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Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

A Story For Christmas, 2017

Posted by kozemp on December 27, 2017

In the last week I’ve been asked why I am a Devils fan and why I am a Chelsea fan.

The answer to why I’m a Devils fan is pretty boring. I didn’t pay attention to hockey until I lived in New Jersey, and the person I started watching hockey with was a Devils fan. And here we are. As stories go it’s not exactly Jane Eyre.

The answer to why I’m a Chelsea fan is (I hope) a little more interesting.

When I first started watching soccer I spent a lot of time researching… well, researching everything. The different teams, the leagues, and eventually where you could go to watch games. This was 2004, mind, a long time before this insane golden age when the game is on anywhere and everywhere all the time. Back then short of maybe one game a week you might get on your local cable operator, if you wanted to watch soccer you had to go to a bar to do it.

And, again, not just any bar like you can now. As I recall, when I started my research on where I could go to watch games on a predictable basis, there were three places in the entire city of Philadelphia where you could do it. Two of them were right in the heart of Center City, and one was this place out in Olde City, right on the edge of Queen Village, that I’d never heard of. “The Dark Horse Pub.”

I spent a good long while trying to determine where to go and eventually decided that this Dark Horse place would probably be easiest and cheapest to park at.

I walked into this bar on a Monday afternoon and watched an absolutely dreadful goalless draw between Charlton and Southampton and before I knew it I was at that bar basically every weekend for almost ten years. I was working there. More or less my entire social life – and at the start I’d been sober for about 5 years – revolved around this soccer bar in Olde City for a decade.

I get that it was a little strange. I got it even at the time.

At the beginning, though, for the longest time I would just go and watch games. I didn’t care who was playing. I knew that I needed to watch more, especially if I wanted to understand what was going on. I started watching soccer – actually really watching it – with the 2004 Olympics and I distinctly recall not knowing why some balls that went over the line were goal kicks and some were corners until sometime in October. I could have googled the rules, I suppose. I’m not sure why I didn’t; for some reason I was determined to learn through osmosis, I suppose. Those days I would just get up and go to the Dark Horse and watch.

I learned quickly enough that some things were “bigger” than others. One of the last games I remember watching as a pure neutral was Manchester United v. Arsenal in October of 2004, which would have been Arsenal’s 50th game in a row without a loss but for some unfortunate events involving Wayne Rooney with Sol Campbell, and Ruud van Nistelrooy with Ashley Cole.

I didn’t care who was playing – at the time I barely KNEW who was playing – but I remember that day, sitting along the rail in the old Rigger Bar next to two Newcastle fans, with astonishing clarity.

I wasn’t a neutral for too long after that. I can’t recall exactly when, but an indeterminate number of weeks later – not too many – I was sitting in the main bar when some guy walked up to me.

“I see you here all the time, man, who’s your team?” he asked.

I said, “I don’t really have one. I just like watching. I’m kinda new.”

This random guy sort of looked just over the top of my head – he was and still is several inches taller than me – tilted his head to the side a bit and shrugged slightly, a gesture I have seen uncounted thousands of times since.

“Well, hey, man,” he said, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate a large group at the front of the bar. “Come hang out with us.”

Now understand: the time when I first started watching soccer was the absolute nadir of my existence. I was more miserable and unhappy and antisocial then than I have ever been at any point in my life. Not by choice, mind, just sort of by default. I’d learn eventually (really eventually, in some cases) that all of those things were fixable, but back then? On that day, in that month, in that year, in that place? The odds that I agree to the suggestion that I go hang out with a bunch of strangers are about 3,720 to 1.

I have replayed this situation in my head many, many times over the years, and the conclusion I keep coming to is this: I do not, for the life of me, understand why I said, “sure, okay,” and walked over to talk to those people. I have tried many times to figure out why but in addition to the mists of time – which grow ever mistier as the time gets farther and farther back – there’s some sort of weird mental block that is obscuring my thoughts at the time.

That day I went over to the front of the bar with this weird random guy to meet a bunch of random strangers – aka the ninth circle of social anxiety hell – and I’m fairly certain that I was a Chelsea fan by the time I left a few hours later. In the thirteen years since I have traveled with those people. I’ve been to Chelsea games all over the country with them. I’ve been to Chelsea games in other countries with them. I’ve been to their weddings. We have our own little Christmas party every year. I’ve been to their FAMILIES’ Christmas parties. I’ve spent thousands of hours over the years watching soccer games with them, and thousands of hours more not watching games, just hanging out.

I’ve been to their funerals.

And I have no idea why I started with them. For all of it, all these good and bad things that have happened to me over the years because I said “yes” and walked over and started talking with that group at the front of the bar, I cannot tell you what should be a simple thing: I can’t tell you why. And I need to know why. I don’t mean in this specific case – almost everything I do, every driving impulse I have, is because at the end of the day, I need to understand “WHY?”

I’m not claiming divine providence or anything specifically unnatural acted on me that day, but…


What we do matters, yes. I can’t imagine any reasonable argument against that, but more and more I am convinced that the reasons why we do those things matters just as much. Maybe more. Intent matters. Context matters. Symbolism or meaining or whatever you want to call it matters. Our lives may be the sum of the things we do but intent and context and symbolism and meaning make up the sum of what we ARE, and I am content to say that what we are is just as critical to being humans as what we do.

Yoda teaches us that “luminous beings are we,” which means that there’s no outward or physical manifestation of the most important parts of us. I tend to think Yoda is right about pretty much everything, but in this case I’m as sure about it as I am about anything, because if Yoda is wrong then Thomas Hobbes is right and our existence is nothing but a series of transactions from cradle to grave, a zero-sum game where no one ever adds anything to the world. And speaking in my capacity as the best poker player you know* I am here to tell you that is not what life is. It absolutely positively is not. I am more sure of this than I am of anything in this world. I have seen and heard and been a part of too many things the rational part of my brain cannot explain, too many extraordinary, inexplicable, magical things for that to be true. I have seen lives changed – forever, irreversibly, profoundly changed – by a few words or a simple gesture.

My life was forever changed for the better by five words in a bar and I guarantee that without them there is zero chance I’m here today sending out this silly little Christmas email for the 10th time or whatever it is. A life for five words.

We can change lives. The lives we change can change others. At the end of the day when the chips are counted, we can all be ahead. That’s the sort of power we have, all of us, and if comic books have taught me anything it’s that power needs to be wielded wisely, and “wielded wisely” is just another way of saying that intent matters. That symbolism matters. That “WHY?” matters. Our existence deforms the universe, like the lady in the comic book said, and THAT is responsibility.

So be good, for goodness’ sake.

Merry Christmas, all.


* Unless one of you knows Daniel Negreanu.


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None of this has happened yet.

Posted by kozemp on September 14, 2017

I remember a night, many years ago, when Nick and I were at the Cherry Hill Diner.

I can’t imagine what we were doing there of all places – the only thing I can think of is that we must have been at the Loews for a movie, but even that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. I want to say this was somewhere around 2008, give or take a year or so either way. I think Reg was in Arkansas, but when Nick and I were out late while she was gone we were usually much farther away than that.

When I wasn’t bitching about women or cards, we usually talked about soccer. It was different back then, before the sport seemingly was everywhere overnight; it was still an oddity you shared with your friends behind other people’s backs, like a secret society. Your main source of information back then, ironically enough, was a video game: FIFA taught me more about who was where in soccer more than years of staring myself blind at the BBC website ever did.

In my experience, a lot of the soccer fans I know have little satellite teams. You have your main side, the team you watch every week – or as much as your schedule allows, as we get older – but there are a couple you keep your eyes on, checking out the scores or the news to see what’s going on.This, also, comes as much from FIFA as anything. I support a fourth-division side in England called Cheltenham Town because when I first started playing the game you had to start your career with a lower-league team and work your way up, and I saw the list of possibilities and said “there’s a Cheltenham here, let’s go with them.” I’ve known Arsenal fans who also loved Real Betis in Spain and Chelsea supporters who are die-hard Napoli fans. There’s more than enough to go around; you could have a team in every league if you wanted.

I’ve tried to explain this to traditional American sports fans and, again in my experience, they usually seem to recoil in horror at the idea. It does not help that eventually I will get frustrated and try to explain why it’s okay with the phrase “Liet serves two masters,” which apparently has far less cultural penetration that soccer ever did.

That night at the Cherry Hill Diner, after we ate we were standing in the parking lot talking about the upcoming season, and who we’d like to see in the Champions League – this was, as I recall, a digression from a conversation about the European sporting concept of “fairness,” sarcasm quotes intended – and how both of us would like to see the competition widened rather than concentrated among the top teams.

“You know who I want to see in the group stages?” Nick said.

I said, half-joking, “Sheriff Tiraspol!”

Nick said, “yes!” and laughed.

Sheriff Tiraspol is a soccer team in Moldova that was founded by a police officer in the late 90s. Their team crest is literally a sheriff’s badge. I knew all of this from a combination of seeing them in FIFA and scouring Wikipedia during my downtime. I was enamored of this team from a city of 129,000 in Moldova – smaller than Cedar Rapids and four thousand miles farther away – because I had run into them a couple times in a video game, and their name was “Sheriff,” and I’d learned that they had a solid black away kit. I like solid black soccer kits, to a point that I once even looked at a black Liverpool shirt with something less than scowling distaste. I look good in black, after all.

Nick and I expressed as much to each other, though he wasn’t into the black away kit like I was. To date Sheriff still hasn’t made the group stage proper of the Champions League, though they’ve done well in some qualifiers and usually make a little noise in the Europa League every year.

Looking at LiveSoccerTV this morning I saw that their Europa League game against Fastav Zlin (a team from a Czech town of 75,000) was on one of the streaming services, and I could get a free trial and watch the game.

Ten years ago the odds of sometehing like this being televised anywhere in this country were almost zero. Jack Keane at Nevada Smith’s in New York might somehow be able to work his satellite magic and get it on a single TV or a laptop somewhere, but that was it, and if you got that there’s a good chance the picture quality would be so bad you wouldn’t be able to tell one side from the other. Whole teams and whole leagues were basically imaginary things that lived only on Wikipedia pages and video games and club websites in foreign languages. They almost weren’t real.

But now a team from Moldova is playing a team in the Czech Republic, on my big screen TV in my own living room in my own house, in high definition. The picture is so good I can see individual raindrops falling. I’m sitting here now, ten years or so later, actually watching Sheriff Tiraspol play for the first time.

They’re even wearing their black kit.

Before the show got ahead of the books, I used to joke with Game of Thrones fans who only watched the show that I could tell them what was going to happen and they wouldn’t believe me. I think it would be even more amusing to go back to that parking lot in the middle of the night a decade ago and tell ten-years-ago Me and ten-years-ago Nick what was going to happen.

I want to see the looks on their faces when I tell them I’m sitting here in the house I took on from my parents, with a random European soccer game on in the background and clear as day while I work remotely at a job I couldn’t have even imagined existed ten years ago, and Nick is watching his three year old son and two week old daughter in a house where my father played cards with his father-in-law when they were teenagers.

I want to tell them that even though on this particular day it’s just a soccer game on TV, and even though there’s a whole lot of terrible shit going on everywhere around them, living in the future is pretty fucking amazing.

Also, right before I pop back to the future, I’ll tell them Jon Snow dies and comes back to life.


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Dad, they come in through the doors.

Posted by kozemp on June 16, 2017

I’ve been having trouble getting out of bed lately.

Not trouble sleeping, mind. I’ve never been good in the mornings, but for at least the last god knows how many years that’s been mostly because I was never really sleeping. Since the nice doctors gave me the kickass CPAP machine at the end of last year, oh baby have I been sleeping.

But the last few months I’ve been having the damnedest time in the morning when I wake up. Before, my trouble in the morning was that I was always moving through quicksand. I’d get out of bed at 530 and I wouldn’t really even be awake until almost an hour later. That’s what happens when you haven’t slept for more than 8 or 10 minutes at a time in years.

That isn’t what’s happening now, though.

Now my alarm goes off at 530 – the opening song from La La Land – I wake up and turn it off, and then I just lay there. I’m not asleep, really. It’s not “oh, I’ll hit snooze and stay here for ten more minutes.” I don’t set a snooze on my morning alarm anymore. I turn it off and I just lay in bed awake. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes for almost an hour. It’s not that I’m still asleep. It’s not that I want to go back to sleep. It’s not that my back hurts too much to get out of bed.

I just lie there, awake, not wanting to get up. I lie there until the thought of getting showered and dressed and making breakfast in time to leave for work would mean rushing more than I want to in the morning, and that’s the thing that jolts me out of bed. Having a leisurely morning is why I started getting up that early in the first place, and on days when I have to go to work it’s basically the only thing that gets me out of bed.

On weekends, when I need to be somewhere in the morning I’ll lie there until the last possible second before I’ll be late to wherever I’m going.

On weekend days when I don’t have to be anywhere…

On days like that I will stay in bed until I have to go to the bathroom so badly I can’t take it anymore.

The third or fourth time that happened I started to realize I had a problem.


Almost a year ago – in actual fact very close to exactly a year ago – we got the news that my father was sick. Really sick. Stage III peripheral T-Cell lymphoma.

That is one of those moments you wish you could say “I don’t remember much from those days.” I remember exactly which empty office I sat in at work to talk to my mother. I remember sitting there at the unused desk with my head in my hands for almost a half an hour, wondering what to do. I called Regina. I talked to my boss. I booked a ticket to Florida on the first flight I could afford. Then Florida in June – seven hells, Florida in June. The hospital. Back and forth the 24 miles from my parents’ to the hospital, sitting with my dad in shifts. Watching the Bridgestone and the Euros with my dad while my mom slept at home. Talking about treatment and prognosis with my father’s doctor, who annoyingly insisted on being called “Tim.” Exaggeratingly pronouncing “TIM” like John Cleese as soon as he left the room.

One night back at the house, laying out for my mother, talking nonstop for almost an hour in the coldest monotone I have ever managed, my detailed analysis of what an absolute failure I’d been as a son and a person. The feeling, when I left several days later, that I was inhuman for going back home and leaving them on their own.

I remember that week with perfect, excruciating clarity.

After that week came six months of treatment, which was somehow worse. I don’t want to go into too much direct technical detail here – I lived it for months and don’t want to spend so much as five seconds reliving it again – but basically the way we treat cancer, the way we stop this thing from killing you, is to do everything BUT kill you. The idea of the chemotherapy regimens is to get you as close to death as you can tolerate, and I don’t mean tolerate the way you gimp around on a sore ankle for a few weeks until you can see the orthopedist. I mean tolerate as in “not actually die.”  Once they find that level, they hit you with it over and over and over again. Then, for my father at least, at the end they perform a stem cell transplant, basically a complete teardown and rebuild of your immune system, a remarkable procedure with truly horrific side effects which in my dad’s case involved weeks living in a clean room and being ACTUALLY dead for a few seconds.

For six months there was this thing there, hanging over me, that no matter how much good news we got from doctors, no matter how well my father handled the chemo (which turned out to be very well), for six straight months I spent every second convinced that my father was going to die at any moment. Not just any moment, in the next moment. Every second of every day, waiting for the axe to fall.

It was not a good way to live. It wasn’t even the only one; over those six months I came up with any number of very innovative ways to live that were not good.

People were telling me from the start, “take care of yourself.” Tons of people reached out to me with offers of help, and good wishes, and the outpouring of support blew my mind more than a little, but people kept saying that to me and I really didn’t know what to make of it. “Take care of myself.” Of course I’m going to take care of myself. How can I not take care of myself?

Turns out, not taking care of yourself is a lot easier than you’d believe. Step 1: spend all your time worrying about someone else. Step 2: don’t do anything else. I’m not sure what happens after that for anyone else, but for me it involved losing a night of my life.

I’ve talked occasionally about the very few times I’ve straight-up hallucinated – brought on by my purposeful and idiotic choices to stay awake for days at a stretch – and how the real problem with, say, seeing trees in the middle of Roosevelt Boulevard is not “oh my, there’s a tree in the middle of the road that wasn’t there before,” but instead “there’s a tree in the middle of the road and I KNOW there isn’t a tree in the middle of the road so OH MAN MY BRAIN ISN’T WORKING RIGHT.” The problem isn’t bad input. The problem is the epistemological fear reaction it produces.

The very bottom of me ignoring the advice I got to take care of myself came on a Friday night in October, when I got home from work and stepped out of my car, and the next thing I knew after that I was lying in bed, in the middle of the night, in different clothes than I had worn to work that day. I had no memory of the previous six hours, but at some point I had, at the very least, changed clothes and gone to bed.

I made some very quick checks – I hadn’t blackout-dialed any of my exes. My car was still where I parked it. My bag was where I leave it when I walk in the door. I hadn’t done anything crazy. Near as I could figure, it appeared that once I had gotten home the conscious part of my brain simply shut down entirely.

The fact that I had managed to get myself inside, and changed and – damp towel, taken a goddamn shower! – and put myself to bed without any sort of higher brain functioning, all of that worried me less than the fact that it had happened in the first place. Just like that first drive back from New York in the middle of the night when I saw trees in the middle of the Boulevard, my reaction was not “oh my god I can’t remember the last six hours.” It was “how did I get myself to a place where it was possible for me to black out for six hours?”

Even at the time the answer was fairly obvious. I had been living on a ragged emotional edge for months at that point, and was now apparently doing considerable physical harm to myself as well, but what was I supposed to do? My father was sick. As far as I was concerned my father was going to die in the next five seconds. It wasn’t something that could be ignored. You might as well ask someone to ignore air, or the sun.

The part of my brain that still works through situations like this, that always seems to find some sliver to function rationally even when things have gone completely pear-shaped, reasoned that if I started blacking out regularly, or got myself sick or messed up, I wouldn’t be able to help my parents. That was what finally motivated me to actually make an effort to do what people had been telling me from the start and take care of myself through all this. That was what got me going. Not listening to those friends, or any sort of instinct for self-preservation. Just pure guilt. Straight up, end of Last Crusade, you can’t save him when you’re dead, guilt.

So I called some of the friends whose advice I had been ignoring, expressed my alarm that, Fox Mulder-style, I had lost time, and asked for help. My friends, being far better than I deserved, gave it and then some. I didn’t make any sort of real move to be actively healthy in any way – not then, at least – but I did start taking rudimentary precautions to make sure I didn’t black out again.

And then… not to make a long story too short, but: my dad got better. He tolerated the chemotherapy and his test results were positive. I went down to Florida a bunch more times. We did Hospital Thanksgiving the day after he was admitted to the transplant unit. We managed to have Christmas at their house when he demanded to be discharged from the transplant unit the first day it was humanly possible for him to leave. (He was in there a shade over three weeks.) Then, in January, we got word that his scans came back clean. There was no detectable cancer.

It was early yet, but by all indications the treatments had worked. My dad was fine.

The thing no one tells you, and I’m not sure if they don’t tell you because it only happened to me or because it’s too awful to talk about, is that the news that my dad was fine made things infinitely, almost indescribably worse.

I had spent more or less every second of the previous six months worrying about my father, but in an “is he okay RIGHT NOW” sense, and not in an “is he going to be okay in the indeterminate future” sense. That second thing was there, yes. In some way it was always there, but it was always a teeny tiny little process lurking in the background. 1 percent, 2 tops, and you’re not going to pay attention to that itty bitty thing when CANCER.EXE is up there at the top of the list crushing your CPU for every scrap of spare resources it can find.

My parents were young when they had me. I objectively know how young but it’s hard for me to understand, to really grasp just how young. I’m going to turn 40 later this year. When my father turned 40 I was finishing my FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL. The thought of having a kid that old is legitimately terrifying to me, let alone having TWO like my parents did. They both just turned 65 and aside from the occasional minor health scare – there were a few years there when I was a teenager when we thought my dad had prostate cancer, thank you useless PSA testing, but it never turned into anything so it was never real for me – my parents have been basically chugging along nicely my entire life.

Stage III lymphoma, though, that’s a big flashing neon sign the size of Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas that says, “hey, guess what, Sparky? Your father is mortal and you might want to get used to the idea.” The trouble was that while he was actually sick I was so entirely consumed by the “is he okay right now” question that the notion of my father’s mortality had never crossed my mind.

I’ve lost people over the years. I’ve lost a lot of people. The part of me that is a bad card player – a very small part, admittedly – sometimes likes to think that I’ve lost more than my fair share of people. The rest of me, the vast majority that is a good card player, that part remembers an old man in a robe telling me there’s no such thing as luck and a cute goth girl with an ankh necklace reminding me that I get what anybody gets. And that’s… in a weird way, that’s okay? We all lose people, and you go through it, and it’s awful and sad, and eventually you come out on the other side.

None of those people are my parents, though. None of them are my father. I tried to think about the possibility of my father actually dying and I just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t there; I couldn’t conceive of a world where that had happened. I’ve spent a lot of my life living in the future, in a future that was admittedly almost always incorrect but no less vivid for that, but no matter how hard I tried, and I tried very hard, I couldn’t see that particular future.

I’ve said before, here and other places, that I am loathe to assign meaning to things I cannot accurately describe, but this is one of those things that if I were pressed to say how it’s different I wouldn’t be able to come up with anything more than “it just is.”

So for six months I had sublimated – or, possibly more accurately, outright ignored – this giant reminder of my father’s mortality. (My mother’s as well, of course, but if there’s anything in heredity my mother will live well into her two thousands.)

And then came the news that my father was well. He was not going to die.

He was not going to die RIGHT NOW.

It was at this point that six months of not confronting my father’s mortality hit me all at once, and the force of it dislodged this thing inside me like an iceberg breaking off from the polar ice cap, and my entire brain was suddenly consumed by pure, atavistic terror.

Much like the feeling of worry that consumed me when my dad was sick, I’ve been experiencing that terror almost every waking moment since I got the phone call in January that he was fine.

You know what I hate more than anything in the world right now? My phone. Jesus puppyfucking Christ, how I hate my phone.

I had my first phone-related panic attack when my mother called a few weeks after we got the good news. My phone rang – the fanfare from the Indiana Jones theme – I saw “Mom” at the top of the screen, and the entire 68-piece panic attack orchestra broke into the opening bars of the 1812 Overture.

This was it. This was the call. The scans were wrong. The doctors fucked it up. The cancer is back. The cancer never left.

My mother was calling to tell me my father was dying again.

Now, of course, my mother was actually calling to tell me that my sister would be leaving their place soon and heading back up here, and she was sending some stuff for me with her, and when she came by to drop it off would I mind giving her the old vacuum cleaner?

I am reasonably sure my mom didn’t know that for the first 30 seconds of our conversation I was a hairsbreadth away from needing to be hospitalized. I think I covered it up pretty well.

My mother and I don’t talk on the phone all that often. She took to technology with much more ease than a lot of people her age so most of our communication is digital. She texts me about Doctor Who. She emails me stories about new attractions at Disney World and questions about whether or not she should upgrade her iMac. (The apple, and indeed the Apple, doesn’t fall far from the tree.) Honest to goodness voice calls, though, they’re pretty rare.

It’s a good thing they’re rare, because this panic attack happens every time she calls now.

Every time my phone rings and I see “Mom” at the top I get that feeling, that pressure in my chest, the world spinning around my head, that inability to catch a breath once I answer. Now, months later, it’s over almost before I know it, it’s over as soon as I hear that impossibly cheery “Hell-LO!” she always starts phone calls with, but even still, imagine that: even for a second, not being able to breathe when your mother calls.

This insane, impossible little box that connects me to the rest of the world has become this thing that I hate. I hate having it on me, I hate carrying it around, I hate needing it, because every time the fanfare from Raiders plays and I see “Mom” I am convinced that this time is it, this is the one I’ve been dreading, my father is sick again and the giant mass of atavistic terror is sharpened down to a dagger that gets driven into my chest.

One time she called me a few months ago I just sat there for a little bit, staring at my phone, wondering if this was the ballgame. Am I always going to panic when my mother calls? Am I ever going to be able to actually talk to her on the phone without feeling like I’m dying?

Am I going to spend the rest of my life terrified that this is the call telling me the world is ending?

The part of my brain that always functions rationally no matter what quietly said, “no, not for the rest of your life. Just for the rest of HIS.”

I put my elbows on the table and my head in my hands the same way I did that day last June when she called and said aloud to my empty dining room, “that’s not helpful.”


My dad and I were never really shy about communicating – well, not about talking at least, actual COMMUNICATING may be another story – but we talk a lot more now than we ever did. When my father was sick I made it a point to talk to him every day, even if it was just a text message to see how he was feeling. (The answer was usually “crappy.”) I still try to touch base every day, although most days if nothing else we end up texting the weather where we are to each other, as though the cursed smartphones we’re texting through don’t also tell us the weather where the other is.

So we talk about weather. We live-text each other the golf. We argue about movies. I text him the puns from the opening credits of Bob’s Burgers every week. He texts me what he did in physical therapy that day and how good he feels. We argue about their itinerary for when they drive north for the summer in a few weeks.

If I think about all of it too much it still feels just as bad, but it doesn’t feel as bad for as long, and I take my small victories where I can find them.

I woke up this morning and went down to the kitchen to make my breakfast. As I was getting ready to toss the butter for my egg in the pan, in my dreary pre-coffee shuffle I slowly noticed that I smelled gas, which should not happen. I realized, even through my stupor, that I never heard the click-click-click of the igniter on the burner.

I looked down: no flames.

I looked at the control panel for the range: no clock.

I muttered, “shit,” and was instantly, completely awake.

A minute later as I was sitting at my computer googling my electrician’s number I texted my mother “no power in oven. Weird. Calling the guy.” My parents are in Disney World, which I knew was the only thing on earth that would get my mother out of bed before 8AM.

Before I could finish finding the number my mother texted me “hang on.”

I saw that and thought “NO DON’T – !”

My phone rang.

Indiana Jones theme. “Mom.”

I gripped the edge of the dining room table so hard my nails would have snapped off, if I had any.

As my mother started talking about the GFCI and testing the outlet behind the dish rack, that rational part of my brain quietly slid up next to me and said, “it’s time we fixed this.”

I pushed the tiny red button on the outlet.


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If I am going to spend eternity visiting this moment and that, I’m grateful that so many of those moments are nice.

Posted by kozemp on March 22, 2017

It’s three Sunday mornings ago and I’m crawling out of bed at 930 when I see the missed call. I don’t recognize the number. But there’s a voicemail, so probably not a robo-call.

The voicemail is from Steph, my buddy Dan’s wife. It’s short, a simple “hey, call me back” sort of thing.

As soon as I hear that I start to get an unpleasant feeling in my head that is the closest thing I have to a spidey-sense.

I think, why would Steph be calling me at 8 on a Sunday morning? Man, this can’t be good news.

Once I get fully woken up and have some coffee I call her back.

It isn’t good news.

It’s three years ago and I’m on a train with Tom, one of the New York Blues, and Dan. It’s late on a Saturday night and we’re heading back from a Devils game on my birthday. It’s been a pretty great night. We had some decent food before the game, had great seats down in the tenth row on the shoots-twice side, and the Devils shut out the Sabres.

It’s the second year in a row the three of us have gone to Devils-Sabres at the Rock, and I am regaling Tom with the story of the first time Dan and I went to a Devils game in Newark together. Through some kind of bizarre set of circumstances, the game ran long and went into overtime and Dan calculated that he wouldn’t get back in time for the last train to Delaware, so he ended up calling an aunt or something who lived nearby and crashing at her place, then taking the train home in the morning when I could pick him up in Holmesburg.

It was as unclear then as it is now why he couldn’t take the train all the way home the next morning – or ask to crash on my couch – but that’s what ended up happening.

I point out that at the time, when I picked him up at Holmesburg, his exact words as he got in the car were “thanks for showing up,” as though there were any chance I would have left him hanging.

Dan is looking at his phone and says, “Paul Walker died.”

I snort, “what, did he drive a Lamborghini into a fucking pole or something?” I have never seen a Fast and Furious movie and my knowledge of them consists of a) Paul Walker is in them, and b) they involve lots of car stuff.

Dan says, “uhm. Yeah.”

Tom and I, more or less in unison, both say, “whaaaaaaaaaat?”

Dan hands me his phone and I read about the unfortunate death of Paul Walker.

Dan says, “he lived his life a quarter mile at a time.”

Tom and I both give him blank stares.

Dan says, “neither of you have seen these movies? Come on. They’re great.”

I say, “they are not.” I will not know I am wrong for another year, but Dan meets my ignorance with equanimity.

“Don’t know what you’re missing, man,” he says. He starts tapping on his phone. “Give me a second, I need to send some jokes to Matt.” His brother.

“Yeah. ‘Paul Walker, cause of death, excessive irony,’” I say. “You can have that one.”

“On green, he went for it,” Dan says.

A year later I will get that joke.

It’s last Wednesday night and I am out to dinner with some friends. One of them is Tom, from the New York Blues. The other is an old friend from the Dark Horse (god rest her) who is one of only three Aston Villa fans I’ve ever met, who for purposes of identification is unfortunately also named Tom.

Chelsea Tom is talking about his upcoming trip to England with the New York Blues, and we’re joking about who he might end up having to share a room with. Thinking back on some of my own travels with those folks, I say: “here’s an awful thought, I realized yesterday that Munich was five years ago. Five years, Jesus.”

Villa Tom says, “that was a pretty good week for you guys.”

We laugh. “It was. Best week of my life,” I say. “Good company.” I laugh again. “For most of it, at least.”

Chelsea Tom gives me a look.

I say, “did I never tell you the story of how I actually watched the game?” He shakes his head.

It’s three years ago and Tim and I are at Dan and Steph’s wedding. We are at a table with a bunch of folks whose names I either don’t catch or don’t remember – I’m terrible with names – who are friends of Dan’s from college.

At one point Dan and Steph come over to our table and we are admiring his wedding ring which – I want to stress this part – looks an awful lot like it’s made of obsidian.

“Hey,” I say. “Is your wedding ring made of dragon glass?”

“Yes, John, it is,” he says. “My wedding ring can kill the White Walkers.”

I say, “that would actually be pretty rad. I once knew a guy who convinced his fiancee that their wedding rings should be the One Ring.”

One of the many not-single women my age at the table says, “oh, that sounds nice.”

I reply, “I can assure you it is not. For starters, the One Ring is, you know, evil. His cruelty and malice, and all that. I mean, Chrissakes, I’m such a goddamn nerd that I can recite the inscription on the ring in English AND the Black Speech of Mordor and -I- wouldn’t want a woman who would agree to the One Ring as a wedding band.”

I am about to roll into the Black Speech version when she says, “you wouldn’t?”

“No,” I say. “I want a woman who agrees to that when I ask for it but when we get to the jeweler says ‘are you out of your fucking mind?’”

Dan and Steph start laughing.

Much, much later that night the wedding afterparty has rolled up to a cheesesteak joint, one of those places that is famous for enormous sandwiches. Everyone is, not quite drunk, but having a good time. I am not at all drunk but I’m still having a good time. At a wedding, no less, even if it is relatively easy to enjoy the part of a wedding that involves getting cheesesteaks at 1130 at night.

Dan walks up to the menu, studies it, and says, “oh, I didn’t know you had small steaks on the dinner menu.”

The girl manning the counter cheerfully says, “yup!”

Dan makes a “huh” noise.

I say, “in fairness, you probably didn’t know because you only learned how to read last week.”

Dan glares at me.

The counter girl looks mortified and says, “you just learned how to read last week?”

I hold my arms up in a Touchdown Jesus pose and shout, loud enough for all of West Chester to hear, “MY VICTORY OVER THE JEDI IS COMPLETE!”

Everybody but Dan starts laughing.

About an hour later I look around frantically, then utter the two most dangerous words in the English language: “where’s Tim?”

Dan laughs at that.

It’s five years ago and me, Tim, and a group of our friends from the New York Blues are in Munich. The day of the game Tim and I are walking around in the neighborhood near the Lowenbrau biergarten in our Chelsea kits. It’s a beautiful day and Munich is an amazing city.

We’re walking down the street and a Turkish gentleman standing in the front door of a small restaurant starts pointing at us and shouting. We stop and stare for a bit, dumbfounded. He continues shouting and motioning at us to come inside.

Tim says, “what the fuck?” I continue to stare in silence, not sure what is happening.

Finally he runs out and grabs Tim by the arm and starts pulling him inside. I am trying to find the phrase “can we help you?” in the makeshift German I have spent the previous five weeks crash coursing, but eventually we just go inside.

The Turkish gentleman, who I believe owns the restaurant – which is sort of the German equivalent of the small diners you see in downtown US cities, as though Midtown III were in Munich instead of Rittenhouse Square – is shouting and wildly gesticulating, pointing back and forth at us and at something on the wall.

This guy is one of literally three people I have met in the entire country who doesn’t speak English, and apparently doesn’t speak German either, in a strange dark restaurant we have been dragged into against our will. This is vacation traveler hell.

Finally he stops shouting and flailing and starts pointing slowly, with authority.

He points at Tim’s Lampard kit.

He points at a blue flag on the wall.

He does this over and over again.

We realize it is an 1860 Munich flag.

Tim says, “oh, you guys are 1860 fans?”

The Turkish gentleman gets an enormous smile, points at Tim’s shirt again, and gives a thumbs up.

We all finally get what’s going on and start laughing.

The Turkish gentleman finally says what are apparently his only words in English: “Fuck Bayern!” And gives Tim a huge bear hug before he starts yammering in Turkish again.

Tim claps him on the shoulder and says “carefree, man!” and we head back out into the Munich sunshine.

More than almost anyplace in the world I have been, I want to find that restaurant again.

It’s three Sundays ago and I start making phone calls. By some strange coincidence a lot of our guys are on vacation, and it’s early on Sunday morning, so I’m leaving voice mails everywhere:

“Call me back. It’s important.”

About an hour after I left the message, Tim calls me back. He was in Pittsburgh with some of our friends from New York.

“What’s up?” he says.

“Hey man,” I say. “Are you driving? Is Mike with you?”

“No,” he says. “Mike went with Danny and Eugene, they’re in their car. I’m on the turnpike.”

I think, shit. I don’t want to do this while he’s driving.

I say, “listen, man, maybe stop driving and call me back.”

Tim pauses for a bit and then says, “yeah, okay.”

After he calls me back a few minutes later and I give him the news, he says, “as soon as you said to pull over I was thinking, ‘shit, man, this is bad news.’”

I say, “sorry, man. I didn’t want you to read about it on Facebook.”

“Right on, man, it’s just…” He stops again. “Man, this fucking sucks.”

“Yeah it does,” I say.

Tim says, “what happens now?”

I say, “I don’t know.”

It’s five years ago and I am in a park in Munich: the Hofgarten, just behind the Odeonsplatz. Three of us from the New York Blues made the trip without tickets and there are only two tickets to spare, so I am watching the game on TV someplace. Or at least I’m trying to. For how wonderful the Germans have been there aren’t a whole lot of places eager to get packed with Chelsea fans and I can’t get into any of the larger outdoor viewing areas like the Olympiastadion. Before the game I get a tip that there will be TVs set up with tables in the Hofgarten so I have set off that way.

I round the corner of the Starbucks we’ve been using to get on Wifi and check emails and find maybe a dozen long tables facing a bunch of big flatscreens. All of the tables are packed to the gills with Chelsea fans. I walk down to the end of the row. Not a single seat.

I am convinced I am not going to see the game.

I look down towards the other side of the garden and see a bunch of restaurants with outdoor seating. The restaurants are closed. The tables for outdoor seating remain, but unfortunately not the chairs.

I have an idea.

Five minutes later I am standing on a four-top that I have dragged over to the area with the televisions. I am pretty pleased with myself, though it’s still about 30 minutes until kickoff and I’m not relishing the idea of standing on a table for two hours and change. I continue not relishing this idea until I remember that I am standing on a table for two and a half hours in a park, in Germany, about to watch Chelsea in the Champions league final, and I determine that I can suck it up.

I am just barely too far from the Starbucks to get on their wifi, so I am staring at my phone out of mostly useless habit. Other Chelsea fans have since seen my idea and are heading over to the unfortunate restaurant that did not realize who they were dealing with, and the Chelsea fans are stealing tables of their own to stand on, so I can’t move any closer for better reception.

About ten minutes before gametime, a gentleman of an indeterminable South Asian extraction walks up to my table and looks up at me. He is wearing a rubgy shirt and glasses.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asks in a middle of the road British accent, not West London but not East London either. He points to the table.

Without hesitation I say, “go for it,” which is immediately the most socially available I have ever been in my adult life. In America I would have glared at this unknown person until he got the hint and moved along. I am in a foreign country, I think, I might as well act in strange new ways. We strike up a conversation as we wait for the game to start. Again, the fact that I am in the presence of a person I’ve never met before and I’m not sullenly staring at my phone, inoperative or not, is somewhat extraordinary. It’s obvious why we’re there, and where we came from, more or less, so small talk can be safely skipped. I believe he tells me he is a doctor. I’m sure he tells me his name at some point, but it doesn’t stick. I’ve always been terrible with names.

The game begins and the game itself is, to put it mildly, awful. Even at the time, standing there on the table in Munich watching my beloved Chelsea play in the Champions League final, it is for eighty-eight minutes one of the most profoundly boring soccer games I have ever watched. For most of the game I make conversation with the nice British gentleman I am sharing my table with. He’s smart and pleasant. He has a good head for the game and is not the sort of insane, reputation ruining, this-is-why-we-can’t-have-nice-things Chelsea fan that I am about to learn we are surrounded by.

Didier Drogba scores in the 88th minute – a goal which TIES the game, mind you – and the other Chelsea fans go nuts. They start trashing the place. That is not hyperbole. I mean that quite literally. There is still two minutes to go in regulation, plus extra time, plus likely 30 minutes of added time after that, and this is the point several dozen Chelsea fans decide to destroy the setup where we are watching the game.

When the first television gets knocked over I turn to the nice British gentleman and say, “I think we should probably get out of here.”

He says, “I think you’re probably right.”

We hop off the table and extract ourselves from the Hofgarten.

We end up watching added time through the picture window of a restaurant around the corner, standing on the sidewalk. This strikes me as terribly, quintessentially European, watching a soccer final from the street. We manage to get there just as the regulation whistle blows and we are the only ones. I am amazed by yet another good idea, my second in two hours. By the time the penalty shootout starts there will be about 40 people standing there watching the game through the windows of this restaurant. The nice British gentleman from the garden is standing on my left now. To my right is a British man who introduces himself as “The Geezer” – the only name I ever get from him – and he spends almost all of extra time wailing that Chelsea will lose and the world will end, in that order and in quick succession. When the penalty shootout starts he turns his back to the window. He literally can’t watch.

I look around and realize that no one else is watching either. All the English people have either turned their backs or knelt down on the ground.

When Didier Drogba’s penalty goes over the line, in the picosecond that follows I realize that of the several dozen Chelsea fans standing in close proximity, I am the only one who’s actually seen it happen.

I throw my hands up like Joe Montana and shout “we won!” The world is momentarily thrown off its axis. The nice British gentleman grabs me and hugs me and starts screaming. While he’s hugging me the Geezer grabs me from the side and starts hugging me and screaming, and then the three of us start jumping up and down and screaming incoherently together.

In the hours of singing and high fives and stranger-hugging that follows up and down the Odeonsplatz – I hug more strangers than I could have ever imagined possible – I lose track of the nice British gentleman and the Geezer.

I think, shit, I should have gotten their email addresses or something.

I get back to the Sheraton, and when my phone hits the hotel wifi a bunch of notifications pop up. Two of them are texts, sort of: I can’t get SMS over wifi but I can get iMessages from other iPhones. One is from my mother, telling me that she and my father watched the game, and are very happy for me, and that they hope I stay safe.

I chuckle at the notion of my father voluntarily watching a soccer game.

The other is from Dan. A bunch of texts from Dan, in fact, telling me about the celebrations back in Philadelphia, everyone who came out to the pub to watch and the party going on there, and how jealous they are that Tim and I are actually there. He demands to hear the entire story as soon as I get back, and expresses his own personal jealousy that he couldn’t make it.

I start tapping out a reply and think, I’ll have to write this story down someday, this is a good one. The thought doesn’t begin to cross my mind that it could possibly be five years before I manage to keep that promise to myself.

As I’m sending the reply I mutter to the empty room, “next one, buddy.” It is reasonable at the time to assume there will be a next one for us to go to together.

It’s that Sunday morning and Mike has called me back.

Mike was the boss of the New York Blues, the Chelsea supporter’s group, for years and years. He was the first Chelsea fan I met outside of our circle of guys in Philadelphia. He’s actually known Danny longer than I have, from back in the days before I hung out with the New York Blues and Dan lived and worked in North Jersey and watched games in the city.

“Hey man,” I say. “Are you driving?”

“Yeah,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Listen, give me a call back when you’re not driving anymore.”

“What’s going on?” he says. “Tell me.”

I think, fuck.

I tell him. There’s silence on the phone for a few seconds.

I say, “I told you to stop driving.”

“You did,” he says. He pauses for a few seconds. “Ah, that’s just so fucking sad.”

“Yeah.” I say.

I make a bunch more calls and texts like this to everyone who knew him. Over and over, for hours.

Our friend Matt says to me, “I know how close you guys were. I really appreciate hearing it from you and not on the internet or something.”

The only thing I can think to say is, “yeah.” Over and over, for hours, to everyone.

It’s six or seven years ago and the Philly Blues are at the Dark Horse on a Sunday morning. Dan is bringing the woman he’s currently dating to the pub to watch the game. This has become something of a running bit over the last couple years, Dan bringing a series of depressingly insane women to the pub to subject them to soccer and, I cannot tell if it’s more or less importantly, to us.

I always joked about running women I dated past my friends to see if they’d hold up. Dan actually does this – does it repeatedly – and it and it never seems to go very well, partially because he is on a string of rotten luck woman-wise and partially because of the friends he’s testing these women with.

This one is different.

She’s smart – very smart – and though she may not know soccer like us she’s at least interested. She’s not feigning interest to appease her date; if she isn’t necessarily an expert on the game she has an open mind at least. She is intellectually curious. She’s a sports fan. She talks about the 49ers a lot and she knows her stuff.

She also has some weirdly specific knowledge about things no normal person – that is, to say, someone who is not me – would or should know about.

I am sitting in my usual spot right in front of the door to the main bar and Dan and his date are sitting at the jukebox corner. At one point after the game the conversation somehow gets to the subject of NCAA shooting contests – possibly as a digression from a discussion of biathlon – and Tim says, “yeah, Army’s gotta win that all the time.”

I am about to correct him when she says, “nah, Navy always wins pistols.”

She says it in a way that for some reason reminds me of the farmer-type folks I have met traveling the midwest, a strange combination of laconic, disinterested, and utterly confident. I am so surprised that someone else has corrected him on this ridiculously obscure fact that I am standing there with my mouth partially open, with what I presume is a look of shock on my face.

She looks at me and smiles.

A little while later she heads off to the bathroom and Dan walks over and stands next to my barstool.

“So?” he says.

“Well,” I say. “She’s not nuts.”

“She’s not,” he says.

“And that’s a big step up for you.”

“Yes, thank you, John,” he says. “Your approval means everything to me.”

“I know,” I say.

Dan stares at me for a second or two. I break into a grin. “Nah, man, I like her. She’s pretty great.”

“Yeah,” Dan says. “I think so.”

“She’s definitely better than, whats her name, that psychotic helicopter mechanic.”

He questioningly says a name that flies in and out of my head.

“Her, yes,” I say. “Jesus, what a piece of fucking work.”

He jerks his head down the hall in the direction of the bathrooms. “Yeah, she’s… she’s not nuts.”

I say, with a slightly awkward pause at the beginning, “she doesn’t seem to be, no.”

Dan stares at me again.

“You can’t remember her name either, can you?”

“I, uh…” I make stalling noises for a little bit before deflating in my seat. “I’m sorry! I’m terrible with names.”

Dan smiles, a huge smile as wide as the bar, and claps his hand on my shoulder. “Stephanie,” he says. “Her name’s Stephanie.”

“I’ll try and remember,” I say.

“Yeah, might be worth your effort, I think she’s a keeper,” Dan says.

It’s now, weeks after that Sunday morning, and I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing.

In that first week our friends would call me, some to see how I was doing, some to ask some variation on the question, “should we do something?” An event for the New York and Philly Blues, a GoFundMe, something for Steph and the children.

Every time I say, “I need to talk to Steph, and Dan’s family, see what works for them, but yeah we should definitely do something.” And I mean that. I mean it every time I say it but keep finding myself unable to make those calls.

Every time I think about making those calls my thoughts get pulled somewhere else.

I think about a bunch of Devils games at the Rock, and when I think about going to another one I feel this dark, burning mass in the center of my chest. I think about how I never want to watch another Devils game for the rest of my life.

I think about how if we did do something for Steph and the kids and the family, if it was in Philadelphia it would probably be at the Dark Horse, and how I don’t think I ever want to set foot in there again either.

I think about the picture of the five of us, the old Philly Blues, taken ten years ago at the Dark Horse, and how only three of us in that picture are still around.

I think about that Turkish restaurant in Munich. I think of all the places in the world I’ve been, both amazing and common. I think of the Grand Canyon, and the Nymphenburg, and the Pacific Ocean, and dinner at Dan and Steph’s apartment in West Chester, and hockey games at the Rock, and weekend mornings at the Dark Horse, and still, more than anyplace else I’ve been, more even than all the places I wish I could go back to but never can because they’re gone now, I want to find that restaurant.

I want to go back to the Hofgarten.

I want to find the nice British gentleman, and the Geezer, and talk about how a silly thing like a soccer team can forge bonds that you never would have thought possible, whether for a night or a decade. About how it doesn’t really matter whether it’s a night or a decade when deep down you don’t really believe you can forge lasting bonds with anybody in the first place. About how the things and the people that change you, that change you for good, and make you better, are the ones that you never see coming.

I want to find those men, and sit with them on a spring day in the Hofgarten, and tell them about my friend, who made me better.

Posted in Life | Leave a Comment »

You had all of them on your side, didn’t you?

Posted by kozemp on April 20, 2016

It was Nick who figured it out, because of course it was.

This was… a few weeks ago, maybe a little more? We were at his house on a Sunday night; it was late, Reg was out of town and Danny was long since asleep. It was actually the second time I’d been there that weekend. Reg left the morning before to drive to Appalachia with the LaSalle kids and Nick was, for some reason, worried about “being with Danny on his own,” a notion which was a very amusing combination of adorable and idiotic, so I got called over for breakfast before his wife had gotten as far as the Washington and Jefferson Forest. I was back the next night, that Sunday, for dinner and dessert.

I forget what we were talking about in the leadup to it, but at one point, sitting at the dining room table with my arms folded, staring into the living room, I said, “I’m not happy.”

He gave me a look.

“I’m not, you know, depressed,” I said. “I know what that’s like, that happens enough. It isn’t that. It’s just…” I made that displeased face where I sort of squint my left eye shut with my cheek. “I’m just not happy. And I haven’t been for a while.”

Nick said, “why not?”

I thought about it for a second, then said, “I don’t know.”

I didn’t really need to think about it. By then I’d been thinking about little else for weeks. But it was true: I wasn’t depressed, but I was constantly unhappy, and I didn’t know why.

Nick looked at me again, and I knew it was coming.

For years now, for as long as we’ve known each other, this has been how it happened. Sitting up in the middle of the night, bitching about women or cards or work or family or whatever, trying to figure out what the hell we were supposed to be doing with our lives. It used to be in the car on the way home from the casino. Now it’s at his dining room table. Nick is excellent at getting to the heart of my problems – 90% of the substance of which is usually of my own making – and I am excellent at giving advice that is mostly useless to anyone who doesn’t live in the Minoan labyrinth of my brain.

One of us, needless to say, bitches about more women and more jobs and more cards than the other.

Nick looked at me again, and I knew it was coming.

He said, “you’re only happy when you’re performing.”

I made my attempt at a Spock-like eyebrow raise and said, “go on.”

My version of Spock’s eyebrow is really just me raising both my eyebrows while squinting with my left eye. As facial expressions go, the left-eye squint is my go-to move.

“I don’t mean, like, on stage or whatever,” he said. “Though that probably wouldn’t hurt.”

I started to say “I’m not that good an actor” before he ran over me.

“Just… SOMETHING. Whether you’re on stage or whatever, or producing a play – “

“The podcast,” I muttered, thinking of The Stack, not liking where this was going.

“Your podcasts or, shit, even back when you were doing Quizo every week.”

“I did think of Quizo as a sort of weird ongoing performance art piece,” I said.

“Exactly,” Nick said, with that pointing-with-upturned-palm and tone of voice I get when he is telling me something that should be painfully obvious since I live inside it. “Whatever… I dunno, form it takes, you need to be in front of people.”

We talked some more about it – the stuff I am slowly attempting now and planning for in the future – but just then I thought the same thing I have thought many, many times over the years:

I hate it when Nick’s right.


Dave is another good friend who has a nasty habit of cutting through my obfuscatory bullshit. This is a good thing. As I said to him earlier today, and to a couple people before that, one of the things that has changed for me since my experience on TV is that intellectual superiority no longer interests me. To paraphrase something I read from Elon Musk: I don’t want to always be right anymore. I want to stop being wrong.

Dave is great at telling me what I’m doing wrong.

I’m not a huge fan of that either.

We were discussing a weird thought experiment that revolved around me once again attempting to move to Los Angeles. Dave and I have a lot of very strange conversations like this; much of our communication consists of series of loopy, half-comedy-half-therapy exchanges where it can be so difficult for either of us to tell who is being serious when that we will literally have to stop in the middle and ask, “wait, is that a joke or for real?” fairly often.

There were points during our talk today where I legitimately could not tell if we were just shooting the shit or if Dave was trying to tell me that he accidentally rented a 2-bedroom apartment in Glendale and needed a roommate.

Serious or not, Dave raised a number of very sharp ripostes to my various objections as to why me going back to LA is a terrible idea, or at least a very bad one. But something in the conversation flipped a switch somewhere in the back of my mind, and while I was defending my perfectly-reasonable irrational fears about life in general and the creative industry in specific from Dave’s obnoxious use of facts and logic, I started thinking about my conversation with Nick from a few weeks ago.

While Dave was typing something about how stupid one of my contentions was, a whole bunch of things lined up in my brain at once and I had what psychotherapists refer to as a “breakthrough.”

I went on to describe my breakthrough: as established by Nick, and agreed upon by me, I have a need to perform, however we want to define that. More than a need. I’m not happy if I’m not. More than “not happy,” in point of fact, I am profoundly unhappy when I’m not.

But performing is hard work, you know? I don’t mean literally hard work, like lifting and hauling shit out in the sun all day – I have done a very small bit of actual hard work in my life and have zero desire to ever do it again – but doing it right is, in its own sort of way, hard work. It is, in fact, the only kind of hard work I actually enjoy doing, but there’s still a lot of inertia to overcome there, and despite how much I actually enjoy the hard work of whatever performance I can end up getting myself to start… that start isn’t easy for me. It never has been. Stephen King once talked about how Thomas Harris was a great writer for whom the act of writing was excruciating, and I feel like I’m the same way a lot of the time. (Not that I’m as talented as Thomas Harris, mind, just that the act itself can be more prohibitively difficult than you might think.)

But, hey, you know what I can do with almost no work whatsoever? I can bang out a joke. A single joke. A one-liner. Something that fits nicely in 140 characters. Or maybe even a funny paragraph, or two, or three, or an interesting short idea. Something that works really well on a Facebook wall.

I could overcome all that inertia and do all the hard work of creating something real, a show or a story or whatever, work that actually results in a true creative high, the obscene, godlike creative high which I can tell you from comprehensive experimentation is better than booze or sex or drugs.

Or I could just say “fuck it,” come up with a funny paragraph in a few seconds, and get a quick laugh from a couple dozen people online.

My exact words to Dave were: “I wonder if I’m not using Facebook and Twitter as a sort of methadone.”

I went back and started checking some dates.

When did I decide to start getting back into theater work again?

Last year, during the period of my self-enforced absence from social media.

When did I produce pieces on this website at a faster pace than any time in recent memory?

Last year, when I wasn’t on social media.

Back on January 1, what did I list as one of my New Year’s Intentions?

“Spend less time on social media.”

Even then, months ago, parts of me were already subconsciously aware of what was going on.

I summed this all up to Dave with two words: “mother FUCKER.”

I say I hate it when Nick’s right. I say I hate it when Dave’s right. And there was probably a time when I actually DID hate it when they were right. But they’re right a lot, and they’re right about the important stuff. And now? I’m thankful my friends can do the thing I need them to do the most: tell me when I’m wrong.

What does it all mean, then? It means for now at least, on the social media front, I’m out. Well, not totally out. I’ll be reachable, certainly – Messenger and Hangouts seem okay as things go. I finally found the button to have Facebook email me when I get an invitation to an event so I can still keep up with people’s shows and whatnot. If folks need to get in touch with me there are any number of ways they can. Beyond that, I’ll be here a lot more, hopefully. Behind a stage, maybe, or a microphone. And I’ll hopefully be out in the real world, more than I have been for a while.

But otherwise?

Enough of the stepped-on shit.


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A Story for Christmas, 2015

Posted by kozemp on December 25, 2015

I have written in the past that when I was a kid, my parents had the whole “Christmas magic” thing down like nobody’s business.

When I was young, how Christmas worked for us was this: there would be nothing in our house – not a string of lights, not a decoration, not so much as a single strand of tinsel – all through December. There were these dreadful little electric candles my mother would put in the window, but that was it.

I don’t use the word “dreadful” here lightly. I am fairly certain that while these candles may not have actually been part of the very first batch of electric lights built by Thomas Edison, they were one generation removed from that at the most. These things were ancient. They were cardboard tubes with an electrical cord at one end and a light bulb socket at the other. So when we would first plug them into the wall with their same-size non-polarized outlet – polarized plugs were invented in 1948, if you were wondering – we were sending oodles of electrical current through, more or less, a very small paper towel tube.

So we were passing tons of electricity through a cardboard tube to these little light bulbs that burned so hot you could cook food over them. When I was in middle school we got blinds in all our windows (the last of which I have literally only gotten rid of this week) and the first Christmas we had them we put the candles in the windows with the blinds hanging directly behind them. Because my house was presumably designed by the same blind Spaniard who laid out San Antonio and built by the drunk mule he was riding, the window sills all tilt slightly away from the actual windows, and where the candle bulbs touched the blinds they actually burned through the vinyl slat.

My parents’ solution to the problem of their Christmas decorations setting the blinds on fire – I am not making this up – was to put matchbooks under the candles so they wouldn’t touch the blinds. Polarized plugs were invented in 1948; my research has indicated that safety was not invented until about 1953 and was not accepted as standard practice in this family until sometime in the late 1990s.

But I digress. Christmas magic.

Aside from the incredibly dangerous electric candles, there were no Christmas decorations in our house. Not even a tree. ESPECIALLY not a tree. On Christmas Eve, we would wake up and my sister and I would go out with my father to get the tree. This led to some surprisingly amazing trees. It also led to some unsurprisingly awful trees. There are at least a few years – again, I am not making this up – where my father somehow managed to score a $5 Christmas tree. This is less impressive when you recall that we used to put our tree up on a platform, so it had to be fairly small; if I remember correctly the tree couldn’t be taller than my mother, so call that about five and a half feet, give or take. Even still – a five dollar Christmas tree.

We would bring the tree home and put it in a bucket of water in the garage. (This was back when it was, you know, cold on Christmas.) We would do some family-kid-Christmas stuff, watch a special or two, and at bedtime my father would read us Clement Moore, the same red book I still have, and my sister and I would go to bed.

When we would wake up on Christmas morning we’d get my parents up, they’d make us wait at the top of the stairs for a minute or two, and then we’d come downstairs to find that Santa had gone completely apeshit while we were asleep.

The tree would be up on the platform, and lit, and decorated. There would be ribbons and lights and tinsel and decorations all over the house. There would be stuff EVERYWHERE. It would be like one of those Christmas stores exploded in our living room overnight. There would be piles of presents, and everyone’s stockings hung up on the mantle, and just JESUS. And my parents would say, “Santa did it all while you were asleep!”

All this happened because the second they determined that we were asleep my parents would run around like maniacs putting up decorations and wrapping presents and, most importantly, setting up and decorating the tree. The tree was the big thing. And as I have said before – one reason we went to get the tree on Christmas Eve was that waking up to a fully-decorated tree that was in a bucket in the garage when we went to bed was the cornerstone of my parents’ execution of Christmas magic. When you are six years old, this is absolutely mind-blowing. When you are 38 years old and know how it was done, it’s STILL mind-blowing.

The other reason we got our tree on Christmas Eve was that my father was really, really cheap.

When I was in high school my mother’s aunt gave us this artificial tree that I absolutely hated. Hated. HAY-TED. And even that we didn’t put up and decorate until Christmas Eve. It was what we had for a long time until my father finally relented in 2010 and agreed to go back to a real tree so long as we actually got it and had it up for a good chunk of the Christmas season. The agreement we came to was that we would buy the tree two weeks before Christmas.

On December 10, 2010, my bathroom fell into my living room right on the spot where the Christmas tree would go.

We delayed getting the tree until a few days before Christmas.

But finally we had a real tree again! And we would forevermore. Since then we have figured out a nice new Christmas tree tradition: the tree goes up about two weeks before and we put the lights on it, and then we do the actual decorations – the glass globes, and the stuff I’ve brought back from vacations, and the things me and my sister made when we were in grade school – go up on Christmas Eve.

This year, though, was the first Christmas where I was fully lord and master of the castle all by my lonesome. (I like to think of the cracked walls and creaky floors and dodgy wiring as unruly serfs.) But still! I certainly wasn’t going to back down. Everyone is welcome to do what works for them, of course, but for this Christmas traditionalist it is Real Tree Or GTFO.

About two weeks ago, when I got back from Vegas, I set out to get my Christmas tree.

Getting a Christmas tree is easy. In fact, it’s a little TOO easy.

I’m not going to lie to you – these last few years, buying Christmas trees, I have gotten some profoundly bad trees. But they are REAL trees, god dammit, and every year I am resolved to get a better tree, one that won’t die within hours of bringing it home.

There’s a reason I keep resolving the same thing: I’m not very good at this.

I went to a new Christmas tree place this year, thinking that perhaps the problems I’ve been experiencing have been because the places I have bought my trees in years past have had substandard product.

I am finally now coming around to the realization that “substandard product” is sort of the way parking lot Christmas trees tend to go in general.

This year, though, I came prepared. I knew that the most common cause of home death of Christmas trees is that the cut at the bottom of the trunk will sit out too long and clog with sap, preventing the tree from drinking water. I made certain to prevent this by buying a special pruning knife that I would use mere seconds before mounting the tree and getting it into water. And let me tell you, folks: that ain’t a knife. THIS is a knife. The handle is about the size of a lightsaber hilt and the blade is a solid nine inches long with a wicked curve and tons of enormous little teeth. It’s not so much a tool used to saw through a tree trunk as it is a brutal weapon the Predator carries to hunt sentient pine trees.

In the past few years when my trees have died prematurely – which is to say basically every year – I have attempted to make a new cut in the bottom of the trunk with a hand saw. This was a long, agonizing process that usually took a loooooooong time. We’re talking ten, fifteen solid minutes of hacking away at the tree stump – often with lights still on it after I took it out of the stand – but not this year.

This year, I set my tree stand up in the living room and went out to the front steps where the tree was waiting. I balanced it on the wall out there and began my first cut on the bottom of the trunk with the pruning knife.

I cut through the entire thing in about nine seconds.

I stood there and stared at the knife in my hand and remembered Church saying, “I could blow up the whole goddamn world with this thing.”

Now I had read that it takes something like 6-8 hours or more for the bottom of the tree trunk to actually choke off with sap, but I wasn’t having any of that. I hustled that thing right into the waiting stand in the living room and proceeded to put up my Christmas tree on my own.

Have any of you ever actually tried to get a tree into a stand on your own? I know some of you have. I can hear you laughing.

We have an old-school metal stand with a bowl, and four legs with holes in them and a metal collar that eye-bolts screw through to hold the tree up.

The first time I pushed the tree trunk through the collar in the stand and started to get down on the floor to put the bolts through, I had the passing thought, “wait, how does the tree stay upright while I’m down there?”

Spoiler: it doesn’t. I was on the floor for maybe three seconds before the tree fell on me.

This didn’t faze me in the slightest. It was a process, that’s all. I would iterate. So I moved the tree stand back towards the fireplace, pushed the tree through the collar, and then pushed it back farther towards the fireplace so that the top of the tree was leaning mostly upright against the mantel.

I got down on the floor to start pushing the bolts through the tree and had the thought – I distinctly recall this – “stupid tree thought it could beat ME.”

I learned the word “hubris” in ninth grade, for those keeping score at home.

This time I lasted almost thirty seconds before I had to rotate the base to get to the bolts I couldn’t reach and the tree fell on me.

I got out from under the tree and purposefully ignored the alarming number of pine needles that were coming off it and continued to work on my process.

Attempt number three: I would push the tree into the collar, then squat down in a catcher’s stance with one hand on the trunk of the tree and the other screwing in the bolts as best I could without being able to see them. Yes, it probably wouldn’t be perfectly level and the bolts would be a pain in the ass, but that would prevent the tree from falling down on me. And once it was in I could level it at my leisure.

It turned out that it was almost impossible to fit the bolts through the legs of the stand without being able to see them, so I pushed the stand back farther and leaned the tree against the mantel again. My new revision to my process was that I would lean it up again, but this time when I needed to rotate it to get at the other bolts, I would actually stand up and rotate the tree from there, then get back down under it. It would be more time-consuming and mean getting up and down off the hardwood floor more times, but it would keep the tree from falling on me.

If it only takes three tries to get to a perfect plan, I thought, this can’t be THAT hard. I had created a perfect, repeatable process for Christmas magic. I was as unto a Christmas magic GOD.

Crouching next to it, the second I let go of the tree it fell over on me.

I pushed the tree off of me, continued to even more purposefully ignore the even more alarming number of needles I was covered in, and started throwing wild right and left hooks at it while shouting obscenities about the tree’s mother.

I can safely say that punching a pine tree is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had. I can hear what a lot of you are thinking right now, and: yes. Worse than THAT. Do not try this at home. You know, like I did.

Once I regained my composure, which took longer than I am comfortable admitting, I came up with a new iteration of my process: call someone else for help. The problem was that help was probably a day or two away at best, and the tree wouldn’t stay up in the stand until then. The tree wouldn’t stay up in the stand for a single goddamn minute. How could I keep the tree watered until help arrived?

I stood in my living room, pensive, staring at the tree. This, clearly, was actually the most important part of the process. On this, my own nascent version of Christmas magic depended.

What did I have that was big enough to fit a tree trunk, and strong enough to hold up a tree, but would also…

My gaze drifted to my right. Towards my kitchen.

Hold water…

I sent a picture of my solution to my father and the exchange went like this:

My father: Is that my crab pot?

Me: If by “your crab pot” you mean “my stock pot,” then yes it is.

A few days later my friend Kevin showed up to help me get the tree in the stand proper and when we pulled it out of the pot the gallons of water I had been pouring in it were still there, along with tons of pine needles, with tons more on the floor.

The tree was dead when I brought it in the house.

“Well,” I thought, “I’ve got a lot of years yet to perfect the Christmas magic process.”

Then I smiled, and thought, “at least I got a really badass knife to play with.”

Merry Christmas, all.


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A Story for Christmas, 2014

Posted by kozemp on December 25, 2014

Okay, so, yes: I did not write a Christmas letter last year. At least three of you have expressed some consternation at this fact, and in the event that more than three of you were in any way put out by that, consider this tale my official apology. Inasmuch as I am official in any way, which I have come to learn over the years is in fact not very much.

There were two primary reasons I did not write a letter last year.

The story of the first reason:

Last summer – summer 2013, I mean – I got word that a friend of mine had taken his own life.

There are jokes coming, I promise, just bear with me a second.

So I get this news, and as you can guess if you don’t know already, I was thrown for loop pretty hard by this. I did what I did, you know, processed the whole thing in my own stupid, ineffectual, mostly useless way, and more or less carried on with my life.

Around about October of last year, though, I found myself having a tough time with a whole bunch of other things that were very pointedly not related in any way to my friend’s recent suicide, and for the first time in many years I went to see a psychologist.

If you’ve never been, seeing a psychologist isn’t too different from seeing any other doctor for the first time. There’s a lot of paperwork. A LOT. The big difference is that the paperwork at the psychologist, instead of asking things like “have you had any major surgeries in the last 5 years” or “how many medications do you currently take,” says “have you thought about harming yourself recently?” (Though, now that I think about it, it also asks about medication.) So I dutifully filled out the paperwork. I’m awesome at doctor’s office paperwork; I do a lot of it and once you get some practice you can get a decent groove going.

After I finished it I sat down with the doctor and we went over it together. We talked about the times I’d previously seen shrinks, my general life situation, stuff like that.

At one point he looked at the paper, frowned, and then looked at me.

He said, “on the question about ‘recent major events,’ you wrote that a friend of yours committed suicide?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Over the summer. But that’s fine, it’s not why I’m here.”

My psychologist raised his eyebrows.

I literally made a dismissive wave with my hand.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said.

Spoiler: it was a big deal.

The thing of it, though, is that my late friend was one of those folks who make a point every year, for some reason, of telling me how much they enjoy my silly little Christmas letter. And when the time came last year… I wish I had a better answer than “I just didn’t have it in me,” but that’s what I’m going with. I thought a couple times over the 24th and 25th about sitting down and banging out a little something, but I never got past the thought of doing it. I’d try to think of something to write about and no worthy idea would ever come up; there was not, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, any there there.

However, I did say there were TWO reasons, and it is distinctly possible that some part of why I was unable to string five words together in an acceptable order was because I was bone tired, just absolutely wiped out last Christmas.

The story of the second reason:

In the midst of everything else that was going on at the time, my mother managed to catch the world’s worst case of food poisoning last year on about December 22nd. She is and was fine, of course, but at the time it was very serious. She was in the hospital for a couple days and we didn’t know if she’d be home in time for Christmas until they discharged her around noon on Christmas Eve.

I am vaguely ashamed to admit that at the time I was… not AS worried about maintaining the appropriate Christmas traditions as I was worried about my mother, you know, dying in the hospital, but I’m not going to lie to you and say I didn’t spend at least a few minutes contemplating the inequality.

In an effort to maintain as much of our traditional Christmas as I could, though, certain sacrifices had to be made, and the biggest of those was that I wasn’t able to get out of the house. Someone had to stay home, man the phones, keep the place decent, etc etc, while my father was at the hospital.

So I stayed home, which meant that I could not get to the charity wrapping station at Willow Grove.

I would have to wrap all my presents for folks myself. And wrap my parents’ presents for each other.

I was, to say the least, not good at wrapping presents.

I was, in point of fact, astoundingly bad at wrapping presents, and frankly that kinda pissed me off.

You may have heard – not from me, mind, but around – that I am not a stupid person. I know essential survival phrases in something like 6 languages.* I can perform multivariate calculus in my head. I read the Aeneid in Latin and there are, at this very moment, satellites orbiting this planet that literally have my name on them.

Taping paper to boxes? Sorry, Johnny, no can do.

So in addition to being wrung out from the ordeal with my mother and her inability to keep nutrients in her body, I spent hours – hours, people, hours – the two days before Christmas sitting at my dining room table with piles of presents and scraps of garish red and green paper shouting “WHY CAN’T I DO THIS?!” at volumes loud enough to get you kicked out of the Bellagio. (A decibel level I can now pinpoint with precision.) By the time the notion of writing the Christmas letter came around, in addition to my psychological issues with the whole endeavor, my brain was pretty much fried by tape and scissors and recurring daymares of Darth Vader wielding a cardboard wrapping paper tube instead of a lightsaber.

Which leads us to this year, and the fact that in addition to hearing around the water cooler that I am pretty smart, you have probably also heard that I may have a problem with what we will charitably call “hubris.”

On Monday I was at Willow Grove – Monday, not Sunday, that shit don’t fly no more – getting a gift for my mother. After my purchase was complete the very nice sales lady said, “would you like us to wrap that for you?” and my brain lit up and I said “YES! YES I WOULD!” far too intently.

The store would have people who are TRAINED in gift wrapping. Who were, most likely, experts at it.

I would watch them. I would study them. I would commit their every motion to memory. And then, when I got home, I would use my stolen knowledge to wrap my gifts myself this year. Not because I had to. No. Because I WANTED to. Because I COULD. I would steal their knowledge and use it to my own ends and become the gift-wrapping god that was my birthright – nay, my destiny.

And so I watched. I watched that woman practically without blinking. It’s a good thing she was concentrating very hard on wrapping my mother’s gift because I am fairly certain the way in which I was staring at her would not have been deemed polite, my excuses of “I was just watching your hands!” to the contrary. (Actually, as I read it now, “I was just watching your hands” is not really any less creepy.)

I watched. I studied.

When she handed me the box I said “thank you,” and meant it more than I’d meant a “thank you” in a long time.

I had studied her more intently than I’d studied anything since I had an Iranian chemistry professor who barely spoke English and I had to teach myself acid-base equilibria. I studied her carefully, and successfully. I had her secrets. I had her power. I was like Sauron with the One Ring in his grasp. I now had the ability to destroy all the gift-wrapping in my path.

I got home and took out one of my presents for my mother. I repeated what I had learned from the store wrapping person. I matched her movements exactly. I was her mirror image – she might as well have been there herself at my dining room table.

I smoothed out the last piece of tape, looked at my handiwork, and said, “oh what the FUCK?!”

My wrapping job looked like the thing from the transporter malfunction scene in the first Star Trek movie.

Now this is the part where what a normal person would do is look at the pile of presents on the table, then look at the epically atrocious job they’d done on the first, then look at their watch and say, “well, I’ve still got time, I can get this lot to Willow Grove and have the nice ladies wrap them for charity.”

This is the part where what I did was look at the pile of presents, then look at my epically atrocious wrapping job, then grit my teeth – literally grit my teeth – and say, “I can do this,” and pick up the scissors.

By this afternoon, the entire pile of my presents and those of my parents was wrapped and ready to go under the tree. I use the word “wrapped” in its loosest possible sense here, but still. The presents are ready to go under the tree, and yes, they are a mess of gaps and wrinkles and miles of tape that look like something the United Nations would issue sanctions for if a government dropped them on a civilian population.

Two years ago I wrote about how the important part of Christmas isn’t the present, but the time – the time you spend figuring out and getting that gift, whether it’s the “perfect gift” or just some little thing, that the gift is a physical distillation of time you spend thinking about someone else.

Staring at a pile of wrapping jobs that would make HP Lovecraft run screaming in terror I realized that I actually kind of liked having that extra bit of time thinking about other people. It is, after all, the thought that counts.

They don’t ever say what “the thought” actually IS, but I’m hoping “I AM WRAPPING THESE GODDAMN PRESENTS MYSELF NO MATTER WHAT” qualifies.

Merry Christmas, all.











* “I am an American,” “where is the train station,” and “I need water.”

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Everybody wonders. And sooner or later everybody gets to find out.

Posted by kozemp on July 29, 2014

I remember where I was when I got the call: I was in my car, pulling into the parking lot of Montgomery County Community College.

I was there to record the podcast, the episode about Jonathan Hickman’s Fantastic Four. I was excited about the show, super-excited. I had pages and pages of notes. I’d been looking forward to that episode for months. I loved that book. I still do, though probably not in the same way, now.

I was happy. I was in a great mood. I was looking forward to a good night and a good show. I’d been having a good month. A good summer. Hell, a pretty good year all around.

My phone rang.

The phone rang, and I saw Scott’s name come up, and I was pretty happy about that too. I figured Scott was calling for one of the usual reasons. He’d gotten a part in a play, or his kids were heading to his parents’ for the weekend and he wanted to see if I was up for cards, or he wanted to ask for advice on buying a Blu-Ray player or something like that. There are some people where you’re just always happy to see their name pop up on your phone.

“Hey, what’s up?” I said.

There was a long silence, and as I pulled into a parking space I wondered if the cellular wilds of Blue Bell had dropped my call.

I remember, very specifically, yanking up the parking brake lever in that silence, waiting.

Scott finally said, “listen, I don’t know how else to say this.” There was another short pause, then, “Larry killed himself.”

I sat there in shock for a few seconds. I thought, this is a wind-up. This is a joke. But I knew it wasn’t. I could hear it in Scott’s voice.

A joke wouldn’t have had that awful silence ahead of it.

I sat there in my car in the MC3 parking lot, I realized that our friend was dead, and I started to quietly laugh.

Scott said, “what… why are you…”

I stopped laughing long enough to say, “no, no, Scotty, I’m sorry, it’s not funny, it’s just…” I laughed again, a little louder. “I’ve got a show in five minutes.”

That’s the last thing I remember until later that night, when I was at Scott’s with everyone else, wondering what the hell we were supposed to do now.



It is useful at this point to stop and talk a little bit about me and my family and our relationship with, well, death.

My mother is great at death. My mother is also a purebred Irish Catholic, and if you weren’t already aware of it those statements are, more or less, necessary corollaries of each other, if not equivalent outright. It is a cultural thing that, while I can understand the genesis of it in an analytical sense, at a purely historical or sociological level, the rest of me just doesn’t get it at all. It’s like they had second to last pick at the cultural super powers draft and after England had taken “stiff upper lip” and America had chosen “dangerously oblivious optimism” the Irish looked at the board, sighed, and said “well, I guess ‘good at death’ is better than ‘makes really good chocolate.’ You’re up, Belgium.”

Either way, my mother is great at this stuff. When somebody dies she is ON IT. Notify the appropriate parties, call a priest for the mass card, take the nice clothes to the dry cleaners, clear the schedule, make time to visit the family, all the way down the line. From phone call to weeks after the funeral her reaction hits with clockwork precision every time. When it comes to this sort of thing my mother Does Not Fuck Around. She manages to get everything done AND process her feelings at the same time. As cultural inheritances go it’s admittedly not, you know, the Renaissance, but the practical and emotional efficency of it is just astonishing.

My father is… let’s say, he’s not that. My father is the guy who doesn’t go to a funeral not because he is insensitive, or doesn’t want to, or doesn’t care, but because he can’t handle it. I am honestly not sure why this is – over the years I have eventually managed to figure out a lot of thing about my father, but not this one. A lifetime of observation has made it pretty clear, though: my mother is great at death. My father is terrible at it.

But this, also, has resulted in its own odd little efficiency.

My father is a firm believer in knowing when to “call the guy.” Raising a middle class family you learn to fix as much around the house as you can yourself – replacing a leaky faucet or a broken light fixture – but you have to know when you can’t fix something, and when you can’t you “call the guy.” The plumber, or electrician, or whatever. The expert. The person with the knowhow to take care of the problem.

So, when someone dies, my father knows he can’t deal with it, and he calls the guy: my mother. She does all the funeral stuff on both sides of the family. When my father’s relatives die – not something we deal with that often given our sporadic-at-best relations with my father’s family, but still – they actually call my mother. It’d be funny if it weren’t, you know, not.

As (I am often realizing) with a lot of things, when it comes to dealing with death I’ve landed smack in the middle of my parents.



I’ve talked a lot here over the years about my weird – nicely and positively so, but nonetheless weird – upbringing. My parents had an odd sort of division of labor. My mother was mostly responsible for things like right and wrong, morality, responsibility, the importance of family, etc etc, i.e. not coincidentally the prototypical Irish Catholic virtues. My father was mostly responsible for things like the importance of reading books, knowing lots of things about musical theatre, seeing every James Bond movie twelve times, etc etc, i.e. not coincidentally the protypical kid from Lawncrest hiding that he is smarter than everyone he knows virtues.

(Though “only sports and Star Trek allowed on TV” was DEFINITELY my mother’s rule.)

The upshot of this is that when you spend your childhood – indeed, your whole life, but most importantly your childhood – deeply entrenched in JRR Tolkein, Kurt Vonnegut, and the casual death-stoicism of the Irish, you end up pretty sanguine about the whole affair. Death is a thing. It happens, it happens to all of us, it is perfectly natural and though it is sad – oftentimes very, very sad – you recognize that the end of someone’s life is also a time to celebrate it, to mark not just their passing but their living.

This time, though, none of that was working. I could hear it in my mother’s voice when I called her the next day to tell her what had happened. I’ve heard my mother get The Phone Call enough times to know when she’s not responding the way she normally does. I heard in my mother’s voice that same awful pause I heard in Scott’s when the call first came, that silence that says, “I don’t know what to do.”

My mother didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know what to do, because this time it was different. Death is natural. Suicide is not. A lifetime of Valinor and “so it goes” and “one less drunk” left me completely unprepared for it, and there was no guy to call.



After the Fantastic Four show – which I know I did even though I have no memory of doing so because I edited it later that week, a pretty bizarre experience in and of itself – I was at Scott’s place with a bunch of our friends and the mood was oddly upbeat. I mean it wasn’t exactly super-happy-dance-party, but you think about what gatherings like this are SUPPOSED to be like, and you picture wailing and gnashing of teeth and rending of garments and there just wasn’t any of that. It was just a bunch of us sitting around, talking, occasionally having a laugh.

I am not a psychiatrist – thank the old gods and the new for THAT – but if I had to guess I’d say that the mood that night was mostly because me and everyone else were working very hard to specifically be in that sort of mood. I wouldn’t call it classic “denial” necessarily. I went through that, and I mean literal denial. Like, I didn’t believe that what we were told happened actually happened, and I imagine I wasn’t the only one who briefly entertained notions like that. Larry was some sort of James Bond-type with the Army, after all. He did all that cloak and dagger shit. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that it was a fake-out, or a ploy, or some sort of setup for Larry to go off and do whatever the hell it was he did when he wasn’t here.

But that’s silly, of course, isn’t it? And thankfully I soon recognized it was silly, and the feeling passed. I got home from Scott’s that night, gave my old teddy bear a hug before bed, and laid in bed staring at the ceiling in the dark for a long time before I finally went to sleep.

I spent the next few days with my brain sort of spinning out of control. I kept getting weird ideas, things like deciding that I could upgrade a bunch of parts in my car, or grade my lawn, or refinish the floors in my house. The part of my brain that was still working properly recognized this as a bizarre defense mechanism, an attempt to protect myself from what I was feeling by trying to shift CPU cycles into things that I can control. Luckily for my house and my car I didn’t actually attempt to DO any of these things, I just spent that week moping about and feeling sad.

Then, a few days later, we had our wake, and I learned things, and I got angry.

Here’s something I’ve learned in the interim: being angry at a dead person is pretty fucking stupid. Being angry at a live person is, honestly, only marginally less stupid. But the notion of taking your mental energy – which is limited, even for me – and bending it to something so destructive and negative, at someone who isn’t even around anymore, is a criminal waste of human endeavor. Yoda teaches us “anger, fear, aggression, the Dark Side are they,” and I’ll tell you what: I believe in that ideal as much as I believe in anything.

But anyway.

A few days later we had our wake, and I learned things. I learned things about our friend, and what had transpired over the last few months of his life, and I got angry. I got angry at him, I got angry at myself, I got angry the world in general. I got angrier than I’ve ever been in my life, and I couldn’t stop being angry. I couldn’t stop getting angry. For weeks afterward I couldn’t feel anything else, and it seemed like every day it got worse and worse, and I got angrier and angrier.

For weeks after that night, I had to pretend. I had to pretend I felt things I didn’t because even with the anger I couldn’t shake I knew I couldn’t let people know how I was really feeling. They’d run away if I was lucky; they might have tossed me in a padded room if I wasn’t. So for weeks I pretended to be sad when people asked how I was, and pretended to be funny when we got together to commiserate, and pretended to be calm and professional at work, when through all of it the only coherent thoughts in my head were how much I hated the world and every person and every thing in it, and how I wanted to rip all of it apart with my bare hands, and how I wanted to spew vitriol and filth at everyone I met, but most of all how much I hated Larry for doing this to me.

Here’s an odd thing about the suicide of a friend that you might not know: it’s really hard not to take it personally.

That’s irrational, I know. While I suppose there are instances of a person taking their own life to make a point to someone else, outside of V.iii of Romeo and Juliet I have to think that the Fuck You Suicide is extraordinarily rare. But when it’s someone you care about, and it happens, that’s the thought: “how could you do this to me?” Or, rather, that insane thought is the result of any number of perfectly sane thoughts. You wonder why they didn’t call. You wonder what could have possibly been so bad that they thought they couldn’t ask you for help. You wonder how they could have possibly come to a decision like that. And that’s just thoughts about THEM. Once you run through all of those – and there is a great host more – you turn inward: why didn’t I notice something was wrong? HOW did I not notice? How could I not realize this was going to happen? How could I have been so careless with their feelings?

You take all those thoughts, and you spin them around faster and faster and faster, and you would scarcely believe how quickly it becomes personal, how quickly you get to “how could you do this to me?”

And you get angry. You get angry at a person who isn’t around anymore to apologize, or tell you how misplaced your anger is, or at how you’ve got them all wrong, it was actually this OTHER bit over here that set them off and made them do this terrible thing. You get angry, and there’s no target for your anger, so it builds and builds and builds.

I spent the better part of three weeks like that: angry, at everything, all the time, and doing all I could to hide it not just from anyone who cared about me, but from the only people who might understand.



The phrase Scott’s wife Ruth used to describe one part of the process we were going through as a group was “managing the breakdown.”

The reasoning – and this is so brilliant I was and am legitimately jealous – was that there was a large group of us who were all going through the same thing, who all felt the same way, and that eventually we were all going to hit the wall, and lose it, and not be able to deal with it anymore. But we couldn’t just let it all happen at once. People had kids, people had jobs that mattered a lot more than mine, people had responsibilites that needed to be taken care of. If everyone just lost their shit haphazardly – or, worse, at the same time – all of our lives might get totally fucked at a time when we needed each other.

So the breakdowns got managed. Scott picked one night. Ruth picked another. People picked a time, and gave in, and got reduced to a puddle of goo for a little while, and other people were there to help them through it.

The whole thing is so goddamn genius I really wish I could take credit for it.

I decided to wait a while, partially because the tiny part of my brain that was still rational recognized that other people probably needed it more than I did, and partially because I wasn’t sure I could control myself when it did happen, and I was hoping that some of the anger I was consumed by might subside.

But then the night did come, and I went over to Scott’s place, and we sat down in his basement and…

Nothing happened.

I don’t mean that literally nothing happened. Things happened. But I was worried that I would lose control, that my anger would finally blow up after all those weeks. It didn’t, though. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I wish I did; the ability to keep my temper in check would have been pretty goddamn useful any number of times since. But it didn’t.

We just sat there. Scott and I sat there and talked, for a long time. We talked about what had happened, and how we felt – mostly Scott, about that – and about what we were going to do going forward, how our lives would be different and how we’d deal with that.

Understand something – I am a pathological fixer. The need to take everything I see and hear and “make it better” is overwhelming. I can’t help it. (I have theories about where that comes from as well, but that’s another show.) I recognize it’s not my most endearing quality, but I’m pretty sure that night it saved me from losing my mind.

Scott and I talked for a long time, pretty deep into the night, and probably we could have talked a lot more, but once we got to the part of the conversation about how we were going to deal with things going forward, it was like somone shot off a flare in all the darkness my head.

I was broken.

I needed to be fixed.

That, I could do. Or at least I could try.

After Scott and I finished talking, I went home. I sat down in the chair at my desk in my room, and realized that while “I am going to fix myself” is a great idea in theory, I didn’t really have any idea how to actually accomplish that. I’d ridden out the rest of my talk with Scott and the ride home on the pure adrenaline of a good idea, but once I was there I realized that I was perilously close to the opposite of that, the despair that comes from realizing that the good idea was actually unworkable, and in this case I knew what was on the other side of that: what was usually a mild depression was, this time, that same black morass of anger I’d spent the last few weeks in.

As I sat there, my eyes glanced up and I saw my Absolute Sandman sitting up on a shelf, and I thought about Brief Lives.

The Sandman is my favorite comic ever – it is, in fact, my favorite anything ever – and Brief Lives is my favorite part of it. It’s about just what the title says: how all lives, ultimately, are too short, and what that means.

I thought, that’s as much of an omen as I’m going to get.

I walked over and pulled down Volume 3. I headed back to my desk, opened up to the first page of Brief Lives, and started reading.

As I read the story I’d read so many times before I felt the anger I’d been drowning in finally start to slip away and turn into something deeper and sadder, but hopeful all the same. When I read the last words of the story, I thought of my friend who was gone, and started to quietly cry.

“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

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Why don’t you kill me with your love?

Posted by kozemp on June 30, 2014

Years ago I had this girlfriend.

Okay, yes, I realize that technically that covers a veritable multitude of sins, so let me clarify a little bit:

FOUR years ago I had this girlfriend. The relationship was, I suppose you could say, fraught. Someone else – a person more inclined towards factual accuracy than prosaic descriptors, perhaps – might say it was “doomed.”

Over the intervening years I have often joked that there were “signs.” Things that, had I been in my right mind instead of hopelessly in love and/or under the influence of some sort of hex or curse I would have noticed. (As a longtime lover of Supernatural I am ruling nothing out.) Things that should have made me say, “I don’t think this girl’s right for me.”

There were a lot of signs. I wish I could say I missed them all. I did miss some; there were absolutely things that I didn’t see until years later and go, “whoa, that was pretty obvious.”

Most of the signs, though… let’s just say I didn’t MISS them, Bob.

But I wasn’t the only one who missed, or chose to miss, signs.

This is the story of the US game against Ghana in the first knockout round of the 2010 World Cup.


“I got lucky with the order.” – Will Munny


There really is no better time or way to introduce someone to soccer than the World Cup. It’s piss easy. Everybody already has a built-in rooting interest. You can support your country (USA ain’t nothin’ to fuck with) or, if your country hasn’t qualified, you can hate Italy. You don’t have to worry about who owns what club or where they finished last year or whether their fans are ahistorical plastic glory hunters or the quality of the domestic league or any of the usual soccer bullshit. You wrap yourself in the national colors – or not, for some reason, thank you Italy – you do your best to learn the offside rule, and you yell your heart out for your national side. It’s cathartic. It builds bridges. It’s awesome.

Four years ago, I came to the surely witchcraft-driven decision that the US game against Ghana was the perfect way to not only introduce my girlfriend to soccer but to watching soccer games in an insanely crowded pub with shitloads of other people. Because, I mean, -I- loved those things, and those things were awesome, so she’d love them too, right?

So here’s a fun fact: for USMNT games in the World Cup – that’s US Men’s National Team to you, kid – if you’re going to watch them at a pub, you need to get there early. I mean EARL-LEE. Like hours early. We unfortunately only got to the Dark Horse (god rest her) about 90 minutes early, which meant that instead of getting seats in the crowded bar, we ended up standing just behind all the people who got seats.

Imagining that the old main bar at the Dark Horse was a clock with 12 facing north (that would be Pine Street), here’s how the seating and standing arrangements worked out:

My girlfriend and I were standing at 6 o’clock.

Sitting right in front of us were Ed and Jim. Ed and Jim were… not friends of mine, I would say, not exactly, but they were guys I saw at the pub every weekend for Premier League games and we were definitely friendly with each other. They were Manchester United fans, and Jim’s actually Irish, but today everyone was there for the US.

Well, not everyone: there were a small bunch of Ghanaian guys in one of the front corners of the bar, say around 10-11 o’clock. I made a point to head over there and say hi to them. I love talking to opposing soccer fans, do it every chance I get. It’s one of the things I love most about soccer in this country. You can walk up to a guy wearing the other shirt – any other shirt, really – say “hey, good luck,” shake hands, maybe take some pictures, and both walk away smiling. It’s a community like no other sport I know.

(Most of the time…)

My friend Mark and his wife Eileen were sitting in the dark corner near the jukebox at 2 o’clock. Mark’s from Ireland, a super-nice guy and now a newly minted US citizen, and his wife is this fantastic woman who I assume he somehow blackmailed into marrying him. 90 minutes before the game, Mark is already quietly drunk.

Paul, who ran the show behind the bar during Quizo for many years, was tending bar along with about five bar backs.

My girlfriend was standing to my right.

Sitting at roughly my 11 o’clock, next to Ed, was a small thin white woman with very frizzy hair. She did not appear outwardly drunk.

That was how things stood 90 minutes before kickoff. By the time the game actually started, the place was packed solid. You couldn’t move.

(Sign my ex-girlfriend missed #14.)

By the time kickoff rolled around, there was nowhere to go.


“Memories can be distorted. They’re just an interpretation. They’re not a record, and they’re irrelevant if you have the facts.” – Leonard Shelby


It’s funny – in retrospect I recall very little of the actual game itself. I remember Landycakes converting the penalty, and Gyan’s early goal in extra time, but precious little else.

Part of that is because I don’t have great “game memory” in general – I can remember a couple specific plays from games of years past but usually not much more than that. My memory of Landycakes’ goal in the Algeria game a few days prior to these events is fresh as though it were yesterday. I remember Jozy Altidore’s ridiculous goals against Brazil in the 2007 U-20 World Cup. I still remember David James stopping a screamer from Frank Lampard with nothing more than his thumb on the day the Eagles lost the Super Bowl in what is still the greatest 0-0 draw I have ever seen.

Another part of that is because of the insane shit that was going on around me during the game.

It was a World Cup game for starters, and the knockout stage to boot, so people were fired up more than usual. This wasn’t Chelsea v. Newcastle on a dreary Sunday morning in February. It’s the World Cup. It’s summer. It’s hot, even with the air conditioning – god, the Dark Horse used to get so hot when it got crowded in the summertime. All that, and pretty much everyone but me had been drinking for hours when the game started, never mind in the second half. So everyone was pumped. They were… not violent, no, but rowdy. There was shouting. There was jumping. There were obscene gestures. There was cursing. Oh my, the cursing. Cursing at the ref, at the opposing players, at Ricardo Clark, you name it. Dear gods above, the cursing.

Even still, for most of the game it was all good-natured. There were the Ghanaian guys at the one end of the bar, sure, but they were just cheering their side, and they were being positive about it – no, “USA sucks!” or whatever, and so long as you’re not being a total jackass about it no one is going to give you crap for cheering for your team.

Unfortunately – and four years later I can still scarcely believe this – they weren’t the only ones cheering for Ghana.

The woman sitting in front of me was ALSO cheering for Ghana.

Actually, no, let me rephrase that:

The clearly American woman sitting in front of me was cheering against the United States.

She wasn’t cheering for Ghana, not really. She was booing the US. Screaming at players to get up when they were fouled. Screaming at the ref to card US players after rough challenges. Telling defenders they sucked when they missed clearances.

Jesus, writing that down four years later it STILL doesn’t make any goddamn sense. But there it was.

This American woman was rooting against the United States.

For most of the match it was pretty silly – recall that Ghana scored early and we were fighting back for most of the next hour so, hey, whatever. She’s a front-runner. Fine. Stupid drunk-ass woman, let her do what she wants. We’re mounting our comeback.

When Landycakes equalized with the penalty, though, it got worse. She actually turned it up.

At one point, she literally booed a US player. Stood up on the footrail of her chair and shouted “BOOOOOOOOOOO!” at the television.

People who had been making snide comments under their breath and muttering to their friends started shouting at her. “Shut the fuck up!” was the most common. A lot of people shouted something like “what the fuck is your problem?” Her answer to that was to shout “I’m cheering for the best soccer!” which was, to say the least, not the smartest thing to say.

As the second half wore on and the clock got shorter and extra time became more and more likely, she got louder and meaner and stupider. At one point I looked at my girlfriend and saw a look on her face that would have melted butter. A look I would, over the next few months, become very well-acquainted with. Me and that look, we became REAL good pals.

She was, to say the least, not having a good time, largely because of this idiot woman.

I decided I had to say something.

After one play in which she lustily screeched at a US player for a tackle, I waited just the right number of seconds after she finished shouting until the bar was almost silent and said, loudly, “what part of Ghana are you from?”

She stared at me and didn’t say anything.

I swear to god the entire bar was looking at us, not saying a word.

I let her stare at me for about 8 seconds, then said, “God keeps a special place in hell for traitors.”

The bar went wild, everyone doing a strange combination of a scream and a laugh.

It was at once the most religious and the most patriotic thing I’d ever said.


“Because you despise me, you are the only one I trust.” – Ugarte


In the time between the end of regulation and the first extra time period Jim went to go to the bathroom and I talked to Ed, and tried to talk to my girlfriend.

“We got this,” I said. “Thirty more minutes? We’re fine.”

“We’re not all fucking fine,” Ed said, tilting his head at the crazy woman sitting next to him. He wasn’t far off. Already, with regulation over, there were things being muttered about this woman that were very, very unpleasant.

“It’s all right,” I said. “She’s gonna look pretty stupid by the time this is over.”

Ed just gave me a look that said “yeah, sure, right.”

I turned to look at my girlfriend. “This is fun, right?”

She stared at me and said nothing.

(Sign missed by me #47.)

Not too long after, extra time started, Gyan scored very quickly, and now the game degenerated into us desperately searching for an equalizer. Jim came back right after all this, but because of the way the crowd had shifted he couldn’t get back to his seat at the bar, so he ended up standing just behind me to my left.

Right around the middle of the second extra time period, Jim leaned into me and said, “this is great. You’re gonna love winning a World Cup game on penalties.”

I gave him a look that said, are you nuts? We were chasing the game and losing ground. Penalties certainly didn’t look like a sure thing.

About two minutes later, Jim shouted “oh fuck me, it’s 2-1?!”

Now, if you haven’t been there you won’t know this, but if you have you may remember that the TVs at the Dark Horse didn’t have great sight lines. The TV we were watching specifically – the one at 12 o’clock high, recall – especially had this problem, where if you weren’t sitting at the bar you lost the top quarter or so of the television. Where the banner with the clock and the score were.

Jim had been in the bathroom when Gyan scored.

“Oh, fuck, sorry mate,” he said. “I thought it was still 1-1. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Donovan will come through.”

At one point with a few minutes left in the game, a US player fouled a Ghana player again and the woman in front of me started her shit again, hurling anti-US invective at the television.

The dam broke.

Ed, who was already pretty lubed up and pretty depressed over the impending outcome, snapped and lunged at the woman, screaming, “SHUT THE FUCK UP! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! YOU BETTER SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

I jumped between them as quickly as I could and started to push Ed away from her, shouting, “ED! ED! Fuck her, man, forget her!”

Ed leaned over my shoulder, pushing against me, and was still shouting “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” at the woman.

Finally I pushed him a foot or so in front of me and shouted “ED! STOP!”

He looked at me for a split second, and I said, loud enough for others to hear, “we’re better than this.”

Ed looked at me and deflated a little bit. Then he clapped me on the shoulder and said, “you’re right.”

He sat back on his stool and looked at the woman and said, “and you’re lucky.”

I thought that she wasn’t going to be lucky for much longer.

When the second extra time period got into added time and she started loudly jeering the US again, and the other people in the bar started yelling “shut the fuck up!” or worse, I motioned Paul over, leaned over the bar, and shouted, “you’ve gotta get her out of here, man!”

Paul nodded and shouted something like “I’ll try!”

When the final whistle blew, the woman started cheering, and the bar went berserk.

No one actually DID anything, mind, but what they were screaming ranged from crude name-calling to things that were perilously close to specific threats of phyiscal violence.

There were only three people in the bar not actively engaged in pillorying this woman. One was Paul, behind the bar, who was trying to calm down the people he knew.

Another was my girlfriend, who even though I couldn’t see her I knew was staring daggers into my back.

The other was Mark, in the dark corner, who was asleep with his head on the bar. He’d had a long day drinking and cheering and had been peacefully passed out since the first period of extra time

The noise in the bar started to get louder and uglier.

I said to the woman, “you really need to get the hell outta here!”

She looked up at me and, in quite possibly the stupid single sentence I have ever heard a person utter, shouted, “I have a right to be here!”

I yelled, not out of temper but exasperation, “there’s five hundred of them and one of you, you’re about to get fucking killed!”

And over the din I heard Mark’s wife Eileen’s voice, as clear as church bells on a Sunday morning, scream, “I’M GONNA RIP OUT YOUR HEART!”

It is worth noting here that “heart” is not actually the word she used, though the word she did use was also biological and also ended with the letter “t.”

I looked over and while Mark was still sound asleep, she was drunkenly swaying off her bar stool and looking every bit like she was about to come over to where we were standing and perform the proposed surgery with her bare hands.

I looked back at the stupid woman and said, “your tab is paid! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”

This, apparently, finally got through to her and she ducked out – literally, she ducked as she scrambled for the back door as people in the bar either laughed at her as she left or screamed for her blood.

Once she was out the door, the bar let out a cheer. Jim, who was back in his seat at the bar, turned to us and said, smiling, “football, eh? Good times!”

I turned to look at my girlfriend.

I wasn’t sure she appreciated how good a time we had.



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The future changes as we stand here, else we are the game pieces of the gods.

Posted by kozemp on February 28, 2014

A little while ago something flashed across my Twitter feed:

“Polls show that 92% of Afghans have never heard of 9/11.”

I read that and my immediate thought was, “you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

My second thought was, “I bet that came from Tumblr.”

Now, understand something, if you are not the sort of person who is all that terribly plugged in to the internet culture: Tumblr is basically the worst thing in human history. You thought the internet itself was bad? Tumblr is the internet’s evil transporter twin from The Enemy Within, only in addition to being made of carbon atoms and pure malice it’s also incredibly, unbelievably ignorant. Tumblr is where thought and reason and knowledge and meaning go to die. It is the gaping maw of the giant vagina monster Ozymandias drops on Manhattan: a mindless, insensate primordial annihilator.

Of course this idiotic horseshit came from Tumblr.

I eventually backtracked through the reblogs to find the original piece. I’m not going to link to it here, because the author is an intellectually dishonest asswipe to an extent I hadn’t previously thought possible and I’m not giving the site any more traffic. I found the “polls show that 92% of Afghans have never heard of 9/11” claim and – lo and behold! alas and alack! – there was neither source nor attribution of any kind.

That’s not the good part. Hell, that’s just Tumblr: the Mos Eisley of the internet.

No, the good part came in a follow-up piece I found where our brave author with no name says, and I quote:

“I do a lot of research on the information I post, but at the same time I avoid citations. My reason for this is that I find the common internet phrase ‘citation needed’ to be somewhat dismissive.”

That right there is your “intellectually dishonest asswipe” money shot.

You don’t want to put your name on your bullshit ravings? Fine. It’s cowardly, and hilariously melodramatic, and is just one more sign that you are not someone to be taken seriously, but fine. Write anonymously. But to willfully, purposefully refuse to cite your own sources because… why? Because you live in some sort of self-aggrandizing fantasy world where you think citing your sources is beneath you?

Do you know what that means?

That means you are a charlatan. That means you are a fraud. That is the final, overriding proof that you are not someone to be taken seriously.

Let me explain something here.

You say “polls show that 92% of Afghans have never heard of 9/11” and anyone with an ounce of fucking sense in their head is going to realize that statement as presented is almost certainly untrue. It’s not DEFINITELY untrue, but it is, to say the least, extraordinarily unlikely. To accept a statement like that on face value requires one of two scenarios:

1) You are profoundly ignorant of how polling is conducted, how polling data is generated, of statistics, logistics, simple geography and the last 35 years of world history, in which case you shouldn’t be throwing around statistics at all, much less statistics that purport to provide valuable insight into a complex and important issue.

2) You are willfully ignorant of all those things, and thus possess at best a casual relationship with the truth, in which case you are, as mentioned previous, a charlatan and a fraud.

You say “polls show that 92% of Afghans have never heard of 9/11.”

I say:

I want to see the sample size of the poll. I want to see how respondents were selected. I want to see the error. I want to see the response rate. I want to see the exact questions that were asked. I want to see the order they were asked in. I want to see how the integrity of the polling questions was verified. I want to see the exact methodology of how the poll was taken. Sweet zombie Jesus do I want to see the exact methodology, because the notion that a country where 92% of the population doesn’t know why the United States has been blowing them into smithereens for 12 years can somehow be polled accurately is so ludicrous it defies rational belief.

And if you can’t show me or point me at every single one of those things, YOU DON’T GET TO TOSS THAT NUMBER AROUND, because you are a charlatan, and a fraud. You are lying. What’s more, you know you’re lying, because you have already stated that from the start you weren’t interested in presenting the truth.

Extraordinary claims, jackass. Extraordinary claims.

You want to sit there and wax rhapsodic about the Oscars or LeBron or Game of Thrones or whatever, go for it. You want to write long, prosaic treatises about how awful our colonial misadventures make you feel, knock yourself out. They make me feel pretty awful too. Express your feelings however you like.

But you want to make claims of fact? You want to make an argument? You want to use numbers? You make sure they’re right. You make sure they’re solid all the way down to the bedrock. You make sure they’re unimpeachable and unassailable. You make sure they’re incontrovertible. You make sure, or you keep your mouth shut. Facts are for the big boys. Arguments are for grownups. Numbers are for the folks responsible enough to know how to use them right. We’re not screwing around here. This is the NFL, goddammit.

Why am I so angry about this? A couple reasons.

Partially because, broadly speaking, I agree with the politics behind it. Though I don’t have firsthand experience of it I am willing to believe the journalists and soldiers and diplomats and analysts who tell me that Afghanistan is in terrible shape, and that our continued presence there isn’t helping. I’m a pacifist, for Chrissakes. Of course I want us to not blow people up if we can possibly avoid it.

I’m angry because it makes the rest of us who share that viewpoint look bad. We’re not talking about the Phillies’ starting rotation. This is life and death. This is empire and history. This is the difference between wrong and right, and recognizing that, and working to make sure the right choices get made. This is the good fight, and it’s that much harder to fight it when Steve the Drunk is shouting obscenities from the back row.

The other reason, though, the big, major, roiling mad reason is that the person who wrote that is not stupid. They are, as I said previous, intellectually dishonest, incredibly so, made all the worse by the fact that they are so willingly and purposefully – but they’re not stupid. They are a charlatan: an intelligent person who uses their intelligence to prey on the fear and ignorance and hopes and desires of others. A person who uses their gifts solely to enrich and to advance themselves at the expense of people they should be elevating and ennobling. A person who takes the single greatest gift you can be given when you enter this world and corrupts it for nothing more than their own gain.

Like I said: a charlatan. I learned that word from Raistlin Majere when I was ten years old, it’s been burned into my brain ever since and it makes me angrier than anything on earth, because for unto whomsoever much is given, of him much shall be required, motherfucker.

This is the NFL, and we hit.


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