The Tale of the Bat

It has recently come to my attention that a great multitude of people, friends inclusive, have never heard this timeless tale told in full. I now present the entire story of the bat, as it was recorded in the days of old, with a few minor edits for clarity.

The Tale of the Bat or:
How the Entire World Was Saved In The Span of 15 Minutes

1. Of the Coming of The Beast

This is the tale of how a peaceful, rocking household was once disrupted by the most malicious and evil of all creatures. It begins as a summer day is drawing to a close, when the air is yet warm and thick. The heroes of our story are those of the band Jonas, though you will come to know them by name.

In the beginning, there was Greg, who dwelt in his private bedchambers in the Realm of Jonas. Ere he slept, he was troubled by an unseen spectre in the cloudiness of that which rocking guitar players dream of. Startled, he awoke in a sweat, and made his way clumsily in the dark, for he purposed to relieve himself in his gilded washroom.

But he did not wholly come to his destination, for along his path he descried from afar the flutterings of a winged creature of foul design. Quickly it darted to and fro, hither and thither, this way and that. Then it seemed to Greg that this creature was not like to anything he had thus seen in his realm:

Black as night it was, and colder still; its eyes were diminutive lamps, far off in the murky dusk. Swiftly it moved across the kitchen, for that is where it had been making its hiding, and perched confidently upon the water tap, and the gleaming silver was cast in a deepening twilight.

Cautiously, Greg moved closer to investigate the unwanted visitor. At this the beast reared its ugly shape and called out in a manner of song most unpleasant to those within earshot. Thus with great speed Greg passed out of that domain and sought the help of friend and ally.

2. Of the Mustering of Men

Far off in another land, the lore of which this tale does not concern, Drew rested upon his mighty throne and there sat, as one in thought, and did not move for many an hour. An open book lay upon his lap and, but for the gleam in his eye, he could have been mistaken for one who had fallen unwittingly to slumber. But he was not asleep, and he heard far off cries as of one in dire need of service, for hearty was the voice of Greg, and far did it travel in time of need.

Now with great haste he went to meet his ally of old at the entry of his realm. It seemed to Drew that Greg was clothed in a shadow of himself, stricken with madness at the sight of some horror unknown. Thus spoke Greg:

"Holy shit," said he, "there is a bat in the kitchen."

And Drew was troubled. Long he thought and spoke not a word, and ere the sun retired beyond the western horizon he broke his silence. "Let's get Dan!" he cried, and swiftly they rode beyond the wooded hills to the very ends of the earth, whereupon they rested for a time.

When the day was again fresh, Greg and Drew made entry into the halls of Sir Dan of Yore, wisest of loremasters. His lands are forever chill to the skin of men, and upon his throne they spied him wrapped about in many layers of cloth and raiment.

"Old friends, what brings you to far away lands in such dark times as these?" The voice of Dan seemed not his own, but as of one who has lost countless years to the unavailing cold of night.

"We come seeking your favour," answered Greg. "We seek counsel and aide." He bowed low and offered words of respect.

"Yes, I know. A great deal I have already seen in this matter, and yet more still there is that remains unknown to even those who know very much. I will aide you in your quest." Greg and Drew were comforted at receiving this news and their hearts were glad. Dan continued:

"But we three alone do not possess such mortal power and strength as shall be required to accomplish the task. Indeed, no man alone can slay this creature by swift blade or keen wit. We must seek good fortune in a man whose name is remembered by no one save the eldest, but who is called Brian in our speech."

"You speak wisdom and truth," declared Drew. "But few have seen or received word of Brian since this dark age began. His land is far and unreachable by foot or by sail."

"Then we must carry on with what strength we do have," said Greg. "What we lack in numbers we must make up for in skill and cunning."

They spoke no more of the matter but stayed in Dan's realm for a brief while, and when they were again of hearty mind and body they departed.

3. Of the Quest of Jonas

The journey across many lands unknown was long and difficult. The supply of food they had rationed for the trip diminished with each passing day. Little life there was, and less water. Occasionally a meal was made of root or blossom and the sap of a young tree not yet stained by the muddy, ageless skies.

"The lands are crying out," uttered Dan. "We are near to the creature." Indeed then, as if by fate, the woods about them grew silent. The air grew dense in anticipation. Nearby a bush rustled, disturbing the tense calm about the land.

"Show yourself, thing of evil, for you make enough sound that I should slay you swiftly with naught the sight of you!" cried Drew into the unavailing silence. There came a laughter, hearty and merry.

"You should be so lucky to have a swing at me at all." Out from behind a tree stepped Brian. The others surrounded him joyfully, and they embraced, and were comforted.

"What good fortune brings you hither into our travels, friend?" asked Dan.

"I have come by news of ill tidings in these parts," answered Brian. "They speak of a lingering darkness, one which circles round in the night, first high and then lower, until even the haughty man is stricken with fear, and he of lesser stature flees in shame."

"Your words ring true, for I have seen this thing with my own eyes." Greg seemed to diminish and his voice was but a whisper in the vastness of the desolate land.

"What hope have we in such dark times?" Drew wondered aloud. "Such devilry as this cannot be matched by mortal means. Perhaps we have come to the end of our days."

"You speak as one who is already defeated," declared Brian. "It is perhaps then because fear has clouded your judgement. Who indeed can withstand the might of this terrible bane? No man can contest its wicked strength, yet look not past strength in bonds of friendship forged long ago. You may find some courage unknown, some hope renewed. We go now not on any simple errand, but on a journey of pain and struggle. The despair of one shall be the doom of all; let he who doubts the power of Jonas go no further!"

At this, the Company set out into the deepening night with heavy hearts.

4. Of the Capture of the Beast

It was not long before all store of rations had been consumed. Exhaustion and fatigue caused much delay. "We must have a bit of a break," said Drew, "or I should not live to see the light of another day."

"To call this 'day' would seem a jest," replied Dan. Indeed the skies had grown ever darker as the days passed. The Company had taken to resting at any time, day or night, for day had become a shadow of doubt and night was illuminated in a glow of fear, so that the hours passed in an unrelenting cycle.

In a small clearing of grass surrounded by a field of twig and thatch, and near to a small pool of still water, they rested upon what blankets and cloth they had brought. There was little talk as each weary traveler drifted into uneasy slumber. The dark air creeped closer about them on all sides. They did not sleep long ere all were awoken in a startled fit. The wind was sighing in high whispers, rhythmically pulsing like the gentle droll of the sea. All were silent as the sound grew more intense, until it seemed to each that it came from within their very minds.

There came then a call, which reached out across the skies like deathly cold fingers. The festering beast took wing, and it appeared as though a veil had been drawn about the heavens. A great shadow rolled over the Party, and despair came upon them like a plague. They were quickly scattered as the bat darted among their camp. It reared its hideous muzzle and pierced their minds with merciless eyes.

Now separated by a shout's distance, each drew his weapon and swung blindly in fear at the enemy. Guided by some force unknown, Drew's worthy blade found its way deep into the flesh of the winged creature. The bat cried out in rage but did not halt in its course, borne upon the wind. The hilt of Drew's blade grew very hot then, and he cursed its name:

"O, cruel device! Such heat as I never have known! Such doom be the bane of the Moonpie!"

Dan spied Drew from nearby in his agony. "Drew, release your weapon!" he cried, but his words were of no use. Drew was crouched upon the ground, holding the blade to his chest. The smell of burning flesh permeated the air.

"No," he said slowly. "This blade is mine, and I will do with it as I please. I will wield it until the end of time, until all the earth is grown old and dead! I can never let it go!" His head lolled and his eyes clouded over; his voice continued wearily: "I can never understand...just why...just why we tried..."

On a sudden Greg appeared behind Drew and struck a blow to his forearm. The sword fell from Drew's burning hand and scorched the ground below. Brian kicked the fiery weapon into the shallow pool of water; a light smoke hung in the air. Drew looked about confused. "I am sorry," he said. "I was altogether not myself for a moment."

"Indeed you were not," replied Dan. "But now is not the time for explanations. The winged enemy returns!" Together they spun and faced the looming evil.

"Clearly we cannot hope to defeat this thing with even the sharpest blade, such as we have," spoke Brian. He stooped over his pack and removed from it a broad cloak. "Let each man take firm hold of one corner."

And so the bat raced towards them, cackling and screeching in a wretched tongue. Its fiery eyes pierced each of their minds, one by one, and cast into them visions of agony and death, but the men of Jonas held fast. When the bat was near, they raised up the cloak and, billowing in the wind, it cast a great shadow upon the bat. Swiftly they brought the corners round and drew them tight about the bat.

"Alas!" shouted Greg. "The deed is done." He held the cloak aloft and each man of Jonas tied about it a length of rope. "The earth shall have grown old indeed ere these bonds are broken."

They gathered what was left of their belongings scattered throughout the clearing and departed that dark realm.

5. Of the Journey Home

The next day dawned fair and sweet. The pallid greys of winter were rolled back to reveal a joyous song of colour and light. High above the sun smiled upon all the lands, and a new season was begun. The men of Jonas walked at ease through fields and woods and pastures and hills. They came at last to the Realm of Jonas.

"O, fair Paddington!" cried Drew and he fell to his knees and wept. The House of Jonas stood tall and mighty, unsoiled by the chill of winter. They entered into the great halls and there came the sound of laughter and merrymaking; it was a feast, a celebration.

"Hark to the sounds of fair voices and singing, such as I have not heard for an age," said Brian as they walked. They were greeted by a large host of friends and neighbours, and such a multitude had never been gathered before nor was seen thereafter.

After many old friendships were revisited, all were seated round the table and enjoyed a great feast while the men of Jonas recounted their tale. Some of the youngest grew frightened yet listened on in curiosity. The day grew long and many bottles of the finest draught were emptied ere the story was told, and not the smallest detail was omitted.

"Alas that such dark times as these should befall us all," said one. "Ah, but for the strength of Jonas we should have been nothing but shadows in our fear," spoke another. A silence fell over the room.

"Then we shall drink to good health!" said Greg after a moment. A shout went up and many glasses were drained. The singing and laughter resumed again.

"It is quite a miracle that we are all of good health indeed!" shouted Dan, and there was another cheer. But Drew did not share in the excitement, though none was the wiser in all the commotion. He looked down at the palm of his hand and for a moment he felt again the pain of fire stretching across his skin. He looked up and saw that Dan had noticed. "Or at least, mostly good health," he said to Drew beneath the roar of the party.

"No, I do not suppose I shall ever be quite the same again," replied Drew. "I can still feel the terrible gaze of the bat from within when I close my eyes. But as much as things have changed, I believe there are some things that shall never change."

And in time the many visitors made their departure, and the House of Jonas carried on much the same as ever before. It was not long ere that realm was once again filled with the joyous sounds of a rocking band comprised of four alpha male specimens, the likes of which no woman has not swooned upon.

Here ends the Tale of the Bat.

Anti-Climactic Ending

This evening was interesting. After unexpectedly bumping (quite literally) into an old friend at Yats, I went with a couple other friends to a screening of the new movie How to Train Your Dragon. I thought it was a documentary about how to train dragons; I was partially right. After that we went to Broad Ripple to patronize The Egyptian, but upon arriving we decided we didn't want to wait in a line, so we opted instead to go back to the apartment. We drove across town and wound up hanging out a bit, catching up and discussing life over a sampling of beer and hookah, which make for a splendid partnership. It was enjoyable. Then we watched Up, which I hadn't seen. I thought it was quite good, much better than the evening's earlier animated affair.

Many hours later, at about 3:30 in the a.m. I began the lugubrious task of driving home. I got to the intersection of Kessler & Meridian to find a billowing cloud of smoke, and in the middle of the haze was a stationary car. I paused behind it, while through an entire light cycle a handful of other vehicles passed and went on their merry, early morning ways. I sat and thought about it and decided that I wouldn't just pass without inquiring. I considered the relative safety (or lack thereof) of the situation, and decided that I would approach on his driver's side and let down my passenger window. I did so. My caution meter was at guarded.

The guy in the car—who seemed a bit flustered and perhaps surprised to see someone beckoning him roll down his window—rolled down his window. I asked if he needed to make a phone call; he said he did. I'm not stupid, I'm not putting my phone in this guy's hands, nor am I putting my body within arm's reach of him. Still seated in my car, I pulled out my phone and told him I could inform someone of his location. I asked the number, which he gave me. I paused mid-dial: "Northwest Indiana?" "Yeah!" It was a 219 area code. No answer. "No answer! You want me to leave a message?" I tried another number, also 219; also no answer, and again I left no message. Two calls, no answers, and he didn't have me leave a message. My caution meter rose to ominous. I asked where he was headed. He asked which way was south on Meridian, to get downtown. I pointed and told him. He wondered if he could get a ride to some hotel near downtown. My caution meter spiked to portentous. I told him matter-of-factly that these phone calls were all I could offer to him. He seemed to understand my hesitation and thanked me nonetheless. He asked how long I thought it would take to walk; I said it's about five miles, so if he kept up a decent pace, probably a couple of hours. I told him I could call 911 for him. He seemed to hesitate.

Just as it was about to get awkward—I mean, what do you really do at this point in the situation?—a fire truck arrived behind us with lights flashing. This is either some serious good timing, or another passer-by had the good will to make a phone call to the authorities. As three or four of them approached his vehicle and began asking him questions, my light turned green, and I shouted out my wish for good fortunes to him then drove through the intersection.

A lot of thoughts raced through my head before I approached his car. I envisioned a gun being drawn (this would not be the first time I'd had a gun pointed at me); all of my money being taken (which was admittedly only $1 at the time); my car being stolen (the joke is on you if you steal my car); a bullet sliding effortlessly through my thorax (seems uncomfortable). I also remembered the man in the coffee shop, and the prevalence of the good will of humanity, and I decided that I would make a meager attempt at propagating that. It turns out there was little to nothing for me to do to help, and my story tonight ends not with a bang but with a whimper; but I am somewhat comforted by the simple fact that I pulled up next to this gentlemen while so many others were content to ignore his plight. Would I not have appreciated the same if our positions were reversed?

I Stream, You Stream, We All Stream

Last night I was playing guitar and I decided on the spur of the moment that I wanted to hear myself to check out my progress. I didn't want to spend an eternity setting up a mic and running some cables and opening up recording software and going through all that. I had my webcam set up from talking on Skype earlier in the evening, so I turned it on and went to the Facebook video page where you can just hit record. Quick and simple. So I did that. And I played a song or two. And I listened back. And I hated it! I hated everything. I thought that I was singing with as much emotion as I could, you know, impassioned. But I was wrong; it just sounded strained and mostly out of tune. It was a disaster. I wonder: did I sound that bad at McGinnis a few weeks ago? God, I hope not. I got discouraged, posted a pretty negative status update, and went to bed.

Well, I didn't quite make it to bed. I was thinking about that webcam. I got the idea to do live streams of some sort, somehow involving my music, and I wound up making a profile on Ustream. I played around with it a bit, set it up to push Facebook updates when I start a broadcoast, and then finally went to bed.

I woke up this morning and figured I'd give it a whirl by just having it on the whole time I was playing anything whatsoever. I figure in the long run I wouldn't have it on all the time, so I can have a bit of privacy when writing new material or when learning a new song. But in the meantime I thought it'd be fun to see what happens today.

It turns out, not much happened. A few anonymous people dropped by. One or two said something in chat, but by their usernames I could tell that they weren't friends of mine, so I wonder if they just happened upon my broadcast through some randomized link on the Ustream site. I started off doing my warm-ups: scales, arpeggios, finger exercises, etc. Then I took a long break and came back to run through all the jazz stuff I know, which isn't much. After another break, I ran through all the pop/rock songs in the little songbook I've been keeping recently; it's where I write down any song I learn that I'd like to play again, as well as a few songs I've written that I feel are worthy of inclusion. One or two people poked their heads in for a few seconds at a time. Right near the end, with about two songs left to go, someone dropped by and didn't leave until the end. Thanks to the anonymity of the internet, I have no idea who it was, but I have to say thanks for listening and I hope you enjoyed it!

I recorded the whole pop/rock bit and just got done watching it, and I have to say I'm much happier today than I was last night. It wasn't perfect, by any means, but it was a good deal better. I got a little nervous when I realized someone was sticking around, but that's part of what I enjoy about doing this. Ever since I "got back into it", I get so nervous when I start to play in front of anyone. After watching the video last night, I realized some of the things I'm doing with my voice right now (e.g. straining) that result in such a disastrous sound, and I'm pretty sure that it's only made worse when I know I'm being recorded or when someone's watching. Today I tried consciously to take it easy on my voice. It wasn't perfect, but it was a lot better than what I heard last night. I've been exploring the lower register of my voice recently, and I'm inspired by Nick Drake's sound, so maybe it's something I should take a closer look at. I just don't feel like I can sing stuff like "Eleven Thirty Fifty" anymore. Oh well.

I don't really think it's worth coming up with anything resembling a schedule. I'll probably just use it on a whim when I feel like it. When I do, Ustream will push an update to Facebook, so if you're at your computer you might know. That's about all the notice I can really give. For now. Anyway, here's the link: Songs from a Basement.

And now, thanks to the title I came up with, I have a very serious craving for ice cream. And when I get a craving for ice cream, it's a very serious thing.

"It's been a while since I could remember when..."

Fifty-Two Books

For those who are interested, here are the books that were sent to me. There are fifty-two in total.

A few notes about the list:

• P or H denotes paperback or hardcover
• Translation credit is included whenever possible and relevant
• Additional information is occasionally included when relevant

Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett, trans. Samuel Beckett, P
Bhagavadgita, trans. Sir Edwin Arnold, P
Naked Lunch, William Burroughs, H
The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, Albert Camus, trans. Justin O'Brien, P
Alice's Adventures Under Ground, Lewis Carroll, facsimile of manuscript, P
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Other Poems, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, P
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad, P
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, Thomas De Quincey, P
The Hound of the Baskervilles, Arthur Conan Doyle, P
Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God and Other Puritan Sermons, Jonathan Edwards and Others, P
Civilization and Its Discontents, Sigmund Freud, trans. Joan Riviere, P
The Future of an Illusion, Sigmund Freud, trans. James Strachey, P
The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, trans. Catherine Hutter, P
Demian, Hermann Hesse, trans. Michael Roloff and Michael Lebeck, P
Magister Ludi, Hermann Hesse, trans. Richard and Clara Winston, P
Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse, trans. ?, P
Catch-22, Joseph Heller, P
Rhinoceros and Other Plays, Eugène Ionesco, trans. Derek Prouse, P
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce, P
Selected Stories, Franz Kafka, trans. William and Edward Muir, P
On the Road, Jack Kerouac, P
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey, P
The Vonnegut Statement, Jerome Klinkowitz and John Somer, P
Inherit the Wind, Lawrence Jerome and Robert E. Lee, P
Evangeline and Other Poems, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, P
Death in Venice, Thomas Mann, trans. Stanley Applebaum, P
The Jew of Malta, Christopher Marlowe, P
The Communist Manifesto, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, trans. Samuel Moore, P
The Misanthrope, Molière, trans. ?, P
Moby-Dick, Herman Melville, P
The Birth of Tragedy and The Genealogy of Morals, Friedrich Nietzsche, trans. Francis Golffing, P
The Gay Science, Friedrich Nietzsche, trans. Walter Kaufmann, P
All Quiet on the Western Front¹, Erich Maria Remarque, trans. A. W. Wheen, H
Venus in Furs, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, trans. Joachim Neugroschel, P
The Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger, H
The Merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare, P
The Essential Frankenstein, Mary Shelley, P
Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row, John Steinbeck, P
Travesties, Tom Stoppard, P
Candide, Voltaire, trans. anonymous, P
Bluebeard, Kurt Vonnegut, P
Deadeye Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, P
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, Kurt Vonnegut, P
Jailbird, Kurt Vonnegut, P
Galápagos, Kurt Vonnegut, H
Mother Night, Kurt Vonnegut, P
Player Piano, Kurt Vonnegut, P
Slapstick, Kurt Vonnegut, P
Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons, Kurt Vonnegut, H
Oscar Wilde's Wit & Wisdom: A Book of Quotations, Oscar Wilde, P
The Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde, P
Native Son, Richard Wright, fantastic 1940 printing with handwritten dedication from wife to husband, H

¹ This is the only book from the list that I have already read, but I'll gladly reread it.

Five Stupid Things

I now present five things about me that you had absolutely no desire nor need to know but that I felt the strange narcissistic urge to write about.

1. I absolutely, positively must fall asleep on my left side.

It's not that the right side isn't comfortable; in fact, in the process of falling asleep, it's quite common for me to spend a bit of time on the right side, and a bit of time on my back. But for some reason, whenever I start to fall asleep, when I start to feel my consciousness slip, and whatever train of thought I happen to be entertaining at the time begins to wander aimlessly and cease making any kind of sense, I simply must find myself on my left side or else I slip back to consciousness and begin the entire process over again. This is actually pretty common for me; it's a process of drifting, returning, rolling over, drifting, returning, etc.

I don't know why it's like this for me. It could be one of many things. My right ear has drastically reduced sensitivity, so maybe I just tended to naturally favor sleeping with the more sensitive ear buried in a pillow; any auditory distraction makes it pretty much impossible for me to fall asleep. In fact, I have been sleeping with earplugs in more and more recently. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm right-handed? I can't see how that would affect sleeping, though. Maybe it has something to do with the proximity of my bed to a wall during formative years, and whether I would have favored facing the wall or facing away. I really just think it's the ear thing.

2. It's really tough for me to drive at dusk.

This is something I've been aware of since I first started driving, about ten years ago. It's not that it's actually difficult, like my motor skills or hand-eye coordination becomes jeopardized, but it's more of a difficulty in maintaining visual focus; it's the contrast between the sky and road. As the sun creeps behind the horizon, the road becomes quite dark, but the sky remains just a bit lighter for a slightly longer period. This contrast between the darkening road and the still light sky causes some kind of strain for my eye. It's fatiguing and distracting, and I find the entire ordeal to be difficult and uncomfortable.

Something tells me this might actually be more common than I originally thought; it might be like writing about how odd it is that I brush my teeth in the morning (read: not very).

3. I like to drive with my headlights off for brief intervals on country roads, during clear nights when there's a full moon.

This could almost be called 2a; nighttime is very different from dusk for me. Driving down Wozniak when there is little cloud cover and the moon is full (or near enough, at least), I like to briefly turn off my headlights and drive for a bit with nothing but the moonlight reflecting off the road. It sounds more dangerous than it is; it's really quite well illuminated at the time. The road glows a gentle, dark blue. It bears a strange, quiet, solitary tranquility that is something I've come to enjoy. It's particularly bright and especially beautiful if there is a fresh blanket of untrodden snow. I highly suggest anyone to try it next winter if the opportunity presents itself.

Safety precaution: turn your lights back on at the first sight of any other vehicle or wildlife, no matter the distance. And don't go very fast; it's dangerous and ruins the experience anyway.

4. I probably don't remember your name.

...unless we've known each other for a while. For some reason, I just can't seem to register names for long-term recollection. I could recall a dozen facts about you or describe your appearance with unfaltering accuracy, but I'm probably at a total loss for your name. I even try to use little reminders, like explicitly saying your name immediately after you say it while I give my own, and then repeating it in my head a few times shortly after our conversation ends. But before too long, I'll think back on it and there will simply be a gaping hole where that information should be.

The worst was the guy I met at the coffee shop who gave me the books. I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation and I could tell you the names of every author we discussed, including ones he mentioned or recommended that I hadn't heard of before; but as soon as he had walked back downstairs, I had completely forgotten his name. I actually made the attempt to walk back down and ask him, but he had disappeared. Luckily, I was discreetly reminded of it when I received the box a few days later. (More on this in a forthcoming post.)

5. I enjoy organizing things into numbered lists.

I also enjoy pretentious self-reflexivity.

Busted!

This is easily one of the weirdest/craziest things to ever happen to me. Last night I was driving Joe and Katie (and myself) from the hotel where Katie was staying to the Slippery Noodle. Some time a little after 10 we left the hotel room and got into my car. I drove across the parking lot, came to a stop before entering the street, put on my turn signal, then slowly turned left onto the street. So far, so good.

Within two seconds, there was a screech of tires and two police cars were behind me with lights flashing. Joe and I exchanged incredulous glances; I had done nothing even remotely wrong in the 15 seconds we'd been in the car. I pulled over to the side of the road, put the car in park, and turned the music down. We waited. After what seemed like just a bit too long, a cop walked up to the side of the car and I rolled my window down.

Here's where it starts to get weird. Instead of strolling up to the window and asking to see my license and registration or if I knew how fast I was driving, he stood near the back door and shouted at us.

"Where did you just come from?"
"The hotel."
"Do you have any weapons?"
"What?"
"Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?"
"Uh, no."

I was pretty shocked to be asked such a question and in such a fashion. Also, he had a very thick Mexican accent, and I wasn't even sure of what I'd heard. He told us to stay there and that he'd be back. He disappeared back to the glare of lights behind us. I turned off my headlights and there we sat. We discussed what had already happened and came up with theories about what could be happening.

A few minutes later, a third car with lights on appeared around the corner and came to rest beside the others. We figured it was some sort of sting at the hotel and that my car was mistaken for someone else's. Joe suggested that I turn off the car. I said that I thought there was some length of time for which it was correct to leave the car running, and that you should turn it off if it was longer than that time. He said that for newer cars it was something of the order of about 20 seconds. So I turned off the car and we continued to wait.

We heard the unmistakable and slightly disturbing sound of guns being cocked. Like in the movies. You know, kk-chkk. That seemed odd.

"Driver!" It was a different voice, no accent. I assumed he meant me, although there were other cars around that were slowly maneuvering past the scene. "Turn the vehicle off and throw your keys out the window onto the ground!" Well, the vehicle was already off, and I found the whole thing to be pretty damn confusing, but I figured I could comply with the second part. I pulled the keys out and hesitantly tossed them out the window onto the ground.

"Put both of your hands where I can see them!" I held my hands up to the window. "Higher!" I held my hands up higher. "Now put them outside the window against the body of the car!" I put them outside the window against the body of the car. "Open the door and step out of the vehicle!" I pulled my right hand in to undo my seat belt. "Keep your hands where I can see them!" I put my hand back outside. "I have to take off my seat belt," I said meagerly. "Using your right hand, take off your seat belt, then put your hand back outside!" It seemed like sound advice, so I followed it. "Now using that same hand, open the car door from outside!" What? Okay. So I leaned over and looked and found the handle and pulled it and the car door swung ajar.

"Slowly, keeping your hands where they are, step out of the car and turn around!" I got out, slowly. As I got up, I saw the silhouettes of four or five police offers behind the cars with shotguns pointed at my face. Shotguns. That explains the kk-chkk. "Now turn around!" Jesus, I hadn't even gotten the chance to turn around, but okay. I turned around. "Lift your shirt up!" What? I lifted my shirt a little. "Higher! Let me see the other side!" I lifted it higher and turned. "Now back up slowly." I started to back up slowly, in the middle of the street with cars passing and watching, holding my god damn shirt up to my armpits, doing the moonwalk.

I peeked at the ground behind to make sure I wasn't going to stumble or anything. "Turn back around!" Right, I probably should have seen that one coming. I continued to back up, giving everyone a show of my wonderful, manly physique. "Between the cars!" I assumed he meant that I should continue to walk backwards directly in between the two cars that I was not supposed to look at. This is either very serious or I'm a contestant on some crazy new game show.

"Facing that same direction, put your hands behind your head!" I let my shirt down and put my hands behind my head. A pair of hands appeared out of nowhere and frisked me. They moved my hair around and looked at my neck. "He doesn't have a tattoo!" Yes, I don't have a tattoo. He then took my wallet. "Now get on your knees!" This is about the point where I was getting pretty pissed off about all this. Being ordered to moonwalk with your shirt up to your chest with shotguns in your face and then being told to get to your knees—without the slightest idea of what's going on—can be a little frustrating. I kneeled in the middle of the road. "Put your hands behind your back!" I did so. Almost immediately I was put into handcuffs. They felt pretty tight and not the least bit comfortable.

"We need to figure out if you're our guy. We're going to figure this out."
"Uh, okay. Here or at the station?"
"Here. Just wait."

I heard some shouting a few yards away. They were summoning Joe from the vehicle. He was being given similar treatment, although without the moonwalk peep show.

"Stand up, walk over to the curb, and sit down." With the rather surly assistance of the cop who cuffed me, I was brought standing and guided in the direction of the curb. "Now sit." I sat in the grass. Joe was led there as well. They asked who else is in the car. I told them a girl, our age. They brought Katie out. They didn't aim shotguns at her or make her give them a peepshow or make her walk backwards. They just walked her over beside us.

We were told that there had been an armed robbery just minutes ago and that my car was spotted leaving the scene; wrong place and wrong time. They were pretty sure we weren't them, but they had to be sure. One of them disappeared into a car to run our licenses.

"Where are you headed tonight?"
"The Noodle."
"Ah, the Noodle. Well, you'll have a pretty good story to share when you get there. You might have to get a few more shots."

I think he was trying for humor, but I wasn't interested. Go figure. Joe apparently found the entire situation to be most comical, and tried to jest back at the cops. He leaned over to me. "Not in a laughing mood?" I glared at him. "Not really."

They gave us back our wallets. They took off the handcuffs. They said we could go. No apologies whatsoever. "Where are my keys?" I asked. "I put your keys on the dashboard." We slowly walked back to the car, got in, and drove to the Slippery Noodle.

Back in Indiana

Yesterday I once again made the very long drive back to Indiana from North Dakota. It's amusing to me that you can wake up in one time zone and go to sleep in another. You spend the whole day in a little high-speed vessel, clipping along at a brisk pace against the rotation of the earth, and when you resume normal time you find your body wrenched back into the spin and sway of normal life. You're heading east, but you're really still heading west, only less so. It isn't literally traveling through time but you could almost convince your body of it—only I didn't change time zones; I went from the west side of the central time zone to the east side. The sun merely rises and sets half an hour earlier here. Does my body notice?

It was tough to say good-bye to Elizabeth again. I suppose I should just get used to it, as I have nothing but her entire lifetime (or perhaps the rest of mine, as it's likely to be the shorter) to say hello and goodbye. Still, as someone who has spent the greater part of a quarter-century under the belief that he is A) not good with children and B) not likely to become good with children, it's interesting to find myself in this position. I guess spending several hours with her every day for four months can have that effect. I never know what to do or say around other peoples' children; but in this position, the social awkwardness is replaced by genuine love, and it becomes easy. Conscious thought is replaced by involuntary affection. If I hadn't spent those months there, would it be different? Probably.

I truly enjoyed the moment when we first arrived last Thursday and she dashed over to me for a hug first; the uncle lets out a grin in triumph over the grandparents for the child's immediate attention. I only hope the bond will last as long as possible. It's true that using Skype has been extremely beneficial for preserving that relationship in the 2 & 1/2 months since we last saw each other, but I can only wonder how long it might hold out. Will it diminish by the time she reaches 10? What about as a teenager? And I wonder what it will be like when Lauren gets older as well. Will it be similar? I have to admit—maybe not, since I don't know if/when I'll get to spend such an extraordinary amount of time in North Dakota again.

This relatively short and very late entry was brought to you by the semicolon and the em dash. (Don't let the timestamp fool you; it's really 4 in the morning.)

Back in North Dakota

Earlier today I made the long drive with my parents up to Grand Forks, North Dakota. I got up at 4:30 a.m. after going to bed at 1:30 a.m. and then spent the next 12 & 1/2 hours in the car. Upon exiting the interstate and making the drive downtown for dinner, I immediately felt it: the surreal, dream-like effect of being back here, before I even got out of the car. It didn't feel like I had ever left North Dakota and stayed in Indiana for the past three months; instead, it felt like the past three months had actually been some kind of dream and that I had woken up where I was still living all along. It honestly feels like I never left. I know people say that all the time, that it feels like just yesterday, but it really does.

It's similar to the feeling I get every time I'm in Muncie and I drive past the old house on Neely. It's a very powerful nostalgia. I expect that if I went in the front door, I would find Dan and Greg (and Brian, if we're concerning ourselves with the house on Ashland) hanging out, about ready to start band practice; my bed and all my belongings would be in my old room; my shelves in the kitchen would be well stocked with my favorite foods. It's like that, only it's real. It's 100% real. It's the only time in life that you could ever get to act on that nostalgic desire. You want to open that door and look inside? You're going to be sorely disappointed and disillusioned. Only it's real. I am back in the room I lived in (albeit for only four months), and scarcely anything has changed.

I walked up to the front door with Joe as we carried in my bags and blankets, and it felt like I had just stepped out for groceries. We opened the front door and I went back to my old room and set my stuff down. The mattress I slept on was in the exact same spot as it was when I left. I'm currently sitting on that mattress and I just can't wrap my brain around this concept. My bed is still here. There's my roommate sitting on the couch watching the TV in the living room; all precisely as I left them. The teriyaki sauce and frozen vegetables I left in the refrigerator are still there, untouched, waiting for me to make stir fry right now. Where have I been all this time? Not here, but surely not there.

I can't tell what month it is; it could be September or October for all I know. I feel like I'm in a time warp, that I'm rewinding, like coming here turned the clock back to immediately before I left in December, and leaving again in a few days will then wind it right back to just before I originally came here; I will return to Indiana and it will be August 2009 again. Everything that has happened to me will unhappen. Decisions I made will be unmade. All my mistakes will be unmistook. The people who entered my life will unenter, and the people who have left my life will unleave.

Another Performance of Sorts

Just got home from a night out at McGinnis. I was asked by John Vermilye to play again, and I happily obliged. Luckily I had my songbook and capo in the car. (Okay, it wasn't purely luck; I may have brought them along just in case.) I went for four songs tonight, and I'm glad I did, I really liked the set list. Here it is:

"Your Heart Is an Empty Room" (Death Cab for Cutie)
"If You Don't Mind (Version 2)" (original)
"Doubting Thomas" (Nickel Creek)
"Clementine" (original)

It wasn't perfect, but then it never really is. I know there were a few flubs in there, but significantly fewer than last time. I've been playing a lot of guitar in the last month or so, and I felt pretty comfortable tonight, despite the fact that I'd already had two Dogfish Head IPAs (which make me feel less inhibited, but also probably more prone to mistakes). I think of all things my vocals felt particularly great; my rhythm guitar playing is still rough around the edges, but I thought my vocal delivery was exactly what I'd want it to be right now. I spent about five or ten seconds before each song just sitting in silence, thinking about the song, trying to imagine myself playing and singing it, so that when I started it I could just chill out and get lost in the melody and not be so prone to rush the tempo.

I have to give a big thank-you to Johnny for inviting me to play. It's an awkward transition to get over the nervousness I've accumulated from going so long without playing in front of people, but it feels good, really good. I had an absolute blast tonight. I also have to thank my friends that were there tonight. It means a lot to me to see them there enjoying it and offering words of encouragement. I tend to need a bit of that at the moment.

The Good Things

Here's a brief list of things that have made me happy recently.

1. My mom's vegetable beef soup

This is simply the best soup I've ever had in my life. People who have had it know what's up. My mom has used this soup to 'compensate' friends of mine for doing favors, like fixing a computer or helping to move some furniture. What you might not know is that it oftentimes tastes even better the second day. A bowl of this soup, a piece of lightly buttered wheat bread, and a few pieces of cheese. It's hard to be in a bad mood about, well, anything really, after a meal like that.

2. My aunt getting married

My Aunt Kathy lost her only son, my cousin Chris, in a car accident about 7 years ago. It was extremely difficult for me, and that could only have been a minuscule portion of what she has had to go through. At the time, she was married to someone who was a pretty big asshole. He was selfish and manipulative and emotionally abusive; he somehow found a way to make the hardest part of her entire life even harder. They divorced about four or five years ago, and for the last few years she's been dating a long-time friend of hers. He's a nice, honest guy who treats her right. Everyone in the family is happy and relieved that she has ended up with him. Last Thursday they got married, and they are currently in Hawaii on honeymoon. She's finally got the kind of happiness she deserves.

3. Cake from Truffle's

This could almost be labeled 2(b), as it was at the wedding dinner on Thursday that we had cake from Truffle's (located in downtown Michigan City). The thing to know is that I don't even generally like cake. It's all just too...cakey. And sugary. And oh, the frosting; I generally can't stand the stuff. When it comes to cupcakes, I usually have to scrape off the giant mound of frosting, leaving just a faint paste along the top. A few bites of any kind of cake, and I've usually had my fill. Not with this cake, though. It's extremely light and not very sugary at all. The frosting is whipped cream frosting, and man is it good. Oh, and there's a thin layer of strawberry in the middle, not so much that it overwhelms but just enough to give a little hint of fruity deliciousness. Below that is a layer of what I believe to be cream cheese frosting? I don't actually know, but it's also not overpoweringly sweet. It all adds up to something that I find ridiculously delicious. There isn't a part of my brain that signals when I've had enough; I could probably eat myself to death on it. What a great way to go out, too.

4. Singing "Army" at karaoke night

Show of hands, who saw this coming? Yeah? Me either. I'm not one to generally like karaoke, but I was dragged willingly to a place with karaoke on Friday night. At first, I was my normal, hesitant, self-conscious, awkward self; I didn't want to do it. All it took was few beers and a healthy dose of good laughter and I changed my mind. I sang "Ziggy Stardust" (David Bowie) first and later "Everlong" (Foo Fighters). These were both fun choices. But it wasn't until I was sufficiently drunk and we were about to leave that my third choice "Army" (Ben Folds Five) started. I cut loose a little. I mean I got into it. It was good times. I hardly remember it; all I remember is that I loved it. I also remember that the lyrics on-screen were "Well I thought about the army / Dad said, son, you must be high" but we all know those aren't the real words and that's not what I sang.

5. The library

I have probably been to the library a dozen times this year already. I've checked out tons of books and movies. It's the sole reason that so many uninteresting evenings have been somewhat bearable. Unfortunately, the Michigan City Public Library doesn't have free wireless internet, which is something of a joke, but most libraries these days do. I just can't fathom all the money people can spend on entertainment when so much is available for free at the library. Netflix? Kindle? What's the point? The main library in Indianapolis is four or five floors! You could go in there every day after work for five years and barely scratch the surface. All for free.

Some New Song Maybe

Here's something I wrote in the car earlier this evening. Don't know if it'll ever get turned into a song, so this might be the only chance for public forum as far as it's concerned. I put it to some C and F and Am, and such; maybe something might come of that. I like the rhyme scheme in the verse; it's sort of the inverse of what I used in Metropolis.

there are too many roads
that stretch from point to point
a vast network of nodes
with interlocking arms
that cover all the great expanse
and turn by turn upon each fragile joint
these legs converge into a dance
of endless factories and farms

the seasons wait
but not for long
and state by state
I write this song
and hope it finds you
as I roam
through county lines to
paths back home

Strange Generosity

I walked into Lakeshore Coffee this afternoon with my laptop bag and Catch-22 under my arm. As I paid for my small coffee, an older man standing next to me noticed the book and asked if it's still in print. I replied that I wasn't sure, and I had gotten it from the library, but I was pretty sure that books like this never go out of print, you can always find them. He then asked a few questions about the plot and characters and whether I had seen the movie, and I replied that I was only about fifty pages in so far and had not seen the movie so I didn't really know much about it yet. He told me it was one of his favorite books when he was younger, and he remembered when it came out.

I told him I had been on a mission recently to catch up on literary classics that I had always heard so much about but never read. We talked at length about Vonnegut, specifically comparing and contrasting the two I had read in the past month (Slaughterhouse-Five and Cat's Cradle). He made a few recommendations of great books I should read, and I added them to my handy dandy reading list. I thanked him for the recommendations as he sat down with his wife, and I went up to the second floor (where I like to sit when I come here) and got out my laptop.

Not one minute later, he came up the steps and asked if he could interrupt, which was more of a polite formality as I wasn't actually even doing anything. He told me then that he would like to give me some of his old books, dozens of them, that have been on his bookshelves for decades but he doesn't read anymore. He asked if I would give him my address, if I would mind if he sent them to me. I told him that would be way too generous of him. He insisted, saying that they would get more use in my possession than his. He recommended that when I'm done with them I give them away to someone else to read. I once more told him that it sounds wonderful, but it's far too generous of him. He insisted once more that he wanted to do it, so I whipped out my pocket notebook, tore out a sheet, and gave him my address as well as my email address.

He went back downstairs and I elatedly opened up my laptop and set about writing this entry. I'm beside myself with the simple joy that is imparted by a complete stranger's utter generosity, with no expectation of reciprocation. It's completely selfless benevolence. And I very much look forward to passing on the books after I finish them.

The funny part of this story is that just a few days ago I was on the phone with a friend and I had lamented that, only fifty pages in, I wasn't really enjoying Catch-22 so far. He suggested that I just jump ship if I'm not enjoying it, but I said that wasn't the point of what I was doing. I need to finish these books so I can understand them and absorb them, good and bad. If I had quit reading it, I wouldn't have had it with me in the coffee shop, it wouldn't have sparked that conversation, he wouldn't have offered to bequeath to me the books, and I wouldn't be writing this right now.

I suppose the cynic inside me admits the possibility that he may forget about it or never get around to it, and I may never see the books. Even still, I don't think that's entirely the point. I think the point is remembering that there are a lot of assholes in the world, but there are also some genuine good souls. All you gotta do is carry Catch-22 with you everywhere and hope they find you.

The Middle

I just watched Before Sunrise and Before Sunset back-to-back. I’ve seen them both once before (although I did miss roughly the first half of the former the first time around), but this time they struck me in a newly profound way. I enjoyed them a bit more than the first time, and that’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy them then.

Now, like any great film, they’ve left me in a state where I can’t really focus on anything else; I can’t really think about the things that are happening in my life, the plans I have for tomorrow, for the weekend. I’m still trapped in that little universe, the one I escaped to for several hours, where I watched their story unfold. I think a lot about the themes that are present, the ways in which the characters’ lives unfold in the company of each other.

I know it’s all fictional and they’re not real, but truly great art transcends the medium and touches a common human thread. It stands to reason that I project myself onto the characters and interpret the story through my own eyes, through the lens of my own life. It’s like a love song on the radio, where instead of “Jesse” and “Celine” you’re more likely to just hear pronouns like “you” and “me”, but it’s the same concept—you can appreciate what the song is about because you’re able to hear it in relation to your own life. If it’s something you’ve experienced personally, then you can sympathize with it; if not, then you can acknowledge the disparity and imagine yourself in the situation. It's in this way that you can appreciate a World War II drama even though you never fought in World War II yourself.

I’ve been doing this since I finished watching tonight. It’s got me thinking about the very cinematic, very romantic notion that there is one very special person with whom we could be meant to be with. As the films pose it, it’s not a question of whether that person is perfect, but more of a question of whether there is a powerful, undeniable bond that is present and felt almost immediately. (If you haven’t seen them, I won’t spoil how either one ends.) It's a question of whether that bond stretches over years, over oceans.

I began to think about the polar extremes of the way people tend to think of love:

“I don’t have time for love. I need to focus on my career and success. I need to be happy with me and my life before I can be happy with someone else.”

...or...

“I don’t see the point in having money and a career if I can’t share the joys with my soul mate. I don’t think I can be happy alone.”

We’ll call the first group Cynics. They have big aspirations, or they want to have them at least, and they won’t be satisfied with life unless they never feel, at any point, that they’ve done all there is for them to do. They’re achievers. They have no doubt about it. Love, to them, is an afterthought. It’s a facet of life that is subservient to other more self-sufficing subjects, like success and money. They’re not satisfied with love as a goal because they see that love is fickle, fleeting.

We’ll call the second group Romantics. They might have aspirations and dreams as well, but they can’t possibly be convinced that there isn’t someone out there who is meant to be with them—a soul mate. Much of their satisfaction and happiness comes from the validation that accompanies love and relationships. It’s self-affirming, in a good way. It’s sometimes the case that they’ll put everything in their lives on hold to pursue love. They feel like if they’re alone then there’s simply no point to anything else; there is no happiness to enjoy, no success to find, no joy.

How do these people end up feeling at the ends of their lives when they look back? The Cynic, with all his success and wealth, may come to feel very isolated and alone. He may come to find that the joys of his life are hollow without someone to share in them, someone to share them with. He has lived for himself and not for someone else and he has never known that selfless caring and devotion that accompany love. He begins to fear the thought of dying alone.

On the other hand, the Romantic may come to the end of his days and feel that he was put on this earth to accomplish something that he never accomplished. He put some idea or some aspiration on hold for the sake of cultivating and nurturing a complex relationship with another human being, and as he reaches the twilight of his life he may begin to regret that. He may feel like his own comfortable happiness has usurped any chance of leaving a mark on this world that he was here, some contribution to humanity, some piece of history.

The problem is that neither of these is right. The problem is that there has to be a middle somewhere. The problem is that I can’t distinguish just where that would place me. Sometimes it’s one side and the next day it could be completely the opposite. The questions that the Cynics ask themselves, and the questions that the Romantics ask themselves, I find myself asking them day after day, and I’m only 26. I’m sitting and thinking and suddenly, in my mind, I’m 36; then I’m 46; then I’m 56, and so on. And at each point, I ask myself whether I chose one side or the other and whether it made me happy. I hope I never have to choose only one side, but I don’t know, or I don’t understand, how the middle can exist. It’s represented by a balance of two completely different forces that don’t seem to be able to coexist. Maybe it’s clearer than that, and maybe it’s easier than that, and maybe it makes more sense as you get older. Or maybe it just makes more sense when you’ve found it. Or maybe it makes more sense if, when you do think you’ve found it, you don’t lose it, either one, whichever it is.

I’m going to post this tonight before I change my mind and decide not to. I went to the trouble of writing it, after all. Julie Delpy, if you’re reading this, if I had the choice of never seeing you again or marrying you, I would most certainly choose the latter.