The other day a friend I've known since we were four ft. tall and I went on a drive down to Brooklyn, where a guy he'd contacted via Craigslist was operating a quasi-legal business out of his home to modify xBox gaming consoles. (Nerds!)
It proved to be a long trip from Westchester; traffic was clogged up from where we started and he had not chosen the most direct route, preferring to avoid toll roads instead of saving time (a strange boy, this one-- but I have a fondness for the strange ones). It was also in the afternoon, and getting close to rush hour. I was quickly reminded of how much I hated being inside a car for long periods of time, and how lucky I've been to live with easy access to public transportation.
I get restless within minutes of no progress and constantly fight the urge to jump out of the seat and walk alongside the plodding, smoky chain of cars. Getting stuck in traffic becomes something larger and more profound; I see us as pawns getting stuck in this weird and pointless journey whose destination in no way justifies the monotony we're willing to put up with behind the wheel. An analogy of life for the sad and passionless. My thoughts take me places.
But in addition to giving me some time to catch up with my buddy, this new update (for his xbox) was a good investment overall. And I'm not one to shy away from supporting good investments. After the modifiction, my friend would be able to play games burnt onto on blank CDs (say, games that he found off of the internet), as opposed to being forced to stick with over-priced games bought at the store.
For the trip I was dressed up in a shirt & tie because of a job interview earlier in the day. In other words I gave off some semblance of enforcement. Professionally dressed entourage usually translates into bad ass security. Or at least that was the message that I told myself this attire conveyed.
We exited off the highway onto what seemed like a neverending grid of small, single family dwellings, and drove through the part of Brooklyn that hipsters havent yet taken over and rappers never talk about. My friend and this business man had been communicating for a while on the cell phone and so we knew where to go and what apartment to enter.
Walking up the steps in his building and ringing his doorbell was a bit disconcerting. What type of person would let strangers enter his home for $30? I braced myself for what lay within, anticipating crack vials and huge bongs surrounded by grim, silent type fiends. But at the door we were greeted by a well dressed Italian-looking man in his late 20's with an untrimmed but not entirely gnarly beard. His accent placed him as a kid who has lived in the city for his entire life, and he immediately asked us to enter.
Inside was sitting this cute little girl, who I assumed was his daughter and was no more than 4 or 5. She was glued to a massive flat-screen TV playing some cartoon that showed Egyptian or Arabian princes, eating food and paid us no mind-- though offering furtive glances in between the occasional spoon fulls of rice.
The dude offered us chairs and my friend offered him his xbox, and this guy promptly went to work. Apparently Microsoft does not make it easy to open these things, and he had special tools that took him a good deal of time to get inside. Throughout this mechanical operation he was giving us the run down of what he was doing and the advantages of the modification my friend was going to receive.
In the other room I was hearing some movement and at one point a lady, presumably his partner, came out and greeted us as well. She left at one point for unknown reasons.
I tried to make small talk with the little girl but she just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign tongue. Then she got bored and started running around the apartment speaking gibberish to herself and playing with dolls. Young children are like aliens from the future who reflect adults' subconscious.
Final thoughts: The guy's professionalism and knowledge were impressive, but his willingness to have strangers into his home is either very stupid or very trustworthy, or both. But I know that with my family present, I'd make damn sure whoever I was opening the door to was not some psychopath with a penchant for finding people on Craigslist and robbing their asses blind.
His willingness to bring randoms into his life is a good sign for humanity, but I fear humanity lacks the capacity to refrain from exploiting this invitation and good will. For xbox players and the rest of us who find real life more interesting , I hope I'm wrong.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Ego Stroking and Sun Burns on Fire Island
This Memorial Day weekend I met up with some good college friends for a few nights in Fire Island, a narrow strip of land just off of the southern coast of Long Island. It was my first time there and we had a blast, all around.
When I first arrived I realized that my expectations of what the island looked like, and the people who inhabit it, were way off. For some reason I envisioned the place as extremely underdeveloped, like a small, simple cluster of houses hugging the beach surrounded by waves of sand dunes. But in fact we stayed in a reasonably sized town filled with restaurants, stores, a police station, even a little grocery.
Still -- my predictions were not entirely off, as there were no roads, only wide, paved walkways. Kind of like enhanced sidewalks. Alternative roads, like the canals of Venice. People liked using bikes to make their way around the island, and used carts to carry around excess baggage. The lack of cars was a nice touch that added to the place's intimacy.
The small size of everything and its seclusion did inflate prices ($6 beers, $3 gatorades), and the police had the authority to make ridiculous rules like prohibiting people from biking through town.
I also assumed that the majority of folks we'd run into would not exactly be good ole' boy NASCAR lovers. Fire Island has a reputation for being a haven of the -- lets say, Brokeback Mtn. crowd, and I was fully anticipating that we'd be some ex-soccer studs awash in a sea of rainbow colored bathing suits and fashionable sun glasses. Instead, the scene was more reminiscent of a spot on the Jersey shore or a trip to a techno club in Staten Island. The first indication of this was my ferry ride over to the Island from the mainland, at 8:45 on Saturday night. Affliction tees, blow outs, and unnecesary sun glasses were prevalent. Everyone was drinking surreptitiously from Sprite bottles, and were quick to insult one another or those around them (when their objects couldn't hear).
My friends and I stayed in a hotel, on the second floor of a restaurant/bar located on the main strip of the town. Hotels are not the most popular way of spending time on the island, as most folks rent out houses. And as a result they're pretty neglected. But ours had charm, in a run-down, dilapidated sort of way. The bathroom had no shower (we used communal showers down the hall), and the adjacent room's bathroom (as there were 8 of us we needed two rooms) was so small that its sink was located about a foot from the bed in the bedroom. The small size of the room kept the atmosphere nice and lively when we were all spending time in one.
The weather for the trip was great, and we played a good game of touch football on the beach our first full day in the AM after everyone had downed several beers. A thick fog that obscured the view up and down the length of beach gave way to some nice sun. Unfortunately the other team cheated (lots of pass interference) and so we only managed a tie. Yours truly was second pick, an obvious underestimation of my talent.
Our nights out were spent pre-gaming in the hotel room and dancing in one of the many clubs in town. Few events really stick out as note worthy, but one was very comedic.
A friend of mine who happens to be rather frank with the ladies sat in on a conversation among a table of girls while we were waiting for some late night pizza and ended up in a heated discussion with one who, in the course of it, called him "ineffectual." Aside from the fact that this is only arguably an actual word, it really doesn't mean anything and anyone who says it (particularly as an insult) ought to be tarred & feathered. Upon hearing this accusation my friend proceeded to make fun of this girls clothing, which was completely legitimate considering what she was wearing: a black tee shirt whose sleeves and waist were tassled. On the front was a picture of what could have been a care-bear or horse. She was therefore referred to as "tassle bitch," and may she die slow.
Anyways I won't get into too many anecdotal accounts. I'll just say that for anyone hoping to go to Fire Island, the best thing to do is to rent a place and expect to be surrounded by greasy guidos. Also bring your own provisions, as shit's expensive as all hell.
When I first arrived I realized that my expectations of what the island looked like, and the people who inhabit it, were way off. For some reason I envisioned the place as extremely underdeveloped, like a small, simple cluster of houses hugging the beach surrounded by waves of sand dunes. But in fact we stayed in a reasonably sized town filled with restaurants, stores, a police station, even a little grocery.
Still -- my predictions were not entirely off, as there were no roads, only wide, paved walkways. Kind of like enhanced sidewalks. Alternative roads, like the canals of Venice. People liked using bikes to make their way around the island, and used carts to carry around excess baggage. The lack of cars was a nice touch that added to the place's intimacy.
The small size of everything and its seclusion did inflate prices ($6 beers, $3 gatorades), and the police had the authority to make ridiculous rules like prohibiting people from biking through town.
I also assumed that the majority of folks we'd run into would not exactly be good ole' boy NASCAR lovers. Fire Island has a reputation for being a haven of the -- lets say, Brokeback Mtn. crowd, and I was fully anticipating that we'd be some ex-soccer studs awash in a sea of rainbow colored bathing suits and fashionable sun glasses. Instead, the scene was more reminiscent of a spot on the Jersey shore or a trip to a techno club in Staten Island. The first indication of this was my ferry ride over to the Island from the mainland, at 8:45 on Saturday night. Affliction tees, blow outs, and unnecesary sun glasses were prevalent. Everyone was drinking surreptitiously from Sprite bottles, and were quick to insult one another or those around them (when their objects couldn't hear).
My friends and I stayed in a hotel, on the second floor of a restaurant/bar located on the main strip of the town. Hotels are not the most popular way of spending time on the island, as most folks rent out houses. And as a result they're pretty neglected. But ours had charm, in a run-down, dilapidated sort of way. The bathroom had no shower (we used communal showers down the hall), and the adjacent room's bathroom (as there were 8 of us we needed two rooms) was so small that its sink was located about a foot from the bed in the bedroom. The small size of the room kept the atmosphere nice and lively when we were all spending time in one.
The weather for the trip was great, and we played a good game of touch football on the beach our first full day in the AM after everyone had downed several beers. A thick fog that obscured the view up and down the length of beach gave way to some nice sun. Unfortunately the other team cheated (lots of pass interference) and so we only managed a tie. Yours truly was second pick, an obvious underestimation of my talent.
Our nights out were spent pre-gaming in the hotel room and dancing in one of the many clubs in town. Few events really stick out as note worthy, but one was very comedic.
A friend of mine who happens to be rather frank with the ladies sat in on a conversation among a table of girls while we were waiting for some late night pizza and ended up in a heated discussion with one who, in the course of it, called him "ineffectual." Aside from the fact that this is only arguably an actual word, it really doesn't mean anything and anyone who says it (particularly as an insult) ought to be tarred & feathered. Upon hearing this accusation my friend proceeded to make fun of this girls clothing, which was completely legitimate considering what she was wearing: a black tee shirt whose sleeves and waist were tassled. On the front was a picture of what could have been a care-bear or horse. She was therefore referred to as "tassle bitch," and may she die slow.
Anyways I won't get into too many anecdotal accounts. I'll just say that for anyone hoping to go to Fire Island, the best thing to do is to rent a place and expect to be surrounded by greasy guidos. Also bring your own provisions, as shit's expensive as all hell.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The Age of Gatsby is Over
In celebration of my monumental completion of graduate school, I've degenerated to a state of weekday boozing this body hasn't experienced since college. And let me say, it's been glorious. My afternoon and evening liquid-fueled adventuring has taken me around the District to locations I wasn't able to explore because of onerous erudite obligations. I've forgotten how damn good it feels to walk the sidewalks with a warm buzz in the middle of the afternoon. Along the way I've met some interesting people too, but one encounter in particular sticks out.
It happened last night, after an afternoon of sushi and sake bombs, followed by an evening of trivia and social (but overpriced) drinking at a gentrified oasis: Not a white person to be seen for blocks around the tavern, but once inside, it was filled with glasses-and-polo wearing crackers. But that is for another blog post.
After, I was reveling in my second successful DC bus trip in two years on the metro platform, waiting for the train, when I spied a clean cut, well dressed, prematurely gray-haired white dude stumbling around with his garment bags and approaching fellow metro takers who were keeping to themselves but obviously distressed by his presence. I was listening to music so couldnt hear the details of this sport-blazer'd, khaki'd accoster. My 'good neighbor' instinct kicked in (hey, I did just earn an MA in philosophy) and I took off my headphones to cautiously approach this situation that clearly needed intervention.
"What's up, man?" I asked.
He slurred out his destination, and asked how to get there. Unfortunately he was looking for a stop on the other side of the district that would require several train switches -- a cerebral task that this man had drank away his capacity to complete.
I tried to think of the simplest way to explain how he could get there. He, sensing my benevolence, dropped his bags and sat down on the floor of the station, using a bag as a pillow. He asked my name, and we exchanged pleasantries. Soon he understandably began getting looks from strangers who wanted to know what this lost, preppy man was doing drunk off his ass laid out on the floor on a Wednesday night.
He miraculously sensed their disapprobation and started off on how his family had "a ton of money," and he couldn't care less what they think. I grew intrigued; I sensed that I was in the presence of some bourgeois class member that grew up on yachts, mimosas, and nannies. In short, that I was in the midst of greatness. He was from "Park Avenue" and visiting his sister.
My fascination kept the conversation going for another minute before he once again began to spontaneously talk about all of the wealth his family owned, obviously not due to his thriftiness. I immediately grew disgusted, wished him good luck in finding his sister, and walked off. He called after, but did not get up to stop me.
I'd like to comment briefly on my weird attraction to the social class that he claimed to be from. For some reason I've conflated good with wealth. I think that most of us -- if not all of us -- do that. We enshrine those around us who earn money, thinking that this accumulation inherently places them above others.
This encounter has made me realize that this is simply not the case. Sloppy drunks are sloppy no matter who their father is. It is absurd and pathetic that one of the first things he mentions to total strangers concerns the amount of money he has. I fear that his lifestyle (and the lifestyle of all of those sad people who grow up with everything they need) stunted his growth. This money is no substitute for character. Who we are is independent of what we own. And I'm starting to think that it is only those of us who own less that can actually grow into men worthy of listening to, speaking with, and gleaning wisdom from. For it is our lack of immediate satisfaction that forces our brains to turn on.
But the drive of those who have little wealth should not be towards this arbitrary medium. The man who seeks happiness through wealth is a poor man; indeed, let those few and courageous ones who seek it through self expression, creativity, justice, and truth, be inscribed in the annals of history. Those are the ones I want our progeny to hear about.
It happened last night, after an afternoon of sushi and sake bombs, followed by an evening of trivia and social (but overpriced) drinking at a gentrified oasis: Not a white person to be seen for blocks around the tavern, but once inside, it was filled with glasses-and-polo wearing crackers. But that is for another blog post.
After, I was reveling in my second successful DC bus trip in two years on the metro platform, waiting for the train, when I spied a clean cut, well dressed, prematurely gray-haired white dude stumbling around with his garment bags and approaching fellow metro takers who were keeping to themselves but obviously distressed by his presence. I was listening to music so couldnt hear the details of this sport-blazer'd, khaki'd accoster. My 'good neighbor' instinct kicked in (hey, I did just earn an MA in philosophy) and I took off my headphones to cautiously approach this situation that clearly needed intervention.
"What's up, man?" I asked.
He slurred out his destination, and asked how to get there. Unfortunately he was looking for a stop on the other side of the district that would require several train switches -- a cerebral task that this man had drank away his capacity to complete.
I tried to think of the simplest way to explain how he could get there. He, sensing my benevolence, dropped his bags and sat down on the floor of the station, using a bag as a pillow. He asked my name, and we exchanged pleasantries. Soon he understandably began getting looks from strangers who wanted to know what this lost, preppy man was doing drunk off his ass laid out on the floor on a Wednesday night.
He miraculously sensed their disapprobation and started off on how his family had "a ton of money," and he couldn't care less what they think. I grew intrigued; I sensed that I was in the presence of some bourgeois class member that grew up on yachts, mimosas, and nannies. In short, that I was in the midst of greatness. He was from "Park Avenue" and visiting his sister.
My fascination kept the conversation going for another minute before he once again began to spontaneously talk about all of the wealth his family owned, obviously not due to his thriftiness. I immediately grew disgusted, wished him good luck in finding his sister, and walked off. He called after, but did not get up to stop me.
I'd like to comment briefly on my weird attraction to the social class that he claimed to be from. For some reason I've conflated good with wealth. I think that most of us -- if not all of us -- do that. We enshrine those around us who earn money, thinking that this accumulation inherently places them above others.
This encounter has made me realize that this is simply not the case. Sloppy drunks are sloppy no matter who their father is. It is absurd and pathetic that one of the first things he mentions to total strangers concerns the amount of money he has. I fear that his lifestyle (and the lifestyle of all of those sad people who grow up with everything they need) stunted his growth. This money is no substitute for character. Who we are is independent of what we own. And I'm starting to think that it is only those of us who own less that can actually grow into men worthy of listening to, speaking with, and gleaning wisdom from. For it is our lack of immediate satisfaction that forces our brains to turn on.
But the drive of those who have little wealth should not be towards this arbitrary medium. The man who seeks happiness through wealth is a poor man; indeed, let those few and courageous ones who seek it through self expression, creativity, justice, and truth, be inscribed in the annals of history. Those are the ones I want our progeny to hear about.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
2666
About an hour ago I finished reading Bolano's final novel, 2666. At over 850 pages in length, and comprising five different tangential plot lines, it was no easy read. But I must say his prose is easier to digest than DFW's. Like DFW though, there is something utterly dark and mysterious about the writing. His characters are beautifully flawed, and while this may cause them grief, to the reader it only adds color and content. Without these idiosynchracies the novel would lack its quality. To a certain extent these fantastic characters and situations also give the novel some credibility; some semblance of reality that it would lack if they were perfectly "normal." In his mind, normality is essentially a vacant concept, bereft of meaning or desirability. It is the abnormal that finds a home in his writing, the abnormal that comes to exist as the normality it seeks to replace.
We are left in the midst of a world inhabited by maniacal geniuses, whose stories, conversations, and thoughts are left exposed for us to ponder with wonder. It is sort of like driving by a car accident, but Bolano doesn't illicit feelings of shame at being entranced with his stories. Instead we are offered a glimpse into the minds of those who have little thought to their own mortality but who are bound to heed to the will of some cruel God who has fashioned gifts and curses for them to suffer through and which determine their fate.
I won't go into too detailed an explanation of the plot of the novel. Frankly I am too callow to do such a work justice. Even after reading this book five times I would likely never fully appreciate the depth and complexity of the work, nor understand the connections and meaning that Bolano is trying to make. His work, unlike Orwell or Hemmingway, is not a clear window through which we better see the world and ourselves. It is a barred hole into a steaming, red hell, filled with howling creatures whose form we can only catch fleeting glimpses of. But it's still quite a view.
We are left in the midst of a world inhabited by maniacal geniuses, whose stories, conversations, and thoughts are left exposed for us to ponder with wonder. It is sort of like driving by a car accident, but Bolano doesn't illicit feelings of shame at being entranced with his stories. Instead we are offered a glimpse into the minds of those who have little thought to their own mortality but who are bound to heed to the will of some cruel God who has fashioned gifts and curses for them to suffer through and which determine their fate.
I won't go into too detailed an explanation of the plot of the novel. Frankly I am too callow to do such a work justice. Even after reading this book five times I would likely never fully appreciate the depth and complexity of the work, nor understand the connections and meaning that Bolano is trying to make. His work, unlike Orwell or Hemmingway, is not a clear window through which we better see the world and ourselves. It is a barred hole into a steaming, red hell, filled with howling creatures whose form we can only catch fleeting glimpses of. But it's still quite a view.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Graduate
I am, for all intents and purposes, a Master of Arts. The time that I used to spend attending to agonizingly boring readings and assignments for school will now be free for, well, whatever I want. This freedom is scary but potentially profitable. For now I will devote more time towards making ridiculous claims and fabricating fantastic stories on this blog. Stay tuned.
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