You Keep the Knife, I'll Take the Butter

Whats funny is we all turn to something when we are vulnerable. Some to a drink, others to a drug, a bottle, sewing machine, tennis court, garden. There is no right or wrong place, but there's a place, a definite place. You go there where you are sad, or hurt, manipulated or feel cheated. That place. It doesn't make sense, to others.

For me a write, and sometimes sing (badly). I write about those whom wronged me, only I found it justified. I jot down notes about people I thought were just, only to do me unjustly wrong. Most of the time the things that make us vulnerable, are done by other people; meaning we do this to ourselves.

A cruel fucking society, or maybe a weak society who just can't "deal." I am not sure, but I'll stick with the fact that humans were not born of thick skin, only layers, and we are only vulnerable not weak. At times we are naive, inattentive, but never weak. We have the strength, wit and drive to persevere through wrongdoing and cruelty, but many of us need to find it still. One was quoted by saying "surround yourself with those who pick you up, and get rid of the ones who bring you down." In my experience the ones who bring you down are ironically much harder to rid yourself of, and for whatever reason, I have hurt many of the people who pick me up.

We are very imperfect beings. Some, not all of us are easy to take advantage of a good thing, and even better people. In our worst state we will steal from those who have delivered us from evil, and deliver the goods to those who trespass against us. Designed to fail, but built to learn, we transcribe lessons from our mistakes and move forward. I have hurt many, and I have helped many. I always hope that they cancel out each other, but hurt goes a lot further I have found. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, you be the judge, the past is obdurate. It cannot be changed. Perhaps analyzed, and even then not too carefully.

Each day we live we should strive only to be a bit better; put down the knife, you don't need it for butter. I try to put aside all of those who have wronged, hurt, or betrayed me, because I know that on any given Monday I can do the same. It does not hurt any less, but we are simply human. If you are reading this today (one of four) then give something to someone, do good, it will help out your inevitable wrong from yesterday.

The Ways We Wonder

Letter from a loving husband to his wife.










Hey there gorgeous. 62 years huh? Damn those Red Sox. I remember staring at your from afar, light ale gripped tightly in your fingers, hair curly and a bit weathered. To this day I think its strange that the bar was completely full of men, and then lifted to greater heights by your presence and beauty. Fred tells me that I'm senile and there were other girls there. I guess I believe him, but I was only seeing you.

The light danced down from the tinted yellow bar lights, sort of like being in a basement with cracks of sunlight flowing through the aged floorboards. I looked down to my shoes, soaking wet from the rain we ran from to get there. I looked back up quickly in disbelief, failing to comprehend the complexity of your being. A numbing pain shook my shoulder when my zoned out eyes shuttered back to focus. Fred, that flippant sonofabitch, wanted me to buy him a drink. He lacked courtesy and finances to reciprocate the 10 I already contributed to his malnourished stomach. I ordered two lagers, not even making eye contact with the tender of the bar. I hate Lager. Why the hell did I order this? One track minds always prevail.

I have always been slightly introverted, in a way that I cannot explain. I spoke with elegant women, but never one of your stature, until that afternoon of course. That day, I had the courage of a bull fighter and the bull. To fighter to take the risk of the bull killing him, and the bull to not care who was around him. I went straight up to you Jess, and remember what I said? Cheers! I said cheers! Good lord, after 30 minutes of drooling from a distance, ordering beer I hated, and now requiring shoulder surgery from Fred's arm blows, all I could muster up with was cheers. Tommy tough guy leaning hard against the radio laughed, as did you, but you blushed. Oh you blushed. Blood flew to your face in a subtle motion and mimicked your strawberry blonde hair. My world was you then, as it is today.

The doctor tells me it ain't good Jess. He told me to make "arrangements." I told him that I already had, and they are bringing in a temporpedic bed later on today to put next to yours. "So make sure the nurse on staff directs them to the right room," I told him. I told that Jess, I did. I never left you in that bar when you laughed, I never left you when the bottom of a bottle was the only thing you wanted to see, and I sure as hell ain't leaving you now.

I remember that afternoon when I lost my job, and in the same day my goddamn car broke down in the rain. The world felt like it was swallowing me whole like Moby Dick. Do you remember Jess? Do you remember what you said? I'll tell you Jess, you said "Jimmy, take a breath. The air is sweet. I am yours, and you're with me. Tomorrow will come as it always does, with hopefully a bit more sun." All I am wishing for is tomorrow Jess. And tomorrow, I will flip another penny in the well outside and wish for the same thing. In 62 years there has not been a tomorrow that you weren't in. I am not sure I want to see what that looks like.

You brighten up my day with this effervescent glow. Whenever I begin to careen off my axis, like a centripetal force you get me back to speed. I asked the doctor an hour ago if he could bring in a shitty lager from 1950, any shit lager would do. I also asked him to bring in something that was yellow and had alcohol. You never told me what you were drinking that day, but it smelt sweet on your breath. If tomorrow ain't coming I want to go back to the first day. Lets drink to the times we had and loved, and I'll put back enough lager to see you above.

The air is sweet Jess. I love you.

Jimmy

Tough Decisions Build Character

I will always remember my stepfather for his kind threat phrases, "I'll crack your head like a walnut," "snap your neck like a dry twig." Even more memorable is his comment that took place anytime I didn't like what was happening, or enduring a difficult task, he told me "It builds character." I have come to believe that everything that is truly fucking miserable builds character.

At my ripe age of 25, I feel I have a lot of character.

Recently I am faced with one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make in my life. I can feel the seeds of character sprouting in my gut, feeding off my stomach acid and I chase down coffee to think faster. The pressing option is to leave a city I have been in for 2 years, leave my newly acquired friends, an amazing girl who would do more than twice as much as I would ever do for her, and at least 40 restaurants that I love. Leave DC and move to Boston, MA with a job offer for a Marketing Manager position at a Mobile Application Startup. I know that job probably sounds like one step up from stacking apples at the Whole Foods, but it really is a great resume booster...there I go convincing myself.

The truth is I really do not know what the best decision is. So I drink, and I smoke, and I ask myself "How many times can I listed to Boston by Augustana in one night?" The answer of course is 32. You can actually listen to it about 90 times (+/- 1) in 6 hours since its only a four minute song. But, after 30 you just want to set fire to at least 10 of those stupid fucking pianos in the music video that are going to waste on the wet beach.

I'll digress from what is soon going to turn into a pity party for myself, because nothing is wrong. I have a great job opportunity in Boston, and I have turned down one job in DC. I am sure I can find another one within 1 month. This does not make anything easier, as the character in my gut just keeps growing feverishly like a Giraffe Chia pet, stretching to my throat and choking me with indecision.

Cooler part? I will never know if the decision I make is the correct one. I am sure someone reading this will have a similar situation and is probably saying "screw you asshole, my move was much further." Or perhaps they are saying "at least your decision is not to either live with your parents another year, or grab a trash can, paper box, and tin Maxwell House container and shake it on 5th Avenue." So, I guess there is a bright side.

But as we travel down these hopefully "straight" roads of life, we realize they meander, for one reason or another. Things change, people change, you yourself change everyday. What works for you one day, week, or year may not work the next, and that is okay. The hardest game of hide and seek I have ever played was when I went out searching for myself. I am still looking, but I can say I have seen some pretty cool shit along the sidewalks, cities, and homes I traveled into looking behind the couch, or in the TV stand for myself.

In final thought, I will continue to build character. The only wrong decision in this life is to choose not to live, and that has never been an option. Maybe this decision should be made by a coin flip.

March 20 - 60 Days of Being Thankful

Advised by a TED talk, which I watch one of, every morning, I decided to try to better myself but completing an instructed task.

For 60 days, write down three things that you are thankful for.

At the time prior to this exercise I was emotionally paralyzed by the stress of my current job and was legitimately creating a mental debate. Each morning I contemplated whether to get out of bed and make coffee, or get out belt, a chair to kick and some porn for good measure. Seriously, I was 25, hating the thought of going to work everyday, and feeling bad for myself. Why? What had been all that bad? Thus far I have had college paid for me, made decent money, got laid fairly regularly and had a decent enough metabolism to eat ice cream sandwiches and lays potato chips as a regular meal.

I needed to reevaluate my life, what I wanted to do, what I was doing, in order to see what I needed to change. I thought this exercise was a good way to move forward instead of getting creative with a butter knife. I move forward with words.

In the beginning, the first ten days, I had no trouble. I listed off my parents and siblings, extended family, good health, financial stability, things that we take for granted, but easy things to remember when you think about what you are thankful for. The process got a little harder, I started thinking a bit more about tangible things like coffee and its deliciously intoxicating flavors getting you moving in the morning. I wrote down great literature and the lives of authors who have inspired me with their beautiful and articulate vernacular. I wrote down favorite bands that lift my spirits, and feather down comforter blankets, and guitar strings perfectly tuned. I didn't run into much difficulty here, I just had to think about the things that make me smile and what I look forward to when the fan hits the shit.


Around day 35 or 40, no, it was day 41 I could see a change. It was a passionate change I must say, and probably the most enlightening part of this process. Ironically, I came into a beautiful realization, from a process that started due to the repressed desire to make sure people can no longer be thankful for my existence.

At first, I was stuck. I kept typing things that were idiotic, that i was simply not thankful for. I had run out, and failed at the exercise. My life must not be that good because I cannot even think of 60 days of things I am thankful for, or 180 items. Fuck maybe I should go get the belt, the chair, the butter knife, throw on dashboard confessionals, and call it a life.

I closed my eyes and wrote. I wrote abstractly. When I had finished writing my three for that day, day 42, I had more I wanted to write down. I wanted to get ahead, I had so many amazing things I was thankful for. I held back, I refrained from getting ahead of myself and stayed true to the exercise. After all, I was going to complete it now, I was going to live. Fuck off butter knife, go spread some toast.

What did I write down? I'll share a bit:

I am thankful that I got to see Niagara Falls with my mother
I am thankful that my farther taught me how to run a printing press, even though I will never print more than a essay from a computer.
I am thankful that my sister says "I love you" every time we hang up the phone.
I am thankful that I got to ride on my little brother's first rollercoaster while he cried the entire way
I am thankful that people actually want to, and sometimes enjoy sleeping with me.
I am thankful to have been cheated on, to know how it hurts
I am thankful to have someone say they love me even if I didn't love them in return
I am thankful that I drank for 17 hours straight during my 21st birthday, threw up in grocery basket, legit cried over spilt milk, and fell asleep in a strange freshmens bed (female thank god).

Now I know I may have gone a bit far on the inferred suicide remarks, but I was trying to make a point. However morose it is that i arrived at my point, I think I have made it. I did not want to kill myself and hardly listen to dashboard confessionals anymore, but I was going through a rough time, and I was tragically unhappy. After completing this TED talk I realized it truly was an "idea that inspires." I could go on for another 60 days about all the amazing one-time experiences that I have had that I am thankful that I lived for. It is the relationships and moments that I have been fortunate enough to have

Now, I cannot be sure of this fact, but I bet if everyone I knew did this exercise, there would be a few lines where my name was put down. I am most thankful of all that I can make a difference in the life of someone else, and have their life be just a little bit better because of it, no matter how small the betterment is.

March 16, 2012 - The 5 Types of People you Will See in the Morning

Oh, you go Mr./Mrs. morning marathon triathlete. You're wearing shorts and its only 42 degrees because you are daring and want everyone to see your engorged calf muscles. Muscles that would be otherwise restricted by items commonly referred to as pants. Your ipad is the latest model, but more importantly the case holding it looks like it is from star trek, meaning it is the newest model you can get. In fact, you may be the only person with it on the planet. You are fit, but still kind of ugly, thus why you are out trying to keep that bod of yours a "10." Sweat drips down onto the pavement as you grimace with excitement, thrwarting innocent passerbys as if any "walker" is not quite adequate. Congrats, you ran to the super market 3 blocks down the street. You're still not thin.

Bring on the heat Mr/Mrs. Coffee cup enthusiast. Money is tight and starbucks prices are on the rise by the minute. Buying a $7.00 latte is just not in the cards for your meager salary supporting a family of one, so you brew at home. You have turned your kitchen into a shrunken cafe, and you are the top barrista in the universe (yes they make coffee on all planets). After 45 minutes and 37 steps you have made the perfect 60z blend of ethiopian, california, cat turd, and cocoa dark liquid, jacked with caffeine to get your "spry" on. You pour this into your big gulp plastic container built specificially for keeping the heat in, ignoring the fact that its 94 degrees out already and the cup may even melt. You exit your apartment disheveled looking. Too bad you took more time to make your coffee than to shower, shave, dress, and fart, then emptied yourself onto the street with the rest of the inadequate store bought coffee drinkers.

Buenos dias Senor/Senora dog walker. You are up nice and early with the rest of the people around you for no other reason but to make sure your pet does not defecate on your newly remodeled wood floor. Instead you are going to coax him/her into leaving a nice steaming pile of fecal matter anywhere they choose. You may be one of the good ones who is equipped with one of those ultra gross bio-degradable bags to scoop the shit up with, but probably not. To be honest I dont know what I would rather see less; you leaving the dog shit on the ground for me the oblivious coffee cup enthusiast or myself to step in it, or you physically picking up shit with your hands.

Go back to bed Mr./Mrs. I am just so fucking happy with life, I don't work, and I am only awake to watch the zombies go off to their nine to five while I plan my day of masterbation, eating, and graphic novel writing. Stay in bed. You are worthless and most likely living off some disability that you received after faking a neck injury driving your smart car. Those cars suck, they are closer to the moped family than a car. Return the car to the dealership where you bought it on the second floor. They probably put the car in a regular elevator and lowered it down, since you can actually do that with those things. After the car is returned go home. Stay home, eat cocoa puffs, turn on pornhub, scratch yourself and fall asleep.

I am sorry Mr./Mrs businessman/women. You are up early because you have to be. Someone dictates every Monday-Friday (sometimes weekends) of your life. You don't have time to brew coffee so you stop at the starbucks routinely after buying the Washington Post, or Huffington post, or both. The day is in front of you but the only time you are looking for is 5pm, it has to be that time somewhere. But, I salute you. You dont have time for a shit brain dog pooping on everything flat or bumpy, you drink normal coffee, you are fit and good looking because you work out but don't care that people notice. You do not drive a smart car, you take the subway. You contribute to society and a growing economy, karma will help you out one day.

The 6th type of person you see in the morning:

Where the Biggest Drinkers Are - And Why?

What drives people to drink? For some, it can be quite a costly habit. Tolerance builds up over time and those 3 mikes hard lemonades you used to steal from the 24 pack in your parents basement no longer suffice. You appease your stirring vice with a lager, or an IPA, inviting another 6 or seven of its friends. This no longer does the trick in elevating your head enough to get out of the cloudy monotony of everyday life so you climb a bit higher. You switch to liquor, brandy, scotch, dripped over a few cubes so you can still tell yourself its a cocktail; water and booze.

Eventually, whatever way you want to sling it to make yourself feel better about a liver pinching habit, your favorite cocktail becomes booze and air, and a lot of it at that.


If I can quickly digress, I think I am giving off a negative impression of alcohol. I for one think it is a necessary evil. Some can do without it, but I don't really trust them. Frank Sinatra was quoted famously by stating, "I feel bad for people who don't drink...When they wake up in the morning, its the best they are going to feel all day." I fear that this is true, and blessed be the word of thy lord Jesus. Yes, I just confirmed the fact that Sinatra is a biblical character to me.

The above rant came from a survey I read today about Where the Biggest Drinkers Are Located. The survey found that Washington, DC singles, are among the heaviest of drinkers in the nation. Not surpisingly, cities like Boston, Manhatten, Chicago, all the greats fall only slightly behind. One interesting aside is that Las Vegas, is amongst the lowest drinkers. Truly this does not make sense to me. The only way I can rationalize this is that the city is filled with too many men. Men who are too busy pissing away their money at the tables, and the chlamydia they received from the hooker named Geneveve' who tits were able to lure him away from a watered down cocktail.

Why are the heaviest drinkers located in my humble city? Why are they single? Well, I can tell you that DC is saturated with men and women who have overpaid for multiple degrees only to find themselves working 8am-Midnight cleaning up spit from overzealous politicians, while working weekends at a dive bar, collecting, in fact, more spit. They are underpaid, overworked and mal-appreciated. Those who have enough time for find a spouse or significant other, find themselves alone again shortly after due to "not paying enough attention," or "being too devoted to their job." It is a sad thing really, when you think about it, and a good excuse to drink heavily.

I for one don't really sympathize. I mean, I am struggling to find the bad here. What I am able to gather and assemble from this survey along with my social observations is as follows:

You have a bunch of men and women who are smart, articulate and well fashioned. They are in decent shape since appearance matters, and stress levels keep them thin and eating light. They have little time to date, so settling is an option for those less fortunate in the looks catagory. They drink because they are unhappy, and they are unhappy because they drink. This means, that on any given night of the week you could stumble into a bar, find a girl (or guy) who is pissed off at the world, hates their job, and their significant other just decided to date the guy/gal at the mall since they have more time for them. They're feeling insecure and have little time to make an educated decision about sex, or at the very least heavy petting with a complete stranger in the next hour that follows. So, you take them home, you screw like rabits, wake up and put whiskey in your coffee cup to keep you smiling into the day. Then you part ways without exchanging numbers because you both know neither of you has the time to save the contact let alone meet again.

Good lord. Drink up.

March 11, 2012 - How Will You Be Remembered?

We can choose to, or to not have hundreds of social interactions each day.
Passively winding ourselves into the intricate details of another life.
Leaving a mark, or perhaps not, on their brain.
We each have a song, or at the very least a note
Similar only to us, ourselves.
When it plays, it echoes the sound of our soul
What does that note sound like to others?
Is it dissonant, a minor chord, a major scale?
Does it leave a cold chill in the spine of others
or a warm welcoming; like the hit of a whiskey sour during a brisk winter night?

When our bittersweet lives have ended who will come to watch us depart?
Will they write words of praise or hatred? Will they write at all?
How will we be remembered?
Will ordinary suffice, or is extraordinary the only option?
Siding with the latter seems more preferred
but the former is all that we can expect.
Will our story be shared with generations to come
or will it float away like dandelions blown by kids into the summer wind?
Whether its shared or lost, it exists in its own purity.
What does your song sound like?
How will you me remembered?

March 8, 2012 - Morning Airline Cocktail

Bring three of those plastic bottles
wait do they come in glass?
No? Fine, bring four, that shall even the score

One. 15,000 feet.

I lean forward, New York building tips
become visible beneath the left wing.
Long Island shore appears slightly
I see a whale, no its oil.
Ice hits my front teeth and a cringe lightly
jaw line tightens up and makes me appear more like Dorian Gray.
The clear plastic cup empties slowly
as the chiseled, perfectly shaped cubes digress.

Two. 27,400 feet.

Portentous clouds are approaching
only to be shattered by the planes nose and deliver us to transparency.
The mass shakes subtly not to spill my vice.
Head feels lighter, as if helium is drifting up from the floors
My posture wains as my slacks rise up.
So much for rising to the occasion.
The flippant conversations that once infectiously permeated my brain
now ceases to effect any of my dulled senses.

Three. 34,000 feet

Two-thousand more to rise, how far to heaven?
Is hell just as far down?
No cubes remain, only their more malleable state
dances around my plasto-cup tainting my freedom.
What started for medicinal causes has shifted focus
now trying to attempt to lift me higher than this plane.
M eyes squint using my lashed to shield the
close looming star we beg to come out each day.

Four. Zero feet.

I wake up, the cabin lights flash
people are hustling and bustling for the escape
Did we crash? Is this San Francisco?
I sure do hope the latter, can I still order a drink?
I press my fists to my eyes, grab the last bottle.
For now I am safe, I think. Drunk and safe.

Five. Too many.

March 5 -An Hour Trapped In Time

As I drifted sweetly into the pontification of Oscar Wilde, or rather should I say it is his words, from the mouth of the Lord Henry Wotton, I pondered a thought. It is one of the most spine shrilling thoughts that have entered my conscious brain. Normally, themes such as these are more apt to enter the subconscious where I wake confused and nervous, but not anxious and scared. As I slipped away from focus on the novel, setting aside my 64ghz Ipad (1st) edition, I tilted my head back and imagined it.

What if time actually stopped?

I thought about this and in doing so, imagined myself in the scene.

At first I couldn't help but to be excited. The possibilities were endless. I could rattle off an entire book, submit it to an editor, and be 15 pages onto the next one before they got around to reading it. This would of course be able to happen because as time stood still for me, it forced onward in its typically rushed way for everyone else. As people struggled to fit in work and pleasure, I merely decided to mix both of them together without fear or consequence of them interrupting each other. Of course I tended to partake in the pleasure aspect more often.

Time was unaltered in tangible terms. The clock was not moving, nor were the digital numbers above my stove adjusting their lines to make new ones. Was time progressing? Was I getting older? If this persisted would I go through an entire year in literally no time, but still grow the gray hairs I should. Does my facial hair grow along with my fingernails or do do they stagnant? I began to panic slightly, due to all the questions I have conjured up. Hardly one hour of time, to the best of my ability to know, had gone by and I was already concerned about the outcome of this situation. Surely, I could handle having one full day where time did not progress for me, and in an instant, like a machine it came back on. But could I endure it longer? Could the metaphysical phenomenon continue defying every law that human nature abides by?

I began to sweat. I paced unknowingly around the 12ft by 16 ft living room/kitchen combination. I tried to focus on the sun, to see if it changed positions. I cant remember where it was located just a "presumed" hour ago! I believe I could see more than half of it beyond the rooftop of the slightly pretentious looking apartment building from my second floor location, but maybe not. Maybe it is in the same exact spot. Does the world continue to rotate, or is it fixated on its axis refusing to move as it should.

Has it been an hour?

I begin to sweat a little more and reach for my cellular phone. The time still says 2:13pm Eastern time, the same it did when this whole disgustingly frightening experience began. What started to appear as a means to an end of always being rushed, has now got me searching under furniture for answers that I am not sure have real questions. I cannot breath. The sweat hits the fake wood floor as I am adjusting the missoni poof, a decorative furnishing I never found use for in the first place. I reach for the paper towels to wipe it up, but the sweat from my palms dampen the cloth which now fails to serve its purpose.

My cell phone refuses to complete any function that will help me. I can watch a film, take a photo, even schedule an event, but why would I need to do that without the concept of time? My heart skips seven beats. I feel as if it is beating simultaneously with the snare drums of a southern college marching band. I start to lose focus again as I am blinded by the sun, still trying to figure out if it has moved. I try to draw a line with chapstick on the window where I see it now, I can come back to it shortly and measure. There is a solution, good thinking...I stop sweating a bit.

The clock is still not moving, something that I have not looked at in "I don't know how many make believe" minutes. I find myself referring to god passively under my breath. I am asking for a sign, some piece to the puzzle to help me get out of this time capsule that probably looks like a time release pill tablet. I run to the bathroom and dunk my head under the faucet of the bathtub. I'm wet, but refuse to dry off, the cold air against my damned head soothes my fleeing mind for a few second. I still feel as if I may faint as I sprint barely 3 yards to the window to examine my chapstick experiment with the sun. It is melting a little bit, and I begin to cry, or is it more sweat? I do not know. My heart picks up pace again from it's temporary reprieve in a timeless world. The main living area in my apartment seems to be more like one of those rides at the carnival that spin you fast enough to be stuck motionless to the wall. I put my hands on my head as it is the only motion that I can find the strength to do, the forces are too strong. I scream for help. I hear a click, faintly over the sound of my own heart beat.

The clock moves. It is now 3:14.

March 1, 2012 - Ambition Island

"It was true that I didn't have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?" - Charles Bukowski

From someone who operates well only when there is routine, planning, and self-direction, this quote is difficult to grasp. Regardless, I cant help but to grapple with the concept. An ambition-less society. Full of crooks who are too lazy to steal, gamblers confused by counting, bachelors who never bothered to get a bachelors degree, prostitutes who find thongs and tight clothing uncomfortable, and drunks who complain about the time it takes to get drunk. For some reason this island looks like the reject pile at a Chinese shoe assembly sweatshop, or the scene from Fear and Loathing where sloppy dinosaurs stumble around a shattered casino.

Despite my apparent negativity, I am not convinced myself whether a place like this should or should not exist. I could be thinking of just the negative aspects; a series of ill mannered fools commiserating around a gas grill for heat. They'd be acting out Lord of the Flies, stomping their feet and inevitably eating each other due to the lack of knowledge and desire to hunt for other options. However, it very well could be more comparable to a commune of "huggers," who just don't care about one-upping each other because they purely lack ambition. They carry on with their everyday lives, no stock market, no idolized Warren Buffet, just Tom, Dick, and Harry. Three people who did, or did not come from money in their family with only the accomplishment of living another day as a hurdle.

A book I read not too long ago called Ishmael talked about how indigenous people, and many Native American tribes are predicted to last much longer than any of us "civilized folk." The authors basic point is that we will just continue to attempt to beat out the next person until we are thrust into a Hobbesian nightmare; "All men are at war until regulated, or there are laws." We have been working for years to keep total warfare from happening. I know, its hard to believe with a different conflict starting each day. But that is the thing, are we moving backwards, by progressing the way we do? Is it possible that we will all kill each other off one day? Quite. That may be rash, and we are talking thousands of years in the future, unless some Gore global warming kills us first. It is just that the more I think about it, an island full of people who lack any desire to become better than they inherently are, seems pretty harmless, and safer than the rest of the world.

So here's a drink to lack of ambition. Let us live longer, happier, simpler, and drunker lives.
- R. Christopher