Children Are The Future

For no other reason than this kid is cooler than me, you, your dad and your awesome Grandma who let you eat brownies whenever you wanted, I had to post this clip.

Imagine being an accomplished breaker and then this tiny upstart with snot coming from his nose and birthing fluid still hanging from him comes and shows you up.  Sucks brah.

Go Away

Clearly, you don't listen, so I guess I have to give you something for your troubles.

Updates!

I sat on the couch today wearing Jordan shorts.  I applied to numerous jobs that all interest me strongly, and I followed up with people that needed to be hit with the old, "I'm gonna follow up with you" shindiggity dig.

I watched Braveheart all day today.  I didn't play it on repeat, that movie is just so freaking long it takes the lifetime of a common housefly to finish it.

What else?

STOP ASKING ALL THESE QUESTIONS.  YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE!

Oh, that's what the questions are for.

Anyway, I needed to put words on the page so I wrote this incredibly rambling, incohesive, and frankly, pointless post.  I hope you read quickly, otherwise I just wasted like 5 minutes of your time on nothing.  Better that than watching Glee, right?

Right.  Carry on.

Oh Summer

It's summertime!  Blue skies, nearly triple-digit temperatures and sleeveless t-shirts abound.  Currently without a job, I wake up every day and dutifully search for employment, keep aboob of the world's goings-on and occasionally proffer my tuppence.  As I go through my day I can't help but think about my future, and where I'll be spending my summers from 2012 and beyond.  Whatever happens, I know that a year from now, my life will be drastically different.

While that's a sobering/exciting prospect at the moment, I have to continue to live in the present and make sure to do everything I can to be in the place I'm meant to be.  A huge part of that means prayer, introspection and working hard every day to find the right job opportunity, but another part of it is making sure not to let life stress me out too much.  I've never been one to let anything really get me down, but as 25  creeps around the corner, problems seem more and more real as the days go by.

With that being said, I'm taking everything a day at a time and making the most of the moment and blah blah blah, let's talk about Juventus!

Another part of the summer is hearing the RIDICULOUS transfer rumors flying around my beloved Old Lady.  We've made good progress so far, bringing in left back Reto Ziegler, legendary midfielder Andrea Pirlo, and solid backup defensive mid Michele Pazienza as well as most recent additions Fabio Quaglariella, Alessandro Matri and Simone Pepe on permanent deals.  Some of the dross still remains, *cough cough* Marco Motta *cough cough*, but I believe the club is on the right track.

Despite all this, questions rage around the internets, speculating on what (if any) big name Juventus will bring in, who will leave, what color underwear Del Piero is wearing, and whether or not Buffon has a breakfast or brunch on a regular basis.  While I typically try to stay out of the transfer debates, often I find myself unable to refrain from jumping headlong into the fray, just to let my worthless opinion be known.

The fact remains that I love my club, and I can't wait to see what happens when the transfer window does hit full swing.  However, until we begin to see "officially official" and players holding the Juventus jersey, there's simply no real point in speculation and debate.  All judgement of Marotta and co. is useless until September 1 when the transfer window closes.  Until then, I'll continue to hopelessly attempt to ignore the swirling rumors and pretend as I'm above it all.

Talking To Myself

Just a few minutes ago, I tweeted a few times about a video I watched earlier in this morning.  I received no response, but it was ok.  Although I made it public, it was just part of my internal dialogue and I felt like letting it be known publicly.  

Internal dialogue is part of our everyday life, whether we acknowledge it or not.  Many people are looked at as mentally challenged if they walk through the streets talking aloud to themselves, but the fact remains, we talk to ourselves ALL THE TIME.  Being able to hold a conversation with oneself isn't a sign of being crazy, but rather a way to remain sane and rationalize situations without going to others for advice.

Maybe I'm a bit crazy, but I love talking to myself.  If I'm struggling with an issue, I can go over it in my head and consider both sides of the problem without having to run to another person and have them solve it for me.  That's not to say I walk around everyday holding Parliament meetings internally, but I do enjoy the ability to work through matters on my own with an inner debate.  

I may be crazy, but at least I'm fully aware of it.  That makes me less crazy, right? 

*Strides away proudly wearing tinfoil hat*

I'm Not A Writer

As my loyal readership, most of you clearly know I've had some recent issues with maintaining a consistent blogging presence over the past year or so.  Part of it stems from travel, being busy with work, and partially from good ole, down-home laziness.

At least that's what I told myself.  Week in week out, I'd sit down in front of my computer and try to write without getting frustrated, slamming the lid of my computer down and changing screens to Twitter.  While Twitter is indeed a wonderful medium for expression, it also coddles my strong tendency not to focus on any one thing for a significant period of time unless I deem it "important."  With Twitter, I don't have to be particularly introspective, I can just comment on the world as it goes by, whether I let it sweep me along or just watch the goings-on from my porch.

My biggest problem as a writer isn't my work rate, or my attention span, it's my feeling that everything I care to write about has been done already, by someone with better insight and skill than me.  Every day I read wonderful pieces by world-renowned writers I care about, about issues I care about, and I feel they're all done much better any paltry offering I can present.  In many ways, Twitter has exacerbated this problem by opening my eyes to dozens of journalists, writers, bloggers, and more who have unique insight and access to many different areas of my interest that I simply cannot hope to match.  For these reasons, I tend to simply kick back and enjoy my surroundings.

No more.  As I move forward in life, I realize that while I may not have the access and knowledge of many others, I do have a unique viewpoint and writing style that some may enjoy.  Furthermore, if I'm to call myself a writer, I have to write, plain and simple.  I've said it myriad times, and I partially don't even believe myself when I say "more writing is coming."  Neither should you.  With that being said, I invite you to disbelieve me 100%.  Believe me when the blog posts come streaming in.  When my Twitter feed starts to be filled with me commenting on my own writing, rather than on other's offerings.  Then we can revisit this post and marvel at my wonderful turnaround.

Then I can call myself a writer again.

Gli Insegnanti (The Teachers) Part 1

Cris stalked down the sidewalk's edge quietly, every sense attuned to the slightest disturbance from the natural ambience of the night.  He stepped furtively to the corner of the nearest building, peering around the  massive structure with his heart in his mouth.

The teachers were coming.

Rumors of their demise were greatly exaggerated.  The quiet rumblings of trouble had begun in early May when their shackles began to loose.  More and more children roamed the streets during the day while more and more teachers prowled the streets of Hill's Chapel during the night.  As the days lengthened and they became bolder, sightings became more frequent.

A graduate student had been taken in broad daylight at the West End of town, carried off by three teachers barely finished their first year.  Whispers abounded of a struggling sophomore barely able to keep hold of his khakis while a pair of teacher's assistants manhandled him outside Bub's Valley.  Grizzled seniors warned of the beginning of June when gli insegnanti were released.  The dreaded ones, driven mad from their months of imprisonment were finally free to roam the streets in the heat of the summer.

The teachers were coming.

Armed with an overpowering sense of precaution, Cris stepped around the corner, only to be bundled over by what appeared to be a walking chalkboard.  Scrambling backward, he saw it for what it was: a young woman perhaps in her mid-20s; completely and utterly covered in chalk dust.  Staggering upright, the teacher grasped at his trousers and choked out a single word in a cloud of dust: "SUMMERBREAK."

Kicking out at his ghostlike assailant, Cris turned and ran headlong down the Franklin's Road without thought to what lay ahead, with what lay behind propelling his feet to greater and greater speeds.  Finally, he collapsed against a tree just off the path, chest burning and the balls of his feet pounding like steel mallets on an anvil.  Where was he to go?  It was just now nightfall, soon the streets would be teeming with recently freed teachers eager to wildly toast their release and take unsuspecting victims in their soporific embraces.  Whatever he was to do, he must do it quickly.

The teachers were coming.

War

I'm bored, I'm feeling creative bored and I have an inexplicable good-naturedly malevolent feeling towards mankind.  What's that you say?  That's an oxymoron?  Aso not a word?

Suck on a habañero clown.

Since this has been done before and it's easy, I've decided to direct this not-so-legitimate hatred towards one of my good buddies Andre Sherard.  That's right, I'm talkin to you fool.  Your tweets flood my timeline so I'm gonna flood your life with some hatred.

Let me tell you a story about Andre Sherard.

Andre was born at a very young age in Mizzizzippi.  From the age of 2, Andre exhibited a propensity for slurring his words, sleeping on people's couches and talking to the TV while no-one else was around.

Andre first kicked a soccer ball at age 5, but not before he had kicked 12 people on a neighboring pitch just for approaching said soccer ball.  At age 8, Andre approached a girl he liked but instead of talking to her, he wrote her a note and swallowed it.  He then became angry at the girl for not responding to his note.  The girl later saw Andre look at her angrily, liked it and they dated for 7 years.

Andre went to the doctor for a routine checkup at age 10 and it was discovered that he is in fact the only living Black Ginger.  He exhibits every sympton of Gingerness (no soul, disliked by 99% of the population of Hungary, insatiable appetite for virgin dolphins) without the physical appearance of a Ginger.  The sole benefit of being a Black Ginger is his slight relation to partial Black Ginger Blake Griffin of the LA Clippers.

Andre starred at the gay sport of kickball in his early years, leading many Southerners to say "DAT BOY FAST" and "LOOK AT THAT COLORED FELLA RUN".  He went on to star at kickball at UNC Chapel Hill and later in New Zealand where he allegedly was caught in a tryst with several hobbit extras and Gollum.

Sadly, the story ends... sadly for Andre.  He now lives out his days in Raleigh, NC where he has a terrible group of friends, has nothing to do but tweet, eat Bojangle's and occasionally lumber around a kickball pitch and pretend that he cares about his day-to-day.

When asked about Andre, a random passerby had this to say: "Who the podfark is that?"

And really.  Who the podfark is Andre?

Design and Create

I consider myself a relatively creative person.  I enjoy writing, and when I get the chance, I love to design and conceptualize different articles of clothing and sneakers.  That being said, when I can step out of the mass-production box and create my own colorway of a sneaker (usually via Nike ID), I do so with aplomb.

I've created hundreds of different designs with 10s of different styles of shoes, but I rarely ever go through and purchase my creations.  Often I find it more satisfying (read: easier on my pockets) to simply create the shoe and acknowledge its fresh than to actually purchase the sneaker.  When I do make the plunge, I painstakingly make sure every detail is exactly how I wanted it.

My process is to pick an initial color scheme, tweak it till its balanced in all the right ways and when it finally speaks to me as a finished product... STOP.  Nothing is worse than a piece of sneaker art that's been ruined by one too many "improvements".

That being said, this entire piece was an excuse for me to show off my latest design.  I give you, my Nike Air Max 95 ID:

Monster We (Haven't) Met

“

MONSTERS I’VE MET

I met a ghost, but he didn’t want my head,

He only wanted to know the way to Denver.

I met a devil, but he didn’t want my soul,

He only wanted to borrow my bike awhile.

I met a vampire, but he didn’t want my blood,

He only wanted two nickels for a dime.

I keep meeting all the right people -

At all the wrong times.

- Shel Silverstein

I had a great conversation with two early education teachers who operate in polar opposite situations: One teaches at-risk children whose backgrounds and prior experiences suggest they're on the fast-track to future incarceration, while the other teaches relatively well-adjusted kids from largely stable backgrounds whose futures look decidedly brighter.

Both teachers are passionate about their jobs with multiple struggles to deal with, but their day-to-day experiences are at the opposite ends of the spectrum.  While one teacher may have a child cockily report to her mother that "my teacher loves me," the other might have to deal with the pain of having to report a parent for a blatant disregard of crucial oral hygiene.  Both love their children equally and are dedicated to their jobs, but the nature of the jobs each has chosen makes their day-to-day a completely different ordeal.

The conversation I had with them brought to mind what type of scenarios they could be dealing with at a different point in time?  If the kids they both taught were even just 3 years older, would their experiences be the same?  A child from a "stable" background at 5 may have gone through a traumatic ordeal before age 8 and be a potential future danger to society.  An at-risk youth at age 6 could have a life-changing teacher at that age and be a star pupil by age 9.

Shel Silverstein's poem contains no obvious verbal complexity, but the depth of it is unfathomable.  The length at which our experiences and the times at which we go through these incidents affects us is an amazing spectrum of possibilities.  The breadth of the human experience is staggering, a fact that is simply and succinctly addressed in "Monsters I've Met".

Yesterday's devil may be tomorrow's polite bicyclist.  

Here, There, Everywhere.

In my line of work (international super-spy, billionaire playboy, etc.), I find myself on the road fairly often. As such, I've gotten used to the rigors of travel, along with the small annoyances that come with it.  Apart from that, I've also learned to enjoy the little things that come along with travel to (sometimes) new and unfamiliar places.  

As my main region of work is in the Northeast classified, I often find myself running into cultures diometrically opposed to those I encounter in my day to day.  Growing up in the South, I've become accustomed to warm temperatures, laid-back living and the type of people this lifestyle generally shapes.  With this background, even though I've been traveling for a few years now, I still find myself amused by our "big city" neighbors to the North from time to time.  Subtle nuances such as acknowledging people as they walk by, avoiding direct conflict and generally being of a more open demeanor are personality traits not necessarily cultivated as the compass arrow points up.  

While these differences make for an interesting experience when I travel, it's a pleasure to encounter those who embody their regional stereotypes completely, as well as those who defy (admittedly ignorant) expectations.  They ensure that my life on the road stays interesting and I learn more about our little unfathomable world every day.

This past week, I had the pleasure of visiting frozen Boston for 6 days.  During that time, in addition to cursing the unescapable snow and blistering cold, I was blessed to be able to visit the oldest restaurant in the US.  There, in addition to amazing food and a great atmosphere, I was served by possibly the sweetest woman I've ever come across.  Not only did she give my colleague and I a complete history of the restaurant, she made us feel as if we were being served by a beloved family member at a homecoming dinner.  She even convinced me to eat (and enjoy) their famous clam chowder, a food I absolutely detest.  She then topped it all off by insisting that I use a bib which she further insisted on tying on me herself.  

Little experiences like these are what help get me through my frequent travel, especially when it gets difficult to stay motivated.  The fact that at any moment I can make a connection with another human with a unique viewpoint or experience to pass on keeps me optimistic to push on.