{ 2 bars + 3 stars }

Writing blog posts can be burdensome for the mainly introverted, which has something to do with why 2b+3s is often left whithering on the vine. Its author has plenty to say but it’s mostly said inward, to himself, in short bursts of pseudo-language — an improv script for an audience of one. He is verbal to the nth degree, but on most days, except for authoring gibberish on the internets, converses only with his wife and infant daughter, since little he thinks, in his opinion, is worth saying or writing. At work he avoids exchanging pleasantries, preferring instead to greet colleagues with a nod and a smile as he quickly passes from meeting to meeting. In commerce, he rarely makes eye contact with strangers, let alone small talk with his fellow consumers. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least to learn that most people he works or otherwise interacts with on a daily basis considers him rude or hopelessly aloof. Maybe so, but what keeps him mum, unless with family or a group of close friends, is his nature’s seclusion of his thoughts.

He doesn’t know and isn’t concerned with how many of him there are, what percentage of the world he composes — that would be a condition too extroverted for him. But he is troubled that the overwhelming majority of what he thinks — the very elements of his human cognition – goes completely uncommunicated and thus unknown by virtually all but him. It troubles him not because the world will never know what he believes, in precise and exquisite detail and grandeur, but because he may never know. Because he understands that without dialogue, or writing to an audience, our minds atrophy and ossify. Logic deteriorates in an ever-looping monologue. And soon observations are mistaken for objectivity, and therein lies the soft grey matter of ignorance and indifference.

I prefer the 43, myself, but kudos nonetheless to Mr. Moffatt:

Looking ahead to 2012.

2011, what a whipsaw of a year. 2012, here’s what I want from ya:

• to be a better dad, husband, son, brother, friend
• to read more and watch less (bad) tv
• to make more stuff from scratch
• to find a passion
• to be more kind to strangers, especially during the commute
• to take fewer cabs
• to run fewer red lights on my bike
• to spend less frivolously
• to find a new dentist
• to take more hikes in Rock Creek Park
• to be less frustrated by stuff I can’t readily change
• to be less introverted
• to forget more of my past (that needs forgetting)
• to make one new friend
• to learn something new about one old friend
• to pick up more bar tabs
• to leave fewer umbrellas in cabs
• to take my job more seriously
• to be less of a hypocrite
• to lower my cholesterol
• to say more “thank you”s out loud to no one in particular
• to get to the gym or exercise more
• to blog more (!)
• to care less about stuff beyond my sphere of influence
• to increase my sphere of influence
• to go to bed a half hour earlier
• to drink more water
• to use fewer disposable products
• to give more to charity

Probably some more stuff but that’s what comes to mind at present.

Krist Novoselic during the Nirvana live performance at East Ballroom, Husky Union Building, University of Washington, Seattle, WA (1/6/1990)

Eighteen years ago I was an 18 y.o. freshman at the University of Washington. Something was just barely ended, the last bit of it quickly dissipating. I couldn’t admit it to myself but I knew whenever I took a deep breath that whatever was in the air was going, going, gone. Just a few years ago, a pre-Teen Spirit Nirvana played the East Ballroom of the Husky Union Building, the same HUB where I ate lonely microwave cheeseburgers between classes but could hardly imagine an event of any significance ever happening there, let alone anything seminal. And then it seemed to rain for many weeks or years – take your pick – on end until I lost track of all the weather patterns that must have occured elsewhere. The U-District of Seattle, with all its filthy rat-bars I was too young to step foot in, was the whole damn planet, Portland and Bellingham sometimes orbiting moons. Pints of thick black coffee-tasting beer, walking well beaten trails between campus and the Ave, and a five-month winter of sharing toothbrushes, umbrellas, and beds with the anonymous who couldn’t stand being alone between boyfriends. Kurt Cobain shot himself the following April. I don’t remember where I was when I heard the news, but I was probably trying to study something I can no longer remember, half-hypnotized by a recent past that wasn’t even mine to begin with.