The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 29 - Let Me Just Be Honest With You For A Minute

November 14, 2009

"Let me just be honest with you for a minute." If you say this when you're out on a date, does it imply that you've been lying up until that point of the evening?

This quote tends to be followed by a very heavy silence and then a bit of trite and often cliched sentiment having to do with  having just gotten out of a relationship, not looking for anything serious, or just wanting to have a good time.

I am almost 28 years old and have never really "dated around" all that much, so I'm not exactly sure how "dating around" works. My most reliable sources on the matter are the Archie Comics I grew up reading, in which there were constant incestuous entanglements between Betty, Veronica, Reggie and Archie, with only the burly testosterone-driven Moose ever settling down into a stable relationship with "his girl" Midge.

What I have gathered from these texts is that there once was a time when dating around did not necessarily mean sleeping around. I'm not sure when it happened- probably the 60's, damn hippies!- but somehow casual sex crept into the whole dating scene and complicated the hell out of things.

I spent the majority of my early and mid-twenties either completely alone or in serious relationships, so never really had the opportunity to see multiple people simultaneously- which I believe is the basis of "dating around." Yes? Certainly I was "dating" my girlfriend(s) and we would go on "dates," but that's being a boyfriend. Very different from "seeing" different people.

That is not to say I've never gone on dates and all that business. It just means I have no idea what the rules of dating are. I assume there are rules anyway. Like if you're on a first or second date and you are currently "seeing other people", are you supposed to tell her or just let it come up in conversation? If you go out a few times and there is no spark, can you just stop calling or do you need to make the beak an official act by verbally expressing it to the other party?

I suppose every situation is different, but it seems foolish to me in any situation, to enter into something with, "Let me be honest with you for a minute." Why must it be presented in this awkward and direct way? It really puts your date on the spot. You might as well say, "Now Heather. What are your intentions here?"  Do you really need to arrive at your date with a bullet point list of things you have decided can and cannot happen as a result of said date? Presumptuous!

By saying that you're not looking for anything serious or just wanting to have a good time, you are essentially implying that dating inherently always becomes something serious and involves having a bad time. Why can't dating just be what you make it without setting up ground rules like that? Kind of takes the fun out things doesn't it?

I understand the principle of safeguarding yourself - and your date- from wasting each other's time if your goals are not in alignment, but doesn't it limit your options to arrive with a set agenda? As I said, I am by no means an expert on the subject and I suppose it's pointless to speculate.  After all, I just got out of a relationship and I'm not really looking for anything serious right now. Call me!

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 28 - Connor Is Blogged About... And Blogs About It

  November 12, 2009

As many of my close friends and family members will attest to, I have a tendency to write about the people I know and in so doing, sometimes unexpectedly hurt feelings, raise ire, or otherwise embarrass those I care about most. Occasionally, I'll get an email telling me as much.

Example: (click to enlarge)

 

That was in response to an offhand complaint I made about pitching in 10 bucks for a BBQ and then finding out that no one else gave money, making my ten dollars the entire budget- which made for a lame BBQ.

My intent with this blog is never malicious, I just like telling stories, true stories- and most of the time the most interesting true stories involve people doing stupid or ridiculous things. I try to make myself that person as often as possible to avoid upsetting people, but sometimes people get upset over really unexpected things, like funerals.

Writing about myself so frequently, I don't really think about what it would be like for someone else to write about me, and I'd never really met anyone else who keeps a blog- until quite recently. I went to a literary reading last month and afterwards went to a bar across the street from the venue to mix and mingle with the presenters and the six friends of the presenters that made up the audience. It's sort of a small community.

I was chatting with a girl who had read at the event and I was modestly flirting or “hitting on” her to use the male nomenclature of the act. We were discussing the problematic issues of coming up with band names and book titles, troubles we were both going through at the time. During the conversation she offhandedly mentioned that she keeps a daily blog that is actually about flirting. Well, I hadn't realized I was going head to head with a professional, so I decided then and there I had to pull out my A-game, which for me meant staying charming just long enough to finish my beer and leave on a high note before I ran out of witty banter or got drunk. We exchanged information and I left. A-Game brought.

Of course the first thing I did when I got home was check out her blog. You don't even have to talk to people to get to know them anymore!  As I mentioned in a previous post , you just Google them.

I enjoyed reading about her adventures in dating and flirting and over the next week, we emailed back and forth a bit, band names and that sort of thing, continuing the conversation. I also continued to browse her blog and while my likeness did not grace the pages, many interesting posts did that gave me pause to think. Hmmmmmmmm.

I couldn't quite decide if having this insight into a someone's world would put a person at an advantage over or a disadvantage under the person who wrote it. Granted, you have to understand that in writing, especially about topics like dating, the writer has to create a persona- sharing certain characteristics with him or herself, but not necessarily truly who they are. Focusing in and really channeling our neurosis or vanity or whatever we are using creates a less ambiguous space for the reader to receive and identify with the story we're telling.

All this knowledge however, was not enough to prevent me from losing my cool in the face of a woman who blogs. Maybe the fact that I was trying to incorporate myself into this small literary community, of which she is a part, made me fear that should I be written about, I would naturally be estranged and exiled to a literary Elba.

Despite all this, we did meet again at another reading the next week and I would say I was distracted at best. Now fearing that my lame flirting skills would appear for thousands to read about, shockingly, I was a tiny bit flustered. My conversation skills were less than sparkling that night as my brain searched itself for something interesting to say. I actually think I started talking about how little I have been published. What the fuck is wrong with me? At any rate, I had to run to a friend's show right after the reading, so at least I didn't embarrass myself for too long.

Curious to see if the Hindenburg made the papers, I checked her blog the following Monday and my eyes went wide as they scanned the page. There on screen was a detailed account of the story I have just told you, but from the female perspective!

There were certain discrepancies, like my contacting her via Twitter? Anyone who knows me would see this for the mistake it is, because I do not use Twitter. It was Facebook. But reading it, I couldn't help having a huge grin on my face and giggling like a little girl the entire time, even though I knew Old Yeller would get shot at the end. It was still what every man has always dreamed of- a window into a woman's mind- her thoughts on him. The conversation, the emails, the fact that i'm financially unstable; it was all there! I was even referred to with the incredibly appropriate pseudonym, Hot Band Guy. No one's going to accuse her of bad taste anyway.

What I found most interesting was her take on our second meeting. I was finally able to really understand the effect I have on women when I am nervous, flustered and just don't know what the hell to say. To quote her account of the evening, “after about 7.5 minutes, I was totally bored. And I just knew that I would never be able to continue talking to him for more time than it took for me to down my club soda.” So, to extrapolate on this-- clearly, this woman is insane. Because I am always interesting. Always! Well, obviously that is not true. But you know, I really couldn't even be offended. She didn't use my real name and I can't blame her for being bored. Half the time I just sat there nodding at what she was saying like some kind of giant retarded bobble-head.

So after forwarding the blog to every contact in my address book and bragging that I was that boring jackass, I started thinking about the people that I write about, whose actions I might misinterpret or take out of context. I know that all writing is pretty much subjective (at least the kind I do) and there will always be two sides to every story, even though I can only tell one. I know I'll always write about the people in my life because I write about what I know best, and what I love most. But I shouldalways remember to keep their side of the story in mind. Or just write about people who will never, ever, ever read my blog. True story.

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 27 - The Curious Case of the Subway Stripper

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

November 4, 2009

Issue 27 - The Curious Case of the Subway Stripper or

They Just Raised the Cover Charge to $2.25. Bastards!  

Traveling on the subway recently I witnessed something I had previously thought only happened in slightly hackneyed and unimaginative works of fiction. It was about noon or 1 PM and the train was not terribly crowded so I found a seat across from one of the most miserable looking parents I had ever seen. She was probably about 30 or 35 though her expression added 10 years to her countenance. She was accompanied by her adorable energetic daughter, who I would guess about 4 years old.

I felt like giving the poor woman a hug, she looked so sad. Her face bore more than the usual exhaustion of parenthood, full of dread, like she had just heard of a death in the family. She just stared out the window into the darkness of the tunnel, occasionally glancing at her daughter to make sure she was behaving herself. The little girl seemed blissfully ignorant of whatever tragedy her mother was reliving in her mind. She was content to sit and pull treasures out of her little pink purse; a Barbie, a comb, a baby food spoon.

But she soon became bored with her toys, her little world of make-believe, confined to the contents of her bag and she began to allow her imagination to expand take her outside of herself. Using her small spoon as a microphone she began singing a song I did not know in Spanish and running around the substitute Maypole in the center of the subway car.

Her mother issued some weak chiding and smiled apologetically at me when the orbit of the girl’s fist came within six inches of my face. Truth be told, I did not mind the child’s imaginative use of space, despite the danger of being whipped in the eye with a pigtail. However, out of respect for a parent trying to raise a child, I generally don’t encourage behavior that causes chastising. The girl was clearly seeking my attention, and though I found her thoroughly amusing, I did my best to politely ignore her, hoping she would tire of my audience and seek elsewhere.

This did not work however. Sensing that her singing cabaret act was losing steam, she simply decided to move onto the next act. This little girl, dressed in a pink Dora the Explorer shirt with matching shorts, and little pink sandals began doing a frighteningly enthusiastic exotic dance. What, in laymen’s circles, is frequently referred to as “stripper dancing.” 

She swung up and down on the pole several times and with gained momentum finally landed with a graceful crash, planting her feet at the base of the pole and sliding her hands down to the ground, until she was crouching, knees spread on either side, pelvis mere inches from the pole. She would then thrust herself forward and head up the pole again, all the while looking at me and smiling innocently, just a four-year-old girl, looking for attention, with no idea that she was creeping the hell out of me.

At this point, I was doing all in my power to look anywhere but at the strange spectacle taking place mere feet away. My eyes were probably bugging out of my head like a cartoon character. Now I wanted not only the mother to know I wasn’t encouraging this, but the rest of the train, which was probably looking at me like some deranged deviant.

Towards the end of a performance which, I’m sure will  someday pay her way through college, her mother awoke from her daze and grabbed the girls arm, pulling her back to her seat. She was given an earful of angry Spanish, of which I understood one word when she gestured to me and said “Senor.” Soon after, the mother went back to her glassy-eyed waking coma and the little girl went back to her Barbie.

I sat and wondered, firstly thinking about how my limited knowledge of strippers would require me to expand my vocabulary just to find the names of whatever the moves the girl had been attempting. If only I spoke Spanish I could ask her what they were called. Is “crunk” a move? Secondly, and more importantly, I wondered where a four-year-old girl can learn that sort of thing!

The only TV show I can think of that features that particular brand of lewdness is The Sopranos. Now, not to sound mean-spirited, but her mother seemed a little heavy-set to be a stripper, but perhaps there’s an aunt. But then, does she have a practice pole at home in the living room or does she bring the child to the club? If you have to strip to support a family, I respect the hell out of that, but is it right to expose an impressionable child to easily mimicked erotic acts? Maybe she saw Little Miss Sunshine and I’m way overreacting here, but I think parenting is getting a little bit too relaxed in this city.

These were the ponderances that ran through my mind as I gently acknowledged the continued embarrassed and apologetic smiles from the mother during my last few stops uptown. As I departed the train, I silently wished them well and hoped the little girl had a positive non-stripper related role model somewhere in her life. God forbid, all too soon she’ll start using her Fisher Price playhouse to dance her little heart out, shaking down kids for Monopoly money at the door and charging exorbitant prices for watered down juice. Granted, it would show entrepreneurial spirit, but goddamn it, so does a lemonade stand!

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 26 - Lost And Found in Prospect Park

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

Issue 26 - Lost And Found in Prospect Park or

Girl, Keep Yo' Cash Where You Can See It!

October 22, 2009

Having stayed in my apartment the better part of the last week, today I decided to hop on my bike and do some writing out of doors. It was a breezy 68 degrees and I wanted to enjoy the sun and warmth of a jacketless early fall before it turned into the cold, wet, dismal reality of a real New York autumn.

I entered Prospect Park at Grand Army Plaza and headed south towards 9^th Street where there are some picnic tables I could make use of. I was shifting gears and beginning to pick up speed when I saw it flash by below my tires. A blink of green and white, geometric patterns and sharp angles amidst the chaotic cracks and lines of a bumpy charcoal grey sheet of asphalt. In the same instant I made eye contact with Washington, he was gone.

I hit my brakes and oozed to a stop, rather than screech, as I lost my front brakes a few days ago and my rears are hanging on just barely. Fearful of losing my bounty to the next passerby, I used the last of my momentum to whip my bike to the right, hoping to ward off any other pursuers with my stern glare. An all-to-serious-looking biker in red and white spandex whom I had cleverly distracted by making him veer away to avoid hitting me was the only person nearby. “Yeah, keep moving, “I thought as I watched him pedal by.

Not wanting to wait for the wind, I gently dropped my bike without kicking the stand. I ran back to the dollar only to find that there were in fact several dollars scattered about, as well as a New York State Driver’s License.

It apparently belonged to a woman in her late 30’s, a Christmas baby like me, who lived on Vanderbilt, a few blocks away. I felt a bit robbed of my guilt-free money, but figured returning it to the woman would be a bit more exciting than being productive and getting work done. I decided she must be biking, as cash and cards do not just squeeze out of a back pocket unless as the result of some kind of repeated action, force or pressure, like that of gyrating gluteus muscles rubbing vigorously against a bicycle seat.

She couldn’t have passed by too long before, as money doesn’t sit on the ground too long unnoticed.  Also, judging by her picture, she was a little on the pudgy side so I figured I could probably catch her.

I saddled back up and continued on my way. I wanted to get her on this side of the park because there is a big hill I would have to go down and a bigger hill I would have to come up on the other side. I pumped away, overtaking most people pretty quickly, craning my neck and checking bikers who made likely candidates and also a few thinner, more attractive bikers who made less likely candidates, but I wanted to be thorough in my search.

I enjoy finding things people have lost, whether I am able to return them or not. There is a kind of magic to them, like they have many stories to tell but no words to tell them. They are mysteries to be solved. And naturally, I take it upon myself to solve them. It’s the perfect outlet for my inherent male desire to be a private eye- track down some missing dame or in this case, track down the dame who owns some missing thing that I have found.

Approaching the downhill slope I saw a potential and coasted after her. It was not long before I realized it was not her and just kept coasting for lack of anything else to do. I was fairly certain at that point I wouldn’t find her, but figured I might as well finish the loop. The 4.5 mile loop. She’s fast for a fat girl.

In my head I began to compose the note I planned to drop off with the cash and ID at the address on her license – several versions actually, some admonishing her carelessness, some hoping to kindle her faith in the good of humanity, all signed simply, with my first and last name so that she can find me easily enough if she happens to be a millionaire dowager who wants to reward me for my honesty.

Once in Washington DC, I found a digital camera on the ground and tracked down the owners by looking through their pictures to see where they had been that day and figuring out where they were likely heading next- or at least in which direction they were probably walking. We caught up with them four blocks from where I found it. They hadn’t even noticed it was missing- nor did they speak any English, so I couldn’t even impress upon them the amount of  deductive problem-solving energy that I had expended upon the camera’s return. That was the real tragedy! They never knew my brilliance! They probably thought I saw it fall out of their pocket thirty seconds before and just picked up and handed it to them. Dahh, stupid Germans!

I finally came to the foot of the giant uphill struggle to the end of the loop, and kicked it into an easier gear. It is the same hill on which the men of the Maryland Militia held off the Hessians for crucial hours from behind a giant felled oak tree during the Battle of Brooklyn in 1776. I will concede that it was probably harder to get up then, but it is still a pain in the ass to get up on a 3-gear bike.

I started to climb, thinking of how much smarter it would have been to have turned around and done the loop in the opposite direction when I found the money, thus meeting her halfway around, rather than chasing her like a greyhound behind an electronic rabbit.

The end of the loop was just beyond the top of the hill, and no one really does the loop more than once. Not unless they are chasing some crazy dame who has lost her ID. But finally, sweaty and winded, I approached the hill’s crest and saw her. There was a garland of nylon flowers on the back of her bike.  I could see she was wearing glasses like the ones in her picture, and her hair was up. She was standing astride her bicycle at the very top of the hill, patting and searching the back pockets of her Spandex pants.

She looked around her a bit and got back on, riding slowly and unsure, no doubt distracted. I caught up with her and came along side her, making cautious eye contact a few times as she started to pick up speed.

“Marika?” I said, still out of breath from the hill. She turned her head and looked at me as I reached out with the bills and license, and said, “here.”

She saw it and took it with a smile and obvious relief, “Oh thank you! Oh my God, thank you!” I smiled and nodded her welcome and sped up without looking back to say anything else, make awkward eye contact, or even see if she got off the path at the end of the loop.

I didn’t see the point in telling her about my chase around the park, other than fishing for praise I suppose. She seemed sufficiently appreciative of my handing it to her without knowing where exactly she dropped it- unlike those snooty Germans back in DC! I’d been tracking her for 20 minutes, but to her, she had been in trouble for less than 30 seconds. I don’t know. Maybe she would have been happier in knowing that there are some people who would go to those lengths to return her lost property.  Or maybe she would have been creeped out that some sweaty guy on a bicycle had been following her around the park and planning to go to her house if he couldn’t find her there.

I biked on past where I’d found the cash, into a nice small grove of pines near 9^th street, sat down on the ground, and began to write.

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 25 - Change Her? What's Wrong With Her?

October 14, 2009

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville.

Issue 25 – Change her? What’s wrong with her?

This past weekend, I went to Boston for my youngest brother’s 22^nd birthday. The next day, my 25-year-old brother and I went to my parents house to visit with my 31-year-old brother and his almost 2-year-old daughter. This may seem like a convoluted way of explaining things, but I have a large family and things can get confusing if I’m not direct.

It was great getting to hang out with my niece though. I really enjoy being an uncle. I get to have all the fun without being a disciplinarian. I get to play games without having to do all the tasks her parents take care of like feeding, dressing, and changing her. Although, I am now learning, that it can sometimes be necessary to learn how to do those things when they interfere with the fun uncle stuff.

Avery and I share a room when we’re at my parents’ house at the same time. Her, because her crib is in there, and me because I’ve become addicted to her white noise machine, which I switch from “Waterfall” to “Tropical Rain Forest” when I come in to sleep.

The result of this unusual pairing of roommates is that I am the first to know when she wakes up, which is usually about 6:30 AM. I do my best to keep her distracted for a while to let the others sleep. We’ll read books or explore the quiet house or make a mess in her playroom, but eventually the topic of diapers comes up and I hit a wall.

She’ll walk over to her changing pad, lie down on it, and say, “I pooped, change diaper,” as if I am a real adult who would know how to do such things. Now, this could potentially be the embarrassing moment when I have to admit to my niece that I can’t perform the simplest of tasks, which she could probably instruct me in herself. But instead I wake up my brother, ending his extra half-hour of sleep.

We open the door to his room and Avery runs over to his bed, “Daddy!” I shuffle in after her, “Hey uh, she says she pooped, so I don’t know, do you want to…” I trail off, not sure how to ask or what I’m admitting about my uncling skills by passing the buck

“Well did you change her?” my brother clearly doesn’t understand that there is a problem here, so I just come out with it, “No, I’ve never done it before. Soooooooo… should I get Mom?”

In the almost two years since I’ve become an uncle, I have never changed a diaper, my niece’s or anyone else’s for that matter. It’s not that I am unwilling or physically unable to do so, but I’ve had limited opportunity to learn

On one of Avery’s first visits, maybe a month after she was born, my sister-in-law asked if I wanted to change her diaper. The glint in her eye was enough to tell me that this was something I should not agree to until I had seen it done by someone else. I said I would watch her do it, but didn’t think I was ready to actually change one on my own. So I watched her do it and I learned that infants do not merely crap, they explode.

After that, I really had no desire to learn anything diaper-related for a while. But no one ever asked me to help again anyway. Once she was out of her exploding infant stage, I would have liked to learn, experience that part of being an uncle. But then, wouldn’t it be weird of me to go around offering unsolicited diaper changes?

And it was never really an issue anyway, because there’s usually a parent or grandparent around to step in. Or if it was just me and her, I could feign ignorance and pretend that her look of quiet discomfort merely meant that she still hadn’t had her morning coffee, which was the reason I had the same look on my face. But now she can walk and talk so I can’t even do that anymore.

So now here I am, two years later and my blessing has become my curse. I don’t want to give my niece the impression that I’m incompetent or I think she’s gross. And I don’t want to stop hanging out with her until she’s potty trained. What would that be, like 5 or 6 years? I just need a little instruction, a little supervision- just someone to go tandem with me the first few times. That way, the next time we’re hanging out at 6 in the morning, I can let my poor exhausted brother sleep another 20 minutes until something else I don’t know about 2-year-olds comes up, and I need his help.

 

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 24 - Google Her? I Barely Know Her!

The Daily Hell Vol. III

Issue 24 - Google Her? I Barely Know Her! or Connor Stalks Himself

September 23, 2009

There has always been something both exciting and terrifying about meeting new people. Whether you are looking to establish a relationship of friendship or romance, there is always that initial period of uncertainty, relative politeness, and functional curiosity before we allow our true colors shine through. This is a brief but glorious time when you are able to present yourself in any way that you choose, usually saving the really weird shit for last.

Suddenly your old, hackneyed stories of college hijinx and traveling through Europe are new and fresh again, taking on new life for ears that have not heard, shortly before becoming old and hackneyed once more. Alas, this wonderful purgatory is being taken away from us as a result of the blessed curse of the modern search engine and by our coming of age in world that is more and more recorded and eternalized online.

Certainly, typing in a new friend's name is a temptation that few of us can resist simply because we are curious and we can. However, I believe it puts us at a disadvantage when getting to know someone. Now stories don’t need to be told, so much as presented within a reasonable context on Facebook. It takes the fun out of conversation and it takes the power out of a person’s hands to present themselves one creepy eccentricity at a time, rather than all at once. 

I suppose there are some who might not want to learn about future friends and lovers this way, probably the same type that does not want to know the sex of their baby before it is born. Though there is a big difference between hearing, “Surprise, it’s a boy!” and “Surprise, it’s a guy who likes to smear feces on his basement wall, which is something you could have easily learned by looking at his old Myspace page!”

I’m certainly not above checking out the people I meet, especially if I have any interest in getting to know them further. There are some who call this “stalking.” I call it protecting my interests. However, for the most part, this wealth of knowledge is incredibly mundane. The thrill of the hunt usually wears off after reading a few headlines from articles in college news rags or browsing the public façade of a Privacy Protected Facebook page.

Recently after growing tired of seeing nothing but local National Honor Society listings from some small-town newspaper, I Googled my own name, just to make sure there weren’t any big fat turds in my own online biography, that discovered without context or preamble might shine on me in a negative light. 

I was actually fairly pleased with most of what I found. The skeletons lurking behind the doors of closeted hyperlinks were relatively benign. There were a few that I deemed necessary to remove however. The following is an abridged collection of those skeletons, placed in as proper a context as I can, so that perhaps the next time someone types my name into a search engine, they will find this page as an adequate substitution for garbage that would make me look bad. 

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Connor's Log of Stalking Himself

 Page 1

The first page of results held no large surprises. The pieces I’ve had published on Mr. Beller’s, my edit reels and various employment and social networking sites, some of which I wasn’t even aware of.

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Problem: Friendster

I went to my profile and immediately deleted it, seeing what was probably the reason I have not been able to get a job in the last 12 months. I wish I had done a screen grab before deleting it, so I could include it here, but I at least saved a few pictures that were probably part and parcel to my continued unemployment.

The following, among others were included in the public photo section.

Anger:

Subdued Anger:

Douchebag:

Now, without proper explanation, I just look like a complete idiot in this one, which was the point!!  That was the joke! Just look at my face! 

This was for a local newspaper article about me making a promo video for an inner city non-profit middle school free of charge. Can you imagine seeing that as a picture accompanying a local newspaper article about me? I don't even know how I got my eyes like that. I feel like maybe I was invoking Winston Churchill or something. I am hilarious! 

    

     

         

                    

            

         

            

          

        

          

        

        

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Abu Ghraib:

Friendster's coup de grace was this photo, tastefully and appropriately labeled as “Abu Ghraib.” I won’t write my friend’s name here, for fear someone should Google search his name and have this come up.   I have no idea why I would have put it on Friendster. Granted, here I am putting it back on the Internet now, but I feel that in this context of discovering my online persona, it is revelatory, only of how misleading those personas can be… and of how fucked I probably am for something I put online 5 years ago. I do still laugh out loud seeing it though.  He looks like a Jackolantern.

No Bones About It:

After deleting most my shame, I continued through the pages and found a decade old artifact that I was ridiculed for in high school, but now take a strange sense of pride in. It’s a 1997 article from my old local paper headlined “No Bones About It, Mattapoisett teen is excavator - on a grand scale,” highlighting my adventures as a 15-year-old boy on a paleontological dig in Montana. I’m sure you can imagine the brilliant taunts that could only spring from the mind of a high school tormentor. I was admittedly an easy target; a puffy-cheeked, bushy-haired, acne-riddled, braces-clad pile of awkward, going out in search of… bones.

I do think it’s pretty great that I was having a particularly poofy hair day. I remember it being quite awkward trying to pose with the bones. The photographer was pretty flummoxed because they really all just looked like rocks for the most part. Oh well.

Mysteries and Miscellany

I have no idea what this is:

I also signed a petition once apparently:

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CD RELEASE:

My CD release show was listed in The Brooklyn Paper, which I did not know until this search! Wish I had a print copy of that.

(Highlighted in Yellow and enlarged)

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Friendster returns to fuck me again.

Getting towards the end of my search I found a disturbing turn of events. A site called "Spock.com" that just steals data from other social networking sites and saves it so that you can't escape your past if someone wants to look you up.

It was actually my cousin's page that came up, but there I was listed as "related to" with a link to my own Spock page (essentially just my old Friendster info in a crappier format). The real disaster here is that the photo the randomly chose to be my profile pic is Abu Ghraib, and without context it does seem like the person smiling maniacally over the drunken fool vomiting in the toilet would be the person who is associated with the info. Though I'm not sure if that's better or worse for me to be honest.

 

You're in good company, Cory Sabonis. You're in good company.

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Fetish Pages?

The final search page is literally just a bunch of fetish sites that have somehow linked themselves to one of my stories published on Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood.  I'm not really sure how to feel about that. I guess any exposure is good exposure? And funnily enough, some of these sites are about exposing yourself, so that's another feather in my cap!

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So, what lessons can we derive from what we found in this encyclopedic volume of biographical information? Certainly that it takes a narcissist to repost information, both positive and negative, as long as it makes him the center of attention for a few minutes. Beyond that it seems that it is coming to pass that we must be very careful what we choose to put online. Even in the fecklessness of youth everything you present to the world will remain there for all to see long after your pride has shifted from that “killer keg-stand” you did senior year to the MBA with which you are trying to get a steady job.

 Whereas photos were once merely a means of preserving certain memories, they have now become a permanent record of daily life and are thus interpreted as such by whoever sees them. Depending on the content of those photos, this can be good or bad. So while opening up your “Shutterfly” account to your friends is certainly a good way of sharing, perhaps some photos are better left in inconveniently large books collecting dust on your shelf.

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 22 - Villa de Leyva, An Incautionary Tale

I wrote this while in a small village, just north of Bogota, but did not have the chance to post it while there. Now I'm back in the States, but think I'll put it out there anyway.

Villa De Leyva
August 28, 2009 Friday 8:20 AM

I’m back in the café Salim and I had coffee in yesterday. The woman who runs it is very sweet, very charming, clearly satisfied with life and happy to be running a business where she can see and speak with her friends nearly everyday and meet new people as well. Salim was quite taken with her. I could merely nod, smile, and order a coffee. A pigeon just wandered in. She crumbled up a crust of bread and spread it outside the doorway, then got behind the pigeon clapping and took tiny steps after him, shooing him out the door.

Villa de Leyva is a very small Colonial village that is comprised of no more than a square mile or so of 18th century buildings and narrow cobbled streets, tucked into a valley some hundred miles north of Bogota. It is a beautifully preserved place that can hardly be believed unless seen.

There is a military presence here in Villa de Leyva, but there is no feeling of fear or intimidation amongst the people. The mood is safe and calm, and it’s a genuine calm. Not the calm that is artificially installed by fear mongering or the calm that comes before a storm. The people know they are safer for the soldier’s presence and they go on with their business as if they (the soldiers) were just another part of the landscape.

Curious, Salim asked one of them what they were armed with. We had been looking at the guns for a while. Automatic assault rifles with a collapsible buttstock, folded on a hinge over the body of the gun. The young soldier, no more than nineteen years old, told us it was a Galli 556, which is and Israeli rifle, though he claimed to us it was American.

Last night, Salim and I just relaxed on the plaza. We had gone hiking and then taken a two-hour nap. We sipped a few cold beers on the plaza then some lasagna and wine at a restaurant, just a few steps from the bench where we were perched and then returned to after our meal. Looking west over the plaza from there, the sun had already set, but there was still a dim velvet glow under the clouds which made a serene backdrop for the Plaza and fountain, illuminated by the glow of street lamps and bodega storefronts.

There are eight roads leading to and from the large rectangular plaza, two in each corner. On our last night we had not yet explored them all. I was curious and suggested we go for a walk to see what we had not yet seen.

Some people think I am incautious. Others tell me I do foolish things against better judgment, put myself in dangerous situations when I could easily avoid them. I believe I am actually a very prudent person, very careful and always aware of my actions. I, like FDR, simply believe that what people really fear the most, even if they think it is something else, is fear itself.

We turned right down a dark street away from the Plaza. Residential it seemed with cobblestones on the ground. There were two people sitting at the opposite end of the street, talking quietly, just dark silhouettes against a distant street lamp. As we approached Salim suggested we turn around, but it was too late for that. The two knew they had been spotted and had gotten up and were walking in our direction. Moments later we crossed paths with them; a 16 or 17 year-old couple, holding hands and strolling, trying to casually act as though they had not just been caught necking on their front steps.

We kept walking and circled back to the Plaza, where I entered a store to purchase a beer in fairly broken Spanish. Waiting for the shopkeeper to grab my cerveza I turned to my right and saw a large bald-headed man looking at me with a mix of contempt and disgust - a powerful brew indeed. I paid for my beer and left but rather than continue on our journey down darkened streets, I suggested that we take a break on one of the benches and wait until the bald-headed man had taken leave of the area before continuing on our adventure.

Like I said, I am not imprudent or incautious, nor would I put my friend or myself in any unnecessary danger if I see a potentially problematic situation. I simply will not allow my actions to be dictated by irrational fear caused by rumor and hearsay. The rest I leave to chance, and isn’t that all life is anyway? It’s always a risk to leave the house in the morning. But in this sleepy town of 13,000 it is no more dangerous to walk down the streets at night than it is in my own.

I very much doubt the bald-headed stranger was dangerous at all; probably just a local resident that does not like the idea of his quiet town turning into a tourist attraction for Americanos or Europeanos who don’t have the courtesy to properly learn his language. But why risk it? We sat and enjoyed the scenery of the plaza until the man had been gone for a while, then continued to explore the streets of this small Colonial town, which remains unchanged by time, at least for the present.

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 21 - Some Notes on Colombia

September 7, 2009
Some Notes on Colombia

I recently returned from a ten-day trip to Colombia, SA and as it was with Louisiana, I found the opportunity to write sometimes conflicted with the opportunities to do cool stuff down there. Therefore I would like to present another bullet-point list of writings based on what I was able to jot down and observe between adventures. I give you: Notes on Colombia.

On Hairbrained Fantasies
On my flight down to Bogota I had no idea what to expect. Donkey carts full of coffee beans? Chickens and piñatas? Men with mustaches? Mustaches with mustaches? My mind began to wander as I considered the possibility of staying longer than ten days and traveling around. Soon those wanderings became fantasies of being kidnapped and becoming a great white warlord.

“I wonder if I could survive in the jungle if I escaped from guerrilla kidnappers. Would locals immediately turn me over to local "authorities?" Would I be able to find an embassy? I’m usually able to extricate myself from sticky situations, though sometimes you don’t really have that chance. Maybe I would befriend them, take up their cause, fight by their side. I could become a famous and feared White Warlord, brought there by chance or  perhaps by fate. Well, it’s a story the world may never hear.”

I soon learned that Bogotá was not much different from any other city, and putting myself in the way of guerrillas would require I travel far to the south or west, which was not really part of my itinerary.

On Drink
There are three popular alcoholic beverages consumed in Colombia; Rum, Aguardiente, and Beer. They do not bother with ice or with cocktails, though you are welcome to buy a bottle of Coke to mix if you like, but generally rum and aguardiente are sipped slowly from a glass, or done as a shot with friends if you’re feeling ambitious. Aguardiente is an anise root based drink, similar to pastis or anisette, but a bit smoother, a bit lighter, and quite delicious even to those who, like myself, do not like licorice. While you can purchase a nice bottle of aguardiente or rum in the traditional glass bottle, transportation is made easier when you get the large cardboard juice-box shaped container.

On Colombian BBQs
By my third day in Bogota, we had gone to two BBQs. They don’t mess around with burgers and dogs there. When they grill, they kill a cow and throw it on the fire. Not literally, but there is a lot of meat to be eaten. In an enclosed courtyard in the historic district on my second night, dozens of people ate hundreds of kabobs. My third day, we were on a rooftop overlooking the city. The roof was equipped not with a Weber or similar tin-top grill, but a built in brick and mortar set up with a glass awning protecting you from the elements- just in case you feel like a steak during a hailstorm. The glass awning actually came in handy as it did start to rain as we grilled a well-seasoned side of beef.

 

On The Differentiation Between The Two Types of BBQs
As I said, we attended several BBQs, all of which left me so full of food and drink, I came to be rather intimate with Salim’s toilet in the days after. However, it should be made clear that there seemed to be two types of BBQs; one at which the main focus was the meat and one at which the main focus was the drink.  Both are very valid BBQs and very enjoyable experiences.

DRINK BBQs
There were two times when Salim and I went to the small, enclosed courtyard protected by an 8-foot, broken glass-covered brick wall, nestled between three white stucco 19th century buildings. This is where several of his Fulbright friends are staying during the duration of their fellowships. It is the perfect location to host a large party or BBQ.

For the most part the hostesses prepared kabobs and grilled asparagus, both of which were wonderful, but it was clear that the main thrust of the evening was behind socialization and the 70 proof lubricant that enabled the cogs of new friendships to turn smoothly and freely.  To see the situation in person, the food seems nearly incidental. It is the weekly release of strangers in a strange land, coming together as friends with only their Fellowships in common, to discuss, in English, that which they cannot always express to the people they work with every day, a respite from the world on the opposite side of tall, forbidding walls.

FOOD BBQs
The rooftop BBQ was more conscious of what food was being served. It seemed to have been prepped the night before- or at least the marinating had been done in advance. We arrived at about 3 PM after a much-needed nap, still weary from having gotten home at 5:30 that morning from last night’s BBQ. A Colombian friend of Salim, Davide, a former soldier in the Anti-Narcotics branch of the army, was already at the helm, getting the coals hot and adjusting the height of the grill so as to provide a nice slow heat for the beef.

He had been seasoning and marinating the beef since the night before. It was covered in a yellowish, curry-like sauce that is apparently a traditional Argentinean recipe. The meat was not cut into steaks, but just grilled as an entire flank of beef, perhaps four or five pounds in weight. As it cooked, seared on the outside, juices trapped inside, Davide would slice off an end, one segment at a time, and let it heat above the coals, just a few minutes per side before tossing it onto a plate and passing it around to be devoured by the hungry guests.

There were also several pounds of small potatoes that had been boiled to tenderness and on hand next to a giant bowl of homemade guacamole for dipping. They must have used some secret ingredient in the guac- something like the Tears of an Angel, because it was the best guacamole I have ever had. Though I’m not an expert, having never tasted guacamole until I was 22 years of age.

There was of course plenty of beer and spirits to drink as well, but at this smaller, more intimate gathering of friends, it was clear we were really there to enjoy the food and each other’s company. It was a BBQ in the true sense of the word.

On Salsa Dancing
I cannot Salsa Dance. One of Salim’s friends, Hannah, tried to teach me and failed. Or perhaps I failed her. 1-2 1-2-3-4 1-2 1-2-3-4. I was having a very hard time finding her rhythm, falling in synch with her movements, which as a musician, I’m usually pretty capable of. I think I started to get it or at least become slightly more confident in my ghastly thrashing movements but was then told that while I had the beat, I was still bouncing too much. Despite having found the rhythm, salsa is more fluid, the rhythm just a ribbon of motion fluttering smoothly in time with the wind. My American ears heard the beat moreso than the flowing rhythm of the music so that is what I danced to with obvious halts or “bounces” with each beat.

I tried to follow her lead, but struggled. I shook my ass without moving my hips, I couldn’t move my lower half without moving my top and I seemed to have five feet, all of which stepped on hers rather unapologetically. Finally, I decided that I was probably doomed to do the no more than the Electric Slide for the rest of my life,  thanked her for her patience, and gyrated away.

On The Military Museum
The Military Museum was incredible. It had the usual displays of old uniforms and medals, but it seemed more like an armory than a museum. The weaponry was old but all in working order. There were huge guns from the 40’s and 50’s and going back to the mide to late 1800’s. Everything was oiled and perfectly maintained. All the bolts on the bolt actions, all the cranks and swivels on the anti-aircraft guns, levers to load canons and adjustable sites, everything was in perfect condition, and was available for tourists to fiddle with and load if you happen to have some .557 ammunition in your pocket. If shit hits the fan, fuck the embassy, I’m going to the military museum. They must have all the ammunition downstairs or something, just in case. You don’t keep relics and artifacts in such incredible working condition unless you think you might use them again someday.

On Nighttime Urination
After my first night, Salim requested that I urinate in the kitchen sink. I had to walk through his bedroom to get to the bathroom and apparently I disturbed his masturbation or something. I simply could not agree to relieving myself where hours later, I would be making my coffee so we compromised. There is a dead potted plant on his small balcony that overlooks the entrance to his building. Needless to say, nothing will ever grow in that pot, ever again. For the nighttime hours, this was my W.C.

On Haggling
When you try to haggle with someone in a marketplace and you don’t know their language, and they don’t know yours, they don’t realize you are haggling. They just think you are getting the price wrong and will emphatically repeat themselves. Knowing adjectives like “expensive” “broken” “garbage” “cheaper” would be very handy at times such as these.

On Leaving Colombia
I may write in more detail about my experience going through airport security later, but I will just give a list right now of the different checkpoints that took about two and a half hours to go through.

1.    Check in
2.    Tax Exemption Stamp
3.    2nd Check in
4.    X-Ray, metal detector
5.    Passport Stamp
6.    Bag Search
7.    Body Frisk
8.    Gate Check in
9.    2nd Bag Search
10.    Board the plane

Then you're home free!

These notes are only a smattering of my experiences there. I will probably add to them periodically as I remember this or that and feel it necessary to share. I hope the reader finds it both enlightening and entertaining.

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 20 - Bogota Bumsville

August 30, 2009

Bogota, Colombia.

Being on vacation, it's very easy to lose track of time. Not paying attention to the calander or clock, the days just seem to slip by without our even realizing it. The other side of that coin is that sometimes, if we're not paying attention, the days actually go by a bit more slowly than we think- the pages of the calander peel off only with great reluctance. This is what I realized at 6 AM this morning when the Delta representative informed me that today is the 30th of August, not the 31st. "You enjoy one more day in Colombia," he said, laughing at the shocked expression on my face. "Wow," I replied, "Que paine." What a pain.

On the cab ride back to Salim's apartment, I began to wonder the hell one days with an extra day in a city, he has already said goodbye too. Yesterday was my last day! We took the cable car up Monserrate and took in the view of the city from on high. We went to a BBQ in the Historic Quarter. I thanked Salim for his gracious kindness and hugged him goodbye. That was my last day.

I called Salim from the airport. "Are you fucking kidding me? How does one get something like that wrong?" my gracious host asked, which I admit, is a fair question, "Well I have to do work today so..." He didn't have to finish his sentence. Obviously I am on my own.

So what do I do that I haven't already done? I'm not really fluent enough in Spanish to be comfortable traveling alone, so I spent most of the last nine days here exploring Bogota. Salim and I took a two day trip up to a tiny colonial village, Villa De Leyva, but other than that, I've really just been hanging out. Perhaps that's the reason I lost track of time. Perhaps I just felt my visit had run its course and it was time to go home. I wish Delta could be more flexible with unreasonable whims like that.

An extra day is certainly a gift, but with my bag all packed, and goodbyes said, it feels more like an extended layover. I suppose it is an opportunity to relax, having done nearly everything one can possibly do here on a trip to Bogota, a chance to be here without being here. I can wander around and do those annoying tasks like sending post-cards and buying a few gifts that I didn't get around to.

There was one thing I really wanted to do but I didn't get to and that was to go to a cock fight. There is only one legitimate venue that isn't really dangerous for gringos to go to, but the fights are only on Wednesdays and Fridays. I don't suppose they might have a special Sunday Night Fight lined up today. A disappointment I suppose, but there will be other cockfights at other times. At least that's what I tell myself as I wonder through Bogota and wait for one more day to pass.

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville Spring Break 2K9 Ed. - Issue 19 -- Raccoons and Gators and Vultures! Oh My!

May 27, 2009

Gators and Raccoons and Vultures! Oh my!

We arrived 20 minutes early at the ramshackle roadside headquarters of Munson’s Swamp Tours. It was not yet 10 AM and already the mercury was pushing 85 in the shade. There was a single octogenarian in the small, single-room building that was perched at the very edge of a bayou canal. He took our money and instructed us to wait outside.

Soon he emerged and locked up behind him, leading my brothers and I and a vacationing Parisian couple out to the boats. Captain Daniel, as it read on a placard that advised us that tips were both allowed and appreciated, would be our tour guide for the two hour ride. His skin was a beautiful leathery orange, I assume no longer capable of getting sunburned and he wore a light-blue short-sleeve Dickie’s one-piece with a pack of cigarettes in each chest pocket. He started the engine and I took time to notice that he not only had all ten fingers, but his arms were free of any really bad scars, other than the usual nicks and scratches that 80-something years on earth will help you accumulate. I was actually a little disappointed I wouldn’t be able to ask about the gator that got his thumb. However, I wasn’t able to ruminate on Daniel’s forearms very long.

Some swamp tours do their best to keep the natural balance of things in order. They believe that feeding  the gators makes them reliant on humans, can be quite dangerous for people by attracting them and building expectations, and makes it more of an animal minstrel show than an observation of nature in it’s natural glory.

Such was not the case at Munson’s. As soon as Daniel started the engine, like Pavlov’s dogs responding to the dinner bell, two adolescent gators appeared, creating two V-shape wakes in their path. Business as usual for Daniel as he produced a 4-foot-long dowel with a small metal wire at the end and began banging it on the side of the boat.

“Come on boys. Gitch’yer breakfast now,” he said calmly as he skewered three or four pieces of raw chicken he had in a small bucket by his chair. He lured them to the side of the boat where we could all watch, aghast as he teased the gator, pulling the meat just out of its reach, until finally frustrated, it launched itself several feet out of the water and clamped down it’s powerful jaws. This spectacle would repeat itself many times over the next two hours, much to the delight of all on board.

We chugged along in the old motor boat, shaded by a wide awning and the thick clouds of smoke created by Daniel’s chain-smoking. The gators couldn’t keep up with us, but they tried whenever they heard our motor coming near. Foooowooooooowooooooowooooooowooooood.

Soon a raccoon appeared on the bank of the canal, not far from us. Daniel took the boat out of gear and slowly made his way to the side with a package of bread.

“Hey there Billy Joe. Come on now. Get it,” he said, tossing the bread like a Frisbee, just barely reaching land. “Come on.  S’right there in front of you.”

Billy Joe ignored Daniel’s advice and started to follow our drifting progress through the marsh.

“No! I said it’s back there!” Daniel reiterated before tossing another piece of bread at the animal. Billy Joe found it this time and sat on his haunches munching away. Captain Daniel then, without explanation, pulled out small disposable camera, aimed it at the eating raccoon and clicked off a picture. I guess we were all taking pictures. Why wouldn’t he?

“Okay Billy Joe. Where’s your sister? Where’s Molly Rae? Go get Molly.” Billy Joe continued to sit, eating his bread.

“Okay,” Daniel muttered as he retook the helm, but Molly Rae joined us soon enough, as did several other unnaturally obese-looking raccoons and squirrels. They dragged their paunches along the banks, slowly following our strange, noisy, food-dispenser down the canal, Daniel tossing them bread at random intervals.

The gators continued to silently follow us at a respectful distance, like the crocodile stalking Captain Hook, always waiting for the perfect moment, when Smee is isn’t there to protect him.

It wasn’t long before we had an air escort as well. The Snowy Egret and Grey Heron showed their interest early on and would brave the water with their long beaks for morsels of chicken thrown within reach. Not to be ignored when food is being tossed about, we were also soon joined by an ominously large pack of vultures, hopping from branch to branch just above our heads. Whether they were attracted by the chicken Daniel continued to throw or were just anticipating the moment when the gators would be done rolling our corpses so they could swoop in and devour what’s left, I cannot be sure.

To keep the vultures at bay, Daniel kept tossing chicken onto a clearing on the bank and we enjoyed watching the melee that ensued. The grey heron joined the free-for-all and pretty much dominated. He took on all eight vultures like nothing. He’s got a much longer reach though, with that beak and that wingspan. No contest.

Captain Daniel particularly enjoyed tossing the chicken into the water, in front of the vultures, just out of reach. Vultures hate water and won’t go in, not even to get food. It was clearly torture for them to be unable to get at the easy meal. They watched the incoming shank of breast meat approach as they beat their chests with their wings and collided like outfielders going for the same fly ball. Then they would charge the shore only to stop short at the last second like Wiley Coyote slamming on the brakes as he speeds toward the edge of a canyon.

 Meanwhile, the graceful heron shoves them aside, wades into the water and delicately scoops it up in his long beak. Suckers.

Two hours later we approached the dock at HQ again, with half of Louisiana's wildlife population in tow. It was like a fat version of Song of the South, or some weird backwoods pied piper situation leading all the overweight, salivating animals out of the bayou. I understand the virtues of the “take only pictures and leave only footprints” approach, but I must say it’s fascinating to watch nature when it’s been fucked with.

For more information on Munson's Swamp Tours, visit them on the world wide web at www.munsonswamptours.com.