Everything You Need to Know

Compulsion

2010-09-08T00:11:00.000-07:00

Just now I found myself doing something so frighteningly compulsive, I had to jot it down. I was setting three alarms for tomorrow morning. It's late now, and i'll only get around 3 hours of sleep, and so i'm setting three consecutive alarms with a snooze time of ten minutes. I set the first alarm for 6:45am, the second alarm I set 11 minutes later, and the third I set 12 minutes later than the second alarm. All of this is part of the daily routine; nothing out of the ordinary.

Earlier, however, I called my parents to talk about Rafael Nadal's straight set victory over his countryman, and though I couldn't get them on the horn, I received texted messages as to my whereabouts and well-being shortly thereafter. My parents are concerned. So basically, I was calling about tennis, and my parents thought I was dying or something. They should know better, but also I suppose they shouldn't. So before i set my alarms, I texted my mother to inform her that i was fine, to which she replied, "great luv u get some rest". So now, for every alarm that I set, i repeat in my head "get some rest". Three times I repeat this, so blind in my idiosyncrasy that I believe that there is a nice little feature on my alarm clock (my phone) that suggests, strongly, maternally, that I ought to rest-up. I reset my alarms just to check.

Media Culture & Twenty-Somethings

2010-08-18T22:38:00.000-07:00

... Smashing through the room of his youth, and casting down his cloak and sword he reached bear handed into the blackness of his past and smote the fears of old in ruin upon the earth...

How do we move away from our understanding of the world? We do not, I suppose. We have tried and we have failed. The foundations of understanding are necessarily under pressure. How do we think about the world that we are born into? Can you end a sentence with a preposition? If it's a question, yes (maybe). What is everyone looking for?

I feel saturated by media. I love movies. I love tv, and books, and music. I guess the best of all of these, the one's that resonate are the ones that reflect our lives. Carolann showed American Tune, by Paul Simon and it made me cry. How can something so simple do that. The ability to express a feeling so precisely that it seems to cut through you. The feeling of missing home, or the feeling of pride, or of love. All of the things wracked up in a lifetime. What compass do we have to navigate these experiences? I've always thought it was the people that occupy it. What if we are alone? Those relationships become meaningless, or meaningful and fleating, or both or who cares. I need to figure out what to do with my life. How I should go about the years that I have. I'm 25 years old and I have nothing to say about the world. Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day and I'm trying to get some rest.

The Blog Dilemma

2009-11-16T19:24:00.001-08:00

My refrigerator is dying a slow death. Walking back to my room, having just emptied and refilled the Brita Filter (a skill which I alone seem to possess) I can still hear my refrigerator moaning and tumbling like a full washing machine. In my room, sucking on a Calms Forte, a homeopathic remedy for stress and passive worrying, and which, by nature excels at calming, I can still hear the damn thing. Every few minutes the motor works up enough momentum to rock the whole apartment. Though i'm not hungry (feeling not so great after a nice tasting but cold tuna melt from a local diner) every sway of my room compels me towards the fridge. At this very moment there is a nicely cooked cut of chicken, deciding whether or not to go bad. "Stay alive," I say, "I will find you!" I should go check on it.

The chicken is fine and I am in the kitchen now. The pull of the whining refrigerator was enough to rip any man with a soul out of the confines of his room. Besides, writing is an energetic process that should be done in a seated position not lying on one's back in bed. The kitchen table will work much better from here on out. The bed is a place of much more pleasurable and necessary endeavors than writing, and it is best not to confuse the lot. Additionally, this allows me access to the refrigerator. My presence, I think, is soothing to it. The tuna melt, which had such severe consequences earlier seems to have been mollified by the pathetic sputtering of its keeper. All in all this seems a far superior place for writing. This brings me to a point.

There are commitments that must be made when taking on a month-long-daily-blog-posting marathon. Some of these commitments are more obvious than other, though all of them, obvious or not, are necessary in the making of a successful enterprise. The most obvious of these commitments are the allotment of time and thought. Time is, for this blogger, of the essence. At least one hour per post for writing and revising (maybe only thirty minutes if the Hills is on). Second, thought is equally as important, albeit a bit more passive and persistent than it's brethren. Both time and thought are necessary components of blogging, things which when faced with the prospect of posting something every day of this month I assented to freely. The unseen commitments, which i unknowingly agreed to with my subscription, include some of my favorite things. Drinking, for one, almost certainly rules out blogging for that day, and in some special cases for the next day as well. Sex, also, overrules the prospect of blogging and rightfully so. Weekends and free time, too, have started to infringe on my blog time. This all sounds backwards, I know, but that is the commitment of the full-time blog champion; no booze, no sex, significantly less free time. So get out there bloggers, and write your sober, lonely, celibate memoirs.

Fat Bitch Wednesday

2009-11-11T20:31:00.000-08:00

Every week, sometime around the middle, my housemate and I sit down to watch The City and The Hills back to back. Usually, this night takes place on Tuesday--that being the night the shows are posted online--and usually involves hooded sweatshirts and ice cream. Tonight i made twice baked potatoes for everyone. Dean had a apple turnover that his brother sent him.

So let's just get one think straight. The Hills and The City are unequivocally great tv shows. Tonight my housemate--Dean again--wished aloud that he could have bought stock in The Hills at the get go. He also had to wish, later, that you could buy stock in television shows at all, but that's beside the point. The point is that these two shows are great. They are the most fascinating shows i've ever watched. They are dramatic, embarrassing, jaw dropping, disgusting, and completely enjoyable. Outside of sentimentality they have everything you could wish for in a television series. Well, that and likable characters. Neither shows have likable characters. But whatever, who needs sentimentality and likable characters. We'll have plenty of both in a few months when the Winter Olympics role around (who else is watching women ice skating qualifiers. Right!). So yeah, the abovementioned television is chalk full of awfully rich children, rolling, dancing, drinking, and definitely fornicating in New York and Beverly Hills. They're the kind of shows that make you want to punch total strangers and I think that's important.

- The twice baked potatoes were incredible.
- I missed new comic day.
- Devendra Banhart is good, but his style should not be duplicated (see also: kids singing open mic night like goats)
- Australians are still awful people.
- Canadians are push-overs.
- Most women are stronger than me.
- I'm still wearing the Yankee cap.
- My fucking computer doesn't have speakers right now. This is bad for late night tv.
- Dean is growing his beard but shaved under his jaw line. This was a mistake as far as i can tell. His beard, which ought to look like an organic, circumstantial thing, looks like a business model, well thought out and planned for the future. Unfortunately, this is actually the case; Dean in growing a mustache in disguise. I almost want to tell him to shave it and correct it's course from the beginning. I would if not for the inevitable storm of self-consciousness that would then settle in on him and ultimately inspire him to scrap the whole project.

That about wraps it up.

Obviously, word to your mother.

- TW

Latin Comics and Other Awful Things

2009-11-10T16:01:00.000-08:00

Last night, George Lopez made his debut on Lopez Tonight and for the first time since Carson Daily hit the air, a late night talk show host proved it possible to be less funny than Jay Leno.

The Lopez Show was a complete mess. I think I made it about halfway through his opening act before I quit the scene. Lopez bombed. The camera crew also struggled, mostly in their pursuit of audience members clapping, smiling, or even laughing. It was pretty awful. Lopez, it seems, struggles with the same problem that Carlos Mencia struggles with; hyper focus on race relations. I understand that the whole white-people-do-shit-different-than-us joke (or vice versa) has been successful, but enough already. It's been done. And really, it's a lot funnier when black comedians do it. When George Lopez walks on to a five hundred thousand dollar set that looks like a 1980's Miami discotheque, and says, "I just had an 'ah hah' moment. I thought only Caucasian people have those, but i just had one," I want to kill everyone. Like, George Lopez, you're not mexican. Socioeconomically speaking, you're much more like a white male. ha. Anyway, I'm just not interested in hearing some rich talk show host talk about privilege.

Carlos Mencia, too, man. He's bad. Just for fun, I google searched Carlos Mencia clips and the first hit was a bit making fun of white people and camping. A) I'm pretty sure someone that's funnier has done this already, and B) shut the fuck already. Carlos Mencia is like more middle American than anyone I know. The next bit I saw was something of a Socratic dialogue between him and an Afghani, concerning whose country was hotter shit. So basically, the next four minutes are all about how America is the most guns blazing, ass fucking, bomb dropping bunch of badasses there ever where. He punctuated this bit by sticking his hands down his pants, exclaiming that he would not apologize for being a man, and then stuck his fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply. Sooo, hmmm. If it wasn't so obviously sincere, it would make for a decent bit of social commentary or something. But I really think it's not that thoughtful. It was about big dicks and bombs and money, and that's fine or whatever, but like, who are you talking to? Who is you're audience, Carlos Mencia? I like camping and dislike war despite its inevitability, and people who like war or whatever, well, i'm pretty sure they like camping too. That i didn't hear anything about 'getting her done' in that bit was almost impossible to me. I watched it again just to double check. Anyway, it was embarrassing. Flamboyant and desperate and not funny. It was like watching Dane Cook with a white motorcycle jacket and a better head of hair. Lopez at least isn't quite so desperate. He's just a rich asshole. In any case, they are both bad. Dane Cook, too, is quite bad.

Anyhow, the whole Lopez Tonight thing was ridiculous. It made me feel crazy. Then, watching the Carlos Mencia thing made me feel double the crazy, and kinda mad actually. Their concern for the differences between them and whites (Lopez doesn't even have the balls to call an apple an apple (e.g. Caucasian)) is silly. The real comparison should be between themselves and the average Latin American. Like, "when you drive to the store you're all like this, etc. in a '88 Honda Civic with flip lights, and when I drive to the store i'm all like this, etc. in a Hummer. What up! I be like driving over your ass and not even spillin' my latte." I don't know. Disregard that last bit.

So i don't know. I'm too caffeinated and tired to continue. Plus it's dark and CA just got back to brooklyn. So basically, i'm looking to eat a cheeseburger, put in my retainer, and get laid. Booyah. I do, however, want to talk about Australians at some point and how they will never be cool. It's a recent and interesting discovery for me. I think everyone could benefit from it.

Until then, crime-fighters. This is TW, signing out.

- TW

The Lord's Day

2009-11-08T20:45:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry to say that this Sunday I will not be offering anything up in the way of a blog. Sunday is the Lord's day. At least this one Sunday.

The Weekend

2009-11-07T16:33:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry, friends. I've failed you. I've missed a day.

Last night I got home at around 4am. CA and I went out to the bars with her old housemate and his girlfriend from Boston. So after waking up 9am, CA and I drank until around 4am, ate a cheese steak and some fries, and popped into a cab back to brooklyn. So today was pretty much wasted. I guess not wasted. I stayed in all day and drank coffee and ate bagels.

Now we're watching an interview on Entertainment Tonight with John Gosling, of the famed TV show 'John & Kate + Eight'. Basically, this guy is just an idiot. He's stupid. That's not fair. He's fucked. That's the problem. He's completely fucked. Not as a person or whatever, but politically or socially or something. He just shouldn't be talking to the media at all. It's like watching somebody say something ethnically insensitive and then realizing that said something just made everyone uncomfortable. the inevitable back-peddling that follows is the always worse than the original statement. Watching John Gosling on TV is a complete train wreck. So he's fucked. He behaves like a child. He seems to know better, but just chooses not to change his behavior. Like, his response to the question, "you seem to not be able to stay out of the lime-light?" is beautiful. John basically said, "it's good to be in the media so long as your portrayal is good, but i'm not going to change..." So, like, that's cool. It's close to something like madness. You know how people think it's really interesting that the "definition" of madness is something like, "attempting something repeatedly, expecting different results." So I guess some people think that definition is suuuuper interesting. Probably cause people exhibit that behavior all the time. So anyway, you get it. Gosling is portrayed as an asshole in the media, he behaves like an asshole, he wants to be portrayed as a nice guy, he doesn't want to change. Sooo. Right. Anyway, now we're watching NCIS with L.L. Cool J and Chris O'Donnell, which is way less satisfying. It's difficult, though, to turn down a pseudo cop show with those two characters. I mean it's bad. Like a bunch of idiots miming pro-military propaganda. Lie, this episode is about a dead Navy Seal. LL cool J's character is a Navy Seal. So basically, this show is a big commercial for the Navy Seals, which is nothing like the Navy Seals of my understanding. Instead, this commercial is all about brotherhood, and integrity, and honor and shit, which is obviously, for anyone who knows me, a huge disappointment considering the fact that my understanding of the Navy Seals was founded on cinematic classics like 'Under Seige'. So unless LL and C. O'D start breaking arms over their shoulders, and getting into knife fights like it's their job, i'm changing the channel. Also, there aren't nearly enough strippers poppin out cakes for this show to be about the Navy Seal. Whatever, I have no control over whether or not we watch this show, I think Carolann has a crush on LL. I don't know how she couldn't, ladies love him.

Hope everyone is well out there.

Also, Australians suck so much cock. Topic of tomorrow's BloPo.

Also, gay men cannot legally give blood. Actually, not gay men, men who have ever participated in intercourse with another man cannot give blood. So gay men, and college football players who are not gay but get drunk at parties. So that's the law. Evidently because of their association with HIV. This is actually sad. CA just told me and it made me sad.

- XOXO, Gossip Girl.

Passed out

2009-11-06T00:03:00.000-08:00

Tonight i neglected my BloPo obligations. I'm crossing my fingers, hoping that when i post this, it reads Thursday 11/6 even though at the moment it's 3am on Friday morning. So, I guess, a little explanation is in order. I opened the coffee shop today. That means that after last nights blog, yankee game which ended at 12:30am, and compulsively researching cell phone plans, Manhattan neighborhoods, and horse breeds (there are over 300 breeds of horses) I woke up at 5:30am.

So Today I was completely exhausted. The worst part of working a coffee shop job is that it requires these huge feats of patience and understanding. Today that was impossible. Because of the relationship between you and the customer, exhaustion and frustration are almost completely unacceptable. Even looking someone in the eye and telling them to have a nice day becomes difficult. Doing that 200 times, sounds insurmountable. So instead, I was quiet today. I did my best to be kind and friendly, but also stayed reserved. It felt really good. I served everyone the best i could and was quiet.

After work, i met my Aaron for lunch at this Polish diner on 2ave and 10th st called Veselka. It's incredible. Aaron had the meatballs and i had beef stroganoff. Both were good. We discussed job dissatisfaction and our personal lives. He worries that his job keeps him from his art and I worry that I've been too engaged in the success of something that ultimately shows me no ends. So that was upsetting. mostly I worry that he's going to take off soon. The idea of doing this job without a co-manager is terrifying. uff.

When i got home, I got a half dozen 'donuts' from a 24hr diner near Carolann's stop, ate one on the road back to my house, sent some emails, read a sex book that Carolann gave me from her job and Penguin, and passed out, fully clothed, watching Ghost Busters. GB is probably one of the best movies ever made. Or, at least, is a great movie that features one of the best cinematice decisions ever made. Everyone in GB smokes and drinks cans of budweiser on the job. It's beautiful. It always makes me laugh. One scene that comes to mind and has been the topic of endless discussion between me and the C-note, finds Sigourney Weaver entering Ghost Buster's HQ for the first time. As she approaches the camera and the shot begins to pull out, we find Dan Aykroyd working up to his waste under the hood of the GB car, smoke wafting out around him. Drawn by the sound of Weaver's heals on the cement of the GB garage, Aykroyd pops his head out from inside the hood, at which point we discover that he's smoking a cigarette. At this point, we can infer, perhaps correctly or not, that the smoke from the engine block was actually smoke from Aykroyd's cigarette. Obviously, this shit is ridiculously funny to me. Though i'm not sure on what level these guys were operating when they wrote this movie, I can only hope that my inferences in terms of their intention match up. I love the idea of Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd laughing at the idea of Ray Stanz smoking cigarettes and working under the hood of a car. Obviously, I may never know the true intentions of these guys. Maybe it's better that way. Maybe it's better to believe that this film is operating the way i want it to, and that these scenes, which i feel have these subtle and persistent qualities are not just a lucky accidents. I need more sleep before i go into this. I can't remember how i got here.

Those Yankees

2009-11-04T21:03:00.000-08:00

Tonight i wore the baseball cap of a team that won the World Series and it felt pretty good.

This is one of two world series that I've watched through completely. The last time I invested like this was in 1998 when my hometown team, the San Diego Padres went to The Series. Then, too, the Yankees were there. They won in four games. It was ridiculous. No one really expected the Padres to win, but not even taking one game off the Yankees was sad. I hated the Yankees, I hated their money, and I hated their fans. As early as the third game, Yankees fans were bringing out the brooms. In the final game I felt like they all had brooms; and they had them in Qualcomm stadium. I don't even care about baseball. To my friends, that much is obvious. I think it's slow and wearying. Still, I hated those goddamn Yankee fans.

Today, I'm sitting at home in Brooklyn, New York. I'm wearing a Yankee cap that a friend, and avid Yankee supporter, bought for me. "Root for a team that wins once and a while," he said. He was only teasing but it's true. For the duration of the series I have done just that. I've rooted for the Yankees. Incidentally, I already knew half the players on the team. And so, for the past six or seven days, I watched the games and rooted for my team. It wasn't difficult. Everyone wants their team to win 27 championships. Everyone wants their team to be the Yankees. They are everything that baseball is. Everything from the pinstripes, to the logo, to the city they represent is legendary, and for that, rooting for this team was a beautiful thing.

Now, it is starting to rain. Mayor Bloomeberg is on the television in Yankee garb, people are gathering in the streets outside my apartment, going to or returning from the bars, the empire state building is lit-up in Yankee's blue and gray. Tomorrow I will wake up at half past five, and get on the subway. From the car, heading over the bridge through Brooklyn, I can see the lower Manhattan and off in the distance, the Empire Building. New York, for me, is still a little magical. I'm still star struck when i see famous sights and eat famous foods. For that, rooting for the Yankee's tonight was special. To simply feel like a part of something, to wear the hat to work tomorrow and have every customer comment on 'those Yankees". Wherever i go from here, I'll have the year that i was in New York and felt like a New Yorker.

On Preparation for Winter

2009-11-03T20:06:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I cooked a soup. I've been doing this lately, cooking soup. I sit at home, watch seinfeld on tv, and I cook soup. Right now the episode is on in which Elaine reveals to Jerry that she 'faked' every orgasm she ever had with him. I love this episode. Incidentally, the woman who plays the role of Dr. Cuddy on the television show House MD, and who also has, on occasion, kissed my co-worker on the mouth, makes an appearance in this episode. It's a great episode.

The soup, though. The soup is excellent. It's full of things that could make a man smile and a woman blush; potatoes, corn, bacon, and a man's love. I'm making it for the second time around, and going for broke at the market, I picked up 8oz of slab bacon instead of the thinly cut variety. I've never cooked this type of bacon before, and I can say, now, that is the finest bacon that i have come to know. Everything from cooking, to eating, to even cutting it into neat little cubes, nears perfection. The quintessential question of adolescent males is often asked of such unique and perfect foods, "would you rather give up 'blank' or blow jobs... forever!". In the case of slab bacon, I'm afraid i would have to permanently bow out on oral sex. this is no slight on you, CA. The bacon is just very, very good. I'm not sure, however, that the soup is so good as the bacon alone, though i doubt that many soups are on par with blow jobs.

The point of the soup--only the second soup i've attempted this season--is to hone my survival skills for the upcoming winter. As the time change came into affect this past Saturday, and the light that had already started waning earlier and earlier in the day, jumped by a whole hour's mark, I found myself almost fearful of the terrible winter ahead. Fall, revered by all New Yorkers, had, for me, the acrid taste of negative temperatures and pallor. So I've been working. I've been preparing. As far back as summer i began my preparation; I bought a North Face parka for half-price online while staying with my parents in San Diego. A week or two ago, I bought a new pair of waterproof work-boots and wool socks. Work books, by the way, have become my religion. They have been, over the course of the past year, the most revelatory discovery of my adult life. Boots have changed my life on the east coast more than extra thin condoms, stone ground mustard, and domestic beer. Needless to say, boots are something that have come out of the dark to show me the light. Last winter they were my savior, and this year I've upped the ante. So i got new goddamn boots and a parka and some socks for outerwear, and for the soul and state-of-mind I have soup. Soup, being the only food I want to eat when temperatures dip below the thirties, it is natural to run some field tests before combat. Additionally, running the stove for hours and hours at a time warms the apartment, which in my case; the case of having roommates who ran a tv cable through your bedroom window, preventing it from ever shutting properly, is a very valuable feature.

NaBloPoMo & Other Silly Things

2009-11-02T23:37:00.000-08:00

This month is National Blog Posting Month. Naturally, I'm going to partake. I'm going to air it all out everyday for one month.

This, of course, will not be easy. I'm going to need your moral support. I will attempt to neglect my duties. I will forget diligence. But, still, I am going to try. I'm going to try for myself. I'm going to get it all out there, and God, is it going to feel good! Even writing this now feels like a ten pound weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Thank you, blogging community.

Really, though, i'm doing this live.

Songs About Your Girlfriend

2009-10-25T22:17:00.000-07:00

Tonight I listeded to a song about my girlfriend. This was a new, and needless to say, weird experience for me.

On October 1st, a new album was released with a single titled after my girlfriend. I listened to it for the first time tonight. The song itself is alright. It seems young. The lyrics are a bit too righteous and indignant to be taken seriously, but the production is nice and produced-sounding. I mean, obvoiusly, I hate the song. Pretending to be objective is silly. Hearing a song that is so clearly about a person you know and care for is difficult. I guess that's part of it. It was like finding out that someone is in love with the person you love, or at least they were in love with that person. Hearing things about her that were true and some facts that are still true, made me feel sick. It was like being hit in the stomach. Obviously, now, i must destroy him.

So aside from all this personal shit, the song is pretty awful. I mean, really, though, the song is not good. Actually, it's a well-made bad song. That's part of the problem. It's petulant and trite, and though there are a few good lyrics, they are sprinkled so haphazardly among trash that they're difficult to find, let alone enjoy. Lyrics like, "I think you almost get me, but no one will ever get me," simply can't be tolerated. Aside from my own personal problems with the notion of others "getting" you, it's ridiculous to think that no one will ever understand you. It's ridiculous and insulting. It is especially insulting when considering how freely this dude talks about and diagnoses the problems of others in the song.

My first girlfriend wrote a poem about me not too long ago. I felt similarly about it. It was dramatic and silly, and it took something that was natural and nice and made it seem unfortunate and sad. The things that happened to us then were sad at the time, but now they were just a part of growing up. I don't understand the need to dramatize the past. The songs and poems that stick out to me, have always been honest or elucidating or even simple. I understand the urge or inclination for the dramatic, I just wish that it wouldn't be indulged unnecessarily. If you're writing about something sad that's fine, but if you're writing about how a girl wouldn't sleep with you in college and it hurt your feelings, maybe just say that. I guess you could just keep doing that and let your fan base consist of 12 to 15 year old girls forever. That's cool too.

2009-10-03T18:39:00.000-07:00

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.

carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.
carolann is tight.

Children

2009-05-16T20:19:00.000-07:00

Children in New York are terrible. At twelve o'clock everyday, they descend upon the city, getting out of school for lunch and rushing the streets. The pizza shops and bodegas nearest the school are overwhelmed by these foul creatures, who have yet to learn the responsibilities that all of us share. They curse each other, spit, yell, listen to ipods, and 'shout out' their friends on cell phones. Inside the Chelsea Market, they buy their food or bring their lunches and sit in the middle of the promenade. Blocking honest men and women, these children are a fire hazard. Surely, too, they are a health code violation. Surely, they have never washed their hands.

In my neighborhood, these beasts are being spawned. Women walk their boys and girls around in strollers. These strollers too are a nuisance. They take up the isles in the market and the sidewalks on the street. As a man, i am terrified of these women, and i feel for the men they have indentured. I can only imagine how flabbergasted these men must be, receiving the knowledge that their wives and girlfriends are pregnant. The innocuous act, which they had engaged in time and time again, or worse, only the once, for social purposes had culminated in its reproductive one. As a man whose parts have never been successfully tested in the field, I can sympathize with the sort of shock that this news would bring on; a mixed pot of wonder, joy, fear, and sadness.

This Goes Out to the Ladies

2008-10-31T11:59:00.000-07:00

To all you girls in Brooklyn that 'prefer' to live with female roommates, fuck you. I didn't want to live with you anyway, you're doing me a favor, but just say what you mean and say it with some balls. "No boys," maybe, or perhaps, "if you're a dude, you need not apply." Be definitive and ardent. Exclude with vigor. Do not say maybe. Do not give even a twinkle of hope.

In addition, it is only women who 'prefer' to live with anyone on craigslist. This is simply an observation. There are no men posting about living preferences, and if there are, i'd advise them to check their pants for a vagina. I believe the reasons for this to be two-fold: First, these women--no, these girls--do not have friends who are stupid or crazy enough to live with them. Two, these girls are assholes. That's it. Their friends wont live with them and so they want to go find new friends on craiglist.

This, polemic, keep in mind, has nothing to do with anyone i know/love who is currently looking for housing. It has to do with silly girls from NYU, who want to get away from the dorm life. Maybe it also has to do with some performance artists, I'm not sure. Maybe, also, it has to do with me and this thing i have about rejection.

Democrats in da House

2008-08-25T23:37:00.000-07:00

Seriously, fuck the Democratic National Convention. Fuck it. Fuck democrats for the matter. Fuck Nancy Pelosi. Fuck Barack Obama.

I'm not sure why these people think it's cool to swarm together and talk about how tight they are. It makes sense. Kinda. I guess. Like it must feel good to stand in a huge crowd of like minded-people and chant little quips and catch phrases. I don't know. Doesn't that sound kinda good? Right?

So, honestly, i didn't even finish this shit. I watched for a few minutes, learned some shit about Nancy Pelosi, Barack Obama, and John McCain. Pelosi is the first Italian American speaker of the house. She's also a woman. Incidentally, she's a great speaker and kinda charismatic, but fuck, is she annoying. I've never heard so much goddamn talk about modern patriotism and coalitions.

I mean, i really don't know what it is that irks me so goddamn much about politics. i think it's all really foolish and iritating on this superficial level; but in this whole other, more complex way i thinks it's kind of malevolent or something. I think, for sure, that these people, almost categorically, are snakes. i think no congress person ought to speak to passingly about right and wrong when it comes to political ideas; at least not by saying 'this person is right this one is wrong blah blah blah.' It's stupid. It's stupid talk. Especially when a room full of flag-waving dummies chant along with her, "When it comes to health care! Obama's right, McCain's wrong!" Seriously? Seriously, that's what where doing?

Also, I don't know what's good for our country. I don't. More abstractly or fundamentally, however, I don't think simply bringing diametric positions to the table is the best way of solving a problem. In politics, though, It's even worse then that. It's not like Barack Obama and John McCain have opposite ideas; it's not even that 'democrats' and 'republicans' have opposite ideas. In fact, i'm not entirely convinced, after this little shindig, that either have any real ideas at all. Instead, two dudes who probably believe a lot of the same things are encouraged to say silly things by silly people. I think that's where the whole evil part of politics comes from. It's all about winning, but not in healthy american sense, but in the conniving, i'll-say/do-anything kind of way. Like, if a politician was in a western, he/she almost undoubtedly would be a bad guy, a coward, or a wretch.

Jesus this blog is bad. Whatever. I seriously felt a little sick watching that shit. it made me feel a little hopeless and sad for our country. i'm not sure if it was the conspicuous splicing of political rhetoric and MLK themes or what, but it makes me sick that Obama is black. It makes me feel sad a little; like maybe we all feel a little too good about him being black.

Plus, the way people at this convention where talking about how he's going to save us made me hope he fuck it up. Like, fucks everything up: health care, economy, the war. I know this is stupid and maybe not even cool, but part of me wants to see what would happen. i know it wouldn't be tight, but maybe it would be good for us to realize that these fuckin guys are just suits with big, white teeth.

As American As Men's Gymnastics

2008-08-12T01:52:00.001-07:00

Unlike many young, indignant Americans, I am extremely proud of my country.

Tonight, i talked with my mom on the phone and watched Men's gymnastics. First, i'm not sure if four year old perceptions are simply too old to say i even truly comprehended anything or if the sport has simply changed a great deal in that time, but there was something incredible about it all. Often times i found myself sitting completely still and holding my breath until whole routines were finished.

After the American Men's team was finished performing or whatever, the feed cut to a young women, Natalie Coughlin, who had just won the 100m backstroke and qualified for the 200m freestyle event. After a congenial interview, there was a replay of the of her standing on a podium with another American and a German, i think, and quietly mouthing the words to The Star-Spangled Banner. Her hair was still wet from her earlier swim and holding a bouquet with shaky hands, she kept back her tears. I looked at her high cheek bones, perfect teeth, and blue eyes (all, to me, undeniably mid-western characteristics) and felt proud and happy. As the song came to an end, and she no longer had any words to quietly recite, she began to cry, wave, and smile, and for a brief moment I felt my throat get tight, and thought that i might cry along with her.

I'm not sure what it was exactly that made me feel so goddamn good about watching this young woman achieve something so great; i'm not sure it needs to be much more than that. I know there was a sense of unity, though; something that made me, and her, and all the athletes that compete under the United States, and every other american, connected. It happened later, too, after the feed cut back to the American Men's gymnastics team celebrating after winning a bronze medal. They all jumped around and hugged each other, and chanted 'U.S.A.' as coaches and teammates ruffled their hair and kissed their heads. In the audience, a young man who evidently couldn't compete, was clapping and intermittently wiping tears from his massive face by nuzzling it into his massive arms.

I'm sure the reasons for my emotional response tonight are complex, but simply, i was proud to be an American. I felt identifiable and good. I am always vaguely proud in this way, but this sensation was so acute and direct that it was altogether overwhelming. Thank God that this feeling was quickly nullified by a member of the men's gymnastics teams repeatedly shouting into the camera, "that's how we role!" Any sentimentality, at this point, was quickly put to rest.

Good Things

2008-07-18T01:04:00.000-07:00

- Driving down the coast really fast with the windows down, listening to loud music.
- Spraying out the inside of a cooler with a water hose, and especially listening to the noise it makes.
- Cold, light beers when thirsty/dehydrated.
- Seinfeld.
- Cigarettes.
- The smell of a BBQ.
- Letter's from Alex Roome's mom.
- Letter's from your mom.
- Making fun of Ben B's stink-foot.
- J-books
- Calling C-Note's bluff and asking him if he wants to go 'halfzies' on the first five issues of Orson Scott Card's Iron Man.
- Calling Neil a 'big, fat Jew.'
- Telling Dr. P how sweet 300 was, even though it wasn't that sweet at all.
- Moving into new places with good friends.
- Drinking at the Red.
- Prefacing work related shit-talk with a, "i know we don't want to talk shit about work all night, but..."
- Saying 'fag' in public.

Amateur Barista, Professional Psychologist

2008-07-09T22:49:00.000-07:00

By now, all of you are, i'm sure, aware of the fact that i work at a coffee shop. This coffee shop is arguably the best purveyor of espresso drinks in the downtown area. Whether this is the case or not, many people think this, and in thinking this, they are either incline to visit or not. For example, I feel extremely self-conscious when suggesting to my friends that we go to my coffee shop as opposed to any other. I still do make this suggestion, and my friends are good sports about it. All of them will get their coffee and they'll say that it's good, or it sucks, or 'who cares, Dude, you're such a fag;' they are not the kind of people who are drawn to this place.

There are whole handfuls of people, however, that love this shop. They should, I guess. It's a good coffee shop. It looks really nice and the people are nice too. There is one couple who comes in everyday, before or after their run (they go jogging together!), and order huge lattes with condensed milk or caramel, and tons of whipped cream, but fuck it, we love them. Everyone loves them. They're great.

One of the things that is great about them is that they accept the relationship between service person and customer. They are the customer, etc. There are some, however, that reject or misunderstand this relationship. These are the people that when asked how they are doing, respond, "terrible today, my dog is dying." I understand that that shit is tragic, it hurts, but i'm a fucking coffee guy. I care, i've been through it, but it's none of my business what your dog is doing. Even if i asked it still isn't my business. Mostly, these people don't play that nice little game that lends itself to my sanity; that game where i pretend i'm not hung-over and you pretend you're emotionally stable. These people encourage me to pursue lines of questioning, hoping upon hope that i will nibble on a juicy piece of gossip that might lead to stories of drug addiction, sex, death, whatever. Anyway, it's just really fucking weird. It's kinda sad. It also kinda makes me feel like we're all sliding down some weird, unforgiving slope, where once at the bottom, we will find ourselves subtly begging our service men and women to ask about our day so that we can answer them honestly, hook them with our feelers, and suck their life-force.

So fuck that. I'm moving to New York to seek my fortune and when i'm rich, or we're all rich, or we're all poor and alex is rich, we will find a city, a house, and a barbeque near one another and live like kings.

Wine Talk

2008-07-03T00:38:00.000-07:00

Wine talk is bullshit. It is complete bullshit. I'm twenty three years old. I'm allowed to think this way.

Talk of wine, like many things, is a tool; it is a tool that allows the individuals who wield it to raise themselves up from the hordes and their popular springs of knowledge. There are many such tools. Swear words and sex acts, too, have had their moments in style and fame. Indeed, the third-grader who gracefully wields the 'fuck' word and seems to possess the arcane knowledge of 'blowjobs,' is a man amongst children. However, looking back, this charming, nostalgic notion shines with a brilliance that only pure bullshit can provide; namely, no child has a conversational comfort with 'fuck' words, just as no child truly understands sex acts. As adults, and agents, we accept these quirks, just as our forebears accepted them of us. "They're just kids," we often say. We understand that children are capable of childish things. This is fine and natural.

However, the child's desire to raise himself/herself up from the masses by cursing, or speaking of 'blow jobs,' is not representative of strictly childhood behavior; instead, it is a behavioural characteristic that any person can possess. We know this principle well. "Stop being a child," we might say when chastising a friend. This is simply to say that children behave in ways that are not acceptable for adults. Even more broadly: we expect different things from people our own age. We expect a friend to conduct him/herself within certain parameters, just as we expect the child to. For the adult, acting as a child is well outside the acceptable parameters of behavior.

It seems that i may have gotten ahead of myself. We are talking about wine, after all. I said earlier that talk of wine is a tool; a tool that young adults use to superficially improve themselves. This premise, however, seems to beg the question. So let us address this matter.

As a man in my early twenties, my proficiencies are many, and yet, relative to the average living age, few. My knowledge and abilities in regards to breathing in and out have been, over my twenty three years and some odd days of living, finely honed. My understanding of, say, men's fashion accessories on the other hand, continues to be deficient. In regards to the latter, this may very well be the case for all reasonable men my age. Obviously, there are things that simply continue to elude us young men. At twenty three, despite nearly three years of bar room activity and consistent beer drinking in between, I can only begin to tell you what sort of beer i enjoy. Indeed, this may be a purely subjective deficiency of my own; a deficiency of my palate, perhaps. Still, it seems fair to say that given only three years training, experts in any field would be few and far between. After all, these things take time.

Avoiding the possibility that my recent and cursory understanding of beers and beer flavor is due to retarded taste and olfactory senses, let us move to wine. Wine is something that ought to be enjoyed. Indeed, wine has a myriad of wonderful things to offer. Even indirectly, the 'lush' can be seen as a great contribution. And yet, there is an aura surrounding wine that is far from savory. This pernicious aura is one that surrounds and consequently vitiates many things, which are, in its absence, enjoyable. The enjoyment of spirits, cheese, and even coffee, are fine examples. These things, which are good, have been soiled by a foul dust which has settled upon them. Of these examples, nothing has gotten it quite so bad, so to speak, as wine as gotten it.

This aura, this dust that i speak of, is one that exists solely in the presence of people. It brings from them something for which I have an unaffected scorn: wine talk. This talk is the worst sort of talk. It comes from people regularly. We have all done it, i'm sure, as children or otherwise. Regardless of age, however, we can look upon it with shame and humility, knowing full well that we all have sinned. As youths, we have spoken of sex act with the plagiarized confidence of adults, just as we have cursed and swore like sailors. We have all been seduced by the desire to have claimed new wellsprings of knowledge for our own, and consequently we have desired to be apart from the masses, looking back, laughing. Do not get me wrong. I am not saying, "do not explore!" By all means, learn, experience, hone your craft, read thick volumes of wine talk, and labor tirelessly for your love. Speak to me of finishes, highs and lows, and flavor profiles. However, if your talk has that nice, familiar stink to it, I will not be accepting, and, by God, you will receive no quarter.

Lovely People

2008-05-25T02:29:00.000-07:00

tonight i sat at a bar with an old friend and a new one. We sat together and drank whiskey and smoked cigarettes and reminisced. As is often the case, certain friends came up. After having ordered a few well whiskeys (Canadian Mist) the new friend ask if I ever got bored with that drink. Though it was treating me well, I was, in fact, becoming 'bored' with the drink. Still, I hated the way she asked me; not so much because of the qualities of Canadian Mist, but more so because this person could not keep from yawning, and because i worried that someone who is so comfortable with the term might throw it around later in regards to the present company. I could not help but think that this girl must read Kerouac or something like it. Regardless, her statement got me to thinking, and looking up at the shelf of liquor behind the bar, my eyes rested on a nice, tan and green ceramic jug. I asked for two and came back to my seat. I gave Neil his drink, and after a treatment, he asked me what we were drinking. "We're drinking to Ben tonight," I said. Neil, in an unimaginably cool fashion said, "good night for Dew." I looked over at our new friend, and saw that she was drinking from my glass (She had done this earlier, after seeing me shudder while drinking a big sip, trying, I assume, to show both me and Neil something of her metal). This time around there was no hiding; her face puckered, and wincing she set the drink down. "What is that?" she said. "It's Tullamore Dew," I said, vindicated. "it's got a bit of a bite to it," She said. Neil and I said, "It does."

The point of all this is that there are people out there who elicit a particular and profound love. Some of these lovely people have since moved away from Santa Cruz. They are talked about often. Most times at bars or in living rooms after drinks. Even in their absence they bring us together. Occasionally, the philosophical will question the existence of such persons, worrying that the time we spent with them was honest proof of a deceiver. Other, more reasonable people, simply talk about the times spent. "You remember that time when he told us about the month he spent in a Jamaican Prison?!" or " remember that time when she drank from a whiskey bottle for 15 seconds?!" we might say.

Tonight, Neil and I drank to one of these people. Tonight we drank Tullamore Dew like old men, and smoked Chi's hand-me-down cigarettes, which had been ingeniously wrapped in a plastic zip-lock bag. "Do you just like toting around plastic bags of cigarettes or are you preparing for rain?" our new friend asked, and as Neil explained that our friend, Chi, had left a bundle of cigarettes behind for us, I could not help but think that there was the makings of a future story here; that maybe one night in a bar, or in a living room after drinks, someone would be telling this story, becoming closer, more loved; it made me think of new stories to come.

Now, after nearly nine months away, one of them is coming back. She is going to be here soon, and thinking on this, I can't help but wish that we were all here under one roof. Mostly, though, the prospect makes me happy.

Beers Be Warned: The Garrison's In Town

2008-05-05T03:55:00.000-07:00

Beers be warned, for the Garrison (abridged) is back in town.

On Friday, after work, I called Pouria and Alex in hope that they were coming into town. They were.

Of this weekend there is little to be said and much to be remembered. Cops, locals, and even woman were involved in its exploits. Indeed, for some, nested in kindling that only the Garrison can provide, there were sparks of romance. However ineffable these experiences have proven to be, this can be said:

In the refrigerator, after two nights of Garrison, was a single bottle of Miller Highlife. Earlier that week, armies of its brethren huddled together, full, cold; thousands of them, gracing the weekend residents of Myrtle Beach with a warm and all but ethereal glow. Now, this one lay on its side, retired to the refrigerator, as if in resting from a weekend spent under siege. One by one, and at times, by twos, the beers had fallen to their enemy; fallen to champions and titans of men; fallen to the Garrison. These men with unquenchable thirsts and inexhaustible resources sat amongst each other and drank. They drank with mirth and and with vigor, both to those who could not join them, and also to themselves and their prowess. For in the company of true champions, one can set aside trappings of modesty.

In the aftermath there was nothing save a recycling can full of fallen soldiers, bruises, and the lapping flames of love.

A Sad Post & Preemptive Apologies

2008-04-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

I worry that one day I will forget my friends and loved ones. I realized, working late one night, listening to music shared by those closest to me, that my better parts have been strewn about the country. I worry that in time I will forget these people and the things that bind us. I worry that against the persistent blare of new experiences and people, I too will be forgotten. There is a certain beauty to all of this; and yet, its realization brought to me a pain and dissatisfaction that settled in a place which for the larger part of my youth I had thought not to exist.

Serious Philosophy

2008-03-26T23:10:00.001-07:00

Recently, and with the prescriptive help of a friend, I came to the realization that the negativity in this blog is getting to be a little out of control. Of course, this is due in large to the fact that venting is therapeutic, and that writing is more productive, at times, than, say, drinking.

So i've started a new blog. This was also inspired by a friend who recently moved away. It was his wish to take the first steps in movement towards sincerity. Such a movement would ultimately be away from irony. This is not to say that irony would not have it's place in the New Sincerity Movement (coined: Dan Means), but indeed, irony would not be a milestone.

So by the terms of the New Sincerity Movement I am putting myself out there (so to speak), and I am doing it without a trace of negativity or ironic distance. I will not make fun of other. I will not complain or bicker. I will expose my academic love for philosophy, clearly and, with some luck, articulately. This new thread is called Serious Philosophy. It will feature some of my academic writing (including the paper i've been working on over the past few weeks), and post-academic writing, both instructive and critical, regarding whatever i'm reading at the time. This is, indeed, a visionary quest.

I do not expect the readers of this thread to cross over to the other. That's fine. I simply want to pursue something academic during my time away from school. This seems as good a forum as any.

Wet Cappuccino: On Fools and Possible Ambassodors

2008-03-04T19:41:00.000-08:00

Human beings are strange creatures. This is evident.

Today I made lattes. Making lattes is extremely stressful. On average it takes about a minute to make a latte. This is a long time to wait for a coffee drink. Just imagine if three people ordered before you; imagine if nine people did. So there are times when people are forced to wait. They sit and they read, or they gripe, or they do both or neither, and they wait. This is a terrible thing when making lattes. People are loud, opinionated, and impatient creatures. After nearly a month of working at a coffee shop, this, also, is evident.

People are strange for myriad reasons. However, here, I only wish to speak of perception and the illusion of preference.

Undoubtedly, people want. Undoubtedly, also, people think they know what they want, what they don't want, and the differences in between. This is not the case. People are foolish. They rely on things like 'benefit of the doubt,' and blind trust. As I've said they are strange creatures.

Today a man ordered a wet cappuccino. This is simply a normal cappuccino with a little less form or 'texture.' As he ordered, he expressed, "I want it wet, but not 'latte wet." The difference between cappuccino milk and latte milk is just the amount of foam. More for a cappuccino and less for a latte. Less foam equals wet, more foam equals dry. This is what has become of my life and my limited mental resources. So he specified that his drink be "wet, but not 'latte wet.'" After receiving the man's order and waiting for him to be out of ear-shot, I sent the order to my co-worker, "12oz. latte for here, please."

The drink was made and as it came up i called out, "12oz wet cap, but not latte wet." The man came up and got his coffee drink. "How's that drink," I asked. "It's perfect," he said.

At this point, there are several things that need to be accounted for. First, it is very possible that the person making drinks heard the man's order and decided to ignore my own. This is almost definitely not the case. The person making drinks has (a) what seems to be premature hearing loss, and (b) asked me to repeat the drink order, having forgotten it. Second, the person making drinks could easily have made the drink exactly to his specifications by accident, perhaps adding too much texture to what she thought was a latte. This could easily have happened. However, I am incline to believe that neither was the case.

The simple fact of the matter is that the man received a latte. He asked for a wet cappuccino, and he received a latte. the reason i am able to assert this with little hesitation is that the difference between the two drinks is marginal to the point that said margin is difficult to create and even more difficult to distinguish. I know this because making the distinction between wet cappuccinos and lattes is my job (I am aware of what i have become). To draw an analogue, it would be as if one was presented with the color blue-green, after asking for the color blue with a just a little green, but not 'blue-green.' There is probably a difference between those two colors and the difference is probably difficult to appreciate.

The point of all this non-sense is that people are strange creatures. A man walks into a store and asks for something that is difficult to make and implies that his taste for that thing has been refined to an incredible point. This is fair. There is nothing wrong with wanting something and asking for it. However, there is something wrong with asking for something, receiving something else, and not knowing that what you received is not what you had asked for. When I asked the man, "how is your drink?" I would have liked for him to tell me, "it's wetter than i would have liked." Whatever followed from there would be cake. I would gift wrap a new drink myself; i would refund the cost; I would even clean up the mess after he smashed his ceramic cup in a fit of rage. All of those things would be welcome because they would prove to me that people are capable of asking for what they want, and more importantly, knowing what they want. Yes, it is possible that this man was simply an ambassador of good will and understanding, and was able to say to himself, "yes, this cappuccino is too wet, but as an ambassador to wet cappuccino drinkers everywhere, I will bite my tongue and give this kid a fucking break." This is possible. Yet, I do not believe that that was the case. I believe that this man was unable to tell the difference. I believe that because of my intuitions. I believe that because the factors that would lead this man to think that he was getting exactly what he wanted were vast. I believe that because of Gestalt. I believe that because Anthony Bourdain is a fucking joker.

This sort of thing happens to me all the time. Sometimes I win subtle victories and give people something that they did not ask for, tell them that it is what they asked for, and they cannot tell the difference. These victories are invaluable. Other times, I fail and call out the drink that was made and not the drink that was ordered; then I am forced to remake the same drink. These moments are difficult.

On the Litter Box: A Strange Device

2008-02-27T13:12:00.000-08:00

I wonder about cats and litter boxes. My housemates have gone to India for a month and while they are gone I’m obliged to look over the cat. I wonder about cats and litter boxes because in the absence of my housemates, I am to clean the litter box once a day. This is a very strange task; and the concept of a litter box is even stranger. Why is there such a thing? Do we or ought we to hold other creatures to such strict and tiresome standards.

I worry that it has something to do with the creature’s nature. Unlike dogs, cats are roguish and do not respond to their master’s beck and call. We fear this feline quality. We argue and squabble over its implications for feline v. canine intelligence, which is absurd. However, I fear that our inclination to train domestic cats to relieve themselves in small rectangular boxes is both ridiculous and unnecessary.

Training any animal to defecate and urinate in one’s house is silly, no matter how clearly defined or designated that place be. Also, excrement will always look and smell like a duck, no matter how much sand and grit is piled on top of it.

It is unnecessary to train an animal to use a litter box. This does not need an explanation. It is simply the case. It is also the case that animals do not need beds to sleep on; nor do they need the warmth of a lover’s embrace; nor any other human luxury that we may be so fortunate to enjoy. Of course, the argument can be made that animals deserve some level of comfort and/or luxury. However, such arguments hinge on the notion that animals have such a thing as rights, and that those rights entitle them to certain standards of living. Animals have no rights; animals merely have the concern of those with rights.

2008-02-27T09:04:00.000-08:00

This is a page from the most recent issue of Skull Force Comics. If you are not already, read this comic.

Experiments In Advertising

2008-02-25T23:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I agreed to a contract that allows Adsense to advertise on my blog. Adsense is an application that allows google to crawl my site and assess what products, associations, and charities my readers would respond to. Since yesterday, my first two advertisements have been for "wholesome hotdogs," and "California Nursing."

Also, for every person that clicks on an advertisement, i'm rewarded a certain percentage. After i've accrued over one hundred dollars, a check with be sent in the mail to my home address. This is very exciting. So start clicking away. Seeing as i probably get less than a cent for every click, and that i've only had 185 total views, I think this might take some time. However, between google's ability to know what you want, and your resolution to see me well off, I think the odds are in my favor.

On Mysteries and Getting Old

2008-02-25T02:22:00.000-08:00

This week was an extraordinary week. My friend Ben and his girlfriend, Heatherly, arrived at San Francisco Airport on Saturday, and by monday they were in santa cruz. While I was at work both of them came in, accompanied by Alexander Roome. It was terribly exciting.

Now they're gone, back to New York City. Fuck New York City. This week was a great reminder. I forget just how great my group of friends is sometimes. This is a very strange post in a way, because this post is written about them as if they are not the only people who read this garbage. This perfectly illustrates my friends qualities: They are the only one's who could possibly read this tripe.

Anyway, this past week was full of severe drunkenness, nostalgia, grits, and grand schemes of eastward migration. Now my housemates are gone, and i'm writing this, with the Superman: Doomsday title screen still blasting from my T.V. I'm also drinking a 24oz. banguet beer. This is something that would happen often in my old house. Like then, I still drink large cans and bottles of beer in brown paper bags. I'm not sure why i do this. Shadow Chi is convinced that it's because i drink slowly and that i'm embarrassed. I hated Shadow Chi when i first met him.

This week was the first time in over a year that all my old housemates were under one roof (this reunion was cut somewhat short by the absence of daniel means, who is a monster and is another factor in the hating New York City). It was a great, great thing. I'm not sure how to explain why it was great. I tore a hole in my jeans, scraped up my back, bruised my arms, lost in arm wrestling, listened to slick rick, and showed up to work hungover every day last week. I guess that's pretty close. It was great. It made me realize that growing up sucks and that in someways the notion of maturity and growth is an illusion. It is recommended that after school one ought to move out and away, on to new and better things. What does this mean? It means that one should travel, seek new and alien places, situations, relationships, and experiences. Why this is the normative course of action is becoming more and more unclear. I cannot for the life of me understand why i am not in New York City. I cannot understand why all of my friends don't live in Brooklyn and why we don't spend every Monday at the Barbeque Bar, drinking free bourbon and eating pulled pork sandwiches. My friends love sandwiches. So i've learned that things in life are mysteries. Like why our values and goals lead us to live in different states, or cities or whatever.

So needless to say, it was total bullshit that this week was totally awesome. It was bullshit because it wasn't novel or exciting, but because it was every weekend no less than two years ago. It's bullshit because two years ago i live with five of my best friends and now i live with two girls, a neurotic dog, and a shitbag of a cat. This is not to say that my current situation is a problem. I'm simply saying that moving growing up and seeing your friends move away is a real drag. Also, now, I have to hang out with work friends, who are nice enough. they're fine. but they really know way too much about coffee and latte art to be taken seriously.

Juno and Making Distinctions

2008-01-04T02:51:00.000-08:00

Juno is an okay movie, it is not a good movie.

Last week, a friend asked me, on a scale from one to ten, how fucked our generation is (one being least fucked and ten being most fucked). The safe answer to this question is, "at least an eight or a nine." The two girls at the table gave this answer, while a friend, Nick, responded with the more safe and more rock-n-roll answer, "I don't give a fuck." I asked for more time to think about it.

Though this joke was well received, I was actually quite serious. What a fatal error it would be to quickly dismiss or approve our very own generation. Stimulated by the response of my peers, I was inclined to endorse my generation wholesale. "Less than a 'one'," I would say, "maybe a 'two' if any of you angsty, pseudo nihilists get your hands on the reigns." But lest i be merely a contrarian, I should apply myself to this problem with patient scrutiny.

The question was simple at first: What irks me about this generation? Having just seen the movie Juno, the answer, too, was simple. This is not to say that the movie is what irks me about my generation, though that is also the case. Rather, the problem presents itself, not as a problem of taste, but as a problem of perception. Indeed, the generation who cannot perceive is truly damned.

At times, Juno is almost unwatchable. Most of these moments come about when someone is speaking. Most of the time, the character speaking is Juno (Ellen Page). It is rare that I can walk into a movie theater and hear dialogue that is so offensive to my sensibilities. By this, I do not mean vulgar or crude language, I simply mean that the dialogue poor; poor and deleterious to any emotional commitment on the part of the viewer (me). How am I supposed to care about this chick? Yes, I know she's pregnant. And Yes, I know she's sixteen. But never am I allowed to see how difficult it is for her. Maybe I am allowed to see how difficult it is for her, and I just didn't really believe it. My friends will undoubtedly remind me, "dood, don't you remember when she pulled over to the side of the road and, like, cried?" And, of course I'll be like, "yeah, that was a good scene, or whatever." but it wasn't a good scene. It felt contrived and fake. I felt inclined to lean over to my friend and ask, "why is she crying."

What, then, is the point of this movie? Without the arch of high school girl likes high school boy and gets high school pregnant, the movie just becomes high school girl likes high school boy. That movie is great, it's called Superbad or Sixteen Candles. But Juno can't be that movie cause Page is walking around with a pregnant suit on, pretending to be pregnant and when we're watching a movie about highschool lovers it's because we want to see high school breasts. And, when women get pregnant, their nipples turn brown. Seriously though, the dialogue took away from my ability to believe that the Characters where in a crisis. It was totally distracting and maybe even rude. It was like if someone was eating an apple when they told you that a family member died. If I was once a pregnant teen, I would be offended by this movie. "Stop telling this story while you're eating a fuckin apple," I would say. "Show some respect."

Unfortunately, some of my friends don't agree with me. That's fine. Like the movie. Love the movie. But love the movie for what it is: a trite, sometimes-funny, sometimes-inspirational load of angsty bullshit. Be aware of what you like and why you like it. Pay attention. Do not tell me about 'oscar buzz,' or 'new ideas.' There is nothing new about the film Juno (and I do not mean in the way that nothing is new), it is a recreation of something that was once new and different. As an insightful friend said, "Juno didn't make it, it nailed it." If we cannot tell the difference between, what is the same and what is different, then we are in trouble. If a guy can't tell the difference between a meat burger and a boca burger, he's in trouble. Juno is a boca burger. Like I said before, that's fine if you like boca burgers, but don't put it in my mouth and tell me it's a 'burger.' It's a boca burger. Tell the difference. Make distinctions. Figure things out. If we can perceive a difference when their is none at all, then we are in trouble. Do not tell me that there is a difference between Walmart and Urban Outfitters.

Perhaps the Greatest Food: The Hotdog and Decision Making

2007-11-29T17:26:00.000-08:00

I have eaten many hotdogs. Some hotdogs are better than other, but there is no doubt, they are all good.

Recently, after leaving an eye exam at Cosco, I stopped in at the food stand to get a hotdog and a coke ($1.63 after tax) and had an amazing realization: there cannot be too much relish, onion, mustard, or ketchup on any given bite. This is, of course, a realization of the deepest profundity; namely, given certain factors, each bite of the hotdog can be the perfect bite.

Unfortunately, there are those who would attempt to bolster themselves in refuting this argument with little care for the advancement of hotdog eating and hotdog understanding. However, let us clarify two things. First, those who do not appreciate such things as 'pickle relish,' 'diced onions,' 'ketchup,' and 'mustard' are fools and heretics, and must understand that a hotdog can be enjoyed without any of these 'fixin's.' Indeed, for the hotdog purist, each bite is inherently the perfect bite. Second, let us be generous in our reading of this argument and assume that each person who assembles their dog does it with the sole intention of making it more delicious, and does not try to sabotage their own enjoyment.

The hotdog is engineered in such a way that only so much of any 'fixin' can make it into your mouth in a given bite. Imagine that some how, along with the onions, mustard, and ketchup, you managed to put too much pickle relish on a particular area (though I love pickle relish it is possible to have to much relish in your mouth when eating a dog). First, the somewhat cylindrical shape of the hotdog disallows excesses of any amount of toppings, resulting, usually, in large puddles of 'fixin's' on your shirt, lap, shoes, plate, etc. This alone is enough to convince me that no man has ever had too much relish, onion, mustard, or ketchup in one bite, but let us continue. Additionally, let us imagine that by some miracle, there is a five inch tower of relish on one bite. This tower is no match for one's mouth, which in conjunction with the size of the hotdog, delimits fixin's amounts in its own way. It is as though the hotdog itself knows whats best for you, governing, along with the dimensions of your mouth, the size of bite you are afforded to take. As i mentioned before, I have had too much pickle relish in my mouth while eating a hotdog, but this only occurred when I greedily took a bite of hotdog and then spooned excess relish into my mouth. This bite was not the best bite i've had, and upon looking at the hotdog I realized the error of my ways. It was as if the hotdog was saying, "if you would have listened to me, that nasty relish bite wouldn't happened, Trey;" and it would be right. Though this kind of strong paternalism is, in some cases, abhorrent; here, it is just right. Every bite of the hotdog (given certain circumstances) is just right. And though we may think we have ruined our hotdog by dowsing it with too much of any one ingredient, the dog itself will simply pick us up by our bootstraps, brush us off, and tell us to get back on the horse. And we will. And it will be delicious.

Finally, in hindsight, it must be added that there is a way to achieve the imperfect bite. This bite comes up only when those fixing the hotdog attempt to steady their hand, or use disgretion; namely, the imperfect bite exists as a result of not putting enough fixin's on your dog. A soccer coach once told me that if you pass a ball too hard it might be difficult to control, but at least it will get there. So fuck discretion, let the hotdog decide what is good for you. Give up control. Slather fixin's everywhere. You might think you added too much, but the dog will guide your hand. Therein lies the beauty; for when hotdogs do the deciding for you, everything is delicious.

This Will Be Short: Concerning Slam Poetry

2007-11-22T01:01:00.001-08:00

There are people in the world who perform their poetry to a live audience. They are called 'slam poets' or 'beat poets.' These 'poets' are the worst sort of people to converse with. The problem is that they simply do not know how to talk about anything other than themselves. Actually, that's not entirely true: There are plenty of things that make these people intolerable.

I do not mean to be unfair. 'Slam poets' are not bad people. They are not mean people or ugly people. They undoubtedly live fruitful lives and experience great things in meaningful ways. How, then, is it possible for these people to do what they do. I cannot figure it out. When listening to these slams i am forced to question whether or not these 'poets' are capable of experiencing anything away from their total reliance on cliche. What I mean by this is: do these poets experience the world in terms of trite stereotypes, or do they simply express it through such? I'm not sure which is worse.

In case of the former we must almost pity the 'slam poet' for his/her retarded phenomenal capacity. Here, we are almost inclined to look at the 'slam poet' as something more primitive than the average human being; for what rational being would elect a life in which experience itself is reduced to the banal? Additionally, if we can consider experience as one of the many things that defines humanity, it seems that we ought to consider the 'slam poet' as something entirely different all together. Indeed, a set of creature somewhere between man and ape.

In the case of the latter we must also pity the slam poet, not for his/her retarded phenomenal capacity, but for his/her blithe ignorance. Only a wretched fool would attempt to put fetters on experience by representing it in terms of trite stereotypes. In this way, the 'slam poet' is no better than the 'racist' or the 'homophobe.'

Though it is still unclear which of these two possibilities is worse, it is clear that in either case the 'slam poet' is to be pitied. Of course, the entirety of this argument hinges on the notion that these wretched beasts cannot account for anything related to experience without deferring to the cliche in some manner, I am open to the possibility that there is some fool out there that is neither phenomenally retarded nor blithely ignorant and yet prefers to be labeled as 'slam poet.' This person clearly would suffer from some sort of undetermined ailment, for we must all agree that no man of sound health and reason would refer to himself as a monkey.

No Fuckin' Dope

2007-08-31T00:43:00.000-07:00

I found out today that my father, like most men his age, had a fairly substantial drug problem. This didn't come as much of a surprise to me as it maybe should have.

Though this experience has founded itself in the context of my father's past, it is not his past that concerns me here. I had one of those experiences today where you've always had the requisite information to reach a particular conclusion, but for some reason, have never reached that conclusion. This is a very strange experience that, i'm sure, everyone has had. Also I thought that this particular context would make for a great story.

I've always found my dad's fear of drugs to be somewhat irrational. From a very young age my father has been unyielding in his attempts to rid my future of drug abuse. "Surely," I said, "drugs cannot be all bad, so long as they are moderated and tempered by a strong work ethic and a healthy social climate." To this he was totally unreasonable. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he would say. So, as I said, from a very early age I had learned to fear drugs.

Even later in life, in college, when excitedly telling my parents about smoking pot for the first time, my father did not join in on my mothers silly enthusiasm. My little boys all grown up. Though he did not chastise me--whats done is done--he made sure that his position concerning the matter was clear and unassailable. "I just don't know why you would pollute your body with that shit" he said (and yes, though this is a line from a movie, he did, in fact, say these very words).

Even now, weeks from my twenty third birthday he tells me before I go out, half jokingly but also half concerned, "just try not to smoke too much fuckin' dope out there." This is how my father talks about drugs. When during my sophomore year in college I asked him if he's ever done any drugs he explained that he smoked some "dope" after college. This is the part that never made sense to me. Marijuana, for all of it's cultural bastards, has never really hurt anybody. What the fuck is my dad worrying about. "Do you really think you need to worry anymore?" I say as i'm walking out the door. "No, not really." He does worry.

I chalk it up to my dad's being a square. This explains everything. He's afraid because he never really new what it was about. He was in the navy. He was a straight arrow. While everyone was fucking around in the seventies he was in Viet-fuckin'-nam, plus he was a farm boy. He's from Nebraska. All he knows how to do is play baseball, shuck/husk corn, and move out to big cities. He doesn't know what he's fucking talking about. Hah! I don't have to fear drugs. I can love them. I can temper my habits with a relentless work ethic and good, healthy, safe friends. I'll experiment. I'll have fun. I'll be a better person.

I fear drugs. I fear them. To this day my father's sentiments bleed into my own. Smoking weed with my friends tends to fill me with a strange discomfort. I have never done cocaine. I've never eaten mushrooms. Methamphetamine terrifies me. Even my mild cigarette habit leaves me feeling compromised.

Today, after picking up my dad's brother from the airport, I figured it out. My uncle mentioned something in the car today about an old family friend, who according to my father, "smokes a lot of dope." His name is Michael. Michael is exuberant and fucking hilarious. He's from Brooklyn and is one of my father's oldest friends. When asking my uncle why Mikey doesn't come around anymore he explains, "he never really stopped partying." "All of that shit gets old," I said. "Exactly, he just never had a wife or kids and he always had cash, and so he always had stuff around. Your dad, I think, just had more responsibilities to deal with. I mean for a while he was pretty messed up."

My dad was "pretty messed up?" Of course he was messed up. Of course he did drugs. It was the seventies, everyone did drugs. He went to Viet-fuckin'-nam. I get it, my father isn't a square. He's a loose cannon, or at least, a normal guy. How fucking great. Everything makes sense now. My earlier understanding of my father now seems youthful, moronic even. I mean everything truly makes sense, more sense than before. Everything is clear, transparent. Strangely, I'm not angry or upset. I am fascinated. I feel reassured in my intuitions. My father's concerns seem founded. He is infinitely more credible. He has more experience, and in a strange way, he is respectable. If I have children they will know nothing of my binges, my vices, my seamy sexual behavior. Like my father, I will devour their curiosity with my obstinate stoicism. I feel close to him, and I thank God that he never disclosed the details of his past. Thank God that I have only seen my father smoke a cigarette once . Thank God that I have never seen him drunk, that sex was explained away by R-rated movies, and I thank god that I never heard my parents having sex.

Myspace Moods

2007-08-17T10:36:00.000-07:00

I love the new myspace appendage of "moods." I love this fucking idea. I almost always laugh out loud when finally choosing a "mood." Currently, my mood is set to "accomplished." I think this is very funny.

Also, I noticed that one of the "moods" listed in the options was "drunk." I didn't laugh out loud at this at first, but quickly thought of what it means to "be drunk," and also, what it means to "feel drunk." Basically, I think it's funny for a person's "mood" to be drunk. Actually, I guess, the more I think about it the less I think it's funny, and the more I think it's kinda lame. Like that friend who's hanging out totally sober and when asked the metaphysical question, "how are you?" responds with, "I feel drunk." This is a terrible thing for any of your friends to say. How can one respond to this kind of assertion? What do you means you feel drunk? Are you drunk? Are you okay? Hopefully, you're friend is, in fact, drunk and you can both have a laugh, but if he/she's not, then you're fucked; because, ultimately, your friend wants you to ask the latter question, "are you okay?" I suppose I've changed my mind. Being drunk is something that ought only to be a physical state; namely, drunkenness ought to be a level of intoxication. When the idea of drunkenness enters into the world of feelings the notion becomes convoluted and theatrical. My friends do not ever feel drunk without actually being drunk.

Going Home

2007-08-14T23:51:00.000-07:00

Dear reader,

I'm sorry. I've been negligent. At first I was going to write once a day, twice a day. Unfortunately, this quota is just to difficult to fill.

I've been busy. I've been busy drinking and gambling with my life in New York City. Everyone here is a threat; everyone is a threat to me. They know where i'm from. They can see it in my eyes, my ears, my shorts, my shoes. They are all looking at me, sizing me up, but i'm faster than they are. I'm smarter and blessed with a supreme advantage: I'm from California. I'm cooler than they are, more handsome, more vigilant. I see the short, balding man in front of me with his khakis and his loafers. The tall Scandinavian woman to my right.

It is not that these people are any more violent that the rest of the world, but there are simply too many of them here, crammed on an island, a street, a train. Why would anyone live like this?
"New York's the best fucking place on earth."
"Why do you say that?"
"The streets, the nightlife, the Yankees, the fucking pizza."
So there are millions of people here for those very things. All of these people are a threat. At the end of the subway train an obese woman with two children argues with a toothless black man in gray sweatpants and a white undershirt. He has lied to her about another woman and she does not want him to touch here.
"Don't touch me. Don't fucking touch me."
"I know I lied to you..."
"fucking stop... don't touch me"
There body language is nerve-racking. The woman is sitting down and attempting to read a book in between curses and threats. She is reading to her children, one of whom is straddling her knee, facing her, while the other lays next to her on the bench. The man is standing up, bent at the waste, leaning over her with his hand on the wall behind her. I'm staring at them. She looks over and sees me. Oh fuck.
"Shut up... be quiet" she says to him, clearly aware of the scene they're making.
To my surprise and relief the toothless man does not retaliate by speaking directly to the train.
"What?! I'll be as loud as I want!"

But it's getting worse. The man is totally pathetic. He is fucking oblivious. The two children have some idea of what's going on and are clearly upset. He is relentless. He continues to tell her, "I lied to you," as if such a concession would ever work to defuse this situation. I'm looking at them again. I pity her, with both of her children so young and this asshole. She sees me; she looks directly at me. Now he's looking, what the fuck? I'm fucked. They're going to kill me, and steal my money and max out my credit card having unprotected sex in a cheap hotel. Fuck.

Now she pushed him. The obese woman with two children just pushed the toothless, relentless, oblivious black man, and she did it from a seated position. At this point i've stopped watching and they are yelling again. The dialogue is the same but it's getting louder, she is becoming more terse. She is enjoying this! He is too for that matter. He is begging her at this point and she is shrugging it off. Oh fuck, I looked. He's on his knees now, pleading for her to take him back and she is unyielding, unmoved by his desperation. He is louder than ever. Everyone on this train is loving this, but I cannot watch. And suddenly, there is silence.

At this moment, the toothless man reaches into his backpack and pulls out a gun. Swinging around to face the woman, he pulls the trigger. The shot is deafening. Everyone jumps because they were pretending not to care, and so therefore, not keeping their eyes on the toothless man. There are two more shots. People are panicking. I leave my bag on the floor, leave my friends, and run for the far side of the train. Another shot rings out and the construction work to my right throws his hands over his face. Blood splashes the windows; from the outside the subway train looks like a shot from a fucking horror movie. Another shot and I hit the ground. My hands clutch at my neck and feel their own blood. "what an asshole. I'm shot. I'm going to die. I've been shot by this toothless man."

All of this shit lasts for about five stops on the subway. When the man finally leaves and I see him walking up the stairs towards the exit I think, "I would have survived." If everyone died, I would have survived. I'm from California, and besides people who have no teeth and appear to be in their early thirties spend money on crack, not firearms. It would have been much more plausible if he had a knife. That would definitely up my chances of escape. I notice that i'm sweating a little bit and I can't help but think that i'm totally fucking ridiculous. This happens all the time, several times a day. My stomach was in fucking knots after all this; my stomach has been in knots ever since I came to New York (and half the time i've been on the upper east side). It's my father's fault. He's done this to me, and now I can never relax.

So I'm going back to California where there aren't any mosquitoes, and there are beaches, and wonderful, wonderful shopping malls.

Modest Mouse and Lines of Demarcation

2007-07-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

Modest Mouse, how did this band become famous? How did they slip past the radar?
It used to be cool the listen to Modest Mouse, I don't know, maybe it still is, but really this band is bad. I can't say that i'm totally exempt from listening to them or even saying, "man this band is totally awesome," but after trying for a few years to like them i've decided tonight, after a standard and exhaustingly taxing Modest Mouse song came on shuffle, that not only should I not like them but you shouldn't either.
So, again, how did this band become famous? I'm not talking about the process of a band becoming famous. Smart ass. I'm talking about how this band in particular was chosen by whoever or whatever makes the decisions that result in a band's popularity. After foolishly forcing their new album down my throat, once again attempting to swallow this band, first by itself, then, wrapping it in bread, cheese, yogurt, i've failed to be convinced. Now the new album is on my computer, my mp3 player, taking up space, ruining things, and I'm trying to figure out now how it is that they have come to be considered a "good band," or at least, "an edgy, unique band."
It's clear why I listened to Modest Mouse for so long: I'm a tool. I need to listen to the same shit that my friends do, just like everyone else. Well, not everyone else, some people need to find music and supply people with music, but some people, social listeners, listen to music that there friends listen to (sometimes at their own expense). I'm one of these social listeners, so I find songs like, "paper thin walls" and listen to them over and over and hope that the rest of the songs on the album begin to grow on me. Unfortunately, they never do with this band. The lyrics are the worst kind of popular tripe, and the music itself is offensive. It seems dynamic at first glance but it isn't. It's loud, and not rock and roll loud. The singer can't sing, and for that part i'm sure the guitarist can't guitar and the drummer can't drum.
Surely, though, there are a whole handfuls of people who listen to Modest Mouse because they are convince that this is a good band. Unfortunately, the case for the enjoyment of Modest Mouse is rock solid. What I mean by this is that any one fan can simply say, "fuck you Trey. Modest Mouse is good. They can sing, guitar, drum. They are musicians, and they are beautiful." This is how these people sound. I know them, and they are assholes. What I'm suggesting about this band is that they are a malapropism. They are a phenomenon that has been categorized on the wrong side of the demarcation line. This is not the bands fault. The band itself just keeps doing what it does best, instead this is the fault of a generation, who overzealously attempts to find the next progressive, edgy, unique band.
So music begins to travel in certain directions and people start to listen to music in different ways and new bands come out and try to fit a certain niche. Then that song "Float On" comes on billboard rock charts and hits number one and Modest Mouse is a fucking sensation. Of course, then, all their original fans start lashing out, saying, "those fuckers have sold out. Their old stuff is way better anyway. I wish the music industry would stop fucking everything up, etc." the whole time feeling justified to bash the band that they like/used to like because they were on board first. This is how these people sound. I know them, and their assholes. So Modest Mouse is big and huge and people all around the world really like them, but suddenly they're not so edgy, unique. Maybe they still are. But, whatever they might be, they were all over the radio for a while and popular. They had the number one song in America. So either MTV, and mainstream radio, and VH1, and whatever else is really zeroed in on the unique, edgy American music or they're into popular shit. Maybe popular shit isn't exclusively not edgy, not unique, but i don't think that's right.
To get back to what I was saying earlier when I was bashing my generation, I meant that thinking that Modest Mouse is innovative is all their fault. Modest Mouse has always been a popular band that until 2004 simply hadn't been discovered. The problem is that my friends are fooled. They believe that Modest Mouse was this Mary, this unspoiled matriarch that was born in 1996 and unfortunately folded to the riches and glamor of a corrupt and money hungry music industry. "They've sold out and fucking ruined their sound," they would say, these Modest Mouse fans. But I'm telling you, if Modest Mouse was the least bit innovative, they wouldn't suck now. Sure, their new record sold a few copies, costing still on the popularity of their 2004 success, but if they were a good band they would continue to succeed. They're not, and they don't.
Finally, I'm simply asking all of my friends who like Modest Mouse to just stop being douche bags. Concede. Tell me that i'm right and you've been wrong all along, and agree to stop lumping bands from the popular/one-hit-wonder category into the innovative/unique/good category. I'm sure Staind and whoever made music before they were smeared all over the radio.