Sex & The City is rotting my male mind into a pile of loose ends; grey matter warped by cutesie, cleverly written puke. It’s not the fashion, the girl talk or the big sweeping drama that comes from an adult life in the city that is sickening, it’s the urge I get to be completely disgusted by romance, or more so, the need to dispel clichés.
Contemporary Hollywood has capitalized on both sides of romance: our need to be wooed and the realization that some people are just unwooable. For every When Harry Met Sally there is an updated Garden State/ Lost In Translation (or even worse, a Zach Braf fronted Last Kiss) that says love is such a mind fuck that we have to be content with the fleeting moments of joy we feign holding on to, because those moments will found the nostalgia that gets us between relationship A and relationship B. Those memories, the seconds of our lifetime in which we were happy are the jewels we treasure and the stock in which we invest our beliefs; that love is right and just and for all. The times between those blips are what justify our cold desperate bleakness. It’s the reason whiskey sales will never dip and ice cream will always find its self a regaled spot in corner stores throughout the globe.
Still if we find such value in those memories why do we shun their probability in our lives, until they have already passed? What proclivity do we possess toward desperation, such a drive toward despair that we run away from things that seem too perfect?
When I grew up, I felt that everything I wanted relationship wise, I wanted because it would make me happy and complete. I cried over girls not liking me because I felt that if girls didn’t like me, I couldn’t date them (logical, right?) and if they didn’t date me, I couldn’t get married and by not being married, I couldn’t be normal. Then as I grew older, and felt that normal didn’t exist, I believed that those things I wanted, that I felt everyone else wanted didn’t really exist either, and where just a mockery of the human condition; an exaggeration of what real people really needed. And as I sit here, I feel that for the most part, this is still true- but I am beginning, (perhaps out of a resurgence of self-imposed idealism) to think that while I deserve less, I want more. I want that goo-barf feeling, and I want the people around me to have these feelings too, because while its sappy, that sap is our blood. To be cliché is to be human.
On the same grounds that stereotypes have some factual justification, cliché are trite and boring and dull and pieces of Americana or whatever global cultures you hail from. Suck it up; we are that which we hate the most. Every quote used in an AOL/Myspace/ Facebook profile, every Catcher in the Rye/ Perks of Being A Wallflower book that shows your angst-ridden soul, or every (insert any album in existence) record that helps bubble your grief to the surface and remind you of why you relish your past positivity but shy from others is bullshit, and you therefore, are a bullshit artist. Clichés are only dangerous when used in excess, and I think that in the area of matter of the heart, the exception can be made.
Please vomit after reading.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Fat and Thin and Happy and Sad Couples
It’s been a full 48 hours since my last joint and my hands are shaking. A full 32 since my last drink. And even as I write this, realizing how cliché it is to write about my need to be completely blitzed to handle the societal standards of family and their innerworking, again I find myself writing about it like it’s the next big cultural breakthrough. Families around the world, they’re fuckin tough to deal with, and even harder to understand, so raise your glasses in memory, and smoke um if you got em, cuz its another one of those reflections, several paces before the clock strikes twelve and Christmas rages into your plastic covered rumpus room in a fiery shopping cart.
Earlier today, as I laid on the copper colored shag rug of my parent’s family room, I listened to my mother and sister discuss the relationships of my gay uncle as well as the teachers of my former high school and their affairs with various French professors. Mr. Richardson, the track coach and father of this kid I graduated with, Gerald, was sleeping with one of the French teachers at my school, keeping a separate bank account and telling his wife he was going to track meets when he was really running off to Atlantic City to fuck his bilingual cuddy buddy and take the meaning of bonne nuit to new heights. I want to say this is despicable behavior, because, all the women in my life say it is (and i know i'd never want to be treated this way), they hurt because of it, they cry or stay up late nights because men are dogs and they somehow have the misfortune to have fallen in tow with the bad ones. This doesn’t happen to all women, or so I want to believe.
Yet, with each day, I discover that men do cheat and women get cheated on or women cheat and then their men cheat on them in retaliation and that for some this is how it goes; its common place. The adult world is riddled with adulterous behavior. Who knew? I prided myself on being cynical and takings light the idea that romance exists in a web 3.0 world, thinking that the urger to cheat was simplying something we could evolve past- code could be corrected, men & women rebuilt- We have the technology! Sadly, 3 g iphones and lol’s just help these things take places faster- and this realization has been tearing down my perception of the moral world in view of this fact.
My aunt is a beautiful and caring woman. To be fair, all of my relatives are- while crazy, like everyone else’s, they are still good. And they don’t deserve to have men cheat on them, or to internalize their pain until it makes them sick, only for their only release to be at functions where they receive “I told you that nigga’s crazy” as a condolence. My aunts go through it, my best friends’ parents go through it, I may be witnessing my own parents go through it…I’ve been told we are witnessing the end of days, but it seems more like its forever the last day of decency; 12 months of December, years of continuous decay. We’ve always been dying but maybe also have freedom in this fact that people are just bad. And that is why these 48 sober hours have been more intoxicating then any other substance I could ever put into my body.
While romance may be provided as an escape, what is the actual resolve? And how do I keep from walking the same road? If everyone somehow experiences infidelity in some form in their life, how do you minimize its presence in your life, or is our only option to separate ourselves from the reality that such a thing is impossible? Bottoms up.
Earlier today, as I laid on the copper colored shag rug of my parent’s family room, I listened to my mother and sister discuss the relationships of my gay uncle as well as the teachers of my former high school and their affairs with various French professors. Mr. Richardson, the track coach and father of this kid I graduated with, Gerald, was sleeping with one of the French teachers at my school, keeping a separate bank account and telling his wife he was going to track meets when he was really running off to Atlantic City to fuck his bilingual cuddy buddy and take the meaning of bonne nuit to new heights. I want to say this is despicable behavior, because, all the women in my life say it is (and i know i'd never want to be treated this way), they hurt because of it, they cry or stay up late nights because men are dogs and they somehow have the misfortune to have fallen in tow with the bad ones. This doesn’t happen to all women, or so I want to believe.
Yet, with each day, I discover that men do cheat and women get cheated on or women cheat and then their men cheat on them in retaliation and that for some this is how it goes; its common place. The adult world is riddled with adulterous behavior. Who knew? I prided myself on being cynical and takings light the idea that romance exists in a web 3.0 world, thinking that the urger to cheat was simplying something we could evolve past- code could be corrected, men & women rebuilt- We have the technology! Sadly, 3 g iphones and lol’s just help these things take places faster- and this realization has been tearing down my perception of the moral world in view of this fact.
My aunt is a beautiful and caring woman. To be fair, all of my relatives are- while crazy, like everyone else’s, they are still good. And they don’t deserve to have men cheat on them, or to internalize their pain until it makes them sick, only for their only release to be at functions where they receive “I told you that nigga’s crazy” as a condolence. My aunts go through it, my best friends’ parents go through it, I may be witnessing my own parents go through it…I’ve been told we are witnessing the end of days, but it seems more like its forever the last day of decency; 12 months of December, years of continuous decay. We’ve always been dying but maybe also have freedom in this fact that people are just bad. And that is why these 48 sober hours have been more intoxicating then any other substance I could ever put into my body.
While romance may be provided as an escape, what is the actual resolve? And how do I keep from walking the same road? If everyone somehow experiences infidelity in some form in their life, how do you minimize its presence in your life, or is our only option to separate ourselves from the reality that such a thing is impossible? Bottoms up.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Conspirators in pajamas, who exchange deep kisses for passwords
I'm posting this here, because if there is someone who reads this blog- you either stumbled on this by accident, or yr a creepy stalker, either of which qualify you as deserving. How many times have you enjoyed the privilege of discovering new music? Being the first person you know to hear rare tracks, bump them in the sanctity of your home, car, or ipod head space does something for your ego that you have to cherish. Even if its for a few seconds, until your music gets cannibalized by the internets machine that makes everything popular yet exclusive, those few seconds are unlike the next few seconds with the next rare hit- it's like sex & happenstance; serendipitously falling into your hands behind closed doors. It's beautiful, rare, and most importantly, all yours.
Monday, July 30, 2007
The young wives thirty hours' pregnant
Hip-hop is a big part of who I am. It's been with me since birth, and will pump hard in my varicosed veins till my demise. When I had a chance to go see Rock the Bells, I leapt at the chance. I originally wanted to go see this with a friend of mine from school, but once tickets sold out, we abandoned that dream. Months later, I find myself with a chance to go, but roll solo.
The show started off on a bad note. I was recovering from a day where I was embattled with a fever, only to be greeted by torrential downpour. Since anyone who loved hip-hop and had 100 bills to burn in a 700 mile radius was going to the show, I opted not to take buses, but instead walk to the concert, across the Tri-Borough Bridge. The ground was littered with old Source magazines, so it was evident that I was on the right path.
Once I got there, the rain got worse, the mud got deeper, my sneakers died, and I was so happy, I cant even begin to tell you how giddy I was. For eleven hours, it was just me, the music, and unfortunately, the mud, and nothing else mattered. It was a good day to be alone.
The show started off on a bad note. I was recovering from a day where I was embattled with a fever, only to be greeted by torrential downpour. Since anyone who loved hip-hop and had 100 bills to burn in a 700 mile radius was going to the show, I opted not to take buses, but instead walk to the concert, across the Tri-Borough Bridge. The ground was littered with old Source magazines, so it was evident that I was on the right path.
Once I got there, the rain got worse, the mud got deeper, my sneakers died, and I was so happy, I cant even begin to tell you how giddy I was. For eleven hours, it was just me, the music, and unfortunately, the mud, and nothing else mattered. It was a good day to be alone.
Friday, July 27, 2007
big fat widows delirious from insomnia
I start this post in a noticeably pensive state. I'm sick, which places a huge "don't wanna fuckin be near nobody" sign squarely on my congested chest. All of my extremities hurt and feel detached, almost like the normal duties they perform have been outsourced, yet I can watch them fail uncontrollably from the window in my head. So, to try and motivate my lazy white blood cells, I took action that any pensive sick nerd would do. I went to the Natural History museum.
I realize that a trip to the museum is a rather stock activity, but sometimes you have to pull from the bargain rack to get inspired. I didn't plan on going to see any specific exhibit. I like the whale in the basement, but since the release of The Squid & The Whale I feel cheesy enjoying it. Apparently there were tons of people who bargain shop, or it was national "go to the museum on your own" day. Amidst the throngs of school children and frustrated den mothers, there were a large assortment of people trying to get lost in the group. Sifting betwixt the disorganized field trips, and finding their own protective space in the cracks of hands on learning.
After I couldn't take the joys of children any longer, I ran out onto central park west only to be disgusted by the huge tourist attraction that the Dakota has become. I went last summer, to hang out in strawberry fields, and eat grapes, but this year, there was a tour with families lined up taking photos in front of the place where John Lennon was murdered. So I kinda threw up in my mouth a little. Knowing public vomiting is frowned upon, I quickly ducked to the only place where this sort of behaviour is accepted;the subway.
I took the shuttle down to LES and decided to catch a movie. I had read about Once, a movie that revolves around song writing and love and blah, blah, blah. So of course I saw it. After two hours of guitar strumming and excessive coughing, I've come to the conclusion that Garden State would get it's ass kicked in a Street Fight with this film. And the previews have provided enough blog fodder that this page will at least live to see three more posts (woot!) I'll drop the links for the movies in the bottom, as well as some upcoming exhibits at the History Museum.
-'Til next time!
Once
Rocket Science
Death at the Funeral
Mythic Creatures
Frogs!
I realize that a trip to the museum is a rather stock activity, but sometimes you have to pull from the bargain rack to get inspired. I didn't plan on going to see any specific exhibit. I like the whale in the basement, but since the release of The Squid & The Whale I feel cheesy enjoying it. Apparently there were tons of people who bargain shop, or it was national "go to the museum on your own" day. Amidst the throngs of school children and frustrated den mothers, there were a large assortment of people trying to get lost in the group. Sifting betwixt the disorganized field trips, and finding their own protective space in the cracks of hands on learning.
After I couldn't take the joys of children any longer, I ran out onto central park west only to be disgusted by the huge tourist attraction that the Dakota has become. I went last summer, to hang out in strawberry fields, and eat grapes, but this year, there was a tour with families lined up taking photos in front of the place where John Lennon was murdered. So I kinda threw up in my mouth a little. Knowing public vomiting is frowned upon, I quickly ducked to the only place where this sort of behaviour is accepted;the subway.
I took the shuttle down to LES and decided to catch a movie. I had read about Once, a movie that revolves around song writing and love and blah, blah, blah. So of course I saw it. After two hours of guitar strumming and excessive coughing, I've come to the conclusion that Garden State would get it's ass kicked in a Street Fight with this film. And the previews have provided enough blog fodder that this page will at least live to see three more posts (woot!) I'll drop the links for the movies in the bottom, as well as some upcoming exhibits at the History Museum.
-'Til next time!
Once
Rocket Science
Death at the Funeral
Mythic Creatures
Frogs!
The young maricones and the horny muchachas
For whatever reason, I enjoy the idea of isolation, in moderation. It really
gives you a greater appreciation for relationships if or when you have them. Sometimes, being by myself helps keep me level. I doubt I'm the only person with this feeling, and in celebration of this, I am creating a blog for those who are looking
for cool things to do by themselves. Sure, the brunt of these things
are pretty rad and can be done in groups, but the "me" factor is an
interesting aspect that I really wish to muse over. The blog is to be
a journal like presentaton in and around the New York City area, and posts will most likely be as sporadic if not more so, than Metropolitan Segue. If you have any suggestions for things to check out, please feel free to send them out. This is just as much for you as it is an outlet for me. And if you are in fact still reading this and have not lost interest, thanks for reading. Laters
gives you a greater appreciation for relationships if or when you have them. Sometimes, being by myself helps keep me level. I doubt I'm the only person with this feeling, and in celebration of this, I am creating a blog for those who are looking
for cool things to do by themselves. Sure, the brunt of these things
are pretty rad and can be done in groups, but the "me" factor is an
interesting aspect that I really wish to muse over. The blog is to be
a journal like presentaton in and around the New York City area, and posts will most likely be as sporadic if not more so, than Metropolitan Segue. If you have any suggestions for things to check out, please feel free to send them out. This is just as much for you as it is an outlet for me. And if you are in fact still reading this and have not lost interest, thanks for reading. Laters
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