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.

An Analysis of People I've Met in DC via The Hunger Games

In a city full of dangers and obstacles, it's apparent to me that only the strong survive. As I stuck my leg in the metro today to stop the doors from closing, the metro began to pull away... with my leg. This place is not for the faint of heart, unless you happen to be faint of heart on the metro, in which case you'll fit in perfectly. Everyone seems to sleep on the metro, and it's not a big deal. All you need to do is claim a seat, then just doze off. No one really messes with one another, but if you don't wake up, I have a theory that someone transports your body over to the green line, then you disappear into Anacostia never to be seen again. It's kind of like the canon that gets fired when someone dies in The Hunger Games... actually, speaking of The Hunger Games (available on DVD and BluRay August 18th), let me do a little rundown of my fellow DC-... um... people. I will evaluate their skills with a Hunger Games training score from 1 to 12.

Roommate Andrew
He bakes and seems to be handy with a soccer ball. He keeps his car exceptionally clean and was the first person I met going into the games... I mean, moving to DC. Well, other than Yoli and Peter, but we'll get to that later. For comparison sake, he's the counterpart from my district. When I get sad, sometimes we go to Target, and he decidedly chose not to eat Chick-Fil-A because we discussed the homophobic stigma that comes along with it. In terms of his fighting skill, I'm not sure how he would fare, but I have confidence that as a team, we can at least make it to the final 8. I did, however, threaten to cut his back open with a pizza cutter, and he didn't flinch.
Training score: 9

The Woman Who Asked Me to Put Money in Her Shoe
She wasn't too well kept, but honestly, after traversing the city for a little bit, I don't think that's a requirement that you have to meet. I walked upon her, laying/sitting on a small collection of stairs. She looked at me and said, Hey baby. I mean, she had me from hello. She unlaced her shoe, took if off, and held it toward me. Put mama some money in her shoe. Sadly, there was no spare money for mama to have, and she was not happy when I explained that to her. I imagine that if this had happened in a dark alley, the outcome would have ended differently. She was fierce, and obviously a DC career.
Training score: 10

Fish Sandwich, Fish Sandwich Boy
One night, in a desperate attempt to not go back to our furnitureless apartment, roommate Andrew and I decided to go to the Oriental Supermarket in search of rice noodles, followed by a brief stop at the local McDonalds. I noticed a sign that said "No Loitering. Consumption Time 30 Minutes." This McDonald's don't mess. Yet in bold disregard for the obvious time restraint this McDonald's seemed to be facing, one little boy stood proudly with the largest hand of coupons I've ever seen. Without looking at the cashier, he would repeat everything on the coupon, Fish sandwich for a dollar. Fish sandwich for a dollar. Fish sandwich for a dollar. McFlurry for 99 cents. The list continued on. His inability to make eye contact was precious, but that charm can only last for so long. He was the little Middle Eastern Rue, but even she wasn't quite good enough.
Training score: 6

The "I'd Let Sebastian Bach Spit On Me" Woman
If anything can remind you that the world is much smaller than you would have ever believed, it's got to be the fact that the same trashy people go to Kenny Chensey concerts all across the land. And on a smoke break out to the railings of what may have been the biggest arena I've ever been to, I met her. Who you ask? Oh, only a woman that told me that should we risk getting thrown out of the concert if she could grab Kenny Chesney's "jewels." She then went on to tell me that she had acquired a drumstick from a Nickelback concert, as well as a sweat/spit towel from Sebastian Bach (known famously for his brief role on Celebrity Fit Club and Gilmore Girls, and was apparently in a band as well). She followed by saying that she would let Sebastian Bach put any bodily fluids he wanted on her. Then I walked away. She wouldn't make it far, but if Sebastian Bach were brutally bludgeoned close enough to be sprayed by his blood, she would at least go out happy.
Training score: 5

Black Man Selling Knock Off Tee Shirts
He called me fat and had poorly made tee shirts. He would die first when my fat ass would send a hatchet flying into his back.
Training score: 1

Walmart Enthusiast at Target
Another easily targeted (no pun intended) tribute would be the woman who so excitedly asked my roommate and I if we have ever been to Walmart. As we finished purchasing our cleaning supplies, she explained how it was bigger and that everything there was cheaper. If we had the time, we should check it out. As we hurried out the door, we went to his car. As we put the final items in the car, she appeared again, Oh! Long time no see, boys! How are you?! She was so excited to be there. If someone made it to her before I made it to "Black Man Selling Knock Off Tee Shirts," she would arguably be the weakest character.
Training score: 2

The Girl I Called Fugly Slut After Too Many Tequila Shots
Sometimes people are nice, and sometimes they aren't... kind of like Glimmer from District 2. That's why she got killed by tracker jackers so early into the game. And for all intensive purposes, I dropped a nest of tracker jackers on someone after just one night here. My friend's roommates decided to take me out, and after a girl walked up and loudly announced to me that she was a Marine then called me a "civilian" in the most demeaning tone ever, I was perturbed to say the least. It wasn't until she came back with one of the roommates and deemed me "unattractive" that it happened... Are you serious right now? You are a fugly slut. And that's why we don't ever let Justin drink tequila in the company of strangers. I woke up on the futon the next morning, and she appeared wearing a tee shirt and panties from one of the roommate's rooms, then stepped outside to smoke a Marlboro Red at nine in the morning. I went to the window and took her picture.
Training score: 7 (though she was skanky, it would honestly take a lot to kill someone who hasn't already killed themselves with 9:00am Marlboro Reds)

Landlord Peter
I haven't really been able to understand anything that he's said since I've met him, but I do know that he was super enthusiastic about the fig tree that is growing outside next to our patio and that his cousin came to fix our freon. I'm going to take a far reaching guess and say that Peter is his American name. Also, he has the ability to disappear faster than anyone I've ever seen before... like Foxface.
Training Score: 5

Desperately Seeking Shooting Situation

I don't think I've ever wanted anyone to die. That's not how I roll; too much karma attached to that kind of wishful thinking. However, I have always had a killer desire (no pun intended) to find myself in a shooting situation. It dials back to when I was younger; sometimes, when I would be lying on the floor pretending to have passed out hoping that Casey would call an ambulance, I would imagine it was from a gun shot wound. It would always be in a non-vital place like my shoulder, or my leg, but I would imagine I had lost just enough blood that I would lose consciousness. My last words before rescue would always be profound and full of wisdom, like most middle schoolers are instilled with, and then I would pass out and wait for Casey to find me and freak out about the morbid jokes I would play on him.
Like most things in my life, I blame a great deal of my wishing for a shooting situation on television. I've made it a point to watch as many shows involving shootings so that I can become well-versed on typical shooting plot lines. Luckily, between my Mamaw Cora and my mom, I had all of the soap operas covered when I could be home during the week. In the later years when tv viewing was more liberal, I picked up Grey's Anatomy and One Tree Hill. I even made a personal exception and watched Desperate Housewives for the episode where Jackie from Roseanne guest starred and shot everyone in that supermarket. One day, when someone went postal in my own life, I would step up and be the Derek Shepherd or Keith Scott or whatever Felicity Huffman's character's name was. They all tried to talk down the shooter, and only one of them died from it. The odds were in my favor.
The idea has followed me around for years now. One boy that used to sit behind me in middle school was convicted for shooting a couple in some town an hour or so away. I thought of all the times that he kicked my chair and I nearly had an emotional orgasm just thinking that I could have been a target. I know he hated me, but I could have talked him down. I could have explained why it wasn't worth it, and I could have saved the entire school. Surely it would be adapted into a television special, and I was confident that Jonathan Taylor Thomas would play me.
I never wished for anything to happen while I was in high school because I knew the odds of someone bringing a gun to South-Doyle were abnormally high anyways. Between the thug nasties that lived by the river and the uncomfortable number of country folk that had access to shotguns (myself included), I'm actually kind of shocked that I didn't get a gun put in my face on a daily basis. I knew they were on campus; we all did. Too many people shot things in their free time for there not to be. I was honestly just waiting for the day that someone would whip that bad boy out. One day, a boy did bring a dismantled pistol to school to supposedly shoot his girlfriend, but I was sadly on route to a math competition. And honestly, we never were the premier public school of Knox County, but I did expect more than the thinking I'm going to bring a broken gun to shoot someone. Don't get me wrong; I'm happy nothing happened, but seriously...
One of the appeals of being a Resident Assistant in college was the idea that I would be right in the line of fire (yet again, no pun intended... just a terrible plethora of cliches). The idea seemed magical until one girl on campus starting posting a lot of Eminem lyrics and posting statuses about how she hated everyone. I mean, Eminem is no Marilyn Manson, but I was picking up on what she was selling. So, we started talking. I figured that the allure of talking her down sans gun was probably better than talking her down with gun in hand. Same results: less consequence. She told me everything was going to be okay because she was about to get a recording contract, so I just kind of left her be so that she could go be her Mariah Carey self. The next day, I told what I thought was an authority figure of the lyrics and the possibility to the response, "Oh, it's okay. She's transferring at the end of this semester." Sweet response, bro. That only gives her like two weeks to snipe campus. Thanks, brah.
The night after our conversation, social networks exploded with news of gunshots around campus. I thought to myself Damn it, Justin. You called it, and no one listened. No one ever listens to you, and somehow you are always right. Go. Go and fix this mess. So naturally, I went toward the sound of the gunshots. Accompanied by two of my favorite lesbians armed with air soft guns, we ran cross campus in the middle of the night. A police car stopped us and told us to get inside. Oh shit, I was right! There was a shooter held up in an apartment... off campus. Not a student. Well, kind of. We slinked back to our dorm, and for old times sake, I laid in the floor and pretended to be shot one more time. I, then, actually fell asleep and missed class the next day because of it. Close enough for me.
Some people tell me that my fascinations is an utter disrespect for human life. Some people have even told me that there's something wrong with me. But you see, I've never wanted anyone to die. That's just too sad. I have, though, really wanted a situation that would be suitable for a network prime-time season finale. I don't think it's too much for a young man to ask for a somewhat life-threatening situation that he can single handedly get under control. But until then, I'll just continue lying in my floor pretending to get shot, and when anyone walks in and asks what I'm doing (which has happened), I'll just stick to the regular response. I fell down. But we'll all know what's going on... I'll be rehearsing those final, poetic moments before the show goes off until September... or something like that.

Reasons I Decided Not to Accept My Open Invitation to The Illuminati

I'm going to say what's on all of our minds... I'm too nice. I know. I have a kind spirit and an old soul. I like befriending people that don't have friends, and on a fiscally prosperous day, you may even see me giving money to hobos on the street. I love puppies and babies. I like to see minorities succeed at things that only white people do. It's a blessing and a curse.

With that being said, sometimes I find that I extend my hand to people that probably aren't the most trustworthy individuals in the world. That's why a pretty respectable number of my fraternity brothers have slept with girls that I've openly confessed to being interested in. Most of the time, I count my losses and move on, but there's only been one time that befriending someone has led to me fearing for my and my family's life. The irony of it all is that it started in a little class that I like to call Children's Literature. There was a girl that kind of shied away from the rest of the class. I didn't want to see her lonely, so my friend Kasi and I began sitting with her. Soon, we would have our own inside jokes and would cling to each other when projects would come up, though her opinion on our topics were always a little more eccentric than what the rest of the class would do. I should have known something was up when she avidly campaigned for my "utopian/Atheistic" interpretation of The Giver. It made me so nervous that I felt guilty enough to pray to God later that night for even recognizing that a Godless interpretation could exist.
After the semester was over, Kasi and I began finding out odd things about this girl... like that she's wasn't 28 like she originally had said, but rather 36. We didn't think much about it; sometimes age can be an awkward thing for some people. Later we would find out that she fanatically supports the writings of Ayn Rand and Karl Marx, and to an extent, lives her life by them. Still, nothing too out of the ordinary. Kasi eventually distanced herself from the girl, but in true Justin spirit, I maintained contact. Eventually, I starting noticing an uncomfortable number of likes from her on Facebook. She began sending me incomprehensible messages about how we were to rise up against the government, which really startled me. Then it happened: my message came.
I was alerted of my participation in the Illuminati. From what the message said, I suppose it was never a choice that I was part of it, but currently "I did not know that I was." She told me that I would eventually have my kick (you know, like on Inception) and that we would all come back to campus so that we could all move on together (you know, like Lost). The whole thing began feeling really dangerous, but really fun at the same time because I've always enjoyed pop culture references, and I always longed to be in an exclusive group. (Oh, you didn't know? Check out Failed Attempts at Being in a Social Circle)
The whole debacle really climaxed when she changed her name to something Russian, started posting pictures of my best friend on a Vietnamese fansite for Communism, and was found in the campus chapel at three in the morning screaming about being chased by the man. Eventually, she would contact me and ask me to meet her at a driving range across the street from my house. I turned her name into the authorities and started watching over my shoulder. Sorry Illuminati. It was real.
One day, I'm sure I'll befriend a serial killer and get my head chopped off. I'm kind of mentally preparing for it every day. If that does indeed happen, I would like to say a couple things to some people.

• Mom, you really were the light of my life.
• Ashley, I'm pumped for your wedding, but I apologize for not responding to that nice card.
• Vandy, thanks for having my back, girl.
• Gabourey Sidibe, I was shocked to find out you were nominated in the Drama category of the Oscars. I swear, I thought Precious was a comedy. I don't apologize for it.

Yeah, I think that's it. And most of all, Anastasia, as I believe that's what you'd like to be called these days, I really am sorry that I declined your invitation to join the Illuminati. I'm also sorry we didn't meet for coffee less than a mile away from my parent's house. I'm mostly sorry that I'm not fluent in Arabic; I'm positive that's why I still don't understand half the messages you sent me. But I'll never be sorry for our friendship, even if it does leave me stranded in an internment camp one day.

Prom: A Survivor's Story

As all of you already know, high school prom is the single most important night that you will have in your entire life. For girls, it's their one opportunity to feel like a princess and dictate the color of their men's ensemble. For boys, it's the high school virgin's last attempt at leaving high school a "man." For me, it was more about color coordination on a more masculine level. Considering my fierce dedication to my Bieber cut (before it was a Bieber cut, mind you) and the idea of wearing a brown suit, I was simply not going to "get laid" as the children say. Also, I was fiercely dedicated to waiting until marriage for sexual excursions (Praise Him!). Nevertheless, I once heard that high school is a forecast of how the rest of your life is going to go. If prom is the most pivotal night of high school, then I suppose that I shouldn't have a lot of hope for the future. Let me explain.

Martina McBride's video "Broken Wing." Familiarize yourself.

First and foremost, if you didn't get the title reference, shame on you. Go watch Not Another Teen Movie and acquaint yourself with Ben Folds Five. Regardless of my ultimate shame at this point, I was determined that my Junior Prom, or "Practice Prom" as I like to call it now, was going to be the best night of my life. You see, my friend and I had planned months ahead of time that we were to go together. The closer that prom got, the more I became nervous. It was becoming more than I had bargained for. Believe it or not, I've always preferred the simple; the basic. There's a safety that comes with the familiar... less complexities to fall apart. However, as the date approached, I didn't feel in control of my practice prom. My date had a pink dress, so naturally, I acquired my pink vest, tie, socks, hair beret, belt... the works. It all become complicated though. My friend's mom, or "the DQL" as I liked to call her, began planning our night more and more. It began with the concept of professional photography. Acceptable. Followed by a rented car with driver. A little less acceptable, but whatevs. It didn't seem like too much, but in true DQL fashion, it seemed a little... forced... kind of like an abusive boyfriend that buys his girlfriend earrings then beats her with a pillowcase of oranges if he doesn't see her wearing them. I was the victim of "APA;" Acute Prom Abuse.

Like a Lifetime movie, I knew that I had to get out. My date told me that there was a possibility that she would have to work a shift at the Walmart the night of our prom. She would try and get off, but she wasn't sure. I had to run. There was no time to think. There was no option. I had to take my things, never look back, and leave behind all of my prom plans before it was too late. I called my best friend, Alex (not your typical prom girl, by any stretch) and asked her if she would go to prom with me. I knew that it would be a favor I would need to pay back in the future, but I needed her. I needed her like Jennifer Lopez needed Juliette Lewis in Enough. The DQL was my abusive husband/Billy Campbell. Ultimately, I escaped with my safety and identity, but I haven't spoken to the DQL since. She goes down as the only parent to ever truly detest me, at least to my face. If you ever read this DQL, I'm so sorry for everything. I'm sorry for this post. Please don't find me.
The following year, I would attend prom with Alex again. My friend had acquired a nice boyfriend who wore a lot of black and was partial to wearing fedoras. The DQL's whereabouts were unbeknownst to me. Like most Hollywood movies about abuse featuring members of the opposite sex, I had developed feelings for my rescuer. (Alex, have we ever formally talked about this?!) I had become close to her family; Alex and I were closer than ever. I had told everyone except for Alex how I felt, even my boss who sprung for a nice dinner to Altruda's beforehand.

Side note: words of experience, though my attempts were not fruitful, don't ever go to a restaurant that serves "garlic knots" on the night of your prom.

I suppose I just kind of gave away the ending. Nothing happened with Alex and eventually my feelings waned and fell back into the best friend spectrum. Neither of my proms were nearly as magical as any movies seem to depict, with the exception of Carrie. My prom definitely went better than that. A lot less blood. Same amount of fire. At the end of the day, little ones, if you haven't attended prom yet, I really doubt that you should be reading the contents of this blog. However, if you are, just try and get out of prom with a healthy relationship with your date and his or her family. Stand up for what you believe in, and don't ever get a brown suit because it doesn't go well with nearly as many color schemes as you believe it will. And God forbid it is a train wreck, know that there will be many other proms in your future, except they'll be called "mixers," and sometimes there will be dress themes. Someone will definitely have a worse time than you. Promise.