nicolasix.com http://www.nicolasix.com Latest posts on Nicolasix en-us Copyright 2004 Nicolasix.com http://backend.userland.com/rss Tue, 30 Jun 2009 06:13:39 EST rothko@nicolasix.com (Rothko) So Today, I'm Making a Promise to My Mistress http://www.nicolasix.com/662/ But the truth is, she's my mistress. She's a lot of fun to look at naked, but she's not where my heart lies.
She's a right good thing, this. And I love her.

But the truth is, she's my mistress. She's a lot of fun to look at naked, but she's not where my heart lies.

So I'm making a promise to myself. And by making it here, I'm making it to the rest of you. I'm not writing here anymore until I'm done with my novel. By "done," I mean completed a working draft. If I break the promise, I'll know. And you all will know. And, worst of all, she'll know.

Here's one thing I know about mistresses: they're fickle. When I'm ready to come back, she may not want me. If that happens, I'll have to find another. And it's okay, because maybe she'll be somebody a little more fond of the kink. And the dirty, filthy talk. Somebody who doesn't wear panties. Unless, of course, they're the only thing she's wearing.

(When you're writing a novel, it helps to dream big.)

I should also mention that I have shaved my head. And it will remain in this hairless state until a final chapter is typed.

And so I will behave henceforth like a monk, but not of the ascetic variety. Because I need a heavy dose of the social in order to carry this thing off. So I hope to be seeing all of you as much as possible. And I will be available for any and all trouble-making that you may (or may not) deem appropriate. And I will do the wearing of hats and the drinking of beers. And I will smoke what is set before me.

Also, my daddy always taught me, if it's just a quickie, it ain't cheating. So I have decreed that the posting of pics and tweets doth not a true blog post make and therefore will continue to be indulged in at more or less regular intervals.

That is all.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/662/ Blog Writing Tue, 30 Jun 2009 08:09:18 EST Deciding Not to Choose http://www.nicolasix.com/661/ Then there's the whole problem of choice. Goddamit. We like to think having choices makes us happy. But we now know the great paradox about that, don't we? That the more choices we have, in general, the less happy we seem to be. Because there's the fear of making the "wrong" choice. And there's the regret that comes with making a bad one. And, of course, in a certain time and place, every choice can seem like a bad one. At root, I think is the illusion of control we like to maintain. paradox about that, don't we? That the more choices we have, in general, the less happy we seem to be. Because there's the fear of making the "wrong" choice. And there's the regret that comes with making a bad one. And, of course, in a certain time and place, every choice can seem like a bad one. At root, I think is the illusion of control we like to maintain—that we have power over our lives and that our choices give us this power. That we determine our fate, in part, through the decisions we make. And shit, when you think of it like that, it's paralyzing, isn't it?

It's why I like to feel the burden of self-imposed boundaries. It's also why I like to be addicted to things. Because when you're addicted to things, when you set up boundaries for yourself, you remove the element of choice from your day. When you're operating under compulsion, you take away the risk of making the wrong decision. Because it's already been made. Long ago. And now you're just carrying through, brother. And I'm good at the carry-through.

Everybody sets up these boundaries for themselves. Some people call the construct of boundaries "religion." Some people call it "the law." Some people go green, or vegan, or organic, or sans gluten...or only the orange ones, daddy, only the orange ones. At root, though, they're all the same—huge constructs of self-imposed limits, of socially-shared burdens, which help people whittle down the decisions they have to make and at the same time feel like they're participating in something larger than their own isolated, random preference. If I believe I will be healthier by using all-natural shampoo and eating organic, free-range chickens that were raised on a farm where at least 15 percent of the diet is flies and all the people working there are left-handed, well that helps me decide which products among the hundreds out there I will pick up the next time I go to the store. And if other people share this belief with me, well that just reinforces my decision and helps me feel...right. Bonus. (Just to be clear, my shampoo ain't natural. But my chicken sure is organic and free-ranging, doncha know. I compromise on the left-handed thing.)

I listened to a great Radio Lab episode on choice recently. There was this story about a guy who, because of an injury to his brain, had lost the ability to experience emotion. And the gist of the thing was, hey, wouldn't this make him a better decision maker? If you think in terms of Star Trek, which I have to admit sometimes I do, this would be the equivalent of being a Vulcan. Without emotion, you'd be hyper-rational. And the usual logic, um...dictates...that this would allow you to be a better decision maker. Well the irony in the Radio Lab piece (and there's pretty much always an irony in Radio Lab pieces) was this: without emotion, this person actually lost the ability to make a decision at all. About anything. Because he was constantly rationalizing. Should he use the pen with the blue ink or black ink? Should he buy Grape Nuts or Wheaties...or the Honey Nut Cheerios? For a person who can only be rational, these seemingly simple decisions become impossible. And so he became paralyzed by them. It turns out we need emotion. Because in the end, some things can't be rationalized. In the end, we have to go with something.

Moses and I are grilling free-range chicken in my back yard. He spits in the grass and takes a drag on a fat cigar. Honey is next to us waiting for the drop of deliciousness that's sure to come.

"Maybe I suffer from a lack of emotion," I tell him.

"Maybe you're deciding not to choose," says Moses. "How's that working out for you?"

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/661/ Chewing TheLine Mon, 08 Jun 2009 12:40:39 EST And the Earth Moved, And We Along With It http://www.nicolasix.com/660/ For me, the earthquake helped get my mind off the fact that I had lost my Blackberry somewhere on the beach earlier that day. I was feeling kind of down about that, and the prospect of a crushing death under fallen debris helped put the whole thing in perspective. Frank's wedding at the posh Hotel Bel-Air. I was one of the groomsmen and had the responsibility of holding on to the rings and producing them for the bride and groom during the ceremony. I was not nervous about this task before the day of the wedding, which proved to be an oversight on my part. The wedding planner quickly set me straight. In the hours leading up to the ceremony, she'd stop me every 15 or 20 minutes and say, "Show me the rings!" And it was clear from her demeanor that if I did not have them, she would, in all probability, breath fire and unleash a swarm of locusts on my ass. So I'd dive my cold, clammy fingers into my interior jacket pocket with no small degree of panic, convinced the rings had somehow disappeared between that time and the last time she had stopped me. Because, as you may know already, when things are out of my sight, they basically cease to exist to my brain. Thankfully, the two silver bands remained in my pocket up to and during the ceremony and when the crucial moment finally came, I was able to take them out and set them carefully in the hands of the betrothed without dropping them.

As it turns out, though, I was not able to recite the ee cummings poem that I was tasked with reading without banging the microphone with the clipboard on which the poem was attached. In retrospect, I think the subsequent loud boom which echoed across the lovely green served as a nice counterbalance to the somber poem, which I otherwise read exceedingly well, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'd love to think I have the kind of voice that could bring a woman to tears, but it would have been horrible if one of the bridesmaids had actually started crying, or swooned, or collapsed at my eloquence. So, a little boom of the mic stand. You're welcome.

At the wedding, I reconnected with the groomsmen I had hung out with in Vegas, which was cool. While in mixed company, nobody discussed the bachelor party. Which was good. We just stared at our shoes and shuffled our feet a lot.

After the wedding, C and I went down to Laguna Beach and stayed at her sister's boyfriend's parent's cottage. It was beautiful and magical and all those other adjectives people use for locations like that. We sat on the beach and went to art galleries, and I can say with certainty that, for both of us, the earth moved. Literally. We experienced our first earthquake. A 4.7, which was not quite on the scale of wetting one's pants, but still enough of a shaker to be thankful that you're still of an age where you have reasonably good control of your bladder. We were sitting in a little Mexican restaurant off the main drag. Enjoying our second margarita on the second floor. Then there was a loud rumbling noise and things started shaking. When I say "things" I mean heavy things. Things that don't normally "shake." Like our table. Like my soul. Then there was a little heave thrown in, and just a tinsy bit of ho. As in give her the ol' heave-ho. Like the earth was feeling finicky and just decided to move the building a smidge to the left. On a whim. Just to scratch an itch. It's a strange sensation to feel that the building you're in is moving, especially given the fact that buildings should not, you know, move. The rumble and the shake went on for a good five seconds or so. We looked at the other people's faces in the small restaurant. It seemed to sink in for everybody at the same time that holy shit, this was a fucking earthquake! A few people stood up and started for the door. Then as soon as it had begun, it stopped, and the relieved waiter shouted out, "Tequila!" And we laughed uncomfortably.

For me, the earthquake helped get my mind off the fact that I had lost my Blackberry somewhere on the beach earlier that day. I was feeling kind of down about that, and the prospect of a crushing death under fallen debris helped put the whole thing in perspective. For a little while, anyway. (I'm not that great at maintaining "perspective.") For those who are keeping track, this is the third time I've lost a phone this year. It's still early, though. So don't cash in your bets yet. I have an old Palm Treo which still sort of works and which I have begun using as of yesterday. It doesn't have a holster so there's pretty good odds this one will end up disappearing before too long. Incidentally, if you've texted me over the past week, you may have received the ominous reply "Message Deleted." This is not due to the fact that I hate you. At least not entirely. It's mostly due to the fact that my phone has been deactivated and for some reason this is the response it sent back to C's test text last week.

Onwards ... there was a stop to visit two warm-hearted, lovely women we met four years ago in Costa Rica. They live in the Hollywood Hills, in Laurel Canyon, which has been home to many rock stars and is about as great a location as you can want. A wonderful steak meal. Even better conversation. And Chet Baker on the stereo.

Then we met up with our Dallas Buds, Jeff, Eric, and Kim at LAX and hopped in a rented van we named "TheMitch" for a drive north up the coast. The name has a back-story, but I think it's something I'll leave untold. For mystery and, you know, intrigue and shit. I will say, however, that it had nothing to do with my good friend of that same name and everything to do with a good several hours of hard drinking. Oops. I meant "thinking."

There were stops in Santa Barbara, Avila Beach (I highly recommend this hotel), San Luis Obispo (known to LA'ers as "SLO"), Hearst Castle, Nepenthe, Carmel, Monterey, and finally the San Francisco Bay area, where we spent three nights at C's parent's house. They tried to culture us with a trip to Sonoma and Napa, and I think it may have even worked. We drank plenty of wine. And some brandy. And a few ports. Oh, and an ice wine. And we brought back six bottles from Ledson and two Mondavi Moscato d'Oro, and some fancy vinegar from B.R. Cohn.

Andy and Sabrina met all of us in the city our last day and we walked around North Beach and drank and laughed and talked. And it was just good, is all—to be in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

Three hours sleep the last night. One of those morning alarms that confuses you. Like, why in holy hell is that thing going off and what is it anyway? A long flight back to the Garden State by way of LAX. Hasty pasta followed by dead sleep. Picked up Honey the next morning at her friend Chubby's house. Chubby is a dog about the same size and temperament as Honey only she's black and white, with longer hair, and a curved tail. They roughhouse and chase and smoke cigarettes and talk shit about their owners. I think Honey had about as good a time as we did. Eating cat food and all kinds of treats from the fingers of a seven-year-old girl who, for those ten days, along with Chubby, became her new best friend and let her sleep in her bed.

And Honey didn't know or care that C and I had spent ten relaxing days on the west coast, or that I had lost my phone, or that for five breath-stopping seconds we were in the deep rumble of an earthquake, or that for days after the earth moved and we along with it. And that's why, I guess, it was so good to see her.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/660/ Travel San_Francisco Friends Family Thu, 28 May 2009 09:03:12 EST The New Star Trek Movie Made Me Feel Like a Kid Again http://www.nicolasix.com/659/ The reason I was able to get lost in this movie was because it did what Star Wars did so well back in 1977, and still does well today: it told a story. And it brought to life compelling characters. That's what it's all about, really. And it's sad and sort of disappointing that you don't see it so much anymore. Star Wars in the theater. I was maybe five or six, and I had that wonderful feeling of being completely lost in a movie, like the world I was familiar with had just melted away and, in its place, there had sprung up this whole other realm where people used lightsabers, and moved things with their minds. And I was not just a spectator of that world. I was part of it. I was convinced I had the force. (Still am, really.) And I think I had a crush on Princess Leia. (Still do, really.) And for the moments I watched that movie, I actually lived in that place. For real.

I'm sure there are many, many thirty-something boys (and probably a good many girls, as well) who had the same experience. Star Wars really set the bar for sci-fi/action/adventure movies for us. And I'm going to go ahead and make a bold assertion: despite all the advances in technology and special effects, there has been very little to live up to that bar since. These types of movies just don't give me that same feeling of complete immersion. Maybe The Matrix is one exception. But that's all that comes to mind.

I usually blame myself for this, more than the movie. I assume it has to do with my age, and the fact that I'm probably just more jaded about cinema. But thankfully, this past Wednesday night, the new Star Trek movie proved me wrong. Because it succeeded in making me feel six years old again. And I'm going to tell you this: it wasn't because of the special effects, though they were pretty dang special...and "effective." (I really liked the sound of the ships going to warp, for instance. This was Star Trek on steroids. But it felt good, and not overdone.) The reason I was able to get lost in this movie was because it did what Star Wars did so well back in 1977, and still does well today—it told a story. And it brought to life compelling characters. That's what it's all about, really. And it's sad and sort of disappointing that you don't see it so much anymore.

The new Star Trek movie is first and foremost about storytelling. It doesn't rely on gimmicks. The special effects enhance the movie without being the movie. It's just some good sci-fi drama. Smart. Funny. Character-driven. It even reminded me of that original Star Wars in many ways. It had a similar "raw" feel to it, which is one of the reasons I suppose I've always been more of a Star Wars fan than Star Trek.

There's been a lot of talk about how die-hard trekkies may not like this movie because of the way it's been billed as "not your father's Star Trek." I don't know. I can't really speak for die-hard trekkies, because I'm not one. I didn't start watching Star Trek until Voyager and I still have no interest in watching or catching up on older series. Thankfully, I have a wife who can get me up to speed on the pertinent historical points of the Star Trek franchise. But I can say that it would be a shame to miss this movie in the theater out of some ideological protest. Director J.J. Abrams and writers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman have done a great job of re-inventing the story line and characters in a way that make them seem entirely plausible (in Star Trek context, that is). They've lifted the characters out from under the weight of past Star Trek movies and TV episodes and have made them seem more interesting and complicated (credit due to the actors, too, of course). More importantly, they have done the seemingly impossible task of preserving the precious Star Trek story-line that existed before, while at the same time creating an entirely new one. This should make everybody happy (but probably won't.)

I'm usually disappointed with today's sci-fi/action/adventure movies. They're often heavy on action and light on plot and character development and the whole experience is just entirely...forgettable. I realize this makes me sound like an old man. And if that doesn't, this will: I usually fall asleep during most of the action movies I watch these days. Admittedly, this might indeed have something to do with my age, but I like to think it has more to do with over-stimulation of the senses and under-stimulation of the brain. I prefer an even stimulation of both.

I'm happy to report that I did not fall asleep during Star Trek. I did, however, forget I was sitting in a movie theater, which doesn't happen very much anymore. It made me feel like a kid again. And it's nice to know that there are still things that can do that. Afterwards, it seemed way too adult to be sipping a Dewars at the premiere "After Party" with C. What this really called for was ice cream.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/659/ Movies Reviews Fri, 08 May 2009 15:21:11 EST I'm Finding it Difficult to Express My Feelings Right Now http://www.nicolasix.com/658/ And how to express the deep sense of revulsion and horror I feel at moments like this? proud she doesn't eat dog shit? Normally, you'd be proud of the things your dog does well. Like "roll over" or "stay." It's a feeling built upon affirmation of a job well done, not on not doing the thing that never, ever—no really, never—should be done in the first place. You should not have to feel pride when the animal you love and care for—and who, incidentally, licks your ears lovingly when you're driving in the truck together—does not eat dookie.

Sometimes though, in moments of weakness I suppose, Honey will rub her face and neck in the feces of other dogs, as she did this morning while we were walking in the park near my house. A beautiful, wet morning. A light mist falling. Hardly any people around. Just the green grass growing. And the pond, still and somber. So peaceful. One minute we're standing there, watching the ducks float gently across the water. The next, she's on the ground, rubbing her neck in poop. So unexpected. So very wrong and upsetting.

And how to express the deep sense of revulsion and horror I feel at moments like this? Disappointment? I'm disappointed in you, Honey, for rubbing your neck in dog feces. Oh, but it's so much more than that, really. Confusion? I'm deeply confused, befuddled even, as to why you would do this neck-rubbing-in-shit business. This gets to the crux of it, I suppose, but lacks that flash of anger that accompanies it. Piqued? Irked? Vexed? Almost there.

Enraged—ah, this might be what I'm looking for. Especially when, later, after removing her collar, I end up with the coffee-colored caca on my hand. Nothing to wipe it on. And still needing to drive home. Yes, rage comes very close to what I felt at that moment. But I'm so rarely enraged by anything, really. And I'd hate to be guilty of exaggeration or overstating the truth.

Sometimes it's so difficult expressing my emotions.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/658/ Honey Mon, 04 May 2009 13:32:16 EST Vegas Brings People Together, Or Maybe It's Just the Boobs http://www.nicolasix.com/657/ Also, I have to add that one of the great things that happens when one of my good friends gets married is I end up meeting a bunch of other people who I also really like. Because close friends of close friends have a way of getting along. Or maybe it just helped that we were inebriated the entire weekend and that we started things off at a titty bar. Desert Inn, but today is home to the Wynn/Encore towers.

Frank was one of my closest friends in college. We shared an apartment for two years. We had adventures. We made stories. Some of them we struggle to remember now. Others we try hard to forget. After graduation, Frank went to LA to work in the movie business. I spent the summer in DC interning at the Kennedy Center. By early fall, I still had no idea what I was going to do next. So instead of coming to terms with this reality, I did what any self-respecting escape artist with a penchant for the romantic would do: I took a cross-country road trip, sleeping in the bed of my truck, and charging the entire thing to my one-and-only credit card, on which some crazy bastard at one of our well-run banking institutions had recently given me a $10,000 spending limit.

So after travels through the Smokies and Texas, and an extended stay in New Mexico and The Grand Canyon, I turned up in Vegas with a German hitchhiker in tow. And Frank and I met up for a day of gambling (with limited funds) and dinner at the cheapest buffet we could find on the strip. Frank suggested I keep going on to LA and hang out at his place for a bit, and I wish I had done that. Because then it would have been a true "coast to coast" trip. And who knows what that fork in the road might have brought. I might have wound up with a career in porn and a nickname like "Ramrod." But I had already been traveling for about three or four weeks by that point, and the credit card was filling up fast, and I was starting to think maybe I should get back to my "real" life, whatever that was going to be. Plus, and I'm not proud to admit this, I think there might have been a girl on my mind. Christ. Isn't there always?

So we hung out for the day and then he went back to LA and I started my long trek back to DC, heading north on 15 through Utah and taking 70 through Colorado and the great flat farm country of Kansas. There's no way I would have believed you if you had told me I wouldn't see Frank again for another thirteen years.

We both have some gray hairs now, though I have quite a few more of them than Frank. And we dress nicer than we used to, mainly because we have women in our lives who are good at telling us what looks good on us. (Not plaid, it turns out.) But other than that, we are exactly the same. And it was really, really cool to hang out with him and his other friends this weekend for his bachelor party. I laughed harder this weekend than I have in a long time. It's a horrible cliche to say, but even though I hadn't seen Frank in 13 years, it felt like it was just yesterday. I think one reason people tend to express it this way is that they find there just isn't that need to "catch up." I mean, even though Frank and I chatted some about our lives and what had been going on, that wasn't what was important. Which isn't to say I don't care about those things, it's just that my friendship with him doesn't depend on "facts." It was just cool to hang out, drink, share some stories, exchange wisecracks, and look at women. (Don't worry Kelley, only I looked at women. Frank was a saint.)

CS Lewis nailed it when he wrote: "Friendship...is uninquisitive. You become a man's friend without knowing or caring whether he is married or single or how he earns his living. What have all these "unconcerning things, matters of fact" to do with the real question, Do you see the same truth?" I guess Frank and I see the "same truth," though I don't know if I would necessarily express it that way. I'm uncomfortable with the word "truth" and other forms of "absolutism," so I feel better calling it a "more-or-less shared philosophy." And an appreciation for the same jokes.

Also, I have to add that one of the great things that happens when one of my good friends gets married is I end up meeting a bunch of other people who I also really like. Because close friends of close friends have a way of getting along.

Of course, it didn't hurt that we were inebriated the entire weekend and that we started things off at a titty bar. That's some truth I can feel comfortable with.


(If you're interested, there are pics here.)

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/657/ Vegas Friends Wed, 29 Apr 2009 13:38:58 EST I Put Things in Boxes So They Won't Disappear http://www.nicolasix.com/656/ So I want to make clear, first of all, that my fear of drawers is NOT this kind of fear. They don't cause me to jump in fright. And I lose very little in the way of bejeezus when I see them. However, like Honey's fear, the root cause of my drawer phobia may indeed have something to do with a general uneasiness when it comes to magic and all things supernatural.
So I want to make clear, first of all, that my fear of drawers is NOT this kind of fear. They don't cause me to jump in fright. And I lose very little in the way of bejeezus when I see them. However, like Honey's fear, the root cause of my drawer phobia may indeed have something to do with a general uneasiness when it comes to magic and all things supernatural. Because the thing I can't get over is this: once I put something in a drawer or a file cabinet, that item essentially disappears. Not just from sight. But from existence.

I learned from an article I read in the NY Times recently that I'm the type of person who likes to have every document and paper within easy reach, and I don't like using file folders because "out of sight" is indeed "out of mind." It's why everything I'm working on tends to be out in plain view, either on my desk or on the floor around me. This way I can always see it.

On some level, I guess I've always known this about myself—that I need to be able to see things in order to remember they are there. I suppose it's why I've always resisted filing things in any sort of traditional way. The problem has to do with finding the document, or paper, or whatever it is, ever again. I should say, though, that some things are fine to file. Bills, for instance. I don't want to be reminded that bills exist. So putting old bills in a file cabinet is a perfect solution for them. Moreover, figuring out what to call the folder is pretty easy: "Credit Cards, 2008," or "Utilities, 2007" or "Mayonnaise Expenditures, 2004-2006," (those were wild years.)

Once you've labeled the folders, then you just stick those suckers in the file cabinet in some random way and even though you have no idea exactly where in the drawer the folder is, you're fairly sure it's in there and all you've got to do is be able to read the tabs you've marked in order to find it again...IF you ever need to find it again, which hopefully you won't.

But what about the stuff that doesn't lend itself to easy categorization? Where should I put the great New York Traffic Ticket of 2009, for instance? In a folder called "Traffic Tickets," perhaps? But does it really need to have it's own folder? Maybe I should stick it in the car maintenance folder. The car loan folder? The insurance folder, since this is where it will have the biggest impact? I'm usually overwhelmed by the choices at this point and I just opt for someplace on my desk.

You see? It's the fear, baby. The fear of drawers. The fear of putting things away and never finding them again.

Several years ago, I started using a "box" system. It's similar to the system the professional organizer advocates in the article I link to above. Which makes me feel very smart for having come up with it on my own, and like maybe I could make a career out of this. Or maybe not. In any case, my box system has allowed me to have catch-all bins where I can toss things without committing myself too deeply to a specific category. I labeled the four original bins "Do," "Done," "Keep," and "Biz." And recently I added two others: "Receipts" and "Medical." In general, anything that isn't easily fileable will fall into one of these conceptual categories. And even if my brain switches on itself and decides that a different category makes better sense for a particular item after I've already put it in one of the other boxes, there's still only six boxes to choose from and I at least know it's in one of them.

You might say—and you might be right—that this really amounts to the same thing as tucking it inside a file folder and sticking it in a drawer. But I think the difference is that the boxes are right there in front of me at all times. I can SEE them. And the labels are there staring back at me. There's comfort in that. And I can easily take a box down and rifle through it during moments of sheer panic, which is nice. And then when I'm done, I can just throw everything back in it and pretend the whole episode never happened.

Believe me, it's so much simpler this way.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/656/ Lifehack Ho_Hum Finances Tue, 21 Apr 2009 12:08:58 EST Three Things, As I Climb the Stairs http://www.nicolasix.com/655/ And so I took my pen and I scribbled on the piece of paper three things as I climbed the stairs. So I wouldn't forget the feeling, and so I could describe them in a way that might make sense.
And none of this actually matters, anyway.

When I asked the girl at the counter for something to write on, she looked all around her, totally ignoring one of those pads I'm talking about, which was right there in front of her. I had to point at it. Then she made a face like Of course! and tore off the top piece from the pad and gave it to me. Funny how we overlook these ubiquitous pads, especially when we're looking for that one thing that can do exactly what they do so perfectly: provide a temporary blank slate to make possible the quick unleashing of an idea or the jotting of a bit of information.

And so I took my pen and I scribbled on the piece of paper three things as I climbed the stairs. So I wouldn't forget the feeling, and so I could describe them in a way that might make sense. So I could explain how and why. And that sometimes this shit scares me. I even numbered them...1, 2, 3.

But I lost the paper. And I've forgotten the three things. Like most of the stuff I care deeply about. Or couldn't give a shit about.

"And isn't that funny?" I say. "I can't tell the difference anymore."

"Maybe there is no difference," says Moses. "Why don't you tell her that."

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/655/ TheLine Mon, 20 Apr 2009 12:06:40 EST Waiting for Things to Thaw http://www.nicolasix.com/654/ And the worries we brought with us too melted, but still formed pools on the surface, making it clear to us that a longer break was needed.
We chat with some regulars. An old lady with a deep voice tinged with too many cigarettes and a gruff Quebecois accent tells us that pretty soon a few other dogs will come and then it's time for all the others to leave. This doesn't really make sense to us, but it seems of great importance to the woman and we nod our heads.

The drive up had been rocky. We were hungry. Frazzled. We kept making stops for things. A New York trooper had given C a ticket in a stretch of highway that for no apparent reason had become a 55-mile an hour zone. And we had forgotten some things. And we were just tired.

But we had remembered quite a few other things. And that was good. And at the border, the customs agent smiled at us and wished us well. And now there was maple syrup in our stomachs, and tortiere, and all kinds of other food and beer and wine. And Honey enjoying a good romp around the muddy field, still saturated from melted snow.

And the worries we brought with us too melted, but still formed pools on the surface making it clear to us that a longer break was needed.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/654/ Weekend Travel Fri, 17 Apr 2009 09:40:19 EST Brand Me http://www.nicolasix.com/653/ Hi. I am a brand.
On occasion, I write funny things.

Other times, I write things so I don't cry.

I will occasionally be honest.

I will occasionally lie.

And yet, I will never be insincere or falsely sentimental. (Though you may disagree.)

I will never write poetry, because I think poetry is a sham.

Mainly, though...I am just a brand.

Hello.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/653/ Ho_Hum Chewing Blog Thu, 16 Apr 2009 08:38:34 EST The One About the Fat Cricket http://www.nicolasix.com/652/ Moses is sick of my bitching and carrying on. At Starbucks, he sips his coffee and taps his finger and looks out the window. He has cleaned up a bit. He wears dress slacks. A button up shirt. His hair is slicked back. He looks downright respectable.
And if you stop for a moment and you're quiet and you just listen, you'll hear it—frogs in a pond, all going on about this thing we're thinking. Right now, at this moment. This minute. This second. The fat cricket on the cattail. Again. The uncomfortable temperature of the water. Again. What's the trend? What's the topic? Chances are somebody's done it. Chances are somebody's said it. But that's okay. It gives the topic weight. Substance. What matters is that you say it. Do it now, before it's too late! Nobody cares if you say it in a new way. Just rehash it. It's still you. Always you. Now look for the next thing. Because there's a certain see and be seen aspect to this stuff now. It's no longer about the voice. It's about being in the pond. And, holy crap man, you better be in the fucking pond. Because if you're not, what are we to make of you?

What, indeed?

The social Web is killing our voices, not empowering them. Killing style. Quality. The unique, the idiosyncratic, lost among all the others who are unique. And idiosyncratic. There is only the cacophonous symphony of isolated, anonymous frogs, croaking and lonely on our lily pads and just burping these things we've heard...whatever. Whoever. It doesn't matter. Hello? Echo.

We are at the same time more connected and more isolated. More aware of each other and less together. We stand among each other and tell the same jokes, endlessly. We speak at each other. We generate content. We build our fucking brand.

Oh, and have you heard? It's fashionable to be broken. And damn aren't we lucky, that?

Moses is sick of my bitching and carrying on. At Starbucks, he sips his coffee and taps his finger and looks out the window. He has cleaned up a bit. He wears dress slacks. A button up shirt. His hair is slicked back. He looks downright respectable.

"These things I do are kind of ridiculous," I say.

"Everything we do is ridiculous," he says. "So get on with it."

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/652/ TheLine Chewing Thu, 02 Apr 2009 09:04:37 EST Instinct, Muscle Memory, and The Art of Being a Bad-Ass http://www.nicolasix.com/651/ On my days off, I'd visit Juan. It was like my day at school. Because I was young and new to bartending. And Juan, who was a good ten years my senior, worked at one of the busiest Mexican cantinas in Dallas. He was, unequivocally, a bad-ass. And I felt like if I put in enough time observing him, that I too would be a bad-ass.
It's going to sound like hyperbole for me to say this, but Juan was a great bartender. He was, perhaps, the greatest bartender, at least for the type of place where he worked. And in the buzzing hurricane of that restaurant on a Friday or Saturday night, he was the calm absence of wind at the center. People standing five deep at that small bar, Chopper rumble all around in the warm Texas air, the service well ticking off orders from the floor, the flicking of bottle caps, the pouring of drinks, the placement of limes, the thwap-thwaping of dollar bills, the clinking of change—little snapshots of action taking place outside the context of time.

It's difficult to explain what exactly made him great. You could point to how he would hold the arch of a tequila pour in the air with the bottle high above it, keeping it all suspended there for a second, frozen in place, and then bringing the whole thing back, like a film wound in reverse, double speed, cutting off the pour with a snip and dropping the bottle back in the well. Then the click of the metal tumbler on glass, a twirl, before pouring it through a salted rim. You could point to that. And that would be part of it. Or you could point to more abstract things, like a correctly-placed smile to the right girl. Because even though he had a bit of a spare tire and wasn't some tall, handsome stereotype of good-looking-ness, he had the charm, and the girls would flirt with him. So yeah, you could point to that, and you'd be partially right.

But I guess if I had to peg it down, I would say the thing that made him a "great" bartender had something to do with the fact that he was always aware of what was going on at his bar, and he always knew what he was going to do next. And here's the key: when he did it, he did it in such a way that it didn't call attention to itself. It would happen, and then only afterwards you would realize, oh ... that just happened. Because he didn't move in a way that was calculated or deliberate. He didn't seem to be thinking about it. And most likely, he wasn't.

Watching instinct and muscle memory in action is a funny thing. They behave differently than premeditation, and carefully considered, conscious movement. And you can see the difference when you watch people who are good at what they do. Something takes over their presence. A sort of voodoo happens. You know it when you see it. And you know when you don't see it. And that's about all you can say about it. Instinct, muscle memory—combined with knowledge, they lead to an ability to improvise. And that's when you know you're watching something unique and remarkable. We tend to speak of this sort of thing when we talk about musicians and artists, but we don't always bring it up when we talk about everyday professions.

But it's there.

Do this: put a bottle of beer on a rubber bar mat and take a flat-style bottle opener and, without holding onto the bottle with your free hand, snap the cap off of it. Do it as quick as you can. Just lift that sucker off with one quick motion. It's doable, but not easy. And you'll look awkward doing it. And you'll probably knock the beer over on your first couple of attempts. Now, try this: with your free hand, try pouring a drink while the other hand opens the bottle. Knocked anything over yet? I think the first time I knew Juan was "great" at what he did, was when he did this. He was in the middle of pouring a drink, and as he held the pour with one hand, he took his opener out of his back pocket with the other, popped the caps on a couple of Corona bottles. Then he stuck the opener back in his pocket as he finished the pour, the caps clapping on the floor at his feet, the bottles just standing there on the mat, frozen in place, like a couple of stone pillars. It had been so effortless, non-calculating. He didn't think, I will pour this drink while I open these bottles. He just did it. And the expression on his face—that was part of it, too. Nonchalant, he didn't expect to be congratulated or anything. Part of what made it cool was that he did it all. But most of what made it cool was how he did it. And the fact that there was some doubt in my mind as to whether or not he even consciously knew he had done it.

I'm going to sound pretentious and haughty saying this, but I'm going to say it anyway, because I really don't think I sound pretentious and haughty nearly enough these days: if you sit at enough bars, you'll notice that the vast majority of bartenders really shouldn't be there. They don't really understand the job, and the truth is they don't really care. And most of them get by just fine that way. Because in general, we don't really care, either. We don't expect a lot from our bartenders. We just need bartenders to pour our drink and do it in the least amount of time possible. Also, the drinks we order, in general, are no-brainers. As a result, old-style bartenders who know "real" cocktails are on the decline. When we do find a bartender who knows a bit more, or who goes above and beyond, we're pleasantly surprised maybe, but we don't give it more thought than that. We don't necessarily want or need our bartenders to be "professionals" anymore.

But the problem isn't just that we expect less. It's also the fact that most establishments seem to care more that their bartenders are sexy than whether or not they're any good at what they do. As a result, you tend to find a lot of bartenders who think being professional means being beautiful and having attitude. They think it's those things that make them a bad-ass. I'm all for having attitude. Sometimes it can be important, as a means to an end. But it's not an end in itself. Also, I'm all for being beautiful, but if I wanted to have those people pouring my beer, with their cleavage and manicured nails everywhere, I'd go to Hooters or a just skip the pretense altogether and visit a titty bar. Frankly, I'd much rather somebody like Juan serve my drinks. The pros, the ones who seem to have nothing to prove, who wipe out your ashtray before you even realize it, who pay attention to your pace and who know even before you do that you'll want another drink or that you're finished, who can carry on a conversation while holding down the bar, who make their presence known by the fact that you never really need to ask them for anything, they're the ones operating on instinct and an understanding of the game. And they're increasingly hard to find.

Okay. Pretentious and haughty diatribe over. Back to your regularly scheduled programming ...

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/651/ Game_Theory Dallas Chewing Art Fri, 27 Mar 2009 10:22:58 EST Third Grade Journal: November 23th, 1982 http://www.nicolasix.com/650/ From my third grade journal: November 23rd, 1982 ... I Like journals but they're not fun when you have to write about killing a turkey.


How to cook a turkey

I Like journals but they're not fun when you have to write about killing a turky. [sic] If someone gave you a turkey live and said to cook it the first thing you would do is kill it then cut off the head. After that then you pluck it and take everything out of the turkey and then stuff it and put in the oven and cook it then you can eat it.

Teacher comment: Yuck! I buy mine frozen!

I love this one because of the "So do I!!!" which I wrote in after the teacher wrote her comment and which I felt needed the emphasis of not just a double, but a triple!!! exclamation mark. I think I interpreted the assignment as writing about killing a turkey and cooking it from scratch. And this must have truly offended my delicate sensibility—so much so that I guess I was a little annoyed by the "I buy mine frozen" remark. So does everybody! So why'd you make us write about killing one, then?

But I might be remembering this wrong. Maybe I just wanted to write about killing a turkey, and maybe I felt kind of ashamed about that, so I added the first sentence about it being something I "had" to do as a sort of verbal camouflage to hide my secret passion for killing turkeys. If you notice, I was kind of vague as to exactly how the turkey was to be killed. (Evidently it wasn't from cutting off it's head, because that was something one did after the killing took place.) In this way, I suppose you could read the "So do I!!!" as more of a desperate plea of normalcy and non-psychosis.

Because seriously, I didn't then, nor do I now, go around finding creative ways to kill turkeys. Honestly.

I'm not kidding!!!

Only mice and small birds.

That's not weird, right?

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/650/ GradeSchoolJournal Tue, 17 Mar 2009 08:35:01 EST Third Grade Journal: November 22th, 1982 http://www.nicolasix.com/649/ From my third grade journal: November 22th, 1982 ... I had a real nice weekend. I had a birthday party up in Dallas where my dad lives, it was fun!


I had a real nice weakend. [sic] I had a birthday party up in Dallas where my dad lives, it was fun! I got Atari, Risk game and some books. I was able to go to Dallas because my soccer game was canceled. Today in school, I got out early because of a doctors appointment. I was glad! After that I went to the library and then I came home. I wanted to come home and play Atari but my mom hadn't hooked it up yet. So we had stew for dinner. Then I read a book.

Teacher comment: Sounds like a wonderful birthday!

Listen to me: I did not play Atari. I ate stew instead. And went to the library. And the doctor. Do those things sound "wonderful" to you? Sometimes, I don't even know why I'm doing this. I'm baring my soul to you and you're totally missing the point, off daydreaming about some other fairy-tale world filled with people using words like "wonderful" and writing in red ink. Wake up!

Also, it's kind of funny that I was waiting for my mom to hook up the Atari. I think shortly after this, she stopped setting up anything electronic, including VCRs and microwave clocks.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/649/ GradeSchoolJournal Fri, 13 Mar 2009 09:29:41 EST When Talking to Cops, It's Good Not to Mention Bong Hits...Or Cowgirl Porn http://www.nicolasix.com/648/ One of the side-effects of a guilt like mine is I'm terrible around cops. last week's post to see it. Sometimes it ain't so purty, is it?

One of the side-effects of a guilt like mine is I'm terrible around cops. Actually, that's not true. I'm not that bad, really. At least I don't think I am. I can fake an expression of innocence, when needed. But what's funny about that—if funny is the word to describe it—is that (most of the time) I'm guilty of absolutely nothing. Nothing that I'm aware of, at least. But the weird thing about cops is, they always seem to know something about me I don't. And damnit-all if I don't believe them every time.

If I'm confronted by a cop (or even a mall security guard) my first instinct isn't to smile and say "hello." Instead, it's to avert my eyes and say, "Nothing, I know nothing." But I've found that unwarranted declarations of innocence tend to raise more suspicion than they quell. So instead, what I try to do is just breath deep, think innocent thoughts, and speak as little as possible.

This is harder than you think. Because as soon as you try to think innocent thoughts, the first thing that pops into your head is something like late-night bong hits in college. Or cowgirl porn. (Always with the cowgirl porn.) I have some mental tricks to get me past those thoughts and bring me right to the church pew on Sunday morning. That way, on the outside, I'm cool as a cucumber. I'm just itemizing in my mind all the ways I am completely, gloriously...innocent. Meanwhile, on the inside, I'm only one stray pornographic cucumber image away from completely crumbling.

It makes the heart race. It really does. You should try it.

Yesterday morning, Honey and I were the only ones at the dog park. Actually, more than that, we were the only ones in that entire section of the Reservation, of which the dog park is only a small portion. No parked cars. No people. And, for some inexplicable reason, I was already feeling guilty about this. (I don't know...I've mostly stopped asking myself "why" to these things. I just roll with it.)

The reason for the park's emptiness actually had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the fact that it was raining. And it wasn't just a drizzle, either. It was a full-on, unapologetic downpour.

I guess most people change up their routines for things like "inclement weather." I'm not one of those people, though. I am a slave to my routine. Lucky for my dog, it's a trait she and I have in common. But what I've learned over time is, it's something that might annoy you if you were married to me, especially if you were the type of person with a general disdain for routines and who, outside of your obligations to work, etc, basically went about your day doing whatever happened to strike your fancy, and eating whatever you happened to feel like at the moment you felt like it instead of, say, planning it ahead of time. You might also be the type of person who just put your shoes on, sometimes the left foot first and sometimes the right foot first, all chaotic-like. If you were that type of person, and you were married to me, you might be a little annoyed by my penchant for...routine. But I'm just speaking hypothetically. Because there's really no way I could know something like that.

Now that I think of it, the main reason I was already feeling guilty was that, on the way to the dog park, a cop in an SUV had put on his blue and reds behind me. I slowed down, preparing to confess everything—it was just a few times, maybe a dozen, okay? and I swear, it wasn't my bong, and I never sold any. And look, about the cowgirl porn, I like girls in shit-kickers and straw hats. There's nothing illegal about that, is there?—but he just passed by me on the left. A narrow escape.

I had pretty much resumed my normal breathing rate by the time Honey had done her business at the park. She and I were playing catch in one of the fenced-in areas. Then I saw what seemed to be the same SUV that had passed me earlier driving by in the parking lot, and he slowed down as he passed my truck. Holy crap! He's running my plates!

The SUV drove off. But then another one drove by. And another. All with the blue and reds. The bastards were calling in reinforcements. They had me surrounded, by God!

The key here, was to remain calm. And rational. Like MacGyver. As you can surely tell, I'm good at this. I put Honey on her leash and we left the fenced area and went out to where my truck was parked. I could see two cop cars pulled up alongside each other further on down the road. Probably talking about me. For some reason, it seemed like getting in my truck and leaving right then might arouse more suspicion. So instead, after lurking around my truck for several seconds, and opening the door and pretending to take something out of my center console. I took Honey by the leash and lead her down the road. In the rain. Directly toward the cop cars. Right hand in my pocket. Hood up over my head. Proud of myself, because this was definitely less suspicious.

I had only walked a couple of steps before the cops dispersed and drove off in opposite directions. Then, there was nothing for a few minutes. Eerie silence. Just me, Honey, and the rain. We walked for several minutes like this, man and dog through puddles and drips. Then all at once, several SUVs roared past. Some had "K9 Unit" displayed on the outside. One clearly said "Bomb Disposal Unit." As each car drove by me, I would look directly at the person driving from under the hood of my coat, all nonchalant, you know. Like "What's up, brother?"

I had my canned response ready, too, just in case they stopped to ask me what I was doing here. I'd say: "Look I'm just a normal guy with a dog walking in the rain at the dog park." I realize now that this is probably the most suspicious thing I could possibly have said. I think if I had actually uttered these words, I would probably be scribbling this onto a roll of toilet paper at the Essex County Jail instead of onto my keyboard. But they seemed like good words at the time. They always do.

Luckily, speaking turned out to be unnecessary, and as I walked back down the road toward my truck, I saw that I was no longer alone—two other dog-park regulars had arrived and were walking toward me. Thank God! Witnesses! I couldn't remember their names. I only knew the two women by their two dogs' names: Milo and ... okay, strike that, I only knew them by one of their two dogs' names.

I waved to the owners of Milo and the other dog and they waved back and as we got within speaking distance one of them said, "What's going on up here?!"

"I don't know!" I said. "But it's really freaking me out. I'm getting a little paranoid." I decided not to mention the bong hits. Or the cowgirl porn.

"I'm sure they're obligated to tell us if there is some kind of danger, doncha think?" said one of Milo's owners.

And that's when it hit me: these two weren't concerned about the cops coming after them. They were concerned for their own safety. Because there might actually be some other dangerous person out here who these cops really were after, somebody who might be truly guilty of something other than smoking a few bowls in college and watching the occasional cowgirl porn flick. This must be what normal people feel like. I tried to think what a normal person might say and came up with: "Well...yeah! You'd think so, right?"

We shook our heads and talked some more about what it could be. We even tried to stop one of the cops and ask him, but he just drove on past. These guys weren't interested in talking. Eventually, Milo's owners went off in the direction I had come from and I walked with Honey back to my truck.

I never did find out what was going on so I can't report to ya'll with any certainty on what it was all about. I do know this, however: Nobody followed me out of the park or to my house. I'm quite sure of this because I checked my rear-view mirror repeatedly, and took a route that was out of my way and in the opposite direction from my house so I could double back on myself and check.

Rational, people. Like MacGyver.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/648/ NJ Ho_Hum Honey Tue, 10 Mar 2009 12:21:20 EST I Am Not the Eggman http://www.nicolasix.com/647/ One of C's marketable business skills is boiling complicated things down to their simple essence.
"Because you're an idiot."

One of C's marketable business skills is boiling complicated things down to their simple essence.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/647/ Cath Ho_Hum Mon, 09 Mar 2009 10:04:54 EST Seeing The Spot for What It Is http://www.nicolasix.com/646/ Sometimes this spot--the one on my glasses, the right lens--sometimes, it doesn't bother me that much. But sometimes, like right now, it's all I can see. And I have to cock my head back in an abnormal way in order to get it out of my line of sight. spot is a bad word for it. Because spot might imply something akin to gunk or a smudge. Like the sort from a greasy finger that's been dipping into the chunks of rotisserie chicken treats in a coat pocket. (Canine motivation.) Or spots, plural, might indicate the things you get from a fine mist or drizzle. And it's not like either of those things, really. It's more like a chink in the lens. Like the lens connected with something hard and sharp and it just put...well, a goddamned chink in it, you know? Or a dent. Maybe that's the word. Either way, it's not a spot. I shouldn't have called it that.

Look, I'm sorry for saying spot.

I hope you know, I don't go around using words like that all willy-nilly. I should have thought about it more carefully.

I was just sitting here thinking about that and looking out over Baltimore Harbor at the smokestacks. Just thinking about what a glorious shithole this town is, and listening to the strung-out woman across the street screaming at the hard-candy mess stuck to her shoe, an unlit cigarette butt glued to her dry, brown lips. Her hair, an elaborate straw roost for all matter of the hinky.

And just screaming, brother. Screaming with an anger and a crazy. Screaming the bloody murder bellow of a sanity shredded and tossed to the fire.

This is Charm City, and there are demons here. Believe. In the neighborhood corner bars. The cobblestone streets of Fells Point. The pink flamingos of Hampden. And I've come two-hundred miles just to commune. Because despite the gangrenous streets filled with the feet filth frenzy, something about this place seems right and holy. And if you put your ear to the ground you can hear it. You can smell it. Among the brick scum and the shit. An inspiration. These are the right demons, brother. These are the demons Poe knew.

"When there's a spot on your conscience, everything else is clouded by it," I say. "And it doesn't go away, no matter how much you scream at it."

"It's not a spot," says Moses. "It's a chink. It's not supposed to go away. Dig?"

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/646/ TheLine Chewing Thu, 05 Mar 2009 09:04:18 EST On the Talents of Circus Performers http://www.nicolasix.com/645/ Of course, there's the whole balancing issue. I'm sure part of the problem has to do with that.
Some people go along doing this one thing. Because that's what they've decided they will do. And other things are secondary to the one thing and they're treated like secondary things should be treated. Because they are less important. Or maybe not. Maybe they're important, too. It's just that sometimes you've got to make a sacrifice for the one thing, you know? It's right. And proper. It's one of the things I admire about circus performers.

I tend to treat the secondary things like the one thing. But because the one thing is what it is—the one fucking thing—I never really put it away. I can't put it away. So, the whole time I'm doing the other thing, the one thing is still there. I just carry it around and do tricks with it and flip it like an empty beer bottle. It's all about show. And looking cool. But there's no real substance to it. Not like the man on the wire who juggles the fire batons. That takes talent.

Then I remember—holy shit!—there's this other other thing. You know? Like a second other thing. And I wanted to do that thing, too. And so I put the one thing in my back pocket and the first other thing, well, I stick that through my hair like a pencil. Or a syringe. And with it safely tucked away, I work on the third thing for a while. And there are various clangs and dings and tweets. Then this fourth thing comes along and, wow, that thing looks interesting and it's really something I'd like to do. So I balance the third thing on my forehead and I look down the bridge of my nose at the fourth and, you know, maybe I should save the fourth thing for later. Maybe I'll just stick that right ... and that's when I realize—fuck-it-all!—how long has this thing been in my back pocket? Goddammit! I've been ignoring the one thing again.

And it goes along like this. And it allows me to maintain a dependable feeling of alarm, which I've grown accustomed to. And it also leads to a state in which I'm never quite able to forget and I'm never quite able to remember. I'll call this state, "barely functional."

I know what Moses would say. Something about priorities. Something about doing what you've got to do. So I don't bring it up with him. Because I don't need to hear that shit.

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/645/ Writing TheLine Chewing Fri, 27 Feb 2009 10:44:29 EST Making Blueprints http://www.nicolasix.com/644/ Moses has been showing up at the dog park lately. He wears a hoodie over layers of other clothes. His face is all eyebrows and a beard the color of road snow. We talk about the economy. He says things like, "When you're an architect, nobody wants to put you on retainer."
He brings Oliver with him—a bounding, white Labradoodle. When Moses wants Oliver to poop, he says, "Mooshy, mooshy, mooshy!" I like that. Honey poops when I say "Business." Now, that seems boring. I wish I had trained her with something more fun. Something like ... "Tucumcari."

Like Honey, Oliver has a lot of energy. But Honey is much faster. She's always beating him to the ball. But she lets him get it, anyway. It's because Honey likes older men. She listens to them. She follows them around. And she'll eventually let them win at games of chase. It's the girls her age she likes to antagonize. She never lets them win at anything. And she barks at them relentlessly. She's alpha to the core.

We like to meet there in the morning, Moses and I, while the temperature is still in the teens. It's mostly quiet then. It's good when there is a fresh snow and it's still white and powdery, before there are footprints in it, and before it's turned to the crunchy, icy stuff. We throw our tennis balls and the dogs fetch them and our fingers get numb in the sharp morning air. We make the first footprints in the snow, and we construct the day. And this is about as real and important as it gets.

"There's no real blueprint out there for how to do this thing," I say.

"Then you need to make one."

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/644/ TheLine Chewing Wed, 11 Feb 2009 12:19:15 EST Third Grade Journal: November 18th, 1982 http://www.nicolasix.com/643/ From my third grade journal: November 18th, 1982 ... today at school nothing happened except in P.E. we played Elimination and I won.


Today at school nothing happend [sic] except in P.E. we played Elimination and I won. Then we played Monarch and I was the Monarch. Also at school I was supposed to have a time test and I was supposed to study. But we didn't have it. I was glad. After school I had another rough day at soccer. This time the coach got mad at all of us and we ran laps almost all soccer practic [sic]. It was no fun! When soccer was over my mom and I had dinner. Tomorrow was Craig's birthday so we went out and got him a present and I got a book. Then we whatched [sic] T. V.

Teacher comment: I use to hate to have to run laps during hockey practice.

I love how I never actually come out and say I didn't study for the timed test. Even then, I was careful to remove myself from any blame or self-incrimination ... Show me where it says I didn't study, Teach. Clearly, I knew I was supposed to, I say so right here. And if I knew it, you have to assume I did it, right? I was just glad I didn't have to take your bullshit timed-test.

But it's pretty obvious I didn't study, isn't it? Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have constructed a sentence like "Tomorrow was Craig's birthday."

And speaking of bad sentence construction, shouldn't that be "I used to hate?" Shit, Teach. How you 'spec me to learn nothin'?

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]]> http://www.nicolasix.com/643/ GradeSchoolJournal Mon, 09 Feb 2009 09:06:53 EST Montauk, Rocks, Honey http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/757/ The weekend before last, we drove out past the Hamptons to Montauk. I believe we're real NYC'ers now. It was Honey's first beach experience. She loved it.

The weekend before last, we drove out past the Hamptons to Montauk. I believe we're real NYC'ers now. It was Honey's first beach experience. She loved it. ]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/757/ Mon, 29 Jun 2009 14:40:39 EST Dog Days http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/756/ It's another rainy day, and I have two very wet, panting girls in my truck with me.

It's another rainy day, and I have two very wet, panting girls in my truck with me. ]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/756/ Thu, 18 Jun 2009 10:15:36 EST Indoor Pool http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/755/ With the gold tiles on the bottom.

With the gold tiles on the bottom.]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/755/ Tue, 16 Jun 2009 10:27:46 EST The Castle http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/754/ Hearst Castle

Hearst Castle]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/754/ Tue, 16 Jun 2009 10:22:13 EST Face, Pool http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/753/ The Hearst outdoor pool.

The Hearst outdoor pool.]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/753/ Tue, 16 Jun 2009 10:19:46 EST Hat, House http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/752/ One of the Hearst "guest houses."

One of the Hearst "guest houses."]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/752/ Tue, 16 Jun 2009 10:19:00 EST Under the Pier http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/751/ Would make a great location for a spy chase.

Would make a great location for a spy chase.]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/751/ Wed, 10 Jun 2009 13:00:59 EST Avila Pier Hydrant http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/750/ I hope nobody starts saying my hydrant collection is some kind of phallic thing. Because personally, I just don't see it.

I hope nobody starts saying my hydrant collection is some kind of phallic thing. Because personally, I just don't see it.]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/750/ Mon, 08 Jun 2009 12:38:17 EST Avila Beach http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/748/

]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/748/ Mon, 08 Jun 2009 12:34:49 EST Driving... http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/747/ in TheMitch. E takes the wheel.

in TheMitch. E takes the wheel.]]> http://photoblog.nicolasix.com/747/ Mon, 08 Jun 2009 12:33:48 EST