The End

Given the genesis of this blog, I suppose it is worth noting that things with The Girlfriend did not work out.  I won’t get into the details except to say a tiny crack developed deep within the foundation of the relationship that widened over time and ultimately caused the entire thing to come crashing down.  I combed through the rubble to try and put the pieces back together, but things didn’t seem to fit together correctly anymore.  Some pieces were missing and news ones had been added.    The mystery of human relationships, I suppose. 

And so obviously the sudden void in my personal life has left me in a somewhat introspective mood.  But oddly not so much about my romantic life (or lack thereof), but of something bigger: Do I know where this is all going?  Am I happy?  Am I satisfied?  The answers are pretty straightforward: No, no, and hell no.  And suddenly this blog seems very claustrophobic. 

People always ask, “What are you passionate about?”  I’ve always struggled with that question and envied those who could rifle off a litany of endeavors that made their blood roil—music, cooking, underwater basket weaving.  I suppose the irony of my struggle to formulate a response is that the answer was so obvious the whole time: writing.  And solving the riddle of passion has made me realize it’s time for something a bit more ambitious than what’s possible within the confines of this blog.  So this will be the last post here.  I am sure that all three people who follow this site will be devastated, but rest assured I shall return.  Bigger.  Better.  Happier.

--KM

"Lend me your ears, and I'll sing you a song.  And I'll try not to sing out of key."

500 Day of Autumn

"PSL10."  It was noticeably visible on the door as I walked into the local Starbucks today.  Of course, as we live in the age of the hash tag, I was obligated to investigate the meaning of this code.  The Google quickly led me to the Starbucks website, which then opened up a whole new world of previously unknown knowledge about PSL10.  For starters, did you know that "PSL" stands for "Pumpkin Spice Latte?"  And did you know that the Pumpkin Spice Latte is ten years old?  That's right, a seasonal Starbucks beverage has a birthday.  Giving something a birthday is a pretty consequential decision, don't you think?  It means that the Pumpkin Spice Latte was born.  It has Life!  Ten years of it, to be exact.

Anyway, the Starbucks website goes on to describe the Pumpkin Spice Latte's stats--calories and crap like that--and then sets forth its lore.  "The Pumpkin Spice Latte is a fall favorite!" the website declares.  "It's the drink for which you yearn during the non-fall months; the warm treat that stands tall above all the others.  Bow down to this herald of The Fall!  Drink upon this magnificent concoction of unmistakable spices!  Drink!  Drink it up!!!  And be happy that it's fall, you motherfuckers."

Ok, it doesn't actually say that, but I still took offense to it.  It got me all riled up that some asshole had the nerve to declare that the Pumpkin Spice Latte was the best thing about fall; that we all put up with the bullshit of the rest of the year because we know there's a piping hot venti Pumpkin Spice Latte waiting there for us in late September.  Well, you know what?!??!?!

I disagree. 

Now that Summer has passed the seasonal torch to her auburn sister, I am relishing the cool weather, the leaves changing color (a very vibrant "Southern California Brown"), and the afternoon light taking on the mysterious hues of the ever-shortening day.  Autumn is about so much more than a beverage.  It's a state of being.  It's about crisp weather, apple cider, scarves, football, bundling up, Santa Ana winds, Halloween, family time, Thanksgiving, fireplaces, leaf piles, getting cozy, hot cocoa, leaves changing colors, playoff baseball.  More things than there are words for.  I guess it's stupid to let a silly little ad campaign upset me--perhaps more evidence that I'm turning into an old curmudgeon--but the whole thing felt a bit cheap.  And not just cheap, but an affront to many childhood memories formed amidst the swirling winds of playground asphalt.

It's funny how our minds associate things.  Objectively, Autumn is a season of sadness.  It signals the end of the vibrancy of summer and serves as a cold, unrelenting bridge to Winter.  The days get shorter, the nights longer, and the weather colder.  Miserable in all respects.  And yet, events in my life have conspired to associate many happy memories with Autumn.  I guess it's not such a bad thing.  Summer may encapsulate the party that is the human existence, but Autumn is the intimate after party.  The space in between the hot, loud, crowded moment of the night club and the cold, lonely journey of the Hangover.  The night cap.  The winding down.  I guess that says something about me (something that won't be unpacked here).  But in any case, I'm happy as a clam that Autumn is once again upon us.  PSL10 and all.

--KM

"Halloween parades through Autumn.  Australian Bora Bora [stump]."

Island Wedding Adventure

This past weekend I was fortunate enough to attend G & P’s wedding.  The boat ride over offered a small hint of the magic to come.  Shortly after leaving San Pedro harbor, our vessel was surrounded by a haze that obscured the view in all directions.  Speeding through the blank, infinite plane of ocean felt like being transported into an alternate universe.  After a while the shadowy outline of Catalina Island slowly began to emerge from the mist.  The closer the boat got to Avalon harbor, the more it felt like I was being invited into a magical secret.  Many evoked the grandeur and majesty of the Jurassic Park entrance music, but for me it was a much more intimate, romantic feeling.  Maybe it had to do with the unique features of the Avalon itself, its buildings and streets stretched and squished in strange ways to make it look like something out of a storybook.

The wedding ceremony was held in a location nestled high among the mountains and overlooking the sea.  The haze of the prior day had burned off and left in its place the most magnificent clear blue canopy.  The sun was shining brightly and a cool sea breeze was blowing in.  Seeing the bride and groom surrounded by their loved ones with the majesty of nature as a backdrop was incredibly spiritual.  And when the time came for the bride and groom to seal the deal with a kiss, you couldn’t help but feel that the marriage was blessed by a power whose comprehension is beyond our grasp.  The gods were happy. 

Shortly after the ceremony, the festivities shifted to the reception venue where the mirth and merriment commenced in earnest.  I will be honest, my recollection of the events of the evening remain a bit hazy, but suffice to say I was happy to have been a part of it.  It always makes me happy to see people in love, even more so when those people are dear friends.  True love is a tricky thing--hard to find and even harder to hold on to--so to see G & P wield it so adroitly brings a big smile to my face. And like the mighty Excalibur, I hope that the bond forged in the burning flame of their love atop the mountains of Avalon will last all of eternity.  

Congratulations, dear friends.

--KM

"For love is immortality."

One If By Sea

I'm on a boat.  Its engines are busy churning up ocean into a white spray; cutting through the stillness with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.  We started in the drab, industrial  surroundings of San Pedro but are now in open water, having left any reference to dry land far behind.  

There is something about being in the middle of the ocean that is magnificent.  The faint smell of salt.  The sun reflecting off the water.  The air whooshing past.  And when you look out on the horizon--when you gaze into infinity--the vastness is mesmerizing, humbling, and terrifying all at the same time.  It certainly makes you reflective. 

Anyway, as we head deeper into the mist toward Avalon, the excitement builds for G & P's wedding.  It feels blessed, and I am glad to be a part of it.  So with that, enough Internet.  Onward to celebration!

--KM

"Don't you worry 'bout a thing."

A Disturbance in the Force

One of the highlights of my day is walking by this magnificent sycamore tree right in front of my office building.  It is mighty and magnificent, towering above the workers hustling to and fro far beneath its canopy.  But far from being ominous or imposing, its radiates a certain reassurance that there is harmony in the world.  I'm not a tree specialist or anything, but I'd assume by its size that this tree has been there for decades.  I always think about the people who've come and gone underneath this tree long before I even entered the World.  And during all those years, this sycamore has stood watch as silent sentinel.

That is until this morning.  Right away, I noticed that my usual morning approach was askew.  It quickly dawned on me that the tree was no more.  Well, I should back up.  That the tree was mutilated beyond recognition.  I'd seen a bunch of "corporate" type people milling about the tree in the past few weeks, but wasn't really sure what they were up to.  Now it made sense.  The tree's canopy had grown to a point where it bent a flag pole to a 45 degree angle.  I guess the building's owners decided this transgression against Man could not stand.  And so out came the chainsaws.

The sight of this beautiful tree missing half of its canopy was sickening.  Unnerving, really.  The beauty of a tree lies in its asymmetrical symmetry.  The natural curvature in its branches.  Seemingly random, but really following a simple plan--go toward the sun.  That was all gone now.  In its place the straight, abrupt lines left by the violence of Man.  I sighed and went into the building, happy that at least half the tree was in tact.

But when I left for work at the end of the day, the entire tree was gone.  In its place a massive void.  I'd assumed they'd just leave it be since mutilating the tree had created space for their precious fucking flagpole, but the building's ownership must have had other ideas.  I was surprised at how quickly they were able to completely vanish this magnificent tree.  There was nothing left to show that a tree had ever stood there.  Its chopped-up corpse had been hauled away and people were already unrolling that "instant sod" bullshit where the tree used to be.  The whole thing made my skin crawl, like watching someone get away with murder.  I guess one small victory is that my office faces the other side of the building so I didn't have to witness any of the carnage.

You know, it's funny.  Man has a lotta swagger about his awesomeness, but in reality Man is just man.  Nature has been here way before us, and I'm confident it will survive us by a wide, wide margin.  This whole incident with the sycamore made me angry and depressed at the same time--"How can you not get how absolutely stupid this is!?"  And of course, it hammered home the injustice that lies in the difference between the arduous difficulty of creation and the nonchalant ease of destruction.

Maybe it's just an LA thing, the whole "fuck you" to nature.  Collateral damage from literally living in a desert.  It made me think back to my trip to Seattle and Vancouver (Seacouver!) this past May.  Taking the MUNI from the airport to downtown Seattle, what struck me most was how green and lush everything was.  Part of that is certainly due to the climate in the Pacific Northwest, but I also felt that a large part had to do with Man's relationship with nature being different.  It wasn't all about conquering and dominating, but living in harmony.  Or, at the very least, seeing Mount Rainier looming in the backdrop made you realize who was really in charge.

Anyway, I suppose I should make a positive out of a negative.  I don't know why, but the absence of the sycamore tree has led me to dust off my "tweet journal" from the Seacouver trip.  Its whole tortured (and lampooned) existence was so I could "blog" about my trip after the fact.  I guess I didn't put up with all that ribbing just to have it sit in a drawer.  And so, next stop, Seattle!

That is, of course, if I can decode my terrible handwriting.  Good lord.

--KM

"'Come, Boy, sit down.  Sit down and rest.'  And the boy did.  And the tree was happy."

An American Romance

I live in a city that has a large population of Armenian immigrants.  One effect of this concentration is the most delicious scents wafting through the cool evening air of my apartment complex.  Exotic spices, savory stews, meats roasting to tender perfection.  I also like bumping into old grandmas and grandpas on the street going about their daily walks.  They have the look of people who have lived in interesting times in interesting places far, far away, but who are now content to have their daily walk uninterrupted by anything interesting.  And so I'm happy to oblige.

Of course, Glendale is not an exclusively Armenian enclave.  There're smatterings of other non-Armenian establishments here and there, one of which is the Korean market.  Something pretty comparable to what you might see in Koreatown a short drive away.  It's always funny going from the local Starbucks, which is the Armenian Man's hang out (old and young) to the Korean market, which is pretty much almost exclusively Korean.  The two are right next to each other, but you never see people going from one into the other.  I suppose this is evidence of stereotype's ability to erect walls?

Anyway, today I found myself on my weekly produce run to the Korean market.  After stuffing my bag full of kale, tomatoes, pluots and other such delights, I was making my way to my car when I was struck by the sight of a very well-dressed Korean girl standing in the middle of the parking lot.  She had her hair did, her lipstick red, and her heels high.  It was a strange sight, a pretty girl in the parking lot neither coming nor going.  Just waiting.

Certainly not waiting form me, though.  I walked right past her with the quickest of quickness and proceeded to place my groceries in the car.  But as I was busying myself with the trunk, enter the Hunk.  This debonair Armenian gentleman arrives in his chariot to whisk the Korean girl away.  After stepping out of the car to greet her, the two embraced.  Not hugged, but embraced (and there is a difference between the two).  The embrace was for a brief second, but even from where I was, I could feel the electricity of the connection between these two.  A tenderness you usually don't see in public.  These two were probably only on a second or third date--there was still a hesitancy to the whole thing, and the girl had decided it's still too early to disclose the location of her domicile--but you felt good about their prospects.

And of course the ethnic pairing stood out to me.  I suppose that is a bit narrow-minded of me (or exposes my shelteredness), but you really don't see that pairing often (or at all?).  It moved me.  A budding romance built on their inner spirits.  From the inside out.  The right way.  It definitely made me happy to be living in America (or at least in California).  A Japanese guy standing in the parking lot of the Korean Market in an Armenian City bearing witness to one more small step toward the color-blind society that is our American inheritance.  It gave me a good feeling to know that when the Dream comes, it will be fueled with the Love.

--KM

"My eyes have once again been proven wrong."

The Miserable One

I don't know why but "Castle on a Cloud" decided to occupy my consciousness for a brief moment today and in doing so left a flood of memories in its wake.  Funny thing is, I don't actually associate the song with my trip to see Les Miserables as a reluctant child dragged their by his mom.  The only things I recall from that experience are wearing uncomfortable clothes, the stage rotating to expose three different set pieces, and Jean Valjean doing a series of very heroic things.  Instead, "Castle on a Cloud" sticks out in my mind because it's tied so closely to the Winter Pageant in sixth grade.

Sixth grade was a big year in elementary school.  As "seniors," we were ostensibly in charge (as much charge as you can take over an elementary school), and sort of acted like hot shots.  I went to a so-called "magnet" school, so the students didn't all matriculate to the same middle school.  Instead, kids were assigned to different "magnet" middle schools based on the whims of the Los Angeles Unified School District's Sorting Hat.  That meant this would be the last year with a large number of my cohorts, including my Secret Crush.

As with most secret crushes, I don't think my Secret Crush knew who I was.  The simple fact of the matter was she was a cool person and I was not a cool person, so our paths seldom crossed.  I suppose the extent of my contact with her was when she'd flirt with the really nerdy kid who sat next to me and "double checked" her homework answers against his.  I'd always curse his big brain and my own inability to master the vagaries of mathematics.  I'd try to use these opportunities to chat her up, but a girl who listens to Nirvana and watches the Real World is to a boy who plays Magic: the Gathering and watches Batman: the Animated Series as oil is to water.  

And so sixth grade progressed without much incident until the announcement for the Winter Pageant.  As with each and every all-grade performance in years past, there would be tryouts for solo performers.  Now, I never usually go for this sort of thing since the prospect of being front and center with a jillion parents and students staring at me was too much to bear.  So in prior years I usually took more of a . . . supporting role.  One year I was one of many nameless, faceless cats in our rendition of "An American Tale" and another year I was one of many nameless, faceless orphans in our rendition of "Oliver."  The perfect roles since less intensive roles meant more hanging out with my Best Friend during rehearsal time.  But that year, I decided I was going to use the Winter Pageant as an opportunity to impress my Secret Crush.  How exactly this was supposed to work didn't really cross my mind, but I figured since I watched so much Wonder Years it was bound to work.  Oh, the logic of prepubescence.

Anyway, the tryout song was announced as "Castle on a Cloud."  Hearing that song for the first time sent a chill up my spine.  The subtlety and complexity hidden underneath a veneer of simplicity.  The haunting yet angelic voice of the singer.  It was a masterpiece.  Something that professional singers probably struggled to achieve mastery over.  Something . . . that was gonna be a piece of cake for me.  If you practice enough, you get good at anything, right?  Ah, the lies of childhood.  And so I took a copy of the sheet music and dutifully went about practicing morning, day, and night.  In fact, I vividly recall lying awake in bed the night before the tryout and visualizing my singing transporting everyone to a literal castle on a cloud.  And after I was finished, the crowd erupted into applause, roses rained down, and my Secret Crush awaited with a big fat (French) kiss.  I went to sleep happy.

Of course, oftentimes things don't turn out just quite the way you visualize them.  Tryouts for solo performances by tone-deaf Japanese kids are among those things.  Soon after the tryout started, I could tell from the teachers' faces that something was amiss.  Elementary school teachers are kind people by nature (you really have to be to excel in that job), but I could see their horror creeping through their "smiles."  It was as painful to watch them as I'm sure it was painful to hear me butcher that poor song, especially since I had equated yelling with singing--"THERE IS A CASTLE ON A CLOUUUUUD!  I LIKE TO GO THERE IN MY SLEEEEEP!!"  When I finished, the teachers threw out the requisite "Good job!" so as not to do too much harm to my young psyche, but I knew that there would be no solo performance for me.  My Best Friend was there to greet me with a chipper, "Dude, at least now we'll get to hang out during rehearsals!"

Despite my performance at the tryout, I was still in the running for a "showcase" role at the Winter Pageant because, of course, elementary school is still the time of "everyone wins!"  Shortly after receiving formal notice that I indeed would not be selected for a solo performance, I was selected to be a part of (or rather, hidden within) a quartet, three fourths of which were very strong singers.  I think we ended up singing "My Favorite Things."  Well, they ended up singing "My Favorite Things."  I really didn't even have to sing, and I'll admit that most of the time I just mouthed the words (hey, better for everyone, right?).  

As for my Secret Crush, well, she and my Best Friend were eventually paired up as part of a small group of couples that performed "Jingle Bell Rock."  No singing; just dancing in pairs.  Each day during rehearsals I'd "practice" with my quartet while my Best Friend would dance the afternoon away with my Secret Crush.  I'd see him out of the corner of my eye and rue is dumb luck.  The irony was that my Best Friend and Secret Crush absolutely despised each other, and their daily contact only fueled their mutual hatred.  It was the absolute worst thing that happened to him, and each day after school he'd vent about his horrific experience that day over a round of Magic: the Gathering--"Dude, this is so stupid.  I can't believe I have to dance with her like that, holding hands and putting my arm around her and crap.  What're they gonna do next?  Bring out the mistletoe and make us kiss [blech]  It's just unfair.  It's really unfair."

You're damn straight.

--KM

"What a bright time.  It's the right time to rock the night away."

The Good Barber

I didn't really start caring about my hair until the fourth grade.  You know, Right about the time when you start noticing girls, and they start noticing you.  The Bad Kid who sat next to me in Ms. Warnick's class suggested that perhaps I should use some of his gel to replace my Asian Kid Bowl Cut (you know, the really androgynous one) with a more fashionable coiffure.  At first I was a bit skeptical about putting all this gunk in my hair, but it's hard not to trust someone whose hair resembles something out of a Dragon Ball comic.  And so in went the gel, and out went the old me.  After admiring my new 'do in the mirror, I took it for a test run on the black top.  I was immediately sold--girls dig nice hair.

And so from fourth grade through high school I'd take an extra 30 seconds or so in the morning to quickly run a comb and some goo through my hair.  Those who know me know that I'm not the most stylish person in the world, so that 30 seconds was a huge investment of time.  I eventually grew less diligent about goo application and hair care in general.  Moving on to the hippie hotbed of Berkeley only served to accelerate that process. What was the point of conforming to the desires of the Man and looking like a carbon copy of all the other men out there?  I was gonna go my own way.  I was gonna grow my hair out into a robust mane.  Ever since I was a kid I'd always wanted to look like the Chairman from Iron Chef, and this was my chance!  And so the I shelved the gel and forsook haircuts.

The whole "no gel; no haircut" experiment lasted many months.  However, I soon realized that although my hair was growing out, it wasn't growing out into a robust mane like that of the Chairman (I'd learn much later that this was because the Chairman's mane required a perm, something I'd never fathomed).  Instead, my bangs grew really long and just kind of hugged the sides of my face, which served to accentuate its roundness and made me look fat.  My sides and back grew straight out in unwieldy tufts.  It was a big hot mess.  Eventually the combination of "polite" hints from friends and nervous looks from strangers (I guess nothing screams "crazy person" like unkempt hair) reached critical mass.  And so I went to the barber and off with his hair!

At around that time in my life, I was volunteering at this on-campus legal clinic.  The clinic ran in two-person shifts, and mine was with this fairly attractive girl, Diane.  When we first began our shifts a few weeks prior, I'd try to make small talk with her, but it would never go anywhere.

Me: How're your classes this semester?
Her: Good
Me: Oh, mine are good, too.  Which are you enjoying so far?
Her: Yes.

All of this with a frown on her face.  Eventually I gave up trying, and we'd just sit there in silence during our hour-long shifts.  I mention this because the last day of the "Robust Mane Experience" was on a day I had a shift at the legal clinic.  I was feeling mopey after having my hair cut, and moped all the way to the clinic.  But oddly enough, when I got there, Diane was a completely different person.  All smiles and chit-chat.  We talked the whole hour and then some, going to get some coffee afterwards.  To be honest, I was very confused.  I was the same exact person as I'd always been.  Actually, probably less charming and interesting that day because of my surprise that this girl had suddenly decided to talk to me.  And then I recalled the lesson learned many years ago from The Bad Kid,  a lesson recently forgotten but now seared into my memory banks forever more--girls dig nice hair.

And so from then on I've been mustering as much vigilance as is possible for me to muster to keep my hair in a somewhat presentable state (with some lapses--hey, no one's perfect!).  Honestly, the hardest part is finding a decent person to cut your hair--I think most guys can commiserate with this.  And so the times in my life when my hair flirts dangerously with the Robust Mane days are when I'm in between barbers.  You know, like right after you move from one City to another.  Trying out a new barber is an extreme leap of faith.  You sit down in a chair, get covered in a smock so that your arms are immobilized, and then put your faith in some stranger with sharp objects to engage in an extremely delicate and precise task whose success is completely subjective.  Needless to say, it usually doesn't end well.

But when you finally do find The Barber, it's bliss.  I recently found mine after moving back to The Valley.  Chance had brought me into his establishment and his skill level keeps me coming back.  It's gotten to the point where I walk in, sit down, and he cuts.  There's no chitchat or other any attempt from him to engage me--something the introvert in me hates from a barber.  He knows what I want and just quietly goes about his business.

All this talk of hair and haircuts may seem trivial, but I think hair is a crucial part of shaping a man's identity and is a font from which confidence flows.  If you don't believe me, just observe the impotent effect a terrible haircut has on a man.  And so on this Hump Day I hope that everyone out there is having a good hair day.  That includes you, too, ladies. 

-KM

"A la cuisine!"

Crustacean Communique

I'm a fairly superstitious fellow.  I don't walk under ladders.  I don't open umbrellas indoors.  And I certainly don't abide by the number Thirteen.  I'm the kind of guy who's always tempted to buy those Turkish "evil eye" talismans--"Oh, it absorbs evil energy and stores it in a little glass receptacle emblazoned with a hauntingly all-seeing eye?  AND it breaks when it gets too 'full' of evil energy?!  Sign me up!"  So I'm also somewhat big on omens.

I mean, I get that there's ample evidence out there (you know, science and all that) showing we are the mere byproduct of zillions of tiny particles randomly colliding into each other.  That this shit called the Big Bang happened and now here we are.  But . . . what if there's more?  What if there is a Universe, and for some odd reason it tries to tell us things from time to time.  Like, "Psst!  Hey, buddy!  Yeah, you!  Hey!  Look at me!  I need to tell you something.  It's urgent!  You're about to walk by the love of your life!  No, stop! Argh!  Fine, I'll just throw this elderly coupled holding hands your way. That should do the trick."  Clearly the Universe doesn't speak Human (or with much clarity, quite frankly).  And until it figures out texting, it'll have to stick with omens to communicate (although, wouldn't little text messages from the Universe be great?  I hope the Universe uses proper punctuation and spelling.  Not like, "r u ready 4 some tru luv?")

All that to say, when I got home today I was presented with what I believe may be an omen.  Upon doing my usual "fish tank check," I noticed that one of the ghost shrimp had kicked the bucket.  I guess it's not all that unusual for something to die within the confines of an aquarium.  To my dismay, none of the residents of my fish tank have mastered immortality, and so from time to time I must use the Great Green Fish Net (as the fish call it) to remove deceased denizens and pass them through the Great Flush and onto their journey into the Night Lands.  It's a massive bummer to have to do that right after getting home from work, but it's certainly gotten easier.

Today, though, it was a bit different.  Without getting too much into the gory details, let's just say that I am now fairly confident that Humans aren't the only living creatures out there that like the taste of shrimp.  This savage scene of fish-on-shrimp violence gave me a chill right down my spine, especially given how I've been feeling lately.  Nothing particularly unusual has happened to me, but recently it does seem that many of the things that were stable in my life have now gone slightly askew.  Nothing is noticeably different, but everything feels off.  Like when a picture frame is slightly off-center.  But here, the frame is centered and it's instead the whole room that's off center (and, yes, I realize that makes me sound like a crazy person).

As I was transporting the deceased shrimp to the Porcelain Portal for the Great Flush, I couldn't help but think whether this strange shrimp sacrifice some type of omen from the Universe?  A sign of things to come?  I tried Googling "shrimp omens" but that didn't get me very far.  Other permutations on the theme left me similarly vexed.  Perhaps it is just another random occurrence.  The carbon molecules in one of my shrimp deteriorating such that it could no longer sustain life and then becoming nourishment for another massing of carbon molecules.  Dust to dust; ashes to ashes.  I guess we'll see what happens.  Hopefully it's nothing.

Hopefully the Universe doesn't speak Shrimp.

--KM

"By the telephone.  Lift up the receiver.  I'll make you a believer."

Hideo Nomo, Almost-Heat Stroke, and the City of Angels

It's Hideo Nomo bobblehead day at Dodger Stadium.  For those who don't know, bobbleheads are miniature figurines made in the likeness of certain ballplayers.  Also for those who don't know, I have an alarmingly large and ever-increasing collection of these figurines (or "dolls," as some have derisively referred them).  Anyway, the chance to add a bobblehead of my favorite Dodger was too much to resist, and so I'm on my way to go collect my very own mini-Tornado.

Originally I was going to go with The Girlfriend and Double D, but, what is it they say about the best laid plans of mice and men?  As it turns out, neither of them could make it, so I'm driving to the stadium by myself.  The A/C is blasting in the Prius, as it's shaping up to be another hot day.  Unfortunately, Hideo Nomo bobblehead day starts at 1:10 pm, right at the peak of midday Los Angeles sun.  No worries, though, as I've carefully chosen seats in what will be one of the few shaded areas of the stadium.

The traffic is particularly bad on Interstate 5.  And for no particular reason.  There's no accident or construction of anything of that nature.  It's just another instance of randomly slow Los Angeles traffic. As if everyone decided in unison to fuck with the guy in his Prius who looks to be in a hurry to go collect his bobblehead.  I eventually make it into the parking lot, and as luck would have it, I've entered through the gate what will ensure the longest possible walk to the stadium.  As I exit my car, I can see Dodger Stadium far off and mirage-like in the distance.  A beautiful gem. "Blue Heaven on Earth," as the locals say.  But to get there, I have to traverse the great asphalt desert that is the Dodger stadium parking lot.  There's no shade in the parking lot, and I instantly regret not having worn a hat or sun screen.

After surviving the Parking Lot Death March, I eventually make it inside the stadium.  But when I get to my seats, I realize very quickly that I've messed up--my seats are right smack in the middle of the sunniest part of the stadium.  The temperature dial in my car read 81 degrees, but I'm fairly confident it's closer to one jillion degrees inside the stadium.  I think the bowl-shape traps the heat by reflecting all the Sun's rays off of itself in a never ending loop of heat.  I have my sunglasses on, but even then it seems too bright.  I can feel beads of sweat forming in various places on my body even before I reach my seat.

Given how my seats are situated vis-a-vis the sun, and the fact that my anal retentiveness about time has brought me to my seats 45 minutes before game time, my section is an empty, barren wasteland.  The only other inhabitants are a Japanese family of four directly in front of me; a husband and wife and their two very young daughters.  Presumably they're also there to collect their Hideo Nomo bobbleheads.  Or at least, the father is there for that purpose, as his wife and daughters look absolutely miserable.  The father's put on a brave face so as to show everyone what a great time it is to roast alive in the midday sun!  He's got his SLR in hand and is perched on the edge of his seat.  Hovering, really, ready to snap into photo taking mode at a moment's notice.  You know, in case something exciting should happen 45 minutes before the game.  His obstinacy in the face of defeat is heroic, but eventually the threat of death by sunshine to his family causes them to vacate their seats for shadier ground,  And I am left alone to ponder--what the hell am I doing here?

Oddly enough, having a great time.  Going to baseball games alone isn't my preferred way of consuming Dodger Baseball, but it's fun in its own way.  When I go alone I feel like I absorb much more of the sights and sounds than I usually do (the absence of drinking probably helps).  I think my favorite part is seeing the "melting pot" that is Los Angeles in full effect.

Los Angeles is a weird major city in that it lacks any semblance of a respectable public transportation system, and so you're always driving around.  The byproduct of being in a car all day is that you never really have to interact with anyone, especially those outside your group (social, economic, whatever).  You might drive through a new patch of the City every once in a while, but you're doing so from the safety of your personal auto bubble.  It has the abstract feel of going on a ride at an amusement park.

I've always loved the Dodgers because it cuts through the stratification of everyday life in Los Angeles.  It's something that everyone can get behind, regardless of background or means or motive or whatever.  In a City that can sometimes feel like 9 million particles colliding into and off of each other with no rhyme or reason, baseball seems to bring some level of cohesion.  Sure, it's a trivial endeavor--a bunch of jocks getting paid too much money to play a child's game--but it's cohesive nonetheless.  From Fernando Mania to Nomo Mania to Puig Mania, it's a way for everyone to escape from the trials and tribulations of their lives.  I always get that feeling of togetherness going to the game.  It's a cool sensation walking to the stadium and seeing dudes with crazy neck tattoos chatting it up with downtown guys in suits chatting it up with moms and their kids.  After the game we're all gonna go back to our separate and very distinct lives, but for the next three hours we'll be as one.  As Dodgers fans.  As Angelinos.

Anyway, a small dose of civic pride on a Monday evening.  It's funny writing this because I never really thought of myself as an "Angelino," but that label has felt more and more comfortable in recent months.  Perhaps it has something to do with moving out of the sterile wasteland that is Orange County (sorry OC friends!) and moving up to the Valley.  In any event, not sure how I got from "sweaty, alone, and heatstroke at a baseball game" to here, but oh well.  Anything to help rationalize my obsession with diminutive Dodger dolls, right?

--KM

"In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened."

Death by Taco

I found myself at the taqueria this morning on a mission to obtain delicious tacos and burritos for The Girlfriend and I.  Unfortunately, it appeared as though the rest of the universe had also decided that this would be a fine day for tacos and burritos, so upon my arrival I was confronted with a pretty robust line.  In front of me was this guy who was acting kind of weird; a little jittery.  He'd stare at the menu for a bit and then turn to look to his left.  Stare at the menu for a bit and then turn to look to his left.  Stare.  Turn.  Stare.  Turn.  Eventually curiosity got the best of me, so when he made his left turn look, I did the same.  But, oddly enough, there was nothing to be looked at.  Just an empty space in the parking lot.  I immediately took a step or two back in case this man was insane and did something drastic that would compromise my Mexican food mission.

Eventually the guy stopped turning to his left and just stared at the menu.  What could be making this man ponderfret so much?  I mean, I know this taqueria has exceptionally good food, but it's not like it's his last meal or anything.  I was about to make a suggestion--try the lengua, perhaps?--when I heard a female voice emanating from our left.  It was sharp and shrill, like a bullet whizzing through the air.  You could actually kind of see it moving through space a la "bullet time" from The Matrix.  When it finally hit the guy, it was as a ton of bricks; with a violence such that you could feel all the malice and spite packed into such a tiny little word.

"Hey!"

After flinching a bit, the guy turned to his left (as did I).  Standing in the previously empty space was a pretty nondescript woman pushing a humongous baby stroller--the Hummer H2 of the baby stroller world.   Tucked away safely inside was a child too old to be in a stroller.  I checked both of their ring fingers and confirmed that they were occupied.  Ah, so this must be the wife.  And the pieces suddenly start to fit together.  

After making her presence known, she begins shooting laser beams of displeasure from her eyes.  Having an intimate knowledge of this woman, the guy knows she is displeased that the line hasn't moved fast enough for her liking.  It's really not his fault--he can't make the people order any faster--but I guess that's all irrelevant at this moment.  He calls out to her, "Do you want to come look at the menu?"  She nods and approaches the line with her giant stroller acting as a plow to forcibly move people out of her way.  The too-big-to-be-in-a-stroller child looks amused, an evil grin on his face.  After scanning the menu for a second, she commands her husband--"Ugh.  Just get me whatever, okay?"  For good measure she adds a little "Can you do that?" with an air of condescension.  And with that she vanishes back to whence she came.

The look on the guy's face is hard to describe, a strange cocktail of anger, fear, and confusion that--after a huge sigh--calcifies into defeat.  I guess I can empathize with him.  I mean, I don't like to use this word a lot, but his wife was a bitch.  She really was.  I didn't see any need to berate this poor guy in public.  Not only that, but give him a hard time for not ordering for her.  You could almost see the internal debate in his mind:

Ok, she said get me whatever.  But I know that she won't eat everything on the menu.  So she'll be unhappy if I order something she doesn't like.  I'll get her something that she likes.  She likes carne asada.  Oh, but I also know that sometimes she doesn't like carne asada, depending on her mood.  Today might be one of those days.  Damn.  But if I don't act quickly, she'll be mad that I didn't pick something for her, as she directed me to.  Will I get more shit by picking the wrong thing?  Or by not picking at all?

As the lines inches forward, I see the guy staring at the menu much more intensely, like you did with those "Magic Eye" pictures from back in the day--"If I stare hard enough, this amorphous grouping of letters will turn into a vision of a fish taco or a carnitas torta!"  Beads of sweat start forming on his brow.  A mild panic sets in.  Suddenly, his wife reappears with her stroller to fire another bullet--"Hey!"  She is displeased.  When the guy turns to acknowledge her presence, he asks, "So . . . what do you want to get?"  She explodes.  "WHY IS THIS SO HARD!?  Just get me two tacos!!!"  Again, the too-big-to-be-in-a-stroller child looks amused.  Again she vanishes to whence she came.

The guy eventually (mercifully?) makes it to the front of the line, orders, and takes a position at the pick-up counter.  He occasionally peeks through the tiny little window, but soon realizes that doing so will not compel the workers to make his order first.  As he waits for his order, I see him staring off into space.  A wistful look on his face, "What the hell did I sign up for?"

This guy was probably only a few years older than me, so I soon got to thinking whether this is what I had in store for me as well.  Is this what marriage is?  The wife slowly chipping away at the husband until he is little more than a servant?  You wonder, especially after hearing so many of the speeches to newly-minted grooms along the lines of, "The two magic words to a happy wedding are: 'yes' and 'dear.'"  And of course each time the crowd goes wild.  Are they laughing with the joke teller?  Or at the groom?  It's a moment whose ambiguity gets lost in the haze of celebration and alcohol.  I guess it's really nothing to be concerned about at the moment, seeing as I'm pretty far from all that becoming a reality.  Before a wife can peck peck peck you into oblivion, you need a wife, right?  So I breathed a sigh of relief and headed back to meet The Girlfriend, a mission accomplished.  Thoughts on marriage can wait for another day.  For now, there are delicious tacos and burritos to be enjoyed.

--KM

"There is no spoon."

On Cupcakes or Why It's Likely You Devour Babies

What do you see when you see a cupcake?  A tasty treat, I'm sure.  A perfect balance of cakey, frosty goodness.  But what do I see when I pass by one of those ubiquitous cupcakeries and gaze upon the neat little rows of confections?  Baby cakes.  And not just baby cakes.  Orphan baby cakes ripped from the warm embrace of their cakey parents and whisked away to be bought and sold in the elicit cupcake trade; to be displayed as chattel under the sterile fluorescent lights of some faraway display case.  I can sense their apprehension as patrons stare at them through the glass, their breath fogging it up. Mouths watering and slightly agape; lips smacking. Eyes gleaming with gluttonous intent.  And of course, that apprehension turns into terror as the unlucky ones are selected for purchase, plucked away from their brothers and sisters, and deposited into the cold, dark confines of a pink baker's box (a coffin?) as they're transported to their Final Destination.  

I'd like to believe that these little cupcakes are too young to fully comprehend what's going on.  But instinct can be a substitute for comprehension and in this instance it signals to them loudly that their situation is grave. They must sense that the next time they see the light of day, it will only be for a fleeting moment as they're transferred from the baker's box to the gaping abyss of the human mouth to The End. 

So think about that the next time you eat a cupcake.  Not just that you're fostering the elicit cupcake trade, but that you're putting a premature end to a cakey existence; depriving that cupcake of the chance to grow up to be a magnificent birthday, wedding or some other type of full-grown cake. 

Although, you might be wondering, if a cake's sole purpose in life is to be consumed as a delicious treat, does it make a difference if that purpose is fulfilled in adulthood or as a baby (or even a fetus--e.g. cake pop)?  That is an interesting philosophical question you've posed.  To which I answer, why of course it's of utmost importance for a cake to reach adulthood before it's consumed.  Why? Because the consumption of a full-grown cake typically signifies a momentous occasion, be it a wedding or birthday or retirement.  And that's the full potential of a cake.  To be an integral part of those special moments in our lives. Why else do we make sure the cake is displayed prominently before consumption?  Look back on old photos of such moments, and in addition to smiling friends and family, you'll see a cake, beaming proudly with the quiet satisfaction that it played a small part in the affair.  Cupcakes, though?  If they're lucky, maybe a brief moment of fame on Instagram, but otherwise relegated to anonymity and obsolescence immediately upon consumption.  And if you're gonna go out in gruesome fashion--eaten alive--better to have lived life to its potential and made an impact on the world, right?

I doubt my plea will have any effect on cupcake consumption.  Alas, the Machine is too entrenched and too powerful. But I hope it makes you think.  And not just that I must have consumed some kind of hallucinogenic drug prior to writing this.  I assure you, I am completely sober.  Which may or may not be any better. Oh well.  Happy Weekend!  Nom. Nom. Nom. 

-KM

"This is the story all about how my life got turned, flipped upside down."

Still Life

We're in Manhattan.  A bar on the Lower East Side, to be precise.  The liquor is flowing, the music is pumping, and the night is young.  Amid all the commotion sits a painting of two people in a quiet, empty bar.  I guess in itself nothing unusual, but I couldn't help looking at it throughout the night.

The bar in the painting is dimly lit, but not so much that you don't notice the red interior of the entire establishment.  The effect is to give the place the glow of an ember.  That slow unassuming burn that hides behind it the potential for a roaring blaze.  A guy and a girl are sitting there two or three bar stools apart.  They're the only two at the bar, as even the bartender has absented himself for the moment.  They aren't talking to each other.  Not yet, at least.

The two of them are both dressed up, and you can tell immediately that tonight is a night where they both desire to see and be seen.  The girl is wearing her trusty black dress.  The one with the low back to show off her toned muscles.  I can't see her face, but by the way she's standing it's clear to me she isn't meek.  This is a girl who knows what she wants, and tonight she wants to be old-fashioned; to be courted.  And so she holds her martini in hand and lazily watches the bottles adorning the back wall.  But we know she didn't come all the way out here to inspect bottles (as if her gaze would somehow force them out of their inert state).

You can tell that the girl senses the guy sitting to her left. Probably as soon as he took his seat.  This evening, he's chosen to wear a well-fitted black pinstripe suit.  Red tie, white fedora.  On his powerful frame, the combination gives him a regal air.  I can't see his shoes, but I assume they're wingtips.  Meticulously polished.  He's holding a cigar in his right hand, and his head is turned slightly to the right.  The brim of his hat hides his eyes, but you can tell he's looking at the girl.  His intentions are made clear to me when I see his wry smile.  He's had just the right amount of alcohol.  Enough to jump-start his game but not enough to dull his reflexes.  The universe has brought these two souls together into this space; into this moment.  It's up to them now to ascertain for what purpose.  And so without taking his eyes off the girl, he reaches over for his drink, turns toward the girl and . . .

Freeze.

The rest I don't know.  The painting stopped the universe for these two people in that magnificent moment when you first begin to take action and anything and everything are still possible.  The outcome--good, bad, or otherwise--is somewhat irrelevant at that point.  What matters is that you've set yourself on a course where there will BE an outcome--a cab ride home together, a phone number on a cocktail napkin, a drink in the face.  No matter what, there will be proof that you didn't just do nothing.

Anyway, for some odd reason I felt this strange painting captured the magic of the city.  I don't know what it is about New York but it inspires a fire within to take action (and I'm not just talking about spitting game). I think maybe it has to do with how everything there is typically the best of its kind. And of course if you believe yourself to be the best, New York is the place to get confirmation, one way or the other.  Pack millions of believers onto a little island, and the result is pure electricity.

As our party moved about from place to place last night, getting mixed up in that electric current, I couldn't help but feel that energy washing over me.  A gritty grimy baptism of sorts.  That in no way means I'm packing up for New York or otherwise feel the need to determine the status of my bestness.  But I will say the collective energy of people who've decided inaction doesn't suit them is truly infectious.  And a little tingly.

-KM

"Concrete jungle where dreams are made of."

A Return

So as most of you know, I spent the last week traveling through the Pacific Northwest.  It was an amazing trip, and I'm sure I'll be droning on and on about it ad nauseum in subsequent posts, but for now, I'd like to relay one little tidbit of information I gleaned during my adventure: the salmon run.

The salmon run occurs every year when salmon return from the ocean to swim upstream to the upper reaches of the rivers where they'll spawn.  But not just to any patch of river--the exact location where they themselves were spawned.  After four years swimming about happily in the ocean, these fish can recall with uncanny precision where they need to go when the time comes (an incredible feat considering I can barely recall where I was two Mondays ago).  If that's not amazing in and of itself, the salmon run is fraught with lethal peril.  In addition to the strong current are bears, eagles, and human beings who'd love nothing better than a delicious salmon snack.  In fact, most of the salmon won't make the journey to the spawning ground.  On some level the salmon run is depressing as all get out, but on another level, it highlights the supernatural magnetism of Home.

I thought about those salmon yesterday as I was moving into my new apartment in the San Fernando Valley.  Truth be told, I'd started growing apprehensive about the move from Long Beach to the Valley.  By any objective measure, beach living is superior to valley living--cleaner air, cooler temperatures, more outdoor activities. . . it's the beach, for Pete's sake!  And yet, the Valley is where I grew up; my own little suburban wonderland in the 818.  I can't describe exactly why, but just being here makes me feel comfortable in a way I haven't felt in a very long time.  Like I'm finally able to exhale after holding my breath for so long.

Anyway, it feels good to be back--the smog-filled air, the triple-digit heat--all of it feels right; like all the pieces are in order.  Everything is as it should be.  I guess unbeknownst to me I've been subconsciously drawn to the Valley all these years (perhaps even searching for it).  I'm hoping that this stop in my adventure lasts a while because I'm certainly looking forward to getting off the Road for a bit.  After all, what is it they say?  Ah yes, there's no place like Home.

--KM

"With so much drama in the L-B-C, it's kinda hard bein' Snoop D-O-double-G."

They Do

When I first met E, it was through the Dog Doc, as the two had become close friends while in school. At the time they didn't know it, but they were destined to fall madly in love with each other. As the universe moves in mysterious ways, it took a little bit of time for their friendship to blossom into something more. But it did.

Yesterday I had the privilege and pleasure of joining the Dog Doc and E as they celebrated their wedding. It was a simple affair without all the unnecessary trappings of your typical wedding. And yet, simple is not plain. Simple is elegant, thoughtful, and warm. Simple is spectacular. For the more you subtract that which is superfluous, the more you gain in intimacy. And of course, in the process, you allow the core of the moment--love--to shine through unencumbered; a pure white light of beauty, grace, and possibility.

The ceremony itself kept with the theme of intimacy. The bride and groom stood on the beach with their toes in the sand, encircled by family and friends in a ring of love. After some sage words from the Man of the Cloth, vows were spoken, rings exchanged, and then their first act as husband and wife--a kiss. Cheers went up from the crowd seconded by the roar of the ocean. When the two emerged from the circle, it was as something more than when they entered. And THAT is something truly worth celebrating.

Congratulations to two amazing friends as they embark on a wonderful adventure. May their true love illuminate the path forward.

-KM

"Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye."

Shy Guy Makes A Move

The Girl and I are at Seventy7, a dimly lit bar in Culver City.  As it's a Monday night, the place is very sparsely populated.  We're situated in one corner and in another sits a guy and a girl.  They're sitting somewhat upright and at a distance from each other with no physical contact.  Even from across the bar I feel the nervous energy radiating from their corner.  I can only assume that they're on a first date.

The guy is very physically fit.  You can tell he hits the gym on a regular basis, his muscles prominent beneath his blindingly-white polo shirt.  He's bald (head shaved clean), but not so that it's a detriment to his attractiveness.  You can tell that he's a very confident and successful person . . . but maybe not with the fairer sex.  On this particular evening he looks a bit out of his element.  Like the guy, the girl is also very physically fit--perhaps the two met at the gym?  She is dressed to impress.  A bit overdressed for this particular bar, but not for the moment.

Despite his impressive physique, the guy is a Shy Guy (I can spot my brethren from a mile away). Now, as a fellow Shy Guy, I am very concerned for his success and start to fret over whether his date is going well.  Having been in his position before, I can tell they're at the stage of the evening in which romantic fortune favors the bold.  Stage 1 of the date has gone well--a delightful meal and witty banter--and now the two find themselves at Stage 2, which in this particular instance consists of post-meal drinks at a bar.  I don't mean to put pressure on this guy, but this is the critical moment in their budding romance--where the girl is going to decide whether to keep Shy Guy in the pool of potential romantic interests or relegate him to the black hole from which there is no escape--The Friend Zone.  Knowing that Shy Guy is in peril, I channel all of my mental energy toward him; a laser beam of pure will--"Show her you're interested--DO SOMETHING!!!"

But Shy Guy does not stir.  Instead, it's the girl who makes a move (it would seem as though my aim could use some work).  She removes her jacket to uncover a very revealing top--a red sleeveless number with a low-cut neckline.  It is by no means slutty--not at all--but sends a very clear and very strong signal--"Hey, Shy Guy.  It's ok--I like you."  Now that the girl has broken convention and made the first move, Shy Guy has no choice but to act if he hopes to maintain this girl's interest.  And so he digs deep into the Shy Guy Playbook and . . . takes out his phone to show the girl something.  Now, for the un-Shy, this maneuver may seem somewhat strange, but it's actually quite clever in that it necessitates coming into close contact without being too forward or obvious about the whole thing.  Anyway, the girl accepts Shy Guy's invitation and, cheek to cheek, the two enter the wonderful world of cell phone YouTube videos (Chris De Burgh would've been proud).

Seeing that some type of move had been made, I turned my attention back to The Girl and lost track of Shy Guy and his date.  However, later in the evening I did notice that when they got up to leave they were leaving together.  Whatever videos were shown on that tiny cell phone screen had made this girl swoon.  Perhaps the two of them were now moving to a location with a bigger screen for more videos (at least that's what I would've suggested).  In any case, I was glad to see that this member of my Shy Guy fraternity had survived Stage 2 and would now be moving on to the next stage--"watching videos."  And by that I mean "dropping the girl off at her apartment, politely wishing her a lovely evening and then maybe--MAYBE--going in for a kiss on the cheek."

--KM

"I've never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight; I've never seen you shine so bright."

Blood, Sweat, and Yoga

So Day 1 brought with it an introduction to yoga.  And not just any ol' kind of yoga, but hot yoga.  The Girl and I went for an early-morning session in Santa Monica.  I won't lie; I was a little nervous about the whole thing.  I'm not the most physically fit individual on the planet, and everything I'd read and heard about hot yoga seemed to indicate that first-timers are guaranteed to pass out or, if they're lucky, simply vomit. 

Now, in the past I would've made up some kind of excuse to avoid putting myself in that type of situation--"I have to wash my hair" or "I have to sit around my apartment with the blinds shuttered and mediate on my navel." But something about The Girl inspires me to push the boundaries of my comfort zone, especially when it comes to things that challenge my body.  And so I stepped up to the plate for some hot, hot yoga action.

If you've never done hot yoga, it takes place inside a room that's heated to somewhere around a jillion degrees.  The stated purpose of the heat is to promote sweating (which serves to detoxify the body) and to allow for increased flexibility in joints and muscles.  However, when you add intense heat to an already intense experience--twisting and contorting the body in new and unusual ways--a natural and collateral effect is nausea and dizziness.  For me, everything came to a head at around the halfway mark of the session.  Suddenly the heat became overwhelming and my body wanted to throw up the white flag. 

But I couldn't leave the room.  Not that participants are prohibited from leaving, but I'd promised myself that I'd stay the whole session to maximize my first yoga experience (plus I wanted to earn brownie points with The Girl--hashtag egotastic!).  So after taking a knee through one set of poses, I took a deep breath and let mind overcome matter. 

I'd read somewhere that the power of yoga lies in its ability to let you to focus your mind in a way that allows your body to do amazing things.  And with that in mind, I turned my focus from the outer to the inner, disengaging my mind from the physical discomfort of the whole experience and focusing instead on the restorative process occurring to my body in invisible ways.  I won't be so bold as to say that I've unlocked the secret of thousands of years of Eastern thought (not even close), but my refocusing was able to prevent me from passing out or throwing up--no small victory.

Today, I'm sore as all get out in areas and muscle groups that I didn't even realize I had, but it's a good kind of sore.  It's amazing that the body can be so taxed by an endeavor that is so peaceful. A far cry from what is traditionally considered exercise in the Western world, activities based on aggression and the volatile explosive potential of the human body.  In retrospect, I think I've never been a very active person because those types of activities don't really suit my personality (plus I'm probably the least-coordinated person on the entire planet).  However, with yoga, I think I've found something active that I can enjoy without feeling like I'm completing a distasteful chore.  More than anything, I love the mind-body-spirit element to it.  Namaste, everyone.

--KM

"Honor your edge."

The End Is The Beginning

Today was my last day of work at the firm I'd been with since the conclusion of the bar exam four long years ago.  To be honest, it felt like any other Friday except that most Fridays I'm not cleaning out my desk and attending a farewell dinner.  I thought I'd be a bit more emotional about the whole thing--four years is a long time to be tied to anything--but I didn't get any pangs of sadness or anything as I shut down my computer and turned out the lights in my office for the last time.  

I suppose that says something about the job.  Or, at the very least, the state of my life the past four years.  Certainly a lot has changed during that time, but fundamentally I feel like I've been running in place that whole time.  You remember that scene in Garden State where Zach Braff is sitting still on the couch while the whole party is moving around him at a frenetic pace?  I feel like that.  Well, I felt like that.  Leaving work today left me feeling lighter--unshackled--and able to once again move at the proper pace.

I think a convenient way to look at life is as a book, and so it's safe to say that the end of this job signals the end of another chapter in my life.  A chapter burdened by the weight of circumstance and in which nothing of consequence happened to the protagonist.  My new job starts at the end of next month, so I'll have 30 days to . . . I'm not sure.  Part of that time will be spent moving and another part will be spent traveling.  The rest?  I suppose I'll spend it rediscovering some of the things that went abandoned these last four years.  In any case, it always feels good to turn the page; to start a new chapter.

--KM

"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show."

The Kettle Makes A Wager

It's said that a kettle that's quick to heat up is also quick to cool down.  I don't know if there's any literal truth to this saying, but I do know that the tale of the quick-heating kettle describes a bad habit of mine.  I can be scattered at times and tend to move from one thing to the next pretty quickly.  I will focus all of my attention on something with laser-like intensity only to lose interest a short while later (it's a miracle this blog has lasted as long as it has).  This tendency is most pervasive when it comes to hobbies, but unfortunately it's crept into my romantic life as well.

There have been several girls who I was absolutely positively 100% sure was the girl with whom I'd spend the rest of my life.  I felt it with the burning certainty of Truth pretty soon into the relationship and would express this to the girl shortly thereafter.  I'd bare my soul to her and sell our relationship as a mighty redwood, destined for eternity.  The sale would work, and things would progress smoothly for a while.  Until that inevitable moment when the internal switch would turn to "off," and the passion would evaporate very, very quickly from the relationship.  And at that moment it became clear to both of us that I was no better than a used car salesman, the mighty redwood turning out to be nothing more than a feeble sapling.  A dud.  A lemon.  Of course, this was not my intention, but intentions are hardly relevant at that point.  

I've been thinking a lot recently about the quick-heating kettle.  As you know, I've met a wonderful girl with who I absolutely enjoy spending time.  It's only been several weeks, but it feels like we've known each other much longer than that.  There's a "click" between she and I, like two interlocking Lego pieces.  In the past, this is exactly the point where I would start "The Big Sale" to convince this girl that there exists something that doesn't (at least not yet).  I'm mature/smart enough now to refrain from that and have actually been trying to take the opposite tack here, focusing on just letting things develop organically without any unnatural interference from me.  And yet, organic has still resulted in a rather accelerated pace.  

Accelerated is not bad per se, but with my history, I worry.  Statistics and probability tell me that in all likelihood this relationship will end in failure.  History tells me that this relationship, organic or otherwise, is moving down the same ol' path of "hot-->cold-->fail-->solitude."  It's only a matter of time until I lose interest.  Again.  Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.  I'm just waiting for the clock to strike midnight and the bells to toll--FAIL!  FAIL!  FAIL!  

These are the thoughts that drifted through my mind while with The Girl yesterday evening, forming a dark cloud over our heads.  As the evening progressed, the cloud seemed to grow bigger and bigger, fueled by my negativity and doubt, threatening to unleash its chaos down upon us.  But while I was busy concerning myself with the cloud, The Girl had brought us to a bowling alley arcade for a nightcap of Street Fighter II.  As the quarters were deposited and the machine pleasantly "blip-blip'd" to acknowledged being fed, the cloud seemed to recoil and shrink a bit.  She selected Chun-Li and I Ryu.  The cloud recoiled and shrank again.  As the rounds progressed, as the two of us mashed on buttons and directed our avatars in spirited combat, the cloud kept shrinking and shrinking until it dissipated itself right back to where it belonged.  To nothing.

In our final match, as Ryu is getting his ass handed to him via helicopter kick, I look over to see The Girl's victorious expression matching that of her avatar on screen.  And at that moment another saying popped into my head:  

"Gamble everything for love, if you are a true human being.  If not, leave this gathering.  Halfheartedness does not reach into majesty." --Rumi

That's not to say I'm about to revert to my old ways and declare, "THIS IS IT!"  No, nothing like that.  It's just . . . I won't be a prisoner to the past.  I think I've paid the penalty several times over for past transgressions (unintentional or otherwise) and have come a long way since those early days.  And I won't let fear of failure become a self-fulfilling prophecy either.  Of course, with that said, I realize that the outcome of this situation is far from certain and the odds remain stacked against me.  Failure is still definitely a very real possibility here.  But, so is true love.  And for that, I am willing to make a wager.

--KM

p.s.  Thanks to Double D for that Rumi quote.

"Luck be a lady tonight."

I'll Catch the Next One

Those who know me in the slightest know that I really really really really really like the Dodgers.  If "fan" is short for "fanatic," it's because of people like me.  I support the team through thick and thin, and take personal offense when others besmirch the Dodgers' good name (I'm looking at you, Giants fans!!!).  The team and I are joined at the hip in an awkwardly symbiotic relationship.  And it's for this reason that I try really hard to consume all 162 (that's right--one hundred and sixty-friggin'-two) games in the season.  Most of the time that means watching at home with only Vin Scully to keep me company.  In the off chance that I can't be in front of a television, I listen to the game on the radio or track the play-by-play on my phone.  Some would call this level of devotion unhealthy.  And normally I would agree but for the fact that without my attention to each and every game, the team's performance would suffer.  Clayton Kershaw wouldn't have won the Cy Young award, and Matt Kemp wouldn't have come oh-so-tantalizingly close to winning the MVP award.  And so, I considered it my duty to watch.

A strange thing happened yesterday, though.  The Dodgers beat the San Diego Padres by a score of 4 to 3, and I know this not because I watched the game, but because I checked the score the following day.  Truth is, I didn't watch or listen to one moment of the game.  Nor did I have any urge to check the score while the game was in progress.  I didn't forget there was a game, and nothing happened to make me forsake the Boys in Blue.  No, it's just that I had a more pressing engagement.

Last night The Girl and I met up to try our hand at homemade pizzas using store-bought dough and toppings with our own handmade sauces.  Hers was a delightful combination of pesto, prosciutto, tomatoes, and fresh mozzarella that she conjured up out of her imagination (left); mine a bit more on the traditional side-- a "classic" margherita.  Going into the evening, I had a gut feeling that things would go smoothly, despite both of us lacking any pizza-making experience.  But upon consulting friends and the Internets, trepidation started to creep into my mind--"What's a pizza stone and do I need one?  What the heck is 'parchment paper,' and why does everyone say I will need one?  Will the oven get hot enough, and what if it doesn't?"  By the time we were fully entrenched in dough-kneading and sauce-making, trepidation had grown into anxiety--"the dough is oddly misshapen. . . the sauce doesn't look the right color . . . um, how are we gonna get the pies into the oven?"  Yikes!

But of course, as with many things in life, your gut feeling deserves your trust when it comes to new adventures, be they culinary or romantic.  That became clear upon taking out the first pizza, the margherita (right).  Not only did it look and smell fabulous (my crap picture doesn't do it justice), but in the process of baking it morphed into a shape that is suspiciously heart-like in character.  After that it was smooth sailing as unnecessary anxiety quickly melted away, and we enjoyed a lovely dinner of pizza, kale salad, and wine followed by some delightful conversation.  It was an evening filled with learning and discovery.  I learned that a hot surface in the oven for the pizza to rest is the key to a delicious crust and that a pizza peel is pretty key if you're thinking of scaling Mount Pizza.  And, I discovered that although I really really really really really like the Dodgers, there is something that I like even more.

--KM

"C'est si bon.  Lovers say that in France when they thrill to romance.  It means that it's so good."

Slaying The Parasite or How I Had A Great Weekend

At some point in the last few years, my weekend routine became exactly that.  A routine.  And a boring one, at that.  Friday night usually involved dinner and/or drinks to blow off some steam.  Saturday meant household errands and laundry.  Sunday was reserved for bemoaning how quickly the weekend went and how the work week loomed oh-so-uncomfortably close.  Every now and again there'd be an outing with friends peppered here and there, but they did nothing to stop the unrelenting juggernaut that was the Weekend Routine, bouncing harmlessly off its hull like B.B.'s off a battleship.  Eventually the Weekend Routine grew to infest Monday then Tuesday then the rest of the weekdays until it shed its adolescent "Weekend" stage and become a full-grown 24/7/365 behemoth, leveling up to become The Routine.

Now, the thing about The Routine is that it's not a monster in the traditional sense.  It doesn't want to rip your head off and eat your brains or otherwise do you swift and brutal violence.  No, it doesn't have that kind of ambition, charisma, or bravado.  It's lower than that.  Much lower.  The lowest of the low.  It's a parasite.  And like any good parasite it needs a host.  Enter deliciously oblivious Japanese man.

To trap its victim for consumption, The Routine envelops it in a cocoon of comfort, lulling it into a false sense of security.  "Hey buddy, everything's ok in here.  There's nothing out there worth pursuing.  Why mess up the good thing we have?  You work so hard.  Why not take it . . . easy."  The physical nature of the cocoon is such that you can see out and people can see in, but nothing can pass through the walls.  So The Routine casually swats away words of concern from friends and others while the host slumbers peacefully, unaware that it's trapped at all.  And all the while, The Routine feeds on the most delicious and valuable of human possessions--time.  Each day spent within its clutches is another not spent seeing, hearing, smelling, touching, and tasting all that makes the world so magnificent.

And so was my life.  Until this past Friday when I looked out from the cocoon and saw a girl there who I'd never seen before (or at least a girl I don't remember ever seeing before).  A girl who stirred something deep within.  I wanted to stop her before she got too far away, but when I went to reach out my hand, I was met with the hard, sticky shell of the cocoon.  Sensing my irregular movement, The Routine showered me with a heavier-than-usual dose of naysay.  "Hey dude, what're you doing?  Where're you trying to go?  She's not who you think she is.  She's ordinary and uninteresting just like the rest.  Don't bother going out in the cold.  Stay here where it's warm.  Come on, buddy.  It's me and you against the world."  It was no use, though.  This girl's mere presence had shaken me out of my stupor.  No amount of sweet talk from the parasite was going to keep me trapped within its hot, dark, slimy prison any longer.  And so I did something it wasn't expecting--I fought back.

I kicked and punched and clawed and bit and scratched until I'd made way out of the cocoon; until I was something I hadn't been in a while--free.  That first breath of fresh air had the sweet taste of possibility; of the unexpected.  Something for which I hungered after my long slumber.  I looked back to see my former captor slowly withering away, my escape having caused a fatal wound.  I stepped over the slowly expiring parasite and went to find the one who'd inspired my breakout.  When I finally caught up to her, we stood there for a moment and exchanged a silent glance.  Of course, there's only so much glance that can be exchanged before it gets awkward, so I reached out, took her hand, and the rest is Weekend (the non-routine variety):

A Dodger Stadium picnic with delicious sandwiches from the Farm; a 3-0 victory for the hometeam; a drink (or six) at a Bar Far away; gangsta music on LA's most gangsta freeway, the 110; a private moment in the parking garage . . . interrupted by a really drunk brotha with a bag of fast food drive-thru; a late night; an early morning; picking up one car and dropping off another; Costco sample heaven; hoppin' in Ferrari; Lincoln Blvd; Santa Monica; the Daily Bread; Third Street Promenade; the People's Court; shining bright like a diamond; a $20 miscalculation; froyo with more than one topping; an encounter with a genius; picking something up a day later than expected; top down; Lincoln Blvd; masseuses; Indian food (hold the meat); sparkling wine; nerds; The Hunk; a beautiful pianist; another private moment; another late night; another early morning; brunch with friends.

And, to cap it all off.  A vintage Polaroid picture.  Not too shabby for a guy still trying to get his post-cocoon bearings.  Although, I must admit that it's easier when walking hand in hand with another.  After all, as I'm quickly learning, life isn't meant to be a party of one.

--KM

"The sun is gone, but I have a light.  The day is done, but I'm having fun.  I think I'm dumb.  Or maybe just happy."

Searching For Something

I think the hardest thing about dating as a thirty-something is that you just don't have the luxury of making incidental contact with other single people.  The biggest thing is not being in school anymore.  It's amazing how few people you meet as a working stiff.  In addition to which, as the pool of people in the "married" and "engaged" columns grow, so shrinks the pool of those in the "single" column.  Not having the skill set to find my true love at a bar or the grocery store, I turned to life's great equalizer--the Internet.  No other invention in human history has made communication and connection so easy and accessible.  Of course this modern marvel would provide me the much-needed boost in my quest to find true love, right?

Wrong.  Absolutely wrong.

I'm definitely no online Casanova  but I think my sample size of these types of first dates is large enough to say with some degree of certainty that most of them result in failure.  Like 99%.  It seems that no matter how swimmingly the initial courtship goes via the Internet, you can bet money that the girl and I will be leaving our encounter just the same as when we met--single.  But it's not just the failure rate.  No, I'm tenacious enough not to let mere failure bother me.  It's the manner of failure.  Failure of the utter soul-crushing variety.  Most of these things start with the girl and I meeting face-to-face and her smile slowly deteriorating into a frown.  I'm sure my face exudes the same level of enthusiasm for the encounter; a feeling of "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"  Of course, at that point it's too late to back out. Online etiquette dictates that some semblance of a "date" be performed.  So the two of us go through the motions with the same level of joy as visiting the dentist.  And after it's all mercifully over and a pleasant handshake goodbye has been exchanged, I'm left to contemplate, "I friggin' drove 30 miles for that?"

And that's just one date.  Stack those up one on top of the other in some sick, teetering Jenga tower of romantic ineptitude, and the weight of all that joylessness starts to really wear you down.  I will say, though, that every once in a while you meet someone with which you wouldn't mind having a second date.  You don't find each other repulsive, no small victory.  But more than that, there are commonalities--she likes dogs, too!  Ah, there's that small glimmer of hope that perhaps this will be the one that springs forth into something special.  And so the first date continues into a second and third. . . only to wither and die on the vine like all the others.  At about date three, you realize that the whole thing is just am empty facade.  A false hope (the worst kind); a promise that will never be fulfilled.  As much as you both want it to be so, it isn't.  And you both know it.  So in the end it becomes just another dead carcass to add to the ever-growing pile.

Needless to say, the whole proces makes you really tired.  More than tired.  Exhausted.  But even beyond that.  It's a feeling for which I have no word to describe it.  But whatever it is, it makes you seriously contemplate giving up on the whole thing.  "If it was meant to happen, it would've happened by now.  Just like it has for everyone else.  The clock's struck midnight, and the party's over, pal.  Leave that glass slipper by the door on your way out."  In the period of three brief months, excitement turns into anxiety turns into desperation turns into the worst of all emotions--apathy.

But, because life is funny like that, just when the walls are really starting to close in, it happens.  You meet that girl.  The circumstances of your meeting are similar to all the others before, but you know right away that she is nothing like the rest.  She is someone with which you have that something.  Call it spark or chemistry or whatever, but it's something that the wisdom of age has taught me comes few and far between.  Not only that, but like most things that are truly special, it is fragile and delicate.  Something that demands my attention and care, but not something to be suffocated.

Truth be told, I'm a little nervous about striking that balance given that I'm usually all thumbs when it comes to things like this.  Like, in the past, this is usually where I would've proclaimed that this girl is "The One," only to have to walk that back in a few months.  Of course, I know better now.  That such things are not meant to be proclaimed by me.  At least not now.  If it is, it is.  A truth is always the truth; not something that needs broadcasting.  But, although a truth, it is one that takes time to be revealed.  Patience and diligence, young grasshopper.  I suppose it's a bit embarrassing to be admitting that I'm learning these obvious life lessons so late in life, but better late than never, right?  And so with that, off I go.

--KM

"I know beyond a doubt that my heart will lead me there soon."

A Trip to the Utopian Future

Perched high atop a hilltop above the mighty 405 freeway, the Getty Center overlooks Los Angeles with an air of casual grace.  There's no direct automobile access to the museum, so the journey to the Getty Center starts at a rather nondescript underground parking garage tied to a tram that takes you up to the hilltop.  When you enter the parking garage, you're clearly tethered to the present, but the small details seem a bit different; like something really special is in store.  That feeling is confirmed as soon as you step out of the parking garage's elevator into the tram station.  It's light and airy with a hint of whimsy.  Everything is very clean, but not in the sense that it's free of dirt (of which it is), but more in the sense that it's free of the superfluous.  You feel like you're leaving behind the dirt and grime of your everyday life and putting on the robes of learning.  The future is evoked by a semi-infinity pond and a clean, white motif.  However, small details like wooden pergolas give the place a familiar feel; that it's your future.  As I'll soon learn, this is a theme for the entire museum.  The juxtaposition of new and old; artificial and organic.  Blended together and living in perfect harmony.

The whisper-quiet tram arrives to whisk us to the museum at the top of the hill.  The ride is smooth, like floating on air.  As we take an architectural tour, the docent quickly informs us that the cleansing feeling at the tram station is by design of the architect, Richard Meier.  As the tour progresses, you realize just how truly amazing the museum is.  Meier's architectural philosophy is to bring order to space, so everything at the Getty Center is on a fairly strict grid system, with the columns and tiles lining up perfectly.  But despite that level of precision, it never feels foreign, as there is liberal use of organic material within the compound--travertine stone, water, lush trees.  

As you enter the main lobby with its cylindrical center space opening up into the sky, you can't help but feel as though you're in a futuristic space terminal.  From the lobby is the central courtyard.  The first thing you notice is that the roar of Los Angeles is silenced and replaced with the soothing sound of running water.  Trees line the courtyard's main reflection pool, offering a space to do some serious introspection or just rest those weary feet.  The second thing you notice is the color.  The Getty Center is white, but two kinds of white.  Pure white and "Getty white."  The majority of the buildings are in Getty White, sort of an off-white that was designed not to blind people when hit by the glorious California sun.  The pure white--the white actually preferred by Meier for the entire complex--is reserved for moments when evoking movement is necessary--elevators, doorways, curvatures, etc.  It's striking to step into a super-tall, bright-white, whisper-quiet elevator and emerge into a room filled with impressionist paintings.  Again, the juxtaposition of two polar opposites is done in a way that is familiar and comfortable.

I'll stop here since I'm not really doing the place justice.  But trust me, it felt like the utopian future.  Something out of Star Trek (the Next Generation, for those keeping score).  You know, that Man has come to a point in his evolution where knowledge and learning superceded violence and destruction.  Perhaps that feeling had something to do with the company I was with.   I was fortunate enough to have taken this trip into the utopian future while on a date.  A good omen perhaps?  I'll leave the reading of tea leaves and crystal balls to the professionals and simply say that for now I'm content with the here and now.  But, let's just say I'm also definitely looking forward to the future.

--KM

"Engage."