Tiger Army sometimes dies.

I’ve been ignoring this blog for too long, pretending that I’m getting a lot done in my life. And while I do feel like I can say that I’m getting shit done, I’m certainly not doing enough to justify not writing.

So, I’m back in the saddle with a little story.

A few months back (or maybe many months back, I’m not sure anymore), The Chef and I went to Troy Revolution Hall for a Tiger Army show. Now, had this show taken place in DC, at the Black Cat, we’d have been going to the show only because I’d bought tickets about twelve years in advance. We’d be surrounded by fans, some of them weeping, many of them comparing Tiger Army tattoos and concert stories. Now, I’m not saying that I need to be surrounded by a hundred rabid TA fans to have a good time, but we can all agree that shows take on a different energy when everyone knows the words and can actively participate.

But back to Troy…

Though named for the famed city in Homer’s masterpiece, Troy is not exactly… epic. Anyway, I get all gussied up and ready to go. The Chef and I drive down (Arrive early! There’ll be a line!) and I keep my fingers crossed we’ll be able to get tickets. Uh… no problem.

I was the only person wearing high heels, the only girl in a skirt, and the only one who looked remotely interested in being there. While I don’t really care what the other ladies are wearing to a show, part of the fun is people watching. Troy makes for some boring-ass people watching.

But, we’re standing outside, and it’s cold, and I understand why no one is smiling and they’re all about thirteen anyway, so all they care about is looking as if they don’t care about anything. The Chef is the oldest person there by ten years. I feel… out of place.

There are two bands opening for Tiger Army. One, a pretentious little hipster band called War Tapes, fails to draw any real reaction. The next, some passable hardcore band from Boston, gets the kids all worked up. THIS is the band they came to see. Tiger Army gets a half-hearted reaction. The kids don’t really care. They’re not dancing, they’re not singing, they’re not even excited.

Now, it’s not that I think all these kids should love Tiger Army. Some of them should downright loathe the band – that’s the way music works. But they had no idea of how special it was for them to be able to see TA in the company of only 40 other people, with plenty of room to dance and sing and let Nick 13 sweat on them. In DC, the vibe would have been totally different. The scene in Troy sucks. The kids in Troy suck.

Now, I’m not anti-Troy. I don’t call it the Troy-let and I have enjoyed a few nights out there. But I was really disappointed that night. When did the kids stop just having fun and trying new things?

Maybe I feel like Tiger Army. A lot of The Chef’s friends are less than friendly when it comes to me. They’re not inclusive and I often feel unwanted and unliked. It’s getting better over time, but I’ve never met a group of people who are so stand-offish and closed on purpose. There are some shining exceptions, but for the most part, the people who have been the most welcoming are The Chef’s family. I really, really like them and I know that they like me.

Now, in DC, I have lots of friends. I always have options to go out and I always feel loved and wanted and appreciated. But up here, people don’t know how good they’ve got it.

That said, The Chef moves in next month, and all those problems will sort of fade away as we spend less time inside the Blue Line and more time making our own life that includes people we both like.

Tiger Army won’t be playing Troy anytime soon. And after January 31, I’m not sure when I’ll be back to the North Country.

Holding onto what I never had.

I had a dream last night about a man I know. He’s someone who’s played a somewhat peripheral role in my DC life, with a few turns as a guest star in particularly drunk episodes. When I recalled the dream this morning, of course, I began to think about him. And I realized that I think of him very fondly. He’s … well, he’s somehow made it into a corner of my mind in which I want only to keep him safe and happy and apart from everything else.

We’ve never been intimate, save one terribly ill-advised kiss that doesn’t really count. I’ve managed to embarrass myself in front of him more than once. But in a very strange, innocent way, he makes my heart sad. Just knowing that he’s there and I’m here and we’ve never been together and never will be leaves me with the feeling that the Universe cries just a little for what might have been.

When I listen to sad songs alone, I often think of him. When I conjure an image of What I Want, so many of the aspects and features are his. When I think about my more foolhardy ventures, he comes to mind with a twisted smile and a biting of the lower lip. I lock him out of my mind at other, more vulnerable, more self-involved moments. And yet, he’s always hovering, always possible, but just beyond the pale.

I know it’s not the same for him. I know the times we’ve shared have been very different for him: less personal, less fraught with desperation, less haunting. But there are times that he says or does something that makes me wonder, that makes me think he’s trying to say something, that at least sometimes he thinks of me over a glass of wine, that at least I was a possibility, if an ill-conceived one.

But perhaps not.

It’s 2 am and my mother is drunk.

So is my stepfather and so is The Chef.

Why are they all drunk? Because they’ve been drinking together all night.

I went to a wedding this weekend and it just so happened that my parents were also traveling and were able to drop me at home from the airport. Mom was complaining about having to work tomorrow (Tomorrow being Monday, which is now today and has been for more than two hours.). When they dropped me off, it was about 7, meaning they wouldn’t get home until 8 pm.

Apparently, at 8, or whenever they got home, they decided not to stay home, but to go see The Chef for some dinner. He might as well cook for them, since he’s doing it for everyone else. At 11 pm, two hours after quittin’ time, The Chef told me that they were there, leaving soon, and he would call me when he got home.

THREE HOURS later, I finally call the restaurant and he slurs a hello.

“What the … so you’re alive?” I ask.

“What? Sure. I mean, yes. Yes, I’m alive.”

“Good, so nobody’s dead or pulled over for DUI or at the hospital or something like that?”

“No.”

“Are my parents there?”

“No, they left about five minutes ago.”

“And were they as drunk as you?”

“Aaaahmnnoooderunk.”

“WHAT?”

“I sshhhaid I’m not drrrrrunk.”

“Oh, you’re just slurring for fun these days? Well, make sure to do it for the Troopers, they love that shit.”

“Are you mad? You’re mad. Hwhyooomard?”

“Because you said you would call me three hours ago. Because you told me you were with my parents at 11 and now it’s two and you have an early tee time and my mother has work in the morning and…”

“Lo’s not going to work tomorrow,” The Chef giggles.

After procuring promises that he would drive home very carefully, I called my mother’s house. Eight times. Finally, she picked up.

“Heeeeello?”

“Mom?”

“Molly? Ooohiehooooneeyhooowerooo?”

“Holy shit, you’re all drunk!”

“Ahmnoderunk.”

“Oh, whatever, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Wha? No, weecahtaknoe.”

“No, we can’t. I can talk now. You can’t even say, ‘We can talk now.’”

“Thas none of your bizzznuss.”

“Good night, Mom.”

You know what’s really hard to explain? It’s really hard to explain to drunk people why you’re so concerned and how there’s a big difference between 11 pm and 2 am and that when you can’t reach three people who were all supposed to be together, you get worried.

And another thing … I’m not sure I want The Chef and my parents hanging out and getting drunk and talking for hours if I’m not there. I think that’s a little strange. And I know that they knew him first, but not under these terms and it’s just a little crazy-making to think that your mom might get drunk and tell The Chef all the things you’ve told her about him. ‘Cause she’s chatty when she’s drunk. And not very discreet. And maybe once or twice she’s even encouraged you to hook up with people after several glasses of Chardonnay. Which is what she was drinking tonight. Oh, the horror.

They’re all grounded.

Bad steaks, a fight, and waking up alone

The Chef came down on Tuesday and after a marathon pants-shopping trip, we had a nice dinner and headed over to the Alley Bar, which is my favorite new place in Saratoga.

Wednesday night, we went to Lillian’s, where dinner was HORRIFIC. It was awful. And ridiculously expensive. And not cooked correctly. Did I mention the food sucked?

We headed to the Alley again, where we got in a fight about something so stupid I’m not even going to post it here. This fight ended, obviously, with the Chef leaving the bar, me walking home alone and then taking his bags and leaving them on the hood of his truck, which meant, of course, “When you get back, come talk to me so we can make up.” He took it to mean, “Leave. Now.”

Boys are so stupid.

I-81 and other reasons I hate the Orioles.

I spent most of the day doing nothing, which was blissful after spending last night and the wee hours of this morning driving through Pennsylvania. It’s not a bad drive overnight – but it’s hard to keep track of the changing speed limits.

I stopped in Wernersville, PA (please don’t ask me to do this again) and asked the gas station attendant – who was baked out of his mind – how to get to Rte 61. 

“I’ve never heard of that road. I don’t know. Where are you trying to go?”

“New York.”

“Whoa. Uh, I don’t know. You could ask at Sheetz.”

Yes, my little half-baked helper, I could ask at Sheetz. But then I’d get suckered into buying a breakfast sandwich of some sort and a liter of coke and maybe some chicken fingers and other assorted delicacies that are better when they come from Sheetz because (a) you get to order them on a touch screen and, (b)it’s 1 a.m. and I’m in the MIDDLE OF PENNSYLVANIA. (I’ve been in the middle of Pennsylvania for about FOUR HOURS. I swear, PA is as big as Russia.)

And after all that, I discover that the Yankees beat the Orioles 7-1 and Jeter, who spent most of the game acting like he was on the junior varsity team at Who Cares HS, brought in three runs in the ninth. Thanks, D. Couldn’t have done that before Brian and I sought shelter from the rain at the bottom of a bowl of pasta?

Lady pirates and frog eyes

– So, we’re in the tunnel?

– Yes. Why, you didn’t think we were in the tunnel?

– Well, I thought maybe we were looking at the tunnel, but that we could still see other ways around the tunnel.

– Well, we don’t have to be in the tunnel if you don’t want to be in the tunnel. We can turn around.

– No, it’s fine, I just didn’t know we were in the tunnel. Wait, so I’m a pirate?

– A lady pirate, yes.

– A lady pirate? Because there’s a river in the tunnel?

– Yes. 

– But no boat?

– I have hip waders.

– You have hip waders?

– Yes. And I can catch fish in a hip-wader net to feed us.

– And the horse?

– The horse is on the other side.

– In April.

– Yes, in April.

– So, you won’t let me bring a lantern or any maps, but you get hip waders and a horse is pulling you on water skis?

– Yes.

– Okay, so what are we really talking about? What are you saying about our relationship?

– What?

– I thought we were talking about a tunnel because we were too chickenshit to talk about what’s really going on.

– Oh. I thought we were talking about a tunnel.

Why fall in love, when there’s no need to?

… One can only go alone so far.

Rhett and his Old 97s will do all of my speaking for me today. They’ve been playing since 10 o’clock and I’ve got to say – they have a fucking good point.

It’s too bad the one who really would have gotten this pulled an Adelaide.

I don’t want to get you all worked up/ Except secretly I do/ I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have designs on you

Oh well I think I’m going crazy/ I’m feeling pretty good/ This isn’t love/ It’s just I think my body likes you/ More than any body should/ Your body likes me too / That’s why I’ve only got eyes for you

Long-distance love

Some people think you have to go out and find love; others think that you should wait until it comes to you. What if both things happen at once? I’m talking, of course, about that most trying, difficult and thrilling of possibilities: the Long Distance Relationship (LDR).

Now, I’ll admit that my idea of what constitutes long distance is somewhat … well, fucked up. When I was 15 and had my first real boyfriend (A senior! Le sigh.), not only did we not go to school together (Thanks, all-girls Catholic high school.), but we also lived in different towns, in different states. His school was 45 minutes from mine. His house was 45 minutes from his school. His house was an hour and 15 minutes from my house. It was a triangle of doom, which meant that we didn’t get to make out in the hall and hold hands on a daily basis, but we did spend every Friday or Saturday night at one another’s house. Our parents, sympathetic to the somewhat hopeless plight of our young love, allowed us sleepovers. I realize that this is not standard for the high school set. It’s just another example of the many ways in which my upbringing was totally hippified.

Anyway, things were fine, so it didn’t seem that odd to me to date someone who lived an hour away. (And around DC, almost anywhere can be an hour away, depending on traffic.) So, when I dated The Latest, who I am renaming The Last of the Weepers (There shall be no more, John Farrell! He, also, was never goth.), the commute didn’t faze me. He used it as Reason 8756865969708933474 why This Wasn’t Meant to Be. (Really? ‘Cause I think the only reason is pretty much that you’re a fucking liar.)

I understand that a high school boyfriend is different than an Oh-my-God-I’m-almost-thirty-where-has-the-time-gone-gee-
you’d-make-a-good-partner-let’s-take-it-slow-but-you-know-faster-than-a-fucking-glacier-okay-kiddo-get-the-fuck-over-your-ex-girlfriend relationship. I know that there are different things that I need ten years later. But, the pros and cons list remains pretty much the same.

I’m a fan of people being independent, whole persons who have their own lives. Two people make a much better pair than one-and-a-half. When you are apart, you are able to develop solid communication. Awkward silences need to be overcome by talking through them, not by making out through them. (Granted, the making out is great, but you can’t build a solid relationship on kisses alone. It’s tempting, though.) You develop a style of conversation and a comfort with talking that serves you well when you are together. 

All-in-all, I don’t have a big problem with distance. Other than that it makes kisses-on-demand more difficult to come by, that is. And that you have to wait. And wait. And wonder if, in the end, you’ll actually be able to make something of it. But that’s part of the excitement, too.

So, if it’s right, don’t be afraid of distance. Because being geographically distant is leaps and bounds better than being emotionally distant.

Well played, Chris Moore

Way to show up and take me to lunch. I’m enjoying this new-found sense of freedom you’ve got. It makes me think about when we first moved to DC and you were unemployed and totally at my beck and call. Ah, the good old days.

I especially enjoyed getting guilt for not going to your birthday party. As always, I came up with the perfect alibi: Uh, I had to go to my dad’s funeral. 

Seriously, if you think for a second that anything but that would have kept me from the rager that was your thirtieth, you’re crazy.

As Blur said, “It’s the end of a century.” Or, at least, the middle of one.

To friends. And Burke’s Dick. (And Dick Burke’s Dick, of course, without whom Burkie would not be even a shadow of the man he is today.) And, to the United Nations.

You were the first person to take care of me when I found out my dad had cancer. We drank margaritas at 2 pm and I was drunk by 4. We talked about death and suicide and life and it was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel alone. Thank you for being my friend.

In appreciation of a good exhaust manifold

Is there anything hotter?

Also, here’s to ending the night with little kisses. Whatever this strange vibe is, it needs to be pushed in a more positive direction. I think you make me nervous. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I was going to write an impassioned defense of being defensive, but instead I’ll just say: You have the best exhaust manifold in Alexandria and I look forward to seeing it again.

Let’s play nice from here on out.