The Place Across The Street: Round Two

9:00-?

It was about 8:40 PM when we left the library. The dank moratorium of solitude had thoroughly weighed me down, and I felt as though the word document I was composing had absorbed all of my remaining creativity like a sponge. I was rapidly approaching stir crazy, so I convinced Mad-Libs that it was indeed time to exit the premises.

(Side note: My good friend is referred to as “Mad-Libs” as a result of his circumstantial inability to find the appropriate words to express his thoughts, his consistent referencing of the library as “Libs,” and because he is an overconfident little scoundrel. - and KJ is a namesake genius - If you’re familiar with the clip from Family Guy where they interview Floyd Wetherton . . . then you know this individual. Now, I speak his unique language, can usually understand what he’s trying to say, and on rare occasions his thoughts are surprisingly insightful. It may be harsh, English is his second language, but in all fairness he’s had years to practice . . . and it’s just downright hilarious.)

After some deliberation over desired toppings, I placed an online order to Dominos and we walked out into the blustering wind. In all my wisdom I went with a t-shirt. The temperature was 55 degrees, but I hadn’t accounted for the wind. Consequently, I did isometic upper body contractions during the eight minute walk home in an attempt to keep the blood circulating. Gotta love inconsistent New England weather.

Dominos is quick with service in Boston, though not so much Papa John’s, which is quite disconcerting. I always like that the Papa designates cheese as the actual topping rather than the other stuff that usually gets haphazardly tossed on the surface. It really is a groundbreaking concept; the cheese provides a layer of protection so that things don’t fall off. I dig it, but they move at a snail’s pace. I made it up the four flights of stairs to set my bag down and kick off my shoes moments before the buzzer rang. I knowingly nodded my head, fighting the exasperation with thoughts of delicious pizza, and made my descent. The two medium pizzas were consumed within minutes and I had my head glued to the window making sure this experiment would commence without our having to wait in the line I so relentlessly mock.

By 9:30 I was on the aforementioned stoop polishing off the remnants of the ever-so-terrible Keystone Light, made more-so by its skunky essence, which had been left in my refrigerator. I was eyeing our target with grave intent. Like the true military tactician I am, I painted it as a soft target judging by the foot traffic moving that direction. One could also refer to it as a target-rich environment, gauging the undergraduate, got-drunk-at-midnight-for-my-21^st-a-week-ago, talented young nubiles entering this place.

Allow me to take a moment to accurately describe the women of the Boston area from a working man’s perspective. I served my country in a Post-Traumatic-Stress, alcohol-in-one-hand-pistol-in-the-other, nightmare inducing extreme kind of way. I never back down when I know I’m right. I stand for things moral and just, and protect those I love. I have earned every dollar I have ever made, and every ounce of respect I have ever received. I consider myself to be fairly intelligent, and have almost completed a graduate degree, even though my brutal honestly and ability to voice my view of reality is occasionally not well-received. Where I come from, those characteristics make you a decently successful and upstanding young man . . . not in Boston.

 I know not what these women are looking for, but I’m convinced it isn’t worthwhile intelligent conversation, a quality beverage in good company, or a wealth of expertly orchestrated sexual positions. It is all about green. As magnificently attired as they are, adeptly concealing every physical flaw with the appropriate garment, and painting their facial canvases up like Norman Rockwell had been instructing them for years, the majority of the women in the bars, clubs, and pubs at night are very skilled at developing a quality presentation. I’m a big fan of eye candy, but until I discover a way to break through that ignorant, entitled, undeserved self-assured attitude, that’s all these well constructed females will be.

If anyone ever spits to you that used up line about the game having changed while you were off getting coddled in a quality interpersonal relationship, hit ‘em right in the mouth. Do yourself a favor and watch Swingers sometime soon, even if you’ve already seen it, and tell me that mid-90’s cinematic masterpiece isn’t still on point.

We didn’t enter this place like a couple of lions stalking prey on a Saharan plane, no Sir, we just walked in like the sport-obsessed meatheads we are and grabbed a few beers . . . and then preceded to shoot some hapless digital animals stuck in the programming of Big Buck Hunter. We left the beckoning wooden bar-top initially because two of the aforementioned type of women turned their noses up at us when we positioned ourselves in close proximity. As I, in my t-shirt, jeans, and backwards Boston Red Sox hat, ordered my preferred Brick Red Ale, and set a scarred hand on the bar, the smaller one made eye contact with me, and literally jutted out her chin and let out a “Humph” as she looked away. Perhaps in my eyes she saw the fit of laughter I was trying desperately to contain upon notice of the strange compactness of her face, no telling.

As the night transpired, we relocated to a booth that adorned the back wall so that I could further observe. I began to take notice of an awkward looking pair of chaps after the third time they accosted a couple of unsuspecting girls. Immediately invading their personal space, and hosting engagements that routinely ended in two minutes flat, they were hard to miss. When our beloved bear-like compatriot arrived, Mad-Libs couldn’t resist:

“Yo, check out these two assholes over here. The one tall dude, well kinda, wearing that thing that looks like it’s made outta his mom’s drapes, and the littler dude with the too-tight shirt who looks kinda gay. These kids are terrible.”

“Which ones?”

“Yo, the douchebag with the bedazzle beads on his jeans, and the jackass with the glasses.”

“Oh, those guys, what about em’?”

“Just watch this shit.”

As if on cue, the shorter of the two guys took a gigantic sidestep into the path of these unfortunate lasses, swiftly placing a hand on the elbow of the more surprised of the two. Within moments, the girl talking to the taller individual began to take baby steps backwards, while the other merely seemed to lean away from the man who had physically apprehended her. It was a magnificent spectacle, a cyclical display that almost entirely replicated the Saturday Night Live sketch of Night at the Roxbury.  

“Wow. Just . . . Bravo Fellas.”

We migrated, as dynamic alcohol consuming animals do, and found ourselves at a table towards the center of the room. We honestly never even considered braving the depths of the dance floor in the back room, I was honestly too concerned with how bad the smell might be or whether or not there would be adhesive substances on the floor. I’d seen people stumble out of here; not interested to follow their journey to drunken stupidity, we stayed in the front where things appeared relatively composed and undemonstrative. Relatively.

It must have been nearing 12:30 because Mad-Libs made a run for the train. “I’ve gotta take off, I don’t wanna pay for a cab.” KJ and I sat undisturbed for an instant before two girls assaulted our peaceful table. Apparently the unthinkable had happened, what drama could have possibly transpired? The shorter of the two was cute, a brunette with pouty lips, a white blouse, and a black skirt that fantastically accentuated her figure. She was apparently in a state of emergency and needed to commandeer a stool for her wounded companion. As she made haste towards the bathroom for some papertowels or something, her slightly taller friend appeared. Similar appearance, though softer features, she had darker hair and we’d have to wait a few minutes to find out that she had a dazzling smile. Does everyone here just use massive amounts of teeth whitener? Is there no enamel to be found?

“She sure got a purdy mouth” I mumbled, but KJ didn’t hear me. He was in counselor mode, his face just radiant with empathy and compassion, eyes almost welling with tears though he had no idea what had happened, the gentlest smile itching to be displayed to make it all better. He’s a massive stuffed animal. That’s how most guys should get when we see a pretty girl crying, but not me. I just get mad, protective instinct kicks in and I want to fix whatever’s broken. Males are predominantly solution-based creatures; don’t come to us with a problem until you’re ready to settle it.

She had approached like the girl from The Ring, paying no attention to us, hair concealing most of her face, tears running down the side of her cheeks. (I don’t understand that, how do tears only fall down the outside of some people’s faces, is it just the contour lines or what?) She sat down next to us and we quickly coaxed out the information, I for my own amusement, and my associate because, well like I said, he was in counselor mode. Her ex-boyfriend was in the place with another girl, no big deal, but he’d been with her for 3 years and broke it off because he “Didn’t want to be tied down in college.” Now aside from the obvious observation that being in a bar with someone doesn’t necessarily insinuate “Couple”, I have to ask: when are we going to learn to just tell the truth, and if unwilling to divulge said reality, maybe be more original?

Ex:

“Sorry Babe, I have no more positions I want to try out on you. I need another guinea pig, preferably one who’s been hitting the treadmill and thigh adductor machine more regularly.”

“Honestly, this thing has run its course, best of luck in all your endeavors. I’ll probably call you up drunk a few times, feel free to answer and go out of your way to come take care of business thinking there’s a chance I’m a decent dude after all.”

“Look, I’m just really bored; maybe you’re just not much fun. I’m down to slip you some caffeine pills or have you chug an energy drink and see what happens once or twice, but I think I’m all set.”

“I’m a dude, I need to spread my seed, and rubbing it around on your stomach doesn’t count . . . it is cool though, maybe we could make arrangements to keep that thing going?”

Or maybe in this guy’s case: “Uh, sorry girl, I’m way too young not to chase after some other skanks. I’m supposed to be learning new moves and defiling sorostitutes. What?”

It is a fair approach and it doesn’t leave girls hopeful and ultimately bawling their eyes out to some strange guys at a bar. Why not call it like you see it. “I’m tired of you”, “You’re not doing it for me anymore”, “I’m at a point where watching internet porn is just less effort and more fulfilling.” At first you’ll be seen as a heartless villain, but fear not, you’re in good company. Hey, if you let her go, why do you care if she still likes you? By the time she hits 30 she’ll say something along the lines of: “At least he was honest.” There’s no real way to soften the blow, and if you try to, you’re just being cruel. I’ve figured this out, and I have no desire to repeat the slung-together string of vulgar syllables I contrived to describe the guy who left this beautiful woman weeping in public.

Alas, the furry objective perspective finally made his exit, in an attempt to catch the last train headed a few chilly miles past Fenway; leaving only my calloused posture to tend to this injured young fawn. Her friend had long since vanished into the depths of the befouled back room in search of similar ventures to those of her ex. I wavered for a moment, not really knowing how to approach the “Moving on” portion of this conversation. All I could think to do was to make her smile and encourage her to accept the situation for what it is. I discovered she was a Biochemical engineer, moving to California in short order to work for Intel. Um, wow. So, why then was she so hung up emotionally?

“An intelligent gorgeous woman such as yourself, this dude must have one magnificent member to coax out so many tears.”

Biggest smile of the night.

“I tell you what, I’ve got a bottle of Jameson, two glasses, and a fire escape that I only wish was more comfortable. You want some contact comfort? ‘Cause I got that.”

A slight shake of the head, but I’d been drinking, I’m a dude, and I’d seriously been counseling in a bar for 45 minutes.

 “I don’t know what else to actually say, the dude is garbage . . . I bet I’m more skilled.”
 

I threw her a wink, and for the first time she created an awkward silence. I don’t deal well with women that are either awkward or silent, and she had successfully combined the two. The tears had gone, and I fancied myself as fairly affable since I had made her laugh, so I was quite confused. In the midst of my perplexity I ordered a shot of Jameson, which thankfully arrived as a double. In one foul swoop I downed the shot, contorted my face for an instant, looked at her and said:

“So that’s it then? You good? . . . Well I just got used, and not in the good way.” Pointing towards the back, “I think your friend is probably stuck to the floor by now, there’s probably still time to get plastered yourself.”

She stood in shock as I threw her a peace sign and sauntered out into the glow of the streetlights.

The Place Across The Street: Reassessment

April:

I hadn’t returned to this establishment for quite some time because Crossroads is closer for KJ, Button Nose, and The Burgs. An Irish Pub also, Crossroads was a place of legend until one manager was let go, and the well endowed angel from Ireland’s visa expired and she returned from whence she came. My dusky hued female Lebanese version of Troy Polamalu still serves plentiful drinks and has a wicked tongue that rivals my own, as well as an inherent racism that is particularly troubling, so most nights I would consider nowhere else a suitable location for a liquid debrief.

I live on the 4^th floor and one of my windows is always open because there is an air conditioning unit in it that I installed with brute force and copious amounts of duct-tape. This atmospheric vulnerability can occasionally result in lost sleep or an inability to hear the TV even with a surround sound system. Many’s the night I am plagued with the drunken cackles of those stumbling out of An Tua Nua, and the infuriating honking of car horns as the taxi’s block the street. Stop honking already, most of the time if people aren’t moving they probably have nowhere they can go, honestly, where do you have to be anyway? As irritating as the scene may be, it is also quite entertaining.

I tend to conduct my beverage-soaked recapitulation on the stoop of the apartment building when the weather is nice. Depending on the entourage, who walks by, and what events are occurring in the street, it exists as an unending source of entertainment. It has been suggested by some that I acquire a small stereo of some sort, to add a soundtrack to the scene, or pick up a few lawn chairs at the local economy hardware. I feel, however, that it defeats the purpose and effortlessness of simply sitting on the steps, drinking a beer, and enjoying good company and witty (and not-so witty) banter. Admittedly some country or hip-hop would liven up the atmosphere, but given my own nature and those of my associates, I’m not sure rowdy would be a good thing.

I have observed a line wrap around the block to get into this place every Thursday night for months. Some of the best humor that comes my way on my stroll home is often passing by this line hearing the bouncer at 1 AM: “It’s one. Why the fuck are you guys still out here? If you have somewhere else to go you should fucking go there because there is no way you’re gettin’ in here tonight!” Moments pass with no movement, and the exasperated doorman shakes his head. “Alright . . . you’ve been informed, wait your asses out here in the cold if you want. I don’t care.” Turning directly to some of the girls in the back of the line wearing skin-tight skirts barely covering the crack where their legs meet: “Hun, you’re not cold, seriously?”

Intrigued, I decided to find out some night what all these idiots were waiting for. I’ve been in there; it is a cool place, but not a level of fantastic that isn’t replicated by other watering holes. Left only to assume that the caliber of individuals must have this overwhelming draw, it was time to investigate further. Gauging the superficial qualities of the women entering this institution of higher alcohol consumption, there is indeed potential for at least some pleasant eye candy if nothing else. Why not?    

The Place Across The Street: Round One

An Tua Nua is a small Irish Pub that sits diagonally across Beacon Street from my apartment building. Don’t ask me how to pronounce the name properly, I feel like an idiot when the words escape my lips anyhow, and I’ve heard it said multiple ways. “This is America, I speak American.” Painted red on its outward face, it is nestled cozily between a shop that sells vacuum cleaners and a flouriest, and some taller apartment buildings coated in white and black. The place is legitimately Irish; if the Gaeilge name isn’t obvious enough, two orange, white, and green flags are displayed prominently all seasons of the year on either corner of the edifice like perked up dog ears. There is no mistaking what country this bar supports. It bears a slight resemblance to the souped-up SS Impalas I used to see driving around the Naval Base in Norfolk Virginia, with 22” rims that no doubt did a grave disservice to the brake pads and University of Georgia flags mounted in both the passenger and driver’s side windows. My boy Perry used to drive real slow with the seat laid back a bit too far, it was like traveling on a reclining sofa, comfortable but quite dangerous.

July:

I first entered this establishment when I arrived in Boston almost nine months ago and found myself with little to do one summer evening. At the time my over-sized bedroom had no air conditioning and I hadn’t yet placed my big fans in the windows. With the humidity at 90%, even sprawling out naked on the floor was a miserable experience. I thought I would love the place because there were flat screen TVs playing sports, Sam Adams Brick Red Ale only served in the bean on tap, and tied knots in frames adorning the walls. I’m a sailor, I love knots, rope, tying stuff underwater (who doesn’t?), and dive bars that pour Jameson in double shots every time. Not to mention that the night I went in there, an amazing looking blond was working behind the bar who had played college basketball . . . actually held an intelligent conversation with me too, go figure. What was this splendid shrine to everything I hold dear?

It might have been pre-season football I was watching, and the more I sipped on my buttery whiskey, the louder my commentary on the proceeding competition became. It was a Tuesday night and there were maybe ten people in the place. I became increasingly animated and the bartender appeared to have less and less to do, so once she let out a few cute giggles in response to my personal blend of profanity and difficult to pronounce words (ex: “Pontificating piece of shit”), I struck up a conversation. It didn’t take me long to forget her name, my memory is the first thing to fail me once inebriated, and she was stone sober and ready to go home once she was cut due to low client volume, so she wasn’t particularly forgiving of drunken inability to remember specifics. We were saying goodbye, and I stored her phone number under “E,” which must have thoroughly offended.

I called her “Madam” for a couple of reasons. I personally like the word and feel chivalry is not dead as long as there is but one to practice it, I become quite agreeable and polite when imbibing alcohol, and of course the obvious rationale she picked up on, which was that her name escaped me. Better than saying it incorrectly, right? Alas, that one got away. Then I received objective feedback:

“Ay, tha was harsh.”

“I gave it a solid effort I thought.”

“I don’t deny ya tha, better luck next time.”

Emmet was a young red-headed Irishman, visiting the states on business, and in true foreigner fashion he was staying within his comfort zone. He had seen the flags like beacons in the night, heard the distant ding of the bell on the rocking buoy, and been guided to this well stocked oasis. Some statement I made about hits in football compelled him to show me video clips on his phone of a game I cannot to this day remember the name of (see a pattern emerging?) where guys are simply hitting each other across the face with sticks, it was hilarious. Perhaps that sounds heartless, but my compassion is reserved for those not volunteering for such epic abuse. For some reason I was determined to get this guy laid while he was in town. I’d been here myself for less than a month and only had a few similarly ill-gotten phone numbers of local women, but by my hazy logic that only made it a more exciting venture. A man needs a sense of purpose.

The walk from Beacon Street to Lansdowne has since become a routine event. I now know almost every crack in the asphalt, the spots available for climbing in the chain link fence that don’t have barbed wire at the top, the way I have to position myself to maneuver through the bent-up gate when it’s locked shut (I can only surmise that a car hit that thing very hard, because I don’t know how else metal twists like that), and every recession to avoid when the rain is cascading over this fair city. I’ve soaked some serious sneakers figuring out that little tidbit of information.

We went into Lansdowne Pub on a Tuesday night, and as could be expected, the place wasn’t exactly booming. The Irishman and I were on a mission, however, and despite my inability to remember particulars like names and conversational content (you know, minor details) I was actually fairly productive. The ol’ bait’n’switch worked well a couple times, and my contact list felt a bit heavier. The last thing I remember was shaking his hand as he was about to leave with some decently attractive older lady I’d introduced him to; I think her name was Cathy, but I’m undoubtedly wrong. We’d had a good conversation, but I didn’t have an Irish accent. As I made my less than graceful way back up the hill towards home, it occurred to me that Americans are despised, boisterous, and nationalistic, so I don’t ever get to be the foreigner with the cool accent. Bummer, but cheers Kid.

Vision

Our life experiences color our perceptions of the world. This is something I harp on consistently as well attempt to be aware of within myself. I work feverishly to notice it, and make a concerted effort to interpret the various messages that scroll across the screen behind my eyes, because it is important to acknowledge where these thoughts come from and choose whether or not to accept them. Our views are valid and true to the best of our knowledge, that is to say “True to us”, and I have no intention of invalidating any personal views, but I do think they very effectively blind us. One of the most important messages I have ever heard a college professor pass along came from the tenured vulgar mouth of my research methods instructor.

Dr. Jake Jac. is a bald man of small stature, while bearing an intimidating demeanor, and a shamelessly self-centered arrogance. He and his loyal entourage of TAs walked into class on the first day of the semester, he placed a notebook down on a small podium, and he said:

“There is no such thing as faith, love, free will, or any of that bullshit, and if you don’t like it get the fuck out now because I don’t want to hear any bitching.”

Not a soul shifted in their seat. How does one respond to such a statement? PSYC 290 was a core requirement. I feel like most stayed right where they were due to an uneasiness as to the consequences of exiting at that moment . . . not me, I wasn’t going anywhere. I loved it, well, I was thoroughly intrigued and in wholehearted agreement. Every student in the college of social and behavioral sciences had to get through that class . . . and get through him. It was kind of an initiation class that I’m surprised to this day I got through, because after the first few lectures, where he spoke for two hours tearing down all of our irrational belief structures, it got excruciatingly tedious and boring. He would speak nonstop and the only other sounds to be heard were the frantic keystrokes of every over-achiever attempting to capture his exact words. The man stated at the beginning, along with his “Reign of terror” statement, that he’d rather we remain engaged and hear what he had to say than miss it all trying to take notes. I don’t often take notes anyway, or read textbooks for that matter; I found his lectures online and listened to them over again before tests.

He was a hard-nosed scientist who was analytical and open-minded enough to even recognize that all of our sciences could be complete garbage as well, even with their methods of checks and balances. I respected him, and even went to a couple of his office hours to ask him questions that I thought might leave him with a new angle to consider. When I asked him for a recommendation for graduate school he scoffed at me, saying that he didn’t write letters for undergrads who hadn’t worked in his lab. Made sense, there were over 200 kids in the class, but I pushed it. I revealed to him that I was a Navy Vet, stated my case that all of my classes were astronomically huge, and that as sad as it was I had had more face time with him as a professor than anyone else. He told me he’d consider it further and thanked me for my service, but I never heard anything else and was too irritated to be persistent. I remember him well though, not only because it was one of the most informative classes I have ever taken, but because he taught an idea, I thought I was one of the only people to grasp, on a large scale.

He said: “It isn’t important whether or not you believe or agree with anything. It might be to us personally, but who the fuck are we? What’s important is that you understand everything for what it is.”

Like I said, I loved it . . . even if love is just some made-up concept to describe an emotion we have no idea why we feel. Mostly because the truth is this, we are all wounded in one way or another. Mental wounds are the signs of a life thoroughly lived, just as lacerations, bumps, bruises, broken bones and all the rest are the physical signs that you are happening.

Mental wounds are no different from the physical; they alter, to whatever degree, the manner in which we interact with the world. When you rip off a scab too many times you get a scar, if you cut the cutaneous tissue deep enough you get a scar . . . well what’s different? We have psychological scars just as we would superficial, and for quite the same reasons. Our triggers get tripped, whether or not it is a good thing we remember certain occurrences is debatable, but we do, and we are constantly ripping our wounds open and creating the blemishes that tattoo our minds. This is where schemas come from, this is why we approach situations as though they are the same as ones we’ve previously engaged in, this is why our relationships tend to look, for better or worse, similar in a lot of ways. We have expectations of our environment based on what has had an impact on us, and it shapes our values and points of view.

Just remember this though, your views are exactly those, “Yours.” They do not reflect an objective view of reality, but one seen through a lens. It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope. If we are conscious of this, then we can learn to accept and understand things for what they are, and operate much more efficiently to address the systems that surround us, and leave this place with some cool looking scars of its own.   

Frustrated: Part III

I like a bar, and old Irish pub type, the likes of which I’ve found in Boston, but these have been altered too. They have to keep up with the times, so they turn into a sick form of night club as well. Music too loud to hold the classic conversation at the bar, very tall people talking amongst themselves because, well, they’re all tall, guys with way too nice shirts that don’t ever seem to fit properly, greased up hair, cologne that makes you wonder: “Man or woman?,” and women who get dressed up for the cruel game of how many men can be rejected before everyone stops asking altogether. We feed into this culture just like we feast upon antidepressants. We drink to forget, we drink to forgive.

If you’re wondering where single people are after 10 o’clock at night, well let me point you to the nearest location serving alcohol. For those that are at home, I’d be willing to bet they’re probably wearing reading glasses, because the glare from these computer monitors we can’t detach ourselves from is killing our eyes. They are no doubt working studiously on some way to make money so that the next time their friends remember they haven’t seen them in a while they can buy more expensive clothes to have drinks unapologetically spilled on and indulge in a higher shelf of liquor. The couples . . . ah yes, couples. There is no one right person for anyone, and judging by the rate at which we seem to multiply, it should be evident that the value of “The One” isn’t anywhere near as delightful as the three or four you could possibly relate to in the time it takes to realize that you’re either ready to settle or not. Those three or four months would be better spent sampling from a variety than deciding whether this could potentially get boring once you’ve exhausted every position and realized the muscles down there aren’t as strong as you might prefer.

I can’t attribute any of these observations to any iota of military experience or any clinical form of psychosis. I’m not an obsessive compulsive maniacally paranoid delusionist. I’ve just spelled out the facts of the case in a three-part series, ladies and gentlemen, and they are undisputed. There are too many people on this planet, too many squirrels fighting over the same nut, like the scene at any night club you’ve ever been in, but magnified to a global scale and mixed with all kinds of people who dress differently than you would expect, eat different amounts of food bearing distinct aromas, and have dissimilar skin pigmentation.

What have we done? What have we come to expect of ourselves as a society? Is it really that cyclical, that we have come back around to a day in age when the huddled masses need to believe there’s a better place to go to after you suffer through this one? No, I’m not depressed, because the endorphins keep me on an even keel, but I can certainly see why people are. I used be under the impression that perhaps human kind had grown weak. That due to our own intellect and ability to alter our environment to suit our needs, we had somehow just become incapable of coping with what is, and forced ourselves into a state of what could be. That ain’t it. My calloused hands are no weaker than those of my forefathers, albeit they weren’t tempered in the same fires, but the problems that we face now are quite possibly worse. Hope and purpose are two intangibles that carry people through, whatever the destination may be, and it seems that civilization has evolved beyond concern for such individual requirements. There are as many philosophies as there are people, which is just downright frightening, so how the hell are we ever supposed to agree on anything? My head hurts.

Frustrated: Part II

I find that I’m up late worrying about finances and my future. Not the things that I should personally value, I worry about the things that society values. I’ve been influenced, they got me, and whatever way we choose to interpret the messages we receive; choice itself affects us. We’re numb, to the extreme point where emotions in a TV show actually shake us up a bit, because we as people don’t readily express emotions to that extent. Not properly at least, we express emotion by giving things. Cards are a good example. The writing on cards is always incredibly touching because some asshole working for Hallmark was able to come up with something so genuinely corny that you feel bad if you read it and can’t think of anyone you know who it might pertain to.

We don’t have feelings really. I am acutely aware of when I’m a little afraid or stressed, I know when I’m in a good mood or a bad one, I can feel the endorphins kick in after a workout when I start telling a few more jokes, or when I’m in a moment and there is truly nowhere else I’d rather be. Happiness, though, seems to have become the absence of misery, like when you’re warm enough that you’re not uncomfortably cold, or cold enough that you’re not sweating profusely. I’m in a state of pure adulation with an AC unit that alleviates some of the humidity that had me sitting in ball soup all last summer. Satisfaction is when the tickle in my throat goes away; it is that there is nothing to be noticed. When the fan blade in the compressor of my off-level refrigerator isn’t clicking loudly and stopping the Tylenol PM I just took from allowing me to get a good night’s rest, that’s contentment.

I know anger, because I’m angry at people on the sidewalk who can’t walk in a straight line. Angry at groups of people who have no regard for fellow pedestrians and spread out so that you either walk begrudgingly behind them at their speed or inelegantly wrap yourself around a sign, squeeze your way through some small person-sized gap, or speed up like the power walkers with those ridiculous ski poles to get around them. Do you really need a couple of poles to balance yourself on the sidewalk? Are you really walking that fast? That’s not the point; the point is that the people suck, and congratulations, there’s no stopping the spread of the human plague.

Am I jaded? Of course I am. Who isn’t? Faced with the constant bombardment of images, meticulously calculated (and even not-so well thought out) placements of products and ideas, it could accurately be claimed that our perceptions of reality are so far from the truth that we set standards no one can ever meet. I want to live in a TV show. Funny, right? No, it’s not a joke; television shows are whimsical and even the dramatic stuff doesn’t last longer than an hour. Families are perfect unless they’re designed not to be, and even then they have such lovable imperfections. People are open and honest most of the time to a startling degree because that’s why we watch, and every beautiful person is fucking every other beautiful person unless they’re hindered by an age differential and even then sometimes it’s fun to just stir the pot a little bit and grandpa might get lucky.

Frustrated: Part I

I have a few educated guesses as to why we’re depressed as a society. On winter break between semesters of graduate school, I went home for a few glorious weeks where I found myself overly frustrated with the lack of positive things to accomplish, not an uncommon situation for me, I like to move at 100mph. An indefinitely suspended license (due to the aforementioned craving), and the absence of a readily available vehicle, would have pushed me into a more dangerous psychological category, except that I didn’t want to tap into my savings account to buy gas anyway. Had I been mobile, I would have been able to pay visits to the few friends of mine who are just too lazy to drive the extra 10 minutes to pick me up for lunch or a drink; or  I could have driven to the malls to spend money I don’t have on things I simply don’t need.

I know there is much beauty to be found in the world, and I generally tend to maintain a state of sanity by focusing on such characteristics, but for a moment let us peer into the dark corners of what our culture has become. Television networks might as well just run commercials for 24 hours a day because we’d be privy to about the same amount of substance . . . in fact most advertisements of late have better production quality than the shows we catch glimmers of between them, and what does this say about our priorities? “Buy the new Toyota Highlander, it’s all the rage, it’s a vehicle that makes my parents look cool and the best part: its got an entertainment center in the back so you flip on some god-awful unrealistic piece of mind-numbing drivel, throw on an oversized pair of headphones and shut your parents the fuck out because they don’t want to hear you any more than you want to be nurtured and properly parented. Who wants to actually interact socially with people of a different generation? What could they possibly teach you?” . . . but I watch this shit too. I lay in bed until the wee hours of the morning because my mind won’t shut off and I can’t seem to get to sleep.

I got sick the Sunday before I left to come back to Boston where I pay an outrageous amount of money for an education I could receive at a community college in a field that I’m not quite sure should exist, but I need the paper and the name to lend credibility to my ramblings. I contracted the flu by way of some jackass who failed to cover his or her mouth when they coughed. I recovered, but my irritation has yet to subside. There is no way of knowing who failed to execute this most routine act of civility because common courtesy is impossible to properly instill on a population our size. Common decency and common sense go out the window when the only objective in life becomes making and spending money. There is precious little time, too few opportunities, everywhere you’re going is the most important place to be, and everyone around you is just slowing you down or in your way. Fuck us all, right? I’m aggravated by the way that we treat each other and the shit that we shovel down the throats of our children, first, because I have no control over the messages we send them, and second, because they’re the next version of us . . . judging by our influence, that’s a terrifying notion.

Friday

I glance quickly at my phone. Hitting the little button at the top with my right index finger to make it come alive, the backlighting of the screen reveals that it is three in the afternoon. Friday seems to have flown by. Ten in the morning found me predictably in the gym, and somehow stumbling through my day with the help of the mass transit system of Boston, I find myself in my favorite Irish Pub. My notebook sits open upon the bar, a blank page glaring at me, daring me to organize my thoughts. A smattering of loose papers swirl around me, all covered in scribbles, my normal obsessive compulsion not applicable to random idiosyncratic annotations. Every corner of the pages covered like someone obsessed with body art, brief statements hurriedly jotted down sideways, diagonally, and upside down. Slowly spinning my glass of Sam Adams lager, I take note of the laser etching on the bottom and ponder for an instant if it actually does help to release more of the flavor. As the minute bubbles ascend to the surface, now markedly at the halfway point, I reflect upon the day.

Perhaps not the most productive of Fridays, but it’s been enjoyable none-the-less. What the hell does “Productive” mean anyway? For that matter, what do half of the words we use on a regular basis really mean? They are all relative to a context and a perception; everything finds itself embedded in the drywall of social circumstance. Maybe to some, a day of work is defined by the amount of actual labor put into it . . . and I’ve been there, where you’re feeling of accomplishment stems from the soreness of muscles, the exhaustion of the brain, and the ache of your back, but anecdotal evidence is not a sound measurement. Productivity has to do with the completion of a task, and the value of that task varies.

The steady progression towards some state of mental peace, a moment of clarity; is the compilation of flashes of insight combined with a calm of self-content not a task that satisfies the parameters of productivity? I digress. Maybe discussing performance enhancement and general observations of life and this world over fish tacos and a Corona in Harvard Square is unprofessional, but I feel it has the same influence as sitting at an awkward table in a chilly training room listening to an unsatisfied stomach subtly complain. Most of the best ideas and strategic plans ever devised were berthed over a beer and good food. We get so hung up on context, but the truth is that all of these contrived definitions we cling to so fervently only exist in that oddly shaped mash-up of chemicals and eerily textured tissue we call the brain. . . and we can always change our minds. I spend much of my time trying to determine which messages to listen to, what is a sensible response and what is not. I etch a quick x through the box on the calendar representing Friday with a dry-erase marker. No telling how many more I will have the pleasure of experiencing, but a day spent on such undertakings is not a day lost, simply a day lived . . . what does that life mean? Well, that’s a topic for another day.