On petty anger.

I'm having a hard time not being furious right now.

See, on my street, when the snows come, there's a particularly obnoxious practice of people putting shit out along the street to reserve their parking spots. The system is entirely baseless - these spaces are owned by the city of Philadelphia, and there's absolutely no reason to respect this behavior. But for better or for worse, it's done anyway.

Across the street from my house, a pair of pink lawn chairs mark a perfectly good spot. One that, judging from tire tracks in the snow, has not been used in two days.

Someone is reserving a spot for a car that hasn't been there in forty-eight hours. Let that sink in for a second. Someone has laid claim to something that isn't theirs and isn't using it at all.

It's stupid, right? It's such a small, petty thing that in my head, I know, I know it's absolutely nothing to get worked up over. It's not worth the time and energy to find this person and beat them mercilessly with their own lawn chairs. It's not worth the heartspace to hate them with the intensity of an excretory outburst the morning after you've eaten two dozen hot wings.

But I feel it. It's in my head now, popping up every third or fourth thought like a bass drum thump. I can't help envisioning what kind of self-centered, over-entitled cunt would do something so thoughtless. What kind of empty, fuckless life this person must lead to need to grasp at something so obnoxious to feel some modicum of control. What their face would look like as I rang their doorbell and shat on their doorstep.

I want to lash out. I want to teach them a lesson. I want to rub it into their face just how much of a fucking cock they're being.

And I wish I could end this post with something inspirational, like "But I rise above, take the high road, and let it go." But that wouldn't be honest of me. Truth is, I want to find this person and smash their face into a brick wall.

That's the punchline, folks. I don't care how enlightened, easygoing, or good a person you think you are. The fact is, everyone has shitty thoughts. Everyone gets pissed off at really small, stupid shit. And sometimes, it's all we can do to keep ourselves from doing something illegal in response to it.

On New Year's.

I can't really remember when I started it. I remember standing outside the Tavern, I remember standing on rooftops, I remember walking through the desolate streets of Ocean City.

It's a simple little ritual. Find a moment after midnight to get away, to slip out into the night with a glass of whiskey in my hand, and empty my mind. Find a second of stillness in the dark, and think. Think of those that matter to me. Where they are, what they might be doing.

Tonight I'll think of those under the roof I'll share, the truest beauty of good friends mere minutes away.

Tonight I'll think of those in the great city I walked away from, spent laughing with friends and significant others and wives and husbands.

Tonight I'll think of those who celebrated before me, curled up in beds in London, on a couch in Bruges, getting on a train to Budapest.

Tonight I'll think of those close but not close enough, sharing this city and my heart. Of the girl in Boston, the one in DC, the family in Connecticut and New Jersey and Pittsburgh.

Tonight I'll think of those in time zones west, with their boyfriend's family in Chicago, with his wife in LA.

These are the people I love, that have meaning to me. I will stand on this whirling planet, and I will love them; I will pray they find a moment of quiet to sit in, and pray they can feel it as I speak these borrowed words.

Now we are known.

We take root.

Happy 2014.

On Amsterdam.

So here I am, somewhere over the Atlantic, throat still itchy from the cheap hash we had to finish before we left the boat, arm crackly and aching from the fresh ink scratched into my skin three days prior. Already in my head I can hear the inevitable cavalcade of voices asking the same thing - “How was Amsterdam?”

Somewhy, I don't really feel like answering. Not for any particularly deep-rooted reason – there wasn't some deep resonance to the trip that would encourage me to keep it to myself, nor did anything untoward happen for me to keep under my hat. Amsterdam simply was, and I was in it. I had a good time, and now I'm coming home.

Then how do I answer? With the obvious, I suppose – with the details, with the simple joy of meeting Darian at the door, or finding Jon at Centraal or Pigtails leading her cadre to us in the rain. The cheese, the coffeeshops, the bars and clubs, the Christmas dinner. The genever and the advocaat, the stroopwafel and showarma. Or even the quiet times between, the hours spent watching movies and napping, lying about in flannel and comfortable t-shirts.

It was a vacation. One with plenty to do at our fingertips. For some of us, it was one stop of many, a link in a chain of crazy European adventures. For others, it was an escape from the day to day, a walkaway from our jobs and quiet lives. It's over, and I'm ready to get back my work and my kitties.

But regardless of what it was, or how it was, I spent Christmas Day with a table of near-strangers and dear friends, raising a glass to something as simple as a houseboat on the canals of Amsterdam.

So here's to that.

On blogging in Amsterdam.

So I thought this trip would be a lot like Paris - with moments of my day I could settle down in front of the computer and write entertaining things for you folks back home to read.

Toooootally not the case. I'm either out wandering uncontrollably, doing something I'll be needing to recover from, or recovering from said things. Soooooooo I'll let you guys know what's up when I get back.

Because there's still totally things I need to be doing right now.

Lates.

On BED2013.

I know, I've been flying under the radar lately. For someone who started out the year blogging every day, the dropoff has been significant.

I remember why I started this project with Kitty - it was to start writing again, to regain some semblance of creativity in my life. It was also to keep track of myself, since I'd just started coming out of my shell after a couple of pretty dark years. And to both ends, even though I haven't been keeping up with the project in recent months, it's served its purpose mightily.

I guess what I'm saying is if you're finding yourself in a rut, maybe give something like this a try. It's not for everyone, of course, but chances are, if you're reading this, you're probably a blogger of some sort. Get your thoughts out on paper (or what passes for paper these days). Reread what you've said, what was running through your mind a day ago, a week ago, three months ago. It helped keep me on track, helped me realize when I was floundering, helped me figure out which directions to take.

And maybe it's the friendships I've made this year, be it through work, BiSC, VEDA, or otherwise. Maybe it's just getting out of the house and getting my hands dirty again. Or maybe it's the blog. (It's probably all of the above and more.) But I feel good again. I feel like me again. And much like getting some action after a long dry spell, you never really feel the impact of that kind of thing until you're in it.

Cheers, guys. Thanks for being a part of this year. Now if you'll pardon me, I have to finish packing for my trip to Amsterdam.

Suckers.

On keeping the horizon horizontal.

In response to SweeneySays' prompt.

Define the horizon. (is it the future? is it what you want? is it what you're aiming for?)

Keep it level. (look straight ahead at it. focus on it. see it for what it is. see earth and sky, dark and light. define the path that leads you there.)

Behold the road ahead. (see the things in your way. the steps you must take, the stones must stride over, the holes you must not fall into.)

Look at the things. (with your eyes on the horizon, keep it straight. don't turn your head at the people and events in your way; see them all from the same direction, facing forward.)

Know the things. (how do they fit against the horizontal line? do they stand in your way or guide your steps?)

Measure the distance. (that which is far away seems small. know they will grow as you approach, compensate accordingly.)

Keep the horizon horizontal. (the wind resistance will lower your gaze. obstacles will alter your trajectory. lift your head. remember to refocus. keep your perspective stable.)

Walk. (never stop walking.)

On a quick note about nachos.

Whenever I get nachos at a restaurant, I'm always sad to see them pile on the toppings, then throw the cheese on top to melt in the salamander before it comes out. It always ends in sadness - the soggy chips, the having-to-use-a-forkedness that nachos, true nachos, are supposed to obviate.

If you top the chips with cheese before you put the rest of the toppings on, the tasty lipid-rich shreddings create a waterproof barrier that delays the toppings' inevitable drippage, offering the perfect balance of crisp, toasty chips with the moist deliciousness atop it. Plus the steam from the meat or beans or what have you has somewhere to go other than down.

Science.

On some days.

Some days, you wake up and you hate everything. You realize it's still icy out and you parked on the wrong side of the street, which means your door lock is probably iced over. And your back hurts and you haven't gotten a good night's sleep in days.

And then you realize that in a week and a half, you'll be in Amsterdam.

And suddenly the world sucks a little less.

On a conversation about sandwiches.

Me: I am unfamiliar with this 'love' concept. Is it a kind of sandwich?

Pigtails: Yes.

It's a sandwich someone makes for you every day and serves you in bed. It's hard to make, but it's the only sandwich you want- so they make it every day. And it's amazing.

The most amazing sandwich in the world.


Beautiful.

On Christmas decorations.

So here's what my across-the-street neighbors' decorations look like at night. (Blurry as fuck, don't bother clicking on it.)

Cute, right? Now here's what they look like during the day.

Anyone else find this mildly horrifying? I can't be the only one.

On being too old.

Pigtails and I were talking last night about the concept of being too old for something. It's strange; I've been telling myself for the last few years that I'm too old to do this or that, to wear my old leather bracelets or get a new tattoo.

But why?

Fear of societal judgement, of course, always ranks high. No one wants to be the old guy at the club. But what if you still really enjoy getting drunk and sweaty and dancing your face off? Does the fact that you're VP of Marketing automatically mean you have to cut that part of your life out? When do you get too old to bleach your hair out or eat a pile of mushrooms on a Tuesday night?

I'm not going to lie; when I dyed my hair back in August, I was afraid. Afraid my old friends would judge me for doing something I used to do all the damn time in our 20s, afraid the people at work would consider it a pathetic attempt to reclaim my youth. But instead I was presented with grins and compliments, conversations and nods of approval.

I liked who I was back in New York. Sure, I wasn't going anywhere with my life; I was coasting in a dead-end bartending position and spending most of my free time getting drunk and playing pool. But I felt comfortable in that skin, my laugh was easy, my stories vivid and real. I didn't end my time there on my terms; I was shoved forcefully into a painfully adult situation in the desolate reaches of South Jersey. I stopped drinking and going out. I stopped having fun.

And yet I can't regret the intervening years. I tried and failed to run a business. I bought a house and experienced the freedom and responsibility that comes with that. A marriage came and went, teaching me the value of commitment and when to let go of something that's just not working. I've widened my skill range exponentially, making me significantly more valuable in my field.

Now I'm back on my feet, working a job I really like. Cracking jokes and fielding questions, making people feel comfortable and warm in my care. It's reminding me of what I liked about bartending, what I liked about my past self.

So what do I care if I want to dig out the bracelets and blast Less Than Jake in my car? Sure, I want to roll out, pound whiskey, and knock some pool balls around at night, but in the mornings I'm still researching information on starting a food truck. I think it's fair to say can take a step or two back if it gives me a better place to move forward from.

On waking up.

You know that little stretch of time between when you stop sleeping and when you wake up? That little half-sleepy range where you're slightly cogent and kind of dreaming. When you think of tangled limbs and laughter, shadows and comfort and the safety in the absence of light when you're not alone.

At least that's what's in my head more often than not in those magical few minutes. It's what I smile to as my eyes open and I hear Alistair scramble for breakfast, or my phone buzzing on the empty pillow beside me.

On my crazy brain.

I'm going to talk about me for a minute. This post is going to be entirely self-indulgent and more than likely will lead to no conclusion of relevance, to me or otherwise. To be honest, it's more so I can just get these words down and out of my head.

I'm an overthinker. I always have been. Ever since I can remember, every minute of every day, I'm thinking about something. Sure, there are things I can do to slow the train down - working jobs where I have to think on my feet keeps the noise down to a dull roar as I cycle through step after step in my systems. But for the most part, my mind is almost never still.

Which comes in handy, of course. When there is need for it, it kicks into high gear. All afternoon I've been sorting out things in my head about the business I used to run, recalling everything I've learned both there and in culinary school, and evaluating what needs to be different and what needs to be learned in preparation for the next big crazy idea. A lot of pacing, muttering to an empty house. A lot of rolled-back eyes and fluttering eyelids.

But once the words are down and the email's sent, my head's still on fast forward. And without a direction, it spins out of control. I find myself fragile and neurotic, thinking about sandwich architecture one moment and the inevitable death of my beloved pets the next. I think about romance and moving and all the details of my life in between, what I can plan for, what I can steer, what eventualities and possibilities I can prepare for. I pick out names for my children and floorplans for my home.

And in the end, not much has changed. Some of these plans are old, revisitations to thoughts I've had hundreds of times before. Some are new, and join the buzzing hive always sitting in the back of my head. And I settle back on my couch to try to drown it out in television and video games, always afraid, always anxious, and always, always prepared.

On giving thanks.

I am thankful for you.

To those forged to me in blood and whiskey, stoops and attics and trials of the infinitesimal years, who know who I've been and have faith in what I will become, I am thankful for you.

To those who stand with me in the weeds, on the rail, fighting back the hordes with the grinders and the stones and the deadly smiles, I am thankful for you.

To those who taught me the way of the fire, the knife, the pint glass and milk pitcher, the spreadsheets and resource management, I am thankful for you.

To those bound to me with miles of aluminum and fiber optics, who embrace me for eight seconds and love my face, I am thankful for you.

To those of the quiet nights, the healing couch, the clouds of smoke, the wings and television screens, I am thankful for you.

To those of the loud nights, the exuberant pints and rocks glasses, the music and the clicking of billiard balls, the rush of the subway and thunder of sidewalks, I am thankful for you.

And to those who rouse me from my slumber, who take me by the hand and drag me back into the light, I am so, so thankful for you.

I love you. May you see yourselves as I see you, beautiful and bright, worthy of all the love the world can afford. May you find a home in me. When you are hungry, let me nourish you. When you are cold, let me warm you. When you are afraid and empty, let me fill you with your self, strong and confident. What I offer you is vast and powerful, for it is from you, of you, always you.

And let us stride into the black together, eyes ever on the open road. Let us grow together, our stories etched into our skin. Time marches always beautifully on, and let us march on with it. Together.

On being oneself.

What does it mean to you to be you? Can you define it? Do you have the words to explain it?

We all know the phrases. Be comfortable in your own skin. Know yourself. Do what you love, be strong and confident. We use these phrases time and time again because, I suppose, they work. Why else would we use them?

Is it like being in love? When you feel like yourself, do you find it difficult to put into words, even though you know it in your heart?

Poetry break. Wonder.

Wonder's such a fascinating word;
calling visions - eyes as wide as pie,
hearts and minds as open as your arms
that night I saw you last. I thought I heard
your laughter in the bar, the ocean's sigh,
that dream I had, the sound of my alarm.
I watch as you, with wonder, blithely roam.
I wonder if you're ever coming home.

On absence.

There is a tranquility in absence.

I'm traveling a lot lately, as I'm sure you guys already know. And to me, there's two types of travel, the aggressive absorption of diving into a city, seizing it by the tail, and making it my own, and the quiet immersion into a lack of reality. Paris, not two weeks ago, was the former.

Tonight, I begin the latter here in Myrtle Beach. My room looks out over the ocean, the steady, humble roar of the waves replacing the sticky grind of wheels on a moist street. Standing on my balcony, I see no lights, no other people living their lives behind brick and glass. I see only the black of night stretching on into the distance.

There is a peace here I forget exists sometimes.

And I've got a week to soak in it.

On whirlwinds.

Make no bones about it, it doesn't matter how crazy your brain can get; nothing's crazier than two brains working on the same idea.

Science.

(mic drop)

On work philosophy.

I learned a couple of things early on in my bartending career to be valuable words to live by when you're working behind a counter.

1) Work clean.

2) Newton's First Law. (A body in motion tends to stay in motion, a body at rest tends to stay at rest.)

Taken objectively, these two rules seem like something you'd say at a job interview to seem obnoxiously hard-working and sycophantic. But the fact is, adhering to these two rules actually makes your life significantly easier.

If you train yourself to work clean, to wipe off your tools as you go and concentrate on keeping your workspace orderly and neat, you require WAY less brain and body power to clean up at the end of your shift. Everything's where it needs to be, cleaning is light and thorough, and you get things done faster and more relaxedly than if you had a giant mess to address.

As to the First Law, try this little experiment. Cook dinner for yourself, and the instant you don't have anything cooking-related to do, take out the garbage. Then finish cooking, sit down to eat, then go sit down on the couch and watch an episode of The Office. Now take out the recycling.

So much harder, isn't it?

Just keep moving. When you finish one task, move on to the other. When you beat down a rush, set yourself up for the next one. It takes far less effort to just keep your momentum going than it does to stop and start and stop and start again. You can wear yourself out by the end of your shift by taking breaks. I'm not saying don't ever post up when you need to - hell, everyone's human, and a proper shift should take some of the jam out of your doughnut. Just don't post up if you don't need to.

So yeah, every interview I have, I make it a point to mention my work philosophy, whether they get it or not. Working hard is one thing. Anyone can work hard. But working smart is what gets you to the end of the day on time and still standing. Give it a shot, see how it works out for you.

On chili mac.

Little mini skillet, a scoop of chili on the bottom. Mac and cheese on top, tossed under the salamander to crust the top. A little sprig of herb, a wedge of bread toasted on one side to wipe out the last bits of tastiness.

Tell me you wouldn't buy that on a cold November afternoon.