1999

Dec. 31st, 1999

Probably the last party I ever attended.  Late twenties and I am looking around at "kids" in their early twenties.  Felt a little awkard.... kinda like that college guy who returns to his old high school and attends football games; checking out the new batch of high school girls while telling stories of his glory days on that field.   That guy always believes he is being revered; blissfully unaware how pathetic he seems to the others.  My self awareness was not lost on that moment.

Johnny was throwing his annual New Years Eve party.  Kegs, red cups, shots, one fat guy with his shirt off for no reason, girls constantly checking themselves in their tiny mirrors and a long line to the one bathroom in that house.

Typical party.... except we were mere hours from 2000.  Y2K.  Planes were supposed to drop from the sky that night.  Computers were going to explode.  The end of the world, some said.

Every time I watch a rerun of Saved by the Bell or Full House or really, any show from the 80s and 90s, there's always one episode where someone throws a party.  Those parties always have people dancing.  I've been to hundreds of parties; not once I have seen anyone dance.  Well, except, that last night of 1999.  One drunk girl bouncing around between the house plant in the corner of the living room and the keg right in the center.

She had long legs, no ass and curly hair.  Probably the only girl who stood alone at midnight with her lips puckered and guys just passing her by.   Drunk girls are annoying.  It's the one truth that stands the test of time.

I was in a stoned haze and combined with being an overthinker, all I could dwell on was the realization that the party was over.  Circle of friends fracture.  Adulthood kicks in.  And frankly, at some point, you become the awkward old guy at 27 surrounded by 21 year olds. 

My eyes were fixated on that long legged, no ass, curly haired girl.  What is she dancing to?  The room is so loud.  Smoke filled the air and the stench of vomit and beer engulfed all my senses.  But for a brief second, it seemed the party stopped and everyone was frozen in place.... Like when Mork strangely shows up on Happy Days and freezes The Fonz.   During that split second of complete silence and collective paralysis, I could hear Prince playing on the stereo across the room.

Life is just a party and parties weren't meant to last.  So, I'm gonna party like it's 1999.

I may have attempted to dance for a split second.  Why the hell not?  The party was over, man.  I was already the awkard old guy.  The pot and alcohol reduced any shame involved.  And not to mention, everyone was frozen just long enough for me to be courageous.

Prince was an enigma.  Weird.  A diva.  But he was never a punchline like many before and after him are.  That's quite a legacy in itself.

Everyone keeps saying that this year we've had an unusual amount of significant celebrity deaths.  We say that every year.  We are just older and those we admired when we were younger are also older.   We are simply witnessing ourselves age through the inevitable conclusion of those we once considered immortal.

It was a hell of a party that night.

And Prince got me to dance.   

Rumination

I never made that call.

One day turned into one week.  Then, a month passed.

As soon as I recognized my own foolishness, it had been months. 

I had a dream that my father got down on one knee so he could speak to seven year old me at eye level.  Then he sternly said, "Son, pride makes cowards out of men."  Then, he left my mom.  And me.  I'm just a boy.  Way too young to hate, I thought.  But I do and did. 

I woke up in a cold sweat.  Started thinking about defense mechanisms we all have.  Like humor.  Or pride. Or isolation.  Grabbed my phone; prepared to make that call.  But it was 2:00 a.m. and God knows she would just be angry.  Angrier, I mean.  So, I said tomorrow.

Months pass.  Then years. 

I admit, every time, my phone rings or I get a text, I nervously hope it's her while at the same time, I am scared it's her and hope it's not.  I suppose uncomfortable confrontation isn't my thing. 

But I miss her. 

She consumes my every thought.  No matter how hard I try to forget, I can't.  I sleep more just to avoid thinking of her but then she invades my dreams.   And for some reason, my dad shows up.  And it becomes this nocturnal battle in my head between love and hate.  And love wins everytime but he keeps returning. 

I still won't make that call.

She deserves better. 

I fast forward a few years.  Still thinking of her.  Wondering who the lucky guy is.  Hoping she found peace.  Self preservation now just an after thought.  Wishing nothing but absolute calm and joy for her.  But the thought of another man touching her is torture.  And I still love her more than ever but I, for once, do the unselfish thing.  Let her go.

I never make that call.

I miss her voice.  Her laugh. Her rare but potent affection.  Her angst.  Anger.  Her frustration.  Her disappointment.  Her love. 

Focus on the bad focus on the bad Focus on the bad  focus on the bad, I recite over and over.  And, I can't remember any.  I recall complaining about the bad but the specifics have evaporated into a neurotic need to not feel guilty.  I find myself looking for inspiation from those who have faced greater loss.  Something tangible.   And nothing works.

So, I choose to make the call.  Because life is too short.  And love, real love, is hard to find.  And because pride makes cowards out of men.  And because there are no heroes left.

I almost make that call.

It feels too late.

Point of no return.

And maybe, someday, she will call me and say thank you.  Because she found who I could never be.

Or just maybe, I will call her and find her number has changed.  And I will smile quietly in the loneliness of her absense and think, that's my girl.

And I'll be so proud of her.

Cold Turkey

The hardest thing I've ever done is quit cold turkey.

It's something I would never recommend.


Buddy was my black lab for nine years.  I don't remember many details between the day I picked him up at the pound as a puppy and his final day as a sick, gray bearded older dog. 

I recall the joy he and I both shared on his first car ride with me away from that cold prison-like structure where many good dogs wait on death row.  And of course, holding his warm paw in my hand as his soft brown eyes closed forever in the back room of that veternarian's office still lingers with me. 

Everything in between is a blur.  Sure, I recall little things like his unbridled enthusiasm at the sound of my jingling car keys.  Or how excited he was at the end of each day when I walked through the door.  Or his ridiculous embarrasment of taking a shit in front of me.  Buddy was funny, quirky and unlike all other dogs. 

The best thing about dogs is how they make us feel important.  Needed.  Wanted.  They satisfy the God complex in some of us.  They nurture those of us who have always felt slightly inadequate.  Despite being unable to speak, we don't need them to say I love you because they spend every minute of everyday proving they do. 

Dogs are merciful.  They forget when we've done them wrong but more importantly, they forgive.

The end of dog's life is also merciful.  We are usually given an opportunity to prepare ourselves, as much as we can, for their final breath. 

It was me who made the appointment to end Buddy's life.  It was me that gave him his last car ride for that final visit to his doctor.  It was me who chose to show him the same mercy he had provided for me over his nine short years by putting him to sleep to end his suffering.    And it was me that held his paw as his life ended.  Yet, in true dog spirit, it was Buddy that licked my hand seconds before his heart stopped beating.

That's mercy.  Grace.  Love. 


I lost a best friend over a decade ago.  None of us were shown mercy.  He went to bed one night and never woke up.  I suppose it was inevitable but devastating, nonetheless.  Addiction has a predictable outcome.  Usually. 

I watched this man try.  He really did try.  Rehab.  Cold turkey.  More rehab.  Faith.  Friends.   But he never did surrender his pride.  I suppose that's normal as well as his downfall.

Like my nine years with Buddy, my twenty three years with that best friend are a blur.  I remember little things and every once in awhile in the quiet moments of my life, an old memory resurfaces.  And of course, my heart sinks just a little lower.

There's this degree of anger I hold for him.  His early exit from life leaves all of us he left behind feeling incomplete.  No final words.  Not one more chance to shake some sense into him.  No more judging or mocking him in his weak moments.  Just one more time of asking ourselves will he make it? wasn't afforded to us.

He just went to bed and never woke up.

Unintended Cruelty.  Such is life.  Lose a child, a parent or a friend.  It's cruel.  Especially, when it's unexpected. 

This whole idiomatic expression cold turkey doesn't just relate to addictions like nicotine or alcohol or any other vice.  It can relate to people.  Quitting someone you love or once loved should never be an option.  There's enough unintended cruelty in our lives to add intentional suffering to it.

Dogs never quit us.  We all know stories of people quitting on their dogs but dogs, in their mindless loyalty and unconditional love, don't even consider quitting on us.  They can't get enough of us.  Ever.

There's something to be said in that.