Eye of the Sabertooth Tiger

February sucked.

Although not without its bright spots, the majority of those 28 days were absolutely horrible, which was especially disappointing given how 2013 came storming out of the gate with a spectacular January.  So, to celebrate the occasion of the calendar  turning to March 1st, I accompanied the Apothecary and her friends to a party at the Natural History Museum.

For those of you who haven't been, the Natural History Museum has a terrific collection--rare gems, ancient artifacts, all manner of taxidermified animals.  The highlight, though, is their fossil exhibits.  Tyrannosaurus rex, woolly mammoth, ancient man--they're all there.  And, for all you Wonder Years fans, the museum is also the backdrop of a pivotal moment in Kevin Arnold's life--when Winnie discovers his infidelity and informs him that she's met another guy.  All told, the place is awesome.

But unsatisfied with just being awesome, the Natural History Museum gets downright fantastic by throwing itself a little party on the first Friday of each month, complete with keynote speaker, food trucks, and full-service bars.  Although all the exhibits are still open during the party, I must admit that the educational value of each seems to decrease proportionally to the amount of alcohol consumed.  As the evening progresses, thirst for knowledge is replaced by desire to mingle.  And so the museum obliges by dimming the lights, getting the liquor flowing, and transforming itself into a nightclub for nerds.  This is not meant to be negative.  Far from it.  As as a nerd myself, I think the advent of this type of club is pure genius.  I mean, I think clubbing can be fun, but how many times have I been to a traditional club and felt like the subject of a "which of these does not belong" brain teaser?  No more.  Although it lacked the regular accoutrements of a traditional club, the museum certainly captured that essence--a place to take it back a couple notches on the evolutionary scale and let out the primal side.

So, perhaps it was fitting that the focal point of the experience--the dance floor--was set up in the African Mammal Hall.  The space looks like your traditional club with its dim lighting, splashes of neon lighting, and a DJ conducting from his perch.  But of course, a traditional club doesn't have wild animals overlooking the whole affair.  The juxtaposition was strange and cool at the same time, which I suppose is what makes it nerdy, and it added a pinch of feralness to the already bubbling primal cauldron--the might of the elephant, the grace of the oryx, and the ferocity of the lion.  It was impressive.  And I am sure to be returning.

--KM

"Pardon me, the music is moving.  Moving from left to right."

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."

Metamorphin' Power Shoppers

Word of Resolution Three spread quickly, and those willing to lend their hand have stepped forward, first among them being Double D.  Needless to say, he was excited and thinking big.  "Time to jump right into the deep end, my friend."  The Internet quickly became his chalkboard as he began to school me in new concepts like "selvedge denim," "shawl collar cardigans," and "wingtip shoes." As all these new ideas went whizzing by, I felt a little overwhelmed.  Flashbacks of my engineering days reemerged in my mind--"What the hell have I gotten myself into!?"  It soon became clear that I was a deer caught in the bright headlights of modern mens fashion.  I politely suggested to the professor that perhaps starting off with the advanced lesson was a bit too ambitious.  How about we instead start at the shallow end, complete with little floatie things around my arms?

And so began an adventure to the outlet mall.  There are several in the Greater Los Angeles area, but the one Double D chose for my remedial lesson lies in a sleepy little town called Camarillo.  From what I could gather, the outlet mall is the focal point of the town.  Its claim to fame, perhaps?  The outlets are large, the entire complex taking up multiple strip malls and requiring a car to get from strip mall to strip mall.  If one were to be so bold as to go into every store, it would probably take a good week.  In any case, it's definitely a place of pilgrimage.  People had come from far and wide to partake in discount deals for misfit clothing, and Double D and I became part of this motley fellowship.

I should probably mention that I get bored of shopping very easily, which I realize is going to be somewhat of a handicap in accomplishing Resolution Three.  Double D does not suffer from this affliction.  So, as we'd bounce from store to store, I'd quickly have my fill and then sit around and do some people watching while Double D meticulously perused the racks.  Many of the pilgrims were pretty nondescript, but one really stood out to me, a tall, lanky fellow with pale skin and sandy blonde hair.  He was on a shopping binge of some sort, holding in each hand three or four bags, all from different stores.  He was also distressed, moving from store to store with an urgency more commonly seen in those looking for something recently lost.  What stood out more than anything, though, was his gait, left leg moving with left arm; right leg moving with right arm.  I found it unusual because we tend to walk with each arm in sync with the opposite leg.  The result was something reminiscent of a caveman.  Violent and brutish.   But oddly enough, when he spoke, he was very soft spoken and polite, at one point even apologizing to me profusely that his bags were hindering my ingress and egress.  The juxtaposition of the brutish and the submissive made for an odd pairing but showed the conflict raging in his soul.

I was dying to know what could torment this otherwise nondescript guy and fuel his shopping binge, but societal norms stopped me from making the inquiry.  My imagination quickly stepped in to fill in the blanks (perhaps a residual effect of my being an only child).  So here was this guy, Jeremiah Jebediah Johnson.  His friends call him "Jerry," so we'll do the same.  At one point we were in the same store, and I noticed him trying on clothes at an unsustainable pace.  I wanted to go over there and tell him to slow down a bit, but the frenzy in his eyes stopped me.  A wildness you might see in a starving beast.  Obviously something had taken hold of and infected his gentle spirit.  What could cause a good man to act in such a way?  It had to be a girl (I apologize in advance that my lack of imagination usually results in my people-watching scenarios revolving around dating).  Jerry must've just gotten out of a long term relationship.  Dumped most likely.  His girlfriend since high school had suddenly decided to move to New York.  Where she's headed, she can't afford to be weighed down by the past, much to Jerry's misfortune.  No room in the Big Apple for anything to remind her of Camarillo; a place she'd always been secretly ashamed of.  And that includes you, Jerry.  "But I could go with you. . ." 

As you may have guessed, Jerry's plea went unanswered.  As did all of his subsequent texts and long distance phone calls.  It doesn't take that many unreturned voicemails to hammer home a point--"It's over, Jerry."  Devastated, Jerry decided that what's good for the goose is good for the gander, so he'd forget this high-school-sweetheart-turned-big-city-harlot much like she forgot him.  She'll get wiped from his memory Eternal Sunshine style.  The surefire way to do that?  Change himself.  Leave that hapless sucker Jerry in the dustbin of the past and move forward as Jeremiah, the suave player extraordinaire. 

So here Jerry and I find ourselves in the same store in the same outlet mall with the same goal--transformation.  That makes us kindred spirits of sorts, but we were setting ourselves up to walk down two completely different paths.  Self improvement is my motivator; slow and steady my pace.  Jerry's pace is quicker, and his motivation comes from a much darker place.  I'm somewhat curious to see what his metamorphosis will yield, but have my concerns given that rage, despair, and spite are its incubators.  Will he leave the cocoon as Jeremiah the monarch butterfly; the Man that all women desire?  Or Triple J, the twisted demon seeking only to bed as many women as possible?

As I was writing the ending to Jerry's story in my mind, Double D tracked me down.  After telling him about Jerry, he responded with a quizzical, "Why are you sitting here stalking that guy, weirdo?"  I was going to go into more detail about Jerry's tale but thought better of it, what with Double D being much more of a pragmatist than me.  So I quickly gathered my wits and went back to the task at hand; my own little humble metamorphosis.  I left Camarillo with something called a "Harrington jacket," a purchase I'm definitely pleased with.  Double D assured me that next time he won't let me futz around in the shallow end, but we'll see.  I have an upcoming engagement with the Apothecary for another run at Resolution Three.  Much like Double D, she also subscribes to the "Deep End" approach, comparing the situation to a bandaid.  And what do we do with bandaids? 

"Rip that shit off, yo."

Yikes!

--KM

"I bomb atomically.  Socrates' philosophies and hypotheses can't define how I be droppin' these mockeries."

All I Got For Christmas Was Freedom.

January and February of last year were particularly rough months for me.  A combination of it being the depths of a bitter winter, the heater in my apartment being broken, work being out of control, and a very close relative moving into the afterlife.  Of course, because the universe moves as it does, just as things were darkest and coldest, a girl entered my life.  She was wonderful--smart, funny, beautiful--and given the timing I had my suspicions as to her origin.  Heavenly, perhaps?  Oddly enough, we'd known each other in college.  Not well, though.  At best she and I were acquaintances, each of us perhaps having attended a house party thrown by the other.  And I'd venture to guess most of our communication back then was in the form of AIM chatting.  You know, back when Internet stalking consisted primarily of decoding cryptic Away Messages on AIM.  I suppose in that vein we reconnected through the magic of Facebook--thank you, 21st Century!  Oh, did I mention I also had a major crush on this girl way back then?  It kind of developed late in the game.  Like "a few weeks before graduation" late in the game.  After graduation I was off to Japan and she was off to not-Japan, so I figured no sense in making my affections known.  Moving across the sea is complicated enough without injecting a long-distance relationship, right?

Anyway, fast forward to last February.  A friend request accepted turns into meeting for pancakes turns into dinner turns into a budding relationship.  During the course of that relationship we discover that we both enjoy Game of Thrones.  "You also like amazingly-written and superbly-acted plot-driven fantasy genre television serials!!??!?!  I thought I was the only one!"  But although she'd seen the HBO series, she'd never read the books.  So I let her borrow mine.  All of them.  Hey, this thing was going to last forever, so I figured I might as well.

But alas, forever forever turned out to be several months.  Things began to sputter as the relationship progressed, and one balmy July afternoon I was summoned to her residence and informed that "we need to talk. . ."  Needless to say, the talk ended in an agreement to mutually part ways.  For the best, really, given the relationship's recent trajectory.  It was as civil as separations go; the work of true professionals.  In fact, we sealed it with some Tasty Noodle House.

Now, unfortunately, as with most separations, there are loose ends that needed tying.  And in this case that was my Game of Thrones books.  It's funny because the second I started driving away from her place on that July evening I realized that she still had my books.  I was tempted to turn around and collect them, but didn't.  I mean, that would be a tad bit awkward, right?  "Hey, I'm not even sure if you're done reading those books, but I need them back so they can sit on my bookshelf and collect dust.  K?  Thx.  Bai."  Nah, it didn't have to be like that.  So I waited for her to contact me, for surely this is the correct protocol for post-relationship exchange of belongings, right?  The borrower must contact the lender.  Plus I figured she'd need time to finish all four books (no need for me to get them piecemeal).  And so I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  July became August; summer became autumn, and I continued to wait.  All the while silence from the girl.  

Around the beginning of October I thought something must be amiss.  Had something happened to her?  Or maybe it was just taking her a long time to read the books?  She is a busy person after all.  Still, how long does it take, right?  So I decided to contact her.  Which then opened up a completely brand new can of worms labeled: "How?"  Should I call?  Text?  Show up unannounced at her place in the dead of night?  Should she bring them to me?  Me go to her?  Meet in the middle?  It's a delicate matter this business of getting your belongings back.  In a sense they're hostages, and I was in the worst position having no hostages of my own to trade.  No, this would take some delicate negotiation, projecting a firm desire to get my belongings back without crossing into pettiness.  Also complicating the matter was that I was still completely happy with the separation, and given a lack of any communication from her, I could only assume the same was true for her.  So I didn't want any communication from me to be interpreted as an attempt to rekindle things.  But I also didn't want to convey my desire not to rekindle things too directly.  

Ultimately I decided on email, a happy medium between texting and calling.  As luck would have it, I received an immediate response from her.  And acknowledgement that she still has my books!  This was progress.  I quickly replied with a request that she let me know of her availability so we can coordinate an exchange.  But no response came.  Only more silence.  And at that point my honor forbade me from initiating contact again.  So there I was back to square one.  October became November; autumn became winter.  All the while I waited, and all the while more silence from this girl.  

During that time I thought a lot about those books and enlisted the advice of many in how to retrieve them without losing too much face.  Perhaps one of my most trusted advisors was the Apothecary, one of my oldest and truest friends.  Now, when presented with the facts of my situation, the Apothecary responded as most girls tended to do--"Why don't you just ask her again?  They're your books and you want them, right?"  Perhaps she was right.  Take the direct approach--Man up!  But in my mind, it was too late for that.  Plus, you know, the whole pride thing.  I'd like the books back, but not to the point where I need to beg for them.

As winter progressed and the Holiday Season arrived, the Apothecary and I exchanged gifts.  As is my custom I prefer to wait until the big day to unwrap anything, so her gift sat on my coffee table, perfectly wrapped and . . . sparkling.  Was her gift winking at me?  It did have a certain twinkle in its eye.  It was a decent weight, cube-shaped, and made no sound when shaken.  What could it be?  I pondered that in between planning sessions for "Operation: Tyrion's Liberation."  When Christmas Day finally arrived I opened the Apothecary's gift first.  As the wrapping paper melted away, and I realized what lay beneath, I couldn't help but smile--with Santa's blessing she'd snipped the cord to the past.  Time to move forward.  And just in time for the Year of the Phoenix.

I sat there and looked at those four nondescript paperback novels for a good while.  They were a lot smaller than I'd remembered them.  Or at least how I'd recast them in my mind's eye--four giant leather bound tomes requiring separate skeleton keys to open.  I guess it made me realize how quickly mortal possessions can become shackles in the context of a relationship (even one long over).  I do think that a little bit of our essence rubs off on whatever we give to our significant other, which perhaps make the whole "getting your stuff back" part so difficult.  You're not simply retrieving "stuff;" you're retrieving little pieces of you that no longer have any need to be with the person who took custody of them.  Those little pieces were exchanged in the light of a promise now broken, and you want them back.  I dunno, maybe I'm a bit too sentimental.  I suppose books are just books.  Still, ever since opening the the Apothecary's gift, my spirit's felt lighter; unchained.  I feel . . . free.

--KM

"Apologies for losing my cooling.  Losing today, tonight."