A Manastash Moment.

My all time favorite pair of shorts were purchased at a hemp clothing store in Burlington, Vermont when I was a 19 year old fresh off my first year at Virginia. They were navy blue, and a size or two too big -- ("All the Parsley men are fat," I reasoned with Kath, who I was visiting that week, "so I figure it's inevitable for me, too, and I really like these shorts, so I'm thinking ahead.") I wore them every day. They were my "summer Carhartt's." Soft, comfortable and sleek -- and permanently attached to my favorite belt of all time, the second edition of which I am actually wearing right now -- I thought for sure that I had snagged the greatest shorts ever produced by man. And then, one afternoon in October, they got even cooler.

"Holy shit!" I exclaimed from the passenger seat of Hunter's car.

"What?" He sounded concerned. My mouth was agape, and I was looking right at my crotch, where my hands were fiddling around with something. It was the same reaction a guy would give if he found a lump.

But I wasn't concerned, or scared. I was stoked.

"These shorts have a stash pocket!" Right at the convergence between each pant leg, about two inches long, was a little cave, fastened by a strip of Velcro. "I guess that's the meaning behind the brand name," I said, remembering that the shorts were made of pure hemp. "Manastash."

I call moments like these Manastash Moments. There's something that is already really cool -- like my summer Carhartt's -- and then, for no reason other than the fact that you just weren't aware of some extra feature -- the stash pocket -- it just gets taken to a whole 'nother level.

I had a Manastash Moment this morning, when I discovered the "free" section on craigslist.

Craigslist.com has been my go-to website for some time now. When I was in Houston, looking for jobs in other cities, I'd get on it every other day or so. After I made the move to Austin, looking for jobs in this city, as well as a place to stay, and a bike to ride, I started to get on it multiple times per day. The whole time, under my very nose, free stuff was being offered out by people who didn't want to deal with the hassle of haggling and bargaining, eBay PayPal accounts and all those other annoyances of capitalism. For some, the easiest solution is to just dump their shit on a curb, and ring the dinner bell for the dregs of society like me, who will go nuts for anything that is free.

I'm in the process of moving from my squatter's camp at Tony's house -- and by that, I mean Tony's couch -- into a place of my own. The spot I have in mind has no furniture, no TV, no nothing. Nema nishta! So imagine my delight when I discovered the stash pocket on craigslist today.

Manastash! That's what I'm gonna yell now instead of Eureka.

Free big screen TV's just blocks from Tony's pad. A computer desk a few minutes from the coffee shop I'm sitting in right now. An excuse to finally learn how to play the piano. A broken refrigerator that could double as a closet for creative minds. An office chair that only slightly leans to one side when you sit on it. A box of miscellaneous goodies in case I ever decide to become a transvestite. A king size mattress for the bedroom. Baby formula for the two newborns on my second cousins' side of the family. A device for satiating my narcissistic tendencies. A chance to find some real diamonds in the rough. Toilets galore. Foam insulation scraps, so I can finally make some giant pillows like the ones we had in Tanzania!




And rocks! And rocks and dirt!

I am going to furnish my entire pad with nothing but free stuff from craigslist. And I'm going to be eating crow, because I'll need someone with a pick up truck to help. Elizabeth, my darling older sister, I apologize for all my harsh words: "Who buys trucks in 2009?" The answer is clear: someone who needs to pick up all their new free stuff from curbs all over Austin, Texas.

Man-a-freaking-stash, what a great day.

"There is a better way."

I am struggling to find the connection between the coffee, the losing of weight, and FDA approval. I really am.

BURN CALORIES AND MAKE MONEY WHILE DRINKING ORGANIC, WORLD CLASS COFFE (Austin, TX)

---

Reply to: kari72b@yahoo.com ^[?]
Date: 2009-01-28, 7:11PM CST


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This is the most explosive opportunity, backed with an FDA approved patent, to actually burn calories at 800 times the rate as if you were jogging, while you enjoy your coffee at your leisure.

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"Fetal Vodka" Guy

Some people just talk too much. They talk too much, both in volume and in content matter. My cousin's neighbor is one of those people.


The scene: my cousin's fire pit on his two-acre property in Austin.
The characters: me, my two cousins, their dad, and the neighbor who doesn't understand the concept of allowing others to speak during a conversation.


The neighbor: "So anyways, I've got this place down in Dripping Springs (a small town just outside of Austin), with a little shack on the property. I bought it a couple of years ago, because I like to go hunting and stuff down there. And one year my buddy and his wife got pregnant, so I decided to throw 'em a baby shower, ya know? But this was a baby shower that was really just an excuse for me and the guys to get together and play a little poker. So I told everyone to bring two six packs and a thing of diapers, right? Anyway, I go out there the afternoon of the shower to clean up the place -- which really meant I was clearing out a space for a walkway and the poker table -- and the phone rings. So I answer it, and while I'm talking to the guy, I see this deer walking across my property. So I tell the guy to hold on for a second, and I put the phone down, grab my gun, walk outside, shoot the deer, then pick the phone back up and continue the conversation.

"So I take the deer and tie it up so I can get ready to skin it, when my friend rolls up in his car. He's got a bunch of kids, but all of them are girls, which is why we call him the Y-less Wonder.

(I couldn't remember the difference between X and Y chromosomes, but I got the joke nonetheless, and had to give the man credit for that one, annoying as he was.)

"Anyway, the Y-less Wonder had never shot a deer before, and he asked me to show him how to properly dress one. So we string it up, and I get out the knife. And I remembered, 'It's January, she must be pregnant.' So I slice open her stomach to look inside, and I pull out a baby buck fetus..

(This is when I started looking around to the others to see if they were also a little creeped out. I got no confirmation of this. I can't tell if it was because they found it funny, or because they were pretending to find it funny.)

"It's a baby shower, remember? And what's better than a baby deer at a baby shower! So I tell the Y-less Wonder to go grab a plastic container and fill it with water, so we can preserve the fetus. But after a few minutes in the water, all this shit was floating around, and it didn't look too hot, so I dumped out the water and had my friend go grab a bottle of vodka. So we pour the vodka into the container and let the fetal buck sit in there...

(I am the only one not even pretending to find this funny at this point. I love to eat meat, but I find it sad when watching mammals die. There's just something about mammals. They have fur, and expressive eyes, and I don't know, I think it's sad, when mammals die. I don't find it gross. What I find gross is cutting mammal wombs open, taking out their feti -- what's the plural word for "fetus," by the way? -- and then preserving them in a plastic container full of alcohol. I find that to be ... disturbing.)

"So later on that night, all the guys are there and we're playing poker. And ...." (this is the part that I really don't remember: the circumstances that led to him challenging the Y-less Wonder to drink the vodka that has been poured into the container holding the bloody, dead buck fetus) ... "I told him, 'Take a shot of that vodka!'"

Me: "Wait ... you mean the vodka with the fetus in it?"

The neighbor: "Yeah." (He's expecting me to laugh at that point, but instead, I just stare at him, with the look of a person who's just heard that someone is taking sips of vodka that has been contaminated with the juices of a dead deer fetus. After sensing that his story is not being received as well as he was expecting by some members of the audience, he tries to assure us that it was a "You had to be there" type moment.) "It was fiiiine! Pretty soon everyone was drinking it.

"The fetal vodka! It was hilarious. We were all giving the Y-less Wonder shit about having all girls, saying that the fetal vodka -- remember, it was a buck -- was gonna help him conceive a boy finally. And a little while later, his wife got pregnant again."

Me: "Is it a boy?"

The neighbor: "What?"

Me: "The Y-less Wonder's kid. Is it a boy?"

The neighbor: "Oh, well it was only five weeks ago. We'll see!"

Me: "I want to hear what ends up happening with that."

The self-reinvention checklist.

There are three boxes on this nonexistent scrap of paper, with the word "Austin" underlined at the top of the page:

1) Buy a bike.
2) Find a place to live.
3) Find a job.

I have now checked off Box #1. It is a sweet, vintage road bike that I got off of craigslist.

"How much are you asking for it?"

The kid selling it, a senior at UT, is from Houston it turns out, and through our initial chit chat it was revealed that we'd grown up minutes apart from each other. He was not as excited about this as I was. Very few people can match my enthusiasm for small world moments like those, I have found time and time again.

"I was asking 175..."

"I could give you 150," I said.

He thought about it for about two seconds, and said okay. But I would have paid $175 had he resisted. Not sure if this was a steal for him or for me.

I rode it home last night in the dark, without reflectors, or proper brakes, or a helmet, or any idea of really how to operate the thing. Old school road bikes have a different system for changing gears than the bikes I was raised with. Instead of numbered clickers within reach of your thumb as you grip the handlebars, there are these two metal levers right where the base of the handlebars meets the frame of the bike. There are no numbers on these levers, both about the length of my pinkie. And there are no clicks or grooves, nothing to let you know that you've changed gears. They can be lifted up or pushed down. I have no idea what I'm doing. It's almost like riding a horse. You've really got to know your bike when it's got those levers. You've got to develop a relationship with her.

Right now, I've got no clue how to ride the thing. (That's what she said.) I feel like a 15 year old kid trying to unhook a girl's bra. I'm pedaling, CRACK! Oh my God I almost racked myself there. Pedaling... CRACK! Oh man that one hurt. Pedaling................. CRACK!

I am lucky there are no hills on this ride.

Other bikers are flying past me, the red of their reflector shrinking in size as they quickly separate from me, annoyed that I'm clogging the lane with my ineptitude. Cars zoom by. I'm just glad it's night time and no pedestrians are watching this. My brakes creak like a hardwood floor in an old Charleston home. Where the hell do I put my hands on this thing? Up top makes me feel wobbly; down low makes me think about just how far I'd aeroplane if I happened to hit a bump in the pitch black streets of Hyde Park.

But I've got a box checked off. I've got a bike. It's my first one since the Gary Fisher I had my second year in college, which was my baby. My Lindbergh baby, that is. It was stolen off the front porch of my house one afternoon, and I guess I was just in mourning for five years, until last night.

I can't wait to cruise all over this town, in style. Check out these Danish helmets I found out about.

Littering and...?

I was driving home last night when I arrived at an intersection with blinking yellow lights. The car in front of me, which was already traveling as fast as a Golden Girl on the way to her weekly bingo night, came to a complete stop. I waited patiently, since it was obvious they were simply a couple of Austin potheads. Who stops at a blinking yellow light? People who are stoned out of their minds.

After two or three seconds of indulging this absurdity, I politely tapped my horn. They uneasily inched forward a few feet, then stopped again. Parannoying. Finally I just went around them and cruised through. I saw them in the rearview cautiously continue on, going about 20 in a 30. This happened just after midnight.

If I had been a cop, that would have been bad for them.

If I had been in my friend Mike's truck, which has a police siren installed for situations exactly such as that one, it would have been great for me. I would have gone Super Troopers on their asses. ("He's already pulled over! He can't pull over any farther!")

The Land of the Free, and the Home of the Awkward Goodbye.

Is there anything that leaves you with a more lingering, stickier feeling of uneasiness and angst than when you have an awkward goodbye exchange with a girl you barely know? You go for the hug; she's trying to cheek-kiss. You extend your hand for a shake, and it turns into a ninja chop when she runs into it while going in for the hug. Or the worst: you try to kiss her cheek, and she's thinking something else, and your nose ends up Eskimo kissing her ear, and you say something like, "It was good to ... see, you ..." This happened to me today, and it took almost 45 minutes for me to get that ugh feeling off of me, the one you get when you know you just made a fool of yourself back there.

I hate unfamiliar male-female exchanges. They only happen in America.

In this country, kids hug and adults kiss. (And some adults, like The Bob, kiss women on the lips, even their cousins, which I find extremely weird.) But everyone else in between -- like me, age 24 -- floats in an undulating sea of awkwardness when it comes to gauging the level of familiarity they possess with a new friend of the opposite sex.

In Europe, it's easy: you kiss them on the cheeks. How many kisses depends on the country. In Spain, it's two. In Serbia -- at least with O.G. Zoka -- it was always just one. And in Switzerland, you give three, a custom that can become rather tedious the more people you add, as trois bisous become six, neuf ... large groups of girls in Geneva can be quite a douze-ee (yes!). They don't kiss in East Africa, but nor do they hug. Over there, it's just handshakes, or it's you gripping a woman's wrist and shaking it, if she's in the middle of cooking or cleaning and doesn't feel she can present you with her hand.

Drawbacks to the Tanzanian system: sometimes you're not trying to maintain such a rigid distance when you're running game on a pretty girl.

Drawbacks to the European kiss system: the possibility of offending those girls who look like guys. Pat would have developed a huge complex had he/she been raised across the pond. When you're meeting a What-sex-am-I?, and you guess wrong by trying to shake their hand after giving the trois bisous to all their pretty friends, you will be exposed as an asshole. This actually happened to me once in Switzerland, no joke. My friend Letitia, whose house I was staying at in Morges, invited all her basketball friends over one day, and the point guard looked more like Steve Nash than Sue Bird. I mistook her for a tag-along kid brother, slapping her palm and extending for the Genevoise fist bump. She didn't say anything, and I heard no giggling, but I still looked like a fool. I'd already dished out 12 bonjour kisses to the forwards, the center and the shooting guard, after all. I couldn't play the "What? I'm American!" card and act like I didn't know about the kissing deal.

Ten minutes later, Letitia wrote a text message on her phone and passed the 21st century version of a note to me. You can guess what it said. I pounded a few words into the keypad and passed it back her way, letting her know that she was too late. I'd already been informed of my gaffe. Tag-along Nash had boobs so big, not even a XXXL t-shirt could have concealed the bulge.

When Letitia's teammates left, I gave out 15 au revoir kisses.

I really don't care if it's kisses or handshakes, or wrist shakes, for that matter. I just want some uniformity. I want a system in place that will prevent me from going in for a kiss when she's trying for the hug, or the handshake when she's going for the kiss. I want there to be no confusion about what's coming. I want some freaking consistency in our cultural fabric.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

This isn't really related, but it still has to do with awkwardness between the sexes.

I am horrible with names. It's actually one of the parts of my personality I'm the most embarrassed about. I think it's really rude that I forget names as often as I do, and it shows a lack of respect to the person I've just met -- you weren't important enough for me to remember your name. Don't you agree?

Tonight, I had dinner with a friend, who brought a friend. And I forgot her name, less than two seconds after she told it to me.

Once again.

All dinner, I was hoping it would come up in conversation, either as the opener to a question or story from the person I did know -- ("So, Susan, I hear you ran into my friend Steve last week.") -- or as part of a story delivered by the mystery girl herself, when another person is quoted using her name -- ("And then my boss was like, 'Susan, I need you to finish this for me by the end of the day.'") This is what you're forced to resort to when you don't focus at the beginning. And guess what? Her name never came up again. I was one and done, and by the end of the dinner, there was no way I could ask for a second time.

All of us walked outside and gave our hugs -- no awkwardness here -- and I thought I had escaped without being exposed. But no: we had talked during dinner about how many people she knows here in Austin, and she had promised to help me find a job. So she offered to give me her number.

Shit.

"Sure," I said, trying to think fast. "Here." I handed her my phone. "Just type it in there."

The obvious intention being that she would save her name along with it. Oldest trick in the book.

She started punching keys, and gave it back to me. "There you go," she said.

"Thanks." I looked down: just the number. Shit. "I'll call you later," I said, knowing full well that I could not do that without a name.

I saved it as L. It's short for Later.

Obamarley.

What a cool guy.

When I was 18, Mike Tyson fought Lennox Lewis for a chance at taking back the heavyweight title. We bought the fight on Pay-Per-View. It was the summer before college.

I didn't particularly care for either fighter at the time -- I always rooted for Holyfield as a kid, since Evander lived in Houston. So I came up with a simple way of assigning my loyalty for the night, a method that was only a little less impartial than flipping a coin.

"Whoever has the best entry music when they're walking into the ring," I said. "That's who I'm rooting for."

This was during the period of my life when I had this irrational obsession with all things DMX. I didn't even listen to hip hop that much. I wore cowboy boots, and belt buckles, and fashioned myself to be a real Texan man. But I loved DMX. I knew all the words to too many of his songs. Stop! Drop! Shut 'em down open up shop! Ohhhh! Noooo! Dat's how Ruff Ryders rollll! Boom! not anymore. Cuz now you on the floor, wishin' you never saw, me walk through that door, with dat .44. Mind yo business lady!! I swear that was from memory and spontaneous. This is only evidence of how much I really did love the scary man from Yonkers.

My last year of high school, though, was when I first started to listen to Bob Marley. My thing with DMX was based as much upon a joke as it was in the fact that I actually liked his music. My thing with Bob Marley was a little more authentic, as time has shown.

So Tyson came out first, since he was the contender. Iron Mike was long gone at this point, and his career was fading fast. I think it was shortly before he tattooed that tribal business on his face, and before his bankruptcy. The man trying to take the title belt that night still scared people with his ability to end it in one punch, though. And he had a freshly shaved head. When he rolled out to whatever DMX song it was that was popular in the summer of 2002, I pumped my fist, for we had a winner. "Let's go Tyson!"

Then the lights dimmed for the champ, Lennox Lewis.

I love the bass. The bass is the heart beat of reggae music. It's the instrument that moves me. And I knew exactly what song it was before a word was uttered, because of the bass.

"Dem crazy..."

Doo duh doo dooooo....

"Dem crazy..."

"LET'S GO LENNOX LEWIS!" I yelled as I shot to my feet, while Lewis walked with a menacing frown on his face, slowly, deliberately, with confidence, his heart beat in tune with the bass. Bob Marley trumps DMX every day of the week.

The irony of the lyrics, "Didn't my people before me, slave for this country?" is that in the Brit's case, no, no they didn't. Mike's people before him slaved for this country.

"We gonna chase those crazy baldheads, out of town..."

Lennox Lewis has long dread locks by the way. And he knocked Tyson out early. I have loved him ever since.

I always loved that Barack Obama; it had nothing to do with his taste in music. This video simply makes me feel that much better about the fact that he is my president.




Watch the video. Just watch it.

Our president is just cool. Straight up, cool.

I got two text messages about it before I left the house today, both from friends who live in D.C. Chase's was the best:

One love at the concert you have to be kidding me!

I thought about Garland, my little sister, who I consider to be a failed reggae protege but a success in the Obama department, and texted her to ask if she had seen it on TV.

I was there

I had forgotten she was going to D.C., but I was happy to hear that. What a great memory for her to have. Garland at the one love concert you have to be kidding me!

The final days of innocence for the great black hope. A time we'll be able to look back on one day and say, "Wasn't that nice?" Our soon to be president, braving the January cold and bobbing his head, smiling, as two celebrities give their rendition of the ultimate up beat and hopeful song (even though there are some lyrics about the Armageddon that most people don't know about), right before he takes office and inherits and big pile of shit known as the next four years.

Watch the video. And go to the two minute mark to watch Barack smile, as Will.I.Am freestyles:
"Man you gotta have love we can set it straight. Take control of your mind and meditate..."

To all my European friends, I ask one question: How do you like us now?

Five days ago, I became that guy. The one who quit a high paying job in January 2009, a month that will be looked back on in history as the time right before the shit really hit the fan. I quit my job in Houston, where I was living rent free, and moved to Austin, where I enter as an unemployed drifter who is trying to start all over, from scratch.

That guy is either an idiot or a genius; brave or simply scared of things besides the normal fears someone gets when they're nearing the big quarter century mark.

I don't play poker or bet on sports, but I still love to gamble.

The last time I made an impulsive decision to move somewhere, I was in Serbia, and I was committing the next year of my life to a start up NGO in Tanzania -- an extremely elaborate way of hitting the snooze button just one more time. I didn't know where Tanzania was exactly, nor did I know the girl who was hiring me. But I knew the dude I was going with, my best friend, and I knew what we'd be doing, chilling in Africa. That was enough for me. My dad was not happy with this logic: "You need to think first," he said, before making such crazy decisions. So imagine my delight when I found out the school we'd be working at was called Fikiria Kwanza Academy, "Think First" Academy in Swahili. There were several times when I thought about the irony of that situation, and thought that maybe, just maybe, The Bob had been right. I had a bad relationship with my boss, I felt overwhelmed in a foreign land with people I just couldn't understand, and I was not getting paid for any of it. I had not fikiria'd kwanza, and I was being made to understand why that was a bad decision.

And then, things worked out, just like they almost always do. Africa changed the way I view everything: humanity, right and wrong, life, death, the world, and trying to picture who I would be today without that experience makes me shudder with fear at what might have been, and happiness at what is.

"Every single decision I've ever made that scared the hell out of me," I said to a friend the day I packed my car and left Houston, "has been the right one." I was terrified to leave my home, even though I knew I had to. The fear was even greater than what gripped me as I boarded my flight to Europe, or to Africa, as crazy as that sounds. There's just so much more uncertainty this time around. That's how I knew I was doing the right thing.

Times will probably get tough here. I will be working jobs less than what might be expected of someone with a degree from UVa. I will be struggling to make ends meet for a while, as I'm writing, reading, and trying to get back in shape for the first time in a long time. And I'll be continuing to search for the words to the questions I feel trying to burst out from within my soul, questions paired with answers that can't be explained with words.

"Though my days are filled with sorrow," Bob Marley once said, "I see there a bright tomorrow."

Seen.

Hunter went back to Tanzania last Monday, and I saw it as a sign: it was time for me to leave, too. I had been "thinking about" moving to so many places for so many months -- ever since I got home from Africa, really -- and I wasn't doing anything about it. The job I had while living in my old room was a blessing, as was the opportunity to spend some much needed time with my family, but when Hunter left, I realized it was time. If you don't catch yourself, you can think about something for ten years before you wake up. And ten years is a long time.

I am that guy. That guy who is smiling right now.

Ray Maualuga, thank you for this, the greatest sports moment in the history of YouTube. I am a jealous man.

My high school is ranked No. 1 in the state of Texas for basketball. Is yours?

Maybe you should go to espn.com and check. Oh wait, no, that story is just about Strake Jesuit College Preparatory, the most gangsta school in H-Town.

Thoughts:

1) Joey Brooks, the big man pictured in the article, who recently committed to playing at Notre Dame.

(cue the Notre Dame fight music)

He is the same age as my little sister Garland, a senior at the girls school next door, St. Agnes. Garland is also the captain of the Strake cheerleading team. Joey used to like Garland during their freshman year. She turned him down, stupidly.

"G" is for "Good God what a terrible mistake that was."

Don't blame me. I encouraged her to date him.

"Garland, you gotta LOCK THIS KID DOWN," I implored. "He is going to play in the NBA." I actually saw him play when he was just in eighth grade for St. Anne's, and he was nasty then, too. "Sure, if you marry someone who plays in the NBA, he'll probably cheat on you, which could lead to divorce, heartache and personal embarrassment. But as long as you don't sign a pre-nup, you're good; these things fade with time. Then you can go find love, blah blah blah, while BANK ROLLING."

"Bayless," she said, "No."

Selfishly, she refused. Now she and Joey are just "friends." They text one another.

G is for Good move, Garland. Joey will be starring at Notre Dame next year while you'll be dating some loser who is just going to graduate from college and look for a normal job.

My older sister Elizabeth lives in Corpus.

She enjoys cooking, talking about chips, going on college football and baseball trips, and punching.

Elizabeth used to get with Matt Albers, who was then in the Houston Astros minor league system, before making it to the big show.

$$$

He gave her one of his XXL MLB t-shirts, which she wore in front of me in Istanbul, the equivalent to a flashing neon sign saying that she dates a Major League Baseball player. Albers pitches for Baltimore now, and had a 3.49 ERA last season in 49 innings pitched. She, too, let the big fish off the hook.

What is wrong with my sisters? Have they no financial sense?


2) Strake's president and CEO Father Lahart, a close family friend, was quoted in the story in regards to whether or not Strake recruits:

"No one is assigned to us," he said. "The tuition is substantial. All of our aid is need-based, and there are no athletic scholarships. We look for excellent students who believe in our mission from across the Houston metropolitan area."

Right. As in, "We really have a need at the small forward position."

"I believe we should know each other."

Sometimes, I think God was stoned when I was being created. We all know -- well, most of us know -- how difficult sequential activities are under those circumstances. You start something, you pause, what was I doing again?, and all is lost. I think when it was my turn to be born, he got started on making a girl, paused, what was I creating again? And out came a boy.

Which explains why I am horrible with directions, have extremely soft hands and am much more prone to crying than most men.

I also enjoyed the book Eat, Pray, Love. Immensely.

I didn't used to be such a cry baby, except for when I was a baby. Things that used to just send chills up my spine and give me goosebumps often times drive my eyes to moisten these days. It's almost like I'm aging preternaturally fast, with emotional instability the step right before full blown dementia. Or it could just be a simple case of genetics. The Bob cried at the end of Armageddon when we went to see it one summer while I was in junior high. I almost cried at the end of Slumdog Millionaire. For the men in my family, I'm not sure P is for Parsley.

Yesterday, though, I heard a story on NPR's "All Things Considered" that really did it to me. And I'm not ashamed. Because it was a story about a man who understands what it's all about. And I hope to meet him some day, while breaking bread and telling stories.

Jim Haynes lives in Paris. Every Sunday, for the past 30 years, he has hosted a dinner at his home, open to the public. Anyone who wants to come may come. It is a weekly expo of self-inviters. I cannot believe I was in Paris three years ago and did not know about this. I am tempted to drop everything just to fly over there this Saturday, so that I can meet Jim Haynes.




Here is a transcript of his story. If you've got the time, I suggest you listen to the actual program. It's much more personal:


Every week for the past 30 years, I've hosted a Sunday dinner in my home in Paris. People, including total strangers, call or e-mail to book a spot. I hold the salon in my atelier, which used to be a sculpture studio. The first 50 or 60 people who call may come, and twice that many when the weather is nice and we can overflow into the garden.

Every Sunday a different friend prepares a feast. Last week it was a philosophy student from Lisbon, and next week a dear friend from London will cook.

People from all corners of the world come to break bread together, to meet, to talk, connect and often become friends. All ages, nationalities, races, professions gather here, and since there is no organized seating, the opportunity for mingling couldn't be better. I love the randomness.

I believe in introducing people to people.

I have a good memory, so each week I make a point to remember everyone's name on the guest list and where they're from and what they do, so I can introduce them to each other, effortlessly. If I had my way, I would introduce everyone in the whole world to each other.

People are most important in my life. Many travelers go to see things like the Tower of London, the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower and so on. I travel to see friends, even — or especially — those I've never met.

In the late '80s, I edited a series of guidebooks to nine Eastern European countries and Russia. There were no sights to see, no shops or museum to visit; instead, each book contained about 1,000 short biographies of people who would be willing to welcome travelers in their cities. Hundreds of friendships evolved from these encounters, including marriages and babies.

This same can be said for my Sunday salon. At a recent dinner, a 6-year-old girl from Bosnia spent the entire evening glued to an 8-year-old boy from Estonia. Their parents were surprised, and pleased, by this immediate friendship.

There is always a collection of people from all over the globe. Most of them speak English, at least as a second language. Recently a dinner featured a typical mix: a Dutch political cartoonist, a beautiful painter from Norway, a truck driver from Arizona, a bookseller from Atlanta, a newspaper editor from Sydney, students from all over, and traveling retirees.

I have long believed that it is unnecessary to understand others, individuals or nationalities; one must, at the very least, simply tolerate others. Tolerance can lead to respect and, finally, to love. No one can ever really understand anyone else, but you can love them or at least accept them.

Like Tom Paine, I am a world citizen. All human history is mine. My roots cover the earth.

I believe we should know each other. After all, our lives are all connected.

OK, now come and dine.

Go to his website, www.jim-haynes.com. I spent over an hour on it this morning, reading his entire life story, as written by his own hand, in short blurbs, from the year of his birth, 1933, to the present. It is truly amazing. Born in Shreveport, Louisiana, an LSU dropout, years in Edinburgh, London, Amsterdam, Paris, starting newspapers and publishing houses and theaters, and all the while, traveling the world, meeting people, developing friendships. His parents lived in Houston in their later years. He's been to Belgrade many times. He loves stories and people and understands that we are all citizens of the world, not countries. Jim and I would have a lot to talk about.

If I make it to old age, I can only hope to write something like this:

I had my 75th birthday in November in Calcutta. One feels the Grim Reaper is about to knock on the door anyday now. Yet I feel still young, still excited by life, still ready for love, adventure, projects, friends new and old. Send me your news. Better still bring me your news. I will have another bed in any new place acquired. You are always welcome. May 2009 bring you much joy. And may the world stop fighting…

In the TV room at my parents' house, there is a huge map of the world plastered onto the wall. It's actually wallpaper, made by National Geographic. I had the same thing stuck on my bedroom wall as a child, in our old house on Brompton, with the Soviet Union outlined in red. I wonder if it was a given at the National Geographic office that the USSR would be outlined in red. The house my parents live in today was built five years after the end of the Cold War, and on the new map, it's Russia that is outlined in that menacing, communist color. Things may be a bit different on this new map, but it's the same as the old in one important way: it still shows the same big world.




I love to stare at it. I always have. When I was a kid, I stared at it and dreamed about places I would go one day, when I was grown. When I stare at the wall today, it's with different eyes, still dreaming, but more about the places I've been, rather than just places I'd like to see. I draw invisible lines with those eyes around Europe, around the Balkans and Turkey, with a few dots in Asia, and a small sliver around East Africa and up into parts of Ethiopia. My invisible circles seem so small when drawn on the wall. They only make me realize how little of the human story I've actually experienced so far.

There are so many places in the world. There are so many people. Every single one of those people has a life, which is simply a four letter word for a bunch of stories, bundled together and constantly unfolding into a single, succinct drama. All of these dramas together form the greater human story, the thing I yearn to know as I stare at that wall. It's just a map, but it's what the map represents that captures me. The world is simply billions of unfolding dramas known as human lives, which are simply trillions of little stories, and each person is at the center of the overarching saga: the Story, with a capital S. It is deflating to realize that it's impossible for everyone to be the main character of the Story, because that means that you can't be the main character. But it's also uplifting, because you realize that you can be, and that we all are.

When I was a little kid, around kindergarten age, I used to think about God, and the universe, and what it meant when my dad would answer my questions about things that have no answer. He kindly explained that God had no beginning and no end. That's what it meant when we talked about eternity, and Heaven, and all the other mind blowing concepts that a six-year-old isn't expected to contemplate after saying his nightly prayers. It wasn't scary or overwhelming, since my dad seemed to understand it perfectly. It's just that God never began; nor would God ever end. And if you lived a good life and said your prayers, you would never end, either. That was a nice thought, because I certainly didn't want to end. It made perfect sense to me as a six-year-old, much more than it does to me today at 24.

The reason it made sense back then is because I realized what must happen: all of us -- each and every one of us -- must get to live the entire life of every single other person who has ever lived on the planet. Not just the six billion living on the planet today, but every life that has ever been lived, ever, in human history -- meaning that what seemed like a beginning and ending story was actually The Neverending Story. We all got to live all those lives, which, when added all up, explained eternity. I get to live your entire life; you get to live mine. I get to live your mother's entire life; she gets to live your father's. I get to live the entire life of the man who lived in my neighbor's house before I was born; he gets to live the entire life of a woman who lived in Italy 300 years ago. I get to live the entire life of a Chinese person who lived 1,000 years ago; and so on and so forth.

Forever and ever, amen.

Do you see? That's what my dad meant when he told me that there was no beginning and no end. And when it was all said and done, we would all end up being not me and you and she and he, but the same person, because we'd all know everyone's stories, and thus, we'd all know the same Story. Heady stuff, isn't it? I thought this when I was six.

Back then, the coolest part of this whole belief was that it guaranteed I'd get to be Michael Jordan at least once. Of course, I wasn't too stoked on being Hitler, but I figured that when it came my turn to be Hitler, I'd do things a little differently, since he wasn't very nice to people.

I also used to wonder whether or not what I believed to be my life was actually a dream I was having while asleep in my real kindergarten class somewhere else, in some other year, as someone else entirely. I think my parents fed me peyote as a child.

Why did I stop believing things like this? Maybe I never did. Maybe I still believe it. Maybe that's my understanding of God.

Maybe that's what causes me to close my eyes and take those breaths, deep and contemplative breaths, that fill my body not with oxygen but with passion -- to learn, and live and experience, not just my story, but everyone's stories. The Story. Maybe that's why I still love to stare at that wall, and always will.

Tanzania, Mwindaji anarudi.

Hunter is going back to Tanzania on Monday.

Lakini bado kidogo.

Mwindaji (the literal translation for Hunter in Swahili) won't be working for the same organization this time around, nor will he be returning to Arusha, but he'll be working there for another year, out in Monduli, in Maasai lands, for a group that he actually believes in, and a boss he believes in.

And he'll be working with kids, once again.

Which may be a good or a bad thing, depending on how you feel about his treatment of Deriki in this video from Patandi.

I'm glad Hunter's going back to being Mwindaji, because it will give me an excuse to go visit. And it will give me a way to keep my Swahili fresh, because you know Mwindaji's only going to get better at it while mine slips away from memory. (I freaked out last night when I couldn't remember the word for "half," but this morning, the first thing that popped into my head was nusu.)

"Imekuwa nyumbani," someone once said to me after I told him how long the two of us had been in Tanzania. "It's become home." For Hunter, I'd say that is the case.

Au, what a pair

Some friends of my parents came over with their eighth grade son this afternoon, and it came up in conversation that they have a 21-year-old German au pair living at their house to help out with their two younger children. "Sort of that fair skinned, extremely blonde, north German look," they said. "Close to Scandinavian. She is very pretty."

I'm a world traveler. I love German frauleins.

"Man," I said, looking at the kid eight years my junior as he sat on the couch, "the ole 21-year-old German nanny, eh?" All that was missing was the double pump elbow jab and the wink. He gave a meek smile, and nodded. His mother was sitting less than two feet away. "I wouldn't mind meeting that girl," I said to his father.

"Oh really? Yeah, she's kind of a bigger girl."

I'm not sure if that was meant to deter me or encourage me from doing so.

All of the sudden, I felt like a suitor at some German baron's castle during the Thirty Years' War, back when the premium on a protein filled diet meant the bigger the better was the name of the game. Kind of a bigger girl? Why would he tell me this in such context? I'm certainly not "kind of a bigger guy."

"What does that mean?" I asked, without trying to sound too superficial. "Like how big are we talking?"

He shot a look at his wife, who took it as a cue to remind me of how pretty she was.

"She's very pretty."

"Right," I said, "but what, is she like a tight end or something?"

In my experience, the best system of describing girls is by equating their body types to the position they'd likely fill on a football field if they were dudes. Fullbacks, Wes Welker's, offensive lineman, linebackers -- everyone knows what I'm talking about here. Including the dad sitting to my right.

"Yeah, like a small tight end," he said, nodding his approval. I looked at his son, who was also nodding.

What I picture when I picture a tight end.

I'd be more interested in a Marvin Harrison type girl.

"Son, go to the car and grab my phone so we can show Bayless a picture," his mother said.

"Do you want her phone number?" the father asked.

I certainly did when we were focusing on the blondeness, and the Germanness, and the 21-year-old au pairness. But now? Now that I was picturing Jeremy Shockey sprichening zie Deutsch?

"Uhhh..." I muttered, awkwardly, since I had never met these people until today, "I was kind of joking..."

"Oh."

The son came back into the house with the cell phone a few minutes later, but it did not have a picture.

"I'll let her know you might be calling her today," the mother said when they got up to leave an hour afterwards. "She loves to go out and have fun."

I'm sure she does. Just like Jeremy Shockey.

Not quite Fort Knox

I'll admit it: I didn't think it was possible. When the bartender at Eddie George Grille said it'd be "easier to break into Fort Knox than break into that thing," I didn't find his prediction to be that bold. Did not think that the second largest university in America, The Ohio State University, would just leave their football stadium, The Horseshoe, open to the public, and allow us to just stroll right in on the second day of the New Year.




But thanks to Chase and Wes, who don't take no for an answer, that's exactly what we did.

(Dave, a Jersey kid who models himself after the Big O in his rap alter ego, was scared to go on the field. He thought we would get in trouble. Real tough, Dave. Real tough.)






I know, Colt McCoy had a great pass to Quan Cosby to beat Ohio State in the Fiesta Bowl two nights ago. But you didn't see the pass I threw to Tom, from 20 yards out at The Horseshoe three days earlier. It was like Brian Griese to Charles Woodson, circa 1997. Buckeye killers.

I also made a sick touchdown grab of my own, with the sun in my eyes, Tener in my dust, and nothing but red around my feet as I ran across the end zone.

Tom, Wes and I dominated the home team in three-on-three. Then we all took turns kicking field goals.




The best part of my entire trip to Columbus was coming away from it with a new go to line. For the rest of my life, every time I see a kicker miss a field goal of 40 yards or less, whether during a college or pro game, I'll say to the television in disgust, "Even DAVE can make that kick!"

And any time a kicker misses an extra point?

"Looks like Wes."

If only the woman who watched us play from the stands had been able to understand that no, I didn't want her to zoom in like so, I would have had a great panoramic shot of us inside the O.







P.S. Tom, a.k.a. K-Fed, has an earring.




And also, we found out that Ohio's real claim to fame, now that their football team is officially unable to win big bowl games, is that it is home to the first Wendy's.




Which is now closed.

OMG, African orphans are so in this season!

The NGO I worked for in Tanzania is now advertising the plight of poor African orphans on a gossip website. Here is the link.

And here are my favorite parts:

1) That there was an ad for a porn site at the top the first time I clicked on it.

2) That after three flippant or negative comments about the fact that PerezHilton.com would promote a charity (instead of its usual activity of talking about Lindsay Lohan and epitomizing all that is shallow about American culture), an "anonymous" reader with the exact same initials as the person who runs the NGO leaves the first positive comment. Hmmm...

3) That the girl who left comment #14 gave herself the username Tulisa. She meant to write Tuliza, which is Swahili for "relax." But she misspelled it.

My friend Becky just told me a story about a girl she met the other day who has a similar story, her twist being that she got a tattoo on her foot that says "Walk with Love" in Swahili: Tembea na Upendo. Only, the tattoo artist misspelled it. Her foot says Kutembea na Pendo.

OMG, I wonder if Perez will write about that.