oil-based and/or gouache memories

So here we are.

I was having dinner with two college friends last night, and we were marveling at the things and people we chose to remember, as opposed to the things and people we simply forgot, by choice or not. 

For instance, I remember that I’d learned to play 500 in college (a stressful experience if I recall, as evidenced by my mood ring turning jet black in the course of my learning until I finally got a grasp on the game) and that my friends and I spent many hours in our dorm suite playing 3-, 4-, 5-, and 6-handed variations, listening to INXS and David Bowie, or underground recordings that Laura’s then-fiancé Jeff (who worked for Rykodisc at the time) would pass along to her. I remember the concrete walls, the bolted-down furniture, the Handi-Snacks, and the faces of everyone behind the cards (that included 11s, 12s and 13s). 

But I don’t remember how to play. At all.

And on Friday, I found myself recalling pockets of another memory, a memory I had not thought about in many years, but that I still saw vividly in my mind:

the whole and my sum

So here we are.

Whilst setting up this Blogspot account, I spent a good deal of time staring at the "My Profile" page. It's a tad Facebookian. So many things I can choose to share with you about myself: I can tell you when my birthday is, or what my interests are, or what my favorite books or movies are, and then, presumably, you will know all about me. But don't go clicking on that profile. It will tell you nothing, and not just because I left most of the fields blank.

Let me clarify that I am not averse to sharing. My website's FAQ page answers many questions that may or may not have ever needed to have been posed. But it occurred to me the other day that, try as we might, the concept of finding kindred spirits through algorithms alone is deeply flawed. Not that I don't know a happy couple who met on Match.com. I do indeed know a happy couple who met on Match.com. One. Still, I can't shake the doubt that no matter how many movies I list as being my favorites, it's not really going to tell you who I am.

root root root... for...

So here we are.

Today, I encountered a brave soul named Matt at one of my favorite gently-worn (too-old-to-be-new but still shiny) places in New York City: Luke’s Lobster, where deliciousness reigns so supreme that I will actually scale a tall stool - and display my complete lack of grace in doing so - to partake in their fruits of the sea. 

Some people are brave because they battle the waters of Maine to haul in crates of heavenly crustaceans. Others are brave because they battle a steady flow of hardened New Yorkers who suffer no fools when it comes to lunch.

Matt was brave because he was wearing a Steelers cap. Today. Three days before The Game.

confused

So here we are.

And I am confused. Maybe it’s because I may or may not be a Sagittarius anymore and I don’t know how to spell or pronounce this new 13th sign that I’m supposed to be, or even what qualities I’m supposed to have now. I used to be a fiery archer. Now I guess I’m supposed to be officious.  (Is that how you pronounce it?) That is, if this new sign is going to be recognized. I don’t know. Confused.

But I think it’s because Miss America is back on network TV, like it never went away, like nobody stopped caring. I didn’t even know it was going to be on TV tonight until I got an email from DSW promoting it. Confused, indeed. How can a discount shoe purveyor possibly have enough spare cash to sponsor this pageant? Those big glass steps don’t build themselves. Unless they weren’t really passing on those savings to me at all...

not gonna

So here we are.

And I’m not gonna write about how hungry I am. First, because it’s not the real hunger of the truly hungry and it insults those who are, in fact, desperately hungry and I realize how much it makes me sound like just the quintessential caricature of a rich, spoiled, bloated American who buys expensive diet food when they eat too much regular-priced food and who drives to places where we walk on treadmills. 

Plus it smacks of bad stand-up comedy and/or a pathetic weight-loss commercial.

"new"

So here we are.

Yes, yes, it’s a new year. Filled with the promise of all sorts of new things, some of which come to fruition but most of which don’t. 

Fret not that all of the glittering trimmings and lights of the holiday season have been taken down, leaving behind the somber grays of a barren winter. It’s been replaced with a new decor. Why look, there’s rhetoric everywhere, more pervasive than the lingering grime-capped snow drifts:

New Year, New You!

This is so exhausting. Year after year we’re told that we need/should/ought to grab this chance to overhaul everything about who we are and create a total newness in appearance, attitude, or intelligence that even if we do achieve, will become obsolete in another 365 days.