§28

Those who can't become critics.

§27

Good needs a lifetime. Bad needs a moment.

§26

The only way to move forward is to leave things behind.

Buddies

My friends have been through some shit. Believe me, cause you're not getting the details. They've all earned the right to be broken. No one would say a word. After seeing what they've dealt with, you'd be shocked they weren't all in straight jackets. I've watched them walk through fire. Hell, I complain when walking barefoot on hot pavement. Still, they walk with their shoulders back and always look you in the eyes. It's something. 

I started to wonder if it was my friends who've all had a string of bad luck: families, career, romantic relationships, health. Nope. Bad shit happens to everyone. And it ruins most of us. With good reason. But I admire people who find a way out. I fall hard for those who figure it out. Gets me every time.   

When I see someone go through impossible circumstances, it makes me want their friendship. I could give a shit if you listen to the same records I do, or like the same movies. Show me what you're made of. I may not have been tested yet, but I can spot their courage from across the room. And it's beautiful. It makes them light up. When I think about my closest friends and loved ones, they've all been people who can push through. Mud doesn't cling to their boots. 

I don't look down on people who fall victim to their circumstances. I'm no better. But I reserve the greatest respect for those who find a way to exist in the world and find new health. Those close to me are better people than I am; they remind me of who I want to be. It's not an accident. I deliberately picked them for my kickball team. 

Signing Off

They put blueberries in beer.
I like blueberries. 

There's an oddness in my body. My stomach is noisy and bloated. My temples feel like I've been wearing a hat that's too small. My mouth is stale. My brain feels like someone is indelicately pressing their thumb against it. My neck and shoulders are sore and tight. Not that good I-did-150lb-shoulder-presses tight, something foreign.  

What is this feeling?

What is going on with my body?

Who let this happen?

And why?

And suddenly, like the climax of a game of Clue, the crime is revealed: it was Nick, in the bar, with chicken wings and beer.

This is a hangover. I have a hangover? I have a hangover. At almost thirty, I'm half my life late for this party. Gross. This is an awful feeling. How do regular people do this? I know why people do it, but I'm asking a procedural question. My body is wrecked. I mean absolutely ravaged, like an eighty pound girl in a gang bang. And I suspect that on the Richter Scale of pain, this rates as minor seismic activity. Embarrassingly, my alcoholic intake consisted of four drinks over ten hours (pause for laughter and humiliation).

Still, the sky did not fall down. I'm no worse for the wear. A thousand push-ups from now, my body will forgive me. My fears about becoming an unchained animal weren't realized and the Earth kept spinning. The world now knows a sillier Nick than it had previously. You're welcome, World. Don't get used to it. I like my life like I like my news: scandal-free, sober, and more interested in truth than entertainment.

Stolen From Nietzsche Who Stole It From Dostoyevsky Who Probably Stole It From Somebody Else

Rarely are we as upset as we seem. Being bummed, annoyed, or angry are tools to elicit guilt and shame from another. They offer little intrinsic value to the bearer. But they have tremendous social gravity.

Example.

A close friend blows you off. A minor social inconvenience that forces you to reevaluate your plans for an evening or activity. Given your history and affection for this person, its consequences are relatively mild for your relationship.

But we like to punish. Our devilish little hearts let nothing slide. We love to put on a show. A debt exists that can only be paid back in slumped shoulders and downward glances. And pay you will. Our emotions don't manifest so powerfully that they spill from our pores; rather, our foul moods are spears aimed at their creator. When we are pricked, we purposely drip blood everywhere so we may say, "Look what you've done. Look at the mess you've made." And we revel in watching you clean.

The only cure is being a better person and who the hell knows how to do that.

From 775 to 773

Reno, Nevada: two years ago last month, I left you for Chicago. Yet the moment someone makes a snarky remark about you, I become six feet tall defending my little brother. I bailed. Reno still feels more like a home than Chicago. When I visit it feels like laying in the arms of an old girlfriend, familiar but altogether strange. Yet at this distance, I choose to see it in the most charitable light. And I emphasize choose. The city has more faults than San Andreas, but it was where I learned to be a man.

I'm moving in with my girlfriend this month. Those who've known me as an adult are apt to be surprised. And with good reason. I'm firmly of the belief that we never actively decide our values. We encounter them. They surprise us and assail us as if from outside ourselves. It took my whole life to turn me into someone ready to live with a girl. Even now, as we casually (i.e. not contractually) cohabitate, I implicitly know that if things ever get bad, my bed is a ten minute bike ride away. 

The remnants of a lifelong fear of intimacy and abandonment bubble up now and then. Crafty viruses lay dormant at the base of your spine even after you've recovered. They wait for the first sign of weakness, and like water on pavement, quickly fill the cracks. There is no immunity. You either learn to live with it, or you don't. If you're really lucky, you find someone who's willing to suffer through by your side. We are always susceptible. 

Am I cured? I don't even know what that means.

Am I better? Certainly.

Am I ready to live with someone? Ask me in a year. All I can say is that I'm committed, which for me is the bulk of the battle.

I have a better girl than I deserve, but more importantly I'm hoping I've learned how not to fuck it up. It doesn't mean I won't feel compelled to bolt the minute things get bad, but it's a promise that I won't. I'm discovering that staying has its merits. 

Without Reno, there is no Chicago. There is just Nick's studio apartment and masturbation and noodling. So when people talk shit about Reno, they are talking shit about twenty years of my life, family, and friends. Here's to growing up in Reno and moving away and to the love along the way.    

An Apology

When I would watch a shitty movie or Saturday Night Live, I'd think, "Wow, these guys are really mailing it in." After living in Chicago for a couple years, surrounded by some of the funniest people in the country, I owe them all an apology. Comedy, like art, is embarrassingly fragile. An honestly confused face slays me while the contrived acrobatic wordplay of Modern Family makes me groan. Our comedic clitoris is fickle and unforgiving. The same move never works twice.

Having personally crafted or watched friends painstakingly craft plays, sketches, improvised forms, and stand-up routines, I've learned one immutable truth: comedy is hard. Some part of me always believed that comedy was within the grasp of the American dream. All you had to do was want it. Not. True. In fact, trying to make someone laugh is a surefire way to ensure they don't. 

So, I apologize, SNL. I've talked shit on you for a decade having never really given much thought to the astounding feat of performing a live variety show every week for longer than I've been alive. I apologize to George Lucas. The Star Wars trilogy have been some of my favorite films for the better part of twenty years. Who among us has made three magnificent films? Movies are magical. For most of the people on a set, it's the break of a lifetime. They treat Kevin James flicks like The Godfather. Their family invites the neighborhood over to see their baby for their two second walk-on role. In fact, an apology to all sketch shows I've written off, every stand-up special I sighed through, and to every improv show I've texted through.

If you ever want to appreciate music, pick up a guitar. If you've ever cared about the classics, pick up a pen. If you've been that guy shouting at your TV about a coach's "bad call," put on a headset. The cliche, "Those who can't do, teach" is wrong. Those who can't do, become critics. As far as I'm concerned, doing makes you exempt from criticism. The worst performer is infinitely more interesting to me than the most astute critic.

Even when I never make it as a performer, athlete, or writer, I hope that I can still charitably look down at those who do. They may not always be funny, or make the right call, or pen something beautiful, but they make things. And that's enough.

§25

The process of finding a new mate is both simple and stupid: find Y that does not resemble X. What was tall becomes short. What was blonde becomes brunette. What was work-oriented becomes fun-loving. Relationship IQ plummets. Suddenly, we don't know anything except that what we last picked was a failure and we're willing to try anything else. Anything.

You think, "Maybe I was wrong about my type." But you're not. Eating a shitty apple doesn't mean you don't like fruit. You may need to stop buying it from Jewel, but it doesn't mean you should stop eating produce.

Four Minute Life

Sometimes I hear a song that makes me miss my old life. My friends and I didn't drink in high school. We didn't play sports or go to proms. We didn't do shit regular teenagers do. We went to shows: in basements; or, with Xs on our hands, in bars; at people's houses and garages. We took our paychecks directly to Resurrection Records. We blew every leftover dollar on drumsticks and guitar picks. We bought shitty amps and taped microphones to music stands. Our lives were music. Honestly, the guys we played in bands with were our only friends. We'd show up to my Dad's garage and play well after the sun quit. And when our neighbors called the cops, my Dad would tell us to turn it up. He resented the fact that the neighbors wouldn't simply come over and ask us to turn it down, and he hates authority. It worked out pretty well for us. He'd make us beef jerky and turn on the heater so we wouldn't freeze our asses off.

So now when I hear a song from Anti-Flag's first record, Die for the Government, I'm not twenty-eight living in Chicago. I'm fifteen walking across campus to the Jimboy's of McCarran with Jeff, Caleb, and Katie. When I hear Saves the Day's Stay What You Are, walking home after a long-overdue breakup and for some reason it's always raining. Cat Stevens will always be the sound of my Dad and I taking a road trip. Though he'd say I slept the whole time, and for his part I couldn't identify a single landmark we passed, you can hear a lot with with your eyes closed.

The Against Me! Acoustic EP transports me to the Yori house playing Bomb-A-Lot with Tim and keeping poor Jeff up all night. I danced with a girl in trash bag dress to Gang of Four's "Damaged Goods," broke down crying watching La Dispute play "The Last Lost Continent," and got in my first car accident to a Scared of Chaka song. Got in my second car accident to Eminem's "Without Me." I wandered the streets of New York to Jay-Z's Reasonable Doubt. The girls of my life all get their own tracks, though it would be ungentlemanly for me to list them here. That's a private mix. 

I misspoke when I said that these songs make me miss my old life. I can't escape them, the good times or the gnarly ones. For better or worse, they hit me in the chest. I never know when a song is going to burn itself into my brain. I'm no good with dates, or faces, or names. But I never forget a song. It's my life, four minutes at a time.

§24

Creativity rarely invents out of thin air. It, like the grapes of a good vineyard, gives deference to the world which bore them.

§23

Everything is practice.

Defined by Love

I love Jaimie, and surf, and pinball, and Nietzsche, and the West Wing, and Life in Pictures, and Woody Allen, and disc golf, and big dogs, and staying up late, and studying, and not drinking, and days off, and ice cold soda, and Bic Classic Stics, and TJ and Dave, and jailbreaking iPhones, and tech blogs, and good headphones, and God Damn Batman on Twitter, and Anniversary Slayer, and acting, and writing, and improv, and lifting weights, and Netflix, and free shipping, and Trader Joe's ice cream sandwiches, and milkshakes with the tin, and unlimited plans, and good punctuation, and things that make me cry, and Henry, and my Dad, and Reno, and playing in bands, and Mike Tyson's Punch Out, and Rocky I, II, IV, and unlimited skips on Pandora, and waking up without an alarm, and Peter Pan cunchy peanut butter, and good parking spots, and Intelligentsia coffee, and drumming on my chest, and making up songs about monsters, and plays, and yoga, and heavy fucking metal, and freshly washed sheets, and new socks, and American Apparel 25/25/50 shirts, and the Parker Jotter, and the Internet, and Super Nintendo, and Red Mango, and Lito's empanadas, and rough sex, and commuter jeans, and Chrome bags, and Apple products, and spirited debate, and blow jobs, and text messages, and existentialism, and American Psycho (book and movie), and paid vacation, and a close shave with a new razor, and wi-fi, and the Costco protein drinks, and girls with short hair, and big ass titties, and finishing big books, and retweets, and half-off specials, and The Mermen's "Slo Mo HVO," and early outs, and high definition TV, and Reno sunsets, and bravery, and honesty, and the dark part of YouTube, and people who can type faster than I can, and broken Olympic records, and academia, and staying after class with my professor, and blogging, and the way my friend Denise sings, Rage Against the Machine's "Testify" on Rock Band, and the way my friend Jawsh plays guitar, and reverb, and well-built watches, and reading my Mom's text messages aloud, and the sound a record needle makes when it is perfectly seated, and the font Helvetica, and museum free days, and full-screen apps, and software updates, and a well-crafted coffee drink, and customizable keyboard shortcuts, and autosave, and movies with montages, and the smell of rain, and minimalism, and efficiency, and the last five minutes of Obama's 2012 State of the Union speech, and pineapple juice, and rehearsal, and band practice, and touring, and midnight showings, and seamless bus transfers, and lifetime guarantees, and China Diner with friends, and running, and personal bests, and high fives, and writing in the margins, and   Hour of the Wolf's "Power of the Wolf" EP, and the Moss Icon's "It Disappears" LP, and Nirvana's the "Smells Like Teen Spirit" B-side "Even in his Youth", and GPS bus tracking, and CTA heaters, and reading outside the UNR philosophy department in early summer, and bowling with Alex, and Halo with team: We're Upgrading, and plowing through tv shows on DVD, and every second of Breaking Bad, and the fact that my Dad has never lied to me, and that feeling after doing a show, and a solid piece of copy paper, and documentaries, and mix-tapes, and listening to mindless music while working out, and the peach cobbler cupcake from Molly's, and the crazy skateboarder guy in Reno, and playing poker from dinner until breakfast, and fruit snacks, and crab legs, and big-ass steaks, and wing specials, and the iO training program, and Piotr Hoffman, and Dostoyevsky, and Lolita (book), and the perfectionism of Kubrick, and the Star Wars trilogy, and HDMI cables, and a well-calibrated monitor, and   a quiet snow, and morning sex, and bathroom sex, and regular sex, and winning, and a clean apartment, and the way I mistakenly think my car runs better after I've washed it, and single-speed bicycles, and left-over pizza, and Tango Sur, and date nights, and stay-at-home dinners, and picking at my skin, and being gross, and pretending I'm not, and Orphan Thanksgiving, and New Year's tacos, and the pastor tacos from Big Star, and the sound at The Fillmore in SF, and the last three Sonic Youth albums (not including "The Eternal"), and making the trip from Reno to Berkeley with my friends just to go record shopping, and the Reach Access Flosser, and road trips to In & Out Burger, and Improvised Shakespeare, and all the J. Reis and R. Froberg bands, and freshly ground black pepper, and simplicity, and drinking responsibly, and Grub Hub, and sunny days, and the last ten minutes of hot yoga, and free refills, and good fountain Coke, and highlighting books, and pretending I don't love being the little spoon, and being told I don't have any cavities despite doing a crappy job flossing, and protein shakes, and the three-minute window at work - you can clock in three minutes late and out three minutes early; with your lunch break, you can save up to nine minutes a day, that's forty-five minutes a week, three hours a month, or thirty-six hours a year-, and Lockinfo, and BiteSMS, and bands so good I take out my earplugs, and new bass strings, and tube amplifiers, and Airplay, and Handbrake, and Google Maps, and generous tippers, and v-string thongs, and knee high socks, and Sports Night, Studio 60, The Farnsworth Invention, and every single Aaron Sorkin project, and electronics with satisfying knobs, and the way Reno is lit up like a desert lighthouse when you're coming over I-80, and meowing, and the Building Better Buddies challenge 2012, and singing fucking along in my car, and breakfast for dinner, and when Jaimie says, "kitten mittens," and Sixletts, and getting use out of extended warranties, and the Muppets Menomena (which I'm convinced is a commentary on jazz and an oppressive music industry), and tabbed browsing, and OTA updates, and love letters, and sleeping until noon, and chicken wings that give you the under the eye sweat, and unsweetened iced tea, and unadulterated bourbon, and bacon on anything, and hardcore breakdowns, and iOS, and the coefficient of friction on the glass Apple trackpad, and finding a granola bar deep in your backpack when you're starving, and

§22

I hold you accountable for what you did in my dreams.

In Like a Lion

Youth is driven by fury, but like March it goes out like a lamb. Eventually raw power gives way to grace. The two never meet. They pass through a single individual untouched by their counterpart. One begs us to run full speed toward nothing in particular and the other is more concerned with form and style than reaching a goal.

Somewhere between birth and uselessness is a ferocious lamb and a graceful lion. There has to be.

§21

We're old children. There are no adults.

For Old Children

It's cold in Chicago right now. It's the first thing out of anyone's lips. Spend five minutes with anyone in northern Illinois and you're bound to hear about it.  As if our bodies had simply hadn't noticed. Like you're breaking news to people who've been without power for days. Like you're goddamn Paul Revere. Social media is suddenly transformed into a weather app that gives the temperature, snowfall, and unsolicited griping. I'm guilty of it too. My last status update was a poorly constructed weather jab.

So why the fuck are we all talking about the weather?! We know it doesn't matter. It doesn't make anyone warmer, melt the ice, or clear up traffic. No one really cares about how cold the walk was from the train to your apartment. Everyone makes that walk. We are all equally miserable.

But that's just it. We are all equally miserable. No matter how little you have in common with your neighbor, coworker, or cashier, we all share the same bit of misery. This meteorological blight gives us something tenuous to hold on to, a tiny thread connecting us to our peers.

The next time someone, especially a stranger, starts going on about the weather, indulge them. Take it further. Ask them about their day. What has the snow kept them from? What are they going to watch tonight on Netflix while huddled under a blanket? Maybe you haven't seen that movie. Maybe it's good. Maybe you were going to yoga class too. There is a better than average chance that your conversational advance will be perceived as creepy rather than charming, but who cares.  Ask away.

Adulthood is brutal on our social relationships. We're left these gawky, awkward, lonely people. Old children. Indulge us. We can't outright say it, but we want to get to know you. We're dying to say it, but some bullshit about the weather comes out. It's on the tip of our tongue. Be braver than we are. Please. Though a feeble gesture, it reaches toward you expectantly. Let it take you somewhere surprising.

Other times, though, people complain about the weather because they are squinting, hateful monsters who aim to mangle the joy of all those who surround them. Beware of these living trolls of human misery. They drag whole civilizations into the mired bog that is their shrewd and ignominious life. Fuck these people.

I guess it's a little from column A and a little from column B.  

2011 Lessons

Things I've learned this year.

     January
1. When it comes to FedEx packages, ignore the tracking number. "On Truck for Delivery" is apt to drive you insane. It will arrive when it arrives.

2. If you goose the volume on an iPhone you can still hear it through your 180s (hair friendly earmuffs). Mash the earpiece over the outside of the muff and call someone you love. Chicago winter - 0 / Nick - 1.

3. Keep your receipts. Otherwise you'll find yourself in a Genius Bar interrogation room. I felt like a captured spy.

4. I'm still allergic to cats. When I meet a girl who has cats I pretend like nothing's wrong so I don't seem like a sissy. My manliness might remain intact if not for my bloodshot eyes and arms covered in hives.

5. Coke Zero is exactly the same as Diet Coke except the ratio of artificial sweeteners is tweaked. It's a way to market diet soda to men. And I fell for it! The ad execs at Coke have my number.

6. It's possible to cut yourself with a towel. WTF Bounce? Get it together.

7. The key to Connect Four is to force your opponent's hand. Make them block and use it to your advantage. You know where your opponent's next move will occur. Cultivate an attack strategy that incorporates his or her subordination. Domination is inevitable.

8. The best cupcake in Chicago is at Molly's (2536 North Clark Street). Extensive research supports this conclusion. May I recommend either the peach cobbler or the peanut butter Nutella? The world can do no wrong when you're listening to Jay-Z while eating a cupcake.

9. A good show can erase a week of soul-crushing work.

     March
10. You can cause weather to worsen by packing up your winter jacket. Sorry, Chicagoans.

11. If your apartment is small enough, steam from the shower will set off your smoke detector in your living/bed room. Open a window beforehand to avoid naked, dripping, towel-waving awkwardness.

12. When your landlord raises your rent, pay whatever they ask. Moving is exponentially worse than writing an extra zero or two on a check.

13. A closet looks much more spacious before being crammed full of band tees and skinny jeans. Plan your move accordingly.

14. I must get over this idiot fantasy of meeting someone on a bus, elevator, or plane. It's exhausting. It's never happened. It's never going to happen, yet it makes every trip a disappointment. This romantic comedy trope is empirically and rationally baseless, yet extraordinarily persistent. As Camus says, "There is so much stubborn hope in the human heart." What a dick. What a thoroughly observant dick.

     April
15. When your best isn't enough, get better.

     Decemeber
16. Meeting a girl helps you to slack off on your writing.

As Is

Like a beaten dog, hunger has us eating out of your hands but we never forget. Watch closely. Our legs are ready to run, our eyes cautious, and our heads down. Those who have new dogs probably have no idea what I'm talking about. But those of us who've had the old models, the ones not gently used by their previous owner, know better.

There is one person after which we are never the same. All future owners are shortchanged. With a slow, lumbering walk, we gesture at fetch. We pretend your head scratches get our leg going. But if you make any sudden movements, you bet we're running for the corner. 

Trust is a toothpick bridge. It can never be repaired. We have it, and then suddenly we don't. And everyone pays the price. We are not adept at trusting. It is rarely rewarded and often punished. It is a primary, load-bearing column made out of paper mache.  

At this point, I usually make a turn. After having laid out all the fucked up things neatly using metaphor and simile, here is where I suggest that despite the aforementioned perils, we can, through sheer force of will, overcome and reinvent ourselves. Followed by a pretentious declaration like, "Yes, these things have happened to me, and I accept them and move on. I am made stronger by them and my character is richly deepened" or some shit like that. 

And most of the time I mean it. But not today. Not about this.

Trust is as fragile as it is essential. It takes a careless axe to topple, and a god to rebuild. When people say their heart is broken, I always assume they mean their trust. 

We are buying used love, as is. 

§20

I prefer being right to being happy.

§19

I prefer discipline to joy.

Redundant

Going to school for nearly twenty years fucks you up. Not in a sinister, plot-to-mangle-your-brain way, but in a subtle, unassuming way. Like a roommate who rearranges your furniture one piece at a time until you don't recognize your house anymore. My brain is fucked up.

Academia enables people, same as any other drug. College is a get-out-of-responsibility free card. Consider this. You're at a party and an adult asks you what you've been up to. If you reply, "I'm in school," you are immediately pardoned for all further interrogation, save the obligatory major follow up. However, if you answer in the negative, a firestorm of questions rain down on you like Dresden in 1945. God forbid you've already graduated. I have even contemplated reenrolling simply to escape the looming spectre of academia. The college campus is the parent's house you're afraid to move out of. It is comfortable, social, and above all, tranquilizing.

This haven is not without its tolls....

Wow. It's late. I just realized that the rest of this idea was already written. By me. Recently. Maybe it's further evidence for my thesis. Wow. Well, you can read "The Other Side of the Desk." Consider this a companion piece rather than me running out of gas. Yeah. A companion piece.

Now I have to write an entirely new post to prove to myself that I'm not out of ideas. It's not such a foreign notion. All pens run out of ink. Excuse me while I lick the tip and scribble on a piece of scratch paper for a moment.

Do

A modern hammer and nail

Push through. Get past all the filters and the judgments about whether or not what you're thinking about is worth doing. What's in your guts? Trust them. Even, and especially when, they lead you astray. Hone that instinct, that part of you that does.

That's the problem with faith, and oddly in the same sentence, academia. They lead you to believe that you have some sort destiny. They'd have you believe some marvelous calling will present itself to you. Nope. You simply have to pick a direction on a hunch and run full speed toward it. You can teach someone just about anything. Give someone a few months and they'll be able to play "Stairway to Heaven" on the guitar. They can read your big important book. And they can learn to hammer a nail. What you can't teach someone is to trust themselves. That's what people can't do, to recklessly, impulsively, and foolishly run into the night.

I could have just as easily been working in Seattle doing computer programming, running a home theater installation company in Nevada, or pursuing a PhD in Texas at this moment. Maybe not so much the last part. I didn't get in to Rice, but that's not the point.

Dozens of yous exist in various degrees. There's the party animal, the student, the kid who plays video games until dawn, the businessman, the husband, the artist, the fuck-up... We are multifarious to a fault. Neither is more real than any other. They are all you. I'm not sure it even makes sense to choose a favorite. For some reason we expect the universe to choose for us. As if it didn't have enough to do infinitely expanding the abyss of space. But by all means, take care of my stupid problem.

Just pick one. When it sucks, pick another one. This isn't Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. If you choose incorrectly, nothing bad happens. So above all things, do. Do often. There is no more elegant phrase. Do. A version of yourself that you respect, admire and love will emerge.

§18

Sometimes novels are veiled love letters that an author doesn't have the courage to mail.

§17

I hold people who quit their jobs in the highest regard.