I despise the word “blog.”
Ever since it came across my ears, I can’t help but cringe at its utterance. I wish I could say there was some intellectual objection to it; that it somehow signified the undermining of my classical approach to writing. But that’s not true. I just flat out don’t like how the word sounds when spoken aloud. Blog. Just say it out loud. Blog. Something about the blo-sound, so akin to blahhhh, makes me think the word is slang for some adverse bodily reaction rather than a way of documenting and reaching people in the digital age. “Dude, the next thing I knew, I was blogging all over the table.” If that doesn’t sound like some intestinal convulsion or other, I don’t know what does.
Any time anyone asked me what I did, while dancing around the question because I wasn’t sure how to answer it, I would say, among other things, that I write. I never called myself a writer because I found that to be an affront to the people I consider writers. I gave people the long-hand explanation of the many different writing projects I was engaged in at any given time, always making sure I explained that I wrote in on online public journal that I updated frequently to semi-frequently depended on the motivation.
“So you blog.”
NO. No, I did not blog. Blogging was for lames with nothing better to do than spectate from the sidelines. I wrote in an online journal that I updated semi-regularly depending on motivation and the amount of worthwhile cultural observations, dammit!
So, on it went. I wrote in an online journal and elsewhere semi-regularly, all the while searching for the niche that would allow me to survive in the world as well as fulfill me. Very soon, I came to grips with the fact that, in terms of activities, I only liked doing things that revolved around the creative process, particularly writing. I’d say this was a revelation, but I’ve long known I’m only capable of doing things I can personally invest in and if rejections from a bowling alley, a Foot Locker and American Eagle were any indication, the universe was not going to allow me to skate on this point.
Still, I tried.
I wanted nothing more than to realize I don’t really like writing all that much and be done with it. Having grown up in the business of the arts, I’ve seen first hand just how much certainty those who prefer the creative have. Friend and family alike tried to push me toward writing. They thought I had the voice and the talent and should try like hell to make a living doing the thing that I appeared to have a certain facility with. I always managed to squirm my way out of such conversations. I don’t care to have anyone try to push me toward anything, particularly not something I cared so much about, if that makes any sense. Besides, I wrote for the love of the game; I wrote because I really just liked to have conversations about various things. Sure it was money-free, but it was also pressure-free. If I suddenly decided to throw my hat into the writing ring for real, that would be changed. And what if it didn’t work out? What if I found out I didn’t have the goods to hang? That would be heartbreaking. And besides, I wasn’t a writer anyway.
So other avenues were sought until I finally struck gold. I found the possibility of a stable gig that wouldn’t break my heart. Teaching. A buddy was starting a charter school and thought it’d be a great idea for me to come check the place out and submit an application. So I put on my tie and hard bottoms and went to the school. And it was great. The work was structured and inspired; the mission was to help a community that needed to know what it was like to not be left behind. Walking along with my buddy, I couldn’t help but be impressed.
When we got back to the office, we sat down and had a friendly conversation discussing what I’d seen and at one point, my friend asked if I had any questions. I had only one: Would my writing be a problem?
Her answer was simple: It wouldn’t be a problem, I just should keep it to myself, not post it online for the world to see. “There’s a point where we all have to grow up and be mindful of our privacy, you know?”
I sat in silence. Slowly I began trying to explain that I didn’t make my writing public to be sensational; I did it because I had something to say and enjoyed sharing my musings with people. Writing allowed me to be close to people. Not sharing my work, considering the many things I keep to myself and struggle with alone, would be to live a double life, to live a lie. I’d lived enough lies. Even as I spoke the words, I was surprised by their passion. I felt a hint of indignation, as if my friend had demanded I make a choice on the spot. “Well that’s something for you to think about. Maybe you’re not cut out for mainstream work.”
My heart sank at that moment. I knew, for the time being, my foray into teaching, or at least entertaining the idea of it, was over. The journal entries and musicals and screenplays had won the battle.
So I came home hurt and looked up the word “blog.” Apparently, it was short for ‘web log.’ I guess that’s not so bad.
I am a flat foot. Much to the chagrin of my ankles, shins, knees, hips and back, the beat I walk in the community known as Life In General is constantly harried by the walk itself. I have big flat feet and my only medical savior is the orthotics which make my big flat feet a little less flat and a bit more big. Does this bodily imperfection make me more humble? No; I have dandruff for that. If anything, my big flat feet make me less humble in that they are attached to a big tall body, a frame I usually feel good about. In my few decades on Earth, my dogs have only made me strive that much more for their sustenance: A good pair of sneakers.
The obsession began at around six. Christmas. My first pair of Jordans. I would be lying if I said I did not sleep in them that first night. From there, the lust only grew. That Brett Cowman had the black and white Bo Jacksons did not escape my attention, or anyone else’s at the lunch table for that matter, which is natural considering elementary school is where we first learn that cool shoes garner cool points. Eastbay was pornography for me and many of my cohorts; in the days before going online was the natural thing to do, getting that catalogue provided many hours of discussion, debate and planning. Often times, my lust was unrequited; indeed, there were some Deions and Griffeys and Pippens and Barkleys that escaped my grasp. But the Air Max 95s didn’t. I washed and poorly waxed cars to get them. Carrying a drunken friend to her father’s car one night, I less than diplomatically noted aloud that, should she vomit on said 95s in the course of transport, there would be a dust-up starring her with a special guest appearance by myself. (Now, lest you think I was anything but cosmopolitan, I acquired a taste for boots: Eastman, Timberland and, sadly, even Lugz.) Clothes, though still quite important, were merely for wearing. Shoes were for stuntin.’
My sneaker freakdom made me in no way unique. However, I can say there was a wrinkle, a monkey wrench, a fly perpetually in the ointment that made my quest for sneaker rapture all the more maddening, yet gratifying: my big flat feet. Anyone who knows anything at all knows size 11 is the single greatest for a man. A store will always have it and if they run out, another store will have it. I don’t even remember when I was an 11, but I’m well-versed in the spite for those who are. To find a great shoe in my size was better than getting good grades. Good grades confirmed what I already knew. But a size 13 in a great colorway? That’s the stuff legends are made of.
The older I got, the harder the great finds came. I kept getting taller and my feet got just big enough to keep me out of the mall. There was no point in even going. Ordering shoes, even from the catalog I once cherished, just took the fun out of the whole experience. So like any level-headed teenager, I fought back. If I saw a shoe I liked and a price I liked and a size I could talk myself into, I bought it. It didn’t matter that I shouldn’t even have bothered with 13s or that the pinch in the forefoot would cause my toes to fall asleep. These were the Mardi Gras Bos. Lack of cushion that puts more stress on the ankle, shins, knees, hips and back? That’s the price you pay for black, grey and red Dunks.
At my peak, I could wear a different pair of shoes every day for a month. Is that crazy? Relatively speaking, no. I definitely have buddies that far outpace me in that department. Were all my shoes limited editions? Nope. I had a nice fleet, but few pairs that would warrant honorable mention on Crooked Tongues. Even at the height of my freakiness, I could only justify spending a certain amount of money on footwear. In fact, part of the thrill was finding something fresh at a good price.
Still, lest you think I wasn’t a junkie, a word on my storing procedure: When possible, I kept all my sneakers in their original boxes, not just for easy storing and safe keeping, but because the sight of differing shoes touching one another made me ill. The quarantine process was always made more interesting when a box broke down or a tripped needed packing for—the element of feng shui and plastic bags being further complicated by having to choose which footwear to bring along on a trip, which is tantamount to choosing between your children. What can I say? My stable was one I had accumulated through perseverance and pinched toes and I was proud of my stallions.
Truly great tragedies never happen all at once; they happen in stages. First, my body tapped out. Like my feet, my orthotics got older and flatter (and like my feet, they have yet to be replaced.) Walking around in fresh shoes that didn’t fit and had no support became a lot less sexy. “My body hurts but gosh my shoes are ill!” lost a good deal of cachet, particularly when my body felt worse than the shoes looked tight. Then college ended and two things happened: I found out what broke really means and what space really is. If walking around in fresh shoes that don’t fit and lack support isn’t sexy, paying for said footwear is just stupid. That’s like paying to do extra homework, which I believe the Greeks called ‘graduate school’. Don’t think that I always spend money responsibly, but if I’m gonna be wasteful, it has to at least feel good on some level.
Then the frustration and weariness that comes with hauling thirty pairs of shoes in addition to all the other stuff people consider their personal effects just broke me down. In college, you can have thirty pairs of kicks like you can leave the heat up on high and leave the room with all the lights and your computer on. In real life, what was once a point of pride was now a lot of stuff I wasted a lot of time shlepping and little time wearing. When your residential situation goes from being more or less stable to having a great deal in common with the touring company of a Broadway show, you tend to care a lot less about whether or not you have a navy blue pair of 574s.
If that wasn’t enough, I started to lose my love for sneakers as a pursuit. Shoes, boots; footwear that can be worn in any situation, particularly adult ones, have begun to take my interest. (Author’s Note: As of this writing, I have not fully come to grips with that fact).
What was once a thirty shoe empire has been reduced to the rubble of the sensible seven: Black with green trim low top Nike Dunks—my every day shoe; navy blue Adidas sandals—house shoes; black Bostonian dress shoes; brown Nunn Bush dress shoes; brown Wallabees—a pair currently under review; black Nike basketball shoes—for working out, and grey New Balance 992s—and they were a gift from the misses. All have a purpose; all have a place.
I still appreciate a good pair of footwear, sneaker and otherwise. If all the world’s a stage and we are but players, I don’t see anything wrong with the footwork of your costume being in order. Still, I sometimes struggle with choosing comfort and fit over style. There are moments when I see differing shoes touching and feel my jaw go slack, announcing the onset of a minor stroke. Indeed, I’ve even developed a strange fear of purchasing shoes because so many years spent wearing things that don’t quite fit have left me unsure as to what constitutes a good fit.
I sometimes wonder if my big flat feet with big flat orthotics and a thin flat wallet make my fall from freakdom circumstantial; if changing two of the three factors would grossly change my outlook on the situation. I mean, with the right equipment and the right dough, finding something fly in a 14 is extremely doable. But I doubt I’ll return to the halcyon days of Shoe Month. My feet will always be big, if temporarily un-flat, I will never miss wasting a whole suitcase on shoes or the contortions it involves and I still stink at waxing cars.
I liked Michelle Obama’s lime green gloves. The rest of the outfit I could have done without. Expressing this to a friend in passing, I was nearly scoffed and teeth-sucked out of the conversation. Uh oh. I suggested that her outfits earlier in the campaign were better and as it dragged on, as it became someone else’s job to dress her, the job was not being done well. More scoffing. More teeth-sucking. A brief harangue having something to do with the First Lady being too stylish to need a stylist, too thugged out to be told what to wear by another person and, I believe, something to do with making lame beggars walk and blind men see. UH OH. Looks like time for an epistle.
St. Jonathan’s Letter to the Zealots
I traveled to Washington, DC. Stood in the cold and witnessed history along with a speech every single living American citizen needed to not only hear, but should consider playing from time to time in order to get their mind right. I traveled, I stood, I was awed and, on a completely unrelated and inconsequential note, I did not care for Michelle Obama’s inaugural outfit. It was a shoulder shrug. In my equally shrug worthy opinion, I feel she has worn superior outfits.
Did your butt get tight reading that? If so, I am afraid of you. Not because you disagreed, but because your butt got tight. If you’ve come up with a thousand reasons why I’m just a hater with no taste who hates fashion and holds a grudge against Michelle Obama, her husband, and this new day in America, I fear you. Rare is the loyalty that resorts to teeth sucks and harangues over meaningless dresses that won’t resort to similar loyalty should the defended party get in waist deep on a truly important issue. How do I know this? Because I just witnessed it happen over the course of eight years. Be careful, Tight Butts, you’re teetering dangerously on the edge of being the grade of loyalist you probably have come to despise over the last decade. Relax your butt. I urge you to remain loyal, but vigilant.
My loyal zealots: Michelle Obama and her husband are not beyond reproach. Sometimes, in the opinions of some, she will wear “meh”-inspiring dresses and sometimes, in the opinion of some, he will make “meh”-inspiring executive decisions. And all the time, someone will have something to say about it. Yes; the former is a matter of debate for frivolous conversations, but beware: it will often inform how you respond to the latter. Don’t believe me? Ask Karl Rove. He made a career off people who heard but didn’t listen; of people who played the fiddle as Rome burned.
Lime green disagreements are not tantamount to acts of sedition. Neither the First Lady nor her husband should bring an end to the possibility for healthy discourse. Their job is too important at too critical a time for you to just be glad they showed up; to think their outfits and ideas are just so perfect that to think otherwise is to be in congress with infidels. The Obamas are an utterly capable and formidable pair, but don’t allow their brilliance and capability to woo you into silence. The job of rebuilding America is too important.
Should they stumble on the path, it is you who must right them. Should they lead you astray, the burden of guilt is yours to share. To do otherwise is to repeat a history you claim to despise. A history many of you helped to create.
Rejoice, you Zealots. You have truly seen a day of victory. But the time for celebration has come to an end. Remain proud, remain loyal, remain vigilant. The journey’s only just begun.
An interesting potpourri. For those who conquered the week, I salute you.
Since I like few things more than leaving a warm apartment in order to brave the elements in search of confections post 10 o’clock, I had occasion to do just that with Dancing Feather some hours ago. I did not desire said confections and would have been fine remaining sockless on the couch. But the lady wanted some sweets, so away we went. A few observations and revelations from this sojourn:
- I feel bad for dads-to-be. I mean, I’m not one and I still felt compelled to go, which means they HAVE to go and it’s likely they will be making the journey alone. I wonder if there’s a point at which they just go to bed fully dressed.
- I know part of me went so that this incident could not be grounds for bringing up old shit at a later date. It’s absolutely a tactical move. A guy has to insulate himself from reprisal because, I believe it’s 2nd Corinthians that says, "She of Adam’s rib is genetically predisposed to remembering and bringing up all old shit." Amen.
- On the way back, I was plotting what the Friday piece would be. I decided on a lighter tone since too much of life is currently the wack juice and sometimes you have to force joy into your life. Of course, my thought train immediately took me to Force of Joy, my awesome name for a Christian Rock group (I’m never not playing Siiick Band Name). I bounced this off The Feath who thought it was OK. I mentioned that it’s certainly no Mighty Clouds of Joy, and then paused as we both wonder what, in fact, a Mighty Cloud of Joy was. Final Answer: Blunt smoke.
Like most of us, I am constantly in need of a good laugh and was rewarded by the gods of motion pictures who saw fit for me to see both Shooter and an episode of 30 Rock last night. As I watched, I couldn’t help but wonder who would win in a raspy voice-off, Alec Baldwin or Danny Glover. Danny hasn’t spoken up since Lethal Weapon and Baldwin Number One hasn’t gotten much above a smoky peep since Tina Fey picked his career off the cutting room floor.
Toys R Us is having a "Sale of the Century". Isn’t that a little premature? I mean, when OJ was having his "Trial of the Century" not only was that an arguable claim, but it also took place with enough time to think about the statement. Maybe Toys R Us should consider laying claim to the decade, which really isn’t a terrible thing. I mean, Obama son. Speaking of Orenthal, one out of two ain’t bad, right?
iPhones are amazing. AMAZING. Still, I’m not sure why a grown ass person needs all those apps, which is adultese for "games to fuck around with without looking like an absolute tool."
Kudos to Pedro Almodovar. Not only is Bad Education gripping storytelling, it left me sexually confused for a good thirty minutes after watching it.
The Feath had a scary dream the other night and woke me up to tell me about it and to gain comfort. While I can’t say for certain if she felt safer after telling her tale, I can tell you for certain that it scared the crap out of me, even prompting me at one point to turn the lights on while she moved a chair that was casting a creepy shadow on the wall.
To my good friends at Levi’s: I know putting on jeans is usually not interesting unless you’re a woman–and here you can replace "interesting" with "gut-wrenching", "soul sapping" and or "spirit siphoning"–but are we so creatively bankrupt that we feel the need to make it a freestyle sport? And while we’re on the topic, why would anyone help their buddy backflip into his jeans? Word? I personally would like to see all the footage, which no doubt includes blooper-worthy knee blowouts and ruptured nut sacs.
I sometimes watch American Gangster and wonder if Denzel ever fucked up a take by accidentally doing the one-tear hard cry. In other news, I still get pissed watching the end of Glory.
I’m unemployed at a time when my buddy has vice presidents from Goldman calling him looking for work; the line of work I’m interested in takes an abundance of patience I may or may not possess. I see all too clearly where my money’s going and am in a fog as to where it will come from. Yet I feel chilly feet on my calves every morning and know my head’s still above the water.
QUESTION OF THE DAY
If you could ask a person of your choice–living, dead, famous, not famous, real, fictional–one question, who would that person be and what would you ask them?
Not everyone went to Yale. I say that as neither insult nor compliment; I merely say that to open this up with a fact that all of us know. Indeed, to further illustrate the obvious, I’m going to say that not everyone went to whatever school we went went to nor is from whatever place we are from. This is something I’ve only recently begun to wrap my head around–due partly to the fact that I have a big head. I believe this information, obvious as it may be, gets lost in what my boy classifies as the Post-Graduation Psychosis, that condition which affects all those who get degrees only to realize no one gives a shit.
PGP is an affliction that essentially takes what you have known for the last four (or five!) years–and really, you’re whole life–and flings it into the halcyon days of yesteryear. The most basic things, things you were doing before you got that scarlet degree, suddenly make absolutely no sense. You say, “I got gas before I had a degree. Paid for it with my own money. Why does it suddenly hurt to do this? (if you’re a subwayite, feel free to replace ‘gas’ with ‘MetroCard’). All aspects of life have something of a morning-after stubble to them. The seas boil; the sky turns green; a black guy wins the Iowa primary and you realize everything costs money. Luckily, you quickly realize you don’t suffer from the PGP alone; all your friends suffer from it and when you guys converse or get together it’s exceedingly obvious people enjoy getting together more than they used to because life sucks more than it used to. Such is the transition from charmed to real life; such is life with the Psychosis. To varying degrees, it is, for a time, what must be.
But there’s another side to this well-worn coin, a side that brings me back to the beginning: not everyone from where you once were is where you are now. Often times, lost in the fog of the Psychosis is our opportunity for renaissance. While I was staunchly opposed to actively stimulating this change in the transition from high school to college–and still am frankly; on that level, I think that is a more reinvention, a change which begets, among other things, the classic “smart person who acts likes a wild and crazy guy just to prove he is a wild and crazy guy” and the much more personal and insidious ‘blacker than thou’ disciples–I feel differently about it these days.
PGP provides the opportunity for a fairly fresh start as a fairly fresh person in the eyes of those that behold you. Of course, there are obstacles to this. I’m not blind to certain realities of industry and spheres of influence; some schools and some businesses monopolize and create small circles which act merely as different interpolations of life when keg stands were still socially acceptable. And yes, a lot of those new people beholding you are idiots not really worth dealing with, but, in separating the wheat from the chaff, some good bread can emerge (Sidebar 1: For real though, the Idiots are another PGP whammy. They’re a reality that can escape you when you’ve spent nearly half a decade at an institution of higher learning: Out in the world, lots of people are dumb. And I don’t think people are dumb because they did or didn’t go to college; I think a lot of people are dumb because they’re idiots. Those who have suffered from PGP have, on more than one occasion, furrowed their brow in disbelief and said of another, “Are you serious right now?” Is that to say there are not knuckleheads in college? Obviously not, but it is to say the spike in idiocy can be almost disconcerting).
Yet, there is still a silver lining. In the non-continuation world, the world where we ignore idiots as they should be ignored, you can be born full grown (or at least a good approximation of young and fully grown), informed by the past but not dictated by it. This is vastly different from college where staying the same is staying the same and changing and finding one’s self becomes so routine that it becomes staying the same. It’s a velvet strait jacket. To those new people we meet in the world, college is a footnote, an interesting backstory which needs only inform the present as much as you want it to. This is neither deception nor denial; it is merely the recognition that you have the power to make those things matter as little or as much as you wish.
In my own life, I can say I look back on college with a guarded fondness. Distance and difference have already begun to soften the more prickly edges of the past and make me cherish the good times perhaps a bit more than I should. Certain water has long flowed under the bridge and I can look out onto it appreciating it for everything it was and everything it was not. Now I find myself in the exciting and troubling space of being in a world where the people I interact with know nothing of Eli breakfast sandwiches and don’t spend any time at all attempting to rectify this. More importantly, that I do know of them makes little difference. Life is created with each new interaction and those interactions are essentially informed by our last interaction. As my friend once said, we’re every age we’ve ever been at the same time, so I’m not claiming amnesiac status here, but I am saying The old way of doing business is nearly as applicable as it once was. In this next phase of life, the question is not, “who am I?”; rather, it is, “who am I now?”
Now, anyone that knows me knows how much the past and history and memory are central to my being, so it’s without understatement that I say I find this question and this element of the Psychosis fascinating. I don’t have to be someone else, someone I am not, but I also don’t have to be someone I once was. That is both freeing and terrifying. And at this juncture, I will use my license as a writer to bring up old shit to prove a point:
As some of you know, my family’s business is theatre and, in keeping with tradition, I’m directing a musical (that’s gonna be tight by the by). Anyway, I was shooting the breeze after rehearsal one day, as we are wont to do after rehearsal, and I was talking about this peculiar stage of life–the conversation that prompted me to write this. As I spoke, I found myself marveling at all the things I was not saying. In my mind, I scrolled through the things I hadn’t mentioned about college, the things that used to seem so terribly and totally relevant and now seem particular and circumstantial. I got lost in these thoughts and suddenly turned to the lead actress and said:
“What does Wolf’s Head Society mean to you?”
Peace to the Spirit Warrior.
Penultimate Thought: AAA was in hearts with me last week.
Final Thought: I feel bad for my dad a lot because I generally expect him to know how to do everything.
August is a peculiar month. Regardless of if you have a real job or if you’re preparing to go back to school, August is a month conducive to reviewing your progress and gearing up to get a fresh start doing whatever it is you do. Indeed, August is the December of the summer months. Sure, summer isn’t over–though it is more over than winter is when December ends–but there is a definite cleavage between the “footloose and fancy free” that is June-July and the “I gotta stop fucking around” that is August leading into September. Now, I realize that there are people that never really fuck around, but I also know those same people don’t work as hard during the summer months as they do September through May, because that would deny Newton’s 4th Law of Physics, and, as we all know, that just can’t be done.
I’ve spent most of the summer in New Haven honing my craft of doing only things I want to do, and while this has worked out like gangbusters for the better part of two months, once August hit it suddenly felt different. This could be due to the fact that my lease runs out at the end of the month or it could be due to the fact that the only thing I know forcertain is that I can’t really stick around the Elm City passed August, but this simple turn of the calendar begat a tacit somberness. As you might imagine, I was mildly perplexed by this. It would be too easy to pin this on the classic “end of the summer, time to get a move on” mode I’d come expect in the 16* years that I went to school because, for the first time besides the time I opted to leave school and possibly never return, there is no school. While I stand here at the precipice of adventure, there’s a certain melacholia that I couldn’t put my finger on.
Last night, a balmy summer eve (no feminine hygiene product), I had occassion to grab a drink with my Justice League protege, Young Memphis. Before I get on to the actual point of this story, I’d like to tell all Yalies for whom this is relevant: Fear not. The parties are in good hands. Young Memph aka Young Blip bka Stuntin Like His Daddy has the situation under control.
Anyway, we spent a good deal of time discussing his school and party plans for next year. As we sat and talked shop–him throwing out his ideas, me chiming in with my little two cents, telling him to remember stuff he already knew–two things struck me. Firstly, this scene was like the Godfather, except with smart Black kids. I was the Vito to Memph’s Michael. All I needed was a sweater and a glass of red wine, telling him that whoever approached him about doing a joint party was the traitor.
The second thing was my discovery of the thing on which I could put my finger. As I walked back to the crib after drinks, I was sad. I sat and couldn’t believe that I was giving final pieces of advice because I wouldn’t be there to help. In my reflectiveness, I realized something essential about college. While I always found it foolish to say that college is the best four years of your life–I always preferred the idea of any four year span in which I do something I like while getting paid as opposed to four spent writing compulsory papers for free–I came to realize what it is about college that’s so special.
Best or not, college is, without a doubt that I know about at this point in time, the most unique four years of your life. It’s a space where you can safely go through a lot of bullshit, both jolly and otherwise. There are few points in life where, in the course of a year, you can: Do a play, write for a publication, be expected to learn something in English from someone that doesn’t speak English, beef in intramurals, dash off a paper that night before though you had ample time to do it, throw a party for a seminar final grade, take multi-hour lunches, heckle people at sporting events, have romantic and sexual meltdowns, tutor youth, have awakening with regard to your essence, get a mulligan on that same awakening because it was dead wrong, see famous people talk about shit for free, and drink irresponsibly, all while never getting up before 11 during a week in which Friday basically doesn’t exist. Even more absurdly, this year isn’t one that really raises an eyebrow. In fact, at the end of four of these years, you get a certificate saying you had the goods to finish something. If you live a life like this out in the world, you’re Ernest Hemingway, a junkie with a heart of gold, dead or some combination of all three.
(Sidebar 1: I think it’s also the uniqueness of college that turns me off to a career in event planning. I mean, I think it’d be ill to get paid to put together a stellar function or possibly run a night club, but there’s something distant and sanitized that makes me less than enthusiastic about the prospect. In school, it was more for the love of the game with people I can at least semi-identify. In the world, it’s a disparate band of traveling assholes who I don’t know like that and feel no need put a solid effort in for. It’s like a homecooked meal and fast food.)
I always find it funny when people say, “God, I wish I had one more year.” My thing is, what the fuck am I going to do with one more year? An additional year isn’t really going to make a difference. In fact, the thing about the Mystery of College Uniquity (a stretch, I know) is that it’s only got a shelf life of four to five years. After that, it becomes something else. As much as the dream may seem like heaven with multiple virgins, it’s a dream that can’t be sustained. By the time it’s time to leave, you’re terrified, but you’re ready. An additional year would only lead to stagnation and a sullying of what might have been a fairly gully experience. If I want one more year that badly, I can hang around for another year and just be the creepy dude that’s living the dream. As far as I’m concerned, I’d rather have another four years because now I have a better idea what to do with them.
So for me the dream is officially over. Now everything concerning college and my involvement with it is in the past tense. No more A D Phi basement and no more slow jams with my folks. No more bright college years. JPW, welcome to the world. World, welcome to JPW. Peace to the light in August.
Penultimate Thought: If you’re going to remake a song, make sure it’s not noticeable worse than the original.
Final Thought: Chilli will never age.
Courtesy of Ricardo Pitts-Wiley
The Silver Sun like the phoenix
Rose from the fire
And promised me the chance
To find myself again
Find myself and somebody I used to know
Who got lost so long ago
Out of the fire on phoenix wings
Rose the Silver Sun
Out of the fire on phoenix wings
Rose the Silver Sun
And it brought me back into the world
And it brought me back into the world
Life perpetually inspires wonder. Peace to that.
Penultimate Thought: I’m curently 0 for about 4 on the job search.
Final Thought: My being fattish is getting less funny by the day.