friends

I’ve been a bad friend, son, brother, and even lover of late. Too much workahol leading to broken plans, missed connections, absurd periods of radio silence. To all the parties waiting or wanting or hoping to hear from me, I truly am sorry.

So here’s what’s been going on.

I escaped my dayjob-infused routine last weekend to attend an Indian Wedding in New Jersey with the girlfriend. Oh yes, that’s right, I’m using The Title now. Reluctance to do so in the past is — hindsight-wise — kind of embarrassingly immature. Also, while it sounds quite nice rolling off the tongue, “paramour” isn’t actually a very flattering alternative descriptor.

For my part, this feels different than previous relationships. It’s more… intentional. I chose pursuit in spite of improbability and long odds. While she’s certainly into me (so I got that going for me too), this isn’t one of those things that just fell into my lap. I had/have to work for it.

This is foregrounded because it’s been long-distance, which is a pain in the ass, and also not the norm for me. Shamus jokingly scolded me that this was the best I could do given my quote-unquote emotional availability. Very funny, but there’s maybe something to be said for the way in which the distance gave the whole thing a chance to sneak around various subconscious defense mechanisms of mine. A trojan horse for the heart, you might say.

It’s gotten harder now that she is in London, and not New York, and timezones are a real barrier, and we have to plan and coordinate even to talk. But people do this, and even successfully. Seems kind of silly not to try.

Another novelty/challenge: she is more different from me than anyone I’ve ever dated before. She is brainy of course, and at a bedrock level we have much in common, and communicate pretty well. I like to think this puts us in a good position to make the most of our diversity. Still, at times the distance (social now, not geographic) between our respective worlds seems daunting. It’s not just her being the daughter of South Asian immigrants, but more the whole variance in life paths: she’s a relatively straight-up lawyer; she’s more conventionally girly than the girls I grew up with; she’s at her finest dancing to top-40 pop hits. These things are strange and quixotic and foreign to me.

In light of all this it makes me happy that she approvingly posted this little excerpt, because really when is this sort of thing ever very logical? It isn’t, I’d say. My goal is not to think about anything more than is absolutely necessary, and generally try not to eff it up.

But yes, so I flew out to New York to spend the weekend in Jersey. It was pretty fun, actually. Unlike most men, I quite enjoy dancing — of which there was plenty — and I find the generally joyous atmosphere of weddings to be pleasant and life-affirming. Plus there was plenty of quality food and booze.

The night before the wedding itself was a tradition called a Sangeet, which is like a rehearsal dinner except bigger (half the whole wedding was there) and revolves around a talent show. This is actually an exceptional idea; there’s nothing like the sharing of amateur and cheeky performances to help bring two families together. I recommend anyone considering a bricolage approach to their own nuptials consider incorporating this genius little innovation.

I also appreciated this quote from the wedding program: “Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction.” Which is also translated “To love is not to look at one another: it is to look, together, in the same direction.” Seemed apropos.

Another highlight was the after-party, which was back in the hotel/conference center we all stayed in, which had an honest-to-god nightclub. This is in North New Jersey proper, and sort of outside any real town or city center. And yet this joint had an apparently substantial clientele. The crowed was, shall we say, interesting, sort of the end result of Jersey Shore plus 25 years, or, as someone remarked, “I feel like this place is exclusively full of people here to cheat on their wives.” A great moment for human anthropology in and amongst the Dirty Beats.

We finished the weekend strong back in the City, mostly picnicking in Central Park, greeting friends of hers, camping out behind Summer Stage, gorging ourselves on Chicken and Rice back in the apartment.

I had one more day there, so I got to see my Sister on the night before her birthday. Missed everyone else though (didn’t even tell folks I was coming out) for which, again, I am all apologies. Next scheduled excursion is late October, and will be a Good One, I think.

Now back in California, a week later, it feels like much longer ago. Like another world, a place of real summer, and me another person maybe. Another identity facet to blend? Another structural hole to bridge? Time, as they say, will tell.

Two of my favorite people are a year older today. My hobmre Frank Edward Robbins the Fifth, jobseeking soon to be father of two, and of course my sister-pal, coming up from behind with her own brand of bound-for-glory greatness. I got a chance to break bread with Brie last night in Brooklyn on my way out of town, and she showed me this, which I thought was brilliant:

So happy birthday to both of you, and be glad you’re not attacked by Pandas. Go get ‘em, Leos!

Headed to the east bay to have a cocktail with my man. Just in case you forgot. This is the man.

“I think America is ready for a man-hunting intergalactic space monster.”

So this weekend I’ll be jetting up to Mighty Oregon for a weekend retreat at gorgeous Black Butte ranch. As a sign of my continual resistance to maturity, the guest list:

• Steve and Hannah
• Chris and Meadow (and Logan)
• Zya y Marko
• Gina and Luke (and Elle)
• Hope and Bond
• and Josh

Perhaps I should be exiled to Mt. Bachelor! (to my national audience: that’s a Central Oregon joke).

Anyway, after that I’ll shoot all the way down to SF for a couple weeks. Need to figure out if/how I’m going to jet out to NYC while my moms is on the scene there, and also how I’m wrangling travel to/from SxSw in March. Looks like I’ll be something of a road warrior again!

This idea came up a few years ago. It’s been kicking around. Someone finally made it happen:

http://dearmarijuana.blogspot.com

Oh man.

Can you spell SuperFuckYeah?

Samuel’s going to the bigtime. Hopefully he can get me Omar’s autograph.

It’s been a hell of a good hot run this week, sort of like what I imagine a highschool reunion would be like if you only allowed the awesome people to come. Great wedding up on a bluff up above the gorge. They stride out man and wife to the Imperial March. String band, trancycake, camping by the highway.

Next day a quick flashback to my young young days stopping off in the town of Hood River — outside of which I lived communally and naked for a few good years, nostalgia for some (kindergarden?) school trip to the applesauce plant — as I headed south through the Mt. Hood wilderness area and into the golden folds of Central Oregon for a lovely (if abbreviated) visit w/my father on his and the step-moms little slice of heaven. I snag a piece of Juniper tree to keep in my car for the rest of the trip.

And then chugging up and over the Santiam pass — all the more striking being wracked from a king-hell fire season last summer — and back into Eugene. Vehicle running like a top, and new stereo blasting out great driving tunes. It’s been a flurry of reconnections and renewals, reminding me once and again just how effing lucky I am, and bringing back that great old sadness that we’re all spread out and only get together every so often. Seems like the reasons people peel off into their own worlds are silly (careers), compared to the reasons (the true postmodern family) you might stick together. But I know it’s more complicated than that.

All food for future though. For now a last little loose end to tie up at work, and then to see what exactly my mother has been cooking up down at the university.

It’s been a hectic week. In the words of the Gleemonex pitchman, My Empire is Crumbling. Things have been hard and rough on the work tip — the thing about the internet is that it’s a big web of interconnected things, which means that stuff well outside your control can fuck your shit up — and my personal sphere/living conditions are now in a state of freefalling flux.

Bike needs a tune-up, and we took a hard spill on a rainy metal grate on friday. It’s also tax season. Always a pleasure.

But it’s not all bad. The tree of liberty must occasionally be watered by the blood of tyrants after all, and the old empire needed to fall. Still, the loss of agency breeds insecurity and nerves. Change, yes, but is it really the change I want to see? Is this my idea, or just some stuff that’s happening to me?

On the upside, have had some good times in the East Bay with big dinner parties and svelt trouble busing in from out of state. Quote of the weekend: “why don’t you take your pig-love somewhere else.” Apologies are in order around that one, but it’s a undeniable gem of human language. Also, creative conspiracy abrew w/the one and only Joe Felice.

Later today I’ll roll back up to the HC and start my move there.

Crisitunity.

The hits just keep on coming. Here’s Chelsea in New Zeland:

http://chelseamotel.wordpress.com/

10 out of 10 for branding: an excellently clever title (Chelsea Motel = where Syd stabbed Nancy) and tagline. Who among us does not love Dogs, Weird Trucks, and Guitars?

Also, the Girth returned from Brazil last night with stories of visiting steel mills and dallying on Yachts. All this makes me wish I were on the road or something, but for now I’ll have to make-do with my fixie and the apocalyptically pleasant January weather here in SF. It’s comforting to know that when the world ends, we’ll at least have nice tans.

Follow the Redman and Dirt Woman through South America!

http://markandzya.blogspot.com/

Zya takes pretty good photos, so if they can manage to post those it’ll be pretty rad. Hopefully some documentation of gypsy button-making in action.