My Poetry, Suddenly More Than Art

This essay originally appeared on Medium.

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Getting Money for My Poetry

It is without exaggeration that I say one of the coolest things I’ve ever done is be commissioned to write poetry. This has happened exactly one time and it was only recently — curiously enough for Red Bull.

I was brought onboard by extremely good design agency Hoodzpah, charged with art directing Lindsey Vonn-specific zine as a ridiculously dope retirement gift for the legendary skier, ultimately to be published in Red Bull’s June issue of The Red Bulletin. In need of a writer, they hit me up with my poem “The Heavy King” as reference material.

Writing with a commissioned objective in mind was different, but not wildly, given that I was brought onto the project for my style. However, until this year, my poetry has been entirely at my discretion — my subject matter, my choice of words, my final answer. Whatever I thought best communicated my thoughts, my emotions, and my experiences was ultimately the end goal. This time, I had to prioritize someone other than me in verse, work through editorial revisions like any other project, and ask myself questions I previously hadn’t about diction and syntax.

But I’ve long been a fan of Lindsey Vonn, given our similar age and my love for the Olympics, so it came relatively easy to contemplate her humble origins on Buck Hill, a ski slope in Minnesota I only knew as a SoCal kid because The Replacements screamed the destination as the entirety of their lyrics in their eponymous, otherwise instrumental track. Plus, Vonn has legit been hit with two dozen injuries over the years and remained unreal relentless. That itself is a spry enough reason to hype her jagged earth domination like whoa.

I don’t know when or if I’ll be commissioned to write a poem again, but Lindsey Vonn has shredded the gnar since we were both youths and it was an honor to pay tribute to her mesmerizing ability to carve up a mountain at lightning speed. She’s kicked ass forever, it’s been radical to watch her conquer, and obviously writing this poem is for sure the closest I’ll ever get to the Olympics.

“Legend of Vonn”
by Jake Kilroy

she burst into the world, a light with saint paul’s blessing, 
the kid who unearthed euphoria at breakneck speed, 
some avalanche stunner crashing less than 300 feet,
nearly 1,000 miles from the nearest mountain: 
lindsey kildow, the lightning bolt that could grin. 
the zig−zagger with a panting shadow — 
the weaver, the cutter, the blaster too; 
the shock wave that rattled the twin cities, 
built with every grace offered by youth. 
all caught the grin on the lift; 
all noted the focus at the top; 
all spotted that starry-eyed glint 
on the bullet from buck hill.

the locals will tell you how the blonde blitz 
carved up that hillside overlooking I-35; 
while young drivers scared of joyriding in the snow 
flew by buck hill, nowhere near the speed limit.
meanwhile, kildow — not yet vonn, the fable told and retold — 
came at the world, beyond minnesota and the other 49, 
from charging utah’s olympic mountain 
before she could even register to vote 
to taking her first podium on the italian slopes 
before she could legally toast the triumph back home.

the legend grew and with it the legacy — 
the second american woman to reign world champ 
bringing a gold medallion back to her country
after digging it out of a vancouver downhill; 
every eye in every country clocking the blur, 
well before she came for the record books 
tagging her name, page by page, volume by volume; 
the written history of the monarch of the mountain.

pummeled eternal by the meanest side of mother nature, 
her body covered in supernovas and evening shades, 
the slalom slayer tore up every muscle, every record, 
every excuse, to behold the world from the peak 
and see what the valley looked like, if only for a moment; 
twenty years of moving at the speed of sound, 
twenty injuries (at least) that couldn’t take her,
twenty minutes (at least) from home to second home, 
back where the mountaineer first tamed the wicked white — 
all watch the bullet from buck hill; 
all behold the lightning; 
all hail the queen.

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Giving Money for My Poetry

When I was a teenager with a driver’s license and a free school night, I’d sometimes cruise to Barnes & Noble to wander around and explore authors, genres, and topics I was unfamiliar with — and, like, any artsy-fartsy youth, I wondered when/if my work would show up in the joint.

Since then, I’ve seen my writing in magazines and newspapers several times over — articles, essays, and humor pieces mostly — and I figure the best angle on making a go of your preferred trade is to never lose track of your milestones; to here and there have a moment as surreal as it is aware, to catch yourself exhaling, “Well, that’s pretty cool.” In the decade since college, I’ve produced and worked on an absurd count of digital goods that’ve wound up in the contentsphere, but there’s still something about print for me. It’s definite. It’s final. It’ll last.

This isn’t my first published poem either. Still, this marks the first time my poetry has been in something I could buy somewhere and not just be sent a free copy in the mail. More importantly, this is the first time I’ve been paid to write poetry, a beloved medium of mine that has, until now, offered literally no commercial or professional value. Unlike other avenues of prose, I had more or less resigned to poetry remaining an entirely personal endeavor, as emotionally rewarding as it is financially fruitless. As recently as the day before, I would’ve assumed getting an email out of the blue asking me to write a poem in exchange for a paycheck was just an extremely targeted scam. So it of course struck me odd as I held the magazine with my poem in it, recalling how this balladry paid my rent last month.

Over the years, I’ve aimed to separate nostalgia and sentimentality from appreciation and gratitude, ultimately aiming for thumbs ups rather than wistful stares while maintaining that it’s important to recognize your path and how you got to where you did. I’ve always been a reflective dude — to some degree of fault, I’ve learned — but this year more than ever with a much better methodology. I realize not everything is celebratory and that can be a downright exhausting way to live; I’m just less appreciative of instant gratification and more appreciative of deeper satisfaction these days.

Given this year’s goal to do the many things I’ve always meant to, I suppose being paid for poetry has been loitering on my bucket list for quite sometime. To be sure, this wasn’t some deeply touching moment where I heard an orchestral swell as I recalled the tremors of my youth. My nerves just briefly curveballed a bit as I exhaled some faraway, “Huh.” I’ll probably do this again when/if I buy my own book.

Maybe the firsts mean more with age. Milestones likely seem inevitable in your 20s, and creativity comes with like you can’t get it out quick enough. After 30, you seem to more or less know the lifelong creatives around you, and it’s a lot less than it was the decade before.

To be a creative at any age, you have to hustle. To be a creative outside of your day job, especially after your 20s, you have to do a stranger kind of hustle that involves some foxtrot of time management.

None of that works its way into anything resembling a plan during your reign of teenagedom. It’s all or nothing. Either it’s there or it isn’t. Today, it was there. Today, I strolled into Barnes & Noble nearly 20 years after I roamed the wordy halls as a gangly teen writing my first poems of substance and bought a (sports) magazine with my poem in it and, well, that’s pretty cool.

34 is the New Infinity

This essay originally appeared on Medium.

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I’ve never been set to have a year like this and I can’t wait.

Today’s my birthday and life is good.

I’ve never been this productive. I’ve never been this involved. I’ve never been this proactive. I’ve never been this grounded. I’ve never been this mindful. I’ve never been this earnest. I’ve never been this open. I’ve never been this healthy. I’ve literally never worked on my upper body until now.

A Recap of the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

I’ve had a tremendously fun existence: Once: 100 Moments of a Dunce’s Life.

It eventually got weird and I realized I could do better, so I changed things up: I’m Trying to Not Be an Out of Control Mess This Year — and It’s Working.

The whole brain/life rework has been going extremely well:5 Things I Learned Once I Got Proactive About My Mental Health and General Existence.

And I’m ready to be my(best)self for good: The Perfect Person Project.

This is Going to Be My Year — Really, Truly, Finally

It’s curious, I suppose. This year, I’ve made more existential changes than ever before, but I feel I have less to report — mostly because I’m no longer periodically checking in but full on cultivating in a continuum these days.

My birthday essays — for reference, here be 33 Things I Believe Are True — have long been annual ruminations on where I am in life, what I’m working on, how I’m improving, and what I’d like to see happen. But it’s always been me adjusting details, not rebuilding the entire foundation. You can only doso much if you believe you’re onlycapable of thatmuch — and, as of January this year, I’ve renounced that way of thinking. Fuck that! I’m all things at once now!

On Saturday, I had my first shift as a volunteer docent at the Pacific Marine Mammal Center. On Tuesday, I had a two-hour interview for a youth mentorship program. On Wednesday, I paid off all my credit card debt. Every other Thursday, I’ve been at ACLU workshops. Tomorrow, I work my first food drive with Second Harvest Food Bank of Orange County. Two weeks from now, I’m doing a poetry reading at a festival. A month from now, I’m going skydiving. FUCK MY OLD LIFE LIKE WHOA BASICALLY.

I’m done with not doing. I’m done with procrastination. I’m done with hesitation. I’m done with stagnation. I’m done with obsession. I’m done with mania. I’m done with worry. I’m done with ennui. I’m done with someday. I’m done with another time. I’m done with being answerless. I’m done with self-service over self-care. I’m done with the same-old-same-old as dogma. I’m not done with delirium and self-deprecation, but I’ve noticed them curiously dissipate. [I don’t think those two are inherently bad; there’s just a noticeable difference between you being in control of them and them being in control of you.]

Simply put, I’m done not fully valuing my time and my presence, just as I’m done not realizing the potential of how both could ultimately be utilized.

To be clear, there’s still a process in place. I have to be realistic. I can’t just politely yet boldly announce, “I am hereby sane — forthwith!” I’m continuing to examine and piece together how I operate like a conspiracy theorist with maps, pictures, and strings of yarn tacked to the wall. I just mean I’m done with my brain being a haunted house. I’m renovating the mansion like hell and giving them ghosts the boot. Once the interior’s done up proper, I’ll move onto the garden — revive the core, make it pretty, and keep up the good work.

The weirdest thing in all of this is that I’m adding components to my life and it feels like I have more time than ever. Mindfulness and mostly-sobriety revamped my existence to feel like a new planet with notable time dilation.

Of course, this has, in turn, revealed how much time I previously wasted. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had an absurdamount of fun over the years and I have done a lot in that tme, but I could’ve done more and/or been better. I’m not dwelling on it because I’ve also abandoned the whole notion of wishing I could change the past. However, I recognize that, at times, I didn’t need to be thatdistracted, that hungover, thatlethargic, thatmanic, thatencapsulated in fear, and so on.

Meanwhile, managing my time, budgeting my resources, and making good decisions has never been easier. I’m no longer reacting to what’s immediately available; instead I’m all about what really, truly could be done and setting myself up to live a life that’s as fun as it is rewarding. Honestly, I’ve never been more here for existence.

It’s pretty strange, to live wild and good and then discover there’s substantial new territory to explore. I used to wishthings were different and wantstuff to change because evolution of such magnitude inherently read insurmountable to me. These days, the decision-making process has leveled out like the goddamn earth shifted. What used to seem like a vertical hike feels like a stroll in the park now.

That doesn’t mean each undertaking has been a breeze or I’m where I’d ultimately like to be. The difference has been the decision to do the work, to put time and effort into serious growth and expansion. It’s exciting to feel this empowered and encouraging to see results, but I still catch moments of absent-mindedness and odd reactions. Yet, these instances are now followed by a sense of pragmatism, some observation or inspection that has me calling up the pattern that got me there. It’s choosing to avoid repeats instead of hoping there aren’t repeats. What’s heartening is that these are for sure exceptions now and not the rule.

What I’ve done has worked for me and it has worked well. No solution is universal because no problem is omnipresent. This has been a set of substantial changes in my life and each step of the way I’ve had to ask myself if I’m overcorrecting. I got here because I was both static and crashing, which I suppose is akin to setting cruise control while drag racing. What I don’t want to do is go from charging full speed from one direction only to charge full speed in another. I believe this new life is rich and rewarding, but I need to recognize that my mind, body, and spirit are not infinite. I have inherent boundaries of health and pushing past my mental, emotional, and physical limitations does nothing for me but rack up damage.

So I’m (back) at the drawing board in a way I’ve never been before. I’m restarting existence from scratch — or at least as much as humanly possible at this age. From a book-buying spree for perspective — breezily existing almost wholly uninterrupted as a straight white man surely contributed to the nosedive and I need revitalized source material for “human” as well as new angles on straightness, whiteness, and maleness moving forward — to pursuing with great purpose what I’ve long found discouraging, intimidating, overwhelming, or uncomfortable, I’m in this new self for the long haul and— no wishing, no wanting, no hoping — I willonly level up from here on out.

I’m 34 and I’ve never been a better version of myself. I woke up today knowing that to my core and it felt pretty fucking grand.

Things are rad. Things are getting radder.

How to Install a Car Stereo and Become a Perfect Person

This essay originally posted on Medium.

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Tony with his ’63 Impala, May 2019.

Anythingis as much everything as it is nothing. How do you fill something without parameters?

I’ve wondered this since I first pitched The Perfect Person Project, my decidedly indefinite standing offer to learn anything from anyone. Asking the public to teach me whateveris a task so preposterously open-ended, it felt like I could lose my way after the first few steps.

But yesterday I scored my first education and it turned out to make total sense — and that is largely in part to my first instructor, Tony.

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I lived with Tony six years ago in a house designed by M.C. Escher and in our garage sat an insanely cool ‘63 Impala, passed onto him sophomore year of high school from his mother. He worked on it from time to time, but it wasn’t running back then.

In the years since, Tony moved to Los Angeles, married the very lovely Jennifer, and earlier this year bought a house (that is decorated like a flippin’ home decor magazine spread). The whip has also seen big changes, from a working engine to a new interior. Next up was a stereo and an amplifier.

So Tony invited me up to get educated, and I in turn wanted to know what to bring as non-financial (likely edible) compensation. [This whole mad-libs philosophy of pitching an idea and figuring it out later often ends up with me inquiring about snacks.]

“Jen usually puts something together,” Tony explained. “I’ll see what she had planned, so you can bring something to complement.”

That something turned out to be cold beer and a good attitude.

Meanwhile, I had to recognize that, somewhere deep inside me, there lurked some much younger self who saw too many mid-to-late-century flicks at an impressionable age and once assumed a driveway scene like this was what Saturdays were inevitably made for — and that, as a writer, catching some vignette of suburban daydream would be like hunting big game.

[Author’s Note: Given a lifetime of cinematic delirium with a relatively recent grounding, I’m still coming out of the haze with smokey tentacles periodically lashing my brain.]

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On the drive up, I chatted up my cousin Griffin on the phone. The dude’s a Reno resident these days and when I informed him of my destination, he recounted a story of being back in his hometown of Santa Barbara the same weekend Tony was randomly visiting the coastal haven, with the latter ultimately approaching the tall, redheaded former at a bar, saying, “You gotta be a Kilroy.”

I rolled up to a palm-lined block in Leimert Park and it briefly felt like my old days of crashing, where an unfamiliar guestroom soon became a frontier outpost. The homestead was welcoming from car door’s close and I waved in that strange sense of warmth I assume comes each time you initially approach the porch of first-time homeowners to visit old friends.

After a new home tour and my typical expletive-riddled ramblings of praise, I was greeted by an outdoor table’s neat arrangement of the tools we’d be using and the electronics we’d be installing. The project’s inaugural lesson began with Tony explaining his preference of DIY, given its inherent ability to make a person care more about what they own and what they’re capable of. Do something yourself if you can; pay someone to do it if you can’t. Then we got to work.

Considering I’m someone who has merely refilled his oil and changed his headlights, I learned a lot! What may have seem basic to any car guy was a relatively new world to yours truly, from finding power sources to observing the standardized colors of wiring. I even took notes in a lil’ pad.

Throughout the afternoon course, it was fascinating to recall that I’m older than Tony (by two months) and that he’s not an auto shop teacher (actually in the cigar business) because, from start to finish, Tony steadily moved along, thoughtfully answering my questions, offering me opportunities to be hands on, and comprehensively approaching the topic, ensuring I always understood what we were doing and why. [Plus I handed him tools and pulled cables through the back seat.]

Jennifer even took a break from cooking — what ended up being a fabulous meal for the three of us— to step onto the backyard deck and give a glowing review of Tony’s teaching voice.

At some point, as Tony ran through why he was pursuing more makeshift solutions because it was an older car, he said, “So I wouldn’t be doing this if I had…” — momentarily pausing for the right words — “…a son,” I joked. That’s what the afternoon felt like at times, some oddball portrayal of Americana folklore about how a dad passes on his car knowledge.

After a few hours, given breaks for catching up and a sit-down dinner — followed by a particularly long post-meal backyard lounge that rounded out with a Q&A session about escrow and mortgages because this is the age it’s as familiar as it is new— we finally got the stereo ready for tunes. Tony let me choose the song to test it out, so Carly Rae Jepsen’s immortal pop classic “Cut to the Feeling” came blasting from the steeziest car on the block.

Then I played something more time-appropriate — The Desires’ “Rendezvous With You” — and it felt like completing a scene. There was surely some writerly indulgence to the playing of oldies to end an afternoon of beers and working on a classic car while dinner plates are rinsed on the other side of a glowing screen door as sunlight steps down from the sky, the trees swaying less.

[Author’s Note: Again, this kind of nonsense is a habit I ultimately aim to kick or control, but it’s a slow dance to rid yourself of such histrionic scene-setting neurosis.]

It wasn’t long until an evening breeze strutted into the backyard and crickets took up their nightlife, and the quiet, inky neighborhood came dotted with glowing pops of yellow, that I caught myself still, dwelling on the notion that Tony had assembled a pretty swell life. It’s hard to grab hold of the tiny moments when you allow yourself to furnish a streak of only seeing certain friends at dinner parties, baby showers, and weddings. Even with revealing dialogue in a larger, louder setting, you don’t inhabit the person’s world for long. So actually finding yourself immersed in the details you know by heart comes at you with a soft bite. The corners of my mouth floated a bit, and I thanked Tony for being game for a project I still wasn’t sure how to articulate beyond the elevator pitch.

“Even without everything else, it’s cool you have a reason to see old friends,” he said.

This was true, and I pulled at the thread accordingly. Thus, awash in porch light, with the tools put away and the driveway cleaned up, as Jennifer decorated for a birthday party inside, Tony and I broke down the heart that beats at the core of this ongoing project: I want to have new experiences and learn new things, sure, but I really just love beholding people in their element.

I rarely get to see friends and family drop knowledge. It just doesn’t come up. I was never going to ask Tony how to install a car stereo at some party. But yesterday I got to pick his brain about something he’s known how to do since he was a teenager, when his cousin’s boyfriend first taught him about cars. This knowledge has been in him the whole time I’ve known him and yesterday I saw him in total control, and it was cool as hell.

When I originally came up with this project, the years-ago version at least, it was to be a sort of how-to hodgepodge. But that doesn’t make sense to me anymore —it seems akin to a student printing a chapbook of his hastily scribbled class notes and what he remembers from a teacher’s lecture — and that’s not what this input/output is really about, I suppose.

In fact, shortly after the stereo came to life, us in the Impala’s front bench seat, as “Little Bitty Pretty One” by Thurston Harris filled the slick aquamarine interior, Tony remarked, “Nobody realizes what they know until they’re asked — and actually have someone to listen.”

Truly, that’s what this all is in its most primary terms — a captive audience in trade for new knowledge. Everyone knows something, even if they have to rummage around their attic to dust it off, and they don’t always have the ready chance to reveal it. But I’m here for it and I want to hear it all until my ears no longer work. Come at me with your life lessons for a life of lessons — one down; the infinite to go.

I'm Trying to Not Be an Out of Control Mess This Year—and It's Working

This essay originally appeared on Medium.

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For years and years and for better or for worse, I have maintained what I would describe as manic energy. Many other people would too. And it’s come to an end.

Or at least it’s come to some version of an end. I’m not going to suddenly be a sharply dressed mute expressionist whose only contribution to a conversation is the obnoxiously loud sipping of expensive tea. I’m just going to be a different, better version of me.

See, in January of this year, I basically took on the “Summer-Winter of Jake Kilroy.” (It’s like Seinfeld’s “Summer of George” episode, except it’s more lateral than opposite, and I take my New Year’s resolutions very seriously.)

This is me shortly before blacking out at my sister’s wedding—where I was the minister.

As of last month, here’s what I’m doing with my life:

  • I go to weekly therapy.

  • I don’t drink.

  • I’m taking a break from drugs.

  • I exercise more than usual.

  • I sleep eight hours a night.

  • I make thoughtful decisions.

  • I practice mindfulness.

These, as you can likely already tell, are not exactly revelations. At best, these are things most of us learned to do as kids. It wouldn’t surprise me if a substantial portion of readers are instantly, “Yeah, dude, fucking duh. Like, forever ago, we learned this.”

Well, yours truly didn’t. In fact, yours truly really dug on a life of delirium and mania. To be honest, there was something exciting about life as a space cadet. Basic existence was dimensional voyaging. Day-to-day activity was visiting an alien world. I was between realities. All of it was thrilling and weird.

Wild-eyed hyperbole aside, I really wasn’t “here” as much as I could’ve been, and when I was, I wasn’t exactly centered. I became untethered sometime ago, and I never did anything about it.

I am choosing to fully reboot in a way I have never done before.

About every three years—thus far, at the ages of 24, 27, 30, and now 33—I investigate myself and decide who and how I should be. That has not always meant an overall healthier, calmer existence. I have absolutely chosen wilder.

This time around, however, I am choosing to fully reboot in a way I never have before.

Therapy and figuring out myself

I put off going to therapy for a decade and a half, and there was no good reason for the delay. Like a million other things on my existential to-do list, I just kept meaning to do it and then… didn’t.

The first two sessions of therapy were easy. I just rattled off everything I knew to be true about myself. I had ideas of what I wanted to explore, improve, and upgrade, but it was coming from a place of weakness and defeat rather than excitement and reward. I basically hated certain aspects of how I operated as a person, and I couldn’t figure out a way to break free from it as a conceptual whole.

Finally, I pulled on a single thread—“I don’t think I’m as present as I could be”—and that got things going like whoa.

My therapist eventually said something that I will likely carry with me forever: “You might live so far in your head that you’re taking in a distorted sense of reality.”

Now, on the surface, this reads sci-fi. But, sincerely, nothing has ever made more sense. It was like walls fell away, and I learned my surroundings were not my actual surroundings. It was all a ruse!

Okay, that also reads sci-fi.

But, in an instant, I knew she was right. It explained a lot. It was like falling backward into cool water on the hottest day of the year. The realization suddenly informed why I have trouble understanding the world, why I function as a visitor, why I don’t accurately communicate myself, why peculiar things frustrate me, why cause and effect seem off in my relationships, and so on.

For all my empathy and engagement, I wasn’t always entirely here. Or I would be deeply here in a moment and then I’d disappear into my head, and that would change my comprehension. I created hypotheticals so regularly, sitting with them so repeatedly that I practically trained myself to believe them instead. Little things evolved into big things, big things eroded into little things, and I became so familiar with my own interpretation and rationalization that I accepted it over actual truth, more or less without meaning to do so.

From time to time, up until now, I’ve encountered confusing issues with reacting to certain stimuli because so many parts of it have had to be ridiculously processed. There was such a great distance between the real world and me. It was like a postal service was carrying basic nuance from my five senses to my brain. Immersion wasn’t instant. Basic reality came to me like I was some worldly liege accepting a messenger in his court.

So my chatting skills would range from spaced-out drivel in order to survive dialogue to a dozen steps ahead of the other person in a conversation because I’d already mentally played out the things I wanted to say in their entirety. My words would sometimes come off negative when I didn’t mean for them to be delivered as such—argumentative, critical, dismissive, judgmental, pious, pretentious, snarky, tense, and the like—because I would regularly speak without thinking, leaving thoughts ill-timed, insensitive, raw, reactive, unformed, out in the open, and available for interpretation. At times, I would find myself following up with folks at great length because I was too out of it or too in my own head the first go.

Was all this annoying and frustrating? Probably. Maybe. I don’t know. What did I care? I was so far up my ass-brain I didn’t always know what was happening.

To theoretically enable some form of control, I more or less conditioned myself to consider those hypothetical outcomes, so I would have prepared responses I could mail in from afar. But I assigned different weights to possibilities, so, in strange instances, the unexpectedness of reality made me oddly vulnerable and incapable. I wouldn’t know how to deal with situations because I was so frantic and far removed from them while simultaneously being grossly concerned and unsure how to proceed. I created a sort of helplessness cycle that would make me feel hopeless until I spaced out again and then all of it felt distant and I cared less about everything.

Sanity can be relative. Control can be illusionary. What should matter is happiness. However, your gauge of joy isn’t always what you believe it to be.

For me, I was happy being in my own world. I just severely underestimated how hard it had knocked me out of the real one. I brushed it off as bumping into people at grocery stores while crafting a narrative in my head, whereas I should have been asking myself, Hey, do you ever wonder if you’re purposefully removing yourself from real-life situations in order to guarantee an outcome you prefer, one with little to no consequences?

In retrospect, I was regularly blindsided by very obvious truths and remarkably easy situations simply because I was vacationing from existence so very often. I decorated the inside of my head quite exquisitely, I must say. (The fact I was able to do this in the first place is a gargantuan reveal of my straight-white-maleness.)

I just sort of floated. Relationships came and went. Friends would be temporarily disappointed in me. Family would get mad at me and then they wouldn’t because they’re family. I coasted through life because my priority was me, and I knew exactly what I wanted and acted accordingly.

All the while, I maintained the calendar and momentum of a social butterfly, and I would still make a point to be there for people, whether to help them move, get them through a breakup, or simply ask them a million questions about their life. But I often saw each interaction as a singular moment, a blip, rather than a valuable part of a longer string or larger scheme. I was out and about in the world to get my emotional passport stamped and then return to the safety and comfort of home.

It doesn’t make much sense to me now. It actually bums me out. But it felt comfortable for a long time, mostly because, at some point, I realized I’m only on this planet for a handful of years, and if some god replays my highlight reel, I want to make sure I lived for me and had a blast. I never felt like I was missing out. I was serving my own master—me.

Thus learning that I was something of a mental and emotional ghost in the House of Jake Kilroy was legitimately terrifying. I wasn’t just absent from the lives of others; I was absent in my own life as well, and for some reason, that new context made all the difference.

My therapist is max chill and for that I am grateful because my response was, “Holy fuck, you’re right,” followed by a plague of “What in the hell?” and “How in the shit?” It was unfathomably draining at first, and then, shortly after, it became ridiculously energizing. It felt comparable to the time I found out my vision had been bad my whole life while I thought that’s just how eyes worked.

I felt alive. I was present. The world instantly became easier.

What makes you feel good in the moment is surface level. Feeling good at your core is work.

As that same session of therapy revealed, I tend to overthink and overanalyze. In theory, this should make me highly perceptive of reality, but it has the opposite effect. No one needs hours of philosophy regarding the tiniest of moments. No one needs to consider how the future may or may not unfold like they’re goddamn Donnie Darko. No one needs to ruminate on nothing forever.

So I’ve stopped.

I mean, I’m still training my brain to halt that shit as more reflex than exercise because it already feels like a much breezier way to live, but it’s a change to how I’ve come at the world for a good spell, and that takes time and practice.

For instance, since my therapist delivered that crucial line, I’ve felt my mind wandering and my presence drifting, and I’ve had to catch it like a balloon rising up to meet the big blue sky.

I’ve taken to meditating, doing yoga, repeating mantras, reading self-help books, and even naming what I see and hear just to keep from retreating and disappearing into a daydream version of reality.

With that, I’ve had to remove some control and accept that I can’t control everything. This is a basic lesson, sure, but as an unmarried dude without kids, it can prove quite easy to control what I do with my life. I make decisions that directly and immediately affect me and only me—for the most part, or so you’d think.

When you get used to control, you’re perplexed when you don’t have it. You feel anxiety you can’t put into words, and your scrambled set of actions and responses have new limitations. This all baffles and frustrates you, and it’s sourced from a bizarre state of comprehensive weakness. In therapy, I’ve learned that I am someone who, in default mode, will trial-and-error his way through things, ideally to a desirable outcome—I’m a fixer, as my therapist puts it. But I’ve had blinders on, so my resolutions have been more Band-Aids than surgeries.

The odd part of all this, of course, is that I am not known for being in control—not even a little bit. That’s, like, half my problem. I have long tended to operate in a world of chaos, but I was able to easily control what interested me—and there was a lot I didn’t care about, even though I absolutely, totally should have. (Read: “Sure, my car insurance is late because I didn’t check the mail for weeks, but here’s how I spent my Saturday doing everything I wanted to do.” That sort of nonsense shit.)

So now I’m someone who is in attendance for general existence, not just my own—someone who is actively working on experiencing reality objectively. I’m actually high on life, which sounds like an inspirational throwaway, but, come on, it’s my first time here.

Shifting toward sobriety

Giving up booze was surprisingly easy. It finally and fully settled into me that I had a problematic relationship with alcohol. Since I started drinking as a teen, I haven’t ever given serious thought to sobriety. To be frank, I never really evaluated my relationship with the substance.

This reads odd, given that overly analytical mind of mine, but it boils down to an easy personal truth: Given that overly analytical mind of mine (that truly never shuts the fuck up), booze was a shiny “off” button.

“I’m turning off this thunderous racket right the fuck now,” my inner monologue would bellow, right before a first drink would turn into a half dozen. For as much as I was in my own head, I didn’t always like it. It’s loud in there. Even partiers need to go to sleep at some point.

That readiness to drink, paired with an established distance from reality and an overall decision to not give as much thought to everyday things, brought out a pretty bunk version of me some nights.

It’s way too easy for me to become way too much to handle as a drunk. I’ve had solid moments of being a charming delight, or so I’ve been told, but I’ve also had notable instances being a fucking nightmare. No one who has gone drinking with me more than once would say otherwise.

Sure, while you and I may have once had a lovely evening of wine, finger foods, and a discussion of the nation’s two-party system (that went beyond simple teenage fist-shaking), we’ve also maybe had a night out where I wound up drinking the cocktails of two strangers on a date at some Downtown Disney establishment. (That’s a true story and it’s not a good one.)

Ultimately, you can only say, “That’s not who I am,” so many times until somebody steps in and points out, “Okay, well, whoever that other person is seems to be rentinga lot of space in your body.”

That somebody pointing it out should be you, by the way.

But I only recently did that. Up until now, each incident was considered isolated. I’d stop or cut back on drinking in response to what we in the industry call a “big fucking whoops.” For me, that could range from getting my friends and I kicked out of one bar and almost a second in the same night, to waking up and assuming my car had been stolen until looking at my phone and seeing Lyft was the last app I opened—and then later finding out my friend had to beg and bargain with me not to drive myself home.

In short, the best thing you could say about me as a drunk was that I was good or tolerable “most of the time.”

As a drinker or non-drinker, I don’t know what my plans are from here on out. I haven’t poured out my extensive bar supplies yet. I just moved them from the counter to the cabinet and replaced their former space with fruits and vegetables. (I’m such a sucker for symbolism.)

Now that I’m weeks out of the habit, I may return to alcohol at some point and come at the entire prospect totally anew. In my brain, that means a one/two-drink limit in all instances and much greater infrequency—like how I only have soda a handful of times a year, mostly at summer barbecues. Loosening the nerves is a nice treat, but it shouldn’t be the default operating system. Maybe I’ll never drink again. I legitimately don’t know. But it’s definitely only minimal as a max from here on out. That’s for sure.

Taking a break from getting high

I’m not quitting drugs forever, but it definitely clashes with my attempt at being more present. Down the road, something like ayahuasca may just deliver the universe’s plan for me. Who knows?

Weed’s been the only drug I really engage with anymore these days, and given local dispensaries, I’m basically snacking on druggo superfoods anyway. Hell, the last time I got high was cannabis-infused granola bites with almonds, chia seeds, dates, goji berries, and sunflower seeds—it was like being a college freshman with John Muir—so I figure it’s “just a phase.”

Unlike with alcohol, the most shameful things I’ve done while high is shushing a microwave and hosting a half-hour debate with myself about whether to send handwritten apology letters to the neighbors for chewing too loudly.

However, any high is still putting me out of my brain, and the rush of awareness is new to me and I’m chasing that one big time.

Exercising my body more

This isn’t a huge update. I just have the time to do it now, and I’ve changed my environment. Last October, my gym membership expired, and I took to running around my neighborhood. Huge surprise: I found jogging around a quiet, picturesque residential area to be more relaxing than sprinting on a machine beneath fluorescent lights, facing televisions.

I never wanted to spend that much time at the gym. Coming into this year, I suddenly had entire evenings available and so I took to going several miles, running because it felt great and walking because it was relaxing. These longer routes became the focus of my evening, rather than a brief component of my day.

My runs used to be late because I preferred them as the last thing of the day, working off any nonsense I ate or drank. But now I consistently eat healthy and I’ve stopped drinking, so my runs feel remarkably easy, and I find them tremendously soothing. They make for good one-on-one sessions with myself.

Getting the rest I need

It seems like sleeping should be impossibly easy. It’s one of the first things you learn to do when you enter this world. You can even do it on accident.

However, I’ve always found sleep to be utter nonsense. Until this year, I only slept eight full hours when I was sick, traveling, or depressed. Truly, I have never embraced a good night’s rest before this year because there were a million things I’d rather do and I never minded being delirious.

Prior to this year’s brain rework, I’d sleep an average of five hours a night. Sometimes, I’d stay up until nearly sunrise simply because I got into the groove of a puzzle. Surely this lack of sleep explains some things about my life before. Reading this, people who’ve known me for years would say, “Now I know why simple tasks were so very difficult for him. He was half-braindead all the time.”

But I liked that weird energy that came with modest sleep deprivation. I enjoyed functioning in an oddball way. I preferred being just slightly removed from reality. Nothing bad seemed too bad in that mode.

But that’s why simple tasks were so very difficult for me, because I was half-braindead all the time. Now I’m not, and I feel like a genius—or my version of genius anyway. Seriously, now that I’m getting decent rest, I feel like I put in cheat codes.

Putting thought into decisions

Given a well-rested body and brain, devoid of typical poisons, it’s apparently quite easy to choose long-term reward over instant gratification. To many people, this is obvious. To me, this is now also obvious, but I just always found the notion of abiding by it immensely difficult. It’s only been just recently that I took it as sacred philosophy.

I never consciously thought, “Hey, you’re only on this planet for so long,” before deciding to treat myself to takeout instead of cooking at home or buying more books when I haven’t read a substantial portion already on my shelf, but there was some spring of that step in me somewhere. Since I had essentially conditioned myself to live my “best life” at a numbing constant, the gap between “I want this” and “I shall have this” was often short-lived.

To me, long-term reward was not exactly a reward. It was homework. It was business. For all my absence of presence, I was good about treating myself in the moment. I was forever chasing happiness. Happiness was immediate. Anything later was not happiness.

But living sleep-deprived, half-drunk, and kind of high is the exact recipe for a lack of larger consideration. What makes you feel good in the moment is surface level. Feeling good at your core is work. I was coasting. I gave myself what I wanted in reflex—not what I thought I should ultimately have deep down.

Now it’s easy. Now it’s core decisions. Now it’s a life of principles. And what I want to do and what I should do are blending. It can be easy to be healthy—nutritionally, financially, etc. You just need to be in a good place.

Letting myself be mindful

Mindfulness for me is huge because it deals with the root of things.

I have never actively attempted to escape my head. I liked it in there. It was comfortable. It wasn’t great for me as it turns out, but, hey, I knew my way around the place.

I used to be rather good about checking in with myself. But I haven’t been for a long while. There are a few reasons for that, but there was definitely one big source.

In 2017, I was depressed. It wasn’t clinical depression. But it was for sure a low point that lasted for more than half the year, and I have severely underestimated its impact ever since.

Hands down, 2016 was the best year of my life. I put my stuff in storage and existed as I had always wanted to—living on the road, bouncing around states and countries, and writing for a living. Everything made sense to me and my manic energy flourished because I was game for anything. I was constantly exploring and reacting to new stimuli while doing what I loved. It seriously felt like I beat the game.

When I moved home at the end of the year, I promised myself I would take that feverish joy and put it into a domestic, more stationary existence that was just as rewarding. I was ready to figure it out. The problem was that freelance work abruptly tapered off across the board, and I had no money in savings—I had treated myself outrageously, indescribably well that year with travel. So I was suddenly broke, buying material possessions I needed in a post-duffel bag life, and I owed the government a substantial figure in taxes.

I had gone from living the dream to being too poor to do anything. I was living alone, working from home, unable to go out, and it was not a good place to be. I picked myself apart—pretty ruthlessly at times.

I became isolated. I felt like a failure. I kind of hated myself. And these were all things I recognized toward the end or shortly thereafter. Earlier on, my brain was so scrambled with anxiety and fury, I couldn’t purposefully focus on myself too long or too deep because I’d have a meltdown. I would literally tear my hair out from stress at home and then just say weird, ominous shit when out and about before drinking myself into oblivion.

In moving on, I acknowledged these destructive feelings and tendencies as relics of the past, as if they could be spotted in the distance of a bad time in my life. I didn’t realize I was carrying them with me like cursed tokens. Once I returned to an office job with a steady income, I put all my focus into feeling better. And I did! I totally felt better! Who wouldn’t after going from having nothing to root for to everything trending upward? With that, though, I more or less paved over a sinkhole I believed to be a pothole.

Looking back, I suppose without truly realizing it, I refused to look too far inward, scared of what I might see again. Instead, I projected a strange confidence, looked for solutions elsewhere, and basically stopped checking in with myself.

In turn, I made 2018 the busiest year of my life. I couldn’t slow down. I simply wouldn’t. I ensured that I was so distracted I’d never be able to sit with myself too long or too deep, from constantly checking social media to taking work home to scheduling social event after social event. Even my minimal travel last year was basically inhaled. In October, I went to a bachelor party, attended two weddings, and went all out on a business trip—Austin, D.C., Kauai, and Las Vegas, respectively—all in the span of three weeks. I’d go to work for a day in between each trip, and I came home from that wildcard stint broken-brained and still charging.

Needless to say, I was coming apart by the end of 2018, and I came into this year in tatters.

I felt the developing weight for a while; I somehow resented it without truly acknowledging it. But I had also been in that mode for so long, it felt practically standard. I found myself retreating inward without excavating or even really examining. Weird vulnerabilities were coming to the surface, I was seeking unfamiliar validation to quench uncharacteristic insecurities, and I couldn’t recognize what should’ve outright been considered a plague of outliers, novel undesirables ranging from bitter to self-righteous. My entire setup of mental and emotional processing had been damaged at light speed, and I kept the trajectory going instead of stopping for repairs. It wasn’t until everything in my life came to a head that I had to admit my entire existence was out of whack.

The curious thing is that I also came into this year with more energy than I knew what to do with—more new year energy than I’ve ever had, in fact. I recognized I wasn’t myself the last two years—one year depressed, one year distracted—and it took several life changes to break free this January and now it’s like I’m glowing.

I feel like I’ve come alive again.

No, really, for all my annoying love of hyperbole, I mean it. It’s been wild. I’ve legitimately never operated like this. I’ve looked deep within myself for the first time in years and I like what I see and love what I could see.

I like who I am. For the most part, I’ve always liked who I am. I just had spots that needed a remodel instead of a new coat of paint.

I’ve never felt this calm. I’ve never tried to be this collected. I’ve always been my version of calm and collected, which in my head (RIP), looked like a guru floating in a house in flames. (I suppose it’s just the “This is fine” cartoon dog meme, really. Ugh, how predictably millennial.)

To be honest, I feel a bit sedated. I’m not used to this, and I used to fear any sense of slowness or any hint of boredom. I’m not familiar with peace. I’m not accustomed to tranquility. I’m not acclimated to rationale. I’ve always just… spun. Part of me worries my manic energy was a source of humor and creativity, but that’s the myth that our best offerings are rooted in nonsense habituals.

I’ve asked myself what kind of person I ultimately want to be and now I’m coming up with answers. Lately, I’ve found myself doing things I’ve long put off, and I’ve functioned in a way I should have a lifetime ago.

From engaging in activities I’ve always meant to do to getting involved in local organizations I always meant to join, I’m nailing this new life. This particular part of my upgraded existence didn’t take an outrageous amount of work either. All it required was a clearer mind, a life without self-made distractions, and the decision to simply show up. For some reason, “I always meant to” never counted as a desire because it wasn’t immediate. I put things off, and it’s made for a long list.

My brain has never worked better and I’m only a month in, so I’m pretty stoked and eager to see what comes of this approach. Even now, I speak without later regret because my brain is working at full capacity; there’s a thoughtful center and an actual filter. I’m months ahead on bills because it suddenly became easy to sit down, organize my finances, and be smarter about spending. Overall, I’m exploring the world anew rather than sticking to what I know, kicking it in some oddball mental tower.

I like who I am. For the most part, I’ve always liked who I am. I just had spots that needed a remodel instead of a new coat of paint this time, and I’ll be better about maintenance from here on out.

To be honest, it feels like I just joined the population—and I feel fucking good about it, about all things.

Part of me wants to say I don’t know how to describe this feeling, but that’s a pretty obnoxious way to close out. See that awareness? That’s the new me!

And I’m thrilled to be here.

Once: 100 Moments of a Dunce's Life

This essay originally appeared on Medium.

Once.jpeg

A regular exercise of mine is to organize memories — take them out of storage, dust them off, and settle them back in a bit more polished than before — so it hopefully proves easier to revisit my brain down the road as it slowly, and then I assume quite rapidly, deteriorates. I do this with good and bad moments alike; however, the latter doesn’t necessarily read light and bouncy, and I tend to keep those ones personal anyhow.

So, in the spirit of a jovial read, I’ve kept this public offering of my memory bank polite, congenial, and amusing (ideally). It’s not meant to be a comprehensive reflection of an entire life. [Hell, I’m only in my 30s.] Instead, this particular assemblage of moments was more or less driven by, “Huh, that was curious or screwball,” rather than simply joyous memories that make me smile like a glossy-eyed dork.

While I’ve had moments of deep, transfixed sadness and gross emotional ineptitude, I dig the idea of, from time to time, life being reviewed like a highlight reel or some sparkling beach net collection of gems, even if they’re mere blips that only mattered for a few minutes.

Per my usual rule, I’ve left out the more personal narratives of sex and drugs. [Them memories are for my jubilation, triumph, and shame and my jubilation, triumph, and shame alone.] I’ve also kept names out of this because I lost all my permission slips and release forms. Everyone under the buddy, pal, or friend banner here knows who they are.

I suppose I engage in this memory recollection and refurbishing activity because it reveals how lucky I’ve been in this life, and I never want to overlook that or fail to appreciate it. My memory gets worse with each passing year, and I like having a seemingly tangible memory bank that I can readily come upon. And then I put it out in the world because I haven’t lead an interesting enough life to pen a memoir, so this is the closest I’ll ever get to nailing an autobiography.

100 Onces

1. Once, I convinced my friend he won concert tickets with a fake email from Travis Bickle. I asked if he’d take me. He said, “Maybe.”

2. Once, I wasn’t into a party at my house, so I watched Wise Bloodin my bedroom. It made me feel so weird I came downstairs and lit myself up mad drunk with a distant stare I honestly couldn’t shake.

3. Once, I met Tim Armstrong from Rancid. Given that neither of us properly enunciate, much of the conversation was just the word ‘what.’

4. Once, riding shotgun on the way home from a party, my pal and I smashed into a car stopped in freeway traffic. Two dudes dressed like assassins from The Matrix — all leather and white/spiral contacts with weird make-up, legit looking from the future — popped out of the vehicle, to which I yelled, “WHO THE FUCK DID WE HIT.” Given that my buddy only had his permit, we avoided legal trouble by him saying, “So…he can’t be here,” and I just nodded and left with the strangers’ friends, who were also hit. I climbed into the backseat of a two-door sedan with a young woman crying into her phone, “And now some kid just got in our car!” Left at a gas station, I called my dad collect from a payphone. He wasn’t happy. Next day, he warmed up, asking, “How were you not kidnapped?” I had no answer — joking about vampires knowing their own, realizing how bad I am at making decisions, thinking, “I’m gonna die so dumb.”

5. Once, from a cab, I watched two officers in separate cop cars cuss each other out. It was the most New York thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

6. Once, in college, our house threw a bonkers party. The cops showed up, citing multiple calls. Each roommate then revealed he had called the police. Every single noise complaint was from us.

7. Once, when I was a 13, I broke into my neighbors’ house while they were on vacation to watch cable because my dad had gotten rid of ours.

8. Once, as a teen, a friend’s older babe neighbor offered me a smoke. I held it out for her to light like it was crime scene evidence. She laughed, “First cigarette?” It was.

9. Once, a designer I was dating asked what I thought of her new fonts. The first card read WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME. The review did not go well.

10. Once, I forgot my ID, so a waitress, my age, quizzed me — when I graduated, what I grew up knowing, etc. There was a thoughtful pause as she considered me. I added that my prom’s DJ played “Ignition (Remix)” twice. She nodded, bellowed “YUP”, and served me a beer.

11. Once, at 19, I submitted an essay to The New Yorker. It was rejected. A month later, I received a second rejection letter for no reason.

12. Once, shortly after Sam’s Town came out, I went as Brandon Flowers for Halloween and kept putting on The Killers, so I could sing along like it was a concert. My extremely obnoxious running joke was not well-received.

13. Once, Mandy Moore came to my high school for an assembly. Wanting to woo her with a cute yet casual gesture, I gifted her a Del Taco coupon (that was only good down the street).

14. Once, as a party was winding down, I overheard a hookup pause so the woman could slap the dude and growl, “I said, do you believe in God?”

15. Once, a date wore a UCLA sweater to Knott’s Scary Farm. In an asylum maze, a monster with an ax ran at us, only to calmly quip, “USC rules.”

16. Once, hammered at a Thanksgiving party, I sprayed the leftovers with whipped cream and left to hook up in a van. No one was happy (but me). To this day, nothing I’ve done has come even remotely close to making my friends as mad as they were about this. Whenever it comes up in conversation, it’s like it happened just yesterday.

17. Once, at a party, things were weird with a girl I was dating…that got way weirder when she hooked up with an off-duty firefighter in the same jacuzzi as me.

18. Once, well after midnight, my pal joke-swerved on a dark mountain road to scare us and hit a parked car. Before waking the owner, he informed us we had to first bury all the drugs he was selling in the surrounding woods.

19. Once, at a club in Mexico, a stripper corrected my Spanish while still coyly writhing around stage as I slipped money into her underwear.

20. Once, in college, a friend’s mother snuck a foot up my bathing suit in a jacuzzi. I muttered, “Well, it’s getting too hot for me,” and got outta there.

21. Once, the weekend of Halloween, I hydroplaned, spun out, and wound up in a head-on collision on the freeway. I was down the street from my college and I hit two soroity girls in sexy costumes. As the family minivan was full of smoke and the rain was coming down brutal, the ladies invited me to wait for my dad in their car. By the time my dad showed up, I was having a blast, something he was extremely unstoked to behold. Days later, he calmed down, grateful I was alive, and told me if I ever saw them on campus, I should say, “Hey, funny running into you again!”

22. Once, attempting to use a gated community pool’s clubhouse, my very adult friends and I accidentally attended the most epic 420 high school party ever seen. It wound up as us drinking beer in the jacuzzi, surrounded by what felt like hordes of high schoolers. They tarped up the clubhouse windows and had a cover charge we didn’t have to pay because they were worried we’d call the cops.

23. Once, a pizza joint offered free cheesy bread if the Anaheim Ducks scored a power play goal — one per dining party. So my roommates and I piled into a car and staggered our arrival, waiting around like strangers. Things were going fine until one of us went rogue with a loud, elaborate backstory about being a CEO.

24. Once, when I was a teen insane with my first high school crush, a different girl at a party asked me if I wanted to go make out and I politely turned it down like someone’s mom had offered me a snack and then I caught my friend giving me the hardest WTF face I’ve probably ever seen.

25. Once, 3 a.m. in rural Kentucky, on our way home from Bonnaroo, my pal and I took a shortcut as the rainy forest road’s lone car on our way to a town we saw a turnoff for. After passing a church with a ominous swinging light, we came upon a meadow, flanked by mountains and a giant moon. “Where’s the town?” he asked flatly and gravely. Spooked, we sped to a motel and stayed up while the other showered out of fear of hungry ghosts.

26. Once, as a kid, my mom made pasta. I wasn’t into it that night and asked, “Can I have something else?” She answered, “Pretend this is a restaurant and you have to eat it.” I stared at it for a moment before informing her, “Well, then I didn’t order this.” My dad snorted wine out his nose and had to leave the table.

27. Once, in college, I left a party because I got way too high and came home to an empty house. Shortly after, my roommates killed the power and started creeping around, making weird noises. They didn’t know I kept a bat under my bed and it’s the closest I’ve come to murder.

28. Once, my friend and I saw an orchestra — in suits and on edibles. After an epic crescendo, he whisper-yelled, “Holy shit, I need to hit the bathroom to wipe all the cum off my face.” I concurred, “YEAH, DUDE.” And then the lady in front of us did the slowest turn I’ve ever seen.

29. Once, at a party, a friend saw me and said, “Nice shirt.” I agreed, explaining how I lifted it from our mutual clothes-grifting pal as retribution. My friend laughed, clarifying it was actually his shirt before it was stolen. That’s when the stripper pole came out of the ceiling.

30. Once, at a summer party, I drank wild on an empty stomach and spent the night making out with someone’s friend, treating her like my girlfriend. My sister got a head’s up about the gal and passed it onto me as I was leaving. I laughed, cross-eyed as hell and totally bewildered: “Who the fuck is Megan?”

31. Once, before a college girlfriend left to study abroad, my friends and I built a theater set of a restaurant that enclosed our patio. I scooped her and returned, where everyone played a role — valet, host, waiter, busboy, cook, owner, live music — each dude welcoming us as strangers.

32. Once, a teacher called my house during an otherwise delightful family dinner to inform my parents that she straight up couldn’t teach her class with me in it because I just wouldn’t stop talking. I had been there exactly one time. That’s how I rounded out my first day of 2nd grade. Later that year, she would send me outside for talking straight through the Pledge of Allegiance.

33. Once, on the first day my 7th grade friends and I walked home from school, we were pegged by jagged cans outside a donut shop. I went into a rage. I opened my grape soda, took one sip, and ran to pour it out on the kid. Then his older brother pinned me against the alley wall by the throat.

34. Once, I was banned from a Vancouver hostel. We befriended a drunk soldier on leave after he approached our table with a literal handful of weed. I let him use the bathroom and when the owner got mad at me, the dude threatened to beat his ass. It was our last night in town anyway.

35. Once, at 18, I went to a carnival in Vienna. Another student got a bloody nose on the bungee. The very buff operator turned to us laughing with blood on him. I said, “You look like a tough motherfucker!” He caught little and growled, “MOTHER.FUCKER?” He stepped at me with developing fury until my teacher explained that I was simply an idiot.

36. Once, when I played drums in 9th grade, my band was invited to play a popular dude’s party. That week, I was grounded for bad grades. My folks allowed me to go — only to play. So once my band wrapped its set, they rolled into the full-throttle party to help me load my gear into the minivan in front of everyone.

37. Once, my buddy and I were broke in Cuba. Our only chance was a Western Union transfer to our hostel’s employee. I scribbled the dude’s info with the note PLEASE SEND THIS MAN MONEY and texted a screenshot. Then I lost service. So for hours, my mother worried I had been kidnapped.

38. Once, when I was on a JV basketball team that went 1–21, we watched a 7-footer clear our 5'3" guard on a dunk and our AND1-loving bench went insane. Next practice, coach made us run until we couldn’t stand to teach us not to cheer for opponents. “That’s, like, Sports 101, guys.”

39. Once, while on the road, my buddy brought a gal back to our Airstream. I commented on her “Always” tattoo. She sang Snape’s praise as I called him a Nazi asshole with a crush. We drunkenly fought about this until I yelled, “Avada Kedavra!” She was instantly livid and did not stay.

40. Once, in high school, my friend, my brother, and I were to attend my sister’s basketball game. We forgot to rally everyone to go, so instead we each wore a homemade shirt featuring a letter (C/A/L) and hung up a paper banner reading SORRY CAITLIN, THE OTHER GUYS COULDN’T MAKE IT!

41. Once, as a grade school supervisor, two little girls told me I should make the other supervisor my girlfriend. One girl: “My dad has a girlfriend. It’s my mom.” Other girl: “My dad has a girlfriend. Mommy doesn’t know about it.” [Then it was just me splashing water on my face, trying to collect myself.]

42. Once, my grandparents gave me a shirt for Christmas. Upon opening the gift, a curious look crossed my face. My grandma said, “When I saw it, I thought, ‘That looks exactly like something Jake would wear!’” She was right — because she had bought me the same exact shirt the year before.

43. Once, I saw Skrillex crowd-surfing at a Refused show. Toward the end of ‘New Noise,’ I grabbed his collar and we repeatedly screamed “THE NEW BEAT” at each other with our sweaty foreheads touching. When it was over, I gave him an eskimo kiss and put him back on the wave of hands.

44. Once, while at a favorite bar in Baja, our bartender invited us to a party he was working that night. Hours later, 17 of us rolled up to the big garden bash in a van — piled inside, atop the roof, hanging on back — and started drinking…with the bride and groom’s friends and family.

45. Once, while living in a college party house, my roommates and I agreed to let our friend build a two-story living space in the garage. When he moved out, another buddy moved into the “Get-Outta-Townhouse.” Yet he still came around like a super — just fixing stuff and checking on things.

46. Once, as my friend and I set up a tent at sunset in Missouri, fireflies came out. It was magical. Neither of us had seen them before. We hustled to the nearest gas station, bought bottles of Boone’s Farm, and came back to sit in our lawn chairs. By then, the fireflies were gone.

47. Once, the ex of my pal’s lady razed him at a bar. He countered. Then a half dozen of us lined up with a half dozen of them like a damn movie. The monstrous meathead assigned to me was a chatty one. “Don’t wanna kick your ass, but I may have to,” he said, 1,000% stronger than me and earnestly filled with regret. My reply, simply: “Ah, that is unfortunate to hear.”

48. Once, in 1st grade, I opened a one-night pop-up eatery called eEvita’s (an edgy spelling, I suppose). My parents worked the kitchen, my siblings ran a hosting station/lemonade stand in the entryway, and every relative in the county packed the place. I dressed up and did not pay my staff.

49. Once, three pals and I cruised to the beach on Labor Day for (what was at the time) the best pizza. We picnicked on a hill overlooking the San Clemente Pier on a perfect day. Before us, against the sunset, a couple in their late 40s took turns aggressively getting each other off.

50. Once, as a boy, I had my future told over tarot cards in a treehouse by two girls. With a nearly debilitating crush on one of them, I tried to make a cool, funny, and memorable exit. It was only the latter. I fell out, got the wind knocked out of me, and thought I broke my arm.

51. Once, at a health food café, a server entered the patio carrying an enormous bowl of harvested vegetables, and all I could ask was, “What doofus ordered a whole veggie basket for brunch?” To my surprise, I had. It was then I learned crudité and crostini were not the same thing.

52. Once, a buddy got us WAY too stoned at a party. I sat at a table, hands folded like a job interview, loving the music. I asked him who it was. “Of Montreal. Sunlandic Twins,” he answered. A pal spoke up. “Okay, I have to step in. You two have had this exact conversation six times now. One of you has to get less high.”

53. Once, at a Vegas bachelor party, a few of us ate edibles without considering the consequences. In the wave pool, life was bliss. In the lazy river, however, we succumbed to delirious panic, convinced the current implied a waterfall, and chain-held one another so we wouldn’t go over. Kids continued to swim by.

54. Once, my 1–21 JV basketball team’s guard made a buzzer beater. As we walked off dejected — it was still a double-digit loss — he was scooped by our joyous forward. Coach yell-asked why he was So damn happy when we lost. Player replied, “Oh…I thought it was the end of the 3rd.” Coach made us run then and there.

55. Once, junior year, our English final was to pitch our summer goal, no matter how unrealistic. I wrote about owning a flamethrower. To add authenticity, I borrowed a friend’s lighter and lit the edges of the essay. It caught more and I had to put it out in a dead-quiet classroom.

56. Once, senior year, during an admin meeting, I learned our admin bought cameras — due to car vandalism — but not the tapes. So a bud and I made a huge banner reading WE SMILED FOR THE CAMERAS and hung it from the amphitheater’s roof. Problem was that no one knew about the missing tapes, so they just thought our gag was art kids being art kids.

57. Once, I came home wildly high from a party with $15 worth of Del Taco. I had watched the first half of Love Actuallybefore leaving — my first viewing — and dove back in right before the boy runs through the airport. I loudly cheered him on through tears and a mouthful of burrito.

58. Once, after a week with cartoonish Southies, my buddy and I bussed it to Northampton for a concert and drank at a karaoke bar. Faking heavy Boston personas, we were a lively hit until I stumbled back to the “lesbian sorority” we were couchsurfing at and called my then-girlfriend about how I lost my friend to a woman/the woods.

59. Once, my pal and I were given molly at a beach party. A summer later, we tried to return the favor at a lake house. We strutted in with our bag of drugs, but there’d been a weird fight, so we went downstairs and ate the molly like sugar in the hands of kids. We even built a fort.

60. Once, in Buenos Aires, we hit the bars at 2 a.m. At sunrise/last call, one sly, smirking dude pitched a unique joint — a wild apartment party that operated weekly as an illegal bar. I danced with a woman there who told me I laugh after every sentence and could stay awake forever.

61. Once, as a supreme wuss at a sleepover, I lied about my folks forbidding me from watching R-rated movies like Species, so we watched Jury Duty instead. Leaving the next day, the birthday boy’s mother reassured my mom, who said I’d been given carte blanche to watch whatever at the sleepover. That boy’s slow turn of rage-betrayal still haunts me.

62. Once, my friends and I saw Against Me! three times in a weekend — Friday in Los Angeles, Saturday in Pomona, Sunday in San Diego — and the ringing in my ears never went away. It died down, but I haven’t heard silence since I was 20. I’ve worn earplugs to nearly every concert since.

63. Once, on a family trip, we wound up in a Mendocino record shop with single-digit capacity. Over the speakers came Pakistani religious music. Hypnotized, I told the hippie gal behind the counter I’d buy the album, whatever the price. The car stereo rotation became an ordeal.

64. Once, I went to a karaoke birthday in LA’s Koreatown. We had a private room, so everyone was a friend or a friend of friend. Recently sick, I cheered for all but the birthday gal demanded I sing. So I did “Bette Davis Eyes” entirely in gross falsetto. Only my best friend clapped.

65. Once, alone for a week in Orlando, I ate and/or drank at each of EPCOT’s dozen “countries”. A server reminded me of the non-nation Outpost, where I found only snacks. So I bought a bracelet instead. After a few steps, I exaggeratedly held up my newly adorned wrist to be inspected by my wonky, flooded eyes. “I’m too drunk to be here,” I said aloud to no one and bailed.

66. Once, my college roommates and I were watching American Gladiatorswhen three bros opened our front door and strolled through our living room to drink on our back patio. Extremely confused, we inquired. [Some gal had hyped a party at our place.] Once they left, we shut off the lights, filled up water balloons, and waited atop the roof. No one else came.

67. Once, at a wedding, the bride’s niece invited me to do molly with her. She led me down stairs, threw down her purse, and piled up her drugs and condoms. That’s when her dad — my friend’s brother — showed up as only a tall shadow, telling her to come back, while I hid around the corner like the dude was a t-rex.

68. Once, when I was three years old, my folks brought my new brother home from the hospital. Holding him in my arms, I looked up at my parents and said, “Cute baby you have.” Three decades later, it still stands as my politest and most coherent remark to new parents.

69. Once, my buddy and I hit a Tampa bar co-owned by my pal’s coworker’s brother — didn’t know us, wasn’t there. Our plan was one drink, but my order was a box of wine and we wound up blitzed with the staff. We slept in our trailer out back, where I was awoken with a bloody mary to go.

70. Once, heartbroken in San Francisco, my pal and I smoked joints until we fell asleep reading comics in Dolores Park. But then I caught sight of a MAN — adorned in only high-top Converse, a satchel, and a leather cowboy hat — strutting like a cartoon cat on a sunny day, dong aflap.

71. Once, my pal and I stayed at a tiny, hip hotel in New York City. To our damnable surprise, it was very much for couples — the door sign depicted sex — with our dorm room-sized getaway featuring a twin bed and a glass bathroom with a single frosted door that covered either the shower or toilet, but not both. So one person would have to leave if it was too be used. Tired of waiting in the hall during showers, we simply agreed not to look or judge.

72. Once, road-tripping through the snowy woods of Washington, my buddies and I scooped a hitchhiker (think a weirder Ned Flanders in a ski suit). He was out skiing, he said. But when he got out, one of us had to ask, “Did that guy not have skis?” Three people died on the mountain that night.

73. Once, my pals and I watched the World Cup at a bar and were blackout by noon. We befriended the bartender, who drove us to her twin sister’s bar at shift’s end. I woke the next day with dirt in my hair and cuts on my hands. My wallet was later found on a hillside fire road by a dog.

74. Once, in 8th grade, my favorite pants’ zipper broke. Instead of wearing other pants, I told my mom I’d try to sew it in home ec. In Spanish class that day, I stood talking to a girl at her desk. It went well until she deadpanned, “Your dick is in my face.” Not how I imagined first contact with a woman.

75. Once, at a party in San Francisco with a relatively new friend, I wound up in the bedroom of an extreme biter. In honest hellfire pain and scared of losing an ear, I sprang into the hallway to ask, “Hey, it’s pretty late, yeah? We should probably get back.” Unable to read my tone and noticing her holding my hand in a death grip, he shrugged and said, “Nah, dude, we got all the time in the world.” I was led back and inevitably woke up looking like I had been strangled.

76. Once, in high school, I took out a girl I had crushed on for the better part of a year. She made me crazy nervous. At the end of our date, instead of kissing her, I basically shook my mouth into hers. She laughed, “What was that?” And I had to sit down and explain that my knees were legit about to give out.

77. Once, in Portland, two pals and I went to a steakhouse strip club and a vegan strip club, next door to one another and at war. At the vegan one, the first stripper told us, “You guys are so bad at this,” as we had ordered so many drinks and so much food she couldn’t dance for us.

78. Once, in 1st grade, my mom told me my grandma would take care of me after school. That afternoon, I walked to grandma’s house (in another city) while she sat at my house freaking out. No one knew where I was. The school’s drama club began requiring guardian sign-outs afterward.

79. Once, while on the road, I stayed with a couple who smoked me out heavily as a nightcap. They went to bed as I spent the next hour making faces in the trifold bathroom mirror, breaking down my personality into thirds, presenting categorized looks in what I believed was an Olympic sport.

80. Once, as a waiter, I read a note by the morning manager about our dirty kitchen. I jokingly added how this went double for the night crew and was punishable by death. The owner yelled at me for being a bad night manager. Except I wasn’t the night manager. We didn’t even have one.

81. Once, for my first Halloween as a real adult, I stayed home to pass out candy. Apparently, I had underestimated the neighborhood’s age demo because we didn’t get a single trick-or-treater. So I got real high, watched From Hell, and ate most of the entire grocery bag of candy in total silence.

82. Once, when my coworkers and I were obsessed with online Scrabble, one of us got ratted out for playing at work. We then decided on our office suspects and invited them all to a sushi dinner (a la old noir flicks). Alas, it was too good of a happy hour, so our oddly specific questions gave way to cackling and talking shit on our higher-ups.

83. Once, I invited friends to a sleepover. As my dad was notorious for renting old movies, I begged him to rent Happy Gilmore. When he came home that night, I excitedly yet nervously asked if he had rented what I requested. He told me he rented Birth of a Nationinstead. He didn’t really and it was years until I appreciated the gag.

84. Once, I organized a Mustache Olympics to acquiesce to my college girlfriend’s request that I shave the mustache and soul patch I dyed jet black and named Loki and Thor. She had to best one of my five friends in a series of competitions. I invited everyone I knew. The first event was an eating contest and she dominated, so she shaved it off me then and there.

85. Once, after driving two stoned friends to a pizza buffet, I ate an edible and we watched TV. Both of them fell asleep instantly, so I put on a nature doc. The weed kicked in just as a pod of killer whales murdered a gray whale calf in front of its mother, and I seriously couldn’t stop crying.

86. Once, a hippie elf babe sold shroom chocolate to two pals and me outside a bar in New Orleans. The next day, we went to a shotgun house for sound baths with her and her equally hippie girlfriends. At the end of the first half-hour chant, we opened our eyes to topless women. Hours later, two of us hit a bar. The other guy stayed.

87. Once, I staked my reputation on Mean Girls, informing my crew I’d reimburse anyone not a fan. Not a single cent was owed and I was hailed as a hero. Alas, I got cocky and later argued for Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Upon our theater exit, I got, “You son of a bitch. You goddamn stupid son of a bitch.”

88. Once, on my first global work trip, I joked about Cafe Miss Cutie. My coworker called me a degenerate. Everyone inquired, so I had to explain to a table of clients how my pals and I use to play dice at a “coffee shop” of babes in bikinis/lingerie serving assumed gangsters.

89. Once, three pals and I chain-smoked joints and each drank a bottle of Jameson like a 40. Before watching the Star Warstrilogy, we hit every fast food spot within walking distance. At Del Taco, I ordered, like, half the menu. Server: “Is that…everything?” Me with bloody eyes and a crazed smile: “Okay, now multiply it all by two.”

90. Once, a pal and I showed up drunk to an airport right before departure. I lost him within minutes. Assuming he made it through security, I scooted by hundreds in line, only to reach the front and see him running from the bathroom. [He simply wanted to change his clothes.] Everyone was mad at us. Then we sat on the tarmac for hours with complimentary bloody marys, getting even drunker, surrounded by people from the line.

91. Once, when my very tan sister bought fake tanner to cover up her softball jersey tan for prom, my very-not-tan brother and I used it on our arms and necks. The next day, we awoke with orange streaks all over our bodies. My dad laughed, called us amateurs, and lifted his shirt for my mom, revealing “I ❤ Deb” in immaculately finger-drawn orange letters.

92. Once, as a teen in a garage band, I informed my dad that my friends didn’t consider the Sex Pistols real punks. Having been at their infamous Winterland show, he called my bandmates posers and my mom told him not to say that, and it suddenly dawned on me: “Holy shit, MY PARENTS are embarrassed of ME.”

93. Once, early on into dating a sushi waitress, I took my friends to visit her for dinner. When she brought out hot sauces, I instinctively responded, “Hot damn, I love you!” She laughed with wide eyes and left, and I put my face in my hands as one pal asked, “What have you done?”

94. Once, after signing forms for a new job, HR asked me if I had any questions. I blurted out, “I passed my drug test, right?” A bemused silence lasted until she said in an obvious tone, “Yes. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” To which, I safely recovered with, “Right, right, right.”

95. Once, on a family vacation, we hit a Wherehouse for a Circusmagazine. The pretty, slightly older clerk glanced at the cover and asked, “Hey, ya think Billy Corgan looks better with hair or without?” I fumbled my words: “W-with…o-“ Her: “Trick question, he looks weird either way.” I crushed on her the whole drive.

96. Once, on a work trip to Mexico, I stayed at beach resort under renovation in the off season. I floated in the sprawling jungle pool alone, in moonlight with a cup of wine, surrounded by torches and the smell of kerosene and fresh paint as maintenance guys worked by bonfire light.

97. Once, while staying on a sleeping friend’s boat in the Chula Vista Marina, two pals and I took the dinghy out with a bottle of rum, drunkenly singing punk tunes and eventually making our way across San Diego Bay to well-to-do Coronado, where we peed on every yacht we came upon.

98. Once, my physician came in with my chart, looked at me strangely, and asked, “Didn’t I just see you?” I answered, “Yeah, but that was about my wrist. This is about my throat.” Realizing I had also recently called about my chest, it became quite clear I was a hypochondriac.

99. Once, while (I guess) trying to catch the attention of an attractive coworker, I barreled out of the parking lot blasting The Bronx…and slammed into a car that 100% had the right of way. Given that it was the end of a work day, a solid portion of the company watched me do it.

100. Once, during a cave tour, our guide wanted to stress how quiet and dark the massive cavern was, so he asked all of us to put away any electronics and be silent. It was serene for a single moment and then this kid farted insanely loud and it echoed and to this day it’s the funniest thing anyone in my family has witnessed.

And that there are 100 moments of my life.

Album Review: Weezer – Pacific Daydream

This album review originally appeared on Consequence of Sound.

For the life of me, I’ve never been able to tell if Rivers Cuomo grew up too soon or was some kind of late bloomer. It shouldn’t matter, but Weezer have always been a band that necessitated a backstory, at least since the turn of the century. In fact, you all know the tale. To purists, the beloved sons of ’90s alternative/geek rock put out two of the decade’s most beloved albums — one was love at first listen and the other eventually blossomed into feverish true love (and has since become a cornerstone of music critic apologies) — and then they disappeared.

The mythical rumors that swallowed the band were as intriguing as they were plentiful. When I saw Weezer at Warped Tour in 2000, it felt as much like a pilgrimage as it did a Salinger book signing. A year later, Weezer released their Green Album with Mikey instead of Matt, and it was the only time in my youth I knew kids to welcome detention because they ditched school to scoop a record. In study hall, however, one of the dudes with a small, hidden boombox turned to the rest of us, only a few songs in, past the initial stronghold of catchy tunes, and muttered in a squint, “I can’t tell if I like it.” And, to me, that’s been Weezer’s fanbase of yore ever since. But it’s not like Weezer was ever a secret. Hell, their self-titled debut — aka The Blue Album, and from here on out we’ll just do ‘em by color — went platinum within the year (while misunderstood sophomore effort Pinkerton took 20 years).

Like any good, mysterious sci-fi disappearance, upon the band’s return, a question lingered: Is this who I fell in love with all those years ago? Since then, the band’s legacy has been a stirring two-parter, with such a fine line separating Weezer from itself. Longtime fans could go full conspiracy theory about whether Weezer is writing songs for themselves, their fans, or radio DJs these days. It’s hard to gauge (or admit that it’s pointless and self-serving), with all of us left curious about what happened when four men came back from the wilderness.

Sincerity shouldn’t be subjective, but that’s what often seems to keep older fans from wholeheartedly embracing “new” Weezer. They assume singles like “Beverly Hills” and “Pork and Beans” reflect shallow and gimmicky mainstream hopes, not the band’s heart on full goofy display. They don’t think the same guy who evaluated a person’s worth via self-loathing sexual encounters on “Tired of Sex” could be the same guy who wrote “I’m Your Daddy”, a song immediately followed by “The Girl Got Hot”. But people change. Weezer changed. The old fans didn’t.

Yet, here we are, more than a decade and half after Weezer returned from the outer world of rock music mythos and Pacific Daydream might be the album that finally convinces me the sincerity never left in those missing years that gave birth to Homie, The Rentals, The Special Goodness, and (rebirth of) Space Twins. Instead, the big eyes of The Blue Album and the broken heart of Pinkerton gave way to a charming yet prosaic can-do attitude that sometimes ventures into curious mania. Age and experience will do that. When the world comes at you enough, it can be hard to keep acting surprised. Pacific Daydream is the band at their most self-assured, and for it to come after two well-received records feels like the sunshine-hit-machine direction is a choice, not a test.

This album finds Cuomo at the beach in retrospective young adulthood, reliving a spirited west coast adolescence he didn’t have, exploring that strange era of California youth, where you bounce between bonfires and concerts (and pawn shops and pharmacies just to kill time before curfew). All your memories take on a rich sunset as backdrop and your crushes move in slow motion, and you somehow recall spending most of your time on drives along Pacific Coast Highway. It’s an overwhelming age of wonder and melancholy, where a good conversation out of your comfort zone can feel downright life-saving.

But those memories don’t exactly make for songs of depth. Instead, they work as source material for music videos of people turning to each other at beach parties and laughing. This wouldn’t be the interpretation of a band’s debut, mind you. But we’re already profoundly aware that Weezer is able to put out affecting songs about longing (the yearning-heart-sink anthem of Pinkerton’s “Across the Sea”) and stir up a fire (the blasting Blue Album kitchen demo “Paperface”). Most frustrating, though, is that we know the band can still evolve and floor us, proven for good with The Red Album’s legitimate screwball masterpiece “The Greatest Man That Ever Lived (Variations on a Shaker Hymn)”.

As much as there’s been a case of ups and downs, whether from song to song or album to album, the band eventually found their footing. 2014’s Everything Will Be Alright in the End is easily their best album of the 21st Century, filled with an energy impossible not to love, and then came 2016’s solid White Album. A year later, if your hope was for the foursome to dig deeper into the beach, you got it. Pacific Daydream’s opener (and best song on the album), “Mexican Fender”, starts off at a guitar shop on Santa Monica and 7th, and the album doesn’t stray too far from beach camp after that.

Yet, on the very aptly named Pacific Daydream, that west coast fantasy goes a little too far, with Cuomo living vicariously through his own coastal jams. To be sure, Cuomo has what may be fractions of a thousand-plus unfinished pop melodies ricocheting off the walls of his skull. The guy can craft a hit. Here, it’s just missing his wily spirit and feverish heart, which reads weird because of Cuomo’s inability to change the shirt sleeve his heart’s so dang stuck on. The man is undeniably a romantic, whether strictly within the confines of an in-song will-they-won’t-they relationship or his general outlook in interviews. As he confidently strolls through the world he’s created and curated on Pacific Daydream, each tune a diligently shaped puzzle piece, it becomes clear that, aside from blips like the breathy ‘60s drums of “Weekend Woman” and hand-clappy intro of “Any Friend of Diane’s”, the songs aren’t all that discernable from each other. In fact, the songs aren’t much without the others. The album works extraordinarily well together, but the tracks wouldn’t work as, say, singular pulls for a personal mix. You can take or leave the album. It’s good enough. But the songs don’t stay with you.

Every chorus — save for “Sweet Mary”, which more or less rolls through — seems almost scientifically constructed to be radio-hit catchy. The production level is immaculate, and the band have never sounded tighter. But it’s a safe, unsurprising record. To hear it, after everyone’s long history with the band, is like noticing a beautifully polished, expensive statue in the home of one of your geekiest friends. It seems out of place, though it somehow makes sense (because anything would somehow make sense at this point). You just don’t know if they bought the art piece for themselves, their guests, or simply because they think that’s what’s expected of them at this age. With Pacific Daydream, Bell, Shriner, and Wilson helped Cuomo put out a side project solo album. So if you’re looking for the dynamic Weezer album you hoped would follow the last two, this likely isn’t it.

There’s no standout song that churns and chugs like Maladroit’s “Possibilities” or even The Green Album’s “Don’t Let Go”, and there’s nothing on Pacific Daydream that intrigues you like Everything Will Be Alright in the End’s three “Futurescope” songs. It’s a strong album, but it’s not a strong Weezer album. Still, if the post-return Weezer debate must rage on, Pacific Daydream may be the best case for either side, arguing emotional honesty against technical skill. Holistically, there forever remains a razor-fine divide between Weezer’s most enchanting work and its most humdrum output, a kind of Weezer-specific horseshoe theory where a praising description of their finest record doesn’t sound all that different from a critique of their least interesting.

But if you ever wanted to hear Weezer at their professionally sharpest, this is surely it. It’s no surprise that Cuomo is a fan of pop smashes like Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe”, as Pacific Daydream might be more Train than Ozma. Cuomo doesn’t owe anything to the alternative scene, if such a thing can even exist anymore in the era of everything all the time everywhere. After two albums of chumps like me exaggerating sighs of relief, churning out self-satisfied think-pieces of “oh, thank goodness, the boys have finally come home,” it might be that Cuomo gave us the damn records we wanted, so he could just go back to writing fun pop songs about summer. I doubt it, though. Given the two-step, this might be the record that definitively proves there’s simply a duality to Weezer that’s long been mistaken as before and after. This is who Cuomo and crew have always been, and it’s not their fault we decided to make them gods of the garage.

In truth, this might be the beginning of a Beck-like career, where it’s less windy road and more bursts of interest — specific explorations unbeholden to what Weezer is supposed to be. Still, we’re always going to root for them to lean more toward Blue Album and Pinkerton than Raditude or Hurley, because Weezer seemingly bounces between being a damn good band and one that could be. Pacific Daydream just happens to be very shiny middle ground, reminding us that somewhere in Rivers Cuomo, there’s still an East Coast kid listening to the radio and fantasizing about life in Los Angeles. For the band to be at its full potential, though, the songwriter needs to reflect more on the takeaways of experiences rather than the moments themselves.

Essential Tracks: “Mexican Fender”, “Happy Hour”, and “La Mancha Screwjob”

America’s Space Age Has Never Looked More Eerie and Otherworldly

This article originally appeared on Visual News.

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Space is the constant unknown, simultaneously a monstrous void and glittering angelic starscape that fascinates and enraptures us. From A Trip to the Moon to Interstellar, we have envisioned and romanticized what lays beyond our planet and solar system. We yearn for answers about what glows so wild in the farthest reaches, knowing we can wonder forever in the restless, unforgiving universe that we theorize is somehow still expanding. Existence grows, a metric we study in a bold attempt to explain ourselves to ourselves. We want spiritual comfort and scientific rattling to twist together in a narrative that we can endure, an endless source of vibrant nutrition for storytellers.

In the 20th Century, humanity finally built and strutted up its mechanical ladder to the heavens to discover the space above our skies; the first step of a grand and beautiful journey that will become the thread of history books to come, widening its place in the narrative as we ourselves evolve in knowledge and know-how. We will become a constant in space, more visitor than stranger, seeing more of what is out there with eyes that shine in awe and familiarity.

But it begins on Earth.

Here is where cultures have looked up and told stories forever. Here is where we discuss, construct, and plot how to barrel into the silent chaos of space. Here is where starry-night dreams thrill us. But, unfortunately, our focus strays and we outgrow our plans, leaving behind an empire of exploration.

So you can thank photographer Roland Miller, who, for 25 years, has travelled to more than 15 NASA launch and research sites across the country to document their current state. Take the above snap of launch pad and gantry with Hermes A-1 Rocket at V2 Launch Complex 33 at the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico (2006). He calls the project Abandoned in Place: Preserving America’s Space History, which is his website, book, and exhibit.

The Colorful Ruins of the American West, Captured Like Postcards

This article originally appeared on Visual News.

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The American West is a heartbreaking landscape. Whether you’re intrigued in the east, never having been under those—as DeLillo put it—great western skies or you’re from the west and you know the mystery dies out in slices with each passing year of construction and saturation, there’s an rapturously tragic quality to the west, from prairie to coast, blooming in your heart with daydreams or nostalgia. What was once our beloved American West, the promised land of adventurers and sleepyheads at the end of the motorized Oregon Trail that was Route 66, where an explorer’s spirit was put to good use by way of burning rubber and gasoline whiffs, is now a less magical place that somehow glows more fascinating because you only catch it in cracks of structure and moments of conversation, so it’s never been more important; a rare, practically exotic essence drenched in seemingly endless sunshine. That’s why Hayley Eichenbaum snaps one gorgeous photo after another that captures the colorful, curiously shaped soul that can’t be killed in the American West.

But Eichenbaum isn’t a professional photographer. She doesn’t even have formal training. In fact, according to her own words, “I quit pretty much every photography class I’ve ever taken.” You’d never guess that, given her portfolio. Yet, the American West you see from her is shot on a Nikon D7 100 and iPhone, and she’s gained her reputation through Instagram.

Eichenbaum’s been on the app since 2013, but it wasn’t until the following year, when she spent a month winding her slow wondrous way through Route 66, sneak-attacking the American West by popping close to 15,000 photos. In 2015, Eichenbaum actually moved west. Now a L.A. local, she regularly bounces out to tear the road a new one, searching for “this kind of wilting and romantic Americana.”

You see what she gets at, from the brightly colored ruins of roadside attractions to the picturesque sublime beat of what has reformed the American West anew.

See Hayley Eichenbaum’s spectacular work in the American West.