Haiku

Through the cold and rain
Of the bottom of the fourth,
There is a rainbow

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.