Moon Trills

Decided to go out on the deck tonight and sit for a few. I had a pack of Dunhill Menthols in the freezer, and against my better judgment (because I only smoke when I have no other choice), I brought a beer outside and lit one up.

Sitting out there, the weather was perfect, exactly the same temperature as it was inside, and I could hear crickets 100 feet away, which is what I love about Brooklyn. There's no way in hell you could hear a cricket 100 feet away in Manhattan. Here was my view:



It was quiet, the beer was cold, the Dunhill was smoky, and the moon was waxing gibbous. Started thinking about how completely insane it was that we landed men out there almost forty years ago, then I started thinking about the nonsensical inanity of our astronauts finally getting out there after countless generations dreaming about setting foot on the moon, and what did they do? They hit a golf ball.

I'm not a big fan of golf, so it seemed like a ridiculous thing to go tens of thousands of miles and hit a golf ball just to see how far it would go. Being an ex-hippie, I would have thrown a disc golf disc. Which is quite lame in and of itself.

But I remember a time that, being a Cancer, I was infatuated with the moon. So cold, so distant, so magical. Especially if you were a fan of Tom Robbins. There was even a time when I strongly considered getting a tattoo of the full moon on the inside of my upper arm, when I was a passionate mid-twenty year old. The moon held so much power, and an infinite sense of mystery. When the moon was full, I acted strangely and I didn't know why. It still happens.

So, sitting on the deck tonight, I was suddenly content with the feeling that I was in a place where the moon became a fantastic imaginary locale to throw a disc golf disc. I imagined how far it would fly. Would it ever land?

And now I'm concerned. Have my thoughts become trivial in my older age? Have I stopped thinking as deeply? Have I become a corporate astronaut? Was my life somehow more interesting when I valued the mystery over the possibilities?

Jesus Toast, etc.

Recent observations:

1. It's hot here in New York. It's hot everywhere, I realize, but there's something special about acres of concrete and steel and a sprinkling of trees arranged in a grid under direct sun with exhaust trapped inside.

2. You can buy an iPhone on eBay, but they cost more than the ones in the stores. You can even buy a slightly used iPhone with an image of Jesus burned into a slice of toast as your wallpaper. And for $894, the price of the Jesus Toast iPhone includes the slice of toast.

3. At least once a day, there will be a man or woman on the train walking the length of the car announcing the story of their homelessness to the passengers, 99% of whom respond by staring down at their book or their iPod or the suddenly intriguing pattern of gum stains on the floor. Newcomers to New York, if they have a good heart, will give them money. New Yorkers love their anonymity and see homeless people every day, so they usually do not. If an unfortunate soul asks for food or money, whatever you can spare, I can respect that. The best solution in this situation is to keep a granola bar in your bag and give that to them. They're tasty as hell, and everyone needs fiber in their diet.

3a. Another reason why New Yorkers are wary of the homeless is that quite a few of them are batshit crazy. The general rule is that if you see someone who looks slightly wonky and is talking to himself, don't make eye contact with him. It brings him out of his reverie and usually causes him to hate you for judging him. And he'll probably start saying nasty things to you, or at least mutter them to himself. Which is harmless, but it goes back to wanting to remain anonymous and respecting the privacy of others, especially when they're batshit crazy.

4. People who live here have thought of every possible way to celebrate living here. There are festivals, parades, exhibitions, appreciations, gatherings, block parties, etc. For example, there is a subsect of Manhattanite pagan heathens who celebrate one particular day out of the year when the sun sets exactly according to the grid plan, i.e., you can see the sun setting in the western slot of every street in Manhattan. It's called Manhattanhenge. I took a picture that week from Doug and Tina's apartment in Brooklyn, and it's uncanny:





5. Cereal is the easiest meal to prepare. If you want to get fancy, add a banana. But adding fruit makes it A.) more expensive, and B.) twice as difficult to prepare.

6. I don't print out my photographs anymore. I wonder how many people do.

7. My new favorite hobby is watering the outdoor plants. What could possibly be better than fighting global warming with 8 robust and beautiful creatures who rely on me for sustenance? Plus, there's nothing on earth that beats spraying a hose on your bare feet on a scorching hot deck.

8. Although I've been on vacation 10 days in the last three weeks, I'm sick of work and would rather be in Rum Point, Grand Cayman:

ME

Off to Maine for the next week and a half. J's home state, Dad's home state, and my adopted state. It's my second home and a refuge from my overwhelming first one.

This will be my week:

1. Watching the Sox with Dad
2. Eating tunafish sandwiches
3. Re-reading the last Harry Potter before the new one comes out
4. Hiking every day
5. Canoeing around Bass Harbor
6. Eating Moose Tracks ice cream
7. Driving around the island listening to the Mekons
8. Watching the rain slide down the pines
9. Drinking Sea Dog blueberry beer
10. Being alone or with J with nobody else in sight on the top of a mountain with the sea encircling the island.



Not too bad.

Two thrilling developments: the entire Allen clan came down to Brooklyn last weekend and we saw Hairspray, drank a boatload of exotic beer, fried on the deck, ate like kings, and celebrated Sam's second birthday with carrot cake and balloons. Pics to come.

Also, J's parents got me a Dyson Root 6 handheld vacuum for my birthday. It's the Hummer of handheld vacs. It also looks like a weapon from Total Recall:



It's freaking incredible. You should see this thing suck. One irrefutable sign of maturity/lameness is getting so excited about receiving a handheld vacuuming appliance that you can't get to sleep due to your anticipation of working on the carpet the following morning.

Savannah Smiles

Certain Wednesdays are "work from home" days, where I try to avoid the 74 degree weather outside and concentrate on getting work done. I'm usually unsuccessful.

I figured it was a good time to see a dietician this afternoon due to my cholesterol, which is abominable. (See earlier post about the Garbage Plate for documentation.) So today I was cruising the web and catching up on nutrition facts and ways to keep in shape. My 32-year old gut is expanding, my hair's turning gray, I'm having a hard time hearing people, and an hour of tossing a frisbee on Sunday has made me ache for the last 3 days. I'm getting old and crotchety.

Anyway...upon the crests and troughs of my surfing session, one thing led to another and I found myself on YouTube, as usual. I'm planning a trip to Grand Cayman, so I searched for some footage of it. This led to footage of Savannah, Cayman; then to random footage of Savannah, Georgia; and then to a blurry screencap of a girl with sun flares in the lens, titled "Savannah Watson, Forever in Our Hearts."



Say what you want about tribute videos -- they're usually poorly done, painful to watch, and usually accompanied by the thoroughly depressing hits of Bette Midler or Boys II Men. But I always have to watch them. And this one was different.

It's not a photo montage. It's video footage of a teenage girl at a playground in late afternoon, holding the camera at arms length, spinning around. And she's smiling, and Nick Drake's singing softly, and it's heartbreaking. She's probably sixteen or seventeen, with a smile that only teenage girls can conjure. At the end, she walks away and the picture fades to white.

It was so real that I figured it was made up. I decided to Google her and figure out what happened. First, I came across a news piece from 2005 in which she and her mother are interviewed. Apparently, she was friends with a girl who lived next door who was held captive and abused by the girl's father for over a year.

After that, I found the story about her accident. She was in the passenger seat of a Toyota 4-Runner in Arizona at 4:30 on a Monday morning with her friend Heather, who was nineteen. She lost control, crossed the median, and was hit by another truck. They died, and the two men in the truck lived. She was fifteen.

It was real, then. I found her friend's MySpace page with a tribute to her, then Savannah's MySpace page with messages from her friends over the last year. At this point it was hard not to feel like I was going too far, finding out too much information about her, invading her privacy - which wasn't hers anymore. YouTube and Google and MySpace had seen to that.

There was one last page. It was from the girl who did her eulogy, and it's all about regrets. She explains that the driver of the car was on Ecstasy. She says that Savannah "was a great, sincere, honest person, which our world seems to be sincerely lacking," and that "she will never know what it's like to get a drivers license, live in the dorms, get married, and have children."

She urges us to tell people how much we love them. "You never know when it'll be too late," she says.

Life can beat us down and turn us into shapes we don't recognize, but we manage to eke out some good times. There's no doubt about that. So for everyone out there who's shared these times - and beatings - with me, I love ya. And don't ever let me bitch about getting older.

ADD

What happened? Where did my gung-ho-ness go? Why is blogging the last thing on earth I want to do in my spare time?

The short answer: baseball. I watch every Sox game, every night. 6 nights x 3 hours per = 18 hours/week x 4 weeks/month x 6 months/year = not enough time to blog, do laundry, or eat properly.

The long answer: I think I've got an undiagnosed, yet quite severe, case of ADD. Most of you out there reading this who know me well are nodding vigorously in agreement right now.

It's bad. But here's how to cope:

-- Don't take me to a bar or restaurant with a TV in it or risk a one-sided conversation for the rest of the night.

-- Don't write me a long, impassioned email without expecting a two week delay in my four-sentence response. Trust me when I say it's taking all I've got to concentrate on those four sentences. I love you so much. But that's all I've got.

-- Don't ask me to remind you to do something later. You might want to remind me when it's time to remember to remind you.

-- Involve food. My attention is yours if you involve food.

-- No flashing lights or colors. I live and work in New York City, but take me to Times Square and watch me transform into a five year old on sugar.

That said, I'd like to apologize first to Jenny, who has been probably the most patient as anyone over the years. Her mind is razor sharp and lightning fast, so she has the most to lose when she engages me in conversation. I recently reread one of her letters to me, and it was frustrated, sad, flummoxed, loving, and wistful. I can't imagine what it's like to manufacture that kind of patience. Sorry hon.

Secondly and equally, Sara and J. Sara because she's had to deal with it for a very, very long time; J because she's going to have to deal with it for a very, very long time to come.

Amanda, of course, has probably wanted to kill me more than anyone else on the planet. Keep truckin, baby. Love ya.

Happy Memorial Day. Go outside!

Best of Craigslist

Most people visit Craigslist once in a blue moon to find a roommate, sell a vacuum cleaner, locate tickets to the upcoming Neil Diamond concert, or date that perfect match who shares their penchant for toe massages while crocheting sweaters for adopted chinchillas.

But a lot of people spend a lot of time on Craigslist. Too much time.

Considering all of the crazy business that transpires on Craigslist, it's quite awesome that someone has collected the most memorable bits and posted them all on one tiny corner of the site. Some are touching, some are profane, but here are some excerpts from the Best of Craigslist:

Let us frolic in my totally dope blanket fort

Couch - Very Uncomfortable, Red - $3.75

Operation Heavenly Hogpile - m4w

An Open Letter to the Guy riding a High-Bike

Get Well Balloon

The Perfect Craigslist Girl, Or So I Thought

Northern Soul

With all of this remembering going on, I'm a little shellshocked.

But I came across this, and I had to share it: