Well!

I'm getting bored with this whole blogspot deal. Although I agree with Jules Renard's statement, a 19th century French author, in that: "Writing is the only way to talk without being interrupted," I feel as though I'm missing out on the equally important part of writing, the interruptions, the feedback, the criticisms. You can't comment on blogspot without being a member yourself, which I find very frustrating. And the last thing anyone needs is to subscribe to another website.

Things will change. This writing will be left behind.

Ugly Shoe Trials

I've been hesitant to publish anything regarding my recent experience as a night watchman at band camp because I'm aware of the forest-fire nature of "scandalous" topics. I envisioned writing a comparative piece on my personal band camp experiences, (when I was a student at the high school), to today's conservative model. I wanted to incorporate a sociopolitical/conjectural analysis of why students are being treated the way they are now, and why the parenting body feels so strongly towards upholding this level of "discipline".

But I shudder at the thought of what would occur if the small legion of parents at Mineola high school caught wind of the words and pictures I intended to publish exclusively for my blog fans--my flog bans.

One day in high school, perhaps sophomore year, I decided to open an umbrella indoors. It's funny to me how that sounds like a figure of speech but it's not. That very day, I was called into the principle's office to discuss pictures I had uploaded onto Yahoo of a recent party. Granted, these pictures featured under-aged debauchery in many forms, but I was still very surprised to hear that my pictures had been viewed by the majority of the PTA and that I had no choice but to remove them immediately.

So not only was I made to cower before the superstition of umbrellas ever-since, but I've also had to learn how to censor myself over the years, which I believe this blog to be an excellent practice of. When you write for a faceless and numberless crowd, since the crowd is formidable in size, your voice really changes.


But I came here today to once again review Vibram's Five Finger KSO model since after a bit of research, and a bit more usage, my feelings towards them have changed.

I seem to have overlooked the website: "Motion studies demonstrate that when running barefoot, one naturally lands on the forefoot, directly below your center of gravity. This results in optimum balance, increased stability, less impact, and greater propulsion. According to Dr. Ivo Waerlop of the Vibram Biomechanics Advisory Board, 'Running in FiveFingers improves agility, strength, and equilibrium, plus it delivers sensory feedback that allows runners to make immediate corrections in their form. This greatly improves running efficiency.'"

The "forefoot" is key here. The "balls" of your feet. Having lived twenty-three years, I've just come to realize, yesterday, that I've been running "improperly". I suppose I considered breathlessly clomping around in my running shoes to be the proper method, and shoes such as in the Nike "Shox" line only helped to reinforce this conception.

I talked to a friend who has participated in numerous marathons about this and he seemed ambivalent about proper-foot striking. It's a personal preference, I'm certain, but there is some science to this.

Turns out, those Five-Finger shoes I purchased are just fine for the pavement. It's when you strike with your entire foot that it becomes a painful experience. The first time I jogged three miles with the KSO model, I remember every muscle below my knee throbbing, as if I had never worked them out before.

But now, after having jogged using only the forefoot strike, I'm dealing with incredibly sore calf muscles since I didn't stop jogging when they felt uncomfortable. If you're considering jogging as a hobby, which I recommend, I'd look into the nuances of pronation before selecting appropriate footwear. Pronation is the rotational movement of your foot.

There's a lot more to this running thing than I thought.

Reality

Reality hits home today when a new guy shows up to work at the pizzeria. He's hispanic, soft-spoken, and a bit short. He moves around slowly and looks tired, too tired for his age, which I find out to be 16 later on in the day.

I find this information out along with the fact that he's a father, and he's got another one coming. "16, but I'll be 17 in November and I'm excited, because in one more year I'll be 18, and then I'll have a big party." And I look at him, trying to make sense of his situation, of the immeasurable maturity and immaturity it takes to get to where he's at--but when I hear him talk, he's just a child. "And I'll have beers at the party," he snickers, and I tell him that's very legal of him.

I joke around with the men at work that this young guy is like my little project now, my baby, and that I'm going to raise him and teach him the inner-workings of this deceivingly difficult job. And I say that because there's always a chance to mess up. Every move is a potential burn, cut, what have you. But it's still just a job at the end of the day, like any other. Except this boy's daily salary will go towards diapers, and baby food, and whatever else babies need to survive. But work continues, and the salacious (using big words doesn't make you smart) attitudes of the men I work with become increasingly discomforting.

My co-workers have become violent in their sexuality. They continuously threaten to shove cucumbers and squashes up my rear. They ask me every morning if I've gotten with a girl (to put it angelically) and they're blown away when I tell them I have not, since I actually have days off for the grand and never-ending pursuit.

But it's difficult for the men with no women. They gawk at any passing female, and anatomize her best features, whether it be her lumpy ass, or her short shorts.

I never understood the need for prostitution until I started working at the pizzeria...or the need to compulsively drink after a hard day's work, like cliche alcoholic fathers in Lifetime films. And it's the gross monotony that does it, the willing imprisonment of the position--being an immigrant, legal or not, and being geographically, as well as socially entrapped. The alcohol, liquid-earplugs, a damper to the requests, "One slice to go, not too hot."

When you consider that these men work 84 hours a week, for years, you start to understand that those inherent biological needs supplant any pride or reservations towards the professionally promiscuous. I've been asked at least ten times if I was interested in calling a prostitute after work, sharing or taking turns, I imagine. And the 16 year old watches us and catches on quickly.

An hour before we close shop, the father of soon to be two, looks at a girl who passes by the front of the pizzeria with a bunch of other loiterers and says "wow, she's one pretty girl," and he wages serious bets with the men that the girl being lusted after is twelve years old.

A picture from two months ago. Original caption: Tequila Tuesdays, and sometimes Saturdays

Musics

Since I'm at work, I'm distracted, so I figured it best to post some youtube tunes I've favorited for redundant reasons...and it should go without saying that for this post to work, I have to assume that my numerous readers have never come across these themselves, and if they have, well:

Here's The Who, with a wicked live performance at some circus tent.



I'm so glad Wes used this version of the song in Rushmore since the original recording is lack-luster.


I've linked this video before in an earlier post commemorating Chopin's birthday, but since I feel as though this is the greatest piano performance ever filmed, I see no problem in using it again. "Ladies and gentlemen, Vladimir Horowitz." --Thunderous applause

"When I am on the stage, I’m a king. No one can interfere with me because I have something to do, and it has to be the best which is within me." - Horowitz, not the best of quotes but it'll suffice.



I enjoy Regina Spektor's performance here more so than others because it feels more intimate, and that's all I want to be with Regina.



You've got to hand it to The Avett Brothers for making "timed" and soulful performances look easy.

Quejar mas, si puedes

I've been internalizing quite a bit I've realized. Little things just nag me, in ways that perhaps shouldn't, and the funny part is, once someone like myself complains about them, they're immediately execrated--made pariahs. Why is it so loathsome to simply hate what a great majority try to ignore?

I don't remember where I read it, but I read "Ignorance is an act of will," and I've agreed ever since. None of the bliss bullshit. I think ignorance is an incredibly disguised curse, masked by its banality.

Not all of the following suggestions are environmentally related, but they do all have one similarity. They are certain ways that people can change, miniscule considerations that can surprisingly wake people out of their living stupor and make our immediate little worlds, outside the chaos of the media and all of its headlines, a little more comfortable. Isn't that a nice thought? No war, no third world poverty or quality of life, just our humdrum, suburban way of living.

And onto it

My parents like to play this game called, How Many Electronic Devices Can We Leave On?

The thing is, they never tell me when they're about to play, they just do so, and I never have fun ending the game for them. I don't work for LIPA or the power grid, but I'm cognizant enough to remember these things are luxuries.

Chivalry in the Chubway

Every time I'm on a crowded train, I'll ask any nearby females if they'd like a seat. 9 times out of 10 I get strange looks, incredulous, as if it were some audacious preposition. And the guys never turn their heads, ever, they just sit there reading or thinking about the salmon marinating in the fridge at home. I've found that when I ask this question, I involuntarily attach a hint of Southern drawl to my formality: "Eggs-cuse me, miss, wood you care for a seat?"

Nothing is dumber, in my opinion concerning heteronormative chivalry, than the jacket in the puddle. Now, if it's not a puddle, then it can't be a three foot stream rushing through your town, because a jacket wouldn't really do anything. It would just give the lady a brief moment of hope before her shoes went wet. A real man would pick that hot piece of ass up and ford the obstacle.

To me, this is funny because it's terrible, and because there's actually a bloated corpse if you look in the far left corner.

But all in all, only a foot fetishist should care that much.

Gum

If I could line up everyone who's gum I've stepped into, rested my arm on, etc.,

I would restrain them and place these biological monstrosities on their faces, Fear-Factor style, but for hours.

Or depriving them of sleep for four days (since you do irreparable physiological damage by the fifth).

...I just think it's a lazy, and cowardly thing to do, if it's left there intentionally.

In other words, if you can't properly dispose of gum, don't fucking chew it.

Slow Loris break...

Toilet Seats

This is what I imagine every guy who can't lift a toilet seat looks like--that stupid grin, getting away with nothing. There's something strange about the male psyche; we all believe we have impeccable aim, but more often than not, we end up pissing on the seat.

And I believe we shouldn't be forced to stoop down and wipe anonymous piss away in the event of having to go number three. It could very well be the case that this inherent fault of ours legitimizes when a woman uses a men's bathroom, but makes it taboo for the converse to occur. I've used plenty of lady bathrooms, when I needed to, not for fun, and every time a lady catches me, it's as if I've offended her somehow, even if I left that seat pristine as a pickle.

Cigarette Asses

The funny thing about using this picture is that I know it'll give some of you a craving. And I don't mean to be cruel, considering these bad boys cost $10 a pack now, $13 in Queens, but I do mean it when I tell people, smoking doesn't bother me, it's the littering that gets me. As far as I'm concerned, the only person who ever had the right to flick their butt was Jim Carrey, or more appropriately, Stanley Ipkiss in The Mask during the dream sequence when Cameron Diaz romances Ipkiss in a skin-tight, black and white striped dress. But I'm sure nobody knows what I'm talking about.

I ate a cigarette butt when I was younger, which is also probably why I'm against discarding them so carelessly. This isn't true, but I feel as though I'd have a hard time to convince you otherwise by this point.

Honking assholes

When the driver in the front of the line doesn't immediately hit the gas as soon as the light turns green...Man! What I wouldn't do to have all those cumulative seconds back. I'll honk after three seconds. That's my personal rule, three Mississippi's. If the person can't figure it out by then, well shit.

Louis C.K. reinforces this in one his bits that I can't find.

Texting

This is it. We are here, at the forefront of communicative capability--except we need these fucking little keyboards to do it, and those little chimes and buzzes to know when to.

Associated Press: The average age of texting inception

To clarify, that picture did not come from the Associated Press. I don't feel the need to involve litigation for the vacuous purposes of this blog.

But what I'm getting it as that we are becoming more and more so, like my little personal slogan, "a generation of typing conversationalists," and it's really complicated things in my opinion. People tell me it's simpler because of the brevity and immediacy of it all, but all I have to do is take a look at a contrived group like this:

to realize how powerfully children are being affected by texting. I mean, look at the girl on the right, look at her face, crumbling under the societal pressures her younger peers have imposed upon her, a fish-bowl of letters. And that boy, a true impostor of the texting world--I like to think myself as him, but not as amused.

I'm continually blown away by the ease and diversity at which texting lingo manifests itself. I'd like to pretend that I'm making this stuff up, but a recent facebook update by one of my 16 year old pizzeria co-workers solidified the reality of it all for me.

Consider the following quote my impetus for writing this section:

"There is this such amazin guy out there right now tht i rlli like nd injoy spendin time with. Nd its amazin how much we can have so much in common. He just makes me laugh & have such a great time when im with him. When he smiles i smile bck. I can be myself around him. im not shy with him Theres just so much i can say nd feel with him.. I REALLY LIKE HIM! ♥"

And after I brought up my revulsion towards her written voice, she insisted that she didn't care. Needless to say, this boy broke her heart two weeks later.

Asides from all the meandering, my only suggestion, since humans are coded to strive in communication, is that if someone tries to initiate a conversation with you, be the better person and call them. Save your fingers some grief.

Your vs. You're

I've never, EVER, been a grammar snob. I don't really like scrabble, I'm terrible at crossword puzzles, and yes, even my fingers get a little lazy sumtimes, u kno? Cause im not going to spell everythin out wen i can jsut type like dis.

Not even after college, after suffering quietly for all those careless mistakes in essays. It's just carelessness, I suppose. But it's not difficult.

You can mistake there for their for all I care, but this "your" nonsense has to stop.

"Your" implies ownership of a trait or given object, such as "your terrible grammar offends me every time you use it"

And "You're" is a contraction for, "You are," such as in, "You're probably now dumber for having read this blog."

I'll end all of this with a poem I wrote a while ago called Kids:

My welcome

Is ten feet long

Purple and oblong

It weighs fifteen pounds

When filled with clowns

And runs on sugar water

My welcome

Will never be

Your welcome