Monday the 23rd was Diana’s birthday. Every year, she tells me not to get her flowers because she thinks they’re impractical and needlessly expensive, but I decided this year to pick her up a modest, reasonably priced bouquet.

In addition to that, I also picked up two birthday cards for Diana. Actually, to be more precise, I picked up one proper birthday card, and a little something extra to break up the monotony of the standard, “Happy Birthday, I love you” proceedings. I guess you could say I have something of an intimacy problem. That’s what my therapist tells me, anyway — which is total bullcrap, because I know for a fact that I don’t have any problems with intimacy. I also don’t have a therapist.

Anyway, if you knew anything about what I do, then you might already know that I have a track record of pissing off my girlfriend by giving her cheeky, insincere, “decoy cards” before I calm her down by presenting her the real thing. What can I say? We’re nothing but animals and savages without our traditions. This year, I was especially amused by my own efforts on Diana’s decoy birthday card, and I decided to share it with the rest of you.

“Please Get Well,” it pleads.

I’m counting on you to pull through, my love.

Yeah, I know, I’m a jerk. Again, for the record: I did also give Diana a real birthday card with a heartfelt, handwritten message, but that’s not the kind of stuff that people come here to read. If it helps my case at all, Diana did smack me around for two minutes before I gave her the real thing. Sincerity is for suckers, am I right?

Happy Birthday, Diana! You know I love you.

Love is in the air, my friends. This February, my chest swells with gratitude and gladness for having found the love of my life — the one girl with whom I want to share every Valentine’s Day for the remainder of my living days. So I guess I’m no stranger to love these days. What a wonderful thing to be able to say. I consider myself lucky to have found a girlfriend as kind, as loving, and as supportive as Diana. Yet luck had very little do with keeping us together for the past seven years. If you’ll forgive me for my presumption, I’d like to share with you some insights into my relationship so that others out there might also reach the peak of romantic bliss, just as I have. True, there are happy couples all over the globe flourishing in a variety of different ways, but there is only one true way to be as happy as Diana and KZ. This one goes out to all of the lovestruck gentlemen of the world who find themselves in need of some romantic advice.

• Rule #1: Never be complacent.

  Relationships require more than mere passion and raw emotions. A healthy relationship requires effort, commitment, selflessness, and reciprocity. All of these requirements amount to a very tall order, but it’s a profoundly rewarding thing when you and your partner manage to get things right. In short, never stop trying.





• Rule #2: It’s okay to daydream when the conversations get dull.

  Let’s face it: women like to talk a whole lot more than men do. Every strong relationship should be built upon a foundation of good communication, but sometimes the temptation to daydream is just too enticing to resist when your girl spends 30 minutes describing the tedious minutia of her uneventful day. Go on and drift off. It’s okay. You deserve a mental holiday every now and then. It’s not like you won’t hear her tell you those stories again a minimum of twenty times.

  Sure, you may occasionally get in trouble when your woman realizes that you aren’t paying attention to her, but the risks are far outweighed by the benefits of daydreaming. For one thing, daydreaming keeps your mind sharp if you do it correctly. Chicks dig a man with a sharp mind, and a strong sense of imagination. Daydreaming also goes a long way to keep you sane when conversations press on the limits of your patience. But the best thing about daydreaming during a boring conversation is that you’ll always have something new to learn about the next time you decide to pay attention. Don’t feel guilty for allowing your mind to wander. Embrace the discovery.





• Rule #3: Show her all of the best aspects of your personality, but also hide nothing.

  Never stop dating your girl even long after you two have moved beyond the awkward dating phase. It’s all too easy to grow complacent in a long-term relationship, but try to put your best foot forward as much as you can so that she will always see the best that you have to offer. Having said that, it’s also important to understand that your less admirable qualities are bound to show through on occasion, so don’t treat them like a dirty secret. By all means, always try to show her your best, but also be honest about who you are.

  Consider the case of Mouthy. I always do what I can to show Diana the very best of me, and she adores me for it because I kick so much ass. Despite that fact, Diana also understands that I’m a human being with my own weaknesses, vulnerabilities, and brittle frailties. I express the essence of those lesser qualities through Mouthy, a hexagonal hand puppet whom I create out of paper chopstick covers every time I take Diana out to eat at an Asian restaurant.

  

  Mouthy wants so desperately to make friends with Diana. Unfortunately, Diana spurns Mouthy’s every attempt to strike up a conversation. Invariably, Diana always finds a way to wrestle Mouthy away from me, and she’ll shred him to pieces before my grieving eyes. Given that Mouthy is made of paper, and given that Diana has demonstrated an alarming propensity for destroying him, Mouthy is the living embodiment of weakness, vulnerability, and brittle frailty. Mouthy’s fragile weaknesses mirror my own. His suffering is my suffering. I do what I can to show Diana my very best, but I also accept the weaknesses of my own constitution.

  

  It’s interesting to note that Diana can so callously destroy a part of me without showing an ounce of remorse. That’s the stuff of psychopaths, man. This aspect of Diana appears to be one of her own character faults. Even so, Rule #3 is a two way street, and so I choose to love Diana anyway despite her moral frailty. That’s just the way true love works.

  Diana loves me for who I am. For better or worse, she accepts all of the things that make me KZ. Diana loves me in spite of Mouthy. Diana loves me because of Mouthy. All you need is a little emotional honesty to make things work.

  
  
  

• Rule #4: Keep the fires burning by inserting a little mystery into the mix.

  The specter of boredom is an unfortunate reality for even the most loving and compatible of couples. Over time, long-term relationships define themselves on dedication and stability rather than impulsiveness and excitement. But who’s to say that the fires of passion are destined to die?

  

  The best way to prevent familiarity from breeding contempt is to spice up your days with a little mystery. This goes a long way to keeping your girl interested and emotionally engaged. Using myself as an example, I have recently formed the habit of arbitrarily abbreviating my sentences so that I only say the first letter of a number of strategic words. Diana finds this practice of mine mystifying, yet mysterious — confusing, yet completely irresistible. Here’s a portion of a conversation that I had with Diana sometime last week.

  Diana: Guess what, Kevin. I reached level 15 on my Smurfs game.

  Kevin: Oh yeah, great. That totally justifies the way you monopolize my iPhone all the time.

  Diana: Yes, it does. See, I can harvest all kinds of cool crops, like peas and strawberries. And sometimes Papa Smurf will send me on missions where I have to go out and look for lost smurfs. There’s also mini-games and Smurfette!

  Kevin: Yeah, yeah, GFY.

  Diana: GFY? What does that … hey, screw you! You “go fuck yourself”.

  Kevin: Whoa, that’s not what GFY means. It stands for, “good for you”.

  Diana: God damnit, I fucking hate it when you turn everything into an acronym. Why don’t you talk like a person and use actual words?

  Kevin: First of all, GFY is not an acronym. An acronym is an abbreviation made up of initial letters which form a pronounceable word. Secondly…

  Diana: I don’t give a shit. I’m just sick of having to decode all of your sentences.

  Kevin: Yeah, yeah. GFY.

  Insert some mystery, keep her guessing, and keep things spicy. She’ll thank you for it in the long run.

  
  
  

• Rule #5: Create no-win situations to remind her of what she has.

  Sometimes the best way to remind your girl that you’re the best choice for her is to confront her with a lighthearted, no-win situation. By stripping away the possibilities for choice from a strategic number of situations, you are gently guiding your girl toward the understanding that you are in possession of the key to a number of life’s hidden truths, which is totally hot. Again, using myself as an example, consider this conversation that Diana and I recently had about our Netflix instant queue.

  

  Diana: What do you want to watch tonight, Kevin? Battlestar Galactica or Desperate Housewives?

  Kevin: You mean B-Star G or Desperate H-Dub?

  Diana: Fine. Do you want to watch B-Star G or Desperate H-Dub?

  Kevin: What the hell are you talking about? Why are you abbreviating your words like that? You mean Battlestar Galactica or Desperate Housewives?

  Diana: You are such a dick, you know that?

  Kevin: I know a lot of things, Diana. You know what else I know? I know that I love you.

  Diana: Yeah, right. My fucking hero.

  I don’t mean to brag or anything, but apparently, I am Diana’s hero. It’s only taken her a handful of no-win situations to realize this fact.

  
  
  

• Rule #6: A well-placed “I love you” can go a very long way.

  As exemplified in Rule #5, saying “I love you” at precisely the right time can disarm your girl, and remind her of how much you mean to her. “I love you” is a wonderfully magical statement. It has the power to enchant her in the midst of a romantic moment, or to melt her heart in the middle of a heated fight.

  

  You should also consider the value of “I love you” for its ability to make you look like the sympathetic party while recalling the events of a lovers’ quarrel. Case in point, here is a continuation of the conversation that I quoted in Rule #5.

  Kevin: I know a lot of things, Diana. You know what else I know? I know that I love you.

  Diana: Yeah, right. My fucking hero.

  Kevin: I truly mean it. I love you, Diana.

  Diana: Fuck you.

  See what I mean? Who’s the bad guy from that particular exchange? Just three simple words transform your everyday, awesome KZ, into a tragically stoic martyr of love. The utterance of that simple phrase at precisely the right moment has made me out to look like a modern-day Casanova. I’m a KZ-nova, if you will. Don’t you desperately want to be like me, now?

  
  
  

• Rule #7: Resist proposing marriage for a minimum of seven years.

  This method seems to have worked for me. I imagine you will be able to employ the same strategy with similar success. Your girl may give you grief for not proposing to her sooner, but she will also respect your resistance, as this will be interpreted as a display of manliness and cavalier strength. Chicks dig manly men of a rebellious nature almost as much as they dig abusive douchebags who treat women like crap. Show her your strong, principled, masculine side without venturing into the realm of douchebaggery, and you’ll be golden.

  

  
  
  

• Rule #8: Fantasy and role-play are great tools for spicing up the bedroom.

  Sometimes keeping it real is overrated. Sometimes it’s more fun to indulge in a little fantasy before bed. Head over to Diana’s Awesome Blog at www.KZSucksAss.com to read all about Rule #8.

  

  
  
  

• Rule #9: Complimenting your girl while she’s getting dressed is a great excuse to cop a feel.

  Try this one the next time you enter the room while your girl is getting dressed. “Hey, honey, have you lost weight?” As soon as she looks down to examine her body, reach out and cop a free feel. Whether your girl believes in the sincerity of your statement after the fact is irrelevant for two reasons: (1) Even if it was just for a brief moment, you raised her personal sense of body image and self esteem; and (2) You got to cop a free feel during the exchange. In either event, it’s a win-win situation. It’s fun to desire, and fun to be desired.

  
  
  

• Rule #10: If you are as insufferably annoying to your girl as I am to Diana, then be sure to thank her this Valentine’s Day for putting up with your ridiculous shit.

  Diana may swear like a sailor, but she has the patience of a saint. I’m lucky that Diana tolerates me in spite all of my self-indulgent, juvenile antics. Diana, I am the happiest that I’ve ever been in life because I have you by my side. Every moment and every day with you is a reason to celebrate.

  

  I love you, Diana. Sincerely, I do.

  
  
  
  

You see, fellas? That’s how it’s done. Cap it all off with a brief display of tender sincerity, and she’ll eat it right up, and let you get away with murder. Ain’t love grand?

Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody.

If I were a comic book super villain, my origin story would probably begin sometime around December 1991. I was just a nine-year-old kid back then, but there came a day many Decembers ago when I formed the presence of mind to reliably differentiate fiction from fact. I thought things through during that Christmas season, and I came to the conclusion that Santa Claus is a fraud. All these years later, I’m still not ready to forgive Santa for never having existed.

No Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. This is a truth that every adult in your life has known, yet they’ve all been bullied into silence by some bizarre social norm which requires adults to deceive naive little children for as many Decembers as possible. It’s okay to grieve, child. A part of your innocence and imagination has just been shattered, and you’re left with the unsettling revelation that not only does Santa Claus not exist, but also with the knowledge that the adults you’ve known have been lying to you your entire life. You asked them in earnest to tell you the simple truth about Santa Claus, and they repaid your sincerity with whimsical double-talk and bald-faced lies. Yes, Virginia, it’s okay to cry. Adults are condescending, deceitful pricks.

Fuck Santa Claus, man. From the moment your child discovers Superman from watching television, you begin warning her that there is no such thing as the super power of flight, because you can’t bear the thought of your kid jumping off a roof with a blanket tied around her neck. When your child starts playing video games for the first time, you start reminding her that there is no such thing as a “Reset” button in real life, because every choice and action has a consequence. When your child sees you doing household cleaning chores around the house, and she then asks why you don’t just clean things up by waving a wand like Harry Potter, you sit your kid down and explain to her that magic isn’t real, and that good things come to people who work hard. Make-believe is awesome, but we place boundaries on our children’s imaginations all the time so that they don’t grow up to become ignorant people who wallow in self-delusion.

It’s not my intention to degrade the value of childhood innocence. I just happen to think that the tradition of lying to our children about Santa Claus is the biggest crock of shit of the Holiday season. Maybe I was an abnormal child growing up, but I genuinely felt embarrassed and betrayed once I realized that my parents and teachers had been lying to me about Santa Claus my entire life, and all because they figured it was “for my own good”. At the age of nine, I learned one of the shittiest lessons that a kid could ever learn: “In the end, you can trust nobody else except yourself.” Merry Fucking Christmas, overly-sensitive, nine-year-old KZ.

A couple years have passed since 1991, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that Santa Claus makes for a pretty decent mascot during the Christmas season. The myth of Jolly Old Saint Nick is a fun tale to tell, but why do so many of us consider it a child’s entitlement to be deceived every December? Some might argue that belief in the Santa Claus myth helps stimulate our children’s imaginations, and that it promotes a festive atmosphere filled with fun for the kids. I don’t deny the truth of that argument, but I do have to question its merit.

Christmas has so much more to offer than Santa Claus — so much more than the mere crassness of all that materialism and bribery for good behavior. For Christian parents, Christmas is a time to remember Jesus, and to celebrate all of the values that Jesus held in the highest esteem: love, kindness, friendship, tolerance, and faith not only in God, but faith in the common humanity that binds us to our families, friends, neighbors, and even to our enemies. Even if you’re not a Christian parent, and yet you happen to celebrate Christmas in your own secular or ecumenical way, wouldn’t your children benefit more from an emphasis on the value to be found in the season’s spirit of love, kindness, and peace, versus an emphasis on a silly story about a fat judgmental magic man who trespasses on private properties without remorse, and who spends the majority of his time stuffing his face and judging everybody?

Christmas is the time of year when we celebrate that lofty promise of peace on earth, and good will toward men. I know, that’s some corny shit. I don’t care if it’s corny, though. Every December, I look toward the stars, and I convince myself to believe — if only for a moment — that one day in the future before the end, humanity will finally get things right. I guess you could accuse me of hypocrisy for speaking out against delusions and lies, all the while I place my belief in impossible things. There’s probably some truth to that criticism. But hey, you know what? At least my delusion doesn’t make lame excuses to get your children to sit on its lap. That’s the creepiest shit ever.

In closing, Santa Claus can go F himself in the A.

Merry Christmas, kids.

Our relationship has had its fair share of tumultuous storms, but there’s never been a twister strong enough to tear us apart. It’s just too damn fun chasing those storms with Diana at my side. Truly, this is as good as it gets.

I don’t know if this ever comes through in my writing at all, but I can be something of a smartass on occasion. Diana has the patience of a saint to put up with all of the crap I give her. Sometimes I wonder why the Fates don’t just cast me away to a deserted place in order to impose upon me a sentence of lovelorn penance for the way I can sometimes treat her.

In truth, I am a lucky man, and I damn well know it. My love, you deserve so much more than a single blog entry. Darling, you deserve so much more than the moon and the stars, were I ever capable of giving them to you. If I could ever understand what women want, I would give it my all to give you all of it.

Gentle woman, I love you sincerely. I love you madly. Some might say that I’m “mad” about you. You are the Helen Hunt to my Paul Reiser. And if the story of our love were somehow filmed before a live studio audience and subsequently broadcast by a major American network with nearly 200 regional affiliates, we would dominate the ratings on Tuesday nights with the passion that inflames our synchronous hearts. For we are one, you and I, and nobody will deny the strength of our union — except perhaps during the fourth season of our love story, during which it is revealed that you kiss a colleague, and I in turn nearly kiss a colleague of my own. Yet our love shall persevere for a minimum of three additional years, for you and I have committed to each other that we will jump together, hand in hand, into the final frontier.

And though the network might make the mistake of changing the broadcast time of our love story to Monday nights for the seventh season — thus degrading our viewership ratings — our love shall persevere. Onwards we shall roam, paying it forward as we go. I love you sincerely. I love you madly.

I love you, Helen Hunt.

While common wisdom would suggest that the best way to deliver a toast is to speak extemporaneously and directly from the heart, I took the exact opposite approach and drafted a script that I intended to memorize and deliver. I was so honored that Josh had entrusted me to say something meaningful and to help set the right tone for the night. I prepared as much as I could in order to reciprocate that honor to Josh.

Being one of the Best Men at Josh’s wedding was an experience that I will always remember with great fondness. I’m so glad I was a Best Man at least once in my life, but once is frankly enough. I was a nervous wreck two weeks prior to the wedding reception. I’m a writer, not a an orator.

Special props go out to the other Best Man, Carlos Oliveira, for his support and encouragement while I was on the brink of hyperventilation during the minutes leading up to my speech. I’d also like to mention Conrado Oliveira, who started clapping and chanting “KZ” to help me through that awkward pause when I forgot my next line. This act came from a place of love, and I won’t soon forget it. Special thanks go out to Tommy for heckling me from the guest tables as I was setting up one of my jokes. It’s all love, Tommy, I know. Wiseguy. Finally, thank you to my wonderful girlfriend, Diana, whom I love deeply, and whose loving support gave me the courage to believe that I could do the speech my way, and succeed in doing so.

If you’ll please forgive me this indulgence, I have posted below the original script of my Best Man’s speech.

The Other Best Man – by KZ

Believe it or not, ladies and gentlemen, I am the other Best Man. We’re kind of doing the People Magazine thing where they name the sexiest man alive every year, but oddly enough, every year it’s always a different dude. It kind of cheapens the honor, don’t you think? Well, whatever, there’s two best men now, and one indecisive groom. The way Josh explained it to us, he couldn’t decide between me or Carlos, so he decided to honor us both as his Best Men. That’s a cute explanation, but if you really want to know the truth, I just think Josh has problems with commitment.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re sitting there in your chair, folding your arms and thinking to yourself, “Oi! How can you say such a terrible thing at the bloke’s wedding reception?” First of all, please drop the terrible cockney English accent because it is not working for you. But secondly, relax. I emailed this very speech to Josh this afternoon at 2 PM. I assume since he never got back to me with a reply or a complaint, that everything I’m doing up here is fully sanctioned by Josh.

Having said that, I would like to read a poem I wrote specifically for this occasion. I wasn’t sure whether I should read this poem tonight. I’ll try to keep it short, but it’s about seven…seven…seventeen pages long. But again, Josh gave me his “silent OK”, so anything goes. Four letter words and all. And…it’s in my other tux. Thank you very much Diana for reminding me on the way out of the house today. Let’s give her a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen. She has ruined my entire speech.

At this point, Josh probably hates me, and he’s regretting that he ever asked me to come up here and say something nice about him.

Truth be told, Josh and I have known each other for twenty years now, and we have never been able to get rid of each other. We met at the age of seven at Five Wounds Elementary School. Then we went on to Bellarmine College Prep for high school. Then finally, for undergrad, we both ended up going to Santa Clara University. We’ve remained friends long after graduation. For twenty years, I’ve had the privilege of calling Josh my friend. And for the past four years, I’ve had the delight of getting to know Sarah, and I now consider her one of my closest friends. It makes my heart sing to know that these two have found so much happiness together. After twenty years of friendship, I am proud to witness these moments, the time in my good friend’s life when he starts a new life with his wonderful bride. Josh has gotten married before I have, by the way, and my girlfriend Diana won’t let me hear the end of it. “Oi! Josh and Sarah did it. When are you and me getting married?” Diana’s English accent is terrible. Why does she talk to me like that? She’s not even British.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about love, and what I can say about it without sounding redundant. What can you really say about love that hasn’t been said literally thousands of times before? What more can I say when so many inspired philosophers, authors, poets, and playwrights have already weighed in on the subject with far more eloquence than I’m capable of? Just as humankind has always done for centuries, we are born, we grow, we learn, and we fade away. But in between, there are some beautiful moments where, with a little luck, we find love, we get married, and we celebrate with grand parties just like this one. It’s happened billions of times before throughout the ages, and I should think that it will happen billions of times more in the future. When you begin thinking of anything on that grand a scale, you begin to wonder, “So what?” Love? It’s all been done before, so what’s all the fuss about? What a tidy little rut we find ourselves in.

But love is no rut, not in any form. Love is the grand experiment of life that constantly surprises us by joy, one generation after the next, and always with the same old bag of tricks. The human dance wouldn’t be the same without love to guide us with all of its familiar refrains. Robert Frost once said, “Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.” That innate desire lives inside all of us, and it begs us to dream, challenges us to grow, and dares us to care about someone other than ourselves. Love is that immutable constant of the human spirit that invariably keeps us all human. Love is our guarantee that the human spirit, for all of its frailties, will always have something worth celebrating. Tonight, my human spirit soars with gratitude and joy because two people whom I love very much have dedicated their lives to loving each other. I can think of no better reason to celebrate.

Tonight, my friends, let’s all raise our glasses in celebration to Josh and Sarah.

Over the lifespan of this blog, I’ve written a fair amount about unrequited love, and I’ve occasionally referenced an ex-girlfriend or two since I’m still friends with almost everyone I’ve dated. But you know, Diana is right. It’s about time that I paid her proper tribute. Here’s a little poem I wrote exalting the many ways that I love Diana.

Lesser-Than Sign, 3

D is for the delight of her awesome Diana-ness
I is a letter in the name “Diana”. So they tell me;
A is for her abundant, annoying attempts to pimp a shout-out on my blog
N is for the necessity to fill this poem up with nice words…almost done
A is another letter in Diana, who is awesome, and who rules!
<3 <3 <3!

I hope you like it, Diana. This one’s from the heart.

]]> http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2008/12/03/cassanova-kz/feed/ 13 http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2008/10/30/the-most-sarcastic-jack-o-lantern-in-the-world/ http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2008/10/30/the-most-sarcastic-jack-o-lantern-in-the-world/#comments Fri, 31 Oct 2008 04:56:36 +0000 KZ http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/?p=867 Continue reading →]]>

One October, twenty-something years ago, I was a five-year-old boy sitting at the kitchen table staring at a pumpkin. By the end of the night, I would have a jack-o-lantern to call my own. There was no such thing as a child-friendly pumpkin carving knife in the early 1980s, so the most that I was allowed to do was draw a face on my pumpkin, and leave the actual carving up to my grandfather.

Not understanding the strategic disadvantages of drawing on a pumpkin with a ballpoint pen, I did what kids do and gave it a go with the first pen that I could find. Even as a child with a five-year-old sense of aesthetics, I was severely disappointed with my efforts. The triangle eyes were lopsided and round. The triangular nose was centered, but was equally awkward. Worst of all, though, was the mouth.

My intention was to give my jack-o-lantern a wide grin with vampire fangs. I started with the top half of the mouth and drew two prominent fangs that any vampire would be proud of. Then came the bottom half. I started on the left side of the mouth and carefully formed the bottom lip of the smile. As I was arching the pen underneath the top half of the mouth, my pen slipped at the most disastrous moment, and my pen stroke scribbled through the sharp angle that was supposed to be the first fang. I stared horrified at my disfigured jack-o-lantern and slowly came to accept the fact that Halloween had been ruined. Forever. Angrily, I stabbed the ballpoint pen back into the rogue mouth line and scribbled haphazardly with disgust, great frustration, and kindergarten angst. I threw my pen down onto the table and stormed out of the room.

My father let me cool down for about twenty minutes and then called me back into the kitchen. When I reentered the room, my brother, Jonathan, was still designing his own jack-o-lantern, and my grandfather was seated across from him, busily carving the pumpkin that I had so furiously abandoned. After a few halfhearted attempts to stop my grandfather, the pumpkin was carved, smiling defiantly at me with its hideous grin. I didn’t have the verbal or emotional vocabulary to express this at the time, but as I stared at that orange sphere of immortalized failure, I was overcome with a mix of feelings. I was ashamed of my terrible illustration, and I was embarrassed that my grandfather had so lovingly interpreted my ridiculous scribbling as an honest and credible attempt at self expression. That jack-o-lantern was just as much a testament to my temper and my propensity to quit as it was a testament of my grandfather’s support for his grandson: the young, budding artist who would one day embark on an earnest quest for true inspiration.

Of course, I was five at the time, and I didn’t have the capacity to express all of that effusive sentimentality. I was just a kid staring at the most sarcastic jack-o-lantern in the world, trying my best not to punch a hole through that stupid, taunting face. I guess I’m old enough to say this now, so I might as well say it. When I look back on that day as an adult, I remember those moments with good humor, and with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Thanks, Grandpa. Happy Halloween.

]]> http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2008/10/30/the-most-sarcastic-jack-o-lantern-in-the-world/feed/ 4 http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2004/07/31/friday-im-in-love/ http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2004/07/31/friday-im-in-love/#comments Sat, 31 Jul 2004 10:35:00 +0000 KZ http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/?p=180 And I truly am.

]]> http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2004/07/31/friday-im-in-love/feed/ 1 http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2004/06/12/all-i-have-left-to-say/ http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2004/06/12/all-i-have-left-to-say/#comments Sat, 12 Jun 2004 10:05:00 +0000 KZ http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/?p=175 It was almost love. Goddamn, it was almost love.

]]> http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2004/06/12/all-i-have-left-to-say/feed/ 0 http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2004/05/28/on-love-and-the-prospect-of-loss/ http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/2004/05/28/on-love-and-the-prospect-of-loss/#comments Sat, 29 May 2004 05:46:00 +0000 KZ http://www.prosaicshadesofgray.com/?p=174 Continue reading →]]> My grandfather almost died this week. Well, his odds were supposedly fifty-fifty, which is damn near close enough to “almost” if you ask me. He formed a hernia as a young man, and it finally caught up to him at the age of eighty-six. On Wednesday, my grandfather began vomiting at his nursing home and was eventually sent to the UC San Francisco hospital. When we heard the news, my father and I drove up that night after dinner.

My father’s sister had already been waiting at the hospital for an hour when we got there, and she told us that there was talk of surgery. If the hernia had caused intestinal tissue to die, then my grandfather would definitely need an operation. The problem with sedating a man that old is, at my grandfather’s age, if you’re put under anesthetic, there’s an estimated fifty percent chance that you won’t wake up. So the big question of the night was whether an operation was necessary. While the doctors deliberated, we were kept waiting for an excruciating eight hours before we heard the decision.

While we waited, the three of us visited my grandfather in shifts. The bureaucratic idiots at the hospital had an obnoxious rule that no more than one person was allowed to visit a patient at any given time. I can see in theory how that policy might make sense, but it wasn’t as if San Francisco had just been struck by a WMD and the emergency room was packed with bleeding patients. There was more than enough room to accommodate three concerned family members of a man who very well could have been dead within the next twenty-four hours.

Anyway, I did have a chance to visit my grandfather, but I had to be alone and without a translator. I don’t speak a word of Mandarin, and my grandfather can’t do much better in English. So during my visit, we stared at each other as I stood above his bed and he looked up drearily beneath the scores of tubes that ran across his body. It breaks my heart that I’ll never be able to tell him all the things that I wish he knew.

At some point, I sat down and plotted out a speech to tell him. You know, it would have been one of those poignant monologues that movie characters deliver in quiet hospital rooms to unconscious loved ones. But when I opened my mouth to speak, the words wouldn’t come out. I’m more of a writer than a speaker, you know. In the end, I decided not to confuse the poor man with my incomprehensible babbling. After a few more minutes of sitting by his bed, I stood to leave and told my grandfather that I love him. I’ve never told him that before. Really, the only relative I’ve ever said that to is my mother; and even then, that only happens on very special occasions. But as I looked down at my grandfather in one of his most vulnerable states, some instinctual impulse swelled my heart, and I grew fully aware of the love that I have for this man, whom I’ve never spoken to for longer than two minutes.

The rest of my time at the hospital was spent sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chairs in the emergency room waiting area. I attempted to read, sleep, and watch television multiple times throughout the night, all with minimal success. By 4am, the doctors decided to hold off on operating for the night. We thanked them for their speedy decision and drove home.

My grandfather underwent surgery the next day. Nobody in the family had any prior warning because the doctors determined that an immediate operation was needed. Gladly, he was conscious again within the same day, and I spent a few hours on Friday visiting my grandfather at intensive care. The old man had a fifty percent chance of dying, and he pulled through. I’m glad my grandfather is still around, even if it’s only for a little while longer.

It may be asking too much to expect to never lose a relative or a friend. Most of us would prefer to take the presence of loved ones for granted and to deal with loss only as soon as it comes. But it is only in the prospect of loss that you may fully realize how much you love somebody. Celebrate every moment spent together, and try to imagine on occasion what your life would be like without that particular somebody. Love them while they’re still here as much as you’ll love them when they’re gone, and maybe it might not hurt so much if you really do lose them. That is, at least, how I would choose to live my life. So here’s to those whom we wish were still a part of our lives. And here’s to those loves ones whom we haven’t yet lost.

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