Second and Long

Here I sit, waving goodbye to yet another month ... and the first quarter of 2009. WTF? Time seems to be slipping by awfully fast considering that nothing has happened yet this year. It's 11 a.m. and I'm at a coffeehouse in Doylestown, Pa., sipping from a 20-ounce cup of black coffee and listening to vintage Cure and Twisted Sister songs. And to think, someone might suggest I'm doing nothing with my life. You can't stop rock n' roll, you know. Just ask Dee Snider.

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I've been on the job hunt for nearly six months now, having sent resumes and clips and cover letters to anybody looking for a decent journalist. Packages containing my life's work have gone to Alaska, Colorado, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Vermont, Connecticut, Missouri, Virginia, Arizona, Oregon and probably a few places in between. I'm getting close to the next phase of my life, methinks, but close only counts in ... well, you know. I have dreams of the Chicago Blackhawks knocking on my door and asking me to join their communications team ... and then, serendipitously, one of their defencemen -- Duncan Keith, perhaps -- goes down with an injury, opening a slot for yours truly. I played ice hockey for six years post-college, after all. I'm a decent skater and play solid defence, as long as I don't have to touch the puck. The Blackhawks don't need to know I have zero puck-handling ability.

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Or maybe all the writing I've done over the past few years will magically make its way into the hands of an agent who believes I'm the next Chuck Palahniuk or Michael Chabon (apologies to Chuck Palahniuk and Michael Chabon for comparing myself to them) and he/she signs me to a six-book deal with a six-figure advance. Everyone has to have a dream. I've been watching the TNT show "Trust Me" about the joys and perils of running an advertising agency in Chicago. That's got me lusting for a creative job like that. But I used to work for an agency -- two actually, one of them in the entertainment business -- and never found life to be quite like how it's portrayed on the small screen. Maybe I was running with the wrong crowd again.

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I'm reminded of the funny-as-hell film "Dumb & Dumber," in which losers played by Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels stumble upon a new life. ("Tell her I have a rapist's wit.") Toward the end of the film, they are wandering aimlessly and waiting for a new opportunity to find them. On cue, a tour bus filled with bikini-clad women pulls up and one of the women asks for directions to town so they can find two guys to oil them up before whatever job it is they do in bikinis. Daniels' and Carrey's characters don't see the opening in front of them and merely point the girls in the opposite direction, lamenting that opportunity will find them one day. I sometimes feel I've let the same thing happen to me. I had a few job offers come my way early this year but turned them down for different reasons. But here I am, wondering when my ship will come in. Maybe it already came in -- twice! -- and I let it chug out of the harbor without me.

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That's a bad way of looking at things, I suppose, though I am conscious of what I've left behind. I don't blame anyone. I made the choice with open eyes. But I soldier on, confident my life is about to change. It's always changing, isn't it? Isn't everyone's? I'm going to live somewhere else, do something else, working in a different industry than I have for the past nine years. And it's going to be great. I'll be part of a team. I'll be vital. I'll be important. I'll be making money. I'll be making decisions. And I'll be back on my feet, growing into a new, different and better person.

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Tomorrow the second quarter of 2009 officially begins. It's going to be the best quarter, like, ever! I've got my fingers crossed that it will at least be a.) more interesting, b.) not quite as lonely, and c.) a lot less painful. Something's got to happen.

Slow Death of an Unhappy Man

Sometimes I feel as if I'm stuck between Steps 4 and 8 of the 12-step program. By that I mean I'm making an inventory of my life while wanting to apologize to those I have wronged as I plod toward the finish line. That list includes me for all the damage I've done in the past few years. "Hey, man. Sorry for ruining your life and stuff." "It's cool. I get it: You're lost. No harm and all that."
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I'm getting over the fact that I should not have quit the best job I've ever had. I'm getting over the fact that, in 2006, I was growing into the person I've always wanted to become but let him wither into a confused and frightened child. I'm getting over (or trying to, anyway) the fact that leaving my job cost me much more than I ever expected: time, money, friendships, identity, self-worth, growth and some other, even more important stuff I have no way of quantifying. Worse yet, I've hurt others along the way.
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Right now I'm reading "Dark Nights of the Soul" by Thomas Moore. (Coincidentally I'm also reading "The Woman Lit by Fireflies" from Jim Harrison, "The Jungle" from Upton Sinclair and a find-your-way kind of self-help book from Martha Beck.) A "dark night," the way Moore sees it, is any life-altering event that thrusts one into the throes of despair and introspection but ultimately shapes him or her into a stronger and wholly different person. I'm all for this brand of change, because the guy I see in the mirror every morning isn't someone I want to know anymore.
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Turns out that Moore has some experience in this area. He has lived a very colorful life. He's a monk. He's a musician. He's a philosopher. He's a prolific writer. And he's also very human, so he has had to confront his share of life changes. He has had failed relationships. He has lost things. But he has hope for the future. Such hope begins with living through these dark nights, or painful journeys, and finding a different person standing on the other side.
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He writes in "Dark Nights" about the importance of sorting out the detritus of one's life and starting over, which is the point where I now find myself. It's terrifying yet exciting because it deals with matters of death and rebirth. He also writes about living a life based on love and desire rather than one based on rationality and control. That's where I've been: I've tried to control my life from one second to the next, too often in the wrong circumstances. At times I've been complacent and let life take me where it wishes, while at other times I've kept too firm a grip on the steering wheel. I'm not sure what this force is, this repressive little imp, but it's made me an unhappy person who's afraid to take chances. I've lost so much of myself already. I don't want to waste any more time, but Moore tells me I can't rush the process.
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There's a famous quote about the need to take control of one's own destiny lest someone else control it for him. It's a fine saying, and it applies to many situations ... but not all. So where does one draw the line? When does one exercise control by letting the brain lead, and when does one loosen the strings and let the heart do what it wants? Me, I've been a horrible judge.

A New Path

I envision a day when I am free. I can almost see it, and that is a good sign. In this vision I am walking across a field with tall, green grasses and wildflowers with yellow and purple petals. Snow-capped mountains loom in the distance. A backpack weighs me down. The singletrack trail on which I walk is slightly worn, strewn with pebbles and bugs and the occasional toad. It's somewhere in Colorado, this place. Or Montana. Or Washington. Maybe even Oregon.

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The exact location in this dream doesn't matter. What does matter is that I am free to walk where I wish, do what I wish. I am smiling wider than I have in some time. I have no deadlines to meet. I have no responsibilities. I am merely ... here. Who cares if a grizzly bear has caught my scent and has been tracking me for seven miles, waiting to pounce as I nod off beneath a sky rich with a million stars?

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Thoughts of being mauled aside, I am optimistic today, and I think this represents a turning point -- a change in my mental state. Or maybe I'm just having a good morning. It could be the endorphins, after all. Or maybe it's the promise of freshly brewed coffee. Whatever it is, I am ready for a change. And better yet, I can begin to envision the change and the aftermath and the idea of being happy again. (Yay, me!) For so long I have settled for a life that I did not design. For so long I have followed someone else's footsteps. For so long I have done what I'm "supposed" to do. I'm sick of following the rules. The rules don't matter.

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I don't know how I ended up here, especially considering my late teens and early 20s. I played bass in a punk-rock band and surrounded myself with people who did what they wanted, where they wanted, why they wanted. Punks, yes. Anarchists, sure. They didn't care about labels or anything like that. They were just living and doing exactly what they wanted to do. I was different from them, however. I had a good time touring and recording and rehearsing and just having friends, but I yearned for something more than the life I had been living. I just didn't know what it was then. And I knew that punk rock and I were parting ways. So I grew up, got a job I didn't want and did everything else I was supposed to do, only because it was what I was supposed to do. I became my father ... minus the children, of course.

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I lived much too cautiously for my first 25 years. I settled for jobs that were below my abilities. I lived with my parents for longer than I should have. I was the good guy, the nice guy, the safe guy, the polite guy. I always did the right thing, and now I can't imagine why. I didn't realize the freedom that I had. Even after I moved out, I stayed close to home because ... why go anyplace else? I always wanted to leave, to live somewhere else, to meet different people. Philadelphia is a great city, but it never quite fit me, or me it. But I stayed, because I was supposed to. Because it was safe. Because everybody else did the same. I let the current take me. But then, one by one, everybody else moved away and did different things, experimented, tested themselves, tried on new lifestyles. But here I was, still plugging away at jobs I didn't really want, working hard and beginning to earn decent money ... but being bored as hell.

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I was always ready for a change, always hungry to make it happen. Fear and other things got in the way. I see now that giving in to fear has hobbled me and kept me from growing. So I'm not going to be afraid anymore.

The Muse

I've had a few things on my mind lately, as anyone might. A good writer would weave such things into a finely told story. I'm simply going to make a list. Maybe there is a story tucked in here somewhere. Maybe all these things are related somehow. Or maybe this is another waste of a blog post.

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Jack Johnson's "Breakdown." Lung cancer. Salamander larvae in a vernal pool. Being jobless. Nightmares about witches. An unopened pack of bass strings. Weddings. Divorces. A dog sleeping on a bed in a room with open windows, a gentle breeze lifting the curtains. Andrew Wyeth paintings. Kale. Sweaty T-shirts stuffed under a car seat. The ugliness of the German language. Atomic bombs. Plain white panties. Ferris wheels. Charisma Carpenter. Signing bonuses. Upside-down crosses. People with buck teeth. Oregon. Rocky, sandy beaches. Phones that don't ring. Trees. "The Cannonball Run." Andy Dick. Melting snow. Charcoal. How to make charcoal. Three-hundred business cards I will never use again. Maps of places I would like to visit. Banjos. France. The color green. Chicago. The '80s. Run-on quotes. Rivers, lakes, streams and other bodies of water. Bayfield, Wisconsin. Werewolves. Brown eyes. Abraham Lincoln. Terrorism. Legwarmers. Calvados. The rabbit in my back yard. Being alone.

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Empty notebooks. Quiet. Jennifer Weiner's next book. Taking a seat in row 17 of a Southwest Airlines jet. Esquire magazine. The Replacements. Google. Burmese pythons. My iPod. Mythology. The Police (the band, not the men in blue). Scylla and Charybdis. Blue Man Group. Saturday morning cartoons. Pop-Tarts. Meat. Meatless hot dogs. Depressing Josh Ritter songs. Hot nights in May. Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast." Arizona. Jail. Pentagrams. Elvis impersonators. Right-side-up crucifixes. Speeding tickets. Concert tickets. War. Peace. North Korea. Israel. Ivory Coast. Kansas. Alternative energy. "Rocky IV." Soap made from animal fat. Cracker Jack. People I hate. People who hate me. High-school wrestling. Teeth. Edward Hopper. Broken ankles. Mustard. Solitaire. Bad paint jobs. Tattoos I'll never have. Jokes. Throwing chairs through windows. Crying.

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Siberian tigers being reclassified as Amur tigers because there are so few of them left, all crammed into the Amur River basin. Mexican food. James Taylor songs that suck. Yellow trains. Text messages. Disappointment. Bloody noses. Guns. Knives. Spent bullet casings. Hope. More disappointment. Holidays. Long walks. Contemplative drives to the mountains. Slurpees. Salads. Utah. Snow. Sunrises. Stars. Blankets. Warmth. Dead fish. "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog." CCCP. Finger pointing. Sixteen dollars. Being homeless. Sitting on a bench, holding hands on a quiet Saturday afternoon. Snakes. Misunderstandings. Breakups. Flights of red wine. Slippery slopes. Cookies. Needles. Tears. Paying it forward. Blank checks. Health-care bills. Sleepless nights. McLean, Virginia. Falling down stairs. "Fringe." Walks by the lake. Bruises. Panic.

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Childhood homes. Bowling alleys. Neon. Niagara Falls. ("Niagara Falls!") Tongues fighting each other. Danzig versus Shakira. Standing in parking lots at 3 a.m. Standing in parking lots at 10 p.m. Standing in parking lots and sitting in cars. Lonely hotel rooms. "Tropic Thunder." Chinese beer. Comfortable beds. Squid. Jesus riding a hippo. Steam. Bottle openers. Broken wine bottles. Veins. Staple guns. Steel cages. "Seinfeld" reruns. Apartment hunting. Pubic hair. Reverting. Avoidance. Books about murder. Books about suicide. The Teletubbies dancing to "Spellbound" from Dimmu Borgir. Ninjas. The word "turbo." Being on stage. Fluffy gray cats. Stains. Condoms. Cable TV. Waking up tired. Drunk-driving fatalities in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Stones. Assignments. Snow Patrol. Therapy. Czech food. Dry feet. Red toenails. Coffee. Cinnamon. Fear. Avocados. Shrimp. Turbans. Shoveling snow. Reproduction. O'Hare versus Midway. Accents. Pez dispensers. Nipples. Climbing staircases. Missed opportunities. News reports. Resignations. Relief. Fleeting happiness. Seattle. Holes in the ground.

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Flesh-colored bras. Madison, Wisconsin. Sad songs. Ska. Late-night phone calls. Twelve dollars. Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight." Obama versus McCain. Short stories from Joe Hill. Shampoo. Rust. Hot tea. Primates. Urges. Short stories about death. Suppression. Repression. Depression. Riding in taxis with Russians named Alex. The lyrics "Will you ever / No you may never / See me on the other side of this life." Black dresses. Bar bands. Smoky rooms. Vomiting. Pictures of small children. Nights that end too quickly. Bathroom breaks. Leaning. Waiting. Hoping. Ants. Area codes. Paintings in waiting rooms. Baseball games. Nice hotels. Awards. The Chicago Blackhawks. The solitary pain of January 1. Threats. Beards. Love. The future. Happy endings.