What Was Adulthood? Part Two.

Last Saturday I went skiing for the first time in many years, and the memories came flooding back: the calf pain that surfaces if you allow your socks to bunch even slightly in your ski boots; the feeling of sailing toward the chairlifts at the end of a run; the directives from my instructors at ski school, lessons that I hated with a passion at the time but now must grudgingly admit were worth it; the attempts to skid to a halt and shower snow on whichever family member was waiting for you at the bottom of the hill.

I was prepared for the family vacation memories, but something else came back to me that I did not expect. From the moment we hit the slopes, this commercial began replaying in my head and would not stop:

Adulthood Exhibit C

"That sounds obscene," M. said as I tried to describe the Juicy Fruit jingle and lyrics.

"It's not obscene, it was a commercial," I insisted, as if the two things were mutually exclusive. In my young mind, where this commercial's integrity was forever preserved, advertisers would never allude to anything other than what was being sold. Gum and fun, how much more straightforward could it be?

"Whatever, I think the people at Juicy Fruit knew it was going to sound like a blow job," he said.

For some reason, parent company Wrigley felt it was very important to target skiers of all kinds as potential consumers for Juicy Fruit gum. Personally, I never thought of gum -- especially a brand that loses flavor as quickly as Juicy Fruit -- as a natural accompaniment to skiing, even for someone as gum-addicted as myself. For one thing, it gets stiff in cold weather. Then there's the high risk of swallowing...

Adulthood Exhibit D

I guess, watching these as an adult, it's possible that M. may have had a point. Maybe it's about more than just skiing and fun and the simple pleasures of gum-chewing? I feel so confused and yet, somehow, older.

I've looked at gum from both sides now
From kid to grown-up and still somehow
It's gum's illusions I recall
I really don't know gum, at all.

Wine-Pairing Master Class.

Today I was intrigued to discover in one of my food magazines a service called eWINE match, "Your tool to finding the perfect wine pairing for your meal."

I enjoy fine foods and I enjoy fine beverages, but I am too lazy to pair them properly. It's sort of like my fashion sense: I can buy a good pair of shoes, and I can buy a lovely outfit, but Google has a better chance of putting together a cohesive ensemble than I do.

So I was excited to go to eWINE and have it tell me just what to drink with the cheeses I had bought. First, I typed "ricotta salata," which I was already disrespecting with some hastily cooked tomatoes and crostini.

The results: Greg Norman Sparkling, Meridian Pinot Noir, Matua Valley Paretai Sauvignon Blanc.

Interesting! I would not have guessed that, I thought. Let's kick it up a notch: I went to type in brebiou, a sheep's milk cheese I like... except I typed "brebious" by mistake.

Amazing! Despite my typo, eWINE still came up with a chardonnay, a cabernet sauvignon and a zinfandel. Huh, I thought. I would not have put those together.

I decided to give it a serious challenge. Going back to the search box, I entered a new term: "crap."

A real soldier, eWINE still delivered. Apparently Meridian Central Coast Sauvignon Blanc pairs well with crap, unless you search for "crap" second time, in which case Gabbiano Pinot Grigio would be your top result.

Personally, I have always been stumped in terms of what to pair with Dubble Bubble. How to play off its chalky sweetness? Beringer Founders' Estate Chardonnay, says eWINE.

And what about something more spicy, such as Crest? If you want to brush right, take eWINE's suggestion and rinse with Chateau St Jean Sonoma Chardonnay. Its "floral notes with nuances of pear and honeydew" meld perfectly with this ADA-approved aperitif.

Hallelujah, Internets!

What pairings are you seeking lately?

What Was Adulthood?

Remember when you looked at adulthood through the lens of childhood?

When I was a kid, I imagined that being an adult meant you got to live like this:

Adulthood Exhibit A

and this:

Adulthood Exhibit B

Essentially, you got to party all the time, drink special drinks that kids are not allowed to have, eat whatever you wanted, have special Adult Conversations and do Mysterious Adult Activities (there has to be something more to that picnic blanket than meets the eye), go to the bank and get wads of cash, wear special sexy outfits without your mom's permission, watch the best movies and say all the Adult Words (meaning the s-word, the b-word, and sundry) without getting punished.

You had a certain understanding of things, and you got to revel in it. That's how I understood adulthood, as a child.

What did you think it meant to be an adult?

Provisional License.

I remember one of the first times I discovered a musical artist without the use of a radio or a television. I was at Union Square Station in Washington, D.C., waiting for a train to New York in the mid-90s. I stood at a listening station at some now-defunct CD store there, and I heard Ben Folds Five for the first time.

The method of discovery was not only a departure for me, but so was the music: I was into Mary J. Blige, Prince and Jodeci, so a white college-rock band was, like, "experimental" for me. Ooh boy was I hip.

These days I use TV shows, blogz, radio and magazines to procure my music interests. Lame as it is to say, I actually work at finding new music, even though (and because) it's more accessible than ever. I wasn't cool when I was 22, and I'm still not cool now, but I want to know what the kids are listening to. I still want to fall in love with songs and musicians, because it's the only way left to really fall in pure, helpless love when you're an adult.

However, I am losing something, and it bothers me. I am losing the experience of living with an album. I am forgetting what it feels like to give an album a provisional license, thinking you kinda like it, and then finding that it has somehow totally taken over your soul (e.g. Who Is Jill Scott?).

This kind of love starts only after you have listened to an entire album, straight through, for about the fifth time. It happens when you get to know the album well enough to know its faults, but to appreciate it anyway. It happens when you know every track, and you have had affairs and conversations and partnerships with each one. It happens when you feel as though you could continue on with that album -- the whole thing, not just a single -- for the rest of your life.

Who does that these days? Certainly not me. I am too busy pulling up MySpace for the newest ear candy. I download a song, fall in love a little bit, and it's over (or I'm frustrated, because there's no label release yet). I'm looking for an album I can really date long-term. Does anyone have suggestions?

Belated Holiday Post.

This year's Christmas went much like the previous 30-odd years I can remember: a tree with colored lights, topped by an angel made of cardboard and plastic; decorations more sentimental than aesthetically correct; an eyebrow-raising sea of presents emanating from the tree's trunk; an orgy of wrapping paper, bows, toys, ham and my aunts' shrill laughter at the dinner table.

We have some new players -- kids and spouses -- but things in my family remain mostly the same. The unadulterated consumerist approach to the holiday, for us, remains untainted by religion, earnestness or aging. The only spiritual element involves watching A Christmas Story, which we started doing every Christmas Eve, way before TBS started running marathons. In adulthood, I added the tradition of watching It's a Wonderful Life at some point, usually alone and always crying.

We all wake up to stockings filled with magazines and drugstore merch including, thanks to an in-joke with my Dad, Ban Roll-On for me. A horse-trading approach is taken with gift lists; e-mail and Amazon have become indispensable.

Put simply, our Christmas has always been more about the wonder of Santa Claus than of Jesus Christ. Historically, I have not had a problem with this. As kids, we made our lists and left out cookies and sat on laps at the shopping mall and even, for a time, made phone calls to the big man (or, if you prefer, my Dad's office). I always felt fortunate, not only for my family and the gifts, but also for the freedom from religious ritual.

I did not abandon the notion of Santa until I was nine years old. Of course, I knew -- but I didn't want to know. By that age, I had developed enough reasoning power to know that Santa didn't exist, but I did not like the idea of finding out. Finally, I willed myself to ask my mom. She was standing in the bathroom, getting ready to go out. "Mom?" I said, approaching her. "Santa doesn't exist, does he." My mom was applying makeup and looking in the mirror, with me reflected behind her. "Well, the spirit of Santa always exists," she said, or something like that. "What matters is if you believe." I knew enough about my Mom to parse the truth of her diplomatic response. A phase of my life quietly ended there.

This year, I felt like a new unpleasant realization struck, and it happened while I was contemplating the recycling bins sitting out on the driveways of my parents' suburban Washington neighborhood on the day after Christmas. I knew, but I didn't want to know. I knew that the holiday always meant several toys and electronics cut out of their impossibly hermetic plastic casings, untold amounts of paper, not a few batteries, a good amount of cardboard and plenty of media that could have been bought used.

I knew that we were just like millions of Americans on Christmas, using the holiday as a time to express our gratitude via credit card. I knew that it was environmentally and financially excessive -- it was harder still to admit that it was not even particularly satisfying. I don't know if the change was an abrupt one in me, or a slow one in our house, but it felt as if the focus on distributing gifts actually took away from my experience of my family. I would have been happy with half the presents and twice the connection.

I like to think that I still believe in the spirit of Santa, as my Mom encouraged -- but I both want and fear a different incarnation.

Life of the Nightmare.

About once every six months or so, I dream that I have committed a murder. The victim is usually unknown to me, invented and extinguished in my mind. The method and motive vary -- in fact, sometimes there is no discernible motive. Sometimes I have accomplices, sometimes not. No matter the circumstance, two things always occur: one, an incredible paranoia and detailed attempt to cover up the crime and two, the devastating realization that I will have to live with this unspeakable deed for the rest of my life.

Then I wake up, with a new lease on life. I have not killed anyone! I have nothing so horrible on my conscience! Boy, what a great day it's going to be, knowing that I am not a murderer after all!

Other types of dreams are more difficult to recover from. This morning I had a bad fight with M., in my sleep. I woke up and there he was, being as sweet and pleasant as ever, but still I had the feeling that we had to make up. I have had this dream about family members too, feeling inexplicably out of sorts with them because of some stupid dream.

Of course, if I really wanted to delve into my psyche, I'm sure I could uncover in any fight dream a real issue needing attention. But hey, I don't really want to delve into my psyche. I just want to get on with my day and only address the arguments that happen in real life.

As my midday brain catches up to reality, I am unexpectedly grateful for today's hidden blessings: harmony with those around me, a conflict-free morning and a clean record with the police department.

In Need of Schoolin'.

"I wouldn't want to be in your band unless I could sing 'Whole Lotta Love' by Led Zeppelin," M. typed to me one day while we were at work.

"Is that the one that starts, 'Been a long time since I rock and rolled'?" I messaged back.

"I'm not telling you," he replied, his sigh of disgust almost audible through the IM window. What I considered unremarkable ignorance, he felt to be shameful.

The first time I visited California with M. and we turned on the radio in the rental car, he informed me, "Rock stations in California rarely play anything recorded past the mid-90s, and every other song is by Led Zeppelin." It was an exaggeration, but not by much. I think we heard at least half of the Zeppelin catalog on the radio in the space of four days.

Because I was never a teenaged boy, and because I did not date any Zeppelin-loving dudes (that I know of) until later in life, I pretty much missed my Zep window. As far as I was concerned for most of my young life, Robert Plant was the solo performer of "Big Log."

I enjoy and embrace most Led Zeppelin songs that happen to get broadcast in my vicinity, but do not own any albums and was not exactly going to be memorizing lyrics anytime soon.

Or so I thought. A few weeks ago when I walked into my band workshop/class (for the only band that I am fit to be in right now is one I have to pay to join), my teacher had a surprise. "I decided to pick an extra song for you to do, something that will push your comfort zone a little bit," he said to me. He looked tentative.

"OK," I said. "What is it?"

"Do you know the song 'Whole Lotta Love' by Led Zeppelin?" he said.

And here's how pathetic I am: Without a trace of the previous conversation with M. filtering back into my brain, I responded: "Is that the one that goes, 'Been a long time since I rock and rolled?'"

I don't know which thing M. had a harder time getting over: The fact that I, and not he, was going to perform "Whole Lotta Love," or the fact that I repeated that same ignorant question while failing to recognize his prophecy being realized in the moment.

Personally, I had a harder time with the former fact. In case you haven't noticed, the song's lyrics are fairly masculine. Also, about the only thing I have in common with Robert Plant is a sizeable forehead. Perhaps you won't blame me for feeling set up to fail here.

Still, I dutifully went home with my assignment. I listened to each verse over and over and over, skipping past the crazy breakdown section in the middle and focusing on Plant's growling, primal vocals. I'll bet Janis Joplin would have done a nice job with this tune; too bad I'm not her, either.

As I winced during one rehearsal, our lead guitarist murmured to me, "I feel the same way you do about this song."

"Really?" I said. "But you sound great!"

He shook his head somberly. He knew that he was no Jimmy Page as well as I knew I was no Robert Plant.

Nonetheless, we got up on the stage in a small bar before a small group of people, and we did it. Our guitarist did the solos, and I did the part where Plant shouts "LOooooovvvvE." And here's the thing: Even though we sucked compared to Led Zeppelin, people applauded us for trying. There were people in the audience who had to applaud, because they had to come home to us at the end of the night, but there were others who applauded because shit, we were doing "Whole Lotta Love."

Yes, my teacher set me up to fail. But we failed with dignity.

The Accidental Joker.

Have you ever gone out with someone whom you wished were funny, not just a person with a good sense of humor but actively could make you laugh so hard you can't breathe, but they just aren't that funny, until one day when they do something really fucking funny and you think that maybe, just maybe, they have been hilarious all along but been sort of hiding it, or keeping it under wraps and waiting to roll it out until the right moment, but then you realize that they don't even understand that what they did was funny, that they're just hit and miss, and you're going to have to decide how much that matters to you?

I just remembered such an instance, when a boyfriend and I were driving along and came to a railroad crossing. The gate came down and the lights flashed and a bell rang, to signal that a train was coming. And out of nowhere, this guy who had really underwhelmed me in the funny department let out this pitch-perfect, Mr. Bill-style "Noooooooooooooooooooo!" that lasted a really long time, over the bells and lights. I still think of it every once in awhile: It was his one funny moment, and I could tell by the way he looked at me laughing that he had no idea how he had done it or how to repeat it. That's when I knew I had to stop hoping for a miracle and accept our situation.

Staged.

A few weeks ago, I sat behind a drum kit on the stage at the Blue Bear School of Music, which is housed in a stuffy enclave of San Francisco's Fort Mason. My audience was the school's director, who was evaluating my candidacy for the drummer slot in their Wednesday night Basic Rock and Blues band workshop.

He called me a few days later. "It looks like our Wednesday band is shaping up to be more.... intermediate," he told me on the phone a few days later. "We do have a band on Saturday afternoons at your skill level, if that would work for you." I was too beginner for a beginner class, it turns out.

"Do you need any singers for the Wednesday class?" I said.

That's how I came to be a lead singer in a temporary band that will have only one concert on Dec. 12, at a place called the Red Devil Lounge. Our drummer, who is 11 years old, exceeds my playing experience by four years. His dad, a talented musician named Aric who also happens to vaguely resemble Eric Clapton, is our lead guitarist.

Our bassist is a quiet high-school sophomore whose face is curtained by straight blond hair and typically teenaged skin, while our rhythm guitarist is a pale-denimed man in his early 40s, I'm guessing. Then there's me -- and our other singer, a buff, twentysomething showboat named Reuben.

Reuben actually swivels his hips when he sings "Use Me" by Bill Withers, one of his appointed song choices. He doesn't seem to get nervous about impromptu performing, really. "It's all stage time," he said in our first rehearsal. "I love that." He clearly loves to be up in front of people.

Reuben provides a nice counterpoint to my performance style, which is to hunch my shoulders as much as possible while looking at the floor and trying to steady the tremors -- hand, voice, whatever -- that plague me while I try to project my voice beyond the microphone stand.

It's a natural and logical assumption that most people who go out for a band or a singing group or any other kind of stage act actually enjoy putting themselves on display. I'm a serious approval addict, so I can't pretend that getting applause from people doesn't gratify me, but I really do not relish being on stage.

Whatever the opposite of "stage presence" is, I have it. In one college video, which my friends once replayed and mocked with gusto, I swiftly and ungracefully retreat from the microphone before the last syllable of my solo number is even out of my mouth. I always preferred the idea of being the backup singer, the ensemble player, the drummer -- someone who is part of the show, but not in the spotlight.

From high school onward, I could never keep myself from auditioning, and it almost didn't matter for what. I loved memorizing a monologue, learning a dance routine or practicing a song for the purpose of performing it exactly one time, as a test. I liked the camaraderie and nervousness and competition: Are you ready, how do you feel, how did you do, who made it? I liked seeing if my name was on the list or not, and usually managed not to stake much emotion on the results. After all, it was just a play or a show chorus or a pom squad -- and what would I have done with myself if I'd actually been talented enough to win a key role?

I went into the audition for my college a capella group with the same attitude, until I got in the room and the people there actually dared to suppose that I could be better than I believed I was. They challenged me, encouraged me, put me through the wringer and then, instead of putting me on a list, arrived at my dorm room en masse with booze and singing and hugs and raucousness.

Yes, thanks, I know that it is dorky. It was still awesome and one of the best things that ever happened in my life. I don't think that anyone has had the luck and/or talent to be in University of Pennsylvania's Off the Beat (laugh it up) and managed to graduate without, for a moment, wishing that they could just be in that group for the rest of their lives. Some of us (Gabriel Mann, Goldspot, Vaeda, Larry Kraut) are honest-to-God serious, bitchin' musical commodities now. The rest of us live in professional shells while still craving that experience of making music, rehearsing, performing and touring with a family just as loving, maddening and dysfunctional as our blood relations.

I won't ever have my college experience again, and I know that. It's OK. But I have continued to seek it out, off and on, for the last 15 years. You can be an 11-year-old kid, a fortysomething dad, a sad-sack, a freak, a diamond-industry scion, a working-class butch lesbian, a grandmother from New Jersey, a bo-hunk, a nerd or a milquetoast office professional, and I will know you in a very specific way, which is that we once stood anxiously together in the wings of a dingy stage somewhere, testing ourselves and briefly delighting peoople and ending the evening triumphant and best friends.

Honest Haiku.

Let's imagine a moment
In some near future
When we are strangers again