Friends

I'm a crappy friend. I never reach out, get in touch. I don't remember what is going on in your life. I make no effort. My friendships start out well enough, but I have no staying power. The getting to know each other phase is typical enough, but the connection rarely matures, never solidifies. And then the friendship simply dwindles away. If we are friends today, the chances are high that in five years we won't be anymore.

At this point in my life my only successful relationships are with my wife, Susan, and my kids. I manage to stay cordial with my father though weekly phone calls, but after that, it is mostly a void. A long string of people who were once my friends. My brothers included. There are many people I consider friends, but in a very surface way. Friendly at the gym, friendly at the market. More of a "hey, how ya doin?" Not an attempt to catch up on their lives. I never make plans to hang out, get together.

I wasn't always like this. For thirty-some years, friendships came easily. As a teen, I had a tight group. A motley crew of geeks, stoners and second-rate athletes. Hanging out at school, after school, nights, weekends. Constant connection. Into college, a large circle of friends, spending time together in the way only college students can. We moved as a unit. To class, to meal time, to parties. I know that this level of connection doesn't last. Isn't supposed to last. It is what made the show "Friends" so popular. Adults hanging onto the high school/college friendship-model through their twenties, into their thirties. Proof that many adults feel isolated, living vicariously though their TV chums.

Susan is much better at this relationship game. She works at it. Makes plans to see her friends weekly, plans for us to get together with other couples. I'm a liability. Along for the ride, but no effort in the planning. When we are out with a group or entertaining, I probably do my share, an enjoyable presence. But then I shut down. I practically ignore those same people in any other situation. A warm evening of discussion, jokes, drinks, connection. The next day I run into them at the gas station, all they get from me is a smile and a nod.

I'm not rude, just awkward.

For the past few months, I've been working to improve my ability to mingle. To fit in and be friendly in unscripted encounters. With people I know, but don't know well. I joined a runners group – the beer runners. A short to mid-distance run then an evening in the bar. I thought that this would help me make some new friends, sort of start over. And to develop some ease in social situations. Maybe some of these new friendships would mature. This has been partially successful. I have actually gained some skill at chit-chat. I'm much better with one or two people, but passable in a group. But as I delve into the topic, I realize that this approach is misguided. My problem is less about making the friends but fostering the friendships once I have them. These new friends at my runners' group, we'll never get together except for a run and a beer.

It's much easier hanging out with women. I'm a one-on-one communicator, and women seem to be more comfortable with this. Also, guy-talk typically revolves around sports, and I'm uninterested. I haven't watched a football game in years. Baseball is relaxing at the ballpark, but we don't live near one, so I'm ignorant on that topic too. Basketball and Hockey? No interest at all. I can't even fake it. I don't know the players names. I like to talk about books, kids, societal issues. But I'm married. These women are married. It comes off as weird. I was in a writers' group with two women. The three of us would get together to discuss each others' efforts. When one woman dropped out, the meetings had to end. It was too much like a date. Unfair to our spouses.

Last weekend, I received a letter from a friend. My oldest friend, Brian. We met the first week at college, and we hit it off immediately. He got married on Saturday, and the take-away gift for the guests was a handwritten letter from the couple, really a letter from each of them. They each took a side of the sheet. Over the years, I've been surprised that my friendship with Brian has lasted. True to form, I make limited effort. Months will pass without communication and then Brian will reach out to me. Give me a call at work, send a catch-up email. And when he does this, he makes it seem like we are continuing a conversation from yesterday.

Brian's life has been one of actualization. Divorced at twenty-four and never had kids, he has made it a point to continually learn, continue to grow. Employed by an impressive university, he is able to take classes for free. And he hasn't wasted his time pursuing a program that tacks fancy letters to the end of his name, bolsters his resume. Something like an MBA. He takes scatter-shot courses on whatever topic interests him at the time. And all of these interests, all of this education makes him a fascinating person. He is filled with knowledge, but more importantly, he is filled with curiosity. Talking with him is like talking to a sun-rise. He seemingly glows with excitement.

For the past few years, Brian has repeatedly commented that my friendship is immeasurably important to him. Hard to believe. I would expect our friendship to be one of the most frustrating things in his life. He does all the work. I seemingly take him for granted. We live about ninety minutes apart. He is the one who calls to make plans. He is the one who travels to get together. I always have an excuse. Kids, vision problems, work events. And when we do get together, I can't believe it is very rewarding. Our kids are just getting to the point where they can take care of themselves. For the past twelve years, most of our visits with Brian have included the presence of children. Very distracting. Hard to have a meaningful conversation. When he leaves, I feel dull, ordinary. I feel like I've let him down, again.

But here's the thing, twenty-five years ago – before I lost my skill at friendships, when deep personal relationships were still second nature for me, before I lost my ability or desire to connect with the people close to me – I stood by Brian during a hard time in his life. When Brian was getting divorced and coming out as gay, I remained his friend. This is what Brian wrote in his wedding letter to me. He referenced a time when I took him out for dinner and drinks when I learned he was home alone on his birthday. Apparently, I've earned a lifetime of of marginal effort by simply taking advantage of a fun party night on the spur of the moment.

I'm not completely sure what my problem is. When I became aware of the decline in my ability to connect, two significant changes had taken place in my life. I had recently survived a serious bike accident, and I changed the way I drink alcohol. The crash got the blame. Massive internal trauma and a serious concussion. Eighteen hours with no memories. More than a year of recovery. Convalescence, follow-up surgery, physical therapy and PTSD. A lonely, painful, uncomfortable time. It's easy to point to this as a personality changing event. A head injury so severe, it changed my essence. But with years behind me, lots of thought on the subject. I think it is the alcohol. Prior to the crash, I was a partier. Nightly drinking, several nights each week completely drunk. Lots of time out with friends. Mingling in bars. Funny and fun. The life of the party.

I'm an introvert by nature, but an extrovert with a drink in my hand. I leaned on alcohol for so long that I forgot how to be comfortable without it. Too self-conscious, not funny enough, sharp enough. It's not surprising that I do fairly well after the beer-run. I'm relearning the skill of being engaging while drinking. Chatting up strangers over alcohol.

I don't remember Brian's birthday incident. I told him he put way too much significance on my behavior that night. But he says no, it was just an easy to write example of my non-judging, unquestioning friendship. An anecdote to show how I put our relationship above all else. This isn't me anymore. Or at least this isn't me right now. I'm not talking about the judgement, I'm still pretty good at not judging, or at least accepting. But the importance of friendship? I feel it, for sure. And I miss it. But I just can't find it. It is something I want to regain. I want to connect with the people in my life.

I realize that standing around soaked in sweat and downing beer with acquaintances isn't the way to find soul mates. BFFs to replace the ones I've squandered over the years. But these new surface-relationships are easy. At least easier than reaching out and making an emotional connection with the people I already know.

Social Media

‘cause we zig and zag between good and bad
stumble and fall on right and wrong
‘cause the tumbling dice and the luck of the draw just leads us on

A beautiful lyric from Camper Van Beethoven’s "When I Win the Lottery." A Christian lyric. Calvinist. An attestation to John Bradford's "But for the grace of God go I." God is in charge. God sets the agenda. We're along for the ride. "Lottery" is a clever song about a ne'er do well who dreams of buying glory though his predestined lottery winnings.

… Or…

"No Fate but what we make."

The theme of Linda Hamilton's "Terminator 2". The future is unwritten. Destiny is in my control. I set my path. I create my lot in life. In complete opposition to the CVB lyric. Empowering, but also frightening. Makes us feel small and alone. T2 was the high-point of the Terminator series. After a twelve year hiatus, T3 came along and showed us that the future was in fact already decided. I realize this was necessary to continue the franchise, but it nullifies the whole point of T2. It destroys the essence that set T2 above the action movie genre as something unique, something deep.

I fall squarely in the No Fate camp. I believe in God, but I believe God is irrelevant to the world around me. The intelligent designer who set things in motion a bazillion years ago with the big bang - and then off to other projects. Maybe checks in every few millennia to see how we're doing, but not in control, except maybe in some macro way that only an astrophysicist could understand. Impossible to track or steer the quadrillions of lives in all of the various universes, dimensions.

There is a danger using pop culture references to guide our philosophy. Pop culture it trite. It keeps things simple, easy. It is almost always black and white, but that appeals to me. The Yin/Yang should be my symbol, but not in the positive balanced way it is intended. Good/bad, light/dark is the way I see everything. I try to remind myself that there are no clear lines, that everything contains various shades of grey. But at my center, at my base, my knee jerk reaction is always right/wrong.

One of my yes/no lines in the sand is Social Media. I have studiously avoided it from the start. I never saw the point. Platforms like Facebook seem to give people the impression that they have relationships where none exist. Connecting with long lost friends, but not in a direct manner. Not like a exchanging emails, or a phone call, or getting together. More like a voyeur, peaking in on each other's life. Connected, but without any real connection, any effort. I created a LinkedIn account a few years ago. A nod to convention during a job hunt. From time to time I get "connection requests" from people I know. And after we connect? Nothing happens. When people ask to connect with me, I always accept. I'm now connected with dozens of people, but nothing has ever come of it. LinkedIn is constantly sending me emails suggesting connections with other people. I ignore them. LinkedIn reminds me of people I knew in the eighties. A desk drawer full of business cards mixed in with used plastic forks and spoons. Social Media, in my mind, is a giant waste of time.

Without realizing that it was happening, I got sucked in. Google+. It started with my blog. Ponderous essays on a variety of topics. Not slapped out in twenty minute bursts, but wrought through several sessions – hours of work each. And a lot of what I write is pretty good. Some of it is very good. This is not just my opinion, feedback from my writers’ group, feedback when I publish an Op Ed in my newspaper. I created my blog page. I posted an essay that I just completed. I posted a couple of older ones that I thought were above average. And then I waited. No one visited my page. I added labels, tags. More essays, good essays. Still no one visited. And then I learned about Google+ communities.

Bicycling, running, mental health, punk music. These are the topics that interest me. When I created a presence in these communities, people found my blog. Actual followers. Small chunks of readership in a variety of countries. Turkey, Germany, Russia. Ukraine is the biggest and most consistent. And I'm not sure why. Ukrainians have been reading my months-old blog-post "Validation" steadily for weeks. I would think folks in Ukraine would have more important things to worry about right now than what I have to say. My kids think this is cool. They are of Ukrainian descent. My wife, Susan, a first generation American.

But those Google+ communities. This media actually is social. I'm not hanging onto old, dried up relationships, I'm creating new ones. Back and forth commenting. Reading updates on people's lives. Joking, sparring, some honest-to-God arguments. I know their kids names, the city where they live. Their goals, their interests, their achievements. It's a platform that no one ever talks about. Not in the news like Facebook, twitter, et al. And because my communities are one-dimensional, focused specifically on trail-running, or fixed-gear bikes, or OCD, or Tourette's Syndrome, the people I'm connecting with are far more diverse than my flesh and blood friendships. We intersect and bond over a narrow band of interest. The remainder of our lives, our hobbies, our activities, our professions are varied and random.  

I spend a lot of time looking for well written blogs. Blogs on topics meaningful to me. Mental health, broken spirits, that sort of thing. Many of these bloggers are Christian - very. Not surprising, folks struggling with problems often need someplace to turn. These blogs are primarily on the community’s subject matter, but they often include the theme that God is in control. God has a plan. If I put my faith in God, everything will be all right. I've never tried to do this. I have a natural distrust of authority figures – those in a position to set the rules. And who could possibly have more authority than God? But these bloggers, they are some of the people I’m meeting, my new friends, the ones I’m just getting to know.  

A year into the game, I now find myself worrying about offending some of these new friends. I am accepting of others beliefs, but are they accepting of mine? Like the new kid in school, I want to fit in, but I want to be myself. In my essays, I lay it all out. Nothing is hidden. My deepest thoughts and secrets. It is so personal that only a handful of my friends even know about my blog. It isn't information I'm comfortable sharing with the people I see every day. People at my work. My family. Long lost friends.

The comparison of quotes at the start of this essay gets to the heart of my fear. Will Calvinists accept my No Fate philosophy? Can Christians accept my beliefs in reincarnation, my rejection of Christianity? Can anyone in Europe accept that I'm an American? Many of my connections revolve around rock music, bicycles and running. What do these people think of my OCD? Tourette's Syndrome? Past drug use? Do they care? My tendency in the flesh and blood world is to avoid unpleasant topics. They make people uncomfortable. I don't stand on the street corner and rant about my kids' teachers. Or bemoan my struggles with alcohol. On-line, as Charley Rider, I tell the truth, my truth. For the past year, it hasn't mattered what anyone thought. If someone was offended, well, I didn't even know who they were. I'm starting to know. I'm starting to worry. It has begun to matter. I'm starting to care about the faceless people I'm meeting on Google+.

Slowdown Throwdown

Eli, AKA DJ-E, has taken the Hannah Montana pop classic Hoedown Throwdown and slowed it down by about 30%. The resulting song, The Slowdown Throwdown is fantastic. I think that this pays nice tribute to Cyrus' voice because it does not sound weak or watery at the slower speed. The whole thing works.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0h08Y5PyvU

Listen to half of it and you should be hooked.

Robin

For years and years, I had a boss that I really didn't like very much. Al was funny and capable, but not a good person. Married with two small boys, he would spend every weekend on overnight scuba diving trips or camping at a minor league NASCAR track. Working pit for his friend. He said these trips were reward for being the bread-winner. His wife sat around all week, so she didn't need a break on the weekend like he did. When the inevitable divorce came, Al started buying gold bars. He embezzled as much money from the relationship as he could get away with. His wife deserved nothing. He cringed at the thought of her taking the money that he earned. Al's favorite movie was "Good Morning Vietnam". 

At first blush, Good Morning Vietnam seems like the sort of movie that cheese-balls like Al prefer. The sort of movie that they can quote over beers with their friends. Like Top Gun or Stripes. And it is. GMV is loaded with quotable lines. The sort of jokes that immature men can tell one another when they cannot think of anything witty to say. I have seen GMV a dozen times. I won a copy of the VHS tape on a radio call-in contest in the late eighties, so I have owned it for twenty-five years. Comedy and action, a movie to watch when restless, late at night.

There is a depth and warmth to the movie that transcends the cheese. It paints a human portrait of residents of Vietnam that has nothing to do with war. It shows their life of poverty and striving. It shows humor and hardship. The movie is a roller-coaster. From comedic to heartfelt to tragic and back. And the reason it works is Robin Williams. His character makes each section of the movie believable. His humor is undeniable, but it is the acting that makes him special. His facial expressions tell most of the story. His wonder, his joy, his pain.

It would probably be hard to find an American who couldn't think of a Robin Williams movie she or he loves. The body of work is vast and varied. He was prolific (three movies in post-production right now) and unpredictable. I looked through his filmography on www.imdb.com and I was shocked to see the number of films he starred in. Most of them were unfamiliar to me. But many of them are in my list of favorites. Funny movies that made me think. Thinking movies that made me laugh. Movies about broken people trying to find their way in life. The Fisher King, Dead Poet's Society. Even RV.

My favorite in the list is Good Will Hunting. When it came out, I watched it twice. A movie about a troubled young man wrestling with his demons. But when I watched it a few months ago, the first time in a decade or more, I found it to be about an aging therapist. A man trying to get his life back on track following loss. Clearly, my perception has changed because of my age and my maturity, but there is something else there. Something that is consistent in every Robin Williams movie that appeals to me. While he is completely overbearing on screen, the star of the show, he somehow lets the other actors leave a memorable impression. My most vivid memories of GMV, et al, are not of Williams telling jokes, but of another character's crisis. Every Robin Williams movie I can think of, that I love - where his character grows, adapts, improves - is also about someone else.

I'm sure that my old boss, Al, is throwing out Good Morning Vietnam quotes these days. Me, I'm thinking of Robin's trademark sad-smile. His warm but resigned eyes. The evidence that there is always a bit of pain beneath joy.   

Why Fixed?

"The bike cannot coast. The pedals never stop turning. Can't stop. Don't want to either." - Premium Rush (movie 2012)

"That's stupid. Coasting is the best part." - My brother, David.

Two disparate quotes, polar opposites. A starting place that indicates common ground will never be reached. That's fine. It isn't an important topic. Doesn't affect society, not worth arguing about. Not like climate change, gay marriage or Lady Gaga. It really only impacts the rider. It is about aesthetics, purity, preference. It is riding “fixed.”

Fixed gear bikes have gained in popularity over the past two decades. Their simplicity is undeniable. Fewer moving parts, less to break down, to maintain. Less to rust. Less to steal. The design is straightforward. The bike has no freewheel. A device invented more than a century ago; it allows the back wheel to spin without moving the pedals. On a fixed gear bike, a fixie, as the hipsters call it, the pedals, the chainring, are essentially chained to the back wheel. If the wheel is spinning, so are the pedals. If the pedals are spinning, so is the wheel. Frontwards or backwards. The pedals and the wheel move as a unit. Pedal hard, the bike goes fast. Stop the pedals, the bike stops. Not much is simpler than that.

I began riding fixed when my kids finished child care, started grade school. No more drop-offs and pickups on my work commute. It had been eight years since my last stint as a bike commuter. I was itching to resume riding to work. Hell or high-water. Hot enough to fry an egg. Rain, sleet, dead of night. Any other clichéd adverse riding description. Any weather, any time. As early as 4:00 AM, as late as midnight. I didn't want to ride my 'good' bike. I had to park outside. I would ruin it. Or it might get stolen. I had a decades-old Trek 1200 in my attic. Nice frame, light, aluminum. It was all I needed. I stripped off the gears, the derailleur. Ditched one of the two chainrings and all other extraneous parts. Cut my dropbars into bullhorns. 'Flop & Chops' they call them. Shortened the chain. The only money I spent was on a cheap back wheel with a fixed hub. And then I rode it for years. Back and forth to work, all over town. Pretty much rode it until it was worn out, too hard to maintain.

The bicycle isn't as old as many people think. Barely older than the automobile. I once read on a bike-shop website that "for centuries Americans have enjoyed riding bicycles..." Not correct. The first pedal-propelled bike wasn't invented until almost 1860, and the first chain-driven bikes became available in the mid-1880s. But five years later, bikes included pneumatic tires and the familiar diamond design. And there it was. Just 30 years after the first pedal-bike was created, the bicycle was perfected. Materials have changed. Lighter, more durable metals, more pliable rubber for the tires. Improved machine techniques make everything sleeker, stronger. But the basic design was set. And they nailed it from the start. My brand new Specialized Langster is conceptually identical to a bike I could have bought in the late 1890s.

With proper seat-height and alignment, a bicycle is the most efficient means of human transportation. Least calories expended per miles covered. And on this machine, the engine gets stronger the more it is used. I would argue that the bicycle is the most perfect machine ever invented. In the past 125 years, engineers and manufacturers have tried hard to improve on the design. Adjustments made to the geometry. Shocks, disk brakes, and gears, lots of gears. Some of the changes have merit, some are just stupid and don’t last. But in the end, the basic 1890s design will work adequately for many if not most riders.

Langster with custom Hot Wheels track fender

I have two bikes right now. The Specialized Langster I mentioned earlier and a 2012 Giant Seek. The Seek is marketed as an "urban-influenced sport bike." Sort of a cross between a mountain bike and a road bike. Geometry-wise, it looks and feels more like a mountain bike, but it is road bike through and through. Sort of a bad-ass hybrid. It has 24 gears. I'm not opposed to gears, or even a freewheel. Both are nice on a long hilly ride. But for popping around town, I find them extraneous and in the way. One more thing to worry about. Am I in the right gear? Much more satisfying to just dig in and ride the gear I have. Attack the hills, control the descents, stand dead-still on my pedals at traffic lights. Trackstanding. Like a unicycle, fixies are far easier to keep upright when stopped. Imperceptible rocking, forwards and back. An inch or less. Riding fixed is fun. Aesthetic. Artistic. Human and machine working as a unit. Zen.  No need to switch gears and ride the brakes around every corner.

And for me, that's really what it comes down to. Connecting with the bike. Riding fixed pays homage to the roots of cycling. Recognizing that the bicycle has been perfect for well over a century. I find happiness in fixed-gear riding. It leaves me feeling peaceful. In touch with a bygone era. In touch with my favorite machine. For years I have been striving for simplicity in my life. So when asked why I ride fixed, I forego this long explanation. I usually answer "Why not?"

What if people purred?

Last Saturday morning, we adopted a cat. A kitten from our local shelter. A teeny male tabby that meows incessantly and purrs even more. Affection-starved from spending his life in a cage, this cat wants constant attention. This works well for us, Roz, our other cat, isn't all that interested in affection. She loves petting, head-scratching – for about twenty seconds. Then she gets up and walks away. How does Roz like the new cat? She's pissed. Lots of hissing. Paw up, claws out, ready to take a swipe.

I keep writing the "cat." I'm not certain he has a name yet. When we met him last week, we started calling him Moxie. He has plenty. Bold and playful. Spunky and fun. It was the perfect name. But at the time, the cat was a female. Or so everyone thought. On the intake form at the shelter, he was tagged as a female, and no one checked since, including us. We went to the shelter looking for a female cat. I've only had one male cat in my 51 years of life, and he was a bit of a let-down. Not very affectionate, mean to our other cat. I assumed all male cats were like this.

Eli and I talked about the word moxie about a week ago. His cousins from Maine had just concluded their annual visit. Ben, a high-school student, loves to drink Moxie soda. He wears a Moxie t-shirt almost every day. Moxie must be an acquired taste. Or something Mainers tolerate to be different from everyone else. It's terrible. During their visit, the family took Eli with them to the Air and Space Museum at Dulles Airport in Virginia. The Amelia Earhart exhibit included the word "moxie" several times. Apparently, in conjunction with Ms. Earhart is the only place in modern lexicon that the word can be found. The coincidence was notable to Eli, and we looked up the etymology of the word Moxie. It appears that the word derived from the brand – how American.

We're all in agreement that Moxie is too feminine a name. Possibly because of its association with Amelia. Maybe because it ends in "ie" – I can't say. Regardless, when we tried to call the cat Moxie, we kept referring to him as "she."

*****************************

Five days have passed. The cat now has the name Tommy. We toyed around with several names. Moxie, Mojo – really "Mr. Mojo" shortening the name "Mr. Mojo Risin’"  from the Doors' L.A. Woman – and Bob. The name Bob is a huge joke with my kids. For some reason Sophie and Eli think that Bob is the funniest name a person or an animal can have. Every time the name comes up, they dissolve into fits of tear-inducing laughter. I cringe at the eventuality that they meet an adult Bob in real life. It isn't going to be pretty.

While Moxie/Mr. Mojo/Bob was still being confused by all the names we threw at him, Susan had made a veterinary appointment for the obligatory parasite check that shelter cats need. The appointment was scheduled for the next day and we needed to settle on a name. Tommy Ramone, the last of the four original Ramones had just died, and his name had been thrown into the mix. A true outlier. Not really something any of were talking about, considering. But suddenly, it all gelled. Eli and Sophie simultaneously said they preferred Tommy and we were done. It's a nice name. It fits him. We now all refer to him as "he." I think he has started to respond to the name. He meows a bit less now but still purrs all the time.

*****************************

All this purring. I never question where I stand with my cats. Their emotions are on display. Tommy, climbing all over me, poking me with his head. Roz, she sits a few feet away, other side of the couch. A satisfied smile on her face. Allowing twenty-second pet-fests. And as soon as she gets enough, she walks away. Or twitches her tail. Or bites me (gently). I was getting a massage the other day. Susan, my wife, is a massage therapist. And since I'm an aging fitness freak, this works out well – at least in my opinion. It occurred to me that the nicest compliment I could pay to Susan during the massage would be to start purring. So primal, so spontaneous, so honest.

Purring humans would make the world simpler, better. Even when animals don't like me, I prefer their honesty. I ride my bike to work. This is something that our neighborhood dogs hate. They go nuts when I zip by. Barking, growling, lunging at the end of their rope. Our relationship is clear. It's never like this with people. We are allegedly the intelligent animal, and therefore more complex, nuanced. People get along for myriad reasons. Of course there's friendship and amiability, but then the deception starts. People strive for harmony, for reciprocation, for advancement, to simply be polite. But many of us aren't very good at this. And some of us suck. Purring with a twitchy tail. Smiling with claws out. Mixed signals. Party small-talk is often like this. Are we getting to know one another or just doing time, a societal duty. Those of us prone to anxiety get anxious. I'd rather the person hissed at me and walked away.

There is a joke within my group of friends about niceness, who's nice, who's not. "Nice" – it's such a weak, insipid word. This is intentional. In this joke, nice is an insult. An implication that the person is tepid and bland like the word. A few months ago, chatting with my boss, I mentioned something about my friend Doug. She knows who Doug is, but doesn't know him at all. But she knows Doug's wife, Annie, well. And she pretty much hates Annie. They have clashed in the past, claws out and in this case, not much pretense of amiability. Their relationship often causes me discomfort at work. So mentioning Doug was a stupid move on my part.

Me: Blah blah blah, Doug, blah blah.

Boss: Oh, Is Doug nice?

Me: <Pause> I think he is the smartest person I've ever met.

Boss: I asked if he was nice, not smart.

Me: Hmmm.

And so this five second exchange started a huge analytical round of what motivates me to be friends with people. Niceness isn't on my list. Doug actually is a pretty nice guy. He is genuinely interested in what I have to say. Caring. Remembers when there is something big going on in my life. He's like this with everybody. But many of my friends aren't all that nice. They are smart, witty, driven, interesting, honest, but not necessarily nice. I'm not that nice either. If you want real feedback on your new haircut, the outfit you just bought, I'm the guy to ask.

And this probably gets to the heart of my aversion to polite, societally-accepted human interaction. I'm not looking for fake smiles and uninspired chit-chat. It leaves me feeling disingenuous and dirty. Like I just told a lie. My friends, although many of them fantastic at the small-talk game, share my sentiments. Our conversations are much deeper, wittier, intelligent, sarcastic and rewarding. I spend an evening with them and I know nothing about how their job is going, what they think of the weather, their opinion of the last Pirates game.

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As time has passed, Tommy and Roz are getting along better. I won't call it friendship, but certainly a relationship. They fight. In the sort of way that only cats can fight. Hissing, batting, but lots of back and forth chasing. It seems kind of harsh, violent. But it is honest. And at least they are spending time together. Meanwhile, as a member of the 'advanced' species, I spend my evenings out talking with acquaintances about gas mileage and mortgage rates. 

Tommy

They're piling in the back seat

They're generating steam heat

Pulsating to the back beat

The Blitzkrieg Bop

That back beat – Tommy Ramone. Stark, simple drumming that perfectly complimented the magic of the music. Fast, direct and flourish-free. The fourth and final “original” Ramone was taken from us yesterday. Sixty-two or sixty-five years young (no one seems to know), he outlived his band-mates by years. They gave us so much that they wore themselves out, used it all up. Nothing left to live on.

It seems odd for a middle-aged man like me to be upset by the death of a rocker thirty-five years after his prime, but I feel it. Like a pit in my stomach. Perhaps because he was only eleven or fourteen years older than me. Because I identified so much with the music when I was a teen. Regardless, I hope his life was rewarding, peaceful. I hope he felt like a king. I hope he saw himself as the visionary that he will one day be considered.

Months ago, I wrote a tribute to the original Ramones line-up. I was just starting my blog and not many people have read it. I would like to think that Tommy read it and smiled.

The Ramones were PERFECTION. ← Please take a minute to read about it. For Tommy.