Insert Loved One Here

While I've lost the chance to say it to you, I will say it in my heart today. Happy Fucking Birthday. Most of the time, I get hung up on the regrets, remorse, and grief, but today I'd rather just hit your highlight reel. Not that where you are, it matters that much. It's only a distance I can see the beautiful subtlety of your character. It occurs to me I never sung these praises. To borrow a phrase, "I loved you worst than most, but to the best of my ability."   

Happy Birthday to the artist without anguish. A Four-less creator with an unparalleled sense of color and composition. Someday, I hope the world recognizes your unassuming skill and talent. If there were any justice in the world, it would have afforded you a low bandwidth existence with near infinite nesting opportunities.

Your selflessness and generosity never made sense to me. That's not quite enough. It baffled me. My base heart couldn't process that much care for another person. And it came so easily to you. And it sticks with me; still rattles my tree.

A giant of resourcefulness and ingenuity, never a slave to functional-fixedness. You could MacGyver a fix with nothing but spit and a junk drawer. It wasn't pretty, but it got done. I would have been on my tenth YouTube tutorial, frantically scribbling notes.

With the bitter gift of time, what I've come to appreciate most about you is the myriad of ways in which you are not me. It is your unassuming and implicit inversion of my ideals I find most the most challenging, endearing, and aspirational. Chipping away at a monolith one day at a time, I've been improved at your expense. It is an unplayable debt, but I craft this birthday message channeling my inner Sam Seaborn.

You may be a quiet Nine, but you'll always be a ten to me. 

Happy Birthday.

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.

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.

A Poem About Weeds

We are obsessed with flowers, bleeding inkwells dry grasping for the perfect female metaphor. Molesting canvas with amateur hotel art, rummaging through gas station Mother's Day bouquets, and think nothing of the February rose genocide. We can't get enough. While the Camus-lover in me admires the irony of taking something beautiful, killing it, and admiring its fleeting, ephemeral beauty, I can't help but think our values are misplaced.

What is a flower? What makes us imbue it with value? It's delicate, soft, and aesthetically pleasing.  Surely these are laudable traits. But consider for a moment, their corollary: the pesky weed. The scourge of weekend chores, the blight of gardens, and the Rosemary of the Kennedy dynasty. Their namesake is rejection. They are to be discarded and weeded out. Yet the weed persists. Without encouragement, love, or support, the weed thrives. It grows taller and stronger than it has any right to. It refuses to be stifled by concrete or human desires, exploiting the tiniest cracks and carving out space for itself. It grows during droughts, sneers at pesticide, and is too resourceful to yield. In an inhospitable world, the weed declares itself worthy of existence.

Yet this unlikely survivor has no place in our hearts. Why? Because it is not beautiful. No date dreams of having one plucked and presented on a doorstep. No mother wants it on the dinner table. Consider, for a moment, what the flower represents. It is youth and beauty. Every woman who's been compared to a rose by a hack with a ponytail and an acoustic guitar is subtly accosted by the notion her value is commensurate with the flower. A fragile, beautiful object to throw away when her leaves turn.

What if we reimagined our values?  What if, instead of giving your partner a rose, you yanked a weed from the parking lot? What if you stood for something other than beauty? Declared that growing from abject, brutal conditions was worthy of your poetry and the basis for your sonnets? Proclaimed that defiance, unruliness, and grit are sexy?

It is a mistake to declare all things beautiful. If everything is beautiful, nothing is beautiful. The real crime is boiling down all value to beauty. Leave beauty for the motel art and the Hallmark cards. The weed has no use for it. Its ragged leaves bear the fruit of persistence, its gnarled stem is steady, and when the big storm comes, it howls at the wind to bring it on.

These values make it righteous and help it earn its place squarely at the center of our dining tables, and pinned to our breast, reminds us of the other values we ought to strive for. Beauty is but one of many magnificent values.

So You

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A friend of mine once commented on the way I do dishes. She claimed that it was, "So you." At the time I was offended. Just what the fuck was that supposed to mean? "So you?" I won't bother with the details, but I have a system for doing dishes. Today I choose to interpret her comment differently.

Who you are bleeds into everything you do. From the way you button your shirt, organize socks, or do the dishes. Everything bears your signature and your stamp of approval. There is an art in existing and I started noticing it in those close to me. I am downright jealous of the way one of my co-workers sprays lens cleaning fluid onto eyeglasses. He holds the glasses at arm's length, lightly sprays a mist of cleaning and fluidly pulls the glasses into the mist. It's fucking beautiful. Alex and Andy apply lip balm in different, but equally fascinating ways. Andy does the entire motion with one hand, a byproduct of his days playing in band where his other hand supported an instrument. Alex rolls the wheel through his fingers until the balm emerges. It's mesmerizing. Jawsh's handwriting is practically a painting. Every letter is deliberate and specific. Jace types like a cheetah yet his fingers barely graze the keys. Using only the minimum force necessary to press the key and move on, his typing is free of all inelegant clicking and clacking. Pete's PC desktops are magnificent in their simplicity and function. DJ's till sheets were a work of art. Dr. Hoffman's philosophy books look like maps to buried treasure. My Dad's closet is organized like a library. My old manager, Bob, opens a box like a surgeon. Trevor insists a joke is made or broken in two frames of footage. Nathan throws away half his tweets because he can't articulate them perfectly. Jim will destroy half his room after we've won a Slayer match because he isn't pleased with his performance. Tim will agonize over a move he made in an improv show three years ago. Even though the move got a huge laugh, he'll lament it was cheap and out of character. Will systematically exhausts every possible move in Words With Friends.

I love each of these people for different reasons. Though these behaviors and moments do not encompass the complex and interesting individuals, they do belong to them in deeply personal ways.

Character spills out from every pore of our body and stains everything it touches. The next time someone tells you that something is, "So you," take it as a compliment. It means you have character that is tangible to others.

My values are efficiency, elegance, and simplicity. What are yours? The only wrong answer you can give is a shrug.

Best

I started crying watching The West Wing today because it reminded me of my best friend. He lives in another city now, but there is not a single person, family included, I've spent more of my life with. As time lurches forward, that title will fade and eventually give way to someone else, a wife or god-forbid, a co-worker. But for now, it's him. He is the reason I moved to Chicago to pursue acting, writing, and improv. This is his dream. He goaded me to follow him here and to make my life something more than a 9-5. I was along for his ride, but, as the queer dice of life rolled, it is I who ended up here. Alone.

And I've been feeling guilty. He pushed me because he knew what kind of man I was, and what I wanted my life to amount to. He knew the story I wanted to tell better than I did. And I am forever indebted to him for his diligence and faith in me. He nurtured my tiny seed of writing, watered it when it was fledgling, and kept it warm during the uncertain winters.

It was Tim that introduced me to Sorkin's work in Sports Night. We got drunk on Sorkin and ended up watching everything he'd ever written together. We took a trip once to New York to see his Broadway show, The Farnsworth Invention, about the invention of television. We left the theater in tears and didn't speak as we stumbled out. The silence lingered. Finally, Tim spoke, "This is what our lives need to be about." At the time I was considering moving to Seattle to write computer programs. But he wasn't trying to convince me. His tone was a matter of fact. Writing and making things was the only hope either of us had for ever being happy. I'll never forget that moment. It rings in my ears when I waver. It gives my feet rigidity when doubt buckles my knees. It is what tipped the scale.

One thing remains: my friend debt. I owe him the same steadfast encouragement. I feel like a fraud every time I land a writing gig. If they only knew about him, I'd be out of a job. But I'd gladly be unemployed to watch my best friend take up the mantle he deserves. I will be the friend that I was lucky enough to have.

Today I was reminded of how lucky I am to have met Tim and the indelible mark he's left on my life. If I could go back in time to my tiny motel-esque studio where we watched West Wing until 4AM, I wouldn't do anything different, just saddle up between my past self and him. I have no regrets. I wish nothing to be different. I wish it to repeat into infinity and for my life to eternally return to Tim Dufrisne.

First Kiss

It's 1996. I have a silly bowl haircut, a Jansport backpack and sagging, baggy, corduroy jeans. And though I can frequently be seen carrying a skateboard, I am terrible. Truly, sadly, terrible. A year into skating, I can barely ollie. I've got a tiny body and braces. Puberty is a long way off. I've practiced Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on my $100 guitar every day for a month and can't seem to get the picking right. My two friends and I are discovering punk rock and hoarding the bands to ourselves so we don't seem like posers, the most devastating insult our world permits. We eat Doritos everyday. My speech patterns consist primarily of references to Pauly Shore movies and laughing like Beavis and Butthead.

And yet, that year I kissed a girl. This is the story of my first kiss.

We had art class together. At thirteen, I'm not sure I had any pretensions of being an artist or gave a shit about art in general. I know I was bad at it. A decade and a half later I still can't draw, sculpt, or paint. But I liked talking to her. I'd never had a girlfriend. Until that point, I had contented myself spending recess with Josh sitting on top of a big green electrical box arguing about super heroes. I hung out with the kids who smoked even though I didn't. I liked their bands better than the ones kids who didn't smoke listened to. Still do. But I remember thinking she was a knockout... and out of my league.

She was intense, wore leather pants, had short blonde hair and dressed sexier than any of the other girls at school, which I'm sure speaks volumes about my current preferences. It occurs to me that sexy and beautiful are not the same. It is possible to be beautiful without being sexy and vice versa. She was both in a big way. For reference, I had just stopped wearing sweat pants to school because my Dad made me. 

I remember she transfered to my school mid-year. Everyone talked about her. Guys liked her and girls liked talking shit about her. You can't dress that way and not have teenagers make it news. But for some reason she talked to me during art class. I never questioned why, just welcomed my good luck. In case you think I'm being self deprecating, I've included a photo of myself from the year in question. 

It never went beyond talking. We never went to a movie; I never even had her phone number, even though I had my own teen line. Such a shame. I was good on the phone. Then, as quickly as she came into my life, her family decided to move to California.

It happened suddenly. She kept a list of things she needed to do before leaving. I asked if I could help, and she said no. Wouldn't even show me the list. I sat in seventh period knowing today would be the last time I ever saw her. I think I wanted to kiss her, but the thought was so distant, it didn't even have a definite shape. I might as well have wanted to fly to the moon. Where do you even start? It was too late. I had missed my opportunity, even though I had no chance. The bell rang and we left class. I lingered to walk her to the bus. I said something you'd sign in a yearbook and said my last goodbye. 

As I turned to walk away, she quietly said my name. When I turned to her, I saw her books slip through her arms. Her eyes were set on mine. She grabbed my shirt with both hands, pulled me in, and tongue kissed me. Thirty seconds lasted a lifetime. Then she grabbed her things, turned and walked away. No words. The kiss spoke for her. 

It was the last thing on her list. 

In a daze, I boarded my bus. My face went numb and every part of my body tingled. I wore a grin that showed my molars and it didn't leave my face for hours. I didn't eat or drink for the rest of the day. I wanted to keep the kiss on my lips forever. It didn't matter that I never saw or heard from her again. That moment was perfect. 

Thank you for being braver than I was, CM. You set the bar high. I have tried to be brave ever since.    

Imperfect Body. Perfect Soul.

In a letter penned to Nathaniel Hawthorne, Melville wrote, "But, now and then as you read, you understood the pervading thought that impelled the book -- and that you praised. Was it not so? You were archangel enough to despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul." He was referring to Moby Dick. I loved this quote more than the book. A sentence about a thousand page book dramatically deepened my appreciation for it.

My heroes have imperfect bodies. The work of Woody Allen and Aaron Sorkin is deeply flawed, misses the mark often, and fails consistently. But I am in love with the soul of their work. They speak in voices I understand, ones that put their hand on my shoulder and remind me that I'm not alone. I have no interest in defending them, nor am I concerned whether anyone else feels the same. When someone rattles off reasons why a film/band/artist isn't very good, I can usually agree on every point. Most criticism is spot on. And while I can recognize the flaws, they do nothing to detract from my enjoyment. No pencil can erase a perfect soul.  

You can either be caught up in the machinery of a film, complain about continuity, exposition, or plot devices, or give yourself over to the creative team and let them take you to a place, their little place. You might be surprised how beautiful it is, even if the ride there is bumpy and inelegant. 

And, it turns out that I feel the same way about people. 

H.M.

I had a dog once, handsome and gentle. Playful and kind. I battled him (his word for playing) in the dog park and scolded him when he'd jump on people. He was a 130 pound monster. Scruffy like Han Solo, and sweet as an Ewok, he was the biggest of a litter of pound puppies. But he always was my little guy. When little dogs would play with him, he'd lay down and let them bite his face. He loved to be chased and hating chasing. He was raised on my lap. Even when he grew into a small horse, he would lumber on top of me, his limbs dangling over the sides of the chair. He didn't care and neither did I.

But these are memories. What I remember is a shadow. He is different now. After I left he became mean. He snaps at children and refuses to walk on a leash. He doesn't listen and growls more than I'd care for. But what did I expect? I left him. Anyone can show cute pictures to friends or speak glowingly when the topic is brought up. Real love is staying, honoring the promise. Marriages are bound by decree. The parent's promise is implicit, like it never needed to be said.

Time dissolves iron. Distance makes the brightest star dim. He's sleeping at the foot of someone else's bed. I left him. He moved on. Poor guy died in my dream last night. I ran to him furiously, but not fast enough.

This is the first and only time I've ever been responsible for a creature. It was my job to teach him how to be. It was my responsibility to see it through to the end. I want to say that I love him, but that's a lie. I miss him vicerally and my eyes light up when he's brought up, but I don't love him. Real parents stay. Everything else is an empty gesture.

I'm sorry, Henry.

Spacement

Reno Fucking Nevada!

If spending time in basements will kill you, my days are numbered. I've had my front teeth almost knocked out singing along with Scared of Chaka, sparked love holding hands watching a local band rip it up, and passed out after playing a show with walking pneumonia. All in tiny basements. From the dankest mildew and mold riddled northwest basements, to the tiny, poorly wired practice spaces my friends and I practically lived in during college, my teen years are defined by those subterranean walls.

Punk and hardcore belongs to the basement. I say this not out of nostalgia nor a misguided punk rock ethos desperately trying to conceal its precious secrets from the outside world. In fact, I am loathe to admit it. I moved to Chicago recently and it has a bustling and vibrant music scene. There's a great music venue on every block. I've seen bands that never would have made it to Reno. Some I've seen multiple times.

La Dispute was touring on their Somewhere at the Bottom of the River Between Vega and Altair LP and came through three times last year. I saw them twice at real venues and once in a tiny co-op basement. At the venues, they stood on the stage and played their songs. Shows were fine. But in the basement, they shook the walls. During the album's climax, "The Last Lost Continent," I cried. I didn't tear up and almost cry; I good and cried. There were so many bodies crammed into that fire-hazard, I couldn't even see the band. But I heard every note. I could hear Jordan breathing during breakdowns. They were perfect in that disgustingly sweaty room. We were all at home.

Packing a room with a low ceiling with kids nullifies echo and makes for excellent acoustics. The heart of punk and hardcore beats best in basements. I've seen hundreds of shows. The five that I remember most all took place in basements. Sure, a lot of the time the PA blows, you can't hear the vocalist worth shit, and there's a good chance cops will break the show up before the headliner plays, but it's no coincidence bands are at their best in garages, basements and living rooms. The sound of a mic'd drum makes me want to curb stomp a sound engineer. Trashy, lo-fi, rock 'n' roll amps sound like shit through a sound board. Audiences spitting on your face as they sing along is maritally intimate. Hour of the Wolf; Life in Pictures; La Dispute; I, Robot; and Scared of Chaka branded me in close quarters. Radiohead sounds amazing at an outdoor festival, but punk feels best near a water heater.

Makers

My writing relies heavily on metaphor and the best ideas are lifted from Nietzsche. My songs are rigidly structured, live only in the major scale, and played in 4/4 because I don't understand other time signatures. Acting is a process of indication rather than honest reaction. On stage, my improvisation is trapped in an intellectual void that chokes off discovery and imagination. My jokes all sound written. My furniture looks like an industrial Ikea train wreck.

I'm fascinated by people who make things. They see a void in the world and they fill it, the way my father finds a home for stray objects in our home. From an unassuming and impulsive place, they can't help themselves. Suddenly the world is filled with things: buildings, art, records, books.

The medium is less important than the process.

Though I'm not particularly good at making things, I do it. Not entirely sure why. It doesn't pay, carries little social currency, and provides little in the way of lasting satisfaction. Though, I always seem to be smiling when I finish a project. Making things is hard. It's exhausting. The notion that one has something to contribute that the world hasn't seen is equal parts boldness and folly. Still, the world is undeterred. The makers rarely seem to notice or care.

I'm in love with people who make things. I want to be one of them.

My Giants - Part II: Nietzsche

You're wrong. Constantly. Though I'm never more fascinated. There's a deceptive clarity to you. The deeper I get, the less I understand. As readers, we have grown to expect authors to stand for a definitive point-of-view. Mill is a utilitarian. Locke is empiricist. But, you are not so neatly summed up. Nietzsche is fragmented, incendiary, brief to the point of frustration, genius. You write like a human, all too much like one. Your system is muddled. It's impetuous. But there's no one I'd rather follow to the abyss of ideas than you. Your definitive point-of-view is your own. It's Nietzsche. It is multifarious and splendid. Your truths upset my stomach and refuse to be easily digested. They sit in my belly and fester.

I steal from you. Constantly. And I make no apologies. I borrow and build. You make me write.

My Giants - Part I: Woody Allen

Nietzsche. Sorkin. Dostoyevsky. Allen. 

We've never met and never will. You get me. There are not many who do. Your work reminds me that humans are complicated creatures whose desires are rarely compatible. Frequently it breaks my heart. As often it makes me laugh.  And though I cringe when showing your work to others, this is not your failing. You make art for a particular breed. The neurotic; the intellectual, though you'd never admit it, the cheaters; the perpetually dissatisfied. In short, you make movies for me.

Don't let me be misunderstood. You've made some real garbage. Like a long marriage, I've seen every side of you. And I've stuck by you during your lapses in judgment and your utter failures. Yet, after all these years, I'm fascinated by your approach. You build like Camus' absurd artist. Erecting a sandcastle monument today and building a new the next. The beach is littered with your treasures. 

Melville once wrote to a friend of Moby Dick, "You did not care a penny for the book. But, now and then as you read, you understood the pervading thought that impelled the book—and that you praised. Was it not so? You were archangel enough to despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul."

Your pervading thoughts carry your work. They sing like a Greek chorus. I forgive the imperfect body and smile at those who overlook your gems as they pass. 

Back To Life

Dad loves getting me up early.

Jesus was resurrected for his courage on the cross. Or he wasn't. Christian philosophy is more interesting to me than the mythology. I read the Bible like any other philosophy book. I am without faith, not an atheist. When you're broke you're without money, not against it. So I guess I'm spiritually broke. Today the theists are making it rain, but for me, Easter is about my Dad.

Just as I was getting too old to search for eggs, my Dad took me on a business trip to a tiny city in rural Nevada where the McDonald's was the happening place for kids to hang out. The job took longer than anticipated. We'd expected to be home in time to celebrate, but we were stuck. After working a ten hour day, he searched every grocery store in the town for candy to fill an Easter Basket. Trouble is, I hated chocolate. He found every shape of chocolate, but he knew that I liked sour candy. So on he searched. It must have been around 7PM when he finally got back to the motel because the second episode of The Simpsons was on.

He walked in with a bowl of Warheads, Sour Patch Kids, gum and a single chocolate bunny. I broke off the ear and filled the bunny with milk like I always did. It took a decade for me to appreciate what a gesture it was. At the time I was happy to get candy, almost entitled to it. Never thought about how my Dad made holidays about us and our traditions: crab legs on Christmas and Rocky IV on Thanksgiving. During my vegetarian phase, he made Tofurky even though he couldn't stand it. Though who really enjoys that shit?

I don't know anything about Jesus' struggle on the cross, or what it means to be resurrected, but I know my Dad loves me. He'd never let me suffer unless he thought it built character. He'd jump into oncoming traffic to keep me from stubbing my toe. Easter is about spending time with my Dad. And this is only the second time I haven't gotten an Easter Basket full of non-chocolates. I'm going to stop at the corner store and get some Sour Punch Straws for the both of us.

Friends Like These

The house lights come on. I slip out from backstage and see a handful of friends sitting in the audience. My face is flush and my hands are still trembling. It was a mediocre show. Nothing more. Not embarrassing, but not memorable either. My friends are dead silent as they hug me. Afterward, we go to a restaurant for milk shakes and things to put hot sauce on.

My friends will never say I had a good show when I didn't. There are two philosophies regarding a friendship roles. They are the (i) unconditional positive regard and (ii) unconditional honesty models respectively. While (i) is more popular, I contend that it is ultimately more harmful. Had my friends showered me with compliments and praise, I would have been under the impression I did not bomb tonight... which I did. When you lie to me, you make my victories and defeats taste the same.

I need my friends to be a barometer of truth. I need them. When they withhold their praise and affection it means I still have work to do. They are the ones I want to make laugh. I need to fail. I need to hear the sound of a room not laughing, to walk through a crowd after a show and not hear a single "good show." The sting reminds me that there's something at stake, that I'm not perfect and that improv is a delicate art.

Honesty is a nick now while dishonesty is a laceration later. Most people are so afraid of awkwardness that they will lie to your face to avoid it. We don't get to choose our family and most are riddled with cowards. Too often we're trapped. Blood drags them through our lives, but not our friends. Friends are a kickball dream team. They are picked for character, style, and consistent record of selflessness, not because of a last name. I choose the ones who will be honest with me.

Thank you, Friends, for your support and bravery. Thank you for keeping me honest. You make me reach for something better. You remind me when I'm less than my best. That's real support.

Now let's eat some tacos together and talk about stuff.

Reno, Nevada

89501

Reno bleeds talent. It is a desert incubator and a neon bacteria colony for genius. It's a city of makers. The kids I grew up with all turned out extraordinary. They went on to be artists, actors, directors, musicians, doctors, lovers, writers, comedians, poets, teachers and world-travelers. We grew up in the desert in the heart of nothing. Sagebrush and nothing. In other cities, kids drink themselves to death. In Reno, they built until their fingers bled. They built when no one watched. Then they built some more.

Reno bleeds talent. It can't hold on to its geniuses. They slip into the world leaving their distinctive fingerprints on everything they touch. And though they leave, it stays lit for them.  Reno is a desert lighthouse. 

Every few years a new breed of kids would topple the old men who'd gone soft. It's a town of young lions and rad times. From the time I could pick up a guitar, I never saw a venue with a decent PA. No one has ever heard the vocalist at a Reno show. Ever. So every kid learned to play the ass off their guitar. They didn't need microphones to sing. This city has a bass drum heart. 

These kids could paint. We looked at comic books and watched The Simpsons, but somewhere in between my friends learned how to blow the doors off museums. They put their pencils to page and wrote epics without words. 

The women of Reno. Don't even get me started. These women of dazzling wit and charming intellect are smarter and more stylish than I'll ever be. Plus they all straighten their hair. 

Get your maps out and circle that four letter word near the state capital. I may not get mail delivered there, but it's my home. And when people ask where I'm from, when I think about what made me the kind of man I've become, and when someone asks where the "Biggest Little City in the World" is, I answer with poise and ferver: Reno Fucking Nevada. 

First and Last Days

I moved to Chicago in 2010 to study improvisation at the iO theatre. After seven levels and six sessions of interning, I am graduating the program. Currently I am in the midst of an eight week audition process masquerading as a run of student shows. Each week a mysterious member of a the Harold Commission (i.e. improv admissions committee) sits in the dark corner of the theatre and decides who's got what it takes to be a member of the next iO house team. Tension is palpable, students are playing scared, and we're all bracing ourselves for deep, resounding rejection.

I want to make a team. I'm saying it out loud and I'm saying it publicly. I want to make a team. If and when I don't get picked, I will not pretend I didn't want it. Those grapes are not sour. This fox wants them in his mouth. Luckily, I have already won. My pilgrimage to improv Mecca will be recorded as a win in the annals.

My level one class was taught by the artistic director of iO and co-creator of the Harold, Charna Halpern. The art form is young enough to be taught by the people who wrote the books. Having spent the majority of my life reading books that were written in the nineteenth century, I find the idea of a living author to be charmingly novel.

This deference, however, is stifling. Improv is psychotherapy on stage. Our problems off-stage seep into the work and I flooded the stage with mine. Fear and anxiety. That day I felt my heart beating out of my chest and my face go numb. Words were strangled in my throat.

She never saw me play my best.

Fast forward about a 160 hours of classes to the last day of the final level of the improvisation program. I sat waiting to be called on stage for the last time. Three days from now we'd be performing on the iO stage. We'd been Full Metal Jacket-ed and come out whole on the other side. My heart beating even and steady like a patient metronome. I had been in the shit and had acquired the thousand yard stare. Leaping into the fire so many times, my body refused to be afraid.  Sitting in my chair with fifteen minutes left, I graduated. With no fanfare, pronouncements, or diploma, I had graduated.

To all the new Harold team members, if I'm not taking a bow with you on stage, I'll be cheering for you from the audience. What started as adult make-believe classes turned into therapy. I'm better for the time I've spent with you. I moved here to become a better improvisor and did. It was a W. 

Good show.

Best Men

I almost had my heart broken and I didn't even see it coming. My best friend, Tim, is getting married. The man that made a bone mountain of chicken wings with me while playing Baldur's Gate 'til dawn is going to be someone's husband. I'm glad no one has ever paid me to predict the future, cause I would have blown this one hard. Truth is, Tim is a genuinely unselfish creative genius and deserves Helen of Troy. And he has his; there is some justice in the world.

I got a call a few weeks back with the big news. The words hit me like a soccer ball in the stomach. How could something inevitable be so shocking? They've been living together for a year and dating (uninterruptedly, mind you) for a several more. This is what people do. Still, I couldn't get my head around it. Struggling to stow my deeply rooted feelings against marriage, I congratulated him like you're supposed to do. Doubt, concern, and disbelief were kicking over tables in my head.

Then he said, "I want you to be my best man." It was as if he froze a shaken snow globe. Calm and peace had quietly begun dusting off the tablecloths and picking up the dinnerware. Soon there was no sign of my mental tantrum. Inexplicably I was on board. "Yes," I said. "Absolutely. I'd be honored." And I meant it.

It's amazing how much easier it is to love something when you participate. Everything looks shitty from the sidelines; the game is a lost cause and every play a train wreck. Grass feels better under your feet. It feels better than the bench. Next year I am going to help marry my best friend. I get to wear a uniform and everything. Whatever my feelings toward marriage are, I will always be able to get behind an epic celebration of my friends. I'm already working on my toast.

Soon after our phone call, an idea hit me that would have terrified me had I thought of it before. What if Tim hadn't asked me to be his best man? Thankfully the question is now moot, but it got me thinking. Had he asked any of the half-dozen other qualified men in his life, I couldn't hold it against him. There were men who were in his life before me and those who are more relevant to his life now. Two thousand miles separate us for God's sake. Not being asked to be his best man would have crushed me; I never would have recovered. Staring up at the man standing next to Tim, sitting in those god-awful unpadded chairs, I would have lost it.

As boys we try to make our fathers proud. As young men, our friends are family. Tim has scolded me as a father and hugged me like a mother. Tim is my brother. He's part of my little broken family. I'm proud to have grown into the kind of man that Tim would ask to be his best man. It makes me feel like I've done something right in my life. No matter what I've done wrong, I did this thing right. It fills me with a sense of worth and belonging.    

He asked me, and I said yes. He chose me to stand by his side as he embarks on his adventure. He chose me. Tim, I'll stand by your side until the end. To cry with you in tragedy and to celebrate with you in triumph, we will grow old together.

I love you, Buddy.

Get Your Hair Did

Exhibit: A

For every woman who's been duped into thinking that boys are suckers for long blonde hair, I say nay. We are not your father's suitors. We are moved by cuts of all kinds. This is a love letter to short hair and the brave women it grows from. "Short," for our purposes, will refer to hair that is longer than mine, but not longer than the shoulders. See Exhibit: A for a prime example of proper length, cut, and style. To those daring enough to cut their locks, proceed like Icarus. The head is your sun. One should not fly too close. Hair can be too short.

Crushes are, at their core, capricious. They are flimsy and without substance. Mine are no different. I get giddy and dumb like the best of us. Based on exaggerations of features we find attractive, crushes turn humans into ideals. Motorcycle guy. Busty bartender girl. What makes me slack-jawed and stupid is unique; that is to say that I've never met anyone with my affliction. I develop infatuations based solely on a girl's hair. I love it. I love it inexplicably and with all my (crush) heart. If my crushes were the canon of literature, English grad students would pore over the theme of short hair. Welcome to my weird corner of the world.

I've had crushes born and mangled by a haircut. Crushes that live and die by the scissor. One fell swoop. Hair is the frame of the face and in the case of my crushes, the frame decides whether I'm looking at postmodern or motel art. It is my favorite trivial feature of a woman. Short hair--of any color, but often and undeniably red--is my kryptonite. Excuse the metaphor that makes me and Superman one and the same, but a straightened, a-line bob will forever turn my head.

Where the good hair is, you will find my crush. Where you find the drab, lifeless ponytail; the wild, untamed curls of unstraightened locks; and the long, flowing hair that tickles the middle of the spine, my crush isn't. These are my preferences and I do not apologize.

I raise my water glass to the sky and toast the gods of the short hair. May their ends forever be united. May their colors never run. May their scissors always stay a steadfast course. An undying lighthouse eagerly awaits your arrival in my sheltered harbor.

As for Medusa and her sisters, send your ships to the seas farthest from my port. May you find safe passage elsewhere.

Henry and His Fear

My dog--whom I often refer to as my son-- has developed a bizarre neurosis. He refuses to walk over a series of harmless grates in the hallway of his mother's house. There is something so indelibly human about watching a hundred and thirty-five pound animal be afraid of crossing a grate. His size, majesty, and strength do not make him immune to irrational fear. It makes me shiver. How can I reassure him that the world is safe? Something has shaken him to the core of his big heart.  I do not envy fathers. Their task is too large. I say I'm Henry's father, but I abandoned him. What kind of father am I? I left him on a doorstep two thousand miles away. I chose creativity over my little, broken family. Now he is terrified of a hallway. I want to tell him that I'm scared too; when I take out the garbage at night, I hurry back to the door. 

     Henry,

Take care of your mom. Listen to her when she walks you. You're bigger than she is. Respect that. 

The world is a tough place. But, it's never as bad as we imagine it. What is important is to face your fears. I just wish I could be there with you to help you face yours. I can't. I'm here. I'm sorry, Baby Boy. This will be your first birthday alone. You'll be four (28 in your years) now which makes you almost my age. If I had any good advice, I'd give it to you, but I haven't quite figured out this late twenties thing either. 

Watching you play with other dogs gives me such a kick. The way you play so gingerly with the smaller animals is a testament to your character and heart. One thing though: don't take the other dogs' toys.  They don't realize that you just want them to chase you. You love to be chased. Don't we all?

Be brave, Little Guy. You're a small lion. 

I'm proud of you.  

Love, 

Nick