Geeky Losing streak Hazard Week

Its a Saturday night and I feel like screaming.

Well, I'm not 100% perturbed enough to actually "man-roar", but I'm slightly annoyed at how the night played out. Tonight I was dressed like a member of The Strokes, wearing a dress shirt, with a nice tie, complete with tight pants and black sneakers. Its not a common thing for me to work on presenting myself in a certain fashion; living in a certain place robbed me of that. Two years ago, I lived in Hyattsville, seven miles outside of DC. Coming into the city was a task in itself. One, had to go to metroopensdoors.com, check Bus/rail times, ensure that one got early to the train station (after a twenty five minute walk) and then should you travel during weekdays, make sure you catch the 11:10 train (or else you are royally fudged) and on weekend you must be in the train station by 2:30 a.m.

I'm the type of guy who used to really be into my fashion sense. In 2004, on any given day you would see me in a dress shirt, with a close-fitted t-shirt over it. Some call it the preppy look, my friends used to call it my 'uniform'. After living in Hyattsville and realizing a neighbourhood of budding families, shady characters and long walks to the metro didn't require the pretty-boy flair I was used to pushing, I stopped. Tonight, I broke that mold somewhat. Sure, I will occassionally dab a few globs of hair gel into my chaotic head of hair, or wear my superpants. But the essence of the "image" I liked to portray forever changed after I spent dozens of weekends at home, pacing around in my room, occassionally seeing Deer run through the parking lot behind my apartment. Tonight I went to Adams Morgan, meeting up with my usual crew of friends I've been hanging with for a bit.

The first stop was the brass monkey, pretty much the exact same bar as all the bars on Adams Morgan. Its part ballroom, part rowhouse-converted into a ballroom. Features are similar in all of these bars; wooden floors, a certain smell of alcohol and cigarrettes and DJs spinning almost the same playlists regardless of where you go. My friend and I used to laugh when we went into these bars, because they are mostly populated by white patrons, and EVERY time we went in, we would hear what we dubbed the "white man's anthem"--a Journey song. If I don't go into a bar, and hear:
"She's just a small town girl.... living in a looonely world...."
Then I know i'm no longer in Adams Morgan, and in some shady mangrove in Cambodia. Tonight I didn't feel particularly excited or attractive, but there is an inevitable mental obligation a person gives themself if they put effort into their appearance. The style I had tonight gave a noticeable result in my eyes. I went to Tom Tom, a bar notorious for its Skanky yet uber-cool atmosphere, and there was a moment when a group of no less than five women all turned their heads at the same time when I walked past. I didn't pay much attention to that, sometimes I hear people say I remind them of Godfrey, the Seven up guy from a few years ago. Maybe they thought I looked like him.

In my mind my outfit was marginal, though when I met up with my crew at the Brass Monkey, everyone commented on how sharp I looked. I took the compliments at face value; I don't normally feel anything when I dress up, or dress down, I think the result of socialization is always the same--if a girl likes YOU, them maybe you have an in. If not, you could be dripping in Gucci and go home filled with sexual tension, mad that you will have to watch porn on your 100 inch plasma screen.

"Adams Morgan and Me" should be a short play I produce that shows how random and circumstantial certain things are. I have had certain successes in "the A", like meeting a Korean girl who was my one-month girlfriend, or eating pizza outside Pizza Boli's and laughing at my friend when a drunk girl gave him napkins straight from a garbage pan. (okay, that's not a success, but its damn funny).

These days, I like what Adams Morgan represents; a large scale melting pot of social mixup. I'd say seventy percent of all the people who come to Adams Morgan are white, with the remaining thirty being everyone else(yes, I have a penchant for stating the obvious, but I was factoring in dogs and possbily vermin in the lower 1 percentile). I don't mind this ratio, because I've been in the states long enough not to care. Tonight was no different. I roamed four or five bars, and each time, I saw no more than two other black guys in attendance. Even though I felt nice in my Strokes outfit, after my third beer things started to look dark. Sure, I could walk up to any number of girls and say "Hey, what's up?" But I didn't feel like wasting time with some BS conversation. I was feeling the pull of Wonderland again, that tucked away bar in Columbia heights that is part fantasy, part drug-induced high.

The crew would eventually head to wonderland. I tell my friend Jane that I am passing by the bar next door. "Make sure you let me know when you are leaving." I say to her. She nods in agreement, and I head over to Tom Tom. I'm in there for no more than ten minutes--its an easy place to size up--and I head back to The Brass Monkey. I go upstairs and everyone is gone. Not even a beer bottle remains at the table where they were sitting. A slight annoyance crawls up my back and I feel like slapping myself in the face. I send Jane a text message saying "I hope you didn't leave me."

Fifteen minutes later, I get a reply: "We just left! Heading to Wonderland!"
I groan inwardly. The crew consisted of at least eight people, meaning a cab fare to the W would only be three bucks, or less. Now they were all gone, and I didn't feel like taking a cab to Wonderland in the twilight hours for ten bucks. It was 1:00 a.m and things were no doubt dying down over there. I stood by the window, in my Strokes outfit and felt annoyance run through my system.
I wanted to leave Adams Morgan, I wanted to just run away and fall asleep somewhere while stranger poked me to see if I was breathing, but I was still in the Brass Monkey, looking at people milling about outside.

My annoyance didn't stay very long. I simply decided to go home. The rule is: If you hang with people that drink, chances are they will leave you somewhere if you leave them for too long. With this crew, this has happened a few times. This is the only time I have been really annoyed. Maybe because I was dressed up, with no where to go really.
I saw a girl I had met at Ibiza a week ago, but she told me (almost with a sad look on her face) that she had a boyfriend. I didn't mind, she was attractive, but life goes on. I walked slowly through the thick crowd, feeling people stepping on my feet as I walked and headed into Pizza Boli's. I grabbed a large cheese slice and wolfed it down in less than three minutes. Two red-faced Asian girls were standing near me, laughing with each other. One of them gave me the look---THAT look--but I just wanted to go home. Another weekend came to an end, and another weekend seemed... fuzzy.

There were certain good things that happened this weekend, but in terms of the going out scene, something has to change. As I sit on the bus and loosen my tie, I realize I'm probably just very tired. There is nothing I usually aim for when I go out, I simply leave my house to be out of my room and not feel locked in by the white walls and brown carpet. I venture out because I can, and its not very cold yet, so I'm enjoying the warm weather. But at the same time, going out without an angenda can sometimes be pointless. I close my eyes for a few moments and listen to the bus creak and groan as it drives me to my stop. I get off on Georgia, and I take in a deep breath. I have at least twelve blocks to walk, and it is chilly and I am tired.
My Strokes outfit is now defunct. The tie is in my pocket and I've raised up my shirt collar to give my neck some warmth. My thoughts are in between having to wake up early Sunday Morning to do a BOGUS 12-hour photography project, and a thrilling conversation I had with an old crush of mine. The walk goes quickly.

When I'm less than a block from my house, I see a Blue SUV pull up beside me. Inside is my friend, Mr. T. His very cute, indie girlfriend shoots a nice hello at me, and I give them a semi-disgruntled nod. "We're looking for a party that's on this street." he says. "It's probably over by now." I say. "Where are you going man?" he asks me.
I point to a rowhouse thirty feet away.
"That's where I live, I'm coming from Adams Morgan." I say. The SUV is full of people, and they are all beaming, showing white rows of teeth. My night seems like even more of a waste.
"Well, I'll see you man." I say, and turn quickly and start walking to my house.
"Bye Marcus." comes the voice of the indie girlfriend. Her voice echoes slightly in my mind and then I think of my bed, my pillow and everything seems to dissappear. Despite the range of feelings i've gone through this week, I realize I'm not a social pariah. Bars and clubs are too random for one to gauge oneself with. Maybe I would have better luck on Myspace, because poking girls on Facebook does nothing for me. I head inside, feeling a little flat, but not depressed and toss my shirt into my laundry bag. I have to wake up at 7 a.m, and for some reason, I'm thinking of going to Wonderland.

LTD and the attack of the Superpants!

It's a Wednesday, and I'm feeling limber. The week has been pretty slow, and I can easily imagine myself doing something other than sprawling in my room in my underwear, watching Television and feeling sorry for myself. I can easily to that elsewhere, spend some money and get the same result. On Monday, my cool bartender friend Jen recommended that I pass through a special event at the club she works, at Club Five, because some drum and bass gods, (LTD) would be there.

Dupont is Dc's gay central. This is an undisputed fact. However, whenever I go out, I wear my 'superpants', a slick pair of French Connection designer jeans. These are the closest to tight pants I have. In Jamaica we'd say they are borderline, white guys might say they are normal, and most African-Americans would say they are tight. Regardless, when I wear the superpants, my confidence boosts by a factor of maybe 10%. Something about feeling snug in my garments gives me a sense of power, like maybe how Leonidas feels wearing his mask, or having Spartan-esque sex with his supermodel wife. I'm heading to Dupont in these pants, and no doubt most hetero men might look at me with a raised eyebrow, but whatever.

I have a quiz in the morning, and I print out a small sheet of facts to study while I take the bus to Dupont. As nerdy as this sounds, if I didn't do this, I most likely would stay at home, studying while i'm sprawling about in my underwear feeling sorry for myself. Once I get on the bus, I don't feel so bad, (but as the night progresses this feeling would vanish) and I read my factoids until I know all about the origins of Radio.

When we reach Dupont, I pass by a small restaurant called Japone, where a friend of mine works. Two cute Asian girls tell me he left work early to head to Five. "Five is having a really big night," they said. "Everyone is going there!" I told them that's where I was going as well. "Ah, so we'll see you there." I think one's name was Jess, and one was Bess. Or only one was Bess.

I walk past a band of kids playing melancholy music near the Dupont Metro station and snap a few pictures. Then I head to five. The guy at the door tells me my name is not on the list. I sigh inwardly for a moment, because I saw him let not one or two, but FIVE girls in for free. I tell him I know Jen, try and schmooze a bit, but he says there's nothing he can do. Eventually I get Jen to come down, and I pay my reduced price of ten bucks to get in.

I love drum and bass. The way the bass kicks and the variations of the sounds layered over these beats always makes me zone out. It also makes me relatively anti-social. Even though i'm wearing my superpants and a shirt that looks fresh out of Ricky Martin's 2001 wardrobe, I'm not feeling that confident. There are two modes I'm generally in when I go out:
(1) Meet girls mode (2) Observational super-existential mode

I realize after two minutes that i'm in mood number 2. When i'm in this frame of mind I feel like a sponge. I suck in all the details, and the little nuances of everything around me, figuring out how well it would sound typewritten. The club isn't very big, but it has a sort of bat-cave vibe to it, with a massive screen hanging precariously over the DJ area, with funny lighting that makes everything look like its covered in flowers. The first thing I notice about the drum and bass crowd, (as I always do) is the number of really cute girls of 'other' races with white guys. I'm not sure what the reasons are, but whenever I head to these events, I tend to see very hot black/asian/indian/mixed girls with pretty average white guys. I stand in the middle of the dance floor for a few minutes with my hands tucked into my pockets. I close my eyes and feel the bass make my ears tingle. A guy steps on my foot--this happens at least twenty times for the night--and apologizes to me. I barely nod in response. He seems really out of sorts that he stepped on my year and a half old Aldos. "Hey, is this LTD?" he said. I nod in agreement. He seems a little put off by my indifference to his upbeat attitude. A strikingly attractive brunette sipping on what appears to be champagne is holding his hand and eyeing him lovingly.

I dont' feel sorry for him.

Earlier that evening, I met up with my cool Japanese friend and headed over to Andalu, a bar right beside Five. The music was jumping, but no one was there. I only followed him there because I realized that I most likely wouldn't be meeting anyone at Five, and I had school in the morning. We met up with Ania, a gorgeous Polish girl and headed inside. My superpants were losing their power... nothing was indicating this would be a good night. My 'Happy Mondays' theory seemed to be losing steam after two days. Ania and Mr. Japan talked excitedly amongst themselves for a while while I stood up surveying the bar. After a few minutes I headed back into Five by myself.

These outings are always interesting for me. It surprises me how lonely one can feel in a place filled with people. I thinks its a mental loneliness, mixed with the frustration that comes with people not really knowing you. Sure, I can stroll into the club like a penguin in five-inch heels, but that doesn't mean much if no one knows you. I found it sad that I was standing in a club thinking of ways to write about how I was standing in the club.

After a few minutes, Ania, my Japanese friend and the two cute Asian girls I met earlier at Japone are all lined up at the bar. They laugh and giggle amongst each other. I'm standing somewhere near the corner. A flash of sadness runs through my system as I see their beaming faces as everyone holds up shots and downs them. "Am I a social pariah?" my mind says to me.
"Nah." it replies, you are just having an off day.
More like an off life.
Before I saw them at the bar, I ran into them upstairs, following them mindlessly as they had fun. The only person that approached me was a drunk-looking blonde holding a white t-shirt and a permanent marker. "My friend is getting married, what would you say to her?" she asked. I thought about it for a moment, thinking of my torturous relationships and what I thought was neglected the most as it relates to me. I scrawled, "Always remember the small things." On the left sleeve. She beamed a smile, and dissappeared into the crowd.

LTD, the main act comes on at about 1:05 a.m to much fanfare. I move into the crowd for a few moments, then realize I have no desire to hop around and scream "Whoo!" for a group I've never heard of. They play good music, but my energy is too low to enjoy myself.
I float outside the club without telling anyone goodbye and walk towards the bus station. I'm having one of those moments, when everything seems dark and blurry and I feel as if i'm alone in the world. These moments usually come during Christmas, when i'm walking home and the wind is biting my ears and I can't feel anything other than pain in my toes and the stinging that frigid air causes with my skin. Tonight I feel like that, as if i'm in a weird void where i'm not really in the world, but existing around it. Observing but not participating. Its very disturbing.

I trot about in my superpants some more, looking dejectedly at the ground. I look at a large LCD display on the side of the road. It shows 81 degrees. I get a flashback of hanging out with my ex-girlfriend (before she was my Ex, or my girlfriend) during the winter in 2004. Back then, the panel said 13 degrees. "Fuck," I say to myself. "I can't escape."

I head to the bus stop, knowing no buses are coming and sit down. It is now Thursday morning in the middle of the week, and i'm sitting at a bus stop in my Superpants. I feel winded, but i'm not tired. My legs don't hurt, my mind is clear and I'm staring into the darkness of the DC cityscape. I watch cabs go by for twenty minutes, before I decide to stop one. The first cab I approach, the man hurriedly locks his doors and tells me he doesn't drive to 1st street, where I live. Just great I think. A black man in a shiny shirt and tight pants has a gun tucked in an unseen orfice, just itching to rob a random middle-eastern taxi driver. I am annoyed for fifteen seconds.

The next driver takes me home. On the way back, watching buildings flash by in a blur of light and sound, I still feel like i'm in a daze as if I never really went to Dupont or stood up in the presence of all those people. I felt like I was still in my room, projecting my thoughts and existing outside of myself. Nights like this I realize there is a deeper, darker sadness inside me that I must tackle. I'm on U street, fifteen or so blocks from my little apartment, and I think that there isn't much that gives me pure joy. For some people eating gives them pleasure, or the pursuit of a woman, watching a movie, cooking, helping people, even hurting animals or breaking glass. I still can't pinpoint my source. The last time I mentioned anything about Joy, it was to my ex-girlfriend. "You are one of the joys in my life." I had said.

famous last words.

Now I reach home, walking towards my door in my superpants. Its 2:00 a.m and I still have work to do for class tommorrow. I may not sleep, but I want to escape this mood i'm in, and awaken, a different person, with a different direction.

RETURN OF THE MAC... PART 3

Having dreams about your ex-girlfriend can be really trippy. Partly because, your mind creates these amazing, Mills and Boon-esque scenarios, with you, a stormy night, an old mill, and of course your Ex. In this dream, everything feels so real, you can almost taste her lips artificially kissing you while you roll around like ruminants on fresh hay. This dream wasn’t one hundred percent real.

I was in a tower of some sort, in a massive city, that felt very futuristic and alien. This realization was a subtle one, as I didn’t use any weird devices or super-quiet public transportation. The city felt very polished, with the kind of man-made architecture that speaks of a more advanced intelligence, maybe, twenty to fifty years from now. The background in this city was flat and gray; quiet like the back of a Church on a Monday Morning. Somewhere in the dream, my sister was a part of it. I think this is because she was the last person I spoke to for the night. We had chit-chatted about making sure to be careful online, and I was an overly protective big-brother mode.

Then there was my ex-girlfriend. Something was different about her. Her hair was wet-looking and disheveled, and she seemed a few pounds heavier. Just enough weight to give her a little more shape, but there was no gut, no protruding skin. Her eyes had a smile in them that spoke of something far away, an inner happiness that had nothing to do with me. Yet, we spoke. About what specifically, I can’t remember, but if felt very real. In this dream, like in real life, I felt slightly sad as I was in her company, because I believe my waking self remembers the real situation, where we do not interact or speak that much with one another.

As realistic as these images were, my heart was being pulled into another plane of thought. The futuristic cityscape I could see outside the window of her apartment scared me. The look in her eyes scared me, because I knew it wasn’t real. I felt like she didn’t truly know me, and my mind was playing tricks on me. Everything began to ripple around me and she held my hand, asking me something I cannot remember. Then I woke up.

I don’t like dreams like these, because I wake up feeling foolish most of the time. Like most people, I tend to assume no one else dreams about me, so if I dream about someone else, I think I’m putting too much of them in my subconscious. Even though the subconscious is a roaring sea that people seem to be able to navigate with the help of psychedelic drugs and shock therapy, I feel that sometimes we can affect our own subconscious by being the usual, sappy-type. This is the second dream I’ve had about my Ex In the last three days, but the first dream ended with her lovingly hugging a short, chubby Latin guy.

Alas, the main point of this is obvious anyways. A person can feel strange, or foolish should they dream of someone they loved, because in their mind they assume that person has so little of them on their mind, they would not dream about them either. I know what people might say to this. “So, what if they dream about you, and just didn’t tell you about it?”

Well, that’s almost like them not dreaming about you anyways. If it wasn’t for this blog, no one would know I had this dream, and since so few people read this blog, only a handful of individuals will know I had this dream. And Even so, out of that handful, MAYBE one person MIGHT… (I do mean might) understand the references in this dream. I wouldn’t mention this dream to my Ex, because that’s a pointless exercise. If you think dreaming about an Ex-girlfriend makes you needy, trust me, the phone call to her after you wake up, filled with odd pauses and stilted displays of affection will make you want to toss your cell phone into a bowl of cereal, hoping it drowns in that brownish-white pool of milk. Maybe it has to do with the last vestiges of love rearing their ugly head. But I came to a realization (on my own, so it is not founded in academic theory, just madness) that one of the hardest things about loving someone is that you can’t really just stop. You can’t bottle it up like some old Sake and put It on the shelf. You can’t just run ten miles a day and do pushups and flush all the memories of that person out of your mind. You can’t meet someone new and immediately feel saved because you have this “new” person to think about. It doesn’t work that way. A person you love gets into the fabric of your being. Many aspects of them are delicately interwoven into your subconscious and conscious mind, and this framework of thought developed over a few years. It’s like my ex-girlfriends are all a part of my skin, like little scars I can rub and fondly think about and trace their origin to a certain moment. But a girl you love is that fat, ugly scar that stands out the most. It makes you smile the most, because you can pinpoint the exact moment you got it. As that scar is forever a part of me I can instantly remember, so is my Ex.

For example, I cannot look at anything labeled “Mac” and not think of my ex-girlfriend. This will probably stay with me for the rest of my life. Also, if I think about certain moments in my life, I may NEVER not think of her during these moments. This doesn’t mean I can’t love someone else mind you, (like that will happen anytime soon), but it shows the impact people can have on you. Now I know why people are really afraid to love. It’s not the blissful happiness they are worried about, or those love-romps that make you feel like an elite athlete. It’s that after-period, when you are single, alone and traipsing about trying to live your life, filled with feelings you can’t deal with, thinking about someone you can’t be with. THAT is what makes love really scary.

Trippy eh? Alas, it is the early morning and school work beckons. My little discourses on love will have to wait till I have another dream, which hopefully won’t be anytime soon.

Feedback and the Happy Mondays

I have a theory. The theory goes like this:
"If Monday rocks, the rest of the week will too." I tried implementing this little idea this week. So far, its 100% correct. I'm pretty busy, but I got some VERY good responses to my "Asian Invasion and the Jesus Cock Block" blog. I will need to go out more and find more crazy, varied situations to make people laugh and smile.

My happy Monday theory doesn't involve drinking vodka and taking thorazine shots and rolling into class looking like a Moose in the middle of a partisan electoral debate... its more like, throwing a bag of activities into the air and hope they fall in a meadow that isn't littered with the droppings of over-sexed rabbits. (sometimes I feel I have the metabolism of an oversexed rabbit, minus the multitudes of progeny left in the wake of my furry sexercise.)

Its more like a transference of energy. If I start the week on a good high. I smile at the toothless man giving me flyers for a political rally, I say hello to people I recognize but barely know, or I take a power-nap during the middle of the day in between classes. I do things that engineer so called "happy" feelings. This week, I went to my friend's house, which i have labeled, the "Kentagon". Let's just say I had a few stilted moments trying to discuss Asian politics with a Chinese native, stuttering in my rusty Japanese with a freshman from Georgetown who's fluent in Japanese (which drew interesting stares from Native Speakers seeing a Jamaican and a Staten Island native chatting phonetically) and downing beers while complaining about how horrible my Sony Cybershot t5 is.

But all in all, it was a good start to my week. A semi-tipsy skateboard ride back home, and listening to "This Ain't a Scene its and Arms Race" by Fallout by 12 times pretty much set me up for a week laced with high energy activity, and a poppy-nasal earworm to keep me company. But, the Happy Mondays theory is really put to the test on Friday, as a Happy Monday, must naturally lead to an extremely interesting and even wilder Friday. If i'm downing beers, eating Jerk chicken pizza (which I helped to make) and skateboarding on Monday (all the while doing school related activities), then Imagine if I unleash myself on a Friday! Ho ho!

So, we shall see how the happy Monday theory works out. I'm watching the first episode of Heroes Season two, and i'm worried about budget cuts because so many characters have been conveniently incinerated, divorced, or relegated to one-liners. All in all, Happy Mondays to everyone!

I must go now, a paper beckons. I shall return anon.

Front Page!

My article for a Business Technology section of the paper ran today. I didn't actually see it until tonight at a Budget meeting for the next week's set of articles. It feels good to have a front page article as well as the Cartoon at the back! Boo yah!

I just did the skeleton for one of two articles i'm taking this week in a addition to my usual duties (cartoonist, writer, student, social butterfly) and i'm heading up to my friends house. My japanese friend returned from a three month vacation. There is supposed to be food and probably a few cool people to chit-chat with for an hour or two.

My friend invited me to camp out with him by Prince George's plaza (in Maryland) for the midnight release of Halo 3. I'm tempted to do it. I have a lot of reading to do, and tommorrow is a really long day. But it's Halo 3! School will have to take second place tonight. I will carry a travel bag, my books and snacks while I camp.

I've always wanted to camp out for a video game system, but I guess this will be the closest thing to that.

ciao

3 days 8 hrs of sleep

Its been an interesting weekend. I completed my first film shoot (With film), doing a funny short about two guys who see a box of cereal and end up battling each other nearly to death for it, and then I've also proven to myself that I can function on little or no sleep while maintaining proper use of my mental thingamabobs.

I watched a movie today, "Sunshine". I have to say the movie really moved me. (say that three times fast). The last film that made me sit and think for twenty minutes after I watched it was Contact, in 1997. Something about people will to do anything for the betterment of mankind always appeals to me, but the Cinematography was amazing in the film. I've never seen space look so scary, like the void it really is. The film grabs you with a sort of claustrophobic flair, making you not only look at Space outside as some scary unforseen terrain, but a black hole from which there is truly no return. Either way, in light of watching this movie, I know there ar emany things in my life I contemplate, including life and death. This movie expressed to me a previous assertion I had made about the universe.

We are infinitesimally small in a infinitely large universe.

The first few times I thought about this, I felt small and unimportant, but the reality of such truths run dow two paths. I can (a) either think that I am a speck of ink on the palette which is the universe, or (b) I can know that the universe is large and wondrous, so EVERY day should be a great one, simply because existing and being sentient in an of itself is a great thing.

I haven't thought about these things recently, but this film definitely stirred my mind up. When I was twelve or thirteen, I would get depressed because I knew I wouldn't live to see the future that I saw in Star Trek. Later I would realize this was a silly thing to worry about, as I certainly couldn't control the time I was born, where I was born or what my circumstances are. I simply am. Toss that statement at any contemporary philosopher and you'll have two book deals and an appearance on The View in no time. But this thing about life... and the ups and downs and ins and outs of it, can always dissapppear. I know there are always moments when you a person "disconnects" for a while. They look at the stars, lost in imaging those balls of energy so so far away. Or when someone thinks about the REAL size of the universe. Suddenly, not having that new Ipod Touch isn't such a big deal, and your ex-girlfriend sleeping with the guy from that History elective really isn't that important. A lot of people believe that people are expressions of the universe's intelligence. After all, I am aware of my existence, and I appreciate the fact that I have this heightened level of experience and choice unlike some lesser life forms below me.
(although I sometimes envy pigs, because they have 30 minute orgasms.) George Mead smiles upon me as I write this.

But regardless of what i'm thinking now, i'll fall back into mainstream thought soon enough. I'm wired back into the miles of underground fiber optic wires that connnect these cities, books and mainstream media will tickle my eyes and ears, and i'll be thinking about the ten by fifteen room I live in more than the vastness of the universe.

But sometimes, its really cool to just look up at the sky, and be happy to know I know its the sky.
Deep? maybe after a few beers.

Asian Invasion and the Jesus Cock Block

Alas, it is Saturday, and i'm a little pained up after a long day, and an even longer night. Hardcore soccer after six months of not playing will do that to any man, but going to a club and fighting the futile fight is also a pretty draining experience. (At some point in the night someone WILL be cockblocked by "Jesus").

Ibiza is a relatively new club on first street in DC near the greyhound station. When we pull up, the line isn't very long, but then again we are hellishly early for club time, being there at 10:05 to get in free. The first thing I notice is that at least 70% of people in the line, or working at the front are Asian. I know a Korean girl I met over the summer said she had a job at Ibiza, but I didn't realize it was part of some, unseen Asian coalition. After a few minutes of idle conversation in the line, we enter.

I was 25% impressed. Only 25 because I don't like going to clubs for a myriad reasons. Secondly, when you step in there is a HUGE dounut shaped lounge area recessed into the floor. It looks pretty cool, but unless I was lucky that night, I probably wouldn't be sitting there. I didn't walk into the club going "wow", but more like "hrm". It was part warehouse meets hotel lounge.

The crowd at first was pretty mixed. A smattering of Black,White,Asian and Latino people. However, this would change drastically within only an hour of reaching the club. After another 45 minutes passed, I felt as If I was at a club in a foreign country. Almost everyone in the immediate vicinity was Asian. Many of the bartenders were hot Japanese-looking chicks, or part-time Asian male models, and a large number of the patrons on the dance floor were Asian as well. Now, I don't mind the Asian thing, I've even dated a few Asian girls, but this was taking the club thing to an extreme. Not only do I dislike clubs because sometimes being a minority in certain clubs either really goes in your favor, or makes you the really awkward sweaty black guy dancing too fast in the middle of the club, but this was crazy.

I was in a majority minority situation.

I didn't want to go to the club. I dislike clubs because they are very impersonal, overtly superficial and 99% a waste of my time. Though I might be wrong, I'm convinced that the nature of clubs only work for people who are (a) extremely attractive (b) a part of the social group in the club (c) club owners and affiliates. Either way, as the night went on my friends and I had a few stilted conversations with girls that ended up ignoring us (go figure) and then, jaded and disgruntled, I put forward the option to head to Wonderland.
Wonderland, as usual, was supposed to be my Friday night outing. Wonderland's weird, almost Dimension X feel draws me in and makes me feel relaxed. There I know I can have fun. Big club full of cute Asian girls in the middle of DC? No chance.

When we are heading out we find out they have lost my friend's credit card and his driver's license. This adds another 30 minutes to our Wonderland departure time. For our wait, we are given a few bottles of water to drink( I swear someone got maced somewhere in the area, but they say that's not club policy), but then a bouncer tells us we can't leave the club with the bottles of water. At this point I don't care. I've already resigned myself to the fact that I won't go to a club for a long, long time. I can never understand the atmosphere. Maybe its just me. Sometimes I think I am a cell-phone/club pariah.
Yes, a pariah.
Its not the most inspiring thought, but its all I can come up with. The club scene is a bit gay. Gay in the way that makes a guy feel like a loser when really he's only a loser at big clubs :p
We head to Wonderland and reach there around 1:45 a.m. Even at that late hour, things are still swinging and I feel like slapping myself for going to Ibiza and spending too much money on drinks that cost half the price at Wonderland. The after effects of a work-laden-patronage-out-on-the-town are obvious. People are still chatting excitedly, a lot of people are drunk, and all around people seem "happy". I know if I had come there at 11, I might have been there just in time to meet a nice little lady, just itching to chill with a Jamaican.

Sad.

We go upstairs and my friend follows this Filipina looking girl with a great body. She was wearing something that loooked like Moccasins, which was odd for early Fall fashion, but it worked. My friend kept commenting on her ass, and how great it was. Personally, I was in a blurry place. After a long stressful week, my Friday was completely wasted. The images that kept running through my head were seeing the single Asian guys that came in, all have girls on their arms about the time we were leaving.
"Argh!" I shouted.
My friend was trying to squeeze in on the girl with the indian boots, when Jesus (I kid you not) zooms in front of him, effectively creating a wedge between them both. "Damn," my friend said.
"I got cock blocked by Jesus." I laughed when I heard this. The guy was the splitting image of the stereotypical white-jesus. Long hair, fuzzy beard, calm-ish demenaour sans the halo. He was wearing a faded read shirt that read "Do it for the cookies!" (whatever that meant).
Wonderland started dying down and I ended up sitting on the stoop of my friend's place a block away in a group of five, delineating on the discourses of attractive people and how much easier their lives are(I did not initiate this conversation). We sat and we drank beers. My friend who was previously cock-blocked by Jesus found a good chatting companion in the sister of a friend of my friend. As they were talking, I could see her comfort level rising. Even being cock-blocked by Jesus wouldn't stop him this night.
After another forty-five minutes of pointless conversation, everyone was asking for food.
"Where is some fucking food!" the sister of the friend of my friend asked me. After scratching my head a bit, we ended up going to a 7-11 up the road (but not after trying to jump and grab onto a tree branch 19 feet above us...Twice.) During this time period, the sister of the friend of my friend calls my friend "cute" and shows him definite signs of interest. He is definitely "winning" as we like to say. I smile to myself, marveling how the after effect of Wonderland is so powerful, that good things flow even when we aren't there.

Then I remember that I haven't been called "cute", "attractive", or much less anything for as long as I can remember (even when I was dating ). So again, my Friday night was a waste.
But I learned two things.
(1) There are a LOT of Asian people in DC
(2) If Jesus-cock blocks you, its to point you in the direction of something garaunteed.
Today is Saturday, hopefully I can "win" this weekend, or I will jump into a pot of boiling oil, or just watch C-Span for hours on end to torture myself.

peace

Ibiza Here I come!

Yes, I'm going to Ibiza. Not the drug-laden island off the coast of Spain mind you. I'm talking about a posh new club in DC. I reluctantly agreed to go because on Fridays I really want to head to a spot where I think I can "win". (meaning meet a girl, get her number and hopefully a second outing... or even a first outing, but alas, I'm not a celeb).

I'm here waiting to be picked up. I spruced up a bit especially for tonight. The hair is glistening and luxurious, I have a fresh shave with a little goatee ( I might trim it before I head out) and I'm generally feeling allright. I played some intramural Soccer earlier, and we lost 4-0.

but Maybe I'll have a 1-0 tonight? We'll see.

Nancy Pelosi is Hot

Okay, Okay.

I'm not trying to call the Speaker of the house a total babe. I'd never do that. But she did come to my school recently, to talk about all things cool and congress like. She gave us a cool little chart (it looks like it was designed by a first year graphic design major) which outline the various things she's been able to accomplish thus far since she took the seat earlier this year. One of her main focuses are children's issues, and she even said she's trying to get a bill passed that would provide universal health care for all of America's children.

I found the presentation interesting. Firstly, I've never seen a speaker of the house, which is really cool. Secondly, the last time I was in the auditorium in the School of Business (where the presentation was held) I was listening to John Edwards speak about being president. So its back to back political speeches tosses at malleable young minds. (John Edwards does kinda 'look presidential'.... whatever that means).

I think these are the little things that make college interesting, the people who might visit, or seeing a lone squirrel run across campus trying to find a mate. Next week Barack Obama is slated to speak at Howard University's convocation, and it looks like a rough deal for me. Firstly, there are NO tickets available to students, and the few that are available are being tossed into a lottery for incoming Freshmen. I personally want to see Obama speak, but I don't want to have to sleep with the scariest looking lady in the administration building to get it.

Well....it is Obama.

Either way, this has been a very 'political' week for me. With Bush saying Mandela is dead,

watching a massive Jena 6 rally on television, talking about politics and commerce in pretty much all my classes, I feel less like a Film production major and more like Poly Sci. Hopefully next week will be easier. I've been running up and down so much (literally 10 hours a day ) that I feel fried. Just before I started this blog I had to draw up two cartoons for my school paper (which are due at 5 by the way) and then now I still have reading to do, and my stomach is completely empty.

But i'm alive and well aren't I? That's enough to be glad about. I'm thinking of turning tonight into a pre-friday Friday, meaning i'll head out and have a few drinks to loosen up a bit before the weekend REALLY starts. In terms of writing, I've been trying to plot my project for National Novel Writing month. I'm stuck right now between a few ideas, about an Immortal, something to do with a game indians used to play, or another non-fiction project. Time will tell.

Maybe I should just sleep, and dream about Sirens giving me foot massages shortly before they eat me.

peace

Lonely Heart + Cold = Hit Song

(me at the National Gallery of Art in late 2006)

I'm incubated.

I'm locked into that cycle of in the house doing work, out to class to spend hours in lectures, and then back into the house to do more work. I broke this down with my friend today. When an able-bodied young man finds himself watching 4400 at six p.m on a random Tuesday evening then you know something is wrong. But this is real life.The reality of certain things were unveiled to me when I moved off-campus two years ago. Firstly, when you live seven miles away from a social hub (i.e college). There willl be no one to speak to save your roommate, and no where to go. Secondly, you desire to do less. Basically everything else becomes important. How well food tastes, how comfortable your bed is, how funny that romantic comedy you watch by yourself is, etc. I was walking to class today listening to an Our Lady Peace album, Spiritual Machines, and it sounds like the soundtrack to my life right now. Track 4, "Life", starts out with a few questions that everyone can relate to:"How many times have you been pushed around? Is anybody there? Does anybody care?"

"How many times have your friends let you down? Is anybody there? Did anybody stare?"

Introspective questions run abound in this track, and then it goes into a melancholy (yet oddly uplifting) chorus, where leader singer Raine Maida tells me that 'Life is waiting for you'. The Peace has been known to drop sometimes cryptic lyrics onto their fans, but I felt chills hearing these questions asked to me by someone I don't know. Then, on track 7, "Are you sad?" it asks even more questions:
"Are you sad? Are you holding yourself? Are you locked in your room? You shouldn't be...."

Too often I have felt like this person... sometimes a bit trapped by circumstance, or something else. Its the working grind of the world that keeps us in that bubble of limited social interactions.
Even though I do have classes with people I interact with THEN, when the day ends everyone goes their separate ways. I go home, and listen to depressed millionaires sing about their life's discourses.

I think this is part of being a writer, or an artist. I'm not just sitting by myself staring at the ceiling, getting familiar with little cracks in certain spots, I'm being proactive. I sit, I write, I design, I do a lot of things. But as I told my friend from a class today, "If no one knows you, no one can ever know you are talented."

I think I'm having an off day again. The work load of school is normalizing. This means for me that things are reaching a natural order where I know what I have to do to maximize my time in classes and so forth, but dammit it gets really lonely sometimes. Its also starting to get cold, meaning if I am going to get in the groove with some people, i'll have to do it soon. Or I will be "holding myself" in my room, amidst the eerie pluckings of some faceless man's guitar.

No one can really describe certain kinds of loneliness. It sits on your tongue like the leftover taste of flat soda, and tugs at your hair like an inattentive child. I'm sure the loneliness a business CEO with 14 hour days, millions in the bank and no time to socialize is uniquely different from a college kid who spends his days writing and doing classes. But at the end, they are both suffering from a mild form of social disconnect; a lack of options.

I don't think i'm sad, but man, sometimes I feel like i'm halfway there. But I will press on... keep writing, with my eye on the prize.

Best Week Ever!

Okay.

My title is horibbly deceptive. Last week wasn't the greatest week, but I did feel like I accomplished a lot. With an 18 credit load, lack of sleep and feelings of mania crawling up my back, I still managed to do a lot of design-work, kept blogging and deal with my course load for classes.
My most interesting part of last week were my late night trips to Kinko's to make this birthday gift for my ex-girlfriend. Yes, yes, I know what you are saying, I'm a loser.

I went to a meeting today for my school paper and one of the offered articles related to OCD. I wonder if I have a compulsion when it comes to design and writing. Maybe its my outlet, or my mojo or whatever. But there was one night after traveling for about an hour in total time (walking, waiting on bus, then walking some more) the Kinkos I went to was locked. I thought about smashing the large glass pane and doing my copying then. But I doubt the officers would believe I was trying to spend a few bucks doing copies.

So it was a long, involved week, with emotional ups and downs, and the release of that emotion during the weekend. It got released because the week ended. Today was an amazingly productive day. I did a ton of homework, two cartoons for the day, a presentation for class, and i"M about to start doing some script editing. Maybe I'm not doing as much as say--the CEO of GE, but i'm trying to maintain. I'm idle and e-mailing random people on the "w4m" section of Craigslist as a social experiment. Who knows, maybe it will give me something to write home about.

ciao

The Futile Fight

The project i've been mentioning intermittently in these blogs (Three Weeks and Hurricane) is my first real attempt at writing non-fiction. It has to deal with me, and me trying to find out my next step in life, by using a month in Jamaica for that EXACT purpose. Now, to make life easier next time I feel like writing non-fiction, I will write essays (probably short blogs) to capture some prevailing thoughts of mine, so that as time passes I'll find it easier to write non-fiction. To me, even non-fiction must have some kind of story, or a framework someone can follow. I'm not sure if I have that specifically in TWAH. I'll have to polish the story, and do some heavy re-writing (like any book) but I think the "theme" of non-fiction needs to be captured in a certain viewpoint, consistently over time. The Emotion can't vary too much, nor can the feel.
So, I think this is me trying to document my thoughts for another project possibly in the future.

The Futile Fight

My friend and I are heading to a party called Wet in Georgetown. Its Saturday, and I spent Friday night at their place in Silver Spring to escape the noisy ravages of the Northwest DC. I like Silver Spring. It has a clean, well-combed vibe to it that always makes me think of family and kids. This is probably a biased perspective, because there is a particular area in downtown Silver Spring where they have Astroturf setup. On any given sunny day, you will see parents with their children roaming about, tossing projectiles and spilling liquids. My friends live no where near this area. They are about ten minutes up the road in a quiet housing complex. A friend of mine, a cool Italian guy who uses "Fuck" after every tenth word, tells me to head to this place called the Blue Gin for a free party.
"Come man, its gonna be great you know, fucking hot bitches and what not my man. " I laughed as he said this. However, it was Saturday night and like many stressed out college seniors, I needed something to do.
Whenever I think of Georgetown, two things come to mind. A certain smell, and an image of a certain strip on Wisconsin Avenue. I'm assuming these two things pop into my head first because when I went to the Georgetown Mall for the first time, it had a very odd smell, like someone sprayed Gucci No.5 in a bathroom occupied by a troop of red bull-amped chimps. The second image i'm sure is based on my previous French Connection obsession (possibly 30% of my wardrobe is french connection) and that was one of the first stores I would frequent. My two images aren't the common representation of the town. I'd say that most people (who dont' live in Georgetown) think of two things when they go there, Money and stuffy people. I personally don't like to cover everyone in a demographic under a certain blanket, but being at a club in Georgetown really does remind me of some of the really "uptown" parties I go to in Jamaica. The normal setup seems to be a lot of very nicely dressed people standing up, talking with people they are familiar with, and then ignoring everyone else. I'm sure this formula doesn't hold all the time, but like most people who don't live in Georgetown. I don't care. That's just how it seems.
I'm venturing to the club this night simply because the week has been filled with stressful night and annoyingly long classes. Like most parts of the city, finding parking is next to impossible and I end up going to the club first while my friend looks for parking. For September 15, it is unusually chilly and I frown slightly thinking of the grisly winter about to come. Blue Gin is in an alley between an Abercrombie & Fitch and Benneton store. I recognize the spot, the last time I went there was with my very assertive Moroccan friend who scoffed at the prices of the drinks and demanded to go somewhere else. After I schmooze with the bouncer a bit, he checks my name on a list to get into the private party upstairs and I go inside. Its a very nice, high-endish lounge with soft lighting, a few nice bars with plush leather couches and glass tables. The crowd is relatively mixed in the usual Georgetown way, a delicate sprinking of mostly white, mostly Middle-eastern people then a drop of two of any other minority groups. I go upstairs and greet my friend Mr. B who's with his girlfriend. We have a few moments of small talk and in between I survey the crowd.
Everyone seems like the white collar types, milling about on their third drink. I see a lot of cute girls, but i'm not inspired. Its only 11:30. I'll have to see if the mood of the place changes in an hour or so before I can dub the event a "flop" or "hot". I get a drink and sip on it while I watch the crowd some more. The birthday girl is a slim, attractive blonde with pretty eyes. She walks around almost on her toes, smiling and taking pictures. I hear its her twenty-fifth birthday. I immediately assume she is wealthy, has a GREAT job and would never speak to me.
I tell her happy birthday the next time she walks past me.

By the time my friend finds parking and comes into the club, I've been talking with Mr. B's girlfriend and her two friends and found some interesting information. One friend will be leaving on Tuesday to go to New York to be a producer for the MSNBC show HardBall. The other girl, when I asked her "What do you do?" she smiled, looked to the left as if to say ' How do I say this?'. Then her friend, Mr. B's girlfriend touched me and said "She's a dancer." "A dancer?" I said repeated. "No, she's actually a stripper."
They both laugh and I take another look at her friend. She is attractive, with long jet black hair, and a shapely body, but I wouldn't have pegged her for a stripper. I hadn't even been to a strip club in DC yet. In between calling a strip club a "Gentleman's club" and laughing amongst each other about something happening near the bar, I left and went downstairs. The music had started to pickup now,( meaning the DJ got smart and started playing Hip-hop) and I headed to the dance floor. This is where the "Futile Fight" begins. The first thing I notice is what I call the "defensive formation". Like the Roman Phalanx, women who go to clubs have a formation I call "The Ring." Its pretty explanatory. The girls form a ring and dance and laugh amongst each other while any guy who tries to break this formation generally gets rejected. The only thing I've noticed with this military exercise is that as 'the ring' grows in size if two or three guys come in all at once, its hard for the other friends to help them reject the fellow,s.

I'm on the dance floor and I see three rings. In the corner six very cute girls dance with themselves with their backs turned to everyone. Beside me, a gorgeous Euro-looking chick and her two Indian girlfriends are dancing three millimeters apart. Behind me, a gaggle of black chicks dance in a similar ring. To the left of them, a mixed bag of Asian and white girls are dancing as well, also in a ring. I see four guys try with different groups to get a dance, or to get in, and they are all shot down. I don't try anything. I'm dancing by myself and having enough fun to not be depressed. I've seen "the Ring" so many times that if I go to a club where there are more than five rings I either dance by myself or leave shortly after. A friend of mine once told me, "Guys are so grimy in the club. All they want to do is grab your ass and try and sleep with you that night. When I go to the club, I go to have fun, so I don't dance with anyone."
To this, I chuckled. Of course there are guys who go to clubs to do just that, but most guys are insecure, working and have little time to socialize. They go to clubs to meet women, end of story. So i'm thinking, If I go to ten clubs in a night, and let's say 90% of the girls who I like don't want to dance/meet anyone. Then no matter how good looking you are (this actually might help ) you might be fighting an uphill battle. Add to that the fact that a lot of people dress and act the same, so there is nothing really to distinguish you from anyone else. 99% of the black guy in the club had shaved heads and had on similar outfits (light coloured dress shirts, nice pants). 90% of the white guys in the club were dressed in a similar fashion also. What distinguishes everyone? Well, for the black guys they had different heights, skin tones and builds. For the white guys, they had different color hair, heights, and builds. But let's say for the most part everyone looks "the same". What's going to make you anymore interesting than me? Since all black men supposedly can dance, what's to make a girl want to dance with me more than the next guy? Or, what's to make a girl think this guy over here has a better job than that guy?

Futile fight? Who knows. But I left the club after an hour and headed to Wonderland, on 11th Street in Northwest DC. I headed upstairs to the dance floor and a slovenly looking man in a red shirt rested his hand on my chest.
"You're overdresed." he said.
I glanced at his hand. He patted my chest again.
"You're overdressed."
He walked away and I smiled to myself. In a Sports Jacket I was overdressed for Wonderland, which is a residential bar in Columbia Heights (everyone was wearing a t-shirt). But I was more comfortable. Wonderland broke the mold. There were no rings. I might not have a victory, but its not that much of a futile fight.

* * * *

Jamaicans Writers Buss!

My aunt had recommended I read this article a year or so ago. The funny thing is, through my own contacts, I eventually met a very good friend of one of these Authors. I was rumaging through a box of mine, looking for cardstock paper of all things, when I saw the article. When I recognized the name of the Author, well published writer Colin Channer, I called him right away! I'd love some insights. Here's the article for your reading purposes its from the June 27 paper of the New York Times.

page 1 page 2



page 3

Good Guys Finish Last

Its been a very draining week. I'm beginning to realize how easily it is to feel isolated in a large city in the states. There is the illusion of booming and ever-present socialization all around you, but honestly its me and then everyone else. As a person from another country, the integration process isn't the easiest. Firslty, this country is divided by Race, class and financial status. For me to pop into a peer group is like trying to knit yarn with spoons... it probably can be done, but i'd never recommend it. I just came back from Chinatown working on a project I know will probably put me in a bad place in a few days. I wrote about it in my project "three weeks" something about being a "weak" person, but I define "weak" in a way that explains exactly what i'm talking about. Either way, I realize there are three main uses of my energy right now. School, schoolwork and eating. There is nothing else. I go to classes, I come home to eat lunch probably, I go back to class then I come back home. Occassionally i'll hope on the metro and go sightseeing in the city maybe, but its all me. As time passes, the novelty of floating around by yourself wears off after you see dozens and dozens of happy beaming couples frolicking in the street.

This make sme think about the future, and I wonder if i'm EXTREMELY busy in the future if i"ll get caught in that trap where I'm too busy to even have a functional relationship. I hope it never reaches that point. Right now, i'm trying to do it all, so later on I won't have to do as much. Its the only thing that gives me a little hope when I'm traipsing around by my lonesome, looking at all these people walking hand in hand gleefully to and fro.

These things also make me question myself and give me material to write. I sometimes ask myself if I'm unattractive simply by being isolated. A person with more friends and has more social links might be socially more attractive, but i'm not sure if this is even a sound theory. I think these are merely the words of a tired student. The weekend approaches, and i"m not even looking forward to it. I will make my usual Friday night outing somewhere ( my friends are suggewting a bar near the University of Maryland) but i'm not sure. Apparently there are tons of eager-looking nubile Asians just looking for a Jamaican guy to hug.

But that's a pipe dream. Being in America and sitting back is really different from the slower pace of Island life. A lot of things here you have to fight for, including social position, grades, relationships. The society is highly individualistic and highly competitive, which gets unnerving when you are really busy and you just want to meet a few people casually. But no biggie, life goes on. Time for some sleep and then the wake up so I can read and do a paper.

peace

Marcus got PwNed

I'm feeling tired. So tired in fact that everything seems like a hazy blur of sounds and images. I think i'm entering that state of information overload, where girls look a little too attractive on TV, only chinese food is tasty and water seems very metallic. I'm not sure if I need sleep, or large quantities of fruit. I've had so much reading to do, I'm sure i'll have dreams about Evil corporations privatizing the water supply of poorer nations for the next few weeks. I have my Mac-lookalike Telecomm Policy teacher to thank for that. Otherwise, life presses on. I think in terms of my time management i'll have to do most of my writing on Mondays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. Because all my other days are insane. I have so many long classes, I have to keep a strong attention span for seven or eight hours. But this is college, and its great to have an education. Now I can use terms like "discourse", "reinscription", "hegemony" and "Incomplete".

But as a writer, this is a challenge. There MUST be a time allotment for the serious writing, which means i'll have to either wake up early to write (and drink copious quantities of coffee/stimulants) or just designate the days. For now I'll work with day designation. At the start of school I was pulling 4-6 pages a day, but as the work piled on that dropped to basically zero. If i'm going to successfully work through National Novel Writing month, I have to perfect this time organization scheme, so I can have my goal accomplished "THREE MANUSCRIPTS WRITTEN IN ONE YEAR" (eventually I'll say "THREE BOOKS WRITTEN IN ONE YEAR") but supposedly industry people say you can't call it a book until its published, blah blah blah.

Well I REALLy want to be able to say I wrote three books in a year. I mean, you tell anyone that and they'll at least buy you a beer. I think I need to start excercising again. During this summer I was working out heavily four times a week and I had endless energy. Maybe an endorphin rush every now and then will stimulate my creative center... but excercising is another time management thing.... tricky tricky. I'm going to make it work. By the way, I designed that sexy ape-man hybrid thingy the other day. Its a sample of my work. Maybe i'll post more in the future.

Half-life 2 got PwNed

Okay, my title really has nothing to do with anything. I'm just trying to get more subscribers with catchy title headings. The demands of my day to day have been starting to get to me already. I have scripts to write, papers to hand in and i'm always up and down as the cartoonist trying to get something done. Add to that some design work, several books to read and the "bachelor" life and you have a recipe for burnout. So i've been using what little free time trying to get back into my gaming.

Gaming has always been a fun enterprise for me, and now with my new computer, I think I can start feeling that nice squishy feeling inside I used to feel when I was 18. In my Freshman year, I had no computer for the entire first semester, and I was envious, because all the guys in my dorm were playing Counterstrike till the wee hours of the morning. For those who don't know what Counterstrike is, is was a "mod" (meaning modification) based on the original Half-life game engine. Half-life is one of the most successful video games in history, and Counterstrike is certainly the most successful Mod ever. Either way, the game works on a Agents versus Terrorists split. Either you are a terrorist, using Ak-47s and other weapons worthy of a cell, or you are a counter terrorist, meaning your guns and armour are better ...sort of. Either way, coming from the stilted internet in Jamaica at the time (we had a measly 56K at the time), I was fascinated. Not only could I play online at blazing speeds, but with SIXTEEN people at once! It was amazing. Needless to say, when I got my computer in Spring of 2001, I didn't sleep. Actually at the time I was suffering from severe insomnia, but Counterstrike was there to keep me company. I can't describe how it feels for a guy who existed in a non-broadband society to jump into the bosom of super-fast downloads and ridiculous bandwidth. It was like a drug.

So flash forward seven or so years, and i've gone through a few gaming evolutions. My game of choice since day one has always been ID software games, since Wolfenstein and Quake are tattooed on my left butt cheek. (kiddding). As these games got more awesome, my sucky system couldn't play them. It reached a point where all I did on my machine was write, and do graphic design because I couldn't play any video games properly. I had a Gateway, which was a 1.2 gHz machine with I 512 megs of RAM and a 30 gig harddrive for two years. The harddrive died a few times, and then I upgraded to a bigger drive, same machine. Then one day I felt my computer crashed (actually it didn't ) and rushed and bought what would be dubbed " THE BEAST".

Here's where the story gets interesting. Currently i'm on "BEAST" number four, but I think that name is jinxed, so I've dubbed my new machine, "The Piccard". Beast number one was a cool Pentium 4 with a gig of SDRAM (really really good ram). It worked great for a few months, but the started making noises like the kid in The Grudge when I was playing and then it died. Enter beast number two. This I actually bought from a friend of mine when he upgraded. This was a better machine, with a 64 bit chip, 1 gig of RAM and a bigger harddrive. I could play heavy hitters like Doom 3 and Half-life 2 on this one. Not maxed out (meaning all settings put to high) but I could run them. Then that died a mysterious death. Then my most recent machine ( you can check an earlier blog relating to my computer woes with that one) started acting funny and now... THE PICCARD is here.

This machine is a beast. It PWNED halflife on max settings. it PWNED Bioshock two and Quake Wars. If I wasn't tired from school, jaded from lost love and a little bit hungry right now, I would be playing games into the wee hours of the morning. I thought it fit that I devote a blog to my new computer. A cool, dual-core "beast-esque" machine with Windows Vista (gay...) and enough bells and whistles to keep me well into next year. Like Piccard, I will go where no one has gone before.

Into the max-out-everything-verse. :p

The Last Chapter Is Always the Hardest

I'm writing the last chapter of my book "Three Weeks and a Hurricane" and it isn't easy. I still have some edits to do, and a filler chapter here or there to write, but the book is pretty much over. This last chapter is hard because in the last bit of this book, i'm summarzing my feelings about love.

Its so hard to think you have lost something really special. Its hard to think that someone you really loved probably didn't see you in the same light. Its hard to know that you can easily express certain aspects of yourself to someone, and they can't do the same. I'm not talking about writing prose worthy of Proust, or drawing me naked on an easel using some Rennaisance technique. I'm talking about merely being able to acknowledge me as a person and my feelings. This is bothering me as I write this last chapter. My challenges in love have often led me to think that maybe I'm the type of person that a person won't "fight" for. Naturally this statement sounds a little negative, but in the face of trying all that i'm trying, I can get book rejections, no problem. I can get a million assignments and handle them, no problem. I can be in groups of strangers and interact with them, and be fine. I can handle the inevitable twisted ankle, scraped knee or broken nail. I can deal with the uncertainty held in my next few steps in my life, but sometimes, just sometimes, Its hardest for me to be hit with a huge emotional blow.

This time, I feel like I'm saying goodbye to a person I didn't have to say goodbye to. I had a chance to acquiesce to the person inside me, and I could have weaseled my way back into my ex's life under the pretense that everything was fine, jim-dandy. But I wasn't jim-dandy. Even though love can make a person destroy themselves, and do almost anything for someone I can't be self-destructive. I can't be hurt and then allow myself to look as if I was hurt for naught.

I can't be tossed aside and then come happily running back to someone with my tail wagging and my tongue out like a dog and its master. Try as I might, I have to be proud of myself. If i'm not i'll be open to the same situations time and time again, and I'll lose.

I did lose something recently, and for the last three days it has been eating at me, day in day out. But there isn't anything I can do. If someone truly loves you, they can show it. If they don't really love you, it shows as well. I'm at the stage where I'm feeling that after-effect of learning the truth, quite like Neo after taking the red pill. I'm partially in shock, and for what seems like the second or third time, i'm completely starting over. Book aside, writing is a reflection of life, especially non-fiction based on yourself. So here I am, writing this last chatper, summarzing my feelings about love (at this moment) and trying not to sound like a wounded, overly jaded twenty something year old.

But that's hard, because I'm trying to write truthfully without being hurtful. If people read what i write, I want it to show them that a person can move on, a person can take a few blows and crawl out of the rubble, I want everyone to be Superman. But we aren't aliens. We are human, flesh and bone, finite. We have diseases, issues, wars and stresses everywhere. Life is a FIGHT.
We fight for love, for food, for occupations, education, sex, pleasure, money and a host of other things. Its a batttle between how good you feel and how much you want to have. I think love is one of the lulls in that battle, a little thing that allows you to remember life doesn't have to be as chaotic as it is. You can look into someone's eyes and see your future in there. You can hold their hand and feel like you dissappear into their consciousness, even for a moment. You can dissappear blissfully for a while, and escape the raging madness of our Ipod-filled, overly political, caffeine amped world.

Then you come back to reality and there's the pain and suffering, the joy and the ups and downs.
So maybe losing love is just stepping back into the real arena of life. Maybe its just being what a human really is: almost animalistic, fighting tooth and nail to find what he/she wants in life. Maybe I've lost a skirmish this time around and I have to REALLY fight the next time love shows its face. Then maybe, I should cling on for dear life, invest properly in my emotions and pray that the person's eyes I look into, see's the same thing in me.

Wishful thinking? You bet.

IPOD - TOUCH ME

Today isn't a great day for me. As you can see i'm doing my second blog of the day. I'm hurting a bit right now, because of an event that happened on Friday night that I can't get into. So, like most people, I'm trying to distract myself by either eating too much, watching tv, or spending money. As it stands, I really don't want to go down a self-destuctive path, so I decided to research the new Ipod, a.k.a "The Ipod Touch"and blog about it. I wouldn't call myself a technophile, and I am a skeptical early adopter (I learned my lesson after the Ipod Video came out). This new version of the Ipod excites me somewhat. Hey, I'm bored, single with nothing to do. A cool device that has a cyborg like sexiness has appeal in our wired world of today.

I've owned almost every version of the ipod ever made. This hasn't been by choice. I bought the third generation thinking it was a godsend. I like the way little red lights lit up the buttons on the Ipod face, and even though it was pre click-wheel, it was still pretty easy to navigate. One night I went to a club my friend worked at. It actually wasn't a club, but this cool Sushi restaurant called Japone in Dupont circle. Either way, I was chilling in the the back where there was a bar, talking to this cute bartender. As she commented on my hair (it was a huge fuzzy muff of blonde at the time) I rested my man-bag on the bar chair. I took a thirty second walk to the front of the restaurant and when I came back my Ipod inside the bag was gone. I was upset because I had never had a device stolen from me in that way, but it wasn't that bad. The third gen had a terrible battery life (mine capped at 8 hours) and it would "crash" on me occassionally. A little while later, I sold a bunch of stuff on Craigslist and then I bought my fourth gen (with clickwheel!) That wasn't bad, but I only owned it for one week. I went on a business trip with a few classmates to checkout the Investment banking world. Seeing all those droopy eyed, highly paid college grads only a year or two older than me made me cringe. Investment banking wasn't for me. I did read the paper however, I see that a new "Ipod Photo" was coming out in... a week.
I almost screamed, because I had bought my Ipod just recently, but as soon as I got back to DC I put it for sale on CL and bam! It was gone. So I bought my Ipod Photo soon after, and I must say I was the most pleased with this Ipod (even more than the Video). The Ipod photo felt very sturdy and it had an amazing battery life, it went up to 21 hours on a full charge. I used this Ipod for at least a year, then I heard about the Video. I researched it for a while, hating the fact that the battery life was now a paltry 16 hours and that you couldnt' adjust the brightness on the screen. "No matter," I said to myself "It is new tech. And New tech is F-ing cool." So I bought the new Ipod with most of the Photo sale money and I was very dissapointed. The screen was marginally bigger and the menu was cool-ish, but the battery life for me was almost cut in half and I didn't like watching video on it. The screen was too small to really enjoy full length video, and it was a task actually putting movies on the device itself. So after owning the Ipod video for about two months, I sold it.
Later I would horribly regret this, when I eventually wanted a portable music player and had none. Either way, as a birthday gift I received an Ipod Nano and I've been using that for over a year now. Naturally my head works in tens of gigabytes, and its a huge drop from 30 gigs on the Ipod Video (or 20 gigs on the Photo) to a measly 2 gigs on the Nano. But, I organized my playlist, made sure everything was okay, and I've been using it ever since. My happiest accessory is a pair of those Bose headphones they sell at the Apple store for 150 bucks. (I bought mine for $85. Ah...Craigslist). I had no desire to ever get an Ipod video again. I knew sooner or later, Apple would drop an Ipod that would wow the masses again. When the Iphone came out earlier this year, I didn't bat an eyelid. Only a crazy person (I thought) would camp out to get a device with slow phone service, severe data limitations just because it looks "cool". I fiddled with the phone at the Apple store, and I agree it IS cool, but not 600 bucks worth of cool.
But now I hear about the Ipod Touch, and my heart feels warm. I'm so used to my 2 gig nano that 8 gigs sounds like a lot of space. I like the fact that it has more functionality as well for my money. The $299 price tag doesnt' sound that bad either BECAUSE it has so much. I can access wifi points and surf the web, I can browse my music by tapping my fingers, and the battery life isn't 16 hours, its 22. Its also thinner than the Iphone (take that At&t!). So if I can, I think I'll be heading to the Apple store to get my touch and be an early adopter of THAT product. Then I'll hear about the "Ipod Touch II" which comes out in January which has 20 gigs of Space for $299 and then i'll rush to sell my little 8 gig. But until that time comes, we'll see what happens. This has nothing to do with my usual blogging about writing, but I needed to vent about something and the Ipod gave me a really good excuse.

Endings are Introspective

I haven’t finished my book project “ Three Weeks and a Hurricane “ yet, but I think I’ve figured out an aspect of its ending. In my life, there are certain things I think that most people eventually want, something they discover within themselves that gives them a sense of self-worth. Something that makes them say, “Dammit, I DESERVE MORE!”. Whatever this “thing” is, be it a desire to have more respect from people, more income or just more food on the table, I think at some point people have that point they reach when they become aware of what they need. A lot of times when I’m writing, like most people I focus on the story, and I focus on the characters, the plot, the outline, the ins and outs of their lives and their perceptions. I feed those things into the characters to make them become more real, more alive. But in this project, its non-fiction. Its all about me, my thoughts, my views and expectations. In this story, I’m the protagonist, I’m the man with the plan. The situations are all mine, the pain real and whatever desires true. Its not a character sketch I did up in Word in fifteen minutes. It’s a representation of a person who’s been alive for twenty-five years. Its truth in its most pure form.
The ending to this story I believe is not just a search for meaning in my life as it relates to what I want to achieve, but how I want to be treated as well. I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories about models or actors or business people who are very successful talk about those time periods when people told them they couldn’t do it, or they wouldn’t make it. Everytime we see these interviews, or read about them in one of our magazines, we laugh, because we don’t believe it. But its true. Most people have to hear they can’t do it before they really try, or life breaks them in two. I think I desire that as well, for people to know who I am to some extent, to have a basic consideration that comes with being a person who’s alive and trying to do what’s right. This is probably writing more suited for the pages of some unwritten screenplay as the monologue of some jaded character, but it’s the prevailing thought in my mind right now. A large aspect of “Three Weeks” dealt with some personal challenges I was having at the time, and how I felt and reacted to them.
New situations can always stir up those past emotions, and pain and regret can flood your system constantly, but that's an aspect of writing that's the most powerful. These thoughts and feelings are the things that can lead us to the paper with pen in hand, or to the keyboard. Maybe some people have bad situations so they can write about it. Or maybe some people need to write about certain situations so they can move on. Who knows.Maybe in a later blog I’ll go into details. I can see what I want as clear as day, but its on the top of a mountain and I’m in the middle somewhere and I’m almost out of rope, but I’m smiling because I’m still hoping.
I shall return anon.

Test of Will

Today wasn't very eventful. I woke up late and spent most of my evening trying to take pictures for my Cinematography class. Tonight, who knows. The world is my Oyster!

Organize Thy Writing

A chapter in that new book i'm reading talks about being very organized as a writer and man I'm feeling it. With my daily cartoon duties, film assignments and high-energy demands of long classes plus my extra-curricular activities, its pretty crazy. Balancing a full load at school and then organizing query submissions, entering competitions as well as researching Grad schools isn't easy, but so far my system that's worked somewhat has been.

(a) Set first a weekly goal on top of everything.

For me, my goal last week was to finish my current project, and write 30 pages. With all my computer issues and running all over DC I only ended up doing about 18 pages, but if I hadn't set the goal I might not have written anything.

(b) Relax, somehow.

I'm always buzzed and i'm pretty high energy. When the demands of everything are on your brain you want to write, excercise, play video games, read all at the same time. There has to be a balance unless you'll burnout. I'm not the best at this, but i've worked hard to relax ( I recently got a Yoga video )

(c) Organize all your tasks relating to things that MUST be done
Say you want to send ou 30 query letters. You need to have all 30 agents names and addresses ready. 30 envelopes and stamps ready and have the letters individually addressed to each of these people. A trick I did was to make an Excel file to track them all. So each time I dropped a letter in an envelope I added them to the database. This also helps you keep track of dates. I received a reply to a query I sent three months ago recently, but at least I can see who I sent it to, and see if I should query them again.

But the basic goal is to do what you can as soon as possible. Make a list, write it down and be active so you don't become overwhelmed.

(d) Read.

(e) Evaluate the goals.
Its easy to see your progress afte ryou set your goals. So if I sent out 30 queries and go zero responses. I probably need to change my query. Or if I sent them out six weeks ago (and they are all e-mail based) and i've gotten no reply, maybe I need a new agent list? I think its hard to see where you are going if you don't know where you are coming from. For example, I send out 24 letters for my first manuscript "Eden Speaks" and got 24 rejections. Alas, the world wasn't ready for a Jamaican novel in the U.S! But the point was, I sent out all 24 and got my replies and I ended up pushing another project. So I was at least able to say to myself that "maybe agents aren't ready for a book like this." It allowed me to gauge something. No point having your book in the drawer where you keep dirty magazines.

So If I plan A thing in B time frame, and I get C result, then I know what I can tweak and adjust to make sure i'm doing the best things possible.
That's about it for me. I'm trying to work on my organization seriously and I hope this helps someone else out there in la-la land.

Wipe Out

Its not good to be this tired. The last few days have really caught up with me. In between juggling cartooning assingments, I had to attend an extra class today (2 1/2 hours) because I've done scriptwriting before (therefore I am advanced beyond scriptwriting one) but I'm drained and strained.

I'm thinking of doing some work with a tech blog do document certain little issues I had. This was a writing blog orginally, but it has evolved in to just a daily blog of random things I guess.

I'm applying for some radio show work time, plus doing the usual queries for books and what not. I received a book in the mail yesterday, A free lance life and i'm looking forward to getting juicy details on being an accomplished magazine writer. The book was recommended by young Author Jessica Burkhart, who has an AMAZING 75 credits to her name, plus a 4 book deal, trips to space, etc etc.

She's awesome. People like her show me its possible, regardless of age. Its effort and dedication. I'm going to head to an organizational meeting for some film stuff, nap and then do some writing. Or maybe i'll just sleep and wake up early in the morning. Either way, things have to work out.

The Computer Saga & The Jena 6

Wow... so I ended up scrapping my old machine, spending 300 bucks (which brings my grand total to 380 now...) and I bought a super fast machine from a friend. So for the moment it seems my computer problems are solved. *Crosses fingers*.

Now, today was a very interesting day, particulary in terms of race issues. i have a class, "Contemporary topics in mass communications" and I viewed a video called "ETHNIC NOTIONS".. it was VERY disturbiing. Particularly because it focused on older stereotypical images of African-Americans in the media ranging from the Antebellum period onward to the 20th century. It was hard for me to watch images of people being lynched and learn even more about the brutal past of America. Following this train of thought (coincidentally it seems) there was a rally regarding the Jena 6 on campus today. The Jena 6, for those who don't know, are those six unfortunate souls who are facing a combined 100 years or more in prison because of excessive charges. The basic story is, there is a tree which only white students sat at, at a certain school in Lousiana. One day a few black students sat at the tree, and the next day there were three NOOSES on the tree, a definite throwback to slavery days. Tensions escalated (a white student even drew a shotgun on some students) and then a fight started. So far, no white students have been charged, there were no witnesses brought to trial, yet sentencing was done in two days and several of the six were convicted of attempted murder, with one young man in particular facing 22 years in prison.

Its sad when I think of these things still happening in America. A hangman's noose? Why would a kid brought up on MTV, a society that is embracing more interracial couples, etcetera, put a NOOSE on a tree? That sounds like a throwback to something else. Either way, there was a rally on campus that I went to, but when I reached the venue it was filled to capacity, so the overflow of students outside had a insightful rally which was a mixture of spoken word, positive words from a few elders and thoughts about the future. As a Caribbean student, I thought it was necessary to remind people that if it wasn't for all the things that had taken place fifty years ago, I wouldn't be able to attend school in the states.

Just one of those days I guess. So I have a new computer, I'm somewhat enlightened and i'm ready to rock and roll with some projects.
ciao