True – Benchly'sword

"…still my guitar gently weeps."

Contrary to popular belief, when I think back to my time spent at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said, my memories are primarily positive: the PFLAG skit with Little Amie, the road trips with Ms. Parker, downhill skiing in jeans and sweaters with True, etc. Included among the countless memories is the long-overdue day on which I mastered the world of irony. And in an ironic twist, this triumph occurred not in the classroom for which I was paying (and still am paying) for my education, but rather in the viewing of the film Reality Bites in which a character explains that irony happens when the actual result differs from the expected result. These thoughts were on my mind last night as I reached for the last rock of a rock-climbing route (the white one for the one of you keeping score at home) that had, in previous attempts, proven too difficult for my amateur (read: not-exactly-in-shape) skills. But since irony considers the sequence of events leading up to the result, first let me back up a bit.

When it comes to dating, I wouldn’t exactly place myself in the same league as a Casanova, but I have had my fair share of girlfriends and thanks to the wonderful Internet, most of them have had the pleasure (or pain) of finding their (nick)name in my blog’s print. For the most part, I’ve never considered this a bad thing. However, thanks to said wonderful Internet’s ability to archive everything, I worry that my past is going to start coming back to haunt me. I saw it when one girlfriend became jealous of the Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, and I saw it again when another future girlfriend questioned the sincerity of my words.

It’s an honest question: how sincere could a guy be when his written words from relationships long gone are similar to the words coming out of his mouth in the present? I’m sure you’ll agree when I say that things said in current relationships are almost always unintended carbon copies of past relationship sweet nothings (who can go 15 years of dating without repeating some feelings along the way?). But only the fools stupid enough to blog their feelings get caught duplicating love and heartache. The closed-off souls who don’t share their feelings never suffer this fate. (I suppose an alternative solution is to date someone who shows no interest in your blog whatsoever, but what fun is that?) My most recent relationship, built on a blogging foundation, had to deal with this question of sincerity in the beginning before grabbing the next rock and pulling itself up to bigger and more relevant topics (read: when life gets in the way and love becomes complicated).

It’s hard to imagine what life would have been like had I not walked down Church Street that fateful summer day, and some would argue that it’s not worth the time and energy spent wondering. You can’t change the past; you can only deal with its consequences, make the most of the present, and put yourself in a position to enjoy the future. So regardless of why it happened, what happened happened and, through a series of mostly-related (emphasis on related) events, led me to join a local rock climbing gym to go climbing with my new friend, Mr. Extracurricular. Two weeks ago, I nearly backed out of a planned climb but I didn’t and the rock climbing walls kicked my butt for it by letting me complete only one route. Last week, against my instincts to stay home and not exercise, I went back and completed two routes and vowed to come back to do better. Last night, I found inspiration in the unlikeliest of people and completed six routes and found myself halfway up a route set at the next level.

As is often the case, in between climbs while giving our arms (and for me, my fingers) a rest, Mr. Extracurricular and I talked about the different challenges we face while climbing. I always feel a little embarrassed having a discussion like this with someone whose challenges are tackled on routes that are 3 or 4 levels more difficult than the ones I attempt, but Mr. Extracurricular humors me nonetheless. Now that I’ve learned to use my lower body more and my upper body less, for me, aside from building up strength and endurance, my biggest challenge is simply staying on course. Because multiple colored routes are entwined together on the wall, I often find myself skipping a challenging handhold on my route and instead opting for an easier one not intended for me. And so, if/when I reach the top, I’ve inevitably taken an unintended route. With this in mind, as I grabbed that final white rock, I wondered if I was being ironic. (I think because the outcome and the expected outcome were the same, I wasn’t.)

Although there’s no irony to be found in the rock climbing walls, it could be argued that the last four months of my life have been ironic simply because the expected outcome was never realized. While climbing to the top, I stumbled, the rocks moved on me, I reached for the wrong holds, and now I find myself perched high on the wall on a different course, looking up at a final rock I can no longer see. But I know it’s there and I’m not going to quit climbing simply because my instincts tell me to let go.

It’s hard to imagine how my life will change because I chose to join the rock climbing gym, but as always, I look forward to the climb.

Parker, Benchly, and True

Near the end of the underrated motion picture Starship Troopers (which you should see not only for its eye-candy cast and unapologetically corny story but most importantly for its seemingly-psychic pre-9/11 commentary on the War on Terror), in a scene that shows a rare reunion of the three main characters after yet another gruesome and deadly military battle, one of the characters hugs the other two and says, “I don’t know why, but every time the three of us are together I feel like everything’s going to be alright.”

For the first two years of college, Ms. Parker, True, and I shared nearly every waking moment together on the campus of the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said. We cracked jokes, told stories, wrote songs, and believed ourselves to be the modern day Algonquin Round Table (as evidenced by two of our nicknames). Sadly, in the ten years since we parted ways, I can count on one hand the number of times the three of us have been together. When we are together, though, as was the case 6 weeks ago for Ms. Parker’s 30th birthday, I find myself identifying with the Starship Troopers character’s optimism.

It sucks to be me

I’m about to contradict the mood of my previous posting so bear with me…

Mama Benchly is a bit of a drama queen. And if you tell her I said that, I’ll forever deny it. She has a tendency to make situations in life seem more traumatic or intense than they really are. She’s the one who, during the Cold War, when asked if our family could build a bomb shelter, sat down on the porch with her two youngest children (I was 9 at the time) and said, “if there’s a third world war, life wouldn’t be worth living so our family will sit out here on the porch and wait to die.” She’s also the woman who treats every goodbye as the last goodbye, even if you’re just leaving the room to go to the kitchen. You’ve probably noticed by now, from the extremes of my blog postings, that I’ve inherited the same emotional genes as my mother.

A little over a year ago, I met a woman named San Fran Girl (long-term friends of mine will notice I’ve dropped a certain adjective from her nickname). Emotions between us became very intense very quickly, so much so that, within weeks, we had purchased plane tickets for a week-long vacation in San Francisco. And unfortunately, this trip turned disastrous when the pendulum of our emotions swung unexpectedly to the other extreme. When the roller coaster came to a complete stop, I was torn apart by what amounted to only a 3-month experience.

I took quite a bit away from my brief encounter with San Fran Girl, but what impacted me more than anything else was my new mindset that I plagiarized from a souvenir button I purchased while San Fran Girl and I were in New York City to see the Broadway show Avenue Q: “It Sucks to Be Me.” After our falling out, when I felt like life couldn’t possibly get any worse, this $5 button, purchased to support various charities, seemed to perfectly summarize my woes. She dumped me? It sucks to be me. My car died? It sucks to be me. I’m frustrated with my job? It sucks to be me. I ride the Loser Cruiser? It sucks to be me. I wore the button like my Scarlet Letter of Rejection. And for nearly a year, I believed its message.

Last month, I pinned my “It Sucks to Be Me” button on one my traveling bags and headed off to the airport for the first leg of my Ultimate Road Trip: New Orleans (URT 2). After numerous delays, no guarantee that the flight would take off, and the Near Death Experience airline representative saying “if the flight doesn’t take off tonight, we can’t get you on another one for 6 days,” I decided my only option was to get a full refund, rent a car, and drive to Long Island where the URT 2 was set to begin in just 12 hours. I drove the 6-hour trip on one cup of coffee, one cup of hot chocolate, two sodas, and one and a half tanks of gas. My thought at the time: it sucks to be me.

And then the URT 2. Our below-sea-level room flooded during the pseudo-tropical storm and drenched half of my clothing; halfway through the trip, my college friends and I all realized that maybe a week was too long to spend in each other’s company; half of my time-alone day was spent in the hotel room because of the rainstorm and the other half was spent outside and drenched because of the rainstorm; I ran out of money two days before the end of the trip; our swamp tour lacked all wildlife except the occasional and inaudible (English?) comments from our is-he-taking-a-nap? tour guide Glenn; we drove through the night to get home and I woke up in the backseat early in the morning fairly certain that I was the only person awake in our car; I was dropped off near the Brooklyn Bridge at 7 a.m. with no certain idea of how to get to Manhattan; I took the wrong train, which ultimately put me in Harlem; and my full refunded plane ticket meant I didn’t have a return flight home and thus, had no sure way of getting back to Vermont. But for the first time in nearly a year, my thought process wasn’t blinded by the easy-explanation-button. It didn’t suck to be me and here’s why:

Despite the room flooding, I had a roof over my head and (though dirty) dry clothes on my back; I realized that although my college friends and I were spending too much time together, we were dealing with it and making the best of the situation, thus showing the maturity we had gained since college; I spent a day alone in a big city, which is something I never would have had the courage to do a year ago; one of my friends lent me money trusting that I would pay her back in two days; unlike the obnoxiously loud motor boat rides, our swamp tour was in a canoe(!) and I got to paddle(!); we drove through the night to get home and how many people can say they drove from New Orleans to NYC in 23 hours?; despite the short detour, I ultimately arrived at Mia Wallace’s Manhattan apartment where I had a warm bed, a hot shower, and a great friend to keep me company for the day; my trip ended thanks to the 4X100 relay team of the Metro North, True, Sister #2, and Brother-in-Law #1 who all took time out of their days to ensure that I got home safely.

As the Metro North train approached the Connecticut station where my friend True was waiting to pick me up, and as I approached the exit, the traveling bag on my shoulder caught itself on a train seat. In my effort to free the bag, I ripped off the It Sucks to Be Me button, which fell to the floor. With enough time to pin the button back on my bag, I bent down, picked it up, and placed the souvenir in my pocket.

"Get Up, Everybody, and Sing!"

I spent yesterday trying to shake a migraine that has, unfortunately, carried over into today. The headache was the result of a combination of events and nonevents from this weekend:

1. My acceptance of an invitation by some friends to a local bar’s karaoke night Saturday;
2. My consumption of a handful of alcoholic drinks; and
3. My foolishness, before bed, in forgetting to take the “Anti-Hangover Medicine”: two Advils and a tall glass of water.

But I’ll be the first one to admit that my hangover was well worth the sight and slightly worth the sound of my friend singing a rousing rendition of “We Are Family.” For future reference, this friend will be known as Jay Peak, for his tongue-in-cheek desire to climb said mountain. Jay Peak nailed the first two lines of the chorus that everyone knows (“We are family. I got all my sisters with me”) and then resorted to a sad but, albeit high-quality, spoken-word delivery of the verses.

Sitting there listening to Jay Peak perform, with CAT on one side of me, and Montana Girl on the other, I was reminded of a conversation I had with Montana Girl a few months ago, in which she introduced me to the idea of an Urban Tribe, a concept she learned of in a book she had just finished (Urban Tribes: A Generation Redefines Friendship, Family, and Commitment” by Ethan Watters). Stated far too simply, the book analyzes the “white, upper-middle class, post-college, yet-to-be-married (ages 25-39) residents of bohemian garrets who host great New Year’s Eve parties and travel en masse to the New Orleans Jazz Festival.” At its heart, the book describes our generation’s establishment of the “Urban Tribe,” a “rotating network of friends and acquaintances that covers all functions formerly served by the traditional family, thus eliminating the need for marriage and intimacy.”

At first, I didn’t put much stock in this book and its core theory because I viewed the book as just another lame attempt by a member of my generation to turn a profit by trying to explain my increasingly inexplicable generation. But then I thought about it and my life and realized that like it or not, the author’s on to something.

While I often complain that all of my friends are falling victim to the desperation of a married life, truth be told, with few exceptions, the great majority of my friends are in their late 20s and unmarried. Whether by choice or heartache, here we are, legally unattached and desperately seeking Susan…or that all elusive boy named “Sue.” We’re constantly using our get-togethers to define who we are by not only the things we do, but also by the people with whom we do these things. Because if we know who we are, we are more apt to know what we want, and if we know what we want, maybe one day we’ll find it, and until we find it, we’ll have our fun. And what are these things we do?:

1. Game Nights – My Urban Tribe has started to resemble an advertisement for Hasbro. And believe me, I’m not complaining.
2. TV/Movie Nights – Honestly, who here in the last year, hasn’t spent at least one night a week, every week or month with friends, devoted to watching SOMETHING on TV?
3. Book Clubs – We love to read, yes, but it’s the monthly meetings we crave.
4. Knitting/Cooking/Wine/etc. clubs – see explanation for #3.
5. Holiday/birthday parties – I used to think the only parties ever thrown were the Chucky Cheese ones for kids; the slumber party ones for teenagers; the “we really want to be wife-swapping but I guess we’ll have these boring PTA and babysitting horror story conversations instead” parties for our parents; and the birthday cake-card-and-hug ones for our immediate families. And then I hit my mid-20s and suddenly, everyone’s throwing a party for everyone else. It’s just a guess, but I think all of the world’s major problems would have been solved in the last 5 years if my generation had devoted as much attention to the problems as it did to celebrating everything else.
6. Other – Just the other day, I was invited by Montana Girl’s Urban Tribe to participate in Christmas caroling up and down Burlington’s Church Street. Evidently, this is an annual thing for them, as is their viewing of A Charlie Brown Christmas (see also #2).

Did you notice something? A theme maybe? Aside from the fact that they’re all designed in order to make us feel included in the world, if there’s one other trait all of these activities have in common, it’s got to be their recurring nature. We leave each activity assuming there will be a next. And it seems, that is where the genius of this Urban Tribe idea can be found. In the absence of the security and comfort that was handed to us in our childhood by our traditional family, we’ve created these new families that are as stable and loving as can possibly be.

And so, while attempting to plan a February URT to New Orleans with Ms. Parker, True, and Ms. Scharf (though not for the Jazz Festival) and while simultaneously planning this year’s New Year’s Eve festivities (which will be spent with, at the very least, Mia Wallace; and at the very most, Mia, Sarah the L, Mr. Mikes, and a few more unnicknamed friends; but not with my immediate family, who, incidentally, will all be in town), I’ve come to the realization that although my traditional family still has an important place in my life and always will, my Urban Tribe has taken on a much larger role as of late. And I’m OK with that. Because, in the karaoked words of Jay Peak, “we are family!”

URTs and other signs you’re having a pre-midlife crisis

This past weekend, I was busy with the first of hopefully at least 67 annual life-altering road trips with old college friends. For those of you unfamiliar with this trip (all zero of you), the official title of the trip was the First Really Excellent and Annual Kick-ass International N’ Ultimate Road Trip (FREAKIN’ URT for short and URT for really short). I hope that those of you familiar with the trip will agree when I say that it was an incredible success. The highlights of the trip are as follows (in no particular order except maybe chronological):

1. Seeing and speaking to my friend Ms. Parker (who, incidentally, is the answer to the future trivia question: “Which one of Mr. Benchly’s friends did he mention first in his blog?”) for the first time in over 5 years;

2. Seeing my friend True for the first time in over 4 years;

3. The Travel Log, the official Weight Watchers Travel Log Pen of Justice, and the unofficial North Conway, NH Travel Log Pen of Justice that replaced the dead official Weight Watchers Travel Log Pen of Justice a few days into the trip;

4. Running over a baby seal at 75 mph;

5. Running into Baker at 3 mph;

5a. Baker running away at 5 mph;

6. Seeing my friend Mr. Billings and his significant other Cross and the wonderful world of Augusta, Maine;

7. Winning $4,500 from a scratch-off lottery ticket in Maine;

8. And discovering at the end of the trip that all participants were now speaking like Mr. Billings (a language we affectionately referred to as “Shaneish”). eg, “Mr. Benchly – talking like Mr. Billings. Ms. Parker – not amused.”

These are only a few of many factual and fictional highlights from the trip. More to follow later possibly.

Now, onto the most important part of the trip:

The URT allowed us the opportunity to venture to our old stomping grounds (aka, the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said.) And after an all-too-brief walk around campus in which we discovered all students talking on cell phones; an all-you-can-eat buffet-style school cafeteria; motion-censor classroom lights; a Hudnall-less English Department; Freshman who could have very well been born after the Challenger explosion; and Seniors who were born after our first memories, the group decided in my head that we were all old. Very old. This concerns me.

That’s all for now. Goodnight.

In Stan the Sandwich Man’s name, I remain…

Mr. Benchly