Monday, February 28, 2011

2/28/2011 - officially settled down. . .

As I've said before, I lived by myself for much of my adult life.  As a result, I am not used to playing host by inviting people over to my house.  My natural instinct is to be at home by myself and go out to see friends.

With Sam at our old apartment, we were often by ourselves, and it was fine.  We both are rather socially reserved, and though we were open to the idea of inviting others over, we just didn't know how.  We conveniently had a barrage of excuses: the apartment was too small; there was nothing for people to do; the place was a mess; we didn't cook; we lived atop Nob Hill, which was far from public transportation and not exactly an easy jaunt to get to.  And so on and on.  Armed to the teeth with these reasons and others, we rarely invited people over.  People rarely visited.

When we finally worked up the courage and arranged a brunch (you'd think that as a couple of gay guys, we would have started with something less ambitious than the holiest of all gay meals), we rehearsed the menu twice.  By the time we had the actual guests over, I was already quite sick of Quiche Lorraine.

We also obsessively cleaned the apartment.  We'd bumble in the kitchen.  We'd fight.  Each of us operated under a thick cloud of stress, and we both thought that we knew better how to make the best quiche, even though neither of us had ever made one before.  Ultimately, in spite of the bickering, the quiche was fine each time, the bacon crispy, but the journey was riddled with emotional bullet holes that left us exhausted and battered.

As we were planning on purchasing a home together, we said that we would have friends over all the time at our new place, wherever that may be.  The place would be bigger, the landscape flatter, and somehow, this new place would change us.  We would host housewarming parties and dinner parties, birthdays and holidays.  We believed that it was the old apartment that held us back, not ourselves.

I've come to realize that it was actually both.  Since we've been in our new place and officially settled down, we've had people over for dinner all of twice.  It's not something that comes naturally for us as we still haven't fully developed our hosting genes.  On the other hand, we have had various friends just pop by, whether because they were in the neighborhood (a flat patch of land with at least four leather bars in a three block radius) or to see our new bathroom or, like Kevin and Gordon yesterday, to meet Grr.

And that was so easy.  They arrived without any fanfare, without any anxiety on our parts.  Kevin sat on the ground as Grr slept in his lap; Gordon shared a drink with Sam.  And then they left.  We didn't clean beforehand (though I did see Sam fluff up the decorative pillows on the couch), and we didn't have any cleaning up to do afterwards.  Their presence was invigorating, and we didn't feel exhausted afterwards.

It was the most "lived in" I have felt in this new place yet.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

2/27/2011 - how I could have been better. . .

This will be the absolute last post about Grr for a while, I promise.

It's just that he really has taken over our lives, whether out of our fear that he will randomly pee on the rug (as he did nonchalantly this morning) or out of fascination at what looks like perfectly applied mascara and makeup around his eyes.  It is one of the most prominently basenji-like features about him, evidence that he does indeed come from an ancestral line of Egyptian dogs.  My sister Linda met him yesterday and remarked that sometimes, his face reminded her of Anubis.

We had taken him over to my parents' house in order for him to meet Elliot, their golden lab, and I was justifiably nervous.  Grr is still maddeningly unpredictable, and Elliot, to my knowledge, has had little to no exposure to puppies.

Amazingly enough, Elliot was exceedingly responsive and patient with Grr.  She watched out for him and gauged his excitement and moods the whole time we were there.  When she was playing fetch with her ball, she would notice that Grr was bounding around her in an effort to take the ball from her mouth, so she would gently drop it on the ground and wait for him to pick it up.  Grr would be licking and nipping at her, but she would do nothing more than turn her face, occasionally raising a paw and giving him a much needed, but gentle smackdown, right on the head.  They even took an all-too-brief nap together on the couch:


Grr, in return, was completely enamored with Elliot, doing everything she did.  If she ran after her ball, Grr would be right behind her, running like his little life depended on it.  If she walked into the kitchen to see what my parents were doing, Grr would be right behind her to see what she was doing.  When San and I took them both out for a walk, Grr made sure to smell every patch of grass that Elliot did, even if it means circling back from wherever he was.  His fear of the outside disappeared completely while Elliot led him around.

He became Elliot's shadow, her Mini-Me, a younger brother to his older sibling.  When we told my parents of this behavior during dinner, my mom immediately brought up a boy I went to kindergarten with named Justin.  I remember but two things about him: he always had snot running out of his nose, most of which eventually ended up living on the cuff of his sleeve; and he wanted to be best friends.

Unfortunately, I was a total brat and shunned him, wanting less to do with him the more he wanted to do with me.  As an adult, I'd like to think that I am not and never was a bully, especially the vulnerable position I later found myself in in relation to bullies (this will come as a shock, but I was never considered cool or rode with any of the popular kids).  But thinking about Justin after all these years decades, I have to admit that I qualified as one when I was five, at least to one other boy.  Who knows why Justin even looked to me the way he did, as I certainly gave him reason not to.

Basically, I could not have treated Justin more differently than Elliot did Grr, and watching my own little puppy acting the same way Justin did kind of broke my heart.  I felt genuinely remorseful for something I had done so long ago and had more or less forgotten all about.  Elliot showed me how I could have been better, and I don't think she even had to try.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

2/26/2011 - our neighbors' names. . .

All of a sudden, Sam and I have neighbors.

Obviously, we have always had neighbors, but they were only those we would see on occasion, smile and nod furtively as we pass each other in the hallway or by the mailboxes.  Sam and I both tend to keep to ourselves and feel most comfortable within the confines of our unit.  Now, we have neighbors, the kind who stand around with us when we take Grr out, ones who laugh and share stories of pets, our own and others'.

We remember those pets' names the best, often better than their owners'.  Sometimes, we don't even bother to find out what our neighbors' names are, instead, referring to them as 'Deacon's Mom,' or 'Socks' Dad,' even if we know that Deacon's Mom's name is Monica.  It just feels strange, almost indecorous to call them 'Monica' or, well, we don't even know Socks' Dad's name.

But we now all get along famously.  Our dogs make circles around each other in an effort to gain the best access to each others' asses while we ask about them, their ages, their names, their breeds.  Only with one of our neighbors who does not own a dog did it even occur to me to introduce myself and ask him about him; what else would we have talked about otherwise?

Even a homeless guy with obvious crazy in his eyes, who no doubt would have scowled at us or asked us for money had we been by ourselves, went straight to Grr and gave him loving attention, saying hello and telling him how cute he was.  Of course, Grr was terrified, tucked his tail between his legs so tight he could have taught a drag queen a thing or two, and Sam was not about to let the homeless get anywhere near his precious puppy, so we all low-tailed it out of there.  It did get me thinking about my attitudes toward the homeless, though, my jaded and admittedly hardened view of them, but that's a different story altogether.

So this is yet another way that Grr is slowly changing our lives.  Besides a tragically altered sleep schedule and a breakout of acne in a proportion that I had not seen since high school, he also drags us out of our shells, and house, and stretches our boundaries, more than we would otherwise do so willingly.

Sam and I always say how hard it is to make friends as adults, especially in a city that, ironically, seems to provide an endless supply of potential friends in an endless supply of settings.  Who knew it really just took a puppy with a face that has so far been unanimously agreed upon to be the cutest thing that there ever was?

Thursday, February 24, 2011

2/24/2011 - how to use a makeup sponge. . .

Thanks to a Facebook friend, I discovered Alex, the Reluctant Escort, a blog written by a woman in Georgia chronicling her (mis)adventures in the world of prostitution.  Months ago, on the first day I found it, I read every available entry from beginning to end, and then spent an hour raving about it to Sam later that evening. 

The blog describes the oldest profession in details that Julia Roberts did not have to portray in her Cinderella'd version of the life and times.  Alex has yet to meet her Edward Lewis, but she seems to have had her fill of clients with varying degrees of neuroses.  She may not have a benefactor with a bazillion-dollar bank account, but her clients do pay her well enough to support a self-professed shopping habit.  Alex gently discloses that behind the woman men pay to sleep with, there is another woman who simultaneously feels empowered, ambivalent, and downright disgusted by it, all while whimsically chronicling it in lurid, extremely well-written, first-hand detail.

I am super envious of her, not necessarily because of the prostitution itself, but the angle.  Her 'career' is a self-replenishing field of fodder for her blog; each new client, each new appointment is rich fertilizer for her considerable writing talent.  My angle, as helpful as gratitude has been in giving me a platform on which to write, does not yield nearly the same material.  Let's face it: learning how to use a makeup sponge in order to work all month long (if you know what I mean) is infinitely more exciting than seeing random pictures of a random person's new puppy.

One of Alex's goals is to get published, make a career out of abilities that don't require a hot shower afterwards, and slowly, this goal is coming true for her.  I also had a goal for this blog, which was solely to keep up the consistent quantity of one entry a day.  Well, I originally had the goal to be a more grateful person, to learn something about myself, but that seemed like such an elusive concept that I had to come up with something a little more concrete.

But now, I think I actually have learned something, especially when I consider my blog in relation to Alex's: I can write whenever I want, even when I don't know what I want to write about, when I don't have a client's son walk in on me in the middle of a 'session' with his father, when my life is boring and uneventful.  I have never been more dedicated to writing than I am now.  Even in grad school when I had but this one priority, I would often shirk the responsibility by saying that I was not inspired at the moment, writer's block and the like.  I adopted this romantic notion that writing should happen organically, and if I lacked the inspiration, then my hands were tied--no writing. 

It was a convenient way to not have to struggle with writing, to do it as a flight of fancy.  And I do struggle.  I have days when I wish I had not set such an ambitious (i.e., daily) goal for myself, but day after day, I have managed to come up with something, even if those somethings are as inane as describing a shower, a trip to the circus, a book.  I've learned to flesh even the most minute detail into something more (for better or worse).  This lesson I've learned is my makeup sponge, allowing me to work all month, and hopefully all year, long.

And while I find the prospect of a blank piece of paper as daunting as ever, I think I have shown myself that beginnings are not insurmountable.  If anything, the moments before I write a single word are the most fertile in opportunity, even if I don't have stories of fake orgasms and crying clients to recount.

(With the disclaimer that it has some decidedly mature content, I highly, highly recommend checking out Alex's blog, linked above, and starting from the beginning.)

(On a completely different note, I just read on EW.com that Lady Gaga will be releasing an acoustic version of "Born This Way."  I've said it here before that I hope Lady Gaga one day reinvents herself as an acoustic artist; hopefully this will be the first step!)

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

2/23/2011 - like a flash. . .

I'll try and make this the last post I do on (now tentatively-named) Grr this week, or at least for a few days.  Well, maybe until Friday, since I kind of already know what I want to write about tomorrow.

Anyway, as wonderful (and wonderfully tiring) as Grr's presence in our lives has been, one factor is slightly less than wonderful: cost.  Already, the price of adopting him, including food, crate, toys, puppy mats, wipes, treats, etc. is quickly creeping up to the four-digit mark, and we haven't even taken him to his first vet visit yet.  I think a part of the cost can be attributed to one surprising discovery: for all of Sam's posturing on being the tough guy, above it all and hard to the core, he has been an exceptionally patient and doting parent, if not a little indulgent.  The floor of our house now looks like a shelf at PetCo; no expenses were spared in providing him all that a first-'born' puppy should have.

Another surprise was that I did not mind--me, who usually thinks twice before ordering soda at a restaurant because I don't want to pay two dollars for something I can get for much less at Safeway.  It helps that prior to Grr, Sam and I were in the process of planning a trip back out to Oahu to recreate one of the best vacations I (and I think we) had ever had.  Not only is it less of a possibility now from a financial perspective, but there is no way we could just leave him in a kennel or doggy hotel for a week.  It would break Sam's heart.

Of course, I am slightly disappointed in not being able to take the trip.  The last time we were there was about three years ago.  We stayed at a small boutique hotel off of the main Waikiki strip, and quickly settled into a routine of waking up, eating, playing at the beach, eating, playing at the beach, and eating.  We watched almost every evening's sunset, how the sun sinks into the Pacific with a brief flash of green.  Whether it actually happens or it exists only in our eyes, something in our brains, we were fascinated by it.

When I think back to the trip, I remember most clearly those moments when we sat on the rock wall of Waikiki's Queen's Surf Beach (fitting, I know), watching those sunsets.  I remember feeling like never in my life had I ever taken the time to do nothing but watch the day literally go by.  I look back on this trip as the quintessential vacation that all other vacations aspire to be, even though I have nothing left from this experience other than a few photos and the memories in my head. 

And then there's Grr.  I told Sam this evening that, God willing, Grr will be with us for at least another 10 or 15 years.  I know his puppy days will not last for long; it will be like a flash of green in a sunset and before I know it, I will be 40 years old on his 10th "birthday."  It's hard to envision anything of my life in 10 years, what I will be doing and where, and who will be a part of it.  I have my hopes, sure, but who can say?  Yet certain as I am that Grr will turn Sam into an over-protective mom (while Grr and I were playing tug-of-war, Sam actually told me to let Grr win sometimes because it will be good for his puppy self-esteem), I know that we and Grr will be together then.  I see his face, the eager way he looks up at me when I watch him from the balcony, and I feel like he is already waiting to meet us there.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

2/22/2011 - at the foot of routine. . .

All of my life, I have worshipped helplessly at the foot of routine.  I thrive on it, need it like a security blanket.  When I went on a week-long vacation to Montreal a few years ago, I went so far as to bring my own box of bran flakes with me so I would not have to deviate from my usual breakfast fare.  I like the expected.

So this new puppy's presence in our lives holds up a huge middle finger to that which I hold dear.  The very first night (tentatively-named) Octus slept with us, I felt Sam shuffling in bed to get up when it was still dark outside.  I thought it might have been 5:00, which is when Sam normally gets up during the week.  Then I heard the light jingle of Octus' dog tag against his collar, and finally, Sam's announcement: "He pooped!"

It was 2:00 AM.

Not only did Octus poop, but he expressed the stress he endured all day due to his new environment by smearing the puddle of poop all over his sides, crate, and bed.  I wanted to get angry, but really, what was the use?  He laid in his crate looking up at us as we desperately tried to contain the mess, and I think we three all knew that he was off the hook, so far away from the hook that the incident may very well had never happened. 

So there we were, cleaning on hands and knees at two in the morning, and all I could think to myself was that just a day ago, 24 little hours, I was firmly tucked in bed, sound asleep and subconsciously reveling in the three-day weekend that unrolled before me.  At the very least, I would not be faced with an odor that, for lack of a better description, assailed me.  Instead, there it was, and there we were.

This morning, I heard Sam shuffling, the playful jingling of Octus' collar, the sound of his nails as he clips across the hardwood floors.  Must be 2:00 AM.  I waited for the announcement.

Nothing.

When I put on my glasses, I saw that Sam had Octus in his arms, ready to take him outside to do his business.  Now, barring the night before, I don't remember the last time I woke up, and stayed up, at 2:00 AM, but I'm certain that it was not to stand on the wintry sidewalk, praising a puppy for peeing outside (and on his own foot).  Yet there I was this morning, beaming with pride that Octus woke up in order to pee. 

So I think that old routine of mine, the soundless sleeping through the night, is effectively defunct for now.  I spent a few sleepy minutes saying goodbye to it this morning as I waited for my snooze alarm to go off.

But already, I see a new routine emerging.  When Sam and I walked to Trader Joe's yesterday to get dinner and give Octus an opportunity to be at the house by himself, all I wanted to do was go home to him and see his cute little face.  I looked forward to seeing him all day today while I was at work, envying Sam's flexible work schedule that allows him to go home for lunch.  As I work on this post, I am excited about going back downstairs and having him trot over to the bottom of the staircase and greet me.  Even this morning, bleary-eyed from somnus interruptus (I think it helps ease the fatigue if you call it by some possibly made-up Latin term), I got out of bed because I wanted to be a part of Sam and Octus' playtime, see them bounding around in the kitchen before I had to leave for the gym.

Even Sam, whose first instinct when he gets downstairs in the morning is to turn on the TV and keep it on for as long as he is within earshot, kept the TV silent and played with Octus for the better part of the hour while I got ready.
  
We are establishing a new routine for Octus so that he will be on the right path to a healthy and happy puppyhood.  He, in turn, seems to be working on a new routine for us as well.

And here's one-half of my two favorite boys sleeping in front of the TV.  You can also see the foot of the other half by Octus' head.

Monday, February 21, 2011

2/21/2011 - still-to-be-named. . .

I can't yet say whether I'm grateful or sorry that we added him to our little household, but here he is, our still-to-be-named pup.  It's a good thing I took this nap with him yesterday evening, because between the whining in his cage, the pooping in his bed, and the general anxiety of having this new living thing in our house, I did not sleep well at all.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

2/20/2011 - placement is the question. . .

My parents came back from a road trip to LA the other day to see some childhood friends.  I called my mom after getting home from work, and I probably talked 10% of the time.  At most.  The other 90 were hers to gush about how fun the trip was, and how great it felt to reconnect with people they had not seen in 30 some-odd years.  She laughed as she recounted some of the childhood stories they shared, the experiences of growing up in Taiwan, their friends' children.  In short, she sounded happy.

When I think of all the happy people in the world, my mother is not one that comes to mind, first or at all.  I've seen photographs of a younger her where I could easily be convinced that she was happy, but in more recent years, I've always thought that she somehow forgot what happiness feels like.  Often, she reminds me of Ruth, from Six Feet Under, and how her daughter Claire had once described her as "just so fuckin' sad all the time."  There were times when I couldn't have described my own mother better.

I want her to be happy, and I struggle sometimes with how to help her be.  One foolproof way comes to mind, though: grandkids.  I see her holding my cousins' children, and wonder if somewhere inside, she feels a void that only my sister can fulfill.  I don't wonder if, actually; I just wonder how deep that feeling is: is it closer to the surface, or buried deeper within?  Its placement is the question, not its existence.

I asked my parents to read an entry of this blog once, one I wrote largely with them in mind, largely with my mother in my thoughts.  It was this one, about how my family and I used to spend the Chinese New Year.  She wrote me back and said that it was wonderful, and it reminded her of her parents so much, which simultaneously made her feel great and devastated at the same time, even after all these years.  She said that she forces herself not to think of them sometimes, or buries herself in those memories at others.  Either way, the depth to which she misses them is unfathomable.  I don't think I miss anything or anyone as much as she does them.

She worries about my dad's health, his continual recovery from heart surgery last summer.  She frets about life post-retirement, about money, her 401(k).  She worries about my sister living in Santa Cruz.  Linda graduates in a few months, and I know she wants her to embark on the adventure of her life, find success in all she does, be happy.  Similarly, I know she worries about me living in the rough-and-tumble of a city, the route I use to bike to work, the activities in which I choose to participate.  I know she wants me to be successful in my career and be fulfilled in love, be happy.

This morning, I read the following on a friend's blog: truly happy people want others to be happy.  And it occurred to me that my mother has never, in all her life, wanted anything else but to see her loved ones happy.  For once, she was the first person I thought of when I thought of happiness in this way.  Maybe this whole time I was worrying about her happiness, questioning its existence, I should have been looking for its placement instead.  Had I done so, I may have seen that she was already one of the happiest people of all.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

2/19/2011 - seat drops, back drops, and how to do a front tuck. . .

About halfway into our hour at House of Air, a recently opened trampoline park set in Crissy Field across from the Golden Gate Bridge, I somehow managed to pull or strain my left butt muscle.  Just the left one.  The right one sat back and watched the whole thing go down, wiped its brow and thought, 'Better him than me!'

But even with the slight injury, I couldn't sit it out for the night; I had been trying to get here for months but just could never coordinate it with Sam (i.e., convince him) or any of our friends.  So, not wanting to squander the time I had left, I continued to play as I had for the previous half hour, reacquainting myself with those rusty gymnastics skills I learned in college.  After a couple of sprawling back tucks that landed me on my face, I remembered how to spot the ground, how to feel comfortable with the millisecond of discombobulation as I curl into a fetal position in mid-air.  The only way I can describe it is to say that it felt like freedom from my body.

I loved watching Sam and Gordon bouncing in a corner, Kevin trying to do a front tuck, convinced it was easier than doing a back one (I disagree).  Because the room consisted of 25 conjoined trampolines arranged in a matrix, there was no fear of falling off of one.  Everyone jumped from one to the other.  When I pulled the aforementioned butt muscle, I stood in the corner for a minute or two to shake it off.  I surveyed the room, and it was an amazing sight to see my friends and other patrons popping up and down in the sea of trampolines.

When our hour was up and I stepped out of the matrix for the first time since I stepped on, I felt so heavy, like my wings were clipped.  I took a little jump, one that would have launched me three feet in the air just five minutes ago, but I barely left the ground, and it hurt when I landed.  Gravity was cruel.

Afterwards, as we all sat in a diner eating greasy comfort food, Kevin said that the whole experience reminded him of college, how he would go out with friends, tire themselves out, and then find somewhere to eat afterwards.  I completely agreed that the whole evening felt collegiate, but for different reasons altogether.

While I was bouncing around the House of Air, I felt like I could have actually been back in college, as the last time I did any form of acrobatics was then.  Some of my best memories were of the gymnastics club, fulfilling a goal of learning how to do a back handspring, something I've longed to do since I was five and saw my first wu xia movie.  Last night, when I was mid-air, upside down and wondering if I would land back on my feet, I could have been 19 again, back doing gymnastics, back in that summer where I worked at a circus school in Sacramento and played on the equipment during any free moment I had.  I remember a girl named Kailene whose mother worked as an instructor there.  She and I would play on the trampolines all afternoon, and it was she who taught me how to do seat drops, back drops, and how to do a front tuck without flying off the trampoline and onto the ground.

If you've read any other posts here, you can probably deduce that I spend a lot of time in my head, remembering and eulogizing the memories I have from a time long gone, both good and bad.  Last night, it was all good, and I left the place feeling rejuvenated and younger than I had felt, quite possibly, when I was actually in college.

Of course, my body is a few years older now, so the feeling of youth faded quickly.  The soreness and aches set in almost as soon as I came home and laid down on the couch.  My brain felt like it had been violently jostled in my skull, and even when I was still, with my head reclined and eyes closed, I still felt like the room was spinning, that I was bouncing, being hurtled through the air with minimal effort.  And then there was the waking up this morning, which added a whole new dimension to suffering, an entire catalog of aches, from the shins on my legs to the base of my neck.

I wouldn't think twice before going back and doing it all over again.

Friday, February 18, 2011

2/18/2011 - and I was this lovable guy. . .

Eddie and I had lunch together at a little hole-in-the-wall burrito place yesterday afternoon.  The seating was tight, and the line to order was a disorganized clusterflock of people--in order for the staff to get a customer's attention, they had to shake a maraca over the noise.  Most importantly, this place has the best Mexican food for under $6 in the Financial District.  Over our respective chicken burritos, we talked about his cat, my blog, all the stuff in between.

Seeing Eddie on these casual occasions, a lunch yesterday or a quick walk tomorrow, reminds me that as difficult as our breakup may have been, there was a time, six years ago, when we were just two people interested in getting to know each other better, that we had qualities the other was interested in knowing.  Things weren't difficult; all that laid before us were hope and the thrill of discovery. 

I barely even remember what it felt like when we decided to end our relationship.  I know it was hard, the protracted process painful, but it now feels like a very short interlude sandwiched between the story itself and the epilogue. 

And the story was good.  All I want to remember from the story is good, from singing along with Stevie B at a 90s flashback concert to dancing together under a multi-colored cloud while techno music deafened us.  And so much more.  In these memories, he was a flawless romantic who knew how to make me feel like there was no one else in this ever-widening world, and I was this lovable guy who made him laugh, showed him the promise of a future together.  In this story, I was a champion of love, he a hopeful hero who loved with wild abandon. 

Of course and obviously, our relationship was not perfect.  If I take the rose-tinted contact lenses out, I can clearly see that I demanded more of his attention than he was able to give; he felt stifled by the stagnant and sequestered life I wanted.  It took us so long to move on with our lives, but when I sat across from him at lunch yesterday, it all seemed like a distant dream, one I can only describe in phrases and feelings, nothing concrete.  Yes, our relationship was flawed, paralyzingly difficult at times, but that we found a way to be friends afterwards proves to me that we did good for each other.  Possibly even doing better now.

As I listened to him describe his plans for a sabbatical in Asia and Australia, I felt only completely at ease, not only with him but myself when I was with him.  I remembered that once upon a time, I was also a beloved hero.  And though I've made mistakes, then and since, done "bad boyfriend" things and disappointed those I love, how Eddie and I managed to find our way to friendship convinces me that I have it in me somewhere to be a better boyfriend, maybe even a great one.

And though Eddie and I did not find the expected version of 'happily ever after,' we did create our epilogue, this space for ourselves where he highlights for me the best parts of who I was when we were together, bridging that person with the one I am today.  Hopefully, I do the same for him.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

2/17/2011 - five free songs on iTunes. . .

In junior high, I had a best gal pal named Parker.  She was the first friend I had who I later would come to understand as my fag hag, though I was not an active fag at the time, and she was no hag.  Among all the other things we did, we would listen to a radio station's countdown of the top 10 most requested songs of the day every evening together on the phone.  For weeks on end, Boyz II Men's "End of the Road" would be at the top.  We would talk and wait patiently until 7:55 PM, when the DJ would get to the number one song, and once it started, we would interject with an 'I love this song!' before listening in silence, sometimes singing along if the mood hit us.  After it was over and we got our shmaltzy ya-yas out, we'd hang up.

Every weeknight, this happened.  For months.  After Boyz II Men, it was Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You."  It didn't matter that we both had the tapes and could listen to them whenever we wanted.  There was something about the experience of waiting for it on the radio.

Later, I had the brilliant idea to listen with a blank cassette in the tray, waiting for whatever song I was obsessed about at the moment to come on.  As soon as it did, I would press [REC] and essentially create my own mix tape.  This was obviously before iTunes and having my own money to spend on tapes and CDs.

Cut to today, where practically any song imaginable can be had for 99 cents and in a 20-second download time.  In a way, the serendipity is gone, the "Oh my God, I love this song!" moment when it finally comes on the radio after waiting all afternoon to hear it.  The other day, I downloaded Johnny Rivers' "Swayin' to the Music (Slow Dancing)" and remembered back when I first heard and loved the song in eighth grade (a couple decades late, I know), how I recorded hour after hour of the radio just so I might have a chance at catching it on tape.  I wore down that spot on the cassette clean through when I finally did. 

It's been nice to hear it again, have a cleaned up digital version, and I still love the song.  But the ease of procurement kind of lessened the thrill of it a little bit.  What I realized I love most about the song now is the reminder of how much I had once loved it and the extent I was willing to go to in order to have a copy of it (short of just going to the store and buying the tape).

Last week, I activated my American Express card on this website so I could get five free songs on iTunes as part of a promotion (anyone with an AmEx can do it).  I have downloaded countless songs off of iTunes before, but all of a sudden, this offer made me feel like I got the keys to the chocolate factory.  Well, kind of.  I had been given access to this massive library of songs, but I could only choose five.  Not that I couldn't buy more if I wanted to, but these five felt significant.  Like I lucked into them or something, like the songs I taped off of the radio, the feeling of great fortune when I finally got a hold of them after a day's worth of waiting and recording.

It's silly, I know, but these five songs have got to be special.  I'll be spending much more time than I should trying to determine which five they will be.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

2/16/2011 - hapless cheerleaders and schadenfreude. . .

I chatted with a friend earlier today who told me that he had just stumbled upon my blog and was not sure how he felt about this new "Eat, Pray, Love version of Austin."  Those were his words.  Apparently, his image of me is decidedly different than the ever-grateful, wholesome-as-the-Mormon-boy-next-door one I portray here.

I have not read Eat, Pray, Love, nor have I seen the movie, but I'm assuming that the woman walks away at the end of the story with some form of wisdom on how to better live her life.  (The movie version has Julia Roberts in it, so I really can't imagine how it could end any differently.)  As I approach my 50th entry here, I doubt that I have gained any form of wisdom, any insight on gratitude, through this blog.

In fact, I don't think I have changed very much at all.  Yet, anyway.  I've said it here a few times before, but my frame of mind is mostly the same, my attitudes about life and happiness as they ever were.  I had (likely deluded) expectations that I would understand myself better, love harder, be more in tune with the turning of the universe by now. 

I don't, and am not.  Yesterday, for example, I got home after work feeling pretty good, but somewhere inexplicably between changing out of my work clothes and plopping on the couch, my mood shifted south.

"It" came out of nowhere, and I barely even knew what it was; I could only say that it was this vague idea that the world had done me wrong somehow, that I was angry at something, that I had failed in something in some monumental way.  I couldn't describe it, still can't, but I definitely knew when it hit me; I just felt conflicted

I wanted to read, so I picked up the latest issue of Men's Health and thumbed through page after page but did not absorb a word.  I wanted to watch TV, but nothing was on save Scott McGillivray installing some built-in entertainment center for a homeowner's rental property, and I could not have cared less.  Sam knew something was wrong too, because he showered me with the attention I normally hound him for.  But I just wanted him to leave me alone for five minutes, knowing that I would be frustrated with him if he did.  I simultaneously wanted and did not want any- and everything.  It felt like the persistent irritation of a sunburn, that intangible discomfort--should I scratch?  Rub?  Ignore?  Just plain go mad?  Only I felt like it was all happening just below the surface, and I only had the latter option available to me.

The gratitude journal tells me to accept bad days, feelings that look nothing like gratitude, and understand that they are a part of life.  Embarking on this gratitude experiment won't mean that everything will be puppies, rainbows, and unicorns.  I will still feel negativity, disappointment, frustration, but the trick is to just go ahead and feel them.  Angry?  Then feel it.  Depressed about something?  Feel it.  Experience it, know the contours of it so it becomes familiar, and through this recognition, recognize the reasons for it. 

That's what the journal says, anyway.  It's a little self-helpy for me, but what can I do?  I signed on to this for a year.

So while Sam and I ate dinner, I tried to approach my feelings from a logical standpoint, to understand why I was feeling this way and how to best navigate out of it.  I did make an concerted effort at conversation and tried my hardest not to make Sam feel like he was the cause of my ire.  Very rarely is he ever the cause, but more often, I make him feel like he is by virtue of his proximity.  That is something I need to work on. 

In the end, I never came upon the reasons for why I felt the way I did.  What ultimately brought me out of it, though, was watching an old America's Funniest Home Videos montage of cheerleaders getting dropped after basket tosses (sad that I knew the term without even having to Google it), cheerleaders back handspringing into each other, cheerleaders standing in the wrong place at the wrong time and getting trampled by a stampede of football players.  And just like that, I forgot I ever felt bad at all. 

I don't think this is what gratitude is all about, but seriously, thank God for hapless cheerleaders and schadenfreude.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

2/15/2011 - singing in an a cappella group. . .

Last night, Sam and I drove out in the fuzzy Valentine's Day rain so I could audition to be the newest baritone for Rapid Transit A Cappella.  I expected the audition to be a standard warm-up-and-sing kind of experience, where I would sing some scales, then sing my prepared song (a slightly modified version of Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'") while they nod and jot notes down and then say, "Thanks.  You'll hear from us soon." 

And part of the process did involve a terrifying two minutes where I stood on a stage, alone, and sang: just me, an otherwise silent room, and eight captive faces.  I had practiced my best Petty impression numerous times throughout the weekend, each time feeling more confident than the last, but when I faced these eight strangers, albeit very friendly strangers, I felt like I could hardly catch my breath though I stood perfectly still. 

I felt completely exposed, like I was naked and out on a treeless field.  Which actually wouldn't have been so much of a problem, as in my younger day, I had once entered a karaoke competition at a gay bar where I sang Prince's "Kiss" while stripping off everything but a pair of boxer briefs and a hand-drawn tattoo of Prince's graphical moniker on my chest.  Didn't think twice about doing it.  Still, I lost to a big black girl who sang (and I mean, sang) "Midnight Train to Georgia," so I don't feel so bad.  Oddly, I felt less nervous then than I did last night, completely clothed and singing something actually not ridiculous.

I felt weak while I was stood up there, though I honestly couldn't feel much of my body at all; I just knew that if I moved, even just to take a hand to pat out the rhythm on my thigh, I may very well have crumbled into a mass of spaghetti noodles.  That's how I felt--noodley.   Holding the "freeeeeeeee" of the chorus made my bottom lip quiver, which inadvertently gave my voice a nice, round vibrato.  I remember thinking at the moment, "Hey, these nerves are helping!  My vibrato sounds better than ever, how cool!  Oh, but wait!  This is pop music and not a classical opera piece, and I don't want to seem stodgy, so I should probably do something to lessen the vibrato as much as possible.  But still, how cool!"  Then, while trapped in my internal monologue, I flubbed some lyrics.

Still, I think it made it through OK, but that wasn't the memorable part of my experience.  Something else took me completely by surprise: I was asked to learn a few lines of simple melodies and sing it as if I were already a part of the group. 

Afterwards, while sitting in the car and coming down from an adrenaline high as Sam drove us home, I kept thinking back to Iris Firstenberg, the speaker at an innovative thinking seminar I attended recently, and how she implored us all to "bring the future into the present."  I truly learned what she meant by that last night.  As I stood amidst the group, singing my very simple line of "doon-doon-doon-ba-doom" and hearing it fit in with eight other voices, like a jigsaw piece interlocking with its counterparts, I couldn't help but smile a little (and subsequently veer off-key) as I tried to wrap my head around what was happening.  I was singing in an a cappella group.  I could barely believe it, so I had to tell myself again: I was singing.  With a group.  A cappella.

I saw my future then, and knew what I wanted it to include.

A girl beat-boxed beside me; others sang the melody. Another did a cool little "wah-na wah-na" at the end of the chorus like a scratching record.  They all sang while they moved around me, almost like sharks smelling their prey.  They said it was so everyone could have a chance to hear my voice, but I think it was more to assay my fit for the group.  Whether they thought favorably or not, I won't know until at least the beginning of March.  Even if they didn't, I still had the opportunity, if only for a brief few minutes, to do something I had always wanted to do, from the moment I first saw the UC Berkeley Men's Octet to every collegiate a cappella concert I attended thereafter: I was a part of an a cappella group. 

It felt so awesome.

Even if I do not hear from them again, do not get in, I will still have known this feeling. 

Monday, February 14, 2011

2/14/2011 - my inability to write love poems. . .

Sam and I are not doing anything for Valentine's Day.  I didn't even remember what day it was until I walked out of the gym and saw a courier delivering a big bouquet of flowers to the office building next door with a heart-shaped balloon attached.  I quickly texted Sam an obligatory "Happy Valentine's Day!" message, but I already felt like a louse.  What happened to the romantic guy I used to be?

And the more I mourned over the loss of the sweet guy I once was, the more I doubted he ever existed at all.  It was, in fact, never me in the first place.  Of my two significant relationships before Sam: 1) I never needed to be romantic with Scott because he despised romance, thought it disingenuous however heartfelt the gesture may have been; and 2) between me and Eddie, Eddie was the one who wrote me love notes, used the word 'love' more often, planned for Valentine's Days.

Eddie, in the early days of our relationship, even suggested I write him a love poem one night when I complained about writer's block.  Little did he know that love poetry was one of the most difficult kinds for me to write unless I wanted to sound like a 12-year-old girl (I didn't).  So I slaved over it for a few days, afraid that I would fail, or worse, churn something out that sounds like something Taylor Swift wrote and then set to music.  What good was dating a poet if he can't write swoon-worthy love poems? 

Eventually, I cheated and gave him a poem about my inability to write love poems, which I think (hope) he liked well enough and met the criteria.  Unfortunately for me, though, that cop-out seems to have become a metaphor for my grasp of romance. 

If I were to rewind my life to last week, when I still had time to plan for Valentine's Day, I don't know if I would do anything differently (meaning do anything at all).  I don't think Sam would either.  I often use the excuse that Valentine's Day is nothing more than a fabricated holiday designed to drive sales for Hallmark and Hershey's, but I think this year, I am facing the fact that I wouldn't know what to do with a card and box of chocolates even if I had taken the time to buy them. 

Which begs the question: am I a bad boyfriend?  How did I become so handicapped in romance?  Where did it all go wrong?

So there I was this morning, sitting in my cubicle and simmering in an existential crisis, when I came across the following post from a friend on Facebook:

You learn what you do. If you worry a lot, then day after day you are learning how to worry even better. . . Every moment you are happy, you are learning how to be even happier. . .

I may not be romantic, may not know how to show my love to the ones who have it, but I'm happy.  It's odd to say it, seems simplistic and boastful, but how else do I describe this feeling?  I am, on more moments than not, happy. 

I know that this happiness is borne out of love. 

And I do love.  While I tease Sam for not being able to say it, I am no better at it.  But I feel it, and I know he does too.  I think it every night when he throws his arm over me as we fall asleep.  When I'm sitting on the couch, and I hear his feet shuffling rhythmically on the hardwood floor, I know that he is doing that little dance he does absent-mindedly where he pivots his feet out with each walking step.  And I love it.  This morning, when I stood upstairs brushing my teeth, overlooking the living room and seeing him eat his cereal while watching the rain outside, I could not, at the time, put into words how I felt, but I think it was happiness.  And love.  So full of it, yet I just couldn't tell him so.  At the time or now.

But I do love.  And maybe, if my friend's post is correct, I'll get better at it and in the meantime, have it better me.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

2/13/2011 - the vulnerability of sleep. . .

When Sam and I saw Paranormal Activity last year, I left the theater completely freaked out (and nauseous from all the hand-held camera work, a trend I am no fan of).  I remember seeing the Blair Witch Project and feeling similarly nauseous, and while still jolted, I didn't feel like the fear I felt would follow me out of the theater and into my real life.  After all, I don't camp, don't see why I would willingly follow a murderous witch into her woods, and I live on the opposite coast from New England.

But whatever demon that haunted the couple in the first Paranormal Activity struck a nerve that hit, literally, closer to home.  I live in houses, go to bed at night, and I sleep, which apparently was enough for the demon's wrath.  The movie fed off of the vulnerability of sleep, of being unaware and helpless to one's surroundings.  Personally, it tapped into a dream I had years ago, long before the movie came into existence.

When I lived in Oakland, my micro-studio was nothing more than a bathroom, a kitchen, and a square room with a pull-out Murphy bed.  When the bed was pulled out from the wall, there was a narrow aisle on both sides, one leading to the closet and the other leading to the bathroom, and the two aisles were bridged by a third that was partially blocked by my TV in the corner.

One night, I had a dream that was so vivid and real, I could not differentiate between the dream and reality.  In it, I was sleeping, but as my dreams sometimes go, the person sleeping was me and not me at the same time.  I was simultaneously sleeping and aware that I was watching myself sleep, that my "consciousness," if you can call it that, was both in my body and outside of it.

While still firmly planted in the dream, I awoke, got out of bed, and stumbled to the bathroom, not unlike what I do in reality on most nights. When I came back out, I noticed that my TV had turned itself on, and the room was illuminated by a bluish glow.  On the screen was a bird's-eye view of the room, as if a surveillance camera had been installed in one corner, and there I was, still asleep in bed.

I walked closer to the TV and realized that there was a delay in the feed, that what I was seeing on screen actually happened already.  As if on cue, TV-me woke up, got out of bed, and stumbled to the bathroom, off-camera.  While TV-me was gone, a figure walked out of the closet.  I could not see his face.  He walked up the aisle, crossed in front of the TV, turned the corner and stopped at my pillow.  He put his hand gently on it, as if to test its warmth.  He then looked over to the bathroom and walked off-camera.

At that moment, I realized I was in danger.  All of this had happened already, and the figure, whoever he was and with whatever intent he came, was right behind me while I was now watching an empty room on the screen.  I swiveled around, but I never saw his face.  I woke up with a start and turned on the lights.  It was 2:30 AM.  I could not fall back asleep that night.

Seeing Paranormal Activity reminded me of the mystery that is sleeping: what happens at night when I close my eyes?  Well, according to the movie, a lot of stuff that I probably don't ever want to know about.  Afterwards, I was paranoid and sketchy for a week, asking Sam, who wakes up before me to go to the gym, to open the shower curtain in the bathroom so I wouldn't have to wonder if anything lurked behind it.

Still, I was eager to see the sequel; fear can be fun and addictive when experienced vicariously.  We finally did last night, and though I felt adequately stressed while watching it, jumped a couple of times, ultimately it was just OK.  It explained a lot of the "whos" and "whys."  I think that was where it failed for me.  Part of what haunted me about the original was that it was so unexplained.  The demon seemed obsessed with this girl with no motive whatsoever.  The mystery of it made me believe that a demon could also find its way to obsess about me (since I'm so obsessable).

After the movie ended last night, I went upstairs, crawled into bed, and barely thought about it, the demon, the paranormal activities that might take place once I fall asleep.  In a way, I'm thankful I don't have to live in fear of going into a darkened closet by myself for the next week, but really, I went to bed kind of disappointed because I felt totally comfortable, unafraid, and safe.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

2/12/2011 - fired up about one thing or another. . .

The economy is bad right now; I know that.  People are losing their homes left and right; companies are stagnant in their growth.  Unemployment lingers around double digits, and those who are employed get their hours cut, salaries frozen, are forced into furloughs.  And despite all this, I still sometimes sit at home and bemoan the fact that I do not feel passionate about my job.

Of course I work at it, try hard, and am grateful that I merely have a job in the first place.  But underneath it all, I go home at night and think that I am not cut out for the job I do, and the job does not fill the space in my life that I need filled.  And underneath that, deeper still, I hate the self-pity, know full well that I am fortunate beyond words to have a good job with a good company that treats its employees well.

I think I'm holding on to this notion that a job should be fulfilling.  I should wake up each day and look forward to work, come home and feel like my days were spent doing what I loved.  I don't.  And while I think the luckiest people in the world do feel this way about their careers, I have an additional problem: I still don't know what it is I want to do, what I want to be when I "grow up."  Trouble is, I am already grown up, already have a job, one I've convinced myself is not the something that will bring me fulfillment.

But yesterday, my boss sent out an e-mail to the team about the health care reform legislation, and her message was riddled with references to "our industry," "exciting developments,"  and being "fired up" about what the future holds for us.  She regularly gets fired up about one thing or another, usually regarding exciting developments in our industry which I could not find less interesting, but this e-mail was different.  It was emotional, came from a place that I never access while at work; the e-mail came from her heart.

For some reason, it made me realize that this could not have been her first choice of jobs.  She could not, as a little girl, have actively wanted to be a manager at an insurance company; there is just no way.   I know that she was a psychology major in college, currently wants to write a screenplay, practices both the physical and spiritual tenets of yoga and infuses them into everything she does.  So why isn't she a marriage counselor, a playwright, a yogi?  Insurance could not possibly be what she finds fulfilling.

But reading her e-mail yesterday, full of hope and passion, I saw that she has managed, somehow, to turn the job she has into what she's always wanted.  Instead of finding one that molds to her expectations of what that job should be, she shaped herself to her job, found elements of it that matches the spaces in her life that she needs filled. 

It made me realize that maybe I've been going about this whole "self-fulfillment" thing from the wrong angle.

Friday, February 11, 2011

2/11/2011 - shama lama ding dong. . .

On Monday, three short days from now, I will be auditioning for a local a cappella group.  Should I get in, I think I will finally feel like my mothership has found me.  I do believe that it will complete a circle I have been drawing for the last 12 years of my life.

The first dot, the "pen to paper" moment, happened weeks before I moved from Union City to Davis for my first year of college.  My ex-girlfriend (that explanation will have to wait) dragged me kicking and screaming to a free performance of the UC Berkeley's Men's Octet.  Eight guys with nothing more than their eight voices singing outside of Sather Gate at lunch--I could not be less interested.  I imagined striped suits and little hats and a lot of do-wop do-wop shama lama ding dong stuff and at the time, I was not into any shama lama ding dong.  

But when I actually got there, sat down on the hard concrete in the middle of a bustling plaza, it only took a few songs to convert me. 

They did perform some expected numbers, like "Blue Moon" and "Mr. Sandman."  But there was something so cool about the way their voices completely made up for the lack of any instruments.  I bought their CD afterwards and listened to nothing else for months.

That year marked my first annual pilgrimage to the West Coast A Cappella Showcase, an invitational concert hosted by the Men's Octet.  A particularly memorable performance, one by which I have judged all others since, was of Guster's "Demons," a song about the need to be mean in the world, sung by the California Golden Overtones, Berkeley's all-women group.

The lead singer shaded the lyrics ("I find the need to be a demon./ A demon can not be hurt.") with real longing and loss.  She was backed by a chorus of women who sang as one entity, one universal voice that spoke to the difficulties of forming human bonds in this world.  It was the account of every person who ever tried to reach out to another, who ever was afraid of others reaching out to them.

The song took me to a different place, away from Wheeler Hall, the university, the audience with whom I sat.  The best word I have is transportive, because at its best, these a cappella performances make me feel like I am not where I am sitting while at these concerts, but somewhere else entirely.  "Demons" in particular took me to all the people I had ever loved in my life, all I missed, and all I had made miss me.

In the years to come, I heard renditions of songs that moved me to tears, train wrecks that made me cringe, and performances that inspired me.  I've skipped out of classes, gathered my dormmates so we could all drive an hour from Davis to Berkeley to watch the Men's Octet's free lunch time shows.  Just a couple of years ago, I dragged Sam on a 500-plus mile drive to the University of Oregon in Eugene to watch On the Rocks in their spring show, and it was so worth it.  And at the end of every one of these shows, I would always wish that I could be one of those people up there.

I tried singing in karaoke bars, piano bars, showers and car rides, but it all brought me back to the beginning, to that first concert I went to and how I felt like I was hearing music for the first time.  I took part in a musical theater production last year, and as much as I enjoyed the experience, I knew that what I really wanted to do was sing.  Not act, certainly not dance, but stand there and sing a song that I believe in.  Ultimately, it just reminded me that I want to be in an a cappella group, the kind I've idolized since I was 18.

So maybe after next Monday, after all these years, I can be.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

2/10/2011 - Lady Gaga. . .

When Lady Gaga's "Just Dance" first came out, I hated it.  Couldn't stand it.  Thought it was the latest derivative thing from the latest pre-packaged and overproduced pop star.  Then "Poker Face" came out, and I thought, Ugh, the chorus sounds just like Glenn Frey's "You Belong to the City," and what the hell does 'bluffin' with my muffin' even mean??
 
Then "LoveGame" came on the radio one afternoon as I was driving home.  I didn't stand a chance; something about the beat, the slightly monotonal chorus, the reference to some guy's disco stick--it all just got me.  And a few hours later, I had listened to The Fame in its entirety and became a helpless fan, even retroactively liking those songs I once hated. 
 
And though it has been said many times by fans and critics alike, Lady Gaga reminds me of Madonna (the Like a Prayer, Justify My Love, 'erotic erotic put your hands all over my body' one, not the latest (re?)incarnation), of me when I first discovered Madonna in the mid-90's, of how she played a critical role during my formative years, all of which can be summed up in three words:
 
Gay.  Teenage.  Hormones. 
 
Though I had it relatively easy as a gay teen in high school, I was still a whirling mass of chaos inside.  Not to overcredit Madonna, but her brazenness and complete disregard for convention gave me license to channel my confusion into something else, feel confident in who I was, to be someone, even if I didn't yet know who that 'someone' would be.  
 
I was not ready to come out en masse.  I was out to individual people, those I trusted, but to broadcast it to the jocks, the bullies, the ones who prowl in packs, waiting for any sign of weakness, well, I was not brave enough for that.  I did not want to be that gay kid.  Besides, there was already one, the boy who wore green lipstick every day and hung out with the drama girls.  So instead, I chose to become that weird kid who was obsessed about Madonna.  I think I used it as my own subversive way of coming out, hiding in plain sight.  Or something.  Who knows?  On hindsight, I think I should have just joined forces with that gay kid and possibly gotten some action out of it.
 
But anyway, in that precarious microcosm of high school, I teetered on the edge, always one misstep away from being a social pariah. But Madonna's shenanigans and vulgarity, as well as her championing of gay rights, gave me hope that life wouldn't always be like this.  The aching need to belong would fade; the cool kids would not always be there to remind me how not cool I was.  She was my own personal "It Gets Better" spokesperson.
 
And now, 15 years later,  Lady Gaga is making good music, giving speeches about Don't Ask, Don't Tell, tweeting about marriage equality, using just about every opportunity to recognize her gay fans, especially the young ones and telling them that it is OK to be who you are, freak and otherwise, all while singing better than Madonna ever did (pre- and post-Evita).  I can only imagine how I would have felt as a teenager and discovering her then.  
 
I only hope that one day, after Lady Gaga has sold her millions and made her billions, when she is tired of this version of fame and is ready for something new, she will release an acoustic album, one with nothing more than a few strings, a piano, and her soaring voice.  Seeing her perform "Speechless" on Ellen made me realize what a talent she has, and how much of it is hidden behind electronica and synthesizers, not unlike hiding behind expectations, social conformity, even green lipstick.
 
But that's a whole different matter for a different post.  In the meantime, I'm as excited as a girl on prom night for the release of her new single tomorrow.  For now, I'll be happy to wake up in the morning and listen to "Born This Way," synths and all. 

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

2/9/2011 - at once humanizing and inhuman. . .

Reading is a rare pleasure for me.  Though I love it, found a rekindled love for it at the beginning of this year, I do not do it as regularly as I should or would like to.  With Sam at home, I always have a reason not to read, as he has yet to find a way to enjoy it.  Instead, we cook dinner together, eat together, watch TV, and by the time I feel like I should read for a while, it is too late.  The evening has already been whittled away and it is time for bed.

Not that I mind, as I enjoy our evening routine, and I am the last to criticize anyone on their desire for TV (I definitely exhibit signs of addiction).  But I do feel that I owe it to myself to read more, so as a compromise, I try to read when I can during lunch at work.  Where normally I would eat at my desk, I've been making an effort to take my lunch upstairs to the employee cafeteria, sit by the window, and read for a while. 
 
This afternoon, I finished the book I've been working on: Wally Lamb's The Hour I First Believed.  It immediately became one of my favorite books, in part because of the personalization of a national tragedy (Columbine), but also because it handled the incident with so much humanity, so much humanness.  The account of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold was at once humanizing and inhuman, and reading it reminded me of Jared Loughner, 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, all the large-scale tragedies that were composed of countless personal devastations.  I think it's harder to think of these events, tragic as they were, on an individual basis, because then the scale of that tragedy is exponential.

But that is just what this book made me do, see Columbine through the eyes of a survivor.  I was in college when it happened, and I only vaguely remember what I was doing when I first heard the news.  I was sad, scared, and angry, and I knew it was a horrible thing, but that was it: a horrible thing.  This book took me further: it not only brought me into the lives of the characters and made me care about them, it also taught me that there is no shortage of evil in the world, in me, and sometimes, bad things collide with good people.  We make mistakes, and mistakes happen to us; this is undeniable.  How we deal with it afterwards, who we choose to become in the face of tragedy is what ultimately defines us and what ultimately gives humanity its hope.
 
I cried while reading the final chapter.  I had a feeling I would, but I still decided to finish the book while eating lunch in the cafeteria.  So there I sat, next to a table of IT programmers and another of Cantonese women cackling loudly, and I started to cry.  

I'd like to think that it was a manly kind of cry, the kind with no other facial movements other than a quivering lip and streaming tears, so that is how I choose to recall it.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

2/8/2011 - the idée fixe I helplessly turned over and over. . .

Mid-day naps are a luxury I usually do not get. 

If I need one, I am undoubtedly at work.  I would hit my 3:45 wall where I start falling into a food coma, the kind where my eyes cross every time I blink, and all I want to do is just crawl under my desk for five (glorious!) minutes, close my eyes and just revel in the feeling of them being closed.  Of course, I don't do that, so I go without the nap. 

When I have the opportunity to sleep during the day, such as on Saturdays when the couch is empty and inviting, I don't feel a need.  Suddenly, I can eat a 12-ounce filet for lunch, and food coma is a thing of the past.  I would never think to sleep away a precious afternoon when I am not at work.  So again, I go without the nap.

Bottom line is that on most days, I wake up in the morning and go to bed at night, and my head does not hit a pillow in between.

I think of this because when I got home from work this afternoon, I actually still wanted to take that nap I needed an hour earlier; the allure of all that 'home' had to offer was not enough to shake me from my lethargy.  And with Sam gone, my after-work schedule was wide, wide open.  So I came home, changed out of my work clothes, and settled down on the couch, one pillow behind my neck and the other on my chest.  I hugged that one tight, curled up in a slight fetal position (which is my absolute favorite position to sleep in), and listened to the traffic sounds outside, felt the air move about the room.  I thought about work the next day, what time Sam would be home tonight, what to have for dinner.  

Eventually, I started thinking less.  Traffic got quieter, and I felt less the air and more the couch, the mold of it to me and how if I stayed still, I could not honestly tell where my body ended and the leather began.

I had one last thought before I faded into sleep, the one I obsessed about, the idée fixe I helplessly turned over and over in my head like the theme in Ravel's "Bolero."  It was as though my brain hit a scratch on its surface, causing the needle to play back the same two seconds of the song ad nauseum.  Then I fell asleep.  

I fought hard to remember what that thought was when I awoke 40 minutes later.  Nothing.  I can't recall, and because I can't recall, it has become the thought of the century.  I'm sure it was the most profound one I had and would ever have, and I trust that the needle found its way out of the irregularity, played the song through, resolved the conflict, saved the world.  

Naps can do that, I guess.  It certainly saved me from a very possible day of 'blog failure,' as I had come home with no idea what I could write about.

Yet here it is.

Monday, February 7, 2011

2/7/2011 - a sort of Three's Company arrangement. . .

Not counting boyfriends, I have lived without roommates for most of my adult life.   After a disastrous stint during my second year of college where I lived with another gay guy, a lesbian, and a bisexual girl dating a questionable straight boy, I decided that roommates just weren’t my thing.  When people asked if I got lonely living by myself, my answer was always the same: if I wanted to see friends, I could always go out and find them.

The unspoken part of that answer: often, I preferred to just stay at home and be by myself anyway.  While I envy people who have made a familial unit out of their roommate situation, established a sort of Three’s Company arrangement for themselves, I know that it would only be good for me in theory.  Eventually, I would dread coming home to find my roommate there, feel the need to socialize, be civil, not be able to just come home, shuck my clothes wherever they may fall and be the slobbish animal that I am.

However, when Sam and I moved into our current place, we inadvertently found ourselves with a different kind of roommate in Greg, our third-floor neighbor.  His footsteps thud through our ceiling like a subwoofer, and even after we renovated it with some soundproofing, we can still hear faint vibrations on good days, small detonations on others.  I think we have both come to accept the fact that it is the hazard of condo-living and not being in the penthouse, but it can still be annoying.

Last night was the first night I slept in the place by myself without Sam, who was away on a business trip.  You’d think that I would revel in having the place to myself, bask in the nostalgia of those ‘good ol’ days’ when I could make a sty of the place without consequence (and believe me, when Sam is home, there are definitely consequences).

Instead, after walking into an empty house after dinner at the local taqueria, I found myself unnerved, jittery.  I immediately went upstairs and turned on all the lights, looked behind the closet door, and opened the shower curtain.  I could not tell you what I was looking for exactly, but had I found it, I certainly would have given my vocal cords, waiting vigilantly, the workout of their lives.

Now, of all the years I’ve lived alone, in all those different apartments, including one I’m fairly certain to this day was haunted, I have never once felt irrationally scared.  Outside of spiders, I’m not really scared of anything, certainly nothing supernatural.

But I had to will myself to go take a shower last night, be closed off to the rest of the house by a curtain I could not see through.  Eventually, I did, of course, but I was just shy of panicked.  I washed my face so fast that I later found a patch of soap left unrinsed by my right ear.  I had not wanted to close my eyes for fear of what I might see when I reopened them. 

What that would be, I had no clue.  Like I said, it was completely irrational, and utterly emasculating.  Which is saying something when there wasn’t much masculinity to slough off in the first place.

Around 9:30, as I watched Pretty Woman and wondered how I could turn off all the lights and climb the stairs without freaking myself out, I heard those familiar footsteps from Greg, like a thumping car stereo moving across the street.  It sounded like he walked around to his kitchen, went to the bathroom, then trod upstairs. 

Where I normally would do my best to tune it out (which I have gotten pretty good at), I welcomed it.  I sat there and listened to it, and slowly, every tremor of fear disappeared to the point where I couldn’t even remember what I had been so afraid of in the first place.  Greg’s home, yay!

I had never been so grateful for poor soundproofing in my life.   

Sunday, February 6, 2011

2/6/2011 - sitting omnisciently in the present. . .

I had lunch with my friend Paul on Friday who said that on January 1st, 2012, I will have quite the impressive document on my hands if I carry this blog to fruition.  He likened it to a postcard from every single day of this year, sent to my future self so I can see what my thought processes were each day and remember how it was all spent.
 
Little does he know, I already have a way of doing this, and on a much grander scale. The following paragraphs are an account of my neuroses, or at least a small sliver of them.  Please reserve judgement. 
 
Sometimes, when I get bored, I go through past e-mails.  Not just from days before, or even weeks before.  I would open up my Gmail account, click on the "Show search options" tab, and start going through year by year.  Today, for example, I would start with e-mails that were written or received within one day of 2/6/2010, then 2/6/2009, and so on and so on until I get to the first year I started using Gmail.
 
(Kinda scary, right?  Stick with me, please.)
 
Often, they are very benign, "Lunch today?" e-mails, and those I skim through pretty quickly.  Other times, they can be from friends I no longer speak to, by choice or by circumstance, and I laugh at some of them, cringe at others.  I've relived whole conversations, felt like it was just the other day that I had had them.  
 
I find myself compelled to do this archival search every few days, reading through over six years of "On this day. . ." e-mails.
 
Yesterday, I found a copy of Alan Lightman's Einstein's Dreams in my room.  It has long been one of my favorite books, a philosophical presentation of hypothetical worlds where time operates in different ways than we are used to, asking questions like: what if time ran backwards?  What would time mean if our life spans only one day?  What if we could trap time under a bell jar, and in doing so, freeze a moment we wish to preserve? 
 
In one particular world, people get stuck in time, trapped in their memories.  An ex-footballer is unable to stop eulogizing his glory days from high school; a mother is unable to let go of the memories of her son as a hopeful young boy while he wastes away from drug use in his adulthood.  Lightman writes, "Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone. . .  The tragedy of this world is that no one is happy, whether stuck in a time of pain or joy." 
 
This chapter strikes a nerve as I don't know if I agree with him; reading my old e-mails actually makes me feel more in tune with today than ever.  In a way, they allow me to foretell their future while sitting omnisciently in the present.  
 
Did that even make sense? 
 
For example, I've read exchanges between me and Eddie, rambling about Lost, Kelly Clarkson, and clothes shopping, knowing now that these conversations were completely untainted by the unavoidable fact that in a few days, we would be broken up.  Within a month, I would leave his house for the last time and never go back. 
 
Seeing old e-mails from Steve, who passed away over a year ago, softens the blow of what was then unexpected.  It had seemed that one week, we were on a cruise to Alaska, having dinners weekly while watching our stories, and then, out of the blue (though not really), he was gone. 
 
Reading these e-mails and knowing what I know now makes me feel like I can see myself hurtling towards a future, tumbling headlong into some things that did really knock the wind out of me.  Yet now, it all seems so predetermined, so clinical.  With a healthy cushion between now and then, it also feels so safe.
 
I'm sure it all sounds really strange, and it probably is indicative of some pathology or other.  But after having lunch with Paul and listening to what he said about this blog, I can't wait to wake up on January 1st, 2012, and relive these days all over again. 
 
Sick, I know.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

2/5/2011 - not without its charms. . .

Every so often, Sam and I would have what we call "date night."  I know some couples do this weekly or monthly, but we typically only do it when the fancy strikes.  Last night, it was because we will be apart for four days starting today: he on a business trip, and me at my parents' celebrating the Chinese New Year.  Four days is not long by any means, but it is the longest separation since we first started dating and he had spent a month in New York.  My friend Steve used to mock us and say that we always wanted to be attached at the hip, and though it's not true, he's not exactly wrong, either.

Last night's date night took us to our favorite ramen restaurant in our old neighborhood, blocks from our old apartment.  We dubbed it the noodle shop, and when we first found it, it reminded us of Waikiki, when we stumbled into a little hole-in-the-wall after swimming all morning and discovered for ourselves the best bowls of noodles we had ever tasted.

It was strange to be back in the old neighborhood, see the old building nestled between one tourist destination (Union Square) and another (Chinatown).  It sounds absurd to call it the "old neighborhood" since we literally live less than 10 minutes away, but I think most San Franciscans can vouch for the microhood model the City lives by, and I would bet that many would understand our habit of staying within a three block radius for all our dining, shopping, and entertainment needs.

Kevin used to say that our old neighborhood was not much of one (obviously, Union-freakin'-Square not withstanding), and while I scoffed at it, citing Union Square as the very reason it is the neighborhood, I have to admit that he's right.  It's not a neighborhood in a residential sense, and I realized that after moving to our new place, which itself isn't exactly a cul-de-sac, but feels so much more like a place to live with nary a tourist stop in sight (unless you're looking for leather bars).

But still, that old neighborhood was not without its charms, ones we could only fully appreciate after we left.  While searching for parking, we drove by Grace Cathedral, a beautiful landmark that we had never stepped foot in, though we lived a mere handful of footsteps away.  Parking was a pain, and it took us at least 10 minutes to find a spot last night.  When we lived there, Sam would make laps around the neighborhood, cruise the streets before finding any spot, sometimes four or five blocks away.  And our studio apartment was small; neither of us could stand anywhere that wasn't out of the other's line of sight.  It all seemed so inconvenient back then, so annoying, yet it seems we now remember those days quite fondly.

But as Sam said while we passed by that familiar brown awning, the steps I once tripped and tore my pants on, he misses it sometimes because it had been the first apartment we shared.  His nostalgia and sentiment actually surprised me, as he is not one to look back and reminisce.

I, however, am, and returning to that neighborhood, seeing the front door last night reminded me of one afternoon, sunny and warm, when I first moved into that building, when Sam and I had officially just started our second (and current) round of dating (another story, another time). I walked down Grant through Chinatown to buy some vegetables to throw in one of my disastrous meals, and as I passed Clay, I just happened to turn my head and found myself looking down a steep hill that seemed to run straight into the water.  I caught a glimpse of the Bay Bridge.  I had to stop and just look at it for a second, really see it, because it didn't seem real that I could see the water, that bridge, then walk five minutes and be home.  It's a cliche to say this, but the sight and the thought of it really did take my breath away.  I felt my heart soar.

I told myself then that I wanted to do this regularly, every week, walk down those streets and shop for groceries and stop to take notice of the beautiful things around me.  And of course, I never did again, and now we've left and it makes no sense for me to go there at all, much less shop for groceries there.  In a way, I miss the old place as well, though I haven't had a chance to really think about it since I've been preoccupied trying to settle in and be happy in our new one.  Still, I remember that afternoon so well, the smell of the markets, the rushing crowds, this new and amazing City in which I found myself.

The noodles were delicious, as much so as I remember them being, and the walk back to the car was uphill and hard, also how I remember it being.  It was a good date night.

Friday, February 4, 2011

2/4/2011 - following my Da Guh around. . .

Sam and I are catching up on the latest season of Dexter, and one of my favorite things about the show is the occasional interaction between Dexter and his sister, Debra, and the way she often calls him, "Big Brother."

Growing up, I had a big brother as well, one I called "Da Guh," which is the Mandarin equivalent.  Our fraternal relationship was only in name, though.  Peter was my cousin, a few years older, and I unquestionably idolized him.  My earliest memory, one that has been retold by my parents and his to varying degrees of my humiliation, involved a four- or five-year-old me throwing tantrums on those Saturday nights when we would visit his family, refusing to leave their house until Peter and I could take a bath together.  Absolutely do not analyze this any more than you already have; all I remember is thinking that it was a fun thing to do.  I was five, at most.  Again, do not.

Those Saturday nights were special for me.  My parents and grandparents would often see Peter's family over the weekends, where hours of the evening would be spent playing round after round of mahjong on their dining table.  Meanwhile, Peter would lead me from room to room, telling me about this and that, demonstrating video games on his computer and playing with toys.  He had what essentially amounted to the entire cast of He-Man action figures, and while our parents were downstairs arranging and rearranging ivory tiles, we would be doing the same but with Duncan and BattleCat.

And no matter how late those mahjong games ran, how long my parents and I stayed, I would always cry and make a scene when we had to go home, saying that I haven't even had a chance to play yet, wanting just 5 more minutes.  For nine years of my life, I was an only child, and Peter felt like the older brother I would never have.  To me, he was beyond cool; everything he did was cool, better than anything I could do. 

A few years later, after he outgrew them, he passed on those action figures to me, and though I played with them, staged the same scenes I remembered staging with him, it wasn't the same.  I didn't want toys.  I wanted a big brother, but by then, I had already become one to my sister.  Thinking back, I wish I could have been the kind of "Da Guh" that Peter was for me, though I'm pretty sure I came up short.

When I got older, I stopped referring to Peter as Da Guh; both of us had long outgrown those childhood terms.  Still, I didn't feel any different about him.  Though we were always one phase of life away from each other (when I was in middle school, he, high school; when I was in high school, he had gone away to college) and we did not stay close, I still felt like he bridged the oceanic gap between childhood and not-childhood, adolescence and adulthood, to take me from who I was to who I wanted to become.  I remember going with him to another cousin's graduation from high school, and he told me about his outreach efforts through his university where he would go to bars and talk about AIDS and HIV prevention.  I remember going to see Untamed Heart with him and his girlfriend, not wanting to cry at the end but doing so anyway, and talking to the two of them later and hoping that I would one day know what it felt like to be the kind of adult he became.  

I thought of him the other day because twice a week, Kevin and I work out together.  I mostly just do what he does, though on a much lighter scale.  I follow him from machine to machine, bench to bench, mirroring as much as possible his form and movements.  He would dispense nutritional advice, weight-lifting advice, advice on life, I realized then, as I walked a couple of steps behind him on our way back to the weight room from the water fountain, that this is how I felt as a child, following my Da Guh around from one room to the next, believing that whatever he had to show me when we got there would change my life.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

2/3/2011 - thru the entire of 2011. . .

My mom loves to tell the story of when she was growing up in Taiwan, celebrating Chinese New Year one night with a bowl of firecrackers on the dining table.  Obviously not quite understanding the concept of firecrackers, she lit one--a deafening bang--and the tablecloth became an oversized doily.  Normally, she would have been chased across the yard by a stick-wielding father, but since it was Chinese New Year, he could only seethe silently from the other room.

She tells this story with such delight, like she really got away with something, but I think it's more because it symbolizes how important Chinese New Year is to her, the youngest of six children and the recipient of the most beatings.  On Chinese New Year, nobody gets angry, and certainly nobody was going to get any beatings.  Nothing goes wrong.

When I was a child, Chinese New Year was also a big deal, but for different reasons.  I was already an angel, the perfect child obviously, so not getting into trouble was a given.  No, it was because my maternal grandparents lived with us, and my mom's siblings, the ones who lived near us, would converge onto our house for the New Year's dinner.  For years, we would have as many as 15 or 20 people at our house, and as it is with Chinese families, most families I imagine, it was spirited and raucous. 

And how I loved spirited and raucous!  Everyone was happy, regardless of how happy they may have actually been.  My uncle would pinch me on the cheeks; aunts would smile at me.  All of my cousins would be there, and it felt like being on the playground for recess without having to go back to the classroom after 20 minutes.  My mom, dad, and grandmother would have spent hours in the kitchen making the vast assortment of dishes that we would be eating.  Everyone wore red, and I imagine that if I could have seen a bird's-eye view, the inside of our house would have looked like an artery with red blood cells chaotically flowing and reflowing through its tight corridors. 

And at the end of the night, when I started getting tired and everyone began to leave, out came the red envelopes.  One year, I opened one up right in front of my aunt who had given it to me no more than three seconds prior.  $40, and it was always $40, and it was previously agreed upon, as I learned years later, by all aunts and uncles that red envelopes should contain no more than $40.  Still, I was scolded and instructed to only open red envelopes in private.  But the scolding was only in that jovial, Chinese New Year way.  Because nobody gets angry.

At its height, when our house was one clogged artery, I could clear as much as $400.  Those were good times.

My grandmother died when I was 12, and my grandfather, when I was 24.  Since then, the scale of our celebrations have withered.  We no longer gather big, at most maybe eight people.  All of a sudden, but not really, the house seems spacious during holidays, cavernous with the gaps of missing bodies, loved ones who once laughed and whiled away hours there.  This Chinese New Year, my sister is away at school, and I am having grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner with Sam. 

My mom texted me early in the afternoon: "Happy New Year!  May the blessing filled thru the entire of 2011."  I could still hear her excitement through those words, and I was so moved, so reminded of when there would be no need to text me because she could have told me in person, when we would barely have had a minute's rest from the moment we woke up to the moment everyone had gone home. 

I called them after dinner to say Happy New Year and spoke to my mom.  I was nervous to hear her voice, to hear any indication of sadness or disappointment in what once was a holiday of togetherness, now only accentuating separation.  But there was no disappointment, no sadness I could tell.  I guess it's true that nothing goes wrong today, not on Chinese New Year.  I wanted to share with her all these things I had been thinking about, all the recollections I had of those years, but I'm no good with words, especially with my mother.  So without any way of taking her hand and walking her down that memory lane, I asked if we could see each other on Chinese New Year next year, whenever it may fall on the solar calendar.  And maybe the year after that, and the one after that.

I think, or I'd like to think, or I hope that what I heard in her voice was gladness when she said, "OK!  Sure!  Of course!"  I think I heard each exclamation mark.

(Gong shi fa tsai.  None of that 'Gung hay fat choi' business; this is Mandarin.)