Contest Entry

I couldn't decide whether or not to submit my social witness essay about sexual exploitation or my moment of being essay about discovering my dad's cancer. Actually, I lied. I could decide and did so quickly. I'm going to submit my moment of being essay (and I'm banking on no one from class reading this, so as not to jeopardize the fairness of judging). It was an easy call. To me, the moment of being piece is a lot more personal and important, and therefore, better writing in my opinion. Also, if I'm getting judged by students I don't think they will be impressed by the academic nature of my social witness essay. To the world, my social witness essay and rhetorical project are far more valuable than my dad's cancer. To me, nothing could be farther than truth. Let 1/2 instead of 1/8 girls get raped if it saves my Dad's life. He would be disgusted if he read that, and I am disgusted with myself that I mean it.

Anyhoo, back to more pleasant literary discussions. The final paragraph of my moment of being essay I think is the best bit of writing I've come up with this semester. It still holds a lot of sentimental value (that doesn't necessarily have to be positive, right?) to me, and I think it comes through in the writing. It has gone through several stages of revision, and where its at now, although not done, is a far cry from where it started. Like Jenna advised, I went through it and sought out the bits of  creative expression that just didn't work, and enhanced the ones that did. I fine tuned the grammar and present/past tense. I'm still not sure about my choice to switch from first person to second at certain places. At the end, I know it is appropriate, but I do it in the middle, too. My reasoning is that I use it whenever I hope the audience can relate to the experience, or needs to to get the impact of my message. I think the essay is strong, overall. It is a poor memoir in the sense that there is no experienced narrator's voice. I do not resolve anything, or explore deeper emotions or meanings. Well, I guess I analyze the fear of the unknown versus the fear of the known, but even then I answer with sarcasm and don't really draw any conclusions. As far as a moment of being essay though, I think it is very strong. I think the reader empathizes with the piece, and me, and is hopefully affected by it. Sam out.

Thrift Store Shopping

I don't have enough warm clothes. Or rather, I didn't. I went thrift store shopping and got some sweet deals. I went to the thrift store next to Fry's on Grant and 1st. I was kinda hoping to find some really....quiche? (I know that's the food but I mean the homonym that means kinda tacky) sweaters and stuff, but I actually got some quality clothes. All their nice sweaters were size L or XL, but I realized that is perfect. They're huge and frumpy and cozy, so I got two. One of them is this black, green and yellow color scheme that is so ugly it is my new favorite. I also got the perfect hat for 1.50. It's a beanie with a small brim and its long enough for it to double over on my ears. I also got some gloves. I tested the left one to see if it fit, and it did! They're cool. Driving gloves, woven with leather padding. The problem is, when I got home I realized the right glove (the one untested) was ripped and the leather lining was falling off. A bit of sock and some super glue and they look good as new. Also a 1.50 purchase. The two most expensive purchases were overalls and a jacket. The overalls I kinda bought for the novelty, especially since they are too tight. I looked up advice online about how to stretch out pants, and sorta extrapolated on what I found and came up with my own solution. Right now, dangling behind me from a tree branch are the overalls with a bunch of rocks stuffed into the pant legs to keep them taut. Part of the handle to the household Swiffer is stretching out the waist. Periodically, I throw hot water on them. Tomorrow I'll try them on again. The jacket is just really nice. It is egg shell white. It is shorter than a duster but longer than a normal jacket. Its got a belt and a bunch of pretty buttons and I'm kind of afraid its a womens coat, but I don't care. The pockets are deep and its got this wooly lining that makes it super warm. Needless to say, I am set for anything this desert can throw at me. Temperature wise, I mean. I am totally unprepared for rattle snakes or dehydration.

Inglorious Basterds

Brad Pitt leads a team of American Jew military men behind enemy lines to lead an Apache based guerrilla warfare type Nazi slaughterfest. So why are there only two scenes with Nazi slaughtering? Goddamnit Tarantino.... Brad Pitt was such a bad ass character. You let him carve 2 swastikas into 2 guys heads, and thats about it. You create the Steiglitz character, the rogue SS Gestapo-targeting serial killer and he doesn't do shit except stab a dude in the neck and then die. Damnit man. C'mon. The chick with the movie theater was a sweet back story and good job, she burned it down and killed the high command of the Third Reich but did that really deserve half the movie? The Basterds and her never even directly cross paths. You made two movies and just combined them. Damnit man, you're making me mad. Lieutenant Aldo sooooooo cool with the O' Brother Where Art Thou George Clooney southern drawl and happy go lucky confidence and you sequester him into less than 1/3 of the movie? Jesus man. Just tell us his story from beginning to end, burn down the movie theater in the end and either get rid of the vengeful Jew girl or give her 15 mins to establish her backstory. Why does she need a lover? Why does the main actor need to fall in love with her?

Two movies:

Movie one: Inglorious Basterds

8 Americans go behind enemy lines and mercilessly slaughter Nazis with baseball bats, machine guns, knives, booby traps, and end up sabotaging the der feurer at the movie premier. Boom. Great movie.

Movie two: Jewish Girl's Revenge

The sole survivor of a family slaughtered by the SS, she makes it to Paris and opens a movie theater. By coincidence she catches the fancy of German war hero starring in a new movie. He talks the producer/director into hosting the premier at her movie theater. She crosses paths with the man who murdered her family and she has to earn his favor to her horror. Finally, her and her black lover take the ultimate revenge and burn down the theater with the entire Nazi high command inside watching a masterpiece of propoganda.

So make up your fucking mind next time, Tarantino.

Cooking

I am making steaks right now. I seasoned them with salt and pepper and steak seasoning (which I'm pretty sure is just salt and pepper) and Worcestire sauce. It is bottom round flat steak. I have never cooked such a steak before, and am worried about cooking time. I am cooking it on the broiler because A) I think the grill is out of gas B) It is raining C) I like them broiled just as much as any other way prepared.

I like to cook a lot. Lately, I made a bomb pork loin marinated over night in balsamic vinagrette, and other spices. I served it with a side of rice and wilted spinach. Also, I made a pot roast. Pot roasts are easy to make, cheap to buy, and so super delicious. I should look into making more pot roasts. Well worth the time. In the past I've made orange glazed sword fish, bacon and brie burgers, and some nachos that would blow your mind. Hold on, I need to check on the steaks. They were good to be flipped. In a few I will retrieve and consume them. Well, I consume one of them, my roommate will handle the other. We didn't have any fresh garlic. Normally I stuff a whole clove of garlic inside of the meat and let it cook like that, then cover it in olive oil. It is bomb. These steaks will be sub-bomb. Also, we are going to watch Inglorious Bastards. Tonight should be a good night. Tom is making Ratatouille for tomorrow. I'm not sure if I have faith in his skills. He's a french man though, so he should be able to pull it off. I'll be back later with some thoughts on Inglorious Bastards.

The reason for the training

I want to hike the Appalachian Trail with Gency. I wanted to do it this summer. The problem is, the trail takes about 6 months to hike. I'm hoping I can squeeze in a trip from my Grandparent's house in VT to my dad's house in NC. That's part of the reason I'm working so hard with Gency. I figure that stay and come will be the two most important commands on the trail. I'm trying to get her to respond to strangers or dogs on the street by sitting and waiting patiently for them to approach. We are making progress, but she still likes to make the first move, and that won't fly with surly hikers. Also, most of the trail has strict leash laws for dogs which I don't plan on following. Ideally, Gency will walk by my side, explore the woods to her heart's content, and ignore any hikers and animals that don't feel like being bothered.

For Christmas, I asked for a dog back pack for her. That way she can carry her own food and water, and while we're training I can fill it with sand to get her to build some muscle. She should like that, due to her inclination to pull. It would be really great if I could pull this off. A logistical obstacle is money. I might have to increase my student loan to fund the trip. I could justify that if I could get the Eng dept to give me some sort of independent study credit for the trip if I wrote about it or something. I've always enjoyed camping and hiking and that sort of stuff, but usually with other people. If it ends up being just my dog and I, it will be a very different experience. I've heard there is a very large social aspect to the trail, like people meet up and walk a few days together. So maybe that will happen. Perhaps I can find someone to do it with me though. That would be pretty cool. Wish me luck!

Gency

My dog is my best friend. Man's best friend is literally my best friend. Like, I'm more likely to hang out with her any given night than anyone else. For awhile I was interested in training her to do cool tricks like crawl and roll over, but now I'm working on much more practical stuff. More than anything I am focusing on sit, stay, come. She's getting really good. Whenever she thinks I want something, her go to reaction is to sit, so that part is pretty easy. She is really good at stay as long as she can see me. I walk for a couple of minutes down the alleyway away from her. I turn around and shes just sitting there waiting for me to call her. However, if I walk the opposite direction that she is facing, it is very hard for her not to pivot on the spot to watch me. Which is ok, I suppose, and it doesn't really interfere with the whole staying part, but I'd really like it if her stay was super solid. Also, "heel" is a pretty essential skill I'm teaching her. Teaching her to walk well on the leash is the hardest thing I've done with her. By nature, she just likes to pull. At first, I tried just walking the opposite direction every time she pulled. But then she just got kinda confused and started pulling in circles at the end of the leash. Finally I got through her skull just by having a piece of meat in my hand that she follows. Now, if the there aren't any distractions, she follows by my heel almost naturally. She'll do it if I'm jogging too. If I can get her to trot next to my bike, that would be awesome, but she's a little bit terrified of the contraption from our first attempt at that. Also, whenever people are hanging out outside, and she decides to lie down, I throw chunks of dog biscuits at her, making sure she doesn't realize the source. Apparently, it should reinforce the desire to lie down and chill out when people are around. For the most part, she's super chill, which is great, and a top notch cuddler. When new people arrive, though, she tends to jump up on them, especially women. I'm using pepperoni to interrupt that behavior.

Poker

I started playing poker again. Well "started playing poker again" has connotations that I haven't really fulfilled yet. I used to play a lot of poker. For a month or two I supported myself by playing 2/4 and 3/6$ limit on the website PokerStars. I was worth about 7$ an hour. So, I was making minimum wage, basically, but it was fun. I burned out and didn't want to play anymore. I went through phases where I would go back to the past time, but I never took it seriously like I did back then. I lost money overall, I'm pretty sure. If you look my pokerstars name up on sharkscope.com (Azraeel) I show a profit of $600 or so dollars. If you go to trackmybets.com and look at my Beaver Dam profits, its well over $1000. I'm pretty good at poker. My number one problem with it is taking it seriously. I want to play big, deep stack tournaments, but the problem with those is that they last for like 5 hours and I just get kinda bored and burned out. I put $100 online before thanksgiving planning to spend the break pursuing riches (not really, my outlook on poker is realistic and pragmatic, and I know that playing the appropriate stakes with a $100 bankroll is a verrrrrrrrrry long and slow road to riches). I've been playing 180 man sit and go tournaments, and showing a healthy profit from those. I've also played some of the larger, 1000+ tournaments, and like always I succumb to the boredom and fall victim to my own apathy as far as game play goes. When you're in a tournament with 7,000 people, generally the top 700 get paid. It can take three or four hours to get to that point, and the good money doesn't start coming until the top 70. And that takes a verrrrrrry long time. You really need some concentration and drive to stick in it that long. When the buy in is $2.20 it is very easy to do stupid stuff knowing that it was cheap to do so. I really miss live games of poker. I was better at live games because of the physical chips in front of me. They held my attention a lot better than a screen can. All the money online is virtual. It is hard to attach realistic significance to those numbers if you don't feel the green in your hand.

One More for Good Measure

Today I saw a dog. I don't remember the last time I went a day without seeing a dog. If I was a good writer, I would make some sort of point out of that. Right now, I am not trying to be a good writer, I am trying to fill blog requirements. I am trying to survive. How many more days until I remember how to write. I'm hoping for one. I'm betting on fifteen. I heard that Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul pays $300 for every story they accept. I might look into that. The problem with trying to be a writer is that there isn't very much money behind it. Even if you take the moguls like Stephen King or David Sedaris, I imagine the median income for "professional" writers is well below the poverty line. Oh well. I don't especially care about money, because people keep giving it to me. The government gives me money so I can go to school. My parents give me money so I can sleep in a bed. My job gives me money so I can buy milk. Middle class really doesn't appeal to me. I don't want to live in a subdivision. I want to live on the wrong side of the tracks or in a multi million dollar estate on top of Mount Everest. I wonder which is more likely... With writing like this though, I imagine its only a matter of time before the money starts rolling in. One day I will have to be self sufficient. That is going to suck so much. Right now I kind of ignore my bills and creditors, knowing that one day it will bite me in the ass. But right now, I don't have to worry about it because I am young and stupid. Being young and stupid is awesome. The only problem is that right now and I imagine for the next few weeks I'm going to be young, stupid and totally miserable. I don't like being miserable because I don't know how to cure it. I know how to numb it. Right now my only numbing options are video games. Which is ok, I guess. I really like some video games, a trend I thought I escaped years ago. I am so hungry. In half an hour I get to go to La Salsa for the lit mag Persona's Dinner. That'll be dope. I think I will get something involving beef and cheese....probably a tortilla, too. Definitely salsa, of course. And sour cream. Sentence fragments woot.

I am behind in blog entries

I really want to learn to play the violin. I'm afraid I've past the point to teach my brain to think in musical terms, though. Listen to Flogging Molly's Float, and you'll know why I want to learn the violin. Not some crappy, ancient classical bullshit but a really dirty gypsy riff. I would love that. Or bluegrass fiddling. Mmmmmm no instrument talks to my heart like a violin. I have a friend who has 2 violins and is very good and used to teach lessons. She will not let me hear her play or teach me how to play. It is quite obnoxious.

I like my doggy. I need to kennel train her. She will come to North Carolina with me over Christmas break, and she will spend 10 hoursish in her crate. She came to Tucson in her crate, and now she is terrified of the thing. I started throwing bits of turkey in there so she has to run in and grab it. Hopefully if I keep it up for a few days I can throw in a bone, close the gate and let her gnaw on it for a little bit. It should be doable. My dog is my best friend. She has all the qualities of a fantastic friend. She is loyal, playful, sympathetic and licks my face. It is depressing though, that she is not only my best friend, but my only friend in Tucson. Solitude is getting to me. I cannot hang out with anyone but my roommate, and the two of us going to hang out always seems a bit silly since we live together and are always hanging out.

This weekend I called the police on my own house. A girl was passed out with her face in the dirt and somehow people were fighting the idea of taking her to the hospital. So I called an ambulance. All the minors disappeared like illegals responding to policia!  The girl made it to the hospital. She had alcohol poisoning. I keep making my roommates friends hate me. Boo hoo.

Lets Try Again

I want to live and I want to write. I want to live like I write. Honest. Witty. Profound. Entertaining. 

I need to start over. Somewhere I went astray and now "normal" hurts. My head aches. My ribs hurt. My heart pounds. I need so much attention but I don't want to be around anybody. The people I love the most are the people I want to hear from the least. 

My pants were stained with blood and mucus. I don't remember where that bruise on my hip came from. My body started leaking blood and bile. And I miss that. I am in a computer lab. I see a kid playing WOW. I see a kid 10 tabling on Poker Stars. That's hardcore. I struggled with 9 and was never profitable at more than 4. 

I demand love from others I am not willing to give myself. I am much better at taking care of others than myself. I feel boring. I feel obnoxious. I feel fatigued, and I feel like I'm drowning. They say it will get better. I believe them. Right now, it sucks. Right now, it hurts. 

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I feel like I'm going to spew

Where is my creativity?

My brain is made a little bit out of mud right now. Trying to concentrate on anything is exhausting. I'm going to spit out some random thoughts.

The woman who got her face ripped off by a chimp looks really bad. Doctors had to remove both of her eyes. That's pretty awful.

The thought of an overly agressive drunk woman at a bar saying to a confused gentleman, "I'm gonna fuck your dick off."

A hack saw splitting a live head in two. How far would the blade get before the screaming stopped?

Goddamnit. I was ok for 15 minutes. Why can't I wake up?

Los Muertos

It is a typical hospital room. The lights are dim because the occupants are going through detox, and bright lights are irritating. Two cells separated by cloth curtains make space for two occupants. The bed closer to the door is occupied. With no fan fare or introduction, the cloth barrier surrounding the room is pulled back and a Vanna White joke is made by one of the orderlies wheeling in the second occupant. He is hispanic, shirtless, and almost unconscious. He moans while they adjust him into his slot of stay. The nurses try to figure out who speaks Spanish. The one who made the Vanna White joke started experimenting with different ways to say "not much" in Spanish. They leave and the man continues to moan.

A different nurse goes up to the man and tries to get his attention and ask him how he is feeling. After several failed attempts he says he is cold. She retrieves heated blankets and spreads them out over his body. His skin is jaundiced. One family member walks through the room, past the first occupant and into the tiny space around his bed. Shortly another comes. Shortly, the entire half of the room is packed shoulder to shoulder with concerned family or friends. The man moans. In Spanish they express their concern. While the family fears, a doctor and a nurse hold a loud conversation in the hallway. The doctor is angry. He says, "You know I didn't ask for this case." The family has started an intense, almost lyrical prayer.  The doctor enters the room in a huff, passes the first partition and squeezes into the unfortunately sterotypical bundle of Mexicans. In a loud, anglo, annoyed voice he tells the family that he can cure the infection but he can't cure the cancer, and frankly it would be a waste of their time. There is a translator, and therefore a delay in the response. The news  is relayed before it hits like a bullet. The room is as quiet as it has been since the Vanna White joke. A few more exchanges are made through the translator and they take the conversation outside. Two women remain and the women sob on top of the man. They cannot stand the news. A woman from hospice comes in and helps wheel out the moaning man.

going out with a bang

I don't remember very much over the past few weeks. I need to go the hospital, and I am in a few hours. I am embarrassed and scared. I  want to be normal and better and understand other people. I think this is the first step. My brain isn't working right. Or, it is working differently. I am comfortable being rational. Now, the ol' gray box isn't doing so well in the logic department. I know what I feel, and that is what I feel, and a part of me still says it doesn't make sense but when I start to think about it I shut down. That sentence was confusing and would be better illustrated by an example. I can't think of one though. Perhaps this blog entry is a good example. Wait, no, it isn't. There is dog poop around the corner from where I am sitting. The flies prefer to congregate on me. That is a nice little image. I should tuck that into the old brain box for future use.

dont make me write

i dont want to write because i cant and because im tired of it and im not gonna punctuate as a non violent protest five hundred words takes up more words and space than 500 words its really hard not to punctuate my instinct is to hit that period or comma or to type and and then spout off and and and and nothing where ever my muse was shes hiding now i miss the incentive and burning in my gut that makes me want to write the value of my day was often based on the quality of my blog entry and i dont want it to be a chore and i want to do it and i dont want to produce muck and this is certainly muck and there is nothing of value to this punctuationless rant there is no creative incentive behind my lack of structure and gramattical failings i just dont know how to write anymore i would burn down that house if i thought it would spark my mind because i think i need delusions of grandeur to write for me to disseminate my thoughts and opinions i have to believe that i am something special and right now i feel like the scab festering on top of any wound attracting flies and bacteria i can live with not knowing what to right about but i cant live with not wanting to write this whole entry is a confession that right now i do not want to write and have not for several days and i fancy myself a writer that is gross and sad and i feel as sorry for you as i do for myself now im only half way to my word count for the day let me start listing off the words i know radical spontaneous bogus infatuated inflated groin great grating fantastic faggot furnace failure epic proportion correlation dissidence disappointment pathetic plethora pancreas placenta pussy penis pejorative principal palpate pulsate pupate copulate murder homicide genocide regicide infanticide fratricide burger steak chicken cordon bleu belch bile vomit spew hurl chunks blow stink smell reek forget promise remember never lie ok thats 358 words lets start going for phrases i know it is better to have loved than lost time heals all the sea is a cruel mistress get over it grow up learn to love turn the other cheek she loves me she loves me not fuck i just deleted something this was supposed to be a seamless expression of my sentiment and i censored myself i dont even remember what i was going to write this is pretty damn close to five hundred thats right 500 five hundred not two thousand not thirteen not seventy five not even one hundred and eighty two but five hundred words read em and weep marry my magic im out peace.

Monster

The monster had a scab on his foot. He made it himself by prodding an itch with his sharp and unkempt toenail. The more he irritated the itch, the more it bothered him. The more it bothered, the more he itched. Finally what was a blotchy bug bite turned into a festering flesh wound. He sat and stared at the pink, wet and raw skin. Flies competed for access to the wound. A mini dog pile they made on top of the hole. They fought for control of whatever juices were excreted. One would squeeze into the pile and displace another; batting wings and frantic attempts at the pile indicated their distress.

Freewrite

I'm listening to Gigantic. The Pixies were the first band I ever really loved. The songs Brick is Red and Break my Body moved me to tears on several occasions. Listening to them now, I have no idea why. The music is really cool, but it doesn't have the same value to me anymore. It is just music, not the anthem it once was. I remember really liking the Pixies and trying to get Dylan to listen to them in his car. He refused and asked what the big deal with the Pixies was. Once Jordan and Corey started listening to them he was all about them. That sucked. I wonder if any of the three of them will read this, and what their feelings on that will be. That was back in the days of skateboarding. I miss skateboarding. It was my best "sport" endeavor. I was good at skateboarding, at least compared to those boarding with me. I kick flipped the seven stair. Skateboarding did things that were good for me. I liked the independence and purpose it gave. Me and Michael and Jeff would pick up and hit a gap for a few hours. We sweated and sat on our boards and put our elbows on our knees and wiped our faces with our shirts. Grimy asphalt worked itself into the creases of our bodies. Sometimes I carried a bottle of seltzer water with me. Sometimes Michael was hijacked by the stoners and then skateboarding wasn't as much fun. Bleary eyed, he would sit on the curb and say silly things. I haven't found something comparable to that sense of accomplishment after landing the perfect flip, or olliing 5 skateboards stacked, wheels interlocking. I biked across the country in 9 weeks, and I am still prouder of my multiple attempts at olliing the 11 stair, even though I never landed it. To bike across the country all I had to do was wake up and put one foot after the other. The 11 stair ate two of my skateboards, and was never conquered. But to face her was to face an Everest. It took some balls culminating in a poetic pop-woosh. The pop was the tail of my skateboard clacking on the sidewalk inches before the abyss. The woosh was the flight. Like an arrow I flew through the air and down the stairs, an unusual approach to descending stairs. Time after time I landed with a crash. Sometimes the board shot out in front of me and my ass hit the ground. Twice I landed perfectly but the thing wood of my board just couldn't survive the impact, and the stress points of the contraption splintered, making me do the splits, one foot on each half of the skateboard rolling away from each other. Once I gave up half way through the air, kicked the board away from me and landed in a crouch like if I had jumped without the skateboard. My head, or eye, more specifically, collided with my knee with the force of 11 stairs skipped. That one is on film.

EmotiX

I am tired of trying. TOO BAD. It hurts in my heart. GET OVER IT. My pain is profound. WAA WAA WAA.

A childhood friend of mine was murdered. My roommates parents are separating. My dad has cancer.

Feelin' blue? Join the crew. Rhyme away your time.

Anguish allows apathy. Alliteration alleviates angst.

My sorrow is like a simile.

My tears are metaphor.

I'd fight off 10,000 hyperbolic armies for your love.

I am depressed. I DON'T CARE. I have issues. WHO DOESN'T. I need love. WAA WAA WAA.

D 3 |> r 3 5 5 | 0 |\|

I was very hungry. I opened the refrigerator and considered my options versus the picture in my head of the sandwich I wanted: alfalfa sprouts, thick-cut honey-glazed ham, mustard, mayo, tomatoes, a nice crusty bread. It was possible to make a delightful sandwich, I had fresh tomatoes and spinach and horseradish and three different kinds of turkey and several cheeses. I could even fry some bacon up, if I wanted to. I didn't mind downgrading my sandwich expectations. I started thinking about how many packages and jars I would have to open, though. The bacon bag would have to be cut open, and then some new receptacle would need fashioning. What of the forks and knives used to spread the banana peppers, mayo and horseradish? A sandwich needed me to take about 6 things out of the fridge, open all of them, use all of them, and then deal with the aftermath (putting all of those things back).

The thought was daunting. I closed the refrigerator and returned to my room. I thought about turning the light on, but then considered the energy needed to lift my arm and get out of my computer chair. I decided to stay in the dark. I settled for the light seeping out of my computer monitor. I thought about the homework I needed to do. I thought about how I knew I couldn't do it, and how I knew that wasn't true. I thought about how disgusted my family would be. I condemned myself more than they ever could and thought about the massive waste of space I was. I spent ten minutes considering opening Facebook, Gmail, D2L - my windows to the world. I knew each of them waited to remind me of my mistakes and failures and general patheticness. I opted out of the endeavor and watched Youtube videos.

Whats a good metaphor for a metaphor?

Life is symbolic. There are probably scientific arguments to back that up. As humans we relate with our environment by assigning significance to things that don't deserve it. My ex girlfriend bought me the comforter I use every night, and sometimes in the middle of the day. To me, every time I touch it, I think of her. I think about both of us underneath it, and how it feels like I'm under-utilizing it by myself. But it is just a comforter. It is pieces of fabric sewn together by foreigners abused and exploited by corporate America. In the case of my comforter, Martha Stewart (I have no idea what methods the Martha Stewart line of bedding uses for production, but take what I said and apply it to someone more deserving if I'm wrong). I imagine those laborers would look at the comforter and find a sense of anger. If we did not identify material and unalive things with feelings, then humans would be very different creatures.

As a writer, I'm overwhelmed with the connections I make consciously and the meaning of the connections I make subconsciously. With my head in my hands, elbows on my knees, I lean forward in this plastic lawn chair. I survey my vision. I see the red clay tiles, droppings from the trees, bits of refuse, and a twig  caught in another twig, undulating in the wind. My attention is sharpened and I analyze the nature of that twig. More, I analyze my perception of the twig. Its motion draws my attention, and I start to think about the elements of my life that make up me and how routinely I forget them because I am focusing on what is moving. Then I think, it's just a fucking twig. I'm looking at it because the human eye is drawn to motion, as I learned in one of my photography classes. The twig is not my natural inclination to hyper-analyze whatever I'm thinking about. Its just a fucking twig. But, it is no longer a twig because it is in my brain, and now it is something else: a metaphor, a simile, a symbol.

Is that the extent of an individual's interaction with their environment? Are humans so selfish that the most mundane exchange between twig and wind is transformed into a meaningful personal moment? By claiming the twig as my own, I disrespect its reality. The twig thinks more of itself than to consider it as valuable fodder for my brain cannon's misfirings. (I think that was the dumbest sentence I've ever written).

Why do we do that? I hope I'm not alone in perceiving the world as a freight train of undeserved metaphors drawn from car after car of a logical void. I know that twig has no bearing on how I approach the world, or what I think of it. So why do I do it? Why does that twig have significance? I think the logical explanation is that a person's brain is constantly trying to solve the puzzle of perception. Humans have to make sense of their world or drop into insanity. Perhaps the way the rocks lie on top of each other is a product of gravity, but in my perception, it is a symbol of lives overlapping hard and unbudging until a greater force shifts them violently. I know why the rocks lie there. I guess I am trying to explain my own mental stack of granite, a confusing and mystic phenomenon to me, with what I know and understand. The world I see behaves in a way that makes sense. The wind blows, so that twig wavers. The rocks are heavy and the wind isn't strong enough to move them. I crave that same scientific and rational explanation for my own thoughts. I think for now I will have to settle for metaphor.

The Paper on my Desk

I have three pieces of paper on my desk. Well, I have many more than that, but these three are particularly valuable. Actually, their combined value is $739. On my desk, they remind me of my destitution. Bank of America wants a lot of money from me. I haven't heard from them in a long time. A letter from some credit agency would not surprise me. They closed my account because I tried to cash a check from my mom. Some security mechanism at her bank denied the transaction. A credit monitoring agency identified me as someone dealing with fraudulent checks. The check was not fraudulent. It was from my mother. After closing my account, Bank of America tacked on every processing charge they could find. My fifty two dollar negative balance blossomed into three hundred dollars-ish of debt. I don't have the exact number, because I am tired of dealing with them. Every time I get in touch with them, the number grows.

Money is insignificant to me. Partly because I'm above such material matters, but also partly because most of my money is not mine. Parents fund my housing. The government funds my education. I fund my indiscretions. I do not have a savings account or stake in the stock market. The concept of making money is confusing to me. I have a job and get paid something around minimum wage. However, real money, the money that buys a house or starts a company, capital, is a fairy tale to me. Adults seem to swim in this world where money is more than a cheeseburger at McDonald's. To adults, money comes in blocks that translate to quality of living. My parents discuss mortgages, and I hear other adults on TV talking about IRAs and CDs. CNN does not give me financial advice on double cheese burgers. I do not think my three pieces of paper are real money. I could buy 739 cheeseburgers at McDonald's, before taxes. That is as far as my economic consideration goes.  Adults don't know jack about money. My dad's house could buy almost half a million cheeseburgers, and I struggle for less than 1,000. Where is the justice?

Let's Do Something Cool

John Smith was asleep in his bed. He dreamed of confusing and mundane things, like his father yelling at the
cows because they produced corn meal instead of milk. He didn't notice his mother rummaging through his chests. A single candle lit the room and her face. John's room was a tent made out of burlap and salvaged bits of tarp.His floor was the dry, red sand that carpeted the world to the horizon. His mom laid a piece of cloth on the sand and put moccasins, three water skins, a bowie knife and twenty foot of good hemp rope in the center of the  cloth. She grabbed each corner, folded them on top of the pile and tied it tight. She slowed down for the first time since entering the room and stared at her son. The candle light turned his dark skin a mellow orange. She loved his large, proud nose and baby-fat cheeks. The rest of him held no ounce of fat. Life in The Barrens didn't allow for the excesses that build pudge on top of hips. The Barrens built its people with the bare necessities: bone, sinew, muscle, tangly hair. She leaned in close and smelled the Earth on him, the dirt and sand worked its way into his body like blood. She leaned in closer and put her lips on his cheek, beneath his eye. She let the kiss linger, not a quick peck. Her lips rested until he stirred. He opened his eyes and he wasn't scared to find someone so close to him. He was young enough to still trust unquestioningly, and he knew no fear in his life. He knew boredom, and hunger. Above all else, he knew familial love. He knew the burning rage and anger at whatever assaulted those he loved. So when he opened his eyes he was glad before he was confused to see his mother.

"John, get up," his mom said. John saw his mother was not alright, that something weighed on her. He asked her what the matter was, she told him again to wake up. He hesitated before he pushed back his only blanket and sat up. It wasn't uncomfortable for him to be naked in front of his mother. He hadn't started the awkward process of adolescent sexuality. She handed him his leggings and told him to put them on. He did. 

"Where is father?" John asked. 

"He doesn't have time to say goodbye to you. You are leaving, and you have to leave now." John, sleep groggy, cocked his head like a dog. Before he could vocalize any questions, she continued. "You need to leave John. It's not safe for you here and I need you to leave. I'm sorry. I wrote you a letter. Read it when you're three days south and get to the Orion Canyon. I'll walk you as far as the spring and we can talk. Get up now. Walk quietly, don't say a word. Follow, yeah?" John nodded and felt confused tears hiding behind his eyes. He stood up and curled his body onto his toes in a feline stretch. His mother noticed how he was closer to adulthood than her mental image of him was. His body was as tall as it would ever be, and he was starting to shed the comical proportions of boys his age. 

Cavalier

I don't especially like reading. Usually, I hate it. Even when presented with a good and enjoyable or stimulating read from an author I respect, I don't like the process of reading. Constantly I find myself checking page numbers or the clock. The process is archaic. Who has time to analyze ink spots molded into letters and then consider the significance of blocks of those ink spots suggesting a word or concept, let alone millions of those ink blot puzzles combined for one over all concept, message, or idea? Me referring to them as ink blots reveals how truly archaic the whole process is. Usually, they aren't ink blots anymore. Words are printed on the chemical conundrum that is my monitor. I have no idea how this works. Instantly a key stroke turns to a black "X" on this virtual notepad. I think there are a lot of 1s, 0s, and electrical circuits involved. Coal miners in Kentucky harvest the fuel to power the plant that fills my laptop with the sustenance needed to turn my finger hitting a button into an "X" on my screen. Corn farmers in Nebraska harvest tons of their crop to create un-corn-like things like double cheese burgers for a dollar at McDonald's which fuel me to hit that button in the first place. It seems like a lot of time and energy is put into me making that "X". I don't want to even consider how much energy sustains the internet and your access to these "X"s.

That has absolutely nothing to do with why I don't like reading. Reading takes too much of my time. I am happy for the farmers and miners and technicians that support the system of internet discourse. I love that people directly support my ability to produce and articulate my stupid ideas. However, if asked, I probably wouldn't have more than five minutes to spare for theirs. I don't like reading because I am a supreme egotist. Competition of ideas is the impetus for reading/writing/communicating, in my opinion. Reading what other people write is self defeating if I expect to ever be the king influencer, a prolific Stephen King best seller. Aside from professional ambitions, I am extremely busy swimming through my super profound and genius brain. I give myself the ideas and notions that keep the cogs of this world spinning, and decoding other people's pathetic attempts at influence simply wastes my time. I'm kind of the best writer ever, so why would I ever want to read the work of my peers and their lesser attempts at mimicking my mastery?

Cunt Fag

Gency is lounging in the last section of sun accessible in our yard. Soon, the Earth will move so far around the Sun that Gency will not be able to bask. The sliver of light inches onto her paw. Her back is up against chain linked fence. She can't go past that fence. Because that is what I want. The Sun paints her body in patches of glow and shadow. Hard light separates her body into sections warm and cold. Her bed is made out of rocks and dirts. Lives are not supposed to live here. Her tail twitches, her head jumps, and then she goes back to sleep. She never opposes her confinement. She lives in this enclosure, like me. Probably, if she really want to, she could hop the fence, or dig underneath it. She knows she needs this, though. My dog can't control the walls marking her sphere of influence like she can't keep the sun from setting. Again she lifts her head. The sun shines off her eye and hits mine, here in the shadow, at the table, at my laptop. Like a jerk friend shining light off his watch into your eye, Gency uses her world to assault mine.

She doesn't understand the world like I do. I know it is unfair for the sun to confine her to that last sliver of yard illuminated. I know it is unfair for me to decide where she is safe, and where she is allowed to go. She doesn't believe in fair. She doesn't begrudge injustice. She understands the world better than I do. A stranger walking through the alleyway alarms her. She rises, jumps, and patrols. The stranger leaves and smiles at her and the hair on her back bristles. She lives in the moment. She clings to the sliver of sunlight until territorialism demands reaction. Back and forth she runs along the fence, darting into and out of the golden celestial sparkles. I think she is protecting me. To her, the fence I chose to limit her understanding of the world protects me from the strangers walking through the alleyway. She doesn't care or consider that the fence protects and boundarizes her.

The shadow of the horizon covers Gency. She retires to her rock and dirt bed. Life is still there for her, and she doesn't even say goodbye to the bright.

TS-C10-The Decline

The smoking ban is a good marker in time for the decline of my kingdom, but it isn't the real reason Steak & Shake's vibrance faded. The circumstances created by the corporation's move towards health and a tobacco free environment (I wanted to type "Carcinogen free", but I'm sure those burgers and fries and artificial flavors will give you one heck of a cancer) were significant, don't get me wrong. Stovall was absolutely unbearable, yelling at us like he wanted to yell at the barrier between him and his addiction. Some of the regulars stopped coming by, which led to a decline in tips plus a decline in late night entertainment. Although the restaurant benefitted overall, money wise, the third shift take was reduced.

Julie and I lived together at this point. I remember nights, or mornings to most people, with her. After our fingers danced delicately over each other and we played in a mutual trust and love we would talk about our jobs (We were both still servers at this point). We are both very smart people. Not to rub it in or anything, but right now you are reading the work of a bonafide genius talking about his relationship with another bonafide genius, so I hope you appreciate it. But really, I think most outsiders would consider us smart young adults. We had a hard time swallowing our lot in life and the demands of management at a fast food joint.

When you get right down to it, Steak & Shake died because it lived too long. My friends stopped frequenting partly because of the smoking ban, partly because of Stovall's unfortunate disposition, but mostly because they and I were tired of it. The more familiar we got with Steak & Shake, the more disillusioned we grew. The restaurant was made out of plastic, and the uniforms from some clever marketing idea. Steak & Shake was not real. It never was. We grew to fancy the element of community that stemmed from the restaurant. Our community evolved past the confines of the restaurant. In college, most of us lived away from our parents and started branching out in a friendship sense. Travis was dating the stripper he met at Steak & Shake. Mac was wrapped up in his psycho-ex Michelle. Dylan discovered the World of Warcraft. Julie and I were falling into each other and didn't need the black, white and red color scheme of Steak & Shake (not to mention the chrome) to stabilize our lives.

We were growing up, and everyone of us fought it as hard as possible, and we still fight to this day. Trips to Steak & Shake were planned between the crew, usually coinciding with my work schedule, to their credit. But each trip was less populated until it reduced to Mac and Dan, or Jordan and Dylan. When once we proudly occupied half of the smoking section, now the coffee boys lived at a single table, sometimes just a double, not the standard four person booth. The decline of Steak & Shake spelled our futures, even though we didn't realize it.

On a particularly busy night, Mac and Dan patronized. I was rushed with several tables and food orders as complicated as usual, denoted by nonsensical abbreviation (K for Coke. Remember that?). Since they were my friends, I left Mac and Dan to be swallowed by the abyss of non-attention inevitable for at least one table of a server overloaded. Finally the two of them pulled me aside and asked if they could order. In my bow tie and stupid apron I tossed them two glasses and told them to get their own drinks. They didn't complain. They didn't ask for refills. When they left, a $20 bill sat on the table. On the paper place mat advertising our most recent specials, one of them scrawled, "You owe me $19.50." I deserved the snub, I was rude to them. At the same time, though, it was a signal of our evolution. As a group of humans, friends, youths, we invested so much inside of a restaurant that we prescribed a protocol. Broken, that protocol demanded offense. In simple, overhead terms, we were kids in a restaurant. Realistically, philosophically, the restaurant was a home to us. We identified with the menu items as much as the servers, who was good and who was bad. Once our social needs expanded beyond what Steak & Shake offered, we collapsed on the restaurant and, more importantly, on each other. Somehow, the failure of Steak & Shake to satisfy our developing adult personalities was a reflection of the failure of each other. Who would or would not go to Steak & Shake that night was a symbol of a commitment to our group. It was impossible to be a coffee boy and resist the call of the chrome diner. At the same time, each one of us was so much more than our attachment to the restaurant or the coffee boy clique. I was in a slightly different situation since I was employed by Steak & Shake, but I felt the repercussions and reverberations from the crew, nonetheless.

Finally it became too much to bear. Finally, I realized how much I hated the job. My shift was starting in fifteen minutes. Julie and I sat on the dingy, tan carpet of our apartment. I don't remember the conversation, but it centered around doing what you want to do. I called Steak & Shake and Will answered the phone. I told him some line about how a job that won't let you limbo (There was some disciplinarian action after the servers started limboing in the server station under a broom) is a job not worth having. Will transferred me to Stovall, and I faltered in my smart ass resignation. I told him I quit. He said ok. We hung up. I didn't go back to the restaurant for a long time. Still, an afternoon in Steak & Shake doesn't mean much more to me than an afternoon in a Burger King. The flare, the glitz, the society of Steak & Shake died inside of the coffee boys and I during some bowl of free chili. Like our youth, the appeal of the chrome, tri-chromatic diner evaporated in an event immemorable but absolutely significant.

Mandatory Response #1

Sorry this is late, I was out of town...is that a legitimate excuse? I fear not. (also, for anyone reading this not in our class, pathetic = use of pathos)

I don't really know what to make of the reading. It just seems so blatantly obvious. Like, yes, invoking emotions in your  readers will make you a more influential rhetor. Ok? Was that ever in question? Believing in those emotions or pathos, or pretending to, makes you more credible. Yeah, duh? I think this is kind of my problem with rhetoric. Employing logos, pathos or ethos makes you a more convincing narrator/author/orator/rhetor. Is this actually a concept someone doesn't understand? Maybe we're supposed to clue into the abundance of rhetoric in the deluge of "objective" media. It seems like a concept that should be taught in Kindergarten. "Anytime anyone wants you to believe something, they are going to use rhetoric to try to make you believe it." Rhetoric can be used to convey a point or argue a position, as well it should be. I guess it probably is worth while, though, to be reminded that those forces are at play all around us and to be aware of ulterior, or true, motives.

The creative piece we read by Scott Russell Sanders is pathetic. Even if he tried to write the piece academically, it would still be pathetic. From a human perspective, there is no way to present the facts (an alcoholic father, neglected and hurt children, a mother in shambles, and an untimely death) without appealing to readers' emotions. Not to undermine his piece, it is quite moving, but "rhetoric" is unavoidable in any piece of substance. Humans read for the rhetoric, the appeals and prods to parts of themselves that aren't on the surface. We want our narrator to have a credible voice through ethos, or we want to be convinced through logos, or we want to get emotionally involved in the case of pathos and Sanders.

Sanders uses rhetoric effectively, and therefore his piece is effective. When he says, "We had no way of understanding Father's drinking except as an act of will, a deliberate folly or cruelty, a moral weakness, a sin.", the reader immediately empathizes with a family struck by illness and pain. Dozens of other slices of Sanders' piece uses rhetoric to make the reader understand the piece on an emotionally relevant level. It is the use of rhetoric that makes Under the Influence a non-academic read.

Better to have loved and lost...

Now a girl is here. I sucked tequila out of her belly button. We talk about our semesters. We do not talk about the tequila. She brings a hookah. She asks me to choose the sheesh.  I choose poorly. She is tall and leggy and blond. I do not like her. I want her to like me so I can deny her, so I can tell her why I am better than her.

Three years ago I sat nervous and shaking in a dimly lit bedroom. She crawled close to me. Trying to make sure I was alright. We started the awkward process. Our clothes came off, our fingers barely let go and we gave trust over to each other.

I was in high school. At four AM we said goodnight. We held our landline phones between head and pillow. Miles apart but seconds away we muttered our sentiments and shared a love immature. We said goodnight and fell asleep with visions of sugary-each-others dancing in our heads.

She cries in my twin bed. It will be ok, I promise. You deserve better than me, I swear. I keep her coming over. I need her more than she needs me, but I do my best to keep her from realizing that. She is the only person who can save me, or so I believe. She is the only person who loves me, myself included. Her love offends me.

I told her I didn't feel that way anymore. I lied to me more than her. I told the other her it would be ok. I lied to her more than me. I lied and I lied and I keep lying. One day, I will tell the truth. I probably won't believe it, though.

The Buttsauce Express

I am in a bedroom. It is not my bedroom. It is a good friend's bedroom. The layout is that of an irregular pentagon. Three walls one would expect, but where the fourth should be, instead three walls arc out from the frame of the building and increase the floorspace. In the farthest part of that nook the head of the bed is situated. Two inflatable guitars, literally air guitars, stand next to the bed and also next to the actual acoustic guitar delicately placed in its holder, rubber tongs pinching the neck. Following the line of instruments of the wall stands a standard four drawer dresser. On the top sits protein supplements, a clutter of papers and a funny steel statue of a drummer made out of modified bits of hardware - screws and washers. Bookshelves, a computer desk and random boxes of belongings are scattered across the rest of the walls, in addition to the three doors: One to a bathroom, one to a closet and one to the living room. The floor is covered with a nondescript tan/gray rug with random stains and bits of debris begging for a vacuuming. The wall hangings are random and indicate an inaccurate love for darts. A large, antique dartboard encased in a wooden cabinet advertising the bar, and I assume the show, Cheers hangs on the wall farthest from the living room door. Above the bathroom an analog clock marks time on a pattern mimicking a dartboard. I have never seen the owner of this room play darts. Certificates of achievement, unframed and simply thumbtacked to the wall, hang randomly. Action figures and Hot Wheels cars, still in the packaging, accompany the certificates of achievement. Two wall hangings are framed: One a history of the family name with the Irish crest. The other, a photo of him and his sister. Beneath that, a photo of his other sister thumbtacked. The centerpiece of his wall hangings is the poster I bought him for a birthday long ago: "Things You Should Know About Chuck Norris" with quips like, "There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of animals Chuck Norris allows to live." The bed is comfortable and large. The sheets are tossed up and unmade. In the computer desk a hopeless tangles of wires, books, boxes, and every imaginable bit of refuse occupy the shelves that are offended by the lack of organization they support. Half on a wall, half off, supported by a bookcase a handpainted sign one foot tall and three feet long says, "It's always 5 o'clock in Matagorda" and the caps of beer bottles are nailed to it.

The things in this room make sense to me, but I have to consider what the sojourner through this living space would infer. It is almost entirely nonsensical. He would believe the person sleeping in this unmade bed was a meat head, dart-loving, musical student, nerd. It makes so much sense to me though, because I know the man. BARF THATS 500 WORDS LOST MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT

42104

I am in the land of my old life. It is beautiful and I remember why I clung so dearly to it. I know this place as my home. It is my home because of the people, because of the way my stomach turns when we drive by the journalism building on campus. I associate road signs, cars, businesses and certain weather with different emotions totally disconnected from the place or thing, but the experiences created with their cooperation. On Chestnut St., my favorite street in Bowling Green because of the beautiful, historical houses and large foliage, we drove past my old apartment building. I looked at the third floor balcony, my old balcony, and I remember the view. To the left you can see the beginning of the historical downtown district, marked by a Church of Christ on one side of the road and a large building that must have once housed several services but now only sells musical instruments through one store front. To the right, you see another gigantic church, Baptist on that side, and the beginning of campus, unnoticeable except for the corner of a stone wall marking the north edge of the university. I spent late nights on the porch in the warmth of summer. Regardless of my company the view of Bowling Green is still, to me, the epitome of my city. Straight ahead from the balcony trees covered hospital hill, a USA flag painted water tower pokes through the green.

My friends are the people I love and remember, or the extrapolation of that memory. Banter with them is comfortable and easy, even after we run out of catching up. They remind me of who I am, and what I strive to be. I think happiness in life is difficult to come by, if you consider self-improvement as a factor, if you are not familiar with your roots. I was born in New York State, moved to North Carolina at the age of two, and was relocated to Kentucky eight years later. The transition was not easy. Even for an adaptable youngster like me. I loathed the city for years and imagined a perfect life in my true home of North Carolina or New York. Every summer I would travel with my mother, or visit my dad in North Carolina. Throughout the school year I flew to visit my dad for long weekends or holidays. The constant uprooting and reminder that I was not geographically centered made the concept of a home difficult to grasp.

Home is where the heart is. This is true. In meeting new people, I tell them where I am from for more reasons than perpetuating small talk. I am proud of my home, I am proud of the relationships I fostered, and I am proud of the person I became there because it was part of making me who I am today, for better or worse (there is only one of me, so I might as well look on the bright side). Certain aspects of southern/midwestern/kentuckian culture are as much a part of me as my kneecap or left butt cheek. I hold an extreme fondness for the elderly that are as wrinkled as they are sassy. The isolated redneck, separated from his herd, is my ideal conversation mate. Southern chivalry in regards to women plagues my relationships. Bourbon and tobacco twist around my personality like boa constrictors. My home has personal relevance that many wouldn't associate with Kentucky, however. My inclination to debate is a product of my friends and their strong opinions. Introversion was the price I paid for the close-knit fraternity that is my nest today. Distaste for the close minded and bigoted stems from bonds formed between those that clashed as the counter-culture to a state that bleeds red. These things, and so many more, are the building blocks of my home, and my heart.

Going Home, Terrified

At 1:20 PM tomorrow, I will arrive in the Nashville, TN airport. Elliot Craig will pick me up and drive me into Bowling Green, KY, the closest thing I have to a geographical home. I remember home in lights bright and dark. My friends surrounded me in symbiotic compromise and forgiveness. We did not begrudge each other our humanitarian failings. To sleep until 3 PM and start drinking at 5 was not behavior questionable. In a certain sense, our approach to community was one of most extreme tolerance. And in that light, we were the most open minded and accepting group of people in Kentucky. To look at the side of the coin less illuminated, one might argue that we took an irresponsible approach and took unaccountability for granted. I think both of these perspectives are correct. We saw the potential repercussions of our laizze faire approach to friendship, but at the same time we were not willing to accept the mantle of responsibility or judgement. Who were we, as individuals, to tell anyone else what to do?

I fear Kentucky because I am trying to be more than Kentucky. And I refer to Kentucky as the identity I developed as a Kentuckian, through its social and cultural influences. In Kentucky I was the oil slick on asphalt that does little but remind drivers to be careful, because negligence runs the risk of sliding sliding sliding into the guard rail. I was the refuse of society, the spot spit out by progress. As an oil slick I was disgusting, but at the same time I was the reminder of reality preventing the clean mesh of tire to asphalt, citizen to society. I was the totem of strength and potential to bolster a community, and at the same time I was the toppled rubble from that monument. This is what we can produce, and this is what we will destroy said my story.

I don't want to be special, or a symbol, to anyone because of my failure. I don't want people to look at me and think about what they could have done differently. I want to be ignored and treated indifferently until I have a reason to be acknowledged, and I fear my sojourn home will yield results opposite. My friends are my friends because they are my family in so many ways. They will be glad to see me regardless of my accomplishments/shortcomings. I can survive as an individual in their embrace, but I want identity beyond that provided by some disconnected social network. My group of friends in Kentucky establishes themselves as people by connecting on an individual philosophy of noninterference and superiority. I love them for that, and I probably influenced that disposition, and that is part of my identity, but I want to evolve beyond that person, and I want to remain a friend to my friends. Is it possible?

Will my friends be willing to discuss my pitfalls or their plans for a brighter future? Can we relate on a level beyond loneliness in a world of social creatures? Like a sovereign nation we isolated ourselves from the influences of our society and families. We were something transcendent and ultimately flawed. We each led beautiful lives full of significance in our sphere of influence, but it was limited to our sphere of friendship and comradery. If we strive only to influence and impact that sphere, then we are on the right track. I believe, however, the world is bigger than that and so is our humane responsibility. Each of us is a good person. Together, though, I fear we boundarize and confine our potential. We can do good for the world, and we want to, but I don't know if we can do it together.

The Vibe -TS-C9-

I spent the early part of my nineteenth birthday with my mother in Nashville. We saw a David Sedaris play. I had a feeling something was in the works for an after party, mother not invited, after I got a phone call asking what I was doing at ten o'clock. Surpassing my expectations, when I returned to my apartment, a candlelit black tie party was starting in my honor. Friends are awesome. I put on my Steak & Shake uniform, including bow tie, because it was by far the most dignified set of clothes I owned. Martinis were made out of straight gin and grenadine. I was hugged and congratulated on my chronological accomplishment. People I did not know mingled and chortled throughout the evening. It was a fantastic and four star mockery of adulthood.

After the crowds dissipated and the alcohol expired, the coffee boys hatched a plan. "Plan" might be a bit of an overstatement. We decided to go to Steak & Shake, Dan promising he was ok to drive, a statement no sober person would believe. We stole a sign striking our fancy from the neighbor that said something along the lines of, "Nailing signs to trees kills trees." It amused us so we took it and departed. I don't especially remember the drive there, but I do remember the phone call from Mac who was left behind. I abandoned the party thrown for me, and I should be ashamed was the gist.

Mac was upset that we didn't invite him. He wished he was there for me throwing myself down flights of stairs and the sign theft. Of course Mac didn't express those feelings, I don't know if he recognized them, but ultimately he was mad he wasn't included. Steak & Shake and the hours spent there were nothing special except for the air of community surrounding them. For a bunch of weirdos and high school failures, the diner was the place we went to feel special. We smoked our cigarettes and made our jokes safely inside the bubble protecting us from the powers and peoples that told us how much we were screwing our lives.

Something hung in the air with the smoke at Steak & Shake. Maybe it was the youthful rebellion and stupidity manifest in every mohawk or nervous teenager buying his date a Berry Berry Cobbler. Perhaps the joy of Steak & Shake came from its late night nature. "This is where we gather when you tell us to sleep," could easily have been its motto after 10 pm. The nurturing environment was open to anyone at all hours, so it might be its suicide-hotline nature that made everyone inside feel warm and fuzzy. I don't know for sure where it stemmed from, but inside of Steak & Shake there was a vibe as thick as the milkshakes.

Similarly, the night of my birthday, the restaurant was as packed as the vibe. Every table was occupied and a line extended outside the door. My memory is an out of body experience. I can see myself sitting on a chair inside the restaurant, near the door. Julie approached me and wished a happy birthday. I think there was a hug. My head lolled and my eyes probably understood the dining room with motion-blurred disregard, but all I can recall is the crisp vision of a restaurant in high business struggling to survive. Julie and the other servers scurried and worried to satisfy the demands of their tables. This was one of those nights where as integral as the coffee boys were to the Steak & Shake experience, we couldn't be recognized as the dignitaries we were.

The night continued to bustle, and as we waited,  still from an out of body perspective, waitresses came by to bid us welcome and complain about the high volume business the restaurant was receiving. Several joked and asked if I wanted to get on the clock. Stovall made it by to wish a happy birthday with some insult. Here we were more than the average chili-seeking drunk. Steak & Shake was the family we wished for but did not need. At Steak & Shake no one pestered us about homework or drunken indiscretions. I can only speak for myself, but I can hypothesize for everyone. The third shift crowd, outside of the rushes, were crowds of regulars that reeked of a disapproving home life. Bondage pants and boasts of sexual prowess told their real stories in subtext.

Steak & Shake was a rehab center for those told they were wrong.

This Weekend Sucked

She was on the couch, not passed out, but barely awake. She moaned and hid her head in a pillow. He was tucked into the other side of the couch, pinned by her legs. He massaged her feet. I don't think that was what was hurting. I ignored the situation. She was a sick eighteen year old discovering alcohol, and the story was as old as college.

I sat on my floor with a different her across from me.  Also on the floor, a chessboard sat between us. My dog knocked the pieces over. I said I won.

Through my window we, the drinkless chessers, listened to the debauchers. Drunk and temporarily happy they laughed at nothing and screamed at more. A plan founded on exploitation and painted with good intentions drifted into my room. "I'll take her home with me." I sought out the plansmith. I objected: No, she will stay here. Angry, he objected in turn and argued for her abduction. Sober versus drunk, he lost and sulked outside. I took his place on the couch. Her eyes were shut and her lips mumbled sentiments only she understood. One sentiment was heard, though.

"Please, don't let them take me anymore." I won't, I promised.

I lifted her weight and sat next to her so my body supported hers. Water in a red solo cup was delivered. Later, when her eyes opened, she looked at the cup and said, "Fuck you, cup." On the verge of tears she fought the water. Drunk versus sober she lost. It came up quicker than it went down. I lost control of her head and her face collapsed into the trash can I held with my knees. I made fun of her because I knew she wouldn't care or remember, but also to entertain myself and ignore Lord Creep's plan.

Lord Creep came back into the living room. He apologized for being rude to me. He explained he thought I was a good guy and I like to do the right thing. "That's cool," he finished. His attitude paralleled approval of a religion different from one's own. "You don't like rape? Oh, that's cool," he might as well have said. His voice was loud and the girl on my shoulder moaned in protest. My chess partner asked him to quiet down and he made a face and flipped her off while she wasn't looking.

The drunks assembled in the living room while I held the girl. They left for another party and left their prey, a tainted carcass, to be discarded.

I Wonder if I'll get Credit for This?

To defend this entry, let me say that I think it is pretty pertinent to class as far as rhetoric goes. Also, I spent a couple of hours on it, so I think it's legit. It's long, I apologize, but to sum it up, Dave and I have drastically different political opinions, the main difference being that he is crazy and I'm wicked smart and on top of shit.

From Facebook:

Dave Linsalata Obama given the peace prize cause he is black. What has he really done to deserve it? If Obama had intregrity and believed in peace, he would put an end to all of the wars and U.S. occupations

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

From a civil rights perspective that makes a lot of sense. Somehow I imagine him being black wasn't the only criteria for the selection. You got a link or something?

Dave Linsalata

What has he actually accomplished? According to the story, The Nobel Committee had him voted in by Feb 11TH, shortly after he was inaugurated. They picked him based on the color of his skin, which is exactly contrary to the ideals of Dr. Martin Luther King - who was a true peace prize winner.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

He's a symbol of our country. As a country we overcame a long history of racism that still exists today by voting him into office with a landslide. He's taking a rather selfless and somewhat self-defeating approach to bipartisanship, trying to overhaul health care and making the best of 2 wars left with him in shambles. He's doing pretty good for the country he was put in charge of.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

And somehow I think MLK would be down with the O'

Dave Linsalata

He could have pulled our troops out and ended these wars when he first got into office, he didn't.

He could have ended the patriot act, he didn't.

He could have helped reduce the debt/deficit, he didn't. He increased it 10 fold.

He called afghanistan a war of "necessity." Obama has made afghanistan his war. We still have to get out of Iraq.

Many whites voted for him based on race, and that defeats the purpose of overcoming racism. They voted for him out of a sense of white guilt, with a complete disregard for his policy or his views.

Obama has perpetuated wars and added more debt for our generation to deal with - he has compounded the problems that Bush started - he has done nothing to end middle-east resentment toward us. I am no fan of Bush, but Obama is all talk, no action, no integrity, just another politician in an empty suit.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

"Many whites voted for him based on race, and that defeats the purpose of overcoming racism. They voted for him out of a sense of white guilt, with a complete disregard for his policy or his views." Can you back that up with any sort of credible study? He won the election in a 300something to 100something margin, that was because of white guilt?

As far as the wars go, what are we supposed to do? Pull out 100% and leave a power vacuum to be filled with whoever has the most guns? He's making more headway in Afghanistan than we did in the past 8 years. Have you seen the lists of Taliban leaders captured/killed? And, like, what do you think we should do about the debt? Cut all social spending? Cut military funding? Education? As a society we funded our deficit. As a society we have to climb out of it and that's going to take some spending. It's not like theres an on/off switch for debt.

As far as the award goes, from CNN:

"I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments. But rather as an affirmation of American leadership. ... I will accept this award as a call to action." -Obama

"Only very rarely has a person to the same extent as Obama captured the world's attention and given its people hope for a better future," the committee said.

Are a bunch of super smart Norwegians political stooges for USA agendas? Somehow I doubt that. Shit, he hasn't done everything right, but to say his only accomplishment is having a black father isn't fair.

Dave Linsalata

"As a society we have to climb out of it and that's going to take some spending."

No, it'll take saving, not spending. It'll require we cut social programs. It's time for people to quit being dependent on the government, Sam. Our country was built on individual responsibility, not government dependence.

The same people who say we can not leave Iraq and Afghan immediately, are the same people who said the wars would be a cakewalk - so I do not believe the fearmongering. If we leave, we increase our respect, because as we continue to fight - we draw more resentment from the region. We cause more hatred from muslims. Innocent people continue to be killed - I don't see how any human rights activists can support this war.

It's time to leave now, it's time to get out. The more they delay, the more difficult it will be to get out - that is my point. But Obama will perpetuate the wars and spending - which got us into trouble in the 1st place.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

So...you're plan is to quit the wars and cut government spending? You think that everyone hurt by the economic depression, or by disease, is a mooch? The reason we have a government is because a society left to its own devices will collapse. The strong will exploit the weak and blame them. We're only as strong as the weakest of us. What's so bad about asking for help? Like maybe we should stop government spending on road maintenance, or schools, or the fire department, or our military, or our police force, or our medicare, or our social security, or our defense of the right to happiness. A sustainable economy isn't formed by dropping pennies in a piggy bank. You build a healthy, educated population and down the road it pays off.

Dave Linsalata

I am saying that we are perpetuating our problems Sam - continuing to print money and inflate the currency is going to hurt poor people in the long run even more. We are borrowing trillions from China to finance our debt, we are printing money, which has led to the devaluation of our dollar - which means prices on all goods and services will continue to go up . Monetary policies must be fixed (the federal reserve must be audited) but Obama has given these central banks more power and more authority.

I never said everyone who has been hurt by this recession is a mooch. You are just putting words in my mouth.

You have no evidence that a society collapses without a government. I am not promoting elimination of government, but the federal govt. is supposed to be very limited. It isn't their duty to coddle with other nations, form alliances, bully other nations, etc. We need to worry about our own nation and we must remove the troops to save money and lives.

Private enterprise has done way more then government can ever do. Roads and Bridges can and are usually built by PRIVATE COMPANIES. You seem to think that it is the government's responsibility to hold society together, instead of the hard working ethic of the individual. Our country is based on SELF-GOVERNMENT and independence and liberty. The constitution clearly states that no federal money should be used for the arts or for education. The department of education is an unconstitutional department, like many other things.

There is poor people in all nations. There is poverty in all nations and you can't stop that. But our country used to be the most well informed, well read, most healthy, until we started to ask the government to bail us out.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

Um...in international terms, it is our government's responsibility to deal with other countries. Our we supposed to fly to China individually to discuss commerce? Should I have gone to Afghanistan and punched Bin Laden in the face?

And I do have evidence that a country collapses without government because there is no international presence founded on anarchy.

And you're right, you didn't call anyone a mooch, but who do you think needs to stop depending on government then? And why? And what is the alternative?

And private companies execute public works through government funding. If we wanted a road...the people who benefitted from it would have to finance it without government intervention. So it would be self taxing. So what's the difference?

Yeah, there are poor people and there always will be as long as money exists. That doesn't give the rich an excuse to exploit them, though. The president of Bank of America just got fired and ended up getting over 100 million dollars in severance and compensation. He benefitted from a system run by the rich to keep the rich rich. I think that needs to change, and it changes by funding the poor with money and faith (faith in humanity, not religious faith)

Dave Linsalata

It isn't our responsibility to deal with any countries Sam. The founders were clearly against forming alliances. Jefferson once said.. "Commerce with all nations, have alliances with none." Forming Alliances is actually a bad idea contrary to conventional wisdom. When you form alliances, you put your country in harm's way. Other nations can see that as antagonistic. Our country has become very antagonistic toward other nations, like Iran, telling them what they can and can't have.

Some private companies do execute through public funding, sure, but many do not, they do so because private companies and business build America - it's called initiative and responsibility. You can't just tax everything and throw money at every problem and expect that things will be taken care of.

You think the poor should be given handouts? Do you think hard working people should have their money stolen, and given to poor people? You are basically promoting wealth redistribution. 

Much of the problems you are discussing have to deal with monetary policy and the weakening of the dollar. In the 60's and 70's, the dollar could buy even the lowest classes a lot more then it can buy them now. People were much better off overall 30 years ago then they are now. The dollar has lost 96% of it's value since 1913. While there is a lot of corruption in big business, you are only examining one part of the problem.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

Ok, that's fair, the problem is bigger than the rich exploiting the weak. But...let me get this straight, your proposed international policy is to stop political and commercial partnerships with other countries? If I'm wrong please tell me what you are actually proposing.

Dave Linsalata

No, I believe in trade and commerce and friendship with countries, but not this idea of "alliances." By alliance, I mean we shouldn't be mingling with other nation's who have different ideals then us. For instance, our constitution says congress must declare war. We can't just simply go to war on behalf of our people because are "alliance," is calling for our help. We are a sovereign nation and must continue to defend it's sovereignty like the founders intended. I believe that our alliances with other nations serve us wrong - they are antagonistic. We have gotten into this business of trying to police the world and call on other nation's to join us in trying to put sanctions on other countries like Iran. I think it's hypocritical. We bomb other countries and innocents die, and then we have the nerve to tell Iran what they must or must not do, otherwise we will sanction them or bomb them? We have become a country that believes in conquest and nation building. We need to mind our own business and return to true American ideas.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

We were always a country that believed in conquest and empire building. It goes by different names in history, but it started with killing and subjugating native populations, and finished with manifest destiny, as far as our land holding goes. We've always had economic stakes in other places of the globe, or at least since we actually had some sway in the world. What's the difference between friendship and an alliance? Just semantics, if you ask me. Also I'm a little troubled by your thinking we shouldn't mingle with nations with ideals different from ours. Competing ideas and beliefs is how things get better. Intellectual evolution. May the best idea win.

Dave Linsalata

Friendship means you are willing to trade with other nations and commerce with them. Alliance means you are willing to put the expense of your nation on the line for the sake of some other countries wishes.

For instance Sam, many of the Brits supported Bush's war at the start because their sense of "alliance," made them feel obligated - but as time went on, they saw that was a mistake.

When I say alliance, I mean intermingling policies. Commerce and trading can occur without discussing foreign policies. We are our own country and we shouldn't be forced into anything unless we decide as a people to do so.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

I'm personally glad for military alliances. Those alliances support commerce and national security, for ourselves and others. I don't think it is giving up sovereignty but rather acknowledging that we aren't the only country in the world. If the dollar was confined to our country's borders, it would collapse a whole lot faster. If we didn't have military and trade alliances, it would be confined to our country.

A TANGENT FROM THIS CONVO

Dave Linsalata Read my latest entry. http://davelinsalata.com/the-ingredients-to-obamas-kool-aid-white-guilt/

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

So...your credible study is your theory that because white people feel guilty about slavery they voted for Obama? I don't think white people really feel that guilty. In fact I think they get off on being on top, since we have been since slavery. There are poor white people, but who runs this country? Rich white men. That institution is beingchallenged, and the powers that be don't like it. So are we talking about some racist plot that only exists in Beck and Limbaugh fear mongering, or why Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize?

As far as the war in Afghanistan goes, we were attacked. Remember to never forget. Obama is hunting the Taliban, and doing a pretty good job of it considering everything else on his plate.

Dave Linsalata

"In fact I think they get off on being on top, since we have been since slavery."

Hey Sam, who sold their own people into slavery? Black people handed them over to whites! Do you want to talk about that? And which whites "Get off?" Sure some people enjoy the fame, but some people who own big business actually give jobs to people - it's called capitalism, free enterprise - are you against these evil white men who give hundreds of thousands of jobs? You know, like Bill Gates.

"There are poor white people, but who runs this country? Rich white men."

'As far as the war in Afghanistan goes, we were attacked. Remember to never forget. Obama is hunting the Taliban, and doing a pretty good job of it considering everything else on his plate."

We were attacked by a group of people, not the country or government of Afghanistan. We have no business being there. But like Iraq, the blood of all of these innocent people is on the hands of Bush and Obama. Innocent civilians are dying in afghan just like Iraq, but somehow this is ok or justified because Obama is ordering it? Come on dude, you are just promoting double speak when you say Bush's wars are wrong, but Obama's are ok. They are both unjustified because neither country attacked us.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

I think Afghanistan makes sense as a war. The war in Afghanistan was going poorly cause no one gave a shit about it until Obama came into office. Iraq doesn't make sense so I won't defend it, but if we leave immediately it will make recovery much harder on the country.

So...black people sold their people into slavery and that makes it ok? Why are we even talking about slavery? My point is exploitation of blacks in America created a social platform that elevated our country to a national power, and leading the way were rich white men. Left behind was a sub-social/economic class of people, and the reverberations from that exist today. Obama's election marked a monumental step forward in our country's racial tolerance.

I'm not saying being rich is bad. Good for Bill Gates and Warren Buffett. The problem is that very many with money and influence use it to further their own ends more than their employees. Look at the coal mines in Kentucky, or the people hurt routinely by their insurance providers. Be rich, great, but be watched very closely, is my point. Obama is watching them, or at least pretending to, and they don't like it. I think that's where most of the opposition stems from.

Dave Linsalata

The war is going poorly because there is nothing we can DO to STOP THEIR WAY OF LIFE. Sam, they have been fighting for thousands of years - we aren't going to ROOT out terrorism. It is a naive and foolish objective. Iraq was a failure and so is afghanistan. We have no right to invade their country and guess what? Innocent people die as a result of our invasion. It isn't just. Tell me how it is just Sam. Did their people or government ever attack us? No.

Dave Linsalata

The war will continue to cost us lives. You know, it's always other people fighting our wars. Would you go fight this war Sam if you believe it is just? Or should someone else fight it for you? The majority of our country was opposed to Iraq and is opposed to perpetuating this war with Afghan. The government uses our military in a foolish way - making them fight on the other side of the world. They should be home defending the homeland, but instead they are fighting a worthless war and dying for nothing. Afghanistan is not an imminent threat to us, either is Iran, and now our country is trying to bully them around. It just amazes me.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

Well, when we invaded Afghanistan the Taliban was pretty much in charge, and since they were the entity that attacked us, I think it is just retaliation and makes sense from a defense stand point since they don't have any intentions of not hating us any time soon. And...as far as changing their lifestyles, you get its not a cultural war, right? We're not fighting Islam. We're fighting the people that attacked our country, and continue to try to attack us. We aren't attacking the government institutions in Afghanistan or their mosques, we're looking for "terrorists". I support that. And no, I won't fight that war because I think I can help the country just as much through other venues.. We don't have a draft, so everyone fighting signed up voluntarily. If I was drafted, yeah, I would go.

All of that applies to Afghanistan, not Iraq. I wouldn't protest a total withdrawal from Iraq, but I wouldn't advocate it either.

Dave Linsalata

So how do we exactly win the war there? You say it isn't a cultural war, but let me ask you this: Do you think the muslims over there like our invasion? No, they do not. And Bin Laden actually prefers that we are over there on their turf. This war causes more resentment. You can say all you want that the taliban did it, so we must attack their country. But what is your definition of victory?

They have been fighting for thousands of years, Sam. We can't put an end to terrorism - it is naive and foolish to think we can root out terrorism.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

Right...but they attacked us, that's the historical separation. Victory to me is killing Bin Laden and permanently disbanding the Taliban, or forcing them into some pathetic semblance of a political force like the Aryan Nation. Of course "the Muslims" don't like us invading. But they are glad to be rid of the Taliban, and there are polls to support that.

Dave Linsalata

I think part of our debate hinges upon time. Let's see in a few years how much public support there is for this war. Remember Bush's war had good support at the start, but when reality set in, many people lost faith in the war. I personally never supported his wars, and will not support this war. I think the public will wake up to that but it will take time. You will see Obama's ratings fall if he sends more troops to afghan and this war goes on for a few years and tons of soldiers die, and debt continues to pile up, and Afghan is still the same corrupt country - then the public will see Obama's policies are no better.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

I mean, I think Bush's support fell when it became clear he didn't give a shit about the Taliban and was just looking for a foot hold in the Middle East. That's why I'm supporting Obama because he's refocusing military attention on the only legitimate beef we had over there.

Dave Linsalata

It comes down to this for me Sam - I can never support a war that I will never fight in myself. If they are such a threat and I feel threatened, then I would join and fight. I don't believe they are an imminent threat. Regardless of the fact that our army is voluntary, I believe if an individual feels threatened and wants to protect his country, they will go and fight for it, not wait on another individual or group to do so.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

Ok, that's fair, but I think its a bit impractical. If everyone got up and fought in Afghanistan when the approval rating was through the roof our country's infrastructure would collapse.

Dave Linsalata

My point is this: Many people talk and talk about how we need to be over there. But many of these people who wouldn't send their sons or daughters, and these congressman and our government can talk all they want about how we need to defend our security, but would they go fight or send their loved ones to do so? No - it's always SOMEONE ELSEfighting the war's for them, even though most people are opposed to this war.

Actually, most liberals do not want a troop increase. It'll be interesting to see if Obama caves into the republicans fear mongering on this, or will he draw back? I think he will cave in and send more troops.

Dave Linsalata

Who is "we," - it is not you and Me Sam - it is the military doing the bidding of our government. Regardless of how much someone says this war is noble and that they believe in it, it is hard for them to make such a statement if they are unwilling to put their life on the line. But that is just my view.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

I think that's strictly a military decision that is unfortunately politicized. I don't have the info or knowledge to make a real call there. As a human, I don't want to see a troop increase, but I'll leave that judgement to the full bird colonels and 4 star generals.

Samuel Lumsden Landfried

If the country forced me to, I wouldn't run to Canada, I would go to war. But thankfully we're not in a situation where we have to do that. I honestly believe I can make a more valuable contribution to the country than as a soldier.

Hoooooooooooooo boy I hope no one did the injustice to themselves of actually reading that. If you did though, is it just me, or does every time Dave use my name sound really condescending?