http://open.spotify.com/track/40LGKU0kbnbx4NXEMhTTXT
Every now and then I get this feeling. I've always had trouble describing it. It's always fleeting, and if I focus on it too hard, it disappears. When I was younger I used to think it was a connection with my dad. Some type of father to son thing. Where the emotion is so strong I catch a whiff of it. I'm not sure why I thought that.
I felt it again tonight. Watching How I Met Your Mother on Netflix in a hotel room in Bethlehem. The last time I felt it I was mowing the lawn.
There's nothing before it. No precursor, no trigger. It just happens. Slow and heavy. Metaphysical and existential.
My body feels heavier than the world. My bones thinner than feathers, but the weight supported easily enough.
It's shapes and shades. Heavy powder. Soft metal. Trains on tooth picks. Boats on water.
It feels like triangles and funnels. Rods and cones.
Each tooth like Stonehenge, and my anatomy as loosely connected the lead shavings of Wooly Willy. A thousand pounds of flesh. No more no less.
It's such an in-body experience it stops me in my tracks each time. I imagine men in opium dens feel something similar, albeit more euphoric.
Mine is more a sudden awareness of weight and connectivity, and the realness of it makes me think in terms unreal. Dali for the flesh.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Nihilism
Eric Hutchinson – Food Chain - Live
Boy & Bear – Milk & Sticks
Eric Hutchinson – Oh!
Well, I'm almost done my first week of my new job doing compaction grouting. I took the job because I need more financial stability than the day to day flow that remodeling afforded me. And the promise of $60/hr prevailing wage jobs put stars in my eyes.
The first day was a harsh call to reality. 45 degrees and raining. I was warned beforehand that the work is extremely grueling- and it proved to be. The work isn't so much what bothers me though. Rarely if ever had I found myself saying, "I deserve to be getting paid more." But $12/hr just isn't enough. I know that if I stick it out I'll pick up jobs where I'll be making 30-70/hr. But I just think the time in between is too great.
They told me during my interview that this work isn't for everyone. That not everyone can do it. I know I can do it, but I also know that it's not the smartest way to make 700/wk. The guys I work with talk about the overtime and the 30/day per diem. The per diem covers your food for the day, so these guys are kidding themselves when they talk about how great it is to get this tax free. The overtime is nice, but it should really be base pay. At least. When you hit 18/hr. It's almost like a slap in the face for the last 40 hours you worked for 12.
I've never minded hard work, but I think the most glaring realization that they're not paying us enough is the company I'm keeping in my coworkers- men driven largely by their id. Men, nihilists to the core. Not because they subscribe to nihilism, or even grasp the concept, but because they've long since written off their bodies in sacrifice to the day's work. The type of guys that rack up debt over cellphone ringtones and survive largely on chicken wings and dunkin donuts. While I try to maintain the belief that I'm not above any man, I have trouble relating to many of the guys I work with. And when you're spending a week away from home in a hotel with the guys you work with, these interactions matter. I'm fortunate that I have my laptop and internet to escape to, but smiling and nodding only lasts so long.
I find myself starting each work day borderline defeated at the prospect of another 10 hour day shoveling sand, moving 100 lb bags of cement, carrying 40 lb pipes 100 yds across a muddy path- all with wet feet and hands. In truth, the work isn't even the hardest part. It's the cold, and the wet, and the never ending finish line. Think deadliest catch without the payday. Think oil drillers, but we're pumping cement into the ground instead of pumping oil out.
It's the kind of work that forces you to find solace in the smallest reprieves. We can't take time for lunch- so a sip of coffee, a bite of a sandwich, a cigarette- are about all you have to look forward to. It kind of helps me understand why the guys I work behave the way I do. When you condition yourself to seek comfort in the smallest of dopamine dumps, this becomes a driving factor of your life. Why pay your child support or save for a car when you can buy a leather jacket or knock up a stripper?
I've already started looking for other jobs, but I think this job will forever shape me for the better in the end. I'll have this from now on to measure other jobs against. I'll know what it's like to work your hands to the bone, to be cold and wet and dead tired, and still have 6 hours to go. I think this job will drive me to appreciate what comes next, and to not take for granted what I have now. I also know now what my body can do- what it's really like to work for a living.
Let's just hope I can stick it out until something better comes along. And let's hope it comes quickly.
Boy & Bear – Milk & Sticks
Eric Hutchinson – Oh!
Well, I'm almost done my first week of my new job doing compaction grouting. I took the job because I need more financial stability than the day to day flow that remodeling afforded me. And the promise of $60/hr prevailing wage jobs put stars in my eyes.
The first day was a harsh call to reality. 45 degrees and raining. I was warned beforehand that the work is extremely grueling- and it proved to be. The work isn't so much what bothers me though. Rarely if ever had I found myself saying, "I deserve to be getting paid more." But $12/hr just isn't enough. I know that if I stick it out I'll pick up jobs where I'll be making 30-70/hr. But I just think the time in between is too great.
They told me during my interview that this work isn't for everyone. That not everyone can do it. I know I can do it, but I also know that it's not the smartest way to make 700/wk. The guys I work with talk about the overtime and the 30/day per diem. The per diem covers your food for the day, so these guys are kidding themselves when they talk about how great it is to get this tax free. The overtime is nice, but it should really be base pay. At least. When you hit 18/hr. It's almost like a slap in the face for the last 40 hours you worked for 12.
I've never minded hard work, but I think the most glaring realization that they're not paying us enough is the company I'm keeping in my coworkers- men driven largely by their id. Men, nihilists to the core. Not because they subscribe to nihilism, or even grasp the concept, but because they've long since written off their bodies in sacrifice to the day's work. The type of guys that rack up debt over cellphone ringtones and survive largely on chicken wings and dunkin donuts. While I try to maintain the belief that I'm not above any man, I have trouble relating to many of the guys I work with. And when you're spending a week away from home in a hotel with the guys you work with, these interactions matter. I'm fortunate that I have my laptop and internet to escape to, but smiling and nodding only lasts so long.
I find myself starting each work day borderline defeated at the prospect of another 10 hour day shoveling sand, moving 100 lb bags of cement, carrying 40 lb pipes 100 yds across a muddy path- all with wet feet and hands. In truth, the work isn't even the hardest part. It's the cold, and the wet, and the never ending finish line. Think deadliest catch without the payday. Think oil drillers, but we're pumping cement into the ground instead of pumping oil out.
It's the kind of work that forces you to find solace in the smallest reprieves. We can't take time for lunch- so a sip of coffee, a bite of a sandwich, a cigarette- are about all you have to look forward to. It kind of helps me understand why the guys I work behave the way I do. When you condition yourself to seek comfort in the smallest of dopamine dumps, this becomes a driving factor of your life. Why pay your child support or save for a car when you can buy a leather jacket or knock up a stripper?
I've already started looking for other jobs, but I think this job will forever shape me for the better in the end. I'll have this from now on to measure other jobs against. I'll know what it's like to work your hands to the bone, to be cold and wet and dead tired, and still have 6 hours to go. I think this job will drive me to appreciate what comes next, and to not take for granted what I have now. I also know now what my body can do- what it's really like to work for a living.
Let's just hope I can stick it out until something better comes along. And let's hope it comes quickly.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Behind the 8 ball
Joe Purdy – I Love The Rain The Most
Boy & Bear – Milk & Sticks
As I become more and more entrenched in the blue collar workaday world I'm learning more and more about how things, people, and money work. The more I learn, I can't help but feel that I'm more than a bit behind the 8 ball.
For starters, I'm really just getting my foot on the bottom rung of the work ladder. As far as I can tell, there seem to be 3 tiers of this ladder- helper, skilled laborer, boss. 100/day, 200-300/day, 500+/day respectively. I think I've always thought of money in terms of yearly salary. I guess because I assumed that I would one day have a steady paycheck with a corporate logo on it, I would think in this term of currency. This isn't exactly how it works in the under-the-table world. There have been weeks of recent where I've made more money than I ever have in my life. A flat 500 from my role as a helper on a remodeling job, 50 for a couple hours of ceiling restoration with my uncle, another 200 for an hours' work closing a pool on my own.
As I make this money, I can't help but marvel at how much money you have to make money. At 500/wk I'm on track for a 25,000/yr. If I can work my way up to 1,000/wk I'll be on track for a 50,000 year. I'd have to make 400/day. 5 days a week. 50 weeks a year. Just to make $100k.
While in school, I always had a number close to $60k floating around in the back of my head. I figured I'd start off around there, and work my way up to the 200s within a decade or so. I guess I never really realized how much all of that money really is.
$800/day is A LOT of money. Money is a real thing. Not just a number. And working for 100/day really puts that into perspective.
While all of these thoughts of money dance like visions of sugarplums in my dome I feel like I'm learning some very important lessons that I failed to learn in all of my schooling.
SAVE. Save as much as you can while you can. I've been ever so fortunate enough that I've always had enough savings that I've had a safety net. Because I've gambled most of these savings on my business venture, I've come dangerously close to scraping the bottom.
Ask for more. Perhaps I'd have a larger safety net sitting in the bank right now if I'd been less hesitant to ask for more. The people I've done Abstract Concrete work for make a few hundred a day. They should be able to afford to pay someone else comparably to do the things they can't. Prices are going to have to go up this Spring.
Live well within your means. I'm fortunate that I have relatively low overhead, but even still 1,000/month in insurance/gas/truck payments is a heck of a lot when I'm lucky to make 2,000/month.
Make yourself invaluable. Having come close to the ledge, I realize how fortunate I am to have work- no matter how irregular it may be. Knowing this, I'm all too happy to work for every cent I get. Also, good help is hard to find- and if you can create value for yourself, people don't mind paying top dollar to get you to help them.
So. Could I have learned all of this 6 years ago had I gone straight into the workforce from high school? Or did I need 4 years of undergrad and 2 years of grad to figure out where I'm going and what I need to end up where I want?
Boy & Bear – Milk & Sticks
As I become more and more entrenched in the blue collar workaday world I'm learning more and more about how things, people, and money work. The more I learn, I can't help but feel that I'm more than a bit behind the 8 ball.
For starters, I'm really just getting my foot on the bottom rung of the work ladder. As far as I can tell, there seem to be 3 tiers of this ladder- helper, skilled laborer, boss. 100/day, 200-300/day, 500+/day respectively. I think I've always thought of money in terms of yearly salary. I guess because I assumed that I would one day have a steady paycheck with a corporate logo on it, I would think in this term of currency. This isn't exactly how it works in the under-the-table world. There have been weeks of recent where I've made more money than I ever have in my life. A flat 500 from my role as a helper on a remodeling job, 50 for a couple hours of ceiling restoration with my uncle, another 200 for an hours' work closing a pool on my own.
As I make this money, I can't help but marvel at how much money you have to make money. At 500/wk I'm on track for a 25,000/yr. If I can work my way up to 1,000/wk I'll be on track for a 50,000 year. I'd have to make 400/day. 5 days a week. 50 weeks a year. Just to make $100k.
While in school, I always had a number close to $60k floating around in the back of my head. I figured I'd start off around there, and work my way up to the 200s within a decade or so. I guess I never really realized how much all of that money really is.
$800/day is A LOT of money. Money is a real thing. Not just a number. And working for 100/day really puts that into perspective.
While all of these thoughts of money dance like visions of sugarplums in my dome I feel like I'm learning some very important lessons that I failed to learn in all of my schooling.
SAVE. Save as much as you can while you can. I've been ever so fortunate enough that I've always had enough savings that I've had a safety net. Because I've gambled most of these savings on my business venture, I've come dangerously close to scraping the bottom.
Ask for more. Perhaps I'd have a larger safety net sitting in the bank right now if I'd been less hesitant to ask for more. The people I've done Abstract Concrete work for make a few hundred a day. They should be able to afford to pay someone else comparably to do the things they can't. Prices are going to have to go up this Spring.
Live well within your means. I'm fortunate that I have relatively low overhead, but even still 1,000/month in insurance/gas/truck payments is a heck of a lot when I'm lucky to make 2,000/month.
Make yourself invaluable. Having come close to the ledge, I realize how fortunate I am to have work- no matter how irregular it may be. Knowing this, I'm all too happy to work for every cent I get. Also, good help is hard to find- and if you can create value for yourself, people don't mind paying top dollar to get you to help them.
So. Could I have learned all of this 6 years ago had I gone straight into the workforce from high school? Or did I need 4 years of undergrad and 2 years of grad to figure out where I'm going and what I need to end up where I want?
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Two Feet of Oak
Benjamin Francis Leftwich – Atlas Hands
We Were Promised Jetpacks – It's Thunder And It's Lightning
Far and away one of my favorite experiences has to be going to a bar by myself and listening to music. I'm not sure why I find this so cathartic. I think it's interaction deprivation coupled with sensory overload that makes me feel so good. There's just something about being alone in a crowded room that helps me clear my head and see things in a different light. My go-to soundtrack has been Bon Iver's Bon Iver, but I've also listened to Watch the Throne, and my Spotify playlist. I let my mood dictate the music and the setting.
Most people go out to the local watering hole to grab a bite, maybe watch the game, bump into a fellow barfly. I like all of this too, but there's something special about walking in with a set of headphones on and savoring a Jameson with whatever quiet you prefer. I feel like this somehow heightens the few interactions I do have. Relying on eye contact, hand signals and facial gestures to order another drink, signal a chair is open, close out a tab. Take of the conversation, and it all feels a little deeper. It's easy enough to tell a couple that the seat next to you is open, but to let them know with a smile and a nod makes the interaction a little more intimate.
I think another reason I enjoy this so much is that I've come to associate this activity with travel. Excitement and opportunities. It makes me think of the times I've spent sitting in an airport bar. Getting ready to take off for vacation, or a conference, or training. Kind of the calm before the storm. The last chance to steel myself before I take off on something new.
We Were Promised Jetpacks – It's Thunder And It's Lightning
Far and away one of my favorite experiences has to be going to a bar by myself and listening to music. I'm not sure why I find this so cathartic. I think it's interaction deprivation coupled with sensory overload that makes me feel so good. There's just something about being alone in a crowded room that helps me clear my head and see things in a different light. My go-to soundtrack has been Bon Iver's Bon Iver, but I've also listened to Watch the Throne, and my Spotify playlist. I let my mood dictate the music and the setting.
Most people go out to the local watering hole to grab a bite, maybe watch the game, bump into a fellow barfly. I like all of this too, but there's something special about walking in with a set of headphones on and savoring a Jameson with whatever quiet you prefer. I feel like this somehow heightens the few interactions I do have. Relying on eye contact, hand signals and facial gestures to order another drink, signal a chair is open, close out a tab. Take of the conversation, and it all feels a little deeper. It's easy enough to tell a couple that the seat next to you is open, but to let them know with a smile and a nod makes the interaction a little more intimate.
I think another reason I enjoy this so much is that I've come to associate this activity with travel. Excitement and opportunities. It makes me think of the times I've spent sitting in an airport bar. Getting ready to take off for vacation, or a conference, or training. Kind of the calm before the storm. The last chance to steel myself before I take off on something new.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Beginnings
Cosmic Love
We don't eat
have got to be the most stressful part of any relationship. I'm sure that some people would argue that endings are the most difficult. But endings are easy. Finite. They may be painful, surely,but they're short lived. There's also a sort of beauty in the chaos of endings. Something primal gets satisfied in the separation. The fight or flight. The lone wolf mentality. The build up of emotions, and the explosion that sets the two apart like the Big Bang.
Beginnings are tough though. I'm not sure why they still are tough for me, but they are. Throughout my long and arduous dating career, the beginnings have always been plagued by the same set of uncertainties that seem to draw out insecurities and anxieties. Never at any other time in a relationship is so much self worth based on a single text or phone call.
"okayy" with two 'y's'. Must mean she likes me.
No response for two hours. Must mean she's not interested.
Random texts saying hey. Must mean she's thinking about me.
Asking to know what I'm up to. Maybe she's too needy.
All of this agonized over for hours. Trying to connect faint dots, and draw on past experiences, to try and guess what the other is thinking about.
Then there's the obligatory lapse in communication. You don't hear from her for a few days, so you reach out. Finally, at what seems like the 11th hour, they return your call or text.
I lost my phone. I fell asleep. My battery died, and I left my charger at a friend's.
This seems to be a constant. No matter the girl. No matter the relationship. A gulf opens that threatens to swallow your feelings, pride, and future plans inside of it.
So what causes this? These same feelings threaten even the most minor of relationships. Sometimes I'll not even have a desire to continue a relationship, yet still that gulf opens up, and I find myself wondering how I can live without her.
This from someone who goes out of his way to be alone. To have time to myself. To keep people at a distance.
I think it's my need to understand people that drives this self doubt, this need to analyze. I need to know what to expect. Because uncertainty is the bane of my existence. The thing that keeps me up at night. The things that drives my fears. It's not sharks that I'm afraid of. It's the uncertainty of what's lurking below me, next to me. Show me an enemy I can fight, and I'll rise. But put that same danger behind a door, and I start to defeat myself.
The thing about a relationship is that it's not just one person. I of course know how I'll react in any situation. How I am alone. But you lose that when you enter a relationship.
There might be strength in numbers, but it takes time to get there. And while I know my strength alone, it seems to take a hit each time someone tries to join their strength with mine.
We don't eat
have got to be the most stressful part of any relationship. I'm sure that some people would argue that endings are the most difficult. But endings are easy. Finite. They may be painful, surely,but they're short lived. There's also a sort of beauty in the chaos of endings. Something primal gets satisfied in the separation. The fight or flight. The lone wolf mentality. The build up of emotions, and the explosion that sets the two apart like the Big Bang.
Beginnings are tough though. I'm not sure why they still are tough for me, but they are. Throughout my long and arduous dating career, the beginnings have always been plagued by the same set of uncertainties that seem to draw out insecurities and anxieties. Never at any other time in a relationship is so much self worth based on a single text or phone call.
"okayy" with two 'y's'. Must mean she likes me.
No response for two hours. Must mean she's not interested.
Random texts saying hey. Must mean she's thinking about me.
Asking to know what I'm up to. Maybe she's too needy.
All of this agonized over for hours. Trying to connect faint dots, and draw on past experiences, to try and guess what the other is thinking about.
Then there's the obligatory lapse in communication. You don't hear from her for a few days, so you reach out. Finally, at what seems like the 11th hour, they return your call or text.
I lost my phone. I fell asleep. My battery died, and I left my charger at a friend's.
This seems to be a constant. No matter the girl. No matter the relationship. A gulf opens that threatens to swallow your feelings, pride, and future plans inside of it.
So what causes this? These same feelings threaten even the most minor of relationships. Sometimes I'll not even have a desire to continue a relationship, yet still that gulf opens up, and I find myself wondering how I can live without her.
This from someone who goes out of his way to be alone. To have time to myself. To keep people at a distance.
I think it's my need to understand people that drives this self doubt, this need to analyze. I need to know what to expect. Because uncertainty is the bane of my existence. The thing that keeps me up at night. The things that drives my fears. It's not sharks that I'm afraid of. It's the uncertainty of what's lurking below me, next to me. Show me an enemy I can fight, and I'll rise. But put that same danger behind a door, and I start to defeat myself.
The thing about a relationship is that it's not just one person. I of course know how I'll react in any situation. How I am alone. But you lose that when you enter a relationship.
There might be strength in numbers, but it takes time to get there. And while I know my strength alone, it seems to take a hit each time someone tries to join their strength with mine.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Stop Time
Higher Love
Someone Like You
I know scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Although I only went there a handful of times when I was very young, I still get taken back to my Grandparents house in Cambridge when someone just comes in from smoking a cigarette. The smell of cum trees takes me back to a spring day when I was riding my bike up Kimberwick (a street I would later be arrested on on the same bicycle). And the smell of a certain cologne reminds me of dead fish, because my brother used half a bottle of it to cover up the smell of his when it died.
In a whiff, a breath, these fragrant time capsules take me back to times and moments I haven't thought of in years or decades.
For me, I think a close second in terms of epoch recall is music. Music has played both an active and passive role in my life. Sometimes only as background music as life carries on, and other times as a tool to suppress or embellish certain feelings or emotions.
Sometimes hearing a certain song can have such a strong trigger that I'm immediately taken back to a time in my life. Reading Lord of the Rings, driving in my tinted, black Honda with chrome rims, breaking up with a girlfriend, grade school dances, rolling in the gym, sitting in the back of my Mom's minivan. Uncle Kracker, Tupac, Korn, Crazy Town, Cloudkicker, Seal...
While not as jarring as the trigger of scent, music is captured much more easily. My newest addiction has been building a truly beautiful playlist on Spotify. With cassettes and tapes, music was often lost too easily, or borrowed too freely. By keeping track of my music digitally I feel like I can capture tiny moments and keep them forever.
Not only do I enjoy finding these gems by scouring music websites, but linking this great music to new and powerful memories is also rewarding. I might not remember a certain Black Keys song, or a certain moment in the back of Ant's Jeep in 20 years, but if I keep collecting and adding, I just might be able to live a moment over again that I otherwise would have forgotten.
Someone Like You
I know scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Although I only went there a handful of times when I was very young, I still get taken back to my Grandparents house in Cambridge when someone just comes in from smoking a cigarette. The smell of cum trees takes me back to a spring day when I was riding my bike up Kimberwick (a street I would later be arrested on on the same bicycle). And the smell of a certain cologne reminds me of dead fish, because my brother used half a bottle of it to cover up the smell of his when it died.
In a whiff, a breath, these fragrant time capsules take me back to times and moments I haven't thought of in years or decades.
For me, I think a close second in terms of epoch recall is music. Music has played both an active and passive role in my life. Sometimes only as background music as life carries on, and other times as a tool to suppress or embellish certain feelings or emotions.
Sometimes hearing a certain song can have such a strong trigger that I'm immediately taken back to a time in my life. Reading Lord of the Rings, driving in my tinted, black Honda with chrome rims, breaking up with a girlfriend, grade school dances, rolling in the gym, sitting in the back of my Mom's minivan. Uncle Kracker, Tupac, Korn, Crazy Town, Cloudkicker, Seal...
While not as jarring as the trigger of scent, music is captured much more easily. My newest addiction has been building a truly beautiful playlist on Spotify. With cassettes and tapes, music was often lost too easily, or borrowed too freely. By keeping track of my music digitally I feel like I can capture tiny moments and keep them forever.
Not only do I enjoy finding these gems by scouring music websites, but linking this great music to new and powerful memories is also rewarding. I might not remember a certain Black Keys song, or a certain moment in the back of Ant's Jeep in 20 years, but if I keep collecting and adding, I just might be able to live a moment over again that I otherwise would have forgotten.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
The times they are a changing
Moves
Wolf Like Me
David started his first week of classes at Neumann this week. For the first time in nearly twenty years, I won't be starting school again.
When I was very young school was a terrifying experience. It meant being ripped from my Mother's thigh and thrust into a new situation with strange people. I remember standing at the top of my driveway begging not to be sent to school. I couldn't wrap my head around why my parents were trying to punish me this way.
In grade school going back meant no more countless hours spent riding dirtbikes, building forts, playing street hockey, and swimming. Each year was a radical change from the next. New teachers, new classrooms, new subjects. Looking back on it, I think that grade school may have held the greatest shifts from year to year.
High school was scary at first. By the end of grade school I'd grown comfortable with my surroundings and the people I'd come to know. High school was a total departure from that. I remember thinking how much like men and women the seniors looked. The was also an air of responsibility that hung lightly over the whole high school experience. We weren't given much rope to hang ourselves with, just enough to trip ourselves up.
I was slightly more confident entering college. Most of my peers were worried about whether or not they'd chosen the right school. I was more concerned whether or not I could handle the work, and what the hell it was I was going to do with my life.
I'm not sure how I feel about this year's depart from the norm. In the past, each year held some anxiety but also a lot of hope. I usually went into the year remorseful for the free time lost, but excited for the opportunities it held. Opportunities to learn, be exposed to new information, and meet new friends. Each Fall was a welcome interruption to a blissful summer.
This year's fall feels like a ticking clock. There are only a few more earning months left until the cold of winter ends my work for the year.
As I talk with Dave about syllabus week, finding his classes, getting to know teachers, and finding the best deals on textbooks, I can't help but feel that I'd like to be a college student for at least a little while longer.
Wolf Like Me
David started his first week of classes at Neumann this week. For the first time in nearly twenty years, I won't be starting school again.
When I was very young school was a terrifying experience. It meant being ripped from my Mother's thigh and thrust into a new situation with strange people. I remember standing at the top of my driveway begging not to be sent to school. I couldn't wrap my head around why my parents were trying to punish me this way.
In grade school going back meant no more countless hours spent riding dirtbikes, building forts, playing street hockey, and swimming. Each year was a radical change from the next. New teachers, new classrooms, new subjects. Looking back on it, I think that grade school may have held the greatest shifts from year to year.
High school was scary at first. By the end of grade school I'd grown comfortable with my surroundings and the people I'd come to know. High school was a total departure from that. I remember thinking how much like men and women the seniors looked. The was also an air of responsibility that hung lightly over the whole high school experience. We weren't given much rope to hang ourselves with, just enough to trip ourselves up.
I was slightly more confident entering college. Most of my peers were worried about whether or not they'd chosen the right school. I was more concerned whether or not I could handle the work, and what the hell it was I was going to do with my life.
I'm not sure how I feel about this year's depart from the norm. In the past, each year held some anxiety but also a lot of hope. I usually went into the year remorseful for the free time lost, but excited for the opportunities it held. Opportunities to learn, be exposed to new information, and meet new friends. Each Fall was a welcome interruption to a blissful summer.
This year's fall feels like a ticking clock. There are only a few more earning months left until the cold of winter ends my work for the year.
As I talk with Dave about syllabus week, finding his classes, getting to know teachers, and finding the best deals on textbooks, I can't help but feel that I'd like to be a college student for at least a little while longer.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Fightin' words
My Body
Ghostwriter
"She doesn't wanna hear it." This big Stranger yells at Anthony as he walks past him to leave the bar.
Anthony nods his head slowly, weighing the pros and cons of addressing the Stranger. "You're probably right." The Stranger drools down his shirt in an attempt to put an exclamation point on the matter by spitting at Anthony.
I see the Stranger and his group of friends on the periphery as we walk out. Immediately, my senses heighten. I hear the fragmented rumblings that prelude a fight. "leave it alone." "yeah, that kid." "who's he with?"
Ant, Bubba and Steve are unaware. I'm glad for this. I don't want them to initiate. They've got food on their mind, so I push them into Media Pizza. I stand outside in front of the door. Head straight, eyes on swivel.
"Get out of the way." One of the stranger's friends is trying to move past me into the shop. He's taller than me, black. Built like a running back. Turns out he is one. Varsity.
I smile and stare at him. "Hey, come on man. Those guys don't want any trouble from you guys." My hands up at my chest. It looks like a calming gesture, but my stance is split. Lead leg forward, rear leg tense to throw my right hand. "They just wanna eat their pizza and go home. There's a cab right there. Why don't you guys take it?"
With that, the door swings open. Ant, followed by Bubba and Steve. They noticed I hadn't come in. The tinted windows of the shop couple with the darkness of the night mean that they can't see me.
The Stranger and his friends have been crowding up to the left. Watching to see what happens between Varsity and I. Anthony and the guys get funneled right into the center of this group.
Before Steve is out the door, I have my jacket off. It sits on the sidewalk in front of Media Pizza. I circle to Anthony's left, a last attempt to stop this before it goes farther. We're surrounded, Anthony and I. The stranger pushes Anthony back. Creates space. He throws a wild right, shifting his weight forward as he does.
Like a flash. He's going to hurt Anthony. It's all I can think. I step in. His punch has not yet completed it's arc. Over hand right.
And then. Everyone stops. No one moves. The Stranger is down. Asleep in the gutter on State street. flooding the sidewalk with blood from his nose and face. Unconscious, and whimpering like a dog does when it has a bad dream.
"Who did that?" "What happened to him?" "Is he ok?" "Somebody get him up."
I grab Anthony and try to pull him out.
From here on, it's just scuffles. No one really wants to fight anymore. At one point, Anthony gets backed into a corner. He's throwing punches from his back as 2 or 3 throw kicks at his legs. Varsity keeps trying to initiate, but I'm too focused on getting my guys out to fight him.
Finally, it's over. As I pull Anthony out, another crew comes out of nowhere and jumps right into the mess we were just in. Drunk and angry, people just want to fight someone. Say they were part of it.
I realize that Bubba still isn't with us. I run back across the street, frantic. As I cross, I see Bub walk out of the bar. In front of him, the Stranger rises. Finally awake from his slumber. Five, ten minutes. I wave to Bub, and he begins to cross the street. Almost in time with the stranger. Neither aware of the other.
They're both halfway across the street when the cops finally get there. "Which one of y'all broke my nose?!" The Stranger yells, his hands covering his face. I wink.
The cops are all over him. Biggest guy in the crowd, and he's covered in blood. "Put your hands on the hood!"
As I turn the corner to the waiting car, I look back. The stranger is bent at the waist. Hands on the car. Painting the hood red as the lights flash. Red and white.
Ghostwriter
"She doesn't wanna hear it." This big Stranger yells at Anthony as he walks past him to leave the bar.
Anthony nods his head slowly, weighing the pros and cons of addressing the Stranger. "You're probably right." The Stranger drools down his shirt in an attempt to put an exclamation point on the matter by spitting at Anthony.
I see the Stranger and his group of friends on the periphery as we walk out. Immediately, my senses heighten. I hear the fragmented rumblings that prelude a fight. "leave it alone." "yeah, that kid." "who's he with?"
Ant, Bubba and Steve are unaware. I'm glad for this. I don't want them to initiate. They've got food on their mind, so I push them into Media Pizza. I stand outside in front of the door. Head straight, eyes on swivel.
"Get out of the way." One of the stranger's friends is trying to move past me into the shop. He's taller than me, black. Built like a running back. Turns out he is one. Varsity.
I smile and stare at him. "Hey, come on man. Those guys don't want any trouble from you guys." My hands up at my chest. It looks like a calming gesture, but my stance is split. Lead leg forward, rear leg tense to throw my right hand. "They just wanna eat their pizza and go home. There's a cab right there. Why don't you guys take it?"
With that, the door swings open. Ant, followed by Bubba and Steve. They noticed I hadn't come in. The tinted windows of the shop couple with the darkness of the night mean that they can't see me.
The Stranger and his friends have been crowding up to the left. Watching to see what happens between Varsity and I. Anthony and the guys get funneled right into the center of this group.
Before Steve is out the door, I have my jacket off. It sits on the sidewalk in front of Media Pizza. I circle to Anthony's left, a last attempt to stop this before it goes farther. We're surrounded, Anthony and I. The stranger pushes Anthony back. Creates space. He throws a wild right, shifting his weight forward as he does.
Like a flash. He's going to hurt Anthony. It's all I can think. I step in. His punch has not yet completed it's arc. Over hand right.
And then. Everyone stops. No one moves. The Stranger is down. Asleep in the gutter on State street. flooding the sidewalk with blood from his nose and face. Unconscious, and whimpering like a dog does when it has a bad dream.
"Who did that?" "What happened to him?" "Is he ok?" "Somebody get him up."
I grab Anthony and try to pull him out.
From here on, it's just scuffles. No one really wants to fight anymore. At one point, Anthony gets backed into a corner. He's throwing punches from his back as 2 or 3 throw kicks at his legs. Varsity keeps trying to initiate, but I'm too focused on getting my guys out to fight him.
Finally, it's over. As I pull Anthony out, another crew comes out of nowhere and jumps right into the mess we were just in. Drunk and angry, people just want to fight someone. Say they were part of it.
I realize that Bubba still isn't with us. I run back across the street, frantic. As I cross, I see Bub walk out of the bar. In front of him, the Stranger rises. Finally awake from his slumber. Five, ten minutes. I wave to Bub, and he begins to cross the street. Almost in time with the stranger. Neither aware of the other.
They're both halfway across the street when the cops finally get there. "Which one of y'all broke my nose?!" The Stranger yells, his hands covering his face. I wink.
The cops are all over him. Biggest guy in the crowd, and he's covered in blood. "Put your hands on the hood!"
As I turn the corner to the waiting car, I look back. The stranger is bent at the waist. Hands on the car. Painting the hood red as the lights flash. Red and white.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Thanks for the memories
Swim Until You Can't See Land
Royal Blue
I spent some time looking at my old year books this past week. It's nice to brush the dust off every couple of years and reflect back on where you've come from. Apart from laughing at the massive shifts in weight, style, and facial features, the best part is always reading the comments people write on the first and last page. More than any famous autograph, the signatures held worth.
I remember being so concerned about who signed my book and what they wrote. How many signatures could I add to my collection? The signing of the yearbooks was almost ceremonial. As soon as they were passed out, everyone would rush to their picture and usually comment on how awful they looked. After our vanity was satiated, we'd look at our friends, the girl we had a crush on, enemies, teachers. And then the signing started. Each signature crafted expertly to reflect the appropriate amount of inside jokes, hope for the future, and melancholy at the end of an era.
As I read through the notes that people left, I noticed a theme. With little exception, people remembered me the same way. Grade school and high school. Although I changed drastically during this time, parts of me didn't. Book after book, note after note, people all said the same thing. 'You're crazy' and 'You're a really great guy'. Although I'd changed schools, friends, and uniforms, people all remembered me the same. It's not that I don't think about the impression that I leave on people, but I guess I've never really reflected on my legacy. How do people remember me? I didn't get a yearbook at Widener, and I wouldn't want one from Nova, but I wonder if I had, what people would have written. Would friends still extoll my character and smirk at my depart from the normal?
I suppose I could ask my friends to tell me what they think of me, but that just not quite as fun as writing it down next to your picture and signing it with your autograph. Maybe I'll see if Herff Jones will do a yearbook for my group.
Royal Blue
I spent some time looking at my old year books this past week. It's nice to brush the dust off every couple of years and reflect back on where you've come from. Apart from laughing at the massive shifts in weight, style, and facial features, the best part is always reading the comments people write on the first and last page. More than any famous autograph, the signatures held worth.
I remember being so concerned about who signed my book and what they wrote. How many signatures could I add to my collection? The signing of the yearbooks was almost ceremonial. As soon as they were passed out, everyone would rush to their picture and usually comment on how awful they looked. After our vanity was satiated, we'd look at our friends, the girl we had a crush on, enemies, teachers. And then the signing started. Each signature crafted expertly to reflect the appropriate amount of inside jokes, hope for the future, and melancholy at the end of an era.
As I read through the notes that people left, I noticed a theme. With little exception, people remembered me the same way. Grade school and high school. Although I changed drastically during this time, parts of me didn't. Book after book, note after note, people all said the same thing. 'You're crazy' and 'You're a really great guy'. Although I'd changed schools, friends, and uniforms, people all remembered me the same. It's not that I don't think about the impression that I leave on people, but I guess I've never really reflected on my legacy. How do people remember me? I didn't get a yearbook at Widener, and I wouldn't want one from Nova, but I wonder if I had, what people would have written. Would friends still extoll my character and smirk at my depart from the normal?
I suppose I could ask my friends to tell me what they think of me, but that just not quite as fun as writing it down next to your picture and signing it with your autograph. Maybe I'll see if Herff Jones will do a yearbook for my group.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Homo Septans
New Slang
I spent part of my last weekend on a beer tour in the city. We visited Yards Brewery, drank free samples, toured the brewery, and crushed $3 grilled cheese. After that, we went to south street and drank 190 Octanes at Fat Tuesdays.
Although I had an awesome time enjoying the city I call home with some of the best friends I could ask for, perhaps the most interesting part was the trip to and from. Like when you're a kid and the best part of any present is the box it comes in. Public transportation always send my mind into a kind of analytic overload. There are few other places where you can just sit and watch people go through the daily routine of their life. Sidewalks and boardwalks are great for people watching, but they can be more like runways. Trolleys, trains, and airplane seats are the places where people lose pretense.
The Septa line we took down exposed us to some of the very best in people watching- the quiet girl who let smile after smile play out lightly over her lips as she read her book, the 16 year old boy with more tattoos squeezed onto his face than I have on my entire body, the horribly un-self aware woman who shoved all 280 lbs into 'Pink' short shorts, the young boy, desperate for attention, and living on a diet of chips and soda. As I sit and watch these people, I can't help but begin to dissect their lives in my mind. How does a girl have a child that young? How hard is this man working that he has to nap on the ride between job 2 and 3? Who's more dangerous- the older man with the look in his eye, or the tall black kid with cut off dickies and converse sneakers?
This environment seems to provide a sliding door of anonymity. Every few blocks, you're a stranger all over again. No one wants to look, no one wants to know, no one wants to get too close. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Get on, get off, get on with your life.
The ride home wasn't without entertainment either. None of us had exact change, and the attendant got so fed up watching us try to figure it out, he just let us on for whatever amount we had. Ant, Bub, and Brian started singing Lion King songs in doo wop, and I got to pull the chain with the bell on it to let the trolley operator know we were ready to get off. Three times.
I spent part of my last weekend on a beer tour in the city. We visited Yards Brewery, drank free samples, toured the brewery, and crushed $3 grilled cheese. After that, we went to south street and drank 190 Octanes at Fat Tuesdays.
Although I had an awesome time enjoying the city I call home with some of the best friends I could ask for, perhaps the most interesting part was the trip to and from. Like when you're a kid and the best part of any present is the box it comes in. Public transportation always send my mind into a kind of analytic overload. There are few other places where you can just sit and watch people go through the daily routine of their life. Sidewalks and boardwalks are great for people watching, but they can be more like runways. Trolleys, trains, and airplane seats are the places where people lose pretense.
The Septa line we took down exposed us to some of the very best in people watching- the quiet girl who let smile after smile play out lightly over her lips as she read her book, the 16 year old boy with more tattoos squeezed onto his face than I have on my entire body, the horribly un-self aware woman who shoved all 280 lbs into 'Pink' short shorts, the young boy, desperate for attention, and living on a diet of chips and soda. As I sit and watch these people, I can't help but begin to dissect their lives in my mind. How does a girl have a child that young? How hard is this man working that he has to nap on the ride between job 2 and 3? Who's more dangerous- the older man with the look in his eye, or the tall black kid with cut off dickies and converse sneakers?
This environment seems to provide a sliding door of anonymity. Every few blocks, you're a stranger all over again. No one wants to look, no one wants to know, no one wants to get too close. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Get on, get off, get on with your life.
The ride home wasn't without entertainment either. None of us had exact change, and the attendant got so fed up watching us try to figure it out, he just let us on for whatever amount we had. Ant, Bub, and Brian started singing Lion King songs in doo wop, and I got to pull the chain with the bell on it to let the trolley operator know we were ready to get off. Three times.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Avada Kedavra
I can't think of any music to put with this.
I spent this morning watching the 7th film of the Harry Potter franchise: the Deathly Hallows part 1, and my afternoon in the theater watching the 8th and final film.
I didn't care for the first couple films in this series, but I've heard such positive reviews of the most recent couple that I decided to give it a shot.
I read the series at least twice, and because I connected so deeply with the books, I became frustrated with the visualization of these stories. How dare they do that to my characters, my landscape, my imagery? I supposed I should have expected this, because I've only seen a few films that lived up to the book - LOTR, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Of Mice and Men.
As I sat in the cold, dark theater with a whole row to myself, I couldn't help but marvel at the scope and intricacy of such a wonderful story line. I thought back to grade school English classes in which we would plot out story lines, characters, antiheroes and denouements. In school, we would use notebooks and chalkboards. I can't imagine how J.K. plotted and kept track of such an intricate storyline.
As the flashes of wand fights flared across the screen, I imagined these as story arcs and events. One green flash aims high, and continues off screen. A red flash combines with a green one, and veers off into a column, taking out statues and lives. Orbs fly and circle, forwards and back, up and down.
Like neurons firing in the brilliant mind of Ms. Rowling, these lights dance across the screen to form beauty and destruction. Eros and Thanatos.
So how do you graph out a story as spanning and twisting as the Harry Potter series? I don't think you do. I think that the only way this story was ever fully realized was not on a chalkboard, but in the mind of J.K. (before the story was written, she told Alan Rickman about his past with Lilly and his pact with Dumbledore). Each character like a neuron, and each story arc like a synapse. Because some things are much too beautiful and complicated to be confined to something as worldly as a chalkboard or notepad.
As I left the theater, and walked into the offensive sunlight, I was overcome with the same feeling I was upon completing the books. Loss.
Rowling had the ability to not only tell a remarkable story, but to couple it with remarkable characters. Part of being human, I think, is to project our thoughts and feelings onto things that may not be capable of thoughts or feelings- think feeling sorry for the last stuffed bear at a carnival. The one that no one is taking home. This bear has no feelings, but we feel for it.
I think this overabundance of empathy is one of the greatest things about being human. We have so much empathy, that we can spare some for something as silly as a stuffed animal.
Similarly, the characters in HP are not really people. They're a figment of J.K.'s imagination. They're a literary device, and nothing more- a vehicle for a story.
But still, we; the audience, connect with these characters as if they're part of us. We associate with their feelings, and troubles, and excitement. Perhaps we're just desperate for connection of any kind.
I remember, as a child, thinking that I would meet these characters in Heaven. That we would finally meet as old friends, and pick up right where we left off- at the end of their story. Our story. Because we took that journey together.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Give me liberty, or give me freedom.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4WFfmE73Sw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8a4iiOnzsc
The 4th has fizzled out, like so many fireworks in the night sky. This year was different than most of my Independence days' past. Because of a variety of reasons, I spent much of this weekend alone- either hiking through the woods with my girls, or sitting by the pool, drink in hand, finding new music and thinking.
This was a departure from most of our past 4ths.
There was the year I met Andrew Patrick. We split a fifth of Bacardi in the back of Adam's car on the way to go see fireworks at Scum Valley. Then we came home and emptied half the pool having a cannonball contest.
There was the year I spent the weekend sleeping in a closet down the shore. At night, I would slug Captain and Gatorade fruit punch- then throw it all up before going to sleep.
There was the year David got severe burns on his stomach when he caught a Roman candle ball during a Roman candle fight- that was the year we got to trash talk 'the bastard' because Sha Sha had found out he'd been cheating.
There were the years we spent here, with a few hundred dollars worth of illegal fireworks. Drinking beers and trying to get a lit firecracker out from between your fingers before the fuse burned out. Shooting bottle rockets into glass bottles and Roman candle wars. Chicken fights and Two Sticks.
This year was good for me though. There wasn't the hooplah from years past, but it was freeing.
For me, freedom doesn't need to be barbecues and fireworks and chasing girls on the boardwalk.
This year, freedom was a 2 hour hike through the woods with the dogs, and reading by the pool until the fireflies came out.
Sometimes, freedom is just spending time by yourself.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8a4iiOnzsc
The 4th has fizzled out, like so many fireworks in the night sky. This year was different than most of my Independence days' past. Because of a variety of reasons, I spent much of this weekend alone- either hiking through the woods with my girls, or sitting by the pool, drink in hand, finding new music and thinking.
This was a departure from most of our past 4ths.
There was the year I met Andrew Patrick. We split a fifth of Bacardi in the back of Adam's car on the way to go see fireworks at Scum Valley. Then we came home and emptied half the pool having a cannonball contest.
There was the year I spent the weekend sleeping in a closet down the shore. At night, I would slug Captain and Gatorade fruit punch- then throw it all up before going to sleep.
There was the year David got severe burns on his stomach when he caught a Roman candle ball during a Roman candle fight- that was the year we got to trash talk 'the bastard' because Sha Sha had found out he'd been cheating.
There were the years we spent here, with a few hundred dollars worth of illegal fireworks. Drinking beers and trying to get a lit firecracker out from between your fingers before the fuse burned out. Shooting bottle rockets into glass bottles and Roman candle wars. Chicken fights and Two Sticks.
This year was good for me though. There wasn't the hooplah from years past, but it was freeing.
For me, freedom doesn't need to be barbecues and fireworks and chasing girls on the boardwalk.
This year, freedom was a 2 hour hike through the woods with the dogs, and reading by the pool until the fireflies came out.
Sometimes, freedom is just spending time by yourself.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Lucky Sperm Club
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLlYQQrHmh8
I've been under a lot of stress as of late because of the amount of work I need to get done. My tenuous grasp on concepts like time and dates, coupled with my desire to please all of my customers led me to double booking this week with projects.
Shortly after waking from a whiskey saturated, stress laden slumber, I got a call from one of my customers asking to be pushed back a week. Once again, I have this insurmountable feeling that someone is looking out for me. In truth, I've always felt this way. There are too many clear examples in my life of situations that could have gone horribly wrong, but somehow turned out just fine.
In grade school, I remember walking away from friends just before they made decisions that would live with them forever. In high school, I survived hundreds of hours traveling highway speeds on windy, hilly, 35mph roads. In college, I was lucky enough to go out on a limb and connect with some guys who are now my best friends. In grad school, I was lucky enough to be paired with a professor who cared in a program that would push me to pursue something I've always aspired to.
As I look back on my life, I can't help but feel blessed. I'm so unbelievably fortunate that I have the opportunity to pursue these goals, because I've had so many unbelievable people backing me up. I wouldn't have been able to start the business I'm building without the charity of a few generations of grandparents. I got a shit-you-only hear-about-in-movies check for $1,000 from a distant Aunt, and then hundreds more from Aunts and Uncles in graduation money. Pretty good timing for a guy who just lost a $1,500/mo stipend. I don't know anyone else that has been given an opportunity like this.
How often have deadlines been extended, opportunities arisen, solutions been presented, crises averted? How often have I looked failure in the eye, only to come out unscathed on the other side?
So, am I just part of the Lucky Sperm Club- the guy that gets all the breaks? Or is there someone out there working overtime to help bail me out of all my stupid decisions, and make sure that I've got a life to be envious of? How lucky am I.
Whatever the case, I'm just so thankful. And I really really hope I deserve it all.
I've been under a lot of stress as of late because of the amount of work I need to get done. My tenuous grasp on concepts like time and dates, coupled with my desire to please all of my customers led me to double booking this week with projects.
Shortly after waking from a whiskey saturated, stress laden slumber, I got a call from one of my customers asking to be pushed back a week. Once again, I have this insurmountable feeling that someone is looking out for me. In truth, I've always felt this way. There are too many clear examples in my life of situations that could have gone horribly wrong, but somehow turned out just fine.
In grade school, I remember walking away from friends just before they made decisions that would live with them forever. In high school, I survived hundreds of hours traveling highway speeds on windy, hilly, 35mph roads. In college, I was lucky enough to go out on a limb and connect with some guys who are now my best friends. In grad school, I was lucky enough to be paired with a professor who cared in a program that would push me to pursue something I've always aspired to.
As I look back on my life, I can't help but feel blessed. I'm so unbelievably fortunate that I have the opportunity to pursue these goals, because I've had so many unbelievable people backing me up. I wouldn't have been able to start the business I'm building without the charity of a few generations of grandparents. I got a shit-you-only hear-about-in-movies check for $1,000 from a distant Aunt, and then hundreds more from Aunts and Uncles in graduation money. Pretty good timing for a guy who just lost a $1,500/mo stipend. I don't know anyone else that has been given an opportunity like this.
How often have deadlines been extended, opportunities arisen, solutions been presented, crises averted? How often have I looked failure in the eye, only to come out unscathed on the other side?
So, am I just part of the Lucky Sperm Club- the guy that gets all the breaks? Or is there someone out there working overtime to help bail me out of all my stupid decisions, and make sure that I've got a life to be envious of? How lucky am I.
Whatever the case, I'm just so thankful. And I really really hope I deserve it all.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Dear Summer
Tonight. The Media Five Miler. One of my favorite nights of the summer; and more than an actual date, for me, it marks the start of summer.
The night invariably starts off at Fat Ted's house on 3rd Street in media. Whether I'm drinking Irish whiskey out of an iced coffee cup from Dunkin Donuts, or coming late to the party because I was finishing up a tattoo session, there is truly no better way to begin the evening than by getting drunk and cheering on Fat Ted as he and several hundred others runs past his home.
As the race winds down, your best bet is to make your way to the finish line in front of Joclyn's and muscle your way to the bar for whatever is on special. The hours from 8-12 are pretty much amateur hour, so you're better off avoiding the crowds and drunks by continuing the pre-game back at Ted's house.
There, we start a fire pit and play Bag-O until around midnight when the town is ours again. There are still more transplants there than usual, but at least by this point they've had enough to drink that they're not bothering anybody but themselves.
For me, this night marks the start of summer. Flip flops, tank tops, aviator shades, day drinking, and the smell of sunscreen. This night is such a clear marker for me that I can recall more details and memories from this night than I can from virtually any other night of the summer- Jameson mixed with the last bit of iced coffee, the cake with a picture of Fat Ted pole vaulting in a speed suit, Mr. Heron pointing out where his neighbor gets changed in front of the window, putting a pair of 60lb cellar doors (most
beautiful phrase in the English language) through the sidewalk in front of Media Theater because I was hopping on each one we passed.
So tonight is the start. I'll drive to Ted's around 6 with my family and friends, and my freshly splinted nose. We'll guzzle beers as we cheer on "Fat" Ted, the only one amongst us who actually competes. We'll lock down a corner of the bar in Joclyn's and defend it with our lives, because this is our turf, and we're not going to wait in line for a beer like a bunch of noobs.
Let's get it.
The night invariably starts off at Fat Ted's house on 3rd Street in media. Whether I'm drinking Irish whiskey out of an iced coffee cup from Dunkin Donuts, or coming late to the party because I was finishing up a tattoo session, there is truly no better way to begin the evening than by getting drunk and cheering on Fat Ted as he and several hundred others runs past his home.
As the race winds down, your best bet is to make your way to the finish line in front of Joclyn's and muscle your way to the bar for whatever is on special. The hours from 8-12 are pretty much amateur hour, so you're better off avoiding the crowds and drunks by continuing the pre-game back at Ted's house.
There, we start a fire pit and play Bag-O until around midnight when the town is ours again. There are still more transplants there than usual, but at least by this point they've had enough to drink that they're not bothering anybody but themselves.
For me, this night marks the start of summer. Flip flops, tank tops, aviator shades, day drinking, and the smell of sunscreen. This night is such a clear marker for me that I can recall more details and memories from this night than I can from virtually any other night of the summer- Jameson mixed with the last bit of iced coffee, the cake with a picture of Fat Ted pole vaulting in a speed suit, Mr. Heron pointing out where his neighbor gets changed in front of the window, putting a pair of 60lb cellar doors (most
beautiful phrase in the English language) through the sidewalk in front of Media Theater because I was hopping on each one we passed.
So tonight is the start. I'll drive to Ted's around 6 with my family and friends, and my freshly splinted nose. We'll guzzle beers as we cheer on "Fat" Ted, the only one amongst us who actually competes. We'll lock down a corner of the bar in Joclyn's and defend it with our lives, because this is our turf, and we're not going to wait in line for a beer like a bunch of noobs.
Let's get it.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Those who do not learn from history are... I'll just Google the rest.
I've watched a couple documentaries over the past couple days Gonzo, When we were Kings, and You can't be neutral on a moving train. All of these films expressed, in one way or another, the importance of history and the effect that politics and world events had on the subject of these films. Howard Zinn talked about riots being broken up by police, and uniting young dock workers; Hunter S. Thompson talked about how deeply the McGovern scandal and the Chicago riots affected him; and people today can still recall things from Ali's fights- like the phantom punch, and what it meant for them when he beat George Foreman; I know people who can remember the years of album releases and what each album did for music, and what year a movie was released and the exact theater they saw it in.
I feel like today news only exists long enough to be the punchline of a clever facebook status, or a bit for pundits like Stewart and Colbert or morning talk shows. Our generation seems to be almost totally clueless about the world that surrounds us. We don't know if we're at war, or how many wars we're fighting. We don't know who the potential candidates are for 2012 (except for Trump, because that was funny). History for us is events like the ban of Four Loko and the release of the iPhone 5.
Perhaps more troubling than our oblivion, is our complete lack of knowledge of the past. As Zinn stated; without history, we have nothing to compare things to- folks in charge can tell us whatever they like, and if we can't look for similar examples we'll just have to accept it blindly.
I can't tell you what the riots in Egypt were about, and I'm not entirely sure of the reason for the switch from Iraq to Afghanistan, I'm an avid follower of UFC fights (and I while I can tell you the result of MANY of the more prominent fights) I can rarely tell you the exact combination that ended it.
Whereas people from previous generations talk with excitement and detail about where they were, how they felt, and what was said by whom; people from my generation seem to talk in generalizations and with uncertainty.
Perhaps we've grown numb, and world events no longer seem like world events. Perhaps we're living in a slow time and important/life changing events aren't as commonplace as they were 50 years ago, perhaps things just don't seem that big and important when you're in the middle of them (I always think of Dazed and Confused and how one of the characters states that 'the 50s and 60s were cool, but the 70s are lame).
What I really think is that everything is just too accessible now. Why bother remembering dates and events and numbers and circumstances when we can just Google it? Many of us have smartPhones, and those of us that don't have a laptop at home. I don't need to know the combination that Silva threw to knock out Jackson, and I don't need to remember who ran against Bush in his first term, I don't need to remember when Metallica released their last album; because I can research all of it in a matter of moments and then forget it again just as quickly.
I'm not sure that technology is making us stupid, but I do think that we're living in epochs. We type in less than 140 characters, and we fast forward through commercials, we're only interested in a story or celebrity until the next exciting thing comes around. We have gadgets at our fingertips and can find a way to distract ourselves from even the simplest of things (I now use my time in the bathroom to catch up on words with friends).
The part that scares me is that one day I'll look back and say 'I missed ALL of that?'
Maybe I'll just enjoy every sandwich.
Zevon
Zevon2
Enjoy every sandwich
I feel like today news only exists long enough to be the punchline of a clever facebook status, or a bit for pundits like Stewart and Colbert or morning talk shows. Our generation seems to be almost totally clueless about the world that surrounds us. We don't know if we're at war, or how many wars we're fighting. We don't know who the potential candidates are for 2012 (except for Trump, because that was funny). History for us is events like the ban of Four Loko and the release of the iPhone 5.
Perhaps more troubling than our oblivion, is our complete lack of knowledge of the past. As Zinn stated; without history, we have nothing to compare things to- folks in charge can tell us whatever they like, and if we can't look for similar examples we'll just have to accept it blindly.
I can't tell you what the riots in Egypt were about, and I'm not entirely sure of the reason for the switch from Iraq to Afghanistan, I'm an avid follower of UFC fights (and I while I can tell you the result of MANY of the more prominent fights) I can rarely tell you the exact combination that ended it.
Whereas people from previous generations talk with excitement and detail about where they were, how they felt, and what was said by whom; people from my generation seem to talk in generalizations and with uncertainty.
Perhaps we've grown numb, and world events no longer seem like world events. Perhaps we're living in a slow time and important/life changing events aren't as commonplace as they were 50 years ago, perhaps things just don't seem that big and important when you're in the middle of them (I always think of Dazed and Confused and how one of the characters states that 'the 50s and 60s were cool, but the 70s are lame).
What I really think is that everything is just too accessible now. Why bother remembering dates and events and numbers and circumstances when we can just Google it? Many of us have smartPhones, and those of us that don't have a laptop at home. I don't need to know the combination that Silva threw to knock out Jackson, and I don't need to remember who ran against Bush in his first term, I don't need to remember when Metallica released their last album; because I can research all of it in a matter of moments and then forget it again just as quickly.
I'm not sure that technology is making us stupid, but I do think that we're living in epochs. We type in less than 140 characters, and we fast forward through commercials, we're only interested in a story or celebrity until the next exciting thing comes around. We have gadgets at our fingertips and can find a way to distract ourselves from even the simplest of things (I now use my time in the bathroom to catch up on words with friends).
The part that scares me is that one day I'll look back and say 'I missed ALL of that?'
Maybe I'll just enjoy every sandwich.
Zevon
Zevon2
Enjoy every sandwich
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I'm not a business man. I'm a business, man.
So. I've done more than half a dozen projects, and I've made more than half a dozen thousands. I haven't seen any of this money yet, but I'm at least breaking even.
It's slow right now, but I'm sure I'll wish for this type of leisure time in a few months. Anyways, it's given me time to catch up on the book keeping, tidy up loose ends, address issues with previous jobs, and worry about how much money I'm not making.
I'm also learning a lot about what it means to be a small business owner. I always thought it was super cool when people said things like "I don't pay for gas", or "that's a write off". I can say that too I suppose, but the fact it that I really do. Sure, the money might be coming out of the business account, but I'm the one filling up that account. And guess what? If I don't do a good enough job filling up that account, nobody is paying for gas- and that's a big problem. As a friend said, " you don't eat unless the business eats".
I am wholly accountable. I've never been a detail person, and I'm always put off when I come across people that are. 'Yeah, I guess I see what you're talking about, but why are you looking for it?' The fact is that people are paying good money for my services, and they expect perfection. I think perfection is a little steep for something a fraction of the price of my competitors- but I should still be getting close. So I now know that owning your own business means dropping whatever you're doing to go address a potential issue, it means that it's always easier (and cheaper) to do it right the first time, and that bad news can travel halfway around the world while good news is still putting on it's shoes.
So. I'm taking stock and analyzing and adapting and trying to do the best job I can on every project I touch. From start to finish.
It's slow right now, but I'm sure I'll wish for this type of leisure time in a few months. Anyways, it's given me time to catch up on the book keeping, tidy up loose ends, address issues with previous jobs, and worry about how much money I'm not making.
I'm also learning a lot about what it means to be a small business owner. I always thought it was super cool when people said things like "I don't pay for gas", or "that's a write off". I can say that too I suppose, but the fact it that I really do. Sure, the money might be coming out of the business account, but I'm the one filling up that account. And guess what? If I don't do a good enough job filling up that account, nobody is paying for gas- and that's a big problem. As a friend said, " you don't eat unless the business eats".
I am wholly accountable. I've never been a detail person, and I'm always put off when I come across people that are. 'Yeah, I guess I see what you're talking about, but why are you looking for it?' The fact is that people are paying good money for my services, and they expect perfection. I think perfection is a little steep for something a fraction of the price of my competitors- but I should still be getting close. So I now know that owning your own business means dropping whatever you're doing to go address a potential issue, it means that it's always easier (and cheaper) to do it right the first time, and that bad news can travel halfway around the world while good news is still putting on it's shoes.
So. I'm taking stock and analyzing and adapting and trying to do the best job I can on every project I touch. From start to finish.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Lonely is the night
What do you do when you find out that your world is about to end? What do you do when you find out that the person charged with keeping it alive has been the one smothering it? What do you do when you find out that you've rolled the dice on a happy lucrative future, and what you really need is a safe, financially secure future? What do you do when you find out that the person you go to- the person you trust- is the one that has raised all of these questions? What do you do to fix these mistakes?
What can you do? What can you sell? Who can you become? How do you adjust? How do you fix age-old problems overnight? How do you go from 0 to 60 in 24 to 25?
When it takes most people 30 to 65?
How do you stand up for the people you care about when your shepherd has sold the sheep off to slaughter?
What can you do? What can you sell? Who can you become? How do you adjust? How do you fix age-old problems overnight? How do you go from 0 to 60 in 24 to 25?
When it takes most people 30 to 65?
How do you stand up for the people you care about when your shepherd has sold the sheep off to slaughter?
Friday, May 6, 2011
Futures for Sale
As I walked out of my University building today, I was struck by the same feeling I usually am this time of year. I've finished another year of school, and the summer is full of promise. I've had the luxury of experiencing this sensation for the past six years. School is over. Summer is starting. This is MY time.
What I feel as I walk out of my door (on an invariably beautiful sunny day) is a sense of freedom. I'm free of responsibilities and schedules and papers and part-time work that barely covers my drinking habits and car payment. Freedom isn't free though. We pay for this luxury. During undergrad, I paid the better part of $100,000 for this sensation. During Grad school, I paid with two years of disappointment and hostility. All of this to walk out my door in a t-shirt, take a breath, hold it, and smile. Cheap at half the price. Worth every cent.
What I felt today was a bit different though. I won't finish another year of school. This is it. It's also a bit different because I'm on my own now. I won't be spending another summer cleaning pools and jetting down to the shore on weekends. I need to build my business, a customer base, and my bank account. It's still freedom I feel, but now it's freedom to sink or swim. Freedom feels a lot like vulnerability.
Why do we have to experience this but once a year? This feeling of hope and excitement satisfaction and assurance that everything is as it should be. Why can't I walk out of my door tomorrow and feel those exact same things? Maybe I can and I should. Not just once a year, but everyday.
What I feel as I walk out of my door (on an invariably beautiful sunny day) is a sense of freedom. I'm free of responsibilities and schedules and papers and part-time work that barely covers my drinking habits and car payment. Freedom isn't free though. We pay for this luxury. During undergrad, I paid the better part of $100,000 for this sensation. During Grad school, I paid with two years of disappointment and hostility. All of this to walk out my door in a t-shirt, take a breath, hold it, and smile. Cheap at half the price. Worth every cent.
What I felt today was a bit different though. I won't finish another year of school. This is it. It's also a bit different because I'm on my own now. I won't be spending another summer cleaning pools and jetting down to the shore on weekends. I need to build my business, a customer base, and my bank account. It's still freedom I feel, but now it's freedom to sink or swim. Freedom feels a lot like vulnerability.
Why do we have to experience this but once a year? This feeling of hope and excitement satisfaction and assurance that everything is as it should be. Why can't I walk out of my door tomorrow and feel those exact same things? Maybe I can and I should. Not just once a year, but everyday.
Here's the soundtrack for today Sydney, I'll come runnin
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The first cut is the shallowest
I recently got some advice that I should take up writing. I usually don't like being told what to do, but I've had the itch recently.
So. Here's this. I'm not even really sure what a blog is. I think it's like a diary, but online. Unlike a diary, people seem to want others to read it.
I think it's an interesting concept. Share what you think and feel with others. All from the comfort of your family room. It's a lot like connecting with someone. Just a lot less complicated. Think about it. If you're doing it right, your readers are only privy to your cleverest thoughts. Blogging has even become a 'hobby' with some. I wonder if anyone ever listed Diary-ing as a hobby. With a name like that I doubt anyone would. Sounds much too much like incontinence. I wonder what Anne Frank called it.
I had a diary when I was younger. It had two entries; one was about how my brother was driving me nuts, the other was about a fort I'd built. One was about a strong emotion- anger. The other was about something common, yet important, in my everyday life. Both seemed important enough to write about a decade and a half ago.
15 years later, they both seem like silly entries. I wonder how this will look in 15 years.
So. Here's this. I'm not even really sure what a blog is. I think it's like a diary, but online. Unlike a diary, people seem to want others to read it.
I think it's an interesting concept. Share what you think and feel with others. All from the comfort of your family room. It's a lot like connecting with someone. Just a lot less complicated. Think about it. If you're doing it right, your readers are only privy to your cleverest thoughts. Blogging has even become a 'hobby' with some. I wonder if anyone ever listed Diary-ing as a hobby. With a name like that I doubt anyone would. Sounds much too much like incontinence. I wonder what Anne Frank called it.
I had a diary when I was younger. It had two entries; one was about how my brother was driving me nuts, the other was about a fort I'd built. One was about a strong emotion- anger. The other was about something common, yet important, in my everyday life. Both seemed important enough to write about a decade and a half ago.
15 years later, they both seem like silly entries. I wonder how this will look in 15 years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)