I Saw A Sign

The other day I woke up feeling like absolute shit.  Mind and body were in tatters.  I was about to steel myself for the morning routine and a long day of work when something deep within told me I should take the day off due to medical necessity.  And so based on this inner voice, I notified the Powers That Be of the situation and went back to bed.

Several hours later I received a text from a good friend--"I got let go."  The texts that followed explained that his employer had just notified him that they'd be separating him (with great regret, naturally), and he was wondering if later that evening I'd be able to take a look at some paperwork before he signed his life away (or at least all of his claims).  My thumbs scribbled in reply that, as luck would have it, I'd taken the day off and would be available whenever he could swing by my neck of the woods.

When my friend arrived, it was right in the middle of what turned out to be a beautiful winter afternoon in Southern California.  For those of you who haven't had the privilege of experiencing such an afternoon, it means that the sun is out, the sky is clear, and the temperature is a very comfortable 65 degrees.  I should also mention that I live somewhat close to the ocean, so amplify that beautiful winter afternoon with the beach, crashing waves, and a gentle sea breeze.  Without any sense of hyperbole, it was perfect.

We stepped inside "my office," and I took a look at his paperwork, which turned out to be the usual boilerplate affair.  My friend being the smart guy he is, I suspect he didn't need confirmation of that from me, but just a place to get away from it all.  And so he began to give me the lowdown on the whole situation.  Apparently it was something that'd been festering for a while.  He was an ambitious and talented individual constantly bumping up against the low ceiling that his position afforded.  Numerous requests for additional responsibilities and opportunities for growth were unceremoniously squelched.  The image in my mind was that of a cooped-up tiger growing and growing as the cage stays the same size.  In that situation I suppose at some point push just has to come to shove.  So from that perspective, the separation was somewhat of a blessing in disguise--a chance to finally stretch out.  An opportunity.

Having exhausted the topic of the separation, our minds turned to grabbing a bite to eat.  My friend was craving a sandwich.  As luck would have it, consulting The Internet revealed that within walking distance of my apartment was an Italian deli offering delicious sandwiches.  The decision being made, we stepped back outside into the sun-drenched afternoon, the perfect weather still in tact.  My friend, being a true Angelino, suggested we drive the three blocks to the deli, but I convinced him that walking was the correct course of action, especially given the nice weather.  And so we set off on foot.

After a block or so, we came across this:

The steady handwriting gave the message a sense of urgency and authority.  And yet, the fact that it was done in chalk gave it an ephemeral feel; a sense of fragility.  You can't really tell from the picture, but the way the sun was hitting it made the sign kind of glow.  The whole thing had a sense of otherworldliness to it.

My friend and I both stopped to look given the reason why he'd come to visit me in the first place, the sign acting as an exclamation point to the conversation we'd just had.  An opportunity had presented itself, and it was his alone for the taking.  I guess he didn't need a sign to point out the obvious, but it was nice that the Universe intervened to drive the point home--everything happens for a reason.

It's funny because I'd recently shifted away from that line of thinking as a bit too fatalistic.  You know, that you're just haplessly waiting for the Universe to move you in the right direction; like you're some claymation doll that needs to have every movement decided for him.  The lack of autonomy to that way of living life started to sit poorly with me, so I shunned the gods and embraced the unique power of Man--we make our own destiny!

And just when you think you've got it all figured out, a day like this happens, where everything seemed to move lock step to bring my friend and I to this literal and figurative sign.  Maybe it's a cop-out, but I'm starting to think there's probably truth in both sides of the coin--the Universe can only bring you so far, the hard part is up to you.  And so I suppose the true meaning of that familiar refrain comes slightly more into focus.

Carpe diem, friends.

--KM

"I get by with a little help from my friends."

Low Fidelity

I can't recall when I first saw High Fidelity, but I do recall being pretty darn proud of myself for having done so.  Well, to be more specific, pretty darn proud of myself that like John Cusack's Rob, I too was a sensitive, brooding, somewhat-lost-and-misunderstood nice guy with amazing taste in music.  And so of course I could totally relate to his girl problems and the resulting ennui he felt.  Not to mention, we were both really, really deep and intense.

Of course, that was all bullshit.  I looked it up, and High Fidelity came out in March of 2000, right smack in the middle of my freshman year of college.  I suppose that explains a lot of the above.  It's funny looking back on that time and how much I was enthralled with that movie when at the ripe old age of 18 I was neither sensitive nor brooding nor somewhat-lost-and-misunderstood.  I wasn't deep or intense.  I definitely didn't have good taste in music.  And why I thought I could relate to Rob's girl problems is beyond me given my lack of any track record in that area.  Maybe Rob was someone I aspired to be?  Which I guess is odd given that he was an antisocial thirty-something loser struggling with major commitment issues. . . Wait a second.  Maybe. . . 

Just kidding!  No, I don't think that a decade later I've morphed into Rob (thank goodness), but I do think that today I have a better understanding of where he was coming from.  You know, the whole sentiment of "where did I go wrong?" that fueled his retrospective odyssey through the ghosts of romances past.  I guess it's tempting to want to learn from the past.  Or, perhaps more selfishly, use it to try and justify the present; as vindication that you've done no wrong.  But no matter how many times I replay the film on all of my failed relationships, no big secret jumps out at me.  I don't see a lack of commitment.  I don't see infidelity.  I don't see the second shooter on the grassy knoll.  I just see a kid managing as best he could and doing what he thought was the right thing.  Of course, the benefit of some seasoning reveals that "the right thing" was actually a little immature and a-not-so-little hurtful.  

Now, I'm not about to go calling up old girlfriends (much to their relief, I'm sure), but, naturally, as a single thirty-something, my thoughts do occasionally drift into "where did I go wrong?"  And those thoughts are amplified and distorted by the fact that my past relationships can, for the most part, be placed into two categories--(1) Girls I Screwed Over; and (2) Girls I Didn't Screw Over As Badly.  I suppose if it's any consolation, most (all?) of my own ghosts of romances past are either married, on their way to getting married, or otherwise in a stable long-term relationship.  I don't think I'm some sort of good luck charm, but I do think that in realizing what you don't want, the contours of what you do want come clearly into focus.  

Anyway, given my track record, I guess it's fair to say that to some degree my single solitude is justified (or at the very least self-inflicted).  A romantic karma of sorts.  Fortunately, I read somewhere that karma (good or bad) isn't forever--good balances out bad and bad balances out good.  So I guess until the scales of romance even out for me, I'll have to put up with some more "low fidelity" distortion; some static and clutter as my mind and my heart search for peace and quiet.  For some romantic harmony.

--KM

"And these memories lose their meaning when I think of love as something new."

I'd Like To Thank All The Little People

Polish the statues, turn up the lights, and roll out the red carpet because the Academy Awards are tonight.  I don't throw any viewing parties or anything like that, but I will admit that I'm a fan of the spectacle.  I mean, who doesn't like the chance to see modern-day American royalty showcase itself to the masses?  Yes, royalty.

Ok, so obviously Hollywood celebrities aren't actually kings and queens and dukes and duchesses, but I think they serve that same function.  You know, as a monied class to whom society has some very mixed and conflicting emotions.  People to at once place on a pedestal and take down from that very same pedestal.  Which, when you think about it, is kind of funny given that our country is founded on core principles completely antithetical to the notion of a caste system that would breed an aristocracy.  What that says about human nature is beyond me, but interesting food for thought.

Now, some people are certainly much more cynical about the whole extravaganza--"Why should we sit and watch Hollywood pat itself on the back for doing well what it's supposed to be doing well in the first place?"  I certainly won't argue with that.  Much of the Academy Awards is self-serving, condescending, and borderline offensive, but hot-damned if its glamour isn't downright alluring, a radiant glow that we're instinctually drawn to; that we want to get just a little bit closer to.  And perhaps it's that glamor that raises Hollywood into the rarefied air of royalty.  And why conversely other public figures such as politicians (who are in principle are merely our elected servants) and the merchant elite (who for the most part remain too anonymous for adoration) don't get that same status.

Anyway, whether they're royalty or not, tonight they gather at the Dolby Theater, and a lucky few will leave with a uniquely American Knighthood, forever known as "Academy Award winner."  I know I'll be watching.  And keeping score--let's go Argo!  Hot damn, I've always loved me some palace intrigue.

--KM

"And the Oscar goes to. . ."

Lost and Found

I'm on my way to oral argument this afternoon when Madam Clerk stops me in the hallway and says, "You look lost."  Her observation really struck a chord--was it that obvious?  I guess I have recently been wading chest-deep into some macro life questions--Am I where I need to be?  Am I doing what I should be doing?  Am I . . . happy?  And in dealing with those questions, I actually have felt a little lost, kind of like I'm adrift at sea.  I'm at the mercy of the current with no paddle or wind in my sails, and in every direction is ocean expanding into the infinite horizon; no land or ships or humanity in sight.  The sensation can be little disorienting at times--am I searching or waiting to be found?--and one that can play host to some negative emotions, futility and passivity to name the most potent ones.

But it's also a sensation that makes you sit back and think, "How did I get here?"  I won't bore you with all the gory details of that analysis, but I suppose this is what people refer to as the dreaded "Quarter-Life Crisis."  Every once in a while It'll sneak up behind me like a body snatcher and pull me into a brief foray into all the macro questions that you never really have the time to deal with (perhaps to your detriment).  Something akin to Alice and her famous rabbit hole.  I suppose those forays become fewer and farther apart as you pair up, get married, and start a family.  I imagine at that point your time and energy becomes focused on that very concrete endeavor as opposed to the always ephemeral "life" questions.  But for the moment I'm still a single soldier susceptible to being snatched away.

Of course, Madam Clerk certainly didn't mean to open up this can of worms, especially not on a beautiful Friday afternoon.  No, she was just keying in to the fact that I had no friggin' idea where Department 10 was in the catacombs of the Old Historic Courthouse.  So she pointed me in the right direction, and off I went to do some litigatin'.  I suppose at least for that moment, I was found.

--KM

"I feel the chaos around me, a thing I don't try to deny."

Look At My Big Hypocritical Brain!

So not to dwell on San Francisco, but on the way to work today I was thinking about this bar I went to with G and P--Rye, which is up in the that twilight zone between the Tenderloin and Nob Hill (the Tendernob? Tenderloin Heights?  Dealer's choice, I suppose).  Rye is a very, very hip and tasteful bar that specializes in highly-skilled bartenders making classic drinks with the utmost precision.  You know, the kind of place where they use a jigger to make sure you're getting exactly the right amount of bourbon in your old-fashioned.  And also the kind of place where that attention to detail adds an inordinate amount of time (I think) to the preparation of each drink.

Anyway, it was my turn to brave the queue at the bar, so upon our entry I elbowed my way as close as I could to the front, all the while trying to get the bartender's attention.  But he would not be distracted from his task, being hard at work carefully measuring shots in the jigger and zesting oranges and doin' some fancy muddlin'.  I sat there in tortured agony as he did all this--hurry up, man!  He eventually finished, handed his drinks to their new caretakers, and then set about finding the next person to serve, giving his half of the bar a good scan.  It kind of reminded me of the first person view from the Terminator movies.  We made eye contact for a brief moment, and I thought I gave him the best "Oh!  Oh!  Pick me!" look, but I was passed over for the guy immediately to my left.  I could almost see the "error. error.  does not compute" flashing through his lifeless eyes as he passed me over.

But, as luck would have it, the guy the bartender picked had the good sense to order the quickest thing possible--a bottle of beer.  So after popping the top off, the bartender once again entered "scanning" mode.  The remainder of the people at the bar now looked to have drinks, so I ended up winning by default (as I tend to do) and put in my order: an old-fashioned, a manhattan, and something called a sutton station.  As I sat there and watched him go to work, I couldn't help but notice the grim look on his face; a scowl almost.  The Terminator reference was initially made in jest, but the more I watched this guy, the more robotic he seemed; a cold precision that seemed to suck the life out of something that inherently is brimming with vitality--getting people drunk.

Anyway, as the bartender moved from the old-fashioned to the manhattan, the guy to my right commented to his friends, "Isn't it awesome how these guys make 'real' cocktails?  Like, the 'classic' style?  I'm glad that it's back and here to stay.  It's so refreshing."  It really shouldn't have, but his statement bothered the shit out of me.  First of all, his tone of voice, oozing with haughtiness, made me want to throw up.  Second of all, what the hell is "refreshing" about a bartender so singularly focused on the science of bartending to lose sight of the fact that to bartend is to serve?  And third of all, who the hell did he think he was making such a bold, sweeping statement like that?  Only I am allowed to do that!  There just wasn't enough room in that bar (or San Francisco, for that matter) for two pretentious wannabe sociologists.  One of us would have to go.

Lucky for him I had to catch my flight the next day, so I'm taking my act to the Web (much to your chagrin, I'm sure).  For those of you who've rolled their eyes and have still decided to keep reading (slow work day?), I offer my small insights into the phenomenon of the "new" classic that seems to have gripped the country (at least in the pretentious corners where I tend to find myself).  Many people I talk to think the whole fixation with Don Draper is definitely just a fad, and we know how cyclical the fad market can be.  Odds are that in five years the trend will shift back to "modern," and we'll look back on this time period and mock it while drinking weird, purple mix-drinks out of strangely shaped metallic cups.  Me, though?  I think there's an argument to be made that it's more than just a fad, but the beginning of a renaissance for the American male.

I say for the American male because the whole "classic" thing seems to be skewed pretty heavily toward men.  And that makes sense.  What sane woman would want to roll back the clock and go back to the "Golden Age" of America where she could have the pleasure of being a second-class citizen and having her ass grabbed all the time?   Conversely, though, I think the steady march toward equality among the sexes breeds a secret angst among men.  Gravitating toward the look and feel of the classic could be a way to hold onto a time when power and authority came just from having a Y-chromosome.  Not to say I condone calling women "dolls" and "broads" and the like, but there is definitely an allure to drinking whiskey neat, having a slick haircut, and wearing a badass suit.  It carries with it an understated aura of authority; an easy proxy for power in a time when simply being a man isn't enough to garner it.

"But," you might be saying, "male angst does not a renaissance make."  This is true.  I think the key factor that could push the classic from the whimsy of fad to the transformative of renaissance is that it fills a void in a time when men, in addition to having that angst, are dying for a uniquely American tradition; a sense of continuity from generation to generation.  When I go to other countries, the first thing that jumps out as me is how their long histories have bred robust traditions--the Tao or the how of doing things.  I always felt that was lacking in America, which I guess is understandable given our relatively brief history.  But now with some years under our belt and Mad Men leading the charge, I think there's a legitimate Tao of the American male.

Ok, so I guess a lot of the above is pure armchair sociologist bullshit and encapsulates all the pretentious nonsense I generally dislike (irony!).  Still, this is the type of shit I think about on the way to and from work.  For all I know, "the jock" could be the next big thing for men, where we forsake grooming, manners, and equality of the sexes.  I mean, just take a look at how popular Axe body wash commercials are.  Not to mention those semi-pornographic Carl's Jr. commercials where some bikini-clad babe is having oral sex with a hamburger.  So although I hope for a renaissance of the aesthetic of the classic American male, given our track record maybe it's more likely that the jock will prevail and manliness will be measured by the amount of weight bench-pressed, the number of beers chugged, and the fistfuls of wings inhaled.  And as men embrace their primal nature, their mighty roar will echo across this great land--"buuuuUUUUuuuuUrp."

I guess on the plus side it won't take so long to get a damned drink.

--KM

"I love the way I am, and can't nobody out here change me."

36 (Introspective) Hours In San Francisco

This past weekend I was back in San Francisco to visit friends.  Seems like a pretty mundane weekend trip, but I've had a pretty complicated love affair with the City that always seems to make these trips interesting, like going to your friend's birthday party and seeing your ex-girlfriend there.  With some other dude.  Anyway, it all started with my first trolley ride as a little kid.  I can still remember the operators turning the magic wheel thing at the terminus, the sights and sounds of the crazy hill-filled city whizzing by during the ride from Union Square to Fisherman's Wharf, and the distinctly pleasant pine tar-like smell of the whole expedition.  In college, things got a bit more substantial.  I can recall the moment it happened, too, during my first visit to the top of the Campanile tower during Cal Day.  While the tour guide was droning on about dinosaur bones or some other such trivia point, I looked out across the bay to see the City shimmering as it tends to do on a clear day.  A modern day Shangri-la pulsating with beauty and possibility.  At that moment, the playful childhood crush morphed from tourist trap to something much more . . . exotic.

Ironically, perhaps it was that exoticism that kept me securely rooted in the familiar confines of Berkeley during most those four years, admiring San Francisco mostly from afar.  And daresay, that exoticism even bred a bit of jingoism?  I recall at one point claiming to be a full-fledged East Bayian--"They can keep their wine and cheese and clam-chowder-in-a-bread-bowl!"  Fortunately, that intolerance began to soften as I moved from teens to twenties, and the 13.6 miles between me and the City shrank from insurmountable-oceanic-suicide-mission to annoying-but-manageable-BART-trek.  But, since life is fickle, as the distance shrank between myself and San Francisco; as the feelings matured and developed; as I was moving in for that first kiss, I was summoned 8,000 miles a way to teach Engrish in The Land of the Rising Sun.

It would be two years until I returned to San Francisco.  Unfortunately, my return was not for pleasure, but for the unpleasant business of getting a legal education.  I won't go into all the gory details, but let's just say law school was not the most joyous three years of my life.  Although definitely a net positive, there were enough dark moments to the whole experience where afterwards I needed to put some distance between me and my once-love.  To be honest, I felt betrayed, as if all those childhood and then grown-up daydreams were a setup; a mirage; a sick practical joke.  Thinking that I had seen the City for what it really was, I was done with that godforsaken Bay Area cesspool and could not wait to go home to Los Angeles.  So I very abruptly put San Fran-sucks-co in the rear view mirror and headed south to the boulevards, beaches, and babes of the City of Angels.

That was about four years ago.  I've been back a handful of times since then, but each time I still got that bitter taste of betrayal in my mouth, and each time I left thinking that I'd made the right decision to push the "EJECT" button after law school.  This past weekend, though, things seemed different.  It started during the usually routine drive up from the airport.  Passing by the sketchy "South San Francisco" sign emblazoned on the hilltop, Candlestick park holding on for dear life, and all the other airport-to-City landmarks extracted from deep within a sense of familiarity that I hadn't felt in a very long time.  I eventually got dropped off at the 16th Street BART station where . . . wow.  Perhaps driving around in a car the past four years had desensitized me a wee bit because I was a little overwhelmed by the raw intensity of it all--mentally unstable homeless man hog-tied on the street while police looked on; strung-out runaways planning their next scheme; nonchalant hipsters clutching the lapels of their vintage coats a bit too tightly; the faint aroma of urine in the air; the accumulation of grime that accompanies life in the city.  Quite honestly, the frenzy and the humanity of it all was a bit unnerving.  But in a very good way.  A very familiar way.  Like when Dorothy first steps into Oz and all its Technicolor glory; when she steps from dream to reality.

Having received my unofficial welcome-back greeting from the denizens of the Mission District,  my dear friend arrived shortly thereafter to take me to he and his fiance's residence, where I would be staying.  G and P are amazing friends, and their hospitality only enhanced the feeling of home I'd had upon my most recent arrival to the City (albeit in a much different way!).  Remember when I said law school was a net positive?  A big part of what went into the calculus of shifting the equation from negative to positive was the multitude of amazing people I met (like G) and the good times spent together.  So, a stimulating conversation with G and P over wine turned into a delicious home-cooked meal of shrimp and fennel that turned into Warren G's Regulate that turned into a reunion at Thieve's Tavern that turned into shots of whiskey at Elixir that turned into . . . Well, truth be told, things after that are a bit hit-or-miss, but I seem to recall: karaoke at the Mint, playing wing man, last call, last out of the bar, giving some impromptu love advice on the street, and a gyro.  Although, the things I didn't recall turned out to be much more interesting (ahem!).

The next day, after some delicious crab cakes florentine in a greenhouse (ok, not really a greenhouse, but the patio of the Squat and Gobble, which I consider greenhouse-esque), I requested that we go to the Golden Gate Bridge.  Of all the things to do in San Francisco, I don't know why I selected that, but it sprung to mind as something I needed to do (yes, needed).  Before heading  there, we made a brief detour to the top of Twin Peaks (were the Eye of Sauron lives).  I'd never been there before, but the view is simply breathtaking, a panoramic 360 degree view of the entire city.  And of course, that day the weather was perfect--sunny, crisp, and clear.

For whatever reason I searched for my law school from that magnificent perch above the City.  After squinting for a good while, I finally spied 100 McAllister poking its head out between City Hall and the rest of the Civic Center.  What was once such a giant, oppressive presence in my life was now so . . . diminutive; barely visible among the rest of the city.  It was at that moment that I'd realized how much of a fool I'd been for taking that misguided view of San Francisco four years ago.  It wasn't San Francisco that'd left such a bitter taste and a feeling of betrayal, but the law school meat grinder that had done so.  Unfortunately, I'd conflated the two when in reality the one had very little to do with the other.  This was crystal clear in looking down upon the City where the law school was such a small part of a much larger, must more beautiful landscape; a minor blemish.  And in reality I'd only experienced a small part of what San Francisco has to offer while in law school.  I suppose that should've been obvious to me much earlier, but it's funny how certain life experiences can dull the senses.

Anyway, I felt a sense of peace atop Twin Peaks that I hadn't felt in quite a while, and it was with that sense of peace that we moved on to the Golden Gate Bridge, which on a clear day is simply breathtaking.  Someone mentioned that they probably painted the thing red to mask rust, but whatever the reason, it was a brilliant idea because the color makes this otherwise nondescript mass of steel radiate with beauty.  It's a sight to behold and the envy of all other bridges (just go ask the Bay Bridge).  We decided to walk across the bridge, which I highly recommend to anyone who hasn't tried it.  It's fun to see all the boats and windsurfers skipping across the water right below you. I also like the unique view of the City from the Golden Gate Bridge because it's not the usual view you always see.  Kind of like seeing your lover without any makeup on.  But I'll tell ya, even au naturale she's a beaut'.  And it was about halfway across the bridge while gazing across the water that I had a sense of deja vu.  I was 17 again and standing atop the Campanile, gazing across the water to the beautiful, shimmering jewel pulsating with beauty and possibility.  Time and a fresh perspective had washed away the stench of some bad years to expose the allure of the City that'd made me fall in love with it all those many years ago.  As I was taking it all in, the "Excuse me!" of an impatient runner snapped me out of my daydream, and our party continued on its journey over the bridge.  However, that sensation of deja vu resonated deep within and stirred something that lay dormant for a long, long time.  The rest of the day was chill and included a delicious dinner at Burma Superstar (with no wait--a miracle!), some quiet drinks at Rye, and then The Unresolved Love Life of Evelyn Lee (that's a real bar name).  Sleep soon followed with its dreams of childhood trolley car rides.

The day of my departure was cold and dreary.  The clear skies and 70 degree weather having been replaced with low clouds, a biting wind, and a dash of precipitation.  My mood seemed to match the weather, which is strange because I usually relish going home after a trip.  But I suppose this time, I felt like I was leaving home for some foreign land called Los Angeles.  As it turns out, the boulevards, beaches, and babes weren't all they were cracked up to be, not suiting my personality or my lifestyle.  Square peg meets round hole.  Now, don't get me wrong, San Francisco isn't perfect either--the pretentiousness that permeates certain sectors bothering me the most ("Look at my big brain, bitch!").  And let's not forget that damned baseball team.  So there's that.  But, all in all, I'd like to give the City another try, this time without all the complications, distractions, and distortions of law school.  Whether that's going to be this month, this year, or this lifetime is yet unknown, but I do feel like I have some unfinished business to attend to.  If nothing else, I guess I finally understand what Mr. Bennett meant about leaving his heart in San Francisco.

Home is where the heart is.

--KM

"But why should I resist when, baby, I know so well I've got you under my skin."

Valentine's Orphans

After an extended radio silence, I got an email out of the blue yesterday from the girl to whom I'd lent my Game of Thrones books all those many months ago.  She'd found them in her house during some cleaning and was offering to deliver them to my doorstep.  As soon as possible.  And while I was at work.  The request made me a bit uncomfortable, as I wasn't sure what to make of it.  Did she hate my guts?  Or was this just the routine settling of accounts?  Given the uncertainty, I declined her offer, suggesting instead to meet somewhere in the middle to retrieve them.  Well, as you know, a woman is not to be denied, so when I returned home today I found the books on my doorstep.   That they were nestled snuggly in a basket reminded me of babies being left on the doorstep of the orphanage--the unwanted cast aways of a failed relationship.  Although I'd purchased them, I don't really consider them mine at this point since they've been out of my possession for longer than I'd initially had them.  On top of which I have a new set of books from the Apothecary.  But of course, the girl didn't consider them hers either, so they were returned to their "biological" parent.

Anyway, not wanting the little orphan books to be left out in the cold, I picked them up, brought them inside, and then spent the better part of the evening trying to extract the meaning out of their unexpected delivery.  That the girl offered to return them to me herself instead of putting them in the mail suggests things are civil between the two of us.  As does the fact that she didn't just throw them out or burn them into oblivion.  Although, her lack of interest in meeting face-to-face suggests otherwise.  But, the fact that she took the time to put them in a basket suggests otherwise still.  On the other hand, maybe all the "nice" gestures are somehow a passive-aggressive way to show her disdain for me.  But I thought we parted ways mutually way back when last July.  Ah!

Realizing I could stay up all night concocting different theories for this most-likely innocuous return of personal property, I decided to just leave it be.  Especially since ultimately her motivation is irrelevant given that the net result is allowing her to pull an Eternal Sunshine and purge the last remnants of our relationship from her reality.  And that the purge happened so close to Valentine's Day suggests a positive alignment of the stars for her romantically that she didn't want to jeopardize with "old business."  The freedom of closure to a relationship is a priceless thing, and I'm glad she was able to find it just in time for an unencumbered Valentine's Day.  May cupid's arrow strike true for her.

--KM

"I hit the sidewalk, and this is how it starts; caught in a wrinkle when things are fallin' apart."

You Say Valentine's Day, I Say Thursday

And so we approach that time of year again--Valentine's Day.  For some, Valentine's Day is an annoyance, a day of jacked up flower prices and packed restaurants.  For others, it's a special day for romance, a chance to leave the kids with grandma and spend some quality time with the love of your life. And for others still, it's a scathing reminder of their romantic ineptitude, a day to be dreaded.  My thoughts on Valentine's Day have run the gamut.  From the naive and hopeful, "Oh, Valentine! Oh, Valentine! Wherefore art my Valentine?" to the angry and bitter, "Valentine's Day is just another bullshit Hallmark holiday meant to gouge couples and make single people feel like shit."  Today, I think I have a bit more of a balanced perspective to the whole affair--Valentine's Day is a lot like the roulette table: sometimes my number hits, but most of the time I'm walking away empty-handed.

This year, as in most years, the odds of my Romantic Wheel of Destiny landing on "Valentine's Magic" appear remote as ever.  Which at this point I've become accustomed to given the amount of time I've spent "between relationships."  That's not to say I'm ashamed of being single (disappointed, maybe; ashamed, no).  It's just that being single around Valentine's Day seems to get you branded as "sad."  Whether that means "unhappy," "pathetic," or a mixture of both I've never figured out, but it's a label that's completely undeserved.  The other 364 days of the year, there's no stigma attached to being single.  But on Valentine's Day, if you've got no one to call your special someone, it means you're a failure.  And not just a failure at any ol' endeavor, but at that which serves as the core of all humanity--love.  Pretty harsh, no?

Much of this negativity is driven by singles themselves.  I've never had any coupled-up people mock me or otherwise bring attention to my singleness in any negative way.  At least not openly and certainly not close to Valentine's Day.  No, my experience is that for whatever reason the prospect of a February 14th spent alone breeds a plague of fear and envy and anger that spreads uncontrollably through all Singledome.  And as this plague begins to blanket the land in darkness, word spreads quickly that the only way to prevent it from infecting you is to find a Valentine's date.  And so singles scramble frantically in the days leading up to February 14th to ensure they're not left out; that they're not stuck standing like a dummy when the music stops in Valentine's Musical Chairs.  I've even known some who've gone so far as to prolong a failing relationship just to avoid being alone on Valentine's Day.  It's a ruthless enterprise this business of finding your Valentine.

That's not to say I'm Anti-Valentine's Day.  No, sir.  The older I get, the more I see the value of Valentine's Day.  As relationships mature and settle into the routine of the day-to-day, there's nothing wrong with an excuse to turn back the clock to the beginning, if not just for one night, and relive those early moments of courtship and romance.  To the days of awkward first dates, getting caught in the rain, and electric first kisses.  To remember why you fell in love in the first place.  And if a bunch of chocolatiers, restaurants, and florists make a buck in the process?  Good for them.  Plus, when else will elementary school kids get to decorate a brown paper bag and then walk around their class handing out witty cards--I choo-choo-choose you!--to their friends, enemies, and future love interests?  No, the world needs Valentine's Day.

So then where does that leave us singles?  Well, I'm definitely not a proponent of raising the banner of "Singles Awareness Day," which I think is a futile and s.a.d. attempt to steal the spotlight.  No, I think it's important for singles to concede that on February 14th the spotlight narrows its focus to shine most brightly on couples.  No sense getting petty about the darned thing.  But that's not to say we should shut ourselves up on Valentine's Day either.  To the contrary, I think it's paramount that we band together.  For us singles, Valentine's Day really is just another day of the week.  Despite its aura, the power of Valentine's Day to make you feel like shit is just an illusion of roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.  When you pull back the curtain, it's exposed as your familiar friend Thursday.  And if we know anything about Thursday, it's that he wants you to be having a good time; not sitting prisoner in your own home.

So there you go, hopefully some inspiration for my single brethren out there; a little Valentine's Day battle cry for the single set.  If you're holding out hope that you'll find last minute Valentine's Day magic, "Thursday!"  For does not love at first sight require you to be seen?  If you're miserable because you're single, "Thursday!"  For does misery not love company?  If you're just looking for an excuse to get really drunk, "Thursday!"  For have you not earned that right for getting through four-fifths of the week?  Whatever your desire, whatever your motivation, I truly hope that all you single folk are out and about on February 14th.  And, that when you least expect it. . . THUNK!  Cupid's arrow finds its mark.  Hey, a little optimism never hurt anyone, right?

Thursday!

--KM

"Luck be a lady tonight."

Dreams Don't End

It's the morning of February 7, 2012, about a year ago from today.  The weather is foreboding--cold, dark, and dreary with a dash of wet.  I'm on my way to Los Angeles for a teacher dismissal hearing, NPR on the radio to keep me company.  I get a call from my mom.  "The retirement home called.  Your grandfather isn't doing well.  The doctor is coming.  I'll call later with an update."  My mom had literally just returned from Japan, having spent the last week checking in on my grandfather's health.  It wasn't good.  We'd both been back to visit him a few months ago in November, and even then he looked really frail to me.  According to my mom, he'd deteriorated even more since then.  So when the next call came from my mom, I suppose the news was not unexpected--"Your grandfather passed."  I turned the radio off.  Everything after that call is kind of a blur.  I'm at my apartment packing my suitcase.  I'm sitting quietly with my mom in the departure lounge, each of us staring out into the dark night.  I'm over the Pacific Ocean, probably drinking a bit too much wine.  I'm at my grandfather's retirement home where they've set up a makeshift memorial for him.  I'm at my grandfather's funeral.  I'm back over the Pacific Ocean, my grandfather's ashes next to me.

Those ashes would go into a burial plot in Los Angeles that my grandfather purchased over thirty years ago.  His family has an ancestral burial plot in Japan so the decision so early in his life to purchase a plot in the United States really spoke to me.  It highlights the deep love affair that developed between my grandfather and the United States.  He'd immigrated to the United States shortly after the war ended with "only the shirt on his back," as they say.  But he worked hard, knowing that his shrewd business acumen and superior abilities as a chef would help him overcome the many obstacles and barriers that are part and parcel of the immigrant experience.  And they did, ultimately helping him secure his own little slice of the Land of Opportunity.  So rather than lay at rest with his ancestors, he'd chosen instead to lay at rest in the place that gave him the freedom to spread his wings and fly.

At the time, I thought carrying my grandfather's ashes back from Japan completed his American Dream.  Today, I realize that the American Dream is never really complete.  The immigrant experience continues well beyond the passing of the initial trailblazers, and with that continuity comes a responsibility; a legacy to be protected.  So in that spirit I keep my grandfather's picture on my dresser, a query each day as to whether I'm keeping the Dream going.  It's a funny picture because my grandfather's expression seems to change to fit the mood of the day--some days stern, other days content.  I'd like to think it's a magic photograph a la Harry Potter, that it's somehow captured some of his essence for all eternity, but I suppose science would chalk it up to me projecting my emotions onto lifeless photo paper.  Either way, today he was smiling and with the familiar twinkle in his eye, acknowledgement of a secret understanding between the two of us.  That all is well and to carry on.

--KM

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free."

Dinner With A Dash of Harlotry

The other night I was out with a good friend enjoying some beers and oysters in the O.C. (that's "Orange County," for the uninitiated).  It was a festive Friday night, and the place was packed with couples.  Seated very close to us was one such couple.  The girl was smokin' hot--your typical blonde O.C. bombshell.  The guy was . . . not so attractive.  That's not to say he was ugly; he was just large.  Very large.  The guy you pray doesn't end up occupying the seat next to you on that long overseas flight.  Despite his physical appearance, though, you could tell he was a gentleman and a man of means.

As my friend and I saw it, the date wasn't going well.  The formality in which they interacted with each other strongly signaled that there would be no happy ending this evening.  But more telling than that was the fact that she didn't look at him that much.  She wasn't rude.  She wasn't looking around the place scoping out other guys or watching the Laker game on television.  Her attention was squarely focused on the task at hand, it's just that she wouldn't make eye contact with him.  Although I guess I can see why she'd want to avoid doing that, what with the eyes being the windows into the soul.  Even one quick glance could betray her true feelings for this guy.

So then it made me wonder, what the heck is this girl doing with this guy?  I guess it could've been a blind date or an online encounter translated terribly into the real world.  But the way they interacted with each other suggested a familiarity not found in those types of situations.  They were likely co-workers or friends of friends--they'd met before.  She definitely didn't have the air of someone who was surprised by the guy's physical appearance.  No, she knew that well before sitting down that night.  So what was up?  Well, then came the food--shrimp cocktail, oysters, thick cuts of steak, giant crab legs, lobster tails the size of the guy's forearm--and they consumed it all.  When the bill came, I saw the guy pick it up, review it, and place some cash inside.  The girl didn't flinch.  I didn't get to see what happened after that, but I imagine they parted ways cordially.  Maybe a handshake or awkward side-hug as a capstone to the evening.

So, was the girl just in it for a the meal?  I guess maybe you could rationalize it as the girl thinking, "I'm not physically attracted to this guy, but he's a nice guy and his pockets are indeed full grown.  So I'm gonna accept his offer of a date in the off chance that his personality wins me over.  At the very least, it'll be a free meal."  I've heard of girls doing this sort of thing, accepting dates from guys knowing that no romance will likely follow and going primarily for the meal.  But it seems to contradict everything we're taught to believe.  You know, the independent woman and all that.  Plus, doesn't it flirt dangerously with what you might label "prostitution?"

Ok, now before you get too outraged, let's be clear that this type of interaction doesn't fit within the literal definition of the term (i.e. no one is selling her body for a grilled piece of meat).  But, there was a quid pro quo there.  Maybe not cash for sex, but cash for something much more valuable--time.  Although she'd leave the restaurant with belly sated, it was at the expense of two hours of her life that could've been used for carefree libations with best friends or a memorable night of karaoke with the family or even some quiet time alone with a book, a cup of tea, and some boss music.  Instead that time was invested in an empty encounter with a guy who borders on being a stranger.

Oh, who knows, maybe I'm being naive.  Perhaps the guy blackmailed the girl into going on the date, and she was an unwilling captive.  Or maybe the girl really liked this guy, but was too nervous or shy to show it.  Or, maybe the guy knew exactly what he was getting into, but to him, his brief time with this beautiful goddess was worth the price of all the oysters, steak, and lobster in the O.C.

--KM

"I'm a provider, girl.  And I love you."