Oh, here it is...

There’s always that one day when you really know it’s summer in the city. You finally break down and have to turn on that window A/C unit. Everyone outside is wearing shorts and flip flops, jogging in the middle of the day. Park benches are full of readers and amateurs with digital cameras, dogs off the leash. Beat cops trying to catch drug trades and college kids sipping 22-ounce tall boys in brown paper bags. You walk into a deli for some iced coffee and ‘Little Red Corvette’ is playing on the radio. I can’t hear that song and not instantly be happy to be alive. It’s impossible. Summer makes me feel like a little kid, all snow cones, pool days, and waking up at 6am for no reason at all. Realistically speaking, however, it’s more like margaritas, bar-hopping, and getting home at 6am for no reason at all, but I digress. No matter what age you reach, your career path, your plans, the summer just has that feel of infinite possibilities. More so than ringing in the New Year or celebrating another birthday. You hear all the Hallmark descriptions about the sun shining and the flowers blooming, and you have your summer blockbuster movies, your outdoor concerts, your trips to Coney Island. Summer is all of those things, and none of them at all. It’s intangible. And it’s so necessary right now. Come fall, we’ll see this whole thing turn around.

Where is Spring?

The human condition is more of a process than a state of mind. It is developing a repertoire of addictions and fatal flaws, all of which make a person less than perfect in the eyes of idealism. We are all unwittingly fighting to be the much adored and all too eagerly martyred protagonists of our transient lives, stars of the epic novel no one will ever read. The tall tale never printed, but passed from mouth to ear and mouth to ear until our considerably mediocre lives are forgotten in a last whisper, disappearing into the thin air like hot breath. You can strive to be a hero or a villain, but for the majority of the time, you can only just be. Be confused or uncertain. Be conflicted. Be angry. Be proud. Be something or anything. Be nothing.
But you can’t ever really be whole. You shouldn’t want to be. You aren’t a piece of fruit, a pizza, or an apple pie. You are not an inanimate object that at one point is whole before it is devoured. People chase this dream of completion that simply does not exist; not in another person, a career, or a desirable amount of zero’s at the end of a paycheck. Strive. Strive. Strive. We are always striving for something instead of realizing the simplicity of it all; piecing together the enigma of ourselves as we want to be remembered. Chances are, however, that no one will be writing your name in a history book. And chances are, even if someone does, on a long enough timeline, no one will care.
I no longer want to waste time figuring things out. I don’t want to be puzzle, some novelty meant as a diversion to pass the days. A jigsaw puzzle is manufactured in hundreds of jagged little pieces. Tongues and grooves, patterns of color, all packed into a cardboard box rattling full of chaos. That is, until the puzzle is complete. You see a landscape of snow covered mountain peaks or a herd of wild horses trampling through a meadow. You see a picture that is finished. You see a frozen moment that is over and done. Sometimes you meet people that seal these puzzles in a frame for display, some sort of unorthodox makeshift diploma as proof that they have too much time on their hands. But most people, they break that puzzle apart, shove the pieces back into the box and slide it under a bed, on the shelf of a storage closet or in the dusty corner of a basement.
Nothing is complete forever, nothing is whole for eternity.
You hear stories about hunters and fisherman who pursue the quintessential catch, the ultimate game. And once they catch it, all camouflage, determination and gratification, they set it free. Because after that, there is nothing left. The future narrows down to a pinpoint. You solve the ultimate riddle and suddenly, there is nothing else. Strive. Strive. Strive. You have nothing left to strive for.
To be complete. To be whole. You are then either consumed, broken down, or inertly sealed away. It isn’t a process; it is a fleeting circumstance, not to be maintained. I don’t need to be complete, I just need to be. That’s the human condition. That’s life.

Back...

Whirlwind. It's a metaphorical tornado; all speed, force, and destruction. It's an inherently violent action, but when someone tells you they had a 'whirlwind vacation,' for some reason it seems positive. Like they had a great time. The thing about a tornado, however, is that it's indiscriminate, enveloping all in it's path, leaving nothing in it's wake. Accordingly, anytime you make such a decision, you don't necessarily have the option of picking and choosing what comes your way. I've realized that you can always change the scenery, but never the situation. Every day is some form of organized chaos, full of infinite variables, and at some point it's important to accept that for the majority, we have little control over our lives on a day to day basis. The recent recession has taught us just that. The irony is that in losing control, we seek to further abandon the idea of control. Which is why somehow, in a devastating economy, liquor sales are stabilized, maybe even improving. Liquor stores are open earlier than most restaurants, and if you walk into a bar at noon, it's probably full, the unemployed and underemployed draining their paychecks on temporary escapes by the glass. It all happens so fast, the greatest nation in the world suddenly crumbling, subtilely falling apart. I didn't choose the best time to make a move, an impulsive change, a whirlwind decision, but there is really never a good time. Nothing is ideal. There is no such thing as perfect timing, just coincidence. Luck. The bad always comes with the good, but hopefully, like a tornado, eventually the winds will die, and the storm will pass.

The little things...

There's something about Sunday. I wake up feeling like doing absolutely nothing but eating pancakes and watching movies, mostly to calm the anxiety of starting another new week the next day. So I woke up today, put on a pair of sweat pants and an old basketball jersey.

I made my cozy little comfort breakfast and proceeded to watch 'The Number 23.'




The movie is pretty nonsensical, far-fetched, and almost unwatchable after the first 15 minutes. Basically, the main character becomes obsessed with the number 23, and goes crazy turning his entire life and the world into a big math problem where everything equals 23. EVERYTHING is 23.

I've probably stretched this little story on for too long, but the point is that, being that I was pretty bored, I went to the bathroom in the middle of the movie without fear of missing anything remotely important or entertaining.




So I'm standing at the bathroom mirror washing my hands, and of course I happen to look at my reflection. Who doesn't? I'm still wearing my college basketball jersey that I had put on earlier in the morning.

What number is on the jersey?

23.

Spoooooooky, right?

Nope, instead of being creeped out I laughed hysterically to myself for 15 minutes, which is actually just about as much time as anyone should spend watching this ridiculously lame movie. But I thought the coincidence was funny.

Also, for those that don't know, Rhona Mitra (a badass better known as the original Lara Croft, Tomb raider) is one of my favorite actresses, and really, the only reason I continued watching Jim Carrey narrate his life in the slowest, most painfully monotone voice possible, was because I heard that she was in the movie. But beware, America, she is only onscreen for 5 minutes. Literally 5 minutes, and you have to watch 75 minutes of garbage just to get to it.





Please don't waste your time.

They really aren't Cheaper By The Dozen...

For the record, Nadya Suleman is a baby-hoarding psycopath. After hearing about this ridiculous single mother with 14 children, including newborn octuplets, I really have to question the sanity of America.




What angers me the most is the fact that in the greater scheme of things, she's broke. As a fellow poor person in these great United States, I'm pretty sure the last brilliant idea I could come up with would be to have 8 babies. I don't even want one baby, and right now I'm collecting spare change just to keep my chihuahua in Kibbles 'N Bits. Surrogacy, maybe. Selling my eggs, sure. But risking my wallet and my vagina for a litter of screaming poop machines is just not my cup of tea.

So now here comes this nutjob with an infant addiction and all I can think is that my income taxes are going straight to her welfare check. I'm not working 40 hours a weeek to buy government cheese for a family of 15 whose mother had 6 fertilized eggs in vitro, a.k.a on purpose. I would be much better able to stomach this debacle if she'd said she had 14 "accidents," (or "surprises" for the the faint of heart). I would even feel much more at ease if she'd said she got drunk one night, took too much heroin, not enough birth control, and had sex with 8 guys at a party. At least then I'd get a good episode of Maury Povich out of it.

You ARE the father.
You are NOT the father!



But no. This lunatic actually admits with a straight face to paying a similarly ludicrous doctor to put 6 buns in her huge, greedy oven (2 of those buns becoming twins, or biscuits?). And twice! I'm sorry lady, but unless you're Angelina Jolie, you shouldn't have 14 children. In fact, please, give her a few.

We outlaw gay marriage, create a system that takes years just for some people to adopt children, and then we let this looney tune run around grabbing up eggs and popping out babies like we're some sort of endangered species in desperate need of breeding.

We're not.
This place is crowded enough as it is.

And please stop doing interviews, this woman needs to go straight to a mental institution (which, coincidentally is where she once worked), and not appearing on the Today Show. If Pampers, or Huggies, or Gerber, or any of those breeding goods corporations start giving her endorsements and free products, I'm running straight to the animal shelter, adopting and then mating 27 cats. I'm not quite sure what point I would be proving, but the idea seems just as rational. And much cheaper. And without the tearing. Or stretching.




I'm just hoping some good can come out of this horrific incident. Perhaps it will cause a boost in the economy by creating jobs, because let's face it, she'll have to hire an entire cheerleading team of babysitters, at least half a dozen wet nurses, and a handful of nannies. When they come of age, she should seriously consider opening a sweatshop. We all know those little hands are great at cross-stitching.

If I wasn't allergic to crying, sick desperation, dirty diapers, and the smell of baby food, I might submit an application. But until then, Ms. Suleman, you and your clan are on my virtual hitlist (meaning I loathe you from afar and you should constantly feel my eyes of judgement).

Somewhere in Between...

The term limbo has several similar meanings (none of which involve a horizontal pole, embarrassment, and back-breaking flexibility). Religious people adopt the notion that limbo is some gray region on the border of Heaven and Hell, like the stuffy waiting room of afterlife. More commonly, it's simply a place or state of oblivion, a home for things that are cast aside, forgotten, or unresolved. Placed on life's transitional little backburner.

More scientifically, the word is derived from limbus, usually associated with the distinctive border between the cornea and the sclera of the eye. It's always interesting how a definition so vague can walk hand-in-hand with one so completely literal and exact.



Limbo. There's something poetic about constantly hovering on a border, a state of sheer indecision. We face it every day as we open our eyes, daylight shining onto that microscopic border just ahead of those delicate optic nerves. You can always make a decision to quit, stop trying. Or you get up and face another day.

Limbo can also be described as a place of imprisonment or confinement. Those times you feel damned if you do, damned if you don't. But you still have to choose. Limbo is never a place that can you stay, it's never really a home.

Melancholy much?

Some people say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Sometimes you are led to believe that a long time away from the place that you call home will make you appreciate the small things, the mediocrity. No. Most times a little vacation can make you recognize the voids in your life. We all have our empty spaces and our dark corners where nothing can really hide. We mask and we run, turning out lights and extinguishing candles. Fleeing back to the light of familiarity which is nothing but exactly that: what we know. It’s all about those well-placed reminders, the pint-sized intangibles like the smell of a worn out blanket or a favorite song.

You take these precautions in life to make sure that things will never bend beyond your control. I’ll have a job, and a roof over my head, and reliable transportation, and a meal in my stomach, and clothes on my back, and someone to call at night, and I’ll have some sort of purpose in this ridiculous mess that has become my existence. I’ll have good credit, and an impressive resume, and I’ll have self-confidence because nothing can ever, ever go wrong. People will like me and I will be fine.

But it’s all a mirror image. We become these characters, play these parts, build these facades and perpetuate the charades. It’s a sort of sonar. Waves bouncing back and forth to create a picture of who we really are, or who we want to be. People will tell you jokes so that you’ll think they’re funny or buy you flowers so that you’ll think they’re thoughtful. They’ll ask you about your feelings so they can appear caring and simultaneously convince others that they are a plethora of self-loathing information. He said, she said.

She’ll cry to you so that you can tell her everything will be okay, and you’ll cry back because it feels good for someone to tell you that it can only get better. Before it gets worse. I’m just beginning to question why it is that we lean on people. Why we support people that cannot reciprocate the basics of humanity. People who kick you when you’re down. People that abandon you when you are all but alone. People that will tell you lies and disguise the truth in pretty gift-wrapped packages.

So you start stacking bricks. You begin with one story, spread a layer of mortar and expand to two. You build these walls and use your self-proclaimed fortress as a reason to be dismissive of any brave soul who knocks at the castle walls. Lose yourself in the notion of being completely independent of vulnerability. So I give up. White flag.

Warm sands, palm trees, and margaritas at one o’clock in the afternoon will only teach you that you aren’t taking your life for granted. Life is taking you for granted. People in your life are mostly taking you for granted. I’m not a gambling person for the sole reason that I don’t have much to gamble. But I’d bet that eliminating negative people is a lot more profitable than eliminating life. And vacations are fantastic.