It Moves Fast

So you work a job. It pays well. Hooray! But can it support a college fund? I don't even know what that entails. In fact, do people set up college funds anymore? Maybe the whole world went to shit one day while I was taking a nap. How would I know? After all, I sleep pretty well and maybe I hit the snooze button by accident.

Max, one of my best friends, approached me on the couch last night holding his favorite blue toy in his mouth. Like any great friend, he dumped his slobbery, smelly mess right on my lap. Wagged his tail. I don't think Max expects much of me. I have to put out his food and make sure he gets outside every couple hours to take a leak. But then, Max really expects everything from me, doesn't he? Cause it's not the tangible, easy-to-pour answers that come in a bag. He wants me to be with him. To be with him. Fully present. Fully human. How did it get so hard to do that?

When I was little, before iPhones and Facebook and bills and a College degree, I woke up, wagged my own damn tail and chased after the only thing I wanted more than food and sleep: women. Andrea and Caitlin and Leslie and even Vivienne with the high-pitched voice. I was on a mission all the time for love and attention. Maybe now that I've got all the love I could ever want (read: the woman my dreams could not come close to conjuring), I have nothing to chase?

Like I said, my job pays all my bills and the debt. And like Garrison Keillor said, "Being comfortable makes you stupid."

My band is pretty good. Is it my band?

I don't want to feel better. I don't want to feel numb. I want to know what these feelings are. Name them like Bastian did in the Neverending Story.

Be a doctor, be a teacher, be a musician, be a father, be a mechanic. Be me. Wow. That's so annoyingly trite. But to press on just for shits and giggles, I'm sitting here on a couch next to the world's greatest dog, a phonecall away from the world's greatest girlfriend, a few emails away from the world's greatest bestfriends and I don't know who I am, what I want and how I went from knowing everything to knowing nothing.

I think I'll ask Max. I have a feeling he knows more than he's letting on. Stinky-breath mother fucker with his goddamn floppy ears flopping everywhere. And he's got crazy eyes! They don't go in the same direction for christsake! He's probably a spy. Hahahahahahaha.

If life were easy, it wouldn't be any fun.

If I were a wolf

Fun.

Fuuuuhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnn.

It would be fun.

Not fun like chasing girls or eating ice cream or chewing bubblegum outside of the library. Fun like slowly breaking every window in a house. Fun like watching someone on a cell phone walk gently into a glass door, crushing bones in her nose squeezing blood all over her shirt.

Fun like fighting.

Take your double-shot peppermint skim mocha whip and shove it right up your ass. I wouldn't get so angry about these things. To eat Arctic hare or not to eat Arctic hare, what's to be mad about?

Yippity yappity bitch-face dog, you weigh six pounds! Why are you so loud? And what are you so up-in-arms about anyway? Perhaps you're upset because the human holding onto your leash can lift you off the ground with one arm and does so quite frequently. That would piss me off too. Fortunately for me, most people don't come near me. I weigh ninety pounds and my eyes are white as a wraith. Although I'm quite calm, they see only the madness.

My friend Bill Stratton is part wolf. About a quarter, I think. One quarter bear, one quarter wolf, one quarter Native American and just a touch of Scottish. His reach makes him a dangerous boxer. He snores louder than a subway car. His eyes can

see.

right?

through you.

My eyes are yellow in the middle, as if there's a dying star being eclipsed by the black expanding cornea moon. The color darts out and dodges light in streaks and straws. It leaks onto the blue-green foundation behind it so on any given day they might be blue, green or something in the middle. But they're never white. They never peer out of snow drifts like sniper rifle tips, watching, waiting.

sure, i'll wag my tail and lick your hand. (Don't fuck with me.) yes. yesss. pet me. (I'll fucking kill you.) oh, is that food in your hand? sure, i would love some. (I will fucking tear out yourfuckingeyesandpissinyoureyesocketswhilegnawingyourkidneys.)

I'm not mad. I'm not. You think I'm mad

Because I walk to you and smell you and I know that when you take a piss, it leaks out for an hour afterwards.

Because when I look at you and you look at me, I'm seeing you and you're watching me.

Because when we go to the park and all the Golden Retrievers and Beagles and Shih-tzus run around licking their asses, I lay down waiting. Running on concrete isn't running, not like running across a thousand miles of snow and ice part of a team, part of a pack, part of a family.

Because if it came down to me or you, brother, it'd be you.

Grandpa Yaps

At eighteen, I was put in charge of eight boys. We spent most of our days together and talked all night. As they watched me hang out with my friends, other eighteen-year-olds, I realized that I was their older brother. If I was in a group of three other guys, I would catch little glances from my boys watching how I behaved. "This is great!" I thought to myself. "I've never had younger brothers before," and my ego is soaring.

One afternoon, one of my kids pulled me aside and asked if we could take a walk. His face was a little flushed, his eyes a little swollen, and by the time we arrived at the bench outside of Brody, he let out a well of tears. I thought long and hard before each sentence that I said to him. I was choosing words as carefully as a symphony conductor, delicately trying to balance comfort, support and humor.

My kid. My kids. I wasn't their older brother, I was their father.

Fast-forward eight years: On a Friday morning a couple of weeks ago, the director of Camp Dudley read aloud a letter sent to one of the Leaders, Teddy Dale. The letter basically said, "It is abundantly clear that my son had such an incredible experience with [Ted] that I felt compelled to put it in writing. But more than just a good time, he came home with a sense of personal pride and maturity that I have never seen before. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Teddy Dale was one of my campers. (No, not the crying one.)

As Ted and I were talking one night a few days after the letter was read aloud, I congratulated him on being a spectacular Leader. I told him that I was immensely proud of his work as a Leader and overjoyed that I could tell people he was one of my campers. His response was honest and immediate. He began to tell me about all of the things I did when I was his Leader. None of it was illegal or out-of-line with camp protocol. In fact, it was the same type of thing that any Leader would probably do, just my version of it all: He described the way I cooked on our overnight. And the cabin games we played. The vespers at night. Funny kids in our cabin. Waking up early to play soccer and staying up late to listen to music. When he was thirteen, I was Ted's father. And now that he is twenty-two, he is someone else's father. The scope, the emotion, the meaning is overwhelming for me. If I return to camp in ten years, and Ted is there and one of his former campers is a Leader, then I will be a grandfather. Like Maker's Mark, as each new batch is made, a teaspoon of the old batch is added. Maybe it'll be early-morning soccer. Maybe it'll be a vesper. Just a teaspoon.

Camp Dudley has been around for 125 years. But that fact really only matters to the parents. The motto is, "The Other Fellow First." But that tidbit only matters to the campers. Or perhaps, those who try to follow it. Dudley is not about campers, it is about leaders. Not the college guys who direct activities. It's about the one or two kids in a cabin who show everyone else how to act. It's about the aide, 15 years old, who is more mature than all his peers. It's about the Junior or Assistant Leader, 16 and 17 years old, who is ready for his own cabin. Most boys try to follow the motto. These leaders are the motto.

So when you wonder why I've spent twelve of the last thirteen years at Dudley, sometimes for a few weeks, sometimes for an entire summer, here is the answer: Dudley is where I go to take care of my boys. Dudley is where I go to become the motto. Dudley is where I go to be a father.

The Wanting Comes in Waves

For the wonderful few who dig my writing, I apologize for virtually disappearing - I was in upstate New York for a few weeks, doing... making... um. I was in upstate New York, nevermind.

I'll try to get something up here soon. I've tried a few different things in the past couple of hours but nothing seems to stick.

The Harvest of Love

I really like the Decemberists, "Hazards of Love." I think I'm the only one outside of the hardcore fans. That's alright though. It's got some great moments and I appreciate the process/goal of the thing. Sometimes it's not about the crops, it's about the harvest.

Band practice the other night was really amazing. We were going at it until almost 1:00 a.m. in MJ and Rob's apartment. No instruments, no music, just pizza and a couple of Bud Lights.

I have to call Billy Stratton today on my drive up to camp - he can explain to me the fostering of an independant spirit and how it relates to Motorcycles.

Ilana comes home in about four weeks.

Faf will be gone when I get back.

Sometimes it's not about the crops, it's about the harvest.

Next Time

Last night I rode through three different neighborhoods in Queens. It was as if someone flipped to the next slide on my Fisher Price View Master every couple of blocks. The 3-D images came with the smell of food, coffee and Shisha tobacco. I told my dad about it and the only thing he asked was, "Was it safe?" (I think he meant the bicycling but who knows? He probably meant the neighborhoods.) I reassured him, "Yes, of course it's safe. I wear a helmet and I've got blinky lights front and back and fenders and reflective clothing. It's safe as sitting at my desk at work."

I should've said, "HELLLL NO! Riding a bicycle in New York City is never safe. You'd be safer covering your body with honey and hugging a beehive, especially if you were allergic to bees! And the way I ride? Shit, last week I claimed to be a modern-day cowboy on Second Avenue. Cowboys aren't safe; they get shot up by the entire Mexican army at the end of the movie.

Next up, I mention the motorcycle I want and financing and procuring insurance for it. He asked, "Are you sure that now is a good time to invest in a motorcycle when you might be better off waiting a little bit?" I calmly replied, "Well, I'm going to wait a few months before I act on anything because I need the buzz of the new hobby to wear off."

Instead of my peepee kiddy pool response, I should've said, "When is it a good time to invest in a motorcycle?" I mean, it might as well be a bungee-jumping cord! Or better yet, I should've gone all out and asked him about parachute insurance.

Why oh why do I lie lie lie? Next time he drastically alters the conversation, ruining the journey towards bonding, I'm going to disarm him with a dollop of reality. Just slosh it on there, like I'm drinking hot chocolate. Hot chocolate can burn your mouth by the way - I mean, never mind if it tastes good or new or different, it'll burn your mouth.

Despite all this, it's a good thing when your parents are parents and not your buddies. After all, your buddies are the guys driving the party wagon. Your parents are the ones who bail you out of jail the next morning.

Nerd

I had my first cigarette when I was twelve. My friend **** and I sat on the field at Bronxville School and, well, back up. I don't remember where we got it. I think we may have had a whole pack of them. Anyway, we were sitting there on the field and we had a camel light in our hands. There was this girl in our class who had a really hot older sister and she was sun bathing about thirty yards from us. So we took this cigarette and I pulled out my Swiss army knife and held the magnifying glass to the tip of it. Smoke appeared and the gun powder paper caught and all of a sudden we were holding a smoldering death stick. Hahahahaha. We didn't cough or anything - the trick was to pull in the smoke past your throat. A lot of people freak out when they feel that cancer-pillow going down their esophagus and that's when they cough. Not us. So we each took a drag and were practically stoned from the nicotine buzz. **** turned to me and he said, "you know, they say you're addicted after five cigarettes." And I said, "Well, I guess we'll just have to stop at four."

I once rode home from a bar on top of an SUV. Not the whole way, just the last couple of miles. There were five of us. I mean, I thought there were five of us in this Lake Tahoe or Explorer or whatever the hell it was. So the music is blasting and we're all feeling good and I think Foreigner or Rush or something came on and it was all over from there. (I must preface this by saying that the driver was dead sober. SOBER. He didn't have a couple "easy beers" or "social beers" and he wasn't high. That shit isn't noble or necessary, it's stupid.) We're driving along and the song is crazy and guy on the right side of the back sticks his head out the window and lets out a "Whoop!" Then the front-seat passenger does the same. Even the driver starting hooting and hollering. Overcome with the energy in this SUV, I skipped over merely sticking my head out the window and just climbed out and onto the roof. The car/truck/thing had a sun roof that was open so laying on my belly on the top of the car, I stuck my head through the sunlight laughing like an escaped serial killer. And the faces that greeted me were a mixture of shocked and ecstatic and out-of-control. I kept laughing and screaming and dipping my head through the opening while people poked their heads out yelling and spitting and cheering. I rode that car like a magic carpet.

Two friends of mine from Cape Coast, a small city in Ghana, have seen Home Alone. I met these guys on the beach. I had a ring that my sister had given me. I still have it, actually, but I don't really wear it anymore. Still have it, still have it. So I'm on the beach and somewhere this thing has fallen off my finger. It's white sand, it's a huge beach and it's fucking Equator sun bleaching everything except the color of African skin. As I'm looking for this ring, some guys come up and offer to help. Sometimes, when a Ghanaian offers to lend a hand, they want to hear about America or London or New York City. These guys wanted to talk but weren't too agressive about it. After a few minutes, one of them found my ring. I was so happy that when they asked to meet later that night, I said sure. They came to the hostel we ('we' = the eight American students in the city) were staying in and we started talking. Me and these two college-age, college-attending Ghanaians. One of them had seen Home Alone. What the fuck? Really? He liked it a little which I thought was fine. We began to walk around in the street and ****** asked if I wanted to see their dorm. The building they brought me to had open ceilings between every room, exposed stairwells with no railings, columns where one would expect walls and young attractive Ghanaians crawling all over it. It was an Escher painting. I mean literally, it was a fucking Escher painting. So we climb up flight after flight until we reached the roof. *** said come to this side and when I turned a corner, I was looking at the lights of every building in Cape Coast, the road leading out of the city, and the black blanket of the Atlantic Ocean. ****** was training to be an architect. That's what his father did and he wanted to design buildings for Ghana. *** was studying Political Affairs. Both wanted to travel but come back to Ghana bringing back whatever they had learned. Both wanted to have an adventure in a strange place. Both wanted to meet new, heart-deep people. Both were me and I was them and I think all three of us knew it.

I don't wear hipster pants.
I don't play the guitar.
I don't listen to fucking Dave Mathews.
I don't use Facebook for anything other than my band.
I don't text while I'm talking to someone in person.
I don't watch television unless it's a movie or Family Guy.

Sometimes I listen to progressive rock.
Always, I wear my helmet when I ride my bike.
I call my mother four times a week and talk for over an hour at least once every five days.

I'm a nerd. See how I did that?