the start of my friend quota

I’m not sure how it always happens, but I really cannot keep friends. Many of my friends I have lost touch with. Every so often, I break up with friends. But lately I have been doing something, something I’m completely unaware of, that makes my friends disown me.

I think the first time it happened was in high school. I was 17 and had just moved from Ozark to Lee’s Summit for my senior year. I had a best friend in Ozark that knew about all my crazy, neurotic quirks and didn’t seem to mind them. We continued our long-distance friendship despite my terrible record of “losing touch.” We had a funny relationship. We barely had anything in common and didn’t hang out like normal teenagers. Sometimes she spent the night and we gossiped, but our relationship was mostly phone-based. Maybe this is why the long-distance thing wasn’t terrible. I sent her journals (even though she hated to read), pictures (even though most of them were crappy), and bitched to her about how I hated my new residence. She listened and seemed interested.

She had been yearning to get married since I met her in ninth grade. She finally met “the one” sometime in junior year and was engaged by the time she hit cosmetology school. Her plan (what I can remember, at least) was to marry after she graduated cosmetology school and I was going to be her maid of honor. Somewhere in between me moving and her graduating, she stopped mentioning any details about her wedding--which was strange for a woman who had been planning her wedding since she was five.

As far as I can remember, everything was normal until May 2. I was leaving the subdivision of my parents’ house when I called her to let her know about a guy I met at the Muse concert the night before. I had just spat out the very basic elements of my story before she abruptly cut me off and told me she was late for school (or work, I can’t remember) and would call me back later. She didn’t. I can’t remember if I tried calling her back, but I’m sure I did. I heard nothing from her until about two months after that phone call; she called and left me a voicemail about some small details about her wedding. I called after I got off of work, even though I knew she’d be asleep. Not surprisingly, she told me she would call me later because she had a headache. That was the last time I had ever spoken with her.

A few months ago, I received a friend request via Facebook. I was shocked and surprised that, after three or four years of no communication, she would “friend” me. I never received a message or comment wanting to catch up or explain what happened. It was almost like she had forgotten me, again. I viewed her profile a few times and wasn’t shocked by its content. She seemed to be the same exact girl I left in high school. I wanted to send her a message, but a part of me was still hurt by her actions. I spent a lot of time and energy into trying to figure out what I had done wrong. I’m the queen of the accidental faux pas, so I’m sure I said something to upset her. I just wish I would’ve been notified or warned.

Sometime around this past presidential election, I checked my Facebook page and noticed that she had a very strong aversion to democrat Barak Obama. In fact, she plainly despised him and all democrats. This upset and bothered me, maybe because she was ill-informed, maybe because I am also a democrat, or maybe it’s a combination of the two. I started to respond to her “status updates” through mine. I wasn’t calling her out, specifically, but more so everybody I encountered on a daily basis.

I noticed right after the election, the historical election where the America voted Obama into office, that I was no longer “friends” with her via Facebook. The bitch deleted me! Now was the election the deciding factor? Was I too harsh when I changed my status to “woo Obama!” or “suck it McCain/Palin”? Or did she remember why she rejected my friendship in the first place?

I actually thought it was funny. It had been years since I had last spoken with her, so it didn’t bother me at all that she was going to continue that streak. I am not missing anything by losing such a naïve, racist, and ignorant “friend.”

Recently, within the past month, I have managed to lose two “friends.” Now, these two boys were not life-long, I-would-die-for-you type of friends. I found company in their different attitudes and experiences. It was a welcome change to share drinks with them and listen to their stories. Then I pulled “a Laurie” (as my close friends would say). I found myself fumbling in the deep shrouds of inebriation and staring into the dark brown eyes of a man who was disappointed in me. I know I said, “I’m sorry,” and “What did I do?” but no response was returned. As far as the action that lent itself to these pleas for forgiveness, well, your guess is as good as mine.

I’m upset because once again because no one decides to fucking fill me in on my misstep. If I were an employee, they would have to tell me why they were firing me and not just lock me out of the building one day. I’m especially upset, not because I lost two great friendships, but because I lost a great potential for two great friendships.

I can’t imagine what I’ve done, and if these boys know me well enough, they know I mean no malice. Was this more of a “three strikes, you’re out” type of situation? Are they breaking up with my friendship? Have they both decided that they need to go in another direction with their friendships and I just don’t fit into their plans? I don’t understand how I can create two enemies in only four hours and four drinks.

It’s possible that this is a way for the universe to tell me that I don’t pay enough attention. Or maybe that I should stop drinking. Or maybe that I have enough friends. I think I’ll combine all and stop drinking while paying more attention and thinning out my friend base. Don’t get me wrong, you can still petition to be my friend, but my “friend quota” is filled. Maybe I’ll open up another space in my quota later. Until then, I’ll keep all your friend applications on file for the next two years. If an opening comes up, I’ll have someone notify you. Best wishes.

Down Homey Advice from Gary Greebles

Hello friends,

It's Gary Greebles back again for a foray into the world of the personal, the professional and the punishable (Sinners repent! - Susan). It looks like I've got quite the grab-bag here! The internet sure has opened the flood-gates. Why, sometimes I'd only get one or two letters a year, and now I get at least ten!

I have to say, fellow pugilists, that Gary is a little distressed by a theme that my keen reader's eyes have detected in these letters. Now, it seems to me like maybe people just aren't trying hard enough. I know, I know. Everyone's busy combing their Chia pets, watching Wheel of Fortune and tending their magnolia bushes, but surely there's still a place in this world for the good ole' collegiate try? So forgive me, dear readers, if Gary seems a little bit miffy today. It just seems like people are getting a little loose around here and I'm going to have to roll up my sleeves, unsnap my vest (oh la la! - Susan), adjust my suspenders and dish out some good ole' no-nonsense Down Homey advice for all you shifty do-nothings out there. And for those who still profit by the sweat of your brows, I salute you!

Let's begin, shall we?


From: mommas_scared@htsp.com

Gary,

I've recently become a recluse and need to know what the proper window coverings would be! A nice dust ruffle? Some lacy curtains? Or should I just stick with the crooked venetian blinds? Please help!

Desperate in Despair

Now I'm sorry little lady if you truly are scared, but I just have to say - you're just not trying hard enough! If you were serious about being a recluse then you would know better than to write to an advice column! Have you ever seen the Black Widow spider send an Electronic Mail? Did the Unibomber (bless his heart! - Susan) attend ice cream socials? Did John Drew Barrymore, father of Wholesome American Heartthrob Drew Barrymore walk out to get his own mail? NO!

It's twenty ought nine, DID, and if you're serious about doing the lord's work on this earth, about being who you were MEANT to be, you'd board up those windows, paint the walls black, unplug your phone, remove the shade from that 40-watt bulb in your lonely night lamp, break out some moldy cards for a game of solitaire and, above all, zip your lip! (Jesus name! - Susan.)


From: beepbeep@pooter.com

Dear Gary,

I was just speaking with a stranger on the phone and she whispered, "DON'T WORRY!" and I started to worry!!! What does this mean? What am I supposed to do? I feel like I betrayed her trust in me.

Signed,
Worry Wart

And you did, Worry Wort! Not only did you disobey this dear stranger who meant nothing to you, but you allowed yourself to commit the Lesser Sin (Holy Foible - Susan) of Worrying and the Mid-grade Sins of having a Wart and a downright silly Electronic Mail address. Beepbeep? What are you, a fire truck?

Susan, I think I'll need you to take my tie. I'm getting a little hot under the collar. (Sweet lord! - Susan)


From: helmetman@hoohah.com

I like PIE! Pie. PIE! puh-EYE.

Pie?

But did you make some HelmetMan? What good is that helmet for if it doesn't protect you from the heat of an oven? All talk and no bite, that's what you are, HelmetMan. I don't like the looks of you at all!


From: woowoowanda@wandasmail.com

Gary,

Recently, I had a dream that I was getting married and my mother brought me thousands of pairs of shoes and none of them fit. Then, as I was walking to my car, I was told that my wedding was cancelled because a trivia contest was booked at the church three years before! What does this mean? I'm afraid to tell my fiance because I know he won't marry me if he thinks there is bad luck!

Not-So-Blushing Bride

Whew, I'm sweaty. NSBB, thank you for this heartfelt letter. I thank you from the bottom of my palpitating heart, and the readers of the Pugilist thank you. Gary was getting a little out of control back there. Gary needs to settle down, and this is just the kind of advice - marriage-type advice - that Gary finds soothing and likes to give.

NSBB, the bottom line is that dreams are always true. Science tells us that they provide the most detailed, accurate and complete projection of future circumstances available today. Why even Ms. Cleo can't compete with dreams. One time I called her, and I said to Ms. Cleo, "Cleo, I'd like to be a writer." And Cleo said to me "Gary, you've got to follow your dreams. You've just got to. 'Cuz dreams always come true. And if they don't, they weren't really dreams to begin with and they was just some sort of gas bubble in your belly."

So think on it NSBB, sure, your wedding is gonna get cancelled. But it's for a trivia contest! Maybe you and your fiance can play and win some money! Plus, you're going to have an awful lot of shoes. Thousands, you said? With the eBay I'm sure you'll make a killing!

Telling your husband what you have learned of your fate together is up to you. Some people prefer to be surprised! Why, my readers might be surprised if they knew I was hardly wearing clothes! (I sure do like the look of that there undershirt, Gary! It's mighty, mighty fine. - Susan)


From: jesuslovesme@biblerules.com

Gary,
I'm ashamed. I think I might be Gay. My family wouldn't be happy with me as they are devot Christians. But the catch is, I'm gay for God! I'm swimming in a paradox!

Signed,
Flamer

Good grief, Susan. My blood pressure's on the rise.

Now dag nabbit, Flamer, there's just nothing wrong with being Gay! Why, just the other day Gary was gay. I went out and got a delicious set of sandwiches from Arby's on Southwest Expressway and my goodness they were good. I drenched 'em in horsey sauce and I started whistling! A young lad in some sort of colorful, sportin'-like dress turned to me and said "god, you're gay." And I said "yes, son! I am Gay! And you're right, thank God for these delicious Arby's roast beef sandwiches and thank God for the Gay hands that made them and the Gay man who will clean up the mess when I'm through 'eaten 'em. Let's hope everyone here today is as Gay as me, Gary Greebles!" It's a Gay, Gay, world, Flamer, if you want it to be, and there ain't nothin' paradoxical 'bout that. (Damn straight! - Susan.)


And that's about all I've got time for today, gentle readers. I've got to get dressed (Aw! - Susan.), and I'm sure y'all do too. But keep the letters coming. In these uncertain economical times, Gary's got to pay those bills and buy his sandwiches!

Until next time,

Gary

The Hardest Job Of My Life

I'm in a room with other people, blowing up balloons. Everybody around me is blowing and blowing and their balloons are growing and then they tie them off and let them go. I'm blowing and blowing as hard as I can and nothing’s happening. I’m watching these people easily inflating these balloons and I’m getting worried why I can't. I’m getting self conscious because I have very few balloons and everybody else seems to have no problem gaining and discarding their balloons. Sure, everybody has one or two balloons they can't inflate, but it seems like every single one of my balloons has been poked by a tiny needle. The air goes in and comes out; the balloon stays limp. I try, and I try and all I’m wasting is time and hot air.

Sometimes I finally get a balloon growing then suddenly it deflates, making that terrible farting noise and everybody looks over at my failure. I’m crushed at what I did wrong. I am obsessing over what I did wrong. I try to recreate the moments before the balloon deflated, but I cannot remember. Now the balloon is no good; sometimes I try to get it going again, but I know it never will. The balloon is useless. And I keep thinking, is it me? Is it my method? Am I not stretching the balloon enough? Am I not providing a constant stream of air? Are my lungs too small? Why is my balloon collection so small?

“It’s not hard!” and “It just happens!” are some of the “nuggets” of advice I’m given by friends and acquaintances. They don’t seem to understand that I just can’t blow up balloons like everyone else. I must be physically incapable. I swear my lungs are too small or my breath is too potent. Everybody talks about their balloons and some people count them and brag; I can do no such thing as my collection is very pathetic. I want to lie and hide my balloons but I can’t. They are just sitting out there as an upsetting testament to my inabilities.

Most of the time I don’t care about my small collection—I just want to have that big, bright, shiny, red balloon. Sure, everybody wants that balloon and some people have it. But here I am digging through the bag and I can't find one. I feel like I’ve been digging forever. I have blue, and green, yellow, orange, pink but I can’t find the red one. Maybe I’ll like the blue or green, I think. Just try it, I tell myself. Sometimes just looking in my bag at all of the colors and opportunities makes me upset. I can’t do it! I want my red balloon! I am getting tired of this constant workshop of balloon inflating. There is no guidance and it is hard work. Every man for himself, I guess.

I hate balloons.

Thanksgiving

When I was little I liked to dip olives in apple juice. I think I remember the taste, and it wasn't that bad, but really, I think it was mostly about the olives. I like olives.

My grandfather was very overweight. My dad or maybe my aunt or maybe both of them would hassle him to try to get him to eat healthier, which didn't make a whole lot of sense to do specifically on the holiday. I know they tried to intervene at other times and had felt that they failed. Maybe they saw it as a chance to approach him together.

My aunt and my dad would usually argue. Sometimes it got bad enough that one of them would leave the dinner table. We kids eventually got our own table - me, my brother and my two cousins. I was the oldest of the bunch. I liked our card table. We didn't fight with each other at all. We even had a good time, joked around.

If my cousins weren't there, my brother and I would go hide in the spare room to avoid the issues of the adults. It was stocked with stuff, piles and piles of it, and none of it particularly exciting. Sure, there was a shoebox or two to rummage through, but they were invariably full of sewing equipment or old musty photos. But there was a TV in a far corner with a working VCR. We'd usually watch Miracle on 34th street or some other black and white classic.

If we weren't stowed back in the spare room, we'd be upstairs in one of the unused bedrooms. These had angled ceilings where the windows cut into the roof line. The entire second story had a sort of miniature quality to it. I remember noting that my grandparents slept in separate beds on the ground floor. Just like on TV.

My mom and dad split when I was five. The first I remember hearing of it was at a Thanksgiving. I was sitting on the stairs up to the second floor, and somebody, maybe my grandmother or my aunt, was asking me questions about it. I know I didn't really understand how significant the divorce would be, but I understood the concept. My dad was going to live somewhere else. "Yes," I said, when they asked me if I knew it wasn't my fault.

From that point on, we would have at least two Thanksgivings. The one I've already described was on my father's side and remained more or less the same through the years. I think that that Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving "A," was more remarkable because there were more people there, and because it was held at my grandmother's house and thus away from my home. But my mom hosted thanksgiving, too. As did my maternal grandmother, before she passed away when I was twelve. Those meals had a different vibe. There were just less people, so it couldn't be quite as festive. And when my mom hosted it was at our house. Sometimes she'd invite a friend in addition to the usual roster of me, my brother, my grandmother and my mother's sister. Sometimes, I think, our upstairs neighbors were involved. Two boys and their single mom. The older, Scott, was at least four or five years ahead of me. The younger, Nicholai, was one year behind. We were pretty tight.

I live now in a place hundreds and hundreds of miles from where any of this happened. None of the houses involved are still in the family. My grandfather has passed and my paternal grandmother now lives in upstate New York. My mom is in Florida. My father and stepmother live in Atlanta, GA. My wife and I have a son, and we've sort of stuck a flag down here in Kansas City. The flag says "home." Or maybe it's just a square of a bold color, like red.

We host Thanksgiving now. My father and stepmother and sister come, every year. My brother makes it when he can. We cook a wide range of vegetarian delights, which initially frightened my relatives, but which they have come to enjoy. They appreciate not being hit by such a hard food coma after the fact, and my wife is an excellent cook. We usually have at least two or three pies, a wide range of sides and my wife's incredible, made from scratch tofu turkey. It's nothing like a Tofurkey, if you've had one of those. Tofurkeys are terrible.

Whenever Thanksgiving approaches, I go through an emotional process. The steps are the same, but the order and timing vary from year to year. Step one is excitement. I more or less only see my dad, stepmom and sister once a year, at Thanksgiving, and so I look forward to it. I love my family.

The second step is less pleasant. At some point, I become painfully aware of how infrequently I see my family, and I start to do some pretty depressing math. I take my father's age, and I subtract it from 80, maybe 90 if I'm feeling generous. Then I multiply that by the number of days they usually spend out here, leading to an estimate of the number of days I will spend in my father's company in his lifetime. The number of days he'll spend playing with my son. That number isn't so large anymore.

Obviously, this is a horribly morbid thought. On its own, it would bear no merit. If I just sat in it and let it color the vibe of the visit, it would bring nothing but shadow to what could be a bright occasion. So last year, I took it upon myself to act. My brother was here, and we hosted a sort of intervention. We insisted that my dad and stepmom meet us for breakfast on the last day before they left, so that we could talk things out.

We had a conversation. We talked about wanting to be more tightly nit, about wanting to feel more like a real family. Basically, about wanting to make the effort to see each other more often. We conceded that nobody would be likely to move any time soon (there are powerful reasons), but we thought that maybe we could take a vacation once a year, together. Just that in itself would double the number I had been calculating in my head. My dad found the conversation difficult to deal with and actually left the table, but my stepmom was enthusiastic and touched. In the end, everyone agreed that this would be a great idea.

Unfortunately, it hasn't happened. The summer came and went. I made phone calls. I made proposals. But in the end, lacking a reciprocal amount of support on any side, I couldn't make it happen. Another year has passed.

So this year, I've already been through steps one and two, before anyone even arrives. I'm already trying to think about how to process my frustration, sadness and disappointment (maybe even resentment), at the distant way my family relates to one-another. I'm hoping, that by writing this, maybe I can move more quickly to step three, which is a sort of resignation and acceptance that allows me to finally enjoy the moment and the time that I have. When they go, I'm always glad they came, and I'm happy to have seen them.

I don't know where the wires got crossed, and when. I don't know how my family got to be the way it is, dispersed across the continent, limited in contact to a few days and phone calls. I've tried to unwind it, but I don't know how. I keep hoping that at some point somebody will be willing to make a sacrifice, that somebody will join us under this flag of ours, or that we'll decide to pick up the flag ourselves and re-plant it somewhere else. But no matter how I slice it up, there just doesn't seem to be an answer that makes sense. There's no solution to the puzzle of needs and requirements.

So we host the holiday and we bake the pies and we go bowling. You know, tradition. It's the best we can do.

Things I Lost In the Fire

I’m missing something. It’s a strange feeling to be missing a part of myself. I’m not missing any limbs or anything physical; I’m missing a feeling. I don’t know when it happened, but it’s a recent occurrence. Suddenly, it seems as if I’m constantly irritated, upset, and sad. I’m unsure if this feeling was love, happiness, or even contentedness—I only know the feeling was positive and, apparently, taken for granted.

I wake up in the morning with nothing to look forward to except the end of the day. I relax without actually relaxing. I spend my free-time laying in bed checking off a mental list of all the different emotions I feel, trying to figure out which feeling I’m missing by process of elimination. I spend the spare moments of my day trying to figure out what I could do which might bring back this feeling, but nothing ever helps.

I’ve tried to get a hobby, but I’m too busy. I’ve tried to exercise, but my excuses don’t stop. I’ve tried purchasing items I don’t need, but they end up disappearing in my unhappy oblivion. I’ve spent numerous evenings with my closest friends, but I only end up craving my bed and hating myself.

What, or Who, was responsible for this feeling? I recently went through a break up. It was mutual, though some days it feels more like I was the one who was dumped. I find the events proceeding the break up to be something like the Universe’s way of acknowledging my “mistake” and rewarding me one more chance but sending me back to Square One to ensure that I’ve learned a life lesson.

But I wasn’t terribly upset with the break up. It was something that I had been wishing for on and off for the previous year. The main reason why it didn’t end before was because I never could instigate a break up as it would be too much of a hassle to split our items and live separate lives in an area that was fit for only one life. I was fine with the split because I could feel free to roam any opportunities that had appeared.

This lost feeling only became apparent about a month ago. I think I know what possibly caused this feeling to disappear. Suddenly, about a month ago, I became aware that I have no possible relationship outlets. Before, I didn’t care if not a single other man found me attractive, granted, it was always nice to get a smile or wink while I was out (barring the drunks I’ve encountered in the liquor aisle at the grocery store). I was finally out of a relationship with the hopes of being a free person that never had to think about anybody else, when it hit me: I’m a strange breed only loved by a very small minority of people who are rarely out in public or alive.

I lost my only relationship potential for an unknown reason. Maybe I’m just the booty call girl, maybe I played it too coy—this debate could continue in my head all day without resolution. Since then, everything seems to be empty and boring. No more flirtations and no more imaginary scenarios that I would concoct to perfection in hopes that it would happen one day. Since this very blunt termination, almost all encounters with this person give me this strange sensation in my chest. I know what I think and feel is unhealthy and unwise, but I can’t stop. It gets to the point where I want to reach into whatever part of my body is creating this sensation (brain, heart, loins, etc.) and viciously rip it out. It is a cancer that lingers and stews until one day, I realize that I have allowed this sensation to resonate and affect my daily activities. I think the only reason why I have allowed it to settle deep in my skin is because my current lost emotion theory involves my lost relationship potential. I felt my nameless feeling before the explicit halt and the feeling left sometime after; if I worm my way back into that corner of the man that wanted to be with me, maybe that feeling will return and all will be well.

Could it be possible that this feeling I now feel is heartbreak? Can one be heartbroken without truly ever feeling “love”? I don’t think it’s fair for me to say that I’ve been heartbroken by one or even two men, but instead, I’ve been heartbroken by the world. The world has let me down. No more can my active imagination wander freely and lust after whomever. Wherever my mind goes, my heart will follow. The world has put up yellow tape around my universe, either to keep me in or keep others out Is it fair that I can wander around aimlessly without notice?

So this is why it seems as if this cancerous love/hate that brews in my veins has replaced this positive feeling. It’s hard for me to understand why I don’t have any control over my feelings. It’s hard for me to understand how I could lose track of a nameless emotion that apparently affects me so viciously. I just want to be back to where I was before. In the meantime, I don’t know what to do. I think it’s a matter of working through the pain and finding something that might distract from the feeling or recreate the lost feeling.

Chutes and Ladders

Once in the early days of the internet I made the mistake of using Yahoo Maps to find the Grog Shop in Cleveland, Ohio. Andy and I were driving to Cleveland from Pittsburgh on a Tuesday to see Cinerama, an obscure british band that I loved. It was a cool night in early spring and we watched the sun set on the road as we listened to Doolittle in the car. Andy was soft spoken and had long curly hair. We didn't talk a lot. He smoked a cigarette or two as he drove his old Civic north-west on 76. He was polite and always cracked the window.

The sun set, but we had a few hours yet until the show. As we neared the city, it became clear that our directions were gibberish. We were directed to route numbers instead of street names, and the numbers were not printed on any of the big green signs that we saw. I had been to the Grog Shop once before, but I hadn't driven and I didn't remember the way. We gave up after a while and pulled off past downtown, near the lake.

We pulled into a busy neighborhood street. There were a lot of people walking around. The cars were old and the radios were loud. We didn't recognize any street signs so we parked at the nearest gas station and got out to ask directions. The station was lit from within by bright, cold fluorescent lights. It wasn't part of a chain - not a Shell or an Exxon. I don't remember what it was called. Outside the convenience store, there was a stooped, older man by a pay phone wearing a dirty white hooded sweatshirt and holding a white plastic bag. He was talking to himself about something. We walked inside.

Inside the station there was a man in a black jacket facing the clerk. I couldn't really see the clerk, but I could see that he was behind a wall of bullet-proof glass. The man bellowed, as if the clerk hadn't heard him the first time, "EXCUSE ME, DO YOU HAVE ANY EX-LAX?" That caught my ear. Then I noticed the flies swarming across the ceiling, covering the lights. There were thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands. Somebody behind us said "mayflies." I shot Andy a look. We quickly walked out the door and got in the car and started to drive.

At the next intersection, there was a Target across from an abandoned store with a lot that was empty save for a cop car. Andy pulled in next to the cop with the cruiser on my side. I rolled down the window and asked for directions. Thankfully, the cop knew where we needed to go. He got out of his car and started to explain as the radio in the cruiser began to crackle. Just as he finished giving us instructions, his partner said something and he said "sorry guys, we gotta go. Somebody set something on fire in the Target." The cop got in the passenger side of the cruiser, and they lit up their lights and siren. Then they peeled out through the intersection, crossed the street and pulled into the Target that had been less than 100 yards away.

The directions we got were good. We ended up at the show without further complication and enjoyed our evening. But I couldn't help but feel that somehow, I had been playing Chutes and Ladders. I had rolled a one, hit a chute and ended up somewhere else, in a different world maybe. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in that world, with the mayflies and loud radios and the fires at the Target. I'm sure if you lived there, it would all seem normal and fine - comfortable.

When I was a younger I would ride trains from time to time. Sometimes the trains would be elevated above street level. My favorite thing to do was to look down and out at the passing houses - wooden and brick, orange and green and blue or brown, all weathered and worn - and imagine time stopping. With time stopped, I would have explored each and every house, every apartment, every store. I imagined the people being gone, or being frozen in place. I would have looked out every window and in every drawer and read every slip of paper on every kitchen table. How many worlds were there, out there? How could there be so many lives, so many stories taking place at once, and how is it that we can possibly know so little of them all?

I drove home yesterday in a light rain. It was one of the first cold nights of fall after daylight savings time had ended. I wondered where all of the pairs of red tail lights were going. How many drivers were stressed, in a hurry to get home? How many had had bad days, how many good? Which songs were playing, and how many people were listening to Nada Surf, like me?

Later that night, my wife and I shared a bottle of red wine at dinner. By the time we left, I was sleepy. As we walked out to the street, the cars seemed to be moving too fast. I was momentarily taken aback by their speed. My pace had changed, and I couldn't keep up. I walked to the driver's side door and felt the rush of cool, moist air as the cars passed me by. I imagined standing at the mouth of an exit ramp on the highway, looking at the cars coming on at 50, 60, 80 miles an hour. Some whizzed past me, rocketing down the freeway. Others swerved to exit. I imagined how terrifying it would be, standing there at that fork. I would know that the cars would not hit me, that they would either turn off the road or pass, but as they came on at such tremendous speed, how could I not be afraid? It would only take one mistake, one slip, for a car to not turn quite enough and plow right into me.

Later in the evening, we went bowling at Pin-up bowl, a fancy bowling alley in a fancy outlet mall on the west side of town. The alley was empty save for one other couple seven or eight lanes down. The vacancy wasn't surprising on a cold, wet Monday night. Games were only $2, on special. The normal, non-fancy alley on Mission drive would have been packed tonight, and more expensive. It was league night, there. As I bowled, I thought again of how I was out of time and out of step simply because I was out on a Monday, rather than a Friday or Saturday. How much easier it all was, and how solitary. The TVs were playing cartoons from my childhood: Voltron and Batman. The animation was terrible. How could it have looked so good, so exciting to me, once?

On the lawn of the Nelson-Atkins, there is a large statue that sort of resembles a donut. You can walk through it. When I've been there with friends, walking at night, I always call it the dimensional portal. I stress, with urgency, the importance of all of us passing through it, or of none passing through it. We can't take different paths, or we'll be out of phase with each-other. We'll be in different dimensions, never to be reunited again. And if we all pass through the portal on our way to wherever we're going, we must also pass through it on the way back, lest we forever be lost from our original world. I don't really believe it all, but I do. One night, somebody didn't play along, and it made me uncomfortable. I do not think it's a coincidence that I can't remember who it was.

When I was a kid, the cartoon Dungeons and Dragons haunted and captivated me. In the show, a group of teenagers get sucked through a dimensional portal when they ride a roller coaster. They end up in a land of swords, wizards and dragons - exciting! - but they spend every episode trying to get home. Once, some of them managed to make it, but one of them didn't, or maybe he had the head of a boar or something and needed a wizard to cure him. In any case, they never made it back all at once, and they would never abandon each-other, which allowed the series to continue indefinitely. I always wondered what had happened to their parents, to their brothers and sisters, to their friends. Were they missed back in the real world? Had time stopped? What was happening, while they were stuck in this parallel world?

Andy recently found me on Facebook. Maybe that's what reminded me of the trip to Cleveland and the mayflies, though I had never forgotten them. I don't know yet where he's been, and what he's been doing. He lives in NYC now and is going to grad school at Columbia - a different world, twice removed from my midwestern life and corporate day job, and he's single - three times removed from my marriage and child. I suppose it's possible that we didn't both make it out of that neighborhood. Maybe when we both walked out of the car and went into that convenience store, one of us left the wrong way. Maybe we got out of phase. Maybe I compounded things some night when I went through the dimensional portal on the lawn of the Nelson one too many times.

But the trick is, I don't think the portals and the chutes are as obvious as a brightly lit gas station or a fire at the Target. I think sometimes they sneak up on you. Maybe you went a different way when you didn't make that elevator, when you chose to go out alone, when you decided to talk to that person out of the blue who caught your eye. Maybe the most we can hope for with anyone is a short amount of time when we're in synch, an episode or two when we're in the same plane, on the same page.

Election Day Advice!

Dear Greta,

I'm a first time voter and I'm bewildered by all of the political propaganda! McCain reminds me of oatmeal and I think Obama is hot and all, but is it really OK to vote for a socialist terrorist arab muslim crack-dealing half-breed? Personally, I'd like him to have more experience in professional sports, or acting! Greta, come Tuesday when you're in that cutey little changing booth, who are you going to vote for?

Readers,

Okay, whoa, hold those sweet little unicorns back here for just one second. Elections season is here already? Jesus, I was wondered why everyone was so concerned with Muslims again. So, hold up, let’s get our ducks straight. We have a choice between three candidates: Dean McCain, Brak Obama, and Olympia Dukakis. Personally, I don’t trust Dean McCain; after all, he did play Scott Peterson in that TV movie (but who could forget his memorable stint as TV’s Superman?). And it’s nice to see that Olympia Dukakis hasn’t given up her dream of becoming president but, really, who wants an old whore like that to be president? Not this old whore! So, I guess that leaves me with Mr. Brak Obama. I trust cartoon characters with my life (plus, his little friend Zorak makes me a little humid in the nether regions).

My name is Greta Derwinklestein and I support Brak Obama!