An Album of Stories
My friend Luke recently described what I’m trying to do with these essays better than I could. He said I’m assembling an album of stories from the past, funny ones mostly, that I can flip through to remember who I was, who my friends were, and to make peace with the whole ride: the fun, the missteps, and those sprawling, early-morning conversations after a long night out.
Even now, a couple of words dropped in front of Luke or anyone from our circle instantly conjures the scene. It could be “Bathhouse Mary”, the story about a visit to a bathhouse in Berkeley. It could be the frantic screech of our friend from the back seat, ,“GIRL! HURRY!”, because I’d hit the power window switch while his hand was hanging out the glass on a snowy drive through Tahoe.
If I say “the wall sconces,” everyone pictures two Type-A hosts at a dinner party where someone knocked a sconce clean off the wall; within three minutes, one host had produced a replacement and the other had a hammer, tapping it seamlessly into place before the appetizers were cleared. If I say “hold out your hand”, it’s shorthand for a sister-friend who had quietly put on weight. The best entries can’t truly be retold because the humor was never just in the punchline. It lived in the timing, the room, and the shared history. Try explaining it to an outsider and you’re met with a polite but blank stare.
Another friend I share deep thoughts with also wondered why some people hold on to joy while quietly filing away the pain, whereas others do the reverse and dwell. I don’t have an overarching theory; I only know how I’m wired. Left to its own devices, my mind sands down the sharp corners and hands me back the warm version. At some point, I decided to trust that instinct.
Maybe that’s also why I’ve made such an uneasy peace with material things. I have a lingering skepticism toward the stuff we accumulate so easily and defend so fiercely. When I first moved to Thailand, I set a rule: never buy anything you couldn't pack in an afternoon and carry out the door in an emergency. My friend Carl, who beat me here by two months, aimed for the same discipline and has managed it better than I have. I’ve slipped occasionally, but the underlying instinct was right.
Objects carry only the value we agree to project onto them; then we act shocked when that value doesn't hold. I’d much rather spend the money on a plane ticket to see an old friend on the other side of the world. At the finish line, no one wishes they had owned more furniture; they only regret the departures they skipped.
If you asked for my most prized possession today, my mind draws a blank because the true answer isn't an object. It’s my marriage, an intangible grace that has brought me more peace than any cellar of vintage champagne ever could. I still appreciate well-made tools that make an afternoon smoother, but I refuse to fetishize them and stepped off the hedonic treadmill long ago.
Here is the distillation of what I mean. Consider a piece of fresh pineapple. One of the simple, immense pleasures of living in the tropics is that fruit like this is everywhere. I’ll take a cold, ripe piece and chew it deliberately: first for the juice, then work the pulp down, unwilling to waste a drop. And beneath that vibrant taste, there is always an eight-year-old Midwestern kid in the 1970s eating pineapple out of a Dole can, spooned over cottage cheese. The memory and the immediate present arrive in the exact same bite.
Relationships work the same way. There is an easy, unpretentious way to stay connected to people who matter: photo-bombing friends after a special event or a happy weekend. I love when friends send me pics from their lives. Friendkeeping doesn’t need grand gestures or exhaustingly orchestrated reunions; you just need to keep showing up in small, consistent ways over decades.
And that brings me to my point: stop saving your life for later. We tend to treat happiness like a distant resort we haven’t earned the right to check into yet. In truth, it’s closer to the weather. It sweeps through, changes the light, and moves on. Its departure isn’t evidence of failure; it’s simply how the atmosphere works. This album isn’t something I’ll ever bind and shelve. It’s an open ledger, filled in real time, one sweet bite at a time.
All aboard the Shiplitania, San Francisco, 1999
First Fridays at Sutter Street, San Francisco, 1999
The Paris Review at Sutter Street, San Francisco, 1999
The Paris Review at the Shiplitania, San Francisco, 1999
