I might be a Jerk

Here are just a few examples:

Today, as I sat comfortably on the bench of my train-car, a woman shuffled onto the train, barely squeezing between seventy-three other people all standing next to her. And my first (and only) thought about her was: God, I hope she doesn’t breathe on me. Hahahahahahahaha. I’ve re-read that like six times and it gets funnier and funnier – I’m a really really bad person.

Last night, at a bar, a tight-jeans, clean sneakers, mustache with thick black glasses began to talk in our conversation and for some reason, I said in my best southern accent, “Scuse me sir, we don’t take kindly to freaks and weird-o’s.”

This morning, as I was crossing the street, a van pulled past the white line at the red light. I stared the driver in the eye doing my best to convey: hit me! I’ll sue your ass, make $500k and never work again. Go on, hit me! Learn how to drive, asshole!” I then looked down at his license plate, saw it was from New Jersey and looked back up at him eye-yelling, “Go fuckin figure. Jerk.”

The kid doing gymnastics on the subway car. Or better yet, the parents who are too wrapped up with their cell phones to notice.

The fifteen different girls/women talking on their cell phones on the way to work. And straight up, it’s not men. It’s girls. Like they think they’re still in the bar with the music blaring but the rest of us in the real-world are sitting in a coke-can with wheels begging her to S.T.F.U.

I went into the bathroom last night and thought: wow, a black light bulb and seventeen rolls of toilet paper on the wall. Brooklyn. Bleh. But honestly, why should that bother me? Why does the ugliest-man-alive competition among hipsters irk me? Why do I look at the people around me and instantly hate all of them? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? And ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at the beginning: I might just be a jerk.

Two months later, I still love coffee

Hey Scottie,

Yesterday, I had like two tablespoons of a medium-roast left in the jar but decided to make two or three cups of it anyway. It was watery, but passable. I go into the fridge to put a little whole milk in it and what do I find? Out of whole milk - all that I have is skim. Shit. So now I'm drinking watery, milk flavored, coffee flavored peepee juice. It was lame.

Last night, I set out to correct the problem. French Roast and Whole Milk. I'm not fucking around.

I make the F.R. this morning with like 8 scoops ground and 8 ounces of H2O. The coffee that came out could be used to re-cauk a bathtub except it's black... and smells like coffee. Grab the whole milk, pour about six cups of that into the cafe-O-blackhole that is my thermos and head out the door. Everytime I take a sip, I feel like I can taste in the back of my eyeballs.

Anyway, I know how much you appreciate the 'joe' so I figured I should let you know.

Love,

Yaps

Nature Boy

So here I sit, sifting through random bits of footage, trying to find the gem that seals the deal on a sequence. And there's a folder on my hard drive. It's just sitting there. It was there yesterday and the day before but for whatever reason, I hadn't noticed it. "Mellowfest." Sure, I thought. Whatever. I'll look at it. None of the clips in it have names - they're all labeled by their date and time. Back in the old days of analogue tape, you had reel numbers and time code. Now, it's all dates and minutes and other bullshit. Well, I get to the last file - the last clip - in this folder. It's label is "clip-2010-08-06 20;22;13." That means it was recorded on August 6th, 2010 at about 8:30pm.

8:30pm on August 6th. I know exactly where I was. That was the night that we all woke up.

58 degrees, dark as February, and 600 people sat on Main Campus at Camp Dudley. We were all there and each one of us took something different from the man on the stage. He had three words for us, followed by three songs. But it wasn't until "Love," that it all fell apart at the seams.

You see, we spent the summer running around, playing sports, dancing for our friends. We laughed off cruelties and dished out support like it was the free wind around us. We were boys and our kingdom was Camp Dudley.

But at 8:30pm on August 6th, the man on stage reminded us all: The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

Love you, Mayo.

From Matt

A buddy of mine had a funny car ride and decided to write stream-of-consciousness to me. I hope he doesn't mind me posting it here...

"I stopped at the Sloatsburgh rest area on 87 to hit up a bathroom and get something caffeinated. I locked my car with my keyless entry. When I got back out the keyless wouldn't unlock the car which is a problem because the key I use only starts the car, it won't open any doors due to old locks and the fact that it is a $3 replacement key I got from the local hardware store instead of Subaru because I did the math and $3<$55ish. So even though I have my keys in my hand I'm locked out. I call AAA. They send a dude over and he essentially coat-hangers (Verbing weirds language) my locks open. This sets off the security system, however since the key doesn't open the locks and the keyless is dead I can't shut off the security system to start the car. After 10 minutes of looking like assholes or thieves depending on your perspective he pulls something out from under my dash moves some shit around and the car starts... yay? he hands me a yellow chip looking thing. We say our goodbyes and he's gone. I stop to get gas at the same rest area. I'm a little worried about having to shut off my car but figure I have to do it eventually. Shut off the car, get gas, turn the key in the ignition, nothing. Shit. So I have the barely english speaking guy at the A-Plus help me roll my car out of the way. He offers to help jump the car and even though I know that won't work I allow him to help because he's just being a really good dude and trying really hard. I call AAA back and say that the service I received has made my situation worse. They say they're sending someone back. I pass the time by trying to get on government watch lists by googling "How to Hot-Wire a Car" on my iPhone. Then something occurs to me. Put the yellow thing back... I spend 10 minutes trying to figure out where the thing goes and eventually I figure it out, no alarms go off and the car starts. I call AAA say "thanks, but no thanks, I'm a man and I fixed my car myself." Off I go, I lost 3 hours.

PS. None of this email has been proofread."

Sankofa again or as usual

I had this fantasy; a ten-second thing like Mayo’s lamp at the end of Hymn-Sing. It went like this:

I walked out of my office at the end of the day and saw a small, black plastic bag on the sidewalk. I picked it up and dropped it in the trash on the corner. Gently but quickly the bag poofed into a black crow. The crow hopped up to the rim of the trashcan, shook her head and ruffled her feathers. She turned to me, eyed me up and down and said, “Thanks!” And then she flew away.

Ideas like these pop into my head on a near-hourly basis. Not useful for a full story or song lyrics but certainly fun to think of. The worst and best part is that I know they are only as real as steam on a coffee cup: there one minute, gone the next and your coffee stays exactly where it is.

But sometimes, the dreams aren’t fun. Sometimes, the cute crow doesn’t say thank you. And worse - these dreams are a lot longer than ten seconds. On the train-tracks of nostalgia, emotions and pictures fly into my head at 150kph. They dig in like ticks, infecting the nearby neurons like wine spilled on paper and even when I’ve cleaned everything up, the stain of angst is left as a marker of my two or three day neurological journey.

It’s a person that triggers it. Always a person. And I get a glimpse of what my life would be like if I had stayed working at Race Rock, or played in that off-Broadway show, or dated that girl. And for the next few days, I could be batting a thousand on the outside and churning fudge on the inside. Maybe admitting it out loud will help it go away. No, not go away, just soften a bit. Because I sort of like it – I mean, it’s a book I didn’t read, a movie I didn’t watch. I empathize with the protagonist because the protagonist is me!

Your life, my life, anyone's life: One story leading into the next. Chapters, verses, rungs on a ladder. “Edges” as Mark Vinci might say. It’s all part of the game.

In the End, an Education

From Scott, I learned to keep it cool, to listen before you speak. Never underestimate the power of an easy smile and a gentle, insane sense of humor to get you past the Lazy Daisy. Yeah, I put him on a pedestal but Instead of standing, he sits with his shirt off, playing his guitar, drawing no more attention to himself than a wind-danced tree branch.

From Tim, I learned to be open to any activity at any time. A run? A sail? A fire outside Roe? It’s all great provided you’re with the right people. What was he about to do before I asked him to drive to Port Henry with me? What was he up to before I was ready to leave the Marina?

From Matt, I had a friend. A ‘other half’ to match my nerdy curiosity, an artist who I look up to endlessly.

From Jane, I learned to be elegant and eloquent. Stick to your principals and work hard. In a world of testosterone and immaturity, a proper cocktail and an intelligent conversation can act as a lighthouse guiding you back to respecting others.

From Peter, I learned that it’s okay to have fun, especially late at night. In fact, fun might be necessary to coincide with amazing work. Watching him through a Canon Vixia HF20, I saw the kind of teacher I wish I had and the kind of teacher I hope to be.

From James, I learned just how hard I’d have to work, just how big I’d have to become, to earn the Last Whistle Dedication. More than a man, he embodies the Dudley spirit every day.

From Ryan, I learned not to sit down. Sitting down lets you fall asleep where standing lets you get the job (all the jobs) done. It’s okay to be amazing; especially when your presence raises everyone around you.

From Tom, I learned to relax. It’s all good. Without him, I would be a spinnaker in a tornado.

From Lauren, I learned to be consistent. If you’re the same person in January that you are in July, everyone can count on you to be true to your word and true to yourself.

From Corey, I learned that all the googling in the world doesn’t hold a candle to strapping the kite to your wrist and figuring it out as you go. Sometimes, you have to get up, get out and go for it.

From Wilbur, I found an oasis in confusion and intensity of working at Camp. Always there in his E-town Castle, ready to take me in.

And from Wendy, I learned how to be a friend. True friends love you unconditionally: the good, bad, and everything in between. It’s hard work, and she makes it look easy.

But hey, it's Burlington!

There's a bird flying around the boarding area, keeping everything in order, making sure that all the people heading up to Burlington, Vermont are legit. Annnnnd that's about it as far as security goes in this peninsula of Terminal 3. You'd swear you were in Pleasantville: “There's old Bart, the lovable black security man who spends his days napping just inside the door in the bank.”

Spread across two bags, I have enough camera equipment to shoot the next James Cameron movie. Combine that with my outside appearance. I look bad, I smell bad and I'm giving off a bad-air as if to say, “Get close to me and I'll infect you with Polio.”

If I was a security guard and some douche-bag with an arsenal of gizmos was walking through my line, I would search the shit out of him. Shoes off? Nah, I'd make him strip for a human physiology checklist. And then I'd go into his bags and take apart anything with an on/off button that weighed more than 3 ounces. I'd make sure he missed his flight to do an interview with the Grand Dragon of Airport Security (whoever the hell that is). Annnnnd I'd break his gear.

But hey, it's Burlington! Look like shit and have a cache of detonators in the form of Flash-Cards and USB cables? Welcome aboard!

Okay. Okay. I think we can all agree that Burlington, Vermont is not a high-priority target. No offense B-town, but even the security guard at the tunnel of gamma-rays was falling asleep checking passengers through the line. “What's that sir? You want to leave your shoes on? Well, you look old and friendly so you go ahead and do whatever you like.” I'd say Burlington's most valuable asset is cheese but I'll bet most of it comes from other towns. Sorry Bur, looks like you're fucked.

As I sit typing this, there's a flight attendant reading over my shoulder, giggling. Apparently, she thinks that Burlington is just as important as I do.

It sounds like I'm complaining, doesn't it? It sounds like I'm complaining about a relaxed security team and comfortable flight attendants. Whatever. I'm just salty. Time to go to Dudley.