I was home a couple weeks ago when I noticed a book by Jerry Seinfeld on my dad’s bedside table. I’m very fond of Seinfeld despite not having watched his show nor stand-up very much. The book is titled, “Is This Anything?” and my dad explained that it’s about Seinfeld’s thought process. When he’s coming up with a bit, he brings up the idea with friends and asks, “Is this anything?” e.g., “What about a bit on how useless cotton balls are to men? Is there anything there?” and the friends will either confirm that there’s something or reject it outright.
I’m coming to the edge of the widest canyon,
My companion’s dear.
I’m starting to question my manifest destiny,
My claim to this frontier.
I’m coming to the brink of a great disaster,
End just has to be near.
The earth spins faster, whistles right past you,
Whispers death in your ear.
Don’t pretend you can’t hear.
Don’t pretend you can’t.
I can hear your tendrils still digging
For everything that’s walked this earth once living,
Then to be exhumed and burned to vapor.
Can you save her?
Now she’s in the air,
Radical and free,
Neither here nor there.
She’s obliged to no one,
She’s obliged to no one.
“If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that moving always sucks; it just can suck a little less sometimes.”
That was my career counselor and dear friend, John “Chief” Mann. I just finished moving a couple of days ago, and we were catching up over beers. I had to agree; I’ve moved countless times over the past six years, usually by myself, and it’s never been fun. The times I have been given help, I’ve actually gotten tearful out of gratitude. I can’t help but getting emotional over a move, between “this is the end of an era” and “oh my God, why do I own so much crap?”
I’ve been feeling a lot of nostalgia lately, or perhaps, comfort in the familiar.
For instance, I saw a fox while I was out running about a month ago. Looking at it, it brought me back to the outdoor trip I led with my current roommate several years ago, a freshman orientation trip doing trail work on Mount Yale. This trip would solidify our friendship and also reveal to me that the fox is my spirit animal. Ever since that trip, I have seen foxes pretty regularly, and it usually happens while running. There’s a strange connection I feel when I see them. We seem to lock eyes, and it’s almost as if I am Mr. Fox, gazing in awe at the wolf at the end of Fantastic Mr. Fox, the movie. The spell always breaks when we start to run separate ways.
Millie always brought you a gift when you got home. It could be an old shoe, a book, even someone’s homework.
She loved to ride in the car, though anything above her cruising speed, 35 miles per hour, was too fast for her. With her long eyelashes and eyebrows, I suspected that riding was the only time she could fully see.
Millie was messy, with a constantly slimy beard, burs in her fur, and muddy feet. But she was beautiful. And when you told her she was beautiful, she’d look at you with eyes that said, “I know it.”
Name: White Russian
Brewery: Lefthand Brewing Co. (Longmont, Colorado)
Style: White nitro stout with coffee + vanilla
Review: It’s been a hot minute since I’ve reviewed any beer, so bear with me.
This beer was very tasty, but it almost wasn’t beer to me. I should admit that I have little experience with drinking White Russian cocktails. One of my best friends, Evyn, introduced me to them in Cuba, of all places. That was four years ago. I may have gone another three years before drinking a White Russian again — and that was when my friend Danylo decided he’d make them for me and all of my roommates to celebrate their graduation in May 2020. I will say: I am quite fond of the beverage, given the limited experience.
Time keeps slipping away, slipping away.
Same routine settles in next Friday.
TV news interviews saying, “She’s loose.”
Police officer asks what she’s wearing.
And I’m tired of the world perceiving me.
And I’m tired of girls saying,
“Something here’s gotta change, it’s gotta change.”
We keep playing the same blame game.
Do you think calling names makes me feel safe?
You look prettiest when you smile, babe.
But I don’t want to smile for anyone.
And I’ll be caught dead saying,
It’s more about the quest for the donut than the donut itself.
I’m fairly certain that my coworkers all think I’m obsessed with donuts. Much of this is owed to my affinity for Dunkin’, which I talk about incessantly. I can’t help it that I run on Dunkin’ and that I get major points and deals through Dunkin’s app and that I am very serious about getting sponsored as a trail runner by Dunkin’. In Colorado, where the ubiquity of Dunkin’ is abysmal compared to the East Coast, I have developed a Dunkin’ radar. Wherever I am, I know where the closest Dunkin’ is. (There are 4 in the Springs; one in Montrose and north Boulder; several in south Denver, including off exit 196 and also south Broadway … I could continue.) This obsession is undeniable, but it causes confusion. Certainly, when I get my iced caramel macchiato with skim milk at Dunkin’, I am inclined to purchase an accompanying donut, but that’s not always the case. Why? Because I pursue donuts as a quest, not an afterthought.
COVID has really made me wary of interacting with others. I’m
already quite cynical, and the pandemic has only made me more so. Moreover, I’ve always been pretty OK with doing things alone. And so, I’ve been just going skiing and climbing by my lonesome — a lot.
A few weeks ago, I was at the climbing gym, you guessed it, alone. I was doing the auto-belays for the umpteenth time, air pods in, forehead creased and eyes narrowed, daring anyone to talk to me. An employee approached me. I assumed he was reproaching me for wearing both air pods while climbing, but he was trying to help me out. “You know, there are a couple of others who are also doing the auto-belays, but they’re like you — strong and sick of the repetition. You could get on top-rope together — I could introduce you?”
I was reading an article about the deteriorating mental health of young people during the pandemic. It was depressing. Psychiatrists believe the incidence of depression and anxiety is so severe among youth right now, that a mental health pandemic is occurring parallel to the virus. I can’t say I was surprised by what I read, but still, I’d like to think things are going to turn out alright in the end. But then I considered all the times in the past year that things didn’t seem like they’d turn out at all.
About a week ago, I was finishing up a run and listening to a playlist I had made a friend for Christmas. Despite being the creator of said playlist, I had forgotten that I put a song titled “I Only Say I’m Sorry When I’m Wrong Now” on it, by Cheekface. The song itself is very deadpan and cheeky (no pun intended), and it never ceases to amuse me. But as I listened to it, bearing in mind that the year was coming to a close, I couldn’t help but feel like it actually had some serious wisdom. The chorus goes as follows:
How are you feeling? How are you doing?
I’m sorry, I just wanted to hear your voice so clear
What are you thinking? Am I amusing?
It’s so strange to talk after all these years.
What is the meaning? It’s so confusing.
All my old feelings coming back to me,
When was the last time that I saw your face?
Know it like the back of my hand, I’d say.
And you’re not that dumb anymore,
I picked up the books you threw to the floor.
Put them back on the shelf,
Don’t you see how much I want your help?
I have been tested for COVID six times now. I imagine that number will climb to a total of nine for 2020. I’ve flown to Mexico, having tested negative for the sixth time four days ago. I’ll get tested upon return. And if I go home to New York for Christmas, I suspect I’ll test before and after that trip, too. I’m getting so tired of tests that it makes me want to forfeit returning home for the holidays, which is just absurd. Of course going home is worth a couple more nasal swabs. But part of me just wants to forgo the stress of the airports and contact with so many others; to just hole myself up in one place, spending time with only a small cohort of people, and not too often. It certainly unburdens me of all the necessary COVID mitigation. But that’s just 2020 for you.
I woke up yesterday with the creeping sensation of fall drifting through the window. As much as I like fall weather, it always fills me with a feeling of dread. I get the sense that things are changing, as they did every year of school, and that it’ll be cold and I’ll be missing home in an instant. This morning, I was also bracing myself for the arrival of pest control, and with them, the hassle of emptying drawers and cabinets, rearranging, and ultimately undoing all of my meticulous organization.
Five months and five days. I had counted. That was how long I went without rock climbing—the longest stint in my life. Man, it was good to be back.
I had a realization about a month ago that I was simply existing. It wasn’t inherently a bad thing, but it was perplexing. COVID had stripped me of so many passions: concert-going, brewery visits with friends, traveling, and most of all, climbing. And yet, I was numb. Shouldn’t I be more upset, given that these activities are what form my entire identity? Shouldn’t I lament their loss? Maybe I did, back when this began in March. But at that point, I really had just gotten used to feeling uninspired by my daily routine. And that frightened me.
Everyone knows that anything in miniature form is inherently better than its normal-size counterpart. Those mini glass Coca-Cola bottles. Mini cupcakes. Mini whisks. Try to argue against me, I dare you. I had this thought (as I often do) when I recently passed by one of those mailboxes that look like a miniature house. Which reminded me of a house in Colorado Springs that has a tree house that is a miniature version of itself. People with these sorts of constructions are some of the few that I’d actually like to meet.
Name: Coriolis Effect
Brewery: New Image Brewing (Arvada, Colorado)
Style: New Zealand Style IPA
Rating: 4.2 / 5
Review: I will preface this review with stating that I am quite, quite biased on this one. Further, I am going into launch into a long story that barely reviews the beer.
I actually saw this beer for the first time back in December (remember December? A time when we weren’t wearing face masks and could socialize without fear of contracting a devastating virus?). My rad co-worker had given me a $15 gift certificate to the liquor store right before you get on I-25 from my exit of Colorado Springs. I never go to this liquor store because it’s just *slightly* more expensive than my go-to, college liquor store. But hey, I had a gift certificate!
I haven’t posted on here in a while. It didn’t feel like it was my place.
Like the vast majority of America, I was shocked, disgusted, dismayed [insert more adjectives] by the murders of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor. And as I watched my social media feeds flood with infographics, calls to action, resources to listen to, read, and watch, and all of those black squares, I felt dizzy and paralyzed. And rightfully so; as a white person, I should be humbled and made uncomfortable by my complicity in innumerable structures that systemically and systematically harm people of color. But those feelings couldn’t tell me what to do.
I don’t wanna die young,
Don’t wanna get old,
And stay so warm
That my heart gets cold.
So tell me there’s a reason
Or something upstairs.
And tell me they’ve been seeing
What’s going on down here.
‘Cause I get to feeling sad,
And I miss my mom and dad.
Why’s it so hard to tell ’em that?
When you get to a certain age
You miss what you could’ve had,
But don’t really want it back,
And hope that you’re on track
For twenty-two and some change.
I just wanna have fun
And have a good laugh,
Make a few friends,
The kind that last.
Curious-er and curious-er, as Alice would say.
I’ve been furloughed indefinitely. Co-workers, friends, and family are all reaching out with sympathy, but I’m honestly not too upset. My situation is not abnormal, and frankly, it’s not very tragic in the grand scheme of things. I do wonder how I’ll bide my time, hoping to return to work, and how different the organization will look when and if I do. What’s tragic to me — or perhaps disconcerting — is how much everything seems to be changing around me.
For the first time in a long time – perhaps ever – I feel it’s relatively easy to live in the present. Planning during a pandemic is nearly impossible. As much as I’d like to hold out hope that certain events will take place – concerts, sporting events, returning to work from furlough, alumni reunions, travel – I think it’d be foolishly optimistic to fantasize about them. But that’s OK. The reality is, so long as I’m happy and healthy, I don’t need anything. I’m pretty decently content with spending my days running trails, calling friends, reading books, and listening to music. I’m a bit bored at times, but really. During times like these, being bored is a luxury.
I’ve had a lot of thoughts stewing in my head lately, starting with the word “stewing” itself. When and why did I start using stewing as a substitute for something approximating “ruminating”? Stewing also has a negative connotation (or seems to), when in fact, I love stew. I love simmering a big pot of something and eating leftovers for an entire week. I suppose I think stewing as negative because I use it to describe problems I have — stressors, anxieties — that are simmering on a back burner. I know they’re there, that they’re slow cooking, but I refuse to check on them.
Quarantine is weird. March was an eternity, April sped by. What was once preposterous — going out to only essential businesses, conducting work and school online, “social distancing” — honestly feels normal now. We humans are more adaptable than we think. We’re just so goddamn resistant to change initially.
I went home to New York in the middle of March. That was the beginning of the panic, when it just seemed appropriate to get with your family and hunker down to weather this storm. The week prior, I was in a funk. My beloved dog, Millie, had just passed away. I had signed up for a marathon in June, hoping that having a goal to work towards would give me some purpose. My work trip to Tokyo and subsequent visit to friends and family in Portland had been cancelled. My next day off was months away. And I had no idea when I’d see my siblings and parents next. “Maybe Thanksgiving?” I wondered.
It took some time to gather enough “snippets” worthy of a post. Quarantine is like that sometimes, I suppose.
One day is like, “Man, all the weeks have blended together. What day is it — Monday or Saturday? Oh, it’s Thursday. And what year is it again?”
And then other days are like: “You’ll never guess what happened today: I saw a dog!”
Anyway, without further ado…
Last week started out particularly strong when I got the brilliant idea of making myself a “Blink 180 Tuesday” playlist for my Tuesday run. Blink 180 Tuesday is arguably my favorite party theme. It’s not that I was necessarily a huge Blink fan back in the day, but 14-year-old me (and current me, honestly) certainly raged to plenty of Fall Out Boy, Paramore, Panic! At the Disco, All-American Rejects, All Time Low, etc. Listening to that music not only is sentimental, it actually really resonates during this angsty time we’re in. After all, it’s not that strange for quarantine to leave you trapped in your room singing, “I’m just a kid and life is a nightmare,” and, “I’m in too deep and I’m trying to keep up above in my head instead of going under” … you know?
The great barrier reef
Was recently pronounced dead.
Its last holy words were not
“Make America great again.”
Which way does the wind blow, Dylan?
I’m standing in the storm
But I’ve lost my sense of feeling.
Ideas climb out of bed and
Promise that they’ll fix it.
I look at you, you look at me, and we excitedly agree
That one day we’re sure gonna change it.
Then something comes up, and we all fall back asleep.
Oh, it’s been the longest year of our lives.
I close my eyes
And relive every moment.
One hundred sleepless nights, enough to make
The comedians cry.
Just when I think I’ve almost — almost — gotten used to this quarantine thing, I wake up in a panic. Today was particularly brutal because not only did I wake up to terrible allergy congestion, but also had an incredible dream interrupted. I dreamed that I was marrying Nick Jonas. And it wasn’t a superficial marriage; I was marrying him with the knowledge (you know, that weird background information that you just somehow have in dreams) that our relationship had been a full romance: dating many months, years even, Nick Jonas eventually proposing to me in a sweeping chivalrous gesture. I woke up dismayed that I was not marrying Nick Jonas, but instead was struggling with a clogged nosed, crusty eyes, and a whole new day of NOTHING ahead of me.
April showers, rain starts falling.
I wish that you would pick up when you know I’m calling.
It’s been another year
Wishing you were here.
Sometimes I just want somebody,
Someone who reminds that they’ll always love me.
Sick of counting tears,
Wishing you were here.
I wanna be everything you wanted
But oftentimes, I just get forgotten.
Are you out there? I’m still here.
I wish that when I said your name you would appear
Sitting next to me.
Now we’re memories.
Are you out there, somewhere?
What are you up to?
Have you changed your number?
I’ve been trying to call you
Since April, and now it’s October.
I’m not overthinking, but I think about you a lot.
And lately I am just an afterthought.
A shocking number of tidbits collected in the past few days! Maybe we WILL survive this quarantine!
This last Friday, my department had a Zoom rock-paper-scissors battle against another department to combat “March Sadness.” It worked.
A bracket of department members was made in advance, and the heads of the two departments moderated. For each match, everyone muted their video screens except for the two playing and the two moderators. At the count of three, you had to hold up a paper with the word rock, paper, or scissors. Some got creative — writing all the words in Spanish, printing a photo of Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, holding up a physical pair of scissors. It was a nice way to spend 30 minutes and forget about all the sh*t going on.
Well, I was right. As life becomes increasingly uneventful, there really isn’t much to muse about it. It took me basically all week to scrape together the following, and it isn’t much.
At this point, my life is really only structured around running and the occasional conference call I have to be on. I know that running is something that I already do on a routine basis, but since there’s so little to talk about right now, I’ve become increasingly irritated when someone in the family asks me, “Did you run today?”
Name: Hibiscus Wheat
Brewery: Yonkers Brewing Co.
Style: Wheat Beer
Review: I don’t know if I’m proud or ashamed to say that at this point, I’ve drank a lot of beer. A lot of styles of beer. And frankly, it’s gotten almost a little old. I’m finally disinclined to try new things, because I can usually peg the beers I’m going to like and the which ones I won’t care for instantly. “Life is too short,” I recently told my friend, “to drink shitty beer.” Therefore, I’ve been kind of seeking comfort and assurance from beers I already know and love. But I grabbed this beer thinking, “Eh, I’ll probably like it well enough,” and knowing my sister, who is not a huge beer drinker, would like it far better than an IPA. Well, I took a sip of this and paused. “Dang. That’s interesting. That’s something I haven’t had before.” I don’t even know what hibiscus really is, nor can I really describe its flavor, but this was refreshing and tasty and just different. There is still a reason to try new beer!