Sometime in September

2011-02-19T18:25:00.002-05:00

In all seriousness, I don't like being so serious. Yet somehow, that's all I know. My humor isn't necessarily one to be shared, but rather one to be appreciated, so I can flourish in my own jokes — the ones that float in my own mind seldom see the light of day.

As a being, I take the world too seriously for a young 20-something. But I think that might be how I attract the smart ones.

I think of this as luck, lately — Malcolm Gladwell explained this best for the masses. I'm where I am and do what I do because the places and people I meet are altogether at the right moment of my life. Hard work is the needle that threads the loose ends.

Strong hope boils in my veins and makes my body feel like a hybrid stuck in impatient rush-hour traffic. One day, I think I might burst.

The new black

2011-02-12T14:48:00.000-05:00

Bars around these parts flood with their tight skin not yet spoiled from drug-induced late nights and cheap packs of the less-desirable menthol cigarettes. Hair and accessories are what make them appreciated. I recognize a tune by the bow-adorned Aretha Franklin as I sip from a timbered Newcastle, and I sense the brooding demolition of a remix…the worst creative effect to hit music in the 21st century. Classic tunes from the '70s and '80s sweep in with the initial excitement among the quiet ones observing the scene from the wood-paneled walls — and within seconds, Biggie Smalls (or someone of the sort) marches over the classic song once deemed classic and familiar. I look around the young faces smiling in sync as their bodies swirl and thrust along the mis-matched remix. Their outfits and hair-dos are as kitschy as the music, and I wonder, where did this strange obsession with a cartoonish culture begin? I wonder what they'll end up deeming the wasted talent of today's tastemakers?

While I concern myself with the future of a young female presumably malnourished and undoubtedly wasted on life, as she massages her breasts with her head cocked backward — all for the visual pleasure of an aroused stranger with whom she dances — I wonder what they'll remember from a night like this. I wonder the stream of thoughts that flutter their minds come morning — perhaps, where all their money went, who could have possibly taken their last cigarette, or who is the stranger in their bed? This is a kitschy life disconnected from painful consequences — in the land of the free and wasted. At the end of the day, the few things they can say for themselves can't surpass the self-obsessed idea of how good their bare cheeks look hanging out from a slick pair of white-washed jeans.

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Sometime in September

The new black