Literary Rambles

Sam Malone

2008-10-07T22:27:00.000-06:00

Someone once told me that a true judge of character is how someone reacts after they’ve made a mistake. I’ve made a lot of mistakes lately. More in the last two months than in the entire last two years. The realization I’ve come to is that I’m absolutely no good for anyone, but that I’m unquestionably great for someone. In a time such as this, I like to turn to my good friend Sam Malone for some advice. I mean, making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got. Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot… Sam is undoubtedly one of the best womanizing characters in television history. It has nothing to do with the quantity of women he’s had relations with but it’s the fact that everyone still loves him afterward. That’s what elevates Sam into legendary status, he possess a certain charm which we all wish we had a piece of. Here’s the thing with Sam. Sam Malone will forever be Sam Malone. You know that going in. He’s self centered, self reliant, self serving, charming, fun, youthful, passionate, witty, romantic and 100% non committal. He’s not a tough man to figure out, yet he’s irresistible. Here’s where things go wrong. For some reason the next woman in line thinks she’ll be different then the last. She thinks she’ll be the one to change him, instead of simply enjoying the time she has with him. Once things end, which they always do, the woman is in a fit of rage. Not really over Sam, but because deep down she’s angry with herself. She feels foolish. She knew Sam was never going to change but somehow she lead herself to believe that he would- for her. By Sam teaching me this little life lesson, I don’t feel nearly as bad for my recent activities. I can’t control what other people think, how they interpret things, and the expectations they build. The problem is that once you start your way down the slippery slope of involvement, socially certain expectations are inherently placed upon you. Knowing this, I was always upfront and honest about my intentions in one way or another. I come stamped with an invisible “will not commit” tag, though we’ve been trained to believe that actions speak louder than words. So who’s at fault here? The both of you. You both wanted different things out of the encounter, you both knew that, but you both went along with it anyway. Diane had to go and screw everything up though. Oh sweet, sweet Diane… Diane is the x factor that both parties hold on to. Sam deep down hopes that every girl he messes around with will be of Diane quality and secretly every girl wants to be “Diane” to Sam. While Sam is absolutely no good for anyone, he’s unquestionably great for Diane. According to Cheers, it’s just a matter of time before she stumbles into my life… Love me for who I am and leave me for who I’ll never be.

The Forbidden Zone

2008-01-16T00:27:00.000-07:00

I like to reside in my imagination most of the day. To the causal observer I must seem alert, coherent and productive because I haven’t gotten into much trouble over it. However, as I’m going through the daily motions a fantastic screenplay is flickering in my mind. For example, I spill a carton of orange juice and think to myself “what would Peter Griffin do?” I chuckle as I search for paper towels. Peter would probably blame it on Captain Jean Luc Picard at which point the entire crew of the USS Enterprise would walk into the kitchen where there’d be a long awkward silence. Peter in a condescending tone would ask Jean Luc if he is going to clean up the sticky orange mess.

“Why would I clean it up? You spilt it…” Jean Luc appallingly responds.

Peter with his half shut glaring eyes replies with a quick “No, I didn’t”.

Jean Luc angered and shocked follows with a “Yes, you did!”

“No, I didn’t” Peter says before Jean Luc can even finish speaking.

Picard become riled and starts using hand gestures as he goes right back with another “Yes, you did!”

“No, I didn’t” Peter cuts him short again. This continues for far too long, just as all Family Guy side antics do.

Finally LaVar Burton walks over to the sink and picks up a rag. He dampens the cloth while scowling at Picard and Peter. LaVar, never taking his eyes off the two of them walks over to the mess and wipes it up. Peter and Jean Luc don’t say a word as LaVar walks back to the sink where he rinses out the rag and returns to where he was standing. Peter and Jean Luc then stare at one another where Peter blurts out “I always knew he was gay…”

By this point my juice mess has been fully cleaned up and my dream world took me away from the reality of consciously doing it. I smile to myself and wonder if that’s how the rest of world gets through their day.

It wasn’t until a baseball bat to the chest awoke me from my amusing alternate reality that I became fully aware of how much I relied on it. While the details still haven’t been worked out, being blindsided by matters of the heart is always quite sobering. With my imagination all dried up and reality being too real to deal with, I decided to do my best Slash impersonation and finished off a bottle of Old Grand-Dad’s. The tall glass of nitroglycerin and ice warmed me more than any Campbell’s Soup commercial until my shortness in breath and anger induced adrenaline burst melted into a smirk.

I had entered The Forbidden Zone where the current actions of a so called friend, or even worse a potential love interest, were as foreign to me as a planet ruled by damn dirty apes. Maybe it was the unfair expectations I had of her. We were by no means “together” but by having known her well before I started growing armpit hair I assumed a deep level of honesty and communication. Maybe it’s because I had placed her on pedestal. I’ve never seen her do wrong, therefore I thought she was incapable of it. By this time the ice in my drink had completely melted away and I chuckled at the symbolism. Who needs ice anyway? The glass was filled once again and heartache was my only mixer.

The next afternoon I woke up feeling like I had been given the I Am Legend vaccine but couldn’t get one of Dr. Zaius’ quotes about man out of my head: “From the evidence, I believe his wisdom must walk hand and hand with his idiocy. His emotions must rule his brain. He must be a warlike creature who gives battle to everything around him, even himself.”

Leave it to a talking ape to teach me a little bit about myself. As much as I wanted to blame her for everything I was feeling, hangover included, I knew it was my own fault. My continual battle with the relationship reality of my past, present and future- not to mention the expectations of living up to my inner George Taylor- has created a wasteland far greater then that of The Forbidden Zone.

"The Forbidden Zone was once a paradise. Your breed made a desert of it, ages ago." Sounds like Dr. Zaius dealt with his fair share of lady monkeys too...

The Blunder Years

2008-01-11T12:12:00.000-07:00

Whatever happened to predictability? The milkman, the paperboy, evening TV? Casual drives over the Golden Gate Bridge and neon windbreakers to protect from that brisk Bay Area sea breeze? Back when times were simpler and the world had three fathers- and by no means am I referring to the holy trinity. I’m talking Danny, Jesse and Joey. All were miserable failures with personality dysfunctions but somehow were able to pull themselves together to raise America’s favorite girls. What this country’s fascination is with “three men and a baby” is beyond me.

Aside from the horrible acting and after school special “the moral of the story is” writing style, Full House was mashed potatoes and gravy to a generation. When the theme song kicked on, you felt good. Because, “everywhere you look there’s a heart and a hand to hold on to.” I always acted as if I was bored while I watched the show though, even at an early age I was aware that it wasn’t socially acceptable for a dude to like chick flicks. And that’s what Full House was, a weekly soap opera for young girls.

I watched habitually though, especially once Rebecca became a regular. I’m not afraid to say it, Lori Loughlin was hot. She still is. In 1989 I didn’t even really know what hot was, but whatever Rebecca was- I liked it. That was the beginning of my lifelong hatred for John Stamos. The guy makes me sick, he’s too fucking cool. His gelled up hair, scruffy metro shave (before the world even knew what metro was), black Italian boots, a rock n’ roll attitude but with a sensitive and understanding side… What a prick. Moreover, he was briefly married to a super model. Still, Romjin aside, the only Rebecca that really mattered to me was the one on Full House.

I remember sizing Stupid Ass Stamos up every episode. I’d sit there and scowl at the TV as I’d watch his performance. The majority of my Full House viewing must have been around the age of 10, so looking back that must have been quite the sight. Back then I didn’t know what it was, and I couldn’t clearly put my feelings into words but I certainly knew that Uncle Jesse was a pretentious asshole. The Elvis impersonations are eventually what did me in. One too many “Teddy Bears” made Rebecca’s love for Jesse unforgivable and I eventually had to move on. I learned early on that chasing after women that were attracted to Jesse’s was fruitless. I’d never be that guy.

I tried to seek out solace in DJ, but she just didn’t have what made me tick. Kimmy was way too easy, so I figured I’d give Steph a shot and maybe try someone my own age. I appreciated her wit and subtle vulnerability but the fact she shared a roof with Stamos was a deal breaker. I finally had to part ways with the San Francisco family and I found myself becoming best friends with Kevin Arnold. His lifestyle was much easier to swallow then three misfit dads living in the gay capitol of the world. He rode his bike, played football with Paul, thought way too deeply about the world around him, and had a crush on Winnie Cooper- the single greatest young female character up to that point in television history.

Kevin and I got a long great, primarily due to our strikingly similar inner monolog. Yes, that’s what it sounds like in my head all day. Winnie was off limits, however. I admired her from afar but the show taught me trust and loyalty, one of the lessons that always seemed laughable coming from Jesse’s mouth. Winnie was everything a 12 year old boy could ask for. She had her own set of wheels, enjoyed milk shakes, and was never afraid to make the first move. In the grand scheme of things, that doesn’t sound too bad to someone in the their mid twenties.

Kevin was my boy though, even through their on-again off-again late adolescence. We shared a comradely, an understanding of sorts. Kevin ultimately always did the right thing, learning life lessons along the way. I took notes and mentally never had an affair with his girl. That’s how it all went down until the final episode. That night I turned on my TV half depressed. I was anxious to see the big finale, but I felt like my childhood was ending just as Kevin’s was. The suspense ate me alive as I slurped from my juice box. The show ended by flashing forward to present day. Winnie got off a plane from studying art in Paris only to be greeted by Kevin, his wife and new son. Those fuckers. I dropped my fruit flavored beverage and let it seep deep into my favorite childhood blanket.

From that moment on it’s been nothing but Guns n’ Roses, cheap strippers, Wild Turkey, and an immense Winnie Cooper void I’ve been unable to fill. Rebecca’s are a time a dozen, just like the Jesse’s they date. But not Winnie Cooper. Only a Winnie can make you… melt.

You Know How I Know I'm Gay?

2007-12-23T03:48:00.000-07:00

"Where do I fit in, where's my place here? What do I need to say, what do you want to hear?"

The last couple of months have been filled with rock stars, strippers, drugs, girls and way too much alcohol. Cool, right? Late nights and lots of confusing mornings… If being backstage has taught me anything it's that I am completely out of my element.

It's 6:30 pm as I'm wiping the drool off my face and fumbling around the nightstand for my glasses. I laughed and shook my head, instantly followed by a long swallow and a groan- I could feel my brain still sloshing in last night's bourbon. I submitted back to my pillow and continued to chuckle. "What the fuck am I doing…" I muttered as Cassidy hopped into bed, realizing I've finally come to. Her brown eyes told me everything I already knew, and I hated her for it.

I pulled her close and we hid from the cold under the blankets. Her warmth angered me, why hadn't she been here the entire time? The sun had already set and the outside world was muffled under newly fallen snow. She began to nibble my fingers as my other hand caressed her back. The painstaking silence was broken with Slash, who seemed to be turned up to 11, shred my ringtone.

"Jumpy, are we?" I said to Cassidy as I reached across her to answer the phone.

"What it do!?" I greeted the caller who had also been a cohort from the night before.

"Dude, you're the biggest pimp I know!" His voice was crackly but managed to show some amount of enthusiasm. "So, how'd go last night, playa?!"

Cassidy didn't take her eyes off me as I let out a long "goooood…"

"Shit, man. I'm so hungover. I've been puking all day." He sourly admitted.

"Yeah, I just woke up. Feeling a little fuzzy…" Cassidy had weaseled her way out of the covers and let out a whine, thinking I was finally getting up for the day.

"So what's the deal, man? Did you take that chick home? She was all over you at the bar!" He already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear it from me.

"Yeah… I'm a pussy though, I didn't do anything… I think I'm gay, haha!" I paused for several moments, giving the statement way too much thought. "Kept it old fashion, we just cuddled."

"Nice. Always leave them wanting more…" I could tell he was disappointed, not the story he was hoping for. "Well, whatever you're doing is working. Pussy or not, you've got more chicks then anyone I know!"

"Wha…?" I said, completely confused by his statement.

"Yeah, man. You've got a different girl every time we go out! How many numbers did you get last night?" He was being completely sincere which further confused me.

"They're just friends, man. It's not like anything ever happens." I quickly tried to repiece last night's debacle and reached into my pocket, still wearing my jeans. Sure enough, two cards. I tossed them on my desk. "I don't know, a couple I think. They just gave them to me..."

"See, that's what I'm talking about! Pimp." We both laughed.

We continued to banter back and forth until Cassidy grew impatient with our conversation. She kept nosing me, she must have had to piss as bad as I did. I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled to the back door, the air took both our breath away. She hesitated a few minutes before mustering enough courage to put her paws in the snow. "Sucks to be you!" I said as I shut the door behind her and headed to the bathroom.

The conversation lingered with me throughout the rest of the evening. I'm not a pimp. I'm anything but… He was right though, there have been a lot more girls sniffing around then usual. It's not like I've suddenly become hot, what am I doing different? I couldn't pin point one thing other then my lack of caring has somehow been confused as confidence. I honestly could careless about having sex, last night was proof of that. Maybe girls can pick up on that and they feel comfortable around me? Like, they don't have to "worry" about being hit on? Or maybe they see it as a challenge, that they will be the one to "break" me? I'm certain it's the first one, if anything at all, but I find it pretty odd.

It's not that I don't like sex, because I do. Any girlfriend I've ever had knows I have a healthy sex drive, maybe to the point of annoyance. That's just it though, any enjoyable sex I've ever had has been with someone who has meant something to me. The "random encounters" just can't live up. It's takes a certain comfort level before you can truly enjoy the moment. If that hasn't been achieved with someone, why force it simply to spill some fluids? After all, I can do that on my own...

The arrogance in this rant has made me sick as well, but bear with me. I am not Leon Phelps. I am the anti Phelps, which has apparently given me an edge. I am not ruled by the vag and in most cases I don't even think about it. In conventional warfare, most women don't know how to react to this. They're certainly not interested in my striking good looks or the car I drive. However, something needs to be said about a genuine conversation, eye contact, and a few smiles. I usually leave it at that and walk away. What a mind fuck. They're left standing there in disbelief.

There are thousands of reasons for why I walk away and almost every single time it has absolutely nothing to do with the person I was talking to. I've been able to talk myself out of feeling anything for someone for so long that I've lost all ability to take things to the next level. As sad as it is, my phobia of anything beyond casual conversation may have sabotaged potentially one of the greatest relationships of my life… But then again, maybe I'll surprise everyone and "sell my car and go to Vegas. 'Cause somebody told me, that's where dreams would be…"

My Cocaine

2007-12-23T03:47:00.000-07:00

Recently I decided that I needed to take a sobering look at my life. In an effort to figure out why I've constructed an impenetrable barrier of genuine feeling, I cleared my mind and went exploring. I thought about my past and how every decision I've made in life has lead up to this exact moment of contemplation. I thought about the future and how completely selfish I am. The next several years seemed to have no consideration of family, friends, or the inkling of a significant woman. That disgusted me. My stomach went into knots and I realized I might be worse off then I thought. That's when my phone rang and Slash started shredding the solo to Paradise City as my ringtone. All the self-deprivating thoughts I was having prior to the ringer completely melted away as my mind was flooded with sights and sounds of Guns N' Roses. My imagination ran wild as the band rocked sold out arena shows and Slash pounded Jack from a brown bag while sitting on a dark Hollywood sidewalk. I didn't feel bad about myself anymore, I wasn't even thinking about myself anymore. The montage of Guns N' Roses continued until the room became silent, the phone stopped ringing. Suddenly the pit in my stomach didn't ache, the thought of being alone didn't scare me, and the realization of me being a selfish prick didn't bother me as much.

Fantasy is my cocaine. One little dose of alternate reality can make anything in this world good and it transcends into every portion of my life. Pop culture is my Dr. Feelgood who's constantly hooking me up with movies, television, books, blogs, videogames, and music to mentally take me away from my existence. Every aspect of my day is in an effort to leave behind the world I've created for myself, subconsciously or not.

The thought will be completed soon. Well, as soon as I stop daydreaming...

Declaration of Honesty

2007-12-23T03:45:00.000-07:00

The façade of my vociferous "happily single" column onslaught can no longer be kept up. That really bums me out. It has nothing to do with putting my foot in my mouth or the painstaking conversations that will ensue once a certain few get their hands on this confession. No, the lies can no longer continue because an amazing woman has crept under my skin. "Under my skin" is such a disgusting and horribly visual phrase. Like a splinter starting to fester, turning red as it swells. That exactly is how it figuratively feels. That's right, I just said exactly and figuratively in the same breath.

"You know what I mean though" as I scratch my head and start to back-paddle. I had just finished explaining to one of my many "relationship experts" how I've finally found someone who has everything I want in a girl but that I just don't want it right now.

She looks at me like a disappointed mother, "what's wrong with you?" Her eyes were piercing and the question was so simple and direct.

I took a deep breath, my mind raced with thousands of brush-off answers until 'fuck it' popped into my head. I stalled for several more moments, looked her right in the eye and said, "I'm scared…"

"Sean, I've never taken you for a liar but that's one of most honest things you've ever told me…" The disappointment disappearing from her face was followed by intrigue that my pea-sized heart might actually be beating. "This girl is good for you," she continued.

"Yeah, as good as a hole in the head." I've always had a way with ruining moments.

The fear of the past, while still ever present in my mind is greatly overshadowed by my fear of the future. Things are good. Yesterday was good, today wasn't bad and I'm sure tomorrow will be fine. I love that. Life is stable, controllable and running fairly smoothly. Allowing someone to become close to me could seriously screw that up. I mean, for all intensive purposes, life has taught me that things will eventually become messed up. I'm not necessarily saying that the girl who gives me the warm-fuzzies will be the one who fucks it up. I'm pretty sure I can handle that on my own. That scares me the most- I don't want hurt her. Not now, not ever.

I try to look at things as objectively as possible and I realize how pessimistic that sounds. What else do I have to go off of though? The formula I've concocted to achieve life's goals over the next several years is an extremely selfish one. There's never been a thought of someone else in my plan and I'm struggling to figure out how to incorporate that.

"Woah, slow down, Sean." I keep telling myself. "You're not even with this girl and you're talking about 'life plans'." However, this is a declaration of honesty and it is something that honestly needs pondering. I'd hate to sabotage something before it begins. Scratch that, I refuse to sabotage something before it begins. If I'm going to allow this constant festering to grow into a full-fledged infection then I need to be prepared for the sickness. Too bad love isn't something that a dab of ointment and a few days rest can cure.

As it stands at the moment, I am certainly not "happily single". I am horribly confused, brain beaten, stomach twisted and trembling with excitement as I write this. Though a splinter is the perfect analogy for what I'm going through, it's a horrible representation of what she means to me. I'll work on that. Along with allowing my mind to wrap around the concept of someone becoming significant to me. And me, possibly, becoming significant to them…

Reminiscing With The Roadie

2007-10-06T00:06:00.001-06:00

Reminiscing With The Roadie- Sammy Hagar

Ever been to Cabo Wabo? Haha, what a shit hole! I mean, the way everyone talks it up I expected to see Sammy in a top hat and cape serving drinks to Gerry Garcia and Mama Cass. No sir, it was more like Chris Carrabba in a speedo doing body shots with drunk college chicks. I did a 180 and got the fuck out of there. I'm not sure what kind of Mickey Mouse operation Hagar is running but that's no way to operate a respectable business. Shit, I can't imagine the liability on drunk college chicks. One of them gets knocked up by a local and suddenly she gets thrown in jail for smuggling illegals across the boarder. I don't know the facts or anything but I was talking to the boarder patrol while I was sitting in the integration room. They were ripping my car apart- said the dogs smelt something. I tell ya, that shit just won't leave the seats! I mean, I've been clean for at least three months now...

Reminiscing With The Roadie- Axl Rose

Did I ever tell you 'bout the time I met Axl Rose? Haha, that son of bitch is a few Mexicans short of a chalupa, if you know what I mean- weeohhh, complete wild man! He once had this chick up on the table dancin', she was shakin' her ass and everyone was hootin' and hollerin'- haha, never seen acid washed jeans so tight. All I could think of was Theo Huckstable, not many men have an ass like that. I'm not gay or anything, I just appreciate a good pair of jeans…

Reminiscing With The Roadie- Lita Ford

I banged Lita Ford. Yeah, it's true. Well, I mean, I had sex during one of her movies once. God she was a babe, that red hair and freckles. Never understood how she got involved with John Hughes, must have been dating the director or something. She was sweet though, wasn't she? Heard she ended up marrying the guy from the Wonder Years. Guess that bastard finally got the girl next door, haha, huh huh?

Reminiscing With The Roadie- Ted Nugent

Hey man, take a look at this. Pretty gnarly scar huh? Haha, yeah, Ted Nugent did that. Caught an arrow right in the leg. Crazy back woods bastard was target shooting before a show. I happened to be hanging out back stage with one of his roadies, we had become friends at a roadies convention. Pretty sweet deal really, the union gets together once a year at the Marriot. Usually get some sort of lunch and they tell us not to lift with our back. Never mentioned anything about getting shot with arrows though, I guess I was the first.

3.7 Seconds

2007-10-05T23:58:00.000-06:00

"At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head/ Only you can cool my desire/ I'm on fire"

I have a picture hanging on my bedroom wall of a beautifully discontent woman. The LA skyline is in the background, black and white. The woman's tank top is white and her hair is black, rich sun-kissed skin glowing. Her eyes are closed but if she were to open them she'd be looking at her shoes. Her posture, however, is what ties this picture together. She's confident. Her shoulders, cheeks and lips have not been defeated. Her head is heavy but her spirit is on fire.

I find myself thinking about her, usually before I fall asleep. I lie there and wonder what went through her mind 3.7 seconds before the picture was taken. 3.7 seconds is the amount of time I've decided it would take to position herself in such a way once this particular thought crossed her mind. People rarely carry themselves with this subtle indestructible confidence- and then her head lowers. It's like she filled her lungs with that smog soaked air and is about to take the first step into her newfound realization.

I have the timing down but I can't figure out what's running through her mind. I'm afraid if I did, the picture would become meaningless to me. The mystery and my interpretation is all that matters. The truth would shatter that along with the 3.7 seconds of perfection leading up to the click of the shutter. Is that what I want though, the bliss of my imagination?

As the last few paragraphs have proven, I have the ability to build things up beyond their straightforward impressions. Given the right circumstances I can completely disconnect from reality altogether. That somewhat worries me. How many times have I been wrong? I've stepped back for several seconds, taken a breath of sweet mountain air and marched on into my perception- possibly not reality at all.

I've found it hard to stay grounded lately, especially when I'm left alone with my thoughts…

Instant Gratification: Dating

2007-06-12T14:26:00.000-06:00

Being the 20 something single that I am, dating is not only on my mind but also the people I surround myself with. Not necessarily even those who are single, in most cases it’s friends in relationships who try to live vicariously through my encounters. Most of our conversations are concluded by them accusing me of being a moron, I guess having the reassurance of someone at home gives them the confidence to make such statements. However, I can’t argue with them. I am a moron, or as I like to put it “relationship challenged”. I’ve been told that I need to be a little more PC so here’s my effort to make my disability sound as warmfuzzy as it could be.

“You haven’t called her back? Jesus, it’s been two days!” One of my ball n’ chain cohorts snapped.

“Two days…” I think out loud, “I haven’t even called my Mom in two days.” I say defensively as I glare back.

“You’re an asshole.” That seals the conversation. There’s nothing I can say that will change her mind, I might as well run with it.

“No, I’m a romantic. There’s nothing more alluring then stripping a girl of her self confidence and letting her neurosis run wild while waiting for the phone to ring,” I say as condescending as possible. “Plus, what makes you think she even deserves a call back?”

That pretty much sends my friend over the hill at which point she mutters “moron”. The conversation changes gears but I can’t help but think about this quandary later.

To me, two days is nothing. Two weeks is nothing. Call me chauvinistic but I often miss the days when corresponding with woman took place by horse and buggy. After the Pony Express, dating became so much harder.

See, we live in a society of instant gratification. Are you hungry? Pop something in the microwave. Missed the weather report? Hop online. Lost? Hit up your GPS. Can’t wait to see the highlights on ESPN tonight? Bust out your cell phone. Can’t sit through a goddamn movie without gossiping with your girlfriend? Send a text message! Relationships have fallen somewhere between Paris’s last “newsworthy” exploit and Howie Mandel’s nightly Indian casino guessing game. My inability to conform, according to my relationship experts, has made me an asshole.

I’m okay with that. I’m still young enough not to feel desperate and fortunate enough not to have felt like I’ve lost the girl of my dreams due to my phobia of the phone. But what will happen when that day comes? Either day, desperate or twitterpated. Am I just too old fashion to be in a relationship? Is there no room for taking time to reflect upon someone or having a sense of absence to make the heart grow fonder? Possibly.

If women of today have taught me anything, it’s that waiting is inconceivable. It’s something that you do at Planned Parenthood or the DMV and is looked upon as the same such chore. There’s no Christmas morning with these chicks, no tropical vacation you’ve saved up for. According to them, for all intensive purposes, that is what a credit card is for. I don’t believe it’s solely their fault however, they’re a product of their environment. Nothing in their lifetime has ever told them to slow down.

Somewhere between the first Iraq war and Al Gore discovering global warming, our government decided to raise the speed limits across most of the country. As these girls were entering college, a dial up internet connection seemed obsolete at which point Americans decided it would be faster to walk to the Starbucks on the corner rather than boiling water. Yet it amazes to see Carrie Bradshaw bitch about a guy who gets off in under ten minutes. You wanted everything in a New York minute baby, you got it.

Which leaves me on Island Time. I’m no Axl Rose sweetheart, but maybe all we need is a little patience? Let the butterflies turn and the anticipation eat you alive. Maybe I need to wait until my next paycheck before I can afford to take your ass out again. Or maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones and I’ll never call. After all, I am an asshole…

Crushed

2007-06-05T20:52:00.000-06:00

I read something the other day that made a lot of sense to me. I wish I could remember what it said.

I’m so sick of television, music, movies, and books that I actively go out of my way to watch even more TV and listen to more music. I’m a media masochist. I’m not completely sure why I enjoy torturing myself. Like at this very moment No No No is playing through my stereo by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. My heart sinks in such a beautifully content way.

I suppose I could relate it to all the women I’ve agonized over but that doesn’t make much sense. What do the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have to do with my first girlfriend? How could Karen O be crushing me just like Carrie H did? She can’t. And why would Karen O want to crush me? She wouldn’t. Unless all girls want to crush me…

I’m beginning to understand that women crushing guys is a common theme. I mean, other than Karen O, I haven’t been crushed in a long time but that’s only because I haven’t allowed myself. The fools in the television, music, movies and books I’ve been absorbing aren’t so lucky. They keep going back for more and lose a piece of themselves each time. It’s a train wreck taking place on the most gorgeous spring day of the year and that’s why I can’t stop watching.

Perhaps the distance I’ve created between myself and vaginas has everything to do with Reality Bites and nothing to do with Carrie H. It’s completely possible because no matter how many leather jackets I own I will forever be Michael Grates. Women know this. At least those who know me do. What’s wrong with that though? I rooted for Michael through the entire movie. I actually took his side and was outspokenly upset when she chose The Douche. It wasn’t because my life roll was similar to Stiller’s character but because he was a nice guy. A good guy. His heart was always in the right place while The Douche had a bad haircut and took up couch space. It broke my heart, and that’s what made it such a good movie.

Possibly my heartache has nothing to do with all Lelaina Piece’s of the world but the Chloe’s from Sol Goode. In fact, I’m certain of it. Chloe is the girl that’s always been there for you. She’ll always be there for you. You drink beers together, sing along to Jimi Hendrix, make fun of mutual friends and feel utterly empty when she’s not around- never realizing why. You’re blinded by her beauty, to point of not accepting it. Chloe is the reason why you never have any successful relationships. Every girl you meet is compared to her, knowingly or not.

Chloe terrifies me and that’s why when Karen O explains “and cool kids, they belong together” I’m crushed. Crushing so hard over my Chloe…

The OC: Summer Loves Seth and That's Why I'm Single

2007-04-03T18:29:00.000-06:00

Since the culmination of The O.C., I can’t help but feel as if a part of me died. Not only has my weekly television viewing schedule been disrupted but I can’t seem to get over the fact that Seth married one of the greatest TV characters of all time. Bold statement I know, but I adored Summer. I loved to hate her in season one and just simply loved her by the end of the show. Summer Roberts, while snotty and spoiled, was tough as nails and walked a fine line between “Newpsie” and down to earth. She was reliable, stable, and surprisingly pure. Yes, while Summer had several questionable moments, she ultimately had a heart of gold. She was honest, honorable, and gave the show a sense of subconscious balance which was overshadowed by the constant unimaginable drama. Summer’s obsession with The Valley and tabloid magazines didn’t distract us from her fundamental character values. If anything, her preppy quirkiness was endearing because she continually proved to us the complexity of her personality. Summer’s character held the show together and indirectly became a pop culture role model for young people saturated with exposure of Britney, Paris and Lindsey.

Not being able to see her on a weekly basis isn’t why a part of me died though. I mean, it certainly didn’t help but I’m more concerned with dynamics of Seth and Summer’s relationship and how the show ended. The Seth and Summer saga was pure TV gold and they were somehow able to keep it interesting for several years- without ruining it. That’s the biggest surprise and achievement that came from the show, the writers didn’t take the easy way out. They could have added bubblegum drama where the two of them were off-again on-again but instead forced them to face their issues and work them out.

The writers impressed me by doing this, not only did it add a true humanistic portrayal of love to the story but it reiterated to the audience that relationships take work. The writers incorporated notions of heart, time, forgiveness, understanding, patience and honesty to make things right. The story usually revolved around Seth growing into these traits but the fact that the writers didn’t shy away from the importance might have influenced the social maturity of a generation. While The O.C. was filled with tons on nonsense, it was also filled with morality. Often times they made examples of what not to do but in Seth and Summer’s case they made a conscious effort to lead by example. That is until they got married.

The reason I can’t get over this is because Seth won. I wanted him to win, I rooted for him from day one. However, it gives me the same sense of disbelief that I had when Marissa died. Oh, I so wanted her to die. It was two and a half seasons too long if you ask me. But as she lay dying in one of the worst acting scenes in the show’s history, I felt bad. Worse then I felt when Johnny drunkenly staggered off a cliff. Marissa embodied so much of what was wrong with the show that by her not being there we were left with a sense of peace. Peace makes for horrible TV and that’s why I couldn’t believe it actually happened. The same goes for Seth. The only other crutch that the show had was Seth and Summer, them living happily ever after completely sealed it’s fate. I was never under the impression that there would be a spin off or it would resurrect itself several years down the line, but the marriage was just so absolute.

By Seth and Summer marrying, not only did I have to come to grips with my weekly television escape truly being over but now I’m left with another sappy romantic comedy that will further hinder my future relationship judgment and expectations. The silly entertaining involvement between these two have subconsciously programmed viewers, yet again, with the notions of a socially retarded emo outcast having the ability to not only hook up with, but marry the girl of his dreams. I suppose it’s possible, but it’s not realistic. It’s just another Hollywood fairy tale that geeks have eaten up since Sixteen Candles, Can’t Hardly Wait, Gidget, and When Harry Met Sally. We’ve been force-fed the idea that love holds no bounds and me, with the rest of our society, hold on to the fantasy that our love life will take shape of that which we see on the silver screen.

Seth and Summer are the reason for half of all marriages failing in the United States. From a young age pop culture has lead us to believe that we have the ability to become the next movie god or rock star. As we hit our twenties and thirties depression levels have also spiked, leaving most of us wondering where we went wrong and feeling utterly unfulfilled. Love has followed a similar suit, we get wrapped up in falling in love but have no idea how to live with it once we have it. The TV show or movie always ends once the guy gets the girl. No matter how many episodes of Joanie Loves Chachi you’ve seen, we’ve never been subconsciously taught how to deal with longevity. The O.C. further perpetuated this cycle.

I can’t say if I’m more disturbed by the social implications of the relationship or if I’m just upset that the now Summer Cohen isn’t Summer Hammond. It’s not that I can’t cope with a few more divorces but it’s going to be really hard for me to find a girl saving the sea otters while at the same time wearing stilettos.

Impressionable

2007-02-28T20:44:00.000-07:00

Thinking back, as I often do, I was trying to pin point the moment where music infiltrated my life. The single greatest musical occurrence which paved the way for my lifelong obsession. There isn’t one. It wasn’t like I heard The Beatles and said, “oh my, I will be apart of this.” While moments like that have happened, they were more turning points in the already predestined rock screenplay that is my life. I say screenplay because I feel the only place fitting for my tales is in the movies. I don’t know if it’s because my warped memory has an internal 5.1 surround sound soundtrack or if it’s because I’m convinced my ending will rival that of the number grossing film of all time. Let’s hope it doesn’t involve Leonardo or some selfish broad leaving me to drown in icy waters.

While there wasn’t a single standout musical moment, there certainly was a significant person. Growing up my family structure changed quite a bit, we didn’t become a true nuclear family until I was about 16. No matter where I lived in the country, at least one of my extended family lived with us (or we lived with them), namely my Uncle Donnie. Whether it be a massive old farm house in Maine filled with grandparents and cousins, a tiny apartment in Southern California, or your typical neighborhood cul-de-sac home in Utah, he was there.

Donnie was the youngest of my Father’s brothers who was no more then 18 years old when I was born. He traveled the country with my Dad doing construction and is apart of every early childhood memory I have. Once I became old enough to eat solid foods and use the bathroom on my own, we’d hang out. Because of him still being more of a kid rather than an adult, he had no problem watching Saturday morning cartoons with me or spending the day at the pool. He was young and hip, always coming home late from concerts or seeing the latest movie. He made friends anywhere he went and just being in his presence I was continually exposed to the greatest rock music ever made- though I could have cared less. I was just happy to be hanging out with my Cool Uncle.

I’ll never forget the day when Donnie taught me how to use his stereo. We were living in the big Maine farmhouse and he had one of the bedrooms upstairs. Just being allowed in his room, which was off limits to all the other cousins running around, was an honor. While Donnie was really easy going and laid back, you never went into his room or messed with his stuff. I was given a backstage pass. He had a massive water bed topped with an amazing flannel comforter, lamps with beaded shades, an American flag which covered an entire wall, a mirror with pictures of his friends plastered all over it, and on the back of his door was a Heineken poster of a topless woman- the first pair of jugs I can remember fanaticizing about. It was such a foreign escape, never had I been in a place so mysterious or intriguing. The room even smelled different then the rest of the house.

Donnie’s Kenwood rack system was taller then I was. It was equipped with a massive receiver, a 31 band personally configured equalizer, tuner, turntable, dual recording cassette decks, and a CD player. It was a thing of beauty even by today’s standards. You have to remember that this was 1989. Compact discs weren’t even mainstream yet, although he already had several hundred lining the bookshelf. He showed me how to use the four buttons which allowed me to play CD’s; system power, eject, play and stop. He threatened my life if I didn’t push stop before powering down the system, I didn’t understand why but I agreed. Similar threats followed as he told me what he’d do if he were to catch me touching any of the other knobs or buttons that didn’t involve the four he covered. Again, I agreed but I remember it being torture to lie in his bed and look at the EQ and not being able to slide things around. I just wanted to see what it would do… I held my end of the bargain though. My time messing with knobs and buttons would come later in life.

Donnie also had strict rules about what could be played on his stereo. He convinced me that if a rap CD should ever somehow make its way into the changer, it would cause an entire system meltdown.

“Rap CD’s are made differently, this is a rock only stereo. If you want to play rap, go out in the yard and plug a couple of speakers into your ears. If you hold the CD up to the sun just right and spin it fast enough on your finger, you might get it to work.”

I laughed and said “yeah right!” but secretly wondered if it was true.

With that, hours upon hours were spent listening to music. I’d hang out in his room after school listening to The Beach Boys, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Guns n’ Roses, and Van Halen. Donnie would periodically leave CD’s out that I should listen to but those were my favorites. A long time has passed since the Heineken girl rocked my world but the music has stuck with me. I was first in line to buy Stadium Arcadium, I keep setting my watch back for Chinese Democracy, and I was honestly shocked and upset when Van Halen cancelled their reunion tour with David Lee Roth a week after announcing it. I should have known better but that little 7 year old boy inside of me couldn’t help but be let down.

It’s funny though, isn’t it? The things that were so important to you in the past have the same life span as an 80’s rock god? Guns n’ Roses represents all the friends you’ve lost touch with. You always say you’re going to call them and hang out but you don’t. Just as Axl has told us for the last 13 years that Chinese Democracy will be in stores next month. You don’t create any new memories with GNR, just relive old ones.

In my case Van Halen would represent Donnie. When the band was together with Roth there was nothing that could top them. They had music, image, attitude and a live performance that was second to none. They couldn’t keep it under control though; alcohol, money, and power ripped them apart and they fought over the most petty situations. Finally it blew up and became the end of an era. Sure, you randomly bump into Roth at a bar and reminisce about the good ol’ days. You might even suggest a reunion tour. It doesn’t happen though, it never will.

I guess that’s why I identify the most with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Not only were they there for me when I discovered music but they’re here for me now. No one thinks of them as this drug induced, funky rap rock band from 1983 anymore. They are highly renowned Grammy Award winning pop culture icons of 2007. They’ve come a long way and so have I. Our music has matured and throughout the years I’ve grown as a person just as they’ve grown as a band. We’ve seen ups and downs, and have experienced loss. We’ve worked out most of our issues and are excited for the possibilities of tomorrow. The Chili Peppers won’t be around forever but so far they’re the only ones who have been around since the beginning. There’s something to be learned from that.

The Mixed Tape Manifesto, Truth

2007-02-20T23:57:00.000-07:00

When I started writing the “mixed tape” series I had this grand idea of what I wanted it to be. There were going to be several installments and I was really going to dive in to the theology of making a tape. Explore the psychology and every implication from the marker used to scribble the title to the meaning of the songs and why they appeared in their certain spot on the tape. I’ve discovered that no one cares about these things except me. If you do care about them, you already know what I’m going to say. If you don’t care, you could care even less about reading my thoughts on it. I’m not educating anyone or spewing revelations. Eddie from Empire Records did that, so did Rob Gordon from High Fidelity. The last thing I want to do is be lumped into the same category as them…

So, why do it? Why continue with all the mixed tape talk? Well, it’s all Chuck Klosterman’s fault. Those of you who have read his Sex, Drugs, and Coco Puffs will know exactly what I’m talking about. Those of you who haven’t, I’m glad you don’t. I’m guilty of committing the same “mixed tape crime” though I’m a less offender. My tapes weren’t identical, but the meanings were. Some of the- most of the songs were the same. Why? Is it that I’m so uncreative and musically shallow that I can’t find different ways of expressing myself? Or is it because those particular songs truly mean something to me? The melody and lyrics hit home so hard that I couldn’t have written them better myself, assuming I could write music. I’d like to think that I’m none of the first things and everything of the second, but Chuck made me reevaluate myself. Good for him, he engaged the reader.

The truth of the mixed tape is undoubtedly going to get me in trouble. At least talking about the ones that meant something to me are. As with Chuck, I can relate about sixty percent of all the sex I’ve had to mixed tapes. Also, just about every female I ever really wanted to have sex with has gotten one from me at some point. If you look at it the other way, I think there might only be one person in my life that I’ve slept with that I didn’t give a mixed tape to (a ONS). I pat myself on the back for this, read on:

It’s not that mixed tapes somehow equal sex or there’s some perverse motivation behind them. Generally the two are completely removed from one another. When I’m thinking about making a mixed tape, I’m either really focused on what I think the listener will like or I’m trying to fit all the things that explain who I am into 120 minutes. It’s the ultimate tangible object into someone’s soul and thought process. It’s not a mystery that if I allow someone to explore me that deeply, to see that side of me, they’re someone I have a true connection with. Not just a sexual connection, but I genuinely adore their existence.

Does this make me a bad guy? The reason I ask is because I feel guilty. I mean, I shouldn’t feel guilty about only having sex with people I truly care about, but I’ve given these tapes to people I probably shouldn’t have- even though I meant every bit of it. Is it my loophole? Should I ever be questioned about my motivations I can pass it off as nothing more then good music. Maybe I’m a coward? I can’t find the balls to say what I have to say to her face, so I create this subliminal mind fuck to resonate in her brain. Maybe this is my way of opening up to her, to see if she understands who I am and how I feel? Maybe this is my test to her, to see if she understands the complexity and beauty of “my” music and to see how she reacts when the disk stops spinning and she’s left to deal with nothing but silence? I mean, let’s face it- no one really uses tapes anymore.

So which one are you? Are you a true friend or are you truly desired? Does it honestly matter? You can’t live your life by lyrics, lyrics are created out of life. So keep living and see where life takes you. Create your own soundtrack and share it with someone who deserves to hear it. I felt you deserved to hear it…

The Mixed Tape Manifesto- Part 1, Gold

2007-02-20T23:55:00.001-07:00

The mix tape; the most powerful device of the squared glasses hipster. His version of the Sistine Chapel or that crazy sex wall in the Middle East. His contribution to the uneducated music masses and his chance to tell the greatest untold story of them all- his own. Within an hour and twenty minutes, this inept jerk can create the greatest love story of all time, free Tibet, mock emo, or simply turn a friend on to new music. The tape's power is limitless and timeless. If played by someone truly willing to listen, it could change their life. I've seen it happen with my own eyes…

I've been an avid mixed tape creator since I learned the implications of pushing "record". Well before I was learning the multiplication table I was experimenting with compilations of Michael Jackson and The Beach Boys. My first creations were conducted in secret because I was convinced my parents wouldn't approve of me tinkering with the stereo. Deservedly so, seeing as I ruined the nicest piece of electronic equipment they ever owned by sticking nickels and dimes in tape slot as a toddler. Never really lived that one down but I soon realized the joy and entertainment I could create by arranging a few key pieces of music. I held listeners thoughts and emotions in my hands, the mixed tape was much more then the centerpiece at a dance party.

The first tapes I made for someone were for my Mother. She appreciated music more then my Father, who was more of an AM radio listener. My Mom stayed at home and needless to say we hung out quite a bit when I was young. When Days of Our Lives or Another World wasn't on, she'd be listening to the radio while doing chores. The station shifted between Top 40 and Oldies but usually found it's resting place on Classic Rock. Zeppelin, The Beatles and Rolling Stones were brainwashing me from an early age.

I remember riding home one afternoon from In n' Out Burger, a place I hated as child because it was such a disappointment compared to McDonalds. From the moment I learned the difference between food and plastic toys I've regretted not getting my fill. We turned a corner, the sun now kissing my wild beach blonde hair and The Thompson Twins "Hold Me Now" played on the radio. My Mom let out a gasp.

"Wouldn't it be great to listen to Michael Jackson and Simon and Garfunkel?" she said as the station suddenly changed. "You know, with out having to change the station after each song."

"I can do that," I said while slurping from a white cup decorated with red palm trees. She ignored me as she navigated the Celebrity and wrestled with the radio, ultimately never sticking with one channel the rest of the ride home.

A few days went by until I surprised her in the car with her first mixed tape. "Miami Vice?" she said as I handed it to her.

"Nope. I made it." I said as proud youngster would.

"What do you mean, 'you made it'?" she asked.

"Listen."

She popped it in and after a few obnoxious noises passed, Billy Jean kicked in. "You recorded over Dad's Miami Vice tape?!"

Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. My eyes widened and instant fear consumed me, I froze realizing I had probably made a mistake worse then sticking change in the tape deck. She could see my panic and laughed "this is a good song though."

I sat in silence as the next two songs played, Barbara Ann by The Beach Boys and Beat It by Michael Jackson again. "Haha, this is great! I can't wait to hear the next song!"

I smiled but instantly started to well up with tears, "Is Dad going to be mad?"

"Probably. I'll tell him it was an accident though. You know you can't take things without our permission…" she said calmly but firmly as she glanced over. I nodded. "Haha, more Beach Boys!" she giggled as the song changed to Surfer Girl.

It turned out that my Dad was more impressed that I figured out how record songs then he was disappointed about losing his Miami Vice tape to a Beach Boy and Michael Jackson tribute album. However, I'll never forget him blasting Jan Hammer's theme song and singing Smuggler's Blues at the top of his lungs while riding around in the truck. That's why when our family got our first CD player, circa 1991, I made sure to buy him the OST. He still listens to it 'til this day.

I was hooked though, as time went by I continued to make tapes for her car. It was my version of macaroni art. She'd no longer struggle with the knobs and with each song I felt as proud as I did on Mother's Day when I gave her a crappy homemade card. Each tape became a little better, the transition between songs cleaner with the use of the pause button. Track listings were thought out and songs ended before the tape did. Themes started to develop along with stories and messages. As my musical taste developed, I would slip in songs my Mom had never heard. It was the ultimate risk, a complete tape killer if it ruined the mood. However, if she liked it- if you were able to introduce something completely new and it was received as well as you'd hoped- gold. A gold mixed tape.

The Golden Years

2007-02-20T23:53:00.000-07:00

Recently I've been faced with a lot of questions about mortality. Just seems to be a constant issue in which all endings are bleak. Think about it, this little journey we're all on. The young years, all of which you are in who would be reading this, are great. Everything is new, we have dreams for the future and ideas how we want our lives to turn out. Does anyone really think past 55 or 60? I mean, once you've risen to the top and you've gracefully bowed out of your professional life? You might still have another 40 years ahead of you, have you ever thought about that? What are you going to do with them? I mean, in your young years you're completely consumed with finding a partner, finishing school, getting that perfect career, raising a family, and achieving personal greatness. Then what? Your kids are all grown up, you're forced into retirement, and all you have to look forward to is your next sugar-free jello cup and death. Death is the next step after all...

Basically once you hit that ripe age where your contribution to society stops, all you have left is Matlock and water aerobics. It's like you're just hanging around until one of your vital organs quits and you never have to worry about bending over to tighten up one of those velcro shoes. Sure, you might get suckered into watching the grandkids every now and then but no one takes you seriously. Think about it. How many times have you blown off the wisdom of an old man or just smiled and nodded as grandma tells you stories of the great depression? Or maybe it was Gone With The Wind with a hint of The Wizard of Oz? Doesn't matter, "she's old" you tell yourself.

Then you have the group who say "the golden years are the best years, that's why they're golden". No, they're golden because your teeth, toenails, and cholesterol pills are yellow. No matter who you are your hair is going to start failing out, your eyesight is going to fail, your skin is going to sag, and your love for pudding will grow. Chances are, at least in our society, you'll wind up in a nice little home with a bunch of strangers and insolent nurses who forget to bring you that cholesterol pill which you for some reason want so desperately so you can cling on to your existence for a few more months.

So what are your alternatives? You could die early. I mean, you could not waste time with professional success or the family thing. That would kind of make your young years pointless though, wouldn't it? You can't plan an early death, maybe that's the trouble. It just sort of happens. Often times it happens to those who don't want to die early, robbing them of the joy of finally understanding The Bill Cosby Show. Nope, can't plan an early death. You can't plan a midlife death either. It's unfortunate that you can't say "well, I'm as far as I'm going to make it in my career, the kids have finally stopped leeching off me and I really don't feel like catching 60 Minutes next week. Let's do this." You can, however, plan your feeble bedridden death. You'll have plenty of time to make casket arrangements, explicitly tell those who will still listen to you where you want your ass planted, and divvy up that precious stamp collection in your will. An old death is a looming death. You've already lived and all you have left to think about is dying.

Here is my nugget of wisdom for those still reading, remember that life doesn't stop at 60. You may still have the better part of a century ahead of you and plan accordingly. Maybe look past your future and into the present, acknowledge the old people in your life now. Chances are, with modern medicine, they'll be around for a while and are miserable. Do something unexpected to make things new for them again.

Conclusions

2007-02-20T23:20:00.000-07:00

I had so many profound things to say before I sat behind this computer. Realizations, revelations, and cute little stories I could wrap up in tiny a package to bestow upon you. The last few days have been filled with so much life and experience, surely I have some sort of "the moral of the story is:" or a "and that's why I had the best summer vacation ever" conclusion. Nope. Nothin'.

Things in my life seem to lack conclusion. I can't remember the last clean cut end to a chapter or the beginning of one. Life is all muttered together with experience after experience with only a quick, impersonal "note to self" tying it all together. In all reality, more questions and dynamics arise on the way to the original sought after conclusion leaving you confused as fuck as to what you were doing in the first place. The thought of all the things in my life that haven't seen a conclusion is overwhelming. So much so that more questions have gotten in the way of my side tracked questions that distracted me from my original questions. It's an amazing spiral that I encourage you to never think about.

What the hell does that mean? See, more questions. I guess I want some friggin' answers. How many licks does it really take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? I picked up a book on tape by Al Franken where he gives "life" advice to graduating college students. I figured it'd be interesting, humorous, and somewhat insightful. No. Just a bunch more ramble like the shit you've been reading. However, in his effort to give others advice on life it made me think of the advice I've given over the years. Have I been giving good, useful, and relevant advice? Yes, for the most part I have. I thought back to recent conversations where I shed some wisdom. All those little "note to self" post-its where coming alive and formed themselves into something that could be shared with others. A perfect thesis equipped with a statement, supporting materials, and why yes- a conclusion!

So, the moral of the story is all the experiences you've been through are anticdotes of your life until you reflect upon them and figure out why they were valuable. There's your pretty little package. I'll be writing a book of philosophy should you need me...

New Years (Worth Reading)

2007-02-20T16:51:00.000-07:00

2007, great. Now I can write the date wrong on everything for a good month and a half. Just think if it were January 2006, what would you do different? I probably would care a lot less about things that consumed me over the year. All the thinking was a waste of time. Didn't change anything, especially when you never act upon your thoughts. I do that a lot- come up with great ideas or plans and then let them fizzle. Maybe that's what I was supposed to learn in 2006.

Doesn't New Years suck though? It's one holiday that is recognized the world over, celebrated in just about every culture but isn't as commercially whored like the others. No cards, presents, obligations, or vanity. Seems a lot more "real". That's why it sucks. Valentines Day is full of expectations and let downs. You expect your special someone to be there with you and shower you with crap to "prove" their love, or for some it's a reminder that they are hopelessly alone. You know going into Valentines Day what to expect given your current relationship status, good or bad. New Years on the other hand is a true romantics night. People come together with friends (and strangers) with a optimism and hope for "what could be", spirits are high and everyone's heart is light. Forget all the crap that has happen over the year, you can accomplish anything this go-around.

What's more attractive then hope, confidence, and a new found love for life? Whether you think this year will be any different then last, the future is untold and those around you glowing with anticipation is enough to make even the most jaded of us smile. That's why is sucks. It stirs emotions I wasn't prepared to face. It creates thoughts of the future which I've been avoiding. I'd face my issues on my own accord, but this holiday suddenly forces me deal with them now.

For instance, another ball drop and me quietly sipping champagne. Why is that? I'm convinced it's purely my own fault. I mean, I'm not perfect but I feel I have redeeming qualities that the opposite sex would find attractive (or at least tolerable). Am I afraid? Am I not ready to share a symbolic moment like that with someone? Am I holding on to the past or am I blinded by my expectations of the future? Maybe I'm just thinking too much? Guess 2006 taught me nothing...