Rex is going to arrive any minute.

I’m totally nervous. I feel like I’m getting ready for a date, a first date with someone I shouldn’t be dating…maybe a little bit of a bad boy vibe. Yet I’m sure nothing sexual will happen between us because his wife Rhonda wants him home by 8:00 p.m. Plus, he’s bringing his two-year-old son.

Rex is my new mechanic now, and he just finished overhauling the entire engine. I’m so nervous; I can’t wait to see my car again! Rex said he bringing engine pictures of what he fixed. He was also genuinely sorry he didn’t have time to put together a PowerPoint slide show like he intended. He was running late.

I feel a dirty whore.

I’m cheating on my neighborhood mechanics - Best Garage Ever - with Rex, and I feel like a dirty little car slut.

The first time I took my metallic-blue Subaru Impreza to the Best Garage Ever (at that time just the Neighborhood Garage), it was because the dealership wanted to charge me $500 for a broken exhaust pipe. I asked these new guys to give me a second opinion but was explicitly clear TO NOT FIX ANYTHING until we talked because I needed to decide if I wanted to do the work at this time.

“Sure, sure.” they told me.

Their casual tone made me nervous.

When they called a few hours later, the anonymous voice over the phone said, “Well, we just went ahead and fixed it.”

Instantly I fumed, ready to unleash this stream of swears that I hoped conveyed a combination of professional, decent person, and really fucking pissed off.

He spoke before I did.

“We just welded the tail pipe back onto the muffler. Took us 10 minutes, tops. We’re thinking $7.50. Cool?”

“Cool.” I said, swallowing my anger quickly. “Yeah, that’s okay.”
Best Garage Ever.

One of the best features is that while there, I never feel talked down to.

(ASIDE:  as awkward as the phrasing of that previous sentence may be, it perfectly conveys the slightly ignorant vulnerability and weakness I often feel when visiting a mechanic. I always fear they’re going to talk down to me and then I’ll feel stupid about the car I love. Folks at the Best Garage Ever are often very kind, exceedingly friendly in a way that does not suggest they read it on page 4 of the employee manual, but rather they just are this way because they are. I do not feel stupid with them.)

A few weeks ago I took my beautiful car to the Best Garage Ever to get an estimate. Something was rattling and with 125,000 miles on Old Blue, I figured my faithful steed deserved a little TLC. James from the Best Garage Ever called me and his voice was strange…careful. Measured.

“Mr. Manning? We should talk about your car. Can we do that?”

I was a little struck by his odd tone, almost suggesting I sit down in a chair.

James gently explained the timing belt issue, the other issue that was an estimated $800 fix earlier in the summer, and how they discovered both the left and right head gasket was leaking, a common Subaru problem. I listened in dumb wonder and as he cautiously dog-piled the misery, and suddenly I recognized his tone:  surgeon. Life support.

Already, the little imaginary dollar bills were swimming through my brain, piling up like a bad Refinance-Your-Mortgage TV ad.

I finally understood.

“It’s almost not worth fixing!” I cried in despair.

“I’m not saying that.” James said calmly. “Let’s just talk about this…”

“I love this car!” I yelled into the phone.

“I know you do.” he said softly. “I know.”

I was suddenly speechless. James walked me through the remaining items that would need to be fixed. Gradually he totaled the estimate for me while I held the phone limply. My car! My beautiful new car!

(Car was actually purchased in 1999. But it was my first new car ever.)

My new car!

With a grand total landing unhappily around $3,700, I squirmed. Any investment I put into this beautiful car has already been returned four times over. And I’m not worried about blue book value. But I also don’t want to die in this car - I was thinking it would be nice to die the day before a nasty trip to the dentist, to you know, save me some pain. But not screeching as the car flips into a concrete highway divider and the last thing I see is a broken timing belt on the windshield. I don’t want to die like that, being mocked by a timing belt.

I am not a rich man, either. Did I really want to invest further in Old Blue? Could it be new car time?

My brother Matt went through a battle like this, investing big cash in his old car. I decided to call him; he’d understand!

Matt listened to my mostly irrational despair/pouting and he talked to me as if he were a high school career counselor, helping me see options and consider second opinions, and how it’s even possible to find another car…another -

No.

But Matt’s counsel reminded me to get another opinion.

I consulted Rex, a former coworker from Allen Interactions, a man who worked as a mechanic for 15 years before deciding, “Hey, I like e-learning.” He was at Allen years before me and survived for another full year after me. He also worked part-time for Allen in his last years because he was pursuing life as a welder artist/inventor. He’s always eagerly explaining to me a thing he has invented and if he can just get it into one of Target’s suppliers’ shows…

Rex agreed with the Best Garage Ever:  all that work needed to be done and possibly more.

“And probably…” he began.

Don’t say it. I thought to myself. Don’t say THAT.

“…the clutch.” Rex advised. “As long as the engine’s out of the car, you may as well.”

Dammit. He said it.

Rex agreed to fix my new car, Old Blue, for roughly half of what The Best Garage Ever would have charged. In fact, Rex came up with the nickname Old Blue.

You see how I’m torn.

I love Rex, love his crazy inventor vibe that radiates out of him when he talks about creative projects. When he talks about his family, then he’s quiet, calm. He smiles this wonderful, goofy smile when he talks about his life with Rhonda and the kids.

But it’s the Best Garage Ever!

And I cheated on them!

But it was with Rex, who was my comical arch-nemesis at Allen Interactions. One year, he tried for months to get everyone at work to give me a nickname from Porkies II.  “Hey Boog!” he’d chirp loudly every morning, day after day. Thankfully it never caught on, but for months Rex never gave up.

“Morning, Boog! How was your drive?”

I heard it daily.

So is it wrong to cheat on your beloved neighborhood garage if the new guy who fixes your car is pleasantly sadistic and a good Dad?

Yup, I’m a dirty car whore.

I cheated.

This torrid affair with Rex began when I called him to vent my car woes and ask him if he would look at my car for a second opinion. I told him the ugly truth:  how many thing were wrong, how expensive it would be to fix.

“You’re thinking about putting down that beautiful Subaru?” he gasped into the phone. “I love your car! It’s got another 100,00 miles on it!”

“I know!” I cried.

Last night in the middle of our tri-hosted Halloween party, my friend Dave approached me very seriously - food poisoning serious - and murmured, “Do you have anything like a little kitten sweatshirt? A small jacket like that?”

My first thought was that he really did not understand my costume.

“A kitten sweatshirt?”

And then, he suddenly seemed to understand what he just asked me. “Not, like, you would have a kitten sweatshirt exactly. It doesn’t have to be a sweatshirt.”

Dave remained serious.

The fact that his Halloween costume portrayed him as a surgeon really actually lent him this strange credibility. I mean, he looked at me sharp-eyed, intensely as if ready to convey bad news.

“What’s up?” I asked quietly.

Dave explained that a cat had been trying to get inside the party for the last half hour, climbing up on my front window boxes and pawing the storm windows as if to say, “Look this is embarrassing, but I’m a neighbor and I seem to have locked myself out…”

Dave had asked for a bowl a few minutes prior; I assumed it was for the sushi that Tony Stark and Pepper Pots rolled themselves before coming to the party. (Evan really did look eerily like Tony stark, facial hair landscaping impeccably crisp. He glowed with this sexual energy and charisma that was typical of him and yet shining brighter.)

But apparently, Dave was getting water for the cat. And food. Figured the cat might like some sushi rolls and also the turkey. The cat had indeed eaten heartily, but seemed to want more than food. Maybe bedding? The cat found the right emissary. Dave is one of those men who has forged a great friendship with his dog:  Dave loves Jack the dog; Jack loves Dave. Their lifelong friendship has changed them both. Dave is built of that kind of kindness.

“How about a towel?” I ask. “Will that do?”

Dave and I rushed off to rescue the Halloween kitten.

“I can’t believe you asked me if I had a kitten sweatshirt. What the fuck is a kitten sweatshirt anyway?”

“Quiet.” Dave says. “Focus on the cat.”

Oh yes, I am now a man blogging about a cat. I recognize the absurdity of, you know, cat blogging, but this is how the story unfolds, so we’ll all just have to accept things and get through this:  I am blogging about a cat experience.

(Just think, 15 years ago, where would I have published a long and tedious story about a stray cat? Thank god for the internet.)

After debating a few choice locations and deciding under the hydrangea bush, Dave fluffed a little bed out of the big towel and moved the water dish and food dish closer. We wondered together where she had come from, and I remembered how someone earlier had complimented me on my cat. Again, I thought it was a misguided reference to my costume. (I did one of those concept costumes and nobody really got it until I explained it and then they said, “Oh yeah! Right. Sure, sure. Now I see it.”)

The cat appeared suddenly and was a youngish, soft-eyed, calico cat. The little fuzzball immediately vibed this very friendly and hip, “Hey. Cool. I like you.”

She nibbled on the hors-devours Dave brought her, gazing around the yard as if appreciating the autumn decorations:  golden crunchy leaves, the deepening green of November grass, the coolness of the earth on Halloween weekend.

One of the serial killers joined us on the front steps and explained how he felt her teats a few minutes ago and he now believed she was a young mother, this cat. Again, he also had a certain credibility. He had stabbed the Trix rabbit right between its big beaming eyes with an ice pick. His box of Corn Chex was assaulted by a plastic gun and there was an exit wound on the other side of the box through the daily recommended nutritional values.

I turned Dave to me and whisper loud enough for all to hear, “This is how serial killers begin, with neighborhood cats.”

My friend the serial killer talked about the cat he had once loved, Ms. Marple, and how he missed her quiet company in his life. This serial killer friend is actually quite loving, he’s gentle and sweet so his costume is deliciously the opposite of his normal persona. We talked about loving animals for a minute and we speculated on her neighborhood origins, the nearness of her possible kittens.

We went back to the party.
Ten minutes later, the cat scurried into the house when someone opened the door. She ran through the guests, leaving everyone cooing, this living embodiment of all of our combined love and good cheer. She was the party ambassador. I could almost envision her nodding, “Getting enough to drink? To eat? Cool, cool.”

The house was bursting with people I love.

Best friends.

Lifelong friends.

Newer friends.

Brand new friends.

There was this joy about our gathering, something that rocked orange and golden and happily green. We giggled and ate Stephen’s Mac and cheese, constructed with so much cheese and eggs that a single mouthful absolutely bent the plastic fork. I made a chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and green coconut grass. I broke up Hershey Bars and made adorable little tombstones, even rounding off the ends of some so that there was a variety amongst the dead stones.

Most sugar-licious graveyard you have ever tasted.

My basement had been transformed into a suburban dungeon. Stephen and I ghoulishly designed a basement of horrors (and coolers with beer and a dessert table made from sawhorses and a shiny wooden door covered in dead leaves). Even this minute, almost 24 hours later, I’m reluctant to go down there and do laundry tonight. It’s a 1920s cement, exposed-beam basement with copper pipes stringing the ceiling and swinging single bulb lighting. Grey cement floor. Enormous wood pile. Metal doo-dads hanging on the wall like possible props from Pulp Fiction. It’s pretty clean, generally, but it’s also got a good creep factor.

I do love Halloween.

Throughout the party night, our mysterious cat repeatedly entered and exited the party, charming everyone. Another guest set up a food and water station outside the back door. I mocked Dave regularly for his request for a ‘kitten sweatshirt.’

“They exist!” Dave protested weakly.

This cat stopped its silent wanderings only for ONE person - the one person in the room who was violently allergic. Don. She nestled comfortably on his big chest. Don was costumed as a major league baseball player and had a wooden bat curled in the meaty paw attached to his giant, thick arms but he watched the cat helplessly and repeatedly muttered, “Every time. Every damn time.”

Don is a smart IT guy, but I sometimes think he should do hospice work. If I were dying and fearing what happened next, I think I would like to be in Don’s arms. He is a very gentle, very strong man. I think I would relax upon hearing his reassuring warm voice rasping as he said, “Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” It would not be a bad way to go, all that strength and gentleness swirling around in him, holding you tight at the very end whispering in his thick Italian brogue.
Don and Dave are together; they are my lifelong friends.

They brought a gift bag to the party, with Pumpkin peeps, a favorite wine, and a cheerful threat. A month ago I dumped National Treasure in their kitchen freezer, buried in the ice bin. It’s a thing between us. Sometimes they threaten me, sometimes I threaten me. The night they discovered National Treasure, Don muttered curses in the background while Dave chided me for breaking into their home and dishonoring Jack.

“He needs to feel he’s guarding the home.” Dave chided me. “You’re killing his self esteem by just walking in like that.”
“I gave him a cookie, a treat.” I protested back then. “I played with him a while and told him I was sorry about having to wear that cone around his head.”

“So you humiliated him.” Dave said flatly. “Well that’s great. You can’t humiliate Jack like that. He needs to feel he’s protecting us.”

“Tell Edmond he’s dead to us.” I heard Don mutter loudly in the background. “Tell him I spit on the ground. Tell him, Dave.”

At the Halloween party, Don and Dave threatened me:  National Treasure was hidden in my house again while I was downstairs putting eyeballs in the lemonade.

Meanwhile, Ann, our wonderful Iowa co-host, blazed a fire into existence and we brainstormed names for the cat.

The first suggestion was “Edmond’s cat,” which I tried to point out politely yet vehemently, was NOT a great name for a cat because I’m not really cat people. Let’s not get ideas, here. It was a stray.

I suggested a name I had fancied.

“Hatchet. What do you think of Hatchet?”

My friends politely avoided eye contact with me. Ann and Dave, who had also just met for the very first time, shared meaningful glances. Then Stephen, who also met Ann for the very first time, shared meaningful glances with Ann. All these people know me too well. They weren’t threatened or frightened of me, they were just saying with they eyeballs, ‘See how it is? See how he is? You understand, I know you do.’

I tried to move beyond the awkwardness and continued to extoll the virtues of this adorable name. I mean, Hatchet - found on Halloween? It’s adorable.
“So you’re a zombie, right?” someone else said cautiously. “Do zombies eat cats? Is that like a zombie thing?”

Hatchet continued to stroll through the party. She just wanted to be involved. Someone humane in the room suggested “Mr. Snuggles” or something like that and I nodded and said, “Yeah that’s good too, but how about Hatchet?”

All our guests had ideas about Hatchet and throughout the night I chatted with all of them. There were actually two cereal killer costumes, both with knives murdering various GE and Post products, giving all of us an evening of saying, “how tacky of you two to wear the same gown” type comments. A zombie banker who could make his head wounds open and close like speaking lips, a chef who beamed with his lady love (wise witch) as if he were all favored guests in his restaurant. We all nodded at him gratefully as if he had deep fried the turkey himself in my backyard.

Oh man, that deep fried turkey was good.

I enjoyed a beautiful, heart-opening conversation with a skeleton-masked friend. I took him to my bedroom to show him a sketch important to me. He took off his big mask and as we sat in the soft glow of my stained glass lampshade, we reflected on growth and pain and how growing love into your life demands these sacrifices sometimes. He talked about his weaknesses and I talked about mine.

Every now and then I’d catch the skull mask out of the corner of my eye and feel like I was hanging out with Hamlet, but the cooler Hamlet where he shrugs and says, “Well, what the fuck are you gonna do?” and then he goes out and gets the job done.

I barely spoke to my friend Brett last night. He freaked me out quite a bit, a 70s’ British rock star whose hair could have been used in a Rapunzel costume as well. I barely said hello to this powerful, important friend but I was aware of him all night, like a sparkling light on the other side of the room, someone I love so much and yet we were busy glowing in different circles that night, that’s all. I felt that way about a friend in Bunny Ears, another in jangling leggings, who insisted on a Renaissance speech. Awesome.

Before the party, I called Zombie Banker to pick up some extra ice and he refused to speak in anything but moans so I had to say to him, “Moan twice if you’re going to pick up some ice for me.”

“MMMMMMMmmmmm.”

“Uuuuugggggh.”

“Great.” I said. “Thanks man, I’ll give you a few bucks when you get here.”

A wall street vampire discussed the upcoming election expertly. He had big golden bling in the shape of dollar bills and a Wall Street sign, protesting self-centered CEOs who are sucking our futures dry. I felt a certain affinity for him and the zombie banker all night, because I myself wore a ripped-to-shreds business suit, zombie makeup and a giant red, plummeting Dow Jones index report spray painted across my shoulders an abdomen.

My costume was The Economy.

“Oh…riiiiiiiiight,” I heard over and over.

Two people very seriously offered to adopt Hatchet if he were still around on Sunday. Hatchet had endeared himself to everyone. I myself had begun to think, ‘Yeah, right. Like I’d let you take Hatchet away from me.’

Honestly, I’m not a cat person. But things happen on Halloween.

We put on costumes and reveal little bits of our wonderful shadow selves. It’s not that my friend secretly wants to be a serial killer. Nope. It’s about touching something different and scary, wonderful and liberating. Acknowledging that we have fear. Choosing to let our darkness become light instead of being a slave to it. I could be a surgeon. I could be dangerous and threatening. I have chosen in this life to be me. But this costume is to remind you that I am also other things.

Carl Jung said, “I’d rather be whole than good.”

I think part of that wholeness is celebrating Halloween.

Scary basements, brave hero costumes, and wonderful, sensual energy. We let out the part of us inside that needs to stroll through shadowy candle light every now and then, like a fuzzy Halloween cat. A fuzzy purple feather pimp coat and a silver sparkle wig. The Pulp Fiction action guy, Harry Potter and the Grim Reaper. We celebrate our weird quirks that make us surreal and wonderful. We’ve all got our own stories, our own crazy days blended together with ordinary things like taking out the trash and recycling the day after a party.

It’s Sunday.
I haven’t seen Hatchet all day.

I put out more water.

I spent the better part of Sunday strolling around the neighborhood and along Minihaha creek. This day was stunning, a perfect golden afternoon for long walks. I photographed leaves that seemed to be on fire and I took raspberry jam to the neighbor who grows giant sunflowers, introducing myself and thanking her for the gift of her crazy, overgrown yard.

She blushed and offered me perennials.

I confessed that I thought it would be weird if I showed up one day with raspberry jam because you know, it’s weird. She laughed and put her hand on my arm to say, “It’s okay. We spirited kind of people recognize each other so we can be weird with each other. It’s alright.”

But no Hatchet anywhere in the neighborhood or around the house.

I’m not surprised, I guess.

Things happen on Halloween when people of spirit gather together and love their own strangeness.

I never schedule a recurring appointment for my haircut, despite seeing the same beloved barber for years.

Audie.

I love getting my hair cut by this man!

I like my hair shorn high and tight; short, short, short! I love the feeling of my hand against those buzzy bristles against my skull. But I also love sitting in his chair and hearing about his world. Every time I learn fascinating new things about him, the world, professional skateboarding, good food. Every visit is like shaking the Magic 8 Ball but instead of crappy vague answers on wet plastic triangles, something spectacular is revealed, just the way you always wanted the Magic 8-Ball to work.

I called him Thursday to inquire as to whether he had any openings for Friday or Saturday? I think this might drive him nuts:  we both know I get my haircut roughly the same week every month. We both know I’m going to get my hair cut with him. But I refuse to make a standing appointment.

I can’t help it; I love this strange thrill that sometimes occurs when he says, “Yes, there was a cancellation. I can fit you in.”

I always feel so important, so special, like I am a celebrity and just got into a five-star restaurant. I couldn’t trade that thrill for a regular, appointment. And the comparison is not entirely exaggerated. He’s been voted “Best Barber in Minneapolis” two out of the last four years. Or maybe it’s every year…I don’t know - I forget to read the plaques on the wall sometimes. We get busy chatting.

I found out he could squeeze me in, so tonight around 6pm Friday night I found myself in his chair just in time for Friday afternoon Disco Haircut Hour.

“See,” he nodded over his bifocals towards a small rotating disco ball in a plastic stand instead of from a dangling string. Faint light was bouncing off it, tracing the walls. The thing wasn’t much bigger than a golf ball, really, but this is compensated for by Disco music on the DMV music channel. Maybe the scene described sounds very night-clubby, but there was a guy waiting for a haircut reading the Star Tribune, not really noticing the Disco theme.

Today, he asked me, “How would you like your hair cut today?” About 19/20 times I get it cut the same way, but he still asks and does not assume an answer because today might be that 20th time. I am always impressed he manages to ask. There is something Buddhist in this, lack of attachment to outcome, or willingness to be open and surprised; today might be different.

I told him that I need his “Best Pentagon Haircut” because I’m headed to D.C. in a few days and I want to look sharp.

We talked about my work trip, beautiful highlights of Washington, which prompted a story from him:  in 1972 he and a friend got drunk and drove their car into the Pentagon parking lot.

We grimly joked about how that probably couldn’t happen today without my barber and his friend sobering up in Guantanamo Bay. There’s an FBI profile on Audie, we discussed it one special haircut day when the Magic 8 Ball said, “Activist Stories.” He was a political activist in the 1960s and 70s. And 80s. and 90s. This is how he lives.

We talked about his sobriety - 25 years sober. I asked him how he realized his addiction and how he got sober without AA. His story is sad and lonely at times, but ultimately he found his heart again. Now, there are two recovery homes within a two block radius from his barber shop and they send men to Audie to listen to his story. When he tells the stories about his drunken days, he doesn’t celebrate them, nor does he shame himself over it. It’s just the past.

It happened.

Over the years, three of his clientele who have sat in his chair eventually put themselves into recovery because of Audie’s friendship and stories. He didn’t tell them they needed to get sober. He just shared his heart and his own crash & burn, until they felt the uncomfortable similarity creeping into their lives. He listens mostly. But if you’re going to get his advice, you’re going to have to ask for it directly.

He interrupted the conversation next to our chair to say, “No, it’s Ted Cook’s Crab Shack. That’s the name of the place you’re thinking of - with the amazing BBQ. And please, I would know. I lived in Texas.”

The conversation meandered into the best Thai Food, the best Ethiopian food, and noodles. The Republican convention, his partner’s work schedule, Tina Fey, my work trip, where I thought I was stuck in my life.

He stopped again and addresses the conversation next to us.

“It’s GermanFest this weekend at Gasthofzg.” he explained, and then resumed clipping away. “And if you go, stay out of the basement, it’s loud and the guy with the accordian has boundary issues. I had to pay him to go play on the other side of the room.”

“What were we talking about?” he asked me.

“People in recovery.”

“Oh, yes.” He picked up where he left off. “I think she got a Fullbright Scholarship after she got sober and now she’s in southern Russia, right off the what - Crimean Sea? Oh boy, my geography…”

As he rattled off province names, Cheryl Lynn’s Got To be Real grooved over the radio station.

We’re all feeling this sexy, relaxing Disco vibe. Maybe it’s because how ridiculous our world is now, falling apart financially, this devestation of leadership and personal ownership. They say that Nero played the fiddle while Rome burned. Why not get a haircut? And while chatting, we shared our mutual fear that someone - anyone - outside the United States might accidentally hear Sarah Palin speak and then they’ll finally know it’s time to take over our insane government. Maybe someone would be kind enough to help us set up a democracy.

But at that moment, it was the Disco hour, when such fears can melt into the background of Earth, Wind and Fire’s September.

Audie shook his head at his sloppy international boundaries knowledge. Tonight when I got home, I had to google the Crimean Sea to even recognize the USSR provinces he tossed around so easily.

He has competitively judged dogs. Ran a hospital’s HR department for dozens of years. He drove a RV acrosss the counry for two years because he thought he might love it. He did. Figured as long as he was going to reinvent his life, it may as well be gorgeous while he figured things out.

I took him a jar of raspberry jam today, my annual Fall offering to this friend with whom I share life once a month. He and his partner love the jam and though I have not met his true love, I love hearing stories about their life together. Good or insane, his stories about Jon always start the same way.

“Don’t get me started.” Audie rolls his eyes and says. But it’s obvious he loves Jon.

Friday, I barely got the Jon update on his schooling when Audie interrupted the conversation in the next chair. “No, you’re thinking of that rib place on 5th. Tackiest awning you ever saw and you walk in and think, ‘I wouldn’t eat out of this hell hole, but then you taste those ribs and realize you’ll be back again. Oh honey, they’re so good, but get the sauce on the side. It’s too hot; Jon can’t eat them.”

While he talked ribs with my neighbor haircut, Disco Inferno came on the DMV radio and I chair danced, swinging around my newly shorn head, feeling the soft bristles with my hand and listening to the comparison of BBQ sauces. When he turned back to me, I had some serious shoulder humping going on.

Audie looked over his bifocals. “What are you doing. Is this a seizure?”

“Disco fever.” I told him.

“Oh my god,” he says as he trims my eyebrows. “Our Friday Disco Hour always reminds me of San Francisco in the 1970s. Oh, honey. I have some stories.”

Ah, the Magic 8-Ball has spoken.

I am almost tempted to book an appointment for next months’ Friday Disco Hour.

Almost.

Hi there, how are you?

I recognize a few of you. I can see Frosty’s mischievious smile, hear Mike’s comforting voice. A few years ago, I met Ejna and was impressed - she’s smart; I liked her. And there are few more of you I’ve met in your Kentucky home office, shaken hands with, as we chatted about strange weather or my hotel. Since I cannot bring in bagels and fresh raspberry jam, I thought I’d say hello online.

(For those of you who are not new coworkers, please allow me to explain.)

Over the years, I have worked as a consultant for the Prevention Research Institute (PRI) through my former employer, Allen Interactions. PRI contributes something worthwhile to the world:  they have developed an amazing curriculum to prevent alcoholism and drug abuse.

When I first started consulting with them, I attended their three-day workshop and was delighted to discover their methodology was thoroughly soaked in actual research and also completely devoid of shame. That startled me, I guess, because so much professional training translates as DO IT THIS WAY BECAUSE THE COMPANY SAID SO.

PRI’s approach is gentle persuasion, analogies, metaphors that make heart-sense, and they still manage to explore (and oddly, celebrate) the wonderful irrational aspect in all of us that wants things that are sometimes not healthy for us. Cool, huh? But it’s not all hugs and cookies (though, yes, there were cookies on breaks). It’s bonafide research-based; they’re not pulling punches regarding consequences or sugar-coating anything (again, except for the break cookies).

When PRI recently offered me the chance to work for them developing e-learning and mLearning, I was delighted. (Well, that’s not entirely true. I now have to explain to my folks what mLearning is, and they’re still not quite steady on e-learning. I do not entirely look forward to that conversation.)

So, new coworkers, I thought I’d tell you some of the important facts about me:

I like the color blue.

I am left-handed.

I don’t talk to my house plants because I’m never quite sure what to say. Sometimes it’s awkward. But I do play music I think they’ll enjoy.

I like 30Rock, Raisin Bran Crunch, and lying on the couch under a blanket crocheted by my friend Stephen. I just discovered Cherry Garcia ice cream in June. I had no idea this goodness existed.

If you ever want to know which of the X-men have been killed and then were miraculously brought back to life (or perhaps it was their evil clone who was killed), I’m your man.

Once when I couldn’t sleep, I lay in bed and plotted my escape route in case zombies attacked my home. How could I get to my car keys and then the garage safely? (This assumed the traditional slow-moving zombies, not the modern ones who can run really fast. I call them ‘Nike Zombies.’ There’s really not much hope for escaping them.)

For the past month I have been photographing the morning glories scaffolding the front of my house because I find them damn impressive:  they started out as 3 inch toddler plants, then mastered climbing the front stairs, then skipped up the trellis like a jungle gym and are now choking the life out of the front porch light. They have designs for the roof - they’re going for the summit! For the past two weeks they have exploded cornflower blue blossoms every single day.

It’s like a magic trick and I never tire of it.

I imagine the neighbors across the street are mystified as to why I need so many photographs of the front of my house. Oh, but I do. I do.

I’m terrible with names of people in the real world, but I remember subplots to Dickens’ books easily. I think I was meant to be a fictional character, but somehow ended up in the real world. That would explain a few things.

And as perhaps you have guessed, I am not great with first impressions; I tend to babble. The second or third time you meet me, I’m about 40% less dorky. (Or not.)

I think I would make a better first impression if we were allowed to talk about something real the first time. I wish it were socially acceptable to ask, “Is your life turning out the way you expected?” Or maybe, “What’s something sad in your life that you managed to work through?” I think I would remember names better if we could begin speaking from our hearts right away, first sentences.

What was the best night of your life?

Many years ago, Allen Interactions hired a new VP of Consulting. I met him during his first week and after shaking hands, we joked about how hard it is to meet 50 people in one week and remember all their names.

“I’ll help you out!” I promised cheerfully.

I proceeded to flail my hands in front of his face like wet rags, fat fingers flying dangerously close to his horned-rimmed glasses. He was stunned and uh…not loving it, exactly. He had this expression on his face that was hard to interpret.

“I guess you won’t forget me now.” I said, suddenly aware that this was my boss’s boss.

“Probably not.” He agreed, with a slight note of distaste.

He didn’t last terribly long at Allen Interactions. And now I can’t even remember his name.

We probably never talked about the things that he photographs, the odd and quirky ways he lives his life.

Well, fellow PRI-tians (no, that can’t be right), I look forward to meeting you in person, and perhaps some day we will trade stories about the very best night in your life and mine.

I look forward to it.

101!

Yesterday I reread my post about raspberries, lasagna dinner, and worms.

I read it with curiosity because while every single thing in that post was 100% true, it sure painted this Norman-Fucking-Rockwell picture and I thought, ‘Huh. I’m portrayed a lot like Martha Stewart, but like with 37% less evil.” (Martha would totally prefer to do her worm fecal exchange *before* dinner; it’s how it’s done, people.)

And yes, that post reflects part of my life, a very rich part. But there’s the me who does laundry and replies to emails and it’s not all singsong bumblebee lullabies at sunset. I’m more than that, you know,

I’m also a comic book nerd.

So while yes, I talk to the bees in my backyard, it must also be disclosed that I read X-men Legacy, Uncanny X-men, X-Force, X-Factor, Astonishing X-men (Whedon rules!), The Young X-men, etc. I think I’ve painted a picture, here, folks. There’s no need for me to elaborate on the list (well, except for The Walking Dead and Fables).

Exhibit B:  In December, Marvel’s going to run Inferno 2, centered around recently-raised-from-death Illanya Rasputin, who I love! I can hardly wait. I’ve been reading articles and online interviews.

See? Nerd.

This week has been Nerd Fest at my house:  during the day, I have been researching cutting-edge e-learning technologies and reading textbooks. At night, I watch Season 2 of Heroes. As part of my nerd allegiance, I scowl at least once in every episode and mutter, “There’s no way that someone with those powers could also master those abilities. They are two different abilities. Plus, why isn’t the flying man trying to use his powers?”

Nerd.

Tonight I intended to watch the conclusion of Heroes and scoff with mild outrage while thrilling on every minute. I stopped at Pizza Hut to get some cheesy sticks for snackage, but they talked me into a personal pan cheese pizza instead.

You see, this is also my life. Fireplace chatter with friends, and then brainstorming with the Pizza Hut guy what to order since they’re out of cheesy sticks and I am NOT leaving here empty-handed. The delivery drivers fold boxes waiting for their orders and watch us with empty curiosity.

The guy apologetically tells me it will be a ten minute wait.

“It’s cool.” I tell him.

I actually don’t mind waiting ten minutes because I brought with me a copy of First Class, a comic that came out last week and features the “unofficial” early years of the X-men. I don’t like this title; it messes up the Marvel continuity. And while I am definitely a continuity snob, there wasn’t much else good that week and I needed a junkie fix, so I bought it.

I like bringing reading materials to this Pizza Hut; it’s like a greasy library room. I get in the mood for cheesy sticks every once in a while and I rarely call ahead. I sit on their (sometimes-dirty) chrome bench next to their overwhelmingly cheerful, neon soda cooler. I read. I listen. I like it in this pizza triage space…it’s loud and there’s always hijinx going on, a driver who never showed up or everyone’s mad at Tina again, because she’s such a bitch.

I remember being 19.

I used to work at the Huntley Dairy Mart. I had my greatest boss at the Dairy Mart. He was also my first and there have been many disappointing followers in his footsteps. While cutting up onions he would listen to problems and didn’t offer much in the way of advice. He took out the trash for me a few times when I was having a bad night. Since those years, I can’t remember ever having a boss who took out the trash for me.

Tonight, I sat on the chrome bench, turned over my X-men comic and looked at the cover. A very young Spiderman, Ice Man, and The Human Torch are gaily flying forward, embracing danger and high drama as the young often do. I smiled because they look like young mutant Abercrombie & Fitches.

“No waaaaaaaaaaay!” said a voice at my side, immediately poking Spiderman’s head. “I know that dude!”

My new bud was probably three or four years old. Three and a half, I guess. He was Hispanic and his head was a black fuzzy skullcap of hair. Adorable little guy with wide brown eyes. “That’s Spiderman!”

I nodded to him. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“I like that dude.” he confided in me.

He pulled open the first page, just snatched it open.

My eyes instinctively went to look for his parent because he was gonna get a swat if Mom saw him do that. His guardians were two women with seven kids between them, most of them pretty damn young. She wasn’t paying attention because this tiny space was like a playpen for her kids - this tiny Pizza Hut foyer for people without the good sense to order ahead. As long as they didn’t run out the front door, there really wasn’t much damage they could do; she was taking a break.

“No way!” said my friend, pointing at a blue and white figure. “That’s Iceman!”

“Yes.” I concur.

“He fighting Fire Man.”

“Actually,” I say gently. “He’s not Fireman, he’s The Human Torch from the Fantastic Four. This is kind of a team-up.”

My friend has seen enough of the pictures on this page so he flips it to the next page and starts pointing out all the people he knows on that page as well:  “Iceman! Fire Man! Iceman fighting oh no…”

I wanted to argue with him that without reading the words and the dialog sequence he couldn’t really understand who was winning or losing, but he had figured it out pretty good on his own, the story he was creating was probably better than this one.

He flipped the page.

“Oh no!” he’d cry and point at another one. “That’s Iceman!”

Inside, that persnickety part of me was whimpering, “Don’t skip ahead! I haven’t read all this! You’ll ruin it for me!”

But before anything else could happen in my brain, he said, “Oh no! Where is Fire Man now?”

My heart surrendered and I decided to let him be the narrator and tell me the story. His reactions were better story than what was written.

“Oh no!”

“Now what’s happening?” I asked, catching his excitement.

He shook his head. Looked bad for Iceman.

After another page or two, he turned to me and said, “Where’s Spiderman? No way!”

Kid had a point. We had turned about eight pages and so far, no Spidey. Kinda a rip off from the cover if he showed up on the last page to moralize how we should all be good people, and you know, not kill other people on a goblin sled.

But luckily, the very next page produced Spiderman and when he showed up at last, we both cried out, “Oh no!”

“I know that dude.” he said to me very earnestly and I felt a little part of my soul touched.

You’re never too young to be a comic book nerd.

We studied another two pages together before his family’s order was finished and they had to leave. Right before they left, we were looking at a page that had comic book story left page and advertisements on the right side. There were a bunch of Marvel heroes being herded into an alliance to sell maximum copies of some online Marvel game.

“Oh no!” he cried excitedly. “Hulk! Iron man! Captain…captain…”

“Right. Captain America.”

“Yes.” he informed me. “Yeah, I know that dude.”

There was a young version Captain America with a similar shield but it was a hologram. I was worried he might get confused and so to be helpful, I said something like, “Those two look almost the same, don’t they?”

“No.” he pointed to one and then the other. “Same guy. They the same.”

My eyes opened wider in surprise. Maybe he knew something I didn’t know? I mean, sure, in the Marvel world you’re probably going to meet your future self a dozen times, it’s like a junior-writer move:  when your characters are least interesting, throw them to meet their future bad-ass-selves and see if that gives the book sales a boost.

So…maybe?

But he had already moved on and turned the page.

Naw, he…he didn’t know. But I love the story I created in my head trying to figure out my fellow nerd. I zinged through time travel possibilities, Captain Americas past and present while he had already moved on. And who knows? Maybe he could outgeek me if he actually tried.

Next page, top left:  big picture of Spiderman.

“Spiderman!” he gasped.

His family called his name and he darted away with them driving between his older sisters’ legs. I kept smiling and waving goodbye but he never turned around. I thought about giving him the comic book to keep but he was gone instantly and I didn’t want to chase him down in the street; it didn’t feel right somehow.

But I really thought we had a connection over our love for Spiderman and his pals, so I was a little bummed he didn’t turn around and say goodbye. But you know what? He’s a kid. Like, very young kid. He doesn’t have to be tuned in to the universe and the miraculous way life can be.

And just as I was flipping my comic book back towards the beginning, his head darted back into Pizza Hut.

“GOODBYE!” He shouted at me with glee.

He was gone before I could answer, and I was stunned once again by how life is sometimes, especially when you both know that a good moment was shared together.

Not all miracle moments happen in Raspberry Heights.

Sometimes I have to leave the house if I want to meet other comic book nerds and talk about which characters we love in our hearts.

Early evening tonight in my backyard, I lost count of the raspberries.

I gingerly shared space with my grumbly tenants in Raspberry Heights, two dozen black and yellow bees. They usually ignore me, or rather, they’re irritated with me but can’t be bothered to sting me because so many raspberries need attending and ripening. I work around them doing my raspberry accounting:  I enjoy knowing the grand total of berries picked and wondering how many tomorrow will bring.

But today the bees were a little more grouchy as this was the last half-hour of sinking sunlight and they had THINGS TO DO before bed. While I tried to respect their timetable, I was also racing sunlight to harvest today’s raspberry crop and refused to give ground. Nevertheless, I kept a slow and steady pace.

I often use my over-sized grilling fork like a robotic arm to move and gently shake the berry-heavy branches. I encourage my stinging tenants to vacate the premises for a few minutes while the landlord collects the day’s rent.

I talk to the bees sometimes, thank them for the plump red gifts. Sometimes I apologize for stealing (literally) the fruit of their labor. When I’m feeling chatty, I confide that I’m terribly afraid of their killer-bee-cousins and if they could put in a word for me, great.

Somewhere in the mid-40s, I got distracted remembering Sunday evening’s events. My robot arm would bounce a branch and instead of watching the bees, I would remember some detail, like Cian ate four cookies, and then I’d return to counting raspberries. Then I’d instantly flash back to Sunday dinner:  I could picture Heather looking away in this demure fashion.

I had intended to write about Sunday’s dinner, and this distraction tonight was a continuation of that same idea but a little more urgent. NO SERIOUSLY. YOU SHOULD WRITE ABOUT SUNDAY. Apparently there were metaphorical bees lumbering around as well.

I couldn’t figure out why this urgency was buzzing me because except for the awkward cake incident, Sunday was a pretty peaceful night.

I had invited friends over for Sunday dinner:  lasagna (Mom’s recipe), ginger-glazed carrots (Ron’s recipe), cheap frozen garlic bread (Cole’s recipe), some grapes, hors d’oeuvres, and there you go. I had baked chocolate chip cookies from scratch just an hour before friends arrived, so when the house held competing cookie and lasagna smells.

Everyone arrived at the same time:  Mary and Heather with the Most Adorable Girls Ever, and new friends, Meg and Austin.

Logan and Cian squealed, glad to see me for three or four seconds, then took off running into other rooms. After all, who knew what treasures awaited in foreign, dark rooms? I thanked Mary for coming, because she did have the opportunity to have the house alone for several hours and enjoy football in silence.

“Oh, please,” Mary said with a broad smile. “Like I would miss dinner at Uncle Ted’s.”

That’s all the time we had for conversation because Mary suddenly bolted from the room, words running ahead of her, “DO NOT OPEN ANY DRAWERS. WE TALKED ABOUT THIS IN THE CAR.”

So, there was this flurry of squealing and house smells and chilly evening air as I welcomed Meg and Austin. Heather probably wasn’t ready for my formal, “Oh, come in. Yes, nice to see you. Thank you for coming.” She looked at me askew.

We’re pretty casual, Mary and Heather and I.

When I visit their house, we barely have time for “Hey,” before launching into extended tirades about something that happened ten minutes ago. Then three hours have passed and we realize we’re somehow caught up on the big news and small. Mary and Heather sometimes interrupt each other to remind me that my Diet Coke is in the fridge. They don’t drink Diet Coke, but there is always one set aside for me when I come over.

I have gotten to know Meg and Austin over a few summer cookouts at Mary and Heather’s. I like them. It’s hard not to enjoy Meg. She’s got a joy about her that is bubbly but not overwhelming. When she laughs I feel like I’m at a sleepover and we’re going to stay up until midnight! I love that feeling. The first time I heard her name, I was gasping at a gorgeous new oil painting in Mary and Heather’s home.

“Oh yeah,” Heather left me and headed towards noise in her kitchen. “Meg did that. Amazing, huh? Have you guys met yet?”

Wait, who?” I followed the ominous kitchen sounds, which seemed to have escalated into a full-scale sister fight.

Austin is great with my goddaughters and they like his quiet, jovial presence. He reminds me of an old sea captain from a manly man book, but 40 years younger and not yet all sour and bitter about life. It’s still early enough that you might convince him NOT to become a sea captain. Austin’s website is fascinatedwithdinosaurs.net. How can you not want to hang out with a man whose website name expresses boyhood wonder?

I invited them because I like them and I don’t often make new friends these days. Call it stuck in my patterns or so busy returning voicemails, whatever. When I’m not busy with the outside world, I’m busy being introverted or watching Dexter Season 2 on DVD.When I shyly asked Heather if perhaps we might invite Meg and Austin, she was delighted.

On Sunday while Mary chased the girls with warnings, Heather presented both Meg and I with gifts in brown lunch bags. We had barely finished our polite hellos when these gift bags were produced with a flourish.

Meg and I reached in and pulled out the treasure eagerly, a Tupperware container with a quart of thick, black liquid. Quickly I tried to recognize it as potentially a black bean dip or something we could eat as an appetizer. I had plenty of cheese and crackers sitting on the coffee table, so we could make this work. But honest-to-god, I could not quite tell if this goop was food.

“It’s feces.” Heather said proudly, eyes demurely cast aside.

Must. Not. Vomit.

Meg gasped in surprise. “From the worms?”

Meg giggled.

Then I started giggling.

Months ago, Heather purchased a hobby farm where the 5,000 day laborers are worms. They live in a filing cabinet type thing and sit in the stairwell to the basement. Heather promised that with nothing to do but eat, excrete, and socialize, this farm population would soon boom to 10,000 worms, then 20,000, etc. I failed to see the upside of this situation, but Heather was counting on very sexual farmhands. Did I mention that this lived INSIDE the house?

She had originally purchased this colony of wriggling shitters online.

I’m sure this is exactly what the forward-thinking American Military had envisioned when they created the internet version 1.0 back in the 1950s. “Some day Americans will be able to purchase worms through this thing,” barks the clairvoyant General, “so that you can use the fecal matter to create this amazing compost for your garden.”

The Online-Purchased Worm Farm has been a subject of teasing delight when I drink my Diet Coke in Mary and Heather’s kitchen. Heather has been adamant about the worms’ imminent success. She promised me that they constantly produce this “black gold” and people pay big money for it.

I argued and pleaded my only defense: “It’s disgusting. This is in your house! How can you sleep knowing they’re all down here writhing?”

I kept trying to get  my goddaughters on my side.

“Is this not disgusting?” I’d plead.

“It’s gross.” Logan shrugged. “But it’s okay.”

I did not care for this open-minded response.

“Well if you love them so much,” I replied with an certain coolness, “why don’t you eat one.”

“Uncle Ted.” warned Heather. “Please.”

I am the godfather. I stand by my right to taunt.

Meg and I locked eyes in my living room with a little bit of shock; we both had pretty good-sized containers of black goop. I mean, we were each holding almost a quart of worm shit.

Can you blame Heather for being proud of her first big harvest? Considering she had faith in the power of her little excreters from the very beginning? Sunday night, she did an excellent job of not saying, “I told you so.”

“They really came through.” I said when I could speak. “I was wrong.”

I remember wondering how she got the liquid into the Tupperware.
Heather explained how to mix the feces with water for indoor plants, allowing for plenty of aeration first, and then gave us instructions for outdoor use. She reminded us both that this is BLACK GOLD and people pay big money for this. I was suddenly aware that she had actually worked and waited for this. I mean, sure the worms did the work, but she was the Coach. Honestly, I may need to call her again for those instructions because I was smelling warm lasagna and trying hard not to barf.

But as I beheld my small pond of worm shit, I realized it was actually a kinda great present. In fact, instantly this became pretty fantastic.

I have wanted to do something special for my indoor plants, a nutritional pep-talk of sorts, anticipating the hard Winter months ahead. So this gift was really quite perfect:  practical, needed, and something I could not obtain for myself. I grew warm with gratitude, thinking of Heather’s patience and faith:  with the girls, the worm colony, and often with me. It was easy to feel thankful, once I let go of being a fecal snob.

“Wow, thanks for all the shit.” I said.

I really meant it.

I checked the room (a little belatedly) to see if I swore in front of the girls, but heard screaming and running upstairs in my bedroom.

“They probably shouldn’t open random cabinet doors up there.” I mentioned casually to Heather.

She patted my arm.

I forgot to ask her if she wants the Tupperware back.

We had a lovely dinner, talking and chattering happily. Conversation-wise, we spent half the meal explaining to Cian that there was no cake. Heather made the (turns out, rather sizeable) mistake of saying that they were having dinner at Uncle Ted’s house and it was kind of like a party. The offending word, gentle readers, is “party.” Party = cake.

“I baked homemade chocolate chip cookies!” I announced for the third time in an upbeat tone.

Cian would have none of that.

She would turn her head demurely (a trick learned from whom?) and then in a soft, smiling voice politely inquire again, “Where’s the cake?”

While Cian mourned the loss of that which was promised her, I told them I was excited and nervous about my new job, starting on Monday. Meg and Heather work together, so we talked about their work, and then life dreams, and who we all want to be when we grow up. Meg, Austin, and I have all new stories for each other, and that was fun too.

Foodwise, the highlight of the evening was not the lasagna or the chocolate chip cookies, but the fresh, juicy bruchetta Meg and Austin assembled, tomatoes and basil grown right in their backyard garden. Oh damn, it was good. Mary and I chuckled at each other, every time we took another piece. (They gifted me the leftovers and swear to god, I licked the inside of the container to taste the last drops of this perfect juice with little flecks of basil.)

After dinner, Logan disappeared the way young kids do when they think nobody notices their slowly vanishing figure. She took a step back, then another, as if we were a den of cobras and if she just retraced her footsteps slowly, she could retreat without invoking our serpent wrath.  I love how kids believe they are invisible when they want to be.

Later we sat in the living room and I finally remembered to torch the wood I had prepared in the fireplace. The fire roared. I lay on the hardwood floor and helped Cian assemble a puzzle, but only the exterior. There was a lot of rule repetition on that particular point. But Cian’s fear that I might hog the puzzle was for naught. If I participated too heavily in the adult conversation, Cian would bark at me, “YOU’RE NOT DOING THE OUTSIDE PIECES!”

“Yes I am!” I protested, fitting another two pieces into place before drifting back to Meg’s story.

We devoured the chocolate chip cookies with milk, happily speculating on what Logan was doing on her frequent, mysterious trips from my bedroom to other rooms in the house. She always disappeared up the stairs with a parting, guilty look. Mary finally checked:  turns out she was reading a book on my bed. It was more fun to speculate on her mischeviousness.

That was how Sunday night ended:  big fire, puzzle completion, lazy contented chatter. Every now and then, a kid would pop in front of Mary and request, “One more cookie?” but I hardly think that was so significant - so desperately worthy of blog - that I had to lose track of my raspberry accounting.

But amidst the bees and raspberries, I found myself trying to sear details of that night into my soul, weaving it with the amazing nights of my life. Remember, I kept telling myself, how many cookies each girl had. I want to tell them about this night many years into our future.

Then I realized today’s date:  September 17th.

One year ago today, I arrived at 166 Henry St. in San Francisco. I had moved to San Fran for four months for work and to create a little life adventure. In February of 2007, I invoked a Year of Wonders, a catalyst year determined to uproot and change everything. By September 17th, I had put my house on the market, created an out-of-state work opportunity, and a month earlier in August, acquired a shoulder-covering Celtic tattoo, invoking the magician archetype.

I figured I needed some extra powerful magician energy to bring about something powerful, like a Year of Wonders.

September 17th, I sipped a glass of wine off my tree fort balcony and told myself, “This is it. It’s beginning.”

Oh man. I had wonders.

Living in San Francisco was crazy and beautiful. I was a San Franciscian! A Californian! I raced through redwood forests lost at dusk, soaked naked in Harbin hot springs, and in the Castro one Saturday, I met Armistead Maupin. This allowed me to complete a lifelong dream to shake his hand and say, “Thank you. You changed my life.”

Heather was convinced I would never return and every time we chatted on the phone during my California Adventure, she answered my greeting with a glum ‘Hello.’ She remained confident that the first sentence out of my mouth would be, “I’M STAYING! I LOVE IT HERE!” She would end many of our conversations with a quiet little, “Come home, Edmond.”

I did not visit other cities after San Francisco; my house did not sell in this depressed market. I was disappointed, of course, but nevertheless, the Year of Wonders completely manifested, just rarely in the ways I expected. In February, I left my comfortable employment and in the next few months learned the freedom of “unemployment with a mortgage.”

I do not mean that in a snide way - not at all. I really had to learn how to feel free and joyous even with a mortgage and no steady income. And I did! THAT was true freedom - to feel alive while wandering through my bungalow-sized ball and chain. My house tilts to one side, needs new storm windows, and has a corpse stain on the kitchen hardwood floor. Ah, home.

The Year of Wonders had amazing surprises and some darker ones; it wasn’t always fun. I remember being alone for Christmas eve in a cheap, shitty hotel room along the Pacific coast while my family in Huntley was opening presents. Mom had mailed two cheerfully-wrapped packages and I couldn’t even open them because it made me so sad and homesick to look at their red and green wrapping. There were some dark days. A few months where I wandered lost, afraid, angry. Sometimes during the past year, I would absently trace my magician tattoo and ask, ‘Why did I ask for this again?’

I have never written what the past year meant to me, how I have changed and how I have been changed. I have not actually acknowledged that I got exactly what I asked for, six times over, but never quite in the way I expected.

I now have a fabulous new job, trying to touch the damaged hearts of American veterans.

I wrote two novels during the past year. The first one, I published online and received roughly 500 email responses. I have made actual online friends from that experience. One guy mailed me a figurine duck. Another new friend mailed me magic soap. And in June, I had dinner with a lovely New Yorker I met from this novel, a cake-baking queen named Fredi. She was in town for work.

A marvelous, retired editor read my online novel and emailed me to say, “I think you have something special. I’d like to work with you if you’re game, but be forewarned:  I’m not squee fan girl. I’m the real deal; I edit hard.” I had to ask her what a ’squee fan girl’ meant, but once we cleared that up, I found myself with a smart, kind editor who encourages me. She believes in me. I find this humbling.

Together, we’re getting the second novel ready for me to send to agents.

Best of all, the wonders I grew to cherish in my life are the smaller, amazing ones, like Sunday night. I have remembered to try to make new friends with people who appreciate dinosaurs and fresh basil. I was scolded for too much adult talk and not enough puzzle action. I received a bucket of fecal matter from a worm farm in St. Paul. How crazy cool is that? I think I love those damn worms now. This gift is from a lifelong friend and her partner who both love me so much they made me their childrens’ legal guardian.

They love me like that.

I think the Year of Wonders is going to be an ongoing project for a long, long time.

And the icing on this amazing little cake of a life, is that I realized how happy I am while basking in last ten minutes of tonight’s September light. Precious red fruit surrounds me, bringing me joy. Tomorrow I make jam. Perry had emailed me earlier today to let me know that today he finished reading my second novel (he got a preview copy) on a Chicago bus, and he cried in public. We’ll talk later tonight.

The thumbnail disk of the sun finally departs and even though there’s still light in the sky, the bees finally drop, drunkenly, curling themselves under the dark leaves to straddle a green berry and fall fast asleep.

Sleep well, tenants of Raspberry Heights. I know what it’s like to have a big day exhaust you by its beauty and simple joys. And if there’s anything left from the houseplants, I’ve got this gorgeous black gold to spread around the earth that might drive next year’s raspberry bushes into a growth frenzy. Seriously, it’s good shit.

People pay big money for it.

I called my buddy Ron at work yesterday and without really asking if he were busy, blurted out, “70! 70! Guess what that means to me today!”

Ron reflected for only a few seconds and said, “Number of emails you answered?”

“No. Guess again.”

“Temperature outside?”

“Wrong! Guess again.”

“A Weight Watchers goal?”

“Please. I’d be emaciated at that weight; I’d be all skeletal. Try again.”

Ron’s tone changes slightly. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here at work…”

Oh, right!

Employment.

Apparently, I have forgotten what it’s like to have a job.

And it’s not just a job for Ron, he’s a young VP of a big-ass international firm, so he’s got some senior responsibilities as a financial analyst and a highly-sought, creative problem solver. Sure he could gently close the thick door to his carpeted office and gab with me for the next hour, but Ron is one of those guys who actually tries to inspire people at work by setting a powerful example.

He’s smart, of course. (Duh.) But he’s also insightful about people, seeing their strengths for about six months before they recognize it themselves. At work, he prefers to mentor first-generation minorities because he thinks it sucks when nobody tells you how things REALLY work around here. Twice he has helped mentees find better paying, higher responsibility jobs outside his company because it better fit their personal career goals.

He would prefer it if everyone actually enjoys what they do for a living.

He’s inclined to gossip a bit, but only about peoples’ sterling qualities. I’ve heard him argue passionately on behalf of transsexuals and their work rights. When I tried to shyly nudge the topic towards potential upcoming trips to Amsterdam, he laughed and said, “No, no…I just think they’re courageous.”

Because he’s smart and intuitive, he observes a lot about people and therefore knows quite a few secrets. He could also gossip about the darker stuff if he wanted, but I think this bores him. He’d rather talk about something juicier:  kindness.

For years he coordinated massive fundraising efforts for charity on behalf of his employer. He does New Warrior community service regularly. Earlier this Spring we spent a Saturday afternoon at a costume shop because Ron thought he might like to rent a chicken suit and then walk around downtown Minneapolis. No reason.

Just thought it might be funny.

Unfortunately, it was raining hard all afternoon so we went and saw Iron Man instead. Which was awesome. I always liked Robert Downy Jr. He was really good in an early movie called Heart & Souls. We both thought Iron Man was, overall, quite awesome.

Two weeks ago I called Ron (possibly at work again) to bitch my frustration with a hard-headed friend.

Ron chuckled that my complaints sounded pretty legitimate and he empathized with my plight. Then he paused and said, “I bet it’s tough for your friend to go through life being that prickly and stubborn. I bet it’s a hard way to live.”

Of course, Ron was right. I instantly melted to that place where I could see my prickly friend’s true face and I felt the compassion I had wanted to feel. A few of Ron’s well-chosen words can remind me of who I would like to be in this life.

When I call Ron at work and I make him guess questions about the number 70, and then Ron says, “I’m kinda busy right now,” I imagine he’s literally in the middle of a Board of Directions presentation. I like to picture them all frowning at their agendas while Ron steps away from the table and pleads, “Just a second.”

Ooops.

So as a courtesy, yesterday, I gave him the option to continue guessing about the magic of “70″ or I could just tell him the answer if he really was in a bit of a hurry. (Notice I did NOT suggest, “I could call you back.” No, no. My news was important enough to keep him a few minutes longer. He would want to know this.)

“Tell me.” he said. As an afterthought, he added, “Is this about the raspberries?”

“YES!” I cried. “I just picked 70 raspberries in the back yard! I am not shitting you - there were 70 ripe ones today and I picked almost that many yesterday. So these were just the ones ripened in one day! Isn’t that amazing? There were 70 of them!”

Huh. Maybe I really have forgotten how to have a real job.

I always get a little excited about the raspberry bushes in my back yard. I love plucking that tender fruit and squishing them in my mouth. When there’s enough berries, I make bright red jam to give to friends. Raspberries are like magic to me. I do nothing to encourage their growth and they still expand like weeds. Hell, they kick the weeds’ asses and weeds are pretty tough customers. My raspberries bloom twice, Spring and late Summer, making their magic trick even more impressive.

A year or two ago, I remember calling Ron one Spring day and in the middle of our conversation, he said, “Excuse me?”

“What?” I asked.

“You just said the number 47.”

“Oh.” I said. “Busted.”

I happened to be in the back yard picking raspberries at the time we were on the phone. I was holding a plastic tub and moving the bee-heavy branches with my giant grill fork, bluetooth gardener that I am. I explained how I often count the raspberries as I’m plucking them; I think it’s exciting to have a daily grand total. For the rest of that Spring and Autumn, I would call Ron and tell him, “You are NOT going to believe how many today! Guess!”

“You didn’t break 118, did you?” he’d gasp, genuinely, sincerely interested.

Yesterday we chatted about the 70 raspberries and how I was predicting maybe even double that number in the peak weeks ahead. I described the picking conditions and the number of fat bumblebees busily working on tomorrow’s harvest. Ron asked a question or two and then reminded me he really did need to get off the phone.

Oh right. Work.

I know he’s wearing an expensive tie while we’re chatting, a sharp linen shirt, and this pleases me to interrupt his powerful executive world with the status of things in my yard. Really, it’s a very exciting lawn.

Before we got off the phone, Ron reminded me that I’m coming to dinner Saturday. Did I mention he’s an powerful organic chef who once studied the culinary arts? Every now and odd Sunday, Ron teaches me how to cook mouth-watering veggies. I have befriended several green things with Ron brokering the introduction.

Like those damn raspberries, he just keeps blooming in the most surprising ways.

There are days I know when he’s busy, maybe mentoring someone or trying to help one of his employees rediscover how to creatively love their work. And even on those days, I often get a few minutes of his time. I imagine him deflecting several impromptu hallway briefings as he heads towards his office.

“Can’t talk right now.” Ron tells them, putting up his hand. “I have to take this raspberry call. Third quarter numbers are coming in and I’ve got to keep on top of this situation.”

Tonight at dinner I’m going to tease him with today’s grand total. Here’s a clue:  More than 70. Guess!

He’s going to be so excited.

If things had been different than they are right now, I’d be at Burning Man, possibly wearing a fringed afghan and dancing in the desert with, you know, 40,000 people.

Possibly doing experimental drugs.

Oh, c’mon…I just want to make my Mom’s heart race a little faster in case she happens to check in with the blog every now and then. Mom, c’mon. You know I don’t ever do that kind of thing. You know. Although that one time, I mixed M&Ms and Skittles together to see how they would all taste. Texture-wise, it was rather irritating. I foresee no imminent mergers between those two name brands.

In last week’s post, I promised to edit fiction naked with glow sticks in my twinkling-lights gazebo outside on the back deck.

Mission accomplished.

For the last two hours, I have been doing a version of nudity I call “Minnesota Naked.” I’m not an official nudist, but who doesn’t like to hang out in the buff watching Scrubs reruns? The weather this week is perfect: chilly during the day and even colder at nights. Constant refreshing breezes, no humidity, dazzling sunlight during the golden days. At night, a forest of crickets surround me, and even the harsh alley light becomes mood lighting through the mosquito netting of this nylon gazebo.

I can’t quite see my breath, but it’s a little chilly, here, Lars.

So I’m naked head to toe, wearing my favorite green-quilted, flannel shirt/jacket. Unbuttoned. Minnesota Naked.

(Gosh, aren’t blogs fun for sharing all kinds of great information you might never want to know? Mom, quit reading now.)

I broke open the glow sticks that I mysteriously acquired somewhere in my life. I have no memory of how these things ended up in my basement. I don’t strike me as a glow stick type o guy, but I keep running into them on a shelf, always surprising me. Where did they come from? These glow sticks may have moved into the house with me, ten years ago. Honestly, I may have been planning to go to Burning Man for the sole purpose of finally using the damn things and getting them out of my house.

This is how I know my age: I wanted to rock out the gazebo with their goofy light (imagine I’m nakedly making that ‘raise the roof’ motion right now). But before I could do that tonight, I had to get my reading glasses so I could make out the tiny instructions on the back of the packaging. I held the 6 point font up to the nearest lit candle and squinted real hard.

When that wasn’t entirely successful, I moved the package further and closer, wondering if the problem is that I need bifocals.

Yeah, that’s just how the 19-year-olds do it. You know, when they’re raving.

The package explained that you just bend the things and then shake them. (Two enclosed.)

Okay.

Seemed simple enough.

And yet, it was not.

I bent the first one in half and nothing happened. I shook it. (Again, I beg you to remember that I am naked at this point and flapping a dead glow stick over my head while my extra flab wobbles in a chilly Minnesota August night. Green flannel. Please make a mental note of that image. Thank you.)

I shook it, shook it, bent it in two other places. I was sure I was following the instructions just right, and kept bending it directly over my nearby pile of clothes, my arms quivering with effort. I started to wonder what would happen to my pants if the plastic rod burst and spit that green gunk all over. What about my hands - is this stuff toxic? It didn’t dawn on me for a full three minutes that after a full decade on a basement shelf, the stupid thing might just be defective.

I reread the instructions.

There were two glow sticks in the package, so I tried the other one.

On the first crack, it instantly lit up a bright green and I experienced a modicum of long-distance, Burning Man energy. I was happy today, all night and all afternoon editing, writing, rewording. I crafted some new lines, edited some stuff I already like. I emailed people I like. I spent time on the phone with people I loved. Earlier, I made a cucumber sauce for the first time, talked through the simple four-step procedure by my good friend, Ron. An hour ago, I ate a bowl of naked raisin bran and the crickets are chirping their nightly joy.

It’s a good night to be a Minnesotian.

The glow stick looks like a nuclear rod from Homer Simpson’s power plant and I keep watching it to see if it does anything else, but true to its very simple mission, I guess it just glows.

I missed Burning Man, but it’s okay.

Gives me more time to practice with glow sticks before next year.

A morning dream, this was

I heard a car door slam at one point, saw sunlight, so it wasn’t

a scary 3:00 a.m. dream.

In the dream, my right hand was a lobster claw

and both hands had been wrangled off: hacked or yanked,

jagged stumps remained.

I moaned the zombie moan and waved my arms towards

the bastard who stole my claw.

Through narrow hallways we lumbered after a couple. She screamed, her name

was Emily.

At some point, I turned traitor

and spoke

coherently.

We were were chasing people, eating them, but I wasn’t into it.

I told this one couple, mother and son,

“Run. Seriously.”

I whispered this because I don’t know what zombies do to creatures like me,

disloyal to our species,

helping humans get away and only

faux-biting their luscious, tender skin,

so smooth and tender, and wet when it breaks like

biting into an ear of corn.

Maybe

being a zombie isn’t so bad.

Anyone seen Emily?