Tag Archives: mental health

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.

Life in the Winchester House

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The Twin Towers have been rubble longer than they’ve stood.

Since then, I’ve watched the world move on.

Since then, I’ve tried.

Since then, I write something every year. As time goes on, each post gets less engagement. I wonder why I keep doing it, but it’s one of the most impactful days of my life, and I still don’t understand what happened.

Since then, nobody knows what to say to me.

Since then, I’ve been denied insurance coverage for mental health because 9/11-related trauma is a preexisting condition.

Since then, I’ve been told by psychologists I’m over it, let’s talk about something else.

Since then, I’d been told by a mayor that the air was a little smoky, don’t worry about it.

Since then, I’ve been told by doctors that my lung issues were entirely related to smoking and not Ground Zero.

Since then, I was estranged from a family member for nearly a decade because of something callous they said about people like me.

Since then, I was hired by a long-defunct marketing blog to memorialize the tenth anniversary in a drawing I tried to make solemn but came out kind of icky.

Since then, I’ve listened to politician after politician brag about what they were doing that morning.

Since then, I watched a president cower in an undisclosed location then step onto a mound of death with a bullhorn and a mandate.

Since then, I’ve heard people, twenty- and thirty-years younger, tell edgy jokes about it.

Since then, I’ve laughed at some of these jokes.

Since then, I’ve made some of those jokes.

Since then, I’ve noted the amount of selfie sticks and smiling faces at the 9/11 Memorial in New York.

Since then, I learned just how long I could stay drunk and high before I had to shuffle, blinking, into the real world (two weeks).

Since then, I watched memos flutter to the ground in Brooklyn, disintegrating in my hands.

Since then, I sat through a church service where hundreds of people stood up and asked for a prayer, each one progressively more cynical and defeated, without the slightest bit of hope to be found.

Since then, I’ve wondered what happened to the ash-covered yuppie who cut his time at the payphone short so others could call their loved ones, in what may have been one of the kindest acts I recall seeing in New York that day.

Since then, I’ve hunted for anything that will give my heart the jolt I felt that day, and everything, from a mugging to spectacle movies to an unexpected divorce to riding the Cyclone, fell short.

Since then, I’ve hungered for someone to talk who gets it. Those who experienced it through pictures and video, whether from thousands of miles away or in Midtown, will never understand, and I would never diminish the fear and confusion they suffered.

Since then, I feel silly because countless others saw and lost so much more.

Since then, I never want to forget.

Since then, I never want to think about it again.

Since then, I take this day off every year and try to do something alive to keep the ghosts away.

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.

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.

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.

Today Is a Great Day

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Of everything I saw, there is one thing about that morning I can never forget: the weather was perfect.  The summer had been difficult for me. I lost my job, and I had sunk into a deep depression, and my relationship with Andrea was getting rocky. The weather was full of peace, the sky was blue, and the leaves were still green. My step picked up a spring. I sat down at my desk and stuffed envelopes with energy and panache. That day started out so full of hope.

They Say It’s your Birthday

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I don’t like to make a big deal of my birthday, but I still have three iron-clad rules:

  1. I will have finished a self-portrait and summed up the previous year in one word.
  2. I will take the day off from work and from doing anything I don’t want to do.
  3. I will eat cake.

Here’s the thing with cake and myself: neither of my parents were chefs. The food wasn’t terrible, but, they managed to collapse a Betty Crocker recipe every year. We called them Charlie Brown cakes, and I wish I could have one again.

Monday, I posted my portrait, I shuffled around my apartment, nowhere to be, and I had some cake. The rest of the day, I worked on my project. My friend Emily tells me people-watching is addictive, and I’m inclined to believe her. I needed my fix.

Luckily, I had accepted an invitation to the Blood Editors’ Retreat Dinner. The choice of cuisine meant I was having Indian food on my birthday, and I wasn’t paying for it, so happy birthday to me. The best part was that they served entrees tapas-style for sharing. Usually, I just order Tikki Masala (the Official Dish of England), but this dinner introduced me through so many exciting new dishes.

I took my seat at the end of the table, and the two people closest to me were Dr. Mario, an Italian, and Dr. Erica, from Australia. Dr. Mario’s accent was very thick, and the room was so loud as editors caught up and had a good time that I struggled to understand. He is from Pavia, which I’ve heard of, probably through Shakespeare.

Dr. Mario was very interested in where I’m from. I usually tell people I was raised in New Mexico and leave it at that. But that skips over Nebraska, Indiana, New York adjacent, Oklahoma, and Central Jersey, Qatar, etc. I stuck with the Southwest, and he told me how much he loved Ansel Adams.

I’m not entirely sure why I went off on a rant about Italian drivers in the presence of Dr. Mario and the Editor-in-Chief, but I committed to it once I did. “These guys will drive up what are clearly pedestrian walkways,” I said, “where there is not an atom between the car and the wall.” If they were serious about catching Vin Diesel, they’d send Italian cab drivers.

Dr. Erica did not want to talk about work, so she talked about me. These editors are academics and science writers, and they think fiction is magic. When Dr. Erica found out I’d written and (almost) published a novel, she had to tell everyone.

Blood publishes research papers, and when they find one that’s really good, they ask one of the peer reviewers to write a brief commentary on why the paper is worth reading. I tell you this to put some context into the following conversation, which took place among several accents.

“Which one of us is going to write the commentary for his novel then?”

“We can’t publish one in Blood without a hematology angle.”

“Jeremiah says it’s about a werewolf.”

“Do werewolves suck blood?”

“No, that’s vampires.”

“It’s a shame your book couldn’t be about vampires, Jeremiah.”

“Wait. Werewolves turn people into werewolves by biting them.”

“A pathogen then?”

“More of a transfusion.”

“I’m a transfusion specialist. I can write the commentary!”

I do have my limits, and I reached them shortly after the last course. I retreated home to enjoy a second slice of cake before curling up, while Oscar did the same, just out of arm’s reach.

Another Dad Idea

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I read this to my dad on the occasion of his eightieth birthday.

***

Edward “Murf” Murphy is a man who is not afraid to ask for directions. This alone says a lot about him. He doesn’t even need to ask directions to talk to strangers. Sometimes, it’s because they have Jersey plates. Sometimes, it’s because he has to tell someone something, and his family ran away while his back was turned. Sometimes, he’s just saying hi.

I don’t know much about my dad before I came along. He’s dropped hints about his past, like when he told me he’d been to jail more than I. He’s also writing his memories out for his kids, but it’s been a long time since the last chapter. Hurry it up, Dad—the clock’s ticking.

I’ve seen photos when I was very little, and my dad was a cool guy, with his hat and shades and an aversion to shirts. He had the bare minimum of fucks to give, through fatherhood, the empty nest, and retirement.

He had no idea what he was doing, but he took to fatherhood with the same focus that he put into everything. He worked a number of jobs to support his family, my favorite being the pizza parlor. When I showed up, we were living hand-to-mouth. Thanks to Mom and Dad, we always had clothes and stuff to play with. We never went to bed hungry.

I didn’t always like my dad. Like all young adults, I disagreed with how much I should be allowed to do. I never appreciated just how much I was he was allowing me to do. The kids I was arrested with pitied me because my dad was a tyrant, and I had been sentenced to fifty-to-life. Even back then, at my most rebellious, I pitied them because their parents didn’t seem to care enough for discipline.

A big part of our difficulties was mental illness, setting in at a time when we didn’t know very much about it. Poor Dad, our primary caregiver, had no idea what was happening. It must have felt like he was losing his son. The more time I’ve spent learning about my illness, the more I understand how hard it must have been to live with me. Bipolar disorder has taken a lot from me, but my teen years with my dad, when I needed him the most, might have been the worst.

I know everything I know about comics because my dad is a big ol’ nerd, and I spent countless hours going through his collection of Marvel books from the seventies and eighties. One of my favorite childhood memories was when the girls were all out, and Dad let my buddy, Alex, and me watch Star Trek from the dinner table, feasting on spaghetti and meat sauce. It was the episode with the alien who looked exactly like a plate of spaghetti with meat sauce.

Dad was at the forefront of the personal computer, and he was a Mac guy before Macs were cool. He tried out exciting new software and games and learned how they worked. He eventually built his own. I remember how awestruck he was when he saw Uncle Ralph’s Museum of Obsolescence.

During that same visit out East, when Uncle Larry and I waited for him to show up, Larry stressed the importance of not letting Dad get bored. “When Murf is bored, things happen.” For example: the furniture in the living room getting reshuffled every few months.

There were the home improvement projects, like how he converted a carport into a toolshed using an old fence and some plywood. When he couldn’t fix something, he repurposed it, meaning he had one of the only junk drawers in the country that actually saw use.

Dad has a sense of whimsy, which didn’t show up more than it did with our vacations. Yes, we visited family, and yes, we did take a trip to Disneyland and Universal Studios each, but mostly we hit the roadside attractions. I know they were Dad’s idea because Mom wouldn’t have dragged us to Tombstone, Arizona.

I could go on about how stole the show in Gallup Community Theater, or volleyball, or his affinity for old, foreign, working-class cars, or how he always has a book with him because you never know when you’ll be waiting, or how he’ll smuggle in a bag of hard candy to the movies, how he never accepts violence as a solution. or how there is never any doubt that he loves us and will do anything to give us a better life.

My dad’s not like other dads, and for that I’m forever grateful.