I hope no one saw me pick up that cigarette.  If they did, what would they think? They would know it wasn’t mine; I’m sure of it, they would know.  They would know because its not even my brand.  Who smokes Pall Malls since Jerry Garcia died?  Nobody, that’s who.  Now everyone knows how desperate I am, but it won’t stop with knowing.  Now that they know, they will use it against me; they think I’ll do anything for half of a flatten cigarette.  I never catch a break, can’t even bum a smoke.  If I can’t bum a smoke how am I going to survive an interview? Just another statistic—another deli order whose number just got called.  Smoking old cigarettes, professional fumbling idiot, looks like I’ll just be another has been, or never was; what I am now is a give up while you still can.  All because of this fucking cigarette I’m an unhealthy slacker who can’t fulfill a day without caving to a vice.  I know what they all think, it’s written all over their faces like books.  But I can’t let them see me sweat, or bleed, or cry or smoke this second hand cigarette.  I couldn’t handle the judgment, the mercilessly piercing judgment that they conjure up today.  All because I wanted a smoke, what has this world come to?  Generation Y, that’s what.  This whole world buzzes now instead of hums the way it used to.  There used to be a steady, unwavering hum—the pitch of healthy production.  Now its just a flat buzz that fills the air where radio waves, televisions, radios, internet, Bluetooth converge; its numbing and confusing to a person like me.  But it seemed like a nice break of silence when I bent over to pick up that cigarette, well paced and inconvenient.  Now that I’m the laughing stock and the social mudsill that you walk on to establish your self-confidence I know it wouldn’t hurt if I actually smoked this square.  I took the matchbook out of my pocket, luck I had one left so I could finally give all these people a show.  The deep breaths and nicotine made my new identity easier to swallow, it felt good to be defined.  Perhaps I could make friends as the person I have become, live out my days known for something, assume a different culture and rewrite my future.  I digress, I don’t think I’m capable of being that much in control knowing I can’t suppress an impulse.  I admit it was a foolish thing to do picking up that cigarette, but I don’t regret smoking it—I took the last drag long enough to burn it right down to the stained, smashed filter.  I can’t say it was my proudest moment, but every one knows now.  You have to try, you really do.

Ike's Party (in the U.S.A)

            Friends are an important part of life.  They help a person maintain their sanity, or at least mine help me in that way.  Friends, it has been said, are the miracle of nature.  In my opinion, friends are important because they are the sources of our stories—the ones we tell to our kids or around the bar—they inspire us.  One friend of mine in particular was a wholesome guy, honest, loud, and brave.  Ike was always good for a laugh or a fresh joke.  He once threw a party using only the spare change he saved over months, “The Jew Party” he told us; he had names it after the spirit in which it was funded.  It was pretty appropriate that Ike himself was Jewish.  He was, by no means, afraid of new things and welcomed a challenge.  He was an athlete by nature, but his sociability brought many competitions his way and win or lose he relished the opportunity to prove himself.

            Ike’s most notable escapade was, by far, his debut as a pageant star.  The all male beauty pageant was a philanthropy event, the men put on the burlesque show and the proceeds go to charity.  Ike has entered as soon as they posted sign-ups.  All he had to do was impress the judges in a talent contest and a question and answer session.  I offered to help him prepare for each.

            The talent portion would be satisfied with Ike’s own rendition of “Party in the U.S.A”.  He had developed choreography and fashioned a costume of cut-off denim shorts and an American flag t-shirt tied in a knot.  There was much debate about whether to do the entire song in falsetto, or to sing it in a pitch manageable for Ike, we ultimately decided that falsetto was too presumptuous and quite over done and concluded he should show off his true vocal range.

            As for the question and answer half of the show, Ike was steadfast on doing this part impromptu.  He said it was for authenticity, but I’m fairly certain he was allowing himself extra time to prepare the dance routine.

            The night of the pageant Ike was even-keel, and not at all nervous.  This did not surprise me much; Ike likely got more amusement performing than the crowd did spectating.

            Part one came and went quickly.  It was mostly drowned out by laughter, applause, and whistling; after Ike came off stage the pageant host made a special request for the denim shorts.  The second half of the pageant required more endurance, Ike was scheduled on stage last and the rest of the field wasn’t exactly charming when answering questions like, “What is your ideal date a girl would take you on?” or, “What do you do to cheer up your friends?”

            Finally Ike’s name was called and he met the host in the middle of the stage, handed him the denim shorts he asked for, and turned to face the crowd.  After they settled from the debauchery, the host began the series of questions. Ike neither stumbled nor exceled on the questions, but the last question won over the host, the audience, and the contestants—it was the highlight of the show as well as our friendship thus far.

            The host looked at Ike and said, “Well, this is a fitting final question,” he continued, “The card asks that you tell you own original joke.”

            Ike leaned into the microphone and said, “Knock, knock.”

            “Who’s there?” The host responded.

            “World peace.” Ike retorted quickly.

How can we take expect politics to remain formal when the masses cherish and prefer the input of television personalities?

Didion EP

I


It was 2006 and Mark Brown had climbed to the top of his company, Chief Operating Officer.  Mark had achieved the American Dream: beautiful wife, two kids, four-car garage, and a vacation home on South Beach all while taking an extra 30 minutes at lunch on Fridays.  Mark fought tooth and nail to establish himself in a demanding business world and had balanced his effort at work with his effort at home; he had done what few businessmen like him had done.  Mark had shaped a meaningful life that would have a lasting legacy.  He was always considered relatively honest—lying by omission is merely a business tactic—but he was always teased and questioned about his extended midday break at the end of the week.  Mark maintained his privacy, though, and for good reason.  If his wife found out about Martin she would leave him, he knew that.  Martin was born at a time in Mark’s life when he couldn’t stop for family, not then, 24 and fresh out of Columbia with an MBA and countless job offers; he couldn’t risk under-achieving at the cost of having a family too young—he had dreams.  Mark Brown always sent money to Martin and his mother, he had the financial means for that, but time was precious and Mark could only afford thirty minutes of his busy schedule to talk to Martin by phone on Fridays.  Nobody knew until 2006, two years after Martin moved to Toronto.  That year Mark’s wife noticed the out of country calls on their cell phone bill; they were made at the same time almost every Friday.  Now Mark sends money to Martin and his ex-wife.  Now he reminisces the private businessman, admiring a past life.

II
It was sophomore year—about 8 weeks into the term—when I had discovered a secret about my roommate.  He had always struck me as a pretentious ass who genuinely believed he was better than most people, for a particular reason I was never able to identify.  At first I pitied him because he has lost an important family member at a young age, but his faith-rooted self-righteousness and obscure dorm room décor dug under even my thick skin.  There was a generous social contract between us, one that outlined my duty not to interrupt as he recited his proud responsibilities and tasks that were, obviously, top priority for someone as dedicated as he.  A bond existed between us though and in a way we were like brothers stacked on top of each other in those bunk beds.  I always thought there was something peculiar about him in the time we had spent together—could have been his idiotic plaid newsboy cap or aerosol deodorant—something was just different about him.  It was a Wednesday and I was running late, I forgot to print a copy of my paper for class and my computer was shut off; my roommate’s was running on the log in screen and I knew his password, messiah.  I hit enter and pulled my hands away from the keyboard in aw of the confusing still frame of a movie titled, Redheaded Tranny Deepthroat.  I was able to come up with an excuse to turn the paper in late, but never could come up with one to confront my roommate about his taste in cinema.

Has our obsession with technology compromised our privacy?

Making Her Move

I was sinking into a couch with a cocktail when I was consumed by a conversation between four friends.  I wasn't very interested much like the only girl sitting with her boyfriend on the couch adjacent to me.  I was involving myself as little as possible, my head was in the clouds as usual.

"You know when you lose a credit card and you have to notify all the companies you pay bills to? Well, what if we started a company that held all of your information and notified all of the bill payees et cetera of your account numbers changing, that way we could save people time.  Its a service that isn't being taken care of."

I mean, it could work if you aimed it toward the upper crust--the top one percent--the people that pay bills in more than one location: if they had more than one house, or if they owned their own business, or had an office they paid for.  You would just need some one whose account information was spread out in more than one place.  Its plausible, it might work, but I wouldn't invest.


My thoughts strung along as the four friends barked improvements and suggestions back and forth.  To my surprise, the sole lady in the room had made her first move.  She stood up and with all the conviction she could muster she exclaimed, "You people are whats wrong with this country.  You are sitting around thinking of ways to make lazy people lazier, all so you can make a buck.  Why don't you try to make and honest dollar and work for your money!"

Conveniently she was the only one standing, and I realized the gravity of the situation: four men sitting listening to a women.  What's next? Are we all going to sit around one day and listen to a black man?

Concerned Readers...

P of T,

I recently got wind of your posts and I thought I'd give them a look over.  I'd have to say, I'm not exactly thrilled with what I'm reading...

Your "considerations" or what ever they may so aptly be named are a fool's errand; a fulsome charge that isn't thrilling enough to be an adventure, and it isn't daring enough to be rebellious.  Really, you take up about 3/4 page discussing nonsense, nothing really at all.  In my opinion, I think you are terrified of taking up a real subject, with substance, because you can't tell what it is you really want to say.  If you are aware of this, I think it is time to make up your mind and actually do something; instead of just talking or thinking about doing something.

When I read your words--your putzing around in your own head--I am often left with the sense that you have a good perspective, maybe even good insight, but you analyze things to death: so that one avenue seem just as discouraging as the other.  In other words: I think you are afraid to fail.

In all seriousness, I think for your generation this fear, or insecurity about failing started in instructional sports.  It wasn't in the coaching, or the rules, this inept ability to deal with failure--with losing--came in the post-game celebration: everyone gets a Pacific Cooler and a pretzel rod.  At the end of the season if your team finished dead last in the youth organizational league, you still got a trophy.  In a way, you won even if you lost.  I think your apprehension to take a direction, or define a purpose is a result of that; you strategically place yourself in a position where you cannot fail, but where you can't win either.

So now that you are wandering around in the (somewhat) real world, its apparent you can't cope with failure or even the idea of it.  So next time you intend on posting another one of these aimless meanderings, keep in mind: it kind of seems like you are turning your blog into an online diary.

Best Regards,
Concerned for the Future

(in)decisions, (in)decisions

I staggered up to the bar last Friday night for the final round, and when bumped my well liquored belly into the bar I came to a crossroads in life--what to order.  I couldn't decide.  I had a bevy of liquid happiness at my fingertips and I couldn't just pick one.  I ran through the list of beverages in my head and each one sound indifferently similar to the next.

"Surprise me," I blurted out over the music and belching drunks.  I could have cared less if that bartender poured a shot of grain alcohol, lit it on fire, and handed me a straw.  I was just simply indifferent--I couldn't decide.

I spent a lot of time trying to identify the "right" drink like one might try and find the "right" person; I feel like this is an effort to make the "right" decision.

I was puzzled by this episode for awhile, usually I don't have a problem picking movies, or foods, or places to go.  So why couldn't I just order the damn drink?  It was like my brain was in a knot and I was a nail-biter without the necessary equipment to pick this thing apart.  So like any logical thinker might do, I took a step back and examined decisions from arms length, so this issue couldn't play hard to get.

So many times in life we are faced with decisions: when we were young these decisions were clear-cut, they were right or wrong; now though, I am doubting whether right and wrong decision exist later in life; now I am coming to find out that there are just decisions--we make them and handle them according to the outcome.

But is it just me? I am a self-pitying indecisive hypocrite?  Is this post just a display of my inability to make a decision despite the thoughtful consideration?

Is it real?  Is indecision as contagious as yawning? Isn't this a real problem?  Some one else out there has to have some mental anguish about being stuck at a crossroads, right?

Is it all in my head?  Was that last drink one too many?  Is my mind clouded because of my behavior?  Or is my mind smudging my behavior together so that I can't even determine which foot to step with first: right or left.  Am I wandering around in the parts of my mind that are uninhabited by thoughts?  Is this topic really what I wanted to write about (pun intended)?

Still trying to pick these knots apart...

The Most Important Meal of the Day

I was flipping eggs for breakfast this morning when the act inspired a memory, or triggered it, however you so please to perceive like events.  I remembered, to be specific, what my grandfather told me about flipping eggs: "The secret," he said "is testicular fortitude."  Seeing as how I cracked my first egg into a pan when I was about 10, this punchline flew straight over my head in a hurry.  But as I have gotten older I have realized the importance of that advice, and also what was wrong with it.

There are brave people and there are scared people; those who are brave only earned the characterization because they were once scared and overcame it; those who are scared are only scared because they were once brave and let their dim insecurities eclipse their fearlessness.  Any one can be scared or brave, but you can't be both at the same time.

But as I sat each piece of bread in its reflective toasting slot, the nature and gravity of that conclusion was processed a bit more than it had previously been.  First, I realized my grandpa's apparent chauvinism considering he brought balls into the equation; I put aside gender for this consideration, because I have learned as well as any undergraduate should, that women and men can be brave and scared just the same.  Second, that although these eggs were flipped with "(now) non-engendered fortitude" there were so many eggs that I have cooked and seen cooked whose yolks were scrambled and broken courtesy of someone being scared of the possibility of ruining them--make note that being scared leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy when preparing breakfast.

So upon considering those first eggs that I ruined, I think I ruined them because I was scared that I didn't have the courage to flip the damn things.  So I must give a tip of the cap to unrefined wisdom, in this case, as well as ancestry for guiding me along today's Musing of the Mind.  And as I reflect now on bravery and those who I think are brave, I remember that they had to flip their first eggs to become brave; they are brave because they continue to enjoy their breakfast favorite sunny-side up, or over-easy and know that they can fail--that they can break the yolk--but crack the egg into the pan bravely without concern and with the hope that today fate just might fry them a double yolk.

Is it real?  Do the eggs mean that much? Are my explorations of bravery and cowardice too overstated?

Is it me?  Is all this writing me projecting my anxiety of being scared?

Is it in my head? Is bravery really worth all this jazz?  Beowulf, Evil Knievil, Uri Gagarin: they were all brave, they all changed the world, is it too much to consider my ability to change things (or the way people think about them) as something dependent on bravery?

The answers lay with you, reader.

Finally, let me celebrate remembering the salt and pepper, despite this powerful epiphany.