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Most of you have probably heard — repeatedly — that I spent some time in bonny Scotland, back in the mid-90’s. I have many fond memories of my time there, and most involve my friend and immediate supervisor, Richie. Luckily, through the internet, Richie and I have managed to remain in touch for the dozen or so years since I departed that magical land of haggis, kilts, and bagpipes.

I often mention that, upon first arriving in Glasgow, I spent my first two weeks saying little other than, “Pardon?” The Glaswegian accent is notoriously impenetrable, and I was proud it took only two weeks of stumbling around in complete and utter confusion before I managed to develop a passable ear for it.

Although I may have developed an ear for the accent, it is clear that Google Voice’s wonderful — and often unintentionally hilarious — voicemail transcription service has not, as Richie’s recent message so beautifully illustrates. I would like to point out that it often transcribes messages flawlessly. As you will see below, however, sometimes it does not…

Google’s guess:

Called the. I’m on my way number consulate work. Hey man, or go to corporate overview certain chills buddy bye.

It wouldn’t make you feel any better, I suppose, if I told you that I’ve been writing a lot lately? How about if I added that I’ve been reading in like amount?

No? I hadn’t thought so.

Uggh.

Well, I promise to try to do better in future. Will that do?

Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.

– Ada Limón

So. Passion Pit. Manners. I’m embarrassed that it took me so long to give these guys a listen, but over the last month or so, I haven’t been able to quit this album. And frankly, I shouldn’t want to.

This song, which I blipped yesterday, is one of my favorites on the album. Why am I posting it here? Well, it played as Taters, Lady Taters, Volyu and myself drove through a sunny Saturday morning (to what would be a delicious brunch), and it perfectly framed the satisfaction I felt in that moment, how completely right things are.

My face blew up at such a casual sight,
The smattered colors of ecstatic fright,
The rush above me to oblivion
Outlining wet sidewalks in halogen.

Have you ever felt so goddamned strong?
How come it takes some people so damn long?
He turned to squeeze the lemon juice to rain,
The citrus drawing out the scene in stains…

1.
Where what I see comes to rest,
at the edge of the lake,
against what I think I see

and, up on the bank, who I am
maintains an uneasy truce
with who I fear I am,

while in the cabin’s shade the gap between
the words I said
and those I remember saying

is just wide enough to contain
the remains that remain
of what I assumed I knew.

2.
Out in the canoe, the person I thought you were
gingerly trades spots
with the person you are

and what I believe I believe
sits uncomfortably next to
what I believe.

When I promised I will always give you
what I want you to want,
you heard, or desired to hear,

something else. As, over and in the lake,
the cormorant and its image
traced paths through the sky.

–Troy Jollimore

Need to blog more, and by God, do I have a lot to talk about.

But first, food.

[ OBLIGATORY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE SHOCKING LACK OF POSTS OVER THE LAST TWO MONTHS ]

If you’ve ever read lorem ipsum before (and let’s face it, odds are real good that you have), you know that I struggle to post when I feel dull, and I am in the middle of good ol’ dull swing right now. I’m like that old guy at the bar who can’t stop talking about something almost malicious in its disinterestingness…like, say, the personal histories of backup infielders who played for the Brooklyn Dodgers, 1947 - 1955. I can’t seem to string together thirty words to post here without boring myself, let alone less involved observers. Worry not, however. To everyone’s great edification and enrichment, I will force myself to write anyway. I figure, if I have to be bored thinking this crap, why not make you bored reading it? Misery loves company, etc etc.

Personally, I blame the microblogging phenomenon.

At any rate, it occurs to me that I could just use someone else’s amusing writing, in lieu of my own. To that end, here is an excerpt from an email I received this morning, from my friend Toby, describing his harrowing experience traveling from his native Britain to Miami, for his sister’s wedding. The entire email is hysterically funny, and I would not be ill-advised to post the entire thing, but it is rather long, so I will just make do with the final paragraph and postscript. Enjoy.

Long-haul flights are also mind numbingly dull, and when I fly out to Seattle I’m going to try and get an aisle seat. Having a window seat seems like it would be really fucking awesome until you remember that the Ocean is really fucking big and correspondingly really fucking dull (at least from 38000 feet in the air), and that getting to the toilet, or just out into the aisle to stretch your legs, is really fucking difficult. I did get round to watching Liam Neeson Ruins Everyone’s Shit (released under the title “Taken” in some countries), and it was a lot of fun. I also watched Watchmen again and although it doesn’t improve with repeated viewings at least it’s 3 hours long and ever-so-slightly more interesting than staring at the ocean for the same amount of time. Dr. Manhattan’s cock was blurred out, though, which took away a lot of the interest.

P.s. Mountain Dew is like the worst thing ever.

Indeed it is, Toby. Indeed it is.

If you know me (and you probably do), you know how much I enjoy the recent renaissance of Saturday Night Live. The Lonely Island’s “Digital Shorts” are a big reason for that; they are almost always hilariously profane, and are consistently among the best bits of each episode. And although I experienced last night’s short in less-than-ideal circumstances, its jaw-dropping ridiculousness and vulgarity once again makes it one of the highlights of my week.

Normally, when linking a Digital Short, I’d quote some lyrics — or give some backstory — to explain exactly what amuses me about the joke. But this video, the sequel to an inarguable classic, chronicles the world’s two most thoughtful gift-givers…this time, as they plan for Mother’s Day.

Is any further explanation really necessary?

It’s a time-honored tradition of mine to shirk my blogging during periods of intense activity, most generally when I am feeling quite happy and content. I don’t see the blog as a conveyance for people’s anguish, but I think most people tend to post when they are feeling introspective, and happy people are simply less introspective, as a rule.

Also, the advent of Twitter hasn’t exactly stoked my desire to write full-length blogs.

So what news have I, from the last three months or so?

In a word, Aleena. Although she met an unusually large number of my friends (in other words, you), I spoke about her very, very little. I highly doubt very many people — even those who met her — have actually heard even half of the whole story. So here it is, folks, the narrative of Aleena and Eric.

Now, some of you might know that Aleena was my first date after Emma and I split for good following the holidays. Right from the start, “our thing” was kind of odd. A good bit of our first date, for example, was spent listening to her detail the many reasons I would be wise to avoid dating her: “I’m fickle. I lie. I cheat.” As it would turn out, I only ever had experience with the first. At any rate, the date was…odd. We spent about three hours at the bar, then went back to her place for perfectly platonic Guitar Hero-ing. The next morning, she invited me over and made me some amazing Eggs Benedict.

Aleena and I met online, which is not what I would consider standard for me, despite my having met a couple exes in a similar manner. Yet even online, our interaction was different than what I’m used to. When I casually asked her to entertain me with a story, anticipating perhaps some embarrassing tale from her childhood, she responded instead with what became the first installment of a dual-narrated story of a librarian and a detective/thug (found HERE, HERE, and HERE). That unanticipated but impressive bit of cleverness and creativity went a long way in shoring up my interest, even long after the storytelling stopped. It also served as a sort of Cliff’s Notes for things near to her heart: small towns, cabins in the woods, jobs involving learning and helping other people find what they’re looking for. Oh, and the occasional drink.

Things with Aleena were…well, they were in a constant state of flux, much like the woman herself. After a week or so of hanging out following our first date, we decided we weren’t really interested in each other romantically. We still hung out, though, and it wasn’t long before we fell back into an intentionally vague, semi-romantic friendship. This pattern of splitting and reuniting would continue right up until our last, final split. Neither one of us was used to having someone so close and so available, I think, and our shared interests combined with our modest demands and complementary natures to generate a sort of romantic gravity, which — time and time again — pulled us back into each other’s arms, and which, sadly, also precludes any sort of non-romantic relationship between us.

She represented a huge departure for me, in many ways. First, I introduced her to many of my friends (some of whom we spent quite a lot of time with), despite my standard habit of compartmentalizing my social and romantic lives as much as possible. This was AMAZING! They loved her and she loved them, and it was extremely fulfilling to me to see her engage them so handily and happily. Next, she wasn’t my “type”, just as I wasn’t hers. This proved another wonderful experience, though, as when I really grew to appreciate and respect her deeply, she became as much my “type” in my eyes as anyone I’ve ever met.

I never expected to fall in love again so soon after Emma. I certainly never expected it with Aleena, who totally backed into it, through many isolated episodes of endearment and affection. When I really realized the depth of my feelings for her, in early April, I was taken by surprise. But it was a pleasant surprise, and despite the recent turn and the eventual outcome, I do not regret it.

We shared a lot of great experiences, stories, fantasies, and dreams. We had a mutual love of Jeopardy!, SNL (I’M ON A BOAT!), “hangover brunches”, Northern Exposure, and booze of all varieties. We made crazy plans…some involving “treeboathouses”, roadtrips to Roslyn, and — in one touching email — leaving Seattle to teach at a rural school somewhere together. But really, we just took it really, really easy, most times, and enjoyed each other without expectation or complication.

I did my part to torpedo the relationship, just as she did. Most especially, my reaction to her recent “down time”…when her depression began to wear me down, I compensated with a thickheaded need to overtalk every single issue I perceived in our relationship. And I of course compounded that by beginning to see issues in pretty much everything. Ooops.

At any rate, taken all-in-all, Aleena was a funny, amusing, engaging person, a wonderful companion with whom I enjoyed a great deal in common, and someone who is most likely far more intelligent and creative than either she or those around her might realize. Our ridiculously complementary natures made pretty much any shared activity both highly amusing and fantastically relaxing. I never really felt I had to watch myself with her, and she felt likewise; we were able to “be ourselves” around each other very quickly, which I think is new for both of us. She is a people-pleaser to the bone, and it seems to me that nothing makes her happier than to make a friend, partner, or loved one smile, laugh, or feel loved and appreciated. To complete the canvas, however, she is also a fickle, indecisive, erratic person, and someone who is capable of being both dishonest and extremely shallow (although I honestly believe she both recognizes and hates those aspects of herself). A person of extremely generous spirit, she also struggles constantly with her habit of putting others’ needs before her own, and sometimes overcompensates with resentful jags of nitpicking or selfishness. The two biggest issues I had with her were fairly major, sadly. First, her fear of making people unhappy or putting them out makes it extremely hard for her to ask for or accept support when she needs it; during a recent period of work, school, and family stress, she became intensely low, but hid it as much as possible from even the closest of her friends. In other words, she pushes everyone away, but invariably feels lonely and unloved because of her self-imposed isolation. Second, in a sort of correlate of the first, she struggles with openness about things that are angering or upsetting her, which causes her to avoid problems or — often — lie about them outright, in a sort of “wait-and-see-if-it-goes-away” approach.

So no, Aleena — “Leensy” — was not perfect. She’s a lovely, hilarious bundle of vulgarity, goodwill, and generosity, who’s simply out of practice in relationships, and whose overwhelming concern with maintaining the goodwill of others just presents a few roadblocks to happy ones in her future. She’s a tenacious little number, though, who underestimates her own faculties…I have every confidence she’ll end up with the happiness and fulfillment she so richly deserves.

Every so often, just about everyone will find an “ear worm”, a particular song that bores its way so completely into whatever bits of your brain are responsible for storing and collating tunes that it takes days — sometimes weeks — to work its way back out again.

Sometimes, a one of these ear worms sticks around so long that it comes to define a period of your life, tying itself directly or obliquely into handfuls of memories and recollections from that particular time. Sargasso Trio’s “Heels on Fire” did this for me, last spring…and for a number of reasons.

First, story. I mean, the history of this band is great. They met, of all places, in a village brass band, in Norwich, England. Not just any kind of brass band, though…a samba brass band. And this origin definitely — and deliciously — makes itself known in the sound of this song.

Next, tone. I love danceable, catchy music that has both a toe-tapping beat, and a sense of joy, whimsy, and energy. “Heels on Fire” has all of those things, in spades. You often hear it said, and in this case it’s completely true: if you can listen to this song and not in some way dance (or at least move semi-rhythmically), you are dead. Also, I don’t want to know you.

Last (and this is more of a footnote than anything else), it has a kind of adorable video. While I’m sure some people may find it offensive, I will simply let the YouTube poster’s brief description do the talking: “Man freaks out to ‘Heels On Fire’, leaving beautiful shapes and colours wherever he goes.”

And really, how can you not love a song whose video can be so described?

I watch you shake it ’round the room,
Out the window, to the moon.
Everyone here would like a piece of you;
I’m just interested in the way you move.

Sometimes it takes a little push
To get some movement in your tush.
But it’s all worth it when the crowd applauds,
And you just shake your ass and thank the Lord!