I brought home a trunkful of “the book” tonight. Literally.

Got the first use of my new piece of luggage today when I lugged home nearly half of the book order to my house. My #1 salesperson, ie, my mother, gently persuaded most of northern Massachusetts to buy a copy. And by “gently persuaded” I mean “put the fear of God in them to buy one lest lighting bolts shoot from her eyes and smote them thusly”. Most companies would do well to hire my mother to their sales force---if you give her a product she can back, she’ll take the ball, and run with it, usually through a brick wall in the process, leaving one of those Wile E. Coyote body-silhouettes in the process.

Seeing the book in print has been fairly cool, to say the least. I’m getting a bit more attention than usual from the company that shares our office space. My particular area in the office is made up of a cubicle farm consisting of the intersection of my company with a PR firm. Their part of the firm is filled with bright, energetic women who, in lieu of finding out my name, for two months called me “Singing Boy”. I guess there are worse names to be given, such as “Bald Boy”, “Glue-Sniffing Boy”, or “Boy Who Spoons With the Xerox Machine When He Thinks No One Is Looking”. So all in all, not so bad, but I’m glad they know my name.

But none of this is why you came today, right? You want some non-sequitur goodness, I can tell. Without any more delay:

***

So what exactly is it about Angelina Jolie that makes nominally straight women swoon? I mean, I dig her and all, but I’d never picture her as the Rosetta stone of occasional lesbian lust. And the best part is, guys don’t even have to prompt girls to suddenly say things like, "God, I'd let her have her way with me." Girls just say this stuff. It’s times like these in which I believe in a higher power.

My friend Sarah pointed me to an article that describes a European ad campaign for Pepsi. It’s a gladiator-themed commercial, starring, among others, Enrique Iglesias as a despotic ruler. I’m hoping there’s a scene where he burns a pile of his CDs and starts to scream, “Am I not merciful???” That might make me make the switch.

“The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King” garnered 11 Oscar nominations, but none for acting. Peter Jackson, the director of the trilogy, claimed this was not in the spirit of Tolkein and promptly unleashed Shelob upon the voting members of the Academy.

So I’m watching the extras on “The Two Towers” the other night, and they have a feature on two guys who, for 18 months, did nothing but fashion chain-mail armor by hand. 18 months. They no longer have fingerprints, swear to God. In a related story, I barely got out of bed this morning.

I’m not sure I’ll ever watch a Viggo Mortensen movie again without, at one point, shouting “Why the f#ck didn’t you pick Eowyn, you Elven-whipped bastard?” at the screen. Just, you know, sayin’.

In its ad for “Hollywood Love Story” featuring Courtney Cox-Arquette and David Arquette, E! asks us to, “See Courtney & David become one”. Um, that’s a big ol’ can of “hell no” on my part. Thanks for warning me, though.

So, John Kerry and Cameron Crowe were separated at birth, right? Anyone else gonna back me up on this?

Now that Bennifer’s over, will Ben Affleck return from his current, orange hue to a more normal, pasty, Boston-esque skin tone? He was like a more citrus-laced George Hamilton for a while there. Just creepy.

No phrase makes me chuckle more than “market penetration”. Yes, it’s very second-grade of me. You’re gonna have to deal.

Incidentally, if you find yourself watching DVD extras about dudes without fingerprints making armor, you need to go to the nearest store immediately and buy a life.

I’m waiting for the ball to drop and have it revealed that Jai on “Queer Eye” is really 12. I wouldn’t blink an eye at this point.

The next logical step in the reality craze will be filming a reality show about topic X, but in reality, having secret cameras on the camera-men, who think they are filming a reality show, but in reality, they are the stars of the reality show. And for some reason, Veronica from “Road Rules” will be there, since we all know she’s got absolutely nothing better to do.

Most unlikely sequels: “Thelma and Louise 2”, “Gigli: The Reckoning”, and “Ishtar Returns”.

I’ve been recently linked in a Craiglist forum, which means that I and cross-dressing transvestites with a foot fetish have yet ANOTHER thing in common. (The “Casual Encounters” section both attracts and repulses me with equal aplomb. It’s the matter and anti-matter of my Web-viewing experience. These have to be mostly jokes, right? Please? I need to sleep at night, people. Just humor me.)

In anticipation of my book release, I’m trying to decide if I’d rather be called the “American Nick Hornby” or the “heterosexual David Sedaris” in my blurbs. I’m vacillating on this one.

I was gonna ramble about what possesses a parent to look at their new-born baby and decide, at that moment, to name him “Topher”, and then my co-worker last night pointed out that the name is short for “Christopher”, and then I felt dumb, so I decided to not put it in this week’s article.

Other names I can’t imagined being screamed out in bed without some element of “wow, that sounded odd” being though immediately after: “Petunia”, “Horace”, “Smokey”, and “Carrot Top”.

People always use the phrase, “to say the least”. Has anyone ever “said the most”? Can they "say the most" “with further adieu” while they are at it?

From my roommate: “How long before Michelob Ultra starts getting packaged in sports bottles?”

Has anyone ever used Photoshop for anything other than sick, evil purposes? Never has so much technology been used for so mundane a series of endeavors. I’m not asking it to cure cancer or anything, but surely there’s a better use than, say, this:

If someone can help me kill the world’s most indestructible pizza delivery boy in “Grand Theft Auto: Vice City”, I’d be much obliged. I may even cook you dinner. Running him over with my car does no good. Toppling a building upon his head merely tickles him. I think at one point I set off a nuclear explosion, rendering all other life within a 20-mile radius dead in a second, and he still brushed himself off and delivered two mushroom and pepperonis a minute later. I hate him.

Best quote of the week: “You know, I love ‘Jane’, but if she gave me a bad bird name, I’m gonna be f#cking pissed.” Runner-up, from the same girl: “I just like being glossy.” And yes, you had to be there, but it’s making me chuckle, and really, that’s all that matters. Update: Kira wants everyone to know she's a porn freak.

Songs crooned by yours truly at karaoke: “Patience” by Guns n’ Roses, “Mr. Jones” by the Counting Crows, and “Summer Loving” with Zowie, the only person besides me who even did karaoke before eleven. All these songs only after a half dozen pints and a shot called “Yo’ Mama’s Ass”. Alcohol is fun.

From the Commander, on the phone tonight: “I’m with our old housemate tonight here in NYC. She needed to buy a new suit for work, since she figured that fact that she only had three of them would reveal itself soon enough, no matter how many different shirts she wore underneath. She goes to the Banana Republic and lays out a bunch of gift cards and tells the sales person, ‘OK, this should pay for most of it, and I’ll put the rest of it on my credit card.’ The sales person looks at her and says, ‘This will pay for none of it. These gift certificates are from The Gap.’” (That’s just awesome.)

Speaking of awesome: has there ever been a better set of reviews on Amazon than this? I think not. (Thanks to Susan for that one.)

When Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller wrote about World War II, neither of them wrote in a linear fashion. Nor did they write in a singular genre of fiction. Rather, they split up time, space, reality, and written genre to form, respectively, “Slaughterhouse-Five” and “Catch-22”. Both attempted to make sense of an inherently senseless topic, and as such, felt compelled to in the end reflect the subject matter in their writing structure.

To compare love and war is a tired cliché to be sure, but occasionally, the fallout from both can feel the same, depending on your proximity to the event. In terms of senselessness, though, the two share a commonality. Both share the space equally with death, as well. Elements of loss, grief, those who have left, and those left to pick up the pieces and carry on. In love, though, sometimes both parties are left to occupy that odd space that at its most acute feels like the tightrope between life and death, between hope and fatalism, between the life you had and the life you now barely know.

That new life is always ever happening, but hardly in a way that make sense. Often seems to be moving at a speed different from your ability to perceive your surroundings. Like you’re at 45 RPM but everyone else is at 78 RPM. The melodies sound somewhat familiar but equally new. Nothing’s in tune. But the band is still playing. The music doesn’t stop. You just can’t hum along anymore.

And what you want to do is slow the world down, or speed yourself up. But to do so, you have to figure out that gap, that distance, that difference in speed. You need to bridge that 33 revolutions per minute while your heart’s going 333 beats per minute and a minute feels like an hour feels like a day feels like a lifetime since the one you knew just a few days before. And neither sense nor sensibility seem quite, well, sensible, and you sit and try to construct the narrative to perhaps bridge the gap, quiet the internal revolution of your heart/spirit/animus so the external revolutions approximate something like the ones revolving around your self.

But you can’t, because none of it makes any goddamn sense.

And you know a bit more what Vonnegut and Heller were getting at. War’s hell, they and others said. And Ryan Adams is on my headphones right now, telling me that love is hell. Funny. Whatever happened to “make love, not war”? Didn’t that used to be a plea for opposite things? And yet, now, the two are conflated together in a space in which commonality is defined by death.

After all, you’re the living dead in the wake of love gone wrong, love rejected, love unaccepted. You’re neither living nor dead in the wake, just an entity that walks, talks, even on occasion acts like you. But it’s not you. Not all of you. Some part's been left behind that you gave to her. A part you can now never get back. You took the risk, you made the gamble, and the house won. Big time.

You know this. Your co-workers can sense it. Your parents intuitively sense the change, even from a distance. Your friends seek to exorcise the dead space through food, drink, and laughs, and while these things all provide temporary balms, they cannot solve the newly-minted, schizophrenic, double-occupancy you.

Not for them to fix, in the end. All for us. All on us. The “us” which is a new being we hardly know ourselves, so how are we to fix it when there’s no instructional manual? It’s all a bit like peeking under the hood of your car on the side of the highway for the first time. I mean, what are you supposed to do? You can even occasionally identify the problem, even without the proper vocabulary to define it, but then what? Fixing the broken fan belt is beyond your skill; how then to fix a broken heart?

***

So last night I had this dream.

I’m walking into this rather large structure, which is a combination of the underbelly of Fenway Park and a Broadway theater. We’re talking less than twenty feet between the dugout and the green room. And two things are happening simultaneously. Firstly, I’m trying desperately to figure out when my turn to bat is. But I can’t for the life of me find out when it’s my turn to come to the plate. Secondly, I’m looking for anyone who knows when it’s my turn to go onstage. I don’t know the play, the part, or anything. But I do know I have an entrance soon.

After a bit of searching, I finally see a wall with the lineups for the day’s game. Relieved, I go to the wall, which is covered with complex line-up sheets. Names written in, scratched out, replace. But my name is nowhere to be seen.

And the lineups are all from the day before.

Despondent, I walk towards the green room, and I am greeted by one of the leads, who looks a bit like Meryl Streep. I ask her if it’s my time to go onstage. She laughs and says, “My dear man, that was 20 minutes ago. Your understudy took on the role, and I must say, we’re all very relieved. We’ve been looking for a reason to get rid of you for quite some time”.

And the door to the green room closes.

***

You can identify the locus of the problem without being able to fix it. Nothing new. Not really sure if that’s better or worse than being utterly incapable of discovering the source of this new self which is straddling being and non-being, optimism and utter pessimism, trying again and giving up entirely. Me, myself, and I…the three of us wish for a little ignorance every once in a while. A little less self-awareness. A year of intense introspection, augmenting a lifetime spent inwardly gazing already, have rendered me unable to stop from shining the interrogation light on my heart, even when the glare is so bright is threatens to burn my emotional retinas.

So you shine the light and ask all the questions, but you, the simultaneous prosecution and defense, the concurrent officer and the witness, don’t get anywhere. Because, after all, these questions are based in logic. In reason. In the fact that, even if there isn’t one “right” answer, there are several passable ones. Ones that make sense.

But nothing does make sense, and no tongue can give answer, and no fingers can type the proper responses. So you sit tongue-tied, in front of a blank computer screen, with the icon blinking incessantly, a constant reminder of your own ineloquence. Of your own impotence. Of the utter senselessness.

***

I had that nightmare after what I felt was a decent day. Work, a workout, a few pints at the Irish pub across the street, and a long chat with a good friend. Fell asleep quicker and faster than I had in months.

Then my subconscious took great pains to point out that this is not going to be remotely easy.

Hard to be mad at my subconscious, though. I mean, as far as metaphorical dreams go, it gave me plenty to extrapolate. Not one of those “just plain weird, involves monkey and a vacuum cleaner” type of dreams. And it’s a good reminder that this isn’t, unfortunately, supposed to be easy.

If the getting out’s easy, than it means that what came before was meaningless. And this wasn’t. Currently senseless, yes. But ever meaningful.

***

You could of course try and extrapolate what she’s thinking now. What she’s doing. If she really meant those things she said. If those were her thoughts or simply her voice regurgitating the laundry list of excuses and reasons and accusations that just didn’t sound like her at all. But maybe that was the real her, and everything before, THAT was the falseness. But you don’t wanna believe that, you really really don’t, and then you shut down and close your eyes and you don’t need to see that blinking cursor anymore.

But you see her eyes, and her face, and the smile that was always there when you talked on the phone. Funny how you can “hear” a smile on the phone. But you can. One of the many reasons ESP isn’t so far-fetched. That’s a fairly extrasensory perception if you ask me. Equally extraordinary is how you’d know the ways to engender that smile, and how she knew how to replicate the same effect upon your own lips. The lips now trembling, fighting back the thought that she’s not feeling as bad as you are at that moment, then quickly wishing nothing more than for her to be less miserable than you are.

***

“I guess I should go then.”

“I was afraid you’d say that."

***

And nothing provides sense to this level of senselessness. Time offers distance, perhaps, but never answers. Best case scenario is that you accept the fact that there are no answers. Time and distance, which are often one and the same. Distance from the events and the discussions and the fallouts and the “why”s and the “why not”s and all those good things.

So distance depends on, and is made up of, time, and not in a Pink Floyd “moments that make up a dull day” way or a Boy George “coulda been so much more” way, though both I guess are in their own ways relevant. You can’t sprint this distance, thereby easing the length of your pain. There’s no way to shorten this distance, but there are a myriad of ways to lengthen it. We dwell, we ponder, we make up fantastical scenarios, we indulge our darkest nightmares, we wonder if they are somewhere not thinking about us, we find someone at a bar who looks like them make love to/take revenge upon them. We do all these things because, while more destructive, they are easier than the slow, glacier-like at times process of moving on.

After all, we don’t always want to move on. To move on is to accept a finality that most of us simply aren’t willing to face. It’s as if we, not them, have the power to truly end it. If you hold out hope, maybe they’ll come back, you think. And sometimes, you’re right. But usually, you’re wrong.

***

She once told me I made her feel like the happiest character in the happiest story ever told.

That’s probably the coolest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

Just felt like sharing. I do that occasionally.

***

But you wait anyways. Heart beats head in this particular game of “Rock, Paper, Scissors”, and yes, you have told others to move on after being heartbroken but you, you know better, and this time, well, this time it’ll be different, you don’t know her, so why don’t you just back off and let me handle it my way, huh? And you wait and push away those whoa re only trying to help you, and then you feel worse, because you don’t know why you snapped in the first place, an had a voice in your head screaming “shut up!” to the voice coming from your mouth.

But you can’t take it back, anymore than she can take back that Sunday morning phone call. Frozen in time. Frozen emotions. Life and love put on hold. Perhaps…well, most likely forever. Hard to deal with. But not impossible. Which is a sad notion. Almost can feel as if this process invalidates the original emotion, pointing out its inadequacies.

But that emotion, that purity of intent…it never really goes away. Lies dormant, perhaps. A historical footnote to a time and place long forgotten or discarded, but immortal in its own way. While you deal for a while in that zombie-land, it remains stubbornly and vivaciously present. Almost as if it’s your foil. You with your muddled, haphazard, confused, directionless motion, and its pure, focused, clear, stationary existence. Looking back upon it is a bit like watching the sun set. At first, you put the blinders down, lest you stare directly at the fiery blaze. Inevitably, though, you can stare at it, as it sets further into the horizon, losing intensity, gaining a multitude of purples and deep ambers, invoking a less-intense, yet still radiant beauty, and finally disappearing, leaving you with the deep hues of night.

A really great sunset will stay with you for a while. Not only for its aesthetic pleasantries, which are all well, and good, but for that singular event of beauty. No two are alike, after all, even after you account for the rotation of the earth and the distance to the sun and all that scientific mumbo jumbo that threatens to remove any sense of poetry from the experience. But watching the sky be lit on fire, for a scant few minutes, from a particular vantage point…well, there’s something to be said for that.

So the sun’s set on one particular episode. The happy story is over, least this particular one. Always possible that this book may come off the shelf again, but I’m not particularly counting on it. I find myself in the odd position of being available yet taken. Taken by the things she’s say, the hopes she’d express, the now-failed promises. Taken by the way she bypassed every defense without even trying. Taken by the way her absence has created a void in the aftermath that is my current life. Taken by how much she gave and I returned. Taken by the fact that she left me alone and nothing I could say could keep her with me.

It’d be easier if I hated her, but I don’t.

I just miss her.

And I miss me with her. I liked that “me” a lot more than I like myself. He was a pretty cool guy.

She was afraid I loved her.

But I was never afraid to love her.

That’s the important thing, I guess. I don’t quite know.

I guess I just need a little bit of distance.

"Riley: Hey, I'm well aware of how lucky I am. Like lottery lucky. Buffy's like nobody else in the world. When I'm with her, it's like I'm split in two. Half of me is just on fire goin' crazy if I'm not touching her, the other half is so still and peaceful, just perfectly content, just knows: this is the one. But she doesn't love me."
---"The Replacement"

Be back soon enough. You won't even miss me, promise.

A few days ago I managed to make myself sick. Well, feverish at least. Comes with the territory when your life consists of work, editing a book, and sipping Cristal with Nick Cannon and Jenna Jameson. It’s a tough life, but someone’s gotta do it.

Anyhoo, I missed work on Wednesday, and had a bizarre fever dream where Puck from “The Real World” wanted to send me to The Gauntlet. Only, I couldn’t remember having been on the show before. Most people dream about having an exam in a class they don’t remember taking. Me? I dream about being eliminated from reality shows I can’t remember ever being on.

Just a little bit of insight into my head.

It’s Friday, folks. You know the drill by now. Let’s kick it like Beckham. Um, bend it like Beckham. Oh hell, shake it like a Polaroid picture, I could care less.

***

OK, we have low-fat cheese, diet soda, and now low-carb beer. Can’t we make the next logical step and have diet alcohol? There must be someone working on this, right? Is it too much to expect an Atkins-friendly martini somewhere in the near future?

I’m still impressed Fox didn’t find a way to combine the premiere of “American Idol” with the Iowa caucuses. “Yo, Edwards! You my DAWG, man!”

Speaking of which, I don’t think any of the candidates could have done a better version of “She Bangs” than that one Asian dude. That guy might rank up with the “Cave Dwellers” episode of MST3K in the pantheon of “Stuff That Never Stops Making Me Giggle When I Think About It”.

Can we have Rebecca Lobo host a nature program, if for no other reason than we can have the title of an episode be "Lobo and a Bonobo"? Please? Am I asking too much?

You know it’s a bad night at the bar when the Coors Light “Wingman” song becomes appropriate to your situation.

When you tell a bunch of co-workers that you went to “City Bar” the night before, pick that time to overenunciate to avoid any possible misunderstandings. And no, I’m not talking from immediate experience, why do you ask?

ESPN.com this week unveiled ESPN3, a site dedicated to sports and entertainment. On the television side, it will also debut ESPN3, which will have, as featured programming, “Guys Playing Catch in Their Backyard”, “Curling Weekly”, and “The WNBA”.

My brother managed to score a gig working as a production assistant for ESPN during the Pats/Colts game this past Sunday, during which he worked from the sidelines. In a related story, I hate my brother.

I’m still not past that Asian guy from “American Idol”…he was a plant, right? Please tell me he was a plant. There are very few things I need to believe in. This is one of those things.

The ARod/Manny talks are more on again, off again than Shannon Elizabeth’s clothes in “American Pie”. This is getting ridiculous. If these negotiations were a girl, she’d be kicked out of the frat for being too huge a tease.

“Once Upon A Time in Mexico” debuted on DVD this week. If there isn’t a 10-minute extra dedicated to the “Eva Mendes stands in the elevator and looks hotter than the sun” scene, than I might set fire to my apartment.

Speaking of me and fires...if you type in my name over at Amazon.com and hit search, the first entry is “Backdraft”. Um. Huh. See, I’ve always that if I were a Ron Howard movie, I’d be “The Paper”. Cuz, um, I like paper. It’s all pulpy, like me. And orange juice. And I’m even confusing myself at this point. Man, this whole paragraph had such potential. And yet, I can’t jump ship yet. It’s a comic train wreck on a scale of the crash 15 minutes into “The Fugitive” that seemed so cool at the time, yet when you watch it now looks as cheesy as something in a Lifetime movie, effects-wise. And yea, I’m really done now.

This past weekend, some friends and I watched two Peter Gabriel concert DVDs back to back…one from 1993, the other from 2003. It was a bit like watching someone’s wedding video and then their fiftieth anniversary party. Wow. Talk about sudden aging. Which still didn’t stop one of them from muttering, “God, I’d so do him” roughly every 9.4 seconds.

Can we put Peter Gabriel and Billy Joel on the same bill and call it the “We Age In Dog Years” Tour? Please?

I found myself oddly excited to learn that MTV has new episodes of “Dismissed” on the horizon. Somebody kill me now.

I’m pretty late to the whole “Grand Theft Auto” party, but “Vice City” is amazing. There’s something oddly satisfying about getting paid to intimidate two jurors. Even better is when you can drive to the juror’s hotel with REO Speedwagon blasting in the car you just stole, get to the parking lot, smash his car up, and be back on the road in time for the chorus to “Keep On Loving You”. Sweet dreams are made of this.

USA Today this week featured an article that suggests the demise of the “metrosexual” trend. I didn’t so much “avoid” the whole trend so much as “be too damn broke to participate in it”. Seriously. If I have to choose between a week’s worth of groceries versus 8 ounces of moisturizer, I say bring on the Ronzoni.

I don’t know how the guys on “The Bachelorette” do it. Does the phrase “c@ck-blocked” mean nothing to these men? Hell, I won’t even hit on a girl if I think one other guy is interested, never mind wade through 24 phalli to get a rose. I call this my “deli-line” theory. If I have to take a ticket, I’ll just skip out, thank you very much.

I saw a commercial the other day for the next Real World/Road Rules Challenge. This one’s dubbed “The Inferno”. Rejected titles including “The Zippo”, “The Tri-Wick”, and “Raging Hemorrhoids”.

Hey, President Bush, if you’re touting job recovery, can we get Trishelle and Coral some work? Please? Flipping burgers even? And this is Veronica’s fifth time on a RW/RR Challenge! We have term limits for presidents but not this? How is this possible? Democracy is failing!

Speaking of the law, can we make it illegal to type like you’re Prince after the age of 18? I don’t want 2 be rude, but U really have to stop the insanity sometime. If you CTC about this, that’s 4 U to decide, not me. Just respect me, is all I’m sayin’.

I’ve got “August” in the office pool for our “When will VH1 come out with “I Love the 90’s’?” contest. While they are at it, in February, VH1 will come out with “I Love January 2004”.

Speaking of “I Love the 80’s”, can’t we have a third version of the show that features Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” during the 1983 episode? How could she possibly be passed over not once, but twice? I know babies that have said, “Turn around, bright eyes” as their first words. Everyone knows this song, damnit. C’mon, I’m sure Hal Sparks and Juliette Lewis can say something about her. Talking about “Gloria” and not “Eclipse” is a bit like the History Channel devoting time to the Teapot Dome Scandal but skipping over World War II. It’s not right!

Other topics not yet covered on “I Love The 80’s” that have been inexplicably left out: The Outfield, “My Two Dads”, and “The Last Starfighter”.

OK, since you’re all dying to know: I pick Lesnar over Holly, Eddie over Chavo, Mysterio over Noble, Flair/Batista over the Dudleys, Hunter over Michaels, and a Goldberg/Benoit tie in the Rumble with appearances by Foley and the “Deadman” Undertaker. And by “all” I mean “Rob and Casey”.

I just watched the new video for Britney Spears’ “Toxic”, and Lord, the Lilith Fair seems like a long time ago, eh? Come back, Tracy Chapman. Return, Natalie Merchant. All’s forgiven. I was wrong to want more flesh and less talent. I kneel before thee a penitent man. Come on, how about a chorus of “Fast Car”? “Trouble Me”? Pretty please?

Speaking of “Toxic”: between that video and the one for Baby Bash’s “Suga Suga”, MTV is priming an entire generation to never have to buy porn. A $1 billion industry is about to crumble. It’s time for MTV to help the economy and start showing more Blues Traveler videos, and quickly.

Speaking of porn, current movie title that wouldn’t have to be changed when remade as a porn: “Cheaper By the Dozen”. Ditto on “Calendar Girls”, “The Magdalene Sisters”, and “The Spongebob Squarepants Movie”.

If The Cure sang “The Sickness”, what would happen? What a black hole suddenly emerge? I think about this way too much.

On Thursday, NASA revealed that it had lost contact with the Mars Spirit Rover. Late Thursday evening, Miss Cleo offered to make contact with the lost spirit for only $2.99 per minute.

After his surprise win in Iowa, John Kerry has leapt to the front of the Democratic pack in New Hampshire, according to recent polls. In a related story, people are freakin’ lemmings that can’t think for themselves and will just go with the flow rather than think through the issues themselves.

Remember when you were in school, and you had that assembly, and some crazed, completely frazzled nutball would talk to all of you as a spokesman from the company running that year’s candy sale? And he’d scare you, but you had to pretend you were excited? I had forgotten all about this until watching the crowd at Dean’s speech after the Iowa caucus.

I’m thinking about adding Tom Brady to my Top 5 “Guys My Girlfriend Could Sleep With and I Wouldn’t Get Mad…In Fact, I’d Probably Encourage It, So I Could Brag About It To My Folk…Although That May Cause Problems I Guess” List. Brother’s just cool. Cooler than cool. Ice cold.

Someday I’ll be able to explain why we’ve had “X2: X-Men United” in the house for nearly two months, and yet I haven’t had time to watch it. That’s a crime right there. I should be handcuffed. And not in the fun way.

If Andy Roddick and Mandy Moore have a baby, that like, totally reduces my chance to eventually make out with her, right? Just checking.

In closing: I think everyone should check email like this. I know I do. It’ll make life on this planet a little better. Awwwwwwwwwww EMAIL! See? Instant life improvement.

I’ve thought about this entry, #500 since starting this site, for quite some time. Felt it had importance. Felt it should be significant. Felt it should carry weight and import.

And then, the other day, decided that was all a bunch of bollocks.

After all, Julie’s right. I do indeed think too much. Not that thinking in and of itself is a bad thing, and she’s far from the person to point out my overactive noggin’, but for whatever reason, her bluntness got through in a way different from the other 739 times. Far be it for me to say why, but nonetheless, there you have. (Scores of ex-girlfriends, if they actually read this site, would now utter a “Damn, NOW he goes and listens. I need to get Julie on speed-dial. She is both powerful and wise.”)

It’s all a bunch of nonsense, in the end. Things acquire import in and much as we assign them such worth. What I have done, and admittedly still do, is place the utmost significance upon the most miniscule of things. Over the past few months, I’ve caught myself doing it, which is in and of itself an improvement. Doesn’t mean I’ve been able to thusly calm myself down and let cool rationality take over, but at least I’ve had a sense of my own stupidity.

I mean, it’s not like I enjoy working myself up into a lather (rinse, repeat) over these small things. I don’t enjoy not enjoying those moments/hours/days that I should due to unwarranted angst. But I have these fears, I have these doubts, and I just work on working on them. About the best I can do for now.

Ditto with this Entry #500. I mean, I’d worried about the monumental importance of this article, and how it could mark an epochal shift in my literary and internet-ary existence. What should I say? What knowledge should I impart? What carefully selected quote should I deploy?

And then I realized that no one but myself would even give a second thought to the number 500.

We all do it, after all. We place an insanely concentrated amount of effort on something that, to anyone else, is unfortunately benign at best, non-existent at worst. I clearly remember the opening night of my first “big” play. Black-tie affair, 500 people on opening night, the biggest stage on our college scene. I spent three months of my life dedicated to this project. After the curtain finally came down, I expected everyone to fall over themselves getting to me and the rest of the cast and crew.

Instead, they nearly trampled each other getting to the exit.

Within five minutes, maybe 50 people were left in the lobby. Quite the sobering night. Well, until I got drunk, that is. Point is: people left not simply because they didn’t like it (I mean, 3-hour German opera is an acquired taste, I’ll give you that), but many more left simply because the show was over. That’s it. Time to go home. No thought to all the work I had put in, or the director, or the producers, or the actors. Just as we had no thought to their dinner plans, homework assignments, and/or recent breakups.

All about perspective. Cliché, yet true. I’ve never been blessed with the best sense of perspective, but if doing the book has taught me anything, it’s to try and remove the blinders just a bit from the periphery of my sight. Open up those things on the horizon. Listen a bit more. See another point of view if possible. Rely on others. I’m not often going to succeed, but it’s the effort that’s important. And if you don’t agree with me, screw you. (Damn. Slipped up already.)

I can’t stop thinking as much as I do, but I can redirect some of that mental energy into more positive endeavors. Maybe that’s the real reason the book came about when it did, in a time when the synapses needed a better reason to fire. And last night, the final piece of the puzzle came through: the cover. My friend Jen did quite the snazzy, simple little cover for me—the last piece of the book to be completed. (I've put a low-res version of the cover below.)

And so tomorrow, it’s going to the printer. And in a few weeks, many of you will have it in your hands.

This is really all happening.

That’s pretty cool to think about.

I’m going to go into a bit of radio silence here for a few days. Some things need taking care of, and until they are, I really don’t have it in me to write anything.

As I said the other day, writing’s been the best way to purge any and everything on my mind, and for the first time in a over a year, that’s not possible in the case. It’s frustrating for me to stare at a blank screen, cursor flashing, and have nary a thought to put down.

Not because I have no thoughts, but rather because they are either too jumbled to coherently type or too important to be expressed here in their first iteration. As such, until such things are properly dealt with, I’ll be in this current state, which benefits neither myself as a write nor you as a reader.

I’ll leave you with the introduction to the book, as a final big plug. It’s going to the printers on Friday, I hope, and by the middle of next week I’ll be sending them to various parts of the country. It’s exciting, but there’s something missing simultaneously. So much of what’s been recently been a part of my definition of “self” has disappeared, fallen to the wayside, been misplaced, and/or flat out left that the book seems to read almost as historical fiction rather than autobiography.

Gonna try and see if I can pull off a bit of a reclamation project. One step at a time. I’ll be back real soon, I promise. But first things first, after all.

Least, according to the introduction.

First Things First: An Introduction

This is the point in most books where the author gives you some sort of seemingly off the cuff series of remarks about how silly introductions are, and “Who really reads these anyways?”, and a bunch of contrite, clichéd statements that you as a reader simply skip over to see if the book has any pictures of Justin Timberlake in it.

But above all, this is for my family. Through the good and the bad. And through the future.

One thing I’ll say about the book: man, this is work.

The blog itself is almost never work. If what I’m writing feels like work, I simply stop writing, walk away from the computer, and play some DVD extras (or, lately, play a month worth of “WWE Smackdown: Here Comes The Pain”, and no, I’m not bitter that I was a Tag Team Champion for 3 months and yet had no Wrestlemania match in Season Mode, but thanks for asking). Point is, any and all labor here is a labor of love at worst, and a lot of fun at best.

This book, though…it’s been something like three weeks of my life, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but given everything else that’s been going on in my life, has felt like an extremely long 21-day period. And although I had a great team of volunteer editors helping whip the sections into shape, I still kept one section completely and utterly to myself---the “personal” section that I’ve dubbed “Lithium Sunset”, named after a song by Sting.

“Lithium” is roughly 58,000 of the more intense words I’ve written on this site over the past year. They largely trace the end of my relationship with Jenny through the dissolution of my parents’ marriage, with every question, concern, aborted attempt at happiness, and stubborn clinging to hope. And in editing these sections, I had to two things I hate more than just about anything: reread my own work and confront the demons I’d sought to conquer during the initial literary purgations.

While at Friday’s a few weekends ago, I was pouring some woes upon my co-worker Julie, who’s this lovely, no-nonsense coworker of mine that’s become my drinking buddy. And after a ten-minute rant, she finally held up her hand and said, “You know, you think too much.” Which is, of course, entirely true. For her, my over-obsessive ruminations over things both important and unimportant simply doesn’t compute with her more straightforward approach to matters. She cuts through the clutter nicely, whereas I sometimes will stop off at the local store to buy clutter to strew neck-high in my path.

After all, though, this 100,000+ word compendium to the blog only has about one third of the total writing I’d done over the last calendar year, so yes, clearly I not only think but articulate far too much. What’s interesting to me, at least, reading over “Lithium” is that my incessant verbosity towards topics comes from the fact that I often type or speak as I am formulating my thoughts, and as such, succinctness kinda gets left by the wayside.

Same thing when talking with Julie, or anybody else, if the topic either interests or confounds me. I work through it, bit by bit, word by word, but usually without a break between thought and word. So yea, I’ll say in 100 words that which could be said in 30, or even 13, but that’s just the way I do it. I play the guitar on the MTV. See? Pop culture reference popped in the middle. I thought it; I typed it. Just the way it goes.

“Lithium” is full of these types of probes---over a word, a relationship, a movie, a mental state. These things confuse and agitate and excite often all at one. So when something comes along that tickles my fancy, piques my interest, or shakes my moneymaker, I sit down and type it out. Much cheaper than getting on the phone, especially before my night-time minutes kick in. And I’ve learned something in reading this “Lithium” probes:

I’m in a lot of ways no better off than I was 12 months ago.

It’s funny---yes, I’m better, in that asking the questions and seeking the answers can never be a bad thing, unless you ask “What was in that sandwich?” and the answer has the word “muskrat” somewhere in it. Other than that, questioning is by and large a good and noble endeavor. It’s just that the same questions filled the essays, over and over again. Never in quite the same way, but always in a similar vein. Which is great, in that it gives this section a great deal of continuity, but it also, in my opinion, yields a lot of stop-starts. It doesn’t make for the cleanest narrative.

And this, in the end, I’ve decided is quite the excellent thing.

For a while I thought I’d write a post-script for the book. You know, wrap it all up, give some sage last words, offer some spirited invocation of better times to come…but in the end, I decided against this idea. To do so would have been doing a disservice to the honest, if not always successful, proving that marks the rest of this section. Removing those entries in which I take a step back, or reformulate the same question I thought I’d answered two months before, likewise would be pointless and a whitewashing of the messiness of my life.

After all, nothing in the book was originally written as a good ol-fashioned narrative, and the only thing truly making “Lithium” have any narrative is the chronological order of the postings. So I got to reread every insecurity, unanswered question, fit of rage, beam of optimism, and crushing setback of the past year of my life precisely at the worst time I could have done so. Writing the new “Rambling” columns on Fridays is as much of a break for myself, I imagine, as you few dedicated readers who, for reasons I’ll never quite get but deeply appreciate, keep coming back again and again. I mean, reading “Lithium” in a way has stunted my own writing impulses, because it’s so much work.

And we’re back to that word again: work. Work to read, and now work to write. Can I really go on probing these same questions throughout 2004? Would I even want to? Hard to say. Probably not, is my guestimation on that query. Not because I fear you wouldn’t want to read it as much as I wouldn’t want to write it. “New year, new rules.” It’s what I wrote down on New Year’s Eve 2002, and it’s equally applicable here and now. I’ve gone as far as I can with the way I currently express myself, and it’s time for a change.

The book marks the end of that particular phase, I think. It might be the subconscious reason I started to compile it in the first place. Having a tangible tome of a year’s work might be a final period on that seemingly interminable sentence. Maybe not. Might be a fool’s hope. In any case, I’ll still have a nicely bound snapshot of a year in the (online) life. I’ve reread most of what I experienced over those months, with thoughts and emotions long-forgotten coming to the surface with a speed that scared me.

Good to remember, though. Hard to believe I had forgotten in the first place. Maybe a willful neglect? Not for me to say at this point. It’s all there, it’s undeniably me, and it’s undeniably mine. Maybe not such a bad way to start the year off, in the end.

That’s work worth doing.

Nitty Gritty:

Just got word from the printing vendor. Here's the pricing breakdown:

$25 if I'm shipping it to you, $20 if you're in town.

Email me using the email link in the upper right corner on the main page (or click here), put "Blog Book" in the title, and email me your address. I hope to have these shipped and at your door by Valentine's Day.

Thanks up front to all those who have been helping me edit this monster.

It's roughly 75 essays and 300 pages worth of what I feel is the best writing on this site over the past year. It'll be bound and printed on good stock. I'm nervous as hell, but excited as well. Please email me your interest, so I know how many to order. This is all going on my credit card, so please, be sure you want one before ordering.

If you assume I know you want one...I don't. I will be assuming you don't want one unless you write me. For those of you who have emailed already, please send me your address. I've compiling a database for addresses.

Even if you don't have $25 lying around...send a friend or two to this site. If you have a blog, please send a link my way to help build some interest. I'm horrible at selling myself. I mean, I think it's worth $25, but I'm what some would call "more than slightly biased".

(When you click on the email link, be sure to remove the "REMOVETHIS" from the address that will pop up. That's there to protect against spamming. I know that's thrown a few of you off so far.)

Thanks everyone. Have a good weekend.

The local news just announced over 300 closings in the area tomorrow due to cold. COLD. Not snow. Not sleet. Not an incoming herd of buffalo. Not a new Michael Bolton record. COLD.

That’s some serious non-warmth. So I’m bundled up, layer upon layer, still feeling the warmth from the few drinks had tonight after work. You have to love going into a bar, realizing you’re the least posh person there, realizing you’re out of your price range, sit down with your coworker anyway, and, on cue, do a Ricky Henderson-esque slide from one end from the bar to the other using only a cocktail napkin to abet your coefficient of friction.

And by that I mean “order two cheap beers and leave quickly”. Point is, it’s cold. Icicles in places you didn’t know moisture even existed kind of cold. Did I mention it’s cold? I know, I’m rambling.

And guess what? It’s Friday, so it’s all good. Let’s kick it like Daniel Laruso.

Following the ratings success of VH-1’s “100 Hottest Hotties”, the station is scheduling follow-up shows such as “100 Cutest Cuties”, “100 Most Likely That You’d Shag If, Like, You’d Had a Few”, and “100 They Have a Really Great Personality, Honestly, and if You Just Get To Know Them…”.

Speaking of that show, if Jenna Jameson declared her desire to sleep with me on national television, I don’t know if I’d be flattered or terrified. I mean, we guys worry about the girls we shag having more experience with us, but I think she had more experience than me between breakfast and lunch yesterday.

Did anyone else ever wonder exactly how tall Nanny on “Muppet Babies” was when they were growing up? I always figured she could fight Voltron if it ever attacked. She seemed just incredibly, incredibly tall. Then again, a full-grown Muppet still is only as tall as Shakira, so it’s all relative.

Speaking of Muppet Babies, I wish they had worked in a gag where Statler and Waldorf were in a treehouse near the nursery, just ripping on them a few times an episode. That would have ruled.

After twenty years in the same role, Kelsey Grammer will stop playing Frazier Crane at the end of this season. In a related story, Shelly Long was recently named “Employee of the Month” at the Pasadena Burger King for her excellent management of the deep-fry vat.

Best IM exchange of the week…Me: “Whatcha up to?” Her: “I'm still justifying my ass and my underwear”.

I’ve been wondering all weekend which fate I’d choose if held at gunpoint: attending that 200 degree below zero Patriots/Titans game, risking frostbite, possible limb loss, and impotence, or attending a Hillary Duff concert. I’m still working on this one.

Speaking of the cold---even the snow said “Oh hell no” and stayed away from Boston until it got warmer. One of those “cooler than being cool” colds. One of those “it hurts to breathe” kind of cold. One of those “I just made a crack about my girlfriend’s weight and man, I’m gonna pay soon” kind of cold.

Speaking of breathing, did Faith Hill take a bullet after the Grammys? Seriously, where’s she been? She’s about a year away from “Celebrity Mole”. Mark my words.

My predictions on other soon-to-be “Celebrity Mole” contestants: Justin Guarini, Jared from the Subway ads, and Kelsey Grammer. In addition, Joe Namath will be there, drunk, trying to kiss all of them.

Ashton Kutcher’s new movie, “The Butterfly Effect”, opens this month. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept behind the title, it goes something like this: When a butterfly flaps its wings in South America, an obnoxious twit gets famous and shags Demi Moore in Los Angeles. Chaos theory blows.

Speaking of that movie…who in Hollywood thought it was a smart move to put out an R-rated Aston Kutcher film? Does anyone over 21 (besides Demi)actually like him ?

If you asked a Starbucks barista to “put a little extra steam” into your latté, would you get “a date” or “arrested” as a general rule?

There might be a worse pick-up line than, “You look like the type of girl who will put out tonight,” but I’m having a hard time coming up with it this week.

Why don’t we just call a spade a spade and name all reality shows “Boobs, Booze, and Breakdowns”?

Yahoo this week featured an article on Steve Mann, a professor who wears what amounts to a cyborg eye that in essence is a small computer monitor consistently feeding him information. He tells Yahoo that he feels “leaves him feeling nauseous, unsteady, naked” when not wearing it. In a related story, stay the hell away from this freak.

If Jennifer Lopez ever goes into the wine industry, do you think she’ll ever bottle some “J to the Merlot”?

You know, maybe someday someone will tell me how my gay friends and relatives are going to do more damage to the institution of marriage than Britney Spears, Dennis Rodman, and Elizabeth Taylor have already inflicted, but I remain fairly skeptical about being convinced that their side holds water.

Do Pete Rose and Rosie O’Donnell go to the same barber?

I’m a patient man and all, but when will “Alias” have a plot that requires Sydney to go undercover in a nudist camp? Anytime soon? Next week maybe? Please?

While people are busy trying to fix the economy, I’m trying to determine who’s the biggest sellout: Lil’ Kim in those “Old Navy” ads or Method Man in “anything he’s done since 2001”. I’m thinking the movie “My Baby’s Daddy” might tip the scales forever in Method’s favor. He’s playing backup to Eddie Griffin and Anthony Anderson simultaneously. That ain’t right. That’s like Russell Crowe being reduced to a one-scene pizza delivery guy in “Dumb and Dumberer”.

Speaking of this, could they add “Biggest Sellout” to The Source Awards? Hell, I’d tune in to see that.

Lest you think I’m not an equal opportunity offender: If you’re wondering if there’s a barometer for a Caucasian sellout, it’s simple: If you do anything that Tony Danza’s done since “Who’s the Boss?” went off the air, you’re a sellout. Simple.

My college newspaper is reporting that 80% of students have experienced some form of mental health problems in the last year. In related news, I need a hug.

Example #82 of how I know I’m oversensitive: Tuesday’s crossword puzzle featured “___ Pinkett Smith” for 1 Across, and “Anonymous Doe” for 1 Down, and I wrote in “Jada” before “John” lest the puzzle think I was racist.

Anyone else waiting for the natural, inevitable evolution of TRL where they flat out stop showing videos and just feature kids screaming like morons for 30 minutes in a row? Are we really more than six months away from this?

Speaking of TRL, I have a new contest for them: if anyone in their audience remembers Adam Curry, they get to meet a Backstreet Boy. Who’s with me?

OK, I’m not over “Muppet Babies” just yet…why wasn’t Janice on the show? Was she THAT ugly of a baby? OK, actually don’t answer that. I have a problem, I know.

Reason #529 Why I Really Don’t Talk About Wrestling To Non-Fans: When describing the main event of RAW this week, I told a male coworker how I “...really liked Orton’s facials.” He sloooowly backed away. Can’t say I blame him.

Let’s throw Nick Lechay into the Iowa caucus. Why not? I’ve got his slogan all ready to go: “Vote Lechay: He Married Jessica Simpson So You Wouldn’t Have To”. Talk about your All-American Hero here, people.

Someday, I'm going to type the word "from" right on the first try. It's like my mom said: you gotta have dreams, kid.

OK, we’ll end this week with my impression of the imaginary meeting between the people who built Fenway Park and the Fleet Center along the Green Line, by way of that new series of Guinness ads:

"I have an idea for sporting venues."
"An idea? What is it?"
"Let's place two insanely popular venues on The Green Line, the absolute worst excuse for public transportation since The Crusades."
"The Green Line? BRILLIANT!"
"And that way, what is normally a less than ten-minute commute will now take over an hour."
"BRILLIANT! What about insanely packed subway cars? Have you ensured those?"
"Indeed. We’ll only run the 2-car, not 4-car, subways during peak times."
"Only 2 cars? BRILLIANT!"

OK, I’m gonna stick my head above ground for a bit lest the radio silence reach three days, because after all, we can’t have that, can we?

Progress on the book is being made. The two longest sections are in the can, as much as they are can-able. I could read these until the cows come home and still find typos after it’s printed, so I am resigning myself to the fact that everything I edit will have a few mistakes, and those passages done by my volunteer corps will be staggeringly brilliant, because, in the end, I am wicked freakin’ cute. And that solves a lot of woe.

I’ve only gotten a handful of pre-orders so far, so email me if you want in on the list. (There’s a link along the top right of the site.) There’s a base price if we can arrange a hand-off face-to-face, or base price plus shipping if not. NYC peeps will get the base price as I’ll be bringing a bunch down during my visit next month to peddle next to Madison Square Garden, along with some "Wading in the Velvet Prada bags" and "Ryan's Fake Gold Watches.com". Oh, you thought I was coming to hang out and socialize? Hells no. It's about ontacts, baby. Networking. Da benjamins.

That and there’s nothing like good ol’ fashioned NYU heroin.

I am still struggling with the title. Right now, I think I want it to be “*Insert Word* Dot Com: A Year in the (Online) Life”, but I can’t figure out what that first word should be. Or words, even. Maybe I should just make it “A Year in the (Online) Life”? Sigh. I’m stuck. How about “Post THIS, Mutherf#cker”? No? Oh.

So more suggestions, please. At this rate, I’m just gonna call it “The Da Vinci Code” and be done with it. That should help sales nicely.

One thing I’ve noticed when editing my book is that I use the phrase “Lather, rinse, repeat…” so often that it must seem like I’m on the payroll of the shampoo industry. If indeed they would need someone at this point to convince people to use shampoo. I mean, is there a shampoo-lobbying group in Washington that we don’t know about? Maybe I’ll call the book, “Standing On The (Head and) Shoulders of Giants”. Why not?

Or maybe I’ll call it “If I Knocked Someone Up Today, In 9 Months She’d Give Birth to an Igloo”. Why not? It’s ten below zero in Boston. That’s an actual temperature, not an environment created in a lab. And yet Orbitz insists on emailing me deals about flights to Chicago. Screw Chicago. I’m hitting South Beach.

I’m gonna start my own makeover show at this rate for Bravo. Gonna call it “Warm Girl for the It's Frickin’ Freezing In Here, Mr. Bigglesworth, Guy”. The premise of the show is that there’s this guy, and he’s freezing, and this hot girl comes over with blankets, cocoa, and a thong.

Ratings. Gold.

Maybe I should call the book “Blankets, Cocoa, and a Thong”. Hrm.

That’s all for now, I’m tidying up a long Ramblings article for tomorrow as we speak…

I stood in this unsheltered place
'Til I could see the face behind the face
All that had gone before had left no trace
Down by the railway siding
In our secret world, we were colliding
All the places we were hiding love
What was it we were thinking of?
“Secret World”, Peter Gabriel

So here’s the thing about matters of the heart.

You can lie to your friends and you can lie to your family and you can lie to those during your lunch break. You can put on a good show for those in the supermarket or on the train or in your apartment. You can go about the mechanical replications and repetitions that mark your normal routine and to the outside observer seem calm, collected, together, if not happy well at least not miserable.

But every night you’ve got yourself, alone, staring at the mirror as you’re brushing your teeth, your face freckled with soap stains, separating you from an honest reflection. These stains that have splashed up from the sink and you always mean to clean them but you never do, you’ve got that face staring back at you at the end of the day and you can’t lie, the curtain closes on the show, and the machine breaks down utterly.

You can rearrange paintings, buy new candles, try a new restaurant. You can put one foot in front of the other, do good work, contribute to society. You can keep what’s eating you up inside concealed from the world they kat large because that’s the complicit contract, isn’t it? Everyone’s got his or her problems. Someone can always top yours, so hey, who are you to add to the collective angst?

After all, no one really wanted to hear about it when you were happy. Elated, even. Couldn’t share it then. The only thing people hate more than a sob story sometimes is a fairy tale. Can’t be shown to be inadequate, lacking, somehow inferior. We as feeling, sentient entities are equally protective of our peaks and valleys, wary of intruders. We set up fences, build up dams, wall ourselves in and keep each other out simultaneously.

The language of happiness, of love, is in the end more unique, more specialized, more contained within us than the language of pain, loss, and hurt. Love lies in the details, whether it be a certain code of conduct between two people, the way one can rub exactly the right part on another’s lower back, the psychic connection that lies in a look across the room when one of you is ready to leave a party. The way two particular bodies can fit on an early Sunday morning when neither of you is quite awake, but you’re definitely not asleep. The way one person knows exactly what to say, and when to say nothing at all.

Just a few of a million possible examples, as varied as snowflakes and as prevalent as them on a wintry Northeast night. When we talk of pain, of grief, of anguish, we are talking about an admittedly vast but much more finite set of circumstances. Death, infidelity, lack of communication, a feeling of unrest within one’s life…people share their grief more often than their joy not only because of the purgative qualities of such sharing, but also because we feel that someone, somewhere can know exactly what we are going through at that moment. Whether or not that’s in fact true is up for debate, and I certainly won’t come down on either side just yet, but there’s a reason we establish support groups for pain and not communities based on ecstasy.

There’s something so intensely private about intense joy that it would be futile to share in any case. Perhaps this is why we’ve created cursory shortcuts in everyday discourse through which we establish a person’s joy and than quickly move on to the next topic. Joy is never explored in the detail in which grief is. It simply doesn’t happen. We poke and prod at grief. Dissecting the roots, analyzing the symptoms, recalling previous examples, and offering a diagnosis and/or treatment. When it comes to joy, though, well, the declaration thereof is greeting with an (in)sincere response of, “That’s great!” or “How lucky for you!” or some stock phrase handed down from generation to generation, perhaps even in our genes.

It’s not simply due to a person’s lack of caring towards this joy…although that can certainly be the case. More often than not, though, the one declaring his or her happiness is not looking for a response per say. They are sharing an emotional state with another, to be certain, but whereas a declaration of grief invites the listener in, a declaration of love keeps the listener at a distance. A potentially close distance, to be certain, but a distance nonetheless.

In declarations of grief, one seeks validation of his or her despair. Love, or true happiness in whatever form it takes, needs no validation. Communication beyond the mere utterance of this state is by and large unnecessary. Benign at best, destructive at worst. There’s no commonality to love, period. Mine’s got nothing to do with yours or your aunt’s or the milkman’s. The search for love may be universal, but the actuality discovery thereof is one of the most personal, unique encounters possible.

One could of course counterargue that the same holds true for grief, and I am not saying grief is in anyway simpler or more easily lumped into a specific category. However, I would argue that the potential ways in which one can make another happy greatly outnumbers the ways in which one can disappoint another. Maybe that’s the best way to explain it. I can sleep with a dozen girls behind a dozen girlfriends’ backs but I’ll never be able to make those twelve girls’ eyes shine in exactly the same way when we’re alone together.

That specificity is what “Lost in Translation” is about. That inability for anyone else besides the combination of two individuals to truly understand what a connection that deep can possibly mean. Doesn’t mean it’s any better or any worse than anyone else in a similar (yet utterly different) situation. Comparisons are futile. It’s not even comparing apples and oranges. Comparisons miss the point entirely. It’s about combination, about chemistry, about connection. About two people despite all the odds fitting together so closely that, when watching them walk down the street, you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Two in 6 billion plus making their way in a place Peter Gabriel calls the “secret world”. A world behind a door. A door with a lock. A lock which can only be opened by two keys.

We’re always looking for that door, I think. Wondering if anyone’s behind it. Wondering if the other person’s as scared as you to open it in the first place. Wondering if the two of you can step through together, disappearing into the world where’s there’s a mutual support service for two and only two. Knowing that if you leave, you’ll leave something behind. Something you’ll never really get back. Promising the other you’ll catch them when they fall, and not knowing if they believe you or will ever believe you. It’s heaven and hell on earth. Peaks and valleys. Now laid bare. Two naked selves, open for the taking. The loving. The killing.

All equally possible. The chance we take. If we can take it at all. Sometimes we step through the door, only to have the other close the door on you before they enter. Other times you’ll leave them after cohabitating in this world, leaving them trapped. And yet other times, you both discard the key before ever walking through in the first place, wandering away aimlessly in different directions. And maybe later you look for the door again, but the door has since moved. The chemistry has changed. The pieces no longer fit. The keys are lost forever.

We often times ignore our hearts for the fear of our inadequacies. Fear that we’re not strong enough. Fear we can’t live up to expectations. Whatever the case may be, we leave, out of the desire to in the end do what’s right for those we love. We want strength, yet we want strength. We desire and lack simultaneously. Hardest thing in the world: to leave the world you know and enter the secret one. Only thing that’s worthwhile in the end, however. Only journey worth taking. The only stamp your passport will ever need.

I’ll leave it to Stephen Dunn, and his poem “Mon Semblable”, to talk a bit more about this secret world, our fear to seek it out, and the ultimate importance thereof.

Altruism is for those
who can’t endure their desires.
There’s a world

poison every next moment.
I will try to disappoint you
better than anyone else has.

I’ve always wondered about the use of the word “disappointment” here. I mean, it seems a bit counterintuitive at best, and flat out inappropriate at worst. Maybe the disappointment comes from the fact that love, after that initial declaration, takes work. Takes sweat. Takes tears. Doesn’t always live up to that initial, perfect symbiosis when you declare your heart's truth. Doesn’t always live up to the fairy tale you had in your head growing up. Doesn’t always fit into the type of relationship you imagined.

But maybe Dunn, in talking about disappointing his love better than anyone else, in fact means that love, in its specificity, both never lives up to, and simultaneously supercedes, our expectations. To expect perfection is to invite hesitation. To waver is to falter. To falter is to fail. And to fail leaves one ever and only outside of any secret world.

Dunno about you, but I’m looking forward to disappointing someone soon.

Editing for the “Wading in the Velvet Book” is in high gear, and as such, has taken up most of my mental energies lately. I had contemplated a breakdown of a Peter Gabriel tune, but I’m too close to the topic at hand, and couple that with a few glasses of Fetzer Merlot, and I’ll just hold that off for another day.

In the meantime, I’m soliciting interest in the book. What you’ll get is roughly 100,000 of the best words I ever set down on this website. I’m still figuring out costs, which boils down to page count, but I hope to have an all-inclusive price which covers cost of printing and shipping plus a touch extra to pay for the operation for my cat Crystal. OK, I don’t have a cat, I just need to get some more cocaine.

So, the goal is something which costs, in the end, around $20-25 bucks, which I know is a lot, so I may end up offering a cheap PDF version which won’t be as coffee-table friendly but will get you some of my greatest hits, such as “Ryan Writes Something Long and Depressing” and “Ryan Writes Something Else Long and Depressing with a Hint of Self-Loating” and “Keep All Sharp Objects Away from Mr. McGee”. Guaranteed fun for the whole family.

Thing is, I’ll only publish around as many as I know can be sold, so I’m not stuck with a stack of books and Visa breathing down my neck like the stripper who hasn’t made her quota of dances yet. So please email me with the title “Blog Book” so I have your general interest established. If you could, please talk about the book on your blog, or hit me up with a link, and help garner some interest that way as well. If someone wants to be really super awesome, you could help me create a small icon/logo for the book so I can put it over on the sidebar there which will eventually link to my Paypal account, assuming I can remember how to access it since it’s been, oh, a year since last I had to use it. Or, if someone had some time and has an idea for a simple but elegant B+W cover, I'm open to suggestions. Lord knows I have the visual skill of a slug with the shakes.

The book is a combination of “Me Talk Pretty One Day”, Blender Magazine, and the incessant ramblings of your grandmother who talks all day to inanimate objects. It’s “War and Peace” in length, yet “Dude, Where’s My Car?” in depth. It’s a symphony without all that annoying melody. Or punctuation. It’s going to be mentioned until you buy one, so just sign up already, will you?

I’m hoping to have this in people’s hands by Valentine’s Day, so why give chocolate? She’ll just think you’re trying to make her fat. Instead, give her the gift of long-winded, self-indulgent sarcasm and pity. You’ll totally get to first base with her if you do.

I promise. Or your money back. OK, not really, I’ll be keeping your cash. If nothing else, the size of this book will make it useful as a weapon if you ever encounter a burglar. So like, that’s something.

Also, I'm going to let you name the book. Right now, "Wading in the Velvet Book" isn't exactly impressing me. I was going to call it "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets", but apparently that's already taken. Who knew?

Suggestions, in other words, are welcome.

So a lot of people have been coming up to me on the street and saying, “Hey Ryan, why did you just steal my kid’s lunch money?” Or “Did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got the approximate cranial structure of Bert?” What I think they mean is, “Ryan, you’re totally wicked dreamy smart. I bet you have lots of great ideas all the time. But I bet you can’t always write a lot about these things. And that they take on sentence or paragraph form at best.”

And these people are absolutely right. My head does look like Bert’s. But that’s beside the point.

Today marks the first of what I hope will be a weekly ritual: the Friday ramblings. They are based off of the master of the ramble, Bill Simmons, (here's his most recent version) and will be hopefully a fun addition to the site. Don’t worry, you’ll get your self-indulgent stuff during the rest of the week, but Fridays will hopefully be a fun change of pace to get your toes tappin’, your booty shakin’, and your head scratchin’.

Without further ado…

In each and every car of the T here in Boston, there’s a sign that says something to the effect of, “Your tax dollars pay to clean this car. Do your part and take all trash with you as you depart.” Excuse me, but isn’t my part already done? Doesn’t my moral obligation end right around the “my tax dollars pay to clean it” part? Am I missing something?

Vegas odds are currently at 5-3 that, during my next visit to a strip club, Outkast’s “The Way You Move” will be playing sometime before midnight. It’s officially on the “Now That’s What I Call Pole-Dancing!” compilation, along with Motley Crüe’s “Girls Girls Girls”, N.E.R.D.’s “Lap Dance”, and Barry Manilow’s “Mandy”.

Newest annoying verbal meme: me going around imitating Justin Timberlake’s impression of Ashton Kutcher on SNL: “I’m Ashton Kutcher! I’m awesome!” Apparently no one saw this episode but me, given the horrified, “keep the kids away from him” look I always get after spontaneously launching into this.

OK, who demanded “Agent Cody Banks 2”? Honestly? Show me this person so I can slap them. Look at Frankie’s face on that link. He’s got this unmistakable, “Can you BELIEVE they paid me to do another one?” look on his face. And how is it coming out this fast? Did they pull a “Lord of the Rings” and film like 6 of these at once, hoping the first would be a hit? That’s just ponderous.

Also, I have two words for Frankie Muniz: Macauley Culkin. It’s a long, dark road ahead, amigo.

Also, Anthony Anderson is the poor man’s Eddie Griffin. I’ll let you think about that for a moment.

Not sure which is sadder---knowing all the lyrics to all 3 Doors Down singles or the fact I don’t turn off the radio when that Clay Aiken song comes on. One of these facts should legally ban me from ever breeding.

This conversation took place over the weekend: “So I’m Cena, and I’m in Season Mode, and then Sable and Torrie Wilson are fighting over me, but then I have to play a match as Sable against Torrie, so in essence I’m fighting for my own affection. This game rules.” “Do you even hear yourself talking?”

I’m waiting for “Man, I worked longer than a Britney Spears marriage yesterday!” to enter the water cooler lexicon. Heard she walked down the aisle to the strains of “Me Against Every Form of Common Sense” and walked out to “Oops, My Publicist is Gonna Kill Me Again”.

Anyone else notice how Mr. Britney looks like every high school golf captain ever? It’s uncanny.

Speaking of Britney, I’m gonna just pick stocks from now on based on Justin Timberlake’s portfolio---the brother seriously knows when to jump ship.

While on this topic: so much for the whole “What happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas” ad campaign. I guess it doesn’t apply to celebrity sham marriages. Or the clap.

In a semi-related stunt, Jessica Simpson reportedly wedded a can of tuna, thinking it was really a buffalo.

Speaking of Jessica---a note to all planning on throwing a party: don’t hire the schmuck who thought it would be a good idea to put Nick Lechay in the halftime show of the Orange Bowl. Good lord. I’ve felt bad enough for the guy watching “Newlyweds”, but I never feared that Jessica would up and throw a full beer can from Section 214 at him. Then again, he deserves it after uttering the phrase, “Back when 98 Degrees were successful…” on the Jessica Simpson “Driven” episode. I had almost successfully “driven” that band from my mind, and now there it is again. Jerk. I’m gonna “driven” over to his how and “driven” something unpleasant into an unpleasant place. And yes, I watched Jessica Simpson “Driven”, you wanna take it outside? Eh?

And may I just say: so help me God if Justin Guarini is at any sporting event I ever attend. I don’t care if it’s girls’ high school badminton. He’s going down.

Speaking of sports: in college, my cousin and I would go back and forth on e-mail inventing new sports. My favorite was “cross-country pole vaulting”.

Speaking of cross-country pole-vaulting, Jennifer Garner is still very hot.

While I won’t mention the actress in question, at one point this weekend I actually caught myself saying, out loud, “You know, I like her, because, like, I bet I’d have a shot with her. If she were drunk enough. And, you know, just sorta fell onto my lap.” My roommate gave me the “We’re just gonna gloss over this moment and move on like it never happened” look and life spun forward, as it’s wont to do.

Lost in all the random movie awards being doled out is the fact that Sean Austin has won roughly six awards for “Role That Made Many Guys Cringe Cuz They Thought He Was Gonna Totally Hook Up With Frodo At Least a Dozen Times”. I caught a quick peek of a 15-year old kid near the end of “Return of the King” who looked like he had just walked in on his folks having sex . Priceless.

It’s great that we donate food to third-world countries, but where’s the “Someone Get Cameron Diaz a Sandwich and Quickly” fund? There has to be one.

B2K’s manager announced this past week that the R&B teen group has disbanded. I dunno about you, but tonite, I’m just gonna go home, light a candle, pour a glass of wine, and weep softly while listening to "Bump Bump Bump" over and over again.

My favorite part of the new Ellen Degeneres talk show is the part at the end where you as an at-home viewer get to play “Spot the Butchest Lesbian Acting Like Courtney Cox in the ‘Dancing in the Dark’ video”. I organize my work schedule so I can be at the gym every time this happens. You wish I were kidding.

My vote for “Best Recent Quote from My Roommate”: “I like the cast of ‘That 70’s Show’. They seem to know their place. They know this is the best most of them will ever get.”

I just want to personally thank MTV’s consistent outpouring of sot-core porn for making the addition of Cinemax to my cable lineup completely and utterly unnecessary. I mean, they showed the Abram/Veronica/Rachel threesome at like, 2 pm on a Saturday. I don’t even have to wait for the post-midnight on Wednesday Shannon Tweed-fest anymore. Simply outstanding.

While on topic---what do these Real World/Road Rules people do when not on these shows? How are they always free? I mean, Norman, please tell me you have a job. And if you do, tell me what it is, so I can get your vacation package.

In another reality TV news, there’s apparently a new show where this girl has to convince her family that she’s married this fat slob, and it she convinces them, she wins a million dollars, but she doesn’t know he’s an actor, and his entire “family” is acting as well, and when reality shows get more complex than a David Mamet movie, we’ve simply gone too far, people.

The word “crunk” bothers me. Not as much as the word “moist”, but close.

Can we just accuse Nicole Ritchie of starting mad cow disease and be done with her?

Do strip clubs have gift certificates? If so, what would be the process to redeem them? I think about these things.

I wish pop groups could trade players like professional sports teams. You know, switch Bono for Gwen Stefani. Lance Bass for James Hetfield. Either Brooks or Dunn with anybody in G-Unit. Just to keep things interesting.

Speaking of Gwen, the part of the No Doubt DVD where she stretches in the dressing room is officially and forever the Greatest DVD Extra Ever.

I keep waiting for the Shania Twain/Ricky Martin “Remember When Everybody Liked Us?” tour to be announced.

Does Mo Rocca throw anyone else’s gaydar off besides mine? I just can’t decide if he’d appear on “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” as the former or the latter.

The 72 steps I take to navigate the handbag, women’s shoes, and makeup sections of Saks 5th Avenue during my shortcut to my in-mall gym might possibly be the scariest 24 yards in all of America.

Three words: WHAT THE HELL?

So I’m gonna talk about the movie “Lost in Translation” today, and it’s going to have some spoilers, but this isn’t so much a review as a reaction, so there’s my, like, disclaimer and stuff.

“Translation” is one of those “Oh yea, I’ll get around to seeing that sooner or later” and then one day you realize it’s out of the movie houses, so you make a vow to see it in a second-run theatre, but then life gets in the way and before you know it, you’re in “6 months ‘til it’s on video”, but once it’s out on video, you think, “Eh, I’ve waited this long, I’ll wait for it to be on HBO”, and once it’s on HBO, you always come in 20 minutes into it, see the same eight minutes, then change the channel.

It’s like “Ernest Goes to Camp”, that way.

Sufficed to say, I’m amazed that I finally got around to seeing it, and thanks to Obi Wan, had the impetus to head out to Davis Square and see the film. For those of you who can’t quite place this film yet, it’s the “Bill Murray in Tokyo” flick, which is the way they sell it on the commercial, which is to say that it’s only 1/42nd of what’s really going on in the movie. The whole movie turns on the title, consistently shifting our perspective as an audience in terms of what is really lost and across what boundaries.

At first, the boundary is Tokyo itself, in that with very economical means we are thrust into the world of Bob Harris (Murray), who is in Tokyo to film a whiskey promotion. Harris speaks not a word of Japanese, and the movie doesn’t give us any subtitles, since we are meant to feel the same sense of dislocation and disarray that Harris does. It’s a city which feels familiar yet completely alien.

Meanwhile, Charlotte, played by Scarlett Johansson, is a young 20-something in the same hotel as Bob, tagging along because, in her own words, she wasn’t really doing anything anyways. Bob and Charlotte instinctively bond, but the movie takes its time with this bonding, instead of the typical “tell me your life story in the first five minutes we meet” scene in a lesser film.

And as they bond, the movie shifts from the external motif of miscommunications (the English/Japanese barrier) to a much more internal one---namely, the miscommunication that occurs between two people who no longer feel they understand their spouses, or can be understood by them in turn. Bob and Charlotte are both unhappy participants in marriages they might have once understood, but seem to them as alien as the landscape of the city in which they meet. The brief, fleeting conversations we see between themselves and their spouses are full of dialogue that, if given a simple readback in a courtroom, would seem mundane at worst, yet are filled with tired, clichéd, unidirectional sound bytes.

This unidirectionality is the focus of the middle part of the movie. Things are said, but never communicated. Messages are sent, but never truly received. Whether it’s Charlotte’s inability to engage with a table of wanna-be Hollywood stars, or Bob’s frustration over carpet samples sent via Fed-Ex from his wife, these characters feel cut off not only from the city but their own lives as well. They are near what was once their lives, but have somehow become desensitized to it. Communication, in all forms, has broken down for them.

There’s a telling moment where Charlotte removes a few Polaroids from a folder in her hotel room. These Polaroids were ostensibly taken by her husband, himself a photographer for rock stars. In these photographs, he’s looking at the camera, while she’s looking at him. The focus of the gaze is telling in ways that are intuitively understood by Charlotte and, in addition, we are audience. He’s a man who’s in love with the way he is seen by everyone and everything except the one person whose gaze he should care most about. He says, “I love you,” every time he leaves her, but out of a sense of “This is what I should say at this point of leaving” rather than as an immediate expression of affection.

Bob’s wife, for her part, consistently brings up carpet samples as a way to simply not talk about how much these two people do not talk. They speak, yes, but they don’t talk, and the movie makes a point of showing the difference between the two. Speaking involves the uttering of sound, but talking is the actual response to these sounds that make sense to the two parties involved. The two married couples have long ceased talking. But Bob and Charlotte, through each other, learn the long-lost art of conversation.

What’s left, then, in this movie is the re-establishment of dialogue between two people who thought their time for such conversation was over. Whereas their spouses communicate to them through faxes (yet another unidirectional form of communication), Bob and Charlotte communicate through the lighting of a cigarette, a head on a shoulder, the singing of a karaoke song. And what you see as an audience member are two people who rediscover the self-worth that had been at some previous points stripped from themselves. To watch Bob’s forced smile during a photo shoot and then watch his smile towards her is to see a man awakening from a virtual coma of emotion. To see her rest her shoulder on his head is to see a woman who is confessing her loneliness and her desire to break free. They’ve each found someone who speaks and understands their language.

Which leads us to the final transformation of the title of the movie. All of which seems to be leading to a May/December romance. And, in a way, the movie does lead to this conclusion, but not in the way you expect, but exactly in the way it should. Bob is leaving the hotel in a limo, after an awkward final encounter with Charlotte. But, as chance would have it, he sees her walking down the street, alone, a few minutes later in the car. He gets out of the car, walks to her, and spins her around. You brace for the kiss, but instead, he hugs her. And with both faces pressed against each other, he says something to her. What? You don’t know.

And that’s absolutely brilliant.

Possibly the best movie moment I’ve experienced in years. You hear that he is talking, but the way that the sound is mixed leaves his message muddled, leaving only her to hear what he has to say. Which is precisely the way it should be.

What’s ultimately lost in translation here is our ability as an audience to understand the communication between these two people. But it’s not ours to understand, because we don’t have ownership over that communication. It’s a singular form that belongs to two people and two people alone. What’s important for us as an audience is to see that Charlotte understands what he says completely, and at that moment, and that moment alone, can they finally kiss.

Why this moment struck me so powerfully is the fact that this is something I’ve been coming to terms with over the past few months myself. We spend so much time looking at couples, be they celebrities or coworkers or people in the shoe department at Macy’s, and wonder, “How do THEY work?” Or we see friends dating someone that we think is “below” them or “not the right fit” even though your friend seems really happy. Or we wonder why people invest so much time and concern and energy into trying to figure out why we are spending time with a person they think is hopeless.

In the end, it’s the singularity of communication, embodied in Bob and Charlotte, that dictates every relationship, for good or for bad. No person, no matter how well-intended, can ever possibly understand what that communication entails. Nor can you ever give language lessons to clue that person into the unique dialogue that is you as a pair. Heck, most of the time you can’t even put a lingual finger on it yourself. Doesn’t matter. Overanalyzing the communication, the chemistry, the bond…just death. What’s important is not to define it per say, but simply to recognize it. Explore it. Revel in it. But don’t try to define it.

Then again, the only thing worse to do than define it is the ignore it. There’s nothing more important in this life that to strive for the type of relationship that is incomprehensible to the rest of the world. I mean that sincerely. Finding that person with whom there’s a mutual understanding no one else can replicate…well, I can imagine a person could feel quite lost without that type of person in his or her life.

So here’s why people should never make resolutions. Well, one of many, in any case, feel free to add your own.

It’s January 5th, the first Monday of the New Year. I get to the train at the appointed hour, and lo, where usually 30 people are, more than 150 adorn the platform. Transfer from the Red to the Green Line, and lo, a veritable orgy of humanity, teeming along every inch, all with a “you don’t know if I have a knife or not, so best not give me a dirty look, sucka” vibe. Fast forward through the work day to 11:30 am, when I usually go to beat the gym crush, and lo, every good treadmill is already occupied, along with most of the ellipticals and many of the bikes,

All due to people who made resolutions to get to work earlier and work out more. Stupid resolutions.

The basic premise of a resolution is not what’s in question here. Anything that enacts self-improvement should be lauded, applauded, and other words that rhyme with those two. It’s the enforced timing of these resolutions that irks me. It’s a bit like setting an alarm to wake up in the morning. I set mine for 7:20 am, knowing full well my booty ain’t out of bed for another 18 minutes, since it takes me 4 iterations of the snooze alarm to really get me out of bed. I know getting up earlier is “better”, since if for no other reason I could have avoided what looked like the Parisians fleeing their city when the Nazis invaded this morning at the T, but I simply couldn’t be made to do the task at hand until I myself was ready to do it.

If you need to get in shape, by all means, join a gym. But know a decent gym will set you back $70 or so a month, and really, really think about the investment. Factor in such items as new workout clothes, water bottles, the occasional massage therapy, hush money to get the personal trainer to stop posting pictures of you showering on the Internet…these things add up. Go because you want to go, not because a Bally’s ad in December reduced your self-esteem to the point of non-existance because their members' abs seem so toned as to be bullet-proof. And you yourself found a quarter in your belly button last week and wondered how long it'd been there.

If human nature tells us anything, it’s that we as sentient beings can have all the objectively compelling evidence possible and yet will still only act when we convince ourselves a particular course of action is right. Sometimes we concur with the popular evidence, as in, “You know what? I should lose a bit of weight. I should call that old friend I haven’t seen in months. I should look for a new job.” Or your own personal conclusion flies in the face of all known forms of logic: “I think a large pepperoni pizza per meal will melt these extra pounds away. I should call everyone who’s never called me and tell them to f#ck off. I should stay miserable in my dimly lit cubicle until downsized.”

In either case, one and one person alone makes these decisions. The reason most resolutions are not adhered to, thusly, is because all too often they initiate from an outside source, which can appropriate itself into what looks like our own opinion, only to be shattered by the cold harsh light of five weeks later, when you’re flailing like that fish in the Faith No More video on the treadmill in your new $120 sneakers below your $40 shorts below your $18 t-shirt below your $10 headband wondering how in the blue hell you ever got there. And then you go and have buffalo wings and wash them down with 18 beers and wipe your chin with the headband.

In addition, it’s much easier to make an external resolution for one of two reasons: firstly, they are generally more quantifiable. Lose X number of pounds, visit your grandmother X number more times, kill X number more wild boar in the streets of your hometown. You know, whatever. Secondly, they are often easier to make than the more important personal resolutions we should be making all the time, regardless of the time of year. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: we need not give thanks merely on Thanksgiving, need not honor our parents on Mother’s and Father’s Day, need not plant a tree only on Arbor Day, need not kill an indigenous people only on Columbus Day.

These internal resolutions are harder to define, harder to quantify, and even harder to eventually measure. How does one really, say, act nicer? Be kinder? Take more chances? Hard to know. Especially when, in the end, you and you alone establish, maintain, and enforce the parameters of these resolutions. Thus, the temptation to hedge the rules, redefine them, or outright break them is avoided only through your own personal brand of willpower.

Because, after all, you can’t truly share an internal resolution. It’s a bit like trying to share an intense emotion…even if the person is by and large empathetic, there’s still a singularity that isolates you from those around you. You can’t get a group of friends to pool the amount of personal growth you’ve made the way friends can pool together to, as a group, lose 100 pounds. And this is not to belittle those who take external, measurable resolutions and see them through---heavens no. But in the end, the external can at most supplement the internal resolutions that make their external counterparts possible in the first place.

In the will, in the spirit, in the desire---that’s where all resolutions are made or broken. One simply cannot be forced to enact a resolution. We can utter the words, surely enough. Maybe even convince those around us that we mean business. But if your heart’s not in it, well, it simply isn’t going to happen. You heart/will/animus is completely and ever at odds with inertia and stasis. The two wage war consistently on a unique landscape that is each and every one of us. There are battles that are won and lost simply by our desire to win or complacency to lose. Both emboldening and terrifying, this fact. All depends on what you think of yourself.

Your resolutions, then, come down to nothing less than self-esteem. How to value yourself. How your goals measure against that self-worth. A person who tries to lose weight due to self-hatred may lose a few pounds, sure, but will probably yo-yo right back. A person who loses weight because he/she thinks enough of themselves to get healthier will, by contrast, generally be more successful, unless in a ill-times fit of optimism go for a jog and get hi by a bus. They won’t lose any more weight. The good news is that they won’t gain anymore, though, I suppose.

Self-esteem applies to internal resolutions as well. Say the resolution is to not spend another New Year’s without someone to kiss. One could of course take the short-cut and hire a hooker that night, but let’s not analyze that particular option for this particular exercise. For Low-Esteem Larry, we find a man desperately avoid the perceived negative state of singledom. Larry doesn’t get many dates. He often scares the ladies away. Often he’s maced. Now, let’s turn to High-Esteem Harry. Harry generally beats them off with a stick, which if meant literally would land him in jail, but metaphorically means he’s being chased because he has enough confidence to prize his self-worth to the point that he doesn’t force himself upon the masses. And for that, he get mucho smoochies.

OK, Larry and Harry are oversimplifications, to be sure. In the end, the “One to Grow On” of all this lies in how the perception of self plays a central role in any life-altering resolution we make, be it now or 6 days/weeks/months from now. It’s like Tony Kushner said in “Angels in America”: the world only spins forward. Even if we like who/what/where we are, nothing is even truly stagnant, and that’s a good think. Look at standing water, for instance. Major eww there. We evolve or we rot, pretty simple really.

As for myself, I’ve made an internal and external resolution in the past few months, which have been slowly evolving themselves. The external resolution is the “Wading in the Velvet Book”, hopefully available around Valentine’s Day for your purchasing pleasure. Screw flowers---send 112,000 words of indulgent prose instead! As for the internal…well, that’s making stuff like the book even possible. Spinning my heart forward faster than I thought it could, but there you have it. Not only a new sense of self, but by and large a new self to sense. Good stuff.

But that’s for a later time. I resolve to tell you all about it sooner rather than later.

For Christmas this year, my brother gave my parents, among other things, the same thing he did last year: a custom-made DVD. Being not only the giver of the almighty Playstation 2, which has ever so conveniently removed any need for me to have a life, he’s also quite the talented filmmaker. He edited a series of old home-movies into a 15-minute or so montage of moments from our childhood: various parties, silly skits, and sporting events that document a time and a place that seems now further away than ever.

Several of these clips centered around our times playing baseball, better known as “The Dullest Way A Homo Sapien Could Ever Spend 3 Hours”. I don’t know how my folks did it. In those days, a team that had more than one person who could hit generally won the championship. The other seven players in the lineup could barely hold the bat up. In the field, they’d sooner be picking dandelions than turning a double-play. And yet, at every game, one of my parents was there. If only one were there to watch me, it usually meant the other was watching Casey play simultaneously somewhere else.

The majority of these games were held in a park in South Lowell, off Boylston Street. From the early Spring until the late Fall, this park teems with life and color. It features not only three baseball fields, but a large oval track surrounding a soccer/football field, with tennis courts adorning various outskirts of the overall park.

Boylston Street is also the one I took Sunday to my father’s new apartment. I took a quick glance at the park in which I spent quite a lot of time in my pre-pubescence. It was cold, grey, speckled with snow. Lifeless. Patches of mud mixed with dead grass. No joggers, no impromptu flag football games, no mixed doubles matches in Court 6.

It’s a week to the day everything changed and here we are, three McGee men, trying to decorate an apartment. Casey’s brought a few framed photos he took in college; I’ve framed a theatrical poster from my theatre days. These are added to the collected of Target’s finest art, recently purchased by the patriarch. We lay out each room by putting the framed pieces along the floor below where we want to hang them. We starts out at the world’s greatest mockery of “Trading Spaces” somehow begins to gel, and by the end, it doesn’t look half bad. We even almost fix a cabinet door, and if you know the building acumen of us McGees, you know the miracle involved there.

It’s a week to the day and the work keeps us busy. Keeps the conversation light and reserved to topics such as “Should this go a little higher?” and “Where the f$ck did that nail go to?” My dad’s got screwdrivers and hammers and the flat-headed knife. Each family has their own secret fix-alls, and ours is the flat-headed knife. My father could either fix the problem with a flat-headed knife or at least go down swinging. Screw loose? Get the flat-headed knife. Light bulb blew out? Get the flat-headed knife. Entire ceiling caved in? Well, get two flat-headed knives, just to be sure.

It’s a week to the day and it feels like nothing so much as the honeymoon of the divorce. And that sounds weird but I can’t think of a better way to put it. The feeling is only enforced when my brother and I leave to spend an equal amount of time with our mother, three miles away. It’s soda and pizza and football and the kitchen table and my mother smoking her cigarette in the corner where the stove and the microwave cohabitate. The only thing truly unusual is that neither of her sons have brought laundry home on this particular Sunday. Dad usually works Sundays, so this particular trio felt unforced and, when you weren’t thinking about it (which wasn’t too often), eerily similar.

But it’s a week to the day, and any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental. But this is what people do. It’s what we do. You keep on keepin’ on, like a bird that flew. Tangled up in blue and grey and cloudy skies and unspoken hurt and framed art and empty pizza boxes. You woke up, you drove down, you tried to be the best son you could be, you drove home. And you'll do it again. And again. As many times as needed.

And the bad days will come, as they always have, even before the splintered state in which we four have started this new year. But they didn’t come this weekend, and they probably won’t come for a bit. And when they do, hey, we’ll deal.

Even if we don’t have a flat-headed knife handy.