Egg-Coffee and Dead Rock Stars

Every year, the lady and I return to the Midwest for the holidays. We go because we miss our families and friends but also because we feel we need to. We’re guilty, catholic-raised deserters.

Six years ago is almost a decade. Seattle has been good to us during this time but it’s still a strain to be so far away from everything we knew, everything we grew up around for nearly the first four decades of our lives. The wife has it worse than I and, that’s why, every time we drive from her hometown, Minneapolis, to my hometown, Chicago, she asks if I would ever move back.

We stay with the lady’s mom when we return to the Midwest ever since she sold her house two hours north of the Twin Cities and moved into the cities. She also gets up early. She also makes egg-coffee.

At the age of 25, I learned that my taste buds had changed. For some reason, at this age, this onion-hating individual tried these tear-inducing vegetables and liked them. From that moment on, I decided I would try eating anything at least once – I could only say I didn’t like something if I had tried it. Turns out, I like most food. In fact, the list of food-stuffs I don’t like is so short, I can list them here without the risk of boring you: nato and some whiskeys of the super-stingy variety. For this reason, I find it very strange that I refuse to try the egg-coffee.

While in Chicago this holiday, I decided to not visit my friends and, instead, spend an afternoon at a museum to see the David Bowie exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Being a mega-fan, it was a wonderland. The items, seemingly random to some that I’ve talked to, were a perfect patchwork of artifacts linked between thought and expression. As I consumed the experience, bookended by David’s baby pictures and his coke spoon, I continually pondered his imminent death.

That makes it sound like I’m planning something or have received an inside tip from my Vegas bookie about a celebrity death-pool. I’m not and haven’t but Lou Reed is dead. That’s not really news. It was over a year ago that he passed, on a Saturday. It’s been over a year since KEXP riddled their Sunday playlist with cover versions of his songs that had me in tears. It’s going to happen to Bowie and it’s going to happen to the lady’s mom. It’s going to happen to my mom. It’s going to happen to my NW friends, my MW friends, you, the lady, and me.

I’m at the age that parents are dying. The list of dead parents is much longer than the list of foods I dislike. So, yes – I think about going home a lot and trying some of that foul-smelling, almost certainly horrible, egg-coffee.

Anti-Social Travel Cooler

I've occupied my new apartment for forty-eight hours now. I've had two semi-restless nights on a graciously loaned air-mattress, eaten out a lot due to a lack of plates / pans, and spent hundreds of dollars buying inexpensive household items to get the lady and I by till we can get all of our nice stuff out west.

While staying at my friends for the last three months I often holed up in my room in an attempt to give them space while enjoying some myself. This solitary time does nothing for my social skills. I find myself verbally stumbling when I'm fortunate enough to enjoy the company of others. I'm so starved for conversation that nightly calls with the lady find me talking to her more than with her. I babble uncontrollably finding pause with my verbal assaults only after hanging up the phone. It's no different at work.

The team at work is a close knit bunch that have enjoyed work related, bond inducing world traveling. Beyond attachment these four guys are extraordinarily smart. Considering these two attributes it's not hard to believe that I find my head spinning as they weave a tale or drudge up trivial knowledge at breakneck speed. I've joined in on occasion but my overall plan is to be quiet. I do the tasks presented to me, am pleasant when addressed, and simply listen to the verbal whirlwind occasionally chuckling when I get the joke.

I feel like a high school jock in the AV club. That's not completely accurate. Imagine a four-hundred strong AV staff that stop feeding four-hundred projectors to stare at me as I enter the room. That's not completely accurate. Exaggerated or not, the dramatic drop in friends and the seemingly uphill battle to obtain new ones that live in the same state is disheartening.

A friend gave me permission to have a break down. She offered her shoulder if I should succumb to the pressure. It’s not that I haven’t considered a mild breakdown, but the bliss I was experiencing was due to self imposed ignorance. Offered permission, I now want to break down.

At night I sit on my travel cooler and watch DVDs on my computer which rests on one of the only items of furniture I own: My fifteen-dollar Ikea table. The bedroom furniture is sad and the front room furnishings are non-existent. When the lady gets out here in two weeks we'll pick out some items to occupy the front room. But when she gets out here I won't even care if there is furniture at all.

Normalcy Over-Easy

Breakfast is the single most important meal of every day. Not because of it's "good start" qualities but simply because it fits. It's comfortable. Breakfast's consistent nature wins in the long run over the exotic tastes of dinner and lunch. It holds a constant comforting spot at average.

For three months I've lived with my friends in Seattle sans wife, dog, and sense of self. Waking up early in the morning finds me hiding in my room. The two children have been conditioned with a digital clock to abandon their beds at six-o-o and not a minute sooner. This mandate is overridden if the kids hear any noise prior to six-o-o (If someone is awake the day has started.) Such a noise could present itself as a house guest made breakfast, watched television, showered, or even from the simple act of opening his most certainly squeaky bedroom door.

There are so many opportunities to misstep in a situation such as this. Leave a dish out, eat the chips, comment on child raising. All bad. Even when approached with my cautious friendly touch. Not eating dinners they cooked, cleaning all sorts of dishes, and ignoring questionable behavioral from their kids is also meet with mild scorn. As hard as it is on me, it must be at least that hard on them. Sure I don't remember the last Friday night I had to myself, but babysitting seems a fair trade for a roof. Besides, it has been mostly good. I suppose maybe strained at moments would be a good assessment of the bad. I couldn't have accepted this job without their help. That said I'd gladly sleep on a towel in the corner of my very own place.

I move into our West Seattle apartment this weekend. It's not a separate part of the city borrowing it's name sake in an attempt to appear cool; It's in the city proper and stands alone as more of district or burrough. Within two blocks of our modest one-bedroom place are Indian, Chinese, pizza, Italian, and Thai restaurants. Same for a Blockbuster, two banks, coffee, bagels, second run theater, two grocery stores, gas station, a florest, and a place to go out for breakfast.

Though I don't have the keys yet, I visited West Seattle yesterday. I parked outside the apartment and wandered around. Window shopping down California Ave. for a few blocks before catching a flic, eating some za, and wrapping it all up with a grocery run to the fancy, high priced market. For five hours I pretended that I lived there and wandered around with a sense of neighborhood ownership and belonging. It felt good.

Three weeks till my wife flies in with our dog. Now that there is an end date it's almost harder to get through each day. I've busied myself with TV, books, and lots of sleep (naps and otherwise) avoiding the 'missing her' feelings. Even though things will still be upside down till our Chicago place sells, we move all of our stuff west, and purchase a new condo, there is one giant step toward normalcy about to happen; I'll soon be sharing my comfortable morning meals with my lady.

Close Call

My new job is going well. The hours are long but it turns out I like working. I'm arriving an hour and a half earlier to work than at Sony and I leave anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours later. That said, it's not work.

Sure I have tasks, deadlines, and am challenged every day. None of it seems a chore. Only two months in, I received a glowing review. Not only was I a good guy, as my boss was prone to point out often, I exceeded his expectations for the position and was performing at a level which he expected at the six month mark. All of this was made so much sweeter since I was not laid off from my previous employer this last Thursday, as so many of my friends were.

My old boss didn't replace me when I left. So I'll never know if I would have actually been cut. Considering every single person in the marketing department I designed merchandising materials for was relieved of their jobs, I'm fairly confident my old position was not relevant considering the state of the dying music industry. It's unsettling getting a jolt of happiness from avoiding the cuts while watching so many of my friends cut loose, but having gotten out only two months ago, well ... I can't help but smile.

Fortunately everyone I was really good friends with at Sony were sparred. Are they the lucky ones? I've asked this question every time we've had lay-offs at Sony (once a year, for fourteen years, except the year they announced the big merger which resulted in a forty percent cut of the workforce the following year.) I know I was wishing to be laid off while at Sony. I know financially it would have been the best situation to receive a severance package especially considering the packages are based on tenure. My decision to go west has been proved to be a good one considering. Even if it wasn't for how much I love the job. Right decision. Even if I didn't love the weather (hitting high fifties while Chicago suffers through minus eighteen without considering windchill.) Right decision. Even leaving all of my incredible friends behind. Right decision.

That last one is a stretch. I certainly miss all of my friends. I can always return to Chicago if this place ends up not suiting us. If the job doesn't work out. If I miss my friends. Doing it on my terms is the most important part of the equation. So far so good.

Breaking the Ice

Four months have passed since I've been writing here. While there have been a few posts in that time (nine if you count the two "I'm too busy to post" posts,) the steady stream of finger chatter has been essentially silenced.

I explained what a busy few months I've had to a friend on email today. I typed out a string of changes and adventures I've undertaken in the last 4 months and realized that every single change fell into exactly one month.

A move across the country when you've lived in the same place for thirty-seven years would have been enough. A new wife - enough. A nine-thousand mile trip to Japan - enough. Quitting a job you've had for fourteen years - you get the picture. Having encountered a life change cocktail like that, I'm surprised I remember to put on pants.

It's not the rain that has me down. It's the two-thousand miles separating my friends and I. In a month from now the lady will be out here sharing a roof once more after three long months of extraordinarily phone bills. Unless all of you plan to move two-thousand miles west, I've a reason to be down.

The longer you stay away from something, the harder and more awkward it is to come back to. Every day I didn't post I wondered how I would start back up. I've a dozen unfinished posts and I'm not sure they're even relevant any longer. I can write new posts in Seattle but I made so many back in Chicago.

I can make new friends in Seattle but I have so many back in Chicago.

How Much Blog Could a Blog Post Post if a Blog Post Could Post Blog?

What's that sound? It's the sound of a million bloggers posting their satisfaction at the election of Senator Obama. This is one of those posts.

In federal facilities it is customary to display the image of the president. I've always found it an odd practice until tonight. Tonight I would gladly display a photo of our new president elect. Tonight I am encouraged by the decision the country has made. Tonight, for once, I am inclined to believe in hope.

Finally Sinking In

In case you haven't heard, October was a doosey. Since my last post, five weeks ago on this wonder of cyberspace called Blogger, I've gotten married, travelled to Japan, quit my current job of fourteen years, and accepted a new job that requires a 2000 plus mile move west to Seattle leaving my new wife behind to sell the condo.

Since returning home from Japan, I've been a scheduling fool. If you are in this state, you've probably heard from me about getting togehter 'One last time.' While a small handful of friends couldn't be squeezed in, I did manage to work up a hectic schedule that saw me attending eleven lunches, twelve dinners, one family going away party, and a breakfast in two weeks. This left me little time to fix up the place for sale or consider what to pack.

Sounds like I'm complaining or that I prefer house work over friends. With the staggering amount of good news in October, I'm just trying to keep a level head and see the potential good alongside the potential bad (as part of my Velvet Murphy approach to life.) So when a friend talks about how awesome the new gig will be, I mention the political quality surrounding the creation of this position. When someone tells me Seattle is awesome, I mention that I'm leaving thirty-seven years of relationships and experiences behind.

Johnny D. is the kind of man guys aspire to be; Easy going, intelligent, funny, and willing to accept a man crush from me. He credits me with saving his kid from certain parking lot death even though I was simply part of the search team, not the hero. John is also part of my poker crew made up of current and ex music industry fellas. We've met at my place a dozen times in the last couple years to experience a constant ebb and flow of nickels and dimes while chatting away like school girls.

At the last poker night ever, this last Friday, John exercised one of his other admirable qualities: Honesty. During our extended goodbyes in the parking lot around one am, there was a lull. John said "Moving is something you're supposed to do when you're twenty. I figured, at our age, we're all here. We're settled. And we'd be growing old and playing poker together." While I'm most certainly paraphrasing, the gist of that statement resonates with me. It struck to the core of my hesitation.

I'm not dying and I'll be back as much as humanly / financially possible. But there is no kidding myself. Relationships will fizzle, become awkward, and perhaps die. I've thrown myself into this situation not fully comprehending the full extent of the consequences. The thought of a single relationship perishing has me second guessing this entire thing.

Like a child who won't look at you when you leave, as if gone unseen you've never left, I'm finding it hard to finish typing this post. If I wrap it up, and make my final poignant point I may crumble teary eyed on the bed. So let's just say, to all of you that I'm troubling with a two-thousand mile gap, you will be missed and the rumored fizzly, awkward, death of our friendship has been greatly exaggerated.

Too Swamped to Post Again

... Busy flying out for last minute interview.

Theraputic Coffee

The lady is in Minneapolis because I was supposed to play poker last night. I use the word poker loosely; We also play baseball, screw your neighbor, and have even played war for money. I also use the word money loosely. Last time I ended the night up over twenty dollars which, considering we play for nickels and dimes, means I had a stellar night. It's hard to get my six music industry guy friends on the same to organize a game, so when I had four on board I wrote the date in my calendar. Mere hours before I was to steal their money with my mad skills, I received three cancellations.

The lady sits in her room whenever I host poker night and is generally a good sport about not disrupting the guy talk with frequent visits. Needless to say it's boring for her so I always let her know as soon as we've settled on a date. This way she can make plans of her own. Hence the trip to Minny. Sometimes we all need time alone. While chilling with my lady has all the appropriate ingredients to provide a pleasant evening, the scarce "me" time is always a welcome occurrence. With no poker, I was going to get all the "me" time I needed.

For numerous reasons these last few weeks have been a mentally dizzying affair and the anxious, agitated state my brain resides reeks of nervous break down. It's brought on from too much and (strangely) too little going on. The list is long: Wedding plans, honeymoon plans, too much to do at work, no word on Seattle, family deaths, and now a financial blunder of sorts: Due to the poor responses for our wedding (Over forty percent of those invited have sent regrets) we are faced with coming in shy of our contractually defined food and beverage minimum to the tune of over two grand. While we were going to spend this money either way, this two grand is now just going to be handed over to the hotel in return for nothing. This hurts my frugal planning heart. My response to pressure varies. I'll rise to the occasion normally but this weekend I crumbled under the weight of it all. Crumbled as in sat in front of the TV, ate too much, and moped around sans lady. Needing a pick me up, I went to breakfast.

One of my greatest pleasures is this first meal of the day. The delicious food is partly the reason but it's also because breakfast is usually a mellow, un-rushed occurrence where I can regroup and unwind. For this reason even having breakfast alone is a pleasure. Parking at the counter, reading, and sipping coffee for an hour or two settles my soul. The dish washing station was directly in front of me. When my waitress would clean a few plates, the German gentleman next to me would exclaim "Herr Kaffee!" and answer any English to German translations asked of him. A chatty, coffee guzzling lady was to my left. Without my book, I would have suffered accounts of her grandchildren and perhaps worse.

I loose track of how much coffee I've consumed when the refills / top offs occur constantly. Even so, I'm positive I was working on a fifth cup when I gazed into the rising steam for what seemed like minutes. An answer to my anxious melancholy rose with the steam from the coffee and I broke this beverage stare down with a vision of the lady's smiling face.

Death Had a Busy Summer

I'm so swamped I'm mentally tired. Few loose ends remain with the wedding but there are those few. The honeymoon is slightly planned; Loose clippings are strewn about our living room begging to be scoured and edited down to a casual itinerary. 4th quarter releases have kept the large format printers at work buzzing, my interns busy, and my blogging hat ignored. I've applied for the job four weeks ago now, with only one response from HR and no interviews scheduled. Add to the mix a dead aunt and cousin, and it's not hard to imagine my clouded psyche.

My younger cousin Elizabeth lost her battle with health issues derived from years of anorexia and heroin abuse. She was an energetic, always polite girl who possessed stunning beauty even if she never thought so. Anorexia brought on by body-image induced teenage confusion provided me with an awkward moment where I introduced myself as if a stranger. I knew she was coming to lunch. In fact she was the reason for the lunch. But as I said hello to the various relatives numbering in the double digits, I saved her for last, extended my hand and said "Hi, I'm Tom." Eventually she rebounded, filled out, but still looked to the magazine covers for who she should be and what she should look like. This led to breast implants at eighteen, submissions to Playboy, and five year heroin habit that riddled her with health problems such as seizures, the likes of such ultimately ended her time on Earth.

Sue never forgot to tell me about the time I came to her house, was asked how dinner was, and responded "This beef tastes like rubber." I'm sure it did, she wasn't known for her cooking. Her husband Ken is a despicable sort that never missed an opportunity to belittle even a budding teenage psyche. It's unfortunately a popular club, but I belong to (along with many of my relatives) the "I Don't Really Care for Ken Club." He's a self made millionaire from peddling copy machines coupled with a victorious lawsuit against Xerox that netted him some ungodly amount of dough. His offspring was not invited to the wedding as they are a cackling, self-absorbed duo. Heather, the oldest, shares a profession with yours truly. On the rare occasion she visits you'll be subjected to hour long stories about her trials as a design genius and yet not once has she even acknowledged we share a similar traits. Somehow, amidst all this ugly, Sue was a good egg. Maybe not a bright, shiny light of good egg, but certainly one of the good ones.

Sue had smoked almost her entire life. Watching her mom and dad perish from cigarette induced cancer wasn't enough incentive to quit. For two years now she has been bed ridden and required to sit up in bed so her lungs wouldn't fill with liquid. I haven't spoken to her in quite a while, and it was no surprise to receive a regret to our wedding invite. I sent seventy-five dollars of white daisies and yellow roses to her memorial and can't shake the image of her face or the fact that I never said goodbye.

I've had second thoughts about moving away. While I haven't been offered the job, I still consider it wise to mentally prepare and accept such a huge change as a possibility. If I move away it might not be forever but what's going to bring me back? The need to be around my loved ones, or my attendance at their funeral?