Breakups

"We need to talk." 

"Sure, about what?" 

"About us." 

*

“I’m not breaking up with you because…"

(Me in my head: “We’re breaking up?”)

*

"What’s up your ass?" 

"I no longer want to be your partner: that’s what’s up my ass."

*

"I mean, does this feel like a relationship?" 

"N--"

"I mean...wait, what?" 

"No, you go 'head."

"I mean, honestly, does this feel like a relationship to you?" 

"No." 

*

"You're acting different." 

"Nooo."

"Yeah, yeah. You're acting different." 

*

"If you need to, you can call me back, OK?"

"OK." 

"OK, goodnight, then, OK? 

"OK." 

...

"Hello?"

"Hi. You said I could call back." 

"Yeah, yeah, of course." 

Poor Nick...Poor Mom

The actual basketball courts where it all "went down." 

One afternoon many, many years ago, my mom dropped me off at a schoolyard near our house. This made sense because the schoolyard, known to everybody who used it as “the park,” was my favorite place to play. And how couldn’t it be? It had basketball courts, handball courts, monkey bars and swings. 

 

Usually, anytime I’d go to the park, my friends, or at least a friend, would already be there. But on this particular afternoon, I was having a hard time finding anyone. On the basketball courts, however, I ran into a kid I knew, Nick. Nick was about three years older than I was, so he would have been about 13 at the time. I remember that Nick was a nice kid, and I never had any problems with him. 

Anyway, on this day, Nick decided, for whatever reason, that he wanted to play fight with me. Moments after he greeted me--I think we were actually the only two people on the basketball courts--he grabbed me in a headlock and wouldn’t let go. I might have tried to get out of the headlock--I hope I did--but all of it was just a joke, and we knew that. 

Suddenly, though, in the middle of our horsing around, I hear my mom. 

“Get off him! Get the fuck off him, you son of a bitch! I’ll kill you! Get the fuck off him! Now!”

Apparently, my mom had seen what was going on from her car--I personally thought that she had driven away--and had come down to rescue me. The only thing was, of course, I didn’t need any rescuing. 

“Ma, it’s OK, we’re just joking, we’re just playing.” My mom was now on the basketball courts with Nick and me, and all three of us were standing in close proximity. 

“You get off of him, you hear me,” my mom said. 

“Ma, it’s just a joke; I know him--it’s Nick. I know him. We were just joking.” 

“Well it didn’t look like a joke.” 

Nick just looked on, stunned. He didn’t say anything. I was absolutely mortified. 

“Ma, it’s fine, I’m fine, please...” 

And with that, my mom backed off. She told me she'd see me later, walked out of the park and drove away. 

I don’t think Nick ever talked to me after that again.  

Wasp

So this morning I went onto my balcony to play guitar. I had just begun strumming when I saw a wasp on one of the railing’s balusters. The wasp didn’t seem to be doing too well. He was motionless, and when I got up close to examine him, his antennae were moving very slowly. His wings also weren't that translucent. 

To try to help the little fella, or at least give him a small treat before death, I went into my kitchen for some honey. Back on the balcony, I smeared a fingertip’s worth of the sweet stuff about a centimeter above the wasp’s head. It was like magic! The wasp all of a sudden started crawling upwards, and before I knew it was using this tiny little, straw-like mouthpart of his (I guess it’s called a proboscis) to suck up the honey.

I think I might have saved the wasp because later, when I checked to see if he was still there, I saw that he had flown away. There was still someone honey on the railing. Maybe an evening treat? 

Europe

A holy-fuck-I-live-in-Europe moment:

"What are you looking for, sweety, 50 cent pieces or 20?
"20."

Cake First

The other day we ate breakfast at a café that was at the corner of Schubertstrasse and Mendelssohnstrasse. There was a row of tables outside the café, and a wicker beach chair was set up at each table. Standing in front of an unoccupied table--two tables were already taken--we wondered if we should first go into the café to order or to take a seat and wait to be served. This question was settled after we noticed a laminated card on one of the tables. It said, “Please order inside.”

After we placed our orders--two lattes and two pieces of cake--we walked back outside and took a seat. I had a book and began reading to you. But a few moments after I started, I began to feel self-conscious. After all, there were people sitting only a few tables away, and I thought I might be disturbing them. You noticed that I didn’t feel 100 percent comfortable and asked me if I’d like to come sit next to you in the beach chair. I thought all my problems were solved, but the moment I sat down next to you, I noticed it was way hotter in the beach chair. The hood was probably keeping in the heat. Nevertheless, I ignored my discomfort and continued to read.

After a few minutes, the waitress came with our cake. Each piece was on a plate and she put both plates on the table. She then went back inside the cafe. I was expecting her to return momentarily with the lattes, but she didn’t. I thought that I was maybe being impatient, but then another couple minutes passed, and another, and another...

What the fuck?” I finally said. I had been trying to hold back my annoyance but couldn’t any longer. “Where the fuck is she?”

“I don’t get it, either.”

“I mean, who does that? Who brings the cake first?”

“It makes no sense, you know, because that’s how they make money. How many times have you finished your first drink before they even come with the food? Then you have to order another drink.”

“It’s like, Waitressing 101. Bring the fucking coffee first. What are we supposed to do with just cake?”

“It’s ridiculous; it makes no sense.”

“OK, I’ll tell you what. If I get to the end of this page and she still hasn’t brought out the coffees, I’ll go in and ask, OK?”

“OK.”

About three-quarters down the page the waitress came out with our coffees.

“Oh, perfect,” I said, as I moved the plates with cake out of the way to make room for the lattes.

“There we go, two lattes,” the waitress said.

“Awesome, thank you,” I said.

Burial at Sea

As Martina and I were lying in bed the other day, I noticed that there was an insect on the wall; it looked like a mosquito.
“Is that a mosquito?” Martina said.
“I was just wondering that!”
She got up to see.
“Yup, it’s a mosquito.”
“Will you get it?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, as she stepped off the bed.
While she was in the kitchen getting a piece of paper towel to kill the thing with, I said, “I’m just going to go wash up real quick, OK?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, smiling. “You don’t have to be part of the killing.”
I laughed. “I know.”
As I was showering, Martina came into the bathroom and showed me the dead mosquito in her hand.
“Got it, huh?”
“Yup.” She then went over to the toilet and dropped it in. “Wasserbestattung,”  she said.
I laughed again. After all, Wasserbestattung means “burial at sea.”

Martina Chess

So I've been teaching Martina how to play chess, and today we played a really good game. Although I won, Martina really applied pressure at certain points. Especially impressive was her 20th move, Knight to h6, check. After that move I really had to defend precisely. Good job, Martina, and keep up the good work!

Haubentaucher

So in Germany, they have these waterbirds called Haubentaucher. I’m not sure if we have them in America. Their body shape, more or less, is that of a duck’s, but their distinguishing feature is the spiky hair on their head. It looks like they are sporting a mohawk.

Anyway, today as Martina and I were walking along a canal near my house, we saw two Haubentaucher in the water. The first thing that I noticed about them was that they were very close together. Also, it looked like something was on one of the birds, perhaps a baby.

"Is that a baby?" I asked Martina. Though she initially said no, on further inspection we discovered that indeed, a Haubentaucher chick was hitching a ride on one of its parents.

“Oh my God, that’s so cute,” I said.

“Wee!” Martina said, as the baby slipped off the adult bird’s backs and into the water. The baby was just a tiny little thing and its head was striped like a zebra.

“Holy shit, is there another one?”

This time Martina told me I was right. Peeking out from the wing of the other Haubentaucher was another black-and-white head.

Then the cutest thing happened. The first baby that I saw crawled back onto his mother (or father) and tucked himself under his (or her) wing. It tucked itself in there so good it was no longer visible.

“Holy shit, did he just go under the wing?”

“Yeah," Martina said, smiling. "So cute."

“That is really, really cute.”

After Martina and I said adieu to this little bird family, I said to her,  "Wow, so that really is where the expression ‘to take someone under your wing' comes from."

“Yeah, we have that too in German, 'Jemanden unter seine Fittiche nehmen.'"

“Yeah, like, to show someone the way, to be their mentor.”

“Yeah, like in business.”

“Exactly.”

Daum

Last night I dreamed that I was in some kind of post office. I say “some kind” of post office because the place felt more like an art-supplies shop, but let’s call it a post office for now. I was there because I wanted to mail a piece of artwork I had made. But there was a complication. One of the fittings that was to be used to keep the framed painting in place was made by the company Daum. Daum, you should know, is a French manufacture of decorative glass. I personally have  no idea why the fitting would have been made by Daum, but it was. Anyway, when I asked a post office employee who was behind a counter how much the painting was going to cost to ship, he said that it was going to cost a lot more than normal--three times more--because of the Daum fitting. Ultimately, the employee asked another worker if he could check in the back to see whether or not the shop had a basic fitting that could be used instead of the Daum one.

***

It’s a strange dream, I know. How to explain the Daum thing...Well, my connection to Daum glass is my mom. She loves it and knows a ton about it. So there ya go.

Two Women

I was walking along the canal on my way to the basketball court when I took note of two women who were opposite me and walking in my direction. The women struck me as an odd pair. One was old and dressed in a woolen Chanel suit, really spiffy-like. Her companion was younger, in her late 20s, and wearing sport clothes that would be suitable for an evening jog. The younger woman was pretty, but her face was scrunched up like she was upset. The women were surely together--that is, they knew each other--but were looking in opposite directions as they walked.

On my way back from the basketball court, I saw the women again. This time, I was walking along the canal in the direction they initially had been walking, and vice versa. The younger woman was now on the phone. She was talking loudly, and as she passed me, I heard her say this into the phone:  “I am in no mood” and “this evening.”

Chess Win

Here's a game I love. Why? Well, my opponent thought it would be a good strategy to move as fast as he possibly could throughout the entire game. Sorry, that didn't work. Also, a few weeks ago, I spent some time studying how I could improve against the opening that's played in this game, the English Attack variation of the Sicilian Defense. This win was confirmation that my studying was worth it.

Two Stories

We were walking around the lake and talking about people who beg for money--or more specifically, we were talking about the illegal bands to which some beggars belong--and she told me this, she said: “You know, after the Wall fell, there were people from all around Europe who came to Germany because, well, yeah, now they were able to ‘ply their trade’ in Germany. Well, one day, one of these people came to my house when my family was having lunch. I think the man wanted to sell a carpet or something. Anyway, when my father got up to answer the door, he had a fork in his hand. The only reason why he had a fork in his hand was because he had been eating when the doorbell rang. So he opens the door and the guy is there asking him if he wants to buy a carpet, and my father says no and the guy immediately accepts the no. Well, these people who try to sell things to you are usually very pushy, but we all thought that the guy said no so quickly because, one, my father is a tough guy and, two, he was a tough guy with a fork in his hand.

***

When I first moved to Germany, I was waiting for my ex-girlfriend outside of a supermarket. Our dog was with us and the dog was not allowed into the supermarket. As I was waiting, I gave 2 euros to a woman who was sitting outside the supermarket begging. I felt bad for the woman. When my ex finally finished the shopping, I told her that I had given the beggar woman money. When she asked how much, I told her 2 euros. She then chastised me. “Chad, no, you don’t give those people 2 euros. Are you crazy? 2 euros is a lot of money. You need to realize that. Two euros is not two dollars; two euros is a lot.

Really Low

"Martina, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh."
"It’s been a while since I heard that."
"Yeah, because my guitar’s tuned down."
"Huh?"
"The guitar, it usually has a certain tuning, but I tuned it down, which allows me to sing songs I wouldn’t usually be able to sing. Your song, it’s already low, so if I sing it with the tuned-down guitar, it’s really low. That’s why."
"Ah."

To Read One

"I'd like to read one. It's really short," she said.
"Yeah, please do."
She came over to me to read it.
"I love you," I said.
"Aww, I love you, too."

Consider the Difference

Consider the difference: "I saw a grey van" vs. "I saw a grey van with a 'cane corso' decal on the rear window."

Nice Win

I have the black pieces. The game ends with fireworks. Very proud of this win.

Drawing

When I was younger, I liked He-Man. I mean, I liked a lot of different comics and comic book characters, G.I. Joe and Garfield included, but He-Man was my favorite. Funny enough, my favorite character in the Masters of the Universe franchise (of which He-Man was a part) was She-Ra, He-Man’s twin sister. I remember for one birthday, I had asked for She-Ra’s castle, which was, like, this big, pink Playmobil-like fortress.

At any rate, one after during the time when my interest in He-Man was very high--which is to say, one afternoon in in the late 1980s--my mom and I sat down to draw. I don’t remember what spurred our desire to draw on this particular afternoon, it was just something we decided we'd do. Anyway, I asked my mom at the start of the session if she could draw She-Ra for me. I still wasn’t at the point where I was able to draw well, and I knew my mom was better than I was, so I asked her.

When she was finished, I remember thinking that the drawing was amazing. My mom did the piece in colored pencils and I remember it being this vibrant, lifelike, exciting thing that really did resemble She-Ra, in all her glory.

What struck me, though, was that after my mom finished the drawing, she kept saying that it wasn't that good. I mean, I couldn’t believe it. There I was thinking that this thing, this drawing of She-Ra, was amazing, and all I can remember is my mom saying, “No, it’s really not that good, no." And she meant it! It just made absolutely no sense.

But then again, I was a child.

Nice One, Ma

Here's a funny story from many years ago.

One evening I broke curfew and got home about an hour late. My mom was sitting in the living room when I arrived.

"Where were you?" she asked.

I told her that I was out at a girlfriend's house.

Wanting to tease me a little, I guess, she replied, "Oh, really... What were you guys doing this late?"

I told her that we had just been hanging out, nothing special.

"Nothing special, huh?" my mom said. "Your shirt's on backwards..."

Immediately, I looked down. "No it's not."

Slyly, she looked at me and said, "Why'd you look, then?"

Nice one, ma.

Dreams

Anyone ever ask you over breakfast if you had any dreams during the night? Here was my response today.

Nice chess win (I have the black pieces)

Here's a game I'm proud of. Reason being, I have been studying the King's Indian Defense for some time now, and here is a well played game in that opening. My favorite move of mine is 15. ... Bxg4. It may not have been a perfect move, but it broke up my opponent's attack and allowed me to start applying pressure with my own pieces. Enjoy!

ill-fated

I remember I used to have this psychologist; his name was Gary Mandel. Dr. Mandel -- that's what I called him -- was awesome. He was one of the first psychologists I had a connection with, and he helped me immensely.

I remember one day in one of our sessions Dr. Mandel and I began talking about the girlfriend I had at the time. She was German and lived in Germany, and I asked Dr. Mandel what he thought of long-distance relationships. Without much hesitation, he said he thought that they were ill-fated.

I'll never forget that. Not his opinion, but that word, "ill-fated." It's not a word that's used that often, but at the time, though I didn't want to admit it, I thought his word choice was quite apt.

The funny thing is, in the end, distance wasn't the thing that led to the end of that long-distance relationship.

New Paragraph

NOTE TO SELF: When we return to the main subject after having gone on a tangent, we begin a new paragraph.

So did I tell you about the cruise? It was great! We had amazing food and the weather the entire time was great. Every night we watched a band play and one night we saw this absolutely fantastic film about a guy who is totally in love with his wife and are just starting a new chapter in their lives when all of a sudden he gets murdered on the way home from the theater. He becomes a spirit of sorts who sticks around the earth to protect his wife from the danger she now finds herself in. Oh, did I cry at the end of that movie. 

Anyway, the cruise... Really, it was absolutely lovely. Honestly, I’m not sure if I have ever met such nice people in my life. And you would think that people would be pushy, try to be the first ones to get to the food and so forth. No, it wasn’t like that on this cruise. People waited there turn when it came to dinner and were just generally polite.

Collateral Damage

CARO WALKED INTO the lobby of Jonathan’s apartment building and looked for his name on the intercom’s directory. The names of the building's residents were in alphabetical order and Jon’s name was at the top. She pushed a button on the intercom and was buzzed into the building.

Upstairs Jon had already opened the door and was waiting for her.

“Hi, I’m Jonathan.”

“Caro,” Caro said softly. They shook hands.

“Did you find the place OK?” Jon allowed Caro into the apartment.

“Yeah, it wasn’t that bad. I just followed your directions.”

“Good, glad to hear.”

“But this street . . . what exactly--?”

“It didn't show up on Google?”

“No.”

“It’s because it’s a small road . . . a driveway, really. It’s not on Google’s radar, which I've always thought is pretty cool.”

“Ah,” Caro said.

“How long have you been in New York?”

“Three days.”

“Your first time here?”

“Yeah, it’s really, really interesting.”

“You never went to New York with Chad?”

“No, we didn’t make it.”

“Got ya. You want something to drink?”

“No, I’m OK.”

“Are you sure?”

“OK, I’ll have . . . do you have orange juice?”

“Yup, sure do. No ice or anything, right?

“No.”

Jon went into the kitchen. The apartment faced west and sunlight was pouring through a big window next to a door that led out onto a balcony. An onyx Buddha figure was on the windowsill and there were plants hanging from little hooks above the window. Caro sat down on the pullout leather chair that was next to the sofa.

“Here you go. . .” Jon gave Caro the glass of orange juice. Caro smiled a little smile but didn’t say thank you.

“So,” Jon said, “how did you guys meet?” He had taken a bottle of sparkling water for himself and, after he had taken a seat at the couch, began to pour the water into a glass.

“We met at a sports club. We were both doing aerobics. Chad was the only guy in the class. It was funny.”

“Oh, what, did come up to you after the class or something?”

“No, we actually ran into each other a few months after we first saw each other in that class.”

“Ah, OK, cool.”

Caro took a sip of her orange juice and nodded her head.

“So,” Jonathan said, “why did you want to speak with me exactly?”

Caro looked out the window and then back to Jonathan, then down. “I guess I just wanted to know something,” she said.

“Shoot...”

“Well, why did you leave him?”

“Why did I leave him?” Jonathan smiled and leaned forward on the couch. “I didn’t leave him. I just had a fight with the family, his family, and I guess he was collateral damage.

Caro looked confused.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re from Germany. Your English is good, so I thought . . . 'Collateral damage' means--wow that’s hard, actually. OK, imagine there's a war and one army accidentally kills some civilians while attacking the enemy. The dead civilians are, what the army that launched the attack might call, 'collateral damage.' The villagers weren’t the main target, but they unfortunately still paid the price."

Caro was nodding. “OK, I think I sort of get it.”

“How is he?” Jonathan asked.

“Chad? I don’t know. But I think good. From what I heard, good.”

Jonathan nodded. “I’m glad.”

The two just sat there for a few moments, not looking at each other. Outside there was the sound of bike wheels crunching over the gravel driveway leading to Jon's building. The sound of birds chirping could also be heard.

“Why’d you leave him?” Jonathan said.

Caro didn't say anything, then: "Don't know."

Jonathan laughed. “What? No . . . Come on, tell me; it's only fair.”

“Yeah . . . I guess . . . I had my reasons. You know how it goes.”

“I sure do. Do you want another drink? Some more orange juice or coffee or something?”

“No, I’m fine,” Caro said. “Do you have a train schedule? My phone just died.”

“Oh, you want to leave?”

“Yeah, I want to get going. I had some things planned.”

When Jon came back with the train schedule, Caro thanked him. She thanked him by smiling at him. “Can I take the schedule with me?” Caro asked.

“Absolutely,  be my guest.”

OUTSIDE THE TEMPERATURE had dropped. Standing on the platform of the train station, Caro took out a scarf and wrapped it twice around her neck. She then zipped up her windbreaker and took her phone out. The screen was black. She put the phone away. She looked out at the water and the new apartment buildings built along it. She then turned her attention to a bench and a metal beam that was next to it. She looked to see if there was a socket affixed to the beam, but there wasn't. She would not be able to charge her phone.

Coronavirus Blues, or Between a Rock and a Hard Place

***Chad on line in the grocery story. Person on line in front of Chad wearing a surgical mask and surgical gloves. Many customers wearing surgical masks and gloves. Line moving slowly. A man comes up to Chad, not wearing a surgical mask, not wearing gloves.***

"Is this where the line starts?" the man asks.

"Yes, here," Chad says.

"Thanks," the man says, and gets on line behind Chad.

A few moments go by.

"You know..." the man says, "they say that the masks aren't safe, that they might even be worse for you, because you're constantly breathing in the same air."

"Ah, OK, right, I see," Chad says.

"Crazy times..." the man says.

"Yeah," Chad says.

"But it's times like these we could all use a little comedy," the man says.  "You wanna hear a joke?

Chad thinks: You have to be fucking kidding me. The other day on the way to the airport, the cab driver who took Chad would not stop telling jokes -- the entire damn ride, just would not stop telling jokes. Though that guy and his jokes did offer a bit of comic relief, not a-fucking-gen, Chad thinks. Not one of these "comedians" again. 

Still, Chad says yes.

"OK," the man says, a man who Chad notices is about Chad's height, which means that if spittle from this man goes flying, there's a good chance it will land on Chad's mouth.

The man begins his joke: "So my daughter, she was saying that she likes Cinderella and she wants a Cinderella birthday party."

"OK..." Chad says, solely to show that he's paying attention.

"I told her she can have a Cinderella party if she likes; in fact, I told her to invite all her friends. And you know what I did when all her friend got there?"

"No, what?"

"I said, 'OK, sweetie, now we're all going to go out and you can stay home and clean!'"

Chad laughs, because the joke is funny; however, at the same time, Chad notices that the woman in front of him in the surgical mask is eyeing him down. Chad thinks that she must be thinking, "Why the fuck are these two men, both of whom aren't wearing protective masks, laughing?'" The woman does not look friendly. You can hardly see her face because one half of it is mask, the other, bifocals.

The lines moves forward a little bit. Chad is happy about that, very happy. You see, everything else notwithstanding, joke-man has this little idiosyncrasy. When he tells his jokes, he unconsciously moves toward Chad and Chad, remember, really does not want the man's spittle on him.

The line moves a little more.

"Hey," the man says, "since we have a minute or two, can I tell you another joke?" The man sounds so nice when he asks. His tone is almost like one might imagine Oliver Twist's to have been when he uttered that "s' more" line. How could you say no?

Chad doesn't. Stupid Chad, but he doesn't.

"Well, OK, one more," Chad says. But Chad now has his back nearly completely to the man, hoping the man will take a hint and not move too close.

The man begins to tell the joke, and again he begins to get closer and closer to Chad. But this time, as Chad tries to move away, surgical mask woman looks at Chad and then makes a gesture with her hand, one that is universally understood to mean "halt."

"Six feet..." surgical mask woman says.

Chad can't believe it. How fucking rude, he thinks. Dude behind Chad is still telling the joke, something about a Victoria Secret model and lingerie, but all Chad can think about now is how he's got this woman and this man to worry about, and what the fuck is he going to do?

The lines moves. The man continues to tell the joke and Chad laughs, thinking that the man has arrived at the punchline, but Chad just laughed at something that wasn't even the punchline. The man doesn't even care, though. He just keeps telling the joke with the same gusto.

"Cash or credit?" the supermarket guy asks, interrupting Chad out of his now mild state of panic.

Chad says cash. The supermarket guy immediately routes Chad over to Checkout 1. Yes, yes, Checkout 1, Chad thinks, away from this fucking man and away from this fucking woman...Thank God. 

As Chad leaves the store, he think's of a figure of speech, "to be between a rock and a hard place."

Wow, Chad thinks, that really was like being between a rock and a hard place.

Still Finding a Way!

Yesterday, Martina and I went to a local park to play basketball. However, when we got there, we were super disappointed. The local government had hung up a sign at the park's entrance saying that the park's basketball courts were closed due to the coronavirus. If this sign wasn't warning enough, there was yellow caution tape blocking off the courts.

What a bummer, Martina and I thought. Basketball had been a refuge from all the craziness, and to have it taken away, too, was very frustrating.

However, today, around 10:30 a.m., Martina said that she wanted to go for a walk. It was still kind of early for me, so I teased her: "Oh," I said, "you want to get some exercise, do you? Sure, we can do that. We can actually go running!"

Martina wasn't too keen on the idea -- she really just wanted to walk -- so I thought we could split the difference. I figured we could take a basketball with us and walk one town over, to New Hyde Park. I thought that this was a good idea because we would get to walk and perhaps play basketball, so long as the courts in this town were still open.

Well, about three-fourths of the way to New Hyde Park, Martina and I were passing my old middle school. As we were walking, I noticed that the fence around the school was open. After seeing this, I looked to the tennis courts and the basketball courts. I noticed that the wire-mesh door leading to the tennis courts was open and, from the tennis courts, the door leading to the basketball courts was open, too.

"Holy shit, Martina," I said. "Do you see that? The basketball courts are open! Do you see that? Look past the tennis courts."

"Holy shit hey," Martina said.

We then entered the school grounds and walked onto four pristine basketball courts -- courts that I used to play on in middle school but had since been refurbished. Martina and I couldn't believe it. We spent about an hour and a half playing on these beautiful courts.

Friggin' score!

Renew

Sometimes when I play chess, I go on losing streaks, and when I do, I hate the game. It just seems so frustrating. After all, I have been playing chess for nearly two decades now, shouldn't I be winning-- and winning a lot?

Suffice to say, losing streaks suck. But every now and then I play a game so good I forget all about the losing streaks . . .  I play a game so good, it renews my love for chess and reminds me why it is I play. The following is such a game. I have the white pieces. Enjoy.

Lights Out

Your love is bright as ever... 

When I was growing up, we would learn about JFK, and I remember seeing that famous black-and-white photo of Jacky O. after the assassination, the one in which she’s standing beside Linden Johnson as he’s being sworn in.

Even in the shadows... 

I remember how that picture of her, grief stricken, mouth turned down, stood in such contrast with other pictures I had seen of her.

Baby, kiss me... 

In the other pictures, she had been happy, full of life, smiling—smiling with her family and the man she loved.

Before they turn the lights out... 

I was reminded of Jacky O. and just how different we, as people, can actually look depending on the circumstances, while watching the memorial service for Kobe Bryant yesterday. 

Your heart is glowing... 

There Vanessa was, dark hair partially shielding her face, a little like how Jacky’s hair was shielding her face as she stood next to Lyndon Johnson.

And I'm crashing into you...  

How could I not be reminded of seeing the smiling face of Vanessa, of seeing her in happy moments on the floor of the Staples Center, during one of Kobe’s many triumphs?

Baby, kiss me... 

Vanessa, with that pearly white smile, too . . .  a smile that, as she even said during the memorial, took up her whole face.

Before they turn the lights out... 

But yesterday was different. Yesterday, her mouth was turned down and her face was heavy with grief.

Before they turn the lights out... 

And seeing Vanessa like that and comparing what I was seeing with how I had seen her in the past, I couldn’t help but think to myself: this is what it must have been like, in one way or another, when JFK died.

Baby, love me lights out... 

Chess Win

Here's just a nice win using some of the things I recently learned about the King's Indian Defense. I have the black pieces. My favorite move is 13...e4. Enjoy.
 

Chess Game

I finally got to play that tricky sacrifice on d5 as White in the Sicilian Defense. I had had this sacrifice done  to me several times in the past and had always wondered about it. This time I was the one doing the slaying. The move I'm referring to is 16. Nd5. Enjoy.

No Man Is an Island

So the famous English poet John Donne has this poem about how one man's death is never really just one death. Instead, Donne believes, one death is a death for all mankind. The logic is that we on this earth are all humans, are all brothers of sorts, so when one person dies, we should lament the death, not take it for granted, as the loss represents a diminishing of humankind, something of which we are all a part.

The poem, "For Whom The Bell Tolls," goes like this:

No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thine own

Or of thine friend's were.

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee.

Yeah, the poem is old, but it’s powerful, and even if you don’t know all the words, I think you catch the author’s drift.

I mention this poem because in the wake of Kobe Bryant's death, I can relate to it more than ever. Somehow I feel as though some part of me died that day, too. Perhaps all that died was my ability to live a little bit vicariously through Kobe; perhaps what died was my ability to see all the creative and interesting things Kobe had in store . . . I don’t know. All I can say is that in these times, I can relate to the John Donne poem very well.

I’ll close with another another set of words, but these ones from someone more contemporary—LeBron James.

At Kobe’s memorial at the Staples Center on January 31st, LeBron was asked to give a speech. LeBron and Kobe had been friends for many years and, LeBron, to be fair, was Kobe's successor to the title "the best player in the NBA."

I thought that what Lebron said at the memorial was exceptionally moving. My favorite part of the speech, though, is at the end, at the part that starts, "So in the words of Kobe Bryant . . ."

Here is what LeBron said:

Before I get started with this speech that I have, I want to acknowledge all the lives that were lost Sunday morning. Alyssa Altobelli. John Altobelli. Keri Altobelli. Payton Chester. Sarah Chester. Christina Mauser. Ara Zobayan. Gianna Bryant and Kobe Bryant.

Now, I’ve got something written down. They asked me to stay on course or whatever the case may be, but Laker nation, I would be selling y’all short if I read off this shit. I’m going to go straight from the heart.

The first thing that came to mind, man, is all about family. As I look around this arena, we’re all grieving. We’re all hurt. We’re all heartbroken. But when we’re going through things like this, the best thing you can do is lean on the shoulders of your family. And from Sunday morning all the way to this point — and I’ve heard about Laker Nation before I got here last year, about how much of a family it is — and that’s absolutely what I’ve seen this whole week. Not only from the players, not only from the coaching staff, not only from the organization, but from everybody. Everybody that’s here, this is really, truly, truly a family. And I know Kobe, Gianna, Vanessa and everybody thank you guys from the bottom of their hearts as Kobe said.

Now I know at some point, we will have a memorial for Kobe. But I look at this, I look at this as a celebration tonight. This is a celebration of the 20 years of the blood, the sweat, the tears, the broken-down body, the getting up, the sitting down, the everything. The countless hours, the determination to be as great as he could be. Tonight, we celebrate the kid that came here at 18 years of age, retired at 38 and became probably the best dad we’ve seen over the past three years, man.

Tonight is a celebration.

Before we get to play (yelling). Love ya’ll, man. Kobe’s a brother to me. From the time I was in high school, watching him from afar to getting in this league at 18, watching him up close. All the battles we had throughout my career. The one thing that we always shared was that determination to just always want to win and just want to be great. The fact that I’m here now means so much to me. I want to continue along with my teammates, to continue his legacy, not only for this year, but for as long as we can play the game of basketball that we love because that’s what Kobe Bryant would want.

So in the words of Kobe Bryant, ‘Mamba out.’ But in the words of us, ‘Not forgotten.’ Live on, brother.

Be Careful What You Wish for...

How would you punctuate this sentence? 

(A) Be careful what you wish for—you just might get it. 

(B) Be careful what you wish for . . . you just might get it. 

(C) Be careful what you wish for; you just might get it. 

(D) Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it

Practice, Practice, Practice...

Yesterday, I showed up a little early to basketball practice. It usually starts at one particular time, but at that time yesterday, no one had shown up. I thought maybe because our team had had a game on Sunday, practice was canceled. But it wasn't. At about five minutes past the hour, my teammates started showing up. I'm glad that I stuck around and waited because I learned a lot yesterday at practice. Here are the things I learned:

• When you're doing a overhead pass, the receiver should receive the pass slightly over his head; if it's a bounce pass, put some forward spin on the ball, so it arrives quicker. 
• You want to step into the shot. When you're stepping into the shot, use your inside foot to do the turning. Have that inside foot facing the basket by the time the pass arrives. 
• When you're attacking right, you move with your left foot first; when you're attacking left, your right foot moves first. 
• Try to put the ball on the ground quicker when attacking. That way, you are less likely to get called for traveling. 
• When you receive a pass near the top of the key, plant your feet. If you decide to drive, don't shuffle your feet before making a go for it; you'll get called for traveling. 
• There are three things to do when someone is setting a screen on you: you can go over the screen; you can go behind the screen; or you can switch. If you go over the screen, make sure to wrap your leg around the screener's leg as you follow the man with the ball. Usually, it's easier to go around the screen if the screen hasn't been set properly. Reason being, you'll have more space, meaning, there'll be more space between the man with ball and the screener and you can just put your body in that space. If the screen is set well, meaning that there isn't much space between the man with the ball and the screener--the screen has been set tight--well, then, you'll probably have to go behind the screen. And then there's switch. Switch is switch. There's also something called "hatching," but that's more of an experienced move. 
• If your man gets the step on you and he's driving left, don't just give up. At least make him shoot with his left hand. You do that by putting your hands up by his right side when he's under the basket and about to shoot. You have to take away his options, even if he's beaten you. 
• If you get the ball to the low-post player in the low post, you should probably clear out and not run over and set a pick for him. Your low-post player intends, probably, to go one-on-one with his man and if you're right next to him trying to set a pick for him, your man is going to be there too, and the whole area is just going to be clogged. 
• If you're taking 10 shots, they should be quick, at game speed. It should only take about one minute to put up 10 shots.

Another nice chess win (with the black pieces)

Here is another nice win of mine, this one with the black pieces. I like this game because I was very patient and maneuvered my pieces very well, all the while keeping up the pressure on White. In my mind, White's biggest mistake in this game was his failure to play the crucial f2-f4 thrust sooner. After my rook forked his two bishops on his back rank (move 29), White fell apart. Enjoy.

Chess Win

Here's a win of mine I really like. I like it because it's not the kind of chess I like to play and I still won.  (I'm White.) The moves I played in this game would be considered "modern," when I favor a more "classical" style. My favorite move is (28) Rook to d6. I feel as though that was a key move, one that helped secure me a clear initiative. Enjoy.

Kobe Bryant

Last Sunday I had a basketball game with my team, the BCH Tigers. The game was in a small locality in the south of Hamburg called Hausbruch. Tipoff was supposed to be at 3:30 p.m., but when my team got to the gymnasium, a match between two young girls teams was still in progress on the court. This meant that my teammates and our opponents would have to warm up on an adjacent court. Both courts were separated by a partition that ran from the gymnasium floor to the ceiling, so we couldn’t see the girls game as we warmed up, but, I tell you, we sure could hear it. The game had gone into overtime, and the other guys and I were amazed at how many squeals and shouts kept coming through that partition.

Hearing those outbursts of excitement, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Kobe Bryant’s daughter and her basketball team. Over the last few months, I have stayed abreast of Gianna’s progress through comments that Kobe has made in the media as well as his Instagram posts.

Eventually, my team took to the court—and got whipped by our opponents. They were just more skilled and disciplined than we were, and the loss showed us just how much we still have to learn. Still, there were a few bright spots to the game. One was when I was guarding a player who was better than me and I didn’t “lose my feet,” meaning I didn’t jump prematurely. My actions ultimately forced my opponent to pass the ball. Another bright spot was after the game when some of my teammates, a girlfriend of one of them, and my girlfriend, Martina, all played a spontaneous and hilarious round of Knockout.

At around 6:30 p.m., I said goodbye to my teammates and left the gymnasium.  On the drive home, Martina and I sorta got lost. For some reason, the navigation system told us to get off the highway, which wound up being a bad idea because Martina and I then had to spend a good amount of time driving around, like, the badlands of the Hamburg shipyards before finding a route we recognized.

I must say that it is now surreal to think that at some point during this car ride home, Kobe Bryant and Gianna were killed in a horrific helicopter accident in California.

I’m not going to spend much time talking about what the loss of Kobe Bryant means to me. What I will say is that in my little world, in my little universe, I feel a modicum of peace knowing that on the last day of Kobe’s life, I was doing something that he loved.

Yes, Kobe was the basketball star of my generation, but I wasn’t really into basketball when he was playing. The last three years, however, are a different story. Over the last three years, I have gotten heavily into basketball and have come to love Kobe. In addition to what he achieved on the court, his enthusiasm for his new roles in life, after retirement, was infectious, and especially touching, I thought, was his involvement with Gianna and her basketball team. Just the other day, actually, I marveled at one of Kobe’s Instagram posts showing Gianna shooting a fadeaway.

Really, I can’t think of anything else to end this post with but a thank you. Thank you, Kobe, for your contribution to basketball. Thank you for challenging us to be greater than we ever thought we could be, even if we sometimes fail in the process. Thank you for your hunger, your passion, your creativity and your good heart.

Though I never knew you, I will miss you.

Another Chess Win =)

Here's another chess win, and it's dedicated to you, Marty.
 

Chess Win

Here's a nice chess win of mine. My opponent, White, was holding his own until he blundered on move 28, Nxe5. Then he was in trouble.

Vocab

So here's all the vocabulary I learned while reading the German translation of Hemingway's short story "Hills Like White Elephants." 

an den Bahnhof fiel.  (fell)

hielt. (stopped)

Knotenpunkt. (juncture)

Es ist mächtig heiß.  (mighty)

Türschwelle. (doorway)

abwenden. Sie wandte. ihren Blick ab (averted)

Das beweist gar nichts. (That doesn’t prove anything)

Der Mann rief. (called)

Bedienung! (Service please!)

Sagte das Mädchen und setzte ihr Glas hin. (Put her glass down) 

Der warme Wind blies. (blew)

Es ist herrlich. It is (lovely)

Und dann geht alles von selbst, and then. (It’s all perfectly natural)

aber Gewiß. (but certainly)

Ich will nicht, dass du es dir machen läßt, wenn dir so zumute ist. (I don't want you to go through with it if you feel that way.)

drüben. (over there)

Nein, das können wir nicht. (No, we can’t.)

Es ist fortgenommen worden. (It's been taken away.)

Wir wollen abwarten! (We’ll wait and see!)

Du musst dir klar sein, dass (You must realize that . . . )

Sie setzen sich an den Tisch. 

Liegt dir denn nichts daran? (Doesn’t it mean anything to you?)

Die Frau trat durch den Vorhang. (stepped through)

Ich trage das Gepäck. (carry)

Sie lächelte ihm zu. (She smiled at him [more seductively])

trug. (carried)

An der Theke. (at the bar)

Er musterte die Leute.  (He scanned over the people)

Jeden Tag gehe ich ins Freie. Every day I go (outside).

Sie lächelte ihn an. She (smiled at him).

Ich fühle mich glänzend.  I feel (just brilliant!)

Mir fehlt gar nichts.  (There’s nothing wrong with me.)

Happy New Year

So a couple of days ago I realized something. During December, the sun in Hamburg is very different from the sun in the U.S.

Hamburg, you should know, is often cloudy during December, so there often isn’t that much sun to speak of. However, if it is a clear day, the light at noon isn’t not like that sharp, severe kind of light that is typical of midday in New York during December.

Instead, the light in Hamburg at around noon has a very warm quality to it. Which is to say, really, on clear days in Hamburg in December, the noon sun looks like an evening sun -- there's that same tranquil orange hue going on.

I’d just thought I’d share that.

Happy New Year, everybody.
 

Brandenburg

SO THERE'S THIS German comedian and he’s got this funny song about how there’s nothing to do in the German state of Brandenburg. In a well-known line from the song (and I’m paraphrasing here), he says that, alas, in Brandenburg someone who had been driving down an “Allee” has again crashed his car into a tree.

To understand why that’s funny, you need to know two things. First, in German, an “Allee” is a tree-lined road, usually one that is in the country. Second, there are many “Alleen” in Brandenburg because there are a lot of trees in Brandenburg because Brandenburg has a lot of forest and farmland.

So, essentially, in the song, the comedian, Rainald Grebe, is saying that in Brandenburg someone has again wrapped his car around a tree because all that really exists in Brandenburg are trees: that’s the only thing one could crash into in Brandenburg.

OK, so that’s the song. But here’s the even funnier part: when you actually get to Brandenburg, you discover that, holly shit, Grebe was right, there really are a lot of “Alleen” in Brandenburg. So many of the state roads are indeed lined by trees.

***

WE WERE DRIVING through Brandenburg today and I couldn’t help but think how pretty the “Alleen” were. A couple of roads were lined by oaks and driving underneath the canopy that their branches formed was cool. Sometimes the trees lining the road were smaller. These smaller trees were pear and apple trees.

It was just kind of peaceful, you know? And then there was me, pulling out my notebook—far away from the world—and writing stuff like, “In the puddle I saw the reflection of the treetops.”

And then driving through the villages and wondering what those squat trees with the gnarled branches planted at intervals in front of the houses were called and learning that they are called pollard willows.

Then later, taking a walk through a village that is so dark that, even with the tall LED street lights that the residents spent a lot of money on you still can’t read the street names on the signs at the top of the posts. And then wondering as you walk what this big tree off to the side of the road is, the one that casts an inky shadow on someone's lawn, and then breaking off a piece of the tree and taking it to someone who knows the area and them telling you, “It’s a Tannenbaum, a normal Tannenbaum,” which means it’s a fir.

What Was That Tape?

Martina and I were at the cinema and had just given our tickets to the ticket taker stationed at the entrance of the theater when she began to tell me about her cousin.
“They did it to him because of a tape, just a fucking music tape,” she said
“What do you mean?” I asked. We had stopped walking just inside the entrance to the theater. There was no pressure to keep moving because we had arrived early and there was hardly anyone in the place.
“Just a tape on the border . . . just music. And forget it.”
“Wait, so what happened with your cousin?” I asked.
“Hey was arguing with a border guard about a tape.”
“You couldn’t listen to music in the DDR or something?”
“No, but on the border, when you are waiting, you better not be listening to music.”
I still didn’t fully understand, but I figured I would after I learned more, so I asked, “So what happened?”
“They told him, ‘Give me the tape,’ and he said, ‘Come on guys, you’re fucking kidding me; it’s music.’ But they don’t play any games. You don’t talk back to them.”
We started walking. Our seats were on the other side of the theater. We walked toward the screen, so we could pass in front of the first row to get to the aisle furthest from the entrance.
“So what happened to your cousin? They took the tape?”
“They took the tape?” Martina said incredulously. “They put him in jail.”
“They put him in jail? Just for a cassette tape?”
“They put him in jail for speaking back to them.”
“Wow; that’s nuts. They didn’t fuck around.”
“You don’t talk back; you never talk back, no games.”
“Wow. So what happened?” We were walking up the far aisle.
“What happened? My uncle had to come and get him out of jail; that’s what happened. Yeah, and my uncle had to pay a lot of money. And my uncle told him, ‘You never talk back. Are you fucking crazy? You never, ever, ever talk back.’”
“Wow. Wait . . . What was the tape? Which album did your cousin want to bring into the DDR? That would be awesome to know.”
“I don’t know.”
Her expression was one of regret.
“Ah, because your cousin died, right?" I remembered in that moment that she told me that her cousin, the one about whom she was speaking, had died. “But how about your uncle?” I said.
“Him, too.”
“He’s dead, too?”
“Yeah. Remember I told you that they both died within a few months of each other?”
She was right. She had always told me that her cousin who would often visit her in the German Democratic Republic had died and that she had been very close with him, but she had also told me that another relative of hers, another important one, had died just a few weeks after. But I had never realized that both of those relatives had been father and son. Now, the penny dropped.
“Oh, wait, so what was your cousin’s name?”
We took our seats. 
“Helmut.”
“And his father?”
“Walter.”
“Oh, so Walter was the one who came and got Helmut out of prison because of the tape?”
She nodded.
“Wow. How old was Helmut when he got arrested that time?”
“I don’t know, but, honestly, he felt very old to me.”
“Oh, man, so no one knows what that cassette tape was that he tried bring over the border, huh?”
“No. It’s a shame.”
“Damn, that would have been so awesome to know what tape it was.”
We continued to talk. We talked during all of the advertisements and even a bit into the trailers.

Intercom

I remember standing just outside the lobby with you and buzzing the intercom to see if she was there and waiting with bated breath to see if she was. If she was, you had to go; if she wasn’t, you could come up. Do you remember that?

And then last night in a dream, a friend, I’m not sure which one, said to me: “Chad, oh, I forgot to tell you, haha, there’s trouble in paradise because I saw her yesterday, and she was fighting with him—through an intercom! Yup, she’s had four fights with him so far where she’s standing in the lobby arguing with him over the intercom.”

Center of Gravity

The first thing I can tell you is this: A dark field, that’s the first thing you see. And then out of the darkness, a form, heavy, and then by the street light you see exactly what that form is: a horse. Passersby sometimes feed the horses and even though it’s night, the horses are expectant of food and they walk up to you as you walk by.

Then I can tell you this: A swallow. The house is a cross-timbered house and to get into the lower-level entrance you have to go through a gate. But you have the key to the gate, don’t worry. And then a little courtyard and off of that courtyard your room and then flying around the courtyard are little birds, but you don’t care because up until that moment, they are just birds. But then you see it: this weird, mud-made little nest underneath the eaves. And what is in there but a swallow! And every time you open your room door, the swallow flies out and away. But if you are careful when opening the door and if you move gingerly, the swallow stays in the little nest, and if you are super, super careful, you can see his little head sticking out.

And then that story. Wow, that story that seemed crazy to you at the time. He and he were at her funeral. And after the ceremony was over, he and he said that they had had enough and stole away somewhere. Unless you ask the two, you’ll never know to where they stole away, only that they did, and how you always imagined what that must have looked like.

And then thinking to yourself, I know she has a new one and that’s cool but there is still some of the old one there, so let me use some of the old one, and you use some of the old one but you use too much of it only because you know that a new one is there, but then you think to yourself, "Oh, what’s the big deal? Just use the old one a little more; it has to be used anyway. And then looking at the old one, smelling it—it smells so good—and thinking how she had said, “No, I did. I used that as my travel soap,” and thinking to yourself as you stand there, “Travel fucking soap? Really? Travel fucking soap? Are you fucking kidding me? If that is fucking true, fucking travel soap?”And then going over that one again.

And then thinking about black and yellow and how those are your colors now and how you told your teammates before the last game that black and yellow were the colors of "Cobra Kai" and that was pretty cool because "Cobra Kai" was pretty badass, and then thinking back to that movie and how scary Johnny was and how scary the other ones were in their skeleton body suits. And of course there was Mike Barnes. Mike Barnes was cruel, and then dude man saying, “Desperate situations require desperate measures.” There you go, 7-year-old self, that’s something to chew on, ain’t it!

And then, yes, not one hair. Not one single hair. Not one hair in the bed or on the floor; not one hair in the soap dish or on the shampoo bottle or in the corner or on a piece of clothing or at the bottom of the sock drawer or in the shower stall or under the sink. Not one fucking hair. Crazy, right?

And looking down over the edge of the cliff, and me saying to myself, “Please, I don’t even want to see that,” just flat and lying flat, but looking down over the edge, and me thinking that that totally makes sense because that way you are closest to your center of gravity, and there’s almost no way that you will fall. You will still be able to get the thrill of looking over the edge of the cliff—was that some kind of gorge or mountain or fjord or what?—but you will also maintain the security that is inherent in being closest to your center of gravity.

On the Way

On the way I passed a “Christmas market” that was under construction and someone had laid his cigarette down on a wooden box, one that was to be used in the construction of the market, and the cigarette was just lying there, burning down, alone.

And then I was on the phone with Martina and I was waiting to cross a street and she said, “You’re waiting at an intersection,” and I said to her, “How the hell do you know that?” and she said, “I hear the beeping.”

Some traffic lights in Hamburg beep when the walkly-man is red: a feature to aid the blind.

And looking at the reflection of myself in a mirrored light fixture suspended from the ceiling, I think, that looks like something that M.C. Escher would draw. Which makes me think of images and the images that we build in people’s heads when we write or speak, which makes me think of that joke that Martina told me last night in the car. Here is the joke:

One day, Little Red Riding Hood was walking in the woods when she walked behind a tree. There, she saw the Big Bad Wolf. His eyes were big and bulging and so she said to him, “My, Mr. Wolf, what big eyes you have,” to which the wolf replied, “Would you fucking get lost! I’m trying to shit!”

Oh, how funny that was, and all the bad, bad jokes that we told in the car yesterday, jokes that are so bad, you preface them by making the person you're telling them to swear not to repeat them. Those kind of jokes.

And, no, Mr. Neighbour’s dog, I will not give you a piece of my buttered roll. I don’t care how cute you are or how much your little brown eyes look like shiny buttons. No, no, no. OK, honestly, if your owner wasn’t here maybe I would, but she is here, so I can’t give you anything. I can just look at you and say in a silly voice, “Hello . . . Hello . . ."

Maxim on Its Head on Its Head

"Ahh, you see what’s going on here? It’s quite interesting. Look, the maxim—we call sayings that have wisdom in them 'maxims'—is usually, 'Boyfriends and girlfriends come and go, but friends are forever,' and what you’re doing is, you're standing that maxim on its head."

"Uh-huh."

"You’re saying that he had said to you that girlfriends and boyfriends come and go but friends are forever, and you said, 'Bullshit. OK, little boy, you’ll see one day how "true" that little saying of yours is. You’ll learn.'"

"Right, right."

But what I’m saying to you, and what makes this thing totally interesting, is that she said that she really doesn’t care about boyfriends, that, for her, they really do come and go, and so long as she has her friends, she is fine. You see what's going on there?"

"Yes, absolutely. But come on . . . "

"Yeah, I know."

House Rich

Keri once told me that her dad had once told her: “Keri, we’re what’s known as ‘house rich.’ That means, we may not have that much money, but we’ve got a nice house, and we own that house: it’s ours. So we’re ‘house rich.’”

At the time, I understood the statement, but I didn’t really care about it. Years later, I remember looking at Keri’s Facebook page and seeing pictures of her and her sister in the house that their father had spoken of. The house was completely empty. The father had died and Keri and her sister were in the house for I’m not exactly sure which reason. Honestly, it looked like the place was going to be sold and Keri and Kim had come to it to say “goodbye” or to remove a final piece of furniture.

Anyway, among the pictures that Keri had posted was one in which she and Kim were in the living room. Not the den, but the living room. The den was downstairs and was one of the places where Keri and I had spent time hanging out. I don’t think we ever hung out or even sat in the living room.

The picture in question, at any rate, was taken in selfie style, meaning either Keri or her sister had been holding up the camera. I remember that in the background, you could see a lot of the house. It was a background I remembered. There were the stairs in front of the front door—stairs that, depending on which way you went, led to the den or the upper story; the entrance to the kitchen; the wall that separated the dining area from the kitchen; the hallway. Yup, you could see that small hallway from which one was able to access the guest room (first door to the left), Keri’s sister’s old room (straight on), the dad’s room (straight on and to the right) and the bathroom (first door on the right).

I remember Keri and her sister were smiling in the picture. I don’t think that they were smiling because they were happy; they were smiling because there were many good memories in that house, and that had been their house. I remember thinking that that was why they were smiling. I also remember thinking, even if Keri’s really smiling, she’s not smiling. I know her. She’s not smiling.

A College Story

When I was in college, I lost my virginity to a girl named Emily. The act occurred in my dorm, and after it was over, I walked Emily back to hers. It was a snowy night in February, and right before I gave Emily a parting kiss, she said to me, “OK, now don’t get all weird on me because we did that.” I told her I wouldn’t.

The next time I saw Emily was a few weeks later in the college’s dining hall. I was sitting at one of the tables with a couple of friends and Emily sat down with four or five of her friends at an adjoining table. Emily and I said hi to each other tepidly. When I finished eating, I gave Emily a small, cold goodbye and she did to me, too. As I was disposing of my tray, my roommate at the time, Jake, said, “Well, that was awkward.”

Then, a few weeks after that, Emily IM’d me. (Back in the day, IM was the preferred method of communication among college kids.) She and I began chatting often, which ultimately led to our dating more. We went out to parties together, hung out at her dorm room and probably ate together sometimes, too. During this time, I began to fall for Emily.

In the early spring of that year—it was 2001—Emily asked me if I would like to go home with her, to a very small town in Central New York, to meet her parents. I agreed and she and I headed there. Two things stand out very much in my mind from the stay: one, there was tons of snow in her area. In fact, the banks of snow along the side of some of the roads were five, six, even seven feet high. Another thing I remember is that she and I watched her high school’s production of “The Wiz.”

In April/May, Emily and I started to drift apart. In fact, I had heard that she began dating a guy named Matt. Matt looked a lot different from me. He was a big guy, over six feet, and really strong. He might have even been one of the college's football players. I remember feeling hurt and jealous when I learned that Emily was dating someone else.

I can’t remember the exact timeline of things, but I do remember at some point having asked Emily, “What’s going on with us?” and her saying this: She said that during that visit to her parents’ house, her mother had asked her, “So what’s up with this guy Chad?” to which she had replied, “I’m not sure . . . We’re dating, I guess." Her mother then asked her if she saw a future with me, and when she said no, her mother said: “So why are you with him? You should cut him loose if you don’t see a future with him.”

During the summer, I came home from college and worked at a job in an office. I dated one or two girls, but I thought a lot about Emily. I guess I thought more about her than I am letting on here because I can remember a vivid scene, involving Emily, that occurred in the fall of 2001, when college again commenced.

It was the first or second weekend back at school and I saw Emily at a house party. She was there with Matt. I remember I didn’t say anything to her after I saw her. Instead, I left the party, walked to a side street, and in the bushes of someone’s front yard, vomited.

It Must Be Hard for Seal

     CHAD: It must be hard for Seal.
     MARTINA: Huh?
     CHAD: It must be hard for Seal.
     MARTINA: What do you mean?
     CHAD: Well, you know, he has all those kids with Heidi Klum. I think he loved her. And then, you know, they break up, and she’s got all those boyfriends, and it’s always in the press.
     MARTINA: Huh? How did you start thinking of Seal?
     CHAD: Well, it was the song. Like, at first I was thinking how I liked this version with Katie Melua a little better because you can understand the lyrics in one part better. Then I was thinking about the song itself, how it, like, speaks of longing, and I started to think of relationships and then...Seal. For some reason I thought of Seal.
     MARTINA: Yeah, but Hedi Klum, come on...
     CHAD: I guess, but it can’t be easy for him.

In a Tunnel

Martina and I were in the car, going through a tunnel. She was driving and there was traffic.

"Why are we waiting?" I asked.

"There's a crash up ahead," she said. 

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah. You don't see the blue lights?"

"No. Oh, yeah, I see them on the wall."

What a Dream.

So last night I had a dream that I think Freud would have had a field day with.

The dream opened up with me riding in the passenger section of a carriage with my aunt and my mom. We were in Manhattan and the street we were on was made of cobblestones, which makes me think we were in SoHo.

Through an opening in the canvas covering of the passenger section, I saw that a woman had just stepped into the road, a few yards ahead of the carriage. It was clear that the woman was a prostitute. It was also clear that I was going to get out and have an appointment with her. But it was crazy because that was totally fine with my mother and my aunt. In fact, my aunt gave me 50 dollars to help pay for the rendezvous. I remember thinking that dollars was the wrong currency, even though dollars would have been perfectly correct if we had in fact been in SoHo. As I exited the carriage, my mom gave me 20 euro. “That’s more like it,” I thought.

In the street, I greeted the prostitute. I can’t remember exactly how she looked, but she was in her early 30s, she was white and she had dirty blonde hair that looked unhealthy. She was nice, though. She told me that she was going to take me to a hotel nearby and that I should prepare myself because it was not going to be a nice hotel.

She was right. As we entered the hotel, I thought, “What the heck is this place?” The reception area looked more like an area where one waits at a train station to get information. Agents sat behind glass windows and you had to be called to talk to them. I remember that groups of men as well as other prostitutes were in the reception area and deals were constantly being worked out, mostly about prices.

After a room was booked for us, the prostitute told me to follow her. At this point, I gave her the money. I remember that I thought to myself that she was going to throw the cash back to me, its not being euro and all. But she was happy to get the money. I thought that maybe she liked America or at very least knew a place where she could easily exchange the notes for euro.

After following the prostitute through the hotel, or what was presumably the hotel, we came to what looked like the engine room of a massive passenger liner ship. The walls were metal and painted white and I remember seeing a large red spigot handle attached to a heavy-duty pipe.

In front of the prostitute and me was a huge hole in the floor. In diameter, the hole was the size of a tractor tire. Looking through the hole, you saw a sublevel, which was about 50 yards below. Welded to the wall above the hole was a ladder. The ladder was painted white and continued through the hole and went down the 50 yards, to the floor of the sublevel. The prostitute got on the ladder and began to go down through the big circular opening. I watched her.

And now things got really crazy. After she climbed down about 10 yards, she looked up at me and began giving me instructions on how to “use” the ladder. She said that in order for the ladder to work properly, one must hold on to its rungs tightly—super, super tightly—and then lean back as far as one could, with all one’s weight. She proceeded to do this and as she did, the ladder, which I thought was welded to the wall, actually bent backwards with her weight, as if it were made of rubber.

“That’s how you do it,” she said. “Do you think you can manage it? It must be like that.”

I told her that I wasn’t going to do such a thing and after I said that, she leaned forward, making the ladder go back to its regular position. She then climbed up the rungs she had climbed down.

“Aww, man, that’s no fun,” she said.

I told her that I was sorry, but that attempting such a stunt wasn’t worth it.

She said that she had another idea. The next thing I can remember, I was in an interior courtyard with this woman. It was quite lush back there and to our right were a series of adjoining apartment buildings. It was dusk and the prostitute and I were able to see into many of the windows of the building, especially those that belonged to apartments whose lights were on. The prostitute and I started making out. The making out was going OK, but it wasn’t fantastic.

The next thing I remember, I was alone in the courtyard. The prostitute was gone. I was alone and I was looking at people going about their business in the apartments. Some of the people were looking at me, too.

"Click" . . . "Bang!"

I’m sitting in a café now that Germans would call “uncozy.” The café is inside a supermarket but at the same time independent from it. This means that items purchased at the supermarket may not be eaten at the café’s tables. There is a heavy glass door right in front of me. The door belongs to the café and every time someone opens it, I brace myself because it shuts with a bang that I can feel. It’s like, “click” -- that’s the sound of the door opening, and “bang!” -- the sound of the door slamming shut.

Across from me, a woman is sitting at a table. She has a reusable plastic bag next to her, one of those that are heavy duty and look like it could survive any weather. The supermarket where I currently am sells such shopping bags, but the one next to this woman bears the brand of another supermarket. The woman is looking out the window to the street. There is nothing on her table. She is just sitting there with that bag, filled with I don’t know what, looking out the window.

And always the sound, “click,” “bang!” “Click” . . . “bang!”

Even though the woman and I are the only ones in this café, many people seem to use that big glass door, mostly to come in.

The café itself isn’t ugly. It has about five tables and on each table is a vase containing a single flower. The flowers aren’t real; they’re carnations made of fabric.

The woman just got up. She picked up her bag and walked over to the door -- “click.” It looked like she was going to let the door close gradually, so it wouldn’t slam, but she didn’t -- “bang!”

I just realized why I feel that “bang” when the door closes. It’s because of the wall I’m leaning against -- it’s hollow, and the force with which the door closes causes it to shake.

I continue to write. I’ve been writing a lot from cafés recently. They’re a great place to observe people’s behavior and to get a clear idea of your reaction to it.  In about 15 minutes I have an appointment a few blocks away from here, but I’ll write until I have to leave.

Oh, the woman with the bag has just reentered the café, “click” -- not gonna hold the door to prevent it from slamming? Nope. “Bang!” She goes not back to her old seat, across from me, but to a table near the door, closer to me. She’s looking out the window to the street like the last train to God only knows where is about to pull up and she has to be on it. She’s looking out the window more intensely than ever.

A man in workman’s clothes just walked in front of me and tried to open the heavy glass door but couldn’t because two cans of beer were in each of his hands. Think about that. Think about trying to get a “pull” door open with two cans of beer in each of your hands. Can you imagine doing it? He problem solves. He puts one of the beers in his jacket pocket and then opens the door.

The woman with the shopping bag just left -- “click" . . . “bang!” -- and I’m sitting here writing. I did not order anything, either. I wanted to order something, but an espresso costs 1.50€ and I currently have 1.26€ on me.

Time to Play That Game Again

It’s time to play the game "Who Smells Like Shit?"

I look at the man to my left. He’s a working-class guy wearing Carhartt clothing and he looks like he’s got a goal, so I don’t think it’s he.

Next to him is a girl who had been on the bus when I got on, and I don’t remember having smelled a sour, rotten stink when I got on the bus, so, nope, not her.

The woman ahead of me, sitting in the single seat, she looks like a nice, hard-working woman and she’s got a scarf carefully wrapped around her neck.  People who smell like shit usually don’t take the time to lovingly wrap scarves around their necks to keep out the cold.

It must be someone behind me. But I don’t turn around. I just turn around halfway and use my peripheral vision to see if I can gather a clue, but doing so doesn’t give me any real idea as to who smells like shit.

I just bear the smell. It smells like old milk . . . plus crap.

Oh, oh, here comes a bus stop where most of the riders get off. Let’s see if the shit smell goes away after this stop . . .

It does, it does! I don’t know who smelled like shit, but I can deduce that it was one of the people who had been on the bus only moments prior, because now it no longer smells like shit.

Thank you for playing "Who Smells Like Shit?"

And now a word from our sponsors.

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You Can Count on Me Because...

Recently here in Germany I joined a basketball “Sportverein.” A “Sportverein” is like a club, but it’s a little more serious than that. If you are a member of a “Sportverein,” you are expected to practice your sport with your team two times during the workweek and play in matches on weekends.

Among the many challenges that this new endeavor has presented me with is the language. The practices are two hours long and the practices are in German. The difficulty that I have with the language varies in degrees: sometimes I’m better at it, other times not.

Yesterday, for example, before practice began, the other players and I stood in a circle around the coach at half court and listened to him speak. These little pre-practice, half-court meetings, I’ve come to learn, are something of a ritual. The coach uses them to discuss housekeeping matters and to address any concerns we might have. However, yesterday after the housekeeping matters had been discussed, the coach decided to use the rest of the time there at half-court to do a team-building exercise. He wanted us to go around the circle completing the following sentence: “Man kann mir vertrauen, weil...” (“I can be counted on, because...)

The player to the coach’s left started, “Man kann mir vertrauen, weil...”

Honestly, I didn’t hear why. I was too busy trying to figure out if I had understood the exercise correctly. Only one other person stood between the player who had just begun speaking and me, so I wanted to make sure I had everything straight.

The next player went, “Man kann...”

Again, I didn’t really listen because I was too busy saying to myself, Ah, OK, so we’re completing the sentence. Ah, it’s like that kind of an exercise. I knew the vocabulary: I knew what “vertrauen” meant -- it meant “trust,” so that was good.

It was my turn to go. Though by then I had thought I understood the exercise, my expression must have said something different because the coach started re-explaining it. Which was fine because he was explaining it in German, and I thought that I seemed more competent before the other guys, receiving the instructions in German. I nodded my head to show my understanding and had thought that everything was copacetic. But then for some reason, he decided to switch into English.

Oh, no, I thought. Now I look like I’m the American guy who needs extra help. I continued to nod my head and when the coach stopped speaking, I duly completed the sentence "I can be counted on because..."

“...weil ich wirklich ein team Player.”

I thought it was a good answer, but the moment after I gave it, I realized I had made an error: I had forgotten the verb.

See, in German, there are some situations when the verb of a sentence should be shoved to the end of it. For example, in the sentence, “Ich mag Eis, weil es so gut schmeckt,” the verb “schmeckt” (to taste) must pushed to the end of the sentence. Word for word, such a sentence would read like this in English: “I like ice-cream because it so good tastes.”

In my sentence, I had wanted to say that I could be counted on because I am a good team player. However, probably because the construction I was using required that verb to be pushed to the end of the sentence, I forgot the verb.

What I wound up saying was, “You can trust me because I really a team player.”

Honestly, my oversight was no big deal. Still, to me, I felt that it proved that I was not fully competent, at least in German. Nevertheless, the guys kept going around the circle answering, many of them with interesting answers, and the practice wound up going well.

I didn’t think too much about my language slip-up until this morning when I was on the train going to work. In my mind’s eye, I recreated that circle of players and I played over my answer. But instead of thinking about my fuck-up, I thought about what I had actually said, the content. “You can trust me because I’m really a team player. You can trust me because I’m really a team player.”

“Hmm...” I thought. “That’s actually pretty good.”