Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Strange things begin to happen when February rolls around. They always have for me. Last night I caught the last bus home. I haven't been riding this new route very long, but I know when we stop and don't stop.

And as the bus slowed down I knew it was not meant to. And it most certainly wasn't supposed to come to a complete stop. But it had. I peered out the unobstructed view from my passenger-side seat near the windshield into the night air. My eyes are bad in the sun and worst at night. But I could see the deer trot clearly and defiantly across the 4-lane road. I could see the steam in the air as breath left its flared nostrils. And I watched as he sauntered off into someone's suburban backyard.

And five minutes later, as the bus approached my stop and I thanked the often-disgruntled driver, I could have sworn he was the same man whose picture hangs in the row of the professor hall of fame on the long wall in the library. I'm almost sure that's him smiling at me somewhere between 1974 and 1980.

Today I went to bookstore, disappointed because my Amazon used textbook order from January 13th had still not arrived and I have a test on some of the material tomorrow. So I went to the store, found the nearest comfy chair and read the whole thing for free. All the while taunted by a book on the shelves of the poetry section. "Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way" By Charles Bukowski. I hate most poetry. (That's a story for another day) But for some reason, I wanted to pick up the book. Just to hold it. To smell it. Maybe it was ADD. Maybe it was intrigue. Maybe it was Tony Pierce. I dropped the textbook and, in one fluid movement, stepped toward the shelf, swooped up the book and floated back towards my chair. I read. And I liked.

I thought, fuck. What the hell am I writing? Journalism is bland. It's dull and sad and lifeless. I want to write about doing and seeing, about getting lost and about fucking and being old. But a line in Work-Fuck Problem reminded me that "ambition has killed more artists than indolence". After all, Bukowski didn't start writing poetry until he was 35. And He didn't stop (writing or fucking) until he died. So I guess I have a couple years left of fucking up, fucking girls, wasting my life and getting lost.

Cuz if I don't start doing it now then I might as well call up the local, daily newspaper and tell them they've got a shitty, hack of a writer ready to sign up for life. Now I'm waiting for two used Amazon book orders and I don't really care if the textbook ever comes.

Sunday, January 23, 2005

well you did it didn't you?

I don't sing well anymore. Probably because I don't drive much anymore. My car was my studio. That's where I sing and hope someone, somewhere can hear. Something somewhere is listening. I think that we're all hoping sometimes that someone is listening. That someone hears us. Even if we aren't speaking out loud. Even if we aren't writing it all down. We're hoping that someday, at the end of our life, we'll be able to sit down with them and they can say "Well most of this was good and most of this was bad" and it's not gonna matter which one there was more of cause it was you and you were living it and breathing it and saying it. Maybe at the end we won't look back at ourselves and wonder how far up that ladder of life we climbed. We won't wonder if we made it to the top or got as far as we could have. You'll just see a long line strung out behind you. Stretching as far as you can see. And hopefully you'll look back at that line and turn to me and say "you see that? You see how far I traveled to get here? To get to now. That's me back there." And I'll look back there and see where my line crosses yours. And I'll say "yep, that's where you saw me singing in the car.

And then I'll roll up my sleves. I'll pull in that line, I'll get it tangled and I'll wad it up and stick it in my pocket. I'd like to tell you that I would send you a smile, tip my hat and walk off into the sunset. But I'll probably just shrug. "that's it I guess?" My expression might say. Cause the point if it isn't to go out with a smile on your face. It's just to go out knowing you got something worthwhile in your pocket. Even if it is just a ball of string.

Friday, January 21, 2005

When I awoke from my drunken stupor this afternoon I wasn't exactly sure what had happened the night before. Slowly it came back to me in reverse order. I saw the toilet lid up close and personal. I saw my high school girlfriend standing next to me in the bar. I saw the girl from Mississippi with the big white spot on her tooth, smiling laughing and whispering in my ear. I saw a bottle of Stolichnaya half full. Then it was full. I rubbed my eyes, I clicked where I always click first in the morning. And then I was sure that I must have been dreaming. Because the headline read "Powell Is Stepping Down as Chairman of F.C.C. in March." Could it be? The head of the defunct F.C.C. which has enforced indecency with a terror wielding fury and who has deregulated the industry to allow unprecedented conglomeration is stepping down. The same chairman who, prior to appointment, promised to consider loosening the tyrannical indecency regulations. And then was reduced to nothing more than a tool dot he right wing agenda by Janet Jackson's right boob. Clearly the man hasn't ever seen a boob in his life because Janet's "Shock and awe" event led to a seemingly one-man campaign to rid the media of anything offensive.

So he's out. Good news? Maybe. But it's not exactly a "any change is a good change" situation. Everyone says Bush is now a man on a mission. Hopefully with so much on his plate the flashes of skin and casual slang of naughty words will slide slyly under the radar. Thank you Michael Powell. Thanks because I can't listen to Howard Stern unless I but a fucking satellite radio. Thanks because the only cable TV company in town hasn't stopped raising my rates since you got into office. Thanks for letting Cingular buy out At&T Wirless and conveniently losing track of the $150 they owe me. But most of all, thanks for leaving the internet the fuck alone.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

To say I hate Bush is not accurate. There are a number of levels of distaste that I hold for his decisions policies and public image, of this there is no doubt. Much noise is made about his low IQ, his oft-dumbstruck facial expressions and complete unwillingness to pay attention to the media. I must say, it's hard to have this man representing the nation of my birth. The nation that I love so dearly that I yearn to heal, to fix its problems and to make it the greatest, most accepting, most prosperous nation on earth. And with such idealistic dreams, it's hard to have him represent me out there in the world. But then I remember, in terms of numbers, Bush is a more accurate portrayer of the average American then I would care to admit. Besides the one glaring inaccuracy that most of us aren't filthy rich (though the newest pop-culture phenomenon is the belief that every young person will be rich and famous someday), the majority of the people indulge in many of the simple pleasures and make the same simple mistakes that Bush does. He is the common man. Isn't he?

Lets really think about this. Somehow this "common man" with supposedly such limited capacities, has made his way (whether on the coattails of his father or not) from Crawford Texas to Yale to the National Guard to Texas politics, governor, and now President. Then he got us to invade Iraq because they had weapons of mass destruction. There aren't any, but he got us to do it. Now these word that we might have to invade Iran too. Then, and most amazingly, he got us to vote him back into office for a second term, amongst the largest voter turnout in history and substantiated claims that he was less than heroic in his civil service. He was even able to make a mockery of Kerry's Purple Heart (not an easy task). And people say it's all so scary because he's so stupid? He's leading us blindly? Belligerently? Unwisely? Honestly, I hope to god that all of that is true, because if it's not and Bush is a brilliant political mongerer under the facade of ignorance, than the outlook for the next four years will be far scarier, far darker and far bleaker than any of us could have feared.

We are not of one voice. That's what makes this country great. Millions of voices. Millions ofo ideas. Millions of debates and arguments and disagreements and compromise. Don't ever let anyone convice you that there is one right way and one wrong way. That you should take what you need and shrug off whoever you leave behind.

Black motherfuckers. Black.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Here is another favorite of mine, also from June 2004 , the month I didn't hold anything back:

Maureen Dowd is one of my heros. Sure, sometimes she is formulaic and sometimes she is obnoxious and sometimes she too cliche and sometimes she is too witty and sardonic but I still love her. And today I saw her column and she wrote about Ali G. Who I also love. And she made fun of the president. Who I don't love so much. And that made me love her more. On top of that I saw Borat on Conan a few nights ago and almost peed my pants when he started talking about his chrum. Brilliant really.

I'm trying to do things. I played softball with the magazine team last night. It was fun. I knocked a few out, I drank a lot of beers. We rolled to the bars afterwards. Some girl gave me her number there. She was pretty cute. More hot than cute. Nice low-cut top. I threw it on the trash on the way out. She might have seen me do it. I didn't care. Cause I just wanted to get home.

I want to go out drinking tonight. I won't. Do you ever wonder what happens to the characters in the romantic comedies after the movie ends? Cause you've got that warm fuzzy feeling at the end of the movie but they might break up the next week. Last week I was in the movies. This week I'm not so sure. Facing the reality that the
G2K is 2000 miles away wasn't supposed to be that hard. I really didn't expect it to be. But I didn't expect it to be the way it was either. And now the two of us are kinda trying to come to grips with reality. And so the blog also has to come to grips. Damn, it started off so fun. Today two people, who don't even know I have a blog, told me the whole idea of blogging is dumb and scary because all blogs do is leave a trail of incriminating evidence to be used against you later. I told them it's not a problem if most of what you write isn't true. The problem is I'm not doing that. And even if I did I think you would see right through it. This story is just too thick not to be real. I mean fuck, you are reading about my love life. Not my Sex life. My love life. And that's not healthy for people to hear those stories. You can blackmail me later.

And I will probably regret writing all of this. But I don't care. At least not now. I don't care about so much. I don't care about my job. I care so little I did barley an hour of work the whole 8 hours at the office today. And I sent a billion text messages to the G2K. And when the TMG IM'd me I told her that everything went fantastically well with the G2K and that I like her a lot. Cause I don't give a shit what the TMG thinks. And I might have a bunch of friends but none of them call on the phone and I feel pretty alone. My apartment is empty save the cat. I don't care. And a ticket to 2000 miles away is really expensive but I don't care. I'm going to buy one anyways. This is the part of the story they conveniently leave out. It's when things get hard. And I dunno if the whole "nothing good comes easy" is real or just a load of bullshit. I hope to god it's true or my whole life might have been wasted. And just when I think I might crack I go read
The Busblog and I feel better. In case you're too lazy to click the link, I'll just crtl+c and ctrl+v it for you:

two barefoots walk into a bar. first one says, have you ever felt like nothing that you will do will matter. other one says thats not the joke, tell the joke. first one says, and the world will keep spinning and the stars will come up and spin around and go down and still nothing you do peon will matter.
other one says whispering sorta, just say your line, want me to say it for you.
the first one says, the seasons will come and go, time will pass, floods, fire, famine and still nothing that you could have done will matter.
other one says in a way thats sort of liberating.
first one goes ice ages plate technotics wait what?
other one says sure if all of what we're doing is just gonna get mushed over by nature and forgotten by sentient beings then why stress out about bullshit little things like slow people at stoplights.
first one looked at the other one
a gust of wind pushed a low-reaching dry palm of a huge palm tree up against a metal awning rattling the tin for a second and then it eased back down.
a butterfly aimed for an oak leaf and missed
somewhere a car horn sounded
somewhere an eagle was flying with a dove

Maybe it doesn't matter if I fuck it all up. I mean, when I was a kid I was protecting earth with my Transformer Earthforce pals and keeping the whole world safe without telling a soul, but now, I am older and I'm wiser and I have a lot less responsibility. I though that all I needed to do these days was schmooz and fuck and blog and pretend to work. But man, I guess I gotta love and be loved too. That's what I gotta do. And figure out a way through all those things that most of you are too pussy to write about. The rest of the blogosphere can write about the shit. You can have the sex and the blowjobs and one night stands and the drugs and the drunken stupors and the jobs you hate and fucking politicians you hate and all the stuff that doesn't matter out here in reality and all your superficial bullshit. Cause mother fuckers I got love locked down right over here. And there ain't nothing you can do about it.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

According to site meter I recieved over 600 hits last july, the most ever. So, in a vain attempt to share some history with you, here is a post from back then:

This isn't all of it, I told her, really I think this is just the beginning. I'm going to see you down the road. It's not a question. "I know," she said. We had one of those 'I don't want to close my eyes because you might not actually be here' kisses. Then she walked away from me. Just like I walked away from her 3 years ago. Of course back then I didn't know she felt me walking away. I felt it. I just didn't know how much. I wish I could go back and be there. Or at least watch it on TV. Do you want to take a step back there with me? Cause usually you and me are living in what is and what is to be. Because I am not a person who looks backwards too often. When you look back your mind likes to play tricks on you. And the what-if's can ruin your life.

Apparently I shook her hand like a dead fish. Her hand was so small. I was smaller then too. At least on the outside. But I've always had crazy big hands. I am living proof that what they say about guys with big hands is true. And that deuch bag named Zach introduced us. In the basement. In the library. Somewhere far away from here. Over 2000 miles. And all 3 of us were miserable. We all wanted out. Out of that place we had been stuck. Out of the cold. I wanted out so bad I thought I would burst. I remember looking at her freckled face and falling into a what-could-be. But we didn't talk again for a while. I think we even forgot about each other. Spring came. There were 6 weeks left and I was ready to leave. I knew that I was not coming back. But she broke up with some idiot who wasn't even there. Ha was the reason she was so miserable. I guess she had been dating him since before she came there. And now that she was free she decided to come back next year. And I was hanging with my bro B. He knew her. He lived right down the hall. He liked her. He was a child. No depth. That was fine. He was fun to hang with. And I started to feel things in my stomach when I was with her. But I was leaving. And I was never with her without B. So why not put the two of them together? The spring came. I took trips. One trip with the 3 of us. We went to NYC. I remember the oceanside bench in NYC. I remember looking out at Lady Liberty. I remember the sun setting behind her. And there were three of us. All sitting on the bench. And I pushed the two of them together. Cause it seemed right. What else could I have done? Even though she was like me in the worst ways. In the funny ways. In the ways that matter at the heart of it all. In the ways that sometimes it makes your heart hurt when they're not sitting there with you. In the way it almost makes you want to cry. I was leaving. And a few weeks later I did leave.

And in the fall I was far away from her. I was here. I would never forget her though. But B was there. And they were together. Which was fine because I thought that he could teach her a good lesson about how people like me and her maybe need someone a little deeper. We still talked. I don't even remember why. Or about what. But I knew that I needed to see her again. That I would see her again. All year she dated B. And then that summer I was in Alaska. And she went to see him. Fuck. They weren't supposed to be together this long. But they were. I came home and I let the sport take me. Cause all the girls I dated were horrible to me before that. I didn't need a girl. I let the sport consume me. It can take everything if you want it to. A man and his work. He can give his work his heart and his soul and every ounce of his strength. But even then we kept talking.

And she went to Italy. While I was traveling around competing. And we wrote e-mail to each other. Beautiful e-mails. I wish I had saved them. E-mails between friends. About deep things. And finally B broke up with her. Or she with him. They weren't even supposed to be together. It didn't matter who broke up with who. And she came home from Italy. And I left a message on her phone. And she left one on mine. And we IM'd. Everyday. It was amazing. It was summer. I gave up the sport. I was ready to be broken down. And she did it from 2000 miles away. She did it during my night and weekend minutes. She did it on IM while I was trying to get work done at the super cool magazine. She did it with text messages. She broke me. She broke everything and I didn't even realize it.

And we joked about me coming to NYC. About me coming to see Conan and about what it would be like. Then she said she wanted to come here. I was petrified. What if it wasn't the same face to face? What if she looked different? What if we were different? I was anxious and I told her not to come. Then I told her to come. She told me I killed her. But she came. And her plane was late. But when I walked up to baggage carousel 3 and I saw her standing there and I knew all was going to be OK. She hadn't even seen me yet. But I knew. And when she saw me and smiled I knew in a whole new way. And I knew for sure that I was broken. Broken in the best way. In the way that I might never recover from. Cause this was 3 years in the making. 3 years of words. Words on the page. Words whispered in my ear. Words on my cell phone. Just like these words you are reading now. All words with no physical contact. This was the shit they make movies about. The movies you don't believe could actually happen in real life.

When she told me that since the basement in the library she had always wanted to be here I almost screamed out loud. The whole time she wanted to be here. The whole time she was with B. The entire trip to NYC. Those 10 minutes on the bench by the water in the sunset. The entire time she was in Italy. While I was in Alaska. And the whole time in between. The whole time. Sure we saw all these other people around us. And we touched some. But that didn't matter. And the whole time she was here I didn't want to stop touching her. Cause that's all I will really remember. Not the hikes or the movies or the lunches and dinners or the drinks or the car rides or the saying goodbye. Just the touching. Well, maybe I'll remember her looking at me. Maybe I'll remember her smell. Maybe I'll remember more. The first kiss. Sometime between 2 and 4AM. When you're not quite sure if you're even still awake or already dreaming. But I don't know for sure. And now all that's left are her toothbrush, 2 hair-ties, the smell of her perfume on my bed and 2000 miles. I don't know if or when I'll see her again. I don't know that when I do it will be the same. If we will be the same. If it can ever be the same.

But This isn't all of it, I keep telling myself. Really I think this is just the beginning. Yes, I'm going to see her down the road. I know I will. It's not a question.

Monday, January 17, 2005

The intro to the media and culture section in Adbusters' "The big Ideas 2005" issue read:

If you are bored, surf the internet
If you feel pain, take a painkiller
If you feel stressed, smoke
If you don't know how to have fun, drink.

And then they made it pretty clear that despite the crap you get fed by the TV and the internet and the radio and the billboards on the bus, shit is pretty fucked up. So everyone is hailing bloggers. As if we are the last great hope. As if we are the only ones with the power to challenge the corporations and the media (which itself is little more of a corporation at this point). How come when you challenge them in a demonstration or a editorial you are called a liberal and a hippie but when you can do it as a nameless, faceless mass you're a revolutionary? Blogs might give us some sliver of hope, but in the end I will have to choose. I either play the game or I don't. But it's been my experience that 99% of the people who don't, lose automatically. You can't fight from the outside or you look like a fool. It's from the inside that we have to change it.

There's a lot of powerful people with a lot at stake. You might call me cynical but if you want to know why something is the way it is, there's one imperative question that needs asking: Who profits from it being that way? And at the end of the day when you realize the internet the cable company sells you so then can bombard you with advertisement and the depression it causes which they can treat, oh yes, with the antidepressants your healthcare helps subsidize which make accept your fate as an office drone and not raise any resistance to the system that raises your company's owners above you.

You just can't take these guys head on. We gotta be smart. We gotta seep in. But then we gotta chip away. Slowly. Secretly. Quitetly. Unrelentingly.

Friday, January 14, 2005

Today a European spacecraft landed on one of Satrun's moon. Think about that for a second. Damn. We can build ships that fly to Saturn. I can write a page and you can read it millisecond later. I have access to more porn than anyone in the 80's probably thought humanly possible. We have mapped the human genome. We can clone babies. And with all these people doing all these amazing things, we still can't figure out why the fuck gravity work. We know how it works, or rather what it does. We know every detail of it's force and speed and strength but it just doesn't make sense. The world is spinning, shouldn't we all be flying off of it? One day someone will figure it out. And then someone after him will figure out how to harness it. And then we'll have those flying cars everyone has always wanted.

Someday I'm going to tell my kids that I lived in a time before the internet. Before cell phones. Before text messages. Before ipods. Before tivo. And they are going to laugh at me. I'll tell them that we used to look stuff up in encyclopedias and order stuff from catalogues. And they'll ask if there were dinosaurs around then too. And I'll tell them, "only Donald Rumsfeld." And they'll ask "who's that?" And I'll explain to them that a long time ago, our country used to be run by a guy called The President who had a lot of power. And they will say, "that's silly. My teacher says it's bad for one person to control a country." And I'll tell them that I know. I saw it. And they will smile, show their teeth and make a dinosaur growl.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

I've decided quizzes force you to be honest. And now I stoop to a Quiz. This one I got from Razyboy (so you can't blame me that there is no #20 or 21):

1. What did you do in 2004 that you'd never done before? Started a blog.

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Last Year's resolution: Doggystyle. In the shower was an added bonus. Mission For 2005: Learn how to Kite-surf.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Other that to blogs, no.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
My straight-out-of-Brooklyn grandfather left but he still visits me from time to time.

5. What countries did you visit?
Jesusland, Canada, Germany, Austria, Netherlands, Italy, Switzerland.

6. What would you like to have in 2005 that you lacked in 2004?
A conscience. HOCKEY.

7. What date from 2004 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?January 14th.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Dropping the sport cold turkey and getting an internship at the super cool magazine.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Not making the US team.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Can you say West Nile? It's not just an illness it's the best weight loss plan out there. Definitely broke my left hand and cracked my kneecap too. Bluecross was a wise investment this past year.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Lots of candles to set the mood.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
The Will Farrel-like A. Pogue.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
My Own and definitely my sister's too. Not to mention the NHL.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Traveling and then this great University.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?Starting a blog after I found Tony Pierce

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. Happier or sadder?
ii. thinner or fatter? Thinner but definitely in worse shape
iii. richer or poorer? Richer in time but not in experience

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Taking chances.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?

22. Did you fall in love in 2004?
I thought I did. But I think I feel in love with the thought of her, not her. Then I realized I'm too in love with myself to be in love with her.

23. How many one-night stands?
Go back and count them yourself.

24. What was your favorite TV program?
Scrubs, early in the season before it got too sappy.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
The University member who decided to raise the Dean's List GPA requirement from 3.5 to an impossible 3.75. Paris Hilton. Donald Rumsfeld.

26. What was the best book you read?
What Should I Do With My Life? By Po Bronson.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Kanye. And the new and improved John Mayer who decided"Fuck the acoustic guitar, I'm gonna be the blues man I always wanted to be"

28. What did you want and get?
"Baby I'm not sorry I got what came coming for me. It's only everything I wanted at all."

29. What did you want and not get?
A spot on the US Team.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?
Finding Neverland.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Watching NBC revive the show "Ed." And A Tomahawk from Italy (no I'm not going to explain that).

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004?
Mountain-man turned preppy bad boy. I went from Down vests to sweaters with collared shirts.

34. What kept you sane?
The amount of time I spent outside.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
John Mayer on pure wit and talent. Lindsay Lohan for less reputable traits.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Anything involving media muckery.

37. Greatest discovery?
The Micro-Touch trimmer.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2004.
Being lost is cool(and sexy). You'll be my most bored and boring when you're not searching for something.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"Hold onto whatever you got baby
Hold onto whatever will get you through"... Wait, I changed my mind.
"You can't love too much one part of it"

The most potential hopeful for the title of Spring semester Savior is a 6'3" black man with a scar above his right eye named Kirby. He does two things I haven't seen anyone in my journalism school do for a while. The first is smile. The second, is actually want me to think outside the box. Formally trained in my other love, Anthropology, Kirby takes on journalism like...... And I am eating it up.

In the lame type news which has become less and less of what I include here, the fifth and final addition to my new house (which includes a genius engineer starved for literature, a NYC boy who philosophizes till I want to puke and hopelessly idealistic mountain boy) is a former conquest of mine. She was the first girl to set the standard in this town, which is the girls get what they want and they don't beat around the bush. Of course this was over tow years ago and since then we have each left and returned, falling in love (and one of us maybe out) and developed eating disorders (one eats too much and the other too little). Awkward you might say. Not at all. It's great to live with a girl who's pants you have already been in. You're just not curious.
And now, for the first time ever, I will stoop to the pathetic level of a quiz.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

When I was not even two years old I decided I wanted the toy lawnmower I had seen at the toy store. It was red and shiny and beautiful and it even blew bubbles. Bubbles! If there is one nice word that you could use to describe me as a small child (and I doubt there are very many more) determined was it. I wanted that lawnmower. My parents, understanding this determination, decided to use it to their advantage. They set an ultimatum. "you want the lawnmower? No problem. just throw away your nookie." My nookie!!! What a sacrifice. That was my pacifier. It's importance was rivaled by little other than my Felix the cat stuffed animal and sheepskin blanket. How could they ask such a thing?

A few days passed and despite temper tantrums heard round the block, it was clear that there was only one way to get the lawnmower. The nookie had to go. So I took the long march. Down the back steps. Out the door. Past the tree swing. Through the back gate. And There I stood, staring at the dumpster. I probably didn't even stand half as tall as the dumpster but I could see that the lid was open. And there, as I cried and my mother watched, I took the nookie in my left hand, wound up and lofted it over the side and into the dumpster. There was a small clang as it hit the inside wall.

Was I Brave? Hell no. I cried, I screamed. I’d like to think that if there was a way for me to get in the dumpster I still wouldn’t have tried but I'll bet if it had a tiny ladder on the side I would have been neck deep in garbage. What's done was done. And two days later I came home to find my shoddily built, plastic Fisher-price lawnmower. That thing maybe coughed out 3 bubbles in its lifetime and spend it's retirement days covered in dirt on the side of that old bungalow house. And I learned that sometimes life sucks. Sometimes you take a chance and you end up getting jack shit. Sometimes you let go of something comfortable and you don't find anything better to take its place. And then one morning you wake up and you realize that maybe this mixed up, fucked up, shit-backwards world taught you something along the way. Maybe you don't need another kind of green to know that you're on the right side. But are you going to let that keep you at home?

Monday, January 10, 2005

I'm trying to re-learn my own blogger basics. You should use them too.
The Truth Bloggers keys to blogging:
1. Everything is game.

2. Music. Music is key. Pick a song that matches your mood. Then put it on repeat. Listen to it three times over. Then you can start to blog. But don't stop the music. Not until you're done. Right now I've got Miles Davis flowing So What.

3. If the music doesn't get you focused, close the door, turn off the lights and feel it. Do whatever it is to get around that filter in your brain. You need a high speed line between your frontal lobes and your keyboard. For one of my favorite posts I actually took my laptop and a chair and closed myself in a closet. You guess which one. If you ever get distracted mid post and walk away, trash whatever you wrote and start form scratch.

4. Change the scenery. Dies that contradict #3? Hell no. You still need to be focused but sometimes a new blogging location will stave out new emotions.

5. The best points are the ones you don't mean to make

6. Don't get distracted by porn

7. Don't give a fuck about any stupid list of things that other bloggers tell you that you have to follow to write a great blog.

P.S. Does anyone else find it rediculosu that the blogger.com spell check doesn't recgnize the word blog or blogger?

Whatever will get you through

I was lying in bed when the first daylight of 2005 crept through the window in the attic bedroom. Though I don't know how you can call waht you get out in the northeast daylight. In 7 days there I don't think the sun ever unrobbed it's clouds and shined down in it's naked brilliance. But as the first veiled rays shined through onto my face, I marveled at how far I had come in 2004. The miles I traveled. The changes I made. The friends found and lost temporarily and a few I lost forever. The mistakes and successes and the decisions that just keep me gliding along at the same pace. And I don't make new years resolutions. But if I did my 2005 resolution would be less feeling and more things. More people. More places. More nouns. I want new nouns.

It's back to the books and believe me, there will be plenty of writing to come. The amount of time I have to give to you is increasing draastically. And more importantly so is the amount of insights. Though I fear that too much of it will be spent bleeding to you about how horribly aweful it is to be a student of journalism. To watch every beautiful ounce of your creative juices sucked out, bottled up and shipped off overseas (hopefully to tsunami victims). And some days the only thing that keeps me going is you. Maybe not you. But the thought of you. So long as you are satisfied with half of my heart. And if not. You might still enjoy the 3.2 megapixel's of brunin' love that I will soon start flowing you via my new Cannon Digital Elf. All I need to do is pirate Photoshop and I'll be all set to show you my world, digitally enhanced, pocessed, cropped and duplicated. This is not the truth. Oh no. far from it. But I guess you hold onto whatever will get you through.