Musings from a Narcissist

Womanly Time

2010-05-04T06:50:00.001-07:00

It's strange the sort of stuff you miss after a break-up. I was just reading a friend's workshop piece which has heavy menstrual bleeding as its centerpiece.

And that of course made me think of Alexa, oddly enough. It had been about three weeks now; we hadn't gone a single night without sleeping in the same bed.

We're cuddling on my bed, discussing lord knows what when she suddenly jolts out of the room and grabs her purse. Two minutes later she storms into my room, slams her purse against the floor and yells "Fuck! I'm bleeding!"

And I laughed. Because whenever I'd dated girls in the past, we'd never, ever, directly talk about periods. They'd just say they were on their "womanly time" or "feeling strange", I'd silently nod and that was that.

And I smiled. Because she wasn't pitiful or mopey or sad about her period. This girl was fucking PISSED off that she had to go bleed for a week.

And I grabbed her in my arms and explained why I was laughing and why I was smiling, and I got her to smile and laugh too.

Small moments make or break a relationship. Sometimes you just don't get enough of them.

Burdens

2010-04-21T17:06:00.000-07:00

I hate burdening everyone with my own problems. Maybe it's because I want to be a writer, maybe its because I'm an only child, maybe it's because I move so often that life naturally becomes compartmentalized. Regardless, I've become an expert at bitching about my surface emotions without ever detailing what's really gnawing away at me.

Whenever I finally manage to feel safe enough to delve into that part of me, its never ended well. Like a firehose overflowing with built-up pressure, my thoughts are scatterbrained to the extreme. So instead of bitching to anyone in particular, I've got this nifty blog. So with no further ado...

1. I graduate in five weeks and still have no idea where I'll be or what I'll do. If you know me at all, it's the former that really haunts me.

2. My only real chance at getting what I want depends on, yet again, another round of applications. Two schools in the UK. One year MA programs. The degree also guarantees an additional two year VISA to stay in the country. 1 + 2 = three years abroad = more than enough time to work for residency status.

The deadline system is entirely different abroad, which means that I could theoretically apply all the way up to August. Still, for all I know, all the places were filled way back in January and I'm just wasting my time. It is tremendously hard to make these applications the best they can be - without putting all my emotional eggs in the "grad school" basket.

3. Like almost everyone else, financial difficulties have become a larger part of the equation. My father (a well educated professional with 30+ years in his craft) was laid off in September and is still looking for employment. Outside of my vicarious worrying for my parents, it also means that I've been much more mindful of every dollar I spend.

4. The terrible economy + my lack of a driver's license = nearly impossible to get a job near campus. Despite a four day weekend every week and gigantic amounts of free time, I can't find any place that'd hire me. I don't even want a job for the money. Any way to kill time would be grand.

5. This financial stress has also made conversations with the parents increasingly difficult. Last night I told them that, given the relative uselessness of my degree and my paltry existence after graduation, I didn't want to celebrate my undergraduate celebration. They did not take that well.

6. A few weeks ago my relationship with Alexa spectacularly imploded. We were planning to move in together, get a cat together, share our lives together. I had even begun to prepare to stay in California until she graduated and possibly beyond that. Instead, it looks like I get the worst of both worlds. I miss her terribly - sleeping in the same bed every night for three months will do that to a person. What worries me more is where to go from here.

7. Dating someone who, two months into the relationship, turns to you and says "Insecurity isn't attractive" does wonders for the psyche.

8. Due to a spectacular clusterfuck of miscommunication, all of the trust and responsibility that I've built up with my roommates have been shot to hell. Which means that even my own little room feels less and less like mine.

9. On top of everything else, I can't even bury myself in coursework. All of my classes are intro level lectures that I have affectionately dubbed "my garbage courses". Even if I had one workshop this quarter, that could at least give me an outlet for everything.

10. All of this has flipped my depression into overdrive. It's been slowly getting worse and worse for the last year, but this is the absolute lowest I've been since Boston. I go in next week and am going to ask for a massive increase in dosage or try another AD all-together. In the meantime, I've been drinking anywhere from three to seven days out of the week, and occasionally enjoying a random painkiller or three.

11. Perhaps not coincedentally, I'm constantly nauseated and can't keep any food down. I usually feel so incredibly awful that I force myself to get it out of my system. Which means that most of the time I'm craving food that I'll inevitably throw up in a few hours time. I've been able to get just enough sustenance each day to get by, but almost every other day I'm rushing to the bathroom to cleanse myself. Been here before, but it usually hasn't lasted this long.

Conclusion:
Until I am abroad, there is no point in dating, no point in making friends, no point in doing anything that doesn't directly help me get abroad. Even if I somehow force myself to think that another 20+ months in the states isn't my own personal version of hell, the best I can do is gather $4000 and apply for a measly working holiday visa. This would get me abroad, but only for a year, and the economic downtown is so wide-spread that finding a job for that year would be another nigh impossibly. And then what? Say goodbye to another batch of friends and head back to the states? There are no easy answers here.

What's the point of building anything if you know you'll need to tear it down a few months later?

The Friendship Reprise

2009-04-29T14:56:00.000-07:00

Been doing a lot of thinking about friendships and how quickly they can be formed and how even quicker they can fall apart. From an old entry written over a year ago...

Ultimately, a friend is someone who you can lean on for support and they can lean on you. It sounds simple, but that’s all there is to it. And yet, everyone needlessly complicates such a basic premise. Be there for you, I’ll be there for you. I know I’m not the best at forging relationships, but I’m still at quite a loss as to what actually creates lasting bonds. Is it just an innate compatibility among friends? Is it a unique shared experience that binds people together? Or is it something… more?
The best of friends are those who understand me. In other words, they can parse out the bullshit from reality, and force me to deal with issues and events that may otherwise remain buried. I can say whatever I want to them and they won’t get offended or bitchy; instead they’ll throw it right back.
Friendship is not an unwillingness to sacrifice even a second of your time for a friend. It is not the pointless “how was your day?” and “fine” conversations that loveless marriages are made out of. It is not going out together many nights in a row. It is not judging someone time and time again for little reason than spite. It is not an an inability to recognize when friends are going through a rough time.

Friendship is sacrificing time for a friend, because they need you. It is the 2 a.m. conversations where all is laid bare. It is spending a minute, a day, a month with them merely because you know that it’ll be a good night as long as they’re with you. It is dispensing objective advice without scorn, even though it is likely that said advice will never be followed. It is an unconscious ability and willingness to
ask, “what’s wrong” even if they’re aren’t shouting their feelings from the rooftops.

Friendships are what they are. Hold on to the ones you have, and try and nurture a few more while you’re at it. Life is too short to waste on lifeless nights, dull conversations, and false friends.

Great Moments in Male Friendship

2009-04-14T12:11:00.000-07:00

Me:
blargh
american women suck
J:
oh yeah?
Me:
no real reason to say it
just needs to be said
i mean, dont get me wrong
ALL women are crazy
but american women are the craziest
J:
naturally
we had a big party last night
and i have a couple leads im workin on now
Me:
see, i've been out of the party scene for awhile now
and I was like
hey, i'm going to try and talk to these girls sober
jesus christ that is a terrible idea
J:
i mean, these are all girls i've known for a while but havent been able to act toward cuz i've been in a relationship til now
Me:
ah
yes
go man go!
score for all of us
J:
workin on it!
Me:
yeah, i'm fairly sure "getting to know them" is a dumb, dumb tactic
"lets go out for coffee" might as well be "here are my balls, please take them from me"
J:
last night i was doin well i thought then this one girls roommates made her leave...then another i was even more sure i was in but i think itll happen another day
hahaah
yupp
Me:
its just a fact
drunk steve has more game than sober steve
J:
oh same here
no question
Me:

i'm half thinking of learning to fake a british accent so I can get tail in canada
J:
ho damn
such an actor
Me:
heh
if only if only
but seriously, this country is driving me to celibacy
it's like I had an abundance of riches thrown at my feet, and then I woke up one day and the goods were shoddier and the prices higher
J:
oh man
i mean its not THAT bad here
Me:
haha
dont mind me, I'm just bitter
A and I are just kinda... whatever
she was sick this week and i was busy so we havent talked all wee
and I ended up halfassedly asking out another girl
who... eh
and most of the guys I know down here are of the "sensitive, love and respect girls and they will love you back" philosophy
which is why it's great to get online and talk to you and just say "'dem girls are crazy bitches"
J:
hahah
oh yes
but i am A SINGLE GUY WHAT THE HELL
Me:
see, eventually that becomes IM A SINGLE GUY.... MEH
J:
haha word
i have prospects now at least...in chi its gonna be rough
Me:
bars
yeah, i have no idea
i'll be shooting blind in canada
but I do my best work that way

"If heaven is for clean people, it's vacant"

2009-04-06T05:52:00.001-07:00

I'm fairly sure I'm falling apart.

One Week, Three Poems

2008-10-03T03:20:00.000-07:00

For my spoken word class. Credit to Professor Herrera for throwing us out into the deep end early and often.

Fuck to Feel Alive

I’m lost surfing through the tidal waves of the day to day, the week to week, the end all be all do-what you can never enough existence that we try to call “Living”
It’s as bleak and as bright as ever, like a cascading orange burst adjacent to our perceptions.

As I feel the razor slice through the layers of my life I’m desperate to recall anything, anyone, anywhere that makes me feel like I’m something meaningful, someone divine, somewhere spiritual.
Instead the blood begins to seep out like droplets of a past I never had, a present I loathe, and a future that’s as fated as it is damned.

I try to tap into the glowing arms of nostalgia, but all I can find are girls with paper thin personalities, wafer thin bodies, and a shocking sincerity towards submission.
All I want to believe in now is the girls who taste like sin

Every word she says is lathered in seduction, so confident in her belief that every step has a purpose, every word a meaning, every gesture a sign.

I can still picture her in the hazy distance like sepia-toned Perfection
Did she break out of the chains of her expectations or is she still struggling, grasping, holding onto the arcane notion that her place is to kneel just a little lower at the feet of her newest escape?

We want to feel pain because we live painless lives
We make love to feel loved
We fuck to feel alive
The bleeding has stopped, but I still enjoy the scars.

Nostalgia

My mind works overtime every night, throwing out ideas and promises and thoughts and musings too often to control them. I feel as if at any moment I could float away into the clouds, either because I’m that worthless or that important. I thought I’d think about one thing while drifting off but instead my mind has veered like a runaway train between sanity and fulfillment. Mostly though, I think about the past, about nostalgia, about the way it was.

Objectively, I know that my four months in Ireland were good but not as good as the memories suggest. Laughing with Dave, Kevin, and Robin over Dave’s solemn insistence that he was more likely to use his penis as a comic prop than for sex. Trying to explain to many a drinker that Bush wasn’t evil, just very very incompetent. Getting drunk because of the moment, instead of in spite of it. Girls with something more to say than agreement and a nod. We’re all too busy popping pills and heading towards a vague sense That Everything is Wrong but It’s Not My Fault.

Maybe the Irish have it figured out. Or maybe nostalgia has sunk into me the way it did to Don Draper. All I know is that there is that there, life was worth chasing. Here, Life is too new to truly judge, but at least I’ve got my running shoes on.

Another election, Another Audition

Another election, another audition
I’m overwhelmed by the carefully calculated,
Audience approved, mandatory message masturbation
Promoting another pointless Celebration
Of our broken down and bastardized
Assembly line, Pre-packaged Bullshit
by the best at K Street

There’s the battle damaged, war ready
GI Joe of a man
More apt to punch Cobra Commander
Than contain the careers of combat
Where men hold their rifles high,
But Hang their heads low,
As they stand united in prayer
That the Gambler didn’t gamble
Their lives away

Then there’s that empty suit of a man
Balls not included
More content to hurl words like “Hope”
“Change” and “Believe” in the air like
potpourri for the masses
Than challenge the charity of his contributors
300,000 from Stanley, 400,000 from Chase, 650,000 from Morgan
9 million from Wall Street
The numbers speak for those who cannot

This talk of
New Frontiers, New Deals, Contracts, Promises,
Revolutions, Revelations, and Change
Have been thrown around longer than our faith in them
The only thing new about Obama is the
Color of his skin, not the Content of his speeches
And if you think “Yes, We Can” then all I can ask
Is if it’s better than the magic act of the disappearing
Straight Talk Express

Myth of the Maverick
Myth of the Message
What’s the difference?

Touched by An Angel

2008-09-23T00:30:00.000-07:00

You know, despite my cynical facade I'm actually a fairly optimistic guy. Our nation has dealt with worse, failed more spectacularly, and has enough dirty sins and proud achievements to fill a few dozen history books. We're a nation borne by and has now given birth to enough paradoxes to boggle the mind. In America, symbols have always been more important than any smidgen of objective reality.

Some days though... it all gets to be a bit too much. No, I'm not talking about the recent economic collapse. I'm talking about a poll that shows that 68% of Americans believe in Angels (Yes, Fucking Angels! 68%!).

Then we wonder why we can't be get along perfectly with the rest of the West in Europe. Well, Europe doesn't believe in Angels. Perhaps it's better that way, but after reading Matt Taibbi's infiltration into those crazy conservative Christian bootcamps in The Great Derangemetn I do truly fear for our country.

I don't want to sound like Mr. Liberal Atheist here. For one, I'm not really a liberal nor am I an atheist. I believe that my deeply personal struggles in understanding The Powers That Be are mine and mine alone. Sometimes though, I do wonder if you can ever truly divorce America from it's papacy.

The Slam, The End, and A Beginning

2008-08-25T00:46:00.000-07:00

Being back home in California usually leaves me feeling vaguely lost as I stumble around the same house I spent most of my life in. This time, things are different. I spent part of the weekend looking at future homes near UCR, where I will no doubt spend most of my time hopefully getting shitfaced off terrible beer and writing a lot. Hope springs eternal.

However, this entry isn't about being back in California. It's about saying goodbye to Boston. Really there was no better ending I could have imagined than finally taking part in a slam poetry competition before I left. After warming up with a poem I originally wrote two years ago, I finally stepped up and delivered Heavenly Father Forgive Me. Originally written at the August 4th Slam while listening to other poets perform, I couldn't dare to miss the chance of standing on stage and delivering what is, in many ways, an ode to Boston.

After I finished performing it and getting pretty good scores (combined with the first poem, I placed third out of fourth), I had a few people from the audience come up and thank me for my poem. One guy even declared it the best he had heard that night. And really, that alone is enough to keep me writing for atleast another month or two. While I was in front of the mic, I could feel my pulse risng as I hurried through the words. But when I hit the second half of the poem, I instead felt my voice grow ever louder as I rang out a new declaration. Although supposedly written for a competition, I think I wrote it more for my own inner peace than needless applause.

Heavenly Father Forgive Me

Heavenly father forgive me, but I’m tired of being me
I’m tired of being told that male masculinity is the religion to which I must aspire to.
Every waking moment in my all too constrictive life when all I see is arbitrary disillusionment, willful abandonment, and meaningless pleasantries
Why must I congratulate the swollen swagger of a peer as he raves about how he “tore that shit up”, as he lectures endlessly about our duties as Men, while he condescends every woman he meets?
Macho is a word best used for the primitive, those that still cling to gender roles out of tradition, necessity, or desperation.
Why does your scripture damn assertive woman for daring to do more than kneel at your feet like an always willing and waiting doormat?
Yet despite the toxic filth that you espouse, there are still so many women who worship you.
I have seen so many of them damn themselves to secondary silence just because of your so called Holy Word.
Heavenly father forgive me, but I cannot be me unless I reject you.
I cannot ascribe to your maxims, kneel in your pews, or pray for your continued domination any longer.
All I have is this, the redeclaration of my independence.

To hell with your arbitrary standards of masculinity!
Yes, I not only listen to but I actively enjoy Madonna, Kelly Clarkson, and all manner of kickass chick rock!
Yes,I like a good romance film every now and then because watching when harry met sally reminds me of how I felt when I met her.
And Yes,I get emotionally torn up after breaking up.
Because even though very few of us will admit it , we men don’t just remember our ex-girlfriends. We worship you in silence, too afraid of admitting that we feel pain through our supposedly impervious armor
So yes, I'm passive and indecisive and exhausted from the expectation to always take charge.
But as I return to you, the false prophet I realize that I am stronger than you will ever be.
Because your mask of masculinity only hides a well of insecurity.

Poetry Slam: August 4th

2008-08-04T01:21:00.000-07:00

When I first started this blog I envisioned it as a chance to creatively dig in my heels and really get to the writing. For a while, my time in Dublin made everything briefly make sense. And then.... well then I returned to Boston. Here's what I recently posted on Girl with a One Track Mind's blog:

"I made the "mistake" of publicly linking my blog to my facebook account a few months ago and apparently I was a bit too honest and open about my sex life for most to handle. I lost a lot of friends because of what I posted, but then I realized that anyone who is going to demonize me because of my honesty isn't worth having in my life in the first place.

The problem is that now I'm constantly aware that people I know will be reading what I write and looking to criticize me on every tiny detail. Sure, I could go back to being anonymous but that somehow feels like a cheat.

I've taken to writing back in a notebook, far away from the internet and ever-watchful eyes. "

---------

It was my first real taste of criticism for criticism's stake. People weren't criticizing my writing style (which, let's be honest, has a long way to go) but they instead seemed to challenge the very idea that I could write so bluntly and honestly.

Which is why tonight was such a treat.

I've been meaning to go to a poetry slam for ages, but usually end up getting sidetracked/making lame excuses/legitimately get barred from entering. Freshmen year I performed Rafael Casal's "Barbie and Ken 101" in a communications class as an example of my favorite poem. Slam Poetry has always intrigued me by it's shameless raw emotion, brave proclamations, and a relaxed intensity difficult to describe. With no real commitments for the rest of my time in Boston and the knowledge that Boston will soon be but a memory, I resolved to hit up the poetry scene.

I met and talked and listened to an absolutely wonderful mix of people. I struck up a conversation with a guy next to me and we chatted about the struggle between wanting to be a writer and the knowledge that it's a shaky career path at best. We ended up being one of five judges for the Slam Competition. From an angry screed delivered by the angel Gabriel to a brilliant riff on Wall-Mart's limits to an ode to lover's gone by, I was blown away from start to finish.

Then the featured poet Jade came up and delivered some deliriously lyrical poetry that somehow struck me as something more than just spoken words. There was a "love" poem in particular that I'm still fully digesting.

For the first time in weeks, I was inspired to write.I threw open my notebook and hastily scribbled down a few thoughts that had been bouncing around my skull for the past day or so. Before the night was over, I stumbled over to the mic and hurriedly performed what I had written. Even though I skipped verses, mumbled words, and spoke three times too fast I felt liberated. There's another Poetry Night on wednesday; if I gather up the courage I might polish and perform "Lord Forgive Me" again at the Open Mic.

The MC, Jeff, repeatedly talked about how this Sunday gathering was his own version of Church. As I sat there compelled by the raw emotonal honesty of strangers, I thought to myself that I couldn't agree more.

This entry is a complete mess, but I could care less. For the briefest of moments, I feel inspired and ready to grab life by the throat and tell it that I'm not done yet.

A Tiny Update

2008-07-31T16:41:00.000-07:00

As you've probably noticed, I haven't updated this blog in quite a while. There are a few factors at work, but primarily I'v ebeen plugging away at my crazy idea for a novel and currently the first few redone pages are far too rough to be published even here.

To be honest, I'm not very happy with it. The plot pieces are all working as well as I want them to, but the style and spark is missing.

More once it develops...

Exit Stage Left

2008-07-01T15:48:00.001-07:00

And so it ends. After months of endless internal debate, sudden musings, and repeated epiphanies I’ve finally committed to something other than my vanity.

Starting in September, I will no longer be attending Boston University. Instead, I’ll be majoring in Creative Writing over at University of California – Riverside.

The acceptance process finally came to an end a few days ago. Since then I have labored over every word, formed list upon list and stumbled through the past year of memories in hopes of accurately explaining why, after three years under the B.U. aegis, I’ve decided to gamble against a safe fourth year in favor of a brand new world of anxiety and anticipation. My reasons for leaving Boston are well documented elsewhere, and for now I’ve surely told that tale enough. Instead, this is a brief look at how I finally came to terms with my decision to attend another university.

Even before I left for Ireland, the idea of transferring started to sound appealing. After visiting a close friend at another school I felt overwhelming pangs of envy for the life he had. I wanted his small cadre of confidantes who could dish out life-affirming advice seconds before urging you to do a beer bong. I wanted to be enraptured by the easygoing atmosphere that pervaded Ann Arbor. Mostly though, I wanted to feel something, anything at all.

There’s an old quote that I had originally planned to use in my attempt to speak at my high school graduation. Although I ultimately never spoke, I’ve had the quote lodged in my brain ever since. Alan Chalmers once said that the essentials of happiness were something to do, something to love, and something to hope for. With classes as dull as the students who populated them, I gave up searching for the first two. All I had was the hope of a few months in Ireland to sort everything out.

If Boston was like living life in black and white, Ireland was glorious Technicolor. Everywhere I went, everyone I met, everything I did suddenly became interesting and worthwhile again. For the first time in three years I respected, confided, and engaged my Professors in meaningful conversation. Even at the most chintzy of pubs I found people with stories with telling and lives worth living. I spent night after night gazing out over Dublin wondering over my future with excitement instead of dread. Even when I felt the slight tinge of disappointment I actively worked to change my situation. When I grew tired of going to the same pubs with the same people, I threw myself into the local student population with very little but my wits and all too obvious American accent. Things, as they say, were falling into place.

Naturally then, it was time for the tides to turn. I received a message from B.U. reminding me that I had a week until I had to register for classes. I promptly deleted the message, downed the cheapest and strongest Vodka I had and staggered out into the street looking to get lost. Completely blitzed, I returned to my room hours later and immediately called a friend from home. I broke down completely and utterly as I confided, “I couldn’t go back”. I looked in the mirror and realized that for once I actually liked the person I was becoming and I couldn’t bear to regress by returning to the stifling and dead halls of Boston University.

Still, the thought of transferring remained little more than a pipedream. I only had a year left, and what little research I had done towards transferring was a blur of expired deadlines and sour news. Faced with no other options I resolved to go back to Boston, be miserable for a year, and then perhaps my real life would begin. Practically it was the only route to take. Emotionally though, the decision to stay was as false a note as any of my other self-believed lies.

Even with the specter of a miserly fourth year ahead, I found myself enjoying Ireland and the people I met even more as the days went by. There’s a particular night that remains an apt summation of my entire time abroad. I was getting ready to head back to my room after the first night of a DCU Drama performance. For weeks I had spent time an hour or two rehearsing with a group of strangers that slowly became friends that I enjoyed spending time with. I followed the group to a local pub near campus and we had a few beers and just talked about life, our crazy stories, and why redheads have the most fun. The conversation wasn’t particularly deep, but I remember laughing and drinking and smiling and enjoying something besides my own smug self-awareness. “Hmm”, I thought. “So this is what it feels like to be happy”.

Days later, I lay in bed next to Moderately Attractive Blonde as the sunlight cracked through the blinds. We had met at the local club hours ago and spent the better part of the night exchanging the stories of our lives over more than a few rounds of drinks. She’s leaving in two weeks to spend at least a year in Australia. Originally, she had decided to stay in Ireland but a few relationships went sour and left her looking for something new. I’ve got two years on her, but she seems entirely at peace with who she is and what her future will bring. She asks me why, if I’m unhappy, I didn’t just leave. All I can tell her is that I’ve got a lack of options. She tells me that there’s always an option and holds me tighter.

I know it seems silly to say this, but it was ultimately a movie that finally forced to realize that life was too short to be spent on something I didn’t love. As my time grew ever shorter, I felt as if everything about me was at war with itself. After months of looking forward to previews, I bought a ticket to go see Forgetting Sarah Marshall. In downtown Dublin, I watched as Jason Segel and Mila Kunis had their first honest conversation along the Hawaiian coast. She asked him about his job as a television composer and after Jason’s weak attempt at convincing her that he likes it, Mila forces out the truth in him. “Oh my god!” She roared. “You fucking hate it!” She cackled with delight. A smile crept up on Jason’s face as he admits that he hates his situation. Suddenly, Mila turned serious and simply told him “then change it”. I walked out of the theater with a new found sense of freedom; on the bus ride back to campus I felt as if I were floating high above reality, able to choose my next destination with a simple snap of the wrist.

As soon as I came back to California, I sent out my application to UCR. At first, I tell myself that I won’t necessarily say yes, that it’s just a way to expand my options. A few weeks later, I stood with a friend and watched Rilo Kiley deliver a beautiful version of “Pictures of Success” under the cool San Diego breeze. As Jenny Lewis repeated the refrain that “They say that California is a recipe for a black hole. And I say that I’ve got my best shoes on” I turned to my friend and admitted that if I got accepted I’d transfer.

So here I sit, a few months out from yet another round of this grand experiment we call life. I know that a change in locale isn’t going to solve all of my problems overnight, but this has been a long time in the making. Every single emotional impulse in me has been screaming at me that Boston hasn’t been right, and it’s just taken me this long to realize it. When I actually did research on UCR and their fantastic creative writing program, I knew where I belonged. I’m not saying that California is truly my permanent home, but for the next two years…. it feels right.

In closing, I feel as if the only appropriate way to end this is to quote what I said three years ago. Find something you want to do with your life, not something you feel you must do. Find someone to love, someone to share your life with, and someone to hold onto when the rest of the world is falling apart. Finally, find something to hope for, so that when we take our last breathes we know we've made a difference.

The Times, They Are a Changin

2008-05-21T20:05:00.000-07:00

I'm not entirely happy with these, but given the time crunch... I'm not embarrassed by them either.

Prompt #1
Once I realized who I was meant to be it was suddenly simple to put my many side projects in perspective. The summer before my senior year of high school where a friend and I attempted to write and film our first film, my scathing editorials during my senior year, my decision to start acting on stage in college, and my endless obsession with updating a public blog for my private thoughts suddenly took on new significance. I had initially applied as a journalism major to university because I thought that it was a practical way to make a living as a writer. It didn’t take me long to realize that reporting wasn’t where I needed to be and so I spent the better part of three years roving around the academic landscape like a nomad.

It was about a year ago when Marty, my usually morose and downtrodden roommate, burst into my room like an unbundled ball of giddy energy. I looked up from my report on President Ford’s Cold War policies to see Marty beaming like a proud parent fresh from the nursery. “Dude”, he proclaimed, “ I did it! I’ve been up for 24 hours but I did it! I just filmed my first short film and it’s awesome!” He was so ecstatic at his accomplishment that he practically skipped out of the room.

Meanwhile, my report stared back at me. As I reread it in search of inspiration all I saw was an overwhelming sense that my paper betrayed a frustrating lack of engagement. I tried to return back to the pile of research on my bed, but it was no use. My mind was racing, and I needed an outlet. Instinctively I pulled out a blank notebook and as soon as pencil touched paper all of my pent-up frustration came firing out of me for the first time in months.

Months later, my creative writing professor Les walked into class a few minutes early. I was scribbling away in my journal; my other classes had left me so academically numb that the only way to jolt myself back to my life was to continue writing before I went to creative writing class. Les rifled through some papers, before bluntly asking me a question I had never heard. “Have you ever tried writing?” he asked without a trace of sarcasm. He moved closer with my previous assignment in his hand. “I mean, actually writing. Not stopping every other word to check for spelling, for grammar, for that Perfect Word. Just write, without stopping, and see what comes out”.

At first, my sentences lurched forward without cadence or rhythm. Nonsense begat rubbish, but slowly something began to emerge. I had an idea for a novel that had been locked away for months. I unconsciously pushed on and as I began to un-spool my story a smile crept across my face. That night, I gave birth to Jamie Brand and what I hope will one day be my first full novel.

Up until last semester I still clung to my major and hoped against hope that I’d suddenly wake up one day and once again find President Ford’s Cold War policies interesting. Instead, I finally woke up one day and realized that no matter how many International Relations courses I took that I was a writer. Writing isn’t just an occupation for me; it defines who I am, how I act, and where I’m going.

Prompt #2

I came to Dublin with a tremendous amount of baggage. I was bitterly exhausted from spending the better part of three years trying to make myself into someone I simply wasn’t. Gigantic lecture halls gave way to rote memorization, disinterested professors, and a hollow academic core. On campus I failed to make friends with Senator’s sons and executive’s daughters; off campus I attempted to carve out my own niche with mixed success. Eventually I realized that the further I got from Boston University, the more I thrived intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. As I hopped onto the plane to a semester abroad in Dublin, I hopped that this time it would be different.

Almost immediately, Dublin reminded of the reasons why I came to Boston in the first place. Leaving California I thought that I had potential that I was going to be something more than a face in the crowd. Instead of having this potential reinforced and grown, I spent the better part of three years running headfirst into a brick wall. Dublin reawakened myself to the possibility that maybe I am different, unique, and just a titch off-center. Suddenly, I sat enthralled by lecturers, giddily approaching lecturers after class about an obscure but nonetheless intriguing point made thirty minutes ago. Someone said to me after class “Every time you speak, it’s like you’ve got a lot going on up there”. I hadn’t heard that in two years.

Despite my limited time at Dublin City University, I threw myself into new experiences with renewed vigor. I enrolled myself in a Model United Nations conference where I was known only as “The American”. Later in the semester, while my peers rarely socialized outside of other Americans or tourists, I joined a theater group and performed in a student-written and directed drama in front of an entirely Irish audience. I formed more lasting friendships in three weeks than I had in three years. Suddenly I found myself not only enjoying life but also excelling at it.

As I wracked my brain for a proper topic for Prompt #2, every personal statement I wrote inevitably ended up describing my personal growth in Dublin. Those three months abroad gave me the confidence needed to admit that Boston will never be home for me. For the first time since high school I’ve found a subject that interests and inspires me. I can sense a vague potential in me once again. I’m confident about my future, even if it means once again marching into the unknown.

The Death and Eventual Rebirth of Anti-BU

2008-04-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

Within a few weeks apart from Boston, I quickly set out to create a viral campaign about how terrible BU has treated myself and countless others. Unfortunately, after two rather promising videos and a flurry of criticism, it quickly disappeared.

In short, my camera decided to malfunction halfway into my Dublin experience and without videos I was left without much to stand on. So I resigned to end the session for now, and enjoy my time in Dublin instead.

After doing just that and now that I’m staring Boston back in the face, I’m making a proclamation. Come September, I’m raising hell.

Accosting tour groups, viral YouTube videos, crashing whatever random events deserve to be crashed…. I’m up for some student activism.

Of course, this is all a way for me to get noticed in my final year. I want to go down as “THAT guy”.

And so I will.

It’s pointless, immature, and will probably end badly. But this is a mistake I need to make.

Eyes Lock

2008-04-18T09:17:00.000-07:00

Across the hazy neon lights and endless thumping bass
Our Eyes Lock

I’m cautiously leaning back in a sofa,
clutching the milky remains of another night
She’s on the dance floor. Grinding. Thriving. Moving.
Again.
Our Eyes Lock.

Another day, another night, I would have done nothing.
But tonight I, I let out a small smile
And walk towards her

She separates from the writhing mass
Of a quick dance, a quick drink, a quick shag.
She’s poised, confident, striking.

We’re Close.
She moves closer.
Come on. Say something.

Her voice is hardened,
She’s lived more than I
My slight hesitation betrays my posture

She giggles, lets out a mischievous smile.
Our Eyes Locked.
And our lips Met.

Entries from Time Past Continued: Explicit

2008-04-17T17:02:00.000-07:00

I held off on this one for a very specific reason. However now that I realized that I promised myself to be open about my experiences... I'm posting this. I should warn you, this is a pretty graphic and explicit description of sex inspired by Belle De Jour, Abby Lee and numerous other sex bloggers who decided to be honest about their lives. Here goes.

March 1st, 2008

It’s midnight in Prague and I’ve propped myself up against the wall, desperately trying to untangle my thoughts. It’s undeniably risky, and there are about a million ways that it could end up being a very very stupid thing to attempt. But…. After feeling constricted for so long, all I can think of is Why the Hell Not? As my best intellectual rebuttal. I threw my drink into a nearby trashcan and stumbled down the stairs. The door is an imposing behemoth of steel, but I manage to ring the doorbell. As I’m waiting to be let in, my mind tries to document what strange factors have led me here. It could be the lack of action in Dublin. It could be because it seems like something crazy and unique to do. Mostly though, I had a night to kill in Prague by myself. And what better way to kill it then this? I’m still lost in my own thoughts when a burly doorman greets me with clear English and tells me to come inside. I quickly entered the Sweet Paradise Sex Club with an odd mix of apprehension and giddy excitement.

The bouncer is tall, too tall to guess accurately. His bald head, piercing eyes, and imposing manner contrasted deeply with his downright cheery demeanor. The place is barely lit and as I walk into the main area I feel as if I’ve walked into the most bizarre movie set ever devised. The entire room is bathed in soft blue light, and a single disco ball adds an almost campy touch to the club. To the right, there’s a small bar with a bartender, two girls drinking god knows what, and another male costumer. The bouncer beckons me to sit down over at the bar and I eagerly do so. The bartender is a statuesque brunette with a relaxed manner about her. She asks what I’d like to drink and I order the usual Southern Comfort and coke not so much to drink it but to give myself something to fixate on besides the environment. I pay only a few dollars for a meager entrance fee and the drink, and swiftly take a few gulps of the admittedly well mixed drink. I glance over to my right, and the man who was sitting beside me is now playfully talking to a cute blond who’s easily half his age. Oh look, I think. Now he’s groping her.

The bartender noticed that I was more than a little out of place, so she offered to explain the procedures to me. We head over to a small couch and after detailing the pricing she motioned over to the throng of girls on the other side of the room. There’s about fifteen of them, all doing a variety of activities. All of them are chatting with one another in what I assume is Czech, and I’d have given anything to understand what they were saying. Some were looking over in my direction and smiling at me, trying to get my attention. Others are absorbed in their own conversations, laughing and still smiling throughout it all. Still others are taking long drags off their cigarettes, looking far more at ease than I do.

I was still trying to fathom my situation when the bartender got up to leave and explained that the girls are all going over to say hello. Literally. All fifteen of them leisurely got up, walked over to me, said Hello and shook my hand. Once again, their approach differed. Some were haughty and had an air of superiority to them, a few others practically begged for me to look them over head to toe. Their outfits weren’t particularly revealing; you could see more skin at a beach. After they were all done introducing themselves they sat back down and went back to their own little worlds. I frantically returned to my drink and wondered just how the hell I’m supposed to choose someone to have sex with. All the girls were attractive but their ages and ethnicities differed. Most were eastern European and probably in their early twenties. It’s one thing to anonymously surf on a website for an escort. It’s entirely another experience to choose one girl out of fifteen when they’re all a few feet away. I’m still trying to decide what to do when I hit the end of my drink and realize that I’m looking like a fool. I instinctively walked up to a pack of girls, and pick the one who’s not especially gorgeous but certainly striking. She wasn’t one of the girls eagerly attempting to get my attention. No, she was the ones cooly sitting in the back, smoking a Marlboro, and probably never gave me a second glance when I came in.

“Hi” is all I can muster at this point. She slowly looks up and says a very neutral “Yes?”. “Jesus Christ, what do you say to a prostitute?” my subconscious screams at me. “Um… are you available?” I say, trying to not sound like I’m asking costumer service for help. She put out her cigarette first, but before she got up she says she is available. We walked back to the couch, unsure of what to do next. Clearly, there is no set protocol for this sort of thing. Some guys want to get the girl in the room as quick as possible, while others probably sit in the main area and chat away for an hour or so. There’s another guy in the club now, he’s deeply involved in a conversation with a blonde girl. They look more like old friends than a hooker and a john. I have no idea what guys usually talk to their girl about, so our conversation is more than a little stilted. We exchange names; hers was Lea. She’s from Slovakia, and she says she was a student there but didn’t care for it so she came to Prague. I would scoff at her method of finding herself, but then I remember that I’m half drunk at a brothel in Prague trying to do the same.

Finally, she stood up and motioned me to come with her. The other girls mumbled to one another in Czech as Lea stridently walked in front of me. I can’t help but notice that her ass is practically perfect. There are about six rooms in the hallway; she enters the third one nonchalantly. As I enter the room like it’s a minefield, she’s already reaching for something in a cabinet. I took off my coat, placed it on a nearby ottoman, and watched her with curiosity. She pulled out a bottle of lube, a pack of condoms, and a box of matches. She moved over to the corner of the room and lit the three candles near the ceiling. Take note, I said to myself. Even in a brothel, candles exude class. Like the outer area, this room is also bathed in soft light. Nearly everything in the room is a shade of deep red; including the bed, the walls, and the single light. Lea turned back toward me and asked how long I’d be with her tonight. I’m surprised at her English. It’s clear that it’s not her native language, but she’s still responding to what I’ve told her succinctly and directly. I hand her enough cash for thirty minutes. She instructed me to take a shower so I quickly began to undress. I begin to get a little modest, but I soon realized why I’m here and I stepped into the shower.

I stepped out of the shower, dripping wet, and Lea handed me a towel to dry off. She casually removes her dress to reveal a near ideal body. She’s taller than I am, and probably a year or two older. A small heart necklace complements her long brunette hair and B cup breasts. An artistic tattoo wraps around her lower back and stomach. I can’t help but notice that even though I hadn’t meant to I had picked a woman very physically similar to the one in Dublin. After she took a quick shower she instructed me to get onto the bed. We had talked briefly about what I had wanted, and I just told her that I didn’t want anything crazy. I laid down in the bed, completely exposed. She giggled a little and laid down next to me.

She started off with a quick handjob, to get me properly aroused. Once she did that she put a condom on me and then proceeded to give me the best blowjob of my life. I’ve had a… very reasonable number of experiences, but Lea was just unreal. She did techniques with her tongue that I didn’t even know were possible, let alone that effective. I’m essentially putty in her hands; at first I tried letting her know what I liked and what I didn’t. As she continued my gyrating hips, quickened breathing, and ever harder cock gave her all the answers she needed. For nearly thirty minutes she kept me on the threshold of climaxing, ever careful to not push me too far too fast.
She abrubtly stopped, and laid down on her back. There was a sudden silence as I was too busy recovering from her fantastic blowjob to recognize what I was supposed to do next. After a moment of awkward silence, she looked a bit puzzled. “What, you don’t want to get on top of me?” she asked with a hint of concern. “Oh yeah, I definitely do” was what I tried to say, but instead all that came out was a few syllables and a goofy grin. She laughed a bit as I got on top of her. After realizing that I was frozen with a storm of emotions, she gently grabbed me and helped me get inside her. I let out a moan of delight as she grabbed my ass and pushed me further into her. She controlled the rhythm of our bodies and her hands wandered across my back once I felt properly relaxed. I was about to come when the fucking phone rings. Great. Time’s up. I expect her to push me aside, and shoo me out within the next few seconds. Instead, she giggles a bit and decides to finish me off with another quick blow job. In less than two minutes she gave me the best orgasm of my life. I collapsed back into the bed, told her that that was incredible, and drifted off into space. As she started to get her outfit back on, I burst out laughing. She shot me a serious look. Well, as serious as I look can be when you’re naked. I told her about Madonna’s quote that “everyone loves you when they’re about to cum” and how I had never really understood the quote until now. She smiled a smile that I hoped was genuine, and I quickly rose from the bed and reached for the wallet. “Do you mind another half hour?”
This time around, there’s no initial awkwardness or her having to react to my lack of action. She’s more intimate with me too, as she kissed my chest and even licked my earlobes, something that always sets me off. After an even better ten or so minutes of her sucking and playing with my cock, she asked me if it was okay that she was on top. I’m fairly sure I fainted for a few seconds after that. She started off slow, but soon enough she was bouncing up and down and all I could do was hold onto the sheets and pray a little. usually I pray to God during sex, but this time I had already prayed to God, BUddha, and half of the Greek pantheon by the time she pushed herself all the way down on top of me. I instinctively grabbed her arched back as we breathed in sync. Our hips moved faster and faster; I looked into her eyes as she did the same. For an instant, we were one. She gave a quick smile and, before going even faster, clawed my arm and drew a few drops of blood. It was sensory overload on every level.
She collapsed on top of me, and for a few seconds we remained motionless. I moved to kiss her on the lips, but at the last second she pulled away. Most escorts are very touchy about this sort of thing, and I could hardly blame Lea for it. She responded by once again warming me up with a quick rub and then hopping on top of me.

The rest of the session is a blur, but there was one more moment of clarity. As she straddled me with ever more vigor, our eyes once again locked. This time, she moved forward as if to kiss me. As I closed my eyes and our lips quickly touched, she quicky pulled back, bit down hard on my lip, and drew blood. Very soon after I climaxed.
As I gathered up my clothes while she showered, I realized just how much I didn’t feel dirty or ashamed. Prostitution is perceived as such a dirty world, but it’s not like buying crack on a street corner. Nor is it like going down to the local grocer and picking out the best fruit. It’s so much more than that. It wasn’t about the sex; it was about the intimacy. She led me out, and as I turned around to her one last time she tenderly kissed me on the cheek before saying goodbye.

--------------

About a month later, I read Girl with a One Track Mind by Abby Lee. A particular passage hit me hard. Here it is, printed in it's entirety. The relevant pieces follow. Full Entry is at http://girlwithaonetrackmind.blogspot.com/search?q=pseudo

"In my opinion, with regards to one-night-stands, men tend to fall into three categories:

2. The Pseudo- Partner. They either haven't had much casual sex, or they have recently come out of a meaningful relationship. They seek a connection with a woman and convince themselves that they just want a shag but are actually seeking emotional solace, whether to boost their damaged ego or because they miss that shared closeness with someone.

The sex they have is very affectionate, loving and tactile: they interact with the woman as if she were a partner.

Sex with Pseudo-Partners is far better in terms of quality, but comes with its own baggage, this time at the other end of the scale. These men are unfamilar with the necessity to keep a degree of emotional distance during a one-night stand and they resort to making love instead, even though they'll swear blind they only wanted to get laid.

They don't want just physical gratification, but crave affection which they end up expressing sexually with someone they don't really have feelings for - it's a false intimacy, in every respect.

I've read about Pseudo-Partners time and again on sexblogs, and it looks like a lot of them end up seeking solace in the arms of a prostitute who offers a so-called "girlfriend experience". They get sex, a cuddle and a chance to offload what's on their mind instead of the clock watching in-out, in-out that usually constitutes an appointment with a working girl. These men can then pretend to themselves that they are getting what they want - even if it is just for an hour. And by paying for it, it helps to maintain the charade that all they want is a shag.

Keeping up these appearances can be tiresome, however, and it seems to be quite common for men to have difficulty sustaining an erection when faced with casual sex. The journalist may have thought and said that he wanted a quick shag, but his flaccid penis was telling a different penis was telling a different story - and a cock never lies.

Having sex with these men is enjoyable - in the physical sense - usually they are highly skilled in pleasuring a woman, due to their own emotional connectedness, or learned techniques with a partner. But in a one-night-stand, their love-making form of sex becomes reduced to just a physical gesture that has no meaning; something that bears only a faint resemblance of real closeness and intimacy. So sex with these men is ultimately unfulfilling - when you want to be fucked hard and with abandon, they want to cuddle up and lie in your arms: it is clear that there is a problem."
------------------

Abby Lee, now outed, is one of the most prolific "sex bloggers" out there today. The entry above is dedicated to her; without reading her book I would not be publishing this entry.

Entries from Time Past...

2008-04-17T16:55:00.000-07:00

Written for class... forgot to post earlier. There will be a longer entry about Ireland once I head out soon. This was written haflway through the program... most of it still holds.

February 19, 2008

This is the first entry, and it will be the last. I had originally planned on writing daily in this journal, but I’ve been too distracted by various factors to sit down and write something exclusively about the Irish and my experiences in Dublin. Let me explain.

I came to Dublin with a tremendous amount of baggage. My time in Boston had already been an unmitigated disaster. By September my life spiraled ever further down. I saw what a real college was, how nice people could be, and what it would have been like to once again be inspired. The drudgery had taken it’s toll.

After taking a knife to my wrists, I realized I needed a change. I applied to spend a semester in Dublin both as an escape and as a way to spend time apart from Boston to try and sort things out. As the semester dragged on, I began taking anti-depressants and brunt through friends and lovers in rapid succession. Just before I got word of my acceptance, I told myself that I was either going abroad or going home. Boston had done enough damage to me, logic be damned.

Up until Dublin, my recent life has been defined by the continued clashing between my Californian upbringing and my Bostonian surroundings. Dublin creates a new axis to pivot off of. What strikes me most about Ireland through my experiences in the classroom, in Dublin, and in the many dark nights is the underlying contradictions that run throughout Ireland’s history, culture, and society.

We Americans are a fairly straightforward bunch. Although California and Boston may be worlds apart, Dublin sits strangely in the middle. Nearly every “truth” of Ireland is a mix of fact, embellishment, and lingering questions of identity.

Take, for instance, the odd Britain-Ireland identity crisis. As much as the Irish are uniquely NOT British, the influence of British culture looms overhead. Newfound Celtic confidence has given Ireland a chance to define them as something other than that “other island”. And yet, British newspaper, television, and opinions float in throughout the landscape. The Irish may not be the British, but their fates are most certainly still bound together.

Stranger still is the myth of Irish friendship. It is true that the Irish are certainly friendlier than Bostonians, but this public decorum of happy go-lucky Irishness seems to hide something deeper. The Irish believe that if they tell themselves they are happy, they will be happy. And yet… true friendship seems to live in the margins. With everyone being so outwardly friendly, subtlety is the key in social settings. Body language and seemingly trivial remarks carry much more resonance in a society where brash and loud friendliness are expected at every outing.

Gender relations are still a bit of a minefield. On one hand, woman have more sexual freedom here than ever before with contraceptives, divorce, and a lessened sexual stigma finally reaching Irish shores. On the other hand, males still serve as the catalysts in social circles. It creates an odd imbalance. A group of girls out by their lonesome are loud, boisterous, and full of “piss and vinegar”. But as soon as one or two gents enter the circle the dynamics completely shit. The girls become a bit more docile, more submissive, and more passive. While it could just be my limited observation, I do believe that gender roles are still prevalent in modern Ireland.

However, religion has certainly lost it’s footing in recent years. The Irish simply strike me as salad bar Catholics. They take what they want and leave the rest. The Catholic identifier is oen of heritage, not one of devout faith. While America is currently undergoing a religion boom, Ireland seems content with a Catholic identity that feels more and more misplaced.

Examining politics in Ireland reveals another trait – pragmatism. Ideological wars were put on the backburner in favor of “what needs to be done now”. Some may paint Ireland as a globalized society due to a globalized economy but this is quite a misnomer. Ireland opened up to the world not out of ideological parity but out of sheer necessity.

Personally, I have no right idea if Ireland could become my permanent home. I’ve still got so much baggage trying to reconcile my experiences in Boston into something meaningful that I haven’t critically examined Irish society as much as I have wanted to.

What I do know, however, is how much this experience has meant to me. For the first time since high school I’ve found classes that interest me. I can sense a vague potential in me once again. I’ve begun to make amends with my social inadequacies by channeling a sort of acceptance over who I am, how I act, and what I’m capable of. Ultimately this trip has made me realize that YES I am an American. Yes, I belong back in California. And Yes, my half irish heritage has certainly molded who I am.
The Irish remain an eclectic culture. A strange brew of Celtic fabrication, Irish nationalism, a distinctly Western belief system, and even a titch of American entrepreneur ship have combined to form one very large and complex culture. Frankly, I think the Irish prefer it that way. They are a restless culture, forever trying to define their identity not to the world but to themselves. Perhaps then, my Irish roots have had more of an impact on myself than I initially thought.

Chivalry Isn't Dead, it Just Can't Take a Punch

2008-03-27T15:45:00.000-07:00

After years of preaching about my need for an “aggressive girl” I’m realizing that I’ve got an aggressive and downright chivalrous side to me that’s increasingly making appearances. Especially after a few pints. After all, that’s how I ended up sleeping next to Kandace last weekend.

A month ago while I was in Belfast I half-joking half-seriously asked the DCU guys where they go to pick up girls. I wasn’t looking for a quick one night stand but after watching girl after girl walk into a bar and pick up a guy within seconds, my frustration level was about maxed out. Kevin let out a boisterous laugh, then told me to go to a place called BarCode. It was out in a suburb of Dublin, away from the city centre. He told me that it was the only place in Dublin where I could walk in, say I’m twenty and American and easily end up hooking up that night.. He also confided in me that the club hardly ever checks IDs, so be careful of picking up really young girls. I took note of it, but truthfully couldn’t care less. A real place in Dublin where students actually go, far away from the prying eyes of horny Irishmen looking for some easy foreign tail? A place where I could shamelessly play the age card I saw used every night we went out? Needless to say it sounded like too good of a thing to be true, a mystical Avalon ever beyond my reach.

After spring break I kept the place in the back of my mind, occasionally trying to get my friends here (mostly girls) to come out and join me. Naturally, they’d rather pay 6 euro a pint for a change of meeting a 28 year old Frenchmen named Henri. Tensions finally came to a head on Thursday when I desperately wanted to give BarCode a try but my friends flatly refused even though I had accompanied them on many a shit night. I practically told them to sod off, but couldn’t work up the courage to take a taxi by myself to what was probably a rather sketchy club. I ended up venting to another friend of mine who was able to parse through my bullshit, calm me down, and reminded me why I was here in the first place.

The next day, I woke up determined to go to BarCode. Even if the world crashed down, I was going. People could join, people could stay home. I was going to go and put Kevin’s maxim to the test. The floor below me has an “American night” consisting of staying in, playing beer pong, Kings, and generally just getting sloshed at the apartment. The combination of several Southern Comfort and Cokes and some Bailey’s Irish cream knock off had me stumbling around, groping for something to hold onto even before I drank with them for another hour or two. I tried to get a few other people to come along, but they admittedly already had other plans, and American Night had been a resounding success with everyone obliterated before midnight. Finally I got up, announced to no one in particular that I was off, and a few close friends wished me luck.

I vaguely remember catching a taxi to BarCode and weaving in and out of suburbia. Out of nowhere, a large open space and complex stood in front of me like the Gates of Eden. A quick scan reveals a very young crowd, but no stodgy tourists or loud Americans. I’m in.

The place was huge, and an ideal layout for a club. The dance floor is well populated, but the music isn’t deafening and crazy strobe lights are kept to a minimum. The girls are cute and drinking on average twice as much as I am. I stumbled over to the bar, now more tipsy than trashed. I order a pint, take a sip, and… now what? When you’ve got a group with you, you’re able to stake out an area, sit and chat, and eventually groups start mingling as the night grows ever longer and more drinks are poured. All I can do is take a seat on the couch and drink some more. I inadvertently people watch, trying not to look like THAT guy.

A few minutes pass and a young guy walks up to me with a certain skip in his step. “Hey man, how’s it going” he asks with what sounds like sincerity. I tell him that everyone I know was being lame tonight, so I came alone. He pulls up a chair and tells me of his night and his recent troubles with his girlfriend. Two strangers, united by our bizarre fates.

After two rounds, he asks if I’ve met his older sister. Charlie is only about 17 himself, so how much older could his sister be? He walks us over to a nearby table and introduces me to Kandace. One quick look confirms she’s my type. Jet black hair, a killer smile, and an attitude that screams “I don’t care, but really I might”. We effortlessly slip into conversation as she tells me that she’s half-Irish, half-Kiwi but she’s been here since she was four. Her accent is a new pleasure, and turning me on effortlessly. She’s even got that acidic wit that drives me wild. Fuck, I think. This is it, don’t mess this up.

We continue our conversation, but as it always happens we both have to go to the bathroom. We agree to meet back up on the smoker’s patio, and I practically jaunted over to the bathroom. The birds are chirping, the hallelujah chorus is primed, and the past few months of sexual frustration is all prelude. Then I walked into the smoker’s patio and saw another guy chatting her up. His hands are on his hips and he’s doing all the standard male posturing. She looks bored, or at least I hope she is.
I began to walkover to them, unsure of what the hell I was going to do next.

Wait for him to finish talking to her? Put my hand on her even though we haven’t kissed? Get into a brawl? What the fuck was I doing? I’m not aggressive in the slightest and I would never just make a brash move.

Was Everything I was thinking before I walked up to her and promptly made out with her without saying a word. She was a bit surprised, but quickly responded in kind with a rather nice session of wandering hands and intense kissing. The other guy must have left once I did that, as when I opened my eyes a few minutes later he was gone.

The night continued on from there, and her and I are continuing to text back and forth. It’s a game of nervous anxiety, but after so long it’s grand to just be back in the game at all.

Am I aggressive? Why can I be brash and bold with everything BUT the approach? And why do dark haired vixens with a silver tongue turn me on like no other?

Questions for another night, surely.

Because We!Are!Your Friends! You'll never be alone Again!

2008-03-13T17:56:00.000-07:00

Friendship

Lately I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the difference between actual friendships and friendships of convenience. It was only once I headed away from all the friendships I had made in California that I began to value them. Here in Dublin I’ve had yet another chance to look at what a friend really is.

Ultimately, a friend is someone who you can lean on for support and they can lean on you. It sounds simple, but that’s all there is to it. And yet, everyone needlessly complicates such a basic premise.Be there for you, I’ll be there for you. I know I’m not the best at forging relationships, but I’m still at quite a loss as to what actually creates lasting bonds. Is it just an innate compatibility among friends? Is it a unique shared experience that binds people together? Or is it something… more?
The best of friends are those who understand me. In other words, they can parse out the bullshit from reality, and force me to deal with issues and events that may otherwise remain buried. I can say whatever I want to them and they won’t get offended or bitchy; instead they’ll throw it right back.
Friendship is not an unwillingness to sacrifice even a second of your time for a friend. It is not the pointless “how was your day?” and “fine” conversations that loveless marriages are made out of. It is not going out together many nights in a row. It is not judging someone time and time again for little reason than spite. It is not an an inability to recognize when friends are going through a rough time.

Friendship is sacrificing time for a friend, because they need you. It is the 2 a.m. conversations where all is laid bare. It is spending a minute, a day, a month with them merely because you know that it’ll be a good night as long as they’re with you. It is dispensing objective advice without scorn, even though it is likely that said advice will never be followed. It is an unconscious ability and willingness to
ask, “what’s wrong” even if they’re aren’t shouting their feelings from the rooftops.

Friendships are what they are. Hold on to the ones you have, and try and nurture a few more while you’re at it. Life is too short to waste on lifeless nights, dull conversations, and false friends.

Anti-BU At BU

2008-02-18T14:01:00.000-08:00

So I decided to channel my anger into something positive. Like a crappy webcam YouTube video!

California here we come.... Right back where we started from.

2008-02-11T13:26:00.001-08:00

After months of struggling to say it, I finally managed to throw the words off my tongue with unexpected force.

“I’m thinking of transferring out of Boston and heading home”. Once I finally said it, the weight had been lifted.

Being abroad has been as much about where I’m not as it’s been about where I am. I’ve been grappling with this for a long time, and it’s long past due that I finally come clean. Boston’s made me a rather miserable person. In a lovely twist of irony, I miss California.

I miss the shallow narcissism. I miss being able to be myself and whine and bitch and not be concerned about a whole slew of arbitrary set gender roles. I’m sick of not connecting with anyone at Boston University. I’m sick of dealing with people who have to have all their ducks in a row at all times and if, by chance, one of them is out of the row then all life has to stop in order to get things perfectly straightened.

I miss being able to be emotional. I miss throwing myself into interesting conversation. I miss late night burrito runs. Hell, I miss good Mexican food at all. I miss being at the epicenter of damn near every trend of the last twenty years. I miss warm weather. But mostly, I miss the warm population that isn’t afraid of realizing that Yes, Life is All About You. I’m selfish and self-centered, and I’m tired of being crucified for it.

Most of all, being here in Dublin, I’ve reawakened the reasons why I came to Boston in the first place. Leaving California I thought that I had potential that I was going to be someone, that I would be more than a face in the crowd. Instead of having this potential reinforced and grown, I’ve taken more than two years of being told that I am average, mediocre, subpar, and just another college student. It’s the most depressing thing in the world to realize that maybe you’ve been lying to yourself and you’re not really that special or great at your talent.

In Boston, the classes range from middling to terrible. I can count the number of times I’ve been inspired by a professor on one hand. Coming here, I’ve reawakened myself to the possibility that maybe I am different, unique, and just a titch off-center. As someone said about me after class “Every time you speak, it’s like you’ve got a lot going on up there”. I haven’t heard that sort of thing in two years. Two years.

Today, I made a typical list of Pros and Cons about transferring. In the Boston column was “investment, both financial and and emotional” and “Reputation of degree”. In the California column there was only one plus written – happiness.

It was the end of October and I had just gotten off a flight to visit a friend of mine at University of Michigan, a real university. It was a complete slap in the face. People who aren’t emotionally dead inside. A real campus. The True American College Experience ™. I arrived late that night, and I was already feeling down from the trip. I flipped on the TV and the Red Sox had won the World Series. As Boston erupted into self-congratulatory boozing, I could do little but realize that I was never a part of Boston and that I’d never be. I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a stainless steel knife. It gleamed in the shallow light of our half-lit apartment. I pressed it to my skin and remembered a saying from god knows where. “I just want to know what it feels like. Just once”.

Before I pressed it down rationality prevailed and I threw the knife back into the sink. In that moment I collapsed in a crumpled heap of self-doubt, anger, and a rare moment of clarity on the kitchen floor. My god, I thought. This is it. This is how it ends. I let out a small smile and said out loud to no one in particular “I didn’t even write anything good”.

I must have stayed on that floor for what seemed like hours. Eventually though, I collected myself and dragged my weary self over to my bed. I grabbed my cell phone and called an old friend I hadn’t talked to for over a year. As soon as she said hello, I let out a string of barely collected thoughts about what I hated about Boston and where I was currently at in my life. That anger felt uplifting. Finally, I was experiencing life again. After a straight thirty minutes of ranting, I fell silent.
“So, you’re finally ready to admit that you’re a Californian?”.
“Yeah”, I said with the first real smile in months.

The next week I walked into a Boston University office and was speedily prescribed anti-depressants. Yes, I too was now finally part of Prozac nation. Joy. Life proceeded on as normal through the usual unsatisfying mix of plodding classes, dreary relationships, and a deep emptiness. It got to the point where I confided in friends from back home that if I didn’t get in to Dublin I’d take a semester off to try and find myself amongst all the noise of daily life. I got in, and things have certainly improved since I’ve been here. Interesting in classes, good conversation, and, yes, better weather have given me a desperately needed sense of direction and purpose.

This trip has given me unexpected clarity, but I’m still completely lost on what comes next. Deadlines for schools back home have already passed, with the next available semester in Fall of 2009. Staying at Boston University is the only option I’ve got, and due to my major hopscotch, I’ve got at least another eighteen months in wonderful wonderful Boston. I’m not going to let that town ruin me. I can’t let it crush my spirit any further. I offer a sincere thanks to everyone that I've met that has made life here a little more bearable, a little more likable, and a lot more humorous.

Game On. And you can bet that the second I get that shiny degree with that accursed Boston University logo I’ll be on one of the first flights back home. Back to where I belong. I’m posting this publicly because I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.

My name is Steve Timberman, I’m a Californian and I’m planning on being a writer. Who are you?

Sex, Lies, and Life

2008-01-28T19:20:00.000-08:00

Note:I am by no means saying this happened. This is a composite of fact and fiction, lies and truth. If you have any questions please feel free to respond to my e-mail address.

Even another pint of Carlsberg couldn’t shake me from realizing how much of a disaster the night had been. We had been in Dublin for almost two weeks, and it immediately became clear just how stratified the bar/club scene is. As much as we talk of equality among the sexes, men and women face an entirely different social set of challenges, expectations, and falsities.

In any club or bar, the “approach” is entirely handled by the male. At most a girl may glance in your direction and you may even see the faintest hint of a smile if you’re lucky or she’s had too much to drink. The onus of responsibility is entirely on the male to hold an interesting conversation, to dance well, to pick up the tab. The girl’s responsibility in this farce is to look pretty and half-interested in her gentleman caller. It’s all a bit much for me, frankly.

This isn’t an indictment of Dublin or Ireland or Europe in general. It’s more of an informal list of grievances at the social stratification we’ve given men and women. Of course, I’m not blind to the difficulties that women face on a typical night out. Some men will ruthlessly pursue sex even if it means lying, drugs, or plain force. Nearly every night we’ve gone out almost every girl in our group has been accosted by hordes of irish men chatting them up. I’ve lost count of how many offers they’ve had to go home with some 25 year old banker from London. Hell, another girl in the group has been asked more than once if she’d be up for casual. When she denied him, he assured her that he’d give her “the best sex of her life”. Seriously, does that shit even work?

The problem here is that this system hurts both parties equally. I’ve already lost a few opportunities with women here where just because I didn’t walk up and initiate the conversation immediately or because I wasn’t out going enough at that particular moment. The attitude is “he isn’t grabbing me to dance or trying to force himself on me, so therefore he isn’t interested in me”. It’s a sad state of affairs.

One night in particular stands above the rest. I was at a pub in downtown Dublin, slouched against the wall, sipping my Carlsberg. I took a look around and took the moment in. One girl in our group had been chatting with a rather sketchy looking guy ten minutes ago. Five minutes later they were making out. “No wonder they flock to the American girls”, I ruefully think as I drink another sip. I was undoubtedly tipsy, and probably very close to drunk. The same girl bounces up to me, looking more than a bit angry. She tells me that the guy turned out to be a massive sleaze, and that he “seemed like such a nice guy at first”. I can’t help but smile a little. I want to lean over to her ear and tell her that all men are dogs, and that we all know that, deep down, women hold nearly all the power. But before I can say anything we’re back up and about migrating this way and that way through the bar. Everyone seems to be having a good time, but is it all just a façade everyone is putting on? Are we all just trying to prove to the world that we’re so DAMN happy that we just can’t control it anymore?

As we’re dancing, I notice that the other girl in our group is involved in quite a good conversation with a presumably local Irishman. We go over, say hello, and leave them to their devices. She said earlier in the week that all she wants is for a guy to approach. Looks like she got her wish.

A few minutes ago, I’ve lost track of everyone. The girls are probably dancing and chatting it up with people. Me, I’m inches away from the bartender, still sipping away. Suddently, something snaps. I’ve had enough of sitting around, of the obnoxiously loud music, of thinking too much about things that matter too little. I send a text off to the girls telling them that I’m headed out and that I may or may not be back. I head over to the bathroom for one final stop before leaving. As I stand in front of the stall, the only place where I can hear myself think, something catches my eye. Written in highlighter is the internet address for an escort agency in Ireland. I let out a quick laugh, and almost think of writing down the URL before I realize what I’m doing. I laugh it off, and head for the exit.

As I stumble out of the bar, the cold air rushes over me and instantly relieves some of my anxiety. Two weeks. Two weeks I’d been here and all I’ve accomplished at night was spending an ungodly amount of Euros. I’m starving, so I head for the nearest late night greasy fast food restaurant that’s willing to serve drunkards of all ages. Well, I begin to think, it hasn’t been a total waste. I’m interested in classes again, and the people I’ve met are at turns fascinating, fun, and genuinely kind. But still, I yearned for a long late night drunk conversation with the nonexistent witty girl from across the bar who with one cutting remark can force me out into the open.

I’m just about to head back to the bar just fresh off a delicious Burger King cheeseburger when I hear three very, very drunk girls. They look very young, probably even younger than me. My first thought wasn’t “wow, the black haired one is striking” but instead “dear god, is she going to get home okay?”. That’s when I see the guy next to me put out his cigarette. He doesn’t look all that shady, except that he clearly was about to do exactly what 23-year-old guys do. He walks up to them, physically pulls the black haired girl away from the group and yells at her to come home with him. “Come on baby, you’re beautiful! Let me help you home!”. He half pleads, half demands. At this point she’s trying to pull away from him but he’s got her by the arm and she’s still trashed off her wit’s end. Make no mistake, I am by no means chivalrous nor do I try to live by some arcane gentlemanly code. But in that moment, I wanted to get that guy off her. I frantically looked around for her friends, but they had evidently gone into Burger King without her. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m in between our 23 year old gentlemen and a girl who looks increasingly younger. I don’t remember quite what I said, outside the generic “lay off”, “get away”, and “have some class”. I’m fairly sure he would’ve laid me out then and there, but we’re on a main crowded street so he eventually stumbles away. The girl is simply stunned. I lean in close and tell her that her friends inside, and that she should really watch herself. She nods and heads inside. I take one last glance inside and see that the other two girls were too busy flirting with guys inside to realized that their friend almost went home with a complete stranger. I stand in awe. One guy grabs another girl by the waist and pushes her on him and roughly kisses her. She laughs it off and responds in kind by giving him a playful peck on the cheek. “Oh, fuck this” I announce to no one in particular.

I’m across the bar when I get a frantic phone call from one of the girls in my group. She wants to leave since it’s late and she’s tired. She sounds exasperated, but I chalk it up to her just drinking too much. As soon as I see her it’s clear that something had happened. She wasn’t just distraught from drinking, but distraught from the night. We make small talk until we’re on the bus back home. Halfway there she collapses next to me in my arms and confides that the guy she met at the bar had tried to force her into the bathroom to have sex. Apparently by the time he had gotten them over to the bathroom another guy realized what has going on and promptly punched the bastard in the face. She left soon after. She could have fought him off, she tells me. I believe her. But still, what sort of world do we live in where girls are expected to fend off would be rapists every night? I suddenly feel very selfish. Here I am, bitching about my lack of ability in picking up girls at clubs and yet every girl regularly has to do the tightrope of friendly warmth and cautious suspicion every time they have a conversation with a man?

I wake up the next day in a bit of a stupor. The bed’s still empty, my hormones are admittedly raging, and it’s becoming ever clearer that waiting until I meet The One is a terrible notion. I writhe with the decision for over an hour before reaching for my cell phone to text a number on the website. I try to rationalize it somehow, that I’m not PAYING for sex. But really, that’s what I’m doing. It’s not that I think it’s immoral or somehow beneath me, it’s just quite the step to take. I had thought about going to Amsterdam and doing the red light district, but somehow a weekend trip for one night with some random dancing lingerie model in red light didn’t appeal to me much. Like everything else, I do my research. The government turns a blind eye to escorts, as it’s generally much safer than anything off the street. I soon learn to look for a girl who is marked “GFE” which stands for girlfriend experience. It’s supposed to mean Mouth to mouth kissing, a little conversation, and something a bit more sensitive than a random fuck and leave. Of course at the end of the day, it IS a fuck and leave.
Some of the girls are undeniably beautiful, and part of me begins to wonder what their stories are. Price is an issue too, but once I realize that I spent roughly that much money in three nights out it became a non-issue. Another night of frustration drinking at the bar or something as crazy and exciting as an escort? Is it moral? Am I making a mistake? My mind is a flurry of contradictions; I haven’t moved off my bed in what seems like years. Fuck it, I finally say and text a message asking if she’s available tonight. Less than five minutes later, my phone bounces to life with a “Yes” message. My pulse is racing, am I really doing this?

I frantically grab the phone and call the number.
“Hello?” an accented voice asks.
“Hi”, Is about all I can stammer out. A few seconds later I’m able to get out a full sentence.
“I’m interested in meeting tonight, is that possible?”
“Yes” she replies, slightly warmer.
“I uh… just have one quick question. I’ve never done this sort of thing before, is that okay?”
“Sure” she replies, almost with a little giggle.
She tells me that at the time of our meeting I should head down to a landmark and call her later. I can’t focus for the rest of the day and wait anxiously, eagerly, and giddily. Walking along the main streets, weaving through the flock of pedestrians and silently cursing any time I see a garda policeman, I feel like I’m in my own pathetic version of the Bourne Identity.

By the time I reach the landmark, I’m just about ready to collapse. My mind is even more of a mix of whirlwind thoughts. Don’t do it! What, are you crazy?! And then “You’re already here! Beautiful girl! Sex! Excitement!”. I jump about ten stories when she calls me back. She tells me to enter the “small intersection” across the street, which I eventually realize is the alley. She gives me a room number, and tells me to ring it when I get there. With that, she’s gone. I cross the street, expecting to find some magical street of hookers, heroin and strip clubs. Instead, a mere few feet from one of Dublin’s landmarks, is a rather plain looking alley. It looks more like an industrial park than the site of lurid sex transactions. I ease up, wander down the street, and open the door. After being buzzed in, I notice a CCTV camera. Oh fuck, I think. Then I realize I’m in Dublin, and there’s damn camera’s everywhere.

As I head towards the room number, the door cracks open. “Natalie” opens the door and beckons me inside. At this point, I can’t even translate complete words, let alone thoughts. I tell her that she’s absolutely stunning, which she is. She’s about 5”7 with long black hair. She’s wearing nothing but black lingerie, and a smile that could light a small town for days. She’s slender, taller than I am, and more than a bit physically intimidating. She’s perfect.

I walk into the room, and it’s a very nice posh place. The bed is clean, and there is a small bathroom off to the side. I take off my bulky jacket and place it over in the corner. “You’re young, aren’t you?” is her first question.
“Yeah, I’m twenty.”
She smiles even wider. I know it’s an illusion, but I could care less.
“Now why would a twenty year old come here for me?” she says with a hint of playfulness.
“Oh, you know. I’ve been here for a few weeks and….” I can’t finish my sentence. Partially because I’m still awestruck. Partially because I didn’t really have some nuanced worldview on why I wanted to sleep with her. And partially because I couldn’t believe I was getting into a serious discussion with an escort.
I tell her that I was planning on waiting for the Right Girl to sleep with, someone I loved, but that recently “that all went to hell”. The words taste like acid in my mouth. She gives me another reassuring smile.

She switches the subject and asks how long I’ll be with her tonight. After discussing the details, I hand her the money and surprisingly I don’t feel dirty in the slightest. She asks if I want her to wear these ridiculous heels, and I smile some more and tell her that “no, I just want… something simple”.
“Ah, okay” she says, almost relieved.
She then instructs me to take a quick shower and to come out in a towel after I’m done. “I’ll be waiting.” Is all she says.

After taking the quickest shower in my life, I have trouble getting the all too tiny towel around me. I stop trying to get it to stay on when I realize that I’m trying to cover myself up from an escort.
She beckons me over to the bed, and I lay next to her. We engage in a bit of small talk about where we’re from (she’s from Prague) and what Dublin is like before she leans in for a kiss. It may not come as a big surprise, but escorts are excellent kissers. She seemed to somehow adapt to my style of kissing and she’d respond in kind, sometimes taking charge and somehow letting me determine the tone of the kiss. As we’re about to do more, she asks me “how long its been”.
I sheepishly ask “since what?”. “Sex” is her one word answer.
“Um… never.” Is all I can respond.
She suddenly tenses up and lets out a very sharp “what?!”. It’s the clearest English she’s spoken all night. She understood everything I said, but when she spoke it was always clear English was her second language. Suddenly, her words grew sharper, more resonant.
“You’re twenty and you haven’t had sex?” she asks me point blank.
Great, I think to myself. About to be rejected by an escort.
I tell her that I was planning to wait until I was sure I wanted to marry the girl, but that due to my past relationships I didn’t think I could handle sex with someone I loved.

She looks genuine intrigued at this point. She leans in closer, now next to me again. “But your first time should be…. Sensitive and sweet… with someone you’ve known for a long time… not someone like me who you just met”.

I paused for a bit, and responded carefully.“Yeah, but no one has that first experience. Most of my friends had sex for the first time with someone random at a party, drunk off their ass. Or they actually love the girl they’re with, and then they have sex and they fuck their relationship up.”

“You… you have a good point.” With that, she kissed me again. I know that she probably may have just wanted to shut up and commence with the sex, but part of me believes that I honestly had a real conversation about First Times with an escort.

We finish up, and I’m utterly exhausted. She gets up from the bed, and casually waltzes over to the bathroom. She tells me she’s going to take a quick shower and that I should get dressed. I laid dumbfounded on the bed for what seemed like ages. So that’s Sex, I remember thinking. Damn.

Finally, I threw on my clothes and she soon came back into the bedroom. I know it seems odd to point this out about an escort, but she was still entirely naked as she walked over to put on her thong and lingerie two piece. I think I said “thanks” about a billion times while walking over to the door. Before I leave, she looks at me and asks one more question. “Why didn’t you just go to a club?” she asks honestly but politely. I slouch a bit and tell her “I guess I just lack confidence”. Before kissing me one last time, she just commands “Don’t.”
As she smiles that perfect smile again, I tell her to “take care”. She tells me the same, and shuts the door.

Boston University: The Worst Whore You’ll Ever Pay $160,000 For

2007-11-12T02:48:00.000-08:00

(First Draft)

When I left home for B.U. I was searching for a great many things. I was searching for a personal intellectual renaissance, a chance to forge strong bonds among friends and lovers, and failing those, at least an easygoing social scene. Instead, like that old girlfriend whose funny quirks quickly became unbearable , B.U. has systematically let me down in every regard. Academically, socially, creatively, Boston University might as well be a black hole of apathy. The only thing B.U. seems to do well is it’s continued skill in selling itself to prospective students who don’t know better.

Let’s not kid ourselves, fellow peers. We came to B.U. knowing that the reputation of our university met that our diploma would mean more than those from State School U. It’s a shame then, that BU’s academic core is hollow. I can count the classes I’ve been intellectually engaged in on one hand. Grade deflation is rampant in intro freshman courses that are harder than upper level junior-year coursework. Tests are designed less on intellectual argument than rote repetition of key terms. Most professors are all too ready to head out the door in a burst of their only energy, seemingly as bored with themselves as we are. The intellectual renaissance of upper education seems to be little more than the Dark Ages at BU.

Socially, BU’s student body is “diverse” in every worst possible way. We’re diverse if you want overly rude New Yorkers, local Massholes, privileged internationals, and scattered nobodies all wrapped in the fine package of apathy. At first, I thought that my difficulty in making close connections was my fault alone. The more I talk to others here, the more a pattern emerges. Countless friends have spoken about the difficulty in making close friendships with an uptight, exclusive, and generally unfriendly student body. About the only way to make lasting friendships is either by sticking with the first connections made back in freshman year when we were naïve and full of hope or through extracurriculars. By the way, the only clubs or groups that seem to last are those that succeed in spite of, not because of, Boston University.

The other great BU selling point outside of the usual blend of academics is their uncanny devotion to this notion that “We’re in the city”. Oh sure, classrooms are in the Boston zip code. Despite Boston’s high amount of college-goers, the city holds a stubborn belief that they are most definitely NOT a college town. This War on University has turned Boston into a place that might as well put up signs that read “Those that are Under 21: Go Away”. Just getting into a club underage is a sisyphean task that borders on the impossible. Clubs, concerts, and just about anything that makes Boston interesting in the slightest is off limits to the largest segment of it’s population.

Defeated in every way, we retreat back to the Allston ghetto in hopes of at least pretending our parties will give us a True Collegiate Life. Instead we’re accosted by entrance fees, overbearing police who break up parties at midnight, and the most apathetic and dull student body the world has ever seen. My most recent “killer party” memories have primarily consisted of hiding in a friend’s attic while the cops systematically checked everyone’s ID downstairs, watching friends get slapped with alcohol violations for a six pack of Bud Lite in their Dorm mini-fridge, and frantic 10:50 pm runs to replenish fridges.

As for the other college “experiences” that BU provides, they’re about as vacant as the rest of our school. One nice arena does not make up for terrible audience participation in athletics. One half-functionating television station does not a vibrant community make. And that famed admissions process that’s meant to at least make us feel like we’re somewhat more qualified than those who didn’t get in? I worked in the admissions office for nearly half a year, and I’ll let you in on a secret: it’s a joke. From aggressive marketing of the richest international students (who will almost always pay full tuition) to designating CGS as the place for athletes and low grade legacies to “reconsidering” applicants who just so happen to know trustees, it’s all one huge farce. It’s like we’re in some bizarre approximation of a university that some drunkard scrambled on his bar napkin at closing time.

I know that I’m not saying anything particularly new or noteworthy here. Many have voiced their complaints more eloquently or forcefully than I. I want to add my voice to the chorus, and to warn all those who haven’t fallen into the administration’s sales pitch. Freshmen, it doesn’t get magically better. Prospective students run far, far away. Fellow upperclassmen, let’s get our degrees and spread the gospel.

Comments? You can reach me at steveti9@bu.edu

Feeling the Flames Again

2007-11-02T22:09:00.000-07:00

Even as I struggle to keep myself from feeling completely downtrodden and in despair there is at least a good portent of things to come. For the first time in a very long while, I've got things to write about. In fact, I've got a backlog of subjects and opinions and rants and ravings to put down on record. Don't mistake me, I'm still sinking deeper down but at least I feel comfortable ranting about it.

1) On a serious and somewhat political note, there was this little nugget at http://thefire.org/index.php/article/8555.html

In short, the University of Delaware forces students to go through an "ideological reeducation" that teaches them "[a] racist is one who is both privileged and socialized on the basis of race by a white supremacist (racist) system. The term applies to all white people (i.e., people of European descent) living in the United States, regardless of class, gender, religion, culture or sexuality.”

Yes, you read that right. There's also talk of point blank discussion with RAs about "discovering your sexual identity", and forced "competencies" for "citizenship" that teaches the "benefits of dismantling systems of oppression".

I'd expect this from a hippie private school up in the woods, but this is a tax-payer funded university. Luckily, the program is apparently being forced into review once the interwebs caught on and started to protest about that little thing known as "personal choice". I've been trying to explain for years why I firmly believe that those that lean to the left are more akin to well meaning but ultimately disastrous censorship under the banner of "public welfare". A smoking ban in Chicago earlier this month also triggered my Orwellian paranoid senses because it was passed unanomously by bureaucrats.

Scary, scary stuff.

2) Speaking of scary stuff, how about that 2008 Presidential Race? Golly gee gosh, we're fucked. I've tried to straddle the center for quite a long time now, and I still haven't the foggiest idea who I'd vote for or what party I'll register for. A small read through of the candidates goes like this:

Republican Candidates
Rudy Giuliani - Domestically speaking, I've got very little problems with Rudy. He's a bit too pro-gun control for my tastes, but I don't think he'd kneel to the religious right on every issue and instead actually seek to build a "consensus". However, there are two issues with Rudy. The first is that his foreign policy is BATSHIT crazy. He mapped it out in a recent Foreign Affairs article and it might as well be called "What we didn't learn in the last eight years". While I have no doubt that the islamofascists pose a threat to american lives, there are about a billion other pressing items on our agenda. Iran will soon join Pakistan in the ranks of the unstable nuclear regimes in the middle east, and both will pose massive diplomatic challenges to Bush's successor. My second and larger issue with Rudy is that he has shown fascistic tendencies in his governing policy before. He essentially turned Manhattan into his own political and police state and used that to springboard him to the candidacy. Civil liberties might as well not exist to Rudy Giuliani. Given that it's a probable statistic that the islamofascists will strike again, possibly with nuclear or chemical weapons, I certainly do not want Rudy Giuliani telling us to stop whining about wiretaps and waterboarding while he further castrates the constitution.

Mitt Romney - I've got several politically minded friends who absolutely despise Romney, and for good reason. He is nothing but a giant panderer to whoever will pay for his campaign and vote him into office. While I'd hesitate to call him unscrupulous, he'd certainly be the type of President to follow public opinion closely. And frankly, I've got no problem with that. Idealistic Presidents can certainly be nice, but right now I'd settle for plain old competency.

Fred Thompson - Not happening. Reagan nostalgia begins and ends with Reagan.

John McCain - Or as I like to call it "the incredibly imploding campaign". He's too politically compromised on too many issues to play the maverick card he once held so effectively.

Mike Huckabee - I don't like him, but I want to respect him. Time will tell if he's worthy of a closer look.

Ron Paul - Oh, Ron. I love that you're out there preaching the libertarian gospel in all it's glory. From legalization of damn near everything to a realistic foreign policy... you've got it all. It's a shame that you're not more charismatic, but we libertarians will take what we can get.

In closing:
I would love to vote for - Ron Paul.
I could possibly vote for - Romney, Huckabee.
I would never consider - Rudy, Fred.
I'm too busy laughing at - McCain.

Democratic Candidates

Hillary Clinton - I have no idea why I have such strong distate for Hillary. She'd probably govern from the center, and she's politically astute enough to avoid any massive errors. And yet... she gives me the willies whenever I see her. Maybe it's because her moral core is so well hidden under pragmatism that it might as well be a black hole. Romney has a similar problem, but at least Romney has changed positions several times. If you're going to try and run the Presidency on logic, make sure it allows for changes of opinion. Heck, maybe it's because we've already had eight years of a Clinton presidency. Maybe it's because she's from New York. Regardless, she's the challenger that everyone has their eyes on knocking off the pedestal.

Barack Obama - I'd love to see an Obama presidency. It might fail spectacularly, but goddamn it'd be fun to watch. He's just so genuinely full of optimism and hope and honesty that I have a hard time imagining him as President in such a polarized landscape. His lack of experience doesn't worry me, although his personal disgust with the political landscape and the nature of whoring yourself out on the campaign trail means that the chances of an Obama Presidency seem slimmer by the day. All talk, no substance? Perhaps. Or maybe youthful vigor is the answer America is looking for.

John Edwards - I disagree with him on so many, many issues. His campaign message of an Us against Them class mentality scares me to no end. Despite that, I wouldn't be entirely unhappy with him in the White House. He's got a nice guy charm to him that would serve him well as America's face abroad.

John Richardson - Go away. You've shown you'll make a good cabinet member. Now take your campaign and watch CNN for the results.

Joe Biden - A fantastic politician who will unfortunately never be President. Even though he'll never be a serious contender, his presence at every debate has made them watchable and dare I say, occasionally enlightening.

Dennis Kucinich - Aww. I used to hate the little peacenik. Then I saw that he's got a great sense of humor about himself and he's also got a gorgeous wife. Seriously. Even if he loses every office he'll ever seek, he's found true storybook romance. And ultimately, isn't that more crucial than another round of Washington circlejerk?

I'd love to vote for - Biden, Obama
I'd reluctantly consider voting for - Clinton, Edwards.
Have you seen his wife - Kucinich
Whoa, he's running? - Chris Dodd.

3) How much BU sucks. Objectively. Subjectively. Completely. More on this later.

A Chance at the Irish

2007-10-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

My "personal statement" to go abroad was due on Monday. For prosperity, and in the event of another hard drive failure, I'm posting it here as well. I should note that I am fairly sure I won't be getting in; my gpa isn't that low, but the downward trend isn't exactly helping things. As per usual, the below is full of pretentious bullshit and does not reflect my current mood or thoughts.

My golly gee gosh, isn't it fun to act positive?

Two years ago I gazed over the concourse of Logan Airport, still weary from a day’s travel from my home in California. As my eyes caught the “welcome to Boston” banner, I felt my fists tighten caused by a mix of giddy apprehension and nervous exhaustion. “This is it”, I wrote. “This is where I take the first step towards defining who I am”. Since then I’ve grown academically, intellectually, and emotionally from my travels here in Boston. I view a possible semester in Dublin not just as a new adventure to embark on but as a continuation of my own day-to-day journey to live up to the goals that I have set out to accomplish.

I’ve had an odd affection for United States history for as long as I can remember and learning, analyzing, and experiencing other cultures is my way to try and understand myself and my heritage by exploring outward. Whereas many of my International Relations peers see selected classes as the next object on their How to Get a Successful Career checklist, I enrolled in International Relations classes simply to broaden my admittedly limited horizons.

Last semester at Boston University my classes left me academically exhausted and intellectually numb. As my once burning desire to devour knowledge became a lackadaisical routine my grades sloped downward ever so slightly. Near the end of the semester, my Intro to Creative Writing professor took me aside and told me to simply sit down with a pen and notebook, and start writing. “Don’t even think,” he told me. “Just let it all flow in one massive pool of emotion and expression”. After filling several notebook pages with scrawled thoughts, it was as if a switch had been flipped. I spent the summer sharpening my craft and I’ve started work on what I hope will one day be my first published novel. I feel reinvigorated and energized again, and I feel that I would excel in a smaller, focused program like the one Dublin offers. A semester abroad in Ireland’s cultural center will only assist me further in igniting my love for the written word.

An internship in which I could somehow gain both a greater understanding of world politics and the craft of writing would be ideal. Hopefully, I could marry my interest in International Relations as an area of study with my desire to write coherently and passionately. When I spent a semester as a journalism student I wrote with far too great vigor and belief to simply report the news as a spectator. However, an internship with some sort of Opinion or Editorial magazine would be a perfect taste of a career that I could easily see myself enjoying and excelling in.

After I graduate I hope to further pursue my interests wherever my career will take me. I’ve begun looking into Creative Writing M.F.A. programs in Boston and back home in California but I’m also interested in exploring Ireland and all of Europe as a home once I have graduated. As always, Dublin represents more than a semester abroad. It is a chance to truly find myself academically and spiritually.

Livin in a Dreamworld

2007-09-15T03:26:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, self-examination seems to be taking up an inordinate amount of my time lately.

How we deal with our problems can often define the type of person we are. It’s so easy to delude ourselves that we’re all out-going, confrontational bad asses devil-may-care types. Instead, I’ve come to realize that I’m introverted, passive-aggressive, and I very rarely let my emotions show.

While I haven’t been “unhappy” as of late, I certainly haven’t felt content. Much like I did in high school, I feel like Boston hasn’t lived up to my expectations. Where are my crazy college stories? Why haven’t I woken up in a stranger’s bed, smelling of a one night stand? Why haven’t I met my College Roommate who becomes one of my Best Friends? Why hasn’t a career path lit up in front of me that doesn’t make me want to jump off the 37th floor of an office building? And finally, why are people in boston so… lifeless?

In retrospect, its not all too suprising that my journey would take me here. After all, I put Boston up on this glorious pedestal and it was only time until I realized how much it has failed to live up to my lofty expectations. I’m not going to transfer or anything, and BU hasn’t been a bad university for me by any means. I had to see what the east coast was like. And now that I have, I want to head back home.

Yes, I’m ready to admit it – California is home for me. Right now I want to do something crazy, something insane, something memorable. Boston lacks the spontaneous craziness that California had in abundance. Oh sure, Californians has on average, about the most blindingly fake happy population on the earth. But at least they’re happy about something. There’s a coy self-awareness to the whole Californian mindset. “Yeah, I’m really not this chipper, but why the hell not?”

Boston feels so relentlessly adult, so constricting, so serious that it’s stifling. I know that I’m falling back on stereotypes ad naseum here, but everyone in Boston seems to have these BIG goals they’ve got marked out on their corkboards over their desks. Go to law school. Study, study, study so that you can go to medical school and study some more. The focus isn’t on the goal, but on the necessity of the goal itself.

I’m twenty fucking years old, and I have no idea what I want to do as a career. However, I do know what I want to do in my life. I want to live life along the fringes and experience everything and anything that comes my way. I want to stay up until 2 am with close friends having drunk mediations on the Deep Meanings of Life. I want to meet someone who makes me giddy just thinking about her. I want her to be vibrant, spunky, full of energy. I don’t want her to have big plans outside of the present. I want her to simply get me, how I work, who I am, where I’m going. I want her to be difficult to deal with. I want us to fight until the early hours just because we can. I want to throw her up against a wall during the vicious make-up sex.

I want something new. I want change. For the first time, I’ve begun to think… what if I had stayed in California, gone to a good but not great school, and experienced something else entirely? Would I be a different person with a different outlook? Would I be as deeply unsatisfied as I am now?

It’s been building for a long time. Instead of talking it out with someone close, I’ve simply put up my defenses and closed myself off. I desperately want to let it all out and just unleash all of these bottled up emotions inside of me. I feel so distant these days. It’s not just an isolation from others. It’s an isolation from myself as well.

In high school I felt like a big ball of rage nearly every day after school. I remember getting home and just ranting and raving about everything. About school. About friends. About girls. About politics. About anything that I had managed to invest myself in. Now, there are no rants or ravings. Instead, it’s taken me a week to scrounge up the energy to write this half assed entry.

Ambition’s a tricky thing. It can fuel you for years. But once you lose it… you drift endlessly across the great sea of indifference.

Under the Blacklight Review

2007-08-31T17:39:00.000-07:00

After years of popularity in the indie rock scene, Rilo Kiley finally joins the mainstream with Under the Blacklight. Their devout followers might cry foul over the simpler and more standardized sound, but most everyone else will enjoy the variety that the release has to offer. Even their detractors will have a hard time bashing the imminently enjoyable and undeniably catchy Breakin Up.

Last year, after a rather rough break up, a friend of mine recommended that I listen to Portions for Foxes, the bands most successful single to date. While the driving beat was enjoyable, it was the unbelievably sharp, cynical lyrics that struck a chord with me (There’s blood in my mouth cause I’ve been biting my tongue all week/ I keep on talking trash but I never say anything). This lyrical potency carried through with Jenny Lewis’ solo album, Rabbit Furcoat. While her country influences certainly took center stage, slightly quirky lyrics mixed with a nice splash of cynicism carried over from Rilo Kiley.

I’ve listened to some of Rilo Kiley’s earlier material, and overall I’m a bit unimpressed. While the band certainly plays around with conventions more often than not, I found some songs to stray too far off the beaten path. It is with that overlong intro that I finally cracked open Under the Blacklight and discovered that Rilo Kiley has once again played musical hopscotch from their standard country-pop roots to ethereal whimsy to BritPop and more. The song subjects bounce around nearly as much, with light, fluffy songs sitting side by side pedophilia and the life of a call girl. Even more surprising is that despite the albums diversity, despite the simpler lyrics, despite the band member’s many solo projects; Under the Blacklight remains cohesive, clever, and clearly a fun trip.

Tracklistings:
1. Silver Lining 3/5 – A relatively straightforward Rilo Kiley song that both sets the tone and stands as a starting point to contrast the album’s more fanciful departures.
2. Close Call – 4/5 The album pace speeds up a bit as the subject matter turns to prostitution. I’ve read a lot of criticism about Rilo Kiley switching to a more standard Chorus verse chorus structure but this song serves as evidence that by reeling in the band’s musical eccentricities but keeping the razop sharp lyrics only enhances the band’s strengths.
3. Moneymaker – 5/5. From prostitution to a 70s funk inspired romp all about “shaking your moneymaker”, Rilo Kiley loves their contrasts. Even better is The Moneymaker’s surging bass line that made even this awkward white guy want to get up and shake his moneymaker.
4. Breakin’ Up – 4/5 Even when the band covers standard topics such as relationships, Rilo Kiley can’t resist playing with conventions. The verses and subtle background instrumentation that leads to a nice solo all work fine and dandy, but the refrain of “Breakin Up” throughout the song transform it to something much more catchy and enjoyable.
5. Under the Blacklight – 4/5. Standard Rilo fare, with a fun little chorus to boot.
6. Dreamworld 5/5 – Apparently another RK member also leads the electronic group The Elected. While I’ve yet to check them out, he takes over the vocals for a trip down the ethereal; side of the spectrum. Trippy, dancey, and completely awesome about sums up my feelings about this song.
7. Dejalo 5/5 – Another song falling in the “catchy” category, Dejalo demands to be played in every club possible. This song has it all. A funky refrain, a slightly groovey bass line, and perhaps the best lyrics of the album. (I’ve got a tail if you wanna chase it/ I got a tongue if you want to taste it/ I’ve got a place on the east side/ I’ve got some time if you wanna).
8. 15 5/5. The album returns to the band’s alt-country-pop roots with a lovely ballad about statutory rape. Ah, Rilo Kiley. Such softies. While I’ve had a few bouts of age different relationships myself (19 and 17), this song shows that even when Rilo Kiley shoots for the mainstream they end up somewhere else entirely. Luckily, I could care less.
9. Smoke Detector 3/5 – Rilo Kiley does BritPop. The band almost pulls off the lame smoke detector metaphor, but it’s just too cutesy and simple for such a witty band.
10. The Angels Hung Around – 5/5. Despite sounding like it could have easily been on Rabbit Furcoat, Jenny Lewis can deliver the straight country-pop like no one else.
11. Give a Little Love- The album concludes with a mellow piano centric that flirts with a bit of R&B before concluding.

I suspect that Under the Blacklight will polarize fans much quicker than their previous releases. Some will denounce the move towards radio friendly fare, others will harp on the difficulty of describing the “Rilo Kiley” sound, and still others will be straight puzzled by this release. As for me, I’ve got tickets to their next show.

Momentary Thing

2007-08-11T14:55:00.000-07:00

Momentary Thing by Something Happens
http://youtube.com/watch?v=VPzZdPBqZtQ

Is it nothing or less? Or less? Or less?..
We're holding on I guess, I guess, I guess..
She's taking off her clothes again
Says, "Let the whole world see"
She's cutting off her hair again
Says, "This is all of me"..

(Chorus)
After all, well isn't this just a momentary thing?
It's not like I expected it,
Or any heavy thing

Shook me up I guess, I guess, I guess..
Stirring me up yes, yes, yes..
It's at the point of breaking down,
Cause there's nothing left to say.
I think you waste your sweetness.
I think the whole thing blew away.

(Chorus)

Not like I hoped
Not like I dreamed
Not like I prayed
And hoped for.. dreamed
It's not like I'm hooked
I'm hooked (x3)
It's not any heavy thing.. (x4)

(Guitar Solo)

Cause we'll get along..
Yeah.
We'll get along.
Oh yeah.
After so long (x4)
So long..

2007-08-03T15:56:00.000-07:00

I once naively thought that, as we get older that life would suddenly make sense, that details would fall together, as if a magical door was suddenly revealed and all I would have to do is enter it.

Instead, I�ve found there to be a depressing lack of resemblance between who I am and who I wish to be. As the summer begins to wind down, I once again find myself at odds with my goals. My goal of writing more has become a joke, as embodied by the lack of updates on this very page. Although mental progress towards my newest prose story has been made, I still have yet to actually sit down with cappuccino in hand and slog my way through it. Writing is usually a refreshing, relaxing experience made primarily of thoughtful reflection. Unfortunately, all reflection can do is point out how little progress I�ve made towards my goals.

I�ve been waiting far too long for a spark, a moment, and an epiphany or damn near anything to break me from my groggy haze. And still, I wait. Waiting for a career path to light up in front of me. Waiting for a world event to transform me from spectator to activist. Waiting for the right girl to come along. Waiting.

Even a much anticipated road trip provided little excitement and only served to further shaken one of my still standing beliefs. I have long talked about how I believe that things happen for a reason, and yet it is always the �what if�s that wreak the most havoc. Until a few weeks ago, I had thought that attending Boston University was absolutely, certainly the right choice. While I was less certain about certain decisions once I arrived, I had never even contemplated that perhaps my first choice was the wrong choice. Traveling to Montreal forced me to take stock of just how fantastic my first two years have been.

It�s ironic how life pulls reversals on us without even realizing. High school was all about trying to escape your branded identity whether it be �loving son, faithful boyfriend, or studious scholar�. College is exactly the opposite. It�s about being forced to create your own identity and not having anything else to fall back on. You�re just� you. For better or worse.

I originally had planned to write this entry on the single versus couple life, but it seems to be such a well worn path that I really can�t throw much insight onto it at the moment.

All I can say is, I�d love to find a Barney Stinson to my Ted Mosby.

By the way, I am overjoyed to learn that after finally sitting down and watching Veronica Mars she bears little resemblance to my idea of Jamie Brand. It�s a fantastic show with a well-constructed plot, snarky dialogue, and fascinating characters (Logan Echolls is the best male character I�ve seen in a very long time). Yet despite that and it�s noir mystery at a high school promise, its still thankfully nowhere near my vision.

Jamie Brand is the latest incarnation of my long mapped out but rarely written plan for an overarching series that more than likely will first be in prose format.

The idea originally hatched way back in senior year of high school, as an ode to all those superhero stories I worship. I�m attracted to the genre for numerous reasons, not the least of which are its strong-willed, aggressive, and morally driven lead characters. Motivated by a Marvel miniseries entitled Powers, I began mapping out the basics. Powers took the basic Marvel characters and envisioned them in a world without? er, powers. Peter Parker was still a geek genius, but he didn�t dress in tights. Matt Murdock still fought for justice in the court room, but never fought the Purple Man. And Wolverine? Still a killer. My mind took note - you didn�t need powers or flashy villains to tell tales of heroism.

While the ideas grew more and more complicated with introductions, character arcs and motivations mapped out, I had yet to actually lay pen to paper. When I finally returned to the long dormant idea last semester, I found an odd thing had happened. The plot, although a bit bombastic and in need of massive trimming, was actually quite well on its way. Character motivations and foreshadowing were all well defined, but something was off. My main character, a brash rebel without a cause moralizing crusader, felt flat. A twist ending at the end was a good payoff to an earlier set up, but it also drove the point home: My lead character named Matt Cain was a bit of a dullard. Moralizing crusaders can be fun, but being on the straight and narrow left little room for humor, wit, or anything resembling suspense. Meanwhile, I found myself giving more and more time and thought to the female lead, Jenny O�Neil, who initially was little more than a plot McGuffin. All of a sudden, SHE had the best lines, the best moments, and the most fun. I enjoyed writing her in a way that I had never felt before.

And so, yet again the plans have changed. The plots been reworked yet again. The settings bumped from high school to a murkier more open college. High level assassinations carried out by high schoolers have given way to a much grittier tale of rape, murder, cover ups, and conspiracy all in academia�s halls. And Matt Cain? He�s now the rather dull supporting character who Jamie Brand gets to bounce off of for all of those exposition filled scenes. Jamie Brand, of course, is now the lead. And good lord, is she ever something.

I was talking to a friend when they told me that all great writers fall in love with their greatest characters. From that little nugget I�ve set out to define Jamie Brand as what I�d consider to be the Perfect Woman (for me). Therefore, she�s a total head case, a complete bitch to everyone around her, she uses men for sex or for her amusement, aggressive to a fault, and knows how to pull off a killer mini skirt.

I think that as I get more confident, the more I look for differences from already existing works than similarities. Sure, Veronica Mars and Jamie Brand are both keen to figure out information to help their friends. They�re both snarky and they both have major trust issues. But beyond that, they�re two very different characters. I�ve only seen the first season thus far of Veronica Mars, but she rarely, if ever uses violence to solve her problems. She�s more likely to threaten with incriminating evidence than her own fists. But Jamie? I think nearly every scene between her and a guy includes some act of physical aggression on her part. She�s either throwing guys against a rail to make out with them or throwing them against a wall to gain information. She doesn�t yearn for popularity like Miss Mars. Jamie�s more akin to a gun-less Tara Chace from the sublime Queen and Country series than anyone else.

To be honest, I�m a bit worried writing my first real stab at prose from a female perspective. Somehow though, changing the gender has given everything a fresh spark with a more intriguing perspective.

Now if only I could get around to writing the damned thing.

Living the single life here, there, and everywhere

2007-07-22T23:27:00.000-07:00

Hopefully should be written tomorrow. Thoughts on Montreal, the Single Life, and the ever-evolving story of Jamie Brand later.

P.S. Veronica Mars? Owns my soul.

Sanctity and Sexuality

2007-06-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

Recently I found out that a friend of sorts has been essentially sleeping around town like a common tart.

I'm by no means a prude when it comes to freedom of expression. There is nothing more precious and valuable than an artist's creative voice. Whether it be Von Gogh or Kelly Clarkson, we should always value an artist's creativity over profit or political correctness. Imposed Censorship, no matter how small, how ineffectual, should always be fought against.

Every now and then, I have to wonder if our society is deeply, deeply flawed. There is no question that our society is over-stimulated and over-sexualized. This is not a revelation or a bombshell, but the reality that our society now basks in. Gender politics, always an evolving beast, have once again reared their ugly head.

Feminism is once again at a crossroads. New Feminism, it seems, has no problem in wearing a G-string to the society ball and flaunting how much they "own the room". Women are encouraged to be as slutty as they want, all in the name of independence. Male attitude towards sex remains relatively unchanged from a decade or two ago. While some of us aren?t looking to sleep around town, the vast majority of us will never turn down a good opportunity. It is women, it seems, who have thrown caution and class out the window as if it were a relic of a by-gone era.

It should be noted, of course, that I'm speaking in generalizations here. There are quite a few men and women like myself who still value a bit of class and restraint in our romance. But increasingly our society is becoming more and more desensitized to casual sex, drunken hookups, and forget-me-in-the-mornings. While some tout this cultural change as a blessing, it has become a Hot Button issue for cultural conservatives ten times over.

Some will undoubtedly blame the film and television industry and it's vast left wing agenda for this new status quo. But strangely, Hollywood's latest hits have done very little glamorizing of the one night stand lifestyle. While Judd Apatow's 40 Year Old Virigin and Knocked Up may take crude humor to new levels, they both have a surprisingly sweet and old-fashioned championing of moral values. 40 Year Old Virgin's ultimate message is one of waiting for the right person, even if it means embarrasment, ridicule, and awkwardness. And Knocked Up is about as anti-one night stand as a movie can get. As the credits were rolling all of my male and single friends swore that we would never, ever put ourselves through that hell any time soon. And lets just say that when we partied that night it was a surprisingly low key affair.

Sitcoms, too, almost always have an anti-casual sex bend to them. Smallville regularly shows that Lex Luthor is evil by having one night stands and *gasp* not calling them afterward. And Clark Kent, heir to the Princely throne of Superman? He somehow spent an entire summer on the sci-fi equivalent of ecstasy and still kept his virginity until he could lose it to ? The One?. Oh, and he waited til he was out of high school. Funny, that.

Of course, not all shows are quite as clear cut as the black and white morality of super-heroism. But between the ?Very Special? episodes and the obviously negative narcissism on Nip/Tuck, positive potrayals of casual sex still aren't found on our television sets or movie screens.

Movies, too, haven't become as violent as most believe. Anyone who remembers the glut of 80s action flicks can clearly attest that movies might be more addicted to CGI now, but the content has actually been toned down. The MPAA have done their damnedest to keep any sort of nudity out of mainstream cinemas, and yet somehow the movie industry still gets some blame.

The music industry, while not entirely at fault, has long glamorized the "rock star" way of life. It is a shame then, that rap and hip hop have somehow taken out the class of Johnny Cash (himself quite the partier back in the day) and replaced it with this utterly reprehensible fetishization with sexual acts. Not the beauty of sex, mind you. Not the emotional experience that one shares. Just the raw, visceral action of "smacking that". Songs about sex have never sounded so unsexy.

At the end of the day it is our own actions that determine the life we live. Not the music we listen to or the shows we watch. What surprised me about my friend who?s sleeping around isn?t how rare her actions are but how common she now is.

I was never raised in an explicitly Christian home where moral values ruled the day. My parents taught me that people make mistakes, that we aren?t perfect and that we shouldn?t expect ourselves or others to be perfect. Somehow though, I?ve come to a different conclusion than nearly everyone else I know.

I'm waiting.

I'm not waiting for marriage, but I am waiting. I?m waiting for something more than "You're cute. Let's fuck". She doesn't need to be "The One". She probably won't be. All I want is that when it does happen, I want it to be with someone I genuinely care for. I've had opportunities to take that leap with a few people but I've never truly felt inclined to take it.

On a more practical level, girls who are so willing to take that step quickly simply aren't attractive to me. There is nothing more powerful, more commanding, more sexy than a woman who understands that a relationship requires some build up, some foreplay, something more than just two shots of tequila on the first date.

I know that all of the above sounds wickedly judgmental. It is. I'm sure part of this stems from my still single status. That would be correct as well. But although I could go out and whore myself around, I've decided not to. I may be many things, but I've made my decision. Self-respect is worth more than a few cheap nights.

Writer's Block

2007-05-31T00:51:00.000-07:00

I swore that I wouldn't get deep into my emotional issues on this blog but... to hell with that.

I finished up my second year of college a few weeks ago and ever since I've felt like I've been in a bit of a funk. I somehow got the lowest grade I've ever received and it barely fazed me. Oh well. Can't win them all.

My writing too, seems to have fallen off. It's such an exhausting activity that I've been avoiding it ever since I turned in my last creative writing assignnment. It's not just laziness, sadly enough. Deep down, I'm fearful that I might not be that great of a writer. That my creative ideas aren't really all that new or interesting, that my writing style is redundant, that my dialogue sounds worse than a high schooler's play, that I'm simply throwing my hopes into writing because to admit anything else would be far too great of a mindfuck.

On another level, I feel like a drifter socially as well. Some people have those friends that were across the hall or roommates freshman year and they'll be friends for the rest of their lives. Somehow or another, I missed that. Sure, I've still got some friends I talk to from freshmen year. But I don't have "that group". Granted, I've never really desired a close group of friends until recently.

After constantly criticizing my cousin for always having a boyfriend instead of enjoying the single life, I finally realized that I've been doing the same thing for over a year. Granted, there were times where I was technically out of a relationship and "single", but I was always pursuing someone or at least had someone to call late at night. Over the summer I kept up an untitled long distance relationship more out of boredom than anything else. As that fell apart as the school year started up, I leapt on to a new set of friends and faces. I became involved with one person to get back at another. And somehow, that turned into a full relationship because it felt like the next step. You go on a few dates, you declare yourself girlfriend/boyfriend. That's the way it works, right?

And when the reality that there really was no spark there ever became too strong to deal with, I turned inward. Shut myself off, and eventually worked up the courage to break up. When the reality hit that I was also probably going to sacrifice my new set of friends I went back and landed myself even deeper into the emotional minefield we call relationships. Like most people, commitment is a scary word. But I truly believe that if you meet the right person, than commitment comes naturally. If you fight it, something is wrong.

So I spent a winter break trying to recalibrate who I was and where I was going. Instead I ended up realizing what I knew all along. A relationship isn't about the title, it's about the two people in it. And if there isn't anything there, than all you're fighting is gravity. It took me another month to finally make a clean break, but notice that it was only AFTER I had someone else to run to. And so, with a stacked deck, I began what would easily be high in the "don't ever do this" lists.

It's entirely true that a rebound relationship leads to nothing but one very painful breakup. Little did I realize that I'd be the one getting a taste of the bitterness known as the Jilted Lover. I fell fast for her, no doubt. Yes, there were signs that I conveniently ignored. I now know that the words "I believe in gender roles" is now akin to the "get the fuck away now" sign. After we broke up, I was faced with the hard truth that I was now single. Not "on a break" single. Not "pursuing that hot girl in english class" single. Just single.

And to be honest, it sucks. I spent a good month deeply depressed. Not "suicide" depressed, but more of a existentialist "life can go and fuck itself" times. Then a good bit of time on the stage got me refocused on just how awesome I am. All of a sudden, things seemed to click. I was enjoying life much more than I had in a good long while. That high you get on stage... it's the best feeling in the world. But ultimately that's what it is. An addiction, a quick fix and a false hope to hold on to. I got to act like a smug bastard on stage and what do you know... I liked it. Sure, I'll still be that cute, slightly innocent and nerdy guy at times. But I've always had a nasty streak of narcissism in me. It's times to play that up. It's time for me to Suit Up, if you will.

Things looked great again, and karma seemed to arrive at just the right time. Classes seemed to be on the upswing, I was on great terms with my roommates, I had found a fantastic group of new guys to live with next year, and I even got a "you were right" plea from the ex. Life, as they say, was paying dividends.

Yet somehow, it seemed to fall apart piece by piece. Classes dragged me back down, roommates moved away, and knowing that karma still semed to work gave me little solace. Part of it is the shift to summer I assume. Things change, and I've never been a big fan of change. At the end of the day though, it comes down to one simple fact. I hate being single.

People tend to think that us "we hate being single" types are doing it because of insecurity. We don't like being alone, I'm told. We secretly think we're losers is the other line. But ultimately, at least from my experience, it's not quite that. I truly think I'm an awesome person. I'm fun to be with, got a good future ahead of me, good looking in that cute sort of way, and (to top it all off) marginally smart. I like having my "alone time", hence the writing gig. I just really, really hate this killer sense of loneliness and the realization that what I want in a girlfriend may not be as easy to find as I thought.

I ruthlessly ripped on a friend of mine for saying that his ideal woman was Pam from the Office. Lo and behold, I've seen my perfect woman and she was created by a writer's pen. Go rent Coupling (UK version) and watch Susan. Quite literally, the Perfect woman for me. I'm indecisive, and more than a bit lazy. I need a take-charge, agressive woman who isn't afraid to make the first move or choose the restaurant. Unfortunately, our society has a name for that type of girl. She's called a slut.

So here I am, at 5 a.m. coming to the realization that others have come to countless times.

I need to date a slut. Because I'm too fucking indecisive to take the lead in the bedroom every time. Because I'm tired of making every fucking decision. Because at the end of the day, I need to be the passive one in the relationship.

To hell with arbitrary standards of masculinity. I listen to Madonna, Kelly Clarkson, and The Donnas. I like a good romance film every now and then. I get emotionally torn up after getting dumped. I don't need to drink and fuck as many girls as I possibly can to deal with emotional baggage. And yeah, I'm passive and indecisive and exhausted from being expected to do everything.

No more, I say. No more. Because you know what? If I end up dating another "I'm so agressive but I'm passive as soon as we start dating" then I'm fucking going to lose it. Come on ladies, can't you do better than that?

Next: I'm planning on doing an episode-by-episode analysis of How I Met Your Mother. If I don't, you know, get another bout of laziness.

My Rambling, Should be Far More Coherent Spider-Man 3 Review

2007-05-04T00:48:00.000-07:00

Spider-Man 3

Sadly, the sequel rule holds. While Spider-Man 3 isn’t a complete Batman Forever-styled disaster, it completely fails on a dramatic level. Raimi has always given the Spider-Man a slight tongue in cheek sensibility but this time the movie is so blatantly campy that all of the dramatic moments lack any sort of power or meaning.

The action scenes are easily the best in the series, and even though the climax takes place at a rather dull construction site every slice of action still feels fresh, exciting, and worth every penny that Sony spent.

The plotting itself is really quite solid. The problem is that some characters feel more like pieces in a puzzle than actual living beings. More on this later. The actual structure manages to juggle lots and lots of characters in the air fairly well, but nearly every character could have used more scenes. Perhaps the biggest surprise is that the dialogue is very standard comic action movie jargon and feels lifeless. Far too much nuance is left up to the large cast to adequately make the movie about something more than filling Sony’s coffers. Some are up to the task… others not so much.

Topher Grace and Bryce Dallas Howard are a complete joy to watch in their (very) limited screentime. Raimi has repeatedly stated again and again that Venom was never his favorite and unfortunately it shows in the final print. Raimi does the bare minimum with Venom to meet the criteria. Oh sure, he does everything we expect a film venom to do. But there’s no big re-thinking on what the character means or what he should stand for in the bigger context of the film. Remember how SM2 took Doctor Octupus and focused on his science-turned-bad persona? There’s none of that here. The script treats him as a plot point, and if it weren’t for Topher Grace’s obvious glee and scene stealing delivery this entire section of the film would have been a muddled mess. Taking a cue from Bendis, Eddie Brock isn’t a sadistically evil person pre-Venom; he’s just the sort of sleaze who would hit on your girlfriend right after sleeping with his.

Suprisingly I absolutely adored Gwen Stacy’s character and even though she is, once again, little more than a plot point I found myself falling in love with this old character from the comic books brought to life.

My favorite period in the entire 40+ years of Spider-Man comics is right after Peter had graduated high school. All of a sudden, Puny Peter Parker had a new supporting cast headlined not only by a new friend but two incredibly hot girls. It all read brilliantly with nerdy Parker literally having to push away two completely different yet equally appealing women. This comes across in bits and pieces throughout the film but it feels that, as of now, there is a missed opportunity.

Sandman is note perfect, and one wonders how the same film that could take a C-lister like Sandman and make him compelling could also take the Peter and Mary Jane dynamic from the first films and make it dull and uninteresting. Since the symbiote’s capability is never defined, we never know how much of Peter’s actions is him and how much is the suit. Even Pre-Suit, Peter still feels unnaturally grumpy throughout. When you’re waiting for Topher Grace to finally beat the tar out of that Jerk Peter Parker, you know something is not quite right with the world.

Kirsten Dunst never felt ideal to me as Mary Jane, but she won me over by the time the credits rolled at the end of the second film. That last scene in Peter’s apartment…. Pure magic. Here though, she’s more of a shrew then the first two films ever portrayed her as. Tobey and Kirsten’s performances, although no means bad, feel lifeless and uninspired.

On the plus side, James Franco delivers a solid improved performance from the first two outings.

I mentioned earlier that the movie feels far too campy, and I want to be clear here. Spider-Man 2 had the infamous “raindrops” musical sequence and even the first film wasn’t afraid to have some fun in their universe. There is a dance number that comes as the “highlight” to the Dark Peter portion of the storyline that many, many hated. The thing is, that sequence isn’t the problem. It’s completely over the top but it’s meant to be played for laughs and it gets laughs. The catch here is that The real issue is that even when the film is supposed to be big and DRAMATIC, Raimi still plays it like a comedy. Harry and Peter have their massive “3 films in the making” confrontation… while Peter has an emo haircut. Throughout the entire sequence I couldn’t help but chuckle in what was, I assume, to be meant as a serious scene. Then again, how serious can Peter parker be when wearing eyeliner?

A Real Entry...

2007-05-01T23:44:00.000-07:00

Final for writing class.

Angry Young Man Steven Timberman
1 Hour Ago
Morning light peered through the bedroom’s only open window and bathed Matthew Cain’s battered body in sunshine.
“Damn it Matthew! Open this door now! You’re already an hour late and after yesterday… just get up and open the door”.
Silence.
Marla creaked open the door half-expecting to find Matthew in another drunken haze. Instead, she found her son splayed across his bed covered in a disturbing mix of bloodied bandages and sheets. Before she could step any further in the room Matthew sat up and wearily his lips spoke a “Hi Mom” before falling back onto the bed. Marla’s motherly instincts kicked in as she headed closer to her son’s bed.
“Jesus honey…. Are you okay? What happened?” Marla spoke as she ran her fingers up and down Matthew’s back, checking for any signs of massive injury.
Matthew’s voice almost sounded self-assured, but the slight wavering gave away his doubt. “I’m fine, mom. After school yesterday I needed to relax so I headed over to Gordon’s. On the way home some guys jumped me, I guess they thought I was lost or something.” Matthew shakily stood up even as his mother’s left hand remained on his lower back.
“My god Matthew”, Marla said. “You need to get down to the hospital and get that wound checked out.
Matthew tried to reassure his mother. “Mom, I’m fine. It’s just a –“
“It looks like a stab wound. Stay here, I’ll go call an ambulance.”
The sound of Marla’s voice made her seem confident, but her hurried pace as she left gave away her worry.
Matthew felt his way around the bandages. Good, the knife had cut deep but the bleeding had long since stopped. Hobbling over to the closet, Matthew realized that he probably should go to the hospital. As he struggled to pull it over his head the clean shirt chafed against the dried bandages. No good, he thought. He hadn’t taken a knife to the back just to be sent to the hospital. He had to make sure that yesterday was the start of something new and not just another folly.
His mother’s footsteps could be heard from down the hall. Matthew straightened his jacket, took a deep breath, and opened up his window.
“Sorry Mom”, Matthew thought as he leaped out into the backyard.
Yesterday
“And that’s why a personal sense of morality is always more important than a society’s ethics.” Jenny O’Neil stood in front of the class; her stunning red hair almost took away from her always attentive and endearing smile. Almost.

“Thank you Jenny for that wonderful presentation. Now class, I know you’re all very busy with studying for finals but I’d really appreciate it if you could make it to Jenny’s play today.”
Miss Judith rambled on as she spoke about how great Jenny and her class was. Jenny took the praise and applause well, as she always did. Meanwhile, Matthew had just made the miraculous discovery that, from his vantage point in the next to last row in the room, there were 36 ceiling tiles.

“Well, just turn in your homework up here and in a few minutes I’ll let you leave for lunch.”
Matthew waited until everyone but him and a few of his under-ambitious peers had turned in the assignment to get up and walk up to her desk.
“What’s this? The great Matthew Cain finally decided to not only grace us with his presence but he also did his work?” Miss Judith said in a mocking tone. Jenny couldn’t help but let out a small smile.
“Fuck this”, Matt thought as he slammed his hastily written poem on Miss Judith’s desk and promptly walked out the class without waiting for her approval. The poem held allusions to Kant, a reference or two to Thoreau, and a Nietzsche quote thrown in for good measure. She wouldn’t understand half of it, but that was the point of writing it in the first place. At first he was excited to write more than his name on a scantron but it hadn’t taken long for Matthew to seek his excitement elsewhere.
As he rounded the corner to head back outside to the quad, the familiar sound of Johnny Steadmore’s voice in the background made Matt slow down as he waited for his close friend and confidant. Despite everything that Matthew could say or do, Johnny somehow stuck by him. As Johnny caught up and matched Matt’s plodding pace Johnny asked,
“Dude, what the hell happened to you? I walk for two seconds out of Student Leadership, all jazzed up about heading out to the rally tonight, and you look like you’re ready to throw someone through a wall. I mean granted, that’s par for the course for you…. Miss Judith spouts her usual academic song and dance, and every day you walk out like you just smelled dog shit”.
Matt’s eyes veered off into the sun as he spoke. “I guess it just gets old after awhile. Unlike you, I don’t revel in it”.
Before speaking, Johnny smiled at the nearby security guard as he walked by. “Look, Matt. It’s all about playing the game. Smile at the right people, say the right things… life’s easy once you figure that out”. With that, and the security guard now out of sight, Johnny lit a cigarette and took a deep puff off it.
As Johnny and Matt continued their small talk, Matt could hear the faint sound of David Cross’ voice emanating from the parking lot. “How fucking dumb do you think I am?” David roared out from afar. Everyone knew who he was speaking to. Jenny O’Neil, sitting at the central planter, let out a small laugh.
By now, David had gone over to her side and towered over her. David and Jenny had been off-and-on together for the past year and, despite rumors of infidelity from both of them, they remained in the eyes of their peers as a perfect couple. She was the Ivy league-bound overachiever; he was the kind-hearted if dim star water polo player.
Jenny spoke slowly, as if the BLT sandwich and in front of her deserved more attention than her muscle-bound All-American boyfriend. “Dave. I’m stressed about the play right now and can barely think straight.” Dave looked like he was about to burst out of his Polo. No no, she thought. This wouldn’t do. She tilted her head and cooed “I’m sorry if I’ve been ignoring you, and I hope I can explain whatever you’re bothered about but can’t we please have this conversation elsewhere?” Dave cautiously set down next to her. Despite what he had just found, he knew that a massive shouting match about it at lunch would not help either one of them or their reputations.
Before Matt could strain any further to hear what was said next, Karina Shaughnessy tapped him on the shoulder and flashed a rather rare grin. Matthew had known her since Kindergarden and they still had that friendship that only comes with time. “Why the smile today?” Matt distractedly asked.
Karina, still with a smile, proclaimed, “Oh, even though life and school is still a royal pain, Dr. Barthcome finally let me help out in the emergency room.”
Matt, paying little attention to Karina simply said, “So the Vet internship is going well then?”.
“Yes, fantastic. What’s got you all in trance-mode this time?” Karina tried to inquire. Johnny, never one to let a question go unanswered, conjectured “Apparently the perfect couple isn’t so perfect. And for some reason Matt’s decided to take interest in our school for the first time ever.”
Matt wasn’t listening to Johnny’s ramblings or Karina’s inquires; all his attention was focused on the central planter.
Across the quad, Scott Preston was adjusting his perfectly tailored suit when one of his friend’s strolled over to him. “Why the Armani and Rolex today?” Chris Sheshen inquired. “Business downtown, as always. This internship might as well own my soul for the next month. Anyway, any idea what the hell’s going on with Dave and his main squeeze?” Scott rarely took interest in what his acquaintances were up to, but Scott knew something had happened as soon as he saw Dave’s unusual outburst. Chris sincerely responded “Hell if I know. Rumor says she’s been sleeping around, but I don’t buy that. She’s as sweet and honest as American Pie, for fuck’s sake. Besides, who the hell would want to piss off God or Dave that much?”
Tightening his tie, Scott answered “I honestly haven’t a clue.”
Just then, Jenny’s charms finally stopped working. Dave hopped up, took her by the hand and screamed “you goddamn slut! You’re fucking Scott behind my back!” Jenny was too stunned to move. Scott headed for the parking lot. Matthew moved forward. And Dave remained entirely immobile, save for the small fist his hand was slowly forming.
“He’s going to hit her”, Matthew announced to no one in particular. Johnny stretched out his hand and rationalized “Come on Matt. This isn’t your fight.”
“I’m not going to stand here and let him take advantage of her or anyone else” Matthew said.
“This is because of her, isn’t it? Since when did you have a crush on Jenny?
“Fuck off John. This is about basic human moral decency” Matthew tersely declared. “And for your information, I’ve never said more than two words to her”. His eyes revealed a steely determination, undeterred by Johnny’s attempt to difuse the situation.
Jenny was now in tears. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about! I told you, I was at play practice last Tuesday! Ask Mr. Shants!” Her tiny tears gave way to convulsive sobbing. Dave was baffled by her violent denial. “But the note in your car said…” “The note?! The note in my car said that I was meeting Scott… as in Scott Shants. For rehearsal.” She was beginning to stop crying when a jolt of anger ran through Dave. He leaned in close, held her in place, whispered something threatening in her ear, and turned away from her and yelled “whore!” for all the world to hear.
“Aw, shit.” Johnny stated ruefully as he stamped out his cigarette on the concrete and watched as Matt calmly walked toward the central planter.
For the first time the gathering crowd spoke, but only in whispers. Could the school’s shining star really be cheating on David Cross? No, her tears were too real to fake. How could someone even treat her so roughly, regardless of what she may have done? As the chorus of students debated, Jenny wiped off her tears and calmly tried to leave. Dave yanked her back by her shoulder , his mind paying little attention to the watching crowd. She was struggling to leave, and his fist instantly flew up in the air. Finally, just as he was preparing to strike, his eyes glanced around and saw that every eye was watching him. Not here. He slowly lowered his hand. The onlookers had begun to turn back around.
Somehow, this wasn’t enough for Dave. Somehow, she had twisted it again. She was sleeping around, this he was sure of. And yet somehow she was now the victim, and he was the bully. He turned around, yelled a defiant “fuck you” and raised his middle finger in defiance. Before Jenny could react, Matthew had intervened. He grabbed Dave’s middle finger and swiftly bent it backward.
While Dave was still clutching his mangled hand Matthew leaned in and whispered “No one deserves to be treated the way you treat her. Leave her and everyone else alone”. Jenny remained frozen in shock. Dave attempted to hit the now smirking Matt with his one good hand but he found himself suddenly losing his balance. Matthew had twisted his arm and slammed his body against the planter. No one there said anything, but they all knew the truth, This wasn’t a fight; it was a beating. As calmly as he walked towards the central planter, Matthew headed towards the principal’s office. The security guards, too late to stop the fight, simply followed Matthew in.
***
“Matthew Cain. I see far too much of you these days. Your test scores are off the charts, you’re clearly an intelligent and well-spoken person, so why must you persist in causing trouble? Last month you threw Chris Sheshen through half the parking lot in what was an act of “self defense”. Why in heaven’s name do you then go up and maim one of our students?!” the principal yelled with surprising enthusiasm.
“David Cross was going to harm Jennifer O’Neil while your security guards were out daydreaming.” Matthew said, not even attempting to hide his disgust. “If it wasn’t for me, David would’ve done god knows what to her to try and re-assert his dominance whether it be over in the quad today or later tonight. I did nothing wrong. David is the one who should be sitting here.”
“David is an upstanding member of this school.” the principal responded.
“David is a man who would assault his girlfriend. And if he hasn’t yet, he was about to do that today. You want to place him on a pedestal and sing his praises, go ahead Discipline me, suspend me, it doesn’t really matter much. If you wanted me gone, you would’ve done that long ago. But don’t you dare sit here and pretend that you worship the law and morality equally. One look at that girl, and you should’ve known the answer.”
After being escorted out of Westpark’s front entrance, Matthew grabbed the bus and headed downtown.
Gordon’s Gym looked like a relic from a bygone era. It’s once shiny pillars were now rusted, once state of the art equipment was now considered obsolete, and their clientele went from assemblymen to desk jockeys. Matthew was probably the only Westpark student to even set foot in Westland, despite their proximity. They were too afraid that the dirt, sweat, and honesty from the blue collar heritage might somehow make them less entitled to lead. Matthew relished his time in Gordon’s, not the least because none of his peers knew where it is or how much time he spent there.
After his usual routine Matthew grabbed his bag and began to jog in and around the city. Most runners preferred to slap on their i-pods to drown out the sounds of urban congestion but Matthew always kept his ears and eyes open. Somehow, running on the old cobblestone and the remains of decades gone by gave him the peace of mind to think things out. He knew that word would travel quick over his outburst and that he’d be even more isolated than before. He knew that some would start rumors about him and Jenny O’Neil. And he knew that Johnny would proclaim this as Matt’s latest act of rebellion.
Just as Matthew was beginning to feel the pangs of regret, he saw Jenny under the glow of the stage lights, laughing and enjoying herself instead of worrying about the scowling face in the first row. He pictured Dave Cross laying in his hospital bed, howling in pain over his newest injury. Although he was quick to make it disappear, a smile crept across Matthew’s face.
His pacing was as steady as ever when his cell phone beeped the familiar ring tone that signified a new text message. It was probably just Karina checking in, wanting to “talk it out”. His body tensed up as he grabbed the cell phone that now showed that the message was from an unknown number. Instinctively Matthew flipped open the phone, unsure of what was inside. Message Received, 6:40. “Nice show today, mine is at 7 pm near the entrance to Philipe’s factory. Be there or Dr. Doolittle saves her last kitten”.
Before he could fathom what was happening his mind was already at work. Karina’s work was a thirty-minute walk away, twenty minutes if he pushed himself. He resolved to make it in fifteen. She had been working at the local veterinarian clinic for the past few weeks with Dr. Barthcome in Westland. His legs were numb, his chest was burning, but he had to reach her. Spotting the entrance to Philipe’s factory in front of him, Matthew darted in an alley to the left towards the clinic.
As soon as his body turned into the cramped alley, he knew that this was where he was to face his newfound adversary. He could run back, but what was the point? Lounging against a nearby doorframe was Scott Preston; his tailored business suit, slicked back black hair and briefcase did little to hid his fit frame.
“I had a meeting today, Matthew. As I was heading to my car I suddenly hear my name being muttered like an epithet by David Cross. Suddenly, I’m involved in a petty schoolyard shouting match.” His voice gave away nothing. He spoke smoothly, as if cradling a small child.
Matthew remained poised, ready to strike if necessary. “What does any of that have to do with me? Go threaten Dave; he should be in the hospital’s sixth floor by now.”

“I want to make this absolutely clear to you. This is not a vendetta, or revenge, or payback. This is a response. I have a name to protect. Dave is a friend of mine; this is common knowledge. Someone wanted to hurt him and I and they did so by planting a note in hopes of creating the biggest scene possible. I think it was you. Even if it wasn’t, you so brazenly created a spectacle just to suit your own ends that something must be done. Admit it.” Scott paced the alley methodically, waiting for a response.
Matthew charged him with all his weight behind him, hoping to catch Scott off-guard. Instead, Scott caught Matt in mid-attack and effortlessly flung Matthew’s back into the nearby dumpster.
“Please, Matthew, Stop. It’s obvious it was you. All this… for some little cunt?”
“It’s not about her, it’s about people like you!” Matthew’s anger drove him as he could do little but attack in a blind rage as he leapt off the dumpster towards Scott, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. Scott easily sidestepped Matt’s pathetic attempt at a counterattack and swiftly struck his side.
Matthew, bruised and bloodied, fell to his knees.
“Always the moralist. Did you honestly think I would attack Karina? She hasn’t slighted me. She hasn’t threatened me. She hasn’t attempted to turn a private affair into a damned circus!” Scott thought about charging him, but he stopped himself. This wasn’t revenge. It was a message, nothing more.
Matthew couldn’t feel his ribs or much else, but he slowly turned toward Scott and stood up.
“Sometimes a circus is warranted. And, for the last time, I didn’t place the note and I don’t know who did.”
Scott had wasted enough time. He charged Matthew like a bull and quickly threw him back towards the ground. Scott reached into his jacket’s back pocket and unsheathed a small knife. Before he could say anything, Matthew laughed and defiantly said “I bet you planted the note yourself just to feed your fucking ego”.
Scott plunged the dagger into Matthew’s back. As the blood trickled down his side, Scott ripped it out. “You’ve got ten minutes before you bleed out. Let’s never speak again.”
Scott straightened out his suit as he left Matthew Cain to die in a Westland Alley.
He was five minutes away from Karina’s clinic. Just five minutes.
***
“Yes, Dr. Barthcome. I’m just cleaning up now. Alright, have a good night.” Karina absentmindedly put the phone back down as she headed over to the cages to finish her last bit of work for the night. A knock on the door. Probably just another junkie or homeless person looking for a place to sleep that night.
As she opened the doorway, her mind still on her work, she automatically said “Dr. Barthcome’s office. How may I help---
He stood in front of her, desperately trying to keep the wound on his back from opening any further. “Hey, mind if I stay awhile?” Matthew asked as he collapsed on the floor.
After helping the half-conscious Matthew limp to a nearby table, she quickly began to bandage the now gaping wound in his back. The blood began to trickle onto the table as she applied pressure to the wound. No time to think, she told herself, just enough to act. It wasn’t the same as a shih tzu, but regardless she went to work.
The sudden blare of the car radio woke Matthew up from his painkiller-induced haze. Karina was driving and, judging by their surroundings, they were nearly at Matt’s home. As Karina pulled into the driveway, she finally spoke.
“You almost died a few hours ago. Mind telling me why?”
“Someone thought I planted the note that made Dave lose it. They wanted me to beg, I refused” Matt stated flatly.
“You’re insane, you know that? Got to protect your ego, safety be damned.”
“This isn’t about my ego. I saved Jenny O’Neil from a certain hell.” Matt retorted.
Karina’s tone turned sarcastic. “So it’s about her, then?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Now you’re jealous that I protected someone other than you.” Matt opened the car door.
“If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead from blood loss. You need to get to bed, and rest.”
“They’re still out there.” Matt stated as he attempted to stand upright but merely ended up holding onto the car for support.
“Stop this, Matthew. Stop it! Let it go. You can’t save Rome from burning, least of all with a wound like that in your back.”.
They walked in silence until they reached Matthew’s bedroom.
Karina spoke softly. “Take care of yourself. I know you want to save the world and everyone in it, but start with yourself first.” With that, she walked away.
Now
Matthew has walked this path too many times to count. Walk past the overpass, take a quick right onto Cabernet, and look for the nearest cul de sac. Even as his mind begins to drift, his questions remain unanswered. He should lay back down in bed and let his wounds heal. He should forget everything and start over, but that would be too easy for him. Even with the wound sutured and taken care of, every footstep carries a sharp surge of pain to his sides. He walks on.
Arriving at 22 Chester Lane, Matthew gently knocked on the front door. Even standing in the entryway with her red hair curled up in a ball and no mascara or lipgloss, she was radiant.
“Are you okay? He hasn’t tried anything has he?” Matthew ventured.
“Nope. Hasn’t even tried to call… you didn’t have to step in like that.”
“I know,but I felt I had to do something. Regardless… it was worth it.”
She began to notice the bulges in Matthew’s clothes that were undoubtedly from the bandages.
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. But never mind about that. Does he have any idea that….” Matt’s words trailed off as he thought back to last year. Drunk on the sound of their own voices they were walking out of the Pandemic Trance Theater when she suddenly threw Matthew up against the wall and whispered how badly she wanted him that night.
“None.” She proclaimed with a smile as she moved forward.
“Good” Matt reassured himself.
“Besides, he still thinks Scott was behind everything.” She could barely contain her glee.
Matthew paid her a compliment as he entered the doorway. “Excellent idea, by the way. But why not just fight him off instead of crying like that?”
“Because, I’m the victim. Besides, it was one hell of a performance wasn’t it?”
Matthew, still in pain, leaned against the doorway and said “Indeed it was. I’m very impressed.”
She leaned over and put her arms around Matthew’s waist. “Mmm… shut up and fuck me already.” Jenny O’Neil said with a devilish grin as she pulled him towards her.

So much for once a day...

2007-03-22T10:13:00.001-07:00

Note to self: Not a good idea to promise to write once a day immediately before travelling and getting massively sidetracked.

I was originally going to write a film review or two, but somehow a review of "The Punisher (2004)" seems like a godawful way to start anything out.

So just what will I, one day, actually be posting.

Here's the current hope...
- Comic reviews. Every wednesday the comics for the week come out, so I'm aiming to have short mini-reviews for everything I read up by thursday/friday depending on when I can manage to find the time to track down the books of the week.

- Movie/TV rants, raves, and rantings.
I'm not a huge moviegoer but I do occassionally see something new in the theater that interests me. Much the same way, I watch only a few tv shows weekly. While I'll get into what I watch in a more detailed fashion later, I've got a natural attraction toward any serialistic sort of show. Heroes, 24, How I Met Your Mother, and Alias (cancelled but not forgotten) all share the common thread of telling a continued story week-by-week.

I have a burning hatred for procedurals such as Law and Order, CSI, etc. It may be slickly made and produced, but it's still crap in my book.

- Politics!

I classify myself as a libertarian, but lately I've taken a much more pragmatic issue-by-issue stance on things. Living in Boston means that I get enough democrat doctrine as is; unfortunately republican talking points aren't much better to listen to.

In short, I'd like to legalize marijuana (I don't smoke), legalize prostitution, end censorship (FCC, I'm looking at you), severely cut back on meaningless foreign aid (building tennis courts in Africa helps no one), and return to a more practical view of foreign policy.

I'm rather apathetic these days, so I probably won't respond to most of the latest political rumblings in washington. Needless to say, I'm quite depressed by the current state of affairs on both sides of the aisle.

- Personal/Philosophical
These entries may attempt to be poetic and poignant, or they may just be a list of vague references to things going on in my life. Either way, they'll be amusing.

- Class material
Anything I write in class that seems worthy of being thrown up online.

And now, without further ado.... an example of my high school idealistic style of writing. This was written for my school newspaper junior year of high school. I cleaned it up a bit from it's original publishing; consider this a director's cut of the original.

Polarization, Politics, and Polemics by Steven Timberman
In one way or another, this was the year of confusion, division, and polarization. The cynicism of the late nineties has become splintered into sections and factions, all of them trying to gain even more influence in this “culture war.” A sunny optimism that borders on naïve mistrust has taken over the religious, conservative, and rural portions of America. They march on in the name of Patriotism, while we get bogged down in what is rapidly becoming America’s Second Dirty War. The cynicism of the past has been supplanted by an even deeper pessimism that has taken root into the liberal side of politics. America is morally bankrupt, and it’s lost in a haze of insecurity.

Not convinced that America is polarized? Take a trip outside of our sunny Californian Cocoon, and look around at the ever widening gap between the urban and rural communities. America has become splintered into sections and factions, all of them trying to gain even more influence in this “culture war”. America has always tended towards an us versus them mentality due to the two party system, but that has spilled over into our culture, our foundation, our very way of life. Worse, both sides view each other as either arrogant latte sipping peaceniks, or backwards bible banging rednecks.

The real losers of a divided America is the teenage population that gropes for a moral compass
The urbanized youth of America continues to find a misplaced identity in ebonics and the “ghetto” way of life, never stopping to realize that life is about responsibility and growth. They have become a disfigured Marlon Brando, a rebel without a cause.
Then we also have the rich white suburban kids destined for “greatness” who have hardwired into their systems that they must work hard, they must beat the competition, they must be successful. They are fed the same old diatribes week after week, day after day. They are told to strive for their dreams, even if only a few of them will actually reach those dreams. As they say Yes Sir for the forty-second time of the day, they neglect the simple pleasures in life. Their class will not become the successes of tomorrow, for they are destined to be the CEOs who when faced with failure for the first time hang themselves in the night.

History is a cycle, a chain of events where the past influences the future, all to be retold by a new generation. After the “everybody be nice” mentality of the fifties, the sixties saw a new generation seize life and flatly reject the past. The rebellious hippies have grown up and have now raised the tofu eating yuppies of our generation. As for the new year…. unfortunately this “cycle” takes longer than the passing of a single moon. We will not “heal”, we will not be “united”. We will become more polarized, more angry, and more hostile. We will find ourselves entangled in more Foreign Policy imbroglios as America continues to wage a war against the world. We will become an America without moral complexities, without meaningful debate, and without freedom of expression. We have lost sight of stability in a time of chaos. We have lost Moral clarity in a time of Moral Hypocrisy.

Why now?

2007-03-16T04:58:00.000-07:00

"Unfortunately, narcissism can also have very negative consequences for society, including the breakdown of close relationships with others," he said.
The study asserts that narcissists "are more likely to have romantic relationships that are short-lived, at risk for infidelity, lack emotional warmth, and to exhibit game-playing, dishonesty, and over-controlling and violent behaviors." - journalist David Crary

Everyone has blogs now. It's "the thing" to do, as trendy as a designer purse, and as professional as a natural resume.

I've had "blogs" in the past. During high school I kept a xanga that mainly held "fuck the man" personal rants and the like. I've also got a livejournal account floating around to let me take part in a few LJ community groups.

So why the new blog with a new name, why now?

My generation has been declared Generation Y, the Echoboomers, and the Internet generation. Frankly, I'm more than a bit insulted that most of my Generation's names are nothing but shoddy knock offs of our ancestors. The sixties weren't deemed "The generation that isn't the Greatest, but still Good Generation" were they?

My peers and I follow in the footsteps of the American Bandstanders, Free Lovers, and the Me Generation. While they simply realized the importance of the Self, it is our burden to raise ourselves to the next level.
We don't just believe that we are special, we bask in our uniqueness. We worship ourselves, our accomplishments, and our flaws.

What is so wrong with admitting that we are narcissists? Blogging is essentially nothing but written proof of our vanity, our devotion to the self. Some in our ranks have railed against this, but they are fighting the tidal wave of inevitability. Yes, narcissism has negative consequences as noted above. Yes, I'm aware of my flaws. Yes, I am trying to change some of those negatives into positives. But no, I won't deny who I am. I am more likely to have romantic relationships that are short-lived, I am at risk for infidelity, I do lack emotional warmth, and I do exhibit game-playing, dishonesty, and control issues.

You know what? I'm okay with that. And I think that deep down, so should you. You love yourself. You are more important than anyone else on this earth. It doesn't matter if your God, your family, or your friends won't listen; we are our own audience.
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I'm creating this blog to commit myself to writing every day. I love to write. It keeps me sane, clears out emotional baggage, and allows me to inflate my already large ego. I hope to keep this semi-serious, so I'll try to steer away from the "Oh my god I still wish I had her by my side blah blah bitch blah" sort of entries. But, I do love drama, so no promises.

I'll write about my experiences in Boston, my thoughts on the general mood in both the Pop Cultural and Political sense, and I may even delve back into my "archives" and post some of my earlier incredibly rough work.

So here it is. An attempt at a start as a writer. Perhaps this will work, perhaps it won't. Either way, let this be a beginning.

All writers are narcissists. I just admit it.