She Got The Current In Her Hand, Just Shock You Like You Won't Believe, Sun In The Amazon, With The Voltage Running Through Her Skin

--"Electric Feel", MGMT

I watched Orphan yesterday night with high expectations. It hadn't drawn my interest when it first came out in theaters, but with each passing week I started to hear more and more about how over the top scary it was. Not gory or gruesome, mind you, which I tend to dislike, but out-and-out-we'll-toss-everything-at-you scary. Not to mention I kept hearing how the "twist" for Esther, the orphan in question played by Isabelle Fuhrman, was freaking batshit nutso that it made the film all the more a guilty pleasure for having known the twist right from the start. I had to buy the film the very first day it came out and watch it.

And it did not disappoint. I can honestly say that compared to any other demon child/bad seed thriller or horror films, Orphan truly pulls out all the stops. With every other film in the genre, you still get the impression there's a sense of decency or even innocence at what the children in question are doing. You are still left with the impression that, if they knew more about the consequences of their actions, that possibly they might think twice about committing the various horrifying acts they perpetrate throughout the course of the film. You still believe, like the axiom goes, that they are good at heart buried down below their complex upbringing and whatever forces twisted them into such sadistic creatures.

I believe the point where I knew I wasn't dealing with that kind of child in question in this film was when Esther asks her deaf seven-year-old little sister to help hide the body of the nun she had just smashed twice in the head with a hammer. At that point I was completely thinking to myself that there just isn't an ounce of innocence at all in this little girl. It's bad enough to kill someone... but a nun? And then to trick your truly innocent little sister into becoming an accomplice? There's a whole other level of evil in that scenario.

And what's worse is that's one of the more subdued acts of violence that occurs during the film. As the plot just goes from mildly disturbing to outright menacing and shocking, you as the audience begin to see why, because of her perfmance, Roger Ebert said Isabelle Fuhrman "is not going to be convincing as a nice child for a very long, long time."


do what you feel now

----

While not a box office success, I think the film succeeds on its merits because it plays upon the simple premise that adults severely underestimate the capabilities of children. Even setting aside Esther for a second, Max, as the younger sister who is put in peril constantly by the arrival of the older (much older it turns out) Esther, shows herself just as capable of being deceitful in order not to draw the suspicion of her sister. If anything, it's Max and her older brother Daniel who do the most effective job at stopping Esther before their mother ever gets involved. And their poor father still remains clueless as the Esther's true nature till the very end. For most of the story Esther preys upon all the second chances her family affords her. She uses the very nature of her small stature, the way she dresses, and carries herself to get away with murder, literally. Even her voice and her very inflections she manipulates to the situation. She's a different kind of monster, using the ribbons in her hair and the lack of strength to obscure the fact she is, without a doubt, batshit crazy.

I mean--I never killed anyone (that I'd be willing to confess to, at least), but I believe the same thing happened to me and my brother growing up. I was forever coasting on the fact I got good grades and pretty much stayed out of trouble to hide the enormity of how much trouble I caused when I set my mind to it. I never hurt anyone physically except my brother, but vandalization and stealing all sorts of other peoples' possessions were a lot of the ways I dealt with my frustration. My family still doesn't know how often my "taking a walk" really meant blowing off the steam by destroying or taking stuff.

And it's the same with most of my good friends. Breanne's parents never knew how far and what she did all those times she ran away from home. They didn't even find out about sleeping underneath her friends' old home until like five years ago and certainly have never been told the story of her almost accepting rides from perfect strangers. She's only told them half of what actually happened all those times. Most of the time they were content with her explanation of staying over at a neighbor's house or having one of her relatives hide her away. Rather than think the worse, adults are always more willing to find the more excusable and innocent explanation for what their kids do or say. Nobody wants to believe that their children are capable of deceit and cruelty on par with the rest of the world. Nobody wants to be the one who finds out that their kid is just not like the rest of the kids in their class.

They have these expectations that because they turned out fine, that their kids will as well.

I used to think the same way because none of the kids in my elementary school or even high school revealed anything I'd qualify as horrifying. It wasn't until I got into college and older that the sick and twisted childhoods of some people I knew started to make their way to the surface. From Ilessa being routinely beat up by her older brother for more than five years of her life to Jennifer's brother's own stories of being tossed down their well by kids in their neighborhood claiming to be his friend--I've heard too many stories of kids just being outright evil to think that we're all born good. While it's true that most kids fall somewhere between being good and evil, that doesn't mean there aren't just some bad seeds out there.

Not every kid can be little miss sunshine (or even Little Miss Chipper).

Somebody's kids have to grow up to be the Esthers of the world.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Hold My Breath, And You Close My Eyes, As A Curtain Of Light Drops From The Skies, I Never Knew, My Love Could Get So Far, From Me

--"Sippy Cup", Gospel Gossip

I was watching Castle tonight do their big Halloween-themed episode. While it was superb as usual--full of the requisite twists and cinematic banter between all the characters involved--what struck me as quite original was the use of Nathan Fillion in the opening scene. Because it was a holiday-themed episode, we see his character Richard Castle strapping on his boots, donning his brown leather duster, and stepping out of the door as... Captain Malcolm Reynolds, otherwise known as the character he portrayed for less than a season five years ago on his other starring vehicle, Firefly. As Lucy would say, it was a hoot-and-a-half to see him unexpectedly reprise, even for a fleeting moment, one of the most beloved characters in all of the Whedonverse.

Two different characters. Two different world views. And yet they were both portrayed by the same actor. While it might have been five years since he last looked like a Browncoat, I can honestly say that even if the show had lasted five years long, I couldn't have pictured Nathan looking any different as Mal than he did tonight. In fact, it makes me wonder how much his character's appearance might have transformed had that show run its full course. Would the Mal I saw on Castle still have been the Mal on Firefly, season 6? Who's to say. It was just nice getting to visit with an old friend again, albeit briefly.


I've written me off, I've written me off

It also makes me wonder what becomes of the affection an actor holds for the character he plays, especially television actors who sometimes have to don the coats of the character for upwards of six or seven years sometimes. After their show has been cancelled, after all the sets have been torn down, I wonder just how much they really miss the invitation to walk in those shoes ever again. I know--some actors treat their roles as the jobs they are. I suppose some actors really are able to jump from character to character, like Sam Beckett, never giving a second thought to the people whose soul they pushed into their bodies, but I believe that with some performers they truly do feel like they've lost a part of themselves when they are told they will no longer be able to be that person ever again. I believe that some actors or actresses just take it that much to heart; just like I believe there are some roles that are harder to shed than others--not because they're more profound or because they are in any way "better" roles, but because there are just roles which are more illuminating, more rewarding, and just plain more fun to tackle than others.

Those are the roles that make me wonder how hard it is to give up the ghost. Those are the roles that come along only a few times in a performer's life.

It makes me think of the precepts we normal folk adopt, the characters we choose to portray. Shakespeare had it right, I'm afraid. One man in his time does play many parts. What he failed to mention, though, is that there are some parts that we seem to take to more effectively than others. Whether that's because we find the challenge in the role ourselves or because the role is thrust upon us and we get pigeonholed into playing that part over and over again; there's just some masks that we wear that over time blends into the face we wore before, and just becomes a new face. The more we put on these masks, the more we hide behind them, the harder it gets to separate us from the costume. That's what I've come to discover over the years. It isn't so much who we are as people on the inside that defines us, but what the world sees us on the outside as that defines us. It's really like the difference between a person's story and a person's backstory. The backstory may be able to explain why a person does something, what their motivations are, but the only thing that matters is what a person's remembered for, never mind the reason they did what they did.

When a person changes identities--when that awkward teen in high school tries to become that easygoing college student, when the weakling runt of the litter takes up martial arts to become more proud of himself, when the stubborn tomboy grows up to become the earthly mother of three--sometimes there's a struggle involved. Sometimes the struggle is external with the world not knowing that person as anything other than what they are known for. Sometimes it takes an extended period of time for those closest to the person involved to see them as the person they are trying to become. Sometimes the struggle is internal with the person not really sure he or she wants to change anything about himself at all. Sometimes it does take outside forces and outside pressure from people around them for that man to become the person they are meant to be.

Often, though, it's more than that. Often, despite the acceptance that their transformation is for the best, a person will still struggle with the process of letting go of their old identity. They could have been known as a boldfaced liar, a notorious violent person, or even the scourge of the seven seas, and even though they see for themselves the need to metamorphose into something grander, they still blanche at changing any more quickly than they have to. It's not that they really want to hold onto the viler aspects of their character; it's merely that they had to live with that facet of themselves for so long it's really become all they know. Even though they know it isn't working out for them, they really lack the experience to be any other way in the beginning.

That's why people hold onto their old monikers for so long. That's why the class clown often becomes the wearisome jokester long after his jokes have stopped being funny. They don't know what else to do if they don't do what they've always done. If I'm not funny, they say, then I'm nothing.

That's why I can empathize with actors who still revisit with their more well-known characters. I know what it's like to be thought of in a certain light early on... and then suddenly lose that quality that made you special. I know what it's like to lose all definition of who you are, to be a performer without a new role to play. I know what it's like to fall back into old routines, old conversations, because you know who you were when you were playing that part. It may not be who you are now, but when you're still struggling to figure out the "new" you or the "improved" you, it's all too easy to wonder if you simply weren't better off going your whole life being known for one part of your personality and that one part only.

At least you were somebody and at least people talked about you.

When you have a purpose in life you tend to hold onto it strongly, sometimes longer than you should. It beats not having a purpose and feeling like you need to grab onto whatever you can that passes near to you. When you have your role set for you, you sometimes stay rooted to that role rather than look for the part you really were supposed to play. Sometimes its easier to get stuck in the rut rather than wander off directionless.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's The Colorless Picture, In A Heart-Shaped Frame, The Silhouette Of A Doe-Eyed Girl, Who At One Point Had A Name

--"Common Reactor", Silversun Pickups

Sometimes I receive invitations from people to "friend" them on Facebook or Twitter. Now, I'm usually inclined to accept everyone who asks me just as I'm usually inclined to invite people I barely know. But, even so, there are just some people I'm still surprised even ask me to accept them. It's still amazing, given my history with certain people, that they would even think of me as someone they would want to know every facet of their business. It's not like they don't know that a lot of what I read or hear ends up being posted on here in some fashion or other. And it's not like they don't know that I don't usually actively engage many people outside of a small circle of friends. What they expect me to say I have no idea.

I've also come to realize, even though I'm constantly tweeting throughout the day, I've turned facebook into a place where I really allow a lot of who I am to shine through. I mean--I may share my most poignant or serious stories that I possess here, but on facebook I kind of let loose of what a big geek I am. I post links to songs I may be listening to, stupid ideas I may be working on, and just random crap that really captures how random my thought processes are. I do that a little on twitter, but twitter is usually employed more to capture what I did during my day--where I ate, who I hung out with, where I was. But facebook is more closely associated with daily adventure of being me. Quite frankly, that's a collection of information I would rather certain people didn't have access to. That's why there are certain people that I routinely turn down friending me on there. It's not because I think I have anything to hide, but because there are certain people that I just don't feel like sharing anything about myself with--so deep is my animosity with them.

It's a strange feeling. It's like I don't care that people know what I've been through, even if I don't know them that well. But I also do hold grudges. I also do take things personally. Knowing that, I realize that I'm prone to fits of pettiness. I can't take away what people already have in terms of knowledge about me, but I can withhold as much new information as possible from ever being gleaned by them. I can't control much, but I can control somewhat of who and what I share with people. That's what I've taken as a personal lesson from dabbling in the new era of social networking.

I know the 192 people I have listed as friends on my facebook list aren't all truly my friends, but I'm more satisfied knowing that of those 192 people, none of them are people I wouldn't want to be friends with in real life. It would really ruin my whole perception of being a part of the great facade that is social networking if I ever included somebody I truly despised in real life onto one or all of my friends list. That would just be too facetious, even for me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

As The Storm Blows On, Out Of Control, Deep In Her Heart, The Thunder Rolls

--"The Thunder Rolls", Garth Brooks

Ever since moving to Long Beach, I've had trouble with watching television in my room. As I've explained before, watching tv in my room has always been a time-honored routine of mine. For the better part of twenty years, I would tune it into ESPN or some other non-intrusive show, and let the ambient noise soothe me into falling asleep. Well, that just isn't possible here with the way my cable box breaks down with regularity. Most of the time I can't even count on it to turn on, let alone change it to the channel that I thought I needed to sleep. Indeed, for the last six months, I've had to make due without it when I'm trying to fall asleep.

What I've been doing instead is listen to those nature CD's people like to employ. I'm talking about those rather soothing sounds of wind blowing through wind chimes, rivers gently bubbling, or the surf crashing lightly into shore. I've always thought one day I would check them out as an alternative to leaving the TV on in sleep mode, but it has only become a necessity in the last few months. Starting with a set of 2 cd's of the surf crashing into shore in Hawaii, I've made leaving the stereo playing me to sleep a nightly habit. While I haven't bought too many of them, it's helped quite a bit with my not being able to relax my mind long enough to succumb to slumber. In fact, it's gotten so that I think I should have been doing this all along rather than trained my mind to only fall asleep to Sportscenter or some other show. It's far more easier to fall asleep to waves crashing or the sound of distant wind chimes than some guy's voice droning off in a meek whisper. I daresay when taken measure against the speed with which I fell asleep to the tv before, I'm drifting away a half-hour quicker with the CD's--if not quicker. I can definitely say I'm getting better quality rest now than I did before.

That is until I bought my most recent nature sounds CD.

Under a friend's suggestion (ahem) and due to the fact that I've always thought a rain CD would work the best for me, I bought a soundtrack of about a hundred minutes of rain falling on a rooftop called Suburban Thunder. I thought it was going to be quiet like the other CD's. Also, I thought that was rain was kind of soothing, quiet even.

Boy, was I wrong.

The track starts off fine. It starts off with a hushed whisper of rain falling on a rooftop. The thunder, when it does hit, registers a medium-level crackle. The first time I listened to it, I thought I could get used to this CD and this isn't so bad. There's something about rain falling that reminds me of when I was a kid. It reminds me of afternoons where the weather was too bad to play outside, but not bad enough to fall asleep too. The patter of water hitting the gutters and sliding down the drain had always been a constant companion during those afternoons where I would just nap beneath the sounds of the subdued storm outside. All in all, the CD starts off as very soothing.

It's when it hits the thirty minute mark that all hell breaks loose. There is a crash of thunder that goes on for so long and hits so loudly that it woke me out of my sleep. Not only that but, because it emulates the sound of pounding on the walls, scared me half to death that first night and every subsequent night I've listened to it. It's funny, I never fully understood Lucy's terror at the sound of thunder, but I get it now. The reason it makes more sense is because, like her, I even know the thunder is coming in the duration of the CD. I even know the exact time it starts, and yet it still makes my heart leap each and every time. There's something instinctual, almost primal, at my recoiling at something so basic. No naturally-made sound should be that loud or last that long. It really does feel like some other sinister force at work here.

Now I'm rethinking my whole stance at falling asleep to nature idea. If all future tracks turn on a dime so quickly to be so menacing, then I don't want to risk my comfortable sleep to chance. I mean--what's next? Listening to hurricane-force winds destroying peoples' homes or maybe a nice 7.1 earthquake working its way through the speakers. No thank you. LOL

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Will Always Hold Your Hand, I'll Never Let You Fall, 'Cause Nothing, Nothing Else Matters At All, If You're Scared Just Think Of Me

--"Cricket", Dance Hall Crashers

I saw Paranormal Activity on Saturday, which just happened to be my birthday too.

It is without a doubt the scariest movie I have seen in the last ten years. Never before have I seen people scared to leave their seats at the end of a movie, but that's what happened on Saturday. I have also never seen a film where half of the audience screamed at the same part loudly. Usually one or two people get jumpy, but that film had everyone on edge for the last two or three key scenes. I went to go see it with Case and Laurel, and they remarked how into the tension the whole audience seemed to be. At various times during the story, you could just hear everyone holding their breath in anticipation. Truly, it's an experience not to be missed.

Of course I was fucking scared out of my mind. Not only do I hate thinking about ghosts (even while I love ghost stories--go figure), but I already have enough trouble sleeping on a good night when nothing preoccupies my thoughts at all. This movie totally pinpricks at the idea that somebody or something could be messing with all of us while we are sleeping. Not only that, but it suggests that we are right to fear about going to sleep because seemingly that is when we are at our most vulnerable. Watching the couple in the movie endure night after night of something torment them was like watching one of my worst fears come true. But what made it even more frightening was the idea that any scary monster can be made doubly worse when one is attempting to confront it while under the duress of lack of sleep. I couldn't imagine trying to bolster my courage to face whatever terrors might await me in the evening when all I want to do is get a good night's rest. That's like a disease which both debilitates you while at the same time striking down your body's defense. Paranormal Activity does an excellent job at conveying the couple's inevitable decline into paranoia as more and more of their nights are given over into fighting an enemy they don't understand and can't even see.

Needless to say, I couldn't stay at my place alone on Saturday so I just stayed over at Casey's.


just close your eyes and ignore
the dark that troubles you most

I felt like an idiot carrying on about how I was too chicken to go home, but the truth was the truth. I wasn't about to attempt to face an empty condo alone--not when I had seen literally someone dragged from their sleep. I wasn't about to put myself in the position of having to relive that nightmare with no one around to rescue. I'd rather face ridicule. I'd rather admit that a film got to me where I'm bothered the most than later wish I hadn't been so proud. For their part, though, Zig and Zag, were most gracious hosts. I only had to ask them once if it was alright. I brought it up at dinner while we were still in Irvine and they didn't make me jump through hoops to get them to agree. Other friends might have been less than kind and taken advantage of the situation, but Case, true to her past form, just let the situation unfold naturally. I asked. They agreed. And no more was said of it.

I suppose I could chalk it up to them being on their best behavior because it was special day and all. And Faye even suggested that they did it partly because they were scared too so they wanted a third body in the house as a precaution. Also, it wasn't like I haven't spent the night in their spare bedroom before, right? But I think it went further than that. Birthday or not, scared or not, I think they both could tell that this was one of those times where logic simply wouldn't work with me. Yes, I know it's silly to be scared of something as hokey as ghosts, but that doesn't quite change the matter that I am scared of ghosts. And it doesn't change the fact that, like it or not, it takes me more than a few hours or even a day to be able to put such a fear at the back of my mind. Casey especially could see that it wasn't so much a request to be amongst friends that night while I slept; it was an entreaty for asylum. I honestly don't know what I would've done if they hadn't taken me in. I might have put up the money for a hotel room; that's how real my fear was.

I've been spending a fair amount of time with Z and Z lately. I'm almost always over at their place on the weekends--at least two weekends out of the month. Originally, I thought it was a matter of convenience. I'm coming from Lake Forest and Irvine. Their house is about ten to fifteen minutes away from there, a lot closer than where I live. It was convenient to call them to see if they wanted to hang out since I was already out there.

But this past weekend has proved that it isn't merely a matter of convenience and that the two girls aren't simply people put in my life to pass the time. They're really turning out to be two great friends in every sense of the word.

There's not a lot of people who would put up with a person who gets this worked up over a scary movie. There's not a lot of people who would understand me when I said that the fear is real. Most people would send me away with words of scorn, that I should grow a pair or face my fears. Only a true friend would be able to see that what I needed most on Saturday wasn't someone to tell me what the adult thing to do was; I needed someone (or someones) to hold my hand and tell me that everything would be alright by the next morning.

Lucky for me that that's exactly what I got that night.

My advice? Go see Paranormal Activity as soon as possible. Just make sure you take a friend with a spare bedroom with you... just in case.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

If There's Any Good In Me, It Must Be Plain To See, 'Cause It's Your Fingerprints Inside The Very Heart Of Me

--"Wonderful", Jump 5

To Marion on her 17th year of living...

When I met Toby back in 2007 she was a very self-conscious and pragmatic fourteen-year-old, prone to periods of doubt. Now that she has reached the ripe old age of seventeen I still find her very self-conscious. I still find her very pragmatic. And those moments of doubt still creep up upon occasion. And yet--it's been an interesting span of two years, getting to know her better and also getting to see how much she has transformed her since then. It's been like watching a river work its way down to ocean. There were bumps and there were twists. And, sure, there were times where it became rather difficult to hazard a guess as to where her journey might take her. And, sure, I don't exactly know what lies ahead of her. From where I stand, though, she's already covered so much ground that to reflect upon it is certainly breathtaking.

I never thought I'd be writing about her two years later or that she would come to be one of my closest confidantes, but the facts stand where they're placed. She has become all those things. I, in return, have accepted the fact that I may have just learned a trick or two about her myself in those intervening years. For one, it's plain to see she's blossomed as someone who questions the world. I've seen those peerless lenses with which she once only viewed only her problems and only her concerns turned outward a bit more. I've seen her open up to the possibility that there is more to the world than good 'ole Lorryville and more to concern herself with than just plain Toby Claire Frisson, a feat I've never been able to accomplish all that successfully. People always concern themselves with how they are perceived, what they look like to other people. I think it's a brighter sign of maturity when one can start to begin to see how they perceive others and how others look to them is far more worthy of investigation. She hasn't gotten all of society figured out just yet, but it's an interesting development to see her in the first footsteps of that pursuit.

It's also been interesting, yet sad, to see her lose some of the innocence that first made her noticeable. She isn't quite the doe-eyed impassioned youth that I first met. She's gotten a little rough around the edges. She's also become a little more skeptical, even cynical about the world. While it's all fine and dandy to think ideally about everything, it's also a sign of becoming older when pragmatism becomes applied to more than just studies, religion, and personal philosophy. I'm a bit saddened to see the little girl who used to accept everything at face value go, but in her place I'm beginning to notice the first unmistakable signs of a challenging, and fiercely questioning, young woman in her stead. I'm seeing a vibrant young woman beginning to really figure out her place in the world at large--not just how she fits in, but also how she can break out a few of the boxes she may have been placed into from an early age.

Additionally, while I was out visiting her that in addition to her proneness to moments of somber reflection, she's also started to develop new tools of discourse and discussion in her education outside the classroom. Rather than instantly fall back to the relative safety of her own mind to muddle through her problems, she's began to look to others more and more as a viable means to a solution. Before she was always of the persuasion to hear advice but not really listen to it; she was always of the mindset that other people were only good for confession rather than absolution. Now more than ever I'm beginning to hear her find out the distinction between simply doing as she was told, as she used to be prone to do, to sifting the wheat from the chaff. She's beginning to rely on others for advice rather than herself while at the same time remaining in control of her ultimate fate. I think it's this precarious juggling act of balancing her quiet independence against her will to be accommodating to almost everyone that is her greatest accomplishment so far. She's always been the best at smoothing out the frayed ends of any situation; she's always been the troubleshooter rather than the instigator. Now she's learning to accept the fact that sometimes she's going to be the one with the frayed ones or the troubles to be shot; and not to be afraid to let someone do the heavy lifting for her for a change.

However, lastly and most importantly, as I reflect on my favorite Toby turning seventeen this year, I would be remiss if I didn't mention how much she's changed me in addition to changing herself. Just by knowing her, I've become a little less temperamental and a lot less impatient when it comes to dealing with people. I'm not perfect in those areas yet by any means, but by seeing how swiftly Toby resolves her problems with people and by seeing how just by being nice 117% of the time can win you a lot more points over your lifetime, it's slowly dawning on me that there is more than one way to act in any given situation. While it feels a tad wrong to say since it is her birthday, I just wanted to take the time to thank the youngest contributor here for that gift and all the rest of the gifts she's given me over these last few years.

Happy Birthday, Toby, and I'm sorry this note of my admiration for you is so tardy in its execution.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

This Is Why Events Unnerve Me, They Find It All, A Different Story, Notice Whom For Wheels Are Turning, Turn Again And Turn Towards This Time

--"Ceremony", New Order

I have a birthday coming up on the 10th. Yet, to be certain, I'm more excited that both my brother and my friend Toby's birthday are coming up on the 12th. Don't mistake me--I'm glad to be receiving gifts and all, but the weight of the occasion still hasn't hit me yet. The way I see it, turning thirty-four is about as momentous as turning thirty-three, which is to say it isn't very momentous at all. On that day, nothing's going to truly change for me and there won't even be any kind of celebration to commemorate the date.

Yes, I'm having a few dinners with a select group of friends and relatives all this week, but there will be no birthday party, bash, or any type of shindig to be had.

Frankly, I think I outgrew birthdays by the time I was twenty. I've never been all that jazzed about parties celebrating me. I've always preferred to put forth the energy into other people's celebrations. I've always strived to make other people's birthdays memorable and special. I suppose it has something to do with the idea of me not liking to call attention to myself--the no good-bye rule and the no small talk rule--but I also believe it has to do with the idea that birthdays in and of themselves aren't very noteworthy. It's not like an anniversary where you're celebrating an actual choice; birthdays really celebrate something you had no control over. That's why it's okay for friends and family to want to do right by you in making a big deal about your birthday. It's their choice to really honor the fact how long you've come in the world by choosing an arbitrary date to turn the metaphorical hands of the clock of your relationship. But to move the hands of one's own clock is to really acknowledge that there is a clock which is moving all the time in the first place.

In my case, it's neat to think that my "little" brother will be thirty-two years old this Monday or that Marion will be turning the same age when I first met Breanne, but it just makes me sad to think I'll be turning ten or more years older than people who have accomplished more than me.

Basically, my birthday is what holidays are to most people...

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Somebody, Somebody, Can Anybody Find Me Somebody To Love?

--"Somebody to Love", Queen

Last week my Boston Mojo lost to Breanne's Atlanta Hellfire by five measly points. Normally, whenever we face each other in the field of the battle the customary wager has always been one hundred. Yet, since I was so overconfident my team would prevail in the end, I upped the bet to five hundred last week. For those of you who don't know, that's the largest wager I've ever lost to Breanne--or anyone else for that matter. I normally don't go around throwing money after any sports team, even if it was comprised mostly of my beloved Red Sox. It's just not something I get that impassioned about enough to risk. Honestly, I think it was just the coupling of besting Lucy once more with the fact that I was ahead halfway through the week that caused me to lose my head for a moment. Losing hundred is bad enough, but losing five hundred is just plain depressing.

However, I'm not in the least bit bitter about it. I don't mind really losing to her.

It's because I know somewhere deep down that it's not really losing to her; it's more like I'm paying her back. Slowly. The crux of the matter is that five years ago she was kind enough to offer me three thousand dollars to borrow when I had filed for bankruptcy and wasn't working. I've only ever been able to pay her back about twelve hundred of it. She's never once bitched and moaned about getting the remaining eighteen hundred back to her right away. She's hardly even brought it up again--if and when she has, it's only to sass me about it. In the history of our friendship it's definitely the greatest single act of trust she's ever done for me. If she never did anything else from this point forward or if she had never done anything else for me previously, it would still earn her the distinction as being the friendship I cherish the most.

----

I was discussing at work how it surprised me that my friends from St. Rita's, Tommy and John, still knew each other. It surprised me because, there but for the grace of God, those two would have been my oldest friends if we hadn't drifted apart. I mean--I knew those two since the early 80's, at least ten years before I would meet Jina, Breanne, Dan, and Peter, or anyone else I would ever meet at La Salle. If we hadn't drifted apart, we would have been halfway through our third decade of knowing each other.

I admit it. There was a time there where I thought we'd always be friends. Tommy, John, Paul, and Phillip were the only friends I knew the entire time I was in elementary school. I was friendly with a lot of people--Jennifer, Casey, and Stephanie come to mind--but those four guys were the only ones I considered friends. It's kind off-putting that the first friends you usually make in life almost always never last. Just taken a sample poll of people at my work and people I know, almost no one is still friends with people from their elementary class after you reach a certain age. Almost no one has had the patience and fortitude to maintain a strong ongoing relationship that long.

My question has always been, though, even if you stay friends with someone that long, does that make for a better friend? Does duration count more than quality? For instance, if I had stayed friends with John or Tommy all these years, would I know be calling them my best friends instead of Little Miss Chipper? Or, say I got my dream of befriending someone like Rachel, and they were killed within months of getting to know them--would the fact that we only knew each other for those few months detract from the closeness we did feel?

I don't know--I've always been interested in the debate of whether length or compatibility matters most for qualifying one as someone's dearest friend. It's why my novel centers around a guy whose first love was killed in sixth grade after they'd only spent one summer together and how that relationship has become the relationship by which he judges all others, including his marriage. Thirty years later all he can see was how his one perfect relationship was tragically cut short before it had a chance to really blossom.

That's how I feel sometimes. There's people that I've known longer than dirt itself, but with whom I've never felt really close. And there's been people I've always just instantly clicked with it. In almost every situation it's been the latter group whom I felt genuinely were my dearest friends.

I guess what I'm saying is it isn't the fact that she loaned me all that money all those years ago that makes me consider Breanne my number one. It's the fact that she probably would have helped me to that same degree had I asked her within the first week of knowing her. It's the fact that I believe in the chemistry we have together so much that it wouldn't matter if I met her in '84 or 2014, we still would have be joined at the hip eventually. Some people I might have spent more face time with and some people I might have been through more with it in sheer numbers. But there's something to be said about how well a person makes you feel whenever you get the chance to be around them or spend any kind of time with them.

It's like she says, "I'd much rather have a minute in the sun than a day out when it's cloudy, you know?" Most people are going to be cloudy days. It's only a select few that are going to be minutes in the sunshine.

Or to put it another way, there's a lot of people I get really annoyed when I lose a five dollar bet to them, but there's only one person in the world that I can fork over five hundred dollars to and still smile about it. Only one.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers