The Years Keep Passing Me By

Androgyny, Here I Come

2011-06-16T00:44:00.001-04:00

As evolving technologies continue to prove how intrinsically linked we all are, the sociologist in me often wonders if there is actually any moral worth to the individual. There absolutely is, but the truth of the matter cannot be denied...

...as a community of human beings, we're closer to one another than we'll ever realize.

Some Really Do Suffer In Silence

2011-05-31T21:16:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I think we've no idea how much we truly have...or how much we've actually taken.

Nonprofit Suneil Or: To Those Of You Who Just Aren't Getting It Right

2011-05-20T17:27:00.000-04:00

Oh snap, Nonprofit Suneil made a rare guest blogging appearance at Convio's Connection Café today. He tried to keep it real. Enjoy.

To Those Of You Who Just Aren't Getting It Right

This is all very simple. If you think it isn't, you're just making life harder for yourself.

In the summer of 2009, I joined the Girl Scouts of Southeastern Michigan (GSSEM) as their Chief Communications Officer. At that time, there were more than 300 separate Girl Scout pages on Facebook. GSSEM was not one of them. We'd no Facebook presence whatsoever.

Three months into my gig, I created, launched, and marketed GSSEM's first Facebook Page. It was very simple. No videos, apps, or flash.

Within one month of launch, GSSEM's Page had garnered 1,500+ members. Within two months, we were the second largest Girl Scout Facebook page in the world. Our members posted, commented, and interacted at higher levels than any other Girl Scout page out there.

Convio recently contacted me to write about my social media successes, particularly within the realms of online engagement. I think they were hoping I'd reach into my nonprofit toolbox and pull out a couple of my top-secret formulas to Web 2.0 success. You know, dole out a few tips, a few tricks. Viola!

The truth is the entire time I crafted GSSEM's social media strategies, I didn't do one thing out of the ordinary. Nothing special, nothing unique. When it came to GSSEM's Facebook Page, all I did was follow the Online Relationship Building 101 rulebook. You know, the one you've heard countless times before.

1. I researched all my target audiences for GSSEM's Page. I found out what they wanted and needed.

2. I then crafted the Page, giving it the appropriate format and environment which fostered those wants/needs.

3. When it came to marketing GSSEM's Page, I promoted it in places where I knew my audiences would be.

It was that simple. No secret formulas, no ingenious tips. I just educated myself on the set of e-strategies that had worked for others in the past...and then I applied them to my job.

I say all this to emphasize two facts:

First, it's not 2005 anymore. Social medias might be ever-evolving, but they're far from new. There are plenty of resources out there, all of them pretty much saying the same exact things on how to craft a successful online campaign. These frameworks have been crammed down your throat at nearly every nonprofit conference or seminar you've attended. Really. Online engagement is not difficult anymore. If you understand it, it's almost like painting by numbers.

Second, it's 2011. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if your nonprofit doesn't understand how to successfully engage your audiences online by now, it's probably time to admit to yourselves that you're messing up an easy deal.

When dealing with achievable pursuits, organizational failure occurs because either a company doesn't understand the task at hand or they simply don't care. Don't let anyone fool you into thinking otherwise. When it comes to online engagement, there are only two reasons why you're not obtaining the obtainable. Either your nonprofit doesn't understand how to engage their audiences online or it doesn't want their attention bad enough.

The solutions are simple though.

If you don't understand how to create a successful social media platform, then ask for help from someone who does. That sometimes means paying a professional to come and teach you how to do it. (And no, that doesn't mean having them DO the work for you. It means having a consultant help you UNDERSTAND how to do it yourself.)

If you personally don't care about spending the time to understand online social engagement, that's fine too. Just find the staff in your organization who do care about it. And then give them your full support. Let them run free with their knowledge and expertise. You'll be surprised how much more productive your online campaigns will be when you give them to someone who actually feels passionate about social media.

Now this is the point in the blog where you all heavily roll your eyes and say "Gosh, this is all so elementary. You're telling me stuff I already know."
Are you sure? Do you really know it?

Let me make this as clear as possible. Online engagement isn't rocket science. It's easy and uncomplicated...and like everything else in life, you're either going to succeed or fail at it. If you're succeeding, then good for you! This blog post wasn't written for you.

But to all of you who missing the mark and just don't know why? Well, this isn't about some strange, newfangled medium that's just too mysterious or allusive for your nonprofit to conquer. This is about your organization not coming to terms with the fact that it doesn't know - or want to know - how to follow directions.

Dr. Dre Meets Burning Man: If Only I Could Make This Stuff Up

2011-03-16T20:31:00.003-04:00

A letter to Nicole Threatt from the one and only, Andre "Dr. Dre" Young. At the time, Nicole was married to LA Laker's starting point guard, Sedale Threatt (click on letter to enlarge).

Burning Man is currently one of the largest non-music-based festivals in North America. The week-long event has grown radically every year, attracting over 51,000 participants in 2010. In September of 1995, six months after this letter, Burning Man started charging an entrance fee ($35). Tickets for 2011's festival range from $210 - $320.

California Love was universally heralded as the comeback single for acclaimed hip-hop artist, Tupac "Pac" Shakur. Shakur had been serving a 55 month sexual assault conviction for the gang-bang of a stripper (a crime so egregious the judge deemed it "an act of brutal violence against a helpless woman"). In the fall of '95, after serving less than a year of his sentence, Shakur was released on $1.4 million bail pending a court appeal. A week after his release, he recorded California Love. The song hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and went double platinum. It is currently rated the 341th greatest song of all time by Rolling Stone.

On May of 1996, a freshly-divorced Nicole entered into her second marriage, this time with Dr. Dre. They've been together for nearly fifteen years and have two children, a daughter named Truly and a son named Truth.

Four Years Behind The Curve Or: Sometimes If You Listen Close Enough, You Can Hear The Sounds Of Silence

2011-02-19T00:41:00.000-05:00

Okay, Sean Kingston, so let me get this straight, you're giving me two choices, here...

OPTION 1: We can take a magical journey into public squalor, enjoying the spiced luxury of being chased by middle schoolers as they try to murder us with various kinds of gunfire...

OR...

OPTION 2: We can get totally wasted on a tropical beach?

Either way, it's up to me?

Timothy Fuller had it right from the get-go. Life really is just a series of trying to make up your mind!

My Top Five Cookie Monster Hip Hop Videos

2011-02-11T14:27:00.001-05:00

This post's pretty self-explanatory, so let's lead right into it...

FOURTH PLACE - SO YUMMY

Crafted in the summer of 2005, TheHeadHunters So Yummy pioneered where others feared to go, fully capitalizing upon C. Monster's confectionery obsessions. Originally uploaded in YouTube's infancy, the video was blunt, simple, and in ya face. At the time, it screamed at viewers with a creative intensity that was nowhere to be found on the video sharing site.

Compared to today's viral video, So Yummy comes off as crude and maybe even elementary...but back in the day, it was a visionary masterpiece. Like all first loves, this video holds a special place in my heart. Get your angry on, Cookie!

THIRD PLACE - ALL FOR THE COOKIE

A giant leap in the evolutionary chain of Cookie Monster hip-hop videos. Pieced together in sideshow format by Crsttarocks, this clip was one of the firsts to showcase the comedic benefits of Muppet rap-parody.

It was a perfect fit too. Nobody was more deserving than C. Monster to take on Limp Bizkit's Nookie. Can anyone even remember a time when that monster wasn't doing it all for the cookie?

That's what I thought.

SECOND PLACE - NO PIE

I can't even begin to tell you how many levels of adorable staticelectris retains, quietly squawking out No Pie, a tender hip-hop rendition of TLC's No Scrubs. Clocking in at 3:40, No Pie is a full-fledged Cookie Monster song, the first I'd ever heard or seen on YouTube. The stand-alone picture leaves much to desire, but just wait until you hear the hook. Your heart will absolutely melt.

Oh, and if that isn't enough to garner second place, that prepubescent boy you hear singing? He's actually a 24 year old woman.

FIRST PLACE - MONSTER

It doesn't get much better than Barely Political's comedic troupe, Key of Awesome. Produced less than a month ago, you can definitely tell that Cookie's lyrical content has excelled by leaps and bounds, infusing a more balanced, yet infinitely more hilarious Monster.

More than killer rhymes, this is a complete YouTube video, filled with props, costumes, and multiple green screens. Hyper parodies of Kayne West, Bon Iver, Regis Phillibin, and Nicki Minaj serve only to enhance Cookie's screen time, making him come across as the monsterish monster of all time. By no means is this video perfect, but it is pure genius. Loved it, loved it, loved it.

HONORABLE MENTION - SESAME STREET

While this vid pales in comparison to any of the above, I'd be remiss not to include Sesame Street's delayed take on Cookie's hip hop skillz. It's a decent stab at the genre, enough to prompt an honorable mention. One significant moment of notice does come at 0:15. Sweet, sweet dance moves, Cookie!

On Opening Closed Doors.

2010-12-10T02:58:00.000-05:00

"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." - Norman Cousin

Buried deep inside my heart is an ever-diminishing window of opportunity, one that I've slowly and brutally pried open over the better part of this last decade. I can't even begin to recall all the late nights, fruitless encounters, and steadfast frustration that's gone into this venture of mine. The process has been exceedingly difficult, often flirting with self-abusive...but I'm happy to say I'm weeks away from feeling confident enough to take that leap into the vast unknown.

I've to admit though...now that my feet properly dangle over the edge of this rabbit hole, I'm scared senseless. I've been preparing for a nearly unreachable moment. Odds are, I'll give it my best try, then watch as I thoroughly fail. Trust me, I know how this all ends. It features me succumbing to a disappointment so intense and scarring that I doubt I'll ever fully recover.

And that's downright frightening.

2010 has allowed me to realize several cornerstones of my life, one being that I tend to focus a disproportionate amount of my time either existing in the present or planning for the future. As a result, my past gets sidelined, transfigured into a hazy blur of what once was. Seriously, "blur" is the keyword there. More than often, I find myself having sincere trouble remembering rather prominent events of my life. You're telling me, I once had a job reintegrating ex-felons back into society? For a whole year? Do tell!

These last six months I've made the effort to closely examine my past...and appreciate it for what it was: different, unique, and maybe even a little bit extraordinary. What I'm found is this: life is not simple. It's complex, unknowable, and mainly out of our control.

I plan on traveling a path that offers very little ease or security. Overcast by a rapidly-growing wasteland of other people's failures, its going to take an incredible amount of determination (and sheer luck) to get anywhere near success. It sounds like a lot...but dammit, I'm going to take the plunge, even in spite of the fact that it will likely crush a very vital and tender part of who I am. Do you want to know why?

Because I want to live.

2010: A Retrospective

2010-12-09T17:24:00.004-05:00

Sometimes it takes a random sampling by an impartial Facebook app to make you fully understand exactly where you stand on the important things in life.

Welcome to My Year in Status! This application creates a collage of the Facebook statuses you wrote in 2010. Here's your collage!

--This world has no idea how many SweetTarts I consume on a regular basis. It's pretty nauseating.

--About to take a nap w/13 three-day-old black chicks.

--Delving into Puerto Rico's rich and diverse culture by taking the girl to gamble on her very first cockfight. The things you do for love!

--Come on. Who knew Indians could sunburn?

--I'm with Hurricane Sanchez. It's not even midnight and he's already fist pumping. Tonight's going to be fabulous.

--At Woodbridge Pub. I just demolished my roommate in Connect Four, 25 wins to 3 losses. Thanks for validating my life, Sunday Funday!

--At the Salvation Army store. “Baby Got Back” is playing right now. I just saw a 70 year old woman do the cabbage patch. I love you, Detroit.

--In the past 24 hours, I've spent 11 hours on the road, 7 hours at a conference, and 40 minutes at a random Wu-Tang concert. I'm sleepy.

--Dear Friday Night, if you make me pass out with all my clothes on again I'm going to be sorely disappointed in you.

--Coming down from one of the most insanely draining work weeks ever, I promise you this much. Tonight, I WILL rule the night.

--Excuse me Guicci Power Suit Guy, I'm sure you keen sense of time-management has built you quite the efficient little empire...but just trust me on this..when walking into a public bathroom, it's totally unnecessary for you to unzip your pants and pull it out ten steps before you get to the urinal. Your time saved IS NOT worth the awkwardness it renders.

--Came home on a whim today and caught my dad watching some form of NASCAR. It's a dark, dark day for the Singh family.

--I like to believe that breaking into your own house as the cops roll by is a rite of passage reserved only for the most righteous of homeowners.

--Talking to my dear ol' mother about the pros and cons of getting crunk. Lil' Jon would be proud.

--Today, I hustled three senior citizens in a Colombian version of Phase 10 called Telefunken AND I watched a grown man have a ten minute staring contest with a rooster. I'm never coming home.

--Tony Curtis, you might be dead, but you taught men everywhere that it's totally possible to win over the hot girl just by dressing in drag. That's what I call a legacy, baby!

--Waking up at noon with Hershey bar wrappers in my bed again. Somebody's gotta live this life.

--Fact: Spending a weekend in Denver with three kids running circles around a very tired pregnant mom is my favorite type of birth control.

--Forearms, rejoice! Testicles, beware! The urgent care doctor just prescribed me steroids for this killer inflammation in my lungs.

--Spent the last 3 hours trying to fit a 2 month old toilet seat onto a 90 year old toilet. These numbers mock me, but I WILL win this battle.

--Just pulled a metal fork from my left pants pocket. It's clean...but I've no idea how long it's been in there. Does this happen to everyone?

--Would it be wrong to force the DJ here to blast "Who Let The Dogs Out?" exactly when I turn 31 tonight?

--Dear-Neighbor-Who-Steals-My-Netflix-From-My-Mailbox, thanks for mailing Angels & Demons back promptly after you watched it. It means a lot.

--At MSU bar in NYC, representing the creepy-old-man-that-shouldn't-be-here demographic. Watch out youngin's, I'm burning up your dance floor!

--MC Hammer. June. Detroit Riverfront. My parachute pants have waited twelve long years for all these stars to align.

--Oh, Meijer's sushi! You taste like cardboard, but I just can't quit you.

--An angry customer told me today that they were going to "start watching me". It made me want to shave and put on my best dress shirt!

--Trust me, there are only a few things in this world more horrifying than listening to your roommate try to learn Whitesnake songs on his acoustic guitar. And at this moment, I really can't think of any of them.

--DJ Icey's bass just made my glasses vibrate right off my face. This is ridiculous and amazing all at the same time.

--Watching a little 20/20 before the untz, untz, untzing begins. We're taking this pre-party all the way back to '98, y'all!

--I'm off to see The Mikado tonight at the Detroit Opera House. You wanna know why? Because elegance is learned, bitches!

--Slid down an opera banister, danced with a gypsy, got bit by a dog. Can you really ask for anything more?

--I'm slowly learning that almost all of my life aspirations involve some form of blurring the lines between the practical and the absurd.

Making Out In The Name Of Curiousity

2010-07-20T20:10:00.003-04:00

Dear college girls experimenting with one another on the bunk bed across from me,

I'm sure it feels amazing, kissing someone who seems so foreign to touch. I'm sure it's even more exhilarating than customary, the two of you making out in a hostel dormitory while all the boys in the room are either sound asleep...or pretending not to know a damn thing while they sneakily update their blog.

But let me tell you this much. I saw it in your eyes the moment I shook both your hands. You're young, reckless, and full of all the daftness that become two undergraduates desperately trying to find their way in this fiercely fleeting world. You're filled with the qualms of youth...and it's just a matter of time before you tire chasing that illusive bi-curious dragon and fall back into your very standardized and comfortable lives. It's just a matter of time before you tire of one another and go back to your extremely capable, yet clueless boyfriends.

And when that moments arrives, beating harshly into your heart - and all you're left with is the wondrous memory of that one time you necked in front of everyone and nobody all at the same time - well, feel free to hunt me down and shake my hand. Because not only did I put my headphones on and turn my back to your extremely unoriginal and eye-rolling tryst...but I also feigned ignorance. Mainly because I'm old, tired and completely uninterested in it all, but also because there's a small shred of me who wanted you to live.

Live at least one day without a shred of my callous, jaded cynicism.

Yours Truly,

Suneil

My Smart Ass Comment Of The Day.

2010-07-18T17:10:00.006-04:00

Ahhh, Hamas. Thanks for denying your women yet another of their God-given liberties by instituting a female-only ban on smoking water pipes this weekend. (SEE: "Hamas Bans Women From Smoking Pipes In Cafes") You make the feminist in me want to explode.

I love how these sort of moral injunctions are consistently built upon the basis of pretense, impression, and appearance.

"It is inappropriate for a woman to sit cross-legged and smoke in publc. It harms the image of our people." Hamas Interior Ministry spokesman, Ihab Ghussein
"Many in Gaza see the water pipe as inappropriate for women because of its sexual connotation and because it looks crass for ladies to smoke." Palestinian anthropologist, Ali Qleibo.

So let me get this straight. A group of guys are saying its pornographic for women to smoke water bongs because it visually resembles fellatio...BUT...of course, it's 100% socially acceptable for men to do it. Because, using their warped logic, there's obviously nothing latently homosexual about a bunch of dudes sitting around one another, smokin' some pipe.

Nothing at all.

And In The End, He Raised His Tiny Fists To The Sky And Gave Thanks.

2010-06-30T03:14:00.007-04:00

In an effort to make new friends and sociologically stalk people a little bit more than I should be allowed, I signed up on OKCupid, a free social network primarily targeted towards the single and willing.

The underlying philosophy behind OKCupid is relatively straightforward. Based on an aggregate of preferences, biographies, and questionnaires, a user builds a self-profile. Via the magic of OKCupid, that person is then allowed to find "matches", or similar users whose interests and moral compasses compliment one another. Down and dirty, the website is largely utilized for online dating...but fitted more closely along the human spectrum, OKCupid is a vast community of human beings, each of them longing for sincere connections, may it be physically, mentally, spiritually...or all of the above.

I've been part of OKCupid for roughly four weeks now. My life's been pretty busy this past month, but I try to sign-on at least once a day, mostly to search through profiles in hopes of finding a couple people who naturally prefer to sing Beirut songs aloud...or urban explore on a random Tuesday night. So far, no luck, but I'm banking on faith. By the end of this experiment, I'll find at least one awesome, new friend. I just know it.

I couldn't tell you exactly what got me onto OKCupid and registered, but I've got a sense. Over the last two years, a large majority of my friends have either relocated out of Michigan or found that illustrious happiness that begets itself from settling down with a significant other and shirking away from the rest of the world. More than ever, I guess I joined to build new friendships with the kind of folk who want to go out and breathe in everything this world has to offer.

Well, maybe not everything.

Sunday evening, I received the following message from an OKCupid user:

Hey, ur hot! :p We should hook up. You like what u see? What u into, sexie?

Okay. So obviously, the servers over at OKCupid had a massive hiccup, because if they could glimpse even slightly into my soul, they'd have known to automatically delete any e-correspondence that featured the non-word "ur" on principle alone. Listen, I'm far from a Grammar Nazi, but what makes you think they can successfully solicit sex from a seasoned blogger using "ur"? The least you can do is spell out the damn contraction. Come on, is that all the game you have?

As completely annoyed and uninterested as I was in the request, I'm not going to lie. It felt A.M.A.Z.I.N.G. to know that there are strangers out there who can look at my picture and then think to themselves, "Hey, I wouldn't mind having sexual intercourse with that guy."

Let's get real for a minute. I'm an average-looking guy, right? Average-looking guys rarely get approached for one-night stands. Rarely. Don't get me wrong, back in my Sex In The City days I landed my fair share of tawdry hook-ups...but dammit, I had to work for them! I had to be witty and flirtatious and clever. I had to be awesome. I definitely wasn't getting any "ur hot" stares from across the dance floor at the clubs. If anything, the stares were more along the lines of "r u seriously doing the cabbage patch right now? Whats wrong wit u? lol. lol. lol. rotflmao."

It's just that sometimes I forget. Sometimes we all forget. Life grinds down upon us with such fastidious haste that more often than not, we choose to keep our heads down, briskly walking from task to task, easily forgetting how special and attractive we truly are. And sure, most of us have husbands or girlfriends who tell us how sexy and good-looking we are...but that's not the same. We already know they think we're beautiful. Of course we do! That's one of the reasons why they love us in the first place, right?

It's just that sometimes we forget. We forget about the rest of the human spectrum. And it's nice to be reminded, that's all.

As you can probably tell from the lack of entries, this personal blog of mine is slowly dying a very painful and wretched death. Yet even though the end nears, I feel it only appropriate to utilize this venue as a vehicle to express my genuine feelings about the above incident. Here goes:

Dear Internet,

You have no idea how proud I am right now. These past two days, it's felt like there have been a dozen flamboyantly-clichéd gays sitting on my shoulder, whispering "you go girl" and "work it" into my ear at various audibles. Because of you, I feel like I'm all that AND a bag of chips. You totally made my week.

Internet, it's wondrous how you build people up via your thinly-veiled anonymity. I don't understand the logic behind any of it, but I'm 100% certain that the above solicitation would've never occurred in the real world, not for one second.

And for that feat alone, I thank you.

Yours Truly,

Suneil

I Haven't Laughed This Hard In Ages.

2010-06-05T05:13:00.002-04:00

Oh. My God. I know I don't utilize this blog much anymore...but to those of you who still have me on your rss feeds, you need to cancel your plans for the next thirty minutes or so, because I'm here to drop some serious entertainment value into your lives.

OPRAH'S YOUR OWN SHOW

So after performing some serious after-bar web browsing tonight, I stumbled across Your Own Show, Oprah Winfrey and emmy-producer Mark Burnett's new television reality series, which documents a group of Americans as they battle it out to become the next...wait for it...reality television star.

Your brains probably hurt from reading that last sentence, so take a second, loosen up, and I'll say it again.

It's a reality television show that finds the next reality television star.

Okay. Now conventionally, this is the part of my blog where my head explodes and I spend the next one thousand words dissecting all the wondrous absurdities hidden beneath the human spirit...but people, there are bigger things I need to show you right now. Trust me on this.

The concept is simple. To get onto the Your Own Show competition, potential contestants record a 2-3 minute video clip of a creative, inspiring reality show that they would host. These folk then upload their personal videos onto the main Your Own Show website...and via the wonders of the wild, wild web, the public votes on the brightest and best. In the end, the ten-or-so people with the highest vote count become reality contestants on the Your Own Show reality show...and from there, they all engage in some messy, high-drama, twenty-two-episode battle towards reality superstardom.

Just so you can get a sense of what Oprah/Burnett are looking for, the video categories range from "Traditional Talk Show" to "Cooking" to "Health & Well-Being" to "Fashion".

That all being said, below, in no particular order, are my favorite finds tonight (the multiple titles may or may not have been created by me).

TEACHING: A WORTHY FALLBACK CAREER IF THERE EVER WAS ONE
OR
THE FACULTY ROOM: IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK

SOMETIMES DISCUSSING RESPONSIBILITY MEANS WATCHING A DOG GET HIS NAILS PEDI-FILED WHILE A STRANGER WHISTLES
OR
LET'S BE HAPPY FOR THE ONE WHO DID IF WE'RE THE ONE WHO DIDN'T

OVER ENUNCIATING YOUR OVER-CONFIDENCE
OR
WAIT, WHY HASN'T MY VIDEO UPLOADED TO MATCH.COM ALREADY?

NAUGHTY PIGS WHO CHANGE THEIR WAYS: A TRADITIONAL TALK SHOW

PICKIN' UP MEN AT THE DUCK POND IS SOOOO 2008.

It's Clever Because I'm Reminiscing About My Blog On My Blog.

2010-05-06T15:35:00.006-04:00

Hey, remember that one time I had a blog that I loved and cared for...and that I used to update on a regular basis?

Those were good times.

Hmmm...

2010-03-09T23:29:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure if observational humor has a tipping point...but if it does, this youtube clip is definitely walking the line.

It's Never Too Early To Listen To A Little Thriller

2010-02-20T12:05:00.009-05:00

For the past week, I’ve been stationed in the suburbs of New York, participating in the beginnings of an organization-wide realignment. Strategic planning and organizational transformation is hard and mentally exhausting labor…and after a week of waking up at 8:30am and working until well after midnight, I felt like I needed something different in my life.

I want to feel l like I’m not in control. I want to escape. Manhattan, here I come.

The urban life is for me. There’s something about the hustle…the chaos…the exotic eccentricities of diversity that appeals to my untamed sides. I don’t know why, but I find little contentment in being safe and predictable. It’s the insecurities of chance and risk that breathe life into my lungs…and for me, Manhattan delivers these opportunities in spades. This city offers no set schedule, no preordained expectations. It’s indifferent to personal egos and agendas. There's no safety here, only discord, unexpectedness, and life in nearly every multi-faceted form - and I tell you what, I absolutely love it.

Hotels in downtown Manhattan are rather pricey, the cheapest pricing out at $100/night…so in an effort to maintain my pocketbook, I ventured onto craigslist in hopes of finding a cheap room to rent for the weekend. I ended up finding one in East Village for the steal of $30/night…and after a brief two minute conversation with the tenant and his son, I knew I’d found an appropriate reprieve from the traditional, business side of my life. East Village begets the quintessential bohemian lifestyle...and what better way to escape from the establishment than to spend a weekend residing in the breath of the anti-establishment movement?

Sometimes though, reprieves can be a little too much. These beatniks are I.N.S.A.N.E.

SON: Dad, you gotta stop going to the rooster website. Don’t you get that our computer will die if you keep on going to these garbage sites?
DAD: But these girls are eighteen. That’s legal!
SON: It don’t matter how old the girls are, dad, the computer will die if you keep on looking at those girls!
-----
DAD: hey, you want a beer?
SON: You betcha!
DAD: Light or regular?
SON: It’s 10:30 in the morning. Does it really matter?
DAD: Damn it, if you’re gonna talk like that then I’m gonna bust out the Michael Jackson!
-----
DAD: Listen, Neil. I know this room smells like B.O., but that’s ‘cause I cleaned the entire room with Windex for you.
SUNEIL: Seriously?
DAD: Even the walls. Everything is copacetic in here now, you understand?
SUNEIL: How so?
DAD: Windex is the life source, brother. You’ll find out sooner than later on that one.
-----
DAD: Neil, my home is yours. You want some mayonnaise packets, it’s yours. You want ketchup packets, you got it. But let me tell ya what…you steal my cigarettes, we’re gonna have some serious jackin’ problems.
SUNEIL: Fair enough.
DAD: But the mayonnaise, Neil. It’s all yours. I’m serious on that one. The mayonnaise is all yours.
SUNEIL: Well…thank you.
DAD: You want some?
SUNEIL: Right now?
DAD: You’re family now, Neil. And family shares their mayonnaise.
-----
DAD: Listen, I’m gonna school you on life, real quick. You got a girl?
SUNEIL: Ummmm. Yes, I do.
DAD: Is she half-crazy?
SUNEIL: I don’t think so.
DAD: I mean, does she ever want to cut off your balls or whine about cockroaches running around the apartment?
SUNEIL: Wait. Are there cockroaches in this apartment?
DAD: Brother, has your gal ever tried to cut off your balls?
SUNEIL: No.
DAD: That’s that, man. That's how you know she's a keeper. And trust me, I'm speakin' these truths from experience.
-----

Let the good times roll, eh? I get this sinking feeling that by Monday morning I'll be more than prepared to don a dress shirt and sports jacket...and get back to working for the Man.

The Clangor Of War, The Silence Of Death

2010-02-14T18:01:00.007-05:00

And it comes quickly in the afternoon, faster than you ever would’ve expected. Tomorrow they shall baptize it a collateral damage, highlighted solely by the “deepest regrets” of the highest of ranking generals, but today it shall be known as something else. Today this swiftness is the lurid face of death and today it is unforgiving, permanent and without mercy.

And it has sought you out before your time to take leave.

You spent countless years being safe, making mostly right decisions, and ignoring the platitudes of danger that surrounded you. It just doesn’t seem fair that life could end in such a forlorn manner. You were a good person, were you not? You lived a decent life. You prayed to a just and nonpartisan God. You survived decades of insurrection and misfortune…and while you never bargained for a life filled with true peace and happiness, you did anticipate one sans the horrors of heart-wrenching depravity. It was the very least you deserved. And yet, when two high mobility artillery rockets were misfired into your house, nothing stopped them from decimating your life and those of your family. Nobody prevented the madness from capitulating down upon everything you’ve come to know and love. It just happened...and happened so efficiently. You can’t even imagine why this has come to pass...and rightfully so. This sort of cruelness is too much for one person to imagine, let alone rationalize. It maddens the mind.

This has happened before you and it shall happen again. Your demise will make headlines today, but soon enough the sins of your loss will cleanly wash ashore, lost and forgotten amongst a sea of others who’ve suffered similar harrowing defeats in the name of war and enmity. There’s nothing left for you here except the knowledge that there never really was a safe place in this world, just foolish, foolish men fighting with guns and the visions of a daft ideology, one which blindly insists that only through the likes of brute force will the path to justice truly prevail.

12 Afghans Killed In Errant Rocket Strike As U.S. Offensive Continues

On Expecting Nothing & Everything All At The Same Time

2010-02-13T21:23:00.005-05:00

There’s this rather large apple tree that stands guard in my backyard…and on auspicious nights like these, I bundle myself up in my warmest sweatshirt, venture outside for ten minutes or so, and bear witness to its immense, stalwartly nature.

This tree truly is a testament to the commands of pith and fortitude. It’s scarcely twenty-five degrees out right now and the wind is hurtling across my yard, a proper Midwestern blend of bitter and bite. Detroit winters pinch at the skin and often make it difficult to comprehend how one could possibly survive without the luxuries of indoor florescent lighting and forced-air heating. For this apple tree though, the weather is of no major concern. It simply stands upright and takes it all in. Month after month, season after season, it abides whatever comes its way, as if it binds no manner to the world around it. The birds, they’ve long migrated south. I, myself, have spent the past two months hibernating next to the warmth of my girlfriend. But this tree, it publicly sheds its leaves and awaits the next chapter.

Oh, to have such strength! It's nights like these when I gaze out into the darkness of my yard and realize how weak and easily dispensable I truly am. All my worries, all my laughter, everything that makes me visible and intact…it means absolutely nothing to this tree. I could cease to exist and it would take no notice. I doubt much of the rest of the world would either.

It goes without saying that I’m anthropomorphizing a silly backyard perennial with superhuman powers...and that whatever "resilience" this apple tree retains is only there because I've strictly granted it to the tree…but honestly, these realities are equally as inconsequential. The truth of this very large and unforgiving world is that in spite of our longing to be substantial and matterful human beings, when its all said and done, none of us really matter that much.

I wonder if others out think the same thoughts as I? I suppose my ideas may come across with a large hash of morbid cynicism…but really, I don’t feel sad or depressed thinking these thoughts one bit. In fact, if anything, when I look at this tree, it drives me to quicken my steps and stir progress into my life. It whispers to me, get busy living or get busy dying.

I spoke to an old friend this week, one who’s more on the dying side of life than living. I see so much potential in her, so much possibility, but I also hear the sirens of fear wrestling down upon her soul. They immobilize her from making any sustainable change…and as such, she’s quickly on the path to quietly squaring away the next thirty years of her life. It’s hard to see her go through this, because I’ve heard her talk of passion before, the kind that builds unrelenting aims and aspirations. I've heard her speak of her dreams and they sounded utterly amazing. The way it looks though, her life will be nothing spectacular to anybody, including herself. Month after month, season after season, she will abide whatever comes her way, as if she binds no manner to the world around her. It will all be so...insignificant. Some days I pray that her ever-so-average boyfriend will stop being so comfortable. That instead, he'll cheat on her and give her that much-needed second chance at true love. Some days I pray she’ll summarily get fired from her uninspiring job, thus forcing her to make the complicated professional life decisions she simply cannot make at this point in her life. I don’t think change will come soon enough to her, but every so often I wish upon a shooting star and anticipate for the best. I hope.

This is the one human struggle I see everywhere I set my eyes. I see it in my old friends, I see it in myself...and on auspicious nights like these, I even see it in the trees. This struggle is eternal and defines nearly every waking moment in my life. It's one and only boon is that it's freed within me the ability to identify what this life expects from me…and more importantly, what I expect from this life. Sometimes I don't know what to do with it all, but I'm okay with that. Between me and you, I know most people don't look at the trees in their backyard and see the harrow of human life...but I'm okay with that as well. This is my life and my perspective into living it. On these cold winter nights, I'm simply going to keep on looking at the inanimate and believing what my mind thinks aloud.

Maybe I'll even be a little grateful too.

Clarity

2010-01-15T01:24:00.007-05:00

After a long and crazed day, sometimes all you reaaly need is two sentences from a random news article to help you fully understand this world...and the way that it is.

In an ABC News poll conducted after Hurricane Katrina in 2005, 23 percent of Americans said they believed hurricanes were "a deliberate act of God."

Of those, half called the storms "a warning," about a quarter called them a test or punishment and the rest said they occur for reasons impossible to understand.

My Nine Year Anniversary In Sobriety: A Realization

2010-01-11T01:45:00.008-05:00

January marks nine years of soberness for myself...and in celebration, here is a stigma-free blog entry, a dry and caustic realization, dedicated strictly to those of my fellow brethren: the alcoholics out there who didn't quite realize they were alcoholics back in college...and due to a few hard lessons...are ecstatic that they found clarity and quit drinking many, many moons ago.

Anyway, remember that one time back at MSU when I binge-drank way too much Colt 45 and then passed out, singing myself to sleep to the tune of The Wheels On The Bus while my roommate was patting me on the back?

Well, I guess that's only supposed to happen to babies!

I'm Pretty Sure NOBODY Can Relate To Her.

2009-12-23T21:15:00.001-05:00

There's a fine line we seldom cross as adults, a mental roadblock that prevents us from reinvesting in our youthful, creative nature. I don't know why this is so, but I'm very well aware that the moment I leave my house, there is a never ending set of brutal processes that attempt to break my imagination and shove me into a world that is largely unsatisfying in its rigid conformity.

The irony is that as children, the power of our imaginative beings is quite easily mastered. We make believe fantastic new worlds, conceive imaginary friends, and create on levels so fantastically unreal...that it only seems natural we'd culturally foster this profusely creative genius and make it a part of our daily adult routine.

Yet, this is not the case. Somewhere down the line, there's a reality we've created, some social construct that not only prevents us from utilizing our creative ways, but rewards the homogenization of ourselves into society at large. Maybe this is what "maturity" and "adulthood" means, but sometimes when I sit in my office with its huge, gray fake-walls and surf the internet for my creative contemporaries, it strikes me as unfair that we've built a staunchly uncreative society that panders to the dumbest of our mental and physical needs.

My official title is that of Chief Communications Officer, but this in itself is just a creative way of labeling what I do. My primary job responsibility is simple and straightforward: I've been hired to imagine up new, engaging ways to communicate content and ideas - content that can sometimes appear dull and ideas that can sometimes seem boring. On the most part this job comes easy to me, but like all vocations, there are days I look at my workload and think to myself Oh man. How am I going to make all this stuff look awesome and amazing?

While the above question is internal and personal, on some level it's the primary lament of every creative soul on the face of this planet: How do we create in a world that is so eager to dismiss its creative energy?

Maybe this is just me, but when I watch iconic television advertisements like Carl's Jr.'s Kim Kardashian spot, all I can think of are two things:

It doesn't matter who you hire to eat lettuce...salads will NEVER be sexy.
There's got to be a better way.

You Say Potato, I Say Potatoe. (Or: This Is The Post Where I Meld Passion With The Passionate)

2009-12-04T01:12:00.001-05:00

After reading a rather infuriating interview today, featuring Cardinal Barragan (the Pope's former chief Health Care spokesman) stating blanketly and quite assuredly that "Transsexuals and homosexuals WILL NOT enter into the Kingdom of God, and I do not say this, but Saint Paul does"...well, I was more than prepared to blog my little heart out, railing against the organized monster that is currently being heralded as modern Catholicism. Normally, I attempt to keep this blog of mine as far away from polarizing religious content as possible, but over the past six months, the methodology these trusted, ordained, high-level Cardinals have utilized to twist Scripture and spew non-loving, non-accepting, anti-Jesus sentiments is simply unacceptable...and riles a repulsion and anger within me that begets my literary voice. Or more realistically, a blog post.

I just can't stand it. Not only is Barragan preaching the very essentials of hatred and intolerance, but the scripture he's referencing is vague, at best...and further perpetuates the myth that these very human and fallible clergyman are actually the living, breathing voice of God.

Anyway, I was all steamed and peeved, ready to unleash the beast, up until thirty minutes ago when I stumbled across one of the most amazing and utterly fascinating pictures of all time.
Yes, that is Tyra Banks, one of the most annoying and befuddling class-B celebrities to land her own daytime talk show, being assaulted by a couple of rabid Sesame Streeters. Of course, it goes without saying that I don't condone any serious type of sexual harassment, puppetry or otherwise...but if you look closely, Cookie Monster is totally grabbing a little piece toosh. And loving every minute of it.

If this snapshot teaches me anything, it sermonizes that tonight is simply not a night for keenly-placed anger. Tonight is a night for indulgence and extravagance, married only by a sense of euphoric, sensual exhilaration.

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go find my girlfriend and show her what Cookie Monster just taught me.

On Fighting The Good Fight

2009-11-26T14:17:00.003-05:00

These past couple of months, it seems I can't go anywhere without being bombarded by a series of harsh, dissenting opinions, each heavily critiquing the general purpose and overall integrity of the self-publishing Internet. The general argument is that with the advent of social medias, we as human beings can't help but plaster the web with an overabundance of our narcissism. Blogger. You Tube. Facebook. Twitter. It's all just a masturbatory tribute to our egos, an unbroken exercise in self-aggrandizing futility.

For the most part, these laments come from the technologically incompetent, those old stable horses that can't understand - let alone appreciate - the ides of change. The way information is communally traded over the Internet without restraint or qualification...well, it's a slap to those who've spent their entire lives believing that true legitimacy comes only when your idea is being backed by some organized, professional publication. Like a newspaper. Or paperback publisher. Or movie studio. Or record label.

Yet these past few months, its hasn't been the old or inexperienced who have been crying the loudest. For me, Autumn 2009 has been filled with an exponentially growing movement of casual Internet dwellers who are backlashing against the World Wide Web...and particularly the machines of social medias. These folk are different than the above complainers for they have directly experienced the transformative nature of the Web 2.0, enjoyed it as a novelty, and have now gotten bored and moved on. Palahniukian in nature, these voices hiss out one forceful Tyler Durden anthem in unison: You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile. Their notions are based in the fact that most of us are unimportant and irrelevant to advancing Earth's shared collective of creative thought...and as such, if most of us are inconsequential, is it really necessary to give ourselves blogs and twitter feeds just to hear ourselves talk?

In this much, I can't help but agree. There's nothing special here in this blog of mine, nothing engaging or relevant enough to substantially impact anyone, anywhere. This soapbox of mine is quite little and negligible...and there are plenty of other authors out there, whom when stacked up to me, can compose more compelling, well-written compositions in their sleep.

Yet for the past fortnight, I've been obsessed with Nichole 337 and her personalized YouTube channel, a showcase of dreadfully popular country and teen-pop songs, covered by Nichole herself. As you can probably tell from her various youtube clips scattered throughout this post, Nichole has none of the conventional attributes that make for a popular, engaging singer. Her voice is horridly tragic, matched only by the ferocity of her homeliness. She has no timing or scale...and features a mismatched pitch that, if harnessed correctly, could very likely kill a small pigeon mid-flight. Granted, the art of critique is a subjectively nominal beast, but I think we can all agree that Nichole is an obvious train wreck. She's an empty-bodied, singing disaster.

But that's not the point. The point isn't that Nichole is a bad singer. The point isn't that Nichole will never breach conventional music standards and win a Grammy. The point isn't that Nichole is irrelevant in the grand scheme of humanity's creative process. The point isn't that Nichole and her voice are not beautiful and unique snowflakes. Those statements are all very obvious...and understood by even Nichole herself when she states on her own channel: I sing for a hobby NOT a career.

The point I'm trying to make here is that Nichole truly IS the same decaying organic matter as everyone else. She's just another insignificant schmuck, practicing her passions and sharing it with the world in spite of its glaring frivolity and trifling unimportance.

Let's be real here. Odds are, regardless of our attempts to be memorable, in 200 years nobody will recall any of us as the individuals we are today. Odds are nobody will remember us, period. And all our private legacies that we plan to leave behind for the world to enjoy and debate? Well, unless we're a Hemingway, Einsten, or Joplin, all our hard-pressed merits will quickly blend into a sea of endless transmissions and ideas, indistinguishable from its peers and counterparts. Sure it sounds like a grim and depressing reality...but it's as true and faithful as humility itself.

The trick though is to rejoice regardless of these facts. The trick is to keep on singing.

Keep on singing. I think of that thought every time I go to Nichole's page, which has been quite often these past few days. I hear her godawful voice and it makes me smile, mainly because I realize that social medias are not a passing technology, but instead a nurturing field; a quaint and easily-accessible venue that makes it okay for us to be heard in this highly globalized world...despite our very apparent flaws and sense of averageness.

Life is not always about advancing society or making this world a better place. Sometimes life is simply about being. Being ourselves and sharing our lack of perfection with whomever is willing to listen. And it is in this concept and this concept alone why I am thankful for being alive and unimportant this Thanksgiving.

Oh. My. Goodness.

2009-10-20T23:47:00.002-04:00

Dear Pop Culture Gods,

Honestly. Does it get any more acute than this?
I really don't think so.

Race & Racism in The D: Part 4 - Who I Am Via What I'm Not

2009-10-07T15:12:00.001-04:00

We live in a strange and wondrously balanced world, filled with as much beauty and love as there is forced anger and unadulterated hatred.

A few days ago, I started a mini-blog series about Race & Racism. To Read my prior entries on the subject, please go here

Race shall forever confuse me.

I grew up the owner of two purebred Indian parents, both born and raised in India before immigrating to America in the early 1960's. For eighteen years, I'd the fullness of living in Livonia, Michigan, the whitest of all white suburban towns (96% of its 100,000+ population are Caucasian, while only .01% are Asian). A minority amongst even the minorities, I spent most of my post-adolescence drifting around Michigan and Colorado until 2005, when I ultimately found a sense of peace in the gritty backdrop of urban Detroit (where once again, out of nearly 1,000,000 citizens, less than one percent of them were Asian.)

Because there are not too many Asians running around the metro-Detroit area, everywhere I go, everywhere I've lived, my racial identity has been viewed as an unique sort of specialty; a novelty, at best. Even though there are not too many Suneil's here in Detroit, I'm still grouped into a box and classified...and then intently judged based on that classification. Laymen like to say my race is Indian, but for categorical reasons, the Western World has shoved me into the very ubiquitous “Asian” label. Anyone from Bangladesh, Cambodia, China, India, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Pakistan, the Philippine Islands, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and even Vietnam is an Asian...which confuses me even further, seeing I've been to both Thailand and India...and there are little-to-no shared traits either of those countries share.

I think I don't understand race mainly because it isn't clearly definable. For years, post-modernists have freely argued the defining characteristics of race...and I've still yet to get a straight awnser. What makes an Asian man “Asian”? What makes me, Suneil Singh, an Asian? It surely isn't based on any phenotypic or genotypic traits. Is it because my parents are from Asia? That sounds like a poor reason to be part of any race, let alone propagate a myth.

It becomes even more confusing when you throw in social misjudgments and misperceptions. My physical attributes don't easily prove my race...and while living in Detroit, I've had people assume I was African, Middle Eastern, Caucasian, and even Hispanic. Whenever people guess incorrectly, I shrug my shoulders and think to myself Keep guessing. This game is so useful to you getting to know me.

I own this old, affable dog named Smokey. When folk meet Smokey for the first time, they normally ask me what type of dog he is. I reply that he's a lazy and smelly pooch, a mutt whose need for attention and trash is so overpowering that there's little one can do but come to accept Smokey for who he is. Most people aren't content with my response and counter with no, but what TYPE of dog is he?

Dude, I just told you what type of dog he was. Are you really going to be enlightened by the knowledge that he's a Malamute Mix? Is that going to physically change any aspect of him whatsoever? Is it even going to change your interpretation of him? He's forevermore going to be lazy and smelly, regardless of labels. He is what he is.

Race is not real by fact. The only reason its still alive today is because we breathe life into it and give it importance. And sadly, that itself begs the question: will we ever not be totally and completely obsessed with our racial origins?

I'm not Asian nor do I even understand what it means to be part of that race. Does Asian mean I like ice cream? Does it mean I like going to the bars? Does Asian mean that I've a wicked sense of humor? Does it mean, I'm well-read? What can you possibly learn from categorizing me as an Asian? My race doesn't give me any comfort or enlightenment. Does it give you anything?

If you want to get to know me, ask me a real question. If you want to criticize me as a human being then criticize me on something that exists. Make me feel it. Talk to me about something that matters. Talk to me about me.

Race & Racism In the D: Part 3 - The Conversation

2009-10-02T17:50:00.000-04:00

We live in a strange and wondrously balanced world, filled with as much beauty and love as there is forced anger and unadulterated hatred.

A few days ago, I started a mini-blog series about Race & Racism. Part 1 dealt with a Detroit blogger, Push Nevhada and his historically-based experiences writing about the Black Bottom, or the Eastside of Detroit. (To read it, go here.) Part 2 dealt with my Black Bottom experiences (to read that go here). Part 3 deals with Push and my interaction.

For someone like Push, a man who wrote such an engaging and thoughtful piece on the Black Bottom, it strikes me as alarming that the below conversation came to pass...and more importantly, that it denigrated into name calling with such speed and haste. It all really just started with a simple, innocent comment:

White Collar Boy (Me): Interesting take. For over two years, I worked at a Black-run community center in the middle of the Black Bottom. It was sadly as corrupt and unnecessary to the resurgence of that neighborhood as the Lafayette Park initiative.

I wonder what you, the reader, infers about my comment. Is it harmful? Is it offensive? What do you think?

Here's Push's reply, sent to me privately via e-mail.

Push Nevahda: So, there are no Indian-run community centers that are corrupt, and/or in sad state of affairs, Mr. White Boy? There is absolutely no corruption, despair, and sadness among YOUR people in INDIAN communities, Mr. White Boy? Indians are perfect human beings who govern perfect communities? Calcutta is not one of the most impoverished, neglected, diseased, places on the planet? Why did you feel the need to racialize your comment (by stating that the community center was "black-run")? What was the point in that? So, black resurgence is "unnecessary as the Lafayette Park intiative"? How so?

Whoa. So regardless of intent, I definitely struck a sensitive chord. Here was my response, trying to salvage the discussion.

White Collar Boy (Me): Some observations, none of them made out of anger:

Why didn't you post your response to me as a blog comment instead of directly e-mailing me? We could've had some rather enlightening discourse in front of everyone. Instead you made this very one-on-one.
Why did you call me Mr. White Boy instead of Mr. White Collar Boy?
Why did you immediately take a hugely defensive stance to my two sentence comment? It wasn't made to offend, which begs the follow-up question...when reading it, did you ever consider that I wasn't trying to offend or start a negatively-laced argument?
This one is just more for me than anything else...was your e-mail to me an immediate reaction to reading my comment...or was it something timed and carefully written out?

Let me explain my perspective: You or someone you know sent me a friend request on facebook. I normally don't accept friend requests from strangers...but when I looked at your profile, I noticed we shared some same interests...so I actually took the time to check out your YouTube videos, your main website, and then your blog. Your blog entry on the Black Bottom was interesting and insightful.

For me, blogs are normally one-way mediums for the author to share their experiences/information on a topic. If the author allows blog comments, he/she is freely eliciting personal responses from the general public based on that particular topic. I have very specific experiences that came from me working to help better the Black Bottom community. Over two years, I raised over two million dollars for that community...and it was wholly frustrating to watch as my coworkers greed, alcoholism, and general disdain for the community they promised to serve overtook why we were all working there in the first place. It was a horrible time in my life, and I came out of the experience feeling like I'd accomplished nearly nothing...and maybe even more importantly, that I'd lost two years of my life. Two years where I would've been doing something better for the city.

That's my experience. You can get angry at my experience. You can try to diminish my experience by explaining the deficiencies of other culture's. All that is mute though, because my experience is true. It's not based on myth or falsehoods. You'll never be able to prove my experience wrong because it's mine and I know for a fact that it actually happened.

Lastly, I contextualized my comment as a "black-run" center because:

It was a black-run community center.
You had already racialized the discussion by referencing the positivity that pre-1950's black-run businesses had on the community.
You had already racialized the discussion by making a couple extremely indirect links to how arab and non-black businesses had taken over in the ruined and impoverished area.
I felt you never addressed all the facets of the 21st century, black-owned businesses and community centers.

I made the comment not to deride the notion of twenty-first century black-run businesses. (Remember, I actually raised money for one). I made the comment because outside of the individual pimp scenario you wrote about, I felt you didn't properly address the portion of black-run businesses/community centers that were poorly-run. The poverty pimps. I commented because you had left out MY experience, my perspective. This is an important discussion we're having here on misplaced frustration and misperception. I implore you to comment publicly on your blog with your first comment and then I'll post this one back. You should feel free to respond via another blog comment after I've posted mine. Hopefully, if your blog garners enough blog hits, people will grow to understand both our perspectives. In the end, that's what we're all trying to accomplish here, right?

Okay, now with all that being said to clarify my statement, do you think I meant harm or offense by it?

Push Nevahda: You're not looking for any enlightenment, Mr. White Boy. You and I both know that so I dont even wana play that game. You took one negative, inner-city experience, racialized, and allowed it to define your "experience" as well as an entire peoples - that is your implicit message. So, enough with the "enlightenment" joke. You never answered my questions so I wont bother with yours. I responded directly to your email rather than the blog because I wanted you to get my message immediately. As for me being angry, LOL!, typical "white boy"response whenever he's called on his bullshit, racist comments. And, since you call yourself "white boy", I called you on your anti-black statements - no matter how well cloaked you thought they were. Have a good day, Mr. White Boy.

I responded by posting all our back-and-forth comments on his blog...which promptly made him delete his entire post, I'm assuming out of fear that he didn't want his readers to see his more racially-insensitive side.

I don't really have a point to these last three blogs. They are what they...and at best, are meant to stimulate discussion or debate.

Tomorrow I'll touch on some of the finer points of this interaction and how race and racism has affected my life...but for now, I'll leave you all with the same question that prompted me to start these blogs in the first place:

Am I really that out of touch with popular culture? When did it become evil or bad to be White?

Race & Racism In The D: Part 2 - My Two Years In The Black Bottom.

2009-10-01T16:50:00.000-04:00

We live in a strange and wondrously balanced world, filled with as much beauty and love as there is forced anger and unadulterated hatred.

Yesterday I started a mini-blog series about Race & Racism. Part 1 dealt with a Detroit blogger, Push Nehvada and his historically-based experiences writing about the Black Bottom, or the Eastside of Detroit. (To read it, go here.) Part 2 deals with my Black Bottom experiences.

In the winter of 2007, this blog of mine caught on fire. At the time, The Years Keep Passing Me By was being hosted on MySpace...and under the dimly lit spotlight of bad social networking, some highly-influential MySpacer decided to recommend my caustic sense of humor as essential reading. Actually, I don't know if that's true or not, but it's the only reason that makes sense, because literally overnight my readership skyrocketed. Like into the thousands. It was a pivotal moment in my blogging noncareer...and out of fear and confusion, I took that pivotal moment, cradled it in my hands for several hours, and then wholeheartedly rejected all my new found fame.

My rejection was full and carefully plotted out...and within ten days, I'd switched hosts, transferred my blog to Blogger.com, created a new web address, and restarted from scratch. I knew a large percentage of my newer readers weren't vested enough in my writing to actually make the transition with me...and as such, after switching sites, my blog went from a nerve-racking 2300+ hits per day down to a much more manageable 17.

I admit it, I took the easy road. I just couldn't handle all the responsibility that came with being a semi-semi-popular e-author. When your blog is being read, it means you're being watched. And trust me, when you're being watched, it means means BE VERY, VERY CAREFUL WITH WHAT YOU SAY. I simply didn't want to take on that kind of exposure, so I opted to leave it all behind on MySpace.

I don't regret that decision, not for a single second.

When my blog gained popularity, I was forced to make some stingy decisions regarding "being careful with that you say". I abhor treading lightly for the sake of treading lightly, but back in 2007, two subjects quickly rose to the top of the list as topics that deserved the respect of not being talked about negatively in public. One was my girlfriend, the other, my workplace. My thoughts were that both Melanie and Work demanded a sense of loyalty, loyalty surely broken if I ever referenced them on this blog in any degree of ill will. Especially with work. Back in '07, I'd taken on a significant role at a nonprofit located in the middle of the Black Bottom...and had literally sworn to uphold my CEO's vision of the organization. (Yes, literally. I earned my Ghetto Pass and all.) The mere notion of talking badly about my work came across as counterproductive...and as such, I felt my blog's subject matter needed to be adjusted.

As the months passed, the above ideology outgrew the confines of this blog...and the idea of keeping my mouth shut in public quickly became a personal motto. Protect and preserve at all costs. As witnessed in my more emo blog posts these past few months, not feeling the freedom to publicly express myself concerning my personal issues with Melanie heavily contributed to the growing rupture in our relationship, one that culminated in our break-up...but with work, I never spoke openly about how protecting and preserving at all costs completely disenfranchised me from my work ethic and overall mentally stability. Outside a few select friends, nobody knows about the two years of Hell I spent working at Franklin-Wright Settlements (FWS). My time spent there was embarrassing and undermining to any social cause...and even though I saw so much illegal and immoral activity being generated at FWS, I put the organization first and kept my mouth quiet. God before country, right?

It's extremely difficult discussing what happened over at FWS. I really don't even know where to begin. Essentially for the two years, I watched as my leaders bilked over $2,000,000 in donations and funding, running sub par programs and then falsifying documents/outcomes so it would appear to look like FWS was operating flawlessly. In short, FWS lied...and out of fear and confusion that I wouldn't find gainful employment in an urban city with a 26% unemployment rate, I sat there with my head down and eyes shut as my bosses took the general public's hard earned money and squandered it through vices of greed, self-indulgence, and general corruption.

Seriously. None of our programs ever ran up to code. None of them. And nobody cared.

During my tenure at FWS I was ordered to fictionalize only one document, but it was a rather important report, one that has kept me from sleeping comfortably for these past three months. (i.e. Unless I'm intoxicated and pass out, I usually can't go longer than three-to-four hours without running into a nightmare or mini-panic attack). FWS should've justifiably lost half a million dollars, half its operating budget, but I was informed to lie publicly for the good of the organization ("for the good of our jobs" as my CEO quaintly put it)...and so I not-so-blindly followed orders and helped scam the United Way out of a lot of money.

I remember that day quite clearly. On June 10th, 2009 I was ordered to fabricate lies...and on June 11th, I bulked up my resume and formulated the groundwork that transitioned me into my new job at the Girl Scouts. I just couldn't be a part of it all anymore. We were supposed to be helping...and instead we were stealing.

My time at Franklin-Wright is something I don't ever want to remember, but for the life of me, I can't seem to forget. My nightmares are constant and constantly overbearing, my guilt equally as overwhelming. Part of me wants to just shove all this darkness into a deep and well-secured closet, maybe move forward with my life...but alas, that's easier said than done. I got into this line of work because I heard a higher calling to help out the communities who needed it the most. In the end, I wasted two years of my life, party to a workforce that did exactly the opposite. It was a debilitating body blow, if ever there was one.

I'm hoping the leaves turn this Autumn...and that they turn quickly. I'm ecstatic to be currently working for an outstandingly, ethical nonprofit. I'm even more content working closely with a CEO who not only hears the same higher calling that I hear, but at many times, puts it above her own personal wants and desires. Yet even with all that, my experience with FWS has wholly disillusioned me to the system of nonprofits in general. I've seen the sadder sides of philanthropy first hand; the modern day Poverty Pimps and all their wicked, wicked ways. I'm secure in my faith that I don't work for the dark side anymore, but nonetheless, it's made me ever so cautious whenever I donate my money to a worthy cause. Nonprofits are as prone to malefaction and wrongdoing as for-profit corporations.

I can't relate my FWS experience to any other experience out there. It's far from the norm or standard...and I sincerely doubt I'll ever encounter such casual inequity in the workplace ever again. I do know that these experiences shall stand by my side, forever haunting me as I blaze my path through Southeast Michigan.

This is my two years in the Black Bottom.

Race & Racism In The D: Part 1 - For The Love Of Detroit

2009-09-29T15:42:00.003-04:00

We live in a strange and wondrously balanced world, filled with as much beauty and love as there is forced anger and unadulterated hatred.

Last night, I received a Facebook friend request from a man who publishes Pushnevahda.com and the blog, pushnevahda.wordpress.com. Normally, I don't accept friend requests from complete strangers...but something about his Facebook page peeked my curiosity. Honestly, I think it had to do with all his well-placed literary quotes. We had the same taste in authors.

Pushs' compositions flourish with the prototypical urban-flare. Less than two paragraph's into any of his entries and one can immediately tell that Push wears the hipster vibe...and he wears it well. His tone is a little on the militant side, but not once does it affect his blog's content...which for the most part, is highlighted in shades of subjective personal truths. His reporting is accurate, his vision is beyond that of the average Detroiter. All in all, it was pretty good stuff...and as a friendly gesture, I commented on one of his blog entries last night. My comments, along with the entire post have now deleted...but like most intermediary bloggers out there, I don't think Push fully understands the intricacies of webpage cache's. Once you post, it's out there.

Below is Push's deleted post in its full entirety. I normally don't repost full blog entries on my own blog - especially one as lengthy as this one - but trust me, it serves as an amazing precursor to the obscurely stoned racism that easily permeates through the Internet these days. Read it. Part 2 will get better, I guarantee...

BLACK BOTTOM - A PARADISE LOST

During a recent visit to Detroit, en route to Wayne State University campus to conduct a series of research at Burton Historical Collection at Detroit Public Library, and the Walter RuetherGratiot, towards downtown, past the I-75 South entrance ramp, it was difficult for me to believe that I was in fact driving through an area that was once a thriving, energetic, and prosperous community of black folks, called Black Bottom.

After I had finally reached my new destination: Lafayette and St. Aubin, I sat in my car, transfixed at the grotesque and dreary scenario that grabbed my attention. I stared at the decay and ruble as the listless and transient human zombies floated by, some peering into my car as though I might possibly have the key to the gate that conceals them within the terror and madness of their wretched and feeble existence…their so-called community…their ‘hood. As I sat in my car, ashamed at what had become of this place, pondering my next move, afraid as I gazed about the wasted land, abandoned buildings, and misery-for-sale, I began to drift in and out of a Twilight Zone-like dimension, seemingly caught between those two cruel and deceptive moments called yesterday and yesteryear, as I tried to figure out what had happened to this area of Detroit that once boasted a dynamic and vibrant community of hope, promise, and potential. Labor and Urban Archives, I delayed my appointment for a detour toward the area once known as Black Bottom, the topic of my research. As I drove east on

Aloud thud on my front passenger-side window jerked me front my daze: “What you lookin’ fo, man?” You lookin’ fo some bud, crack, pussy, what?” I hesitated to roll down the window and answer, “I’m fine, thank you.” Seemingly agitated with my response he left abruptly. Somewhat befuddled, I remembered why I had come to this place, and reached in to my back-pack and wrestled out a copy of Richard Bak’s book, Turkey Stearnes And The Detroit Stars and quickly turned to page 100 to see if I could discern the picture of Lafayette and St. Aubin in 1925 from the frightening and horrible panorama which stared at me from the other side of my windshield. I was disappointed at what I saw. There were no more black-owned businesses along the once festive St. Aubin Street; and the neatly kept, two and four-family homes that once were the pride of many black homeowners, had become weathered and beaten with time and neglect. Mostly neglect.

Gone is the sense of belonging and being, of family, community, and togetherness that many former Black Bottom and St. Aubin Street residents remember. Former resident, Helen NuttallLatzman Moon’s Untold Tales, Unsung Heroes: An Oral History of Detroit’s African American Community, 1918-1967, recalls the area as a community where “people trusted each other…It was home to me; it was safe.” But today, Brown’s recollection only falters in the view of the St. Aubin area, today. The sanctuary and security that Brown had known has long since vanished and poverty-bred crime, drugs, and violence has now become a way-of-life for the people in this neighborhood. Brown, in Elaine

Here I sat confronted with the larger context of Detroit’s current crisis: a post-industrial city burdened with dilapidated buildings, burned out and neglected neighborhoods, divested and invisible politicians; disenchanted and complacent teachers transplanted in an ineffective school system shot through with complicity, and duplicity, with corrupt and rapacious managers all situated amidst crumbled, frayed, and broken communities preoccupied with crime, underemployment, poverty, death, disease, and despair. As I digested the stench and filth of this steadily collapsing industrial city, over run with storefront churches, rib-shacks, chicken joints, liquors marts, and several Arab-owned convenience stores that cash welfare and income tax-return checks, I wondered what it would mean to the “bud, crack, [and] pussy” salesman, who earlier had rapped on my car window, to know that once-upon-a-time, at its apogee, Black folks in this particular enclave of Detroit had built a vibrant community of black-owned businesses, institutions of self-help, social organizations, and a strong ethnic economy. I wondered how the dope-dealer might have reacted if I were to tell him that – back in the day – if he had been on these very streets, selling “bud, crack, [and] pussy,” he would have gotten his ass kicked good and hard by Officer Ben Turpin Henderson – a big, black, bad, mean son-of-a-bitch – hired by the local precinct for the sole purpose of kicking the ass of Black Bottom’s undesirables, misfits, roustabouts, and knuckleheads. It troubled me that he may never care to know that the very corner where he had made a career of dope-pushing and sex-pandering, had once been a thriving and prosperous thoroughfare of black happenings and doings. For him, I realized, such a tale might be nothing more than a flight of fancy. Perhaps my own, even.

The death knell, it seems, was struck by urban renewal, which transformed Black Bottom into Lafayette Park. As early as 1941 Mayor Edward Jeffries’ blight committee had sealed the fate of Black Bottom and Paradise Valley. The 1943 riots would only provide reason and logic for what was to come. The Chrysler Freeway took Hastings. Stroh’s took over St. Antoine. Hudson’s took Brush and Beaubien. It seemed like the Berlin Conference. Some say it was a White man’s conspiracy to break the power and solidity of the Black man’s community. Some residents jokingly called urban renewal “Negro removal.” And when one considers these claims, from an historical perspective, it is plausible. Many believe that possibly all of the above factored into the inevitable end of Black Bottom.

In reality, Mayor Edward Jeffries and the Detroit City Plan Commission in 1946 had destroyed a community. Black Bottom and Paradise Valley were devastated by highway construction. The Oakland-Hastings (later Chrysler) Freeway barreled through these former Black enclaves like Hitler did Poland. The Hastings Street commercial district in Paradise Valley felled many of Detroit’s most prominent Black institutions, from jazz clubs to the St. Antoine branch of the YMCA. The John C. Lodge Freeway ripped through the increasingly Black area around Twelfth Street, and Highland Park like Mussolini did Ethiopia. It seemed as though a crime had been committed.

The aftermath was not much more than a “‘no man’s land’ of deterioration and abandonment,” said Thomas Sugrue, author of The Origins of Urban Crisis. For 10 years after Jeffries Detroit Plan, Black Bottom lay dormant and the city did nothing to help business owners or Black residents to relocate. Shopkeepers had no real reason to invest in improvements, as condemned buildings were buried under asphalt and cement. According to Sugrue, by 1950, 423 residences, 109 businesses, 22 manufacturing plants, and 93 vacant lots had been condemned for the first three-mile stretch of the Lodge Freeway from Jefferson to Pallister. The Michigan Chronicle’s 1951 front-page story, “Progress Has Been Rapid for Negroes in Motor City,” seemed propagandist, at best. By 1958, the Lodge Freeway displaced 2,222 buildings. Destruction continued to make way for the Edsel Ford Expressway with the demolition of approximately more 2,800 buildings. White homeowners were successfully relocated, while most Blacks were left out in the cold.

Eventually, homes and businesses were replaced with apartments and townhouses such as those in Lafayette Park, which many of the former residents couldn’t afford. The rise of new office buildings, the development of a large network of expressways whimsically cut through what was once a testament of Black socio-economic success. Some thought this fleecing of the Black community to be an aura of prosperity while those folk whom were suffering the sting of displacement and obstruction saw it differently. Many people simply did not have money to rent a $75.00 house with no heat. Many felt pain and frustration at the senselessness of moving from their homes, for the purpose of highway construction. Perhaps it would have been so much nicer to build places for people to live in than a highway, which ultimately put people in the street. In the process, Paradise Valley was obliterated, and the Black ghetto simply moved to the Twelfth Street area. Middle-class Blacks moved to the more prominent neighborhoods of La Salle Boulevard, Chicago Boulevard, Boston-Edison, and Arden Park. Black Bottom was gone. Paradise Valley was gone.

Perhaps Black Bottom had served its purpose. Black Bottom evolved out of segregation and housing discrimination. Legal deed restrictions prevented Black folk from living amidst reluctant Whites, and automatically transferred Blacks to the area previously occupied by Greek, Italian, and Polish immigrants. As a matter of course, these groups eventually moved to establish communities away from Black Bottom, leaving Blacks to shape and mold their meager existence into a vibrant and self-sustaining community. With the help of the Detroit Urban League, Black southerners migrated to Black Bottom and made a life for themselves and their family. The Detroit Urban League forged alliances with other White and Black institutions to help transform Black Bottom into a decent community.

By the late 1950’s, desegregation offered Blacks the opportunity to spend their money at White businesses. Hastings Street, once a thriving and often crowded thoroughfare of Black-owned business, clubs, etc., was nothing more than rubble, dismay, and memories. The poor Black folk living in Black Bottom could not afford to protest against urban renewal. And the ones who didIdlewild. have the wealth, clout and might to wage war against the machines of such urban disruption, packed their bags and headed to even loftier retreats, neighborhoods, and getaways. Some headed to the popular northern resort,

As many of Black Bottom’s cultural landmarks fell into mounds of ruble and debris, city officials continued to turn former Black homes and businesses into vacant lots. Black folk were devastated. Some were left homeless. Some would say that stringent racism and segregation made Black Bottom and Paradise Valley, and integration destroyed it. In his memoirs, former Black Bottom resident and entrepreneur, Sunnie Wilson wrote that, “just like other cities around the country that sought to rid themselves of run-down Black neighborhoods, the take over of Paradise Valley could not be stopped. That’s been the White man’s philosophy – to move in, move the people out, and let the property sit vacant. Whether this is true or not, the tight-knit community – Black Bottom – that once boasted the grand example of human will, courage, endurance, and strength – under constant pressure – is gone. The most efficient Black prominent social and cultural Mecca that Black folk could ever claim with a real sense of pride and joy – Paradise Valley – is gone.

The Rabid Floods Of Competition Weigh Heavy Against The Whetstone Of Talent

2009-09-24T15:41:00.001-04:00

Look what e-mail popped up in my trusty ol' Inbox today...

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Are You Ready to Be a World Champion?

It's once again the time of year to gather your team, prepare your strategy, and ready your most intimidating outfit. It's once again time to crown a new world champion of Rock Paper Scissors! Over 500 competitors from around the world (including national champions from three continents) will gather on Saturday, November 14th in Toronto's historic Steam Whistle Brewery for the 2009 Yahoo! Rock Paper Scissors World Championships. The "dance of hands" will once again determine who gets to take home the $10,000 in prize money and, more importantly, be crowned the undisputed champion of the most popular sport in the world.

Whether you're an old master, looking to cement your legend, or an absolute beginner wanting one unforgettable night as a world class athlete, the World Championships are a one-of-a-kind experience you won't want to miss.

Ticket Information - New Lower Prices for 2009!

Competition Slot - Advance Ticket: $25 (Save 40% over 2008)
limited competition slots available
Spectator-Only Ticket: $15

Purchase your Tickets Now!

For more information on this years world championships, or to learn more about competitive Rock Paper Scissors please visit the World Rock Paper Scissors Society.

You are receiving this e-mail as a past competitor or spectator at a World Rock Paper Scissors Society Event. This is a one-time mailing - if you would like to receive further notices about the World Championships please sign up using the form at http://bit.ly/12yNem

Copyright (C) 2009 World Rock Paper Scissors Society All rights reserved.

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So last year's competition didn't go exactly as planned, with Melanie and I road-tripping over five hours to Toronto, just so I could get massacred in the FIRST five minutes of the FIRST round to a guy wearing a CHIP HAT (You can read about that embarrassment here).

Still. After opening this e-mail, I immediately closed my eyes and let it all overcome my better senses. See, for as triumphant a loser as I was in 2008's competition, I can't break free from these wanton desires. There's a solemn power within me and it radiates through the core of my soul, filling my lungs with the open hunger of revanche and retribution. I already keenly sense the rousing thrashing that's in store for me this year; the foolish humiliation of losing to the bottom dwellers of this jagged and ornery world. Still! It simply has to be done. November cometh quickly and with each passing month, these fists of mine, they tighten and eagerly await that naked moment when they can be thrown once again into the ides of competition. I'm over my head here, but it has to be done...and so with the coarse winds of defeat furiously blowing against my face, you best believe I'll be there in Toronto, presenting my Rock with pride as all my opponents roll their eyes, call me utterly predictable, and dispose of me with ease.

With Arms Wide Open

2009-09-18T17:27:00.000-04:00

In full disclosure, I'm pretty much stealing the below picture from my old pal, Dave...specifically his blog, Dave Avenue. And yes, while I already know how thoroughly immoral it is to misappropriate from your e-buddies, sometimes one stumbles across a marketing campaign so scathingly delicious that there's nothing he can do except scroll over his good friend's copyrighted picture, click "save as"...and post it illegally on his blog for all eight of his subscribers to enjoy.
Fake Bake is the name and "Living the Lie" is their blatantly intentional game. Dear Lord, I'm in awe. From the arch of this model's back to the shadow she casts, every part of this collateral screams A.M.A.Z.I.N.G. Thanks to my East Indian heritage, my skin is a hazy, golden brown 365 days a year...but the more I obsess over this poster, the more I want to hit up the closest Aveda on my way home from work and get totally crazy tonight with my roommate!

Seriously though, this poster is the visual equivalent of a Creed music video on high heels...sans the really bad, shallow music, of course.

That last sentence really didn't make much sense, did it? Let me try it again. This poster is like taking a muted Creed music video and setting it on the tallest set of high heels mankind has ever made. In my book, it really doesn't get much awesomer than that.

For as vapid a product as they're peddling, you cannot deny the devastating power of a truly sensational marketing campaign. The posters, the t-shirts, the magazine ads, the press releases, the youtube channel. Fake Bake even has a social network with over 1500 members, all of them avid tanning addicts who invite each other over to throw "spray tanning house parties"...and then afterward, write extremely delusive blogs about how Fake Bake saved their lives. Literally.

In this fickle and ever-bruising life, I sometimes ponder what's worse: blogging about how spray tanning saved your life...or blogging about spray tanners who blog about how spray tanning saved their lives.

And through the looking glass I go!

In other news, did you know if you typed "worst band in the world" into Google, it gives you a very thorough listing of Creed links? Something to think about, people.

Okay. It's time for a nap. Stream-of-conscious out!

Life Strikes Hardest When You Think About All That Could've Been.

2009-09-01T14:19:00.007-04:00

It seems all I ever do these days is cry. I cry in my office. I cry in the hallway. I cry in my kitchen. I cry in the car. I cry in the parking garage. I cry at the bar. I cry...and I don’t know how to stop. Literally.

For thirty years, I was never this kind of person. I held two forms of emotive responses close to my heart, that of laughter and frustration, both keen and spherical valves that I'd complete control over throughout all of my waking life. I know, it’s all quite dysfunctional...and when I’m not blaming myself, I sometimes like to point the finger at my dad or God for making me so wholly unbalanced. Regardless, for over three decades I simply accepted my reality, stalking around this planet, stunted and unable to properly express any honest, true-to-form emotion. As such, all my girlfriends suffered the consequences, collateral damages to a man who just didn't know how to feel...or at very least, express how he felt.

All Melanie wanted out of this life was to feel special. It's all really anyone ever wants, I suppose. Granted, she wanted a lot more from me than any other women I'd ever been with...but to love and be loved. It's all that mattered to her.

Many times she’d ask me why I couldn’t give her as many compliments as she desired...and while I’d usually get defensive and try to prove all the ways I did love her, I never told her that, for reasons even I don't understand, I assumed that showing true emotion equated to weakness.

And on some level, it does. You put a piece of yourself out there and if it’s not taken positively, you can feel so completely naked and alone. So vulnerable.

It’s such a juxtaposition, struggling with the fact that while I can express my thoughts via the written word quite easily, I have extreme difficulties verbally opening up to the people I love the most. Seriously. It took me twenty-nine years to tell my mom that I loved her. And I mumbled it in passing, while walking out the front door to my car, because it was too hard to do it face-to-face.

Something broke within me this weekend. I spent the last two years hiding so much of my feelings from Melanie. I don’t know what happened, but this weekend all the walls cracked around me...and I finally started to feel all the sadness and love that I so easily could write down in a stupid blog, but couldn’t convey in real life.

And now I don’t know what to do. I've never been like this before in my life. I spent thirty years in a fortress of solitude and now all I do is cry in my office. I cry in the hallway. I cry in my kitchen. I cry in the car. I cry in the parking garage. I cry at the bar. I cry and I don’t know how to stop.

Literally. I have no control. I sit in bed at night and try so hard to force myself to not express my pain aloud. I sit there and say to myself No, Suneil. It's okay. Go ahead and think of something else. Just think of something else. Don't feel it. It'll just make you focus on all your regrets...and then you'll just end up crying some more. Do you want to cry some more? In the long run, is it really, really worth it?

Convincing the unconvinced. It's as futile as can be.

I've performed this type of behavior in only one other type of situation. When Melanie and I were together, I'd stare at her sometimes and think to myself how amazing and special she was in comparison to the rest of this thoroughly average world. I'd want to tell her so badly, and in my head, I'd start pumping myself up. No, Suneil. It's okay. Go ahead and tell her that she's fantastic. Give her the love and support she so desperately needs. Tell her she's the most important person in the whole world. Don't you want her to feel special? In the long run, isn't that really, really worth it?

Even when I felt it in the inner core of my being, I just couldn't find the way to translate it into Melanie's heart. In that regret alone, I shall suffer the hardest.

I love breathing irony into my life, but this is just tragic. In what Godless world can a person break thirty years of silence, finally gaining the courage to express his feelings to everyone he loves, just fifty days after he broke up with the person whom mattered the most to him. Oh, and he broke up with her because he thought he couldn't give her all the things that she deserved.

It just isn't...fair.

Welcome To The Dollhouse

2009-08-27T15:41:00.008-04:00

I wrote this last night...

Around three in the afternoon, Melanie informed me that she had started casually seeing another guy.

You know what? I'm going to forget about writing a real blog entry today and just stream-of-conscious everything out. Screw it.

So yeah, she told me...and for the very first time, I finally realized that “we” as a couple were done. Not that I didn't know that fact already...but I have to admit, I did take comfort at times, romanticizing over that one last chance. That mythical scenario where neither of us actually works on fixing anything, but nonetheless for some magical reason, all past digressions are forgotten and everything turns back to what it once was. Yeah, that lie is done now. I can't let myself live it any longer.

On some level I suppose I knew this day was going to come...but seriously...between you and me, I NEVER THOUGHT THIS DAY WAS GOING TO COME. I don't know what self-centered planet I was living on, but I totally believed that Melanie would never get over me...EVER. That at best case, she'd spend the next eight-to-ten months locked in her bedroom, bemoaning the fact that I wasn't her boyfriend anymore. God, what utter foolishness! Narcissism truly runs thick in my veins, deeper than I ever thought possible, for it never once crossed my mind that she'd very understandably gather her marbles together and push forward with her life. No, her world was directly to revolve around mine for ever and ever and ever, Amen.

You have no idea how embarrassing it is to learn that real life doesn't work out quite that way.

And then there's this suffering... It seems so strange to me these days. Maybe I'm getting over it, because whenever I feel hurt, all I think about is how throbbingly clichéd it all is. It's weird...but I don't really feel the pain anymore. In it's place, all I feel is this overwhelming sense of unoriginality. I mean, seriously...what are we looking at here? I broke up with my girlfriend, right? Boo-freakin'-hoo. There are thousands of lovers going through the same exact heartbreak; the same exact grief every single day. I keep thinking about all those people and suddenly my pain feels so insignificant and banal. And then I get to thinking...well, why does my pain hold a special meaning to me in the first place? Is it because it's solely mine? Is it because I personally own it? Ownership is a poor excuse if you ask me. When I really take the time to think about it, all I see is this petty guy conjuring up demons to make his pain feel bigger than it actually is. There are cold sobering truths in this life...and one of them is realizing that everything you believe to be unique, special, and larger than life...well, it's only that way because you've made it that way; because you've placed some sliver of personal value into it. Realistically, I could die tomorrow and nobody would think twice about this breakup. Well, maybe Melanie...but that's about it.

Oh, and can I please get ruthlessly insecure for a second here? Melanie's new guy plays hockey and rugby. I can run for thirty minutes straight, but let me tell you, this dude is in shape. Not like muscularly fit, but Eastern European fit. Skinny fit. I wondered today, is that what she always wanted in a guy? Someone overtly masculine, sports-orientated, and the exact opposite of me? And then I wondered, well, maybe that's what all women want. Maybe the truth is that I'm this subversively effeminate manchild who can't stand the idea of joining a Fantasy Football League let a real one...and that on some level that repulses most of the opposite sex. I play board games, read comic books, and talk about my feelings way too much. Is there really even a place for me? Of course there is...but on overanxious nights like these, I can't stop from self-loathing all over the place.

I've been hiding from these feelings for way too long and I suppose its time to start owning them. For the longest, all I focused on was making this breakup easier on Melanie. Seriously, it was one big game of How-can-I-NOT-make-Melanie-feel-totally-worthless-for-being-in-a-two-year-relationship-that-so-ruthlessly-failed. Mind you, none of this was predicated on altruism or selflessness. I'm just eager to please...and a sad byproduct of being that kind of person is this: whenever I don't please, I end up feeling tremendously guilty that I let whomever I was trying to please down. For me, the mere idea of saddening Melanie was too much to handle...so I spent all my free time easing her out of our relationship...and not me. There's nothing noble in these gestures, but I suppose that's okay. The final layers of closure are usually textured in ugly, ugly truths. Everything is about acceptance.

I'd my real first cry about the breakup today. For as emotionally honest as I am in my writing, you'd be surprised how viciously stoic I am in everyday life. If this is any indicator of my reserved nature, in the past decade, I've cried only three times...and one of them was while watching Finding Nemo. Tonight, I let my guard down and had a good weeping over it all. Poor Smokey. That dog had never seen me so fragile. As the tears came down my face, he kept licking me, trying to erase the anguish very evidently storming from my body. I guess that's what dogs do when they sense sadness. They lick.

God, can you even picture how pathetic that must've been? A thirty-year old, grown adult crying into his bedsheets, his sole sympathizer a dog, licking him with really bad doggie breath. Everyone goes through lulls in life, but that's a bottoming out I wouldn't recommend on anyone. Not even my worse enemies.

Part of me feels a lot better writing this out, but another part wants to hit delete and enshroud myself back in the cloak of personal solitude. Maybe I'll hibernate for the next month or so. I really do need to catch up on my New Yorker subscription. I could kill two birds with one stone.

I'm going to save this to my desktop. We'll see if I have enough courage to post this tomorrow.

My Annual Tribute To Woodbridge, My Home.

2009-08-26T14:03:00.005-04:00

I was on my way to the corner gas station last night when I happened past a slew of extra-large trailer trucks and millions of dollars in cameras, set design, and film equipment. There, in the midst of a hard-nosed Detroit night, a single Victorian house was thoroughly illumined by tremendous amounts of background lighting. It was a sight I'd never seen before in real life, let alone a couple blocks from my house...and I have to admit, the whole experience was rather otherworldly. It was 11:30pm and the entire street was pitch-dark except for this one residence, which for all intents and purposes, was lit to make it appear like it was sunny and midday. The magic of modern cinema...well, and a crapload of high voltage light bulbs. It’s something else.

At first glance, I didn't know what kind of movie was being filmed here...but after quietly running myself through the Woodbridge gossip mill today, a friend informed me that she spotted Terrence Howard ambling around Forest Avenue a couple days ago, taking various film cues in at will. Thanks to Iron Man, Howard has launched himself from shy indie darling into highly aloof superstar…which pretty much means an intense courtship with Holly-Holly-Hollywood is likely to be involved. I asked my friend what her feelings were on a multimillion dollar production infiltrating our enigmatic neck of the woods…and her reply was as cavalier as it was accurate:

It’s just another day in Woodbridge, Suneil. Just another day.

It's been a little over four years since I've moved into the historic district of Woodbridge...and out of the dozens of cities across this country in which I’ve resided, this is the only place I’ve ever considered as my home. It's hard to explain the perfect unconventionality that Woodbridge helps establish, but its diverse affectations are seamless and without fault. It's one of the primary reasons I hopelessly love this place. In less than a five block radius, you have a millionaire living next to a Haitian immigrant, living next to some graduate students, living next to a couple of gay, retired police veterans. There’s a group of self-proclaimed anarchists (the sort that raise chickens in their front yard and smoke way too much pot) who reside across the street from an award-winning Sociology Professor, who lives near a guy who cuts his front lawn with a weed wacker. Somewhere nestled in between all that hodgepodge is a Zen Buddhist temple, a multi-million dollar casino, a recently retired Bed & Breakfast...and me. Little ol’ me, I live here too.
Woodbridge is a jumble of rabid eccentricity backdropped by what I can only describe as true, authentic diversity/inclusion. Sure, that's the kind of twenty-dollar chatter cities like Ann Arbor, Chesterton, Saugatuck, and Madison tend to banter around the room as they pretend to embrace equality...but what separates Woodbridge from the rest of these liberal-leaning, Midwesternized art towns is its tacit sense of goodwill, the kind that compels its inhabitants to coexist together, in relative peace, despite their vast array of extremely apparent differences. It's like how life was meant to be lived. Like a community.

Not a commune, mind you. But like a community.

Annie Get Your Gun

2009-08-25T10:25:00.005-04:00

Okay, I get it. The Detroit Federation of Teachers want fair, competitive pay...and they plan on accomplishing this by congregating outside my building in thousands and screaming as loud as they can.

Detroit Public Schools Unions Plan Rally

But seriously, it's not even 10:30am yet. Can we all agree to use a little passive civil disobedience and not get boisterous or unruly before noon? Some of us are most assuredly not morning people.

I Don't Even Like Cats, Really.

2009-08-24T12:53:00.000-04:00

You know, there are times where I naively assume that my life is as perversely wild and ridiculous as they come...but then I watch videos like these and quickly realize what true instability looks like.

Power purring.
Whisker watch alert.
Breast stroking.
Bellyrama.
You can't fool the drool.

It's going to take many years of hard, hard work...but I promise you this much: One day I WILL grow to be this crazy.

Everything Will Be All Right.

2009-08-19T02:17:00.006-04:00

The summer of my senior year at Michigan State, I abandoned everything familiar in my harshly static life and relocated hundreds of miles across the country, westward towards the stark, sterile hills of Sioux City, Iowa. At the time, I’d been contracted into hire by a nonprofit called Upward Bound (UB) and my primary job was to serve as general caretaker and “college mentor” to a group of fifty socially and economically disadvantaged high schoolers. UB was a brilliant government-sponsored initiative that took bright and budding teenagers – the first generation of their family to entertain the notion of attending college - and ensure that they made it down that long, tricky road towards higher education. College seems like such a foregone conclusion to most, yet this is not the case in the highly impoverished corners of our nation. Out there, in the bucolic backdrops of Rural America, even the likes of an Associate’s Degree is as far removed and impossible to grasp as the meaning of life itself.

UB’s programmatic model was a comprehensive, four year program, culminating each year with a summer camp for all enrolled students. From June to August, parents would drop their kids off on Sunday evening, leaving them under our supervision until the following Friday. The cycle repeated itself all over again that next Sunday…and for eleven weeks straight, participants would slowly learn what “the college experience” entailed. The teens bunked in college dorms. They went to community college and attended classes. They ate college cafeteria meals, walked the halls, studied in groups…and in general, experienced what it felt like to be a true undergraduate.

UB’s summer program was a refreshing take on the traditional summer camp, one that I quickly got behind and placed my faith in. While working there, I cared for those kids as they were my own. Like any good parent, I placed many a hope and dream in their collective futures. Sadly, when Facebook rose to prominence several years ago and the Friend Requests started rolling my way, I found that under the tense monotony of countryside life, most of my babies had turned to either the Army, teen pregnancy, or drugs for relief. It was a crushing defeat...and yet another eye-opener to all the murky cruelness that this largely unfair world often provides.

That particular year there were five of us working UB’s summer program…and as close a network as we all were, I truly only befriended one of my coworkers, a scrawny Iowan farm girl named Traci. Traci was a strong and thoughtful lady, a strictly devout Christian who spoke as passionately about her career goals as she did Jesus. Traci’s first dream was to go to Heaven. Her second was to be a global optometrist, the kind that traveled to third-world countries without heed or caution, offering sight to those who couldn’t afford their rice-and-bean dinner, let alone eye spectacles.

As much as I loved Traci as a person, I never cared much for the specifics behind her staunchly pious views...and many a night, after we’d put our children to bed, we debated the very essence of religion, particularly my suspicions of an all-loving God that held guard over a fiercely unloving world. Our conversations habitually ended with me fruitlessly detailing all my struggles concerning God, human inequity, and the art of forgiveness…and, in response, Traci warmly would reassure me that everything was going to be all right; that God loved me and that His love was all that truly mattered. Even back at that age, I knew everything wasn’t going to be all right…but it still felt comforting hearing those sentiments come from her voice. As much as I disagreed with Traci, it was uplifting to hear someone speak their beliefs with such sincerity and conviction. I rarely got that in college.

Traci and I labored hard in Iowa, both of us often working sixteen hour days, six days a week. Mentally, it was the toughest job I ever had...and while I somehow managed to squeeze by with my sanity intact, poor Traci lost hers on a daily basis. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t as if she was mentally imbalanced or light-skinned. Just imagine watching over four dozen deviously-teenage teenagers, with no adult supervision, for 144 hours in a row, eleven weeks repeated. It’s enough to make a person cry.

And that’s exactly what Traci did. She cried. And cried. And cried. Weeping was her coping mechanism and at least once a day, she’d confide her tears to me, bawling out all the strains that befell a college-aged girl being forced to play mommy to fifty adolescents. She’d sob, look to me for support, and I’d tell her that everything was going to be all right. She knew the truth though…and more often than not, my reassurances simply made her cry even harder.

She still came back for my support every single day we worked together that summer. Such is the cycle, I suppose.

One time I convinced Traci to skip work for an hour and sneak off with me to the local Dairy Queen. It was a daring escape...and out of our entire summer spent together, I firmly remember our ice-cream adventure as the happiest I’d ever been with my friend. I recall buying her a soft-serve cone…giving it to her…and watching as Traci once again broke down into a flood of tears. It was more sleep-deprivation than anything else, but as she wept into my t-shirt, I remember feeling like she was the ocean and I was the rock, forever bracing myself for a lifetime of untilled suffering and joy.

The stillness of the unstill life.

The Dog Days Are Over.

2009-08-18T16:30:00.009-04:00

Stressful days can be brutal. It's so easy to get lost in a trying moment or a nerve-racking experience. It's so much easier, submitting to the pressure of being under pressure.

With most barriers in life, the key to overcoming them lies directly in how one copes with the difficulty at hand. Some people get angry. Some get sad. Some people vent. Others exercise. I tend to utilize a convoluted mixture of all the above...but on those especially tender days, when even the smallest daily task manage to break my back, I've a special set of pictures that help put everything into perspective. Here they are, for your viewing pleasure, in no particular order. On the days that life is bringin' you down, I hope they provide you as much joy, relief, and gratitude as they do I.

STRESSY, THE STRESSED CAT

Oh, Stressed Cat, how you make me giggle! I know you probably abhor the fact that your owners dress you up and put you on display for the entire Internet to see...but honestly, that's what makes you so awesome. You keep on hatin', Stressy! I love you for it.

THE NOT-SO-SNEAKY RACCOON

It just goes to show you, given the right environment, even the stealthiest of creatures will completely embarrass themselves for a couple of a peanuts.

THE WILD, WILD WEST

Really. Does it get any better than an angry monkey in a cowboy outfit riding a dog? I think not!

PRAYING FOR RELIEF

OH. MY. GOD. I challenge you to stare at this picture for ten seconds and still be stressed out. It's adorableness is overpowering!

THE ULTIMATE PHOTOBOMBER

The newest addition to my photo collection, this curious Banff Squirrel popped onto the blogosphere roughly a week ago. Now, I've always held kindred spirits for photobombers...but hands down, this guy takes the cake. I haven't had the opportunity to be stressed out since I've found him...but when I do, I'm popping up my laptop and coming straight for you, lil' buddy!

This Is The Post Where I Get All Emo

2009-08-14T01:25:00.004-04:00

There's nothing more brutalizing than the heft of true, uncompromising human sadness. For me, melancholy is a dull, dull anxiety, one that catches breath only with the likes of dolor and self-doubt. In most parts of my life, I tend to experience this general unhappiness on a daily basis...and for the life of me, the only accurate way I can describe it is in terms of exaggerated grandeur. See, sometimes I close my eyes and the disappointment of everyday life is so very absolute that it teeters on unforgiving.

At its base core, this is the struggle of humanity - or at its very least, my view on humanity's struggle. I'm not a "sad" man per say...nor am I disappointed with life or the act of being alive. It's just that there are way too many times I take a good, long look around and feel that we as humankind could be doing so much more with the freedoms we're amply given. I feel like I could being doing so much more.

Thoreau said most men lead lives of quiet desperation...and go to the grave with the song still in them. That crazy bastard spent two years living by himself in a scary forest...but on introspective nights like these, his wisdom rings all too true.

Is there something wrong with me if I can't find able contentment (or even self-definition) in the everyday ongoings of mainstream life? Possibly. A long time ago I promised myself that - unless my survival depended on it - I'd never put myself in a job or career that led me to "live solely for the weekends". I swore I'd never marry/settle down simply because it seemed like my time to marry/settle down was swiftly running out. I like to believe I've remained conscious and true to these desires. I don't think I've ever let a unholy compromise or forced settlement dictate my existence. No regrets, right?

In spite of all that though, there still remains this terrible hunger storming within my soul. It's a drive that constantly pushes me to know more than I've ever known. It slams me out of my comfort zone and into experiences that I never dreamed I'd see come true in my lifetime. This fire in my belly, it aches as fiercely as it is inflexible and insatiable. And the key part here is because of this inflexibility, this insatiability, I'm forced into a hopeless round of chess, the kind that always ends in stalemate...and thus, must be repeated over and over again for as long as I live. Whether I like it or not, I'm forced to play the game of life.

Yesterday, a close friend of mine looked at my Facebook page. She saw a series of pictures from the prior weekend where it looked like I owned the energy and pizazz of man ten years younger than myself. Over instant messenger, she dryly asked how it was possible that while most thirty-year olds spent their Friday nights watching Dateline NBC or going to Bennigan's with their wife and kids, I somehow maintained a near-delusional lust for life. It seemed exhausting to her. She told me she didn't understand how I landed a job normally reserved for candidates twice my age. When she found out that I had just bought my second piece of real estate...well, with all the bitter sarcasm reserved for only my dearest friends, she snapped: Suneil, what makes you so damn special?

Of course this is a thorough exaggeration of my life, at best a stroke of the ego through jaundiced eyes. The truth is I freakin' LOVE Bennigan's...and Dateline NBC is sooooo bad at investigative journalism that who doesn't watch To Catch A Predator whenever it's on TV? Still. Her question made me think deeply about who I am and how I've come to be this way.

In this life, there are few truths I've come to recognize as absolute and inalienable. One is that true peace comes from true peace. The same goes for repletion and ease, which also both derive from solely themselves. Drive and ambition though, they are different beasts. These attributes radiate wholly from a deep-seated discontent. Trust me, you'll never find success without some form of undeniable human sadness. And exactly like peace, repletion, and ease...this suffering is boundless and without ending. It's forevermore.

It's my sadness that makes me special; my overall ability to feel discomfort even in the face of hope, growth, and consummation. And while this feeling burdens me more than it ever gives me joy, I understand this much: On those rare days that I grow the courage to embrace it (and ultimately myself), this human sadness is the greatest gift God has ever given me.

On Letting Them Eat You Alive

2009-08-09T23:43:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, we celebrated the thirtieth birthday of our friend Sarah...whom I'm pretty sure is the last one out of my tightly-knit crew to push her way into thirty-ness. Now that she finally made it, I asked Sarah how her mid-midlife crisis was going. She shrugged her shoulders and said, it feels the same as before. Most things do - as long as you don't let them eat you alive.

For Sarah’s birthday, we ended up in downtown Novi at the luxurious Club Mixx. Mixx is one of those confused, bourgeoisie suburbanite bars, the type that tries so desperately to imitate the poshness of L.A. or New York that it fails to recognize that its actually located in a Midwestern strip mall. Yes, a strip mall.

It's been well over two months since I've broken up with Melanie...and I find it strange that for the most part, I haven't been superbly interested in testing the waters with my newly-gained bachelorhood. One would assume that after being monogamous for two years, I'd be more than eager to jump into the pool and start playing the game. Bah! Hooking up? Heavy flirtation? Idle chitchat? I don't know how strong I am to be that person in a normal setting, let alone a loud and boisterous club.

Case in point. Last night at Mixx, two women came up to me without warning and started up conversations. One was a snoozer from Chicago who couldn't stop ranting about how much more elegant her Windy City was over boring ol' Detroit. At first I assumed she was just arrogantly posh and high-handed...but when it became quite evident that she was saying all this as means to impress/hit on me, all I could think was, In what world do you actually peak a mans' interests by faulting the place he calls home?

The second was a pretty little girl who accidentally bumped into me...and then asked if I watched Jon & Kate Plus Eight. I admit, the “accidental bump” is a great pick-up maneuver, a move so ridiculous and over-the-top that both parties have nothing to do but play their parts and pretend that the “bump” was inadvertent. But to follow that up with a Jon & Kate Plus Eight inquiry? Look, I can waste weeks of my life away, watching bad reality television with the best of them...but even I have standards.

I guess her and her friends had taken a group poll and collectively decided that I looked both “cute”...and uncannily like Aaden, a rather famous co-star on Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Not knowing who Aaden was, I asked if the uncanniness was a good or bad thing. She was more than reassuring in telling me that it was really, really good.

Our conversation got dull and uninspiring rather quickly...but I have to admit, it felt absolutely fantastic, knowing in spite of how I drag my body across the dance floor, there are people – complete strangers – that think I'm cute. Seriously, the older you get, the rarer that compliment gets thrown your way.

Still. When I got home and Googled up Aaden's picture, I remembered how long and tough this road is; the path to finding that one person who truly appreciates all the things that make me shine.

I'm sorry, Mr. Miyagi trapped in a four year old's body just isn't cutting it for me.

Living The Dream

2009-08-05T12:24:00.001-04:00

For the past five months or so, I've been rolling the dice with my finances and dabbling in the ever-so-volatile stock market.

Okay, maybe "dabbling" is too kind a word. There's a strong chance that last April I had WAY too much of my savings account invested in the New York Stock Exchange. To tell the truth, that month was quite nerve-racking and riddled with a ridiculous amount of risk and chance. The ridiculousness magnified itself infinitely when you considered my overall investment strategy: Forget the ebbs and flow of the stock market. Just do a little research...and then buy whatever stock feels right.

In my defense, this game plan had worked wonders that one time I went to the horse track...so why not here?

Ya think you would know where this blog entry was going next...but by a providence that only the likes of irony can provide, my stock picks magically usurped all forms of justice/fairness this world has to offer. I should be broke, but for some unknown reason my blatant mockery of a legitimate fiscal system has returned me with profits higher than I could ever imagine. In fact, it's allowed me to hire contractors to complete home repairs that I never thought I'd see get done in 2009. Finishing the basement, sodding the lawn, building a second bathroom downstairs, painting the house, fixing the garage, repairing the porch roof. All of it was funded by my extremely idiotic stock picks. Yay for gambling on things you really don't understand, no?

Yet throughout these good times, even I knew my luck was bound to run out. Yesterday, natural selection opted to slap me in the face. Below is a notarized letter I received on behalf of L.I.I., a company I heavily "dabbled" in this month.

Bankruptcy baby! I'm the lucky owner of 7000 stocks that are worth absolutely nothing in the real world. Ch-ching!

The paperwork they sent was a riot. Get this. In the Western District of Virginia, they actually refer to me as a "debtor". Me...Suneil Singh...a debtor?!? That personal title alone is enough to make an Indian smile.

In the end, the money I lost with L.I.I. prevented me from purchasing new tile and fixtures for the upstairs bathroom...but I tell you what, even I recognize that there's something downright hilarious (and just) about losing so perfectly at a game you don't even care to appreciate, let alone understand. When even you know that the negative outcomes feel right and deserved...well all you can do is laugh about it all, no?

I suppose for someone who opened an envelope and magically found out he was significantly poorer, I should be sad about it all. The thing is...I'm not. Overall, I'm still up a tidy profit in the market...and deep down inside I'm quite aware that its virtually impossible to always pick winners. You're going to stumble every now and again.

Still. As far as experiences go, this one's a keeper. This letter is definitely going in my Box of Shame.

My old boss used to be a stock market analyst...and I recently just asked him if there was anything I could do to get back even a small portion of my money from L.I.I. He replied with this charming two sentence e-mail:

Get the actual stock certificates. Sometimes they are really nice looking and then wallpaper your bathroom with them.

That punster didn't even know I was planning on redoing my bathroom either!

I've Got A New Look!

2009-08-04T12:00:00.002-04:00

Between late night rollerblading sessions and painting my house, I've finally found the time to dust the cobwebs off this blog and give it the spankin' new layout it so rightfully deserves. Do you like? I sure hope so, 'cause I'm proud as peaches over here! If you're reading this on a blog reader, please go to my site (www.slipperyindian.blogspot.com) and catch all its gloried snazziness.

It's funny. Every year I grow older, I trudge slightly so closer to the reality of death. That notion itself should be freaking me out...yet for some reason, all those daily anxieties that weigh the average person down...well, they just don't seem to bother me too much. Maybe that's because I'm living a life that offers a sensible level of satisfaction. Then again, maybe I'm just becoming more complacent to all this world has to offer - and not offer - me. Maybe I've come to accept the ideas and notions that I simply cannot change...or even control. Who knows, maybe I just lost my youthful rebel yell. Honestly, I don't know what happened to help me find this peace...but I most-assuredly wanted to reflect this repose in my blog layout.

Many people assume that blogs are merely objective tools, silent vessels that serve to inform the masses to the newest in digital information. I don't think if I agree with all that jazz. My blog is a creation, a fiercely one-sided representation of myself...that in all likelihood, is truer and more honest than any other interaction you'll probably ever have with me.

I started this blog several years ago filled with anger, a slight depression, and a whole lot of confusion. Things have drastically changed these past five years...and as result, so did this blog. All of those dark and dismal feelings have left my side, leaving with me an emotion that I've never truly dealt with until now.

I'm pensive. And really happy to be that way.

Shake Up!

2009-07-31T03:08:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow marks my official last day with my old job, which leaves me a ten days to ignore e-mails, screen phone calls, and avoid as much human contact as physically possible. It's going to be awesome.

As my obsessive-compulsive disorder dictates, part of relaxing means toil and tinkering over pointless objects that truly don't need any fixing. Repainting the spare bedroom, re-alphabetizing my 600+ CD collection, re-taking apart the futon to see if I can magically stop it from squeaking. In general, re-finding the good ol' ways that most effectively waste my precious downtime.

In addition to the above, a huge part of this brutally unrewarding process shall be performing extremely pointless edits and format changes to this blog. My biggest hope here is to waste so much time editing the layout that I burn out and don't write an actual blog entry for a good four-to-six weeks.

Tomorrow afternoon, my blog feed shall come down until I feel comfortable with the new look (and so you all aren't burdened by 183 new posts saying testttttt)...but more important here, I'm looking for someone who can create me a fresh, new masthead to add to my fresh, new layout. Anybody interested...or know of someone who'd like to spend an hour planning/creating one with me?

I pay in Vodka Tonics and poorly baked cakes...

Breaking News

2009-07-30T13:23:00.000-04:00

Dear Blogosphere,

How are things fairing? Good, I hope.

So listen to this. Roughly five minutes ago, I caught glimpse of a rather erratic fly buzzing around my kitchen...and get this...I caught him. With just my hand. In just one try. And without killing him either.

People, this is no joke!! He was all flying around in no particular pattern and I went in for the grab, swiftly scooping him up with the greatest of ease. Oh, how I wish you all could've been there. The whole experience was extremely ninja-like. My speed, my dexterousness! That fly was so stunned at my agility that he simply sat there in my enclosed fist for a solemn fifteen seconds before feverishly buzzing around for his freedom.

You needn't worry for I set him free once I reached a safe distance outside my house. Make love not bombs, no?

Now I know what you're thinking here...and yes, I agree, there were absolutely no chopsticks involved. But I tell you what...regardless of the cutlery, there's still something crudely primal and masculating about being a big fish in a little pond. Man who catch fly truly can accomplish anything!

Today's going to be a great day.

Love,

Suneil

Earl Grey Tea: Saving Lives Since 2004

2009-07-28T01:28:00.000-04:00

For as much as I delight in the bar/club scene, it can be a downright brutal environment. My friends and I are a social and jovial gang of quipsters; a crew of mid-rate philosophisers or jokers that go out just to have a good time. Alas, "a good time" is an utterly subjective term void both of context and motive...and while "a good time" to us means fun, laughter, and engaging conversation...for the thousands of desperate, horny singles out there, it means one and one thing only: MEOW!

Knowing this, my friends and I have installed certain safe guards to ensure the protection of our no-bar-sex lifestyle. It's a little bag of oil extracted from the rinds of bergamot oranges...

It's the Earl Grey Tea defense.

Example: So you're a beautiful woman, enjoying the boons of an impelling Saturday night out with all your closest friends. There's drinks, dancing, discussions, and an open disregard for all the silly, mundane stresses that govern your everyday life. It's been a superb evening so far, one that an independent, classy lady like yourself can wrap her hands around and adore from the inside out. The right DJ is playing the right Michael Jackson song at exactly the right time. There's nothing that can stop you from dancing the night away.

Well, almost nothing.

By sheer accident, you gaze across the dance floor and unintentionally lock glances with a creepy and sorely unattractive man. It's a simple and innocent glance, devoid both of context and motive...but everything is subjective, is it not? Within seconds, Creepy McCreeperson has snaked his way behind you and is awkwardly attempting to grind his body up against yours. Of course, your skinny Indian friend is on the dance floor with you...but like usual, he's a bit too daft to pick up on all your not-so-subtle screams. He allows the good times to roll.

Yes, its familiar territory...and on some form or level, we've all been there before. The question is, once you're there, how do you set yourself free? What do you do to pull yourself out of this grisly - yet all too often - nightmare scenario?

Well, if you've created a safe phrase so obscure and ridiculous that it can only have one meaning, all you have to say is "Hey, Suneil, we should get some EARL GREY TEA. Like now! Right now!!"...and your blockhead friend will suddenly become aware and swoop in to save the day.

Okay, so maybe not the best phrase I've ever thought up...but for the past five years, dozens of my friends have utilized the Earl Grey defense...and darn it, I'm proud of it!

I'm even more proud to blog tonight that the Earl himself traveled across both international and cultural boundaries, touching my French roommate, François, for the very first time. François has only been in Detroit for seven weeks now...but under the darkened dive-bar haze of Northern Lights, he was approached tonight by a rather gruffed-up lady, more than twice his age. This cougar was out for a hunt...and straight from the start, she was drastically in awe of François' dashing, youthful looks. The poor guy. I'm sure that speaking fluent French has had served him well in the past, but from the moment he started speaking in foreign tongue, this lady had set her cross marks and formulated a game plan. (A game plan that started with the exact words: Ya'll speak some good French!)

It was an absolute disaster...but great blog material nonetheless!

François: Yes, you make a very interesting point about city life.
Le Cougar: You know, you are beautiful.
François: Well...okay.
Le Cougar: No, you should be a movie star.
François: Oh, um...thank you?
Le Cougar: Do you have a hairy chest? I bet you have a real hairy chest.

My dear François, by the timestamp on this blog entry, it's obvious that I've left you and Northern Lights hours ago. I don't know if you actually read this blog...but if you do, let me be the first to officially welcome you to our great country, America. We're the land of the free and the home of the brave. The very brave.

This cup of Earl Grey is on me, brother.

At Some Point In Life, Everyone Needs To Get Scammed Out Of Hundreds Of Dollars Via The Internet

2009-07-27T04:02:00.000-04:00

Dear my friend:
How are you!
Thank you letter to us let me know the problem!

We are accept the payment by paypal,and the paypal will 100% safely both of us,and we are the honesty ebay seller,so please you don't worry anything ! So now if can please let me know yours paypal E-mail address,so that we can send the total cost payapl Request invoice $210USD (for this oil painting "The Betrayal of Christ" the size by 52.6 inch × 66.7 inch ) by ours paypal to you soon and then you can paying by yours payapl Direct !

Thanks!
Best wishes!

Yours China friend
Jianjun Huang

No need to even mention it. Based on a weekend filled with several of these shadily composed e-mails, I'm relatively confident that after payment, I'll never see The Betrayal Of Christ sitting at my front door, packed safely in a large Fed-Ex box. In fact, if I open my eyes wide enough, all I can think of is that this is indeed one huge sucker's bet.

Still. For nearly a decade I've wanted a life-size reproduction of this painting hanging from my dining room wall. I've wanted one bad. Bad enough that even though the odds are slim-to-none here, I'm still eager to throw a crapload of money at the shaky notion that maybe my "China friend" just might be legit. Maybe.

This is the inhumane dance of desire and faith. If one wants something bad enough, they'll toss all reason and logic to the wind. They'll deny every objective sensibility that guides their daily life, rejecting it all just for the chance to believe. Just for the idea of it all. Just to get closer to their desires.

I truly don't think I'll get my painting after I pay...but nonetheless, there's this strange (and strangely welcoming) compulsion within me to e-mail Mr. Jianjun Huang my paypal address and let this experience run its course.

This feeling of mad compulsion in the face of reason. Where does it come from? My first and primal instinct is to believe that we're simply the sum of our parts; tiny little figures forced into action by a larger, more-spiritual power; an all-knowing force that guides life and the universe as we know it. Some things are bigger than us, no?

The thing is, the more I truly look at The Betrayal Of Christ, the larger my eyes widen; the more I get to thinking that this has less to do with God...and more to deal with who we fundamentally are as human beings.

And that scares me dearly.

Some Random, Sporadic Thoughts On Loss

2009-07-22T10:40:00.000-04:00

Melanie and I broke up. We've actually been apart for a month now...but to tell you the truth, I couldn't gather the courage to publicly admit it until today.

I don't know how to explain all the pain and sorrow in my heart…but I DO know that it's time I find a way of letting it go. This suffering needs to be set free before it consumes me whole.

That in itself is so much easier said than done. Two years we were together. Two years! How do you even begin to explain a two-year failure? I'm thirty years old, have a great new job, a healthy bank account, and an amazing set of friends. Still. I feel like such a goddamn loser. How do you even begin to explain that juxtaposition?

And yes, I know I'm not a loser...but for today I'm going submit to all this grief and self-loathing and play the part. Just for today. I'm sick of holding myself together with equanimity and composure. What's the point of pretending?

I loved that girl with all my heart but it wasn't enough. In the end, we just couldn't make it work. Our differences overshadowed the love we freely gave to one another.

More than anything, I feel like such a chump for letting her down. For me, that's always the worst part of “breaking up”. I let her down. I hate letting people down...and I downright loathe doing it to the person who is supposed to have mattered the most to me.

As difficult as this is, I feel a little bit liberated already, letting my fingers type away on the keyboard right now. There are many who freely mock blogs for being a waste of time and space...but right now Blogger.com is the only thing that's making it easier to breathe. It's helping me more than any friend has in the past month. Maybe that's unhealthy on some level as well, but so be it. At this point I only have enough energy to micro-analyse one of my faults to death.

She'll always be my friend, you know? I've learned so much from her. I don't know what I'll do without her in my life. I wonder how many damn cliches I can insert into one blog post before I realize that I'm as trite and cheap as the phrases I rely on to express my feelings.

Pity, pity, pity! This entry probably sounds like one rallying outcry for commiseration. Really and truthfully, I don't want anyone's pity...or even compassion. I just want to tell the world that I'm tired and ashamed and ready to see what life brings me next. I don't care nor do I want the likes of sympathy. I just want to be strong enough to tell everyone what I'm feeling right now...and then go on with my life. Thank you, Blogger, for that.

It's true though. She'll always be my friend.

If only one of us had simply walked down that darkened hallway and cheated, been physically abusive, or been evil to one another...it would've made this entire healing process so much easier. My last relationship before Melanie ended in a giant burst of flames. I'm friends with my Ex now...but I tell you what, back when we split, it felt freakin' amazing to hate her guts. The thing with my current ex-relationship with Melanie is this: there really wasn't anything extraordinarily wrong about Melanie and I as individuals. We were just two different people. Two different people that expected two different things from their lifelong partner.

And how depressing is that?

I am plagued by this needling regret that for as much as we adored one another, we simply couldn't make it work. The fact that we ended our relationship filled with nothing but love, respect, and kindness for one another is the worst kind of loss. That in itself will haunt me for quite a long time.

This sadness is getting easier...and I can feel closure shortly around the corner...but right now I'd give anything to be angry. Anything.

Even A Crudely Composed Personal Blog Deserves A Press Release Every Now And Again.

2009-07-16T14:33:00.001-04:00

Girl Scouts of Southeastern Michigan names CCO

The Girl Scouts of Southeastern Michigan, a group of four merged Girl Scouts councils, has named Suneil Singh Chief Communications Officer, effective August 10th.

Singh had been Development & Communications Director of Detroit nonprofit Franklin-Wright Settlements.

On Jan. 1st 2009, Girl Scouts of Metro Detroit, Girl Scouts of Macomb County-Otsikita, Fair Winds and Michigan Water Ways councils merged to create the new organization. The consolidated council serves over 40,000 girls in eight counties and operates on a budget of about $12 million. It is now one of three Michigan councils, down from 13 separate councils, as part of a national move by the Girl Scouts to strengthen its infrastructure and resources.

Singh was recruited in an effort to enhance the traditional Girl Scouts communications model with emerging web 2.0 technologies such as Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. “For far too long nonprofits have relied on outdated marketing techniques to promote their message,” Singh said. “Press releases can take you only so far. We need to start creating meaningful dialogues with the general public and show them in creative, entertaining ways why the Girl Scouts is so vital to a young woman's development.”

A Shameless Plug For Something A Little Bit More Exciting Than My Lackluster Life

2009-07-15T11:01:00.000-04:00

Guess whose roommates made the front page of the Free Press yesterday?
The full article (with video interview) can be read here:

Filmmakers See Detroit as Test Case for Ideas on Urban Revival

If you're interested in learning more about my precious little filmmakers at large (and they're MINE....all MINE!), retired Free Press reporter, Joel Thurtell, has started publishing on his popular yet quirky Detroit blog, Joel on the Road, a series about his experiences with Florent and crew as they adventured up the Rouge River on a somewhat illegal motorboat tour.

Joel On The Road: Filming the Rouge
Joel on the Road: Riding the Rouge with Florent Tillon

You Know Your Life Is Boring When You're Really Excited To Blog About Pork Roasts.

2009-07-14T01:40:00.000-04:00

I purchased a two pound pork roast from the market yesterday, filled with the very real expectations of turning it into a brittle and burnt inedible piece of crap. In the past, YouTube has been a great asset in helping me destroy fine meats, visually explaining the exact steps required to become a superb cook...and then laughing in my face as I somehow manage to turn it all ass-backwards. Seriously. Give me a secure internet connection and the opportunity to fail...and without doubt, I'm your man.

It was going to be an awesome Monday night.

At least, that's what I thought. I typed "how to cook pork roast recipe" into YouTube's search engine and this was the calamity that popped up:

Right.

Sorry, Chef Issac, but someone needs to teach you how to make a proper instructional video. First off, I'm pretty sure your target demographic isn't toddlers or infants...so please stop talking to me like I don't understand verbiage with more than two syllables. It's humiliating. For you, not me. The same goes for verbal annunciation. I know that everybody hates a slurrer, but just because it's a noun doesn't mean you need to say pork roast like I'm mildly retarded. I get it. Trust me.

Second, I surfed YouTube to learn how to prepare a pork roast. You kind of skipped that step when you magically went from no pork roast to fully wrapped pork roast in less than a second. Listen buddy, I don't steal wireless from my neighbors just so I can watch you put a damn pork roast in the oven. I'm a gruesome cook, but I think I'm proficient enough to understand that meat goes in the oven, thank you.

Despite Chef Issac's attempt to ruin my pork, the roast came out quite successful.

Even a little bit succulent and juicy, I'd say!

Even A Man-Child Can Have A Manifesto.

2009-07-09T21:51:00.000-04:00

I lay here on my couch, nursing the wounds of brutal, uninspiring, white-collar labor. Work was hard today, almost verging on the brink of mind-numbing...but I've made it through the day and am more than prepared to waste away the remains of this precious evening. God as my witness, I'm going to lay on this couch with my laptop and New Yorker subscription until my eyes can't take it anymore and I pass out wearing all my clothes. It's happened before...and I tell you what...I'd have it no other way.

There's something undeniable about taking refuse on a bright red sofa and pining your hours away. I'm thirty years old, without wife or child...and for all its worth, there's no other place in this world I'd rather be than here and now. At some point, paternal responsibility and all those glorious white picket fences will find their way into my heart...but for now? For now it feels downright amazing lounging here untethered to the world and all its perceived requirements. Let all those who felt the needling tug of adulthood in their mid-twenties - that push to rush into marriage and fatherhood - judge me where I lay. I might be years behind the learning curve, but for some reason, the absence of a crying toddler or a menstruating wife seems just fine by me tonight.

My row house is an old Arts & Crafts model, manufactured in the early 1910's at the peak of the Craftsman movement. There's much to be said for the excruciating amount of time, detail, and overall effort that went into building this kind of architecture. Many an East European immigrant labored hard on my home, probably a lot harder than I worked today...or will ever in my lifetime for that matter. That's okay though too. Nothing can make me feel guilty about taking a nap right now. Absolutely nothing.

The way these houses were built, you can directly see into the dining room from the parlor. From the warmth of my sofa, I look past this room and to my dining table, where three Frenchmen sit, feasting on pasta and gabbing in a foreign language I most assuredly do not understand. I truly doubt there'll ever be another moment in my life where this exact moment shall come to pass once more. Never again will I receive the opportunity to house a crew of filmmakers for two months as they record footage of Detroit for a full-length documentary. Never again. Come July 25th, these artists will hop on planes and fly back to Paris and Quebec, never to be heard or seen from again. In their place, all that'll remain shall be the fond memories of what once was.

That in itself, is okay as well. One never gets to hold onto opportunities for longer than they're meant to exist. From my couch tonight, I'll sit here and enjoy this unique experience I've intently and openly allowed into my life.

No matter how tied down or domesticated I become, I pray I never get to a point where extraordinary, out-of-the-box experiences are deemed just too impossible or unnecessary to incorporate into my everyday life. Or worse yet...unacceptable.

Human life is simply too priceless and blue-chip to be embraced any other way.

Bake The Pain Away.

2009-07-08T18:18:00.000-04:00

I was in pain last night. Severe pain. Whoever said nothing hurts you unless you let it hurt you has never been force fed the cosmic denouncements of a tier-one migraine.

Yesterday was quite brutal, but I'm actually doing fine today. For me, pain is usually a temporary sentiment. While it doesn't have a quantifiable shelf-life, usually in less than a day or so, my affliction subsides, exiting the body as swiftly as it had arrived. I have it good. I couldn't imagine being in constant pain, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. On some level, I suppose that's what mental insanity propagates: constant and never ending torment. Habitual pain.

I took some rather potent pain relievers last night, pharmaceuticals that strictly prohibit the operation of heavy machinery. While under the influence, I found myself wandering to the local corner store, committed to the notion of baking myself a chocolate cake. Don't ask. I've never baked a cake before...but at that specific moment, it sounded like a novel idea. Seriously, given the option, who doesn't want cake?

The cake mix box was pretty self-explanatory. Eggs, oil, water, mix, cake pan. Bake for thirty minutes and enjoy. How could I go wrong?
As of 12:03AM, I have a new found respect for bakers. My bastardized version tasted like french toast. Bad french toast. With chocolate syrup somehow baked inside.

After that first bite, I don't know why I didn't just throw the cake away. I think I was too embarrassed for trying so earnestly, yet failing so miserably. I was too embarrassed to let all that effort go straight into the garbage. To be honest with you, there was a part of me that wanted to punish that confection for coming out of the oven so lopsided and nasty...and the only way I could think of revenge was to wrap it up in tin foil and banish it into the farthest reaches of my fridge, hopefully so it could spend a good month growing mold and deliberating why it choose to taste so ridiculously bad.

Revenge has never tasted so sweet, right?

But this is where things get weird. I woke up today and the cake was out on the counter, a quarter of it missing! After I finished work today, I came home and another quarter of it was gone!

You know, I'm not annoyed in the least that my roommates found the cake and ate it. What I do find perplexing is that they ate some...and then went back for more. That must mean they like it, right?

I don't get it. It really did taste like bad french toast.

Independence Day Or Not, In Our Rule Book, Freedom Is Never Free.

2009-07-05T04:59:00.000-04:00

You know you're doing something right in life when two complete strangers are walking down your street and hear a bumpin', jam-packed party coming from your house; a shindig so festive and engaging that both strangers are inexplicably drawn to ringing your doorbell and asking if they can join in on the fiesta...only to find four heavily intoxicated nerds locked in thorough debate over the merits of trading both Baltic & Mediterranean Avenue for the mere and always inconsequential Marvin Gardens. Note all the gloriously red hotels scattered across the board. Those, my friends, are fully owned by Singh Enterprises, a cartel of slippery property managers whose slum-landlord tactics include graciously forgiving your entire rent bill of $1130 if you agree to give my dog, Smokey, a bath sometime tomorrow morning.

Of course, doggy shampoo is provided at no extra cost.

When You Have a Blog, Sometimes The Best Way To Connect With Your Readers Is To Write About Shared Experiences.

2009-07-03T05:55:00.000-04:00

You know that moment when the sport bar's closing, its time to say goodbye, and the quirky yet fiercely heterosexual guy you innocently befriended earlier in the night starts shaking your hand a little bit too firm, a little too long?

You know that moment when things get latently homosexual and you finally realize that you've once again stumbled yourself into a seriously awkward and unwanted experience, one that only begets embarrassment and self-abasement as you summon up the courage to break this desperately confused man's heart by either pulling away completely and retreating back to your nearest female friend, or even worse, clumsily explaining that no, just because you got up in front of a bar full of hardcore, blue-collar conservatives and karaoked Madonna's Material Girl...well, that doesn't necessarily mean you want to "go outside and make out in the parking lot"?

Well, you know that moment when you're forced to embrace the surrealism of it all and silently give props to God for having one wicked sense of humor?

It's then when I'm most religious.

My Movie Review: Transformers.

2009-06-24T05:59:00.000-04:00

It's a horrible experience of unbearable length.

It numbs the mind.

It's intelligence at the level of the simple-minded.

The storyline is so infantile, it'll appeal to young kids.

It gives off a throbbing case of metal overload.

It's a pile of glittering junk.

This is blockbuster porn, absent of even the suggestion of care or concern for anything that might resemble "a point,"...save for the obvious one to move more Hasbro action figures and animated-series DVD boxed sets.

That all being said, there's something undeniably glorious about getting the opportunity to watch giant robots beat the crap out of each other.

This man-child says, TWO THUMBS UP!

If This Isn't What Backyards Are For, Then What's The Point?

2009-06-09T03:21:00.000-04:00

For the past several weeks, I've been working hard to uplift the inherited nastiness that is my backyard. There have been many afternoons of minor clean-up duty, a weekend installation of some rather expensive sod, and a fortnight spent refurbishing the exterior of a nearly dilapidated garage. I wish I would've captured before and after pictures of the entire process, because the backyard has literally been reborn from its ashes. The difference is astounding.

Tomorrow is one of the Detroit's designated "bulk refuse pick-up days"...and for nearly three hours tonight, a friend and I cleared out over 14 wheelbarrows of broken concrete, chairs, lawnmowers, fencing, and various other rusted-out debris. Out of the seven rowhouses that share the same backyard as myself, not one soul ever offered to help in the removal of the garbage (junk that was most-assuredly theirs and not mine)...but alas, there were a few homeowners that stalked onto their decks just to offer me non-solicited opinions about how crappy the backyard had grown these past few years. How refreshing, right?

To tell the truth, I fully expected no one to help...and in spite of all the outwardly voiced cynicism, the mere fact that my neighbors were stepping outside their own private idahos specifically to speak their mind's was...well, in my mind, a giant step in letting the distance start to bring us together. For what its worth, I was happy with the results.

Still. The garbage that accumulated in that backyard harbored on insanity. For the life of me, I can't understand how any sane human being would consider their own courtyard the perfect excuse for a garbage dump. It baffles the mind.

Toward the end of tonight's cleanup, one of the friendlier neighbors asked me the very-understandable question, "Why are you doing this? What do you want to do back here?"

I smiled at her and softly explained a glossy vision of backyard BBQ's and semi-contained house parties...but between you and me, I was smiling because immediately after she asked those questions, all I could think of was showing her the below video, mainly for its frighteningly accurate depiction of who I am as an individual:

Seriously. What do I want to do back here?

I want to be myself, I guess.

Oopsie.

2009-06-08T13:25:00.000-04:00

In my last post, I forgot to mention that this is actually the second year these filmmakers have opted to document Detroit on film. In the summer of 2008, the same film crew came to Detroit and shot a short teaser documentary roughly thirty minutes in length, titled Detroit Wildlife. Their overall goal was to take the teaser film back to Europe, show it to various government foundations, and secure enough funding so they could come back to Detroit in 2009 and have the necessary resources to create a proper, full-length feature documentary.

In prior conversations these past few weeks, I promised a lot of you that I'd post the teaser film to this site...and for some reason, it must've slipped my mind to include it in yesterday's blog post.

For all you docu-nerds out there, here's the 2008 film for your viewing pleasure:

In My Book, Haterz Is Always Spelled With A "Z".

2009-06-08T02:44:00.000-04:00

Two months ago, my roommate Nick informed me that his uncle was temporarily relocating to Alaska for the summer and desperately needed a housesistter for his home. The housesitting gig was to paid and include free rent so Nick eagerly offered up his services...and as result, asked to take a three-month sabbatical from living at my house.

At first, I was saddened to envision Nick's absence from my daily life. This past winter we've fiercely bonded over common deficiencies - particularly the fact that we're both recklessly caustic indie-culture haterz. Honestly, I couldn't imagine this summer without Nick's derision by my side. Who would help me mock all those idle hipsters, with their tragic haircuts and uncomfortably-tight pants? And all those overweening art snobs, their indecent aversion to all things plain, simple and non-artsy blotting out the sun? Who'd sit in the back of dive bars with me and poke fun at all their brutal eccentricities? My droll sense of disapproval needed companionship, dammit. Who was going to be my partner in scorn?

As with most trouble in my life, I headed to Craigslist for a solution. After several minutes of searching through their "housing wanted" section, I came across an ad asking to sublet two bedrooms for the months of June and July. The Craigslist post was careful to mention three filmmakers needing a place to stay while they shot a documentary...but I remember quickly minimizing that notion, content with the simple fact that I'd found some decent and interesting subletters to replace good ol' Nick. It only took a couple e-mails before I was hooked, finding myself rather easily offering up my precious house to a bunch of complete strangers. Of course, it didn't seem that big a deal at the time...but my actions have finally caught up to me...and as of this weekend, an international documentary crew has descended upon my house. Yes, it's true. I have new roommates...and it's as close to intense as it sounds.

It's as international as it gets too. On Friday, the director flew in from Paris. Yesterday, the Production Assistant hopped a bus from Montreal, braving a brutal sixteen-hour bus ride to my front door. And lastly, the Sound Engineer will be arriving Thursday from someplace very foreign and impossible to pronounce. It was someplace I'd never heard of before.

I have to admit, Nick's only been gone three days...and already his sardonic routine is sorely missed. Bromances aside though, there's something totally awesome about living in a house filled to the brim with broken English and libertarian-founded creativity.

This is going to be a strange, wild trip and I'm glad to be a part of it.

Baked Goods Make The World Go Round.

2009-05-31T02:55:00.000-04:00

From behind my couch tonight, I found a long lost memory card...and as such, stumbled across dozens of pictures from a house party I begrudgingly attended many, many moons ago. The snapshots were your stereotypical "party pics", featuring a bevy of strangers drinking beer, making silly faces, and dancing the night away. Most of the pictures were ridiculously trite...but I have to admit, one shot in particular immediately caught my eye.

It's a true capture of life as I know it...and I swear to God, if you could sum up my existence in one standard photo, it would definitely look exactly like this:
Seriously. Three beautiful and sensuous women, posing their sexiest and starving for ANY semblance of a man to engage them in stimulating conversation...and me in the corner wondering how I can snag another piece of cake.

Annie Leibovitz would kill to capture this sort of authenticity!

The Horizion Is Always Closer Than It Appears

2009-05-29T03:04:00.000-04:00

It's been a really bad day. Epically bad. A leaky tub, an aging dog with rapidly deteriorating bones, a couple coworkers firings and a currently tumultuous relationship with a hyper-emotional woman that I somehow still completely adore (Earlier today, she explained that in spite of her undying love for me, as of recent, she hasn't quite liked me much whatsoever. And then she hung up on me.)

All this drama screams a hundred and one shades of pain...but deep down inside, I know these lulls are temporary and quick to fade. It's just that during times like these, I get oh so tired. I feel like finding the nearest bed and sleeping until everything tides back to what it once was. It's been ages since I've felt like this sad; this functionally stagnant. The stillness is exhausting.

Then for the first time in months, I decided to flip on my TV. Out of the fourteen boring channels I receive (two are dedicated to Jesus, four to the Home Shopping Network), one station was airing BACK-TO-BACK viewings of my all-time favorite guilty pleasure: Rocky 4.

I swear. The movie ended...and then they started the opening credits all over again. It was pure heaven.

I've spent the past two weeks exploring exotic and foreign countries, wholly immersing myself in the boons of international travel. None of it. I swear, none of it compares to the silent joy of watching four straight hours of cold-war propaganda wrapped up in a cheesy eighties flick.

Tomorrow heeds a brand new day, does it not?

Say It Ain't So!

2009-05-28T16:46:00.000-04:00

I just got back from Central America yesterday...and will try my best to render some post-backpacking thoughts for the blogosphere later this week...but right now, I'm consumed by an overwhelming need to discuss a topic very dear and close to my heart.

I just found out today that for the 600th issue of Archie Comics, Archibald "Archie" Andrews, after much civic thought and deliberation, got down on one bony knee and proposed to that vapid shell of a woman, Veronica.

I. AM. FUMING.

Seriously, Veronica?!? That rich hussy? Let me tell you what, there's nothing more evil and sinister in this world than an aptly-rendered Veronica. Snobbish, pretentious, and beyond reproach, Veronica Lodge was the quintessential Peris Hilton of Riverside High. She loved attention so intently that she'd religiously bewail the times when she wasn't being fully engrossed in it. She longed after the comfort of being babied, even during the easiest of circumstances. Above, all Veronica's often-rabid bipolar personality drove Archie (and Reggie and Jughead) downright crazy. She was a horrid, horrid girl...and back in my preteen years, when I was actively invested in Pep/Archie Comics, I absolutely HATED her chintzy attempts at living life.

Earlier this afternoon I conversed with my brother about this whole debacle and he was so right when stating, "that gold grabbing punk. I knew he would sell out for the cheese." It's so true. Betty was such a wondrous and beautiful lady. Sure, she wasn't as flashy and polarizing as Veronica...but dammit, Betty owned her modest sense of simplicity. Betty sewed, collected stuffed bears, dabbled in the kitchen, did auto repairs, and wrote some seriously intense poetry. If you throw "decent sex" into that last sentence, isn't that all a man really wants from their lifelong partner? From Christ's sake, she would change Archie's oil and then bake him a Chicken pot pie! How is that not love?

In the end though, nice girls finish last and wealth triumphs over true beauty. Yes, I'm sure Archie's life is financially safe now. Never again has he the need to worry about the multitude of struggles that beset middle-class America. Still. It's the wrong choice dammit. It should've been Betty. It should've been compassion and understanding and humility.

Is nothing sacred anymore?

Pantless Sunday 2009: All Good Things...

2009-05-04T03:04:00.001-04:00

It's officially 12:04am, which means its time to put in an end to Pantless Sunday 2009.

There have been many highlights this year, but my absolute favorite is the following: Because of my pledge to "blog live" direct from the epicenter of the P-Zero festivities (AKA my house), Google has selected me for a much-sought-after award. As of right now, if you utilize any Google search engine and type in the phrase pantless sunday, the first two results will be blog posts from yours truly. Granted, this isn't that huge an accolade seeing that my blog is also the number one result if you type into Google arminian p*ssy...but hey, I'll take a win anyway I can get it!

Before I leave, I had this conjectural question pop into my inbox tonight and I think it deserves a response: Are shorts acceptable forms of "not wearing pants"? Can I just put on swimming trunks and call myself a supporter?

Sorry, but Pantless Sunday is about wearing nothing below the belt save ya skivvies. Footwear is excepted (socks, shoes, etc)...but the likes of capri's, jodhpurs, and compression shorts? Any way you cut it, no form of outer garment is acceptable. If you're still confused, please direct all your smart-ass questions/commentary to the below picture:

My twisted ankle is finally becoming somewhat walkable again, just in time for the work week to resume. Pants, its been quite nice not having to wear you today...but all good things must come to an end. Pantless Sunday '09 is over and gone...and I'm saddened to inform you that its time that we rejoin the rest of the world :(

Pantless Sunday 2009: Babies Always Tell The Truth

2009-05-03T21:02:00.000-04:00

It has come to my attention that I might not be the fabled originator of Pantless Sunday that I've been painting myself to be. After some online research, it seems I've been one-upped by a Stella Logan Vetrovec, age fourteen months.

On February 1st 2009, Stella blogged that it was time to throw her very first P-Zero party. In her words: Sometimes a girl just needs to kick back and say, "I am not putting on pants right now". (You can read her entire post here.)

I don't know what's worse. That an infant beat me to the punch with this whole Pantless Sunday gig...or that she's been blogging for less than two years and her prose is infinitely more wittier than mine will ever be. Either way, at least I can take solace in the notion that sixteen years from now, when Stella's classmates google her, they'll find at least one public blog with incriminating half-naked pictures of her.

Yes, Stella. It's all cutesy right now to self-publish pictures of yourself without any pants...but just wait till puberty rounds the bend. Teenage girls are as catty and petty as they come. High school will not be kind.

Pantless Sunday 2009: Knick Those Knickers!

2009-05-03T20:34:00.000-04:00

P-Zero keeps getting better and better. So far, I've had seven friends come over to the house today, all who I've entertained or small-talked in some form while wearing absolutely no pants. This afternoon, I cooked a brunch for five without the confinement of pants. It was awesome.

I washed dishes while wearing no pants. I researched three grants for work while wearing no pants. I watered my front lawn while wearing no pants. I won three games of Yahoo Hearts, read half a graphic novel, and even watched a little Drop Dead Gorgeous - all while wearing no pants.

It's been a while since I've got so much accomplished on such an obviously lazy Sunday as this. This might sound crazy...but the less pants I wear, the more my productivity goes up. If only all the political leaders in the world could gather together under one roof without the constrictions of their knickers. Maybe world peace could be reached!

Something to think about, people.

Pantless Sunday 2009: No Jeans, By All Means! No Jeans, By All Means!

2009-05-03T16:00:00.000-04:00

So far, Pantless Sunday (hence forth called P-Zero) has been a resounding success. Moments ago, I checked my official P-Zero watch...and I'm proud to say that I'm officially clocked me in at twelve hours and forty six minutes sans pants. In case you didn't know, that's a P-Zero record for me!

Before I go any further, I should clear up one whopping myth. P-Zero can be celebrated for twenty four seconds or twenty four hours. It's not about length of time, personal bests, or any such tour de force foolishness. At it's very best, P-Zero is just a simple and honest celebration where we try our darnedest to shed any shorts, jeans, or skirts that might be hanging from our waists. I can't say this emphatically enough: This is not a competition. If anything, it's all about the skin.

Not too much skin though! I know some of you crazies are simply aching at the core to shed those pesky boxers and scatter leafless into the streets. Are we really that vulgar? Are we that uncultured? Of course not. P-Zero is a respectable and decent holiday to be shared amongst all the urbane, civilized citizens of this world. Celebrate it responsibly.

Boys and girls, as long as its done tastefully, there's nothing wrong with joining in on the P-Zero fun. On this beautiful Sunday, go fix yourself a drink and then let those legs breeeeeeeathe!

Blast off those britches. It's the least you can do.

Pantless Sunday 2009!

2009-05-03T13:48:00.000-04:00

Hey all! It's Suneil here, blogging live from Pantless Sunday '09!

I'm sure just by the name itself, you're overwhelmingly confused as to what "Pantless Sunday" could possibly be. Well, don't fret too hard 'cause I'm here to guide you through all the intricate and half-naked details which befall this monumental holiday.

In essence, Pantless Sunday is where I openly dismiss the sun and anything else Mother Nature has to offer me...opting instead to hide indoors all day - get this - wearing no pants whatsoever.

Genius, right? I don't know why I didn't think of this holiday decades ago!

A side note. My roommate just informed me that Melanie's rapidly spreading an awful rumor about me rolling my ankle real bad last night while I was out jogging. I guess her ill-conceived notion is that because of this injury, I'm unable to perform any basic human function that involves the usage of my right foot. Like walking, for example. Or climbing up and down the stairs. Or putting on pants.

In response to those vicious insinuations, all I have to say is this: On this plush and gorgeous spring day, I'm most assuredly stuck here on my couch with no pants on strictly because it's Pantless Sunday suckas!

An Epilogue To Yesterday's Post: I Dream In Standup Comedy Bits

2009-05-01T02:12:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I fell asleep roughly twenty minutes after writing my last blog entry about a certain manchild's unshackled love affair towards all things Nintendo. During most of my slumbers, I rarely recall any of my dreams...but last night I dreamt a rather vivid one featuring the Super Mario Brothers.

I've no clue as to how the dream exactly began. I just know that at some point, I was casually strolling around the Mushroom World (from Super Mario Brothers 3)...and for reasons sudden and unexplained, I decided it would be in my best interest to immediately start climbing the nearest tree. I acted in accordance...and once I reached the tree's zenith, I perched like a hawk and surveyed the rolling landscapes of Mushroom Kingdom. While gazing over the scenery, I spotted Mario and Luigi in the middle distance, sitting on a park bench and feeding a group of hungry pigeons. The brothers were talking to one another at least a couple hundred yards away from me, but I guess I must've had super-hearing or something, because I caught their entire conversation line-for-line.

A frustrated, jealous Luigi did a majority of the talking, coldly lamenting over his brother's massive chic appeal. His gripes went something like this:

Luigi: Why are we always called the Mario Brothers? What's wrong naming us the Luigi Brothers?

Mario shrugs his shoulders.

Luigi: I'll even take the "Mario & Luigi" Brothers! It's just unfair that everyone constantly calls us the MARIO Brothers. That's not my name...and I'm doing a lot of work here with you!

Mario rolls his eyes.

Luigi: What I really don't get is why we just don't go by our last name?

Mario stands up.

Luigi: It's ridiculous! Do we even have a last name?

Mario shrugs.

Luigi: I guess it's possible that our last name is Mario...but then that would make you Mario Mario. And who on Earth would ever name their kid Mario Mario?

Mario lets out a huge sigh.

Luigi: This whole thing is just suspect, that's all.

It took me a couple hours to remember the above dream in its entirety...and at first reflection, my immediate thought was, Suneil. You actually dreamed up an original piece of standup comedy - from scratch. Never in my waking life did I ever even stop to consider how crappy it must've been for Luigi to put in as much freedom fighting as his brother, only to held captive to a base and one-sided "Mario" campaign. I swear, the first time this topic ever popped into my head was last night, during what I can only assume was a stupendously active state of R.E.M.

That was my first immediate thought...but I tell you what...now that I've had time to blog all this down and give it some serious deliberation, a large and weightier notion comes to mind...

How did I take two of the most innocent and fun-lovin' video game characters of all time, and via my subconscious, spin them into just another couple of sarcastic, bitter Detroiters?

Sometimes When You Say "Reliving The Glories Of Your Youth" What You Really Mean Is "I Played Way Too Much Super Nintendo As A Child."

2009-04-30T02:30:00.000-04:00

Every now and again, I like to bust out my Super Nintendo emulator and regress back to a more greener stage of life, where the likes of Princess Zelda and the Mario Brothers socially dominated my preadolescence. I like to play me a little Super Mario World, a little Mortal Kombat II. A little Link to the Past, a little Super Punch Out. All massively great franchises in their heyday, some say that these 16-bit games are transparent and simple antiques, video games that can't even compare to the detail and intensity of modern gaming. I completely agree...but nonetheless, there's something to be said about reliving the glories of your youth. Eh, what can I do? After seventeen years of obsolescence, the Super Nintendo still manages to provide me with great pleasure.

I took a break from running some reports at work today to bust out the old Super Nintendo staple, Street Fighter II. For the past month, I've been trying to re-beat the game with every character, a rather ridiculous stunt in itself reserved only for the lamest and loneliest gamers out there. It's a bit of a lengthy task...but goddammit, this Indian's up for the challenge!

Truthfully, it hasn't been too exceedingly tough. So far I've beat the game with nearly half the characters, it taking me maybe twenty minutes to run through all the battles with each competitor. As a bonus, I've been getting to watch all the old Street Fighter plot endings...which all have been rather enjoyable despite their clichéd predictability. The handsome yet noble Ken gets the girl, taking her hand in holiest of all holy matrimonies. E-Honda, the fat Chinaman, waxes some Buddhist philosophy before glutting himself upon a never ending bowl of Ramen Noodles. Chun-Li, who only entered the competition soley to avenge her father's death...well, she ends up avenging her father's death. Blanka, the orphaned freak, magically finds his mom...and in spite of it being her first reunion with her son since birth, she doesn't bat an eye to the very evident fact that her child somehow grew up into a yellow-furred gorilla who on occasion shoots out high-voltage electricity. In the end, it's one big freakin' happy ending for everyone. Walt Disney would be proud.

So like I said, every thing's been going great until I got to Zangief, the oafish Russian wrestler. Maybe I was too young to pick up on this when I originally played this game as a child...but after I defeated the last fighter standing in the way of outright victory, this is was what occurred:

Okay, so let me get this straight. Seconds after Zangief wins the competition, Mikhail Gorbachev drops in via helicopter (hanging one handed from a freakin' ladder, no less) and congratulates Zanigef on an epic win. Gorbachev then spouts a bunch of communistic propaganda - and this is where things grow truly bizarre - he then offers to celebrate Zangief's win by joining him in dance.

So Zangief and Gorbachev end up dancing the Cossak. Oh, and Gorbachev's secret service men also. They boogie down too.

I guess if this blog entry is supposed to have any semblance of a point, what I'm trying to say here is...whhhhaaaaaaaa?

Lift Up Your Hearts, All Will Come Right

2009-04-28T02:53:00.001-04:00

In high school, I had this male teacher who was thoroughly infatuated with the Second World War. For the life of me I can't recall anything distinct regarding his name, age, or face...but god, was he brilliant! Neville Chamberlain. Pearl Harbor. The Tripartite Pact. Bridge on the River Kwai. Mussolini. Night of the Long Knives. B-24 Liberators. Vernichtungslagerns. U-Boats. The American Neutrality Act. Battle of Coral Sea. The Jewish Question. You name it and this guy knew it. Every single fact. By heart. His relationship with the World War II continuum was oceanic and without restraint.

Sadly, also without restraint was his ego, which he loved showcasing in front of his class on a daily basis. The worst was when he'd openly challenge his students to barrage him with obscure WW II trivia. Under the narrow watch of thirty three misanthropic, adult-hating teens, he would meticulously show up each and every one of us. Never was he wrong. Naught once did he lift up his Teacher's Edition history book to fact check a response. Never was he stumped or unsure. He was a magnificently astute yet throbbing a$$hole...and in the end, the ritual of making his students participate in a competition where he never lost (and maybe more importantly, we never won) only ended up in producing a lot of classroom angst. Mainly towards him.

Yet amongst all that self-importance, one simple fact could not be dismissed. The man knew his history.

First impressions are an unparalleled brand...but over the years I've found them easily replaceable. The first couple weeks of that US History class, I remember interpreting my teacher's WW II obsession as unique and uplifting. In high school its hard to find an adult figure whose soul is consistently filled with a topical vigor; passions yet daunted by the youthfully-perceived misery that is “being responsible” and "adultlike". Quickly though, I found his vigor deteriorating into an ugly fixation of sorts, harboring heavily towards the repulsive side of life. Maybe it was my cynicism at work, but the more he'd focus on the ills of Zionism or the magnificent efficiency of the Nazi Regime, the more his voice became tiresome. I mean, we'd be studying the Civil Right's movement...and he'd somehow casually start conspiracy-linking Operation Barbarossa to the solid rise of Communism and the iron grip of the USSR...which then brought on the Cold War, which then brought on McCarthyism, which then brought on the hippie backlash, which then, under a strict logical format I call stttttttrrrreeettching, finally brought on the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

The past dictates the future...but I'm sorry, not everything is steeped in Hitler.

Towards the end of that school year, while I could go either way on US history in general, I particularly resented the version being taught to me. It was a version filled largely with obscure dates from the late 1930's, undertoned heavily by titanic (yet even more bedim) historical speeches, which themselves always managed to focus on either engaging in or overcoming the uncompromising brutality that is war.

It was all so...boring.

After graduating high school, I started drinking beer with a group of uber-nerds and found that my better-than-average knowledge of the Axis Alliance came in handy when philosophizing such eye-rolling questions as “What would have happened if Pearl Harbor had never been bombed?” Those times were fun, but now I'm thirty and have long forgotten most of what I've learned. It's sad.

Sometimes I wonder if that faceless, nameless teacher of mine is still teaching US History at my old high school. I wonder if he's still making his students toss him up questions to which he already knows the answers. It's been fifteen years since I took his class. Old age and senility has probably crept into his consciousness. Maybe he's not as bright as he once was.

Either way, I wish I knew his name and e-mail address, because I just watched this sweet mash up of Churchill's declaration tonight and would have loved to send it his way.

A Few Random Thoughts On Sense & Sensibility

2009-04-22T02:17:00.000-04:00

These blurred days, they fly by with a celerity I can't even pretend to comprehend. For the past three months, every single weekend has been jam packed with some form of wild birthday party, drunken club night, national sporting event, or frenetic mini-vacation. It seems a lifetime ago since I've owned a full twenty-four hours of tranquility; a plaintive day where I can let my guard down and get lost in the serener sides of myself. Don't get me wrong, 2009 has been tremendous fun so far. I just get this looming sense that in addition to my Netflix subscription, my lax and laid-back nature is getting the shaft.

I know I already touched upon this last entry...but now more than ever, I feel like I'm missing out on the finer things in my life. Like napping. Or blogging. Or Hell's Kitchen. Or video gaming.

OR READING.

God, how I miss reading. My New Yorker subscription withstanding, I couldn't tell you the last time I misspent an entire day trapped in some classic form of literature. I ordered Bukowski's Women a couple weeks ago and I think, at best, I've ventured only two chapters deep. Maybe after I wrap up this blog entry, I'll dig up that book from under the rubble of my life and give it a solid late-night read. I surely do miss reading myself to sleep.

A nice side note about Charles Bukowski. No matter how long a break you take from reading one of his paperbacks, the moment you pick it back up, you remember exactly where you left off: knee deep in drugs, alcoholism, and self-deprecating hardcore sex. You really don't need to remember any Bukowski plot...because THAT IS the plot. Wake up, vomit, whiskey, write, masturbate, sarcasm, poetry, sex with hooker, tequila, pass out. For me, that's what made Bukowski such a monumental scribe. It takes a lot of aptitude and command to regurgitate the same crappy day for 267 pages and enamor the reader the whole way through. I would kill to be able to compose sentences like he did.

I just got back from a bachelor party in Vegas yesterday...and in less than three days I'm off to explore New York City with Melanie. Two weeks after NYC, I'll be gone for another twelve days, backpacking through Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. In my spare time between trips, my basement needs to be finished, the washer needs to be fixed, and with God's helping hand, I'll find a reliable contractor who'll agree to remodel both my upstairs and basement bathrooms. Oh, and I need to learn how to grow a front lawn from scratch ASAP. And I think I'm picking up a second job.

Do you know what the irony is here? The irony is that I'm about to spend the next three hours reading an author who'll consistently warn me against the perils of white picket fences and scheduling your life away. I'll carefully read his words tonight, reflect on how his wisdom has a definite relevancy in my life...and then first thing tomorrow, I'll get online and start researching whether it's Lowe's or Home Depot that has the cheapest sod.

Rant: Space Astronomy Is For Suckas

2009-04-16T02:25:00.000-04:00

Okay, I think we all get it. Now that I have officially landed that highly coveted title of "homeowner", my fancy-free life has been overwhelmed by more than a few numbing homeowner-esque tasks. Tasks that prevent me from my true calling...that of posting daft and inane blog posts onto the internet.

In a nutshell, ever since I moved into 1538 W. Alexandrine, its pretty much been one big ol' case of "Girlfriend, you have no idea how dirty these hardwood floors be gettin' up in here"...up in here. It sucks. Bad.

Amongst all the basic homeowner duties that I swear engulf over half of my free time (i.e. cleaning, cooking, organizing, browsing online for expensive Caravaggio prints that I most assuredly can't afford), lately I've freed up enough nights to thoroughly engross myself with at least one manly, alpha-dog home improvement: The basement.

For those who haven't had the official tour, my basement is surely modeled from a daft and subpar Steven King novel. It's creepy, it's concrete, its colorless, it's consumptive...and with enough guile and dexterity, it's all mine to completely destroy and rebuild into something that vaguely resembles a seedy strip club.

Kidding!

Jokes aside, I've been laboring ridiculously hard these past few weeks, pulling up tile, sledgehammering walls and sawing up large pieces of wood/drywall for disposal. With the help of Melanie, the entire basement has been gutted from head to toe. I'm proud to say that as of 10pm today, it's completely prepped for the Master Carpenter to come in tomorrow and work his magic. A week from Friday, the drywaller arrives...and then after a few coats of paint and carpeting, I'm praying that the basement will resemble a decently comfortable entertainment room.

Granted, I still have two bathrooms, a kitchen, a sodless backyard, and a houseful of inefficient windows begging to be remodeled...but this is a decent start, no? Building a house into a home is often a lengthy, never ending process...but with the right baby steps, I'm emboldened with the faith that I'll have this place up to par in no time!

I guess I'm writing all this just to say:

Incoming Asteroid Under Vigilant Watch.

If I spend twenty years of my life laboring on this house only to have a giant asteroid come and destroy everything, I'm going to be SOOOO pissed.

My Fourth Of July Speech, Three Months Early

2009-04-07T02:48:00.000-04:00

Thank you Vermont!

Vermont Legalizes Gay Marriage With Veto Override

And you too, Iowa!

The Meaning of Iowa's Gay-Marriage Decision

Ever since I graduated to adulthood, I've felt this distinct calling to involve myself in the gay right's movement. Mind you, I've never actually participated in any large. pro-gay advocacy events...but now more than ever, something inside me quietly screams that this social cause is easily winnable...and that it's my generation's battle.

Seriously. The G.I. Generation had the Woman's Suffrage movement. The Baby Boomers had the Racial/Civil Right's movement. In my humble opinion, the only group of nationally disenfranchised individuals left are the homosexuals. I feel this deep within my heart. As a straight male American, I feel it's my duty to defend the values of my country...and most importantly, defend them across all boundaries. That means race, gender, AND sexuality.

You know, I'm proud to live in a nation that fundamentally established itself around the ideology that every human being deserves the God-given liberties of Equal Rights & Equal Protection. It's a simple and true sentiment...and it easily defines my stance on the gay rights movement. Do homosexuals currently have FULL Equal Protection under our federal legal system? No. Should they have them? You betcha.

I've this funny feeling that ninety years from now, we're all going to look back at these human right violations and feel really, really embarrassed. If you don't believe me, think about this: less than ninety years ago, women were deemed too inadequate and lowly a human being to be allowed to vote.

How mortifying is that we once thought that women didn't deserve the same rights as men? Doesn't it make you shake your head in shame?

Caring Means Telling Your Son That He's Dabbling In Instruments Of Death.

2009-03-17T02:50:00.000-04:00

It's been a rather disheartening week. I don't want to delve into it too deeply on here...but it involves death, layoffs, cancer, and a few excruciatingly sordid break-ups. Thankfully, none of it happened directly to me or my family - but that sentiment holds very little solace when you're forced to watch your friends march unwillingly into the dark.

With all this depressing negativity surrounding me, I do have to admit that there's something to be said for having a neurotic, technologically-illinformed parent, one who's easily a decade behind the times. At the peak of my heartache today, I received an URGENT e-mail from my mother titled, "PL DON'T IGNORE!!!!!!!!!!" What followed was absolutely amazing:

A few days ago, a person was recharging his cell phone at home. Just at that time a call came in and he answered it with the Instrument still connected to the outlet.

After a few seconds electricity flowed into the cell phone unrestrained and the young man was thrown to the ground with a heavy thud. His parents rushed to the room only to find him unconscious, with a weak heartbeat and burnt fingers.

He was rushed to the nearby hospital, but was pronounced dead on arrival.

Cell phones are a very useful modern invention. However, we must be aware that it can also be an INSTRUMENT OF DEATH. Never use the cell phone while it is hooked to the electrical outlet!

FORWARD THIS TO THE PEOPLE THAT MATTER IN YOUR LIFE!!!!

Seriously. A couple months ago, she figured out how to "forward" e-mails. Ever since then, it's been like 1998 up in my inbox all over again.

Like everyone else, I would normally find these junk e-mails exceedingly annoying and bothersome...but from mother? You've got to understand...she really thinks Verizon is out to smite her baby boy! Moms is just watchin' my back, that's all.

And that my friends, is love. Pure, unadulterated love.

I tell you what...in this cold and savage world, sometimes there's nothing more uplifting than getting a ridiculous e-mail from your easily-clutched mother who thinks you don't call her enough.

Sometimes its all you need.

Jim Cramer Vs. Jon Stewart

2009-03-13T03:10:00.000-04:00

Watched this three-part, fifteen minute clip on Comedy Central tonight. Thought it was quite riveting. Someday I hope I can put together an entertainment-slated television show that not only moves people with laughter...but also holds them accountable.

If I Had An Two Minute Informercial That Battled Seasonal Depression, It Would Definitlely Go Something Like This...

2009-03-10T17:06:00.000-04:00

If you're anything like me, on dolefully rainy days like these, ya just want to dig yourself a big ol' six foot hole, get all discontent, and crawl into a week of disparaging emptiness.

But wait! Don't slit your wrists just quite yet, people...for I have a cure!

Faux-infomercials aside, no matter how sad I get, this video consistently reinforces why life is absolutely beautiful and worth embracing. All I needed was one watch today and I was back on that horse! Granted, I wasn't truly depressed today - just a bit gloomy...but I don't really want to think about that right now. Right now, all I have to say is...

ANTE UP!!

My Movie Review: Watchmen

2009-03-06T06:38:00.001-05:00

I remember the first time I read the graphic novel, The Watchmen. At the time, I think I was sixteen - by all means still quite young and inexperienced with good, quality fiction. I definitely lacked the knowledge of how a classically tuned, intelligent comic could impact the soul.

Prior, in my preteen years, I had thoroughly submerged myself within the Marvel Universe, gorging on the glossy likes of Spiderman, X-Men, and the rest of those amazing, spectacular, superpower-wielding heroes. Those comic books were no doubt visually stunning...and plot-wise, fraught with unique and creative tensions...but on the whole, they were conveniently mass produced to fit the "superhero" genre. Sure, each protagonist had special powers allowing them to transcend the ordinary...but under all that intense fantasy, each masked character was written as a simple, one-dimensional creature, one who at best used their unnatural capabilities to consistently solve super-crimes in rather predictable manners. Seriously. A couple years ago I pulled out my old Amazing Spiderman comics and gave them a reread. It was the mental equivalent of watching an A-Team episode. Bam! Boof! Pow! Explosion! I came out of each issue knowing exactly the same about the human condition as I did going in.

Reading The Watchmen for the first time quite literally spun my insulated world upside down. The imperfections of the human psyche were on full display in each page, bending and breaking with each individual character's frail dysfunctions. Watchmen was a dark read for sure - which I'm sure on some level attracted me to the story - but larger than that, I remember feeling a deep and intrinsic connection to each of Watchmen's main characters. Superhero or not, I could emphasize with all their conditions, at times even appreciating each one's ability to exist as plausible human beings. In Watchmen, every person was naked and exposed, fraught with all the joys and anxieties that make even super-human lives...well, humanistic.

And then there was Watchmen's plot. Carefully written with precision, each page was woven with a specific visual, literal, and thematic intent. At the time, I was way too young to pick up on all well-placed symbolic imagery...but while reading it for the first time, I do remember realizing there was something different about this graphic novel. Structurally, it flowed very differently than any ho-hum comic book I had read before. Reading it, I felt engaged, my brain challenged to think on a level that it had never been forced to before.

Anyone who's read the Watchmen will quite aptly appreciate why it's been labeled "the unfilmable graphic novel". Simply put, there's just way too much going on to translate it appropriately to the silver screen. Still, I went to the midnight showing tonight, excited to see my cherished universe finally brought to life via moving images and human actors. I kept my expectations low, cautious with the grim reality that it could never live up to it's novel-counterpart...but after it was all said and done, I kinda felt jipped by how immature and misogynisticly violent the film had chosen to be. None of the characters resonated in their own right...none were even given the chance to breathe. The film's story was flattering in form and at times showed glimpses of the potential that was fully realized in the graphic novel...but other than a couple quick peeks, all I got out of Snyder's film was a literal interpretation of what was already published in print. For 155 minutes straight! My god, there was almost as much internal monologue/narration as there was dialogue! That might work in literature...but it never works in the medium of film.

I don't know why I'm blogging about this now, seeing that it's 4 in the morning and I'm in desperate need of a solid eight hours of sleep. I guess if anything, I'm just really disappointed, that's all. The average moviegoer who knows nothing about the graphic novel will exit that film confused and unsatisfied...maybe even repulsed. I doubt they'll even get a scent of the undiluted joy that the book brought me.

And like I said, that's just really disappointing.

PS. To all those horny eighteen year old boys out there, if you're interested in seeing one of the most unsatisfying and ridiculously unnecessary sex scenes ever, I highly suggest this film. One superhero gets to kill some bad guys and then three minutes later, copulate with his skin-clad hot female sidekick in his super-jet! THREE MINUTES LATER.

My disgust and distaste have never flowed so freely.

Guatemala Part Eleven: The Sadness Of La Cama

2009-01-28T02:55:00.000-05:00

For the last leg of my Guatemalan adventure, I met up with forensic anthropologist, Jennifer Trowbridge, and Manuel Morales, president of the human rights group, The Association That Guides The People Of The Land Of Corn. Along with Jennifer's brother, the four of us took a rather harrowing trip from Chichicastenango to Manuel's village, La Cama.

La Cama is a remote and rural hamlet, approximately ninety minutes away from any semblance of a paved road. Technically, one can drive to La Cama...but the uphill, nausea-inducing car ride is done quite slowly and with extreme caution. Jennifer had a vehicle so she drove us to the village...but let me tell you, there were more than a couple times where I sensed the car losing traction and slipping back downhill or towards a cliff. Or both at the same time. Jennifer was an extremely careful driver, but at points during our trip, I silently thought to myself Suneil, this is a ridiculous way to have chosen to die. Melanie will not be pleased.

When we arrived, I kissed the ground while Manuel introduced me to La Cama's story.

In the summer 1982, during President Montt's reign of genocide, the Guatemalan military made its way up the countryside and into Manuel's village. The reason isn't a hundred percent known, but the general notion is that someone, somewhere pointed a finger at La Cama and made the salty accusation that there were anti-Montt sympathisers residing there. An army troupe stormed La Cama on July 30th, 1982, and over the ensuing thirty six hours, murdered as many villagers as they could find, 110 in total. As madness entails, it was simpler to massacre the entire village than actually put forth the effort to root out the supposed anti-Montt sympathisers...so the military officers butchered anything that moved and La Cama was written up as collateral damage.

Many of the innocents were not-so-innocently slaughtered. The army strangled two year olds, raped a couple of the finer looking women, drowned a few babies, and even made a soon-to-be father watch as officers repeatedly stabbed his pregnant wife in the stomach, slaying his unborn child. The whole event was a rather horrendous human right violation, with not one villager receiving a formal arrest, right to legal representation, due process, an investigation, or any objective form of judicial sentencing. After the killings, the army dug mass graves, hid the dead bodies (improperly burying them), and then made their way on to the next village.

-------

An hour before Melanie dropped me at the airport so I could catch my flight to Guatemala, we stopped by Best Buy and I purchased the cheapest DV-camcorder I could find. See, Best Buy has this awesome policy that allows for any opened item to be returned for a full refund (minus a small restocking fee), as long as its returned within two weeks of its original purchase date. My very sneaky plan was to buy a camcorder, take it to Guatemala, use it in La Cama to interview the surviving villagers...and after I flew back home, return the camcorder to Best Buy and get my money back. I bought a couple DV-tapes so I could save the interviews for editing at a later date...and when I did fly back home, I promptly returned the camcorder and contacted a local media company to help me produce an video/advocacy piece, detailing the grim tale of La Cama and the overall genocides that plagued Guatemala during the early nineteen eighties.

As for logistics, Manuel served as our guide and Jennifer as translator. The media company (who did this on the sly from their bosses) provided me a superb narrator and editor to assist in the creation of this product. In the end, the video isn't exactly how I envisioned it to be...but for what it's worth, I'm satisfied. It's a fine body of work, considering I'd absolutely NO IDEA what I was doing.

Guatemala Part 11: A Little Context Goes A Long Way

2009-01-27T01:11:00.000-05:00

It's too hard to explain what I did in Guatemala without a substantial amount of historical context, so bare with me while I attempt to truncate five hundred years of global history into the next eleven paragraphs.

More...

In the 16th century, Spain commissioned Hernán Cortés to sail across the Atlantic Ocean and invade/conquer Latin America. It was a rather horrible and vicious period in our world history, with millions of Latin Americans being slaughtered, culminating in the utter demise and collapse of the Mayan civilization. At the end of the wars, Spain appropriated most of what we now call Central and South America. This lasted for a couple century's until around 1820, when most of Latin America - Guatemala included - fought to gain back their independence. From then until the end of the century, there were a few internal civil wars, several failed attempts to reunite Central America as one country, and a couple obscenely incompetent dictatorships. Life wasn't very pleasant in Guatemala. The country was struggling to find its feet.

As a standalone sovereign nation, Guatemala never really progressed far in the 1800's, but around the beginning of the twentieth century, the country started allowing private companies to enter its boundaries and set up shop. The idea was simple. Major farming companies would be allowed to expand their businesses into Guatemala, utilizing the country's rich soil and cheap labor...and in exchange, those same companies would help Guatemala build a modernized, agriculturally-sound infrastructure. This encompassed mass transit, paved roads, electric generators, telegram lines, etc. It seemed to be a fair trade for both sides...and thus entered the United Fruit Company (UFC).

Guatemala first contracted UFC to create its national postal service, similar to the one we've here in the United States. In exchange, the government allowed UFC to operate freely, employing it's citizens at will and creating Guatemala's national economy from the ground up. What started as building just the postal service...grew to building the railroads...and then the utility companies...and so on, so on, and so on. The deal seemed good, but while UFC was creating, it was also heavily investing in everything it could find. This appeared innocent at first, but in under forty years, UFC gobbled up literally all of Guatemala's internal power. Imagine if one guy came into your country and built EVERYTHING for very cheap. Sounds great, right? Well since he built it, he owns it...and as such, reaps all the profits. By the late 1940's, UFC owned a large proportion of Guatemala's farm lands and pretty much every large scale utility/port/communication/mass transportation construct. In plain English, if you were playing Monopoly with UFC, you'd be screwed. There would be hotels all over the game board...and none of them would be owned by you.

By the mid-1940's, most of Guatemala had grown tired of watching UFC's profit margins explode as the average Guatemalan standard of living plummeted. Many citizens started educating themselves on the science of Globalized Capitalism and were enraged to find that nearly all of UFC's net gains were going straight back to America and into the pockets of UFC's stockholders.

But what could Guatemala do? Capitalism was capitalism...and UFC had bought everything fair and square. It wasn't UFC's fault they were stinking rich while nearly all of Guatemala suffered in substandard living conditions. A deal is a deal, right?

After a decade's worth of slow-paced socialist movements, in 1951 Guatemala democratically elected it's first socialist president, Jacobo Guzman, his political platform focusing on returning Guatemala (mainly it's farming lands) back to the Guatemalans. A year after taking control, Guzman enacted the Agrian Reform, stripping over 70% of UFC's farmlands and redistributing them back to the Guatemalan people. It was Robin Hoodian economics at it's finest.

Okay, so now let's take a step back and view it from the United States point of view. It's the early 1950's and we're just coming into our own cold war with the Red Scare of Communism. Back then, Socialism was generally viewed as the gateway drug to Communism...and as result, was treated as a direct threat to Capitalism and freedom as we've come to know it. To the United States, none of Guatemala's socialist tendencies were deemed economically healthy...and in 1951, the newly-birthed C.I.A. started drafting up plans to overthrow Guzman and his government.

The first couple of years, nothing came to fruition from the C.I.A.'s operations. There were several covert operatives stationed in Guatemala, sending high powered socialists "death cards" (playing cards that insinuated your life was at risk), but really all that amounted to was a slew of D-class fear tactics. A bunch of silly men playing silly men games. It wasn't until the redistribution of UFC's farmland that things took a drastic turn towards the extreme. UFC used their lobbyists in America to stir up a very large and powerful political plea...and in the spring of 1954, President Eisenhower signed a top-secret CIA proclamation that focused on growing, training, and arming a group of 500 rebels to overthrow Guzman's government. Aided by the US Marines, on June 18th, 1954 the CIA orchestrated a successful coup, forcing Guzman and his socialistic ideology into exile. The new puppet government was more than eager to work together with the United States on new Guatemalan economic policies.

This isn't an X-Files episode. Here are the declassified CIA files.

From there, it all goes downhill. With their interest in Capitalism restored, the U.S. abandoned Guatemala to its mercenaries...and for nearly three decades the country plunged into yet another internal civil war, trumpeted only by military coup after military coup after military coup. Guatemalan life grew increasingly unstable, hitting rock bottom in 1982 when a madman by the name of Rios Montt ascended to power. In less than three months, Montt annulled the Guatemalan constitution, dissolved Congress, and canceled the entire electoral process (elections, any political parties, etc). Montt was defiantly insane in his nature, believing he was elected "by the will of God" to cleanse Guatemala of all opposition. His military's motto was "If you are with us, we'll feed you. If not, we'll kill you."

During Montt's one-year war against his own country, more than 200,000 Guatemalans died, mainly by torture, rape, and mass genocide. Since Guatemala was too large for Montt's military to "cleanse" by themselves, his military subcontracted local, unemployed civilians to kill their neighbors who were suspected as having anti-Montt ideologies. Since most of the time, nobody had a picture of the person they were supposed to kill, they'd simply go into his/her village and murder everyone that lived there, regardless of their loyalties. You know, just to be safe.

Most were buried in mass graves. Or left to decompose in the open air.

This is where I come into the picture, albeit 25 years later. I'll explain that next blog though.

Oh, and I forgot. Just for the record, in 1984, United Fruit Company became Chiquita and is actively traded on the New York Stock Exchange under the symbol, CQB. Just a couple years ago, they pled guilty to the U.S. Justice Department for funding terrorist organizations in Colombia.

Gotta love the system, right?

Guatemalea Part 10: GHRC Beginnings

2009-01-26T02:58:00.000-05:00

I'm no historian. Nor am I a cultural anthropologist. My senior year at MSU, after being forced by my academic advisor to pick a major, I scheduled a mind numbing amount of Sociology courses (twenty-nine credits in eleven months) just so I could satisfy my collegiate requirements and snag a diploma. As an unrealistic byproduct, the wondrous Land of Academia also officially chose to recognize me as true-blue sociologist...but here's a little reality behind that titled distinction: eleven months of Emile Durkheim, symbolic-interactionism, and Marxist theory does not make for a bonafide “sociologist”. In fact, all that Durkheim and Marx did for me was make me very, very sleepy in college. I sincerely doubt that real sociologists share in my disinterest.

I guess I'm heavily self-loathing here specifically to make it clear that I'm not an expert in anything that follows. Not historically, culturally or even socially. While everything I say is extremely true, please take the next couple of blog entries with a much-needed grain of salt. I'm just simple, naive man who honestly stumbled into this very sad story completely by accident.

----

The origins here are somewhat vague. I do remember that a few hours after I'd purchased my plane ticket to Guatemala, I surfed onto Google and typed in the words “Guatemala nonprofit”. Several years ago, I'd mixed one of my vacations with a little volunteer/media work and found the whole experience to be quite enjoyable. On some level, I think I desired to duplicate that aspect of volunteerism in my trip to Guatemala...and to me, what easier way could there be then jumping on Google, researching out a couple decent nonprofits in need of my skill sets, and offering up my assistance?

One of Google's top ten results was this website: www.ghrc-usa.org

I really don't know why I chose to send these guys an e-mail. I did do a little research and they appeared to be a legit Guatemalan nonprofit (weirdly enough operating out of Washington DC)...but I think what might've caught my interests was their ugly ol' website. I clearly remember looking it over and thoroughly cringing at its communicative nature. Seriously, take a moment to click the above link and check it out. Is it just me or does it feel like some twelve year old created it for his high school computer class homework assignment? This might be the tech-snob in me coming out here, but the website is so...1994. I clearly remember thinking “Dude. This site needs a communication and marketing overhaul NOW.”

I suspect this fueled my fire, because within minutes of overviewing their site I'd sent out correspondence to GHRC's Executive Director stating:

Hello Marty/Amanda,

I stumbled across GHRC's website today when looking for volunteer opportunities in Guatemala.

The way things are working out, I should be travelling through Guatemala Sept 3rd-10th. If your organization needs any media (photo, website, video, etc) assistance or any basic volunteering during my stay, I'd be more than willing to offer my assistance. At this point, my schedule in Guatemala is completely open. I'd like to allot a day, maybe two to volunteering. If you have any ideas, please contact me.

One quick suggestion: your website could be heavily developed. Aside from text, there's no visuals (aside from stock photos) to attract/retain donors. There's no voices. I could always bring one of my cameras and a camcorder and capture a glimpse of your work (a specific person or program affected by your mission, etc.).

If this is too short of a notice, I completely understand. I just figured I'd try to see if I could be any help to your efforts.

Thanks,
Suneil

And like that, my work documenting human right violations in Guatemala commenced. In less than a day, I'd an e-mail reply in my inbox, followed up by a very lengthy phone conversation, detailing to me all of Guatemala's political and social injustices. After verifying her facts (some of it sounded rather unbelievable), I threw out a couple ideas of how I could help. Within forty-eight hours, I had a contact in Guatemala ready and willing to meet and take me up into the mountains so I could document some rather disturbing, disturbing places.

Nothing like a vacation without some disturbing, disturbing places, right? Right!

Don't Mind The Ponytail...Or Pink Shirt...Or Breasts, For That Matter

2009-01-22T01:09:00.000-05:00

I got a raise today! A raise that doesn't involve compensation that's dressed up as a year-end bonus that's dressed up as either a Christmas turkey or ten dollar Meijer gift card! Yippie for me, right? Right!
World, get out your corporate ladders, 'cause this Indian is more than prepared to blaze a path straight into middle-management, baby!

Interview Me

2009-01-14T16:25:00.000-05:00

The Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Your Questions from Ursula Proper:

1. Is there anything you're superstitious about?

While I'd like most people to believe that I'm an exceedingly rational person, by-and-by I adhere to a strict set of superstitions, the primary one being that I'm a freakin' superstar...and as a result of this awesomeness, the world revolves directly around me. Really, it's not an ego thing as much as it is if I DON'T believe that I matter, I get increasingly unsatisfied with life as I know it. Other superstitions include leprechauns and the notion that we have it really bad here in America.

2. From what I hear, the Singh/Gupta beef is the modern day equivalent of the Hatfield and McCoys. So, what's the story, morning glory? Why you hatin' on Barack's boy, Sanjay?

This tale is too long to tell in a blog post (especially since the feud seems to be getting infinitely more decadent with each passing year), but the short answer is this: By means beyond our control, the utterly-dysfunctional Singh family has somehow been forced into familial competition with the simply-fabulous Gupta clan. This petty, unfair battle has been going on for over two decades now...but it only started taking a truly personal tone a couple years ago when the Gupta's started manhandling a karaoke group my mother was a part of. Oh, it also got pretty personal that one time a Gupta tried sleeping with my brother's girlfriend. All in all, every one of us Singh's has a distinct beef with at least one of the Gupta's, if not all of them. Think of it as a twenty-first century "Keeping Up With The Joneses"...except with much more juicy gossip, neurosurgeons, and thick Indian accents.

3. If money was no object, how would you spend your days?

Destroying my enemies. Maybe buy a Wii.

4. We used to have an ongoing debate whether it was more important to "be yourself" at work or to leave your soul at the door in favor of a paycheck. You argued that, because of your station in life (renter, no kids, etc.) that you were more inclined towards the "be yourself at any cost" side. Now that you are a home owner, has your perspective changed?

Home ownership hasn't affected that view very much. One perk to living in an economically-ravished city filled to its brim with ever-so-decreasing home values is that when I financed my house, my mortgage was absurdly cheap. Seriously. You'd slap me if you knew how little I'm paying. It's less than renting. That being said, while I still adamantly believe in being true to yourself...realistically, I don't think it has to be at ANY cost anymore. Freedom is obviously never free...and I tell you what, with my distrustful and cynical nature, it's hard enough finding the courage to give myself away to my girlfriend on a regular basis, let alone something as wildly impersonal as my work environment. To be myself completely at work? It just doesn't seem that feasible or important anymore. Maybe I've become more lenient with this topic because I'm now working in an environment where I'm not forced to bottle up a consdierable core of my belief's/actions. One tends not to care so emphatically about their freedoms when they already have them.

5. What are your religious/spiritual beliefs?

I'd like to say I'm an extremely liberal Christian who uses self-doubt and common sense to guide his spiritual beliefs...but most Christian's I know would state that I'm slightly outside the general framework of modern Christianity. I pretty much have three rules in life. In this order, I believe you should love your God, love your neighbor, and love yourself. Honestly, that's all that really makes sense to me. I suppose I just like keeping it real, that's all. Can that be a religious? Maybe I'm a Christian who likes keeping it real. That sounds snarky enough so let's go with that.

Who's Going To Ride Your Wild Horses?

2009-01-11T18:01:00.000-05:00

I bought a buffet table this week...and I don't know why, but there's this terse compulsion within me to spend the next thirty minutes blogging all about it.

So the house is slowly coming together, an array of Suneil-approved furniture and accessories filling in various empty spaces. When it comes to home decor, I'm extremely apathetic (and picky) so there's still A LOT of work that needs to be done around this place...but I tell you what, sometimes I close my eyes and feel like this house is surely on a path towards becoming something better than it is right now. Like, maybe a home?

I always assumed I'd be an rational Ikea kind of guy, but the more I'm learning about my tastes, the more I'm finding out that I'm actually an old school, dark wood antiques aficionado. To tell you the truth, I never thought I'd even care about furnishings enough to have a certain "style", but there's something undeniable about a piece of wood that's been crafted by hand. The look that comes from true, hard craftsmanship can take a regular old dining table and turn it into an immense yet non-gaudy piece of art. It can make bedroom sets beautiful and exotic yet understated at the same time. The more I learn about myself, the more I'm beginning to give this line of blue-collar labor the due respect it rightfully deserves.

Why buy crap? I know, because it's cheap and nobody has the money nowadays, right? I don't think it necessarily has to be that way. There are a tons of really nice collections out there that are cheaper than Target or Art Van. You just have to look really, really HARD for them...but they're out there.
Amongst all the money I've spent on furniture these past couple months, this buffet table is my favorite piece. Like everything I own, it was found on craigslist, selling for pennies on the dollar. God Bless this recession, for tables like the one I bought would easily sell for $1,000 back in 2003, possibly more at an antique shop. Friday, I picked it up for the bargain basement price of $160 buckaroos.

The table is an old Jacobean-esque buffet, built around the late 1920's. It's dark oak, full-wood, and hand crafted. I love this buffet so much that in the past forty-eight hours I've found myself intently staring at it several times, contemplating ways for me to copulate with it.
Seriously. If it were possible, I would totally have sex with this table.

Yesterday, Melanie and I were out for a dinner date of sorts, dining on ludicrously greased-up tacos and enchiladas. Two days ago, when I picked up the buffet, I told Melanie about its awesomeness...but I don't think she fully picked up on my excitement. Of course, I tried re-explaining my eagerness over dinner yesterday...and in a manner that I suppose only befalls fools, I managed to convey the notion that if it were somehow magically possible to manifest the qualities of my buffet table into a real, live woman...well, then Melanie and I would have to break-up immediately. You know, so I could start dating my real true love, right?

It was a somewhat awkward moment with Melanie rolling her eyes and huffing all over the illegality of me "even joking about us breaking up"...but under all her disdain, I could see the crackle in her eyes.

I was becoming domesticated and she was loving every minute of it.

Best Of: 2008

2009-01-06T02:26:00.000-05:00

Around this time of year, I normally wage labor for countless hours, carefully compiling and editing together "Best of" CDs for all my close friends and coworkers. Since a good majority of these CDs never actually make it to a real, live CD player, this year I decided to bypass all the hard work, effort, and love...and throw together a quick online playlist for anyone who's interested in listening to my music snobbery.

In my humble opinion, I think my playlist is rather varied. There's soft pop, dance, rock, folk and Portishead - which is in a category all in itself. I hope there's at least one song all of you will like on it, even my mother (whom, from time to time, I think might be trolling around on here just to see if I'm still alive).

So...in no particular order, here's what I consider to be the best songs of 2008. Enjoy...and comment if any song strikes your fancy!

(Note: if you're reading this on a blog/RSS reader, it probably won't pick up the playlist. Sorry, you're going to have visit my actual site for the toons!)

Expandable Text For Blogger: Who Said I Don't Know How To Waste Four Hours?

2008-12-28T20:18:00.000-05:00

Look at what I learned how to do today! More...
And it only took me a full Sunday afternoon to figure it out too!

Seriously. I am so S.M.R.T. sometimes, it hurts.

Things That I'm Thinking About Today

2008-12-22T01:06:00.000-05:00

The last day of Obviously Lance was yesterday. 365 days in a row...that's a lot! It all ended rather anticlimactically. I haven't decided if I'm going to miss that blog yet. I probably will.
I slightly cleaned up the layout to this blog and added a new masthead. The masthead isn't jaw-dropping...but I'm proud of it. Honestly, that's not a big surprise since I'm pretty much proud of everything that involves myself. Hence this blog.
There's a bird in my basement. He must've flew in some time last night - from where I haven't the faintest. He seems somewhat big for a bird, even a little bit foreboding. I think he's a raven, ala Edgar Alan. I was going to kill him, but then I realized that he could just pay his stay by eating the mouse that's in my kitchen. I was going to kill him, but then I realized...I'm scared of you, bird. Please don't hurt me.
It's freezing outside! How do birds stay alive on a night like this? Do they all huddle together in their nests? I always thought birds flew South for the winter. Yet another wives tale! They just find away into people's basements and wait out the cold.
The complete series of the Wire is on sale right now for $89.99 at Best Buy. If you haven't watched this show, go spend some of those millions your squirreling away for retirement. Trust me, it'll be one of the most satisfying television experiences of your life.
My boss hosted her annual holiday party yesterday. Neither Melanie nor I got much of an opportunity to talk to her...but during the ten minutes we did, my boss asked Melanie, "Are you a good girl?" I'm pretty sure that's the P.C. version of "Are you a prude?" Melanie laughed and said "no", to which my boss replied,"Good. I hate them b*tches." Seriously. Sometimes I'm really glad I'm a guy.
One of my friends hosted a White Elephant Gift Exchange party on Friday. In a couple days, I'm sure there'll be some vapid and inappropriate Facebook pictures surfacing for your viewing pleasure. A simple forewarning: The six foot penis peeking out of my pants is not real...and is very, very plastic, thank God.

Put Your Hands Up For Detroit!

2008-12-20T22:25:00.000-05:00

The link below will shoot you to a feature news article, showcased both in prominent spots on the homepages of Yahoo.com and MSNBC.com, and discussing my beloved home, Detroit. The A.P. "report" is a bit gaudy (and at a couple times, exaggerated to assess shock), but I personally feel its a sincere portrait of this city's current heartbeat.

A must read for any of my friends who live outside of Michigan or the United States and cynically wonder to themsleves...is it really that bad?

Motor City's Woes Extend Beyond Auto Industry

I Also Might've Spent A Good Hour Watching My Neighbors Get Their Cars Stuck In The Snow!

2008-12-19T15:11:00.000-05:00

Man, has this been a sweet, sweet snow day! Not only do I feel like I've satisfied my nearly insatibale Yahoo Hearts addiction till at least Monday...but I also found the time today to take several catnaps and catch up on my The New Yorker subscription. It doesn't get any better than that, right?

WRONG!

Five minutes before I was to trek outside and shovel snow, a rather vagrant-looking fellow rang my doorbell and offered to shovel my porch and sidewalk for $6.00. Of course, I negotiated him down to $2.23...but seriously, regardless of price, how awesome is that? I didn't even have to leave my house today!I love this city!

A Quick Rant: People Who Call Bad Luck "God's Will".

2008-12-04T03:01:00.000-05:00

It's a known fact that humanity finds structured guidance and self-definition in organized religion. Christianity, Atheism, Judaism, Hinduism...regardless of its form, if a person opts to make that decision to place personal faith in the providential or divine...well, on some level, that decision is going to direct their life...and quite possibly their frame of reference too. Saying all this, I think we can all agree that there are a whole lot of different people out there that fiercely believe that their theology is Truth and the only Truth, so help them God.

It's basic Sociology 101, right? People naturally gravitate towards human groups...and a good percentage of these groups hold some collective set of beliefs that cannot be proven by science nor empirical reason. In spite of all this (and with a high, stale taste of irony), most of these groups feel that their unprovable set of beliefs are not only right for them...but right for everyone.

I scribe these above two paragraphs simply to say...I GET IT. I UNDERSTAND.

With all that out of the way, this rant is dedicated as backhanded advice to any city of Detroit employee whose theology runs rampant in public municipal forums:

Okay.

So when I drive down to City Hall to file my 2009 NEZ tax relief paperwork and lower my 2009 property taxes...only to find out that I'm three weeks past the filing deadline and, as result, will have to wait another ten months to try and file again for the 2010 city tax year...just please don't attempt to console my misfortune by looking at me all googly-eyed and saying Jesus has a purpose, don't ya know! He has a purpose.

Please. I know its tempting, but just don't go down that road. Because while I won't dismiss nor deny the fact that Jesus might very well have a distinct intent for my life...I highly, highly doubt that His purpose is to prevent me from capitalizing on my local tax abatements.

Seriously. That is NOT how Jesus' rolls.

A Quick Rave: Supinos

2008-12-03T03:51:00.000-05:00

This afternoon I'd the pleasure of dining at Supino's Pizzeria. A relatively new and unknown restaurant on the Eastside of Detroit, Supino's served me the best gourmet pizza experience I'd ever had in the State of Michigan.

Seriously, their pizza? To. Die. For.

Located in Eastern Market (2457 Russell St), Supino's is one cool joint. The restaurant itself is small, clean, and basic...and Supino's menu mirrors this minimalism:

Click on picture to read prices...

True, your pizza options aren't as varied as those other joints...but honestly...do you really need 31 flavors of pizza? You know you usually only order three different types of pizzas anyways...so what's the big deal with being specific? Supino's is straight and to the point, serving only the products they know how to make WELL. It's this type of business model that makes Supino's a natural success. Incredibly tasty and affordable (a small pizza generously feeds two and only costs ten dollars), my meal was everything I could ask for in a pie. Period.

Nearly rivaling the pizza though is Supino's owner, Dave Mancini. I only interacted with Dave for five minutes...but during that time he was articulate, friendly, and sincere. He's pretty much the only employee there...and in spite of the 18 hours he daily puts into his business, he was infinitely warmhearted towards me and my lunch buddy.

Check this out. We were having difficulty deciding what to get so Dave offered to make us a small pizza (six slices) that had four different types of pizza on it (we had the "Vendure I Funghi" and the "Margherita", each type with both white sauce...and then red sauce). Now that's four types of pizzas, but only six slices, right? Without us even asking, Dave specially made and cut the pizza into eight slices so we could both try all the types of pizza. Come on, how cool is that?

To top it all off with a little bow, for all you indie lovers out there, while I was eating lunch there today, I was treated to The Magnetic Fields, New Pornographers, and Belle & Sebastian. Great pizza and great pop music. Does it get any better than that? I sincerely doubt it.

Okay. I think I got this all out of my system now...so I'm off to bed. If you work anywhere near downtown Detroit, try stopping by there some time this week. Trust me, you won't be disappointed.

November: A Kind Of Month In Review.

2008-12-01T20:33:00.000-05:00

I was going to blog about all the wondrous events that befell my life this November...but as luck would have it, I'm currently having serious problems recalling the last thirty days. In my defense, its been insanely hectic at work, but nevertheless, is it bad when one can't remember an entire month of their life? I suppose not. I guess as long as he/she is truly content with their present lot in life, there's no reason to mull over the past.

Well, unless that he/she has a blog that micro-analyzes the finer points of their existence. Then, it's definitely helpful to remember your extremely boring life.

After scrounging through my wallet and nightstand for physical proof of the last four weeks, here in no particular order are my top six November highlights...that I either had a receipt or ticket to remind me that they actually happened:

Detroit Lions – I finally popped my cherry and saw my very first game at Ford Field! Due to some intensely earnest haggling, Melanie and I scalped our way into seating eight rows behind the 50 yard line! Our cost for these ridiculously awesome seats? Five dollars a ticket. I guess having a winless professional football team really does have it's advantages after all! I've to admit, it wasn't the NFL I came to watch as much as it was the greasy mullets and wife beaters that the NFL attracts. People, I was not disappointed. Not in the very least.
Avenue Q – Sarcastic. Funny. Raunchy. Porn-watching. Singing. Puppets. Say what you will, but in my book it really doesn't get much better than that.
Tropic Thunder – Oh man, I finally got around to watching this film...and it was downright hilarious. I really abhor Ben Stiller as an actor, but this movie managed to shine in spite of his annoying, ugly face. Kudos to you, Tropic Thunder! You pulled off the impossible.
Lazyhead – Since the month was November, it was time again to quit exercising altogether and casually start smoking. This ritual normally lasts till early January...and is obviously not good for my health whatsoever...but dang it, every human being deserves a break from being good, right? That's how I'm rationalizing it.
The Parole Party – Melanie hosted her annual post-Halloween fiesta on November 7th...and for the first time ever, Smokey and I coordinated costumes and came together as escaped convicts. What were we escaping, you ask? I say reality, Smokey says his dignity. Potato, potatoe! My digital camera's memory card is currently corrupted, so I don't know if I'll ever get the pictures up on this site...but for posterity's sake, our Halloween hijinks looked a lot like this...well, minus the hands down the pants...and roughly 220 pounds:

Birthday! – Melanie turned thirty a week ago. Aside from Avenue Q tickets, I crafted her an adorable birthday card from scratch, which included glued fabric hearts and a devastatingly amazing "Girlfriend Portrait" that I definitely drew from memory. There was birthday cakes and candles and singing...but my crowning achievement had to be her over-the-top birthday breakfast. Melanie is a big fan of the morning meal...and is even a bigger fan of being picky, indecisive, and altogether persnickety. Keeping that in mind, on her birthday we went to the hidden gem Grille 39 in the Doubletree, where I allowed her to pick out three different breakfast entrees. Yes, three. The waitress thought we were certifiably insane, but Melanie was ecstatic...which is all that counts, now right? Score one for the me!

Okay, it's getting late and I'm hungry. Toodles!

An Open And Honest Inquiry To Any Of My Readers Who Might Eat Ice Cream On A Daily Basis.

2008-12-01T02:51:00.000-05:00

Listen, has anybody ever encountered a brand of Cookies & Cream ice cream that, in all honesty, has real, large pieces of cookies in it? Not those small specks of brown chocolate that loosely taste like cookies...but in actuality are so small and insignificant that they get overwhelmed by the surrounding vanilla ice cream. Also, not those ice creams that have three half-cookies scattered towards the top of the container...but virtually nothing towards the middle or the end? I'm talking here about a brand of ice cream that has minimally two dozen authentic cookie pieces - at least one-quarter the size of an oreo or larger - scattered throughout the entire ice cream carton?

I'm just asking because, I took all three of my Cookies & Cream ice creams (Blue Bunny, Edy's, & Breyers) out of the freezer tonight, spent ten minutes searching through all of them for any semblance of a cookie for me to eat, and all I found was a big mess of nothing.

I'm looking for some real, tough cookies here, people. Any help here would be appreciated.

And for The Record, Even Though There's A Lot Of Hidden Truth To It...I Totally Made Up That "Quote" About Self-Loathing And Happiness.

2008-11-25T23:08:00.000-05:00

Soooooo, I'm just getting around to reading the blog entry I posted yesterday and all I can say is...wow.

In my defense, there might've been a slight chance I was heavily intoxicated at the time I streamed-of-conscious out all that madness. Honestly, I really don't mind that Obviously Lance got noticed. It's actually kind of flattering when you think about it! I really just think I was buzzed, irritable, and allowed access to an Internet connection - an inevitable recipe for disaster, if you ask me.

For future reference, a pretty solid gauge of my blogging sobriety is the number of pointless fifty-dollar words I insert into my paragraphs. If there's one or two, there's nothing to really worry about. If it's more than five...well then you might as well just come on over to my house, because I guarantee I'm throwin' one raging party up here at 1538 W. Alexandrine. A raging party of one, that is.

Ha! Hands down, my favorite line of yesterday was, "I longed after...the intimacy that comes from allowing yourself to be completely naked in front of a group of trusted individuals."

Naked?! Me?!? Man, my body image is so bad that I don't even like taking showers!

How To Put Yourself Down, Minimize Your Talents, & Still Feel Really Good About It All In The Morning

2008-11-25T00:28:00.000-05:00

I checked my blog tracker today and something irregular happened this past weekend. Obviously Lance got noticed. By strangers. Lots of them.

It appears that the high profile, pop-culture blog, List Of The Day, showcased my humor blog, Obviously Lance as one of it's Weekend Links of the Day. The authors didn't comment much on my Bassian collection, aside from lamenting that “This dude has a boner for Lance Bass” but, my friends, the Interent is one wild, amazing beast...and by the might of those eight words alone, Obviously Lance exploded overnight. Like, big time. Unique page views have risen over 8,633% and standard page views shot up more than 5,680%. In English, that means I received more viewers yesterday than I did the entire month of October.

A wild, amazing beast indeed.

Last year when I was publishing The Years Keep Passing Me By on MySpace, this blog you're reading saw a similar spike in traffic. At the time, I had an average of ninety subscribers causally perusing my personal writings maybe two to three times a week. It was healthy blog traffic, but nothing to cause your panties to get all up in a bunch. Thaings were going fine until sometime in mid-December, someone with an ounce of influence stumbled across my ramblings and raved about it to the entire blogosphere. In less than a week, I'd magically amassed a following of over 1,200 daily visitors - that number growing with each and every ensuing day.

My reaction to my newly found fame was similar to that of an ego-starved recluse. I bathed myself in all that hollow attention for a couple days...and after that got old, I set out to systematically rebuke it. I privatized my MySpace profile and transferred all my posts onto a new hosting site, effectively invalidating nearly all my new subscribers. Sure, I gave everybody the opportunity to follow me to my "new" blog, but the process wasn't easy for those unfamiliar with RSS feeds or blog readers. I suppose I could've embraced my popularity (which knowing the fickleness of the web, was going to probably end up being fleeting), but at that time in my life, I just didn't want to wear that hat. So I didn't.

I originally started The Years Keep Passing Me By as a simple, unregulated platform. Its mission was to help me safely release all my neurotic, self-suppressed creative energy into the public sphere. Prior to this blog, I'd strictly composed nonfiction narratives and screenplays...and while those formulaic compositions brought me a sense of contented self-awareness, their rules and formats drove me bat crazy. I wanted a place where I could breathe...and breathe with no boundaries. Blog posts didn't take me four months to flesh out. Blog posts didn't take six weeks to properly edit. Blog posts didn't bound me to conventional sentence structures...or even proper grammar! Here, in MY BLOG, I was free to create whatever compositional template I so desired.

But bigger than all that, blogging was a venue where I could take all my aforementioned creative energy and mold it into a piece of art that interacted with the public. Before this blog got up and running, I was renown for keeping my creative works under lock and key. I understood the unhealthiness of bottling all that energy up...so the move to a bloggy format was not just freeing structure-wise, but it allowed me to fully communicate my warped and mildly-dysfunctional persona to the general public.

To unleash yourself and not be bounded by restriction or regulation. I think most would agree that there's a true and unbiased freedom that arrives from playing outside the box. A freedom to be yourself. Switching from classical creative writing to blogging gave me that inner liberty to write down whatever I so desired and not only free myself from being tied down by the nit and grit...but to showcase myself to the world as I knew it. It's made me who I am today.

You know, if you go back to the origins of this blog, you'll see me sometimes authoring up to three posts in a single day. Granted, my prose was quite inadequate, both in technique and style...but back then, I was utterly satisfied to churn out my nonsense on a regular basis. The problems only came when I blew up and felt that constricting lens of heightened exposure focusing down upon my work. I felt more like a “blogger” than I did myself. Drop your keys in the toilet again! Lock yourself out of the house! What's you're new Halloween costume this year? It sounds stupid, but I felt like a dancing monkey. I won't deny that my writing openly attracted that type of commentary...but back then with all that increased attention, I felt this compulsory need to perform...in front of everyone. To make them happy. ALL 1,200 OF THEM. And yes, all those misguided emotions were definitely on me and not my readers...but shoot, that didn't change the fact that when I started becoming semi-popular, I immediately longed after that warmed intimacy. The intimacy that comes from allowing yourself to be completely naked in front of a group of trusted individuals. After I thrived upon all that attention, I felt completely lost...and I didn't like it. I wanted it to be like it once was. I wanted it to be simple. Like it is right now.

Right now, I get 20 viewers a day - if I'm lucky. I know most of them and wholeheartedly cherish their input on my writings/experiences. Nowadays, I can blog (or stop blogging) about anything I want and not receive ridiculous MySpace e-mails asking me to "be funny again". I finally feel comfortable and unpressed. Its like the ol' days more than ever. I'm still publicly giving a part of myself away (the whole point of a blog, right?), but now I feel like I'm giving myself to an audience that quite rightly empathizes with my writing...and myself.

I committed to Obviously Lance for one year...and I've less than thirty days before this pet art project of mine nears completion. As I see it, there's nothing I can gain from an increased internet exposure right now - nothing save another self-imposed identity crisis. Hopefully, this is just a temporary spike of onetime glancers...and hopefully after spending two minutes on my site, they'll find the entire concept of Obviously Lance as boring and tacky as I currently do. Hopefully, they'll never return again.

They say the difference between self-loathing and true happiness is reading between the lines. I've never felt closer to that reality more than after writing this entry.

You Gotta Admit...Beverly Cleary Knew How To Write Some Seriously Good Nonfiction

2008-11-18T19:13:00.001-05:00

After giving it a full day's thought, I wanted to add a short, little addendum to yesterday's hate mongering post concerning all things rodentia.

Ralph S. Mouse was one sweet mouse. In fact, any mouse that can learn to ride a toy motorcycle around my house AND get me aspirin whenever I need it is all right in my book.

Hate Is A Strong Word. It's A Strong And Extremely Accurate Word.

2008-11-18T01:16:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, Melanie and I found a mouse in the dining room. He was small, white, and quick on his feet. He is the bane of my existence.

To say that rodents and I don’t get along would be a resounding understatement. Mice, rats, beavers, squirrels, gerbils, raccoons...um, no freakin' way. I’m sorry but there’s nothing anyone can ever say that’ll convince me that these little devils are harmless and relevant constituents to our ecosystem. In fact, thanks to a slew of intensely anthropomorphic Disney and Pixar movies coupled with pointless (yet cutesy) pictures like the one below, rodents are falsely painted as innocent, fun-lovin’ buddies whose only two ambitions in life is to breathe in all the various forms of happiness that this world has to offer...and to be our good friends.

Yeah, they want to be our friends...that is until you get comfortable and let down your guard. That's about the time they change into their true furs and become evil, immoral psychopaths that can (and will) easily slit your throat if given the chance.

It’s times like these when I’m glad to be dating a girl who's infinitely less wussier than myself. When we both saw the mouse, I immediately ran away from the problem, finding a deep and clichéd sense of safety from atop of the nearest piece of furniture I could find. On the other hand, Melanie picked up a bowl, headed straight into the mouth of madness, and tried her best at catching him. A lot good that did, because the mouse escaped into one of my heating vents, which promptly set all my neuroses to red alert. Seriously. For the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been tiptoeing around the house, evil-eying every heating duct within sight.

When it comes down to it, even though I truly abhor that mouse for invading my personal space and trying to coexist with me, I don’t hate him enough to actually kill him. (See, this is what make me better than him. I truly believe if he had the opportunity, he’d extinguish my existence without double thought). I went to Lowe’s yesterday evening and bought a friendly non-kill mouse trap that quickly attracts a mouse and then traps it inside a portable container. A container that you can then drive twenty miles away from your house and unleash into the suburban wilderness of Royal Oak.

I've to admit, this mouse trap is good. About two hours ago, I heard it snap shut and catch that mofo real good. Now all I have to do is wait until early tomorrow morning, when one of my more manlier friends shall come over and whisk my fears far, far away from me.

This should be the end of the story...but yesterday my dad informed me, if there’s one mouse in you house, there’s two. I didn't really believe him...up until about ten minutes ago, when I talked to a good friend who told me, if there’s one mouse in your house, you’re screwed for the rest of your life.

Still. I’m steadfastly holding onto the blind faith that there was only one. I mean, it’s possible, right? There's a chance that mouse didn't have enough time to tell all his friends about my place, right? I believe in miracles!

Too bad I'm not the only one...

An Exciting Time To Be A Fly On The Wall

2008-11-05T02:25:00.000-05:00

I voted today. Two booths down from me was a sixty-ish year old senior citizen voting for her very first time ever. While the woman was polite and gentle, you could definitely tell she was highly uneducated on even the very basics of our voting process - so much so that an election official had to sit her down and teach the primary essentials to proper balloting. Like how to fill out a ballot. Or why she was allowed to vote for anyone on the ballot. And why she could abstain from voting on a proposal or political race if she didn't feel competent enough to cast a vote. And that most importantly, based on all the wisdom she'd gathered in her lifetime, her vote was hers and hers alone...and that there'd be no repercussions for balloting any way her heart desired. Nobody was going to judge nor yell at her for expressing her thoughts on paper. This was her day, filled with her choices...and she could let her ballot speak whatever opinions she deemed appropriate.

I work for a nonprofit and today it served as a voting precinct for the Eastside of Detroit. After casting my ballot, I drove to work...and amidst all the electoral madness, I tried my best to concentrate on work-related e-mails and phone calls. It didn't pan out very well. Around 5pm, I clocked out frustrated and headed towards my car, only to be stopped by a rather jovial crackhead. Our whole interaction was weird. Usually addicts hit me up for spare change or a car ride, but all this guy wanted from me was the opportunity to talk politics. I guess he'd just finished voting and was rather excited to have cast his very first ballot ever. We talked for a couple minutes, mainly about medical marijuana and John McCain...and towards the end of our conversation he mentioned to me, I gots a little happy before I came here. (Based on the amount of drool falling from his mouth, I figured he got A LOT “happy” before coming out to cast his vote.)

These are two extremely unique individuals, living two extremely different lives.

These are also two extremely unique individuals bound by a collective, God-given right and the incentive to fundamentally express their voices in an organized, democratic manner.

It's what makes me proud to be an American.

I Keep On Thinking To Myself, There's NO WAY The Internet Can Get Any Better...

2008-10-30T20:59:00.000-04:00

...and then someone does something like this:

If the streaming camera is off and the doggy slideshow is on, come back to my blog in a couple hours. Trust me, it'll be totally worth it.

What It Really Means Is We're All Just A Bunch Of Twelve Year Old Boys.

2008-10-30T02:19:00.000-04:00

Today at work, we had our weekly Leadership Staff meeting. Leadership meetings are scheduled every Wednesday...and serve as a structured forum for all Director-level employees to collectively meet with our Executive Director, discuss programmatic strategy planning, and hash out an overall organizational alignment that syncs up optimally with both our mission and vision statements. (What that really means is we get together and deliberate whether or not we bought enough candy for our upcoming Halloween party this Friday. See, we're pretty sure we have enough donuts, hot dogs and apple cider...but with we're a little unsure as to if our current candy supply will truly...)

A couple days before these Leadership meetings occur, a Director is randomly selected to be Leadership Staff Meeting Leader. The primary responsibility of Leadership Staff Meeting Leader is to ensure that our Wednesday planning sessions run in a healthy, positive direction, with all participants maintaining a constructive level of input and comfortability. (What that really means is Meeting Leader's are in charge of bringing lunch and making sure nobody falls asleep.)

This week was my turn to exalt to the ranks of Meeting Leader. In prior meetings, in effort to impress coworkers and promote a certain base level of cultural diversity, I've brought in tasty home cooked Indian meals straight from the oven. While everyone is busily chowing down, I heartily inform them that Chef Singh slaved for hours just so they can enjoy their Samosas and Tandoori Chicken. I make it a specific point to inform every single one of them to all the hard labor and dedication that went into their lunch. (What I really mean to say is all the hard labor and dedication that my mom puts into their meals...but really, what ill-will could possibly ever emerge from them assuming that “Chef Singh” is actually me?)

I forgot it was my meeting today and as result, was forced to buy two large pizzas and a lunch salad from the craptastic pizza joint down the road, Happy's. As you can probably tell, I don't particularly care for Happy's. They're lazy, racist, and never have correct change. My biggest gripe though - bigger than their racism - is that their salads NEVER come mixed. I mean if I'm paying $6.75 for a stock iceberg salad, shouldn't the tomatoes, carrots, and croûtons be intermingling with the lettuce? How are you going to “make” me a salad, where I have to make the salad?!? Honestly, if you're just giving me ingredients then what differentiates you from a Krogers or Meijers? Maybe instead of calling themselves Happy's Pizzeria what they really mean to say is they're Happy's Grocery-Store-Dressed-Up-Like-A-Pizzeria Pizzeria...because it sure feels like that's the case.

At the Leadership meeting today, everyone was busy settling in so my Executive Director volunteered to mix the salad. The whole process took about two minutes...and after she was done, she fixed herself a plate, turned to her entire staff, and boldly stated Ya know, I really like tossing salads!

Everyone laughed and when she proceeded to follow it up with, What? I just like tossing salads for you guys, that's all...well, nobody had the heart to tell her what that really meant.

It's True. Sadly.

2008-10-28T02:55:00.000-04:00

It's true. On October 25th, 2008, over seven hundred fans descended upon Toronto to battle it out for the Rock, Paper, Scissors World Championship. It was something else. Something maybe even...beautiful?

I, of course was proudly in attendance last Saturday, naively representing the sober contingency...and I, of course, was swiftly eliminated in the very first wave of the first round. Yes, while its true that only one person can win the coveted $10,000 Rock Paper Scissors grand prize...in equal fashion, there's only one person who'd be foolish enough to cross the U.S. border, road trip over three hundred miles, waste forty dollars on entry fees...only to be severely humiliated by a guy wearing a chip hat filled to its brim with Tostito's.

Seriously. He had a cap full of corn chips on his head and I lost to him. In the first round. Badly.

In an era of overwhelming pride and pompous fastidious, its easy to confuse this blog as a well-bred venue for self-loathing. But see, to self-loathe you have to intrinsically hate yourself and the daily events that beget your immediate environment. You have to really be unhappy with your lot in life.

I guess I'm stating all this so it can be crystal clear when I say...

A freakin' chip hat!?! God, I wouldn't have it any other way!