Alexander Miers [entries|archive|friends|userinfo] Alexander Miers [ 1. | userinfo ] [ 2. | friends ]

mannahatta [Jun. 8th, 2030|10:40 pm] Dropbox credits . directory link 3 comments|post comment

[Nov. 24th, 2009|02:42 pm] ( Delivered to Bowie's Grandparents' on November 25th ) link post comment

[Nov. 20th, 2009|03:31 am] [ music | How It Ends - DeVotchKa ] ( A letter to Bowie ) link post comment

[Nov. 3rd, 2009|10:45 pm] Looks like I still have a job. Thank you to those who voted. link 33 comments|post comment

[Nov. 2nd, 2009|03:00 pm] God, this (work)day just won't end! link 14 comments|post comment

[Oct. 31st, 2009|06:27 pm] Another day, another funeral. Anymore, it feels like everyone around me’s dying. It’s odd. We’re too young for this sort of thing. Trevor was only 49 and though he wasn’t in the best shape, it’s still not something you expect. I couldn’t help but feel like a fraud during the memorial service. Everyone else seemed to be from this side of Trevor’s life, the people packed in students, or colleagues, or drinking buddies. And then there was Greg and I, in the second to back row in our matching suits and ties (unplanned), glancing at our feet while everyone else was crying because we had only spoken to Trevor half a dozen times in the last decade. When the tears did come, they weren’t so much for the man in the casket as the friend I had lost some thirty years earlier. Growing up, we had been inseparable. Sometime during high school, though, when I went off to Latin and he went off somewhere else, we drifted apart. With no play dates to keep us together anymore, we saw each other less and less until suddenly we were standing at his wedding, realizing we hadn’t spoken since my own almost ten years before. There were always vows to keep in touch, of course, but attempts to get together fell through and eventually we stopped attempting all together. Trevor Brenham died a stranger to me, his children only known through the Christmas cards I got every year, his wife just a pretty face by his side that I said hello to on the few occasions we ran into each other when I was back home. I learned today about the Trevor I didn’t know, the teacher, the lover, the father. His widow, resplendent in her grief and the black-and-white dress she wore, hugged me tight like if she let go she too might die. I couldn’t help but feel I’m collecting widows as I offered my condolences and she, pushing a strand of red hair out of her red-rimmed green eyes, said we really must see each other outside of occasions like this. It’s always said at funerals, just as common as I’m sorry, or he was a good guy. We never follow up on it, though, just think of the person once or twice before life swallows us up and then suddenly it is their funeral we are attending. I flew home to an empty hotel room, a restless city. Tonight, I am going trick-or-treating with the kids and I will hug them extra hard. Still, I cannot help but wonder if we’ll ever change or if we’ll all spend our lives promising to keep in touch but never reaching out. link post comment

[Oct. 27th, 2009|09:21 pm] This is me, admitting I need social interaction before I turn into a completely awkward recluse. link 10 comments|post comment

[Oct. 23rd, 2009|05:23 pm] [ Current Location | 301 E. 94th Street New York, NY ] [ music | 50 ways to leave your lover -Paul Simon ] And they say things don’t come in threes. Not surprisingly, Iason’s relationship with the questionably-aged Elisabeth (only 20, what the hell was he thinking?) has ended. What does come as a surprise, however, is the fact that Greg has joined us in the pool of the broken hearted. Gregory and Avery. Avery and Gregory. Avegory, as I read on some blog. My baby brother with his beautiful wife, only two months ago so damn happy. And then they lost the baby and all was fucked. I guess losing a child does that to people but it doesn’t make it any better. He loved her, still loves her, more than I’ve ever seen someone love another person. They were the new…Well, they were taking over for Jo and Me, the golden couple that was going to stay together until death did them part but now Avery’s in London and Gregory is falling to pieces in DC. I’ve offered to come down but both of us know it’s empty. We Miers boys are stronger by ourselves, better when we can plunge ourselves into work and ignore the outside world. He has a Congress to take over; I have bad guys to put away. Still, it makes you think, the way we’ve all crashed and burned within the same few months. I finally moved out, kissed my wife goodbye and gave up the house. I loved that house. I loved her, but I guess it’s time to start getting over both. Now there’s a new challenge, the challenge of finding a place of my own. I considered Brooklyn, home of stickball and all that’s good with the world but the commute might just kill me and the borough is more suited to the family life of my past. Still, it isn’t completely ruled out if only because there is nothing in Manhattan calling my name. I’m tempted to just put my name down on a lease for some cramped studio in Hell’s Kitchen, to embrace my bachelorhood and revert to the days I should have had as a twenty something. Messy bed, messy kitchen, no room. For now, though, I’m putting off the choice and living out my office and an extended-stay hotel on 95th. They don’t call it extended-stay, of course. They call them “executive suites” or “furnished apartments”. No matter what they call them, they’ll still be the dumping ground for lonely men away from home for business or the divorced that haven’t yet found their feet. Even with the relative luxury and the regular hotel guests, there is an air of disillusionment. I both pity and envy those of the Marmara that haven’t a clue of its deeper purpose, the blonde housewife staying two floors down, with her two bubbling children taking a break from the Midwest, all wide-eyed and certain the city is so much more than it can ever be. I wonder if my own children and grandchildren ever were that naïve, or if raising them in the city has simply stolen that chance from them completely. Mostly, though, I wonder if it isn’t time that I find people outside the office to socialize. With a divorce, you lose your circle of friends, everyone you thought you knew. Suddenly, there are no more invitations to Yankees games (though they all knew I was a Mets fan), no more offers of a beer during football Sunday. Perhaps that is the biggest casualty of all that, my social life. Perhaps, though, I don’t really need it. I suppose only time will tell. link post comment

[Sep. 17th, 2009|10:50 am] Jo got the house appraised. "In case we ever want to move," which really means "for when YOU move out." A part of me was praying that it had magically gone down in value, that even with all the upgrades we've put in over the past twenty plus years, it would be worth less than what we bought it for, but it's not, it's worth more. A lot more, enough more that when those papers come (and they will come) I will find myself without a home. The only question now is if it will be sold and the money split or if she'll get to keep it. In a way, I can't blame her if she does. It's her home, too, but God, I don't want to go through that. I don't want to spend weeks living out of boxes in some extended-stay hotel while I try to find a place I can afford. I don't want to worry about being a bachelor again. I don't want to become my brother, dating a girl (as sweet as she is) young enough to be my daughter. I don't want to plan another wedding, another family. I don't want a mid-life crisis. I don't want this damn divorce (though I'm not stupid enough to think the marriage can be salvaged) but it's coming regardless, waiting in the wings for the right moment to pounce. Some days, I can't help but wonder if it wouldn't be better to be proactive about this whole process, if it would be like a band-aid with the pain less the quicker you pull. Should I start looking for places to live? Should I go and actually get the papers? But I don't have the guts, can't pull the trigger hard as I try. We were supposed to be the marriage that worked out. High school sweethearts. You shouldn't be married for thirty plus years only to fall apart now. We've been through too much, survived this long. It seems silly to kill it just because of something like no more passion. Surely there's another way to solve this? But instead of doing something one way or the other, dragging Jo to marriage counseling or filing the papers myself, I just sit here and wait, and perhaps that's the worst part of all. link post comment

OOC NOTE [Sep. 16th, 2009|07:33 pm] Everything below this point is considered null and void. Feel free to read it to get a handle on Alex's personality, but any notes mentioning his job and/or location (specifically Boston)are now irrelevant. link post comment

[Jul. 8th, 2009|08:28 pm] [ Current Location | 44 Kenwood Street, Boston ] [ mood | cranky ] [ music | David Bowie, Heroes ] The air on the way to the cabin is cool and damp, and smells like dirt. This is supposed to be my decompression. There is no cell phone signal up here, and though it is only thirty miles from the house, it feels like an eternity. Everyone is coming up. Four bedrooms, crammed with 15 bodies. The Grandkids sleep in sleeping bags on the living room floor, and I spend the first night bunked with Iason and Greg. It feels familiar, to talk into the darkness, to make stupid jokes, to get slap-happy from lack of sleep. It feels like childhood. Eventually, we nod off. Greg snores, Iason tosses and turns. The next morning, it all starts to fall apart. It was simple enough until Rodney came up. Just family, and it was nice but then we split off into groups and did different things and I told Rodney we were going rock climbing and suddenly Jo and I are swept away to go back into the city for dinner and he spends the rest of the night flirting with my wife in front of me. My wife does nothing to stop him. In fact, she does it herself. I, half drunk on a bottle of wine, ignore it and sit in stony silence on the drive back up to the cabin. Everyone is asleep. I take the blow up mattress out to the living room, giving Rodney my bed but kick the grandchildren out in the process. I spend the rest of the night on the couch, watching The Truman Show as Jo dozes in front of the television. When I get into bed, she turns her back to me. I pray for a better tomorrow. Tomorrow comes, more painful than the day before. I spend most of the time in the City, working despite the fact that this is supposed to be my vacation. Neil Diamond plays, then the Pops. I make an announcement; wish the world a happy fourth and America a happy birthday. The speech is short, and I slink off backstage to drink wine out of a white plastic sports bottle. No one notices, everyone else is drinking, too. For a moment, I feel good. I wonder if this is why people become alcoholics; wonder if it’s possible for me to slip into something like that at my age. I stop short of getting drunk and let my slight buzz die a slow and natural death. I go to bed at three AM in our empty house in Boston and wake up at 8 to take my slightly hung-over staff to breakfast in Quincy. It is Sunday, July 5th and it is the day I catch my wife kissing my friend, both their feet over the edge of the dock, acting like teenagers while the rest of the family has headed up to Maine to enjoy the sun and the beach. I should scream. I know I should say something, let them feel like the assholes they are but I just walk back to the house unnoticed and for a day, I simmer. When Tuesday comes around, I am already on edge. I head home from work early, citing an upset stomach. I spend most of the day in bed, and when Jo confronts me about it, I snap. It is the worst fight we’ve had in years. Accusations fly. Tears come. Divorce isn’t mentioned. I go out for a walk. She goes to her sister’s house. That night, she comes home. We avoid each other, and I end up sleeping in the guest room. I apologize this morning and go to work but by the time I get home, I once again feel vulnerable and I end up apologizing even though I feel I’ve done nothing wrong. She says that’s all she’s wanted, just some attention. I feel like hell. link 6 comments|post comment

From the Personal Journal of Alexander Miers (blogspot.com/socilite) [Jun. 19th, 2009|07:57 pm] [ music | Crash Into Me (Live) - Dave Matthews Band ] I come home after the third 15 hour day to the air conditioning off and no food in the fridge. The sum total of food I have consumed for the day is a granola bar, a cup of coffee, part of a salad, a bottle of coke and an apple. I am hungry, hot, frustrated. My insulin level is low and my temper is high and I almost got in not one but three accidents on the drive home. I want to get into my pajamas, get in my chair and watch mindless TV. I want to be cool (the air conditioning in the office was broke for most of the day) and I want a homemade meal for once. I haven’t had a home cooked dinner in a month. Mostly, I just want understanding, a sympathetic gesture of some sort. Instead, I am instantly bombarded. I am scolded for getting something on my shirt, drilled over the cost of this month’s phone bill (shouldn’t the city be paying for more of this?) and told once again to cancel the sports package for our cable (it’s a waste of money). For five minutes, the nagging goes on until I finally snap. We have our first fight in a while, words screamed over floors. I don’t want this argument. I am too tired to yell. I end up slamming the door to my study, my chair no comfort and the TV left off. I worry, sometimes, how much like the beginning this is. The beginning was hard, harder than most people probably realize. I think people assume that because my family has money, I did too. We’re decently well off now. When my term runs out, I can retire. Not many Americans can say that, especially not in their 50s. I was able to pay for the schooling of my children, but a lot of that was because of the trust my parents had set up for me and I had transferred to individual trusts for them. At the beginning, though? We had nothing. We couldn’t even afford a home until after our third child was born. We lived paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes we didn’t make it. With four years of student debt under my belt (my parents were generous enough to pay for my undergraduate schooling), I was forced to occasionally go crawling back to my parents to pay for our rent. We lived on potatoes and ramen. My kids wore second hand clothing; my wife didn’t get a diamond band until our 15th anniversary. It’s hard to have a good relationship when you’re in a situation like that. When it was just the two of us, when I was just a student and she worked odd jobs, we could make it. We were young and in love and for a while that was enough. Children, though, change everything and while I wouldn’t trade any of mine for the world, things were certainly tighter because of them. With children around, you learn to fake smiles. You cut yourself off so they don’t see how hard you’re treading the water to keep your head above it. You break down in the bathroom or in the car driving to work; because that’s the only time they won’t see you. Jo and I got into such a habit of pretending to be strong that sometimes we forgot to take our shields down around each other. Five years into the marriage, we were talking divorce. Heck, we still were ten years in. Sometime between moving to England and having Natasa though, things fell into place. Things still aren’t easy, today is proof of that, but in the end it’s worth it. Maybe I should get a tattoo of that, though. Sometimes I could use the reminder. edit: It's ironic. I was so hesitant to put out this thing, first for the fact that it will be found sooner or later and used against me, and second because I hate blogs. They scream "LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME! I'M IMPORTANT! PAY ATTENTION TO ME! CARE ABOUT MY THOUGHTS! MY THOUGHTS ARE IMPORTANT!" They make us look like a petulant little child, so spoiled that we throw a fit the second our parents stop paying attention to us. Mostly, I hate them because since starting this, I have fallen into the same trap. All the sudden, I am hurt that it isn't everywhere that I have a blog outside of the column I write for the City's website. I'm mad no one seems to notice me. I've become just as bad as everyone else, except it is worse because I am a hypocrite as well. There is so much outside of this, too. It is such a stupid thing to be concerned about. I watched a movie tonight, Paradise Now. It was good, thought provoking. It made me question my loyalty to the Israeli cause. I have always supported the State. My mother was Jewish. I like the idea of there being a homeland and we all like the underdog. The country is tiny, but the people fight for it fiercely. Israelis seem to be more patriotic than Americans, which is saying a lot. They are surrounded by enemies but have not fallen. I always brushed off the issue over Palestine. "Oh, they are just doing what they must. Besides, the Arabs have their own countries. It is Israel's country, not Palestine's." And in a way, that still stands. In a way, though, I can see how they feel. To be so trapped, so shut down, so oppressed. Young men become suicide bombers because they have no other options. They will never get out of their position, so why not try to become something bigger? To help further their cause and help their family have something they cannot? In the end, who is right? That is what I should really be asking rogerebert. Israel or Palestine? Higher taxes and more social programs or lower taxes? Things that matter, not which bands are better so I can put together a play list most will not pay attention to anyway. link 34 comments|post comment

From the Private Journal of Alexander Miers [Jun. 11th, 2009|07:51 am] The funeral was nice, in the way most funerals are nice. Is there such thing as a bad funeral? I held onto his mother as she threw dirty into her son's grave and noted how unlikely it was that she would even see the next year. She's old and frail, a mix that in and of itself can be fatal, but more than that, she's had a hard life. Aaron did not come from a rich family. There are whispers that H1N1 will be back for fall, and I cannot imagine her surviving the battle. More than that, though, the grief is so etched onto her that it very likely may eat her from the inside out. Medical experts say you cannot actually die from things like heartache or grief or fear or boredom, but I have been the one to sit at the bedsides of those people and I am here to say it is entirely possible. His widow was in a bad way, too but she had their children. Aaron started later than me, only one of the three is full grown. Two are teenagers yet, a boy and a girl that will have to negotiate high school without a father. It is irrational but I was tempted to bring them all home with me, to pick up where Aaron left off. I am their Godfather, but from another country, what can I do? Still, I am working on convincing Gabriella to get out of Mexico. It is not safe for them, for anyone. The kids were born here, Gabriella has a green card. Still, she wants to be near her husband. She wants to pick up where he left off, continue to take a stand against the violence. I admire her for it, and I cannot say that if I was in the same position I would not do the exact same thing, but I am also aware of how stupid it is. They will not be satisfied with just Aaron if his widow causes the same amount of fuss. Their children do not need to be orphans, not yet. Mostly, though, this whole mess has left me feeling exposed. It is more than an emotional problem; it has turned physical so that I feel as though someone has ripped out a part of me. Everything good I have done, I owe to Aaron and now he is gone. It is all so ironic: I am the one that is supposed to be used to death. I did this for a living. I told people how to grieve, how to deal and now that it is my turn I found myself in a chipped bathtub in the home of my dead best friend, staring at my feet because the book I brought to distract me is too lighthearted. It was raining when I got back in last night to rain and it has yet to truly stop. It is fitting to my mood, to my whole demeanor. A part of me wants to call Kat and tell her to get off tour and come back home: There are more important things than chasing fame. That same part wants to tell her to keep going, to follow her dream and never give it up until she has ran out of fuel to burn it. It is a contradiction, to say the least and it runs deep enough for me to feel the same about Dmitris and Iason. My misguided son and my lost little brother, both taking up residence in a city that is supposed to be all sun but I have only seen bring problems. Some days, I wish I had never allowed Dmitris to go. He should have finished college, settle down. Broadway would have been better, the actors do not seem to suffer as much but what do I really know? And who was I to deny him his dream and his talent? I suppose I can only pray for him and be there when he asks for me. It is time for me to work, but I am reluctant. I am not ready to take on the city's problems when I have so many of my own but if I do not, who will? I suppose that is the yoke I am to bare. When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun. -- William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, Act iii, Sc. 2 link post comment

From the Private Journal of Alexander Miers [Jun. 8th, 2009|10:42 pm] I got the news the Saturday. Aaron Lopez, friend, confidant, best man…was shot and killed by an unknown member of a drug cartel in Ciudad de Juarez, Mexico. I’ve had people close to me die before. I have watched golfing buddies and drinking buddies succumb to heart attacks and other early deaths. I’ve had exactly 7 people I know die in automobile-related accidents. One person I know has committed suicide, but Aaron’s death has shot me to the core. He is the reason I’m here today, the reason I’ve gotten anywhere in my life. When things happened with Elene, it was Aaron I called. When my children needed a Godfather, it was Aaron that stood at their baptisms. He was trying to make the city (his hometown) a better place, working to help the mayor build a plan to crack down on the current violence. Now he is a victim, just another man in a casket. I’m going to his funeral despite the advice of both my family and my advisors. I have to wear a bulletproof vest the whole time. I’m traveling with an entourage of armed guards. They think I’ll be a kidnap target, if not the target of a flat-out assassination. The violence has spilled over from just between the feuding gangs to every day citizens. Businessmen of all types are being extorted, kidnapped. Innocent people are getting shot. I worry about my life, but I can’t not go. I can’t miss the chance to say a last goodbye to Aaron. To avoid the city would be a dishonor to his memory, and besides…Boston may be sending down officers soon to help with the fight. We’re one of the best trained forces in the States; we can’t just sit around and not help, especially now that the violence has spilled over into America. Still, I can’t help but wonder if this is perhaps a bit stupid. Is it really worth my life to make a point and watch a box of wood be lowered into the ground? If this were Iraq, would it be different? It would be acceptable for me to put my life on the line to visit our soldiers, but not the suffering citizens of another country or to bury my best friend. It’s hypocritical, but so is everything else in this world, even me. Mostly, though, I worry about the kids. I worry Dmitris is getting too much into Hollywood. I’m worried Kat is going to go away from the family completely and never look back. I’m worried Jo will wake up tomorrow and realize it’s not worth it. I’m worried I worry too much, and to make matters worse, the doctor now says I’ve been losing weight and appetite due to an ulcer that he can’t do much for. Tonight, I will pray for understanding and the ability to continue to live with the hand I was dealt. I will pray for humility, patience, wisdom. Mostly, I will pray for courage. I don’t imagine these next few days will be easy, and The Lord only knows I’ll need His help. link post comment

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