Wrong Is Wrong Is Wrong

The Copy Cat

2005-11-19T13:37:00.000-08:00

I know he means well. However, my roommate is starting to copy things that I do. This happens when he tells a joke or a story. There is a certain delivery that sounds like it is coming out of my mouth yet it is coming out of someone else’s. This annoys me. I just can’t tell if I hate myself or if I think someone is stealing my soul before my very eyes.

I go with the latter notion, the “stealing my soul” bit. But since he is stealing my act does that make him a genius, if you hold true that saying, “Talent borrows, genius steals?” So do I still end up being the loser no matter what?

Further, I can’t say anything because I’ll just sound like a narcissist. Plus, if I were to call him out on acting like me that would just be weird. It’s the deepest, darkest, dankest truths read aloud. Some things need to stay under wraps. It’s like someone saying, “Yeah, When I Masturbate, I Think of Grandma Standing to My Right Cheering Me On. That’s The Only Way I’ll Come.” Not that I have ever thought of that, I just wouldn’t have the couth to say that. And for shame, if you have said that phrase out loud and meant it. I don’t want to hear it and I bet grandma doesn’t want to hear it either.

Maybe it’s not worth it. It’s kind of flattering when people start doing things in the style of one of their peers. I could think I’m a role model. I could think I’m the latest trend people need to get in touch with.

I know I can be a contradiction. But I feel comfortable when I’m in the minority. It empowers me. I’m sure if I were white and middle class, I would pray that I was blind and crippled with excelled skills in ceramics, just so I could be in the minority. I’m just saying I don’t want to be liked. But that would bum me out. But then I don’t want to be mediocre.

My stoned friend says the only awesome things in life are those that really fail or really succeed. A half-assed job or a three quarters-assed job is just not very interesting. I don’t know.

I’ll be me and you’ll be you.

Man Boobs

2005-09-28T16:37:00.000-07:00

I signed a new lease on life last year when I lost 35 lbs. Not that I’m trying to be sanctimonious, but I just felt different. It was something that was definitely for me. Is that what it means to do something in vain? Last year, I just wanted to be able to look at myself in the mirror without going, “Fuck. That’s a Lot of Skin.” Or maybe I could look at myself without wanting to cringe. Maybe I just wanted to look like the thin person I, kind of, imagined myself to be. However, this image of a chubbier, fleshier boy seemed to cloud that image.

One weekend after eating my way through Maggiano’s lasagna to Aladdin’s falafel platter to Red Robin’s bacon cheeseburger, I decided that my reign of terror upon the world of food had to end. Ever since college ended and I moved back home with the folks, I realized that food was ever abundant and available. I could afford to eat. I had a job. I had the time. Food was my drug. I was mainlining fried chicken at all times. But after that weekend of stuffing my chipmunk cheeks with lasagna, falafel, and bacon cheeseburgers, I felt like I needed a change in my life. I needed to cleanse. I needed to make some better decisions.

That Monday, I decided to quit the junk. In the morning, I would toast two slices of that oat-y, thousand-grain bread. Sometimes, I would spread that laughing cow cheese. It’s low in fat, I think? However, I was pissed that one wedge of that fine processed Swiss cheese was not sufficient for 2 slices of bread but only 1.5. For lunch, I would eat a bowl of soup and whatever kind of oat-y, thousand-grain bread that I had at my disposal. After work, I’d be dizzy with hunger, anger, and pity and then I’d hit the gym. There, I would ride the elliptical machine for 40 minutes and then do some weights for about 5 minutes. I’d come home and eat one helping of dinner. No snacks or dessert afterwards. Definitely nothing to eat after 8pm. I would sit and watch TV until I got tired and went to bed. Perhaps the only sort of treat I could give myself was a cup of tea or a glass of water.

I followed this diet for a month. And well….it worked. I knew it worked because my teeth hurt. Not in that toothache - something’s coming in sort of way. My shins would hurt. I felt achy. I felt malnourished. I felt thin. And feeling thin wasn’t anything that I felt in…….all my life, I guess. It seemed a bit dangerous. But I just didn’t want to feel like I had marshmallow puff running through my veins anymore. I wanted to have like beet juice running through my veins. Orange juice. Carrot juice. Something not made from concentrate.

I even watched an episode of Oprah that dealt with weight loss. (Okay, okay, I know I wrote that I watched Oprah like it was a one-time deal. Honestly, I watch it a few more times than that, considering the topic, and this was one of them.) Oprah, in her majestic style of speaking – like that twice shot minority overcoming all obstacles Seabiscuit sort of way, said, “If You Want To Lose Weight, You Need To Let Yourself Go Hungry Once In Awhile, So Your Body Will Start Eating Itself.” I heard. And I followed.

I don’t think I cheated. I mean I exercised all the time. I stopped eating French fries for a long while. I played fair. I found myself immersed in what I should wear. I felt like a new person. I felt like a woman. I felt for once I could wear clothes that could compliment instead of hide me. I didn’t feel like I had to wear a theoretical BERKA to hide myself from the world of the thin. And for once, my man boobs withered, settled, and flattened.

Now that I live in the junk food capital of the world, things are hard. Cheesesteaks are sold at every door. I smell French fries everywhere I go. Soft pretzel this. Soft Pretzel that. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on every block, I pass by at least 6 of them on my way to school. There’s a Starbucks on every corner with their deliciously decadent caramelized croissants on display. “I see steak” has become my “I see dead people.” There’s a lot of temptation. Instead, I head for the vegetables. I eat somewhere between my fatty past and my fitness lifestyle past. Moderation, right?

Just as long as I can lay on my belly and not feel my two little perky man-boobs hang, I think I’ll be all right.

Okay, I need to walk a mile to the train stop.

Love,
Kevin

Going Down the Drain With You

2005-09-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Perhaps, it is time for me to touch upon this topic. It’s potentially alienating. In fact, really alienating depending on your threshold for “blue talk.” I know I’ve discussed numerous upsetting and embarrassing topics here. But let’s turn to one topic that gives me pause.

Okay.

Deep breath, everyone.

Feel free to put your fingers in your ears and chant LA, LA, LA, LA.

Defecating. Pooping. Shitting. Scheissing. Whatever nicknames you or your family has given it. I’m not trying to make light of it. I know it’s gross and perhaps, writing about it can give me some sense of closure. And sooner or later, I’ll feel all right about it. But I’ve run into this new problem.

As you may know, I live with two roommates. These are friends of mine that I’ve known for awhile. Two or three years, I think. I just have a lot of trouble using the bathroom. I feel really unsure. Insecure. Not safe. I just can’t “do the dew.” I feel really embarrassed. I just can’t go. I’m all stopped up. Before, when I had my own bathroom, I’d just go. No looking back. No questions asked. Now, it’s communal. And I’m taking it personally.

If I do go, it’s got to be late at night when I know that they’re fast asleep and my inhibitions are lacking. Yet, I have this lingering fear that MAYBE one of them will get that late night bladder call and go after I’ve (oh, I don’t know) wrecked the integrity of the bathroom. The worst they can do is just act like, EW! And move on with the rest of their lives. But I don’t want them to look at me and think of that person that made the paint peel off the walls.

Never have I walked in after they’ve used the bathroom and been like, WHOA! Let’s Just Buy a New House! In fact, they don’t even eat. Therefore, they’d never have to shit…AT ALL! And why do I have to be the one who doesn’t do so well with creamy foods? Lobster bisque can totally wreck me. Why does Dunkin’ Donuts insist on creaming my coffee for me? Why am I the only one who can’t deal with the DOO?

I was reading this book. Yet another book I have finished recently (A total wink to two posts ago about me reading) mentioned how the flushing commode (uh, toilet) has made us emotionally retarded. Thomas Lynch said something about how we are just not able to deal with anything messy, unpleasant, or dirty because we have learned to flush it away. The minute that anything totally messy or unpleasant happens and lingers, we utterly feel all alone. This could be a daring experiment for me to just not flush the toilet for the next week and see how we all feel after that.

I miss having my own bathroom. Maybe it’s not just that it’s my own bathroom. Maybe we need to knock some walls down. Maybe we need to discuss this. Maybe we shouldn’t just let this go down the pipes. Then just maybe I’d feel a bit better about this Lobster Bisque I just ate.

Remembering Your Spirit

2005-09-20T17:00:00.000-07:00

Just the other day, my roommate Rose asked me if I wanted to go to Trader Joe’s. I, like an overexcited puppy in heat, panted. Then ran in a circle and quickly got my shoes on. Finally, I can get something to eat. I’ve been feeding off a family sized bag of UTZ potato chips and drinking tap water, infused with rusty bits of lead, for the past two weeks. I don’t know if I could stand a diet like this anymore. I need nourishment. I need something less potato-y. I need less salt. I need to take better care of myself.

So we went to Trader Joe’s in the red pick-up truck.

There’s something really magical about going to Trader Joe’s. Every time I go in, I get a sense that I’m nourished. Friendly vibes are all around me. I feel very positive. And all of a sudden, I have become very in touch with my senses. I desire to wear a beaded hemp ankle bracelet. I calculate my vitamin intake. I look at the snacks and read the nutritional facts. I scoff at the saturated fats. I have to decide between dried dragon fruits, dried raspberries, or the nuts & berry trail mix. I sample the pumpkin butter smattered on the pumpkin pancakes that the sample lady is fixing. She gives me a laundry list of different foods to eat with pumpkin butter. Butternut squash soup. Crackers. Chips. Meats. Yogurt. Oatmeal.

I’m in heaven.

I don’t consider myself to be the angriest person ever. However, I do get cranky out of frustration and deprivation. Now that I had Trader Joe’s holding my limp anemic hand, I felt safe. I was assured. I was okay. I went home and caressed the house cat, Halloween. I looked out my third floor window onto the crack house across the street and everything seemed to make sense. Everything seemed to be just fine. Things happen, as they should. Everything happens for a reason. Trust Jesus. Jesus loves you, Kevin. A stitch in time saves nine. It was like that scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. The only difference was that good vibes, good creeds, and spirit were just attacking me. They were attacking me with Spirit. Spirit. Spirit.

I even watched Oprah. She was speaking with identical twins and one of the twins had a sex change.

Then, I lay on my bed. And I took out the loose change and the extraneous keys and placed them on my bureau. And I found a crumpled ATM receipt. I scanned. I am going broke. I need a job.

There is no god and everything has a price on it. I’ll never be free. And this is hell. I ate my dried mashed bananas and I pondered my life. (I don’t want this to end so bitterly, so let’s jazz it up with a cliché.) I figured everything does happen for a reason and that the world will still keep going round.

Thanks, Trader Joe's.

Illiterati

2005-09-17T16:16:00.000-07:00

In the last 2 weeks, I’ve read 3 books, starting a 4th, and I’m really amazed at myself. Like, I think I’m some sort of champ. I feel like I need to announce it too. I announced it to my friend/roommate Jamie and he responded with a “wow.” I don’t know how excited he actually was, but I was excited for myself. I usually don’t read. I just don’t know what to read. I don’t know what kind of books I should read.

My best friend in high school was named Richard. I usually kept him abreast of indie-rock records and he’d keep me abreast of some book he was reading. Charles Bukowski. Kurt Vonnegut. Whatever. I’d go to the bookstore with him. I’d choose books with interesting titles. I got one entitled, “Eating People Is Wrong.” I tried to read it. And it was okay. I don’t think I even grasped what the story was about. I couldn’t retain any names of characters. My mind would start to wander. I’d place a bookmark after chapter one. Then I would leave it on my nightstand. And ultimately forget it about it.

Forever.

I knew how to read. I just had a hard time adjusting to fiction. I used to read a lot in grade school, but it was mostly for the monthly Book It A Thon. It was a program in grade school to encourage reading. Every student would read a book a week and get rewarded with a coupon with a personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut.

I became a fatty.

During my senior year in high school, I read This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolfe. I liked it because I had seen the movie adaptation. I think I even welled up at the end. But the movie became the spine from which I would read the book. Por ejemplo, if I got to the part where Toby and his new step-dad practiced bare-knuckled boxing, I’d know where the story was heading and where to set my frame of mind. That was the last book I had really read.

After that, I depended on good indie films to become my literature. I’d watch Alexander Payne movies and study them with the intensity of an astute English major. I depended on indie rock records to be my poetry. I was bummed out reading collections of poetry because it lacked “hooks.” I also read magazines and news on the world-wide web. So I felt like I was connected.

I’d become friends with Literate people and they’d talk about some book they were reading. I’d feel a bit left behind or I’d feel a bit malnourished. I would take a deep breath and just take solace in the fact that I am JUST THAT WAY. You know, NOT WELL READ. I felt like an 18 year old home schooled Quaker that didn’t know how intercourse worked. Instead, I just thought people that read a lot are boring people that need some window into some other exciting life. Like, Moby Dick?

Then Six Feet Under premiered. I know, if you’re friends with me, you’ve probably heard me go on and on about the show. I love how each episode is written. It has a great tone. It’s sad and hilarious at the same time. Each episode has this little secret to life. The characters are so real. I feel like I “go there” each time I watch an episode. I understood this show to be a work of “literature.” I especially liked the episodes Jill Soloway had written. She’s really amazing. I found out that she had a website. So I “went there” and she had some essays and short stories on display.

There was something in the way she wrote that I really related to. She described herself as this Jewess Feminist. But her view and her take on life was something that became like a best friend to me. It was just so honest. It was brutal with this underlining of everything’s joke, so why take it so seriously. She would write about her flaws and her neuroses and it’s like we had all the same neurotic quirks. I kept visiting her site for almost a year. And then her book came out last week.

I read it. Cover to cover. Finished it in a day. I read some parts twice or three times. I laughed out loud. I cheered quietly inside when she would have little epiphanies, especially the part where she becomes a dog lover after years of hating them actively. And at that point, I decided I loved reading and people that read. I know I don’t have many books under my belt.

But I just found a place where I belong.

Fighting For Our Lives

2005-09-15T12:29:00.000-07:00

I like being back in school as opposed to working because I essentially make my own schedule. I have 4 days in the week that I can sleep in. I can watch Live With Regis & Kelly. I can watch the Tony Danza show with his endless parade of talented Italians. Then I can take some time out and appreciate The View. Star Jones looks really odd now. I can’t really take her being this emaciated waif-ish black woman. She seems like someone took away her right to vote, to speak, and to eat. When she was fat, she seemed more effective. Now she looks helpless.

I take a shower. Get dressed. I need to find a shirt that doesn’t have crystallized sweat on it. I find my keys with my Napoleon Dynamite keychain attached and I run to the train station. That’s only 3 blocks away. I walk my street walk. This is where my shoulders become even broader by 3 feet, I look at my feet as I walk, and I grimace. This is to avoid a mugging, a murder, or just someone beating me with a broken off table leg.

I step onto the train and take a seat next to a Jersey she-devil. She looks at me with distrust. I ignore it and look ahead. What I see are 4 people standing up on the train. One is a woman. She has the short post-menopausal haircut. She’s middle aged, she wears navy slacks and a blouse akin to what someone’s anonymous mother would wear. Her eyes are shut. She is bent at the hips. Her mouth is agape. This woman is totally fucked up and Star Jones hasn’t even made her closing statement on The View at this time. And when I say “fucked up, “ I mean she is stoned on dope. And when I say “dope,” I don’t mean grass or weed. I mean, SHE IS DOPED ON H! SHE IS MAINLINING HEROIN!

The woman is leaning into her what I presume is her boyfriend. I didn’t see a wedding ring on her. Her boyfriend was light years away from sobriety. Her boyfriend had his hand hanging onto the train’s upper banister. His eyes were closed. He was sweating furiously, while I was feeling quite cold (for once) from the air conditioning. And with him was a younger guy. He had this Eminem/Marshall Mathers quality to him. I’m just saying that although he is white, he displays a deep appreciation for Gangsta. This young man was wearing jean shorts with white sneakers and a wife beater that displayed his shoulders, which were covered in what I hoped, was a bad case of Acne. But judging from his profuse sweating, eyes rolling back, and his jaw slacking, I realized that this dude really loved himself some Heroin.

I examined all the spots that looked like scabs on this young man. He had one that looked like a popped zit on his forehead. I thought it was too much of a coincidence that a popped zit would appear right over a big fat vein sticking out of his temple. Another clue that this was a test drive for some heroin was that these 3 people were with another man, who was fine. Amidst all the train noise and distant conversation, I heard this man, who was wearing an Elvis t-shirt, mention the words milligram, stuff, and money.

This is Trainspotting.

I know I’ll smoke some grass here or there. Sometimes, it’s awesome fun and everything becomes HILARIOUS. Other times, it becomes a trip into that Samuel Beckett part of my brain that takes a bath in existential despair, but I don’t make a career of it. However, smoking grass in Kensington (my ghetto neighborhood) seems really button down. The people in Kensington seem to love Heroin and Crack. And well…I just don’t do that because as Whitney Houston so eloquently put it, “CRACK IS WHACK!”

I guess some people need some sort of respite from their lives. I can see how drugs can do that. Did you know that Natasha Lyonne is in a hospital bed fighting for her life? She was that girl in American Pie with the husky voice and coached Tara Reid on how to blow that guy. Well, Natasha Lyonne fell in with a rough crowd and it’s hard for her to get acting jobs. She did some heroin and a whole lot of other drugs. Now she has a heart disease, a collapsed lung, and a case of Hepatitis C.

The first night I moved into Philly, my mom took me out to dinner. I suppose I was starving from all the moving and unpacking plus the general heat from August. At about 9:30 we got dinner. I was scared that I was never going to eat again, so I ate the meal, hand over fist like. I was sweating. Got full. Maybe I took a break. Then I kept trucking. I felt like I was EATING FOR MY LIFE.

Little did I know that I’d have plenty of opportunities to eat for my life.

Meadow & Me

2005-09-12T17:00:00.000-07:00

“Meadow, You ARE SUCH A MUTHA FUCKIN’ BITCH!!!!!”

That is one of the first things I heard from my bathroom window in my new house. Meadow is my next-door neighbor. Meadow is also 3 years old. And that was her mother that was making claim of Meadow’s character. We all live on Cumberland Street in the Kensington development of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

If we’ve lost touch, my name is Kevin. I recently just moved to Philadelphia to go to school.

I have some history with Kensington. When I was a high school senior, I came to Kensington to work at a homeless shelter to feed the poor & needy lasagna. I learned a lot that summer. I learned that I was pretty lucky. I learned that life is rough outside the Privilegesphere. And I also kept in mind that Kensington was a very sketchy place tainted with track marks and nicotine. My friend Jamie, whom I live with, assured me that Kensington has gotten better since then. I put my trust in Jamie and decided to live with him.

Maybe Kensington hasn’t become this gentrified center of bohemia. I’ve heard rumors it’s on the up and up. It’s kind of gross. More like vomitrocious at times. It took a lot of adjustment to get used to living in such a dilapidated neighborhood. I come from Northern Virginia (the Privilegesphere). I’m spoiled, but I was just born into it. In Kensington, children run and scream from 7am ‘til about 10pm. They play in the dirt and in the trash. Nobody believes in knocking as much as standing outside and screaming at the top of their lungs the name of the person they are trying to visit. Whenever the wind picks up, the smell of garbage, human decay, and feces permeate in my nostrils. I’ve seen a number of dead animals on the sidewalk. I was most dumbfounded by the dead mouse that was just lying on its’ back with its’ mouth agape. It didn’t look like it was run over. It just looked like it just had enough, rolled over, and died. I don’t mean to sound like a wuss. I don’t mean to have the sad eyes of someone that came from a war torn region.

I’m just not used to this.

My favorite people to see in the neighborhood are Meadow and her five million siblings. I don’t know if they are actually siblings. I think they are a conglomerate of kids that live together under the tutelage of Meadow’s mom and dad. I think some are cousins and some are the product of missing baby mama’s and baby daddy’s. Who knows? All I know is that Meadow seems to stick out. I suppose because there are so many, she needs some attention. She gets this by screaming. She’s a cute little African American baby. She has light coconut skin and light brown frizzy hair. She’s this cherubic Raven Symone- type of girl that looks like a ray of sun beaming from God’s eyes. She runs up to me and hugs my legs. This charms me. Then she opens her mouth. She screams. And wails her little fists on my legs. And suddenly, Meadow has lost her charm and I’ve dropped her two letter grades.

I was walking to the train station one morning. I saw Meadow and her brother Justin hanging outside playing in her pink Big Wheel Barbie Mobile. Both were covered in soot, dirt, and maybe blood? I waved hello and quickly dodged conversation. I walked my new found “street-walk.” This is where I walk with my head down to avoid eye contact and don the guise that I am just a boy that has seen and experienced unbelievable things in my little life. As I walked my walk, I saw an abundant pile of dog poop. Inside, I sighed a deep frustrated sigh that lamented how sick I am of seeing so many unpleasantries in a matter of 15 feet.

The next day, I came back. I walked by the spot where there was an abundant pile of dog poop. I noticed it wasn’t as abundant as it was before. Justin and Meadow were still outside. Their clothes were dirtier. They were still playing with the Barbie Mobile and they found a new toy called “the trash.” I waved hello again and Meadow comes running up to me, screaming. She tells me she has a treat for me. I knelt down to talk to Meadow. Her big eyes were aglow amidst her whole body that was covered in dirt and soot. I noticed she had a little knick on her forehead and she had this weird metallic smell of blood. She picked out of her pocket a Lemon-Head. I saw the little drop of sun in her grimy little hands. She handed me the glowing yellow ball of sweet and sour into my relatively clean palm.

All I could think of, as she stared up at me expecting me to eat it, was the abundant pile of dog shit. I thought of how Meadow would pick up a piece of poop and pretend it was a caterpillar or some chocolate water baby or something? I looked at her dirty little paws. I looked at the Lemon-Head gift. And I thought of my stomach and my immune system. And I thought of the million diseases on this drop of sun and lemon. I thought about AIDS, Malaria, Ebola, Pneumonia, Strep Throat, or just me in a hospital bed jaundiced and screaming, "MEADOW!!!!! WHY YOU DO THIS TO ME!!?!?!"

I pretended to eat the Lemon-Head. When Meadow looked away, I threw it into the street. I patted Meadow on the head. She screamed and told me to shut up. I walked into my house and washed my hands.

This town is my little ball of sweet and sour.

Keep Sending Me Fireworks

2005-07-01T15:29:00.000-07:00

I stare at my computer all day long. And I'm connected to the inter-web about 90% of the day. I really don't know how such universally topics can escape me. I am connected to the world's biggest newspaper, magazine, gossip column, self help book, etc....I just don't know about the world. I don't know about Brad & Angelina.

Are they even together?

Then there's the crisis that is Tom & Katie. Why should I even care? Tom C. (I respect anonymity) is about 16 years older than Katie. People say it's a publicity stunt to revive the gasping corpse that is Tom's movie career. He made a splash in the 80's. In the 90's, he made a water move that is a bit less than a "splash" but still kind of effective. In 2000, he just steps in and out of the pool and no one really pays attention. Now, Katie plays along and makes it believable. She has that doe-eyed look. Her arm is always draped over Tom. They're on the red carpet, she pauses. Then decides to make out with Tom C. She looks away. And in her eyes, her dream has come true. In his eyes, he's back. He's relevant. He's here again.

This isn't for show. This is real.

Work is slow today. This weekend is the 4th of July. And lots of people have taken off for the long weekend ahead. I’m not sure as to what I want to do. I know that I have a ticket to the Nationals game on Monday, July 4th. I’m not terribly sure if I like baseball all that much. I don’t really pay much attention to sports. I suppose because my head is somewhere else. And competitive sports don’t really get me going. My friend Nick asked me if I’d like to join the group going to the game. And I suppose it is time for me to step outside of what I usually do and do something new. This means, Going To See Competitive Sports In Action. But this would mean some quality time with my friends. And my time here is kind of limited. And I should try to spend time with as many as I can. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to regret it later. It’s not like, I’ll be pissed that I spent too much time with my friends. It’s not like I’m going to die and regret that I had too much fun. Or that I went out to a real expensive restaurant twice in one week. Or that I stayed out late with some friends. Like, yeah, I’ve lost sleep.

But I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

What if we all kept that notion constant that our time here is limited?

One July 4th , my great aunt suggested to my mom that we go to Washington, DC to watch the fireworks. I was only 4. I was excited. We went. But once we got there. I seemed to only be preoccupied with how thirsty I was. We searched all over for something to drink. But surprisingly enough, we didn’t see anything. And I remember being somewhat amused by the fireworks. However, I was too preoccupied with being thirsty.
In a way, I felt like I didn’t see any sort of firework at all.

This year, it’ll be different. I’ll be here. Really here, I mean. And July 4th will be a good day. And the city will send me Fireworks. And this time, I’ll respond.

Viva Nuova

2005-06-17T12:44:00.000-07:00

The marketing department gave everyone at the office a plant. I think it’s called the Tropical Arcanananae? I have no clue. I got one and I hated it. Not for any clear reason. It just seemed like a task to have one. Like great, I Have To Care For Something Now! I Have To Make Room For Something Else In My Life. I have myself to worry about. And now I get a little clay pot with a stem and a leaf poking out of the soil. A little sign came along with it saying, The Tropical Arcanannane (sp?) Needs Water Only Once A Week.

Like no fucking thanks. I need that water.

So I let the plant sit at my desk. I ignore it. Instead, I drink coffee. Check my email a quadrillion times a day. I talk to everyone else. Catching up on other people’s lives and talking about my own. I do my work. All the while, the plant on my desk wilts. And fades. And cries for my attention. Not with any words or movement. Instead the plant just droops and browns. The leaves make this shape saying, It’s So Lonely Over Here. Please Comfort Me.

Instead, I zone out.

The next day, I see my plant. And it’s close to dead. The big leaf that had a chance has essentially turned grayish brown. And it has given up the fight. It couldn’t take the neglect anymore. And there’s this part of me that responds. There’s a part of me that felt really guilty about giving up on something. And because of my actions, it just keels over and prays for dear life. It represented everything I was ever too lazy about to care for.

Suddenly, I feel like a deadbeat dad. I feel like the derelict estranged father. I’m the stubbled uncaring father that let his son’s life go to shit. Suddenly, I’ve become that stupid fucking Harry Chapin song. But it rings true.

So I took my cup of water, which I’d probably throw away anyways. (I don’t really think I need 8 glasses of water a day) and I gave it to my plant.

And it perked up.

And I gave it some more water. And it perked up some more.

The leaves got greener. And the stems got thicker. And I was really proud. Somehow, I realized I had a nurturing side. It just rose from inside of me. The humanity. The next few days, I talked to it. I played it music. I even took in some abandoned plants from around the office building and gave them a home.

My one plant is really big now. He’s staying at my parent’s house with their plants. His name is Frankenplant.

It’s a new life for me.

Dragons on Mountaintops

2005-06-15T11:37:00.000-07:00

My friend Nick invited me over to his apartment to watch a movie called Singles. Singles is a movie that I found really moving back when I was a kid. I watched it when I was only 12 or 13 years old. And I'm not too sure if I was really understanding of the concepts. I just thought the characters seemed really honest. And I liked how everything seemed to turn around for them in the end.

In the movie, Bridget Fonda plays Janet. She's a waitress that works at the local java shop. This is the java shop where all of her friends come to meet and wax philosophy about connecting and how to make love work. Janet introduces herself by going, "Hey, I'm Janet and I'm 23. Like 23 seemed old to me when I was young. I thought that we'd be traveling in space. I'd be married and I'd have 2 kids. But here I am. I'm 23." And none of that has happened to her. She doesn't say so, but she gives the gesture of someone who didn't get what she was expecting.

"Hey, I'm Kevin and I'm 24. 24 Seemed So Old When I Was Young. I Thought I'd Be Immersed In Some Career In Animation In Hollywood. I'd Be Close To Getting Married. I Thought I'd Be This "Super Adult." But Here I Am. 24." And you may not be able to see me, but I'm giving the gesture of someone who didn't get what I was expecting.

Although I hold a vague contempt for people that think Forest Gump is the greatest movie ever made. There is that line about chocolates and how it's like life. And how you don't know what you're going to get. Blah blah blah. And it makes sense. And it's kind of true. However, I didn't think I'd go off track as much as I did. What the fuck happened? What did I do?

I took art classes when I was younger. From a woman named Suzanne. She was a spirited woman who ran art classes out of her basement. Suzanne watched me grow from the age of 10 'til 17. She was a very nurturing type as well. All the while, I brought in work that had me destined to illustrate Dungeons & Dragons novel covers. As I was gearing up for college, Suzanne asked me what I wanted to do with myself after school. And I said, I Would Be Content Drawing Comic Books, If I Can Get In That Field. But It Seems Like A Long Shot. And Suzanne replied, Oh Kevin, You're So Much More Than Just Dragons On Mountaintops or Men In Capes. Your Brain's Too Big For That Shallow Stuff.

And I paused.

Because I thought that maybe she was right.

I had a paper tacked onto my wall. On the paper, it gave me a list of colleges that I wanted to go to that would ensure me a way into the realm of sci-fi novels and/or comic books. It was a contract that I wrote up for myself when I was 13. That contract promised I would go down that road and not look back. I read that contract. And I felt detached. I didn't think that I was the same person as I thought when I first wrote it.

I ripped up the contract.

And I threw it away.

And didn't look back.

And here I am. 24.

I don't know where it's all going.

But it's cool.

I'll figure it out.

Sometime.

Soon.

A Diagram of His Reasons

2005-06-13T16:56:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with some friends. These are some friends that have been absent from my presence for awhile. When I do see them, it is a good time. And I do like talking to them. I don't know where the time went. I don't know how long spans of time seem to cut through our friendship. But such things happen. And you can't really get mad. This is just the way.

In order to keep up with me and my life, one friend asked, "So You Seeing Anyone These Days?"
I didn't really try thinking too hard. And I just said, "No."

And with my eyes, I shrugged my shoulders.

My one friend along with my other friends looked at me. Stared. Maybe there was a bit of analysis. As if they were expecting a diatribe from me on being single. Being alone. Some monologue about my problems and what scares people away. About how there's not a single girl in town that will give me some time to explain myself and endear myself. Like, I have some stand-up comedian act written in a folded piece of loose leaf paper in my backpocket.

"And You Know Another Thing About Women......"

But, honestly, I don't.

Not this time.

I'm not looking.

My brother Rene will have dinner with me sometimes. Without fail, he will bemoan the fact that he doesn't have a girlfriend. He goes on and on about what he's missing. How if he had a girlfriend then he would have someone to relate to? He'd have some purpose. He'd have something to do on the weekends. He'd feel better about himself. At each family function, Rene finds the time to take stock of his shortcomings. He'll hear how people will ask him about his job or if he's dating or if he's working on his weight. Each question will make him look into himself. Deeper and deeper. Each question would highlight something he wasn't too happy with. And each question would keep him up at night and have him call me at 9:45 every night to ask me if he's a decent human being.

Perhaps, Rene, doesn't need a girlfriend. He needs fortification. He needs scaffolding. He needs concrete.

Back to my dinner, my expectant friends all watched me. Waiting for an outline of reasons as to why no girlfriend. Why isn't it important for me? Why am I not trying to patch that big gaping void in my life? I mean, they seemed like they were expecting me to pull out a diagram. And a pointer. And give the X, Y, Z.

However, that's not really important for them to know.

I do want a girlfriend. A wife. A life partner. A whatever. However, someone to enjoy life with. Not someone to make life enjoyable. It is all really my doing.

But one thing I am looking for is space.

I need to recollect. I need to collect myself. I need to sort. There are some things I still need answers to. Although, I'm alone, I'm not lonely. I just can't get mad. I will find someone. And the universe will unfold as it always does.

It's only a matter of time.

Observing Nature

2005-06-10T16:50:00.000-07:00

"No, I Don't Hate You. Or Even Annoyed With You. I Just Kinda Hate The World Today. I Just Really Want To Take A Cold Shower And Go To Bed. Sorry."

That's my explanation these days.

Or maybe just yesterday.

Sometimes in the act of writing about myself and my life, some things become apparent. Like, I've learned that I'm totally neurotic. Not neurotic enough to be committed to a hospital. Not neurotic enough to have to be put on medication. Probably just neurotic enough to maybe talk to someone on a weekly or bi-weekly basis. But instead, I'll choose to vent in this window on my screen that allows me to bold-face or italicize my issues, my worries, my strife, my what have you. And then I think about how I'm not starving in some 3rd World Country. And then I feel like an asshole.

*****

Two weekends ago, my friend made some brownies. These particular brownies were laced with the Mother Nature. That is a name that a college friend's mother gave to weed. Pot. Grass. Whatever you want to call it. It's been a while since I've smoked some grass. (Maybe just a week since) And I felt like I was due for a fix. I parked somewhere illegal and hauled ass up to their 6th floor apartment. The brownies were buttery. They also had melted chocolate chips in the middle. And I hadn't had dinner, so I was eating like I was Seabiscuit or what ever prize winning horse there is. I mean there were brownie bits caked around my mouth. And on my fingertips. I lost my sense of normality. My friends popped in a movie. And I propped my feet over their couch and watched the movie upside down.

These are the higher plains I hope to have a view from more often.

*****

Since I am too lazy to pack a lunch, I find myself going out to eat. Essentially everyday. I try to make sure that I don't go to one place more than once in a span of a week. I'd hate to become the "usual suspect" or the constant visitor. I'll go to Chipotle once every two weeks. And I try to go at some time close to 2pm. Mainly because no one is really there at that time. The Lunch Rush is over and I can eat in peace. I can also choose to eat as sloppily as I need to and not feel like I'm being watched. Then inevitably judged. However, each time I step into Chipotle, I see this one character every single time. And he sits at the table closest to the soda fountain and utensil bar. It's this very robust chubby mailman. I think he could qualify as obese. And I see him eating the Burrito Bol each time. And he stares into space. And I'm not sure where he is or where he's going. He looks content. Although his blank stare kind of makes me feel sad for him. He is still there when I finish up. I was wondering if it's pure coincidence that we show up on the same day. But, I've driven past Chipotle to go somewhere else for lunch and I will still see that obese mailman.

The obese mailman has now become a specter. My specter? Is he really a human being? Or is it some Hamlet-like apparition that appears whenever I eat at Chipotle? Is he a sign saying, Don't Come Back Here Or You'll End Up Like Me?

I don't know.

*****

I went to see a band play this past weekend. They're named after a utensil. And they make music that I consider to be kind of sexy. It's very cold and sharp. Detached. And the rhythms are very striking. And the singing seems to be removed from the realm of earnestness. It seems very driven and emotionally void. They seem to resemble sonic cocaine. Fleeting. Very self-absorbed. Not sensitive. It's like they're music just bluntly goes, I'm Going To Fuck You In Half. All the while the song would wear sunglasses at night and a tight Italian shirt endorsed by Details Magazine. I stared out into the crowd. Observing. And the attitude seemed to reach them. They all seemed very well-groomed. Looking for some action. Deadpan. Humility absent. No humor.

Where did I belong?

It's a matter of love versus lust. That night, it seemed like lust prevailed. While I shrunk amongst the crowd.

I believe in love.

The Great Indoors

2005-06-09T17:17:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I have this unreasonable disdain for wearing white t-shirts. Only because I feel like I'm shirtless when I, in fact, am wearing a t-shirt. One would think that being descended from a Filipino family where the skin tone is mostly tan to olive, I wouldn't be so pale. But I am. Very pale. Next to my brothers, that is.

My brother Brian would spend summers out on our deck in the back of our house. There, he'd oil up in some coconut tanning solution and have the sun bake him to a fine caramel glow. It's as if George Hamilton was a personal hero of his. I stayed indoors and hung out in the basement. There I would watch TV and spend my hours drawing at my mom's old desk in the corner. The only light came from the desk lamp on my mom's desk. There the sun never hit my back. So my skin was untouched and remained very pale and milky looking.

Sometimes I really wish I could get into this "I'm Very In Touch With Nature" kick that some of my friends get into. Like some of my friends like to take hikes, which I like to. Only at a slower pace. And not somewhere where there isn't a public bathroom and a running faucet. I hate getting out into the woods and feel like there are a bunch of bugs crawling up and down my back. I hate that sensation of getting itchy and I really don't know why. It's a tough world out there.

Back in 1989, my dad saw an episode of 20/20. On this particular episode, they had an expose about Lyme Disease. After he viewed the episode, he sat me down and told me not to go into the woods. And if I did, I'd have to check carefully for "LYME TICKS." What I remember from my dad telling me about Lyme Disease is that you get it from going outside and that you'll get bit by a tick. And then you DIE! In the meantime, there's a lot of debilitating symptoms that occur. But still it was enough to have me stay in my basement and scribble at my mother's desk.

I knew I was safe. I wouldn't get very far. At least I won't die.

These days, my brother Rene worries me. Actually, I've come to not be so angry with him. Now all my anger has turned into pity for him. I decided to get lunch with him. Only because he seems like a lonely soul and perhaps, I should be nice once in a while and spend some time with him. He'll ask me what I've been up to. And when I tell him about my little adventures here and there. He seems a bit remiss. His mouth makes a slight pout. And the slight waver in his voice tells me that all is not well. I could only imagine that he feels lonely. He has no idea what to do. He has no idea where to go. He has no idea who to hang out with.

I try to encourage him to get out there. I tell him he should hang out with his co-workers. He should go see some bands play. Essentially, I'm telling him to just get out there and hang out. Rene says that he will. But I don't know if he's just agreeing to appease me. But he'll throw out this line that seems to scare me.

Terribly.

"I don't know who I can hang out with. Someone my age? Everyone I know is married. And honestly I don't know where I can go to hang out. It's rough out there."

I digest what he says. I can see his point. And then I feel even more sorry for him. And then the fear of getting Lyme disease becomes real to me again. It's very real for him. Yet Lyme Disease is not the name of what he's afraid of. His eyes widen with a sense of hope that maybe we can spend more time together. However, I don't want to do that.

It's become complicated again.

****

These nights, I've decided to take longer walks. And walk out in the fields. Maybe even try laying in the grass. Despite how itchy it makes me feel. How sometimes it turns me off. I just want to learn to love it. And not be so afraid. I want to get into this "I Love Nature" kick. I want to take in the sun. Despite how it might burn and blister my face. Or how it makes me sweat. Or how it makes me stink. And it doesn't matter how many mosquito bites I get.

Because I'm now realizing that's the only way I'll feel free.

My Dog, Myself

2005-06-08T13:44:00.000-07:00

My dad makes a funny noise when he eats. Sometimes if I'm not feeling totally angry at the world, I'll let it slide. But if I am angry at the world, well, I just let myself get totally annoyed at my father's "eating noise." The noise is of him not being able to breathe when he eats. You just hear him gasping for air when he eats. It's kind of queer. Not "gay" queer. Just "weird" or possibly "annoying" queer. Like he gasps for air as if he's swimming in this pool of lasagne and he just came up for a breather.

He loves eating. It's an escape for him. I think I reasoned the fact that he loves it so much because when he was growing up, his family was very poor. And they had no idea when they would be able to afford anything else. So essentially, they had to make a meal out of everything.

The other night, my dog Snowball was wandering around the living room. While I laid there on the couch trying to watch TV. She came up to me. And she walked away slightly. She was making this weird sound with her breathing. Snowball was making this chortling noise. Now, I'm very attached to my dog. I got her for Christmas when I was 13. My mom thought I could use a dog, since all of my brothers were out of the house and she was scared that I'd feel lonely. So I've seen Snowball grow up and I've seen her through a lot. And it's not like dogs ask for a lot when they are alive. I mean, they just want to be loved. So they're easy to get attached to. So Snowball was making this weird chortling sound. And I was scared that maybe she was having a stroke right before my eyes. And I wasn't really ready to deal with a dead dog. Especially Snowball. She's a very sweet dog. She has her moments of being mean, but I know that deep down she means well.

So suddenly I became the nervous and frantic parent. I called the Animal Hospital. I was asking the attendant/receptionist on the phone about my dog. If the breathing was okay. Is it normal? Is it wrong? And the attendant just told me to bring in Snowball. And they'll take a look at her. This is how vets make their money.

The appointment wasn't for two hours. But I thought I'd bring Snowball just in case. We show up at the Animal Hospital. I sign in. They take my name. And they politely tell me to take a seat in the waiting room. I oblige and hold Snowball in my lap. We wait. And Snowball gets antzy so I let her walk around the floor. She sniffs. She looks up. She sniffs again. And looks up some more. And then I see Snowball arch her back. And the smell is overwhelming. And I look down and she is taking a shit. Several shits. To be exact.

It was raining that whole day, so I couldn't take Snowball out for a walk. And I felt really embarrassed that Snowball decided to take a shit in front of everyone. The man with the sleeping cat in a cage gave me "the look." When I say "the look," it means the look of "oh, Man, That SUCKS!" And he says those 4 words with a raise of his eyebrows. I ask the receptionist if she has some paper towels and some cleaner. She tells me that it's okay. She was able to observe my embarrassment. I say thanks and I tell her that I am very sorry on Snowball's part.

I sit back down. And I see Snowball arch her back again. And this time the red haired man with the sleeping cat got up to "take a minute." The smell was overwhelming. I blame that fucking salmon dog food we got her. I mean, it makes her more energetic and such. But it doesn't bode well for people that have to come face to face with her feces. This time "the look" the red haired man gave me wasn't "Aww, Man, That Sucks!" The look had become "What Is Your Fucking Problem!!!??" "What Is Wrong With Your Dog!?" "Have You No Control!?"

Since Snowball has no voice and thought process that we are aware of. I took the blame for Snowball. In the red haired man's eyes, I became the Person That Took A Shit In The Waiting Room. I became the Person With The Digestion Problem. I became the Person Who Shouldn't Eat Salmon-based Dog Food Because the Smell Could Make The Wallpaper Peel.

I sat there with my tail between my legs. My confidence wasn't so high.

After the embarrassment subsided. And the feces were cleaned off. Snowball went in for her appointment. She was fine. Apparently, the noise came from how some food went down the wrong pipe.

And I realized that Snowball and I are one.

The Good People

2005-05-06T16:02:00.000-07:00

Spring has sprung. I can tell because the weather feels better than it did in the winter. And because I'm stuffy, itchy, and I sneeze a bunch. My car is covered in yellow dust. However, handling the car door and then itching my eyes is doubly irritating. Life (at this time) is half joy and half pain. This feels ever so real at springtime for me. The sun's out longer yet I am itchy and I can't breathe.

There's a woman at our office building. She is kind to me. Like I'm a dove (uhh). Yet her ill-will towards men (meaning people, both men & women) makes me angry. She's waspy. White Anglo Saxon Protestant - like. She's middle aged. And she has the air of a woman who grew up privileged and can never take "no" as an answer. She's not a feminist. She doesn't seem that humane. She seems like a saucy Texan wife who's trying to marry off her mid-20's daughter and at the workplace she's very cut-throat and condescending. When the world doesn't move as she plans, she squeals and protests. I feel whenever I have to speak to her, it is balls-to-the-wall pain. And part of me is trying to find the good in Cathy Smalls.

Am I looking hard enough? Am I being mean? Is my perspective so limited that I find it easy to hate everyone?

But I don't hate everyone.

Rene's psychiatrist died. I don't know how much influence that his psychiatrist had on him. But Rene still seems unhappy, unsure, and bitter about everything. My friends tell me he's a great guy. And I can agree. But on another level, I find him to be a bit much. Recently with the passing of his psychiatrist, he seems to come to me for advice and guidance. And he was calling me twice a day for the last two weeks. He never has much to say aside from asking what I'm up to. If I ever say, I'm About To Go Out With My Friends. He'll respond with, I Guess You're Going Out With Your Little Friends. If you read between the lines, he's really saying, I Hate The Fact That You Don't Hang Out With Me Or Look Up To Me Anymore. So Let Me Give You A Guilt Trip And Maybe You Might Just Hang Out With Me Again.

I'm trying to find the good in hanging out with Rene. Because he's my brother I unconditionally love him. But I'm not sure if I like him. There's a difference. And I just realized it.

The other night, I had to send some posters to this bar. I walked by the 930 Club. And there were a lot of kids. Teens. Adults. Whatever kind of people there. Hoopla. I had time on my hands and I walked up to the club to see what was happening. Ben Folds was playing a sold out show. As I walked up to the stoop of the venue. I saw a familiar face. Sam. He used to work at my office. He's a rockunroller. He made a point to let people know that he plays drums in a band. He also let on that he played football in high school. And his hair was cut and styled like Nikki Six from Motley Crue. He came to the office every two weeks with a new frosting job. He left the office and found work elsewhere. Now he's a doorman at the 930 club. More his style. I saw him, but I didn't make an attempt to say hello. But I became curious about his whereabouts. I listened to a song on his band's website. And I beckoned my co-worker to come over and hear it. I spouted on about how much I hated it. And how lame I thought it was. But my co-worker goes, "Oh, I Think They Sound Really Good Actually."

I paused. And thought maybe I'm just a bit too hard on people. On everyone and everything.

I settled down. And agreed to some point with my co-worker. I knew I was lying. But I thought I'd give up. I'm so tired of hating. Tired of disagreeing.

They are very good people.

I don't have to like them though.

But that's just my little secret.

Ah, My Snowflake

2005-05-04T15:54:00.000-07:00

I check my email constantly. I suppose it's a good respite from the drudgery of answering phones and tending to every employee's menial requests. Today is different. I am here all alone. You see, today is my boss' goodbye party. She is leaving to go work for another company and further her needs. More power to her. She was a great boss. And she's kept me with the force for over a year now. She is a good mom, I am guessing. I hear her talk about her son a lot. I'm never annoyed. It's actually quite refreshing. And it lends to her charm. So ideas were being bounced about what we should do for her goodbye party. And the idea of bowling came up. I'm not a big fan of bowling. But it's nice to go on department meetings and not have to work. It's nice relating to the others in my department. I was looking forward to it.

Then I found out I had to stay behind and work the front desk, because no back-up or relief was found in time. I said I could do it, only because it's my job and well, I'm just a contractor. A temp. An adopted child. Cinderella. Whatever. I mean it's not the end of the world. But it'd be nice if I did get to participate in my boss's bon voyage party. I mean, she was totally generous in getting me a job and keeping me employed. Instead, I have to stay home and keep the castle clean. I feel like the bathwater has gone cold.

Instead of sitting back and thinking of how everyone else is having a party, I tend to my email. I'm still relating. Only to people that are far away and through text. I just got this one email from my brother Rene. He emailed his friends about his "Top 10 Records of All Time" and for some reason he CC'd me. Not that I could actually participate in the discussion but he probably would want me to experience him wax poetic about why he likes a certain King Crimson album. I thought I possibly could participate in the discussion but him and his friends would not have any idea about what I was talking about. If you don't know, there's a 17 year difference between my brother Rene and myself. Therefore, the music I latch onto is music that he or his friends will not have paid attention to, given their sensibilities and age. I found his Top 10 list interesting. Although, it seemed like he was trying to make a show of how unconventional his tastes can be and how superior his vocabulary is. Honestly, it felt like James Lipton wrote the email. And the fact that I thought that about my brother made me feel sad for him. And in some ways I felt sad for myself.

Yet, I still was not able to participate in the conversation. It's the same sort of feeling I get when all my friends want to catch a documentary about the economic decline of Zimbabwe and all I really want to watch is the new movie with Will Ferrell. I just feel a little out of it.

I know I shouldn't feel that way. I know we are all so unique (much like snowflakes) and that we should celebrate that. Sometimes being God's Little Asymmetrical Snowflake can make me a bit anti-social. Sometimes, a bit misanthropic. A bit bummed that others don't see things my way. But I get over it.

One day at work, my co-worker Shelly was talking to me. She was saying how she likes my sense of humor. And she brought up how she was talking about me with other employees at the office. She said one employee said, "Kevin's Hilarious." (pause) "Very Odd But He's Funny." Although, it was nice to get a compliment like that, I found the second part to be kindly unsettling. As if there is something so strange about me that could make me off-putting but thankfully a little ironic quip brought me back into the heart of America.

Did I mention I got "Most Unique" in high school? Somehow, I'm able to maintain that record every year.

Into the Good Night

2005-05-03T10:48:00.000-07:00

One Thursday afternoon, I wasted away at work. I like my job. It can be slow. The phones have been slow that's for sure. I spent my afternoon checking all 4 email accounts. Some of my accounts are for professional reasons. One of them is for me to order stuff. One of them is for me to talk to my friends. And the other is to just have. It's a luxury. Life is good. Life can be easy.

I had 20 minutes to wait until I could put the phones on "night" and carry on with my life. I had plans that night. I was closing out my programs and watching the clock with a hawk-like observance. I suddenly had an interruption. My friend Natalie instantly messaged me. The message said, "Did You Hear What Happened to Gordon?" It appeared on my screen urgently as if the chat window was exhausted and out of breath trying to find some sense of calm. I wrote back, "No What Happened." I actually omitted the punctuation, I didn't have the time to pay attention to small details. I knew it would be drastic given that there was no salutation from Natalie. Natalie wrote back, "he killed himself last night." And without hesitation or being cogniscent of anyone present. I had to take a step back from the screen and louder than speaking volume I said, "Oh My God. What the FUCK!?"

Gordon was a friend of mine. I met him at a show. It was to see the Lucksmiths play back in June of 2001. I was introduced to him and a group of other people at the show. He asked me where I went to school and I told him I went to school in Richmond. Gordon's brother waited tables at this cafe I patroned a lot in Richmond. We struck up conversation. He was a nice guy. Very chatty. And you didn't get the sense you were being judged or sized up by what you had to say with him. It felt very embarrasment free. And that made hanging out with Gordon feel refreshing.

I hung out with Gordon a lot when I moved back to the metropolitan area. I didn't know too many people when I moved back to my parent's house. We usually just hung out at the Galaxy Hut, a little bar that had amusing decor and little bands with lots of potential always played there. Gordon would get off work from Barnes & Noble. At the Galaxy Hut, he'd unwind by reading a book that was thicker than the Bible and drink Chimay (his favorite beer). He'd tell me about this girl Karen that he liked. How she was the sister of his co-worker and how he was trying his best to get her to go out with him. Gordon and Karen started going out. And I saw less of him. Every now and then I'd see him at the Galaxy Hut and he'd tell me about how he was going to get another job. This job would have him keep hours of a night watchman. So I saw even less of him.

Life went on, as usual, for me. I made other friends. And drifted into other circles. Some months would pass. And I'd catch Gordon at the Galaxy Hut again. We'd get into conversation and keep each other abreast of what was happening with ourselves. We'd make unsteady promises to hang out sooner or later. Sometimes they'd pan out. And other times not. Last January, I saw him at the Black Cat. Another bar in the city. I asked him how he was doing. And he said, "All right." And he mentioned something about getting panic attacks. He complimented me on losing weight and cutting my hair differently. And he asked me the next time I'd be playing. I told him I had another show in April. And that he should come out. He said he would. We had other things to attend to that night. So we parted ways and we both said, "See ya later."

Back to the Thursday afternoon frozen in front of my computer, I wanted to cry. But I came up with some rationale in my head that gave me an excuse not to. I thought, "You and Gordon Weren't All That Good of Friends. He's Pretty Much a Stranger to You Now. So No Hard Feelings." But that rationale didn't make that much sense. We were friends. And we had some great conversations. Perhaps, I should cry. But I was at work. And I didn't want my co-workers to think I was hysterical. Nor did I feel like I could really tell anyone what happened. I just got up and went to the restroom. I walked in and stared at the mirror. I was trembling a little. Not visibly. Internally. And going through my head was the thought of Gordon willfully trying to kill himself. And succeeding.

Such a thought passed through my head once. Maybe a few times. I was in high school at the time. I was devastatingly depressed. I felt heavy. I didn't get excited by too much. I felt my face was contorted into this scowl and a frown. Yet I wasn't even making that face. The whole time the thought that just ran through my head was "No One Cares About You And Maybe If You Did Die Maybe They'd Care and Acknowledge You." That thought process made sense to me when I was 15. I think I was just worried that perhaps my life wouldn't amount to anything I wanted. Perhaps, my whole perception of how things were were totally off. Maybe it stemmed from some traumatic incident I didn't give creedence to. I was just suffering from thoughts I kept reminding myself of. Maybe it was just everything.

I remember I was at a concert in RFK stadium. And I was at the top of the stadium with some kids from high school. I looked down at the ground from the top of the stadium and I kept thinking of how much of a relief it would be to step off the ledge and hit the ground. End it all. To not have to think. So. Hard. Anymore. Everything was just so heavy with consequence then. Everything was just so hard for me. I remember how I couldn't eat. How I'd sleep all the time. How I'd wake up at 4am every morning. How I hated life and how it felt like it would just go on and on. And at the time, I didn't see any sort of reason to anything. Nor did I see any resolution. However, I was just too scared to end it all.

But I got over feeling that way. It took some time though.

But I sat back at my desk. And I had no idea how to explain myself to my co-worker (that sat next to me) about what happened with Gordon and all the thoughts that ran through my head. Whenever someone I know dies, a train of thoughts deliver me something new. I thought I should live more fully. I should stop feeling sorry for myself. I thought I should have children. I thought I should pursue the job that I want. I should stop worrying all the time. Because when someone I know dies, I feel there are larger powers at work. This isn't a broken bone. It's bigger than that. Exponentially bigger than that. I have no idea where they are. I think of how we're not seeing the same things anymore. I think about all the days that they are missing.

As for Gordon, I'm sorry for whatever happened that made him do this. I'm sorry that his problems had no forseeable resolution. I'm sorry for anyone that knew him better than I did. I want him to know that I think about him very often these days. And I'd want him to know that everyone misses him.

Good night, Gordon.

Eat A Plum

2005-04-06T17:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my mother can get me angry. This happens when she gets into this mode where she must clean the whole house from top to bottom. This affliction has taken her over recently as she has just remodeled her home. She'll spend the weekend in her "mom jeans" and her white Redskins sweatshirt. She won't be wearing makeup, but her face will be adorned by her glasses. Never have I seen her so passionate about anything aside from cleaning and ballroom dancing. She loves both. But cleaning is easier for her to afford. She tells me how rewarding it is to vacuum. And what a pleasure it is to see a spot on the carpet get clean in seconds after running a vacuum over it. (My mom is cheating on my dad.....With a vacuum.)

When she gets into these moods she likes to spread her joy around. She comes to my room. In times like this, she neglects to knock. She just opens the door. (Thankfully, I'm not laying there naked.) She tells me how she just cleared out my brother's closet. She speaks as if she just leveled a 10 story building with her wrecking ball (her vacuum possibly). She gets mad when I don't see the "white light" she sees. She gets frustrated. She starts to believe that I love to live in squalor and that I enjoy filth. I have a lot of clutter. I tend to read a lot of magazines. And I have piles of records that I've listened to or plan on listening to. There's just a lot going on in my room.

My mother will get real impatient with me. And she has this hushed disappointment in me for not clearing out mail from my desk. These solicitation letters have been laying on my desk for a year. She yells at me for having a pile of magazines on my floor. She yells at me for having piles of CD's on my desk. On top of my stereo. On top of everything. But still....

This is my life! This is who I Am!!!! (This Is What I Am Screaming Inside My Head, But On The Outside, I Deflate And I Say, 'Okay...' In that teenaged tone that just said, 'Uncle!'")

I have a lot going on these days. I just don't have the time. I have music I have to work on. I have grad school to think about. I have a new apartment I should be looking into. I have thoughts and feelings that I need to sort through by laying on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I try to find that spot on the ceiling where I killed a spider. The spot was maroon and black. And whenever I stayed awake at night I would fix my eyes on that one spot. It was like looking at a pinhole on a vast blank canvas. There I projected all my thoughts of "Am I Good Enough?" or "Do I Qualify?" And I just stared.

The spot has been cleaned off and painted over.

It's been about a year since I started this diet. I've lost close to 40 lbs. Depending on the day. I used to eat salad or soup everyday. And have some hardcore workout. I just wasn't comfortable at the weight I was. I just stored all this food in me and I had no idea that I'd be so heavy. I decided to go on a semi-fast diet. But it felt good to have all that out of me. And now that I've essentially quit smoking, I feel even better.

Lately, I've been eating a lot of starchy foods. I haven't really felt much responsibility to adhere to a strict lettuce-cabbage diet program, (like I'm some sort of rabbit or fucking kangaroo.) I just eat whatever is around and exercise a lot. But I still feel heavy. I could definitely sink to the bottom of an ocean. My mom always gives advice for that, "Kevin, You Should Eat Some Vegetables Or Fruit. Eat A Plum. It'll Keep You Constitutional. And You Won't Feel So Heavy."

My mom loves everything clean. And sometimes it starts to make sense.

And that scares me.

Next Chapter

2005-03-28T13:41:00.000-08:00

I went up to Philadelphia to interview at the University where I intend to go to grad school. It wasn't so much an interview as me just chatting with the chairman (err....chairwoman) Barbara to discuss what I'd be doing at the school, given that I get accepted. Because I happen to suffer from being a neurotic, I clam up. The chairwoman pretty much went over what classes I'd be taking. The program. Fellowships and scholarships offerred. It all seemed really interesting. Promising. Fullfilling. Terrifying.

I suppose big steps like this can be intimidating. In my mind, I thought of this day that I go to grad school as this far away dream that I have been planning for. However, this dream would not materialize until way out in the future. Suddenly, I was realizing that it was HAPPENING RIGHT NOW. As Barbara went over my schedule and classes I'd be taking, a cruel thought ran through my brain. Perhaps, the way things are right now is just fine! Maybe I don't have to go to school and I should invest my time trying to become a full-time illustrator. Maybe this teaching thing is an easy way out for me because I have no idea how to really use my art as a career. Maybe all this time and effort I've been putting into "wanting to teach" has been a way for me to avoid actually doing something. Maybe I was frightened that once I got in, I'd realize that this was not the life I wanted for myself. Then, there I am, 20 years later, embittered and mad that I spent all that time doing something I didn't want in the first place.

Barbara kept wanting me to ask questions. However, I was afraid to. I didn't want my question to come out and sound as if I didn't know if I really wanted to be a teacher. There's not some flagpole in the back of my head that waves a red-flag that yells, "TEACH AMERICA!" I just thought it'd be a job that would give me some sense of fullfillment. Barbara held my hand. Not literally. But in the way she talked to me. "Kevin, I Know This Is A Big Change For You. And Big Changes Bring On Scary Thoughts. But You Did All The Work And Drove Up Here To See About It. So This Must Be Something That You Are Interested In Doing."

I dropped the act. I dropped the guard. And I started asking about things with every feeling available. Excitement. Terror. Trepidation. Apathy. Confusion. Some optimism thrown in for good measure.

There's a book out there called Blink. I think? Anyhow, it's about how people innately know what they want by just trusting their gut instinct. It's how people can reach decisions in a split second without having to do much research. I try to trust my gut a lot. But sometimes, people tell me that my gut is wrong. My gut is confused. My gut doesn't think like normal guts. But it is my gut. And that is the only gut I have to go on.

I've been reading Roseanne Barr's book called MY LIVES. I got it for a penny off of Amazon. The shipping & handling brought it up to $3.50. But I read it cover to cover. I'm oddly interested in her life. She's the "American Dream," if you will. Overcoming hardship and fighting all the odds in order to get where she wanted to go. She was merciless. And always trusted her gut despite what other seemingly powerful people told her. Each chapter made my little hardships seem invalid. I was able to relate though. On some level.

I feel like this particular chapter in my life is reaching its' electrifying conclusion. Burning bridges. Building new ones. Secrets revealed. Overcoming obstacles. Gaining personal growth. Deaths. Births. Lessons learned. And somehow trying to get back to the status quo. I just hope the next chapter doesn't begin in utter mayhem.

So Says Johnny

2005-03-18T15:47:00.000-08:00

I've been finding it really hard to write lately. And sometimes, the best cure for writer's block is to write about writer's block. Since writing is a reflection of the soul. And this blog is a reflection of my thoughts and my so-called "soul." My soul can't really make itself clear. Perhaps, in my writing, I'll come to find out what is plaguing me and I'll be able to get over it. And soon enough, I can make this blog turn into a stream of profound thoughts and earth-shattering conclusions. However, right now, I'm reduced to drooling on myself. Feeling frustrated. Not knowing what to write about. Thinking too hard about my actions. And just not getting anywhere.

In college, I took a drawing class with a Richard Durkins. He was a quirky fellow. A severe man-child. He had this childlike enthusiasm that made some kids call him, "Faggot." I don't really know or care about his liasons. But, he did have some pretty profound things to say in class. My classmates and I stood in the classroom by our individual easels. He gave us an assignment for the class. All the while, he walked around and give us suggestions for what we'd want to do. Sitting in some old decrepit room covered in charcoal dust, he went up to the front of the room and had a rant about artist's block. I was all ears. I was all too aware of what 'frustrated' is. I need some remedies.

Richard said, "Artist's Block Comes From When You Are Thinking Too Hard About Your Objective. It Makes All Your Actions Towards The Objective Seem Ineffective. You Lose Your Confidence. And Your Objective Never Materializes." He added, "If You Want To Get Over It, Just Relax And Do It."

Note taken.

I wish I could be like Henry Darger. This time without the pedophilia. I wish I could live in some jail cell or whatever the fuck he was stuck in. Just drawing his queer little doodles and making up this expansive deep history with an amazing mythology behind all his characters. I mean, true, you may call me a nerd. But I'd be so deep in the jail cell of my mind, I totally wouldn't give a shit. I'd probably live in my own shit. Living in squalor. With bloody knuckles. Missing a few teeth.

There's this song I've been trying to write. Sometimes, it's hard. Perhaps, I blame it on my skills. Perhaps, it's not exactly like the people I try to emulate. I'm not Yngvie Fucking Malmsteen. I don't sing like Freddie Mercury. Perhaps, it's not what people like. Or maybe they won't get the jokes. Or maybe people won't care. Or maybe....blah, blah, blah. Who cares?

I care. And that's the only way it'll work. Only if you be yourself. So says Johnny. Carson. That is a piece of advice he gave Conan before he started his own late show. Johnny knew nothing about his skills. Maybe he'd fail or swim in that thick soup of mediocrity. Or maybe he'd be good.

Relax, dude.

Timing & Space

2005-03-14T16:45:00.000-08:00

Sunday evenings are usually the pits. Most Sunday nights, I try to get out as much as I can out of my weekend before the working week starts up again. This way, I won't feel so disappointed that I didn't do much of anything the past weekend.

Last night, I was watching VH1 Classics. They have an hour long program called "The Alternative." They have music videos that I never knew existed or else they have videos that I long to see. They aired a snippet of an interview with Mike Mills about the origins of the REM song called "Radio Free Europe." And I was expecting them to air an old REM video from before the time I liked music. Instead, I was surprised to see a very familiar video.

The video opened with a shot of Michael Stipe from the chest down. And he was wearing that olive green shirt with a red star on his chest. He was itching under his rib. And there were these red lights and strobes going in the background. And at that moment, I wasn't 24 years old anymore. The video was called "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" And I could vividly recall the day that video premiered on MTV.

When that song came out, I was a high school freshman. Again. I remember my biggest concern was the state of my acne condition. It was really important for me to be accepted. I was in my pubescent stage. I remember being deeply concerned with what was going on in the Real World. It was the season that had Pedro, Puck, Cory, Rachel, Judd, and Pam. Mohammed, too. I remember getting up every morning at 5:50am, so I could walk to my bus stop at 6:40am and get to school at 7:30am. My first period class was Latin with Father Metzger, who was our principal as well. I was 1 out of 5 students in his class. I remember going from class to class was a lesson in bravery. I was so awkward. Not unlike the others. It was the same sensation from those dreams I had of walking around in the mall naked. I felt like everyone was looking at me. And shaking their head at me. In disapproval. Maybe they would laugh a bit?

As I watched the REM video some more, I would have a rush of all these memories from the fall of 1994. I remembered how my brother came home from Philadelphia for Thanksgiving. And how he conned our eldest brother into buying $70 worth of CD's for him. I remember sitting by the dumpster at the local 7-11 and watching the sun shine on the green grassy knoll of my high school's parking lot. I remember getting on the bus and how I always needed to open those fucking school bus windows to air out the hormonal rage that was flooding the bus' interior. I recall Jenny Shaw coming up to me one morning and saying sorry for making fun of me on the bus. This is very significant since Jenny Shaw was a flesh & blood Barbie Doll and massively popular. Like she was even popular in high schools in Japan. She was also the first girl in our class to get laid. I drifted in and out of high school situations and all of its' joys and hardships. I thought of how awesome music was for me back then. I thought of how cool clothes were. I remembered Angela Chase leaving Brian Krakow on his bike while she got into Jordan Catalano's car.

The video ended. And I snapped back into 2005. And like Brian Krakow I felt like I was left out in the middle of the street while my teenage years played like a slide show in my mind. Suddenly, the rug was pulled from beneath me. And here I am again.

It's funny how that music and that little bit of visual can recall so much for me. I became remiss. All that I recalled was time I'll never get back. That is a span of time I'll never experience again. If I ever do, it'll be in a different way. Things are different now. Maybe things are a bit more complicated? But I just feel that new complications come from old complications. The amount is always the same.

Somehow Michael Stipe with that fucking olive shirt with the red star burnt a hole in my mind. It created this vortex where I slip back into 1994. And I just think about the sun shining on that grassy knoll of my high school's parking lot and I'm covered in plaid. But this time, I'm not hiding.

Going Alone

2005-03-11T16:39:00.000-08:00

I FedEx'd my grad school application yesterday. I'm pretty relieved. I was glad to get it there before it was due. The bottom line deadline is April 1st. And the early admittance deadline is March 15th. I didn't think I'd get it done since I have terminal procrastinitus. It's deadly, I think. As soon as something big or heavy is about to happen, I live in denial. I pretend like it doesn't exist until the day it actually comes to exist. When it does, I freak out. I panic. I die. I get it done. And sooner or later, I get over it. I get self-conscious and I forget.

One thing that I've been procrastinating is quitting the cigarettes. When I was a freshman in high school, I'd see some kids in my school smoking at the nearby 7-11. I would associate the term "bad-ass" with those kids. I thought they were "so lame" (said in that stoner daze fashioned by Keanu). Don't they care about health? Don't they know about the risks that smoking cause? Has any "very special episode of (insert any sitcom)" taught them anything? Haven't the countless deaths of countless aunts and uncles with lung cancer swayed them? Didn't Mr. Hodges' health class chapter on smoking change their view?

Youth can be so dumb.

The next year, I started smoking. I had befallen that sensitive age in my teenage years where everything is just really heavy. Heavy in epic proportions kind of "heavy." The hormones. The psychiatrist. The teenage era. My own feelings. The push to get good grades. That urge for approval. The uncertain future issue. That stressed me out enough to have a cigarette. Cigarettes gave me the opportunity to vent. Literally and metaphorically. I was well aware of the effects of smoking, but that just didn't matter. Smoking gave me something to do. I could've used one of those fuckin' moldable stress relief toys from Spencer's Gifts, but smoking was cooler. It reinforced that "tough edge." Smoking just says, "I've had it hard. I'm really edgy. SO Don't FUCK WITH ME!"

I quit when I was a junior high school. I was over smoking. I was clean. When I turned 18, I bought a pack because I could and it ushered me into that "college attitude." Live hard and prosper. I smoked on and off throughout college. It's fun to do at parties. It's great when you smoke some "grass." It's nice to do when you want to sit and reflect. It's nice on those boring Sunday afternoons when you're taking a walk. It's good company. The whole time, there is this thought that drifted in and out of my head aside from my other thoughts and delusions. The thought went like, "I really shouldn't be doing this." Or it's "I need to quit." "I can't do this forever." "I can't breathe." "How come I can't handle anything hard without smoking?"

My friend Brett is smoking again. I never knew him as a smoker. He smoked for a long time before I knew him. He quit about 2 years ago. One stressful weekend at his job recently, he bought a pack and smoked one every hour while he was at work. He would tell me and his other friends that he would quit as soon as the weekend was over. But the work kept coming. And he kept smoking. Soon, he started telling us that he would quit once we set a date. And on that date, he wasn't able to let go. He's still smoking, maybe not as much. It's hard. I can understand. These things become more than just burning leaves. They become friends that I can't bare to see go.

After seeing Brett get caught up and back in the game, I decided to call it a day. Maybe I want to take a stab at living independently. I'm already clean. It's been 5 days. I'm going to try to handle hardship on my own. This time I'm going to take a walk by myself. I'm going alone. I hope it'll be okay.

Hold My Hand

2005-03-04T14:42:00.000-08:00

Last night, my friend/neighbor Laura invited me over to watch the OC. I would've declined. Because I hate the show. And I really like to lay in my bed lately and watch my ceiling. Instead, I thought that I've been really lazy and I could use walking a half-mile down the street to her house and watch some mindlessly entertaining television. You see, last week was the first time I'd seen the OC. It's been hyped by all my friends as being this "great show." And that it fills this hole in our lives that has been gaping since Beverly Hills 90210 went off the air. I used to watch 90210 regularly until they went to college. When they started having grown up problems, I found my attention start to wane and really didn't care about them at all.

Last night, I caught the episode of the OC where the waifish strawberry blonde-haired Marissa boldly engages in her lesbian relationship with a girl whose name escapes me. But apparently this girl is really a "lesbian." She's a lesbian by the way of Paris Hilton. Marissa, on the other hand, is just confused. She's rebelling. Her feelings just aren't sorted out. She's not really a lesbian. She throws caution to the wind. And might possibly experience an orgasm. Whatever. I mean, they're hot, don't get me wrong. I don't mind seeing them. But I just don't buy it.

Ryan (who looks like a first year grad student, yet plays a sophomore in high school) is not a satisfying character. I feel as if he is suffering from the same affliction that plagued all of Dawson's Creek. He's so precocious. Actually too precocious. He says things that are so mature, that I couldn't find myself saying such things at the ripe age of 24. Ryan boldly tells his best friend to stop his torrid affair that he's having with Marissa's really hot "22 year old mom." I don't know what your friends were like in high school. But I thought it would be more realistic to have Ryan very apathetic and neutral about the whole ordeal. Like, why give a shit? I know Ryan just cares about getting into UCLA.

Back to Marissa's "hot 22 year old mom." Why are the moms SO hot? Seth and Ryan's mom is foxy yet flustered and distressed all the time. Wouldn't their "hot mom" have issues with Seth being such a nerd? I know most "hot moms" would. And they feel no need to get dowdy. It's like menopause means nothing to these women.

And the relationships between the kids and their parents are so well adjusted. No one fights. There's no eye-rolling. There's no frustrated sighs. The only friction comes with boyfriends, girlfriends, and/or friends. There's upset but it seems to resolve pretty easily. However, everyone just seems to be coasting on this even keel. Like no one omits this tangible abysmal despair that would come with the territory they seem to tread.

I want to write the OC. I know I'm not the best writer. But here are some ideas I could pitch. I want to have a story arc that has all the "hot moms" experience menopause and the change of life it brings on. I want the Peter Gallagher father to get into some "get rich quick pyramid scheme" and his family could experience bankruptcy. I want Marissa to have a lesbian relationship with a girl that looks more like Ned Beatty. I want to have Ryan be a self-righteous asshole. Because I know he has it in him. And I want him to never be responsible for his actions. And somehow if he could drop out of high school and pursue a GED. That would be a great story arc to have going on too. I want Seth to have more acne and want him to get that nerd girl captain of the Russian club pregnant. Then we could have that "Very Special Episode" where he needs to come up with a few hundred dollars for an abortion.

I know people love escapism because real life can be hard. I know people hate movies like American Beauty, because that underbelly of life is not very attractive. People just want wish fulfillment. This is the reason why most entertainment out there is just fluff. I just want more shows that can be true. Or just some honesty. Not that I enjoy watching other people experience hardship. It's just that I want a show to hold my hand and tell me it's not so bad. That people get through. And that people change. I just want validation.

I just want to watch someone crack and watch them clean it up.

Sorry, I'm Lost

2005-03-01T13:42:00.000-08:00

It's me again. Sorry, I haven't written. I got busy. If you're a friend checking on my stats and seeing how I'm doing. Well, check no further. Because I hate you. And you should make more of an effort to call me.

Fucker.

That was a joke. Sorry.

I've been working hard. Trying to have some sort of social life. Trying to keep up with hobbies. Trying to plan out my future. Trying to work on projects. All the while, I'm trying to have some down time so I don't get too retarded and have that sensation like I can breathe. I want to live really.

******

In a way, I think I've lost my voice. It used to be so easy for me to scratch inside and make a little story about my life at the time being. But recently, all this work has made me really retarded and my brain has turned to mush. A fine mush covered in gravy and cheese with a side of stuffing and sliced turkey. Have I mentioned I've eaten an obscene amount of pizza lately. And I think I've developed a stutter.

******

I have one story to tell you about my life recently. I used to go to school with Drew. His father was hockey star that played for the Washington Capitols. During my freshman year, we used to be cool. And we used to be kind of friends. Then, there's that great divide that comes in sooner or later. The great divide I speak of is the breaking point for most fledgling friendships. It decides whether a certain friendship will wilt & fade or prosper. He joined the dudes on the lacrosse team and I relegated to the nerdy kids that enjoy sci-fi and comic books.

The other day, I got an email from Drew. It was an invitation to join our high school alumni mailing list. This way we could keep up with each other and see how everyone was doing. This is another tool to tell other alumni what you are up to. This is what they call "networking." I joined. I have this odd interest to see how people progress and prosper. Even if I'm not interested in them as people. I could go into the deeper psychological ramifications. But I'm tired and I'm bored. All I know is that "that's just me."

Lately, I've been bombarded with emails from this so-called List. "Scott" posts a lot. He was confessing his 3 year crush to "KerryJo18." I think she was in our class. "Kevin B" and "Courtney" are now engaged. "Karen" works with some pharmaceutical company. "Broadwynn" is finishing her internship at a rehab facility. "Drew" is living in Hawaii with his fiance. "Justin" posts a lot. He was a few years older than us. But related to a lot of kids in our class. I heard that he's become really overweight and drinks heavily. There's part of me that is glad that I'm not them.

But there's another part. The one that envies how complete they are. The one that wishes that I had such things straightened out for myself. Family. Marriage. Career. Not thinking so hard. It's not good to compare. But sometimes, it seems like I'm on the losing team. There's an investment banker inside me wanting to rage. There's a corporate yes man in me wanting to adhere to my CEO's every whim. There's a part of me that wants to be highly effective. In demand. In control.

Yet those feelings quickly fade. I draw a crude yet retarded looking dragon. It's on a hot-pink post-it. I sit back and make up stupid stories in my head. I'm back on track. This is what I really want to write to that mailing list I'm on. But this is only for me to know.

When You Were Mean

2005-02-18T16:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Diary,

How Come I've Told You The Dumbest Fucking Stories From My Life This Past Week?

A) I didn't print this up on the site. But I wrote you the story of how I've been lazy at work recently. Only because we have this huge move and Big Changes shut me down. I can't move. I like gradual changes. But Big One Fell Swoop changes really stump me. Then I had this epiphany while I was cleaning this dry erase board. See, at first, I was really scared to clean the dry erase board. Then I got pissed that I was writing about cleaning a dry erase board. And part of me thought that I had washed up and totally lost all feeling and forgot how to write. And then I got scared that I was becoming this ridiculous office drone that had no idea of the bigger picture. Then I lost sight of the lesson that I learned.

The lesson, I think, was: When You Need To Do Something, Just Do It. And Don't Think About It. I thought this as the nylon acoustic guitar music swelled and Bob Saget comforted me in the wooden panelled kitchen.

B) Then I got a call and the person couldn't fucking speak any fucking english and he was on a cell phone, So I had the sound of the LA freeway piping into my ear. And to make matters worse some other caller comes in and asks for some dude that I have no idea exists. And he wants forwarding information. I tell him But my animal instinct is to rip him a new asshole. Tell him that I want to crucify his mother. And tell him to "fuck off." But I have to regain my composure and realize that would make our company look mean.

C) Dear Diary, I tried to write you some stupid entry about weird thoughts I have sometimes. This pertained to the time I was taking a hammer to the trash can. And part of me wanted to save the hammer. But I thought what would happen, if I used my hammer. On someone. Like I thought about if I just lost it at work and bludgeoned my office manager with the hammer I had in hand. Not that I actually could. But the fact that the thought crossed my mind made it seem like it could happen. I was even able to visualize it. And it made me feel bad. OR there was that instance when I was driving on the highway, and I saw this animal on the side of the road. Pretty much obliterated by cars driving over it. And I imagined if I let Snowball (my dog) loose on the open road. And then I got really sad. I hope this doesn't make me seem like Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer. It just highlighted a certain thought.

Living things are precious indeed.

D) Dear Diary, I have a weekend of work. On a holiday weekend at that. While all my friends are being fancy and free, I rot in an office building, lifting boxes and putting stickers on things. I have a weird pain in my belly button. I imagine that I was the test subject of some alien abduction case study last night.

Dear Diary, I want to think normally. I just want to be free. I want to watch that Coca Cola commercial with that Queen song, "I Want To Break Free."

Lesson learned.

Look For Yourself

2005-02-16T15:47:00.000-08:00

It's funny when you look into a mirror you're not quite getting what other people see. I realized this as I was watching my friend fix his hair in the mirror. In his reflection, his hair looked pretty ridiculous. Ridiculous in that 80's sorta way. He looked as if he was starring alongside Val Kilmer in Real Genius. In real life, his hair looked fine. And it looked normal. I was wondering if he was so conscious of what other people saw, he was able to reverse the image in his reflection. That's virtually impossbile. But I wondered, what the fuck was he seeing?

I borrowed a book from my next door neighbor in college. She was a bit eccentric. Her personality and life seemed to be inspired by Bjork. She had a way of fashioning herself to make her stand out from the crowd. She succeeded. Sometimes, it seemed as if she were trying really hard. Like she came to class dressed similarly to the Bride of Frankenstein. But back to the book. I borrowed this book, right? And it was written by Tom Robbins. I honestly couldn't follow it. It jumped from place to place and from time period to time period so frequently. So I dumped the book. But I did flip through it to see where the story would go. And she underlined some sentences in the book that gave me a weird image of how she imagined herself.

In the book, she underscored a paragraph that I can't totally quote. But the idea of the paragraph was like, "All along she knew she was different and strange. All of her friends and colleagues feared her uniqueness. But that was the secret to her success. She later became the most famed artist of her time." I'd like to think that such things were organic and came from the heart. The idea that her identity came from the fact that it may pay off into this great artistic career made me think less of her.

This past weekend, I went out of town to shoot this little film. It's a music video actually. And since it was my song, I'm featured prominently in the video. I trust the director will take all the good shots he got and splice them into a fine little montage of scenes. He told me that he'll mail a rough cut in the next few weeks to see how I feel. I told my friends who starred in the video as well, that I'd let them see it first. Since I may just profusely vomit at the image of myself singing, walking, running, and breathing. I don't think I hate myself. It's more like I just don't think I look that pleasant. I think I can take in pictures of myself where I am perfectly still. Not smiling. My eyes blank. I look as if I've been lobotomized.

It's funny that I think I look my best when inside I'm totally void.

I've seen myself on video before. This was when I was 10 years old. And I played a "Sheperd" in the Nativity play. I sat amongst all of my classmates who also starred in the production watching the video replay of us acting out. Not once did I wince whenever I came up on screen. I was actually kind of excited to see and hear myself on video.

Perhaps, it was beaten out of me? I helped some friends of mine film a fake commercial for "Red Nipple Beer." At first, I was a bit shocked to see myself on screen. And then the shock and fear turned to something a bit less aggravating. The nauseous feeling subsided. I hit a moment when I actually thought I was okay to view in public. And then that moment turned into me thinking that I could possibly be perceived as sort of attractive. And me thinking I was kindly attractive started to piss me off.

I usually hate people that think that way.

People, I only look in the mirror just so I don't make the mistake of looking how I usually do in photos. This is just a reflection of how unphotogenic I am. I'm just looking out for you. There are some horrors I want to keep you from.

Little Heroics

2005-02-15T14:03:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday was a windy day. Did I mention it was frigid? It was freezing.

I had lunch at Miss Kim's Deli. That's the deli that is in my office building. I don't eat there that much. The reason is that it's kind of expensive. And I feel like the food they make there, I could make at home. Why bother? But once in a while, Miss Kim will surprise me and make something that I like. What I do like to eat there is the Chili.

I usually take lunch by myself. And sit in the cafe by myself. I always feel compelled to buy a newspaper. Just so I don't look like the lonely pathetic temp. I try not to read about the war. Or other world issues that seem to turn my stomach. So I invest my interest in the part of the newspaper that deals with movie news. Entertainment news. I care about Lindsay Lohan. Okay. Not at all. I sit in the cafe and I see other employees walk through. I divert my eyes and concentrate on my lunch. I feel a bit embarrassed to have my "co-workers" see me eating chili. Because it can be messy. I feel like I look like some baby in a Gerber ad that is sloppily eating mashed carrots.

I finish lunch. And I walk out the door.

I'm walking into the parking lot. And I'm taking in the cold breeze. And I think about all the things I have to do. I think about all the things that I want to do. I think about how I will feel after all those things are done. I think about something else. And suddenly I hear some woman screaming for help.

I look around my field of vision where that scream is coming from. I see nothing. Perhaps, it was a joke. Or my imagination. I keep walking. And I hear the scream for help again. This time it just got louder. I look and I finally locate where the pleas are coming from. I walk up to the dumpster cage in the parking lot. I look in between the wooden slats of the cage.

Miss Kim is standing inside the cage. Shivering. Chili was smeared on her forehead. She looks panicked. She looks cold. She can't speak english all that well. She's Korean. But I can decipher her broken english enough to understand that she is freaked out. She's hysterical.

What happened was that she was taking the trash out to the dumpster. The wind blew and shut the dumpster cage doors on her. The doors shut in such a way that it was impossible to open them without the assistance of another person. Miss Kim panicked. She screamed for help, but there was no one in the parking lot. Or if there was, no one could hear her. She was stuck inside the cage for the past 20 minutes. It was freezing. And Miss Kim just had her cardigan on. She was scared no one would hear her.

I told her to not worry and that I'd help her out. Getting the door open was a bit tricky. It was like the lock was overlapping the wrong door or something. If you can make sense of that. If you can't, that is why the door was jammed. I tried to pull the doors open. But Miss Kim was pulling in the opposite direction. Defeating the purpose. I sternly told her to let go and that I'd take care of it. At one point, I wasn't sure if I could get it open. And I was about to get the building engineer. But Miss Kim begs, "DON'T GO!"

So I stayed.

Finally, I jimmied the door open. And Miss Kim came out. She was pouring over with "thank you's" and gratitude. She kept talking about how cold it was in there. And how awful it was to be trapped in there without knowing someone would find you. In a very Clint Eastwood way by the way of Unforgiven, I go, "It's All Right. Just Get Inside And Get Warm." She kept thanking me. And I go, "You're Welcome. Just Go Inside. You've Been Freezing Out Here." She runs back to the deli. And I walk back to my cubicle wondering what just happened. Why did I just imagine myself as some renegade cowboy in a poncho with a rolled cigarette hanging out my mouth with a five o'clock shadow ready to lay down the law?

The next day was Taco Salad day. And I usually like how Miss Kim prepares it, so I always get one for lunch. Miss Kim goes, "Your total is $5.79." With a shy pause looking at me in the corner of her eyes, she goes in her choppy english, "Thank You very much for yesterday." She shoots an embarrassed smile. And I look away slightly, shaking my head as if it were nothing, and I go, "Yeah, sure. No problem......."

Closer

2005-02-11T14:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I recognized a new feature on Friendster. Actually, new features have been popping on Friendster only to keep the site fresh and new. They want to be innovative. They want to keep people abreast. They have this new feature that chronicles your birthday. You can tell when your friends' birthdays are because your Friendster profile picture will have a birthday cake icon under it. And if you were to click on the person's icon to access their profile, Friendster will indicate when their birthday is. That was new back in November.

Back to yesterday, I was on Friendster again. I got a Friendster request. You get notifications in your email if anyone has left a testimonial, a message or in my case, a Friendster request. I logged in. Accepted. And something caught my eye. Under people's profile picture there would be a smily face icon. This indicates that your certain Friendster "friend" is online and you can in fact chat with them. This is like instant messenger over the Friendster website.

The thing with Friendster is that you don't have to be closely linked with anyone to be their Friendster "buddy." Even the smallest of connections can make it onto your friends' list. For instance, a friend of a friend whom I spent all of half an hour with became my Friendster "buddy" a week later. It's less about actual connections and it becomes this thing where it's about status. I even "Friendster'd" this guy that claims to be Quentin Tarantino. His profile was pretty convincing. And I had just seen Kill Bill and totally loved it. Therefore, I wanted to be closer to the experience of the movie by being friends with the person that made it. I don't know what it means. But the friends I was making over this website started to say more about my interests instead of actual heartfelt connections.

Friendster has another capability that allows you to look up people using their first and last name. I decided to look up my best friend from 5th grade. His name was Ian. We used to hang out all the time. Ride bikes. Go swimming. Watch movies. Sleep over at each other's houses on the weekends. Then junior high came around. And that was a breaking point for me and lots of other friends. We weren't friends like we used to be. I looked him up and I found him on Friendster. I clicked on his icon to go to his profile. However, it said that we weren't "closely connected" so I couldn't view his profile. You can have your profile be public to everyone. Or else you can limit your exposure by saying that you only want up to 3rd degree friends to look you up. I know that Ian and I weren't as good friends like we used to be. And Friendster proved to me that we have no friends in common. Enough to have us separated from each other on a website.

Now with the chatting capability on the website, I'm able to catch other friends on Friendster and talk to them. Even though some of my Friendster friends aren't all that close to me. There's that potential that possibly we could be better friends.

Your New Place

2005-02-03T12:28:00.000-08:00

I may have mentioned that my home is in upheaval. Due to a flood that we had on Christmas night, our basement has to be re-done. My mother made the phone calls and made the orders. Now there are all these workers in our basement painting away and stripping the floor of the wooden slats. The fact that we are updating our basement made my mother want to update the rest of our home.

She realized that wallpaper is passe. Old-fashioned. So she decided to have all the wallpaper in our home stripped away. And in it's place, we will have a fresh coat of paint.

*****

Lois is moving into her new apartment. She has Priscilla over often to pack things up and get her old apartment situated. She'll have Priscilla over for the whole weekend. As for what they do, I'm never too sure. I've pretty much designated Lois as being mentally and emotionally unstable. I can't imagine her company as being too fun or too enjoyable. Nothing against the mentally or emotionally unstable. Lois' conversational skills are lacking. Not that she can't talk. She just talks the whole time. The subject matter just spans time and space. No focus. She really hasn't been all that centered since her son, Darryl, left her.

Lois has told me the story many times of how her son Darryl fell into drugs and alcoholism. And after that happened, he refused to speak to Lois ever again. Darryl was the only person that she had in her life. She was a single mom. She alluded to Darryl not liking the suitors that she had. He needed some form of escape or rebellion. Perhaps, he found his mother overbearing. Like I did. I can see why he would do the things he did. She'd find out where he was working. He was a waiter at a high scale restaraunt. She'd go. Trying to forge some sort of connection again. And he'd refuse to serve the table. And he'd request that she never come around or to speak to him again. This happened many times for over 20 years. And at some point, Lois stopped trying.

This past weekend, Priscilla went over to Lois' to help her out with more packing. Priscilla enjoys going over there. I think Priscilla likes the insane dramas that her favorite soap operas don't offer. This weekend was special though. They went to a restaraunt. This steak house that Darryl works at. Lois requested that they be seated in Darryl's section. There was a lot of tension as they didn't know if Darryl would come around for them. But the waiter came around and it was Darryl. And Lois asked for a hug. And for the first time in 20 years, he gave up his fight. And he gave her a hug. And asked her how she was. And asked her if she needed help with finances and such. Lois declined the help because she finally got something that she's been wanting for a long time.

*****

I know I bitch about my brother Rene. A lot. Perhaps, more so than I should. But part of me is scared that I could become frustrated, never satisfied, and generally unhappy. And in turn try to spread that type of feeling throughout everyone I know. I know it's not in my nature. But there's that lingering fear that possibly I. Will. Snap.

In the meantime, I've decided to detach myself a bit from him. Perhaps with that time away, I could grow up a bit. And possibly he could move on a bit. Sometimes, I am tempted to see him and see how things are going with him. And get dinner. And hang out like old times. But I tell myself, that it's not the right time. And that I might just become really frustrated after doing so. And that I should be doing something else.

The other night, I decided to catch dinner with him. No one's home. And there was no food in the house. So this time I thought I should get dinner with Rene. And this time, to my surprise, he had a different presence about him. One that didn't seem like it was struggling. One that didn't seem mad about much. One that didn't think it was anyone's fault. With that, I found it easier to speak. Easier to relate. Easier to relax. I found myself to enjoy his company. Something I couldn't do for the past 10 years.

*****

As I speak, our house is not finished just yet. There's still a lot of work that needs to be done. The flooring needs to be replaced. And the carpeting needs to be removed. But it's looking nice. And it's getting closer to being done.

Singing Lesson

2005-02-01T11:30:00.000-08:00

Dear Diary,

I don't want to run the risk of sounding mundane or ordinary right now. There is some part of me that makes me want to say something unique or special. Perhaps, just so I don't feel like I'm awash in some sea of mediocrity. And feeling like I am swimming in mediocrity in turn makes me feel stupid and makes my life seem sort of stupid. Pointless.

Anyways.

I saw these musical artists the other night. And I fear to mention their name only because everyone really appreciates them these days. But they totally deserve it. With flying colors. And then some. In some way, they make me feel real insignificant. They make this kind of music that is expressive. And grand. Honest. Thoughtful. Pretty. Okay, it's beautiful. It could possibly stand the test of time. And still feel relevant when someone hears it 10 years from now. Twenty years from now. Whatever. But then I think about what I do. And well. I just feel so unimportant.

These musical artists, that I speak of, are my age. And that makes me a bit more self-conscious. Or perhaps, I shouldn't be. It's not like I want to sell millions. Or even thousands. Or anything. But I'd like to feel justified. I want to feel like there is a point to it all. I want to feel like I'm making more than some pretty music that I learned from a guitar lesson. I want to make something that does something.

Am I having an existential crisis?

I don't know. Some could say I'm having a "quarter life crisis. " But fuck that. Whatever.

A friend once said to me, "Kevin, You Can't Please Anyone Unless You Please Yourself." I give this some thought. And I think of that Mamas & Papas' song sung by Mama Cass. She was rumored to have choked to death on a ham sandwich. But that's just mean to say. I thought it was Karen Carpenter who choked to death on a ham sandwich. Which is mean to say too. And sometimes I wonder if I'll choke on a ham sandwich. Which could be cruel irony. I almost choked to death on a nacho chip at this "hip" DC club. And as I was choking, I thought of how lame it would be to have died at a "hip" DC club. Because I Choked On A Nacho?

Dear Diary, please absolve me of thinking too hard about things. Please don't let things become too serious. Please let me remember that I'm just one person. And let me remember that Mamas & Papas' song, "make your own kind of music." Because the sentiment is true. That all the best things are really at their best when they're honest. And genuine. And not forced. Please let me have a good night's sleep tonight. Despite the fact that these musical geniuses are going to be on Conan. And that I'll be up late watching it. And taping it. All the while wishing I had that huge voice. And that huge sound.

That must be a good feeling to have. Not to be on Conan. But to be so uninhibited. And to do so, so loudly. Dear Diary, Thank You For Letting Me Be Myself.

Signed, K

A Rager

2005-01-28T12:55:00.000-08:00

My parents have left for two weeks. Although such an event could incite a total "rager" being thrown at my home, I've decided to keep the house quiet. Sometimes, a peaceful and quiet time is a "rager" all to itself.

Last week, the snow fell. I tend to get real nervous with the snow fall. I get very nervous. For a couple of reasons. Sometimes, I'm scared I'll have to drive in it. Which can be totally fine, if I have my parents' Ford Expedition at my disposal. But if I have to use my mother's car, a low riding Mercedes Benz from 1987, I fear the worst. Something about trying to go up an icy hill and spinning in circles downhill was very traumatic for me. The other thing about snow, I feel like it could trap me in the house for days. I get claustrophobic. And enclosed spaces are things I've feared for a while. It brings to mind the time when I was smaller and my older brother zipped me up in a suitcase and refused to open it.

I took the MAT exam. I took the day off work. And slept in. Ate breakfast. Somehow got my mind working. The MAT exam is something like JEOPARDY only with Multiple choice answers. It's nothing you can really study for. You have to understand the relationships between words, meanings, and amounts. And you need to be able to make analogies. And they'll throw in Greek and Roman mythology to throw me the fuck off course. Or else diseases and the founders thereof. Or else policies related to government. The MAT has reduced me to a mound of pencil sharpenings and erasures. I spell out "SHITTY" with my scantron selections. And I leave thinking I did all right.

With my parents gone for two weeks, I must find food on my own. So I go to the grocery store. There's part of me that wants to eat like "Mom & Dad Are Gone For The Weekend" but then I sober up and realize that eating ice cream for breakfast is an unwise and unhealthy decision. I lived by myself while I was in college and I used to make awful choices for what I'd eat. Oreos? Potato Chips? These were all day long binges. There was one weekend when all I did was eat Froot Loops or Fruity Pebbles. My skin had a green-ish, blue-ish hue. I look around for Low-Fat donuts. And I give up the fight. They don't exist.

I resort to buying fruit and ingredients for meals that I could make at home.

I get a spell of nagging cruel thoughts that run through my head. The kind that makes your body twitch and your stomach turn. They descend from what I do with myself in the future to what I've done in the present to things that happened in the past. Perhaps, I'm punishing myself too much. Perhaps, I'm just pissed at myself for not knowing better. Perhaps, I have low expectations. Perhaps, I keep my flaws in focus only so I can rise above it. Who knows? I miss being resilient.

I put "resilience" on my grocery list. And I move on.

I try to catch up with my NetFlix program. It's actually not NetFlix, but BlockBuster. I get BlockBuster, because I was really hard up for an iPod and I tried out this service in order to be eligible for a free iPod. It turns out to be a shitty pyramid scheme. And I now I am indebted to this DVD service which lets me watch some movies that I've already seen and too lazy to buy myself. I turn out to love it. Also, I hate renting videos and/or DVD's. The driving. The mad rush to meet the deadline. Avoidance of late fees. It really serves the lazy.

I went to a "noise show." Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon play a set. They're from the band, Sonic Youth. I worshipped them back in high school. But now, I only respect them and don't really listen to them. I hang out with friends. I feel my conversational skills are struggling that night. I make inane jokes and comments. I bomb. I'm partly nervous about my MAT exam. I decide to slip out before I say anything that makes me unbearably annoying.

After many invites and always declining, I go over to my friend's house for "taco night." This is where they watch the OC and eat tacos afterwards. The food was quite extraordinary. We talk. And watch Last Tango In Paris, which I always hear is this significantly amazing movie. The movie changes moods, time periods, and languages so frequently I find it hard to keep up. Instead, we make jokes. And our interests are peaked during the "tantric orgasm" scene. I leave before the movie finishes.

I head home. And try to get to bed. So I can wake up the next day. And repeat my everyday routines and behaviors ad nauseum. I await tonight, so I can meet up with a friend for dinner. And come home early to watch a DVD that landed on my doorstep. And go to sleep early. I'm excited.

Because everyday is a rager.

So Temporary

2005-01-26T13:02:00.000-08:00

A part of my attempt to get into grad school, one afternoon, I had to race to Arlington to get to Marymount University. I had to put down my deposit for my MAT exam. Unfortunately, Route 66 was on High Occupancy Vehicle time which left me, the single driver, to take the side roads. I was running late as it was before the Christmas holidays and their offices would be closing sooner than scheduled. As I was passing through Falls Church, a woman in a Pontiac makes a right turn and tries to merge into my lane. She starts veering really close. I find myself veering into the traffic island. About to get into an accident. I stepped on my brakes suddenly. Screeching to a halt. I got mad. And I honked my horn repeatedly. Not satisfied with just honking my horn at her, I thought has anyone ever had such bad road rage that they'd open their window and throw an object at the other vehicle?

I was tempted. But it's funny how a near collision or near accident can totally shake you up for the rest of the day. Or maybe just for the duration of your drive.

Last year, I used to work for a construction company. I used to work in their accounts payable department. I got the job through my temp agency. What I had to do was a lot of clerical work. Typing up invoice rejection letters. Make copies. Staple things. File things. A mindless drone.

After working there for a few weeks, I started to open up a bit more. I became real friendly with the people that worked there. Even the overall supervisor of the whole firm, Leeza. They just kept temping me out. And temping me out. Until, I just decided to take a position with them. I didn't mind. I thought everyone was really nice there. It was also my first real job. And the tasks were simple. And I always got off at 5pm. And the pay was good. I thought, "what is not to love?" I knew it wasn't my career per se.

After having worked there for a total of 6 months, I went out to lunch with a co-worker of mine. And she said, "Kevin, I Think You're In Danger Of Getting Fired." And I go, "What?" Apparently, they had me on "internet watch." Perhaps, I checked the news and my email a bit more than they wanted. But I always had my work done and always got it done for the day. Maybe I talked too much. I know there was a complaint amongst management that we did talk too much. Regardless, hearing that was about to get fired totally ruined my outlook.

When I got back from lunch, I noticed that everyone had been pretty cold with me. I thought it was a busy stressful week, but I realized it was only the attitude towards me had changed. I got even more self-conscious. I made a point to work hard. Even if I didn't have anything to do. I'd shuffle papers on my desk. And highlight things that didn't even need to be highlighted. I'd do anything. I just wouldn't check my email. Or talk. I stayed quiet. And just worked on through. And I felt awful.

Perhaps, the awful part stemmed from how my department prided themselves on being easygoing and lax. And if a problem came up, they'd deal with it and move on. Or maybe it came from how I thought everyone liked me. But now, everyone in the office hated me. Didn't speak to me. Or wouldn't think anything of me at all. Or perhaps, it was how my own supervisor, Paula, who once thought highly of me and spoke to me kindly. Now resorted to shouting at me if I did anything wrong. Threw work onto my desk, and say curtly, "You Need To Do This." And walk away as if my presence totally put her out. Is this office politics?

I stuck around. The whole time, I felt nauseous. Awful again. I thought over and over through my head, "AM I THE WORST EMPLOYEE KNOWN TO MAN!?" I tried to think if I could overcome it. But I felt their minds were made up. And there was no turning back. I knew I'd be fired regardless.

So the next morning, I showed up. I had already written my letter of resignation. A letter that I had to look up on the internet the night before to see how to write one. My plan was that I'd work through the day. And at the end, leave it in the Human Resources' mailbox. And never look back.

Unfortunately, 5 minutes into the day, Paula was already screaming at me for pulling out the wrong invoices from storage. Although, I totally heard her right and took note. It seemed like she was grasping at anything to yell at me for. I didn't think I could handle a full day of being yelled at for a job that I've already resigned from (in my head). So I took my letter up to Human Resources.

I quit. And I left early that day. I didn't say much of a goodbye. Although, I wasn't sure if I'd ever be a good employee. I tried to keep in mind that this feeling won't last forever. And I'll get over it. Everything is just so temporary.

Should We Smile?

2005-01-20T11:35:00.000-08:00

It is pretty much established that life is very, VERY precious. God knows if I lost my dog to the "Great Beyond", I'd need to take a few days off work. I'd need a prescription for two week's worth of Valium. I'd wear black. And the minute, I'd see her empty bowl sitting on the floor, I'd break into many a tear.

That is how much my dog is worth to me. Although she doesn't speak to me or share her thoughts really. Her unwavering devotion to me for the past 11 years has forged a very strong connection. She wakes me up at 7am most mornings. And if I don't follow her downstairs to the living room, she comes back and yelps until I do.

Depending on how you perceive things, maybe death isn't all that bad. I believe in some sort of afterlife. Right now, my perception is that death is brought on by some awful damage to the vehicle that you drive called your body. And the soul has to go somewhere else. Where it goes? I don't know. I'm hypothesizing the soul goes to some other dimension that is similar to the one where we are now. Not quite reincarnation. But another plain of existence.

So maybe that makes it easier to not be so worried about death. Snowball, my dog, won't live for too much longer. And I suppose that's okay, since I figure where I go, I'll see her again possibly? So maybe it's okay that we can think about death being kind of funny. Just because it may not be thee worst thing?

Two funny stories about death:

Michael is an orderly that works at my dad's hospital. My dad is a doctor. Michael would do odd jobs for my family to make some extra money. He happens to have a number of children that matches the number of Jesus' Apostles. Therefore, Michael could use the extra money. Michael's wife, Mrs. Grivettes, had a terminal illness. Back in 2000, she became very ill and was hospitalized. Word came around to my dad's office that Mrs. Grivettes had passed away. We were all sad for Michael. She was everything to him. The person that informed us of her passing told us where to send the flowers. We made the calls. And we made the orders.

Two days later, my dad's office got another call. They told us to hold off on the orders for Mrs. Grivettes' flowers. Because she wasn't dead. Yet. We were told to keep our orders. Just save them for next week, when she does actually pass on.

******

My grandmother passed away in October of 1993. I was only 13 years old. She was a good woman with only good intentions. My family collected in New York for her funeral. That is where she spent the rest of her life. We went to her wake. It was in the city. At a funeral home with crappy wooden paneling that makes the room look even sadder than it had to. Priscilla came along too. She worked for my grandmother when Priscilla was younger. Priscilla also thought it was a good idea to take pictures of the event. Priscilla thinks that any big event needs to be photographed. But at a wake? A funeral? It seems inappropriate.

So my cousins and I gathered in front of the casket. And we all had to move in order to show my grandmother in the picture. It was an open casket afterall. And I asked myself and my other cousins if we should smile. We all tried to be serious for the camera. But we sort of lost it. We just started laughing. Really hard.

So the picture was taken. And it was developed. And in the photo were my cousins and myself all lined up around my grandmother's casket. Laughing. While my grandmother's corpse laid there.

I hope she understands we weren't laughing at her.

*******

I don't think anything is particularly lost forever. Also, I don't know. It's just somewhere else. Just not here.

Remember Hot

2005-01-18T11:48:00.000-08:00

I thought I could use some time to ponder things. Ponder life. Pondering purpose. Hence no writing entries for the past week and a half. How does it all go? How does it all feel?

I thought about what makes me happy. Makes me sad. Makes me feel nothing. Makes me feel....uhhh....Something?

But then I decided to say, "Fuck This." These days, I'm just not so concerned with that. Right now, I feel on top of my game. Right now, I feel weirdly good about myself. Right now, I just really want to take stock of who I think is hot. Remember Hot?

I've heard it said that whomever you're attracted to is a reflection of some part of your life that you feel is incomplete. Maybe that's true? Or maybe it's just a reflection? Depending on your problem solving methods, it could be either scenario.

For me, there is the classic sense of hot. The old stand-bys. Winona....uhhh...Ryder. Parker Posey. Julia Stiles. Lauren Ambrose. Maggie Gyllenhaal. Chloe Sevigny. Natalie Portman, who passes herself off in the movies as a white girl, but in reality she's from Israel. And that's kind of hot. Natalie also goes to some really "top 10" school. Harvard? Princeton? Yale? I forget. All I know is that she's hot. And she seems like I'd have a better chance of scoring a date with her than either Winona or Parker. I saw Natalie Portman on Letterman and she was talking about how the Stupid Human Trick guy of the day was cute. And he was just some indie-rock looking geek. So. Natalie. You. Have. A lot. Of. Potential.

There is the other kind of hot. Not quite foxy per se. But the type of woman who is "not commonly beautiful" but I'd kill to have as my girlfriend. Case in point, the old stand-by. Janeane Garofalo. She's really funny. Hilarious, actually. Has the right attitude. She's pretty hip. She namechecked all these bands (that I love as well) in an interview she gave. Moving on, Margaret Cho. She lost a lot of weight. And looks great these days. She's funny too. A bit more positive than Janeane. Maybe the fact that she's Asian works too. Then there's Julie from the 1st New York installment of the Real World. She was really down to earth. Charming. Sweet. Open. She's beautiful. Looks good. Not quite the modern standard of hot. But she just seems incredible. And the type of person I feel like I could build a life with.

The jury is still out on Selma Blair. Like I think she would be an awesome woman to get to know. I read this interview with her in Rolling Stone and she seemed incredible. I feel like we could have a great connection. But it's entirely implausible. Also, the world looks down upon flat-chested women. Which is something I think I could overlook. With her. She's that cool.

Then there's the type of hot that serves my shallow side. For instance, there's this girl that works at my gym. She is the social director of the Children's Center at my gym. Like she's real young. 16 or 17 Years Old. Total jailbait. Totally illegal. I'd never try asking her out or anything. Essentially because she is too young and I'd feel creepy. Some other guys don't have such inhibitions. That makes them creepy. And I might think less of them. Then there is that Fountains of Wayne video with Rachel Hunter. And I have to change my pants each time after watching it. Then there's Sarah from the Philadelphia installment of the Real World. Like obviously she's had a breast enhancement. And she's kind of loose. But there's something about her that seems real winning.

I don't know if it was the lighting? But there are some oddities to my attractions. Like I was watching VH1 and they were interviewing the mustached woman from the band Le Tigre, JD Samson. And she looked really beautiful. Kind of hot. And her speaking voice was quite beautiful and somewhat alluring. I thought. I know some would argue and say that having a mustache is not a good idea. But I thought otherwise. Then others that serve my feminine/gay side. I think Christopher Knight (Peter Brady) on the Surreal Life is really hot. He's built like a truck. And he's tanned well. And he seems interesting enough. Then there's that dude on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I think he played "Xander." He's Buffy's good friend. I thought he was really attractive, but as the show progressed, he gained a lot of weight. I heard he became an alcoholic. Whatever. Then there's the bassist from Franz Ferdinand. You may recognize him as the only one in the band that doesn't look cadaverous. He has a real cute face. Although, every picture I've seen of him lately, he looks bloated and hungover. Maybe they're all charismatic?

Perhaps, with all these people they have something I don't have. Or maybe something I strive to have? Or have more of? I don't know what it is though. It's chemical, I think. Instinctive. But sometimes I think it's more than just aesthetics.

But I don't want to think about that.

I just want to sit in the shallow end.

The End

2005-01-07T15:11:00.000-08:00

Unbeknownst to me, it seems as though another year seemed to pass by. Well, I really did know that we had a new year come upon us. But it seems to drift by. So fucking fast. It seems like ever since I got out of college, my life has become a sleigh ride towards my inevitable end. Okay. That sounds really negative. Depressing. It is sort of true. In its' own dark way. But this is a truth I can't really seem to avoid. Things must always come to an end. And never are we allowed to stay in one instance too long. Things change. Evolve. Progress. And that instance in your life is now gone.

I think I want to write a movie or a play about a scientist that invents something that lets us do just that. Like if you could replay your most favorite time in your life. Constantly. On repeat. It'd be like De Ja Vu on repeat. Or something. But this concept isn't too far removed from what other movies like Total Recall or Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind have done. Our lead character is having a mid-life crisis. He decides that he forever wants to re-live his 20's. That apparently was his most favorite time of his life. The scientist hooks up our character to a machine that would replay him his whole 20's in his mind. And once he's about to hit his 30's, the tape would replay all the memories from his 20's all over again.

After the 2nd time around, our character immensely enjoys it. He's having all these feelings and experiences that he thought he had long forgotten. He can't wait for it to pass by again. After the 3rd go around, our character is not as satisfied. He realizes that all the joys and whatever good things he had have now become ordinary. He knows what to expect. He knows what's going to happen. But he just doesn't see anything moving forward or going anywhere. He gets frustrated. Now, this is starting to sound like Groundhog's Day. Cliched? Possibly. But it makes sense. So let's keep going. He keeps living that period of his life over and over. But this time, he seems more bored with how things go on his 4th time around. On the 5th time around, he just wants it to stop. But he can't.

At this point in the screenplay, he has understood that there was a time and a place for him to enjoy that. But now, he has changed and evolved. Although that was good for him then. It may not be good for him now. The lesson I learn is that in the last two paragraphs, I might be suggesting that the 30's suck. I am only 24. I don't know anything like those of you past your 20's. So do not take offense. I have a limited viewpoint. Possibly like that of the main character in this screenplay I am proposing. So let's move forward.

The lead character I guess will have a struggle inside himself to somehow will himself out of his catatonic state. Get out of the scientist's program. And somehow get back to his life. Here is where we could insert a really awesome fight scene. Lots of action. There can be sparks flying and machines breaking. And since a lot of this takes place in the main character's head, we could use a lot of special effects to show the inner workings of the brain. And what it might possibly be like to be traveling through your memories. I think the phone that is ringing right now is possibly Michel Gondry's people suggesting I stop ripping off his ideas. And try to think of a more unique experience.

Anyways.

The character gets out. Now, he has decided to move on with what he thinks is a miserable life. Perhaps, it's even sadder. Because he can't re-live how good his 20's were. And now he can't enjoy his mid-life career. He's still miserable and he doesn't know what to do.

At this point in the script, I know if Hollywood got a handle on this, they would have my character go to a bagel shop or some cafe and come across some woman. This woman would totally understand him. And love him unconditionally. Although, I would like to keep some realism intact. I think he would be excited to have the shitty coffee hand at said cafe to think he's really nice. And maybe a light would shine on him.

At this point, the character will reconcile to just keep on living and to only look forward. Although, he's not the same person he was before. He will be excited to see the new person he will eventually become.

The End.

Starts To Stains To Station

2005-01-06T11:53:00.000-08:00

I hate late starts.

This morning was indeed a late start. You wouldn't think I would have a late start since I haven't done much during my evenings. This whole past week, I've decided to stay in. I'm going broke. I thought that I should save my money and energy for the weekends. So in order to keep myself occupied during the week, I have joined NetFlix. Okay. Not exactly NetFlix. I have joined the Blockbuster Video program that runs just like NetFlix only without the nice variety. This variety I do not know anything about. I used to say that I don't have time to watch movies. But I really do have "the time." I just stay up real late. So I just received The Station Agent. I saw it once in the theater. And everyone was raving about it. And I sat in the theater with eager anticipation to be moved. To be touched. To do something for me. But the movie just didn't take me there. Was I reading it wrong? Was I not feeling it right? So I watched the movie again. And I read the one-sentence synopsis on the sleeve of the disc. And it just read, "Midget finds new friends on his journey to find solitude."

That one sentence changed the whole way I looked at it.

So this morning, I had to use my mom's car. She had to use my truck because she's picking up some new furniture. I had a late start, like I said. I wasn't too worried. Everyone just does their own thing at work. So me showing up 7 minutes late wasn't a big deal. So I had my enormous yuppie thermal mug filled with tea. I was getting ready to turn right on the street to get me out of my neighborhood. And a BMW comes speeding from my left side. I stop suddenly. And my gi-normous yuppie thermal mug filled with tea falls onto the floor of my mom's car. And I see the stain sprawling out on the floor. And all of a sudden everything changed.

All of a sudden, I just GOT REALLY REALLY PISSED. First off, my mother is obsessive compulsive when it comes to cleanliness. Now I'm all pissed because I know she'll have something to say about a big tea stain on the floor of her car. And it won't be a light comment. It'll become the reason why life is so hard for her. Why everyone is so stupid. Why especially I'm so stupid. Sometimes. Then I get pissed at myself for not paying attention to oncoming cars. Then I get pissed at myself for being so pissed. Because this is not how I want to be. This is not how I want to start my day. That is not where I wanted my tea to go.

And now the stain has brought to mind all the other things that are wrong. For one, I feel really gross and congested. My throat feels raw. I feel this is all because I drank some tea yesterday. And it was really really hot. Hot like magma. Fucking hot. And I didn't take any time to blow off the heat. I just swallowed it in a quick gesture. And I felt the fiery tea go down my throat and burning off the first layer of tissue that lines my throat. My throat is now a 2nd degree burn victim. And not only that. I have to spend my day on the phone talking to complete assholes. Who ask question after question to which answers I cannot find. Then, today I am wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. And the dicks in marketing seem to pick up on this. Plus, I woke up late. I'm ornery. My sleeplessness has left these stains of blue rings under my eyes. I want to stay home.

Defeated. I get to work. I sit in my cubicle. I look at the work sitting on my desk waiting to be sealed, signed, and/or delivered. I cover my eyes with the palm of my hands. I cover them so that no light comes through the cracks. I keep my eyes open. But I just focus on the fact that I can't see anything. There is nothing to be seen. At that point, there are no stains. Just blackness. And I feel relieved. And there is solitude. And I take my time.

I check my email. I make a new cup of tea. I eat that Pop-Tart in my drawer. By that point, I've decided to arrive.

That stain can wait 'til tomorrow.

Three Blind Mice

2005-01-05T13:00:00.000-08:00

#1. Art

When I was a kid, I had a friend named Art. His family gave him the nickname "Toots." I think it was because he really liked Tootsie Rolls. And there was that commercial about the Tootsie Pops and he seemed real fascinated by how many licks it took to get to the Tootsie Roll center. Our two families were good friends. And by family associations, we became friends too. When I was 9 or 10 years old, I spent nearly every Saturday at his house. There we would play the usual childhood games. And go to the movies. Play with action figures. Draw pictures. During my summer's off from school, I'd spend days and almost weeks at his house. I hit a certain point, where I had seen him so much, that I honestly got annoyed with him. His quirks seemed to irritate me. I almost grew to hate him. Kind of. But we were just kids then. So it was nothing serious. Once I got a bit older. I didn't hang out with him much or even at all. I found new friends that I could spend my weekends playing games with. To go to the movies with. He was a year younger than me and it seemed like those small differences made a lot of difference. We didn't keep in touch. And I figured he had found some new friends that he could have a lot more fun with.

During my sophomore year of high school, I heard that Art's dad was gravely ill. He had cancer. I think. It was kind of sudden. It seemed to develop real fast. Art's family was big. And I'd hear about all of his uncles, aunts, and cousins coming to their house to see if they were all right. I stopped by once or twice. Our two dads were good friends. So I'd go with my parents to see Art's family during that time. My parents would tell me how it was a shame that I didn't go over there like I used to. But things were just different now. I just changed and went in a different direction. The next time I saw Art was at his father's wake and at his father's funeral. We got along fine. We tried to relate. But we didn't have much of a connection. That's okay. These are things that you just can't help. It was a shame about his father. I can't imagine what that must be like for him.

A month later, I was watching Roseanne one Tuesday night. It was the episode where Roseanne's gay boss Leon is having a gay wedding. It was a bad episode. The jokes got lame. Roseanne seemed to have changed direction and her once hilarious show got not very funny. The phone rang. And my mom picked it up. And a minute passed by and my mom starts crying. She goes, "How Can This Keep Happening!?!?!?!" The phone call was from Art's cousin, Trisha. She called to inform us that Art had an asthma attack and died.

I felt really hollow. I felt bad that we weren't as good friends like before. I felt bad for hating him when we were kids. But I didn't cry. I was just shocked. You never expect something like this to happen. Especially so soon. Even so soon after his own father passed away a month before. It all just happens in such random order.

#2. Eric

When I was a kid, I had another friend. His name was Eric. Our two dads were good friends. Actually our whole family was really good friends with his family. Because of our family relations, we became friends too. When I was about 8 or 9 years old, I used to spend a lot of my summer days at Eric's house. We would play video games. Or board games. Or some sort of sport. Or go swimming. I always liked that. Again, I think I saw Eric too much. I started to get annoyed with him too. Like his boy scout attitude totally pissed me off. But it wasn't so bad. In retrospect that is. We were sort of forced to be friends since our parents were friends. It's not like we had a common interest that totally bridged us two together. We were just kids. We just found friends that were available. Right? Is that how it works?

Again, I branched off and made new friends. As did Eric. We grew apart. His father would stop by my parents' office to see how they were doing. And sometimes, I'd be working there too. His father would tell me about how much Eric likes high school. And how much he likes his new car. And how he joined Motor Club. Although, I didn't understand it, I said, "Oh That's Cool!" I was just in amazement. It seemed like we were the same person at one point. And then something happened, I guess. And I just branched out somewhere else.

During my sophomore year of college, I was checking my email. I had a bad habit of checking my email. I never had my own email account before college. And then it was just so necessary. So I got an email from my brother Rene. I was hoping it wasn't going to be some annoying, "How Are You, Little One?" email like I always got. This time, the email had a different tone. The subject title was "Weird." Rene had to report to me. Apparently, Eric had been complaining of stomach pains which could possibly be an ulcer. This went on for two weeks. His father got concerned and took him to see a doctor. The doctor asked him a series of questions. The questions were geared to see how these stomach pains came about. And suddenly, Eric snapped.

Eric admitted to his dad that he got his girlfriend at the time, Abby, pregnant. Abby didn't believe in abortion. Nor could she admit to her family that she was pregnant. She wore baggy sweatshirts and loose clothing to cover up her pregnancy. If she was asked about her increase in size, Abby blamed her size on eating too much pizza. Since that is what everyone else does in college. Abby carried the baby to full-term. She was a nursing student. And she gave birth to the baby by herself in a motel bathroom's bathtub with Eric at her side. They got in his car and drove around two hours that night, thinking about what they could do with the baby. They stopped at a church parking lot, hoping to leave the baby at the doorstep. But they got scared and drove off. They had no idea where to bring this newborn baby. They stopped by a hospital and thought they could leave it with the nursing station. But they knew it was going to get traced back to them. Somehow. So they got scared and drove off. They ended up driving to Delaware. There, they saw a construction site and left the baby by a portable toilet. And they drove off.

The next morning, the news reported of the incident. A construction worker had found their baby. The baby had frozen to death overnight. Two weeks had passed and Eric had kept this a secret. And it resulted in him getting an ulcer and vomiting profusely. Abby complained of pain in her stomach as well. She saw a doctor at her university. The doctor concluded that it was a pain resulting from internal bleeding due to a pregnancy. When asked if she had just given birth, Abby replied, "No. I Haven't." However, the doctor concluded that there was a baby missing.

The authorities took Eric and Abby away. And they are now serving time in their respective correctional facilities.

#3. Kevin

I'm not quite sure how my story goes. Or where it will go. Or how it will end. Sometimes, I think we're just these mice that are let loose in some maze in some token, cliched science lab. And we have an end in sight. We start out following one another. But then we think we have this perfect escape route or something. We turn the corners. And we keep going. We think we smell that sweet victory. Like that wedge of Swiss cheese at the end. We don't exactly get there right away. But we keep taking these nooks and bends that take us to places that we didn't plan on going to. Or places that we didn't even want to go to.

The Old Maid

2005-01-03T11:43:00.000-08:00

My mom is a lesbian.

Let me explain.

I have one mom that is married to my dad and they had me. Then I have another mother sort of. Priscilla. She's our family's housekeeper. Our "Alice," if you will. Our "Fran Drescher." Our Mary Poppins. I guess. My mom and dad moved to the US in the 1960's with their newborn son Rene. They moved to New York where my dad was finishing up medical school. In the meantime, they had another son named Francis. From there, they decided to move to West Virginia, so my father could start up a practice. And there, they had another son on the way named Brian. My mom couldn't keep up with just being one woman and having all these kids to juggle around. My dad was usually on call at the hospital. A distress call went out to the Philippines. And Priscilla got on board a flight to the US to help out.

Priscilla was able to handle taking care of my two eldest brothers. They had already grown up a bit and were a bit self-sufficient. They were only 8 years old or so. But when Priscilla found out that there was another baby on the way, she wasn't too sure. She never wanted kids. Or didn't think she could handle it. Brian came. And Priscilla was about ready to go back to the Philippines. But she held Brian in her arms. And from that point on, she didn't want to let him go. Apparently, this is where she wanted to be. This is what she wanted to do. She stayed with our family.

At the age of 16, Priscilla ran away from home. She wanted independence. So she left her family and worked at a candy factory. The night before she left, she had a boyfriend. She wore a pearl necklace the night before she left. The next morning, the pearl necklace was gone. And she blamed her boyfriend. From that point on, she stated that she hated men. She left to work at the candy factory. Then she worked for my grandparents family. And then she flew to the US to work for my dad and his new fledgling family.

I was born. And Priscilla felt that she had "been there and done that" with Brian. She was happy to have another kid to take care of. But the excitement wasn't as.....Exciting. She still raised me and had me come with her wherever she went. She felt like my mother a lot. Although, I knew that she really wasn't. She played with me all the time. And she even taught me how to draw. Well, the basics. A bit more than just a stick figure. She wasn't the most educated person. Even at the age of 8, I had to decipher what she was speaking in her broken English and speak for her when other people couldn't understand her. I left home at the age of 17, this was to go to college. And Priscilla became very sad.

Priscilla was feeling the empty nest syndrome. She'd play music on the radio really loud. And she'd sit on the couch and stare out the window. Perhaps, it all went by so fast. We were just little kids and then all of us grew up and moved away. It's a big adjustment. This is when she met Lois. She had known Lois from working at my parents' office. Ever since then, Priscilla would have me drop her off at Lois' home and she'd stay there the whole weekend. Lois and Priscilla became good friends.

There was a time when Lois had a Pakistani boyfriend. His name was Chaudri and he lived with Lois in her apartment. Priscilla used to hate him very much. And she would only refer to him as "the Pakistani." Actually, any boyfriend Lois had, Priscilla would hate them. A lot. Lois would call the house and speak of her troubles to Priscilla. We have caller ID, so we could see that they spoke at least 5 times a day. Priscilla would sit in a daze and her eyes would be smiling. This was usually when Lois would call. We used to think that Lois was just a good friend to Priscilla. But it seemed like it was more than that. And although, they've been friends for about 8 years now. Priscilla seems to get so emotionally wrapped up in Lois. Still.

This past Christmas, my parents invited Lois to come to our house for Christmas dinner. Priscilla was excited. Prior to Christmas, Lois had been in and out of mental hospitals. She received electric shock therapy for the 3rd time in her life. This was after her dog Tuxedo jumped off her balcony and sent Lois into an abysmal depression. At this hospital, Lois met a man named Dana. Apparently, Dana has two wives and a few kids. Lois promised Priscilla she would stop by the house. But before that, Lois had to go to Dana's. Priscilla hates it when Lois gives attention to any sort of man.

Lois calls and tells Priscilla that she's going to stay at Dana's. She says that she's having a panic attack and can't make it to our Christmas dinner. Priscilla hangs up the phone. And she's upset. In fact, she's mad. Pissed. A flood started to develop in the basement. The sewer system got backed up and it started to come through our basement floor. The basement where Priscilla sleeps. Although, the basement was flooding. Priscilla just lain on her bed. Thinking of how Lois could do this to her. How could she betray her?

The next morning, my brother Brian and I went with our parents to church. My mom was telling us how Priscilla is in a really bad mood, so we need to not set her off. The explanation for her mood is Lois. We all know that Lois and Priscilla have this friendship that is ultimately tumultuous. Brian goes, "God. Priscilla Needs Some Other Friends." And he goes, "Maybe Priscilla Is A Lesbian?" And my mom goes, "Well, She Is A Lesbian." Brian's jaw dropped and he goes, "WHAT????" And my parents went on to explain that they've known for years even before they had all of us. They just didn't tell us because they didn't know how we'd react. But now it seems like it is more apparent.

I had my suspicions. Maybe I just thought she was an old maid or something. I remember when I'd take Priscilla to the bank, she'd be all coy and demure with the cute little Japanese bank teller girl. Or when I took Priscilla out once, we drove by some woman bending over to work on her garden and Priscilla seemed to be very distracted by the sight. Priscilla even had a man-like energy. I remember asking Priscilla when I was 3 years old if she were a man or a woman. Veruska says that you don't even have to guess. You can just tell. Veruska always goes, "Takes One To Know One, OK!"

But honestly, all of it didn't seem to matter. I didn't care if she was a lesbian or not. The thing I didn't like was that it was Lois that she was after. Lois just happens to be the most insane woman I've ever met. Manipulative. Conniving. Constantly in duress. I don't know if the chemistry between them is that Priscilla wants to help Lois out of the dark. That teenage sort of passion. Constantly trying to help the "damsel in distress." I just want Priscilla to be here. This is where she belongs.

I love her very much.

A Taste For Bitters

2004-12-29T11:57:00.000-08:00

I've been reading over my collection of "essays" here. And I feel like maybe I'm really bitter? I was really hoping for honesty. I really just want to get some things off my chest. Out of my head. And now I'm beginning to think that I sound like a jerk sometimes. I suppose this is what happens when you write your thoughts down. They become unequivocal. They have one definite meaning. And what's been coming out is total "piss and vinegar."

I want to write about something good. Instead of another complaint about some event or some person. And how they've wronged me. And how it shaped me into whatever I have become now. I want to be what I've been working towards. I want to be positive.

Can't I be there now?

Let me think. Let me try. Let me write something benign.

At my job, we have a parking lot. And in the parking lot, there are two red Audi convertibles. The same make and model. And they belong to two different people. These people think it's funny to park their cars next to each other. It is KIND of funny. Not laughing out loud funny. But still sort of funny. Sometimes I make a joke to myself that if I were to walk between the two red convertibles, I could evaporate. Between those two cars is where the universe ends. Where the universe ends is where everything that you've lost is.

Today, I am wearing my brown pants. These brown pants have a grease stain on them. Actually two grease stains. These grease stains have become the focus of all my anger and frustration today. My department had a luncheon at a nice fancy restaurant a week ago. I had the crab cakes. As I was eating, a bit of crab cake fell onto my pants. Crab cakes are a bit greasy because they are fried. I picked the piece of greasy crab cake off of my pants and I managed to spread the grease around. I thought it'd be a good idea to take an ice cube and try to rub the stain out. I didn't realize it just made the spot even bigger. More expansive. More noticeable. The stain just sprawls forever. And although I've washed these pants. The stain remains. Will it ever leave?

I heard someone say once that sad songs make you happy. And happy songs make you sad. I never really understood the psychology of that. But I gave it some thought. I suppose every sort of expression is some sort of cathartic release. You feel happy, you smile. You feel sad, you cry. You hear a sad song, you feel a bit relieved. It's like sympathy on record. So you don't feel so bad. Happy songs, though? They make you feel sad? I don't know. But I always get choked up in "Getting Better" by the Beatles when John or Paul goes, "I Used To Be Mean, But I'm Changing My Scene. I'm Doing The Best That I Can." It's bittersweet. It's really optimistic. Optimism can be kind of bittersweet.

Today, my TMJ is subsiding. The pain has gone from my jaw and has now moved down to my neck. It's more tolerable. But it's better than what it was before. Today, I wrote an essay that didn't really mean anything. Or wasn't about anything in particular. As far as I can tell. Tomorrow, I might try to write something a bit more easygoing and funny. Or maybe all of this is really funny to someone? Maybe if I mention I threw up on myself twice in the shower last week. There's some relief. Does that change anything?

It's all about perspective.

Just Go Nameless

2004-12-28T11:50:00.000-08:00

This morning, my TMJ is acting up. "What's TMJ?," you might ask. Well, it's when your jaw joint is slightly swollen and slightly out of socket. So I can sit there and by moving my mouth a certain way, I can hear the grinding of the bones in my jaw. It's unsettling and sometimes it kind of hurts. It can come from stress. The holidays are stressful. And I have a lot on my plate these days. And each time I have some life changing move in store, I get stressed and I grind my teeth. And my TMJ acts up. Or else my TMJ will act up because I'll chew gum. I chewed this gumball a few months ago that was filled with Nerds. The Willy Wonka kind. And not only did I feel my jaw get all messed up, my teeth hurt from all the sugar involved.

It's a bit stressful at the homestead. A minor reason. On Christmas night, our basement flooded. The septic system got backed up. And instead of it going outwards. It came back inside. Our Christmas dinner party was cut short. And we had a plumber come out at midnight to come fix our system. That night, Veruska was over singing karaoke. All during the disaster relief too. Veruska has no shame. Veruska is my cousin. Not by blood. Our two families go back a long ways and they're quite close. So we're polite and we just refer to him as our cousin. His real name is Jose. Veruska is a lady's name. And Jose is really a man. If you can't put two and two together. Veruska is Jose's alter-ego. Jose is a transvestite. But if you talk to him about it, you'll realize that inside he's always felt like a woman and that he was just born in the wrong biological suit. He found his footing 7 years ago. And started dressing like a woman. He was a drag queen entertainer for a while too. But he's gotten older and prefers a simpler more settled down life. He doesn't do the entertainment circuit anymore.

I have a cousin that I don't know too much about. I've seen him every once in awhile in my life. His name is Rob. He lives in New York. He's married and has like 2 or 4 kids. This goes to show how I am so unaware. He did something really neat a few years ago. He wrote and published a sci-fi novel. I can't remember the title. But it wasn't that good. Like he's one of those "cool kids" that has a thing for sci-fi. He's really into martial arts and weaponry. His book fails, in my opinion, because of that. It's devoid of characterization and substance. Full of cliches. And it mainly concentrates on fight scenes and the weaponry of the future. My aunt told me that his book just got optioned by 20th Century Fox for a film. I don't know if it'll go anywhere. But the movie studios now have yet another inoffensive, dull, and cliched sci-fi action film to work with. I'm proud that he wrote something and got it published. It's hard work and I'm sure he's proud of it despite how well people perceive it. I haven't heard about him doing anything new these days.

My mom had this philosophy teacher in college. He moved to the DC area and he used to come visit us a lot. Her philosophy teacher has a son named Ramon. Ramon also went to my high school. He was there before I went there. I used to dislike him because he was really cocky. He was huge in the drama department at my high school. And he went to college for acting. And I guess he's been on the up and up sicne then. I googled him once. And I realized that he's been working hard. He does a lot of plays. And he had a part in an episode of Law & Order. He played a terrorist. I don't think I mentioned that Ramon is Filipino. And him getting roles is really hard, especially in America. However, he does have this exotic and ambiguously ethnic look that serves him well. He could play Latino. He could Middle-Eastern. He could do Asian. So he has a bit of a glass ceiling. But I think despite that, he does really well.

Last night, I saw The Life Acquatic. The thing about Wes Anderson's movies is that they seem to go over my head a bit. I won't realize what the point is until after a few viewings or a few weeks. This movie concerned Steve Zissou, a character loosely based on Jacques Cousteau and Captain Ahab, who seeks revenge on the exotic "jaguar shark" that ate his best friend and colleague. Zissou's life has hit a plateau. His last few documentaries have become irrelevant. He has lost his best friend. His investors have all dropped out aside from his wife and her rich family. But even his wife is backing out on him. His once mighty and technologically advanced boat is now old and rickety. He is facing failure and it is not agreeing with him. However, in the end, we realize that despite where life may take you, you need to make the best of it. And in that is the "adventure."

A month or two ago, the CEO of the company I work at came up to me at the reception desk and asked me two questions. The first question he had is quite irrelevant. But the next question he asked was what my name was. He goes, "I've seen your face around here for awhile and I don't know who you are just yet." I responded, in a sheepish yet cheerful way, "My name is Kevin." He smiled and shook my hand firmly. Quite a change from when he used to yell, "Hey! Can You Call My Assistant!!?!" He was famous for being a jerk. Famous for not being easy to get along with. His salty attitude was feared a bit. And now he was becoming the Patron Saint of Global CEO's. It was nice. Serene. Or pleasant. As if the "ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future" all had a session with him. A few weeks later, he came by the desk to drop off a temporary security badge. I thought we were cool. But this time, he threw the badge in my direction and goes, "Uhhh....Here You Go...." And he stormed off. Each time since then, I'll say hello. And he'll say it back half-heartedly. Not quite knowing why I should say hi to him.

He used to know who I was.

I'll get my name back.

Someday.

Where You Find Comfortable

2004-12-27T04:42:00.000-08:00

I got a call the other night from my friend Lauren. I have a few friends named Lauren. So let me be specific. She happened to be one of the better friends I had in high school. I never really understood what she saw in me. Nor do I really understand what she sees in me now. When I met her, she had a band called Bimbo Boycott. Lauren was a "riot-grrrrrl." She had long brown hair. And she wore black all the time. She was very outspoken. Never timid. She had her own way of being. I think a lot of people liked her because she was so outspoken. Unique. The two of us got voted "most unique" for senior superlatives. I even remember the day that we got the ballots to fill out. The kids in class without even blinking an eye would fill in my name and Lauren's name under "most unique." Even kids that hardly knew us. What the fuck were they thinking!? Saying "most unique" is a nicer way of saying "fuckin' freak."

Anyhow, Lauren called. Like I said. And she wanted to me to go out with her and meet up with some kids from high school. And I sort of panicked. Although, I'll always say that I wasn't all that cool in school, I am not unknown. I wasn't totally unassuming. I was popular. Mainly because I got made fun of a lot. And having to see kids from high school totally brings me back to that place. Like I see some asshole from high school at the mall or out at some bar, and my posture slouches a bit. And I get really self-conscious. And I feel so stupid. And then I come around and think about how I've grown up a lot since those days. And that makes me feel a little bit better.

So we hit the Galaxy Hut. Lauren and me. We meet up with some old faces we knew from college. Then we see some kids we knew from high school. I am always fascinated with how people progress. Nothing is ever constant. We just evolve, change, and progress all the time. I was feeling a bit uptight and tense. The Christmas holiday was coming up. And having to deal with family makes me a bit high strung. And then I had to go see some people I knew from high school and that only made me more uptight. True, I could've said, "Oh, Hell No! I'm Not Going!" But I just wanted to see what all these kids are about. I need to face this. I need to get over it. I need to move on. I need to not sound like this. But I'm curious.

It doesn't take me much to get drunk. I'm going to blame it on my infrequent drinking and that I'm Asian. And Asians don't have the enzymes that can break down alcohol as well. I down a glass of wine. I chug a beer. And I suck down a gin-a-tonic. At this point, I'm slurring my speech. My control over my muscles is lacking. I'm trashed. And at this point, I'm not high-strung. I really don't care about what people say or do, at this point. I suddenly see why I should be an alcoholic. I talk a mile a minute. And I'm not conscious of anyone or anything. This is how I need to feel all the time. Only without the bad breath. Or without that queasy feeling in my stomach.

During the course of being totally trashed, I made a point of saying that I wanted to hit a high school party. Apparently, there's a little get together at this kid named Evan's house. He was a year or two behind me in high school. I've seen him on Friendster. His profile said that he was an artist. I was amazed. I never thought of him as one. But we all change. Moving on. At Evan's house, there were going to be all these kids that were in my class. All the "cool" kids. The ones I didn't really hang with. The ones that smoked pot. The ones that I was "less than." They seemed to always get the girls. The ones that seemed to have great friendships with each other. The ones that weren't me. And I sort of hated them because of all that.

We got to Evan's apartment. He lived near Dupont Circle. He had a small apartment. The feeling was more like a college dorm room. Inside, there was Chris, that dude I was in Hello Dolly with. Marty, that dude that smoked a lot of pot and got suspended for lighting something on fire in the cafeteria. There was some girl named Kristen, who's blonde, very rich, clearly anorexic, and stupid. Then her friend ....uhhhm.....I don't know. All I know is that her friend went to high school with us and that she looked like a shitzu and that she was kind of hot. And then there was Evan. He played the part of the jewish urban graffiti artist who is waiting tables and knows a lot about pop culture.

These were the people, who in high school, were unequivocally cool. There were well regarded. Highly recommended. They weren't exactly football stars. But they were the freaks. The cool party kids. And although I was considered to be a freak. I was kind of a loner. Not that I didn't have friends. I just liked to drift amongst all groups to see what they're like. Anyhow, back to Evan's little party. We sat there and they were passing around a joint. I was already drunk. And perhaps sobering up a bit. So I thought I should get stoned or high or whatever the fuck it is, to loosen me up some more. My eyes glazed over.

I sat there totally stoned. It was a scene straight out of That 70's Show. And now I feel stupid for making that analogy. Because it is very obvious and not very creative. However, I observed how all of them acted. This time around, Chris seemed to grow a soul. Before he wouldn't be caught dead to be my friend in high school. This time, he gave me a hug and gave me a guilt trip about not calling him to hang out whenever I go to New York. Endearing. Back then, these people were unequivocally cool. But now that I see them with adult eyes, their flaws seem more apparent. And at times, fatal. Marty the now aspiring artistic filmmaker seems to be in a rut. He edits video up in New York. But he's still a total stoner. And I notice that deep down he really doesn't like himself all that much. Evan, the urban graffitti artist, drops names constantly as if it were World War II. He does so, because he wants to seem worthy and to be associated with greater things than what his actual work allows. Kristen, the aspiring Paris Hilton, asks everyone what they are doing with themselves only so she could make a show of how good of a job she has now. And her nameless hot friend that looks like a shitzu only listens to what the boys in the room have to say. And constantly disregards everything Lauren and Kristen says.

I found them all a bit sad. They didn't seem to spread their wings very far. Seven years ago, they were possibly doing the same thing right before Christmas without the extra weight, age, or facial hair. They haven't really gone beyond what they had before. I don't really blame them either. It seems as though they were just so comfortable with the way things were back then. And growing up and moving beyond that seemed sort of pointless. In a way, I sort of envied them.

In a haze of pot smoke and the weight of Red Stripe in my stomach, I sat there. It was the kind of drunk where you now feel gross. And the kind of "high" I had is where you have the weirdest thoughts instead of just sitting around laughing at everything. I fell asleep at Evan's apartment. I woke up to take a cab to my car in Arlington. And there in my car, I fell asleep. Only for a little bit. It was bitterly cold. And utterly uncomfortable. So I decided to just go home.

Here We Come Around Again

2004-12-23T11:43:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was our "Secret Santa" luncheon. As you may know, the holidays are coming up. Okay, that sounded dumb, like you have to know. Unless, you're not Christian or American. Or unless you've been in a coma for the past few months and just came out of it like yesterday. Anyhow, my "Secret Santa" was my co-worker Shelly. She got me this really nice sketchbook and some pens to draw with. The sketchbook is hardcovered and it has a spiral binding. Along with the sketchbook and art supplies, Shelly gave me a gift basket of baked goods. My favorite baked good is the "Rocky Mountain Snowflakes" which is a cluster of Captain Crunch, Rice Krispies, and marshmallows all bound together by some mixture of peanut butter and white chocolate. I've eaten a lot of it. And my waistline has expanded two inches. And my neck is slowly disappearing. Okay, that's a joke. It's really not.

The other day, I went to lunch with my brother Rene. This past weekend, he called me up on Saturday morning. At 10am? Which is usually too early for me. But these days, I've been sleeping more. And that day, I got up especially early. He called me in a state of woe. "Hey Kevin, What Are You Up To Today?" I tell him that I'm working on some music that day with a friend of mine and that later on I have a few holiday parties to go to. I ask him what he's up to, and deflatedly he goes, "Oh, It's Just Another Saturday......" I'm usually excited about my days off. There's a lot for me to do. But for him, he just doesn't know what to do with himself. I was feeling a bit nice. Usually, I feel he is very intrusive in my life. He likes to stand behind me as I read my emails and read them over my shoulder. Other times, he likes to go through the notes I have laying on my desk. The notes are usually of drawings or lyrics that I thought were interesting. But maybe in the time I've decided to ignore him and carry on with my life. He might have decided to move on and carry on with his life. For him, nothing has changed.

I tell Rene that on Sunday, I need to do some Christmas shopping. And he goes, "Oh Me Too!" So I tell him that we can go do lunch and we can Christmas shop the following day. He seems excited. And I'm sort of moved. Actually, not really. There is a sense of panic I get. Like this will be such an awkward and annoying time.

Rene comes to the house. Unannounced. No prior phone call. I had to bring my aunt to church. I came back. And Rene was sitting in the street in his car with his window down awaiting my return. We go shopping. At times, Rene seems both defeated and wanting to go insane. Rene still believes me to be the same 10 year old kid that I was when we first started hanging out. He speaks to me in this weird baby-talk gibberish that isn't really funny. However, he repeats it over and over trying to get a laugh out of me. I don't respond. I just chuckle in a very fake fashion. That is enough to sate Rene for another 10 minutes, before he does it again. We get to the mall and I have a clear mission as to where I need to go and what I need to get for certain people. I ask Rene if there is anywhere he needs to go. In this lost wounded child way, Rene goes, "Uhmm...Wherever You Need To Go." He leaves all the deciding for me.

I shop and look around. Rene hovers around me. Annoyed with how close he hovers around me, I ask him if he's looking for stuff to get. He goes, "Uhhhh...Yeah......" He keeps hovering around me and does that weird baby-talk gibberish. I tell him that he's getting on my nerves. And he defeatedly walks away and mopes about the store. I pay no attention. I've come to realize that I do not need to please everyone. And I don't need to make sure everyone approves of every action I make. So I let him wander. I choose to preserve myself.

We decide to hit lunch. I was starving. We sit down. And now all the awkward conversation has come to this. We make small talk. I keep a lot of things to myself. I believe that I just can't tell anyone about myself. Especially with Rene. I believe in the saying, "Don't Crack The Door Open For Anyone That Is Pushing Too Hard On Me." Our conversation comes to, "So Have You Been Feeling The Christmas Spirit?" And I think about it. I think, "Yeah, I have. But not like when I was younger. But it's just different now."

My favorite Christmas was when I was a high school freshman. I had strep throat that week. But I was getting over it. Katie was back in town from Texas. We'd talk about how we'd hang out and get together. She couldn't get out much because she developed pneumonia while she was in town. So we didn't get to see each other much at all. It was nice to be so enraptured by Katie. I spent the whole Christmas break, trying to call her or hang out. At that same time, I'd hang with Rene and I'd get to hear all these new bands and music. My undying devotion for Katie faded after a while. And my need to spend time with Rene just eroded over time. I still liked Christmas, but for different reasons. And it wasn't even the actual holiday I thought about. It was just the events around that holiday.

I think Rene just likes to keep me in this hypothetical snowglobe. Where I will permanently be 10 years old in his eyes. And we will always hang out every Saturday and Sunday. And I'd laugh at his baby-talk gibberish. And we'd like the same music. And we'd have so much to talk about. But I'm not there anymore. And I'm not sure if I can go back there. But he comes around every weekend to see if that may have changed.

Do Not Disturb

2004-12-22T16:51:00.000-08:00

My dad is a doctor. Or perhaps, I should call him "father." Maybe that's a little more formal? Anyhow, my dad is a doctor and he used to have an assistant named Lois. Lois was a southern belle. She had a country accent that was very endearing. She tended bar on the side. Also, she was a hairdresser. Her dayjob was to be my father's medical assistant when it came to in-office procedures. She did a good job being cordial with the patients. Lois had a good sense of PR. Everyone liked her for being so friendly.

In October of 1997, my mother came home from work. My mother worked as the office manager of my dad's office. She had just fired Lois and our bookkeeper all in one fell swoop. Lois and our old bookkeeper never got along. They bickered all the time. And it went on for years. It escalated into my mother losing it and firing the both of them that one day. I thought it was a bit harsh to fire Lois. I always thought Lois was so nice. She seemed to be so close to our family. And maybe I really had no idea how inappropriate that was.

When I was 12 years old, Lois would call me up in the middle of the night. She'd talk to me and tell me about what was going on with her. She'd talk about people she knew. She'd tell me funny stories about my dad in the office. She'd tell me about her son Darryl. Her son Darryl had not spoken to her in over 30 years. He wrote her a letter saying that he wants nothing to do with her at all and to leave him alone. Darryl was also very heavy into drugs and alcohol. I think I had an inkling as to why he would dive into that scene. A big reason being that Lois is in your life. Lois and I would talk on the phone. It was kind of nice. It was nothing I had with my own mother really. Lois talked about wanting to take me to the circus. I thought it was a nice gesture. But I was 12 years old. And Why The Fuck Does She Want To Take Me To The Circus!? Why Is She Telling Me How Heartless She Thinks My Mom Is? Why Does This Seem Ultimately Inappropriate!?

As I moved up in age, I started to realize that Lois wasn't just friendly. But there was some sort of pathology to her friendliness. She was horribly disorganized. Distracted. Terribly nervous. Always saying something inane and inappropriate. She always claimed that she was sick. Everyday! I used to think she was just a free spirit. But now I was starting to understand that she was actually insane. So at the point my mother had fired Lois; Lois started to crack. Lois had seen my family as her own. And her getting fired was just another disappointment in her long sad life. I think she felt as if we disowned her. She got very depressed. She couldn't keep a job for more than a month without getting fired. Still can't. And this is about 8 years later.

One interesting moment with Lois was when I worked summers at my parents' office. Lois and I went to pick up lunch. We noticed that we were late and we had to rush back to the office. We ran back to the car. Lois ran. And her foot hit a little parking median that they have at the head of each parking spot. Lois fell. She slammed into the pavement. I started laughing. It was just so absurd. Perhaps, it was shock. I can't tell. I went over to see if Lois was okay. And she wasn't getting back up. I shook her and she responded. She rose up and blood was pouring from her eyebrow.

Lois got some surgery done around her belly button. I'm not really sure what for. She complains about needing surgery all the time. She thinks she is in some state of duress or distress all the fucking time. So much so, her being sick or having an ailment is almost a joke. And I want to laugh at it. But when I do, she gets upset. This time, she got some surgery done. And she picked at the scab. I suppose it was getting in her way. She picked and picked at it. The scab came off, like she so wished. And she bled. She put a band-aid on it. Once the band-aid got soaked, she put some gauze on it. And she went to bed that night. And woke up with her mattress soaked in blood. She became very pale. She went to the hospital. The doctors had told her she lost 2 pints of blood.

Lois had a dog named Tuxedo. It was because it was black and had a tuft of white hair on its' chest. Hence it looked like formal wear and was dubbed "Tuxedo." She cared for her dog a lot. She'd leave answering machine messages for her dog. I once drove by the parking lot of a Wendy's and saw Lois with Tuxedo in her lap. She was feeding him spoonfuls of the Wendy's brand Frostees as they both looked into the moonlit sky. Tuxedo had some weird degenerative disease that made him go blind. Lois refused to have Tuxedo be put to sleep. Since her son had left her. She had no husband or loved one to speak of. And my family really wanted nothing to do with her. She felt alone and needed this dog to stay alive to be her companion. Tuxedo would get stuck in corners of her apartment and cry for help. Since she didn't have a job, she couldn't afford dogfood. So the dog would eat newspapers. One night, Lois had to step out to meet a friend. She came back to her apartment and there was a post-it note on her door that said, "DOG IN APARTMENT IS DEAD." She had left her balcony door open. And down below in the garden laid Tuxedo. He had fallen 7 floors down.

She went to the garden and picked up Tuxedo. She cradled him in her arms. There was no life in him. But she said he still felt warm. She took him to the hospital hoping the doctors could do something. But Tuxedo was pronounced dead on arrival. From that point on, the cracks in Lois' foundation had crumbled. I suppose there were some truths that she couldn't get her head around. Or perhaps get over. Or truths that she could bare.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Cutting The Cord

2004-12-21T11:33:00.000-08:00

After my freshman year of college, my parents decided to send my brother and me to Europe for a month. It was a graduation present for the both of us. My brother had just graduated from occupational therapy school that year. And I had graduated from high school the year before. So as a gift, my parents got us each a plane ticket to Europe. We backpacked through Europe for a month. And we burned through the money that we saved up for the trip. We went out to eat pretty much for every meal. For a month. We also had to pay for hostel to stay at. And we'd have to pay to go on tours of museums and whatnot. Plus prostitutes. And hash. So when we came back to America, we were essentially broke.

As soon as I got back from Europe, I had to start up my sophomore year of college. Again, I burned through money trying to afford books. Supplies. Food. Bills. My mother watched my bank statements at the time. She called me up and in her deeply concerned yet ultimately disappointed way of talking to me she goes, "Kevin, You Really Need To Watch Your Spending. I Gave You All A Lot Of Money When You Two Went To Europe." I said I understood. And I told my mom that I can be responsible and that I could get a job. Ultimately trying to show her that I am not disappointing. Instead, I tried to show her I'm efficient and resilient.

I tried really hard to get a job. Nothing was working. I was trying to get a job as a tele-marketer. But then no one would take me since I didn't have a car. I was willing to work anywhere and do anything. Tricking. Phone-Sex operator. Whatever. I had heard from my friends that a place that was easy to get a job at was FAN-TASTIC THRIFT SHOP. So I applied. And I got a call back.

Fan-Tastic Thrift was a mega-store of thrifty goods. And the store's manager, Mike, had many ambitions for his "little thrift shop that could." He wanted it to be like the K-Mart of thrift shops. This K-Mart would smell of homeless people, mothballs, and defeat. He was also an asshole. Did I mention that? Did I mention that his dreams had a glass ceiling? And that he was also fucked hard in life?

The women that worked there were un-ironically white trash. They had pompadour. Short hair on the sides, yet gloriously long hair in the back. They chain smoked Virginia Slims. And they had leathery skin and bags under their eyes that could hold their spare change. These were the women that worked the accounting side of things at Fan-Tastic. The shop hands were mainly a few college students and mothers from the neighborhood. One of them was named Sharon. She was in her mid-40's. The rumor around the shop was that she got knocked up when she was a teenager. And she's been sniffing around the young men that work at the shop. I was told to not pay attention to her. The other person that worked at the shop was named Frank. He was a large black man that usually assisted in lifting heavy furniture. He was very lazy and prone to many angry fits. He also had a chip on his shoulder because he "got babies!"

My shift was on the weekends. I could only work weekends. I was a student. I worked Fridays, from noon 'til 8:30. And on Saturdays, I worked from 10am 'til 8:30pm. And I'd walk two miles to and from work. Long days. They feel especially longer when you're allergic to the whole store. I'd come home with my face all puffed out and stuffy from the dust, the stray cat hairs, the mothballs, and the overall dirt of the thrift shop. I was usually too tired and puffed out to go to the choice "kegger" of the evening. And most of my friends were already out and about.

Some days were more interesting. For instance, the cops had to come in to talk to Frank about something and he couldn't be inside the store. Or that day when Rebecca from the Seattle installment of the Real World came in with her mom to try on jeans. Or that day, when someone from Fan-Tastic invited me to go to a rave. Or that day, I noticed that my supervisor Anne wore these pleated jeans that gave her camel-toe. Or that day, when I had to fix up the 2nd hand lingerie section. Or that one day when we were closing up, I had accidentally left a skirt in the jeans section. And to boot, the front of the jeans were not facing the front of the store. And Mike made a big show of how I messed up cleaning up my section. And I became the laughing stock of this fucking shitty mini-corporate thrift shop.

Thanksgiving was coming up. And I couldn't wait to go back home. I was wanting to sleep in a nice bed as opposed to the couch I used to sleep on in my apartment. I couldn't wait to have a meal that wasn't made in 10 minutes and from a box. I couldn't wait to stay up late and watch cable. I just wanted to go home so bad. So I went into Mike's office and told him that I'd not be in for Thanksgiving weekend. He told me that Thanksgiving weekend is the busiest shopping weekend there is. And that he'd need me on hand to help out at the store. I went on to say that I really wanted to go home. And Mike goes, "Kevin, You Need To Cut The Cord Sometime....."

So I cut the cord. And I never went back to Mike or his "store"ever again.

Oh, Big Nothing

2004-12-17T12:57:00.000-08:00

This past week, I've really noticed it. I think some others have too. Perhaps, Pat and Rosie from Product Development have been privy to it too. Especially, when I stand outside and take their smoke break with them. I have become incredibly dull lately. I really have nothing to say these days. Ultimately nothing. I can't think of anything to write. Now, the only material I can try to squeeze from is my present apathy. Apathy? Is that even the word? Is that how I feel? Isn't that lame? Am I really numb? Am I really empty?

I have become really bland. I have become vacant. I think I've been lobotomized. I tried to enter conversations with some little anecdote or tidbit of information. But I can't. I just stare at everyone else involved or I just look away. I really have nothing to offer. I'm usually quick on my feet and I like to talk. But these days, I am just quiet. Silent. Boring. I have become the ghost of a person that was once there. I'm all dried up.

I went out for dinner the other night. I went with my friend Natalie. We had a mission to go Christmas Shopping for our respective families. Before that, I had just gotten off work and I was hungry. And a place that I wouldn't mind going to was California Pizza Kitchen. I felt a bit stilted. I tried really hard to come up with something to say. But I had nothing. The week before I was really full of life and had a lot on my mind that I had to share. And now. There was nothing. Spilling. Forth. At. All.

I think I talked about how I liked pizza. And what I like on pizza. And possibly other good pizza places I've been to. And then I talk about how odd some of the pizzas they have at California Pizza Kitchen are. I have suddenly reverted to my first grade way of being. Talking about the lame. The trivial. The inconsequential. The inane.

I guess I've really dried up. I mean when i wake up in the morning. I am terribly thirsty. My lip has split open. My face has the texture of sanding paper. Shit! Even my body knows I'm out of material. Out of thoughts. Out of everything.

Even the conversations with myself have become so vapid:

Kev: Is Anyone Home?!?
AlterEgoKevin: No, I Don't Think So.
Kev: I Like Watching TV.
AlterEgoKevin: Yeah, TV's good. Hopefully, 'Eddie Murphy Raw' Is On.
Kev: Eddie Murphy Is Hilarious. I Wish I Was Him.
{silence}

I'm not trying to be some pony that is trying to put on a show for everyone. But I just can't really understand why I've become so hollow. So empty. So estranged from myself. What happened? I don't want to think about it so much. Then it'll never come back.

I'm actually fine. Not depressed at all. I feel decent. I've been working on home projects all week. I have nowhere to go at the moment. Nothing to do really, aside from my own personal projects. It feels kind of peaceful. Serene. There isn't anything to fight against. And therein lies the good of it all. This is the bliss of nothingness.

In Case Of Fire

2004-12-13T16:03:00.000-08:00

Have you ever hung out with some friends and you order that pizza? And that pizza comes. And you're fucking HUNGRY. I mean, you're already hungry when you place the order. And the Pizza operator is like, "It'll be there in 40 minutes." And he hangs up. And you think of something you can do in the next 40 minutes to curb your appetite. Or to kill time. So you watch some television. And when you're hungry, you hit the Food Network. Emeril is on and he's making onion rings or some bullshit food from the Big Easy like that. And all you can think about is that pizza. So the pizza comes. And your eyes are glazed over. And your body is weak because for the past 45 minutes it's been eating itself. So you flip open the box. And you dive in. And you lose yourself. And you eat that slice of Meat Lovers, Veggie Lovers, Chocolate Lovers or whatever the fuck kind of Lovers edition pizza you got. And all of your friends, who seem less concerned with food than you are, go, "Whoa. Dude, That Pizza Is Hot! Give It Some Time!" Your teeth have sunk in and that cheese and that sauce is so hot. And the skin from the roof of your mouth is dangling. And you think, "Fuck. I Should've Totally Listened."

****

I've had three experiences of getting electrocuted. Once I accidentally unplugged my stereo in my old apartment. I had just gotten out of the shower. And I wanted to listen to some music as I was getting ready. So I was trying to get the plug back into the socket behind the couch. And my one hand was getting the plug into the socket. And my other hand was on the power strip with my index finger over one of the sockets of the strip. Once I got the power going, my teeth clenched. It felt like that dry wintry static shock you might get, only more intense and more prolonged. My 2nd incident happened just like that when I was unplugging my TV.

My 3rd incident was when I was getting a wart removed from my hand. I don't know why I get them. I'm thinking because I worry too much. But let me say that I worried too much then. I like to live in the present without any fear. So I had a wart because I worried too much. I was getting it burnt off. With a cauterizing laser. Essentially, getting burnt off with electricity. And before they burn it off, they numb the area with novacaine. One part didn't get numbed. And the doctor hit the spot with his cauterizing gun. My teeth clenched. My muscles tightened up. It felt like that wintry static shock you might get, only more intense and more prolonged. Did I mention I looked like I was sizzling?

Well, I was.

****

One evening, I went with some friends to this swanky club for this student film festival. At that time, I was still a student. An art student that concentrated in painting. At the time, I didn't have much money to afford clothing, so I wore my paint stained clothes to go out. I thought it might give me this eccentric vibe. But I just looked ridiculous. But that's besides the point. So there we were amongst all the hot shot artists and filmmakers of Richmond, Virginia. Not quite a "Cultural Shangri-La", but whatever. Intermission came up. We had finished viewing all these films that were very "tasteful" and "profound." Yet I didn't feel anything. Most of it was like watching grass grow. Whatever. So I decided to go smoke a cigarette at the bar.

At that time, my clothes were usually tainted with the smell of turpentine and paint thinner. I would come home with splitting headaches. I essentially lived in toxic chemicals for 3 years. Later on, did I realize my life was in danger. So there I was with a cigarette dangling from my mouth. And I struck my match. A spark from the lit match hit my sweater. And suddenly my arm was on fire. I patted it out. And suddenly, the fire moved to my shoulder. I patted that out. And my arm was on fire again. And I patted it out. Everyone in the swanky club didn't seem to be too moved by the fact that I was on fire. The bartender just kept tending bar. And every asshole just sat there with their asshole Martini drinks with their asshole "always with it" look on their face. No one did anything. I just stood there with my sweater on fire.

I eventually put out the fire. And I came back to resume the rest of the film festival with my friends. I asked, "Did any of you see me at the bar over there?" And they go, "No. Why?" And I go, "My sweater just burst into flames when I struck my match." And they go, "Is That Why You Smell Like Burnt Toast?" The lights dimmed in the theater and everyone directed their attention towards the screen. It was a film that had a girl walking up and down stairs. And she had a doll in hand. The music was shrill and sounded as if it were coming out of a Campbell soup can. And I just sat there in my sweater. It felt starchy and smelt of burnt toast. I don't know if it was cruel irony. But the phrase "burn to shine" didn't seem to get any returns.

Assorted Stories From The Gift Basket

2004-12-10T15:28:00.000-08:00

#1.
This morning, my co-worker Marcus goes, "Hey K-Dawg! You Wanna Help Me Pilfer Through This Gift Basket?" I thought he was talking facetiously about the cart of office supplies we needed to return to the office supply closet. My face went sour because I wasn't in the mood to be sorting and organizing the office supply closet. Thankfully, he goes, "Uh No....I Was Talking About This Gift Basket Set We Got From Our Management Team." I beamed. And we ripped it up. It was a 4 layer gift box set that was tied together with one big ribbon. In each box there were typical Christmas treats. Biscuits. Teas. Cookies. Uhm, Potato Chips? Coffees. Chocolates. In the bottom box, the biggest box of all, there was an enormous loaf of fruit cake covered in powdered sugar. I wondered what would people think if they had to stop by my cube and I was nibbling off of this gigantic loaf of fruitcake. Consider the image. My shirt covered in powdered sugar with brightly colored bits of marinated fruits, nuts, and cake stuck in my teeth. I think would sound funnier if I actually acted this last part out. Then you'd get the point. So if you want me to do so. Please give me a call. After we went through all of the boxes of Christmas knick-knacks and snacks. I wondered whatever happened to the "beefstick" or the "salami?"

#2
So I play in a band. Two bands to be exact. But I don't want to go into it. We tour. One band tours more extensively than the other. We had to drive 8 hours everyday to get to our shows. That was annoying. Thankfully, the company was fun. So it seemed to pass by quite quickly. We all made a pact that we'd just save up to eat at a really nice restaurant in whatever city we'd go to for our show. What we ate in the meantime were just little snacks. Usually what we could get from Target or a gas station. I like beef jerky. So I got that. However, I can tire from just eating beef jerky. So I got some air-popped popcorn too. I snacked on and off of that for the 8 hour drive. We eventually got to our destination. And ofcourse, I had my shoes off the ride. Comfort is key in driving in a cramped van with 5 other people. So I'm about to hop off the van and walk around the city. But I try to get my shoes on. They won't fit. My feet are so swollen with sodium (SALT) . The solution was to walk around the block in the summer heat. Hopefully try to break a sweat and get my shoes back on. I don't think that is THAT cool.

#3
I was watching VH1's MY COOLEST YEARS. It was the "geek edition." I can relate. I'm hypothesizing that most people that do have blogs weren't all that cool in school. But on the show, the "geeks" were trying to determine what exactly are the "bases." You know what is First Base? Second Base? Etc...? One of my favorite answers as to what First Base was, "First Base is when she realized that I was alive."

#4
So I think I met someone. In that special sort of way. I don't know if she reads this. But I like talking to her. And hanging out with her. And I feel so comfortable. Things seem to fit really well when I'm around her. A lot of things seem really possible when she's around too. I like how cliched this is. I like how it makes me feel a part of things. It makes me feel normal. To be one with everything else. Like a chameleon. Without the negative connotation.

#5
I was answering phones the other day. If I'm not answering phones or sorting invoices, I'm usually on the internet. It's a privilege. I was reading something about spiritual enlightenment. It was kind of mystifying. I like stuff like that. But I answered the phone and reading at the same time. I asked the caller, "How May I Direct Your Soul?"

Comedy's A Bore

2004-12-09T13:35:00.000-08:00

The Galaxy Hut is a bar in Arlington. It's the local haunt. People love going there. I think it's the ambience. The easy parking. Inside it is painted purple with a galactic theme. Hence the name. Bands play for free there. So anyone can come in and catch some "culture" and have the freedom to pay for a cd, if they so enjoy what they see. They serve only beer there. Well, wine too, if you want to feel high class. Sometimes, I could use a bourbon. A whiskey. Maybe a vodka. I'm a recovering alcoholic. I shouldn't drink that stuff. Okay. That was a joke. But I do like a stiff drink once in awhile.

Well, like some people. Perhaps a lot of people. I use a drink to unwind. And this helps in social situations. Stating the obvious, I know. But for those who don't understand why drinking can be cool. I am telling you now.

I saw some people I knew at the aforementioned Galaxy Hut. Last night. I didn't know them that well. Like they're on my Friendster. But that doesn't mean I'd tell them my deepest darkest secrets. Mere acquaintances. Not close. I'm not afraid of them either. Not like they're scary people to even begin with. BUT we just had nothing to say. Or maybe I wasn't too interested in getting to know more. Or maybe they weren't either. Or maybe we were totally drained by the amount of people and noise in the bar. Perhaps we were too distracted. So we sat there in silence and people watched. We're not talking. We give each other funny looks when we see someone or something funny. We wait it out. We leave shortly thereafter.

I get that way in other situations. Sometimes in little gatherings at people's houses. I can get quiet. There are more gregarious and outspoken people present sometimes. That can take the wind out of my sails. I get tongue-tied.

Even with like one on one situations. I can totally shut down. I don't know why. Then when they ask, "So What's New With You?" I scratch inside my head. And I can't think of anything beyond what I filed away that afternoon. Or what call I got. Or what ridiculous thing I did that day. And I come up with nothing. Just nothing. I know I'm not totally vacant. Maybe it's just not a good time. Maybe the interesting part of my brain is on holiday. I can be cool. I can be there. Why am I not there?

At work, my co-worker Shelly thinks I'm a "stitch." I guess I can be. Is that arrogant? Like I think I say some things that can be construed as funny. I thought I was just picking up on irony. But Shelly goes, "Kevin, You Need To Forget Art School And Look Into Stand Up Comedy!" I don't think I'd be that good. To recite anecdotes. I feel like I wouldn't be able to pull through. Maybe it'd be boring. Snoozefest. Rotted fruit thrown at me. It'd be like the reverse Gallagher act.

So I was at Teavana. I was waiting on my order. And I saw this book. Since the place is all about tea. And tea is all herbal and about seeking higher places, they have books about their teas and the higher places you can get to. They had a book called Harmony & Zen. Or something along those lines. I flipped through the book. Some of it felt like the Chicken Soup For The Soul bullshit. But I hit one page. It had a photo of the sky. And a silhouette of some tree branches in the twilight. Serene. In that Ansel Adams sorta way. And in white font, it said in the sky, "JUST BE."

SO maybe you can catch me at the Improv tonight. My act will be kind of bland. Not that exciting. Quiet moments. Lots of crickets chirping. Glasses clinking. Coughing. And that's okay.

Open Books

2004-12-08T13:56:00.000-08:00

"Look at someone's shoes and that is a window into their soul."

That is what my cousin Miles told me. But I've heard it said that you can look at someone's eyes as a window into their soul. Then again, I've heard you can look at someone's fingernails and that is their whole biography before your eyes. However, by human instinct, can't you just simply get a glimpse of what these people are like by just observing them? By just looking at them? Perhaps, fingernails, eyes, and shoes are oversimplifications of trying to figure someone out. Is it that simple?

There are factors that can debunk some of those supposed rules. There have been books and movies out there that tell the audience that we simply cannot judge someone that simply. For instance, American Beauty was a film about people who portray a different sort of lifestyle than what's really inside their heads. Granted there may be a lot of circumstances that can repress someone's true being. However, I think it shows. It always shows through. What is true can never be denied, right?

At my job, there's someone on the federal sales team and his name is Henry. Whenever, I see Henry, I always think he has the face of some little kid that got left out of the neighborhood baseball game. Actually, when I see his face, it seems a bit childlike. I mean, he does stand about 6 feet or so. And he's always dressed well. Nice shoes are usually on. Despite his big frame and well dress. There's something very small and childlike about him. He'll put on meetings in the Executive Briefing Center. He'll ask me if I can put a slide up on the "Welcome TV" in the lobby. He'll ask me to address the name of the company visiting on the slide. He also waits 5 minutes before this huge meeting to ask me to do this. This is right when they walk in. Not enough time. He's so last minute. Was he that shitty student that was always late with assignments and had that "my dog ate it" excuse?

Sometimes, Henry's wife will come to the front desk and ask to see him. She'll bring something that he left behind at home. Like a briefcase. Or some papers. Henry's a mess. I've gone past Henry's cube to deliver something. And I'll peek inside his cube. All over his walls are his son's drawings and fingerpaintings. His son is quite prolific. Quite talented. There was something really endearing about how Henry displayed that. That made everything else a bit more forgivable.

One late afternoon, I was walking into the building as Henry was walking out. His eyebrows made a straight line. His eyes seemed more squinty than usual. The shape of his mouth was a straight line. His shoulders even made a straight line. However, he was slightly hunched over. The charge of his walk wreaked of defeat. His briefcase hung from his arm like a 2 ton weight. I can only guess that his meeting didn't go so well. A client may have fallen through. His sales pitch didn't fly. And that was what he told me in the 5 seconds I had to observe him.

Sometimes, I'll get "Kevin, You Are So Hard To Read!" Which is kind of nice to hear. Not that I'm trying to become some impenetrable fortress, but it's nice to keep quiet. And not always be on display for others. And have some thoughts and other things only for yourself. The privacy is nice.

"Kevin, You Have This Really Honest Vibe," someone once told me. "Aw, Thanks.., " I responded. We hadn't exchanged much dialogue between us before that point. It was a nice thing to hear. And this person goes, "It's really endearing how you are so conscientious of other people's feelings." And I go, "....Oh yeah?...." He goes, "Your actions are really transparent. Like I can tell you are really afraid to make someone mad." At that point, I asked him for more information about what he can read off of me. Like he was my psychic friend network. My personal palm reader. Because I wanted him to stop reading me. Or to just give up. Or just not be able to read me anymore. Because in all honesty, I wanted myself to just shut the fuck up. I hate being so obvious.

I Walked With A Zombie

2004-12-07T13:00:00.000-08:00

The Christmas shopping season is upon us. My brother Brian is the easiest to shop for. He loves the holiday. He fuckin' LOVES it! He loves getting stuff. He always has a list ready after Thanksgiving. Just so we can start early. Start the hunt. What I like is that he usually asks for gifts that I don't mind looking for. Like going to Tower Records or some movie store is not a big bother. I can find something for myself while I'm hunting for my brother.

Last night, I came home from a hard day at work. We were moving people out of their cubicles and cleaning out people's desks. This is to prepare for the big corporate office move in February 2005. I didn't feel like going to the gym after already lifting heavy boxes all day. Nor did I feel like staying home and watching TV. I actually kind of hate watching TV, unless it's something really worthwhile. And I was working on some music. However, I couldn't make up my mind. But I wanted to be out in the world. Amongst the living. Since I live in the suburbs with my parents, the only place to get that kind of feeling is to go to the mall. I hate the mall. And I kind of love the mall. Tower Records is by the mall. I should go to the mall.

In the movie Dawn of the Dead, it takes place at a mall. I'm not sure about the concept. But I think I heard it was a metaphor for how the mall is making everyone mindless zombies of consumerism. Maybe that's true? I don't know.

So I went to the mall. There's a tea shop there called Teavana. It is kind of New-Agey. I really like the tea they have there too. They come in many flavors. And they have a lot of facts about what the tea is good for. Zen-like harmony. Good for digestion. Full of caffeine. Relaxation brew. Full of antioxidants. Prevents cancer. All the good stuff. But it also tastes swell. So I try to stop by there often. I think the shop assistants in the store notice I liked to come by too.

I walk into the mall. And I take the long route to get to Teavana. I just wanted to get my blood flowing. I walk by Teavana. And I see the girls behind the register. They're the same ones that have waited on me before. And the fact that I remember their faces makes me think that they might remember my face. And then I wonder if I'm becoming that "constant customer." You know the one that all of them talk about seeing all the time. And how weird that person can be. And how they wonder if that person has a life. So with that thought, I walk past Teavana. I vow to not go there this time. Maybe I should wait a bit? Maybe I should go to Starbucks and get some coffee. However, the tea or coffee they have to offer make me go insane. I usually get riled up. Well, more so than I am sounding right now. I walk around and I thought, "Fuck This. This Is What I Came Here For."

I walked into Teavana. I felt a bit shy. The woman behind the counter goes, "Hiiiii." And I respond, "..uh...Hi..." And I ask to get a brewed mate vana with roobios honeydew vanilla. I don't even know what the fuck that is. But it's great. It's high in antioxidants and revitalizes your brain. So the woman tells me that it'll take about 5 minutes. So I wander around their store. There's a book about sushi that looks interesting. I like sushi and I'm kind of curious as to what I'm really eating. So I leaf through it. The woman goes, "Sir. Your Tea Is Ready."

I go up to the register to pay for my tea. And the other girl behind the counter goes, "That'll be $2.50." And then she looks at me quizzically. I guess because I look at her quizzically. Only because it's 13 cents less than usual. She goes, "Wait. Do You Work At The Mall? Or Do You Just Come Here A LOT!!??"

When she asked that, I felt deep shame. Not abysmal. The kind of shame you feel like when you go to a shitty restaraunt like Ruby Tuesdays or TGIFridays and they sing Happy Birthday to you. Like Teavana is an all right place to stop by. I mean, it's not like I'm going to the KFC. I think I'd be more mortified to go to the KFC and the people behind the counter know me and ask me how I'm doing. And then the KFC cashier would go, "Hey Kev! Your Regular 3-Piece Crunchy Chicken Meal!?!?" Then I should feel deep shame. Maybe for thinking that KFC is fine dining? Maybe for thinking that mass product is better than an individualistic mom & pop shop? Maybe for the lame idea that hanging out at the mall is pathetic?

Anyways, back to the girl at Teavana. I tell her I do not work at the mall. And that I just come by often. I wish I had some story ready that I could've told her. Like, "Oh, my wife works at Nordstroms. And I'm here to pick her up. But I thought I should get some tea!" But I didn't. So I pay the price of a regular customer. I hand her exact change. And I leave the store as quickly as possible.

The tea this time was pretty good. Kind of bitter. And the girl behind the counter killed the usual buzz I get from it.

bitch.

The Killing Joke

2004-12-02T13:21:00.000-08:00

Sleeping at least 8 hours a night has definitely benefitted my well-being. I woke up early enough to watch some of Good Morning America. I was able to get dressed. Today I am wearing a brown roll-neck sweater. Brown pants. And my tan sneakers. I look something like a chocolate pastry. I had enough time to make myself a little breakfast. And I even made some coffee. And I poured the coffee into a thermal mug made for the commuter in constant transit. The mug was given to my dad by this drug company called Androgel. They specialize in making testerone gel. It's like Viagra but in lotion form. I let my car warm up and I drive it with the thermal mug in hand. I felt like a young professional. I felt like a joke. But today? I feel like I own the day. So no matter how I felt otherwise, I wasn't going to let it stop me.

There's a packet of a Vanilla Caramel flavored tea bag sitting on my desk. I had just finished my coffee. I wanted to have a cup of tea so I could feel more alive. So I did. More caffeine. And I did feel more alive. And I did my work. And I felt important. And I answered the phone. Then I looked out the window and I was excited to see it clear and sunny. I like the air around this time, it feels very crisp and clean. After I admired the world, I thought about how I am going to see the Magnetic Fields play tonight. Then I thought about how good they are and how grammatically correct Stephin Merritt's songs are. And how that makes it all the more genius.

Shelly came over to talk to Lynne. They're my co-workers. Lynne is my boss. Shelly and her are not just co-workers. They're friends too. Shelly was talking about how she likes sharing her office with Bryon. She described how nice he is and how she tries to find his dark side. For instance, Shelly told him that she had to leave early from work, go home and bake. Bryon responded, "Shelly, Do You Mean To BAKE?" She goes, "Oh, So You Do DO Drugs." Bryon and Shelly chuckled. Lynne found the anecdote amusing. Office talk.

I helped train Bryon when he started working here. And I said, "Yeah, Well, Bryon Told Me Once That He Killed A Man. So I Suppose He DOES Have A Dark Side." Lynne and Shelly both looked at me and chuckled. A little bit.

Lynne and I had to go set up a meeting on the 3rd Floor. We were walking. On the way, Lynne goes, "I Need To Ask You." I always get slightly scared with an intro like that. Lynne continues, "How Exactly Did Bryon Bring This Up? How He Killed Someone....I Mean?"

I hate it when I do that.

"Yeah....Uhmmm....I Was Just Joking. He Didn't Really Kill A Man. But If He Did. Then That Would Be Really Interesting Too. Uhhhh. Mmm. " (nervous laughter)

Note to self: Stay Positive.

Something In The Way

2004-12-01T11:48:00.000-08:00

Every morning at 10:30, I have to go to the other building of my work and play the main receptionist. Just so that the actual main receptionist can take a break and use the restroom and perform other sundry duties. Then I can answer phones and say HELLO to guests that come in to the building. Act with good cheer and get all fake in a very corporate fashion. This morning was tough. The winds outside are going at 58 miles per hour. Doesn't that qualify as a hurricane? It was throwing me off course. Walking was hard. This is hard to think about. This is stupid.

I am trying to write this morning. But I feel kind of numb. Not that anything bad or traumatic happened. I just do. I have nothing special to say. I slept 9 hours last night. I got into work. On time. It was cold and rainy. I was hungry. So I toasted a Pop Tart. The Pop Tart crumbled. It crumbled because it had a hard fall in the vending machine. I enjoyed it despite the fact. But I really wanted something with substance like an egg sandwich. But I didn't feel like going outside to Ms. Kim's Deli because it was cold and rainy. So I stayed inside and had my Pop Tart. It was brown sugar and cinnamon. I prefer the S'Mores flavor of Pop Tart. But I shouldn't complain. I am fucking droning.

Last night, I was looking at my applications for Grad School. I thought about what I would write in the application. Like my address. Like my phone number. Email Address. List of schools attended. I didn't write anything in them. I just thought about it. I should've taken the bull by the horns and filled it out. But I didn't. I wasn't in the mood. This is devastatingly interesting and compelling. Not really. AT ALL.

I have a painting that is sitting on my floor. I've been working on it for the past two months. Actually, it has sat there since October. I'm not sure how to feel about it. It's of a samurai woman in a dark forest. And she has a thought balloon. In the thought balloon, there's a big green telephone. I titled the painting "Revenge." It's about someone caught in anger and not knowing where to go. I didn't like the shade of blue I painted the sky. Nor did I like how I painted the snow. I will get back to it. But not today. Sometime soon.

Yesterday, I put together my recording studio in my brother's old room. I worked on a new recording. It's for this record I'm in the process of starting and hoping to finish. I like what I've written. But I looked at it objectively and I thought about what people might hate about it and the stumbling blocks I'll come into. It started to wear me out. I felt tired. And I went to bed.

Maybe I should get back to work. Just do the work. Think about the results later. Maybe I'll bomb. Perhaps, I might not. Fuck this. I need to answer the phone again.

Figure 8

2004-11-30T11:46:00.000-08:00

My parents are huge Christians! Well, my mom is a total catholic. Or is it Catholic? Do I have to capitalize?

Since I live under their roof, my parents want to make sure that I'm living in the right path. So I go to church with them every Sunday. My body is there. I'm not so sure that I am there. I'm not sure if I even listen. I do make a point to. But sometimes, I find myself to not totally agree. Or sometimes, I'm just thinking about what I'm about to eat after mass is over. They have some good points though. I mean, I believe in some higher power. But I'm not sure if my higher power cares if I eat meat on a Friday before Easter.

Oh Shit! Is that Andy Grosse!?

While I sit in church, I will see familiar faces from my youth. That's one thing I sort of like about going to church is seeing some people I knew from way back when. Like I don't want to talk to them. I just want to see what they're doing. How they look. What kind of story I can get from how they're dressed. The weight class they've moved into. I'm so curious.

Back to Andy Grosse. That's not even his real name. Actually, I think from what I remember about him in grade school is that he'd be the type to "google" his name and that he might find this entry. So let's protect some egos. Andy stood out. Actually, he was the first Andy I knew. And I think he kind of ruined the name Andy for me. Like I've made friends with many people named Andy since then but I have this feeling that maybe they're all just like Andy Grosse. Let me explain.

Have you ever met anyone so smart that they just go back to being retarded? That's Andy Grosse. Andy has these big dumb fucking eyes. Plus he has the same haircut he's had since I first encountered him in first grade. He was regarded as the biggest freak in grade school. I wish there was a more eloquent term for someone that is socially retarded, dangerously intelligent, and just plain pyschotic. Because that's Andy Grosse.

Andy Grosse always won the Spelling Bee at our school. He got so far to compete in the regional Spelling Bee that was televised. And there was a great deal of satisfaction when he'd be in the top 5 of the competition and he'd lose. It was great because it was televised. And I was hoping other people could see how much of a weirdo he was on TV.

He was really full of how smart he was. Like arrogant. It made me hate him. He seldomly made comments to me about how my grades weren't like his. Or how fat I was. But I took pride in the fact that I didn't cry whenever the Fire Alarm went off. Andy cried everytime we had a fire drill. Andy cried when our teacher Mrs. Burnett read The Witches by Roald Dahl. I loved the book and he was always tried to stop the teacher from reading the book aloud to the class. It scared him and he had nightmares. What an asshole. Took the joy out of everything. Andy cried whenever he got a 96% on a test. Yeah, life's fucking hard, asshole.

Andy had no bladder control. Once during math class in the 6th Grade, Andy got real fidgety. He didn't know what to do. He was known to have a reputation throughout school for not having bladder control. He'd wet his pants at least 5 times every year for the past 6 years. Our teacher goes, "ANDY! IF YOU NEED TO GO! JUST GO!!!!" And Andy responded, "But We're Having Math Class!" And the teacher goes, "JUST GO!!!!!!!" Andy ran out of the classroom. But he didn't make it. I suppose he started pissing as he ran out the door. He got freaked and ran back into the classroom. When class finished we all looked at his trail of piss. It made a Figure 8. At the apex of the Figure 8, you could see where he decided to run back and regress.

Mass ended and we all went in peace. Andy Grosse saw me as I was walking out of the church. He looked just the same. Was he autistic? Were there troubles at home we didn't know of? Maybe he's got some serious issues that we didn't know about? Andy and I made eye contact. I'm not quite the same person as I was when I last left him. I don't think I look the same. I just pretended not to know him. Because I don't think I really did.

The Gift

2004-11-29T06:25:00.000-08:00

There was a documentary that came on the Independent Film Channel. I have a deep appreciation of all things "indie", I suppose. You know, things that are done independently of what focus groups and large teams of producers tell them. Art for art's sake. Anyhow, there was a documentary on called The Gift. The movie centered around these gay men in San Francisco that had AIDS. And it talked about how there were men that were eager, ready and willing to get AIDS from the aforementioned men. And to get AIDS was to get "the Gift."

I thought it was sad. Kind of scary. Disturbing. I wondered why anyone would want to get AIDS. Did they hate themselves? Why did they want to get infected? I didn't get to watch the whole thing. Honestly, I found it too upsetting to watch. So I turned it off.

This past weekend, I bought a book. I was told that this book would be really good for me to read. It's about 48 ways to empower yourself. Each chapter is separated by each law or rule. Some of them are quite reasonable and make a lot of sense. Other laws and rules are a bit evil. Cut throat. And kind of cold. They seem like laws that men in suits on Wall Street would follow.

Law number 10 in this book was to avoid infection. The subtext said to avoid the "incurably unhappy and unlucky."

Who? Oh wait. I think I know who they're talking about.

Katie was someone I knew from my days in grade school. She went to high school in Texas. I'd call her every other day during that time. And she'd tell me how she hated it there. And how abysmally depressed she was. And how she wanted to slit her wrists. And how no one at all could understand her. However, I felt like I could. I was enraptured by her. She was really funny and great if she wasn't extremely upset. I talked to her a lot to try to get to that part of her. But there was so much emotional terrain to get through. If I ever did get there, I felt like I had succeeded and it was great. I felt like I could alleviate some of that awfulness. And maybe Katie just needed me in her life. I'd feel great. Maybe it was star-crossed love? I don't know. But once I got back into the world after talking to Katie, I couldn't help but see what Katie said. What Katie felt.

Maybe things are really hard? Hopeless? Not understanding? Pointless? Meaningless? Cold. Like maybe we are just aberrations of society. Of everything. It was all very disappointing. But I couldn't wait to talk to Katie on the phone again.

I think my eldest brother Rene is having a mid-life crisis. I told my cousin Miles this. And he replied, "Your brother has been having a 1/8th life crisis, a 3/10ths life crisis, SO a mid-life crisis is just an upgrade!" Despite all that, Rene has been someone that's figured prominently in my life. He lived at home for awhile after he got out of college. I was 10 years old at the time. He'd be bored and he'd take me out with him to go to the record store. Or to the guitar shop. Or to the movies. Or to go to some restaurant to get dinner. It was really fun. I used to think he was really funny. Well, up until a certain point. I started to realize that his jokes weren't all that funny at the age of 16. He'd be very sarcastic. Which is something I appreciate. He'd hate everyone. And I suppose his sarcasm was a way to sheath his hate. I suppose he found me special. I was young and understanding of whatever he had to say. I never saw the insanity that was in him until it was a bit too late. For both him and me.

I suppose my brother Rene is just a real unhappy kind of guy. I've been told he's been like that since he was a kid. Part of it, I think Rene blames on my brother Francis. He always talked about how left out he felt because of him. My brother Francis was a tennis prodigy when he was a teenager and my parents were really proud of him. All that acclaim from my parents made Rene feel worthless, then resentful. Maybe he does have a point. But it doesn't have to be that way. He didn't have to be a victim. But I think he enjoys playing the part.

Maybe we are constantly at the mercy of everyone else's feelings about us? Maybe we aren't valid until someone validates us? Maybe we're just not good enough? Maybe I should direct my anger in sarcasm? Maybe everyone else is awful and I should find a reason to hate them. Maybe I see Rene's point. And I can feel my body rejecting itself as I feel what he feels.

Last night, I went out to dinner for my friend Annie's birthday. We all went to our favorite Indian restaurant. It was called Indique. We finished dinner early and decided to go to Old-Time Country Night at this bar. That is where they play old-timey Country songs from the 20's & 30's and everyone plays Bingo. We all lost our first round of Bingo. Annie brushed all the chips off of her Bingo card awaiting the next round. Annie ironically goes, "Wow! This is the best gift I could ever get! A clean slate and a second chance!"

I smiled. That IS nice. Christmas IS coming up. But I think I'll try to get that on my own.

Neurotica

2004-11-19T14:47:00.000-08:00

Let me preface: I can be very neurotic.

I don't know where I get all of that from. I wish I knew. So I could go to the drugstore and buy the necessary ointments, vitamins and over the counter antihistamines to relieve it. It gets annoying that I waste a lot of time thinking about what I did or said that was wrong. And then I think of the implications it may have in future events and how it could possibly initiate nuclear fallout. Okay, that's going too far. But maybe?

This morning I left a Friendster testimonial on my friend's profile. It said something like, "No, It's Not That You Can Be A Jerk. It's Just That You're One Of The Better Friends That I Have." It was semi-sarcastic. Mostly a joke. Maybe a little bit honest. I checked their profile to see if they added my "testimonial." Their profile said that they had checked in that day. But my testimonial wasn't approved. What the fuck did I say? Was it mean? Did my friend see further into it and figured that I hate him and I want to make a big show of it? Although that wasn't my purpose. Maybe he thought differently? Maybe he'll hate me and we'll never hang out again. Then he'll tell everyone else how much of an asshole I am. I don't know. I was ready to write an apology email. God, I've got a backlog of "apology emails."

"Dear (insert Friends' name), I'm real sorry about what I said. I just wasn't thinking. Sometimes, I just get goofy and get carried away with joking around and well.....I end up hurting someone's feelings. I don't mean it. And I hope we do get to hang out again soon."

So I got this record I recorded released. And I brought it to the local independent record shop to consign some copies. The owner of the shop has been to a few shows of mine. And he was amped to hear it. As he was taking care of business behind the counter, so I casually strolled around the store to check out the merchandise. Suddenly, I hear a very familiar drumbeat. And a very familiar guitar progression. And then I hear my voice come in. I was partly elated that he'd want to play the record. But for the most part, I was terrified! I looked around the shop as my record played. I totally scrutinized every note and thought about how it wasn't like all those other "awesome" bands that prefer to record in "awesome" slick studios. I felt like everyone was just thinking about how much of an impostor that asshole was who was playing on the overhead speakers in the shop. I broke into a sweat. I felt like fucking Charlie Kauffman during that scene in Adaptation, where he's talking to that producer and he's wondering if she's thinking about how he's balding and overweight and how she'd never have sex with him in a million years.

The record ended. And no one vomitted. Actually, everyone seemed to not be bothered by the experience of my music at all. I was the only one who was biting their nails and sweating bullets. My friend behind the counter gave me two thumbs up. What the fuck was I so scared of?

My brother Rene can be a buffet table of neurosis. Perhaps he gave me the "neurotic germs?" He likes me to be aware of his feelings at all times. And he always feels it necessary to be brutally honest. On his terms. Despite how narrow his scope may be. He taught me how to play guitar. He tried to teach me scales and petatonic (or whatever the fuck it's called) scales. But I didn't pay attention. He thought it was sacrilege. He never wrote a song. He tries. But I don't think he has the knack. Or maybe he's just thinking too hard. Like he thinks about what people would like or would want to hear. Who will he impress?

I had a job working as the mailroom manager at this corporate office. Before this job, I had little tiny office jobs that were casual Friday all week. When I came to this job, everyone was pretty sharp and tailored. I felt a bit embarassed to be seen. I was sorting mail. I was in the marketing wing of the building. Everyone that passed by me was sharply good looking and well dressed. I was a bit overweight. Ill-fitted clothing. My hair was shaggy and shapeless. I felt like I should've been rolling out of a windowless white van in a haze of pot-smoke with a foot long hotdog wondering where the "exit" is. I studied everyone looking at me. And from how their eyes moved and the shape their mouths made, I thought of how low they thought of me. And suddenly, I felt the trickle of sweat come down my brow. And suddenly, I was freaked out that I was freaking out. So I kept sweating more. And it started to drip on the mail. I put down the mail and stood in the men's restroom. Patting my face down with papertowels.

I cooled off. Maybe I shouldn't think at all. It gets me into a new wilderness of misery.

Private Writing Team

2004-11-18T10:59:00.000-08:00

I had a dream last night. I was taking a class taught by Roseanne. Roseanne Arnold. Or Roseanne Barr. I'm not too sure what name she goes by now. She's very fickle. The class was about her life. It was like the History of Roseanne. The class was very detail oriented. And if you know Roseanne at all, her lectures were just really intense. I had to take a test. It covered the history of the characters on her show. It also covered the history of her life. I was a big fan of her show, so I thought that I'd know all about it. I got the test back. And I scored an 11 out of 25. Huh? Roseanne came up to me after class and told me that I missed all these questions that appeared on the back of each page of the test. I didn't realize that the questions were there. So I failed because I missed that detail. I was really pissed. How could I miss all those questions? She told me that I was stupid and I need to pay attention to detail. What an asshole!?

Afterwards, I sat down in this living room. Not my living room. It had really long and wide windows. It looked like the living room that the Surreal Life occupies. I was sitting on the very art deco sectional couch. And across from me sat my friend Lauren. I know a few too many Laurens. But this Lauren works for NPR. She dresses well. She drives a BMW. She writes real well and she's hilarious. She was bitching about how she left her convertible top down to her car. And the sun was beating down on her car. And the sun melted these little chocolate motels that she had in the passenger seat. What the fuck are "little chocolate motels?" I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Sorry." I leaned on a box that was sitting next to me. The box was full of t-shirts. My dog Snowball ran into the box and took rest in the abundance of t-shirts. I focused on the TV. And we were watching the Real World on MTV. There was some shitty montage of some stereotypically hot blonde girl. Her hair was all braided in some sort of fucked up corn-rows way. All she did was stare into the camera and make stupid faces with some "awesome" music playing in the background.

That dream was so lame. What was the point? There was no structure at all! Is this what my subconscious is thinking about?

I had a dream that held together better than that. I dreamt I was in my college dorm-room. I was with all my friends at the time. We were smoking pot. Perhaps, this dream came when I was getting stoned for two weeks straight twice a day. We were having a fine time, talking and giggling. Then the room went all black. Was there a blackout? I got creeped out. But something on the window started to peel off and some light started to come in. Eventually, it just peeled off totally and fell off. Out the window, I saw a legion of spaceships coming from a hole in the sun. They were shooting down at the buildings below with laserbeams. It was very much a scene from War of the Worlds. The cathedral next to my dorm was on fire. And I saw people running in sheer terror. The park across the street was obliterated. What did this all mean?

Another dream I had was I was preparing to go to India. The whole entire dream was just about preparation. Like I had to go to the Samsonite store to buy some new suitcases for the trip. I also had to work on my computer to get plane tickets from Expedia or HotWire or Priceline or some bullshit like that. The dream ended with me walking onto the plane and taking a seat. Huh?

My brother Brian died in a car accident. Actually, not in real life. This was another dream I was having. I dreamt I heard the news and I was really upset. Although, we weren't all that close at the time. I was really upset that someone I knew had died suddenly and unexpectedly. I woke up from the dream still believing that my brother was indeed dead. However, three minutes later I was real relieved to know that it wasn't true.

One other dream I had, my arm had erupted into welts. It was really itchy. And it lasted for a long time. I was sitting in Dr. Stechler's office complaining about it. Dr. Stechler was my psychiatrist. As I was talking about what was bothering me, my welts burst open. Suddenly, all these little green scorpions started crawling out of my skin. Was that symbolic?

Sometimes I wish my dreams were more clear. Or I wish I could remember them. Or I wish for better structure. I believe the writing team inside my head are slacking. Some days, I feel like I got the worst team on the planet. Like they're a bunch of shitty comedy writers that just got fired from Suddenly Susan or some bullshit Must See TV show that lasted less than a season. And every time I do catch them, they're usually sleeping on the job. I want more closure. Maybe more answers. Nothing sticks with me. That's a sign of bad writing.

Let Her Walk Into Darkness

2004-11-17T17:25:00.000-08:00

I admit I've lost touch with people I was friends with over the years. Not that they don't mean anything to me.

Last year around this time, I got an email from a friend of mine named Katie. Katie knew me from way back when. A long time ago. Like back in grade school. What began our friendship was a call she made to me on Valentine's day back in 1993. She called to wish me a happy one. And we spoke on the phone for 2 hours non-stop. Suddenly I was ushered into adolescence. I was mesmerized. Almost hypnotized. I concentrated on her solely. And I wished that she would call me everyday. And she did. And I called her a lot too. She liked me a lot. But her friend Brooke asked me to be her boyfriend. And I accepted. Although, the whole time, I wished Brooke was Katie. Brooke had a bad case of being bland. Brooke thought I was boring and broke up with me. Maybe I bored her because I didn't even like her at all and wished she was Katie the whole time. Unrequited love.

Katie left Virginia after junior high. She moved to Texas to live with her father. I missed her very much. And I called her every other night during my freshman year of high school. She was very depressed. Suicidal even. I thought it was endearing. She was a girl in distress and perhaps I could help her out. I was smitten. The only way I knew how was to level with her. So I became very depressed too.

High school went on. I was able to move on. And Katie wasn't around. So I decided to become obsessed with something else. Someone else. We'd see each other when she came back to Virginia to visit her mother. But it wasn't the same. We both moved in different directions. She was still into being very depressed. Dealing with drugs. Dealing with AA. Contemplating taking her own life. At times, it seemed very theatrical. While I just wanted to not be so upset about every bad thing that did happen and just try to enjoy my life. I couldn't understand her anymore. Not that I didn't care for her. I thought that made our relationship obsolete. So the connection failed and I kept moving on.

Five years later, I got an email. It was from Katie. The email told me that she was back in the area. She found some information about me on the internet and wanted to seek me out and hang out. She gave me a call. There is that odd hush when you suddenly start speaking to someone after a long period of silence. There is a lot to say. A lot to catch up on. You totally want to bring them up to speed as soon as possible, so you can keep the conversation going. You also don't want to feel like you're writing your autobiography as you speak to them. So I say, "SO WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO? It's Been So Long!"

Katie responds, "Well....I just had a baby and gave it up for adoption." And I start laughing. It was a bit absurd to suddenly throw that out there. But Katie was serious. She tells me how her grandmother died. And how she finished college. How she's been depressed. How she's been admitted to hospitals for her problems. How she's attempted suicide so many times in the past few years. How her sisters are having crises themselves. All of this was described in vague detail and in a vocal diction that sounded as if she was teetering between pleasantness and madness.

I felt like maybe I could alleviate some of that stress. Or pain. Or all of the above. I thought we should hang out. Have fun. Forget about troubles. However, this time there wouldn't be any sort of romantic potential between us. We'd make plans. Get coffee. Go Christmas shopping. Go to a movie. She'd cancel out most of the time. Mostly due to how she was feeling too depressed to pick up the phone. But when we did hang out, it was fun. Part of it was painful. It just seemed like she loved staying in that place where everything is SO hard and frustrating and dark. Like she wanted to be better, but her mind would give in and that's the only place where she could go.

Katie lit her candles and fell asleep one night. She lived in the basement of her mother's house. She treated it like an apartment. She woke up two hours later. And her basement was filled with gray smoke. She was choking on the air. She got out. As did the rest of her family. Their house burnt down. And her two cats died.

Dismember

2004-11-16T13:14:00.000-08:00

So I like to write songs. It can be tricky. I also play the guitar. But I don't know scales or anything. I know some chords. And I know what parts sound good together. I just go by intuition as to what I think sounds good. I've heard it said that whatever you create is essentially the destruction of everything that you take in. So the product is just a culmination of everything that you like. And you whittle down everything else that you don't like. Or at least you try to.

The other day, I went shopping with my family. It was Sunday. Sundays are the day that my family gets together and does lunch and catches up with each other. I don't have too much to say. Everyone present is older than me and mostly speak a different language. A language I don't get. It's okay. Perhaps, I over participate in other avenues of my life and being a spectator is good once in awhile. My parents are staunch Republicans. That's okay, I suppose. They have their reasons. My mother was speaking of her niece (my cousin) Eileen and how she doesn't care about what she thinks since she voted for John Kerry. I thought that was kind of cold. Maybe my mom is really insecure about her man, George W. And the fact that someone went against that, she decided that they weren't worth it.

My parents asked me who I voted for. I didn't want to say. It's a personal choice. My mother badgered me. And kept badgering me. I said, "I voted for Kerry." My father turned away from me. And my mother was in shock. I defensively go, "Why Do You Hate Me Now?" And my mother responded, "I Don't Know....."

Last night, I was driving home. My brother Brian called me. He wanted to talk about "stuff." What he did talk to me about was how I should look into buying an apartment. This is for when I move to Philadelphia possibly. Like paying mortgages. Retaining equity. What the fuck ever. I had just gotten off work. And I didn't want to talk about money. Or mortgages. Or equity. Or bills. Or loans. Or grad school tuition. My brother loves money. He works to get lots of money. His dream is to buy a lot of electronic equipment. I'm not about consuming a lot. I like getting money. But there's more to life than just buying "stuff" and seeking fortunes. Right? I cut him off and told him that I was walking into the gym and that I couldn't talk. I was really sitting in traffic. And I couldn't be bothered.

A dead deer was laying on Little River Turnpike. It was laying on a traffic island. I drove by it with an overwhelming sense of horror. My headlights reflected in the dead eyes of the dead deer. I came to a stop at the red light. As did the van behind me. And the Pontiac behind the van couldn't stop. It ran right into the van. And the van ran into me. The Pontiac driver was taken aback by the dead deer and paid no attention to what was in front of him.

I didn't want this at all.

The Price Of Nice

2004-11-12T16:00:00.000-08:00

Those bumper stickers have got to go.

The "Mean People Suck" bumper sticker was a trend that was big in '96 onwards. I'm not too sure if it's still as fashionable to have "Mean People Suck" adorning your bumper today. It's up there with the classic "Baby On Board" sticker. And then there's that sinister decal of Calvin of Calvin & Hobbes pissing in public. That's a classic too. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm not too crazy about "Mean People." I think they're awful. I've run into many of them. There was a reactionary bumper sticker that followed "Mean People Suck" and it said, "Nice People Suck." It's kind of funny. Kind of exaggerated. I like nice people. Well, some nice people.

A friend of mine from college broke up with her boyfriend. She goes, "I really liked him. When I first met him I thought he was really really nice. But after awhile, 'nice' isn't all that it's cracked up to be." Usually nice people totally succeed and prosper. The mean people usually succeed and prosper but soon collapse under what karma has bestowed upon them. What Was Wrong With Being Nice?

I had a friend from college named Jonathan. He was kind of cool. He liked REM a lot. So much so that he spoke like Michael Stipe. He considered himself to be a singer-songwriter. He wrote folk songs with simple chord progressions. And he was able to sing them with that Starbucks-friendly type of vocal range. He was well liked because he had that going for him and he was really really nice. He was never one to start an argument. He usually didn't have much to say. We hung out and I'd bring up a topic that could start a discussion. But he just smiled and would say, "That's Cool." I wanted to know why people liked him so much. He didn't seem very interesting. I was constantly waiting for some big fat joke to come out of him. And nothing ever did. And I was friends with him for three years. He had some really flat and boring songs. Nothing very interesting about them. He had some interesting political ideas, however, they sounded awfully familiar to Michael Stipe's. I'd ask him the opinion of some record, and Jonathan would go, "Oh. I Like Them." Or "Oh. I Liked That One." And then he'd have that retarded empty smile on his face. Was He Just Dead Inside?

Is there something they're covering up for? What's all this niceness for? Do they ever have a bad day? Are they real? Are they fucking unicorns under the guise of human beings? Sometimes, I don't get it.

I went to a friend of a friend's birthday party. It was at the Cactus Cantina, a bit past Georgetown. A lot of the people there were people I just wouldn't hang out with usually. They really loved theater. Actually, because a lot of them used to be in Stage Crew in high school. God, I hate Stage Crew. But I was willing to give these people a shot. Maybe I could move past my earlier associations and somehow connect with these people. But I just couldn't. In order to pass the time, I drank glass after glass of Margeritas. It was Cinco De Mayo and Margerita pitchers were half-off their usual price. I stayed quiet and observed everyone else. I could think of a joke that would fit the conversation. And I'd keep it in. I was kind of nervous. I didn't know these people that well. What if it totally bombed? So we got dessert. We ordered Key Lime Pie for everyone at the table. The Key Lime Pie came and we all took a bite. I took a bite. My face puckered from how tart it was and how much sugar was involved. And I said, "Oh My God! This Pie Just Gave Me Diabetes!" Some people laughed. One person at the table didn't like jokes about diabetes. I saw awkward glances being made. And I felt ultimately embarassed. Uncomfortable.

The next day, I called my friend Meg who threw the dinner party together. And I asked, "So....Uhmm....What Did Your Friends Think Of Me?" And she goes, "Uhmmm......They Thought You Were Really Nice." And I thought about it. Oh. Nice.

Little Monsters

2004-11-11T13:14:00.000-08:00

During my sophomore year of high school, I was feeling a bit lost. A bit bored. A bit empty. And I really wanted to do something with myself. I was pretty depressed. I couldn't find it in myself to do any art. So I pretty much had nothing to do but sit in my room and read back issues of Optic Nerve and listen to Teenage Fanclub every afternoon. The word around school was that lacrosse season was starting up and every boy in school was trying out. I wasn't. I'm a dork. I'm a nerd. I don't care for sports. Apparently, all the "dudes" that were in the spring production of Hello Dolly left the play in order to get on the lacrosse team. Lacrosse is an amazing sport, from what I'm supposing. A friend of mine named Meg (drama department treasurer) told me that the Drama Department is desperate. They need some guys to fill the roles that the aspiring lacrosse players left behind. I thought it would be interesting and fun. So I signed on.

I joined the cast of Hello Dolly. Without even having to audition, I got a part in the play as a chorus member. It was kind of exciting. I thought a lot of interesting people were in the drama club. There was a girl in the play named Melissa. I was awfully smitten by her. Only because she looked like that girl from that show called My So-Called Life. She seemed spunky. And had a hip way about her. Finally, she could see me in action. Another person in the play was Chris. Chris was kindly popular. Only because his brother Dan was really popular. So he was popular by familial association. Chris seemed cool. He knew about all these bands that I liked. He also played guitar. And he sang. And he was always the center of attention in class. And he looked like the missing member of the Beastie Boys. Somehow, we became friends.

I used to have my hair spiked in high school. I was inspired by some punker on the Real World. I used to get made fun of everyday for it. For the play, I had to comb it down. Spiky hair was not in style in the time of Hello Dolly. Chris goes, "Kevin, Why'd You Stop Spiking Your Hair!?.....That Was Awesome." I thought that was strange since he was one to make fun of it all the time. He'd ask me to go out behind the auditorium and smoke. We'd hang out and talk about music. Then we'd talk about people. And we'd make fun of them. He'd tell me that the friends I did have were total nerds and I needed to hang out with cooler people....Like himself.

So we hung out after school before rehearsal. We'd catch a bagel. Smoke. Make fun of people. Talk about what's cool. What's not. We'd get to hang out with Melissa. And we'd get to hang out with other people that Chris determined cool in the drama club. It was really fun, I thought. I used to just hang out with whomever I thought was decent before. Anyone nice. Anyone willing to put up with me. With Chris, I felt really "in." Really "with it." Finally, I was hanging out with people that "had a lot more going on." It was kind of intoxicating.

During rehearsals, we'd get real mean. We just went crazy. We laughed the whole time at other people. We pulled pranks. Every ridiculous move made by someone else. We'd look at each other and bust out laughing. On one night of the play, there's a scene in which Dolly is eating dinner with some guy. And they are served red wine, which is just red fruit punch. I thought it'd be funny to throw some tampons in their wine glasses. And on their dinner plates, have their salad served on top of a bed of "maxi-pads." The performance went fine. However, very distracting. Margaret who played Dolly was furious. And after that scene, she came back stage to strangle me. Margaret was in my homeroom. She came up to me the next morning and said, "Kevin, What Are You Doing? You Are So Nice On Your Own. But When You Get Together With Chris, You Two Are Holy Terrors! You Become Little Monsters!"

I didn't think much of it. The play finished and I resumed my regular schedule of hanging out at home every afternoon. Reading Optic Nerve and listening to Teenage Fanclub. Chris and I would get together to play guitars. He'd tell me I'd suck. But I'd pay no mind. We'd get something to eat. Smoke behind the auditorium. Chris would even call me at home some nights. I wasn't really into talking on the phone. But I just did, because it was kind of awesome to have a "cool friend." He'd still get into me about having "loser friends." I'd shrug it off.

Chris and I had Latin Class together. Chris had his own group of friends in class that I was peripherally a part of. Amongst the group, I mentioned something about how Chris had called me the other night and I told him how much I thought the Ben Lee show sucked. Chris was still. And looked from side to side. And he said, "Kevin, I don't call you." And I responded, "Yes, you do, asshole." And he goes, "I have never called you on the phone in my life!" I respond, "You've called me quite often." Chris goes, "I never have." I say defeatedly, "Fine...I guess I must have been imagining it. Whatever."

Such good friends are fleeting.

Family Leaf

2004-11-10T11:59:00.000-08:00

All my life up until college, I had gone to Catholic school. When I tell people that, the reaction can be like, "How Did You Survive!?" "How Could You Live!??!" Honestly, it wasn't even bad. Actually, that's all I knew about schooling. It was fine. I mean, yeah, I had to wear a uniform. Yeah, the viewpoints were a little skewed. For instance, in 3rd grade we were told that the prehistoric age wasn't God's idea. And yeah, we had to pray before every single thing we did. It was really my mother's idea. I suppose with the last two children (that being my brother Brian and I), my parents were able to afford a private education. And my mom wanted us to grow up with a sense of morality. Uhmm....since everyone else who didn't go through catholic school is a total heretic? What?

My mom's life is a bit different from how I had it or probably anyone of this generation. She grew up in the more rural part of the Philippines. She was 1 of 5 children. The only girl. She was sent off to boarding school at the age of 10. When she got out at 21 years old, she essentially married my father. Had a child. Moved to America. She loved her father (my grandfather). And although, she probably won't own up to it, she holds deep resentment for her mother (my grandmother). It was my grandmother's idea to send her off to boarding school. My mom felt that was the worst thing to do. She missed seeing her family.

When my parents moved to America. My father was just starting out as a doctor. They lived in New York. He made $100 a week. And they had a baby. And they just lived in a tiny apartment in Manhattan. My grandmother wrote a letter to my mom stating that she would not help her out with one red cent. My mom had to strike out on her own and earn a living the hard way. So she worked at a veterinarian office. My mom hates pets. And she worked other awful office jobs. The fact that my grandmother wouldn't help her out made her more resentful.

Part of me is a bit resentful towards my mom. Not like an overwhelming part. But she's not too supportive of the art I make. Nor the music I make. Or the way I wear my hair. Or the clothes that I wear. Or anything I believe in. She thinks what I do is just too weird. I don't know if this is a reaction to her own youth. She has said a few times that her own parents were never complimentary towards her as a youth. Her father forbid her from taking ballet. Only because he thought it was inappropriate.

One weekend that I was home from college. My mom called me into her room. Usually, it is to assign me some menial task. Like to pick up her dry-cleaning? Or bring her car in for service? I came in. And she pulled out something from her bureau. It was a folded up piece of notebook paper. She had cleaned out my room since I went to college and she told me that she found this under her bed. I was scared it was some lame "suicide note" that I wrote during my depressive high school days. So I got a bit nervous. It turned out to be was an essay I had written for my english class my freshman year.

It was an essay I wrote about how I went to the drugstore with my mom. I was only 3 years old. My earliest memory. And I had a Brachs' Butterscotch Button in my mouth. I was trampling around. And suddenly I started choking on it. I remembered everyone in the store crowding above me and people calling for help. I remembered my mom getting frantic and hysterical. Somehow the piece of candy dislodged and I was OK. And in my essay, I pondered what I would be missing out on if I had choked and died.

My mom got a bit misty. Which was kind of weird and unsettling. Very much not like her. She told me how when she found she was pregnant with me, she was already 40 years old. And I wasn't expected to make it to full-term. Somehow, I made it. And then at the drugstore, my mother didn't expect me to live, but somehow, I made it. She told me that the circumstance at the drugstore was odd. She said that there was this woman walking around holding a little girl's hand. This woman saw me choking and patted me on the back and the piece of candy dislodged from my throat. And this woman walked off with her little girl in tow. My mom tried to find this woman to say "thank you." But she was nowhere to be seen. My mom claims it was an "angel."

I'm not too sure about such things. There's weird and odd shit happening all the time. There's odd circumstances in which synchronicity is oddly essential. But I let my mother go on speaking. She went on to say, "Kevin, I think you are really odd. And very different from all of your brothers. Perhaps different from everyone else I know. You march to the beat of your own drummer very much so. And I believe that you are bound to do something really amazing and really special....I just want you to be patient and believe you can get there, ok?"

Stunned by the moment of warmth coming from my mother. With wide eyes I go, "uhhhm....ok..." That was the first and only time my mother has said anything like that to me. I usually thought that I was a liability to the family. Not that I'm rebelling. It's just the way I thought. With that I left her room. And went to bed. Not immediately. But eventually.

Tres Bien

2004-11-08T11:37:00.000-08:00

My mom has a dressing room. And in her dressing room, there is a vanity mirror. And across from the vanity mirror is another mirror that covers the entire wall. I suppose that was intended so my mom could see herself from all angles. She liked to be self-aware that way. When I was a kid, I liked to sit at the vanity mirror and watch the reflection of myself looking into the vanity mirror with the wall-length mirror. Perhaps, I wanted to be "self-aware", but I thought it was funny or interesting to see yourself exponentially with all those mirrors. In the reflection there would be an infinite number of me. It was just an image of me. Not like each reflection had its' own personality. Or maybe it reflected a different aspect? Perhaps, (in my childhood logic) it was a reflection of me from other dimensions. Like some alternate universe version of me. But that's all very sci-fi and/or Gene Roddenberry. And who gives a shit about sci-fi? It was nice to ponder though.

Last year, I went to my 5 year high school reunion. I couldn't really understand that it's been 5 years since I got out of high school. In some respects, I still feel like a teen. I got the invitation in the mail and was asked to pay $35 to attend. I didn't want to pay that amount to have an awkward time. However, I was very curious as to how everyone turned out. I thought I'd show up and become a "fly on the wall" and leave after a moment.

So I went. And I was kindly floored as to how nice everyone was to me. I wasn't exactly popular in high school. Typical early 20's complaint about adolescence. Cliched. I know. However, I wasn't entirely a nerd. Everyone knew who I was. I was a bit of a freak. I had dyed black spiky hair. I had a back pack covered in pins and weird drawings. I used to have skull rings. I had braces (because it was very rebellious to have aligned teeth). I'd always have something mean to say about everyone. So I wasn't really hard to miss. I toned it down my senior year of high school. I combed my hair and threw out the skull rings. I wanted to be "more down to earth." Nicer.

The only conversation I could make that night was, "Oh, What Are You Doing Now?" And ofcourse, you're talking about work. God forbid, anyone has an interest or hobby that doesn't make money. I was inundated with stories of how so & so is working for an accounting firm. So & so is in med school. So & so is in law school. So & so is working on the graphics team for NBC. So & so is training to be a cop. So & so is in marketing. And me, well, I'm just a receptionist for a corporate office. For now. It's temporary. I'm hoping to become something else. A teacher hopefully.....In the future.

I know the saying "the grass is always greener" quite well. But I wondered to myself, Where Did I Break Off And Not Want To Become Some Successful Asshole? Why Isn't There Some Intense Drive In Me To Become the President Of Some Stupid Fucking Bank? Like comparing is so wrong. Situations are always so different. Not everyone gets to the same point at the same time. Yet, I do fall into that trap. My oldest brother Rene always compares himself to everyone else. He'd always talk to me about how he doesn't make us much as our relatively successful relatives. And that just a planted a seed in me. One that I tend to nurture. And later I get pissed at myself for thinking so. My father is the same way. Got to be #1. But what the fuck does that mean anymore?

Maybe I'll find out one day. I've been told I got a college degree that means nothing. I've been told that priorities I have are meaningless. I've been told a lot of things that don't mean anything to me, but I try my best to see what their point is. I've been told that work is what you do to enjoy your life. And I've been told life is about what happens outside of work.

Who knows? There is an infinite amount of things that I can be and want to be. There is that mirror that reflects me infinitely. Full of possibilities. Probabilities. Potential. What if I had done this? That? But none of that is really me. All I have is right here, I guess. Despite my setbacks. Shortcomings. Ambivalence. I'm doing the best I can. Fuck it.

(phone rings)

"Thank You For Calling! How May I Direct Your Call!?"

SIGH

2004-11-03T11:42:00.000-08:00

Let's take a moment today to cry for everything bad that has ever happened. Hopefully, we'll get better in time. Four years and counting.

Rocks And Hard Places Pt. 3

2004-10-28T11:11:00.000-07:00

It was just a lot to keep in, I guess. I was really in search of some answers. There was just a lot of pressure. From what Dr. Stechler had told me. From what other people thought of me. And I never really took into account what I thought of myself. There were just so many perspectives to take in. So many opinions. I had no idea where it ended or began. And there I was at home, where I couldn't really speak to anyone in my family. I didn't have any hometown friends I could speak to. I just felt so trapped. Run down. And there was so much going on in my head, that it all accumulated into panic.

My hands would go numb. My back was in knots. And my heart would beat so fast. I would go to bed and I'd wake up 3 hours later. I'd wake up as if someone was holding me under water and waking up was the only way to catch my breath. This carried on all summer and I asked my father for some help. My father is a doctor and he had samples of Zoloft. I told him that I was feeling real tense for some odd reason. I told him that I've had a lot of caffeine recently and that I can only sleep 3 hours a night. He had me take some Zoloft as well as some sleeping pills. However, my panic didn't end right then and there. I could be at a store and I'd be so paranoid. I'd think of what people would think of me as they saw me. What Ideas Would They Get? Are They Right? I would break into a sweat. And I'd need to step outside to catch my breath. Or else I'd just go home.

I started school again. And I moved back into my apartment. I lived by myself. And my behavior settled down just a little bit. I'd go to my classes. And I'd be real quiet. However, inside I felt like I was consumed with terror. But I'd just smile and make stupid jokes to pass the time and show everything was just fine with me. Although things weren't okay with me. And maybe I should see someone. I don't think I could've asked my parents if I could see a therapist while I was home for the summer. They would just have me on "suicide watch" or something. They seem to think I'm on the brink of self-destruct or whatever.

So I went to the mental health clinic at our school. It was a bit distressing to think that I had a problem. That maybe this was the start of some serious mental issue. Maybe I was already in the middle of it. I'd hate to think I was one of those wounded people that just walk around silently and never find some resolution until the day I die. Living some joyless existence. I just wanted to be upset about something else. Something more benign. I had a new therapist and her name was Lisa. She had this very open and warm view of things. Like there was a rhyme and reason for every action that I made. She understood my behavior. It was nice to feel dignified or justified or whatever feeling it is when you don't feel so guilty about the stupid things that you've done.

The year went on. I took my classes. I kept seeing Lisa every week. I made some friends. I didn't want to think of anything romantically. Or if I did, it was short-lived and just caved in because of my own shortcomings.

I was young. I was naive. I assigned a lot of authority to people who didn't even know me. I had a doctor that lead me to believe something that wasn't there. I didn't trust myself at all. I can't really say that I'm totally fine. I still get some episodes of panic. Sometimes, I still second-guess myself. Difficulty in openness. Trying to read people's minds about what their perception of me is. It's all a bit much to think about or even care about. This is the first time I've said anything about this to anyone.

I'm seeing someone these days. She'll be anonymous. I don't know what will come of it. All I know is that it's nice and it's fun and it's comfortable. And that just cracks the window open just a little bit more.

Rocks And Hard Places Pt. 2

2004-10-26T09:38:00.000-07:00

So I took Dr. Stechler's word for it. Perhaps I was gay. Maybe I just didn't know it. Thankfully, my depressive stage in adolescence was drawing to a close. My behavior was better. I was able to act with more life. And I really had no reason to see Dr. Stechler anymore. So my sessions stopped. My Mondays were free. In my junior year of high school, I was able to make some friends. Not sure if we were close or not, but I made friends. Overall, I was just really confused. Was Dr. Stechler right? I didn't think so. And I didn't know what I could do. The only thing I could do was to just shut down that part of my life. Like, I didn't think of anyone in a romantic light at all. That was fine. I was so young. And who wants to be weighed down with such issues? Not me. I just wanted to finish up high school, so I can go to college and start anew.

I started college in the fall of 1998. It was exciting. It was nice to not be home. I actually never felt homesick. Perhaps, I missed the comforts of home a little bit. But I made a lot of friends. Classes kept me busy. And there was always a party to go to. I was very distracted. And it was great. In my English class, I met a girl named Amanda. She looked like the sort of girl that tended to her dayplanner all throughout the year and took notes furiously in class. She had a childlike demeanor. She was very adorable. We were both early for our first English class. She offered me a stick of gum and I accepted it. From that point on, she took a liking to me. I really liked that. And I couldn't help but like her back too. I thought about her all the time. And I was always wondering when I'd see her again that day. Was I In Love? I couldn't tell.

Amanda and I hung out all the time. If she wasn't working and I wasn't in class, I was over at her dorm room. One night, I went over to watch the Breakfast Club, which I thought was the shittiest movie ever and totally not worth the praise. I sat on her roommate's bed and she laid on hers. There was a moment after the movie ended where so much could happen. Perhaps, a meaningful kiss or some sort of exchange. However, in the back of my mind, Dr. Stechler was there. He was telling me, "Kevin, You Are Fooling Yourself If You Think You Actually Like This Girl. Remember You're Gay. You'll Only End Up Hurting Her Feelings And Yours." So I said, "Good Night" and went back to my dorm room.

I wondered why I wasn't so consumed by Amanda. Like, I didn't feel like I was on fire when I was around her. I just knew I liked her. And that was it. Did that mean something? Maybe that was a foreshadowing of how I could be gay? Were we just good friends? Amanda and I hung out more. And nothing would really come of our relationship. I became more and more unavailable. And she met another boy named Mikhail.

Most afternoons after classes, I'd sit in the park outside my dorm hall. I usually had my drawing board with me and I'd have to sketch various objects around the park for homework. One afternoon session, I was interrupted by a boy named Robert. His nickname around campus was the "Reverend." He looked like a teenage greaser from the 50's. His hair was slicked back into a pompadour. He was usually clad in denim and converse sneakers. He also had 6 or 7 fingers between his two hands. He was really nice. He asked what my name was and what my major was. Everytime I saw him around campus, I'd say "hi" and smile. We weren't really friends. Just friendly faces.

My friend Jason took me aside and said, "Kevin, You've Got A Secret Admirer." I lit up. I was very intrigued. And I asked, "Who Is It?" And Jason started to laugh. He went on to say, "His Name Is Robert." Apparently, Robert was really into me. He would talk to all of his friends about me. And Robert and his friends would ask my friends about me. I didn't really know what to say. I thought Robert was nice. But I didn't think I'd want to touch him. And Dr. Stechler stood beside me and he said, "Kevin, This Is What You Really Want. And Actually This Is All You'll Ever Get."

One of Robert's friends tried to set me up on a date with him. But I couldn't pull through. I couldn't really imagine having a good time on a date with Robert. And I just didn't think I was gay. I just wasn't into it. Maybe I was too scared. Maybe I'm letting my fears get the best of me. Maybe I'm still being some stupid little kid. I didn't know and I never agreed to a date.

I liked hanging out with Jason. He was a "cool guy." He was one of those outspoken hipsters with a down to earth quality that I thought was appealing. He had pretty good taste in music. And he was semi-interested in being fashionable. And he didn't like sports. So I thought we should be friends. He had a lot of friends from high school come with him to college. They were pretty fun. We'd hang out in Jason's dorm room and drink and smoke pot. It was great. It was usually really fun. However, I felt something still unresolved in myself. Am I Really Gay Or What?

Perhaps, I was friends with Jason because I was really attracted to him? And I didn't know it. Like could our friendship be something that I might hope to turn into something more? Even though that's not what I wanted. Maybe that's the way it would all end up. And I thought of Dr. Stechler. He said to me, "Oh, Kevin, Why Would He Want To Be Friends With You? You're Just Some Little Faggot. C'mon Get Real. He Doesn't Want Anything To Do With You."

I became less and less available. I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings or make anyone uncomfortable. So we didn't hang out anymore.

What Was Wrong With Me? I couldn't establish a connection with anyone. I wasn't even sure about myself. I had no one I could talk to about any of this. God forbid I tell my family. I wasn't all that close with my friends to say anything. And if I did, Would They Find Me Weird? And if I did, there was just too much to say. So I just kept it all in. I was hoping it would work out all by itself.

I went home that summer. Perhaps, I could find some clarity. Time passed and no answers were coming. And all of a sudden, my hands went numb and I couldn't catch my breath.

(to be continued in tomorrow's post)

Rocks and Hard Places

2004-10-25T21:22:00.000-07:00

From time to time, someone will ask me, "Kevin, SO...do you date girls?" I know what they're getting at. Like, I can understand their concern or whatever. It's not like I'm a jock at all. I never played sports. Unless, it was for class or it was at a birthday party when I was a kid. I care a lot about art and music. I'm semi-interested in being fashionable. But honestly I do not represent the "Alpha Male" well at all. I don't really get annoyed when people ask that nowadays. I honestly don't give a fuck. There was a time if I was asked, "Do you date girls?" "Are you gay?" or however else you can phrase it, and it would get me sort of upset. Not that there is anything wrong with homosexuality at all. However, when you're an awkward insecure teenager that is the last thing you'd want to be.

Every Monday, when I was a high school sophmore, my mom would pick me up from school at 4:30. She'd drive me to McLean so I could see my doctor. My doctor's name was Dr. Stechler. Our sessions would last from 5 to 6pm. Dr. Stechler was a psychiatrist. In high school, I had befallen that adolescent stage and became very depressed. Much so, my high school guidance counselor suggested I start seeing a psychiatrist to help me sort out some feelings. I thought it would be a good way to find some sort of guidance. Although, my mother wasn't totally supportive of psychiatric help. She thought it was a mark of shame. She thought it meant that I was weak. She thought she could help me. But I just felt that this was beyond her.

I sat on Dr. Stechler's psychiatric couch and he sat across from me in his brown leather swivel chair. He was a bald jewish man. He had a potbelly. He had a young look about his face although he was rather old. He had glasses and took notes furiously as we spoke. We spoke about many things. Like, how I feel like I have no friends. Like, how no one likes me. Like, how I don't feel like I have a family. Like, (insert cliched teenage problem here). He didn't really seem to clarify anything for me. Or perhaps I wasn't working with him on what we were speaking about. He'd tell me how some of the friends I did have were "toxic" and that I shouldn't be friends with them. Or if I do feel angry towards someone in my family, then that's ok. He wrote me prescriptions. I'd just come back the next week and vent for an hour.

One session, I thought I'd bring up my questions about homosexuality. So I asked Dr. Stechler, How Do You Know If You're Gay? I thought I'd ask. Some kids picked on me at school claiming I was a......how do you say..."a faggot." Like at lunch, I'd come back to my seat and my chair would be knocked over. And my backpack would have the word, "fag" written on it. It was sort of funny. Kind of mean. But it raised a lot of concern. Was I In Fact Gay And I Just Didn't Know It Yet? So Dr. Stechler responded, Well, Do You Find Men Attractive? So I thought to myself. And remembered how I thought whomever, so & so had a nice body. Like I noticed if they worked out or played sports. So I responded, Yeah I Find Them Attractive I Guess. Dr. Stechler responded with, So Do You Find Men Physically Attractive?

I thought Dr. Stechler was being redundant. Physically Attractive? Well, yeah, I find their physical attributes attractive. I suppose. Like I said, I noticed if they look nice or whatever. If that's what it means? So I said, "Sure." And Dr. Stechler's eyes widened. And his pen wrote more furiously in his file about me. And he goes, Kevin, You Are Gay.

Instinctively, I knew I liked girls in the romantic sense. I always had crushes on girls all throughout grade school. I had an appreciation for women on late night cable. Now that he said that I was gay. Perhaps that means all that didn't matter. I mean he's a doctor afterall. This was his field of expertise. Who am I to argue? But I tried to argue and explain how I've always liked girls. He essentially shot down everything I said and told me that I was gay. It just didn't seem right. Dr. Stechler just goes, "Kevin, You May Not Realize It Today, Tomorrow, Or Even Next Year. But You Are Gay And This Is Something You Need To Get Over. You Might Think That You Like Girls. But You Really Don't. If You Were To Pursue A Relationship With Them, You'd Only Be Lying To Yourself And You'll Never Be Happy."

I took Dr. Stechler's word for it. He's a professional. Perhaps, I had been lying to myself all my life. Or maybe it is something you just grow into. I didn't know. From what I read at that point, is that a realization of one's sexual orientation is very liberating. However, I just felt everything close in on me. I didn't know who I could speak to about this. Dr. Stechler's mind was already made up. I didn't want to speak to anyone in my family. I didn't have any friends I could speak to. I just felt so trapped. And there was no end in sight as far as I could see.

(to be continued in tomorrow's post...)

I'm Not Home

2004-10-22T12:45:00.000-07:00

I have this weird affinity towards the Real World on MTV. Not anymore these days. The show has been debased by lots of sexy deviant behavior and no substance. Like no one really has a story anymore. I do watch it from time to time. But the lunkheads on the show now are very lame. There are a few roommates that I find sort of interesting. They're nice to look at. Apparently, everyone on the show works out a lot. Whatever. My one favorite castmember from the show is Melissa. She was on the New Orleans sect of the Real World. She was (what the higher-ups in the MTV offices described as) a "firecracker." She was spunky. She was hilarious. She was an "artist." Can anyone recall the series of paintings she did of a baby chick with the word "scared" painted at top of the frame? If you do or don't, it was kind of charming. She was also filipino.

I have very much assimilated into white culture. Much so, it's kind of disorienting to think that I am of a culture. I am filipino. Yet my skin is pale. My hair is dark brown, but in pictures I've seen it just looks brown. Because I like to investigate and by nature I am just very curious, I looked up to see where Melissa has gone onto. She was on this shitty "Candid-Camera Show For Women" on the Oxygen network. She had lost a lot of weight and some of her charm. I read her online diary and she mentioned how she can't speak the language that her mother and sister speak.

I can't speak the language at my household. Post-college, I live with mom and dad. It's cheap. And very temporary. All through out the house, a different sound that I can't decipher is being chirped into the air. It's tagalog, the filipino language. At family gatherings, most of the time, I sit in silence observing everything else other than what's being said. I can gather what is being said by inflection and the few words that I pick up and understand the meaning. I'm not bitter. I just feel a bit left out. Maybe that's sad. Whatever. Sometimes, I wonder what my life would have been like if perhaps I could speak and understand the language. I notice that my parents have a difficulty speaking to me today. They speak fine english. They just can't think of the right sentence or word sometimes. Some of the things they say are just kind of confusing. They just get stumped.

My parents were mostly out. Working, that is. I was mainly raised by Priscilla our housekeeper/nanny. She ran away from home when she was 15 and worked for a candy factory. She then started working for my father's family in the Philippines some time afterwards and came to America to work for my dad in 1970. She raised me. And kept me entertained. She dragged me everywhere she would go. At the age of 7, I started to understand that Priscilla couldn't speak the language well. So I took it upon myself to speak for her in case someone at some store or restaraunt couldn't understand her.

When I was a teenager and the inevitable teenage emotions come pouring through; Priscilla would ask, What Was Wrong? I didn't know what to say. Or even how to say them in a way she could understand. So we just didn't talk. Or we didn't talk about those things. I got over them eventually. So there wasn't much to worry about, I guess.

Today, I invest my converstaion skills with friends. I like talking and I wish I could say more. But sometimes, I get a bit shy. I'm not sure if they'd understand. I like using email. I like the whole instant messaging movement. Words are important. Very.

Fire In The Maid

2004-10-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

Goddamn. I am in such a fucking bad mood. There isn't anything special that I'm angry over. Like no one has done me wrong at all today. I suppose I did myself wrong last night by going out to see a band play. My friend Jimmy plays in this band and I only see him every so often. He's the nicest guy. And well, I thought it'd be nice to see him play. It was. I enjoyed it. I had a Diet Coke N' Whiskey. I know. Lame. Diet Coke? Well, I'm watching my weight. So I just don't care what you think. I didn't get to leave the club until around 1am. And I didn't get home until 1:30am. And I didn't get to sleep until 2am. I like to shower before I go to bed. Some hate it and I don't get it.

Having to deal with co-workers and callers this morning is not what I consider to be a joy. Well, today that is. I'm a receptionist for this corporate office. I'm not even sure what we do. I think it has to do with us selling software. I don't know. I get stupid calls though. Like someone asked me to verify the spelling on "Jennifer Chung." Hello? Fuckin' sound it out. Or one annoying call I get where I constantly say my two sentence greeting over and over. And the person on the end doesn't respond. One phone call I got, I just hear the echo of my own voice played back to me. And I just get irritated by the sound of my own speaking voice. And out of frustration, I just hang up.

I don't like being mad exactly. I don't really enjoy the company of angry and constantly annoyed people. With that said, I don't want to be one of those people that just don't get angry. People that constantly go with the flow. Like people that get upset and just hide it. And just try to shine it on all their lives. Complacent? I mean, don't those people just end up getting cancer from all that anger and frustration they internalize? Sometimes, as childish as it may sound, I think of just leaving town without any notice. Just starting anew somewhere. Where I don't have a name. Maybe somewhere where I can't be reached. Like become a hermit?

In Sociology class, our professor told us about this man that went out into the wilderness and lived in a cabin all by himself. He had no contact with any sort of human beings. He had no contact with television, books or magazines. He had no other human beings in his life aside from himself. Totally isolated from any sort of society. After two months of carrying on like so, this man started to lose it. He forgot how to read. He forgot how to eat with a fork and knife. He forgot how to speak with words. He essentially became an animal.

Maybe that will restore my faith in people again by just a little bit. Maybe the brick of Rice Krispie Treat I just had will restore my faith in feeling good by a little bit. I'll come around.

Public Displays of Humiliation

2004-10-20T13:14:00.000-07:00

When I was younger, much younger, I got hit in the face by a basketball. This was during recess. It was early spring. It was 1989. I was in 3rd grade. I was wearing a jean jacket that my mother had bought for me at Osh Kosh B'Gosh. After the hit, I felt a bit surprised. Dizzy. And on my lips, I tasted something metallic. There was blood dripping all over my face. I quickly hid in the nearby trees. And held my head back. Just like they tell you on the First Aid posters in class. The rest of the blood I sopped up with the inside of my jacket. I got back to class. And my friend Marc knew there was something up. He opened my jacket and saw that it was covered in blood. Embarrassing.

It was winter time. Recess. No snow. Just cold. Recess came after lunch. Lunchtime was at a weird time. I was out on the playground, minding my own. Running and scurrying about. And for some reason, I couldn't keep lunch down. I didn't want to make a scene or anything. So I stepped over to the nearby trees and opened up my jacket. And I threw up down the left hand sleeve of my winter jacket. This came after a year of always having to throw up after lunch. I don't know if people made me nervous. Maybe I felt ashamed to eat in front of people? Not an eating disorder at all. I mean, I gained a lot of weight during that time. Maybe the physical activity after eating? If it weren't for that jacket, I'd vomit in my lunch bag. (if I hadn't thrown it away) I apparently wasn't thinking. But I had to go back to class and take off my coat. And everyone in class saw that I chose to vomit on myself. Embarrassing.

In 5th grade, we had recess indoors. Because it was raining outside. It was after lunch. I don't know what I had done. But Emily Scrofani decided to lightly punch me in the stomach. I thought it was funny. Until my lunch had started to make it's way out of my mouth. And I vomited on the counter of our classroom. Everyone got really scared. Emily felt bad. I was embarrassed. I took it upon myself to clean it up. Usually, our janitor Robert would come in with some bodily fluid clean-up solution, which looked like uncooked oatmeal. Our teacher came back to resume class. And I told her of how I threw up and cleaned it up all by myself. She was shocked but also oddly proud of me that I decided to clean up my own mess.

People kind of get scared away by trauma like that.

The Phantom

2004-10-19T15:45:00.000-07:00

I just wanted a fucking caesar salad for lunch. I heard somewhere that green vegetables have just as much Vitamin C as in oranges. And I know that there's this flu bug going around. And yesterday I had fried chicken. High in protein. I think. But nothing that is quite substantial. I just want to be healthy. Lord, knows my eating habits on out of town trips don't facilitate that. So once I finished up my work, I trucked on over to the mall for lunch. There's a Corner Bakery at the mall. I picked up my copy of the Orchid Thief. And I was on my way in. Then I got really upset. Awesomely fucking upset. Like, the nerves just hit me and my eyes widened. And I didn't know how to function for 2 minutes.

Back in college, my first adult love was invested in a girl named Amanda. She was 5 foot one. She had a pipsqueaky voice. She was what society would call a "cute girl!" She was in my art classes. All of them really. We spent every day together. It was my first time away from home and I suppose I needed a sense of home. And I invested that in her. There was something really comforting about her. She was great. Funny. Thoughtful. Artistic. Creative. My first impression of her was that she was that shy timid girl that took notes all the time in class and tended to her dayplanner all throughout the year. She wasn't really. There was a sense of tragedy about her. Not to be all "Merchant-Ivory" about it. But her father died when she was 5. He died in a construction company accident. She never knew her dad. Only through photos or brief memories of their time together. There was a hole in her life.

Because I was so young and stupid, Amanda and I didn't pan out. I wish we did. She met a boy named Mikhail. He was a skater. He also had ideas of how the government is conspiring to kill us and become rich at the same time. I don't know how true that is. But it's possible. Mikhail had an odd way of addressing the world. Apparently, the world was mainly out to kill him. So he thought. His parents both died when he was very young and he was raised by his grandmother. Judging from his actions and behavior, I can sense that it had a very profound effect on him.

Amber (Amanda's roommate) would call me often to describe their relationship. Usually, it was in fear. One night, for some reason unknown, Mikhail gauged Amanda in the eyes. He stormed out. And Amanda was crying on her floor, because she couldn't find her contacts. Other nights, Mikhail would be wailing on the door to Amanda and Amber's apartment wanting to come in. Amanda would forbid it. Somehow, she'd cave in and let him inside. One night, I was over at the apartment spending some time with Amber. I was getting a glass of water in their kitchen and I heard out in the street, Mikhail! You Are Such An Asshole! (then the sound of loud sobbing) Many situations between Amanda and Mikhail go like this.

The situation turned very ugly. And charges were pressed against Mikhail. I don't know who pressed them. But Amanda had to testify in court against Mikhail. She felt guilty doing that to someone she loved. So she didn't show up.

That was really the last I heard of Amanda and Mikhail. Amanda dropped out of school. Packed up her apartment. And left town. The legal problems between her and Mikhail separated Amanda from her mother and her sister. And all of her friends. Somehow the only person that she never left behind was Mikhail.

I finished up school. Took all the tests. Completed the requirements. Graduated. Moved back home. In the meantime, I'd have instances of feeling as if I had grown up somewhat. I'd think about Amanda though. For the past five years. I wondered where she had gone. I wondered maybe she realized how she was going through life the wrong way and tried to start anew without Mikhail. Sometimes I wondered that she may have moved back home to her mother. Sometimes I wondered if that corporate looking girl I saw working on M Street was indeed Amanda. Perhaps she took comfort in a shelter. I just wondered about the infinite possibilities of where Amanda could possibly be. Even death.

So I picked up my copy of the Orchid Thief to read during lunch. It's been a few weeks since I started it and I'm still not done. So I walk up to the door. And I see Mikhail and Amanda walking out of the mall. He's wearing that same old gray sweatshirt made only for skaters. Amanda is just holding a cup of coffee and her hair is much longer. My eyes widen. I have seen a ghost. I had so many notions of where Amanda had gone. And the thing that surprised me most is that she hadn't gone very far.

I looked away and walked back to my car. I waited for them to disappear into the sea of parking lot. Then I walked back in and ordered my salad. And I just hoped that salad would keep me well.

Salad Days

2004-10-18T01:38:00.000-07:00

"Hi! Is This Thing On?!" (microphone squealing feedback)

This is how Coach Dalilio introduced his announcements in our high school cafeteria. No one really wanted to hear him out. Unless you were on his team. My friends and I would call him Captain Lunchbox. Sometimes I feel like Coach Dalilio as I write this. I mean speaking about your best times isn't all that interesting to anyone else unless it's to yourself. Like I try to play on my own team, but sometimes I wish I was on another team. Like there really isn't much dramatic struggle. No big lessons learned. Just simple moments that are just great. And well that is it. These are the best moments I can think of.

-Waking up at 10am on a Saturday morning in the late fall. The sun shimmers through the branches and dead leaves that make shadow forms that are shaking on the floor of your room.

-Or a great night that I had in October 1994 with my brother Rene. We had dinner at Carnegie Deli and had enormous hot pastrami sandwiches. Afterwards, we went to see a sold out show of Pulp Fiction.

-Thinking of that first phone call I got from Katie Carpeaux. I was in 7th grade. It was Valentine's Day and she just called to wish me a happy one. The call lasted two hours. I think my brother picked up the phone and listened in.

-Perhaps, that show that my band played with the Lucksmiths. Very fun and funny Australian gentlemen. Afterwards, we wandered all night into the early morning through New York City in search of breakfast. My eyes burned from being so exhausted.

-Or those fall Thursday afternoons, I'd go to Chess Club. My senior year of high school. I was smitten by Miss Danca, the chess team coach. I wouldn't play chess. But I'd show her my portfolio of writings and poems.

-Maybe lying in bed with Amanda my freshman year of college. She was drunk and vomitting into a trashcan I had bought from Bed, Bath & Beyond. It was a tender moment actually.

-I could say that this weekend was a great time. I went to meet up with some friends and I got to meet some people that I mainly knew from hearing their records in high school and college. They were my heroes in a way back then. However, I couldn't help but feel like Kevin, age 14, high school freshman. Trying to edge a seat at the Senior table. Trying to find some common ground. All the while, Coach Dalilio was telling me it was a fire hazard for me to sit there. But he would recommend a seat in the corner that has a nice view out the window. The one next to the boy biting his own hand.

The Age of Disappointment

2004-10-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

Today is Friday and back when I was much younger Fridays had a different ring to it. I mean, Fridays are always enjoyable and are eagerly anticipated. Don't get me wrong. Late nights watching ridiculous action movies, late night tv and going to bed late is one of the best human experiences out there. That's just my opinion. Friday night back then was a night for me to hang out with my eldest brother Rene. We'd go out to dinner. He'd take me out to a comic book shop. Or else he'd take me to the movies. It was fun back then. And I was so young.

I never knew my brother as a child. He is 17 years older than me. He actually came to the hospital to pick up my mother right after she had me. All the doctors and nurses mistook my brother as being my father. My actual father was and still is a doctor. And at that time, he was very busy performing doctorly duties. Rene was not around when I was coming up. He was in college. He came back to live at our house in his early 20's. I got to learn about him from that point on.

When I was a kid, I was watched after by our housekeeper/nanny named Priscilla. I had a few friends over, but most of the time it was just Priscilla and I at the house. I suppose I was able to get a sense of self and find a way to entertain myself just because I had ALL that time TO myself. It was easy to let my imagination run rampant. I made up stories. I made up characters. I made up a lot of things.

I started taking private art lessons at the age of 10. Rene was appointed to take me to the class every Saturday morning. We started to bond, so to speak. Our Friday activities began. I would essentially hang out with him from Friday night 'til Sunday evening. Rene was my weekend. We'd catch a movie. Comic book shop. Record shop. Get dinner. I felt like I was a part of the "Big Brother" program but IT REALLY WAS my big brother.

What I really loved was watching the movies. I was profoundly touched by the movie BEETLEJUICE. Tim Burton was my hero. As he was to many arty kids who had a perverted sense of fun and a strange association with death. At this point, my big dream was to become a filmmaker. I loved it all. I wanted to make a movie just like Tim Burton. I thought about it night and day. I'd have dreams of talking to cameramen and using my two hands to make a frame to show where I want the shots to be placed. I'd draw up set designs and characters for my movies. I'd make up stories that would soon be turned into screenplays. I carried this dream for a couple of years. I even convinced my parents to get me a camcorder for Christmas.

My brother went to college and came out as a CPA. He's an accountant. I'm not too sure if he fantasized about becoming an accountant as he was growing up. I couldn't imagine him having these delusions of grandeur of being surrounded by grid paper and calculators. I couldn't imagine him fantasizing about talking to his dream firm of how they were going to balance the company's budget. Recently, he told me that he took up accounting because it ensured financial stability and there's always a job for an accountant everywhere. The only thing he really loved to do when he was younger was to play his guitar. He had it strapped on him all day. It was his only outlet.

We had our weekends together a lot. Some weekends, I might go over to my friend's house. But essentially for a long time it was him and me on the weekends. One rainy November afternoon in 1993, I had just finished up at the comic book shop. We sat in Rene's car waiting for rain to let up. Tired of reading trivial superhero tales, I picked up an issue of "Concrete." It was the story of a man that had a lot of potential but by some freak alien experience he had turned into this creature made of pure stone. It was more about human behavior than action and adventure. I was really excited and I talked about how Tim Burton was rumored to make a movie adaptation of "Concrete." I was so excited I even said, I Might Even Beat Tim Burton To Making This Movie!

Rene put his hand on the wheel and turned to look at me sitting in the passenger seat. He said, Kevin, If You Want To Be Making Movies Like Tim Burton or Steven Spielberg, You Will Have To Work Extra Hard. I Mean You Have To Work At Least 5 Times As Hard As The Average Man To Do What They Do. That Business Is Only About Who You Know And Not So Much About Vision. I Mean There Are A Million Great Filmmakers Out There With More Or Less Vision Than You And They Can't Get A Foot In Hollywood At All. It Is Going To Be Very Difficult. And The Chances Of You Getting To That Caliber Of Tim Burton Are Very Very Slim. I Just Don't Want You To Be Disappointed.

Inside I feel like something has fallen off the shelf and has broken into a thousand pieces. My posture slouches. And I feel a little heavy. Deflated, I leaf through the issue of "Concrete" that I had just purchased. I look on the cover and the warning says "Suggested For Mature Readers." Not that there was any sex or violence in this particular issue of "Concrete." Perhaps, there were just some themes that were too adult for a kid like me to understand.

I never touched that camcorder since then.

It Was War

2004-10-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

Because I have nothing to obsess about today, I will point all of that energy towards this moment in time. Not that I like to live in the past. I'm a forward thinker. Dwelling on the past totally keeps you from living today. And constantly thinking about the future keeps you from living today too. However, today is a tad boring. The only highlight I have for tonight is to go pick up my bus ticket to get to New York this weekend.

Where Was I? Oh yeah, back there...3 years ago. In college, I was very much into and smitten by an Amber. A girl named Amber. She was an english major. She loved reading. I didn't read so much aside from magazines and periodicals. But I've really gotten into reading (proper) lately. She liked indie-rock. Pavement, she loved....So hard. She liked indie films that took a lot of thought. I'm always down for those. And for a moment, I thought she really liked me too.

As time wore on, I suppose she got tired of my antics. Perhaps, I'm a bit brash. There's a line I like to cross a lot. Not so much these days, I've come to respect people's boundaries. However, I became a bore to her. Maybe a nuisance. This wasn't to say that we didn't stop hanging out. There was a new fresh apple that came into her eye. This apple was called Jonathan. And I thought Jonathan was cool too.

Jonathan was an art student like me. He loved R.E.M. So much so that he even sounded like Michael Stipe when he spoke. He also was a folk-singer. Aspirations for fame were abundant. I felt like Jonathan and I could get along. I was an art student too. I liked R.E.M. I liked to write my own songs and sing them. And I sounded like myself when I spoke. We were friends. Not all that great of friends. We spoke about surface subjects like, Isn't Richard (our art professor) Ridiculously Trying To Get With Sari In Our Class? Or Man, I like this Fleetwood Mac album. That was our depth.

Amber and her friends always planned things with Jonathan. Some of the time, I wasn't included. Perhaps, they forgot my number. Or else I was in utter denial that Amber didn't want me around. When I did witness the interaction between Jonathan and Amber, Amber seemed adamant to get Jonathan's attention. Jonathan seemed indifferent. And I concentrated solely on Amber. Amber seemed to disregard my attention. The songs I'd write and play for her seemed to annoy her with their "poppiness." The jokes and anecdotes I had to tell were picked a part for being illogical and beyond my integrity. My personality was dissected and I was diagnosed as being "weak." Despite all the flaws she found in me, I was still so enraptured by Amber. We still had our moments of tenderness though.

I found it in my heart to totally hate Jonathan. I found his songs aimless, bland, and below mediocre. I found his art boring and the colors were real muddy. I found him empty. Whenever someone spoke highly of Jonathan, I projected my hate onto them. Jonathan made a decision in college to drop out. He wanted to further pursue his music. The plan was to get out of school. Work on music. Make demos. Get signed by a major label, eventually. And get played on the radio. He wanted to be like that John Mayer who sang, Your Body Is A Wonderland. No one really thought it was foolish aside from me. Was I the only one impervious to his spell?

I stopped by Amber's house after class one afternoon. She was well dressed. Like she just got off work. Mid-length skirt. Ascot. A navy t-shirt. She had a microscope set up on her patio. She apparently grew some bacteria and got it on a petri dish. I was underdressed. T-shirt. Shorts. She called Jonathan to come over to see what she had festered. She flippantly told me to look in the scope and see what she found. I do and I'm somewhat interested. Jonathan came over. He had on his typical sportscoat. Dress shirt. Cords. Seemed up for the occasion. He looks and is somewhat interested too. We're all pretty quiet. None of us is sure what to say. At this point, Amber and I both have realized defeat. Jonathan is somewhat unaware. No one is getting anywhere.

Later that evening, Jonathan meets Ambrosia or Anastasia or Antonia. I can't remember her name. And today, they are now married. Amber knew for sure that she had been defeated. I lost the battle awhile back. But I soldiered on. I had a flicker of hope. Only if we could get together now and shake hands, saying to each other, "Good game!"

Living Is Art

2004-10-13T11:30:00.000-07:00

If you aren't that well acquainted with me, you may have no idea how much I love SIX FEET UNDER. For me, that show is utterly brilliant, enlightening, and emotionally satisfying. Not to be redundant, the show centers around a family that runs a funeral home. What the catch is is that the family happens to be really repressed in terms of living. It plays like a gritty, dramatic, post-modern ADDAMS FAMILY, if you will. One of the characters that I love watching on the show is Claire (played by the immaculately beautiful Lauren Ambrose). In the show, she is the youngest of the Fisher family. She came into the family kind of late in the game. She was kind of an afterthought to everyone. She tries to play it cool, but can't help feel a bit detached from everyone else. And she is an art student. This all sounds too familiar.

I was really into art myself. All my life actually. Our housekeeper Priscilla taught me how to hold a pen up right and draw a figure at the age of 3. Not that I'm trying to sound like I'm some sort of child prodigy or "Little Man Tate" or something. This is what happened. I spent every day essentially sitting at a table drawing since then. I'm never too sure if I'm really good (subjective, hello?). I know I can do it and that I enjoy it. Drawing and making art was essentially the focus of my life. Then I went to college.

Obviously, I go to art school for college. I grew up in environments where I was the only able to draw. In my graduating class in high school, I was 1 of 5 art students in the class. And the other 4 mainly did it to fill a requirement. I was very shocked when I wasn't the teacher's "favorite little artist" anymore. Pissed, really. I mean, it was really great to be amongst some people who had these awesome visions of deconstructive art and great bodies of work or whatever. But I felt so.....I don't know.....Invisible. A hard moment was when my drawing teacher took me aside during mid-term review and asked, Kevin, Why Did You Want To Go To Art School? You May Want To Consider Another Field.

So I switched my major to Business. That seemed the most promising to me. That's where all MEDIOCRE people go. OK, I'm lying about that part. I didn't give up. With gnashing teeth, I stuck with the art program. I actually got better. I had some hard classes. Sculpture was so beyond me. Design was so hard. I could not cut a straight line and I love to rush through my work. Not cleanly. So I was an absolute horror. I managed to wow my Drawing Class and my Painting Class. I ended my first year with a decent GPA. Then I decided to join the School Of Fine Arts.

The next year I had a next door neighbor named Katie. She was a painting major like me. We seemed to get along well. We were pretty good friends. Katie at the time was taking a sculpture class taught by Chris. I don't know his last name. Anonymity is key. Chris LOVED performance art. And this was his assignment for Katie. Katie was about to have a nervous breakdown. The next day she needed to do a performance art piece. She had no idea where to start or what to do. She just needed an idea. Performance art was not her passion in the great scheme of things. She just wanted to have an idea or to do something that wouldn't embarrass her soooo bad.

I came over to hang out that night. She told me how she had no idea what to do for Chris' class. I felt her frustration. I flippantly go, Why Don't You Have An Audio Cassette Of You Having An Orgasm While You Are Having Breakfast? Katie seemed intrigued. And my interest in this project peaked. I told her how to have the stage set for her particular performance. We went over the nuance of her character. We went over the idea going on behind this. We went over how long it would take her to eat a slice of toast and quickly drink some orange juice. This is so she would know how long to fake an orgasm so she could record it on her roommate's karaoke machine. Katie feels real confident about the project. And I'm really glad that I was able to come up with a concept that seemed layered. Thoughtful. And possibly entertaining.

I was nervous for Katie. I was nervous that she wouldn't get the nuance right. I was hoping that she didn't break into laughter during the orgasm section of the piece. I mean, there was just so much at stake. There was a good chance this could've fallen flat on its' face. And I just wanted this piece to be well-received somehow. I got back home after classes and I had a message on my phone. Katie left a message. The message went, (beamingly) Kevin, Give Me A Call Back Or Just Come Over As Soon As You Get This Message!

I come over. Katie is ecstatic. Apparently, the performance piece succeeded further than either of us expected. The class was really amazed. Chris, the sculpture teacher, was profoundly taken by her performance. I was so happy. Finally, my thoughts and vision were considered to actually be......Kind of....Great. Katie was elated. She had no idea that she'd be able to pull off something that would stir up some talk or some great achievement. At this point, we both realize that neither of us have fully succeeded. I had an idea that was taken by someone else and was passed off as an original idea by Katie. No longer mine. Katie felt like a total cheat. She didn't come up with the idea at all. She essentially just propped up the ideas and actions of what I gave her. So she was essentially just a puppet.

Katie swore me to secrecy. She gave me all the credit. Yet she didn't want everyone in school to think she was a hack. From that point on, Katie got all the attention in her sculpture class. Chris regarded her as his star student. During class, he even got on his hands and knees and begged Katie to leave the painting department and join the sculpture department. All of our colleagues, faculty and friends were totally floored by her performance too. And they all had so much faith in Katie. I kind of stood there in the middle of it all knowing the real story. Invisible, really. Sometimes, just to get a feel for what the buzz about Katie was, I'd ask her sculpture friends about her performance. Ezra (Katie's sculpture classmate) said, (in that deeply passionate artistic way) That Performance Was Just So Amazing. Real Powerful. Beautiful, really.

I don't think I was at all jealous or resentful. I was proud. It was a good idea. I couldn't imagine myself pulling that performance piece off myself. Listening to a male orgasm during breakfast could have some funny returns though. My own work at the time was well-received somewhat. My teachers told me that some pieces were strong, while other pieces lacked scope. assholes. I was happy with what I was doing. Embarrassed by some of it now. I think what I do is essentially right. And that's all that I can really hope for.

A Place Between Shame + Anger

2004-10-12T14:22:00.000-07:00

A week and a half ago, I got up to use the restroom. Since I sit all day at my computer and answer phones. I took my time. I came back and saw a big hot pink post-it on my computer.
It reads:
"Kev-When you get back, come find me so we can chat for a few minutes. :-) Lynne"

Lynne is my boss. My first instinct is to worry. I hate being called out to talk about something. It's always about something really bad or really good. (I venture really bad all the time) Never anything about being mediocre. Like, who really cares if things are going JUST OK? Lynne informs me that they are firing the "mailroom guy" and they want me to cover for him until they find a replacement. I feel good that they can count on me to do just about anything. And they always show their appreciation. I'm a bit embarassed that my actions let on a bit of worry on my part. However, someone calling me Kev and adding a smiley face to the note should have indicated there was nothing to worry about.

I leave early that day from work to catch the Polyphonic Spree. I take 66 and the traffic is horrendous. Frustrated. I take an exit to a metro station and take the train to the Kennedy Center. I meet up with my friends Nick, Annie, and Lauren. Along with them is their friend named Loren. He looks like a hip guy. I get this because of his jeans. Style of hair. And the fact that he is cradling a beer in line during the day. Courage. He also has a sling on with a few fingers wrapped in gauze. There's a bar outdoors for the audience members to purchase alcohol, nuts and chips. It's cash only. Nick, Annie and Lauren go in search of an ATM. So I am left with Loren. We introduce ourselves. In new company, I tend to get worried. I have no guiding point of what they hate or what they like. I have no idea how to maneuver. Loren is good company though for that moment. He sounds really enthusiastic with a shade of aloofness. Almost like he's discovering things for the first time ever.

The Polyphonic Spree go on for an hour and a half. I only know two songs by them. Both of which I like very much. They're catchy. Beautiful. Life-affirmming. And mostly the songs are about optimism. The lead singer started the band after his old bandmate died of a drug overdose. The songs he writes now get him out of that place.

Afterwards, my friends want to venture the Watergate hotel. They want to see what it's like to get a drink there. What it's like is very expensive. And we were very underdressed. I felt as if we were about to be asked to leave at any given moment. We look like a bunch of slackers. We drink the wine they had at the bar. Nothing too different from what I've had before. Just another vague sense of not being good enough to be there.

At this point, we are all very hungry. Nick, Annie, and I decided on taking everyone left from the party to Don Juan's Mexican Restaraunt. It's our favorite mexican place. Even the people there are mexican. We are greeted by the bouncer and we take a table. It is karaoke night. The music is very loud and very hard for the 5 of us to have a conversation. We sit in silence until the music shuts off. I see some people pushing each other around. And then we are start to hear a struggle. Drinks and food are knocked off a table. Some people within the struggle are throwing gang symbols around with their hands. Like it was very elaborate and fast sign language. The waitstaff breaks up the fight with the help of the 8 foot tall bouncer. Annie is worried a gun will be pulled out. I start to worry for our safety. We enjoy dinner though. Although, we know everyone is watching our table. We are the only white people in the joint. I'm asian, but I have assimilated very much into white culture. We quickly pay for dinner and head back to Nick + Annie's apartment. Bomb shelter.

We all part ways after a beer. I take the metro. Never have I actively taken the metro to get from place to place since I was in high school (before I could drive). What is usually a 30 minute drive from Nick + Annie's apartment turns into an hour long train ride to get to the station where I parked my car. It was late. The people on the train were obnoxious. I tried to read the Orchid Thief to pass the time. I listened in on one group that was talking about how hungry they were and if they should eat at 1am or wait 'til the morning to get a big breakfast. I was hoping they would do themselves a favor and wait. I get out and I get to my car. I try to leave the parking lot and it won't let me out.

I need a "smart-trip" card. I am quite agreeable with the parking agent and go back to the station to get one. The machine rejects my credit cards though. I try several times and see if perhaps I followed procedure. I do. Yet I am not getting anything in return. I get in my car again and attempt to gun the parking post. I can't. The parking agent tells me that I am wrong and that the machines do indeed work and that my credit cards will be accepted. I am frustrated. I try once more and I talk to the manager on duty at the Metro.

DJ, the manager on duty, is sleeping. Or at least he's half-asleep. I am very frustrated that I cannot get home. I ask him how I can get a parking card and he's not cooperating one bit. He goes, What Do You Want Me To Do!?!? I said, Help Me Out!!!! He goes, That Is Not My Business! I go, The Parking Agent Told Me To Come To You! He goes, Why? That Ain't My Job! I replied, Dude, Do You Want Me To Move In Here!? and DJ just pretends to not hear me. I do not leave his site. He gets angry and starts yelling at me face to face without glass. Despite his size, that being very tall and prone to lots of anger. I yell back, I Don't Give A Shit If This Is Not Apart Of Your Job. I Just Need Some Help!!!!!

DJ walks me through the steps of how to acquire the card through the machine. The whole time, he is pissed and swearing. Each credit card I use gets rejected. He yells at me again, USE YOUR DEBIT! JESUS CHRIST!!!!! I do. And a "smart-trip" card comes popping out. I hate using debit though. He turned his head saying, Jesus Fuckin' Christ! And I say, Well You Have A Very Good Night, Sir!

I walk back to my car after 45 minutes of aggravation. I feel lame and angry. Mainly teetering between the two. Thinking of the stupid rules that keep us in the parking lot.

Wrap Your Troubles In Jeans

2004-10-11T21:59:00.000-07:00

Last week was my birthday and I have raked in my earnings from celebrating such a thing. My relatives most often gave me money. Not like I'm trying to be sanctimonious, but I have lost a great deal of weight. No longer do I have as much body mass to support my old clothes. Shirts like parachutes. Pants like a genie's. I'm the laughing stock of corporate receptionists in America! I make a point to get some new fitting clothes this past weekend.

I planned to go to Georgetown with my friend Nick. He knows a lot about fashion. Fashionable. He reads Cargo. That's a magazine about shopping and what's really hot to shop for. I think he'd make Carson Kressley cry. Also, I never get to hang out with Nick much outside of group settings, so I thought it'd be a cool thing to hang out for.

Nick cancels. He's a grad student specializing in History and has a big paper due next week. I don't blame him. This Sunday was a special day for me to avoid hanging out at home. My parents are staunch Republicans and were having a luncheon meeting for their Republican committee at our house. Not that I'm a staunch democrat. However, I can imagine the meeting turning on me and trying to get me to join their cult. I suppose this election is really dividing me from my family right now. So I truck on over to Georgetown by myself. I feel a bit lame. I think of how I relate to my family. How my parents had me very late and were very busy. I was raised by our housekeeper. All my brothers are much older than I am. How detached I am. I just don't feel with it. Then I think of how I relate to my friends and.....ugggh....fuck this!.....

So I call my friend Nicole. She lives around Georgetown. I tell her how I got some birthday money and need to buy some new clothes and if she'd like to join me. Nicole knows style. She dresses nice for everything. She tells me she has a "hair" appointment in Georgetown at 3:30 and that it should only take a few minutes. I shrug off what "hair" meant and decided to catch lunch.

I try to sit and eat and read the Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean. I order the Caesar salad and a cup of the tomato basil soup. I'm at La Madeline. I try reading. I am very moved by Susan Orlean's take on plant life and how much it resembles how humans interact. Then I'm distracted by the upstart families that are getting crabby at their children's indecision about what to eat at La Madeline. Then the sorority daughters and their trophy mothers are getting angry at the upstart families who are getting crabby with their kids. Who in turn get the cashiers mad. The La Madeline has become a circus of pain. I finish up and look for some sweaters.

I meet up with Nicole. I'm on the search for quality jeans. They're hard to come by. J. Crew has the kind that is very conservative with a boot cut. The thought of paying $75 to look bland doesn't sit well with me. I want something the Strokes would have. Or the generic version of what the Strokes would have. Nicole and I walk the sidewalk talking about what we thought of the party we went to the night before. Then we talk about things going on with ourselves. The ambivalence about things she wants to do. The ambivalence I have about the things I want to do. We reach Lucky Brand Jeans....the store! I walk up to the counter and ask them, Can I get a 32 x 30 Straight Leg pair of jeans, please? As if I were at Burger King.

The jeans fit great. The distress on the jeans is minimal. The shade of blue is quite agreeable. I think what I've been looking for for so long has finally materialized right there, that early evening. The jeans were quite expensive and was a bit more than I was willing to give. But good jeans are so hard to find. I didn't care, it felt so right. Nicole was inspired by my willingness to get those jeans, so she found some for herself too.

I still didn't want to go home in case that Republicans' meeting was still going on. I offer the idea of getting dinner. Nicole promised herself she wouldn't eat out anymore until her next paycheck. I agree with whatever she says. I didn't want her to feel like she had to entertain me. We get into talking some more. Browsing another store. Nicole caves in and goes, I'll eat in tomorrow. Let's get dinner.

We had some bland pizza, some mediocre salad, and some salty olives. Although, it was a bit more than the both of us were willing to give. What we had was worth it.