuriatingly frequent) who have no regard for anyone else’s feelings, they are still part of a collective consciousness that is the inherent and sole burden (or grace) that is the legacy of humankind. It is a yin and yang existence that we share. There are “good” people, and there are, in today’s vernacular, “haters”. How do we make sense of this? How do we not give up and take the easy road, joining the haters and ignoring all feelings but our own?

It’s not easy. I certainly can’t sit here and say that I have achieved nirvana and am as one with all living beings. In fact, I have no pedestal from which to proclaim the truth which will set all men free. But, I can offer a bit of humble advice: Before you go out and tell someone that you love them, make sure that you love yourself first. I don’t mean in a selfish, narcissistic way, but you have to be happy with you before you can be happy with someone else. Sounds easy, but it’s harder than you might think. If wishes were fishes we’d all have a fry, but wouldn’t it be nice if we thought before we said something that we knew would hurt someone else’s feelings? I don’t mean in the stupid overly PC world that we’ve become, but if we really tried to think before we acted, our world would be a better place. Pick your own cliché, but it all comes down to the golden rule.

I picked Telly Savalas as my title and theme because his iconic trademark line is one we should all think about. When you hear that line, your answer should be “me”. If it’s not, you’re in for a world of hurt. If you can’t give that answer, then rest assured that no one else will.

15 February 2009

Zoot Suit


Good clichés stand the test of time because they offer kernels of truth in just a phrase or a sentence. There have been many phrases coined in the mint of experience that, while priceless, end up in the gutter, apparently too troublesome to bend over and pick up. In fact, there are a great many idioms that have been floating around for millennia, trying to impart an important lesson that we perpetually ignore. Not learning from the past does indeed condemn us to repeat it, but I suppose it’s the nature of the beast to keep getting burned before we stop sticking our fingers in the fire. I’ll be damned if I can explain why they haven’t disappeared from our vernacular due to obsolescence except for the simple fact that people have an uncanny ability to ignore things that are as plain as…well…the noses on our collective face. But, since I’m not on a serious rant this time, I’d like to share with you a cliché that I’ve always found relevant.

“Never judge a book by its cover” is a phrase that appears in varied forms in almost every language and culture on the earth. To judge something based solely on its appearance is just plain foolish, yet who among us isn’t guilty of it at one time or another. If you’ve never seen a picture of a naked mole rat, look here. Even the most ardent animal lover would be hard-pressed to fight the urge to kill it with fire if one wandered into their kitchen. Shakespeare said “The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape,” so it’s probably best to remember that appearances are just that: appearances.

I really want to write about an extension of the book/cover saying that has been adapted to “clothes make the man.” I simply cannot fathom why so many people put so much importance on clothing. I have a personal stake in this, so hear me out. I like to wear overalls. They’re comfortable and practical. They cover everything that needs to be covered and if you get the right kind, they last for years. And yet, for all of their benefits, I suffer ridicule from all kinds of people for the fashion crime of being comfortable. I once dated a woman who said “You can never go out in public with me dressed like that.” I snickered, but she wasn’t laughing. She was serious. She was literally telling me what I could or could not wear. I knew how to dress myself by the time I was 7, so I didn’t need someone telling me how to do it. In case you’re wondering, that relationship didn’t last very long.

My current girlfriend isn’t a fan of my overalls either. She’s not as militant as the other, but I still get the “THAT’S what you’re wearing?” sarcasm, and I don’t get it. She bought me a shirt not long ago that was nice, but a little flashier than I would have bought, and I accepted it graciously. It was just a t-shirt, and it even had a skull on it, but it has a kind of “look at me” air to it that just doesn’t fit me. She raved about it, and said it looked good; it is evidently the height of t-shirt chic. She paid 50 bucks for it. For a t-shirt. I may not know much about fashion, but I do know that t-shirts don’t cost that much money. Hell, I can get a sack of them for ten. It’s probably a good thing that I never had children, because I would think nothing of having them wear potato sacks until they were old enough to dress themselves.

So I’m wondering, is it the look of the fancy clothes that fashionistas like, or is it because they cost so much? Does an outrageous price tag mean the clothes look better? Am I missing something here? Maybe I’ll just start telling the naysayers that I paid five hundred dollars for my overalls, call them cretins, and stick my nose in the air while I stomp off in a huff eating a tin of caviar that I had hidden in one of my many pockets.