Success Vs. Marriage - The Bell Curve

This is not groundbreaking shit here. Cornell wont be knocking at my door regarding my in depth data analysis and progressive findings. However, it's interested to dissect and digest as food for thought. To what affect does marriage have on the well being of a man or woman. It would be sexually biased and contextually inaccurate to place the scrutiny only on males for this convo. Woman currently have hold of 4.2% of the CEO seats for fortune 1000 companies.

Found in my opinion, the opinion of my peers, and other mildly educated and soberingly boring scholars; those who marry at a young age tend to be less successful. Now, success is measured in multiple ways. In efforts to stay as pretentious and greed driven as possible, while keeping the conversation focused, I am talking about financial success. With that being said, financial success has bearing on other success factors; happiness, adventure, breadth of knowledge, experience, and vanity.

Woman and men alike are bolting out of their collegiate doors, dripping with eagerness and overinflated egos. Their college professors have filled their minds with ill-fitting complements, while showering themselves with praise for preparing their students perfectly for the "everyday world." The old adage "those who can do, and those who can't teach" seems overly apparent here. Many of the profound, literate, and astute professors never once stepped out of the classroom. They merely switched roles from sitting to standing, and some not even that. The truth of the matter is the only thing usable from those 4 years amounting to $180,000 is how to write a cover letter and construct a readable resume that looks JUST LIKE the other 1.78million bachelor degree graduates from 2012. 

Still, we fight. We persevere. We take on $36k salaries in the middle of cities and watched rich people's children or serve beer to the patrons of the financial district at night to make ends meet. We are a strong and horny class. We get by and push because the weight of our wallet correlates with our appeal. Men want sex and woman want to be wanted for sex. How dow we get sex? You get your ass out of the back of the bar and start ordering rounds for the folks around you. 

So we keep fighting. 

We are single and eager with sweat on our brow and determination dripping off the fangs of our canine teeth. We dig deeper to taste that sweet bloody flesh of success. The credit card limit increases and the bar job shoots out the window like a line of blow up a transparent tube. 

College is gone and half the friends from there are considered pions as you have risen above the ashes. You bumped over the $50k/year salary threshold and those who make that are doing okay, but aren't you. You eat out once or twice a week, and a date at a chain restaurant is frowned upon. If you are a female you expect a GOOD meal, vegetarian or not, its going to be fucking plated well. Guys stop shopping the sale racks, but still check the tags. Girls, pick up at least one friend named Jimmy Choo. You are still renting but its not Southie, it isn't Hoboken, your commute is...not...half the fucking business day. You could not be any more single and you're hard or wet from it - a casual online date/sex session here, a date with an old college friend  there who likes your new watch (not fossil). Why settle down girls? Your boss thinks your sexy and his boss trusts you more with the assignments - you're moving up and middle class just wont do. 

HERE IS THE TIPPING POINT. Some will meet someone "special" during the time of peak acceleration. They will be okay in life but they have not given it enough time for the rocket launchers to be fully ramped up. They will miss the opportunity to fly without a harness. These people settle down, and fall in the 33% chance of being financially successful. They may have a partner who supports them and will move across the country for a new opportunity or say "lets wait for kids" and try Europe out. Most wont. Most will put back on the fangs only to suck the life out of your bone marrow, force you to buy too early, sell too soon, and to take less risks than a calling heads two-headed quarter. 

The other fine young men and woman...those who decide to put aside consistent sex with the same person. Those who skip buying a house outside the city, picking up a compact vehicle, and throw away the birth control for baby planning, keep on keeping on. They know when to stop though. They know when they have peaked and they are high enough and comfortable enough in their position to know that the success will continue for their remaining years. These people have a 68% or higher chance of being financially successful. Its not that they don't want a family. Family can assist in remaining stable and regulated, bring you happiness you cannot earn on your own, and allow you to share the beauties of the world with something other than your frontal lobes and retinas. 

The 68%'ers are on top of the world right before they settle down and wed. They just picked up a luxury two-seater...if its a threesome night then the third is going down on the passenger while you drive. If they say 'fuck the car, I am in the city,' they stop renting. They invest in property that will never lose value - downtown, limelight. The trendy J.Crew timex turns into an Audemars. The Clarke's loafers are Ferragamos. The apartment has a doorman other than a pissy old asian landlord. The boat has a bedroom, the bedroom has an actual bed. Haircuts are scheduled and planned, and dont only come into fruition when its a necessity. You don't shave yourself, and you jerk off because you want to, not because you have to. Woman have everything they need and are not looking for a man to "bring home the bacon." They buy what they want when they want and wear things once a season. Their closet is separated by dates of the year, and there is no need to make room for new clothes, only building new places for them and donating the old pieces. Work hours are shorter and the places on your paycheck to the left of the decimal point are longer. You piss excellent and drink down Dom Perignon to replenish the body. 

There is the back end of this story, and that is the back end 33%'ers. They hit their peak, life was great, but eventually they lost sight of their governing values and their eyes become blinded by the shimmering light. As I mentioned before; family, property, travel, and relaxing is needed to fulfill life, for most people. Those who go overboard and stop to smell the roses at the top, will eventually topple over. Some of these people over indulge - they spend on too many frivolous items forgetting that one day the money does stop pouring in at its current flow. Others become infatuated with the glory of the poisonous things that addict and infect our bodies; booze, drugs, sexual disease. Their fun kills them slowly and surely. They start looking like Mic Jagger too young and find out too early that they are not build like a rock star, or that those stars sometime fall hard form the sky without a saving wish. 

There is no perfect formula. Its like a perfect shot that if we knew how to make it, we would drink it all day, everyday. 1/3 part patience, 1/8 part greed, 1/4 arrogance, and I don't know what else. All we can do is think hard about each decision we make and understand that our financial success depends on each of them, small and large. Here's to the 68% chance. Let us drink in the warm fizz of success and spit it out before it loses all its sweetness. 

Trials and Tribulations of an Office Outing

These sort of soiree's occur roughly 2-3 times a year and receive much internal attention from employees and sometimes externally from mildly unfortunately +1's. The employees are half excited, half forced to go, and the +1's, if its an open event, try to find common ground on unfamiliar territory. I wont speak from a first person point of few, but rather for these events as a whole, as I believe the parallels between one and another are vast and in a granular state of congruency.

Whether it's a holiday party, summer outing, or the classic "off-site" work day, the same events occur. Alcohol is inevitably involved augmented by relaxed or non-typical attire. There is a focus on group activities and getting to know one another garnished with laughter and jaunting awkwardness. There may be a game which only makes the fact that people know each other less than we thought, more transparent.

Don't get me wrong - these events are a major step up from the monotony of the work day. I'd much rather converse with our VP about sailing, biking, scotch or clothing than about how I missed the mark on revenue for the 3rd consecutive month and I am one step away from getting tarred and feathered and dragged through the office building lobby. Without fail, a casual conversation will divert into a mildly interesting business discussion, relieving you of the pressure of having to talk candidly and not be too forthcoming.

The Conversations: 
They start off non-existent as you look around the room, talking to the regular 4-5 office folks you do on a daily basis. You commiserate lightly about work and comment nonchalantly on the event at hand, commending those few who took the time to plan, organize, and invite. The first glass of wine, purchasable with pocket lint, but dressed in a fancy napkin to hide the label enters your body igniting a fire, and scratches the itch that you have to always drink around these people. A slanted transition is made from work talk to friendly banter that pokes and prods the threshold of comfortability. Insert questions about where you are living and if you have a significant other.
While talking with a female she tells a story about last weekend and mentions that her and her "girlfriend" went pumpkin picking. You bite your tongue and hold onto this piece of information like your playing a fucking game of clue. You think you just solved the office mystery and found that ______ is a lesbian. Turns out, after you started an office-wide rumor, that she is not in fact a lesbian and only has one girlfriend named Connie who has been her best friend for 18 years. Not that anything is wrong, if she is a lesbian, but you just thought you went all Dan Brown and da vinci coded this shit.

Wine turns to whiskey and whiskey back to wine corrupting your insides and guiding you toward the tinted light of inappropriate behavior. People are starting to become "risk takers" and divulge information about their past employers/employees and leisurely likes and dislikes.

Levels of Drunk: 
1. The non-drinker - Confident that they are distinguished and above all in the group, praying for a drunk idiot to point fun at. While boring at times its overall not a bad move for a work outing.
2. The sipper - Casually taking sips from a drink that is essentially a hi-c juice box until it becomes so warm that its uncomfortable to hold. The sipper still holds onto it because lord knows they are not getting another.
3. The casual drinker - This is a the just married, or locked-down relationship person. The individual is having a couple drinks to "wind down" and plans to go back to their significant other to say "I didn't drink, I just wanted to relax," This is great, it avoids confrontation with the annoyingly jealous bf/gf/wife/husband and keeps you on an even keel with co-workers.
4. College drinker - This person is a new hire who is recently out of college and can still drink like a frat wrestler on cocaine. They are putting back a good amount of drinks but are hardly phased by the consumption. Occasionally they get a bit out of hand and make fun of someone above them in the hierarchy, but are new enough to not push the boundaries.
5. One-too-many - This is typically a VP or mid-level employee who has decided that the work week was stressful and they are going to put back one-extra beverage. Their conversations will now suck. They try to talk about work but are wrong in their responses, and try to talk about outside activities but the stories don't really "make sense."
6. Taking it to the "level" - This can be any employee who decides, fuck it. Or, they really don't value their job. Or, they are comfortable enough in their position that they could take a shit on the boat deck and still have a place to sit the next morning.
7. Terminator - This employee will no longer have a job the following day, or when regular working hours begin. They pre-gamed the event, had 4-5 drinks over their natural limit, physically accosted a colleague in a higher position, ate something that was not food, drank something that contained their own urine, and simply could not speak and form words to defend themselves.





  The Finer Things: 
We all get a little looser at these things, let our personalities out and throw our inhibitions to the wind a bit. It is part of the reason these events are held and it is certainly healthy. There are just some funny things that happen. You may find yourself making fun of someone whom you have not priorly spoken to - great. One thing that I like to observe is the end of the night "goodbye." The effervescent liquor drinks are doing the merengue inside your stomach making you act like a prepubescent teen eating rock candy. You have now spent 4 hours with people you would ignore at a grocery store if you saw them at the end of the isle and they didn't spot you. The night is ending, its time to part ways and see each other in 12 hours. This is where the hugging begins. You begin saying adios to these people you are going to see immediately upon waking up tomorrow. They are one step away from sleeping over. The same person who you have been dodging emails from and holding in piss for the rare chance that you run into them in the bathroom...you are now intertwined in each others arms like newlyweds. If the waitress was to come around with one more free shot there is a 60% chance you may tongue kiss that person on the way out.

Your boss is hammered and slurring his/her words. You're very much inebriated and worried about missing your favorite show. You leave, hugging fucking everyone, and call it a good night. Good news is everyone now know what each co-workers favorite color and animal is...and you may have fucked the front desk attendant. Fun.  - As a caveat none of this happened on my company outing....

Baby bump, Baby-Baby-Baby- Bump

"Congrats! Oh my jesus H fuckjuice - you have a baby bump!"
- While the comment comes out less crude than I have so elegantly displayed above of course, I dry heave into my medium sized blue recycling bin.

The female-strong office is erupting in prenatal excitement. The males put on that half-grin, just-ate-a-shit particle look on their face to try to appeal to the sounds of joy, while harnessing pure cold-blooded despise for those commiserating around them. I am going to try to not enter this in a male-bias manner, although that may lye outside the realm of reality.

"Can I touch it?"
"How far along are you?"
"See, its okay to be fat for a while!"

These are are the comments that are expatiated from the mouths of those who see a co-worker that isn't often around the office. Can I touch it? No fucking thank you. There is a living, vile, alien looking creature who was forced to inhabit a uterus, and expand a stomach by two people who thought it was time to take birth control out back and shoot it in the face. Not to mention it is still the first trimester for this belly show-off, and that bulge is 98% liquid. I can't help but to picture an excessive pen-poke resulting into an desk area explosion of processed food, stomach acid, and person matter. I know thats a bit of sci-fi farfetchedness, but it is making my non-pregnant stomach near an irritable bowl movement.



Take a look at gorgeous Nick Lachey here. He looks terrified, his face is wrinkling - he is losing thousands of dollars by the second. If they have to retake that picture he is going to have to work one year longer, and their guest room will surely be smaller. 

This is not a post to bash childbirth, after all, I am here due to its premise. It is just that the state of being pregnant is not flauntingly attractive, or interesting to an audience of the masses. Its a good thing in the long run, kind of like removing a planters wart from your foot, but doesn't mean you go around showing people the scar hole it left. You can BE pregnant, and have a baby bump, perhaps even talk about/show off that likely mossy mound in the comfort of your own home. Do this with girlfriends, or mothers, likely your father is vehemently opposed to its appearance as well. Do NOT bring that runway show to the office. Where a shawl, loose garments, work from home. They advise you not to travel when intoxicated with baby...so take it easy, stay in the basement like Powder.

Mating and Starving

Eating healthy is becoming overly unhealthy. Admittedly, I have fallen victim to this health food/weight neuroticism sweeping over the country to some extent. I may skip an extra slice of pizza or hold on another dash of salt. It has not stricken all of us, or even many of us judging by the 15 fat fucks i had to dip and dive around while getting off the train. It is however, entering the work force and our everyday lives with an alarming annoyance, like the perpetual sounds of birds mating in the early morning.

You have probably noticed this choice starvation taking place, perhaps you have even seen it start small and escalate. I am not talking about eating disorders, although this is certainly a start, and much much, more annoying. If a chick walks up to me and says she likes to launch her two bone fingers to the back of her throat to induce vomit, fine by me. If wrestler or swimmer male decides he is going to go "Ghandi" and fast for fucking eight weeks completely...excellent, rock out. This epidemic that I am talking about is the over-healthy, label reading, diet pressure pointers inhabiting menus, grocery stores and workplaces.

Each day another greasy haired pimple popper is firing up this fad. Going for a morning run, eating a moderate amount of calories, and sleeping right doesn't suffice. Those partaking in the cult feel the need to read every article they can google, judge the microprint on labels, and eat like a bird to get to the "proper" physical state. You must see it!?

It goes in stages. First, you begin researching, finding things you should avoid eating and make minor adjustments to wheat pasta or 2% milk. The articles start becoming bookmarks, and maybe you subscribe to a weight loss magazine and spend 20 bucks a weak on lean cuisines for lunches. The progression continues to support groups, others who have been on this hike a bit longer than you, the veteran bird food eaters as I like to call them. You get support from them which feels nice, but they also inform you that you are going about it all wrong; the lean cuisine is too high in sodium, silk milk (soy) is the only way to go, and cous-cous is the new pasta. You'r really on a roll now and bananas that may cause colon cancer if eaten at a certain frequency have been replaced by some guava fruit you can only buy at whole foods 3 months  year. Lunch is never purchased, but always brought since "you know how to do it best." The tupperware is filled with a fig, seven shreds of arugula, dried chicken breast (1/2 breast) and an orange peel. There is less flavor in that container than a 7-month old tea bag sitting on a Boston Commons park bench.

People are intrigued by your dish, which excites you - its now your time to shine...or recruit if you will. You talk about your weight loss, but even more, you talk about how you feel that much better than before. You're a new person, rejuvinated and alive. You're fucking starving. It isn't enough for you to just let people know how great you feel and project your insecurities onto others. You have to go further. You start to assess others meals with a scientific eye. You break down every calorie, carb, saturated fat and grain. By the end of your critique the person you have judged is left to feel they are about to bite into an aids patients fecal matter.Fun fucking lunch.

The months roll on, the pounds fall off like flaking skin from a Venezuelan sunburn. Unfortunately, the cult has taken over fully and you are now enjoying nutrients or lack thereof an eroded tree bark morsel and sand crystal water. Your skin is dry, your hair is greasy, your pits smell like Europe from the weak ass Tom's deoderant you are using and you are still fucking starving. Your food chart looks like an IV bag.

So for anyone who is "eating healthy" - take it easy. And, if you want to go fucking Rambo on a diet and turn into a fucking pilgrim, do it on your own time. Do no interrupt my meals, critique my coffee with half and half and real goddamn sugar. Just sit there with your sticks and grass, and vitamin cocktails and shut the fuck up. By the way, for anyone in my office on this food trip; i have been infusing the decaf Keurig cups with a shot of protein, salt, sugar, barley, wheat, heroin, butter, and bread dust. Fucking enjoy.

Ducks Go Marching

Running along the Charles River, originally named the Massachusettes River by Captain John Smith, history comes to mind. The Harvard Sails drift to the welcomed wind suppressing the damp humid New England summer air. Tourists and locals alike try their hand at canoeing and kayaking down the river, holding pace with the ducks that inhabit the body of water daily. It is almost as if we have taken a few steps back in technology and its refreshing to see.

Travel is not by hybrid cars and tesla mobiles. It is by boat, and although this travel may be for leisure over necessity, its still reminds us of a younger day. The ducks move in twos, fours and small schools. They turn their face down, and rump to the sky - diving for food and cleaning their beaks. Hundreds of years ago we would find Native Americans and English settlers bathing themselves alongside the winged land creatures. Have the the animals adapted over time, or do they carry about as they always have, withstanding the test of time and proving fit for Darwinism? Why have we changed so much to where the only time we grab a paddle and an oar is to grow our shoulder to fit better in a slim fit Brooks Brothers button down? Running shoes look like billboard advertisements and eyes flock to the woman who's bra barely covers her breasts augmented with silicon.

After the sun drops low and the moon replaces its glow, exercise will cease and alcohol sales will increase. Rather than calming down and preparing a family dinner, we drink alone. We part our lips to the bottle and the smoke to calm our overworked brains. We rent our overpriced apartments to impress our guests, rather than building shelter for our loved ones. More people live alone void of love and care, only to fight for the paycheck and buy another pearl. As I search through my iPhone for an app to order delivery food, I notice the ironic name "seamless" as I feel I have seamlessly lost touch of reality. Checking emails for late night tasks and notifications from various social media outlets and online dating, I fear social entropy taking over.

Shoes stack up like mounds of dirt, and designer denim garnishes the shelves as much as our daily appearance. We skip a meal to make sure Versace stops by for the weekend. We skip the second meal to make sure the 31 inch waist doesn't flirt with 32. Xanax hits the pallet where the multi-vitamin should have laid, and the eye cloth blocks out the colors of the night.

Still, the ducks swim, they clean, they share food together. They frolic naked next to the family they have loved and grown to know...well. Their feet flap happily and bare against the soft current of Boston's elegant waterway. Tomorrow brings no stress as long as the river runs wild, tomorrow is not a day to be feared, but a day to love.

Breath.

Dog In Heat

The air is hotter than most nights, cooler than some. There is that damp feeling in the air, one you feel you can wring out, twisting your fists like a portable dehumidifier. Covers are not necessary and the down comfortable lays beneath you like a mat covering the floor for drying paint. The expectedly stale room feels comfortable without a fan, paying homage to the infrequent but penetrable breeze creeping in through the window screen. The pillows are still cool enough without the touch of body heat, they're pleasing for the time being, but soon my scruffy 4 day shadow will change that.

I breath in, out, counting sheep and avoiding clock-watching. Its too late for novel reading and too early for email chatter. Technology fails to serve a purpose - a rarity in 2013. I could watch porn. 

Breathe slows down and the relaxing and freeing feeling extends from my hollow lungs and enters my bloodstream. Flipped on my stomach grasping onto the pillow formed in a vague shape of a female companion, I squeeze. Wave of breeze. The momentary relief halts as quickly as it entered but my paced breath keeps me calm like a panting dog in Augusts Arizona heat.

There is a gap between my body and the faux memory foam mattress, its been widening throughout my brief tenure here. Like an opposing gravitational force, the gap defies Newton and lifts me upward. The height is negligible to the naked eye, the strange passerby glancing in on my supposed slumber like Bill Nye. The presence of a third party lingers over your shoulder, but a lack of neurological synapses prevent me from verifying its existence and I move forward amicably. My time in consumed with inactivity and the focal point of relaxation.

There is a slight tingle in my toes that caused a ripple affect hitting a tidal friction spot at my waist and settling there. It lingers and feels funny, almost tickling me and I laugh.

STONED.

How would you reject "You"

When we submit an application, what do you think happens with it? Among the thousands that US Congressional office, insurance companies countrywide, and consulting firms worldwide see daily, what happens when they dance elegantly out of that card deck pile into someones hands?

A recent article on Gothamist got me thinking about this. For a period of time, Hunter S Thompson wrote rejection letters for Rolling Stone Magazine. Needless to say, he didn't beat around the bush and the only portion of purple prose included was written in a derogatory and insulting manner, in order to exasperate the point. I particularly like the way he ended the letter, giving young Michael some hope.  http://gothamist.com/2011/08/17/when_hunter_s_thompson_penned_rolli.php

A psychiatrist once told me that whenever anxiety creeps up on your like a rapist in the middle of a snowstorm just stop and say "what is the worst thing that can happen." If a rapist were to sneak up on you, the worst thing that could happen is that he rapes you and wears your skin around Little Rock, Arkansas for 3-4 months in her mothers basement. I do not really agree with the psych's analysis. When I told him that trains give me anxiety in the morning he asked me to think about the worst thing that could happen.

"The worst thing? I start sweating uncontrollably in front of the hottest woman in the world as she stares at me. Her jaw drops as if she just seen a moose fucking a Chihuahua, but doesn't ask me what's wrong. I start to panic, my breath gets short and noticeable warm pouring out of my mouth, but its stuck near me like I am in a tight bubble. Now even ugly people are staring at me as the raining sweat falls from my forehead to the train floor. My knees tremble, lighting gets darker and I pass out. My loafer loses its footing as it slips on the sweat puddle formed by my leaking pours. I fall down hitting my head on the adjacent handle rail. I hit hard enough to die, but I don't - death would be a welcomed result at this point. Soon I wake up and the hot woman, the Asian retard, an old man with perfume on, and a bum holding his dog on a rope lease as it licks my face are all standing around me for support."

I have attached an image of my resume, the actual resume I submit to new job offers. I think this will help out during this experiment. I am going to write as if some deranged, pompous asshole would write if he was forced to send me a rejection letter (worst thing that could happen). Keep in mind his flippant tone is due to the fact that A) he doesn't care B) he is forced to do this and C) this is rejection letter number 110 for the day.

Dear Mr. "Thanks for putting your middle name" -

While I wish only to quote the film Billy Madison and award you no points at all for your efforts, I am obliged to give you my full original attention. 

If the first sentence did not give it away, someone else already obtained employment here. Well, that's actually a lie, the position is still open but the take home here is the "right fit" is not you. It seems here that your career has been on a little magic carpet ride with a no stop ticket to "what the fuck do I want to do with my life?" You started off working for a woman running for Michele Bachmanns congressional district in Minnesota. While there was a slight moment of sympathy due to the fact that the only excitement you had while working in MN was stealing meth from a local and huffing it down in your motel room apartment. From there you campaigned for an illiterate Yuppy attempting to make his name known in the family by obtaining a powerful seat on political office. Judging by the dates listed to the right, he didn't win - there are two loses in a row for you Ryan. 

At this point you got the picture...You're not the next Ryan Gosling in Ides of March. It's time to stop and move forward amicably into making more than $2k/month and hitting on candidates daughters, or anyone willing to sleep with a poor fuck with pity employment. You work for commonsense media, which may be the worlds smallest political advertising firm. At no point do you talk about advertising in this section, kind of sounds like you were the owners bitch. There is a good chance that some of your daily tasks included but are not limited to picking up dog shit and delivering groceries. Glad you can use Salesforce - we have absolutely no use for that here, this actually lost you points...if we had a point system. 

Before hitting your last section of employment, which is probably fake, lets delve into your achievement and "publications." I put the publications in quotes which added an extra 12 seconds to this to emphasize the hilarity of the list. I hope your next advertising job can find a nice use for that psychological test your wrote and never administered. Maybe you can give it to the HR department and they can use it to write down phone numbers for WB mason on the back. Literally fucking ANYONE can write in Bostinno, you simply just sign up. Telling yourself you have a publication there is almost as laughable as calling yourself an author because you have a blogpspot! Take is easy the T.S Elliot. 

While my hand is cramping and the vodka is fuming off my breath as I stare at the rising stack of failures to my left, I feel compelled to finish. Tt looks like you're gearing up to stay in mobile advertising but  your track record proves otherwise. I would not doubt that in two years the top line of this resume will read "UPS delivery guy." The numbers look nice but remember 45% improvement on 0 ain't shit. You and your make believe company can honestly go fuck themselves. The fact that they created all these tasks for you to do makes me think they couldn't find one thing you were good at, so figured why not try this. I do wish you th

I was about to finish that last sentence but the bourbon/vodka mix and your lack of ability to prove your self worth on a piece of paper has forced me to vomit the contents of my luncheable. The luncheable was stolen out of the fridge, thus making it free as fuck. Better get better at stealing.  

Hiring Manager

Girl Scouts of America 

Hemingway's Truth

Hemingway tells us in "A Moveable Feast" that when we are stuck as authors, write something true. From a man who often wrote tales of fiction, this may hardly make sense. However, most works of fiction are true representations of the authors life, and repressed thoughts, concerns, inhibitions, and dreams. He says to not just write something true, but have it be the 'truest thing you can put down on paper' at that given time.

Often we, or rather I fear, letting the truth envelope to those around me. It is much simpler to put a series of words on paper, that most often will not see another set of eyes. This is what makes Hemingway's words of wisdom even more intense, ore maybe fantastic. His words were read by millions, and as he wrote about his trials and tribulations among Paris' writing elite, he knew he would be published, and his truths would become known, transparent, and alive.

As an author, storyteller, or fiction producer, how much are we willing to tell about ourselves? How aware are our readers and spectators to discover what is a piece of fiction, what is hyperbole, and what is stone-cold fucking truth? Can our readers tell when we are being vulgar to grab attention or will our tenacious writing and use of a foul tongue deem our writing "inaccrochable." Will it be considered 'writing that is like a painting that cannot be hung,' in the words of Gertrude Stein. Stein's writing always fascinated me because we saw so little of it. From someone who judges the likes of Hemingway, Ford Madox Ford, and Fitzgerald, she produced very little to be looked at by the public. Maybe she knew that her writing would not be placed on coffee tables and classroom bookshelves and that is why she wrote each and every day in a continuous, possibly sexually vulgar, fashion. I bet we could find some brilliant truths in the unpublished notebooks of Miss Stein.

There is a fine line to truth, how much to give, and when is appropriate. Fiction masks truth because for the most part, readers cannot decipher the complexity of the author enough to denote truth and falsities. I often tread carefully on the diction of truth, its delivery, and appropriate nature. When we do not tell the truth, whether it be a white lie or a full on fabrication, people get hurt...no? During the times that I have been the most truthful, I have seen the most pain. Of course there is the difference between immediate pain like a gunshot, versus the lasting cancerous pains. As I think this through in writing I present the following question for the reader"

Would you rather the truth that hurts you now as you live, or the lie you never knew until you were dead?

Just something to ponder....And to tie everything together, I believe Hemingway found in his simplistic writing style that truth was the only thing to lift you out of a rut. In times when we are truly confounded, averting to truth maybe our only solace. There is nothing complicated about truth when it only involves you - it is unchallenged. It is when others are involved that we find distress, uncertainty and fear - human nature, I truly believe, wishes it could refrain from harm to others at all times.

Then again "truth is beauty and beauty truth, that is all we know and all ye' need to know..."

Bon Voyage to Three Ill-fated Men

This is happening. While traveling the world has long been found on my list of governing values, I never knew when it was really going to take off. In attempts to not sound too pretentious - money certainly is a slight prerequisite for international travel and that is finally coming around. You could travel with your parents...However going on any trip with your family at the age of 21 or older is about as fun as creating an ice luge of Lexington Steel, a famous and well-endowed black porn stars dick, using just your teeth and letting a group of college kids pour urine down the frozen slide into your enamel scraped mouth. I say this with all due respect to my loving parents, who  have traveled to beautiful locations. I am sure the sites are great, the new friends are even better and the food is "on point." But - my governing values while on the trip are not exactly in line with my parents, and I really don't see us coming to a common ground on what we see as enjoyable activities. I can see the conversation now:

Mom: "_________ do you want to go see the shoreline of Santorini on  Greece on a ocean tour?"

Me: "It's the shore, I'm physically standing on it."

Mom: "But ships are amazing and you might meet some nice people."

Me: "There is a bar down on the pier, apparently there are young college girls who have trouble with basic arithmetic, Id rather try my chances at meeting those people. Chances they are a bit more encourageable."

Mom: "_______ - That is rather rude and uncalled for. I thought we would do something nice... together."

Me: "Trust me, there is nothing that I want to do that we could legally partake in together, not even in Greece."

In just three and a half weeks I will be flying from LGA in New York City to San Jose, Costa Rica. From there, myself and two categorically insane college friends will board a shuttle that will take us 1.5 hours down the road to hell. Hell = Jaco, pronounced "Yako" with a short "a." Jaco has been compared to its counterpart for Spring Break tirps (Tamarindo),  quite tastefully; "If you want to hook up with single Europeans go to Tamarindo, if you want a prostitute and a bag of cocaine, go to Jaco." Needless to say the decision was made with a very short decision matrix, aka a coin with flip with heads on both sides. Heads we go to Jaco - Jaco here we come.

Honestly? There was some decision making, and while the "paid for sex villains" and Columbian bam bam does make my dick twitch, it was not the deciding factor. Jaco is well known for those seeking adventure; ATV tours through the jungles filled with animals that I cannot name, zip lines, bungee jumping, and surfing. The suft is supposedly phenomenal - which unfortunately does not appeal to me. Seeing as I have never stepped a foot, or even laid my body on a board, "epic surf" is sincerely not needed. A fucking swimming pool with a long board moving side by side would easily do the trick and serve as a tangible lesson. Instead, I will pretend to paddle on the sandy shore of Jaco beach, imagining its anything like the high seas. Then I will head out 50 meters, attempt "catch" a wave, fail to stand up, slip and unstrap my harness. This will be concurrent with being pulled under by the mystical undertow only to watch my forehead line up through the transparent and flourescent water with a thick sharp piece of coral. Sounds fun. Looking forward to it. Punishment.

There will be a follow up post to this which will likely explain a series of indiscretions followed by an tutorial on my trip to the Mass General Free STD clinic. The conversation with the nurse is likely to go as follows:

Nurse: So, everything was fine three months ago. Why are you back?

Me: Just got back from Costa Rica.

Nurse: So what does that mean? What are we testing for?

Me: I dont want to waste your time, the labs time, or Mass tax payers money. Just give me four pink pills and we will call it a day.

Nurse: Well, I cannot legally do that.

Me: Okay - well then stick that cue tip in my dick hole and lets do this the quick and hard way.

This trip consists of 3 man-children riding aimlessly on vespas along Costa Rica's Pacific coast - clinging onto glimpses of our adolescence as they fly around the humid air getting stuck along the way. It is because of those glimpses of immaturity and hopeless struggles to maintain youth that we continue to live wild, free, and content. While the fucks we give about what people think of our vagrant actions soar into the sun dripped sky, we will smile, sip rum, and sing a favorite collegiate tune. The days will zoom by like a Mazda commercial and we will soon return back to the cold chilling reminder of reality that lies in the Northeastern part of the United States. That is why we will revel in every moment we have - drink an extra glass of rum, zip from the higher tree, fuck the model and the fat chick for the story, crack our heads on coral, and sing out of tune.

Without governing values, we lead a life of no guidance, no pursuance, and a pathless journey.

Here's to another adventure. To be continued...

Where have you gone.

Dear Man

I gave in to you. I lacked the things you needed the most. Your sweetness was wasted just to run and hide, seeking nothing but loneliness. Your heart filled up the milky way, but we were traveling in parallel universes. Never once did you look at me like you did at that far away distance. The tolerance you had for the bottle surpassed all that you had for my kindness. Did you ever wake up feeling like you needed somebody? Were you ever afraid?

I cling to songs that make me think of the nights where smoke drifted softly against my hair from your brilliant mouth. Does it feel better where you are? Do those people in your stories measure up to reality that you could not stand to be around?

Am I selfish to love a man who has not love to give but love to steal. Why, you devils Robin Hood – poaching the hearts of those rich in love, only to feed your poor soul. You are too far gone now. Your rusty beard indicates your nonchalant approach at maintaining awareness. Your sunken eyes are kept afloat by the bags that lay underneath them. They tear holes through passerby strangers as to get a better look at the emptiness that lays beyond the tightened skin that once supported a man worthy of knighthood.

With tainted love,

Girl

Liver Massacre

When you get yourself into a serious binge drinking cycle there is little that's going to motivate you to stop. The cool liquid asphyxiates any emotional qualms you may have had and the subtle yet noticeable anxiety you carry from day to day dissipates like the sugar at the base of the shot glass. You are encouraged by close friends to continue the collegiate consumption of distilled product only to feel looser, stronger, but less in control.

You know that the countless hours of non-measurable drinking is starting to take a toll on your internal organs, reminding you through ill tempered stunts that you should slow it down. The third trip to the bathroom in under 2 hours and a mild dry heave that strokes the basin of your esophagus is only the tip of the iceberg. You know this is bad, but its feels better than not knowing the good. The real change of events occurs when you are able to bury the hints of your miscalculated tolerance and just move forward amicably to a full bodied blackout.

This is how its starts. Where it ends is a decisions left up to the innate principles remaining within you subconscious cerebral cortex. When does it click? When do you pull the chord, or do you hit the earth at peak velocity over and over again until something gives and you fall through to the core? As images become blurred and your knees wobble, battling the stairs from the bottom floor of the bar upwards like an overweight diabetes patient striving for caloric intake. Women close to Glenn Close's age begin to look like Meghan Fox, and overzealous hand shakes and hugs with the same sex dance upon the level of homosexuality. Passersby look at you as if your face constantly appears as it does in a fun house mirror, you sneer back at them forcing the awkward moment to the next level. Brushing off the sweat from your brow and checking your underarms for annoying and drastically unnecessary pit stains, you go to the bathroom to breathe and wash you liquid palms. It has been 30 minutes since your last drink, partially due the long line, but more blame belongs to your lack of desire to use the last 40 dollars in your checking account. The nerves are sliding back in, and the anxiety levels are pushing at your pores. You drink.

The night ends in a violent undressing to a bed face plant with a lack of nutrition leaving you mouth void of any hydration. The morning comes quicker than necessary and with the inability to avoid the pain in between your temples and the lack of anti-depressants pouring into your body. You reach for a Xanax you bought from an effervescent waitress at cheesecake factory, and attempt to crush it against the dresser. Giving up as the morsels of prescription drug finds its way in the mahogany finish, you swipe the crumbled into your hand and land them on your pallet. Entering the sun dripped kitchen with a vague memory of how you had entered this broken establishment, you pour yourself a glass of water. Elegantly you sip the the city flow and pour out the rest into the sink and grab your only solace - the last three sips out of the handle of vodka you purchased to last the week. Your mind settles and a faint smile emerges.

The Grouper Experience

In a society hindered by the grueling 24 hour day, measured by people who can manage to only sleep 4-5 hours a night in order to fit in more time to "lead the nation," dating is not always "in the cards." Some turn to online dating, or other forms of structured dating that extends beyond genuine social interaction simply because they lack the type A, mildly sociopathic and extroverted sense. Randomly approaching an appealing face at the local watering hole is not a plausible option without filling out your underarms with Lake Erie size puddles and stuttering over every word in constant fear that your voice is as nasally and Gilbert Godfreid. For these introverted beings, low on the sociability scale I constructed during my tenure at Roger Williams, orthodox dating is also not found in a 52 card pile of paper.

The options are increasing, as local and nationwide companies see the growing demand and supply unique niche's and stabs at this constant dilemma. Widely accepted commercially is Match.com offering compatibility for the middle aged man or woman, eHarmony, which allegedly finds you the perfect match based on series of questions and algorithm's. Then you have OkCupid, a place where you can find someone at 8am EST on a Thursday and fuck them roughly 8 hours later, possibly sooner if you can fit it in on your lunch break. Plentyoffish is another FREE site where youngsters are lining up to ignore substantive profiles only stare at photos and fire of a quick message, including but not limited to, innocuous banter and verbal foreplay. A new player in the game, if they could stop their goddamn app from crashing is Tinder - An app that links to your Facebook and gps location and finds matches that you say "yes" or "no" to simply based on their profile photo and mutual friends. Then the app allows you to fire up a hopefully witty conversation with them to see if you are a "fit."

While I am no stranger to the online dating scene due to time constraints or modern curiosity, none of these options listed above have been all too lucrative and vaguely touch upon interesting. Beyond of course the intriguing willingness for young girls to sleep with you on the first date. Then came a new form of online dating that I think appeals to both sides of the problematic spectrum; the time challenged and the socially sweaty. You can find this gem at joingrouper.com. The name is GROUPER. This, in my opinion, falls into the category of online dating but is not as pressured, and in all honesty, not as creepy as Michael Myers. Imagine Michael Myers rolling up to your dinner table at Sorrelina for a nice sit down Italian meal followed by a Texas chainsaw massacre at his 2 family home in Malden, MA?

To explain grouper - It is a site where you link your facebook profile and sign up. You then receive a confirmation email asking you to choose two "wingmen" or "wingwoman." Once you have a full group of 3 they will take your info and match you up with another group of 3 of the opposite sex (I am not sure if there are same sex set-ups yet). Upon them finding a match they secure a date, time and location. In addition they give you a reservation name and the deal is done. I followed through with this process with two other males, who I believe would be good in holding a conversation. For this first trial I decided it was best not to include someone who may fart suddenly when asked about his hometown or possibly spill his drink due to his Michael J Fox hands.

Walking into the bar we were all stricken with innate fear that we were going to be dropped into a Kuwait like war zone surrounded by chicks that look like the dinosaurs depicted in Fear and Loathing in Lost Vegas when J. Depp was tripping on acid. To our great surprise this was not the case. They were actually three friends, of the preferred Jewish decent, all of which I would have taken home and definitely with one or two cocktails which I had already consumed prior to entering the establishment. Pro Tip 412; Always pregame the date, but not to blackout status. The "date" was completely carefree, with three well articulate men leading the conversation, and the girls not being to shy to carry it forward. We had a failed attempt to play two truths and a lie, and after we realized we all forgot each others names and had to start over, things were truly rolling.

This social experiment as I like to call it was well crafted and avoids many of the fears that most have upon going on a date:

1. They will be raped (happens to guys too)
2. The person will look like Shrek (still possible, but there are three options, only one Shrek)
3. They will be too nervous to hold the conversation
4. There will be nothing to talk about
5. Getting stood up

All of these issues are generally avoidable unless you have a group of raping mutants who cant speak English, sweat profusely, and are not timely. All in all, I truly recommend the experience for any fucking stock/ insurance broker complaining about late hours and the lack of time to pick up their dry cleaning. I concurrently recommend it to Adam Smithens, the poorly dressed man in his fathers Men's Warehouse blazer with a mild lisp, bad social manners, and inability to do magic besides turning his baby blue shirt navy.

Group me yo.