Tag Archives: day-to-day

Spilling the Tea

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*The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed when I can’t remember them.*

On September 11, I try to do something alive. Mostly, I go to museums or spend time with friends. Today, I take a chance on something completely different.

Arlington, Virginia is one of D.C.’s Big Suburbs. When I used to live in Alexandria, it was a place I found myself in regularly, sometimes for the farmer’s market on Courthouse, sometimes Ray’s the Steaks or Ray’s Hell Burger, sometimes to visit people I know. The last time I came out here was because of a temp job. Otherwise, Virginia doesn’t hold a lot of interest for me.

However, after a Turkish gentleman named Isa became fixated on my resemblance to Phillip Seymour Hoffman at the Jomeh Bazar last Friday, he invited me to his coffee truck, the Ballstonian, parked every morning at 4000 Wilson Boulevard. I live about as far away from there as I can get while still being in D.C., but I’m looking for something to do, and I decide to make the schlep.

I find his truck, easily, parked near the “Jew-ish” bagel place, Call Your Mother, and it is a work of art. A seventies-era vintage car from his native Turkey, accompanied by Arabian-style low tables and stools, occupies a corner of sidewalk.

There is a Stormtrooper, but we’ll get back to him.

Isa is really excited to see me, like, really excited. He says he has been hoping I’d show up, and he serves me chai, not the American kind, but Turkish tea, like he wants to impress me. He also offers me Turkish delight, which lives up to its name.

At ten a.m., there are three people gathered around the truck, and he introduces me to them like I’m the most interesting person they’re ever going to meet. There’s Gary, who is fairly close to my age and wants to know everything about me. He thinks I’m retired. Yousef, a Kuwaiti transplant, doesn’t know what to make of me—it’s curiosity when I tell them I used to live in Qatar, then revulsion when I tell them my wife worked for the CIA. I do not speak to Caroline. She and Yousef leave shortly after my arrival, and the remaining attention is on me.

Isa unfolds a stool for himself and me, and mine is broken before I sit down. The addition of my weight deforms its legs, but Isa pounds them out and has no problem reclining on it. Gary tells us he was on an Air Force base in California when everything happened twenty-five years ago.

I tell them where I was. They poke and prod, and I tell them everything. I don’t often get to share the actual story anymore, and they really listen. The whole experience is cathartic. Gary and Isa settle down into a collective, “Whoa,” broken up by the arrival of Malcolm.

Malcolm doesn’t talk or emote, and he’s got this intensity to him that may be shyness, or it could be sociopathy.  He sits on the far end of the tables and drinks his tea.

When the crazy woman shows up and talks to him, she is casually diverted away by Isa’s effusive personality. She tries to talk to Gary, who says, “Nope.” This is her first time at the Balstonian, but Isa has a lot of experience with crazy people.

Isa reminds me of Shane, in that he is best friends with everyone. We’re joined by four other people he’s excited to see: Kieron, Grant, Hugo, and Cody. Hugo is a defense contractor who leans left, and he just went to conference for the “Department of War,” where he hooked up with one of two women older than twenty-five. Cody, with his neatly trimmed beard and shampoo-commercial, curly, cinnamon locks, simply abides. Keiran is silent for the most part but is amused by everyone. His only job is to take the piss out of Grant when necessary.

Grant.

Grant is cranked up to eleven. He’s what I would call extra. Isa leans in and tells me that this is now Grant’s show. He’s also incredibly charming, and he makes sure he talks to all of us equally, especially the old guy. As a twenty-something resident of New York City, he interrogates me on what it was like to live there at the turn of the century. I explain the concept of CBGB’s, which I never thought I’d have to do, and he tells me how cool I am.

“2003 begs to differ,” I reply.

Grant is the one flashing gang signs.

He works his magic on Malcolm and finds out he cosplays. Grant even coaxes out some pictures. Malcolm’s main focus is historical costumes, and Grant keeps referring to his SS uniform. I am unable to work out whether he’s kidding or not, which becomes a genuine concern when he convinces Malcolm to show us his Stormtrooper outfit. Panicked, I ask, “What kind of Stormtrooper are we talking about here?” Hugo tells me to relax.

I hope Malcolm recognizes how awesome it is that he’s show this group of mostly strangers his passion.

Two glasses of Turkish tea make me jittery as the afternoon approaches, and I bow out and stop first for an obscenely good sandwich at Call Your Mother. With a surprise hug, Grant tells me I was the most educational thing to happen to him, and he just backpacked through Spain.

Isa tells me the Balstonian is there every weekend, which is useful information to have.

New World Ordering

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Despite being told that my hair was part of the reason I look like Phillip Seymour Hoffman, it had to be tamed. JaJo’s Barbershop is on Barrack’s Row, about a mile from my last apartment. I’ve stuck with them because it’s the best haircut in the Southeast quadrant, and everybody knows it. JaJo’s is first-come-first-served, meaning there is a lot of competition for a chair, meaning you’d better get there when it opens at nine on Saturdays.

On haircut day, my routine is to pack up my art supplies and haul them a good five-minute walk to the barber, to the 7th Street Hill Cafe, where I have a breakfast sandwich and an iced coffee—regardless of the temperature—and draw until it’s time to go. After the cut, I used to walk to the boutique dispensary, but I don’t do that anymore, so I usually just get bored and go home within an hour.

This Saturday, I emerge from the Metro and begin my coffee house, which takes me past the other three cafes between the station myself and the. After crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, I make a decision that’s going to change the trajectory of my entire day: I decide to do something different.

Instead of walking two blocks to the 7th Street Hill Cafe, I stop at the first one I see. Instead of sitting inside in a quiet corner to monitor the comings and goings of the clientele, I deposit myself on the patio. Instead of an iced coffee, I order English breakfast tea. Instead of a breakfast sandwich, I order something I need a fork to eat. Instead of wolfing the food down and opening up my sketchbook, I savor it and edit a chapter of one of my W.I.P. novels.

These changes are small but invigorating.

Early September is still summer, and it does get hot in the afternoons. Mornings this month, however, have been gorgeous. JaJo’s is a shorter walk, so I hover just a little while longer, watching Eastern Market set up as early birds meander into my cafe or the one next door (incredibly, they both do great business). It’s here I see my first natural ginger. She won’t be the last

When I get to JaJo’s, I’m directed to one chair of nine, this one belonging to Michael. Within ten minutes, they’re all full, with a long line. Jajo’s is a Vietnamese business, and all barbers (but one) share that nationality. My barber, an older guy, speaks only hairdresser, which is great because I’m not one for hairdressing small talk. Michael tackles my mop with professional efficiency, following with my favorite part, the hot towel and shoulder massage. This time, however, Michael has an electronic device that is as aggressive as it is exhilarating. He even applies it to the top of my head, and I literally start to slide out of the chair. After a focused hair-dry, he exposes me to my perfect new do, which is as good as it’s going to look for the next six weeks.

My other errand of the day is the art store, but it doesn’t open until eleven. It’s currently nine thirty. My plan is to walk ten blocks to the Roost, to kill time with a slice of New York-style pizza some light doodling. However, I always go there. Things are different today. Unable to justify lunch until eleven, I end up at the 7th Street Hill Cafe anyway. This time I don’t order an iced coffee. I order a pineapple-mango smoothie. I don’t sit on my usual couch, but at a table outside, with the perfect view of the busiest traffic path in Eastern Market.

Eastern Market is a celebration of food, artistry, and secondhand merchandise. It stretches from the cafe from this morning to the cafe where I sit, branching off at key intersections. I’m able to see most shoppers come and go, and it’s hard to focus on my art. Among the crowd are four additional gingers, which seems like a lot. Maybe they’re planning something.

When it’s time for lunch, I can sit down at the Mexican-El Salvadorian place next door, or I can see what the vendors down South Carolina Avenue have to offer. My options are wide open, and the safe bet is an empanadaa with a lemonade. Not today. Today I’m going to try jerk-chicken tacos with pineapple-orange-ginger juice. I’ve never had jerk chicken before. I’ve never had flavor like this before. I enjoy it with a gorgeous mural over my shoulder.

Aside from JaJo’s, I like to come down here for Eastern Market, but I always cruise through it at top speed. This time I stick my head in a lot of stalls stalls, from microgreens to delicate, wooden hummingbird sculptures. There are five painters and two photographers, as well as a scarf store, two potters, endless jewelry, vintage clothing, framed stamps, vinyl albums, and candles.

I stop at a secondhand clothier and see they’re selling soccer jerseys. I loved them in my thirties, but I stopped fitting into my collection when I hit my forties. Today was the day. After stuffing that into my backpack, I think, “What the hell, I’ll get a candle.”

Down the way, after I pass another ginger, a man is selling books, all from one publisher. This doesn’t look like a book crowd. When I stop and discuss it with him, he tells me his secret: selling books at a fair that doesn’t typically go for books is a real moneymaker. I praise his cover artists, which turns into a conversation about racism in the arts. This is a very uncomfortable topic, not because I don’t know how easy white men have it, but because acknowledging that sounds like I’m bragging, which I am not. I ask him for a help picking out a novel for my friend’s kid, and he recommends a really weird one. I think they’ll like it.

Returning to my neighborhood, I take the long way home to poke my head into the cafe that recently opened up a healthy stroll from my apartment. I pick a different iced tea refresher than normal and sit at a table outside to finish a project. Someone in an apartment above my head brutally beats a rug with a broom, causing me to flee, but I had finished my refresher, so I only had to shake the rug dandruff out of my new hair.

When I arrive home and sit on my bed to remove my shoes, Oscar joins me, which he’s never done before. I’m about to watch a movie until I go to sleep, but he shows up near my head to get pets for several minutes straight. I guess someone else is having a different kind of day.

How Bazar 2: Eclectic Boogaloo

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It’s been a rocky few months for me. About six weeks ago, my office caught fire, and we’ve been working from home ever since. Not walking 30-35 minutes to the Metro, then to the office, has been taking its toll on me, and I’ll go days without leaving my building. Last month, while I waited for maintenance to fix my faucet, and I didn’t leave my 434-square-foot apartment for four days. All this has left me hyperfocused on Oscar’s opinion of me, and it became clear he doesn’t like me. Shortly afterward, I looked in the mirror, and I realized I’m really, really fat. The Thursday before last, I woke up so depressed I called in sick.

I hauled myself out of bed and did things I ordinarily don’t do, like eat lunch at a restaurant. Observing Oscar for a few days without anthropomorphizing him, I realized his personality is just aloof. Living with a lap cat for twenty years spoiled me. He shows affection with proximity, and I’m going to have get used to that.

I’ve been a lot better since then, counting the days to the Jomeh Bazar, which I last went to in May. The Bazar is located in a plaza surrounded by art studios, some of which were open. Nearly all the vendors are Middle Eastern, which makes sense because it was founded by an Iranian protest artist.

My first stop was Turkish coffee. If you’ve never had a Turkish coffee, it is slow-brewed and served in a cup the size of a double-shot glass. After drinking one, you need to throw back a Red Bull to take the edge off. The Discworld analog, Klatchian coffee, makes you knurd, which is so sober, you need to drink in order to avoid collapsing under the weight of brutal clarity. Terry Pratchett wasn’t exaggerating.

The vendor is the Ballstonian, and man who serves me is Isa. Before I can even order, he exclaims, “You know who you look like? Phillip Seymour Hoffmann!” He turns to his daughter, who looks college age, and asks her, “Don’t you think he looks like Phillip Seymour Hoffmann?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know who that is.” Her body says she endures him, but also adores him.

“You don’t know who that is?”

After discussing Hoffmann’s oeuvre, he sells me some baklava and sends me to a bench. I enjoy one of my favorite desserts, which is exceptional, and I enjoy the packet of moist towelettes his daughter had handed me.

While I’m covered in honey, wishing I had taken two towelettes, Mina, the adorable protest artist I have a massive crush on, wanders by on the way to her studio, and she recognizes me! I want to impress her, but I have no idea what to say. My heartbeat sounds like a monkey on Turkish coffee freestyling with a bongo, and there’s no way she doesn’t hear it.

Luckily, Isa swoops in, hands me my cup of liquid electricity, and says to her, “You know who he looks like? Phillip Seymour Hoffmann!”

Her eyes go wide. “He does!”

They take turns describing all of my Hoffmanesque qualities while I take a jolt from my coffee and fight back a blush. I tell them I used to get Kiefer Sutherland when I was younger. Isa laughs and says, “With two margaritas in a dark room, you know who he is? Kenneth Branagh!”

Mina says, “I’m jumbling all these faces into my artist’s mind!”

The spotlight goes away shortly after, and I pull out my sketchbook. According to Isa, Labor Day weekend is always slow, but there are still great people to see. I do rough, life-drawing sketches to solidify their appearances in my memory and get up to explore.

My next stop is Bicycle Trash, which is hosting a “Sewing Machine Petting Zoo,” where they display seven vintage sewing machines from the forties and fifties, which still work and are used in their classes. My next stop is T. Mofid Art, where I buy some unusually sized prints as presents. Following this, I stop at a vendor whose name I’ve forgotten, which reclaims thrift store clothes and dyes them with real plants. My new T-shirt, which I will fit into when I lose some weight, is indigo.

After enjoying a Persian cookie recommended by Mina, I draw some more and sit down for a tarot reading. I don’t believe in anything supernatural, but I have a rule: I will pay for a tarot reading whenever I see one. At the Renaissance Faire in Colorado, I went to two readers. One was terrible, but the other was uncanny. Uncanny enough that I’d believe she was real if I didn’t know better.

This guy is not great. Every interpretation of every card is way off. (“Have younger women been coming to you to steal some kind of information, something you’ve been guarding carefully?” “No.” “Do you have any information you’re keeping secret?” “No.” “You may not know you have this information. Watch for younger women.”) Unlike the bad reading in Colorado, he is fun to talk to, and I kind of admire the way he twists himself into pretzels trying to fit his square peg into my round hole. (“Your office caught fire? I told you! It’s the Tower card!”) He also tells me I should put a little more effort into my appearance.

The last vendor I see is Anahita Herbal Medleys, which sells medicinal syrups. I pick one that helps with immunity and focus, as well as one that inspires creativity and vivid dreams.

On my way home, I stop back at the Ballstonian because I want to try their cardamom iced tea. Isa tells me all about his coffee truck and how he set up tables on the sidewalk every day at 4000 Wilson Boulevard in Arlington. He unlocks his phone to show me a picture of his vintage Turkish truck, and the first image that comes up is my late doppelganger, Phillip. Isa thinks he would have made a great Joker. “Heath Ledger was really good. He’s dead too, but Phillip Seymour Hoffman would have been amazing.”

I make my exit, chased away by mosquitos, and return to Oscar. He yells at me for attention, but walks away when I try to pet him. After I go to sleep, he curls up next to my head. When I wake up at my usual time, he has long ago abandoned the bed because he doesn’t want me getting the wrong idea. He’s not Newcastle, but we’ve almost got each other figured out.

A Tale of Two Kitties

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This weekend, I had the pleasure of cat-sitting for Henry. During the five years Nicole and I lived together, we shared cats. Ever since I rescued him from the mean streets of Doha, Henry has been such a willful and energetic creature, wound tighter a White House press conference. Nicole fell in love with him instantly, and they’ve had a codependent relationship ever since.

True love or not, Nicole had things to do, and she often needed him mellow, you know, like a normal cat. She leash-trained him and took him for spins around the neighborhood. Eager to give her time to study, I often plugged into a podcast and let him guide me on long walks. He was always excited and curious, as a cat should be, and witnessing it never got old.

If you’ve been following me, you know that my attempts to duplicate this Zen with Oscar have resulted in terrifying disasters, including throwing myself into four lanes of traffic or diving into bamboo topiary. The opportunity to go walking with Henry, two old buds just chillin’, was too cool to pass up. Saturday morning, I hooked him up to his new harness, the one he couldn’t slip out of, and away we went.

Taking a cat on a walk is an exercise in patience. If you’re used to dogs, you know that they like to stop and sniff. Cats like to sniff, eat some grass, sniff some more, trot over to the next patch, lie down, and dart away. You have to be ready for every eventuality, so there is no relaxing or zoning out. This time, he did this in front of an elementary school, where a children’s birthday party was going on, and Henry wasn’t visible from their angle.

I’m going on a list.

Suddenly, he moved with purpose across the street. I saw what caught his eye. It was another cat. I let him lead me to it because he was curious, and the yodeling sounds he made were pretty funny. It’s not like they were going to get into a fight. They were a safe distance away from each other, and I had the leash wrapped firmly around my arm.

The other cat was not on a leash.

I dove into the melee and yanked Henry away, holding him either until he calmed down or he tore my arms to shreds. He opted for the latter.

Naturally, I dropped the little fuzzsaw, and he immediately slipped out of his harness. If he got away in this neighborhood, I was either never going to find him again, or he was losing an eye to the other cat. I sprinted across the street and literally tackled him, screaming, at the top of my lungs, “Fuck!”

Right in front of the party.

The kids weren’t interested. Green Lantern and Daredevil say the F-word these days, so they’d heard it all before. The parents, on the other hand, stopped sipping their wine in plastic cups and glared at me. I’m definitely on a list.

I was going to hang onto Henry, whatever happened. The look on his face was crazed, unlike anything I’d seen before. I knew he would go back to normal (i.e. begging me for treats) if I could get him home, but I couldn’t carry him.  Incredibly, I got him back into the harness, which he should stay in. It shouldn’t be a problem anymore because the other cat was—

On the opposite side of the sidewalk, pointing his fingers at us, then at his own eyes, and back at us.

I needed to get Henry back to Nicole’s place before I bled out, but I couldn’t drag him. What I did was pick him up by his armpits and sprint half a block until my out-of-shape lungs stopped working. The other cat was still there, yelling parting threats.

I made it another half-block, and another. Back on Nicole’s street, I put him down on the sidewalk, and he loped home. Still skittish, he calmed down when I gave him one of those puree packets, until he plopped down and went to sleep. Just another day for Henry. The memories of that ordeal chill me to this very day.

Sunny Days I Thought Would Never End

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I’m sitting here in the Brookland Arts Walk and Farmer’s Market in the summer heat. Crying and trying not to fall into disgusting sobs.

I had a rough night, and I overate some pizza, which was supposed to make me feel better, but made me sick because I’m fifty.

As my ex-wife always said, sleep is the great reset button. The next morning, I finished the movie I couldn’t finish last night, eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and petting Oscar.

It was a rough start, but I rode the Metro a stop to Brookland. I spent the early morning in a coffee shop, eating second breakfast and sipping a London Fog, watching to-go coffees passed out to neighbors in various stages of wakefulness.

I’m in the business of people-watching. And doodling them. I came to the Arts Walk to show my cool picture to Mina, the cool printmaker, and pick up a couple of things to tide me over for the weekend.

I found a bench to settle down with my pupusa (a doughy pancake stuffed, in my case, with spinach, cheese, and chicken) and pineapple smoothie while a blues performer played.

A couple of people had caught my attention, so I finished third breakfast and broke out my sketchbook. That’s when the musician broke out James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain.” It was the third time he sang, “And I always thought I’d see you again,” that it hit me violently.

Here I go, twenty minutes later, and here come the sobs. I tipped the singer twenty bucks on Venmo for, “Making me cry.”

I have so much to tell you, Shane. I have so much to show you. But you’re not here anymore.

How Bazar, How Bazar

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Through the month of April, I’ve been (asexually) smitten with an Iranian artist named Mina. She has a studio in the Brookland Arts Walk, a small plaza dedicated to bougie creativity. Every Saturday morning, weather permitting, the artists open their studios to the public, where they sell art and merch. Add in the food vendors and farmers who spring up, it really is the best way to spend a weekend morning, especially in the spring.

I’d been several times, but I’d never been to Kucheh Studios before last month, when I popped in and was stunned by the stark beauty of the woodcuts.

I was mesmerized by this woodcut, but I didn’t pick it up because I wasn’t ready to drop that price on a print. After thinking about it for two weeks, I went back and discovered that I was completely wrong about the price. It was twice as much as I thought it was. It’s worth it.

The first time I met Mina, she explained the protest symbolism in her work while I listened eagerly. Over the next week, I had to tell everybody about this experience. It was invigorating. The second time I stopped by, she invited me to a bazar she was sponsoring Friday evening. There would be food, music, and art.

Arts Walk is a Metro stop away, but there is a bike/running trail that leads from my station to Brookland. I’ve wanted to walk this path since I first saw it from the train, but it seemed daunting. A mile is okay—my station is about a mile away, and I walk that at least five days a week—but two seems like way too much. Friday, though … Friday was perfect, peak spring. The path I strolled along ran parallel to my train, so I’d seen the scenery already. However, I wasn’t blowing by this time, and I could appreciate the aggressive vegetation, industrial buildings, and graffiti from a fresh angle.

I was there before I knew it. The first thing I noticed was that it wasn’t a very big event. There were a half-dozen vendors, and not much of a crowd. However, it was only five p.m., and nobody else keeps my work hours.

Arriving early meant I got extra time with everyone. It started with Turkish coffee. This was because I was reading the menu on a table, and I was pounced upon by the most adorable teenage girl. While she made my drink, I tried to make conversation, but everything I said was more awkward than the last.

The thing about Turkish coffee is that makes Red Bull look like chamomile tea. Each cup comes with a warning label. I sat on a bench and sipped it, watching people drift through from the adjacent Metro station, until I could get rid of the cup.

My feet insisted on moving, and I found myself at a baklava table manned by the cheeriest woman I’d seen in some time. I thought there was only one kind of baklava, and it was baklava-flavored, but nothing could be further from the truth. she described each item on the menu like she was a sommelier. I chatted with her and her shockingly handsome husband about bazar culture, something I’ve missed from Doha. I left with four orange-cardamom baklavas. They are delicious.

My next stop was the guy with red bottles all over his little table. I sauntered in and listened to his pitch to the young lady before me. He sold herbal remedies in concentrated tea form, and he was passionate about it. Once he snagged me, he offered us both samples and explained which herbs, flowers, berries, and fungi combined to treat mild pain, depression, brain fog, and a number of other ailments. I asked if he had something for focus, and he had the perfect ginseng blend. He even took the time to tell me what ginseng is. He also said the word psychotropic, but that was probably nothing to worry about. He gave me some black tea on the house, and I sat down to listen to the taste of what colors smell like. 

On previous art walks, I sat on a bench or a curb and doodled a bit. The energy is great, and there is always at least one striking person. That in mind, I brought a sketchbook with me and drew the guy with the potions.

I was there long enough, but I had to make two more stops before I would take the train home like the lazy American I am.

I found Mina sitting at a table in front of her studio, carving a small tile. She had a very enthusiastic hello for me, which made me special. I took a woodcutting class two years ago, so I was familiar with the tools, but that was about it. I didn’t tell her because My woodcut was not very good.

She explained the material, the process, and more symbolism, while I listened to her, entranced, asking any question that might keep her talking. Eventually, people she knew stopped by, and I slipped away.

I was almost finished, but I wouldn’t avoid the siren song of my favorite cuisine, Lebanese. This booth specialized in man’oushe, a cheesy, heavily seasoned flatbread. Working with a Palestinian restaurant, they created new flavors specifically for the Kucheh bazar. I had the shawarma chicken and will recommend it to anyone who asks.

I had enough caffeine that I could vibrate through solid objects, but I went home anyway. I crashed about two hours later, well past my bedtime, but at least I slept. It was worth it.

Sprung

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Twenty-one March was the second day of spring. In 2026, it fell on a Saturday. I had an errand to run in DuPont Circle, so I thought I’d stop by the Emissary, a café I’d left a scathing review for, but have returned to since and have thought it was okay. I tried to bring my New Year’s friend here, but it was closed on the Eve.

The clientele skews young, as it is smack dab in the middle of the second-trendiest district in D.C., and I enjoy people-watching. I was also looking for a place where I could have breakfast and some time to draw. Now that they’ve backed off on the table service thing that failed me before, it was going to be smooth.

If it wasn’t for the clientele. In the way in, I held the door for a family with a goddamned covered wagon. One was a toddler, and Dad was holding her. The other was running in circles. No one was using the wagon. From what I could see, there’s nothing you couldn’t do with a covered wagon that you can’t do with a double-stroller. Except the latter gives you a place to park your Stanley Cup.

Mom was dedicated solely to getting the wagon down the five stairs. There was a handicap ramp. I know because I was walking down it. I opened the door for Dad, who propped it open for the rest of the family.

I pull out a menu and step aside so I wouldn’t waste anybody’s time. The family marched ahead of me and proceeded to waste everybody’s time. For starters, they had not read the menu. The elderly couple behind them had the courtesy to get out of line to decide what to eat.

While I was waiting, this leathery woman with unconvincing hair color steps behind them, which is not behind me. I call out, “The line’s over here.” She says, “I’ll wait over here, thanks.” I step between her and the family, who seemed to be at a different reading level than I. She backs away.

Message received.

After I finished this fake movie poster …

I stopped by a boutique dispensary I’d visited with my New Year’s friend to ask them their professional opinion about something. She was very knowledgeable and helpful. She was unable to directly help me, but she made a lot of helpful suggestions. She was also wearing a strapless corset and cleavage like the Marianas Trench. That last bit is not important, but it’s not the kind of thing you see every day.

The weather was the Platonic ideal of weather, and I didn’t feel like going home, so I found an Adirondack in the circle that gives DuPont Circle its name. I had intended to work on some more art, but I was distracted by all the people I observed, circumnavigating the fountain, having lunch, chatting, and soaking up the sun like lizards. Everyone seemed so happy. That last bit is not important, but it’s not the kind of thing you see every day.

Behind me was a drum circle chanting, “Impeach! Resist! Replace!”

Directly in front of me, a young woman who looked frumpy in her little summer dress and the bad posture sat down on the fountain. She immediately set about disassembling her twin braids. When she was done, she sat up straight and shook her hair out, and suddenly she was Hollywood glam.

And I still haven’t mentioned the woman carrying a pair of parrots on leashes. That last bit is super-important, and it cannot be stressed enough that it’s not the kind of thing you see every day. I found the chess tables, and I requisitioned one to start some new pieces.

Then someone got hit by a car. I ran over to help, but I also wanted to see what happened. A sporty BMW convertible, the driver on the phone and looking irritated, had hit a homeless man. There was no blood, and he was trying to get up, but the concerned citizens wouldn’t let him. One directed traffic. I was not needed. I don’t know what I would have done anyway.

On my way out, I saw a young woman painting. I chose not to harass her because I don’t want to be a creep, but it felt good to know I wasn’t the only one. After using the solar-powered public toilet, I made my way home,

I’ve made it my mission to stop and appreciate the little things that made me happy as a kid because they’re all still here, like the satisfying crunch you get from stepping on a dead leaf in the autumn, or a clod of snow in the winter. In the spring, there’s the blossoms, including the first ones I’ve seen this year.

I’m not an idiot. I know that our country is doomed, and all the freedoms I cherish could be gone tomorrow, but yesterday … Yesterday was a good day.

Owlman v. the Burbs

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You might know from reading my posts that I’ve been on vacation over Thanksgiving, and I got the suburbs of New York from the suburban side. Joining me on my trip was Owlman.

We mostly chilled out.

Pictured: Chilling out:

There were foes to be taken down.

Oh, my gourd!

Look at this mess!

“Let’s get out of here, chum.”

He’s even putting together a band.

A one-man band.

Our host is an accomplished photographer, and he won awards for his Lego Star Wars portraits.

Owlman got to know the studio mannequin:

How many times to I have to tell you, Owlman, you can’t touch the equipment!

But all good things must come to an end, and I left for home today, refreshed and relaxed.

The Revenge of the Tryptophan

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Thanksgiving, while my hosts were occupied, their five-year-old daughter found me, first thing when she got out of bed.

It had to do with the watercolors I had given her and her eight-year-old brother the day before, to the soundtrack of Spaceballs. He wasn’t as moved, but she taught herself how to use them because she was smart enough. Remember, she’s five. She doesn’t understand most of the words that come out of my mouth, and she has the grace, precision, and attention-span of a concussed monkey on mushrooms. She wasn’t afraid to ask for help, though.

Meanwhile, I was painting a self-portrait for my new sketchbook. She found this fascinating, not as fascinating as what she was working on, but fascinating indeed. She handed me the sheet of watercolor paper and told me to draw a picture to paint. I told her I would, first thing in the morning, and Her Majesty deemed this acceptable.

When I asked, she told me she wanted a portrait of herself and her Chihuahua, Wendy, who looks like she just drank two Red Bulls and swallowed 100 milligrams of Adderall. Before everybody else awoke, I sketched away while Owlman gave me some pointers.

She was delighted by my work, and I took a photo of it before it was defaced.

She was so excited, she scrambled all over her house to show Mommy and Daddy. Daddy was working, and Mommy was not feeling great, but they both appreciated my staggering genius.

As I prepared myself to talk her through the process, she disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a deck of Uno, a game she loved. She instructed me on the intricacies of the game, but I’m don’t think some the rules were regulation. When I won best out of three, she didn’t like Uno anymore. Next, she showed me a game called Sleeping Queens, and I’m pretty sure she cheated.

Next, she wanted to paint my picture. I critiqued and encouraged her, but she was horrified by the smear of blue paint she put there. I suggested it might be a magical portal. She added in her reaction, and maybe there should be a tree in the background, and told me she was going to write this down, followed shortly by, “Jeremiah, I can’t write. I’m five.”

I asked her what her what her favorite color was. “My favorite color is gold with sparkles. My favorite color is pink. My favorite color is purple and orange, and blue. But it has to be a dark blue.” Luckily, I have a pink pen (and I’m confident in my masculinity).

I watched as she used her delicate brushstrokes to enhance my inspired lines. (Delicate brushwork below).

She had planned on composing an intricate background, but after finishing the tree, she took me outside to play on her tree swing in her pajamas, and then hide-and-seek.

This one was challenging for me because here aren’t a lot of places for a man my size to hide. I told her this and pointed out that it took her six seconds to count to ten. Graciously, would count to thirty from then on, and she also gave me tips for places to hide, such as Rock Taco in the distance.

Rock Taco is what you might expect if you’re thinking about a rock taco. Getting on all fours, she soiled her pajamas. To hide, I would have to lay down on the mud and the decayed leaves. She took me on a sweep of the perimeter of her two-acre backyard, twice, her armed with a tree-branch sword to keep the thorns at bay.

She had explained that we would take another circuit, which I sighed and accepted. Instead, she asked me to help her gather acorns for the squirrels, then she wanted to show me her favorite climbing tree. My knees and back ached watching her perform her best tricks. “This is the easy one. It’s really hard.” Finally, we came back inside, and I went to talk to my family for the holiday, only my mic wasn’t working. When that was over, I laid down on the bed and woke up an hour later. Downstairs, she waited for me because she made me a bracelet.

Actually, she made it before I came. I love wearing bracelets, so I am honored to be wearing one of her fine pieces. We beaded for a while, but the string we were working with was too thick for most of them. Usually, that kind of frustration would make me flip the coffee table—her too—but we held it together. I think neither of us wanted to embarrass ourselves in front of the other.

After that, guests started filtering in. The group were all related to the hostess, and the whole time, I had no idea who was related to whom. This morning, I had it explained to me. The hostess’s brother was here, as was his wife and twenty-year-old attitude problem. Also there was their mother, and her sister-in-law’s mother, who was spry, charming, and witty. I thought she was my dad’s age, but she’s ninety-three!

To help out, I took the overwhelmed little girl upstairs, where she could enjoy some well-deserved screen time. The rest of the evening was spent discussing non-alcoholic beer, which I enjoyed for the first time (note: I did not say “consumed for the first time”), New Mexico, the intrusion of algorithms into our lives, Teslas and Cybertrucks, and politics. The latter was delightful because all of us agreed, as in everyone at the table had the same views.

As the weight of the off-Broadway-style food took hold, and the other guests left, desperate to get home before they lapsed into comas left.

The girl was too tired to sleep, but a soft pillow fixed that. Mommy and Daddy, who both had a tough day, settled in for the night. As for me, I barely got into my pajamas.

Weirdos in Disguise

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Christmas, you get presents. Thanksgiving, you get to indulge yourself. Halloween is that day when you get to be someone else, and that made it my favorite. I’ve been Optimus Prime, John “Hannibal” Smith from the A-Team, and a Ghostbuster named Murphy.

The coolest Halloween experience I ever had was generic Jedi for my seventh Halloween. (“Bow, or whatever, to the adequate might of Jedi Master Temu!”) On the other side of the barrier that separated the older kids was a generic Sith, carrying a red lightsaber to match my yellow one. He came over, and we talked over the fence for a long time. about Star Wars, we talked about what the fifth grade was like, and he wanted to get a better look at my lightsaber. After recess, I never saw him again, but I looked everywhere.

Years later, I wore the world’s worst Halloween costume and drank vodka in lieu of eating something and went to a rock concert and drank a lot of beer and had another jack and coke and said something to That Moby so bad it got me thrown out of the bar and soaked my friend’s couch with vomit.

Once upon a time, when I was much thinner, I’d shave my mustache, throw on a green T-shirt and go as Norville Rogers, with the nom de guerre of Shaggy. I pulled off an amazing Crow, thanks to the incredible makeup skills of my friend M.

Last year, I enjoyed the holiday with M in Colorado, walking the neighborhood and scoping out the decorations.

I’ve been doing it solo so far this year.

For pagans like Kate, Halloween, or Samhain (pronounced SOW-win; don’t say it like it’s spelled or a witch will laugh at you), is the most sacred day of the year. It’s Christmas and Easter rolled up into one, with all the celebration and feasts and prayers. It’s when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, and you can commune with those that have gone before. It is here I lost the true meaning of Halloween (candy and costumes).

I had a very, very nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say no more, say no more Halloween night in the East Village while the parade went by. On my own, I liked to stop in the neighborhood for a drink and watch Bleeker Street lit up with people having a good time.

Two years ago, I was recruited for the Pumpkin Task Force at work. We wanted to kill at the First Annual Pumpkin Carving Contest, so I said, sure, I’ll help. There were five of us. I bring this up because 20 percent of the group did all the work. I designed the pumpkin:

It was based on the mascot for the American Society of Hematology, Red.

I went to the art store that knows me by name and bought acrylic pens (on the company card). And I said, “You guys do the rest.” My boss offered to carve the pumpkin if someone would draw the face based on my design, but no one did. To say I was disappointed would understate it.

Imagine my surprise when someone asked if I was helping with his year’s contest, closing in two hours. I said no, not after last time. Later, I came across the pumpkin, and someone had written “CARVED” in large letters on it. I hauled it over to the break room and attempted to hose the Sharpie off. I had brought my art markers with me, so I applied them to the pumpkin, using my old design.

It was then that Sera, a work acquaintance, swept in with tubes of acrylic paint, and I was able to work in style. She used to paint, with oils, but she moved into a smaller apartment and can’t fit her easel. While I applied cadmium red to the face, she made hands out of paper plates.

We took it to contest, where it was clear we were not going to win.

Sera and I agreed that we would be more prepared next year.

The party was loud, as parties tended to be. There was an open bar, and I had a doctor’s appointment, so I didn’t stick around.

I was there long enough to puzzle over the group of people who all knew each other, dressed in yellow shirts and overalls. but this Every one of them was wearing glasses, but that’s not that weird. It was weird that they had all had nametags. At first, I thought they were the caterers, but they were all wearing different types of yellow tops.

The only nametag I paid attention to was the cute blonde, named “Lou.” I thought Lou was the best name for a pixie woman, but I also had to remember was that this was a costume. She probably didn’t even need glasses.

Someone dressed like Wednesday, someone dressed like Janet Jackson, Rhythm Nation. There was an axolotl. There was a woman riding “a goose,” “no, an ostrich,” “maybe a swan,” “that is an ostrich,” “that is definitely a goose,” “hey, what’s that you’re riding? I told you it was an ostrich.”

I went to the work party to see me win fifth place, and they announced that the pumpkins were going to be judged in twenty-four by a panel of the building superintendent’s Instagram contacts. So I left.

Then it hit me. They were Minions. They were fucking Minions.