Sunday, August 26, 2007

The Best Birthday Party Ever

If the title of this entry sounds like that of a children's book, that's because today unfolded like one, cake and all.

My birthday was, of course, Friday. And even though the Family Guy rerun at 3:30 AM on Friday was funny, something about sitting alone on a couch typing about being alone on a couch didn't have the same magic as being surrounded by 40 of your closest friends and family who, gathered around a cake made for 70 people, stood shoulder to shoulder in order to form a wind-shield to keep the candles lit. I think it is something about the little ritual, the gathering, the lighting of the candles, the chanting of thanks and warm thoughts for one person, that on every birthday since I was 19 I've felt like I was in a movie. Because, really, where else but in a movie does one get to look around and see the cast of characters that form your whole world?

This was the biggest party ever held for me, and I only say it like that because of how, if you had invited the 8-year-old Martin to the party, he would never have believed that that many people would assemble for him. Birthdays were always intimate, immediate-family affairs. I never had or wanted the gaggle of friends that you see in movie birthdays - the kids running around with hats, the parents beleaguered as they run from one event to the next. The couple of times other boys came over, they felt to me like intruders. I remember one boy, for my 7th birthday party, guessed all of my gifts before I opened them. If he hadn't been so damn right about all of them it wouldn't have been so bad, but the kid had, for whatever reason, chose to use his powers for evil and so that was that until my 18th birthday. X-nay on the other-kids-ay. And I know Jessie won't believe me, but I seriously did not have any friends to invite until I was 14, and by that point I was still annoyed at Mr. Guessy Pants.

Which is why this evening, as I stood over my vast cake (courtesy of my sister Anna), the words "Happy 25th Birthday, Martin! And Happy Graduation!" scrawled across it in red icing between thick, colorful icing balloons, the twinkle of 25 candles dancing on its frosted surface, I looked around at my friends and family and knew that the wish I would make had already come true. My wish was standing around me, keeping out the wind.

I couldn't blow out all the candles, by the way. Up until this point my cakes have been circular objects with massive candle concentration, whereas this cake was like blowing across a frosted tundra. My breath, heaved out of my mighty chest, curled and licked across the dotted surface, but seriously who can blow out 25 candles spread out over 8 cubic feet of cake? And would you want to read the blog of someone containing that much wind? I think not.

We had copious amounts of food. My family may be a lot of things, but at least we know how to cook for a party. Jessie's mum made fruit salad and hot chicken salad (if there were a list of the Seven Wonders of Food, "hot chicken salad" would be like number 3 or number 4); Mom made burgers that Dad grilled to perfection; Jane brought yummy seven-layer dip; Anna brought the cake and massive quantities of drink; Aunt Sue brought her world-altering potato salad; Aunt Doris brought a vegetable medley, Grandma brought her chocolate-chip cookies... it was like wandering into that part of your head that remembers all of the good food you used to eat when you were a kid and then all of a sudden it was real, right there, and needing to be consumed by you right away.

I was worried about having enough things for people to do, but, as always, people are more adept at entertaining themselves and each other than I give them credit. I used to lament how I had friends who couldn't hang out with one another - I only saw one person at a time, avoiding the nigh cataclysmic chemical reactions that occurred between my friends and each other. Tonight, though, was the complete and utter negation of that Martin Theory. People hummed around, telling stories, introducing themselves, laughing. Mat is particularly gifted at this, the kind of comfortable in himself that people, my family and friends included, instantly like and appreciate. Bryan came too, rather bravely I thought, and had no problems mixing right in with people he didn't know, tossing around the Frisbee, talking music with those who would listen. Dodgeballs were brandished when Dave showed up, and we knew it was only a matter of time before some highly-entertaining physical activity would break out (the wrong-armed, stationary-foot game of dodgeball proved insanely amusing, and to Dave's credit he still managed to get me out...) Chris, to my constant delight, is the coolest 30-something that ever something'd thirty. And Dave Turka came all the way from Philadelphia with his girlfriend, managing, within minutes, to rescue the day not once but twice with his super-human climbing abilities. The only thing that could have made the evening better would have been Mark showing up. It's weird the times that you think to miss people. It's never when you expect.

This all stands in stark contrast to last night. Last night I went to Mat's at 1 AM, distraught. I said, "Mat, you are looking at a man on the verge of losing everything he has built above himself." I told him of my debt, of my fight with Jessie, of my fears about DC and the uncertainty surrounding the next days and weeks and years. I pointed to the sky and told of how, in one terrifying moment, I saw starlight on the glass panes in the tower I've built above myself, shaking in the storm winds, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before all that quivering glass came shattering down.

And that all may well be true. My seven-figure debt is an enormous burden. I don't have a job yet. I'm not in school. There are no guarantees in relationships. But what tonight made me realize, what perhaps Mat was wise enough to let me find out on my own, was that it was not what was above me I should be worrying about, but what was below me that I should be grateful for. The glass may shatter and fall, but it will fall onto sturdy stone, sink into butter-cream icing, be lit by candles and sung to by pillars, and then consumed, happily, by the loving ground on which I gratefully stand.

Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Because of you it was an awesome, wonderful, sunny day.

Your,
Martin

Friday, August 24, 2007

A Quarter Century of Martin

“The wide world is all about you; you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out.”

In 2.5 hours, I turn 25. As in years. Holy freaking mother of crap I am going to be 1/4 of a century old! Frankly, to deal with it, I am pretending it is happening to someone else. It's like, "Oh wow, that person is 25. I wish I had a sandwich." Me being 25 just doesn't, you know, sound right. Sandwiches, however, do.

And then, as Tolkien points out, it's not like I can fence out the fact that I'm getting older. No, I've got to embrace it, make it mine. I mean, it's happening with or without my consent, so it's more a matter of accepting reality than creating it, but there will be a moment, prolly in the next few days, where I look in the mirror and become okay with being an adult.

I remember, when I used to sell pianos at Trombino Piano, the owner, Mr. Trombino, came to visit me one day. It was very awkward - here was a self-made man, late into his seventies and more tan than God (if he were tan) who had sold accordions out of the back of his car until he'd built a million-plus business, and there I was, the itinerant me who had sold maybe one of two pianos in 7 months and owed Mr. Trombino roughly $3,000 in commission. Needless to say, we talked briefly. It was summer. My 20th birthday was approaching. He asked me, "How old are you?"

"I'll be 20 in a couple weeks."

"20. Time to grow up, son."

Then he left, and his words have haunted me. Time to grow up. Their vagueness keeps them dangerous.

The closest Emily and I ever came to a fight in our brief time together was over fajitas. I had been reading "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus," and as I sat there spooning guacamole onto warm bread, enlightening her about the heteronormative pages of that little pearl of a book, the fur on her neck stood up, as though a lightning cloud were hovering above, and she said, "If you were any other person, I would have written you off already."

She said later, on the steps of Jeffrey's apartment, that she could see how much I was struggling, as though my manhood was something I was seeking outside myself instead of as an organic progression of me. And as I thought about her words, I realized how that applied to so many challenges in my life, how I was constantly looking outside myself for answers. I just feel like I'm sometimes the least-qualified person to answer my questions. You can't solve a problem with the same mind that created it. When it comes to being an adult, the only image I can see is myself, kneeling before a dais with faceless men in black robes, and wordlessly they lower a heavy metal mantle onto my shoulders. It's like I'm waiting for a moment to transform me magically into 'Man Martin.' And, frankly, it's scary.

I'm in Alexandria tonight. Jess and I managed, by some feat of willpower as yet unequaled in our collective lifetime, to get my television into our apartment. You know whenever you see people carrying a body in a movie? Well, my TV weighs 175lbs, and I could not lift that. We ended up pushing it up the steps screen-side down, and aside from a big crack in the top casing, it's no worse for the wear. Jess wanted to celebrate my birthday today, and we had the most amazing evening.

We live in Old Town Alexandria, which is this amazing, European-styled hamlet town full of restaurants and little shops. There is a restaurant we saw called "Bilbo Baggins," and one of the tag-lines on the windows of the yellow building reads: "Quality Food is Our Hobbit."

Jessie has this amazing ability to hear something once and then make it come true. She knows that it's one of my dreams to go to France again, and so for my birthday she looked up and made reservations at one of the best French restaurants in DC, La-Bergerie. We got there around 5:45, and were the only ones in the restaurant for like an hour. As such, we got amazing service. They pulled the table out so we could sit down behind it, and then they slid it back. We ate in innumerable courses. There was this old Frenchman (who looked strangely like Mr. Trombino) who took our orders, and then yelled at all the other servers in French to work harder. There were more employees than customers, so Jess and I laughed in nervous silence for a bit, counting the chandeliers and watching the little lumiere in the center of the table. We couldn't stay quiet, though, when the food started coming: warm bread, AMAZING baked onion soup, Caesar Salad made table-side with an egg-yolk and anchovies, and for dinner Dover sole with butter and lemon sliced so thin it melted in your mouth, one taste after the other, a kaleidoscope. I loved it. Loved loved LOVED it. Food should be an event. For dessert we had chocolate souffle, and upon tasting it Jess said, "It tastes like womb!" Which is probably the best description of it you'll ever hear. Chocolate womb. Mmmm.

Afterwards, we caught the wonderful "Stardust" at the local movie palace. I loved the movie! Very cute, and with a real sense of wonder. It made me want to come home and start writing the scene I dreamt 11 years ago with the wizard and the fires...

There is so much to say. I recorded my debut CD on Tuesday and Wednesday - I'll have to tell you all about it :)

Happy birthday, me. May your fences be wisely set.

-martin

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Body Issues Ow Ow

Ow.

Jesus monkeytit ballfockers. Ow. Every part of me hurts. I feel like Emeril went 'Bam!' on the balls of my feet and now all they need is some olive oil and a little garlic powder and they are ready, tender, and delicious. And red. And purple. And achy, like the rest of me. My hands have that perma-red thing going on - you know how they get when you press them against the leather in a car for 20 minutes before you've lost all feeling in your paws? Yeah. Like that. And my back, obviously having wised up to the fact that I need it more than the rest of me, has gone on strike. It's like, "Oh, you want to stand up? Want to lie down? Pretty hard without ME, huh buddy? Yeah! You like that!"

I digress. Jess and I moved the majority of our stuff down to Alexandria today, and by "moved" I mean "hauled" and by "today" I mean "oh my God it took all fucking day." Having loaded the 16' Budget Truck-From-Hell (I mean really, you couldn't even afford a tape player? a TAPE player? bah), we headed down the PA Turnpike at a stunning 55 mph, careening past trees and slow gophers with aplomb.

It was then, of course, that my body decides to throw me a loop. Or rather, a poop.

I have a long and storied history of getting "the shits" at inopportune times: hotels with no air-conditioning, airplanes over Spain, hostels in Spain, etc... (Did you know that fruit in Spain is actually rather gross, especially when you are hallucinating from the Norwalk Virus?). It's like any time I want to leave my comfort zone, my body has to flush out (I'm punny!) the memory of the old place and absorb a new one. It's still bothering me now, bubbling and gurgling like witches brew, doubling my toil AND my trouble.

It was especially inconvenient when I went to lift the heavy objects. I think I, in association with my netherpurses, redefined the meaning of "self-control."

Just to give you a sense of how much stuff Jessie and I moved (inlcluding her stuff which we picked up in the Springs):

8 small boxes
6 medium boxes
5 large boxes
22 trash bags full of things that SHOULD have been in boxes
6 mattresses
5 chairs
1 piano keyboard
2 headboards
1 futon
2 end tables
1 coffee table
(almost) 1 175lb television
etc... writhing in pain... etc...

Also, there was an 18-step climb to the apartment, and we couldn't park the truck directly outside because, oh right, it was rush hour in Washington, DC, and, oh wait, we don't have keys to get in and then, uh, we drop the TV on Jessie's finger and have to run to CVS at midnight for Bactine and, uh, there is no shower curtain...

So. I am going to bed. Right now. And when I wake up, I will re-evaluate this whole situation with a little more "wow" and not so much "ow."

Yours (what's left of me),
Martin

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Fruits and Vegetables

For my father, every problem in the world can be solved with fruit and vegetables. Feeling low? Here's an apple. Nervous about school? Broccoli with lemon. Dinner at his apartment was like a cooking show for my soul, and every dinner had three constant elements: applesauce, broccoli, and sauerkraut.

Sauerkraut is one of those mysterious foods that appears when you need it and at no other time. Got a hot dog in your hand? Chances are there is sauerkraut within 10 feet of you. Are you inside a festival tent? Chance of Sauerkraut is like 97%. I didn't even know you could buy sauerkraut. I used to think that, like pierogies, the food was constructed in some kind of arcane, ethnic process that grandparents only whispered to each other. But, apparently, you can buy sauerkraut in a jar. Then you can heat it in a bowl, put it next to the broccoli and the applesauce, and within 20 minutes you will have at least solved the one problem you went into dinner with, namely the munchies.

I've been thinking a lot about health care. This is probably because I don't have any. My fabulous coverage through Pitt expired on July 14, and ever since all I can do is picture myself as that guy in SiCKO who has to choose which one of his fingers to have reattached: the one for $60,000, or the one for $5,000.

I don't do well with politics. By my nature I am someone who tries to create harmony, happiness, and though politics at its best is in the pursuit of harmony, all it really seems like now is one big obstreperous mess. The system, which was designed as self-correcting, had some of its balancing protocols removed in the search for more authority, and now We The People have forgotten that, wait a minute, these shmucks work for us, and we've always wanted to say, "You're fired!"

In the same way that supporting Bush has become something of a lead weight in polite conversation, I hope that the debate over health care, and the people standing in the way of a solution, lose similar face in the public consciousness. It doesn't sound that radical to say, "You know what? I think these kids deserve to grow up healthy. I don't mind spending a few dollars for that." Any of us, any decent person wants to see those around them healthy, if for nothing other than our own sanity. I don't know about you, but I find sick people obnoxious. I know I'm a pain in the butt when I don't feel well, and if you don't have your health, well, you don't have much of anything.

So. Go see SiCKO. Take friends. It is eye-opening. And even though it's only one side of the story, it's not like Moore is telling you anything you don't know in your gut, and it's a side of the story whose time has come to tell. That creeping feeling in your gut is not going to get better.

In the meantime, I'm going to find some individual coverage. Hopefully they don't find out about my pre-existing broccoli allergy. I guess there are some problems in the world even a spritz of lemon can't fix.

-m

Monday, August 06, 2007

Chicken-Fried Thunderstorms

This looks familiar, vaguely familiar,
Almost unreal, yet, it's too soon to feel yet.
Close to my soul, and yet so far away.
I'm going to go back there someday.
Sun rises, night falls, sometimes the sky calls.
Is that a song there, and do I belong there?
I've never been there, but I know the way.
I'm going to go back there someday.
Come and go with me, it's more fun to share,
We'll both be completely at home in midair.
We're flyin', not walkin', on featherless wings.
We can hold onto love like invisible strings.
There's not a word yet for old friends who've just met.
Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place?
You can just visit, but I plan to stay.
I'm going to go back there someday.
I'm going to go back there someday.


Got back from Texas on Wednesday night. The airport was quiet - it was around 1 AM, and the bleary-eyed travelers shuffled in relative silence through the muted grays of the airport. The flight from Hobby, split into two two-hour chunks around Atlanta, had passed quickly. J.K. Rowling's gift for spellbinding kept me entranced for all but the few minutes spent gnoshing on biscuits and cran-apple juice, and the time passed quickly under her able fingers.

Unlike last time, I didn't return from Texas with a fresh layer of skin exposed to the air. Last time, well, I came back a different person. Raw. Vulnerable. Acting out. There were no trips to Galveston this time, no tearful expressions of frustration, no drinking binges. Cigarettes smoked were counted with single digits, not by the pack, and though there were a couple heads banged against a railing, it was short, fleeting, something we needed to work out of our system before we could just be.

It was just, well, good. The whole time. And it got better as it went along, became more real, more tangible, harder to leave.

It's hard to write about Jeffrey and Emily without being unbearably corny. My actual feelings would more closely resemble Hallmark cards, and so in the interest of your sanity, dear Reader, I will spare you the mushy stuff. You wouldn't believe me anyway.

My trip to Texas started on the previous Friday. I went to Dallas to visit Brian Holland, one of the world's greatest piano players, and proceeded to have three of the coolest days in recorded history. Brian is 35, but our age difference felt more like one year as opposed to eleven, and we spent the first night I was there munching on Boneless Buffalo Wings at Chili's (what can be considered the "Theme Food" of the trip - I must have consumed something like 25 of them over the course of the week) and playing pool. I know! Pool! And he and his roommate were really good, and I nearly beat both of them. I came within one shot both times.

Apparently I am a shark. I think it explains a lot.

Saturday was spent at the piano. I don't think I've laughed harder in my life than with Brian on Saturday. We were just really, really good at cracking each other up. After watching "Airplane" on his massive HDTV (I'd never seen the movie! "You just want me to have an abortion..." omg HILARIOUS) we surfed YouTube for three hours, watching videos of piano god Dick Hyman and making stupid, hysterical jokes about his name. I mean come on. Dick. Hyman. It writes itself. We merely chiseled. Smoothed out the buttocks. The joke was already in the stone.

Sunday was spent at the piano, too. It was kind of like being in the room with Hemingway and watching him write, only without the self-loathing and more uses of the word "said." I am a decent piano player. Brian is a god. Just hearing him play would have been worth the trip. The fact that I left with ideas and music and the drive to get better, not to mention with a new friend, was really icing on what proved to be a fabulous slice of cake. Can't wait to see him again.

He dropped me at Dallas-Love Field, and I caught a plane down to Houston. Jeffrey and Emily were waiting for me down at baggage claim, and I felt like a little kid at how excited I was to be seeing them again. I took measured steps so as not to belie the fact that I wanted to run. The past six months blurred and melted, and there they were, together, watching little bags go around the carousel. Emily saw me first and came running, and within minutes we were riding in Jeffrey's car, Rowdy the Audi, thoroughly hugged out.

The next couple of days were a delight. If I could turn that sentence into a cake, it would weigh 400 pounds. I got to see Vicky again after a far-too-brief introduction seven years ago. I think we've set a land-record for number of meaningful words exchanged between people who only met for three hours. And I finally got to meet her partner Dan, about whom I heard wonderful things, all of which he lived up to. Dan has a room in their house that would melt just about any Star Wars fan. I seriously tried to swear fealty when I saw the Stormtrooper with the shield and the lightsaber. Omigod.

You're probably wondering, "That's all? That's all he's going to write?" You see, last time I was there, I came back needing to put all of my experience into words. I needed to have it out in front of me where I could my paws in it, move it around, hold it up under different light. This time, though, I want to hold the moments close, keep them warm and safe. Some of it just doesn't make sense when you put it on the page, and that's okay. It's safe with me. Suffice it to say, the "Muppet Movie" is one of the most beautiful, true films ever made. Life is a movie. Make your own ending.

Can't wait to go back. In every sense of those five-and-a-half words, I. Cannot. Wait.

So many new adventures coming. Much, much to tell, dear Reader. We will watch a thunderstorm pass overhead, admire its swirling blackness, and know that it's alright not to go inside the house.

Until then, I remain,
Your Martin