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?