Archive for September 2007
Its a Saturday night and I feel like screaming.
Well, I’m not 100% perturbed enough to actually “man-roar”, but I’m slightly annoyed at how the night played out. Tonight I was dressed like a member of The Strokes, wearing a dress shirt, with a nice tie, complete with tight pants and black sneakers. Its not a common thing for me to work on presenting myself in a certain fashion; living in a certain place robbed me of that. Two years ago, I lived in Hyattsville, seven miles outside of DC. Coming into the city was a task in itself. One, had to go to metroopensdoors.com, check Bus/rail times, ensure that one got early to the train station (after a twenty five minute walk) and then should you travel during weekdays, make sure you catch the 11:10 train (or else you are royally fudged) and on weekend you must be in the train station by 2:30 a.m.
I’m the type of guy who used to really be into my fashion sense. In 2004, on any given day you would see me in a dress shirt, with a close-fitted t-shirt over it. Some call it the preppy look, my friends used to call it my ‘uniform’. After living in Hyattsville and realizing a neighbourhood of budding families, shady characters and long walks to the metro didn’t require the pretty-boy flair I was used to pushing, I stopped. Tonight, I broke that mold somewhat. Sure, I will occassionally dab a few globs of hair gel into my chaotic head of hair, or wear my superpants. But the essence of the “image” I liked to portray forever changed after I spent dozens of weekends at home, pacing around in my room, occassionally seeing Deer run through the parking lot behind my apartment. Tonight I went to Adams Morgan, meeting up with my usual crew of friends I’ve been hanging with for a bit.
The first stop was the brass monkey, pretty much the exact same bar as all the bars on Adams Morgan. Its part ballroom, part rowhouse-converted into a ballroom. Features are similar in all of these bars; wooden floors, a certain smell of alcohol and cigarrettes and DJs spinning almost the same playlists regardless of where you go. My friend and I used to laugh when we went into these bars, because they are mostly populated by white patrons, and EVERY time we went in, we would hear what we dubbed the “white man’s anthem”–a Journey song. If I don’t go into a bar, and hear:
“She’s just a small town girl…. living in a looonely world….”
Then I know i’m no longer in Adams Morgan, and in some shady mangrove in Cambodia. Tonight I didn’t feel particularly excited or attractive, but there is an inevitable mental obligation a person gives themself if they put effort into their appearance. The style I had tonight gave a noticeable result in my eyes. I went to Tom Tom, a bar notorious for its Skanky yet uber-cool atmosphere, and there was a moment when a group of no less than five women all turned their heads at the same time when I walked past. I didn’t pay much attention to that, sometimes I hear people say I remind them of Godfrey, the Seven up guy from a few years ago. Maybe they thought I looked like him.
In my mind my outfit was marginal, though when I met up with my crew at the Brass Monkey, everyone commented on how sharp I looked. I took the compliments at face value; I don’t normally feel anything when I dress up, or dress down, I think the result of socialization is always the same–if a girl likes what you are wearing, them maybe you have an in. If not, you could be dripping in Gucci and go home filled with sexual tension, mad that you will have to watch porn on your 100 inch plasma screen.
“Adams Morgan and Me” should be a short play I produce that shows how random and circumstantial certain things are. I have had certain successes in “the A”, like meeting a Korean girl who was my one-month girlfriend, or eating pizza outside Pizza Boli’s and laughing at my friend when a drunk girl gave him napkins straight from a garbage pan. (okay, that’s not a success, but its damn funny).
These days, I like what Adams Morgan represents; a large scale melting pot of social mixup. I’d say seventy percet of all the people who come to Adams Morgan are white, with the remaining thirty being everyone else(as if that wasn’t obvious). I don’t mind this ratio, because I’ve been in the states long enough not to care. Tonight was no different. I roamed four or five bars, and each time, I saw no more than two other black guys in attendance. Even though I felt nice in my Strokes outfit, after my third beer things started to look dark. Sure, I could walk up to any number of girls and say “Hey, what’s up?” But I didn’t feel like wasting time with some BS conversation. I was feeling the pull of Wonderland again, that tucked away bar in Columbia heights that is part fantasy, part drug-induced high.
The crew would eventually head to wonderland. I tell my friend Jane that I am passing by the bar next door. “Make sure you let me know when you are leaving.” I say to her. She nods in agreement, and I head over to Tom Tom. I’m in there for no more than ten minutes–its an easy place to size up–and I head back to The Brass Monkey. I go upstairs and everyone is gone. Not even a beer bottle remains at the table where they were sitting. A slight annoyance crawls up my back and I feel like slapping myself in the face. I send Jane a text message saying “I hope you didn’t leave me.”
Fifteen minutes later, I get a reply: “We just left! Heading to Wonderland!”
I groan inwardly. The crew consisted of at least eight people, meaning a cab fare to the W would only be three bucks, or less. Now they were all gone, and I didn’t feel like taking a cab to Wonderland in the twilight hours for ten bucks. It was 1:00 a.m and things were no doubt dying down over there. I stood by the window, in my Strokes outfit and felt annoyance run through my system.
I wanted to leave Adams Morgan, I wanted to just run away and fall asleep somewhere while stranger poked me to see if I was breathing, but I was still in the Brass Monkey, looking at people milling about outside.
My annoyance didn’t stay very long. I simply decided to go home. The rule is: If you hang with people that drink, chances are they will leave you somewhere if you leave them for too long. With this crew, this has happened a few times. This is the only time I have been really annoyed. Maybe because I was dressed up, with no where to go really.
I saw a girl I had met at Ibiza a week ago, but she told me (almost with a sad look on her face) that she had a boyfriend. I didn’t mind, she was attractive, but life goes on. I walked slowly through the thick crowd, feeling people stepping on my feet as I walked and headed into Pizza Boli’s. I grabbed a large cheese slice and wolfed it down in less than three minutes. Two red-faced Asian girls were standing near me, laughing with each other. One of them gave me a look—THAT look–but I just wanted to go home. Another weekend came to an end, and another weekend seemed… fuzzy.
There were certain good things that happened this weekend, but in terms of the going out scene, something has to change. As I sit on the bus and loosen my tie, I realize I’m probably just very tired. There is nothing I usually aim for when I go out, I simply leave my house to be out of my room and not feel locked in by the white walls and brown carpet. I venture out because I can, and its not very cold yet, so I’m enjoying the warm weather. But at the same time, going out without an angenda can sometimes be pointless. I close my eyes for a few moments and listen to the bus creak and groan as it drives me to my stop. I get off on Georgia, and I take in a deep breath. I have at least twelve blocks to walk, and it is chilly and I am tired.
My Strokes outfit is now defunct. The tie is in my pocket and I’ve raised up my shirt collar to give my neck some warmth. My thoughts are in between having to wake up early Sunday Morning to do a BOGUS 12-hour photography project, and a thrilling conversation I had with an old crush of mine. The walk goes quickly.
When I’m less than a block from my house, I see a Blue SUV pull up beside me. Inside is my friend, Mr. T. His very cute, indie girlfriend shoots a nice hello at me, and I give them a semi-disgruntled nod. “We’re looking for a party that’s on this street.” he says. “It’s probably over by now.” I say. “Where are you going man?” he asks me.
I point to a rowhouse thirty feet away.
“That’s where I live, I’m coming from Adams Morgan.” I say. The SUV is full of people, and they are all beaming, showing white rows of teeth. My night seems like even more of a waste.
“Well, I’ll see you man.” I say, and turn quickly and start walking to my house.
“Bye Marcus.” comes the voice of the indie girlfriend. Her voice echoes slightly in my mind and then I think of my bed, my pillow and everything seems to dissappear. Despite the range of feelings i’ve gone through this week, I realize I’m not a social pariah. Bars and clubs are too random for one to gauge oneself with. Maybe I would have better luck on Myspace, because poking girls on Facebook does nothing for me. I head inside, feeling a little flat, but not depressed and toss my shirt into my laundry bag. I have to wake up at 7 a.m, and for some reason, I’m thinking of going to Wonderland.
No, i’m not promoting a shady mid 1990’s porn video. I’m talking about myself actually. I’m having a chaotic, sleepless night and it stems from a range of things. Since I started blogging about eight weeks ago, I’ve realized the gradual evolution of my writing. As time passes, even though I try to maintain the witty, semi-humorous vibe I like to “online-speak” in, I notice that tidbits of my personal life inevitably fall between the lines. Not only tidbits, but large chunks as well. Sometimes, a blog about an outing can evolve completly into a diatribe about loneliness( e.g LTD and the attack of the Superpants!) or it might be more subtle, like dropping the hint that I feel like a loser for doing certain things(e.g Best week Ever!).
I’m not worried about saying these things, because these are true emotions, but nonetheless, one can think of the impact such statements have on unassuming viewers. Right now, I’m not really sure of what to write. I went to Wonderland tonight, in an attempt to keep my “Happy Mondays” vibe going (so much for that!) and I spent most of the evening hanging with two of my friends, Jane and Will, the happy couple. On Thursday nights there are live bands, and I sat on a stool half-awake watching a guy sing into a malfunctioning mike. He resembled a scruffier Keanu Reeves (if there is such a thing) and I was not very impressed. Maybe it was because I was in two places at once. I was genuinely tired, but I didn’t feel like staying in my room. Something had been eating at me the last few days and I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. On Wednesday, when I went to the drum and bass event, something about the environment stirred up feelings of extremely loneliness and separation within me, but i didn’t have an ultimate source, something I could say “yeah, that’s the reason.”
I’m taking an advanced scriptwriting class among my other classes, and I do so much writing I sometimes feel disconnected from the world itself. A classmate and I were talking about this shortly after class and I explained it like, “Sometimes I don’t know where the words end and I begin…”
As weird as that sounds, if you spent ten hours of your day doing school work that requires high mental focus, then spend the next several hours writing, it is almost as if your entire reality is what you write in that moment. When I am REALLY writing, things seem to get blurry, and I don’t feel completely whole. Mind you, this isn’t necessarily a negative thing. Its like being “in the zone”, or “on fire!” in that old NBA Jam video game.
For me, I think the worst thing to happen when i’m in that zone of disconnect is to have something break my mental momentum, and shift all of that powerful energy into another frame of thought. Lately I have mentioned one or two things about my ex-girlfriend, but she isn’t the root cause of whatever it is that i’m feeling. I think like most people, I tend to feel weird, or unappreciated based on my expectations of myself, but its the little, miniscule things that really eat at me after a while.
(these include, but are not limited to: people not replying to my text messages/phone calls, sometimes saying hello in person, not e-mailing me randomly)
I read a Craigslist post with an Aaliyah look alike who sounded like a writer for Maxim magazine. Near the end of the article she said “I’m attracted to white men. What can I say, that’s how i’m built.” In that same frame of thought, I think i’m built to think a little bit past the average, a little bit above the mundane. I’m not some crazy Socrates wannabe, walking around constantly tossing existential questions at random people, or talking dialectically.
I just think… a lot.
I think people who think a lot and don’t have that many people to interact with, either become crazy or very withdrawn. So far I haven’t experienced anything manic, or heard voices, but I have felt withdrawn at times. In the last three years i’ve worked on four scripts, and wrote over seven hundred pages of manuscript, at the same time I’ve designed roughly 37 comic strips for an idea I had called “The Cruft”, worked on a few short stories, did school and somehow didn’t explode in the process. When I think of all these things, I realize I’m not your average joe.
I’m not tooting my horn. I’m thinking its like a guy who is the star basketball player. He can’t be seen in the same way as the others are because he’s “built differently.” He will practice more, or maybe has a tad more aptitude for the game for reasons even he can’t figure. This is how I try to break down certain feelings that happen during my writing disconnect. My scriptwriting teacher said it best. “Writers are lonely people. The only person going into the writer’s room is another writer.”
I winced as I heard these words, but so far its proven to be true. Sure, no one likes to say they are lonely, but let’s say you have a lonely occupation, like writing, or manually masturbating animals for artificial insemination. Sometimes the line between the occupational hazard and actual loneliness blur. Some people would be excited that they have a stack of paper almost totaling a thousand pages that they wrote. I’m not.
I write, that’s what I do. Before the year is over, I plan to add another 150 pages to that stack. This doesn’t particularly excite me. I will be excited should I find an agent, or get a new Ipod for Christmas. Either way, i’ve digressed a bit, but all of this had led me to being sleepless tonight.
I left wonderland with my friends and headed to their place. We spoke for a moment about how funny a text message ring tone I made was, and ate some macaroni. My eyes started to get heavy and I said my goodbyes. Oddly, I ran most of the way home. I was wearing dockers and sneakers, but I felt like jogging. From Wonderland to my house is a good 25-30 minute walk. Tonight, I ran. I wasn’t sweating, or feeling excessively energetic, I actually wanted to test out my shoes which I bought for running. By the time I reached home, I realized that I just wanted to talk to someone. Not someone random, like a priest offering me a banana to come to confession and bare my soul. I wanted to talk to someone who knew me relatively well. The only person I could think of, was my ex-girlfriend.
The sad thing about this situation is that she falls into an aspect of my disconnect. I’ve always found it very hard to simply forget people and their impact on my life. I think it has to do with my memory, which I must say is above average. I remember almost everything about my life, especially the small details. My ability to remember almost everything gives me a huge palette to paint my stories with. Sometimes its a burden, because I wish I was some dense individual who could just forget a bad situation by merely choosing to. But my mind isn’t that simple (as most people’s aren’t). Little things trigger nuances over and over, spiralling and spinning, mostly in my subconscious that lead to eventual stress.
The last time I was unable to sleep was three months ago. This had to do with being really bored during the summer and eating too many carbs at night. Tonight, I couldn’t sleep, because I was thinking about my ex. I wondered if trying to communicate with her would simply bother her to no end, further adding to the complexity of me trying to talk to someone I knew, or would I find a small salvation in talking to her. I have no idea. The few friends I have, I never speak to. It is something I have never done with them. Most people I know, know little or nothing about me. I think its a fear of mine.
Either way, I wrote an EXTREMELY tentative e-mail, chronicling my current situation. I hope we’ll talk. As I write this, I’m not really feeling stressed any more, but I’m probably just tired. DC has a population of millions and in this city I know very few people. Its hard for me to think a girl I loved is somewhere nearby, only a stone’s throw away and I have no contact with her. Its a hard pill to swallow, but people do it everyday. I swallow the pill as well, but tonight, the pill is giving me a stomach ache. Hopefully knowing someone for a few years with very few confrontational moments will help me find a little of what i’m searching for.
Or i’ll just have to start going to the gym again and wishing I had half a brain so I wouldn’t be so aware of everything around me.
It’s a Wednesday, and I’m feeling limber. The week has been pretty slow, and I can easily imagine myself doing something other than sprawling in my room in my underwear, watching Television and feeling sorry for myself. I can easily to that elsewhere, spend some money and get the same result. On Monday, my cool bartender friend Jen recommended that I pass through a special event at the club she works, at Club Five, because some drum and bass gods, (LTD) would be there.
Dupont is Dc’s gay central. This is an undisputed fact. However, whenever I go out, I wear my ‘superpants’. These are the closest to tight pants I have. In Jamaica we’d say they are borderline, white guys might say they are normal, and most African-Americans would say they are tight. Regardless, when I wear the superpants, my confidence boosts by a factor of maybe 10%. Something about feeling snug in my garments gives me a sense of power, like maybe how Leonidas feels wearing his mask, or having Spartan-esque sex with his supermodel wife. I’m heading to Dupont in these pants, and no doubt most hetero men might look at me with a raised eyebrow, but whatever.
I have a quiz in the morning, and I print out a small sheet of facts to study while I take the bus to Dupont. As nerdy as this sounds, if I didn’t do this, I most likely would stay at home, studying while i’m sprawling about in my underwear feeling sorry for myself. Once I get on the bus, I don’t feel so bad, (but as the night progresses this feeling would vanish) and I read my factoids until I know all about the origins of Radio.
When we reach Dupont, I pass by a small restaurant called Japone, where a friend of mine works. Two cute Asian girls tell me he left work early to head to Five. “Five is having a really big night,” they said. “Everyone is going there!” I told them that’s where I was going as well. “Ah, so we’ll see you there.” I think one’s name was Jess, and one was Bess. Or only one was Bess.
I walk past a band of kids playing melancholy music near the Dupont Metro station and snap a few pictures. Then I head to five. The guy at the door tells me my name is not on the list. I sigh inwardly for a moment, because I saw him let not one or two, but FIVE girls in for free. I tell him I know Jen, try and schmooze a bit, but he says there’s nothing he can do. Eventually I get Jen to come down, and I pay my reduced price of ten bucks to get in.
I love drum and bass. The way the bass kicks and the variations of the sounds layered over these beats always makes me zone out. It also makes me relatively anti-social. Even though i’m wearing my superpants and a shirt that looks fresh out of Ricky Martin’s 2001 wardrobe, I’m not feeling that confident. There are two modes I’m generally in when I go out:
(1) Meet girls mode (2) Observational super-existential mode
I realize after two minutes that i’m in mood number 2. When i’m in this frame of mind I feel like a sponge. I suck in all the details, and the little nuances of everything around me, figuring out how well it would sound typewritten. The club isn’t very big, but it has a sort of bat-cave vibe to it, with a massive screen hanging precariously over the DJ area, with funny lighting that makes everything look like its covered in flowers. The first thing I notice about the drum and bass crowd, (as I always do) is the number of really cute girls of ‘other’ races with white guys. I’m not sure what the reasons are, but whenever I head to these events, I tend to see very hot black/asian/indian/mixed girls with pretty average white guys. I stand in the middle of the dance floor for a few minutes with my hands tucked into my pockets, my eyes closed and feel the bass make my ears tingle. A guy steps on my foot–this happens at least twenty times for the night, and apologizes to me. I barely nod in response. “Hey, is this LTD?” he said. I nod in agreement. He seems a little put off by my indifference to his upbeat attitude. A strikingly attractive brunette sipping on what appears to be champagne is holding his hand and eyeing him lovingly.
I dont’ feel sorry for him.
Earlier that evening, I met up with my cool Japanese friend and headed over to Andalu, a bar right beside Five. The music was jumping, but no one was there. I only followed him there because I realized that I most likely wouldn’t be meeting anyone at Five, and I had school in the morning. We met up with Ania, a gorgeous Polish girl and headed inside. My superpants were losing their power… nothing was indicating this would be a good night. My ‘Happy Mondays’ theory seemed to be losing steam after two days. Ania and Mr. Japan talked excitedly amongst themselves for a while while I stood up surveying the bar. After a few minutes I headed back into Five by myself.
These outings are always interesting for me. It surprises me how lonely one can feel in a place filled with people. I thinks its a mental loneliness, mixed with the frustration that comes with people not really knowing you. Sure, I can stroll into the club like a penguin in five-inch heels, but that doesn’t mean much if no one knows you. I found it sad that I was standing in a club thinking of ways to write about how I was standing in the club.
After a few minutes, Ania, my Japanese friend and the two cute Asian girls I met earlier at Japone are all lined up at the bar. They laugh and giggle amongst each other. I’m standing somewhere near the corner. A flash of sadness runs through my system as I see their beaming faces as everyone holds up shots and downs them. “Am I a social pariah?” my mind says to me.
“Nah.” it replies, you are just having an off day.
More like an off life.
Before I saw them at the bar, I ran into them upstairs, following them mindlessly as they had fun. The only person that approached me was a drunk-looking blonde holding a white t-shirt and a permanent marker. “My friend is getting married, what would you say to her?” she asked. I thought about it for a moment, thinking of my torturous relationships and what I thought was neglected the most as it relates to me. I scrawled, “Always remember the small things.” On the left sleeve. She beamed a smile, and dissappeared into the crowd.
LTD, the main act comes on at about 1:05 a.m to much fanfare. I move into the crowd for a few moments, then realize I have no desire to hop around and scream “Whoo!” for a group I’ve never heard of. They play good music, but my energy is too low to enjoy myself.
I float outside the club without telling anyone goodbye and walk towards the bus station. I’m having one of those moments, when everything seems dark and blurry and I feel as if i’m alone in the world. These moments usually come during Christmas, when i’m walking home and the wind is biting my ears and I can’t feel anything other than pain in my toes and the stinging that frigid air causes with my skin. Tonight I feel like that, as if i’m in a weird void where i’m not really in the world, but existing around it. Observing but not participating. Its very disturbing.
I trot about in my superpants some more, looking dejectedly at the ground. I look at a large LCD display on the side of the road. It shows 81 degrees. I get a flashback of hanging out with my ex-girlfriend (before she was my Ex, or my girlfriend) during the winter in 2004. Back then, the panel said 13 degrees. “Fuck,” I say to myself. “I can’t escape.”
I head to the bus stop, knowing no buses are coming and sit down. It is now Thursday morning in the middle of the week, and i’m sitting at a bus stop in my Superpants. I feel winded, but i’m not tired. My legs don’t hurt, my mind is clear and I’m staring into the darkness of the DC cityscape. I watch cabs go by for twenty minutes, before I decide to stop one. The first cab I approach, the man hurriedly locks his doors and tells me he doesn’t drive to 1st street, where I live. Just great I think. A black man in a shiny shirt and tight pants has a gun tucked in an unseen orfice, just itching to rob a random middle-eastern taxi driver. I am annoyed for fifteen seconds.
The next driver takes me home. On the way back, watching buildings flash by in a blur of light and sound, I still feel like i’m in a daze as if I never really went to Dupont or stood up in the presence of all those people. I felt like I was still in my room, projecting my thoughts and existing outside of myself. Nights like this I realize there is a deeper, darker sadness inside me that I must tackle. I’m on U street, fifteen or so blocks from my little apartment, and I think that there isn’t much that gives me pure joy. For some people eating gives them pleasure, or the pursuit of a woman, watching a movie, cooking, helping people, even hurting animals or breaking glass. I still can’t pinpoint my source. The last time I mentioned anything about Joy, it was to my ex-girlfriend. “You are one of the joys in my life.” I had said.
famous last words.
Now I reach home, walking towards my door in my superpants. Its 2:00 a.m and I still have work to do for class tommorrow. I may not sleep, but I want to escape this mood i’m in, and awaken, a different person, with a different direction.
Having dreams about your ex-girlfriend can be really trippy. Partly because, your mind creates these amazing, Mills and Boon-esque scenarios, with you, a stormy night, an old mill, and of course your Ex. In this dream, everything feels so real, you can almost taste her lips artificially kissing you while you roll around like ruminants on fresh hay. This dream wasn’t one hundred percent real.
I was in a tower of some sort, in a massive city, that felt very futuristic and alien. This realization was a subtle one, as I didn’t use any weird devices or super-quiet public transportation. The city felt very polished, with the kind of man-made architecture that speaks of a more advanced intelligence, maybe, twenty to fifty years from now. The background in this city was flat and gray; quiet like the back of a Church on a Monday Morning. Somewhere in the dream, my sister was a part of it. I think this is because she was the last person I spoke to for the night. We had chit-chatted about making sure to be careful online, and I was an overly protective big-brother mode.
Then there was my ex-girlfriend. Something was different about her. Her hair was wet-looking and disheveled, and she seemed a few pounds heavier. Just enough weight to give her a little more shape, but there was no gut, no protruding skin. Her eyes had a smile in them that spoke of something far away, an inner happiness that had nothing to do with me. Yet, we spoke. About what specifically, I can’t remember, but if felt very real. In this dream, like in real life, I felt slightly sad as I was in her company, because I believe my waking self remembers the real situation, where we do not interact or speak that much with one another.
As realistic as these images were, my heart was being pulled into another plane of thought. The futuristic cityscape I could see outside the window of her apartment scared me. The look in her eyes scared me, because I knew it wasn’t real. I felt like she didn’t truly know me, and my mind was playing tricks on me. Everything began to ripple around me and she held my hand, asking me something I cannot remember. Then I woke up.
I don’t like dreams like these, because I wake up feeling foolish most of the time. Like most people, I tend to assume no one else dreams about me, so if I dream about someone else, I think I’m putting too much of them in my subconscious. Even though the subconscious is a roaring sea that people seem to be able to navigate with the help of psychedelic drugs and shock therapy, I feel that sometimes we can affect our own subconscious by being the usual, sappy-type. This is the second dream I’ve had about my Ex In the last three days, but the first dream ended with her lovingly hugging a short, chubby Latin guy.
Alas, the main point of this is obvious anyways. A person can feel strange, or foolish should they dream of someone they loved, because in their mind they assume that person has so little of them on their mind, they would not dream about them either. I know what people might say to this. “So, what if they dream about you, and just didn’t tell you about it?”
Well, that’s almost like them not dreaming about you anyways. If it wasn’t for this blog, no one would know I had this dream, and since so few people read this blog, only a handful of individuals will know I had this dream. And Even so, out of that handful, MAYBE one person MIGHT… (I do mean might) understand the references in this dream. I wouldn’t mention this dream to my Ex, because that’s a pointless exercise. If you think dreaming about an Ex-girlfriend makes you needy, trust me, the phone call to her after you wake up, filled with odd pauses and stilted displays of affection will make you want to toss your cell phone into a bowl of cereal, hoping it drowns in that brownish-white pool of milk. Maybe it has to do with the last vestiges of love rearing their ugly head. But I came to a realization (on my own, so it is not founded in academic theory, just madness) that one of the hardest things about loving someone is that you can’t really just stop. You can’t bottle it up like some old Sake and put It on the shelf. You can’t just run ten miles a day and do pushups and flush all the memories of that person out of your mind. You can’t meet someone new and immediately feel saved because you have this “new” person to think about. It doesn’t work that way. A person you love gets into the fabric of your being. Many aspects of them are delicately interwoven into your subconscious and conscious mind, and this framework of thought developed over a few years. It’s like my ex-girlfriends are all a part of my skin, like little scars I can rub and fondly think about and trace their origin to a certain moment. But a girl you love is that fat, ugly scar that stands out the most. It makes you smile the most, because you can pinpoint the exact moment you got it. As that scar is forever a part of me I can instantly remember, so is my Ex.
For example, I cannot look at anything labeled “Mac” and not think of my ex-girlfriend. This will probably stay with me for the rest of my life. Also, if I think about certain moments in my life, I may NEVER not think of her during these moments. This doesn’t mean I can’t love someone else mind you, (like that will happen anytime soon), but it shows the impact people can have on you. Now I know why people are really afraid to love. It’s not the blissful happiness they are worried about, or those love-romps that make you feel like an elite athlete. It’s that after-period, when you are single, alone and traipsing about trying to live your life, filled with feelings you can’t deal with, thinking about someone you can’t be with. THAT is what makes love really scary.
Trippy eh? Alas, it is the early morning and school work beckons. My little discourses on love will have to wait till I have another dream, which hopefully won’t be anytime soon.
I have a theory. The theory goes like this:
“If Monday rocks, the rest of the week will too.” I tried implementing this little idea this week. So far, its 100% correct. I’m pretty busy, but I got some VERY good responses to my “Asian Invasion and the Jesus Cock Block” blog. I will need to go out more and find more crazy, varied situations to make people laugh and smile.
My happy Monday theory doesn’t involve drinking vodka and taking thorazine shots and rolling into class looking like a Moose in the middle of a partisan electoral debate… its more like, throwing a bag of activities into the air and hope they fall in a meadow that isn’t littered with the droppings of over-sexed rabbits. (sometimes I feel I have the metabolism of an oversexed rabbit, minus the multitudes of progeny left in the wake of my furry sexercise.)
Its more like a transference of energy. If I start the week on a good high. I smile at the toothless man giving me flyers for a political rally, I say hello to people I recognize but barely know, or I take a power-nap during the middle of the day in between classes. I do things that engineer so called “happy” feelings. This week, I went to my friend’s house, which i have labeled, the “Kentagon”. Let’s just say I had a few stilted moments trying to discuss Asian politics with a Chinese native, stuttering in my rusty Japanese with a freshman from Georgetown who’s fluent in Japanese (which drew interesting stares from Native Speakers seeing a Jamaican and a Staten Island native chatting phonetically) and downing beers while complaining about how horrible my Sony Cybershot t5 is.
But all in all, it was a good start to my week. I semi-tipsy skateboard ride back home, and listening to “This Ain’t a Scene its and Arms Race” by Fallout by 12 times pretty much set me up for a week laced with high energy activity, and a poppy-nasal earworm to keep me company. But, the Happy Mondays theory is really put to the test on Friday, as a Happy Monday, must naturally lead to an extremely interesting and even wilder Friday. If i’m downing beers, eating Jerk chicken pizza (which I helped to make) and skateboarding on Monday (all the while doing school related activities), then Imagine if I unleash myself on a Friday! Ho ho!
So, we shall see how the happy Monday theory works out. I’m watching the first episode of Heroes Season two, and i’m worried about budget cuts because so many characters have been conveniently incinerated, divorced, or relegated to one-liners. All in all, Happy Mondays to everyone!
I must go now, a paper beckons. I shall return anon.
My article for a Business Technology section of the paper ran today. I didn’t actually see it until tonight at a Budget meeting for the next week’s set of articles. It feels good to have a front page article as well as the Cartoon at the back! Boo yah!
I just did the skeleton for one of two articles i’m taking this week in a addition to my usual duties (cartoonist, writer, student, social butterfly) and i’m heading up to my friends house. My japanese friend returned from a three month vacation. There is supposed to be food and probably a few cool people to chit-chat with for an hour or two.
My friend invited me to camp out with him by Prince George’s plaza (in Maryland) for the midnight release of Halo 3. I’m tempted to do it. I have a lot of reading to do, and tommorrow is a really long day. But it’s Halo 3! School will have to take second place tonight. I will carry a travel bag, my books and snacks while I camp.
I’ve always wanted to camp out for a video game system, but I guess this will be the closest thing to that.
ciao
Its been an interesting weekend. I completed my first film shoot (With film), doing a funny short about two guys who see a box of cereal and end up battling each other nearly to death for it, and then I’ve also proven to myself that I can function on little or no sleep while maintaining proper use of my mental thingamabobs.
I watched a movie today, “Sunshine”. I have to say the movie really moved me. (say that three times fast). The last film that made me sit and think for twenty minutes after I watched it was Contact, in 1997. Something about people will to do anything for the betterment of mankind always appeals to me, but the Cinematography was amazing in the film. I’ve never seen space look so scary, like the void it really is. The film grabs you with a sort of claustrophobic flair, making you not only look at Space outside as some scary unforseen terrain, but a black hole from which there is truly no return. Either way, in light of watching this movie, I know there ar emany things in my life I contemplate, including life and death. This movie expressed to me a previous assertion I had made about the universe.
We are infinitesimally small in a infinitely large universe.
The first few times I thought about this, I felt small and unimportant, but the reality of such truths run dow two paths. I can (a) either think that I am a speck of ink on the palette which is the universe, or (b) I can know that the universe is large and wondrous, so EVERY day should be a great one, simply because existing and being sentient in an of itself is a great thing.
I haven’t thought about these things recently, but this film definitely stirred my mind up. When I was twelve or thirteen, I would get depressed because I knew I wouldn’t live to see the future that I saw in Star Trek. Later I would realize this was a silly thing to worry about, as I certainly couldn’t control the time I was born, where I was born or what my circumstances are. I simply am. Toss that statement at any contemporary philosopher and you’ll have two book deals and an appearance on The View in no time. But this thing about life… and the ups and downs and ins and outs of it, can always dissapppear. I know there are always moments when you a person “disconnects” for a while. They look at the stars, lost in imaging those balls of energy so so far away. Or when someone thinks about the REAL size of the universe. Suddenly, not having that new Ipod Touch isn’t such a big deal, and your ex-girlfriend sleeping with the guy from that History elective really isn’t that important. A lot of people believe that people are expressions of the universe’s intelligence. After all, I am aware of my existence, and I appreciate the fact that I have this heightened level of experience and choice unlike some lesser life forms below me.
(although I sometimes envy pigs, because they have 30 minute orgasms.)
But regardless of what i’m thinking now, i’ll fall back into mainstream thought soon enough. I’m wired back into the miles of underground fiber optic wires that connnect these cities, books and mainstream media will tickle my eyes and ears, and i’ll be thinking about the ten by fifteen room I live in more than the vastness of the universe.
But sometimes, its really cool to just look up at the sky, and be happy to know I know its the sky.
Deep? maybe after a few beers.
Alas, it is Saturday, and i’m a little pained up after a long day, and an even longer night. Hardcore soccer after six months of not playing will do that to any man, but going to a club and fighting the futile fight is also a pretty draining experience. (At some point in the night someone WILL be cockblocked by “Jesus”).
Ibiza is a relatively new club on first street in DC near the greyhound station. When we pull up, the line isn’t very long, but then again we are hellishly early for club time, being there at 10:05 to get in free. The first thing I notice is that at least 70% of people in the line, or working at the front are Asian. I know a Korean girl I met over the summer said she had a job at Ibiza, but I didn’t realize it was part of some, unseen Asian coalition. After a few minutes of idle conversation in the line, we enter.
I was 25% impressed. Only 25 because I don’t like going to clubs for a myriad reasons. Secondly, whne you step is there is a HUGE dounut shaped lounge area recessed into the floor. It looks pretty cool, but unless I was lucky that night, I probably wouldn’t be sitting there. I didn’t walk into the club going “wow”, but more like “hrm”. It was part warehouse meets hotel lounge.
The crowd at first was pretty mixed. A smattering of Black,White,Asian and Latino people. However, this would change drastically within only an hour of reaching the club. After another 45 minutes passed, I felt as If I was at a club in a foreign country. Almost everyone in the immediate vicinity was Asian. Many of the bartenders were hot Japanese-looking chicks, or part-time Asian male models, and a large number of the patrons on the dance floor were Asian as well. Now, I don’t mind the Asian thing, I’ve even dated a few Asian girls, but this was taking the club thing to an extreme. Not only do I dislike clubs because sometimes being a minority in certain clubs either really goes in your favor, or makes you the really awkward sweaty black guy dancing too fast in the middle of the club, but this was crazy.
I was in a majority minority situation.
I didn’t want to go to the club. I dislike clubs because they are very impersonal, overtly superficial and 99% a waste of my time. Though I might be wrong, I’m convinced that the nature of clubs only work for people who are (a) extremely attractive (b) a part of the social group in the club (c) club owners and affiliates. Either way, as the night went on my friends and I had a few stilted conversations with girls that ended up ignoring us (go figure) and then, jaded and disgruntled, I put forward the option to head to Wonderland.
Wonderland, as usual, was supposed to be my Friday night outing. Wonderland’s weird, almost Dimension X feel draws me in and makes me feel relaxed. There I know I can have fun. Big club full of cute Asian girls in the middle of DC? No chance.
When we are heading out we find out they have lost my friend’s credit card and his driver’s license. This adds another 30 minutes to our Wonderland departure time. For our wait, we are given a few bottles of water to drink( I swear someone got maced somewhere in the area, but they say that’s not club policy), but then a bouncer tells us we can’t leave the club with the bottles of water. At this point I don’t care. I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that I won’t go to a club for a long, long time. I can never understand the atmosphere. Maybe its just me. Sometimes I think I am a cell-phone/club pariah.
Yes, a pariah.
Its not the most inspiring thought, but its all I can come up with. The club scene is a bit gay. Gay in the way that makes a guy feel like a loser when really he’s only a loser at big clubs :p
We head to Wonderland and reach there around 1:45 a.m. Even at that late hour, things are still swinging and I feel like slapping myself for going to Ibiza and spending too much money on drinks that cost half the price at Wonderland. The after effects of a work-laden-patronage-out-on-the-town are obvious. People are still chatting excitedly, a lot of people are drunk, and all around people seem “happy”. I know if I had come there at 11, I might have been there just in time to meet a nice little lady, just itching to chill with a Jamaican.
Sad.
We go upstairs and my friend follows this Filipina looking girl with a great body. She was wearing something that loooked like Moccasins, which was odd for early Fall fashion, but it worked. My friend kept commenting on her ass, and how great it was. Personally, I was in a blurry place. After a long stressful week, my Friday was completely wasted. The images that kept running through my head were seeing the single Asian guys that came in, all have girls on their arms about the time we were leaving.
“Argh!” I shouted.
My friend was trying to squeeze in on the girl with the indian boots, when Jesus (I kid you not) zooms in front of him, effectively creating a wedge between them both. “Damn,” my friend said.
“I got cock blocked by Jesus.” I laughed when I heard this. The guy was the splitting image of the stereotypical white-jesus. Long hair, fuzzy beard, calm-ish demenaour sans the halo. He was wearing a faded read shirt that read “Do it for the cookies!” (whatever that meant).
Wonderland started dying down and I ended up sitting on the stoop of my friend’s place a block away in a group of five, delineating on the discourses of attractive people and how much easier their lives are(I did not initiate this conversation). We sat and we drank beers. My friend who was previously cock-blocked by Jesus found a good chatting companion in the sister of a friend of my friend. As they were talking, I could see her comfort level rising. Even being cock-blocked by Jesus wouldn’t stop him this night.
After another forty-five minutes of pointless conversation, everyone was asking for food.
“Where is some fucking food!” the sister of the friend of my friend asked me. After scratching my head a bit, we ended up going to a 7-11 up the road (but not after trying to jump and grab onto a tree branch 19 feet above us…Twice.) During this time period, the sister of the friend of my friend calls my friend “cute” and shows him definite signs of interest. He is definitely “winning” as we like to say. I smile to myself, marveling how the after effect of Wonderland is so powerful, that good things flow even when we aren’t there.
Then I remember that I haven’t been called “cute”, “attractive”, or much less anything for as long as I can remember (even when I was dating ). So again, my Friday night was a waste.
But I learned two things.
(1) There are a LOT of Asian people in DC
(2) If Jesus-cock blocks you, its to point you in the direction of something garaunteed.
Today is Saturday, hopefully I can “win” this weekend, or I will jump into a pot of boiling oil, or just watch C-Span for hours on end to torture myself.
peace
Yes, I’m going to Ibiza. Not the drug-laden island off the coast of Spain mind you. I’m talking about a posh new club in DC. I reluctantly agreed to go because on Fridays I really want to head to a spot where I think I can “win”. (meaning meet a girl, get her number and hopefully a second outing… or even a first outing, but alas, I’m not a celeb).
I’m here waiting to be picked up. I spruced up a bit especially for tonight. The hair is glistening and luxurious, I have a fresh shave with a little goatee ( I might trim it before I head out) and I’m generally feeling allright. I played some intramural Soccer earlier, and we lost 4-0.
but Maybe I’ll have a 1-0 tonight? We’ll see.
Mind of Marcus 