Monday, December 6, 2010

Ending on a Serious Note


            So we’ve reached the end of another term, and with the end of another term there comes my customary moment of AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! As some of you may have noticed, I’m just a wee bit terrified of real world. Career is not one of my favorite words at the moment. Future pretty much scares the smartass out of me.
            One of my favorite characters on what has to be one of the greatest shows of all time has this absolute gem of a line. He’s telling someone who’s being a complete pansy that she’s taking the easy way out, because you’re scared, because if you try and fail there’s only you to blame.

            Failure scares me, but it doesn’t terrify me. There’s only so many times you can bring something to one of Emily’s classes believing it to be the greatest writing the world has ever seen, only to get her comments back and see keep trying. You’re almost there, but not quite. Or those times you make an absolutely brilliant suggestion and everyone just kinda stares at you until you retreat back into your cave and spend the next six months rebuilding your shattered confidence. Failure I can deal with.
            Success scares me because it kills the dream. If the New Yorker shoots you down four times in a row, that sucks, but the dream is still alive and kicking. In some ways it’s kicking even harder, because each time someone tells you your work kinda sucks, the best seller is that much farther out of reach, which makes it a bit more of a dream. Success kills it, because if you’ve always wanted a best seller and can hold the thing in your hand, it’s not a dream anymore. Now you’ve done it, and it’s real, and you have to do it again. And again. And again. And then you’ve become, quite literally, just a name on a shelf. If you’re one of the greatest of all time, you might get to be a handful of pages buried in an anthology.
            Take that Narrative contest I mentioned in class. I went through all the motions and had two separate stories ready to go, all I needed was last minute advice from our resident creative writing genius and I was good to go. Except I never asked for any advice, because I’m a spineless git, and $2000+ prize money scares the living holy Hell out of me. Shit like that puts you on the map, and turns the dream into a job. And it’s so much more appealing when I can sit here and pretend there’s gonna be a party one day with O’Brien, Rowling, and Lounsbury just sitting around drinking scotch and being literary, and I can refer the them as Joe and Timmy.
            Emily’s sitting somewhere (probably her office) shaking her head at me and thinking I’m crazy, because at least one of those stories had a decent chance of maybe not winning, but at least getting something done, even if all it turned out to be was my first rejection letter.

            Maybe putting it into words will help me deal with it eventually, but right now I’m still sitting on a computer afraid to fail, or worse, afraid I might succeed. 

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Knuckles, Owls, and Magic Buttons

            Dear weather: make up your goddam mind. I’m okay with forty degrees and slushy. I’m okay with snowing baseballs. I’m even okay with hurt your knuckles freezing. What I’m not okay with is going from nineteen, to forty, to snowing baseballs, to ten, and back up to forty in the course of a week. I’m pretty sure we’ve experienced seven seasons in four days. There’s even a spot over in Douglas where they’ve got mud season from back east. On a scale of one to ten, this has been effing ridiculous.

            Now that that’s out of the way, on to business. Does anyone else feel a little bit like Dumbledore? Besides the epic beard and the pet phoenix and living in a castle parts, naturally. But the stretched beyond reason and juggling about twelve different things and trying to save the world, that part I feel like.
            Except saving the world. I’m not that dedicated.
            I’ll start with work. Normally I like my job just fine—pays pretty sweet and I get to go home with a warm and fizzy feeling. The boss is even cool enough to pretty much totally revamp my schedule when I ask her to. Came in handy when finals week came around.
            This week…not so much. On call cell called me nine times in four days. Granted, five of those times was because I left my phone in my pants, but still, that’s more than I’d like. This wouldn’t be so bad if I was physically capable of saying no, but I’m not, so it is.
            Picked up an extra eight hours Thursday, a twenty-four hour shift on Friday/Saturday, and another five hours on Sunday. Sleep is not something that’s come in ready supply this week. Wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up with an owl pecking at my window asking if I could, please, just work a few dozen hours today.
            Next up is school, which isn’t any more demanding than it is for everybody else, but it is school, and Dumbledore lives in a school, so that’s my connection there.
            What is actually stressing me most at this particular moment are those fleeting moments where I’m not stressing about anything. If you understood that, I’ll buy you a cookie. Well, not really, but I’ll help you eat it. I know you know what I mean though—when you’ve got about nine thousand things to do in the next three days, are clearly not going to get them all done, and are totally okay with that.
            Last week it was a reading assignment for the Zombie class, which is a crying shame, because it was a damn awesome read. At least from the part I got through. As a random sidenote: I am Legend is infinitely inferior to I am Legend. This week was paperwork, which is going to come back and give me rabies snakebite to the ass, considering I don’t get paid until it gets done.
            Is there a magic focus on all the crap you’ve gotta do until it’s done button that Dumbledore apparently whips out whenever a plot needs finishing? I could seriously use one.

            This was my last Harry Potter reference of the term. I swear to Stanley.

So I Posted That Last One Twice


            So apparently I posted that last blog twice. Here’s to internet fails. I’m also gonna try not to aim for obnoxious humor this time around. Let’s see how long that lasts, I’m guessing about two hundred and thirty seven words.
            Maybe one of the grown ups can help me with this. The other day I was talking to my sisters (only one of which is actually related to me), and I got this feeling that, given any small amount of choice in the matter, I’m never moving back to California again. Ever. More specifically, I’m never living around family again. Does that make me a bad person?
            The conversation was one of those “what are you doing with your life” interrogations, which sibling tends to give me way more than is necessary. Throw in a little bit of “why are you moving in with your girlfriend” crabbiness and it was just a grand old time.
            My sister, as far as I know, has never even entertained the idea of living anywhere but a stone’s throw from our parents’ house. And by stone’s throw I men two hour drive. She went from San Francisco to the parental residence to her boyfriend’s house (which is like three miles down the road). Not exactly a world traveler, that one.
            She also tends to get all bent out of shape when I tell her I ave no intention of moving back to the Golden State, and even more upset when I list places that are at least a two hour plane ride from her. Part of that, I’m sure is protective older sister syndrome, so it isn’t a major crime. But it does make me think I’m a little bit…off. That’s probably the only way I know how to phrase it.
            Is that normal? I know there’s the expected branching out phase when you first move out, but it’s been five years, which I think is a bit too long for a phase. I can only think of one other person I know that is actively opposed to moving back to Cali, but she lives in Hawaii, which I wouldn’t want to leave either.
            Not that I don’t like my family—they have their moments. My dad and I went a whole ten days without getting into a row last time I was down there. Had to have been a post 2006 record. Not that we don’t get along, we just tend to agree with one another better when we’re not sleeping under the same roof. That actually doesn’t concern me, morally speaking.
            What concerns me is this need I seem to have about family and distance. I’d really like to think this is just a twenty-three year old male thing, but pretty much everyone I know lives in the same town as their parentals, and quite a few of them share an address, which makes me think I’m weird. Not that I have no intention of ever seeing them again, I just have this overwhelming desire to live some place where they are physically incapable of surprising me at my doorstep.
            So to all the grown ups: is that weird?

Effing H I Hate This Time of Year


            I’ll give someone a dollar if they can point out something good about this time of year. Seriously. Final papers. Final classes (I’m pretty sure I’ll miss you lot). People getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than road. Having to pick up extra shifts at work because people are getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than snow. Tidal Echoes madness and emails and more madness and sorting through a bajillion submissions and slightly more madness and a lot more chaos, which you can’t get to for like three days because of aforementioned ice and balls ass cold. I’ll seriously give someone a dollar if they can name one good thing about this time of year.
            I was kidding about the dollar. I’m poor, don’t carry cash around, and need that dollar for laundry money.
            That was me bitching for no particular reason; I’m actually in a fairly good mood. Which I really shouldn’t be, considering the aforementioned chaos that comes with the end of the semester. Plus I’m looking for an apartment big enough to comfortably share with my redhead of choice, which is a surprisingly good excuse to be horribly unproductive. Or at least productive in all the wrong categories.
            Although I have discovered a helpful tip for getting through this insanity. Ready for it? Here it is: don’t be productive.
            Seriously. I’ve discovered that reading about a hundred pages or so of something I like and isn’t assigned keeps my sanity long enough to get to, or sometimes even through, whatever it is I have to do.
            See Emily? Crappy rhyming like that is reason enough for me to stay the Hell away from poetry.
            I suggested this to Courtney when I bumped into her in the library (after a surprisingly detailed conversation about the many reasons my name is the greatest name of all time), and the lady politely suggested I was out of my effing mind, and suggested, respectfully, that I put Order of the Phoenix down and start hacking away at the mountain of assignments I had to do before the end of the term.
            She also did that awesomely hilarious stare that only she can do, where you’re being an idiot, and she knows you’re being an idiot, but won’t tell you you’re being an idiot, because that would be rude. That look’s in my top ten patently individual stares/looks/expressions of all time (Emily has like six of the remaining nine).
            Seriously though, read X amount of stuff that you actually like to read every, and you’ll stay slightly saner than you would otherwise. I’d be willing to be a dollar on it. Doesn’t have to be a hundred pages, that just works for me because a hundred is pretty much the best number ever, and only takes like two hours, tops, for me to get through. Provided I actually like what I’m reading.

            So that was my helpful tip for maintaining a grip on your sanity. It also brings this edition of Inside Andy’s Thought Process to an end. Admittedly it was pretty much pointless, and really just an excuse for me to ramble and blow off a little bit of steam/stress/whathaveyou before I get back to that mountain of assignments Courtney told me to get started on back in the library.

Effing H I Hate This Time of Year


            I’ll give someone a dollar if they can point out something good about this time of year. Seriously. Final papers. Final classes (I’m pretty sure I’ll miss you lot). People getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than road. Having to pick up extra shifts at work because people are getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than snow. Tidal Echoes madness and emails and more madness and sorting through a bajillion submissions and slightly more madness and a lot more chaos, which you can’t get to for like three days because of aforementioned ice and balls ass cold. I’ll seriously give someone a dollar if they can name one good thing about this time of year.
            I was kidding about the dollar. I’m poor, don’t carry cash around, and need that dollar for laundry money.
            That was me bitching for no particular reason; I’m actually in a fairly good mood. Which I really shouldn’t be, considering the aforementioned chaos that comes with the end of the semester. Plus I’m looking for an apartment big enough to comfortably share with my redhead of choice, which is a surprisingly good excuse to be horribly unproductive. Or at least productive in all the wrong categories.
            Although I have discovered a helpful tip for getting through this insanity. Ready for it? Here it is: don’t be productive.
            Seriously. I’ve discovered that reading about a hundred pages or so of something I like and isn’t assigned keeps my sanity long enough to get to, or sometimes even through, whatever it is I have to do.
            See Emily? Crappy rhyming like that is reason enough for me to stay the Hell away from poetry.
            I suggested this to Courtney when I bumped into her in the library (after a surprisingly detailed conversation about the many reasons my name is the greatest name of all time), and the lady politely suggested I was out of my effing mind, and suggested, respectfully, that I put Order of the Phoenix down and start hacking away at the mountain of assignments I had to do before the end of the term.
            She also did that awesomely hilarious stare that only she can do, where you’re being an idiot, and she knows you’re being an idiot, but won’t tell you you’re being an idiot, because that would be rude. That look’s in my top ten patently individual stares/looks/expressions of all time (Emily has like six of the remaining nine).
            Seriously though, read X amount of stuff that you actually like to read every, and you’ll stay slightly saner than you would otherwise. I’d be willing to be a dollar on it. Doesn’t have to be a hundred pages, that just works for me because a hundred is pretty much the best number ever, and only takes like two hours, tops, for me to get through. Provided I actually like what I’m reading.

            So that was my helpful tip for maintaining a grip on your sanity. It also brings this edition of Inside Andy’s Thought Process to an end. Admittedly it was pretty much pointless, and really just an excuse for me to ramble and blow off a little bit of steam/stress/whathaveyou before I get back to that mountain of assignments Courtney told me to get started on back in the library.

Emily Thinks I'm Snape-Thoughts?


            So the other day Emily and I were having our weekly Tidal Echoes meeting—the theme of this one was “so if you’re an intern you have no free time for the next week.” After sorting out everything that needed to be sorted, we kicked it for a bit and discussed all the things that make us brilliant. As a sidenote: there was what looked like an apparently very timid 110 student waiting in the hall for her turn to meet, and we delayed her by like half an hour. I felt bad. End of sidenote..
            Anyway, our fearless (and prego) workshop leader tells me I would make a good Snape. I’m not so sure about this—for one, my hair is poofy, not greasy. Well, the other day it was greasy, but that was because I’d been stuck at work without a shower for twenty-four hours. Normally it’s poofy. Plus, Snape is pretty a genius when it comes to chemistry. I don’t like chemistry—the labs were fun enough, but the class is what made me decide to not be a biology major. Chemistry and I don’t get along, unless by “chemistry” you mean finding creative ways to burn stuff, and even then I tend to come off slightly more crispy than I would normally prefer. Plus, I was a bio major. Snape was a badass major. Differences: 3. Similarities: 1, and that’s only after twenty-four hours without a shower.
            And Snape’s an asshole. I’m not an asshole.

            Okay, maybe sometimes. But Snape’s ALWAYS and asshole. Granted, he’s an asshole in the “holy balls that was hilarious because he didn’t do that to me” sort of way, but he’s still an asshole. Perma-asshole even.
            Here’s where I start drawing similarities. Snape’s brilliant. I’m brilliant. Snape likes redheads (well…one of them anyway). I like redheads. Snape can lie like a mother. I can lie like a mother. Snape’s brilliant. I’m brilliant.
            Snape’s full of himself a wee bit. I’m full of myself when writing blogs. And occasionally when I start talking. But that’s hardly a reflection of overall character.
           
            Also, how the Hell is Dumbledore in Word’s dictionary and not Snape? It even does the automatic capitalization shenanigans. Le sigh…Slytherins get no love.

            Right, back the matter at hand. Emily called Snape the second smartest person in the series. Personally I think Snape trumps all when you just consider sheer brilliance, but Voldy’s an evil shit and Dumbledore’s older than balls, so they had a bit of an unfair advantage. Snape just wanted to teach and do dirty things to that redhead.
            Seriously though, if Snape ever decided to take over the world…woe be to all. WOE. BE. TO. ALL.
            Which I guess makes Snape more like me (or is it the other way around). I have no desire to take over the world, but if I ever have a change of heart, you’re all screwed. Just remember: I like steak and cheese, and I’m rather fond of free back rubs.

            Also: I formally apologize to the timid 110 looking student who was waiting for Emily for like half an hour while we talked about Harry Potter. You rather reminded me of Neville whenever he’s in the presence of Snape, except you didn’t have a toad and aren’t a dude.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Hogwarts: kicking the shit out of real schools for over a thousand years

            Anyone else feel like Hogwarts does more right than we do? And before I get going, apparently Hogwarts is in the Microsoft word dictionary. This is either fantastically awesome or a complete travesty. Hopefully I’ll decide before I’m done.
            Anyway, I decided I was going to reread J.K. Rowling’s (who is also in the dictionary, although if Hogwarts is I probably should have seen that coming) goldmine of a series before I saw the seventh movie, and I’ve come to many a shocking philosophical revelation. The first being you should never start reading a seven book series a week before finals. That just spells disaster for your free time.
            The second is that Hogwarts kicks the unholy Hell out of our school system. Maybe because the teachers there are ridiculously better than ours (except Emily, who has the magical ability to fail me with a wave of her mouse, which is really the most difficult kind of magic there is. Remember: I gave you an apple). Seriously though—two wizards were ready to take over the world when they were seventeen, which makes a twenty-three year old white kid who can’t grow a beard and is doing just about everything possible to delay growing up and joining the real world look like a complete failure at life. Tom Riddle: 1. Me: negative 426739.
            Hell, one of the wizards that took over the world at seventeen didn’t even finish school. Home boy got kicked out in his sixth year, and still managed to become the ruler of all things—all the dude needed was a stick. Apologies to anyone who hasn’t read the seventh book, because you probably have no idea who I’m talking about. Here’s a hint: he’s a wizard.
            And if that wasn’t enough, T.M. Riddle became a goddam immortal by chillin out in the library and reading a few choice novels. Might have been a tad more complicated than that, but seriously—you don’t even have to go to class to learn these shenanigans? Does UAS have a muggle exchange program?
            For those who frown on the dark arts (party poopers), that magical castle academy churned out an old dude who could’ve taken over the world when he was seventeen, but instead he decided he was gonna be an old dude for a while, then he was gonna save it. Seriously (do I use that word too much?), teacher man just wakes up one morning and goes “after breakfast I think I’ll save the world. And take that guy’s stick. I do love me a good stick, and that there’s a nice lookin stick.”

            I may have just completely tarnished all memory of Dumbledore. My apologies.

            I guess you can say Harry saved the world too, and he skipped his last year. But Harry’s a bit of an idiot, plus he had just a tad bit of help, so I’m gonna say that doesn’t count. Plus those kids need some serious acting lessons, unless they’ve improved since the last movie, in which case I have the following message:

DON’T HURT ME I DIDN’T MEAN IT PLEASE DON’T TURN ME INTO A FERRET!!!! 

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I guess you could call this nostalgia


            Now that my obligatory family rant is out of the way, I guess I should actually do this whole retrospective thing, since your only sister only gets married once (knock on wood).

            As someone who fancies himself a writer, I look for stories pretty much everywhere. I can finagle one about the little girl bowing bubbles in the park, or the knee I blew out in high school, or the northern lights over the lake. Whether those stories are worth reading/hearing/writing is entirely different matter—point is they’re there. And like I said in the speech that made my sister cry, I have a lot of stories about my sister. Twenty three years, five months and (now) thirteen days.
            There’s the time she drove through a door and got me grounded. The time we were playing baseball in the front yard and she rang the titanium bat off my forehead. And when she came up to visit me for Thanksgiving and we rowed out to the middle of Auke Lake to watch the lights dance. Then there’s the handful from right before the wedding, like when she tossed me a grapefruit and I tried to cut it in half before it hit the ground, and forty five seconds later she was yelling at me for something neither one of us remembers.
            At her wedding I said the hardest thing about being a writer was admitting when the story wasn’t yours anymore. Recognizing when it’s time to take on a supporting role and hand someone else the reigns (or pen, whatever). I officially handed took on a supporting role and gave Zach the reigns. And it’s official because there was a mic involved. I also put my speech down on paper, so it’s uber official.
           
I’ve never understood why people cry at weddings—particularly the kind of crying which sounds exactly like the dry heaving that comes right before my cat coughs up a hairball. Unless the newlyweds are moving to Singapore with no intention of ever seeing anyone again, I’ve never seen any reason to be anything but various amounts of happy, especially if there’s an open bar and free food.
There was a weird feeling in my gut when I got to the end of my speech though. Not that I broke down into fountains of mournful tears—that would defy all masculine stereotypes, and as we all know, I’m nothing if not the foundation on which masculinity stands.
It was weird. Kinda like watching Ray Bourque retire after he finally won the cup back in 2000. Everyone was glad it happened and he was going out on a high note and on his own terms and all that, but you’d be hard pressed to see find someone who wasn’t sad to see him go. Not that my sister is anywhere near the level of Ray Bourque aesome—that would just be silly talk. But there was that weird mix of glad she finally (can I say “finally” if she’s only 25?) found what she was looking for and sorry that our era had officially come to an end. I’m not sure yet how much of an exaggeration that is.
I find Zach to be acceptable, but I’ll still miss the days when sibling and I would hop around and cause mayhem and destruction, or hit up every fast food place in Silicon Valley because she was having some weird ass cravings, and I’m not gonna get to tell anymore stories of the time she cut off an old lady in traffic and spent the next half an hour wondering if senior citizens carry guns in their glove compartments, and if cutting them off was a valid enough reason to get shot.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

It was a beautiful wedding

The most accurate definition of “family” I’ve ever heard of, courtesy of urbandictionary: insane people that mated and decided to have kids to torture and scar mentally just to keep their blood line going with that extra zest for life.
A friendly word of advice to anyone who will ever even remotely consider getting married, or has a sibling who has ever considered getting married, or has ever seen anyone who’s related to anyone who has a sibling who’s considered getting married: don’t do it. Bad idea. If you’re gonna do it,  I’m sure I’ll be happy for you and all that jazz, unless you do it when your only brother has shit to do. And if you’re gonna do it when your only brother has shit to do, make sure you don’t ask him to do ANYTHING to help with the wedding or prewedding activities, and nobody else asks him to help with anything relating to the wedding or prewedding activities.. At all. He will kill you with a butter knife. Slowly.
            Seriously, how hard is it to understand that a student intern has homework to do, and internship duties to complete, in NOVEMBER? Exact midpoint of the semester--not a chance this kid has anything to do except entertain us until midnight, and of course he'll be willing to start the whole routine again at 8:00 am tomorrow. Yea, he’ll love to do that every day for two weeks. Ugh.
            I thought trips to California were supposed to be relaxing? Sunny all the time, seventy degrees at 10:00 at night in middle of November. Well, beginning of November, but it’s still November. I thought I’d have to entertain people for a day or two, and yes, on the day I get to look at the groom and go “HA! She’s yours now buddy!” I would, of course, be respectful and helpful and etcetera etcetera. Maybe one or two minor tasks, scattered here and there like the leaves that are never going to fall off those damn trees because it’s California, and California will always have climate and never have seasons.
I did not think I’d be staying up until 4:00 in the morning to make sure emails were sent, or that books were read, and essays were written, and paperwork was done. I did not think I’d be calling people who had already committed to coming to this—do we call it a celebration?—just to make sure they were still coming, and still knew where the opera house is, because sometimes buildings spontaneously jump up and run around, but we wanted to make sure that wasn’t the case with this particular building.
            I should have expected to retell the same story four hundred and eighty seven thousand times a day, about the time I saw something I see every day, because I live in a state where pedestrians aren’t the only wildlife. And yes, I should have expected to give my unedited opinion of the Sarah Palin debacle. I love my family sometimes, but can they not see that I have apparently have to get this written, because it is sitting on my lap, and I am typing it?
            On the upside, my newly wedded sister and I discovered that cutting a grapefruit in half before it hits the ground is just as much fun as it looks.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

ass tons of chocolate

So i actually had work due last class, but I dropped the ball when it came to getting it printed in time. Feel free to metaphorically tase me for such an epic fail. Anyway, I thought about emailing it to people, but posting it here lets people comment and see each others comments, if they so choose, which is a bit more helpful. So here it is. Comment if you want, it'd be greatly appreciated.


Ass Tons of Chocolate
            My sister’s getting married in a couple weeks, which means cheesy romance, Joker insanity and all around chaos. Mom thinks I should get her a present—something that can only come from a little brother. Thinks I should write her a story. Some funny as Hell, feel good love story, because let’s face it, this is my sister we’re talking about, and she’d love that.
            I think she’s out of her goddamn mind. The love stories my sister likes—the ones that leave you feeling inspired or hopeful that everything will work out in the end—aren’t real. Not even close. Good love stories aren’t true love stories, because true love stories are boring as Hell. Anyone who says differently is selling something.
            Love sucks. No two ways about it. It’s the yellow flag after an end zone rush. That moment right before the car mows you over, where all you can do is close your eyes, take a deep breath and say, “this is really going to hurt.” They say it’s no different than eating ass tons of chocolate, but it’s so much worse than that.

            This one is true. I went to high school with a guy who dated the same girl since he was about six minutes old. Actually, I should probably reverse that, considering she was my friend before he was anyway. Anyway, they did the off and on thing, long distance thing, the whole shebang. Straight up Corey and Topanga status. To hear him tell it, she was just better than all the others. Her version: it was like at twelfth sight. I like to think he just annoyed her until the tazer ran out of batteries, but that’s way to awesome to be true.
            The whole west coast could tell these two were in love, even if neither one of them had the juevos to actually use the word. When you can get an eighteen year old to admit that marriage isn’t that terrible an institution—that’s a tell. Especially when it’s around the guys who might as well be her brothers, and as such threw more shit at her than angry chimps. Nobody was stupid enough to think it’d happen any time soon, though, which is why the earliest spot in the pool was a year out of college. I placed my bet on 2012, because that seemed an appropriate year to see him at the alter in a penguin suit.
            So on the night of their like, nine year anniversary they met me at a party, and at the end of the night I asked him to drive me home. He drops her off, and on the way to my place, tells me they decided to call it quits. Mutual thing. Never really explained why.
            Just like that, love’s dead. Over. Kaput. Done.

            Love is romance, but it’s more than that. It’s sitting around a table with your buddies, drinking rum and pretending it makes you cool. It’s launching yourself onto a pile of sweat and testosterone after you’ve just won state. Hoot to Eversman, “it’s about the man next to you. And that’s it. That’s all it is.”
            A mad scramble in stoppage time, not ten feet from the goal. More than once you took a shot to the face, and at least twice where nothing should ever make unfriendly contact. Ever. And then it’s over. Three long whistles and your fetal position puke session is totally worth it. Well, maybe not totally. After that it’s handshakes and a hot shower, then the victory party. Tonight you’ve earned it, and not even Coach is going to frown on underage drinking. Not tonight.
            You’ll toast everything and nothing. Here’s to a damn fine goalkeeper. Here’s to taking balls to the balls. To the first state title in fifty-four years. You’ll drink, try to dance, and drink some more, and at some point someone will try to reenact Tyler’s third goal and end up knocking over the beer pong table. Over maybe some drunk ass just biffed it and took the thing down with him.
            Or her. Girls can be drunk bastards too.
            Love is four thousand students giving ten minutes of a standing O, because the dean just told varsity soccer to please stand. “Congratulations boys. You just made history.” It’s a week later, at the last team dinner of the year, when Coach said he’s never had quite so many studs on one team.
            “Yea, but without you we’d just be a bunch of STD’s.”
            Of course, the starting forwards missed that one, because they were saran wrapping his truck to a street lamp. Throw on a layer of duct tape, because dammit, you’re state champs. And state champs don’t half ass anything.
            Love is breaking your hand in three places because you always always always defend your teammates. A two week suspension because the only answer you had for the dean was “dude, he tried starting shit with my goalie.” It’s five years later, wondering what happened to the boys who made history, and why you don’t talk to them anymore.

Love is brotherhood, but it’s also looking your best friend in the eye and telling him if he ever says that again, you’ll break his fucking jaw. And you’ll do it without blinking. It’s letting them go their own way without you, because no matter how hard you try, some of them just won’t last.
            This one’s true. I knew a guy once named Jason Taylor, although for the sake of privacy laws I’ll leave you wondering if that’s his real name. We weren’t best friends from diapers, but five years old is close enough. Through elementary, up to high school, with a two year gap in the middle. Went through the same things as everyone else—sports, girls, and more of both. Plus a few extra-curriculars. Not the least of which was when his parents decided he was a bit too involved in the drug scene that almost exists in suburban Santa Clara, so they had him deported.
            That’s only a mild exaggeration. They sent him to some badass rehab center down in Mexico, and he was there for a year and a half. This was freshman year, maybe sophomore. For the record, his parents didn’t immediately decide to ship him out, but I don’t know any of the lead up, so I can’t tell you any more than a tabloid. I remember having a chat about school and crap. Then he was gone.
            He came back twice. Once for good, the other because of a hernia. How you get a hernia in a rehab center, I have no idea, but apparently they couldn’t treat it there. Both times I had two sets of sisters and four parents asking me to be some sort of hero and get things back to how they used to be. Which is actually a bit weird, considering we were both about twelve in that scenario they were clinging to.
            It was one of those scenarios that proves adults aren’t as smart as their kids. We were going to give it a shot, but we weren’t best friends anymore, and neither one of us really thought we could be. A year is a long time; I’d gone through my own crap, and there’s no way he came out of that place unchanged. Not that we couldn’t be friends at all, but hoping we’d be elementary school buddies again is just a bit far fetched.
            Our end was a quiet end, which is in some ways more tragic than the calamities. It was a game of phone tag. He wanted to go to Santa Cruz for a bonfire, and I was down, but couldn’t find the time. So a day turned to a week, which turned to two, and eventually the calls stopped coming. We’d still hang out and swap stories of the good old days, but only when we’d bump into each other at a party or out in the world. Eighteen months after he came back, Jason Taylor was one of those friends you push to the bottom of your MySpace page.

            They say love is eternal, but it’s also that phone call in the middle of the night letting you know your family is one smaller. It’s hospital visits and medical bills, and coming away knowing they’re circling the drain. If you haven’t gone through that yet, gimme a call and I’ll buy you a drink, because luck like that deserves a toast while it’s still going.
            I’ve lost my fair share, although it’s nowhere near the body count some people are burdened with. Off the top of my head there’s an uncle, two cousins and all four grandparents. Maybe it’s because it’s the most recent, or maybe because I can’t really remember any of the others, but the one that stung the most was a few months ago.
            No joke, I had this cat for twenty years. My dad made me write a letter explaining why I deserved one, and committing myself to taking care of it. That includes poop, and no three year old wants to put their crap disposal responsibilities down on paper. I went through three drafts before Dad was convinced.
I. Loved. That. Cat. He was my buddy. Kept me up until midnight for about half a decade because long hair moves and my toes were apparently pretty scrumptious. Took him to Pet Day in first grade and he busted out of his harness. Only a diving grab by my fifty plus year old teacher kept him from running off into the California blue yonder. Mrs. McGary had a limp the next day.
I missed the playoffs one year because Simba bit my thumb down to the bone. My sister and I were giving him a bath—yes, it was a two person job. Kitty did not appreciate water. He tried clawing his way to freedom and I grabbed his leg, which we found out later had a hairline fracture. So after a justifiable banshee howl, my feline brother in arms chomped down until physics wouldn’t allow it, and spent the rest of the day as a soapy, pissed off shadow under my bed.
Some would say my cat was gay, but really he just held a grudge. And hated new people. Mom tortured him with that high pitched shriek of hers, and my sister sprayed him in the face with a hose like eleven times, if you don’t count that rather painful bathing experience. I tried explaining it them, but after a while you need to diversify your defenses.
“What do you expect? You’re ugly.” They didn’t quite understand my logic.
            I was like six. Leave me alone.
            My buddy used to be waiting for me when I came home from college, but about six months ago he stopped eating, and maybe two months after that his kidneys failed him. Gonna be weird as Hell not giving up half my dinner when I go home for the wedding.

            They say love is bliss, and they’re fucking wrong. I’ve never met anyone who actually believed that. It’s the Hollywood cliché—the hardest thing you’ll ever do, and if you’re any good at it, you deserve a trophy, but will probably never get one. That’s the way it works. Your best efforts go unnoticed, because they go into the little things. That’s the way it is, and that’s the way it should be.
            Anyone who says love is bliss has never spent six months trying to get back on their feet. And that’s just getting your legs back—let alone those little details that made you first string defense. Blocking that shot or making those one touch passes. Gotta do a lot more than stand to get those things done.
            Not that knee injuries are the rarest thing in the world, but imagine trying to sleep when you’ve got an MLS standard where your joint should be. Longest nights of my life. But I guess that’s to be expected when you consider I spent four hours with my leg turned inside out.
            Here’s the scenario: recovery time is ten months, but playoffs start and end in nine. Which means you’ll have to be on the field and playing in no more than eight. So if you want to get back into the beautiful game, it’s gonna take double the workouts and a whole lotta pain. And pray to God you don’t tweak that ligament.
            Six months of rehab. Two more of ridiculous conditioning. Four doctors and two surgeons were convinced I was out of my fucking mind. I was okay with that, because honestly, they were probably right. Worth it though—made it back with five weeks of the schedule left. Not quite the same speed. Not quite the same sniper round of a shot, but the little things I had. Pivots and give and go—sixty minutes of unnoticed commitment.
            And a scramble with a historic ending.
            I said you’d probably never get a trophy. Every once in a while you get lucky. Not that I’d count on it, unless you fancy waiting five and a half decades. But you should still focus on little details, because if you ever do get rewarded, those are the things that bring home a championship.

            Love is suicide. Bleach and razorblades and Saturday matinees. Hospital waiting rooms and psych evaluations and all the things that should never happen and no one should ever be forced to remember.
            It was a Saturday in March. Around 2:00 in the afternoon. I know this because it was the second intermission of the Sharks and Stars. Soccer isn’t the only sport worth watching. By all accounts it was a throwaway game. But even throwaway games, between teams that hate each other that much, are worth three hours of your time. There’s something truly beautiful about forty-four men beating the unholy Hell out of one another.
            I remember my sister asking me something, but I don’t remember what, because I was engaged in a civilized discussion with the TV. Respectfully, sir, that was not a distinct kicking motion, nor was that goaltender interference. I mean no offence, good sir, but that goal should count. Respectfully sir, you’re a fucking hack and a horrible ref and use far too much hair gel. My sister didn’t quite grasp the gravity of the situation.
            I remember my parents coming home from Monterey, asking how the game was going and telling me I could have the leftovers they just put in the fridge. I remember telling them Dani was acting a bit weird—well, not weird, but she turned down hot dogs and a hockey game. Which makes her weird. Anyway, she’d been in her room pretty much since she came home.
            I don’t remember who won the game, but given that Dallas sucked and we didn’t, I have a fair guess. No clue how many hot dogs I ate—call it half a dozen. And I don’t remember how long it took for my parents to knock on that God damned door.
            What I don’t remember must’ve been pretty intense, because I remember the bleach. Smell still makes me nauseous. I do remember talking to the EMT’s. Well, I remember them talking to me, and mom telling them how Dani had a fight with her boyfriend, which I must’ve told her because she wasn’t around for it. One of those melodramatic can’t live without you moments between periods.
            She spent a week on suicide watch in the hospital. We visited her twice a day, and talked like it never happened. Which is really hard to do. She still has the scars, although that procedure really toned them down. Unless you know what you’re looking for, you can’t even see them anymore. But they’re there.
            We were never quite the same after that. Not because she never told me why she did it—that part’s pretty obvious. There’s even something disturbingly admirable about it. She loved him enough to die for him, even if she couldn’t quite pull it off. I may never be able to relate to that, but I can at least respect it. But there’s something else I’ve never understood, and in the psych evals and ten years since then, she’s never tried to explain it.
            He was worth dying for. I get it. Why wasn’t I worth living for?

            I can’t tell you what love is. The best I can do is offer some bad proverb or contradictory metaphor. It’s pain beyond standing, but it’s also walking—not limping—into the locker room, and your goalie says, “welcome back.” It’s worth dying for, but it’s also stepping back and realizing you had a good run, but it’s over now. It’s soccer team pranks and scars that are still there, even if you can’t see them. They say it’s no different from eating ass tons of chocolate. But it’s so much more than that.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Is it possible to be a zombie in spirit?


Title pretty much sums up my philosophical inquiry. The dictionary defines "zombie" as a soul-less corpse reanimated through witchcraft. Sol Neely defined it as "this dead thing that eats your brains. Also the epitome of all things awesome. Or someone who’s lost all higher brain function. But mainly the epitome of awesome” I like his definition better. Mainly because it means I'm awesome. Or at least awesome in spirit. Which makes me a bit like Jesus when you think about it.
Unless your definition is the Harry Potter variant, which they call an inferi but is really a zombie avoiding copyright laws. That one’s pretty cool, although I don’t see myself becoming that attached to a necklace, so I’m gonna file that under the “nay” category.
Why mister weirdo man, why the obsession bordering on necrophilia? I’m glad you asked, figment of my imagination. Allow me to indulge.

At this very moment I’m putting every once of my being into remaining conscious enough to operate a laptop, gulping down (I think) my third coffee/energy drink/heart explodingly caffeinated beverage in the last five hours. In about another hour I’ll be heading to the bus stop which will take me to the depths of Hell. I mean work. That’s right, I’m going to work. Normally I’d limit this injustice to verbal complaints only, but on this particular night, the injustice has reached the level of England’s shoulda been a goal but wasn’t a goal against Germany—goddam travesty.
Why? Not only am I missing out on first Friday and the gallery walk, I’m missing out on the ZOMBIE WALK. The undead are reclaiming J-town from the literary snobs (or the most brilliant minds of our time, pick one) while I’m gonna be watching someone sleep. Granted, I’m getting paid to watch someone sleep, but it’s nowhere near enough to justify missing an opportunity to wander around and eat people’s brains. Mmmm, brains.
TRAVESTY! Braaaaainnnns…

I guess I can take some solace in the fact that my media club friend said she was going to film it (here’s hoping it ends up on Youtube), so I can sorta relive the epicness that is a mass overthrow of the living. Or I can take pride in the fact that my tiny little U of ASE is sparking the life back into death.
Seriously, how awesome is it that a class of maybe twenty students is throwing something like that? Yea they had help from the radio peeps, but we were gonna do it anyway. And ours woulda been even more epic because it was slotted for Halloween (yes, epic takes on the definition of freezing in this case). Personally I think we should welcome the undead into our lives more often.
We could raid cemeteries and walk the recently and not so recently deceased around ventriloquist style. Think of how much joy we’d bring to people, giving them a chance to reconnect with their lost loves.
Right, so I’m going to Hell for that, but I couldn’t resist. Particularly since I’ll be there in half an hour anyway.
Seriously though, don’t pretend a recreation of some old dude and a kid with too much hair crossing a boat to get a necklace wouldn’t draw a crowd. You wouldn’t even have to bribe me with extra credit: I’d just lurk in Auke Lake and ambush whoever came within reach.  Sign me up.
I’m signing you up too. It’ll be grand.
So even though I’m not as tired as I was last week, I probably will be soon. Which will make me a zombie, even though I’m missing out on the zombie walk. Which will make me a zombie in spirit.
And yes, zombies have spirits too. Geez, way to discriminate. 

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

yay for sleep deprivation

Brace yourselves. I'm sure at least some of you are expecting something mildly intellectual, what with the college student/intern I've got goin on, but where's the fun in that? It’s infinitely more fun to sit on this rather uncomfortable couch and see where my mind wanders running on seven hours of sleep in four days. Thank the good lord above for energy drinks and, well, more energy drinks. I guess coffee can fit in there as well.

Jesus H., last time I was this tired I was hallucinating. Wonder how long it’ll be until that starts up again good. Times. I was seventeen, and made the executive decision to offer emergency relief services to my best friend and his sister, who happened to be getting married. His sister was. To some guy with absolutely no family ties to my best friend. Thought I’d clear that up, because incest just aint kosher. Also fairly certain it’s illegal in at least nine states.
Right. So she’s getting married, and Danny (the best friend in need of relief services) decides to ask me for help. Being the model of chivalry that I am, I said yes. Bros before no’s people. Bros before no’s.  Besides, how much work could this really be? It’s only a wedding. In the middle of finals week. Cake walk.
This is where my complete lack of understanding comes into play. Maybe it’s because I’m averaging about a hundred minutes of sleep a night. Maybe it’s because I’m a dude who will, in all honesty, wind up alone because dating until you die sounds infinitely superior to locking yourself into a situation where you will never win an argument again. Ever. Anyway, I can not for the life of me understand why people need high school students to put so much effort into matrimonial celebrations. Napkins? Who cares? Seriously. I’ve never met anyone who was rummaging through old wedding photos stop and say, “Those napkins are SO beautiful.” Maybe it’s just me.
            Anyway, so I was the slave to crazy ass bride who made me lose sleep over napkins and invitations and whether the sun would hit the alter just right and blah blah blah. In between that I was spending WAY too much money on a tux which, I swear to Jonah, came with fleas. That thing itched more than anything has ever itched. And it made me melt like glaciers do in those cheesy apocalypse movies. Why does everyone insist on getting married in June? And more importantly, why do they insist on making me wear black?
            I was going somewhere with that. Oh. Right. So by day, I was slaving away to set up the perfect wedding for my best friends sister, and by night I was trying to understand exactly how fast you have to go before time starts to dilate. And memorizing the precise chemical balance you need to make some crazy compound before you blow yourself up. And somewhere in there I fit in the entire history of the French never winning a war.
            I’m French. I can say that.
            Onto the hallucinations. So I was sitting amongst my academic comrades, and decided I need sustenance. So I got up and proceeded to the kitchen—except I wasn’t actually moving. Apparently I was just staring at the door, thinking I was getting closer and closer to a turkey sammich. Not exactly the most positive of signs. On the upside, I passed all my finals, even though I don’t remember actually taking any of them. I also slept for like three days straight, which means after all that inhumane servitude, I didn’t even go to the wedding. WTF right?

            So that’s my incredibly long winded way of saying I’m REALLY tired right now, which reminds me of another time I was REALLY tired. Deep stuff, that.
            I wonder how much longer until I start trippin again…