Were You Not There?

Were you at the event we all went to last weekend? You weren't? Oh jeez, what a shame. It was the best time. You really should have been there.

What was my favorite part? I mean, I don't think with a loaded gun to my head I could choose what was the best part was but here is a specific list of all the amazing things you missed because you weren't there and there is no chance in hell any experience you've ever had is at all relatable to what we all collectively experienced without you.

A very funny thing happened with the guy who took our tickets. Like, right off the bat, before we even entered the space, we were just laughing with all the strangers we met. God, I honestly wish I could repeat exactly what happened but it's definitely going to get lost in translation and you won't find it as funny but please keep listening to me talk about it.

Next, there was something about the weather and the light at that time of day that just made it feel like you were living out a perfect memory. No, I know you were only twenty minutes away from where we were and probably experienced the same weather and light but it honestly must have been different in some way. Especially because the entirety of our friend group, minus you, made the atmosphere even warmer and more special. (If you had been there it might have felt too crowded.) You should have been there!

The actual event was something entirely indescribable. It literally felt unreal. But it was real. It was a real event you did not make it to but hopefully feel like you are part of because we will never stop talking about it. The person on stage was just shouting out universal truths in such a way that the entire crowd felt spiritually whole and beautifully fulfilled. At one point he definitively told us if Adnan Syed was guilty of innocent only to then present a huge picture of The Dress, in which every person saw both black & blue AND white & gold and calmly shook each other's hands and felt settled about the matter. Then the person on stage clearly explained feminism and everyone agreed on the definition. At one point the person (I don't want to say woman or man because that'll just distract you from the fact that they were a HUMAN BEING) precisely explained that all religions and belief systems were valid and in the end the only thing that truly mattered was being at the event that we were all at. You honestly should have been there.

If you tell a white male comedian he cannot say the N word

If you tell a white male comedian he cannot say the N word,
he's going to say "but I have a black friend!"

When you congratulate him on quantifying his ethnic friends,
like checked boxes in a census report, he will probably smile and say,
"ha, but it's not like that between the two of us!"

When he is finished patting himself on the back, he'll ask
when is it okay to make a rape joke. You'll say "hardly ever",
and he will keep pushing you until you
just don't want to talk about rape and comedy any more.

So you sort of break and want to say, "go ahead and tell rape jokes and
sling faggot and the N word and please do not forget to record the
uproarious laughter you receive and PLEASE do not forget
to thank me when you are awarded every award."

And he will boast, "exactly! Louis CK does all of that and he is
the greatest comedian of all time!" And when you scream,
"NOT EVERYONE IS LOUIS CK, AND YOU ESPECIALLY
ARE NOT LOUIS CK BECAUSE YOUR JOKES ARE BAD,
BESIDES, LOUIS CK IS PROBLEMATIC AT TIMES, TOO,
HE DOESN'T EXIST IN A CLOUD OF BLAMELESSNESS!"

He will inevitably say, "hey! I was joking! Calm down!"
and open up your damn fridge and take the milk out and
drink from the goddamn carton.

This will probably piss you the fuck off, which you
have every right to be. Just make sure you
don't give him a fucking cookie for his behavior.

My Own 10,000 Hours Journey

How did I know? I suppose it's the same feeling a gymnast has when she is midair, halfway through her double pike, and realizing she is going to ace this routine. It's that point when intuition takes over and all the hours of practice, of messing up, of falling too short or pushing yourself too hard are behind you. You've embodied grace under extreme pressure. That's exactly how I felt as I finished my second spoon of Nutella and instinctively stopped eating, closed the jar, and went about my afternoon.

That's right. I ate the perfect amount of Nutella. I didn't tease myself with a finger and I didn't over indulge to the point of no return aka curled up in a ball on the kitchen floor whispering instructions to Siri of what to do with my dead body. I ate one, then another small spoonful of the hazelnut chocolate spread and then decided it felt like the right amount. That was it.

I wish there was more to share with you all. I know there are inquiring minds about how and more specifically why, but I just somehow knew. Are you familiar with Malcolm Gladwell's 10,000 hours theory? Basically it lays out that in order to achieve mastery at something you must practice it for 10,000 hours. I didn't set out to spend 10,000 hours eating Nutella, but between work and other adult responsibilities I must have found a way to fit it in there. So then when I naturally reached that point and ate the exact right amount of Nutella, it didn't feel like something I was striving for, it was just something that was a long time coming.

I wish I could offer more concrete advice, but for now just keep pursuing what you love. There will be ups and downs and times there isn't even Nutella in your cupboard. You're going to have to gorge out on peanut butter and chocolate chips or melted butter and sugar. Whatever it is you need to do to reach your goal is worth it. It's your own personal journey, don't forget that. Just make sure to make it count. Good luck out there, guys.

If You're Reading This, The Bitch Fell Off!

I finally feel ready to write about this. As many of you have noticed, the bitch has fallen off my motorcycle. It happened about 3 months ago. Ha, what am I saying? It happened the afternoon of December 19th, just a few days before Christmas. We were riding down to her parents' place in Blacksburg, VA. Every year we alternated whose family we would celebrate the holidays with. Both of us grew up in big families and just absolutely loved being around them that time of year. So this year we were at the bitch's family's house. They have a great little plot of land down there with an absolute killer barbecue set up on the back deck.

A few miles out from the destination, we would always pull over at a rest stop, and she would dress me up as Santa Claus so that when we arrived at the house the young ones would think Santa was arriving on a motorcycle. Now, it's been years since there were any real tots in the family, but we kept doing it as part of a tradition. It felt goofy, sentimental, and mostly, the bitch, my hussy, loved it. She really loved it.

Now, this is where things get murky and I apologize if I get too upset. I've been reading a lot of books on trauma and I guess it isn't unusual for memories to get jumbled. I just wish my last moments with the bitch, that slut weren't so harrowing. We were trying to remember the rest stop we had stopped to change in the prior years (there is so much construction happening on Rt 77 that I have a hard time recognizing it each time we travel down there.) The bitch and I weren't ones to argue, but it had been a long ride and the weather hadn't been great. The bitch was being a real bitch and had baked a chess pie and she kept nagging me to stop swerving so it wouldn't get too bruised in the storage top box. I just wanted to get to her parents' place before the sun went down and so we could get first dibs on whatever her dad was barbecuing. In hindsight it was so stupid. It was so so so stupid. 

I guess then we were headed down the highway and at the last minute, the bitch was like, "Honey, that was the exit we wanted to take" and I thought I had enough time to get into the exit lane and scoot in front of the other cars, so I made, in hindsight, too intense of a cut to the right and in what seemed like slow motion, the bitch flew off the back of my seat and into the air. She soared right into the trees lining the exit, her limp body almost angelically lifted above the ground. I've blocked out what happened next. It's funny, because the two of us used to watch hours of Evel Knievel footage, of him crashing at Caesar's Palace, him attempting the Indian River jump. But when the daredevil isn't a trained stuntman and it's your beloved bitch, there is nothing entertaining about it. 

The bitch, my one and only whore, fell off that day. And the bitch died, because people don't survive falling off of motorcycles when they are speeding down the highway. I don't think I've said that out loud, but it's true. And suddenly this t-shirt isn't just a funny road stop purchase that we made together. (The bitch had a shirt that said on the front, "If You're Reading This, You're Driving Backwards and No One is Operating This Motorcycle.") This shirt is a living memorial for the bitch, the cunt of my life. I love her and I miss her. My life is incomplete without her. 

No one showed up as Santa this year. Instead, they were greeted by a grown man in leather, crying, in shock, having left the scene of the crime. I wear this shirt in her honor. I live each day for her memory. I ride this motorcycle because of her love. I just ask that you hold onto your bitch, because if she does fall off, she will not survive. 

A Confession and an Apology

To my dedicated readers,

I have to make a correction from last week’s blog post entitled, “Why Is No One Saying Anything About My Mixtape?” wherein I confronted my fans' silence surrounding the mixtape I worked so hard to produce and gift to the public (for free!)

After I reviewed your numerous comments, you all bring up not only a good point, but a correct point. It isn’t fun having to make corrections in your own personal blog, especially because I started this to document my life, mistakes AND all. It turns out, though, that unfortunately you all were right and it looks like I never actually made a mixtape. What I thought was months of writing lyrics, nights spent in the recording studio, and an impressive final product of my life’s most poetic moments encompassed on a single tape, turned out to just be me blogging about the mixtape. That’s right, I never made it, I just wrote about it so passionately online that I convinced myself I had actually put in the hard work it takes to produce an album.

Yes, I’m a little embarrassed about this oversight, but I think instead of focusing on not creating a musical masterpiece, we can all reread the dozens of posts of how I would have. Are you familiar with OJ Simpson's book, “If I Did It”? Of course I’m NOT comparing myself to OJ Simpson, we are VERY different (he has murdered someone and is black) but we are both humans who are asking you to stretch your imagination past it's comfort level. For just a moment, imagine that I did put in the work to create a music mixtape and that you've listened to it and that you love it. The lyrics hit a place in your heart the reminds you of your childhood, the good parts and the not so good parts. What's actually wonderful about having not actually made this mixtape, is that you can envision the perfect mixtape with zero flaws and I get to call it mine. If you can, conceptualize the album art. You're probably wondering, how does a CD sleeve look so hip yet classic, tantalizing yet comforting? And the truth is, I don't know because I never made the mixtape. 

So, yes, I am sorry. But I also don't want to get bogged down in the details of what has and hasn't happened. I'm actually only sorry that you will never hear my mixtape and never experience just how perfect it is. And I'm also sorry that you're so concerned with "reality" that you can't congratulate me on my mixtape, something I've worked endlessly on. To quote a line from Emily Bronte, one I would have used in one of my tracks, "Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves." I hope that you, my readers, can look past your ego and give compliments where compliments are due. 

I'll be taking a week off from blogging to visit my son at his babysitter's house and will hopefully have time to cool down from this whole misunderstanding. 

xx

kr

The Floor Is Not Lava

I cannot emphasize this enough: the floor is not lava. It never was lava. That was just a game we were playing as kids. The floor is simply just the floor and I cannot extend my apologies more than I already am that you thought it was actually lava. It is not lava. It might be a carpeted floor or hardwood.

Oh, it is hardwood? Reclaimed pine? That's excellent. Wait, why then, if you knew it was reclaimed pine, did you think the floor was lava? Unless the pine was reclaimed from the depths of a volcano then--

--Oh it was reclaimed from the depths of a volcano? Yes, that makes it closer to lava, but I'm afraid it still isn't technically lava. The floor, in your particular case, is wood that was in lava. I can understand why you were perhaps more confused than others but surely you understand that the floor itself is not lava. Besides, and not to harp on this too much (I hope I'm not embarrassing you) did you really think lava could support the weight of a house?

Well, yes, you're right the floor is not necessarily integral to the structure of a house. Yes, I am aware that Maasai villages in central Africa use cow dung to line their floors and walls, but I think that distracts from the point I'm trying to make. I guess, what I'm trying to say is that a ground floor is not integral to the support structure of a house, but a lava floor would definitely be destructive to a house's internal framing. You can't argue against that.

Okay, now to suggest the walls are ceiling are also lava is outlandish. Now you're mocking me. Aside from that being an insane statement to make, it wouldn't even be conceivable in the reality of the children's game, the floor is lava. We'd have to call it "everything is lava." If everything were lava, well then good fuckin' luck. The kiddos are all dead if everything is lava. Imagine a game where the kids just pretend to slowly die from drowning in lava.

Yes, you're right, they would probably burn before they drown, but I don't want to be that guy who corrects children on how they play a game. If a kid is already playing "everything is lava" and deciding in their spare time to pretend to painfully die, I'm not going to come in, ruin the fun and suggest they ought to burn instead of drown.

Though, hey!, that's just me. And I guess if that's the mentality I'm taking on, then sure, if you want the floor to actually be lava. Just, and this is all I ask, don't scream that any time someone walks into your office, okay?

Okay, great. Yes, if you could shut the door on your way out, I'm about to take my lunch break. Thank you, see you at the staff meeting in an hour.