It's Like the Military Without Honor
I was sitting at the table reading my mail. Another offer for a credit card. Two more refinancing junk mail things. The phone rang, so I looked at its face. I recognized the number. Why is she calling? Its the kind of she that you put in all caps. Hitting the ignore button, which is the most worn nubbin on the razored phone, I snapped it into my pocket and hopped up. Navigating into the next room, which is yet another place to leave my days and weeks away, I turn to the left and survey my past. In these cubbies are books, records, passes and clues that someday will help a balder and saggier version of me try to piece together my 20s and 30s. I mostly do this out of fear; the keeping. The holding onto last Tuesday's lunch receipt so I remember that sandwich at the place with the waitress with the doey eyes and ironic tshirt is something I am really good at.i don't balance my checkbook, I cannot tell you the name of any of my neighbors (more on that) but I can, eventually and with some cursing, find the box that has a not so blurry naked photo of the world's most famous rapper and a menu from a BBQ place on this little sip of a road in Louisville. I even have and can vividly recall where I can find the key from that long detroyed Madison hotel, where that girl and went on a pseudo date to see the lake where my man Otis Redding's plane hit the water, ending a true voice from Heaven. I am sure I have digressed and gotten too "nouny" (of or like a noun, maybe-just stay out of the scrabble dictionary). From work, I occasionally send home these boxes of things, keepables and things whose purpose was met thousands of miles ago (extra socks, power adapters, hockey pucks, wine openers). These boxes will accumulate. I inevitable will watch some HGTV show where a guy takes a piece of tinfoil, a fake squirrel tail and a cardboard tube and furnishes a whole condo and become inspired to "trim down my clutter"
But how do you part with the sign from the quirky hotel in Scotland that says "LEAVE ME ALONE!" (I have a few of that one). And who can expect me to throw out all those hockey jerseys from pro teams that each venue's front office nerds give me to try to get a meeting with the band (I only know the guys from Slapshot. Heck, when it comes to sports, I only know the '80 Pittsburgh Steelers...and my friend Tim told me the name of some basketball player who puts his nose on people but I forget it. Oh. I know Kareem Abdul Jabbar. He doesn't play BUT he did fight Bruce Lee in a movie. I met him at a wedding and we talked about yoga. God am I a dork.) Too much sidebarring, I know. Forgive it if you have the stones.
So like Hansel und Gretel, I leave myself clues. There's stuff that I keep to give to Parker, there's stuff I keep so I can maybe one day write a book. And when I say write a book, I mean one that isn't about who kissed who or who wets the bed. That's a whole other topic to gnaw on at a later time.
A friend of mine told me about a girl we know that was unhappy. Its funny, you think if someone is pretty, has a house, car or whatever you equate with "the life", then they should be happy. I mean, we've all heard the "lonely in a crowded room" line which might get you a kiss at a Dashboard Confessional show but thinking about this person, just for a couple of minutes today, made me take stock of happiness. And no I am not about to go hyper "Are you There God Its Me Margaret?" but what is true happiness and who is to say? Is it money? Sex? Chicken? And when do you know if you are happy and not just cycling through some extra chemicals in your system from that bad drive through food.
I am not unhappy, mind you. I just tend to see more sunrises than most people. Its not a complaint; its a fact. The little engine of weird energy inside of me commands most nights. During the days there is stress, responsibility and general rage to push all sort of actions required to get me through to see another sunrise.
Cameron Diaz. Seize the day.  ¶ 2:19 PM