This one time, at band camp...

“You’d better not do that,” I thought. Marcus had circled Band 1 as an elective on his course selection sheet. “Better him than me,” I thought.  Oh Marcus. You were so young, with so much to offer the social hierarchy. We could have hosted one of those raging house parties you see on TV, where all the guys in their Lettermans drink from red Solos and chat up cheerleaders. And then when a pack of disheveled-looking tuba players knock on the door, we can tell them that the party’s all full and that they should wait outside. Won’t that be fun? Won’t that make us cool?

I lost my virginity a year later at the awkward age of fifteen. The first of many house parties I would orchestrate. Hammered off of Bud Light. My Mom was either in Singapore or Brazil at the time, I can’t remember- I was too busy being a badass. At school the following Monday: “Extrey! Extrey!… Read all about it! Sophomore lacrosse captain loses V-card to senior slut.” I walked through the halls with a rooster’s gait, confirming my victory amongst the important members of the clique. I handled questions with the swagger and tact of a press secretary, exuding my best 007 debonair for the general public.

Zach and Lauren sat behind me in Spanish class. They were an obnoxiously happy pair of band fags, going on about the regional drum line meet. Oh, and they were Christians too. The annoying kind, who go to youth groups on Wednesday night and listen to the despicable paradox that is “Christian Rock". The type who wore chastity rings and would spit-shine their beloved Dinkles on the weekends. It took a lot of self-control that day to keep myself from thrusting a ballpoint pen through Zach’s jugular. Just to shut him up. Why were they so excited about a pair of cheap dress shoes? Why were they even talking within earshot of me? Didn’t their pathetic virgin ears catch wind of the weekend’s breaking news? Why did they bother me so much? And, did that make me a typical jock douchebag? Actually, don’t answer that.

Partner blog: http://undertherooseveltbridge.blogspot.com/

Alter-Ego

Now, here's a story I've always wanted to tell. I've just been putting it off. The summer after my senior year, I worked in a plastic factory in Hialeah. For those of you who aren't familiar with greater Miami-Dade County, Hialeah is a labyrinth of churro stands, Cuban cafes with perfect ropa vieja, and industrial facilities due west of the city, adjacent to Everglades. It is the border of the South Floridian frontier, US-27, where people end and animals begin; far away from Mansion Nightclub and the American Airlines Arena. Miles and miles away, but still within city limits.

I wake up in Broward, due north. My eyes flick about to Little League trophies and baseball caps, a map of the United States, and an old Mike Piazza bobblehead. My bathroom is nautical-themed, with whitewashed plywood on the walls. My toothpaste lies in a little rowboat that my mommy both from Ross. A cup of French Roast coffee waits for me in a kitchen with faux-cherry cabinets, and faux-granite countertops. I shake off the eeriness and slip into an abused pair of sneakers, tying the laces in a double knot.

When I’m quite convinced that I’m far enough south to be past the exits where my any family friends or neighbors might be making their commute, I light a Newport. The language on the billboards begins a slow shift. “Se habla Español… llama ahora.” I exit onto Okeechobee Road and can see the fringes of factory rooftops before a swamp on the horizon.

This part of my typical morning was the tipping point, between my Atonist life and a Jes Grew, latinocentric, alter ego. I turned into a different person, an Alice entering into the fog of heavy industry. Plastic fumes, smoke inhalation, grease dripping off of “dos McChickens.”

(Mumbo Jumbo, with undertones of Heart of Darkness)

http://hotdoghysteria.blogspot.com/2012_09_01_archive.html  

These people. Are they lonely too?

A bantering mob of JAPs*, they avoid loneliness like the plague. More precisely, they avoid being seen alone. That could get ugly. And they’re pretty. Nine hundred and forty two friends on Facebook. Surely they aren’t lonely. An infinite bevy of omg’s and love ya betch’s

They seem like my friends’ type, ergo, they’re my type. But I’m deeper than that, right? I’m more introspective and intellectual than bat-mitzvah politics or Town Center on Friday night. They’re photocopies, and, much like my gated community, you have five models to choose from. I historically have a tendency towards the one story brunette SGA members; and a pool would be nice.

I find it hard to believe that the attic is empty in all these suburban houses. I mean, come on, you’re well educated…  you’re college bound. Hit me. Hit me with some poignant observation, some kind of grungy Kerouac-esque point of view. Please decimate my view on your species, because I need a new girlfriend in this town. Bitchslap me with a wisp of strawberry shampooed hair. Take a drag, and tell me what you think about the Republican Party. Tell me all of your untold stories, and don’t worry about keeping it PG-13. I’m 20.

How about your favorite music? Show me Daft Punk!..... Survey Saaaaaayyyyssss….. BIIINNNNGGG! Let’s go with Bob Marley… BIIIIINNNGG! AC/DC…. BIIIINNNGGGG! Ratatat… BING! Jason Aldean… BING! Oh, and the girl sitting alone on the beach sweeps the board! You’ll be taking home the narrator’s heart and a brand new SmartCar! Be sure to play next week, folks… Jeopardy is on next.

*Jewish-American Princess

 Accompanying Link:

http://serialcomma23.blogspot.com/2012/09/normal.html#comment-form 

Spit It Out!

I swear, I’ll get out of this town if it’s the last thing I do. Everything’s so boring here. Nothing ever happens! The people are so fake. Riding in their grey BMW’s to Starbucks. Merging onto the same Interstate as yesterday, headed for the same cubicle at the same office. Punching the same numbers into the same Microsoft Excel spreadsheet. The profit-margin has increased by .17% today, which is just enough to slip past their boss, unnoticed at 4:45. They pick up Josh from Tae Kwon Do and swing by the ballet studio to fetch Lauren. At home, a dinner of grilled chicken, white rice, and broccoli awaits. Mmmmm… their chicken tastes like chicken. Just the way they like it.

Don’t you dare leave this community, they say at the table. It’s a cold world out there. Those inner-city kids will rip out your spine and sell it for drugs. A bunch of hooligans out there- uneducated, poor. You don’t want to be like them, and thank God… you’ll never have to. Just do as I say, go to college, and get an entry level job at Raymond James Financial. If you do well, maybe you’ll be able to buy a Sport Utility Vehicle. The Ford Explorer has a lot of trunk space for those family vacations. You know, I heard somewhere that there’s more family fun per square mile in Orlando than anywhere else in the world. Doesn't that sound nice?