tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202303335251038982024-02-06T20:29:55.377-08:00Post-amblesMickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-72117541081403404882015-05-06T08:11:00.001-07:002015-05-06T08:11:04.296-07:005 Stages of Building a Fire<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: ff-tisa-web-pro, serif; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 1.9em; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
1. Denial</div>
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OK, a few more pieces of rolled-up newspaper and we should be good to go. No Eagle Scout skills needed here, thanks, David; why don’t you go find us a log to sit on? Mickey has the fire situation on lock. <span id="more-541" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>First the tinder (kindling?) catches, then the kindling (tinder? underbrush?) catches, then the… big sticks. Then it’s s’more time! Hey Alison, let me cook your marshmallow for you; yeah it gets super chilly out here, come get closer to the fire. MY fire. The match I tossed in the middle is just biding its time. That’s how fires work. The longer it takes for the flames to appear, the bigger they end up. Maybe a breath or two, down real low, that ember touches that leaf, the inexorable chain reaction becomes a wild elemental dance. Why, yes Alison, I do think fire is entrancing! Sorry about the wet log, David’s idea, haha. Here, you can sit on my lap if you want. Just a few more breaths. Just one more match right by the… kindling? Flint? I can feel your eyes watching me, David; maybe use your Eagle Scout skills and whittle yourself a clue: I got this.</div>
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2. Anger</div>
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Why. WHY? Cavemen could do this without matches! No, David, I didn’t use the “cabin method” or the “teepee method,” what is this, feng shui? I used the “this stuff is flammable let’s light it on fire” method. Why aren’t you burning? People light stuff on fire by accident all the time; why is it so much harder to do it on purpose? Smoke? HOW CAN THERE BE SMOKE AND NO FIRE. That’s like, the conservation of matter, isn’t it? It’s the rules of who goes first in checkers. Yes, David, there’s plenty of kindling. It’s right by the… nexus. C’mon, little sticks. Catch. Catch! Haha, yeah, no worries Alison, just a few more seconds. Catch!</div>
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3. Bargaining</div>
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Please. I’ll do anything. Just please start burning. Do you want my shirt? I’ll flap my shirt until my arms fall off. I’ll kill Smokey the Bear, he’s your enemy, right? I promise I’ll never take fire for granted if you just light up. I’ll offer David the dry log. Do… do you want gasoline? Tie me to a mountain and let an eagle eat my liver every day, just please let me make s’mores with Alison and let David get poison ivy in the middle of his back.</div>
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4. Depression</div>
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Nothing matters. No, I will not put my shirt back on, David, I am sweaty from blowing on unresponsive sticks. Apparently that can happen. No, Alison, I wouldn’t like any bug spray. The mosquitos deserve my blood more than I do. I’m going to go find a s’more stick. I hope I get eaten by a bear. At least there’s fire in hell.</div>
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5. Acceptance</div>
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Good job, David. Yes, please pass the marshmallows. No, I don’t mind this wet log. You two look comfy over there. We all have our roles to play. David can be the fire guy. I’m more of an ideas man. In fact, I think I may go to sleep soon. We better get up early if I’m gonna show you guys how to catch a fish.</div>
Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-71337802878315102562012-08-19T10:20:00.002-07:002012-08-22T10:39:33.584-07:00House Cup<i>Open on Hogwarts Great Hall. End of year ceremonies. BRANDON GOLDTHWAIT, a first year Ravenclaw, is excited. AMELIA PINDLESTAFF, a 5th year Ravenclaw, is not.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
BRANDON<br />
All right, we did it! Ravenclaws are number one! Woo!<br />
<br />
AMELIA<br />
No we didn't. We didn't do anything.<br />
<br />
BRANDON<br />
What do you mean, Amelia? We won the House Cup and it's not even close! See? We're 200 points ahead of the runner-up!<br />
<br />
AMELIA<br />
It doesn't matter. I hate to break it to you, first-year, but we won't win.<br />
<br />
BRANDON<br />
What do you mean? Did someone get in trouble? I hope not, I worked like a House-Elf off for those points.<br />
<br />
AMELIA<br />
No, it's nothing to do with us. It's them. [gestures to Gryffindor bench.] Gryffindor always wins.<br />
<br />
BRANDON<br />
Gryffindor? But they're in last. And I believe some of their students ran afoul of the administration - broke quite a few rules.<br />
<br />
AMELIA<br />
Just shut up and watch.<br />
<br />
<i>DUMBLEDORE takes the podium.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
DUMBLEDORE<br />
Ah, my dear weezlewumps and gullyfrogs, alas, alas, the end of the year has come and so it is time to distribute the prized House Cup. If you will direct your eyeballs to the standings, you will see: Ravenclaw: 1216, Slytherin: 983, Hufflepuff: 881, and Gryffindor: 540. Congratulations, Ravenclaw.<br />
<br />
<i>Listless cheer from the Ravenclaw bench, with the exception of BRANDON, who cheers loudly.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
DUMBLEDORE<br />
And yet, magic is full of tricks and caprices, and things like mathematics can not be considered as they are in the Muggle world. Therefore, we have a few last-minute points to award.<br />
<br />
BRANDON<br />
What? Last-minute points?<br />
<br />
AMELIA<br />
Here we go...<br />
<br />
DUMBLEDORE<br />
First, to Miss Hermione Granger, who proved that in a pinch, an intellect is an able substitute for a wand - we award 100 points.<br />
<br />
<i>Gryffindor bench cheers. Other benches grumble.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
BRANDON<br />
Oh well, Hermione is very smart. But I though her wand was confiscated after she threw it at a professor; that shouldn't count.<br />
<br />
DUMBLEDORE<br />
Next, to Ronald Weasley, who, in the end, let his virtue win out over his jealousy, and his fortitude triumph over his insecurity, we award 120 points.<br />
<br />
<i>Gryffindor bench cheers again. Other benches begin to mutter protests.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
BRANDON<br />
That's an awfully vague reason to give out 120 points! I revamped the castle drainage system and only got 50.<br />
<br />
AMELIA<br />
I told you, this thing is a farce. Boo, Dumbledore! Boo!<br />
<br />
DUMBLEDORE [overriding]<br />
Magic can sometimes cloud the difference between what is right, and what is good. And to delineate between a friend, and an acquaintance. To Mr. Neville Longbottom, for divining said differences, we award 150 points.<br />
<br />
<i>Gryffindor bench cheers even louder, as other benches begin chanting "You suck!" "Re-count!" etc.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
AMELIA<br />
We're just pawns in his sick game. Get it over with, you hack!<br />
<br />
BRANDON<br />
Well, surely that's all the points he can give out without seeming completely biased.<br />
<br />
DUMBLEDORE<br />
A frown is an upside down smile, but it is equally important to remember that a smile is an inside out frown. For that we award Colin Creevey 75 points.<br />
<br />
BRANDON<br />
THAT MAKES NO SENSE.<br />
<br />
DUMBLEDORE<br />
Laughter may not always be the best medicine, but then again...50 points to the Weasley twins!<br />
<br />
AMELIA<br />
Are you kidding me? They beat up a first year for ruining one of their punchlines.<br />
<br />
DUMBLEDORE<br />
Gigglesnorts and rumplestacks may quarrel in the moonlight, but hey-blibber junebugs run the triangle offense. In sum, 80 points to Rubeus Hagrid, and by association, Gryffindor!<br />
<br />
<i>Great Hall is in an uproar.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
BRANDON<br />
He's just making up words! He's giving points arbitrarily to teachers and making up words! HOW IS THIS JUST?!<br />
<br />
DUMBLEDORE<br />
Silence, my guinea pigs. Well, those are all the points that I had to give out; it seems Ravenclaw has won with 1216, while Gryffindor trails with 1215.<br />
<br />
<i>DUMBLEDORE winks and smiles at HARRY POTTER, who winks and smiles back. HARRY sneezes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
DUMBLEDORE<br />
Bless you!<br />
<br />
HARRY<br />
Thank you!<br />
<br />
AMELIA<br />
FUCK YOURSELVES.<br />
<br />
DUMBLEDORE<br />
Ahhhhhhh, gratitude. "Thank you" truly is a magical phrase. 2 points to Gryffindor, Gryffindor wins!<br />
<br />
<i>Gryffindor bench explodes with cheers. RON gets up on the table and starts doing the "suck it" motion to the Ravenclaw bench. HERMIONE conjures a giant middle finger to wave in the air. Professors all dance and clap for Gryffindor. Gryffindor bench starts singing "na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey hey hey, goodbye!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
BRANDON<br />
I'm transferring.<br />
<br />
<b>[Blackout.]</b>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-71450437537880021432012-08-18T09:45:00.001-07:002012-08-18T09:45:06.781-07:00Dick Tattoo<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>JACK, a 20-something office drone, is working at his desk with his headphones in.</i><br /><br />JACK [singing]<br />Wake me up inside, wake me up inside, call my name and save me from the dark.<br /><br /><i>ETHAN, a similarly aged office drone, runs in.</i><br /><br />ETHAN<br />Psst. Jack. Jack!<br /><br /><i>He grabs JACK’s shoulders; JACK jumps.</i><br /><br />JACK<br />Whoa, hey, man, you scared me! [he pats his shoulder and realizes they are dry]. Did you wash your hands?<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Doesn't matter dude, listen! I was at the urinal when Mr. Frankle came in, and I saw his dick.<br /><br />JACK<br />What? Why?<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Shut up! He has a CARLY RAE JEPSEN tattoo on his dick.<br /><br />JACK<br />A what?<br /><br />ETHAN<br />You know, Carly Rae Jepsen? Call Me Maybe?<br /><br /><i>JACK shrugs.</i><br /><br />ETHAN [sings reluctantly]<br />Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number-<br /><br />JACK<br />Oh, right right. Wait, dude, that's ridiculous. He's 60, no way he has any sort of dick tattoo. It was probably a liver spot.<br /><br />ETHAN<br />I know what I saw! She had bangs - liver spots don't have bangs!<br /><br />JACK<br />OK, fine, suppose our boss, Mr. Frankle, has a Carly Rae Jepsen dick tattoo. Who cares? It's not a big deal.<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Because I HAVE THE EXACT SAME TATTOO, Jack. That's how I recognized it.<br /><br />JACK<br />WHAT?!<br /><br /><i>AMANDA enters.</i><br /><br />AMANDA<br />Hey, would you guys keep it down?<br /><br />JACK<br />Wait a second, Amanda. Ethan, what are you saying?<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Mr. Frankle and I have the exact same dick tattoo.<br /><br />AMANDA<br />The Carly Rae Jepsen tattoo?<br /><br />JACK<br />How do you know about it?!<br /><br />AMANDA & ETHAN<br />Christmas party.<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Look, none of that matters. I'm scared about what this means, guys. Is Mr. Frankle my long-lost father?<br /><br />JACK<br />You KNOW who your father is.<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Maybe we're meant to be best friends. Maybe we're part of a secret society.<br /><br />AMANDA<br />I hope not - he smells like a WetNap.<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Look, regardless, I gotta confront him.<br /><br />JACK<br />No, you don't! Your basing this off one errant glance in a bathroom - he doesn't have a Carly Rae Jepsen dick tattoo!<br /><br />AMANDA<br />Let him be Jack. I think it's fate.<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Thanks, Amanda.<br /><br /><i>MR. FRANKLE enters.</i><br /><br />ETHAN<br />Mr. Frankle, I have to talk to you about something.<br /><br />JACK<br />Don't do this man...<br /><br />ETHAN<br />I believe we have the same Carly Rae Jepsen dick tattoo. I saw yours at the urinal and I have the same one. I don't know what this means but I figured you'd understand. We're kindred spirits, Mr. Frankle.<br /><br /><i>Beat.</i><br /><br />FRANKLE<br />Are you crazy?!<br /><br />ETHAN<br />Sir?<br /><br />FRANKLE</span><div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">That's preposterous! I don't even know who that is!<br /><br />ETHAN<br />You know, [singing nervously] Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy-<br /><br />FRANKLE<br />You’re fired, you pervert! Get out of my office!<br /><br />ETHAN<br />But sir, the tattoo…<br /><br />FRANKLE<br />I have never had a Carly Rae Jepsen tattoo on my penis, you freak! Just be glad I’m not pressing charges for ogling my privates!<br /><br /><i>ETHAN leaves. The others are silent.</i><br /><br />FRANKLE<br />What kind of sicko would mistake Megan Fox for Carly Rae Jepsen? [looking down, pats his crotch.] There, there, Megan.<br /><br /><b>[BLACKOUT]</b></span><br /></div>
Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-48573363769348364952012-08-15T06:58:00.001-07:002015-04-28T09:26:42.154-07:00Three Letters to Myself<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Dear Me in the future,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
What’s up? How are you?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
It’s me from the past, which you probably knew.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I’m writing 'cause soon we’ll be one and the same</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
And I’m wondering things: does our wife take our name?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
That is, will we marry? Will we procreate?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I’m trying to get, here, a sense of my fate.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Do we end up bald? (I guess I mean “when”)</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Do we climb up the sea cliffs of Eire again?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
And how are my parents? Are they still around?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Do we still jam to techno or is it just sound?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
What job are we in? Do we find it fulfilling?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Do we live day-to-day or do we make a killing?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Sorry for this interrogative glut,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I’m dying to know all the who’s ,why’s and what’s!</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I don’t know how you’ll send it, Please write back fast.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Ours, very truly,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
You (Me) from the past.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Dear Me in the past,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
My, how long has it been?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I’d call you “my friend” but we’re closer than kin.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I was tickled to get your inquisitive note</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
And even more so when I saw what you wrote.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
You want to know how our whole life turns out,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
But there’d be no fun in removing all doubt!</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Plus I don’t want to mess up the space-time continuum</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
But I do love your letters, by all means continue ‘em.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I’m afraid you must wait and find out on your own.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
You’re done growing up but you’re still far from grown.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I’ll give you this, kid, you got plenty of gumption,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
So do us a favor: trim your candy consumption.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to our bed.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
I’ll see you quite soon!</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Love,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Me up ahead.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16.5px;">
Hey Me from the future,</div>
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It’s earlier me.</div>
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I just got your letter: still an asshole, I see.</div>
Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-5939651500250098752012-08-13T09:54:00.002-07:002012-08-15T06:58:59.980-07:00Post 44<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Now here's a little story I've got to tell</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">About three right-wingers you know so well</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It started way back in history</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">With Paul Ryan, Adelson, and me - Romney</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Had a horsey named Rafalca for financial gain</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Just me and my horsey and a job at Bain </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Stuck in a quagmire, because of who I fired </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Didn’t want the blame – retroactively retired </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">One lonely Romney I be</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All by myself without nobody</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The campaign is beating down on my Touch of Gray</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The polls are gettin' hot, I’m not sure what to say.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Lookin' for a mate I ran into a guy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">His name is Paul Ryan, I said, "Howdy" he said, "Hi"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He told a little story that didn’t sound legit </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Seven terms in Congress and he’s looking to quit</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The hour was at hand, I lacked a running mate </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">His voice was hoarse, he whispered “I can guarantee my state” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He said, "Can it be me?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I said “let’s wait and see.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Had a chance to leave</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He denied my reprieve</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He was quick to the point, I thought I was trapped </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He put his face up next to mine and this is what he rapped,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Now my name is Paul Ryan and I hate the urban poor </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I think you know your polling sucks it’s time for something more </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Now what do we have here: a Mormon with gay fear;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I’ll help you out and raise your clout: I make myself clear?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">We stepped into the wind, in chilly Wisconsin, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">You think this campaign's over but it's ready to begin</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"Now I got the looks, you got the dough</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">You got two choices of how this will go </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It's not a tough decision as you can see</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">You can lose the Christian fundie’s or you’ll run with me"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I said, I'll run with you if you can sway the middle classes</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The left is blasting me for what I did to the masses</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I did it for fun, I did it for sport </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I even hoped that they would self deport </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">So I'm getting burned, they want my returns </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And right about now it's time to let them yearn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The King Romney that is my name</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And I know this fly guy who can fund our campaign."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">We flew to Vegas in a private jet </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The beat was vanilla and the girlies? Upset. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">This dude was staring like he knew all our thoughts </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">We took the empty spot next to him at the slots</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Paul Ryan said, "Yo, you know this robber baron?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I said, "I didn't." but it became apparent </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The dude said, "Get ready cause this ain't funny</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">My name's Sheldon A. and I have too much money."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Pulled out his wallet put it in my hand </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He yelled, "Pander to me!" to make sure I’d understand </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Funding uproar was being incited </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Sheldon bit back by citing Citizen’s United</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"I'm Sheldon A. and I get respect</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Corporate tax breaks is what I expect"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Paul Ryan was with it and he's my mate</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">So I said I’d fight for DOMA and a flat tax rate </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Don’t Ask Don’t Tell is back, the job growth stopped </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">We used to have health care, but that got dropped.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">This is just a scary and yet cautionary note</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">But Mitt will take the White House, unless you vote.</span></div>
<br />Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-63200079854322731462011-08-28T12:32:00.000-07:002011-08-28T12:58:54.212-07:00Post 43For the second time in my life, I'm super scared about the impending change (the third time if you count when my mom first made pierogis for dinner). I've got driving directions up to Boston to look for a place to live (to <i>live! </i>Without a deadline or a meal plan or parents) and a U-haul reserved to cart most of my room at home up to wherever it is that I end up.<div>
<br /></div><div>I don't cook well. I'm not good at doing laundry so that my clothes don't wrinkle. I've never written a check. I'm expecting to get to work (to <i>work!</i> At a 9-5 job!) and they will realize I'm still a kid. Wearing a buttoned shirt won't fool anybody.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>It was nice to see so many friends at Haverford and Bryn Mawr, but it put a hole in my stomach to watch them beginning another academic year (which is no longer how I will measure my calendar, unless I start teaching or have kids). Ain't no primal scream out here. Kids, savor every single day. There's always something good happening there. I gotta stay in touch with these dudes (at the risk of being one of those hangers-on, willing to sacrifice my image for another dinner with the gang). It took me four years to make these friends, I worked hard at this! I can't give em up that easily.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I can foresee this new life as one where I get in shape, get cultured, become fashionable and enviable and perform standup comedy for roaring audiences. I can also foresee watching a lot of Starcraft gamecasts and eating a couple of jars of peanut butter a week and forgetting to rip pages off a one-a-day calendar.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>So I guess I gotta be a "man" now.</div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-61931541782997513782011-08-11T20:01:00.000-07:002011-08-11T20:02:54.237-07:00Post 42<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal; ">Finding Oneself</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal; ">Pt. 2</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">Back in the bathroom, Brian had gotten back to his feet, swaying. He had calmed himself down, tried to logic his way back down to earth. He splashed a little water on his face, saw that there were no paper towels, and used his sleeve. He pushed through the bathroom door and crept back to his seat, casting a wary eye toward the librarian, who merely sniffed. Brian sat down and looked back at the blog. There was the description of his flight to the bathroom. He reached down without looking and pulled the gum off the seat of his pants, rolling it between his fingers and pressing it to the underside of the desk. He noted that his action with the gum was recorded in the blog and glanced around at the rest of the library. A couple of kids were bent over an SAT prep book, an old man with calf socks pulled up squinting at a book title, and a young woman in her thirties asleep at another computer – no one looked like they were watching him and transcribing his movements. Brian turned back to the computer. It was crazy, and he knew it was crazy, but he was a writer and writers have to embrace a little craziness. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Hello?” He whispered. The sleeping woman grunted, making him jump. “Can you hear me?” Brian scrolled down to see his query. It was there, but there was no good answer, since I’m not sure what to tell him. I mean, I can read what he’s saying but I can’t technically hear him. Besides, what good is it if I can? “Ah HA!” Brian yelled. The librarian shot up. “Young man, if you cannot control yourself you will have to leave!” Brian sat back, cowed. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said meekly. Quietly, he murmured “ah-HA! You CAN hear me!” Well, not technically. “All right,” Brian said, “but the point remains.” And he was right, I suppose. The librarian’s interruptions were getting tiresome, so it only made sense to point out to all readers that we can “hear” Brian just as well if he thought his comments instead of speaking them. <i>You know I’m reading this, too, right? </i>Thought Brian. I did, obviously, which is why I wrote it. <i>Hey, no need to get touchy</i>. Brian frowned. <i>Are you some kind of God?</i> Which was another interesting question. Since the story is in a third person narration, it would suggest that as the author I retain some sort of authoritative control over the story. However, several prominent writers recently have advanced the theory that writers should simply start stories moving and then see where they go. In that regard, and in the sense that I am a little taken aback by the audacity of the questions, I cannot claim to foresee every detail. On the other hand, it is absurd to say I was taken aback, since I had planned for Brian to ask these questions. <i>All right, all right, </i>Brian thought. <i>I don’t need to know everything about it. You’re clearly not omnipotent. But then, what does that mean about me? The title says this is a metafiction. Am I real?</i> Brian tried to remember anything before the beginning of the blog entry and was surprised to realize that he could, with great clarity, recall a number of details from his past. He remembered eating Ice Pops with a bandaid on his knee in early summers, his mom sobbing at his high school graduation, and the toast he had eaten that morning. <i>OK, </i>he thought, <i>this clearly isn’t a </i>Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead <i>scenario. But that past does seem a little canned.</i> Brian realized he didn’t have a very strong emotional reaction to his past. <i>So</i>, he thought, <i>I’m fictional? Like in </i>Stranger Than Fiction? Brian was annoyingly quick on the reference, despite the obvious differences in the plot setup. There were similarities, but Brian was relieved to read that I had no intention of killing him off. It would be an act of literary suicide, since Brian’s character had a lot of the author in him. <i>Really? </i>Thought Brian. <i>What are you like in real life? </i>But there was no reply. Apparently the author hoped to maintain a level of mystique.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">*********************************************</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal"> In Part 3, hopefully we get less pedantic</p>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-73669810182957298622011-08-08T19:04:00.000-07:002011-08-08T20:26:36.026-07:00Post 41<div style="text-align: center;">Finding Oneself</div><div style="text-align: center;">A metafiction</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Part 1</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The writer's name was Brian Business Cartwright, and he was smiling. The first of these two facts should be enough to convince the reader that this is, indeed, a work of fiction: the second -that a man who stakes his livelihood on the creative process was caught smiling - suggests we may already have traversed into fantasy. Let me qualify first that Brian's smile was reserved; in a public library, grinning too widely can be more disruptive than a loud fart. But Brian couldn't contain himself. After reading the email twice, it was a considerable act of restraint that he hadn't run laps around the stacks hooting. Up until today, Brian hadn't had any aspirations for the success of his blog; he wasn't sure anyone was reading it. At his most cynical, he had felt as though he were slinging his modest reviews into the landfill of the Internet, maybe someday to act as a compost heap for the truly talented. But <i>The New Yorker</i>? Contacting him out of the blue and offering him a position as a columnist? Brian thought it might have been a hoax. It wasn't: Brian found nothing fishy about the email, and at this point he didn't recognize it as a flimsy plot device.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>For Brian Business Cartwright, this offer represented a victory on several fronts. It meant validation for the months in front of his computer, eating Cheetos and staining his keyboard orange. Brian was worried about the physical toll his chosen profession was taking - he often pinched his sides, unhappily pulling at the meat of his stomach and letting it slap back into place. When he reads that sentence, he'll blush in embarrassment, and he'll do it again. The job offer also gave Brian an answer to the question that had started in his parent's mouths and settled into their eyes: "what's your plan, then?"</div><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Brain's parents had given him his middle name as an unsubtle suggestion for his future career plans, and both were quietly dismayed at his decision to pursue a "creative profession," a phrase Brian's father took as a euphemism for not moving out. When Brian had pointed out the new irony of his middle name, his parents tightened their lips and shared a glance that said <i>this was your clever idea. </i>Bound by their promise to respect their son's decisions, Kerry and Marsha turned to "what's your plan, then?" to attempt to reinstate some order into their son's chaotic career pursuits. Marsha, particularly, wielded the phrase like a whip when she caught Brian on Facebook, letting it fly across his flinching shoulders and curling the inflection downward for more sting. For all this, the job offer represented a chance for Brian to stand in defiance. But enough explanation; Brian knows all this anyway.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Brian stepped outside and called home, giving his mom the good news. Her genuine enthusiasm and pride irked him a little bit - he kind of wanted to rub it in. He returned to his monitor to read through the email one more time. Little aftertremors of energy pulsed through him as he took note of the salary, the benefits, the hours. At the bottom, he noted that the offer was contingent on passing a "brief background screening," which didn't concern Brian much. He had a clean record through college and didn't hold any political views, much less extremist ones. To be safe, he typed his name into the search bar, little knowing how much he was advancing the story. The predictable results popped up first: his Facebook profile, his blog (he smiled at it), a record of his time fencing for Wesleyan. Beneath these, Brian caught his name in a blog with an unfamiliar URL. He clicked, expecting a friend's prank. Instead, he found this entry, the one you're reading now. It takes him a little while to get caught up, so you and I will take a quick paragraph break before resuming the past tense.</div><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>A teen at a nearby table who had been watching Brian as he scrolled through this story cracked her friends up later, telling them about a constipated maniac in the library computer bay, since that is what Brian resembled. The teen might have taken a kinder tone had she known what kind of existential pressure Brian was under, but teenagers are cruel, so she might not have. Brian's hands were shaking. "What the fuck <i>is </i>this?" he muttered too loud, earning him a glare from the librarian working at the circulation desk. As he read the previous sentence, he leapt up and stifled a yelp, which earned himself a second glare and a shushing. It was too much - Brian got up and walked to the bathroom with as much aplomb as he could muster. He sank down to the floor of the stall, shaking and running his hands through his hair. He sat on a piece of gum, but didn't realize until returning to his desk and read about it. Slumped against the ceramic tiles, Brian Business Cartwright tried to wrap his head around what he had read. At first, it had seemed like a weird joke: maybe, he had thought as he read, it was a bizarre practical joke from <i>The New Yorker's </i>staff. Maybe they wrote them for all the new columnists. It was improbable, but it was Brian's best attempt at rationalizing a scarily accurate and up-to-date account of his actions. His resolve had begun to weaken at the phrase "landfill of the Internet," as <i>he </i>had written that verbatim in a private journal and was proud of how it sounded. He cracked at the mention of pinching his sides and had skimmed the next few paragraphs in a daze until hitting the mention of the librarian. While Brian was coming to grips in the bathroom, this same librarian marched over to Brian's computer and peered at the screen. As she knew nothing about him, however, the philosophical implications of the blog entry were lost on her. Her only revelation, as she returned to her seat, was that 20-somethings are crazy, which wasn't particularly profound.</div><div style="text-align: left;">*******************************************</div><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In <b>Part 2</b>, Brian gets his legs under him a little bit and establishes contact with us.</div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-56455630414584893832011-08-06T19:47:00.000-07:002011-08-07T21:45:22.471-07:00Post 40I spent a good four hours today sorting through old photos and mail in dusty boxes. As the oldest child, my youth coincided and caused the zenith of my parents' enthusiasm for photography and recording memories. Photo after photo shows me wide-eyed and staring into the camera; my parents, slightly fuzzier, loom in the background.<div><br /></div><div>As a kid, I couldn't smile in photographs. I could laugh, and I was happy most of the time, but my mom would get behind the lens and I'd lose the feeling in my mouth. "Smile!" she'd say, and I'd stretch my lips, squint and clench my teeth. This would reignite the continual argument between my mom and I. "That's not a smile!" she'd say, and I'd get defensive. We'd get frustrated, me for my facial failings and my mom for wasting film. Thankfully, as my siblings filled out the ranks of my family, the pressure was more evenly distributed. Georgi is her own harshest critic in photographs, and Miles laughs in each shot, his face manic. For my mom, each additional child in the frame made the difficulty of capturing unanimous smiles exponentially more difficult.</div><div><br /></div><div>I got better with age. Unlike many, I was proud of my braces and beamed in the school pictures. In middle and high school, my circle of friends didn't carry many cameras between them, so photos were sort of a special occasion for me. As my mouth shaped up in still life, my eyes got sloppy - I alternated between a bug-eyed, "crazed killer" grin and a half-lidded, "substance abuse" smirk.</div><div><br /></div><div>For a while in college, I took a stand against silly faces. Maybe it was prematurely curmudgeonly of me, but I couldn't imagine looking back and being happier with crossed eyes than a real smile.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm finally getting comfortable with smiling naturally in photos. Now, if I could only do something about my hair...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-18612834721126579642011-07-26T20:30:00.000-07:002011-07-26T20:34:37.549-07:00Post 39<div>A List of Uncomfortable, Accurate Euphemisms for My Dancing</div><div><ul><li>Bopping</li><li>Boppin'</li><li>Grooving</li><li>Grooving to the beat</li><li>Grooving to the Boogie</li><li>Boogeying to the beat</li><li>Letting my feet do the talking</li><li>Busting a move</li><li>Cutting a rug</li><li>Getting down</li><li>Getting down on the floor</li><li>Getting down with my bad self</li></ul></div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-12214081907562643172011-07-25T17:45:00.000-07:002011-07-25T19:50:11.954-07:00Post 38<div>Date a Mathematician<div><br /></div><div>(after reading Chris Warnke's "You Should Date an Illiterate Girl")</div><div><br /></div><div>Date a mathematician because he is unfamiliar with how things like dating are done nowadays and so he will bind himself to archaic chivalry. He will open doors and pull out chairs and offer you his jacket if you look cold. He will not staunch your tears with platitudes but he will give you a shoulder and a tissue. He will call your father "sir" until he is asked to stop. He will write halting, sincere letters. He will apologize. He may cut his spaghetti.</div><div><br /></div><div>Date a mathematician because you will never be his muse. He will take you off the pedestal and make popcorn.</div><div><br /></div><div>Date a mathematician because he will drink in the curve of your smiles and frowns, the angles of your elbows, and the sinusoidal sway of your hips. He will not compare your freckles to stars in the sky, but he will think of scatterplots and smile to himself. He will lack the vocabulary to express the magnitude and direction of his sentiments, so he will make vectors from his eyes and tell you he is speechless. He will explore the topology of your skin, inquisitive fingertips tracing your contours.* He will recognize your patterns, your causality, and remember them. He will amuse himself by synchronizing his breathing with yours when you are folded against him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Date a mathematician because he will show you unfinished work eagerly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Date a mathematician because he equates simplicity with elegance and beauty. He will have late nights at work, red-rimmed and drooping, but he will always always smile to see you. He will know which note should come next, even if he cannot sing it. He will light up when he explains that two asymptotic lines grow infinitely close and never intersect. He will describe fractals by saying that every part contains the whole, and then draw a crude one to reinforce his words.</div><div><br /></div><div>Date a mathematician because he look up a recipe online to surprise you with cookies, and when you come in and see him chiseling the lumps of dough from the baking sheet, he will raise eyebrows full of flour and laugh.</div></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OrL8gpCF46A/Ti4rM1AFuJI/AAAAAAAAAD8/k4ofE2-FKeE/s1600/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-07-25%2Bat%2B22.46%2B%25233.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OrL8gpCF46A/Ti4rM1AFuJI/AAAAAAAAAD8/k4ofE2-FKeE/s320/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-07-25%2Bat%2B22.46%2B%25233.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633487683272947858" /></a><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Date a mathematician because contours were math's domain, before literature swept in like a magpie to feather its nest.</span></span></div></div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-21165517638447114012011-07-20T18:22:00.000-07:002011-07-20T18:29:31.028-07:00Post 37<div align="center">Catwalk</div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><em>Lights up on three male construction workers sitting on a wall or girder or something. They are eating their lunches.<br /><br /></em>ROSCO [to FRANK]<br />See, the nice thing about working in this neighborhood is your lunch break turns into quite the little parade.<br /><br />BARRY<br />Yeah, the salary may not be great, but the “fringe benefits” [he makes the quote marks around while holding his sandwich] are a pretty sweet deal.<br /><br />FRANK<br />I gotcha; the trim is nice, then?<br /><br />ROSCO<br />Oh my goodness, you should see the skirts that come through this way. Hubba hubba!<br /><br /><em>ROSCO and BARRY start a cartoonish series of wolf-whistles and expressions of desire. FRANK laughs along with them. ROSCO stops abruptly as a woman enters and crosses the stage. </em><br /><br />ROSCO<br />Woah boys, look at what we have here!<br /><br />BARRY<br />Sweet Criminy, take a look at that neckline!<br /><br />ROSCO<br />Baby, it’s a good thing my imagination ain’t hungry, because that skirt is leaving nothing to it!<br /><br />BARRY<br />I feel like I gotta pay whoever made that top, o wow!<br /><br />FRANK<br />Yeah, baby, shake those cans!<br /><br />BARRY [horrified]<br />Woah, Frank, what’s the matter with you?!<br /><br />ROSCO<br />Our apologies ma’am, this man does not speak for us.<br /><br /><em>The woman exits. BARRY and ROSCO turn on a confused FRANK.<br /></em><br />ROSCO<br />Geez, you’re a pig!<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">FRANK<br />What’d I do?<br /><br />BARRY<br />Frank, you were a real asshole to that lady.<br /><br />FRANK<br />I was just joining in!<br /><br />ROSCO<br />Never mind that, here comes another one! You mind your manners this time, new guy.<br /><br /><em>Another woman enters and crosses the stage in the same manner.<br /></em><br />BARRY<br />Ooh sweetheart, those hiphugger jeans are giving me the sweats!<br /><br />ROSCO<br />Lose the blouse, baby, and let’s take a look at the goods underneath!<br /><br />BARRY<br />Yeah baby, what kind of panties you got on? They got a lacy trim around them? You got hipsters on? Tangas? Control briefs? I’m dying here!<br /><br />FRANK<br />Yeah, let’s see that butt, sugar!<br /><br />BARRY<br />Wow, you chauvinist. Why don’t you just chop her up like so much meat?<br /><br />ROSCO<br />Please lady, pay no attention to this chowderhead. He's got a head full of chowder.<br /><br /><em>The woman exits. Again, ROSCO and BARRY turn on FRANK. </em><br /><br />ROSCO<br />You keep this up, Frank, and I’m gonna report you to the foreman.<br /><br />FRANK<br />I’m sorry guys, I don’t understand!<br /><br />BARRY<br />You're a real piece of work, insulting the fine women of our city.<br /><br />FRANK<br />I’m only doing what you guys are doing!<br /><br />ROSCO<br />Don’t try to put us on your level; we’re not objectifying these beautiful ladies.<br /><br />BARRY<br />Speaking of beautiful, check out the wardrobe coming our way!<br /><br /><em>A third woman walks across the stage in the same manner as the first two. During the sequence of catcalls, FRANK catches on.</em><br /><br />ROSCO<br />Ooh baby, pull that braided belt a little tighter and I might choke!<br /><br />BARRY<br />I know that’s Dolce’s spring line, but you’re making it feel like summer out here, pumpkin! [He fans himself with his sandwich.]<br /><br />ROSCO<br />Ooh I can see that Victoria’s Secret bra strap! Oof, tell me it’s a shelf bra! Tell me it’s a shelf bra!<br /><br />BARRY<br />I wanna bury myself in those pleats, sweetie!<br /><br />ROSCO<br />I see you working those cinched sleeves with the lacy fringe.<br /><br />BARRY<br />God musta invented a new type of neckline just for you!<br /><br />FRANK<br />Yeah baby, those heels are fierce! I see you struttin in those Jimmy Choos!<br /><br /><em>The woman exits. BARRY and ROSCO are uncomfortable. Beat.<br /></em><br />FRANK<br />What?<br /><br />BARRY<br />Are you gay, Frank?<br /><br />ROSCO<br />You can tell us.<br /><br /><strong>Blackout.</strong> </div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-42495212672754619172011-07-19T18:25:00.000-07:002011-07-20T18:29:52.374-07:00Post 36<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Party Time</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i>Lights up on two girls standing at a party; they are holding solo cups and looking displeased.</i></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><br /></i></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Gosh, Amanda, I am so sick of these dumb parties! It's nothing but a bunch of boisterous, extroverted guys approaching us casually.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">I know, they all insist on talking to us. I can see right through them, though; they're only talking to us because we're hot.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Yeah, those fun guys are pigs. If only there was a nice guy here who was into us but didn't show it like most of these jerkums.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i>They both sigh, then AMANDA notices someone.</i></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i><br /></i></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Hey Rebecca, what about that guy sitting on the stool by the wall?</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Oh, that's Mickey. We have a class together. He mentioned it to me while we were in line at the keg.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">That's thoughtful of him! I hate when I can't remember where I've seen someone before.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Yeah, and when he said it, I was surprised I didn't recognize him. He's the guy that asks all those clarifying questions. I always have the same questions as him, so he's super helpful!</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">God, that takes guts. I wish I had someone like him in my class. Did you guys talk about anything else in the beer line?</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">No, actually! He just sort of said it and trailed off and turned back around. He didn't try to like, force the conversation forward.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">That is so refreshing. Just give me the facts, you don't need to add in pleasantries! Look at him right now. He's lost in thought.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">I bet he's thinking about something cool. I love that far-off look. So mysterious.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">And earlier, I saw him mouthing the words to "I love college." Just mouthing it, not belting it out like the other guys.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Ooh, he does that at the gym, too</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">He goes to the gym?</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Yeah, he does cardio like every day. That's so forward thinking. He's the kind of guy who knows bench-pressing will just give him big arms.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">He's looking out for his heart. I like that he didn't change clothes to come to the party.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Mm. So practical. I bet he's an animal in bed.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">AMANDA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Well, there's only one way to find out. Come on, let's see which one of us can make out with him first.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">REBECCA</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">God, I hope he gives me one of those eyebrow-raise tight-lipped smiles. That is so hot.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><i>Blackout.</i></div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-4747921559497564402011-07-17T12:16:00.000-07:002011-07-17T12:45:20.947-07:00Post 35I've been writing more these past few days, and as I do not usually approach the writing with a plan, the material ends up scattershot. Yesterday, I wrote about some sensory details I had experienced. To wit:<div><ul><li>The leather of my dog's ear as I passed him going down our back stairs</li><li>The puckered skin of the grapes that I rinsed in my hand and ate over the sink.</li><li>The gritty accumulations in my molars from eating peanuts.</li><li>The sour pit in my stomach, a combination of coffee and wondering what my mom thinks of me.</li><li>the twinge of my hamstrings as I walk, which reminds me of yesterday's exercise</li><li>my muscles scrunching toward my spine involuntarily when a bug brushes against my neck</li><li>crawling my toes into my sandals</li><li>two dots of sunlight on the hood of a car, which diverge as I approach and then slide away into the grill.</li><li>The muffled descent of the bedsheet when I flopped back under it after hitting the snooze button.</li></ul><div>There were others, but I woke up this morning realizing that writing collections of sensory details is valuable only so far as one wishes to improve at writing collections of sensory details. If HarperCollins called, asking me to describe how my sink coughed when I jerked the handle this morning, I'd be set. Until then, it feels like procrastination, doing scales to avoid Fur Elise.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I have never kicked my own ass. It was a grim realization this morning, or simply an admission to myself. I had the fortune to have two parents who ran along with me much further than they need to, their hands in the small of my back. They let go at college, and I coasted for a long time. But I am catching on the gravel now, and the blur that used to be surrounding me is settling into an unfamiliar landscape.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was a lengthy euphemism to explain that I have been lax since school let out - letting two job offers slip away and waiting anxiously to hear back from others. At pick-up soccer today, my mouth and response tightened with embarrassment every time an alumni asked what I'm doing in the fall. I came back fuming. My team lost. I'm not sure where I'll be after the summer, but I look back on my pursuits and see trail markers for the path of least resistance. Even my flirtations with armed service is a way of passing the buck: I would always have an order to carry out, even if it made me miserable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Usually in these circumstances, I make myself a To-Do List to feel productive for the rest of the day. These are usually filled with trivial daily tasks - make my bed, take vitamins, shower. I seek the refuge of fulfilling household duties because it feels productive, because I can't be criticized for taking the dogs for a walk.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am hoping to turn this trend around. I will not hide behind being a good son to avoid making tough choices and pursuing passions. I will not deny myself pleasures to appease a false sense of obedience. I've had enough of passive: let's see where aggression goes.</div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-59756913196831829872011-07-15T09:46:00.000-07:002011-07-15T10:01:14.725-07:00Post 34A 500-Word* Response to James' Suggestion: "Mickey McCauley"<div><br /></div><div>I am 22 years old, unemployed, living at home, and withering under the disappointment of my parents. When I am not writing in my comfort zone, my tone becomes an uncomfortable patois of misused academic language and crusty-dry humor. I rely on self-deprecation and meta-analysis.</div><div><br /></div><div>I keep the curly hair I inherited from my mother close-cropped. I dislike shaving because it gives me ingrown hairs. I can run four miles in under half an hour and I have a half-hearted desire to run a half-marathon. I am 5' 8", but the good posture I inherited from my mother gives me additional inches in a world of slouchers. I am a late-comer or absentee to most fashion trends - wrapped in my blue hoodie, I missed out on the year of the peacoat. In my wardrobe, form follows function. I am still chasing a six-pack, but I have developed a pretty respectable V-cut. </div><div><br /></div><div>I began drinking coffee black after giving it up for Lent. Once, after breaking up with a girl, I became a vegetarian. This is a continual habit: I decide that some aspect of my life needs changing and pursue the change stubbornly. I went back to eating meat when I started dating again. I didn't drink until I turned 21, but I find it hard to give the same explanation twice. I pick my nose and I have never eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.</div><div><br /></div><div>I began to learn the guitar this summer. I played piano until eleventh grade and I regret giving it up. I can still play one or two songs from muscle memory. After a guest a cappella group performed at an assembly in 9th grade, I began beatboxing. I do it unconsciously now, and it looks like I'm muttering to myself. I know all the words to "All Star," "Lose Yourself," and "Jump Around." I like Guitar Hero more without the microphone.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I walk on pavement, I like to take two steps in each square: first the right foot, then the left. I ascend stairs two at a time. I scrape the roof of my mouth with my tongue and scrape my tongue against the orthodontal bar set behind my bottom teeth. I learned the "bro-snap" late in life and I'm making up for lost time.</div><div><br /></div><div>People say the Disney character I resemble most is Lefou, Gaston's long-suffering sidekick. When we are discussing spirit animals, no one knows what to say about me. When I was little, my hair drew comparisons to Kramer from Seinfeld. The nicest thing anyone has said about my writing is that it can sound like David Sedaris' (this is not one of those times). I still don't understand the comparisons with Max Stossel. I've never seen Twin Peaks, but two of my friends say I act like Agent Cooper.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've never gotten in a fist fight or had a broken bone. Blood doesn't make me squeamish but needles and things going into eyes do. I fear spiders more than bears or sharks. I hate the sensation of clipping my nails and then gripping packing foam. I sleep on my stomach but nap on my back. I'm allergic to cats - they make my eyes itch.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get sentimental really quickly.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">* approximately</span></div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-45642225545793706012011-07-15T09:18:00.000-07:002011-07-15T09:46:30.122-07:00Post 33A 500-Word Response* to Jonah's Suggestion: "deconstruct us"<div><br /></div><div>I will admit first that I know too little about deconstruction as a literary... theme? process? phenomenom? to write 500 coherent words about the deconstruction of anything. Instead, I will twist your words, Jonah, and take them as a request for a description of our relationship and how I think it evolved. This works to our mutual benefit because this story is much more interesting than a dry literary tract.</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't long into our freshmen year that I recognized you as a campus personality. We did not have much personal interaction, and yet my knowledge of you fostered a relationship of one-sided enmity. While I imagine you remained decidedly neutral toward us inhabiting the same college, I began to despise you. You became my nemesis, a fact I repeated to the annoyance of our mutual friends, who knew you as a pleasant dude.</div><div><br /></div><div>The trouble lay in our overlapping interests. An easy example, one the bearded psychiatrist might try to unpack in greater detail, is a cappella. I tried out for the Humtones as well, and was forced to sit sullenly among a cheering audience as you clutched the microphone like a life preserver, hanging from it as though the power of your singing would sweep you away the way it had swept the girls in the audience. I was Salieri. I tried not to listen to their excited whispers. It was easy to resent you for your good looks and charm, especially when they were turned on girls I knew.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is not to say that I spent freshman year coveting your role. My side was not without advantages. I took a secret pleasure stepping onto the Varsity practice fields, knowing that you played club soccer. I ignored the fact that you probably had no interest in sitting the bench with me: Varsity was varsity. I regret that I smirked at your stature: at 5' 8", I was in no position to laugh, and the short have enough problems without infighting. I forget which of us hooked up with Stephanie Young first, just that I felt it reflected better on me. You were a music buff, which I was quick to equate with pretension: I came to college listening exclusively to "The Sweet Escape." Probably most telling is that your relationship with Janna was fraying as mine with Thea was beginning. You made an easy target as I attempted to ingratiate myself with Thea and her friends (it should be part of the admissions info that one does not date a girl - one dates a suite).</div><div><br /></div><div>As I grew into myself at Haverford, I dropped my Bizarro-Jonah identity. Occasionally, a pocket of jealousy would bubble up at a Mavericks show (I avoided them until my senior year, and I couldn't tell you why). I admire you for the company you keep, both its quality and quantity. My perceived rivalry is silly in retrospect: but for the housing office, we might have ended up good friends. We shared acquaintances, passions, and, if my guess is right, insecurities.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it was not meant to be during our time at Haverford. Your dry comment on my equally dry Facebook post goes a long way toward encapsulating our relationship: we feel more comfortable out in a public, digital forum, where we can prepare our remarks and make a slightly disingenuous show of camaraderie. I'm happy where we are, Jonah, but only in comparison to where we started.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">*Approximately</span></div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-46998081379818683642011-07-13T19:58:00.000-07:002011-07-13T20:14:37.546-07:00Post 32I spent 3.5 hours writing today.<div><br /></div><div>At this point last night, I was convinced that my best course of action lay in submitting my resume any place that would take it. This morning, over a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, my mom confronted me. My prospective employers, she said, would not be swayed by a year bagging groceries. She told me that I hadn't devoted any time to writing, though I claimed it as a passion. I sat mostly silent and filled her brief pauses with "OKs". Determined to prove to her that I was not blowing hot air, I sat down with pen in hand and wrote about the first thing that came to mind: my previous relationships. I thought it would be a good introductory exercise, but after a long hour on the backdrop of my middle school social scene, I realized I was in for a longer haul. The time I totaled today only took me through high school, and I am no Casanova. I am going to finish my chronicles tomorrow and I may post some of the earlier romances here (the college ones, I feel, would be too fresh. Check back in a few years). </div><div><br /></div><div>My primary impediment to writing as a career is, as my parents might agree, a fear of the unknown. The path of a math student is, if you'll excuse the pun, decidedly more linear. But for a math student who never took an English class in college? Where do I submit my writing once I am done with it? I have no professors to review it. How does one offer up one's work? If it's publish or perish, I'm know where I'm headed. Is there an inbox where I can dump a piece of short non-fiction and wait to hear back later? Until I find outlets, the writing I do will have all the practical value of an English class, minus the helpful feedback. Where do I start looking?</div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-26246322586974101172011-07-11T19:05:00.000-07:002011-07-11T19:33:47.106-07:00Post 31When you are young and feel old, your decisions stretch out in front of you, distorted, like you're looking at them from the bottom of a swimming pool. I am trying to figure out what I will be doing in the fall, and the uncertainty is kicking around in my stomach, despite my logic's best efforts at assuring myself that the choice is not of monumental importance.<div><br /></div><div>I made a choice today. I am not going to be teaching at a boarding school in Maine. It was my only concrete offer thus far, and turning it down meant disappointing my parents. I grew up without religion, but I was a practicing goody two-shoes. My biggest tremors came not from emailing the school, but breaking the news to my mom and dad. They see it as a choice made out of fear of the unknown, an unwillingness to grow up. They're nervous that I don't want to experience the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I did was maybe dumb, maybe short-sighted. But I did it because what I want is one more year near the friends in my life. My parents retained precious few connections from their college years (and they went to Haverford and Bryn Mawr), and they insist that loss is part of growing up. You make new friends, you drift away from your college buddies. I still don't believe that has to be true, but if it is, then all the more reason to savor the time I have left. A year in Maine would mean missing the people I love most while they're all conveniently squished into a tiny geographic range.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm still looking. I'm working my way back into my parents' good graces. And, just to prove it to myself, I'll write it here: it's not a big deal.</div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-25994855697027822632011-07-06T17:15:00.000-07:002011-07-06T17:33:50.636-07:00Post 30I am in Bath, Maine. My mom and I drove up here today, for a teaching interview tomorrow. My mom did most of the driving: I took over around the half-way point, but at our next stop, mom asked me if she could drive again. "I think I'm averaging about 5 miles an hour faster than you," she reasoned.<br /><br />We made some small talk, some larger talk. Neither of us thought to bring any CDs in the car, so we were stuck with whatever was in there previously. It was too late when we realized we had Buena Vista Social Club. My mom worked at the school where I'm interviewing just after she graduated, and many of her former coworkers are still there. She told me about her and my dad's post-graduate jobs. They spent a lot of time flitting between jobs and travel; it was reassuring knowing they didn't drop into teacher-and-lawyer roles immediately.<br /><br />I'm not sure what questions I'm going to be asked tomorrow. I've already done a few interviews with the school. It's a pretty campus, fairly isolated from big cities. I'm staying in the Visitor's Center. It's a large building, but I'm alone in it. There's a thunderstorm outside, and with the lights off I can see why Stephen King stayed in Maine to write.Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-66749435672675616762011-07-02T17:47:00.001-07:002011-07-02T20:40:24.122-07:00Post 29I went to buy some shorts today. I am no great shakes at buying clothing, since I am both cheap and tender to wander into the ownership of clothing rather than acquiring it through direct pursuit. Today, however, I had a clear mission: I wanted shorts and I wanted them to be a color other than khaki. My search had started last week at Macy's, where I pored fruitlessly through racks of jeans and bathing suits. This week, I started at Banana Republic, attracted by the promise of a sale. Inside, I was tempted by a pair of khaki shorts, but as I was being led to the changing rooms I ascertained from the attendant that I had stumbled on an article of clothing born immune to sales and reductions. Inside the booth, I discarded the shorts and jotted down some notes in a notebook instead, savoring the privacy. I exited to find the clerk waiting. "Any luck?" she asked, a question I still don't understand. What was supposed to happen? Was there a dollar in there I could have found? "Uh, yeah, but I'm not gonna get the shorts" I muttered, looking down. "Ah," she replied. I scurried out.<div><br /></div><div>Banana Republic was followed by The Gap, a store in a midlife crisis. My image of Gap is that of a no-frills store, or at least one in which frills are on backorder. On entering, I saw that it had abandoned its plain-jane flourescent lighting in favor of thumping music and large plasma screen TVs. Again, I tried on a pair of khaki shorts. The changing booths didn't lock, and a woman knocked on the door and started to open the door. I yelled "OCCUPIED" and forced it shut before she could see anything. Why was I the embarrassed one in that situation?</div><div><br /></div><div>I ambled into Nordstrom; my greenhorn status as a shopper means I know very little about the relative prices of stores. I sat down to examine some shorts, saw the $80 price tag, and leapt up.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this point, I swallowed my pride and ducked into Abercrombie and Fitch, America's oldest retail rave. The place reeked of cologne: it was a radical shift from the walkways of the mall, where Auntie Anne rules with a benevolent cinnamon fist. I walked along the walls of naked men strewn out in black-and-white, but again I was disappointed by the selection.</div><div><br /></div><div>I helped myself to some more of my pride and stopped at Hollister, Abercrombie's beach-bum friend with benefits. Here, finally, was the pair of shorts I was looking for. I bought them (on sale, too!) and hustled back out to the safety of the mall. The bag the clerk gave me was decorated with a shirtless man on each side. I ran for the parking lot. When I got home, I showed my mom. "Hmm!" she said.</div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-13037864871745592742011-07-01T20:24:00.000-07:002011-07-01T20:42:52.360-07:00Post 28How To Stay Young (List in Progress)<div><br /></div><div>Eat soft-serve ice cream without a napkin.</div><div>Walk around barefoot.</div><div>Ask your mom to scratch your head.</div><div>Slurp the milk out of the cereal bowl.</div><div>Cut your own hair.</div><div>Run a stick along a metal fence.</div><div>Lie down on your dog.</div><div>Use too much peanut butter.</div><div>Splash.</div><div>Ride your shopping cart.</div><div>Don't set an alarm.</div><div>Chew more than two pieces of gum at once.</div><div>Call people "ma'am" and "sir".</div><div>Cross your eyes.</div><div>Watch a slow-moving bug.</div><div>Don't mute the commercials.</div><div>Write with a pencil.</div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420230333525103898.post-64536160316553017462011-06-30T18:13:00.000-07:002011-06-30T18:48:15.867-07:00Post 27How to Grow Up (List in Progress)<div><br /></div><div>Stack the dishes in the dishwasher any way you want.</div><div>Wear a collared shirt without being asked.</div><div>Go for a late night walk.</div><div>Read the second and third pages of the newspaper.</div><div>Write thank-you notes.</div><div>Groan as you sit down; exhale as you get up.</div><div>Join LinkedIn.</div><div>Break up.</div><div>Drink coffee.</div><div>Complain about not getting enough coffee.</div><div>Put away the Magic Cards.</div><div>Use the word "debacle."</div><div>Put on your own band-aid.</div><div>Become part of the gridlock.</div><div>Listen to talk radio.</div><div>Get film developed.</div><div>Sleep with your arm on/under someone else.</div><div>Make eggs for breakfast.</div><div>Apologize without being asked.</div><div>Have an incompetent boss.</div><div>Watch a movie that won't make you laugh.</div><div>Eat dinner alone.</div><div>Comfort your parents.</div><div>Tend a garden.</div><div>Practice an instrument without being asked.</div><div>Roadtrip.</div><div>Smile at babies.</div>Mickeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08227251721024176853noreply@blogger.com0