Leonidas Ain't got Nothing on Me!

In twenty-nine days i'm supposed to be a Spartan. A friend of mine suggested we all work out and get ripped over a 10 week period and then head out to a halloween party in briefs, red capes, with fake shields and masks as our protection against hordes of inebriated women. For me this is a 60% reality. I don't work out much, but i'm lucky to have the body type that makes people think I "might" work out, which is pretty cool, until I start bashing myself worse than a body builder who forgot his steroid injections.

I realize I've never even been to a Halloween party. To my knowledge we don't (and probably still do not ) celebrate Halloween where i'm from, which is Jamaica. I've always read about Jack-o-lanters and pumpkins and what not, but other than seeing that stuff in kids books and on television, there is no way in hell that random Jamaican parents are going to let their kids roam the streets asking for candy. Its just not done.

In 2002, I walked around a shady neighborhood wearing the mask from Scream, dressed in full black. I felt powerful and anonymous, watching people through the tinted veils of some mad writer's genius. But, I've never been to a Halloween party, so this year might be my first. I'm thinking about the choice of outfit. I can already foresee several other spartans in attendance, with many of them having beer bellies, hairy chests and tighter briefs than I might wear. I can also imagine one of these guys leaving with a girl for the night, while I, with my semi-okay six-pack, will probaly be sipping fruit punch and munching on condiments from the table beside the DJ.

Some aspects of being a spartan seem rather exciting, such as hearing a dancehall song play ( most likely this will be a Sean Paul song) and then someone raises their sword, shield, or fist and belts out, "SPARTANS!". Then we assemble on the dance floor and do awkward Jamaican dances in briefs and capes.
"Oh, there will be blood."

As I've always heard from a good friend of mine, Halloween is a prime occassion for people to hook up. Maybe it has something to do with wearing costumes and being relativley anonymous that gives people more confidence. A guy dressed like Batman might actually believe he is a billionaire with psychological issues, able to get any woman he desires with a swipe of his credit card. Or maybe the guy who dresses like a large teddy bear, is fulfilling some strange childhood fantasy involving himself, Teddy Ruxpin and several sweaty strippers. Whatever the reason, the rumours about Halloween hookups seem to have some merit. I think it takes a certain level of confidence or inebriation to go to a party as a Spartan. I mean, 99% of guys who watched 300 left the theater punching walls and ripping hair of their chests. Then they proceeded to engage in thousands of "Ambiguously gay" battles in their underwear, shouting "Tonight we dine in hell!" to which his friend might reply, "No! Tonight you dine in my ass douchebag!"

Maybe being a spartan will be a cool thing. I could be the one spartan that isn't filled with bloodlust, uber-manliness and a need to savagely take out his homoerotic tensions on waves of very ugly marauders. I might stand up in the middle of the party, with my cape wrapped comfortably around my torso, debating Science Fiction with the guy who came in dressed as Orson Welles. Then I may offer my condolences to Neo for dying at the end of the Matrix, give Batman a high five and then smile lustfully at any girls dressed as Nurses or Playboy bunnies.

I could have a shield, but i'm not sure how practical that would be on the dance floor. Blocking hundreds of arrows and the sharp blades of my enemies won't be necessary in the company of college students, people who work in non-profits and on the Hill. (Well, in terms of people on the Hill, I might need the shield.)

It would be fun to ben an intelligent Spartan, or maybe even a bipolar one. I could savagely kiss a girl i've never met, then run into a corner weeping because I acted like "less of a man". I could be the kind of Spartan that keeps the uber-cool "I can kick your ass with my little finger" vibe while expounding on the laudable attributes of Halo 3. I could be that spartan.

Nonethless, I have been doing nothing towards this goal. I'm too tired during the day to really go to the gym, and like I said before, I am luckly to somewhat look Spartan-esque without doing too much work. Exciting as the Spartan thing is, I think I might just go dress in a white collar shirt and a soft pair of plaid pants. Then, when I am asked what i'm dressed up as, I will give the reply Wednesday did in the Adamms Family movie.
"'I'm a psychotic killer. They look just like everyone else."

Kickflips are Really Hard

I'm a skateboard vampire.

Well, I used to be. When I was living on Sherman Avenue, in the enviable upperclassman dorm called "The Towers", a set of two buildings (aptly designated East and West) I would skate at night. At the time I was working on a killer concept for a clothing line that would revolutionize the world... or at least so I thought. When I have ideas buzzing in my head I can't sleep--an effect I often experience when I'm going through girl issues--and then I have energy to burn. It would be at this time period, usually 3 a.m that I would grab my trusty skateboard, slip on a grotesque pair of skateshoes that looked like mummified mutant caterpillars, and head onto the street. This was quite a rush, simply because I would skate during the winter time with only a shirt and a jersey on to protect me from the elements. With some rock music playing in my ears (usually System of a Down or Linkin Park) I would skate around the city, doing weak ollies onto curbs, hopping over manholes and thinking about life.

Yesterday I went to pickup two copies of my current project, "Three Weeks and a Hurricane" from a Kinko's near chinatown. I had my skateboard, "Just in case." I said, and ended up going to the skatepark, doing large ollies over a police cone and losing my shirt in the process. The last time I've skated like this was honestly two years ago. I don't skate much because my knees feel like shredded paper most of the times. I have a knee injury--some might call this a cool thing--that is about five years old. I tore an ACL ( Anterior Crutiae Ligament) when playing BADMINTON of all games in a P.E class. Embarassing I know. Guys usually tear their ligaments when playing rough, manly sports like Rugby, Football, Basketball or Golf. Whenever a person sees me limping, I tell them I hurt my knee saving three cherubic Asian-American kids from the advances of a rabid pitbull.

This knee injury isnt' pleasant... going up stairs hurts most days, my right knee is also affected by the lack of equilibrium in the leg support system, so both my knees hurt pretty much all the time. However, there are moments when I enter a "twilight zone" and I feel quite like i'm on drugs; there is no pain in my knees, I have boundless energy and for a moment I almost feel as if i"m healed. Wait a minute, this sounds very similar to another excercise... something more coital.

I'm at the skatepark as aforementioned, and i rest my man-bag on the ground beside a crushed beer can. As I start skating on the smooth asphalt, I feel my body relaxing. I do a few ramps, smiling with how comfortable I feel now (previously I fell off a ramp, scratching my ribs and exposing bone) based on my past performance. I find skating interesting, but it often gives people free license to ask really dumb questions.

If I was paid ten dollars for each time someone starting singing "Kick push, Kick push," as I rolled by on my skateboard, I'd be a thousandaire. If I was paid ten dollars for each time someone said "Do a 360!" (a VERY hard and dangerous move) I would be a thousandaire. But, if I was paid ten bucks for each time someone asked me to do a Kickflip, I'd be really freaking rich.
The physics of a kickflip are simple: You do an ollie, while the board is in the air, you flick your foot leftwards (or rightward depending on what foot you skate with) then the board flips in the air in a 360 degree roation. You time the complete revolution, then land with both feet on the board and try not to break something as the board goes back to the ground.

Okay, the physics aren't that simple, nor is the trick, which is why its always funny to hear people ask me to Kickflip, as if I am a chimp in a cage with a red button that flashes when people walk past.

I'm not a good skateboarder, I peaked after my knees hurt too much to pratice, but I can coast, ollie and do some basic tricks. This park is nice, but i'm really afraid of going hardcore where the ramps are. The park is split into a basketball court, which has really smooth asphalt, and the skate park with the ramps, which has rough, nasty asphalt. If I fall on the court, I'm liable to get a bruise. If I fall in the park, that's it for the night. After I exposed that rib doing a simple ramp trick the last time, I put up my skateboard for a few weeks. I wonder if I should call myself a "skate-writer". It sounds interesting, but its probably a waste of time. "A relatively tall Jamaican guy skateboarding shirtless around DC with his man-bag on" sounds much cooler.

Usually when I'm in the zone my shirt comes off. Partly because I don't want to completely soak my outfit. Tonight, I wish I had brought my camera to record myself do some tricks. Alas, all I have for company is my Ipod. I'm listening to a DJ Kenny mix tape, and a hot track "Stamina Man" is playing. The opening words go:
"Who is the man, girls want in bed for hours... STAMINA MAN!" (this is quite funny as professional backup female voices chime this with a very unsexual enthusiasm).

So I skate for about thirty minutes, feeling like a stamina man, powerful because i'm shirtless, then exposed because I am alone in a skatepark, singing to myself and constantly looking over my back. My knees still don't hurt, and I wonder why some nights I can ollie and rail like the best of them, and other nights I hobble like an old man running to the pharmacy to get Viagra.

Its a weird night, particularly because its Sunday, and I spent the better part of the day doing a 12-hour photo shoot, of which I actually did 11. I feel a bit waned. I don't like spending 12 hours in my house for ANY reason, even if there is a blizzard outside, I will go and watch flakes fly by at thirty miles an hour, for an hour. Maybe being insulated for a day healed my knees to the point where they were happy to exert that extra energy. As I board home, cruising past a bus filled with people heading to some late -night function, I know my knees will kill me tommorrow. I don't mind. For one night at least, I'm healed.

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