Day Eighty

Close call!

I work hard for the money, motherfucker, so when I get to my Thursday-one-day-weekend, I gotta cram some shit into a fairly tight slot - and I'm not talking about anal sex. This particular Thursday involved paying some bills, doing some taxes, trying to write a letter to my great aunt, buying ink for my printer to print out some tax stuff, figuring out what to eat for an informal dinner party - Thai Green Chili with Chicken, Mushrooms, and Broccoli over white rice is BANGING: thanks America's Test Kitchen once again - and then purchasing said ingredients from the local Whole Foods, visiting my darling mother-in-law who I hardly ever have the time to see - and that saddens me - and...something else...

...oh yeah. Baking a Red Velvet Cake. The wife has had quite a busy week and I, in an attempt to be the best husband possible, put on an apron, and got to work. I woke up at seven yesterday morning and cut my normal 'leisure morning' quite short. Coffee. Bagel. Cake in the oven by 8:45. Cruise over to Staples for the ink. - No. I don't want a fucking Rewards Card! - Cake out of oven. Accountant at 10:30 - preceded by the scramble to find receipts and other 'official tax' documents known by a letter and some numbers. Glad there are no speed cameras on Dulaney Valley Road! 'Sorry I'm late'. 'Precious: Stop barking!' Back home to walk to dog. Peruse America's Test Kitchen Cookbook 'Let's do takeout' section. Walk the dog for the second time to check out house construction down the street. Whole Foods. Mmmm everything. Heaven. 'Have a nice day'...

What the fuck! I walk in the back door thinking, 'Holy shit! I actually fit everything in' - excepting the letter to Aunt Jo, which is fine, because she is old and isn't going anywhere anytime soon anyway, so I can just write it tomorrow (which is, of course, now today, and I still haven't written it). So I unload my reusable bags on the kitchen table, ready to relax and read for an hour or so before beginning to prep dinner, when I walk into the dining room and see red on the floor. Red everywhere.

I would have rather it had been the scene of a massacre, but no. My stupid little adorable but terribly mischievous bitch of a dog. She couldn't have done it BEFORE I leisurely drove through Ruxton en route to Whole Foods to enjoy the beautiful scenery and architecture. That would have been too thoughtful of her. And it is not as though I had omitted her breakfast feeding or hadn't walked her twice prior. She was upstairs sleeping on the futon when I left!

This dog loves cake, and she ate both halves of the Red Velvet cake directly off the dining room table, directly out of the cake rounds from which I had to release them. Table cloth all ruffled up where she, red-pawed, devoured my morning labor.  If she only knew long this day had already been, and how tightly it was scheduled, I truly think she would have abstained. What am I thinking: she is a fucking animal, and loves to eat shit she isn't supposed to.

And as I paced around the house, trying to expel all of the anger and rage and frustration and despondency of realizing my day had just become a little bit longer and that there was no time for 'The Looming Tower', all I could think was, 'I'm going to smoke a fucking cigarette right now. I don't give a shit'. I felt like it was due to me because of the trials I was made to endure on my day off; like an alcoholic thinking, 'It's been a long week. Just one beer'. I immediately ruled out buying a pack because I would either: 1. throw it away after smoking one (or, mostly likely, one on the way home from Royal Farms and one on the deck before re-entering reality), which would be a terrible waste of six bucks and some change; or 2. decide to keep the pack hidden somewhere special for moments just like this - like Johnny Depp's character in 'The Secret Window' - which is a highly improbable situation for a smoker of my ilk. So then I looked outside and realized there were BGE workers standing around an electric pole playing with each other's poles while one fellow fiddled with some wire way up in the sky. 'They would certainly have cigs'...

And then I was out of it. I realized the absurdity of my thoughts and the ridiculousness of the planning I must pursue for five mere minutes of poison and death. I felt like a crackhead. So I came back down to reality, took a deep breath, cleaned up the remnants of my evil dog's delicious feast, and cooked a BANGING dinner.

For scientific purposes, it would seem relevant to note that all that planning and thinking and near destruction of my intentions to quit smoking occurred within about one minute of time. One fucking short minute was all it took to throw this all away. Gotta be strong. The man is always watching...

Day Seventy-One

'Hey Erika. I am no longer smoking!'

'What do you mean? Have you just stopped smoking cigarettes, or are you mentally no longer a smoker?'

'... I would say both'.

At least almost. Certainly, I still think about my past relationship with and habits revolting around cigarettes from time to time. But cigs phenomenologically exist in my mind in the same way old friends, lovers, and could-have-beens, Ghostbusters jumpsuits, Erector sets, and backyard Homerun Derbies: nostalgically reminding me of the ways things had been.

Like cigs, these things escort me to psychological safe places where every swing directs the tennis ball soaring over the giant pine tree fence, and every conversation is ripe with knowledge and insight, and every embrace implies, 'See you tomorrow'. I always remember the romance.

But of course, those moments remain forever existent in the past for a particular reason. A bit of psychological archeology always reveals the day the Derby incited a nest of hornets; the jumpsuit became too small; the parking lot 'Last Goodbye'; the daily recurrence of the tobacco-induced green-yellow goop hacked every morning.

So, the notion of 'mentally' quitting is, of course, a bit of a tricky one. I think back and reminisce on my relationship with cigs, and I don't think that will ever change; I'm not even sure I want those particular memories transform into havens of evil and death. And yet, I know that my smoker-self is in the past now, never to return in its identical form again. Even if I go out and buy a pack right now, it won't morph me back into that previous self; and it is not as though I yearn for a self anyway.

Perhaps it is merely part of our humanity to desire the past's eternal presence; to somehow live simultaneously both in the past and present. Or maybe we want to grasp firmly upon the past to preserve the presence of the present, knowing that someday, some minute, right now, it will be behind us. Can Spring be far behind?

Day Sixty-Nine

Could it be that I planned the sixty-ninth day of my cigarette-quitting to coincide with Valentine's Day? What exactly does that mean?

Perhaps I have always yearned for the symbiosis, the perfect give and take of 69 from my cigarette habit. Our relationship was traditionally more of a 'p9'; cigarettes and their delicious nicotine always pushing me on my knees, cleaning out my wallet. At least in the days of my youth, Phillip-Morris provided the illusion of wanting my attention with the friendly image of their hump-backed, sun-glassed Camel Joe. But now, they just call us from the WaWa glass door with the 'lowest price allowed by law'. Bullshit.

Or, perhaps I merely lose myself amongst ruins of the past when a smoke was merely a smoke. Not merely sheer ignorance, of course, but a time when my decisions seemed to stretch only as far as my eyes could gaze and hand touch. Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear? That time of innocence which now, through hindsight and intellectual expansion, seems to be far from it; those adolescent years of extreme selfishness and an utter lack of existential introspection. Of course, I am free to make my own decisions in this world, but I must now be willing to accept the consequences of my actions. I cannot expect the wife to want to taste my tobacco soiled mouth just as much as I cannot expect a shunned friend to equally share my desire to shun the other.

As I started closing up shop last night after a long day of couples trying to beat the Valentine's Day traffic at Alonso's, I reminisced with an initially reluctant Coleman on how absolutely glorious the post-shift cigarette can be. I smoked it in my mind, imagining my back gently releasing into the brick wall on which I leaned, feeling that general release of self through my lungs. Sin of the mind.

Yet, standing in strong juxtaposition to my p9 relationship with cigs is the one I share with my lovely wife. It is this relationship I wish to cultivate: one which may cultivate at all. Cigs do nothing but edify gravity until I rest below the earth. The wife and I have a perfectly lovely 69.

Day Sixty-Five

Holy shit.


I didn't know what to expect when I opened the slim envelope containing next release in the McSweeney's Book Club, entitled Donald. The cover is unmistakably identical to the cover of his memoir Known and Unknown, released just two days ago, but I was wondering why McSweeney's would ever publish anything about Donald Rumsfeld. Fair question.


Holy Shit.


What a powerful and relevant social commentary entangled within a tight, gripping story. But we already know the story, in one way or another. That the authors intentionally locate the story in the very near present - he is working on his memoir in the beginning of the novella - turns us back into both ourselves and the world around us; this is certainly not art for art's sake. 


And yet, its artistry is well exhibited. The portrayal of this man's psychological break through a well orchestrated series of torture is strikingly real. We never leave Donald's point of view throughout, always as equally in the lurch as he; ourselves willfully abducted by the mystery that, again, we probably already know...most likely.


In a weird way, I don't think this book necessarily deals Donald any serious blows. The title itself - invoking the aura of another Donald who merely precedes with a 'the' - romanticizes its main character. Donald. The text portrays a man who we might have actually come to admire and like in another context; in another story less real and completely fucked up. 


'History suggests that we might be luckier to be vanquished from without than left to our own decline. It's the choice between being shot high off the rampart or hanging from the shower curtain' (72). In a way, this is an argument that cannot be won; you either succeed or someone else will. There are either things known or unknown. No middle way; there is no Nagarjuna. Words that couldn't have been spoken better than by the real man himself.


But I have an even better one for you. I had a conversation very recently with someone who espoused this same intention: 'The price of ruining one innocent life is steep but it is less than the price of thousands of lives destroyed by lenient misjudgment' (86). What happened to America, land of principles and Ideals; that 'it is better a hundred guilty persons should escape, than that one innocent person should suffer'? Where is that reality? I guess it is here, in this book, and with me, on this blog, and in those who read this book and are simultaneously aghast that this book is 'based closely on non-fiction sources' (111) and humored with its fictions.

Day Sixty-Three

That makes it nine weeks.

My beautifully annoying dog decided it would be productive to break our backyard lead for I believe the fourth time in her short existence. She even broke a lead called 'The Beast' about a year ago. Clearly, her recent destruction was intended to get my ass in gear and finish the fence I have been building for her. Such a selfish dog.

In the name of thriftiness, I refuse to purchase one last lead because, soon enough, she will able to roam free in my yard. It would seem like a waste of both money and product. Instead, the wife and I have taken to walking this silly little pup multiple times throughout the day...

...which got me thinking, 'Man. I wish I was still a smoker'. Of course, I immediately rewrote that notion in my head into, 'This would have been nice to do if I was still smoking'. Our daily walks would fit perfectly into a cigarette smoking routine. We walk first thing in the morning, and I would probably catch a nice buzz with the combination of sleepiness and activity. We also walk after dinner, and everyone know how nice that cig always is. This dog-walking routine would certainly have helped to support my addiction, and I would have loved it. And it would have been good for my pooch too!

Yet, I continue to pursue my smoke-free life and these thoughts must remain so. This dog walking has, however, worked to bridge one particular gap between my former and current lives: my outdoor time. Last night, in fact, I had a terrific excuse to follow my good friend Genna Rose outside for her mid-Risk - the game of global domination - cigarette.



I bemoan my loss of casual outdoor time since quitting, and it seems that I have found a suitable replacement. My love-puppy gets to expend some energy and spread her scent about, while I get some down time and fresh air. It seems to be a win-win. Last night, it felt refreshing to take a 'cigarette break' without actually smoking one. To take my self and thoughts from containment within a house to the infinite expanse without permits the digestion of all the words and ideas flung about; like eating a clementine after dinner. It serves as an intellectual palate cleanser, and it is good to know that it remains intact with cigarettes extracted from the recipe.

Now all bow down to Coleman: winner of the game and the world.

Day Fifty-Nine

So, I was doing my traditional post-coffee business this morning, which happened to include the Baltimore Sun. It is certainly not the best paper in the world, but it gets its job done fairly well. Keeping me informed and the like.

I was reading an article entitled 'Developers distressed over O'Malley proposal to curb septic systems'. Sounds like a hoot, right? The article was about Martin O'Malley's - not this Martin O'Malley - plans to step up Maryland's environmental responsibility by not only stemming suburban sprawl - by making it more difficult for developers to create developments outside of existing public water infrastructure - but also limiting the amount of new septic systems, which pollute both our soil and water supply at a higher level than the public water and waste model. Maryland is a beautiful place, with a lovely natural landscape, and I am all in full support of not allowing my current home state to follow the present course of my former home state (New Jersey) by transforming into a vast suburb of shitty, cookie cutter prefab bullshit ugly fucking houses. Blah!

Toward the end of the article, the writers included the voice of a septic system contractor from Fallston who said, 'he'd have to lay off up to a third of his 15 employees if housing developments using [septic] systems were banned'. Hm. One-third certainly seems like a large percentage, but one third of his fifteen employees is barely a drop of water in the ocean. Now, I don't mean to be insensitive in these difficult times, but there are two things I would like to point out. One: the misleading power of numbers. One-third compared to five. One-third sounds much worse.

The second is more of a question: whatever happened to the concept of ethical pride in one's line of work? I understand, again, that one does not necessarily have the freedom to pursue any job he/she chooses in these times where people with Masters degrees in English must resort to waiting tables (...). However, why do we not expect people to make their decisions based on a certain mode of ethics. Yes, jobs are good, but so is a sustainable community and environment!

Last night, I was watching the second season of Mad Men where Don and his family are picnicking after he purchases his new Cadillac and was absolutely disgusted to watch him throw his empty can of beer into the woods and leave all of their trash on the side of the road. They didn't think anything of it then, but now we see where the trash goes. We know how disgusting the Chesapeake Bay is and that clean water is becoming less of a commodity and more of a luxury.

So why do we blindly accept the argument that 'jobs are good', regardless of the consequence of that particular job? Is it really OK to afford someone a job that disrupts and destroys the prosperity of the planet? Who the fuck is going to work when there is no more sustainable, habitable earth? Talk about job killing...

Read the article...

Day Fifty-Seven

I would probably call myself a tree-hugger, and happily do so. I don't litter; I don't buy Dunkin Donuts with their Styrofoam cups; I avoid plastics as often as possible (sorry Aquafina); I try to keep the lights off as often as possible. And yet, just two months ago, I nonchalantly would flick my used cigarette butt out of my car window on the interstate, or behind my place of employment, or into a puddle on the side of the road which would carry this little memorial of myself into the sewer drain, secretly voyaging beneath my feet and perception to our beautiful Chesapeake Bay. Beautiful, delicious, oversized fishfood refusing decomposition.

Originally, I began researching information regarding the 'footprint' behind my former habit, but I hit two roadblocks: personal laziness and a severe distaste for statistics. Perhaps my laziness results in my apathy toward statistics. And yet, what can I really gain from knowing the amount of trees cut down per year in the name of cigarettes (11.4 million tons annually - and that is merely for the curing process; not including papers); what does the fact that 4.5 trillion non-biodegradable cigarette filters are deposited on our earth every single year really provide? We cannot comprehend what that number even means because we have neither seen 4.5 trillion cigarette filters nor can intuit 11.4 million tons of tress and what they would look like standing tall in the world. Nicorette boasts that its product, 'doubles your chance of success'. What the fuck does that even mean? You either quit, or you don't, right? And what, exactly, is defined as 'quitting'? Six months? Two years? Our final sleep?

While I admit a certain infatuation with the symbolic nature of numbers, statistics, like those above, function to retard our mental activity. Of course my consumption of cigarettes supports deforestation. Where else does one obtain wood to burn for tobacco curing? How the fuck else do we cheaply manufacture paper? Where did I think my butts would end up? Vaporized by the Camel wizard the moment they are out of sight? Come on, me! Intuition. Investigation.

Perhaps I was willing to compromise my ethical, existential values in praise of cigarettes in the past, but now I have shed myself of them, I re-energized in my commitments to the world in which I live and the philosophies I have both espoused and preached. It is time to fully investigate the consequences of my daily actions, from my morning commute to my morning cup of coffee. I am not an island, and neither are you.