Katzisms Part Deux

Having the pleasure of yet another semester with Professor Katz, I have yet another wonderful bevvy of one-liners. This class was in English, so perhaps they're more easy to contextualize. At any rate, this banter is top notch.

• On seeing a student pull out a fraying string on their shirt: "I hope it's not an apron string, because mom's far away"
• Dismissing a student who didn't actually register for the class: "It's like that old Groucho Marx song 'I Know I Must Be Going'"
• "You're witty if you can use "egg" and "diaper" in the same sentence...Freud would have a field day with that"
• On bohemians: "They live in a rental...they don't own property"
• "These freakish rubber curtains: just like Vegas! So they can wash the blood off...traces of blood, fecal matter, personal fluids..."
• "Hitchcock: the great sadist of American cinema"
• "Kids doing drugs. Thank God they do drugs, because that's life!"
• "LA is a vital mess of a place"
• "I don't know if any of you read the newspaper daily? Or ever?"
• "Go to the Dean's Office and ask about managing desire and you'll get a line of therapeutic bullshit"
• On reform Judaism: "Oh you're reform. Then you just invoke the name of Barbra Streisand"
• "If you can't lie, you can't live"

Bloody brilliant.

Keep it classy,
David

[dis]Engage[d]

It goes without saying that America, in recent years, has been going through a bit of a rough patch. Perhaps it's not even just America, but the world in general. Take for example the purported Vegas of the Middle East, Dubai.  Gus Lubin, a reporter for Business Insider, stated that "40 percent of the buildings in Dubai are vacant...[and in] comparison only 28 percent of homes are vacant in America's ghost town, Detroit."

This kind of information leads me ponder the following:

What exactly does the German-made duschdas showergel entitled "Dubai Dream" actually smell like? While my time abroad is somewhat of a distant memory, I recall it smelling of economic failure and parabens.

What does a troublesome economic condition mean for the market? For the individual? For collective society? Bailouts, foreclosures, and strikes, oh my! What ever is an individual to do in such an unrelenting miasma of fiscal negativity?

Enter Wisconsin and its state workers: pensions slashed and union powers diminished. Public school teachers and other state employees are now fervently taking to the cold, unforgiving streets and decrying the new budget plans, exercising one of the most fundamental of American rights: protest.  While on one hand Governer Walker insists the budget cuts will lessen the burden on the debts facing future generations, teachers are reluctant to let go of the theoretical thousands of dollars implied by cut cuts.

 Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker (R), and what appears to be the kin of Cousin It from the Addams Family

The most important part of Walker's new cuts involve taking away the bargaining power of unions and requiring employees to pay union fees and paying what he calls "a little bit more" for health insurance and pensions. At this point, one wonders just how the protesters will win this battle as funds from out of state flow into the Republican coffers of Wisconsin, ensuring that corporate interests are still up for consideration when privatization comes along.

It is blatantly obvious that big businesses are going to love the opportunity to jump on any public projects and offices that become privatized.  At this rate, law enforcement, healthcare, and basic education are going to slip into the hands of corporations.  And if these ventures fail miserably due to dreadful mismanagement and exploitation of the vulnerable? Well we've learned that the government is pretty keen on bailouts to the order of trillions of dollars. TRILlions. 

Outside of Wisconsin, countless other American cities are now protesting in solidarity, fearing that their state might be next in line for cuts as their local governments mull over Walker-esque policies.  This becomes an interesting dialogue indeed, as Wisconsin rises to be a veritable center of political protest and unrest.  Reuters reports that a Wisconsin man has ordered a rather large supply of vuvuzela horns, to be distributed to protesters when they arrive for their next fight at the capitol.

While saying the word vuvuzela itself renders such terrible auditory World Cup memories, to think the protesters are now arming themselves with such instruments...well they're definitely going to be heard one way or another. Horns aside, one can't help but stop and reflect on how these public workers are the lifeblood of a dying breed of truly "engaged" Americans. They know what they want and they aren't afraid to turn up the volume until they're satisfied.

I pass up the very opportunity to question my bank when I'm charged a three-dollar "transaction fee" or when Sprint tacks on an extra ten dollars a month for "premium data usage." It's a sense of complacency, knowing that going through the proxies to fight these charges feels like an epic struggle between man and corporate behemoth. I, myself, am "OK" with far too much to make a long story short. 

But when these Wisconsonians and other state workers across the nation feel like they've just been given short shrift by government cuts, they kick the shit off their boots, grab their vuvuzeli, and rush the capitol. These are the truly engaged citizens, these are the citizens that can beat the state into submission. It would seem they fear nothing, except of course going home empty-handed.

One might simply say that capitalism is tearing America apart with the threat of privatization. I would however present the counterargument that capitalism, in its most simple, unadulterated form, would never have left America in its current state.  (Even Marx has my back on this one, I assure you.) Theoretically, the state provides the infrastructure for society to function and the market operates within these confines.  Perhaps we're in need of a redefinition of "infrastructure," to make sure that this "structure" is more conducive to social benefits and services that need to reside outside the market, independent of the market.

Let us, for a moment, interrogate is the idea of an economic "crisis."  We hear left and right that consumer confidence is up, that economists speculate a resurgence to occur "soon." This interesting dialectic of economic crises and recoveries only grows curiouser and curiouser, to quote a rather infamous Alice. But when exactly will America crawl out of this rabbit hole? When will America allow its most spirited of citizens the benefits they so passionately cry out for?

I was told once by an English teacher that to end a paper with a question or questions was poor form. But in this time of such uncertainty, it would seem that we still await the end to this economic fairytale gone awry.

DC


I've made use of the following articles for facts and figures:

• In Wisconsin, a jarring new note in discordant debate
• Wisconsin Gov. says Democrats failed to do their job
• Prank call fallout stokes Wisconsin union fight
• Wisconsin governor gets ovation from business group
• Dubai 40% vacant

Dans ma memoire...

If we think of ourselves as houses, the wake-up calls we get in life can tap our roofs in pebbles, heave stones through our windows, or crush our entire framework with immense boulders. Considering such a figurative spectrum, sometimes we're inconvenienced and other times nearly destroyed.  From these places of despair, we are pressed to remodel, reconstruct, or buy new windows to replace shattered glass depending on the gravity of our wake-up call. The "call" I received the other night is what I'll attempt to explain in the lines that follow:

It would seem a simple task to write a composition for a French class. Mine in particular was to regale the reader with what I deemed, during my youth, to be my favorite meal. I could have spent the 250-word requirement on cheese pizza, but when I really thought about it I came up with something a bit more meaningful. Wintertime meals at Babcia's house. (Babcia translates to "grandmother" in Polish, to be noted by my non-Pole readership)

And what a treat it was to experience a visit to chez Babcia! The ice tea was always sweet and tangy, the roast chicken always perfectly cooked, the linzer-tarts nutty and jammy, and the gravy...well the gravy was simply otherworldly. I wrote about all of this in French, hoping that my use of the imperfect and the composed past tenses jived and my adjectives agreed with their nouns in gender and number. But when I came to my last sentence, all of this "regaling" brought me to tears after I typed the following line:

C’est triste maintenant qu’elle s’est tombée gravement malade et elle ne peut plus cuisiner.

"It is sad, now that she has fallen gravely ill and can no longer cook." So maybe it's not perfect French, but a Frenchie could definitely see where I was going. These words became figurative stones, thrown right through each and every one of my windows, leverage courtesy of guilt.  The places and spaces I described in my composition were my days of good family eats: before my parents were divorced, before I knew the ways in which world politics wreaked havoc on our lives, before chronic illness immobilized a special woman in my life. Ignorance was such bliss. And in my case, it was a tasty bliss. But "bliss" no more it would seem.

If you've ever had a relative diagnosed with a terminal illness, or know someone who has had a family member diagnosed with one, you'll find that no one really deals with the situation in the same manner. In my case, I chose to stick my head in the proverbial sand and pretend it wasn't happening and that the experience would soon come to a close. I didn't want to hear that my grandmother couldn't remember who I was, nor did I want an account of her last horrible fall down the stairs. What a coward is this man, I say.

Sticking my head in the sand not only fractured my relationship with my grandmother, but also fractured my relationship with a past I can revel in.  All things pass and life is not static, no matter how sandy our hair gets. But as we reflect on the past, we sometimes see something we didn't before. If we're of the olfactory sort, a smell sometimes triggers a sensory memory of a certain place. And for the more visual or auditory soul, the mystery of déja vu feelings lend the sensation of, "I've been here before: in this exact moment, place, and time."

The flood of memories I experienced completely paralyzed me. Every single visit to the mall carousel, every trilled laugh, every preparation of the dog's dinner: I allowed this woman come alive in my head in such a lucid way.  A professor once told me that nostalgia was an unnecessary glorification of a fictitious past, but I beg to differ on so many levels Professor Katz! We have every reason to glorify and place importance on our memories--almost an obligation. So let's take a closer look, shall we?

We can very deeply internalize the values hidden among our memories, good and bad. The types of lovers we won't soon seek again, the places we return to for pleasant nostalgia, and advice we disregarded now actualized, initially thinking ourselves the wiser.  There is no greater bounty than the treasures of our past, in the ways they shape our current reality and self. We must in turn be able to equate the experiences of burning our hands on the stove and for the first time producing a delicious feast from that very same appliance--in both instances we learn, we experience.

One might say that those who disregard history are doomed to repeat it. Verily, I say. I merely suggest that we examine our own histories, our own memories: going local instead of global for a moment. Where did I fracture something, and where did I shed light? What moments did I come at someone from a place of hate, and when love? Life is simply too short, and too quickly allows for a growing list of things we "should" have said or done.

Memories can so effectively inform our decisions, so why not hold onto the good, the bad, and otherwise ugly souvenirs of life?

I know living in the moment is really big right now. It's hard to browse the self-help section without seeing something about living in the "now." I'm not asking for anyone to live anywhere else in the temporal continuum. What I think might be helpful, though, is an occasional glance rearward to make sure we aren't destroying anything in our wake. And of course, a glance forward in good health and clear conscience doesn't hurt, either.

In community,
David

You knew?

If you've ever taken a French class, even at the introductory level, you'll learn that there are two verbs that both mean, in essence, "to know." Savoir connotes something logical, or perhaps a concept. Connaître creates a gray area, though, and can be used to indicate a certain familiarity you might have with a person or place. (Geek out: used reflexively it can also mean to meet someone.) Spanish is exactly the same with conocer and saber. Knowing and knowing. And I'd be a fool if I didn't flaunt that I know the Germans came up with kennen and wissen that present like dilemmas.

So what does knowing mean and what is the power of knowing? Can we immediately attribute knowing to knowledge or does it smack of something completely different? Take for example the book-smart, ivory-tower academic and the streetwise blue collar fellow with experiential knowledge--I think it's safe to agree that a mélange of the two is ideal. But consider, for a moment, the word in itself and its most common uses:

"David, you must be circumspect when you wander in the woods!"
--"I know."

Here we have the classic scenario wherein we don't want to be told what to do. We insist we know, attempting to disarm any accusations that run contrary. And when I think of the times I use knowing in this way, the majority of the time...well...I didn't really "know" and as a result faltered in some way. I know I should have went up and talked to him or her, I know I should have studied more for that calculus final, etc. Can we even conceive of an exhaustive list for instances like these? Certainement pas!

So then we come to yet another question: why aren't we taking our own advice if we, in fact, know? If we know better why don't we do better? Fear obviously takes some of the blame here as it looms over and in our heads, taunting us with prospects of dire consequence. It then becomes a question of reclaiming our human agency, our ability to choose a path that best suits our wants, passions, and desires. And pardon me, but would anyone really like to go down a different path? (At this point in the program, I'd like to kindly ask that the Champagne socialists refrain from chatter.)

In the Bible, "knowing" someone implicitly implied a sexual relationship. In another incarnation, "knowing" attributes itself to a familiarity with something and at the very least, refers to acquaintance relationships. For instance, "If only you knew the Ken I know, then you'd understand!"

Hold up. Knowing leads to understanding? Well there's a concept. If we accept this to be true, can we say that learning leads to knowing, which in turn leads to understanding? Ladies and gentlemen, we've definitely arrived at the crux of our discussion.

Whether we learn formally or informally, we convert these teachings to understandings. We learn that 10% of 100 is 10, understand that one typically tips 15% on a restaurant bill, and we thus will give a waiter $2.25 for our $15 bill for a tartine and tea at Le Pain Quotidien. While some of what we understand helps us pragmatically navigate the world, these understandings often take the more noxious form of the belief. Believing: the act of internalizing absolute truths and understandings.

Assume someone believes:

• The ringing in your ears you sometimes hear is an indication that you're moving to a higher vibrational level.
• Tom Cruise and John Travolta are straight.
• Eating raw and vegan foods make sex ten times better.
• I buy this car because Jesus Christ gave me an order to do so.
  

These beliefs are no longer just ideas at this point. These are stubborn statements that aren't going to readily change. And what exactly about the course of our existence leads us to believe that things are static, that things are absolute? We change our hair color, replace our electronics with newer technology, and elect a president every four to eight years. Thinking works with the world, ideas come and go. But in the case of beliefs, do we really want to hastily write everything into stone? Beliefs close off the causeway to change, and very actively so might I add.

Knowing is a dangerous thing sometimes. It brings people to the most interesting of conclusions. But let's for a moment reconsider the age old axiom that "Knowledge is Power." It sure as shit is power, but what about everything we don't know? What we have left to learn, to experience, to know: all of that in no way should be associated with a "lack" of power. Being humble about what you don't know leaves your mind open for ideas to come in and out with ease. Not to mention, an open mind thinks for itself and critically examines the world around itself. Case in point, "I thought Britney was done for, but look at that comeback! She's adding $300m a month to our GDP!"

To step off the track for just a moment, I must note that the English language is indeed a tricky one. Verbs are conjugated in a manner reminiscent of fun house mirror reflections, words are easily stolen from other languages and "loaned" into our lexicon, and dialects are distinct but not distinct enough to foster "real" misunderstanding. English is rank with innuendo and even the slightest exchange of a preposition changes meaning entirely. Let us take, for example, the instances of strapping "in" versus strapping "on." Is my point clear enough?

Go ahead and clean your mind of unfriendly imagery and return to the discussion at hand, if you please.

We must be careful about our vocabulary--what words we favor, what we think we know, and what we believe. So folks, open up your mind and question some of those things you hold dear. Be critical and don't be afraid to deconstruct, unlearn, and hear people out. Keep in mind that human experience must be valued above all else: we must hold it dear to our hearts as it regales us with our past, whether good, bad, or downright ugly. Life is truly beautiful if you take the time to experience and share it.

And though you may be familiar with something or someone, life never fails to turn on us: the strange becomes familiar and the familiar becomes strange. I bid you all adieu, and wish you pleasant mental meanderings.

Sincerely Yours,
David

10 Things I miss about living in America

1) Eating real bacon. 'Nuff said. Speck is by no means bacon.

2) Mexican food. Germany doesn't have so much of that, by and large. The one Mexican restaurant I found in Basel seemed like a few Francs too many to shell out for Mexican food, when I'm used to paying about five bucks.

3) Whole Foods. Seriously, Germany, you haven't even come close with any biomarkt I've seen. I love the food here, and I appreciate the great quality dairy and eggs...but what if I wanted some organic, free-trade cocoa powder? What then, Germany?!

4) Flat-rate cellular telephone plans. Yeah they exist. I'm just not eligible for one because I'm not here long enough. .09€/text, .09€/min, 9.00€/MB of data. FML. So much for bringing my unlocked Blackberry.

5) Really "free" toll-free calls. It's nice to know that Kimberly-Clark is there for me, free of charge, if I have questions about using their bathroom tissue to wipe my bottom. If I need to call Nivea Deutschland with questions about their antiperspirant, it'll cost me Eurocents a minute.

6) Gargantuan coffee beverages. I shell out about 3€ for maybe two shots of espresso. I'm looking for a good three to four shots for that price. Yeah, Starbucks is here, but I thought somehow it would be easier to replace my blood with espresso in the European continent.

7) A basic understanding that things probably should be open on holidays and weekends. No, Germans aren't lazy. Germans are just under some interesting impression that the entire state or country is observing a Catholic holiday and that no one anywhere would need to purchase groceries on such a day. I think if stores stayed open, they'd actually experience quite an influx of business on holidays. Whatever. I rest my case. Until that day, I'll have to schlepp on over to the gas station for milk and bread and eggs on the Himmelfahrt.

8) Grocery baggers. Seriously, grocery clerks have it so easy in Germany. They get to sit down, scan groceries, and do practically nothing else. You're expected to bag your own damned groceries, and bring your own damned bags. (Unless, of course, you'd like to shell out a damned .20€ for one of their store's Tüten)

9) The standard system of measurement. I know, it's a backwards system. But right now it's 20° outside and I've got 6 liters of milk in my fridge and my chorizo costs 3.50€/100-g and I haven't been this confused since I saw the movie Vanilla Sky.

10) Not having to pay to be hydrated. At restaurants, it's kinda gauche to order tap or Leitungswasser without ordering another beverage. And ordering water by itself results in a 2.50€ bottle of Gerolsteiner showing up at your table, usually with carbonation. Lucky for me, I appreciate the carbonated goodness. This is not the case with some other Americans I live with here, though. And as for those Americans who disregard the gaucheness of ordering Leitungswasser and do so anyways? Well just imagine a little four ounce glass filled with water brought to you, with no refills in its forseeable future.

"10 Things I love about living in Germany" list is forthcoming.

Katzisms, or What the German Language Taught Me About Life

The following were recorded jottings of some of the most brilliant phrases to ever depart a human mouth.

"German is a very scatological culture. They're obsessed with dirt, and messes, and feces."

"You're like George Washington and the cherry tree! I would have lied."

(On "hearing" money, horen das Geld)
"That's kind of weird, like Joan of Arc."

(Context forgotten)
"They muddle through life like that."

"You know Germans actually believe in beauty. Like a cult. But more about that when you read Nietzsche."

"The French believe in prettiness, but the English just believe in the Pound."

"9/10 of life is bullshitting with confidence."

(On the creativity of our colleague, Logan)
"That's very rich in fantasy."

"The power is actually in the hands of the functionaries and bureaucrats."

"A great musical orgasm."

(On, Mir geht is heute schlecht)
"We have to carry sunshine in our hearts today."

"That's a very adult thing. You have to learn to eat around the apple, even if it's covered in worms."

(On, pinkeln)
"It's a light urination."

"Self-doubt is the beginning of enlightenment."

A "sideways" getaway

It seems to me that Fall Break always smacks of something significant for me, be it spiritually meaningful or poignantly processed. This time, I'm not really sure what to make it, suffice it to say I have a new sense of independence.

Turning the big two-one felt like a big deal, that's for certain. I couldn't wait to get to BevMo for some savings on some...well...let's just say less than "savory" fluids. It was such an experience, just knowing that I wasn't limited to anything, nor was I not "permitted" on the premises. It simply felt more adult, replete with commensurate responsibility down the road, of course.

At any rate, Fall Break fell soon after this momentous birthday, and I decided to hit up Santa Barbara Wine Country for a few days of R&R, á la Sideways. No I wasn't about to get married, and no I wasn't about to hatch a verbose novel erstwhile stuck on some ex-lover. I just wanted to "get away" and enjoy some nice food and wine for a day or two, with some pals to help it go down easier.

Boy was it a trip. We stayed in a hotel sans grownups, had our own fake fireplace, and watched tons of trashy tv. We popped some bubbly and non-bubbly and just thoroughly enjoyed our own company. Throw in The Game of Life, aebelskivers, and antiquing and you have our vacation! Staying in a Danish village in California's Central Coast does wonders, let me just say.

I think that the getaway in general serves not as a means to escape one's problems, but to give perspective. Where am I? Where am I going? What do I need to be thinking about? All of these are questions on my mind as I near my departure. So with this fresh perspective, I hope to return to academic pursuits with a more focused vigor and a dash of newly-found enthusiasm.

A letter to the last fruit fly in my kitchen,

Your death is imminent. The fact that you came in here to eat my fruit and make it spoil, is disgusting. I don't care that scientists are blessed to have fruit flies as subject. You are the scum of the earth and I hate you. Don't even think of touching my coconut. That was a two dollar Whole Foods coconut. No I don't know why I bought it, either, but it definitely doesn't mean you can lay your eggs in it. You bastard. Why are you so hard to kill?

Sincerely,
David

"The One"

So I'm not going to lie. I've met a lot of guys on the internet, and some of those even in person. Is there anything wrong with that? I'm inclined to say no, seeing as you can do just about anything on the internet in the first place. I can watch movies, order socks, and even make dinner reservations through the internet, so why not meet guys too? And to all you naysayers, let me prove to you why it's totally worth it, if just for amusement's sake, to do so.

I was talking to a guy I had "friended" yesterday just now. We were going through the typical questions that you'd ask to get to know one another. One of my favorites is, "So why did you join x-dating/x-social networking site?" Guys that want to play it cool typically reply, "Oh well just to meet people, y'know." Maybe they don't have many gay friends. But I encountered a brand new species of internet boy: one that replies, "To find the One."

It's always nice to have someone muss up your preconceived notions about stuff. This guy was one of those "someones." He wasn't just any "someone", either. He was a "someone" looking for the "One." I had to ask, in a manner I now regret as negligently crass, "What does that even mean?"

"The one I want to spend the rest of my life with," he replied.

"What makes you think you're in a position to decide that, at this age?" I replied.

To which he replied, "What makes you think you're in a position to ask?"

Ouch. Ba-zing. Face. These sorts of one-liners would all suffice to describe the amount of attitude I commensurately received in response to my rude question. At this point I tried to backpedal as quickly as possible, to keep the conversation civil.

But it never did stay civil, for at the second I questioned his rationale, everything soured quicker than a cream pie smashed on a clown's face. He kept insisting that he had experience with men, but hell so did I. He insisted he was almost 21, but hell I'm not too far away myself. None of these reasons would be convincing enough for me. I just can't see how someone so youthful would want to bag themselves a husband, a partner if you will.

Now I'm thinking about how much I've considered this nonsense. It's interesting now that I'm remembering how I've thought about my wedding, what kind of ring I want, and where I want to register. Was I just as silly as this fool?

Even if I am thinking about these silly things at a young age, I'm only doing so in a fanciful, "mayhaps" kind of way. This dude is looking to settle down, combine the little assets he has, and close the doors and windows to more experience with relationships. It's almost like he's decided he knows all there is to know about relationships, and that there were no more men out there to teach him anything about love, partnership, or unity.

Now I know, I'm giving myself a high-five here. But listen when I say it's for a solid reason: I don't know all there is to know about relationships. I haven't even had a relationship that's lasted more than two weeks, if that. I don't usually get past the third date. It's abundantly clear to me that I have more to learn about lots of things. Someone once told me some quote by a Chinese philosopher about acknowledging what we do not know as a powerful thing. So it is with great pride and pleasure that I self-high-five myself.

I'm feeling generous today. I'll give this guy the benefit of the doubt, seeing as I don't know his circumstances. Maybe he has all the preparation he needs to go ahead with finding the One. But if there's just the One, if there's just one great love in our lives, our lengthy lives, doesn't it sound a tad boring? Morose even?

So what's the lesson of the story today kids? Let's always remember to keep the pluralization on that infamous noun phrase "great loves."

Keep loving yourself and others, folks, and have a pleasant day!

Of Social Constructions and Heartache

Tomorrow marks the fourth Valentine's Day since I came out of the closet. (I choose notation only because I refuse to count Valentine's Days before I fully actualized my sexual orientation) Tomorrow will also mark the 20th Valentine's Day I've had in my lifetime. And alas, I have never known what it means to have a Valentine on this day.

So what does it even mean to have a "Valentine"? What do I think of when I hear the word "Valentine"? Is anyone else envisioning a greasy, come-hither-lipped Italian man atop a Vespa in a leather jacket carrying a dozen red roses? I suppose the point here is that it's different for everyone everywhere, and it's different from what our parents and their forefathers perceived it to be.

Anyone with a sociological imagination is now giddy in their seat: "I know! I know! I have something to contribute to better articulate your thoughts! Call on me!" Simmer down, young Durkheim, simmer down. Valentine's Day is merely another social construction of reality: one of those inorganic things humanity construes to commemorate some conflated notion of love.

Now I've done some research (read: did a Wikipedia search) and what I discovered was astonishing. This whole Valentine thing has been around since the middle ages and Chaucer, when English was still "Middle" English. Additionally, over the past hundred years or so, Valentine's Day became increasingly commercialized, hand-written letters giving way to mass-manufactured greeting cards.

In other words, this holiday has taken the most sacred thing our humanity has the capacity for, love, and mass-manufactured it into preconceived notions that somehow describe the inextricable way we express our want to be in the presence of another. A box of chocolates or bank account permitting, some bling, suffice when it comes to communicating our feelings.

Valentine's Day: socially-constructed, mass-manufactured, materialistic, and sickey-sweet. So here's the kicker: I'm pissed off that I'm not a part of it. I can't help but feel like I'd kill to go out for dinner and eat chocolate and get presents and have amazing sex on Valentine's Day. What's a heartachy single gay man to do on a holiday that celebrates couples and young lovebirds?

Well folks, the answer may not be so simple. I could take the easy way out, buy myself a bottle of Fat Bastard Chardonnay, and tell everyone my Valentine happens to be of the genus vinus and comes from the Rhone River in France. But putting my heartache into hyperdrive with intoxication isn't so appealing.

I could put a bandaid on the problem and go out to party and find someone just as desperate and damaged as myself and make out. I could also pretend Valentine's Day doesn't exist, or better yet curse Valentine's Day as if it somehow would feel guilty for everything its done to me. But at the end of the day, I'm always looking for the self-actualized thing to do, and none of these seem to fit into that category.

Well if Valentine's Day is about who you love and how you express it, why shouldn't I spend it with people I love? My friends have been here for me all along and I've just put myself in this romantic deadlock. Why not show some appreciation for the people who will carry me through my bitchy heartache?

So put down the personal ads, single people. Let's get together and bring back some love to Valentine's Day. Call up your single friends, and whip out the cheese and crackers: it will be a long night, but at least it won't be lonely. Love is all around us, so stop looking for it. Stick to the love you don't have to find, the love you don't have to fight for.

The Triumvirate in El Paso

This last weekend, known to the Claremont College students as “Fall Break”, I decided to switch it up a little bit and journey to El Paso, Texas. Nearly throwing up at the thought of returning “home” to my respective hometown, I thought El Paso would be a wonderful way to bond with Alyssa, an actual native El Pasoan. And with similar sentiments as myself, Leah made three. Thus, the Triumvirate convened in El Paso.

We arrived late Friday evening at the Goldman home, to a dinner meticulously prepared by Susie Goldman. From the minute I arrived, I felt immediately as if I had stepped into a home I’ve had all my life. Everything was literally perfect, from the pillow-top bed I slept on (thanks Shauna) to Juanita, a housekeeper who took my dirty clothes and made them clean again. I felt comfortable enough to feel at home, but pampered enough to feel on vacation.

Every day we met one of Alyssa’s friends, each one more fabulous than the last. Oh and did we go shopping! I won’t go into details here, suffice it to say my purchases involved animal slaughter. We ate out at fabulous restaurants, and I feel like all Mexican food before El Paso was merely preparation for the real deal. Also, who woulda thunk Margarita salt on fries would be so delicious? And then there was that 80s party we went to in Las Cruces, New Mexico. We had to cross a slough to get there. Let me just also note that the party was so 80s that I ended up with black eyeliner smudged on my check by the end of the night.

We didn’t Fall Break so much as we Fall BROKE. It’s a different lifestyle out there in the EP, this much is for sure. It’s slower, less complicated, and friendlier. That’s not to say that El Paso doesn’t have its faults, but I think it’s an amazing place to be. All I’ve known my whole life has been moving around from place to place, house to house, without ever knowing what home really means. I feel like most people in El Paso know what home means, and for that I envy them. At this point, if El Paso and I hang out more, I’m pretty sure we’ll develop a friendship to last a lifetime.

A New Year

I realize it might not be the most apt time to title a blog "A New Year" when we're all nine months into 2008 already, however it is a new scholastic year with similar implications. Please, bear with me.

I arrived in my off-campus apartment about five days ago. My room [was] cramped, empty, and for all intents and purposes sterile. No one has ever lived in this room, and it's a little uncomfortable and soul-less. I suppose it's high time I give this room some good juju. But, after a little rearranging and the purchase of a shower curtain I'm feeling a little more at-home. It's going to be a great place this year, allowing me both distance and proximity to campus.

Classes haven't started yet. Hopefully they'll be great. Enough said.

Seeing everyone again has been a trip as well. I'm so thrilled to see all of these people again, as if they're extended family I haven't seen in a while. I'm starting to realize just how much I love and appreciate some of them and the ways they make me laugh. Working for Pitzer Activities has been ever so swell as well, and new friends are sure to come of it. I'm rediscovering what an amazing thing it is to work--thinking about little else, losing myself in something besides myself, and keeping busy.

But when I'm not working, furnishing my apartment, or enjoying a meal with old friends, I'm getting caught up in the drama all over again. Those goddamned expectations rear their ugly head, and that paucity-ridden bastard child in my head continues to whine, "Why haven't you found someone? Y'know David you just might not be good enough..." Now I'm not in any way going to be high and mighty about this: my last blog is pretty much shot to shit. I thought I could find happiness in myself, and I did for a time, and now I'm bored.

So am I caught in some dangerous cycle of determining myself by the relationships I have or want to have? Oh let's hope not! I don't think the singular answer of loving myself was enough to stave off my misery. It's a multiple step process, I'm thinking. I have to keep busy, keep loving myself (yeah, again, so cliché), and keep the friends close. I think if I maintain all three of those points I'll get there. But that instant gratification thing is going to be hard to deal with. I mean that stuff's socialized way deep.

Be patient, David, be patient. Birds don't hatch and fly out of the nest on the same day. At least the hatching part is over with. Hopefully I'll find someone to teach me how to fly.

The New Leaf, and How I'm Turning It Over

This past week, I've come to a lot of realizations about the state of my being. I felt sluggish, unhealthy, sick, unsatisfied, and often times moderately miserable. Ya basta, people, ya basta. So now David is up to some remodeling in hopes of getting out of this puddle of self-loathing. It simply isn't becoming of someone so young and potentially attractive.

First things first, relationships have been pretty ridiculous this summer. Not going to lie. I've learned a lot through the processes, but I'm a little exhausted and tired of it all. So I decided to enter into a relationship I never even considered: a relationship with myself. Now I'm not at all going to deny the fact that this is a pretty cliched concept. Being so cliched however, I'm surprised I didn't think of it sooner. So starting now, I'm cutting myself off from anything resembling a "prospect" or potential date. I need to do some introspection for a while--figure out how to enjoy, respect, love, and spend time with me.

I'm hoping this won't take long, this whole self-discovery. But I'm almost certain it will [conversely] last a lifetime. It won't ever really cease, but I think for now I need to reach a satisfying quota of selfishness. It's really been nice though. I go to Whole Foods, buy foods to cook for myself, treat myself regularly to White Gummis at Jamba, and meditate for periods of time. I'm working out regularly (praise Great Spirit), eating better, and just trying to squeeze every last bit of enjoyment out of life.

The bottom line is, regardless of what my dating status is, I need to be able to be happy. I'm also trying to be more appreciative of people in my life who have helped, inspired, and supported me through the more trying times. It's astounding to me how much love I've got coming my way. Anyways, I hope this blog hasn't been excessively corny or ridiculous, and I sincerely hope dear reader that you do something for you today. And if you're already feeling pretty good, why not do something for someone else? Maybe someone who you've neglected, someone you miss, or someone who isn't feeling as hot as you feel.

I really want to make sense of this...

Originally written 6/26/08

So I’m sitting here at the Amsterdam airport. Schiphol Airport, to be more exact. I think it kinda sounds like shithole, but this is one of the most modern airports I've ever been to. So maybe mis-misnomer? It’s been a long journey here, no doubt, but I’m going where I need to go to say the least. We’ll just start from the beginning, though.

This tale of sorts began with my mother telling me I was leaving on a Wednesday for my trip to Venice. Little did I know, I was supposed to leave Tuesday to arrive Wednesday in Philly to meet up with my gal pal Sara, and just fly direct to Venice from there. But, no such luck. I full on missed my Tuesday night flight, blissfully unaware.

So on Wednesday morning (it’s Thursday afternoon here in Amsterdam now, but as far as I’m concerned I’m still stuck on this Wednesday morning), I turned on my phone and was bombarded by voicemail after voicemail, text message after text message from Sara asking if I was okay, and more importantly the question, “where the hell are you David?”

And the good old narcissistic side in me said, “Ha! What a meaningless worry this is! I’m leaving tonight, Sara!” And then I finally checked out a document I should have much earlier in the week called a travel itinerary, from United Airlines. Boy was I wrong. And from there it was just a gay panic with just lots of shouting at myself and quite a bit of sobbing. I thought I was going to miss this trip entirely. How could I miss this trip?

So I called Sara and within seconds I was booked on another flight that would make it to Venice only hours after my original travel plans said I would. Of course, the sum of money required to do so was nothing to shake a stick at, and I have no idea how I’m going to produce this amount of money to cover my ass. Suffice it to say, here I am in Amsterdam, scheduled to take off in another two hours or so.

But why don’t we start with my last plane ride, from San Francisco to Amsterdam. Okay so just to put all of this into perspective, the flight left the Bay Area at around three pm. It arrived at 10:30AM in Amsterdam. I slept about an hour, shallowly, with children kicking me from behind (wonders never cease) and a rather large Scandinavian man next to me who had those “long dancers legs” but sans the dancer part. Eek. And I was pushed into that godawful window seat.

But the flight ended, and so did most of the sorrow associated with it. Can’t say I didn’t enjoy a Heine extra cold at the bar about an hour ago. And I can’t say I’m not enjoying stroopwafels as I type this whole thing out. But something just doesn’t feel right about all of this.

Forgetting a flight isn’t at all my forte. Forgetting anything isn’t really my forte, really. But I suppose there are distractions and misnformations and blindspots people simply can’t avoid, no matter how hard they try. I can’t just sit here and say this is all my mother’s fault, because it’s not. But I can’t say I wasn’t a little misled, or a little misinformed as to my date of departure.

I just hate what a gay panic I was brought into. I’ve been fighting myself as to who’s fault it was for hours now, and I think it’s finally time for me to just get to Venice, see the gal pal and just say fuck it until I return to the real world on July 7th. More job assignments are upcoming, more time still with the house to myself, and more recently, more time to spend with one of my most favorite distractions. It’s one of those vacations you’ll get to enjoy and return from, because maybe you left something (or someone?) at home you miss.

Just Another Day in the Kitch

When I told y’all a few blogs ago I was cooking, I really meant it. I’ve been cooking (and consequently cleaning) in the kitchen the past few days, and I’ve been to Whole Foods like four times in the past week. This is unprecedented. For me, at least.

I got to make lamb, as promised to myself, and God was it good. I learned a lot from the recipe, too. I did a lamb curry recipe from Cook’s Illustrated, and I invited my gal pal Patsy over to corroborate. We started with whole spices: cardamom, bay leaves, peppercorns, cloves, and cinnamon sticks. And after the addition of some more dried spices, the lamb, some potatoes, and a jalapeño--voila! The most amazing, full-bodied curry imaginable. And so wonderfully spicy, I got hot and bothered after my first spoonful. I swear food and sex are really just enmeshed entities.

And what would a week of cooking be without the famed chicken tetrazzini? Oh yes, dear reader, it was wonderfully orgasmic as well. The nutmeg brings it all together, I swear. It takes the cream, noodles, mushrooms, onions, and peas together and tells them all to do their best. And the crisped breadcrumbs and parmesan on top is the perfect crunch. I really could go on all day about all of this.

I also decided to take a walk on the wild side with Janet Planet and did some gluten-free cooking. The fact that science has come up with gluten-free flour and xanthan gum is just amazing to me. I mean this banana bread woulda fooled me had I not know it had no wheat. I suppose I’ve never been much for molecular gastronomy and cooking with chemicals, but we’ve come a long way from slaughtering tigers with bows and arrows.

Today, however, I believe was my most proud culinary moment. I made carnitas on a whim, and for the first time in my life the recipe came out flawlessly. And as much as I know people who won’t eat pork, just try to appreciate how amazing this recipe is. So basically it involved me simmering the pork in a broth with onions, an orange, some spices, and a bay leaf. And it just sat in the oven for two hours, rather than being fried in lard. Barf. So it all came out moist, not dry and crispy, and it wasn’t overly salty or pork-y tasting. And while all that was cooking I decided to make some Nilla Wafer banana pudding. Total Americana food.

So we’ll see what the rest of this week brings to my culinary forefront. Over and out. And don’t forget to preheat your ovens.

Open Wounds

Sometimes we don’t really get closure on relationships. It’s no phone call, it’s no email, it’s nothing. Like sinning through omission it never feels right, but it seems the least wrong. And it drives people absolutely mad, especially the communicators. Regardless of whether the person didn’t find the other attractive, interesting, or intelligent, I think many would rather face not being any of those things to facing an awkward disconnect.

It comes down to an issue of fear, I’m beginning to think. People are afraid to dish and take the truth. In many ways I think people are cutting off communication as an act of compassion, rather than discussing their issues with the other person. However, the question then becomes, what is the most compassionate thing to do when you want to get out of a southbound relationship? How do we walk the paper-thin lines of etiquette and emotional maturity?

To be honest, I’ve never cared too much for Emily Post. I hardly believe etiquette is an adequate reference when dealing with case-by-case individuals who all behave differently. But let’s talk about emotional maturity for a moment: to be a truly compassionate person, what choices are best when saying goodbye? There are a multitude of answers to that question, all with a gradient of least to most mature methods.

Let’s try to imagine an individual with a psychological disorder, for which they are not receiving treatment. Let’s also imagine you’ve been dating this individual for a few weeks, and it’s now clear that the disorder interferes with, or will interfere with, a future relationship. You’ve decided to jump this sinking ship of a relationship, so to save yourself, do you pick the speedboat, the rowboat, or the inner tube?

Maybe you pick the speedboat—you just have to get out as quickly as possible, and by dint of the other choking on your exhaust, it’s obvious you’re gone without ever opening your mouth. They never know why you left, and honestly, who cares? He or she is obviously so screwed up that they wouldn’t even know how to handle it, right? Or maybe they would go ballistic and emotional and it’d all just be a hot mess you want no part of.

But maybe you pick the rowboat—you’ve got time and energy enough to row away slowly, and you’re able to at least say goodbye. You don’t get into specifics as to why you’re leaving, and maybe you fib a little. The dog died, grandma’s in the hospital, you’d rather just be alone: whatever your excuse it gets you out of it, and at least you’re not cutting them off like a drugged up conjoined twin. It’s the kind thing to do, no? And maybe you muster up a crocodile tear for your eyes they always told you were beautiful.

And then there’s the inner tube—you’re ready to float around for a while, and you know the calm winds won’t be taking you anywhere soon. But you’re ready to brave it out, and you’ve got the maturity to take their reaction. You explain to them that they’ve clearly got some issues to work out and that you can’t be in a relationship with someone who isn’t willing to seek treatment for these issues. And best yet, you give them the benefit of the doubt and promise them you’d think about seeing them after they’ve worked things out, so long as the two of you are still available.

So these are just three metaphorical options that came to mind, and any is a viable option. It comes down the issue of compassion ultimately, though, as you question how much you are able to sympathize with another person. Love can be tough, and sometimes you’ve gotta get tough on those you love. And in many ways, it’s not about loving the other person, or even humanity. It’s really about loving yourself in the end.

Summer

I’ve been home for about a month now, and I can’t say it hasn’t been uneventful. In this short time, I’ve been up and down, drunk and sobered, and loved and tricked. This whole new summer adjustment period felt so ridiculous. I mean I had (and still pretty much have) nothing to do. So what did I do?

I slept. I slept a lot. I’d do that whole go to sleep at 6AM and wake up around noon or one. I absolutely hate that schedule…I mean it just feels so unproductive. I live in a country house (we’ll get to that in a moment) in a valley that goes to sleep every night around ten, maybe eleven at the latest. Nightlife isn’t exactly rich here, so I found myself creating nights of downloaded Family Guy episodes and Super Mario Three. (The costume where he throws the hammers is a personal favorite—it even kills the Thwomps.) And don’t feel sorry for me please, dear reader! I did enough of that already.

And I adjusted to living in this country guesthouse in Saratoga, which my mom affectionately refers to as the “Cozy Cottage,” as if it’s a fairy tale locale with mythical creatures and princes and princesses, kings and queens. I find it quite ridiculous, myself, as I listen to coyotes out my window at this very moment, whining at the moon reddened by forest fires. It’s beautiful, really, but it’s too much of a getaway for me. This is the kind of place I’d retreat to on vacation and spend a week, and then return to city life, or a variation thereof. The internet is also lousy here. Just insult to injury I guess.

And I went on a few dates. Of course, I’m not going to say my life isn’t controlled by hormones nor say I’m a teenager looking to marry, but it’s the summer and I want to have that more than platonic summer companion. Just wondering where he is now, I suppose, as the last three didn’t really yield much. To their credit, they were great guys and I have nothing bad to say about them, suffice it to say together we lacked chemistry. I’m beginning to think my valence electrons are as shifty as Oprah’s weight. Gosh darn it!

And I started to work. For the most fabulously successful gay realtor known to man. But he doesn’t call when he needs to and it’s always hard to figure out what he’s looking for. But he’s paying me cash to do his marketing biddings and door knocking. Mother says I’ll probably have to find another job, but I hate restaurants and I hate retail. I need another La Patisserie era to come again. I truly will remember my days there in a profoundly fond way, and I sincerely hope they’re all doing well, especially to those with whom I have lost touch.

And then I sold the car. Mom gave me ten percent of the proceeds of the sale. Whoopee!

And I’ve cooked. “Yum-O!,” as that dreadful bitch Rachael Ray would say. Chicken tetrazzini is officially my new favorite food, and I also love pies. Thus far, I’ve done blueberry and cherry, and I have yet to get that piecrust just right. Almost there, though. Stay tuned. Waffles are also tickling my fancy lately: I’m doing the recipes that use yeast and you make the batter the night before and let it rise. They’re wicked good if you like a bite of buttery tartness to your waffles. I went out and got a chef’s knife, too. I don’t work with those little steak knifes when I cook. I really need to cook lamb this week.

And I’ve seen a lot of friends. It’s interesting to see how much we’ve grown as we’ve been apart, not to say we’ve grown apart, but y’know just how we’ve grown. Some have become entirely different people while some have remained their old selves. I like to think that regardless of how much I grow, that my friendships with people at home and in college remain the same. There’s something funny about relationships I have with friends…it’s like there’ll always be that little thing that somehow keeps us together. And with respect to the friends I’ve lost or let go, I still think about them in a positive way and just acknowledge our differences.

So this is my summer thus far. I was supposed to be living with my dad, but he unfortunately bizzounced to Boston to work at a new company. Can’t say I don’t want to bitch the little bugger out for ditching both me and my nine year old sister. I’m finding more and more though that I’m silenced by his financial offers—a debit card linked to his account, the responsibility to pay his bills and handle his finances, and my gas, paid. Not to mention I also guilted him into getting me a window air conditioner for those extra sultry nights and a phone with internet for the lack of internet at my residence. My Love Don’t Cost a Thing? Well for daddy, not so much.

It's Been a While

I haven't had time to blog, or rather, haven't had the inspiration. It's kind of sad, actually. I love addressing this mystery audience of cyberspace. Something inside of me thinks there's at least one person that reads about me. At any rate, I think I'm sufficiently inspired. I've turned on the sappy Sunday morning tunes on a Saturday evening and I'm ready to blog.

I'm really excited for summer, for starters. A release from the pressures of academic pursuits will provide me time for me to do what I really [think I] need to do. I can get a job, deal with the ridiculous nature of menial employment again, and just have my own money to spend. Not to mention, starting a romance might be nice. It's really anybody's guess at this point.

I miss my family, as much as I may bemoan them throughout the school year. But when it really comes down to who loves me, I can always count on those guys. My mom always calls first, and it's always nice to know that one relationship in my life will work that way. And dad's moving to Boston. God knows how I'll handle that. I'm going to visit Granny next week in San Diego. I'm hoping she brings clarity to me in that wisened sage kinda way.

Feet Planted

My spring break hasn't exactly been what I'd hoped for. I've seen many friends who I don't see during my college stints, and that all has been fantastic. I love you guys so much, and I'm so sorry we have such a limited time together. But at the same time, I feel like I have so much stuff to get organized. I'll be getting out of school in roughly two months, and at that point, beginning a new life living with my dad for the summer. I suppose now would also be a good time to vent about my parent's forthcoming divorce: I hate the drama. Enough said.

I'm realizing too that I'm living a multitude of different lives with their own respective identities. The primary "life" I'm living is that of a college student living away from home, enjoying friends and parties, and of course, working toward a degree. This is by far the easiest life to live, as it involves a lot of autonomy and very few restrictions. On the other hand, I'm going to have a life up in NorCal where I hopefully get a job for the summer and enjoy a little kickback, and of course maybe some romance. This life is harder, since I'm living it only a small fraction of the year and as yet, I have no guaranteed summer job.

Why just today I was working on a prospect for employment. But let me tell you, employers aren't keen on my double life of summer/the rest of my year at school. Temporary employment isn't so appealing to these people, and I'm finding myself sort of mucking through the application process. To gain an edge, I put on my suit, did my hair, and made sure I printed out my resume on that special kind of paper. This was met with:

1) This is just your resume, did you actually fill out an application? Yes you little twit, it's stapled to the back. Are you blind?!

2) So you're starting in May? Are you going to have to go back to school? Well duh, but maybe I won't tell you. I'm just wondering if you're smart enough to look my school up on the internet and realize Claremont is 300 miles from here.

and

3) Do you have a business card? Well, if you're going to be the one calling me, what purpose would that serve? Are you going on a narcissistic pedestal here so that I might see your name is printed on a slice of cardstock above the title Asst. Manager? I already have one, yes, thank you.

Everyone is telling me that the working world is just like this. It's not necessarily comforting or encouraging, but don't ever take me for someone who just gives up. So given these two lives, which one should I more firmly plant my feet? Do I try for a relationship up north, or down south? Either way, I'm going to be stretched. It's so unfortunate that I'm now beginning to wish I didn't go to school so far away...and I'm now looking past the experiences I'm going to have in the next few years and focusing more on my degree.

The Nature of a Patellar Subluxation

I really hate continually bringing up my recent injury over and over again, but the more time I spend thinking about it, the more I realize that there's a real lesson to be learned. And it has nothing to do with safer dancing.

Coming home that night from the hospital, high on morphine, it took me a while to realize the full extent of my injury. Crutching around for a week, sweating up a storm everywhere I went it was painful for me. Not only did I feel pain from the crutches, but also for everyone else around me. Waiting for me to catch up periodically, bringing me food, putting on my socks...I just felt so dependent, and I hated it. I still hate it. I've never felt more helpless. I've never felt so loved, either.

It gets uncomfortable having everyone cater to you, doing the things you know you could do with your eyes closed. I want to especially mention those who offer their automobiles for my transport to and from the hospital or orthopedic center. It's like being a child again, having someone else tying your shoes and driving you to soccer practice. And it hurts me to know I'm a dependent person. All that stuff about how amazing it is to be waited on hand and foot...I feel like it's all a crock.

So now I'm just a person with a sore, braced kneecap. And I hobble every once and a while when I get tired. And I hate that I can't walk down stairs without taking it one step at a time. So thanks for waiting, and thanks for all your help in my healing process. Know I'm not in pain, and know that being injured like this for the first time in my life at nineteen isn't so easy. If I was a kid I'd be happy to be walking already, but I still can't help feeling like I've got this emotional part of me that has to recover.

But every time that I take a step and bend my mostly-healed but still busted leg, I take so much pride knowing I can finally walk without two awkward metal poles lodged in my armpits. I know I'm breakable, and it hurts, but the scars will merit stories to be told and lessons to be learned. And to think it could have been so much worse--; my body may be healing and my mind may be faltering emotionally, but you'd have to hit me harder to break my spirit.