3.17.2024

Nickisms



Fourteen years. That’s how long I’ve been plugging away at this little corner of the Internet. Panic and Fear. I remember being late to blogging in 2010. Maybe if I keep at it long enough it will become popular again. Bloggers were proto-influencers. And in a dim sense, I hoped it would be a springboard to my creative success. That I would set the world in fire with my words and join the rarified air of real writers everywhere. Fun fact: I still work the job I had when I started writing this. I’ve neglected it for years at a time, but always came back. It’s a stubborn cold sore that tells everyone my business.

Grad school paralyzed me. I started studying philosophy to broaden my perspective in the hopes of becoming a better reader and writer, but became entangled in minutia. My time studying philosophy made me obsess with getting things right. Creatively, it was stifling. I was rejected from doctorate programs because they hated the essay I submitted about the ethics of humor. I was rejected from an iO Harold Team because I was too analytical. I know this because I was taking notes during my evaluation, like a fucking dufus. I wasn’t serious enough for academia and too serious for improv comedy. Orphaned by my institutions, I sought refuge here. Two failed sides of myself finding harmony.

As I write this, I realize it would be so much more impactful if this were the prologue to my soon-to-be-published best-selling anthology of essays where I recount how I overcame adversity and achieved success. Rather, this is the last bastion of my artistic life. It’s the iron lung of my creativity. My life is budget meetings and spreadsheets now. What I make here is carved from the scraps.

And I’ve returned to the well so many times, I’ve started to pull the curtain back on my own machinery. The writing conventions I exploit. The vaguely inspirational upshot, hinting at being rescued from despair. The lists of three declarative sentences which I use to drive my point home like a slam poet. You work your whole life to develop your voice, only to hate it once you recognize it.

This must be how bands feel. Play the hits, but do something new. I liked their early stuff. Every record sounds the same. The new album doesn’t even sound like the same band.

For the last decade, I have obsessed about the creative process and exalted my artistic identity above all else. Post-Covid, I have laid that version of myself to rest. I had not considered what it would mean to choose a different path. And yet, at the halfway mark, we find ourselves starting over. The tenor of my writing has changed. From an optimism about a future filled with possibility to a reckoning of what we sacrificed for a flawed dream.   

Let’s see if we can teach an old dog new tricks. Haha. Goddamnit. Even in trying to expose my patterns and tendencies, I caught myself doing the exact thing I’ve always done. Same Nick, different day; feigning intimacy with the entire Internet. Charming the void. 

In his writing on habits, Aristotle said we are what we do most often. To be candid, I am not thrilled with what my most-often list has become. Books, gym, writing, friends, and self-improvement have all fallen off the top ten. Goodbye for now, Dear Readers. I’m heading to the gym. I will try to be a better Nick tomorrow than I was today. Thank you for keeping me company as I roll this boulder up a hill.

3.16.2024

Say Uncle



In matters of love, there are uncles and there are fathers. Aunts and mothers. Both are valid, but require vastly different levels of commitment. The tireless, iron clad, heroic level of love offered by parenthood is beyond reproach. Their sacrifice commensurate with their legendary status. And then, somewhere in the margins, on the occasional weekend, there is the peculiar love offered by those one step removed.

I uncle neighborhood cats. I’ve loved a half dozen cats in my life, and not one of their collars had my phone number engraved on it. All of them have owners, and my affection for them is stitched together during bouts of outside time or incidental cohabitation. I travel frequently for work, and I sleep in hotel rooms with the same regularity as my own bed. And while my work life is a convenient excuse, there are a myriad of confounding reasons I do not have a cat to call my own.

Uncling is a genuine form of love. I love those little fuckers. All of them. Lady. Ollie. Tux. Timber. Sal. Felix. We play laser. Share snacks. Snuggle when it’s cold. There are few joys in my life more profound that seeing one of them waiting on my doorstep after a long day. My heart flutters when I hear the tiny mew from outside by door. There’s not much I wouldn’t drop to tend to their needs. As I write this, I’m wresting with a capricious black kitty vying for my lap’s attention.

And the vast majority of the time, it’s enough. My love car runs just fine on a quarter tank. I get some of the care and attention I need without consequence or responsibility. I don’t change litter boxes. I don’t pay vet bills. I am the fun uncle. But increasingly, after midnight, I’ll find myself obsessively cracking my front door hoping to find one of my part-time loves. 

As my door creaks closed, my heart sinks. I hope they are warm, cared for, and happy. The fate of an uncle is to love something that isn’t yours. If you aren’t willing to make the sacrifices, you don’t get the security. You can’t win what you don’t put in the middle. 

I’m a fantastic uncle. My love is kind, patient, and selfless. I’ve gotten so used to being loved by other people’s things, anything else feels terrifying. I fear I don’t have what it takes to be a father. Not sure I’m built for it. To uncle is to be a tourist to love. It is a jovial, marginally-fulfilling derivative form of love. It is the girl dinner of satisfaction.

I’ve spent my life as an uncle. It’s served my needs. Gave me an IV drip of joy. I’ve made countless meals of Ritz crackers. But I fear it might be time to learn to cook.

Maybe this has nothing to do with cats, parenthood, or cooking.

2.12.2024

True North


What do you do when you're lonely? Do you scroll deep in your texts for a person you haven't connected with in years? Only to be reminded of why you left it behind fifteen minutes later? Do you drink? Do you obsessively snuggle your dogs? Do you numb yourself with hyper-stimulating video games? Do you weaponize your maladies into chores and productivity? Do you work so many hours it quietly literally doesn't leave time for you to contemplate the onerous nature of existence? Do you double down on a modestly competent partner fearing the Valentine's Day abyss? We choose our brand of isolation cigarettes and we are loyal customers. But what fascinates me is how varied the manifestations are. For such a rudimentary human emotion, you'd expect some overlap in the social Venn diagram. Yet, loneliness is evasive, shameful, and hidden by our society. Even our art fails to address loneliness head on. At best our Taxi Driver's circle the drain. No one is willing to say it out loud.

I am lonely. I mean it in the conditional, temporary sense and in the chronic foundational sense. And what surprises me is how difficult it is to write. I am lonely. Squeezing the three words from my chest feels like an exorcism. I'm not sure I've ever attributed those three words in that particular order to myself. Yet, I've felt it inexorably since puberty. Why did it take thirty years to shake the cat out of this tree? 

For the purposes of this exercise, I am going to consider romantic loneliness as merely a breed of its larger emotional phylum. To be alone is a matter of objective fact. To feel alone is to suffocate under the oppressive weight of shackles chained to nothing. Loneliness is not only possible, but paradoxically common in the company of others. There is no more powerful magnifying glass for feeling misunderstood, irrelevant, or unheard than a group. Sometimes it comes from a bullhorn. Sometimes it creeps up on you. But the next time you find yourself doom-scrolling on your fifth beer after a twelve hour shift while realizing a celebrity looks like your ex, know that the ghost of loneliness present is knocking on your door.   

If we all want to be loved and accepted, why are we so fucking incredibly bad at expressing it? How do we all end up like this? I've been loved from the opposite ends of the spectrum. I've basked in oppressive, unhealthy, toxic love and withered from being cast aside. And what's left is an unreliable barometer for love, care, and understanding. What the living hell does a reasonable amount of love even look like?

Drinking from the firehose or languishing in the vapid emotional desert. There has to be a freeway exit in-between. This bus runs express between two poles. At least it has since for as long as I can remember. 

I ain't no civil engineer. Not going to solve a goddamn thing. Except to say, I said it: I'm lonely. In life, we get a compass, not a map. I don't know where we are going or how we'll get there, but pack your shit. Cause this sucks.

1.21.2024

Silver

 "He who has his why can endure any how." - Nietzsche

Greatness, as it pertains to sport, the arts, and achievement, is the result of majestically broken individuals. It shines the most forgiving light on the most productive illnesses. I've been seduced by the pursuit of greatness. But make no mistake, all greatness is born of sickness. It is for those who dedicate their lives to unclimbable hills, who will give everything to edge their competitors, and sacrifice their sanity to make a dent in the universe. And while I do not sit on the throne of Mount Olympus gazing at the peasants below, a fire burns within me to join them at the summit. 

But, like, who gives a fuck? The podium won't bring you Gatorade and magazines when you're sick. Your trophy room won't call you on your birthday. Awards can't spoon you at night, nestling your Achilles heel between their big and long toe.

Why then? Every Olympian dedicates their life to an endeavor. They all can't be Rocky. Some of it has to be biology. Lance Armstrong has a super human lung capacity. Michael Phelps is biologically engineered like a fish. Alex Honnold's Amygdala literally doesn't fire. He is sinewy Daredevil, the man without fear. Let's leave aside the GOATs.

Let's assume it a pure meritocracy. That effort in approximates performance output. Competition measures our proximity to gods. To what extent can we leave behind our bone shelves and skin curtains and execute perfectly? 

Every GOAT necessitates a generation of losers. Imagine a world where Gauguin fucked off to the tropics and painted like shit? What fascinates me are the ones who sacrificed everything and came up short. The gamblers who bet big and had to answer to the loan sharks.

What drives a person to chase achievement rather than human connection? My first thought is that they are interrelated. People seek out the best. However, this argument quickly disintegrates under scrutiny. Experience shows us a long history of those who would leave behind personal connection for the pursuit of excellence.

Excellence is a chronic disease. Once it's infected you, there is no turning back. It's a high whose withdrawals are crippling. And anyone who's glimpsed it, who's basked in that sun, knows there is no substitute. The faint echo of greatness is a siren song louder than a Black Sabbath concert. It whispers to you like the One Ring.

My best friend's Dad once said, "We're all heroin addicts. Some of us just don't know it yet." To those who've never been haunted by the ghost of greatness, be thankful. This life is a drag.  

12.03.2023

Bad Manners

There is an injustice afoot. A dining practice so egregious, I am compelled to speak out. I pray my words spur you to end this archaic and devastating social convention.

Food is fragile. It hangs precariously between groceries and compost. It's preparation is a dark art which I am not privy to. It is altogether foreign to me. It is the Achilles heel in an otherwise impenetrable fortress knowledge, a particular set of skills I do not possess.   

To this end, I dine out relentlessly. Regrettably, it has become cripplingly expensive of late. However, the quality, efficiency, and variety is unparalleled. I have two spices in my house and I'll give you a hint: both of them are kinds of pepper. I have leveled up my character in a precariously lopsided way. I've maxed out the sliders on pinball rules and hi-fi gear, but never allocated resources to food gathering. And while this makes me easy to kill in the jungle, I make a mean mix tape on new old stock Type II cassettes.

During my many years of co-op dining, I've learned immutable truths: the third breadstick always goes to your fellow diner, milkshakes served without the tin is a war crime, and you don't show up a half hour before close.

Hot food is sacred. It has the lifespan of a drug-addicted rock star. There is a window of perfection which gives way to a cliff of mediocrity. Consider the humble mozzarella stick. It hits the table True Detective S1, but by the time you get back from the bathroom, it's Game of Thrones S8. Reduced to a dim promise of what what could have been. 

There is a practice in our culture which I find abhorrent. And it ends tonight.

Picture this: the food runner comes to drop plates at your table for everyone except you. Your compatriots unfurl their napkins, rustle their silverware, but do not touch their plates. They are waiting for your food to arrive until they can tear into their meals which are aging in dog years. Under the guise of politeness, we let our meals wither. The Bear (I've only seen the Instagram Reels, but it looks intense) taught me the kitchen is a chaotic laboratory of food chemistry. And this is how we respect their blood, sweat, and tears?

I propose an amendment to the social dining contract.

We must operate under the veil of food delivery ignorance. None among us knows if it will be our food which was goofed in the kitchen and need to be remade. Thus, we accept the dining lottery and the moment food arrives at the table, we are compelled to partake. Politeness has no place at this table. It stands as an affront to the collective good. 

Some among you might shout, but what if we finish our meals before the other person has theirs? So be it. We will never leave them behind. We shall smile as they enjoy their piping hot food as we hope they did while we had ours. We have an obligation to reduce the collective suffering.

As citizens of this planet, we must accept that we will occasionally lose the mastication lottery, that our food will be the straggler to the table. And collectively, we must press forward with delicious meals and lively conversation. We must exalt the withering rose lifespan of the humble mozzarella stick and acknowledge a world bigger than the individual. We must ensure the survival of the species. We must respect the work of food artisans, and the ephemeral beauty of hot food.

In order to move forward, we must leave others behind. I consent to this agreement. I do of sound mind and in service of creating a better world, not just for myself but my children's children. If it is I who draws the short straw of tardy food, I shall be sated knowing my friends have food at the temperature god intended. And their joy brings me joy. Making them wait is selfishness in the guise of civility.  

I present the amendment to the social dining constitution and humbly await your signature. All those in favor of hot food, say aye. 

11.23.2023

40

Adulthood is where dreams come to die. Not long ago, I caught myself talking to my best friend about our 401ks debating the merits of a traditional versus Roth. And I wanted to take a pre-tax razor blade to my wrists. At end of an absurd work week, I am fantasizing about a finding a few hours to myself to play some pinball, listen to some tapes, and pet some neighbor cats.

I took a position at my company which, by all rights, is a mark of success. I wear slacks to work and have a clunky work assigned laptop. And none of it matters at all. I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me.

For the past twenty plus years, I've spent my days chasing artistic endeavors. Though they morphed and changed over the years, in some capacity I was writing, performing, or creating something trivial with my friends. But, however inconsequential our pursuits were, they were heroically important to us. I loved each of my tiny projects like a child. My friends and I poured over every frame of our terrible comedy sketches. I've stayed up until 3AM rounding corners of a 'zine twenty people have ever read. And I once played my guitar for so long in preparation of a studio session, I had to record the record with duck tape thimbles on my fingers so I wouldn't bleed all over the strings.

Now, I make spreadsheets. The inflation machine is a meat grinder of dreams. I never thought twice about having a checking account balance roughly in line with temperature of a hot summer day.

But like a horror movie, I watched my cohorts drop off one by one. To marriage, children, careers, and the other trappings of adulthood. Suddenly my ocean of talented peers became a kiddie pool with a used Band-Aids clogging the drain. And, dear reader, I am among them. My alarm is set for 5:15AM tomorrow, my suitcase is packed, and my shirts are ironed and hanging neatly in the closet. Tired eyes, 12 hour days, will lose.

My bank account bled out like a stomach gunshot wound. Something had to be done. My life of leisure and carefree creativity was no longer sustainable. It was bedtime for the Lost Boys. But holy shit, I was not prepared for this.

For context, I've been working for Company X for twenty-two years. I started out at $10 an hour and lived in an apartment the year I graduated high school that is larger than my current apartment at like four times the cost. Late-stage capitalism is no joke. I feel like I'm keeping my head above water and can order Door Dash without financially crippling myself. But that's as far as the money goes. And I'm being fairly compensated. That's the insane part. I've traded my dreams for financial stability and my finances are not even that fucking stable. 

The Pandemic fucked so many people's lives. They lost both their creative freedom and their financial security. And some of them lost family, loved ones, and friends. I don't even qualify for the Pain Olympics Junior Varsity B-Team. But, in a minor way, I still lament the loss of the life I had. I wasn't necessarily happier. But, I was more satisfied. And I feel like the choice to chase that life became untenable.

So to Snow Burial, The Griffin Theatre company, Extra Ballsy, Now Playing Soon, NED Productions, my friends, family, every woman who's ever given me her love, and the countless other buckets I've crammed my dreams into, I offer the best line from an improv show I've ever heard, "I loved you worst than most, but to the best of my ability."

I'm off to work.    

  

11.11.2023

Physical. Let's Get Physical...Media

I own both nothing and a ridiculous amount of things. To explain. There are no pots nor pans in my home, but over a hundred new old stock sealed audio cassette tapes. There are three vintage chairs in a space not much bigger than my work cubicle, but no condiments in my refrigerator. There are literally thousands of tapes, VHS, records, CDs, and DVDs under my bed, but nothing in my freezer except a Wintersmiths ice cube mold contraption. It took my two years to figure out how to make perfectly clear ice.  

I've been doing some arm chair (1977 Selig Leather Egg Chair with matching ottoman) psychology and trying to figure out why I've been collecting since I was 12.

Come with me, Marty, and let's go back to the future.

It's 1995 and I'm going through my little black book. Nary a teenage girl is to be found within the pages of this tome. Neigh. Rather, it contains the names and phone numbers of every toy store in Reno.

A spiritually accurate transcription: "Hello, KB Toys, I'm looking for Luke with a short lightsaber in the long tray. Oh you have it? Fantastic. Can you confirm for me the there is blank space between the lightsaber and the plastic packaging? No, I understand there's a lightsaber in the plastic molding, but I'm looking for the one with the short saber and the long tray. Is the cardboard surrounding the action figure mint? Is it free of bends, creases, or dents? Can you hold it for me for two hours? Fantastic. Thank you."

Click.

"Dad!!!"



Cut to home a few hours later.

I am putting a drop of Zippo lighter fluid on the price tag to dissolve the adhesive without damaging the card. I ask the clerk of the original shipping box and wax paper dividers so I can re-pack the figures in the future. To this day, none of my action figures are opened. They are still in those boxes in the attic of my Dad's house. 

:::Temporary break to pet the neighborhood cats who poked their heads in my window::::

After toys it was comic books. After comic books it was records, CDs, and tapes. And that pretty much brings us up to speed.

I've been collecting records since I was 15. I've never sold one. I'm eternally grateful to my pubescent self for obsessively caring for them, lightly dusting them with a Discwasher D4, and dutifully utilizing the dust jacket. Not much has changed in the last 25 years. Except I upgraded to the vintage 70s black Discwasher kit and Mo-Fi poly bags. There is a magnificent irony to caring for punk records in this way.


* Photos of my collection intentionally omitted. I ain't looking to impress no one. A collection ain't about size. It's about which records you choose not to get. All killer. No filler.*  

I love stuff. I fucking love it. I despise collectors who flip things for money. The stuff is the reward. The stuff is the stuff. I refuse to pay collector prices. When my friends and I used to tour, we'd keep lists of all our white whales. Life was long and the record stores were plentiful. It was shameful to shell out $30 for a record on eBay (oh how I yearn for the halcyon days of $30 LPs). It was practically sacrilegious. The hunt was everything. Any asshole with an AMEX can buy out Discogs and get a killer setup on Amazon. Cultivating slowly over a lifetime is where the real juice is. Finding a copper chassis Pioneer Elite CD player on Facebook Marketplace for $25 and driving to a Panera in the middle of Indiana means my gear and I are bonded. If you are not mine yet, you will be. I am patience. I ain't goin' nowhere. 

For those who come from a time when not knowing someone who owned the record, mean you didn't hear it, owning a rare record was a badge of honor. But more than that, it was proof you were there. It was the humble brag IG post before cell phones existed. And, somewhere in the depths of my adolescent mind, I conjured a time when a woman gingerly flipped through my record collection and was impressed by its carefully curated girth.

Like many of the white whales, those dreams are out of print and never been seen in the wild. 

And as I went to watch one of my comfort movies that recently disappeared from Netflix, I am reminded why my collection will always trump streaming. I'll never remove Seinfeld. I'll never edit out a sketch because the studio lost rights to the soundtrack. I won't only have a couple of the Tarantino movies. I'ma have 'em all. In the best resolution. To be enjoyed at my discretion into perpetuity. I subscribe to Spotify. It's fine. But I don't explore with it. Everything is too much. I don't even know where to start. And I end up listening to like five bands. When I thumb through my collection, I'm reminded of things I'd forgotten to want to listen to. 

But all this is pre-rational and doesn't explain away the enduring persistence of collecting.  I didn't have a philosophical defensible argument for collecting when I was 12. I've been relentlessly, tirelessly, and exhaustingly me my whole life. I'm wired to collect, database, and analyze. It's in my bones. And the spider-webs of a perfectly innocent and harmless hobby intertwine with a dangerous cocktail of my obsessions, compulsions, and maladaptive personality traits. But unlike Doc's assessment of Marty's presence in 1985, this is not heavy. My love for physical media can only be properly demonstrated via my profound and inverse hatred for moving. Over a dozen moves later, across three timezones and four states: stuff remains. Stuff remains. If that's not love, I don't know what is. Here's to another 25 years together. I just bought a dehumidifier to ensure mold doesn't rob us of a future.      

If you ever want to listen, watch, or experience with me, it would literally be my dream to host you and share my ferocious love of stuff.

11.04.2023

Tux, Timber, Match, and Han

One fall night in Indiana, four little adorable fuckers showed up in my back yard: Tux, Timber, Han, and Match. They frolicked and galavanted. They pounced and played. And they stole my heart. Never much saw Han after the first couple nights. Match was terrified coming inside. But the other two. They were very special to me. It turns out, I'm a cat man.

Over the next few months, I would go to the window every night hoping to catch a glimpse of my stray cat buddies. I bought them treats. I snuggled. I sneezed and obliterated tissue boxes. Commensurate with my love of cats are my equally powerful allergies. I broke out into silver dollar sized hives. Nevertheless, I persisted. 


One of the lil guys seemed to particularly take to me. His name was Timber.  Timber liked to climb in the sink. He liked to be In Sink. NSYNC. Justin Timberlake. Timber. He would be waiting for me in the parking lot and walk me home. Early in our relationship, he would sit on my lap in the kitchen. And I refused to move until he did. On more than one occasion, I sat alone in the kitchen with a sleeping kitten on my lap until 2AM. My legs numb and asleep, but my heart full and awake. His favorite thing was to snuggle up during long bouts of Halo. I think he liked to see the birds on the title screen and to watch me get wrecked by teenagers. 

The other brothers didn't come by much. Timber kind of took ownership of the house.  And it was fine with me. I bonded hard with him. I hid the struggles with work in my affection with him. I preferred his company to humans. I didn't want to talk or explain. I was suffering in ways I'm just now beginning to process. And that dumb little idiot made my days better.

It was around this time I found out one of my neighbors claimed ownership of the kittens. That they were not, in fact, strays. They had an owner. And I was just some sucker in the neighborhood who gave them wet food. Maybe one of many. 

At first I was devastated. I took a battering ram to the chest. And I looked upon my time with him differently. 

Then Timbi got hit by a car. And with the final bits of strength he could muster, he crawled up the 16 stairs to my house, and parked himself on my doorstep to die. I thought he'd just been in a fight with another cat (he had a big mouth). But after watching his listless face for hours, I realized something more sinister was afoot. In a midnight run to the 24 hour vet, I held my little friend in my arms while he took his final breaths. 

A crying, sobbing mess I called off work for the first time in a decade. I knew he would never be waiting on my porch again. Never nap while I tea-bagged the enemy. And in his final hours, he clawed his way home. Not to his owner. To me. 

The next day I peeked out the window knowing I'd never see my little scruffy boy again. 

But, that day, and every day after, his brother Tux showed up on my doorstep. My rational brain knows cats are territorial and he probably only showed up because this was where snacks were, but my stupid heart believes he knew I needed him. I hadn't seen Tux in months. But from the day Timber died forward, he showed up every day. 

And Tux and I formed a special bond. One that temporally outstretched Timber and I. And I loved his handsome little douche bag face. I put way too much on him. The pain of his brother. A hefty dose of regret and sorrow. And for reasons I don't have the bandwidth to talk about, when I moved away from him, I wasn't able to take him. And I think about him all the time. And how I wish I could have expressed my pain in words instead of a blind affection for a neighborhood cat. I was in tremendous pain. And rather than deal with it, I hyperfocused on an adorable inhuman creature. And I realize now I should have dialed back my obsessive care and allocated it to the people in my life who loved me. 

But that doesn't get you very far. Some things can't be fixed. I've posted a picture of Tux every day on my Instagram. I hope he's out there. Chasin' birds and bein' handsome. I've had to start working on my own life. And I'm sad I don't have my little tuxedo buddy to distract me. And I'm sad for how it all ended up. 

And there's no righteous philosophical upshot. There's no stellar literary turn. I'm just sad. And I miss so many things.

10.04.2023

Obsession Is A Young Man’s Game

If you know me, you know I like stuff. I don’t like stuff a little bit. Casual is not in my vocabulary. I like relentlessly. Tirelessly. Debilitatingly, but in a way that feels life-affirming. 

I didn’t drink for the first twenty-eight years I was alive. Not a drop. I say this because in the not-too-distant past I  got made fun of on a distillery tour for taking notes. I say this not because I’m an alcoholic, but because I have a propensity for polarizing behaviors. I run the gamut of extremes like Michael Phelps doing laps. 

My brain is a rat pounding that dopamine feeder bar. I opened Pokemon Go a hundred times a day for three years. I’ve played pinball for 24 hours straight and have the medal to prove it.

My poor brain has been slamming barrel proof neurotransmitters for the better part of my adult life. An emotional diet of Takis makes strawberries taste like cardboard.

I’m obsessed. With all of it. My hobbies. My vices. My distractions. 

I am them all. I’ve always known a dim undercurrent of doom swam in my river, but it is clear I cannot be trusted in the pool without supervision. 

My pain is masked by productivity. A cursory glance at my behavior reveals a neat, organized, reasonably functional human. At yet, a monster lurks in the daylight. I am indefatigable. That sounds like some toxic positivity bullshit, but only the toxic part is true. I’ve spent my adulthood thinking I had some Rocky-level grit. But it turns out, my meter for judging joy is horrifically calibrated. 

Joy, for me, is like trying to fill a swimming pool with sugar packets. I will dutifully tear open each one and pour each one with a beaming pride. A perverse Sisyphus on a treadmill. Each mangled and discarded packet leaving a trail of devastation and heartache. It counts as joy. But just a shred. Just enough to keep you hunting for the next one. A breath of relief on the surface before swimming to the depths in search of more. Not better. Not best. Just more. 

It happened slowly. Crept up on me like a beer gut. Beware the vice junk drawer. Couple pens here, some paper clips there, and soon you’ve got a chaotic hell-hole which you need a crowbar to open.

I remember joking with my pinball wife about how we couldn’t fathom playing for less than two hours. It wouldn’t even be worth it. We routinely put in eight hour workdays playing pinball. It was nothing. Went down like a couple Tic-Tacs.

Just a couple. Only for fifteen minutes. What’s the harm?

I engage in a number of activities compulsively and without joy. The only relief a momentary reprieve from the crippling weight of loneliness and insecurity. A petition of God to look at my resume. 

But he ain’t hiring.

So I’m here with you after a long absence. I’d rather be doing all those things. Over and over and over again. Bathing in the diminishing returns. Until they ruin my life and those of people I love. But we’re stuck with each other while I try to sort my shit out.

My name is Nick. And I’m a train wreck. 

    

     

9.28.2023

It’s Getting Thrifty In Here

I love a good deal. That’s not quite right. Let me start over. Getting a good deal validates a crucial part of how I understand myself and in turn demonstrates my mastery of stuff and domination of late stage capitalism. Allow me to thriftsplain.

I’ve been thrifting most of my belongings over the last year. I am typing this on an absolutely ridiculous contraption of my own making. See attached. 


It’s a an old iPad Bluetooth keyboard with a Velcroed eyeglass case stand. The case is foldable so it packs flat and as a bonus can contain the charging cable for the keyboard. Why you ask? 

My laptop is from 2009. It’s been upgraded within an inch of its life. Maxed the RAM and replaced the HDD with a SSD. And to the old girl’s credit, she runs well. The problem is websites literally won’t run on a computer that old. It’s literally the only computer I’ve purchased in my adult life. And it still works well for when I’m dubbing FLAC files to new old stock Type II cassettes. That last bit of jargon was unnecessary, but I get a kick out of it.

Should I buy a new computer? Yes. Could it be an iPad? Yes. Can I afford it? Absolutely. Will I? Magic 8-Ball says: Outlook unlikely. Why? Why am I typing on a cramped DIY jank-fest from 2015 I found at the Value Village for $9.99 on a half off pink tag day?

This is our concern, Dude. 

Buying stuff is fucking lame. Computers are expensive and lifeless. You walk into a Best Buy or some other garbage place, throw your debt rectangle on the counter and pay it off with interest over the next 24 months. It’s just the same hunk of wire and unimpressive battery everyone else gets. Even if it’s good, the goodness is undermined by the horror of paying :::shudders::: retail price.  

You saw the thing. You bought the thing. You never really bond with it. It’s just a a sharpened Visa card jabbed in your side for 19% interest. You picked it off the shelf and now it’s on your shelf. 

Something thrifted is something unearthed. Sure you’re sifting through other people’s garbage, but then again so is dating. But there’s some twisted brain chemical nonsense that makes thrifting like mainlining dopamine for maniacs like me.

First, it’s a goddamn treasure hunt. You can go into a thrift store with a vague idea of what you’d like to find, but you don’t go in with a grocery list. You have to give yourself over to the thrift gods. You must be their disciple. Feast or famine. You accept the hand you are dealt. You may venture into the brutal desert many times and return to your family with an empty canteen, but when you unearth a gem from the pile of Hep C trash, you are a Slurpee on a 100 degree day. The Poseidon of the Savers smiles down upon you and showers you with his praise. Your patience and resilience is rewarded.  

Your thrift purchase is bonded to you. It’s the material version of rescuing an animal. The universe chose you to pair bond with this particular blender. It belongs to you and you to it. Every time I make toast in my Breville toaster oven, it tastes toastier knowing I paid $9.99 for it.    

Second, a good thrift find reifies, cements, and triple underlines one’s impeccably discerning taste. A gem cannot be unearthed but by a Goodwill geologist. The savvy human gold pan clears away the debris and sediment to reveal the sparkling nugget buried within. It takes a special breed to Moneyball the unknown pleasures of thrift life. 

Lastly, there is no greater feeling on Earth than having someone compliment you on your astute acquisition and beaming with the pride of an honor student parent: “Oh this? I paid $5 for it.” The ROI is off the charts. Having great stuff is fine. But having good stuff you got hella cheap is low grade heroin. My life is a 40 year bargain bender screaming from the rooftops: I’m better than you. Stronger. Hardened by the streets. Molded by the jungle. I have the retail 1000 yard stare. 

I am The Good Value Salvation Army. I took the hill. Stormed the beach. And these are my spoils.









   
 


 




9.24.2023

Long Press The Start Button

Revolution or reformation? The question is a boot pressed to the neck of the distressed, the downtrodden, and the disenfranchised. Can the system be saved or is it so forgone it must be vanquished? Should our bricks be used to rebuild or hurled through windows? History does a remarkably poor job at exit interviews. The haze of war obfuscates our decision making. We are forced to act with imperfect information. And yet we must decide and own the consequences.


In pinball there is a sneaky escape hatch for a game gone wrong. As long as you have credits available, you can hold down the start button and begin a new game. Revolution. The slate is wiped clean and you can abandon your failed endeavors and begin anew. Looking over your shoulder, hoping no one notices your Irish Goodbye, you sneakily ask for a do over.  All it costs is a credit and your pride. 

It is an act of sheer cowardice, a stunning lack of faith. All one needs is a ball and a dream.  It offends me when people give up. Quitters. We have the untapped capacity for third-ball greatness. A righteous comeback for the ages. Right?    

As I've grown older (read: more of a coward), my sympathy for the do-over has increased. My existentialist island has turned into a peninsula. Sheer tenacity and will can only get you so far. Much as I begrudgingly admit, sometimes the world is larger than your ego. We exist not in a vacuous world under glass, but in an exceedingly complicated network of social, societal, and personal entanglements. Many, if not most, are beyond one's control. 

To ignore the soil a plant grows from is irresponsible. Tenacious roots are no match for an 11-year drought. Some years grow better crops. Some fellas just ain't out to make good wine.  And yet, what does this realization yield? 

What good does it do to recognize these limits? I prefer a reckless, youthful, and wholly unearned optimism. Believe in yourself. Never tell me the odds. I’m talking to you now. I’ve been failing lately. I’ve been a bad friend, a worse lover, and an absentee artist. I’ve  been the worst version of myself. It’s ball three and I’ve got nothing setup. I started this blog twelve years ago when I moved to Chicago, knew no one, and was cripplingly lonely. Fast forward a grade school education and I’m in the exact same place. I’ve made the same mistakes. Learned nothing. Hurt those worthy of love. 

Can I be saved? When people say, “Some of y’all need Jesus,” I’m y’all. But the big man left me on read so, I’m going it alone. Well, alone with some great friends, a therapist, regularly talking to my pops, and a well-used gym membership. I’ve made promises I intend to keep. If I’m going to fail, it’s going to be righteously. I’m going to be a better man. This hunk of junk can be repaired. I’m betting on me. 


6.24.2022

5-4

I left academia as an 18th grader with the middle-child version of a degree. And without my faith. In defense of my incredible professors, they nailed rigor into my bones. Baptized me in evenhandedness. And exorcized the logical fallacy demons from my soul. This was my re-programming. But some intolerable old man once said, "One repays a teacher badly if one always remains only a pupil."ٰ ¹ Caught somewhere between betrayal and transcendence, I offer a reckless, unchecked, emotional plea.

I was raised in a religious household. In my infinite seventeen-year-old wisdom, believed abortion was wrong. It actually seemed rather simple to me. A baby in progress ought to be preserved. Wherever we might land on when a fetus becomes a person, it's clear the fetus is on the journey of personhood, and that ought to be protected. A prima facie truth born from my gut. I'm not sure I even needed the bible to experience this truth. It just felt right.

Viewed from a purely bioethical standpoint, abortion is one of the most difficult and unique issues facing our civilization. There are a number of confounding issues ranging from what constitutes a person to the peculiarity of its singular impact on uterus havers. There are legitimate concerns, debates, and implications on both sides of the issue. Personally, I found Judith Jarvis Thompson's "A Defense of Abortion" and specifically her violinist argument most persuasive, ultimately supplanting my instinctual leanings. And I urge you, stop reading my words, and please read hers. 

But the modern discourse is neither driven by philosophical rigor, nor science and least of which, the majority of the American people. Jarvis' argument wasn't supplanted by a better one. It wasn't defeated in the marketplace of ideas. Let us be clear, this is not the result of new biological discoveries which gave rise to a new understanding of personhood or consciousness. No, a 50 year precedent was erased because a corrupt narcissist stacked the deck in the name of fundamentalist christian values. And because of it, three tenured voices will loom over America for decades.  

To those who do not see a woman's right to her body as primary, I implore you to explore the literature. It may change your mind as it did mine. It took years of introspection and consideration, but ultimately I was persuaded. As I explored the world beyond the one I was taught, I accepted new ideas, remained steadfast in others, but was willing to make the voyage. 

As my studies progressed, an ocean of ideas pummeled me. The hull of my identity began to crumble. It stripped the wind of faith from my sails. But I always looked upon my faith with a sympathetic eye. And though I found the Christian god untenable, like an aging Dostoyevsky, I entertained the possibility of recommitting myself. I championed the humanity of Brothers Karamazov and Kierkegaard as beacons of God's lighthouse steering our wayward ships home.  

Now I find it detrimental. All Christians are responsible for the actions done on behalf of their extreme fundamentalist kin. Your lack of condemnation, disavowal, and outrage is inexcusable. And I no longer view you as separate. Until you rebuke the categorically unchristian behavior exhibited by your leaders in the name of identity advancement, I will paint you all with the same brush. It is done in your name, and it is your name I denounce.

Today is the moment where Christianity reemerged as an active threat to the health and safety of women. I was wrong. Both about abortion and subsequently about god. And I am grateful for being wrong during a time when Roe wasn't up for debate. And as control is relegated to the states, it is imperative we address the issues with the utmost clarity. Women deserve better. 








__________________________________________

¹ Nietzsche, F. Thus Spoke Zarathustra Part One, Of the Bestowing Virtue, based on R.J. Hollingdale and Walter Kaufmann translations.

7.01.2021

Let It Go

A League of Their Own is not a sports movie. Much like its misunderstood predecessor, Rocky, it is a magic trick. We are lured into thinking that the Women's World Series and the championship bout against Apollo Creed are important. They are not. They are magnifying glasses to the soul. They reveal us, our choices, and our time. For Rocky, proving his worth isn't a matter of winning or losing, but a tenacity of spirit. For Dottie Hinson, it is a tug-of-war of values. With her husband fighting in the second world war, she must decide the kind of woman she is. A League of Their Own is about choice and being rooted in historicity. Family and competition. Personhood and duty. The film is an attempt to answer these incommensurable dichotomies. 

The film begins with the dead ringer for older Geena Davis giving her grandsons advice. Using her actual voice in the uncanny valley of ADR, a wise Dottie Hinson presents the thematic overture: warning the older boy it is his responsibility to give his brother a chance, while imploring the younger boy to, "Kill him." It distills Dottie's wisdom into a single innocuous scene. This moment is a microcosm of the dramatic question posed by the film: Did Dottie drop the ball on purpose?

Dottie is a sports goddess. Her athletic prowess is never at issue. She is the best player. Her journey isn't about athleticism. She easily impresses the scout, barehands Doris' sassy pitch ("Some of them are going home"), and can drop into the splits to catch a pop fly when the league needs a little boost. Rather, her dramatic struggle is rooted in her relationship to her kid sister, Kit, and her husband fighting in World War II. So when Kit charges home plate in the Women's World Series, with only Dottie standing in her way, are we to believe Dottie was overwhelmed by her kid sister? The answer is a resounding, infuriating, and painful no. 

The film goes out of its way to present us with evidence to the contrary. At the midpoint of the film, Dottie is charged by an opposing player. When the dust settles, Dottie emerges ball in hand for the game-winning tag out. We are shown that Dottie can handle the battle for home plate. In the post World Series reunion scene, the ladies do not talk about Kit's ascension to baseball greatness. Building upon her victory at home plate, Kit didn't go on to be the best player in the league. No. The ladies marvel at Dottie, hailing her as the GOAT despite only playing one season. This is because Kit should have been thrown out at home. Kit was thrown out at home. 

Kit's entry into the league is predicated on the scout's gambit to recruit Dottie, whose declared value is that she only cares about her husband, but her actions show otherwise. Jimmy, her coach, notes she plays like she loves it. But Dottie insists it's a trifle. It's not clear Dottie has even admitted to herself how badly she wants to win. To have an identity of her own. To not be a soldier's wife. To not be shackled to her place in time. Her very existence as the taller, more beautiful, married, and talented sister is a constant source of pain to her kid sister. 

Dottie reveals her character in her actions. During the big game, Dottie and Kit square off in the penultimate inning. Dottie crushes a line drive at Kit's head driving in the go ahead run. This devastates Kit, who implodes in the dugout from the shame. Dottie's motivations are blurred between her desire for baseball glory and her duty as a big sister. From the scout's first look at our heroes, we see Dottie imploring Kit to "lay off the high ones." Kit patently rejects Dottie's advice, protesting, "I like the high ones." She strikes out and the scout rightly overlooks her. At the start of the final inning, Dottie remains faithful to baseball, though her fidelity is waning. She instructs her pitcher to hurl high fast balls at Kit. 

Can't hit 'em. Can't lay off 'em. Dottie is willing to let Kit make her own bed. If she's incapable of taking advice or playing smarter, she deserves to be struck out.

Miraculously, Kit grabs a hold of one. It's a deep three-bagger to the wall. The Peaches hit the cut-off woman in great position to defend home plate. But despite the protestations of her coach a petulant child decides to make the game about her need for identity. Her move isn't bold. It isn't heroic. It's stupid and should have cost her the game. Kit has learned nothing. She hasn't become a stellar player. She barrels right toward the best player in the league: Dottie Hinson, who took a hit from a player twice her size just 30 movie-minutes ago. 

Dottie Hinson, who Kit perpetually accuses of holding her back, is faced with a choice. She can square her shoulders, defend home plate, and destroy her sister. She's already witnessed Kit's total meltdown in the previous inning. She knows Kit can't handle it. She knows her desire for baseball and her desire to protect her sister are at odds. And when faced with a heartbreaking choice to kill her (and the Peaches') dream for glory, or her sister's well-being, Dottie chooses her sister. She lets it go.   

Kit is a royal pain in the ass. She is a bratty, annoying, and reckless little sister. She is a sapling who rages at the imposing shadow cast by the tree that is her older sister. Her entire identity is a reaction to her older sister. She fears (rightly) she'll never be as pretty, as beloved, or as talented as her big sister. She is starved from living in the shadow and it has rotted her roots. But she is family. And in her time, individualism isn't a well worn path. The pull of duty wins the tug-of-war with her self-actualization. 

And if you are still unconvinced, look at the smile on Dottie's face while Kit celebrates. Jimmy looks at his ballplayer and knows. He can see it on her face. He knows she can handle that hit but she has chosen family. She can barely look at him. When he confronts Dottie about her decision to quit, Jimmy argues "Baseball is what gets inside you, what lights you up." To which Dottie replies, "It just got too hard."

Dottie loves baseball. She is a ball player. She wants to win. After quitting to be with her husband, she doubled back for the seventh game. It's in her heart. But for a woman in the 40s, a woman was to consider family and duty rather than her dreams. And while the infuriating end of this film is a heart-breaking tragedy for Dottie, she lets it go so the next generation of women can hold tightly to their dreams and break their kid sisters' hearts. 

Did Dottie drop the ball? 

It depends on whether you ask a big sister or a kid sister. As an only-child, I find this movie to be one of the most infuriatingly satisfying endings in cinema. As I'm not a big sister, I doubt I'll ever fully understand. 

6.17.2021

In Nick's Hands

Suddenly. Despite preparation, precaution, and without permission: something horrible. A fire, literal or metaphorical, savagely accosts your fragile, silly little existence. Me? I'm a volunteer firefighter. Broad shoulders, carrying dogs out on my back, "just doing my job, Ma'am," kinda shit. I'm a solver. A fighter. I saw Rocky II. I know if we want it badly enough, we can endure anything. Conquer any foe. 

Realistically, though, what can one man do against a raging forest fire? Sure, you can charge blindly into the maw of the beast in a blaze of glory, but that's challenging a brick wall to a head butt contest. But what's the alternative? It's just now I'm realizing what's really at play with the phrase, "It's in God's hands." Some mountains are too tall for us to scale. Some gales too strong to sail alone. Sometimes we need help. And who better to have on our speed dial than an all-knowing, all-powerful, altruistic God?

It must feel so good. And I don't mean that in a patronizing way. In a snarky, shit-eating, smirky kind of way. It actually must feel incredible. I'm deeply envious of those who can stare into the abyss and take a breath of repose. To cast off the shackles of freedom, responsibility, and agency. Walk a tightrope with the elegant grace of a ballet dancer, having faith as a net beneath them without ever having seen it. I need to see it. Show me that shit. Because I'm going to cling to that rope until my fingers turn purple.

Hey asshole there's a fire! You don't get to wax philosophical about God with your mixed metaphors. You have to do something. You have to act, you armchair quarterback.

The pandemic destroyed my stupid dreams. Everything I spent a decade building and desperately trying to make viable collapsed. Turns out the things I love require other people. And I'm so tired of people being like, "You can just start a new band. You can do other acting shows. You can put out this fire." Mostly because I used to agree with them. But now I'm stuck between existential Sartrian ass-kicking freedom, and total renunciation to God's plan. And while I understand I'm being reductive to both, and that both are likely to say some shit about the things I can change versus the things I can't and the wisdom to know the difference. Fuck 'em both. How the hell are we supposed to know the fucking difference? 

So, in a desperate attempt to control my universe, I got a bunch of house plants. If I make enough spreadsheets, watch enough YouTube videos, research, study, focus, fight, and struggle, I can keep them alive. I want my plants to say, it's okay, "I'm in Nick's hands."

... 

And isn't that a neat little bow to tie up this cute little post about my dead dreams? 

Right? 

Cut. Print. Publish. 

Except, I can't fucking control that my east-facing window only gets a couple hours of direct light a day due to a big-ass building. I suppose I could move. I could get grow lights. I could stop buying succulents. I could. I could. I could. The plants are not (only) in my hands. They are in many hands. They're kinda in my hands. They're kinda in the hands of nature. They're kinda in the hands of absurdity. They live in my shitty shoebox apartment because I decided to work part-time to chase my stupid dreams. Take that, Plants. Daddy should have studied math like Pops wanted. Instead, you got a philosopher who was rejected from all the doctorate programs he applied to. 

Now that we've cosmically solved the nature of causation (take that Aristotle) and freedom, we are no better off. Great. We learned the world is complicated. Perfect. What good is that? I guess it's supposed to be psychologically ameliorating, but where the hell does that get us? A shrug? An elegant, informed, philosophically sound, "I don't know"? 

I prefer radical responsibility. Everything on my shoulders. Everything within my power to change. Master of my own destiny Rocky II kind of shit. John G burning the evidence at the end of Momento (oooooh that's a deep cut). You know, fiction. But I can't shake the notion that even if it's wrong, we do less harm believing we can make a dent in our universe. Though often it's just a dent in our head from ramming our head into a concrete wall.

Best two out of three, Wall?            

6.22.2020

On Failure... Again

For the better part of my life, I've been a closeted competitor. I've tried to keep the monster in the basement and walk around saying shit like "good game" and "it's fun to compete" when my heart is on fire and I'm flipping tables in my mind. A casual amount of care has never been my strong suit. But as I've subjected myself to competitions over the last few years, I've learned some strange things about myself.

It's not that I want to win. It's that I don't want you to beat me. I don't care about winning. It's an ephemeral joy that slips away like a one-night stand at 4AM. The sun's glory turns to shadow the moment you step off the podium. Was it a fluke? Did you deserve it? How much of it was luck? These questions ought to haunt every victor. Those who are defined by their former success are destined to live in their own shadow. Trophies are gauche statues to the competitor you used to be. I'm not motivated by the desire to earn glory, notoriety, or prizes. I'm driven relentlessly, frustratingly, and compulsively by a fundamental hatred for losing.

Failure is inevitable. Failure is the rule. Of course it is. Reasonable people have no basis to expect victory. Competitions are frequent and against formidable opponents. In a field of 100 there will be 99 failures. Failure isn't just likely; it is a statistical inevitability. Yet no matter how much I rattle off these facts, I remain unconvinced. Rather making me think about them adds another rung on my ladder of hating losing. I am not a reasonable man.

When I lose, I relinquish a permanent trophy of pride to you. It can never be recovered. It's yours for all time. Yet, curiously, when I win, I trash the trophy. I feel only relief that I didn't have to give you mine. The idea of your smirk is enough to shake my foundations. I despise it. Wins are temporary. Losses are forever. I don't remember the dozen times I've beaten you. Only the one game I didn't -- with stunning clarity, photo-realistic detail, and unimaginable accuracy. I don't want you to have it. I can forget my wins. I can't forget my losses. I played Walking Dead in a pinball tournament five years ago that was broadcast on the Internet. My score was less than you'd earn from shooting only skill shots. I dedicated the next year to devastating the game. 

Presently, this is a phenomenological probe into what is rather than what ought to be. I'm indifferent as to whether or not this is a healthy approach to competition. Whiplash is one of my favorite movies, though I don't view it as a cautionary tale about obsession and manipulation. I see it as a greatness how-to guide. And this feels intrinsically like a failing of character on my part. It's a twisted romance where tenacity wins the day. You can throw a cymbal at my head; I'm not quitting. 

It's failure that propels me. It soaks in to my skin like tattoo ink, refusing to wash out. And the stomach-churning, chest-hollowing resentment I feel toward myself is a desperate plea with my future self to never feel this way again. It begs me to focus, learn, adapt, and overcome. Nothing in this world motivates me harder than a monstrous, embarrassing, and preventable failure. 

You can't win 'em all. Better luck next time. Win some. Lose some. You did your best. Everything happens for a reason. At least we had fun. 

Fuck. That. Shit. 

I placed third in a tournament today. Won a trophy and money.

Never again.

5.30.2020

See The Wind

I ride a bike. Not a spandex pants and special shoes kind of bike. Not an aerodynamic helmet with wrap-around sunglasses kind of bike. I don't identify with bike culture or talk to anyone about my bike. It's a mode of transportation I'm perpetually thankful hasn't been stolen in totality. I've replaced the rear fender a half dozen times, purchased five or six pairs of LED lights, and lost the rear wheel a time or two. It's a real urban ship of Theseus. I use it because owning a car in the city is a punitive and punishing exercise. I despise traffic and parking tickets. So I bike. And over the years, my commutes have been varying degrees of horrible. Weather, traffic, ceaseless construction, and my own laziness have all impeded my efforts. And on one particularly exhausting and painful commute, I got a fractional amount of clarity on the nature of privilege.

It was a criminally humid day and my swamp-ass was redlining. The stickiest, grossest, and ugliest version of myself arrived at work. An uncommonly brutal headwind molested my travel. As I was locking up my bike, my coworker rolled up from the opposite direction, dry-assed and all smiles. He locked his bike, gave the coworker nod of acknowledgment, and waltzed into the office. His bike was a functionally identical copy of mine: single-speed fixed gear, steel frame, handsome. I stood there feeling beads of sweat pooling at the top of my ass and wondered what the fuck was going on.

In the perilous and absurd journey of human existence, not all roads are created equal. And while I subscribe to the notion of radical freedom posited by existentialists, I'm forced to reconcile with systemic and cultural practices which run to the very foundation of a social existence. Philosophically, I've been wrestling with concept of privilege. I am not an expert and, as a cis-gendered male, should likely let the marginalized speak on the issue. It will certainly do damage to the idea and the hubris of attempting to codify privilege is not lost on me. The following investigation is not meant to be exhaustive, but to highlight an essential component of the concept, particularly the curious denial of its very existence.

My coworker biked the same distance to work on a virtually identical bike. Why was I wrecked? Then it dawned on me: he had the wind at his back. An invisible hand, to purposely misappropriate Smith's notion, aided his journey. Those with the wind at their backs rarely recognize it. They attribute their swiftness to personal strengths: their fitness, determination, and resolve. And why wouldn't they? Pedal for a moment and be rewarded with momentum. Coasting allows you to save your strength. The next hill is easily taken with fresh legs. Suddenly you've gone farther than others. Others marvel at your endurance and fortitude.

And your journey ought to be celebrated. You worked as hard as was necessary to achieve your goal. You did it. You struggled on the big hill but persevered. They were your legs that carried you to where you wanted to go. Congratulations.

But those who bike into the wind live a vastly different existence. Onlookers see nothing out of the ordinary, no obstacles. How could we expect them to understand unless they, too, have limped up a nonintimidating hill accosted by an invisible wall? A molasses blanket dangles between your endeavor and goal. Legs taxed by the most mundane hills have nothing in the tank for what would otherwise be a manageable incline.

The most intrepid riders, despite all odds, succeed. And those with the wind at their backs are quick to point out that some people can make the journey despite the wind. The few who make it are shown to be examples that the journey isn't impossible and that anyone who fails is either lazy or unfit.

Our American meritocracy depends on the notion that our successes and our failures are ours and ours alone. To acknowledge privilege is to undermine one of the deepest held American values. This is perhaps why we are so reticent to recognize it. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, assuming you were born in a family that could afford to buy boots? It doesn't have the same ring to it.

Even if we were to assume this was the extent of privilege, it would still demand our attention. Even if we leave aside the idea that a black biker is more likely to be stopped by police, those situations are more likely to result in heartbreaking escalations where lives are lost. Even if we leave aside issues where women are knocked off their bikes and assaulted, if they did make it to work, they would be paid less than men. Even if we leave aside hate crimes committed based on who you fuck when you get off your bike, many refuse the very notion that privilege exists.

Until we are ready to acknowledge that not all journeys are equal, and that many struggles are invisible, we can never begin to approach a solution. Until we can admit our country isn't a pure meritocracy, we will forever be doomed to overvalue our successes and downplay the plight of others.

Admitting privilege is not a solution. It is a bare minimum for understanding our relationship to the world. And to those with the wind at your backs, try to imagine why your friends and coworkers are sweaty and exhausted by something so effortless for you. Your calves aren't that majestic.

5.07.2020

If It's Worth Doing

I don't consider myself a perfectionist, though anyone who's watched me make coffee, hang a painting, or play a record might strenuously object. I'm a devoted fan of the detail, but it's insulting to perfectionism to assume what I do approximates it. People love to casually toss around the OCD diagnosis, but like all their half-assery, it lacks nuance. I'm not at your dinner table adjusting an errant fork. That's not my poison. I get high on a job well-done. That's my heroin.

It's a subtle distinction, but my affinity for order isn't rooted in being perturbed. I have a remarkable ability to ignore things. I don't care about your lazily hung art. I didn't invest the time, energy, or cognitive real-estate. Did I notice the placement wasn't symmetrical and that the viewing height aren't consistent between rooms? Of-fucking-course. But I clocked it and moved on. Dwelling on the negative isn't my deal. I'm not going to get twitchy sitting in your living room because you haven't calibrated your television to THX standard with cinema quality blacks. I will, however, turn off motion smoothing while you're in the bathroom because no human should have to endure that soap opera trash.

The gap between prints 2-3 is the same as 1-2.
It's the camera angle.
My attempt to dangerously approach perfection is born of bizarre pleasure. I recently framed and hung some silkscreened show posters in my home. After an embarrassingly long deliberation process, appropriately selected locations, uniform viewing heights, balanced color scheme, and matching frames were achieved. Typically I like to keep my obsessive projects to myself, but on this one I brought in the expert eyes of someone with unimpeachable aesthetic taste. I couldn't be trusted to handle this on my own.

My buddy Jawsh considers framing old show posters a hallmark of the aging punk's existence. Guilty as charged. Punk records on a turntable that costs a month's rent is my brand. Classy trash; high low-brow.

After measuring, re-measuring, and obsessing every detail, they were hung. And hung they were. Magnificently. Majestically. Gloriously. And here, dear reader, is where we reap what we've sown. The elusive and orgasmic payoff is at hand. Gazing up at my walls, I get a hit of dopamine, a chemical pat on the back from my brain.

Whether it's measuring my cocktails down to the tenth of a milliliter, or building internal braces into my Ikea Kallax to ensure every record is perfectly flush with the face, I am painfully aware I expose my streak-free glass house to your rocks of criticism. I get it. But to the good enough breed among you, I ask, How do you get high on fine? How do you not yearn  to experience the unadulterated joy of true level?

Or do you not build your sense of self on arbitrary, empty achievements?

Pinball. Cough. High scores. Cough.

Do you get your feeling of efficacy from the love of your children or the unyielding care and affection of your spouse? Is it from your work? Your art? Tell me. Where do you get your supply? I want to know.

My drug is excellence. It pays dividends in my heart. Perfection is my porn; I sniffed it once and now I'm chasing that dragon to the grave. I still giggle when I see how perfectly calibrated my TV is when I'm watching a dark film. No grainy purple shit blacks up in here. My mouth waters at a 17.42 to 1 water-to-coffee ratio, measured on a scale which Bluetooths to my phone and graphs my brewprint. I dare you to listen to a dust-free record, playing on an inch thick acrylic platter, with a perfectly balanced 1.8g tracking-force cartridge from the optimal equilateral triangle listening position and tell me you haven't felt the touch of God.

Or enjoy your good enough.

5.05.2020

What We Repeatedly Do

I was vegetarian for seven years. That's not precise. I was an invertebratarian. While in grad school I was at a philosophy of biology faculty dinner and asked the lecturer if she thought invertebrates could feel pain. Her position was that an animal lacking a central nervous system was also likely lacking the evolutionary machinery necessary to process pain. A cornerstone of my vegetarianism, along with youthful rebellion, was the avoidance of causing unnecessary pain. So I invented my own diet. Mollusks. Crabs. Shrimp. If you were the kind of food that doesn't have the courage of your convictions, your spineless ass got ate. And it carried on that way until I moved to Chicago.

It needs to be said and triple underlined, that I love meat. I'd take a steak over being loved. My Dad and I would grill steaks on Thanksgiving because fuck turkey in its dry, dry ass. Side bar, I miss watching Rocky movies and eating steak with my pops. Giving up meat was not easy for me, but I had my reasons. But over the years, the ghost of meat stopped haunting mealtime. My love died and I accepted my new reality.

Menus shrank. My eyes only processed meatless dishes. I had created a fortress of belief which governed my behavior. I never broke. Never gave an inch. Never took a weekend off. But one night, in a shitty Wrigleyville bar, with friends, I ate a chicken wing.

I couldn't remember the Nick that took a principled stance against animal harm. He was a yearbook photo. He and I were connected only by technicality, a dim awareness of truth which created no meaningful bond outside of habit.

The Nick who tore chicken from the bone that night had been separated from his philosophical belief for years. That Nick stopped caring about animal cruelty long ago, his behavior propelled by the ferocious and invisible hand of habit. But Habit, oh Habit, You quiet monster. Your torrid relationship with time is toxic. Habit glosses over your sense of agency. It obscures your immutable freedom, outlining a well-trodden path when every direction is sensible.

Quarantine has been a reset button for my habits. Everything is up for grabs. I deleted Pokemon Go which I had launched fifty times a day, everyday, for three years. After losing my sense of smell, I found alcohol aversive and didn't drink for a month. I have since found joy in having the occasional drink, particularly the Gold Rush which is a phenomenally refreshing little ditty. I've started making food at home instead of defaulting to delivery, but also started staying up until 4AM because time is a flat circle. In a few short weeks, my wiring has been fundamentally altered. It's shocking how quickly what is can feel like what always was.

So I've been putting my habits under the microscope. Some serve me phenomenally well, like making coffee as the first thing after waking up. Others, like my desire for beer, are quelled by putting a lazily flavored carbonated beverage next to it. It turns out I choose La Croix every time.

I'm not interested in prescribing habits to you. I don't have any idea whether my decision to start eating meat again was beneficial, but habits aren't occasional jaunts; they are the foundation of our behavior, creating the framework of our everyday. They should be vetted, scrutinized, considered and then reconsidered. I've operated under the ghost of an older operating system for years at a time. And what we do over and over, with near robotic automation, should be carefully considered. We should choose our habits precisely because we are slaves to them. I'd rather crash a plane than land safely on autopilot.

Do you hear me, Habits?

This is your Captain speaking.

4.30.2020

I'll be alternating between writing here and at Now Playing LP where I'm writing my biography in records. Don't worry if you've never heard of any of the stupidly obscure records I'm writing about. You don't have to know anything about them. Music is a time machine. Each post is a love letter to the place and time it transports me to.

Nick And His Opinions

I've written this blog since I moved to Chicago. I've sprinted and written multiple times a day, and let it languish on the highest shelves of the Internet for year-long stretches.

But it's dusting time.


I barely recognize the kid who started this blog nearly ten years ago. The kid who thought professional improvisor was a career possibility. Freshly rejected from PhD programs the world over, I took my amateur-hour armchair philosophy to the unregulated streets of the Internet. I was late to the blogging game in 2010, and now it feels almost comical to continue. I made my therapist a laptop, and played racquetball against a mirror.

During the years I've neglected this blog, my mental health has suffered. Gone were the days of bravely digging into my intentions and motivations. I got distracted by playing games on my phone, pinball, and fell into the tempting tranquilization of inauthentic existence. Hey look, there's still some Heidegger in here somewhere.

And, dear reader, before I lure you into a false sense of hope, I've not solved anything.

That's not entirely true, but we'll get to that. It's an absolutely bonkers time, but I'm not interested in talking about COVID-19, which incidentally I tested positive for and have lived with for the month of April. I'm interested in what it did to me. Not physically. Psychologically. This pandemic is a kind of low-grade zombie apocalypse. And the strength of exaggerated situations is that they cause who we are to emerge. We are the sum of our choices under pressure.

I've never seen a therapist, despite the tireless urging of nearly everyone who cares about me. For me, staving off despair was manageable with a solid friend group, fulfilling creative projects, and healthy eating/workout habits. One by one, I've let them all slip out the door at 4AM so they didn't have to sleep over.

Lately, it's become a running joke that I refer to my past self as "Nick and His Opinions." Up his own ass, idealistic, opinionated Nick. He can be intolerable, but it turns out I really miss that kid. Because I'm intolerable now, but just in a cynical, lazy way. And if you have to die on a hill, you might as well choose the idealistic one. It's prettier there.

I'm not going to list all the stupid shit I'm doing to try and improve myself. Ain't nobody needs your IG stories about how you're eating healthy and crushing your quarantine body. But, privately, between you and me, we are making some changes under the hood over here.


Despair creeps up on you. It isn't a jump scare from a movie. It's a gentle haze that slowly obscures your vision. Soon you don't recognize who you used to be. And what's worse is you don't miss them. You turn them into a joke. That's the criminal part. We rationalize away the self we used to admire. Because it's easier than admitting we're a worse version of ourselves.

Nobody blogs. No one gives a shit about philosophy. My armchair investigations amount to nothing. And yet, here we are.

Nick and His Opinions -- welcome back. I've missed you. Even if it's just for a bit, I'm happy you're here. The place wasn't the same without you.

12.19.2017

On Failure

"No victor believes in chance." - Nietzsche

I have been losing lately. In competition, in discipline, in creativity. This will be the first and likely only post for 2017. I don't think I read a single book this year. I weigh more than I ever have. I've written nothing. Instead, I funneled nearly all my free time into a mind-numbing game. Spent the better part of the year with my head buried in my phone, compulsively checking and rechecking, and checking again out of pure habit.  2017 is the 365 night stand we wish we could forget. The tumultuous political climate, a slew of mass shootings, and an outpouring of sexual assault victims have cast a specter of despair over this year. The guilt of impotence burrows deep. And while it is tempting to unload my failures on these tragedies, I would have failed without them. This post isn't about shitting on 2017, or damning technology for mainlining dopamine. Its about me and how I blew it this year. 

Only losers are interested in the lessons of failure. Winners learn no lessons. And why should they? Their best was enough. Their mistakes amount to nothing. Chance played no role in their success. cause winning. One remembers none of their wins, but is haunted by thousands of almosts and if onlys. And while winning isn't edifying, it's vasty preferable to losing. And as this year ticks to an end, I'm forced to reckon with a year of lessons. 

I am tempted to delete Pokemon Go off my phone, deactivate social media, and swear off porn and booze forever. But it's not their fault I don't write. It's not their fault I don't read. Or go to the gym. Or have a career I'm proud of. It is a poor addict who blames his vices.

Despair isn't a punch to the face. It isn't obvious. It's a bed bug infestation. Coming for you while you sleep, tearing at you with tiny fangs, and leaving you scratching their fantom assault the next day. You may well wonder if you every truly got them all. It is an itch that never ceases.

Armchair psychology cures nothing, but I dimly remember that giving the finger to aging feels better than donuts. Writing is one of the only ways I begin to understand myself and I've taken the year off from self-scrutiny. Admitting to myself for the first time I've gone too far with my formidable distractions, I'm reminded of the life I could lead without them. Yet Pokemon Go stares longingly at me from my smartphone. My gym remains the longest five minute walk in the known universe. And somewhere in a drawer is a Kindle desperately in need of a charge. 

This post ends with no grand promises of new fury in 2018, no tempered optimism about overcoming addictions. I've solved nothing. Learned nothing new. I've merely looked failure in the eyes, something I've spent the last year avoiding. It waits for my next move.