.

Power-Up

2010-09-21T15:46:00.002-06:00

They say that life is not a video game but they're wrong. Life is very much a video game. It is full of obstacles both small and large. It rewards accomplishments and sometimes it even gives you a second chance. But most importantly life is full of power-ups.

The last video game system I owned was a Nintendo. Not a Wii or a gameboy or even an N64 but a good old Nintendo Entertainment system. Back then the games' goals were simple and the gameplay basic. Do one thing at a time. Shoot. run. Jump. Turn. Go faster. Slow down. That was pretty much it. Power-ups were in the game to help you do one of these things faster, bigger, more precisely or with complete disregard for supply. They were, as any of my old friends can tell you, definitely the most fun part of the game. Seeing your car or your player suddenly transformed from his most basic function into something far more powerful.

The part they don't teach you in school is this: In life you have to search for the power ups. The things in life that amp you up rather than slow you down. The things that give you joy rather than take it away. for this reason alone I returned to The Truth Blog. Simply put, it gives me power. I gain strength from strong words and big ideas. When I write it down the words become real and when I put it up here it takes flight to wherever you are. I don't care who reads it. My power isn't in numbers, it's in the ability to make something new.

If you're a truly lucky one you've found a way to make money of your power-ups. These are the people we look up to. They are the best at what they do because their work gives them power, they put the power into their work and it spirals into something bigger than any one person form there. I'm trying to figure out how to do this myself. Until then I'll be satisfied stealing away a few moments to to scribble down an idea, eek out a post, read a few pages of a new book and pedal up the side of a mountain. These are my power ups and I refuse to let them go.

Oh, and I almost forgot: If your power-ups aren't working just pull out the cartride and blow on it a little bit. Works every time...

One step forward, two steps back

2010-09-17T23:39:00.006-06:00

Today, in a fever-induced stupor, I lay in bed and read through this entire blog form start to finish. First impression: Holy shit there are a lot of spelling and grammar mistakes.

Second Impression: It's funny how the same people and places on these pages all the way back to 2004 have continued slipping in and out of my life.

I think I owe you a bit of an update. Before I can pick up rocking where I left off we all need to get on the same page. A list of key characters:

G2K: Still beautiful, now more than 2K miles away and engaged to be wed (but not to me). These days she is the voice inside the computer. Showing up in chats non-stop on my desktop, on my blackberry (yes, I'm now old enough to have a blackberry and yes, I hate that fact so F-off) on my laptop and anywhere else I find myself in the GChat hole. She's always there. offering advice. Offering observations. Offeringa window into a life I decided to leave behind.

Text Message Girl: No Idea. Last I heard she was living in Santa Monica. I have tried to keep out of any of the past trouble I caused there.

The Hyphen: Seattle and happy. Still, much like me, mostly frozen in time all the way back to 2006.

Awkward Girl: Moved to Texas, worked in a cupcake bakery, moved back, called me up, asked to be friends with benefits. Went for it. Met another guy. Disappeared.

Mormon #1: No Idea.

Mormon #2: Broke my heart. Twice. Despite the fact that I saw the whole thing coming from a mile away. Twice.

Sorority Girls: Remembers that I used to work in the kitchen of a sorority house way back in college? Well I run into those girls all the time. Other cities, other states. Doesn't matter. It's not like I go looking for them. Somehow they just seem to find me...

My Grandfather: Still occasionally visits me in dreams. Doesn't offer the same kind of advice he used to. Now it's more just watching on, checking in. A spectator more than anything else. I'm happy to have him watching.

Hawaiian Girl: I did finally get that date. About 1600 miles west and fours years after the place and time I first asked for it. A random encounter on a street corner this summer brought us back together again. Typical.

I think that about rounds it up, doesn't it? Does it? Wait, did I forget someone?

Oh Right. Me.

I continue to do what I do best: Get lost and find my way out again. I worked in journalism for a while. Had fun but didn't love it. I worked in politics for a while. Had fun but didn't love it. I worked as a bartender for a little while. Had fun... Then I did what any good twenty-something does when they need to buy a little time: I went back to school. Two years of precious quasi-freedom working towards my *gulp* MBA. Ya. I know, I know. I don't know know what I was thinking. Actually I do. I got a big old scholarship.

Do I love it? No. Am I pretty good at it? Yes. Good enough to top most of my classmates, bag an amazing summer internship? Yes. Where? In, you guessed it. California. (are you seeing the pattern yet?). This time in San Francisco where I must say all my dreams came true.

If that wasn't good enough I somehow got accepted to study abroad in Central America. When? Now. Did I forget to mention that? I think I did.

And so, here we are. A little older, a little wiser, a little weirder but still the same old Tayden.

2010-09-17T14:25:00.004-06:00

Dear Truth Blog,
I miss you so much. I used to love coming here and throwing it all down on the page not worrying about who would see it or why.

A lot has changed since I have been here but a lot also has not. I want to say that I haven't sold out but I think I have a little. I want to say that I'm a better man but I'm not so sure it's true. I want to say that it's all making more sense than it used to but the reality is that it's all still so damn unclear.

I've managed to surround myself with the kind of people who think in a completely different way. They relish numbers and results. They live for success and accomplishment. I suppressed everything that made this little page great and made me smile every time I stared down the emptiness of the white box waiting to be filled with my words. And I feel hopelessly lost when the world doesn't revolve around ideas and emotions.

There is some good news. I think that my dreams are still intact. I think that there are pieces inside me still moving in the right direction. I think that despite- or in spite- of all of it, we'll still be OK. The goal might not be clear but the hunger is there.

I would hate to say it and have it not be true but I think that I am back. I'm ready to start asking the big questions again and swinging for the fences with some big answers.

So there. Take that.

-Tayden

Count It

2008-11-06T22:53:00.002-07:00

It's tough to lose when so many in your political party are celebrating, congratulating each other and jockeying for that new job sure to be headed their way. It's tough. It's tough.

Every big election year a few people always tell me that they don't plan to vote. They're convinced that with so many millions of votes weighted in some antiquated electoral college of silliness, they just don't see the need. They don't see the point of a drop in the bucket.

Sure I could get all holier-than-thou with them. Tell them that it's their duty. Shame them with the "if you don't vote than you can't complain" argument. Explain that their vote is the true seed and the conclusive victory of democracy.

But this year I saw something new. Sure I'm all for "from many, One." But I also saw something amazing happen. I watched ordinary people with sons and daughters and comfortable jobs and decent homes put it all on the line for what they believed. They stood up and said “we can do better.” And they didn’t just complain about the problem, throw money at it or scribble a line in a ballot. They gathered their friends and family together, they filed the paper work, they hit the streets and they ran for offices as big as senator and as small as school boards.

Some won and some lost. Some did it for all the right reasons and some did it for the wrong ones. But what’s truly amazing about our system and about this country is that anyone and I mean ANYONE can make a go of it. Maybe not for president. Maybe not for senator. But for a position somewhere that they can do some good.

It’s tough to lose. But it’s even tougher to stand up ten months ago and say, “I’m ready. I'm ready to put it all on the line for the chance to make it better. I'm ready to fight.”

Trouble

2008-10-19T09:14:00.006-06:00

She reads faster than anyone I know but she hates to write anything down. She tells me it has something to do with making the fleeting permanent and the auric tangible. "When you write it down you can't pretend it's just a passing thought," she says. "It's there. it's real. You can't take it back."

I start to wonder if she will even commit me in ink to the book of her own history. I would be happy to spend my remaining days as a subtle little footnote on the last strands of paper that close out the chapter on 2008. "xxvii: Tayden made the days between losing the last boy and finally leaving town for good less than nauseating." Of course that would make me real.

When you refuse to write it down it means that it might still pass. That feeling. That thought. It can be ignored in your mind and crowded out by other tasks. but write it down in a old black journal or type it in a little white box and you can never deny it's existence no matter how much you change (and not matter how much you want to).

I, on the other hand, can only wish to make everything that much more real. I'll grab as many pieces of everyday as I can. I'll cast them into the shapes I want to remember for a long time to come. I'll cement it right here: Your timing is so terrible but I already know that you're one of the best thing that's ever happened to me.

The trouble is..sometimes it's much less messy when you just never write it down.

Story 2

2008-10-14T23:06:00.005-06:00

It seemed, at first, like a great idea. My room was sparse on decorations and my life a bit sparse on inspirations. I'm not really up for any bird killing but it seemed like the right time for a good rock.

So I rounded up pictures. My Pictures. Pictures of Moroccan sunsets, of my family, if my closest friends, of a beach somewhere far away. I printed each photo with a white border, glued them to neatly cut black posterboard and strung a wire across the sloping wall of my room just below the attic of my two-story house. On the wire I hung each photo, spaced the equally and crossed to my bed on the other side of the room to survey the work. Perfect. just before I put my head down to rest each night I could look across at the photos and grab a little piece of all these wonderful places and magical people.

In some uncharacteristic and hopelessly romantic way I had hoped to divert the uncontrollable currents of my dreams into the photos. Maybe, just maybe I could pick a one out of the lineup, stare into it just a few minutes before sleep and find myself careening down a familiar ski slope or thousands of miles away.

But what happened next was some mutant baby of my idea. I would look at the pictures, my eyelids would grow heavy, I would switch off the lights and my dreams would take me away. Their destinations, however were always those of their own design. The photos made an appearance, just not in the way you would expect. I would be off piloting a vessel in the north pacific, waves crashing over the hull and for a brief moment I would look down to the ship's steel deck just long enough to see the string of photos, still on the wire, lying evenly-spaced at my feet.

I would be two thousand miles away at the foot of some skyscraper and rather than crane my neck to see the top I'd bee looking down at the photos on the ground. And worst of all there would be that epiphanal moment(it's my blog and I'll make up words if I want to) when somehow the subconscious me stand there inside the dream inside my own head laying in my bed across from the true photos would think out loud, "Fuck. Well there's the photos. I guess they made it in my dream one way or another."

And of course that moment never fails to be followed by the next moment when my eyes snap open just before i can grab the steering wheel of that dream and take it out for a ride.

Story 1

2008-10-14T18:43:00.004-06:00

It's not like I go looking for the metaphors. I'm mostly the kind of person who plans to keep to himself. It's just, well, something about this world keeps drawing me out to people's front doors and smiling face. The metaphors for life, they just kind of jump me.

Like the story of Dick, and the people he tries to love. dick is a not-too-distant but not-too-familiar member of my family. The droop in his shoulder and the round scoop of his belly place him well into the second half of his time here on earth. His suits fit well with the big leather seats of the steak houses he frequents most nights a week and his big, black Mercedes.

In fact, that car might very well be the key to understanding Dick. For a good many years he tore around town in that car (or some previous year's model) as if it's phallic significance wasn't quite enough to assert his dominance over pretty much everyone, he had his own name printed squarely on the license plate in those state-regulated capital letters. There was no mistaking when "DICK" rolled around town.

He must have known the aura this black carriage created for him. In fact, I'm pretty sure he relished it. As it turned out, the trait most people associated with Dick wasn't his business prowess, his financial success or his imported suits. It was his complete lack of social subtlety and willingness to spout off about whatever he thought at any given moment about any plethora of topics that left it's most lasting impression.

How Dick came to marry into my family by way of the nicest, most elegant and most kind-heated woman of our clan is a mystery that I imagine stretches back to a time before the X's and Y that would become my generation ever had a chance to meet. Perhaps it was the money, the sense of security or the social status. But there they were. A relationship full of one-sided fidelity. I vaguely remember their house with a pool and the little automatic golf ball return novelty and the funeral where I learned that the nicest woman in our family would no longer encourage the reckless combination of back-to-back eating and swimming

After that time in Dick's life a few other wives came a went. The license plate changed. The suits needed to be let out. But something much more troubling began to occur. This man, who had no ability to connect with people, who had no idea what it meant to listen and be gentle with the criticism, needed someone to do just that.

You could see somehow behind eyes that he wanted to connect. It just that the only tool belt he carried is one full of frowns and wry comments and the other tools barely recognizable even to his family as something to latch onto. some kind of hope.

So the man who had built his lonely castle found that the only tools he wanted were a sledgehammer and a pickaxe to break it down again. I guess I just don't have the heart to tell him that if he hasn't found those tools by now it's nearly certain he never will. But then again, maybe it's something about my heart and his that keeps it this way.

I mostly try to keep to myself and sometimes that's not the worst thing you can do.

What Cliff?

2008-10-09T21:47:00.004-06:00

Have you ever felt that thing? The minute where you sit there and start to think to yourself "well this is pretty good." you have to say it to yourself just to seal the deal. Something like, " You know, this is not so bad."

Remember the wave? Oh yes. When everything's cruising and it's too good. you can't help but admit it and, of course, as soon as you admit out drops the bottom.
You can fight it or you can just relish the fall. Money? Don't need a whole lot of spending money. Future? Not too sure about the future. Wheels? gas is cheaper but whether the horn will beep when you mash is is really anybody's guess. Women? Sure I'll take you for some sushi and follow it up with some Guinness and some laughs and some footsies and some ki...wait, where did you say you were from again? Utah? Oh really? The mountains? And are you a natural blonde? So you were raised in what kind of household?

And here's the kicker. You can watch your life savings disappear and it's no biggie. The roof springs a leak and you might not have a job after Nov 4th and oh god so frustrating getting cut off without a honking horn. But then one word and the bottom drops out.

"Mormon."

And that, my friends, is how you lose your shit.

2008-10-06T23:23:00.002-06:00

I live in the west and out here we build things. Out here we drill things. Out here we mine things. Or rather they do. All the tall men with broad shoulders and big hats, made by the mountains. I remember feeling something different when I returned a while ago. I couldn't put a thought to the feeling much less words to that thought but over time I started to see the invisible lines that had separated me for so long. This is a land of engineers and oilmen. An economy that churns on the output of material and the use of those materials and thinking up new uses for the material that someone put out. Maybe it's the reason I left in the first place. All the blank stares. All the rolling eyes. All the emotions sent out but never received.

I always privyed myself a builder. My structures were built on the blocks of abstracts, milled by the deeper desires and supported by words that might never be spoken. I must have learned at an early age that no one else saw it that way. saw the emotions and read between those lines. I must have tried to lock it away. It's a tough and lonely existence when you see the world in a way that can't be shared. It's the everpresent irony of that someone who can read people so well must lock his own traits away lest someone else translate him.

But today I know there are places where that all makes sense. It's where words make the mountains and, just like back home, the mountains still make the man. Here. Right here. You don't have to travel to the cities of arts and thought and emotions anymore. They will travel to you. But that's not to say I wouldn't mind a few days in New Amsterdam right about now.

Recent Ruminations

2008-07-22T01:54:00.003-06:00

Recently my local public radio made a much-anticipated switch from AM to FM radio. I must admit I was nerdily excited to enjoy the FM clarity and ditch the AM dial nearly altogether. But something happened that I did not expect. The voices, each one comfortably familiar and official in their airwave-induced crackling and nasally timbre on my AM dial, lost everything in the switch. The new FM stations were full of soft-spoken strangers, each one a little less informative than his AM doppelganger. I'm not so sure I am happy that I can find these uncanned voices under a bridge or in every corner of my living room. I'll most certainly be back on the AM dial while drafting behind the tractor-trailer trying to squeeze a few more miles out of every tank.

Drafting makes so much sense if you spent even a day on a road bike with a few friends. The difference between extreme exhaustion and mild perspiration. The way that a 3 foot gap suddenly becomes a 20 foot gap and then, all of the sudden, there you are, wondering how you ever managed to keep up in the first place. sucking dust and noticing the political yard signs so small that only a biker, as winded as yourself on this little road, might be able to make sense of it's white letters cut out of a red background.

The yard sign are being printed as we speak. How I found myself in politics makes no sense even to me. But suddenly here I am, pounding the pavement, knocking the doors, printing the oh-so-printable pamphlets and straight-to-the-trash standard mailers. Could you trace a line from her to here via 2000 miles, 2 degrees, a magazine, a lost cause, a restaurant and an instant message window?

I know she's out there because a little white box assures me it is so. From a house in la la land where all the utilities are included and the basement is for storage to a cubicle or an apartment in a city where every person is a cog in a wheel. God forbid you don't wake up, hit the ground running and go go go, work work work. Throw the words on the page.

finally getting some words on this page. Everything worth saying has somehow been slipping past words. Time to slow it down. At 2:13 a.m. Bringing the old ways back again. Hoping for nothing more than what we all hope for: Fame and total global domination.

2008-05-13T13:51:00.003-06:00

It's been a while but the little white blogger box stays the same. Empty, silent, waiting patiently to be filled. It takes time but eventually we get there. Where have I been? Well, while I watch everyone getting more connected, more electronic, more internet addicted I tried to move backwards. If I couldn't find what I was searching for out there in internet space, maybe it was right in my own neighborhood. So I went to work, unplugging the cable, redistributing my mind share and going to work where I thought the real work intersects with things that still make a difference: In local politics. We're writing letters, knocking on doors, raising money, kicking ass and taking names.

I gotta tell you, the reality of the daily grind that keeps us all moving forward is a tough transition. The web pages and the blogs and the celebrities all work to keep our minds distracted from it. But there's gotta be a happy medium out there. It's a little hope meets reality. It's a little who I am to me and who I am to you. It's a little rockstar meets cul-de-sac.

Internet 2.0 let us define ourselves not for who we are but who we want to be. Maybe internet 3.0 is about letting the two bleed over into each other just a little bit. I'm just not sure we're all ready to bring that wall down yet.

Still peeking through the cracks,
Tayden

2007-11-06T20:36:00.001-07:00

I'm pretty sure that all we can do these days is what the T.V. tells us to. Something in me sees so clearly that everyone takes their cues from what they watch in prime time for more hours a day than any of them really want to admit. In fact, it all makes sense now that I can tell who's naughty or nice from their face. They, after all, make every effort to be that face of anger or that face of hope or that face of sexiness that's universally beamed into my living room and just as universally understood.

Sure it scares me that we're all held so captive to the glowing box, all this is old news. But the final layer of this tragedy is much worse than an army of desperate housewives and big shots. There's a third group. They see everything that's going wrong, everything that worse for wear. But they're caught in the watcher's trap. The more that the word around resembles a screen, the more these ones choose to opt out of anything but a front row seat. No desire to talk, no chance to disturb this show. Might as well keep the mouth shut, the brain off and the eyes watching because it's not just the best thing on, it's the only thing on.

I could parlay all of this into some sort of jibber jabber about me spending one plus year of my life just being one of those people or how maybe I've been one forever but maybe instead I'll just blow off the dust and scrape off the rust because it looks like I might be back.

2007-06-27T22:32:00.001-06:00

This is seriously the mother of all holding patterns......

2007-04-12T23:27:00.000-06:00

Deep down where the stomach connects to the head connects to the heart I have a dream to mix 1 part anthropology with two parts journalism, add another part angsty youth and take this show on the road. I have a 48-week long dream of packing up and R.V. with the best photographer I know (ya, he took this picture) and a smart web guru and hit the pavement. Our destination? Each and every one of the 48 contiguous states in this great nation. The Goal? The paint some kind of portrait of America and Americans.

The schedule would be simple enough: One state each week. We'd try to steer clear of the largest cities and the biggest tourist attractions, directing the map's red lines towards smaller towns and more intimate stories. Of course there'd be a website chocked full of blogs, of beautiful photos, of web based videos on anything form interviews to window view. Hell, maybe we could get You Tube involved to help foot the bill and host the feed. Give them an exclusive on the 48 week series. Maybe we could get anthropology departments involved. Stop by schools. Participate in community projects. Get young children in their classrooms checking in with us once a week.

What do you think we would find in your state? What place could you imagine is the most opposite from your own? What is it that actually unites these states besides their common borders?

I don't know if it'll ever bee more than just a dream. But I also don't have much going right now but a whole lot of time to plan. Who wants to hit the road?

2007-03-29T00:56:00.000-06:00

Wow. So about eight months aqgo I wrote two consecutive posts of a three post series (don't bother to look for the third installment, it was never written) about my summer adventure. I spent plenty of time travelling last summer and found myself crossing the staight of Gibraltar into Morocco and ending up for a brief flash in the the town of Assilah with a man named Charif who knew enough english to get into my wallet. Now I don't know how common it is to find Moroccan men named Charif but I do know Assilah is a small town. So when I got this e-mail today, all I could do was smile and assume it must be the same guy:

Hi Tayden,

I was really happy to read your story about Mr. Charif. My worst travelling experience is just some days behind and I would like to know that are you thinking!

My Mr. Chrif story:
I started my trip some days ago on Friday, actually I planed to go alone to Tetouan. But then I met Narcel a nephew of Mr. Charif and he convinced me to go with him to Assilah, a nicer place where his family has a small house.
So in the first night we smoked & drinked a lot with Narcel, Mr. Charif and a friend of him. It was really fantastic to feel so well integrated.

But the next day after Mr. Charif came back from buying food, he wanted to have money from me, because police became suspected of us. I guess he made a drug deal with his nephew and because of me the tourist guy, the police became alert. All in all he made me really get scared of jail and I gave him some money. With this we both went to a weird bar, where the police officer, the "Big Boss", was sitting and we drank some beer with him and some other "Big Men" of Asilah. And you know what, Mr. Charif becomes really incalculable when he's drunk! Back at his place he was shouting and argueing with his nephew the whole night, although I and later his nephew were sleeping. A lot of stress this day.

The next day we left to the country side a little marvellous village, where he's the boss. Leaving the stress and the bad experience of the day before behind us. The nephew and me, where going to a nice place smoking some shit and relaxing, we talked a lot and he assured me that his uncle is a really big man, in Assilah and even more in his village. After some hours we went back, ate diner and watched TV. Narcel wanted to go to the local shop, buying some stuff, Charif and me left at his place. One hour passed by, he was still not back and Charif went out looking for him. After some minutes he came back, telling something shocking:
"THE POLICE CAUGHT NARCEL"

Maybe someone saw us smoking that afternoon and even more worse: Narcel took his bagpack, with his so called stuff. => 5 years jail!
He called some friends with my mobile and advised me for leaving this place as early as possible, so that I would be safe and he asked me also for some extra money to bribe the police for getting Narcel out.
...and so we did the next day.

Mr. Charife promised me to give me the money back, but I don't know if I can trust him? Maybe they were some great actors to cheat on tourist?
At least they could speak in arabic, which I don't know.

What do you think about all?

Thanks a lot for reading, I hope you can give me some help or advises, what ever.

Best regards
Marcel.

Well Marcel,

First you gotta tell me if this picture I posted is the same guy, because if it is than this world is so small it makes me want to smile and cry all at the same time. Then I gotta tell you that I doubt you'll see your money again. I can tell you two things: Charif is no big man in town, and I promise the police already know exactly what goes on in that tiny town. I can't wait to hear from you again and find out what became of the rest of your time in Assilah.

2007-03-20T19:45:00.000-06:00

"Do you think this is all of it?" she asked, but my mind was too caught up in an old answer to put together an answer that might stop her. All I could think about was how words would bend far more willingly to me back then. Not that this one understood. Or even if she could, it wouldn't have stopped her voice from continuing.

"We've lived pretty exciting lives up to this point." I stared at the line in her chin trying to bring myself back. "Maybe now we just have to accept this. Like," (and I cringe every time she uses the L word), "like nothing seems exciting but maybe that's O.K. Work is work and we do it to get by."

It was exactly at this point I thought about you and this place. Yes you, reading right now. Not because I've felt bad about not being here. It was because in a flash of a moment I almost gave in and agreed. But if I had been here you would have told me to keep fighting.

Right now there's no fancy magazines or newspapers or sports training to wake up for. Instead it's the bare white wall of my old room. Even the posters and collages that used to coax me up are gone. Every morning all I think about is how unrelentingly fast this real life moves.

There's five tables in a restaurant where soon people will sit, waiting for me to wait for them. It's a place full of new friends who ask me questions about my past, to which I comfortably lie, telling myself that they wouldn't believe the truth anyways.

But you know. You know where I've been, whether I have what it takes, what words will be necessary to get me started and the attention span to see me at least halfway there.

I didn't tell her this time. Not because I didn't know, but because I could think of little worse than becoming my very own cliche. This isn't all of it. Really I think this is just the beginning. It's not a question.

After all, if a waiter can have the best written blog on the web than there's still plenty of places to go. Just gotta pick one.

2007-02-13T01:11:00.000-07:00

Don't let anyone fool you, there is magic in this world. It's a little something about the location and a little something about the timing and, even though I cringe to say it, a whole lot of something about believing there's magic out somewhere waiting to be found. If you get it then you just get it.

Lost? It's not gonna make sense to everybody. Maybe it never will. Thing about it is the magic makers is they feed off each other. They cluster and thrive while everyone else stands around wondering what the fuss is about and why life feels like it's just passing by. Something about the way you can stand on a street corner or outside underground or across from an old face that's so familiar but so distant and feel comfortable that everywhere these people around you just get it.

The trigger is different for everybody but the glimmer is always the same. But maybe if you're here none of this needs explanation at all. You're already on the inside.

This place used to have that very same feeling. Not as much these days. Maybe it's the place. maybe it's the timing. But we'll find it again. Because when you strip away the magic to reveal the dream and peek up under the dream's skirt all you'll find is hope.

2007-01-30T22:41:00.000-07:00

FYI the ticket didn't fall. So much to tell. Old faces, old feeling, fresh chances, new memories and a couple things that always find a way to just slip past words. So dead tired. I'll be with you soon.

2007-01-23T18:53:00.000-07:00

She reminds me over and over that all of this is unfamiliar territory. That nothing makes sense at all. But the way she leaves tells a whole separate story. A subtle goodbye, a quick turn and a flawless exit. No final glance. No smile over the shoulder. Not even a flinch. Like a pro. Doing the job and walking away. Makes my stomach hurt every time.

It happened again. I disappeared because I thought maybe, just maybe if I stayed stayed away, kept my head down, kept my mouth shut, all of it would just come into focus. It looks so good on paper that maybe I was just creating all the problems by kicking it around over and over again. This time was it. A new life and it would just look good, it would feel good. It would feel right. Give in to the numbness. It could work. Oh god please work.

If you could god, would you just send me a sign. I'll tell you what. The ticket is on the freezer door under a magnet. It's the magnet about the heart attack warning sings (see photo). And just in case you miss that, the ticket says NYC departing at 6:30 a.m. Saturday. So if you could please just make the magnet stop working for a split second. That would be enough for the ticket to fall to the floor wouldn't it? And if it's not too much to ask would you have my dog come by and eat it. Well, on second thought, the dog's gone a little incontinent so maybe just let it slip all the way under the fridge to the coils in the back where it could just kind of melt. Those tickets are wax-coated right? Is that too much to ask? Actually, maybe you could just have the dog do his business on it? I mean, he's having trouble already so it should be easy to do.

Unless by some freak accident the magnet turns off but turns on again and re-attaches to the fridge just lower down with the ticket still under it. I guess that would mean that the dog just lets stuff fly right there in the kitchen on top of nothing.

OK, new plan. If the ticket is down below the handle and the dog manages to poop in the 4ft x 4ft landing zone that we can assume the ticket would most likely end up in then I will take it as a sign to stay right here and keep my head down and shut up.

Deal?

Deal.

Thanks

P.S. Sorry for stealing the mormon back from you. My bad. My bad.

-Tayden

2007-01-02T16:30:00.000-07:00

Something magical happened to end 2006. It should have been a rough time for a kid with bad circulation and long fingers. The sun turned in early for the year, leaving us alone to battle the cold and dig our way out of the snow that fell once and then fell again. All we could do was brave the icy streets to lay under blankets and watch familiar movies. 2006 left me with so few tangible things. The strange tingle of old endings that can't help but be followed by the familiarity of new beginnings. If the snow seemed like overkill, it was. but the beauty wasn't in the white. It was the tracks we managed to leave.

All I'm really trying to say is it's funny how people and places can skate into your life and slide back out again without leaving much behind. Not a sock or a photo or a gift or a hair tie. As the curtain started to come down on 2006 and everything looked to be exactly where I had left it years before. It was all the same. Or nearly the same, save the footprints in the snow. the tracks running right up to my front door, nit my life, around my head and down to my heart.

And as if that weren't enough, I was standing outside shoveling snow and my hands were warm. My hands are never warm. If this is any sign of things to come we all have plenty to look forward to.

2007
A New Draft.
A New Direction.
A New Warmth

2006-12-23T11:38:00.000-07:00

I've finally dug out of the snow just about enough to reach the keyboard and wow what I have missed.

Apparently while I was up to my ass in shovelling, pushing cars and snowshoeing my way to the store to stock up on DVD's because the mailman couldn't even get to the mailbox to drop off the Netflix, Chad over at Chokey Chicken (who apparently is related to that Post-Grad Nothing Girl, weird) laid a completely deserved smack down on Tony and his busblog.

Then we got Allen Iverson. Suck it.

Then I came up with a joke: A mormon and a jew walk into a bar. One of them orders a drink and gets the other one to pay for it. Ha! KILLS ME every time.

Then I drove down to the airport where everyone's stuck to try and scam on Chad's cute girl. Unfortunately there were a lot of cute girls there so I picked the first one I saw and offered her a car ride out, a hot meal and cozy bed. What girl stuck in the airport for two days can resist that kind of charm?

Oh, but back to chad and tony and the meaty part. Chad wrote a comment calling tony out about the recent state of the busblog. It's true that tony's writing doesn't make me dream anymore. It doesn't get my stomach to tingle or help me get through the day. But I understand that men change. One day you wake up and it's not a sorority girl or an L.A. magazine chaser next to you, it's a mormon and she's still half-clothed and somehow you're totally cool with that. Passion isn't always fleeting but it's constantly being redirected and reshaped. The passion in Tony's angst is now the passion in his work. And that's all well and good. But so much of our love for tony was fueled by his L.A.-style free-spirit angst and grew stronger when he never backed down, never apologized for feeling how he did.

But if the last six years have taught us anything thing it's that a man who stands up on a soapbox and speaks to the crowd and gets his power from the people always needs a little humility. Always needs to be willing to take some hits. Always needs to remember how he got there, why he's there, who put him there and why anyone would want to keep him there. A man with nothing telling you to fuck off is beautiful. A man with everything telling you to fuck off is painful. Tony, we love you. Your writing took you a long long way and we took you the rest. Keep up the amazing work at LAist. But still drop us a heads up. take some shit. Let us know you're still with us. That you're still listening. Because we are.

And would a photo essay kill you? Get some interns who will do it or something.

2006-12-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

Dear Allen Iverson,
Welcome to Denver. Yes, it snows here. Driving in it takes a little PRACTICE. I am talking about PRACTICE.

2006-12-19T22:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes there's just no fighting the feeling of what has to be. sometime it's pulling over onto the side of the road because eyelids are too heavy and sleep just won't wait ten minutes longer. Ten damn minutes from the front door but it's no use to struggle. Sometimes it's singing that song over and over as loud as you can until your voice gives out. Singing just hoping you can be rid of the melody after you embrace and squeeze every bit of life left in it.

If it has to be it has to be. But the rest your have to fight for and fight against. I think if words could really describe facial expressions I could get you a little further inside here. If there was a symbol for big eyebrows squared off in concentration. If there was a way to sound out the look I gave a girl yesterday when she explained to me that she had made a big decision in her life by writing out a list of pros and cons and going from there. Am I the only one astounded that there are people who go through life that way? For those biggies the feeling usually comes. There's no use fighting it. There's just no fighting the feeling of what has to be. And the more you try to erase it the more it manages to reappear.

2006-12-07T00:19:00.000-07:00

There's something about feeling lost that always gets me coming back. It's a whole lead up of desperate moments, each one filled with it's own tiny gasp of panic and frustration, just a step away from defeat. But we all wade through it. We all get to the bottom of that feeling, tilt our heads back and look up. Sound familiar? You got problems. But we've got something in common.

What you do at the bottom is the defining moment. Will you self-destruct or will you wrap yourself in the empty? Wait, is it empty or am I really just talking about a blank slate? Lots of people like to pull out their pencils, draw that straight line and point you to your beginning and your end. And sure there's an end and a goal. But after bobbing up and down enough times the shape of a wave just makes more and more sense. We all keep crossing over that same axis until it becomes familiar. I'm watching the horizon for the line to approach as I climb and never fear an impact during that long, awkward arms-flailing fall back down.

Give it enough cycles and even the empty starts to have it's own completely sensical shape and form and feeling. But most importantly it has it's reason. Lying alone on the the floor in the dark used to be defeat. Now it's anticipation. Close my eyes, shut the lights and turn off all the senses until something completely new starts to emerge.

What's person is going to lock into this oddly-shaped space and guide me this time?
Someone with something new to teach you.

What is going to make sense?
Not much. It rarely does.

How hard will it be?
Hard enough to make your eyebrows scrunch up when you're solving a problem

Where will I land when I open my eyes?
Hopefully still on the floor, in the dark, on your back. Just pray you land around the same time you left. It's surprisingly easy to accidentally slip out of this empty and into one you thought you'd left behind.

2006-12-05T01:08:00.000-07:00

Tonight's unauthorized guest blogger: John Mayer. I talk about being a rockstar. Figuratively of course. But by some strange mistake of luck meeting talent meeting rediculously big hands and turning the inside out he actually did it. I'll keep shouting him out. Why? He gets it. That motherfuker. At least I beat him to Corinne Bailey Rae

I can't really explain what happens when, as an artist, you get that message from the inside that says "time to make another one." One day you're sitting around, living off the fat of the land, and then as if from out of nowhere, it taps you on the shoulder. The slate goes shiny and clean. Those colors come back - it all starts as colors - then moods, then settings, then sounds, then words. And churning beneath that the entire time is the doubt; doubt that you'll find the rhyme, doubt that you'll ever connect that verse with that chorus, doubt that you have anything left to say that matters.

I live for that streetfight, though. The knock-down drag-out anything-goes battle between what you have in your hands and what you *think* you might possibly have in your mind but have no proof of. But when you win, man... look out. There's nothing better.

Why go back at it so soon? Because I suck at everything else and I hate being reminded of it.

If you think we writers do what we do for anything else than patching up voids, you're mistaken. It's all void putty. Take away the guitars and the songs, and my life story becomes completely unremarkable. I'm not getting down on myself, I'm getting up on the gift... I'm not much without it, and I'm blessed to have it.

So I'm getting back in line for another round of musical code cracking, a cell phone voice mailbox full of my own scattered melodic ideas, and sheets of paper in every pants pocket scribbled with words I swore were cool at the time.

Tuesday afternoon I lay down the first idea... because a man can't get a solid groove on putting out records every two years.

Go Get yourself some.

2006-12-03T22:24:00.000-07:00

NaBloPoMo: The Roundup

30 days came and went, quickly at some points and painfully slow at others. I missed writing over the weekend for about 30 seconds between the lunch and dinner double shifts but all in all I'm glad to be done. The pressure and pace of writing creatively each night without enough time to get a thought from beginning to end really just bogged me down. And, though I made nearly 34 comments on blogs over those 30 days, I think that this blog only got 12 really puts the nail in that coffin. Though posts from November 2006 now make up nearly ten percent of my total posts I think it makes up much less of this place's heart and substance.

Maybe my head was just in the wrong place in November. Maybe my heart was. Maybe it was both. But I can see a rhythm starting to form that I like a lot better. November is always a transitioning. The skin pales and the heartbeat increases to keep everything warm. Things get a little fuzzy but then they settle in and everything begins to work in time.

Yesterday I had an in-depth discussion about IM and the way plenty of us have managed to wrap our lives around it and become something a little different. I finally decided that I'm going to try to backtrack a little. Try to weave my way into relationships without the Internet buffer. No IMing new girlfriends, new friends, family. No texts. Try to dam the flow from my heart to my fingertips and get it up and out my mouth instead. Try to get the empty words to fill with a little meaning.

But as for you, well, full disclosure. You might even be able to catch me now on AIM: Thetruthblogger. One step forward, two steps back.

2006-12-01T02:03:00.000-07:00

NaBloPoMo day 3o! I made it. I swear part two of the long anticipated story that began with part one earlier this month was slated for today but I forgot two key things.

1. Thirty days has September, April, June and November.

2. The mormon girl worked with me tonight.

You'll be happy to know that part two has a title. "From Stockholm to my home: buses, trains planes and The Game" and that it's not going to be lost.

All I want to leave you with tonight is something simple. I've seen that letting people into my heart is a journey. More so for myself than for them. Each time I lead them down the winding staircase deeper into that place I have face everyone who has tread there before. Demons are made up of the past and when I want to make something meaningful I have to stand and fight them. The first few doorways are easy to walk through because the memories aren't painful. They aren't that connected. Smiles and touching and simple things. But from here on out it gets rough. Everyone has their dragons to slay and mine are old loves and sitting along the waterfront and lying in the snow and watching the last flicker of the candle warm while the rain falls outside. Before I can go forward I have to go back. So tonight it's Maine and soon I'll head to NYC and CT and Sow covered mountains and the streets of L.A.

We're all made up of what we've done and who we've loved. And before we can build on it was have to face it.

See you NaBloPoMo. It's been swell and you know I'll be around.

2006-11-29T18:26:00.000-07:00

The two of us lay in the snow, holding hands and looking up into the night sky. It was early evening and though the sun had dropped down behind the horizon, both the snow and the clouds had a way of straining the last bit of sunlight from the day and kicking it back and forth between them for a few extra hours.

Are you with me?

"Of course I'm with you," she said, but under those blue eyes I could clearly see that the cold had snuck in and swept her away. I wasn't about to get left behind either so I closed my eyes, squeezed her fingers and flew off to a bed in an apartment next to a busy road where she used to curl up behind me. But this time it wasn't the same. I was alone, the shade was blocking sun coming for me through the window and the only pieces of her I could detect were the smell of her perfume on the big pillow and a hair tie on the nightstand.

We weren't in the same place but that wasn't the problem. Of all the stories you hear it's very easy to miss one simple idea. Getting the perfect person in the perfect place doesn't matter all that much if the timing is all off.

It was too soon. The hour and the day and the year hadn't lined up the way my heart told me they should. Yes, it was too soon. So I opened my eyes and suddenly the snow wasn't insulating me anymore. My hands were freezing and I could barely feel her grip.

"what the.." She was with me for just a moment. She felt my hand futily squeezing but before I let go she was gone again and I was lying there, dark eyes hair and jacket sticking out so painfully distinct from the white snow.

2006-11-28T12:19:00.000-07:00

There are only three days left in NaBloPoMo and I have to admit that experiment has met with mixed success. It's true that I've slayed last's November's puny total of two posts but there was a passion that simmered in the days between back then and did't boil over until it was something special. The first post was about the way my brain is really just a trickery machine, bending my past back east into something I want to hide in once again. And the second post is all about what it was like to have my blood's oxygen capturing capacity measures. Both were written in a style that I've missed all of this month. Partly due to a different lifestyle partly due to the absence of motivation and partly due to the pressure of writing down something, anything, every single day.

If you've come to know The Truth Blog in November that's great. But do yourself a favor and explore what's here. There are colors stored in these pages that I haven't painted with in quite a while. Learn what it's like to fall in love. How it feels to really be rocking them. A post that would get me laid if girls I knew read them. How easy it is to get a checkout girl at the grocery store to quit and come with em to the winter olympics. And of course, how Living in LA got to me but still redeemed itself in the end.

Now that's the truth blog.

2006-11-28T00:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get antsy and I want to put this blog address on fliers and in emails and give it to all my friends and family and coworkers partly to say "oh really you did that? Well I wrote a post a day for all of November so suck it." and partly to bridge that gap between the life inside and the life outside.

A few things are for sure. I'd be getting more ass I'd be closer to some people who don't think we have anything in common and I'd get pushed away by a few others. And of course I'd be getting a lot more calls from my grandparents and the subjects would be far more awkward.

But I'm not writing here to blog any gap except the one between you and me so I'll suck it up and explain to my grandma that yes I could use a few more shirts for Hanukkah and Christmas and of course please remember to keep the receipts because the three ugly shirts she buys me before the holidays will turn into six stylish shirts when properly exchanged in January. I admit I would have liked to get her on the inside of the seamless socks joke but alas, what I saw as the final crescendo of the conversation fell on equal parts figurative and literal deaf ears.

I'm always a little bit jealous of those of you willing to bring the real world and the blog world together. There's this paranoia I can't get rid of when I imagine doing it myself. What if the wrong people find it? What if my job or some future jobs gets ruined by it? What if I want to run for political office one day and all this is still floating around all those servers?

And most importantly, What if no one in my real life gives a shit?

Show some love. We're going out of NBPM with a bang.

2006-11-27T01:19:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows there's something about November even though they don't want to admit it. It's not about NaBloPoMo or socks or even going electric- and I seriously wish you could hear some of what's being cranked out around here to go along with what's being cranked out on here. Oh, right, that thing about November. I can't tell you what it is but I can tell you what it's like. It's like the way placing shiny things next to dull ones makes the shinier's shine even brighter. You put faces and places up in November and suddenly they start to twinkle for no apparent reason.

And for some reason I fight it every year. Why can't I just remember to give in? Each time it takes 30 days to submit. There's something about November. Thank god for that extra day.

2006-11-25T23:23:00.000-07:00

NaBloPoMo Day 25

As part of NaBloPoMo I've been reading a lot of blogs lately looking for some new heavy hitters to write comments for. I must say the results have been less than impressive. Let me make it abundantly clear that I don't care how your day was or what exactly you did. I care even less about your household pet, your neighbor's children and you're current mood. Sure a blog is going to be about you and your life but it should also be about everyone and everything. Even though all the contents are yours I still want to be able to find something familiar. All I want is a shrug or a smile or a tear or an eyebrow raise. I'll write a part of me but it's still about you.

Take, for example, today's realization. I have not been able to figure out the perfect kind of person to compliment me. On one hand I dream about a nice girl. The kind who flosses everyday and send thank yo cards. She would ground me. But I also dream of a fiery girl. One who has way too many numbers in her phone for me to be comfortable with. All I finally came to realize was that I'll never decide on the the perfect fit until I finally fess up that maybe the kid I think I am isn't the real one. It isn't the one everyone else sees. I'm not ready to admit defeat and pick a path just yet. So until then I'll just keep running around looking at every different shape for one that fits this hole.

Now run along and apply this to your life or your friend or your significant other or you ex who dumped you for the flosser/punker.

2006-11-24T16:21:00.000-07:00

Belief has alwayays been important but not a specific set of beliefs. Just a belief that makes sense to the believer. I was never confused growing learning the religion of my ancestors while my mother seemed to enjoy the social side more than the prayer and my father rarely came to temple with us because he was flying around the country to Buddhist retreats or mediating in our house's extra room filled with asian charms. I mastered speech at an astoundingly young age and my father was not surprised in the least when he asked if all this stuff confused me and I replied, "no, you like it and I like my own stuff too."

At the time I think maybe I meant I liked my Transformers and reversible Thundercat pajamas but the point came across better than that. Still today I'm rarely turned off by people who believe in ideas or dreams that I never will. Because at the heart of it all I'm pretty sure we're all trying to do what we think is right. Whether right comes from common sense or the bible or our parents or the shows on T.V.. That's why I love my friends even if they see the world with different eyes. That's why I can go on a date with a Mormon even though I think the Mormon Church oppresses women and keeps me from getting some and think gays are going hell and so are women who want a right to choose.

Friends and relatives and girls who you can connect with come around so rarely. There are always a million reasons for any two people not to get along. I try to grab onto those few little threads connecting us together. Especially people from my past. Because they're the only one's who can connect you from point A to now. I'm just trying to keep the strings nice and taught because it's easy to get pulled up and out and away. Stay here. Keep reading. Then someday you'll be able to help pull me back down.

Oh yeah, and Chokey Chicken is back.

2006-11-24T00:20:00.000-07:00

Worked 11 hours and if you want to know what thanksgiving is it's not in the tips crappy people give you for working a holiday. It's family who want a piggyback ride and it's friends who borrow ipods (the 4th or 5th most expensive thing I own) and it's me happy to give it up and be tuneless because no amount of makeout music will get me anywhere with the Mormon. I already tried biycles and ice cream. No dice. Think about that while you reading the truth blog via your mobile phone in the stall next to the boss and hoping he doesn't hear you clicking the scroll button while you're both doing your business. Ha.

2006-11-22T22:13:00.000-07:00

Despite the hype, Dream recorder's pictures and records of my sleep patterns are quite anticlimactic. It identifies the times that I dream and the time that I really get into that deep sleep but who cares. It can't tell me what's going on inside my head. It can't roll up it's sleeves and jump into those dreams where a travel down and each and every path I've imagined my life taking.

There's one filled with a big city and big love. There's one filled with snow and action and adventure. There's one filled with celebrities and big houses. There's one filled with the dirt from 10x5 foot hole in the ground. Each sliding down their own wire like a Hooters order on it's way from the waitress to the kitchen (I went there for the first time recently. Just about as blah as I expected.) and in every one there's always that voice pushing me to challenge something. Take it head on.

Does this mean I'm a person with a lot of regrets? I don't think so. I don't really know what kind of person I am. All I know is that I'm the kind of guy who will just stop calling a girl back. No, "It's not you it's me." No, "this just isn't working out." One day I'll just stop punching in the numbers. One day she'll just get one or two rings then it's straight to voicemail. Sure blame me. But I'm not even sure I'm the keeper of my own heart. I clipped it to the wire piece by piece and slid each one down the wire into the Hooters kitchen. I just hope they didn't throw it in the deep fryer.

2006-11-21T22:50:00.000-07:00

Dear Hero's People:

Alright, lets get this out of the way. We all know you're ripping off X-men. So far I've been cool with it because It's kind of like an homage to the original in taking something old and making it something new. I think the rest of the US has been on your side too we even let you chock the thing full of commercials and add a horribly stupid catch-phrase.

But this Monday you did not deliver. You did not live up to the hype and the hype was your own hype. You cheaped out on potentially brilliant plot moments, you drew out unimportant details and the cracks in the series started to show.

crack one: You don't really know where you're going

crack two: You're trying to stretch out what's there just to fill the space

crack three: You're losing cohesion. Not everyone needs drama and when we lost Hiro to his moral high ground we lost the most palatable ingredient.

crack four: Now you have to spend the next episode going backwards and there's nothing that screams "what now?" more than backtracking.

crack five: You have not yet hired me as a writer. I'm good. You'll see.

2006-11-20T21:59:00.000-07:00

NaBloPoMo Day 20

I cannot believe it's day twenty already. I know I still owe you a part two and it'll be delivered but I just can't believe how fast time is flying here. I saw a girl this passed weekend I called the TMG right here on this very blog when it started more than two years ago. Wow. TMG stood for text message girl and she was called text message girl because we really got close after my phone kept sending her blank text messages from my pocket. It's funny how the little things like accidentally hitting the send key or showing up somewhere a few minutes early can make the biggest differences.

Back then when blogging started around here life was fun and easy and the best thing to blog about was girls and dreams and hope for things to come. These days life is fun and easy and the best thing to blog about is girls and dreams and hope for things to come. But both times there's a weird satisfaction that wasn't there in the interim. Bad to be satisfied with waiting tables, playing guitar and coaching little kids when you could be writing novels and running companies? Maybe. Some people told the the other day that your value is really measured by how many times stuff about you pops up in the first 3 pages of search results when you type your name into Google. There's a good football player in Florida who's gonna give me a run for it. There's plenty of days to come when I can fill those pages. But there's only 10 more in NaBloPoMo to fill this one.

2006-11-19T22:32:00.000-07:00

the most exciting part of my day was not the awkward messages or phone calls from employees. It was downloading Dream Recorder.
I can't wait to get to sleep and give this bad boy a whirl. who knows what dream it may induce.

2006-11-19T01:55:00.000-07:00

I don't ever read my posts. Quick speel check and then the orange button. Shit is handled. Sometimes you think you have you shit handled and... actually it's always when you're pretty sure that your shit is handled that fate slaps you in the face. Sometimes you gotta work 13 hours straight and blog afterward because you feel guilty.

Last night a bunch of people from the restaurant had been planning to go downtown for one girls birthday. We'd lined it up a week in advance so that we could was to see another co-worker's improv comedy show at 7:30 and hit the town after. I Showed up just as we'd planned (well fashionably late as usual) just as the show was about to begin. I was dismayed, however, not to find a single familiar face in the small crowd. I walked up and I walked down and I couldn't find anyone. I decided to walk back into the bar and look around and that where I saw her. The Mormon. I asked her if she knew what was up. No, she told me that she had come to see the show just like me.

OK. Fine. Everything was fine. Past is the past. I made some calls. "oh, we totally changed to the 9:45 show. sorry dude. Fuck. OK. Fine. 2 hours and 15 minutes. Want to get a drin.....er. Want to get some coffe.....er. Want to take a walk. She said yes. We walked. I tried to get her to talk. I am a sucker for girls who cover over everything inside with something simple. Problem is sometimes the simple is not a cover. It's the whole package. So I probed. Lived in Hawaii. Lived in San Diego. Lived in Utah. Converted. Parents aren't Mormon. Things are looking interesting. Familiar steps and buildings and just when maybe I am about to crack the simple into something more fun I look at my watch and realize it's 9:30. Fuck. Gotta hoof it. She moves quickly but never looses that look of comfort. Damn it. Blue eyes. Simple smiles. People see us arrive together and give me looks. I don't mind. Bar girls are a dime a dozen. Maybe I'll try something different.

Show ends. She's gone. Slipped out and I didn't even see. her off to her white car. Me to the black one. Another night. Wonder what tomorrow brings. Stupid four square.

2006-11-18T01:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Church of Mormon,
This was the most random and crazy night ever. I respect you guys and all but I don't have enough time to explain. I just wanted to apologize to all of you guys. She's a convert. And I'm taking her back. Nothing personal.
-Tayden

2006-11-17T18:11:00.000-07:00

I have an addictive personality. I want to talk about it but I may not have internet tonight. Hopefully I will and we'll jump right in.

2006-11-16T22:56:00.001-07:00

Sure there's always the dream of getting the inside out. I laid it all on the table yesterday . But the scariest thing in the world is the idea that you just get lost. All the ridiculous choices and chances you've made or taken only come together if you succeed. Otherwise everyone is more than happy to write them all off as the stupid mistakes and accidents of a lost cause. The most deathly frightening thing is to embody the mistake.

There's always the temptation to search for meaning in places where you're sure they already exist. To strap into something that's comfortable and familiar and take it for a a ride. To get people to notice something special about you, even if it's just your ability to make all your doubts and problems fade away at 50 mph without an engine.

I'm on the brink of going down a familiar rode to remember how much is still inside. Maybe I'll fight it. Maybe I'll accept it. Sometimes I'll move back. Charge the engines. Rev it up for the jump.

2006-11-15T22:23:00.000-07:00

The first time Ashleigh rolled up to my house in that Cabriolet everything was just starting to come together. I always knew she was coming because the car had come from a cousin who had pimped it out with big old rims and a racing exhaust. By the third time she came around I knew she was headed towards me with the top down and her red hair blowing across her face from the familiar sound of the exhaust half a neighborhood away.

Life was different then. Experiences were exciting, if only because they were always new and always accompanied different smells and sights and sounds. The smell of her perfume covering over the smell of cigarette smoke I thought was so cool. That stupid Nelly Furtado songs on repeat in the stereo. Getting lost in a big house with more rooms than either her or I knew what to do with.

It had taken a long time to come that far. To take all those amazing things inside me and get them out. Get them out and send them out in the right way. It's a delicate process bringing so much of what you are outside for everyone to see and doing in a way that makes them see the value and individuality and excitement. I was a cultivator for so long I had nearly forgotten what I was growing for. And bringing it out into the world let me live a whole different life outside, where it matters.

If there's anything that remains from those days it's hope. Because I've been growing something new for quite a long time now. Letting something different to take shape and nuturing it slowly. And doing a lot of that right here with you. Back then it took wood sealed to metal and plastic and a convertible and a girl with red hair to push the outside until it matched the in. This time I don't know what it's gonna take. Maybe it's this Macbook. Maybe it's you. Maybe, it's six strings or a plane ride or a phone call. Maybe it's something to simple to figure out just yet. But I'm waiting in that same room for the sound of someone's exhaust to come pick me up and get the inside out.

2006-11-14T23:54:00.000-07:00

I asked a few colleagues today if the fact that I have to consciously fight not to sing along with Corinne Bailey Rae songs makes me questionable? The musician said no, it's good stuff. The frat boy called me a flamer. The girl said no it's sexy. The mormon just smiled that same smile. The smug one that reminds that she's going to heaven and she's bummed because there's a big chance I won't be there with her. It's her preset smile.

Everyone has their presets and mine is still small. It's that first reaction when you walk into a big room, empty or filled. To be absorbing everything and becoming the center of that universe. Or to reflecting everything. Not even reflecting but refracting and diffusing because god forbid you shine back in someone's eyes.

Of course first reactions can be overridden. Flight can become fight and a smile can be forced. There are days I have to plug into the energy drink I.V. and fight it with every white tooth in my smile. And there are still days that people won't understand. When the front door has to stay closed and not a word needs to be spoken and the little corner the bed makes where it meets the wall isn't just inviting, it's inescapable. The measure of the man isn't in his weakest moments. After all, you don't really have to be kicking their ass... so long as they think you are.

She can go to heaven so long as I can order it on Pay-Per-View.

2006-11-13T23:55:00.000-07:00

My Spanish leaves much to be desired but my Spanish accent is impeccable. This skill has come in handy while in Mexico, Spain, L.A. and dealing with all the people who help me make ridiculously good tips. Same goes for my Italian. In fact, I'm not only good at picking up accents, I'm good at picking up all kinds of different traits from all kinds of different people. For a while I worried whether I was a big fake. People talk endlessly about being yourself and showing that person to the world. What if I spend all my days putting on different faces? Am I a sellout?

The other day a girl at a bar said something that hit me. Some people are great senders and some people are great receivers. Her explanation was that some people constantly sending out what they've got inside and other's are great at picking that stuff up. There isn't a lot of in between. I'd imagine that's because the senders are too busy sending to ever pay attention to what could be received and the receivers realize how ridiculous the senders look flaunting that stuff all around.

I'm a receiver. I'm great at taking what You've sent me, processing it, and sending a little bit back at you in the way you'll best understand. The best place to hit people is on their same wavelength. So I'll place the one dollar bets in the kitchen with the bussers, trade rants with old friends, stand tough by the Jersey kids, talk shop with the journalists, talk workout with the old sports crew and go out with a faux hawk on a Friday night for laughs with too cool kids.

Some people are easy reads. This one goes a little deeper. I can be anything. Would have been a great actor but good thing I know better. I'll spend my time breaking hearts instead. Aye-yay-yay.

2006-11-13T03:35:00.000-07:00

I Just can't keep up. God knows I'm trying. I'll get er done soon.

2006-11-12T02:20:00.000-07:00

Tonight two separate people told me that I reminded them of the newest Superman. First time that's ever happened. I haven't seen the flick yet but who wouldn't take that as a compliment? Only similarity is that my bite is also much worse than my bark. 13 hour work day but you know I wouldn't leave you hanging. Back tomorrow with goodies.
-TD at the TB

2006-11-10T14:44:00.000-07:00

Sure it's after midnight but you try to work 14 hours, get home at 11:59 and still blog a post worth reading.

The sky starts to do something funny this time of year. Winds blow in from the north and west quickly and subtly. By the time I pull myself from bed it's too late. They're here and as they swoop over the mountains at those ridiculous altitudes a space forms underneath where the air sits deadly still and stagnant. Sometimes I feel like I have to move every few minutes just to keep from choking on my own carbon dioxide. What's worse, all the pollution doesn't get carried up and away to whatever happy place it usually ends up. So I sit here in my gross soup of carbon with some dioxide and monoxide trying like hell not to add any methane to the bunch for fear of killing some poor passerby.

Sure it's depressing as hell but what's the use throwing punches at the breezes up a few thousand feet? There's really no way to know how long this lasts but there's always that anticipation. Not just to be free of the muck but of that first morning in the crisp air. And then it happens in an instant. The same way I wake up one morning and my dreams have all started to change. Suddenly the big plan tucked up inside my sleeve doesn't matter so much anymore when the view is so clear that I'm almost positive I can reach up and touch the tip of the mountain. It's not the kind of morning when packing your life into boxes and shipping them somewhere else makes a single lick of sense. No. Dreams sneak in and slip away in the night. In that split second where your heart and your head loose track of each other.

2006-11-09T15:48:00.000-07:00

It's NaBloPoMo: Day 9, Do you know where your blog is? Mine's lost. I think he's out picking up poor, lost girls.

Nice nails. Are they real?

No

Oh...oh,uh, well they're nice I guess.

(Son of a bitch stole my line. He turns around and she follows him.)

Hey, what's you're name?

Me, oh, I'm just a guy who wants to be someplace else, just like you.

So now you're calling me a guy?

I'd ask you to prove me wrong but we just met.

Right. And how do you know I want to be someplace else?

Sure. Take your palm here. This line, this is your destiny line. (I roll my eyes seeing the bullshit smile come across my blog's face.

Really? (I roll them again when I see her perk up.)

Yes. See how it's thin over here towards your wrist and then it gets really deep before it crosses this other line here?

Uh-huh.

Well that's your life there. Things are going along fine now but something's going to happen. A turning point. And since it changes so fast right here you probably won't even see it coming.

Wow, this is so cool. (I nearly vomit in my mouth)

Could be next week or next year. Who knows. But I can tell by the way you hold your head and keep your eyes looking a little down and to the left that you're waiting for something to change. What do you do?

Me? Well I wait tables and I bartend and I used to work at a store that sold cell phones.

Does anyone ever get confused when you tell them you sell cell phones?

Hehe. Yes. They totally do!

Oh, while I got you here, I need a female opinion...

(and off he goes. My blog is in. That motherfucker. See what happens when you give him too much attention?)

2006-11-08T22:10:00.000-07:00

Can it already be day 8? Did you know there's a randomizer to check out other NaBloPoMo Blogs? Loving it.

Well, a little over two years ago I called my father before election night to talk a little politics. After all, he is the mosh pit of knowledge. We talked for the better part of two hours about the last four years, about where we hoped the nation was heading and about how we were going to vote. And if anything that stood out of the conversation, it was the statement that angered me most at the time but rings so utterly true today. What did he say?

A part of me wishes that George Bush will get reelected and the republicans will keep congress?
Whaaaa....
Because I know that if they do, they're going to fuck things up so bad in the next four years that they'll give up the presidency and congress for a good long while.

Bullshit.

Sure. If it splits now we'll keep going back and forth for the next 10 years. As sad as it is everyone needs a kick in the ass.

You're just blowing smoke. If people are buying it now why wont' they keep buying it for four more years?

Right, I wouldn't listen to the american history major from Amherst either.

And that was the only time my dad ever pulled rank on me. You can argue with the mosh pit of knowledge but in the end he just knows to damn much. We got our kick in the ass. I guess now we just have to wait and see if anything useful will change.

2006-11-07T13:42:00.000-07:00

It's the first Tuesday in November and today I cast my electronic and completely insecure vote. The nice lady at the sign in table asked me to use one of the newer machines because they don't leave "lots of papers and pages to go through later." Greeeeaaaat. So I pushed my buttons and moved the green arrows to the boxes for senators and judges and referendums. Then I pushed the red buttons and all the lights disappeared.

I grew up under a democratic roof in a republican neighborhood. I wouldn't blame the people here for continuing to vote republicans. Everyone has nice houses in a comfortable neighborhood with well paved streets and no crimes. There are rules about what color you can paint your house, there are SUV's in almost every garage and a parade and party every 4th of July. Life is good, no one has been sent to Iraq and people's stock portfolios are going up. If I were voting solely on protecting my own little place in the world I'd probably have voted differently.

But as the green arrows fell, I ended up voting for a democratic senator, a democratic governor, a republican congressman, a republican sheriff and coroner, and an independent for the board of our state's university. Sure I love life around here. But if I've learned anything this year it's that the world isn't as big as we think. So I shut up and vote my mind hoping that these people can put half the effort into changing things that they put into digging up dirt for their ad bashing.

I've got a lot of respect for people on both sides of the aisle. A little balance does a lot of good. Sure there are plenty of crazies out there. All of them are loud and all of them are the first ones to see and bee seen. But I know that most of us sit a little closer to the middle. We all want our streets to stay safe and our gas to keep flowing. We want to take a vacation and retire and enjoy everyday. And we all want to make the rest of the world a little better, one piece at a time. I know we're all out there. I think everything will work out, as long as we don't give up. Can't wait to see what happens.

2006-11-05T23:38:00.000-07:00

Day Six- Fall Cleaning

I clean out my blog roll even less often than I remove old numbers from the cell. But everyone has to clean house eventually and it's always a chance to boot out the old and reconnect with blogs that have slipped through the cracks. Take a sec and check some of them out. There's old faces and new acquaintances. I even reconnected with some of my own posts from the past and the comments that first me to other blogs.

I've come to realize that comments are more than half of what makes this whole thing fun. So as part of NaBloPoMo I've decided not only to post at least once a day but also to leave at least one comment on someone else's blog each day for the remainder of November. I know how much it means to me when someone tells me that they get it. When they admit they're on my page. Whether they live one cul-de-sac over or a few thousand miles away (say Norway) it still helps bring me back

There are two comments I can remember that continue to hit home. The first was from Eric, who responded to a post where I rubbed my youthful freedom and indiscretion in his everyone's face. The ass kicking he served up wasn't even about me, it was about him and it didn't even kick my ass until much, much later.

"that freedom you speak of wasn't much freedom for me. It was purposelessness (I don't know if that's an actual word). I think that's the key to freedom. Having purpose."

For someone who understands working hard at what he loves this makes so much sense. Because a worker who can't seem to figure out his work has never felt more useless. Even though I haven't heard from Eric in a while I think I'm coming around to his side.

The second comment was an E-mail I think. I can't remember exactly ( I am a deleter) but I think it was from Madeleine. She has since retired and then returned and then left for Australia but I think the first words of hers I ever read was an e-mail she was bold enough to send that asked. If not everything can make you cry or make you laugh or make you think back to something you loved or hated or wondered about. She had to ask whether the crap deserves to get printed right there alongside the gold.

I've thought about that a lot lately with the 30 days of posts and few comments and more visitors. I cold give you a line about the crap making the gold shine brighter or lie and say that I respect the organic flow of info that streams out there. But we all know the internet is 99% crap, be it .blogspot or .org or .gov. Either way people come and they put things up and few of them think their work is meaningless.

I never sit down at the screen and think "today I need to make them cry." I just sit down and start rolling with the first thing that pops out. I take that, spice it up with sentenced that start with prepositions and conjunctions even though my teachers told me not to and turn it into something I hope you want to read. Do the same and you'll probably show up on the blogroll here too. Just don't stop. Don't ever stop.

2006-11-05T11:26:00.000-07:00

We've got 25 more days so I see no rush to speed along to part two. But just let you know it's entitled Stockholm to My Home: How two Swedish blondes can ruin everything.

Right now let me tell you a cautionary tale. I remember there was a moment a long time ago when I realized the tingly sensation some girls gave my stomach wasn't the first sign of a deadly case of cooties. Of course these were the same days I lived in a tiny house with my parents and my sister, my father worked the night shift and my mother still dressed me. I was no ladies man. But after a few girls had come and gone I started to think maybe I kind of had an idea what this girl thing was about. Just then a tall pretty blonde showed up in class, showing off her white smile and kicking my ass at four square. She wasn't one of those kids who made up ridiculous rules like atomic bombs either. She would just beat us all fair and square.

I was young and smart and understood multiplication so life back then was good. Best of all I could tell she was digging me. I think she even let me win a few times. But just when things were about to get fun something happened. She cold-shouldered me. I didn't get it but I had to know why. So what better thing to do then to ask her best friends. "Um, she's Mormon. They have rules about dating and touching and everything. She can't even drink pop!"

I remember thinking to myself, no problem, my parents barely ever keep pop at our house. I could totally stop drinking it. But sadly that was not enough. Her parents were not the strictest Mormons but she would not be getting close to any boys before she was 16 and certainly not ones that weren't Mormon.

So when this shy, stunning dark-haired, blue-eyed girl from work told me she didn't drink I was cautious but not worried. And when she showed up at the club where the band was playing last night I tried not to make a big deal. And when I noticed she wore a long sleeve shirt I got nervous. And when she sat down next to me I started to think about four square. And since I don't plan to convert or marry I had to know so I smiled at her and asked her either to have a drink or give me a kiss. She smiled and ordered a sprite. She ordered a pop! Ah the relief. Then I asked her if she had to work this morning. "No,' she said, "It's sunday. I have to go church with my parents."
Oh, so you are catholic or something, I said, in my pure Jewish ignorance of the Jesus peoples.

"No. Didn't I tell you? I'm mormon"
It's hard swimming in a sea of goyim and try not to drown.

2006-11-05T02:35:00.000-07:00

I worked 16 hours today. This is the closest thing you are gong to get on day four. Good news though I am offically on the NaBloPoMo roster. Suck it Trebeck..

2006-11-03T13:23:00.000-07:00

NaBloPoMo- Day trois

The European adventures seem so very very far away by now. I've been back more than three months now. Wow. I guess it has been a while. Time to start leaking a few stories that you definitely never heard. This one I kept under lock and key... until now. Wait, maybe this needs to be a two-parter. Yes, I'll roll it back a little further. Maybe this you did hear. But we've got 27 days so lets get to it.

Part 1.

The bus was hot, I was tired and there weren't many days left in our two-month trip. My traveling partner had sacrificed his camera to the travel gods a few days before and I had just made my own personal contribution. My super fancy sunglasses (I got them free, remember?) weren't with me anymore. They were now somewhere along the Vltava riverbed somewhere in the vicinity of Cesky Krumlov in the Czech Republic. The bus was rolling its way back towards Prague and from the bus station it would only be two trains to Berlin. Of course we had already been to Berlin and this time we were hoping the stopover wouldn't last much longer than 45 minutes.

Our train rolled into the city's brand new station, though we could have sworn it was a spaceship. The giant domed ceiling of opaque glass rose over five separate open stories, each with overhangs and glass railing and of course with at least two sets of trains train tracks stringing off in more directions than my eyes could track. Neither of us had qualms about hopping on the next train. Our first time through Germany we had learned that reservations were unnecessary, trains were clean, new and always on time.

One thing we were not prepared for was the lack of ticket windows. The new station was so 21st century that they didn't feel the need to have any real faces attending to your needs after 5 p.m. It was rolling up towards ten o'clock and the list of remaining trains leaving the station continued to shorten with each passing minute. There was a sudden sense of urgency so the two of us snatched up a couple giant German Donners (you gotta go there to get this one), a few beers and headed to our track.

Nether of us expected to see what we did sitting on track 24. It was not a beautifully sleek, long and clean german train. Oh no. The two, yes two, cars of this clunker could not have contrasted more with the futuristic station. This was the night train from Berlin to Malmo, Sweden. A stopover on the way to Stockholm. The two sleepers cars were filled with young high school and college kids. Filled nearly to the brim. My stomach started to sink. We had to get on this train. Where else could we go? With little more than ten minutes left until departure I found the conductor and, with my best half-english/half-sign language, signaled that we wanted two beds on the train. "Nein. No more. Train is full." I said it was just two. What if someone doesn't show? "Nein. Full." The germans sure got to the point.

We laid or backpacks on the ground beside the track and sat, dejected. We cracked the beers. Might as well take a moment enjoy what we could. Who knows were we would end up tonight. Who knows how we would get to Stockholm to get the planes to London to get the plane to jersey to get the plane home.

The whistle blew. We joked about sleeping on the floor of the space station. And just then something amazing happened. The train's door slid open. And the conductor motioned to me. I ran over.

"Zvei?" He asked. Yes, just two, I said. "Come." I ran to grab my bag, told my friend to get his shit together and left a little Donner mess on the squeaky clean spaceship floor. And jumped on the train. The door closed and we started to move. The conductor showed us to two small bunks in a compartment with two german beer drinking and guitar playing hippies. Tomorrow, Sweden. More beers all around. I can't believe fate works like this....

2006-11-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

Two hours left in day two of NaBloPoMo and while I'm not officially on the roster, I can assure you that I will still be boring everyone with a good month's worth of overshare. Let's break it down to it's component parts. We have flight attendant issues unrelated to little yellow masks or inserting the metal clip into the buckle. We've got pangs of sadness over the loss of Mr. Ecko. We've got some wiring issues with the electric. We've got no more Moto GP. Oh dear god. Daylight savings hits like a sledgehammer.

I'd imagine that it's an awesome feeling to get on stage and play a song that inspires everyone to clap on the down beats. In a perfect world I would be able to achieve the writing equivalent of a clap along. I guess comments are as close as I'm gonna get. What a downer.

Bumped into an old roommate. A girl. She told me all about the new guy she's seeing and I said, "you're always in a relationship. Don't you ever get sick of it?" And in a stellar moment of genius for an otherwise dumb blonde she looked me in the eye and said, "You're always alone, or running away from girls who fall for you, or whining about how badly you need to get out of a relationship. Don't you ever get lonely?" And for a second I thought I'd have to concede to Ms. Goldilocks. But then it hit me. I remembered that it's always so much easier to fall in than it is to get out. I can't help it that I'm willing to fight my way uphill when she's to weak to do anything but sit tight.

We all fall in. How do you think I ended up in NaBloPoMo?

2006-11-01T16:11:00.000-07:00

So it's officially sock awareness month and oh the surprises we have in store. Needless to say you should be on the lookout for the poorly crafted Tommy Hilfinger Socks that looks exactly like the nearly seamless ones but which cannot fool my feet. I'm calling you out Hilfinger.

It also turns out that November is going to be NaBloPoMo (National Blog Post Month, duh.) A post a day for all of November. Ha. I'll give it a shot. I found out about all this at One Child Left Behind, who has announced that he will be retiring the blog. When? Now? No. 150 or so days from now. I'm going to soak it all up while I can. Every time I read his posts I think to myself,
"oh, yes, this is what a real writer sounds like." It's so damn simple but still cuts right to it.

The best part of being a creator is creating. Sitting there watching stuff pop out and loving it. It's thinking, "wow, listen to that. That's coming from me." It's sending tingles down your own spine. These are all the feeling I hope to have when I slip on my first pair of seamless socks.

November is NaBloPoMo and sock awareness and electric. I miss the acoustic already. A Post a day. I apologize beforehand.

2006-10-31T23:39:00.000-07:00

Some days you're the bird and some days you're the statue. I don't know how I had never heard this little nugget of golden genius before today but I'm happy to say that It'll be sticking around for a while. Unfortunately my mind has a way of losing track of so many details. There's plenty of smart people in the world and there's plenty of different types of smart but I think most of them can be categorized in one of two ways. Either you're an archiver or you're a creator. Some lucky souls are both, (and one day my sister will find out that I hated her for getting to be one).

I was lucky enough to find myself under a roof with one of each. My father is the ultimate archiver. I recognized his talents early in life. His ability to store so much in his head and recall it all so easily with a just a slight squint of the eyes. Sure I was an early one to use and understand the words and the emotions but no matter how hard I tried I could never match up the the brain I started referring to as the mosh pit of knowledge. To me that image made so much sense. For me it was all up there in a big jumble mashing up against one another. But in reality I think his was much more like an beautifully organized filing cabinet.

My mother always seemed to be a step behind the mosh pit. But there were these little moments of brilliance. When everything came together in a new way that none of us had though of before. I learned that there was something to be said for constantly forgetting and re-learning so much of life. Instead of becoming grounded and paralyzed by what they've seen, these people keep plotting new courses, changing directions, and shifting their aim to hit new targets every day. I tried to hard to be an archiver but eventually I gave in. I'll create. I'll forget. I'll make things up. I'll imagine. And I'll surround myself with a couple archivers just for good measure. Hopefully at least one of us will always be the bird. Otherwise I'll just have someone around to clean things up.

2006-10-24T01:04:00.000-06:00

Sure I was a little disappointed at the end of last weeks Heroes to find out that Peter Petrelli's was that he could use other people's powers when he's around. It's so been-there-done-that. I had really hoped that the Petrelli brothers would both be able to fly and maybe even to do other things but only when they were with each other. Two brothers, so different in their personalities and goals and dreams but only able to accomplish the incredible when they're together. Too bad they don't let me write this stuff. All in good time on that one...

I have managed to find solace in Hiro and his friends. One without the other wouldn't be enough, but the pair is so funny but so warming and so perfect. Yes all of it is corny and stupid and straight out of the comic book can but that's part of where the love comes from too. I'll put up with the blatant product placement (And it works or so my new Nissan Versa tells me) So what have we got?
A cop who reads minds
A nearly invincible cheerleader
A Flying Congressional Candidate
A Jeckyl and Hyde stripper
A Time/space bending computer geek
A Man who paints the future (while on heroine)
A congressman's brother who can take on any power
A Lost son learning about his father
A bunch of possible bad guys (is the black dude Syler or what? I say no)

It's funny that NBC just announced it wants to axe more dramas like this one to air more crap. Especially when they are finally hooking me in. Does no one else see the irony of watching NBC do the exact opposite of Studio 60 fake network is trying to avoid? Does anyone else see the irony of Studio Sixty falling right after Heroes? Any smart investor knows that a quick fix like this one will prop up NBC for a little while, while someone saws the legs off beneath it. Just ask the guy who made a couple G's standing behind Google while other people laughed at 500. Oh right, that was me. Now if only I could fly.

2006-10-22T23:22:00.000-06:00

Every body's heart has a certain number beats in it. Doesn't surprise many people. It makes so much sense to a time when people wear clocks on their wrists and measure all things in point-A-to-point-B. But what always amazes me is how unwilling people are to imagine that every heart has a certain amount that it's gonna take to fill it up.

Start to finish makes sense to everyone. We sit at home and have some weird grasp that each second ticks away and doesn't come back. But all that while so many people don't want to admit that there's a whole big chamber in their heart that's never been full. They never take the hint. That empty might not mean there's something wrong. That empty just means there's something more.

There's more. I'll keep looking for it. You'll keep coming here. I'll send a little beacon out past where I know. Past where I know but off to someplace I'm sure is there. Probably the same place these words go every time I hit that little orange button. Maybe they just slip through the cracks. But there's only so many ticks. I'm willing to take that chance.

I got your round up right here

2006-10-19T15:53:00.000-06:00

God I love the oh so convenient bullet point form. I try to live my life via bullet points.

* Every man should go to the bars in his nicest suit at least once. Words can not express the fun that can be had. It help if you dance. It helps if you do not run your jacket between your legs and then throw it across the bar like a stripper into a pitcher of beer. It also helps not to rip your pants on a chair.

* Johnny is the new tailor I met yesterday. He's very professional in his work and was very careful with my package during the intense measuring/pinning process.

* Everyone knows what a bad pair of socks feels like but no one talks about it. I hope to start sock awareness month in November. No more seems ending in those little sewn up balls that get beside or under your feet and make life a lot less fun. A good sock is in the seem, elastic be damned.

* I don't know how this turned into a week of clothing but it did and I'm going to accept it.

*Google. Cha-ching. Enough said.

*Dear Kansas, I stole something from you this week. Her name is Libby. I don't think she will be coming back for a while. I apologize to the governor, the president of KU, and all the boys down on frat row.

*In addition to sock awareness, I will also be going 100% electric for the month of November.

*Everyone mocked me a year and a half ago when I would watch Battlestar Galactica on Fridays before I hit the watering holes and now everyone is on the wagon, calling and asking me to catch them up on an inexplicable "2.5" seasons. Yeah, she was in his head but now she's real and the baby's alive but they don't know and there's the planet with the people but some are fakes and only a few are cylons and no I don't know why they can't make different ones and yes it's like warp speed only faster, he didn't used to be so fat and how do you lose earth anyways, oh forget it.

*Heroes, so ups. Hiro, so quadruple ups.

*Halloween plans are zero at the moment. How does this stuff work after college?

*Holidays are so close. In case you're wondering, Channukah Harry, I would like a $15000 track-ready motorcycle (could you please drill out all the bolts for me?), with a rack for the $900 board (the $$$ is in the rubber) and of course don't forget a place for my $who knows Crash strat on the back.

*seamless socks. Sell google and lets go into business. Like candy from very well dressed babies

2006-10-10T00:49:00.000-06:00

All I can tell you is left and something small and red. Or maybe not left. Maybe L. Or maybe not even L. Could be something with and L shape. Definitely there's a 90 degree angle in there somehow. And the small red thing. It's like a cherry tomato. I don't think it's a cherry tomato. But it could be. I can't think of what else it is. There's the left, or the L or the 90 degree angle thing plus small red orb resembling or being a cherry tomato and I think I did see the number 3.

What is all this? Well it's not a dream. But it's not something real. It's like a feeling but a lot less assertive. Feelings are like compasses, unless you're retarded or the poles are reversing it's pretty easy to see what they're saying. This is more like a deja vu. Deja vu because it's so been there, done that. So , oh yes, that makes perfect sense. Left, or L or 90 degrees and red cherry tomato like object and 3 of something.

It sounds so cheesy to say it's some kind of vision but I like that a lot more than pretending it's random neurons firing. If L tomato 3 could be a lottery ticket I'd buy one. I really wish this was a joke. I guess the truth blog has to be true at least once a year.

**Note: disappointingly no drugs were taken either at the time of the Left, L 90 degree, cherry tomato red orbidity, 3 sighting/hallucination nor were they used in the creation of this post.

****UPDATE!!: To finish this post I decided to type "Left Cherry Tomato Thing Three into Google Image search and just use Whatever first came up. Only one image appeared. It was the logo of Fitzgerald's Catering. I don't know why but I was inspired to follow this twist of fate and where it would lead. Maybe my future is at stake. Turns out Fitzgerald's is a family company run out of a city called Bridgeport, CT. Funny thing is, in my life I've only been to one town in Connecticut. Of course it was Bridgeport. And why? Well lets just say it's about two thousand miles away from here. God I hope you are on the level with me. If you are I'm sure you'll agree that I am badly in need of sleep.

Every morning before my feet hit the floor

2006-10-06T01:19:00.000-06:00

There's a whole little world that lives in those few moments when my eyelids slide open just before the alarm sounds. It simmers while my fingers feel for the snooze button and swing back to rub the eyes that have to remember how to focus all over again. It lingers just briefly as the little rods and cones calibrate themselves to the eggshell white on the ceiling above my bed. And just like that it's done before I've even started.

I can't tell exactly but I'm pretty sure that the head and the heart have it out in this tiny place. And every day for the last who knows the heart has been scrapping like he's juiced on something. Off he sends me on the day, all charged up with the strangest things, full of expectations but completely devoid of explanations.

Isn't it fitting that those same moments are the ones that bring me back to you everyday? The very same ones that bring my totally submissive brain back to her every night. Maybe it's not just the rods and cones looking to zero themselves. Maybe it's the whole package.

HEART: This is no emotion. This is the redline. Looks like today's setting will be somewhere around 65.

BRAIN: what do you say we bump it down to 55?

HEART: G2K

BRAIN: 65 it is. Cue the feet.

2006-10-02T23:58:00.000-06:00

Things are stewing. In the meantime, Heroes was almost a wash but the last two minutes kinda blew my mind. What a brilliant way to tell you everything but ruin nothing. The last few days have been all about trying to do the same thing with the people in my life. They get shotgun. Just chill in the backseat for a while. Lay down. Stretch out. Enjoy the whisper of the wheels.

2006-09-28T23:15:00.000-06:00

The late week roundup via bullet point:

*According to the Apple genius I am the first to his knowledge ever having reported seeing a plume of smoke rise out of his ipod while it was playing. Despite the sincerity of my claim, this brings his accreditation as genius into serious doubt.

*Yes, I got a brand new ipod.

*I love my dead end job at a restaurant. I hate my job at the T.V. Production company. Ironically the restaurant job pays a million times better. Does that make me a dead beat?

*I hate coming to my own blog and seeing all those ex-girlfriends staring back at me. That is my biggest motivation for posting. Have to write enough to get them off the main page.

*Six Degrees is everything a chick show should be. Grey's Anatomy and Desperate Housewives are not. 6D is about the best in all of us. About a little hope. The other two are about everything that's left over when we think the best is gone.

* I still don't know how I feel about Studio Sixty. The dialogue is interesting but the characters are as thick as cardboard.

*Both my dreams and my heart are in New York City and everyday I wonder how that happened and what the hell I'm doing here and why I'm not there.

* I took some friends to see John Mayer and though I've been singing his praises since the first time I saw him five years ago, my friends finally saw the light. Forget the radio play. Forget the sappiness in the lyrics. They saw it. They know. The man can play.

*Sometimes I steal from him but I'm pretty sure if he knew he'd be OK with it.

*When you need to run off somewhere (say Aspen) for business and you're worried about being bored, it's great to have a flight attendant-related friend.

*I'm not sure if it's great to do dirty things to her. I'll get back to you.

*Sometimes I kinda want more bad shit to happen. Just want to prove to everyone what I'm made of. Does that mean anything to you?

*I dream about writing more. But I need your help. Yes you. It's on you now. Don't F it up.

Yes, I stole your facebook photos

2006-09-27T10:24:00.001-06:00

The most evil part of the internet is way it helps keep the connections to all the wrong people. Any time-wasting or new friend excitement I've ever managed to gain from Facebook and Myspace and instant messenger have been outweighed a hundred fold by the harm of stalking around my own past.

Thing is, there's no such thing as a clean break anymore. Any two people, whether they're connected by friendship or by a twinkle in the back of each other's eyes, manage to tangle themselves up more deeply with one another over invisible servers and streaming data then most people are ever able to do in RL (that's real life from now on). They call it a web for a reason. It caught all of us up together and it sure as hell won't let us go.

I've nearly collapsed lungs running as fast and as far away from some people as I could. But twenty feet or two thousand miles doesn't matter anymore. The damage of sifting through ex-girlfriends' facebook photo albums is irreparable. Doesn't help that I broke up with them. Doesn't help that it's been countless years. Doesn't help that I wasn't even really that into them. All that matters is here I am, staring at the photo album of the old girlfriend with the new guy sharing something that we barely if ever (and usually never) shared and wondering why I'm the one sitting at home staring at a screen. Nothing more gut twisting then watching a girl and a guy flirt on their facebook walls, waving it in the face of every unlucky mouse clicker.

If this was a limited occurrence then maybe, just maybe, I could pull myself off the mat and force all the stars in my eyes to go away. But it's a high school girlfriend's roadtrip through Vegas to CA highlighted by facebook albums that include the Vegas bedroom underwear shots. It's the cutest blond thing you ever saw, left crying while I left for California but rescued in the arms of someone who fills up her myspace wall with more loving words then I could ever get to come out of my mouth.

It's the AIM name of someone still more than two thousand miles away but now also more than two years lost into my past. It's every time her idle icon disappears and hundreds of little flirtations and conversations and haha's and hehe's take place. None of them mine. But any of them just a mouse click away. Each one passing just millimeters from the information blood of my fiber optic internet veins.

None of them are more than a few www's away and that's scary as hell. Maybe it's time to unplug. But that girl from t he stairs in LA just sent me an e-mail. She's coming this way. Wants to hang out. Has new stories. Old stories. It's almost a revolving door. But the building's made of glass. Nothing you can see from the inside that you can't see from the curb.

Now this place, this is a whole new headache/heartache just waiting to happen.

2006-09-26T00:01:00.000-06:00

Heroes is great. It's like X-men plus Lost plus Ed. Aspen is also great. Working at a fancy restaurant is great. so is not knowing. I'll be around the bend. Closer than you think.

2006-09-17T18:19:00.000-06:00

I've started to live in the parts of the day measured by blocks of paid programming and empty beer bottles. My friends are worried. They think I'm getting ready to slip through the cracks. But deep down I think they know I'm on top of the game. And even if they don't, deep down I think they know that nothing they will do or say could hold me up. I think maybe once I said something about how a man is really only made up of the people he loves and the people who love him. Sure, I'll stand by that. But sometimes you just got accept that love and then tell everyone to get the hell out of the way.

There's lots of pressure to keep moving, forward, backward, doesn't matter because so long as you're moving no one's really getting a fix on you. If anyone asks it's easy to say, oh yeah, well I'm here but I'm headed here. People respect movement for the same reason baby's like mobiles above their crib. For the same reason that they like shiny things.

I'm perfectly still and it's scaring people. They're used to only seeing my face as a blur. Maybe they just don't understand. Once I get started it's so hard for me to stop. Have to choose my races so carefully. Have to be patient. It's coming. I know it's coming I just have to wait my turn. But for now I'm just sitting on the cracks, plenty coming down the pipes, praying to god that when it hits I won't get washed away.

Remembered

2006-09-11T10:53:00.000-06:00

That five years have so quickly passed since that morning I awoke in a small New England town with nothing but hopes and dreams for the future is all the more reason to keep the Sept. 11 ritual alive. That day, that feeling, that experience was all about making the intangible tangible. The anger and fear of people thousands of miles away became real. That tense gripping in my chest had a face and a name. The tears on all our lost faces were given a physical link, a moment, a place. If all I can do is patch together what's still in my head than that's exactly what I'll do. This was my September 11th:

8 am huddled under my blanket hiding from the chilly Maine air and just 30 miles down the road there had been bad men with fake smiles passing through metal detectors with no explosives and no guns and horrible ideas in their heads. They were ready to change the world and I spent my morning learning how, for millions of years, the earth's plates had shifted. The tide had rolled in and back out again. It had carried the sand down the beach and left it somewhere new. For longer than I can comprehend things had changed slowly and the only single act that had really left so much as a scratch was a giant meteor from some far off galaxy.

By 10 I was asleep once again dreaming of knights and dinosaurs and Transformers and mountains covered with fresh, white snow. When the phone woke me up it rang just as it had a dozen times before. And when I answered it I couldn't help but hide the sleepiness in my voice. My roommate's father. I asked how he was. And as he answered I could hear a hesitation in his voice. He was ok. On the outside at least. "Tell my son that I'm alright?" Ummm, OK, anything else?

That's when he told me. I think I smiled at the absurdity. A plane? An attack? I assured him that I would tell his son that he is fine. My shoes slid on just as they always did. Down the three flights of stairs to the living room where cable wasn't yet installed. How could I find out what happened? The girl on the first floor heard me approach? "I just heard something about a plane in New York." I told her what I knew and together we left to find a television. A decision I would later regret.

As the two of us walked into the cafe there was an eerie silence. I saw the burning buildings. Gaping holes and plumes of smoke and I stared and I stared and I stared. Could it be real? Could it be true. I kept staring. Hoping it was a horrible trick. And then it happened. The second tower crumbled in on itself. I couldn't watch. I couldn't breath. I couldn't stand up.

I walked out the door onto the bright green grass and I found a tree. No building was safe but the tree was solid and it was strong and it was close. I sat down against the trunk in a nook. I pulled my knees to my chest. I put my hands to my face because I wanted to hide but I couldn't hide. All I could do was weep. I wanted to be part of the tree, to curl up within it and feel its unmoving strength. I wanted to feel the warmth of the water and the nutrients, roots to leaves to roots to leaves. All I wanted was to be something other than human, or at least something other than American. Than a target.

It's five years gone. Five years and still a gaping hole in lower Manhattan. Five years and still my countrymen fight a war of unintelligible reason and violence on the other side of the world. Five years and a White House administration who continues to hold one day over heads. Five years and still my chest hurts.

You can fight it. You can tell yourself that everything's fine and everything will balance out. That it will all come back to equilibrium eventually. But you're kidding yourself. The default setting is chaos. And when we let default run our lives that's exactly what we get.

2006-09-05T20:53:00.000-06:00

I'll be back soon with the product of my invisibiliy...

2006-08-24T14:11:00.000-06:00

One year ago I really was kicking your ass :

The question these kids keep asking me since returning from my California adventure is the most trite and useless question I can think of. "What is the coolest thin you did all summer?"

You really want to know? It was a couple hundred miles north of Los Angeles. Far away from Sunset Boulevard and the distractions and daemons. One weekend where I found myself lost in the hills outside Monterey, CA under the hot summer sun. It's the southern end of wine country and it's beautiful and it's secluded and for the most part it's quiet but for one weekend. This weekend The Laguna Seca Racetrack is a magical place because everything is so out of place. The twists and turns of flawless black pavement wrapped around the golden grasses of the rolling hillsides.

I've heard that at 150 miles per hour the world is completely clear. There's room for one thought and one thought only. I had woken at dawn on Saturday to drive 4 hours and stand close enough to the small men on the big bikes that maybe I could faintly make out what the one thought was. A whisper against the roar of engines loud enough to make you feel your larger organs rattle against your ribcage. Somehow I found myself on the roof of one of the racer's RV's watching the best of the best of the best with honors glide by effortlessly. Somehow Sunday rolled around and I found myself in the VIP area for the main event. It didn't matter. It was just me and the bikes. Michael Jordan on my left? Who cares. Brad Pitt on my right? Go back to Angie at home. I'm not phased at all. This was Moto GP. It was in my blood. It was in my soul. And if my entire summer had consisted of raking manure just for that one weekend of heaven on earth it would have been enough to keep this grin plastered to my face.

2006-08-21T23:49:00.000-06:00

The key is to really be kicking their ass, to really be knocking their socks off, even if you're having an off night. I tell myself every time I get lost that it's not about flawlessness, it's about leaving people with something a little bigger than any of us can ever be. I put on a good show.

One bit like a fish, unable to resist the temptation of the fly even if she knew just as well it was false. Another saw through me right to the other side. She wasn't fooled for a second.

Now I have two e-mail to write. One pushing for the future, closing a door, ignoring a familiar ring and playing safe. The pain and the hate are just a price that time makes you pay. Another reaching hopelessly backwards for something maybe lost and hoped to be forgotten but never able to be drained as much out and washed as much away as I would ever have liked. I'll let you decide who gets what letter.

But forget the letters because certainly the best part is that the show will still go one. Not a cough, not a stumble, not a broken string. The key is to really be kicking their ass. Because then maybe for a second they won't see the show, they won't see through you, they'll see right into the tasty, cream-filled center.

One song is always on repeat
There are calluses on my fingers
My watch died at exactly 9:45 a.m. and 15 seconds
There are blisters on my small toes
I cant' decide what blew more, K-Fed or Prison Break's season premiere
Yes, I'm that shallow
I really wish you would believe that
I need more lists in my life

2006-08-21T00:43:00.000-06:00

There's a place by the water somewhere in Boston. I couldn't tell you exactly where it is or what it's called because I've never gone there. My few trips into that city have somehow always been in those magic times when the leaves or changing or when the first buds of countless trees lining the streets begin to sprout. And each visit I walk out the front door of wherever I may be staying, take a right at the sidewalk and see where I end up.

I've explored quiet, small streets and bustling squares but no matter how lost I feel, somehow I always end up at this beautiful spot, a pier by the ocean where I watch the planes glide in across the bay to the airport on the other side of the water. There are very few places that exist in my mind outside of routine, outside of seasons and time and life. But this spot is at the core of all of them. Not someplace with a dot on a map. It's only accessible by wandering, by imagining, by losing my way and finding the most perfect dead end. Some people's dream of escape means tropical islands, or beautiful women or somewhere magical through the back of the wardrobe. But my dream is a solitary seat on those cement benches, dangling my feet out over the water below and slipping back into a what-could-be.

2006-08-15T21:14:00.000-06:00

I can feel it coming around again. Call it a wave or a wheel or anything else that will return if you wait long enough. There's an emptiness to it. It's funny because the emptiness is what makes it so tangible. After all, how can you know that there's more out there, more to see and to do and to be until you feel that hole in your chest saying, "wherever we're headed we aren't there yet."

It's the call of the road and I've got no reason to fight it this time. But the hardest part is waiting my turn. This is how it always works. First you feel it. Then you hear it. But then all you can do is shake up the compass, set it still and wait for the little, red needle to stop spinning.

I hate the kids who've had it set in one spot for as long as they can remember. They're sure they want to be a doctor or a musician or a lawyer or a priest just chugging along. But they're always the most patient ones. Willing to work and wait and be silent and never having to worry that the red arrow might move.

I'm learning to love the feeling. When north becomes south. The well becomes the crest. I'm ready for things to flop. It's the waiting I just haven't gotten used to. Maybe all those straight-liners do have something to teach me.

2006-08-09T21:42:00.000-06:00

There are back doors to your brain. There are a million ways to override your brain and your muscles and your nerves and to make them believe things that just aren't true. Back before I wrote this blog an worked at magazines and newspapers and lost my soul I got payed to play sports for a year and wear a stupid corporate logo on my chest like a shield over my heart. Back then we would spend entire days training our bodies and minds, not just to become stronger, faster, and more agile, but to process the impossible as if it were the likely. It wasn't miraculous. It was routine. Pure training. Somewhere between conscious and subconscious.

It all started with oatmeal. Every practice morning I ate a huge bowl of maple & brown sugar oatmeal. And on competition days, or on days when I was told to fake my body into thinking it was a competition day, I would eat apple cinnamon oatmeal.

I laughed in the face of coaches and trainers when they first started me on this program. Different Breakfasts? Come on. But nearly a month into the season something spectacular started to happen. Each time the flavor of apple cinnamon oatmeal hit my tongue, my eyes shot open, I felt a sudden surge of energy, pouring out of my stomach all the way to the ends of my fingers and toes. It's so on, my body said.

Maybe it was just nerves? One night I decided to test it all. It was 10 p.m. and I threw a cup of water into the microwave and hit the 2-minute button. I'd already had a few drinks, hoping that maybe those would help disprove the ridiculous "programming." It only took 2 bites and I couldn't fall asleep until 4 a.m.

It didn't stop at Oatmeal. The way I breathed, the way I stretched, the music I listened to and the things I said to myself out loud. And every time I'd turn into something else. A machine, programmed to run almost on auto pilot. And that's when amazing things would happen. Because when you don't need any concentration to balance, to pull, to run, to catch, to jump, to recover, it's all free to strategize, to eek out extra speed. That's when an athlete becomes superhuman to everyone else.

To this day I'll make myself a bowl of apple-cinnamon oatmeal before a really important day. But I learned one lesson the hard way. "Are you OK? You look like you're ready to jump up and run right out of here." I was. Makes me wonder what else I could make my body do with enough time and patience.

P.S. Dear google search ferries: Thank you for possibly finding the best oatmeal pick I could have ever asked for.

2006-08-07T00:59:00.000-06:00

It was nighttime on a bed on a beach. I swear I saw the surf creeping closer but I couldn't hear a thing other than her breath, in and out, perfectly in time with my own.

"Some moments are..." she said, without losing the rhythm. I smiled. Not because I agreed. But because I understood the appeal of a moment like that lived only because of other things.

People will tag you, I thought. They want to pin you up on a wall under "funny" or "sad" or "boring" before you make it to sentence number two. But those beautiful moments are the ones that in that space of absurd and funny an amazing and passionate and unforgettable. All side by side, just barely touching.

Maybe it's because what we think are real emotions are right there on the border of belief anyhow. When you're trying so hard to escape the real feeling is when you fall in head first.

across the beach I heard a cell phone ring through the clatter of a party.

Louder and louder.

She felt my forehead.

My eyelids opened.

The pictures all stared down at me.

Perfectly spaced.

None touching the other.

Wait, did I forget the funny part?

Tidbits

2006-08-05T16:33:00.000-06:00

From the week passed:

Always trust the man behind the paint counter. If he tells you not to use the paint on texture for the ceiling, don't be an ass and try it anyway.

I never understood the appeal of a flip phone until my first one arrived a few nights ago. There is little more satisfying than ending a conversation with the wrist-flick snap-to-closed. Stamp it and file it bitches.

Seeing old friends makes me loud and belligerent but much more fun.

Stevie Ray Vaughn music looks so unbelievably impossible on a page but makes so much sense in my ear.

No, I will not clean my room.

The art of porch sitting may be lost but it's not forgotten.

Trying hard to look disheveled is out. In 06-07 you're either with it or you're lost.

I don't get the Entourage hype, but yes, it is pretty true to life.

Ya sure, I'll move to LA. Where do I sign?

I refused to listen to Death Cab for Cutie for almost a year based solely on their name. Meesteak.

This. The best part being that despite the title, it's the only CD he's got on itunes.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. See it. Love it. Live it.

The most important part of sailing lessons are the cold beers afterwards.

Oh, and goodbye Madeleine. If blogs were people mine probably would have passed yours notes with crappy little drawings hoping for a giggle and a smile. Either that or rufied you. Toss up.

2006-08-03T01:40:00.000-06:00

I couldn't concentrate on the beauty as I walked through the narrow, cobbled lanes of the ancient streets. Instead my mind filled with memories from my own past. Thoughts, places, people that I hadn't even remembered that I remembered. At first I wondered if perhaps the only way my brain could process all these new surroundings was by filtering them through the understanding of my own experiences. Then suddenly I realized what was really happening. My brain was purging useless holdovers from the past to replace them with the onslaught of newness. I was seeing these memories for the very last time on the way out the door.

As I followed Charif through the old city of Asilah to his sister's apartment, the memory of someone's sixth birthday or one of my first kisses or some algebra equation drifted off and
evaporated into thin air. Charif had made many promises, that my bag would be safe at his sister's, that we would explore the beautiful town and that, despite my refusal, would smoke golden hash with him out of a traditional Moroccan pipe. All three came to pass and exactly in that order. Charif, a chef who assured me that he was between jobs, also brought me down a dead-end lane where he assured me I would find the most beautiful Berber rugs I had ever seen. The shop owner made us the traditional hot, mint tea as he showed his wear and I laughed at the idea of purchasing a giant rug in a foreign country. That was until I saw something special. A patchwork of designs, each telling it's own story.

I can't believe I bought a rug in Morocco. I wondered if I had been suckered in as I walked to the local post office to mail the box home. There was no way I could fit this into my backpack. Speaking of which, was it still where I had left it? Charif escorted me back to his sister's apartment where she was cooking a traditional dinner. There was no doubt my pack had been rummaged through. Everything of any value was in one of my 6 pockets.

It wasn't until I had eaten, drank, and smoked the traditional pipe that Charif dropped his facade and leveled with me.

"My friend," he began. "I am really in bad shape. I have no more work for a month and I am living here with my sister. I need your help."

It wasn't a question, it was a demand, and I had already decided that I would happily reimburse him for the amazing day I had exploring the city walls, the oceanside and the people. I pulled out the equivalent of $20, and more than double what I spent in any hotel in the whole of Morocco.

"No, my friend. I am in bad shape. Please, $60."

My mind was altered, but I could tell the tone of Charif's voice had changed and. I thought back to purchasing the rug, and the cabbies and the drinks and the food. Was he getting a kickback on everything we did today? As I took another $10 from my wallet, I tried to pull out an apologetic smile.I also snked my hand down into my backpack and pulle dout a shirt I had decided I wanted to get rid of. This was all he was going to get. Charif's face cringed and he rose from his seat. My body tensed, and readied itself for an unknown. But Charif moved towards the door and opened it. I Behind him through the open door that the sun had gone down. He pointed out to the street and I didn't even think, I just walked.

As the door slammed shut behind me, I wasn't concerned that my new friend turned out to be half-hearted. I was more worried about finding my way to the train station a mile away before the night's last train left for Marrakesh.

Struggling under the now weigh in my backpack,which was now uneven after someone else's hands had been through it, I made my way to the station quickly and found a bench. A group of Arab teenagers looked in my direction and laughed, mocking my american dress and taunting me by playing 5-year-old american pop tunes on their little boom box. I didn't care. I had made it back to the station in one piece. I could hear the train whistle blow in the distance. I was safe. And just then, I heard another whistled blow. Suddenly 30 or so men in military uniforms with packs and rifles came pouring over a chest-high fence on the other side of the tracks. One by one each man landed, looked around and headed straight for me. I had made it this far, but I definitely wasn't in Marrakesh yet.

If I could have picked a memory to lose at that moment it would have been getting punched in the face in 4th grade by a punk named Derrick. Unfortunately, that one is still with me.

2006-08-02T01:02:00.000-06:00

Dear Corporate America: Thank you for the high-paid job offer. I would prefer to keep my soul.

The story will resume tomorrow.

That is all.

2006-07-31T02:23:00.000-06:00

Ask and you shall receive. This one is going out to the kid who e-mailed me asking what the hell I did in Europe for nearly 9 weeks. Enjoy.

I couldn't quite tell if her face was curling into a knowing smile or whether it was merely a courtesy . We've all been told that there are certain moments that come to define our lives, that define who we are and what we stand for. I was fairly certain that thus far in the trip, I hadn't had a single one of those.

No, we were in Krakow, surrounded by a group of Hungarian girls who had met and bonded in their American studies class. I don't know if to them we were jokes or experts or oddities but the ones who understood my dumbed-down version of english were giving me flity looks and asking for stories from nearly 7 weeks of travels.

My boat from Algeciras in Spain to Tangier in Morocco had been cancelled de to weather, I explained, and arriving at 11:30 instead of 7 p.m. made the rough-and-tumble port city full of unfamiliar faces all the more intimidating. I jumped out of bed at 4 a.m. when the Muslim prayers rung out of the speakers bolted to the mosque towers and out across the city's rooftops. It only took half a day to lose my pocket-sized travel guide to Morocco somewhere on the streets and to realize I needed to get out of Tangier. Marrakesh. Yes. I would go south on the night train to Marrakesh.

The train station was busy and only accepted cash, and as I found my way to an ATM, I noticed someone watching me. I took a step back, The station was relatively safe but I was traveling alone and I've heard night train horror stories that ran the gamut from missing luggage to being gassed while you sleep.

The shifty figure approached me and was the only the second person in two days to address me in my native tongue. "excuse me, are you from the States?"

Yes, I replied to the as I surveyed the man's wrinkles and guessed that they were 40 odd years worth of accumulation.

"Have you ever been to Seattle?"

Yes.

Oh wonderful! I lived there for many years. I met an american in France, there was a lot of passion and the next thing you know, there I was, married to her and living in her house near the city. My name is Charif."

I'd heard that once you leave the large Cities of morocco, people are hospitable and friendly but to be careful on the cities. No one wants to be your friend for free. Though there was something in Charif's eyes I didn't wholly trust, I was still thankful to find someone who could fill the enormous gaps in the next six days of my trip that were completely empty after loosing the travel book.

Charif told me his town, Asilah, was a beautiful place on the coast between Tangier and Marrakesh and that I could stop with him for a few hours to explore if I wished.

Why not give a few hours to see something new? I thought. So off we went, bound for Asilah first, Marrakesh second. I had no idea what lay ahead but so long as it was different than the desuetude poverty and leering eyes of Tarifa, I knew I would be moving in the right direction. The water off Asilah was clear blue as we exited the train station where Charif bought a single Marlboro off a vendor manning a street cart. That's when I realized that I was completely at his mercy. I hoped that the rumors of Moroccan hospitality were true and that I would find my way back to the train station before the next morning arrived.

Two of the Hungarian girls leaned in closer. Maybe the story was getting better. Maybe the bartender had turned up the music. Their eyes brightened. The girl who hadn't payed enough attention in English class jabbed her straw into her drink with an absent look. A fourth flirted with my friend. It was week seven and already memories from week 1 had started to fade.

Tomorrow: Asilah and wherever I ended up next.

2006-07-28T00:04:00.000-06:00

The ruse this week is that I'm painting an apartment in hopes to sell it. The reality is all sorts of commando activities.

I am sneaking off to motorcycle shops and planning my future superbike racing career on the track.

I am taking applications for a new crew capable at rolling at my level to quickly but deftly fill the social schedule.

I am scouring the internet for a new blogging crew to fill the blogroll, all of whom have to keep things rolling like back in the days of 2K4.

I am investigating just how much it would take to get me off the ground and into an apartment in a coastal city.

I am rolling up my sleeves and getting down and dirty in local politics before the first Tuesday of November rolls around.

I am catching up on the third and most captivating season of the far and away best show on television: Rescue Me.

I am thinking about having an emotion.

I am worrying that one emotion always leads to all the rest of them.

Hang on, I feel one coming.
No wait.
Scratch all of that.
It was just paint fumes.

2006-07-27T11:40:00.000-06:00

I've been living in a time warp. Blogs the way I remember them are dead. Two years ago it was new enough that people had so many fresh ideas to throw around. And no one was sick of listening to eachother and to themselves quite yet. Almost all the bloggers who I read when this thing started are gone. Lost in the rest of their lives and that's fine. The magic of life two years ago was something special. And maybe tonight, if I close my eyes tight enough I can walk backwards for just a few seconds.

"Meaning isn't something people like us fall into," she said, abandoning her smile to assure me she was serious. "We're going to have to create it for ourselves." She looked to the stars up in the night sky and I knew that she wasn't searching for something bigger looking down on us. Where I saw salvation and hope she could only find a big empty space but I never held it against her. The day blown by so fast that I half-expected the stars move double-time across the sky.

"Stop thinking so hard, you're making me tired."

It's not my fault. I'm just minding my own business and these big things just creep up on me and jump in my head when I'm not looking.

"Don't act like you're all lost," she said, but I knew she loved the uncertainty of it all. The rush of any fight that might come our way.

I told her I wasn't lost, I was distracted. And I was. And I am. And I might always be.

2006-07-26T00:42:00.000-06:00

The view of the street from here is clear and unobscured. The window pales in comparison to the internet and the television screen. There are so many people out there who dream about two stories and so many feet measured by squares and little window looking out into a cul-de-sac of two-car garages. But I'll bet they don't dream of the suburbs and it's fortresses of solitude.

There are places in this word where you don't just know your neighbor by their face as they saunter down to the mailbox from the front door and back again. Places where people know their neighborhood and their neighbor's business and they're better for it. There it's about necessity. There aren't gates with garage door openers and paid police cars and fireman waiting to slide down the pole when that red light starts flashing. You invite the neighbors over because when shit goes down you want them on your side, carrying your shit out of a burning building, watching the kids and cotterizing your stump after you've chopped off a finger.

But we build bigger and bigger castles, safe and protected with everything that's built to make it safe to live inside. Then we all sit back and wonder. Wonder why kids go looking for guns, girls stick their fingers down their throats, fathers surf for porn and bottles of pills keep flying off the shelves. The window's view of the street is unobscured. But it's looking the other way that I'm worried about.

Money where the mouth is

2006-07-24T21:36:00.000-06:00

Two years ago there was someone named G2K, there was nothing sweeter than a late night phone call and all my dreams of being a bigger and a better man didn't have to be anything but dreams just yet. This blog started just like those dreams not long before that. Almost everyone who hit the blogosphere with me around then is gone or working under a new name. Times change.

And this, as they say, is go time. Current offers on the table in the order of highest to lowest salary are:
Furniture salesman
Waiter at a fancy restaurant
Reporter for a trashy but rich magazine
Writer for a politically motivated internet site
Campaign Manager for a local guy going for state legislature

Current offers in order of appeal:
Campaign Manager for a local guy going for state legislature
Writer for a politically motivated internet site
Reporter for a trashy but rich magazine
Waiter at a fancy restaurant
Furniture salesman

Funny the way these little things work out isn't it? New York and LA are still very much on the table. G2K still calls me on the phone. The snow globe still sits on the corner of my desk. I brush the dust off it every once in a while and watch the plastic snowflakes fall across the shiny Empire State Building. Remember TMG? Now she's in LA wondering when I'm going to accept my fate, pack my car and roll west. Lindsey and I don' t talk anymore. The rest of the cast: Most have surrendered to the tired 9-5's. As for Tayden, he's living vicariously through The Truth Blog Archives right now. Sure most of the pictures are gone, but the dreams are so much closer to being real.

2006-07-23T17:35:00.000-06:00

Just about a year ago today was the start of one of the most amazing week of my life. It's no secret that I have a bit of an obsessive personality. I have to be very careful starting something new. I'm not one of the guys who picks up a guitar today and puts it down next week. Mostly it's petty things and they're manageable but sometimes their big and bad and they take over everything from my best dreams to the scariest nightmares.

Something happens to me when I see a superbike. It's a primal urge and I try to push it deep down inside where no one can hear it. I know that it would only take one ride around the block. My wallet would empty, my free time would cease to exist and I'd probably end up as a puddle on a little square of pavement. But last year someone saw a little glimmer in the back of my eye as they talked about the Motorcycle Grand Prix in Laguna Seca, California. Next thing I knew they were putting a VIP ticket in one hand and dragging me to the track by the other.

For a weekend I just soaked it all in. The smell of gas and rubber and red bull shot through with the adrenaline of speed. And then if life couldn't get any better, work paid me to go to the Playboy Mansion. I couldn't cling to my shell. So I brought along the hottest blonde I knew. There I was at the mansion, watching girls fawning over celebrities and football players and my date when I noticed the two small guys in the corner. The thing is, the fastest motorcycle racers in the world aren't big and bulky. They're small and light and streamlined and there were two of the best hiding out somewhere by the grotto. I think I was the only one to recognize them all night. All it took was a handshake and a hello and I was on my way. By the end of the night I had two new friends and the blonde I had brought couldn't understand why I was too busy to pay attention to her.

If that wasn't enough, two days later they packed me off to the ESPY awards where I pretty much met every sports hero I ever had. The week ended and I could die happy. Then I realized how easily that could be arranged. All I needed to do was call one of my new friends and ask them to lend me a bike.

2006-07-21T11:41:00.000-06:00

There are many measures of a man. If you want to know how I go around judging whether someone's going to be my friend, my enemy or not worth the effort I'll tell you. It all comes down to the men's room. I'm not worried about peeking over the dividers or inside stalls, oh no. It's in the paper towels. A confident, self-assured man with sensibilities knows that the allotted length of one towel is enough to get the job done. Maybe I'll let two slide for the nose blow but anyone who goes for more than two, globs the water off and throws away his big stack is disgusting. The most I've ever seen? Six! Yes six. I pity the poor girl who gets stuck with that one.

I returned from europe to find that my favorite restaurant has installed an "environmentally friendly" blow dryer, but I can assure you that my environment of Alphas and confidants with be decidedly less friendly.

2006-07-20T09:24:00.000-06:00

Coming home is like riding a bike and it takes less than a hour for all the visions of Moroccan streets, Italian countrysides, Czech rivers and Swedish girls to slink away deeper and deeper inside of me until they've such a small corner to curl up in that I'm no longer sure if I was ever gone or if I watched a special on the Travel Channel.

The best way to do this is by the numbers. Facts aren't emotions, they're just the leftovers when all emotions fade.

Days since I left my front door: 57

Amount of money I spent: Somewhere in the ballpark of $4000

Number of countries I set foot in: 17 in the order of Great Britain, Belgium, Netherlands, Germany, France, Portugal, Spain, Morocco, Italy, Croatia, Serbia/Montenegro, Austria, Hungary, Slovakia, Poland, Czech Republic and Sweden.

Weight of my backpack before departure: 34 lbs.

Weight of Backpack upon return: 26 lbs.

Most Spectacular moment: Kitesurfing off the coast of Morocco to a small deserted island.

Most depressing moment: Having my friend's camera stolen after 7 weeks of travel.

Favorite activity: Taking night trains and dreaming away while the miles rolled by beneath me.

Best new acquaintance: Anwar, my new Moroccan friend who teaches english and invited me into his family home in the tiny town of Ksar el Kebir.

Number of girls I kissed: 5

Number of girls I kissed in their native country: 0.3. (She was Half Hungarian and Half Polish and we were on a night train between the two but most of the kissing happened over Slovakia... go look at a map).

Number of girls I slept with: Zero. Come on girls, give me more credit than that.

Number of phone calls to anyone in the states: Zero.

Number of beers consumed: impossible to determine

Number of trains/planes/subways/busses and taxis ridden during the trip: again impossible but certainly over 55.

Lasting memory that will keep my soul alive until the next adventure: Croatian sunsets, Marrakesh's main square bustling at night, Watching the light fade over the castle by the Vlatava river, everything in Porto, Portugal and the knowledge that I'll be back again.

Everything is blown wide open. I have no plans. I have no one depending on me. I have no job and nowhere to be and no classes and no girls grabbing for a piece of my time. I'm free and I'm going to build it all up from the basement again. I guess if you stay real quiet then I don't mind if you sit here and watch. Lucky you.

2006-07-16T15:51:00.000-06:00

Oh my god where am I? Stockholm? Um... what country is that? Only 3 days, 4 train rides, 2 busses and 3airplanes away from you.
Excited?
I know I am.

2006-06-29T04:29:00.000-06:00

Dear Europe,
I heard there are a lot of American kids over here in the summers making trouble but wow I did not expect it to be like a final spring break for everyone leaving college. The crowned jewels that are your biggest cities may be teeming with history but their also crawling with tourists looking for the next good time. All thi sis good and fine and I'm sure you love it when we bring our big fat american wallets ovewr but I'm more of a nook and cranny guy. The most beautiful sports are the ones where I don't hear english and I can't expect to see someone I know.

Tonight I'm off on a book to find another nook somewhere along the coast of a country which may very well have more sheep than people and might welcome me in a way that doesn't include brochures or pub crawls.

Everyone has to find their nook. Somewhere I'll find mine.

2006-06-25T05:12:00.000-06:00

I'm so done with waiting. Waiting for Moroccan nights and Tuscan sunrises. Waiting to put myself through a wire and get to you. I've lost track of the days but only a few weeks and I'll be back with you. Stop waiting. Go get what you want.
Or keep on waiting...

2006-06-14T03:59:00.000-06:00

Dear Mrs. Pearson, my 9th and 10th grade spanish teacher,
Thank you. I'm sorry if I was a jerk to you and mocked the fact that at one point you were an NFL cheerleader but everything you taught me is finally coming in Handy. I'm not in Mexico and I'm not in Sotuh America and I'm not in Spain. I'm in Morocco in Africa and I've left my travelling companions in Europe and I'm totally alone. Barely a soul here speaks english and the few who are willing in these small towns to speak something other than spanish are muttering an ever so slight bit of spanish.

For an ex-chearleader like yourself I would not recommend this place. It's hot, it's different, people try to hustle you in the big cities and the toillets, I don't even want to talk about the squatting situation. All I ever wanted to do on this trip was get away from cell phones. But then, realizing the impossibility of this, I wanted to get away from those little white earbuds. I can assure you that not a single on of the children begging on the streets nor the market men in the Medina have then (unless they stole the ipod which I keep vigilently in my zippered pocket). This is as close to the Islamic world as a man like me could ever voluntarily go. I was awoken last night to the sound of prayer. I have admired the beauty of women hidden in vails. I have a man standing outside this internet cafe with his mouth nearly watering as he stares at me and imagines the amount of Dirham he thinks are in my pocket. He would be surprised to find that it is actually very few.

This is not spanish class Mrs. Pearson. This is definitely not Spain or Mexico or South America. But that is why I am here. Not for a vacation but for an adventure. Lets just hope I make it through.

Adios y grcias,
Tayden (but you will probably remember me as Pablo)

2006-06-02T09:35:00.000-06:00

I can't believe this blog has lasted two years. I can't believe how many prostitutes are in Amsterdam. I can't believe that Germany can be so green. I can't believe I'm leaving six days before the World Cup starts. I can't believe that the y on this keyboard is in such a weird spot. I can't believe how many dipshit american kids are traveling in Europe. I can't believe that in a club of 4000 people, no one can dance.

The trip has barely begun but I've already realized that I'm not searching for a place or a thing or even an idea. I'm searching for a feeling. Something that lives close to where lost and found meet and merge and intertwine. I don't even know if this feeling still exists in me but there's not a thing I can do but put myself out here on the road and see what happens.

To anyone who has stuck around for two years: you know that all the best is yet to come.
To the rest of you: I guess You'll just have to stick around and find otu for yourself.

Next Stop: Berlin
Next Feeling: Hungry
Next Acquaitance: Hopefully not American
Next Expense: A liter of beer and a bratwurst
Next

Here and There

2006-05-24T00:38:00.000-06:00

9 hours till Europe. Head has been swirling for weeks. I'll be abroad but I won't be gone. But I realized today that only 3 of the first 20 bloggers who I started with are still around.

To send us both off I'll give you a peek inside my backpack:

Apple video ipod 30 gig. Black cuz that's how I roll. And don't forget to load that baby with My Generation in french by Chapaumelon.

Lonely Planet Europe with the pages to Austria, Ireland, Switzerland, Cyprus, Andora, and many others torn out and disposed of.

Le Sportsac.... I was not alive when this thing was fabricated.

Moleskin Notebook (large and pocket size. Next best thing to batteries and wires.

Travel size toiletries.

Emergen-C (kicks jet lag's ass).

Cannon elf camera of some kind (can you say lost and found?).

30 in Euro's saved from 3 years ago when I promised myself that I would return to Europe (not worth as much as when I bought them).

Podcasts to help me not die in Morocco, Turkey and Serbia.

Raquet ball for everything from fun to laundry.

15 days over 2 months Eurail Pass.

Good luck necklace tarnished from to much luck rubbing.

Light Reading: Dostoyevski, Hemmingway, DeLillo etc.

Europe map plotting a course from England to Belgium to Netherlands to Germany to France to Portugal to Spain to Morocco to Italy to Greece to Turkey to Bulgaria to Romania to Hungary to Slovakia to Czech Republic to Poland to Sweden to England to the rest of my life. See you there.

The Letters: Volume V

2006-05-08T17:04:00.000-06:00

Dear College
What a fucking ride we had. I mean, even if we don't count that year in the middle I'm sure you can agree that we did exactly what I had hoped. I wanted to hit the ground running. I just wanted to throw myself out there on the road to somewhere and find out about myself as I went along. As much as I learned I forgot, and as much as I forgot I realized there was a whole hell of a lot more than I never learned but still wanted to know.
If there's one impression that you've left on me, one that's going to change the rest of my life, its how you taught me to talk the talk. I always knew that I had the walk in me, I always knew how to back it all up, but the front was seriously lacking. No, I'm not talking about making a move on the ladies (though thanks for that too) I'm talking about all there is to life. Sure 90% is showing up and maybe 5% is doing what you do well but the other 5% is selling yourself, and convincing the world around you that you've got the other 95% locked down.
I realize know that the last 4 months were a sheer test of will to see if you could brake me. To see if I would let you turn my world upside down... Sure you got me into a corner but never forget, I'm quick like a mongoose.
There's 3 days left till the rest of my life and The view from here is still pretty good. The road is open. The top is down. There's nothing for miles but clouds and sunshine and rolling hills. And college, you know what you could never understand about me? It's that this baby was built for the open road.
As much as I will learn from here I'll forget
And as much as I forget I'll realize there so much still to learn.
So, who's ready for Europe?

2006-04-26T19:28:00.000-06:00

I wrote up to long-winded posts but I won't bore you so here's the short and the quick:

With these ridiculous gas prices, why are there waiting lists for hybrid cars when the market is flooded with all those other autos they can't get off the lots? Who's really running this show?

The world is running on Advertising. But who's going to take it to the next level? One day I think we're gonna wake up and realize that even internet targeted advertising isn't touching anyone under 40. The Next wave? The product that's actually worth paying for... or more advertising.

Hey, it's a start.

2006-04-20T20:11:00.000-06:00

As the inevitable fate of sniffing around for job possibilities creeps closer, it's become painfully clear that until my dream of professional vacuum-cord wrapper is realized I will probably end up in media/writing/ journalism or some other form of time wasting. Problem is, this pesky question keeps coming up. No, not the one about whether I've ever been convicted of a crime. Everyone wants to know if I have a blog. They want to know if I'm hip, if I'm connected, if I'm insightful, if I'm foolhardy or if I'm just a fool.

Up to this point I've been absolutely certain that if I'm going to start handing out this web address I might as well crack open Pandora's Box, shoot myself in the foot, have sex with one of my roommates, blow all my cash on a trip through Europe and Asia and all those other things Id do if the world was going to end tomorrow. This site hasn't been about breaking news, or about my experiences as an esteemed professional or about politics or finance or helping people. It' hasn't been about truth. Sometimes it hasn't even been about half truth. And hell if I plan on going back to correct two years worth of spelling, grammar and punctuation mistakes.

And wouldn't the worst part about tying you and these words to my hopes of professional success mean that I would embrace seriousness and censorship, because god forbid it be tied to a company that wants to employ me but doesn't want to be associated with who I am. I mean, if I started throwing around this truth blog address people would come here expecting some truth wouldn't they? And the only person I've been true to here is me.

I started to think of all the things I would no longer be able to write about here. That I wouldn't talk about drunken stuppors or drug use or excessive internet porn consumption or personal attacks on my list of people to kill or rant about politics. And then I realized, I haven't done a damn one of these. It's not because I don't care, it's not because I'm scared to tackle tough issues and it's certainly for lack of opinions. I realized that when it comes down to it, this blog isn't really about all of that. It's just about one stupid, simple thing. Me.

I guess it's time to start scribbling www's on applications and business cards... unless you think they're going to object over calling one of their future employees simple and stupid.

2006-04-15T20:13:00.000-06:00

The hardest part of starting something new is saying goodbye to something old. A real pro knows that the best way to walk off that plank is to leave nothing behind unfinished, nothing unread and no one standing idly by. The pro knows because he's done it so many times before. He learns to love what everyone else avoids: The grip of the unknown and the fear of never finding anything better than what's been left behind.

The pro spends his last few weeks reflecting, preparing, recharging, and restarting. He does it alone. "Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world," some dead guy said. Imagine what he would think of all this clutter. In our world the peak of independent thought is to plaster it on pages with fancy banners and advertisements alongside. He'd probably laugh at a world where dialogue has been reduced from argument and compromise to attack and defense.

Every day I'm told that the more connected we all the better off we'll be. Maybe they're right. But the more lines we string between eachother the more we're gonna lose in the bad connections. I like the butterflies in my stomach when someone I don't know looks me in the eyes, smiles and says hi. The hardest part of starting something new is not getting tangled in those lines. Making a few clean cuts and leaving a few things behind. But I'm not worried. After all, I'm a pro.

THE LETTERS: Volume IV

2006-04-06T22:25:00.000-06:00

Dear New Mexico:
You're throwing down for me this week. You've been a gracious host with cold margaritas, an adobe house with heated brick floors, outdoor hot tubs, beautiful sunsets and flirty 30 year olds. Sure, Santa Fe is sleepy right now but so am I and it's perfect timing for spas and massages and wandering streets where I know I'll never bump into familiar face.

Bike trails traverse your brown rolling hills endlessly so I spent yesterday bruising and battering and exhausting myself for today's relaxation session of outdoor spa and massage. I might not be ancient and set in my ways, but my tastes are refined enough to know that good tequilla makes all the difference and that a good massage is like a good dance: speeding and slowing, moving smoothly and flawlessly from one spot to another. After years of the sport and enough physical therapists grinding my muscles into submission, the difference between massages meant to patch me up for the next day and massages meant send me to realxedville are all the more sweet.

Tonight's schedule of flamenco guitar, tapas and more margaritas went swimmingly. In fact, I was pretty sure I was swimming after about 6 or 7 when I found myself on the dance floor with the NY/NJ 30 somethings. I don't know what it is but the older ladies always have their eyes on me... not that I'm complaining.

Thnaks NM, we've still got 2 solid night ahead of us so you best rest up and get ready for me to bring the heat.

Your new Amigo,
The TB

THE LETTERS: Volume III

2006-04-02T23:12:00.000-06:00

Dear Orion:
Thank you. I'm not sure exactly how you manage it, but every time I look up at the night sky you're there looking back down on me, pointing me in the right direction. It might just be my place here in the northern hemisphere. It might be that I always look to the same part of the sky. Or it might be the time of year my eyes wander about the blinking lights of the nighttime horizon. You always manage to remind me that while everything changes, lost in the waves, the words and, fuck it I'll go for the triplet, the wars, it's all just a flicker in your eye.

From here you're just another sparkle of the magic that lies in the unknown. A little future and a little past mixed in something I'll see but I'll never touch except in my mind's eye. Did you know what was happening this whole time? I didn't understand why I couldn't write, why I couldn't blog, why I couldn't sing, why I couldn't pick up a girl or find a reason to pull myself out of bed before noon thirty?

It was like breaking down on Route 66 100 miles from any gas station, the adventure needle resting on E and nothing to do but sit in the sticky seats under the desert sun and wait for something to come along. Then, just as night is falling and I thought that I might as well just settle down and accept my permanent place on the side of the dusty road, you slid in through the black, pointing me on my way.

And I just wanted to say thanks.
Your Pal,
The Truth Blogger

THE LETTERS: Volume II

2006-03-30T21:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Producers of Black.White:
You really could have done something special here. Your show could have drawn millions wanting to peek across that race barrier. I'm no prophet, but I'd guess that normal, middle-class Americans, both white and black, want to see life, racism, hardships and benefits through each other's eyes. But you didn't care about the profound experiment. Oh no. Just like every other reality show you bowed to the pressure of conflict and chaos. You followed the Hollywood mantra. It's just not good reality programming unless someone yells and screams and acts stupd so you had to put the two families in the same house and stoke the flames didn't you?

And what could be worse? I don't want to call racism after the two episodes I've seen but from this whitey jew's perspective, you put a normal, calm, sociable and collected black family alongside some crazy white people. The parents have negative social skills, no tact, no class, and no one helping them through these issues in any meaningful way. And for the record, I don't know one person who thinks bitch is a term of endearment.

The black family manages to get along great, staying calm and making interesting insights into racial pressures. and if anyone gives hope to the show it's the kids, who seem to be a litle more willing to amek genuine efforts and to blur the race lines without patting themselves on the back each time they do it.

Touchy subject warning: Sometimes I feel like the white people in the show were cast to fill their own racial stereotype. I have no idea who headed up casting, what they were searching for and what their racial inclinations are, but of the two episodes I've seen, I feel embarrassed for the white people. I'm not embarrassed because they represent me as a white male, but embarrassed in the same way I'm embarrassed for anyone who makes a fool of themself over and over with unrelenting ambivalence.

What could have been a grand experiment, both for television and for America, has been ruined by producers and casting agents who only want to stoke the flames and play in the ashes.

Anyone else watch? What did you think?