I Can Be A Friend To You, I Won't Pretend, I'm Not Interested In Breaking A Heart, It's Not Love, No, It's Nothing Like That

--"Suspended From Class", Camera Obscura

I was having a debate with Epcot earlier this morning about how all Romantic Comedies are the same. They all involve people pretending they aren't helplessly in love with one another, trying to remain friends, and eventually giving into the inevitable in the end. She said that's not always true. Her theory is that most Romantic Comedies are about people who don't know that they're in love and only discover this fact during the time they spend with one another. It's a subtle distinction, but an important one to me. I'm a big lover of this particular genre and that's mostly due to the fact that I like seeing people who are meant for one another finally end up with one another. It would kind of ruin the whole experience for me if their fate as intended for one another is in jeopardy and isn't 100% clear-cut from the onset. Granted, it will never happen in the course of any of these films, but I like going in knowing that the main couple is, I guess, fated for one another. That's what sells the movie for me.

What follows is the exact conversation I had what perfect romantic movie would be:

ms: It would have to start out with the couple already married reminiscing about the wacky journey it took to get there.

e: No hesitation? First shot of the film they're married?

ms: With like six kids and a dog--maybe inside their three-story house. I want to establish that they're doing great. They're happy, rich, and loving every minute of it.

e: I can see where this is going.

ms: Then when they get into the story, they would have to meet very cute. I mean--very cute. She would have to be like walking her dog, when it gets away and jumps into his convertible that he's just stopped at a stop light. Maybe he could drive off with the dog, not knowing that it's in the backseat at the time. She chases him down in full Run Lola Run mode and they end up talking to one another.

e: I could buy that. She would have to run through some obstacles.

ms: Yeah. Like she could have to hurdle some bicycles or something.

e: So far this is sounding like a typical romantic comedy. I don't see the difference.

ms: The difference would be that they know they're right from each other from word one. I think the comedy would be how everyone else in their life would be trying to talk them out of getting married so fast or maybe from just moving in together. Then to ratchet it up a couple of notches, you could have one of their wacky cousins actively sabotaging their plans as a way of watching out for their relative. You know what I'd want to see?

e: What?

ms: I'd want to see the cousin maybe try to bump off the boyfriend. That's the idea. Oh man, that's good. The cousin is a professional hitman and he's putting to use his skills to keep his female cousin from making what he thinks is a mistake. You could call it Marked for Love.

e: (laughing) That's utterly ludicrous.

ms: That's the beauty of it. The couple the entire time could be adamant about their love for one another. Neither one of them would have to pretend that they just want to be friends. All the comedy could just originate who she's desperately trying to convince her cousin to call off the hit and how the boyfriend could bungle through not getting dead. I could totally see that.

e: I'd love to see you try to make that work.

ms: The best part would be it would have a built-in ending. The cousin could catch up to them both. He would tell the girl to move out of the way. She would refuse. The cousin would see she means business. But then he would shoot anyway! At the last second the boyfriend would step in front of the girl. That's when you would find out that the cousin aimed for the toe as a test to see how much the boyfriend loved the girl.

"You shot me in the toe, goddamn it!"

"You are welcome, sir."

e: Oh my lordy. That's an insane ending.

ms: It would work. It would definitely work. That's how you would do it, a romantic comedy from credits to credits where the couple stays at the same high level of enthrallment with one another and still have it funny.

e: I imagine that this would only be the bare bones of the story.

ms: Just you wait, I've got hijinx galore in store for this couple...

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Said Georgia, Ooh, Georgia, No Peace I Find, Just An Old Sweet Song, Keeps Georgia On My Mind

--"Georgia On My Mind", Ray Charles

I was recently invited to go to Atlanta with my friend Jeff as a surprise to his wife. She’s flying there on business and he thought it would be romantic gesture to surprise her there. Knowing that I love to travel, he asked me if he did decide to do that if I’d like to go too. There are about five million reasons why I’d love to go. I love the food, the scenery, and, while it may be a mite cold these days, I’ve never had a problem with the weather down there. Plus, he knows I haven’t been to Georgia in about fifteen years. What he doesn’t know is the one reason I cannot go.

The accord.

The accord that states I’m not allowed in the Peach State and she’s not allowed here pretty much for the duration of the rest of our natural lives. The accord that places a premium on the ideology that it’s better not to place oneself in a position of temptation than to believe that self-control should be practiced at all times. The accord that has basically managed to keep us in decent shape for the last six years--the concept of “decent” being relative.

A lot of the time, I chafe at being reined in. It’s not like me to willingly accept any sort of restriction placed upon me. However, I’d have to say that the last couple of years (Chicago being the huge exception) has been spent in relative peace. I get what I want, that is to remain close to her, and she gets what she wants, that is to keep me and her husband not knocking heads. At times I’ve toyed with the idea of flying over there, but in the end that impulse has always been overruled by the urge to preserve the status quo. It’s just not worth it start a battle that would spark a huge war I’m not prepared to fight. That would be akin to gassing up a car for a trip I don’t really want to take. For the most part I believe in the agreements we made and in the promises we’ve managed to keep so far. For the most part I believe that this accord being instituted has been one of the main reasons we’ve come along this far. When it comes down to it, I don’t want to mess anything up that I don’t really have to.

The thing is this trip really wouldn’t be violating the accord. Not really. This would be one of those rare instances where the letter of the law would be infringed upon while the spirit of the law would not. The whole purpose of the accord was made so that I wouldn’t get the impulse to come visit her, come try to win her back, or to more or less wreak havoc upon their domestic bliss. That’s all well and good, but this trip I really do believe I could resist the urge to swing by her place at all. No part of me--strike that--the majority of me has no interest in visiting her at all if I do go. If I never wrote this, if I never told her I would be visiting, then for all intents and purposes it would be like for her I was never in Georgia. If a man crosses a forest but leaves no footprints you can see, was he ever really there? That would be like my trip. I would get to visit one of top three favorite states in the country, hang out with my friend and his wife, and get to sightsee on my own whenever they wanted to be alone for any extended period of time. The whole purpose of the trip would negate any nefarious feelings of betrayal or subterfuge that any other excuse to fly there would entail. I could cast myself as blameless in the whole affair because I would be. It was not my idea, it would not be “my” trip, no one would have to get hurt. I could just Atlanta again and mark it as an opportunity to rekindle the joy I felt when I went originally.

It would be one thing if I myself believed I was generating this as an excuse to go see her. I’m more than capable of deluding myself into thinking that I’m being noble, that I’m doing something noble regardless of how the circumstances portray it. As aforementioned on this blog, I’m the king of internally having a reason for everything I do, but externally trying to cast a much different explanation or motivation for every one of my decisions. It wouldn’t have been out of the question a few years ago to say to her that I wanted to see the state when I really wanted to see her. That’s the kind of deviousness that was par for the course when I was truly missing her bad. I would have said anything to circumvent the rules. That’s probably how Chicago happened in the first place, because you give me a rule I don’t usually think how to follow it. I usually try to devise a way around it. If you asked me a few years ago, I would have railed against the restriction. But now, with the recent events of her going through counseling and my all but giving up hope that all this waiting will do, I kind of don’t see myself launching into endeavors that will cause either one of us any stress or heartache. I just want to go about my business, not bothering her in that respect, and just letting things go on as they’ve been developing these last few months, which is smoothly. I just want to be able to land up on her so-called territory without any hassle or complication, do my time, and leave without incident. That’s all I want to do.

What I’m afraid of is two-fold. First, I’m afraid of her reaction to my desire for this trip to be one of happy negligence. I’m afraid she’s going to be of the mindset that, since I seem to be willing to forego the old feelings, it’d be okay to finally sit and become friendly with Greg. That’s not what I want at all. To twist the line from the Geico commercial, “just because I’m willing to go to a man’s house and not throw stones doesn’t mean I’d want to go fishing with the guy.” There’s a long road from not hating someone to liking them outright. I’m nowhere near there yet. However, I just know this will be disappointing. To me, it’ll be like I’m taking this huge step to some kind of new, more conciliatory arrangement. To her, it’ll be like quitting a marathon ¾ of the way from the finish line. She’ll just wonder why if I can go that far why I can’t go all the way. I don’t know if it’s exactly a glass half-full, glass half-empty paradigm, but it’s close enough. I’ve never been able to measure up in her eyes in terms of committing myself fully to a plan I’m not entirely behind. I always thought that was the point behind not being fully invested a decision. When I’m hesitant about a subject, it’s usually for a good reason. When I’m more impulsive about a subject, it’s usually because any foreseeable consequence is overwhelmingly positive. Simply put, I don’t do anything reckless that at first glance might turn out badly for me. I don’t look long. I don’t look hard, but I do look. That’s what’s always differentiated me from her. We’re both stubborn. We both can be impulsive. But she’s more likely to be blindly impulsive and blindly stubborn than I ever could be.

Second, I’m worried that, even if she doesn’t want the three of us to meet-up, she’ll want to meet-up privately. As much as that would be great and all, private meet-ups have a history of turning out differently than we expected. Again, it’s a matter of turning off the heat rather than playing with fire. She’s strong. I’m not. I don’t how I’ll react once I see her if I see her. All the walls of sand I erected to defend myself against getting hurt again will come crumbling down around me. I need my walls.

That’s why I’m thinking going to Atlanta is a bad idea all around. I mean--the accord was put into place for a reason, because it automates the decision-making process into a simple yes-or-no question. There’s only two things I have to watch out for--I don’t call her at home and I don’t step foot in Georgia. If I start bending the rules, fudging them or whatever, then it’ll be like I no longer think it’s necessary. That will fly in the face of common sense, which dictates that I probably need them now more than ever. The time for rules and regulations isn’t when things are at their worst; that’s when the rules and regulations make the most sense. No, the time to hold back is when things are good. You need to hold back no matter what your heart or brain might be telling you since when things are good, things can only get worse. That’s when you need some sort of code to abide by. That’s the only way prosperity lasts, that’s the only way it works.


still in peaceful dreams I see
the road leads back to you

I want to go.

I don’t think it’ll harm anything if I do go.

She probably won’t mind.

But I probably won’t go because it would be opening Pandora’s box or, as she would say, it’d be like trying to just let one sheep out of the pen when the gate’s as wide as the sky. It’s just not possible to break the rules a little. You’re either breaking them or you’re not. I don’t have any qualms about breaking rules as long as you know what you’re getting into and as long as the result is something you want. In this situation, where everything is all murky, I don’t know exactly what I’d be getting into and the result is tenuous at best.

I’m not as blasé about breaking them up as much as I once was. For the first time in a long time, she and him seem to be getting along well. It’s not as easy to pretend my reasons are noble when everything and everyone are running smoothly. If I did it would seem like I was the one doing the damage instead of being the one fixing everything. It’s easy to fool myself into thinking I’m doing this for her benefit when she’s asking for my advice or help. When it’s me wishing to impose my will on the situation it’s just me being an asshole ex-boyfriend.

She’s a big girl now. She’s come a long way from subtly asking me to rescue her from a life she never wanted to commit to. She understands now life isn’t something that somebody asks you if you want. Your life is yours for better or for worse; there’s just no backing out of it. She’s settled down into the role of being responsible and staying in one place for once. She still knows how to run and why she would want to run, but she no longer has the desire to any more. She’s put herself in the position of seeing this endeavor through. For my part, I’m doing the best I can to encourage her. She’s always sought after something or someone that could make her happy. This life she’s crafted around her just may be her shot at it. I’m part of it, but I’m not the center of it like I once thought I wanted to be. I’m good with that, though. I’m good at being in the mix.

She doesn’t need me in her life as she once did and I’m trying my best not to want her in my life as much as I once did. That’s the best description I can give if you asked me where the two of us are at. She might employ a different description, but that’s how I feel. We’re both happy more than we were a year ago, but we’re also in much different orbits than we were back then. Where we end up is anyone’s guess.

All I know is I’m not big on making her unhappy. That has never wavered. That is what I’d be doing if I went, however it turns out.

I’m trying to pretend one trip won’t matter if I don’t see her, if I don’t let her known when, and if I don’t allow things to fall out of my control. But nothing is ever fully under my control. There are just too many ways to fuck this one up. The agreement has stood this long without being broken; it can stand a few more years in place until we’re both finally able to handle having such safeguards in place.

Besides, Georgia won’t be the same experience without her.

----

“I wouldn’t move.”

“Neither would I. There’s just too many good things I’d miss about L.A.”

“I know. Too much to leave behind, too much to replace about here.”

“You want to know the best thing about Macon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You. That’s the only reason I’d go there. Well, the only reason that counts.”

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Slow Down, Please, Slow Down, I Need To Find Peace Anywhere In Me, I Feel Like I'm Under Water, Struggling To Get Air

--"Hitten", Those Dancing Days

I've been frequenting a coffe shop/bakery near my new home called Jongewaard's Bake and Broil where they serve the absolute best pie I've ever had. This week alone I've taken home two chocolate cream pies--this, after I finished up my absolute scrumptious breakfast there on Sunday with a slice of their killer key lime pie. I don't know--I've never been much of a pie person until recently and it's places like B-N-B that have helped to convert me.

I guess you could say the first time I was shown the light was on my recent trip to Louisville. Toby took me to this local attraction called Homemade Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen. I hadn't wanted to, but she made me try the key lime pie there instead of getting the cake or the ice cream and I've been hooked ever since. Before then I was strictly a pumpkin pie man. I didn't like any other pies, especially fruit pies, and I wasn't even willing to give them a chance at all. Hearing her talk and watching her devour her slice of Dutch Apple with Caramel (supposedly their best seller) made me think that there was something to the pies there ad turned me around.

I noticed the behavior in myself, but I've never actually been on the other side of a person totally convinced that their favorite restaurant or bar can actually save your soul. Whether it was Breanne insisting I check out her favorite barbecue spot (Fincher's) or my own brother talking up this burrito place in San Francisco while I was up there, we all have our secret spots that we like to pretend we discovered. Not only that, but I think we're all guilty of wanting to impress our friends with what great taste in food we've got. But until Toby practically chained me to the boutique chairs in Homemade I thought I was the only one who perceived of taking friends to their best restaurants as an intervention. I thought I was the only one who looked upon exposing people to so-called "good" food as being unironically altruistic and altogether humane thing to do.

It wasn't just important for her to get me to try it. It was imperative for her to get me to like it, to love it. Again, I knew how she felt because I've been there too.

I don't know what connects a lot of our well-being to food. I don't know if arose from the primal association of food with life or if it arose from the sense of satisfaction that soon follows a good meal. All I know is that there are few things in life that are as easy to enjoy and to share as food. It connects us all, binds us all together in a way language, dress, and even ideologies can't. I may not understand what a person halfway around the world may be going through, but everyone--I don't care who you are--appreciates a good meal. Even though what constitutes "good" may fluctuate person-to-person and country-to-country, the desire for a good meal is universal.

A meal is so much more than the food, though. Marion gets that. A meal goes far beyond what's presented on your plate. The pie is much more than the sum of its ingredients. What the pie actually is is the chipped blue plate that's probably been used to serve thousands, if not millions of people. The pie is the quaint atmosphere and great people I happened to meet that day. The pie is the history and ritual that binds that particular community together. The pie is the conversation, the laughter, and, yes, even the tears that usually accompany a dish of its caliber. The pie is the memory of friendship, trust, and caring that all good experiences entail.

More to the point a good pie is the sense that there is a joy out there that transcends literalism or reason or even logic. You don't have to figure out a good pie; it doesn't require thoughts or feelings or planning. It doesn't involve mapping every step of the way or itineraries or schedules. It isn't an exact science. You enjoy a good pie because it tastes good and because every time you have it you feel good if only because you remember how good you felt that one time you had it. For example, I could have only a so-so key lime pie a month from now at some place I happened to fall into. It could taste as average as a store-bought example that's been sitting out for a week. Yet the experience will still prove to be more than satisfactory because key lime pie will always remind me of Toby and Homemade. Every time I take a bite now I'll remember how wrong I was in thinking that nothing could ever taste as good as all that she made it out to be. I'll remember thinking that I'm not the last arbiter of what makes food good. And I'll remember that at least one person out there knows exactly where I'm coming from when it comes to food she likes and wishes to share.


now I know how I plan to make things easier
for everyone including me
----

"So you're saying that this piece of pie holds all the answers to life's questions? That, if I bite this, it'll all make sense?" I asked.

"Try it."

"It can't be all that good."

"Would you just try it already?"

"Okay... wow, that is good."

"I told you.... You want to know what makes key lime pie so great?"

"Shoot."

"It's because when you bite into it, it makes your mouth pucker. Like this."

"And?"

"Gosh. It's perfect for kissing.... that's what good pie is. It's like being kissed, bite by bite, till you're feeling all better."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I've Been Looking For A New Direction, Something You Know I've Gotta Say, I've Been Looking For A New Connection

--"New Direction", S Club 8

I was recently invited to showcase my card game, Kings of the Jungle Gym, at Protospiel 2009 in Santa Monica this weekend. Not only do I consider an honor to be invited, but I very much also consider it to be one of the highlights of this year so far. It will be the first time playtesting any game of mine in public as opposed to with just the same group of rapscallions I play with. It will also be the first time I will have to answer questions—for an hour no less--about the game-making process and mechanical decisions I made in brainstorming the idea. Hopefully, all goes well with the first playtest group because there’s a good chance I might have to run more than one session this weekend—possibly two or three sessions.

It’s been said that, “there are no bad products, just bad prices” and I’m hoping that’s true because there will be a few representatives from game publishers present at the event. I’m a little nervous that this will be my one and only shot at realizing one of my smaller dreams, that of getting one of game designs published and out on the marker. I’m worried that I haven’t done enough, polished enough, and worked enough of the kinks out in the design. I mean—I think it’s a solid game. It’s challenging enough to provide a challenge to everyone at the table, yet not enough of a brain-burner to turn people off. It should play under and hour, but definitely takes more than thirty minutes to get through. I’ve always felt that this range is just right if one is trying to cater a game to the casual crowd. The biggest thing I worry about is that the game’s theme might turn people off. After all, it’s not everyone who can appreciate the subtle humor of a game my friend Casey described as “The Sopranos Meets Sesame Street”.

Truth be told, I’m nervous because this is the first opportunity to take something I created and present it to the world at large. Yes, I have my blog. Yes, I’ve shown my writings to more than a few people over the years. However, now that I’m contemplating it, this will be the first time anyone and everyone can walk off the street (or drive, or what have you) and just sit down at the table where I’m demonstrating Kings and basically demand to be entertained. For the most part none of my friends will be there. Nobody in my family is choosing to make it out there. Nope, it will be me explaining the rules of the game, playing, conducting surveys, and then taking an hour’s length of questions. Not just once. Maybe two or three times this weekend. I won’t have the camaraderie to sway the vote to people give it a chance. I won’t have prior dealings to establish the merits of my ideas and creative choices. I won’t have the “innocent before guilty” mentality pervading the room when I sit down. I very well may have people who thoroughly dislike the game before they even place the first card. It may be that type of crowd.

I’m worried that I’m going to handle any sort of criticism poorly.

I’m worried that I’m going to take their slings and arrows as a slight against me as opposed as a slight against my game.

But just as disconcerting is the notion that people might really like it. I’ve been buoying myself all week, ever since I found out, that this will the first step to seeing my name on the shelf of some game store or possibly seeing my name precede the title of the game. It would be so intrinsically badass to see “E. Patrick Taroc’s Kings of the Jungle Gym” at Game Empire or The Warhouse one day. It would be beyond any expectations I have now to live to see the day when my name alone would be enough to sell a game the way Knizia or Kleiza does. And that’s what I’m concerned about too, that as much as I’m thinking everything could turn out to be blech, that there’s still too big a part of my mind that is holding out hope this could make me insanely happy and satisfied. I don’t want to put all my eggs in this particular basket because there is a good chance not much will come of it.

But when you’ve already been in contact with one small game publisher out of New England and when you’ve already heard interest from two others, you can’t help but to think this is a much bigger deal than you originally thought. I want everything to go smoothly. I want people to like the game on its own merits. I want people to be interested in the amusing anecdote that originally made me conceive of the idea. I want this to be the stepping stone that I really think this is.

What I don’t want it to be is the time I look back as my one chance to make the game-winning shot where I choked.

It’s a good game—a great game, in fact—but the way I’m thinking that’s not even the point. The way I’m thinking now is that I’m a semi-good person and that I really deserve this shot at being happy.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

All These Places Have Their Moments, With Lovers And Friends, I Still Can Recall, Some Are Dead And Some Are Living, In My Life I've Loved Them All

--"In My Life", The Beatles

One of the last things I talked about with Jennifer was how cool it was to have a full ninety minutes for my lunch at Robinson's May. It afforded me the time to eat out at places like Sizzler, Claim Jumper's, and Olive Garden whereas before I had to limit my area to places like Taco Bell and Subway. In fact, one of the last humorous anecdotes I related was how I had taken up eating at The World Famous Tommy's, even though the closest one was about twenty minutes away by freeway. What did I care? At ninety minutes I could afford to drive there eat for about forty-five minutes and drive back to work. Actually, what I talked about was how I had to orchestrate eating a double chili burger and chili fries while attired in a full dress shirt and tie. I told her how with every bite I had to flip the tie back, hunch my back over, and bite through delicately as to not cause an errant squirt of maddening chili.

She laughed when I visited her the next time, remembering even ask if my streak of not getting any on me had been broken. Three months of eating at Tommy's at least once a week and I had yet to get one tiny blemish on any of my shirts. I think it amused her that I was intentionally putting myself in embarrassment's way. "I had to do it for the chili, Jen. I'm not going to let cleanliness stand in the way of making sure my heart explodes... twice." She'd been my favorite person to go to all the worst fast food places, Fuddrucker's and Topp's, the KFC buffet in Temple City, The Shakey's Buffet, and, of course, the Wienerschnitzel buffet down in Huntington Beach. I think the latter was her favorite. It was always our private custom to head down there after a couple hours watching the waves roll in and take another hour or so to power through six, seven, or eight regular chili dogs apiece. At five bucks for as many as you wanted, it was a steal. Not only was it cheap nourishment but it had built-in entertainment value. By the seventh or eighth hot dog it definitely became a show of who could complain who was stuffed the most and how much they wanted to stop but they just couldn't. By the last time we made it down to Huntington Beach before she got sick we had raised the routine to almost a play in and of itself--catchphrases and choreography, you name it.

I think it made her sad in a way she couldn't come out with me to have a good old-fashioned greasy lunch with me. She might have felt that she was letting me down in a way. We both knew it was no fun to eat at a greasy spoon by one's self. You really need somebody to complain to and stage a mock protest. "I'm not eating this crap again. I'm gong to keel over right here. You might as well strap a bomb to me for what it's going to do to my cholesterol." You can't beat an eating buddy who herself has experienced the strange attraction of meals that are insanely awful for your health yet are blissfully decadent to the taste.

There was nothing I could do to ease her mind about that fact. Somehow we both had to quickly reconcile ourselves with the fact I'd be eating without her far more often than I would by that time. And we also had to come to grips with the fact that that time would soon become forever.

----

I had to stop in Pasadena today to pick up a package from Empire. On the way back I thought, what the heck, I'll stop at Tommy's since there's none to speak of in Long Beach that I know of.

It still isn't the same without her.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

There's Nothing Time Hasn't Touched, Is It Really Him Or The Loss Of My Innocence, I've Been Missing So Much

--"Strawberry Wine", Deana Carter

I received an e-vite from an old high school classmate of mine for a birthday party. It's probably just a mass e-mail sent to everyone on his mailing list since, by the look of things, he sent over one hundred seventy invitations, but it still feels weird to get an invitation at all. Before recently (and the advent of Facebook) I hadn't heard from the guy since the aforementioned high school days. Say what you will about social networking sites but they do manage to reunite one with people you never thought you'd be reunited with. I only have to look to my own life to see that. The fact that people like Jina and Brandy can hunt my ass down when the last time I saw them was the better part of the 90's only serves to reinforce the fact that as much as you try to lose yourself from people, there's always a manner in which they can track you down. That's great when you it's rather cool to have people pop back into your life, but what about those people that you're not jazzed about seeing or not jazzed about confronting again?

I don't know if I want to go to this party at the end of the month. It's great to keep abreast of somebody that I did time with during my stay at La Salle. It's interesting to see what he has been up to, but I have to draw the line at social functions. I'm assuming he's still a great person since he was always one of the more sincere classmates I had at school. I'm even assuming that the invitation was freely and intentionally sent. Yet there is not one part of me that would relish seeing him again. The truth of the matter is talking to him and hearing what he's done with his life would remind me that I've put a lot of life behind me since we last talked. It's the same reason I've managed to avoid my ten year high school reunion and probably am planning to avoid my twentieth. It isn't because I'm not curious to see everyone in person again, but seeing them in person would be a visual reminder that I'm not the Jenny Lewis-crushing, Wizard-watching, Cure-listening, nerd that I was in high school.

With some people I could go years without seeing and still not feel old when I do see them. I see my brother maybe once a year for a couple of days. When we hang out, though, it's like we pick up where we left. We treat each other as we've always treated each other. Or if and when Carly and I ever decide to contact one another again; it'll been almost eighteen months since I hung out with her. Yet I know as soon as one person calls the other we'll chat and make plans to catch up as if it's only been a week or so. Hell, I went nine years without seeing Breanne and it didn't feel too weird to see her again. There are certain people who don't stick out as red flags to my own mortality. The common thread between them all? They don't insist on dwelling on the past every time I talk to them.

I've always said I'd rather somebody be angry, sad, or indifferent to me than be annoying. That still holds true.

One of the most annoying things a person can do is rehash something that happened twenty years ago (that's what blogs are for). I'd even go so far as to say I strongly abhor when people asked me what I did last year and sometimes last month. The only reason they do it is because they're dying to talk about all the exciting and wondrous places they went last year, or to accurately describe the magnificence of all the people they met in the last year. If I hate talking about each and everything I did last year, I couldn't imagine the torture trying to encapsulate what my life has been like since 1993 when I graduated high school. The whole "what have you been doing since we last saw each other" conversation falls under the umbrella of small talk and I don't like doing small talk. It serves no practical purpose for me. I have no vested interest in how you're life's gone for better or for worse. The only people I care about (besides knowing who they are) know how to curtail the urge to grill me about each and every day I've spent alive as well as stick to the key points about their own life. Yes, I like hearing an amusing anecdote, but it has to be just that--amusing and just an anecdote. There's no call for trying to catch me up on everything and, for chrissakes, not every story you tell is all that interesting. There's no such thing as somebody who has lived a charmed and exciting life every step of the way. It's just like my aversion to saying hello and good-bye to people; all it does is get in the way of arriving at your point. Dress it up if you like, build suspense, and pace it all you want--but if you're going to tell me a story, make sure the story is worth the telling.

And the fact it's a birthday party is doubly worse. Seeing someone revel in the fact they're getting older confuses me. It's addling. Birthdays for me have always been contemplative. Even when I'm celebrating mine with other people I prefer it to be a more somber and serious affair. It's a big deal when I get older; frivolity and birthdays haven't gone hand-in-hand in almost thirteen years for me. Ever since I turned twenty I stopped looking forward to birthdays. As I told Jina at the time, the reason for that falls under my illogical way of thinking.

We celebrate milestones. We celebrate one month, one year, five years, ten years, even thirteen. In some cultures fifteen and sixteen are celebrated. Then, of course, the milestones of eighteen and twenty-one are celebrated. How many of them have names, though? Not many. It goes a day, a month, a year, a decade, a century maybe.

When I turned twenty I realized that's the last age before a century that has a term for it. I turned a score on that day. I'd already had my first day, my first year, and my first decade on this earth celebrated. As soon as October 11th rolled around, I knew all that was left for me to look forward to was hitting a century. There simply was nothing else that had a name to celebrate.

I don't want to go see him.

I don't want to talk to him about high school.

I don't want to facetiously wish him a happy birthday.

Birthdays are never happy. Getting old is not a good thing. Seeing people who remind you about the good 'ole times is not my idea of fun.

I'd rather surround myself with people who only narrowly focus what they're doing now; who don't ask what I've been up to or what I have in the works. I'd rather have conversations about entertainment, pop culture, or sports rather than what it all means, why things have to happen, or what my beliefs are (again, topics best reserved for blogs or journals). I'd rather have conversations about what we're going to do for fun rather than what great fun we once had.

I'd rather delude myself into thinking there's more of that high school kid still in me than isn't and that ain't going to happen as soon as I walk into that birthday party. Walking into there would be like admitting that kid died a long time ago. Walking into there would really be the end of my youth once and for all.

Fuck that.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

He's The One, Who Likes All Our Pretty Songs, And He Likes To Sing Along, And He Likes To Shoot His Gun, But He Don't Know What It Means

--"In Bloom", Nirvana

I'm a man of mercurial temperament. There are a lot of times when I'll place myself categorically in one camp or school of thought, only to reverse my position months or even weeks later. Yes, for the most part, on the weightier issues I tend towards stubbornness but on a great many subjects I fall to rule-making.

Rule-making as many of my friends can point out is where I already have made a decision regarding a subject matter. Instead of giving out my reasoning behind the decision, though, I'll drum up some rule that is arguably arbitrary and explain it no further. I opt for that course of action rather than disclose my real reasons, which sound ridiculous to even me. For instance, rather than tell someone I just like the way two straws feels in my mouth (silly, but true), I devised two decades ago the "double or nothing" rule whereby I have to drink out of two straws or none at all--never just one. It's kind of like when I would buy magazines on photography which I know nothing about to cover up the teen magazines I used to buy. Instead of being straight-up about my thought process, i always have to add a layer of obfuscation to any somewhat simple decisions.

As my co-worker at Baly's used to say, I distrust simple decisions. If it doesn't involve meaty matters of ethics, reasoning, philosophy, or emotions I tend to become disinterested. And when I am presented with simple decisions I try to make it sound like I put a lot of thought into them than I actually did.

There's a reason one of my nicknames is Tricky.

That's why when presented with my latest dilemma over which new board game I should purchase I'm having such a rough time admitting that I do have a preference. On one hand the game I should buy and the one people in the know keep telling me I'll enjoy is a game called Le Havre. Designed by the same guy who did one of my favorite games of all-time, Agricola, Le Havre contains all the elements I like about a game. It involves a modicum of luck, concentrating mostly on an individual's prowess at long-term planning and short-term tactical skills. It also is dripping in theme and atmosphere where the players are rich business owners in the town of, where else, Le Havre, buying commodities, properties, and ships in order to be crowned the most successful. On paper this game looks perfect for me.



Snow Tails, on the other hand, is another game I want, but its far simpler in its goals. It's a card-driven boardgame about sled-dog racing. The aim is clear, finish ahead the other competitors, who play other sled dog racers. In comparison, the mechanics are very simple. You place one to three cards with different numbers. One number corresponds to the left dog, one number corresponds to the right dog, and one number corresponds to the brake. Add left to right and subtract the brake, and you get how far your sled moves. The complexity comes in the fact that if the left or right dog has a higher number than the other side your sled will veer to one side or the other--mimicking one dog pulling one side of the sled harder than the other. This produces a wide array of effects like drifting, drafting, and simple blocking techniques. In comparison, this game is more visceral and less academic. It's still not an easy game. I'd weight it more medium and Le Havre more medium-heavy to heavy. Basically, if Snow Tails were the SAT's, Le Havre would be the Bar Exam.



I like them both, but I'm leaning towards Snow Tails and I don't know why. Actually, I do, but the reason is ridiculous. The picture of snow dogs pulling sleds amuses my sense of childlike wonder than stuffy old suits in some French town, it's that simple. Agricola at least had some imagination to it; there's a lot to be said about 17th century farmers in Western Europe with their fences, stables, and animals running over the whole farm. What do you get to see in Le Havre? Wood, coal, and cattle and utilatarian buildings. Not my idea of an interesting theme.

But I feel weird admitting that. I feel bad saying that, even though Le Havre admittedly has the better mechanics and more closely challenges a person's intellect, the puppies in Snow Dogs are just so damn cute. LOL That's the equivalent of saying I prefer one school over the other because the former has better parties rather than a better curriculum.

So what will be the reason I give for getting Snow Tails over Le Havre if that's the direction I go in?

Why, I prefer Canada to France, of course. That's far better than saying I'm enthralled by the idea of sled-dog racing, which I am.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And Your Head Feels Like Your Body, Your Mind Is Close Behind, There's A Teardrop On Your Shoulder, Says This Is The Time Of Times

--"The Time of Times", Badly Drawn Boy

There's a scene in Definitely, Maybe where Will admits to April that he's been keeping her father's copy of Jane Eyre from her. It isn't just any 'ole copy of Jane Eyre, mind you, but the copy he gave to her a couple of weeks before he died. It's also the copy that she searches for every time she walks into a used book store and has been for the last fifteen years. When Will admits to April that he'd been keeping it for the last eight years for what he terms "no good reason" the look on her face speaks volumes. Not only does she feel betrayed because the book is something important, she also feels betrayed that it was her good friend--even somebody she might or might not love who has committed this act of betrayal. She asks him to leave her office to end the scene.

To me it almost doesn't matter that he explains at the film's finale that the reason he kept the book, her precious treasure, was it was the last thing he had left of April. I still find it hard to swallow that anybody could be that selfish in the face of something that was obviously tremendously important to her.

That being said, I suppose I could be convicted of something eerily similar to that situation a time or two in my past.

The only reasons I can give is the same reasons I use an excuse for most of the slightly off behavior I tend to engage in. I did it because, much like Will, I'd rather remember somebody for the right reasons and have that somebody remember me for the wrong reasons instead of forgetting somebody entirely because I did the "right" thing. I lose too many people to bad behavior at any rate. Sometimes having a memento eases the transition.

----

Even at twelve she was pretty. I'm not talking about the regular kind of pretty that other twelve-year-olds notice. I'm talking the unnatural pretty that particularly awkward seventeen-year-old houseguests talk about. With her chestnut brown hair, oceanic blue-green eyes, dimpled cheeks--it didn't take me long to see that she always had whatever it has she has. Even when surrounded by what amounted to a small army of people, relatives and friends, I could always pick her out of the crowd. Even when on the video she was dressed up in some ridiculously fancy wheat yellow dress or maybe even gown she still looked natural. She still looked graceful. She still looked resplendent.

We were all sitting on her parents couch on my third-to-last night of my Christmas trip to her house. I don't know if it's a ritual in every household, but it seems every time I've gone over to an ex-girlfriend's or potential ex-girlfriend's house for any extended period of time, her parents have always whipped out some kind of video evidence of their child's more innocent and halcyon days. It happened with Tara (karate gi and corny dialogue in some history project for school), with Jina (terribly detailed tour of her house for my benefit), with DeAnn (swimming party replete with New Kids On The Block t-shirts and posters afterwards), and, yes, even with Breanne. I have to admit, though, that day was the first and only time where the victim wasn't overcome with embarrassment or shame. It could have been that she's always been naturally cool under pressure, but I think the real reason stemmed from the fact she'd already planned the viewing beforehand with her mother. Naturally, she played the innocent fawn when I brought up this very idea during the viewing. Her protestations that she was as surprised as I was by her mother's choice of fare fell on deaf ears, though. I don't know--she's always had a way of playing off accusations without actually playing them off convincingly.

Even sitting next to her, she played it cool. She hid her face in her hands at all the appropriate moments, laughed at all the same incidents her parents and I laughed at, and even got up once or twice to ostensibly shut off the video.

"He doesn't need to see my silly birthday party, mother. He doesn't care about that kind of thing," she tried to say.

But I did care. Oh, it wasn't for the reasons she or her mother thought. I didn't care to compare and contrast how much better she looked two years later. I didn't much notice how their house looked from then till when I was there. And it also didn't much matter to me that all her male classmates were so flirtatious with her. It didn't make me jealous at all at the time--well, not any more jealous than I naturally am. Nope, what impressed me was the idea that it was a digital record of how she was in 1992, almost a full eighteen months before I even knew the name Breanne Holins existed. This was a diary of who she was before she met me. That, in and of itself, was captivating. I mean--she'd tried to describe who she was and what she was like in her years prior to getting to know me. Yet the words she used always fell back to the same refrains. "I was the same," "I haven't changed all that much, sugar," and "I've always been little 'ole me." Well, little 'ole her was definitely not the same as medium 'ole her.

For one thing, little 'ole her seemed much more under her mother's command. The way her mother hovered over her, reminding her to tidy away the gift wrap on her presents or to express her gratitude nanoseconds after she had discovered what her gifts were and who they were from, or to get up and dance with her uncle was illuminating. She really wasn't kidding when she said that her mom had even more of a micro-management style back then.

More importantly, the video showed another side to her that I didn't know existed. It showed a side to my best friend that was rather refreshing. There in colors all the world could see was her spark shining through what must have been a difficult situation. Not only did the party have the mood of a well-choreographed wake, but even her classmate friends seemed to be sniping in with complaint after complaint to her or her family. Yet through it all, she handled it with remarkable aplomb. She didn't get upset. She didn't chime in with her own complaints to her mother. She sat there and took it. Well, she didn't exactly take it meekly. Her solution was to merely try extra hard to be pleasant. I've seen her throw on the charm before on a much more hostile crowd of strangers when we've been out in public, but heretofore I had never seen her act so cordially with a group of people she had leave with to get visually and verbally cross with. If it were my own family and I had been unhappy with my party, I would have complained to my heart's content. Not her, though. She smiled, laughed like a hurricane, and for the most part continued through the party like nothing were amiss.

I think after about forty minutes of watching scene after scene showing the same resolve is when I decided I had to have this tape. More precisely, it was then that I made the fateful decision that when I left for California three days later that particular tape would be coming with me.

Of course, I wouldn't ask for it. That would have been too embarrassing for me to do. Even I knew back then there was no truly good reason to ask for a copy of the tape. What possible use was there for watching repeatedly the same three hours of a twelve-year-old's birthday party? What good could come of it? It wasn't like I could explain to them that I needed it to remind myself of what made her special. It wasn't like I could capture in words how what I saw differed from what they say. Of anyone, she would have understood the most why I had to take it, but even asking her ran the risk of my request being denied for whatever reason. Nope, I needed the tape for my own edification and that entailed absconding with it on the down low.

That sounds bad. Stealing's bad. But to me it wasn't like I was stealing something, to me it felt Iike I was gathering another piece of her, another slice of the cake, to better experience who and what she was inside. There's only so much dialogue can tell you; sometimes you need to see a person as they are when they're not around you to see more fully how they are. Most people don't need to keep such visuals filed away. I just happen to be somebody who is a completist. That, coupled with my impulsiveness and rather shocking lack of judgment convinced me what I planned to do was alright.

I planned to steal the tape that night.

All in all, it was easier than I thought it was going to be. In truth, I probably made it more difficult than it needed to be. I waited till three in the morning to sneak down the grand staircase when it probably would have been safe to sneak down at one. Everyone was asleep by then, including her who I had personally checked in on from the doorway of the bathroom to that connected the guest room where I was staying to her bedroom. I took the steps of the stairs at about a step every two minutes, scared to death that every creak and moan of the landings would give away my position or, worse yet, my nefarious plot. I got into the videotape display at a snail's pace, opening the door as if I was opening the gates of heaven itself. Then, once I got into the section the held all the family functions I didn't even bother picking up the nearby flashlight because I was scared to death that a neighbor might see the light and question them the next morning. Yes, I was paranoid. Paranoia typically is the first sign of a guilty conscience, don't you know? Even when I had the tape in my hands and was even more slowly making my way back up the stairs, the entire time I was trying to come up with a conceivable reason why I had the tape with me in case I got caught. "Oh, it's one of mine from home that I wanted Breanne to see tomorrow morning," and "Breanne told me to hide the tape so you two could never show it to anyone again" were the best reasons I could devise for her parents. "I know how much it bothered you so I thought I'd play a practical joke and have you wake up to it in your face," was the best excuse I could come up for her.

In actuality, she probably would have been fine with it. She probably would have laughed at the reason, but once I explained it to her in terms that would play on her minor chord heartstrings, she probably would have acquiesced. I don't know why I felt the need to hide my secret shame from her.... or maybe it was just that I didn't want to appear needy. I just thought any reason I could give would be flimsy.

I passed by her bedroom and pressed my ear to the door. She still sounded asleep. I began whispering her name through the door, loud enough that she would be able to hear me if she were awake but not loud enough to actually wake her up if she wasn't already awake. After twenty or thirty seconds I all but tripped into the guest bedroom, so quickly did I want to separate my hands from the damning evidence I now possessed.

I packed that tape away in the deep recesses of my bag, careful to insure that nobody casually searching through would ever have the opportunity to feel it through the folds and contours of my underwear (yes, in my underwear) much less see it from a casual glance. I had read earlier that year that a dab of peanut butter masks the scent of drugs and that certain criminal enterprises employed the tactic when smuggling contraband. I can tell you that if I had easier access to the Holins' pantry there would have been peanut butter smeared all over my prize in as sufficient a quantity that would ease my unease yet still allow for the tape to be played.

The whole family, bless their hearts, never suspected a thing. I left on that trip with no one the wiser.

But every time I watched it over the next two years before I told her I had it, I half-expected to receive a phone call asking for the tape's return. This isn't to say I watched it with an overwhelming sense of guilt. That faded about a month after I came home. No, the half-expectation originated from the idea that she was so real and so lifelike at her birthday party that there were times where I felt I was right there. More precisely, I got so caught up in every detail (after playing it more than fifty times) that in those instances where she faced the camera and she was being prompted to describe her excitement or her glee, I honestly felt she was talking to me. I honestly felt I could reply to her in kind. I honestly felt that any second now she was going to ask why I took the tape.

That question would not be answered until, as aforementioned, two years late.

I forget the exact circumstances, but out-of-left-field while we were discussing something completely unrelated Lucy asked me if I was ever going to return the videocassette I took.

"You knew about that?"

"Yeah, darling."

"How long?"

"About a week after you were here. My daddy noticed the tape was missing then and it didn't take much for us to piece together who the culprit was."

"And you never said anything? You weren't mad?"

"No. Should I have been?"

That's when I had to explain why I did it. That's when I had to endure the ridicule of going through when and what I was doing while I was watching the tape. That's when I came closest to understanding Will's plight in the film.

I told her that "sometimes when two people know each other half as well as we do it's natural to think that there's so much more I could know. It's hard to imagine that I've solved the Breanne puzzle. Sometimes, I worry that there's whole other side of you that you might be hiding. I get nervous that you're going to spring it on me someday when I least expect it.

"At any rate, that was the original reason I took it, B."

"And now?"

"Now I just watch it when I especially miss you and talking to you on the phone just isn't enough. Sometimes seeing your face in motion, whatever age you are, is more than enough to cheer me up. It's like pictures and phone calls are only slices of your life and what I see on the video is the whole pizza. I can't explain it."

"That's a sufficient enough reason. Hell's bells, though, Eeyore, if you wanted the tape so badly you could have just asked..."

----

No, I'm not advocating theft of any size or shape to get to know a person. Nor am I endorsing a course of stalking to better acquaint yourself with the individuals in your life.

However, in certain instances, there's something to be said about being curious about a person you care about's life. There's something intrinsically human about the desire to know another human being inside-and-out whatever the stakes. We're all born alone. We all spend the vast majority of our time on our own. We all feel loneliness and solitude to varying degrees at one time or another. When a connection, any connection, is made it's natural to want to explore it to the depth and breadth that a single person can explore. In fact, I would go so far to say that people who stop getting to know other people at the surface level have never really had a true loved one in their life just yet. It takes digging, it takes wanting to know, it takes pushing past the boundaries of taking only what a person is willing to give to find out who this other person is. It takes blowing right by the perception they wish to portray to you and getting at the reality of who they are, the content of their character and not just the fancy cover, that makes any friendship or relationship.

And, yes, sometimes it means holding onto something that belongs to them, that is infused with their personality and history.

It's not good enough to merely win a person's heart slowly over time.

Sometimes you just have to steal it out from under them. LOL

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers