Shake my hand, give me life.

The speed in which we move in and out of peoples lives is remarkable. Most have countless interactions throughout the day, some memorable, some forgettable. Some people we meet weave in and out of our subconscious without reason, without resolve. They appear again in our mind like an epiphany, while we are getting our fourth cup of water out of the office jug, but not during the first three times. Our dreams and doused in faces, actions, smiles, twitches, gentlemen, bitches, cranks, and crooks. With mothers caring for children and fathers missing the opportunity to show up, or vice versa. With bus drivers riding bicycles, and mailmen delivering coffee to their bloodstream. With girls we'd like to sleep with, and guys we'd like to build the fence outside our Westchester suburban, sheltered, store bought home.

These are just the people we see everyday. Some we will talk to again, most we will not. Some we will think about again, most we didn't think about when we saw first saw them. We shake hands, we smile gently at other out of the side of our mouth, perhaps not to give off too much interest. We pass gas, we blow kisses, we think about blowing other things. We pound knuckles, we touch tongues, we slap asses (in various forms). We nod, we push, we say "hey, what the fuck man," we dodge each others bodies as they get in the way of our ill timed commute. We thank each other, we argue, we curse, we fuck, we fail to talk when we want to, and talk too much when words just do not fit. We sing, we dance, we play, we sport, but after all these things, we do, we just do.

People in love stay in love, the lucky(?) ones that is. Others struggle day in and day out to make something work, all knowing that oil and water will work against each other until the end of time, or until a third variable is put into place...which will not work (stepping away from the metaphor). Boyfriends and girlfriends who have spoken to each other every day for the last six months will glance at their cell phone only to see (10) missed calls and (30) texts from their "the one" lover. They are saddened when they think about the thought that in six weeks, their latest calls nor latest text messages will reveal the persons name they said "I love you to every night." It is replaced by "the girl/guy at the book store," "Ms. Christian Louboutin or Mr. Ferragamo slip on's" They are replaced by new co-workers, and possible business investors, landlords, and gas companies, taxi services, favorite restaurants, an easy lay. But, the fact is they are replaced.

Each day, people come in and our of our lives. It is up to only ourselves and that other person to see how long these relationships will last. Today, introduce yourself to someone who takes the same bus you do everyday, start off by saying you like something they are wearing, it's simple enough. Instead of waving to the security guard on the way into your key access work building, ask him where his favorite place is to eat around here. Make a friend, fuck it, make an enemy. Make it interesting. People, are constant on this planet, interactions will always exist. Relationship will fall apart, new ones will start. Jobs can fizzle away, cars can breakdown, coffee can get cold, and books can fall in puddles and be illegible. The stories that each and every one of us carry around with us, never fade, listen to one of those. Make life happen. We make the world go around.

April 12, 2012 - First Day of Work

The first day of work and you are worked up. You're sweaty, hands a bit shaky. You meant to get a good night of sleep but excitement and predicted failure has your nerves jumping around like Mexican beans keeping you up until the wee hours of the morning.

Board the bus, then the metro, switch metro trains, all in a new city. Looking for signs to direct you, meanwhile you are hot, but it's chilly, and the wind is brisk. Forgotten sunglasses rest on your dresser as the morning sun blinds your peripherals, searching for the most direct walking route to the office door.

Cubicles. Which one is yours? I hope it is the one with the yellow stain on the back wall. Searching, guessing, waiting, the fucking electric chord does not work. Where is IT? Why are there only three people in the office right now? How many people work here and what the hell do they look like. You are frantic thinking that they will turn out to be a group of dinosaurs looking folks in the casino scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. So far, normal, you exhale in relief.

Coffee, this is cup three, but the slightly autistic guy who comes in at 6am invited you into the kitchen area for the grand tour. You feel obliged to pour another cup of what not feels due to the color like gun powder and cocaine. The tour continues and it is grand. "Here's where the people who make more money than you sit, and here is where you sit. Bathroom down the hall, you'll need a card to get in and out."

Card to get in an out of the bathroom? So if I forget that goddamn card one day, I do what? Post up in the second stall and just hope someone has to take a shit? #prayingforShit

Tour is over, employees start coming in. They are jovial, after all it is Thursday and a three-day weekend is in the forecast. I shake hands like I am Mitt Romney, making eye contact and trying to establish a presence with a lower than average tonality in my voice. I sound like a fucking idiot. I know that I have a lot of tasks to accomplish throughout the day but I am doing absolutely nothing. Who picks up the slack while I am being trained? Do things just not get done?

Questions emanating our of my pours like sweat in a tennis match, all unanswered. I feel a bit itchy so I just start a word document on my personal computer called Notes - April 12. I start to think about how much easier it is to work in the same job for your entire life and never have to go through this. Then I realize that if I did do that, "my entire life" would not be very long since I would likely put on and Andrew WK song one day at work and put a magnun to my head. Monotony could serious kill a man, as well as monogamy, but that would be more than 5 standard deviations from the current topic.

My boss arrives, I start training, the shock is over. The following day comes and at 4:30 I am having a beer on the patio talking about music venues in Boston. How long will it take me to get bored here?

Salute to the Brave Craigslist Hunter

Its 10am and I just took a shot of sky vodka. I guess there are some perks of moving and not working for a week and a half as you get assimilated into an entire new life. Granted, I could have made a better selection than sky vodka, but it was there, and I rolled with it. Don't judge me monkey! I have already proved to myself by not drinking for a full calendar month, and then once again three months later, that I am not an alcoholic. Why try to push away a good thing away in fear that it may become a habit. I mean, look at B. Cooper in Limitless; a fable about how drugs end up being good as long as you get past the addiction point and make it an obsession. You then move past the illusions of grandeur and an antiquated past into a beautiful, forward-thinking reality.

This is not to say that irrational behavior does not set in at times after a day of drinking that begins at 10am, you have to watch your p's and q's, whatever the fuck that means.

Part of the moving process is finding someone to take over your lease if you are leaving mid lease like myself. The second, and inherently more difficult task is finding somewhere new to live in your newly acquired "current facebook city." As any normal vagabond searching for an adequate dwelling would do, I turned to the notorious craigslist. A free website for hackers, scam artists, lonely lovers, music lovers without friends, poor people trying to sell shit that superfluous spenders wont even buy, sex offenders, job hunters, job seekers, artists, liars, cheaters, winners, and those looking for a "good time" and a companion for their extra ticket at a Creed concert.

As I tear myself away from the many enchantingly hilarious ads that would keep me interested for days, I stumble into the "rooms/shares" and/or "apartments/rent" section. As an aside, these ads get stranger as you move out of a city and into Suberbia. Try looking for an honest place in Anoka, Minnesota. Won't happen.

Now, I will not say that craigslist is a bad source. I have had success with it for the most part, but there are just some things that I would be remiss in my writing duties if I didn't bring it to the public eye.

1. The not so ambiguously gay roommate need: This is a post where a gay male specifically states his sexual orientation, but does not stop there. He actually requests that the new roommate be of the same sexual orientation or willing to experiment. I cant be sure, but "willing to experiment" most likely does not mean adding a little extra cayenne pepper to the chili recipe. This is coming from a guy who lived with a gay roommate and he was great! But for the life of me I can't understand why these guys don't just say "Do not reply to this add unless you are ready to dress up like David Hasselhoff and play three hours of who is in my mouth with my friends Tom, Davy, Jeff, and Andre'." Seriously, you are out of the closet, come out of it a bit more on your c-list ad.

2. The picture taker - Those who post that they are looking for a roommate and put up a picture of themselves. Now, I think this is great, and usually I do a facebook search for the persons email after they respond to me to see what they look like. However supportive I am of this move, I still think its weird as hell when someone posts 1-2 self photos on their craiglist ad. Mirror shot, flex shot, drink in hand shot for those trying to be social. Then you have the non self photo of the guy with two hot chicks that he never hangs out with. But, for one night in his life he paid them 50 bucks to take a photo with him and smile like they weren't prostitutes. Its like you are renting the apartment and the dude/gal in the self photo..hopefully there are no utilities involved with the individual alone.

3. The user of overzealous vocabulary to describe their "pad" - These are the best. You have someone droning on about their fabulous apartment, ultra-modern, high-end appliances, gorgeous balconies, and elaborate furnishings. Then, you scroll to the bottom of the ad to find NO photos or better yet; a one bedroom apartment advertised as two in a basement with no windows. The appliances are a toaster oven instead of a convectional one, a spatula and wooden spoon, a microwave that has one of those "turn to the minute knobs that dings when its done," and a paper towel rack as a dishwasher. The ceilings are tall enough for a malnourished midget to roam freely only. The furnishings are a semen stained futon from the college days, two wicker chairs with corona signs on the back and a 32 inch Zenith TV with a 47 inch back to it. It is physically coming out of the wall and has rabbit ears sitting on top of it, one pointing to 3pm and the other to 6 covering half of the screen for optimum reception. As far as modern, it has wood floors, but they are comparable to a bowling alley that shut down 30 years ago due to an unresolved asbestos issue.

Now, there are plenty of other types of ads but I just wanted to showcase some of my favorites. Even when you think you are responding to a good ad, you show up and its a Hitler look-a-like who's job is to start his own religion, and he brings his "pals" over on Saturdays, only to find the meetings are held in your bedroom. I used to be hopeful about craiglist but I am learning more and more to stay away. I think I may just look to buy my own apartment. At least then I will be in charge of putting out ridiculous ads talking about my glorious pad with amazing amenities. I'm still not sure what amenities really is. Its an apartment, there is open space. Come by see if you like it, if not, go fuck yourself. Grab a drink on the way out. Good lord.

R

Write Because You Have To

It's a funny thing to do, maintain a blog that you know about 6 people in the entire country, let alone planet read. Granted, their is that outside chance that someone googles a sentence that is exactly what I wrote (which would be perverse) and I want to meet them. That anomaly would land them on my blog, which would of course capture them for years to come. That is also to say that my writing will extend to years to come and my narcissistic belief that people give a shit about my thoughts and observations prevails beyond next week.

Right now I am working through that worst part of writers block...that technique of just blabbing on for three or so paragraphs until something intelligent, or better yet, funny comes to mind. But, my point is, and this could just be me, but we all have big ideas for our writing. Even those who write in a diary about their boyfriend who plays basketball and you think he kept glancing to the third row, you were in the 6th, want people to see their masterpiece. I can promise you, about 7 people in the world would give a shit about that little writeup, because they wrote the same exact pathetic thing in their sepia tone diary their therapist gave them to "work things out." We have high hopes, and aspirations that our diary, blog, novella, sestina, haiku, or purple prose will make it into the mainstream book store shelves or ibooks front page, most downloaded.

They likely wont, Shakespeare you will be not, for now. Thoreau, Emerson, Keats, Carlos, Bukowski, King, Rowling...took a while for the flame to burn high enough that someone else saw it from the corner of their desk. That didnt mean they stopped pushing out content. They persevered, they outlasted the writers block, and abolished the critics words. Now, writing is not for everyone, and I understand that. Some people cannot spell or articulate, let alone write a well constructed paragraph. I am sure they have a talent that I cannot compete with. But, if you can wirte, write because you have to. Words are strong and people can read them over again. If you just say something, people may hear it, they may forget it, they may even jot it down in their notebook...wrongly. Write. If you are writing the correct way you will feel the pressure behind your eyes build as you write a sad letter, that has nothing to do with your life, but a character you constructed. If you writing humorously and correctly you will laugh briefly, but more importantly you will want someone to read it, just like showing them a youtube video of two fat fucks slipping off a log. Write because you have a literary obligation as a skilled informant with the weapon of words to tell your story, true or not.

Words are tangible, but they can be manipulated, and sentences can be structure with as much truth, or falsities as you desire. Write, because you have to. You may remembered by the trail of words you leave behind.