We’re no strangers to perceptible sacrifice
so, we’ve put all flavors of fun on ice.
Einsteining overnight - alone - is
about as exciting as a windows phone.

But I’ve been-to-the-show as a pinckney,
and in my years of parental-stalking analyses
the juice is definitely worth the squeeze.

Soon holiday parties will be made gold
by candlelight and champagne cold.
We’ll decorate with reds and greens
and surrounding ourselves with tinseled things
we’ll sing songs of angels and newborn kings.

But not just yet, no, not now - now tis the pre-seasoning -
a time of unrest, stress and testing - and God help
you if they’re not impressed with your reasoning.

It’s December, it’s foggy and rainy, but that fits. Of course, a rainy Saturday means gathering in the common room with my roommates and watching either “The Hunger Games” or “Twilight.” Leong’s never seen Twilight, believe it or not, what are they DOing in China? We were explaining that It’s ok to talk through Twilight because it’s completely senseless. Yeah, good times.

We got back from Thanksgiving break, and we had to hit it - grinding to squeeze half a semester into 18 days. It’s a cornucopia of pressure. Yes, we’ve hit the books, but we’re still us.

Here’s a question: What’s the first season in December? “Spotify wrapped” season! EVERYONE has Spotify and once a year you get a summary of your listening habits. The reports came out this week and it’s all people are talking about. Comparing their lists, artists, tastes. Those lists say a lot about someone and it’s ok to not have taste, we should normalize it.

My top artist was Taylor Swift (duh) my top song was Taylor Swift’s “Renegade,” Spotify says I listened to it 285 times but that’s biased because more than once, when writing a paper, I put that song on a loop for 6 hours. My second most listened to song was “Champagne Problems” By Taylor. That song is so Rory, Gilmore Girls coded - like Rory saying, “you're on your own.” My other top artists are TV Girl, the backseat lovers and hypo campus. Yeah, I roll big.

Taylor’s also been in the conversation because Sophie has an ex-fem-friend (a freshman) who started seeing a 45-year-old guy. Let me ask you, what does a 45-year-old man have in common with an 18-year-old girl? We have Yale friends in their early 20s who consider themselves still teenagers and children and THEY are horrified. It’s naked fracking *******. (Sorry, that one foamed over.)

The whole situation is ripped from Taylor’s 2010 masterpiece “Dear John,” which is about her dating John Mayer when she was 19 and he was 30-something. Her friends warned her, but she wouldn’t hear. Taylor Swift can be corny, and I love the corn, but she can be topical too and even though I was 7 when she released “Dear John” (2010), it’s a timeless lesson.

Lisa and I’d gone to the bakery for pies. As we arrived home, her younger sister, Leeza, was in the kitchen finishing off a strawberry PBJ sandwich. I knew this because the makings were strewn across the white, granite, waterfall kitchen island like debris from a bombing. “You’re the queen of slobs,” Lisa said, disgustedly, putting the luke-warm milk carton back in the fridge.

“I’ve been HERE before,” I thought to myself and to prevent these sisters from escalating, I asked 13-year-old Leeza, “Anyone at school you’ve got your eye on?”

Leeza turned to me excitedly and blurted out, “Josh Hornby!” With a squeal of delight. Then she took off talking at a hundred miles an hour, listing every little thing about him. His hypnotic green eyes, his brass-colored messy-style hair that he tucks back when it gets in his face. The way he reclines in class when he’s listening intently. She tells us about the time her BFF shoved her into him, one morning in the hall because she knew Leeza was crushing on him and how solid he was, “like a wall.” That collision was clearly her fault but he’d caught her, like spiderman, as she bounced off, keeping her upright and then - HE’d apologized. I couldn’t help grinning, as she rapturously ranted - she was so cute.

Leeza then, in an awkward moment of self-awareness, realized that she’d bared her secret soul and moved to change the subject. “Any interesting guys at Yale?” she asks Lisa.

“Just a herd of Chaz, or wannabes.” Lisa said, dismissively.
“What’s a Chaz?” Leeza asked.
“We augur that one type of guy you find at Yale is a Chaz.” Lisa confided. “Let’s see,” Lisa begins, starting to categorize, “If you’re a guy in a frat or you wear Patagonia, you’re a Chaz.”
“Or wear Canada Goose and boat shoes,” I throw in, chuckling.
Lisa howls with laughter, she’s into it now, “If you’ve ever brought a date to Morey’s because your family has a membership,” Lisa contributes knowingly, “or done coke in the men’s bathroom at Morey’s and consider yourself quite the prestige bang,” she completes, obviously forgetting our young audience.
“We hear tales,” I said, to assure wide-eyed Leeza, while giving Lisa the side-eye and casual *** head tilt.
“Baseball and lacrosse are Chaz sports too.” Lisa added, more temperately, trailing off and chastised.

I think I understand now, how boomers could object to the college debt bailouts. Now that I have my Taylor tickets I don’t want to hear about ticketmaster issues. I HAVE mine, ***** everyone else. Lisa, Leong, Sunny and I will be at Lincoln Financial Field in Philadelphia, PA on Sunday, May 14th, 2023 to see T.Swift in person. I’d be lowkey dreading the trip if my crew wasn’t going with me.
“Taylor’s a filthy, little, capitalist *****.” Leong said, growlingly, when she heard what I paid for the tickets but I know she’s thrilled. She’s a “swiftie” all the way.
“Shake it off,” I suggested.

We’re on-high - in Lisa’s (parent’s) 50th floor penthouse in Manhattan. The sky outside is a cloudless, blinding powder-blue, infinite and reflective as liquid. A TV news helicopter flew by under her window a few minutes ago.

If you don’t feel God-like looking down on the world from her living room, then you’re probably an atheist. Peter was with us and as we stood, looking out on Central Park and NYC from her balcony, he was suitably impressed by it all - from the chopper ride in from New Haven to the opulent digs.

Peter’s a poor (he exists on a meager stipend) doctoral student from Malibu, California. He grew up simply, in a rustic, one floor, three-bedroom cabin that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. He never had a smart-phone or cable TV growing up and only got glacially slow Internet in high school. He says he really lived in the ocean. His most prized possession is his 70s “Bing Bonzer” surfboard that stands, like a priceless, Egyptian relic in his dorm room.

We got a vibe switch when we came inside and 2Pac’s “Hit ‘Em up” was absolutely airhorning from the stereo system. “Westside, Westside, Westside,” Lisa and I joined in the chorus and clumsy-danced by reflex. Leeza, Lisa’s younger sister, saw us and ran over for a group hug with Lisa and me.

Lisa’s little sister’s 13 now and boy, is she a new-teenager. Her long, deep-red hair, which now has fluorescent blue ends, is tied-up in a ponytail revealing a buzz-undercut. Leeza had just gotten home from school and had already changed from her school uniform to ripped jean shorts, white socks and a black, 2Pac sweatshirt - which her mom reported she wears every single day. When her mom manages to launder that, Leeza rotates to a Jets hoodie - although she’s never watched a football game in her life.

“I’ve got a worried mind,” I confessed to Peter, later, as we were scrunched together, me half on his lap in an easy chair. He gave me a consoling hug.
Our grades came out earlier today and I got an A- in Physics 3. I crumbed in the face of classical mechanics. Is an A- who I am? Yeah, I guess so, and I’ll have to give myself an “F” for dealing with it. I suppose I’m acknowledgeably challenged.
“Can you appeal it?” Peter asked, he was trying to be supportive, but he knows that’s a ridiculous notion.
“It’s a male professor,” I said, “maybe I could send him a voice message and cry,” I updog.
“That would be HOT,” Peter said, in a dream-like whisper.
“Uhgh,” I groaned, “It’s emotional manipulation, it’s NOT ******,” I explained, creeped out.
I haven’t talked to my parents yet. They’re in Poland and don’t know my life is over.

“You deserve to embrace your awesomeness, stand up for who you are and reject the status quo.” Peter offered, “I dare you,” he finished, unable to keep a straight face. “But seriously, you’ll fix it after the break,” he offers in hope.
“Yeah,” I say, somewhat unconvinced, “I know.”

Even though you know some tea, you aren’t automatically pressed to spill ALL of it. Today’s tea features our roommate Sophie and two grody flavors of betrayal. BTW, I’m being magnanimous by changing the names and not doxxing the creeps.

To set our stage, a doe (we’ll call her Britney) high-school friend of Sophie’s is a Yale freshie this year. They were buddy-hollys back in the day and they’ve been clinging since their reunion.

On another track, Sophie’s been talking to a guy (we’ll call him Cory) in her English class recently and it was clear they were “in-like” but their clocked-up schedules were corking their algorithms.

Sophie and Cory finally got a shot last weekend when they attended a party together. However, it turns out later, at that party, Britney snuck off with Cory and smashed him (they were observed, and everyone carries a camera these days).

So, poor Sophie suffered two betrayals in one night. Cory went-hiking on her and Britney - who she'd told about Cory - did the other woman chisel.

Of course, Cory (just another dog-boy) is already forgotten but the broken friendship drama will live on forever. Why Britney chose to betray Sophie we’ll never know, because that ***** is dead to us.

Midterms are over
I’m coming up for air
now that they’re done
I’ll admit I was scared
- that physics three -
was nearly the death of me.

What comes next?
The Manhattan express
for November recess
some November excess
with Lisa, my BFF princess,
my doughty, NYC adventuress,
I’m blessed, she’s the best.
Ooo! and some turducken bliss,
much needed rest and time to de-stress

On a recent Saturday morning, I was blue-collar grinding (volunteering at a local hospital), when one of the doctors I've wo-manually labored for stopped by briefly to check on a patient. She had her young daughter, Ivy, in tow. I’d met little Ivy before. The doctor asked me, “Would you mind keeping an eye on Ivy for a minute?” “Sure!” I committed, bending down to get eye-to-eye with the girl and engage.

Ivy’s an adorable little human. She’s a sober 4 year old, about three and a half feet tall, with wavy chestnut brown hair down to her waist. She was wearing a yellow, “Beauty and the Beast” dress. Ivy’s into all things Disney (who the shiar isn’t?). Disney seems to home right in on impressionable young minds like hers and mine.

Ivy asked me, “If you could have a wish, what animal would you be?”
I believe we should talk to children as if they were adults - my parents were like that with me - which partially consists of complicating basic ideas and observing where the kids go with it.
“Where would I BE, as this animal?” I asked, after all, it was an important consideration.
“What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled but genuinely interested.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to suddenly become an elephant here in the hospital - would I - or a bear in the middle of the ocean?”

“NNoooo,” she said, so scandalized that she took my hand to reassure me.
“I’d probably want to be an alpha predator too,” I was thinking out loud now, “you know - no use becoming an animal only to get eaten.” She nodded, scouring me with her wide, unblinking, brown eyes and I finished with, “since humans are the #1 alpha predator, I suppose I’d like to be.. me.”

“NNooo,” she said, sternly. Her body language radiated impatience. She’d decided that I hadn’t understood the question - or I didn’t appreciate the magic possibilities of transformation.

Her mom returned, just then, and after touching base with the duty nurse, she turned to Ivy and me, “Ready to go?” she asked. Ivy immediately changed allegiance by releasing my hand and taking hers.

Doctor-mom thanked me and as they walked away, Ivy gave me a bashful, half hearted, goodbye wave.

I’ve discovered that if I do my volunteer work early on weekend mornings, from 6 to 10am, it's almost like it never happened at all. Afterwards, I’m not tired and I have the rest of my day free. I had to give up something, of course - my early, weekend, antisocial coffee consumption and writing time.

Coffee shops are my favorite places to write but few of them are open at sunrise. I’d found one that I liked close to my dorm. The most direct route is to walk through an old cemetery. At sunrise it can be dark, foggy and dew soaked - a scene right out of “Night of the living Dead” - creepy-ish, but I’d take the shortcut every time.

It’s starting to cool down here in Connecticut. Leaves are falling, like giant, burnt snowflakes (science says that trees send chemical signals to their branches to clip leaves away).

Peter borrowed a friend's toy-like, pea green, Fiat-500 convertible and we drove into the country to see the turning leaves. We hiked a bit too and stopped, in Mystic, for seafood.

I never realized just how theatrical trees could be, with their few, simple, chlorophyll tricks and how reflective still lakes could be. Wowzer, just - wowzer.

There are some things that should never be shared. Like a toothbrush, an iPad, lipstick, strawberry stroopwafels, a slice of pizza or a secret lover (that last one just sounded good). But life is good, I can share that. We’re young, dramatic sophomores with good hair products and we’re at it, working and playing hard.

Ahh.. ok, upon consultation, I have to add that some of us are in their mid-twenties with only a few good years left.

Did I mention that we climbed up a twisty lighthouse staircase too? Peter always thinks people should take the stairs, and not the elevators, “You want to have muscles and bones that work when you’re eighty,” He says. Since he’s closer to eighty than I am, when we’re not carrying furniture, I let him have his way. Of course, he’s never been to up Lisa’s 50th floor townhouse either.

My mom told me that they’re off to Poland again, over the holidays, for another tour with “Doctors without Borders” (**** war). Lisa’s parents have (kindly) invited me to share their high-rise utopia again this year. Who knows, maybe Peter will have his chance to try those stairs.

It’s Sunday morning, my watch shows that it’s 33° and 5:58 am. Surprisingly, half of us are up and motile. My excuse is that I’m scheduled to volunteer at the hospital this morning.

Leong just came up from the basement fitness center, she’s all sweaty. “I hate that metal music those giant guys in the weight room listen to.” Leong said, slipping her shoes off.

“That music makes me feel so hot, It has such energy.” Sunny shivers, slipping-into a sweater.

“I don’t understand old music.” Sophie said, spreading butter on a piece of hot toast.

“What does THAT mean?” - I had to ask - thinking she meant “classical music,” which I love.

Sophie explained, “My English professor played this old song for us - it’s old - “The times they are a changin”, by Bob Dylan? It’s an AMAZING song”

“You’ve never heard THAT?” I asked, dubiously, but slobber-knocked if it were true.

I never LISTEN to old music,” Sophie shrugged, “it sounds so flat and one dimensional - I can’t stand it,” she winces. “I like spatial audio, binaural and object-based dolby atmos, you know - lossless and three dimensional.”

“Don’t get technical with me,” I said, as if offended, while gathering my gear,

“But you watch Carol Bernett and all those old TV shows.” Lisa said, “What’s the difference?”

“Video?” Sophie argues, with an implied “HELLO,” as if that one word made everything obvious.

I missed the rest of it, my watch beeped, it was time to disco, I had stops.

I can’t deny Peter and I are sync’d these days. Have we fallen in love? Maybe, but I think we’re still upright. He doesn’t tease me about my fear of heights, bugs, the dark, and cheesecake - anymore. He overlooks my crying during movies, streams and pet-reunion videos. It’s reciprocal, of course, I let him hate salad dressing, ketchup (just odd) bananas and chocolate (can you imagine?), I let him help me with homework and I try to ignore his awful bro-act, around his bhessys.

I’m going to Peter’s to watch football, later, ‘cause I love my NFL. The doctoral guys have a notorious “mancave” situation setup in their basement where they red-zone, kaber, or blare shley emo-core at 120db. I flat told Peter that when my watch alerts to harrowing audio levels - I’m outro.

But between you and me, these guys make THE best BBQ (they slow smoke briskets or something). I’d probably just go upstairs, put on my noise-canceling AirPods, read (with the smart girls) and wait for the **** eats.

Monday’s Halloween - Happy Halloween everyone!

Met a physics major at university
I was into her, and she was into me
We hit it off so well we agreed to a date
the beginning was so nice but
the ending not so great!

She was so cheery
talkin' 'bout
String theory, it
left me weary
cuz I didn't want
to talk about
science

She was so cheery
talkin' 'bout
String theory, it
left me weary
cuz I didn't want
to talk about
science

After our meal, she said
"let's go for a walk"
When I asked what for
she said, "I just want to talk"
While holding hands, walking
and gazing at the sky, my
romantic mood was ruined
and here's the reason why

She was so cheery
talkin' 'bout
String theory, it
left me weary
cuz I didn't want
to talk about
science

She was so cheery
talkin' 'bout
String theory, it
left me weary
cuz I didn't want
to talk about
science

Handwriting on the wall,
it didn't look too good
She asked me to rethink
my position if I could
I considered pros and cons
and I almost acquiesced
But then I realized why
our breakup would be best

She was so cheery
talkin' 'bout
String theory, it
left me weary
cuz I didn't want
to talk about
science

She was so cheery
talkin' 'bout
String theory, it
left me weary
cuz I didn't want
to talk about
science

String theory, left me weary, string theory
Sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh
science
String theory, left me weary, string theory
Sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh
science
     (repeat and fade)




Mark Toney © 2022