I want to take out from by busy school schedule, which found me behind various books all weekend. A news item caught my eye today that touches on all three principles entitled in this blog.
Roman Polanski, who must be acknowledged as one of the greatest filmmakers ever to live, was arrested today in Zurich. The charge against him is 32-years-old. He is charged with drugging and raping a 13-year-old girl, a crime to which he offered a full confession.
Child rape is not in the title of this blog, but truth is. For some disgusting truths on a legal proceeding's total corruption, I recommend the documentary film Wanted and Desired. I won't try to produce the details here, but suffice to say, Polanski fled not to avoid prosecution, but to escape from a justice system that had gone completely off the rails. The girl (now an adult woman) in this case has come forward and voiced concerns over the case; she appears in Wanted and Desired. Is it therefore reasonable that he should be arrested 32 years later? Is that considered the exaction of justice?
This pisses me off so much. I almost hope that he is extradited back to LA; at least I hope that people will get really pissed off if this happens. Watch the documentary, its really interesting in its own right.
Back to the books.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Flagship
Since I look on TRJ as my flagship blog, I wanted to remind readers that I have two others which I am going to be updating regularly.
Decadent Indifference is my "art" blog that never really got off the ground. Well stand by for liftoff. I have a Netflix account that is totally controlled by my cinemaphile friends and they are going to be sending me cool, probably "arty" movies that I haven't seen before. I am going to be doing review of each of them, or at least as many as my sanity permits. My membership is only good for three months and I will be getting one at a time. I would like to be able to blow through them as quickly as possible, but if you read the previous post you can see how that may be difficult. There might be a few other film, literature, and music perspectives that end up there also.
Unrelenting Change is my new blog which will chronicle my schooling. My class writings that are reasonably lengthened (less than 10 pages) will be there, (plagiarists beware) and I might also do some responses to some of my shorter readings. I will also do some venting there on the depth, breadth, and sheer fucking volume of all the work I will have to do over the next two years.
So once again, thanks for reading.
Decadent Indifference is my "art" blog that never really got off the ground. Well stand by for liftoff. I have a Netflix account that is totally controlled by my cinemaphile friends and they are going to be sending me cool, probably "arty" movies that I haven't seen before. I am going to be doing review of each of them, or at least as many as my sanity permits. My membership is only good for three months and I will be getting one at a time. I would like to be able to blow through them as quickly as possible, but if you read the previous post you can see how that may be difficult. There might be a few other film, literature, and music perspectives that end up there also.
Unrelenting Change is my new blog which will chronicle my schooling. My class writings that are reasonably lengthened (less than 10 pages) will be there, (plagiarists beware) and I might also do some responses to some of my shorter readings. I will also do some venting there on the depth, breadth, and sheer fucking volume of all the work I will have to do over the next two years.
So once again, thanks for reading.
24
I just added them all up. Between now and the last week of November I have 24 books to read. That's not really true because actually I will have to read a lot more than that for my research seminar, in which I have to formulate a plan that will serve as a springboard for my thesis. 24 also doesn't include the dozens of articles that I have to read in addition. I have something like 15 books requested at the library and it is only the third day of the quarter. I am also reading a book right now for fun. We'll see if I can finish it this weekend, otherwise I am hanging it up until December.
I don't even want to think about what the cumulative length of all the writing I will have to do is.
I plan on spending the entire day at the library tomorrow.
I am almost entirely broke until my student loans come through. They tell me that should be on Monday. They better be right. I probably have enough food to last until then. I don't get a paycheck until October 1.
It kind of sucks to watch all the undergrads running around all crazy carefree. As much fun as I had in undergrad I probably should have had a lot more.
I don't even want to think about what the cumulative length of all the writing I will have to do is.
I plan on spending the entire day at the library tomorrow.
I am almost entirely broke until my student loans come through. They tell me that should be on Monday. They better be right. I probably have enough food to last until then. I don't get a paycheck until October 1.
It kind of sucks to watch all the undergrads running around all crazy carefree. As much fun as I had in undergrad I probably should have had a lot more.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Return
I've taken several months off from the ol' blog. I really should have kept it up, but I ran out of bullshit. I just ran out, you see. Not really. I had a pretty fun and active summer. Here are some of the highlights.
My friends and I revived our old high school hangout (re-christening it "Arrakis") and in the process revolutionized what it means to live with your parents. I effectively stopped living with my Dad. I would like to think that I was the only person keeping that household together, but it was never really together. Arrakis, however, is the great, uncelebrated hangout of its time.
We also transformed Arrakis into studio space and revived a very old video project, in fact taking it to new heights. It was unspeakably fun to shoot and has somewhat revived my interest in acting, not to mention exhibitionism. If anyone is interested in a copy of this, drop me a line. It's pretty special.
I got a car! My first ever. It really is something else. The drivers side door handle fell off the first day I got it. I suppose that is to be expected. It's over seventeen (17) years old. Also it's a Geo Prism, so it has a fair amount of giddyup. It also has a manual transmission which I had to learn how to operate. That was an experience, let me tell you. The car sucks but, well, it's mine.
Mostly I was drunk all summer, which was fine. Hell, I had a blast. Couple of friends visited which is always fun.
I watched a lot of great movies, which is pretty typical. I hope to have some profiles and review of them on Decadent Indifference in the near future. My friend Nick and I are pretty close to being leading American authorities on Italian director Dario Argento.
In that same vein I saw Tarantino's new movie "Inglorious Basterds" a couple of times. If any of my readers haven't seen it yet (assuming I still have any potential readers) I cannot recommend it highly enough. I intend to make a pest of myself until everyone I encounter has seen it.
Through all of this I managed to get an apartment in Athens, OH and generally get all my shit together in preparation for grad school, which begins in two days. I am writing from my new apartment now actually, which isn't so bad. I have my own bathroom, which I have never had before, always sharing with family, thirty other men, roommates, roommates, girlfriend, family, and co-residents of Arrakis in that order. Athens is pretty cool so far. I think I will actually like it once I have some money.
Well, hopefully some people out there are still checking on this. If not I am probably going to explore some ways of getting the word back out. I hope to do a post at least weekly, and I still have a lot of back-posts to do. I think I will do one grand comprehensive COTA Chatter (kind of lost my inspiration once I got the Geo) and then my agent will begin negotiations with Random House for a book deal.
My friends and I revived our old high school hangout (re-christening it "Arrakis") and in the process revolutionized what it means to live with your parents. I effectively stopped living with my Dad. I would like to think that I was the only person keeping that household together, but it was never really together. Arrakis, however, is the great, uncelebrated hangout of its time.
We also transformed Arrakis into studio space and revived a very old video project, in fact taking it to new heights. It was unspeakably fun to shoot and has somewhat revived my interest in acting, not to mention exhibitionism. If anyone is interested in a copy of this, drop me a line. It's pretty special.
I got a car! My first ever. It really is something else. The drivers side door handle fell off the first day I got it. I suppose that is to be expected. It's over seventeen (17) years old. Also it's a Geo Prism, so it has a fair amount of giddyup. It also has a manual transmission which I had to learn how to operate. That was an experience, let me tell you. The car sucks but, well, it's mine.
Mostly I was drunk all summer, which was fine. Hell, I had a blast. Couple of friends visited which is always fun.
I watched a lot of great movies, which is pretty typical. I hope to have some profiles and review of them on Decadent Indifference in the near future. My friend Nick and I are pretty close to being leading American authorities on Italian director Dario Argento.
In that same vein I saw Tarantino's new movie "Inglorious Basterds" a couple of times. If any of my readers haven't seen it yet (assuming I still have any potential readers) I cannot recommend it highly enough. I intend to make a pest of myself until everyone I encounter has seen it.
Through all of this I managed to get an apartment in Athens, OH and generally get all my shit together in preparation for grad school, which begins in two days. I am writing from my new apartment now actually, which isn't so bad. I have my own bathroom, which I have never had before, always sharing with family, thirty other men, roommates, roommates, girlfriend, family, and co-residents of Arrakis in that order. Athens is pretty cool so far. I think I will actually like it once I have some money.
Well, hopefully some people out there are still checking on this. If not I am probably going to explore some ways of getting the word back out. I hope to do a post at least weekly, and I still have a lot of back-posts to do. I think I will do one grand comprehensive COTA Chatter (kind of lost my inspiration once I got the Geo) and then my agent will begin negotiations with Random House for a book deal.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
COTA Chatter
I like to sit in the back of the bus. There are usually more seats there. I get a nice long gaze at everyone who steps aboard. Also, I occasionally get an earful of some very interesting conversations.
So I sit down, back-most, passenger side bench. On this model bus the two last benches face each other, with one long bench along the back wall of the bus. So, I sit down. Five men along the back and opposite bench are already engaged in a conversation. I wish I could remember more lines from it all, but it quickly became obvious what they were talking about: guns. Buying and selling guns.
One of the men seated directly to my left had a gun for sale. I couldn't exactly determine what kind of gun it was, but I certainly caught his asking price.
"I can't take less than a bill for it, man."
This was repeated many, many times to a man to his left who seemed to want it for something less than a bill. I think that a bill indicates a $100 bill. My associates generally confirms this suspicion.
The conversation ran along these lines for a while:
"Hey man, how much you want for that piece?"
"I can't take less than a bill for it. I can't take less than I paid for it, man."
The man on the far side of bench and the man facing opposite me were having their own conversation. I couldn't really pick all of it up and, believe me, I really wasn't trying to appear interested. I had reflective sunglasses on (aviators, if you must know) and I was watching out of the corner of my left eye. Out of the corner of my left eye I was watching when the man seated opposite me pulled a loaded magazine out of his pocket to show the man next to him.
Whoa. Cool.
They kept "haggling" over this gun, dancing round that urban maypole. Then this precious gem was uttered:
"Hey, you know my boy Face?"
I don't know who Face is, but he must be the guy to know. Since that day I have seen his "tags" on a number of buses. My boy face. I love it.
That night, late, faintly, but not very faintly, I heard gunshots.
So I sit down, back-most, passenger side bench. On this model bus the two last benches face each other, with one long bench along the back wall of the bus. So, I sit down. Five men along the back and opposite bench are already engaged in a conversation. I wish I could remember more lines from it all, but it quickly became obvious what they were talking about: guns. Buying and selling guns.
One of the men seated directly to my left had a gun for sale. I couldn't exactly determine what kind of gun it was, but I certainly caught his asking price.
"I can't take less than a bill for it, man."
This was repeated many, many times to a man to his left who seemed to want it for something less than a bill. I think that a bill indicates a $100 bill. My associates generally confirms this suspicion.
The conversation ran along these lines for a while:
"Hey man, how much you want for that piece?"
"I can't take less than a bill for it. I can't take less than I paid for it, man."
The man on the far side of bench and the man facing opposite me were having their own conversation. I couldn't really pick all of it up and, believe me, I really wasn't trying to appear interested. I had reflective sunglasses on (aviators, if you must know) and I was watching out of the corner of my left eye. Out of the corner of my left eye I was watching when the man seated opposite me pulled a loaded magazine out of his pocket to show the man next to him.
Whoa. Cool.
They kept "haggling" over this gun, dancing round that urban maypole. Then this precious gem was uttered:
"Hey, you know my boy Face?"
I don't know who Face is, but he must be the guy to know. Since that day I have seen his "tags" on a number of buses. My boy face. I love it.
That night, late, faintly, but not very faintly, I heard gunshots.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Beef: It's What's Rotting in Your Colon
This post is going to be a post about me trying to not eat meat. I am not trying to reject carnivorousness as bad or wrong, nor am I promoting vegetarianism as enlightened or moral. This is just something I've been doing.
Last January Sarah and I didn't eat meat for a month. It was a planned challenge to ourselves but I can't remember exactly what prompted it. We bought a vegetarian cookbook and really stuck to it. Well, I flinched once. I was working at a hotel at the time and after a particularly awful banquet night the only food I could get my hand on was some gumbo with sausage. Other than that, meat free for a whole month. After the month was up I promptly ate a hamburger, but I think Sarah tried to keep it up for awhile.
I suppose I should clarify what I mean when I say "no meat." What I mean is no walking or flying meat. So I guess I have a Catholic view of what it means to not eat meat.
When I moved back to Columbus (almost exactly a year ago) I took the opportunity to tweak some personal habits. I tried to work out more, manage my finances, and I also decided to stop eating beef. I kept to this when I could. I wasn't (and still am not) totally in control of what I ate, and I do enjoy the taste of beef. So it was not a total conversion, but it was a shift in my gastronomic outlook. Gradually, and without any clear decision on my part, I phased out of eating meat regularly as well.
There was never any moral impulse in any of this. I have no problem with killing animals. And I fully enjoy eating them. I am mainly concerned with my own health and also with the effects of meat production on the environment.
Lets start with health. Most commercially raised animals are chemically treated in one way or another, hormones, antibiotics, steroids, and who knows what else. That can't be good for anything but the bottom line. Meat also is high in cholesterol, which isn't so good in large quantities, especially for someone who has not yet been able to quit smoking. There are also links to colon cancer, and probably some others. Now, I don't think that any of these are really good reasons to cut out eat meat entirely, but I have eaten a lot of meat in my life. Probably more than anyone should eat in a lifetime, really. So I think it might be time to lay off a little bit.
Since I have been a "vegetarian" I have thought of lots of ways in which I am saving the planet. I don't think that cattle themselves are a major contribution to global warming (I'm talking about farts here) but it is something. Also, speaking anecdotally here, it takes a lot more energy to bring meat to market than it does grains, fruits, and vegetables. Meat has to kept cold and quickly transported. Consider this, also. Say a community has a quantity of corn, for example. Now, that community has the option of either eating the corn, or feeding it to animals and then eating the animals. The loss of nutrients (this is according to my geography professor in college) is about 90%. I would humbly suggest that reduced consumption of meat will be necessary to feed the perpetually exploding world population.
So today I don't call myself a vegetarian. Just yesterday I ate some sausage gravy (it was delicious). But I do try. I have taken to making my own hummus, which I love. I order vegetarian dishes at restaurants and it is a lot cheaper. I get my protein from eggs mostly, but also cheese and mushrooms. I now know the meaning of "regular" when it comes to my digestive tract. It has been a haphazard journey, but it has kept things interesting.
Wallace's Hummus (measure ingredients according to taste)
Chick Peas - two cans
Tahini - about two tablespoons
Garlic
Cumin
Oregano
Salt
Pepper
Lemon
Olive Oil
I think its important for the lemon and olive oil to balance each other out. Cayenne pepper is also a nice touch if you have a taste for that kind of thing.
Last January Sarah and I didn't eat meat for a month. It was a planned challenge to ourselves but I can't remember exactly what prompted it. We bought a vegetarian cookbook and really stuck to it. Well, I flinched once. I was working at a hotel at the time and after a particularly awful banquet night the only food I could get my hand on was some gumbo with sausage. Other than that, meat free for a whole month. After the month was up I promptly ate a hamburger, but I think Sarah tried to keep it up for awhile.
I suppose I should clarify what I mean when I say "no meat." What I mean is no walking or flying meat. So I guess I have a Catholic view of what it means to not eat meat.
When I moved back to Columbus (almost exactly a year ago) I took the opportunity to tweak some personal habits. I tried to work out more, manage my finances, and I also decided to stop eating beef. I kept to this when I could. I wasn't (and still am not) totally in control of what I ate, and I do enjoy the taste of beef. So it was not a total conversion, but it was a shift in my gastronomic outlook. Gradually, and without any clear decision on my part, I phased out of eating meat regularly as well.
There was never any moral impulse in any of this. I have no problem with killing animals. And I fully enjoy eating them. I am mainly concerned with my own health and also with the effects of meat production on the environment.
Lets start with health. Most commercially raised animals are chemically treated in one way or another, hormones, antibiotics, steroids, and who knows what else. That can't be good for anything but the bottom line. Meat also is high in cholesterol, which isn't so good in large quantities, especially for someone who has not yet been able to quit smoking. There are also links to colon cancer, and probably some others. Now, I don't think that any of these are really good reasons to cut out eat meat entirely, but I have eaten a lot of meat in my life. Probably more than anyone should eat in a lifetime, really. So I think it might be time to lay off a little bit.
Since I have been a "vegetarian" I have thought of lots of ways in which I am saving the planet. I don't think that cattle themselves are a major contribution to global warming (I'm talking about farts here) but it is something. Also, speaking anecdotally here, it takes a lot more energy to bring meat to market than it does grains, fruits, and vegetables. Meat has to kept cold and quickly transported. Consider this, also. Say a community has a quantity of corn, for example. Now, that community has the option of either eating the corn, or feeding it to animals and then eating the animals. The loss of nutrients (this is according to my geography professor in college) is about 90%. I would humbly suggest that reduced consumption of meat will be necessary to feed the perpetually exploding world population.
So today I don't call myself a vegetarian. Just yesterday I ate some sausage gravy (it was delicious). But I do try. I have taken to making my own hummus, which I love. I order vegetarian dishes at restaurants and it is a lot cheaper. I get my protein from eggs mostly, but also cheese and mushrooms. I now know the meaning of "regular" when it comes to my digestive tract. It has been a haphazard journey, but it has kept things interesting.
Wallace's Hummus (measure ingredients according to taste)
Chick Peas - two cans
Tahini - about two tablespoons
Garlic
Cumin
Oregano
Salt
Pepper
Lemon
Olive Oil
I think its important for the lemon and olive oil to balance each other out. Cayenne pepper is also a nice touch if you have a taste for that kind of thing.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The End: Of Laughter, Soft Lies, and Facebook
I owe myself and everyone else a more thorough explanation of why I am leaving Facebook. This blog is useful to me because I really express myself much better in text than I do verbally. Writing my thoughts and ideas make them gel; their essence is revealed to me and conveyed more fully to others. I can't really explain it, but reading and writing is more cognitively stimulating than the hoots and hollers we call spoken language.
I waste a lot of time on Facebook. Just puttering around on my laptop seeing what people are e-up-to. Any more I don't do quizzes or apps or any of that bullshit. Still, Facebook always seems to beckon me when I could be doing something else.
Speaking of apps, quizzes, zombies, top fives, etc., etc., -- what the fuck? I don't really mean to insult people who do these things, and its an elitist thing to say, but: come on, read a book. Read the newspaper: its online now too. Hey, read my blog! But the main thing is that Facebook is constantly telling me when people do these things, and emailing me about it sometimes. This is not what I signed up for in 2005. It annoys me, and is inconsistent with the mission of Facebook as I conceive it: connecting people with one another.
Now then, does Facebook still connect me to others? Does it connect others to me? I have to say yes, but I question the nature of these connections. I have never been myself on Facebook. I have been versions of myself: the funny me, the clever me, the intellectual me, the aloof me, the drunk me, the flirty me, the asshole me, the elitist me. On Facebook I exist in bits and bytes, a cyber portrait, Rembrandt-like, masterful, but too deliberately crafted to be real. I can't help putting thought into wall posts and photo comments; how droll, I think. I can only assume that others treat Facebook the same way. Its hard not too. I want real connections. If I want to tell you something or share something with you, I can text you, email you, or place an old-fashioned phone call. A personal connection between me and you, for your eyes, for your ears, for your consideration, only. A little window on myself, opened for you; a light pointed in your direction.
Also, Facebook has made me quite a hypocrite. I am not friends with all of these people. I have many friends to be sure. I also have friendly acquaintances, plain acquaintances, former acquaintances, people I met once, girls I might like to sleep with, a few girls I have slept with, etc. Also true and close friends. All these filed away as "friends" on Facebook. But a Facebook friend is not really a friend in the flesh. To many of my Facebook friends I am merely a well-wisher, in that I don't wish them any specific harm. Let's face it: it's a big ol' world out there, and we are going to meet a lot of people. We cannot all be tight. My close friends are close to my heart, sincerely, and they deserve more than to be lumped in with the 200+ other people I know on Facebook.
Maybe I have become curmudgeonly at the quarter-century mark, but I see Facebook becoming a monster. I used to say "Let's keep Facebook on Facebook," but now talk of Facebook is becoming widely diffused in more diverse social interactions. Facebook is beginning to change the nature of social interaction, or rather it is corralling the inherent power of the internet in a powerful way. If you and I are together, talking, I do not want to talk about what is happening on Facebook. That is what Facebook is for. The distinction is now all too blurry. I still believe that one-on-one, personal communication is the way to go; Facebook has never been that and I see it becoming the primary manner of casual discourse.
I could ramble on for a while. I just don't want it any more. It is striking to think that I won't have any means of contacting a lot of people who are my Facebook "friends," but really the odds of me ever wanting or needing to are slim. Conversely, a text message, email, or phone call from my former Facebook friends will be more meaningful in impulse and substance with Facebook out of the picture.
I waste a lot of time on Facebook. Just puttering around on my laptop seeing what people are e-up-to. Any more I don't do quizzes or apps or any of that bullshit. Still, Facebook always seems to beckon me when I could be doing something else.
Speaking of apps, quizzes, zombies, top fives, etc., etc., -- what the fuck? I don't really mean to insult people who do these things, and its an elitist thing to say, but: come on, read a book. Read the newspaper: its online now too. Hey, read my blog! But the main thing is that Facebook is constantly telling me when people do these things, and emailing me about it sometimes. This is not what I signed up for in 2005. It annoys me, and is inconsistent with the mission of Facebook as I conceive it: connecting people with one another.
Now then, does Facebook still connect me to others? Does it connect others to me? I have to say yes, but I question the nature of these connections. I have never been myself on Facebook. I have been versions of myself: the funny me, the clever me, the intellectual me, the aloof me, the drunk me, the flirty me, the asshole me, the elitist me. On Facebook I exist in bits and bytes, a cyber portrait, Rembrandt-like, masterful, but too deliberately crafted to be real. I can't help putting thought into wall posts and photo comments; how droll, I think. I can only assume that others treat Facebook the same way. Its hard not too. I want real connections. If I want to tell you something or share something with you, I can text you, email you, or place an old-fashioned phone call. A personal connection between me and you, for your eyes, for your ears, for your consideration, only. A little window on myself, opened for you; a light pointed in your direction.
Also, Facebook has made me quite a hypocrite. I am not friends with all of these people. I have many friends to be sure. I also have friendly acquaintances, plain acquaintances, former acquaintances, people I met once, girls I might like to sleep with, a few girls I have slept with, etc. Also true and close friends. All these filed away as "friends" on Facebook. But a Facebook friend is not really a friend in the flesh. To many of my Facebook friends I am merely a well-wisher, in that I don't wish them any specific harm. Let's face it: it's a big ol' world out there, and we are going to meet a lot of people. We cannot all be tight. My close friends are close to my heart, sincerely, and they deserve more than to be lumped in with the 200+ other people I know on Facebook.
Maybe I have become curmudgeonly at the quarter-century mark, but I see Facebook becoming a monster. I used to say "Let's keep Facebook on Facebook," but now talk of Facebook is becoming widely diffused in more diverse social interactions. Facebook is beginning to change the nature of social interaction, or rather it is corralling the inherent power of the internet in a powerful way. If you and I are together, talking, I do not want to talk about what is happening on Facebook. That is what Facebook is for. The distinction is now all too blurry. I still believe that one-on-one, personal communication is the way to go; Facebook has never been that and I see it becoming the primary manner of casual discourse.
I could ramble on for a while. I just don't want it any more. It is striking to think that I won't have any means of contacting a lot of people who are my Facebook "friends," but really the odds of me ever wanting or needing to are slim. Conversely, a text message, email, or phone call from my former Facebook friends will be more meaningful in impulse and substance with Facebook out of the picture.
Fashion (Being an account of my foray into modeling)
(This is picking up on something featured in COTA Chatter a few weeks ago.)
"I would never join any club that would have me as a member."
-- Groucho Marx
The day before my modeling audition I went on a shopping trip with my two very hetero friends, Mike and Nick. We went to Kohls of course, the seat of fashion. We decided to keep it simple -- nice jeans, new shoes, maybe a shirt. Other than a trip to the Gap with a gift card sixteen months ago I haven't been shopping for new clothes in many, many years. I'm more of a thrift store man. I also take hand-me-downs from friends. At any rate, I hadn't been to Kohls since before my face had known the touch of a razor.
We went with a very sleek pair of Levi's skinny jeans, some nice brown leather shoes, new belt, new socks. I decided to wear the one "stylish" shirt that I already own (it was a gift) and I think it turned out well. I'm sure the three of us made quite a scene: me making endless sorties from the dressing-room while Mike and Nick discoursed on what directions to take. Skinny jeans are quite a departure for me, as I am also more of a loose-fitting kind of guy. But god damn: I looked good. The shoes were real horrorshow as well.
I arrived a few minutes early to the office of the talent agency. It was located in one suite of an office building in downtown Columbus. The main room consisted of a reception desk and a few rows of chairs facing a slightly elevated runway. Other rooms adjoined this main room, but it was clearly a pretty small operation. Music that I could only describe as "clubbish" played loudly from concert-sized speakers along the wall. Modest yet professional modeling photos hung from the walls in sparing numbers.
Upon checking in I was given an application to fill out along with a numbered card. On the reverse side of the card was a line to memorize:
"Only one wireless network has the sleekest phones around with Americas most reliable service.
Verizon Wireless. It's The Network."
There were perhaps 25 other contestants, only a few of whom struck me as having potential. But then, who the fuck was I? Well, I was the only white male there, so I figured that couldn't hurt my chances. Someone needs to sells wrinkle-free khakis and mayonnaise, right? I also looked damn sharp, and I wouldn't say that about many of the others, the men especially. We were called by number into a side room where measurements and photos were taken.
"Don't strain," the photographer mentioned as he snapped a shot. OK, I thought as I stopped doing . . . whatever it was that came across as "straining." This was a weird scene, friends.
When everyone had been screened in this manner we were given our instructions. We would step up to the runway, pausing at the top to "strike a pose." (Hopefully those of you who are not in the industry won't be too intimidated by use of industry terminology.) Then we would walk to the bottom of the runway where we would strike two more poses, saunter back to the top, and deliver our memorized line.
Being number 12, I had the privilege to watch some of my competition. And let me tell you, oh my droogs and brothers, it was no competition. Now, I am no judge of "posing" except when I judge the whole practice as despicable. But I am a judge of stage performance. One or two people nailed their lines, maybe another two had good delivery, but the rest . . . oh it was like watching them vomit all over themselves. It was so embarrassing. Halting delivery, abysmal elocution, dropping lines and apologizing for it, lots of pathetic, nervous laughter. It was just really ugly. OK -- my turn. Put up or shut up.
This is how I think it went: I walked with an unhurried yet assertive stride. I posed casually, disinterestedly, my eyes fixed beyond the audience. I had a slight phlegmy roughness in my voice, but I delivered my line accurately, with mild, deliberate emphasis.
Conceited? Me? Pshaw . . . but I thought it went pretty well.
After everyone had finished we waited to see who was getting voted off the island. James, the enigma who recruited me, had been lurking the whole time. At this point he made an announcement.
"Hey, if you've got talent now is the time to show it. Get on up there. If you sing lets hear it. If you can dance we want to see it. You act, get on up there and act. Now is your chance to show us what you can do!"
The place began to buzz. Eyes searched the room and everyone searched their souls for that extra giddy-up that might make them a star. We all hesitated collectively. Its hard to be the first for most people. Me, I prefer it. Lead, follow, or get the fuck out of my way. I stood up, took off my jacket, and asked the room to lend me their ears. With a brief introduction, I delivered (with a well-practiced yet tepid Scottish accent) these lines from the film Braveheart.
"Aye, fight and you may die. Run . . . and you'll live. At least for a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this one to that for one chance, just one chance, to say to our enemies -- that they may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!"
If you haven't seen Braveheart go out, rent it, buy a bottle of wine, light a candle, and watch it. Tonight. I have done this monologue many times, and some people really enjoy it. (You know who you are, and thanks for all your encouragement over the years). Suffice to say, I do it pretty well, swelling in volume to a small roar by the end. I thundered in that small office, pacing on the runway before my ragged army. It was quite a scene -- just the pure spectacle of it all.
A few people rapped, a few sang. They were mostly OK. None of us wowed anybody, myself included. A few people got cut, but most of us didn't. The next step was to run our face, build, and size through some type of human-marketing-sorter-program-thingy. We needed a certain score to move forward. I set up an appointment to learn the results of my test.
(Three days of sleepless nights, chewing my fingernails to the root, hoping, praying that this I wouldn't miss my shot. "Please God let this be my time to shine!")
I returned to the same office suite, where I had to wait for about an hour. Thank God there was a TV there, and someone in the office put on a movie. "Taken" starring Liam Neeson.
"You seen this movie man?"
(I hadn't.)
"It's called 'Taken.' It's pretty good."
(It isn't.)
I went over the results of my market test with someone in a side office. According to this computer I have (out of 10.0) : 0.0 potential for high-fashion modeling (runway type stuff), 7.0 potential for print advertising, and 6.0 for promotional (I guess this is like chicks in bikinis at a car show, I have no idea how men would be used for this). So I did alright, well enough to accepted and given a formal offer of their services. The next step? I asked. Get out your checkbook, was the answer.
Here is what it will cost me to enroll with this "talent"company.
Set Up Fee: $49.95
Monthly Membership: $19.95
"I would never join any club that would have me as a member."
-- Groucho Marx
The day before my modeling audition I went on a shopping trip with my two very hetero friends, Mike and Nick. We went to Kohls of course, the seat of fashion. We decided to keep it simple -- nice jeans, new shoes, maybe a shirt. Other than a trip to the Gap with a gift card sixteen months ago I haven't been shopping for new clothes in many, many years. I'm more of a thrift store man. I also take hand-me-downs from friends. At any rate, I hadn't been to Kohls since before my face had known the touch of a razor.
We went with a very sleek pair of Levi's skinny jeans, some nice brown leather shoes, new belt, new socks. I decided to wear the one "stylish" shirt that I already own (it was a gift) and I think it turned out well. I'm sure the three of us made quite a scene: me making endless sorties from the dressing-room while Mike and Nick discoursed on what directions to take. Skinny jeans are quite a departure for me, as I am also more of a loose-fitting kind of guy. But god damn: I looked good. The shoes were real horrorshow as well.
I arrived a few minutes early to the office of the talent agency. It was located in one suite of an office building in downtown Columbus. The main room consisted of a reception desk and a few rows of chairs facing a slightly elevated runway. Other rooms adjoined this main room, but it was clearly a pretty small operation. Music that I could only describe as "clubbish" played loudly from concert-sized speakers along the wall. Modest yet professional modeling photos hung from the walls in sparing numbers.
Upon checking in I was given an application to fill out along with a numbered card. On the reverse side of the card was a line to memorize:
"Only one wireless network has the sleekest phones around with Americas most reliable service.
Verizon Wireless. It's The Network."
There were perhaps 25 other contestants, only a few of whom struck me as having potential. But then, who the fuck was I? Well, I was the only white male there, so I figured that couldn't hurt my chances. Someone needs to sells wrinkle-free khakis and mayonnaise, right? I also looked damn sharp, and I wouldn't say that about many of the others, the men especially. We were called by number into a side room where measurements and photos were taken.
"Don't strain," the photographer mentioned as he snapped a shot. OK, I thought as I stopped doing . . . whatever it was that came across as "straining." This was a weird scene, friends.
When everyone had been screened in this manner we were given our instructions. We would step up to the runway, pausing at the top to "strike a pose." (Hopefully those of you who are not in the industry won't be too intimidated by use of industry terminology.) Then we would walk to the bottom of the runway where we would strike two more poses, saunter back to the top, and deliver our memorized line.
Being number 12, I had the privilege to watch some of my competition. And let me tell you, oh my droogs and brothers, it was no competition. Now, I am no judge of "posing" except when I judge the whole practice as despicable. But I am a judge of stage performance. One or two people nailed their lines, maybe another two had good delivery, but the rest . . . oh it was like watching them vomit all over themselves. It was so embarrassing. Halting delivery, abysmal elocution, dropping lines and apologizing for it, lots of pathetic, nervous laughter. It was just really ugly. OK -- my turn. Put up or shut up.
This is how I think it went: I walked with an unhurried yet assertive stride. I posed casually, disinterestedly, my eyes fixed beyond the audience. I had a slight phlegmy roughness in my voice, but I delivered my line accurately, with mild, deliberate emphasis.
Conceited? Me? Pshaw . . . but I thought it went pretty well.
After everyone had finished we waited to see who was getting voted off the island. James, the enigma who recruited me, had been lurking the whole time. At this point he made an announcement.
"Hey, if you've got talent now is the time to show it. Get on up there. If you sing lets hear it. If you can dance we want to see it. You act, get on up there and act. Now is your chance to show us what you can do!"
The place began to buzz. Eyes searched the room and everyone searched their souls for that extra giddy-up that might make them a star. We all hesitated collectively. Its hard to be the first for most people. Me, I prefer it. Lead, follow, or get the fuck out of my way. I stood up, took off my jacket, and asked the room to lend me their ears. With a brief introduction, I delivered (with a well-practiced yet tepid Scottish accent) these lines from the film Braveheart.
"Aye, fight and you may die. Run . . . and you'll live. At least for a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this one to that for one chance, just one chance, to say to our enemies -- that they may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!"
If you haven't seen Braveheart go out, rent it, buy a bottle of wine, light a candle, and watch it. Tonight. I have done this monologue many times, and some people really enjoy it. (You know who you are, and thanks for all your encouragement over the years). Suffice to say, I do it pretty well, swelling in volume to a small roar by the end. I thundered in that small office, pacing on the runway before my ragged army. It was quite a scene -- just the pure spectacle of it all.
A few people rapped, a few sang. They were mostly OK. None of us wowed anybody, myself included. A few people got cut, but most of us didn't. The next step was to run our face, build, and size through some type of human-marketing-sorter-program-thingy. We needed a certain score to move forward. I set up an appointment to learn the results of my test.
(Three days of sleepless nights, chewing my fingernails to the root, hoping, praying that this I wouldn't miss my shot. "Please God let this be my time to shine!")
I returned to the same office suite, where I had to wait for about an hour. Thank God there was a TV there, and someone in the office put on a movie. "Taken" starring Liam Neeson.
"You seen this movie man?"
(I hadn't.)
"It's called 'Taken.' It's pretty good."
(It isn't.)
I went over the results of my market test with someone in a side office. According to this computer I have (out of 10.0) : 0.0 potential for high-fashion modeling (runway type stuff), 7.0 potential for print advertising, and 6.0 for promotional (I guess this is like chicks in bikinis at a car show, I have no idea how men would be used for this). So I did alright, well enough to accepted and given a formal offer of their services. The next step? I asked. Get out your checkbook, was the answer.
Here is what it will cost me to enroll with this "talent"company.
Set Up Fee: $49.95
Monthly Membership: $19.95
That would be $69.90 that I would have to pay on the spot to move forward. After that I will be allowed to pay the following (required before I am marketed as a model):
Two Modeling/Acting classes: $34.95 per class
Photo Shoot: $149.95
Performer's Reel (optional, but highly recommended): $99.95
Digital Composite Card on CD: $10.00
Photo Shoot: $149.95
Performer's Reel (optional, but highly recommended): $99.95
Digital Composite Card on CD: $10.00
The woman explaining all this to me then went to to explain everything that I get for free and also that she could not legally guarantee me that I would every get a single job through them. She was in fact trying to sell this to me. The paper with the listing of these fees contained space for my signature and my credit card number. "Wow!" I thought. "They really want me in their agency! I must have just the kind of face they are looking for: the face of a sucker."
I don't think this place, Xtreme Talent, Columbus, OH, is entirely a scam. But I do think that it is a scam six days a week. This whole meeting struck me as backwards: I should be trying to sell them on my talent and obvious handsomness. Instead they were trying to sell me on this ridiculous package ("Free exposure in the entertainment industry," it actually said this on the same page that mentioned the $19.95 monthly fee).
After I mentioned hesitancy about paying all this money I was politely and tactfully dismissed. I was kind of disappointed, but I never had any real expectation anyway. I am not model material, and I should have been clued into the potential of this to be bullshit right off the bat. I feel bad for the vulnerable and confidence-lacking people who must be taken in by this.
So that was it. I delivered my pitch in a Scottish accent and they gave theirs with flattering deception, people sorting computers, Liam Neeson, and a credit card authorization.
Sound and fury signifying nothing.
I don't think this place, Xtreme Talent, Columbus, OH, is entirely a scam. But I do think that it is a scam six days a week. This whole meeting struck me as backwards: I should be trying to sell them on my talent and obvious handsomness. Instead they were trying to sell me on this ridiculous package ("Free exposure in the entertainment industry," it actually said this on the same page that mentioned the $19.95 monthly fee).
After I mentioned hesitancy about paying all this money I was politely and tactfully dismissed. I was kind of disappointed, but I never had any real expectation anyway. I am not model material, and I should have been clued into the potential of this to be bullshit right off the bat. I feel bad for the vulnerable and confidence-lacking people who must be taken in by this.
So that was it. I delivered my pitch in a Scottish accent and they gave theirs with flattering deception, people sorting computers, Liam Neeson, and a credit card authorization.
Sound and fury signifying nothing.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
4/9/2009
There's the bus. Ah! wait bus! Nope, not gonna catch it, tried and failed. Bested by a diesel engine. Not much to do now but walk. East. No hurry, anyway. Bisecting the inner city on foot. The air is crisp, tingling my skin. On my right a burned out house. Truly gutted by flames. What the fire didn't consume is heaped in the front yard: a printer, what is left of a bed, computer monitor, a wooden Old Glory placard: PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN. Written on the porch, in white, homespun-elegant, curvy print:
Save Our Children
From Abuse of Power by Child Services
Protect Parents Rights
The porch is intact, making it hard to discern which arrived first, this cry for help or the fire department. In any event it doesn't look like either arrived in time. Walking onward. Cross streets: Hamlet, Frances, Oxford, Clara. The dawn comes as a ribbon of salmon before me. A man asks me for a cigarette. I produce my pouch. We walk as I roll. His name is Otis and I tell him mine. We part, neither the worse for the experience. Trash is everywhere, refuse. Colorful murals applied to brick faces, beds of tulips between the trenches. Under a railroad pass to the otherside. Certainly another side of the tracks, right or wrong I can't say at this point. A change in zoning. America's urban threshold. Business wholesale, contracting, computer services, industrial bakery. The Ohio State Fairgrounds. Memories on this side of the tracks. A senior center -- closed now. A funding issue, declining revenues, an imbalance, fiscally speaking. The interstate slashes across the coming of today.
Save Our Children
From Abuse of Power by Child Services
Protect Parents Rights
The porch is intact, making it hard to discern which arrived first, this cry for help or the fire department. In any event it doesn't look like either arrived in time. Walking onward. Cross streets: Hamlet, Frances, Oxford, Clara. The dawn comes as a ribbon of salmon before me. A man asks me for a cigarette. I produce my pouch. We walk as I roll. His name is Otis and I tell him mine. We part, neither the worse for the experience. Trash is everywhere, refuse. Colorful murals applied to brick faces, beds of tulips between the trenches. Under a railroad pass to the otherside. Certainly another side of the tracks, right or wrong I can't say at this point. A change in zoning. America's urban threshold. Business wholesale, contracting, computer services, industrial bakery. The Ohio State Fairgrounds. Memories on this side of the tracks. A senior center -- closed now. A funding issue, declining revenues, an imbalance, fiscally speaking. The interstate slashes across the coming of today.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Die Is Cast
I have made my decision on Graduate School, and it is different than what I have been telling pretty much everyone.
A week ago I was accepted to Ohio University and a few days later they offered me a teaching assistant position (free tuition, below-poverty-level stipend). Today I accepted that offer. OU has a much more reputable program and they have more faculty whose interests correspond to mine. Still it was a tough choice to make -- I was pretty much set on Miami because I didn't think I would get money from anywhere else.
Anyway, now begins a bunch of bullshit that comes with launching myself back into institutionalized education. Also trying to find a place to live (OU is in Athens, Ohio).
I needed to get that out there. Sorry the posts have been a little "blah" lately. I'll get back to fun stories here pretty soon. I've been thinking about a new one on life in the Hilltop, which is sure to be as interesting as, well, life in the Hilltop.
A week ago I was accepted to Ohio University and a few days later they offered me a teaching assistant position (free tuition, below-poverty-level stipend). Today I accepted that offer. OU has a much more reputable program and they have more faculty whose interests correspond to mine. Still it was a tough choice to make -- I was pretty much set on Miami because I didn't think I would get money from anywhere else.
Anyway, now begins a bunch of bullshit that comes with launching myself back into institutionalized education. Also trying to find a place to live (OU is in Athens, Ohio).
I needed to get that out there. Sorry the posts have been a little "blah" lately. I'll get back to fun stories here pretty soon. I've been thinking about a new one on life in the Hilltop, which is sure to be as interesting as, well, life in the Hilltop.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Almost Heaven
Recently I visited Shepherdstown, West Virginia. That's where I went, but I really visited my friends who are still there. I have a lot of different feelings upon reflection of this visit. Anybody want to hear about my feelings? Great, let's do it.
A couple of my friends had very personal and very tragic experiences since the time I last lived there. It made me very sad to know that I wasn't there for them during that. I could have been there for them, even if I wasn't there, but I never knew because they never told me. That makes me sad as well. It is hard to maintain a real friendship when you just aren't around and this is something that I would like to work on in the future.
I paid a visit to my old abode, 336, with my good friend Stephen, after the bar had closed. The house is still unoccupied almost two years after I moved out. I do believe it needs at least that much time to recover. I found myself tearing up standing in my old backyard. What was I crying for? What was I mourning?
So much of my life (indeed, about 10% of it thus far) was spent living in that house. I think a lot of me is still wrapped up there. So many moments of joy, shame, heartbreak, frustration, elation; so many failures and achievements. Friendships forged and a couple dissolved. Many more close calls on both fronts. Also more frivolous things: Risk games, so much drunken dancing in the kitchen, late nights in the cellar, ah, beer pong. Many parties, big and small, planned and improvised, welcome and unwanted.
I think back now to the time when I was moving into the house, me and three friends and one (now former) girlfriend. It's such a cliche, but really, things were so much simpler then I suppose. Well, really, I just had a simpler outlook on a world that is just as complicated now as it was then. But I really bought into it, especially when we were moving in. I think all five of us were sure it would be a great success. It didn't take long for it to begin to fall apart. Well, no sense in dwelling on all that maudlin crap. Suffice to say two years later people I didn't know (but who had been invited) were shooting crack or heroine or some such in my backyard. They didn't have the decency to bring their own spoon or even take my spoon with them after they finished.
I see now why many people say college was the most fun they ever had. And I think that is what I was crying for. It simply can never be that way again. Indeed, I don't want it to be, not really. I see things differently now. I am stronger, smarter, more confident. And I generally have a lot less fun. I was crying for myself -- an old, outdated model of myself. The Ben Wallace of Shepherdstown is no more. He had a brief follow-up as the less popular Ben Wallace of Savannah, but now he is no more. Would I have done things differently at 336? Probably. Probably quite a few things. And yet here I am, right on the edge of where I want to be. I am better for having 336, although 336 is certainly not better for having had me.
Stephen really wants me to move in to his apartment in Shepherdstown but it can never be. I love all of my friends who are still there but I am not of that place any more. I still have many friends there and I will continue to visit as long as I do. One day they will all be gone -- I hope. And then what will my relationship be to that place? Will it be nostalgic or nauseous? It will be both for sure.
A couple of my friends had very personal and very tragic experiences since the time I last lived there. It made me very sad to know that I wasn't there for them during that. I could have been there for them, even if I wasn't there, but I never knew because they never told me. That makes me sad as well. It is hard to maintain a real friendship when you just aren't around and this is something that I would like to work on in the future.
I paid a visit to my old abode, 336, with my good friend Stephen, after the bar had closed. The house is still unoccupied almost two years after I moved out. I do believe it needs at least that much time to recover. I found myself tearing up standing in my old backyard. What was I crying for? What was I mourning?
So much of my life (indeed, about 10% of it thus far) was spent living in that house. I think a lot of me is still wrapped up there. So many moments of joy, shame, heartbreak, frustration, elation; so many failures and achievements. Friendships forged and a couple dissolved. Many more close calls on both fronts. Also more frivolous things: Risk games, so much drunken dancing in the kitchen, late nights in the cellar, ah, beer pong. Many parties, big and small, planned and improvised, welcome and unwanted.
I think back now to the time when I was moving into the house, me and three friends and one (now former) girlfriend. It's such a cliche, but really, things were so much simpler then I suppose. Well, really, I just had a simpler outlook on a world that is just as complicated now as it was then. But I really bought into it, especially when we were moving in. I think all five of us were sure it would be a great success. It didn't take long for it to begin to fall apart. Well, no sense in dwelling on all that maudlin crap. Suffice to say two years later people I didn't know (but who had been invited) were shooting crack or heroine or some such in my backyard. They didn't have the decency to bring their own spoon or even take my spoon with them after they finished.
I see now why many people say college was the most fun they ever had. And I think that is what I was crying for. It simply can never be that way again. Indeed, I don't want it to be, not really. I see things differently now. I am stronger, smarter, more confident. And I generally have a lot less fun. I was crying for myself -- an old, outdated model of myself. The Ben Wallace of Shepherdstown is no more. He had a brief follow-up as the less popular Ben Wallace of Savannah, but now he is no more. Would I have done things differently at 336? Probably. Probably quite a few things. And yet here I am, right on the edge of where I want to be. I am better for having 336, although 336 is certainly not better for having had me.
Stephen really wants me to move in to his apartment in Shepherdstown but it can never be. I love all of my friends who are still there but I am not of that place any more. I still have many friends there and I will continue to visit as long as I do. One day they will all be gone -- I hope. And then what will my relationship be to that place? Will it be nostalgic or nauseous? It will be both for sure.
Monday, April 6, 2009
This and That
Been MIA for a little while. Spent a little time in WV and I have been musing over a post on THAT experience. I have been blogging though, have no doubt. I have created a new blog to digest and disseminate the things I read, write, and watch. So anyone looking for a healthy dose of artistic pretension, and sometimes a striking lack thereof, should head on over to Decadent Indifference.
Anyway, there will be some more (and hopefully more witty) posts coming up. I've just been working a lot and reading a lot (both of which are healthy enough). Here's a teaser: COTA Chatter readers will be interested to learn that I have a modeling audition coming up this weekend. Also, a major shift has taken place with regard to my graduate school decision, which is rapidly approaching.
Anyway, there will be some more (and hopefully more witty) posts coming up. I've just been working a lot and reading a lot (both of which are healthy enough). Here's a teaser: COTA Chatter readers will be interested to learn that I have a modeling audition coming up this weekend. Also, a major shift has taken place with regard to my graduate school decision, which is rapidly approaching.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
COTA Chatter
Boy, today was awful on the bus. It was raining so all the windows were closed and it was kind of warm also. There was all kinds of stale funk going on. I have a few nuggets from the last week.
A few days ago I was waiting for a transfer downtown. I feel like I should point something out for those who don't know Columbus and for those who do but don't ride the bus. The main hub of COTA, where (I think) every single bus stops is the corner of Broad St and High St downtown. This is also ostensibly the hub of Ohio, because it is the location of the statehouse. It makes it interesting because the knee-height stone wall that rings the statehouse serves mostly as a bench for a bus-stop along one whole block. Ohio: The Heart of it All!
Anyway, I was waiting for a transfer, sitting on this wall and rolling a cigarette. A man asked me for one and I just couldn't get over his appearance. He was in all denim, jacket and jeans. He looked to be about a once-a-month shaver. What really blew my mind though was that he had an honest-to-god personal cassette player. It was tucked into the breast pocket of his jean jacket. Also the headphones were taped together. With masking tape. It was like he crawled out of a dumpster from 1986.
The next day I was approached by a man on a bus. Whenever this happens you know its gonna be good and, dear reader, you know its gonna make it on COTA Chatter. He was very-well dressed in a stylish suit and shoes with a high polish. He also wore a skull cap and had longish, straightened hair (he was black). He smelled nice too, now that I think of it. I also have to mention that he was missing many teeth. The ones that remained were obviously enjoying their freedom and independence, lounging in any direction they pleased.
He introduced himself as James and then he kind of looked me over quickly.
"You're a tall guy, right?" he said.
"Um, sure," I shrugged. I'm 6'1" with shoes on. I don't actually consider myself to be tall, though I am taller than the average person.
James continued, saying that he was a recruiter for a modeling agency. He handed me a card. Not his card, but rather a card from the agency inviting me for an interview. I must admit I was a little flattered. He took my name and number, the card made it seem legitimate enough to give them out. He told me that someone would give me a call to set up an interview. Before he got off the bus he told me to dress nice for the interview. Oh, yeah. He also mentioned that some models make $1,000 a day.
"You be walking down the runway in Italian suits," is how he described it.
Like I said, I was flattered. Even more so when I learned from my friend Nick that it is, in fact, a legitimate outfit. If they call me I will go in for an interview. I don't think I have any chance of working as a model. I'm certainly not ugly but I am equally certain that I am not model material. But then, who knows? I would probably have to borrow some clothes and maybe use a little product in my hair. I have a friend who could probably help me out in that department. If I go for an interview my loyal TRJ readers will be the first to know.
A few days ago I was waiting for a transfer downtown. I feel like I should point something out for those who don't know Columbus and for those who do but don't ride the bus. The main hub of COTA, where (I think) every single bus stops is the corner of Broad St and High St downtown. This is also ostensibly the hub of Ohio, because it is the location of the statehouse. It makes it interesting because the knee-height stone wall that rings the statehouse serves mostly as a bench for a bus-stop along one whole block. Ohio: The Heart of it All!
Anyway, I was waiting for a transfer, sitting on this wall and rolling a cigarette. A man asked me for one and I just couldn't get over his appearance. He was in all denim, jacket and jeans. He looked to be about a once-a-month shaver. What really blew my mind though was that he had an honest-to-god personal cassette player. It was tucked into the breast pocket of his jean jacket. Also the headphones were taped together. With masking tape. It was like he crawled out of a dumpster from 1986.
The next day I was approached by a man on a bus. Whenever this happens you know its gonna be good and, dear reader, you know its gonna make it on COTA Chatter. He was very-well dressed in a stylish suit and shoes with a high polish. He also wore a skull cap and had longish, straightened hair (he was black). He smelled nice too, now that I think of it. I also have to mention that he was missing many teeth. The ones that remained were obviously enjoying their freedom and independence, lounging in any direction they pleased.
He introduced himself as James and then he kind of looked me over quickly.
"You're a tall guy, right?" he said.
"Um, sure," I shrugged. I'm 6'1" with shoes on. I don't actually consider myself to be tall, though I am taller than the average person.
James continued, saying that he was a recruiter for a modeling agency. He handed me a card. Not his card, but rather a card from the agency inviting me for an interview. I must admit I was a little flattered. He took my name and number, the card made it seem legitimate enough to give them out. He told me that someone would give me a call to set up an interview. Before he got off the bus he told me to dress nice for the interview. Oh, yeah. He also mentioned that some models make $1,000 a day.
"You be walking down the runway in Italian suits," is how he described it.
Like I said, I was flattered. Even more so when I learned from my friend Nick that it is, in fact, a legitimate outfit. If they call me I will go in for an interview. I don't think I have any chance of working as a model. I'm certainly not ugly but I am equally certain that I am not model material. But then, who knows? I would probably have to borrow some clothes and maybe use a little product in my hair. I have a friend who could probably help me out in that department. If I go for an interview my loyal TRJ readers will be the first to know.
We Treat You Right (Redux)
Sorry that I haven't added a new post in a while. I haven't had much time in front of my computer lately. From talking to people in the flesh world it seems like I have gained a few readers. Thanks! Keep checking in; I'll keep on blogging, as bloggers do.
The reason I haven't been able to post lately is because I have a new job. Well, it isn't really new to me. I am working at the same place I worked in high school and the summer of my freshmen year of college. It is at the local Dairy Queen in the suburb I grew up in. My decision to make the switch was abrupt. Having the knowledge that I am going back to school in the fall my former job seems even more menial and its tangential relation to my career plans are further highlighted. A few weeks ago I paid a visit to my friend who is now the top-man at this Dairy Queen. He casually mentioned that he could pay me more and I casually began to think about it. Once I knew for sure I would be going back to school it seemed the thing to do this summer is make some money. I started last week.
A week of working at Dairy Queen for the first time in six years has spawned a conflict with both personal and interpersonal dimensions. I have a BA and my new job doesn't even require a high school diploma (obviously, I worked there in high school). So how far have I come in six years, after earning a college diploma? I have come full-circle, right back to where I started.
The personal conflict is pretty minimal. I know that I am moving on in the fall and continuing my education and taking it to a higher level. But to anyone who comes to the Dairy Queen drive-thru for a coney dog I am just some Joe who looks a little bit old to be working there. I want to be a person who absolutely, 100% does-not-give-a-fuck-what-anyone-thinks-of-me, and I think I am closer to that than most people, but I am not all the way there. But I certainly don't care what random anonymous people think of me, 100% on that one for sure.
The tricky thing is, this Dairy Queen is a block from my high school and is still frequented by my former teachers, parents of friends, friends of parents, and local grandees. I do care about what some of these people think of me. And if these people come through the drive-thru, I worry that all they will see is a once promising lad fallen on hard and pathetic times. Now, I know they would understand why I might be there if they knew my situation -- starting grad school in the fall, this is a throw-away summer, career wise. But there isn't a lot of time between when they see me and when they drive off with their Dilly Bar for me to lay out my five-year plan. I have to give them napkins, also.
I will have to just get over my waning notions of honorable employment. (I hate honor as an ethos, it is based entirely on how you look to others, I find the idea of it despicable.) Maybe I will also put out some sort of bulletin, just so everyone knows -- not that I am working at DQ but that I am going to grad school. Hell, I'm already telling pretty much anyone who will listen; it's all I can think about anyway.
I am under-employed, contributing less to society than my full-potential would allow. This doesn't bother me too much, because I hope to do so in the future once my potential has expanded greatly. DQ does not utilize my formal education or more than an iota of my intelligence, but that doesn't mean it is beneath me. By that I mean that I don't feel that I have earned the right to not get dirty at work, handle money, and deal with assholes. (Almost everyone is an asshole, in case you didn't know.) I may have gained the ability to do something that society considers more noteworthy or distinguished but I hope that I will never believe that hard work for marginal pay is something inherently beneath me. Anyone who believes that any job is beneath them believes that the person occupying that job is beneath them as well. This is how arrogance, elitism, and exploitation are bred. I have a college degree. So what? I am not above taking out the trash. One day I hope to guide other people to the understanding that they aren't either. More in the metaphorical sense, I mean. But Dairy Queen does still ask me to take out the trash.
The reason I haven't been able to post lately is because I have a new job. Well, it isn't really new to me. I am working at the same place I worked in high school and the summer of my freshmen year of college. It is at the local Dairy Queen in the suburb I grew up in. My decision to make the switch was abrupt. Having the knowledge that I am going back to school in the fall my former job seems even more menial and its tangential relation to my career plans are further highlighted. A few weeks ago I paid a visit to my friend who is now the top-man at this Dairy Queen. He casually mentioned that he could pay me more and I casually began to think about it. Once I knew for sure I would be going back to school it seemed the thing to do this summer is make some money. I started last week.
A week of working at Dairy Queen for the first time in six years has spawned a conflict with both personal and interpersonal dimensions. I have a BA and my new job doesn't even require a high school diploma (obviously, I worked there in high school). So how far have I come in six years, after earning a college diploma? I have come full-circle, right back to where I started.
The personal conflict is pretty minimal. I know that I am moving on in the fall and continuing my education and taking it to a higher level. But to anyone who comes to the Dairy Queen drive-thru for a coney dog I am just some Joe who looks a little bit old to be working there. I want to be a person who absolutely, 100% does-not-give-a-fuck-what-anyone-thinks-of-me, and I think I am closer to that than most people, but I am not all the way there. But I certainly don't care what random anonymous people think of me, 100% on that one for sure.
The tricky thing is, this Dairy Queen is a block from my high school and is still frequented by my former teachers, parents of friends, friends of parents, and local grandees. I do care about what some of these people think of me. And if these people come through the drive-thru, I worry that all they will see is a once promising lad fallen on hard and pathetic times. Now, I know they would understand why I might be there if they knew my situation -- starting grad school in the fall, this is a throw-away summer, career wise. But there isn't a lot of time between when they see me and when they drive off with their Dilly Bar for me to lay out my five-year plan. I have to give them napkins, also.
I will have to just get over my waning notions of honorable employment. (I hate honor as an ethos, it is based entirely on how you look to others, I find the idea of it despicable.) Maybe I will also put out some sort of bulletin, just so everyone knows -- not that I am working at DQ but that I am going to grad school. Hell, I'm already telling pretty much anyone who will listen; it's all I can think about anyway.
I am under-employed, contributing less to society than my full-potential would allow. This doesn't bother me too much, because I hope to do so in the future once my potential has expanded greatly. DQ does not utilize my formal education or more than an iota of my intelligence, but that doesn't mean it is beneath me. By that I mean that I don't feel that I have earned the right to not get dirty at work, handle money, and deal with assholes. (Almost everyone is an asshole, in case you didn't know.) I may have gained the ability to do something that society considers more noteworthy or distinguished but I hope that I will never believe that hard work for marginal pay is something inherently beneath me. Anyone who believes that any job is beneath them believes that the person occupying that job is beneath them as well. This is how arrogance, elitism, and exploitation are bred. I have a college degree. So what? I am not above taking out the trash. One day I hope to guide other people to the understanding that they aren't either. More in the metaphorical sense, I mean. But Dairy Queen does still ask me to take out the trash.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
A haiku by Richard Wright
Keep straight down this block,
Then turn right where you will see
A peach tree blooming
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Grad School
I am trying to create in TRJ both a updated journal and a chronicling of salient events in my recent life. I've been kind of dwelling in the past recently, so here is what I have been up to lately and where I am looking down the road. The road of life.
I am going to graduate school in the fall. It is definitely semi-official. I tell people this. I just don't know where exactly. I have been accepted to Master's Degree programs in history at University of Cincinnati and Miami University (that's Ohio, as opposed to University of Miami, in FL). It looks like those are my choices. Miami has offered me free tuition and a paid assistantship, which is pretty much balls. Cincinnati has not, as of yet, offered me any kind of package. They did offer me an all-expense paid trip to the Nati for their graduate recruitment weekend, which I attended last weekend.
They really showed me a good time -- dinners, drinks, I never paid for anything. That was very nice, but what was especially gratifying for me was having a chance to hang out with and talk to the current grad students. On the whole they were much more down to earth then I expected. I imagined a dedicated group of hard-nosed, bookish scholars. They all seemed serious about their research, but they were real people with social lives and senses of humor. They were all friends and had great rapport with each other. I can't deny that I was surprised and rather elated that there were a good number of attractive and intelligent women in the department. The last event of the weekend was a party at one of their apartments. One of the female students told me, with worn-over frustration, that the go-to talking points of the men in the program are often baseball and the Civil War. These are perhaps my two favorite things to talk about in the history of things.
Also, the faculty were very approachable and answered a lot of my questions, namely: what is grad school like? There is one professor whose interests jive very much with mine. There are a lot of opportunities for inter-disciplinary study, which is of great interest to me. The department also gets a lot of funding, which grad students can receive for research trips and the like. But they haven't yet offered me any of this money, and I am very much hoping they will.
Cincinnati is an interesting town. The are of the UC campus is pretty much right on the edge of a seriously depressed and somewhat dangerous (and large) neigborhood. There are other distinct and cool neighborhoods around the school. The UC campus is very nice, highly concentrated. The architecture is really cool. Its a beer town, they say, and I am a beer guy. My baseball team is there and my football team plays there once a year. They have a world-class library. I think I would like living and studying in Cincinnati. Unfortunately, I won't be able to do that unless they offer to pay me, which they haven't, yet. I have two more weeks of holding my hope.
Miami has offered me money. Money that I could live on. Not live high, but live. That is probably good, because I don't think high living would go well with grad school. Especially since I have my sights set high for schools to move up to for the ol' Ph.D. I visited Miami on my way back to Columbus. It is about 40 miles north-northeast of Cincinnati -- middle of nowhere. The campus is beautiful. It is full of beauty. It is the kind of campus that would be a great movie setting: bricks, quads, bells, trees. It is a good school too. The program is not quite on par with UC, but both schools are far from elite so it doesn't matter too much.
Miami is in Oxford, but really Miami is Oxford. Its a small place. I don't think I will say quaint, though others may. Its easy to imagine a scholarly existence there. I think I would like it. And I must follow the money, which they are currently dangling.
At the end of all this coffee charged rambling, here are some firm declarative statements.
1)I am going to grad school. That is awesome.
2)I will receive a full-ride from whichever school I attend. I will assist in teaching actual college courses. I will grade tests, write papers, and probably read an elephants weight in books.
3)I will attend UC if they offer me a comparable package.
4)Failing that, I will attend Miami and be very satisfied with that.
5)I am going to graduate school. Its gonna happen. For serious.
I am going to graduate school in the fall. It is definitely semi-official. I tell people this. I just don't know where exactly. I have been accepted to Master's Degree programs in history at University of Cincinnati and Miami University (that's Ohio, as opposed to University of Miami, in FL). It looks like those are my choices. Miami has offered me free tuition and a paid assistantship, which is pretty much balls. Cincinnati has not, as of yet, offered me any kind of package. They did offer me an all-expense paid trip to the Nati for their graduate recruitment weekend, which I attended last weekend.
They really showed me a good time -- dinners, drinks, I never paid for anything. That was very nice, but what was especially gratifying for me was having a chance to hang out with and talk to the current grad students. On the whole they were much more down to earth then I expected. I imagined a dedicated group of hard-nosed, bookish scholars. They all seemed serious about their research, but they were real people with social lives and senses of humor. They were all friends and had great rapport with each other. I can't deny that I was surprised and rather elated that there were a good number of attractive and intelligent women in the department. The last event of the weekend was a party at one of their apartments. One of the female students told me, with worn-over frustration, that the go-to talking points of the men in the program are often baseball and the Civil War. These are perhaps my two favorite things to talk about in the history of things.
Also, the faculty were very approachable and answered a lot of my questions, namely: what is grad school like? There is one professor whose interests jive very much with mine. There are a lot of opportunities for inter-disciplinary study, which is of great interest to me. The department also gets a lot of funding, which grad students can receive for research trips and the like. But they haven't yet offered me any of this money, and I am very much hoping they will.
Cincinnati is an interesting town. The are of the UC campus is pretty much right on the edge of a seriously depressed and somewhat dangerous (and large) neigborhood. There are other distinct and cool neighborhoods around the school. The UC campus is very nice, highly concentrated. The architecture is really cool. Its a beer town, they say, and I am a beer guy. My baseball team is there and my football team plays there once a year. They have a world-class library. I think I would like living and studying in Cincinnati. Unfortunately, I won't be able to do that unless they offer to pay me, which they haven't, yet. I have two more weeks of holding my hope.
Miami has offered me money. Money that I could live on. Not live high, but live. That is probably good, because I don't think high living would go well with grad school. Especially since I have my sights set high for schools to move up to for the ol' Ph.D. I visited Miami on my way back to Columbus. It is about 40 miles north-northeast of Cincinnati -- middle of nowhere. The campus is beautiful. It is full of beauty. It is the kind of campus that would be a great movie setting: bricks, quads, bells, trees. It is a good school too. The program is not quite on par with UC, but both schools are far from elite so it doesn't matter too much.
Miami is in Oxford, but really Miami is Oxford. Its a small place. I don't think I will say quaint, though others may. Its easy to imagine a scholarly existence there. I think I would like it. And I must follow the money, which they are currently dangling.
At the end of all this coffee charged rambling, here are some firm declarative statements.
1)I am going to grad school. That is awesome.
2)I will receive a full-ride from whichever school I attend. I will assist in teaching actual college courses. I will grade tests, write papers, and probably read an elephants weight in books.
3)I will attend UC if they offer me a comparable package.
4)Failing that, I will attend Miami and be very satisfied with that.
5)I am going to graduate school. Its gonna happen. For serious.
Little Boy Blue and The Man In The Moon
Now I would like to relate a little vignette about my father. Living with my Dad has been quite inspirational, in a backward sort of way. I've mentioned that before and I think this story illustrates it.
My dad works 2nd shift at a local hospital, 2-11 pm. When the weather is nice he rides his bike. One evening in the late summer of 2008 I heard him outside of my room after arriving home from work, and I went out to say hi. I usually seclude myself in my room, but I try to come out to hang with the pops every so often. Its the least I can do considering he gives me a place to live, and I know I am the only sane and intelligent person in his life.
I went out into the hallway and Dad was there, standing at the top of the stairs.
"Hey Dad," I said. "How's it going?"
"Oh, Ben," he said, deeply depressed. "I just don't know."
He sat down on the stairs, obviously very distressed. I remember feeling like my chest was compressing, being sucked inside itself. The only thing that jumped to my mind that bring my father to this precise level of despondency was losing his job. This was the Meltdown Era and it seemed like a plausible thing to happen. At the time I was totally dependent on his support and if he lost his job it would be a disaster for me, not to mention my father and the rest of his family. These thoughts scorched in my mind in the moments before he related what happened.
"My bike was stolen," he said.
I was relieved. But my Dad in a rough place because of it. I asked him, and he told me what happened. He had stopped by the local convenience store on his way back from work to buy some beer. He had left the bike outside, unlocked, but never out of his sight. Because it was never out of his sight he was able to see it stolen. I should mention that he, and I, live in a fairly depressed region (it is far too large and decentralized to really qualify as a neighborhood) of West Columbus. Neither one of us needed to mention that leaving his bike unlocked was an invitation for theft.
I gave him what support I could, knowing that his foolish actions had led to this inevitable result. I told him he just needed to pick himself up, learn from this, and generally live his life with more vigilance and foresight. And, after all, it was only a bike.
But, the shitty things of it is, it wasn't just a bike. Well, it was, but to tell the story right I have to bring up so many other things, which is why having this bike stolen made my Dad so upset. It called to mind larger failures and mistakes. Put on a pot of coffee, reader.
He rode the bike to work because he did not have a driver's license. It was revoked as a result of a careless DUI. This was a source of shame to him. The bike had been a gift from his sister-in-law, and by all accounts it was very nice. (I never saw it, myself)
Earlier that summer, I noticed that my Dad had a bruise on his face one morning. I asked him about it.
"Ben," he said, "I'm gonna tell you about this and then I don't want to talk about it. I got beat up, and my bike got stolen."
The story goes as follows: He had been out riding in our decrepit neighborhood. A car of young hoods had driven by him on the road and a girl in the passenger seat had screeched at him. This startled him and more importantly it apparently pissed him off to no small degree. Deciding to take his measure of revenge, he trailed the car to a local eatery (KFC). While the car idled in the drive-thru Pops rolled past the passenger side, strafing it with his own scream. Apparently he really startled the girl. People in this neighborhood take such petty slights seriously. Hell, you might as well when everything and everyone around you is poor and run-down -- but I digress. The men, or boys, in turn followed my Dad on his bike, eventually running him off the road somehow.
"I tried to stop them," Dad related, "but there were two of them, and they beat me up and took my bike."
I have seldom heard anything more pathetically asinine. This was my father, too, a 50+ year-0ld man, roughed up, with his bike stolen in broad daylight. Emasculating to say the least.
Moving forward a few weeks later, my Dad was in a more jubilant mood. Fortune had returned his bike to him! Outside a different local convenience store he had seen it, lying outside the door. The shopkeep pointed out the bike's "owner" who had apparently got a "great deal" on it from someone. My Dad had called the police and this man, not wishing to violate his probation, had acquiesced to Dad. The bike was his again. He had been granted a second chance. His foolish behavior had been reprieved and he had his bike again.
But then, of course, he lost it once more through foolishness. That evening on the stairs what depressed him the most was not the loss of transportation but the realization that he had failed to learn from his mistake. Knowing that his bike could be taken from him he let it happen again. This time he wouldn't get it back. I wish I could say that the events of this story made him revise, even slightly, the way he goes about his life. I wish I could but I can't, because that would not be the Truth.
We only get so many second chances. I have had more than my fair share and I don't want to get myself into situations where I need any more. I don't want to leave my bike untended while I buy beer. I want to ride my bike home, save my money and my time for productive activities. Because someday I want to have a car and I don't want my life to be more, much more, than a series of cautionary tales such as this.
My dad works 2nd shift at a local hospital, 2-11 pm. When the weather is nice he rides his bike. One evening in the late summer of 2008 I heard him outside of my room after arriving home from work, and I went out to say hi. I usually seclude myself in my room, but I try to come out to hang with the pops every so often. Its the least I can do considering he gives me a place to live, and I know I am the only sane and intelligent person in his life.
I went out into the hallway and Dad was there, standing at the top of the stairs.
"Hey Dad," I said. "How's it going?"
"Oh, Ben," he said, deeply depressed. "I just don't know."
He sat down on the stairs, obviously very distressed. I remember feeling like my chest was compressing, being sucked inside itself. The only thing that jumped to my mind that bring my father to this precise level of despondency was losing his job. This was the Meltdown Era and it seemed like a plausible thing to happen. At the time I was totally dependent on his support and if he lost his job it would be a disaster for me, not to mention my father and the rest of his family. These thoughts scorched in my mind in the moments before he related what happened.
"My bike was stolen," he said.
I was relieved. But my Dad in a rough place because of it. I asked him, and he told me what happened. He had stopped by the local convenience store on his way back from work to buy some beer. He had left the bike outside, unlocked, but never out of his sight. Because it was never out of his sight he was able to see it stolen. I should mention that he, and I, live in a fairly depressed region (it is far too large and decentralized to really qualify as a neighborhood) of West Columbus. Neither one of us needed to mention that leaving his bike unlocked was an invitation for theft.
I gave him what support I could, knowing that his foolish actions had led to this inevitable result. I told him he just needed to pick himself up, learn from this, and generally live his life with more vigilance and foresight. And, after all, it was only a bike.
But, the shitty things of it is, it wasn't just a bike. Well, it was, but to tell the story right I have to bring up so many other things, which is why having this bike stolen made my Dad so upset. It called to mind larger failures and mistakes. Put on a pot of coffee, reader.
He rode the bike to work because he did not have a driver's license. It was revoked as a result of a careless DUI. This was a source of shame to him. The bike had been a gift from his sister-in-law, and by all accounts it was very nice. (I never saw it, myself)
Earlier that summer, I noticed that my Dad had a bruise on his face one morning. I asked him about it.
"Ben," he said, "I'm gonna tell you about this and then I don't want to talk about it. I got beat up, and my bike got stolen."
The story goes as follows: He had been out riding in our decrepit neighborhood. A car of young hoods had driven by him on the road and a girl in the passenger seat had screeched at him. This startled him and more importantly it apparently pissed him off to no small degree. Deciding to take his measure of revenge, he trailed the car to a local eatery (KFC). While the car idled in the drive-thru Pops rolled past the passenger side, strafing it with his own scream. Apparently he really startled the girl. People in this neighborhood take such petty slights seriously. Hell, you might as well when everything and everyone around you is poor and run-down -- but I digress. The men, or boys, in turn followed my Dad on his bike, eventually running him off the road somehow.
"I tried to stop them," Dad related, "but there were two of them, and they beat me up and took my bike."
I have seldom heard anything more pathetically asinine. This was my father, too, a 50+ year-0ld man, roughed up, with his bike stolen in broad daylight. Emasculating to say the least.
Moving forward a few weeks later, my Dad was in a more jubilant mood. Fortune had returned his bike to him! Outside a different local convenience store he had seen it, lying outside the door. The shopkeep pointed out the bike's "owner" who had apparently got a "great deal" on it from someone. My Dad had called the police and this man, not wishing to violate his probation, had acquiesced to Dad. The bike was his again. He had been granted a second chance. His foolish behavior had been reprieved and he had his bike again.
But then, of course, he lost it once more through foolishness. That evening on the stairs what depressed him the most was not the loss of transportation but the realization that he had failed to learn from his mistake. Knowing that his bike could be taken from him he let it happen again. This time he wouldn't get it back. I wish I could say that the events of this story made him revise, even slightly, the way he goes about his life. I wish I could but I can't, because that would not be the Truth.
We only get so many second chances. I have had more than my fair share and I don't want to get myself into situations where I need any more. I don't want to leave my bike untended while I buy beer. I want to ride my bike home, save my money and my time for productive activities. Because someday I want to have a car and I don't want my life to be more, much more, than a series of cautionary tales such as this.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Signs I Am Getting Older
Last summer I went running on the street for the first time in years. After that my left knee was swollen and sometimes in great pain for almost two months. Now it clicks every time I bend it all the way back.
Specific music reminds me of specific times in my life, they way my Dad might feel about Steve Miller or Black Sabbath. For example, music including Modest Mouse "Good News . . ." Cake "Prolonging the Magic" and The Walkmen "Bows & Arrows" all remind me of the spring of 2004 when I lived in Maryland and commuted to school everyday. That music reminds of that very distinctive drive and also the emotions and concerns that were foremost in my mind at that time.
I begin to wonder if there is even a chance that I will ever give up some of my nagging bad habits. Is there a point we reach when we can no longer say that the things we do are symptoms of youth or lack of responsibility, but rather these things are just one aspect of our personality? I think I'm a pretty insensitive person, and I used to think I would grow out of this as I had more diverse relationships and experiences, but that doesn't seem to be the case. That is just one example. I do think there is something to the adage that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but can you break an old dog of bad habits?
I am putting serious thought to where I will be when I am 40. God damn.
I am much more responsible than both of my parents. Although I could have crossed that threshold awhile ago. But then of course, I still live with one of them, so I guess that is a wash at best.
I definitely cannot handle hard liquor like I used to. There were a couple of years in college where I could and did pound the stuff. Now it is pretty much a guaranteed hangover if I have more than one drink of liquor in a night. I had a couple of friends in college who were a few years older who said they were too old to drink liquor. I don't know if I am there yet, but I can see it coming.
This is not another sign of my own aging, but just a related incident that happened to me today. At work I lost my patience with an elderly woman who kept asking me the same question, apparently not realizing that I had answered that question several times. She noticed that I lost my patience with her (most of the geriatrics I deal with on a daily basis do not) and got very indignant.
"If you are lucky enough to live as old as I am you will need people to have patience with you."
I hope I am lucky enough not to live to the age when I need people to cater to my physical and mental infirmities. I hope I am lucky enough to never become an anchor to society and a grizzled clog in the mechanisms by which useful people function. I hope I am lucky and bright enough to keep my mind sharp and adaptable so that I can remain vital as the world revolves throughout my lifetime.
Specific music reminds me of specific times in my life, they way my Dad might feel about Steve Miller or Black Sabbath. For example, music including Modest Mouse "Good News . . ." Cake "Prolonging the Magic" and The Walkmen "Bows & Arrows" all remind me of the spring of 2004 when I lived in Maryland and commuted to school everyday. That music reminds of that very distinctive drive and also the emotions and concerns that were foremost in my mind at that time.
I begin to wonder if there is even a chance that I will ever give up some of my nagging bad habits. Is there a point we reach when we can no longer say that the things we do are symptoms of youth or lack of responsibility, but rather these things are just one aspect of our personality? I think I'm a pretty insensitive person, and I used to think I would grow out of this as I had more diverse relationships and experiences, but that doesn't seem to be the case. That is just one example. I do think there is something to the adage that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but can you break an old dog of bad habits?
I am putting serious thought to where I will be when I am 40. God damn.
I am much more responsible than both of my parents. Although I could have crossed that threshold awhile ago. But then of course, I still live with one of them, so I guess that is a wash at best.
I definitely cannot handle hard liquor like I used to. There were a couple of years in college where I could and did pound the stuff. Now it is pretty much a guaranteed hangover if I have more than one drink of liquor in a night. I had a couple of friends in college who were a few years older who said they were too old to drink liquor. I don't know if I am there yet, but I can see it coming.
This is not another sign of my own aging, but just a related incident that happened to me today. At work I lost my patience with an elderly woman who kept asking me the same question, apparently not realizing that I had answered that question several times. She noticed that I lost my patience with her (most of the geriatrics I deal with on a daily basis do not) and got very indignant.
"If you are lucky enough to live as old as I am you will need people to have patience with you."
I hope I am lucky enough not to live to the age when I need people to cater to my physical and mental infirmities. I hope I am lucky enough to never become an anchor to society and a grizzled clog in the mechanisms by which useful people function. I hope I am lucky and bright enough to keep my mind sharp and adaptable so that I can remain vital as the world revolves throughout my lifetime.
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright
Yesterday I watched my little sister playing with a dead rat. Her mother, my step-mom, watched on. This seems like a good segway into the next chapter of my story.
I left Savannah and returned to my hometown, Columbus, Ohio. I would be living with my father, who rents a house in a neighborhood on the west side of town known as Hilltop. My parents divorced when I was four and my father remarried about 10 years ago. He has two young children now, Maggie (8) and Zach (6), my half-brother and half-sister.
I looked forward to this new chapter in my life. I would get to reconnect with those of my friends who still lived in town, spend some time with Zach and Maggie, as well as my grandmother, who was very old and very sick (also known as dying). I hadn't lived in Columbus since the summer of 2003, after my freshman year of college.
My dad has been a very graceous and grateful host, but living at his house has been a constant cycle of revulsion and frustration. It's kind of been a source of reverse inspiration, creating an impulse to be the only one in this house that has even of whiff of having my shit together. Living with four other people who are either stumbling or screeching through their lives makes me the calm center of the universe, but I have to shut myself in my room to keep my sanity.
Let's see where to I begin. OK, Kendra, my step-mother. She is a nurse and addicted to the internet. All of her time outside of work (the word "all" is really not being misused here) is spent on a chair in front of her computer, where she toils away at an online, text-based, role-playing game. Kendra picks up the kids from school and they all come home to play their games without a care. Zach and Maggie play video games or silly kid games and Kendra tries her best to ignore them. The only time she shows much interest in them is when they make a lot of noise or get into a fight. Then she yells at them from her computer, often without averting her eyes from the screen.
Now, you might ask yourself who maintains this house? The answer I must give is no one, although my Dad tries very hard. Kendra, Zach, and Maggie produce mountains of trash and debris every day, leaving it strewn in their wake or, in Kendra's case, in various deposits around her computer monitor. This includes toys, sloppy kids drawing, food debris, and really anything else that you can imagine. The house is often what I would call "wrecked," although living here has forced me to redefine the kind of house I consider wrecked. Dishes pile up daily and often sit for some days. Food is left about the house: half-eaten, untouched, dropped, ignored, and left to thaw out on the counter overnight. There is a serious fly problem. Infestation is the proper word and the word "swarm" would not be at all inappropriate.
My dad words the second shift (2-11 PM) at a hospital. When he gets home the kids are up waiting for him, either running around screaming, like you do, or in their "beds." As you might have guessed their "beds" are not beds at all, although they do actually have their own room with bunk beds in it. Their beds are on the living room floor. They consist of two mats, the kind that are sold very cheap at Wal-Mart for large dogs to sleep and lounge on. These are set on the living room floor, topped with a sheet, some pillows, the TV is turned on (or rather, never turned off) right in front of them and voila! Bed-time! I have never really figured out why this is the sleeping arrangement, but there it is. What's worse is that Maggie usually won't sleep unless my father lays down on their little nest and watches TV with them. He often falls asleep there himself. Its a fucked situation.
The house is in all stages of neglect: laundry un-cleaned, everything misplaced, a fair amount of pack-ratting. Also, actual rats! It's not bad they are pet rats, but its still pretty bad. Since everyone in this house pretty much lives like an animal Kendra seems to think its a good idea to accent these with some more animals. In fact since I have lived here the menagerie has grown from a fish tank and two cats (actually three, there used to be a stray that the kids would feed and play with, those darling children) and now includes a python, chinchilla, some frogs, and a turtle. But the turtle may have died -- its hard to keep track. Also the rats.
Now, I believe the rats started out as food for the python. But the most important decisions in this house are made by the eight-year old. This requires a little back story. Maggie was born with a serious heart-defect and was very as a baby, nearly dying when she was two. Since then she has been hopelessly indulged and spoiled. I believe that, in fact, in many ways she has never grown out of her infancy. Anyway, the rats. I think one day Maggie must have named a rat that was destined for the snake cage and he became a pet. Then, somehow, another rat was added to the clan. Stop me if you know where this is headed . . .baby rats! This is actually a perfect set-up if you have a snake; you just breed the food for it. But no, these are pets, apparently. Kendra took the male rat and put it in another cage. Then it died, so sad. Then it was a toy for Maggie.
I saw her playing with it and I thought "That rat looks dead." But I also thought that couldn't be because that is obviously disgusting and Kendra was right there. As I walked away Kendra said "She's playing with a dead rat." She said it with a marveling chuckle. As if to say "That crazy Maggie, playing with a dead rat again. She really marches to the beat of her own drummer!" It almost seemed like Kendra knew that this was not appropriate or sanitary, but then again Maggie was ten feet away, Kendra was engrossed in her computer, and, well, in the context of everything else it wasn't that extraordinary.
Maggie played with the rat all night. I don't know where it is now, but whether she treats it like a toy or a piece of trash or some food she is finished with there is still no way of guessing where it has ended up. Rest in peace little buddy
I left Savannah and returned to my hometown, Columbus, Ohio. I would be living with my father, who rents a house in a neighborhood on the west side of town known as Hilltop. My parents divorced when I was four and my father remarried about 10 years ago. He has two young children now, Maggie (8) and Zach (6), my half-brother and half-sister.
I looked forward to this new chapter in my life. I would get to reconnect with those of my friends who still lived in town, spend some time with Zach and Maggie, as well as my grandmother, who was very old and very sick (also known as dying). I hadn't lived in Columbus since the summer of 2003, after my freshman year of college.
My dad has been a very graceous and grateful host, but living at his house has been a constant cycle of revulsion and frustration. It's kind of been a source of reverse inspiration, creating an impulse to be the only one in this house that has even of whiff of having my shit together. Living with four other people who are either stumbling or screeching through their lives makes me the calm center of the universe, but I have to shut myself in my room to keep my sanity.
Let's see where to I begin. OK, Kendra, my step-mother. She is a nurse and addicted to the internet. All of her time outside of work (the word "all" is really not being misused here) is spent on a chair in front of her computer, where she toils away at an online, text-based, role-playing game. Kendra picks up the kids from school and they all come home to play their games without a care. Zach and Maggie play video games or silly kid games and Kendra tries her best to ignore them. The only time she shows much interest in them is when they make a lot of noise or get into a fight. Then she yells at them from her computer, often without averting her eyes from the screen.
Now, you might ask yourself who maintains this house? The answer I must give is no one, although my Dad tries very hard. Kendra, Zach, and Maggie produce mountains of trash and debris every day, leaving it strewn in their wake or, in Kendra's case, in various deposits around her computer monitor. This includes toys, sloppy kids drawing, food debris, and really anything else that you can imagine. The house is often what I would call "wrecked," although living here has forced me to redefine the kind of house I consider wrecked. Dishes pile up daily and often sit for some days. Food is left about the house: half-eaten, untouched, dropped, ignored, and left to thaw out on the counter overnight. There is a serious fly problem. Infestation is the proper word and the word "swarm" would not be at all inappropriate.
My dad words the second shift (2-11 PM) at a hospital. When he gets home the kids are up waiting for him, either running around screaming, like you do, or in their "beds." As you might have guessed their "beds" are not beds at all, although they do actually have their own room with bunk beds in it. Their beds are on the living room floor. They consist of two mats, the kind that are sold very cheap at Wal-Mart for large dogs to sleep and lounge on. These are set on the living room floor, topped with a sheet, some pillows, the TV is turned on (or rather, never turned off) right in front of them and voila! Bed-time! I have never really figured out why this is the sleeping arrangement, but there it is. What's worse is that Maggie usually won't sleep unless my father lays down on their little nest and watches TV with them. He often falls asleep there himself. Its a fucked situation.
The house is in all stages of neglect: laundry un-cleaned, everything misplaced, a fair amount of pack-ratting. Also, actual rats! It's not bad they are pet rats, but its still pretty bad. Since everyone in this house pretty much lives like an animal Kendra seems to think its a good idea to accent these with some more animals. In fact since I have lived here the menagerie has grown from a fish tank and two cats (actually three, there used to be a stray that the kids would feed and play with, those darling children) and now includes a python, chinchilla, some frogs, and a turtle. But the turtle may have died -- its hard to keep track. Also the rats.
Now, I believe the rats started out as food for the python. But the most important decisions in this house are made by the eight-year old. This requires a little back story. Maggie was born with a serious heart-defect and was very as a baby, nearly dying when she was two. Since then she has been hopelessly indulged and spoiled. I believe that, in fact, in many ways she has never grown out of her infancy. Anyway, the rats. I think one day Maggie must have named a rat that was destined for the snake cage and he became a pet. Then, somehow, another rat was added to the clan. Stop me if you know where this is headed . . .baby rats! This is actually a perfect set-up if you have a snake; you just breed the food for it. But no, these are pets, apparently. Kendra took the male rat and put it in another cage. Then it died, so sad. Then it was a toy for Maggie.
I saw her playing with it and I thought "That rat looks dead." But I also thought that couldn't be because that is obviously disgusting and Kendra was right there. As I walked away Kendra said "She's playing with a dead rat." She said it with a marveling chuckle. As if to say "That crazy Maggie, playing with a dead rat again. She really marches to the beat of her own drummer!" It almost seemed like Kendra knew that this was not appropriate or sanitary, but then again Maggie was ten feet away, Kendra was engrossed in her computer, and, well, in the context of everything else it wasn't that extraordinary.
Maggie played with the rat all night. I don't know where it is now, but whether she treats it like a toy or a piece of trash or some food she is finished with there is still no way of guessing where it has ended up. Rest in peace little buddy
Saturday, February 28, 2009
COTA Chatter
I'm going to make COTA chatter a regular feature here on TRJ. Since I ride the bus everyday (COTA, the Central Ohio Transit Authority) I will be including funny, sad, crazy, dangerous events that take place while I am on or waiting for the bus.
Today I waited for the #10 with a woman (about 40, I would say, maybe a little younger) who was singing along with her MP3 player. Rapping, I should say. She knew most of the words, but sometimes she would mumble along: "West Coast for, fo sho . . . na ma de ba . . . talk about beating you niggas get beat . . ."
A child rode up on his bike and she greeted him. The kid asked about the woman's son, and she replied that he would be getting out (of jail) in a few months.
"I done told you kids, you mess with the whiteys downtown they gonna lock you up."
In the middle of a lyric she burped, spit a few more rhymes, and then excused herself in-time.
I take the #10 downtown and transfer to another bus which takes me to work. This same woman was waiting to transfer near me, and I overheard a little bit of her phone conversation.
"I talked to my sister last night and she said her grandson died. I said 'which one' and she got all mad. How'm I s'posed to know?"
Thank you for reading the first edition of COTA chatter.
Today I waited for the #10 with a woman (about 40, I would say, maybe a little younger) who was singing along with her MP3 player. Rapping, I should say. She knew most of the words, but sometimes she would mumble along: "West Coast for, fo sho . . . na ma de ba . . . talk about beating you niggas get beat . . ."
A child rode up on his bike and she greeted him. The kid asked about the woman's son, and she replied that he would be getting out (of jail) in a few months.
"I done told you kids, you mess with the whiteys downtown they gonna lock you up."
In the middle of a lyric she burped, spit a few more rhymes, and then excused herself in-time.
I take the #10 downtown and transfer to another bus which takes me to work. This same woman was waiting to transfer near me, and I overheard a little bit of her phone conversation.
"I talked to my sister last night and she said her grandson died. I said 'which one' and she got all mad. How'm I s'posed to know?"
Thank you for reading the first edition of COTA chatter.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
A Day In The Life, Part Two: Woke Up, Got Out Of Bed
[You will need to read my previous entry. This one picks up where it left off]
The first conversation centered on Brooke. As I mentioned she had just completed her Masters Degree in international business or something like that. I was blown away to hear that she had done it in nine months. That’s an impressively short amount of time. It made me feel pathetic. She was a little bit older than me, but not much, and she had her Masters. And here I am -- a person with high aspirations for study, and even higher aspirations for eventually teaching and writing in my field. Here I am, tending bar. It wasn’t a new thought, but meeting someone who had plunged into advanced study with such commitment to earn that graduate degree in NINE MONTHS made me feel like a shmuck. She had busted her ass – was I capable of that?
The other conversation was later in the day, with Geoff. I was explaining my five-year plan to him. This was, in essence (and it never really expanded beyond the essence of a plan, even in my mind) that I would apply to graduate schools that fall and the next fall Sarah and I would move to wherever I decided to go. Sarah was a graphic designer, which is a pretty marketable profession. Then I would be a professor and Sarah and I would move to wherever I got a teaching job. Geoff then related the story of his brother who was a history professor (history is my field). He was apparently barely meeting ends meet. I had seen life after grad school as wildly fulfilling and unchallenging once I had that almighty Ph.D. Maybe it wouldn’t be? I was pretty sure I could do better than Geoff’s brother seemed to be doing, but looking back on what he said to me it raised some questions that I needed to answer.
Was I expecting, even counting on living a comfortable, pleasantly stable life? The answer was yes, but was this realistic, and if so, was this healthy? What I know now is that I will have to work incredibly hard to do what I want to do in my life and the day when I can let up and truly take things easy is decades away. I now realize that I owe this to mankind because of the incredibly resources and opportunities that I have been given, the likes of which probably 99% of people who have ever lived could barely conceive of. I owe it to myself not to squander these in self-indulgent trivialities and not to sell my soul to the hedonism that was all around me that April day in Savannah. This I now know.
This conversation was later in the afternoon and I was quite drunk by now. The deck around us was now filled with Blackberries and expensive sunglasses. Sarah and I mused about how much we probably stood out. I realized how much I probably stood out more than any of us. I began casting a cynical eye on everyone around us, making vicious sweeping generalizations. I was touched by a mild academic anger. I railed against all the men who were no more than their father’s sons, inheriting (or marrying into) mid-size but profitable businesses. Men who voted for Republicans because they seemed to fight for God and country. Men who saw their positions (and the luxuries of this day and many others) as perfectly justified; men who never had guilt to assuage about plight of anyone their work slighted or harmed as long as they could keep up payments on the boat and afford to send their sons to Vanderbilt or Auburn. Men who played lip service to the notion of social responsibility by attending a charity banquet twice a year. I viciously rambled, as I do now.
Meanwhile, as I told Sarah, what about the people who serve men such as these? I was one of these at another time and place, after all. We scrape our livings from the refuse of their excess. I thought of the cute bartender. I told Sarah I didn’t want to live like this, even if I had the means to. She tilted her head slightly and said to me, in her placating playful tone:
“You just need a real job.”
I didn’t know it then but our relationship was over.
We went into the tent where everyone else was and the conversation spilled over to the rest of the group, which now included Geoff’s boss. We argued some more, my argument focusing on the fact that, no, not every American did really have the opportunity to live the life that everyone around us was living. Geoff’s boss heard me out on a lark. I actually thought he found me funny; a kind of novelty act. I was pretty drunk at this point. I don’t know how the conversation ended, but it did, and we left soon after that.
Sarah made plans to go out with everyone afterwards, but I had to work in the morning. Big corporate group at the hotel, don’t you know. I picked up a forty or two and kicked back, thinking about the events of the day. I was still buzzing with indignation at the whole affair. More and more my anger turned towards Sarah’s words.
What was a “real job” to her? Nine-to-five? Pension? Company car? This was nothing that I had ever wanted, and was not in line with my career plans. I don’t want to buy, sell, trade, any of that bullshit, even if it could give me a house in Hilton Head. What I wanted was to teach and learn for a living. If this is the person who I am allegedly planning to spend the rest of my life with, how can it ever work if we are so off base on something like this? It couldn't, and I wouldn't.
I had a conversation that night with my good and true friend Jeremy via instant message. I was very drunk at this point. I remember saying to him that people like us had a responsibility to do what we can for the betterment of mankind. To expose and combat the wrongs that many cannot see or don’t understand, the wrongs and abuses and injustice that some refuse to acknowledge as such.
I couldn’t sleep that night, even though I was quite hammered. Sarah came home and proceeded to call me a drunk. True, but not a nice thing to say. Also a stark thing to acknowledge about the person your allegedly plan to spend the rest of your life with. I slept on the couch that night, a first I think, in our very long relationship. We spent the next couple of days on the edge of not speaking. A few days later she forced the issue, and I left Savannah a few days later.
That is the first part of the story of how I came to be where I am and the beginning of what journey towards a startling awakening of my mind to the injustice of the world. But it was only the beginning.
The first conversation centered on Brooke. As I mentioned she had just completed her Masters Degree in international business or something like that. I was blown away to hear that she had done it in nine months. That’s an impressively short amount of time. It made me feel pathetic. She was a little bit older than me, but not much, and she had her Masters. And here I am -- a person with high aspirations for study, and even higher aspirations for eventually teaching and writing in my field. Here I am, tending bar. It wasn’t a new thought, but meeting someone who had plunged into advanced study with such commitment to earn that graduate degree in NINE MONTHS made me feel like a shmuck. She had busted her ass – was I capable of that?
The other conversation was later in the day, with Geoff. I was explaining my five-year plan to him. This was, in essence (and it never really expanded beyond the essence of a plan, even in my mind) that I would apply to graduate schools that fall and the next fall Sarah and I would move to wherever I decided to go. Sarah was a graphic designer, which is a pretty marketable profession. Then I would be a professor and Sarah and I would move to wherever I got a teaching job. Geoff then related the story of his brother who was a history professor (history is my field). He was apparently barely meeting ends meet. I had seen life after grad school as wildly fulfilling and unchallenging once I had that almighty Ph.D. Maybe it wouldn’t be? I was pretty sure I could do better than Geoff’s brother seemed to be doing, but looking back on what he said to me it raised some questions that I needed to answer.
Was I expecting, even counting on living a comfortable, pleasantly stable life? The answer was yes, but was this realistic, and if so, was this healthy? What I know now is that I will have to work incredibly hard to do what I want to do in my life and the day when I can let up and truly take things easy is decades away. I now realize that I owe this to mankind because of the incredibly resources and opportunities that I have been given, the likes of which probably 99% of people who have ever lived could barely conceive of. I owe it to myself not to squander these in self-indulgent trivialities and not to sell my soul to the hedonism that was all around me that April day in Savannah. This I now know.
This conversation was later in the afternoon and I was quite drunk by now. The deck around us was now filled with Blackberries and expensive sunglasses. Sarah and I mused about how much we probably stood out. I realized how much I probably stood out more than any of us. I began casting a cynical eye on everyone around us, making vicious sweeping generalizations. I was touched by a mild academic anger. I railed against all the men who were no more than their father’s sons, inheriting (or marrying into) mid-size but profitable businesses. Men who voted for Republicans because they seemed to fight for God and country. Men who saw their positions (and the luxuries of this day and many others) as perfectly justified; men who never had guilt to assuage about plight of anyone their work slighted or harmed as long as they could keep up payments on the boat and afford to send their sons to Vanderbilt or Auburn. Men who played lip service to the notion of social responsibility by attending a charity banquet twice a year. I viciously rambled, as I do now.
Meanwhile, as I told Sarah, what about the people who serve men such as these? I was one of these at another time and place, after all. We scrape our livings from the refuse of their excess. I thought of the cute bartender. I told Sarah I didn’t want to live like this, even if I had the means to. She tilted her head slightly and said to me, in her placating playful tone:
“You just need a real job.”
I didn’t know it then but our relationship was over.
We went into the tent where everyone else was and the conversation spilled over to the rest of the group, which now included Geoff’s boss. We argued some more, my argument focusing on the fact that, no, not every American did really have the opportunity to live the life that everyone around us was living. Geoff’s boss heard me out on a lark. I actually thought he found me funny; a kind of novelty act. I was pretty drunk at this point. I don’t know how the conversation ended, but it did, and we left soon after that.
Sarah made plans to go out with everyone afterwards, but I had to work in the morning. Big corporate group at the hotel, don’t you know. I picked up a forty or two and kicked back, thinking about the events of the day. I was still buzzing with indignation at the whole affair. More and more my anger turned towards Sarah’s words.
What was a “real job” to her? Nine-to-five? Pension? Company car? This was nothing that I had ever wanted, and was not in line with my career plans. I don’t want to buy, sell, trade, any of that bullshit, even if it could give me a house in Hilton Head. What I wanted was to teach and learn for a living. If this is the person who I am allegedly planning to spend the rest of my life with, how can it ever work if we are so off base on something like this? It couldn't, and I wouldn't.
I had a conversation that night with my good and true friend Jeremy via instant message. I was very drunk at this point. I remember saying to him that people like us had a responsibility to do what we can for the betterment of mankind. To expose and combat the wrongs that many cannot see or don’t understand, the wrongs and abuses and injustice that some refuse to acknowledge as such.
I couldn’t sleep that night, even though I was quite hammered. Sarah came home and proceeded to call me a drunk. True, but not a nice thing to say. Also a stark thing to acknowledge about the person your allegedly plan to spend the rest of your life with. I slept on the couch that night, a first I think, in our very long relationship. We spent the next couple of days on the edge of not speaking. A few days later she forced the issue, and I left Savannah a few days later.
That is the first part of the story of how I came to be where I am and the beginning of what journey towards a startling awakening of my mind to the injustice of the world. But it was only the beginning.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A Day In The Life, Part One: I Read the News Today
From August 2007 to April 2008 I lived in Savannah, GA with my girlfriend Sarah. Fresh out of college, I was eager to begin adulthood in an adult relationship, hopefully get an adult job, and realize my adult prospects in the Sunbelt. Pretty much nothing turned out the way I envisioned it. One of my days in Savannah stands out above all others.
Sarah and I were invited by our friend Geoff to attend a golf tournament as VIP guests of his company, the local Volvo dealership. We would have a view of the 18th fairway, an air-conditioned tent, open-bar and generous buffet. It was a beautiful sunny day – typical for Savannah. We were on one end of a long deck, broken into sections with a few tables and the tent, which housed the bar, buffet, and a few more tables. Each company had paid for a section for the use of employees, clients, friends, family, associates, etc. In our case a parts-supplier had provided for the dealership as a perk of some kind.
The day began slowly. We arrived around 11 and began drinking shortly thereafter. We had premium liquors and some nice imported beer. I think I drank mostly vodka-tonics, with a sprinkling of beer. Sarah and Geoff were the only people there who I knew. Geoff’s new girlfriend, Brooke, who Sarah and I had just met, was visiting from Oregon.
Geoff is a fun guy. A total drunk and very fun. The four of us chatted about this and that. Brooke had just finished her masters and she was going to move in with Geoff in a few months. We watched the golfers from time-to-time, ate a quality, filling lunch, and kept right on drinking.
As the afternoon wound on the deck around us began to fill. I got a glimpse of the other spectators on my frequent trips to the Port-A-Potty. There were very few people there under 30, most people seemed to be in the 45-60 age range. Sarah and I were definitely the only people there who might have been carded for alcohol. People were dressed in golf clothes: polo-type shirts, dress khakis, nice shoes, Blackberries. These were businessmen; many of them probably considered this a casual business outing I would guess.
I was a bartender at the time. I worked at a deluxe luxury hotel, serving drinks at the swanky weddings of blondes and doctors, daddy’s-girls and bankers. I had tried but been unable to find any work in my “field” or even something semi-professional. I was used to events like this golf tournament, but I had always seen them from behind a stack of rocks glasses or under the weight of a heavy tray.
In light of this, I struck up a conversation with our bartender. She was young and cute, reminding me of a college friend who I had always been attracted to. I was friendly, but I don’t think I crossed the line to flirtation. After all, we were in the same line of work, and I always enjoyed it when guests engaged me as a human, not just a hand on a bottle. The bartender lived a kind of gypsy existence, working for the traveling catering company that was putting on this fine event for us. We chatted off-and-on throughout the day, talking shop in a familiar way.
There are two conversations that I remember in particular from the early afternoon. I can’t say if it was these conversations which colored the rest of the day. In retrospect everything was building toward what was to come, but at the time I wasn’t thinking about where the course of the day was taking me. These were normal enough exchanges, inane even, but something about that day. Maybe it was the sun, the affluent atmosphere, the booze to be sure. It was probably bound to happen eventually, but this was the day that my life began to crack wide open.
Sarah and I were invited by our friend Geoff to attend a golf tournament as VIP guests of his company, the local Volvo dealership. We would have a view of the 18th fairway, an air-conditioned tent, open-bar and generous buffet. It was a beautiful sunny day – typical for Savannah. We were on one end of a long deck, broken into sections with a few tables and the tent, which housed the bar, buffet, and a few more tables. Each company had paid for a section for the use of employees, clients, friends, family, associates, etc. In our case a parts-supplier had provided for the dealership as a perk of some kind.
The day began slowly. We arrived around 11 and began drinking shortly thereafter. We had premium liquors and some nice imported beer. I think I drank mostly vodka-tonics, with a sprinkling of beer. Sarah and Geoff were the only people there who I knew. Geoff’s new girlfriend, Brooke, who Sarah and I had just met, was visiting from Oregon.
Geoff is a fun guy. A total drunk and very fun. The four of us chatted about this and that. Brooke had just finished her masters and she was going to move in with Geoff in a few months. We watched the golfers from time-to-time, ate a quality, filling lunch, and kept right on drinking.
As the afternoon wound on the deck around us began to fill. I got a glimpse of the other spectators on my frequent trips to the Port-A-Potty. There were very few people there under 30, most people seemed to be in the 45-60 age range. Sarah and I were definitely the only people there who might have been carded for alcohol. People were dressed in golf clothes: polo-type shirts, dress khakis, nice shoes, Blackberries. These were businessmen; many of them probably considered this a casual business outing I would guess.
I was a bartender at the time. I worked at a deluxe luxury hotel, serving drinks at the swanky weddings of blondes and doctors, daddy’s-girls and bankers. I had tried but been unable to find any work in my “field” or even something semi-professional. I was used to events like this golf tournament, but I had always seen them from behind a stack of rocks glasses or under the weight of a heavy tray.
In light of this, I struck up a conversation with our bartender. She was young and cute, reminding me of a college friend who I had always been attracted to. I was friendly, but I don’t think I crossed the line to flirtation. After all, we were in the same line of work, and I always enjoyed it when guests engaged me as a human, not just a hand on a bottle. The bartender lived a kind of gypsy existence, working for the traveling catering company that was putting on this fine event for us. We chatted off-and-on throughout the day, talking shop in a familiar way.
There are two conversations that I remember in particular from the early afternoon. I can’t say if it was these conversations which colored the rest of the day. In retrospect everything was building toward what was to come, but at the time I wasn’t thinking about where the course of the day was taking me. These were normal enough exchanges, inane even, but something about that day. Maybe it was the sun, the affluent atmosphere, the booze to be sure. It was probably bound to happen eventually, but this was the day that my life began to crack wide open.
COTA chatter
Today, like every day, I rode the bus. It’s a great way to observe humanity. You can’t help but observe – its quite in your face. I missed the bus I was gunning for, so I had to wait on the next one for about twenty minutes.
While at the stop there was, I’m guessing, a family of children. The oldest were maybe fourteen or fifteen, one of whom was pushing a stroller. I was reading a book, but I couldn’t help observing this family. They were right in front of me. One shouted to another something about “ . . . getting your ass beat.” I looked up and a seven or eight year old girl was having a conversation with her eleven year old, I’m assuming, brother. The conversation seemed to be somewhat in the vein of the girl’s appearance. I didn’t make everything out, but she seemed to indicate through her grandiose body language that she thought her ass could look better. Her brother pointed out that she needed to diet, and she latched on to the idea with enthusiasm.
“I’m gonna be eating my noodle soup, I ain’t gonna be eatin’ no cheese, I gonna be drinking my diet soda . . .”
I got on the bus and there was no room to sit. To me, a bus with no room to sit doesn’t necessarily mean that every seat is taken. I’m all over and empty two-seat bench. I usually sit in the seat nearest the aisle, so as to discourage anyone from trying to share with me. A three seat bench I am somewhat wary of; someone could take the seat on the other end and on public transportation you never know what manner of person that might be. If there are no unoccupied benches I will usually share with someone, depending on the length of my ride and how tired I am. That is only an option if there is bench with someone of normal girth on it. In Columbus, Ohio this is by no means a certainty. The middle of a three-seat bench is almost always out of the question for this same reason, but also because being sandwiched, even between two normal sized (thinner than average) is not much fun. When I can’t sit I can’t read, so when this happens I settle into a thousand yard, watching the human and commercial squalor pass through the windows. The depressing sights no longer affect me, and, pushing into the sunset towards Hilltop there is sometimes an unlikely beauty in that rolling urban mural.
Today, I stepped on the bus and a quick survey showed no available seats. Before I can turn around I hear: “There’s a seat right here.” I turn around and there is indeed a sandwich seat “available.” What the hell I thought, and I sat down without surveying the man who made the offer or the other person. I sat down, sliding my backpack around to my chest, unzipping it, and removing my book, a well-practiced maneuver. But before I can open the cover, completing the last leg, the man to my left, who had invited me to sit, spoke. This is rarely a good sign on a bus.
“My name’s Andre.”
I looked over at him; looked him square in the face. I hesitated for a moment, thinking about giving him a false name, giving me some personal distance from this man, because, God knows, we couldn’t have been physically closer. But the only name that came to mind was my own, and I turned to my book.
“What are you reading?”
I was really in no mood for this, so I simply closed the book over my hand, presenting the cover to him. (“SECRETS: A MEMOIR OF VIETNAM AND THE PENTAGON PAPERS” by Daniel Ellsberg.) At this point I actually began to read.
“What are you reading that for?”
Now, some days I am more than willing to engage the benighted and often intoxicated people who ride the bus. But today I had many things immediately on my mind, including this book, which I was (and am still, as of writing) intent on finishing today. Again I hesitated. Without really intending to, I was an asshole.
“Because it’s interesting,” I said.
This for sure put an end to it. But Andre wasn’t finished. He made an observation about the fact that he was drinking. I couldn’t summon the will for even the most inane reply; I may have vaguely twitched my head in response. I continued to read.
Maybe the bus hit a pot-hole, or maybe Andre just momentarily lost control of his hand. What happened is that Andre dropped his coffee straight down to the floor of the bus. I looked down to see coffee splattered all over my left foot. The Styrofoam gas-station coffee cup rolled on the floor and Andre retrieved it.
“Good thing I had the lid on good and tight.”
“ . . .Yeah,” I muttered heavily.
I felt violated; he might as well have vomited on my shoe for the way I felt at that point. Then I began to think he might actually vomit on me. I felt violated. I felt my shoe get slightly warm. It might as well been any kind of Andre’s body fluid, it would have felt just as vile. Maybe I should just stand up, I thought. No, I countered to myself. That would surely invite some sort of comment from him. I sat and read and fumed.
Recently COTA (the Central Ohio Transit Authority) has been approved to begin using larger busses on the busier routes. Too late for my shoe.
While at the stop there was, I’m guessing, a family of children. The oldest were maybe fourteen or fifteen, one of whom was pushing a stroller. I was reading a book, but I couldn’t help observing this family. They were right in front of me. One shouted to another something about “ . . . getting your ass beat.” I looked up and a seven or eight year old girl was having a conversation with her eleven year old, I’m assuming, brother. The conversation seemed to be somewhat in the vein of the girl’s appearance. I didn’t make everything out, but she seemed to indicate through her grandiose body language that she thought her ass could look better. Her brother pointed out that she needed to diet, and she latched on to the idea with enthusiasm.
“I’m gonna be eating my noodle soup, I ain’t gonna be eatin’ no cheese, I gonna be drinking my diet soda . . .”
I got on the bus and there was no room to sit. To me, a bus with no room to sit doesn’t necessarily mean that every seat is taken. I’m all over and empty two-seat bench. I usually sit in the seat nearest the aisle, so as to discourage anyone from trying to share with me. A three seat bench I am somewhat wary of; someone could take the seat on the other end and on public transportation you never know what manner of person that might be. If there are no unoccupied benches I will usually share with someone, depending on the length of my ride and how tired I am. That is only an option if there is bench with someone of normal girth on it. In Columbus, Ohio this is by no means a certainty. The middle of a three-seat bench is almost always out of the question for this same reason, but also because being sandwiched, even between two normal sized (thinner than average) is not much fun. When I can’t sit I can’t read, so when this happens I settle into a thousand yard, watching the human and commercial squalor pass through the windows. The depressing sights no longer affect me, and, pushing into the sunset towards Hilltop there is sometimes an unlikely beauty in that rolling urban mural.
Today, I stepped on the bus and a quick survey showed no available seats. Before I can turn around I hear: “There’s a seat right here.” I turn around and there is indeed a sandwich seat “available.” What the hell I thought, and I sat down without surveying the man who made the offer or the other person. I sat down, sliding my backpack around to my chest, unzipping it, and removing my book, a well-practiced maneuver. But before I can open the cover, completing the last leg, the man to my left, who had invited me to sit, spoke. This is rarely a good sign on a bus.
“My name’s Andre.”
I looked over at him; looked him square in the face. I hesitated for a moment, thinking about giving him a false name, giving me some personal distance from this man, because, God knows, we couldn’t have been physically closer. But the only name that came to mind was my own, and I turned to my book.
“What are you reading?”
I was really in no mood for this, so I simply closed the book over my hand, presenting the cover to him. (“SECRETS: A MEMOIR OF VIETNAM AND THE PENTAGON PAPERS” by Daniel Ellsberg.) At this point I actually began to read.
“What are you reading that for?”
Now, some days I am more than willing to engage the benighted and often intoxicated people who ride the bus. But today I had many things immediately on my mind, including this book, which I was (and am still, as of writing) intent on finishing today. Again I hesitated. Without really intending to, I was an asshole.
“Because it’s interesting,” I said.
This for sure put an end to it. But Andre wasn’t finished. He made an observation about the fact that he was drinking. I couldn’t summon the will for even the most inane reply; I may have vaguely twitched my head in response. I continued to read.
Maybe the bus hit a pot-hole, or maybe Andre just momentarily lost control of his hand. What happened is that Andre dropped his coffee straight down to the floor of the bus. I looked down to see coffee splattered all over my left foot. The Styrofoam gas-station coffee cup rolled on the floor and Andre retrieved it.
“Good thing I had the lid on good and tight.”
“ . . .Yeah,” I muttered heavily.
I felt violated; he might as well have vomited on my shoe for the way I felt at that point. Then I began to think he might actually vomit on me. I felt violated. I felt my shoe get slightly warm. It might as well been any kind of Andre’s body fluid, it would have felt just as vile. Maybe I should just stand up, I thought. No, I countered to myself. That would surely invite some sort of comment from him. I sat and read and fumed.
Recently COTA (the Central Ohio Transit Authority) has been approved to begin using larger busses on the busier routes. Too late for my shoe.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Movie Review -- Buffalo 66 (A)
Buffalo 66 is an unlikely love story set one bleak rustbelt winter day in Buffalo, NY. It is at times tender and angry, hilarious and heartcrushing. Ultimately love and acceptance overcome despondency and bitterness.
In every conceivable way, Billy (played by writer/director Vincent Gallo) is a miserable low-life. He is a compulsive liar, still obsessed with his third-grade crush, and he treats his only friend (who is retarded) with the disdain of a bully. This is the day he has been released from prison after five years. His only offense was a foolishly large bet on the Buffolo Bills in the Superbowl, placed with a ruthless bookie.
Layla (Christina Ricci) is forced to spend this day with Billy, perhaps the last day of his wretched life. A visit to his provincial and unloving parents (hilariously portrayed by Angelica Huston and Ben Gazara) a round of bowling, which seems to be Billy's only pride, and an accidental run-in with Billy's grade school crush. We learn nothing about Layla, except that she is drawn to Billy. Perhaps out of her own loneliness or a tender attraction to his helplessness and despair the two become almost imperceptibly bound. By the end of the film we see Billy on the road to a new life with Layla, eschewing himself of the bitterness and blame that had kept him a child.
Buffalo 66 is as warm as an ice-berg. Every character is blatantly and hopelessly flawed, except for Layla, who stands out as a benign angelic figure. Buffalo is gritty, unforgiving, windswept and cold. The connection between Billy and Layla, however, brings light and warmth into this human tundra. They surrender to eachother and their world is cast into a new light.
You may not believe it, but it is really quite a feel-good movie. The feel-good that can only come by seeing the misery and powerlessness that comes before redemption. I recommend this movie for anyone who has ever been in love, and also for everyone else.
In every conceivable way, Billy (played by writer/director Vincent Gallo) is a miserable low-life. He is a compulsive liar, still obsessed with his third-grade crush, and he treats his only friend (who is retarded) with the disdain of a bully. This is the day he has been released from prison after five years. His only offense was a foolishly large bet on the Buffolo Bills in the Superbowl, placed with a ruthless bookie.
Layla (Christina Ricci) is forced to spend this day with Billy, perhaps the last day of his wretched life. A visit to his provincial and unloving parents (hilariously portrayed by Angelica Huston and Ben Gazara) a round of bowling, which seems to be Billy's only pride, and an accidental run-in with Billy's grade school crush. We learn nothing about Layla, except that she is drawn to Billy. Perhaps out of her own loneliness or a tender attraction to his helplessness and despair the two become almost imperceptibly bound. By the end of the film we see Billy on the road to a new life with Layla, eschewing himself of the bitterness and blame that had kept him a child.
Buffalo 66 is as warm as an ice-berg. Every character is blatantly and hopelessly flawed, except for Layla, who stands out as a benign angelic figure. Buffalo is gritty, unforgiving, windswept and cold. The connection between Billy and Layla, however, brings light and warmth into this human tundra. They surrender to eachother and their world is cast into a new light.
You may not believe it, but it is really quite a feel-good movie. The feel-good that can only come by seeing the misery and powerlessness that comes before redemption. I recommend this movie for anyone who has ever been in love, and also for everyone else.
Friday, February 13, 2009
What are we doing with ourselves?
The other day, while walking from my bus stop to work, I passed a woman on the sidewalk who was putting some packaged food into a box. As I approached her she looked up at me. "Sir, would you help me carry this box to the bus stop right over there."
I told her I was late to work and that I didn't have time. That was a lie. In fact I ended being 30 minutes early to work. I just didn't want to, although I knew it would only have taken a minute or two. I don't really know why I didn't help her. She didn't look homeless or threatening in any way. As soon as I walked away from her I regretted not helping her with the box.
What are we doing with our lives? Are we living for ourselves, for others, or both? I realize its a weak cord connecting my experience with the woman to that question, but nevertheless it is a question that we should ask ourselves.
I will answer the question for myself. Right now I am certainly living for myself. I need to find some firm footing in my new adulthood, and that necessitates some self-service. This is necessary for my very basic happiness and to pursue my goals. Now, my goals are anything but self-serving. I would like to raise the consciousness and help empower the people in this country and around the world who are struck down and repressed, as well as the people who, to varying degrees of complicity, enable the myriads of injustice all around us. (This group of people includes just about every living human.)
I would like notoriety, no doubt. But not just to see my name in lights. With notoriety I can better spread a message that benefits almost all of mankind. I am not a self-less instrument of good, but I would like to do more than my part for the betterment of everyone.
I wish that I had helped the woman with her box. And not because of some bull-shit "pay it forward" mentality, which ensures that any altruistic impulses will be on the smallest scale. I should have helped her because it is not entirely her fault that she needed help get through her day. This I know. I want to help other people realize this and to act on their knowledge.
I told her I was late to work and that I didn't have time. That was a lie. In fact I ended being 30 minutes early to work. I just didn't want to, although I knew it would only have taken a minute or two. I don't really know why I didn't help her. She didn't look homeless or threatening in any way. As soon as I walked away from her I regretted not helping her with the box.
What are we doing with our lives? Are we living for ourselves, for others, or both? I realize its a weak cord connecting my experience with the woman to that question, but nevertheless it is a question that we should ask ourselves.
I will answer the question for myself. Right now I am certainly living for myself. I need to find some firm footing in my new adulthood, and that necessitates some self-service. This is necessary for my very basic happiness and to pursue my goals. Now, my goals are anything but self-serving. I would like to raise the consciousness and help empower the people in this country and around the world who are struck down and repressed, as well as the people who, to varying degrees of complicity, enable the myriads of injustice all around us. (This group of people includes just about every living human.)
I would like notoriety, no doubt. But not just to see my name in lights. With notoriety I can better spread a message that benefits almost all of mankind. I am not a self-less instrument of good, but I would like to do more than my part for the betterment of everyone.
I wish that I had helped the woman with her box. And not because of some bull-shit "pay it forward" mentality, which ensures that any altruistic impulses will be on the smallest scale. I should have helped her because it is not entirely her fault that she needed help get through her day. This I know. I want to help other people realize this and to act on their knowledge.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Godfather (The Novel) B-
I plan to use this blog as a reviewing platform for books, movies, and music. I am interested in many diverse things, so it should be interesting to look back in a few months and see all the pieces of art and academe I have ingested. In keeping with that plan I will give a short review of the last book I have finished, "The Godfather" by Mario Puzo, published in 1969.
I'm sure many people know this book by its movie incarnation, as I did. In fact, I still do and always will. The book was a great piece of story telling, mostly in keeping with the Godfather Pt.1. The aspects of Vito Corleone's life (that's the Godfather) that are covered by the film the Godfather Pt. 2 are also included. There are also a few tangential story lines stemming from characters introduced in the opening scene, Connie Corleone's wedding. Other than that, the book is the movie almost scene for scene.
This would be the third addition to my list of movies which are better than the books they are based on (Fight Club, Deliverance the others). Puzo reveals the thought processes and inner monologues of the wide cast of characters in an episodic fashion, keeping the reader an outsider to the insular world of Italian organized crime in America.
Many times when I compare a novel and the movie adapted from it I say "How could they cut that scene?" While reading "The Godfather" I found myself saying "Thank God they cut that scene" The tangential characters find their way back to the main story line in the last 50 pages, but to no consequence. These individual stories are only marginally interesting in their own rite, and rather pointless compared to the sanguinary and sordid doings of the Corleone family.
Puzo writes with little perspective beyone that of his characters. Their intricate decisions and thoughts are broken down on the page, and the reader is commensurately immersed in the world in which every character is. The reader remains an outsider. I think this is a vital approach to understanding such a culture that would seem primitive if the reader was plunged head-first. I think if I had not seen the movie the end would have been a lot more powerful. All the themes of loyalty, responsibility, and family shed their abstraction as Michael Corleone, the man who seemed the least likely gangster of the characters, realizes his place at the head of his family.
Its hard to judge having seen the movie version many times. The movie realized the story in a much more compelling manner than the book could. A good read for fans of the movie all the same.
I'm sure many people know this book by its movie incarnation, as I did. In fact, I still do and always will. The book was a great piece of story telling, mostly in keeping with the Godfather Pt.1. The aspects of Vito Corleone's life (that's the Godfather) that are covered by the film the Godfather Pt. 2 are also included. There are also a few tangential story lines stemming from characters introduced in the opening scene, Connie Corleone's wedding. Other than that, the book is the movie almost scene for scene.
This would be the third addition to my list of movies which are better than the books they are based on (Fight Club, Deliverance the others). Puzo reveals the thought processes and inner monologues of the wide cast of characters in an episodic fashion, keeping the reader an outsider to the insular world of Italian organized crime in America.
Many times when I compare a novel and the movie adapted from it I say "How could they cut that scene?" While reading "The Godfather" I found myself saying "Thank God they cut that scene" The tangential characters find their way back to the main story line in the last 50 pages, but to no consequence. These individual stories are only marginally interesting in their own rite, and rather pointless compared to the sanguinary and sordid doings of the Corleone family.
Puzo writes with little perspective beyone that of his characters. Their intricate decisions and thoughts are broken down on the page, and the reader is commensurately immersed in the world in which every character is. The reader remains an outsider. I think this is a vital approach to understanding such a culture that would seem primitive if the reader was plunged head-first. I think if I had not seen the movie the end would have been a lot more powerful. All the themes of loyalty, responsibility, and family shed their abstraction as Michael Corleone, the man who seemed the least likely gangster of the characters, realizes his place at the head of his family.
Its hard to judge having seen the movie version many times. The movie realized the story in a much more compelling manner than the book could. A good read for fans of the movie all the same.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Take The Power Back
I recently attended a lecture my John Perkins. He has written two books about his experiences working for as an economist for a consulting firm in the 70s and 80s. His books, notable "Confessions of an Economic Hit Man" reveal how corporations in conjunction with the World Bank and the IMF keep the world poor and third-world countries subservient to the developed world. Mr. Perkins now tours the world speaking about his experiences and urging people to act to change the injustices in the world that are carried out by the rich against the poor.
"Confessions" was a watershed work for me as an aspiring historian, and, along with Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States" have been the main influences in framing what I want to study in history. For this reason I was greatly looking forward to seeing Perkins. But his talk spoke to me personally. He urged everyone to fight what he calls the "corporatocracy" (corporations, governments, and international monetary institutions) by buying only products and services produced by responsible corporations who do not exploit workers. He also encouraged everyone to follow their dreams and use their talents as a means of fighting back.
I have always felt that my life is kind of pointless and self-indulgent if I do nothing to leave my mark. Recently that thought has evolved from merely seeking notoriety towards making a tangible impression in the world I leave behind when I die. I know how empowering history, and reading Perkins and Zinn has exposed the many injustices, both bold and underlying, that have marked the course of history. I want to continue that work, both exposing these injustices and empowering people to improve their own lives and the lives of everyone. And I heard this directly from Perkins. Use your talents, fight back. I have talents, and I waste them if I do not use them for the greater good.
I would encourage anyone to read "Confessions" and "A People's History." They detail things which may just be vague notions to many about the origins of the world we live in, and why the poor remain poor. I wish there was more I could do now, but if I work now to improve my own life, I will some day be in a position to open the eyes of many, as Zinn and Perkins have done for me.
"Confessions" was a watershed work for me as an aspiring historian, and, along with Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States" have been the main influences in framing what I want to study in history. For this reason I was greatly looking forward to seeing Perkins. But his talk spoke to me personally. He urged everyone to fight what he calls the "corporatocracy" (corporations, governments, and international monetary institutions) by buying only products and services produced by responsible corporations who do not exploit workers. He also encouraged everyone to follow their dreams and use their talents as a means of fighting back.
I have always felt that my life is kind of pointless and self-indulgent if I do nothing to leave my mark. Recently that thought has evolved from merely seeking notoriety towards making a tangible impression in the world I leave behind when I die. I know how empowering history, and reading Perkins and Zinn has exposed the many injustices, both bold and underlying, that have marked the course of history. I want to continue that work, both exposing these injustices and empowering people to improve their own lives and the lives of everyone. And I heard this directly from Perkins. Use your talents, fight back. I have talents, and I waste them if I do not use them for the greater good.
I would encourage anyone to read "Confessions" and "A People's History." They detail things which may just be vague notions to many about the origins of the world we live in, and why the poor remain poor. I wish there was more I could do now, but if I work now to improve my own life, I will some day be in a position to open the eyes of many, as Zinn and Perkins have done for me.
Monday, February 2, 2009
On Life . .
"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams; live the life you imagine."
-- Thoreau
My good friend also keeps a blog.
It is called Avoid Reality. We had a great conversation a few weeks ago on blogging, and more generally on the idea of avoiding reality. Many things are difficult to grasp, and many more are even more difficult to accept. The reality is, reality -- life itself -- can be and is difficult, painful, worthy of escape, perhaps, but not, in my opinion, worthy of aversion.
Another good friend of mine, sort of my mentor, gave me a wonderful card at my college commencement last spring. It included a quote by Thomas Paine: "What we obtain too cheaply we esteem to lightly." In other words, anything worth doing is difficult. In other words, that which is easy we will take for granted and eventually fuck it up.
My life has been pretty crazy since I left the cozy confines of college in the summer of 2007. Even more so since I abandoned the cozy confines of my pentultimate ex-girlfriend nine months ago. The first 18 months of my So Called Adult Life. I remember when my teachers in middle school and high school use to tell me how easy life was for us at that age, and how much more difficult it was to be and adult. Pshaw, I thought, as probably everyone does.
Over the last nine months my life has been like Cedar Point, America's Roller Coast. When I was riding low it was often very hard to see the way up. When I was riding high there was no ceiling to how high I might soar. But life is only like a roller coaster ride if you decide to see it that way.
The fact is there is always something unexpected or unforeseen somewhere up the track of your life, that course, which, depending on who you read, may or may not already be laid out in front of you. What I think we need is fortitude in the dips, and diligence in the swells.
But always embrace what is your life. Don't hide in booze, TV, or the internet. I mention these three things because these are what I chiefly use to avoid reality. But reality is all we got, and when I really think about it, its alright.
-- Thoreau
My good friend also keeps a blog.
It is called Avoid Reality. We had a great conversation a few weeks ago on blogging, and more generally on the idea of avoiding reality. Many things are difficult to grasp, and many more are even more difficult to accept. The reality is, reality -- life itself -- can be and is difficult, painful, worthy of escape, perhaps, but not, in my opinion, worthy of aversion.
Another good friend of mine, sort of my mentor, gave me a wonderful card at my college commencement last spring. It included a quote by Thomas Paine: "What we obtain too cheaply we esteem to lightly." In other words, anything worth doing is difficult. In other words, that which is easy we will take for granted and eventually fuck it up.
My life has been pretty crazy since I left the cozy confines of college in the summer of 2007. Even more so since I abandoned the cozy confines of my pentultimate ex-girlfriend nine months ago. The first 18 months of my So Called Adult Life. I remember when my teachers in middle school and high school use to tell me how easy life was for us at that age, and how much more difficult it was to be and adult. Pshaw, I thought, as probably everyone does.
Over the last nine months my life has been like Cedar Point, America's Roller Coast. When I was riding low it was often very hard to see the way up. When I was riding high there was no ceiling to how high I might soar. But life is only like a roller coaster ride if you decide to see it that way.
The fact is there is always something unexpected or unforeseen somewhere up the track of your life, that course, which, depending on who you read, may or may not already be laid out in front of you. What I think we need is fortitude in the dips, and diligence in the swells.
But always embrace what is your life. Don't hide in booze, TV, or the internet. I mention these three things because these are what I chiefly use to avoid reality. But reality is all we got, and when I really think about it, its alright.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Change We Can Believe In
Yesterday I got dumped. I'm really not upset about it. It's a humbling experience though; I have been put in my place. I haven't been dumped since I was 16. It was very amicable. We had a drink, she dumped me, we had another drink, and I left. That was it. I actually had a good night because I got to hang out with my friends. We got drunk and I fell on a cactus. My friend Nick has all these cacti at his house and through ten years of friendship which included many drunken days nights I managed to not skewer myself. But last night I simply lost my balance and ended up with about a dozen quills in my ass. It occured to me this morning how close I came to piercing my balls or ending up with what might be called an Arizona Prince Albert.
So now here I am. A free man blogging with a sore ass.
So now here I am. A free man blogging with a sore ass.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
?-?-?-?-?
I work in customer service. Its a good time, everyone should try. I am exposed to some rare specimens of American humanity. Had a good one yesterday.
I was screamed at by a woman on the phone from Oakland, California. She was very angry as soon as I answered the phone. As near as I can tell the only thing that was frustrating her was she wanted some postcards and she did not have them. She wanted ten postcards. She didn't have them, so she was angry.
Now, one could chalk this up to a toddler-like "mine" attittude, general pushiness, or simply a bad day. But I see it as more than that. The woman had tried to find these postcards at other branches of the organization I work for and couldn't. This seemed to both baffle and infuriate her. She seemed to have the idea that it should be made easier for her to rabidly consume whatever it is she desires. Why should everything that she wants not be right at her fingertips. She apparently saw me as the entity standing in the way of her having ten postcards, and that why I got to taste her hot rage.
So, ravenous consumerism. That was obvious. That much anger over something so . . .quaint, though, made me think it might be something more.
They were just postcards. How on earth could postcards drive someone to the state she was. (She actually screamed at me, over the phone.) I got to thinking about how Americans, as organisms, have so little to concern ourselves with in the way of actual survival. (I guess I am speaking of a certain strata of Americans, but I think you get the idea) When humans don't have those kind of things to worry about, the mind can take on all different kinds characters. This is why philosophy exists probably, and also Dungeons and Dragons. I think whatever mania this woman suffered from was influenced by this idea. Some of the greatest aspects of civilization exist without tangible contribution to our survival (art for example) and I would not do without them.
It is important to keep these things in context, which is where I think this woman fell short. These postcards were important to her -- but were they really? Would they have the same order of importance if this woman, even once, had ever gone hungry for want of sustenance? If she had ever watched family members die from violence or preventable illness? If she witnessed, first-hand, the blind cruelty of war. If she lived in an openly repressive society? These are the type of struggles that most people in the world (the vast majority of people, make no mistake) have to deal with. Its a sliding scale all the way up to postcard difficulties.
That woman pissed me off. But I think most people I know have been in her place. Angry because we have difficulty obtaining that thing which we do not truly need. Every single American has more at any given time than most people in the world will have in their entire lifetime.
I was screamed at by a woman on the phone from Oakland, California. She was very angry as soon as I answered the phone. As near as I can tell the only thing that was frustrating her was she wanted some postcards and she did not have them. She wanted ten postcards. She didn't have them, so she was angry.
Now, one could chalk this up to a toddler-like "mine" attittude, general pushiness, or simply a bad day. But I see it as more than that. The woman had tried to find these postcards at other branches of the organization I work for and couldn't. This seemed to both baffle and infuriate her. She seemed to have the idea that it should be made easier for her to rabidly consume whatever it is she desires. Why should everything that she wants not be right at her fingertips. She apparently saw me as the entity standing in the way of her having ten postcards, and that why I got to taste her hot rage.
So, ravenous consumerism. That was obvious. That much anger over something so . . .quaint, though, made me think it might be something more.
They were just postcards. How on earth could postcards drive someone to the state she was. (She actually screamed at me, over the phone.) I got to thinking about how Americans, as organisms, have so little to concern ourselves with in the way of actual survival. (I guess I am speaking of a certain strata of Americans, but I think you get the idea) When humans don't have those kind of things to worry about, the mind can take on all different kinds characters. This is why philosophy exists probably, and also Dungeons and Dragons. I think whatever mania this woman suffered from was influenced by this idea. Some of the greatest aspects of civilization exist without tangible contribution to our survival (art for example) and I would not do without them.
It is important to keep these things in context, which is where I think this woman fell short. These postcards were important to her -- but were they really? Would they have the same order of importance if this woman, even once, had ever gone hungry for want of sustenance? If she had ever watched family members die from violence or preventable illness? If she witnessed, first-hand, the blind cruelty of war. If she lived in an openly repressive society? These are the type of struggles that most people in the world (the vast majority of people, make no mistake) have to deal with. Its a sliding scale all the way up to postcard difficulties.
That woman pissed me off. But I think most people I know have been in her place. Angry because we have difficulty obtaining that thing which we do not truly need. Every single American has more at any given time than most people in the world will have in their entire lifetime.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Truth
I named my blog "Truth Reason And Justice" because I decided several years ago that those were the three tennets that I would like to see be the guiding impulses for humanity, and which I strive to utilize in my own life. At least that is my aspiration. I will do a post for each of them, starting with Truth.
The Truth is hard to tie down. I think it is important to make the distinction between fact and truth. While the Truth may consist of a convergence of fact, it is also true that facts often obscure larger truths. Indeed I believe that they are often used to that end.
Truth is personal, and not always a universal realization. Deeply embedded truth can be countered, but, being tied so closely to affect, these firm truths are irrefutable. Truth exists deep in the psyche and deep in our collective memories.
Truth also has a tangible component. It is what looms behind our prejudices and misconceptions. It is sometimes lost in the shuffle of over-complicated lifestyles. It is the course that is often difficult to take.
All of this is pretty obfuscated and vague, but hopefully there is some, well, truth to be gleaned from it.
The Truth is hard to tie down. I think it is important to make the distinction between fact and truth. While the Truth may consist of a convergence of fact, it is also true that facts often obscure larger truths. Indeed I believe that they are often used to that end.
Truth is personal, and not always a universal realization. Deeply embedded truth can be countered, but, being tied so closely to affect, these firm truths are irrefutable. Truth exists deep in the psyche and deep in our collective memories.
Truth also has a tangible component. It is what looms behind our prejudices and misconceptions. It is sometimes lost in the shuffle of over-complicated lifestyles. It is the course that is often difficult to take.
All of this is pretty obfuscated and vague, but hopefully there is some, well, truth to be gleaned from it.
My first blog
Well OK, here it is. Only about four years behind the curve on my first blog. More to come.
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