It happens without fail.
On Thursday and Friday afternoons in Manhattan, the avenues running north and south fill to the brim with fleeing people. Well, they fill to the brim with people fleeing in their cars (too many of whom, it should be stated, do not seem to carpool).
They make their escapes to any number of places. Upstate. The Shore. The Catskills. The Berkshires. Some head east to the Hamptons, while others run away to the cool, ocean breezes of the nearby islands.
While the summer’s weekend exodus is not something I do too often, I don’t blame them. It gets hot in the city, with the asphalt acting like a radiator, driving the mercury higher and higher.
I can understand their desires to beat traffic, and rush on out a bit early. The problem is, everybody has the same idea. What’s more, they all decide to leave at the exact same time.
The result is total gridlock. Nobody moves for what seems to be hours. While that makes it plenty easy for me to cross the street as I leave the office, it can’t be much fun for those stuck behind the wheel. At least, it doesn’t seem to be—not with the way they honk their horns.
I can hear them now, from the confines of the office. There are horns over on Hudson, droning on like a sixth-grade symphony with no proficiency for their instruments. It’s just a whole lot of noise.
A horn is a tool that has its moments—when someone doesn’t see your car, for instance, or when they cut you off as they jut across two lanes of highway. In other words, feel free to bang on your horn and wail away when the situation calls for it. But in circumstances such as these, when they know full well that they’re not going anywhere, and there’s nothing that the guy in front of them can do to even inch forward, can’t they all recognize the futility, and perhaps show some restraint?
We might all prefer a summer that is simply stress free.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
THE SOUND OF WHAT'S TO COME
Out of the blue, it happened. I developed a crush.
I feel the need to mention, for this wasn’t some sort of schoolboy affair. Not that the dropping of a note in study hall didn’t once have its moments. It’s just that now, this is not that place and time. Besides, I’m not sure it was ever a winning tactic, or one that I feel the need to be falling back on.
Considerate of the circumstances, I suppose that’s shockingly ironic.
In any case, this crush had real meaning. It was something more than a mere infatuation. It offered possibilities.
Poets have put their pens to use, and all in the effort to describe such things. I won’t bother you with a weak attempt, but suffice to say? Clouds parted. The sun shone brighter. The sky took on a more intense shade of blue. Entire armies lay down their guns. All sorts of things (hope, among them) were borne anew. It was one of those moments.
The odd part was, it wasn’t for a girl. In fact, it wasn’t for anyone at all. I developed a crush… on a song.
I didn't wish for this to happen. The tune appeared so suddenly, its timpani rhythms trickling forward, tickling the tips of the cilia to set vibration in motion. It swelled in waves, this song, rising, cresting towards the chorus, before darting off in directions wholly unexpected, the minute that it hit the bridge.
Press “Play” on a song like that, and speakers swell with pride. The air is so electric that it pops with opportunity. To hear a song like that is to know what it means to feel indomitable, as though nothing in this world of ours can ever keep you down.
A song like that is a sweet elixir. Ebullient and effervescent, driven forth with a percussive purpose, a song like that makes you want to scale small buildings. It sends you up to the rooftops, iPod in hand, in some strange interpretation of a Lloyd Dobler moment. It compels you to share, to shout to the world, “This is the sound of what’s to come!”
That… or you decide instead to make a mix tape, and all for the girl you’re going to marry.
I feel the need to mention, for this wasn’t some sort of schoolboy affair. Not that the dropping of a note in study hall didn’t once have its moments. It’s just that now, this is not that place and time. Besides, I’m not sure it was ever a winning tactic, or one that I feel the need to be falling back on.
Considerate of the circumstances, I suppose that’s shockingly ironic.
In any case, this crush had real meaning. It was something more than a mere infatuation. It offered possibilities.
Poets have put their pens to use, and all in the effort to describe such things. I won’t bother you with a weak attempt, but suffice to say? Clouds parted. The sun shone brighter. The sky took on a more intense shade of blue. Entire armies lay down their guns. All sorts of things (hope, among them) were borne anew. It was one of those moments.
The odd part was, it wasn’t for a girl. In fact, it wasn’t for anyone at all. I developed a crush… on a song.
I didn't wish for this to happen. The tune appeared so suddenly, its timpani rhythms trickling forward, tickling the tips of the cilia to set vibration in motion. It swelled in waves, this song, rising, cresting towards the chorus, before darting off in directions wholly unexpected, the minute that it hit the bridge.
Press “Play” on a song like that, and speakers swell with pride. The air is so electric that it pops with opportunity. To hear a song like that is to know what it means to feel indomitable, as though nothing in this world of ours can ever keep you down.
A song like that is a sweet elixir. Ebullient and effervescent, driven forth with a percussive purpose, a song like that makes you want to scale small buildings. It sends you up to the rooftops, iPod in hand, in some strange interpretation of a Lloyd Dobler moment. It compels you to share, to shout to the world, “This is the sound of what’s to come!”
That… or you decide instead to make a mix tape, and all for the girl you’re going to marry.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
NOTE TO SELF: NOT THE GUY WHO WON PROJECT RUNWAY
Quite recently, I’ve come to know of the designer Christian Louboutin and his fabulously red-soled shoes. Do you own any of these? Say the word, if you don’t, because I’m telling you: I just don’t care how much they cost. If we have to work second jobs and mortgage our future, you are going to have a pair. I will buy them for you, if need be.
Sure, his web site is a bit pretentious, even by my standards. The biography reads like the self-aggrandizing statement of an insecure and callow boy who would like to think himself the apotheosis of the scene. Never mind that it is written in the third-person. Louboutin himself was probably responsible. At the very least, he had to approve it.
Of course, I don’t know the man. Branding being what it is, it helps to perpetuate a certain image. Eventually, the icon trumps the individual. For all I know, he’s probably a really nice guy, and of the type you might want to go and get a beer with. All I am able to say, unequivocally, is this: The man can craft fantastic shoes.
Just look at his work! With their lacquered red soles, those stilettos are simply stunning. Talk about imbuing the modern age with a whiff of timeless elegance. The soles alone look rich, sumptuous, like corporeal decadence—and they are the parts you walk on!
Look, I go weak in the knees over a t-shirt and jeans. I like the girl who feels comfortable in her own skin, no matter what she’s wearing. But those shoes? Those shoes are something special.
I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I can see no way around it. I think you have to have them.
Sure, his web site is a bit pretentious, even by my standards. The biography reads like the self-aggrandizing statement of an insecure and callow boy who would like to think himself the apotheosis of the scene. Never mind that it is written in the third-person. Louboutin himself was probably responsible. At the very least, he had to approve it.
Of course, I don’t know the man. Branding being what it is, it helps to perpetuate a certain image. Eventually, the icon trumps the individual. For all I know, he’s probably a really nice guy, and of the type you might want to go and get a beer with. All I am able to say, unequivocally, is this: The man can craft fantastic shoes.
Just look at his work! With their lacquered red soles, those stilettos are simply stunning. Talk about imbuing the modern age with a whiff of timeless elegance. The soles alone look rich, sumptuous, like corporeal decadence—and they are the parts you walk on!
Look, I go weak in the knees over a t-shirt and jeans. I like the girl who feels comfortable in her own skin, no matter what she’s wearing. But those shoes? Those shoes are something special.
I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I can see no way around it. I think you have to have them.
Monday, June 23, 2008
WHY I PUT OUT
When I was in high school, I knew plenty of girls who would labor under the belief that if they only put out, they might be wildly popular.
Yeah, I tried that. It didn’t work for me, either.
On the other hand, there is a reason why I kiss the way I do. Given the manner in which I tore through college, you’d think that my knowledge of osculation might be well in the vicinity of encyclopedic. Apparently, it’s not.
According to a recent article on msn.com, there is a whole bunch of stuff that I never knew, and in some cases, never wanted to know about kissing. Some of these points are indeed “quirky”. Others are banal. A few of them, though, I felt the need to pass along.
Take, for instance, this: “A simple peck uses two muscles; a passionate kiss, on the other hand, uses all 34 muscles in your face.” Their writer opines, “Now that’s a rigorous workout!” This writer opines: For all of those days you can’t get to the gym? You know where to find me.
Personally, I think “because it’s fun” is a pretty good reason for the doing of most anything, and I’ve got to say: There’s a whole lot about making out that’s really, really fun. Alas, this isn’t about your amusement (or mine). I’ve got it on good authority from the aforementioned article: “Kissing is good for what ails you. Research shows that the act of smooching improves our skin, helps circulation, prevents tooth decay, and can even relieve headaches.”
(I’d like to see you try and use that excuse now.)
Amongst the list, there were several points that smacked of a double standard. To wit: “The average woman kisses 29 men before she gets married.”
As for the truth or relevance behind that point, only you are qualified to answer. I have to admit, though. I’ve got that one beat. (By a lot.) Nevertheless, there was something about the mere mention of the number that bothered me, and it may have been this: Nowhere on that list of quirky kissing facts was there a countering point. They didn’t bother to call out the boys.
It could be that an average number for men was not available. Perhaps no one has bothered to do the research. The thing is, I doubt that’s the case. By listing a number for women, not men, it’s almost like telling the world of women that we’re watching—as though we care about how many people they are kissing; as though it matters. Meanwhile, the men get by with a free pass? It’s as though the omission creates some strange form of implied absolution.
Isn’t there something about it that’s just a bit puritanical, even prejudiced?
Why it is that men can run around kissing anyone and everyone short of the lipless, whereas women apparently stop short of 30, lest they be tagged with any number of unfortunate (not to mention unfair) labels?
I know the answer to this one: “Society.” Well, I say society should do a whole lot more in the way of kissing. It might shut them up for a while.
(It wouldn’t hurt their complexions, either).
Yeah, I tried that. It didn’t work for me, either.
On the other hand, there is a reason why I kiss the way I do. Given the manner in which I tore through college, you’d think that my knowledge of osculation might be well in the vicinity of encyclopedic. Apparently, it’s not.
According to a recent article on msn.com, there is a whole bunch of stuff that I never knew, and in some cases, never wanted to know about kissing. Some of these points are indeed “quirky”. Others are banal. A few of them, though, I felt the need to pass along.
Take, for instance, this: “A simple peck uses two muscles; a passionate kiss, on the other hand, uses all 34 muscles in your face.” Their writer opines, “Now that’s a rigorous workout!” This writer opines: For all of those days you can’t get to the gym? You know where to find me.
Personally, I think “because it’s fun” is a pretty good reason for the doing of most anything, and I’ve got to say: There’s a whole lot about making out that’s really, really fun. Alas, this isn’t about your amusement (or mine). I’ve got it on good authority from the aforementioned article: “Kissing is good for what ails you. Research shows that the act of smooching improves our skin, helps circulation, prevents tooth decay, and can even relieve headaches.”
(I’d like to see you try and use that excuse now.)
Amongst the list, there were several points that smacked of a double standard. To wit: “The average woman kisses 29 men before she gets married.”
As for the truth or relevance behind that point, only you are qualified to answer. I have to admit, though. I’ve got that one beat. (By a lot.) Nevertheless, there was something about the mere mention of the number that bothered me, and it may have been this: Nowhere on that list of quirky kissing facts was there a countering point. They didn’t bother to call out the boys.
It could be that an average number for men was not available. Perhaps no one has bothered to do the research. The thing is, I doubt that’s the case. By listing a number for women, not men, it’s almost like telling the world of women that we’re watching—as though we care about how many people they are kissing; as though it matters. Meanwhile, the men get by with a free pass? It’s as though the omission creates some strange form of implied absolution.
Isn’t there something about it that’s just a bit puritanical, even prejudiced?
Why it is that men can run around kissing anyone and everyone short of the lipless, whereas women apparently stop short of 30, lest they be tagged with any number of unfortunate (not to mention unfair) labels?
I know the answer to this one: “Society.” Well, I say society should do a whole lot more in the way of kissing. It might shut them up for a while.
(It wouldn’t hurt their complexions, either).
Friday, June 20, 2008
FOR THE RECORD
I started to think about it. I mean, I really began to mull it over.
What if my life had taken a different turn? What if proximity had been a factor? What if somewhere in my youth (or childhood), I had learned to settle?
When I was growing up, there was a girl who lived just down the road. Technically, her house was next door to ours. If memory serves, she was about my age. We might have even been in the same year at school.
I grew curious, and so I did some research on this one. Made some phone calls. (My Mom. She talks to people.)
If my very own version of the girl next door had turned out to be the girl I’m going to marry?
We’d all too likely be divorced, and you would definitely be a stripper.
(Insert a long, obligatory pause.)
Kind of dodged a bullet on that one, now didn’t we?
What if my life had taken a different turn? What if proximity had been a factor? What if somewhere in my youth (or childhood), I had learned to settle?
When I was growing up, there was a girl who lived just down the road. Technically, her house was next door to ours. If memory serves, she was about my age. We might have even been in the same year at school.
I grew curious, and so I did some research on this one. Made some phone calls. (My Mom. She talks to people.)
If my very own version of the girl next door had turned out to be the girl I’m going to marry?
We’d all too likely be divorced, and you would definitely be a stripper.
(Insert a long, obligatory pause.)
Kind of dodged a bullet on that one, now didn’t we?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
IT MAY BE JUST THAT SIMPLE
I am going to tell you a story.
It takes place some time ago, prior to the birth of the automobile and before anyone had bothered to invent the superhighway.
Across the country, in cities and towns, the average American was going about his daily life. He was attending school, getting married to the girl next door, having kids. He was working in a mine, on the family’s farm, in a factory, maybe. The details were just cursory.
That’s because, for the average American, little in the way of divergence existed to set his story apart from the rest. Time and again, life would unfold in a predictable fashion, much the way it did for so many, all around the country. A person was born into a city or town, and he would die in that very same city or town. It was because of this: The average American never traveled farther than six miles from home. It’s an actual fact. People were sequestered, in some strange way, by an apparent lack of mobility.
Let the nostalgic look back and wax lyrical about a kinder, simpler time. They’ll obfuscate with their descriptions on the beauty of the proverbial girl next door, or the purity of the farmer’s daughter. When those women ended up with the local town stud, it wasn’t the hand of fate intervening. Those crazy kids may well profess that they were meant to be together, but don’t believe it for a moment. It was that they had little in the way of choice.
To a person born in this day and age, that fate would seem akin to a prison sentence. For goodness sake, our generation will travel more than six miles for sushi. We waltz into the restaurant and we’re asked to select from sparkling, still or tap water. There is a wholly separate menu, just for the sake.
As a generation, we have been blessed with an overabundance of choice. Not only is it obnoxious; it’s enough to make you wonder: Are we better off for it?
What is the take rate on marriage, these days? Is it one in five that last the first five years? One in three that are expected to stick it out a decade? There is a reason that we’ve coined the term “starter marriage”.
Please, don’t think that I’m being cynical. On the contrary, I want you, the house, and if we’re blessed to be so fortunate, then kids. I want all of that and more, but importantly? I believe that it can be made to work. I just think that too many people of our generation are complicating the situation.
When it’s the person who you’re going to share your life with—when it matters that much—then I've got to believe that all you truly need to know can be mined from the answers to just three questions. Yes, you did read that correctly. Just three, and in particular, the following:
1. IS THIS PERSON MY BEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE, WIDE WORLD?
If so, then check that box and move onto the next one!
2. DO I WANT TO THROW HER DOWN ON THE NEAREST FLAT SURFACE, EVERY CHANCE I GET?
Safe to say, but I do. A lot. Like, often. Now. So then, it’s onto the last!
3. KNOWING NOT WHAT LIFE MIGHT BRING, BUT BEING PRETTY CERTAIN THAT YOU’RE LIABLE TO FACE CHALLENGES THAT NEITHER OF YOU CAN PREDICT, LET ALONE PLAN FOR... KNOWING THAT, CAN I EVEN IMAGINE GETTING THROUGH IT WITH ANY OTHER PERSON?
(Enough said.)
Is this some sort of litmus test for love? I don’t know. Not that I presume to have the whole thing figured out, but I know what I believe. I know how it is that I feel. Granted, this list of mine might dumb down the issues, if just a little bit. It may miss a few shades of meaning, or gloss over any number of important points.
Then again, it may be just that simple.
It takes place some time ago, prior to the birth of the automobile and before anyone had bothered to invent the superhighway.
Across the country, in cities and towns, the average American was going about his daily life. He was attending school, getting married to the girl next door, having kids. He was working in a mine, on the family’s farm, in a factory, maybe. The details were just cursory.
That’s because, for the average American, little in the way of divergence existed to set his story apart from the rest. Time and again, life would unfold in a predictable fashion, much the way it did for so many, all around the country. A person was born into a city or town, and he would die in that very same city or town. It was because of this: The average American never traveled farther than six miles from home. It’s an actual fact. People were sequestered, in some strange way, by an apparent lack of mobility.
Let the nostalgic look back and wax lyrical about a kinder, simpler time. They’ll obfuscate with their descriptions on the beauty of the proverbial girl next door, or the purity of the farmer’s daughter. When those women ended up with the local town stud, it wasn’t the hand of fate intervening. Those crazy kids may well profess that they were meant to be together, but don’t believe it for a moment. It was that they had little in the way of choice.
To a person born in this day and age, that fate would seem akin to a prison sentence. For goodness sake, our generation will travel more than six miles for sushi. We waltz into the restaurant and we’re asked to select from sparkling, still or tap water. There is a wholly separate menu, just for the sake.
As a generation, we have been blessed with an overabundance of choice. Not only is it obnoxious; it’s enough to make you wonder: Are we better off for it?
What is the take rate on marriage, these days? Is it one in five that last the first five years? One in three that are expected to stick it out a decade? There is a reason that we’ve coined the term “starter marriage”.
Please, don’t think that I’m being cynical. On the contrary, I want you, the house, and if we’re blessed to be so fortunate, then kids. I want all of that and more, but importantly? I believe that it can be made to work. I just think that too many people of our generation are complicating the situation.
When it’s the person who you’re going to share your life with—when it matters that much—then I've got to believe that all you truly need to know can be mined from the answers to just three questions. Yes, you did read that correctly. Just three, and in particular, the following:
1. IS THIS PERSON MY BEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE, WIDE WORLD?
If so, then check that box and move onto the next one!
2. DO I WANT TO THROW HER DOWN ON THE NEAREST FLAT SURFACE, EVERY CHANCE I GET?
Safe to say, but I do. A lot. Like, often. Now. So then, it’s onto the last!
3. KNOWING NOT WHAT LIFE MIGHT BRING, BUT BEING PRETTY CERTAIN THAT YOU’RE LIABLE TO FACE CHALLENGES THAT NEITHER OF YOU CAN PREDICT, LET ALONE PLAN FOR... KNOWING THAT, CAN I EVEN IMAGINE GETTING THROUGH IT WITH ANY OTHER PERSON?
(Enough said.)
Is this some sort of litmus test for love? I don’t know. Not that I presume to have the whole thing figured out, but I know what I believe. I know how it is that I feel. Granted, this list of mine might dumb down the issues, if just a little bit. It may miss a few shades of meaning, or gloss over any number of important points.
Then again, it may be just that simple.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
FREQUENCY
I don’t believe in Writer’s Block. It’s an excuse perpetuated by fourteen year-old students who don’t have an original bone in their bodies, let alone a clue as to how they might express themselves. Writer’s Block is a myth. It’s bullshit. It does not exist.
And yet, here we are. The days have flown by and the hours have mounted, as all the while, I’ve done nothing about writing to the girl I’m going to marry.
There may be a silence cast across your inbox, but never a day goes by when I cannot write. There is always something new to say, and the desire exists to fill blank pages.
In this head of mine, subjects and predicates continually collide. Synonyms and antonyms vie for my attention, as paragraphs begin to take shape and form, only to move about like building blocks. It is an unending process. The language is forever being fashioned, fiddled with, and all to create new bits of polished prose.
But one man’s prose can be another’s pestilence—hence, the deafening silence that we’ve been dealing with, of late.
You see, I tend to go quiet when my quality suffers. When the text meanders; when words won’t come as easily; when the prose seems to lack any poetry or pluck, I immediately shutter the doors and windows. If I don’t like the stuff I’m putting out, I’ll close up shop and toil away until that time when things are right once more.
Up until now, this has served as my preferred excuse. It has been my favorite bedtime story, meant to explain away the dearth of my production, but I’m deciding not to tell that tale anymore. I am putting an end to the practice. It is one tactic that has grown tired and stale, and I’ve decided that I’m done with it.
Life is too short. It allows no time to dawdle. I am eager and anxious, and I’ve got so many things to say. There are tales that I have to tell, and importantly, there is a person I want to share those stories with.
So then, I am opting for "yes" more often than "no". I am choosing to act in the face of indecision.
Were I to continue along the present path, waiting around until things were just right, until circumstances fell into line, then I’d one day wake beneath the weight of disappointment, only to find that life had passed me by. Hopes and dreams will not come to be when one’s stopping to script the situation.
A first kiss would never happen under those kinds of conditions. Why should this be any different?
And yet, here we are. The days have flown by and the hours have mounted, as all the while, I’ve done nothing about writing to the girl I’m going to marry.
There may be a silence cast across your inbox, but never a day goes by when I cannot write. There is always something new to say, and the desire exists to fill blank pages.
In this head of mine, subjects and predicates continually collide. Synonyms and antonyms vie for my attention, as paragraphs begin to take shape and form, only to move about like building blocks. It is an unending process. The language is forever being fashioned, fiddled with, and all to create new bits of polished prose.
But one man’s prose can be another’s pestilence—hence, the deafening silence that we’ve been dealing with, of late.
You see, I tend to go quiet when my quality suffers. When the text meanders; when words won’t come as easily; when the prose seems to lack any poetry or pluck, I immediately shutter the doors and windows. If I don’t like the stuff I’m putting out, I’ll close up shop and toil away until that time when things are right once more.
Up until now, this has served as my preferred excuse. It has been my favorite bedtime story, meant to explain away the dearth of my production, but I’m deciding not to tell that tale anymore. I am putting an end to the practice. It is one tactic that has grown tired and stale, and I’ve decided that I’m done with it.
Life is too short. It allows no time to dawdle. I am eager and anxious, and I’ve got so many things to say. There are tales that I have to tell, and importantly, there is a person I want to share those stories with.
So then, I am opting for "yes" more often than "no". I am choosing to act in the face of indecision.
Were I to continue along the present path, waiting around until things were just right, until circumstances fell into line, then I’d one day wake beneath the weight of disappointment, only to find that life had passed me by. Hopes and dreams will not come to be when one’s stopping to script the situation.
A first kiss would never happen under those kinds of conditions. Why should this be any different?
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