Month: February 2008

Over the past few months, I’ve gotten to know my downstairs neighbor a little better. We have never met, but through primitive exchanges and eavesdropping on his music, I feel that I have come to get a gist of his being.

The month of January has been a rough one for him. Nothing but Death Cab or Bright Eyes pounded through my carpeted floors. His tempered mood had him banging at me through his ceiling as I practiced my shuffle-ball-changes, and my accordion playing didn’t calm his spirits one bit.

February has brought some definitely brighter times with the weather warming up and after delivering a Valentine’s card to his door (anonymously) thanking him for “putting up” with me (har har) he seems to be in a better emotional state.

Bright Eyes has stopped completely and the frequency of Death Cab has diminished, being replaced with the still slightly depressing, but much more upbeat and uplifting The Postal Service.

I have also come to find that February brings hope of a social life for my downstairs friend as his drumming has increased and band practice has begun.

This has got me scheming. Since he definitely has a fondness for music, judging by his musical endeavors and loud music playing, why not send him a mixtape? Well not really a mixtape, as I do not have the technology to make one, but maybe a mix cd. It definitely does not have the same sentimental attachment that a mixtape captures, but let’s save that for lovers. This is a neighborly relationship, and a lighthearted, friendly gesture is more appropriate.

I will call it “The ‘I Don’t Mind If You Play These Songs Super Loud’ Mix”. Now, creating such a mix holds enormous amounts of pressure seeing as though his loud music playing must be heard by a larger audience than just he and I. It’s almost like being an Apartment DJ… only anonymously. The Apartment DJ holds much importance as music plays a huge part in human emotions and moods. This mix must be super fantastic and somewhat communal.

So, I am asking for your help. I plan on getting this mix to my Downstairs friend by Monday, March 31st, 2008. Make your song requests to be included in this mix cd (you can either post it as a comment or send it to: [email protected]) and I will collaborate songs, post the playlist and deliver this mix to my downstairs neighbor along with a short note explaining the purpose of this mix cd. Remember, these songs should be songs that you would not mind hearing played at extremely ridiculous volumes sporadically throughout the day and/or night.

If you do not mind (and please indicate this along with your submission) I will also include your first name in the above mentioned note so that my neighbor will know just who these songs are from. If your business/workplace would like to make requests, send those over as well and we can dedicate specific songs from your place of employment. We can even dedicate songs to him from cities/towns/states where ever you are from and whatever you are in association.

This could be your chance to be a part of something uber amazing, maybe even revolutionizing. We can all play a part in being The Apartment DJ.

The hardest part about life is waiting to find out who you’re going to become.

It’s not the day to day work, the stresses of relationships or responsibilities. It’s the waiting.

Nobody likes waiting. Waiting in line. Waiting for the oven to preheat. Waiting for your ride or a person to show-up. Waiting always feels like time wasted.

Which is weird, because that’s what we spend our whole life doing: we wait. We just wait. We just wait to find out who we’re going to become.

Sure, we do stuff along the way, a lot of stuff actually, in the hope it carries us to that desired destination. Sometimes, even aggressively so. You work on the assumption that it will pay off, but you don’t know. It’s a guess, a hope.

Sometimes, I picture life like a TV show. You watch something happen, it cuts to the outside of a building (maybe the “Family Matters” house) and the words “three months later” or “three years later” appear, and you find out what happens right away. It happens so quick. There’s an immediate payoff and you learn the consequence (unless, of course, you are watching “Lost”, in which case you don’t find out anything. Damn, I love that show, though).

What does the next year hold in store? The next five years? Ten years?

I guess that’s the “fun part”. I didn’t mean to use quotation marks there, it is fun. Bastardly fun.

Just, sometimes, I wonder…

I don’t think you “can”. Or, at least, I didn’t so. Until now.

First, though, let’s tout the good qualities.

Vienna Sausage. Corned beef (hash). And perhaps the holy grail of canned meat, Spam. There’s not a swear word among them. Nothing but salty, succulent delicious words. And yes, I know the heavily-covered Spam pundits out there will be quick to naysay its “succulenticity” but I’d dismiss their claims faster than a fart in the wind. In most cases, the naysaying is little more than uneducated claims based on a tainted perception rather than a first-hand experienced disdain. Sure, outside of Hawaii, a hurricane is the only appetizer that would precede a Spam entree, but shouldn’t discount its savoriness.

Canned meats are always there for you. These sodium-saturated snacks never go bad, which also means, these sodium-saturated snacks are always good.

How is that for some solid logic?

Unfortunately, in recent weeks, the unblemished record of deliciousness is being challenged by a German company trying to expand the canned meat market. Take it upon the country responsible for the Nazis to champion their next “great” invention, the Cheeseburger in der Dose (roughly translates to “Cheeseburger in a Can”).

I will admit that this critique is one on concept alone. I have not tried the “cheeseburger in der dose”, but gladly would. I’ve stated a number of times before that I am willing to put most anything in my mouth. This is not an exception.

I suppose I am not against the meat, so much as everything else: the special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

I cannot imagine how this would be good. This review seems to support my lack of imagination.

But really, the question is: why would someone do this?

The other night, I had a hankering for my Mom’s Famous Stroganoff. With a skip in my step (as this had been the best idea I’d come up with all week), I headed out to the nearest grocery store (“Social Safeway” as my sister calls it, but we’ll get into that at a later time), to pick up some ingredients.

Arriving back at my apartment, I realized I forgot one minor ingredient: flour. Now you really only need like two tablespoons of flour to make stroganoff and it really isn’t a key ingredient, but it gives the sauce in my Mom’s Famous Stroganoff that special consistency, and being the Gourmet that I am, I could not let myself get away with a missing ingredient. So I ventured to my neighbor’s to borrow some flour.

But something peculiar happened; I hesitated. Being that this is a college apartment complex, I did not expect my punk-rocking neighbors to have flour as a staple ingredient in their cupboards (and I really doubt that they would give up their precious drugs disguised as flour as a practical joke) but I did not feel that knocking down a few doors, measuring cup in hand would be acceptable social behavior in this day and age. Finally, I ended up at my friend’s apartment (who is a frequent baker), and managed to scrounge up the two tablespoons needed for my culinary needs.

This got me wondering: In the past, neighbors have, for the most part, been dubbed as someone to turn to if you should need assistance. Even Dictionary.com defines “neighbor” as “a person who shows kindliness or helpfulness toward his or her fellow humans” (Dictionary.com, 2008). In this day and age, however, it is hard to come by a person who is friends with his or her neighbor. Rarely do we go over to another’s asking to borrow a cup of sugar, a cup of milk or any cup of anything for that matter.

Nevertheless, the past is the past, and some things don’t come back into style. But back in those days there must have existed some fine lines between what was deemed an “acceptable borrow request” and an “unacceptable borrow request”.

I would imagine that a cup of sugar borrowed at 3pm on a Sunday afternoon, was an acceptable amount (I know because of the Outkast saying, “lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor” before I shake it like a polaroid picture). But what about a cup of cereal? Would a cup of cereal borrowed along with a cup of milk (because if you really were a well budgeted person, you would ration out your milk usage accordingly to your cereal consumption) at 7am on a Monday morning be an acceptable borrow request? Maybe and maybe not. Would two cups of sugar still be an “acceptable borrow request” given the same borrowing time frame of 3pm on a Sunday afternoon? Would 4 cups? 5 cups? What quantity starts to surpass the “acceptable borrow request” line, venturing into “unacceptable borrow request” territory?

Maybe the complicatedness of the situation is what drove this piece of social etiquette out of style. We are a society run on convenience and if an affair is not to our liking or advantage, we are very likely not to participate.

But when, exactly, did this custom go out of style? The rush of panic and hesitation I felt must have sparked my social sense and be indicative of some sort of social norm violation. But had I knocked ten years ago, would things have been different?

Only survivors of this great American custom would know for sure.

I’m a liar. I lie a lot. I mean not a whole lot (don’t worry, ladies), but on occasion I’ll tell a white lie.

Some times, at work, to cover my or someone else’s ass. Some times, in life, to cover my ass, again. Some times, and this is probably most times, for no reason at all.

Actually, that’s a lie. There is always a reason for a lie. To make someone feel better about him/herself (no, of course, I think you are attractive!), or probably more likely to make yourself look better (trust me, that’s 12 inches). Sometimes, the lie is just a small exaggeration. Not hyperbole, but small changes to the truth. How much something cost… How long you did something… Why you couldn’t come out last night… Just little things.

But, this post isn’t about lies or the types of lies we tell. This post is about selling those lies. Being believable. There aren’t many steps (lying actually is pretty easy, that’s probably why so man people do it), but they are all very important.

In my experiences, the following must be true, to pull off a lie.

1. The lie must be believable

I want to say this is the most important part, but it’s not. I think rule three, above all else is the most important. This rule and rule two can be bended with a solid rule three. But this is still important, especially if you aren’t good at rule three.

This should be obvious. If the lie you tell, couldn’t also be true, it isn’t going to work.

Person: “Why didn’t you come out last night?”
You: “Oh, I was fellating Jessica Alba.”

Chances are that one’s not going to fly, even if it was true. Only push the lie as fair as it needs to go in order to cover what you are trying to cover. The lie doesn’t have to be extravagant. In actuality, it shouldn’t be. It should be contextually unassuming and nonchalant so that there is no reason to question it.

2. The lie must be irrefutable, at the time

This rule is a bare minimum. A lie doesn’t need to be completely irrefutable. Sure, a completely safe lie would be, as you don’t need to expand upon or defend it at a later date, but that isn’t always possible. Really, a lie only needs to work at the moment it’s told, it only needs to stand the test of a second. Part of this is knowing your audience, and knowing that they don’t have the knowledge about the lie to refute you.

This is particularly true for fact based lies. It also makes fact based lies the easiest to tell. How many miles is it from here to there? How much does this cost? You can answer these with any answer, you just have to come off confident in your answer.

Which leads to rule three…

3. You must believe the lie, too.

Good salesmen thrive on this. They tell it, whether it is true or not, like their hand is on the bible. When you tell a lie, that is really the most important part, selling it. Which becomes all the more easier if you can convince yourself that it’s true.

This seems obvious, too. If you tell it like you believe it, people have no reason to not to. Why would you not look like you are telling the truth, if you “are”?

Like picking-up people, it’s about confidence. Being confident in what you are saying is always good advice, regardless of the circumstances, but especially in telling a lie.

I wrote this piece after a trip to the movie theater one day. I got about a page into it and then… fizzled… Too bad too, because as I was writing it, I was thinking to myself “Yes! YES! I am insightful! I am wise! This is amazing!” It was like pitching 8 innings of a perfect game, and then walking away from the mound without turning back. Anyway, read on.

Do people who are dying get more out of life?

Case in point: “The Bucket List,” the new movie in which Jack Nicholson and
Morgan Freeman get into all kinds of crazy shenanigans after both have been
diagnosed with terminal cancer. As a film, it was very enjoyable, but not
without its heart-wrenching moments.

However, this is not a review.

What I’m more interested in is the notion of doing all the things you ever
wanted to do in life but just never got around to. After all, that’s what the
bucket list is–a list of things you want to do before you “kick the bucket.”
While I normally applaud this idea and enjoy the romanticism of it, this time
around another thought struck me.

What if you’re the type of person who lives his life like this all of the
time? Someone who doesn’t have a list of things he has wanted to do for years
but never gotten around to because if he wants to do something he does it? Does
not that person deserve a film about himself (even if he can’t narrate it in the
voice of infinite wisdom of Mr. Freeman)?

It brings to mind the old story of the prodigal son–and I’m confident that
no matter what your religious upbringing, you have some familiarity with it. The
elder son stays with the father, helping him around the house, generally being a
good son, while the younger man moves away, goes knee deep in booze and women,
and gets drugged out and sloppy drunk in a Lohan-esque spree, only to come
crawling back to pops when the money is gone. Dad accepts him back and has a
party for him.

It’s a touching tale of unconditional love and forgiveness, except that it
impresses upon us a completely twisted worldview.

Psychologically and economically speaking, why are we rewarding bad behavior?
The prodigal son, like “The Bucket List,” romanticizes the notion of “make your
mistakes along the way, because you’ll have a chance to correct them later.

Nevermind. This doesn’t make any sense.

See what I mean? If anyone can make sense out of this or can pull out a unifying theme/idea that is worthwhile, go for it. I just found it funny that I had actually compared the Bible to Lindsey Lohan. By the way, does anyone remember when she used to be hot (ie “Mean Girls“)? What happened there?

I lay in bed, reading quietly. The window, inches from my head, sounds with the tiny noises of raindrops drumming against the glass and the sill below like so many popcorn kernels popping. Through the pillow, the muffled sound invades my ears and reminds me of the sound of hunger, of my stomach growling, or of the sound of gas bubbles making their way through my intestines. For some reason, those two things sound the same. As I half listen to the rain and hear this sound of hunger and pre-flatulence, I feel myself getting nauseous.

It’s not just the sound that nauseates, it’s the idea, the feeling. I am alone, in this room far from home, there is no one here that will come to drink hot cocoa and tell stories about the times the rain spoiled their birthday party or car accidents they were involved in caused by rain-slick roads or how nice it is to curl up in an easy chair in front of the fire when the weather starts to make one depressed. There’s just me, the wind howling and distracting me from the pages of my book.

I wrap myself in the covers, but I can’t seem to get warm. No, that’s not right, I’m sweating, I must be warm. I just can’t get comfortable. I turn to one side, then the other, letting the blankets ooze under my body, cocooning myself in warmth, but it’s not enough to warm my thoughts.

I read the last sentence again, then I read the whole paragraph again, then I read the whole page again, and each time I finish I realize I don’t remember anything about what I just read. Did anything important happen to the characters? Did anyone die? Was anyone born? I think I would remember something like that, so I decide none of that happened and I continue reading. I push through to the end of the chapter and close the book, knowing that tomorrow I will pick it up and read the whole chapter again.

All the while the nauseating rain drums the windows, beating out the steady music of stormy weather.

If I were to ever get a tattoo, it would probably be of Rafiki. See below…

I know as a Caucasian male, that is somewhat sacrilegious. I should get a Kanji tattoos (and continue to perpetuate the White man, asian fetish stereotype) or an anchor or a skull or something, I don’t know.

Since a tattoo lasts forever, or until an expensive surgery, my stance is that tattoos should represent an important motto or role model or guiding principle for life. It is something that should reminded you of how you are supposed to behave. “F— your mom” probably would not be appropriate.

That’s why, if I had to, I would choose Rafiki.

Perhaps the greatest character ever put to animated film, Rafiki is the perfect representative of how life should be led. He’s a little crazy, a little nuts. He’s a jokester AND a philosopher.

Take, for instance, this nugget he shared with a distraught Simba in the classic animated film “The Lion King”:

Adult Simba: I know what I have to do. But going back will mean facing my past. I’ve been running from it for so long.
[Rafiki hits Simba on the head with his stick]
Adult Simba: Ow! Jeez, what was that for?
Rafiki: It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.
[laughs]
Adult Simba: Yeah, but it still hurts.
Rafiki: Oh yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it, or… learn from it.
[swings his stick at Simba again who ducks out of the way]
Rafiki: Ha. You See? So what are you going to do?

That’s golden. You just can’t come by gems like that anymore.

Sure, a monkey head tattoo, depending on its placement on my body, could be weird and awkward, but for a reminder of those lessons on a daily basis, it seems worth it.

What kind of tattoo would/have you gotten?