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C and I have been in California on a ten-day road-trip up the coast. Our first stop was LA, where we participated in Frank's wedding at the posh Hotel Bel-Air. I was one of the groomsmen and had the responsibility of holding on to the rings and producing them for the bride and groom during the ceremony. I was not nervous about this task before the day of the wedding, which proved to be an oversight on my part. The wedding planner quickly set me straight. In the hours leading up to the ceremony, she'd stop me every 15 or 20 minutes and say, "Show me the rings!" And it was clear from her demeanor that if I did not have them, she would, in all probability, breath fire and unleash a swarm of locusts on my ass. So I'd dive my cold, clammy fingers into my interior jacket pocket with no small degree of panic, convinced the rings had somehow disappeared between that time and the last time she had stopped me. Because, as you may know already, when things are out of my sight, they basically cease to exist to my brain. Thankfully, the two silver bands remained in my pocket up to and during the ceremony and when the crucial moment finally came, I was able to take them out and set them carefully in the hands of the betrothed without dropping them.

As it turns out, though, I was not able to recite the ee cummings poem that I was tasked with reading without banging the microphone with the clipboard on which the poem was attached. In retrospect, I think the subsequent loud boom which echoed across the lovely green served as a nice counterbalance to the somber poem, which I otherwise read exceedingly well, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'd love to think I have the kind of voice that could bring a woman to tears, but it would have been horrible if one of the bridesmaids had actually started crying, or swooned, or collapsed at my eloquence. So, a little boom of the mic stand. You're welcome.

At the wedding, I reconnected with the groomsmen I had hung out with in Vegas, which was cool. While in mixed company, nobody discussed the bachelor party. Which was good. We just stared at our shoes and shuffled our feet a lot.

After the wedding, C and I went down to Laguna Beach and stayed at her sister's boyfriend's parent's cottage. It was beautiful and magical and all those other adjectives people use for locations like that. We sat on the beach and went to art galleries, and I can say with certainty that, for both of us, the earth moved. Literally. We experienced our first earthquake. A 4.7, which was not quite on the scale of wetting one's pants, but still enough of a shaker to be thankful that you're still of an age where you have reasonably good control of your bladder. We were sitting in a little Mexican restaurant off the main drag. Enjoying our second margarita on the second floor. Then there was a loud rumbling noise and things started shaking. When I say "things" I mean heavy things. Things that don't normally "shake." Like our table. Like my soul. Then there was a little heave thrown in, and just a tinsy bit of ho. As in give her the ol' heave-ho. Like the earth was feeling finicky and just decided to move the building a smidge to the left. On a whim. Just to scratch an itch. It's a strange sensation to feel that the building you're in is moving, especially given the fact that buildings should not, you know, move. The rumble and the shake went on for a good five seconds or so. We looked at the other people's faces in the small restaurant. It seemed to sink in for everybody at the same time that holy shit, this was a fucking earthquake! A few people stood up and started for the door. Then as soon as it had begun, it stopped, and the relieved waiter shouted out, "Tequila!" And we laughed uncomfortably.

For me, the earthquake helped get my mind off the fact that I had lost my Blackberry somewhere on the beach earlier that day. I was feeling kind of down about that, and the prospect of a crushing death under fallen debris helped put the whole thing in perspective. For a little while, anyway. (I'm not that great at maintaining "perspective.") For those who are keeping track, this is the third time I've lost a phone this year. It's still early, though. So don't cash in your bets yet. I have an old Palm Treo which still sort of works and which I have begun using as of yesterday. It doesn't have a holster so there's pretty good odds this one will end up disappearing before too long. Incidentally, if you've texted me over the past week, you may have received the ominous reply "Message Deleted." This is not due to the fact that I hate you. At least not entirely. It's mostly due to the fact that my phone has been deactivated and for some reason this is the response it sent back to C's test text last week.

Onwards ... there was a stop to visit two warm-hearted, lovely women we met four years ago in Costa Rica. They live in the Hollywood Hills, in Laurel Canyon, which has been home to many rock stars and is about as great a location as you can want. A wonderful steak meal. Even better conversation. And Chet Baker on the stereo.

Then we met up with our Dallas Buds, Jeff, Eric, and Kim at LAX and hopped in a rented van we named "TheMitch" for a drive north up the coast. The name has a back-story, but I think it's something I'll leave untold. For mystery and, you know, intrigue and shit. I will say, however, that it had nothing to do with my good friend of that same name and everything to do with a good several hours of hard drinking. Oops. I meant "thinking."

There were stops in Santa Barbara, Avila Beach (I highly recommend this hotel), San Luis Obispo (known to LA'ers as "SLO"), Hearst Castle, Nepenthe, Carmel, Monterey, and finally the San Francisco Bay area, where we spent three nights at C's parent's house. They tried to culture us with a trip to Sonoma and Napa, and I think it may have even worked. We drank plenty of wine. And some brandy. And a few ports. Oh, and an ice wine. And we brought back six bottles from Ledson and two Mondavi Moscato d'Oro, and some fancy vinegar from B.R. Cohn.

Andy and Sabrina met all of us in the city our last day and we walked around North Beach and drank and laughed and talked. And it was just good, is all—to be in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

Three hours sleep the last night. One of those morning alarms that confuses you. Like, why in holy hell is that thing going off and what is it anyway? A long flight back to the Garden State by way of LAX. Hasty pasta followed by dead sleep. Picked up Honey the next morning at her friend Chubby's house. Chubby is a dog about the same size and temperament as Honey only she's black and white, with longer hair, and a curved tail. They roughhouse and chase and smoke cigarettes and talk shit about their owners. I think Honey had about as good a time as we did. Eating cat food and all kinds of treats from the fingers of a seven-year-old girl who, for those ten days, along with Chubby, became her new best friend and let her sleep in her bed.

And Honey didn't know or care that C and I had spent ten relaxing days on the west coast, or that I had lost my phone, or that for five breath-stopping seconds we were in the deep rumble of an earthquake, or that for days after the earth moved and we along with it. And that's why, I guess, it was so good to see her.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Travel  San_Francisco  Friends  Family 

The last time I saw Frank was a little over 13 years ago on the Vegas strip. Caesars Palace was the exact location, I believe. Or maybe it was Treasure Island. The details are fuzzy. Either way, it's fitting that our next meet-up occurred at nearly the exact same coordinates, only a few Vegas-blocks north on a spot of land which, back then, had been the grounds of the Desert Inn, but today is home to the Wynn/Encore towers.

Frank was one of my closest friends in college. We shared an apartment for two years. We had adventures. We made stories. Some of them we struggle to remember now. Others we try hard to forget. After graduation, Frank went to LA to work in the movie business. I spent the summer in DC interning at the Kennedy Center. By early fall, I still had no idea what I was going to do next. So instead of coming to terms with this reality, I did what any self-respecting escape artist with a penchant for the romantic would do: I took a cross-country road trip, sleeping in the bed of my truck, and charging the entire thing to my one-and-only credit card, on which some crazy bastard at one of our well-run banking institutions had recently given me a $10,000 spending limit.

So after travels through the Smokies and Texas, and an extended stay in New Mexico and The Grand Canyon, I turned up in Vegas with a German hitchhiker in tow. And Frank and I met up for a day of gambling (with limited funds) and dinner at the cheapest buffet we could find on the strip. Frank suggested I keep going on to LA and hang out at his place for a bit, and I wish I had done that. Because then it would have been a true "coast to coast" trip. And who knows what that fork in the road might have brought. I might have wound up with a career in porn and a nickname like "Ramrod." But I had already been traveling for about three or four weeks by that point, and the credit card was filling up fast, and I was starting to think maybe I should get back to my "real" life, whatever that was going to be. Plus, and I'm not proud to admit this, I think there might have been a girl on my mind. Christ. Isn't there always?

So we hung out for the day and then he went back to LA and I started my long trek back to DC, heading north on 15 through Utah and taking 70 through Colorado and the great flat farm country of Kansas. There's no way I would have believed you if you had told me I wouldn't see Frank again for another thirteen years.

We both have some gray hairs now, though I have quite a few more of them than Frank. And we dress nicer than we used to, mainly because we have women in our lives who are good at telling us what looks good on us. (Not plaid, it turns out.) But other than that, we are exactly the same. And it was really, really cool to hang out with him and his other friends this weekend for his bachelor party. I laughed harder this weekend than I have in a long time. It's a horrible cliche to say, but even though I hadn't seen Frank in 13 years, it felt like it was just yesterday. I think one reason people tend to express it this way is that they find there just isn't that need to "catch up." I mean, even though Frank and I chatted some about our lives and what had been going on, that wasn't what was important. Which isn't to say I don't care about those things, it's just that my friendship with him doesn't depend on "facts." It was just cool to hang out, drink, share some stories, exchange wisecracks, and look at women. (Don't worry Kelley, only I looked at women. Frank was a saint.)

CS Lewis nailed it when he wrote: "Friendship...is uninquisitive. You become a man's friend without knowing or caring whether he is married or single or how he earns his living. What have all these "unconcerning things, matters of fact" to do with the real question, Do you see the same truth?" I guess Frank and I see the "same truth," though I don't know if I would necessarily express it that way. I'm uncomfortable with the word "truth" and other forms of "absolutism," so I feel better calling it a "more-or-less shared philosophy." And an appreciation for the same jokes.

Also, I have to add that one of the great things that happens when one of my good friends gets married is I end up meeting a bunch of other people who I also really like. Because close friends of close friends have a way of getting along.

Of course, it didn't hurt that we were inebriated the entire weekend and that we started things off at a titty bar. That's some truth I can feel comfortable with.


(If you're interested, there are pics here.)

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Vegas  Friends 

Paul wrote on my wall: We're almost halfway to 70. How do you feel?

I wrote back: When I look at it that way ... not good.

When Paul and I met, we were only halfway to eight. Back then, we spent most of our days together. We were best friends, and really more like brothers. We also happened to be born a day apart. So it was never just my birthday. It was our birthdays. And I liked it that way. I liked sharing my birthday with Paul.

My mom usually took us out for pizza at Mr. Gatti's. And Paul and I would celebrate another year of life by shooting spit-balls at the big-screen TV. Then Paul would stay over and we'd be up late doing Mad Libs, laughing like we were out of our minds, and imitating Bob and Doug. Or sometimes we'd turn philosophical and discuss things like, I don't know why I never noticed this before, but Princess Leia is kind of hot.

What's amazing to me isn't the fact that I'm halfway to 70. It's the fact that I've known Paul for 31 years. Age by itself is sort of an abstract. You just go on feeling like you. It's when you put your age in relation to things and people that it takes on meaning. Because you recognize that while you are still you now, you are not the same you you were when you were halfway to eight. Or halfway to twenty. Or forty. That, in fact, you've been several different yous between there and here.

I tend to see my life in phases. Sometimes a phase revolves around place—a neighborhood, a city, a school. And sometimes it revolves around people. I usually don't know a phase is happening until it's a memory. I keep piling up new phases. And that's good, I guess. I mean, it's better than the alternative. But it's also sad. Because entering a new phase means leaving behind an old one. And there's always a certain amount of forgetting that is to be done and doors to be closed. And more and more I appreciate the people who span the phases and help me remember. There are lots of them now. More every day. And they help me keep the doors open.

Today I live in New Jersey. I think I'm in the middle of a phase that started in Baltimore. But I won't know for sure until it's over. Paul just moved to Argentina. We don't see each other very often, so we won't be shooting any spit-balls at TVs in Mr. Gatti's. But we can write on a wall on Facebook. And talk long distance for free using Skype. And we can continue to span the phases in modern style. Until we stop referring to age as "halfway" to anywhere, because suddenly "halfway" won't seem like much of a possibility anymore.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Birthdays  Chewing  Childhood  Friends 

In many ways, New Jersey has been a good move for C and me. C loves her job and I've discovered inner peace and existential understanding through yard work. Oh, and we have some great kitchen drawers. And while our neighbors are a little yellow-bellied and talk funny, they're friendly and very welcoming. Still, it's no secret that if I had my choice, if it were not for careers and matters of economics, I'd be back in DC in a heartbeat. But life has brought us to the Garden State and, I've got to say, aside from the constant ache I feel in my ass from being repeatedly violated by our township on our property taxes every three months, it ain't all that bad up here. When we go to the store, we have a much greater selection of pasta sauces to choose from and most of my neighbors have last names that end in a vowel. What more could a half-Italian kid ask for? Also, we're pretty much guaranteed snowfall each winter, something I always missed in Texas (and even DC). Factor in that I'm a 30-minute train ride from NYC, which makes it easy for me to begin some evening classes at NYU, and it all adds up to an overall net gain. Bottom line: I can't really complain.

But there has been something missing from our lives here. Something that used to bring us great joy and that we really took for granted for so long ...

Awww, Dave. Stop right there. You know we don't go for those sappy displays of affection, so let's just keep it brief. You miss your friends back home (both in the DC Metro and the Lone Star). Well, we miss you, too man. We ...

Chipotle.

Oh my God we've fucking missed you, Chipotle. It's left an empty spot in our heart not being able to make the five-minute pilgrimage once or twice a week to one of your holy locations, where we would sit at one of your stainless-steel alters and give honor unto thee while we feast upon a heaping bowl of rice and beans and naturally raised, antibiotic-free chicken. And chips of the white corn variety. Lots of white corn chips. Up until about two weeks ago, we actually needed to drive about 45 minutes to get to one of your places of worship. And that just didn't seem right to us. It somehow ruined the spiritual experience to have to travel that far. And it weren't good on the environment, either.

But all that changed a few weeks ago as C was driving home down Route 10 and noticed those eight beautiful letters spelled out on the side of an otherwise useless strip mall filled with a hot dog hut and a Michaels and a Best Buy and an all-you-can-eat chinese buffet. There it was! Grand Opening: Chipotle. And less than a ten-minute drive from our house!

The first thing C did was call me with the news.

"Guess what?!"

"What?"

"Guess what I just drove by?!"

"What?!"

"It's so wonderful. You'll never guess."

"For the love of God, say it woman!"

"Chipotle!"

"Oh, my lord ... that's .... that's ... amazing."

"I know!"

"... I ... I just ... I mean, I think I need to sit down."

"Breath, Honey."

"It's just so much to take in ..."

"I know. I just pulled over and had a good cry."

"C?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Oh, I love you, too, Honey."

Oh, how I wish I could describe the joy that filled my heart at that moment. Suddenly, I knew it was all going to be okay. Maybe our economy was falling apart and the world was entering a powerful and scary financial crisis. But by God, we had a Chipotle in our neighborhood. We had nothing to worry about. Things were going to work out.

God had not forgotten us.

Since it opened two weeks ago, C and I have visited the store a total of five times and I think we're finally over the religious zealot faze. We're finally speaking in complete, rational sentences that don't end in ... "do you feel like Chipotle?"

And let me add, in case you think me cold and callous, we do really miss our friends and family back home, too. And please don't judge us for our love of Chipotle. If we had a decent Tex-Mex place up here, we probably wouldn't depend on it quite as much as we do. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Chipotle is our tie to the Mexican comfort food of home. Please understand.

Now that our bellies are full, we really do miss you guys.

Really.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Food  Friends  Moving  NJ 

It was a barnstorm of a weekend in San Francisco, where we flew for the wedding of a close friend ... C's first wedding as a "groomsperson," and she was dang cute in her suit and tie. Friday was a 26-hour day that began in the dark hours of morning at Newark Airport and ended at a North Beach strip club. The devil built Columbus and Broadway out of discarded bottles of original sin, brother. And he called it good. Believe.

And I woke up Saturday morning at a time that was afternoon back home, and read some news about a little hurricane named Ike that had bore down relentlessly on a town called Galveston. And thought about how, at the same time, 2,000 miles northwest, the g-stringed pelvis of a little stripper named Mia had bore down relentlessly upon the struggling remnants of a soon-to-be-married bachelor's soon-to-be-arrested libido. Flooding streets. Flooding veins.

And the soundtrack was Telephone Call from Istanbul, man.

Sunday ceremony out at Stern Grove by the Golden Gate. A wedding officiated by a pirate. Drove home via the 280, recovering from an 11:30 am Bushmills buzz, with the fog sticking to the trees like cotton on broccoli spears, carrying my love for this city on its back.


A red-eyed flight back to the Garden State to pick up a hoarse Honey at the PetSmart. Thinking about our next transcontinental wedding trip in May (these things can be habit forming). This one in LA, where my college roommate will be hitched. And this time I'll be the groomsman, and the lap dances will be ordered somewhere on the Las Vegas strip, and sleep will be put on hold for a more convenient time.



link to this | comments (0) | File:  Weird  Weekend  Travel  Friends  San_Francisco 

I recently re-established contact with a friend from college (also named David.) We were fellow English majors and creative-writing workshop goers at W&L. Also, we were both swimmers (though I stopped swimming competitively before college, so we never actually swam on a team together.) I never knew he played guitar, but it turns out he's playing in a band that could open for Coldplay on one of their stops. So I want to take a moment and plug his band and ask people to vote for him. Just go here. He's in the band "Pam Autuori" which is at the very bottom of the page. They're actually in the lead as I write this, but just barely!

So go vote for him!! NOW!!

I'm a little late with this post and I think voting ends today, so there's no time to waste. Dave's a good guy, so you'll be supporting a good cause!

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Music  Friends 

The way I remember it is something like this, and it's really the beginning (and tragic end) of so many party stories: Everything was going fine until somebody brought out the bottle of tequila. Just for the record, I believe that somebody was my wife. And when I say "everything was going fine until ..." I mean "for me."

And here's the thing: it was only Thursday night. Friday was July 4th. Friday was supposed to be the night. Not Thursday.

Demon blue agave. You and me are not on speaking terms, brother.

I only partially blame C. The real culprit is K, whose promises of new postings on her blog lead me to set aside my own misgivings of watering a bellyful of recently-planted IPA Hops with Patron shots. I think there were only three. But three was enough. The hickory flavor of E's slow-smoked ribs was so good that night, but the next morning I would have given anything to shake that scent from my nose. It seemed to be everywhere. And it probably was.

I'm not an idiot ... I mean, I know the "beer before liquor, never sicker" mantra. But honestly I've never had that much of a problem mixing alcohols in the past. When I was twenty-three and tending bar, it was not uncommon to chase beers with shots of tequila as a matter of good form and proper etiquette. (I'm nothing if not polite.) In the morning I would feel a little like the inside of a small clanging church bell, but the sensation would go away with water and breakfast. Somewhere in the last eleven years, though, the church bells have gotten bigger, and they've begun to ring louder and deeper. And they can put a frightful shakiness in my belly. And so I have new respect for the axioms I learned in college.

It took all of us a while to get going on July 4th. Particularly me. I felt bad not emerging from my room until 2pm. But that's the nice thing about close friends and an understanding wife: they'll cover for you when you're down. I owe them. For icing down the keg. For setting things up. For taking Honey out at 6:30 am. When I finally made it downstairs, shaking and about ten pounds lighter than I was the night before, the first of my neighbors began showing up with their July 4th game faces on, all full of energy and wondering what the hell kind of party this was where everybody was chewing Rolaids and talking about hairs on dogs and squinting at each other from behind sunglasses under drizzly skies.

And let me go ahead and apologize right now. To all of you. Because the details of this post sound like they came straight out of some college student's MySpace page. Let's see ... there was a keg. Check. Somebody got sick from tequila. Check. A trip to the Urgent Care was made. Check. The cops came. Check. Okay, nobody engaged in any sloppy make-out sessions in the basement (at least I don't think they did). And okay, there was no beer bonging. Oh, and nobody streaked down our street naked. But still, all and all, this had all the crucial ingredients of a college house party. And that's sort of embarrassing ... since, with the exception of a few twenty-somethings, we were mostly of the thirty-something-not-quite-willing-to-admit-we're-really-that-old demographic.

It weren't pretty.

And yet, it really was quite a beautiful thing. Because beneath all of these details which, on the surface, seem so horrific and clichéd, there was, at root, the undercurrent of a really good time. The kind of time you don't want to end: Catching up with friends. Sitting around a fire (in July!) listening to music and telling stories. Laughing. And bringing a little Texas Backyard BBQ to the New Jersey burbs.

The urgent-care visit actually had nothing to do with alcohol consumption and everything to do with a spider bite on my foot which I had let fester for over a week and which had become gruesomely infected.

And yes, the cops did come. Because my neighbor Ax brought over some fireworks. And let me just pause for a moment to say this: when your new neighbor tells you he'll bring fireworks over to your 4th of July party and you say something like, "Aren't those illegal in New Jersey?" And he responds with something like, "Aw fuck 'em," and you both share a hearty laugh at your mutual contempt for authority, you should trust that little stream of a conscience flowing through all those overgrown weeds of hutzpah. Here's what I found out about Ax that weekend: he's really good at being a rebel, as long as the rebelliousness takes place at somebody else's house. When the cops showed up at my driveway Friday night, it was just me and my friend E from Texas out there to greet them. Every yellow-bellied Yankee neighbor — these people who had kids and respectable day-jobs and upstanding lives — had disappeared inside. E was standing there holding a lighter in one hand and a bottle rocket in the other. And I was holding a black plastic garbage bag full of spent fireworks. The cop was actually quite nice about the whole thing. He said he didn't want to ruin the fun, but some neighbors had complained about the noise. We apologized, and he went on his way, but not before asking me what my address was. So here we are: only four months living in New Jersey, and I'm in the police database. Which means next year we're doing the fireworks at Ax's house. Or I'm leaving Jersey altogether.

So here are my lessons from this July 4th:
And most importantly:

link to this | comments (6) | File:  NJ  Neighbors  Friends 

I've never been the type of person who joins things. I went to a college where about 80% of the student population was Greek and I still never felt the need to Rush. Of course, that may have had less to do with my reluctance to join things and more to do with a general distaste for Frat culture and a resistance to the idea that I needed to find all my friends within the first month of school.

The thing is, I have this sort of romantic notion that groups should just develop organically, at their own pace. Not through a process which starts by doing a two-week Rush through twenty different houses to prove yourself to people you don't know. Then you put in "bids" to the houses you like and you wait to see if you're accepted by one of them. And then you are, and in what is perhaps your proudest moment on this earth, you become a Sigma Chi, or a Tappa Keg, or whatever and so obviously this means you must subject yourself to some strange homo-erotic initiation ritual where your pledge brother comes in your hair while another dude sticks his dirty underwear in your mouth—oh, I'm sorry, have we been introduced yet?—and then you get drunk and head out into a field to get branded on your ass with a—holy shit, that's a real fucking branding iron isn't it guys? okay, okay. wait a minute fellas, I think there's been some misunderstanding, I mean this can't be safe ... oh, shiiiit!!!!

I don't know. I guess it's just not my cup of tea, is all I'm saying. But some people like that sort of thing. And hey, you've got to give them credit for knowing what they like.

When I was younger, I always thought my propensity not to join things meant I was kind of "anti-social." And the whole not joining a Frat thing served to reinforce that perception about myself. But as I got older I realized this wasn't the case at all. That I was, by nature, a pretty social person. If I had been at a more liberal school, I probably would have joined several groups because I would have probably felt more of a sense that I was already accepted. And maybe in this sense it was sort of good I was at W&L because, at that age, I really needed something to rebel against. And by rebelling against the social scene there, it actually helped me academically, because I spent a lot more time studying. If I had been at a school like Brown or Vassar, I probably would have been just another Birkenstock-and-flannel-wearing neo-hippie waiting around for the next promising three-way. And studying? Who cares about studying?

I guess what I'm saying is if I do join a group—and here's the tricky part—I want to actually feel like I'm part of the group before joining it. I want acceptance into the group to be a pre-condition of ... gracing it with my presence. Dig? That way I'm just loved. Automatically. Without doing anything but showing up. Is that so much to ask, people? I mean, really!

But last week, I stepped out of my comfort zone a bit and joined Thirty-Something Bloggers. See: here's my profile. Given my phobia of groups, this is not something I normally would have done, but having just moved from DC, where there had been a great "community" of bloggers (thanks in large part to dcblogs.com), I wanted to try to find something similar to that. It's nice to have that sense of community when you blog. For one thing, it provides a way for other people to find your blog. But more than that, it helps give you a sense of context and "place" where otherwise you're just this single voice shouting into the ether. What I like so much about DCblogs (who kindly still keeps me in their "blogroll" by the way) is that it really allows you to work into it naturally and with no strings attached. You live in DC? You blog? Fine! You're a DC blogger. It's really that simple. There's no test involved and you don't have to say anything about yourself. You're not obligated to meet anybody or say hello. You just send a link to your blog. Period. Nobody initiates you. At the end of the day, you still might wind up with somebody's underwear in your mouth. But if you do, it's because you totally wanted it to happen.

The Thirty-Something Bloggers group felt a little more risky to me. You have to set up a profile, which, of course, makes you sort of "define" yourself in a very superficial way. And then there is this whole business of having "friends" in the group, which of course is one of those MySpace-like concepts that doesn't really mean anything because it becomes a kind of numbers game. But the bloggers who were in the group did seem like people I related to. And the quality of the blogs on the site was good. And there was actually a DC blogger I recognized who had already joined. So that helped lend some credibility to it. But I was still sort of skeptical, because a group based on age seemed flawed somehow. I mean, being a "Thirty-Something Blogger" is, by necessity, a temporary condition. In the end, one of three things is bound to happen to all of us: 1) We will stop blogging. 2) We will continue blogging, but will eventually turn forty. 3) We will continue to blog and never turn forty. And while that last scenario may seem like a good one, it's actually the least-desirable outcome of the three.

But I decided not to over-think it. Or rather, I did over-think it (as you can see), and then I took a few steps back and joined the group anyway. Because why the hell not? It's all about making connections with people, after all. Isn't it? That, and trying not to take yourself too seriously.

So how do I feel now that I'm a Thirty-Something Blogger? What does it mean? Well, I'm not exactly sure. I haven't figured it out yet. Right now I'm just sort of existing there. My profile pic just floats around on the page and shit, looking dorky and weird. Pretty soon, maybe I'll throw myself into a discussion or two. Or maybe I'll just sort of fade away into the background and never say or do much of anything. I have yet to make friends with too many people. Actually, I've made precisely two, and one is the group creator, and so she has to be my friend ... by law, I think. My other friend—who I've already had a fight with over—of all things—grits, goes by the provocative name of Horny Housewife. And doesn't it seem like I should get extra "friend points" for that or something? I may get my Vassar moment, yet.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  Thirty_Something_Bloggers  Friends  College  Chewing  Blog 

Saturday morning, shoveling snow from our driveway before heading to Newark for a flight. Five hours later, it's all sunshine and t-shirts, sipping margaritas on the patio of the Blue Goose in Plano. A soccer dad with shin-guarded kids beside us. And, on the other side, Harleys rumbling in the parking lot. Tattoos on display. Double D moms with "Don't Be Jealous" t-shirts. Suburban grey-beard banker bikers, bandana'd and leather-vested and flaunting their mid-life crises a month or two early. This strange mix of cultures. This strange mix of seasons. Because it's 70 degrees and sunny in early March in North Dallas. And we're sitting on a patio—the same exact one—where ten years ago I would've been found serving drinks. And not much has changed, except the name on the building. Time travel happens, ya'll.

Then it's light-weight longsleeves on E&K's back porch for pool, and beer on draft, and a broken E string. And man, that sentence would read a lot differently if you just changed a single letter, wouldn't it? Here there's another Harley rumbling, asleep on a lawn chair. Magnolia splayed out like a morning prayer. And us laughing over a shed in Jersey that's never been opened because there's mostly been a river of ice between me and it. And an empty shed is a scary prospect in Soprano country. And wow, jackets and gloves and shovels and boots seem so far away. Three hours northeast.

Sunday, the wind and rain began while we puzzled at Mom's. 2000 pieces. And the pot roast made some smoke, so we opened the windows. And then left them open. Because puzzling can make you hot—all that brainpower spent matching shapes and colors together. And it's nice to do that kind of work with a cross-breeze.

And then the rain got heavier. And the winds got colder. And last night, on the third day of March, North Dallas saw what might be described locally as a "blizzard" of snow, short-lived, but furious and heavy. Leaving a blanket of white on the flat landscape. Jackets and scarves back on. Pushing wet snow off the windshield with our arms. Then, us in our all-seasoned rental, headlights screaming against this horizontal army of flakes. Feeling like Star Wars at warp speed. Passing through another weather wormhole.

Then this morning waking to sunshine and highs in the mid-50s. Dallas will be back to t-shirts and margaritas in no time. And there's a bit of the sadness, because they don't grow Tex-Mex in North Jersey. The patios, chips and salsa, and salted rims. But that's what time travel and weather wormholes are for.

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Dallas last week is now a whirl of memories, all good. Even the heat felt nice. It was a proper heat. The kind that bakes your ankles. The kind that causes instant sweat on the brow and lower back. It's not the kind of heat you can hide from. It's the kind you face head-on. When you leave your house or car or office it's just you and it. And you let it fall over and envelope you because to resist is to go around feeling defeated. To resist is to be angry. And so you accept and embrace it. The heat. The sweat. You accept all of it. And I did. And it was good.

Days spent at my old office, hashing out project specs. Barbecue and Tex-Mex for lunch, sending my now yankee stomach into a fitful tossing and turning. Catching up with work-mates. An environment strangely familiar and yet long ago and distant.

Birthday dinners for my mom, who is approaching another landmark date, several decades to the north of 34. Which is the age I'm fast approaching. Stories of her father. Who I never knew. Born in 1898. Died a year before I was born. I'm becoming increasingly fascinated by him. By the man he was. Because maybe there are clues there, in the stories my mom can tell. Clues about who I am. So I search for the clues in her words. And in her photos, which are kept in a plain-white department-store gift box. An afternoon spent scanning many of them onto hard-drive, because I needed to.

Beers with Jeff and the Farmers late into the night under a rumbling, electric sky. Here, I am amazed by a man-room the size of a three-car garage. The time is comfortable. Unassuming. Real. Stories of bears, some that were and some that might have been. Adventures in a candy cane.

Meals with dad, who is now — for the first time since 1973 — completely an 'empty nester.' His youngest at grad school in Atlanta. His oldest moving wildly around the northeast in search of roots. Like C and I, he is selling his house. But he is contracting, not expanding. It's a time of change and decision. He has thoughts of moving out to Maryland.

And right now, back in Baltimore, in our house that is finally free of dust and paint fumes, on a day that no A/C is needed because it's in the low 70's, I find my personal undertow pulling back to Texas. Because — despite the heat — things hurt less there.

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