Untitled promises
Over the last few years, it's been far too easy for me to talk myself out of things or not follow through on
things. I get inspired and them allow the inspiration to be fleeting and allow myself to get distracted and
undermine myself with defeatism. I figure the best way to get through this is to start writing down my
goals and plans and making promises to others and hence actually holding myself accountable.
There are plenty of things going on for me not to draw inspiration from, but occasionally something good
floats to the top. I found out with virtually no training
humalong ran a half-marathon in 1:56. This gives me more inspiration than you could possibly imagine, to get through 13.1 miles at that kind of pace without the proper training makes me believe that I can do it on only a few months training. Lately, I've been derailed by sickness- but if not for that, it'd be excuses and laziness. So now it's on me to do something with my life- to actually stop talking about writing that novel and do it, regardless of whether it gets published, regardless of whether I let a single person ever read it. To actually take my GRE and take that dangerous first step away from the safety of being an aspiring grad student to the realities and red tape of loans, grants, scholarships, applications and everything else to get into library school. And sure, why not, actually make an effort towards forming either a thrash or power pop/dirty pop punk band.
Lately, I've been bogged down with strep throat. As I said above, sickness has derailed my life for the last
couple months, so I've taken action and finally had the balls to get others to take action- i.e. (in spite of
tonight's appearance) I'm actually regularly getting a decent night's sleep and the smoking in my place has
come to a halt. The strep cost me two days of work- thanks to health insurance it only cost me $50...
without insurance, the antibiotics alone would've set me back $159. Which is insane, but I suppose poor
people don't deserve to afford medicine since they chose to be poor (obvious sarcasm). Sometimes I feel
like the environment here is toxic (besides the second-hand smoke), it's hard to accomplish anything- but
things are changing and in the end, it's not about them, it's about me.
At least I have a few interesting stories about how the strep throat was exacerbated.
My throat flared up on Thursday the 26th- given that I had only gotten better a week earlier, I
optimistically assumed it was a cold.
The next night, I proceeded to drink an absurd amount of liquor at Lauren's Howl at the Moon party-
justifying that screwdrivers and Long Island iced teas were good for my throat because they contained
tea and orange juice, naturally. I drank to incoherence and embarrassment and remembered why getting
drunk off liquor is basically a waste of time. I got home safe mainly thanks to my sister's assistance
(yeah, I almost certainly would've woken up in the nowhereland of Elburn had she not demanded I stand
in the stairwell of the train so I wouldn't pass out).
Saturday involved an epic journey to the Sox game including a highly unpleasant hour and a half train
ride (a suicide at the Elmhurst stop in front of a train going the opposite direction). The Angels jumped
out to an early 3-0 lead, most notably featuring Gary Matthews Jr.'s lead off home run- even though Jon
Garland settled down, there wasn't much to cheer about on offense and the score ended a 3-0 loss that
began a wonderful 5 game losing streak. The fireworks afterwards were anticlimactic to say the least.
Afterwards I high-tailed it to
rhapsodista's party, just as fun and relaxing as any of her parties-
even if I spent most of it talking to Joe Jaz who I see regularly, anyway. I debated the merits of the
Hitchiker's Guide series with a gay Canadian philosophy student (Chris), I made an art gallery owner
(Kevin ) the most grateful beer recipient in history by presenting him with a Shiner Bock. He literally
talked about how he hadn't had one in years and wasn't aware they were available in Chicago- I felt like a
superhero. The next morning,
rhapsodista, Bob, Kat and I went to brunch at Cozy Corner in
Logan Square. The day was so beautiful and perfect it took me a few hours to care about anything- I was
in full on Peter Gibbons mode.
That night I went to the Ardmore Lounge in Villa Park to meet up with all my old grade school friends from
Lombard, Milt and Ryan's band LTN was playing (please don't ask what it stands for, I wish I hadn't
asked). More and more I miss those kids. They may not have degrees and may have jobs that are on par
with mine, but they get it. A lot moreso than the crew here in Glen Ellyn. Plus there's years of nostalgia to
fall back on. The show was full-blown nostalgia- LTN played mostly covers of all the songs our crew
loved in middle school and early high school. They opened with "Bored" by the Deftones and tour
through everything from Silverchair to Sepultura to even a bit of Korn (LOLZ). Yeah, it gave me
goosebumps. I ran into an old acquaintance from high school who was there because he's dating an old
acquaintance from my middle school years... small world, two worlds coming together, etc. I connected
with Timmy Hell Yeah (aka Tim B.) again and remembered just how real he is. All too often, I find myself
hanging out with people who are either in an Ivory Tower fortified with pretentiousness or who
seemingly revel in being ignorant buffoons who believe that drunkenness is the only worthwhile pursuit
in life. Yeah, I'm exaggerating- but people get frustrating. My point is, I run into few people who are both
down-to-earth, pseudo-working-class, salt of the Earth types who are also very intelligent and interested
in anything and everything. Real life Will Huntings, if you will. Some of my best friends at least
somewhat fit into that group: Clint, Eli, Timmy the Skin. Timmy Hell Yeah does too. Even though they
were rather good, I found myself missing most of the headlining band She Likes Todd's set to chat about
politics, economics and relationships with Tim. I reconnected in a similar way with an old middle school
classmate, hopefully I'll see her when I'm less sick. In spite of the fun I was having, the smoke was also
killing me- I'd break from conversation to fly into a coughing fit and knew I'd have to call in sick to work
on Monday.
After making my heart flutter with an initial diagnosis of mono, the doctor quickly corrected my diagnosis
to strep throat and prescribed me a super antibiotic. I spent Monday night and Tuesday recovering at my
parents house- it was a nice quiet retreat.
It didn't take too long for the antibiotic to start kicking in. In spite of the hole recovery left in my social
life- I was pleasantly surprised by a barrage of phone calls from good friends I hadn't heard from in quite a
while: Jayme, Eli, Brendan M. Which all made me quite happy.
Then there was May 1st- Tuesday, a day of recovery at my parents' house. But a day of national
significance. A day that marked 4 years since George W. Bush unfurled a "Mission accomplished" banner
and declared the Iraq War over. There is almost nothing left to say, we have allowed our country to be
run by criminals, we in a democratic society have gotten the government we deserve- tens of thousands
of dead Iraqis didn't deserve George W. Bush though. I really, really hope karma is real.
It was also the day of illegal immigration rallies. I'm moderate on immigration policy. Or in less polite terms, not bat shit insane. I think all the Right Wing people who hate immigrants so much, should be required to
grow their own food, considering the overwhelming majority of people who produce the food in this
country are illegal immigrants (vegetable and fruit pickers, meat packing plant employees). Still there does
need to be some sort of policy- the burden rests on corporations to follow fair labor practices- practices
that would make it unprofitable to hire illegal immigrants in the first place and ones that would give the
immigrants over here basic human dignity. No citizenship or its trappings, just work visas.
Oh yeah and those of us who are upper middle class suburban white people are still not oppressed, no
matter how much conservatives want you to believe it.
So today (or I guess technically yesterday), I volunteered at the Addison Library (Mom's idea) with a
Young Writers' program, I wish I would've gotten to interact with the kids a bit more, but it was kind of
inspiring to see a published author talk about her craft and go through a few excercises. I wasn't quite
inspired enough to come home and actually work on my novel (I swear I'm going to need to lock myself in
a closet with only a typewriter), but at least I felt inspired to write this.
It got me thinking about those fairy tales I mentioned. So here's the one (the other is simultaneously more
personal, more obvious and about the same level of ridiculousness, just in a completely different way):
I've had a whole lot of fairy tales and fantasies in my life- but let's face it, I'm not going to be playing
centerfield for the White Sox or be in an incredibly influential, society-altering band or even a band that
changes a few people's lives or be irresistible to every woman on the planet any time soon. So why not
only mildly come down to earth from those impossible goals and just be a famous author. I know that
getting a book published is virtually impossible. I know actually writing a novel is going to be very
difficult for me. Nonetheless, here's my ridiculous dream.
I write my hypothetical novel- amazingly there's a bidding war among publishers over my book, but I manage to find an independent non-corporate publisher with massive distribution to sign me to a multi-book deal with a huge advance. My book strikes a chord in much the same regard The Graduate did 40 years ago and reviewers start calling me the "voice of a generation". I realize that that's fucking absurd and use my sudden celebrity status to promote bands, writers and films I've loved that have never gotten their due. I further use my status to promote ideas, causes and do something positive for the world (Rock Against Rape, Food Not Bombs, etc.).
I simultaneously remain true to my roots and fill my entourage with college, high school and grade school
friends- I buy a car and house, but still live in the West 'burbs and use public transportation. I travel
constantly and start accidentally ripping off Bill Bryson's books, which is OK because it turns out we
have a mutual admiration for each other.
I make a documentary of a book tour of exclusively independent book stores across the US and drinking sessions and wanderings around the cities and college towns said book stores are in. It premiers at the True/False Festival in Columbia. I'm a guest on the Daily Show and Colbert Report. I further use my celebrity to muscle my way into recording an album of some sort and going on tour.
As for teh grlz, I'm a total heart throb- but I'm most likely avoiding groupies because I'm taken by a girl who gave me the time of day when I was a lowly file clerk or embroiled in a few friends with benefits scenarios (also with girls who gave me the time of day when I was a lowly file clerk). I become the most famous Sox fan, but buy tickets like everyone else- nonetheless, taking every opportunity to remind people which is the only baseball team in Chicago that matters.
Basically, I become a rock star of the written word, a stronger voice against injustice, a down-to-earth
celebrity who actually gives people the time of day and the luckiest man on the face of Earth (yes, even
luckier than Lou Gehrig). Yeah, it's pretty much impossible- but still more likely than me playing
Centerfield for the White Sox (which frankly, Erstad's holding his own right now, anyway).
For the first time in a while, I think I've genuinely faked myself out and confused myself in relation to Teh
grlz. I'm kind of in bliss because I don't know exactly what I want, which is really freeing- but at the same
time that throws a lot of people off. But for once I feel like I learned from my mistakes and I'm actually
taking opportunities. But by thinking I don't know what I want I may just be psychologically faking
myself out. Overanalysis is a killer, but I don't want to miss opportunities by being too passive and I don't
want to scare away or hurt anyone by being too aggressive. I'm just trying to be honest and not hurt
anyone and see where things go. Being sick is making them stand in place, but soon I'll have a better idea.
When in doubt, I'll just be awesome at life. That isn't supposed to make sense.
I didn't celebrate Polish Constitution Day (I guess it was also Cinco de Mayo, I hadn't noticed... neither
did Mexico), but I'm more upset about missing "Sluttering Day" (in spite of the harsh name all it entails is
listening to the Jawbreaker song "Sluttering (May 4th)" over and over and over again). Tomorrow (today)
I'm going to try to go see the Dalai Lama at Millennium Park. I wish I hadn't burned out on Tibet.
I'm sure there was more I had to write, but I'm impressed enough that I wrote this epic and it is nearly 5 AM.
things. I get inspired and them allow the inspiration to be fleeting and allow myself to get distracted and
undermine myself with defeatism. I figure the best way to get through this is to start writing down my
goals and plans and making promises to others and hence actually holding myself accountable.
There are plenty of things going on for me not to draw inspiration from, but occasionally something good
floats to the top. I found out with virtually no training
humalong ran a half-marathon in 1:56. This gives me more inspiration than you could possibly imagine, to get through 13.1 miles at that kind of pace without the proper training makes me believe that I can do it on only a few months training. Lately, I've been derailed by sickness- but if not for that, it'd be excuses and laziness. So now it's on me to do something with my life- to actually stop talking about writing that novel and do it, regardless of whether it gets published, regardless of whether I let a single person ever read it. To actually take my GRE and take that dangerous first step away from the safety of being an aspiring grad student to the realities and red tape of loans, grants, scholarships, applications and everything else to get into library school. And sure, why not, actually make an effort towards forming either a thrash or power pop/dirty pop punk band.
Lately, I've been bogged down with strep throat. As I said above, sickness has derailed my life for the last
couple months, so I've taken action and finally had the balls to get others to take action- i.e. (in spite of
tonight's appearance) I'm actually regularly getting a decent night's sleep and the smoking in my place has
come to a halt. The strep cost me two days of work- thanks to health insurance it only cost me $50...
without insurance, the antibiotics alone would've set me back $159. Which is insane, but I suppose poor
people don't deserve to afford medicine since they chose to be poor (obvious sarcasm). Sometimes I feel
like the environment here is toxic (besides the second-hand smoke), it's hard to accomplish anything- but
things are changing and in the end, it's not about them, it's about me.
At least I have a few interesting stories about how the strep throat was exacerbated.
My throat flared up on Thursday the 26th- given that I had only gotten better a week earlier, I
optimistically assumed it was a cold.
The next night, I proceeded to drink an absurd amount of liquor at Lauren's Howl at the Moon party-
justifying that screwdrivers and Long Island iced teas were good for my throat because they contained
tea and orange juice, naturally. I drank to incoherence and embarrassment and remembered why getting
drunk off liquor is basically a waste of time. I got home safe mainly thanks to my sister's assistance
(yeah, I almost certainly would've woken up in the nowhereland of Elburn had she not demanded I stand
in the stairwell of the train so I wouldn't pass out).
Saturday involved an epic journey to the Sox game including a highly unpleasant hour and a half train
ride (a suicide at the Elmhurst stop in front of a train going the opposite direction). The Angels jumped
out to an early 3-0 lead, most notably featuring Gary Matthews Jr.'s lead off home run- even though Jon
Garland settled down, there wasn't much to cheer about on offense and the score ended a 3-0 loss that
began a wonderful 5 game losing streak. The fireworks afterwards were anticlimactic to say the least.
Afterwards I high-tailed it to
rhapsodista's party, just as fun and relaxing as any of her parties-
even if I spent most of it talking to Joe Jaz who I see regularly, anyway. I debated the merits of the
Hitchiker's Guide series with a gay Canadian philosophy student (Chris), I made an art gallery owner
(Kevin ) the most grateful beer recipient in history by presenting him with a Shiner Bock. He literally
talked about how he hadn't had one in years and wasn't aware they were available in Chicago- I felt like a
superhero. The next morning,
rhapsodista, Bob, Kat and I went to brunch at Cozy Corner in
Logan Square. The day was so beautiful and perfect it took me a few hours to care about anything- I was
in full on Peter Gibbons mode.
That night I went to the Ardmore Lounge in Villa Park to meet up with all my old grade school friends from
Lombard, Milt and Ryan's band LTN was playing (please don't ask what it stands for, I wish I hadn't
asked). More and more I miss those kids. They may not have degrees and may have jobs that are on par
with mine, but they get it. A lot moreso than the crew here in Glen Ellyn. Plus there's years of nostalgia to
fall back on. The show was full-blown nostalgia- LTN played mostly covers of all the songs our crew
loved in middle school and early high school. They opened with "Bored" by the Deftones and tour
through everything from Silverchair to Sepultura to even a bit of Korn (LOLZ). Yeah, it gave me
goosebumps. I ran into an old acquaintance from high school who was there because he's dating an old
acquaintance from my middle school years... small world, two worlds coming together, etc. I connected
with Timmy Hell Yeah (aka Tim B.) again and remembered just how real he is. All too often, I find myself
hanging out with people who are either in an Ivory Tower fortified with pretentiousness or who
seemingly revel in being ignorant buffoons who believe that drunkenness is the only worthwhile pursuit
in life. Yeah, I'm exaggerating- but people get frustrating. My point is, I run into few people who are both
down-to-earth, pseudo-working-class, salt of the Earth types who are also very intelligent and interested
in anything and everything. Real life Will Huntings, if you will. Some of my best friends at least
somewhat fit into that group: Clint, Eli, Timmy the Skin. Timmy Hell Yeah does too. Even though they
were rather good, I found myself missing most of the headlining band She Likes Todd's set to chat about
politics, economics and relationships with Tim. I reconnected in a similar way with an old middle school
classmate, hopefully I'll see her when I'm less sick. In spite of the fun I was having, the smoke was also
killing me- I'd break from conversation to fly into a coughing fit and knew I'd have to call in sick to work
on Monday.
After making my heart flutter with an initial diagnosis of mono, the doctor quickly corrected my diagnosis
to strep throat and prescribed me a super antibiotic. I spent Monday night and Tuesday recovering at my
parents house- it was a nice quiet retreat.
It didn't take too long for the antibiotic to start kicking in. In spite of the hole recovery left in my social
life- I was pleasantly surprised by a barrage of phone calls from good friends I hadn't heard from in quite a
while: Jayme, Eli, Brendan M. Which all made me quite happy.
Then there was May 1st- Tuesday, a day of recovery at my parents' house. But a day of national
significance. A day that marked 4 years since George W. Bush unfurled a "Mission accomplished" banner
and declared the Iraq War over. There is almost nothing left to say, we have allowed our country to be
run by criminals, we in a democratic society have gotten the government we deserve- tens of thousands
of dead Iraqis didn't deserve George W. Bush though. I really, really hope karma is real.
It was also the day of illegal immigration rallies. I'm moderate on immigration policy. Or in less polite terms, not bat shit insane. I think all the Right Wing people who hate immigrants so much, should be required to
grow their own food, considering the overwhelming majority of people who produce the food in this
country are illegal immigrants (vegetable and fruit pickers, meat packing plant employees). Still there does
need to be some sort of policy- the burden rests on corporations to follow fair labor practices- practices
that would make it unprofitable to hire illegal immigrants in the first place and ones that would give the
immigrants over here basic human dignity. No citizenship or its trappings, just work visas.
Oh yeah and those of us who are upper middle class suburban white people are still not oppressed, no
matter how much conservatives want you to believe it.
So today (or I guess technically yesterday), I volunteered at the Addison Library (Mom's idea) with a
Young Writers' program, I wish I would've gotten to interact with the kids a bit more, but it was kind of
inspiring to see a published author talk about her craft and go through a few excercises. I wasn't quite
inspired enough to come home and actually work on my novel (I swear I'm going to need to lock myself in
a closet with only a typewriter), but at least I felt inspired to write this.
It got me thinking about those fairy tales I mentioned. So here's the one (the other is simultaneously more
personal, more obvious and about the same level of ridiculousness, just in a completely different way):
I've had a whole lot of fairy tales and fantasies in my life- but let's face it, I'm not going to be playing
centerfield for the White Sox or be in an incredibly influential, society-altering band or even a band that
changes a few people's lives or be irresistible to every woman on the planet any time soon. So why not
only mildly come down to earth from those impossible goals and just be a famous author. I know that
getting a book published is virtually impossible. I know actually writing a novel is going to be very
difficult for me. Nonetheless, here's my ridiculous dream.
I write my hypothetical novel- amazingly there's a bidding war among publishers over my book, but I manage to find an independent non-corporate publisher with massive distribution to sign me to a multi-book deal with a huge advance. My book strikes a chord in much the same regard The Graduate did 40 years ago and reviewers start calling me the "voice of a generation". I realize that that's fucking absurd and use my sudden celebrity status to promote bands, writers and films I've loved that have never gotten their due. I further use my status to promote ideas, causes and do something positive for the world (Rock Against Rape, Food Not Bombs, etc.).
I simultaneously remain true to my roots and fill my entourage with college, high school and grade school
friends- I buy a car and house, but still live in the West 'burbs and use public transportation. I travel
constantly and start accidentally ripping off Bill Bryson's books, which is OK because it turns out we
have a mutual admiration for each other.
I make a documentary of a book tour of exclusively independent book stores across the US and drinking sessions and wanderings around the cities and college towns said book stores are in. It premiers at the True/False Festival in Columbia. I'm a guest on the Daily Show and Colbert Report. I further use my celebrity to muscle my way into recording an album of some sort and going on tour.
As for teh grlz, I'm a total heart throb- but I'm most likely avoiding groupies because I'm taken by a girl who gave me the time of day when I was a lowly file clerk or embroiled in a few friends with benefits scenarios (also with girls who gave me the time of day when I was a lowly file clerk). I become the most famous Sox fan, but buy tickets like everyone else- nonetheless, taking every opportunity to remind people which is the only baseball team in Chicago that matters.
Basically, I become a rock star of the written word, a stronger voice against injustice, a down-to-earth
celebrity who actually gives people the time of day and the luckiest man on the face of Earth (yes, even
luckier than Lou Gehrig). Yeah, it's pretty much impossible- but still more likely than me playing
Centerfield for the White Sox (which frankly, Erstad's holding his own right now, anyway).
For the first time in a while, I think I've genuinely faked myself out and confused myself in relation to Teh
grlz. I'm kind of in bliss because I don't know exactly what I want, which is really freeing- but at the same
time that throws a lot of people off. But for once I feel like I learned from my mistakes and I'm actually
taking opportunities. But by thinking I don't know what I want I may just be psychologically faking
myself out. Overanalysis is a killer, but I don't want to miss opportunities by being too passive and I don't
want to scare away or hurt anyone by being too aggressive. I'm just trying to be honest and not hurt
anyone and see where things go. Being sick is making them stand in place, but soon I'll have a better idea.
When in doubt, I'll just be awesome at life. That isn't supposed to make sense.
I didn't celebrate Polish Constitution Day (I guess it was also Cinco de Mayo, I hadn't noticed... neither
did Mexico), but I'm more upset about missing "Sluttering Day" (in spite of the harsh name all it entails is
listening to the Jawbreaker song "Sluttering (May 4th)" over and over and over again). Tomorrow (today)
I'm going to try to go see the Dalai Lama at Millennium Park. I wish I hadn't burned out on Tibet.
I'm sure there was more I had to write, but I'm impressed enough that I wrote this epic and it is nearly 5 AM.