Effigy

Who are you?

If we were in the time of the Medici and the rich merchants of Genoa and Sardinia I have a feeling that effigies would have evolved beyond the simple laser-inscribed galvanized steel canisters now offered at bulk rates. The idea of a loved one being decorated by prayer tchotchkes and beautiful flowers but also by inspiration found in the cosmos and subtle references to our creation is an inspiring one.

So again. Who are you? Not! what do you do for fun? Not! where do you work? Not! where are you from or what's your name. But what defines that unique accident of chance that describes a particular genetic code? It took an immense amount of probability to get the right amount of cells and atoms and energy and nutrients to make us happen all the way from tadpoles. Who kissed the human race and turned it into a prince?

Here lies a man believer in his own medicine with a head perennially filled with stories of small hamlets in the middle of the arid plains of Mexico. The man who always required hand-made tortillas, jalapeno peppers on the table and a glass of cold straight-from-the-cow milk. When he broke his hip at 87 the doctors looked at it and asked him what 25 year old was walking around missing a hip. That much of an oak.

Here lies another who I never met - at this point he is an eight of my ACGT puzzle. I like to picture him as wiry man who once had it all and then suffered the revolution - everything taken from him and starting anew. He was... a loving husband and an interesting man. Even at their lowest he humor my great-grandmother by buying her a small bottle of Concha de Toro - red. Here lies a man who understood the little pleasures.

Here lies a man who understood the true meaning of an asterisk. I knew him as well as a reader knows his writer. That is too say I knew (invented) more about him than there might have actually and I missed crucial elements of his being because they probably did not fit in with my image. They were the random red streaks of painting in a blue monochrome post-modernist monstrosity. Or a urinal. He taught others that inventing a language and understanding time was for the bold. 

The problem is that an effigy will afford even fewer words. A sentence at best and probably poorly constructed. Should it be in one language or esperanto to show citizenship of the world. Should we divide ourselves by political boundaries or are we not, all of us, citizens of the world? I can't wait for space travel to kick in in my life time. 

My effigy:

A self propelling vessel (more like a satellite) constantly accelerating across the galaxy in just the right path that eventually it becomes a meteor-like structure visiting the earth every 25 years. A number not randomly chosen but one that separates generations in the scientific study of populations. The satellite would always broadcast  the same radio signal: Connecting scattered data for the sake of character and knowledge. Or something equally, I hope, relevant.

*

D

Age of Interest

I’ve been blessed with the pleasure of having questions asked to me. I also question everything I do and I would call it nihilism if I didn’t think that was a little presumptuous. I hope others will judge me posthumously and read into my trash what they will.

We live in the age of interest. Or maybe an age where showing interest is the easiest thing a man can do and the most careless of things.

It used to be, in my mind at least, that a man(guy) interested in a woman(girl) would seek her out, wait for her after the class he saw her go into or hang out by the coffee cart where they first met so he could utter a few clever sentences and maybe win a date. It required effort and a fortunate cosmic accident where a guy would run into a girl reading a book on Sartre at the library and remember that it was him who said that “human nature” does not exist. We had to wear preppy collegiate sweaters or worn out jeans with dried specks of white painting from a summer spent in construction to get away with it of course.

But now we mass text. And we think that’s enough.

A simple:

Hey, Been thinking bout u. When r we hanging out?

Constitutes enough of an effort.  If carefully done it is appropriately addressed to mask anonymity but an explanatory clause to keep them hoping. Chivalry (isn’t) dead.

I don’t mean to say I like calling or that I call at all. All I’m trying to say is that with a new socially established point of reference life is easier for the determined guy and that a simple, careful gesture, pays off.

Again and for the sake of completion I’m not talking about handing out a blossoming red rose, or walking up to a stranger and asking her for the chance to sit down with her over a cup of dark, brewed necessity and get to know each other or calling.

I’m talking about using what you know to bridge the chasm between idle chat and interesting dialogue. It’s all in the detail, carefully planned to seem subtle and spontaneous the secret is in knowledge.

Scientia est Potentia

Addendum

A man - Jack- lived in a prison cell with only one small, barred window for 30 years. Every morning he would wake up, go to the window and see the barren ground. His sentence ended and he left the place a much older but barely wiser man. A new man - Darren - took his place as is prone to do in state sponsored hotels, sorry, prisons. Every day Darren wakes up, goes to the window and takes in the sky.

What I'm trying to say is that I should have mentioned the stars and the icebergs.

We live in the frisky way galaxy in the middle of a universe. Note the conspicuously placed "a" over "the". Yes, I'm a multiverse kind of guy. But I was talking about my own little vessel last time we were here.

The ship's stores are full of rum and biscuits and there's a gold doubloon nailed to the mast as a reward for the first man to spot the big white whale. But it's nighttime now and I also enjoy stargazing.

So women:

These are immutable, always there but far enough not to be a crew member. Close enough so that I can name a few of them and know them by their group of friends - call it Orion's belt or just a clique. Call one of them or all of them Polaris for they are inevitably of the same mold. Bright, attractive in brain and body and the sweetest hug(Z) ever but you can't reach the stars. If Pip learned anything from Dicken's poorly masked metaphor is that you can reach Estella. Mostly because the sweet taste of friendship has no place when there are too many separating factors between you and the world.

As for Icebergs? You see them and you crash. And they let go.
I've been fortunate enough not to have met one yet.

A votre sante!

The women in my life - sort of.

There are so many women in my life. Some of them are great to have and act as my rocks in what I like to see as the ocean of my own ego - 3/4 of my conscious self is that ocean.

Some act like the sirens when I'm on a boat, tied to the mast and my crew has ears stuffed of wax - I'm going crazy trying to reach out to them. They represent the impossibly hopeful dream of happiness that seems to be made out of cellophanes, re-usable plastic bottles and penny wishes. Call it a school child crush  but I still hope to "go-steady" with every other girl that flashes me a warm smile and has a kind word to offer.

Some act like archangels (or if we keep it PC, saving entities) swooping in with gold-feathered wings, white tunics and sandals made of extremely fine Coach leather. There to talk with and any topic goes. Everything from the odd toy you might order online to the importance of being a caring lover. They provide me with interesting insights to the world inside the collective construct that is "women are complicated". These are some of my best friends and they saved me when the storm formed in the perfect way such that my boat almost made it over an obnoxiously large wave but then tipped over instead. We had a full load of catch. We share the most perfect of moments with them.

Some are ethereal ocean wisps. They formed mostly through smoke signals and end-of-the-telescope mirages. I'd take the black opal to full sail but never actually catch up with them. For the most part painfully beautiful, if only because they were the apple (though I'd prefer clementine) of mine eye. They keep life interesting if only because they send bits of drama and intrigue on my life in the shape of a curious text or bbm or even a story about me passed through the entire social network.

There are also ravens and jays. Awful cries that could interpret this metaphor as the women in my life that I'd consider harpies. Rest assured that's not my intention gentle reader. I, like so many before me, use them as omens. Grim but not fatal - the kind that would make my smile a little bit off for the rest of the day. An encounter leaves me feeling a little bit...unfit. They're prone to spreading lies of the not-so-flattering kind that offend character and moral fiber. My approach? Live up to my standards and hope the truth speaks softly but confidently.

On the ship (i thought that this was an ocean originally too, don't worry I know it got trippy at some point) there is also a collection of awkward smiles now just called a list of acquaintances with multiple beginnings and no lasts - the real numbers ran out. They give me the I-know-you look but then glance away as they realize we probably met in unfortunate circumstances or circumstances that are best spoken of in furtive whispers late at night after the ship's been in a state of revelry.

It's a small compendium still.

It's a good thing I plan on living forever.

Theatre of Living Arts

I often use the spoken word to express myself. That is, I use words that have been spoken by someone before me to say what I want to say. Think of the ditzy girl in greek living her life like a romantic comedy or the blonde actress in 30 rock for living her life theatrically. I have friends in engineering working on a real-world interphase for everyday montages with the appropriate mood-filled song in the background.

I like to quote Casablanca and Vonnegut in the same sentence. Mention the benefits of laughing over crying (from a purely clean-up stand point) while suggesting what the minute possibility that of all of the gin joins, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine (you have to use a two-tailed probability test for that one).

Perhaps it's because inherently I feel like collectively we've reached the apex of human creativity. Newer and better ideas are often just amalgams of vintage concepts. Or maybe it's because trusting ourselves to speak intelligently 24/7, 365 is too much and we can lean on the words spoken by the greats. People assumed not to have a higher degree of insight but rather, a status elevated enough for someone to record their words.

If only we could know who would grow up to be famous so we could have historians monitoring them from an early age to get a complete picture.

So as we go on performing on this globe theatre of us I have but one question...are you playing the crowd? Are you pandering to the crowd? Are you following your queues and segues appropriately? Understanding the difference between backstage/green room/stage left? Warming up your vocal chord?

I don't know how to count.

What Joyce would have been like on schyzo?

I have ideas in my head.

What's interesting is that they're in the same of unintelligible electrical impulses that are somehow programmed to interact in one fluid motion to conjure thoughts of color, a plus sign and knee-jerk.

There's an idea that point masses don't actually exists. If they did, a collection of such masses that stretched, let's say, a 10000 miles, could be pushed on one end and the other end would move instantly. This of course makes no sense...because of Einstein and all his relative nonsense.

When I hit 60 I'll let my hair grow out (assuming I still have some), blow up a boiler on my face every morning after the shower and ride my bike around with my pants tucked in to my wool socks.

I keep liking the impossible. Adidas told me that impossible is nothing. Ergo I apparently like nothing but if that is the case then my version of the dictionary is broken. Nothing - not a single thing.

It's the fifth abbreviated paragraph common to blogging and emailing and ____ing online activities and still no title. I'm getting a little concerned.

Some day I hope to change the world. In some unstoppable tour de force I hope to own this oyster that is the world and clink my martini glass a la mad man. I can't invent lying, that's been done, first by some tiny parasite that hid just a little extra food for itself and then by ricky gervais in that cunningly smart new genre that mixes low-cost production with wit and dry humour. Spelled OU because I felt like it.

I'm excited to find myself with grey hairs. Or is it gray? Maybe a spot near the front to give me a faint de-bon-aire attitude. Or a full head of white hair, the kind you find on the board room types in oil paintings immortalized in the hallowed halls of a strange building where they never set foot. Not willingly at it.

It's Saint Patrick's church out there.

Go Green!

H(indie) (alter)native

This is a drunk story.

This is also a story about plaid shirts, over vintage christian heavy metal band t-shirts, skinny skinny jeans and black shoes. Everyone is 21 and the question of what's in the wild is one better left to Krakauer.

I'm neither.

The night starts off like most nights - no plan and no schedule. A vague notion of class tomorrow at 11am is quickly forgotten as the 40s become 80s and then 160s. Into a pub, a bar, a local watering hole and I can feel the shy run away. A quick nod to the bounce who is a wrestling buddy of mine and I'm in. Solid.

The mob is here not in the Colliseum. I'm tall and that helps to catch the bartender's eye who is apparently oblivious to the meat market in front of him. "Keep it open" I yell and ask for the usual and wonder what he'll pour for me. It's a girl's birthday and I've made new friends. Jose Crow is in the house, forget my real name and I pour salt haphazardly around the outstretched, licked hands.

Salud! We toast to good health in my country. Kind of ironic for something served in shots. Shot. Bang.

Make my way to the back, a subtle bob and weave and I'm back on the basketball court using my footwork to go through the crowd. The average age is 21. I'll give you that. But the lower quartile definitely starts at 17 and the upper quartile ends at 23. Thank you PPD.

Some of my best friends are here.

Why is it that the greeks were so often so annoyingly right about both buoyancy and spirits? Veritas in vino. I'm quickly and successively approached by three different people.

1. I have a crush on this and this person but it's complicated for this and this reason and OMG what would they say about this and that???

2. Can we talk about my secret? Can we talk about what's going at home? About the situation? Can you help me?

3. I hooked up with your ex. I'm sorry, it'll probably happen again. I'm like a slutty Miranda.

I wish for the day when all people can openly talk to me. When the imbibing strength of Veuve and Tanq provides us with an inner strength likened only to faith is when we are free. Primal and forgetful -call it a brown(black)out I observe with pleasure how, as a collective, we debase the archetypes built for us and pound on dirty bar counter peanuts and attempt the act of kissing by slobbering over someones neck. I think the french had a version of it with a little more finesse.

My theory/thesis: Psychologists and psychiatrists could help their patients if their patients showed up piss drunk, (sort of) functional, and open. The folds in a human brain fill out with an -OH ending that allows veracity to escape and withholds the illustrating and sometimes allegorical red herrings.

Open up to me in the warmth of an embrace or the calm of an afternoon Argentinian mate tea or sitting in front of a blaring Sports Center. When I can be a conscious executor of my decisions and can quote Romeo and tell you that we are the masters to our own ship. I will be the other end of the phone anytime and put out a fire. To fix the faulty wiring in the whole building I'm going to need a little less than a .22.

Cheers.

Precise Language

Smart people. What a drag.

Inevitably some of the more insightful people I´ve had the uncomfortable pleasure of knowing have been teachers. Teachers of English or English teachers as they would offhandedly point out.

2 of them former alcoholics recovering by taking a swig from the cheap bourbon bottle under their desk. One of them, the older one, was a man of true class and weight. Burdened by the weight of elitist higher education beyond what most people would see neccesary and uncovering the vast expanses of knowledge hiding in "the epistemological effects of the Shor algorithm in post-modernist literature". Relevance becomes a beautifully relative term. The meaning of it becomes as apt at describing current merit in the conversation at hand as when you describe a cat by calling it a dog.

One of them I had as a young pup in high school. He practiced wolfing - standing at his classroom door and greeting every student by name, handshake, or pat on the back as appropriate according to their rank and where they had taken a piss earlier that morning. Girls could ask questions. Men were expected to know and avoid all sorts of foolishness. He recommended a book to me - Aztec - and with a grin masking the cavernous eye sockets whispered: it has loads of sex in it.

One of the had a long confucian beard. He was a fan of the teachings of Lao and focused his chi around his rotund belly. A physical and spirtual center of mass I always figured. He was a gentle soul dominated by his wife who would at once scream in outrage at the collection of dead white men that "great" literature had become while at the same time lamenting that there were truly no great female writers because they were grappled by fear of success. Very Coach Carter-esque.

One of them was young-ish. He was older than he liked admitting to himself and though he was personable and relatable and owned AK47s he was always the more subtle of most of them. He would adopt the surly smarter-than-thou asshole tone described by Penguin Book group when discussing elementary prose with primal minds. We have a word for them in Mexico - fresas. Strawberries literally translated. They speak of that sweet and sometimes slightly sour taste they give off, white on the inside for purity, not very filling either in taste or in consistency. Usually a little too bland and often too simple to stand alone (except when the ulterior motif of sex helps draw the situation out). The girls of course swooned. He would turn, look at me at my friends and share a shameless laugh. Some of us were in the secret.

One of them taught me how to light a cigarrette. Properly.

The last one was a young and charismatic woman who had had aspirations of becoming an oceanologist. A decision made before she had ever seen the ocean. This is the kind of logic even Mentats cant fight. She had a soft giggle and a manner of speaking that told you of fantasies rolling around in her head of french maids turned mistresses and an appreciation for the ironic Not! jokes. She named her daughter a possibility and her son a term of endearment.

These are my teachers. I learned very little grammar, I cannot pick apart a sentence and categorize individual words within it. They taught me just enough vocabulary to surpass the average citizen. They told me to read and analyze and grab at straws in order to make a paper that 5 years from now may seem little more than a nonsensical string of words.

English savvy?

Cempazuchitl

Picture a small island in the middle of lake. The water is still - surrounded by small mountains. The port is teeming with people holding lit candles. The mass starts trudging collectively towards the top in the sinewy and poorly crafted swirling path the local government has fashioned. The summit is a merely a couple of hundred meters away. There's low singing that sounds more like ululation's, there's cempazuchitl everywhere and prayer. Lots of prayer.

Mexicans have a tradition of playing a staring game with death. Look it in the eye, laugh about it and acknowledge the finality in it. It might be our religion. At least that tells us that when we die we go where we deserve to go. A one way ticket to custom (read: purgatory) and then it's either heaven or one of the seven hells. If you've got the cash you also get a satin lined oak box to lie dormant for the rest of eternity. I'm hoping for cremation.

Friends and family gather around the deceased for nine days - a novenario - working their way through rosaries, stories and food. The family doesn't grieve alone. It's a community thing. It reminds me of sitting shiva.

It makes me wonder if what I know and how I was brought up is reflected with the way I deal with death. My first instinct is to hug those that are facing it - personally or vicariously. I don't talk about the emotions I experience but I hear it helps other do just that. I can help by listening or distracting and I believe I am exceedingly good at both though there are obvious areas of improvement. It makes me hope that some Hollywood writer will someday write the perfect script for the things that need to be said and the things that are better left to sound out in an empty room.

The easiest way to help is to know the person that needs the help. It might be that it's your freshman year of college and you know they'll want saltines and a kit kat because there's a wild fire raging through their state and though they will never talk about it, they'll walk into your embrace because you are the only human being out there who knows they need it. It might just be that they'll txt or bbm you the right combination of 2 or 3 words when you need it most.

In live we have the unique opportunity of facing death in the company of our friends.

In death we stand alone.

Important Questions

On a flight this morning I heard an interesting story.

Consider this little piece of non-fictional fiction a disposable one where the names don't matter and I do not know them. The setting is an American Airlines flight that as per the American Airline standard is far outdated, worn and torn but somehow remains operational through a deft combination of technical expertise, magical elves and hope. These planes fly on computers with the processing power of your average laptop computer. The physics of flight are somewhat misunderstood by the foremost experts in the field. Process the following thought: a landing is nothing more than a controlled crash - the crash acts as the braking power. Fun!

Squished between the aisle and a lovely matronly woman I began to regret the idea of flying as a general concept. It was too hot for my sweatshirt but too cold to turn on the recycled air vent above me. I was trying to decide between the two high-quality reads provided by the airline - Sky Mall or Fly with Us! - when I was engaged in conversation. Crack my ribs once you have me on the down and panting for breath.

"Where are you going? Do you go to school in philly? Oh my gosh are you in a fraternity (as my greek letters were goldly displayed across my chest)?! That's so exciting! Hi! My name is...

All of this in rapid succession. The flip-flop wearing delight sitting across the aisle from me flashed a comfortable sorority girl smile that comes with years of knowing that she's too-hot-for-school and that if she talks to you you best consider yourself damn lucky. I gave her answers.

I did go to school in Philly. But today I would be Jack and my major would still be the nerdy combination of engineering and business that I now pursue passionately - but I would be pre-med as well. Grown up in Mexico but raised in an international locations known to her only as "abroad, you know...". I would be a senior with med-school lined up and yes, I was considering an offer from Big Bank but that's the way these things go - "you know...:. An easy smile flashed back inherited from a culture my parents proudly inculcated in me. The flash of pearly whites is a combination of friendly amusement and interested bemusement.

I get my Kindle out of my messenger bag, carefully insert my earbuds and proceed to ignore her as I see the telling glint in her eye. She has more questions. She is bored. She needs attention.

Who am I to refuse her?

And so she tells me an interesting story about her travels. How much she learned by being abroad in Istanbul and how her Middle Eastern Studies Major combined with minors in Farsee and French are opening doors for her in an embassy in Oman. Shit. Truth bomb. My interest peaks right around the time we start discussing the oil works of Latin America and the two polarizing examples - Petrobras and Pemex.

--

I hate the disposability of the story as I continue to engage in it. An interesting one-time serving of a person like this comes along once in an aquamarine moon. Someone to talk to about the wide range of topics stewing in my mind, someone that uses the word marinate and political spectrum in the same sentence, someone who realizes that the use of the word petticoat in this day and age represents little more than pure snobbery. Perhaps I am hypnotized like my gender is prone to be. We are the snake and everything about a woman - their sweet sweet eyes, soft giggle and sideways sloped bangs - are the enchanters flute.

Ladies and Gentlemen, in preparation for our arrival please put your tray tables up and return your seats to their fully upright position.

And with that conversation ceases. She still doesn't know my name and I've quickly forgotten hers.

Touchdown.

Now we are free

The fuzzy feeling in my head is still around. Guy and Sherlock are both in my mind as one word keeps popping in and out: discombobulate.

Palahniuk was the first bringer of good fortune in my life. He came up with my kind of country club. One of dingy basements where the concrete floor has enough give to crack a human skull. Where Pollock wears a different frock and Dexter has a masterpiece to analyze. It would have made Denzel proud to see death in the living.

Every time I let myself die a little it makes me realize just how much more alive I am. Because every time I give away a little bit of my soul I know that it's a tiny fragment of my life that lives on somewhere else. I've been genetically programmed to think like this...

And tonight I fought. Not a controlled environment like I do at the gym every other day. I dress my hand in boxing wraps and sparring gloves, warm up and then juke and jive tossing in a cross every now and then to keep the punching bag guessing. Everlast is a clever one.

On the wooden floor in a second. Using momentum and brute force the next to position myself in just the right way I sweating waiting for the next shift. Another one runs in and tackles me stealing my breath from under me. Face on the floor and my kidneys just got crushed. I jack knife with my legs and slam my forearm into a neck - not mine.

His back flat on the floor, my left temple throbbing and three dead knocks on the floor and it's over. I'm covered in a rain of salt water coming from everywhere, the room spins and the light is crystallized.

And now my body is at peace - warming down as my mind chooses to begin its own race. It's always something with the human body.

Hot Thai Booties

There's something non-sexual to be said about waking up and not knowing anyone in the room. While the gutter driven people out there might fantasize about gang bang scenarios where the close-up shots are prevalent... my thoughts are elsewhere. Surprisingly.

I'm talking about 2 hours of engaging conversation, lovely seventh grade dancing where you leave room for jesus, the holy spirit (or moses). I'm talking about soft, silk ties and the encounter of awkwardness with overactive hormones - and the sarcasm that follows.

Wake up in a room except the room is your world. And me being me that defines itself to everything in my proximity that revolves around my powerfully gravitational ego. Physicists talk about multiverses. The plebe speaks about the universe revolving around every individual. Presto! Now all we need is a whole bunch of knitting grandmas to get the string bit going and the whole equation is nearly solved.

There is nothing permanent about the structures we've managed to put together in the last 5,000 years. No archetype has been left untouched, no function unrefined. What makes us think that the same would apply in that brief blink of time that is our life?

For me it is hope.
For some it is faith.

I had a conversation today (as opposed to most days where I have several - and if by now my sometimes laconic style hasn't tired you dear reader, well, hold on to your seats because it's about to get bumpy). My friend compared my gender to lost puppies coming back after they are shoo-ed away time after time. Suckers for punishment in other words. She then went on to describe how complicated women are.

I was shackled last night.

Today was a reminder that I wish I could write heartfelt stories meant to be slammed into the quiet walls of a crowded room with sentiment and passion. A warm reminder of how I miss the stage. A dark memory that tells me that I can't talk about spaceships and I cant talk about an oppressed childhood but I can certainly talk about warm tortillas over a log fire with a thick wool blanket and the morning mist over the maize crops. These are my truths and I've been obsessing with them.

I wear a proud badge that spells minority in the US but it spells citizen elsewhere.

A girl sang an explanation: soy 100 por ciento boricua. I take boricua and replace it with myself. An explanation for my deranged emotional pattern of implosion. An explanation for my sometimes mispronounced o's and i's. It means a different perspective and I hope a cultured vision of the world. The third world gives you the worm's eye view of the world.

We are all human beings. I'm exhausted of being human.

I'm looking for the moment I see my parents exchange when they look at each other briefly with meaningful glances of understanding and love. It's not a twinkle. It's not a glow. It's unadulterated emotion. The kind rwandan children choirs or the crack of an old man's voice as he tells you his story or the view from the top of Bellavista evoke.

I'm still here trying to look past the glitz and glam. The razzle dazzle. The pizzazz of average human life.

And all I see is hot. thai. booties.

M&M

Those studied in the science of criminalistics know how to build a character profile. So are writers. Our approach is not quite as scientific - read, empirical - but is often a closer depiction of the average freak. I notice the more salient features of different people and combine them to create a super person. That can be everyone from a John Brioche to Jerome Norse.

Reality is often the best fiction. And before I continue an apologetic sentiment is in order seeing as how I'll try to describe my current state of being. I am cognizant that some of what is about to follow might be disturbing -a potential mind f***- or might fall flat in what amounts to little more than a scrap of cheap faux deep thought. I hate the possibility of the latter but high risk is high reward. That's what Sorkin might say.

Picture a 67 year old man who peppers his english language with the occasional german beyond the potentially usual gesundheit. Try gestalht. Yellow - shirt. Juice - orange. A brilliant man who wakes up in the morning to thoughts of electrons derived from a dream including two differently distributed normal curves relating the dichotomy of knowledge between momentum and position. Equally disposed to discussing the collapse of the structural house of cards that the education system is in colleges around the country or the virtues of a chocolate that is naked.

What does exist mean?

Something tangible. Something real? Something I can picture or think about? Then does infinity exist? Something we believe to be real however undefinable?

A student might suggest that exist, like good, is an infinitely recursive word that probably lacks (with no certainty) an absolute truth (there's another one) to it. A definition that requires itself and the word it is defining to define itself. Something that could get an conventionally or universally accepted truth given validity only because of the social architecture that would allow us to accept it.

The man would carry on to ask questions that rarely come up. Questions that are usually there but left unchallenged in an average conference room. Why do we use what we know to be wrong? A continuous model in a quantized theory? Newton was wrong but on any given day F still equals m*a. Proofs are based on a rabbit inside a hat trick start. Do the integer numbers make sense? We can see five. Do -5m makes sense though?

And so you walk away from the man smiling at the thought provoked, the ideas simmering in the back of your head as you wonder whether the man will ever give you an answer to the questions. Maybe he'll make you settle for a scruffy proof or a proof by intimidation.

This is how education should be. Cloning and all. A thought experiment.

...

On/Off The Record.

The record was a city newspaper pushed off the stands and into the web by the ever driving force of the free market - freedom. Bloggers churn out stories four times a day when the writers of yore would take 7 days just to make copy.

It's entirely one of those self-deprecating entries in which I write about the detriment of the ethereal essence of the art I pursue so longingly only to find myself standing in the middle of the battlefield with a toy horse, a plastic sword and a cop arresting me. My name is not Brian.

In my experience dealing with pseudo-professional(s) agencies(people) there is a sense of self-entitlement that begs the world to bow down before them. The intellectual climax that beginning reporters achieve when they first get asked to be spoken to "off the record" is only comparable to hitting that sweet note(spot). G. Perhaps the example is exemplified in those agencies providing a service for the community at large - like consulting or putting on a conference.

Ingredients for a facade of seriousness regarding diversity and a protected environment in which 4 different lettered diversities can thrive in. Speakers about diversity. Luncheon with professors. Students from 8 schools instilled with tradition brought together at the most social of their peers. Add to that a clever name involving a plant and you're done. All thats left is the planned debauchery of the night in which the masquerade type masks and naked pictures run wild.

I'm part of the broad umbrella described on applications as diversity. I'm proud of that. In the words of Caulfield's classmates - Digression!

Being on/off the record bothers me. Whatever happened to understanding context? To reading the subtle hints taught to us by years of conversations, small talk and society's norms? The rocket science handled by those dedicated to it  - psychologists, psychiatrists and other sickos - seems to be so specialized that everyone outside of that realm is completely incompetent.

I only ask for one things.

Read between the lines.

Editorial Right.

I have little respect for the written word that derives its respect from a long-lost tradition of great journalists.  It is easy to walk into the Columbia Journalism program and feel absorbed by the leather chairs, the musty air of respect and gravitas. It's also easy to ride the flying horses of a merry-go round.

It was not until recently that I discovered that the often troubling titles in the Daily Pennsylvanian editorials are not determined by the editors. Or should I say - the writers?

The names of the editors' columns are sometimes funny - perhaps even appropriate. They reveal something about the ethos of random student number 7 in the college of arts and crafts studying business of engineering. Right? Why do we have to perpetuate the puns and easy, something offensive (to our intellect)  humor.

A lasting iMpact? Really?

A potentially revolutionary concept - I'll let gizmodo and engadget and slashdot correct me if I'm wrong - should carry a little more weight in the seriousness of the literature written about it. Perhaps I'm too big of a believer in Gladwell's value-added story.

A writer should not be denied the great pleasure of naming their work. Parents have enjoyed the privilege of naming their child, sometimes even before he/she is born. You get to look through books and magazines, search for the etymological and ethnic origins of the name and the historically famous people with the name. This stuff matters.

Some, like me, write pieces based on a title. The piece writes itself once the header is on the page. Some daring authors write first and name later.

What's in a name you ask?

The writer's introduction in a column. A first impression is rarely removed by stylistically beautiful prose.  No amount of obscure references, listed sources or quoted John Doe's will remove the stench of an ineptly named piece. The name. Matters. And only one person can correctly title a piece in order to express exactly what he wanted to.

A rose would not be the same. The same as a Stradivarious found in the D.C. subway or a stolen Degas in a flea market in Mexico.

Call it the pretty red one, with the thorns and sort of nice smell.

Bob

I'm on a quest for a new social cause to decry. In the interlude, lets talk about Bob.

This weekend I did some insider research into the psyche of the opposite sex. Say it. For those few brave males willing to brave the pro-feminist sentiment of a crowd of rallied women, the experience is quite exhilarating. The suggestive graphic art, the bold statement made by a majora and minora walking around with the coarsest of sentiments and candy are a symphony for the ages.

And the show begins. There is no music, no backdrop - no set to speak of. Chairs, microphones and the quivering, sometimes panting voices of the artist in turn.

Particularly poignant or revealing was Japan and it's short staccato  style. Writing reminiscent of a machine gun often has the same effect. Chills on the back of my arm, a smile to my face - not because of the words but despite them - and thunderous applaud. Ah to be able to write with such poise and sentiment.

My suburban lifestyle of late robs me of that tortured artist experience.

And the orgasm. What a hilarious pleasure.

I've found in my field of research that it's a fingerprint. I wish I could be an orgasm forensic. An analyst of the subtleties of the moan, the tightening of the lower back muscles, curling of toes and the back-of-the-eye-whites rolling of the eyes. A regular day at the office would involve research -interviews,  surveys and dirty water cooler talk - and field research. I would walk through the department (I'd carry a laminate, not a badge) and be envied by men, respected by women.

My job would be to make people happy. Not haha happy but OMFG, I LOVE YOU! happy.

A world filled with normally heart-felt sentiments made real for brief seconds at a time. A race in search of a triple-stacked burger(consider it a euphemism).

It would be the story of Bob. The man who made a woman lover herself more than she thought possible.  A man reading more into a woman's girly parts with greater finesse and in greater detail than most husbands can read their 20-years-mortgage-and-kids wife.

Cheers Bob!

The king

There once was a king and he ruled over his magical land with distinct fairness and grace. He was a ruler made for the ages - sweet dance moves, white gloves and black curly tresses. His prince was an artists formerly known as something else. His queen (not Liza M.) was a single-name wig-wearing interest piece. Their princess wore pointy cones and did jesus cameo's.

A half-baked thought is worth a whole pastry.

There are those who play a role and sacrifice everything in their life to play the character they've built at every turn. The reason why an icelandic beauty wears a dead swan or 60's character only bears skinny ties. They're true artists. Like the old chinese magician pretending frailty only to fit a fish bowl - complete with fish and water - between his legs under a satin and silk costume.

I know those who are who they are despite their best intents. It seems like a carefully calculated act. Letting on only who they are. Most would choose to wear a different mask at every different encounter in their life.

Kings and Queens do not.

It would almost seem unilateral. Monotone. Routine. It would be - if they tried.

But there's something about having distinct smiles. About being truly amazed and happy about the curious world around them. It's in the way the enjoy the trivial and the pursuit. Perhaps it's in the dainty way they consider the weight of a G or the derived pleasure of a simple night of board games and friends.

They are few and far between - like the red aztec suns signaling the end of a century. The beauty of a personality without act. It provides a calm appreciative of Satie's masterpieces; one that would allow the sinking foot-in-snow feeling to be warm and fuzzy.

Here's to the king. An artist born, not made. Fully committed to the reality of his situational act. The representation of an absolute and relative truth.

_______ Five!

Wide open books

As a little kid I used to get punished with a few choice words: "if you don't behave we won't go to the bookstore."

It could have been that I enjoyed jumping into brave new worlds, exploring the trips and slumber parties of a pair of now pro-ani twins or wandering in a world full of red dragons, dark magic and beautiful princesses (for they are always beautiful). It could have just been my wonder at the hundreds of collective pages.

Some of the authors, of the beach novel variety, would churn out dozens of different new book at every other visit. Some would put a few choice words at a time culminating in an ouvre so grandiose that the critics would forego the traditional "...ravishing!!!...compelling!!!...X is a master..." for the more elaborate "A great writer than him has rarely lived."

In those pages, right along with the smell of must, dried ink and the occasional trail of publisher brand coffee were the stories of people. And those I loved.

I like to read people. And not through the metaphorical windows to the soul (the eyes) or through subtle nondescript behaviors but through the body and mental language that we so carelessly display for those with the right mindset. The words are always there but you have to see it. The MD's would call it the power of suggestion but I consider it my power of deduction.

It's elementary.

it's usually no longer than four words at a time with a lot of dirty pictures interspersed here and there. Sometimes you get lucky however and there's an interesting story to be told that extends beyond the usual baby daddy drama and high school tension that follows most people right up to when they turn 45. Everyone knows the midlife comes right after.

Some are generally sad, some are generally happy. You read the insecure and their story about neglect and quasi-abuse, sometimes self imposed. You might catch a bold and confident one and those make the most interesting reads. Look for the source, find the chink, find the strength and look at their side to find their pillars. Every one of them has them no matter how cool and independent they might appear. Wilde had a cook and a person to deliver groceries to him.

I'm still busy reading.

Yo-Yo

Understanding american slang took an irish movie, a book on a Canadian liberation organization and the introduction of hip hop. Yo!

I'm wound up tight and the melatonin looks particularly ripe tonight.

Flash in and flash cards on the table. There are books all over the floor and I'm still wound tight. I wonder why I'm putting myself through this tortuous process of judgements and trial and error and failure and deception. It's a non-climaxing feeling. There is a build-up. Then comes the reality of the act. And then, just as you're playing a back and forth, sometimes verbal, sometimes physical.

Nothing.

And using cheap literary tricks like a single word, single sentence paragraph feels redeeming. Or the use of homonyms to refer to the metaphorical and literal foundations on a song about making lemonade with lemons or better yet, eating lemons but not being bitta. And sometimes all that is required is for you to smile at the sound of another nubile young british voice. And there are those from unknown origin that sing to remind you of the time of this or that.

Writing to decompress.

And tomorrow is the day of judgement. The rapture. Not really but it's quite quite close to a scary amount. Putting your eggs in one basket and then surrounding the aforementioned basket with open flame, hammers (to crush the eggs with in such a manner that not all the king's men can piece them back together) and egg-snatchers does put the pressure on.

Start spreading the word.

Tonight?

Do you have plans? What are you doing tonight? You throwing down?

Sad questions all of them.

I don't presume to be old. I do however, presume to be wise.

The truth is social circles come in two flavors: dynamic and static. For most people who stay where they grew up, live and die within five minutes of where they were born, social circles are static. They're the south philly cops or steel factory workers. They are also agoraphobic writers who write two novels and then shut themselves away from the world they so carefully scripted. Sometimes its the football jocks and cheerleaders but thats usually a story left for hollywood writers and the back roads of the south.

Then there's dynamic.

It starts young. Your best friend might change every year depending on your homeroom situation or where you are in your hormonal period. Sometimes its the simple things like moving away or moving in. Change can come from without and not from within.

Especially in these beautifully awkward years we call the time of our life after an aptly named aging punk-ish rock group. It's changed.

I suppose I am maturing? Growing boring. The shot! Shot! SHOT! mentality of yore is no longer thrilling. The thrill of the hunt is still there however and, I suppose, if the beach novels at the airpot are any indication, will continue to be there till I'm 60 and I'm rocking a Jack Nicholson soon to be George Clooney vibe. The desire to meet people is still deeply entrenched. The opportunities to do so in a pure(New York?) state of mind seldom come.

And all I want to do is use that line Lorelai once suggested to her mom.

Hello.