Essays
I’ve taken the deep breaths, the warm baths, the Xanax. I’ve tried candles and crystals and sitting cross-legged. But nothing can calm me quite like rocking. Here’s what that looks like: An adult man, mid-30s, finishes work and climbs into bed. It’s early evening still, the shades are drawn, he has yet to cook dinner.
They laugh and say they understand why I moved to Los Angeles, and go back to drinking their bone broth latte. I’m used to it – the pretend sympathy, the thankfulness their childhood was warmer. But when I meet someone from Buffalo, the story is different. Eyes widen and brighten, toothy smiles emerge, our bodies move closer, naturally, as if we hold each other’s ancient secret in our hearts.
It’s been so long. Too many forevers. We’ve had that taste of “Honey” in our mouths for a year. We’ve boomed “Missing You” from our bedrooms, our windy rooftops, our shitty old cars. An anthem for the times. A song to howl at a fading summer moon. But the warm is coming to a close and soon a bitter cold will take hold.
It’s been so long. Too many forevers. We’ve had that taste of “Honey” in our mouths for a year. We’ve boomed “Missing You” from our bedrooms, our windy rooftops, our shitty old cars. An anthem for the times. A song to howl at a fading summer moon. But the warm is coming to a close and soon a bitter cold will take hold.
The winter of my freshman year in college, my father bought me a beat-up old ’96 Dodge Neon with one of those external CD drives you get installed at Pep Boys or by your older sister’s boyfriend. The car wasn’t perfect — far from it. But it drove. It got me from A to B.
You wake Sunday morning to the news of a massacre. You check Facebook and yes, indeed, a massacre. A massacre, you think. That word sounds so ancient, like one saved for old wars or high school history. For Roman armies and Celtic Druids. For Wounded Knee and bloodshed on battlegrounds.
In Los Angeles, the sun shines an average of 267 days per year, with a modest dip in temperature in the fall and winter months. The signs of the current season are relatively mute here, save for the occasional crunch of a big palm leaf beneath your feet.
Growing up, my father kept his Playboys pretty accessible. There wasn’t much of an attempt to hide them. It was an “open the closet and there they were” sort of thing. When I first discovered one of them, it was the Women of Mensa issue and I found myself more interested in taking the logic quiz than gawking at the spread of brainy bosoms.
Kim Kardashian has no apparent talent. It is likely she sings off key, dances like Elaine Benes, and paints on par with a fifth grader. Her body is wonderfully curvy, her makeup has taken some getting used to, and her psoriasis will continue to haunt her in humid environments.