Hell No! We Won't Go! Well, I guess maybe. Depends if theres a cover.

I just wrote a 16 page paper for one of my classes. I am a creative writing major and it is the longest thing I have written all semester. It was a summary of The Golden Compass, a fantastic fantasy novel that I read in junior high. It was the single piss-poorest assignment I have ever done. I am quite mad that I did it. What a complete and utter waste of time. Why did U of A put this professor in charge of 600 students 3 hours a week? I give a vote of zero confidence. Just...what an utter waste of time. Give me a prompt. "How did the author use human and animal relationships to further the narrative?" Something like that. Don't tell me to summarize every chapter. Ask a fifth grader to do that. Actually don't cause its a pointless assignment for them, but at least theyre not paying for that education and if they blow it off they won't incur the wrath of a lowered gpa. The classes I hate are the hardest. That makes sense I suppose, and I'm glad I'm not inherently opposed to organized academics. A part of me, no, ok, all of me, loses self respect when I actually participate in this ruse of academics.

The Rat Faced Bastard -TS-C4-

Anthony Stovall

Funny compulsive liar

A rat faced bastard

That was a haiku, for you mouth breathers. What to say about Anthony Stovall... Let me come clean up front. I love the man. He is one of those fantastic people that gains power from complete and total self involvement, as undeserved as it might be. He was confident and proud. I use his last name because of all the people I might write about I think he alone might be amused (probably not, though). Also, he went by "Stovall" so it would be a little confusing for me to call him Anthony. Our relationship was one of, for the most part, playful antagonism. One night both of us in were high spirits, a-twinkle-eyed and ready for amusement. I put my face within inches of his, and articulated, over emphasizing every syllable, "Faggot". He chuckled and said, "If I was your boss I'd fire you." He was a guy who could take a joke, and I think that is an indispensable quality in a human. However, he had some qualities that to my thinking were dispensable.

If you believed him, at the age of sixteen he was managing a Wal Mart, attending a military school where his drill seargent took him and his peers to a back alley where they engaged in underground fight club style brawls, and was banned from using a computer on account of the two charges of "virtual grand larceny". Also, I think he had some level 70 warlock or something in the MMORPG Everquest. I believe one of those things. To be fair, I have no evidence to contradict any of his stories. Perhaps he really does own a four story mansion in Asheville that he doesn't live in for tax purposes. Maybe he really did get kicked out of the casinos for counting cards (Although he said he counted cards in Texas Hold 'Em, which to my understanding is impossible and just a stupid concept that sort of exposes how little you actually know about numbers or cards).

For all of his shortcomings though, he was a natural leader. Monday through Friday he would show up at Steak & Shake at nine PM and stay until the bitter end at six AM, sometimes later. He took a pride I will never understand in his job and really did keep things running as smoothly as possible. We, the servers and cook staff, were afraid to question him and at the same time liked him. He was funny and had a strong personality. He was skilled in the verbal fencing of alpha-maleism and did not back down. He was wrong usually,  regardless of the situation, but he recognized that wasn't the important part. He led and conducted and would not allow question to his command because in all honesty we, for the most part, were looking to subordinate and undermine. He knew he was fighting us, but he had fun doing it, and so did we.

When things slowed down around four in the morning, he would take a booth, bring a newspaper and smoke and drink coffee. We would join him and he welcomed our company with coded messages like, "You don't have something you need to be doing?" But he wouldn't tell us to leave. He would tell us about his fantastic adventures, how if he hadn't gotten his girlfriend pregnant he would be a Delta Force sniper. We would arm wrestle and he would smile when he won, which was always. He was a comically built man. Short and skinny to a fault, he was made of rubber band muscles and skin pulled tight from years of smoking and a life less than indulgent. I don't think he was thirty yet, and he was balding. His teeth were bad, a symptom of a poor Midwestern childhood. Still he smiled proud and unapologetic, as one should smile when forced into circumstances undesirable as well as uncontrollable. His nose, though, is what made me call him a rat faced bastard. Pointy and pronounced, it involuntarily convulsed in sniffles above his rodent like buck teeth. He was not pretty, but the strength of his character quickly forced you to forget that. I liked him because he reminded me that truly it is not what you are on the outside but who  you are on the inside. I mean that in sort of a fucked up way. I didn't especially like who he was on the outside or inside, but regardless he was strong physically and mentally even if he needed a fabricated world and delusions of grandeur to achieve such confidence. I respect that. What is the alternative? To admit to the world that in fact you're pretty useless and obnoxious? To curl up and let the freight train of life crush you and split you into smaller and smaller segments of subhumanity? Bravo Stovall, keep fighting the good fight (which in your case is the douche bag fight but lets not split hairs).

Before I was an employee, Stovall was the man that welcomed myself and the crew into the Steak & Shake brotherhood. Sure, we had the approval and favor of several of the servers, even angry old Shirley, but as long as the management frowned on us loafing and mooching, we were the outsiders. Stovall saw the attention we were getting from the young and pretty servers Andrea and Julie. Alpha-radar detecting a threat to his reign he approached us. A jovial confrontation that lasted for every subsequent visit to Steak & Shake ensued. We learned to like each other and we tossed around insults in a very friendly way. All of the sudden we had official sanction and Stovall was as excited to see us as any of the staff. In fact, he approved of us drinking for free, I'm not sure how he felt about the chili rations. As long as he established himself at the top of the totem he enjoyed our company, and we enjoyed his. He would sit with us and make fun of Jordan's neck beard or ask how gay we must be to never bring any girls with us. In our defense... wait, no, we really did never bring girls with us.

The management style used on third shift was pretty much what you would expect from someone like him. As long as the customers were happy, and no one was making Stovall's life any harder, he let us do as we please. The only company policy Stovall enforced with any tenacity was the no cell phones in the dining area rule. While busing tables I held my phone in the crook of my neck and carried the bus tray back to the dish washers and dumped it off. Stovall asked me to walk with him to the bank across the street to make the deposit. As if I had personally assaulted him, he threatened to "write me up" for the behavior and warned of repercussions if I continued to disrespect the holy code of Steak & Shake protocol. I'm not saying he was wrong, or that servers should be allowed to talk on their phones all the time, just his interest in maintaining the appearance of order was surprising to me.

As long as he was happy, we were happy. When pressure from the higher ups landed on his shoulders we felt the burden as well. Team meetings would take place in the break room. He would take two staff members into the back while the rest fended off the hordes of customers. When he was done with his first two victims he would put them back out on the floor and take two more into the shadows. The servers on the floor shared nervous looks and glanced at the entrance into the kitchen and break room like children staring at the locked door hiding fighting parents. When you went back in that room  he did his best to put his foot down. If we didn't like Stovall, if he wasn't fun and a real person, it would be easy to blow off the explosive "management". His tirade usually started with something about how this job was not a joke to him and this job put food on the table for his son  and if we wanted  to mess that up for him he'd hold the door open for us and say goodbye with a smile. He would scream. He would tell us how embarrassing it was that a table remained unbussed for five whole minutes after the party left. In his defense, maybe he really believed that the dirty table really did threaten the food supply of his child. Maybe he just knew how to push our buttons. Regardless, buttons were pushed and if Stovall was mad enough to pull us in for a conference I guarantee you the rest of the night was miserable. Solidarity among servers was a poor defense against his judgement, since most of us honestly valued him as not just a team member but a team leader. He was our boss. Mike and Ben and Will were guys we had to work with, and unfortunately they were higher on the totem pole than us but we held no special love for any of them. Their anger was laughable. Stovall's anger was personal. Even though we knew how absurd and inconsequential this job and his opinion was, we still felt like we let him down. So we tried  to do better.

Stovall would have done well as a football coach. He had a game plan and wasn't afraid to scream and hurt and humiliate to motivate his players. He always talked about some prize the corporate branch awarded to the best wait staff out of all the Steak & Shake restaurants. He spoke of it like it was the Super Bowl, the prize to keep our eyes on. I don't know if he was using it as a tool to motivate or if a part of his pride actually wanted some recognition from the bosses that only knew how to reinforce positive behavior by screaming and threatening the behavior they disagreed with, like veering from the script given to servers. The part of me that hopes for his well being prays it was a motivational ploy. Please, Stovall, don't whimper for your bosses with tail between your legs, hoping for that pat on your head.

Under the direction of Stovall the third shift crew at Steak & Shake was something of a local treasure. We had real, regular customers. An actual repertoire developed between staff and customers. These people kept coming back for more because in a weird, professional sort of way we were friends. Stovall allowed us, for the most part, to be humans. Once all the other managers left for the rest of the night he was OK with us undoing our bow ties and wearing them dangling from our neck. He overlooked us grabbing a bowl of cherries for the customers that asked for them and when things got busy he'd grab a bus pan or run drinks and food for us. The customers of Steak & Shake all night long were treated like humans by humans and it cultivated a sort of counter culture of love and humanity led by none other than the rat faced bastard.

i got this photo from his myspace

Management -TS-C3-

Earlier I said it is great being eighteen because you don't realize how much of an idiot you are. I imagine when I am twenty five I will write about how awesome twenty two is because you don't realize that every one hates you and you are still an idiot. However, as a now mature adult, looking back at the other mature adults managing my life in those Steak & Shake days, I have to laugh a little bit. Thirty to fifty somethings did their best to run this masquerade ball every night by using the most embarrassing and ineffective management techniques available. 


For example, Mike, the general manager that many argued was a "dry drunk", commanded his troops with incomprehensible mumbles, angry and large hand gestures and a complete inability to articulate instructions to get anything done but an equally impressive ability to let you know how angry he was that you did not execute his non-plan correctly. On a busy night, when inevitably someone screwed up an order and put "cheese" on fries that was not ordered, the plate would be returned to the kitchen. Through the foot wide slot between the dining room and the kitchen Mike would glare at you, and then the plate, and then grunt like a bull ready to stampede. He'd grab the plate and declare, "Fug shulp guff." The situation would resolve itself and he would threaten to make the server pay for the wasted food. That food, by the way, was thrown away to discourage servers from intentionally screwing up the orders for a free meal. I ate the food out of the trash if no one was watching, so jokes on them. 


Another manager, named Will, tried a much more personable approach to management. He knew he was your friend and he knew that you admired his lush moustache and wanted nothing more than to grow up exactly like him. So, happy to mentor, he would tell stories about his internet girlfriends and how pretty soon she was going to visit from Korea, but he'd be goddamned if she was going to try to get a free ride out of him for her kids. What is the world coming to when you can't even trust the love of your life you met on the internet in a country on the other side of the world? Unfortunately, most of his stories weren't this exciting. Too many involved the megapixels on his new camera or how he upgraded his internet speed; probably a good call if you're downloading your love every night. My absolute favorite interaction with him was roughly half way through my Steak & Shake career. One late Winter night I sat in the break room by myself, massaging my Beatle hair with a pen and massaging my lungs with carcinogens. In walks Will. He sits down and with the air of an international spy delivering code words to earn my trust, he asked, "Hypothetically, what would you say if I told you I heard you were the biggest pot dealer in Bowling Green?" Hypothetically, I would laugh. Hypothetically, I would feel very sorry for you because you project an exciting life of underground goings-ons and intrigue on your actual life of failure culminating in a minimal exercise of influence over twenty year olds and senior citizens who hate only themselves more than you. I denied my involvement with the high risk lifestyle of a Bowling Green, KY trafficker and Will nodded and smiled. Playing along with my game he continued, "Of course, but if I needed to get some pot where do you think I might look?" I believe he still thinks I was a dealer. If I was a dealer why in God's name would I work at Steak & Shake? I don't even like pot, but that is besides the point. The remainder of interactions with Will involved him yelling at you when you didn't have a silverware cup in your bus tray because goddamnit those forks will scratch the plates and do you want to pay for those plates? They're not free you know. Oh, and there was some drama with rape charges against him from a coworker. The establishment's response was to move him from one Steak & Shake branch to another. And I think they fired the waitress who brought the allegations. 


The last manager of note that won't be a pivotal character is Ben. Poor, poor Ben. He was the youngest manager, I believe. He had a fiancee and plans to move to Pittsburgh where surely his life would turn around. He also had a love affair with alcohol and cocaine. He was a very nice guy. I have no ill will towards Ben and I think he was the most effective and intelligent manager. When he was in charge things were fun. They were lighthearted, and  the absurdity of the whole situation was understood. The customer throwing a fit because his Frisco Melt didn't have enough 1,000 Island Dressing got a meal comped and the staff laughed after he left. However, it was a struggle to discard the signs of turmoil surrounding Ben. The cloud of whiskey smell followed him like the rumors that he knew where the cameras couldn't see, and that's where he stashed his Jim Beam. More power to him, if you ask me. If that was my life I would need a little consciousness numbing too. The freezer, in addition to preserving sacks of chili, froze the stench of marijuana. One night, I didn't see, I just heard, Ben threw his keys in the safe, told another manager he quit, started crying, and admitted to a crippling addiction to cocaine. The next day he was back and we didn't mention the incident. He was still smiling. The break down coincided with a story I heard through the grapevine about Ben's fiancee coming home (they lived together) with a man and introducing Ben to him, explaining that if he wanted to start bringing home women it would be fine with her because she didn't plan on curbing her sexual indiscretions. I don't think they ever moved to Pittsburgh. 


For the most part, these managers maintained the day time Steak & Shake, the Steak & Shake that catered to farmers in the morning and single mothers in the evening. At night, though, a different management style emerged. It was the management style of Anthony Stovall and he was a key player in my re-education. He deserves a chapter of his own, so, get ready: SEGUE. Oh, if you actually know Stovall, imagine him riding a Segue. Pretty awesome, huh?

couldnt find a picture of stovall so enjoy bourdain

So it Begins -TS-C2-

So I got the job. I think this is where the story starts. I think this is a story. You be the judge.

You know what's awesome about being eighteen? You're such an idiot, no matter what, I don't care if you're the smartest eighteen year old ever, you're still an idiot. But you don't realize it. In fact, speaking from personal experience, you're pretty confident that you are in fact not an idiot, just everyone else is. I happen to be an authority on the subject since I did some investigation and actually lived the life of an eighteen year old for a whole year, just to see what it was like. I was eighteen when I began that experiment.

My initiation into the world of serving, waiting, or whatever you want to call it, was fairly lack luster and did not reflect the glamor and excitement I expected. Some part of me just took it for granted that serving at Steak & Shake would be as entertaining as the countless hours I invested as a customer. Actually, in retrospect, I had a lot more fun serving, but the first few go throughs did not reflect this. They started me out in training with some dumb, fat, white trash girl that was profoundly boring and somehow condescending. I imagine it was a rare opportunity where she encountered someone she actually had some sway over, or someone that wasn't in a position to point out her general nature of sucking hardcore. It is a little bit embarrassing to be trained on how to serve. It is a fairly simple concept. You introduce yourself to a table, convince them to tell you what they would like to eat and or drink. Then you retrieve those things for them. To simplify this mind-bendingly-complicated process, servers at Steak & Shake were expected to memorize and religiously employ a form of short hand that was incomprehensible to anyone not trained in the Steak & Shake language. My theory is the establishment wanted to protect the orders of the customers in case our note pads were intercepted by the Muslims. An example of how awesome the abbreviations were, guess what "K" stood for? Coke. Why not C? Because C meant "cherry". Once we filled out our orders, we took our notepad to the computer where we punched in the order. Then a receipt printed out. We gave that to the cook staff. So, if I'm not making this clear, let me clarify. We had to learn and use this really stupid system that no one else would ever see unless they were trying to make sure you were using their retarded little system. If you weren't I think there was some repercussion. They probably made you wear your bow tie two notches too tight.

Did I mention the bow ties yet? We wore bow ties. We had to. I am not proud of things I have done in my life, and agree to be a bow tie faggot is above and beyond the most regrettable. Even more so than that girl I raped.

To further secure our tickets from the Taliban we threw them away after we wrote them out. Am I unjustifiably outraged by this? Are there people so stupid that they really cannot figure out a system with a piece of paper and a pen to record things like "Cheeseburger" or "Cheeseburger without onions" without needing a Rosetta Stone to decode them? Jesus Christ, I have worked myself into a proper rage. I wish I could say that is the end of my anger. I wish I could tell you I'm taking deep breaths right now and finding the quiet place in my solar plexus. My friends, this is not so. I didn't want to bring it up at first but now I think you must know. Further questioning how stupid people can actually be, I ask, is there anyone out there who does not know how to say hello? Ok, there are people with certain awkward approaches to interaction, but seriously you want to be a waiter? The world needs plenty of janitors my friend, and if you can't approach people that are trying to give them money and not entirely weird them out without a script, then you should seriously consider a career in waste management or explore your passion for suicide. My employers did not agree, so a script we had. Maybe I'm missing something about the psychology of eating at a shit hole diner like Steak & Shake with your family. Maybe you're so angry at your life that you need someone to laugh at and think, Thank God, at least I'm not that schmuck.

"Hello, welcome to Steak & Shake. My name is Sam, and I'll be your server today. Our soups are brocolli with cheese and grandma's liquefied vagina. Can I start you all out with some drinks?" Do you know how much of a tool you sound like when you spit out some clearly memorized bullshit like that? Do we really live in a world where earnest greetings and sentiments of welcome are only receivable in this freeze dried, microwavable and inhuman manner? Is that what you want from your waiter? A robot? C'mon you know that's bullshit. I would like to say that I made it an extreme point of pride not to do that as soon as left the womb like comfort of my trainer's wing. Play it by ear. Some people want that shpeel. Don't give it to them because they suck and you don't want their money anyways cause it probably has retard boogers on it and that shit is like cooties. Be polite, be welcoming, be sincerely nice because Jesus Christ these are the people that are going to pay your wages. Also, they are human beings. Do you really need an excuse to be nice to another human being? Unless of course they're spewing retard boogers out of their upturned noses.

The whole process that I learned from training (and then immediately discarded) puts the plight of America in center stage. Everything about a server's interaction with the customers was so entirely regimented that in five years a robot will be able to do that job and the customers will never know the difference. What is it about predictability that is so marketable? I do not want to go to a restaurant and mouth my server's speech along with them. It is not desirable to me to experience anything, including a dining experience, in some painful bubble of security where I am not required to consider another person as a person but a stooge, a tool for a company trying to execute individuality. Individuality is threatening so to make their customers feel completely at ease Steak & Shake used the guillotine business model and lopped off every employee's head so all that remained was a gaping neck spewing the blood oath of uniformity.

Training only took a few days. At first, I was nervous, and I earnestly tried to do it "right", which I put in quotes to emphasize how not right it actually was just in case you, the reader, are one of those retard booger people and are too stupid to wipe the drool off your chin. I would ask my fat white trash catastrophe trainer questions like, "Ok, well when do we give them refills?" And she would cite the employee manual that said we should refill drinks if ever we notice they are two thirds empty at the three minute first response after food delivery or at the fifteen minute check delivery/dessert pitch but not on the final check drop. At some point I actually thought, and I think most of the servers still think, that somehow this system mattered and made us better servers.

I survived. I whiled away my time in the break room. Two four person tables squeezed up against the wall in what was really a closet designated the relaxation area. Soda syrup traced glass rings on the tables. Salt and scraps of French Fries lent atmosphere to the room. This is where we were allowed to be humans. The younger servers would flirt with each other and play games while sucking on their cigarettes. The older servers would stare bitterly at the wall, like those white bricks dashed their dreams so many decades ago, while sucking on their cigarettes. A server has an interesting relationship with cigarettes. Dolphins swim majestic loops through the ocean and hunt for food, maintaining a pose of power and grace. They can only do it for so long though before the laws of nature force them to the surface where they ejaculate water out of the top of their heads with a wet fart noise. Servers dance through the dining area, juggling trays of food and too many glasses at once while smiling so hard the corners of their mouths crack and bleed. When they make it to that break room, though, they collapse into a chair and gasp for the nicotine that sustains them. Clutching at hair and holding back a tear they convince themselves that they just have to get through today, that if they make fifty dollars they can get their son a new backpack. Then they go back out there and they keep smiling and laugh almost too hard at the customers' jokes.

I sucked those cigarettes down, too. Not because I was so stressed out or had a strong dependency at that point, but because I was a kid and I was scared to be around these people that seemed to know something about the world. These were not my teachers anxiously aiding me to a grade. These people had their own issues. Not only did they not care about how callous my ex-girlfriend and her bull dyke mom were, they would not even think to ask. Dolphins are one of the three species of animals that kill for fun. These guys weren't going to try to kill me, but they sure as shit weren't going to hold me to their collective bosoms and promise me the world was going to be alright. So I sucked down those cigarettes and pretended like I didn't expect them to.

this one is a lot cooler than what we wore

School? I Have a Better Idea.-TS-C1-

The semester came to a predictably disappointing close. I don't remember what my grades were exactly. I could look easily, but it would just make me feel bad. I think my parents had some strongly worded conversations with me. I lied as best I could to play the role of a teenager lost in life trying to find what I was passionate about. They sort of bought it and were willing to play along at least. I didn't tell them about the hours upon hours of Halo I played. In my defense, I was pretty good and could still take you to school. That includes you Dan, you wanna go? So that appeared to be the end of my sparkling, meteoric academic ride. One semester and maybe two out of five classes passed? But I was doing great in the School of Hard Knocks. Well, I was doing pretty good in the online equivalent of the School of Hard Knocks, but its still accredited.  The important part was I now controlled my own destiny.

Thank God, I was free, just one more way I am exactly like William Wallace. I could live and smoke in my apartment like us youthful Gods were meant to live life: Halo until dawn, cigarettes on the porch, poker whenever possible, and, of course, Steak & Shake every night. Frequenting the diner almost every night in high school made sense. It was a stop on the underground railroad of adolescence. Vigilant were our parents, and our much needed indiscretions had to be concealed. "Study sessions" were a great cover. And smelling like smoke was perfectly acceptable when returning from a restaurant known to cater to the less looked after children-adults puffing on their bad choices. So when the crew made it to college, what kept us coming back? We had our own apartment. We had an awesome apartment. Something drove us out of it to pay for the exact same experience. Except the experience was not the same. Steak & Shake provided a sense of community that most of us hadn't encountered before. This was no youth group with condescending brain washers smiling uncomfortably at you. There were no chaperones on the field trip or codes of conduct to maintain. Here we had already achieved the level of independence college and "growing up" promised. At this restaurant, in our booths, we were what we wanted to be. So we returned again and again and again.

While I was in school, my parents supported me (suckers) and paid my rent and gave me a little extra, if I recall correctly. When I dropped that ball it eventually crossed my mind that rent money had to come from somewhere. I don't remember at what point I thought serving at Steak & Shake would be a good idea. It probably came up as a flirtatious joke with one of the waitresses or perhaps in some sort of playful competition with the manager, Anthony. However it happened, it did happen, and a few days later I found out how bizarre of a place Steak & Shake was in the daylight.

When light is shining in the windows, the staff is different. They don't know me, and they aren't playing with their customers. It is confusing. Throw in a new manager with a big bristly moustache handing you W-2 forms asking you about your felony record, and you find yourself asking if you are really in the right place. I toughed it out. I signed the papers and agreed to go buy some slip resistant shoes. I took the bow tie and the shirt. I shook hands, walked out the door, and realized for the first time that they weren't just going to pay me for hanging out.

Third Shift-Intro

That piece of paper summarized my semester. Those spots of ink created a puzzle that revealed my illiteracy. Had I done what I was supposed to, had I followed through on my commitments, I should have known calculus. It was all too clear that I did not, though. Frustrated and nervous, I started pondering what my parents' reactions would be. I also had not slept the night before, probably studying Combat Evolved instead with a long night of Halo, as was my routine. Blushing and avoiding eye contact, I left the test on my desk, grabbed my back pack and walked out of the room. Somehow I got a D in the class. Perhaps my theatrics earned me some sympathy because there is no way I did anywhere close to 60% of the work with 100% accuracy or 100% of the work with 60% accuracy.

My mom cried when I told her about that semester. Her son was retarded. He was the white trash she always condemned. She had raised a monster. What did this monster do? Well first he ot a job working a third shift waiting job at a low end diner, a haven for drunks and high school students at 3 am. Then he moved in with his girl friend six years his senior. Yes sir, things were looking up for old Sam Landfried.

Let me back up. I flunked out of school my freshman semester. This was the result of a brain and personality molded to deal with the world from a distant pedestal of superiority. What I did not do, it would be understood, was beneath me and no one would hold it against me for not doing it. I had more important, genius-boy things to do, like play Halo. I wish I could say my academic failings sprouted from some exciting coming of age drama, or a chemical dependency or a new rough crew of friends. Really though, it was video games. Video games and late nights of compulsive coffee drinking at Steak & Shake on Scottsville Road in Bowling Green, Kentucky.

In high school, and through some of college, it was a nightly tradition for me and the boys to saddle up in the cars spread out between us (Mac's Bronco, Dylan's Scrambler, sometimes my Mom's Saturn) and head to Steak & Shake. Sometimes boisterous we joke in the cars, vexing the drivers with wet willies or playful hands over the eyes. It is OK because on this stretch of road we are invincible. In the back of the Scrambler (an open bedded first incarnation of what is known today as the Jeep Wrangler) we stand, protesting the wind, holding the roll bar or sometimes standing hands free, fighting the gravity on turns, surfing. Julian sits on the tire mounted on the back gate and we are amused. We are invincible. Sometimes we are melancholy, contemplative, philosopher kings returning to our castle. A hand out the window floats up and down. Heads bob to The Eels, cigarettes are lit and we cruise. Regardless of the mood, something is empowering when we turn on to that stretch of Bowling Green's main road, well, one of three, and in the distance we can see only the shape of the glowing North star that we all know will read, white letters on black frame, "Steak & Shake". We're going home boys. Closer and closer, stronger and stronger we children feel. Usually some sort of vehicular shenanigan ensues on turning into the parking lot whether its slaloming the speed bumps or coming to a screeching halt in the parking space, inches from the curb. The latter would be Dylan showing off his impeccable, albeit manslaughterously careless, driving skills. We dismount the vehicles with the air of soldiers returning to US soil, or rather astronauts victorious strutting for the camera. The image in my head of our arrival is one in slow motion, Julian and I dramatically vault out of the Jeep bed. Mac coolly takes the long step to the ground from his Bronco and pulls the collar on his sheepskin and denim coat. Jordan drags hard on his cigarette, holding it with thumb and forefinger like a joint. His eyes probably squint and he flicks it into its asphalt grave with little regard as we all start to saunter.

The building and entire company markets itself as a retro diner. Lots of chrome, pleather, tile floors and a black, white and red color scheme are the agents of nostalgia. I imagine they expected to conjure memories in the aging customers of high school, sharing a malt with your sweet heart at the local soda fountain, man in white paper hat delivering the treat from behind a bar with a grin so wide it looks painful. Starting at breakfast all the way through dinner, this makes sense. Usually older, country folk come expecting a good old fashioned eggs, bacon and biscuits and gravy breakfast served by an overeager, young person, or families with kids appreciate the "fun" environment. Up until this point, the marketing of the restaurant makes sense. However, once the seniors and toddlers tuck themselves in for the night, Steak & Shake stays open. In fact, they never close, except on Christmas and...Thanksgiving? Day. That's when the weirdos come out, and if the smiling guy in the paper hat making your malt was actually from the 1950s, he'd probably grab a pitch fork or a crucifix once they started showing up.

The four to eight of us walk in through the glass front doors, through the foyer, and enter like gangsters into a casino. We nod to the manager, ignore the line of waiting patrons and take over a good third of the smoking section. We fill two booths and if the night is a good one eventually a third will come. We drink for free, and sometimes, depending on the server, we get soup for free. The best though, was chili. And God bless Andrea for she was the holy benefactor of our chili quota. "You want cheese with that, right?" Cheese, a dollar or so addition, she gave gratis like everything else. A beautiful individual, that one. We were benevolent, too. Between four of us, there would be a minimum of a ten dollar tip, usually. Granted, that was after we would stay for three hours or more.

Nocturnal and blissful were our extra curricular activities. I recall those days fondly. I miss that sweet and innocent euphoria earned by having your own space, by feeling like an adult. Most of all, though, I miss feeling invincible.

you cant actually get a steak

Denied Meat

You are my best friend and somehow I hate you. You wake me every morning before I am ready to get up. Your wet nose irritates my cheek and your tongue aggravates my lips. Groggy, you force my eyes open. Once we make eye contact your hooks dig in and you start to growl. Anxious you nimbly leap over me with an energy that this early angers me. Squatting by the door you continue to stare at me. A-wiggle bottomed you growl again. I turn over and put the covers over my head. Claws clicking on hardwood and the bed suddenly jumping and I know you have returned to start the process over. Finally I succumb to your harassment and I open the door. Surly and unkind I insult you. "Fine you fucking idiot, we'll do it your way. Right? Cause that's what we always do, right?" Excited you hop up on your back legs and continue the growl in the back of your throat. I make a pit stop at the bathroom, and you are displeased. Returning to your bottom-wiggling, hunched pose you await my return. Lo! I return. You continue your push to the back door. Like Lassie you lead me to the well, or in your case the door only I control. One more pit stop at the coffee pot and you try to make your displeasure as visible as possible. Bottom flat-out-vibrating, paws-a-hopping, and head-a-wagging you do your best to be patient but damnit you are pissing me off. The coffee starts percolating. Finally, the moment we have all been waiting for, your triumphant release into the wild. You as tired of me as I am of you, I slide the glass open and out you bound. Two steps into the world you could not wait for and you stop, like you always stop, and turn around. Heart broken, you stare at me, like you are realizing that I am not coming with you for the first time. It is not the first time. I sigh. This final concession I make to appease the desires of another living being, but like every morning  I am exasperated and my eyelids burn as they squint. I step outside, barefooted and boxered, onto the cool brick patio. You are the happiest thing alive in the entire world. You hop and bound five leaps forward right up to the patio table and I smile. You run back to me. You run away. You get your ball and shake it back and forth, a mauling instinct manifested in a much cuter way. You convince me that you are not so bad.

thats my girl

Self Analysis, at the price of a "clever" title

I noticed a whole lot of my writing takes on the command form, telling you what to do. I wonder why that is? Is it an arrogance? Maybe I believe I have all the answers and that you need to know them. I don't really think that's likely since most of what I tell you to do is nonsense. I think its a type of satire. I hope it is satire of those who think they have the answers. I find myself in life and in my writing playing the role of one who says the dumbest and most wrong thing possible. Sometimes I do it to be funny sometimes I do it to trick people into saying stupid stuff and sometimes I do it instinctively. It is really an immature and ineffective way to change the world around you, at least in conversation. People can usually recognize it when you are making fun of them, and if they don't recognize it then you are being rude. So I hope my writing does not succumb to the same pitfalls.

Vomit as thick as glue seeped out the corners of his mouth. Thick strands dripped down his chin and stretch translucent, slowing down once they landed on his shirt. His eyes don't open. He doesn't make any voluntary noise, just the gurgle-pop of liquid climbing up his esophagus. Somehow his neck is still rigid. He lost conscious control of his body but for some reason his cerebral cortex decided that his head needed to stay upright. The audience responded with fright. As if someone dropped a spider from the ceiling they all clenched their armrests and pushed back, a unified screech of chairs scooting across wood.  In the morning, he would remember the event jovially. Him and his friends would laugh together at the success of the evening.

congratulations on your achievement

My Gift to Thee

This is cool. I couldn't write earlier today. Like I actually tried. Lowered my standards and everything. Then, lying in bed, watching Californication and this started coming out. I think it is about the creative process. Or god. Probably both. Cause Im deep like that:

Dancing on the tip is the promise of what is there; skating haphazardly on ice thin and sharp but beautiful. Spark the flame wavering in the wind. Hold your breath and clutch at faith when the light shrinks to a glow and pray to your god for rejuvenation. The flameless match, charred and soft, a sad lifeless totem to what was there and is no more. And then faith rewarded, the phoenix rises from its ashes and screams into the universe. Bury the terror at a world unilluminated and forget the pain explaining the truth to you and instead listen to this fake answer, this cheap magic trick stealing the show. Life burned out and life glowing bright are both life. You learn to live, and you learn to thrive, and where you are comfortable is where you will wish you always are.

"You could be my black Kate Moss tonight." Thanks Kanye, yet another enchanting morsel of philosophy.

I want to try a bit of fiction. Let me spit out a silly yarn. I can't write fiction without tabbing in, lol. I think that is because Im uncomfortable with it. Its an arena I don't understand so I revert to the rules supporting my weak frame. I can't "flow". Kind of like a research paper.

Black Kate Moss

Blue grass undulates on the horizon, like a giant dragon's back sliding through the sky. The light is gold. The breeze is warm. Here you want to breathe in the world. You know this simple world, this physical combination of elements, banal and dismissable under other conditions, is fulfilling and it can sustain you like oxygen as long as you can just keep it in your stomach forever, right next to the first time your heart fluttered. Clouds dance in the sky, one by one kissing the dragon. You put your hand on the only tree in the field. You lean on it and you shift your weight off your leg and grimace from the pain. You squeeze your eyes tight and you strain your sight on the horizon. Over one of those hills her silhouette will appear. It will not be clear at first. The thump in your chest will alert you to her coming before you can discern a figure. So strain your eyes. Keep a sharp look out because you cannot miss her. Behind one of those waving mounds she is hiding. You could go look for her but she told you to wait by this tree. So wait.

Shift your weight again. Put your hole body up against the tree. Pick a piece of grass and put it in your mouth. Chew it back and forth and cross your arms. The sun drops a little bit closer to the top of our planet. The first blue and cold hints of desperation grab your diaphragm. For now, you can dismiss the feeling as paranoid. For now, you know better. She is coming. Her journey has been hard, and it has been long. She will tell you about the world beyond this field. When she finds you she will teach you how to dance. And then you will be complete.

Hi Mom

Must I run rampant? Kanye West is my role model and Russell Brand is my best friend. Disconnection is my priest and self mutilation my church. The unexplained anger screams at you and cries at night. Explode, I beg, explode the bombs and crumble the towers. Fuck I grow tired of this hyperbole-prose.

I wonder why I hate the loud-voiced. Something about how every word starts with a punch to the conscious, an arrogant blast to your focus. Please leave it up to me if I want to listen to you, not up to the volume of your voice. Not to mention that the technique is inherently combative. I interpret the innappropriate volume as an assault on my voice. One should not have to escalate their voice to escalate their opinion. However, it seems the persuasion of so many that in fact the validity of a point is in direct correlation to the weight of a noise. IF I SCREAM I AM RIGHT; counter productive, mean, inhumanitarian, self indulgent, lie.

just like this

That's How I Roll

Upon my throne my hole sings. Boisterous and pained are its verses. Like a wolf arcing to the moon
I join and howl. Fretful and true notes existable only in near-scream cries.
Gong of plop punctuates the meter. Three four time measures the aftermath of poor decisions.
When the cure is poison this is the music that you dance to; the world is upside down from what was promised but don't give up.
Sing on your throne and chant I am Superman I am Superman I am Superman until you believe it and drown out the song played by the other end of you.

lil bit o' lol

Olympus Mons Summited

Cartoon girls tattoo her arm.

Alice from Wonderland curtsies.

An unknown youth gazes into fairy tale.

Razor-etched scars interrupt ink.

Dozens.

She must be mad

That she can't step through the looking glass.

why so sad

Y'alls Honkies and Tricks

That game played by every most-annoying-child you have ever met, the one where all they do is ask, "Why?" should be encouraged and a mandatory part of any public education curriculum. "Why" is the single most important word in the English language, and any other language in whatever form it takes. I'll go a step further. Why is the most important word in human language. The concept of, "This thing is not understood by me. I want to understand it." Why, I argue, is more important than how. Why reveals the foundation of logic upon which how is executed. There is a how to why, so the two are not exclusive and independent, but from a human perspective, why has triggered every single progress our species enjoys. How is a scientist planning his experiment. Putting the hours into vials and statistics. Why is the driving force, why motivates and without the experiment would not exist. Why is the fuel driving the Howcar.

Do not trust those irked by the why game. They are the walking dead, the legions of the damned with means and ends nefarious. Embarrassing is their plight and dangerous is their plan. Instead of fanning the flame of curiosity they blow smoke into the air clouding the sun and reducing the lifeblood of humanity by starving academic agriculture. Unyielding orgasms should assault the neurons firing in the brains of those presented with a, "Why?" Never again will you be this human. This is why you are here and your experience should be spiritual, mental and fill your whole body with champagne sparkling and sweet. If you encounter one who has a reaction frustrated or a response irritated run for the hills. You are not safe. He is a monster and will sabotage your quest for the answer. Why is the sky blue? By the will of your God go forth and discover, do not allow delay from this sentinel of stupidity.

they will look something like this

Suicide Pie

Yep, gonna do it, gonna have a little bit of suicide. But the good kind. Gonna go and off those parts of me that I don't really like. Like, for instance, if you will, I'm gonna be done with lethargy, probably. Gonna avoid wallowing for as long as possible. Makes sense, right?

I am trying to discover my philosophy. Part of my philosophy is that everyone has their own philosophy, and the purpose of life is to find it. The crazy radical dude knows what hes doing when he firebombs a Planned Parenthood. He's doing the right thing in his philosophy. Part of my philosophy is that that guy sucks and needs some serious education, but he is right to do what he believes in. So the value of my philosophy ends when you don't have to interact with me. So there isn't much of a reason to share, except that I like talking about this stuff. (Side note, I'm always really nervous people are gonna think I'm crazy or weird and condemn me or feel sorry for me because they think I'm reaching out or something. This is not so. I know I've said that before but I'm paranoid about it, and need it to be understood to write honestly.)

Everyone has the right to their philosophy, as long as it doesn't walk into mine. Unfortunately, a lot of people's philosophies revolve around mental coitus and reproduction, setting up franchises of their own personal beliefs. How lame is that? Why would anyone want to believe the same thing someone else tells them? I mean, of course that is a blanket statement and not really true for the most part, but when you get down to the core of how you live your life and why, how can you be a puppet for a mega church evangelist, or Wal Mart or anyone else that tries to influence your life for their gain. It's crazy. Well, I wonder if those who succumb to sheepitude believe they are discovering their own philosophy? Man, that sucks. I just don't think spreading your own beliefs has much value usually. Or, no, it can, what I mean is no one has the right to tell anyone else how to live their life, and I don't understand the compulsion to do so (I am referring exclusively to those who execute their lives non violently. "Your freedom to swing your fist ends where someone else's face begins"). I so honestly don't care how weird or different you are from me. Good for you I say, diversity makes the world strong and a fun place to live.  I cannot stand being bored, and generally an awesome place to not be bored is with really weird people.

So! My philosophy is it shouldn't matter to you what my philosophy is, and I hope you don't agree. That being said, allow me to tell you about it. Ooo! Let me do this in a list form. Sam's Laws we'll call it, and ignore how inaccurate a title it might be. Note to the reader: These are rules to be broken and laughed at. Hear ye hear ye, cover your ears.

Sam's Laws

1. Keep an open mind. You have no right to judge.

2. The only person who really cares what you think is you. And this is a good thing.

3. Things are as they should be, and if you change them, that is the way they should be too.

4. Search for fulfillment. There is a reason you are here, and if there isn't you should try to trick yourself into thinking there is.

5. You are responsible for your happiness.

6. The world is not out to get you. So when it does, it was probably a mistake, so forgive it.

7. Life has value. There is no proof, but if you don't believe this then everything collapses.

8. It is easier to destroy than to create, but easy and right are not synonymous.

9. If you can't laugh it off you suck.

10. Be ready to offer the benefit of the doubt and forgiveness.

11. Fear is your enemy and you will never escape it. Do not act on it.

Well that was self indulgent and totally awesome. I have pondered lately if one could attain fame by just being awesome. That is my career goal. Just be a ridiculously famous celebrity. I don't especially have any talents and I'm not pretty enough to steal fame, so my only hope is to be really awesome. I'm pretty good at being really awesome, so we'll see how that goes. But yeah, my philosophy is pretty standard, I guess. It wasn't easy though to construct that. Each item is a concept I did not trust. Its taken me twenty two years to investigate them and decide that I can logically argue for each item. My point is I'm not just copying a motivational poster. I did not take them for granted and more than believe them now, I know them. There are other items I decided not to include because I'm not sure if they're true. For example, "Find someone you love and stay with them forever." Pretty standard, pretty easy to agree with, right? Well, I can't buy into it. Like...I'm a relationship person. I do good with a girlfriend. I wanna get married like today. I just want somebody on my team. I imagine that makes sense and is not a difficult concept to swallow. But I think a relationship can undermine your debt to the world, I mean, it can interfere with your search for your philosophy. I hope one day I can add that law to the list, but for now I can't do it. Those are all positive laws, right? Be nice, respect other people, stuff we are used to hearing. But I didn't always believe those things. I used to think absolutely no one mattered, from a philosophical standpoint more than a practical one, and I lived my life accordingly. Now I know that I definitely matter more than anyone else, but other people definitely have value. And I learned that. It was a pseudo-empirical process. So part of my philosophy is don't take anything you know for granted.

So I continue to search for the pieces of my philosophy. I continue to blunder and gaffe my way into the future. Like the world around me my laws go with the flow and adapt to their environment. They help me live effectively (sometimes) and make the world just a little bit easier to understand. But not much.

so thats how it works

Gimme that Whole 'Lotta Cheese Award

Do not ask me to apologize for this smile. It spreads across my face because today I am alive. Accuse it of chemical origins if you must, condemn it as a youth wasted and a body spoiled, but do not expect me to listen. Do not frown because I smile. Look at my smile. Live in my smile.

Do not ask me to stop dancing. Do not dance with me, I dance by myself. Wiggle your legs, left then right, dance by yourself, don't step on my floor, please. Now come and dance with me and bump and grind but don't ever turn around. You must face your fellow dancers. It is a sign of respect.

Do not ask me to sing quieter. I can't sing well so I have to sing loud. And you have to listen. Peak your ears and devote every inch of your attention to my song. Hear the profundity? Recognize the tinge of worldly knowledge? Do not request karaoke, listen to my verses and open your ears to the brilliance.

Do not ask me my name. Do not think you can know me. Do not think you can be my friend. Do not knock on my door. Do not make a joke. Do not look me in the eye. Do not ignore me. Do not love me. Do not hate me. Do not restrain me. Do not expose me. Do not expect too much. Do not clap in response. Don't.

or youll have this guy to answer to

Night and Day

The routine is, they call me and I don't answer. I wait for the voice mail. I don't listen to it. It's always the same, what's the point? Our conversations are so predictable I might as well rig up a tape recorder to play my role in the conversation. So what's the point?

My phone rings and I let “Dad” disappear into my missed calls list and go about my day. It was easy to go about the day. In fact, easy is an understatement. I skipped class and avoided responsibility as usual in a delightful haze of innocence.

It was the email that jarred me. The gist of it was, “We need to talk.” Those words, each so harmless in their nature, put together burned into my eyes like the monster hiding under the six-year-old's bed. My brain deciphered them and assembled them and I choked. My stomach and my throat switched places, and I picked up my phone. Instinctively my thumb danced from button to button. Phone against my ear, my chest avoided the panicked hyperventilation threatening to break through the gates. Ring once, my stomach clenches. Ring twice, my skin ripples like a pond disrupted by an oversized stone. Ring thrice and my eyes squeeze tight, partly from the sleep deprivation and partly from the desperation.

Sleep deprivation, yeah, that should be mentioned. Thirty some hours awake I lay in my bed and nothing further away than slumber. Per my routine, I recognized my sleeping schedule was useless and in a less than scientific attempt to correct it I spent the night awake, distracted by video games, coffee and alcohol. That email blinded me at the wrong end of a day spent sleepless. It was fun to pretend my body deprived of necessities invented these fears. Unfortunately, it was undeniable that dad's email carried an imposing weight signaling naught but some painful self discovery.

The phone stops ringing. Go to voice mail, tell me nothing except my father's name, and at what point I should leave my message. Terrified, I return to my sleepless faux-comfort under my blanket in bed and wish I could sleep. Flashes come, one by one, a parade of stills assaulting my brain. The things that could possibly be wrong are well documented by my imagination: Your four year old nephew stares at his no longer breathing twin suffocated by the rope they danced with. Your grandma suppresses tears as she makes the call you waited for, he died in his sleep. Your dad tries bravery when he tells you his cancer returned.

The phone rings. Dad is calling. Thirty six hours I have been awake now. My hand jumps to the phone from its prone position along my recumbent body. My head doesn't move. My eyes don't open. Memory flips the clamshell open and lifts it to my ear. Without thought I shove the phone to my head and demand, “Hello?” From there my tension dissipates. Fear of the known is more palatable by the body than dealing with horrific scene followed by more horrific scene playing in your brain's theater. The unknown encompassed everything bad that might possibly happen to me. The known only made me consider the cancer suffocating my father's carotid artery. My brain was satisfied and glad for a specific terror to delve into. Ecstatic, it dived into the clammy skinned familiarity of depression. Overjoyed, it pulled my stomach up into my lungs and started spitting the rage. Entrhalled, it told my body how easy it was to give up.

My body tingles and does nothing else. I don't control my limbs anymore. I don't know what to do, and if I did I wouldn't know how.

He tells me in simple words his situation does not look good. The day finished with my body resting in our sofa on the porch, sucking down cigarette after cigarette, draw after draw punctuating the punctuationless existence  of a man trapped in a moment. Friend came and friend went. She didn't care. He didn't want to know. She didn't want to know but asked anyways. He wanted to know, and he cared, but he was too scared to ask. At this point I was alone. I know this pain will not end soon. It will live in my heart and coat the inside of my skin, creating a dragon hide separating myself from the rest of the world. So quiet and loud the world swims around me. “Please turn off,” the glaze over my eyes begs. Finally the porch grows tiresome. So you get ready for bed.

Bed and sleep and its been almost forty eight hours and you know sleep is what you need but that is where the nightmares stay. You open that box of pills because you need to sleep and it doesn't really matter if you're not drinking, right? So you'll take, what, four times the recommended dosage? Yeah, that sounds right, your situation is easily four times shittier. Then you, I, he, still can't sleep so crack a beer. That CO2 release, that anxious, metal pop is exciting as the first sip finds that spot in your stomach, uncomfortable and hurtful in the most satisfying way possible. And you sip and gulp because you know somewhere at the bottom of that can is the answer, that world where the hurt goes to sleep for awhile. You find the bottom of that can and goddamnit the world is still around you. So you go back to the pills, one more and one more and then they're gone all sixteen of them and you're still awake so you say goodbye and break back into the booze. And then it's goodbye to the self that you love, the others that you love, and the self that you remember.

Our pencils outlast our erasers

Today was a building triumph until it fizzled in heartsick anger.

I bought the steak, the beer, the coffee, the dog food.

All with out scratching the dangerous cusp of my credit limit

Thank you, manager's special.

It is truly special.

I smoked that cigarette.

I thought I quit smoking?

It was the third cigarette in as many months.

Four years of one pack plus more a day.

One a month is not bad.

My dad got his tongue cut out because of the poison.

Last night he told me he thought he was dying.

I wonder if he would think it is not bad?

I did it in the name of making friends.

I need them.

I am lonely.

I stand by my decision.

And now I want another.

the heartsick anger =(

Said, "Ooo, girl"

Recently I gained an interest in politics. Not a strong one, but I did start to consider the effects politics have on my life and the people around me, especially those that I love. This is why:

http://www.youtube.com/user/TheYoungTurks

It's a Daily Show-esque critique of politics and the news media. Sort of the watchdogs of the watchdogs. The difference between The Young Turks and The Daily show being that TYT is not satire. They remain entertaining, and I have a lot of respect for the main anchor Cenk. At first I started watching them only to be amused. Then I saw an episode where Cenk decides that it looks likely that Obama and Emanuel will jettison the public option in health care reform. If this goes down as Cenk predicts, and the evidence he presents is compelling, then I will be deeply disappointed, but at least I will feel better about not voting in the election. BUT the reason I am now considering political involvement is because Cenk makes a pretty awesome point that I probably heard before but I never really cared about. Obama, if he drops the public option, is a corporate shill. I had faith in Obama to make some changes that I thought would benefit more than our country but humanity. Sure, hes not the anti-christ that so many think he is, but if he is just another puppet, appeasing instead of fighting, I'm not really interested in him. So...who else is there? He is the first politician I remember having any respect for, and if he can't represent me, what can I do? Cenk again, and I know I sound like a Cenk-Cultist, says the only way to reform health care in the long run is to reform campaign finance. And it makes perfect sense. Logical people will follow the interests of those paying them. Usually I'm all about logic, but I don't like the level of sway corporations have on our country. I don't have a suggestion for how politicians could pay for their campaigns without fiscal support. The people with the most money will influence elections the most and their interests will be in keeping their money. So...are campaigns even a realistic form of representing a leader. The more eye catching a campaign is, the more it cost, which means the more wealth it represents, which I inherently don't trust. So I want to get involved. I even joined the myspace group for UA Young Democrats! But for the first time, more than I feel like I can make a difference, I feel like I need to make a difference. Y'know?

goddamnit

Thinking outside the box

I was considering the other day how my life, and many of my peers, is reduced into several little boxes - physical boxes, not the theoretical one of whats been done before. Right now, I am typing into one box. I routinely check another to see if I have any new text messages which appear in a neat little different box. I spend most of my time inside of this larger box, even though it has a window, it is still a box. Six walls to contain my life.

Was it always this way for humanity? Have recent technological developments only made this more clear lately? Perhaps it is a human necessity to compartmentalize your life. I imagine even Cro-Magnon lived in boxes. The box of his cave, the box of his hunting grounds and need to find water. Now, my "boxes" are physically represented. Technology has allowed for the physical divide between what I need, or decided I need, and what I do not need. Even my physical needs come in boxes: oatmeal, pasta, beer.

So what does this mean? Good or bad? I think sometimes convenience can weaken character. There is some value in process. For instance, the value of food and sustenance can be earned by making pasta from scratch or going out and catching fish for dinner (two things I have never done). However, having these necessities so readily available allows for spare time for leisure activities. We live in a society of excess which means it is easy to take an advanced composition class, or spend your life as a painter. If food was scarce and we were poor, we couldn't do these things. We'd have to farm or peddle our wares or do something more directly related to income and upkeep. So, the question comes to mind, are we using our extra time effectively? Are these boxes that streamline my workflow and shrink my area of attention actually benefiting me as a human?

It is hard to say. I know I waste a lot of time on the internet reading Cracked.com articles or watching The Young Turks blog, but I don't know if I believe it is a waste of time. I like those things because I usually agree with them and my brain is engaged more than when I am playing video games or reading most books. Interested in a career in humanities, maybe as a writer, maybe as a freeloader, I feel that this engagement is valuable. Keeping a brain turned on is a very difficult thing to do, and I am coming to find my own definition of what this means. My brain is turned on when I am interacting. If I am writing, that is where my mind is. If I am watching Cenk on TYT (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGDdCDTNhWg&feature=sub) I feel that same level of engagement. I am listening to his words instead of letting the latest episode of Man vs. Food bounce off my head. I feel like engaging your brain whenever possible is the key to self improvement. It is a fight. I find myself craving the sweet release of Warcraft III or a bottle of whiskey, but I know when I try to remember what I did during the hours under the influence of either, I have a much harder time remembering. Therefore I think it is a form of self-stagnation, and I think this is counterproductive to the ideal role of humans, in my opinion, of philosopher kings (It's been so long since I've read Plato I can't actually defend that, but it sounds good, dunnit?).

Tired of being "engaged". Gonna play Warcraft III. PEACE

Diarize it, son

Last night was pretty miserable. I was thrown back into a world I thought I left four years ago. All of a sudden the metal of a man was measured by how much alcohol he could consume. Or more accurately, how much alcohol one said they could drink. Somehow, someway, the spectacle of this monster on the verge of violence, but really a sad and immature plea for attention, was amazing and hilarious to everyone except me.

In the morning, his veil of confidence was compromised. The guarantees of the night before momentarily wavered, replaced by wavering eyes and head scratching. Then the stories start. "Remember when you did that thing when you were totally wasted?" A raucous response of laughter and instantly, confidence was restored, self destruction and idiocy reinforced.

I wanted to shake them and scream, "There are other ways to deal with this!" It doesn't have to be hilarious. It made you mad last night, and scared, for a reason. You can cope with this in a fashion that doesn't jeopardize everything you know and believe. It's Lord of the Flies out here. Left to their own resources, these still-children cannibalize their old identities in favor of one that reflects how mature and impressive they really are, how they are totally ok with it. I adopt a holier than thou tone, but I know I was there. I remember the nights of being the savage monster, picking apart the old bonds of true friendship and creating a new citadel of  savage carnivorism.

This is one of those rare moments when I feel like an adult. I look at the still kids separated by me from only a few years and I pass judgement. I want to find a way to tell them they are wrong, but it is a lesson they will have to learn by themselves, and I know it. I guess I just wish I didn't have to relearn it with them.

9/4/09

I am twenty two, I was hoping angst would have hopped off the train somewhere in my teens. But still, I feel this wordless unrest in my stomach. My body knows something is not right when I have no reason to be upset. I discovered this emotion the first time I fell in love. I am going through withdrawal of a teammate, a wayfarer with equal cosmic aims to my own (that line was a good example of "lowering expectations"). It is a shame, because I know it is so pointless, ultimately counterproductive since it makes phone calls with me an undesirable prospect. Regardless, it hurts, and it weighs on me, and I want to escape from it. I finished Russell Brand's memoir today, and it was the only non-chemical release I had from these feelings. He is a really exceptional person. I think, from the impression I got from his book, that he deserves his celebrity and is a person of value. Part of that opinion came from watching his TV show RE:Brand. While he was whacked out of his mind on strong drink and heroin he succeeded in making some absolutely absurd and valuable television. He finds himself on the wrong side of a racist skin head (or is that the right side?) and the next week bathing with a homeless man in pursuit of exploring taboo. It is quite painful at times to watch, and I have to give him my props on the courage it took for his honesty. But I'm rambling, let me get back to the important topic, the SS Depression. Depression is not a sash I wear but something I live with. It started as sort of a blaise ennui and developed more lately into something more in line with conventional "depression". So it is a part of my life, and I talk about it. This is by far not a cry for help, but a mundane search for something interesting to write about. I am very interested in dealing with these feelings in a productive way. I always feel disgusted with myself whenever I wallow in my brain, like I similarly dislike when people so willingly allow self sabotage and label it poor luck or a malignant universe. So I'm trying to get around it. I'm spending time with people (well, my roommate and his friends, not that I'm an unsociable oaf, but I just moved here from Kentucky and haven't met anyone). I'm medicated, and am seeking a counselor. Let me try to explain something about depression, or at least my experience with it. I feel like people assume I suffered some trauma that jeopardized my developing brain. Also, they tend to confuse "depression" for "suicidal tendencies" certainly a symptom for some, but not for me. My depression is a result of a chemical imbalance, doctors tell me, and has no real-world or historical cause. Just a shitty genetic deal. You know that really annoying cliche argument that is so easy to sound profound while discussing, the one about if we experience the world exclusively through our lens of experience and perception than can't one argue they are in fact the center of the universe and without ourselves the universe would cease to be? Well, using that logic, I live in a world where I am sad bored and upset, and have no explanation other than my brain is stupid.

Beer's here! Ciao

Critique of Girl

Thank you, Ms. Kincaid. Finally, I received a moment of being from a piece of writing. Girl was exhilarating and fresh. The first mention of the “slut” sparked a sensation in my chest that is my fundamental interest in writing. Jamaica Kincaid communicated with me on a level that is impossible with spoken word. She is simply listing a set of rules planted in her as a child, I assume. From two steps back, this writing is boring and immature. When you step into her prose, though, you feel something that you know is true, like the sensation in my chest. So allow me to repeat, thank you, Ms. Kincaid.

Girl is masterfully crafted. Jamaica Kincaid, an accomplished author who knows the rules of writing, the ins and outs and what you can and cannot do, took all the accepted conventions of writing and said, “Piss off, I can't use you.” Like Picasso was fully capable of painting realistic, acceptable portrayals of people, he needed cubism to deliver his message, Kincaid discovers a technique unpioneered, but essential. Girl hits you like a slide show. One mundane image after another, punctuated by the click of the projector spinning, show a world rich and dark; hard to look at, but unavoidable in its truth. As uncomfortable as it was for me to read, I imagine Kincaid suffered some serious stress while cranking out the short piece. I would love to ask her what her process was. What was the criteria for choosing the mostly boring slices of memory she shares? What instructions got cut from her piece? Why did “This is how you set the breakfast table” make the final draft? I am sure there was a reason, and the reasoning was successful in my book, the litmus test being the affect the writing had on me.

The one clear convention employed by Kincaid is her repetitive sentence structure (are they actually sentences? I don't think there was a single period in the piece). Imperative after imperative alert the reader to what is essentially a condemnation of the inherent sexism in life. It is amazing to me how by delivering this list of dry and clear cut statements – do this, don't do that -- one can unequivocally condemn the picture they are drawing without ever technically doing so. My point is that Jamaica Kincaid does not ever say that it is unfair for girls to not be allowed to squat while playing marbles, or how the worst of the worst would be to be a slut, but she still conveys an incredible swath of anger and bile towards the institutions that perpetuate such inequities.

In summary, Jamaica Kincaid effectively defies typical writing conventions to successfully deliver her message. Rebellion manifest, Girl illustrates more than a diatribe against misogynists and socialized sexism but the value of resisting “acceptable” structure and method. I know that I am not supposed to start my last paragraph with, “In summary,” but it is an ode to Jamaica Kincaid for her courage and strength and triumph in breaking the rules.

slut