So I’m 30. I’m a writer. I’m supposed to vent through words, right?
So here it is, at 4:13am…with a glass of Glenmorangie Alstar on the rocks and a tired head, I’m going to do a no-deletes-allowed free write on what I’ve learned in the last 30 years. In no particular order:
If anyone out there thinks I look young for 30, it’s because of laughter and laughter only. The good times and parties, that shit is fun but leaves its mark to say the least. What sticks with me through the years is the laughs. Thinking about them either makes me laugh all over again, or (from time to time) gets me misty because the other half of those laughs isn’t around to reminisce with. So first and foremost, thank you to everyone out there who laughed with me or laughed at me…and if it was neither, I was for SURE laughing at you. So thanks for that too!
Love feels really good, and is frustrating beyond belief at the same time. Love is like eating a really, REALLY good rice dish, but from time to time only having one chopstick. The food is still incredible, it just takes a LOT more work to taste it. That said, I feel like if you can make the one chopstick thing work until a new set arrives, it almost makes everything taste better. Anyone out there who says love isn’t hard work missed the point, or has mistaken the fructose syrup of lust for the nectar of love. Anything worth having in this world takes work to attain it, and I think love is the highest goal. I cannot express how lucky I feel to be where I am.
Music. Music music music. Music music music music music. Turn off your radio and find music. Don’t know where to go? Call me google maps…
I like the fact that I went, in the span of ten years, from a scotch hater to a scotch lover. Ten years ago this November, I bought my first bottle of Glenlivet 12 year at the Duty Free shop in Tallin, Estonia. We played poker with matchsticks as chips, watched Russian MTV, and drank scotch on the rocks until we all were slurring and going “all in” on every hand. Ten years later, I’m sipping my favorite while staring at the moon and thinking about what to type.
I love finally being comfortable enough to articulate my atheism. My mother and her side of the family gave me quite a phobia about admitting it to anyone I cared about, and attending St. John’s University cemented that in my psyche. But thanks to Kurt Vonnegut, Christopher Hitchens, Ben Franklin, Albert Einstein, and (most importantly) Carl Sagan, I feel like much, much bigger shoes have trudged a path carefully and thoughtfully through the PC muck, leaving notes along the way pushing me to keep learning, keep exploring, and most importantly to keep an open mind when talking to others.
I will write a book. And fuck will it be good. And filled with partial sentences and bad grammar, because I love writing the way I talk.
I think this country has become so divided that something bad is going to have to happen before these fences are repaired…and that makes me sad. The hate that replaces dialogue in this country is a bit startling, but the media is either too busy raking those cinders and blowing on the coals while adding the kindling of mistruth and disinformation, or diverting attention to fauxlebrities and their reality shows, contemplating their fashion instead of the reasoning behind our knowing their names at all. We teeter on a dangerous cliff as I type this, and I fear the people we’ve put our trust in are too busy arguing over what type of stone this cliff is made out of or who put the cliff here instead of how to back safely away.
There is nothing more beautiful and perfect than a fat girl crying while delicious, delicious ice cream. I cannot and will not stop preaching the joy I got while watching her. “(frown)Boo hoo hoo…(smile)om nom nom…(frown)boo hoo hoo…(smile)ommmmm nom nom” Fantastisk!!
Vince Vaughn calling me “a funny motherfucker” is still the single greatest moment in my life.
I don’t get Radiohead, but I love Thom Yorke’s voice. I don’t like Jack White. I never liked The Strokes, The Vines, Interpol, or any of the other fuzzycool Indie bands. I’d put 15 Mike Doughty, Butch Walker, Roger Clyne, or Jim Adkins songs up against any garage band-of-the-moment and totally believe in the win.
I’m really afraid that I can see golf, after one real outing, could eclipse all other sports besides NFL football as my new passion. I like baseball, NCAA basketball, MMA, the whole gambit, but golf makes a lot of sense. I feel like the last dad on the block to get a “cellular telephone,” but I was a golf hater for YEARS. That all washed away with my first real drive, 235 years, dead center of the fairway. Sniffffffff, sighhhhhh. I’m hooked.
Being a dog person is sooooo dope. I get cats, sort of. They’re easy, funny, and adorable. But your dog is your DOG. He cuddles, brings you toys when he thinks you’re sad, freaks out EVERY time you come home, he’s your buddy. Or she, sorry bitches! A dog is part of your family, you’re a part of a cat’s family. From Thorvald The Wonderdog to Marley, dogs are and will always be my, um, dawgs?
(Ok, it’s 5:16am now, and this cask-strength scotch is kicking my typing skills’ ass!)
I biked home tonight. There was a beautiful moon out this evening. I stopped and looked at the pale white slice, glowing down on me. It occurred to me how beautiful the silence of the moon is. The sun shouts down every day “Look at me!” all the while raising and lowering temperatures depending on distance and mood. But the moon, lit in varying shades by the sun’s gaze, strikes the most elegant and delicate poses. Less people looking, showing off only when there’s plenty of stars to stare at…and yet the moon conveys its beauty with a serene confidence not seen elsewhere in the sky, day or night. Anyone can appreciate the sun, hot and loud…the real, true beauty is in the subtlety of the moon, gentle and stunning. If you can find a better metaphor for why Em and I work and why I’m stunned everyday to wake up next to her exquisite beauty, then please tell me.
I love you all if you’ve read this far,
The (30 year old) Quammunist
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