I frequently write about life’s complexities: the minor keys and sepia hues of memory, the spaces between belonging and solitude, the subtle art of letting go with one hand what we hold tightly with the other. Sometimes, I wonder if I present (at least in this space) as a dour and sour malcontent who uses words like morass and malcontent. Someone who probably kicks puppies when nobody is looking and pinches them when people are looking. I have, on occasion, compared myself to Andy Rooney… but it could just as easily be Larry David, Gilbert Gottfried, Richard Lewis, or any other semi-neurotic and self-effacing person who uses humor to both disarm and make sense of a darkly, funny world. Kurt Vonnegut, a poor man’s Mark Twain, is one of my favorite authors because he finds humor in the otherwise tragic human condition. One of my favorite Vonnegut quotes is about preferring laughter to tears because there’s less cleaning up to do afterwards. That’s kinda funny.
These satirist personalities are part and parcel to my “wit and charm.” But there’s a side of me that I don’t share or show much here in this space. There’s actually a bubbly and enthusiastic, albeit malnourished and starved for sunlight, child that I will sometimes unchain and release from the crawlspace under the stairs. He’s allowed to roam around much more frequently than I let on. He’s been seen at concerts and bars, walking through parks, sitting by the waterfront, dancing while cooking meals, and smiling while cutting carrots. I don’t write about him much because I believe in irony more than I do karma. My assumption is that no sooner do I sing his praises, a giant foot (like the ones in Monty Python sketches) will come down from a clear, blue sky full of puffy clouds and smite him. I know what’s on the other side of happiness and so happiness is shared as a whisper. I’m aware of Chekhov’s hammer waiting to remind me that there’s suffering in the world. I know what happens to people who get “too comfortable.”
Friday afternoon, I had a job interview. I think it went well. We’ll see. It was 70 degrees and sunny and as soon as the interview was over I did my best Fred Flintstone impersonation and Yabba Dabba Dooed out of my apartment and into the sunshine. I took a few books with me. I put the earbuds in and walked to the waterfront where I sat and read and watched people enjoying themselves in the sun. From there, I wandered along the Embarcadero, past Fisherman’s Wharf and into downtown and then through the North Beach neighborhood. I take this walk every week or so. I like mixing the touristy sights (people who are here visiting and happy) with the downtown sights (people who are working and living in the city) with the sights and smells of North Beach (so much garlic and Italian food). As I walked through downtown on Friday, I came across a St. Patrick’s Day block party. I stopped for a few over-priced green IPAs. I listened to the band play crappy yet wistfully familiar covers like Smash Mouth’s “All Star.” I talked to strangers in the street and people-watched while leaning up against a building catching the last few rays of sunshine. Not wanting my personal party to end, I walked home and went to my local bar. Telling one of the bartenders about yet another great day in the city, he said, “it’s so cool to see you blossom here.” Yes, he used the word blossom.
I don’t write about those details often – the ones about sunshine and smiley, happy people. I don’t share that my typical weekend involves runs along the waterfront, visiting a Farmer’s market, urban hikes, and public parks full of fragrant flowers. There’s an entirely different side to the brooding chronicler of mild discomfort and minor misfortune that shows up so frequently here in this space. He’s fun to hang around and far less prone to reflection and verbosity. And sometimes. he likes to remind me that there’s also this other side…