Martin Spitznagel Pianist. Composer. Writer. Filmmaker.

Matchlock

A symptom of the illness..

Williamsburg, VA, has a serious problem. A dire problem. A pancake house problem.

Seriously, this town has way too many pancake houses. You see a pancake house, you’re like, “Aw, cool. That’s fun.” Pancake houses seem vaguely Nordic to me, like something you’d encounter nestled in a cove in the Alps on your trek through Europe, and so when I saw two pancake houses I was like, “Wow! Jackpot! Which one do we hit up first?” But by the time I counted eleven pancake houses within three miles of each other, I realized that I had entered another world. A syrupy world. A world that doesn’t know when to stop building pancake houses.

Jess and I celebrated our ninth Valentine’s Day together. This is, of course, ridiculous, seeing as it’s hard for me to believe that I’ve even been alive that long let alone in a relationship for that long, but here we are. Jess has always been naturally gifted with this “holiday,” even though we both regard it warily, like mice in the garden watching the prowling house cat, as a painfully commercial day full of artificial pressures to spend money. This conviction hasn’t yet translated into not celebrating it – like many Americans we are vaguely against it and still participate – but we’ve gotten to the point where price-hiked roses, store-bought chocolates, and teddy bears made in China (all three of which I got Jess for our second Valentine’s Day – I’m a winner) just don’t really mean much anymore. I take this as a good sign.