New Year's Greave (I'm running out of puns)

Get ready for a huge, massive end of the year post.

It's Like That

Haha JK I'll probably fuck it up

Wham

Met somebody. He's pretty amazing.

shitty poetry

I’d like to say,
I made you happy,
But sometimes,
I don’t know,
I keep clinging,
To a version of the past,
Whereas you have,
An aversion to the past,
Because it’s littered with me.

The Bonfire of the Cranberries

Currently sitting in the WYPR office hoping against hope that Little, Brown Publishing gets back to me about booking an interview with Tom Wolfe. I don't think they'll get back to me and even if they do it's highly unlikely that one of the greatest American writers of all time will deign me worthy of an interview, but, a boy can dream.

Besides my radio shenanigans I'm up to my knees in shitty part time job work and end of the semester bullshit. I cannot wait for 2013 when I'll have a real job and can actually do things that I want to do.

Saw Sam and his boyfriend at Wegmans. Don't really have anything to say about it. They looked happy. I of course hid in the produce section because what would I even say at this point? Sam is happy, Matt's in Philadelphia, Evan is a pirate (seriously he works as a pirate in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World) and I'm...what exactly?

Writer's Block

I know I know, but it's finals so expect massive updates very soon.

Just a Taste

And as the tears began to stream down my face I finally understood the totality of my actions. The memories I had spent years pouring over crystallized and the clarity of what I had done became real. In an instant the denial and delusion slipped away. I cried for who we were and also for who we never would be. I mourned a life I would never live and then just like that it was over. After years I felt absolution. I cannot change the past, no matter how desperately I try. Change is a part of life and fighting it is like fighting an ocean current: the harder you struggle the quicker you get sucked under. I had been drowning for years and now I was inhaling air for the first time in I don't even know how long. My flotation device is fragile and new but the current is mild.

Amphetamine Logic

I used to love doing drugs. I mean really love them. When I was going to school in New Orleans I started doing Ritalin pretty regularly. I would stay up all night and write nonsensical things that I was convinced were the beginnings of the great American novel. As it turns out they were really the scrawlings of a delusional drug addict posing as a literary ingenue. I ended up failing out of school, due in no small part to my obsession with amphetamines. I loved doing them but there was always a point where things got a little crazy. The first hour or 2 is phenomenal. You feel great, you're energetic, and for some reasons cigarettes taste fucking amazing. But then if you keep going down the rabbit hole everything gets fucked up. It's gradual too; it sneaks up on you. I would say around 1 am is when it becomes hell. It stops being fun but you can't just turn it off. I remember being up all night and praying to fall asleep. Lying in the dark, hearing the traffic outside and almost crying from delirium because you just want it to stop. It's like a fucked up carnival ride that keeps spinning long after you've thrown up. I remember rejoicing when the sun would come up. That meant that the long, nightmarish night was finally over. I could shower, go to class, and try and act like a normal human being. Days were easy but I wouldn't wish those nights on anyone. The worst part was that when you finally came down you were so exhausted from being up for days at a time that you would crash. I would slip into a coma masquerading as sleep and stay that way for 14 hours. I missed so many classes. I tried to count once but I couldn't keep the days straight. When I moved back to Baltimore I started taking Ritalin again. It was bad at first but eventually I evened out. I even stopped taking it and started selling it to my retarded co-worker Dawn. Oh Dawn, life hasn't, nor will it ever be, kind to you. I guess the point of this post is to say that some drugs are bad. Not all of them but some. So, be careful I guess. Or don't, I'm not going to tell you what to do.

L.A. Confidential

My friend Joe lives in L.A.. He's an actor. He was my roommate in Ireland. He looks identical to Adam Scott. He made me this:

It's like that.

Failing Upwards

Weakend

So I'm sitting in the WYPR office revising my script for the live show on Monday. It's all about gays in the Bible Belt. Originally I wanted to call the show "Sad Fags" but surprise surprise America isn't ready for my blend of edgy, nonconformist writing. Their loss. Anyway, after this I have work until midnight, then work at 6AM then driving up to Philly to see Matthew and go to the Kreayshawn concert (I know). Then I have to haul ass back to MD for work until midnight on Sunday. It's times like these I wish I still did amphetamines.

So It's Come to This

tedium - boredom - weariness - bore - dullness

Well I've done it again. Regardless of how often history has proven me wrong I've once again waited until the last minute to finish some work. I have a group presentation tomorrow and I have to have my script and notes in for Monday's show. The radio show takes precedent obviously. I'm pretty much done my script and I'd say I'm 2/3's of the way through my notes. These are both very good things. And thank God T'Keyah called me and told me that she hasn't even started her part of the presentation yet. I admitted that I too wasn't as far along as perhaps she had thought. We're meeting before class tomorrow to combine everything. This means, however, that I will be up all night working. Which is fine! Totally fine! This week is a complete cluster fuck though. I have those 2 things plus school plus the radio station plus my job. I'm busy up until noon Saturday. Then I'm free!

I can't wait for Saturday actually, now that you've brought it up. I'm driving up to Philly to see Matthew and go to the Kreayshawn show...don't judge. Rye Rye is opening and it'll be a super happy kawaii fun night. Besides any excuse to see Matthew is a good thing. I don't write about him too often, probably because he's the only person I've ever been romantic with and not pushed away. He doesn't even like Kreayshawn (honestly I can't blame him) and he's going with me; I'm assuming that speaks volumes.

School is winding down blah. Internship is winding down blah. Creeping on your facebook page is killing me blah. You know, the usual. I can't help but wonder though. Perhaps my current feelings of ennui have to do with my impending graduation. For once I have no fucking idea what I'm doing next. I can only assume that my apathetic attitude has something to do with my the inevitable liminal phase that I'll be entering. I hate transitional phases. I really fucking hate them. It all stems from my deep rooted fear regarding change and not being in control.

To you, I hope you're happy.

To me, I hope you're happy too.

Ennui

I'm writing this because I haven't written since last week. So I voted this morning...it was a giant pain in the ass. I had to wait in line for 30 minutes with someone I went to high school with and haven't seen since graduation. I was sandwiched between that guy and one of my neighbors who I don't really know. It was awkward to say the least. Then I had to haul ass to school for an international student luncheon. Ughhhhhh. This Saturday my play "Gathering Doom" will premiere at the Maryland State Irish Festival, so you should check it out, or don't, I really don't care. However, if you do check it out I will be there for a post show Q&A (I've done more Q&A's this year than I ever thought I'd do in my entire life) so you could ask some really embarrassing questions. Also boys are stupid. Also I met Shiny Toy Guns. Also I met MNDR and she was fucking amazing!!!!!

"No one wants to be the person who is made fun of for caring too much about something, who treats in earnest a situation that everyone else considers absurd. Even in personal relationships, feeling too heavily invested while simultaneously understanding that the other person couldn’t be more detached is one of the most profound feelings of embarrassment we can experience. Because it isn’t simply the embarrassment of making a mistake or a poor choice, it’s a shame over the kind of human being you are and how you see the world around you. To be shamed for your sincerity is to be reminded that you are dependent on something which is not dependent on you — that you are, once again, vulnerable.”
—
Chelsea Fagan

Come On Sweet Catastrophe

So Hurricane Sandy (aka Frankenstorm) is on its way. I've got water, gas, and a generator so bring it Frankenstorm! Oh and a case of Mello Yello which is the best soda of all time ever, don't even try and argue against it. The last time I spent any amount of time thinking about a hurricane it was a little over 7 years ago in New Orleans and we all know how that turned out.

Also I've given up on boys forever. I'm just going to date Sophie. We make such a cute couple.

I started my new job, so far it's pretty good. It pays way more and the hours are better and everyone is nice which is a change of pace. Quitting Petsmart felt so fucking good I wish I could do it again and again and again. Also since it is the spookiest season of the year I've been listening to a lot of this:

Hope the storm treats everyone well, I'll be writing and working my way through it.

Radio Silence

Post Glacial

So there's been a lot of discussion this week about writer Michelle Lapidos and her blog Before and Afro. To sum it up Lapidos is a white, Jewish woman living in New York City. She has worked as an intern for Vogue and as a writer/correspondent for Spa Week (whatever that is). At first glance she seems to be a typical young woman living in NYC, definitely kookier than your average urbanite, but there is certainly nothing incendiary about her or her work. Recently, however, Lapidos went to a Studio 54 themed party. As part of her costume she bought a huge afro wig. So far not so bad; not something I would have done but to each their own. This is where it gets weird. Apparently she had some kind of transcendental revelation by wearing the afro. Instead of putting it in her attic or under her bed to be forgotten until next Halloween she decided to keep wearing it. I'll let that sink in for a moment. She's been wearing this wig out and about all over the town. She documents all of her excursions on her blog, very public excursions. It get's even weirder when she writes about going to a fried chicken festival, which naturally required her to wear the wig. That in and of itself is offensive, even to someone as sheltered as me. On a side note, she refers to her gay male friends as "the gays" which is a completely different beast that I won't get into here.

She posts copious pictures of her in the wig, her in the wig with black people, and sometimes just black people that happen to be near her. The whole thing has an air of...I don't even know what. Maybe idolatry but definitely ignorance. I'm not going to lecture anyone on how to live their lives, because generally I don't care. But this is such an obviously stupid thing to do that it baffles me. Not to mention the fact that she looks completely ridiculous. Lapidos claims several times on her blog that she understands and is aware of the social implications and ramifications of appropriating black culture the way that she has. However, she continues to do it on a regular basis. In one glorious picture of her at a block party in Brooklyn Lapidos is grinding up on a bemused black man, oblivious to the side eye that a young black woman is giving her. On her blog she pontificates about how she felt liberated, strong, and maybe just a little bit cooler. The fact that she would need some kind of exaggerated, external affect to feel this way is troubling, not to mention the plethora of other problems attached to it. Lapidos also writes of how the whole thing is a kind of social experiment to better the universe, "My ultimate goal here is to help people all over the world look deeper within themselves so they can master their consciousness and fall madly in love with every detail of their lives." There is so much delusional crazy in that sentence that I can't begin to understand where she is coming from. I get being misunderstood. I get searching for an identity. I've been through several before I finally settled on one that feels right (news flash Michelle, the identity I chose is just being myself). I'm all for self expression and experimenting with your image, but Lapidos is toeing a dangerous line here. Perhaps the worst part is her general attitude regarding the criticism she's received. Instead of just listening to what people have to say about it and learning from it, she basically dismisses the criticism and blindly chalks it up to a difference in opinion. She even invites her detractors to lunch where they can have an open and honest dialogue about it. She just doesn't get it.

Recently I've heard the term "post-racial" used to describe our society. I don't know how to feel about that quite yet, but I do know that openly flaunting something so intrinsic to a specific race and acting like it's perfectly normal isn't right. Many people use the term "white privilege" to describe Lapidos and her antics. That's a concept I've had a hard time grappling with over the past few years. I'd like to think that something like that doesn't exist and in many ways I think it has more to do with class privilege or socio-economic privilege than race. However, I can't deny that it is a valid point. In response to the increasing amount of flack that she has gotten this week Lapidos posted a response blog to her critics. In it she talks about hearing every and all complaint and about understanding where people are coming from. Her solution was to discontinue wearing the wig immediately and to educate herself on the history of race relations in this country and the diverse and varied cultures we citizens have...just kidding! She bought a blond afro wig instead because that will make everything better.

I don't know what the future holds for Lapiods, wether or not she will eventually learn that what she's doing isn't right (and that she looks completely crazy doing it). I don't know if she'll blindly continue down this path until it reaches its inevitable conclusion. Hell, maybe I'm wrong and Lapidos is actually more evolved than all of us. Maybe she's just post-everything, but I don't think so. To be honest, I feel weird condemning someone for doing something that even I don't completely understand. I'm white so I'll never know what exactly that hair means to the race that it belongs to. I wouldn't expect someone else to understand me or my journey through life. However, I once heard someone say something about race and privilege that was so profound I've never forgotten it and I wish that someone would say it to Lapidos, "Privilege is invisible to those who have it."

I'm Bored in Class, Can You Tell?

A Face for Radio

Well everyone, today's the day. The first show I've ever produced/written will go live at 1PM on WYPR, 88.1FM. Listen in if you want, the podcast of it will be on the website later this week so you can hear it there as well. I'm more than a little nervous, I really just want to fast forward to 2PM and get it over with. Dan Rodricks (the host) texted me last night about some script revisions which of course sent me into a panic, but, I was able to pull it together and I think it's going to be a really fun hour. Of course everyone I know knows about it and I just ran into my department head who said that she can't wait to hear it either. It may seem like I'm making a bid deal out of this, and if I am, it's because it's a big deal to me. Something that I wrote and conceptualized is going to be read/performed/whatever live on the air today and I feel like there is electricity running through my body right now. To think that my producers do this every day is terrifying. I guess it becomes second nature after a while but, as they say, you always remember your first time. Wish me luck internet.

What a Week

Once again I’m sitting in the WYPR office on a Friday waiting to get out of here. My show airs on Monday and I’m finally, FINALLY, done everything that needs to be done. My script and notes have been turned in and all guest have been confirmed (for the third time). At this point all I can do is wait for 1PM Monday and hope that everything goes smoothly. I’ll admit, I’m slightly worried that Bill Stevenson from the Baltimore Tattoo Museum is going to flip when he finds out that there is also a laser tattoo removal specialist on the show. Bill has been stressing to be this entire time that he’s doing the show because it’s pro-tattoo and it may have slipped my mind to let him know who the third guest is. Oops.

Besides the station it’s been a pretty stressful week. I got the job at Wegmans and it pays so much more than my current part time job. I really just need something to get me through graduation. I’m so behind in my schoolwork so I’ll be spending this weekend catching up on all of that noise. Oh and Virgin Fest was amazing. Skrillex blew my fucking mind. I danced and danced and danced and nary a fuck was given. On a side note, after years of foregoing hats because of my giant fucking head, apparently I look amazing in them. Who fucking knew?

Vanessa, do you have a sec?

This show is killing me, almost there though. Everyone should tune in to the Dan Rodricks Midday Show on WYPR 88.1 FM on Monday 10/15 for the show I produced: The Culture of American Ink.

FESTIVAL OF VIRGINS

You're a Virgin Who Can't Drive

I'm going to Virgin Fest tomorrow and I'm wearing skinny jeans and my panda hoodie and fuck everyone else it's gonna be awesome...and yes I'm going to dance my ass off to Skrillex.

Gay Skies Are Gonna Clear Up

So I quit smoking, started running, I have a job interview tomorrow, my radio show airs in a little more than a week, and I'm in the midst of a creative renaissance ...I'm happy right? Right?!?!?!

Okay, well I'm on the path to happiness, that's got to be a thing. I don't know blog, I'm feeling some kind of emotional malaise. I'm constantly busy with work and school and channeling my creative energy into art instead of homicide which is good. I should be fulfilled but I'm not. Also the irony of sharing this kind of thing on my blog hasn't been lost on me. I need to go shopping or make pithy comments about people, those usually fill the cracks in the soul.

Soaked

As if a 12 hour school day couldn't get worse, I'm simultaneously soaked and sweaty, I don't know how that's even possible.

Nipple Dilemma

So I finally found the absolute perfect third guest for my show. His name is Vinnie Myers and he is a tattoo artist who specializes in 3D nipple tattoos for breast cancer survivors. He is phenomenal and works closely with with Johns Hopkins. He also flies to New Orleans every month to work at a hospital there. I spoke with his secretary this morning and I'm not sure if it's going to happen but I'm hopeful. That's all.

I Love Honey Boo Boo and You Should Too! or Revenge of the Kardashians

I have a confession to make. I love Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. I am an unabashed, unapologetic, and avid fan of the show. I think that a lot of the time TLC’s programming delves into sideshow territory and exploitation. I do not, however, think that Honey Boo Boo (Alana) and the whole Thompson-Shannons clan is being exploited. Or rather, I don’t think that they are being exploited anymore than say the Kardashians. Both are families with reality TV shows who are making money off of being themselves and putting it all out there. Both are large families run by a slightly ridiculous matriarch. Both are families that probably live very different lives than you and me. Regardless of the similiaries there is a very large difference between the two families.

The Thompson-Shannons are a wholesome, lovable, albeit uncouth family. The Kardashians are the fame/money/attention hungry spawn of E!. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Kardashians. I’ve been keeping up with them since their television debut years ago. I’ve taken Miami with them and New York City. I even kept up with Khloe and Lamar and I was there for Kendall’s sweet 16. During Kim's fairytale wedding, when other people scoffed at the pageantry and emotional fabrication, I kept watching, unswayed by the public outrage. I’ve grown up with the Kardashians and I respect them for being the shrewd business people that they are. The Kardashians have been phenomenally successful and rightfully so. They’ve been able to brand themselves in a way that most people can only dream of. The funny thing is, they are pretty despicable. Family head Kris Jenner controls her family with an iron fist. When Kim walks into her office you can practically see the dollar signs in her eyes. They’ve struck while the iron is hot and that is nothing if not commendable.

As much as I enjoy the Kardashians and their televised familial shenanigans I really don’t like them. I’ll gladly sit in front of the TV and watch them for hours at a time, eyes glazed and slack jawed, ready to buy whatever it is that they are selling. That being said, I don’t think that I’d ever want to meet them. I just get the sense that if they can’t use you then they don’t need you. Sure, they’ll smile and pose for a picture with you. They’ll even tell you how great you look in your Kardashian Kollection jumpsuit. But I also think that as soon as you walked away they would start talking shit about you.

This brings me back to Honey Boo Boo. I genuinely like them. The whole family is so self-aware; they’re in on the joke, which is a refreshing change of pace. Also, they like themselves. Unlike the Kardashians they aren’t constantly working out or dieting or getting ridiculous plastic surgery (I’m looking at you Kris...and Bruce). They are who they are, they don’t try to hide or change for the public, you either accept them or you don’t. Many people think that they epitomize white trash while even more think that they are likable and relatable in a way that celebrities never are. The Thompson-Shannons know that you have some opinion about them and they’re 100% fine with that.

I think we could and probably should all learn a lesson from Alana and her family. Sometimes in life it’s better to just be yourself and let the truth speak for itself. No matter what you do in life you can’t control what people think about you. Instead of getting eyelash extensions and bleaching our assholes, maybe we should just be content with what we have. Worrying about how the world perceives you takes a lot of time and energy. Sometimes it’s better to just put it all out there, and if people like it then great, and if they don’t? Well, that’s fine too. And sometimes if you just be yourself you’ll get a reality show out of it, and really, at the end of the day, isn’t that all any of us can ask for?

National Public Retard

So right now I'm sitting in the WYPR office and I'm bored. Vanessa just left for the day so it's probably going to be very quiet around here. Right now it's just me and Nikki in a very cramped office. The dulcet sounds of traffic are wafting in through the windows. It's almost kind of pleasant. I should be working on my show but I'm blogging instead which seems like a better use of my time right now.

The show went well last night. Lindsay came which was really nice of her. I would've felt stupid (more stupid) being there by myself. Thankfully, and I really mean that, my play "Gathering Doom" got a really great reaction from the audience. I got a ton of laughs and it felt great that people understood it and thought that it was funny. So the show went off without a hitch, however, post show I had to go up on stage and do a Q&A session. However, proving that some people never change, Teri (and to a lesser extent Kimberley) did a lot of talking. I answered one question about my writing process (which also got a laugh) and that was about it. There were a few questions from the audience about the cultural differences and how our perceptions of Northern Ireland changed and....borrrrrring. I was really hoping that someone would jump up and yell "Sean I heard you suck a lot of dick! Is that true?!?!" or "Mr. McDonough, could you comment on the rumors that you set houses on fire so you can save people and look like a hero?!?" But alas, nothing like that happened.

After the show today I have Project Management II which means I'm probably going to have to present tonight. I really don't want to present. I hate presenting. I've always hated presented. In fact I recently blogged about how much I wasn't looking forward to this presentation. I'm hoping against hope that he asks everyone if we think it's necessary to present tonight or if we can just move on to the next project.

Speaking of projects, I finally successfully made something in Adobe indesign that I'm proud of. We had to make a poster promoting a fake concert (the Throwing Bows tour, coming to a venue near you!). It was a giant pain in the ass because I had to do it in the computer lab as opposed to doing it at home. Also printing a poster takes almost 30 min and cost about $10. Once I had the finished product I then had to haul ass to Michael's to buy foam core and spray mount. Then I mounted the poster while simultaneously coating my hands and forearms with spray mount. Once my poster was securely attached to the foam core I had to cut it to size. As you can probably tell this whole thing took up a lot of my very, very important time. Seriously, I'm really fucking busy. But, all in all, I'm very happy with the outcome and my professor Jessica Moore seemed to like it as well. Now I just have to create a magazine. I think I'm gonna call it "Frivolity & Idle Amusement" or if that doesn't work "Shit for Gay Retards".

Majority Vote

So, I've been working on a new collection of poetry. I'd like to put some of it up here but, honestly, it's really personal and I don't want people to just dismiss it as shitty post-adolescent bullshit (even if that's what it is). Therefore I'm leaving it up to you internet. If you'd like to read some poetry and delve ever deeper into my psyche then leave a comment or shoot me an email or something and let me know.

sean.c.mcdonough@gmail.com

To sweeten the pot a little, for every comment I get (which realistically may end up being zero) I will post 1 poem. However, I will also post a little blurb describing the background of said poem.

Q&gAy

So tonight my play is being performed for the first time ever in America. I'm very excited to see the audiences reaction butttttttt I also have to stand on stage for a post show Q&A...color me not excited. Feel free to come ask me difficult personal questions not at all related to the play.

Set Standards to Low Pt. 1

I'm exhausted. I've got the day off today so I'm cleaning, working, and still getting over the weekend. Basically I had work Saturday morning at 3AM as per usual. However, Saturday was also Nicole's birthday. Now normally I would just sleep when I got off of work at 10AM, no harm no foul. However, this Saturday was a little different. Remember that time I went to Ireland for a month to write a play? Well tomorrow we are performing the plays for the school and also have a post show Q&A session. Because of this we had a 3 hour rehearsal on Saturday which threw a big fucking Donkey Kong sized monkey wrench right into my tightly coordinated plans.

After work I was really tired due to a combination of having to be at work at 3AM also because I got zero sleep the night before. After work I drove home and slept for a few hours. I really only meant to sleep for about 1 hour, get up, take a shower, and drive to school. As it turns out, I ended up sleeping until noon, which was when rehearsal start. I almost skipped the whole thing actually. I'm not in the performance, I was too busy and missed the first 2 rehearsals so I told Kimberly that I didn't have the time to participate. No big deal, she said it was fine and my play is still being performed. She did ask that I attend the final, tech rehearsal which I acquiesced to. Anyway, I starting getting texts from Rachel asking if I was coming. I assured her that I was. I dragged my ass out of bed, took a shower, threw on my finest bum clothes and drove to school. All told I was about 90 minutes late...oh well.

When I got to school I was promptly thrust on stage and basically told that I was still in the performance. I had to sit through an entire dress rehearsal and it sucked. I had enjoyed a small, green, leafy, salad earlier and wasn't prepared for the spotlight to literally be on me.

After the show I talked to Kimberley and better explained the situation. She understood so now I just have to do the Q&A after the show. Unfortunately for me, my day was just beginning.

Following rehearsal I hauled ass home to change clothes and then immediately leave to meet Jack, Nicole, and Lindsay at a corn maze. Of course while we were in the very middle of the maze it began to torrentially rain...yeah, so that happened.

PHD

Officially booked Derek Roberts PHD for my radio show. This was actually a really big get for me. I'm quite pleased.

Fractions

So I downloaded the blogger app for iPhone, I'm not going to be doing any serious writing with it because the teeny tiny keyboard is a bitch to use with my giant, bear hands. However, I will be utilizing it for micro-blogging on the go (or as I've dubbed it: fractional blogging).

Makes Sense to Me

I can honestly say I have never been this busy in my entire life before. I'm writing this before Project Management II starts. The first presentation is due today and I'm content with it. I am not, however, content with having to present it to the class. I always feel so stupid when I have to do something like this. It should be pretty straight forward but the first part of the presentation is a mood board that is supposed to sum up our visual aesthetic as a designer. Whenever I have to get in front of a group of people and try and make sense out of my predilection for pandas, cemeteries, and Nic Cage I can never seem to verbalize what I'm trying to convey. I wish people could just crack my skull open and peer into the teeming mass of red and self-loathing that is my creative process. It really would be easier than having to explain to people what I'm trying to do. I'm a mentally handicapped (seriously) artist, just smile and nod and we'll move on to the next guy.

Indian Summer

So my first show, as in one that I've written, researched, and produced, is on the calendar for 10/15. It's gonna be the second hour of the show which is usually reserved for human interest and weird shit that the producers don't know what to do with. I'm really excited but I have a fear in the pit of my stomach that no one is gonna call in and that Dan isn't going to know what the hell to do with the curator of the Baltimore Tattoo Museum. Although, I guess I can't really help that. All I can do is provide a well written script and exhaustively researched notes and the rest is out of my control. Just to be safe though I'm going to make sure that everyone I know has the show's number and a well formed opinion regarding tattoo culture. Now if only that PHD asshole from Michigan would call me back and then this show would be phenomenal. So far the radio station is going well. I was able to do an admirable job on my first big assignment...ughhh...ughhhh...now I have to explain about Rudy. Have you ever seen the movie "Rudy"? No? Me neither. "Rudy" is a stupid feel good, heart warming movie from 1993 about an underdog named, you guessed it, Rudy, who despite the odds is able to fulfill his dreams. Are you done puking yet? Now, anyone who knows me knows that I detest heartwarming and feel good on principal alone. But I digress. Rudy has recently written a book about his life and the hoops he had to jump through to get the movie made. My assignment was to read his book and take notes on it. These notes are what Dan Rodricks, the host, uses before the show to prep, and during to reference. I also had to come up with some questions for him to ask Rudy. Rudy has had, without a doubt, the most boring, pointless life of anyone ever. He's so fucking wholesome he wrote "heck" about 20 times in his book yet there was nary a "fuck" in sight. Now, would you trust a grown man whose go to cuss word is "heck"? I don't fucking think so Rudy. Anyway, the book, and Rudy himself, were just as awful as you can probably imagine. The only interesting thing about the man was that he was charged with fraud by the SEC last year and had to pay almost $400,000 in fines, but unfortunately this wasn't a trial so Dan didn't really ask him about it. Oh and Rudy hogged all of the catered lunch that day too. I'll see you in hell Rudy.

Goddamn I'm so hood

Black, white, and sleevless, just like my heart (UPDATED)

I am sitting in class waiting for 211 to start and I'm suddenly filled with an unbelievable rage that I doubt I will be able to quell without the aid of some kind of chemical substance which I obviously can't take. I don't want to say why I'm so mad but suffice to say I haven't felt this particular feeling in a very long time. I had to go all the way to Texas for that fucking hoodie and you fucking gave it to motherfucking him?!!?!?!?!?!

UPDATE: So as it turns out it's not my sleeveless hoodie, my mistake.

is what it is

"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw Heather", that quote (from the best movie ever BTW) pretty much sums up my life right now. I'm utterly, tragically alone right now. It's okay I guess. I mean okay in the sense that whatever is going to happen is going to happen regardless of what I do. I leave for Northern Ireland on Saturday. I'm excited and nervous and scared and scared.

leftovers

Okay so I suck at this sorry everyone. I'm still working on a few essays and I promise they will be up this week. To tide you over until then here is part of some short fiction I've been working on.

The Leftovers

I broke my own heart. There’s really no other way to put it. I didn’t want to break up and I wasn’t really dumped. Well I was but it was the logical outcome of my own illogical behavior. Unbeknownst to myself I had, years ago, set down a path that could ultimately lead to only one inevitable conclusion: self implosion. I was like the child who keeps knocking over his towers of blocks that he had painstakingly built up. The child cries when the blocks fall down even though he has done it himself. It’s like I had set myself on fire and was using gasoline to put it out.

Looking back now, through a haze of painful memories and too many regrets to count, I can see the solution to all of our problems so clearly now. Were probably doomed from the start. I was juggling problems as if they were chainsaws. I refused to address a single one while fervently adding more to the cycle. I can’t blame him for leaving me; I would’ve left me too. He probably deserves an award for staying as long as he did. I can still hear the last words I spoke to him, hanging dead in the air, like a weather balloon caught on some power lines.

“What am I, if I can’t be yours?”

He couldn’t answer that. In the interest of self-preservation he quickly distanced himself. I was left trying to build a life out of the smoldering ruins of a relationship that I had seemingly, purposely driven into the ground. I have always been my own worst enemy and I sabotaged this relationship like so many other opportunities throughout my life. I spent weeks lamenting the dissolution of a love that meant more to me than the very breath in my lungs. He was supposed to save me, but I was just too far-gone.

I began to self medicate. Drinking, which was already a priority, completely took over my life. Let me tell you, from first hand experience, there is nothing more unattractive than a fully grown man child with a drinking problem that’s getting much, much worse before it gets better. I can think of nothing more depressing than being the first customer at the liquor store. Actually how about taking the handle of cheap vodka that I had just bought and drinking it out of a water bottle in the school library while I skipped another class. My transcript at that point was like some kind of bizarre version. I didn’t even have F’s, just row after row of FX’s that meant I didn’t even fail because I had never shown up to begin with.

Buying alcohol became a game of sorts for me, or rather, an exercise in prolonged, self-destruction. Initially, I tried to retain a small semblance of dignity. I would frequent several different shops that specialized in peddling the last legal drug. I would try to project an image of the hard partying but totally in control college student. I would imagine that I was just ever so busy and it was just more convenient to buy booze early in the day.

I had a running list of reason as to why I was buying liquor so early on a daily basis:

“End of the semester party,” I would tell clerks who couldn’t care less about my self-imposed descent into complete desolation.

“East coast mardi gras,” was always a good one. Most people in Maryland only have a vague notion of when Mardi Gras actually takes place, so it was easy to stretch carnival season to unheard of lengths.

“Oh, you didn’t know that there’s a raging ground hog day party every year?” This usually fell on deaf ears because by the time I would trot it out people could see what I was doing no matter how opaque my delusions were. The thing about lying is that you eventually get so used to it, so it just becomes another aspect of your life. I never actually believed my own lies, I’m not crazy. However, I started to view my life as having two parallel timelines. The first was the true one. I had a life that I could only get rid of. The second one was the imaginary one that I tried to project outwardly to anyone I came into contact with. I knew I was lying but it was just easier than facing the mounting consequences of my double life.

The cashiers never questioned me, why would they? Their fake, Colgate smiles never faltered, never once revealing their silent judgments as I scurried out the door clutching a bottle in a brown paper bag. They had already seen this movie too many times before. I was the idiot who thought that he was the first person to ever discover the bottomless depths of self-destruction.

People eventually noticed of course, I was sloppy and didn’t really care all that much about hiding my problem. “Why don’t you just stop?” was something I heard constantly. The truth is I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t want clarity and lucidity and I certainly didn’t want to accept responsibility for my actions. I just wanted that murky fog to roll in and shield me from the world. I was a grown man who couldn’t let go of his security blanket. I lived that way for a long time.

Place Card

Okay, I know I suck, all you throngs of teeming masses of readers are probably foaming at the mouth for a new post as it has been ever so long. I promise that by Friday I will have something new up, I'm in the middle of three different essays and I'm not sure which one to post, maybe if I had some feed back...

My First Kiss

His name was Ted. That was basically all I knew about the boy who I would share my first kiss with. Let’s rewind a few years, back to the spring of 2006. I was merely a freshman, naïve to the ways of the world. For the first time in my incredibly sheltered life I was living on my own. Well, on my own in the sense that I had a roomy dorm room and parents who would begrudgingly pay my credit card bill each month.

Regardless of the circumstances I was finally free of my overbearing parents. For the first time ever I could do exactly what I wanted to when I wanted to and if that included kissing strange boys so be it.

I had noticed Ted around campus a few weeks prior. The first thing that caught my attention was his mouth. No it wasn’t because he had a sexy pout and a pair of DS lips. Rather it was his under bite. Ted had (and probably still does for all I know) the most ridiculous under bite I had ever seen. It pushed his bottom jaw out and gave him slight resemblance to Popeye. To be honest though that exaggerated defect just made him cuter in my opinion.

I’ve never gone after the pretty boys. Well, I did once but that's neither here nor there. I generally go for guys with average looks and above average personality. If I wanted to fuck a guy with a perfect body but without a brain in his head I’d just buy a blow up sex doll. I’d rather be able to hold a conversation with someone than have to reapply oil to his glistening abs all night. Besides, dating average looking guys made it easier to like myself.

Ted was a sophomore and though only one year separated us it might as well have been ten for all I cared. Ted seemed mature and sophisticated, totally comfortable in his own skin. I was shy and insecure, desperately seeking a group that would accept me as one of their own. I some how easily blended into a small group of hardcore, scene, goth, and club kids. I spent my nights traipsing through the French Quarter and drinking as much as my meager savings would allow.

The best part about living in New Orleans was that there was never a dull moment. We went out almost every night because there was something to do almost every night. The craziest and most out of control nights were always Tuesday. Tuesday night was Dyke night at the Pub on Bourbon Street. Around 10 we would all meet up on campus, dressed in our finest post adolescent, quasi-rebellious attire. I was pretty tame compared to others in my group. Several of the more experienced kids favored platforms boots, PVC corsets, and ridiculous eye makeup which only served to emphasize their numerous and fashionable facial piercings. Skinny jeans procured from Wal-Mart and borrowed eyeliner was as far as I was willing to go at that point.

It was a Tuesday night like many before it in early March when I would stumble into my very first kiss. I had actually kissed multiple people before this night but they had all been girls. I had a pretty good idea that I favored the company of gentleman but I wasn’t ready to announce it to the world yet. Instead I clung to my facade of youthful experimentation that belied my inner fear of revealing my sexuality. But I digress. That night we all met in front of Beaver Hall, which was the freshman dorm on campus. As we all stood out front smoking cigarettes and doing our best to look moody and stylish my friend Shep took me aside. She told me that this guy was coming out with us tonight for the first time, his name was Ted and I should try and get to know him.

Now back then I stridently refused to accept or admit that I was a textbook homosexual. I told Shep that I would be more than happy to make a new friend but that was it. As the final stragglers arrived I finally laid my eyes on him. I’m not sure why exactly but I knew that something was going to happen that night. I could feel it in the air as if there was a shift in the atmosphere.

We piled into two cars and made our way downtown towards the French Quarter. I remember having a giddy feeling of anticipation in my stomach the entire ride, which could only be partly attributed to the vodka and Red Bull in my water bottle. We arrived in the Quarter and proceeded to park on Esplanade as per usual. Our motley gang fell out of Shep’s SUV and started walking towards Decatur Street.

If you’ve never been to New Orleans you really should find some time to. The Quarter alone is worth a visit. The French Quarter can be divided into four main streets: Decatur, Chartres, Royal, and Bourbon. At opposite ends of the spectrum were Decatur and Bourbon. Decatur is dark, and a little dangerous (in a completely safe kind of way, the danger is more of an aesthetic) where as Bourbon was loud and garish, lit up 24 hours a day.

We first stepped into the Whirling Dervish, a favorite hangout spot on Decatur Street. I distinctly remember being upset because instead of a vodka and cranberry I was served a vodka and grape fruit juice. I detest grape fruit. I loathe grape fruit with every fiber of my body. We got our drinks to go and I spent the entire walk over to Bourbon complaining about my drink. Honestly though why would anyone want grape fruit juice? It’s somehow both salty and sour in the worst way possible.

We made our way towards the Pub, showed our underage ID’s at the door and were granted admission. The first time I ever went to the Pub I really thought that it was a glamorous place. However, upon repeated visits the sleaziness of the place came to the surface. The velvet coaches with velvet curtains that I had initially thought were so cool quickly revealed themselves to be disgusting cesspools of what I’m sure you don’t even want to know.

For some reason that particular night I had a surplus of cash with me and there was no way that I was going to leave with any of it. I know that I spent a good chunk of the night ingesting multiple watermelon drops which is a sickly sweet and viscous shot. I lost count after the 5th one. I was also nursing Absolut Peach and sours all night as well. Luckily I only got a hangover and not diabetes.

I’d like to sugarcoat this next part; I mean honestly whose going to correct me if I lie? However honesty is the best policy so here goes nothing. The rest of the night is a bit of a blur but several key events stand out. I remember dancing to some forgettable house music. My version of dancing at the time mostly consisted of me swaying back and forth while alternately flipping my bangs and halfheartedly dropping it as if it were hot. Let me tell you something, there is nothing more unattractive than a full grown, incredibly intoxicated man dropping his ass to the ground and then back up again. Fellows, it doesn’t look cute so don’t do it.

As I was breaking it down on the dance floor, it being the remaining shred of my dignity, Ted approached me. Lo and behold he was just as bad, if not worse, of a dancer than me. He was also just as drunk as me…we were not on our A game that night. Anyway, Ted dances up to me and gets close, really close. His hand immediately went to my crotch and began to grope me through my jeans. He leaned in to kiss me and for some reason, even though he was practically jerking me off on the dance floor, I couldn’t commit to a kiss. No means no.

“I don’t kiss boys,” I told him, proud of my ability to stick to my morals and self-loathing. What followed immediately after this interaction is a murky haze. The next thing I remember is sitting on one of those disgusting DNA encrusted coaches next to Ted. I don’t know if we were talking or just speaking in tongues to each other. The next thing I know I’m taking part in the most passionate kiss I’ve ever had up until that point. This may have something to do with the fact this was my first real kiss, with a boy, ever.

What can I say, it was pretty fucking good. I remember feeling electricity passing through us, which was a first. Unfortunately my only memory following that monumental kiss was throwing up on this beautiful black girls shoe. Her name was Foxy and I knew her from school so she wasn’t too upset. I think I bought her a flower on the street to make up for it.

Suffice to say things between Ted and myself didn’t work out. We eventually spent a real night together and I, in an example of tragic foreshadowing, became completely obsessed with him. That, however, is a story for another day. I’ll say this though, you only get one first kiss and at the very least my first kiss got rid of any lingering doubts that I was straight. So thanks for that Ted, you weren’t a gentleman but you gave me the push I needed to embrace a fundamental part of my life and for that I will forever be grateful. Also a little pissed off because you never called me back but I'm sure I'll get over that eventually.

Closet Case

On Monday I spent a couple hours going through both of my closets. It's really funny looking at my clothes now. They are basically a mash up of two very conflicting styles that I adopted since high school. Well technically my preppy stuff is a hold over from high school but old habits die hard. Basically one half is polos and button downs, sweater vests and and sweater sweaters. The rest is all of the black band t-shirts I've collected over the years. Oh and about a million hoodies. So many hoodies I can't even tell you dear reader. Hoodies with zippers and logos and stains, hoodies that hold in my emotional pains, hoodies with holes for my thumbs, hoodies I stole off of bums in the slums, Oh there's ever so many hoodies to choose, except for the hoodies I lost while on booze!!!!(picture me swinging around a light pole in the rain as I sing this)

Well that was fun, I hope it was as good for you as it was for me. So I know there's been a lot of backlash on the internet lately about that new show Girls. Personally I don't really get the whole race argument that people have been bringing up. I understand that it doesn't show a very diverse picture of New York City but it does reflect a very specific (incredibly specific, seriously) point of view. For the record though I've watched the first two episodes and it isn't very good. Honestly, I'm not even sure who this show is supposed to relate to. Unless you're a 20-something white woman living in Brooklyn it isn't very accessible. Also the lead actress is...not what I wold call traditionally beautiful. She's not super ugly or anything but she isn't cute and she has several bad tattoos. Maybe they should just market this show to ugly, unhappy people, though if that were the case I'd probably relate to it more. Another reason to dislike it, "Of course I've seen RENT, I've seen it 12 times, it's why I moved to New York!"...I'm just going to let that sink in for a little bit. I've never made my disdain for RENT a secret. I've seen the movie before and I was dragged to two productions of it last year. I don't think it's good and I don't understand why so many people relate to it. It's like every theatre kid I've ever met is obsessed with it. The whole thing is about junkies and shitty artists getting AIDS and living in squalor. Why don't they just go to college and get real jobs and move to the suburbs? It totally boggles my mind that so many young kids think that the lifestyle perpetuated by RENT is something to aspire to. Not to be a traitor to my generation or anything but kids are fucking stupid.

Soup for 1, Salad for 1, Wine for 3...

So I've been up all night, no sleep at all. If I was running from Freddy Kreuger it wouldn't be so bad but in actuality I have work all day and I'm going to be one grumpy panda. Regardless, like most nights that I can't sleep my mind drifts to one topic in particular. I don't know what it is about lying in the dark, alone save the presence of my ever looming conscience, growing heavier by the day, that makes me think of my past relationships. The worst part is thinking about the good times because once you do that, there is no going back. Reminiscing leads to old pictures which leads to old Facebook messages which leads to over analyzing that last fight before typing out a frantic text message, your thumb hovering mere molecules above the send button, waiting for a reason, any reason at all, to press it. I've been in that very position more than once but thankfully tonight was not one of those nights...well everything but the text message part, that ship has sailed. Unfortunately this brings me to the topic of this post: will I ever find love?

Sometimes I realize how stupid that question is, I mean I've found love before, more than once, sometimes by accident! However, I have noticed a depressing trend in my relationships: they're getting shorter. This is giving me cause for concern as I'm pretty sure that I'm doing it backwards. I always thought you started out with short flings and then worked your way up to full blown, truly, madly, deeply Savage Garden-esque love (and not just because 1/2 of that band is gay...gayer; they were pretty gay to begin with). I don't want to use this space to analyze my doomed loves of years past, for the morning sun has breached the suffocating blackness of night and I grow weary, barely able to type this sentence...and it would just take too fucking long. Besides, I've done that ad nauseam since my first break up. I don't know why I do it either, it's not like I can get in a time machine and go fix whatever it was that I was going to fuck up not to mention the fact that I would need a cloning machine too because I was always fucking up. Seriously, I made my ex leave a wedding once for no reason...a wedding he had invited me too! I cannot stress how frequently I fuck up as a boyfriend and that wasn't even that bad.

I was reading through Bro-tips the other day, you should check it out BTW, totes more insightful than I would've guessed. Anyway there was this one bro tip that went something like this "It's called first love for a reason bro...". I keep coming back to this one bro tip as much as it pains me too (on a side note you really should check out Bro-tips, they're chock full of life lessons that can really be applied to anyone's life). See my problem is that I don't want to admit that any of my relationships are truly, 100%, the body has been cremated please go home, done. For some reason I've always thought of myself as special, dare I say, one of a kind. I want to believe that I am so unique (and sometimes so batshit crazy) that I leave some kind of indelible mark on each and every person whom I encounter. Perhaps I am such a strong life force that people cannot help but be forever altered for having known me. However, the harshest Bro-tip of all is this: the cemetery is filled with irreplaceable bros, bro. Am I so narcissistic and selfish as to believe that the guys I date will never get over me or find happiness with anyone else? Okay maybe just a little. However, I know that's not right and just a bit on the crazy side. I guess it just hurts to watch someone be happy without you. Having said that it's okay if someone is happy without you as long as they aren't happy because they aren't with you...I think.

Being happy for an ex is really difficult for me. I want so badly to be the bigger person, to let bygones be bygones and to maintain some kind of healthy, mature relationship...but that's just not me. I'm small, petty, and vindictive. Or rather I always have been, up until yesterday actually. As part of my "year of growing up" (and yes I realize that as a 25 year old man I should be ashamed for typing that) I want to change this. Not completely, I think a small amount of pettiness is healthy, but enough so as not to derail this magical year of learning, living, and lurking! (to be continued...)

No Love Lost

I'm lying in bed listening to a podcast. Oh, I'm really into podcasts now, thanks for asking. Well I'm into one podcast, I've been listening to "Jay and Silent Bob Get Old". It's pretty good, the first podcasts document Jason Mewes' long and storied history with drug abuse. He was clean for several years and secretly relapsed. The whole thing is about his recovery and how Jay and Silent Bob are middle-age now. It started in 2010 and I've been playing catch up. A lot of the newer episodes devolve into Kevin and Jason reminiscing about growing up in Jersey but it's usually good for a listen. It's also interesting catching up with them now since I fell out of the View Askew loop once I graduated high school. Also what with my recent birthday and all I enjoy hearing someone a little older talk about what it's like actually getting older.

I'm officially going to Ireland, I'll be spending the entire month of July in Armagh! I'm going to be there with some kids (I don't mean youthful school chums, these people are all younger than me are therefor "kids") from my screenwriting class and our professor Kimberley Lynne. Thank Kabbalah monster that Prof. Lynne is one bad bitch. As far as teachers go she's a hell of a lot of fun. I know a couple of the other students going. Victoria is a very tiny, pixie-ish black girl who is very cool. This other girl Kerrin is going as well. She's a lot more fun than her Skrillex haircut lets on. All three of us are officers in the brand new UB film club. I'm the treasurer even though I told the other members that there's a 99% chance that I will embezzle any and all funds. At least it's something to put on my resume which is discouragingly accomplishment and accolade free.

That raises a new concern that has taken residence in my brain (which is already filled to capacity with Kardashian plot lines and antiquated youth slang). I met with my adviser last week to plan the rest of my college career. It's with a heavy heart that I divulge that my trusted adviser Daniel Page was promoted and will no longer be available to hold my academic hand in an official context. My new adviser is a woman named Karen King-Sheridan. She seems very capable and was able to help me set up my fall schedule. News flash: the only thing standing between me and graduation is 5 classes, an internship, and 5 bullshit participation activities (seriously WTF? UB, what more can I give?!). Now that the end is in sight and I'm officially in my mid-20's the magnitude of my previous indiscretions has finally hit home. I'm not a kid anymore and its terrifying. Very soon I'm going to be thrust into the real world with nary a safety net nor a single idea of how to be a functional adult. I'm really counting on my forthcoming internship to help assuage my fears of entering the work force. At the very least I can live on the fringe of society as some kind of "artist" (insert: drug dealer, prostitute...thespian) if the whole "responsible, career minded adult" doesn't work out.

I've been thinking about writing a lot lately. I've always had this pipe dream that I could make it as a professional writer but it wasn't something that I thought would become a reality. When life gets too hard or dull or real I escape to a fantasy world where I'm essentially me, just a successful writer version of me. That's rich...and famous...and has an amazing body. And yes dear reader I always thought that this was a ridiculous notion as well, however, having spent some time working on a screenplay over the past couple months it hasn't seemed as crazy as usual. Dare I say it's become almost feasible? I don't want to get ahead of myself but I'm learning a lot about writing this year and I'm enjoying writing for the first time in I don't even know how long. I guess that's part of the reason I abandoned my previous blog "The Comeback Kid". I wasn't interested by what I was writing and I certainly didn't like the way I was writing it. I wanted it to be confessional but it came off as detached. I was worried about what the people reading it would think so I tried to be impartial and it's impossible to be compellingly honest while simultaneously revealing nothing of consequence. It didn't help that the closest I could get to raw, emotional honesty were vague posts comprised mostly of song lyrics, mediocre poetry, and fragmented stream of conscious thoughts. The end result was not even close to what I had imagined. Alas, as I know all too well sometimes all you need is a fresh perspective. Well I certainly have one now.

For probably the 666th time I've entered a new phase in my life. Quelle surprise, right? This one feels different though, a little more permanent. Almost like an extension of something that was already there but wasn't quite ready yet. I think that finally, after 25 years and more crazy bullshit and shenanigans than any one person has any right to partake in, I might just be growing up after all.

Birth

So I guess as most people have discovered (by most I mean the 3 people that somewhat regularly read my stuff) I have essentially abandoned The Comeback Kid. I stopped updating it for several reasons that I'm not going to go into here. Most people know why. But I digress, I've decided to start anew. There have been some recent developments in my life and I have a renewed sense of purpose when it comes to documenting my life. Stay tuned.