A few years ago, I was dating a girl that had received a book from her friend that had been passed from person-to-person about a dozen times, with each person whose hands it had passed through signing the inside of the back cover as proof that they had read it. Thinking this was an awesome idea that needed a bit of improving, I hatched an idea that I called Bookchain.
The idea is essentially the same as the one that inspired it, only with a few slight modifications. Theoretically, I would release a small number of the same book into the wild, each with a typed list of instructions on the inside cover requesting that every person whose hands the book passed through email me with certain details like their name, location, the dates they received it and gave it away, and their opinion of the book. Photos of it in geologically relevant places would be nice, but obviously not a requirement. If anything were to happen to the book that changes its appearance in any major way (such as someone highlighting a favorite passage, writing a note or spilling coffee on the dust jacket), I would also appreciate mention of this as well. After a certain number of people (dictated by the number of signature spaces on the back cover, like the original), the last person sends me the book back so that a new "round" may be started with a different series of books. All of this would be recorded on a blog, tracking the multiple (individually numbered) books at once. In my mind, it would turn into something larger than this, a sort of literary take on the "Where's George?" phenomenon with dozens and dozens of books being tracked and started across the country at all times.
Perhaps a bit overzealously, I ran out and bought a single book for just this purpose and did everything described above about a week after I'd planned it. My articulately worded instructions soon adorned the inside of the cover of my favorite novel ever written, Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and I sent it to a close friend of mine. She gave it to someone else, they gave it to another person, they gave it to another, and it vanished. The journey stopped dead, and I stopped getting emails about it.
Disheartened, I abandoned the idea until I found an old journal outlining the rules a few weeks ago. It dawned on me that with the even further advent of the internet in the five years or so since I'd first made my attempt at tracking books, I should at least give it a second thought.
This isn't something I can do alone, though. I'm still a little burned from my last failure all those years ago and need a small dedicated group of people to help me get this idea off the ground. If you are reading this and are interested in being one of the few people that starts the first ever "real" round of Bookchain, I'd like to invite you to email me at bookchainblog@gmail.com with a short bit about you, where you live and your suggestion(s) for a book that you think I should use for this. Depending on the level of interest, I plan to ship out all of the books no later than January 1st, 2013.
Thank you all for reading, and I hope to hear from you soon.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Thursday, October 25, 2012
apartment rules
I was rummaging through some old journals that I had written in while living with my now ex-girlfriend, and found a half-finished list of three rules we had drawn out to make gatherings with our frequently-visiting friends a little more interesting. I think they did their job. Anyways, these are those rules, completed and organized into coherent and easy-to-follow bits.
IF for some reason, the person desiring to eat the Toaster Strudel is incapable of drawing his or her own penis because of extreme inebriation or otherwise, a substitute artist may be called upon to complete the task. Be wary though, the relationship between the substitute and the person eating the Toaster Strudel can be misconstrued if an unfamiliar party is present during this particular ritual. The key is as follows:
Regardless of the image you want to convey to others, always be sure you're conveying the right one. Use this guide if you have any doubts. And as always, have fun!
Apartment Rules
(written Nov. 2010, revised Oct. 2012)
Rule #1:
(written Nov. 2010, revised Oct. 2012)
Rule #1:
If someone offers to light your cigarette for you before you are able to light it yourself, with their lighter ready and in their hand, you must accept their offer and show gratitude by saying "Thank you, daddy" in the most ridiculous imitation of a flamboyant gay man you can possibly manage. Any party not involved in this exchange is prohibited from commenting on the lightee's sudden change in sexual orientation and demeanor (or not); though the one providing the light may do so, gently.
Rule #2:
If anyone leaves any adequate amount of marijuana in my apartment for safekeeping, I reserve the right to take a small amount for myself as payment for watching over their illicit substances and risking my own neck (hypothetically speaking). The amount taken shall never exceed a pinch, unless a larger amount is agreed upon by the owner of the "pot." Each time the owner has a chance to retrieve his/her "pot" by returning to the apartment where it is stored, a new pinch is forfeited to me, the "budsitter," regardless of whether or not the owner's stock has been replenished.
Note: This is not done with ill intentions, as you couldn't exactly expect to just go rent storage space for free, could you?
Rule #3:
If anyone eats any of my Toaster Strudels, they are required to use the included icing packet to draw a penis (with testicles) on said Toaster Strudel. It can be as realistic or cartoonish as the person likes, and they are free to show artistic flair by adding such accoutrements as pubic hair, veins and ejaculate; but keep in mind that a stipulation of this rule is that you must eat it head-first. This rule applies to both men and women.
Male substitute drawing a penis for a female Toaster Strudel eater = "Normal"
Female substitute drawing a penis for a male Toaster Strudel eater = Funny
Female substitute drawing a penis for a female Toaster Strudel eater = Awesome
Male substitute drawing a penis for a male Toaster Strudel eater = Gay
Regardless of the image you want to convey to others, always be sure you're conveying the right one. Use this guide if you have any doubts. And as always, have fun!
Sunday, October 21, 2012
the script for an (extremely) short film
James' New Job
OR
A Short Film That Features a Bit of Thinly-Veiled Social Commentary On the State of the Newspaper Industry
INT. NEWSPAPER MANUFACTURING WAREHOUSE - MID-MORNING
We join our protagonist, a fresh-faced journalist named JAMES, on his first day of work as he is taking a tour of the factory where the newspaper he is now writing for is printed. JAMES is hurriedly following his new boss, MR. KLEINFELDER, around the factory. He is a very loud and boisterous man, the yin to JAMES' shy and reserved yang.
MR. KLEINFELDER
(in the middle of a tirade about the automated printing press the two are standing in front of)
...what I'm trying to say is, Ben Franklin would shit himself if he saw this beauty of a machine!
(he elbows JAMES in the side lightly, chuckling)
JAMES
(nervously laughing)
Yeah, I guess he would.
MR. KLEINFELDER
(walking briskly over to a different, much louder machine)
This one is the one that shreds up the newspapers that we don't sell. Lemme tell you, we have quite the back stock to go through. Most newspapers only use 40-70% recycled materials, but we've been at a 85% minimum since 1993! I like imagining someone reading the same paper twice, though the odds of that have got to be pretty high. But the universe is pretty mysterious like that!
(he elbows JAMES in the side again, trying to elicit a laugh)
JAMES
(visibly uncomfortable)
...yeah. I know, right?
MR. KLEINFELDER
(motioning to a pallet of bundled-up newspapers, all of which have never been opened)
Why don't you throw one of those bundles in? I'm sure the boys wouldn't mind. It's fun!
(he demonstrates this, heaving a large stack into the gaping maw of the machine, which makes a loud noise as it receives the thick bundle of paper)
JAMES
(walking over to the pallet)
Yeah, okay. Sure.
MR. KLEINFELDER
That's it! Just chuck one of those sumbitches into the shredder!
JAMES
(inspecting the top copy on one of the stacks sitting on the pallet)
...this newspaper is from 1947. Are you sure you want to destroy all of these? Some of them could be worth something, to the right collector. My grandpa used to collect old newspapers, the prices of a few are pretty ludicrous
MR. KLEINFELDER walks over and inspects the issue in question, before picking it up and throwing it into the shredder.
MR. KLEINFELDER
(slightly annoyed)
That's not how we make our money around here, boy. I'm in the newspaper business, not in the newspaper selling business!
JAMES
(clearly dumbfounded)
Oh...well, I'm sorry for mentioning it then.
MR. KLEINFELDER
(jovial once again)
It's quite alright, Jimmy! Anyways, let's go look at the ink-mixing machines, shall we?JAMES and MR. KLEINFELDER walk off screen, the latter's voice trailing off as the screen fades to black.
END
Albums that I listened to while writing this:
Pet Sounds - The Beach Boys
Joyce Manor - Joyce Manor
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this:
One bowl of marijuana, smoked via pipe (strain: Yeti).
Pet Sounds - The Beach Boys
Joyce Manor - Joyce Manor
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this:
One bowl of marijuana, smoked via pipe (strain: Yeti).
a blackberry-written, untitled short story
I wrote this over the course of three hours back in June of 2010 in one sitting with no editing whatsoever, on a BlackBerry. I'm not sure how I feel about it now, two years later. But I wanted to release it to the world, so here it is. Hooray.
"I was in love with her when we were first married; of this I am sure. We weren't part of that rash of generation-xers that decided to rush into matrimony in an attempt to show we were better at marriage than our divorced parents were (in fact, only mine were split up). No, we meant it when we said "I do," but that was only because we hadn't been able to see into the future.
The first two years of matrimonial bliss were just that. We had our first (and only) child, dealt with the passing of her mother, and the cancer that struck mine. It felt nice to finally have a partner in life. It was almost as if it was us against the world, and nothing could get to us just as long as we had each other.
But around the start of the new millenium, our relationship started to go downhill. She started to hate me. I don't know if it was stress from staying at home with our daughter, but I'd bet on it. She was always a workaholic in the days before I met her, and I think being out of the loop for so long drove her crazy. That, and my job had me working long hours very frequently, so perhaps missing me played into it (and maybe jealousy of my success).
But whatever it was, it was making our love fade, fast. We were no longer eager twentysomethings fresh out of college waiting to make an impression on the world; we were now worn-down twentysomethings that were left feeling as if they had missed the boat. I'd come home some nights to find her sobbing in our bathroom, not realizing I was there. She'd try to hide it at first, but after a few months, she'd only sob harder when I entered the room. One time, she even yelled at me, telling me to leave the house, to find "some other broad to fuck."
These words hurt me, but not as much as they should have. You see, at that point, I had been cheating on her with a woman from my department for almost a year. I didn't feel guilty about it, because my wife and I had sex eight times since our daughter was born nearly two years previous. Giving birth literally made her disgusted at the thought of sex. So, naturally, I'd seeked it out, and found it, in an attractive divorcee six years my senior.
And as most cheating hearts do, mine began to only beat faster at the sight of this woman. She was experienced, in life and in love, and I was sincerely falling for her. But there was a problem. I was unable to leave my wife. Not for fear of our daughter living in a single-parent setting, or fear of my wife not being able to support herself alone, but for fear of what would happen to my now-budding law career. You see, her father had signed me onto his firm when we had first gotten married, on the promise that I would eventually be made partner like I had always dreamed. But he'd left the firm after the aforementioned passing of his wife, explaining that there was nothing left in the world to fight for or protect.
And even though his name was no longer on the top of everyone in the building's business card, he still pulled a lot of weight around the office, and could easily influence my future if he wanted to.
Looking back, this was a very selfish way to think, but I wanted out of the everyday monotony and depressing setting under the roof of my house.
And then one day, it had happened. Late to a meeting with some Bolivian exporters about a product they wanted to sell legally in the States, I had witnessed one of the greatest tragedies in American history. The first plane, I would later read, hit four floors above where my meeting had just started (without me). Everyone in the room was vaporized by burning jet fuel minutes later. Struck dumb by the events unfolding in front of me, with synapses in my brain audibly popping, I stood there, like so many other petrified New Yorkers, and stared. And then I turned around, and started to run. I didn't know where I was going, or when I would get there, but I ran until both heels on my $400 leather shoes had come loose and fallen off, giving me the appearance of a baby giraffe trying to gallop for the first time. And then I collapsed, sitting in an alley nearly ten blocks away, with my back to the horrors that I had just seen.
Hundreds of people ran in various directions all around me, yelling and screaming, most looking for loved ones or an explaination. And then the second plane hit, and all hell broke loose. We didn't know what was happening. No one did. All of the TVs in windows up and down the street were playing the same footage of the first plane hitting over and over again, only cutting away to show the solemn faces of reporters who were attempting to explain it. If there is such thing as anarchy, I saw it that day.
But the tiny, miniscule inkling of myself that wasn't trying to assess the situation was guiltlessly forming a plan; one that would change my life forever.
"You see," it reasoned, "everyone thinks you are in that building. In fact, the only people that know that you were running late to your meeting are now all either dead or panicking too much to even care."
"Go on," I reluctantly urged.
"Well," my inner-self explained, "you've been looking for a way to escape; a way to leave your life behind, without the mess. This is that way."
No...I couldn't. Fake my own death? After a national tragedy like this had happened?
Well, it was in my nature to see the silver lining in every bad situation...but no...my life wasn't THAT bad. Drug dealers and crime witnesses fake their own deaths, not mid-level lawyers from Manhattan.
But something about that idea stuck with me as I sat there. I could do it. But I would have to shed everything, including my wife, daughter, job, and budding office romance. It broke my heart, but I had to. And I did it. I walked out of the remains of the buildings that day a new man. Reborn like a phoenix, rising from the ashes (literally). Guiltless and determined to make my new life better than my last.
That was three years ago. To make a long story short, I drove to Vermont, sold my car, and lived in a small town, using the money to start my own law firm (where I was the only employee). Of course, I lived under a different name, forging a Social Security card and work history, having learned this methodology from a few cases I had worked back in the city. I even forged my certification and diploma, without guilt, since I'd once been a professional.
I dated a few women, but nothing ever came of any of my relationships. Simply put, I couldn't connect with the locals. This sort of sabbatical I've had has made me realize one thing: that anything you have in life, great or terrible, is only as good as you make it. I had it better than I thought back in New York, and I'm sure with the energy and effort I've put into this alter-ego, I probably could have fixed it. But it is far too late for that now.
Which is why, officers, I leave you this letter as my last will and testament. Enclosed in this envelope, you will find my true Social Security card, along with my forged one. I'm sure you can determine which is which.
I would also like to state that any money I have in any accounts under my false name is to go directly to my wife and daughter, with no explaination. I must also ask that you do not tell them of anything I have written in this letter, lest their memory of me become more tarnished. I understand if you must, but I don't believe there is a legal precedent.
Give my apologies to the person who found me. Sorry for making such a mess."
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this (if I remember correctly):
Three bowls of marijuana smoked via small plastic bong.
"I was in love with her when we were first married; of this I am sure. We weren't part of that rash of generation-xers that decided to rush into matrimony in an attempt to show we were better at marriage than our divorced parents were (in fact, only mine were split up). No, we meant it when we said "I do," but that was only because we hadn't been able to see into the future.
The first two years of matrimonial bliss were just that. We had our first (and only) child, dealt with the passing of her mother, and the cancer that struck mine. It felt nice to finally have a partner in life. It was almost as if it was us against the world, and nothing could get to us just as long as we had each other.
But around the start of the new millenium, our relationship started to go downhill. She started to hate me. I don't know if it was stress from staying at home with our daughter, but I'd bet on it. She was always a workaholic in the days before I met her, and I think being out of the loop for so long drove her crazy. That, and my job had me working long hours very frequently, so perhaps missing me played into it (and maybe jealousy of my success).
But whatever it was, it was making our love fade, fast. We were no longer eager twentysomethings fresh out of college waiting to make an impression on the world; we were now worn-down twentysomethings that were left feeling as if they had missed the boat. I'd come home some nights to find her sobbing in our bathroom, not realizing I was there. She'd try to hide it at first, but after a few months, she'd only sob harder when I entered the room. One time, she even yelled at me, telling me to leave the house, to find "some other broad to fuck."
These words hurt me, but not as much as they should have. You see, at that point, I had been cheating on her with a woman from my department for almost a year. I didn't feel guilty about it, because my wife and I had sex eight times since our daughter was born nearly two years previous. Giving birth literally made her disgusted at the thought of sex. So, naturally, I'd seeked it out, and found it, in an attractive divorcee six years my senior.
And as most cheating hearts do, mine began to only beat faster at the sight of this woman. She was experienced, in life and in love, and I was sincerely falling for her. But there was a problem. I was unable to leave my wife. Not for fear of our daughter living in a single-parent setting, or fear of my wife not being able to support herself alone, but for fear of what would happen to my now-budding law career. You see, her father had signed me onto his firm when we had first gotten married, on the promise that I would eventually be made partner like I had always dreamed. But he'd left the firm after the aforementioned passing of his wife, explaining that there was nothing left in the world to fight for or protect.
And even though his name was no longer on the top of everyone in the building's business card, he still pulled a lot of weight around the office, and could easily influence my future if he wanted to.
Looking back, this was a very selfish way to think, but I wanted out of the everyday monotony and depressing setting under the roof of my house.
And then one day, it had happened. Late to a meeting with some Bolivian exporters about a product they wanted to sell legally in the States, I had witnessed one of the greatest tragedies in American history. The first plane, I would later read, hit four floors above where my meeting had just started (without me). Everyone in the room was vaporized by burning jet fuel minutes later. Struck dumb by the events unfolding in front of me, with synapses in my brain audibly popping, I stood there, like so many other petrified New Yorkers, and stared. And then I turned around, and started to run. I didn't know where I was going, or when I would get there, but I ran until both heels on my $400 leather shoes had come loose and fallen off, giving me the appearance of a baby giraffe trying to gallop for the first time. And then I collapsed, sitting in an alley nearly ten blocks away, with my back to the horrors that I had just seen.
Hundreds of people ran in various directions all around me, yelling and screaming, most looking for loved ones or an explaination. And then the second plane hit, and all hell broke loose. We didn't know what was happening. No one did. All of the TVs in windows up and down the street were playing the same footage of the first plane hitting over and over again, only cutting away to show the solemn faces of reporters who were attempting to explain it. If there is such thing as anarchy, I saw it that day.
But the tiny, miniscule inkling of myself that wasn't trying to assess the situation was guiltlessly forming a plan; one that would change my life forever.
"You see," it reasoned, "everyone thinks you are in that building. In fact, the only people that know that you were running late to your meeting are now all either dead or panicking too much to even care."
"Go on," I reluctantly urged.
"Well," my inner-self explained, "you've been looking for a way to escape; a way to leave your life behind, without the mess. This is that way."
No...I couldn't. Fake my own death? After a national tragedy like this had happened?
Well, it was in my nature to see the silver lining in every bad situation...but no...my life wasn't THAT bad. Drug dealers and crime witnesses fake their own deaths, not mid-level lawyers from Manhattan.
But something about that idea stuck with me as I sat there. I could do it. But I would have to shed everything, including my wife, daughter, job, and budding office romance. It broke my heart, but I had to. And I did it. I walked out of the remains of the buildings that day a new man. Reborn like a phoenix, rising from the ashes (literally). Guiltless and determined to make my new life better than my last.
That was three years ago. To make a long story short, I drove to Vermont, sold my car, and lived in a small town, using the money to start my own law firm (where I was the only employee). Of course, I lived under a different name, forging a Social Security card and work history, having learned this methodology from a few cases I had worked back in the city. I even forged my certification and diploma, without guilt, since I'd once been a professional.
I dated a few women, but nothing ever came of any of my relationships. Simply put, I couldn't connect with the locals. This sort of sabbatical I've had has made me realize one thing: that anything you have in life, great or terrible, is only as good as you make it. I had it better than I thought back in New York, and I'm sure with the energy and effort I've put into this alter-ego, I probably could have fixed it. But it is far too late for that now.
Which is why, officers, I leave you this letter as my last will and testament. Enclosed in this envelope, you will find my true Social Security card, along with my forged one. I'm sure you can determine which is which.
I would also like to state that any money I have in any accounts under my false name is to go directly to my wife and daughter, with no explaination. I must also ask that you do not tell them of anything I have written in this letter, lest their memory of me become more tarnished. I understand if you must, but I don't believe there is a legal precedent.
Give my apologies to the person who found me. Sorry for making such a mess."
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this (if I remember correctly):
Three bowls of marijuana smoked via small plastic bong.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
romance
In any situation where hopeless romanticism is discussed in front of me, I am always the first to admit that I am a chronic sufferer of the condition. At the risk of sounding like a jaded moron, the idea of finding and then having a companion of sorts to enjoy life with excites me wildly. I can't help it, I was half-raised by a series of television shows that make the journey there seem appealing and the end result seem endlessly rewarding. I am a product of my generation.
As such, my definition of the word "romance" is as follows:
Aside #1: I know for a fact that approximately half of you reading this are rolling your eyes at me right now, wondering if you should continue reading this if I'm really going to use Jennifer Aniston and David Schwimmer's fictitious relationship as a metaphor for modern romance. Well, shut the fuck up and keep reading.
During the second season of the show, the two of these start dating after it is revealed in the first season that Ross has secretly been in love with Rachel since the two were in high school together. Now that you know that adorable fact that lead to the two of them simply dating, let me break down their relationship for you over the course of the ten seasons the show ran for (spoiler alert!):
Season 1: Rachel finds out Ross is in love with her.
Season 2: Rachel confronts Ross and says she loves him too. They begin dating.
Season 3: Ross and Rachel go "on a break" and Ross sleeps with another woman. They break up.
Season 4: Ross tries to marry a woman named Emily, but says Rachel's name at the altar.
Season 5: ...nothing really happens other than some residual emotional shit from the above, and the below happening as the season closer.
Season 6: Ross and Rachel are married after a drunken night in Vegas. They get divorced and break up.
Season 7: Rachel becomes pregnant with Ross' baby. Ross nearly proposes. The two decide to not reconcile.
Season 8: Ross and Rachel move in together, still not reconciled.
Season 9: Rachel moves out and in with another "friend," Joey. The two share a romance as Ross dates Joey's ex.
Season 10: Rachel and Joey break up, around the same time Ross becomes single. The series ends with the two compromising for one another and confessing their love, once again. The series ends assuming they live happily ever after.
What I'm getting at is, these two define the term "torrid love affair." Over the course of ten years (not including the decade or so between when the two met in high school and when the series begins), they are together for just under three years total. Yet they chased after each other endlessly, caught up in the idea of a life with each other despite quite a few bumps in the road. Pretty cute stuff, huh?
Given that this was my favorite show for many years during some emotionally influential periods in my life, it's understandable why I am conditioned to do as Rachel and Ross do and believe that true love does exist, and may come around for a second time if it's "meant to be." Through years of trial and error in relationships of my own, I've realized that these indirect claims made by Friends are mostly full of shit.
Aside #2: SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKER. But seriously, I still love that show.
It's not that I don't believe that love exists (because I do), but I do not believe that anything, including who you end up with, is "meant to be." I'm not meaning to squash the hopes of all of the people reading this that believe that soulmates exist in some capacity, but it is a statistical improbability (near impossibility) that you will end up with the single person out of the roughly 1-2 billion you could reasonably be with that will be the absolute perfect person for you. I don't care if you think it's God or the universe that inspires true love in people brings couples together that need to be together, the chances of it are astronomical and I don't believe that it is something that could theoretically happen millions upon millions of times a year.
Aside #3: I brought this point up at a gathering once, and some allegedly annoyingly religious girl said "If it's God's will, they'll end up together because they'll be guided by His hand." I said "God must be a shitty matchmaker, given the divorce rate nowadays." She politely shut her mouth and impolitely glared at me for several minutes.
But, like I said, I do believe in love in a romantic capacity. I've seen too much proof of it in my life to not believe that it really does exist, as well as felt it for myself. It's just that my generation (and likely the generations before and after mine) are so conditioned by media and outside influences in general when it comes to our romantic capabilities that we realize that what I said above is entirely true; whether we admit it or not. We make it easier to swallow by maintaining the idiom that there are "plenty of fish in the sea," and telling ourselves that there is always someone out there that will be a better fit than our former (or current) mate.
This is not helped by our species' recent technology boom, either. Suddenly, we are connected to a larger number of people than we ever have been before, thus increasing our chances of finding that "perfect person" we so desire to be with. Temptation runs rampant in our modern age, because we simply can't be satisfied with what we have with the connections we have available to us.
Of course, things haven't always been this way. Remember the first time you read Romeo & Juliet as a teenager, and were struck by how the whirlwind love affair the two titular characters share is so short-lived, yet so powerful? Let's do what we did for Ross and Rachel earlier and break down Romeo and Juliet's relationship, split into the play's five acts:
Act 1: Romeo sees Juliet for the first time at a party. The two instantly fall in love, despite the fact that their families are feuding. On his way home from the party, Romeo stops by Juliet's window and the two agree to marry the next day.
Act 2: Romeo and Juliet are married.
Act 3: Juliet's angry cousin kills Romeo's cocky best friend, Romeo kills him in revenge. He is banished for murder and nearly kills himself when he thinks he will never see Juliet again.
Act 4: Juliet's father arranges for her to marry someone else, all while Juliet is planning on running away with Romeo. They hatch a plan that I (hopefully) don't need to go into the details of.
Act 5: Due to a simple case of bad timing, Romeo believes Juliet is dead and kills himself out of despair. Juliet wakes up and finds Romeo dead, and does the same. Fin.
This all happens over the course of five days, and happened because two people saw each other across a crowded room one time. In the 400 years since this story was written, we've gone from the average amount of time it takes for two fictitious people to realize they want to spend the rest of their lives together being around fifteen seconds to TEN FUCKING YEARS. That is a massive, massive leap, and it's incredibly upsetting to me that these two (admittedly extreme) situations can be taken as examples of their respective generation's relationship habits. The idea of falling in love at first sight is a ridiculous prospect, as is going through a terribly revealing rollercoaster of a situation with someone you plan on settling down with forever. Neither situation seems all too plausible to me.
Aside #4: I know this is a huge generalization to be making about two completely different generations of human beings, but for the sake of my argument I think both of them can take the proverbial bullet for this one.
That's not to say we haven't experienced a happy medium at some point. I've noticed over the last few years that couples that come from the connected, yet not quite interconnected, era that lasted from approximately 1940 until 1985 generally end up staying together for a longer period of time. I think that this is because they were born in what I believe to be the "golden age" of technology when it came to what capacity you could speak with your significant other in before you were married.
For instance, back in 1597 when Romeo & Juliet was published, it was not uncommon to have arranged marriages (as Juliet's father demonstrates in act 4). The two protagonists didn't know each other, but fell in love with a glance. Clearly this was a generation that was fine with jumping the gun when it came to huge life decisions. On Friends, it took Ross and Rachel ten years of being an off and on couple to realize they wanted to be together. They got to know each other through years and years of conversation and sleeping around with other people and living together and even having a child together. Clearly they were ridiculously indecisive when it's obvious that they should have been together by season 7 or 8.
Aside #5: I may or may not have some residual feelings left over concerning Ross and Rachel's relationship in the last three seasons of Friends.
Even worse, now with the advent of the smart phone and application of social networking to our daily lives, we are able to be constantly connected to the person we are in a relationship, often forcing stilted conversation because we merely have the capability to do so. Some people become so overloaded with information about their significant others that their flaws are found out too soon, before they are able to take the time to appreciate the person for having them. With this comes resentment, and soon the unhappy party begins looking for someone else without said flaw.
Aside #6: Again, not really making a generalization, more of an observation this time. Sue me.
I believe that this aforementioned sweet spot is a pretty good couple of decades, however. Imagine being young and in a relationship in 1968, for instance. Calling the person's house, hoping they were home. Going out on dates every weekend, so you have something to look forward to during the week. Actually getting to know the person because you want to get to know them, not because you feel obligated to.
Also - try to wrap your head around this - getting married before you know every last minuscule detail about someone's personality and habits. I know that sounds insane, since we are all now obsessed with finding flaws in each other so that we can try and love someone better, but to me the idea of going into a lifetime commitment with someone that I still don't know some things about makes me excited to discover those things. Sure, not all of those things may be appealing, but what this generation also fails to realize is that you should love someone because of their flaws, not in spite of them.
The point I'm trying to make here is that out of the billions on Earth, the person you end up with may not be the most perfect person for you, but they should definitely be the most perfect person to you. Even if they fart in their sleep regularly.
Albums that I listened to while writing this:
Moms - Menomena
Dog Problems - The Format
Mantis Preying - Alvin Band
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this:
Two bowls of marijuana, smoked via bong.
One bowl of marijuana, smoked via pipe (strain for both: Yeti).
As such, my definition of the word "romance" is as follows:
romance - Spending obscene amounts of time and money and thought on a single person in the hopes that they will fornicate with you frequently and someday offer or accept your offer to dedicate their lives to you at some point. See: "peacocking."We'll use a couple from my favorite show when I was younger, Friends, as an example for the metaphor I'm trying to convey here. During the first season of the show, we are introduced to the six twentysomething members of "the gang," comprised of four people that don't really matter for the purposes of this example and a couple named Ross and Rachel.
Aside #1: I know for a fact that approximately half of you reading this are rolling your eyes at me right now, wondering if you should continue reading this if I'm really going to use Jennifer Aniston and David Schwimmer's fictitious relationship as a metaphor for modern romance. Well, shut the fuck up and keep reading.
During the second season of the show, the two of these start dating after it is revealed in the first season that Ross has secretly been in love with Rachel since the two were in high school together. Now that you know that adorable fact that lead to the two of them simply dating, let me break down their relationship for you over the course of the ten seasons the show ran for (spoiler alert!):
Season 1: Rachel finds out Ross is in love with her.
Season 2: Rachel confronts Ross and says she loves him too. They begin dating.
Season 3: Ross and Rachel go "on a break" and Ross sleeps with another woman. They break up.
Season 4: Ross tries to marry a woman named Emily, but says Rachel's name at the altar.
Season 5: ...nothing really happens other than some residual emotional shit from the above, and the below happening as the season closer.
Season 6: Ross and Rachel are married after a drunken night in Vegas. They get divorced and break up.
Season 7: Rachel becomes pregnant with Ross' baby. Ross nearly proposes. The two decide to not reconcile.
Season 8: Ross and Rachel move in together, still not reconciled.
Season 9: Rachel moves out and in with another "friend," Joey. The two share a romance as Ross dates Joey's ex.
Season 10: Rachel and Joey break up, around the same time Ross becomes single. The series ends with the two compromising for one another and confessing their love, once again. The series ends assuming they live happily ever after.
What I'm getting at is, these two define the term "torrid love affair." Over the course of ten years (not including the decade or so between when the two met in high school and when the series begins), they are together for just under three years total. Yet they chased after each other endlessly, caught up in the idea of a life with each other despite quite a few bumps in the road. Pretty cute stuff, huh?
Given that this was my favorite show for many years during some emotionally influential periods in my life, it's understandable why I am conditioned to do as Rachel and Ross do and believe that true love does exist, and may come around for a second time if it's "meant to be." Through years of trial and error in relationships of my own, I've realized that these indirect claims made by Friends are mostly full of shit.
Aside #2: SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKER. But seriously, I still love that show.
It's not that I don't believe that love exists (because I do), but I do not believe that anything, including who you end up with, is "meant to be." I'm not meaning to squash the hopes of all of the people reading this that believe that soulmates exist in some capacity, but it is a statistical improbability (near impossibility) that you will end up with the single person out of the roughly 1-2 billion you could reasonably be with that will be the absolute perfect person for you. I don't care if you think it's God or the universe that inspires true love in people brings couples together that need to be together, the chances of it are astronomical and I don't believe that it is something that could theoretically happen millions upon millions of times a year.
Aside #3: I brought this point up at a gathering once, and some allegedly annoyingly religious girl said "If it's God's will, they'll end up together because they'll be guided by His hand." I said "God must be a shitty matchmaker, given the divorce rate nowadays." She politely shut her mouth and impolitely glared at me for several minutes.
But, like I said, I do believe in love in a romantic capacity. I've seen too much proof of it in my life to not believe that it really does exist, as well as felt it for myself. It's just that my generation (and likely the generations before and after mine) are so conditioned by media and outside influences in general when it comes to our romantic capabilities that we realize that what I said above is entirely true; whether we admit it or not. We make it easier to swallow by maintaining the idiom that there are "plenty of fish in the sea," and telling ourselves that there is always someone out there that will be a better fit than our former (or current) mate.
This is not helped by our species' recent technology boom, either. Suddenly, we are connected to a larger number of people than we ever have been before, thus increasing our chances of finding that "perfect person" we so desire to be with. Temptation runs rampant in our modern age, because we simply can't be satisfied with what we have with the connections we have available to us.
Of course, things haven't always been this way. Remember the first time you read Romeo & Juliet as a teenager, and were struck by how the whirlwind love affair the two titular characters share is so short-lived, yet so powerful? Let's do what we did for Ross and Rachel earlier and break down Romeo and Juliet's relationship, split into the play's five acts:
Act 1: Romeo sees Juliet for the first time at a party. The two instantly fall in love, despite the fact that their families are feuding. On his way home from the party, Romeo stops by Juliet's window and the two agree to marry the next day.
Act 2: Romeo and Juliet are married.
Act 3: Juliet's angry cousin kills Romeo's cocky best friend, Romeo kills him in revenge. He is banished for murder and nearly kills himself when he thinks he will never see Juliet again.
Act 4: Juliet's father arranges for her to marry someone else, all while Juliet is planning on running away with Romeo. They hatch a plan that I (hopefully) don't need to go into the details of.
Act 5: Due to a simple case of bad timing, Romeo believes Juliet is dead and kills himself out of despair. Juliet wakes up and finds Romeo dead, and does the same. Fin.
This all happens over the course of five days, and happened because two people saw each other across a crowded room one time. In the 400 years since this story was written, we've gone from the average amount of time it takes for two fictitious people to realize they want to spend the rest of their lives together being around fifteen seconds to TEN FUCKING YEARS. That is a massive, massive leap, and it's incredibly upsetting to me that these two (admittedly extreme) situations can be taken as examples of their respective generation's relationship habits. The idea of falling in love at first sight is a ridiculous prospect, as is going through a terribly revealing rollercoaster of a situation with someone you plan on settling down with forever. Neither situation seems all too plausible to me.
Aside #4: I know this is a huge generalization to be making about two completely different generations of human beings, but for the sake of my argument I think both of them can take the proverbial bullet for this one.
That's not to say we haven't experienced a happy medium at some point. I've noticed over the last few years that couples that come from the connected, yet not quite interconnected, era that lasted from approximately 1940 until 1985 generally end up staying together for a longer period of time. I think that this is because they were born in what I believe to be the "golden age" of technology when it came to what capacity you could speak with your significant other in before you were married.
For instance, back in 1597 when Romeo & Juliet was published, it was not uncommon to have arranged marriages (as Juliet's father demonstrates in act 4). The two protagonists didn't know each other, but fell in love with a glance. Clearly this was a generation that was fine with jumping the gun when it came to huge life decisions. On Friends, it took Ross and Rachel ten years of being an off and on couple to realize they wanted to be together. They got to know each other through years and years of conversation and sleeping around with other people and living together and even having a child together. Clearly they were ridiculously indecisive when it's obvious that they should have been together by season 7 or 8.
Aside #5: I may or may not have some residual feelings left over concerning Ross and Rachel's relationship in the last three seasons of Friends.
Even worse, now with the advent of the smart phone and application of social networking to our daily lives, we are able to be constantly connected to the person we are in a relationship, often forcing stilted conversation because we merely have the capability to do so. Some people become so overloaded with information about their significant others that their flaws are found out too soon, before they are able to take the time to appreciate the person for having them. With this comes resentment, and soon the unhappy party begins looking for someone else without said flaw.
Aside #6: Again, not really making a generalization, more of an observation this time. Sue me.
I believe that this aforementioned sweet spot is a pretty good couple of decades, however. Imagine being young and in a relationship in 1968, for instance. Calling the person's house, hoping they were home. Going out on dates every weekend, so you have something to look forward to during the week. Actually getting to know the person because you want to get to know them, not because you feel obligated to.
Also - try to wrap your head around this - getting married before you know every last minuscule detail about someone's personality and habits. I know that sounds insane, since we are all now obsessed with finding flaws in each other so that we can try and love someone better, but to me the idea of going into a lifetime commitment with someone that I still don't know some things about makes me excited to discover those things. Sure, not all of those things may be appealing, but what this generation also fails to realize is that you should love someone because of their flaws, not in spite of them.
The point I'm trying to make here is that out of the billions on Earth, the person you end up with may not be the most perfect person for you, but they should definitely be the most perfect person to you. Even if they fart in their sleep regularly.
Albums that I listened to while writing this:
Moms - Menomena
Dog Problems - The Format
Mantis Preying - Alvin Band
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this:
Two bowls of marijuana, smoked via bong.
One bowl of marijuana, smoked via pipe (strain for both: Yeti).
Saturday, October 6, 2012
death
Upon writing this, I am 22 years old, and have driven a car for less than thirty minutes total in my entire life. My inability to get behind the wheel of a vehicle does not stem from some secret, cruel and undeserving phobia as I so often claim in casual conversation to avoid talking about the subject at length, but rather from my poor depth perception when it comes to things that are directly in front of my face.
You see, I am naturally a terrible judge of distance in cases when things are less than fifteen feet away from me (like the hood of a car is). As a result, I often find myself bumping into walls and low counter tops with my shoulders and hips, and will often stub my toe on anything my foot happens to swing by.
Aside #1: This is precisely why I have broken both of my pinky toes at least two times each.
Because of this strange ailment, I am not exactly faithful in my ability to drive without constantly scraping the sides of my tires along the edge of the curb. While that isn't life-threatening, there are plenty of aspects of driving that are. Coupled with my middle-distance blindness, any car I'm driving may as well be a death trap for anyone inside. And that is where my fear with driving truly lies.
But this fear of death is not a conventional one. My fear of death in this particular situation (specifically: driving by myself, getting into a car accident and being the only fatality because I was the one that fucked up so badly) is not a fear because I am afraid of death, but rather because I am afraid of dying alone.
Aside #2: I'm not going to play the pseudo-badass here and pretend that I am not afraid of death, but I will admit to likely being more curious than most as to what comes after "all of this." I want to know if I'm right or not. Curiosity will someday kill this atheist.
I do not mean dying alone in the romantic, familial or friendship fashions, either. I mean, literally, dying with no one else passing away by my side. Sure, there is a chance that I'll hit another vehicle, and maybe have a passenger with me, and maybe some of said people will die; but there is no guarantee of this.
No, if I am to die of anything other than old age or cancer, it had better be in a tragedy of epic proportions. I want to die in a plane that goes missing with 112 other people, crashing into the deep jungles of Brazil. I want to die on a roller coaster that derails and kills everyone riding and some that were waiting in line. I want to die on the bus that crashes into a freezing lake and kills us passengers with hypothermia before we are able to drown. Any tragedy is game, when it comes to my demise. The bigger the better, as they say.
Aside #3: My ideal scenario is set in South America and involves the biggest herd of army ants the world has ever seen invading the small town I am staying in. Death by ants would be painful, but it would make for an awesome epitaph.
My reasons for wanting to die in such an (admittedly) ridiculous manner don't stem from me wanting to be held with any sort of notoriety on any news program that may cover what finally does me in. In fact, I don't care about this at all. I just want the ripples of whatever happens to be felt outside of the small circle of people that would care if I were to suddenly die. At least then the few of them wouldn't be the only ones who had lost someone.
It's a lot easier to just say I have a phobia, though.
Albums that I listened to while writing this:
Battle Born - The Killers
Twins - Ty Segall
Um, Uh Oh - Say Hi
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this:
One hit of hash wax.
Two bowls of marijuana, smoked via bong (strain: Cheese).
You see, I am naturally a terrible judge of distance in cases when things are less than fifteen feet away from me (like the hood of a car is). As a result, I often find myself bumping into walls and low counter tops with my shoulders and hips, and will often stub my toe on anything my foot happens to swing by.
Aside #1: This is precisely why I have broken both of my pinky toes at least two times each.
Because of this strange ailment, I am not exactly faithful in my ability to drive without constantly scraping the sides of my tires along the edge of the curb. While that isn't life-threatening, there are plenty of aspects of driving that are. Coupled with my middle-distance blindness, any car I'm driving may as well be a death trap for anyone inside. And that is where my fear with driving truly lies.
But this fear of death is not a conventional one. My fear of death in this particular situation (specifically: driving by myself, getting into a car accident and being the only fatality because I was the one that fucked up so badly) is not a fear because I am afraid of death, but rather because I am afraid of dying alone.
Aside #2: I'm not going to play the pseudo-badass here and pretend that I am not afraid of death, but I will admit to likely being more curious than most as to what comes after "all of this." I want to know if I'm right or not. Curiosity will someday kill this atheist.
I do not mean dying alone in the romantic, familial or friendship fashions, either. I mean, literally, dying with no one else passing away by my side. Sure, there is a chance that I'll hit another vehicle, and maybe have a passenger with me, and maybe some of said people will die; but there is no guarantee of this.
No, if I am to die of anything other than old age or cancer, it had better be in a tragedy of epic proportions. I want to die in a plane that goes missing with 112 other people, crashing into the deep jungles of Brazil. I want to die on a roller coaster that derails and kills everyone riding and some that were waiting in line. I want to die on the bus that crashes into a freezing lake and kills us passengers with hypothermia before we are able to drown. Any tragedy is game, when it comes to my demise. The bigger the better, as they say.
Aside #3: My ideal scenario is set in South America and involves the biggest herd of army ants the world has ever seen invading the small town I am staying in. Death by ants would be painful, but it would make for an awesome epitaph.
My reasons for wanting to die in such an (admittedly) ridiculous manner don't stem from me wanting to be held with any sort of notoriety on any news program that may cover what finally does me in. In fact, I don't care about this at all. I just want the ripples of whatever happens to be felt outside of the small circle of people that would care if I were to suddenly die. At least then the few of them wouldn't be the only ones who had lost someone.
It's a lot easier to just say I have a phobia, though.
Albums that I listened to while writing this:
Battle Born - The Killers
Twins - Ty Segall
Um, Uh Oh - Say Hi
Amount of drugs I was on while writing this:
One hit of hash wax.
Two bowls of marijuana, smoked via bong (strain: Cheese).
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