Monthly Archives: January 2010

Sit Bubu Sit, Good Dog. Ruff!

(I was in and out of the hospital, and out of my head. nuff said.)

March 27, 2008.




Well first things first.  I now understand why everyone told me I should specifically ask for pills to get prepped instead of the drink.  I am currently in the process of drinking said, lukewarm drink, and let me just tell you, it is puke-tastic.

I am going to be ’sitting’ around a while, so I may as well relate a few current events.

This week on campus has been as annoying as walking the overgrown, dilapidated old westbury campus has ever been.  Not because of the long creepy walks to class, but because everytime I turn my head, I have one of those insufferable NYPRIG ass wipes handing some dopey colored paper urging me to vote.  Look, I get it.  Ok?  I really do, but those are some pushy prostelytizing  needle dicks.  Frankly, I am not in the fucking mood.

Moving on.

The other day in class, a group of us were all sitting around waiting for our instructor to arrive.  Aside from one very tall strange looking male, the rest of my classmates are female.  Fellas, you want that kind of class ratio?  It’s easy, be a psych major.  Naturally, they all began gabbing incessantly, and at one point, a group partner of mine turned to me and asked, “what about you, what’s something weird you do?”  Now, bear in mind, I had not been following the conversation, and had no clue in what context it was meant, however, as usual, I had an answer.

“Well, I’m not sure how strange this is, but here goes.  Basically, when I’m in a large public place, like a shopping mall, or this campus even, I always imagine the same thing happening every single time.”

Their curiosity piqued, they prodded me for more information.

“I tend to look around and imagine people around me suddenly dropping to the floor, only to slowly rise again as horrid slow moving, flesh craving monsters.  This mostly happens when there’s a crowd of people.  On campus for example, the academic village building seems almost empty at times, so in that case, I imagine walking by an office door and seeing a trail of blood leading to another office, where an advisor is hunched over the body of an eviscerated student, feasting noisily on their entrails.  During these bouts of imagination, I actually take the time to notice available exits and their proximity, and of course, where I could find the nearest effective weapon for defense.  The janitorial closet is generally your best bet.”

I watched them gape for a moment before quickly returning to the task of finishing my not quite complete homework assignment.  I am often asked by people why the hell must I be as weird as I generally tend to be.  Honestly, it’s just fun sometimes.  I never laugh right away though.  I always keep a straight face.  It’s times like now, when I really need a laugh that I replay that moment and crack myself up.

Staying on topic, I was handed back my midterm for my American People II class on tuesday.  Normally this would not worry me.  However, I was flying on three percosets while taking this exam.  So naturally, I was a bit concerned once I came down, and immediately doubled over in pain on my bed.

It was returned to me, and to my surprise, it was marked, 103.  That’s out of a possible 100 of course.  I was shocked, and then I started reading back some of the answers I cannot even remember writing, I will impart a few,

(the conclusion to my first essay)

“The 20’s and it’s innovative new forms of mass entertainment began the fattening of our pig-like, now bloated and declining society.  The 20’s were the barbarians at the gates, and still we hail caeser.”

(a portion of my next essay)

“Fair wages, and a clearly defined workday were things desperately needed, not to mention child labor laws, which were passed, and then easily circumvented by soul-less corporate expansion into less scrupulous countries like China, which has a human rights track record that reads like Darryl Strawberry’s rap sheet.”

(And last but not least, an identification)

William Jennings Bryan –

“Secretary of State to Woodrow Wilson, who thankfully resigned after cowardly opposing US involvement in WWI, he later went on to gain noteriety as the deluded windbag arguing for the outlaw of correct scientific education, in favor of the more widely accepted, and patently absurd hebrew myth book.”

Lucky for me my instructor is a pretty laid back guy.


February 7, 2008



Raindrops keep falling on the window,
A pat, pat, patting away,
Rational thought could fit in a thimble,
It comes and goes, I wish it would stay,

I do not wish to miss,
Things gone past and left behind,
Just how much is hard to list,
I cannot get it out of mind,

My friend, he tells me, just you wait,
It’s coming soon, the blinding light,
Appetite for destruction, I hope it sates,
Put an end to this long night,

A certain voice, familiar smell,
A gentle touch,
A caring whisper,

The blood that rushed into my head,
I never wanted that to end,
Better off, this way, they say,
It may be, that this is true,
This is true, but not today,

Invincible, thus far it seems,
Consequences yet unseen,
Body built to fight the darkness,
Try as I might,
I cannot harm it,

Cornered now,
My own hand painted,
Let it go, release the bitter,
Memories are naught but tainted,

Screaming frustration,
Tearing loss,
Bleeding it all out little by little,
Destroying the past,
Creating the present,
Dreaming of a future, that may,
Or, may not be pleasant,

It hurt, but I left it,
It stung, but I left it,
It tore me to pieces,
So many pieces,
A small one,
I kept it.

Pleasant Man.

(I was so determined to end my life that I began convincing myself that it was not death at all that I was facing.  The logic was that if I succeeded, I could short circuit my tendency to avoid lethal things.  It never crossed my mind that trying to defeat a couple of decades of threat evasion training with scientific philosophy, was ridiculous)




February 5, 2008

I am looking at my hands.  They move across the keyboard, made of muscle, bone, skin and sinew.  Deep down, there are cells, and inside those cells, there are tiny organelles.  Further in, there are protein strands, and DNA strands, sending and receiving messages.  Beyond that, are molecules, of various types, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, sodium.  Bonded with each other, like tiny skeletons.

Then there are the atoms themselves.  Buzzing bits of particles and quanta.

Beyond that, is nothing.  Empty space.  These buzzing bits, they are not alive, in the sense that we define life.  Yet, ultimately, that is what we are.  That is what everything is.

Do they keep any of it?  When our large configurations cease to function as they did, and these small bits of energy, and data are released, is any of this information retained?  That is an “afterlife” that would make the most sense.  The quanta that make up thoughts, and memories, drifting free, unconfined by an unwieldy body.  In a sense, we are prisons, keeping the best parts of ourselves selfishly trapped.  So afraid to stop enslaving our little parts, perhaps never knowing the kind of unification that awaits when true freedom is obtained.

I do not think it is a matter of feeling.  Bits of energy do not feel.  It may however, be a matter of knowing.  Perhaps a vague wisp of understanding that lingers in these small parts, staying in close proximity, at peace flying along conduits previously unseen.  It could be heaven, or moksha, to recombine with the raw essence of everything.  Only then, there is no more, “you”, and it would be impossible to be deluded.  I can only imagine it as a collosal sigh, free of expectation and devoid of previous experience.  Something not conceivable, even while it occurs, because there can be no reference to frame it upon.

All the while, zipping along, a cluster of tightly knit quanta, staying in formation.  Only accompanied by this vague, knowing, and a return to wholeness.

Or perhaps they do like unruly teenagers do upon hearing police sirens, they scatter randomly.  In which case, nothing.

My bet is that like any other particle set bound together, they would retain bits, and transfer them, as experiments such as the EPR one have shown.  In that sense, nothing really “dies”.  This is a difficult concept to grasp.  You are just holding a place for something else that the bits of you will become.  Even cremation cannot save you from this fate.  Quanta cannot be destroyed.

We are pulsating, quivering particle banks.

I hope I get shot through a linear accelerator.  Must be fun from an electrons point of view.  Then it could be, in a further twist of fate, I collide with a particle of anti-matter, that once composed a part of, anti-me.

Yes, there is an “anti-you”.  Somewhere.  It is hardly likely you would run into this individual, but if you did, and shook hands;  Fun would not begin to describe it.

I never claimed to be pleasant company.

From the Village to Brooklyn: there and back again.

A few years back, I wrote a guide to the denizens of your average Long Island nightclub.  Having been to several ‘hipster’ bars in the past year or so, I believe it would be a great help for the average ‘non-hipster’ to have a handy reference in case they should find themselves in such a place.  So, without further ado,

TWYL presents, the uncool bar patron guide to the cool bar.


For starters, it is essential that you understand the above.  The regulars are cool, and you are not.  Nor will you ever be, except in certain rare cases.  Alright, now that we got that out of the way,

What exactly is a hipster?

Hipster: (as defined by Urban Dictionary):

“Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as “complicated.” (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money – and spends a great deal of it to look like they don’t have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by “Penny Lane,” “Eleanor Rigby,” etc. when drunk. On PBR. Which is usually.”


In my experience, this seems to be incredibly accurate.  However this will not help you when trying to navigate the anti-social, unwelcoming throng, rocking out to music that sounds like it was produced in 1977, but is actually just another Brooklyn band capturing that oh so original ‘retro’ sound.

Lets start with the ladies.


THE HIPSTER CHICK (preferred headgear* – knit puffball):

Alright fellas, there’s no denying it, the vast majority of hipster chicks are smoking hot.  You can typically recognize the true hipster chick by her trademark covered from head to toe mode of dress, and of course, the ever stylish Erykah Badu ‘muffin hat’.  Honestly, outside of Iran, there isn’t a place where females go to socialize as completely covered as the hipster bar.  But let’s go back to the first sentence for a moment.  Yes, incredibly enough, the percentage of attractive females far eclipses the unattractive, and even the ones who aren’t jaw-dropping, are cute enough to make Hello Kitty go goth.

Hey, sweeeeet braa!! Scoreee!!!….WRONG.  The odds of you leaving with someone, or even scooping digits are about as good as you knowing the name of the last song that played.  That’s nil my friend. Nada.  Should you even attempt to begin a conversation, be prepared for monosyllabic responses, and a stare that gives the impression you fit somewhere between housefly and child rapist on the scale of society.  These girls have guy friends.  LOTS of guy friends, who as previously mentioned, are WAY cooler than you.  Mussy head with the skinny jeans and arm sleeve is A-Rod, you are Kareem Garcia**, capiche?  So grab your trendy/shitty can of beer and beat it.


HIPSTER ALPHA MALE (preferred headgear – varies):

Hipster society is subtle in this sense.  It is the complete reverse of Nightclub dynamic.  See, raging guido alpha males are loud, obnoxious, and hyper-aggressive.  Hipster alpha males are the complete opposite.  Why is that?  It’s simple really, once you break it down to basics.  Guido alpha males are testosterone filled, carefully groomed, and immaculately dressed.  This appeals to the ‘hot chicks’ who want to mate with a ‘hottie’ like them.  Genetically, these brutes appear to be ideal breeding partners.  His hipster counterpart needs not exert any such influence, or display himself.  Nay, he does the exact opposite.  This clever creature is inevitably the coolest dude in the room, so cool in fact, that he simply cannot be bothered with it.  He is most likely what every other male in the room is pretending to be, and wishes he were.  A successful musician.


THE “WILD GUYS” (preferred headgear – trucker hat, or mohawk):

As the name implies, these guys are simply, OUT. OF. CON-TROL.  ….right.  Their antics range from play-fighting with one or more of their girlfriends who just can’t get enough of them.  Or, jumping off things, batting around inanimate objects for no apparent reason, or perhaps simulating a sex act with one or more of their group, and, maybe the aforementioned inanimate object.  They can generally be recognized by their many meaningful tattoos (a koi pond, an obscure symbol that meant something of importance somewhere at sometime, a kraft macaroni and cheese logo, you know, the deep stuff), their predisposition for trying to rap, and finally, their creative and entertaining nicknames.  The basic rules regarding nicknames appear to go as follows, a. it must reference pop culture, preferably a cheesy 80’s film or band, or song.  b. everyone must now address you as thus, without a hint of sarcasm.

To sum up, they embody all the traditionally negative qualities associated with men, except without any real expectation of harm.  Think Cujo, with all his teeth removed, and sickly from a tumor in his hip.  Yeah, it’s Cujo, but, awww.


THE ROCKNERD (preferred headgear – a neat coif):

In a sense, these individuals are very, very lucky.  You see, our increasingly effeminate society has created a haven for these folk, and given them the opportunity to find a social niche in a group commonly accepted as cool.  Most, if not all of these Rivers Cuomo glasses wearing individuals would be mercilessly tortured and shunned by their peers until after high school at least, by that time, they would either turn it around and overcompensate, or create a software company that makes them worth more than the entire asian continent.

However, those days are relegated (ironically enough), to the very same 80’s pop culture sensations hipsters enjoy so much.  These days, they have friends, and inevitably one or more best-est girlfriends.  That’s right, these sensitive well-springs of knowledge and comfort are just the rock the HIPSTER CHICK needs when the WILD GUY she has been pining for finally recognizes her, and consequently beds her and sheds her like a bearded, un-showered snake.  Poor Hailey, but Joseph will be there for her! Again…and again..and again…etc.  Perhaps he may have one PBR too many one night, and feebly put a move on, but a funny look and, ‘stop being weird!’ will put an end to that however.  These unfortunates can be recognized by their blocky framed glasses, well-maintained appearance, and their wallflower-like presence.


THE TRANSPLANTS (preferred headgear – blond):

Music? nahhh.  Art? whaaa?  Hawtttt hipsters?  Omgahhhhh!!!!!  These deluded folk are there for one reason, and one reason only.  Their egos, freshly bursting from the Nightclubs, render them incapable of being aware that they have boarded the biggest fail-boat this side of the H.M.S Titanic.  By and large these folk are female, and they can easily be spotted by their tans, which in contrast to the hipsters around them, put them somewhere between Charlie Murphy and Wesley Snipes on the revlon skin color scale.


‘SOMEONE PUT A GUN TO MY HEAD’ GIRL (preferred headgear – smurf cap or knit puffball):

Pssst….hey.  See that girl over there?  I think she’s been kidnapped!  No, not really, but you certainly wouldn’t know it by her demeanor.  This girl must have at least half of her face covered with her hair at all times, so that the other half reveals only a part of her perma-scowl.  Much like the ancient mythical gorgon, a full stare from this contradictory creature will turn the testicles of most men to stone.  Fortunately, they prefer low-lit corners with seating.


and now, your friendly staff.


THE BARTENDER (preferred headgear – varies):

Are they going to have a chat with you about your day?  The weather perhaps?  Anything at all?  The answer is no.  Absolutely not.  Ever.  But in this case I am inclined to say that this is a good thing.  Besides, who the hell wants to talk to you anyway?  When someone says the strokes, you think of Dick Clark…zing!


SECURITY (preferred headgear – n/a)

Someone may storm out crying.  Perhaps a particularly boisterous round of slam poetry may break out.  Maybe, just MAYBE, two guys may argue.  (editors note: all three of the aforementioned scenarios carries an equal amount of danger associated with it. which is to say, none)

Security in a hipster bar is needed like a hot dog stand parked amidst a vegas buffet.


So there you have it.  All things said, the hipster bar is just a bar.  The main difference being that if you aren’t a hipster, or don’t look like a hipster, your socialization options are not merely limited, but completely crippled.  So drink up, stay out of dark corners, and for gods sake, bring some friends along.


* the hipster bar is chock full of headgear and hairstyles that are unique to the setting.  one day I will have to sit down and try to document them all.

**even a small modicum of success in music on the ‘indie’ level, is the basic equivalent of hipster HGH.


Until Britney covers an MGMT song,


Live it, Love it, (As Tall as Lions….really??)


I thought I was crazy.

Dear Diary,

I had the most awful dream.  I was living back home, but things had changed so much.  I was older, just past thirty, but I didn’t feel very different than I do now.  Except the house was gone.  That’s right, gone.  And Sebastian, and Antonio, they were gone too.  Danielle didn’t love me anymore, she loved some other guy.  Can you believe it?  Everything I’m working for now, every hour I spend going from place to place, every hour of sleep I lose to make sure everyone and everything is taken care of, all of that meant nothing.  It was like what I imagined hell would be like.

Look, I know it doesn’t make sense, but it felt so real.  I tried to date, but I was so bad at it.  That part wasn’t surprising really, it’s not as if I had much experience in that department before I got married anyway.  The girls were either too young, or too damaged, or both.  And the couple of times things were just right, I got scared and ran it off.  I felt like I wanted to die, but I stopped myself before I got to the point of no return over and over, because I couldn’t bear the thought of the boys having to grasp that I’m gone and I wouldn’t be coming back.

It made me cry when I woke up.  That’s how real it felt.  I cried softly, and luckily Danielle didn’t wake up, because I’m sure she would have thought I was crazy.  It really made me think.  Things aren’t easy now, but they sure could be a whole lot worse.  It’s one thing to know you could lose something, but it is entirely another to actually feel the loss.  I felt it very keenly, and it awoke a new appreciation for the things I do have, and the value of the things I do to make sure it stays that way.  I know everyone takes things for granted at times, and this nightmare has shown me my time.  I am glad for it, because I will never let that happen to me.

Do you hear me?

I will never let that happen to me.

I will never let that happen to me.

I will never.


it’s not a dream, is it?

I’m breathing.  I can see, I can hear.  I’m still here.  I’m stuck here.  This is real.

Please, I still have a few hours.  Let me wake up from this.  This can’t be real.  So much time has passed, what the hell am I supposed to do now?

it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  i had to learn to be so many things before i learned what those things really mean.  so i learned, but only after they were lost to me.  i got so tired of what i had to do, and i fell asleep.  so here i am, in this very bad dream, that isn’t a dream at all.  but it’s just like those dreams that make you sob and heave.  you scream and scream and scream, and no one understands a fucking thing.

i don’t want to do anything. because this isn’t real.  this didn’t happen. i just have to wake up somehow.  if i act like this is real, then it will be.

i don’t care if it doesn’t make sense to you.  because i never really met you anyway.

im going to cry again.  because i really can’t hold it in.

i’ll just let it get worse.  maybe it’ll end right before i hit the pavement, and then i can breathe again, and awake.

please let me wake up.

please don’t let this be it.

im not okay at all. ever. no matter what i say.

maybe if I write it down, it’ll stop feeling like that.

Alright, for starters, I know I’ve been slacking, and I’m not particularly pleased about this.

There is much to discuss, and much to observe.  That isn’t going to happen now.  Right now I need to say some things that are pointless to say now.  They will also not be heard or seen by the person for whom they are intended.  However, if I don’t put them down I may end up choking to death on them.


Hello.  It’s probably nice and sunny in Louisiana right now, which is unfortunate because you are missing out on all this wonderful freezing here.  I really didn’t want you to go.  I fell for you hard, and your departure date loomed on the horizon.  I felt myself getting desperate, and I knew with absolute certainty that sooner than later, I would break down and beg you not to leave.  I was afraid for you to go, and I was afraid for you to stay.  The truth is I feel like a failure.  You are beautiful, successful, and simply one of the nicest, most humble human beings I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.  I felt like I didn’t deserve you.  Nevertheless, when you would reference your move, my insides would twist painfully.  I knew how hard it was for you to know what to do then, and I knew when you left, that it would likely not get easier.  I could have just explained that we could not continue, and why, and tried to leave it at that.  I could not.  I was selfish and could not bring myself to do so.  By the time I realized it had to be done, it was already too late, I had fallen in love with you.

Despite there being love, I knew you would go.  The only thing that changed was that leaving was likely going to become something other than the happy change you were so looking forward to.  I know how I acted hurt you.  It hurt me as well, because I did not want to do it.  My idea is that to truly love someone, you need to act in a way that would help them the most, even if it kills you to do so.

So I became a complete bastard.

I imagine you there, perhaps lounging on a white swinging seat, sipping lemonade thinking, “boy am I glad I didn’t stay.”  I didn’t think I deserved you, and I know you cared about me.  I wanted you to have certainty.  The unquestioned belief that you made the right choice.  I am certain you have that now, and I want you to know that I will regret that as long as I live.  I knew my feelings for you were going to get me either which way, but at least I could make things easier for you.  It doesn’t make me right for acting how I did, and there isn’t a way to say sorry that would begin to describe how badly it felt, and feels still.  I loved you Rebecca, and I know that if things had turned out differently in my own life, I would have stopped at nothing to share it with you.  I didn’t want you to go, and I didn’t want you to stay for fear of being a disappointment to you.  But I wish you were here with me.  I miss you still.

I wish you a very long and happy life because that is what you deserve.  I wish I didn’t let you go, and I wish you knew that it did kill me to do so.  It would have been wonderful to have you to kiss when the ball dropped.  But I think I got what I deserved.

Goodbye sweetheart.