Love and Pokemon

My friend Mark started playing Pokemon again; I think Red--one of the originals. For everyone who missed the late 90s/early 2000s, it's a game where you start out by choosing one of three Pokemon: a Squirtle, a Charmander, or a Bulbasaur. Choose the wrong Pokemon, restart the Gameboy and play again. Ultimately, the goal is to catch all of the Pokemon and defeat all of the Masters with the best team that you can assemble. But it all falls back to that first Pokemon--even if you don't use your first choice in the final battle, you always start the game believing that you will. Most people, the naive people, always choose a Charmander. If you do it right, you end up with a Charizard. But most people don't wait around long enough for that, and even if they do, you don't know what to do with a Charizard. That's okay, too. Not everyone is meant for a Charizard and what it means to have a Charizard. You don't always have to end up with what you started with.
Pokemon is an experience that you have--you don't really think of it that way as a kid. Actually, you don't think of it that way pretty much anytime. People who say that Pokemon is an experience is the kind of person who cries at the end of The Breakfast Club and totally ruins Lost for you because they talk about how the plot was all about the relationships between everyday people. But Pokemon is an experience, particularly similar to dating. Think about it: it takes nothing to catch a Weedle.
We've all dated Weedles. Occasionally, you run across someone cool like a Growlithe or a Vulpix--fiery and interesting. You want to date a coffee barista? That's a Lapras. You know where to find one, and as zen and urbane as he or she may seem, nothing ever really changes with them. And God forbid you ever run into a Chancey because much like the game, you're completely unprepared. Chanceys come around when you're approximately 6 shots in at the bar and you're dancing alone in the corner to "We Can't Stop." You're fresh out of Masterballs, and then you spend the next five days thinking about how you totally missed your shot at a Chancey. But whether it be a Chancey or a Lapras or a Growlithe, it really doesn't matter what you have if it doesn't make sense to your game plan, your experience.
To keep from completely ruining everything you've come to love and appreciate about Pokemon, the whole notion that dating and life and Pokemon are essentially interchangeable is because all three things boil down to one thing: the anatomy of a noun. Back in first or second grade, we're taught that a noun is a person, place, or thing. The noun is essentially the most basic of the language building blocks, second to spelling the words themselves. Nouns have such a simple function that we practically forget just how important they are. Because what everything depends on, ultimately, is a person, a place, or a thing--sometimes all three.
Sitting outside of my college dorm a couple years ago, I was dealing with a break up. Like most people after a break up, you go over everything you could have done differently in your mind--each argument or cancelled plan. You think about all the things you had considered doing and that you hadn't. And then you consider all of the things you did do and whether or not you should have done them. Lather, rinse, repeat. Sometimes, you'll drive yourself crazy with the notion, and unlike the Gameboy, you can't go back and restart it. You're stuck with the Pokemon you started out with, and even though you've logged it back into the Pokedex, it doesn't mean that it's not still there.
But that's where my friend Nam found me--out perched up on the side steps of Carnegie Hall puffing on a Camel Crush or something equally disgusting. She had known what I was going through, understanding that I had chosen to move away for grad school instead of trying at whatever assimilation of a relationship that I had. She plopped down beside me and asked me for a cigarette and began to explain how everything in life works--or at least everything to do with making a relationship work. She talked about how a relationship is a special kind of noun: it requires all three noun components--the right person, the right place, and the right thing... most usually, time.

Deal. I'm going to go eat an entire pizza and
watch American Horror Story.

It's a great little litmus test, if you're being honest with yourself. People in their 20s are obsessed with being in relationships--almost as much as they are about going to brunch or being purposefully ironic. But at the end of the day, when people stop coming to your single's brunch, and your friends don't want to go ice skating with you because it might appear that y'all are gay (Side note: I still completely stand by the notion that two men can go ice skating and it's totally platonic, but whatever. Not here, Justin. Not here.), we aggressively turn our minds toward a relationship because a relationship will be the thing that will fix us. And in your 20s, if you think there's a way that will fix everything, you immediately jump at the offer. That's why so many people do P90X, let's be honest. (Side note 2: You're never going to find me doing P90X. I tried it once. That's stupid and it hurts.)
I'm not against relationships. I think they can be amazing, and ultimately, as disgusting as it sounds--life is so much more fulfilling when you have someone to share it with. But to go back to Nam's theory, it requires everything that a perfect noun entails: the right place, the right time, and most importantly the right person. The right place is usually the easiest. Unless you're just a really avid eHarmony user who searches miles and miles outside of your own city, the person you might want to date is most likely going to be around you. The place is only complicated if you've just gotten there or you're just about to leave. But overall, the place is easy.
The time kind of meshes with the place. It's all about being settled and how busy you are. Oftentimes, we underestimate just how important the time part is because we always think we're ready for the next step. Either we're bored or we're swamped or we're somewhere in between, and we convince ourselves that we're ready for whatever we might find. The eternally monogamous don't understand what the world would be like single, and the eternally single are just positive that it's time to take a turn for the more serious. But in reality, time is complicated because it's not a state that can be determined by how long you've been single or what you've done before. It's a matter of knowing when the clock inside of you is ticking at the exact right speed with the right person.
And the person is the worst part of all because it's almost entirely out of your control. Even when the clock is ticking steady in the right place, it has to be ticking in sync with the right person. And that's terrible and magical at the same time because waiting for it to work is a nightmare, but when it does, it's this thing that makes you believe in things like fate and luck. Because as frustrating as catching all of the Pokemon may seem, sometimes, you do have a Masterball when a Chancey appears. And you have room in your belt for another Pokemon, and when you throw it and watch the ball wiggle, and wiggle again, and wiggle again, sometimes it just closes and there it is--it happened. You caught it.

Lapras, the smug Pokemon equivalent to
a coffee shop barista.

So you might not end up with the first Pokemon you started with (the high school or college sweetheart) because that rarely ever happens for anyone. That's tricky, and God help you if you end up with a Venasaur, because that just means someone is hanging around and eating all your shit. In the end, all of the pieces have to match up because anything else is just forced, and you really should reconsider metaphorically restarting that Gameboy. Life is too short to go around pretending to love someone for the sake of saying you're in love. Take that time and go live. Catch a Lapras to catch a Lapras and then store it away. Go explore all the different areas that you want to explore. And in the midst of all the Pokemon references, take a little time to find yourself because even in the moments when it may seem like the right time and the right place and the right person, you have to be content with who you are, when the Gameboy is shut off and you're lying alone at night. If you can't live with who you are, no one else is going to be able to live with you either.
Nam didn't include anything about Pokemon, but I know she probably would have if she thought of it. Instead, she finished up by snuffing out the end of her cigarette on the concrete step and brought it all home by saying, "That's it. If it's not the right person, the right place, and the right time, then it's not right for you. And in the meantime, you just have to wait." Nam's not really one to tell you that it comes when you least expect it or that love is just around the corner. She's kind of brutal with the truth, and she's not one that will tell you how close you are to love. Because what if it's the wrong place? You're not going to catch a Starmie in Viridian Forest.
And you're not going to find love or a relationship until all the right pieces match up.

Tina, Tina, Tina

In fifth grade, my family moved for the first time. It wasn't your classic kind of move, mostly because a big truck came along and pulled our first house off the foundation, put it in our back yard, then moved our bigger house back in. Ah yes, the classic trailer switch. For some reason, our family decided to make the switch in the middle of the winter, but because of the complicated nature of assembling the two pieces of a doublewide, we had to live out of the singlewide for a week. Most children would be concerned about not being directly hooked up to water or heat, but for me, the only issue that existed for me was--we were going to miss the premiere of Survivor: Australian Outback.
I was obsessed with Survivor, mostly because I would sit in class and contemplate how I could vote all of my classmates out but somehow manage to make them all still like me afterward. The year before, I watched Kelly Wigglesworth be completely undermined by the nakedness/baldness of Richard Hatch. It was both disgusting and enthralling to watch--but this season was going to be different: I could feel it. I demanded that we were fully moved into the new house before the premiere happened--there's not a lot of things that I demanded as a 5th grader, other than a full size recreation of Zordon from the Power Rangers and the premiere of Survivor. In reality, only one of those things were possible, and I didn't know at the time how important it would be for my development as a young man.
Once we got the all clear, we began to move furniture in--logically, I suppose we should have started with the couch or the bed, but we went straight for the television. Just by the skin of our teeth, we made the move just in time for premiere night. At the beginning of every reality show season, my dad and I pick favorites to win. The battle goes back to classic battles such as Clay and Reuben, as well as Carrie Underwood and Anthony Federov (which wasn't really classic at all, as much as it was just a really terrible decision on my part). But as the didgeridoo sounded from our old television speakers, I immediately knew who my pick would be. As the faces flicked across the screen, I saw her. No, she wasn't an Alecia, nor was she a Kel (obviously, because she would never be accused of stealing beef jerky. Hello), but I knew in my hear that she would win the game. Her name? Tina Wesson. She was from Knoxville, my hometown, and to me, if she came from Rocky Top, she was surely going to win. My dad told me that I was crazy right after he chose Colby. I wouldn't be moved though--I didn't care what happened because I knew that Tina was going to win.

Tina Wesson/Justin Kirkland, 2001

Looking back, as a fifth grader I was entirely too invested in the lives of people I didn't know. I would huddle the family around the television every Thursday night, hushing any company that might be over for dinner or to pick up a gun/bow/dead animal from dad. I was amazed by what I saw because as much as I love Tina, she wasn't that great at winning things. But still, at every tribal council, no one cared. Everyone just kept voting for other people and Tina lived on week to week all the way to the final three. I think maybe that's why Tina resonated with me so much--I wasn't good at winning things either, but people liked having me around. I imagined that if 2001 Tina and fifth grade Justin played Survivor together, we would probably make it to the final three as well.
Finale night came--I was a nervous wreck for a number of reasons. I was leaving for my first major trip ever the next day: a four day trip Washington D.C. I had never been away from home that long, and on top of my completely irrational anxiety over Tina's potential winning moment, I was on 24 hour nervous vomit alert. Colby won the final immunity and my dad immediately when into celebration mode. Colby was surely going to win against Kei... no. He took Tina. At the final tribal, Tina smoothly talked her way into the prize with a million-dollar-brand of Southern charm.  I cried that night--still not exactly sure if that was because of Tina's win or the pending trip, but either way, it was a lot of emotions. I boarded the coach bus the next morning with my special edition Survivor Entertainment Weekly, and I channeled that Tina Wesson power to make it through the trip. Mind you, I didn't eat and lost seven pounds in four days because of it, but I liked believing that was part of the whole "Survivor" mentality.
Throughout that summer, I begged my friends to play Survivor with me, which probably explains why I had such a tough transition into middle school the next year. You see, when you invite your friends over to play games that you've designed and made the rules for, then win every challenge, then vote each of them out of the game, sometimes you end up alone. Didn't matter to me though--I wanted to keep up that Knoxville Legacy. Eventually, my friend Lindsay told me that Tina was coming to speak at her church and that she would get me an autograph. With very few friends left and fewer and fewer people interested in playing Survivor with me, I decided that I needed to let this "Tina-hero-glory" go. I put the autograph on the back of a blue church flyer in my scrapbook and tried to let Tina go. My love for her was alienating. Everyone else's hero reports were on their grandpas or presidents or movie stars. Mine were about the 42 year old woman who once played Survivor. It was time to move on.

***

Skip forward four years: Tina was going to to be on Survivor: All Stars. She was voted out first. I choose to not recognize that it ever happened.

***

By the time I was a junior in college, Tina was a fond memory of my childhood--I had found other heroes, but like an old teddy bear, she had this place in my heart even if I didn't force my friends to play Survivor with me anymore.  Down the road from our college, the local Chili's would host a special night a couple times a year that part of the proceeds would go toward St. Jude's Hospital research. We would always try to make it down to grab dinner, and like usual, I had ordered a margarita and some kind of entree. 

My friends and I sat around the table trading stories from the day when it happened: out of no where, Tina Wesson walked in the door. I suppose the entire thing should have been simple. It had been ten years since the show premiered, and no one else seemed to make a big deal out of her being there, but I was frozen. Imagine if Superman walked in the door while you're casually sipping on margaritas... then you spit up that margarita on yourself and then go into a state of catatonic shock.

My friends had heard about my previous love of Tina Wesson at one point or another, most of the time after I had drank a number of margaritas and went back to those tender memories of elementary school. They kept telling me to go over, but I couldn't get up. It all seemed too crazy to be true. No matter who it ends up being, your childhood hero is kind of invincible. But the idea that mine was sitting about twenty feet away presumably weighing the benefits of fajitas over steak with her husband just seemed unreal to me. Eventually I asked the waitress to do a little investigation for me--she had confirmed it: Tina Wesson was in the restaurant.

I finished my margarita and mustered up as much courage as I could. After getting up from the table, I wasn't exactly sure how I wanted to approach the situation. It's not every day that you meet your hero. Somehow, I decided on some kind of walk that resembled a mix between a serious limp and a grapevine dance step. I spent so much time deciding on how I should walk that by the time I actually got to the table, I had nothing to say. Tina and her husband looked up at me and waited for me to say something. I couldn't look her in the eyes, and then all of that nervousness from that pre-Washington D.C. night/Australia finale came flooding back. All I could think was, "Please don't cry or throw up on Tina Wesson's table at Chili's." Eventually, words just came flooding out in this weird whisper-grumble, "Hello Tina Wesson. My name is Justin Kirkland. I saw you sitting over here, and I wanted to say thank you because you're my hero and I watched you when I was younger and I thought you did great."

Justin Kirkland/Tina Wesson, 2013

She looked nervous, and I probably would have been too, honestly. I don't like being interrupted when I eat, and though it's never happened, I'm assuming my unsteady, borderline creepy vibe didn't really help my case. Of all the responses I thought she was going to say, she said, "How old were you when that came on?!" I told her about fifth grade, strategically leaving out the details about voting out my friends and the haphazard hero reports I did based on less than reliable information from Survivor fansites. I don't remember much more from the conversation because I think I started to faint or something.

***

Tina finished fourth last night in her third season of Survivor. I was still an embarrassing fan girl sitting on the couch screaming at the television, unable to eat my pizza because that fifth grade Survivor anxiety was back all over again. Every couple of seasons, I apply to be on Survivor hoping to be the next Knoxville rockstar on the island. People have asked me why Tina--there's been more impressive winners or sneakier players, or hell... people like presidents and celebrities to write hero reports on. But for me, it wasn't about Tina changing the world... it was more about Tina changing my world. She wasn't just a woman on a television show to me, as much as she is proof that you can do whatever you want, even if you're from down in South Knoxville. As long as you're not walking over to meet her at Chili's, that is.

Scared of The Moon

Author's note: Originally written for my Journalism final.

Author's note 2.0: The weekend before Thanksgiving, a friend and I took money that we had raised (with a lot of your help) and randomly selected Jacquelyn Lewis-Tolbert-Robertson for a one day shopping spree, including new clothes, a hotel room for two nights, and a dinner of her choosing—this is her story.

Jacquelyn puffed on a Marlboro Smooth. For a while, she had been relatively quiet, but after an exhale of smoke and warm breath into the cold air outside the Outback Steakhouse on Highway 50, she looked up at the moon and said, “I never liked the stars. And I was scared of the moon, too. Always thought it was following me.” She spent the next five minutes explaining how she had found a nemesis in the moon since she was a young girl. Before she started again, she tended to the cigarette’s ember. “But one night, I couldn’t sleep. I was always looking down to not look at the moon. I was homeless, and I wanted to give up, but I looked up at that moon, and I knew it was God. That was God watching out for me.”

She looked down from the moon and back to her cigarette. Carefully, she snuffed out the end of the half-smoked butt, inspecting it to make sure that all the fire was gone, and quickly placed it in the pocket of her brand new jacket. Why put trash in the pocket of a new jacket? One man’s trash might be the only cigarette Jacquelyn comes across this week.

Photo courtesy of Ciara Ungar

Jacquelyn Lewis-Robertson-Tolbert (she prefers all three) calls the grated vent outside the Metro Center metro station home. From across the street, you can see her in a tattered leather jacket, black beanie, and dirty yellow pants folding up her large wool blankets. The fact that Jacquelyn stood out is a mystery because ultimately, the Washington D.C. metro area is full of people just like Jacquelyn.

Actually, the metro area comprises the fifth highest homeless population in the country according to the National Alliance to End Homelessness. Unfortunately, the homeless population in Washington D.C. is on the rise, despite the national average dropping. Over 13,000 people are homeless in the D.C. metro area, but as winter moves into its coldest month, Jacquelyn is alone on the street for the fifteenth year in a row. She doesn’t beg for change or cigarettes—she simply makes a home out of what circumstance has given her: next to nothing.

At 56-years old, Jacquelyn is a veteran to Washington D.C. She grew up in the area and is one of the few District residents who can call the city their hometown. Upon meeting her, Jacquelyn foiled most of the stereotypes that often haunt the homeless population—the aggressor or the beggar or the ungrateful. She gathered all of her belongings, stuffing them into a tattered, plastic Ikea bag along with an old pair of pink flats and a bag of floss picks. “Taking care of my teeth means a lot to me,” she said with a smile.

Walking to the car, she talked about what it meant to live in the streets and how life had ended up heading that way. She refused to focus on the past, and continuing to press about it seemed pointless. A string of relationships gone awry, a begrudging battle with alcoholism, and a lack of opportunity placed Jacquelyn on the streets in 1998. But interestingly enough, Jacquelyn is not without family. She talked about the metro area and how it’s dotted with Lewises and Tolberts and Robertsons. Family members dot the eastern side of D.C., and her two sons, D’Angelo and Greg, live in Arlington and Fairfax.

None of her family was available for contact, but Jacquelyn spoke of them with love, “Oh, I love my boys. They’re in their twenties now.” She talked about their children and the lives they have started on the outskirts of the metro area, but she also hinted at the distance she kept from them while adjusting the tarnished gold ringer on her middle finger—a token she has refused to give up with a symbol engraved in it that represents emancipation.

On the drive to the first stop of the day, Jacquelyn listens as the radio scans for a station and quietly announces, “I love jazz. Especially free form jazz.” Outside the window, the early evidence of Christmas decorations pass as she adds, “and Christmas music. I love Christmas.” The radio stops on a station playing “Carol of the Bells,” as Jacquelyn launches into a recounting of Christmas as a girl. “We would make it last as long as we could,” she said. She always hoped for books—particularly on history and science. She began to explain how she hoped to be a scientist as a child until suddenly she grew quiet again. Driving through the area around Capital Hill, she noted, “I used to stay at a shelter around here, but it closed down.”

The closing of homeless shelters in the Washington area is an unfortunate truth. When searching for “Washington D.C. homeless shelter closed,” a slew of results turn up on Google, all within the past five years—one article reporting that 50% of shelters accommodating families in the D.C. area were closed due to budget cuts back in 2011. Jacquelyn’s last tenure at a shelter was back in the late 90s. She referenced the clean and sober shelter that has since been shut down. Last year, she had the opportunity to get into a shelter located a bit closer to Downtown, but she gave up her spot for one of the two women she had spent the better half of last winter with. When asked why, she said, “They are older than I am. I know I can survive.

And that’s exactly what she’s expected to do. Jacquelyn has spent the last few years working with The Perry School, an institute dedicated to helping those in need find the proper avenues to getting back into the work force. Their mission states their goal to “alleviate the conditions of poverty in order to help ensure positive outcomes for youth, adults and families within the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area,” but the key word is “alleviate.” Though the school has helped Jacquelyn establish a resume and identify a skill set, the classes that Jacquelyn must take to populate that resume do not come without a cost.

Jacquelyn currently gets her financial support by preparing and packaging lunches for homeless youth. The little money she makes doing that goes toward feeding herself, her basic living needs, and the classes she needs to take to become certified in food preparation, CPR, and other skills. The registration for those classes happens at the beginning of each month, and as she says, “If you miss the deadline, well, you just have to wait until next time.” Opportunity doesn’t strike Jacquelyn that often, so when given the opportunity to get new clothes and other personal belongings, she quickly accepted.

Walking along in Target, it wasn’t hard to see why Jacquelyn’s resources were relatively limited. For a quick lunch, Jacquelyn decided on the Pizza Hut kiosk inside Target. After getting her personal pan cheese pizza, she sat down at the table and took a moment that most people take for granted. She opened the box and brought the pizza close to her face. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, smelling the pizza, as if someone had just presented her with some kind of delicacy.

Target is hardly Jacquelyn’s normal environment, especially the one set in the newly gentrified Columbia Heights neighborhood. She walked around the women’s section, shifting from moments of total excitement and worried caution. On multiple occasions, Jacquelyn would find a sweater or jacket she admired, only to be met with sidelong glances just a couple of clothing displays over. Jacquelyn stood out with her eclectic, slightly dingy ensemble, and the women in Target took notice. And Jacquelyn did too, especially as she caught the women glaring at her while thumbing through a stack of red and black poly-blend sweaters. No words were necessary—it was obvious that she was not welcomed. Each time, Jacquelyn would replace whatever she was looking at and move on to another rack, as if to apologize for even being in the store.

Their reactions are a reflection of a society that has become so comfortable with sympathizing with the homeless population of America without actually having to empathize with them. Once Jacquelyn had infiltrated their territory, perception of the homeless had changed. With very few options available for housing, stores with customers who express visible distaste toward homeless customers, and on overarching stereotype attached to homelessness, how exactly does a woman like Jacquelyn further herself in an already economically pessimistic world? Through the rarity of human kindness.

As the day came to an end, Jacquelyn checked into the room rented under her name at the George Washington Inn. An upscale hotel in the heart of Foggy Bottom, the front desk receptionist finished her paperwork, handed her the keys to her room and asked, “Is there anything else we can do for you, Ms. Tolbert?” She looked at him with a shocked expression and abruptly announced, “I don’t think I can remember the last time someone called me Ms. Tolbert.” She smiled and said no, taking all the bags from the day up to her room. Once checked in, she pulled everything out of the bags, arranging it neatly on the bed with special attention to the jacket she had picked up at Ross. She pulled it close to her chest and said, “It’s a windbreaker. That help cuts the cold, and the inside is lined with fur.” She hugged it tighter and said, “There’s nothing better than a warm jacket.”

To finish off the day, she asked to go to Outback Steakhouse, only knowing it as Outback before the day. “I thought it was a shoe store for some reason,” she said. Once seated, Jacquelyn ordered baby back ribs. She looked around the table and then turned back to the waitress with a big grin and said, “The full rack, please.”

Every bite seemed to mean more and more until she couldn’t eat anymore. For the night, she looked no different than the Outback patrons around her. It was a day where shelters at capacity or enrollment fees or finding a place to shower didn’t immediately matter.

After a couple of days, the hotel manager called to say that Jacquelyn had checked out, “She wasn’t an issue at all. She was courteous and like any other guest.” No surprise because that’s simply who Jacquelyn is—just another guest to the city of D.C.

Outside of the Outback Steakhouse, Jacquelyn waited for the car to be pulled around. She patted her pocket to make sure the half-smoked cigarette was still in place, and she looked up again to see where the moon was—though no longer scared, she still likes to “keep tabs” on where it’s at. She assumes a lot of responsibility that most people don’t. While most will read this article on a Sunday over a cup of coffee in the sunroom, the paper this is printed on may be the makeshift shelter from wind or rain or what have you.

And when finished reading, there’s someone who will notice you—be it a family member or friend of coworker. But right before getting in the car, Jacquelyn turned and said, “A lot of people pass me on the street. They never say anything. You spend a lot of time wondering if people can see you, and I never thought anyone saw me… but today, you saw me.”

She opened the door and got into the back seat to go back to the hotel for a couple of nights—off the streets, safe from the cold, and protected from the moon.

Shit Happens

A little over a month ago, I had something happen to me that I never thought could happen to me; something I like to believe happens to more people than you would think. I contemplated on whether or not I should come forward and tell my story, and after a lot of reflection and inner-turmoil, I've decided that it is time. I do not tell this story to make you laugh and/or chuckle--though I'm assuming that some of you will. I tell this story so that others with the same story will feel comfortable coming forth and telling theirs.

There's a lot of difficult things that come with adulthood: bills, work, household duties, increased responsibility across the board, relationships--especially relationships. The bonds you share with friends and family and significant others (you know, if you're into that whole sister wives kind of situation), become more complex with the strain on your time and attention. Inevitably, complications arise and your relationships become more and more taxing. You start to feel resentment for those around you because they're not coming through for you in the ways they used to--you're essentially left with just yourself. It's bad enough when your friends shit on you--but it's even worse when you shit on yourself.
After an exciting episode of Grey's Anatomy, I decided to step outside and give my mom a call, because that's what my life has turned into--watching my shows, then giving my mom a call to do a thirty minute recap of an hour long program. I noticed that I was starting to get off track about this season's constant turmoil between Meredith and Cristina, so I told my mom, in my standard candid fashion, that I needed to get off the phone, go inside, and take a poop. In her standard fashion, she said, "Thank you for that overshare," and then I went inside.

As I stepped in the doorway, I thought to myself, Oh gosh, I really have to go to the bathroom, and then a couple steps later, standing in the living room right there in front of Kerry Washington and the entire cast of Scandal it happened: I pooped on myself. It was as if my body had just completely abandoned all communication with my mind. My body had gone full-Sarah-Palin-rogue, and all I could do was stand there and take it all in. You always imagine what it might be like if you pooped on yourself, but from personal experience, you really have no idea what it's actually like until, well, it happens.
I shuffled (because full fledged running seemed like a terrible idea) to the downstairs bathroom so that I could assess the damage and do as much ground zero clean up as possible. I looked over and saw the most terrifying thing that you can see post-tragedy: no toilet paper. At this point, I was completely out of options other than relocation. However, that meant going upstairs--the downstairs is so much safer because everything is hardwood, but everything upstairs is carpeted, and that just seemed like I was asking for a disaster. Plus, no one was downstairs, and if I trudged up the stairs, I ran the risk of running into someone and potentially having to explain what happened--I wasn't ready for that, not then. Without any other solution, I opened the door and started to leave and there stood my roommate, David. Where the hell did he come from? Feeling like I needed to explain why I was in the downstairs bathroom, I quickly said, "No toilet paper." I'm not really sure why I said it because he never asked why I was in there or why I was leaving, but it felt right at the time. Then he reached over to the counter and said, "Wanna try out the paper towels?" Um, no David. I don't want to try the paper towels. I want to go back in time seven minutes and undo all of this. That's what I want. I laughed and started to walk away and he said, "Dude, you okay? You're walking like you have a stick up your ass." Ironically, that was the complete opposite of the situation.
I made it to the upstairs bathroom, but the damage was worse now. The only surefire way to deal with this was just to evacuate the situation entirely and dispose of any evidence that it ever happened. I got into the shower to try and wash away all of the shame, but no matter how hard I scrubbed, the disappointment was there for good. I imagine that anyone who defecates in their pants is never quite the person they were before the incident. Something inside of you, not outside, changes... maybe it's that you're incredibly humbled by the unpredictability of bodily functions. Either way, I finished showering and stepped onto the bathroom mat and realized there was a whole other situation at my feet... literally. The jeans I was wearing escaped any damage, but it's faithful friend on the inside was not so lucky. They were the Bubba of this Forrest Gump story, and much like Bubba, we had to tell the skivvies goodbye.
So I ran to my room and grabbed an extra bag from 7-11 that I had laying around. I placed our faithful friend in the bag and decided that once everyone had gone to bed, I would take them away and dispose of them--because no self-respecting man can put his dirty business in his own trash can. I sat down to get on my laptop, and I felt them sitting over there in the corner... staring at me or something, so I went downstairs back to the living room. I couldn't bear the guilt of having them right there in front of me, whilst Facebook-ing. They would be fine on their own until later when I would run them off to a public dumpster or something.
I stayed up and watched Carrie that night, and at 1:00am, I knew it was time. The deed had to be carried out. I called my mom again, because it only seemed appropriate as she was the first person I called when it happened. She got all the laughs in that she needed to, so she was going to stay up and be my phone accomplice as I put an end to the horror story that was my fateful Thursday evening. I had pre-decided upon 7-11, since I already had the evidence in the appropriate bag. As I started to pull in, a cop pulled in behind me really close and followed me into the parking lot. He pulled up beside of me and sat there, staring. It was as if an officer had been watching me all night, and as I got in my car, he radio-ed in and said, Um, we have a number 2 on our hands. Follow the suspect to see if he disposes on his messy drawers. Copy? 
Under pressure, especially from cops, I do what most Americans do and act suspiciously as possible. Suddenly, I started using overly-active hand gestures and laughing for no apparent reason to try and look "natural," but in retrospect, I just looked crazy. The cop was not leaving. After talking on the phone for about five minutes, I decided I had to go in and buy something. After I got back out to my car, he just sat there looking at me, and I realized--I'm going to have to bear this burden for a few more hours. I drove home and put the evidence in my trunk, simply because there was no other place to put it. Eventually, I did dispose of what needed to be taken care of nearly 24 hours after the original incident took place.
In short, shitting your pants is actually a lot more complex, humiliating, and difficult than you would think. I hear my friends talk about scary situations or really intense movies and respond with, "I almost shit my pants." But to me, it's not a joke. It's not something you laugh at, and it's not something you can relate to. Shitting your pants is a unique experience like fighting in the Vietnam War or watching the Lifetime remake of Steel Magnolias in one continuous sitting. Shitting your pants is not something that you ever truly come back from, and it's definitely not something that you joke about. But like a lot of the hardships that I've overcome in my life, I'm a better person for it. If you've pooped on yourself, be brave and remember that you're not alone. Be strong enough to tell your story, because like most things in life, we can only move forward by moving together.

What Happens to Italy, Stays in Los Angeles

The night I got to Los Angeles, Italy stopped me and asked me for a cigarette. Not the country, the fashion designer.

***

Today, I hopped on a plane to LAX with a dream and a cardigan, and from there, that's pretty much where the similarities between Miley Cyrus' experience and mine stops. I was placed in a middle seat, which is not equipped for a man my size to sit in, and then I became best friends with a young man who sat beside me on the plane. He touched my leg a lot and since Prop 8 was overturned, I'm fairly certain that means that we're married, so that's exciting. After I got off the plane, my friend Kara asked about how the trip went, and I was so delirious from the time difference and the journey and being in the land of Jennifer Lawrence that all I could say was, "He looked like a young Frankie Muniz, and he smelled like dreams."

Los Angeles is the closest thing I've seen to Panem from The Hunger Games. It's full of tall buildings and the city is surrounded by mountains, which absolutely blows my mind because I somehow feel like mountains only belong to the East coast. In short, I'm actually in The Hunger Games. Beyond the skyscrapers and the mountains though, my favorite part of the city is the people. They dress oddly, yet professionally at the same time. Though I feel like at any moment I might have to fight someone to my death, at the same time, I feel like the people of L.A. would be sad that I died. They may be kind of crazy, but the plasticky, tanned people of L.A. stole my heart, and that's probably why when Italy asked me for a cigarette, I didn't think twice about stopping.
She was sitting outside of the only 7-11 I could find in the downtown area, and I was jonesing for a Coke so there was really no avoiding her. She was in a skirt, but that didn't stop her from sitting open legged, with no inhibitions about showing off her lady business to the world. I'm not saying I endorse that kind of behavior, but I do have a certain amount of respect for someone when they say, "You might be able to see my bits and pieces, but that doesn't define me as a person." Anyway, Italy stopped me as I was walking down the sidewalk and said, "Baby, do you have a cigarette?" Anyone who calls me baby, particularly women in the 35-60 age range, automatically get whatever they want from me. I gave her a cigarette, and she said that I looked Irish, which is a nice way of saying, I'm sorry you were born without pigment.
After I spoke back to her, she asked where I was from and what I did, and it was on. I told her that I was in town for an event and that I helped plan it, and that's when she told me about her big plan--or rather, her big comeback. Some background: Italy was once one of the biggest fashion designers in the world. She told me to look her up, but unfortunately when you Google "Italy fashion designer," the results are not very narrowed. Unfortunately, a while back, Italy's luck had changed. At this point in the conversation, I had moved from standing in front of her to leaning against the brick wall beside her to eventually taking a seat next to her on the pavement outside of 7-11. As she was lighting up the second cigarette I gave her, she said, "You want to listen to my story because if you walk away, you'll see me on TV in a year and say to yourself, Goddamn, that bitch knew what she was talking about." Little did she know, I had no intention of walking away. Like that little girl in the AT&T commercials, I wanted more. I wanted more. I want it now.
She told me about her downfall: one night, a gang came to her house and pulled her out of it. They beat her and beat her and then told her she could never go back into her house. So, naturally, when a gang tells you what to do, you do it. She didn't go back into her house. With strict orders from the game, Italy didn't get any of her stuff so she took to the streets. When she returned to check on her house, it had been burned down. With no other leads, she assumed it was the gang. I guess I would have thought it was the gang, too, but I also probably would not have left my house to begin with. That's neither here nor there. Since the initial gang attack, Italy's house was burned down nine more times. Again, I'm unsure how your house gets burned down an additional nine times, but it did.
I pulled out my phone to start taking notes because there was a lot of information being thrown my way, and I was too deep in the game at this point to walk away. Occasionally, Italy would reach into her bag which was full of files and papers, most of the time not pulling anything out... just doing collateral to make sure everything was there, I guess. Except one time she did completely divert away from the story and told me how she was going to sue the subway system for emotional damages, which actually makes a lot of sense. If she's successful, I am probably going to sue my local metro system for emotional damages as well.
I truly felt sympathy for Italy because I hate the idea of anyone getting beaten up for no reason. I hated that she had it all and it was taken away from her so quickly. I hated that her sister lives with Bon Jovi now (oh, I didn't mention that before? Yeah, apparently that's a thing, too) and that she's making no moves to bring Italy  into her Livin on a Prayer life. I hated it all.
But that's when the story took a turn. I'm sitting there on pins and needles (considering that it was the streets of Downtown LA, I might have actually been sitting on a needle. God only knows), waiting for what happens next when Italy says, verbatim, "But it wasn't the gang who burned my house down 9 times. You see, there's a mysterious incinerator under my house, and every couple of months, it sets itself on fire and burns the house down again." Classic pit-of-Hell-plot-device. I was eating it up. It took me back to my preteen days of watching the short-lived soap opera Passions on NBC, when Charity was sent to the fires of Hell conveniently located in someone's basement. At that point, I think Italy realized that she had told me enough, and that I was pretty much hooked, so she launched into her plan.
She asked me if I would help her promote her comeback (duh) where she would walk from LA to Virginia (what?!) where her mother lives, and she wanted to market it in the same style that Oprah publicized her and Gayle's road trip across America (signed, sealed, delivered). All that she wanted was someone to tell her story on Twitter because that's how everyone communicates these days. I really don't know exactly what she needed my help with because it sounded like she had everything planned out. I wanted on board though because by the time the conversation was over, I wondered for a moment myself if this woman might actually end up on television. Because I lack any professional credentials, I gave her my email and Twitter handle (as if she has access to the Internet). I wished her the best, and I almost shook her hand, but I remembered that at one point mid-conversation that she reached up inside of her skirt... and I don't play that game.
It's been almost two weeks now, and I haven't heard from Italy. I imagine she's still out there, hustlin' the streets looking for people to listen to her story whilst stifling her rage toward Bon Jovi. She might be back at her house, if it's burned itself down again that is. Wherever she is, a piece of her is lingering with me, and one day when I turn on the news and see that large woman in her puffy jacket and mini skirt on the television, I can say that I knew Italy back when: in that awkward interim between her first rise to stardom and her second.

Live Blog: Group Project

Group projects are the pits, you know? Someone is always doing the majority of the work, while at least two other people are sitting around not doing anything. One person is begrudgingly holding back the desire to kill the one proactive person and the two bodies of dead weight, and well, it's just gets complicated. Teamwork is apparently one of the cornerstones to life, and if that's any signification of how the rest of life is going to go, then... well... we're all screwed.
Graduate school is especially hard because you think you're smarter than everyone else, including the people that you have class with. The Georgetown air doesn't help because that makes you feel even more elitist. It's tough. So, that makes group projects harder than they've ever been before. The first week we collaborated together, one girl felt entirely left out, and the entire group got frigid cold with akwardness. Yikes! The second week, I felt like everyone ignored my ideas, and then I left class without speaking to anyone. Double Yikes! Now, as a class, we're discussing the final idea that we will present as a class, and it's getting heated. I'm coming to you live:

9:20pm: Emerald Mini Dress talked to me before class about how she felt shunned from her group and bullied out of the idea she actually created--she just started speaking, and I was pretty sure she was going to go Sarah Palin rogue on us. Crisis averted.

9:23pm: Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat looks like she might be constipated. We have officially found the bully in question.

9:26pm: I have officially started transforming my scribbled notes into this blog. You're welcome.

9:32pm: The professor and I are in a throat clearing battle. If I'm being honest, he's wiping the floor with me.

9:33pm: I'm seeing an alliance forming among Emerald Mini Dress, The Pastel Aryan, and Established Coffee Drinker.

9:35pm: Everyone agrees that "life in motion" is cliche and worthless. I think someone is escorting the girl who mentioned it out of the class room. This is a classroom of distinguished public relations professionals--no room here for cliche.

9:37pm: Millenial zing! 3 people laugh. I come up with a formidable idea and no one likes it. No one really knows what's going on, but everyone feels like they're right... how very Washington D.C. The professor seems potentially unimpressed with all ideas that are being given. Or maybe he just wants to go home. I understand your feels, bro.

9:41pm: My classroom crush just gave me props. #swoon #SMITTENBARF

9:43pm: The Pastel Aryan is going into something about maps and stuff, but all I want to see is Emerald Mini Dress and Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat engage in fisticuffs in front of the class. I, personally, would put money on Emerald Mini Dress based on her audacity to wear an emerald mini dress alone. Only one chair separates them... God, the tension is unreal, y'all.

9:45pm: Established Coffee Drinker/classroom crush just explained why we should never support Comcast, even though they're kind of great. Whatever you say, Established Coffee Drinker. #PRKISSES

9:48pm: Photosesh.

9:49pm: UPDATE: It appears that Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat is drumming up an alliance against Emerald Mini Dress. It's becoming less and less like Survivor and potentially like West Side Story. I'm eating it up.

9:50pm: Beth Jarvis has a fantastic new haircut! Snaps for Beth Jarvis y'all!

9:52pm: I came up with a cool idea, and The Pastel Aryan was NOT having it, so I came up with a new slogan for the car company we're representing, "If you don't have a car, you don't deserve a car." It got moderate to high laughter. I feel accomplished. In other news, if a real West Side Story type rumble breaks out, I'm going to push him in the middle. #GangViolence

9:55pm: Kob's Moving Castle is speaking. No, seriously. That's his Facebook name.

10:00pm When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Becky comes to me.

10:02pm: So, I just dropped a truth bomb and said that I didn't understand what anyone was saying or where we were headed, which in my mind, sounded elitist and powerful, but it actually translated into something more like, "I'm not paying attention--will someone give me a recap?" So, they did, and I guess I lost. Touché, class.

10:05pm: Krystal has literally turned her back to the class. She's looking for snacks, I believe, but in the process, she's really giving off that "screw you guys, I'm going home" vibe. I suppose that happens sometimes.

10:07pm: Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat has officially fallen into her Resting Bitch Face (RBF). She's over it, and you know what? Maybe I'm over it, too. If I were a Survivor swing vote or the one wielding the knife in this rumble, I'm not sure who I would side with. OOOH GIRL, I was wrong. This is not Survivor or West Side Story. There are notes being passed with intermittent giggles. This is Mean Girls. Sophisticated Blue Pea Coat will here on forward simply be referred to as Regina.

10:11pm: Somehow, we've turned from conversation about cars to ping pong, particularly beating your boss at ping pong. I think it's kind of like revenge porn, except less illegal. #RevengePong

10:14pm: The Pastel Aryan totes just blasted Emerald Mini Dress. Though she doesn't have many supporters, I don't think we would vote her out first. She's playing a solid social game of not talking when people interrupt her.

10:16pm: EMERALD GREEN DRESS JUST TOOK ONE OF THE TWO POSITIONS TO LEAD THE CLASS PRESENTATION ON ALL THESE IDEAS!! TOLD YOU GUYS!! #SURVIVOR

10:17pm: Regina looks like she is literally about to plant a picture of herself in The Burn Book, make copies, throw it around the school, and get Coach Carr suspended.

10:20pm: Class is over. I just referenced Sophisticated Coffee Drinker aloud without knowing I was only 2 feet away. #SMITTENBARF and NOT in the good way.

So, there you have it. That's the quick and dirty of what happens when you put 20-40 somethings in a room and tell them to be collaborative and creative. We all get buck nasty, and then I take notes on it and decide to turn it into blog form. Maybe we should all work on our social skills a bit more. Maybe Emerald Mini Dress just needs to realize that hoop earrings were Regina's thing after all and let her take all the glory whether she deserves it or not. Or maybe... just maybe, I need to start taking notes in class over pertinent topics instead of you know, the sociology of Georgetown students.

Bleeding Out On The Table

I woke up in a pool of my own blood this morning. Okay, maybe not a pool, but at least a dignified puddle or a dampened semi-circle. Regardless, this morning there was blood and me and a bed. My stomach had been hurting the night before, but I wasn't too concerned, so I took a shower and went to bed and woke up to what could have been a crime scene. It was like my own little Halloween week nightmare, and I ran through all the horror movie plots that could have happened to me in the six hours since I had fallen asleep: first and foremost I checked for a horse head. Not The Godfather. Maybe Jason had come or Freddy Krueger. Most scary of all, I thought for a moment that it was the plot of Carrie... the menstruation scene or the post-pig blood scene... either one, really. And then it hit me. I checked my belly button, and bam; I found the source. I was bleeding out of my belly button. It was happening... again.

***

Two years ago, I was sitting in the student center of my college listening to all the rules and regulations of being a third year resident assistant. By the time you're a third year RA, you understand all the ins and out of what RA training week means. You talk about rules and how to hold a fire extinguisher and what weed smells like. On the heavier days, you learn about sexual assault and emergent situations and what to do if someone tries to kill themselves, which we were promised rarely ever happens. (In my three years, I had three... so that's a big lie). My favorite part was when the dean of students told us how important we are because I like validation, but at the end of the day, third year RAs just hoped that whatever room they were in had enough signal that you could get on Facebook on your phone. 

We were on day 4 of 6, so at that point the veterans had all but given up. I was particularly exhausted after watching a video of a man getting hit by a car and no one doing anything about it. I thought maybe that's why I was feeling light headed, but I put my hands down in my lap, and I felt something wet. I opened up my jacket and the bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants were covered in blood. I'm still not entirely sure how you accumulate that much blood on your clothes without knowing it, but sometimes blood happens and you're not really concerned with the details.

After zipping my jacket back up, I walked up to my boss before our next session and said, "Ben, I think I need to leave." He quickly responded, "I told you, you're not going to leave. Go sit down," and I said, "No, I really think I need to go," I opened up my jacket and stood there like a nonchalant horror film victim. Apparently, if you make it appear that you've been stabbed, you get what you want. On the way out, I ran into my friend who drove me to the hospital. I called my mom and said, 

"So, I don't want to worry you, but I think I've started bleeding out of my belly button, and it's not stopping." 

"You think you're bleeding out of your belly button?"

"Okay, I'm definitely bleeding out of my belly button. I'm going to Blount Memorial."

Considering the general blood flow coming out of my navel, in addition to the morbidity/mortality rates of Blount Memorial Hospital, my chances of living until the end of the day was about 43%. I waited in the dank waiting area attached to the emergency room filling out papers, which was extremely easy considering that I don't have health insurance. Eventually, my friend had to leave me, and I laid on the hard plastic table lined with butcher paper. I was hoping that if I laid on my back that the blood would just kind of drain itself back in. That, unfortunately, did not work. My mom busted in and held my hand, watching me essentially die on the table, and her absolute panic made me think... Is this how I'm going out? Am I going to die via uncontrollable bleeding from the belly button? It was kind of devastating and hilarious at the same time.

After nine hours at the hospital, a CAT scan, an x-ray, and at least 492 q-tips driven into my belly button, the doctors had come to a conclusion: they didn't know. By this time the bleeding had stopped because even my body's will to kill me had become exhausted. No one knew what was happening, so I took antibiotics for two days, forgot to take the rest, and then I thought it was over.

***

That is, until I woke up covered in blood this morning. I called my mom to let her know that the whole scenario was happening again, but in the course of two years, I wasn't so much concerned with dying as much as I was upset about having to wash my sheets when I get home at 11pm tonight. There was much more blood than before, and I have white carpet. I had woken up to give myself twenty-five minutes to get ready. Cleaning up a mess like this was going to take at least fifteen. I had been down the bleeding-out-of-your-belly-button-and-can't-get-it-to-stop-road before. There was no way I was going to the hospital. Quite the opposite: I took a Kleenex, folded it twice, taped it to my stomach and went to work. If waking up bloody wasn't enough of an indication that it was going to be a tough Monday, on the way to work I also hit two squirrels playing in the street. RIP Carl and Demetrius.

Most of the morning, I was lightheaded--not sure if that was about Carl and Demetrius or the lack of blood. Regardless, I was going down. After toying with the idea of seeing if I was going to actually bleed out, I decided that I should probably just go to the doctor. I still don't have insurance, I still don't know what caused me to start bleeding out, and I still am taking antibiotics that I will probably forget to take after about two days.

In short, life is a horror story, y'all, but as you get older, the scary parts change. Once you've nearly bled to death out of your stomach twice, the thrill of dying is kind of shot. Real horror begins to set in when you think of how pissed your roommates will be if you leave a stomach blood stain on the eggshell carpet or how ironic it is that you need health insurance when you've been trying to log on to healthcare.gov to sign up for health insurance for the past four days. Worrying about whether or not my purple gingham shirt is going to get bloodstained throughout the day gave me an all too real insight into what it must feel like to be a teenage girl. And that's one thing that never changes--no one ever wants to hear, "They're all going to laugh at you! They're all going to laugh at you!"

I Took Your Hair Gel, Bro

Today was hard, guys. I knew it was going to be a Monday--like, Monday was going to come at me like a large white woman yearning for a Furby on Black Friday circa 1998. Admittedly, I wasn't prepared. I wanted to believe that it was going to be okay, but it all came crashing down around noon o'clock. My roommate texted me to let me know that the estimate for his Lexus that I backed into was going to be approximately 2 to 3 million dollars. Fortunately, our insurance is about to run out or doesn't cover white on white damage or is just really terrible, so there was this big question of "am I going to be paying for the 500 dollar deductible that I can't afford, or will I be paying the 2 to 3 million dollar damage that I... still can't afford?" The past weekend was long and this news was not how I wanted to start out my week, so I pulled my signature 23 year old man move: I cried in the bathroom. Twice.
I returned to my desk defeated, pre-reminscing over times where I had money in my bank account when I saw it: this New Yorker article from David Sedaris. He talked about his sister's suicide and the impact it had on his family over the past six months or so. David Sedaris' writing is always funny, but now all of a sudden, the guy I usually look to for laughs was making me reflect on my own life. Maybe I couldn't afford life right now, and maybe I wouldn't be able to pay rent, but it wasn't this. At least everyone was alive--at least I was alive. We all have these issues that come up in our lives--these moments that make us just kind of want to give up, and we selfishly forget what other people may be facing. I don't know what to do in my situation, but at least I have my life and my pseudo-health, and a roof over my head (for now). But most of all, thank God I have my hair gel. It's not something that all of us can say.
Tragedies like death and loss of hair gel can take a while to recover from, so I've kept this story concealed for a while, close to my heart, where the worst of tragedies should remain. Upon moving to DC, or "The District," I know that I tried my best to just be friends with everyone. I didn't know anyone, and I couldn't afford to make an enemy. So essentially, if I got invited to a party I went. There was too much at stake to lose. So one night, my roommates and I went over to some kind of theme party. Ultimately, it was a whole bunch of young professionals trying to encompass the ideal of what it means to be a young professionals. In reality, we all just really like cheap wine, and we didn't know what to do at a social gathering without playing a drinking game. After a little while, we had given up on the yo-pro lifestyle and we were all just back to junior year of college, slapping cups off table and drinking wine out of the bottle (okay, I was drinking wine out of the bottle. so what. who cares).
The night was growing sillier and sillier, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of gossip: one of my favorite things to find myself in the middle of. Our party's host had arguably drank way more than she should have, and the guy who lived next door had as well. They had disappeared into the night (or his apartment, whatever), and a small section of the party was just abuzz about it. His roommate, a spritely young fellow with particularly manicured hair, seemed most concerned, "I know I should step in and say something, but I don't want to be a cockblock." Cockblock: the bro-iest of bro terms. As a Brother of a fraternity for three years in college, I was no stranger to the bro terms, nor was I a stranger to being the guy who inevitably was the "cockblock" for the greater good. I immediately volunteered because I care about women's rights and walking in on other people having sexy time is particularly hilarious.
We formulated a plan: I would go use the bathroom because the one in the partypartment was taken. Flawless. I knew it wouldn't take much work to stop the activity because they hadn't been in there for very long. There was no way they were in mid-coitus yet, and even if they were, I would just do what my dad did when two of our dogs got "caught up" while reproducing: pour warm water on them until it loosened up. And yes, dogs DO get "caught up" sometimes. It's a thing: watch here. Anyway, they were just making out on the couch, so I pulled the classic Justin move and said, "Oh gosh, I'm sorry. I'm so embarrassed. I'm going to go to the bathroom!" I stepped into the bathroom and gave them the appropriate amount of time to separate. In that thirty seconds, I got bored. I was wearing a big black hoodie that night (#Justice4Trayvon), and because I was such a good citizen, I felt like I deserved a prize. I decided to heist some hair gel that I saw on the counter... Garnier Fructis to be exact. Nothing too fancy--your standard mid-shelf styling product, apparently designed for surfers, though there's no legitimate waves anywhere near Washington D.C. I didn't think what I had done was a big deal, and yes, I bragged about it a little because, well, wine. But I was wrong. Just like that, I had spat on the alter of bro culture. I had stolen the hair gel, the paste if you will, and in the process... stolen a piece of the same spritely bro who I originally was helping out.
A couple of days went by before news had hit. But, as we all know, you can't thieve hair gel/paste without it eventually bubbling to the surface. The next week, the party's host revealed to me that she had tattled: bro knows. And bro was pissed. I wasn't sure when I would see him again, so I assumed the fire would eventually die. Sometimes, I forget when someone screws me over like ten minutes after it happened, but I was so wrong. A couple weeks later, he deleted me from Facebook, and when he decided to have a birthday bash, he invited all of my friends except for me. Nothing felt okay anymore, and I had never been purposefully not invited to a party. People loved having me at parties, and it's not like I stole a television or anything. I mean, if it would fit in my hoodie pocket, maybe, but that's an absurd thought. A television would obviously not fit in my hoodie pocket. Regardless, I found no legitimate reason to not go to the party, so... I invited myself. I'm from the South though, and if I learned anything about etiquette, you never go to a party without a gift. A couple hours before the rager/soiree, I decided to go to CVS and buy some, you guessed it, Garnier Fructis. I wanted to use the mid-grade paste to patch up the split ends of what was once a respectable acquaintanceship. I wanted to be loved again.
Once we got to the party, I noticed that he avoided me. I heard through the grapevine he never wanted to see my face again, which... I repeat, is over a canister of hair gel. But I've always had naturally tame, luscious hair, so maybe I'm just really underselling the importance of hair care products. Finally, I had him cornered. The only thing he could hit me with was his fists, a bag of Goldfish, and a half empty bowl of stale Tostitos (I knew they were stale because I singlehandedly ate the rest of the chips in the bowl). I nervously approached him and said, "Hey, so, I know that you know that I know that you know about me taking your hair gel. I had a lot of wine, and that was a really bad mistake, soooo... I brought you this." I brought the hair gel around from my back like a proud second grader presenting some macaroni art to his mother. He said, "Oh cool," took the hair gel, tossed it on the table, and walked away. Not cool, bro. Not cool. Throughout the rest of the night, I drank Milwaukee's Best from a keg, ate stale chips, and called it a day. I had lost the social struggle, and when I lose, I stress eat.
Unfortunately, I never salvaged what we kind of once had, you know, when we were at parties with mutual friends. Sometimes my friends bring it up to me, and I get really defensive about it and talk about how it wasn't even that great. Sometimes his friends bring it up to him, and apparently he reference how I didn't even get the right brand to repay him with. As my boss sometimes tells me, the devil's in the details. Damn it. But in the end, these moments are learning moments: the losing of a sibling means that you should appreciate your family and show them love every single day without a pause. The hitting the car... pay attention more often, particularly at the end of your driveway. The stealing of the hair gel? Be conscious of your decisions whether you're tipsy or sober.

As for having your hair gel stolen? I guess that means you need to hide your shit, bro.

Pumpkin Spice, Miley, and the Trouble with White People

White people must have lost their minds today. It's been so hot outside and now, out of no where (or rather the residual effects of the underwhelming Hurrican Karen), the temperature has suddenly dropped. This anti-spike in temperature is surely going to signal a turn toward fall. The leaves will be falling soon and hoards of Caucasians will be heading to the pumpkin farm or the corn maze, adorned with scarves (though it's not cold enough) and pumpkin spiced lattes (though they're overpriced), and mmmmm, it will just be wonderful. It's what we do every year around this time, because, well we're a predictable race. Similar to bears, fall time is the last hoorah before white people go inside for the winter, only to emerge again to Instagram everything about spring. We run to craft stores and collect as many holiday-themed collectibles that we can and then we craft our asses of. Hobby Lobbys and Michael's across the nation feel our wrath as we leave their stores in shambles to craft and craft and craft, and that's where the problem comes in.
As of late, there has been some public conversation surrounding cultural misappropriation: let me explain what that is. It's when one race (white people) take something from another race and then claim it as their own without actually claiming it as their own. I first started noticing the term when white people in office spaces across America would simultaneously burst into Grand mal seizures while "The Harlem Shake" would play in the background. Black people responded by going on MSNBC and instructing white people how to actually do the Harlem Shake, which for the record, requires you to keep the Grand mal seizure specifically in your legs. A couple months later, white people misappropriated "twerking," a la Miley Cyrus. Again, we were doing it wrong. I'm still not exactly sure what twerking is... I believe the jury is still out on that one.
But let me clarify: saying that white people are stealing the Harlem Shake or twerking is like watching a thief rob a bank and then drop all the money before they get out the door. White people aren't stealing anything. And I would hardly say it's cultural misappropriation. I took a lot of creative writing classes in college and people would come in all the time with terrible strings of words that they would call poetry. I guess I could say that they were misappropriating poetry, but instead, I just liked to tell them in workshop that they were doing it wrong. Misappropriation is not where we should be focusing our efforts, guys. Focusing on things like that is like when Congress was freaking out about gay marriage as our economy was going down the drain. Bigger fish, y'all. Bigger fish.
I'm guilty of it, too. I'm sitting here on my eggshell colored couch, watching The Walking Dead, while working on a blog. The whiteness is getting out of control. There's a pumpkin sitting on the island in my kitchen that I plan on carving tomorrow. I'm a 23 year old man. The answer does not lie in making sure that cultural traditions are kept separate from one another... it comes in stamping out all this whiteness everywhere. I come from a home full of guns and deer heads and camouflage, so obviously my journey away from whitehood has been quite a process. However, I like to believe that I move toward becoming less and less white every day. I've always had the privilege of having a "racially aware sensei" for most of my life, guiding me through the ups and downs of what it means to be fighting a life of whiteness. It started in middle school with my friend Kierra, continued along into college where Sean took over, and finally led to post-grad where Krystal has graciously taken care of me... and that's where the story leads to: Krystal, me, and a racially charged glass of alcohol.
For my 23rd birthday, I invited all of the friends I had made in DC at the time (approximately 2.7) out for dinner and drinks. Only 1.7 of them showed up, but that wouldn't stop me from celebrating my 23rd year of life. The only issue with this birthday is that I had never been "out for my birthday" before, and I was pleasantly surprised that people tend to buy you drinks on your birthdays. My drink of choice has turned out to be a long island tea, which was apparently my dad's drink of choice when he was trollin for honeys at Buster Mugg's back in the 80s. Like father... sort of like son. Anyway, that's what people kept bringing me all night. Eventually, I was right at the point of not being able to keep any more drinks down (because birthdays are hard, get off my back), and I was sitting with Krystal and her boyfriend, Skip. My old roommate, Andrew, came over with another long island tea and offered it to me... and it was at that point that all my feelings about whiteness came bubbling over. You could say that the spirit of black America had entered my body, but that is probably a little bit presumptuous and a lotta bit racist. I'll just tell you what was said:
"I told you no," said Justin.
"But it's your birthday drinking," said Andrew
"Why are you trying to keep us down? You're always trying to keep us down," said Justin
"Who?" said Andrew
"Us," motioning to himself, Krystal, and Skip, "Us black people," said Justin
To Krystal, "You know I'm not racist, right?" said Andrew
Krystal gave the side eye.
The conversation did not stop there, as I spent at least another ten minutes explaining how Andrew was constantly trying to bring down the African American race, while calling on no other specific example other than the fact that he tried to bring me what must have been my tenth long island tea of the night, but inside, I felt like I was finally conquering the issue we've all been facing. It's not that he was taking anything from me, self-appointed representative of the African Americans. It's that he was trying to force his whiteness on me... and overall, on us. That's when it hit me. The problem with race in America does not exist because of lack of integration... the problem exists because white people are just trying to cross too many lines.
It came to my attention even more as I was checking out at Trader Joes with an organic pumpkin, some cranberry apple butter, pumpkin ravioli, and a bouquet of marigolds. I was the problem. Look at me whiting up Arlington even more than it already is. For those of you who don't know, Arlington is one of the whitest places in America. It's full of bicycles, mom and pop shops, people who are excited to take public transportation, and mostly coffee. What we need is to invite a couple of diverse friends over... no strike that. First, we need to make our traditionally white places seem less unsafe to our diverse friends, then invite them into our world. So white people, I leave you with this: leave your carts in the aisle. The organic food will be waiting when you get back. Walk out of that Trader Joe's and go wade in the water. Wade in the water, children.

Murder in the Burbs

I'm living in the suburbs now, and in turn, life has become quite suburban-like. I moved in about a month ago. About two days in that I was living with all Mormons: a revelation that would catch most off guard, but I'm never one to turn down a good cultural experience... I have a whole fleet of Mormons back home, and in the case that Joseph Smith really does have it right, I would like to believe they will come to my defense. I made the Mormon discovery over delivery pizza, the most sacred of all meals. Ever since, it's been a bit of a Desperate Housewives situation, as little issues and secrets from the suburbs have bubbled to the surface between casseroles and freshly made cupcakes. It's not like anyone has been killed or anything, well, yet... but there's always room for those kind of things to happen. But, again, that's not to say that the first month hasn't been eventful or at least taken some getting used to.

Back home in Tennessee, my neighborhood was hardly suburban. Most of the scandals that occurred involved my neighbor sneaking up behind our house and shooting a turkey, which then followed with my dad physically attacking him... so on and so forth, no big deal. Our neighbors up the street had two German Shepherds named Hydro and Codone, which my dad convinced me were the names of two 70s sitcom characters. But more on them later. At my last apartment, we lived in the Arlington "hood" which, considering the overall archetype of Arlington County, is more like where most of working class America lives. There were a lot of quinceaneras that happened at the park up the road, and my roommate got his window busted in once... but we decided that was because no one in the neighborhood liked him. But the suburbs... that's uncharted territory for me. Imagine my surprise as a family biking down the street stared me down as I was rapping Holy Grail quite loudly in my parked car. In the suburbs, people expect better things out of you, namely... not singing Jay-Z songs with your windows down.
My first run-in happened just days after I moved in. I was smoking in my front yard, all Ryan Atwood-style as the local Marissa Coopers watched from their windows. I didn't think it was a big deal, until I realized that there was no where to put my cigarette butts. I would finish off one, and then lay it in the gutter so that it could... I don't know... disappear or something. Unfortunately, that didn't work. A couple days later, my roommate came to me and said, Um, I don't know if you smoke or something, but the lady next door stopped me and said that someone was smoking in our yard, and it didn't make the neighborhood look good... so I just wanted to let you know. Ostracized. I was Hester Prynn-ed right out of the neighborhood before I could even start.
But I've tried my best to fit into the mold the best that I can. Tonight for instance, we had a little dinner party on the back porch, I fixed pumpkin cupcakes, and I spent the majority of the night doing laundry and watching Pitch Perfect in the background. Everything seems so simple in this world because on the surface... it is. But as we learned from Desperate Housewives' 9 year tenure on ABC, life is not always as it seems. Before I left for Knoxville a little over two weeks ago, life was going pretty well. I'd gotten the anti-smoking neighbor off my back, and I was getting settled in to the normalcy of quaint-Arlington-life. I was dating someone. Sometimes, my roommates would sit down and watch Big Brother or some other show with me, and I had even gotten comfortable enough to whip out the ol' bottle of wine every once in a while, but when I returned... everything got more complicated. The dating was over, my friends were busy, Big Brother had ended for the season, and everything was just amiss.
My dating life, per the usual, is a bit of a sham. I was sitting at home on a Tuesday night in gym shorts and a t-shirt, watching my DVR-ed Dancing with the Stars. I was sipping on some wine, and of course as most young boys do whilst watching Dancing with the Stars, I got lonely. I turned to my tried and true method of meeting people... online dating... because it's been so very successful in the past. I sent a cutie a little message, and I put my phone down, content with myself for the valiant effort that I had made in the dating world. Because our generation is a really freaky,l nearly voyeuristic one, obsessed with knowing as much information as possible, this site tells you how far you are from one another. Originally, it said 2 miles away, but after it refreshed, it said 1 mile. I thought that was kind of strange, but sometimes the GPS is off a bit. I looked back down and it said .5 miles away... it started to feel eerie. At this point, I picked up my phone and held it, waiting to see if my interest-turned-stalker was getting any closer. After refreshing again, the distance had updated to 300 feet away--guys, that's a football field. At this point, I was convinced that my killer could see me. I wasn't sure what to do because the only thing around me to kill someone was a remote, a large potted plant, and a stack of bills. In short, I was the black guy in every slasher movie. I was the opposite of Jennifer Lopez in Enough. All I had done was send a message to someone on a dating website, and in the course of 15 minutes, I was convinced that I was staring death in the face.
The phone refreshed one more time: 17 feet. This was it. My front door opened and my roommate walked through and behind him was a familiar face. The same face that I was looking at and refreshing just seconds before. He said, "Hey man! Glad you're down here... I have a friend I want you to meet." I didn't catch a name because at that point, I started laughing... and not in the, "laugh along with me kind of way," but in the, "I'm sorry I laughed at your cat's elaborate funeral" kind of way. I introduced myself and then put together what I was wearing: white gym shorts with a hot sauce stain on them from dinner and a t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. At this point, I was out of control. I was laughing to the point that I was occasionally snorting as they looked on at me like I had some kind of social disorder (which, in all honesty, I may... but that's neither here nor there). Eventually, they went upstairs and didn't come back down for the rest of the night. When I went upstairs, the door was closed and the light was off, but in all of my laughter, I didn't put together what that meant; it wasn't until the next day that I realized that I had lost my online venture before it even started. But, for now at least, I had my life.
So, there may not be any dogs down the street named after prescription pain killers, and no one has gotten their windows busted in, but that's not to say that nothing happens in the suburbs. The lease has barely started, and I'm not convinced that the woman next door isn't housing someone in her basement or something. But in the mean time, I'll just sit on the couch with my pumpkin muffins and DVR shows that I would prefer the rest of the world didn't know I watched... and when I get lonely, I'll sift through the pictures on online dating sites considering which ones are secretly dating my roommate, which ones might be available, and which ones may actually show up at my door in an attempt to kill me.