My friend Kelly has asked me to write a blog entry about her. This is an interesting proposition in two respects; one, I've never been asked to write a blog about someone before, and two, I didn't really realize anyone actually read it. Apparently, the Facebook link isn't just for show. And to think, I'd been close to just letting this whole thing stagnate. Hell, I think I had to blow dust off the URL just to get it started.
But-here's the thing-I'm not really sure what to write about Kelly. Sure, I could just mash out a list extolling her praises, but that would sound too much like an eHarmony application ("Kelly enjoys musicals and long afternoons on the beach. Her smile can light up a room like a spotlight (which is all true, except for maybe the beach part. that's a college educated guess.)). I could put her into a fictional story, but that might not come out right ("Kelly stopped next to the fire-escape and leaned against the wall, her chest heaving. She had lost the killer...for now, at least."). So, instead what I think I'm going to do is use Kelly's request as a starting point, a place to dive into the sea dark water.
Basically, I'm going to write a blog about writing a blog about Kelly, and whatever else comes to my mind.
I had a miniature pecan pie today. It was really quite adorable, actually; it was covered with little tiny crushed pecans, little dollops of filling, a delicate flaky crust. It even came with a little mini pie pan. This pie would not look out of place on the minuscule dinner table of a family of talking mice, all coming together after a long day to bask in the familial warmth of the dinner table, their whiskers all a-quiver as the stern yet loving father mouse begins to cut the pie with a Lilliputian dessert knife and slowly lower a slice onto each and every plate. And maybe they could be immigrant mice. Yeah, that'd be cool too. Of course, the downside was that I had to spend 10 minutes eating something that wouldn't look out of place at a 5 year old's tea party. But still, it was totally worth it.
Could I put Kelly into a screenplay? No, no, that wouldn't work. Too many camera angles, and we'd NEVER have anytime to shoot it.
What we lack in this country is an acceptance of inevitability. That is, we don't realize that there are paths and branches to goals that we don't want to consider. We want to eat all we want and not get fat; we want to fight a war and have nobody die; we want to prolong the extinguishment of our lives for as long as we possibly can. Inevitability is an overarching motif in the universe; it is as natural as the grass we walk on or the water we drink. We must learn to accept it again, that we must exercise and eat right to avoid the chains of flesh, that people will die in wars and yes, some of them will be our boys, that no matter how long we try and prevent it, death finally unites us all. If we don't, we'll find ourselves all sitting in chairs ad infinitum, waiting for things we never started to miraculously happen. That's not something I want. That's not something anyone wants.
My dad is exasperating me. I don't think he understands my needs for nice razors. There are a few things in life that I believe in investing in. Razors are one (pretty high up there, really. Above the stock market, but below fancy dark-washed jeans). If I'm going to be dragging a sharp piece of metal across my face, I want to be damn sure that it's made by people who know what there doing, and not assembled in some back-asswards factory out of scrap metal and used sporks. My dad does not share this view. He is a student of the "Go to a large chain department store and by the cheapest knock-off brand name I-can't-believe-it's-not-banned-by-the-FDA shit in as large amounts as you can." This applies to razors. I have a drawer full of them from Kmart in my bathroom that, when I shave, literally feel like having the rusty end pieces of an Erector set dragged across my chin. Luckily, though, I convinced him to buy two nice reusable razors when we went to the store today (he almost sprung for the two-blade matte black plastic 70's holdover, but I talked him into a nice Gillete). And there was much rejoicing amongst the skin of my face.
I know! I'll write her a poem. Nothing too long, just something short and unedited. Here's a poem for you Kelly. If you don't like it, you can disown it, and if you do, you can keep it.
I walked into a spider web
Today, full of dew like crystal chain-mail strung
Between dusk-orange leaves, and watched as it settled lazily across
My shoulder.
I wanted to stay there, to let my feet take root and
Burrow deep into the mouth of the earth, to stretch my arms
Wide enough to string the web between them in cloud-lengths,
To catch in the spaces whispered smiles and brushed-off tears and
Two hands, each one running fingers through the creases
In the other's palm.
I can weave it again, spider.
Just give me a point to grasp on to; just give me something
As beautiful as your thread wet with blinking ice in the morning
And I will weave you something to catch the whole world in.
Congratulations, Kelly. You've just been involved in a metanarrative, and you've gotten me to start writing again. Preeeetty good job :)
I just want to dance in your tangles
To give me some reason to move
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Keep on Keepin' On
This blog isn't becoming a load of narcissistic self-indulgence, is it? I don't know. I feel like its starting to be.
I've come to the conclusion that the best way to get to know someone is by carpooling with them. It's a relatively simple concept; carpooling with someone means that you are traveling with them, in a confined space, usually for long periods of time, to the same place. So, you can either A.) be quiet for the entire ride, never talking to the other person and never interacting except for brief, awkward glances at their shoes and mangled goodbyes as they hurriedly exit the car, or B.) talk to them. Come to think of it, you're going to have to talk to the person you carpool with at some point, so I lied, and there's only option B. The conversation usually centers on the thing/event/person you're carpooling to, and then branches out nicely from there. This means that I got in the car of a girl I was barely an acquaintance with to ride to swim practice and had, about two hours later, found out that she'd almost been hit by a car the day before, was desperately trying to find someone fluent in Spanish for a foreign literature class, and had a father who, during his midlife crisis, bought 7 grills and created his own competitive barbecuing team.
So yeah, I know a little bit more about her now.
There is a pair of shoes in my room that I absolutely love. They are lace up hemp shoes, and every time I wear them, I feel like the coolest indie ecowarrior on the planet. Seriously, these shoes make me want to cradle an oil-soaked penguin in my arms while I gently wash its delicate feathers clean with a toothbrush. But one of my friends pointed out something the other day; "What happens when they start to decompose?". That's a very good question. Hopefully, they won't; I feel like the company that makes them would have the foresight to make sure their shoes didn't turn into compost after a few months. But hey, if they did, it would make for an interesting icebreaker.
Person: Hey Andrew, what happened to that pair of shoes you used to have? You just kind of stopped wearing them.
Me: Oh, those. They were made of hemp, so they just rotted off my feet. I gave them back to mother nature. You know, the circle of life.
Person: Hemp shoes, huh? Did those come with a free satchel and Phish CD?
Me: Woah man, I don't really appreciate that.
Person: Yeah, well I really don't appreciate pretentious hippies stinking up the air with their holier-than-thou attitudes.
Me: How bout I stick my holier-than-thou foot up your ass?
Person: Shit, I'll take on all you Sierra Club mothafuckahs!
On second thought, maybe not so much with the icebreaker.
I've come to the realization that I love swimming for one reason: it focuses me. Oh sure, the exercise is great, and the skintight suits are a plus too (laaaaaadies), but the joy of swimming is its paring down of my many thoughts into a single overwhelming one. When I first dive into the pool, I'm not thinking about how I'm going to pass my precal test tomorrow, or dwelling on a failed joke that led to a moment of tense silence earlier that day, or wondering when I'm going to get a girlfriend and what exactly I'm going to do for that to happen. I'm thinking "Holy fuck, this water is cold as shit." That's really it. That, and variations of the same ("Agh, I think I pulled something in my foot, why is this interval so fast, ect.") Maybe some aquatic literary references. Moby-Dick is one that keeps coming up ("From hell's heart I stab at thee! For hatred's sake I spit my last breath at thee!"). Swimming is for me what meditation is for Buddhists, or what nicotine is for chain-smokers: the ultimate mind-clearer, the great unifier, my life's universal relaxant. When I come out of the pool, I shed away the day's doubts and anxieties with the chlorine, and thank God for that.
Reading that last paragraph just reminded me of how neurotic I am. Geez, I could totally be Jewish. Woody Allen would be so proud.
Come down from the mountain, you have been gone too long
I've come to the conclusion that the best way to get to know someone is by carpooling with them. It's a relatively simple concept; carpooling with someone means that you are traveling with them, in a confined space, usually for long periods of time, to the same place. So, you can either A.) be quiet for the entire ride, never talking to the other person and never interacting except for brief, awkward glances at their shoes and mangled goodbyes as they hurriedly exit the car, or B.) talk to them. Come to think of it, you're going to have to talk to the person you carpool with at some point, so I lied, and there's only option B. The conversation usually centers on the thing/event/person you're carpooling to, and then branches out nicely from there. This means that I got in the car of a girl I was barely an acquaintance with to ride to swim practice and had, about two hours later, found out that she'd almost been hit by a car the day before, was desperately trying to find someone fluent in Spanish for a foreign literature class, and had a father who, during his midlife crisis, bought 7 grills and created his own competitive barbecuing team.
So yeah, I know a little bit more about her now.
There is a pair of shoes in my room that I absolutely love. They are lace up hemp shoes, and every time I wear them, I feel like the coolest indie ecowarrior on the planet. Seriously, these shoes make me want to cradle an oil-soaked penguin in my arms while I gently wash its delicate feathers clean with a toothbrush. But one of my friends pointed out something the other day; "What happens when they start to decompose?". That's a very good question. Hopefully, they won't; I feel like the company that makes them would have the foresight to make sure their shoes didn't turn into compost after a few months. But hey, if they did, it would make for an interesting icebreaker.
Person: Hey Andrew, what happened to that pair of shoes you used to have? You just kind of stopped wearing them.
Me: Oh, those. They were made of hemp, so they just rotted off my feet. I gave them back to mother nature. You know, the circle of life.
Person: Hemp shoes, huh? Did those come with a free satchel and Phish CD?
Me: Woah man, I don't really appreciate that.
Person: Yeah, well I really don't appreciate pretentious hippies stinking up the air with their holier-than-thou attitudes.
Me: How bout I stick my holier-than-thou foot up your ass?
Person: Shit, I'll take on all you Sierra Club mothafuckahs!
On second thought, maybe not so much with the icebreaker.
I've come to the realization that I love swimming for one reason: it focuses me. Oh sure, the exercise is great, and the skintight suits are a plus too (laaaaaadies), but the joy of swimming is its paring down of my many thoughts into a single overwhelming one. When I first dive into the pool, I'm not thinking about how I'm going to pass my precal test tomorrow, or dwelling on a failed joke that led to a moment of tense silence earlier that day, or wondering when I'm going to get a girlfriend and what exactly I'm going to do for that to happen. I'm thinking "Holy fuck, this water is cold as shit." That's really it. That, and variations of the same ("Agh, I think I pulled something in my foot, why is this interval so fast, ect.") Maybe some aquatic literary references. Moby-Dick is one that keeps coming up ("From hell's heart I stab at thee! For hatred's sake I spit my last breath at thee!"). Swimming is for me what meditation is for Buddhists, or what nicotine is for chain-smokers: the ultimate mind-clearer, the great unifier, my life's universal relaxant. When I come out of the pool, I shed away the day's doubts and anxieties with the chlorine, and thank God for that.
Reading that last paragraph just reminded me of how neurotic I am. Geez, I could totally be Jewish. Woody Allen would be so proud.
Come down from the mountain, you have been gone too long
Monday, August 3, 2009
Kabbalish
There's an old saying, that "truth is stranger than fiction". Some people find this untrue, that the ideas and situations the mind of man creates are infinitely more weird and wonderful than those things that occur in the natural world. Some people mistrust things taken from life, feeling that such art is inherently narcissistic and overly-confessionalist. A couple of people are wondering why I'm talking about that Will Ferrel movie where that British chick narrates his life.
Something happened a little bit ago that, I think, supports the saying. About a week ago, the FBI arrested dozens of prominent citizens in New Jersey in a massive corruption sting. Now I know, I know, "Boy, people getting arrested in New Jersey for corruption? In the great state of New Jersey? Nawh! Get outta here! *sarcastic eye-roll*" But its not really the situation that's so delightful, its the players and merchandise. When the news broke, the FBI stated that they'd arrested state legislators, numerous lawyers, three current town mayors... and rabbis. The Jewish kinds. Having rabbis arrested in a New Jersey corruption sting is kind of like arresting a half dozen imams in Salt Lake City for running a prostitution ring; unexpected, and a little bit confusing. If any religious figures were to be involved in shady dealings in the Garden State, you'd expect a couple of priests, a bishop or two, maybe a cardinal. But nope, instead it was 7 Syrian Jewish rabbis. Shabbat Shalom, indeed.
Wait wait wait. It gets better.
Apparently, these were no minor corruption charges. Not measely bribery for the great state of New Jersey, no! The accused politicians had been using the rabbis to launder money through various religious charity organizations. Alright, your standard cash moving with a Hasidic twist. Not bad, not bad. The mayors also accepted money from private interest groups to let fake developers gain access to expensive property rights. Ok, land ownership crimes are on the more intellectual bent, but they make sense, given the state of the economy and all. I'm still with you. The rabbis were also accused of generating illegal income by trafficking in black market kidneys stolen from Israeli donors, as well as selling large quantities of fake Gucci and Prada bags.
And with that, organized crime in New Jersey hits lightspeed and leaves the galaxy.
This is why the truth is stranger than fiction. This is why real life creates things a thousand times more interesting than the shit we come up with in our brains. I don't think anyone could have thought up a situation involving New Jersey rabbis laundering money, selling organs, and dealing in faux designer purses, all the while in cahoots with a group of corrupt, probably Italian political officials. Its ludicrous. Its hilarious. Its terrifying.
And its all real.
Lets move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars
Something happened a little bit ago that, I think, supports the saying. About a week ago, the FBI arrested dozens of prominent citizens in New Jersey in a massive corruption sting. Now I know, I know, "Boy, people getting arrested in New Jersey for corruption? In the great state of New Jersey? Nawh! Get outta here! *sarcastic eye-roll*" But its not really the situation that's so delightful, its the players and merchandise. When the news broke, the FBI stated that they'd arrested state legislators, numerous lawyers, three current town mayors... and rabbis. The Jewish kinds. Having rabbis arrested in a New Jersey corruption sting is kind of like arresting a half dozen imams in Salt Lake City for running a prostitution ring; unexpected, and a little bit confusing. If any religious figures were to be involved in shady dealings in the Garden State, you'd expect a couple of priests, a bishop or two, maybe a cardinal. But nope, instead it was 7 Syrian Jewish rabbis. Shabbat Shalom, indeed.
Wait wait wait. It gets better.
Apparently, these were no minor corruption charges. Not measely bribery for the great state of New Jersey, no! The accused politicians had been using the rabbis to launder money through various religious charity organizations. Alright, your standard cash moving with a Hasidic twist. Not bad, not bad. The mayors also accepted money from private interest groups to let fake developers gain access to expensive property rights. Ok, land ownership crimes are on the more intellectual bent, but they make sense, given the state of the economy and all. I'm still with you. The rabbis were also accused of generating illegal income by trafficking in black market kidneys stolen from Israeli donors, as well as selling large quantities of fake Gucci and Prada bags.
And with that, organized crime in New Jersey hits lightspeed and leaves the galaxy.
This is why the truth is stranger than fiction. This is why real life creates things a thousand times more interesting than the shit we come up with in our brains. I don't think anyone could have thought up a situation involving New Jersey rabbis laundering money, selling organs, and dealing in faux designer purses, all the while in cahoots with a group of corrupt, probably Italian political officials. Its ludicrous. Its hilarious. Its terrifying.
And its all real.
Lets move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I Don't Know What the Date Is
I seriously don't.
I think its around the 15th or so, but I can't be sure.
Let's see, I know that the Transfomers movie comes out next Wednesday, and next Wednesday is the 26th, so that means today is actually the 19th.
Well, I wasn't off by that much. 4 days never hurt anyone.
It's been like this for a few days now, ever since last weekend. You see, last week was the first week of summer, and, as such, was filled with graduation parties, graduation cookouts, large groups of people invading various houses to watch Bret Micheals have a close encounter with a falling stage prop on the Tonys, ect. But, of course, this frenzied energy burns out quickly, as people begin waking up at 12 and realizing they have absolutely zilch to do. This begins what I like to call the Bataan Death March Phase of Summer, that period where most of your friends are either off traveling with their family in East Jerusalem, U.S.A, out of the country in, oh, I don't know, friggin China, or off at various camps for cyclopean lengths of time.
Now, in this situation, a person can do one of two things:
A) Get a job, make some dinero, and spend said dinero on assorted items (movie tickets, clothes, blocks of hashish. you know, the usual)
B) Get in your car, rassle up some amigos, and have fun doing jack shit together
This is a bit of a problem for me. You see, being 15, there aren't really a lot of job openings, and what jobs there are are usually for volunteers. Now look, I like doing my civic duty as much as anyone else, but in the summer, I kinda want to get paid. Y dos, I can't actually drive. Due to a series of unfortunate events, I haven't even taken drivers ed either. Sooo, I happen to be duly fucked.
Fun for me.
So basically, all I have to do at the moment is work in my drivers ed manual, go to the gym, and watch Star Trek reruns until my eyes bleed. Seriously, yesterday I spent 45 minutes rewatching that scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams is all like, "It's not your fault Will, it's not your fault", and Matt Damon breaks down and starts sobbing like a hormonal mother.
Not the most productive 45 minutes of my life.
Hopefully things will get better. I'm looking into working the ticket booth at the Carolina Theater, and by next Sunday I'll have completed all my prerequisites for drivers ed. And people will start filtering back to Durham in the coming weeks, which is also a plus.
Now if you'll excuse me, Aliens is just starting on AMC, and if theres one thing that's not boring, its watching Sigourney Weaver kick a 20 foot tall alien's ass in a robo-forklift. Now that's entertainment.
(oh, p.s., I started reading a two dollar copy of The Glass Menagerie I got at Nice Price Books. Just a little fyi; I don't want to start Andrew's Book and Recipe Sharing Club or anything. Or maybe I do. I'll have to sleep on it.)
Just strap on my ear goggles and I'm ready to go
I think its around the 15th or so, but I can't be sure.
Let's see, I know that the Transfomers movie comes out next Wednesday, and next Wednesday is the 26th, so that means today is actually the 19th.
Well, I wasn't off by that much. 4 days never hurt anyone.
It's been like this for a few days now, ever since last weekend. You see, last week was the first week of summer, and, as such, was filled with graduation parties, graduation cookouts, large groups of people invading various houses to watch Bret Micheals have a close encounter with a falling stage prop on the Tonys, ect. But, of course, this frenzied energy burns out quickly, as people begin waking up at 12 and realizing they have absolutely zilch to do. This begins what I like to call the Bataan Death March Phase of Summer, that period where most of your friends are either off traveling with their family in East Jerusalem, U.S.A, out of the country in, oh, I don't know, friggin China, or off at various camps for cyclopean lengths of time.
Now, in this situation, a person can do one of two things:
A) Get a job, make some dinero, and spend said dinero on assorted items (movie tickets, clothes, blocks of hashish. you know, the usual)
B) Get in your car, rassle up some amigos, and have fun doing jack shit together
This is a bit of a problem for me. You see, being 15, there aren't really a lot of job openings, and what jobs there are are usually for volunteers. Now look, I like doing my civic duty as much as anyone else, but in the summer, I kinda want to get paid. Y dos, I can't actually drive. Due to a series of unfortunate events, I haven't even taken drivers ed either. Sooo, I happen to be duly fucked.
Fun for me.
So basically, all I have to do at the moment is work in my drivers ed manual, go to the gym, and watch Star Trek reruns until my eyes bleed. Seriously, yesterday I spent 45 minutes rewatching that scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams is all like, "It's not your fault Will, it's not your fault", and Matt Damon breaks down and starts sobbing like a hormonal mother.
Not the most productive 45 minutes of my life.
Hopefully things will get better. I'm looking into working the ticket booth at the Carolina Theater, and by next Sunday I'll have completed all my prerequisites for drivers ed. And people will start filtering back to Durham in the coming weeks, which is also a plus.
Now if you'll excuse me, Aliens is just starting on AMC, and if theres one thing that's not boring, its watching Sigourney Weaver kick a 20 foot tall alien's ass in a robo-forklift. Now that's entertainment.
(oh, p.s., I started reading a two dollar copy of The Glass Menagerie I got at Nice Price Books. Just a little fyi; I don't want to start Andrew's Book and Recipe Sharing Club or anything. Or maybe I do. I'll have to sleep on it.)
Just strap on my ear goggles and I'm ready to go
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Back for a Moment
I wish I could tell the people I love how much I love them.
Ok, yeah, I know I haven't written anything in like, a month, and that's kind of an abrupt note to start back on. But its late, my sisters just thrown an honest to God psychotic fit about our broken washing machine (she won't take her clothes to the laundromat because "thats what poor people do"), and I've spent the last 3 hours transposing music into the key of B by hand. So really, I just wanted to get that little tid bit out there.
Its not that I'm reluctant to say it to them; I just can't really find the words. Which is odd, considering I'm a writer. Its harder than that, though. Expressing honest love through words is one of the hardest things you can do. Trust me. I've tried.
I'm going to sleep now. I'm going to be writing more; summer's coming up in a few days, which means endless sun-spattered days in the living room writing whatever I damn well please. And then theres writing camp in July, two weeks that are literally my writing Nirvana. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to it.
I'll be writing more. I promise.
I don't want to live in my father's house no more
Ok, yeah, I know I haven't written anything in like, a month, and that's kind of an abrupt note to start back on. But its late, my sisters just thrown an honest to God psychotic fit about our broken washing machine (she won't take her clothes to the laundromat because "thats what poor people do"), and I've spent the last 3 hours transposing music into the key of B by hand. So really, I just wanted to get that little tid bit out there.
Its not that I'm reluctant to say it to them; I just can't really find the words. Which is odd, considering I'm a writer. Its harder than that, though. Expressing honest love through words is one of the hardest things you can do. Trust me. I've tried.
I'm going to sleep now. I'm going to be writing more; summer's coming up in a few days, which means endless sun-spattered days in the living room writing whatever I damn well please. And then theres writing camp in July, two weeks that are literally my writing Nirvana. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to it.
I'll be writing more. I promise.
I don't want to live in my father's house no more
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Things That Are Annoying Me Today
- the fact that I can't import my "Born to Run" album to my iTunes without getting a dozen glitched out Springsteen songs
- my school's yearbook staff, who apparently just make up about 90% of the quotes in the yearbook
- the entire Republican Party
- that I haven't finished writing a poem in about a month, and a short story in God knows how long
- the Spanish verbs ser and ir, whose preterit tenses are EXACTLY THE SAME. I would really like to meet the genius who came up with that idea. "Hey, lets make two of the most used verbs in our language have the same past tense form, just to fuck with the gringos!" Jackass.
- Newsweek magazine, for saying that swine flu is "worse than SARS", and should be labeled a pandemic, a suggestion that insults actual pandemics like AIDS and the bubonic plague. So, over 2 million Africans are killed by malaria each year, but swine flu kills 13 people and its suddenly a threat to humanity?
- the awful suspicion that swine flu is actually going to become a full blown pandemic
- my sister's bitching
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Lest Ye Be Judged
A few days ago, there was a demonstration outside of my school. It was nothing that big, really; just a few people standing in a circle with signs by the entrance, right outside of the property line. They weren't even chanting. They just stood there in a little circle, while car after car drove past them. The signs they carried bore a couple of different slogans. God Hates You was one, in huge, bold letters. Obama Will Eat Your Babies was another, displayed across a picture of the president covered in blood. They didn't scream at the cars driving past them, didn't rant and rave, didn't make much noise at all. They stood there for around 20 minutes, then left quietly and politely. From what I heard, they might have been smiling.
Hate has many different faces. There are the obvious ones, the ones contorted by fear and loathing, acting as the mouthpieces for the suppressed anger in their hearts or the hearts of others. These are the Neros, the Hitlers, the Ngezes. There are the sly ones, who stand before the world and cover their slurs in euphemisms and religion, describing themselves as concerned citizens or soldiers of God. These are the David Dukes, the Joe McCarthys, the Rush Limbaughs. And then there's everyone else; the silent face of hatred, the average men and women who's paranoia and xenophobia stand out starkly against their otherwise unassuming lives. They push the obvious and sly ones before them like sacrificial offerings draped in silk and rubies. Then, when they are struck down and denounced by the rest of the world, the average ones slip back into their lives as if nothing happened. When the word "Nazi" is said, we immediately think of Hitler; we hardly ever think of the German citizen.
That's what these protesters from Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, are; average people. They aren't particularly vocal in their hatred. They have a website, yes (the pleasantly named godhatesfags.com), and their leader, Fred Phelps, appears from time to time on the news ranting about the gays or the war in Iraq. But for the most part, they just bus from place to place and picket gay rights parades, soldiers funerals, things associated with the country of Sweden, and numerous other events. They don't cause a fuss about it, like some organizations do (the Klan, skinheads, Al Quaeda, ect). They do it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, as if it were a part of their daily lives, which it is. The members of the Westboro Baptist Church are merely the latest in a long line of concerned American citizens, who had loving relatives, comfortable homes, and a side hobby of rabid intolerance. They are driven by the same peculiar evil that caused white men to lynch black men in the evening and the walk home for supper, that made parents tell their children that they should denounce friends and teachers with "un-American" ideas, that inspires an entire congregation to spend their lives driving around the country to protest the extension of man's ultimate expression of love to everyone, regardless of sexual identification. Its a kind of hatred that's as American as apple pie.
I can't imagine that kind of hatred. I'm a loving guy by nature. I love my family, I love my friends, and I love good people, regardless of religion, race, or sexuality. That's not to say I don't hate people. I do. Its just that hate for me is a temporary emotion, a brief surge of something ugly that just as quickly passes away. I can't extend hatred towards someone for very long; maybe a week on the outside. But these people at Westboro, their lives are built around hatred. They wake up, go to work, eat dinner, play with their kids, read a book, fall asleep, all while virulently hating a huge amount of people. Every day. For their entire lives. I can analyze them and form opinions about them all I want, but I doubt I'll ever be able to really understand them. Honestly, I don't think I'd want to.
J.R.R. Tolkien once asked, "What can men do against such reckless hate?" I wish I could say I knew. I wish I had some idea of how to stamp out intolerance, whether it be education of the youth, or the greater exposure of different cultures, or something else entirely. If anything, it may be choice each one of us has to make, and in the end, no amount of education or acceptance can change it. I just hope we have the strength to make the right choice.
I just hope.
And if I'm right, mama, you'll have to sing to me,
But if I'm wrong then I won't be in your way,
And if I find myself at the mercy of the law,
Won't you free me on my judgement day?
Hate has many different faces. There are the obvious ones, the ones contorted by fear and loathing, acting as the mouthpieces for the suppressed anger in their hearts or the hearts of others. These are the Neros, the Hitlers, the Ngezes. There are the sly ones, who stand before the world and cover their slurs in euphemisms and religion, describing themselves as concerned citizens or soldiers of God. These are the David Dukes, the Joe McCarthys, the Rush Limbaughs. And then there's everyone else; the silent face of hatred, the average men and women who's paranoia and xenophobia stand out starkly against their otherwise unassuming lives. They push the obvious and sly ones before them like sacrificial offerings draped in silk and rubies. Then, when they are struck down and denounced by the rest of the world, the average ones slip back into their lives as if nothing happened. When the word "Nazi" is said, we immediately think of Hitler; we hardly ever think of the German citizen.
That's what these protesters from Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, are; average people. They aren't particularly vocal in their hatred. They have a website, yes (the pleasantly named godhatesfags.com), and their leader, Fred Phelps, appears from time to time on the news ranting about the gays or the war in Iraq. But for the most part, they just bus from place to place and picket gay rights parades, soldiers funerals, things associated with the country of Sweden, and numerous other events. They don't cause a fuss about it, like some organizations do (the Klan, skinheads, Al Quaeda, ect). They do it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, as if it were a part of their daily lives, which it is. The members of the Westboro Baptist Church are merely the latest in a long line of concerned American citizens, who had loving relatives, comfortable homes, and a side hobby of rabid intolerance. They are driven by the same peculiar evil that caused white men to lynch black men in the evening and the walk home for supper, that made parents tell their children that they should denounce friends and teachers with "un-American" ideas, that inspires an entire congregation to spend their lives driving around the country to protest the extension of man's ultimate expression of love to everyone, regardless of sexual identification. Its a kind of hatred that's as American as apple pie.
I can't imagine that kind of hatred. I'm a loving guy by nature. I love my family, I love my friends, and I love good people, regardless of religion, race, or sexuality. That's not to say I don't hate people. I do. Its just that hate for me is a temporary emotion, a brief surge of something ugly that just as quickly passes away. I can't extend hatred towards someone for very long; maybe a week on the outside. But these people at Westboro, their lives are built around hatred. They wake up, go to work, eat dinner, play with their kids, read a book, fall asleep, all while virulently hating a huge amount of people. Every day. For their entire lives. I can analyze them and form opinions about them all I want, but I doubt I'll ever be able to really understand them. Honestly, I don't think I'd want to.
J.R.R. Tolkien once asked, "What can men do against such reckless hate?" I wish I could say I knew. I wish I had some idea of how to stamp out intolerance, whether it be education of the youth, or the greater exposure of different cultures, or something else entirely. If anything, it may be choice each one of us has to make, and in the end, no amount of education or acceptance can change it. I just hope we have the strength to make the right choice.
I just hope.
And if I'm right, mama, you'll have to sing to me,
But if I'm wrong then I won't be in your way,
And if I find myself at the mercy of the law,
Won't you free me on my judgement day?
Friday, April 10, 2009
A Little Unexpected
Something neat happened to me today.
I was in a PetSupermarket with my dad over near the New Hope Commons Shopping Center. We were looking for a collar for my dog; she kept on breaking out of her current one and running amok through the neighborhood, causing as much terror and mayhem as a 12 pound daschund possibly can. We gave up after a couple minutes when we realized that we didn't know our dogs neck size (which, of course, all good pet owners should know), and decided instead to look at some of the animals. They were all in the front of the store, on a large round table divided into sections by thick panes of glass; the parakeets over here, the rabbits next to them, a couple of guinea pigs over to the right.
My dad was taunting some bemused looking ferrets, when I looked through the glass and saw two guys at the counter. One was standing back, looking around at the store and occasionally glancing to the cashier at his left. He wasn't anything special; just a tall black guy in a pair of black shorts and a wine red baseball cap. The second guy was talking to the cashier, who was nodding and occasionally pointing to things in the back. The guy was tall, skinny, and that kind of black that almost looked Hispanic. He had a long face, topped off with a coal black Yankees hat, and some strange pointed earrings jutting out from his ears. He looked extremely familiar, which was odd, because I don't know that many tall, twentysomething black guys. I was staring intently at him, when he glanced over to the pet table. Our eyes locked for a second, and I thought Wow, he looks a lot like Danny Greene.
That was it. He turned back to the cashier and pointed to a row of cages, and my dad made a remark about the chinchillas looking like crosses between rabbits and rats. The ferrets went back to sleep about a minute later, and we walked out of the store.
My dad stopped right outside the door and looked around. I glanced back through the big show window and said, "You know, that guy in there looked a lot like Danny Greene."
My dad chuckled. "That's probably because he is Danny Greene."
At that moment, the door tinkled open, and Danny Greene walked out.
My dad stood there and smiled. "Great job, Danny", he said, then stretched his arm out towards the only UNC player ever to score more than a thousand points in his career. For one bizarre moment, it looked like he was going to punch him. Then Danny Greene smiled a bit, reached out, and gave my dad a fist bump. "Thank you, thank you", he said, and then he walked away, loping off to his car like one of those old flightless birds you see in Discovery Channel specials.
I didn't get a fist bump. I was standing near the trash can the whole time, thinking Holy shit, my dad just got a fist bump from Danny fucking Greene! You could say I was a little star struck.
Driving home a couple minutes later, my dad told me Danny was probably getting something for his pet snake. "Cool", I said, which is really the only thing you can say to such things. I then mentioned that Orlando Bloom had been in Brightleaf Square the other night.
"Really?" asked my dad. "How do you know?"
"A girl from school got her picture taken with him. It's her profile on Facebook."
My dad sighed a little. "Now, thats a shame."
"Why?"
"Well, that poor guy's just finished shooting a movie, and he's tired, and he wants to get something to eat. But when he goes to the restaurant, there's, what, 50 teenage girls asking for a picture." He adjusted the rear view mirror a bit. "He'll never have any more privacy."
The car turned onto the highway, and I wondered how many artists really wanted fame. Then we saw a sedan stuck in a ditch, and we talked about that instead.
We'll make a film about a man who's sad and lonely
And all I gotta do is act naturally.
I was in a PetSupermarket with my dad over near the New Hope Commons Shopping Center. We were looking for a collar for my dog; she kept on breaking out of her current one and running amok through the neighborhood, causing as much terror and mayhem as a 12 pound daschund possibly can. We gave up after a couple minutes when we realized that we didn't know our dogs neck size (which, of course, all good pet owners should know), and decided instead to look at some of the animals. They were all in the front of the store, on a large round table divided into sections by thick panes of glass; the parakeets over here, the rabbits next to them, a couple of guinea pigs over to the right.
My dad was taunting some bemused looking ferrets, when I looked through the glass and saw two guys at the counter. One was standing back, looking around at the store and occasionally glancing to the cashier at his left. He wasn't anything special; just a tall black guy in a pair of black shorts and a wine red baseball cap. The second guy was talking to the cashier, who was nodding and occasionally pointing to things in the back. The guy was tall, skinny, and that kind of black that almost looked Hispanic. He had a long face, topped off with a coal black Yankees hat, and some strange pointed earrings jutting out from his ears. He looked extremely familiar, which was odd, because I don't know that many tall, twentysomething black guys. I was staring intently at him, when he glanced over to the pet table. Our eyes locked for a second, and I thought Wow, he looks a lot like Danny Greene.
That was it. He turned back to the cashier and pointed to a row of cages, and my dad made a remark about the chinchillas looking like crosses between rabbits and rats. The ferrets went back to sleep about a minute later, and we walked out of the store.
My dad stopped right outside the door and looked around. I glanced back through the big show window and said, "You know, that guy in there looked a lot like Danny Greene."
My dad chuckled. "That's probably because he is Danny Greene."
At that moment, the door tinkled open, and Danny Greene walked out.
My dad stood there and smiled. "Great job, Danny", he said, then stretched his arm out towards the only UNC player ever to score more than a thousand points in his career. For one bizarre moment, it looked like he was going to punch him. Then Danny Greene smiled a bit, reached out, and gave my dad a fist bump. "Thank you, thank you", he said, and then he walked away, loping off to his car like one of those old flightless birds you see in Discovery Channel specials.
I didn't get a fist bump. I was standing near the trash can the whole time, thinking Holy shit, my dad just got a fist bump from Danny fucking Greene! You could say I was a little star struck.
Driving home a couple minutes later, my dad told me Danny was probably getting something for his pet snake. "Cool", I said, which is really the only thing you can say to such things. I then mentioned that Orlando Bloom had been in Brightleaf Square the other night.
"Really?" asked my dad. "How do you know?"
"A girl from school got her picture taken with him. It's her profile on Facebook."
My dad sighed a little. "Now, thats a shame."
"Why?"
"Well, that poor guy's just finished shooting a movie, and he's tired, and he wants to get something to eat. But when he goes to the restaurant, there's, what, 50 teenage girls asking for a picture." He adjusted the rear view mirror a bit. "He'll never have any more privacy."
The car turned onto the highway, and I wondered how many artists really wanted fame. Then we saw a sedan stuck in a ditch, and we talked about that instead.
We'll make a film about a man who's sad and lonely
And all I gotta do is act naturally.
Monday, March 23, 2009
A Little Something Unexpected
I hate Mondays.
I hate Mondays, but I feel sorry for them. Monday's have to endure the combined hatred of millions and millions of workers and students, in pure, concentrated form, every week, every year, ad infinitum until the ending of the world. You might say that, of the weekdays, Monday got the shit end of the stick. Except for Tuesday. Tuesday sucks too.
I've been having some light bulb moments recently. I was listening to "We Didn't Start the Fire" a few days ago, and I realized that everything would be much easier to learn if it was a Billy Joel song. Honestly, I think Algebra II would have gone a lot easier for me if I could've popped in a CD and listenend to "Quadratic Man" in order to finish a worksheet.
Some words are obviously a product of their environment. Take, for example, molasses. Molasses is one of the few words that actually sounds like the thing it describes. Say it slowly, and it drips off your tongue, bits of the vowels sticking to your gums and sliding back down your throat. Say it fast enough, and you might have a little lingering sweetness in your mouth; say it too often, and hell, who knows, your teeth may start to rot. Or the word insipid, a word I believe was solely coined by movie critics for the sole purpose of inclusion in their reviews. The next time you come across the word being used to describe something other than Orlando Bloom's acting in Pirates of the Carribean, please, let me know.
I have a new image of sadism burned in my brain. Sadism to me is a 300 pound mulatto gym trainer grinning like a clown and chanting the lyrics to "Beat It" while I do sets of 30 pound shoulder lifts. Personal trainers are supposed to do that, I guess; sit high atop their ivory towers and hurl thunderbolts down upon the poor weightlifting peons, urging us to push it, and two, and three, come on man, its all you baby, its all you, I ain't even liftin' the bar! And in a way, they're like Mondays. We can love a personal trainer to death outside the gym, but when we're doing squat lifts and he's chatting up the manager, we tend to become filled with a certain incandescent rage. "Hulking out", I believe, is the scientific term. But we need personal trainers; they serve the role in gyms that annoyingly articulate critics do in the arts. They're our consciences, if our consciences had biceps the size of melons.
A little personal fact about myself that not many people know is that, when I was in my late 4's, my family had a succession of au pairs, crosses between exchange students and babysitters. For a few months, a foreign student essentially became a part of our family, eating with us, sleeping in a spare room, and (most importantly) taking care of my sister and I. This was a long time ago, and I'd pushed it into the file in my mind labeled "Miscellaneous Baby Thoughts". So imagine my surprise when, a few days ago, my family gets a letter from one of the au pairs.
Her name was Nerina, she was Indian, and for the past decade or so she'd been living in South Africa. The letter itself wasn't anything spectacular; an update on her life, some inquiries, a quiet "God Bless" at the end. What struck me was a line in it. "I often think about you all with the fondest memories", she wrote, and I realized I had forgotten almost everything about her. Only her name hung in my memory, suspended with a hundred thousand faceless others. Here was a woman who had last seen me entering kindergarten and had then disappeared, with only an image of a small, brown and blond haired boy with a penchant for reading and solemnity. This was her picture of me; this was all the Andrew she knew. Simple, sweet, and quiet, without the wear and tear of emotional baggage, of too many late nights, of pent-up rage and soured love, without the cursing and the ego and the insecurity. Just a little, thoughtful kid in a lollipop shirt.
Would she be thinking of me fondly, I thought, if she saw who I was today?
They said that Queens could stay, they blew the Bronx away, and sank Manhattan out at sea.
I hate Mondays, but I feel sorry for them. Monday's have to endure the combined hatred of millions and millions of workers and students, in pure, concentrated form, every week, every year, ad infinitum until the ending of the world. You might say that, of the weekdays, Monday got the shit end of the stick. Except for Tuesday. Tuesday sucks too.
I've been having some light bulb moments recently. I was listening to "We Didn't Start the Fire" a few days ago, and I realized that everything would be much easier to learn if it was a Billy Joel song. Honestly, I think Algebra II would have gone a lot easier for me if I could've popped in a CD and listenend to "Quadratic Man" in order to finish a worksheet.
Some words are obviously a product of their environment. Take, for example, molasses. Molasses is one of the few words that actually sounds like the thing it describes. Say it slowly, and it drips off your tongue, bits of the vowels sticking to your gums and sliding back down your throat. Say it fast enough, and you might have a little lingering sweetness in your mouth; say it too often, and hell, who knows, your teeth may start to rot. Or the word insipid, a word I believe was solely coined by movie critics for the sole purpose of inclusion in their reviews. The next time you come across the word being used to describe something other than Orlando Bloom's acting in Pirates of the Carribean, please, let me know.
I have a new image of sadism burned in my brain. Sadism to me is a 300 pound mulatto gym trainer grinning like a clown and chanting the lyrics to "Beat It" while I do sets of 30 pound shoulder lifts. Personal trainers are supposed to do that, I guess; sit high atop their ivory towers and hurl thunderbolts down upon the poor weightlifting peons, urging us to push it, and two, and three, come on man, its all you baby, its all you, I ain't even liftin' the bar! And in a way, they're like Mondays. We can love a personal trainer to death outside the gym, but when we're doing squat lifts and he's chatting up the manager, we tend to become filled with a certain incandescent rage. "Hulking out", I believe, is the scientific term. But we need personal trainers; they serve the role in gyms that annoyingly articulate critics do in the arts. They're our consciences, if our consciences had biceps the size of melons.
A little personal fact about myself that not many people know is that, when I was in my late 4's, my family had a succession of au pairs, crosses between exchange students and babysitters. For a few months, a foreign student essentially became a part of our family, eating with us, sleeping in a spare room, and (most importantly) taking care of my sister and I. This was a long time ago, and I'd pushed it into the file in my mind labeled "Miscellaneous Baby Thoughts". So imagine my surprise when, a few days ago, my family gets a letter from one of the au pairs.
Her name was Nerina, she was Indian, and for the past decade or so she'd been living in South Africa. The letter itself wasn't anything spectacular; an update on her life, some inquiries, a quiet "God Bless" at the end. What struck me was a line in it. "I often think about you all with the fondest memories", she wrote, and I realized I had forgotten almost everything about her. Only her name hung in my memory, suspended with a hundred thousand faceless others. Here was a woman who had last seen me entering kindergarten and had then disappeared, with only an image of a small, brown and blond haired boy with a penchant for reading and solemnity. This was her picture of me; this was all the Andrew she knew. Simple, sweet, and quiet, without the wear and tear of emotional baggage, of too many late nights, of pent-up rage and soured love, without the cursing and the ego and the insecurity. Just a little, thoughtful kid in a lollipop shirt.
Would she be thinking of me fondly, I thought, if she saw who I was today?
They said that Queens could stay, they blew the Bronx away, and sank Manhattan out at sea.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Pagliacci
I haven't been feeling very funny the past few days. This is a bad thing for me. My whole personality, really my whole social life, centers on the simple fact that I have a propensity for making people laugh. It's just something that comes naturally to me. A lot of people say that being funny is difficult; actor Edmund Gween reportedly said on his deathbed that "dying is easy; comedy is hard." I can almost understand this, but not really. You never can understand why some people are unable to do something that you excel at. The viewpoints are just so distorted that there can be no meeting in the middle.
The way I go about comedy isn't all that complicated either. I mostly just listen. I listen to what people say, what they don't say, what they say with their bodies; then, I turn those signals inside out and find the humor in them. I use funny words, funny expressions, awkward gestures, any and all tools. And a lot of the time, it bombs spectacularly. No one can be funny all the time; it's been scientifically proven. I think. Somewhere. But I don't let that dissuade me; I just shake it off, smile big, and pray to God somebody says something that can be twisted into a sexual innuendo.
This hasn't really been happening the last few days, though. I make a joke, and no one laughs; I try again, and its the same. For someone like me, its a depressing experience; you're a jester one day, and the next no one seems to give a shit. Its also a bit of a humbling one, too. If comedy is all I have to go on, it suggests, maybe I should be a little more serious. Its just a thought.
I think it also has a bit to do with my mindset. Ive been socially paranoid the last few days, and that's hell for self-effacement, which is what I do best. There's a point in mocking yourself where you don't know whether everybodys laughing with you or at you. And it makes a hell of a difference. I honestly hope its still the first one. Please, still be the first one.
I'm feeling a bit better now, though. With all the hormonal and mental and teenagerial events swirling around right now, its probably just a temporary side-effect.
Hopefully.
The way I go about comedy isn't all that complicated either. I mostly just listen. I listen to what people say, what they don't say, what they say with their bodies; then, I turn those signals inside out and find the humor in them. I use funny words, funny expressions, awkward gestures, any and all tools. And a lot of the time, it bombs spectacularly. No one can be funny all the time; it's been scientifically proven. I think. Somewhere. But I don't let that dissuade me; I just shake it off, smile big, and pray to God somebody says something that can be twisted into a sexual innuendo.
This hasn't really been happening the last few days, though. I make a joke, and no one laughs; I try again, and its the same. For someone like me, its a depressing experience; you're a jester one day, and the next no one seems to give a shit. Its also a bit of a humbling one, too. If comedy is all I have to go on, it suggests, maybe I should be a little more serious. Its just a thought.
I think it also has a bit to do with my mindset. Ive been socially paranoid the last few days, and that's hell for self-effacement, which is what I do best. There's a point in mocking yourself where you don't know whether everybodys laughing with you or at you. And it makes a hell of a difference. I honestly hope its still the first one. Please, still be the first one.
I'm feeling a bit better now, though. With all the hormonal and mental and teenagerial events swirling around right now, its probably just a temporary side-effect.
Hopefully.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Wedded to Calamity
I've spent the better part of the afternoon pacing the inside of my garage in a pair of shorts talking to myself.
Wait. I can explain.
I'm talking to myself because I'm memorizing my first scene as the wackily unfortunate Friar Lawrence in Romeo and Juliet. I'm pacing in my garage because moving helps me remember the lines, and its the only place in the house I can practice without my sister saying shut up, Oh my God why is your voice so loud, etcetera, etcetera. And I'm wearing shorts because, well, it was kinda hot. Saturated air and all that.
We've cut out a significant portion of my monologues, and at first, I have to say I was a bit indignant. "Cut out Shakespeare?", said I, "Surely you jest! You may as well rewrite the New Testament so Jesus dances back down to Earth in an angelic chorus line, or turn Moby Dick into a cop drama called White Fish and the Peg Leg. And then I started reading my lines. And I thanked the acting gods that they'd been cut. Its not really that there's so many, its just that the language is almost comically archaic. Even with the translation, I only have a vague idea of what I'm saying, and the wording only makes it worse. Seriously, Fie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit, which like a usuer, abound'st in all. I don't think some of those words have been used in normal conversation for close to 400 years. Now, I've got nothing against the Bard's writing; when you understand the poetry, it's beautiful, and when properly acted, it's magnificent. But all the beauty doesn't make trying to say doth sit without saying doth shit any easier.
Ooops. When I was typing the word portion at the beginning of the paragraph, I accidentally typed formula. I just realized it. I think its because I'm watching Breaking Bad on AMC. Appaently, TVs having an adverse effect on my subconscious.
Whoda thunk it, right?
Well I'm accustomed to a smooth ride
Wait. I can explain.
I'm talking to myself because I'm memorizing my first scene as the wackily unfortunate Friar Lawrence in Romeo and Juliet. I'm pacing in my garage because moving helps me remember the lines, and its the only place in the house I can practice without my sister saying shut up, Oh my God why is your voice so loud, etcetera, etcetera. And I'm wearing shorts because, well, it was kinda hot. Saturated air and all that.
We've cut out a significant portion of my monologues, and at first, I have to say I was a bit indignant. "Cut out Shakespeare?", said I, "Surely you jest! You may as well rewrite the New Testament so Jesus dances back down to Earth in an angelic chorus line, or turn Moby Dick into a cop drama called White Fish and the Peg Leg. And then I started reading my lines. And I thanked the acting gods that they'd been cut. Its not really that there's so many, its just that the language is almost comically archaic. Even with the translation, I only have a vague idea of what I'm saying, and the wording only makes it worse. Seriously, Fie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit, which like a usuer, abound'st in all. I don't think some of those words have been used in normal conversation for close to 400 years. Now, I've got nothing against the Bard's writing; when you understand the poetry, it's beautiful, and when properly acted, it's magnificent. But all the beauty doesn't make trying to say doth sit without saying doth shit any easier.
Ooops. When I was typing the word portion at the beginning of the paragraph, I accidentally typed formula. I just realized it. I think its because I'm watching Breaking Bad on AMC. Appaently, TVs having an adverse effect on my subconscious.
Whoda thunk it, right?
Well I'm accustomed to a smooth ride
Saturday, February 21, 2009
My Hands Are Always Coldest
I spent the better part of tonight bouncing a rubber eye on a table in a Mexican restaurant.
I should probably put this sentence into context.
Earlier tonight, I went out to a Mexican restaurant for a friend's birthday dinner. I'd been looking forward to the dinner for a few days now. It was going to be fun, I said. I was wrong.
Well, not entirely.
The first part of the night started off, for me at least, fairly poorly. I arrived at the restaurant to discover that, 1) there were about 6 other people at the dinner, 2) I didn't even know three of them, and 3) they all knew each other very well. So, for about the first half hour, I was on social autopilot, sitting in my chair and smiling vacantly, everyone chatting and catching up aound me. I think I ate about a pound of tortilla chips during that time. I'm not quite sure. This is Standard Operating Procedure for me when I'm in uncomfortable situations; be quiet, don't say anything stupid, and smile pretty for the other people. Things didn't get much better when I said, "You know, I had no idea Hugh Jackman was Australian", and was greeted by blanks stares. Apparently, a lot fewer people know who Hugh Jackman is than I thought. I was pretty quiet after that.
Things got better after dinner, though, as we paid for our meals and immedietly piled into what looked like a 15 year old station wagon, whose lights would flicker ominously every time it went over something larger than a baseball. We then proceeded to Cookout, where one of the people hanging on for dear life in the car's trunk had to open it, walk up to the talk box, and yell in our orders. We got seven milkshakes. They tend to taste better when drunk with friends.
So, here we are, seven people crammed into a station wagon, driving around downtown Durham, drinking milkshakes, listening to Blink-182 at a level that probably isn't good for human eardrums. We want to stop some place. We choose an abandoned field. What started off as a group of teenagers eating Mexican food in a renovated tobacco warehouse has now turned into seven kids standing in a circle in the middle of an abandoned field, freezing their collective asses off, drinking milkshakes, loudly reminscing about the times they've been heavily medicated, and looking extremely suspicious to anyone who passed by. I was talking more by then. Still wasn't fully comfertable, but I was getting there.
We drove around a few parking lots for about half an hour, laughing hysterically as two of us climbed on top of the car and rode it like the world's only Japanese-made racehorse. Eventually things wound down; one of the guys had to leave to go mediate an impromptu party that was being thrown at his house, and the rest were dropped off at their various cars, till it was just me, the bithday girl, and her best friend. She drove me home, and I was silent. I think they thought it was because I was tired; in reality, it's because I had no idea what to say. I wanted to talk, to say something funny and make them laugh, to break this shell around me, but I couldn't. Whenever I did, I stumbled over my words, and they came halting and shy. I hated it. It was alright, though; they were people I could feel relatively comfertable in silence around. When she dropped me off, and the two of them smiled and said good bye and thanks for coming, I thought to myself that it had been a good night. Maybe not as good as I had wanted it to be. But not too bad at all.
On the flip side, though, its left me feeling kinda lonely. It seems that everyone I know is happily dating someone else, or in the process of kindling some sweet romantic relationship. The birthday girl had started one with one of the invitees, a friend of mine from camp. I had absolutely no idea about this, which left me a bit suprised when he gave her a slow, deep kiss before he left for his car. All I can do in those situations is smile a bit bigger and feel happy for them. I can't talk to them about romantic issues. Truth be told, I've never had any. I guess there's some truth to that old saying that, when you're single, all you see are couples, and when you're dating, all you see are whores.
I'm not really sure why I wrote this.
She tastes like the real thing
I should probably put this sentence into context.
Earlier tonight, I went out to a Mexican restaurant for a friend's birthday dinner. I'd been looking forward to the dinner for a few days now. It was going to be fun, I said. I was wrong.
Well, not entirely.
The first part of the night started off, for me at least, fairly poorly. I arrived at the restaurant to discover that, 1) there were about 6 other people at the dinner, 2) I didn't even know three of them, and 3) they all knew each other very well. So, for about the first half hour, I was on social autopilot, sitting in my chair and smiling vacantly, everyone chatting and catching up aound me. I think I ate about a pound of tortilla chips during that time. I'm not quite sure. This is Standard Operating Procedure for me when I'm in uncomfortable situations; be quiet, don't say anything stupid, and smile pretty for the other people. Things didn't get much better when I said, "You know, I had no idea Hugh Jackman was Australian", and was greeted by blanks stares. Apparently, a lot fewer people know who Hugh Jackman is than I thought. I was pretty quiet after that.
Things got better after dinner, though, as we paid for our meals and immedietly piled into what looked like a 15 year old station wagon, whose lights would flicker ominously every time it went over something larger than a baseball. We then proceeded to Cookout, where one of the people hanging on for dear life in the car's trunk had to open it, walk up to the talk box, and yell in our orders. We got seven milkshakes. They tend to taste better when drunk with friends.
So, here we are, seven people crammed into a station wagon, driving around downtown Durham, drinking milkshakes, listening to Blink-182 at a level that probably isn't good for human eardrums. We want to stop some place. We choose an abandoned field. What started off as a group of teenagers eating Mexican food in a renovated tobacco warehouse has now turned into seven kids standing in a circle in the middle of an abandoned field, freezing their collective asses off, drinking milkshakes, loudly reminscing about the times they've been heavily medicated, and looking extremely suspicious to anyone who passed by. I was talking more by then. Still wasn't fully comfertable, but I was getting there.
We drove around a few parking lots for about half an hour, laughing hysterically as two of us climbed on top of the car and rode it like the world's only Japanese-made racehorse. Eventually things wound down; one of the guys had to leave to go mediate an impromptu party that was being thrown at his house, and the rest were dropped off at their various cars, till it was just me, the bithday girl, and her best friend. She drove me home, and I was silent. I think they thought it was because I was tired; in reality, it's because I had no idea what to say. I wanted to talk, to say something funny and make them laugh, to break this shell around me, but I couldn't. Whenever I did, I stumbled over my words, and they came halting and shy. I hated it. It was alright, though; they were people I could feel relatively comfertable in silence around. When she dropped me off, and the two of them smiled and said good bye and thanks for coming, I thought to myself that it had been a good night. Maybe not as good as I had wanted it to be. But not too bad at all.
On the flip side, though, its left me feeling kinda lonely. It seems that everyone I know is happily dating someone else, or in the process of kindling some sweet romantic relationship. The birthday girl had started one with one of the invitees, a friend of mine from camp. I had absolutely no idea about this, which left me a bit suprised when he gave her a slow, deep kiss before he left for his car. All I can do in those situations is smile a bit bigger and feel happy for them. I can't talk to them about romantic issues. Truth be told, I've never had any. I guess there's some truth to that old saying that, when you're single, all you see are couples, and when you're dating, all you see are whores.
I'm not really sure why I wrote this.
She tastes like the real thing
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Aaaaah!! He's Only Human!!
Alright, so I've been watching the news a bit over the past few days, and I'm getting a bit annoyed at this whole "First Hundred Days" thing about Obama. Apparently, Obama s supposed to waltz into the Oval Office and in that enclosed space, perform some kind of alchemaic ritual that, within a hundred days of its institution, will rid the world of all its problems. At least, that's what the pundits seem to think.
Seriously?
Its a ludicrous idea. Honestly, did group of newsmen just sit down and say "Hey, we know the new president has the weight of the free world on his shoulders, so lets give the impression that he only has a hundred days to fix everything! Yeah! Lets make him feel anxious and rushed about his policies! What a great idea!" These same newsmen then went and hit themselves in the head with a hammer for 30 minutes straight while wailing the Oscar Meyer jingle.
For goodness sake, the man has over a thousand days in office to fix and perfect things. A thousand days. And we're expecting him to rework the economy, stabilize the job markets, bring two wars to their close, cut our dependence on foreign fuel, and capture that pesky Osama bin Laden in a hundred. Hell, most of us haven't accomplished anything really worthwhile in a hundred days, yet here we are waiting for Obama to march into Wall Street and cast the wicked moneylenders out of his Father's house. Seriously, what did you do the last hundred days? Make an A in chemistry? Roof your house? Try balancing a 13 trillion dollar budget and guiding the world's most powerful military through two separate wars. Then talk to me.
He's not Jesus guys. He's a newly elected wartime president, at a pretty shitty time in the nation's history. Believe me, I was up there with the Barack 'n Roll's and the Obamanos!'s, but that was just to get him elected. I knew he wasn't going to break down the door to Congress and shout "Alright motherfuckahs! Let's legislate!". It's not the easy. There's checks and balances, and a little thing called the Constitution he has to check with now and again. I know he's going to get it done. But you can't rush perfection.
So lets cut him some slack, ok? Ok.
On a completely unrelated note, I was working my lower body at the gym earlier today, and now it feels like someone took a flaming jackhammer to my calves. Seriously, its like I have fucking polio. When I'm walking up the stairs, I keep thinking "Wow, FDR had to go through this every single day. It must have sucked to be him. I mean, if he wasn't preseident and all. Cause that part was pretty sweet."
Just wanted to get that out there.
Johnny's in the basement, mixin up the medicine, I'm on the pavement, thinkin bout the government.
Seriously?
Its a ludicrous idea. Honestly, did group of newsmen just sit down and say "Hey, we know the new president has the weight of the free world on his shoulders, so lets give the impression that he only has a hundred days to fix everything! Yeah! Lets make him feel anxious and rushed about his policies! What a great idea!" These same newsmen then went and hit themselves in the head with a hammer for 30 minutes straight while wailing the Oscar Meyer jingle.
For goodness sake, the man has over a thousand days in office to fix and perfect things. A thousand days. And we're expecting him to rework the economy, stabilize the job markets, bring two wars to their close, cut our dependence on foreign fuel, and capture that pesky Osama bin Laden in a hundred. Hell, most of us haven't accomplished anything really worthwhile in a hundred days, yet here we are waiting for Obama to march into Wall Street and cast the wicked moneylenders out of his Father's house. Seriously, what did you do the last hundred days? Make an A in chemistry? Roof your house? Try balancing a 13 trillion dollar budget and guiding the world's most powerful military through two separate wars. Then talk to me.
He's not Jesus guys. He's a newly elected wartime president, at a pretty shitty time in the nation's history. Believe me, I was up there with the Barack 'n Roll's and the Obamanos!'s, but that was just to get him elected. I knew he wasn't going to break down the door to Congress and shout "Alright motherfuckahs! Let's legislate!". It's not the easy. There's checks and balances, and a little thing called the Constitution he has to check with now and again. I know he's going to get it done. But you can't rush perfection.
So lets cut him some slack, ok? Ok.
On a completely unrelated note, I was working my lower body at the gym earlier today, and now it feels like someone took a flaming jackhammer to my calves. Seriously, its like I have fucking polio. When I'm walking up the stairs, I keep thinking "Wow, FDR had to go through this every single day. It must have sucked to be him. I mean, if he wasn't preseident and all. Cause that part was pretty sweet."
Just wanted to get that out there.
Johnny's in the basement, mixin up the medicine, I'm on the pavement, thinkin bout the government.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Short, Sharp Shocks
It's difficult for me to type things at the moment. I just got back from the gym about 30 minutes ago, and my arms feel like Slinkies. My trainer gave me a fully body workout in about half an hour, which means I rapidly went from "Boy howdy, I'm all fired up for the incline presses!" enthusiasm to "Oh sweet Jesus, my nerves are being scalped". Right after the workout, I could barely stick a straw into my carton of Muscle Milk (sounds appetizing, right?). It was that bad.
I've lately found clothes made entirely of bamboo kind of interesting. From what I hear, they're really comfortable, and they give you a lot of hipster cred ("Your shirt's made of recycled cotton? Yeah, mines made of fucking bamboo. Now leave me be, I need to buy these Radiohead tickets before my chai latte gets cold"). The downside, of course, is that they're ridiculously expensive, and you could never wear one near a panda.
There's a button in my coat pocket. I don't really know where it's from, but I have a weird urge to try and buy something with it. Here's how I think it'd go down.
Cashier: Alright, the total's 10.66.
Me: Ok, let's seeee... 8, 9, 10 dollars. Ummm, I have 10. 50 and this button.
Cashier: What kind of button is it?
Me: I think it's for some kind of shirt.
Cashier: (Long pause) Ok, what the hell. Have a nice day.
Me: Yeah!! (I jump up in the air. Camera freezes. "Don't Stop Me Now" starts playing. Cue montage.)
It seems to me that, once they reach a certain level, athletes become a bit boring to watch because we always know they're going to win. I have an idea about this. Special, limited time only events where the athletes compete.... against animals. And I'm not talking about A-Rod versus a gibbon or anything like that. I'm talking animal's that'll give em a run for their money. Think about it: World-record holding sprinter Usain Bolt racing the 200 meter against an ostrich; Olympic gold winning long jumper Maurren Maggi leaping against a kangaroo; Mike Tyson coming out of retirement to box a gorilla (though which one's the real ape, right? yukyukyuk). Animals could also make relatively uneventful events enjoyable to watch. Think the men's 500 yard freestyle is a drag? Toss a live alligator in at the halfway mark. That'll speed things up. But, of course, the ultimate man vs. animal contest would involve only three things: Phelps. A dolphin. And the greatest 200 meter butterfly in history. You couldn't not sell tickets to that.
Is it just me, or is the fact that the St. Jude's Children's Hospital is named after the patron saint of lost causes funny in a sick kind of way?
There were funky Chinamen, from funky Chinatown
I've lately found clothes made entirely of bamboo kind of interesting. From what I hear, they're really comfortable, and they give you a lot of hipster cred ("Your shirt's made of recycled cotton? Yeah, mines made of fucking bamboo. Now leave me be, I need to buy these Radiohead tickets before my chai latte gets cold"). The downside, of course, is that they're ridiculously expensive, and you could never wear one near a panda.
There's a button in my coat pocket. I don't really know where it's from, but I have a weird urge to try and buy something with it. Here's how I think it'd go down.
Cashier: Alright, the total's 10.66.
Me: Ok, let's seeee... 8, 9, 10 dollars. Ummm, I have 10. 50 and this button.
Cashier: What kind of button is it?
Me: I think it's for some kind of shirt.
Cashier: (Long pause) Ok, what the hell. Have a nice day.
Me: Yeah!! (I jump up in the air. Camera freezes. "Don't Stop Me Now" starts playing. Cue montage.)
It seems to me that, once they reach a certain level, athletes become a bit boring to watch because we always know they're going to win. I have an idea about this. Special, limited time only events where the athletes compete.... against animals. And I'm not talking about A-Rod versus a gibbon or anything like that. I'm talking animal's that'll give em a run for their money. Think about it: World-record holding sprinter Usain Bolt racing the 200 meter against an ostrich; Olympic gold winning long jumper Maurren Maggi leaping against a kangaroo; Mike Tyson coming out of retirement to box a gorilla (though which one's the real ape, right? yukyukyuk). Animals could also make relatively uneventful events enjoyable to watch. Think the men's 500 yard freestyle is a drag? Toss a live alligator in at the halfway mark. That'll speed things up. But, of course, the ultimate man vs. animal contest would involve only three things: Phelps. A dolphin. And the greatest 200 meter butterfly in history. You couldn't not sell tickets to that.
Is it just me, or is the fact that the St. Jude's Children's Hospital is named after the patron saint of lost causes funny in a sick kind of way?
There were funky Chinamen, from funky Chinatown
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Jews in My Closet
I spent most of Tuesday night in a kind of paranoid state. It started early on, around 4 or so, give or take an hour. I'd been awake for a couple of hours, and active, if active means I occasionally staggered from the couch to the kitchen in order to rummage through the pantry, snuffling and snorting through the Nutragrain bars and Lean Pockets like some kind of oversized, bearded gopher. I'd just eaten a couple Ritz crackers with some lobster spread, when I flipped on the tube and noticed that Casino was on AMC. "Well fiddle-de-dee!" thought I, "anything by good ol' Marty Scorsese should be just the thing to get me through an uneventful day!"
How wrong I was.
I started watching the movie about half an hour into its run time, and soon noticed two things; the first, that, although this was a Martin Scorsese movie, Robert De Niro was NOT Italian (he's a Jewish gambling handicapper! whoda thunk it?), and second, that the movie had been severely censored. This was understandable; if you're showing a movie where whacked-out Joe Pesci sticks a guys head in a vice, you have to do a bit of editing. That creates a lot of unintentional humor, though; watching Sharon Stone scream "Freak you Sammy! Freak you!" over and over, you can't help but giggle a bit.
The movie got to me, though. Beneath the gory sheen and coke-sprinkled glamour of the film's Las Vegas, there's a constant wire of paranoia. Everyone is out to steal and kill everything from everyone else. De Niro knows it; he gets a relatively conversational phone call from Pesci, and immediately takes off to another house with a shotgun and car. Pesci is thinking about killing him. He hasn't said it, but it's implied in the tone. In a way, the gangsters are like diplomats; they shroud their words with "howyadoins?" and "fuggedaboutits" until they have trust and respect.
Then they break out the baseball bats.
Aside from the internal nervousness, there's the knowledge that all the characters are being constantly watched by the FBI. This is accepted as an unalterable fact, and its a paranoia that they incorporate into their lives. Phones tapped? That's cool; I got bug sweepers. The movie's best scene perfectly illustrates this. De Niro is in a meeting with some investors on his swanky club home/golf course. Halfway through the meeting, there's a rumble, and a single engine plane coasts out of the sky and lands on the green, two agents hurriedly exiting. The FBI had been spying on De Niro for such a long time that they're plane had run out of gas.
Of course, all the paranoia eventually proves to be justified, as we all knew it was. This takes away from it's impact a bit. The worst paranoia is never shown; it is only suspect.I wasn't thinking about all this after the movie. I was still bored. I wanted to watch something else. My dad was upstairs watching Munich. I decided to join.
Not a good idea.
I started Munich relatively excited. I'd heard great things about it; it had Eric Bana as the most kick-ass Jew since Moses; and it was directed by Steven Spielberg. And for the first hour and a half, it was great. Lot's of action, intrigue, philosopohical soul searching, torsos hanging from ceiling fans. Good stuff.
And then it got paranoid.
The plot's pretty complex, and I don't want to go into much detail, but it basically entails this; after several bungled missions, and two dead agents, Bana starts thinking someones out to get him. The beauty of it is that, while everyone around him seems to start dying mysteriously, nothing ever happens to Bana. He's left to stew with his own darkening thoughts, disillusioned with the country and cause he thought he knew. This part is good.
But Spielberg hits you over the head with it. He wields the paranoia like he's using a shovel to butter a piece of toast. What starts off as an interesting thematic element soon bogs the whole film down. When Bana ripped up his room in a feverish attempt to find invisible bugs, I was ready for the movie to be over. By the time Bana was having visions of the 1972 massacre of Israeli athletes by Black September whilst having sex with his wife, I wanted to punch Spielberg in the face.
That night, when I was going to bed, I almost checked the springs under my mattress for a bomb.
But I didn't. So its ok.
I'm afraid of Americans; I'm afraid of the world
How wrong I was.
I started watching the movie about half an hour into its run time, and soon noticed two things; the first, that, although this was a Martin Scorsese movie, Robert De Niro was NOT Italian (he's a Jewish gambling handicapper! whoda thunk it?), and second, that the movie had been severely censored. This was understandable; if you're showing a movie where whacked-out Joe Pesci sticks a guys head in a vice, you have to do a bit of editing. That creates a lot of unintentional humor, though; watching Sharon Stone scream "Freak you Sammy! Freak you!" over and over, you can't help but giggle a bit.
The movie got to me, though. Beneath the gory sheen and coke-sprinkled glamour of the film's Las Vegas, there's a constant wire of paranoia. Everyone is out to steal and kill everything from everyone else. De Niro knows it; he gets a relatively conversational phone call from Pesci, and immediately takes off to another house with a shotgun and car. Pesci is thinking about killing him. He hasn't said it, but it's implied in the tone. In a way, the gangsters are like diplomats; they shroud their words with "howyadoins?" and "fuggedaboutits" until they have trust and respect.
Then they break out the baseball bats.
Aside from the internal nervousness, there's the knowledge that all the characters are being constantly watched by the FBI. This is accepted as an unalterable fact, and its a paranoia that they incorporate into their lives. Phones tapped? That's cool; I got bug sweepers. The movie's best scene perfectly illustrates this. De Niro is in a meeting with some investors on his swanky club home/golf course. Halfway through the meeting, there's a rumble, and a single engine plane coasts out of the sky and lands on the green, two agents hurriedly exiting. The FBI had been spying on De Niro for such a long time that they're plane had run out of gas.
Of course, all the paranoia eventually proves to be justified, as we all knew it was. This takes away from it's impact a bit. The worst paranoia is never shown; it is only suspect.I wasn't thinking about all this after the movie. I was still bored. I wanted to watch something else. My dad was upstairs watching Munich. I decided to join.
Not a good idea.
I started Munich relatively excited. I'd heard great things about it; it had Eric Bana as the most kick-ass Jew since Moses; and it was directed by Steven Spielberg. And for the first hour and a half, it was great. Lot's of action, intrigue, philosopohical soul searching, torsos hanging from ceiling fans. Good stuff.
And then it got paranoid.
The plot's pretty complex, and I don't want to go into much detail, but it basically entails this; after several bungled missions, and two dead agents, Bana starts thinking someones out to get him. The beauty of it is that, while everyone around him seems to start dying mysteriously, nothing ever happens to Bana. He's left to stew with his own darkening thoughts, disillusioned with the country and cause he thought he knew. This part is good.
But Spielberg hits you over the head with it. He wields the paranoia like he's using a shovel to butter a piece of toast. What starts off as an interesting thematic element soon bogs the whole film down. When Bana ripped up his room in a feverish attempt to find invisible bugs, I was ready for the movie to be over. By the time Bana was having visions of the 1972 massacre of Israeli athletes by Black September whilst having sex with his wife, I wanted to punch Spielberg in the face.
That night, when I was going to bed, I almost checked the springs under my mattress for a bomb.
But I didn't. So its ok.
I'm afraid of Americans; I'm afraid of the world
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Tiny Noises
I've come to the realization that the best part of songs are the small things, the tiny noises that you don't necessarily hear the first time through. They're like those undertones in fine wine, only detectable to the trained palette; the novice tongue tastes the grapes, yes, but the more refined tongue, the more aquainted tongue, detects the smoky oak of the wooden barrel that held it; the spicy tobacco of the dirty men who pressed it, smoked in those hours between pickings; a dash of vanilla, thrown in to meld with the dying fruit.
Or so I've heard. Not that I'd know, of course. That'd be illegal.
Let me elaborate a smidge, though. When I say the best part, I don't really mean musically or structurally per say (they layered two violins playing at opposite octaves over a synthizer!! OMG!!). I'm talking about those little things in the song that actually make you love listening to it. I have many personal examples.
My favorite part of "My Body is a Cage" by Arcade Fire happens about 3/4ths of the way through the song. For about two minutes, Win Butler has been moaning urgently about dancing with the one he loves, while the dirge-organ in the background grows incrementally louder. This is cool, I think, it's going to end up with a really nice cresendo. And so it seems, until a moment after the second verse, when a mountain of sound is vomited out, the moody organ replaced in a blink by a massive funeral march with what sounds like the most down-beat gospel choir in creation.
To be perfectly honest, my heart skipped a beat.
The little things are what propel a song, what make it worth listening to; I would never have lisened to Radiohead's "Reckoner" if it hadn't been for the techno-tambourine amazingness of its first minute, and The Crystal Method's "The Name of the Game" hooked me with perhaps the best opening lyrics of all time ("Listen all you mothafuckahs!").
And then there's the things in music that you aren't quite sure why you like. It may be a word, a guitar descent, a (God forbid) drum solo. But it sticks with you; whenever you hear that song later, even if its been an obscene amount of time since you heard it last, you can always pick up that one little part out of the whole sonic sturm und drang. At the moment, it's a verse in "Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuthin' Ta Fuck Wit" that does it for me; "Me fear no one, oh no, here come the Wu-Tang shogun, killer to the eardrum!"
I'm not sure why I like this verse. All I know is I can't get it out of my head.
In fact I'm a hard act to follow
Or so I've heard. Not that I'd know, of course. That'd be illegal.
Let me elaborate a smidge, though. When I say the best part, I don't really mean musically or structurally per say (they layered two violins playing at opposite octaves over a synthizer!! OMG!!). I'm talking about those little things in the song that actually make you love listening to it. I have many personal examples.
My favorite part of "My Body is a Cage" by Arcade Fire happens about 3/4ths of the way through the song. For about two minutes, Win Butler has been moaning urgently about dancing with the one he loves, while the dirge-organ in the background grows incrementally louder. This is cool, I think, it's going to end up with a really nice cresendo. And so it seems, until a moment after the second verse, when a mountain of sound is vomited out, the moody organ replaced in a blink by a massive funeral march with what sounds like the most down-beat gospel choir in creation.
To be perfectly honest, my heart skipped a beat.
The little things are what propel a song, what make it worth listening to; I would never have lisened to Radiohead's "Reckoner" if it hadn't been for the techno-tambourine amazingness of its first minute, and The Crystal Method's "The Name of the Game" hooked me with perhaps the best opening lyrics of all time ("Listen all you mothafuckahs!").
And then there's the things in music that you aren't quite sure why you like. It may be a word, a guitar descent, a (God forbid) drum solo. But it sticks with you; whenever you hear that song later, even if its been an obscene amount of time since you heard it last, you can always pick up that one little part out of the whole sonic sturm und drang. At the moment, it's a verse in "Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuthin' Ta Fuck Wit" that does it for me; "Me fear no one, oh no, here come the Wu-Tang shogun, killer to the eardrum!"
I'm not sure why I like this verse. All I know is I can't get it out of my head.
In fact I'm a hard act to follow
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Declaiming Waters, None May Dread...
Tomorrow morning I am going to wake up at 5 o'clock and jump into a medium-sized pool filled with lukewarm water. I'm still not really sure why I'm going to be
doing this.
The following thoughts will be going through my mind.
Oh man am I tiiiiired. Wow. I'm actually about to fall asleep while walking. Don't do that. Thinking of something shocking. Recent studies have shown that large swarms of pesticide-resistant killer bees are on the rise in the Southwestern United States.
Thats better.
Ok, la lala lala, putting my suit on, la lala, damn this thing is tight, hmm hmmhmm, theeeere we go. Everything in order? Yup. Ok, walkin on the pool deck, strrrreeeetchin my arms, geez, am I really that hairy? I'm like friggin homo halibis. Gimme a club and a loincloth, and I could have been an extra in 10,000 BC.
Ooook, time to get in the water! Huh. It doesn't look that cold. Doesn't feel that cold. Hey, maybe this won't be so bad after all! Ok, on three. One. Two. Three. Four. Damn. Ok, on eight. Six. Seven. Eigh-
FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldfuckfuckcoldcoldfuckcomegatherroundpeoplewhereeveryouroamandadmitsweeetJesusitscoold!
This will essentially go on for the next three or four minutes. Don't worry. I get used to it.
I always wondered why I decided to swim for exercise. Definitely not for the competitive aspect. I considered the various diamond facets of my future a while back, and winning gold in the Men's 200 Free was not among them. To be perfectly honest, I'm an ok, maybe slightly above average swimmer. Nothing spectacular. If I was ranked on a fish scale, with a halibut being a swimmer who can't go 25 yards without inhaling their body weight in water, and a swordfish is a swimmer who I'm pretty sure is part merman/maid, I'm about a cod.
Or maybe one of the smaller tunas.
Really, the thing I love about swimming is that it gives me time to think, when I'm struggling not to drown on backstroke flip turns (I'm getting better). I do some of my best thinking in the water, uninterrupted, with just the muffled sound of filters and the staccato of my legs reminding me of the outside world. When I was 10, for example, I mentally constructed a lengthy poem about chocolate pie while swimming a particularly dreary 1000. And then I got out of the water and promptly forgot it.
I would do that, wouldn't I?
A girl in my Spanish class was having a bad day today, so I decided to cheer her up with a corny joke.
Me: Hey C., want to hear a joke?
C:(confused) Sure...
Me: Ok, so who's bigger, Mr. Bigger or Mr. Bigger's son?
C: (disinterested) Who...
Me:(freakishly enthusiastic) His son! Cause he's just a little bigger!!!
(Awkward silence. I stop grinning after about five seconds and pretend to conjugate some verbs)
I hate it when things like that happen.
I dreamed last night that I was in a Hollywood moooovie...
doing this.The following thoughts will be going through my mind.
Oh man am I tiiiiired. Wow. I'm actually about to fall asleep while walking. Don't do that. Thinking of something shocking. Recent studies have shown that large swarms of pesticide-resistant killer bees are on the rise in the Southwestern United States.
Thats better.
Ok, la lala lala, putting my suit on, la lala, damn this thing is tight, hmm hmmhmm, theeeere we go. Everything in order? Yup. Ok, walkin on the pool deck, strrrreeeetchin my arms, geez, am I really that hairy? I'm like friggin homo halibis. Gimme a club and a loincloth, and I could have been an extra in 10,000 BC.
Ooook, time to get in the water! Huh. It doesn't look that cold. Doesn't feel that cold. Hey, maybe this won't be so bad after all! Ok, on three. One. Two. Three. Four. Damn. Ok, on eight. Six. Seven. Eigh-
FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldfuckfuckcoldcoldfuckcomegatherroundpeoplewhereeveryouroamandadmitsweeetJesusitscoold!
This will essentially go on for the next three or four minutes. Don't worry. I get used to it.
I always wondered why I decided to swim for exercise. Definitely not for the competitive aspect. I considered the various diamond facets of my future a while back, and winning gold in the Men's 200 Free was not among them. To be perfectly honest, I'm an ok, maybe slightly above average swimmer. Nothing spectacular. If I was ranked on a fish scale, with a halibut being a swimmer who can't go 25 yards without inhaling their body weight in water, and a swordfish is a swimmer who I'm pretty sure is part merman/maid, I'm about a cod.
Or maybe one of the smaller tunas.
Really, the thing I love about swimming is that it gives me time to think, when I'm struggling not to drown on backstroke flip turns (I'm getting better). I do some of my best thinking in the water, uninterrupted, with just the muffled sound of filters and the staccato of my legs reminding me of the outside world. When I was 10, for example, I mentally constructed a lengthy poem about chocolate pie while swimming a particularly dreary 1000. And then I got out of the water and promptly forgot it.
I would do that, wouldn't I?
A girl in my Spanish class was having a bad day today, so I decided to cheer her up with a corny joke.
Me: Hey C., want to hear a joke?
C:(confused) Sure...
Me: Ok, so who's bigger, Mr. Bigger or Mr. Bigger's son?
C: (disinterested) Who...
Me:(freakishly enthusiastic) His son! Cause he's just a little bigger!!!
(Awkward silence. I stop grinning after about five seconds and pretend to conjugate some verbs)
I hate it when things like that happen.
I dreamed last night that I was in a Hollywood moooovie...
Saturday, January 10, 2009
A Good Place to Start
So! With this post, I will officially become part of the Blogosphere, this vast, interconnected web of tangled stories, a million voices declaring a million unique identities with a trillion words. Living threads. The greatest single diary in history.
Not to sound grandiose or anything.
Anyways, before I start talking, I should just like to clarify one thing: this is not a blog for fans of the 8o's New Wave band the Talking Heads, and I, unfortunately, am not frontman David Byrne. I am, in reality, Andrew. Nice to meet everybody.
Now to talking.
I really don't know what to say. I'm new to blogs, and as such, have spent the past day or two muddling through the set-up, staring blankly at the the lay outs and puzzling over the information (why do they want to know my birth sign? is the blog going to tell my fortune?) But really, its just the fact that the whole thing's different from Facebook, and its a bit of a tech shock. Its like reading a manual from Canada that has just enough French in it to confuse the hell out of you (ok, I'm exaggerating a bit. just a bit though)
But I've just started. I've got all the time in the world. God willing, a lot of things will be posted. Some will be poems. Some will be rants. There may be a screenplay. You never can tell with these things. To be perfectly honest, I really don't think anyones going to read this.
But, to be perfectly honest, that isn't the point, is it?
I'll be coming back soon.
Not to sound grandiose or anything.
Anyways, before I start talking, I should just like to clarify one thing: this is not a blog for fans of the 8o's New Wave band the Talking Heads, and I, unfortunately, am not frontman David Byrne. I am, in reality, Andrew. Nice to meet everybody.
Now to talking.
I really don't know what to say. I'm new to blogs, and as such, have spent the past day or two muddling through the set-up, staring blankly at the the lay outs and puzzling over the information (why do they want to know my birth sign? is the blog going to tell my fortune?) But really, its just the fact that the whole thing's different from Facebook, and its a bit of a tech shock. Its like reading a manual from Canada that has just enough French in it to confuse the hell out of you (ok, I'm exaggerating a bit. just a bit though)
But I've just started. I've got all the time in the world. God willing, a lot of things will be posted. Some will be poems. Some will be rants. There may be a screenplay. You never can tell with these things. To be perfectly honest, I really don't think anyones going to read this.
But, to be perfectly honest, that isn't the point, is it?
I'll be coming back soon.
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