Context

So, I'm sitting there, right? And it's one of those things where like I'm playing on my phone and not really paying attention to anything except my Twitter feed. I mean, I know there's people around me but it's nobody I know or anything. So, they're talking, holding a conversation, I haven't really made them out yet, like I said I don't know either from Joe Blow. I'm scrolling through someone else's shitty opinion about Baltimore when this lady says, and get this,

"Everyone has their preference. I mean, honestly they do, that doesn't make it racist."

Completely devoid of context.

I turn slightly to see who's talking trying my darndest not to turn into a cartoon character or worse a CNN pundit by whirling and asking incredulously WHAT IN ALL THE FUCKS DOES THAT MEAN LADY?

Two people. White. Mid to late 40's. The guy looks like a Cop (I watch a lot, ALOT, of Cops). He's got this reddish mustache, his skin is burnt by the sun just enough to be that weird blotchy that you get when you start to blend in with everything else that's the color of dirt. Dry dirt. The lady looks like basically all of my mom's friends. Bad hair, a shirt with a weird design on it, a purse, sunglasses with some sort of a logo on them.

But the hair was what stuck out, I mean just awful. I'm not a hair aficionado or anything but what I wanted to say was, "Well, Katherine, your preference should probably be not such shitty hair and maybe Harry wouldn't have left you."

That's mean. I don't know if she was married or not. I didn't look.

Anyways.

After she said it the Cops guy muttered something like, well it's not really a race thing and their subject changed. I can't stop thinking about it. I want to find one of them and know what they were talking about. I should have asked.

It's just, under what circumstance would someone say that? It made me really sad. Depressed really. That existentially dreadful sadness that only comes when you're certain that whatever meaning and magical oneness of all things you were trying to see is really just bullshit.

Yeah, I know. You're probably right.

I'm just

at this point

where

I wonder constantly about all of this shit we are constantly fighting over.

I got home and just sat there for a while, but not like the normal pass me a beer and watch the Mariners lose again sat there. I was paralyzed almost. It was stuck into my head that someone, somewhere, is thousands of miles from their family guarding the gate that separates us from them risking their life ready to kill or be killed in an instant and for what? For fucking what? So some white lady has the freedom to say ambiguously racist bullshit?

And then I thought about what if the wall-guard agrees with ambiguously racist bullshit.

So I went to bed.

Maybe

I, with this, will relinquish a part of myself.

I don't really know which part that is right now, but maybe by the end of this I will.

There aren't a tremendous number of times when you feel like you truly belong. There are even fewer as you get older. Belonging becomes as ambiguous as a Facebook group or an emoji in a written conversation, which really isn’t a conversation as much as it is the feigning of significance between two people that used to have conversations. It becomes harder because you used to know people but your circle inevitably shrinks. Kids, job, marriages. That could be you, maybe it is, life is built around this unshakable string of maybes – that girl was kind, sweet, and pretty, in a conventional sense. That guy could have been you.

But maybe.

Belonging becomes whatever we need it to be when we don’t belong anymore to anything but ourselves standing in a kitchen full of people that you don’t remember knowing, really knowing, like the core of what makes a person a person rather than say, a lamp, ever.  That’s a powerful thing to understand and experience.

Maybe I'll relinquish belonging.

But I like people.

Real people.

Not empty crowded kitchens.

(Fuck it. I'll just let go of you.)

But maybe the problem is those two words, "feel like." What matters more (and I'm sincerely asking because I've got no fucking clue) the reality or how we interact with it. We label and stipulate all of our existence. It's a constant negotiation between what we are, what we see and what we think we are.

Who others think we are; who others prefer us to be.

Life does not require participation. You can shut up, pay attention and, really, have one hell of a good time - because we both know the guy in the corner drinking alone is having more fun than you

Why Hockey Matters To Me

Growing up, hockey was my favorite sport and it still is.

We grew up in an abusive home. My dad was prone to loud, angry and sometimes violent outbursts, he hit my mom - he hit us. My mom tried and did the best she could to protect us, but you can never stop everything that's going to happen. Once when I poked my head from my room to see if my mom was okay during one of their louder fights he hurled a chair at me from the kitchen table. I was 8 years old.

Kolby & I at a Winterhawks game this March

The way I coped was to escape. I would hide in my closet and watch hockey. Nothing else could get in, it was just me, Jaromir Jagr and Mario Lemieux.

My brother and I grew up going to Winterhawks games together. We would scrounge up enough money to buy tickets, drive the 45 minutes into Portland, stopping only at Taco Bell for the proper pre-game nutrition, and then settle into the old coliseum seats to watch the Hawks get shelled by basically whoever they were playing that night.


We loved hockey. It was our favorite sport in PE, we both begged our mom to let us play, but the nearest rink was over an hour away - add on top of that registration fees, equipment and whatever else we might need, it was just too expensive for our family.

So we watched. We watched any and all hockey we could find and dreamed of playing ourselves, even though we knew we never would.  

During this time my brother grew an unhealthy aversion toward Kurtis Mucha, the Hawks netminder who was only slightly less terrible than the rest of the roster. Alright, he was decent actually, I just liked to rag on him because my brother liked him so much - I didn't really have a favorite player, that's how bad those teams were (I guess I liked Colton Sceviour, but he was traded and whatever).

This was a pretty bleak time for Kolby and I's hockey fandom, the Pittsburgh Penguins were no peach during this run of years either pre-Sidney Crosby. The early 2000's Hawks were marred by four straight 1st round playoff exits from 2001-2005, then came the dark ages. Missing the playoffs in 2007, 2008 and 2009 - finishing dead last in the U.S. Division each year. In 2007, they won 11 games in a 72 game season.

2014 Teddy Bear Toss Game

They sucked.

But we didn't care.

I was in college by now and Kolby was in high school. We were both busy but we would still make time over winter break to catch a game. We would laugh about how bad the team was in between hurling insults at management, coaching, player development and whomever else we could think of that were somehow forcing this awful team down our throats.

Me and Lord Stanley's Cup

Then we would remind each other that the players on the ice were our own age (if not slightly younger or older give or take a year or two) and that somehow galvanized us into Hawkey fans even more. An imperfect adolescent hockey team with distinct disadvantages trying to overcome the monstrous opponent put in front of them night after night. It made sense to us. So, we cheered.

Then something happened.

They quit sucking.

Nino Neiddereiter, Brad Ross, Ryan Johansen, Mac Carruth, Ty Rattie, Derick Pouliot and on and on and on.

We saw our first playoff game together on March, 20th 2010 when the Hawks played Spokane. They lost 5-4 (Kyle Beach can fuck off to this day). Eventually Portland won the division and two heartbreaking finals losses later a championship.

Kolby and I would still catch a game or two every year. We haven't missed a season since 2002.

So as I watched the Hawks battle and slog through a gutty win in game 4 to take a 3-1 series lead over Victoria I felt relief. Not relief that the Hawks season would advance, or that they could defend their WHL title, but that the season and time with the person I am closest with wasn't done yet.

Champions

In 2009, the Pittsburgh Penguins won the Stanley Cup, in game 7, over the Detroit Red Wings. I was over at a friends house for a BBQ and watched the game mostly by myself in their living room. Watching Crosby hoist the cup I called my brother who was watching back home, we cried...okay, we didn't just cry, we ugly cried and sobbed and then ugly cried some more. Not because they had won a championship, I think, but because of some type of vindication for what we had been through.

Like it was worth it.

Last year the Winterhawks won the WHL championship. I called Kolby again. We didn't cry this time, but we reminisced. We talked about how bad those teams were, about the mostly empty arenas, about his fascination with Mucha, about how the hockey wasn't necessarily what brought us there, but the time to be together where we had always felt safe.

At that BBQ, in 2009, after the game a friend said to me, "You know that you didn't win anything, right?"

He couldn't have been more wrong.

I was there

The time at night when it's all still. Silent. Unwanting.

Like an agreement between the Earth and strife to conclude for a time.

Rain leaves a perfume of sweet pollen under the world's blanketed languor.

Chaos makes these times unnerving. Waiting for the break back open into the expanse.

But for that time, closed shut and encapsulated within a globe of what you thought the world might be like when you were 8.

It's okay.

It stays not long.

But....I was there.

And You can stop Her in the front lawn and let the earth spin around you for a moment.

IDK

For long stretches I didn't know what to believe. For longer stretches I didn't care. Angry. I think I was angry, at least.

I don't know what I did wrong.

I mean that.

I mean, it was just me, not even me, a me that had no concept of what I even was or would be (could be?).

I carry myself differently. Life operates differently for me.

It probably doesn't, but it feels like it does.

Makes me question more, emotions are tsunamis. Burn hotter, feel colder, then it can just kind of shut off for a while (did I shut it off?) and I'm indifferent, living shruggingly.

Then it's time
to feel again.
I can't.
So I push it farther. To turn it back on.

There is no shame because I've done it before.

I want to spare the world my troubles.

I'm scared people hate who I really am.
I'm afraid I hate who I really am.

I'm scared I will never reach my potential.
I'm scared I have no idea what that even is.

I hate that people can say anything.

I'm afraid about people finding out about me writing this...am I?

Maybe I never knew anything.

Maybe that means I'm gonna be okay.

TJ Oshie is an American Hero

I was up at 4:30 this morning to watch the USA take on Russia in the motherland in men's hockey.

I regret nothing.

TJ Oshie is a true patriot. Pretty sure TJ stands for Thomas Jefferson.

For the most part I am against the shootout deciding hockey games, but when something big is on the line, it is indescribably awesome.

TJ Oshie. Thank you.

Signed,

THE LAND OF THE FREE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE.

That Time I Wrote a Book Report About Elmo as a Druglord

In high school SSR was easily my favorite thing we ever did.

For those unfamiliar, SSR stands for Silent Sustained Reading or as it was better known by me, nap time.

Teachers used this time, I'm assuming, mostly to catch up on grading and easily assign some rando (I'm intentionally misspelling random as rando because I've always thought rando was a way better word. Words!) book report.

My senior lit teacher Mr. Fischer was retiring at the end of the school year and I was graduating. We had an unspoken agreement to basically not mess with the other.

He would allow me to take my siesta every Friday during SSR and in turn I wouldn't make pain-stakingly detailed arguments about how a pig could never fire a freaking gun when we read Animal Farm (I actually did this with a friend of mine, Eric, during sophomore year to a teacher we were much less fond of. The story's probably long enough for its own post so I'm just going to say that it ended with us both kicked out of Honors English. We are both now high school lit teachers. WHO'S TOO LITERAL NOW MS. CALDER!? WOOOOOOOOO).

I'm off track.

At the end of the term, we were to produce a book report on the SSR book we had been reading. Because of my nocturnal habits during this period, I saw no reason to bring a book to class. Mr. Fischer had a small library in the back and I would grab one from there that would serve as my pillow for the next 48 minutes.

Eventually, book report time came around. As you can imagine this was a bit of a problem for me seeing as I didn't read a book. However, one of the book report options was to come up with an original story using the protagonist of the novel you had been reading as the protagonist of your short story. My go-to pillow book was a Hercule Poirot mystery novel. I knew from having read the first page of this book that Hercule was an investigator. I surmised he was French Sherlock Holmes.

A quick Google search renders him looking like this:

So, yeah, French Sherlock Holmes (sick mustache bro).

The paper was due the next day and I sat awake at 2am with my friend Steven debating whether I should even attempt it. Steven's advice surmounted to, "Kenny, you're a senior in high school and this is the last thing you'll ever turn in now quit being a lazy ass and do it. Now pass me the fruit snacks." (Steven was Valedictorian of the school the next year and is now a orthopedic surgeon. He is smarter than me.)

I was kind of pissed at him for making me feel guilty about doing it. It was already two in the morning and I just wanted to go to stupid college already. So, I did the most reasonable thing I could think of - I wrote the most asinine and ridiculous paper I could possibly come up with, inspired by my little brother's obsession, at the time, with Sesame St.

What follows is exactly what I turned into Mr. Fischer the next day. Enjoy.

 SSR PAPER

IMAGINATIVE PAPER ON HERCULE POIROT AND THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING COOKIE.

BY: Kenny Koberstein

            It was a chilly September afternoon.  The popular private detective Hercule Poirot was on his way to an afternoon appointment at his newest clients humble abode.  Hercule arrived at Cook E. Monster’s apartment on Sesame St. at approximately 12 noon, right on time.  Hercule knocked and Cook answered the door promptly.

            “Hello Mr. Poirot, I have been expecting you.”  Hercule immediately noticed that Cook seemed to have some sort of blue fur under his clothing and an unusually deep soothing voice.  A voice that children would love. 

            “Yes, hello Mr. Monster, may I come in?” Hercule asked.

            “Please call me Cookie it’s what my friends call me and of course come in.”

            Hercule walked in and took a seat on the couch.  He took a quick gander around the apartment and something which hung on the wall caught his eye.  On the wall above a large fireplace were 25 cookies all hung in a row, each with a letter of the alphabet on them.  One however, was missing, the letter “S.”  The space between R and T seemed so lonesome and desolate that it brought a tear to Hercule’s eye.

            “So Cookie may I inquire to why the letter ‘S’ is missing from your oh so tasty alphabet?”

            “Well it is interesting you ask that Mr. Poirot for that is the reason that I have asked you to come here.  You see I noticed yesterday that the letter ‘S’ was missing.  You see here on Sesame St., every day I gather up a few of the local children and teach them the joys and wonders of the alphabet with my magical cookies.  Tomorrow is the day of which I planned to teach the letter ‘S’.  So you see Mr. Poirot, it is imperative that you recover the missing cookie by 9 A.M. Pacific Standard Time, otherwise the children of Sesame St. will forever be doomed to an alphabet of only 25 letters and never understand the joys of plural words or possessive nouns.”

            Hercule was obviously taken aback by the copious task set before him.

            “I feel Cookie that it is my duty to Sesame St. and children everywhere to find this missing letter ‘S’ and the criminal responsible.”

            “Then go Mr. Poirot and waste no time!”

            With that Hercule ran out the door onto Sesame St.  He knew just where he would start.  A place where booze flows like wine, a place where women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano, and a place where the only thing in more abundance than trouble is crack cocaine.  That’s right I’m talking about a little place called “Elmo’s World”

            Hercule entered the tall red building known as “Elmo’s World.” He strolled through the lobby and took the elevator to the top where he entered the office of the man himself, Elmo.  As he walked into the office all he saw was a revolving chair facing a large window overlooking the heights of the city.  Cuban tobacco lingered in the air.  The chair turned slowly and steadily revealing a small, red, furry creature wearing a black Armani suit obviously just off the rack.  It was Elmo.

            “What do you want gumshoe? You got nothing and you know it, that broad was from Tijuana. I barely even knew her!”

            “Actually that’s not what I’m here to talk about Elmo. Do you know anything about a missing ‘S’ right here on Sesame St.?”

            “I might of heard something about it, what’s it to you?”

            “How about this autographed picture of one miss Halle Berry?”  This proposal obviously aroused the interest of Elmo

            “Halle Berry! Now were talking, I don’t know too much about this myself, but I know a couple of loose talkers that I met in a high stakes dice game in Vegas.  Their names are Bert and Ernie.”  Elmo reached across the desk and handed Hercule a card with an address and telephone number on it.  “That ought to help you gumshoe.” Elmo said.

            “I appreciate the help Elmo, I’ll be on my way, good luck with the Tijuana girl.”  Hercule quickly sniffed out the address on the card and arrived at the house of Bert and Ernie around 4 P.M.  Hercule walked up to the door first ascending the steps on the porch, but before he could raise his hand to rap his fist on the door he heard excited dialogue coming through a small open window next to the door.  Hercule kneeled and crawled to the window where he crouched and listened.

            “Hey Bert did you hear about Oscar stealing that cookie from Cookie the other day?”

            “What are you talking about Ernie? You talking about Oscar the grouch?”

            “No, Oscar the pleasant, hard-working, dedicated citizen of society!  YES, Oscar the grouch.  He jacked that cookie just yesterday. It’s hanging on his trash can as we speak.”

            “Oh that grouch he always was a troublemaker.”  With that Hercule knew he had solved the crime.  All that was left to do was apprehend the culprit and seize the stolen “S” cookie.

            On Sesame St. there is a garbage can.  It is the only garbage can on Sesame St.  It smells like a newly bloomed summer rose, after it was covered with three metric tons of manure.  Hercule approached with caution for he knew that merely breathing the air here could very well give him an STD.  Then he saw it.  The cookie hanging there from the garbage can like a beacon of hope in this dungeon of filth and decay.  Hercule drew his revolver from his hip and called out.  “Come on out Oscar, show’s over that letter is going back home.”  The grouch rose from his can with his green, matted hair almost looking like a Bob Marley dreadlock. 

            “So, copper you busted me huh?  I figured it’d happen sooner or later, well no reason letting this little beauty going to waste over my lonesome heart.  Here you go.” Oscar then tossed the cookie to Hercule and began to sink back into his can, but Hercule stopped him.

            “Wait a second Oscar, I know a good shrink here on Sesame St. I here it’s great service at premium rates if you don’t mind talking to a big yellow bird.  Here is his card.”  Hercule flipped the card to the grouch and then turned to the sunset.  He began to walk back to Cookie with the cookie.  He was happy because he knew that for at least one more day the alphabet was safe on Sesame St. 

I saw Mr. Fischer a few days after I turned this in and his class was over. He stopped me in the hall (at this point I almost threw up because I knew he was going to say something like, how dare you write this blah blah blah, you can't walk at graduation. But, he didn't.) and brought up my paper.

He told me of the 80 or so book reports he read that mine was the one that stood out. He thanked me for making him laugh and told me he gave me an A.

The next year the drama department at my high school performed the story as part of a production of short acts. Mr. Fischer called my mom to tell her they were performing it so as to make sure she would let me know. I went and watched.

I guess why I'm posting this is because Mr. Fischer could have bawled me out about writing this, and he didn't. He laughed. He honored our unspoken agreement.

And that's why I'm a high school lit teacher today.