Sitting here watching "A Tale of Two Johns," it hits me squarely that due to some unnamed fear, most of the pleasures I have derived from life seem to have been left behind as little capsules of memory. As though my existence is a small boat floating downstream on a river populated with a huge variety of fish. Every so often, my line gets a tug and I reel one in. Delighted, I look over the fish, mesmerized by color or size or design, marveling at how the world could create this fish. And, then, driven by some indescribable need, I unhook the fish and let it slip back into the river.

There's a treasure trove of interests strewn across the paths I have journeyed. Some that I grew out of -- The Electric Company -- but many that I let go of for no reason than to avoid become too deeply involved -- the piano.

I was introduced to They Might Be Giants the summer of 1989 -- right before they gained some national traction, according to this documentary -- in Boston by a roommate from Philly. The music was entrancing: light, witty, melodic, harmonic, discordant, subversive. I held onto that feeling and interest for about a year and then let it go when they got larger.

Yet it still entertains and delights me, so why the catch and release? It's time to inventory the fish past and seek to hook some once again. A time to take a stand on the things that transport me and accept who I am because of them not in spite of them.