Here’s what I said at my grandmother’s funeral, earlier tonight:

After hearing such touching words on two continents from my father and uncles, the sons, and just now my mom, I speak today on behalf of all of the grandchildren – Eitan, Gadi, Alex, Elie, Yoni, Yael, Ari, Yaffa, Yonina, Ora, Simi – and their respective spouses. I have the unique privilege of having turned Esther and Al Klein from Mommy and Daddy into Grandma and Grandpa; I hope to represent my generation honorably.

My grandmother died after doing what she said she would do, which is to attend my cousin Eitan’s wedding, last Sunday night, to his lovely bride, Pam.

My brother Elie took Grandma down the aisle. She danced with her children, all but one of her grandchildren (me), and about half of her great grandchildren. She danced with the children and grandchildren of her surviving brothers, Joe and Shalom.

Early Wednesday morning, she began slipping into the next world. This was with the full knowledge that all three of her sons were still in the country, and could be around her in the final hours. She liked to tell of how *her* grandmother, who died of the rarest of all things in her generation – natural causes – slipped away after lighting candles Friday night. After two days asleep, struggling quietly with death, it seemed that my grandma could not let go. So the sons and daughters-in-law had the idea to make Kabbalat Shabbat around her bed a little early, on Friday morning. This is when she agreed to go.

Esther Klein did things on her terms. She accepted God’s will. But to the greatest possible extent, it would be God’s… and Esther’s.

If funerals were given to creative staging, I would invite you to my kitchen for a fitting tribute to this great lady. I would seat you in the corner on a rickety step stool, play some swing music, and let you peel some potatoes for my soup, or very slowly add the ground nuts into the egg whites for the highest rising Pesach cake in Bayswater, if not all of Queens. If you were male, I would also probably get you to schlep something up from where it was stored somewhere terrifying en route to the basement. When you offered to wash dishes, I would joke to you that I had an amazing dishwasher. He was 75 years old and still worked great.

While you were on that step stool, I would tell you stories about my childhood and my sisters and my parents, all gone. I would never cry. I would tell you in a way that never scared you or depressed you, but instead compelled you to bring the story forward, to your own kitchens, later. I would sing along with the music and laugh at your jokes, whether or not they were funny, and I would tell you my distinct opinion on family life, world politics, fashion, economics, literature, or social etiquette, all the while agreeing with whatever you just said. “Yeh,” I would say. There was something in what you just said I could agree with.

Later, we would play Rumikub and I would scratch your back until you fell asleep. I would tell you stories about your father, when he was little, and how he reminded me in this way of my own father, and in that way, of you. Without too much effort, I would tie you generations back, and tie myself generations forward, completely by the way, as you were dozing off. You would never guess that my own wonderful childhood ended at the train tracks, until I would tell you that part, too. There was a perfect sense that nightmarish evil was absolutely real, and also that, most decisively… Ve Von.

We won because, when you are not sitting on that step stool, I am using it, well into my 80’s, to climb to reach things from the top cabinet, teaching you that it’s all about balance.

I tell you about my very religious father who learned at the Shabbat table with my mother. How they used to argue about various Rashis in the parasha, back when most European women were learning the Tzena Re’enna. I would tell you about my very learned and religious father who sent his sons to yeshiva and expected them to work, like he did. I would tell you how my mother prepared blueberry jam for stomach ailments, b/c she was known as something of a medicine woman around town, and, like my father’s dry-goods store, her kitchen was a regular stop for the local poor.

I would create a seamless flow from Nechama Hershkowitz’s charitable kitchen in Seredna to my short but horrific stay in Auschwitz and then Ravensbruck, where I was sustained by my nieces, Ibby and Helen, teenagers of whom my sisters put me in charge… and then right back to the kitchen where we now sit, making potato soup.

Which, if I were my grandmother, would bring me back to my mother, who told me on our first day in Auschwitz, when we were being processed into our potato sacks, to ignore the SS, just as I had ignored the goats and the cows back home. My mother had reminded me, in those two weeks we were together before she disappeared in a cloud over Poland, who was the human being in this situation, and what that demanded of me. I remembered, and reminded, every day since.

What it meant to be human was to have balance. Empathy and a sense of justice. Respect for the dead and a total dedication to the living. To living. A sense of reverence and a sense of humor. Balance. Living modestly but mindful of aesthetics. A dedication and deep gratitude to America, and a complete devotion to and support of Israel. Work outside the home well into her 70’s, and family always first. Being equal parts emotional, intellectual, and physical. Shiurim, survivor’s meetings, family events, the gym. Shul and the Beach, both healing.

Being realistic and optimistic – living on that delicate edge of facing down yesterday and expecting a reversal tomorrow, while completely in the present, today. My Grandma was Zen before anyone knew what that was, except maybe my Uncle Normie.

My grandmother’s life, you would soon see, was a “Dayenu” story. Thankful and disbelieving of every victory, and also always pushing the envelope toward the next one, the one that her father demanded that she pursue.

I could go on forever, making very appropriate comparisons to Queen Esther and to Sara Imeinu from the Parasha – matriarchs who themselves represent dynasties and disasters, Jewish advocacy, relentless optimism alongside realism, and gentle, iron strength in the face of the patriarchy and other nuisances….but it is late. So I will suffice with the story that many of you have heard, but some of you have not, and it bears repeating, mostly because it taught me a lot about what is running through my veins, and that of my cousins, and now all our kids.

It was the endless winter that began 1945. My grandmother and her nieces had just been marched through the snow from Auschwitz to Ravensbruck. The Nazis felt that the end was near, and the final solution hadn’t been totally… solved. To accelerate matters, they put the women in an outdoor tent in sub freezing weather. The calculations were correct. Half died the first night there. The survivors, my grandmother told me, slept very little, and when they did, it was standing or sitting, huddled in groups. They also didn’t let go of their tin cups, b/c that way, they could drink hot soup, when it was available.

Being and asthmatic since age 13, my grandmother got sick. Very sick. She did the forbidden and fell asleep. She thought she would not wake up. But then something crazy happened. She had a dream. In that dream, her father, whom she had not seen since getting off the train on Shavuot of 1944, was standing near a window in a long white robe. She said it looked like a kittel.

He asked her to come look out the window. He pointed actively, like the angels in last week’s Parasha, to a tree with white blossoms, and told her: When the trees start to blossom white, you and Ibby and Helen will be free. Please wait.

So she woke up. She stood up. And she waited. And encouraged others to do the same.

As her father promised, they were liberated in spring. The Swedish Red Cross took my grandmother and her nieces back to Sweden. When they disembarked this more benevolent train, they found that they had arrived in an orchard in full bloom. On every tree, white flowers.

This story, which every grandchild has heard more than once, was Grandma’s way of saying that you need an inner guide, one that is firmly planted in your own authentic roots, but that you make yours, and tell it your way. You need to hang on and believe in God, but you need to do your part to make it so. She believed in Divine miracles made real only via human effort, which is the message of the first Esther, too. She believed in bearing witness to the past, and she believed in writing your own story going forward.

Grandma, we will miss you terribly. A world without you is a strange place. But you have taught us how to balance on a rickety step stool while singing and reaching higher. What more could we have asked to know?

This post is about 90% recycled from 2009. But it’s still true, so I figured, what the heck:

–

Every summer, right in the hot, soft belly of July/August, especially on thick, soupy nights like this one, I’m hit with it in the head, like the skillet of an angry housewife: the urge to play Alan Jackson loud with the windows of my station wagon rolled down, hang back on my porch at sundown, and go out drinking with the girls. You guessed that right, son – Redneck Fever.

I’m guessing I can’t be the only (sub)urban sophisticate, the lone overly-serious Jewish girl, with an occasional thing for white trashiness. Growing up in Baltimore / Silver Spring in the 80′s, I was buffered by a strong, warm, and nosey Orthodox community, but just beyond the breach in the bubble stretched vast redneck territory, and boy: the country radio was sweet, and so was the drive out to the pool where I guarded up in Reisterstown, and the trip out to Spa Lady in Timonium. And going Down-the-Ocean, or to school down in Montgomery County via US route 29 from B-more, you best believe we crossed paths with plenty of Earls and Randys.

I’ll tell you what: The thing I miss most about America, truth be told, is not the jumbo sized Mountain Dew, the tiny purse-sized cosmetics flavored like candy, or even Bed, Bath and Beyond. It’s the people. The space they give you, the space in them. Things are simple, basic, and on an as-need basis. Ain’t no right or wrong way to breathe, hon.

Take the relaxed way the locals speak, south of the Mason-Dixon, the reassuring gait out back to the truck to get another part, the walk of a man who ain’t quite sure (and don’t quite care) what the final result was of the Civil War. (Yes, I am aware – this has its downsides…) He’s got time, and he keeps his thoughts to himself.

They are probably straightforward thoughts and not historically complicated, mired in guilt, or otherwise needing of footnotes and subscripts and ardent, multi-nuanced opinions. (Perhaps for this reason, the Iroquois and Cherokee nations have not made too much of a fuss about their Nakba of 1776. What good would it do? Again – I am aware: This has significant downsides.)

But it gets me thinkin’. Where’s the Israeli ability to sit quietly with one’s thoughts? Or to separate sin from guilt, wrong from outright lost? We could use some self-forgiveness around here, some private 12oz. absolution. Calm contrition. Contemplative work. “Hell, was I wrong, but tomorrow is for fixin’. Now back to what needs doin’.” Can you hear that coming from a Levantine mouth? Can you imagine anyone letting it?

And excuse the non-sequitur, but what about baseball? Remember night games in August rained out in the 5th, beer and nachos floating down the aisles, sunburned women in yellow ponchos running to the car and thinking they’d be protecting their hair with the drenched paper program they were holding up over their heads?

Shoot, ain’t nostalgia a bitch.

And if you still had any doubt that Rednecks rock, I refer you to Brad Pitt’s long-ago but still oh-so-relevant debut in Thelma and Louise . Oh, Brad: Why the arthouse pieces that don’t make any sense? Please go back to shirtless in Oklahoma. Much obliged.

Ya’ll listen up: 10 months a year I LOVE that my argumentative, close-talkin’, fast-walkin’, dark, intense, complex, spiritual and spiritual-phobic, text-obsessed, content-driven, apology-addicted, sarcastic and bombastic, cell-phone shoutin’, hi-tech worshippin’, God-ambivalent family of Jews is who I live among, but LORD – if I don’t wish every summer for a wide open I-64 and a beat- up old Ford, some Virginia dreamin’, and a bottle of Mountain Dew so big I can hear my kidneys screamin’.

Amen.

1. I don’t care who you are, if you are white and 85 years old, you really oughtn’t wear yellow.
2. Even a five-year-old boy knows when a kiss is a *kiss*, or just…eh…a kiss.
3. What I am wearing to my son’s Bar Mitzvah: Copycat Pippa dress. The most inspirational thing about the event, really.
4. The best hats on the planet really are in shuls on Long Island. Sorry, Mrs. Beckham.
5. Thank the good Lord (all 3 or 1 of Him, whichevs) that the Archbishop of Canterbury, he of the best hat of all and the extremely somniferous voice, is not my rabbi.
6. ….Although, if I invited him to my son’s Bar Mitzvah, do you think he could wrangle some more of that Divine *silence*?
7. William got a great deal (I think K8 is Gr8) but he’d better watch out for that very chic and scary mother-in-law. (…Who could have walked right out of a shul on Long Island.)
8. The book of Romans can be hot.
9. After learning that the only way to be a king is to be born into it, one of my kids is considering beginning his own monarchy. Blue and White blood.
10. There is no way I am old enough for Prince Charles to look as old as that.

God Goes Home: In Search of Spencer Ollopa
By M.A. Kohl

Abnormal Psych. was a super course. It was Spring Semester of my Junior year. The professor was old and eccentric. He told lots and lots of stories. He liked to teach outside.

So we discussed Personality Disorders under a huge Willow, an expansive shelter that kept us firmly in the shade. On Borderline Personality Disorder day, it rained, just long enough to thoroughly soak the grass. We stayed inside that day.

I mention this because it was in this particular course, on that peculiar rainy Tuesday, that I became friendly with a guy named Spencer Ollopa. Spencer, like me, was not a Psychology major. He was taking Psych. as a minor. His double major was Marketing and CompuSci.

After graduation, I took my English major and used it for many weeks as a very effective place mat. When the stains started to bug me, I took a trip to Williams Sonoma. And when my lack of a graduate degree started to bug me, I did a painless Master’s in English Lit. in medical school years.

Spencer, on the other hand, went on to get his MBA and then a Masters in Computer Science. His MBA thesis was called: “Putting Your Ear to the Ground: The Future is Here.” (Maybe you’ve read it in paperback.)

It’s a story you already know: Many geeks and an IPO later, by the early Spring of 1998, Spencer Ollopa, Founder and CEO of SearchMe.com, was richer than almost anyone else on the planet.

*****************

“There’s something off about the whole thing, something vaporous and intoxicating,” he said once, intoxicated. “It’s all…too invisible for my taste. I’m waiting for the big bad wolf to blow it down.”

This was back in the magic months beginning 1999. I was out at Spencer’s house, visiting an old pal. He’s the kind of old pal you make sure to keep in touch with.

I had followed Ollopa outside to his veranda, a drink in each hand. He has an overwhelming view of the San Francisco Bay. I could have stayed up there forever, just watching the lights, watching the moon in the water. Then I turned around and looked at his sprawling home. It was all glass. From a few hundred feet away, one could almost not see it at all.

*****************

I called him a few months ago to see how he was doing since the Internet turned rabid. I wasn’t really asking about Ollopa.com, just Spencer.man. Although both were kind of piquing my interest, if the truth be told. The company was being remarkably secretive. He invited me out to the house to talk about it. I tried not to say “Oh, so you still have the house! Thank God!”

I asked if I could do a piece on him while I was there. He said, a bit puzzled-like, “Of course…That’s what I thought you meant. Come anytime after New Year’s.”

*****************

The fabulous glass house is still standing when I arrive, although the wolves Spencer spoke of have been circling for a while. His sister opens the door, greets me warmly. I’ve met her before, a few times, briefly, and as I recall, she’s Spencer’s twin. They look nothing alike, if that’s your next question. She’s a knockout, all lips and legs and great skin. (No offense to pale, sparsely featured Spencer, of course, but the gods were certainly patriarchal in their aesthetic triage here.)

Selena says she’s in the process of moving and Spence is letting her crash. I see her as more of a human filter for unwanted contact.

Spencer strolls down the stairs in a pair of Teva clogs that he brings in from Israel. He could not move any slower unless he were moving backwards. His shorts and shirt are breezy off-white linen, billowing from his body, which is now considerably more sinewy than I remember. He’s lost weight. A lot of weight. He hasn’t shaved in two days, maybe more.

I ask him if he is dating Calvin Klein.

Spencer laughs. “You’ll never let it go, will you? I’m straight for God’s sake. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But it’s just not me. Good to see you, Mak, by the way. Hi, Hello. Welcome.” He laughs again. He looks strange.

It hits me: He’s happy.

*****************

I confront him on it later, over a drink. He had obviously been waiting for me to ask. He’s ready with an answer, dives right into the thing. “I am happy. I am here, you see? I am HERE. The whole damn world fell all around me at the end of last summer, and kept falling. People were – are – going insane. And I’m just not into it somehow…” He sounds almost apologetic, that he can’t muster any more grief or apprehension. It is, after all, his universe we’re talking about, but he seems more than a little detached.

It seems that Spencer had anticipated this plunge into hell, more or less. He had been stabilizing, quietly, slowly, for quite some time before the bottom of the Earth fell out from under Silicon Valley.

“So once,” he begins, out of nowhere, “My CFO is pouring Maalox into this big mug and sipping it like Chardonnay, and I am looking around, doing some quick math in my head, and I figure that whatever happens, everyone in that room would still have somewhere to live and something to drive, and there will still be a company of some size. And then about one minute later, I’m thinking how even that is beside the point, although the point, I can’t quite say what it is. I’m just sitting, in my suddenly huge chair, staring at everyone, they’re all sweating and on the verge of massive coronaries, and I’m wondering: Is this normal, you know, for people to do this? To be this? It was this quick, funny thought – like – I was watching them in the zoo…”

I regard Ollopa with new interest, stare at him a bit, which he doesn’t seem to mind, although I’m trying not to be obvious about it. This man is not nose-to-the-ground Spencer from Abnormal Psych. This man is all eyes. This man looks older but better, handsomer.

He also looks a bit… religious? I ask him about this, but he closes his eyes. God, or Whomever, is off limits.

I spend the rest of the day with Selena.

*****************

Now he’s in a talkative mood again, and he starts right where he left off yesterday, with no introduction whatsoever. “There was something about that day that just totally blew all the bullshit out on a breeze. It disappeared. You know? It’s like, when I tuned back into the conversation my execs were having in there, it was like a foreign language. Like they were on one Earth, with one set of rules, and I was on another, with very different ones, and I didn’t mind so much, being on mine, just I felt bad that they hadn’t jumped over with me.”

Ollopa has come up with a name for that moment: He calls it his founding. That has a nice corporate feel, I tell him, hoping he’ll elaborate. He doesn’t. But he does tell me that he’ll always be Spencer, whether he’s “colonizing the Internet or settling his soul.” I ask him who he’s been to see and where, but I’m up against the fog again.

This kinder, gentler Spencer says nothing else all afternoon. He’s reading a book, John Updike’s The Afterlife and Other Stories. He closes his eyes every now and then, leans back into his lounge chair on the roof. He’s built a solarium up there; As long as the sun’s out, it’s the warmest, most soothing – down to your every muscle and bone – spot on the planet. (If I had one of these, I wouldn’t need the rest of my house. Or food.)

Once again, I talk to Selena about her work (she’s a record producer between projects) while she makes us margaritas in the middle of the afternoon. I could get used to this.

Spencer hasn’t spoken for hours, but his presence is deafening. He seems to be enjoying himself here doing nothing. Did I mention he was unemployed?

*****************

The rest of the story went something like this: Spencer looked at the room full of “dying shell-people”, and started to laugh. Still laughing, he got up to hug every executive in the room. This, he mentions, did nothing good for the rumors about his sexual orientation, or his sanity, but then, he really doesn’t care what people say. That much has always been true about him.

(We settle for sanity, he told me once, back in college, but we don’t have to – settle, or settle. I’m still not sure I get it, but it comes back to me now, as I write this…)

He told them all to go home. To watch TV and to rest and to be with their families. He’d have something to tell them by morning. Please be downstairs in the gym at ten. He sent an e-mail out to sixty other key employees, telling them the same. He called the gym, asked the manager to clear out the equipment. To put it in storage. He wanted a big empty room with carpets and mirrors by morning.

*****************

Ollopa’s top people were sitting on the floor cross-legged in seven rows of ten, a strange tribunal of elders convening under the not-yet burning temple. It didn’t matter that all the facts were not yet in, he said, or that much of the world still thought the ‘net was spread evenly under them. He pretty much knew how the story would end, and sooner than anyone thought.

Here’s what he said, more or less:

The good news: Every one of you still has a job, although there will be some re-sorting and re-shaping of what those jobs are. Be prepared to do stuff you haven’t done since school. This is not true for everyone in the company, so please treat this as good news.
The bad news: Most of you are no longer millionaires and probably will never be.
And more good news: We will survive better than almost any other Internet company, if you people can exit the bubble before it bursts completely.

Spencer launched his re-organization crusade with this:

It’s not over, but it will never be the same.

*****************

So it was written, and so it has been done: SearchMe held on to most (not all, but most) of its upper-mid to high level employees, kept on consolidating its resources, and ultimately carved out a niche for itself on the unraveling web. (See “SearchMe’s Second Page”, page 235.) In a slimmer, more streamlined, less generous cyber-world, portal, product, and premium were taken very seriously, very early by Ollopa. It saved many asses, although, the way he arranged it, not his own.

After putting his house in order these last few months, Ollopa met with that same tribunal of elders on what he says was a freezing day during the recent holiday Season (isn’t California supposed to be warm? Who told me that?), and handed over the reigns to Deb Wolf, Rick Hill, and Ted Marcus, his “tried and true triumvirate of corporate sanity and humanity.” (He told me to quote him on this.)

And then he took himself off the payroll.

He’s just there for moral support, he says, to lend his brain, to occasionally adjust the jib when he can feel the wind changing. He says that he doesn’t want to drain the company of any more money to pay himself; he also feels that his best contribution has already been made, and that he does not want his “old ego-ambition” to kill the company now that it is weaker.

Part of his late summer restructuring last year involved reallocating his old salary to the R&D department, a move he feels might ultimately be the thing that keeps the company, if one can pronounce this sentence without crying, “if not profitable, at least alive.”

*****************

Ollopa must be the world’s most famous intern, other, of course, than Monica Lewinsky. He still goes to work a few times a week, in his Teva clogs, and he “does what needs to be done, meets who needs to be met”, even attends executive meetings, helping “as they want me.”

He’s moved from Luke to Obi Wan to Yoda in the blink of an eye.

“Yoda, huh? Funny you are, Michael, in things which do you say…ha ha … I guess so. That’s what I feel, a bit, now, is old. In this very weird way, because I’ve never felt more free, more like a little kid. I have no where else to conquer, to fix, to do, except in here, in my own space. For example – I’d like to travel, to see things, but I don’t feel like I have to read five books on Italian Renaissance Art before I visit Florence. I don’t feel like I need to be head of the committee to save Venice to go to Venice. What for, you know? I feel like I can just go and visit Italy. Do you know what I mean?”

I am starting to get it, I tell him. That you can feel old – ridiculously old – at just turned thirty. But he, at least, has the advantage of also sounding wise.

*****************

Later, I ask him the inevitable, about the money, the stuff. He tells me that he still, of course, has the house and its contents (which are sparse and lovely and plenty expensive) and two SUV’s, but he’s sold much of everything else, including a plane, a loft on Central Park, and a time share in South Beach. He kept the yacht and the helicopter.

He’s a rich guy, but he might not make any headlines ever again. Ask him if he cares.

I have one more question for Spencer. We’re still up on the roof. It’s getting dark, and now it’s kind of cold in here, and San Francisco is flickering – literally – around us. I forget I am cold. I have no desire to ever leave.

It suddenly occurs to me that Selena might be here now because she was using one or both of those apartments Spencer just sold. She nods, smiling. It’s cool, though, she says – she has her own house in Seattle.

She looks at Spencer and neither of them elaborates further. He just seems genuinely glad to have her here with him. These two and their looks are making me wish for a twin. They literally don’t need to speak.

By the time I get to my question, at the end of the looks, I feel like a bit of an outsider, like my time here is, actually, done.

Damn.

But I ask it anyway: Is he lonely, now that the madness is over? Is enlightenment enough?

“You mean, why is my sister here, and not a woman? No offense, Le-Le. You mean, if I’m not gay, and not busy running the world, why am I not part of a couple, a family?”

That’s what I mean. Selena looks at me quickly.

“I don’t know, Kohl.” Ollopa looks around, looks up for a long time, looks at his feet, looks at Selena: Telling her it’s OK I asked. That I got.

Before I can congratulate myself on this breach of their psychic placenta, I hear him mumbling, “I’m glad there’s something I don’t know.”

**********

From: Michael A. Kohl [maksomething@juno.com]
Date: Wednesday, January 19, 2001 3:30 PM
To: Ken Bogan [kenbo@empiremag.com]
Subject: RE: Ollopa Profile – Attached

Ken –

Here it is, attached. It was a great trip…Thanks. Spencer has changed so much since college…I’m not sure you’d recognize him on the street. He still has that voice, though…Remember? That Nicholson voice. It’s fantastic. But now it doesn’t go with his personality like it once did.

He’ll be in the city next month and wants to get together with you. Said he’d call you. I’d believe him now.

BTW, Yes, I’d love to come up and interview Sandra Dylan for Empire’s August issue …Gee, Thanks Ken! Maybe God likes me after all? Or is it just that you do?

Why do I feel fifteen when I think about calling her manager? Do you remember discovering your manhood in front of Ivy Leaguers? I saw it 25 times. Ahhh, Sandra. I can’t believe she’s turning 40! Yikes!

Anyway, thanks.

Best,

M

**************

From: Webmaster [webmaster@braintoys.com]
Date: Wednesday, January 19, 2001 8:17 PM
To: Hands_Solo [hs2000@hotmail.com]
Subject: RE: Your e-mail of last week

Michael:

Hi. Well that certainly was an interesting e-mail from your drunken depths. lol. Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you…Things have been busy at home.

Glad you felt you could trust me. I’m really sorry that happened to you. I don’t know what else to say…It was a shitty thing your ex did.

I’m sorry if that thing I brought up about choosing our circumstances has got you going a bit nuts…I really didn’t mean to excavate anything…lol…Or maybe I did? Maybe fate has thrown us together to excavate everything? Maybe we chose to speak with each other for a reason? Now I understand why the mental institutions are so full. Once you start thinking like this, where does reality begin?

Anyway – what I wanted to tell you was – Don’t let your ex off that easy…she created this mess, also, you know???

You know, I woke up this morning with a lot of energy – now what to do with it all???

- Maya (The non-artist formerly known as NB)

Burqa Babes from SarKE on Vimeo.

Muslims, Chill: This Isn’t About You

Since this story has once again reared its ugly unknowable, covered head, I thought a re-release of our 2008 video was in order. Especially just before Oscar season.

Some background, in bullets:

- The Jewish burqa cult was discovered in an arrondissement of my hometown (Bet Shemesh… as in Samson….Extreme soil??) about 3-4 years ago.

- The main premise of said cult is that tzniut, modesty, is THE paramount virtue in a Jewish woman, and this requires covering EVERYTHING.

- Note that the above has very little to do with actual Jewish Law, which seeks to keep women modest, but not invisible or dysfunctional (well….mostly not); In fact, most rabbis at the time, and most of the husbands of these women, came out strongly against the practice, and especially their oddball leader (see below).

- As such, in an ironic twist, covering themselves became an act of feminist revolt. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. (Add somethin’ strong and it may even make sense.)

- This has a similar tenor (to my ear at least) to the debates raging across Europe over the Islamic burqa / hijab practice – is it an abrogation of religious and personal freedom to ban it? Or an abrogation of women’s basic rights not to step in and prevent Muslim women from being forced to wear it by the patriarchy? It is a conundrum that has liberal thinkers like me (I didn’t say practitioners, B.R.) in knots. But back to our own scandal.

- Said leader eventually arrested for….wait for it….child molestation

- So…We didn’t hear about them for a while and assumed they had…errr….disappeared.

- Surprise! Here they are again!; Keep in mind that we are talking about only a handful of people…just they are very…um….visible.

- Back in 2008, at the height of the first sheetstorm, some friends and I could not remain silent, and made this video for Purim (Jewish festival of food, disguise, and jocularity-slash-mockery…)

- (Many thanks again to Jaely K for the concept, Deb W for the authentic Ramle burqas, and Talli R for the talented video-editing progeny. Thanks also to The Kraz for being The Eternal Keeper and Purveyor of All Things Digital.)

- We had about 12,000+ hits on YouTube, but some Muslims took it the wrong way (Yes, they went thinking it was about them. Go figure.)

- Someone told on us re: the soundtrack not being authorized bla bla bla

- This got the sound disabled. (Now YouTube has the technology to do that automatically and no longer has to wait for snitches.)

- Let’s see how long this one stays up. Vimeo, come thru for us, will ya’?

Final thought: Back in 1989, as an Orthodox teen in Silver Spring, MD., some friends and I, in our floor-dragging jeans skirts in June, were asked by a passing redneck if “y’all wuz Menn-on-ites.”

Well, sir! See how our people have evolved?

In this installment of our blovel (catch up!!!), Mak calls home. Do any of you know this mom?

****

From: Webmaster [webmaster@braintoys.com]
Date: Friday, January 12, 2001 12:03 AM
To: Hands_Solo [hs2000@hotmail.com]
Subject: RE: RE: Hi

HS –

No worries, it’s only a web address…I’m not an idiot, and I either am or am not from Decatur. lol. But it’s kind of cute that you are protective. Thanx.

- NB

PS What is your real name if I may ask? Or is it too soon for that??

PPS What happened in the end with that article you were writing?

**

From: Hands_Solo [hs2000@hotmail.com]
Date: Friday, January 12, 2001 12:39 AM
To: Webmaster [webmaster@braintoys.com]
Subject: RE: Drunken Ramblings

NB –

Thanks for your mail.

I’m kind of drunk right now so I decided, best talk it out with the ability to sensor myself. I haven’t been this buzzed in a while…I think it’s because I didn’t really eat today.

So you came to mind. Funny, being that there is no way to represent you in my mind other than by your screen name…

Hell knows why I am about to tell you all this. But what else is there to do when you are drunk, other than fuck, dance, vomit, or reveal intimate secrets? Everything washed upwards and out by the little alcohol molecules…Soul laxatives, an old girlfriend used to call them. lol. Funny, she was just here.

In a nutshell: I’m supposed to be getting married to the love of my life (I think?) in a little over two months. I was engaged and now I’m not. Like that. She did it over the phone three months ago. She returned the fucking ring under my door.

I’m wondering now to what extent “I chose my circumstance” – Thanks to you! – if I actually proposed because I knew she’d leave. This thought keeps buzzing in and out of my head. It’s actually driving me nuts, more than the actual “loss”. Loss. What is it exactly that I lost? I keep thinking that it was something else, not the woman (Natalie’s her name) that is the worst part of it, but the feeling like I have some goddamn control somewhere, that I know what the hell is going on.

Maybe she just bruised my ego and I can’t believe someone rejected me. Me the human magnet, someone finally unstuck themselves, unwilling to be material…Could that be it?

Does it even matter? Somehow I think it’s at the edge of something bigger but God knows what that is. I hope I don’t care but I know that I do and it’s a huger change than I can wrap myself around. God, I am really drunk.

Anyway, thanks for listening, as it were…I’ll go to bed now before I fall asleep online, which I have done before, or before I ask you to marry me, now that you’ve seen the open door to Bluebeard’s chamber. lol.

- Michael

P.S. I got the essay out on time. Thanks.

*********

I called my mother that week from California. I had forgotten to call her before I left. Besides, it was on Ollopa’s tab. He can afford it, even now…:

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi! Michael? Or Donnie?”

“It’s Michael, Mom. I sound like Donnie? Since when?”

“Since your voice changed, baby. It’s funny you don’t hear it.”

“Yeah, I’m a funny guy…How are you, Mom?”

“Where are you calling from? You sound far away.”

“Yeah. I’m in California, at my friend Spencer’s house.”

“Spencer? The Internet guy?”

“That’s the one.”

“Wow! How is he doing?”

“He’s doing great…despite everything that’s going on. He looks great, for one…It’s a really interesting thing with him…He’s very different…”

“People change, Michael.”

“Yeah. So…What are you guys up to down in Houston?”

“I’m OK…Your father and I are very busy… I’d love for you to meet some of our new friends and the folks we work with. I’ve been having lots of people over, on weekends, for our special barbecues. Southern hospitality, you know? We have a great deck for that here. There’s this one guy you’d really like. He reminds me of you.”

“Sounds fun…”

“It is fun. Life doesn’t end when you pass 50, you know.”

“So I’ve heard from friends of mine. How’s Dad doing at his job?”

“They’re really glad they thought to transfer him. He’s made a huge difference in the department. They needed a doctor with managerial skills. And people skills.”

“So they found their man, huh?”

“Yes. They did. I’m very proud of your father. So… when are you coming down, Michael?”

“Actually, I hope to be able to come down there in the spring sometime. But I can’t make plans this far in advance.”

“It’s not that far in advance when you think about it…It’s just over two months until April. You need that long for a reservation.”

“Mom, two/three months can mean a lot of different things. It’s a long time. I think I can get a reservation a few days in advance…I travel easy.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, Michael, but I think you are making a mistake. I understand that you’re hesitant to commit to anything now, but…”

“It has nothing to do with commitment. It’s a matter of the unknown. I don’t know what assignments I’ll be working on, exactly, or how things will be, and I don’t want to say that I know for sure where I’ll be in three months time. I think that’s presumptuous.”

“Presumptuous? It’s called being in control of your life, Michael. We all know plans can change, but not to make them at all? I think you’ve gone a bit far with this one, my dear…”

“Control is a funny thing, Mom. I’m willing to admit I don’t have it.”

“I think your tendency to go to extremes is going to hurt you here. But you’re a big boy. Do what you want.”

“Thank you.”

“By the way, Donnie and Elaine are coming down with the kids for Easter.”

“Passover.”

“Whatever. She’s not religious at all, Michael. It’s OK if I call it Easter. She’d probably prefer that to Passover.”

“I was just raising awareness.”

“I’m very aware, my dear. My God Michael, what’s going on with you? You don’t have to jump on every word I say. You really have to let a person talk.”

“OK, OK. Mom, forget it. I’ll start thinking about joining all ye non-faithful for that Judeo-Christian mid-April series of festivals that none of us celebrate. It would be fun to be lapsed all together….”

“Speak for yourself. Your father and I plan on joining the local church this week…”

“Church? Mom? Is that like a rule in Texas?”

“It has nothing to do with Texas, my dear. And it’s not like we’re Born Again, or anything…It’s just a nice, normal, non-denominational, community church…We’re beginning to realize, your father and I, that we’ve missed out on a lot by being so…uncommitted to anything all these years…I feel badly that we raised you not believing in anything….”

“Now that you see how we turned out, you mean?”

“Now why would you twist it like that? I don’t want to have this conversation anymore, Michael…It was supposed to be a friendly chat and you’ve turned it into another one of your hunting expeditions…”

“There was no ‘expedition’, Mom. I was simply wondering why all of a sudden two atheists with a young family from Baltimore move away to Texas when their kids are grown and suddenly find God…”

“We were never atheists…Why do I need to justify myself to you, anyway? You have a lot of nerve, Michael…”

“Mom. I was asking you a question. I am interested. Would you rather I not ask? Stay unconcerned and …what do you call it? Passive aggressive? Aloof? I can do that too…”

“Extremely well.”

“Thank you. Wow. Thanks, Mom. I’m so glad we finally agree on something………It’s just that…Last time we had this type of discussion, you were upset with me for not sharing with you…for being closed and detached…When you moved down there, and I was in the middle of the whole thing with Natalie at the time….”

“Are you angry that we didn’t stay with you then? Is that it?”

“No! No! Not at all…God. No. Mom, I’m just saying that at that time, when we spoke, you were upset that I was too aloof and not sharing anything and closed and ‘seething underground’ was I think how you put it – I remember because I really liked that phrase…”

“You’re not a writer from nowhere, you know…”

“Yes…. I do know…So anyway, here I am, trying to be more present and interested and involved and ask questions and show emotion and wonderment – yes – wonderment – at the fact that Joe and Lily Kohl, of all people, are joining a church, a Southern church…and I am suddenly compared to Torquemada…”

“I did not compare you to Torquemada. Really, now. Don’t be ugly.”

“Right. You did say expedition, not inquisition…It wasn’t either one, Mom.”

“Well I felt that way. You know? I did. Sometimes it’s not the question, but the tone…You know, Michael, we’ve been through this for more than twenty years now…I’m so tired of it…”

“Me, too, Mom….”

“Then why do you do it?”

“What?!?”

“Why do you go on with that – attitude – - that snotty teenage thing you should have outgrown years and years ago, like I owe you an explanation for everything I do? Like you’re sitting in judgment of me, waiting for me to do something wrong?”

“I don’t think that’s fair. I don’t think that’s true…anymore. Not at all. I think you’re interpreting backwards, hearing my words now in my voice then. God…It was just a question. I did not expect it to turn into this at all! For you to get…so sensitive…”

“Do not accuse me again of that thing you always say.”

“So I won’t say it. But what am I supposed to do here? Talk to you naturally, not talk to you naturally? Watch what I say? Not watch what I say? Who I am, is, by nature…How do I say this? OK…Being not detached, for me, being involved, will intrinsically entail some non-soft stepping humor…Some cynicism. You call it mockery…but…it’s just a wry way of looking at things…a lens I see things through…What am I supposed to do about that? Change my personality?”

“The part of it that can’t muster any loving, yeah. I think it would feel different if there was any love there at all…”

“What?”

“If you had asked me about the church without the ridicule…with any love there…I think I would have answered you…Your need to protect yourself through this lens of yours is costing you in the personal relationship department, my dear.”

“I would prefer it if you wouldn’t go there, Mom.”

“Of course you would. When it’s about you, you’re allowed to be sensitive.”

“I think you’re painting a picture of me that is really…I don’t know…It’s awful. You really are reading too much into this. I’m sorry, but I do feel that I need to be very careful…That I can’t say anything to you….”

“So do I. Feel that way about you…Sheesh, Michael, nothing’s easy with you, is it? That much hasn’t changed in almost thirty years…

“I guess you’re right about that….”

“OK…Michael….I’m going to have to go now. I have a brunch for the Children’s Hospital. I’m chairing it…I’ve done a lot of work for them lately. I’ll tell you about it sometime if you’re interested. So…. you let me know if you want to come down for whatever it is that you want to call it in April, OK?”

“Yeah…Truce?”

“Whatever you say, Michael. I can’t believe we’re still having these exhausting conversations. Why? Why?”

“Who among us knows why we do anything? Why we become who we most fear…”

“I worry about you and this…writing… thing. It makes you so… antisocial.”

*********

Untitled, For My Mother:

Ashen hush – -
when dust unfolds off silenced fields;
Stones don’t burn,
but grass can learn
to stop growing there.
– Still:
Life goes on, they say.
Is never-green to high a price
to pay?

- MAK, January 2001

Ok, we’re back. In this installment: Mak, inspired by NB, is able to finish his article. And then he and Andrea have it out over a beer…or three…

*****

Out of the BoX: M.A. Kohl On Love and Life at (almost) Thirty

Love Letters
Part II

Today there are no signatures. I sign all my e-mails “M”, and it seems to be good enough. I have corresponded for months with editors who never asked what M.A. stands for. I have corresponded for months with people whose voices I have never heard. I do not know if they have a quick East Coast way of catching your sentences before you say them, or if they’re Midwesterners who listen until you’re well past done, and you’re waiting and waiting for them to say something.

I do not know these things because all the lines and words and sentences come out the same in my inbox, with no spaces or pauses or interrupted syllables, no heavy smoker’s timbre, no just-out-of-grad-school deliberateness. I cannot hear or feel. I know only what passes through the spell check.

Now it’s all in the imagining, and in the censorship. The ability to be anyone we chose to be, very carefully, and to be with anyone we can conjecture. In fact, it doesn’t matter who the letter is from, just who we think it could be from, and what we think they think of us.

In cyberspace, there is nothing as personal as, for example, finding someone’s hair on your jacket when you come home from meeting with him or her over lunch. You cannot smell anyone’s cologne hastily dashed on; you cannot feel their foot accidentally knock yours under the table. It is hospital sterile in here.

And at the same time, it is violently intimate.

In cyberspace, there is nothing as mundane, as subtle, as finding someone else’s hair on your jacket. The conversation is somehow more open, more daring, more immediately personal, even with people you know in real life. Sometimes I wonder what happens to people online, what chemical changes are taking place as the modem chokes to life. We type in things we would never say. We confide and advise and allude and become a sort of ghost accomplice, a sudden Times New Roman best friend.

When we meet again, in person, we do not speak of the e-mail. We must start over. No-fair cyber, we’d say, if we wanted to talk about it.

But we don’t. In fact, in person, there is often very little to talk about.

We seem to be living in a post-human time, one degree away from life. Seeking some self-knowledge by machinated expressions, by echo – - like Narcissus, by reflection.

This, too, is a pool we can fall into as we look, but the drowning feels much better than we’d imagined.

*********

From: Michael A. Kohl [maksomething@juno.com]
Date: Thursday, January 11, 2001 2:39 PM
To: Zoe Jones [zjones@thinx.com]
Subject: RE: Second Part of Love Letters Essay

Zoe:

Here’s part 2. I’m glad They Who Matter at ThinX and beyond liked the last piece. Thanks for telling me.

- M

*********

From: Hands_Solo [hs2000@hotmail.com]
Date: Thursday, January 11, 2001 6:45 PM
To: Webmaster [webmaster@braintoys.com]
Subject: RE: Hi

NB –

Hi. You know, you should never post your e-mail in a chat room. Even if you are a webmaster and you know how to play around with addresses and filters and links etc…it’s just asking for trouble. SC asked if that was your e-mail and I lied, said it was your sister who was going to get me a job. Do you even have a sister? lol…..Does she have a good job for me? hehehehe…Anyway, thanx….very trusting of you!

Someone here now…Have a good nite.

- HS

********

Andrea came over after work. Her work, that is. I had to get offline really fast when she knocked… :

“I’m really glad you’re here, Anj…Thanks for coming out. Want a drink? I think there’s a cup somewhere around here.”

“God, Mak! This place looks like that basement in your favorite movie. If I was the owner of this house….”

“Thank you, Clarice. I’ve been waiting for you to come by. You’ve been on my brain, so to speak.”

“That was good, Mak. You’ve been practicing. Any real victims under that pizza box?”

“Nope. Only victim is me. Still. Boohoo.”

“I’m glad you’re still able to laugh, at least. Glad you’re finally aware of it.”

“Awareness….. Is my current job. My occupation. My passion. One possible by-product of getting pissed on. Is brutal awareness….. You want a beer?”

“You are not the best advertisement for beer right now.”

“C’mon, Anj. I hate to…drink alone.”

“But you do it so well. It’s really entertaining.”

“Very. Cold.”

“Me or the beer?”

“Both. Actually. Very.”

“Bite me.”

“Where?”

“Michael….Get away. MMMMM….. That is cold! Yummy.”

“You ought to take me up on more of my offers.”

“Michael.”

“Sorry. Me behave one day.”

“Hey… Mak? Where’s your leather recliner? The one you used to live on with that bitch Natalie? Where’s the TV? And that gorgeous hand-woven Peruvian rug? The one I couldn’t believe you bought yourself?”

“It’s Chilean. I have very good taste in… inanimate objects, by the way. They’re all somewhere. Underneath. I’m having my own…Pompeii. I don’t know. Thanks for the inventory, though. Forgot. About that shit.”

“God, Michael. What the hell is going on? What’s this new drama of yours?”

“It’s still the old drama, thank you very much.”

“That’s been playing for a long time.”

“But it’s better than Cats! Don’t you want to see it… again and again?”

“I can’t believe the actors haven’t quit.”

“Ooooohhhh. Good one, Captain Estrogen.”

“Did you just call me Captain Estrogen?”

“Never mind.”

“You’re a worrying individual.”

“Not so much. I’m just letting the chaos… play itself out.”

“Is that so?”

“It be so.”

“Well you’ve done an excellent job with the chaos.”

“You’re being mean to me. I can tell.”

“You’re being mean to you.”

“Oprah? Is that you?”

“So…When does it start reorganizing itself? The chaos…”

“You see. Right there. I think you’re making fun of me.”

“Can you answer the question, Mak?”

“OK…Why don’t you? You’re the great biologist…When does chaos usually reorganize?”

“Around the time the function of the organism is…ohhhh…I see where you’re going with this… Is that what this is all about? Self-Organization? Shedding the old, useless structure?”

“Maybe…But I’m not talking about it …with you. I can’t think so I just read. In the meantime.”

“Are you shitting me, Mak? What are you reading?”

“I’m scaring you, am I, Clarice?”

“You are, though. Does this pay well? Whatever this is that you’re doing with yourself these days?”

“Maybe I have a research grant, like you do.”

“From a Mental Institute?”

“You really are something else… when you have a beer in you, you know that, Anj?”

“Really…Are you still writing, Mak? Or just finding out what you’re for?”

“Well, Andrea Dorothy, I’m actually writing A LOT. I just made special correspondent at Empire.”

“Hey…Congratulations….”

“… I’m just thinking that if I can write myself past March 21st I’ll be alright…I don’t care about titles….“

“You should…You don’t need to be so against success. That’s pretty impressive, actually. I like Empire. They don’t care that you’re not in New York?”

“That’s why I’m a correspondent, which is more or less a freelance position… and not the ….Writer at Large. Which is a staff position. Natalie… and I… were moving… to New York. I was going to start at the end of April. At Empire. With a permanent job…A really good job….”

“You never told me that…”

“I never told anyone that. Except Natalie…It wasn’t really. Public knowledge.”

“I’m the public? Why don’t you ever tell me anything? You see…This is what I’m talking about. It’s a very funny idea you have about friendship. Why don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not a big deal, Anj. I trust you. I just didn’t think this was… share-worthy…”

“A little thing like moving away isn’t share-worthy?”

“Anyway…It’s irrelevant now…Ken Bogan’s a good old friend…You remember me talking about him, right? We were together. In college…He’s the articles editor…He arranged for this. Instead….”

“Why aren’t you moving to New York and taking the better goddamn job? What does Dr. Natalie have to do with anything?”

“Well, for one thing, she is currently living. In the apartment we rented…Got herself a job in Mt. Sinai….”

“I hear there may be a few more apartments in New York. Limited time only.”

“I can’t take any more changes. Right now.”

“That’s a cop out. A real cop out. This is all really lazy and loser-ish if you ask me.”

“Which I didn’t.”

“Why not just make a clean break? Are you so married to this stupid Bay?”

“Hey. Hey. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really loved. This Bay.”

“That’s such bullshit. You only moved here a little over a year ago from Georgetown. Strangely, right after you started dating Natalie…How did that work, with her living in Silver Spring? Did you notice that all the women you fall in love with are from Silver Spring?”

“Rachel was a girl. Not a woman. And you used to live in Baltimore, when it was relevant…”

“You didn’t love me, though, really. It doesn’t count.”

“Jesus, Andrea. I don’t really want to talk about it. Any of it. But I love you now. In a certain way.”

“Yeah, whatever. The point is…you were doing fine without the Bay for a long time.”

“It’s a big part of my childhood.”

“Because you went fishing sometimes with your dad? You’ve never written about it. I think you’re full of crap.”

“Why do you think. That you know me so well. Huh?”

“Someone should. What’s the real reason you’re not going to New York? Stop drinking. You’re ending your sentences in funny places.”

“And see Natalie? On the street on the way to work? The apartment. Is a few blocks away from the office…It was so…fucking…perfect….”

“It’s a big city, Michael. I’m really sorry, though…Wow. That does suck.”

“Big cities. Have a way of closing in on you when you have an ex. Looking at the tops of the same buildings as you are. You know?”

“I guess. It’s just a waste, is all…It’s like you’re letting her win…What do you care if you run into her? Just look better than her is all. You should start working out again. You’ve gotten too skinny. But your hair is nice this way.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me or something? She did win.”

“No…No. Of course not…It’s just that I think you have your priorities screwed up…”

“Choosing to unearth myself… over my career, you mean? Choosing bucolic Maryland over an exciting, ripped-up-inside New York life? I should seethe richly? You think? Take up drinking buckets again?”

“You talk like you write. You know that, don’t you? It’s especially entertaining when you’re drunk. I thought you were still drinking buckets.”

“No. I’m not. This is a rare treat you’re witnessing. Did it ever occur to you that I like the freedom of writing. For a lot of different publications? The writer position. Was pretty much exclusive for all non-fiction. It was a staff position…This correspondent position is not. I’m still free.”

“Ah…So that’s the real reason. You see?…You still can’t be nailed down to any one thing in particular…Not to mention people….”

“Maybe…Maybe I’d like to share the insights gleaned from crisis. And my quiet existence on the Bay. With a broader range of people….”

“I don’t know if you even believe yourself at this point.”

“Me neither.”

“Do you really, deep down, think that’s what this is about? More than your inability to just get it together? No offense.”

“Oh, no. How could I be possibly? Be offended? I don’t know, Andrea…I forgot what a difficult person you are. To convince of anything that doesn’t have a direct, tangible result…”

“It’s a real problem, isn’t it? So where is all this coming from? Your solitary quest? What the hell are you reading? ”

“OK…Hunh. Well…For your perusal, Madam…This is only the first pile…Here’s what I’m reading.”

“Holy shit. Look at these….”

“Yeah. I spent. A bloody fortune on Amazon.”

“Not research for an article, like the chatrooms?”

“No.”

“So…What did you learn this week, little boy?”

“OK…Let’s see…My favorite: That we’re here for a reason…”

“Oh, that. Goody. OK…I suppose people’s mothers die of cancer when they’re ten years old for a reason. Right?…You know that’s what my father said, too, right? When he married her best friend afterwards…That everything happens for a reason.”

“I think it’s an easy idea to exploit.”

“Did it ever occur to you that everything happens first, and then we look for the reason afterwards?”

“Well…I don’t know. But that sounds like it might be right. Because I also read that circumstances do not change who we are. They show us who we are…Is that the same thing? As what you were saying?”

“Not exactly, no. I don’t think. Where’d you get that?”

“I don’t remember anymore…It all kind of sticks together after a while. I’m like sushi.“

“You’re like sushi? Raw and greenish?”

“Rolled and compressed.”

“Are you going to totally wig out on us, Michael?”

“Who is us?”

“Does it make you feel better at least?”

“It makes me feel. Period.”

“That’s interesting. You see. That’s actually interesting.”

“I’m glad I’m making the Andreo-meter. For worthfulness.”

“I’m a bitch, right?”

“Parts.”

“Hmmm….Which parts?”

“Ahh…there it is. The voice…The beer voice.”

“What are you ranting about now, Michael?”

“And now the games.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying to me.”

“I’m saying that you’re being funny-ish and now I’ve had…three…four…and a half…beers. So… I am drunk….And the two of us drunk together is a bad thing.”

“I’m not drunk, Mak.”

“If you say so.”

“You have this imagination…God, Mak. You’d think…You make me sound like….”

“Like what, Andrea? A human being?”

“I’m with someone, remember?”

“Yeah. I remember. Put that over there will you? Next to the other can…Thanks… Now take your lovely auburn head home to Josh.”

“Will you be alright?”

“Stand back, woman.”

“You are totally paranoid and egotistical if you thought I was coming on to you just now….”

“I am, am I? So what was it, then? You were checking my teeth?”

“I was being supportive.”

“I see.”

“Will you? Be OK?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“You know…You may be lucky in a way. You know what Alanis Morisette says – life has a funny way of helping you out…”

“Alanis Morisette?”

“What? I like her. She’s a great poet. I normally don’t get poetry. I get hers, though. ”

“You know…I like her, too. She’s softened lately. I like where she’s going.”

“You see, and I like her old stuff better…Hmmm…”

“Yeah. All that unbottled estrogen rage…”

“Shut up, will you?”

“Sorry, Alanis.”

“Anyway…You need to clean up. Cleanliness is next to…you know….”

“I know so many things…like that you need to go home right now…”

“You’re demented…”

“Anj….”

“I’ll call you tomorrow….”

“Say hi to Josh for me. I’m going to California tomorrow.”

“Ollopa?”

“Yeah. I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

*****

For Andrea:

To Artemis:

What is it you hunt – -
your bow pulled back and quivering,
so tight
it might
break
before the arrow
rushestoitsprey ?
What can you still
kill
that you have not
murdered with your tongue,
keeping wounded souls
inside
your boots
for food?
What hunts you,
in your wilderness,
when the nymphs are
sleeping
and your sister
holds the moon?
Can a lesser something
bruise you;
You, who holds the planets in your hair?
I sometimes think that you are not as
free
a spirit
as you claim to be.
For you run from something, too.
Swifter than I flee,
faster
than I can pursue.

- MAK, January 2001

Here’s where it really starts, in the direct chat between HS (Mak) and NB (You don’t know who she is yet.) Thanks for hanging in there, reader. A long one this time…

And btw….So much has changed in a decade!!! Be sure to look for clues of nostalgia for 2000/1. (Pre-9/11 world.)

******
I called Andrea when I got back from my little Jersey trip:

“Hey. Good morning, Anj. It’s Michael.”

“Where have you been? I was so worried about you! I told Josh he was going to have to help me break in if I didn’t hear from you soon.”

“I didn’t know you worried about anything. Did Josh agree to that, by the way? To drive all the way out to Annapolis to break the law?”

“Of course I worry…What do you think I am?”

“I was up in Jersey for a few hours, Miss Clavel.”

“Meeting someone from the chat room, were you?”

“Yeah. That’s it. You caught me.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I always drive up to Jersey to meet people I don’t know in the hope of getting laid or killed. Either one would be very cool with me right now.”

“God, Mak…Listen… I’m late to work. Can I come by later? I really want to talk to you…I have some time tonight. The drive will do me good….”

“Absolutely. If you can part the debris with your holy walking stick, you may find me across the wilderness on the couch, or, alternately, on the couch.”

“I’ll have to dig that up, my stick….”

“It shouldn’t be too hard for you to find. It might be next to your whip.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s way too late for me, Anj.”

“I’ve heard that before from you….”

“Mmhhmm.”

“Hey…Mak? We can’t meet on the boat, can we? Or go there afterwards?”

“Is that near my couch? It’s freezing outside.”

“Forget it. I’ll come to the house.”

“Cool. I have beer.”

********

Wedding March

Dearly Beloved:
We are gathered here today
to commit
treason of the soul;
to tell a person he is whole
by gluing on another.
Do you take
this sweet young thing
to have and to hold
(your life together)
love and cherish
(cheat and perish)
until death do you part?
(Well, at least that’s a start.)
(Now a prayer: O, Lord,
will you protect them from themselves?
For they still believe
in shrink-wrapped morality:
profane and sacred clear
as fear.
But you know as I do what love is lost in
wasted wonder)
And whom God has brought together
let no man put asunder.

- MAK, January 2001

*********

Hands_Solo has entered the Chat Room.

Nymphmistress: Welcome back, Hands!

Tigger: Hey, hands. Kind of slow today. Just me and NM and a few private chats who r not posting at all in here. What’s up?

Hands_Solo: Nothin much. Just got back from a little road trip, trying to figure some stuff out. Did you ever drive somewhere and then drive back right away?

Nymphmistress: I’m from LA. We do that kind of s*** all the time. lol.

Tigger: Yeah, I’ve done that. It’s a good way to clear ur head.

Nymphmistress: What’s wrong. Hands? What happened?

Hands_Solo: Long story. Any interesting thoughts today? I really should be writing; I’m avoiding it by being in here.

Nymphmistress: Avoiding lots of s*** like all of us. For me out here it’s still real early. Just can’t sleep. Insomnia. Tigger at work bored, as usual. What a group!!

Tigger: Well what else r u gonna find on chat? People who are busy and happy and satisfied? lol

No-Brainer has entered the chatroom.

Tigger: Speaking of which. lol

Nymphmistress: lol @ Tigger. Hey, NB. How r u today? Site running OK?

No-Brainer: Hi, all. Welcome back, Hands. Yeah, work is OK. I read what you wrote there, Tigger. Profound! Welcome to thinking humanity. How does it feel?

Hands_Solo: Hey, NB. Glad you could join us. Did you read what Tigger wrote? Do you agree?

Hands_Solo: lol @ my lag. Now I see NB read it!

Tigger: Thanx. Do I get a membership party?

Nymphmistress: The lites in my house are kind of blinking. I think the power is about to go out again. If I disappear it’s cuz my laptop died.

Tigger: Good luck with all that Nymph. Must suck. Glad no power probs in Florida. Lots of other probs lol but that’s not one of them. lol I’m from Palm Beach.

No-Brainer: No kidding. Did you vote Buchanan? lol

Tigger: Didn’t vote at all. But that’s not something you want to advertise down here lol. It’s all dying down, tho. More or less over now that the man is about to be sworn in.

Hands_Solo: America is running out of energy and brains, all at once! lol What do you do, Tigger?

Tigger: Storeroom manager at Sears. Imagine the fun! lol… S***!! My boss. Gotta go. Bye.

No-Brainer: Looks like it’s just you and me, Hands. Slow day. Did you write whatever it was that you wanted to write? On chatting? …Sounds interesting.

Hands_Solo: Not finished yet. It’s the second part of a web column. I have to send it out today – editor waiting. I’m kind of distracted. Can’t formulate what I want to say.

No-Brainer: ?

Hands_Solo: What’s the question?

No-Brainer: lol….Sorry…I sometimes just assume people can read my mind….

Hands_Solo: Well, you are a woman.

No-Brainer: Ahhh….So you are a guy. Thought so.

Hands_Solo: Caught red handed! Serves me right for being a chauvinist pig.

No-Brainer: I wouldn’t call you that…

Hands_Solo: Gee, Thanx…lol….Well, what would you call me?

No-Brainer: Someone who has all the answers, is what it seems like.

Hands_Solo: Hmmm….Well, I’m working on it, but I seem to be short a few. lol

No-Brainer: It’s not worth your time.

Hands_Solo: ?

No-Brainer: What’s the question?…lol

Hands_Solo: Have you tried? To find all the answers?

No-Brainer: I knew them once. Didn’t you?

Hands_Solo: lol….Yeah….I guess I did….

No-Brainer: So my unasked question before was…What is distracting you? What’s wrong?

Hands_Solo: Just a mood, I guess.

No-Brainer: That’s bulls***. No one serious and literate ever comes into this chatroom unless they’re going through something.

Hands_Solo: Is that a fact? Should I take that as a compliment?

No-Brainer: If you want.

Hands_Solo: Does this wise maxim apply to you?

No-Brainer: Certainly.

Hands_Solo: Care to share with Uncle Hands? lol

No-Brainer: Hmmm… Not sure I’m in the mood to become material for one of your articles. No offense.

Hands_Solo: …None taken. It was a fair suspicion. ….Although I do have the capacity to engage with humanity without utilitarian motives. Sometimes. lol

No-Brainer: Not sure I believe you.

Hands_Solo: That’s usually been my problem with women…lol

No-Brainer: There’s clearly a reason for that.

Hands_Solo: Which is?

No-Brainer: Well….I don’t really know you that well….

Hands_Solo: Uh-uh. You made a statement, chiquita. Back it up.

No-Brainer: All right….Well….You seem interested in knowing everything about everyone else, getting into other people’s heads, but aren’t willing to share anything about yourself.

Hands_Solo: That’s a lot to digest before breakfast.

No-Brainer: You stole that line from Pacey on Dawson’s Creek.

Hands_Solo: I don’t know who you are talking about.

No-Brainer: You lie, lie, lie.

Hands_Solo: God, you’re good.

No-Brainer: You have no idea. So are you more like Pacey or Dawson? Or Jack? lol

Hands_Solo: I will not dignify that with an answer. I started watching it years ago to see Grams. I like older women.

No-Brainer: lol

Hands_Solo: I can’t believe there’s another intelligent adult in this country who watches that show.

No-Brainer: Should I take that as a compliment?

Hands_Solo: If the belly ring fits.

No-Brainer: lol….My belly ring days are over….

Hands_Solo: Mine, too. lol

No-Brainer: I mean….Motherhood does funny things to your belly…

Hands_Solo: Wow! You’re a mom. Have to say, that surprises me…

No-Brainer: Why? B/c moms are supposed to be forty and doing mom stuff and not chatting in here?

Hands_Solo: Hmmm. You got me. Again.

No-Brainer: Well I am 28.

Hands_Solo: Wow. Again.

No-Brainer: Got married right out of college.

Hands_Solo: Is that good or bad? lol

No-Brainer: lol It has its moments, but then it has its days…..if you know what I mean.

Hands_Solo: I’m afraid I don’t. You will have to read me your mind. lol

No-Brainer: I mean, I look at my son and everything else stops. And my husband is a really good guy. But missing my twenties….that’s starting to hit me now….Hard.

Hands_Solo: Is that why you’re in here chatting?

No-Brainer: Negative, Sir.

Hands_Solo: I thought that was a good guess.

No-Brainer: It was. Why do men need to congratulate themselves all the time?

Hands_Solo: Because women never do it for us.

No-Brainer: OOOOOooooHHHHHHH. You got me, Captain Testosterone.

Hands_Solo: lol

No-Brainer: You did your twenties right, I’ll bet.

Hands_Solo: Each and every day was one of fierce and unrelenting doing. You missed quite a party.

No-Brainer: I’ll bet I did. Seriously. I’m sure I did. What were your early twenties like?

Hands_Solo: Are you serious?

No-Brainer: Are you scared to share, Captain T?

Hands_Solo: lol…Harsh….Well, let’s see. OK. I broke up with an amazing girl in my sophomore year, the one I probably should have married. I think. And then the rest of college was an effort to forget about her through a succession of…female people who I hope I never run into ever, ever again. Although I probably wouldn’t recognize any of them.

No-Brainer: Were you shitfaced or just a shit?

Hands_Solo: lol. Both, Ma’am. Want to take a shot at me on behalf of womankind?

No-Brainer: I think you did a good job shooting yourself.

Hands_Solo: Hmmm….You’re pretty smart, you are. Anyway…One good thing about school was that I did manage to make some great friends there…one of them…Derek…he’s a lifer. You know what I just realized?…Somehow all my best college friends are really, really wealthy and / or successful now. Hmmmm…..

No-Brainer: lol. That’s your punishment for the women.

Hands_Solo: You believe in this Karma stuff? Or was that more of a Judeo-Christian punish the wicked sentiment?

No-Brainer: Maybe. I don’t know. Go on.

Hands_Solo: What? You want to hear more? Is this penance or something?

No-Brainer: Yeah. If you want. What did you do after college?

Hands_Solo: Stayed at Georgetown. That’s where I was in school. Took more than four years to complete a two year Masters in English Lit. lol. Worked a bit also, copy editing, some small journalism jobs. Stayed with that even after I got my useless degree. Kept living in Georgetown, kept writing.

No-Brainer: No girlfriend?

Hands_Solo: Not in the singular, no.

No-Brainer: So there was a lot of support for the Budweiser and Durex families in those days, huh?

Hands_Solo: lol…Yeah. I guess. Also lots of arrogant writers and professors and editors…I spent my days trying to learn from them and then outdo them, and my nights making them into material for my eventual book…

No-Brainer: Did you ever write it? Your eventual book?

Hands_Solo: No. Well…I’m trying, actually. It’s taking me in another direction, though. I don’t know. I got a good deal more poetry out of the experience than anything else. It’s the lazy man’s high literature.

No-Brainer: Why would you call poetry lazy?

Hands_Solo: Because if you can do it, it’s like having to pee. You just have to write that poem, it comes out, and then it’s over. It comes through you more than…more than you actually working on anything.

No-Brainer: Then you have a gift. Why would you call that laziness?

Hands_Solo: This is starting to sound an awful lot like therapy.

No-Brainer: And how do you feel about that?

Hands_Solo: lol So you see…My twenties got me beyond nowhere in the end, other than a bunch of good connections with editors who I ended up working for now… That should make you feel better….You have a husband, a job, a kid, a real house, right?…..

No-Brainer: And you have memories, experiences, something to draw on for your writing career….

Hands_Solo: Lots to draw on. Lots to erase.

No-Brainer: Clever.

Hands_Solo: Was that congratulations?

No-Brainer: ‘twas.

Hands_Solo: Hallelujah. I’ll have to alert the men’s lobby.

No-Brainer: lol…So you never entered the high-tech boom where the rest of us almost thirties reside, huh? Lucky you.

Hands_Solo: Actually, I did, briefly. I worked for one of those start ups that was an end down before the market even crashed.

No-Brainer: lol….no luck…poor Hands.

Hands_Solo: lol….Again, made some great friends there, though…and during roughly that time period met not one, but two women….

No-Brainer: And?

Hands-Solo: Well…one of them was one of those things that didn’t end too badly. Know what I mean by that? It just kind of was there and it just kind of went…

No-Brainer: Oh boy. I know exactly what you mean.

Hands_Solo: ?

No-Brainer: Who was the second woman?

Hands_Solo: I believe I was accused of sharing nothing but asking probing questions, and now it seems that my accuser is guiltier than I….

No-Brainer: You speak verily, my lord.

Hands_Solo: Speak, then, wench, or I shall have thee locked away.

No-Brainer: lol…I’m already locked away…remember?

Hands_Solo: lol

No-Brainer: lol….OK…Remember you asked me about what I believed just now? Reward and punishment? Karma?

Hands_Solo: Yeah.

No-Brainer: Well I have been thinking a lot about all of that shit…You hit it on the head. I’m actually wondering more…..If all the stuff that happened – and didn’t happen! – in my twenties, and all subsequent results that I’m living with now….were what I wanted on some level, even if I didn’t know it at the time….because of who I was, who I am… and therefore, what I deserve…even if I regret it later….Or is it not about that? You know? Maybe things just kind of happened to me that way, that’s how the chips fell….And then I became who I am…Does this make any sense at all?

Hands_Solo: I can’t believe you’re asking me this.

No-Brainer: Why?

Hands_Solo: Have you been reading my mind? Is that why you assume that people can communicate telepathically? Because you actually can?

No-Brainer: …You have a long lifeline, child. What’s this? A secret!!! Oh, My!

Hands_Solo: lol

No-Brainer: I was really just asking…Maybe it’s one of those things where life imitates life…

Hands_Solo: It’s called synchronicity in the literature…Jung coined that term for meaningful coincidences…Anyway, that’s been the thing at the top of my think pile for weeks….

No-Brainer: Hmmm……Interesting…..Are you into Jung?

Hands_Solo: At the moment…about neck deep.

No-Brainer: Ah hah.

Hands_Solo: I don’t know the answer to your…our….question of course….Who does?

No-Brainer: Good of you to admit that….

Hands_Solo: lol…..So I guess neither of us is going to talk about what we are each talking around, huh? Why we’re obsessed with this circular fate question? Why you’re trolling the net for meaning? Even though you owe me a good few scroll-downs of sharing, young lady!

No-Brainer: Doesn’t look like it right now. Sorry.

Hands_Solo: Yeah……Well, whenever, I’ll be floating around here if you change your mind…

No-Brainer: Ditto.

Hands_Solo: lol. That’s funny…That’s what my dad does a lot.

No-Brainer: What is?

Hands_Solo: Ditto. My mom will write me a card for my birthday or something and she’ll write this long inscription, and my dad will scribble underneath: Ditto. Love, Dad. It’s funny. I’ve always wondered about what makes a person write Ditto.

No-Brainer: I’ll have to get back to you on that one.

Hands_Solo: lol…Where are you from, by the way? You “sound” East Coast.

No-Brainer: I’m from Decatur, Ill. Ever hear of it?

Hands_Solo: Yeah, sure. One of those Cohn Brothers type places, right?

No-Brainer: lol. Almost. Never thought of it like that.

SlickChick_2001 has entered the chatroom.

No-Brainer: S***……..Staff meeting! Bye…

SlickChick_2001: Bye NB. Hi, Hands.

No-Brainer: Hands – webmaster@braintoys.com

SlickChick_2001: NB Is that ur e-mail?

Hands_Solo: No. That was NB’s sister’s mail. She’s gonna get me a job.

SlickChick_2001: Cool. What do you do Hands?

Hands_Solo: Not much. lol. How bout you?

SlickChick_2001: lol. In college. Junior. Finals now. Sux.

Hands_Solo: Hmm. We were just talking about college. Enjoy it while you’re there.

SlickChick_2001: That’s what everyone sez.

Hands_Solo: I didn’t know everyone was that smart.

OK, readers. Mak is Back for the 3rd installment.

(Hint: In the chat room chapter below he is Hands_Solo. In case you don’t get that right away.)

A note: When I wrote this back in 2000, there was no social media, only chat rooms and message boards. I was one of the first 700,000 people on ICQ, before it was bought out by AOL. It was all research, of course. That goes without saying.

****

Hands_Solo has entered the Chatroom.

SlickChick_2001: Hey, Hands. Cute nic. A/s/l????

GettinLucky: Hi. Hands r/u m/f?

Eminemfan26: What ru doin solo w/ ur hands? lol

Tigger: Anyway, No-Brainer, that’s what my girlfriend sez. Hey hands.

Hands_Solo: Hey to all. Thanx for the welcome. From Maryland. 29 y/o. No sex.

No-Brainer: lol @ Hands. We’ll see if we can accommodate you.

GettinLucky: A senior citizen!!!

Nymphmistress: Lucky ur tripping. 29 a great age. Seasoned. Right Hands???

Slick_Chick2001: Am 21 today! Legal!

Tigger pours Slick a beer now that she is legal. .

Tigger: Ru buzzed yet?

Hands_Solo: Uh, hate to ask this, but is anyone in the mood for a real discussion?

Hot pix of PamelaTwin and HungDaddy!!!!!!! Click Here for Awesome Twosome!!!!

Nymphmistress: They’re baaaaaack. Did anyone see those pix? They are pretty lame. Hands…ru m/f???

Slick_Chick2001: Tigger. Thanx, dude. Yummy. Buzz is starting!! Nymph – - Hands doesn’t want to tell us if it’s a him or a her. It’s a secret. Shhhh!!!!

GettinLucky: Hands I will have a real discussion. Y not?

No-Brainer: Please. Dying for a real discussion. Hands, don’t cave. I think it’s cool re: keeping gender a secret. BTW, not 21. lol A real adult with a real job, even.

Eminemfan26: Maybe hands is a faggot, or a dyke like NM so the answer is both or neither. lol.

Hands_Solo: NB – Not exactly a secret. I just don’t see why it’s relevant. Which brings me to the discussion. I know this question has been asked before and it’s a bit late in the day, so to speak,…but…Why are you here – each of you? Why do you chat?

Nymphmistress: M&M – f*** u, ok? Hands, I don’t care what you r. Anyway, everyone lies, so whatever you say could be true, but not necessarily. M&M could be my 67-year-old aunt Sophie. How you doin Sophie? Sorry I cussed at you just now. lol

GettinLucky: Chat to pick up hot girls, get their pix, jerk off. It’s either that or maybe meet someone you talk to, get it for real. Why r u asking? R U my court appointed shrink? lol

Tigger: Chat b/c bored at work, can’t watch TV. lol. Anyone else at work?

SlickChick_2001: I think it’s a safe way to kind of play and flirt and fantasize, you know? It’s like being in reality TV except without the prize at the end. lol.

No-Brainer: Tigger – yeah, I’m at work. Hands – R U a psych major or something? Marketing thesis? Industry spy?

Eminemfan26: Hands – who the **** cares? What are you? My civics teacher from Roosevelt?

Hands_Solo: lol. No, NB, a Writer. Humanity spy.

GettinLucky: Anyone seen Sam around?

No-Brainer: I like that even if it is a bit pretentious. As to your question: I think it’s a form of entertainment. There’s a lot of mystery, and guessing, who is who. And then ultimately you just imagine what you want. A whole village of people in your own voice. ( I can be pretentious back. lol.)

WetOne has entered the chatroom.

WetOne: 19f Horny. R there any guys want to chat?

Hands_Solo: NB – thanx. I like that a lot. lol. Pretentiousness is an occupational hazard for me. What do you do?

Eminemfan26: WetOne – Look no further for the ride of your life. Do you have pix?

GettinLucky: WetOne I am da man. You sound really hot. Click for my site – - lots of pix of me.

No-Brainer: Get a room, will you all? Hands – Glorified Techie.

Nymphmistress: Anyone notice how quiet Tigger and SlickChick have gotten?? Private time, guys? lol. Tigger is cheatin on his woman! Shame, shame, Tigger. lol

Hands_Solo: NB – A computer geek!

GettinLucky: Yeah, Tigger doin his bouncy bouncy bouncy thang. ROTFL.

No-Brainer: Well you never know, do you? lol…… and a girl, BTW, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I gotta go – my boss is here. Bye all.

Hands_Solo: Bye, NB. Nice meeting you. Thanks for your help everyone. I’m starving. Gotta go eat.

GettinLucky: Hands goin to eat No-Brainer.

Nymphmistress: ROTFL @ Lucky.

*****

The Balding Briefcase Hotel: Reflections from the Bar / Lounge

By M.A. Kohl

A little over five hours ago, I started driving North from Maryland. I just got on Route 95 and sacrificed myself to the Tollbooth Deity. I believe I have found his shrine in this hotel here somewhere in Jersey.

I was “finally” settled a few months ago, but that was then and this is…how does the end of that go? So here I am, running away to nowhere in particular, just North, escaping advice from good hearted but too-certain friends.

Would you believe I didn’t even notice what city I’m in, or the name of the hotel? What difference does it make, really?

I am nowhere, no matter how you slice it.

*****************

I did not get a room. I’m not ready to pledge the next sixteen hours of my life to one beige and brown bedspread. There are so many more beige and brown bedspreads out there, I wouldn’t want to settle for the first one I came across. Now I sound like my ex-fiancé. Must be the Patty Hearst thing.

I feel like I have the Sunday evening blues I used to get in grade school after my bath, but I get the sense that it’s like this all the time here in this lobby. My laptop is perched – get this – on my lap. I’m still wearing my jacket. I’ve had two coffees and I am working on a third. I keep on getting them to go from the bar / lounge. It’s unclear which it is, a bar, or a lounge, so the sign says both, but it’s really only one room.

I look around. I wish I hadn’t. There are places like this, where everything’s clean and not unattractive, just somehow managing to avoid the responsibility of becoming in any way beautiful. There are places like this. I have a large plant next to me of the take-up-as-much-space-with-green-as-you-can variety, a pretty palm thing that is convincingly plastic even though I’m pretty sure it’s real.

The balding briefcase people of the mid-Atlantic have been coming and going all day, one at a time, at non-specific intervals. Different shades of gray and brown offering sports coats a try at matching the hotel furniture perfectly. Will the winner get to take the sofa home?

*****************

I have moved over to the bar / lounge. It was inevitable, with the clouds hanging overhead looking almost like an evening sky. The rain is at that point where it hasn’t fallen yet, but there’s no real turning back either. I’m the only one here, other than two businessmen cutting what looks like a mediocre deal over what I now know to be mediocre scotch.

After a few minutes, a guy sits down right next to me. The place is totally empty and he chooses a spot right next to me. I pull my laptop closer in. I glance over: He’s forty-something and medium height and paunchy and balding and not unpleasant looking. He is the human version of the color taupe.

And he wants to chat. “You in business?” he asks me. Not surprisingly, he has the kind of voice you’ve forgotten before you ever heard it. I answer briefly: No. Freelance writer. “You don’t say. Me, I’m just on the way, by the way, “ he says. “Traveling salesman. But I guess that’s obvious.” It is. Three points for self-awareness.

“You divorced?” He asks, “You have that just divorced look. Me, I never made it to the altar. Almost, a few times, but never, you know, all the way to the minister.” He chuckles, swishes the ice in his glass impressively. Meanwhile, I’m envisioning a relay race, this guy almost touching the minister’s outstretched hands before the whistle blows. “No,” I say, “No altars.”

We sit there quietly for about half an hour, him looking up at the silent television showing soap operas, me staring into my laptop, writing nothing. I can’t bring myself to talk to this guy. I feel like a bad person, but I just can’t. He goes on a bit about his business. I hear none of it, but I nod every now and then. Try to smile at least once, for good measure.

He gets up to go. Straightens his tie and wipes his nose on a peach colored extra soft tissue. That must be from home. “You can’t run away forever, “ he tells me, or himself, but it sounds like he’s reading the side of a herbal tea box when he says it. “You can try, but it always feels like this.” He pays. For both of us. And then he disappears into the elevator.

I sit there with a strong coffee and wonder:

What was he like at twenty-nine?

I look outside. It still isn’t raining yet.

*************

From: Michael A. Kohl [maksomething@juno.com]
Date: Monday, January 8, 2001 12:01 AM
To: Ken Bogan [kenbo@empiremag.com]
Subject: RE: On Spec Essay

Ken:

Hi. I wrote this piece on the road. Not sure if you can do anything with it, but if you can use it for Empire’s “Separate Piece” feature, or something, it’s yours. I don’t generally like to bother you with on spec pieces like these, but …what the hell…I’m a special correspondent now! Hehehehehe…Do you regret it yet?

You can always get me by e-mail.

Thanks.

-M

P.S. I’m off to California to interview Ollopa in a couple of weeks. I’ll send him your best, of course. His sister’s with him, you say? Ahh, Ken-bo…remember her? Anything/one else you want me to cover out in SF while I’m there? (Pun intended.)

P.P.S. I should really come by and say hey if I’ve made it up this far, but I’m being hurtled back down by menacing inertia. Get you next trip, man. We need to catch up.

*******

Note to Self:

My Favorite Things: (for Tia Sappher, the hottest shrink on earth, if I ever get back to see her again…Trying to remember what it is I live for…)

- My sixth grade teacher (Mrs. Wolff??) who told me that my essay on the framers of the constitution made her laugh

- My brother’s Tupperware farm on Long Island (and I guess his kids)

- Babysitting Derek’s boat…in particular the bar

- The air outside at the beginning and end of night – especially in Montana that time…

- Black leather, just not pants (never, ever pants), especially furniture

- Those really short colorful beaded necklaces that girls wear right up on their necks, especially when they have a suntan…speaking of which…

- That time I drove down to Ocean City with Rachel in the middle of the night when her parents were out of town. … the Bay Bridge, with the sunset behind us… Later, on the beach….

- Rapture

- English poets, American beer, at the same time

- Kahlua in coffee

- Girl techies

Next installment on le novel.
Minimal narrative scared the agents. Does it scare you, reader? Feedback, pls!!

*****

1.

My conversation with my “best friend” (but that is very loaded and very…doubtful sometimes) Andrea this morning went something like this:

“Are you coming out with us tonight?”

“Where are you going?”

“Does it matter? Josh and I are going out and we want you to come.”

“We’re sorry. M.A. Kohl’s third wheel service is temporarily out of business. Please call again real soon.”

“Really, Mak, I want you to come.”

“I’m sure Josh will share your sentiment wholeheartedly when he gets down your shirt the minute I leave to go to the bathroom. That’s what he’ll be saying. Andrea, I am sooo glad you’ve brought your friend Mak along….”

“So that’s it? Now that you’re single again, you can’t go out with couples anymore? It’s been months…You haven’t been out of that stinking house in months…I don’t know how those people let you rent it….”

“Three. Three months. Exactly. But I do go out from time to time. The house…I opened a window yesterday.”

“Was that hard for you?”

“The air was a bit of a shock, yeah.”

“So it’s goodbye, people who care about me? Hello, other bitter, broken up people…Is that it?”

“Well…”

“So what do you do? Cry to each other? Sleep with people whose names you don’t know as long as they’re also pathetic?”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you tried it.”

“I have. Tried it. It sucked.”

“Maybe you didn’t do it right.”

“If I wasn’t dating Josh anymore and you were still engaged, I’d still want to hang out with you.”

“Too theoretical.”

“Mak. You love theoretical.”

“Not this week.”

“God, Mak…. Tell me why I bother.”

“Hey…You know what I found just now, Anj?”

“Your soul?”

“Almost. A letter I wrote Rachel after Freshman Year. I kept a copy of it in my journal. How pathetic is that? Do you remember me telling you about that time when I was in Montana with my parents? God…That was more than ten years ago. Freaked me out a bit when I realized that…”

“Didn’t you break up with her that summer?”

“Nice recall. No. I broke up with her in the fall. After that summer.”

“And how was the letter? Gooey?”

“Yup.”

“That’s pretty quick. Gooey to gone…all in a few weeks…”

“Yeah, well…There’s lots of things like that…Things that only take a few minutes…”

“Oh, very nice, Mak. So you model your relationship style on the male orgasm? Is that it?”

“Not on purpose.”

“What ever happened to her?”

“To who?”

“Rachel. Jesus…”

“Oh…I don’t know. Last I heard, she was a massage therapist out in Seattle. I think she’s married. I don’t remember who told me that.”

“Uh huh…Are you coming tonight or not, Mak?”

“Listen, have a great time. Tell Josh I say Hi. I actually think he’s a cool guy.”

“Well then, I will definitely continue dating him now…. “

“Harsh.”

“God, Mak. I just feel… helpless around you. You know I hate feeling helpless…Will you be OK?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be working.”

“Working. You’ll be back in those chat rooms, probably.”

“You’re really sure of yourself aren’t you?”

“I’m really sure of yourself.”

”This time, it’s only research for my column.”

“Burying yourself in work, huh? Millions would believe you.”

“…I’m doing some pieces on written communication, love letters, actually. For ThinX.”

“Love letters! Hunh. Is that why you were going through your old junk, reading Rachel’s letters?”

“Actually, no. I was looking for something else when I found it. This was one of those non-coincidence coincidences that spiritual people like to talk about.”

“Did you find anything…else?”

“You mean something I wrote to you? Or that you wrote to me?”

“I guess that’s what I mean. Among other things.”

“I still have a collage you made me somewhere. That one where I owed you a dollar but you wouldn’t take it and instead returned it to me, cut up to spell “the dollar” and sprayed mercilessly full of Eternity, in the middle of pictures of Grace and Harry and Arnold Becker.”

“That was a brilliant moment for me.”

“Yes, it was. But no, I didn’t find anything of interest before. Just ticket stubs from a movie, and that letter.”

“What movie?”

“Silence of the Lambs. I saw it four times in the theater.”

“That’s a fact I could have done without knowing about you, my sick little friend.”

“…Anyway…I’m thinking that I want to maybe tackle love letters more globally – like how they’ve changed with e-mail. I’m going back into the rooms to get material is all.”

“MMhmm.”

“Look…Have fun tonight. OK?”

“Mak……”

“Thanks for calling, by the way, Andrea Dorothy. You’ve given me something to think about. Ever since I opened that window, I’ve been waiting for…something…“

*****

Out of the BoX: M.A. Kohl On Love and Life at (almost) Thirty

Love Letters
Part I

Back in the day, we used to keep postcards and letters in shoeboxes. The girls would write on stationery, cool yellow sheets about the size of a paperback. Sometimes cute white dots would frame the page, matching in a profound way the very round, bubbly handwriting of the girls whose notes you copied.

The boys scribbled and drew cartoons right in the middle of sentences. They were Vonnegut-style letters, before any of us had ever read Vonnegut, disjointed and scrawled and somehow fitting together into a personality, if not a coherent series of thoughts.

We sent these to each other during the summer, when one of us was away at camp, the other bored to death at home. We equaled roughly the sum of the letters we received, how many people missed us enough to write us doodle-y notes about nothing.

And we kept them. In shoeboxes that some of us are just now collecting from our mothers, who are unexpectedly sick of playing hostess to our childhoods. We sometimes read these letters now and we are shocked, not at how far away it all seems, but at how close, how similar.

We are sweetly familiar to ourselves, and it dawns on us that perhaps we always have been.

I’LL BE SUBMITTING MORE TEXT HERE, ZOE….ROUGHLY 250 WORDS.

And now, the letters somehow mean something more than the friend or lover ever did; the admirer who saw fit to imagine us once is today the same as the ink. Incubating in those shoeboxes are echoes of us, chaotic scraps of becoming something.

—

From: Michael A. Kohl [maksomething@juno.com]
Date: Sunday, January 7, 2001 10:15 AM
To: Zoe Jones [zjones@thinx.com]
Subject: RE: Love Letters Essay

Hi, Zoe:
Here’s what I have for part one, just to give you an idea. The rest of it – and part two – will be in shortly. Sorry for the delay – - I’m on top of it now.

Sorry to hear about all the problems at ThinX. If it makes you feel any better, I think you guys have made it much less obvious than other content sites that you’re going through cutbacks. It still looks great.

BTW, please automatically add the following line to the bottom of all of my work for you (and to my Bio, right after the sentence ending “freelance writer living near the Chesapeake Bay.”):

M.A. Kohl is a special correspondent for Empire Magazine.

(Ken Bogan, the articles editor at Empire, just let me know yesterday re: this new development…)

Thanks….

- M