n i c k y n a x . c o m

I realize it’s been a few weeks since I last wrote, and there’s a reason for that.

And I’ve been wrestling with the decision of whether or not to share that reason with you in a blog entry. Part of me wants this to be a place where I actually write about the important things that happen in my life and how those things make me feel. But I’m struggling with whether or not some things should remain private. Where is the line between something I should write about and something I shouldn’t write about? That’s my current struggle.

And I think I’ve decided that if it’s important to warrant this much deliberation, then that’s the first sign that I am approaching that line. And this particular event, I’ve decided, is one that is very personal and private and special in my life, so I’ve decided that I would only give a glossing over of the details and save the rest for myself and my closest friends.

The story starts at the beginning of January when I met someone.

Over the days, weeks, and subsequent months we got closer and closer until we started dating. And, even though I am 26, this was my first real, adult relationship. The idea of being in a committed relationship was something that had always scared me, which is odd considering it was also something I had been wanting to experience for so long. It scared me so much that I would go out of my way not to even be presented with the opportunity of getting into a relationship. I’ve often been told by friends that I tend to push away the very things I claim I want; that I am horribly afraid of actually being happy. And I think, to some extent, it’s true.

But, in January, when I met this guy, something changed. I knew I was ready. And even though he lived in Orlando at the time, and I lived here, we never went more than about three weeks at a time without seeing each other due to him coming to the city often. And eventually, we decided to make it official.

His job in Orlando was due to finish at the end of June, and he would be relocating back here after that, so we only had to make the long distance thing work for a few months until we would be able to have a normal relationship where we could see each other all the time. So, I found myself often looking forward to then and started making plans of things we would do and places we would go once he had moved back.

But then, in April, he was offered another job for once his Orlando one was over. Two weeks after he left Orlando and moved here, he would be moving again. But this time, it was to be much further away. This time, he would be moving to China for a year.

I was devastated. Up until then, I had kept telling myself I only needed to wait until June and my patience would be rewarded. And it felt as if the rug had been pulled out from underneath me. The thing I had waited 26 years for had finally presented itself to me and I was finally ready to accept it into my life, and it was being taken away right before I could get my hands on it.

Sure, there is always the possibility of getting back together once he’s returned from China, but I can’t let myself think like that. If I do, it will stop me from moving on with my own life. And if I spent a year patiently waiting for a relationship that didn’t end up happening, that would cause ill feelings and even more depression than this initially loss would.

The last week of June, his job in Orlando ended and he moved in with me until the time came for him to move to China. And it was wonderful. We were finally able to spend quality time together and see each other every day. We were able to have a real relationship. We went to movies together. We went out to eat together. We went out drinking together. We went to Six Flags together. We just did everything together.

Then, on July 21, at 1pm, he got into a cab and was gone.

I’m not going to lie. I was devastated. I’ve never been good at goodbyes, and this was one of the most painful I’ve experienced. The only one I can think of that hurt more was when I moved to New York after high school and had a horribly heart wrenching goodbye with my family at the Des Moines International Airport.

I’ve had a week now to recover from the blow, and I still can’t quite put into words the way I feel about the situation. I have a plethora of emotions that come to me when I think about it. Of course there is sadness, frustration, loneliness, and things of that nature. But I’ve been surprised to discover that I also find glimmers of pride, accomplishment, and joy. Appreciation. Understanding.

We are still keep in touch via the magic of the Internet and get to communicate every other day or so, so it’s not as if I’ve had to lose him from my life completely, which has made the whole situation a little bit easier. He’s twelve hours ahead of me, so it kind of feels like I am chasing him around the globe. Trying to keep up. When the sun rises, sometimes I like to think that he’s personally sent it to me from the future. Sometimes I’ll look up at the moon and think how he did the same twelve hours earlier. I know it’s silly to do things like this, but it makes things a little bit easier for the time being.

I’ve been laying low since he left though. For the first couple of days I didn’t leave the apartment and just submerged myself into the world of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Thank God it came out the same day and I was able to use it as an immediate distraction.

People have started to tell me that it’s time for me to get back out there and start meeting some new people and going on dates, but for the time being, I still don’t think I’m quite ready for that. But now I know that if and when I do decide it’s time to get back out there, I don’t need to be so scared of it all anymore.

I now have a better idea of what I do want in a relationship and the what I don’t. I learned a lot about myself throughout this entire experience, and therefore, ultimately, it was a positive one. I am very thankful I had it.

I mentioned yesterday that it’s been really hot lately, and it hasn’t gotten better.

In fact, last night was still so hot that I decided to sleep on the couch in the living room so I could take advantage of the air conditioning. I plan on doing that any night it’s too hot to sleep in the bedroom, because I’m too cheap to buy a second air conditioner for the bedroom. Plus I just don’t see the point because it’s not that big of an inconvenience to sleep on the sofa.

But I was faced with a new challenge. Kevin gets here later tonight and is staying with me until he leaves for Asia on the 21st.

Well, two people can’t fit on my sofa, and I’m not going to be a rude host and force him to sleep in the sauna of a bedroom. So my only option, really, was to move my mattress from the bed and plop it down in the middle of the living room. Sure, I could just buy an air mattress, but really, where’s the fun in that?

So, I moved my chair out the way and shoved the coffee table aside. Once I had made enough room for the mattress, I dragged it into the living room and put all of the sheets on it.

I feel like I’m camping out kind of. Kind of like when I was a kid and I would get a sleeping bag and then take a blanket and drape it over chairs and things to make it like a tent. I would totally make a tent now too, but I feel like that may be going a bit too far.

But knowing that I am going to be camping out in the living room tonight gives me a flashback to when I was really young. Circa ages 10 and younger. My mom, sister and I lived in a two-story house and only had air conditioning in one room. She was a single mom who was raising three kids (my older brother had graduated and moved out by this time though), so we couldn’t really afford to have air conditioning in every room of the house. During the summers it would get really hot, so we would spend the entire summer camping out in the den each night.

We would pull out the sofa bed and Mom and I would sleep on that while Jan slept on the floor at the foot of the bed. We would have snacks, usually ice cream or pop corn. And we would watch old black and white television shows before actually going to bed. I remember loving Andy Griffith and Ozzie and Harriet and I Love Lucy. I think I really started to develop a true appreciation for classic comedy from those nights. Those were some really terrific shows.

There was one night where something really bizarre happened though. Now, I have to take my mom’s word on this, as she was the only witness, but I have no reason to doubt her.

She claims that one night, in the middle of the night, I started talking in my sleep. To my sister. And even weirder, she was also asleep and yet she talked back. Apparently I was telling her to “come up here and get this bird.” And we were just talking back and forth about some bird that I was convinced was up in the sofa bed with me. Of course neither she or I remember this as we were asleep, but I like to believe it’s true.

You know, I never realized until actually not that long ago that the whole reason behind the summer campouts was because we didn’t have a lot of money. I just thought it was fun. I didn’t know things like shame back then. I reminisced about these nights with Mom a few months ago, and she told me how she always used to be so embarrassed that we had to do that. It made me sad. It’s a memory I hold very dear, and now that I am old enough to fully understand the situation, it just demonstrates to me how great my mother is. How incredible she always was at never letting me know how bad things were at times. She was always able to turn the lemons into lemonade.

It may be a memory that she’s ashamed of, but I will always hold it dear to me. And tonight, while I camp out in front of the air conditioner in the living room, I will reflect on those nights once again… remembering where I came from and thinking about where I’m yet to go.

I like Sundays.

Mostly because it’s the only day of the week that I don’t have to work. Yeah, I work six days a week. Not by choice. It’s out of necessity.

You see, I know it may be shocking to believe, but living in New York City is not cheap. In fact, it’s quite expensive. And I live alone. Which I love, don’t get me wrong. But it also comes with downsides. Financial downsides. I can’t split my rent in half with my roommates. I can’t split the bills in half. The groceries. Anything. It’s all on my shoulders. I would love for Miss Jackson to pull her own weight around her, but it just ain’t happening.

About half of my monthly income goes immediately to paying rent. And then several hundred more goes to bills. So, I’m basically forced to work six days a week just to afford to live, which translates into working about 55 hours per week. Every week. Monday through Saturday. So, yeah…

I like Sundays.

I’m often torn as to how to spend my Sundays though.

Part of me feels that since it’s my only day off, that I should use it to just relax and be at home and recoup. I mean, on the seventh day, God rested, didn’t he? If it’s good enough for Him, it should be good enough for me. And I love resting just as much as the next guy, so it seems like the obvious thing to do.

But, then again…

It is my only day off. So the other part of me feels like I should make the most of it and do something productive. And I start to get really stir crazy if I just sit on my couch for too long on a Sunday. And it’s not as if I would be at a loss to find something to do. I mean, hell, I live in New York Freakin City. There’s always something to do. I just can’t get inspired to actually get off my butt and do any of it.

But today I decided I was going to get out of the house. A big motivator was the heat. It was hot as hell today. Sure, I could sit here at watch tv and bask in the glory of my air conditioner. Or, I could go somewhere else and bask in the glory of an air conditioner for which I do not have to pay the electricity bill. I opted for the latter.

So, I went into the city and grabbed a quick bite to eat before meeting up with Joe to go see Ratatouille. I love everything Pixar has done in the past, so I had high expectations for this one, and it certainly delivered. It really was a great film. And the technology never ceases to astound me. The rats’ hair was so amazingly well done that it was actually distracting me from the movie itself.

Yeah, I became obsessed with rat hair.

It had been several months since I had last ventured to 42nd Street, which was where we saw the film. My office is at the north end of Times Square and I’ve had no reason to go down to that part of it, especially since that part of Times Square is so crowded and packed with tourists that it can literally sometimes take you ten minutes just to walk one block. But yeah, I hadn’t been down there in quite some time, so it took me by surprise to discover that there is now a Ripley’s Believe It or Not in right smack in the middle of Times Square on 42nd Street.

And we all know what that means, kids!

I’ve got the perfect thing to do on an upcoming Sunday!

I like Sundays.

I have a new obsession.

No, strike that.

Obsession is a very strong word. And I don’t feel I’ve reached that level.

I have a new strong interest. Yes, that’s a bit more accurate.

I have a new strong interest.

As I walk through my neighborhood, I find that my thoughts tend to end up thinking about one person. Whether it’s early in the morning and I am headed to the subway to go to work or late at night and I am coming home after a long day. Whether I am heading to the laundromat or heading to the gym. Whether I am on my way to the grocery store or on my way to a friend’s house. It doesn’t matter. This person is always present in my thoughts.

I can’t stop thinking about Boog.

Boog?! Who the hell is a Boog?!

And the honest answer is that I really don’t know. I can’t even be 100% sure that Boog is even a person.

I suppose I should explain.

Ever since I moved to this apartment/neighborhood a year ago (to the day almost) I’ve had a mild fascination with one piece of graffiti that is in the alley behind my apartment. It’s just one word. Four letters. In a nice neat font.

Boog

I would even take to walking home through the alley instead of the main roads just so I could look at Boog. And I always had intentions of taking my camera with me once so I could stop and get a picture of Boog. The color of the paint against the color of the wall and the placement of it against the other things attached to the wall gave it serious artistic qualities and I wanted to capture that on film. I never got around to it though. And now, unfortunately, someone has spray-painted a silver line through it, thus ruining my ability to get that picture.

And then as time went on, I started noticing Boogs elsewhere in the neighborhood. And now it’s gotten to the point where I can’t go a day without seeing Boog. Not that new ones have sprung up, I’m most likely just actually noticing them now. My eyes have become so accustomed to that word, that now I can spot it anywhere.

Sometimes, on the train ride home, I sit and stare out the windows looking at the various graffiti along the way and have my own little Boog Scavenger Hunt. And I’ll make whomever is with me join in the hunt too. Boogs are like the Hidden Mickeys of Astoria.

I don’t know who Boog is. I don’t know if Boog is a man or a woman. Young or old. I don’t know his or her race. I know nothing about Boog. It could be someone I see and speak to everyday. It could be someone who is now dead. I have no idea. And I kind of like it that way. The mystery is far more fun.

All I know is that Boog has captured my imagination and made my neighborhood a little bit more interesting to me. My own little mysterious Astorian celebrity. And there’s no need to hunt him or her down for an autograph, because, well, s/he has already given us plenty of them.

Now, if you start seeing Nax tagged all over the neighborhood, well… don’t look at me.

Yeah, these are really the types of things I put this much thought into.

It’s the Fourth of July. I suppose that means I am supposed to be out celebrating and watching fireworks. Because, that’s what you do on the Fourth of July. That’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s just required. Like reading Lord of the Flies in high school.

But instead I’m sitting here on my sofa watching extremely boring television and waiting for the oven to preheat so I can bake some tater tots.

Don’t get me wrong, I would love to see the fireworks. I enjoy a good fireworks show as much as the next guy. But mostly, I just want to take pictures as fireworks are one of my favorite things to take pictures of ever since I discovered that they have their own special setting on my camera which delivers some truly exceptional pictures, if I do say so myself.

But even the desire to go see the fireworks and take pictures of them isn’t enough to make me actually leave my house and go see them. You see, it’s events like this that bring out New York City’s finest. And by finest, I am referring to the people who, for some odd reason, seem to have lost the ability to smell their own body odor. The people who have far too many children yet lack the ability to care for a hamster. The people who think a holiday (regardless of which one it is) is an excuse to get extremely drunk and obnoxious.

Not only do New York’s finest make an appearance at events such as this, but tourists come out in droves. And I have nothing against tourists. My livelihood depends on them, actually. But large concentrations of tourists is also not my idea of a pleasant evening.

I would much rather be spending tonight with a friend or two. But most people have barbeques at their gatherings today. And nobody wants to invite the Vegan to their holiday barbeque. And the Vegan doesn’t want to go to anyone’s barbeque. I can’t think of anything more revolting than watching a group of people grilling a dead animal carcass on an open fire and then feasting upon the charred flesh. So, here I am, the lonely Vegan, “celebrating” Independence Day alone at home. Just me and Miss Jackson.

For some reason I decided to have Tater Tots for dinner. They randomly popped into my head today while I was at work and realized I hadn’t had any since… well, I can’t really remember when the last time was. I would imagine grade school. So, I really started craving them to the point where it was pretty much all I could think about. So, I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought an entire bag of frozen tater tots and right now they’re in the oven and my apartment is starting to smell delicious.

I’m actually finding it hard to focus on writing. I keep looking over at the timer on the oven to see how much longer until they’re done cooking. I feel like I’m back in Earth Science class trying to sneak peeks at the clock to see how long it was until class was over. I was always extra stealth about checking the clock in that class because I remember the teacher had a big poster next to it saying “Clock Watchers: Time Will Pass…But Will You?”

For some reason that sign always scared me. But for the record, I passed. With an A, thank you very much.

My Tots are almost done, and I plan on giving them my full attention once they are, so I’m going to close this entry by sharing some of my favorite fireworks photos that I’ve personally taken with you. All of these were taken at Disney theme parks, because when it comes to a fireworks show, they really are the best of the bunch. You can see them larger by visiting my Flickr Album.

Happy Independence Day, everyone. Hopefully one day soon, there will be freedom for ALL Americans.

The long hiatus is over. Finally.

Maybe.

For those of you who are old school (Holla!) you’ll know that I kept an online journal for about eight years. It started in August of 1998 and went until about September of 2006. Though, during the last couple years of its life, it became less and less active. In the beginning, I would update very often. Daily sometimes. Then once I graduated high school and moved to New York, I got busier. I wrote less and less. By the time the site died, I was writing less than once a month. And the entries lacked any sort of thought or substance. It became more of a chore than a desire. So, I cut my losses and let my domain expire.

Do I regret that now? Maybe a little, yeah. I mean, whether it was brilliant and insightful or just a bunch of crap, it was eight years of my life. And during a time of my life that was fraught with change and personal growth. It would be nice to have some sort of written record of those years, but what’s done is done. There’s no point in dwelling on things I no longer have any control over. Though, when it came time to register a new domain, I went back and checked my old one just to see if it was available again, and it broke my heart to see it had been snatched up and was wasting away as some sort of placeholder site. Poor fella.

I raise a glass to you and remember the good times.

But now that I’ve tossed a handful of dirt onto the old website and buried it with dignity, it’s time to start fresh.

I’ve missed this whole process a little bit. That’s not to say it was a perfect marriage, me and blogging. It got me into quite a bit of trouble too. But I’m older and wiser (I hope) now, and am cautiously optimistic that this will be a pleasant experience.

The Wrong Story is back. Maybe for good. Maybe not. Maybe better than before. Maybe not.

Good lord, what have I done?!

This is ridiculous. What am I doing here?!