M.

One thing that I really like is T-shirts. I like to have T-shirts that reflect my personality or remind me of my past. One such T-shirt for me is my Zero T-shirt. Zero, you should know, is a skateboard company, and I bought my Zero T-shirt in 1998 when I was really into skateboarding. 

Anyway, today I decided to wear this shirt. I wanted to take a walk, and the weather channel said it was about 70 degrees out, so I knew I could get away with wearing a T-shirt, and, well, the Zero one is the one I chose. Once dressed, I left my house and headed for this huge lake we have in Hamburg called the Alster. 

Normally when I take walks at the Alster, I read. Yup, I like to read and walk. But today I decided I'd listen to a podcast. So once I arrived at a jogging path by the banks of the lake, I put my headphones in and cued something up on Spotify. The only problem was the podcast I chose was boring, and my mind began to wander. Instead of paying attention to the program, I began to think about, of all things, my shirt and about how other people might perceive its motif, a black cat. This train of thought led, actually, to my thinking about something else, something much more important and interesting: an old friend of mine named Milton. 

Milton and I had been friends in high school, and we had skateboarded together. Sadly, he died a few years ago, but as the years have gone on, I haven’t stopped thinking about him. 

Milton was one of a kind. If I only had one sentence to describe him, I would say this: Milton was a unique person who was preternaturally talented. I know “preternaturally” is not a common word, but what it basically means is “more than what would seem to be normal or natural.” And that’s exactly what Milton’s talent was when it came to things he sought to master. 

I mean, it was like he would learn about a new skating trick on Friday and by Sunday would be able to do it perfectly. If you showed him how to juggle with three balls, he’d come in the next day and be able to juggle with five. I once showed Milton how to twirl a textbook on his finger like a basketball. Before long, he was not only able to twirl the book but also throw it up in the air and have it land back down on his finger, without missing a beat. 

But what this kid was talented at was skateboarding. He could do the most insane tricks…and with the cheapest of skateboards. With some of the cheapest of skateboards—skateboards with nubby wheels and ground-to-death trucks—he could do it all. Milton was preternaturally talented. 

And I thought of Milton as I walked along the Alster. I actually uttered this exact question to myself as I strolled: “What’s my favorite Milton memory?” At first, I couldn’t answer that because I had many. But I finally settled on a few of my favorites. I’d like to share them with you now. 

One day after school, Milton asked me to come over to his house and show him something. He wanted me to teach him to play guitar. Milton’s father was the superintendent of a building, and Milton and his family lived in the basement apartment of that building. Milton had access to an all-purpose room, and we went there that afternoon and sat with an old acoustic guitar of his. The guitar was a replica of an iconic Gibson, the one that has hummingbirds on the pickguard. I don’t remember if Milton ever got good at the guitar—he sure could have if he wanted to—but I certainly remember the joy he had trying to learn. 

Milton

Another great memory was the time we made a skate video. Milton and I loved watching skate videos together, and, as it so happens, we loved one particular video that featured a pro skater named Jamie Thomas who rode for, you got it, Zero. For the video that Milton and I were making, though, he wanted me to do a few tricks near the Great Neck train station, and I remember immediately after doing one, I looked back to see Milton right behind me. He was on his own skateboard, dutifully holding the video camera at an angle that I knew would make the trick I just did look cool. He looked so professional and in control at that moment, and I loved that. 

I continued to think of other Milton memories as I walked, but they were more fragmented. I thought about how, if you were to pass through Great Neck Plaza at any given point in the mid- or late-90s, there would have been a good chance of seeing Milton on his skateboard or his bike or even sometimes his rollerblades. I remember seeing him from my mom’s car a million times, and each time just thinking to myself, “Uhp, there goes Milton.” I thought about the outfits that he would wear and how much he loved shoes, especially Vans. I thought about how when I first met him, he had a thick accent—I think he was originally from El Salvador—but how his English and accent just kept improving over time. 

Anyway, after I decided that I had walked enough and that it was time to go home, I decided to listen to a song that always reminds me of Milton. The song is by Santana and it’s called “Samba Pa Ti.” “Samba Pa Ti” is played at the end of that skateboarding video we loved. Jamie Thomas, the skater for Zero, ollies onto a waist-high rail and proceeds to grind it for what feels like an eternity, all while “Samba Pa Ti” plays and the credits roll. Milton and I loved this part of the video.

Actually, I recently learned that the words “samba pa ti”  translate to “samba for you.” Well, Milton, brother...this one’s for you. 

Revised or Revisited

You know, there's this very famous poem by John Donne in which he says that you shouldn't look at a death as a thing that happened to someone else. Rather, you should think of death—anyone's death—as something that affects you, too, because you are a part of mankind, and any death, essentially, diminishes mankind. The poem, "For Whom the Bell Tolls" is fancily worded, but here it is.

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.

I mention this poem because recently I have been reading a lot about '90s rockers. Specifically, '90s rockers who have died. In January, I read Scott Weiland's memoir "Not Dead and Not for Sale," and I'm currently close to finishing "Alice in Chains: The Untold Story," which documents, among other things, Lanye Stayle's losing battle with heroin. 

Because I've been so immersed in the grim details of these rockers' lives, I've found myself on many occasions asking myself what attracts me to them. Am I just that morbidly obsessed? I won't lie, there is definitely an element of morbid curiosity behind my desire to read about these musicians as well as other ones who have died tragically. But, to be honest, what I've really found myself doing in large part during the course of all my reading is mourning myself.

What the hell do I mean? 

Well, in a way, when I read about these two guys, Scott Weiland and Layne Staley, I'm reminded of my own mortality and the fact that the '90s was an era that I lived in and can never be gotten back. This was a period in time that, like other periods in time, can never be revised or revisited. 

For some reason, reading about these musicians and thinking about where I was in my own life when major things were happening for them helps me see with more of a bird's eye view my course, my timeline in this life, and doing so helps me feel and appreciate my own life and the current moment more exquisitely. 

People die, and when they do, it's important to carry on the torch of life. But we also have to remember that in some way their deaths kill little parts of us. Their deaths carry the truth that time can never be recaptured. 

So, in a way, what John Donne once wrote is certainly true: "Send not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee." 

How Far We'll Go

One afternoon when I was in the sixth grade, a girl picked a fight with me. I remember I was standing in front of the middle school waiting for the bus when it happened. She just approached me and for no good reason started giving me problems—and she wanted to trade blows.  

Now, you’re probably thinking, “So what, a girl picks a fight with you? You can handle yourself.” Right, but this girl, who I’ll call Val, was big, bigger than I was by weight, and she was tough. She had a streetwise attitude, and people were scared of her. 

I told Val I wasn’t going to fight her, but I didn’t stand down to her, either. I probably made some wise-ass remark. In fact, it was my wise-ass attitude, or rather the one I was known for, that probably irritated her so much in the first place. We wound up not fighting, but the interaction that day did make me fearful of her. 

Anyway, skip ahead a few months, and I’m standing in one of the middle school hallways waiting for my next class to begin. An acquaintance of mine, someone in a grade above me, comes up to me and says he’s got a question for me. Naturally, I ask what it is. 

“What do you think of Val?” he says. 

“Val, you mean 7th grade Val?” I say. 

“Yeah. Do you like her?”

“Do I like her? No, I’ve never thought that.”  

“Because she likes you. She wanted me to tell you that she likes you and she wants to go out with you.”

I was truly shocked. The girl who wanted to beat me up a few months prior now likes me? I didn’t know what to say. 

“Um, I’m not sure about that.”

“Is it OK if she talks to you today? She wants to talk to you.” 

I said OK, and later in the day Val came over to me and asked me if her friend (the acquaintance) had spoken to me. She then asked me what I thought of what he said. I don’t remember what I said, but I felt very intimidated, so when Val asked me if I would go out with her—if I would be her boyfriend—I said yes. I gave her my number and walked away stunned. 

That evening Val called me at my house. Though all the details I have thus far related, admittedly, have been kind of hazy, I clearly remember one thing Val asked me during this phone call. (I even remember where I was when she asked it. I was in the bathroom. I have no idea why I was in the bathroom, and even weirder was the lights were off. I mean, it wasn’t pitch-black in there, moonlight was coming through the window, but it was dark.) 

Anyway, this was the question she asked me: “Now that we’re dating, how far do you think we’ll go?” 

Of course what she meant was “Do you think we’ll just kiss, or will there be heavy petting or even sex?” 

I told her that I didn’t know—a fuzzy answer that betrayed my true feelings, which were that I didn’t like Val and now felt between a rock and a hard place. 

I’m sure you can kind of figure out where things went next, but if you can’t, I’ll help you. After getting off the phone, I realized that what I was doing was crazy, and I needed to break it off.

So the next day that’s exactly what I did. I can’t remember the details of the break-up, only that I was completely sure that it was what I wanted. I also know Val didn’t threaten me or anything like that. It was just the end. 

Except that it wasn’t the end. The end was a few years later when I found out that Val had died. There were rumors that her death was due to a drug overdose, or that a drug she had taken had precipitated a medical emergency. But, again, all I have are rumors. 

Every now and then I’ll think about Val. It’s strange to think that a person who once found you special is no longer of this earth. I still wonder why she wanted to fight me. Were her actions some warped way of showing that she was interested in me? Who knows. What I do know is that I wish that life hadn’t ended for her so quickly and that she would have been able to enjoy it with someone who cared for her.

The Same Sentiment

What beautiful symmetry. It’s the same sentiment. 

Prince: 

If I gave you diamonds and pearls 

Would you be a happy boy or a girl 

If I could I would give you the world 

But all I can do is just offer you my love.

W.B. Yeats: 

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, 

Enwrought with golden and silver light, 

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths 

Of night and light and the half light, 

I would spread the cloths under your feet: 

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; 

I have spread my dreams under your feet; 

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Learning "Pitseleh"

The thing about playing guitar is if you don't keep playing a song you've learned, you tend to forget how to play it. 

Such was the case with a song I once learned, "Pitseleh" by Elliott Smith. 

The song itself isn't that hard. In fact, like many other Elliott Smith tunes, the most challenging part is the timing. Still, if you asked me to play "Pitseleh" today, I couldn't—I've forgotten.  

But I'll never forget where I was when I learned how to play it. 

I learned to play "Pitseleh" in a small bedroom I rented in an East Village apartment during the summer of 2007. 

The apartment, which I shared with three other people, was in a four-floor walk-up on 2nd Avenue between East Fifth and Sixth Streets. The rent was super high, and the room was literally only big enough for a bed and a desk, but I had always wanted to live in Manhattan.

Of course, things are always rose-colored in hindsight, but I remember really enjoying myself that summer. I'd go to the West Village for dinner or to St. Mark's Place to check out the awesome second-hand shops there. Sometimes I'd just go up to Central Park for a walk or to Midtown for ShakeShack. 

Despite all the places I'd go, though, I remember often thinking the same thing when I'd be on my way back home at night: "I can't believe I live in Manhattan!"

And it was in that little rented room of mine, that little postage stamp of a space, that I learned to play "Pitseleh." 

I don't remember if I printed the tabs to the song or just read them off my laptop, but I know I would practice the piece over and over. 

What really sticks out in my memory, though, when thinking back to learning "Pitseleh,” was just how unbearably hot my room was. The summer of 2007 in New York City was a scorcher, with a high of 96 degrees in July, and my room had no air-conditioner. I just remember sitting on the edge of my bed with my acoustic guitar, pouring sweat as I played. Eventually, I did convince one of the roommates to help me install an air-conditioner, but until then, man, was it blazing up there. 

As for the song itself, learning "Pitseleh" was a rewarding experience. I say rewarding because the riff that Elliott Smith plays at the beginning is so resonant, distinct, and, frankly, easy that you immediately feel you've made great leaps forward once you learn it. Plus, the song is basically all acoustic guitar, so what you're strumming sounds exactly like what's heard on the album. 

But, anyway, yeah, that room. I actually wound up moving out of it at the end of the summer. I had a full-time job when I moved in but decided to give it up to focus all my energies on journalism school, which was set to begin in September. I moved back to my mom’s apartment, which was where I lived until finishing graduate school. But that room, little as it was, really gave me a taste of a life I liked. 

All I Ask of You

There was this one time, more toward the beginning of Martina's and my relationship, when we were in her car and I began to sing. 

Singing is something I like to do sometimes—especially as a joke—and Martina had told me that she liked my voice, so I decided to go for it.

The song that I was singing on this day was "All I Ask of You" from Phantom of the Opera. As I said, I like to joke around, so in my best baritone, with the song playing in the background, I just let loose. 

No more talk of darkness/Forget these wide-eyed fears/I'm here, nothing can harm you/My words will warm and calm you

At first, I just took my singing as a joke. But when I looked over at Martina, I saw she was paying attention to the lyrics and had begun to take me more seriously. 

So I continued: 

Let me be your freedom/Let daylight dry your tears/I'm here, with you, beside you/To guard you and to guide you

Martina's interest continued to grow—she was totally digging it—and, suddenly, I realized that something was beginning to happen: what had started as a joke was turning into a real moment between us. 

So I barreled toward the refrain—because what a refrain it was going to be!   

Say you love me every waking moment/Turn my head with talk of summertime/Say you need me with you now and always/Promise me that all you say is true

That's all I ask of you

And when I looked at Martina after that line, after the refrain, she had tears in her eyes—and I can't say that mine were dry.

99.2%!

So today I have to celebrate a milestone: 99.2% accuracy. 

Let me explain. Many times after I play a game of chess, I analyze it after it's finished, and the website that I often play on, chess.com, has this pretty cool tool that helps me do this. See, after a game is done, all you have to do is hit the"analyze game" button and you are given a report that tells you, among many other things, how accurately you played. I've had games in which I played very accurately—i.e., I found the best moves 90 percent of the time—and of course, I've had games in which I played very inaccurately—I found the best moves, let's say, only 15 percent of the time. 

But today, I reached a new plateau. In one of the games I played, I had an accuracy score of 99.2 percent. Here's the game. I have the white pieces. Enjoy. 

Some of my favorite moves:

9. Qxd4. Usually, it's not a good idea to bring your queen out into the middle of the board so early in a game, but in this position, I knew that if I wanted to maintain an edge, I would have to do so. 

11. Qd3. This is actually my favorite move of the game, and the one I spent the most time trying to find. I knew after 9. Qxd4 my queen was going to be chased back; however, it was crucial to find a square where a) the queen couldn't be harassed any further and b) her majesty still had attacking potential. 

16. Be5. I fought so hard for an initiative in the opening and got it. But it was important to keep the pressure on, and this move did just that.  

Oh, Jeff

When Nadi entered the diner, I waved to her and she immediately saw me. She walked over to my table and sat in the booth across from me. 

"So this is where you like to hide out?" she said.

I noticed that she had a bruise on her face, but I thought it best not to say anything...at least not yet.

"Well, sometimes you just gotta get away from the world," I replied.

The waitress came over. She took our order. Nadi only asked for coffee. After what she had been through, though, I couldn't believe she wasn't hungry. 

"You're not gonna order anything?" I said. 

"Oh, Jeff. You think I can eat? I can't eat. Eating is the last thing on my mind right now."  

The waitress came with the coffee. After she poured it, I said to her, "Actually, we reconsidered. My friend here will have a grilled cheese sandwich." 

The waitress took out her pad and pen. "Do you want tomato with that?" she asked Nadi. 

"I don't—"

I put my hand out. "With tomato," I said. "She'll also have a large chocolate milk, too." 

The waitress took the order. "With whip cream, or...? 

"Yes, with whip cream," I said. Nadi was smiling. 

After the waitress left, Nadi said, "I can't believe you." 

"Well, believe it," I said. "You're not gonna starve on my watch." 

Going Down

Rob was waiting for the elevator when I saw him. Originally, I was going to take the stairs, but I thought it might be better to use the opportunity to talk to—or dare I say bond with—my new brother-in-law. 

"You going all the way to the lobby," I asked. 

Rob turned to me. His expression was blank. 

"Sure am," he said and looked at the little digital display next to the elevator door. The elevator was currently on 37; we were on 10.  

"Nice day..." I ventured. 

Rob nodded, then immediately looked down at the floor. 

That was the final straw. 

"You know, Rob," I said, "we are in the same family now. I mean, we don't have to be best friends, but I think we should at least talk." 

Rob was still looking at the floor. "Yeah, of course...talk," he said. "What would you like to talk about?" 

"Well, for one thing," I said, "how about Mary Ann?" 

Rob took a step forward and pushed the elevator call button. It had already been pressed. 

"Yeah," he said. "Sad story." 

"Mind Playing Tricks on Me"

Recently a friend of mine asked me to make a rap mix for him on Spotify. I decided to make the theme of the rap mix “storytellers,” i.e., songs that tell a story. I told my friend that I thought that songs that told stories had a hell of a lot more staying power than songs that didn’t. 

As I was preparing the mix, I chose to put the Geto Boys 1991 song “Mind Playing Tricks on Me” on there. I first heard “Mind Playing Tricks on Me” in the early '90s, and even though I didn't fully grasp the messages in the song, it made a big impression on me. 

Now that I’m older, I can see why. The song is about paranoia. It’s about how leading the street life leads to a lot of paranoia—always thinking that the bogeyman is around the corner. 

Anyway, one particular verse of “Mind Playing Tricks on Me” really shines in my opinion. It’s the last one, sung by Geto Boys member Bushwick Bill.  When I was younger, I basically just liked Bushwick Bill's voice in this song. But recently, when making the mix, I realized that Bushwick Bill's verse was pure poetry—just an excellent piece of writing.

So...without further ado, here's Bushwick Bill’s verse from "Mind Playing Tricks" on me. 

***

This year Halloween fell on a weekend

Me and Geto Boys are trick-or-treatin'

Robbin' little kids for bags

'Til a lawman got behind our ass

So we speeded up the pace

Took a look back and he was right before our face

He'd be in for a squabble, no doubt

So I swung and hit the n**** in his mouth

He was goin' down we figured

But this wasn't no ordinary n****

He stood about six or seven feet

Now that's the n**** I'd be seein' in my sleep

So we triple-teamed on him

Droppin' them motherfuckin' B's on him

The more I swung, the more blood flew

Then he disappeared and my boys disappeared too

Then I felt just like a fiend

It wasn't even close to Halloween

It was dark as fuck on the streets

My hands were all bloody from punchin' on the concrete

Goddamn, homie!

My mind is playin' tricks on me

***

Dream

So last night I had a very interesting dream. It all started on 64th Road in Forest Hills, Queens, in front of the apartment house that my old friend Gina used to live in. However, instead of Gina's building being there, the Dakota, John Lennon's apartment building, which is actually on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, was. 

Anyway, I was standing in front of this building with a young man, a guy maybe in his late teens/early 20s. He said that he lived in the building and asked me if I wanted to go inside with him. I said to him,  "Are you kidding me? Of course I do. I've forever wanted to check out the Dakota." He rang the bell and his mom came down to the main entrance. When she did, I gave her my elbow because that's the kind of way people greet each other nowadays. 

When I got into the apartment building, I got my first shock. In the dream, I had always thought that if you entered the main entrance of the Dakota, you would see a grand foyer or something like that. But it wasn't a foyer that was on the other side of the main entrance. Instead, it was this kid's apartment. I remember saying to the kid and his mom, "Holy shit. I thought all these years that if I entered the front door of the Dakota, I would see an amazing foyer, but it's actually just your guys' apartment." 

Then there was the apartment itself. It was big, but it looked super old. The high ceilings had ornate cornices, but the molding hadn't been restored in years. The furniture was old and had no rhyme or reason to it. The cushion colors that I saw were pea green and mustard yellow. 

I walked deeper into the apartment, and I saw that the place was absolutely huge. One part of the apartment faced 64th Road, but there was a massive corridor that was parallel to Yellowstone Boulevard.  As I was walking down this corridor, which had tombstone-shaped doors on either side, the young man's siblings appeared. He apparently had a lot of brothers and they were a little bit obnoxious. 

At some point, a familiar motif from prior dreams of mine again reared its head: the gum. In many dreams I've had recently, I've had a mouth full of pink chewing gum—chewing gum that impedes me from speaking. During last night's dream, the gum impeded me from speaking to this guy's mom. There were also girls, girls in their 20s, in the apartment, and I was barely able to speak to them, again because of the gum. However, this time, I decided to do something about the sticky stuff. I walked over to a fountain that was outside the apartment and began digging in my mouth for the gum, trying to get it out. I was mostly successful, but I got a lot of strange looks from people who saw me digging in my mouth. 

Back in the apartment, I continued to hang out with the young man. Apparently, he and his family also had a lot of pets. They had something like seven cats and three dogs and maybe even a few wilder animals, too. I remember seeing a burrow in one of the rooms, like a rabbit burrow or a fox's den, next to a sofa. I remember wondering how an animal could dig a hole in an apartment, but nevertheless, there it was. 

The Hockey Mask

Believe it or not, but in the movie Friday the 13th Jason is not wearing a hockey mask. Also, he isn't wearing a hockey mask in Friday the 13th Part 2, either. Jason first "gets" his hockey mask in Friday the 13th Part 3.

That leaves me wondering: When the makers of the movie made "Friday the 13th [Part 1]..."

1) Did they know the hockey mask was going to become The Hockey Mask? 

2) Did they know the hockey mask was going to become the Hockey Mask? 

3) Did they know that the hockey mask was going to become the hockey mask? 

4) Did they know that the hockey mask was going to become the hockey mask? 

5) Did they know that the hockey mask was going to become the hockey mask? 

6) Did they know that the hockey mask was going to become the hockey mask? 

I would say that I would choose number 1. However, number 3 would be a close second. I don't think anyone underlines anything anymore, so six would obviously be out.

Studying Pays Off

Although the opening played in this game is called the English Opening, the position reached after move nine or so resembles that of a King's Indian Defense, and I played this game very much how they say you should play King's Indian Defence positions. 

In the King's Indian, you should do whatever it takes to take control of the a1-h8 diagonal. And that's exactly what I did here. 

Up until move 27, the play had been very cat and mouse, with my opponent and me doing a lot of maneuvering and posturing. However, on move 26, I sacrificed a pawn to gain supremacy of the a1-h8 diagonal—just like how they tell you in the books—and after that, my opponent had big problems. His biggest problem: his rook on f2. My dark square bishop became poised to give that rook hell, and that’s exactly what I did. After move 30, cxb5, my rook got to the third file, and all my pieces came alive—and White found himself in serious trouble.

So I guess all the studying I did paid off.  

 

A Really, Really Nice Game

You know, as a chess player, I'm always after that "perfect" game. Well, perfection is hard. But here is a darn good Sicilian Defense game of mine. I say it's darn good because, well, it's just a great game, soup to nuts. I played the opening, middle game and endgame well. In addition, I hardly made any mistakes. In any given chess game, I'm apt to make several mistakes. But there is only one in this game, and it wasn't a critical one. 

I have the black pieces. Enjoy. 

I Just Needed to Know

I had gone into Martina's backyard with the dog, and I had brought a newspaper so I could entertain myself while the pup and I played fetch with a stick. 

The newspaper was a German one and there was an article in it that I had wanted to read. The article was about Princess Diana's death in Paris. I guess the newspaper had decided to publish the piece because July 1st will mark what would have been Diana's 60th birthday. 

The article was an hour-by-hour account of the aftermath of the horrific car crash, told from the perspective of one of Diana's former drivers, a man named Colin Tebbutt. After the accident, Tebbutt was given the job of facilitating the return of the princess' body to England. One of his duties, according to the article, was making sure that Diana, even in her state, looked presentable. He arranged for her to have particular clothes and make-up on.

Anyway, as I was standing there, playing with the dog and reading, I got very much into the article. Especially interesting was a part where Tebbutt began describing how Diana looked when he first got to the mortuary in Paris. He said that she had a sheet covering all of her body except her head, and she only had mild bruising on her face. Put another way, he said that despite what the reality was, Diana mostly looked like herself. 

Now, up until this point in the article, I had been able to understand all of the German on the page. However, as I was reading this description of Diana lying in the mortuary, I came across a word I didn't know: "zerzaust." The article said Diana's hair was "zersaust."

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what this word meant. I tried to extract the meaning from context but couldn't. So what did I do? I marched through that backyard (with the dog right behind me...after all, she's gonna follow me; I've got the stick), walked into Marty's house, made my way into the kitchen, and, with zero preamble, asked Martina, "What does 'zersaust' mean?" 

Without asking any questions, Marty told me that it meant "wild"; "all over the place." 

That made sense. I figured "zersaust" probably translated to "disheveled." 

I thanked Martina, and the dog and I went back to the backyard, where we continued to play fetch and where I finished the article.

But there was just no way I would have been able to keep reading without having first defined that word.  I just needed to know.

Annotated Game

Here's a game with my notes. So if you've ever been intersted in knowing what I'm thinking when I play, this game's for you. I have the White pieces.

King's Indian Defense

 A well played King's Indian Defense...Phew! 

Interior Monologue on the Way to (and at) the Dog Poop

"Can you watch her?"

"Yeah, I'll watch her." 

"She'll probably stay with you." 

Yeah, she always stays with the person who's got the stick. But she did go after me that other time. Well, it doesn't sound like she's going after me. Is that a hornet? Holy shit, that thing looks big. Better not make that thing angry. I'm glad I went swimming. Weird how that can make you feel better. Should probably shave now, too. My beard will be softer. Yeah, shave and then a shower. It's the best time to do it. It's funny how when I was writing about song lyrics before, I wrote them down how I heard them, not how they really are. But who cares, though. If that's how I heard them, then that's how I interpret them. Who cares what the author wrote. And, anyway, "all but love is dead" is so much better than "all but life is dead." Why would he have made it "all but life is dead"? What could that mean? No, no, all but love is dead. 

Let's see. Where's the shit? There's no way I'm not going to find it. Ah, OK. Eww, flies are on it already. Well, of course, what do you expect? Flies eat shit. They have their purpose, too. I hope I don't get any flies in the doggy bag. No, I think they all flew away once I came. Yup, there we go. Don't want to leave any poop on these people's property. Wow, I feel a lot better after swimming. But I should shave now. It's the best time. Beard is soft. 

Music Is Life

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm always listening to music. In fact, I truly believe that Spotify is one of the best inventions ever. It's like a magic music machine. As someone who grew up in the '8os and '90s, it's hard to fathom that nowadays you can just open Spotify, enter a song and, boom, it's there. I remember having to go out and buy a CD if I wanted to hear a song. I even remember requesting songs on the radio. 

But I digress. Really, what I want to mention in this blogpost are two awesome lines from two separate songs. The songs themselves were new discoveries. One of them,  "And I Love You So" by Perry Como was recommended to me by Spotify. When I first heard the song, I thought, "Oh, that sounds nice." But when I heard the line I'm about to mention, I immediately added the song to my library. 

The other song I want to talk about I came across when I was watching the '90s movie Benny and Joon. The song, "Have a Little Faith in Me" by John Hiatt, came on during a montage, and I just instantly thought it sounded awesome. Again, when I read one particular lyric later on (that lyric is also below), my love for the song was cemented. 

So, without further ado, here are two awesome lines from the songs. 

"And I Love you So":

The book of life is brief/And once the page is read/All but love is dead/That is my belief

"Have a Little Faith in Me": 

When your secret heart/Cannot speak so easily/Come here darlin'/From a whisper start/Have have a little faith in me

Score Will Follow

How is he able to bring his score up so high? What am I not doing right? Christ, I've been playing chess for how long now? 20 years? I mean, my score is OK, around 1800 on chess.com and 2000 on lichess. I suppose if you put those two together it would be 1900. And 1900 isn't that bad. I could definitely live with 1900. But what I don't understand is, like, when I'm not playing that well, and my score is around 1800 or less, well, that is not that far from what my score had been when I wasn't studying to the extent that I am now. I don't know. I probably shouldn't get that discouraged. I mean, if you think about it, for as long as I could remember, I wasn't able to get anywhere near 1800. Now, 1800 is the score that I have if I'm not playing well. Still, I feel like my score should be higher. I mean, look at some other players that I know. They have super high scores. But, then again, I don't know what they did to get those scores, how much time and effort they invested. Remember, you played for so many years. You didn't necessarily study. You should focus on quality. You should focus on the quality of your games and the depth to which you can understand certain positions. Don't worry about score. Score will follow.