Ok, Getting Serious

One of the biggest hurdles to writing this memoir I’m cooking is unpacking my relationship with my dad.  When he died about 5 years ago (right after I shipped off to exile), we hadn’t spoken in about 8 years.  The years before that weren’t exactly full of quality time either.  In fact, he’d been at a fair distance my whole life, and especially after I hit high school.  Most of that was my doing, in the sense that it was my choice to shut him out of my mind and heart, so of course now that he has the ultimate last word (that of no last word forever), I can’t compare our memories of key events, or really try to understand him and his motivations and fears.  It makes it really tough to find some truths about what made me the guy I am today.  And it’s plain sad, too. Continue reading Ok, Getting Serious

Sad Sack Chronicles Vol 1

Well, so it’s a new year and shit, huh?  It’s also my first sad lonely Saturday with nothing to do and no one to talk to.  I’ve decided to not make the trek to Park Slope, to find a random bar in which to drink and hope for social situations to present themselves (as I tend to do in these situations).  Instead I’m here trying out being at home on a Sat night.  Maybe working on some projects and whatnot. Continue reading Sad Sack Chronicles Vol 1

The Long Swallow

Well, so. If this blog is supposed to be about growing up, facing the less cool parts of livin’, and moving on with the business of aging gracefully, I suppose I should share this day’s activities.

I got a gastresophageal–something something endoscopy today. Apologies for the commercial at the front of the video.

Not much to say about it, really.  It was a bummer going to this thing alone and having noone waiting to see how I was doing.  I did get some semi-anonymous facebook love from high school classmates, but I had to practically beg for it by posting a few links and mentioning it in my status.

I’ve always been very independent.  In fact it’s one of my biggest faults.  But this living just out of reach of a whole sack of shit that seems like amazing fun is seriously wearing me down.  It’s hard to come home every day to a giant empty apartment and not have the option of stepping out for a few drinks with some friends.  Or even alone, with the possibility of interesting conversation with like-minded strangers.

So I recently read this book, The Paradox of Choice by Barry Schwartz, and it tackled some of the roots of this ennui I’m feeling.  (Is it even called that? Do I care to make sure that’s correct?)… I recommend the book to anyone currently regretting any decisions they’ve made, or struggling to make some choice that seems life-or-death. It isn’t a very good book, but it had some nuggets.  Suffice to say I should know better than to pine away over something I didn’t even really have when I lived in the fucking center of it all.

Still, coming home alone all groggy from anesthesia wasn’t the high point of this month.