Relative Truth

In an age when the world is spiraling out of control and people are faced with the foreclosures of houses that they never really could afford, I think it's important to be honest with yourself beyond your financial station in life. Honesty is important, but understand the caveat that the world is just layers of b.s. and we are just particular to our specific layer. Usually it requires someone telling you the harsh realities of, well, you. Someone to tell you that you're a certain way regardless of the way you perceive your own sense of self. Occasionally I like to refresh this concept in my mind, but now I've taken to committing it to ink, because there is a certain element of "truth" to things that are written.

While I think I'm completely normal to the rest of the inhabitants of this mixed-up world, I'll concede that: I'm self-deprecating, self-indulgent, unnecessarily abrasive, uncomfortably confident, miserably stuck in an unfulfilled career, presumptuous to a fault; I'm a spendthrift, quick to judge, preoccupied with death and illness, often holier-than-thou, and I err on the side of pessimism (I'm sure if I really thought about it I could devote an entire blog to each and those that haven't been mentioned). Some would look at this laundry list and think: how pathetic. I assure you that wasn't my intention with this exercise. Everybody knows their farts never stink, but occasionally it's important to consider what you present for others to consume for their sake of perception, as if you were gifting yourself to the world.

So how do you view yourself?

Dog Rebuttal

There are dog people and there are cat people; those remainders often are considered heartless. I'd like to make the argument that those that don't keep pets aren't necessarily heartless. My pet history would indicate that I'm a cat person, but ask me and I'll vehemently deny it. I've always considered myself a dog lover, but I've never been able to name, walk, or play with a dog of my own. I tried, believe me, I tried. I begged relentlessly as a young S.A. for a dog. My parents would ask what I wanted for Christmas, and I would reply, "a beagle." Instead of a beagle I'd get something that required less work, like the Treasure Island Lego set. For my birthday, my parents would ask me what I wanted with the stipulation that it couldn't be Nikes, so I would suggest a dog. No way, Jose. As I got older I tried to spin it one hundred different ways, like: we could use the companionship, Dad could blame his flatulence on the canine, Mom could get all of that exercise that she had promised. My parents never bent. No dog. Instead our family pets were goldfish and Reggie the outdoor cat. In case you had not noticed I blame my parents a great deal for "the way I am" today. My mom presented two reasons why we could never have a dog: 1) no matter how much my brother and I told her we would care for the canine, it would inevitably fall on her lap (she was right), and 2) she vowed to never own another dog after Kimo, my parents German Shepherd, and the heartbreak that ensued when he was killed chasing a tennis ball into oncoming traffic.

Today, I find myself praying for occasional rain to wash the urine and dog dung from the sidewalks so that I may have an unobstructed walk to the subway. At 24 and living on the UES, having a dog is all the rage. I am definitely a dog lover, but let's call a spade a spade. Dogs are eating, pissing, and crapping machines. So when a girl asks me why I don't get a dog, I think it's only appropriate to respond, "Because I can't take care of myself, let alone another breathing mammal." Immediately her eyes betray her smile as she laughs and I get placed into the heartless category. It's really fine. I don't expect that she understand my reasoning. She couldn't possibly understand that my parents don't contribute to my rent or that I couldn't physically walk the dog more than once a day. That, my friends, is animal cruelty.

Why do recent graduates, my age, feel compelled to get a dog? Is it because they're in such a rush to take on additional responsibility and divorce themselves completely from frat parties and beer? Is it for security in the city [certainly not with that Chihuahua]? Is it for the companionship [for both owner and dog]? Whatever the answer, it probably boils down to something that isn't fair to the animal, but somehow the owner manages to convince themselves that "it's no big deal." Believe me, my heart breaks every time I see Lilly, that gorgeous bulldog, drag her ass on the leash. However, I know if I got a dog, I'd bet kibbles to bits that the dog would end up in a shelter because I couldn't care for it as much as every UES girl would like to believe I could. The fact that I don't have any pets doesn't mean I'm heartless, just responsible. It has nothing to do with my ability to care or love you, so please forget what that psychologist said it means when she was quoted in that interview in Cosmo.

Ash Wednesday

Today marks the first day of Lent for Roman Catholics. Lent is a religious season, almost like a countdown for Jesus' resurrection on Easter. For me, Lent is a time when I try to avoid eating meat on Fridays and consider sacrificing something. In the recent past I've solely tried to observe the dietary restrictions, but this year I will try my hardest to "give up something." I figure the least I can do is attempt to curb this terrible habit of spewing curse words, considering Jesus died for man and all. I'm 99.99999% sure that I won't be able to make good on this little promise, but I figured it's worth a try, and for some unknown reason I think that if I write this down that it will stick.

One day down, and I haven't used a curse word, and I've noticed I'm much more pleasant to be around (which is a secondary objective for this season). Being sober at work is not really challenging; the real test will be when I'm at the bar teetering on my fourth beer and consider using curses as nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, etc. in an attempt to verbally chastise an UES girl. I guess we've all got our own crosses to bear, and mine just so happens to be a potty-free mouth. I've told people about my sacrifice and they can't help but laugh, "What do I get when you curse?" I guess my penalty is damnation in hell. I'd say that is a fairly dire consequence.

Primary Care

XI. Thou shall not consult the doctor, unless dead.

History tells us that this was actually a Commandment, and at the last second, as Moses was chiseling the letters into the stone tablets, God determined he liked round numbers and limited them to ten. No male, excuse me, hetero male consults the doctor. It's not due to religious beliefs, we're just genetically programmed to avoid the doctor. As men we can conquer anything if we put our minds to it, consider Al Gore's claims regarding the genesis of the intertubes. The Romans didn't seek out the doctor when faced with the flu-like symptoms, they sweat it out. A man sweats it out, and then goes to the megalopolis to participate in the early forms of democracy. A guy refuses a Z-Pac and goes straight to liquids, rest, steam therapy and countless loops of SportsCenter.

I'm 24 years old and haven't been to see the doctor since I was 18, when I saw the pediatrician for the mandatory physical before college. I don't even have a name or number of a general physician in NYC. It's always something that "I just never got around to." It was never something that I had even considered (finding a doctor), until I recently caught death making eyes at me.

I vowed that if I should defeat the virus spreading throughout my protoplasm that I would make it a priority to find one of these highly-trained lepers. Now that I'm over the rebel that tore through my body, I find that I am not really enthusiastic about finding a physician and could just fold it up and hide it in my mind again until I come down with something that brings me to inches within my life, when I'll be forced to consider it again. It's not that I think these highly educated doctors are anything more than snake-charmers, well I do, but it's not that. I've reached the point of no return. So much time has lapsed that I'm afraid of what these "experts" will say or might find. Maybe my cholesterol is too high, or my blood pressure is one that characterizes an unhealthy geriatric, or that I have testicular cancer, or that my liver can't sustain anymore beer. Thanks, but no thanks. I would rather not know. Ignorance is bliss. You know the saying.

I feel fine, but you never know what these quacks might suggest. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Part of me also is convinced that if I get a number of a doctor then I will become perpetually ill, even more than before (sans number). Yes it's idiotic. Having the number of a doctor does not increase the likelihood of me contracting diseases thus needing to call on him/her. Nobody said I wasn't superstitious. Not to mention I'm a man, and as men we extend our middle finger to western medicine (until it is absolutely necessary, and usually by this time it's too late). For now, I don't care if my leg needs to be amputated on account of the gangrene that's made itself visible, I still won't call the medic. Can you recommend a good doctor?

Roid Rage

Admittedly professional sports have had a diminishing role in my life as more personal minutiae has emerged to reign supreme. I used to be a fanatic. I used to devote endless hours to my favorite sports teams: The Yankees, Knicks, Rangers, and Giants. I can remember the spring of 1994, when the Rangers and Knicks were in the Stanley Cup Finals and NBA Finals, respectively. I had an excuse to come home everyday from school, eat dinner, and watch a game at night in lieu of completing my homework. This was supposed to be "the year" for New York sports. After 54 years the Rangers would take what was rightfully theirs on the broad shoulders of Captain Mark Messier, and with Michael Jordan retired from the NBA to "pursue baseball," Patrick Ewing and the Knicks would no longer be deprived of their birthright. The Rangers went on to bask in glory, and after that season I never really cared about being fanatical again. I remember what did it for me, the reason I no longer cared about memorizing baseball statistics from the back of Topps baseball cards. It was a scene in a movie that put everything in perspective. Sports were entertainment, and more importantly business. That point was perfectly demonstrated in a Bronx Tale, when an impressionable youth describes his infatuation with Mickey Mantle to a local mob boss. The boss ignores the fact that the kid has a sports hero that plays center field and goes on to tell him that nobody cares! A powerful statement, Mickey Mantle didn't care that the boy's father was struggling to pay rent, so why should the boy care about Mickey Mantle? It's true. It's like finding out that Santa Claus doesn't exist, but it's a lesson that every sport-loving kid needs to embrace.

I'll occasionally consult Espn.com or watch SportsCenter to stay current, but I'm barely conversational with regards to sporting events. That being said, Spring Training is the talk of the sporting world and there has been no bigger scandal than A. Rod admitting to ingesting a banned substance. SURPRISE! I could personally care less about this, and hardly consider it a news story. Cheating has been a part of sport since, well, forever. Rodriguez cheated. Ok. So what? The entire MLB roster cheated. In fact, Bud Selig might as well have been handing out syringes to save the dying sport of baseball.

The outrage doesn't lie in the fact that this supreme athlete cheated and enhanced his god-given ability into the richest contract in sports. The outrage lies in the fact that he broke the law. A. Rod will unlikely see the inside of a prison cell, but he should because he broke the law. If you or I get caught on "the pot," we would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Granted we don't make nearly the amount of money or posses the same celebrity as the third baseman, but we'd still be faced with the probability of prison. Blah blah blah - integrity of the game, etc. It disgusts me that a man can hit a baseball and is immune to the consequences that are associated with breaking the law in this country. Baseball and the perception of sport is broken, and has been for decades, going back as far as the Black Sox scandal of 1919 with "Shoeless Joe." It's no different than drinking and driving (over the limit). So the next time you get caught doing something illegal do not worry about going to jail because athletes like Michael Phelps, A. Rod, Roger Clemens, et. al. prove that jail isn't a viable option for those who break the law, or at least not for deities.

Democracy Prevails

The time to vote in my little poll has expired, and the masses have spoken. You nosy little perverts request that I post a photo. I will oblige within due time, seeing as this is the farthest thing from Communist Russia, and here in these United States the voice of the people is heard. There is one tiny problem. I don't own a digital camera or any passable substitute that may generate digital pixels of my likeness. I'll work on it. Hold on to your horses and be patient. I'll put it together. Thank yous, to all of those who participated and legitimately want to see this blog evolve.

Mad Libs

"Men in New York City suck!" Drink a different beer at a different bar - rinse & repeat ad nauseam. I have empathy for your plight. I really do, because people fundamentally want to find a mate (it's instinctual). Unfortunately for you every guy plays some variation of the following Mad Libs game when you expose the reason you aren't worthy of his affection: You're good, but you're not (blank) enough. You're not smart enough, attractive enough, fit enough, wealthy enough, creative enough, active enough, sane enough, holy enough, liberal enough, etc.

It's terrible, but it's true. You're aware of the immense competition that Gotham breeds because you subscribe to Timeout New York and Cosmopolitan, convinced that the answers are scattered within those pages. Think of it as an admissions process to get into Harvard, where the institution has all of the leverage in the situation, because after all it's Harvard. Multiple candidates got 1600 on their SATs, graduated in the top of their high school class with a 4.0, were in student government, and played sports. So how do you set yourself apart? Aside from being a published author at the tender age of 13, it's extremely difficult to distinguish yourself. You are faced with two choices: 1) don't apply to Harvard, or 2) differentiate yourself. Same holds true with men in Manhattan.

Is it really that hard to comprehend that you don't physically match up to the girl next to you at the bar, who gets paid to look the way she does (and often times is half naked in those magazines that you worship)? We call that a model, and they are abound in this city. I take back my previous statement: It's not difficult. It's damn near impossible. It's sickening that you'll never be enough. Perhaps you can individuate yourself by having a positive attitude for a change and refrain from using the opening quote (even if everyone knows it couldn't be more fitting). Then again, there's always Match.com.

Celebrity Deathmatch

It's not about the rusty trombone, or the Cincinnati bow-tie. It's not about the butt-hole pleasures. While all of those are certainly part of it, they do not indicate the potential for a lasting relationship. No. It's the ability for two parties to fight well and make-up even better. Being with someone is generally easy. They make you a better person, and you tend to rub off on them in a positive manner. When things are going well they are easy and everything is so simple. Your compatibility and relationship become tested at the first sign of a squall. The name calling commences, each individual points to an insignificant detail that preceded the others that was so obviously the source of the argument, the frustration mounts, and typing in CAPS lock becomes necessary.

I don't fight well. If my clay-mation figure was featured in Celebrity Deathmatch I'd undoubtedly grab any prop and or weapon to be sure to decapitate the other figurine. When I argue and fight it's no-holds-barred (so now you know). I punch below the belt (metaphorically speaking) and even bring up dead issues out of left field. Truth is, I hate fighting and look to avoid conflict at every turn; some say I'm a pussy, but I prefer pacifist . Sometimes it's inevitable. At 24, I've realized that I'm as mature as a 16 year old girl, who pouts when she doesn't get a pony for her sweet 16. My new measuring stick for relationships is my willingness to fight, and then resolve the issue. I'm usually quick to deliver a swift and decisive blow, but I'm as quick to apologize and point out that it's foolish to fight (just a waste of time and energy), and suggest moving on. Sometimes quarrels are an opportunity, a point to start over and create new and stronger foundations. Sometimes they indicate that differences can't be reconciled and the two parties fool each other into make-up sex and never see each other again.

Fighting is inevitable. It's how you deal with it that determines whether you want to or will spend significant amounts of time with the other.

*It should be noted that fighting with males is not really what this post is about, because if you piss a guy off he'll talk all sorts of junk to you/walk away/punch you in the face - and it's usually over.

Lifehouse Discography

Sometimes I can't help but feel that my life is unfolding like the Lifehouse discography. Just the right amount of angst, perfect allusions to depression, and that heartbreaking twinge of light at the end of the tunnel.

Worthless Tweeting

Maybe I'm old skool or maybe I'm just completely ignorant, but I can't understand the merits of Twitter. I understand what it is, and what it does. Blah blah blah micro-blog blah 140 characters, etc. I don't see the need for this additional noise on the already congested intertubes. I rarely find myself in the position where I need to know what another person is doing, and hardly think to do anything other than call that person when I do. Yeah that's great that Lance Armstrong posted to his Twitter account immediately after his bike was stolen. Who cares? Lance Armstrong doesn't care about my two functioning testicles, so why should I even consider his "miraculous" and tainted life? I've been reading a lot about the "Twitter Phenomenon" recently and I'm just bewildered. So I got to thinking. What would my Twitter read like on a Friday night?

SA@scripturalapothecary: Texting people & watching the woeful Knicks. (8PM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Taking a dump, while reading MensHealth. (8:23PM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Lathering soap on my body in the shower. (8:37PM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: At Ryan's Daughter. (9:32PM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Drunk. Convincing a girl more drunk than me to put her tongue down my throat. (12:02AM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Sending drunk texts. (2:30AM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Convincing the drunk girl in my bed that there is such a thing as a bad bj. (who really knows what time this is)

Interesting right? Doesn't your worthless little life feel enahanced after looking at my Twitter?

Immune Deficiency

Today the gods have me slated to play the role of Tom Hanks in Philadelphia (1993) in some twisted tragedy that will surely go unpublished. My immune system has been sufficiently defeated as I alternate between various liquids (tea, Gatorade, and water) and a deathly cocktail of over-the-counter decongestants to no avail. I've read ahead in the script, knowing we don't film the bedtime scene for another week, and I can see that I have a restless night where I pace around the apartment and consider overdosing on my roommate's unopened NyQuil and chase it with the remainder of the bottle of pink wine. It's only a matter of time before my withering dick unfixes itself from the rest of my body.

About Me

I was thinking today, as I searched other blogs, that the "About Me" portion of my blog is completely and unnecessarily redundant. Sure it's helpful if you want a quick abstract, but if you can't deduce (from the rest of the content) that I encounter women and drink lots of beer...well, then I guess the "About Me" section is reserved for you.

What started me on this "soul-searching" endeavor? Well, I was looking at another woman's blog and it was really well written, and I found myself wanting to find out more about her, which directed me to the "About Me" section. At the sight of her description I immediately wanted to perform a laparoscopy on this particular individual, to ensure that she could never poison the world with her spawn, what with a description that reads, "It's hard to say. ; P" That's it. Nothing like: I hug vegetables because I'm a maniacal vegetarian, nothing about her station in life, nothing about her interest in music, or even a reference to her favorite flavor of porn. Nothing. Just that terrible phrase, accentuated in all of its horrendous splendor by a pitiful emoticon. If you come across this particular twatwaffle, or any other description that lacks in such a flagrant manner, please don't hesitate to leave them a bunch of expletives in the comments section. K.Thx.Bye.

Tennis Shoes

By now we're all familiar with the cliche, that once we've struck it rich there will be something that we immediately buy, for whatever reason. Sometimes athletes will look to take care of their mother and buy them a mansion or maybe an actor will reward a family member with a Mercedes Benz. It's all so cliche, but I have one particularly special item that I will purchase upon "making" it. When I make my fortunes in the world I will skip the Bentley, skip the beach house in the Hamptons, skip hiring a personal chef and head directly to the nearest FootLocker. There I will buy the sneakers that I have wanted since 1997 - The Nike Air Max '97s. When they initially came out I was an eighth grader in middle school and tried to convince my parents that $160 was a small price to pay for my happiness, but they all of a sudden became selectively hard of hearing. Then in May of 2007, I was traveling throughout Europe and saw all of these filthy Italian kids with their D&G jeans and my favorite shoes. I walked into a shoe store and they were 160 Euros (x the $1.50 exchange rate), and I passed on them. Now I walk by shoe stores on a daily basis and see them calling for me, whispering in my ear, and begging me to stink them up, but I can't do it because I've committed my money elsewhere (namely rent and Ryan's). So when I finally make it to the PBA, the first thing I'm going to buy with all of that sweet moolah is a pair of Air Max '97s, because that's what I've always wanted.

Worthless LinkedIn

I'm sure it's really not worthless, but I can't see the value. MySpace for corporate nerds, that's how I'd define LinkedIn. It could probably prove invaluable to a recruiter, who spends hours surfing the web and bills it as work, because after all, he's searching for leads. There are also those fields that are tech-centric and users are conversational in this type of social networking, but I assure you finance isn't one of those professions. I have some "contacts" on LinkedIn that have north of 300 additional "contacts," and double digit recommendations. I think I am credited with 63 "contacts" and currently have zero recommendations [clearly power-user status].

I think the merits of the tool become exponentially greater when you are at least one job removed. I know my boss wouldn't write me a recommendation while I'm solely doing the work of our group. Why would he compromise his greatest asset by writing about what a workhorse I am? Another slight obstacle that arises is attributed to my boss' complete ignorance regarding all things computer. He can't even send an email properly, so he couldn't possibly be asked to sign up to some website in order to write me a recommendation. I have never heard of a success story or even someone being granted an interview via LinkedIn, so I will stick to my thesis that LinkedIn is analogous to Dungeon & Dragons, except it's acceptable in the work force.

Reader Feedback

Please participate in the poll that you see on the right of the screen. Your feedback is much appreciated and will dictate which direction I take with the layout of the blog. Clearly the content is not an issue, because it's beyond crappy and no poll could help that.

Valentine's Day

Every guy has one. He has personalized the experience and relates it like a World War II veteran discusses his role in Normandy. Every girl is aware of his particular brand of bullshit, and generally accepts that men loathe the day. For 364 days a year a boy will do his best to build a certain rapport with his girl, remembering birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and that insignificant detail of her life that was so special at the time. No matter what happens, her image of him is destroyed on this particular day, because short of offering her the world she can never be happy. Damned if you do and damned if you don't.

We had just been dating, and she had duped me into thinking she wasn't just like every other girl. She presented herself as a tomboy, who was very low-maintenance and interested in drinking beer, watching sports and stoner movies, and reveled in poking fun at my friends along with me. I had let my guard down because I was comfortable.

The night before, we had gone out with my friends, as I was on a mission to drink my weight in lite beer. I woke up the next morning and stumbled into the bathroom to excrete said beer for what seemed like an eternity, and on my way back into my shared room I noticed all of these roses in our common area. I guess it must have been a roommate's girlfriend's birthday. I thought nothing of it and tried to think of a clever way to get back into the XL twin that we shared without disturbing her.

We finally came to before noon and I was ready to prepare french toast for us while she sat and waited to be served. I asked how many slices of french toast she'd like, and she just smiled. She sat in silence, just smiling for the amount of time that it takes someone to take a Twix break. She smiled because she knew I had forgotten. She smiled as if to say: you asshole. You actually believed me when I told you I didn't want anything for Valentine's Day. I really can't believe you. It then dawned on me, that this particular day was heart day, and I just told her that I'd gotten her a rose but wanted to give it to her after breakfast. She knew I had forgotten but allowed me to dig myself in deeper and deeper. I had my roommate occupy her while I ran down to the campus grocery store, Wollaston's, across from my apartment. They had one rose left by that time, and it looked half dead. I presented it to her, clearly winded from the little errand and she just shook her head in disgust as she tried to revive the ill rose in a plastic cup of water [clearly symbolic].

Two years later, around a similar time in February: I had shifted my priorities and stopped worrying about the other 364 days of the year because I learned that this was really the only day that mattered. I could essentially make good on our relationship if Valentine's Day was done properly. I burned this particular day into my mind, setting outlook reminders a month in advance to make reservations at some mediocre restaurant. The day finally arrived and I remembered the flowers, took her to Dolce Vita in the North End, and tried not to act like myself for a change. I had actually planned and thought of someone other than myself for once, and it went unnoticed. She expected it, after all it was Valentine's Day and I was doing what I should have been doing. So why bother trying?

Summary: If you're a guy you CANNOT win. Let me repeat that statement - you CANNOT win. At the very least you better remember the day and present flowers and/or chocolate.

Allow me to translate: She says, "I really don't care about Valentine's Day." She is really screaming, hoping to reach your beer addled brain, "ZOMFG! this is the most important day of the year. If you ever want to have access to my vajay-jay you better not make me miserably depressed on this day, you worthless excuse for cock and balls."

Fashioning Spoons

It's become a terrible vice; and the drinking only makes it worse. I never intend to terrorize, that is not the purpose of this exercise. It's a bi-product, like the excess fat that collects when going through the process of making premium ice-cream. I get sufficiently inebriated and it just happens. It's becoming instinctual, and all so very rote. It's just a condition that emanates from countless beers at Ryan's. I come home, sprawl out on the couch, and convince myself that I'm sober enough to commence texting and dialing. I pass out in the comforts of beige sheets in between thoughts and mold my body to the plastic casing of my Samsung, contemplating the appropriate position of the inconvenient arm.

Movie Review

Fact: Steve Buscemi is talented, what with a resume that reads like a roll call for Oscar nominations (see: Mr. Deeds, Big Daddy, Billy Madison, and most every Adam Sandler movie ever made). I think his acting stands alone and needs no defending, but in case you had forgotten, he was also in: Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Airheads, Fargo, Con Air, The Big Lebowski, and many more. [I know this makes me appear as straight as a two dollar bill, but I don't care.] It's no surprise that when he releases a new project, it catches my attention and I have to refrain from tugging on myself. Enter Interview (2007), an independent project that he wrote, directed, and starred in.

The movie is about an interview that takes place between a political reporter on the down slope of his career (Buscemi) and a popular actress that struggles to be taken seriously. The actress is played by Sienna Miller, which confirms the blatant fact that Jude Law is a homosexual (as he left her for their nanny). I figured the only thing that I was risking was 84 minutes of fawning over Miller, if the movie sucked. I did a quick risk/reward analysis and realized I don't do a damn thing on a hungover weekend afternoon as it is, so it really was not a difficult choice. My greatest fear was that it was 84 minutes of an interview, which materialized, but there are many different nuances that this movie attempts to address - the relationship between the interviewer/interviewee, judgments (gone wrong), and ultimately the power dynamic between someone asking and another answering questions. It's fairly interesting, and if you have a cock, you've definitely got time for this movie. I wouldn't say it's on par with other movies touting Buscemi, like Armageddon, but not much is. There's a nice little twist at the end, which is all too apparent as the viewer realizes by the time it happens. Did I mention Sienna Miller is in this movie?

Love Letter

Dear Pity,
I'm writing you this letter because I've come to the realization that I would rather not have you in my life. It stems from that time in early February of 2009. You remember. You couldn't leave bad enough alone. Instead you had to expose your ugly little face and compound the issue. I can't stand you because you've infiltrated my friends and planted your heinous seed in their brains. Now they view me as partial (no longer whole), damaged even. You always get in between my friends and me. It's because of you that they believe there's a problem. It's because of you that they look at me and think I need to be rescued. There isn't and I don't. It's because of you that people say things like, "It's ok to be sad," or "It's ok, if you want to talk to me about it." Your existence gives my friends an excuse to hold it over my head. Please forget about me, and stop contacting my friends. It just wasn't meant to be. I will FedEx your Hootie and the Blowfish "Cracked Rear View" album, and don't worry I don't want my Matchbox 20 album back, I'll just download it from some illegal site. The potential of a fine and prison time is a small price to pay to never have to see you again.

Always Yours,
S.A.

Silicone & Sand

I need an excuse. I desperately need a valid (or not so valid) reason to take time away from my current stagnant state. I can feel the inertia grabbing hold of my entire being. I'm still water begging for a ripple. I need some sort of reason to get out of Dodge, to spend money that I don't have on a trip that I shouldn't be taking (given the current state of affairs on Wall Street). I tease myself daily, perusing the intertubes: Round-Trip airfare from JFK to LBC $259. I need a little fake in my life right now, dyed hair, exposed roots, and augmented breasts. Anything to contrast this current "real." I need the beach more than anything. Prediction: I book this flight while inebriated at some odd time this weekend.

Williamsburg & Envy

I envy you. It's because you do something you enjoy. There is glory in struggling to pursue a passion. Being a starving artist means you remain a purist and are unwilling to sell out to the man (or you have absolutely no talent, but I'd rather perpetuate this quixotic notion). You're one of the few people that is actually doing what they set out to do as a five year old. I'm certain I never intended to be writing for a financial services company, but then the lure of Wall Street clouded my judgment. I'm not bitter. I think it's great that your trust fund affords you your studio in Williamsburg and the time to "create." And when the public doesn't receive your art, or your writing, or your music, it was because it was too original and too real. There's no way such simple-minded plebians could possibly comprehend your work. To gain mass appeal was never the objective. I get it. If people consume it, then you have failed.

His & Hers

Intercourse:

His - He talks about it constantly. He thinks he's coy with all of his innuendos and jokes and thinks that he has to wait for the next Summer Olympics for her to get drunk enough to consider slapping skins.

Hers - Considering she doesn't talk about it nearly as much as he does, she has no problem waking him up for the fourth go of the physical act of making love a.k.a. coitus, at 4 AM.

Summary: Most women love to F*CK!

Flower Arrangements

Completely disconnected, sitting in a trance and paralyzed by disbelief. The only discernible noise is the air as it passes through the ducts, despite the peripheral sight of jaws of friends and family moving. Words pass from lips and are heard, but their meaning is lost on account of the preoccupation. People are just making noise because they're frightened by the silence, to be left alone with their thoughts is haunting or maybe they think the situation calls for a distraction. It's incomprehensible how people could be so lighthearted, laughing, joking and solely concerned about the meal that follows. Maybe sending flowers was sufficient, intent on sending the most ostentatious arrangement. Their presence is so perverse. It's gut-wrenching. Finally, when all the tears have dried and the room is surveyed, those that are left in black are the people that matter the most and there is an inescapable smile that can be seen, because that's what he lived for.

Brits & Poetry

Two rivaling siblings get pissy drunk at a pub. The result is undeniable:

"Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you. By now you should've some how figured out what you gotta do" -Oasis, Wonderwall (1996).

Questioning Finance

Sellout - slang. a person who compromises his or her personal values, integrity, talent, or the like, for money or personal advancement.

When is it appropriate to start seriously considering the term? While I think of myself as a whore to the industry, I haven't capitalized on any opportunities to seize wealth or advance personally.

Why work in finance? As far as I can see, the goal is to get rich beyond anything imaginable at the expense of the majority of the world's population, while not creating any value. When that hasn't happened, what are you left with? A job that you aren't overly excited about going to on most mornings, a looming fear that tomorrow might be the day that they call you in to see the coach with your playbook, and a head of hair that suggests you're fifty seven. So I've battled with the term, but hardly think it is applicable as demonstrated by my penchant for pb&j sandwiches.

"This above all: to thine own self be true..." vs. the Adam Smith theory of acting in one's own self-interest.

Ideological Shift

I was so naive. No, stupid is more accurate. Maybe it's because I'm from a tiny town in Connecticut, where I went to a small high school. I knew everyone in the high school, better yet I knew their siblings and went to church with their families on Sundays. I couldn't "just sleep" with a girl because I feared the consequences, like having to deal with her family or the gossip that is assumed in such a close-knit community. I went to college and abandoned life under the microscope in homogeneous suburbia, but couldn't rid my mind of the consequences that inevitably followed sex. Maybe it's because I took pride in having a certain reputation or not being considered a man-whore, but I still could not separate the physical act from the relationship.

Now I'm 24 years old. I live in the immediate vicinity of more than three million people and I couldn't be further from the concept of community. As a result I can see things clearly. Sometimes sex is just that and completely void of emotion. I am getting used to the idea of sleeping with someone and never bothering to text again. I guess it's the nature of the beast and certainly isn't limited to the male psyche (here at least). There's an unapologetic divorce between the carnal need to be physically quenched versus working towards a sustainably healthy relationship that characterizes NYC. It's refreshing. It's not a rule, but I sense that it's pervasive. Maybe the collective thought is that NYC is just a phase for many (both male and female), not meant to be home or a place to settle and many look to take advantage of the temporary nature of living here. I don't blame them. So every time I relapse and start thinking about feelings, I just drown myself with another beer.

Pseudo-douche observation: being a guy in NYC is great. The term relative is such an advantage. NYC is the land of excesses: wealth, health, looks, materialism, etc. Douches are abound in NYC in excess, and by douches I mean the Hall of Fame of douches. It's such a comforting thought to know that single men have a statistic advantage with attractive NYC women. Beyond that, it's great to know that as much of an asshole as I can be, I know that I couldn't hold a candle to some of the amazing tool bags that this city has to offer (read: relative). I sleep warm at night knowing that at my very worst I can't come close to battling some of these heroes for the famed crown of King of Douches.

I know some of you will read this and struggle to keep the vomit from entering your mouth, but it's the truth. I truly empathize with those that are looking for Mr./Mrs. Right in this city, but statistically the probability of success isn't very favorable for your kind.

Funny & Dejected

It's funny...Funny is hardly the word, but still I'm reduced to tears. It's funny because you have this idea in your head. It's a notion that he's invincible. Then at once you're thankful. Thankful because you didn't have to see someone so beloved as a shadow of his former self, weak, respiring with the aid of oxygen, and delusional as a result of the cocktail of pain medication before he slipped into a coma. Thankful for that Sunday during the fall when you sat around and watched the Giants and recounted too many yesterdays. When you could tell that his appetite had all but left his digestive organs, but couldn't refuse tea and homemade blueberry cookies. You think back to times like that and can't help but smile because it's funny, because if you don't smile then you know you'll cry. It's tragic, how funny the term funny can be.

He's the reason that you're left handed, but play most sports "righty." It really wasn't his fault, he just assumed you were like the majority of the population, and that's why he bought you that baseball mitt. He's the the one who taught you to dunk your cookies in your post-dinner tea. He's the reason that you understand what it means to be Irish. He's the reason you consider both church and bar as sanctity. He's the reason you looked forward to your birthday parties. He's the one that taught you to fish. He's the reason your best friend was referred to as "Booger" until it was replaced with "Bubba." He's the reason you love the Jersey Shore so much, despite its general reputation. He's the reason you were fortunate enough to go to college. He's the reason you came to grips with Stage 4 as being terminal, and the finality of that term dictates that the numbers don't move backwards. He's the reason you look forward to the days when you could have a grandson.

"At that time shall Michael rise up, the great prince, who standeth for the children of thy people."
2/4/2009

Bloggers' Dilemma

The author is more than mindful that this blog is closer to the scribblings of a schizophrenic than meaningful prose and is grateful for his readership. He has recently been toiling with the notion of "acceptable boundaries." While he realizes that there is a certain unspoken code of conduct that all bloggers but the lowest-form-of-douche (read: Tucker Max) acknowledge, he is fired by the prospect of recording the minutes from nightly bar conversations across Manhattan. The author is aware that this cements his fate and that writing this will handicap many current and potential relationships, but he's so selfish that he feels compelled to write. He understands that people who know him will place him on the same level as a narc, but he is confident that his moral compass will be enough to steer his rudderless boat. Oh, and he can also be bribed with beer. So when you slipped and told him that secret, he can just as quickly forget it with one or three beers.

Habits Cont'd.

I recently posted about pb&j, smoking drugs, and friendships. That entry generated a lot of buzz from the four of you that read and bother to comment. Your initial responses labeled me as a cliche, as you focused on the girl that taught me how to make the perfect pb&j. You accused me of using the blog, to be so very 2003 and emo, essentially claiming this blog was my boom-box from Say Anything. I hadn't considered that, but now that I mull over the facts I concede all of you were right. When I wrote the entry I thought it was about saying goodbye to habits including: the way I thought of conventional lunch, toking, college, friends, and this girl in particular.

So did she ever see the post and what happened? After a few readers begged to know what happened with the girl, I decided to send "Old Habits" directly to her. I'm sure she really didn't understand it at first and wasn't concerned with pb&j, but she humored me and read the entire thing. She started a dialog shortly after. She confessed to being aware of the blog and even mentioned that she occasionally searched for posts about the devil, assuming I'd take any opportunity I could to bash her. Her response? "Accept." Then she proceeded to suggest that RENEG was properly spelled RENEGE. I'm happy to say that we have recently reconciled our differences and bogged down our brains with alcohol to ensure that it would stick. Today she is editor in chief for the S.A. (the reason that my thoughts are decipherable).

Pub Trivia

In anticipation of domination I will be exercising by reading the dictionary. "Oh, you caught me. I like to break a mental sweat too" White Goodman, Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story (2004).

Golden Silence

Blog Groupies

Some of you nosy little gossip mongers love to know every intricate detail of my life, like who I'm sleeping with, boxers or briefs, how many hours of therapy are required for me to formulate a thought on this crappy little blog of mine, etc. Well, my friends, today is your lucky day. I'm going to provide you an insight into this Finance Douche's life. I'm currently reading The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. It was slow moving at first and incomprehensible with the endless Lithuanian jargon and Eastern European names, but now I'm comfortable and enjoying the book just fine. I'll tell you more another time. Oh, and for the record: it's boxer briefs M-F and boxers or commando on weekends.

Remember Those?

Remember those devices, primarily used by doctors and drug dealers alike? Oh what were they called? You know, you'd send them a message like *911, and then within five minutes you'd get a call back from this particular jackass from the nearest pay phone, to which you'd calmly request that he'd stop on the way home to get a gallon of milk. It wasn't to talk about groundbreaking events like, "Hey Sixtus, our autistic child just spoke," or "Jane, our neglected thirteen year old child, invited Bernardo "BJ" Jiminez over for dinner tonight. Oh and she's pregnant with his child, so please be nice." What in God's name were those things called? The beginning of 24 accessability, and the precursor to the BlackBerry. If you can remember what they are called please send me a message with the *411.

Book Club

I'm currently involved in two book clubs. Surprised, right? Let me explain. I join book clubs because I like to know what people are reading. I equate a book club with the "recommendation" function on Amazon.com. I have no intention of ever showing up to a meeting and discussing the actual text, but I like to think that I'm keeping the proverbial door open for the future possibility.

My book clubs are great. It's like I'm part of the group, but at an arm's length. I take note of current readings and sometimes even read the books by the next scheduled meeting. I'm pretty sure that other members in my book clubs don't know I'm in the club or even exist. Is this weird? Yes. Of course it is.

What's the point of being "part" of a book club if you don't participate in discussions? For me, it's about the books. Maybe they aren't like this, but I have this picture in my mind of a group of over-educated and under-employed pseudo-intellectuals and aspiring writers volleying back and forth about the symbolism of that obscure detail on page 17. That detail that the author just included for the sole purpose of being descriptive and didn't intend for it to be scrutinized in such a manner. Perhaps it will crumble my self-image of a comprehensive reader, coming to the realization that I'm intellectually inadequate.

In addition, I fear the conversation. I inevitably judge people based on what they say (we all do it). Actually it's usually not an issue because I'm not very passionate about many things (books included), but certain authors and certain works have a special place in my library. I'm apprehensive about talking to people about certain books because sometimes reading a book is a personal experience and sharing that experience just doesn't make me comfortable around strangers.

The single largest reason that I'm perpetually absent from the book club is attributed to the realistic possibility that others just don't and won't get "it." I know that sounds pretentious, but it's true. Some may argue that it's such a "misunderstanding" that makes each experience personal, but I can't cope with someone not understanding why Lolita is so great or why Salinger doesn't just appeal to pubescent boys. Believe me I've considered the other side of the argument - that there's something healthy about debate.

In case you hadn't noticed, my neurotic sense of being thinks that there is nothing healthy about you being "wrong" in my mind. I immediately place you in that compartmentalized box in my brain which is reserved for mental midgets, even if that doesn't describe you at all. All it takes is one contrary thought about something I'm passionate about and you immediately fall from the lofty ideal to reality. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is. Yeah, I'm the judgmental asshole here. At least I'm honest. So, do you still want to talk about that book?