Loving Time With My Heart: 2022 in Review

Reading my journals at each year’s conclusion used to be a rite of passage into the future’s hangover, as integral to New Year’s Eve as champagne, single-use numerically shaped glasses, and date rape (not involving me, no ma’am). As my entries grew in length and introspection, I elected to keep running lists to peruse instead as both a time-saving measure and sanity protector. The old is prone to forcing its way back into being new again: a handful of days ago I peered into the black volume housing this year’s January/February entries intending to record notes while reexamining all 365 days.

Highlights arrived quickly: watching Sue maniacally air drum and headbang as a Judas Priest Turbo cassette played during a ride home—she pleaded that we take a detour because she wanted to hear the entire B side before unpacking the car and wiping off the mascara snaking onto her chin—along with my half-hearted proposal to forgo any carnal activities for Lent occurred before January’s midway point. “You don’t even know what Lent is!” Sue rebutted on Aphrodite’s behalf. However, the brief once-over wasn’t administering a shred of cathartic inspiration. I allocate enough time to re-reading my blog entries during the editing process; the act of re-reading everything I’d written felt self-indulgent even for this Narcissus(-adjacent!) disciple. (Two Greek references already, huh?)

During an exercise bike ride the necessary revelation arrived, as it usually does. I set down the golf book I was reading (more on that later) and scribbled incoherencies onto the idea notepad beside my bottled water. Maybe the things that stood out in my mind most were what mattered, not the forgotten anecdotes, as funny as they were: “Witness the pomelo, an intimidatingly large fruit with the world’s thickest skin housing the tiniest of citrus. I’ve never seen so much hype for so little return.” That was another Sue gem, and let’s be clear: maybe I wanted to avoid once again praising Sue when this was supposed to be about my year, dammit! (She was spot on about that imposter grapefruit nonetheless.)

Where do I begin but with a Major Life Event: starting a new job. My third tenure at Music Outlet concluded on June 26th, a shift I’d told a mere handful of customers would mark my departure. Having endured a fanfare-rife retirement nearly eleven years to the day prior—even resigning for a ticketing job then as well—made me uninterested in a sequel. I played carefully selected LPs, had a final paid chat with my pal Bruce, and laughed throughout my valedictory end of day phone call with Gary, informing him I’d exit via the back door so I could leave my store key behind.

I was convinced that my retirement from the ticket world occurred in July 2018, but after searching and failing to apply for a job that interested me and paid enough in the first six months of 2022, I got hired by my new boss three days after we spoke for a casual half hour. My last ticketing boss (Brian), the man who gifted me the job, had apparently sung my praises so highly beforehand that I barely had to engage in convincing the new guy (Jerry) of my worth. He offered me more money than I ballparked, permitted me to be his first work-from-home employee, and hired another guy referred by Brian to start the same day as me. There would be no inbound phone calls—disputes were resolved via email—and aside from company-wide chats, I could listen to music for countless hours per day.

Summer was slow, intermittently allowing too much time to live in my head pointlessly worrying that termination was imminent, but Jerry kept insisting I visit Miami so we could meet in person. He wanted to discuss a potential business plan for the fall requiring skills I’d honed in the industry, inviting me to his adopted city for the first week of September. Andy, the same day hire who previously worked at a bank, had instantly revealed himself to be one of the sweetest and friendliest people I knew, and I’d made it my mission to aid his success throughout our first two months working together. Rather than aggressively reigning as a ticket know-it-all, I embraced my status as the company’s elder stubman, using my wisdom to slowly fit in rather than assert dominance. Point blank: I just wanted to be liked, not fuck up, and relish a job that appeared rife with opportunities (later proving true when my dear old pal Sam got hired after an even shorter interview call than mine).

Andy said he’d spend his day off chauffeuring me anywhere in Magic City—he’s technically from San Francisco but regularly travels to and from Ecuador, his childhood homeland—and demonstrated he was a man of his word. We ate breakfast at Versailles, Miami’s (and therefore America’s) most famous Cuban restaurant, including a guava and cheese pastelito so delicious that I later grabbed a second (inferior) one at the airport. We walked Miami Beach, purchased beverages from a CVS where a pivotal Scarface scene was shot, commented (maybe too much) on how southern Florida was home to America’s greatest boob city, ate Japanese red bean ice cream, shopped for records (well, I did while he rested his back that was fixed by surgery three days later), patrolled the signature Hard Rock guitar-shaped casino and hotel, and listened to Brazilian music while driving along the shoreline back into downtown to eat dinner with our boss (he fittingly chose a mini chain whose entire all-female waitstaff was teeming with damsels who were each one sagely hashtagged Instagram post away from internationally successful modeling careers, or so a boy can fantasize). 

The ensuing four days were spent, not by choice, doing minimal work in the office—Andy referred to the building’s front desk manager, Gloria, as “beautiful” then said the same about Fabiana, the front desk manager of the fourth floor where our company resided, prompting me to ask for clarification: Gloria, it seemed, had a beautiful soul whereas Fabiana, a Colombian girl with flawless skin and luscious chestnut hair, was “beautifulbeautiful” per Andy—and dining at sublime restaurants for lunch and dinner. There was a Venezuelan fast-food chain a block from our four-desk workspace, a true blue Italian pizza spot where I opted for freshly grated ginger and cracked black pepper on burrata cheese with basil marinara (as exquisite as any pie in recent memory), eye-wateringly delectable shrimp tacos that guiltlessly allowed me to break my yearslong streak avoiding soda to chug a Coca-Cola (Andy’s favorite, he once called solely to regale me with the sound of him cracking a can, taking a sip, and ahhhh-ing before disconnecting), and a trip to Walgreens so I could sample Blue Bell ice cream after becoming hip to it during the Better Call Saul series finale, the perfect conclusion to television’s finest drama (more on that topic another time).

Along with Andy’s company, two other highlights reigned: Jerry and I dined with Brian at that same chain overflowing with aspiring bikini contest entrants. The noisy throng overpowered much of our conversation as the NFL season kicked off on roughly half of the TVs located throughout the wide, open room, but upon seeing me when he walked in, Brian gave me a hug for the first time ever. (I hear you: “Awwww.”) I’d abandoned any lingering negative feelings in April when we reconvened at The Masters six years after our last trip there together, but the newfound, heartfelt fondness he’d shown me meant more than was ever worth verbalizing to a guy who would make it awkward. Jerry and I scarfed down Chipotle burritos the subsequent afternoon before he called me an Uber, handed me two hundred-dollar bills, and urged me to take the remainder of the day to patronize a record store located in an area of the city he’d yet to tour. “There’s not enough for you to do today” was his reason for sending me off. He called me a few hours later like a concerned uncle, ensuring I’d arrived safely at the airport and asking if I found anything. “I only have ten bucks left,” I told him to warm laughter. The ticket industry needs more mensches like him.

One of this year’s apexes was handing my book to David Sedaris, my literary idol. That same night marked the beginning of a battle I’ve waged with the sanguine scooter, my 2005 Toyota Camry. It struggled to turn over following a rest stop break on the ride home prior to flatlining outside Sue’s house. Confident that an inexpensive new hose would solve my problems, I had it towed to the shop I’d begun using after my previous mechanic died (he’d endorsed my new shop years prior) and waited for the inevitable pithy update. Until I became impatient and called them.

“We’ve done everything we can to revive your engine,” Paula told me. “Seems she’s just tired.” After 90,000 miles (not counting the inherited 125,000) and six years, the scooter’s heart had shriveled. My disbelief was profound: I’d navigated my reliable beauty around Westchester County days prior, the drive as smooth as that universally reviled Carlos Santana tune. I mean, it was smooth (despite lacking Rob Thomas). Unwilling to pony up for a new used car, I dropped a like new (rebuilt) engine in the scooter for the same amount I’d originally spent to buy the car. I’d never owned a car I loved half as much, plus everyone whose advice I sought agreed with my logic (semi-recent unrelated fixes were a contributing factor). The skid stays in the picture!

Then it started leaking coolant. I called the shop, talked to the legendary cusser who is named fuckin’ Tim, ya piece of shit bastard, and he told me to monitor it for a few weeks. The leak persisted. I brought the car back but heard nothing for a couple days. When they called, I was told everything had been buttoned up, or whatever mechanics say that you half listen to but fake laugh at out of duty while preparing to wince at the monetary damage. Days later, the leak reappeared, ruining the cardboard I stacked in the basement for more worthwhile endeavors. As patient and self-deprecating as I’d been—“It’s your worst nightmare,” I told Paula when she answered my calls—my sanity couldn’t continue being tested by an issue nobody else found disconcerting. “I want to be clear about my expectations: I am not paying for whatever is wrong,” I said to Paula. “I told Tim to look over the entire car before I bought the engine.” When I arrived, Tim emerged and agreed any costs to fix the car were on the shop. Of course, there would be one more leak before I returned YET AGAIN, but the leak disappeared. Even better, my mother divulged to me that the shop had posted on Facebook congratulating Tim on his partial retirement. Why hadn’t he mentioned the looming half milestone during our two-month tango?

Days later, you guessed it: the leak resurfaced. I called Paula to conclude the year—“Thought you’d finish 2022 without an outgoing word from Repair Satan?”—and shall commence haunting Tim’s successor Jason soon. Will it wind up being better to have loved and lost and transplanted rather than to have worried and lost sleep and seethed? Perhaps that will be covered in next year’s reminiscences, but knowing the fix is gratis and choosing to conduct business with forthright, if frustrating, people ultimately allowed me to see a glass half full…of antifreeze. To Be Continued. 

No yearly review is complete without remembering the dearly departed. November saw a freak tragedy where my cousin flipped her car on a road she’d likely driven hundreds of times, the shock hitting worse when my uncle (not her father), the same one who has a knack for texting only when life’s administering lemons, bluntly alerted me that she had instantly died. As I scrolled through her Instagram page, I observed a girl who had traversed Japan on her own and befriended every sorority sister at Keene State. Her offbeat sense of humor, which made me crack up during our sparse get-togethers, and generally positive comportment seemed to win converts wherever she surfaced. Once the shock tapered, I felt awful for my aunt and uncle, two utterly genuine and kind people who named their pets after Steely Dan songs (Fez was the cat, Aja the dog). The lemonade confirmed that centuries old aphorisms hang around because their simplicity doubles as profundity: nothing could ever undo the pain, but time and only time would help ease the suffering. If you’re prone to believing, as my aunt and uncle are, it begs David Berman’s question: How long can you go on under such a subtle god? And yet, what other option do you have?

The year’s other profound loss arrived after merciful advance notice. Sue’s beloved cat, Tobi aka Tobi with an i aka Tobi-Wan Kenobi, shuffled off this mortal coil displaying unfathomably admirable fortitude. She was Sue’s second floor companion for years, many of them spent pacing beside her dish until I implored Sue to overfeed her to unleash the “little baby” Tobi who was all love all the time. Like any longstanding animal companion, everyday occurrences bring an absent Tobi to mind. The sound of the radiator rattling? There’s Tobi’s apparition sitting facing the wall, or as Sue nicknamed her in those moments, Blair Witch Tobi. There’s Tobi splayed out on Sue’s lap as Sue patiently ate her dinner, rarely upset at the inconveniences because of how much Tobi coveted her presence. There’s Tobi’s stiff little half tail, or “bobcat” tail, wiggling like a worm on the lamb from a bird’s beak, forever bouncing around while the Purr Master General buzzed away in favor of anyone caressing her dark gray fur. Seeing Tobi sleep beneath a gigantic stuffed lion while soaking up rays through a window whose shade was benevolently left up day and night in deference to her earned many wide smiles.

I’d dropped off flowers and a grinder at Sue’s house the day before Tobi was due to be euthanized; Sue had requested I say my farewell in private. Tobi was the primary reason I’d developed a newfound love of cats in adulthood, sparking my mother to gift me my first ever pet, a Persian cat named Frankie. Hours later, I walked on Moody Road in town only to detect Sue’s car approaching. Upon spotting me, she pulled into a nearby parking lot bawling. Her day at work was spent second guessing the following day’s decision, but we recapped what had already been settled. That night, Sue texted me about the encounter that “there are no coincidences,” our meeting granting the pathway to closure she needed.

“Tobi’s spirit and energy departed from her body’s shell at exactly 11:00,” Sue texted the next day. She spent the night with Tobi wrapped in a blanket on her bed, trimming a patch of hair to keep in a sandwich bag and petting her unconditional lover until the last ounce of her essence vanished, presumably through her twitch-less tail. We buried her in a corner of the yard the ensuing morning, repurposing shells from New England beaches to form a commemorative heart above the fresh dirt. Nobody’s ever truly gone until the last person who remembers her is also gone. We take solace that you’re still here filling our hearts with love, ladies. 

On a lighter note, I conquered one of my fears: attending a concert alone. Blue ribbon achievement in the wake of the preceding paragraphs, huh? Upon becoming infatuated with Al Stewart’s discography last fall, I read that he was playing a tiny venue in Hartford in April. I could’ve dragged a fellow music fan (or pitying pal) with me, but decided it was high time—the concert was conveniently on 4/20 although I entered sober for obvious reasons—to experience a show chaperoned only by my imagination. I knew in advance that two Music Outlet regulars, both of whom I had conversed with innumerable times, would be in the crowd as well. During the intermission, I bantered with Sean and Gaucho Rob until the opening band rejoined us to back up one of rock’s least lionized lyrical legends. (Alliteration abounds, acolytes.) The seventy-six-year-old was in fine voice and finer humor, interjecting welcome anecdotes and playing all but one of his most well-known hits. Having ingratiated myself deeply in his material for six months, mindfulness was high and enjoyment even higher. (Please criticize the consistent tropes in this paragraph, my friend.) “Time Passages” is a bona fide all-time earworm; hearing it in the flesh did nothing but inch it up the list. Retrospect verified my fear to have been silly, no different than catching movies alone except for the light switch position. Saving sixty dollars didn’t hurt either. I bet Al’ll continue to have it when he’s eighty based on how he owned the room that historic(-for-me) night.

My biggest undertaking of the year was challenging myself to listen to as many unique pieces of music as possible. This included full length albums and compilations along with EPs and physical formats (45s and 78s) housing one or two songs. Since both jobs I worked encouraged nonstop listening, the list concluded with an astonishing three thousand four hundred and eighty-eight titles. Yes, I did play many more than once, but the captain’s log documents everything listened to the first time in the order in which they were heard. (Your assumption is correct: I can’t recall what at least ten percent of them sounded like.) Between streaming, my iPod, car tape deck and CD player, and turntables both at home and at The Outlet, the main chore was constantly finding new titles to spin. As you can surmise, I relied on lists from Instagram and Rate Your Music accounts, trustworthy message boards, hundreds of 2022 new releases, and playing virtually all vinyl on my shelves. Moore said it was the most definitive proof that I’m clinically insane! (If I know me the way I think I do, that’s hyperbole but I’ll take it.) Would I do it again? It admittedly led to listening at times when I otherwise would have absentmindedly viewed a sporting event or the Food Network (or read more often) along with avoiding a familiar title solely to hear something to add to the scroll, yet it will become a master source for reinvestigating great works bookmarked for ear euphoria in the next several years, an admittedly worthwhile return for doggedly surveying the farthest reaches of microgenres. Organizing my Best of 2022 list will wait because I purposely prevented myself from playing new titles to death like a musical eunuch, not that I didn’t uncover a few future canon qualifiers (Big Thief and the Mountain Goats, in particular). Most played title? Can’s Tago Mago, a bygone classic I’d long enjoyed but only grew to crazily worship in January, in part because blasting “Halleluwah” from the car to alarm people became its own passion project. Name me another non-hip-hop song where the lead singer namechecks the songs on the album like Damo Suzuki does in the aforementioned misspelled masterwork. Securing an original German pressing from Deutschland on Discogs yielded this heartwarming message from the seller, Philip: “I’m very happy to send the record to someone who thinks it is the right time for it. Keep the record alive. :)”

Aside from music, the one other obsession I don’t hesitate to disburse money on is food. It’d be too easy to list addictive dishes consumed throughout the year, but there are a triumvirate in need of digital ink. My pal Brock, an admitted “meat and potatoes” eater, surprised me when asking yours falsely to rate watermelon, cantaloupe, and honeydew melon. He confessed that “perfectly ripe” cantaloupe is his favorite thing to eat, full stop, but bemoaned how difficult it could be to acquire one. Unlike a banana, you can’t grab a perfect ‘loupe by barely trying. Does a ‘loupe feel too firm or too soft? How soon does one cut it open? For how long afterward should it chill in the fridge? Intent on elucidating the Cantaloupe Conundrum, Occam’s Razor ruled once more: buy organic. Stops at a few farmers’ markets yielded ‘loupe so soft to the chew that it could’ve been sold from a grocery store candy aisle. I tend to purchase four fruits each week, but I reserve extra ducats for certain ones when they’re in season. Few fruits are worth traveling for, but cantaloupe now joins that sacred fibrous list.

Like any grub connoisseur, I have a couple dozen go-to restaurants, including one essential for virtually any type of cuisine striking the mood. Dining at new joints worthy of the master list is an ongoing preoccupation, and thanks to my mother’s unending probing for new vegan delights, Connecticut’s most prized sandwich shop found a place on said list. We visited Nardelli’s a year ago so she could sample their plant-based Italian cold cut grinder while I sampled the real deal “world famous” version. Both of us were wowed, plus their seafood salad and pickles rated equally A1. It was a revelation to try their Jethro Tull-thick eggplant parmigiana with roasted peppers and onions. Mozzarella in carrozza? Jackpot. Shit, the cashier rings a bell and says “Grazie!” as you leave just like at the mother shop in Vatican City. They celebrated their one hundredth birthday this year and a new location will open in my hometown in the spring. You can wait until 2024, Lent. (Wait, are you reading between the lines to assume I fuck sandwiches?)

Dave Attell once performed a bit where he said the perfect name for a child is PizzaPussySanta because “everyone likes at least one of those things.” If pizza weren’t an option, what would be second? Ice cream. Who doesn’t like ice cream? I’d long dug the concoction but post-childhood I mainly craved vanilla soft serve or the hard stuff as a rare treat. However, Sue’s tireless love of oddball flavors topped with rainbow sprinkles led us on an almost weekly chase for frozen perfection this spring and summer (and fall). An impromptu birthday drive to her favorite spot in Providence (soft serve twist suffocating beneath a mound of homemade coconut whipped cream), pineapple soft serve with peanut butter sauce at a hometown hotspot, tongue-numbing cotton candy in Brooklyn (Connecticut), cardamom in Canton, and a begrudging admission that the black raspberry, my childhood number one, in Wethersfield made it worth vetoing her initial choice. “What about you, Adam?” Oh, right: appears grape nut and peach melba are my adulthood go-tos, but highest recommendation for any scoop containing pie crust mixed in. I could carry on, but ice cream additionally played a pivotal role in what likely ranks as the single best wall-to-wall day of 2022. Before I go, my future seasonal food truck-cum-brothel moniker is a lock: IceCreamPussySanta.

Sue and I had been itching to reconnoiter with New York City, a place we typically grid-walked at least twice per year before the pandemic. (I sense what you’re thinking: What pandemic?!) When the world’s boyfriend, Harry Styles, announced a seemingly endless residency at Madison Square Garden, I did what any cuckold would do and bought two tickets. Even better, I promised to treat to the Guggenheim Museum beforehand, which Sue refused like the philistine she cosplays as on occasion. In her defense, trips to the Met, MoMa, and Whitney gave my former Manhattan resident lesser better half quite the brushstroke education, and she advocated for a day more open and free, allowing us to explore lower Manhattan's bounteous treasures. 

We didn't exit Grand Central without bread in hand—I noshed on a ham and cheese croissant, Sue plucked bites from a raisin pecan roll—prior to browsing at the midtown Crocs store. Dusting off the same chestnut I often use, I alerted the cashier that I was a shareholder when Sue inquired about any promotional items that might be generously included with her Jibbitz buy (none were despite my cajoling). Cookies were procured from the Union Square farmers’ market moments before an expected, if brief, rainstorm ("You've gotta check the hourly, Blebbz," Sue's fond of saying whenever her meteorologist of choice surprisingly nails the day’s inclemency) led us to The Strand, an overwhelming four-story signature bookstore where I grabbed a bumper sticker depicting King Kong reading a book while clutching the Empire State Building along with a paperback for each of us (Sue: self-help:: me: criticism).

Carbohydrates begged for more attention, so newfound doughnuts commingled with the sugary snacks bouncing in Sue’s backpack as we entered a Duane Reade for water, but not before detecting a pink ice cream truck topped with a massive cat sculpture. Upon closer inspection, the cat (named Nermal) had its middle fingers extended downward, and was serving as the mascot for Ripndip, a streetwear store that soon declared itself the most surreal, exciting, and flat-out fascinating retail adventure of my life, a place somehow capable of replicating what my imagination periodically resembles. An alien sculpture on a bench guarding the facade begged for tourist photos as the storefront windows behind it were adorned with psychedelic cartoons. Inside unveiled très cool clothing, knick-knacks like a bong doubling as a coffee mug, enormous chairs crafted entirely from stuffed flamingos, wooden sculptures functioning as walls, another version of the cat mascot as a life-sized figurine with white bread surrounding his head, and endless other absurd future reference points. It was as if all your prized memes, GIFs, and hallucinations congregated to produce an Adult Swim show functioning as a place of business. The staff were uniformly friendly—who could be upset working in a countercultural paradise—and Sue snapped a couple dozen photos in an attempt to re-live the madness later, an idea we both recognized was guaranteed to fail yet still supplied abundant stimuli. Not once in my life have I been more excited about buying shorts, and even though I’d later confirm that my new shirt depicting an alien controlling a cat via drone (the breast pocket had a visual joke tucked within it) didn’t fit, it thrilled me that Sue immediately decided to make it part of her gardening ensemble.

Back on the itinerant warpath, the sun decorated the skyline as we walked with purpose to Katz’s Deli. Afraid of the outdoor line, Sue coddled my impatience before the pro-kosher mob gained access moments later. We entered to unearth a seemingly disorganized madhouse, lines upon lines lacking any sense of order, until realizing we could order coleslaw and a pickle—dinner was on the horizon elsewhere—without waiting behind the brisket brigade. Had I lazily ordered off menu, stipulating I’d have what she was having, I fear a tired employee would’ve said, “Sir, all orgasms are served in the bathroom due to Covid protocols. Star of David condoms are fifteen dollars.” Fair enough. Coleslaw, surely one of my ten favorite things to eat, proved a perfect selection, but attempting to decamp with one of the deli’s infamous tickets was brusquely denied (there’s a fifty-dollar fee for any misplaced tickets, or the evolving receipt that each server writes on when you order from a specific counter).  

Dinner led us to the place where we often dine during NYC trips. I tiptoed down the small flight of stairs, opened the glass door, and Sue entered first (she trails me in non-everyday locales) to be enveloped by the arctic air conditioning of Red Bamboo. “Is this a/c vegan?” nobody has been overheard asking...yet. Sue’s dessert first rule was invoked so mint chocolate chip ice cream began an indulgent yet leisurely two-hour meal that jammed up our table: almond coconut chicken, Cobb salad, pineapple seafood fried rice (a destination dish), tater tots, and popcorn shrimp. We even raved about the sleek bathroom sink, not that we hadn’t before, and occupied a bench in Washington Square Park afterward for a fulfilling round of people watching (Sue scanning for fashion ideas donning NYU students, me hoping the incoherent homeless man accosting passersby would expose himself to be a method acting legend in disguise working out the kinks for an upcoming audition).

The concert was predictably great—although Monsieur Styles ending his set twenty minutes early underwhelmed—even if the largely female twenty-something audience may have been the highlight (not for reasons you’re anticipating). Sue and I looped around the 200-level concourse at least a dozen times praising hairstyles, feather boas, bell bottoms, rainbow blouses, crocheted retro sweaters, the refreshing lack of sluttiness, and repeatedly geeked out upon witnessing a group of four or more ladies who coordinated their styles for a head-turning ensemble presentation. Unfortunately, exiting MSG was our downfall; we were trapped with hundreds of Harries in stairwells (stairies?) and the sole thought running through our heads was, “We’re getting Covid.” Sure as shit, two days later we both had “colds,” Sue accurately saying, “Seasonal summer colds are not a thing.” Yes, the standout day of 2022 gave me Covid, and I wasn't angry. I’ll have what she’s having indeed. Talk about being cuckolded.

There was another Best Day of 2022 contender—Tuesday of Masters Week featured my most idolized piece of topography, scoring a vinyl haul for the books (specifically One Hundred Years of Solitude/huh?), and eating unimprovable Lebanese food—but it was already chronicled at length. (One caveat: My use of the phrase that became this piece’s title hit Moore hard, creating a recurring thematic touchstone in our invaluable email correspondence, a reminder that if my prison-confined bud can consistently cling to optimism then those of us enjoying freedom on this side ought to remind ourselves how easy, simple, and liberating loving time with our hearts can be. Walking a golf course again with Moore one day soon will bring us full circle, and maybe a few of our teardrops will replenish a greenside water hazard.) Brief Augusta tidbit: I accidentally discovered a social media account that posts overhead shots of The National taken from an airplane, and their recent full course masterpiece has led to me “walking” the terrain with my eyes and mouse at least fifty times. Another trip awaits in April, meaning additional copy shall materialize. An alternate journey to one of my other prized major events demands detailing now though. 

Fresh off being contagious from my Harry Covid (great strain or greatest strain?), Brock and I trucked to Queens for a day session at the U.S. Open. I’d last silently observed the horsehair lemon get smacked around with him in 2014—we saw Stan Wawrinka lose, a man we've since mocked ad infinitum due to the evergreen influence of a ticket broker's ridiculous email address (StanIsMad@redacted.com), regularly sharing Wawrinka results in tandem with our own snarky Stan Is Fill-in-the-Adjective captions—and revisiting the place for an entire day without any work annoyances attached made for an Edenic round of swiveling our heads from side to side. 

Brock and I encountered inconveniences whenever we attended events together. There were saltless pretzels at March Madness games in Providence, walking a mere two holes at a PGA Championship before a deluge cancelled the rest of the round, and the Yankees being blown out at home by his Rangers (more my inconvenience, natch). Not this time! Queens gifted eighty-degree weather, a light breeze, and nonexistent humidity. Both matches we saw in full ended in final set tiebreakers, and while the players we cheered on (Garbine “Baba Mooey” Muguruza and Denis “El Shapo” Shapovalov) were felled by their deservingly victorious opponents, the quality of tennis, plethora of filthy jokes, and ability to clandestinely blow my faucet nose earned a no-brainer question afterward: Why hadn’t we done this every year? We may never get a run of weather and matches like that pre-Labor Day Saturday but chasing an idyll in a majestic environment with an infrequently seen pal is the type of tradition I live to seek.

My most frequently seen pal remains my roommate, best known as my mother. This entry doesn’t afford enough space to document the emotional thunderbolt on which we’ve danced but writing not long after one of the more productive conversations we had in 2022—initiated in the wake of my emotional bloodletting two weeks ago—colors our time together in a brighter kaleidoscopic light. Harry’s medical issues are hers to share in detail, but half the year saw her questing to undo debilitating injuries suffered from a botched hernia mesh surgery. We took ninety-mile rides to confer with her amiable doctor, a lifelong Los Angeles Rams fan, in northern Massachusetts, trips that will be sentimentalized not only for restoring her physical health, but for the top shelf cuisine native to the area (kimchi-jjigae and baba ganoush pizza left me pondering how if the latest surgery were botched, at least there’d be one undeniable reason to trek back yet again).

We gathered for our self-imposed quota of Yankees games (the combined tally of times we wished Paul O’Neill choked on his microphone topped 6,200 aka that’s my confusing way of congratulating Aaron Judge on his home run record), she cooked a bevy of uniquely photogenic and tasty vegan meals (accompanied by our nightly dinner doubleheader: Jeopardy! b/w Colbert), and she partnered Frankie with Mo, an instigating tuxedo cat with impeccable whiskers who left outsiders wondering how the gangster-sounding felines in our home were both females. Omertà must be respected. As I used amino acids and therapy to keep my neuroses at bay, Harry reacquainted herself with life minus pain. There were unavoidable petty disagreements, occasional flare-ups, and routines we clung to much to the chagrin of one another’s psyches. Still, I’m ecstatic that we say farewell to this year more at peace than we’ve been since Covid was strictly an acronym for Colorado Video, my de facto snail mail pornography distributor. Oh, I’m sorry: is my sadistic showing?

Our pledge for next year: a return to Yankee Stadium, a venue sadly lacking our presence since the 2018 trip documented in the LBS, and my commitment to moving out. Life apart will forge a new bond for us, one I failed to pursue during an emotional maelstrom last fall after my therapist solemnly explained that my grief about our separation registered akin to a parent whose child had died. They never tell us how closure doesn’t come effortlessly like it does in the pictures, but the version my mother and I have achieved, while imperfect, is all we have and what we need now. My childhood line was that I loved her more than one, so to quote that Starbucks-hating old commie James Cromwell: “That’ll do, pig.” Onward, upward, and reward. 

Loving the little things has been a core piece of my philosophy for years, and recency bias aside, Christmas reminded me why. My grandparents arrived at the house in the morning, inhaling cinnamon buns and fruit salad (candy grapes are the giraffe’s carafe) before my mother treated them to the features on her new television by playing a Dean Martin/Foster Brooks sketch that filled the room with howling. Sue and I relaxed for the remainder of the afternoon screening Rick & Morty and the second half of The Wizard of Oz, debating if her father, who spent a lifetime ranking it his favorite movie, had seen Judy and the gang at a theater in 1939. We’d planned to cook spaghetti hot dogs and macaroni and cheese for dinner with mango pie for dessert; all three took unpleasant turns. The pasta escaped the meatless protein inside the pot, Sue curiously added pumpkin and sunflower seeds to the macaroni for crunch, and the pie had to be frozen to mask its soupiness. Each dish tasted damn good regardless, a testament to turning shit into sunshine.

Five years to the day after we cracked the Rick & Morty seal, we began watching Big Mouth, another blue-humored cartoon that instantly began doing a healthy number (not number two!) on our cheek muscles. Finding a new show, or “one of our shows,” is historic whenever it happens, especially for someone like Sue who regards television as man’s peak invention. So much silliness transpired that we both failed to recollect standout moments the following day aside from when Sue, disinterested in looking at the digital clock on her cable box, asked what time it was. “11:12,” I correctly noted. “Thirteen, fourteen,” she replied in jest. She gifted me The Range Bucket List, a golf memoir, wherein the author disclosed that as a boy he began chiding his eternally upbeat dad by calling him Opti the Mystic, a man whose motto was that life promises us sorrow so we must add the joy. If there’s one thing I’m more grateful to Sue for bestowing on me than anything else, it’s the desire to continually covet positivity, to be disciplined enough to retain my biting sarcasm but also remember that happiness is a choice, and to stop judging myself for repetitiously luxuriating in the personal pantheon of joyful specificities I customarily revisit.

That (arguably, or so says The Editor) would’ve been the right conclusion, but how could I not mention my perpetual lookforwardry—I’m petitioning Merriam-Webster—an ethos I’ve assured myself is healthy whenever my battle with mindfulness takes five. Next year teases me with not only publication of a second book and worshiping The Masters once more in the flesh, but also a long gestating trip to Los Angeles for my fortieth birthday. Alas, the little things must be savored first. I’m already anticipating the fourth day of the new year, one of my biannual trips to see The Baumer, my friendly dentist (frientist?/I don’t think so). One item I omitted from my food list was linguine with clam sauce, a paisan plate The Baumer turned me onto in late 2021. My addition of broccoli to the recipe is sure to get our hourlong, one-sided chatter flowing, plus he’s eagerly awaiting my review of the Waterpik toothbrush he prescribed I use to help my sensitive gum pockets. Perhaps I’ll carefully arrange one green dot from a floret between an incisor and bicuspid as a test. Will it summon images of a savory plate of clam sauce or lead to cursing out an expensive electronic oral cleanser? What would Opti do? Here’s to you, 2022.