A Party Down In The Docks Where You Where A Lot Of Frocks

People get down on themselves. This conundrum of self loathing fuels depression, suicides, and binging (on drugs, on food, on tacos made of heroine)--but much of this can be traced back to too much free time. The mind is an active center control system scanning all functions of the body including that of potential. When the brain is inactive or say daydreaming in French Class for the sake of argument it is quite easy to examine the possibilities before deciding that yours is the most undesirable of options. This thought probably wouldn't get thought if you were a) skydiving b) really into puzzles and were hard at work on a three dimensional puzzle of the Lourve c) just dropped something and were trying to catch it before it fell to the ground.

Unabated to a challenge (I use this word because football referees think it when discussing plays occurring "unabated to the quarterback"), the mind might turn to slush and the days into mush, but thinking back to days when I thought myself lazy, unproductive, or covered in a flesh eating virus, I realize that I always envision myself as happy, casting my former life in a golden sheen I'm certain wasn't there at the time. For one thing, everyone in my mind wears bandannas and dances the tarantella at the drop of a hat. I am not Malcolm Gladwell and am thusly under qualified to explore this phenomenon, but it is powerful. And wonderful.

Why be unhappy now when you realize you'll be happy later?
Today's problems are tomorrow's footnotes.

Nothing exhibits this phenomenon as well as food. You can learn quite a bit from a pound cake. Food indicates mood, feeling, and expression as well as I don't know an author who does those things quite well. This should be so. Outside of food and sex is there anything that links us all so inextricably. If one isn't on the brain, there's a good chance the other is. If you're especially dynamic you might even find the two intermingling. (Author's Note: Yeah, I could dig that).

When I was a little kid my Mom ate a dessert that looked a lot like a tarantula. She stopped eating desserts that looked like arachnids when she decided it was time to lose some weight. Losing weight was attacked on many measures-peer support, walking, keeping a journal of food she ate. It succeeded but I was left wondering what someone would gain by writing down the food they ate. Was it because my Mom loved food because she really loves food. Returning home from a date or foreign land her first question was and will remain "What'd you eat?"

Perhaps Mother's love of food did not root behind this equation. Maybe she'd stumbled onto the realization that everything looks good in hindsight. She could read the journal relishing in the relish, textured vegetable protein, and dates comprising her diet. On the other hand, she could have had the opposite, adverse realization. Reading of her dalliances with Dilly Bars (that reference goes out to my cousins), entire cartons of ice cream, and hot dogs fished from garbage cans (I made that one up), she embarked on a guilt trip down memory lane.

Undoubtedly, Mom will read this essay and deign to answer. She is quite the correspondent and I can expect a phone call, youtube video, or some article clipped from the New York Times that somehow sums up her feelings on the matter. Little does Mom realize that her clippings are often misunderstood. A note reading "Follow your muse" was attached to an article about television shows canceled after one episode. I read about "Emily's Reasons Why Not" and "The Rich List" before throwing the article to the ground in a fit of confusion. Then I saw that the opposite side had a piece on David Foster Wallace's control of the English Language.

Answers can be slippery. For truth one must peek inside at the demons and miles of intestinal tract. I don't have a good memory these days, a few too many concussions will do that, but I will analyze some of the meals I remember and try to figure out exactly what is was Mom was trying to figure out.

Tuesday October 14, 2008

2:00am.
Two Toaster Strudels, kind of cold in the middle.
I thought Toaster Strudels were too hard to cook until a week ago. On sale at Ralph's the prospect of spreading my own frosting was no longer so daunting. And nor should it have been. I have been spreading my own frosting on Cinnamon Roles for years. The convenience of the toaster induces a craving for immediate satisfaction.
I ate the first 3 in the box while watching the Today Show in hopes they would have another reunion of long ago movies. The piece on Airplane a few weeks back was simply sublime. I spread the frosting while they were still in the toaster oven. I tried to pick them up but could only make it to the kitchen table before they burned my hand. Dan walked inside after seeing a Black Widow outside.
"You eating Toaster Strudel?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
[The two take a moment to analyze the Strudels]
"God the frosting really looks a lot like semen."

Monday October 13th
11:00 PM
A bowl of Honey Nut Clusters, a knock off of Honey Bunches of Oats. I eat them in bed while reading an unexpectedly erotic novel. I feel tinglings of revolution in the form of paper bag communities in places it doesn't rain. God, it'd be great to be homeless in Los Angeles. It'd be great to teach English overseas. It'd be great, fucking great, to make another feature.
I try to talk to Nick, Appu, and Justin about the eroticism. I realize Lesbian Scenes aren't very beautiful or insightful when I read them.

8:30 PM
I eat a bowl of Ramen and it is perfect.
I make another bowl of Ramen.
I make two sausages and put them on top of the Ramen. I hand one sausage to Brock but it is too hot for him to hold. We dip the sausages in Mustard and Ranch Dressing. The Ranch is very good, damned tongue tickling treat of the God's good, making my disdain for Ranch grow a little bit more. In my mind Condiments should be complementary. While I love Ranch dressing, it is the boy in school who overachieves and outshines everyone else. Yes, we know you're great but can you let someone else have a speck of the spotlight for once? It's addictive stuff that Ranch.
The second bowl of Ramen doesn't taste nearly as good.

4:00 PM
Talapia with Tahini on Everything Bagels made on a Panini Press.
Talapia is a very crumbly fish. I struggle to spatula the fish from the grill, wondering if this is why Talapia is so cheap. I eat the two sandwiches and have the best studying of my life for tomorrow's French Midterm. Fish truly is brain food. Tahini tastes like an exotic land good for honeymooning.

10:00 AM
Bowl of Honey Nut Clusters.
This cereal business isn't half bad. I can see what Appu and the Squirrels in the commercial are talking about. Just another instance of Appu enriching all of our lives. I eat this bowl while conversing with Appu making it a defining Appu experience. We decide to walk to school together but circumstances do not permit. No matter, with Nut Clusters in my tummy Appu is with me every step of the trek. It doesn't seem as long as it usually does.

Sunday October 12th

8:00 PM
Pineapple with Cinnamon, Hot Sauce, and a touch of Mrs. Buttersworth over rice.
My old Mormon roommates tried to make a similar dish because "Mormons have a lot of kids to feed and this is cheap." I attempted to look up the recipe but can't recall the proper name. I eat it while half-dreaming half-watching television. It is unquestionably delicious but the pineapples have dropped the "pine" portion of their flavor and taste merely like "apples". Tasting like apples makes them taste like autumn. I hearken back to wonderful moments spent at Apple Orchards growing up...
1) Dan and I drove to an apple orchard when I was 18 and he was 11. We hit pumpkins with golf clubs and stole a bunch of signs promoting the "New Baltimore Apple Fest". We replace signs for Bush and Kerry with signs for the "Apple Fest" in doing so Dan grabs a sign covered in Motor Oil and ruins his jacket. He complained about this for over a year.
2) Mom, Dad, Tess, Boon (our Thai exchange student), and myself go to the Apple Orchard for a fun filled afternoon. I read Rolling Stone magazine on the way back and know what the cutting edge feels like.
3) Numerous times eating fresh donuts and drinking hot apple cider with Fall's first frost on the ground.
4) Way back when my Mother took her class on a field trip to the Orchard but forgot to confirm with Apple Charlie, the orchard's C.E.O. if orchards had C.E.O.'s. It is much better than calling him the farmer and slightly better than calling him the Orchard's Entrepreneur. She calls the Orchard at 10:00 pm, rousing Apple Charlie from his sleep. He confirms that they can visit. Mom is mortified by waking him, luckily unaware of the hard hours of an Apple Orchard Connesuir.
5) Gathering at an Apple Orchard for a fight before a sudden blizzard. Whoops. That was in a book I read.

Nick comes in and proclaims "It smells delicious." I would offer him some but it is almost gone and I have trouble giving food to someone who hasn't gone grocery shopping since August.
I finish my dish and get a crippling stomache ache. Karmatically induced, of course.

11:00AM
A bit of this that and everything.
At Barney's Beanery to watch the Lions Game and eat a tremendous breakfast I am disappointed when my Huevos Rancheros come covered in Peppers and Onions fajita style. I appreciate their flavors but can't get over their disruptive texture when eaten with other foods. I eat the entire meal wishing I ordered something else. Thankfully, Nick lets me eat the crust of his breakfast calzone.
Later, we get a free order of cheese sticks and I get a glass of Miller High Life to celebrate the Lions first victory. They promptly shit the bed.

Saturday October 11
McDonald's
The clerk tries to buy my Lil' Wayne shirt with the boobs on it.
We can't stick the Monopoly pieces on the game board. I could when I was little.
This is the 5th time Appu ate fast food in the span of two days. He is still little in many regards. God bless.

5/31 Warm Up: All About My Friends

When embarking on a grand endeavor one must go forth with gusto, throwing caution into the wind and harboring far-strung expectations about one's ability, work ethic, and their joie de vivre. These hopes might not be met on a consistent basis and curses if they are. Jumping into immediate success and the all-encompassing implications will only hold us back. To wit: if we leap in the water with an innate knowledge of the backstroke, we will only swim the backstroke. Even if we become the world's preeminent backstroker, we will only to be able to aid the metaphorical swim team to which we belong in one event (two if the metaphoric swim meet has medley relays). 

This big project at hand. My feeble attempt at fostering whatever lies within myself is not exploding into superstardom in one bold brilliant burst. It comes slowly and painstakingly. We fight for the words, doubt their efficacy upon putting them to paper, and long for that passionate explosion of near genius or at least publishable prose. Work comes long and hard, but I wouldn't have it any other way. 

The process of watching one's abilities grow and flourish is much more fulfilling than expounding greatness at the very first opportunity. Things are uneven and at time's painstaking, but other instances when we grasp what we're trying to do, how such a task will be accomplished, and a various assortment of factors, it is so joyous, one cannot help but dance. 

I spent a good portion of last night dancing to Raffi in my underwear. I imagined Magic Johnson was in my room boogying down with me. It wasn't the old and bloated Magic that mars TNT's NBA broadcasts with stammering and pronunciation of basketball as "basset-bow" but the young, vivacious lad that hung over my bed in my youth. At this moment I remember that the first poster I ever put up on my own was that poster of Magic. It was a replica of an oil painting and my Mom brought it home from her work. 

When you grow up in Michigan, Magic Johnson means a lot. One of my Mother's friends told me that she attended Michigan State University at the same time as Magic (Earvin to his family). Though this woman, Darlene, was constantly around, blighting my seven year old life with her kisses and obese embrace, that did nothing to deter me from asking for her autograph.  

Writing is an obtuse and fickle art form. It is not uncommon for one to toil their entire life without something to show for it. Unlike the visual and musical forms there is nothing ingrained in our instinct to recognize and realize how to put it into use. Reading is a relatively new form. Even if film is a modern invention, humans have been using the sense to survive since the beginning of time. Paint a picture, shoot a shot, and it is somehow innate. Over the course of our specie's existence recognition of sounds and images have been used to help us attain our needs and survive. Medicine was founded in it, it has probably helped shape sexuality as well. 

On the converse: Reading comprehension and writing a good sentence have never helped one survive. I could be misinformed. It is quite possible that Crocodile attacks occur when a Croc takes a man in his jaws and asks him to produce a beautiful limerick and will be eaten if it falls short. 

I'm not trying to say that writing is a more difficult art to conquer or understand. I merely argue that the state (and mindset) required to produce quality written words is slightly scarcer within us (at least within me). 

The work is coming. Coming quite well, but it requires a tedious waiting game that often proves boring or frustrating. When doing something I feel is "good" a certain feeling is close at hand. I will kill time until taken by this feeling. I can give you a rundown of what transpires before and after the feeling but in the grips I remember nothing. I am at my happiest when looking up from the keyboard and realizing that three hours have passed. 

It's getting easier and easier to get there. Learning so much. Happy with every decision so far. For all the trials and tribulations I've put myself through I couldn't see myself doing anything else. To echo sentiments from previous posts I am "following my joy". 

This is my warm up session. 6- 8 hours of writing or thinking about writing wait ahead. I woke up at 3 in the morning (wow what a sleep!) from 9 until 3 with a three hour interruption for a game of ultimate frisbee. 

If you'd indulge me... I'd like to describe my friends to you. I feel the feeling, but only want to do this right now. That's another thing about the feeling. You might conjure it, but you can't control it. You can only go where it lets you. 

On the phone to my mother I described him as "sort of a hippy". This was misspoken. What I meant to indicate was that he possesses a deep calm and happy atmosphere that allows one to feel at home in his presence. I suppose I lumped him into the "drum circle" archetype because of interests, Native American attire, and eating habits. This veneer paints a solid picture of a person but fails to do him justice. A child's zeal and a mathematician's analytical mind are there waiting for you. He also introduced me the "everything bagel", an attribute which cannot be underestimated. Perhaps he escapes in-capsulation. To get the point across: On a lark I called on him for assistance with a large endeavor. This sort of call has been many times, but no one has ever responded like Ball's Deep as he has. 

People are often defined by their facial hair, especially women. He is no woman. He is a man among men. When the follicles on his face rebelled against the norm to form a full fledged beard, his personality coalesced at least as I understand it. There is a rigid masculinity to him, not only in his behaviors (awesome ones) but his beliefs. A code of honor courses through every capillary. Upon entering a constant onslaught of conversation, hints and allusions were made. Putting these pieces together I see a manifesto at work. It's easy to imagine him valiant in Medieval battle or writing a guide to modern man hood. I'll never be a soldier but I'd go to war with him. 

The Cheerleader. The Mother Owl. The purveyor of understanding and weaver of mythologies. He hooks you from the start. Upon first catching his vibe I thought "I hope we become friends". He coaxes one in with humor and a constant desire to understand, learn, and encounter. His approach to friendship is one of family. Good meals, adventures in slew, spend time with him and the world only gets bigger. People are brought in, truths are formed, family is made.  Though he will miss the reference, he is Steve Nash on the fraternity level. Everyone around him is made bigger, better, stronger by his presence. You realize this and hope to do the same for him. We share the same flaws and strengths, because of this we owe it to each other to always be there. 

Six Year Old Muse, jumping off rocks as a Cantonese Shoplifter landing as a Puerto Rican Girl before going to the car as an Old Gypsy. The ultimate chameleon, he shifts day to day, projecting the world and weather on his persona like archaic green screen technology. Six year old boy with rocks in his pockets. Plato on a coke binge. It's hard to make sense of all these persona rattled off with the expertise and confidence of one's true self. Don't try to make sense of it. Just try and keep up. 

It is the rare and important relationship that could benefit from a fist fight. When you reach this juncture of hatred, love, and far reaching history, you know it's special. Like two squabbling chickens astray in Los Angeles, you go about your ways, leading your separate lives and scavenging for your own sustenance. The chickens encounter many terrifying and trying tribulations, but upon getting to the coop and going to roost, they see each other like they see themselves. Things maybe strained but deep down it's always the same: <3>

I saw a television show that really struck me once. People were dying everywhere in a myriad of forms, some beautiful, others ridiculous. As their mortal coil expired, their loved ones came about and waved them over to the next world. Regardless of whatever great people I encounter and uh... fuck... I know he'll be there waving me in next to an elderly Filipino Woman. There's a lot to this one, but that's the thing that matters. My brother, my wife. 

When dark times come and we look over our lives feeling like peonic shit, he is a redemptive factor. I know that if I have a friend so good & honest & pure that I'm doing just fine. He is the rare beacon of calm in this turbulent world, content to sit and smile like a glacier. Each interaction is a blessing. It doesn't matter what, where, who, or how. What matters is the prevalent feeling of peace. Also: homecooked meals, alley-oop passes, and that cherubic smile. 

The Monk sees all. As much as I know/love him, he remains a bit of mystery. From what I can tell he bounces through life with an unmatched gift of gab and insight into any and all things (true or false is none of his concern. His mind revolves around a universe of that one time anyone did anything, baseball statistics, and the literary equivalent of soft core pornography.) He's like a drunk uncle, but sober. He shows up at the family home, giving advice that no one wants to hear because they know it is true. So much strife has been prematurely dammed by his insights. There are many times that I leave him scratching his head but I have an inkling that he knows me better than I know myself. I'm pretty in love with writing these days, but only started when he pushed me.  

The limping vision of young America. If his life could be put in a time capsule and sent to the 22nd Century, our viking warlords would know what life was like as a 21st century youth. They'd ask "why does he walk funny?" and he'd give a remark of trademark caution bearing bite and good humor. He is equilibrium. Cynicism while searching for the silver lining. Affirmation and responsibility. We seem to be going parallel at this point in terms of reinvention, inspiration, and things we enjoy drinking. If unleashed on the future or downtown Las Vegas the world will see him the way I do: a legend in waiting. 

"Like a Gorilla seeing his reflection for the first time". Watching him do anything leaves one in a fog of befuddlement. Listening does the same but you begin to get the picture. K.I.S.S. Loves what he loves, does what he loves. A throwback to the time where men were men and drank whiskey on trains before setting out into some new town to get in bar room scrums and speculate for oil. His company feels like a distinct something but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is, either it's playing professional football in the 1920's or the best day of preschool. After an all night drunk he told me "I have a lot of fun around you." Such a sentiment is innocent and bare bones but hits hard as hell. 

The friendship cloud, the unexalted unicorn. Life is a grand adventure when he's around. Everyday is not just a day, but a joyous occasion fit for dancing. (and it usually involve dancing!) He gives thought where no one else does, bettering aspects and tangents that would otherwise go unnoticed . These displays of camaraderie, these Picassos hung in the dentist's office so to speak, come in such a constant onslaught that it can be tempting to take it for granted. Don't. Mired in a working relationship, it took me too long to think of him as a friend. Now that we're firmly ensconced in the whirling dervish of kinship, furious artistic fights, and facial decorations, I can go back and see us as friends from the beginning, just not ready to fully form yet. C'est la vie. Five Feet. 

Wow. What a warm up. I might be a bit behind in the Fatherly Advice/Kind of Like Giving Birth/211 Lessons (having a hard time picking a title) but who cares? To feel so loved this early in the morning feels better than anything. 

I hope you enjoy. I hope you're able to pick yourself out. It shouldn't be that hard even if I changed Caitlin's gender. 

Joel 

Forty Cents on The Dollar

Archibald y ou old rattlesnake. I k now your heroine habit ias merely recreational. If anything you need a good lay, a street fight, or a friendly game of Soccer played with Young Americans. I guess these things aren't easy for pussies like you to come by so you decided to go the pussy route and enter rehavb. I won't deny that I love you but I will say that you are a coward. I know for a fact that you've never built a Snowman or walked across a state. In my eyes that is a Pussy. PUSSY! Get out of rehab and help with this here blog.

As Curtis Grandy Granderson so eloquently stated we are living in an age devoid of plate techtonics and debauchery. I wish random sexual encounters were part of the everyday vernacular but they're about as common place as wooden swing sets. We live in quite the boring age. No one mills and no one plants.

When the nights get lonely I wonder what it would be like to find my own fooid. I picture my Dartmouth self wandering through the woods picking out assorted berries and finks. I see my Dartmouth self picking old meat off a particularly juicy Yak (in my fantasies I am always a Sherpa). I see my Dartmouth self wandering the village parameters while gorging himself on eyes, fingers, knees, and toes, knees and toes.

I guess my Dartmouth self listens to Raffi. I guess all of us do in some facet of our subconscious. This is a good thing. I imagine this is an innovation along the lines of the chain saw.

The modern world is a slight bit purtrid, and more than an iota easy. I guess that's why General Mills has still existing cereal. Everyone knows Frosted Flakes blow. The common knowledge is that they are far from satisfactory, yet we all still eat their bullshit. I don't care how good that "Road To Wellville" film was. I don't want to taste America. It is bland and without any taste of India. I would like to taste India in my breakfast cereal.

Everything is so easy. Everything is so hard. It's near impossible to ask people human questions.

I'll be in my mobile home writing novels about Tractors.


" Gerry the Tractor shone under a bright, yellow sun. He was tilling a field with his sharp blades a cutting. He tilled til there was corn for everyone. He was a good tractor. A good tractor with a dark secret. "

A BIG WHATEVER TO FREEDOM. It is no longer worthwhile to be American. At least it is no longer entertaining. the music of chance no longfer plays in my quarters. I would have to be a refugee or ridiculously rich and French to lead the kind of life I want to lead.

Here's to refuge and/or baguettes!