The Thin [Caffeinated] Line Between Love and Addiction.

I love coffee.

For me, the best cup of coffee is that first cup on a Saturday morning.  I love the ritual of its preparation--filtering the water, measuring the beans, delivering it all to Mr. Coffee for transformation; the same way each time, the Tao of the First Cup.  I love the growling and "whoosh!" sounds Mr. Coffee makes as he gets down to business; non-verbal reassurances to me of how diligently he's working to extract very ounce of potential from those magic beans.  I love the aroma that fills my apartment as Mr. Coffee progresses farther and farther into his mission of utmost urgency and importance.  I love hearing the "beep!  beep!" that signals the transformation is complete.  I love seeing the steam rise up from my favorite mug as I make the first pour; the indiscriminate pot of coffee turning into the First Cup.  I love adding a dash of cream and watching it swirl around; each time different, but each time the same--Yin confronting Yang and the two agreeing to meet in the middle.  I love taking that first sip and how it tastes like possibility distilled into its purest form; a herald of the coming day and the freedom that is the weekend.

Now, although I love coffee, I will admit that I am also a frequent patron of Starbucks.  And based on that admission I've had many tell me that it's unholy for a coffee-lover to patronize Starbucks.  It's an abomination.  Unclean.  "How can you enjoy Starbucks?  That evil, faceless corporation that's turned coffee-drinking into a profit-driven enterprise filled with cake pops and disgusting-smelling breakfast sandwiches?"  It's simple really--Starbucks isn't coffee.  At least not to me.  Sure, Starbucks sells "coffee," as you'd find that term defined in the dictionary--"A hot drink made from roasted and ground bean-like seeds of a tropical shrub."  But for me, what makes something a cup of coffee is everything else that surrounds it: the ease and freedom that accompanies the First Cup, the leisure of the cup enjoyed after a delicious dinner, the camaraderie of all those cups enjoyed with friends at your favorite cafe.  That's coffee.  Obviously Starbucks doesn't sell anything remotely similar to that.  But what it does sell is a caffeinated beverage that tastes the same every time you order it.  No matter the time or place, my Venti Iced Americano is going to taste just like it did the last time and just like it will the next time--bitter and devoid of personality.  It's the efficiency, effectiveness, and consistency of Starbucks that keeps me coming.  In other words, it gets the job done.  If I'm going into a Starbucks, it means I'm en route somewhere, be it across the street to my office for some frenzied brief-writing,  across town to meet friends, or across the ocean for some international intrigue.  Either way I've got something to do, and I need my fix of caffeine.  I guess that makes me a drug addict and Starbucks my dealer.

Realizing that I'm a drug addict was somewhat depressing.  But that depression melted away the other morning when I stepped into a Starbucks on the way to see my parents and realized I am not alone.  It was the first time I'd been into a Starbucks during the rush that accompanies the morning commute, as I generally brew my own weekday morning coffee.  It was kind of a shock seeing a line of people snaking out the door, each person with a scowl, grimace, or other look of displeasure on his or her face.  Feet were tapping and watches constantly checked.  It was tense.  Truth be told, I almost walked out of the place, fearing that I'd get sucked into a black hole of caffeine withdrawal.  But of course, the addiction within lodged its objection and demanded that I join the line.  So I obeyed.

Oddly enough, the line moved much more quickly than I'd anticipated.  Like any good dealer, Starbucks has their drug delivery process down to a science.  It was akin to the crews showcased in HBO's The Wire.  You know, with the whole drug purchasing process being broken down into its component parts and spread out so the authorities can't get the whole thing on camera--the guy who takes your order is not the guy who takes your money is not the guy who serves you your drink.  The barristas even yelled out the names of the drugs, except shouts of "W.M.D!" and "Yellow Tops!" were replaced with "Tall double-shot soy latte" and "Grande skinny no foam cappuccino!"  Brilliant.

After I'd made my way through the line and transitioned from "waiting to order/pay" to "waiting for my drink to be made," I took a moment to scope out the other addicts huddled around the "ready bar" or whatever they call it (you know, the place where the drinks appear).  Strangely, everyone seemed much more relaxed now that they'd gotten through with the business end of the transaction.  I guess that makes sense.  Waiting in line to order and pay brings with it a certain level of anxiety--"Is the line ever going to end?!  What if the guy in front of me orders the last of the coffee!?!?  What if there's none left!?!?!  I'LL KILL THEM ALL!!!"  Plus, ordering and paying highlights the reality of the drug deal--cash for product.  But as you're waiting for your drink to be made, that anxiety is replaced with the anticipation of the fix.  For some that anticipation also breeds anxiety, but for most I noticed that it brings with it a meditative state.  As you're standing there waiting for your order to be called, you're neither coming or going.  You're still, and you have a moment to gather yourself for whatever lies in store for you next.  In the hustle and bustle that is the modern day rat race, this brief respite is something of a relief.  Something to be savored and relished.  A moment to catch your breath in between Life's insatiable demands for your time.  As I was having my own meditative moment, the peace and calm came to an abrupt halt as my order was called out--"Iced Venti Americano!  Iced Venti Americano for Kant!"

I love Starbucks.

--KM

"I'm in the house party trippin' off my generation sippin' cough syrup like it's water."

In Good Hands

That's me and my grandma circa December of 1981.  Six months into my story and six decades into hers.  I'm sad to report that her story ended recently (at least the chapters that take place in this mortal plane).  My mom found this photograph as she was taking care of the things that need taking care of after a death in the family.  Something about it really gripped me.  Maybe it was seeing that green and white fence from my grandparents' old house.  That fence having served as the backdrop to many happy memories.  Or maybe it was just seeing baby me safe in my grandma's hands.  Those hands could knit a blanket when I was cold, cook some out-of-this-world soup when I was sick, or patch me up when I got hurt.  But in addition to the mundane, those hands were extraordinarily adept at crafting the written word.  I can recall being awed by the ease with which she could compose a letter or poem or story, her pen dancing across the page with a grace I could never replicate.  And of course I always enjoyed listening to her tell her stories--the fights with her parents about going to school (a radical idea for a girl in that day and age), the experience as a single mother while my grandfather was overseas in the United States laying the groundwork for their American Dream, the long trip by sea to a strange city inhabited by angels.  I even enjoyed all her unsolicited romantic advice, the last such tidbit being a recommendation to write more love letters (no e-mails, though--pen and paper only).  As I grew older and moved far away, I still felt that her hands were always there to provide guidance and support; a sense of reassurance that I carried with me into the world as a talisman.

I thought about all that today as I had the chance for a last goodbye with grandma.  I don't know what happens when our spirit moves on, but I do have a strong feeling that life is cyclical.  Soon my mom will replace my grandma in that picture and my child me.  And after that, I'll replace my mom and my grandchild my child.  With each iteration of the picture, a generation passes its gifts to the next.  Of course I now realize that my grandma gifted many things to me--a passion for writing, an ear for languages, bushy eyebrows.  And as she lay there today I couldn't help but notice her hands.  After a lifetime spent as the means by which her spirit left its mark on the world, they were finally at rest.  Symbols of a life well lived.

--KM

"Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy.  Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell."

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."

Off With His Head!!!

I finally got my second date with the girl.  I was pretty excited to finally be seeing her again.  Things had regressed substantially since the first date, and I was looking forward to an opportunity to recover with a smashing second date.  But as soon as the girl arrived, I knew that something was amiss; that there'd be no recovery.  Maybe it was the slight hesitation in her hug or the awkward angle to her smile.  Whatever it was, I knew that although we may be entering the restaurant as dating potentials, we'd be walking out as something much less.

Dinner itself was pretty good.  The casual observer wouldn't have noticed anything wrong with the scene; just a guy and a girl enjoying some good conversation.  But of course she and I both knew that a black cloud hung over our little corner of the restaurant.  I kept waiting for her to deliver the bad news.  Which dish would part the clouds and bring forth the fatal lightning bolt of rejection?  The yakitori?  The agedashi tofu?  As it turned out, it came after we'd each had our fill, she having given me the mercy of a last meal before the execution.  So after the last plate was cleared, her smile melted away and was replaced with a gravity reserved for the somber task at hand.  Before my eyes the girl transformed into the headsman and I into the condemned.  As she was leading me up the gallows, she gave her reasons for why things wouldn't work out--a miscommunication or two on the first date; an awkward text or three the week thereafter; a general unpleasant vibe from me.  I made my last-minute plea for a pardon--"That's not who I really am!  Truly, this is the real me!"  I let her know how I felt about her--the squishy feeling she causes in my chest--and that in trying to pursue her perhaps I pursued too hard.  That when we really, really want something to work out, we tend to overthink and overcomplicate things.  But her decision was firm.  "Off with his head!"  ::chop::  Having done what she came to do, the girl and I parted ways soon thereafter.  Now, despite the melodrama, that wasn't my first time up to the gallows.  I've had girls tell me they weren't interested in all manner of words and mediums (nothing beats the formality of an e-mail rejection!).  This one, though, is gonna sting for a while because deep down I knew that she hadn't rejected me, but a bizarro version me.

Having been out of "the game" for a while, I'd enlisted the help of my friends for advice on how to court this girl.  All were willing to contribute to the cause and all seemed to have a new rule or protocol to add to my playbook--"Make sure you text her soon after the date, but not too soon after!"  "Girls don't like nice guys, so try to be a little bit of a jerk!"  "Talk about other girls you're seeing to make her a little jealous!"  Some of the advice seemed to contradict itself and much of it made me uncomfortable.  "The game," it seemed to me, involved a lot of trickery.  But I put my concerns to the side, for all's fair in love and war!!!  What I didn't realize was that as I continued to indiscriminately add things to my playbook, I became engulfed in a thick shell of artifice and deception.  Getting the moves correct was critical.  And getting the girl even more critical, even if it meant venturing away from True North on my moral compass.  The net result was something distorted; something ugly.  And that is how I presented myself to this girl during our first date and in our brief interactions thereafter.

In hindsight, I can see why it was such an easy decision for the girl to do what she did.  A day or two before the second date, I'd realized how stupid I'd been and shed the shell of deceit.  But by that point, the damage had already been done, and no amount of explaining on my part would convince her otherwise.  "How can I trust what you're saying; that this is the real you?"  A very good question.  And one for which I had no answer (at least no good answers).  Trust is the foundation of any relationship, romantic or otherwise, and when you're pouring quicksand to build that foundation, well, don't be surprised when it all comes crashing down.

I guess the lesson for me here is pretty obvious: just be yourself.  Scrap all the artifice of the playbook.  There's no need to complicate an otherwise complicated situation by trying to project some weird distorted image of yourself at a girl.  Let her see you for who you are.  If she's not interested, she's not interested.  If she is, don't question her terrible judgment and just go with it.  Either way, you're unlikely to regret it as it will have been organic.  Plus nothing beats a clear conscience.  I'm kicking myself that it had to take such a major blunder to drive that simple lesson home, but life seems to work that way.  And, I suppose it's only fair that after bashing all my friends for their genuine concern I acknowledge that this whole time they've also been urging me to just be myself.  Funny how sometimes you can be listening to people but not hearing what they're saying.

So as promised, the Third Act to my little tale. As it turns out, it ends in neither tragedy nor triumph.  In fact, it doesn't really end at all.  After a brief detour down the Dark Path, I've returned unencumbered.  I feel lighter; free.  I feel like me.

Now onward to the next Act!

--KM

"You say, 'Goodbye,' and I say, 'Hello.'"

All Dogs Go To Heaven

Tetsu arrived at my grandparents' house when I was 17, a mixed-breed shelter dog of humble origin.  In addition to Tetsu, my grandfather had another dog, a beautiful purebred Akita (with papers!) named Tora.  Tora was my grandfather's pride and joy, and, unfortunately, also a bitch, figuratively and literally.  Immediately upon Tetsu's arrival, Tora made clear that she ruled the roost.  And, perhaps to emphasize the point, she demanded tribute from Tetsu.  You know, that things would be amicable so long as she "had her taste."  So at meal time once Tora cleared her bowl, she'd move over to Tetsu's bowl.  I tried to intervene on his behalf, but my grandfather stopped me and, spoken like a true man of his generation, simply said, "No, he must find his own solution."  Tora being twice his size, physical confrontation was definitely not the solution.  So instead he developed a habit of eating really quickly, a habit that lingered well after Tora's departure. 

I didn't get that much time with Tetsu, as his arrival coincided pretty closely with my leaving for college.  My grandparents eventually moved in with my parents, and Tetsu came with them.  A bad childhood experience had calcified into a hatred for dogs within my mom, so she'd have nothing to do with Tetsu.  And, my grandparents finding it harder and harder to do some of the things they could before, Tetsu became my dad's ward.  Now, my dad is a very stoic individual, but with Tetsu I'd see him a bit more emotive than usual (usually when he thought no one was looking).  I'd often see him petting Tetsu and saying, "Yosh, yosh (There, there)."  Affirmation of their bond; that everything's alright.

My mom always thought Tora's influence during Tetsu's formative years helped shape his personality, what she described as kind, quiet, and somewhat passive.  I tended to disagree with that characterization.  Even as a puppy, he had a certain sense of ochitsuki or stillness.  How a pond can be still.  Serene.  Although, there were a couple of stones that created major turbulence in the proverbial pond, one being possums.  For one reason or another Tetsu decided that possums were his mortal enemies.  Every once in a while one would come in the black of night and scurry along the top of the wall in the back yard.  And without fail Tetsu would, to use technical phrasing, go bananas.  Barking and jumping and flailing around at the foot of the wall.  The more the futility seemed to sink in, the more bananas Tetsu would go.  All the while the possum would pay no mind, knowing that as a general rule dogs can't climb walls and, specific to the immediate situation, Tetsu couldn't jump that high.  And so after a brief pause to taunt Tetsu, the possum would continue on its nocturnal journey, and Tetsu would suffer another defeat.

In addition to possums, there was one other thing that seemed to really aggravate Tetsu--my dad's garden.  Having grown up on a farm in Japan, my dad is blessed with a green thumb.  One of the many perks of visiting my parents is a bag full of fresh produce--tomatoes, bell peppers, eggplants, cucumbers, you name it.  All of it hand-picked and downright delicious (the sweet sensation of biting into fresh vegetables cannot be overstated).  I'd venture to guess that my dad's affection for his garden was on par with that for Tetsu.  Sometimes I'd just sit there and watch him as he meticulously pruned and tended to each plant.  And I'd see Tetsu watching, too, with what I can only describe as a tinge of disdain.  Every once in a while, just as the garden was really starting to flourish, Tetsu would raze it to the ground.  A monster movie where the giant canine shows no mercy on the helpless photosynthetic residents of Gardenville.  Obviously, my dad was not pleased, and he'd make that known to Tetsu.  My mom would chime in with her familiar refrain--"Baka inu (stupid dog)."  My dad would then erect all manner of barriers to keep him out, each one more elaborate than the last.  And yet, Tetsu would find a way to get in there and show the garden that he ruled the roost.  He's not a dumb dog; he knows destroying the garden is frowned upon.  Nor is he an undisciplined dog; it's not some feral compulsion that drove him because he'd made truce with all non-garden plants.  His tenacity led me to chalk it all up to jealousy for my dad's affection.  "How could you cheat on me with these . . . with these . . . THINGS!??!?!"  Hey, it may seem silly and irrational to you, but he's just a dog, ok? 

A couple months ago I went to my parents' house to pick up my dad for some father-son lunch action.  I got there a bit late, so things were kind of rushed.  You know, reservations and all.  As we were about to leave, I realized that Tetsu hadn't come to greet me as he usually does.  I chalked it up to aging, which I guess sucks for dogs, too.  He'd recently turned 14, and you could tell.  Anyway, I looked around for a bit and finally found him in the yard, sitting in the sun and gazing into the distance with an intensity and earnestness I hadn't seen since days long past.  Ears perked up, chest puffed out, back straight--if something so mundane as a dog sitting could be described as "regal," this was it.  I left for lunch with that imagine in my mind, and afterwards went to check on him.  I eventually found him in the garage.  He was obviously not well.

It's one of those moments where your brain and heart are sending you drastically different signals, the cold cerebral facts conflicting with all the desire in your heart.  I quickly went to get my parents.  After surveying the scene, my dad knelt down to softly pet Tetsu with a familiar, "Yosh, yosh."  I asked my dad for the vet's number, but he calmly put his hand up and said, "Iranai (no need)," confirming what we all already knew.  My mom and I then knelt down with my dad, and the next great journey for Tetsu began shortly thereafter.  That was probably the closest I'd ever come to seeing my dad cry.  After Tetsu passed, my dad went inside the house to go make the necessary arrangements.  As I was helping him do that, I noticed that my mom had gone missing.  I found her in the garage with Tetsu.  She had placed a bunch of beautiful red flowers all around him--flowers from my dad's garden.  She had her hands together, eyes closed, and was whispering something.  A private moment with perhaps the one canine, baka inu or not, who'd secretly thawed her abject hatred for dogs.  I joined her and we stood there in silence for a good while, each of us with our own thoughts and memories of the little rascal. 

Recently I've been thinking a lot about the universe and fate and life and all that other kind of mumbo jumbo/hocus pocus that us non-scientific people tend to think about.  Tetsu stuck out to me because on that fateful day, my dad and I had actually planned to go get some coffee after lunch.  But when we got to the chosen coffee house, it was closed.  At that point we decided to head home for some home brew instead.  Had that coffee shop been open, well, a very different narrative above.  Perhaps it's a bit much to chalk that up to more than coincidence, but I also think back to how I saw Tetsu before my dad and I left for lunch--calm, knowing, prepared.  I tend to think that when the time comes, we know.  I see no reason why it would be any different for dogs nor any reason why dogs wouldn't want to say goodbye to their dear friends.  Tetsu had been with us for what amounted to almost a century in Tetsu Years, and I truly think the affection that developed between he and my father powered his will to hang around for just a bit longer--"Not yet, Cerberus.  I've got one last thing to do."  In any case, I'm glad things worked out the way they did.  And, wherever he is now, I hope that no possums are giving him grief.

--KM

"They will see us waving from such great heights, 'Come down now,' they'll say."

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."

It's What's On the Inside That Counts (Sort of).

I feel like when we were kids, the world bombarded us with stories meant to teach us the importance of looking beyond the superficial and judging people by what's inside their hearts.  My favorite was about this fellow named Goro who lived in medieval Japan.  Goro was short, fat, ugly and just plain grotesque, real freak show stuff.  But despite lacking in the looks department, Goro had a gift for pottery.  Now, there was this hot girl in the village who all the men desired.  Even Goro.  For although he was grotesque, he was still a man.  At some point he works up the courage to talk to her, but his advances are met with laughter and derision, for freaks are not permitted to court hot girls.  This is known.  Now, I forget a large part of the middle of the story (I imagine it's a lot of Goro hemming and hawing about what to do and the hot girl realizing that all her attractive suitors are douchebags) but I do recall that in the end Goro gives the girl one of his cups as a gift.  The cup is badly misshapen and just plain weird-looking, so the hot girl is like, "This cup is grotesque like you, Goro!"  But, when she takes the lid off and looks inside, she sees the most beautiful artwork---cranes and tigers and other creatures delicately painted on a golden background (I think it was real gold!).  Upon seeing this, the girl finally realizes what the audience knew all along--you can't judge a Goro by its cover.  I forget whether Goro and the girl fall in love and live happily ever after (looking back on it, I hope not because the girl was kind of a bitch--you can do better, Goro!).  But I do remember the moral of that story--It's what's on the inside that counts.

So since the days of Goro "It's what's on the inside that counts" has been the Mantra, a sword to pierce through society's unjust and superficial darkness.  I wielded this sword with great care, making a conscious effort to get to know someone before judging them (Well, except for those people with vacant, soulless eyes ::shudder:: ).   The extra effort's served me well in that I befriended people I don't think I would've without the Mantra.  For example, the kid in elementary school who ate crayons and spoke in a weird accent.  The consensus in the class was to shun him.  Shun him and his crayon-eating ways!  But as it turns out, his weird accent was just British, and he ate crayons because the box advertised them as "non-toxic" (who could argue with that?).  So we became fast friends until his family moved back to their side of the Pond.  Or how about the crazy lady in Japan with the creepy foreigner fetish?  Shun her!  Shun her and her creepy stalker ways!  As it turns out, she was the sort of lady who sends letters with Dragon Ball stamps.  Just a few of the many friendships attributable to the Mantra.

Anyway, I guess this whole Mantra thing's been on my mind recently because I'm starting to find it less and less effective in the realm of romance.  Of course I continue to judge girls based on substance, but I'm starting to wonder if that's being reciprocated.  Chemistry with the ladies flourishes over the phone, email and text, but then suffocates and dies upon meeting face-to-face.  And the one holding the pillow is usually not me.  So why?  I mean, the face-to-face conversation goes well enough--we laugh; we cry.  But at the moment of truth, she insists we split the check--the death sentence!!--and we go our separate ways.

Now, those who know me know that I'm definitely not some kind of player or anything, but I must say that this did not occur in the past.  Or at least not at the frequency it does today.  No, back then the hard part was always everything before the face-to-face meeting, overcoming my social awkwardness to convince a girl over the phone to meet me in person.  The face-to-face meeting was usually the victory lap.  So what's the deal now?  Don't girls still value a man of substance?

Enter the Persian sage, D.D. (I guess we can call him "Double D" for ease of reference).  Me and Double D were friends in high school (another pairing attributable to the Mantra).  We lost touch over the years, but recently reconnected through the power of the Internet.  So anyway, Double D has been acting as something of a swagger coach for me, for I'm sure as many do he wishes to see me happily paired up with some lovely lady.  At the very least he wishes to be rid of my incessant bemoaning of singledome.  Anyway, I presented Double D with the conundrum that'd been occupying so much of my time, and his response was . . . well, read for yourself: 

"Bro, of course girls value a man of substance.  But they also value a man who looks sharp.  Yeah, superficially clothes are about looks--of course a guy who can dress himself well is going to be physically attractive to a girl.  But that same well-dressed guy also signals to the girl that he has his shit together (a plus) and provides her one less thing to worry about (a double-plus).  In essence, it's a tool to accentuate what's on the inside; an augmentation of your Mantra, my friend."

And there you have it.  A simple solution to what turned out to be a simple conundrum--get some new clothes, buddy.  And truth be told, this is some advice that was sorely needed.  In the past three or four years I'd taken the Mantra to an unhealthy extreme by investing zero effort into maintaining any wardrobe apart from what I needed for work and what would keep me from falling too far below societal norms should I need to venture out of the house for non-work purposes.  I guess I can blame a part of that on letting myself become somewhat of a recluse over that time period, my existence consisting of an infinite loop of: apt --> work --> apt --> work --> apt.  And, while caught in that loop, I wielded the Mantra not as a sword, but as a crutch--"It's not me, it's them!  Damn the world and their judging ways!"  Now that I've reentered the world of the living, I see that it's time for some tweaking to the wardrobe.

"But what of the lesson of Goro?" you may be asking.  Well, I guess it's become clear that the Mantra needs a slight adjustment.  Perhaps something to the effect of: "It's what's on the inside that counts after what's on the outside has been counted."  Meaning, if you can't get someone to notice you, it doesn't really matter how damned golden your heart is.  And I suppose even with Goro that was obvious.  I mean, the hot girl only liked Goro because he made her a badass cup; not because she suddenly realized he wasn't grotesque and disgusting.  The cup was his foot in the door to her heart, and his golden personality was what ultimately swung it wide open.  But he needed the cup.

Unfortunately, I can't catch a beautiful girl's eye by handing her a hand-made cup brimming with metaphor, so I must do so the old-fashioned way: plumage.  After all we're just very complicated animals, and evolution and indecency laws having robbed us of any natural means to present ourselves to the opposite sex, we must use clothing as a substitute.   Part of me feels a bit strange modifying the Mantra, but I suppose it was inevitable, especially with age.  The vitality of youth can go a long way toward covering up minor superficial blemishes, but as you get older and those blemishes become more noticeable--droops getting droopier and sags getting saggier--more care to plumage can help tip the balance.

So there you are--Resolution Three: Fashion More.  I think of the three--write more, cook more, fashion more--this resolution will be the hardest for me to keep, but I am relishing the challenge, despite what I anticipate is a slow and painstaking process ahead.  Whether I will end up as some type of fashionista is unknown, but I will at least strive to bring myself back to where I used to be.  Well, maybe a bit past that ;)

--KM

"Turn up the lights in here baby.  Extra bright, I want y'all to see this."