My Greed

I once heard somewhere that growing up means discarding your childhood dreams, one hopeless fantasy at a time. I suppose in the end you're left there standing dreamless, trapped, and shattered; that's when you can proclaim, "I'm grown!" Recently, the potential of this reality has hit me and it stings like nothing I've ever felt. For me, the most glorious thing about having an age in the single digits was the limitless identities and possibilities it subsumed.

At the early age of six I was a ninja, an astronaut, an artist, a musician, a soldier, a farmer, a scientist, a poultry rancher, and (of course) a superhero. Where did all those little versions of me go? Disappeared into the great abyss of adulthood and sound decision-making. And what if I'm just not ready to fucking let any of them go? The responsibility militia will break down my doors and drag them away like so many uncharged enemy combatants with little to no chance for a fair trial. Right now they're at my doors (the militia, not the combatants), demanding I hand over the mathematician, the economist, the computer scientist, the researcher, or the technical analyst. They don't care which one, as long as he'll scream in defiance as he's being dragged away.

My Lust

HTTP Error 404: File or directory not found

The URL you requested was not found.

The page you are looking for may have been removed, had its name changed, or has been willfully denied and stifled by the site owner to prevent further remorse and/or debilitating grief.

My Pride

I find my most useful ability is absorbing and regurgitating information, especially in watering down and essentially bastardizing said information.

Office Theme

"Mother/Mother's Journey" - Yann Tiersen
(Major blunder at 1:20)

"Moon River" - Johnny Mercer and Henry Mancini

"Comptine D'ete No. 3" - Yann Tiersen

My Sloth

Alright, I'll admit it. I've been really lazy about writing here. It's just that I have a couple very loose ideas floating around that just won't solidify. So I'm going to wing this one, just rapid fire transfer from thought stream to fingers to keyboard. No forethought, no premeditated structure, no preconceived ideas (other than shoehorning the title to the current theme), no outlining, and no obsessive proofreading. Of course, I'll utilize the good ol' fashioned spell check, but that's it.

I feel like I'm falling behind in everything: job searching, thesis, life. However, I have been getting a full eight hours sleep every night and eating properly.

NPR just got their custom web stream application, about time. Ira Glass was all over that shit years ago.

I realize I've been growing more and more dependent on plant products, and not in the pseudo-vegetarian diet I've been practicing. I'm talking about dependency on straight up vices: chocolate, tobacco(once a day, like a one day vitamin, but with cancer and burning), tea, and coffee. I'm tempted to say these plants are all related in that they're in the same family and they trick my brain into dumping those feel good hormones that aren't getting dropped naturally when I'm in this state in this State, especially when I'm in this State. Ha! see what I did there, discrete infinity (I think...probably not...probably just a run on sentence).

Recently I've been in heated discussions about non-human animals having language. They don't.

That Musharaff thing scares the hell out of me. When I read that my immediate thoughts were, 'what the fuck would I do if that happened here? What the hell could I do?'. He seemed like such a good chap when he was bro-ing down with Jon Stewart. He's barely paying lip service to making it look like it was legitimately for the security of the nation. The claim is 'not declaring a state of emergency would be suicide for Pakistan'. He's referring to the growth in Islamic fundamentalism. Pakistan was created because of Islamic fundamentalism! What! With the constitution suspended, the press shut down, the chief justice forced out, paramilitary troops on the streets, Parliament and Supreme court surrounded by enforcement thugs, and key members of the opposing party arrested, this is sounding like a contrived, standardized Hollywood script. It's as if he had a blueprint of some sort.

I've been writing for the school paper. Just this week General Abizaid was on campus giving a talk on 'Challenges in the Middle East'. One of my paper colleagues somehow snagged an interview and has written an article on his visit and lecture. Why didn't I think of that?! I could've sat down and talked with Abizaid! Fuck! Not only was I too lazy to make that happen, but I forgot the day he was coming and completely missed out. I've just been so spacey lately, you know?

I saw Azar Nafisi talk about a month ago and Orhan Pamuk two weeks later. Nafisi was amazing. She signed my copy of "Reading Lolita in Tehran" and made me feel very uncomfortable for being marginally attracted to a much older woman. Pamuk was a snoozefest. He just stood up there and read his damn books. After the regurgitation I had no reason to purchase any of his work because I just had it all babbled at me. Way to market, Pamuk. And way to earn that Nobel, jerk.

Oh! and I saw Dave Eggers and his collaborator, Valentino Achak Deng. They signed my copy of "What is the What?", but alas my copy of "Heartbreaking Work..." is back west. And what a relief to get a little glimpse back into west coast a la Eggers' humor.

So that's what comes out when I don't prepare these things, when my lethargy takes the reigns and says,'Eff it." This is kinda like getting to see a high maintenance chick(take that raging feminists!) first thing in the morning when she hasn't slabbed on a pound of makeup and blow dried her hair for a half hour. Or maybe it's more like getting a look at how sausage is actually made.

My Envy

About a week ago I was waiting for my bus, anxious to assemble my new coffee table, which I had hauled all the way from Ikea via public transportation, not a pleasant or timely task. A trio of Chinese students walk by, two males and one female. The girl throws her head back and releases a laugh that can only be invoked by an artfully timed punchline following a particularly comical anecdote, possibly delivered by one of her male companions. The boys laugh in turn and some post-joke discussion follows. While waiting for the crosswalk to signal a safe passage, they continue discussing whatever it is that was so damn funny. They finally cross and as they step onto the opposite sidewalk, they cross paths with a blond girl who just misses the signal to traverse in the opposing direction. Traffic comes to a halt and she begins to walk, until she is hailed by one of the stopped drivers. She waves back in excitement at the familiar face and the driver motions for her to get in the car. Skipping across the road, she hurriedly positions herself in the passenger seat for fear of the light turning green which, naturally, would result in a choir of angry honks, or worse, dismemberment. After they leave I turn my head to the right and notice a couple coming towards me. They move with a blatant air of carelessness, as if to proclaim, "Yes, we are walking and we have no particular destination. But as long as this person is walking beside me, I couldn't fucking care less." I watch their unconnected hands, like two magnets desperately gravitating towards each other, but being held back by some invisible force. Every few steps their palms would sway closer and shy away at the last moment, a spectacle of suspense. They pass me, engrossed in smiling and conversation and I maintain focus on their hands. Not more than 30 seconds later a cyclist comes hurtling behind the unwitting girl and applies his breaks enough to avoid colliding with her. The boy notices and pulls her to safety. And there it was, forced by a reckless cyclist riding illegally on the sidewalk. Their hands finally found each other, a destined union written in the stars, I'm sure. I find myself mimicking their interlaced fingers with my own. My heart races for them as I imagine what they are both thinking, "The suspense is over, just don't let go, please".

It is these common to intimate interactions that my experiences have been devoid of. I miss being able to tell dead baby jokes and share racially offensive humor without getting the 'wtf?' look. And racist dead baby jokes?...Forget about it! I miss being comfortable enough in a crowd to drink. The source of this comfort was once the knowledge that someone will ultimately take care of me and make sure I don't pull a Hasselhoff, or that if I do, they won't take offense to the deluge of fuckwords that may slur out of my noise hole. Not that I ever consciously placed that burden on anyone, but the subconscious comfort allowed me to order that last glass of Scotch that would make my night a little more magical, and my morning a little more painful. Lastly, I miss being able to pick up the phone knowing whoever is on the other end will be down to hang out, be it at a quiet cafe, a familiar household, or a dank dive bar. God, I miss the dank.

As a natural introvert without these interactions, I've resorted to my default wallflower mode. Witnessing others take advantage of and perhaps take for granted the privilege of being truly connected with someone has been a slightly painful sight to witness. I can't help but think, "I once had that. I once was an insider on inside jokes. I used to connect with someone (several someones, as a matter of fact) at a level that seems dizzying now. Most importantly... I used to belong." I'm completely aware that those relationships take time, which makes the situation even more hopeless as I have gotten almost nowhere in a year and have another year left of nowhere-getting ahead. And sometimes, as awful as this may sound, it's comforting to know that I'm not completely alone in this struggle.

It's come to my attention that I am not the only nor the last Las Vegan to embark on this tortuous self-exile. The reasons for exile are generally similar: "I have to leave before Vegas eats my soul. I have to leave because there's a bigger world out there." What's funny is that none of us (I think) foresaw this inundation of loneliness and homesickness, despite it being glaringly obvious in retrospect. We have each dealt with this beast in our own ways. Some have resorted to cardboard cats to provide companionship in lieu of a more fleshy feline. Some have relied on the relentless exploration of their surroundings as if new ground was an infinite resource. Some are fortunate enough to interchangeably use the words 'coworker' and 'friend' . Some are too busy staying afloat in a foreign culture and language to worry too much about exile. Still there are others, like me, who continue to struggle to find that niche, that perfect fit, that groove on which we will ultimately find the justification for what we've done to ourselves. If we are diligent and (more importantly) lucky, we will find those laughs and inside jokes to share with those familiar faces. And if we're really lucky, we will find those hands that allow us to proclaim, "I couldn't fucking care less."

My Gluttony (In Two Parts)

Sunday August 26^th, 5:16pm. I'm sitting in Reagan National waiting for my connecting flight to Pitt. Boarding won't begin for well over an hour, so I have some time to fill (Maybe the right word here is 'kill', but I would have to address my utility of time, a discussion I am not willing to have). I consider myself fortunate for having vultured a table so close to a power drop. The man next to me left his copy of "Dune" and his padlocked gym bag on the adjacent table so he can be more comfortable while standing in line for a burger. If the bag's contents deserve a padlock, why would he leave them beside a stranger? Perhaps I'm looking exceptionally trustworthy today. There’s a blond woman wearing white shorts on the other side of this power station who pushed two cafeteria chairs together to form a makeshift office. She’s using her power drop to charge her Ipod, while sorting official-looking papers from her tote bag.

I've had an excessively exuberant ten days. Summer is ending and I managed to squeeze in some vacation time before the flurry of school begins again. So sit back, or stop reading whenever you wish. This one will be of some length.

(---===Part I: My Peanut Butter Weekend===---)

Last Friday I was picked up from Boston’s Logan international (after a six hour delay in my flight. Thank you very much, United Airlines), hurried to D’s apartment to drop off the bulk of my luggage, then, at midnight, began the four hour drive to the Adirondacks with our tumblers maintaining our French pressed, black coffee at a tongue burning temperature, just how we like it. We drove through a terrifying rainstorm, which slowed traffic to that of a highly monitored school zone, and arrived at the cabin around 4am. We were greeted with 'sleepy time' tea and friendly conversation. When I woke up, my room was pitch black, which led me to the assumption that I could not have gone through more than three hours of sleep. Strangely, I was refreshed and feeling invigorated. Imagine my surprise when I opened my door and was assaulted with blinding rays of sunlight. It turns out the blinds in my windows refused every single particle of light from entering my room. The real time was 10am. I went for a walk and by the time I returned one of the cabin dwellers was awake. After inhaling peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, we went fishing. I caught my first fish and consequently chopped the head off a live animal for the first time in my life. “I’m sorry, little guy”, I apologized, at which point I began hacking and sawing as quickly as possible. He was delectable. That night, another cabin dweller had the brilliant idea of cooking some of the fish using peanut butter as a base. So for dinner we had peanut butter fish and non-peanut butter fish tacos as a side. To think that our food was alive less than 12 hours ago, it was definitely one of those "it really makes you think.." moments.

On Sunday, our party grew to seven. A party of four, not including myself, went out at dawn and returned triumphantly with four fish, a king's bounty in aquatic animals if I had ever seen one. Later that afternoon five of us took a quick hike to a small summit with a magnificent view. While waiting for sunset, we watched butterflies congregating (and possibly mating?) in the surrounding trees. After our descent, D and I ravenously annihilated a half pint of Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream. With our silver spoons colliding, we denied every molecule of the frozen treat to regress to its less appetizing liquid form. Dinner was started slightly later. I helped D conjure her Native dish of fry-bread wrapped veggie dogs (The Injuns had veggie dogs, right? Made of corn?). That same genius who came up with the peanut butter fish made a more refined sauce using the same peanut butter, and used it to cook bacon. It was little slices of amazing (don't judge me, I'm from a country where dirt is considered a toy). Lastly, the biggest of the morning's fish, Captain Stubbs (I named him in post-consumption), was stuffed with vegetables and seasoning before being slowly broiled. There were no plates, no napkins, and no burden of dividing the victim into equivalent pieces. It's a bit of a blur now, but I scarcely recall seven hands gripping seven forks clawing at the good captain and reducing him to nothing more than a semi-symmetrical skeletal structure.

We were in for a slightly more demanding hike on Monday. Not only was the trail longer and steeper, but we had to sneak into a country club and smooth talk ourselves onto their snooty bus to get to the foot of the trail. The summit overlooked a leisurely river slowly weaving and arching across the valleys of tree covered mountains. Naturally, we had to sneak back on the bus to return to W.A.S.P. territory. D and I left that same day and had dinner on the way back to Medford. Where and what we ate will be our embarrassing secret.

(==--My Week of Thai and Fried Fish--==)

Tuesday was spent getting lost on what was supposed to be a half hour walk to the closest metro station. My poor sense of direction was countered with my neurotic planning (I counted on myself getting lost and/or distracted, so I allotted myself more time), and I arrived one minute late to meet my friend, N, for a Thai lunch. At the Chili Duck I ordered mango fried rice, a dish I haven't seen in a forever. Admittedly, I was jealous of N's drunken noodles, a dish I have only seen at the Chili Duck.

I met D for lunch the next day at a different Thai restaurant. Hoping beyond hope that this place would have drunken noodles as well, I was sorely disappointed and opted for some greasy duck to cheer me up. I was dropped off at the Museum of Fine Arts, where I spent the rest of the afternoon meandering through galleries. I was confused about a particular painting in the American section, John Singleton Copley's Watson and the Shark. The confusion came from my viewing of this exact painting not more than two weeks ago in DC. I asked the closest attendant if he knew anything about the painting (mistake!). Although he did provide me with the information I asked for, which was that this painting was Copley’s second version, it turns out that simple question gave him the justification he needed to provide me with a detailed lecture on Copley and American art in the colonial period. In the end he pointed me to the most important American painting (which was by Copley). I was surprised. He was disgruntled by my surprise and soon allowed me to escape. That night N and I went to little Italy where we drank wine, sipped on tomato soup, and split a deliciously greasy plate of fried calamari. Desert was had at Mike’s Pastry where I could only hope my canolli was made by a greasy Italian stereotype hiding in the back with his slick, curled mustache.

This blog is getting too long for my taste. I'm only going to address meals from now on. Tursday's lunch was leftover duck. After she got off work, D and I went to the Institute of Contemporary Art and had dinner at the Barking Crab. We ordered beer, fish and chips, and the fisherman's platter, which consisted of scallops, calamari, shrimp, and cod (all breaded and deep fried). Somewhere in our feeding frenzy D and I realized that the problem with us eating together is that we've already seen each other at our worst and therefore have abandoned any sense of restraint and inhibition. As a result of our guiltless consumption, the food vanished in minutes and we were both incapacitated for the remainder of the night.

Friday's dinner was at a place called My Thai. The menu was all vegetarian; once again I ordered the 'duck'. It always amazes me how some places can get the texture of the 'meat' just right. Best all veggie, Thai place ever. For nighttime fun, N and I got our drink on at The Middle East and The People's Republic where we sat under a leaky air conditioning unit and criticized a marginally attractive girl across the bar for not smiling enough and leaving her wine glass practically full (Who the hell orders wine in a seedy bar, anyway?). We are charmers.

Hamilton beach was the destination for our Saturday outing. The ocean was a little cold, but that didn’t stop us from going out too far and subsequently getting whistled at by the life guard. After an unfortunate injury involving murderous waves bent on our destruction and a swollen ankle, the three of us had lunch at a local cafe. Once again I feasted on fish and chips. That was my last night in Boston and we spent it watching Cannibal the Musical and Suicide Club with a Dunkin' Donuts break for intermission, a bittersweet combination for a bittersweet ending.

(===---:---===)

It is now Friday, August 31^st, 10:03am. I’m riding an Amtrak to Philly. Maybe I can make an unnecessarily long entry of this weekend as well. Congratulations for getting through the longest blog ever.

My Name is Driftwood

Last night I enjoyed a couple glasses of Walker Red while watching Futurama and folding my last bits of laundry, preparing them for transit in my massive, red suitcase. Something about that moment felt genuinely therapeutic. Was it the smooth Scotch whiskey flowing down my throat? Was it the zany antics of a cryogenically frozen, well-meaning loser and his hooligan robot best friend? Neither. I think it was the laundry. It felt like gradual closure for my time here, each fold a testament to the end of this experience and every crease a reminder to prepare myself for the choices and challenges ahead.

I’ve been moving around a lot, more so than I expected, especially in the past three weeks. Last weekend I played tourist one last time. On Saturday I saw the International Spy Museum and the Jefferson Monument. The entirety of Sunday was spent at the National Gallery of Art where my back started aching after so much indefinite meandering. The weekend before that, I spent in Vegas. This visit home was somewhat of a surprise, as my flight wasn’t confirmed until late Wednesday afternoon (My outbound flight left Thursday). Surprise or not, it was a relieving breath of fresh air to be home again, even for a short time. I always look forward to seeing every familiar, beautiful face and absorbing every precious moment at home. Finally, three weekends ago I was in Philadelphia. I almost feel guilty about how amazing my time there was. I must have saved a bag-full of drowning puppies while curing polio in a previous life to deserve such an amazing weekend with not one, but two of the most adorable girls I've ever met. I just hope I wasn't too much of a drunken chore.

So that was my three weeks of transience. Now my flight leaves tomorrow for Boston, where I will be picked up from the airport and immediately road-tripped to the Adirondacks for a weekend in a mountain house encircled by serene lakes and thick forest. After getting reacquainted with nature, it's one week and a weekend of bumming around in "Beantown"(Seriously, can there be a lamer nickname for a city?). I'm hoping for a rematch with those Russians and Eastern Blocers across from Harvard (getting pwned for sure, but whatever doesn't kill me...right?). In the end I'll return to Pittsburgh for a fresh semester. A very minuscule, microscopic part of me is looking forward to this trip. Regardless, I know it's a trip I have to make.

So much mobility has focused my attention on the concept of home (again). There's this great scene in Garden State where Zach Braff and Natalie Portman are sitting alone on one side of the pool. Braff brings up his thoughts on 'home'.

"You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore…all of the sudden even though you have some place to put your shit, that idea of home is gone...it's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't exist…or maybe its like this rite of passage…Maybe that’s all family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place."

I guess I've been going through the same thing. I suppose it takes some time to establish that 'new idea of home'. You know how a crab technically brings it's house wherever it goes? How's it's always moving around, but still encased in it's personal comfort zone. It feels like I'm that crab, except I've misplaced my original shell and am now scavenging the beaches for old tin cans, seashells, and grande Starbucks cups to serve as makeshift homes until I find that one shell that feels like home again. I just hope that what I'm missing wasn't imaginary. Holy shit, did I just simile myself into shellfish? Yea, I did. Wtf.