Cookies, Cakes, and Ice Cream. . .

A Hill Worth Dying On.

Friends for a Reason, Season, or Life. . .

I had a really great group of friends in high school. I’m still in touch with a few of them. One of them is my son’s Godfather. Our relationship was forged from shared interests and a need for survival. We were all into punk music and skateboarding. However, this was long before skating was cool. Tony Hawk was still on the hunt for Animal Chin. To say we weren’t popular would be an understatement. The refrain, “Hey skatef*g!” could’ve been, and was daily, directed at any one, or all, of us. That kind of shit will make you tight.

Over the years, we drifted apart geographically, and a bit ideologically. But we’re still friends. So, when I got the call from N that morning, I picked up. I was happy to hear from him, but I hesitated a bit. Almost no one ever calls me, and when they do it’s often bad news. That morning was no exception. “Hey man. So . . . *an overly long pause* . . . D shot himself yesterday. He’s still alive. He’s in the hospital, but it doesn’t look good.” I don’t remember what I said. It doesn’t really matter because D died a day or two later from his wounds.

His death hit me hard. He was the first from the group to go. Everyone I knew struggled with it in their own way. I know as we get older, more and more of our friends and family begin to depart, but this one was way too early. As I wrestled to make sense of it all, I remembered a conversation I’d had with another friend years before while I was still in college.

This friend, T, and I spent a lot of time together after high school and during college (at least three of us went to the same local college as well). His wife, and my girlfriend and future first wife, were friends and so we were a couples couple. We pretty much hung out every Friday night. We’d eat at some dinky Italian place along the Strip in Shamokin Dam and then end up back at their house watching a movie before falling asleep, only to wake up a few hours later to drive home.

T’s life was a bit further along than mine. He’d graduated high school two years ahead of me, and I’d taken a year off before going to college, so his life was two years post college graduation at this point. He studied mathematics, and for some God forsaken reason he’d decided to take a job with the Pennsylvania Department of Revenue. I think originally he’d wanted to be a teacher, but didn’t have a high enough GPA to stay in education or some shit like that. He hated his job. He had to commute an hour one way twice a day and work in a fucking cubicle. His life was Office Space from what I could tell. (Honestly, if any of us were suicide cases, I would’ve guessed him . . . or me.)

One night I remember him telling me and B about how he’d figured it all out. He was going to work for the next 20, 30, or 40 years (I don’t remember how long he actually said, but it seemed way longer than healthy to suffer through) and then retire (I think he even had an early retirement option because he was part of the National Guard) to live the good life. The thought struck terror through me then and there. It still does. I looked at him and said, “Fuck man, I don’t know. That sounds risky. What if you die driving back and forth to Harrisburg next week, or next month, or next year? Or what if you make it all the way to retirement and then die a week later? I think I’m just going to try and live my whole life like I’m retired.”

Putting Action into Words. . .

I’m nearly 50 years old now, and that’s exactly what I’ve done. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve worked hard, at times, but I’ve never sold my soul to make a living. The cost always seemed too high. I’ve made compromises in order to live somewhat untethered. Some of them have been worth it, others not so much. But I wouldn’t change much. I’ve pieced it together and always had a roof over my head and something to eat. Not needing much has helped a lot.

I’ve recently crafted a new saying to capture this approach to life, which has been with me for as long as I can remember. I’ve even adopted it as a bit of a motto, looking for opportunities to share it, and finagling it into conversations where it may, or may not, be relevant. You ready? Here it is: “No one on their death bed has ever said, 'I wish I hadn’t eaten that cookie.'” It’s good right? And (al)most definitely true.

You might find it odd I decided to couch my life philosophy in terms of desserts, but if I’m being honest, I think a lot about desserts and sweet things in general. I’ve even developed a three tiered classification system for desserts. I won’t go too in depth at the moment, but big surprise, it’s not just about desserts either. A fact organizers at a number of TED Talk conferences have failed to appreciate. Which is fine, most genius goes unrecognized until after it’s gone. But at the same time, my new motto (and the reduction of all desserts to “Cake, Pie, and Pudding”), is also very, very much about dessert. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about ice cream (or pudding if my theoretical dessert revolution ever gains a foothold).

PA: Born and Bred. . .

My dad was born in Hershey, PA. I was born an hour or so north of there. My mom’s mom’s family owned the local ice cream shop in town. I come by my appreciation for ice cream naturally. Let it be known, I’m in no way comparing the mass produced catastrophe that’s Hershey’s ice cream to the hand crafted masterpiece which was Waltz’s. We used to actually make homemade ice cream when I was a kid using Waltz’s recipe and it was legit.

However, I’m not an ice cream connoisseur. I reserve that title for pizza and pastry. I’m not even particularly picky when it comes to ice cream, just don’t give me frozen fucking kefir and tell me it’s ice cream. I’m not even an avid consumer. (By the way, you know who really, really loves ice cream? The British. Those people will eat a freakin’ cone when it’s 10°C, windy, and raining to beat the fucking band without blinking an eye. It’s like a national past time over there. People just walking down the sidewalk licking a cone. It’s insane.) I mean, sure, I like a good scoop now and again. Who doesn’t? Cookies and cream is my go-to, but I’ll take just about anything as long as there aren’t any nuts involved (this goes for all my desserts by the way). What I really appreciate about ice cream though is it’s the only dessert I can have two bites of and be done with. Let me emphasize, this is not the case for cakes, cookies, pastries, or pies. I’m not walking away from them until their gone.

Of course, I can’t be sure this obsession with sweets is genetic, but it seems likely. The arrival of my son has bolstered my confidence that I’m not totally to blame for my affliction. P most definitely has a sweet tooth. If you ask him what he wants to eat, don’t be surprised if he says, “Something sweet.” That’s it. Nothing more. No elaboration. Just sweet. He loves a good pastry, a piece of cake, or a cookie, but the boy straight up loses his mind (literally as of late) when it comes to ice cream. His eyes light up, he’ll often do a little jig, and if you ask him what kind he’s going to get, you’ll always get the same answer, “Chocolate!”

Now, look, let it be known, I’m all for a life of moderation and self-discipline. If you knew me (which you don’t, but if you did), you’d be like, this is the most obvious thing you could say about yourself. But I’m not at all in favor of denying myself, or my son, this sweet treat . . . within reason. I know there are those who’d say, and probably are saying right now (I see you), “You’re over indulgent.”, “Ice cream should be for special occasions only.” Let me state for the record, I think that’s a silly notion. No one has ever said your their death bed, “I wish I hadn’t eaten that cone.” either.

Who Doesn’t Love a Dichotomy. . .

It seems there are at least two kinds of people. You’ll have to forgive me, but at the moment, I can’t settle on a quick and clever shorthand for them. It makes me wonder if it’s really even worth soldiering on with this thought . . . I mean if there’s nothing “memeable” here, does it really even matter? I can’t be sure, but I’ve decided to push on and hope for the best.

Broadly speaking, there are those who think you have to “earn” your things. I’ll call them the “earners,” for lack of something clever. The quickest and easiest example which comes to mind are the Protestants working their way into Heaven. I’m not going to get all theological. One, because I barely know enough to be dangerous, and two, because there are countless other examples of this in our everyday lives. I’d be shocked if you weren’t shaking your head in agreement thinking about an example in your life. They’re everywhere. So many in fact, they don’t even register most of the time. Sort of like the fish failing to notice the ocean. The “earner” ethos is the heart of our society and the entirety of the American enterprise is built on the idea of putting your head down, putting in the hours, exerting the effort, and deserving your place at the table.

I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me then, but it does, when this “work ethic” shows up in areas where it seems as though it could potentially take the day off. I’m thinking obviously about desserts, but also other past times such as hobbies, interests, and passion projects. “What have you done to deserve that ice cream?”, isn’t just a question for those obsessed with chiseling their body for a summer in swimsuits. It’s also embedded in the idea that perhaps you should only have it once or twice a year.

When I was a kid, ice cream wasn’t on the “deserve-it menu,” but other things, like bikes, guitars, and skateboards were. There was always a sense that I had to “prove” my commitment to something in order to “earn” a better bike, guitar, or skateboard. “Show me that you’re going to stick with it, and then you can have the one you really want.” “You don’t need that nice of a bike to go riding around with your friends.” You get the picture. I’d bet my life you’ve heard it somewhere, from someone, about something. When viewed within the context of America’s dedication to “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps,” these phrases are predictable to the point of boredom.

On the flip side are those who embrace life. I’ll call them the “embracers,” and for them, there’s no need to earn your just desserts. These are the people who look at the world and say, “Why not?” I’m not sure who these people are in the realm of theology. Perhaps the Franciscans? I can imagine Richard Rohr (although is he even in the actual fold?) approaching ice cream like he does God: with an attitude of gratitude. If you’re walking down the street with Richard and wondering about whether or not you should “treat” yourself to a cone, I can imagine him saying, “You’re a perfect reflection of the Divine. You know who loves ice cream. God. God loves ice cream, so of course, you should have some. You don’t need to deserve it, or treat yourself. It’s yours by birthright.”

In so many ways, this approach is an anathema to the American psyche. I can hear the cries of the huddled masses, honed by a lifetime of denial (self or otherwise), “Heathen!”, “You’ll spoil them!”, “It’ll be anarchy!” “How will you ever teach them to appreciate things?!?”, “Nothing will be sacred!” The embracer knows this is so much subterfuge. The way to teach people how to act, how to appreciate, how to see the world is by showing them with your actions. And giving them a reasonable opportunity to figure out things for themselves.

I can easily imagine a situation where a child, or an adult, loses interest in something that could’ve potentially been their life’s calling, or maybe been an avenue to the thing that would end up being their purpose for living, simply because they weren’t “worthy” of, what essentially amounts to, being given an fair shake at a valuable experience. Just to be clear, I’m not saying if your kid comes home and wants to learn to play the violin you rush out and buy them a Stradivarius, or a 1969 Fender bass in my case. But maybe consider getting them, or yourself, a decent one in order to facilitate an experience worthy of deciding whether or not this might be something worthwhile. Because ask yourself, “What would it even mean to ‘prove you’re worth it’ in the first place?” What is the harm in fostering an impractical dream from time to time? This is perhaps the most practical reason for trending toward an “embracer” philosophy.

Allow Me to Remind You. . .

No one here gets out alive. In fact, we’re all living on borrowed time. There are no guarantees about tomorrow, let alone today. I, for one, am not inclined to arrive at death thinking, “You know, if I’d just rode a few more miles, then I would’ve finally deserved a nice bike.” Life is too short. My value, your value, everyone’s value is inherent. It’s not something we work our way up to. Our worth is not akin to the corner office with the good view. We shouldn’t be approaching our lives and the things which make up our lives, our enjoyments, our past times via a metric hierarchy.

And look, I’m not suggesting that it’s the price which determines quality when embarking on an “embracer” path. Some of the best things in life are free. And when they’re not free, there still isn’t a direct correlation between a thing’s quality and its price. One of my most prized possessions is the white Pentel pen I use to write messages to my son everyday. It cost me $26, which is nothing in terms of its value. Its weight, its feel, the way it writes, and what I use it for are what make it precious. Recently, the Insta tried to sell me a “better” pen, for like $200 (which is not all that pricey when you go down the “quality” pen rabbit hole, although significantly more than the one I currently use). I seriously considered it for a day or two. And then, I said, “Fuck that. How’s it going to improve my experience?” I mean, maybe, but I doubt it.

When I sit and watch my son eat ice cream, I’m transported to another world. To a world where the simplest pleasures are what matter the most. I’m not going to tell him he needs to limit that only to “special occasions.” The ice cream is the special occasion. And of course, in the bigger picture here, the ice cream is a metaphor for being present, for “embracing” the ability to appreciate the moment rather than sublimating your goals, your pleasure, your enjoyment to an unknown, uncertain, and unsure future.

I’m by no means in support of pure, unadulterated hedonism. My friend who shot himself: he was drunk at the time, involved in some weird love trianglely type things, with people he shouldn’t have been. His search for pleasure was masking something much darker, a loneliness, a longing for some essential connection which no amount of empty pleasure was going to be able to provide. He was blind to the moment. He wasn’t embracing. He was working hard to compensate for what he’d lost, or didn’t have, or couldn’t find. Was it because he didn’t think he deserved those things? I don’t know. And this isn’t to throw him under the bus. I knew him. I loved him and I think, were he here, or if he could tell me from the Great Beyond what he learned, it very well might be something like this. At least I hope so. Whatever the case, I know what I’m going to be doing . . . I’ll be taking every chance I’m given to buy my son an ice cream cone . . . because that’s a hill worth dying on.