Sometimes the planets align, the stars get crossed, and all of heaven above and hell below shout at you in beautiful four part harmony to start rockin' a fedora. And I'm not in the practice of ignoring anything that God and Satan finally agree on. So, for fear of my own existence, I am going to purchase and begin wearing a fedora. Why? Because I can probably pull it off, you asshole. And why not? I don't know. Because someone might think I look like a douchebag. But you know what? That only makes me want to wear one even more. Suck it.
It's strange, really. The very presence or absence of an article of clothing could make me look like a douchebag? Let's face it. I'm a douche either way. The fedora just gives me the appearance of a more stylish douche. If you want to judge me by what I'm wearing, go ahead. That's the fucking point of clothes. To distinguish between who is wealthy, who is poor, and ultimately, who looks damn good in a fedora. It goes like this. You see me wearing a fedora and your animal instinct growls at you in the back of your head, urging you to jump my bones. Here's something I'll bet you didn't know: Charles Darwin invented fedoras. Yeah. He did a study. Two male monkeys. One wore a fedora, the other just looked foolish, and then they let a female monkey into the room. I don't think I need to explain what happened next, but I will because I'm trying to make a point. There was a knife fight. The fedora remained intact. Sexual relations ensued. BAM. A monkey was born. Because of a fedora. Procreation, bitch.
In all honesty, I don't know what I'll look like in a fedora. I've received mostly positive reactions about the idea though. The lone exception being Casey, who hates me with every fiber of her non-fedora wearing being anyway. So her opinion is meaningless. My sister loved the idea, and has actually been suggesting to me all summer that I should buy a fedora. I trust her opinion. She's majoring in fashion merchandising at Kent State. She should probably be buying all of my clothes. Ariel insisted that I can pull it off because I "just have the kind of face that can pull off anything, really". After I mentioned the idea to Garrett, he said "do it", which I translated to "Dude you'll look so hot in that". So, you see? The slighest mention of a fedora gets everyone all hot and bothered, straight males included.
So that's how I arrived at this conclusion. This is what I've been called to do. Some people take vows of celibacy to preach the word of the Lord. Some people go to Nicaragua to try and lessen the load of the less fortunate. Others just put on fedoras and say "Look at me!" Well, I feel no shame. I've made my choice and there's no dissuading me. I'm going to buy a fedora and rock the shit out of it. At least for a few days, until I realize I look like a big douchebag. But what a glorious few days they shall be. What a glorious few days indeed...
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Other Annie/My French-Canadian Lover
THE OTHER ANNIE
As of today, I have a nine year-old talent agent scouring the streets of New York City to find me some work. Her name is Annie, and she means fucking business. As I was waiting a table today - a nice husband, wife, and their daughter - I felt the daughter's eyes prying. No big deal. Obviously, I'm handsome. Pry all you want. But then, while I was offering a bowl of our delicious Tiramasu, the daughter interrupted my half-assed pitch with such assertiveness that only a child like her could possess.
"Are you an actor?" she inquired, cocking her head to the side in a manner that suggested I had better quit fuckin' around and give up the ghost already.
I paused. "How did you know?"
The mother interjected while the girl giggled. "She's got a keen eye for it."
I explained that I studied acting a little in college and that it is still on my short list of hopeful goals to achieve in my lifetime. In purely accidental condescension, I asked the girl if she was a professional actor. She shat all over me.
"I've done some commercials and local things around New York City."
"Damnnn bitch" I said, which actually came out as "Oh, that's awesome! You should hook me up! Wanna be my agent?"
The girl giggled. I think she thought I was joking. I think even I thought I was joking. When I look back, I was dead fucking serious. The mother told me I should move to NYC.
After I brought the check to the family, I asked the girl her name.
"Annie!" she replied, with the trademark enthusiasm and snark that only a nine year-old from New York City can possess.
"Well, Annie," I began, "You gotta go find me a job, okay?"
"Okay!" she replied, which sounded a lot more like "Fuck off!" in my head.
So, Annie, I don't know if you thought I was kidding when I asked you to be my agent. But I definitely wasn't. With your nine year-old charm and wit, I think you could really convince some people to give the 22 year-old guy you met in a restaurant a chance at stardom. Do me a solid, young jedi. The fate of my life is in your hands. Don't fuck it up, kid.
MY FRENCH-CANADIAN LOVER
This story is short, sweet, and full of sexual tension. I was waiting on a table of what I perceived to be elderly French-Canadians. But I'm terrible with accents, so for all I know, they were just Americans talking with their mouths full. But I'll put my money on French-Canadian. As I was asking what they needed me to box up for them, an elderly woman chimed in.
"Can you just box yourself up?" she politely asked, wearing a decidedly suggestive smile on her face.
"That'll cost extra," I joked, throwing up in my mouth between each forced chuckle. Wayyy extra. I thought.
So the nine year-olds love me and the 99 year-olds love me. Now I just need to concentrate on my own age group. That's where my agent comes in. You got an older sister, Annie? Hook me up, kid.
As of today, I have a nine year-old talent agent scouring the streets of New York City to find me some work. Her name is Annie, and she means fucking business. As I was waiting a table today - a nice husband, wife, and their daughter - I felt the daughter's eyes prying. No big deal. Obviously, I'm handsome. Pry all you want. But then, while I was offering a bowl of our delicious Tiramasu, the daughter interrupted my half-assed pitch with such assertiveness that only a child like her could possess.
"Are you an actor?" she inquired, cocking her head to the side in a manner that suggested I had better quit fuckin' around and give up the ghost already.
I paused. "How did you know?"
The mother interjected while the girl giggled. "She's got a keen eye for it."
I explained that I studied acting a little in college and that it is still on my short list of hopeful goals to achieve in my lifetime. In purely accidental condescension, I asked the girl if she was a professional actor. She shat all over me.
"I've done some commercials and local things around New York City."
"Damnnn bitch" I said, which actually came out as "Oh, that's awesome! You should hook me up! Wanna be my agent?"
The girl giggled. I think she thought I was joking. I think even I thought I was joking. When I look back, I was dead fucking serious. The mother told me I should move to NYC.
After I brought the check to the family, I asked the girl her name.
"Annie!" she replied, with the trademark enthusiasm and snark that only a nine year-old from New York City can possess.
"Well, Annie," I began, "You gotta go find me a job, okay?"
"Okay!" she replied, which sounded a lot more like "Fuck off!" in my head.
So, Annie, I don't know if you thought I was kidding when I asked you to be my agent. But I definitely wasn't. With your nine year-old charm and wit, I think you could really convince some people to give the 22 year-old guy you met in a restaurant a chance at stardom. Do me a solid, young jedi. The fate of my life is in your hands. Don't fuck it up, kid.
MY FRENCH-CANADIAN LOVER
This story is short, sweet, and full of sexual tension. I was waiting on a table of what I perceived to be elderly French-Canadians. But I'm terrible with accents, so for all I know, they were just Americans talking with their mouths full. But I'll put my money on French-Canadian. As I was asking what they needed me to box up for them, an elderly woman chimed in.
"Can you just box yourself up?" she politely asked, wearing a decidedly suggestive smile on her face.
"That'll cost extra," I joked, throwing up in my mouth between each forced chuckle. Wayyy extra. I thought.
So the nine year-olds love me and the 99 year-olds love me. Now I just need to concentrate on my own age group. That's where my agent comes in. You got an older sister, Annie? Hook me up, kid.
August 3, 1916
Dearest Joe,
It is with a heavy heart that I sit here in a bloody trench with my pen in hand. No longer am I blinded by thoughts of nationalism and defending the fatherland. It is now, after spending the last three weeks here, that I have come to realize the sad truth. Joe, old chap, I am a broken, disillusioned man. I wish I still was the frolicsome, innocent young man that I was when I first put this British uniform on. I, like my fellow comrades, was motivated by the thoughts of war being an adventure, not realizing the true hell that it really is. The only way that I hold onto sanity and the will to live are thoughts of you, my dear Joe, and Biddy also. I have a picture of you in my locket and every dark night I lay there and gaze at the stars, remembering my life of old. But then I think of Miss Havisham, and I get this raging feeling of hatred and I strive to pull the trigger and end a man's life. And then I am ashamed, and I pull the locket out again.
Woe is me! Ever since that fateful day when dearest Britain was pulled into this terrible, ghastly thing they call war, I have pondered why I am here and why this is all happening. If it were not for the corruptive, destructive ways of man, I would not be here today fending for my life. Instead, I would be with you, dearest Joe, sipping a spot of tea and eating some cherry tarts I stole from the pantry. And we would be fearing the Tickler, that wooden cane of misery, would we not Joe? Oh, the good old days when a man could sit in his home with his family, not worrying about poison gas entering his body through the nostrils and enveloping his lungs in a death cloud of anguish. But that is all gone forever, is it not? If only we could go back into the past and stop the chain reaction from occuring. First it was Serbia, and then Austria-Hungary, and so on right down the line to our homeland. If only we had not vowed to keep Belgium in a state of neutrality. But it is not so...
I have many a tale to share with you, many dark things that I must relieve myself of. I have seen things that no man should ever be witness to. Do you remember Herbert, my exquisite companion? Well, it was only the other day when I was sitting in the false serenity of the trench in the midst of the front conversing with my unblemished chum. It was then that I heard a shrill whistle of cannon fire from the distance. I dove into the mud that is my protection that is the trench and I met the ground with a thud. As soon as I sensed that the danger had passed, I looked to my side where Herbert had been sitting a second before, expecting to look into the eyes of my lone ally. Instead, I viewed crimson death. Herbert was no longer there...only the shell of a man. No longer was the beautiful, muscular frame of my dear Herbert there beside me. Instead, it was only a skeleton with flesh dangling from the bone. At this point, I felt overcome by nausea and had to choke back the partially digested bread and crumpets I had consumed the hour before. That eve, I lay there haunted by the sight of death. It was only when I discovered my locket that I could free my mind from the depths of agony that had buried my soul.
And then there are the rats, Joe. These little devils come along every time I fall into a slumber of sorts. The scurrying sound of their evil little bodies of destruction promptly awakens me. It is then that I whip out my ration of bread and water. The rats overtake me like a miniature army of bloody Germans, plundering my provisions like the booty of an abandoned ship. After being robbed, I am faced with yet another burdensome day seemling like a duplicate of the last. I find myself going through a constant routine day after day, sitting in the trench fiddling with the locket and a deck of cards. The monotonous environment is driving me mad. I fear that one day I will turn out like one of my fellow comrades, commenced into insanity by the constant rumbling of the guns in the distance with nothing to do but wait for one of the shots from enemy guns to find their mark in the juicy meat that is my bosom.
This abrupt change from the calm vibes of our country cottage to the dastardly conditions and destruction on the front is extremely austere for me to adjust to. My socialized ways were not prepared for this. I was always a shy, peaceful young boy, not wishing to harm any person. Now it is totally different. I am expected to be a killing machine day in and day out. And worse yet, Joe, I fear that I am starting to enjoy this murdering. The conditions here are also unbearable, at least compared to my old ways. You know very well that I was always a very polished individual, constantly making sure that my figure was tantalizing to a curious stranger. No longer can my ways be satisfied. Now, I live in constant filth and human feces. What I would do for a fresh bar of soap and some fresh water to rinse my body in. Then again, it would be very dangerous to drop the soap around my comrades.
Yet, being a dirty, filthy man is not my worst of fears. No, Joe! It is the mustard gas. Oh, it was bad enough with the old poison vapor that threatened to scar your lungs if you did not have protection through a gas mask on your side. With these mustard fumes, there is nothing to save you. The pain is truly horrendous with the gas seemingly burning the skin right off of the body. Worst of all, this particular gaseous substance attacks your most moist spots. As you know, I am a particularly sweaty fellow and when my trench was enclosed by the volatile substance, I could only pray that my normally moist regions would be spared and that I would still be alive after its passing. With the warning of the gas, I truly believed that I had reached the end. Luckily for me, the winds of change blew in my favor and I was left unharmed, for the most part. However, I do have some gruesome spots...but I don't think you want to know where.
Since July 1, a little over a week after arriving at the front, I have been fighting in a massive battle with the French against the Germans (Battle of the Somme). This is the first major conflict that I have been in, along with the rest of Kitchener's Volunteer Army. How I regret signing up for that. Many of my fellow soldiers have been killed in the fighting, as this has been an extremely bloody battle between foes. It is here that I killed my first man. It is true that throughout this impotent showing of wits, I murdered many a-man. But how are you to know for sure when you are shooting blindly into the never-ending tide of fiends? I know for sure about one man that I inflicted death upon, however. Yes, this poor soul picked the wrong crater to leap into. Unknown to this German imbecile, I had taken cover in this ditch while sprinting across the stretch of barren earth that they call "No Man's Land". I sensed the footsteps of this foe only a second before he resided in my chasm. He noticed me in the shadows and quickly offered me some bread. Being the blunt fool that he was, he apparently thought that I was one of his comrades. Yes, Joe. It is true that he offered me bread...but I offered him death. Wait, I did not offer death. I forced it upon him with such a blind force that would make you think that I had once again called forth memories of the old hag Havisham. But it was not that which beckoned this monster from within. It was fear for my own life. So, as I muttered "Say hello to the devil for me", I drove the icy steel dagger into the left earlobe of my adversary. Noticing that the job was not yet done, I stabbed twice more, this time with precision. You see, Joe, I did not enjoy the act of halting the bodily processes of that mongrel. I did, however, enjoy his sweet flesh afterwards with a fresh Chianti and some fava beans.
Currently, I find myself acting as a pawn in this sick game of antipathy. This battle has revolved solely around attacks across No Man's Land, at least for us British. The distance between enemy trenches is truly a sight that one may only expect to come across in the worst of nightmares. Running across this land of ditches and craters is a chore, especially with the constant sound of artillery and the smell of death all around. Once you find yourself in the vicinity of the rival's trench, you come across the barbed wire, which is not passable by any means. That is, unless you would like to risk being carved up by its thorny edges or mowed down by machine gun fire. The passage across this wasteland is not only a test of will, but also luck. Luck is on my side, Joe. Let's hope it stays that way...
One thing I do not seem to comprehend is why all of this violence must occur. This war is dragging on much too long with little to be gained on either side. It seems that we are in the midst of one immense stalemate, never again to move from our positions. Is there any winner to this madness? The only winner is death and Satan, who has mankind on his body appendages like finger puppets, forcing us to commit demented acts of indiscretion. I see no victory here, Joe - only death and inhumanity. Every soldier on this great battlefield of our world is left to either die or lose his mind, falling prey to the ongoing psychological effects of the devastation around him. This is all a waste. I only wish to return to my dwelling and feel the warm sensation of tea tickling my vocal cords as its property of viscosity drives it down my esophagus. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. I don't quite know if that has anything to do with what I was saying. I just like the way it sounds.
My despair grows by the hour and I am beginning to find that the real beast is within. It is extremely difficult to maintain a firm grip on coherence and rationality in these conditions. My days and nights are haunted by the sight of rotting bodies strewn about the trenches and caught on the barbed wire, their faces with a fixed expression of agony. It was just the other night when I awoke abruptly from my slumber covered in a cold sweat recalling Herbert's vile departure from the living. I cannot help but feel guilt, as I was the last person to speak a word to the pale young gentleman. If I only knew which flagitious individual smoked my partner, I could avenge the death and free myself from this blame that I place upon myself. The grief that I feel eats at me more than the yellow sores from that frivolous gaseous haze, and that's saying quite a lot. If it were not for the letters that I send to you my dear, sweet Joseph, I would most likely regress into a state of numbness, no longer sane. The memories of my life of old keep me going, old chap.
I walked into this believing that I would become a hero. If I am able to walk out of it, I will be a morose man, downtrodden by all I have endured during this war. I am losing far more than I can ever gain, and I do not want to walk out of this with less than I came with. However, this seems unavoidable, as my old self has perished, leaving only a shell of the man I once was. My pride and optimism have given way to a cynical view of the world, leaving a man old of heart, yet young of years. I know that I can never be the same as I once was with these harsh memories breaking my spirit like a brittle crumpet, subjugated to the elements and weakened by the natural forces of my thumb and forefinger. I have changed my view of war. It is not at all intrepid or courageous. In fact, I was foolish to ever believe that it could be. My naive young self was not ever prepared for this, and I expect that this holds true with the millions of others that were seized and spellbound by Great Expectations. I am truly heartbroken by the waste of human life during these dark times. A human life is the most important thing on this earth and once it is taken, it can never again be restored. I am fortunate to still be here and I look forward to seeing you again.
With love and kisses,
Philip Pirrip - Private British 6th Infantry
10th grade Honors World Cultures "Letter from the Trench" by Dan and Vince
It is with a heavy heart that I sit here in a bloody trench with my pen in hand. No longer am I blinded by thoughts of nationalism and defending the fatherland. It is now, after spending the last three weeks here, that I have come to realize the sad truth. Joe, old chap, I am a broken, disillusioned man. I wish I still was the frolicsome, innocent young man that I was when I first put this British uniform on. I, like my fellow comrades, was motivated by the thoughts of war being an adventure, not realizing the true hell that it really is. The only way that I hold onto sanity and the will to live are thoughts of you, my dear Joe, and Biddy also. I have a picture of you in my locket and every dark night I lay there and gaze at the stars, remembering my life of old. But then I think of Miss Havisham, and I get this raging feeling of hatred and I strive to pull the trigger and end a man's life. And then I am ashamed, and I pull the locket out again.
Woe is me! Ever since that fateful day when dearest Britain was pulled into this terrible, ghastly thing they call war, I have pondered why I am here and why this is all happening. If it were not for the corruptive, destructive ways of man, I would not be here today fending for my life. Instead, I would be with you, dearest Joe, sipping a spot of tea and eating some cherry tarts I stole from the pantry. And we would be fearing the Tickler, that wooden cane of misery, would we not Joe? Oh, the good old days when a man could sit in his home with his family, not worrying about poison gas entering his body through the nostrils and enveloping his lungs in a death cloud of anguish. But that is all gone forever, is it not? If only we could go back into the past and stop the chain reaction from occuring. First it was Serbia, and then Austria-Hungary, and so on right down the line to our homeland. If only we had not vowed to keep Belgium in a state of neutrality. But it is not so...
I have many a tale to share with you, many dark things that I must relieve myself of. I have seen things that no man should ever be witness to. Do you remember Herbert, my exquisite companion? Well, it was only the other day when I was sitting in the false serenity of the trench in the midst of the front conversing with my unblemished chum. It was then that I heard a shrill whistle of cannon fire from the distance. I dove into the mud that is my protection that is the trench and I met the ground with a thud. As soon as I sensed that the danger had passed, I looked to my side where Herbert had been sitting a second before, expecting to look into the eyes of my lone ally. Instead, I viewed crimson death. Herbert was no longer there...only the shell of a man. No longer was the beautiful, muscular frame of my dear Herbert there beside me. Instead, it was only a skeleton with flesh dangling from the bone. At this point, I felt overcome by nausea and had to choke back the partially digested bread and crumpets I had consumed the hour before. That eve, I lay there haunted by the sight of death. It was only when I discovered my locket that I could free my mind from the depths of agony that had buried my soul.
And then there are the rats, Joe. These little devils come along every time I fall into a slumber of sorts. The scurrying sound of their evil little bodies of destruction promptly awakens me. It is then that I whip out my ration of bread and water. The rats overtake me like a miniature army of bloody Germans, plundering my provisions like the booty of an abandoned ship. After being robbed, I am faced with yet another burdensome day seemling like a duplicate of the last. I find myself going through a constant routine day after day, sitting in the trench fiddling with the locket and a deck of cards. The monotonous environment is driving me mad. I fear that one day I will turn out like one of my fellow comrades, commenced into insanity by the constant rumbling of the guns in the distance with nothing to do but wait for one of the shots from enemy guns to find their mark in the juicy meat that is my bosom.
This abrupt change from the calm vibes of our country cottage to the dastardly conditions and destruction on the front is extremely austere for me to adjust to. My socialized ways were not prepared for this. I was always a shy, peaceful young boy, not wishing to harm any person. Now it is totally different. I am expected to be a killing machine day in and day out. And worse yet, Joe, I fear that I am starting to enjoy this murdering. The conditions here are also unbearable, at least compared to my old ways. You know very well that I was always a very polished individual, constantly making sure that my figure was tantalizing to a curious stranger. No longer can my ways be satisfied. Now, I live in constant filth and human feces. What I would do for a fresh bar of soap and some fresh water to rinse my body in. Then again, it would be very dangerous to drop the soap around my comrades.
Yet, being a dirty, filthy man is not my worst of fears. No, Joe! It is the mustard gas. Oh, it was bad enough with the old poison vapor that threatened to scar your lungs if you did not have protection through a gas mask on your side. With these mustard fumes, there is nothing to save you. The pain is truly horrendous with the gas seemingly burning the skin right off of the body. Worst of all, this particular gaseous substance attacks your most moist spots. As you know, I am a particularly sweaty fellow and when my trench was enclosed by the volatile substance, I could only pray that my normally moist regions would be spared and that I would still be alive after its passing. With the warning of the gas, I truly believed that I had reached the end. Luckily for me, the winds of change blew in my favor and I was left unharmed, for the most part. However, I do have some gruesome spots...but I don't think you want to know where.
Since July 1, a little over a week after arriving at the front, I have been fighting in a massive battle with the French against the Germans (Battle of the Somme). This is the first major conflict that I have been in, along with the rest of Kitchener's Volunteer Army. How I regret signing up for that. Many of my fellow soldiers have been killed in the fighting, as this has been an extremely bloody battle between foes. It is here that I killed my first man. It is true that throughout this impotent showing of wits, I murdered many a-man. But how are you to know for sure when you are shooting blindly into the never-ending tide of fiends? I know for sure about one man that I inflicted death upon, however. Yes, this poor soul picked the wrong crater to leap into. Unknown to this German imbecile, I had taken cover in this ditch while sprinting across the stretch of barren earth that they call "No Man's Land". I sensed the footsteps of this foe only a second before he resided in my chasm. He noticed me in the shadows and quickly offered me some bread. Being the blunt fool that he was, he apparently thought that I was one of his comrades. Yes, Joe. It is true that he offered me bread...but I offered him death. Wait, I did not offer death. I forced it upon him with such a blind force that would make you think that I had once again called forth memories of the old hag Havisham. But it was not that which beckoned this monster from within. It was fear for my own life. So, as I muttered "Say hello to the devil for me", I drove the icy steel dagger into the left earlobe of my adversary. Noticing that the job was not yet done, I stabbed twice more, this time with precision. You see, Joe, I did not enjoy the act of halting the bodily processes of that mongrel. I did, however, enjoy his sweet flesh afterwards with a fresh Chianti and some fava beans.
Currently, I find myself acting as a pawn in this sick game of antipathy. This battle has revolved solely around attacks across No Man's Land, at least for us British. The distance between enemy trenches is truly a sight that one may only expect to come across in the worst of nightmares. Running across this land of ditches and craters is a chore, especially with the constant sound of artillery and the smell of death all around. Once you find yourself in the vicinity of the rival's trench, you come across the barbed wire, which is not passable by any means. That is, unless you would like to risk being carved up by its thorny edges or mowed down by machine gun fire. The passage across this wasteland is not only a test of will, but also luck. Luck is on my side, Joe. Let's hope it stays that way...
One thing I do not seem to comprehend is why all of this violence must occur. This war is dragging on much too long with little to be gained on either side. It seems that we are in the midst of one immense stalemate, never again to move from our positions. Is there any winner to this madness? The only winner is death and Satan, who has mankind on his body appendages like finger puppets, forcing us to commit demented acts of indiscretion. I see no victory here, Joe - only death and inhumanity. Every soldier on this great battlefield of our world is left to either die or lose his mind, falling prey to the ongoing psychological effects of the devastation around him. This is all a waste. I only wish to return to my dwelling and feel the warm sensation of tea tickling my vocal cords as its property of viscosity drives it down my esophagus. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. I don't quite know if that has anything to do with what I was saying. I just like the way it sounds.
My despair grows by the hour and I am beginning to find that the real beast is within. It is extremely difficult to maintain a firm grip on coherence and rationality in these conditions. My days and nights are haunted by the sight of rotting bodies strewn about the trenches and caught on the barbed wire, their faces with a fixed expression of agony. It was just the other night when I awoke abruptly from my slumber covered in a cold sweat recalling Herbert's vile departure from the living. I cannot help but feel guilt, as I was the last person to speak a word to the pale young gentleman. If I only knew which flagitious individual smoked my partner, I could avenge the death and free myself from this blame that I place upon myself. The grief that I feel eats at me more than the yellow sores from that frivolous gaseous haze, and that's saying quite a lot. If it were not for the letters that I send to you my dear, sweet Joseph, I would most likely regress into a state of numbness, no longer sane. The memories of my life of old keep me going, old chap.
I walked into this believing that I would become a hero. If I am able to walk out of it, I will be a morose man, downtrodden by all I have endured during this war. I am losing far more than I can ever gain, and I do not want to walk out of this with less than I came with. However, this seems unavoidable, as my old self has perished, leaving only a shell of the man I once was. My pride and optimism have given way to a cynical view of the world, leaving a man old of heart, yet young of years. I know that I can never be the same as I once was with these harsh memories breaking my spirit like a brittle crumpet, subjugated to the elements and weakened by the natural forces of my thumb and forefinger. I have changed my view of war. It is not at all intrepid or courageous. In fact, I was foolish to ever believe that it could be. My naive young self was not ever prepared for this, and I expect that this holds true with the millions of others that were seized and spellbound by Great Expectations. I am truly heartbroken by the waste of human life during these dark times. A human life is the most important thing on this earth and once it is taken, it can never again be restored. I am fortunate to still be here and I look forward to seeing you again.
With love and kisses,
Philip Pirrip - Private British 6th Infantry
10th grade Honors World Cultures "Letter from the Trench" by Dan and Vince
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Intro/School Year Saturdays
INTRO
Okay, the awful inevitability that is blogging has finally defeated my normally lazy and half-interested brain. I'm the kind of person who will let a good idea fall by the wayside if there isn't a pen and paper in the general vicinity to document what I will eventually just think was a stupid idea to begin with. I, like Mitch Hedberg before me, just have to convince myself that the idea wasn't that funny. (RIP Mitch.) Anyway. I'd like to begin my autobi-blography by shamelessly admitting that I am typing this while sitting on the toilet. Nothin' like a good log-n'-blog, as they say. But really - a cyberspace high-five to anyone who has actually ever said that, just as soon as I wash my hands.
Poop jokes aside - which pretty much eliminates half of the things I meant to blog about - I do enjoy writing. I described starting a blog as an "awful inevitability" for this very reason. I've always found myself writing in some medium. I had a xanga in the past, albeit during the angsty teenage years that found me pining for girl after girl. In high school, I took a World Cultures class with my best friend Dan in which his uncle was our teacher. Dan's uncle thoroughly enjoyed giving extensive writing assignments that were to be completed with a partner of your choice - good news for the best friend of said uncle's son. Dan and I partnered up, the envy of others, churning out such wonders as "How the Three Musketeers Got Their Name" and and our personal favorite "Letter from the Trench" in which we turned Pip from Great Expectations into a Dickensian prisoner of war. Some things you can get away with when you're related to the teacher. Doesn't explain why I couldn't practice atheism in eighth grade CCD though. They were SO anti-fun. But I digress.
Point is, I like to write. I would consider each of Chuck Klosterman, David Sedaris, Dave Eggers, and Michael Ian Black an inspiration to my writing, and I'd even be willing to give a little of my A+ credit to Chuck Dickens for the aforementioned "Letter from the Trench". Seriously, it's that good. I might just have to post it on here one day. Gold. Comic gold, I tell ya. Anyway, I have to admit that whenever I'm reading someone elses blog, it really bugs me when someone doesn't post for like three weeks. There is so much going on in the world that if you cannot find substance enough for one measley blog post in a three week period then...why are you keeping a blog in the first place? Be observational. Be introspective. Most of all, just be yourself. Everyone's got something to say, whether they open their mouth or not. Can that be my mantra? I think I'll make that my mantra. Yeah. Nice mantra.
SCHOOL YEAR SATURDAYS
This previous Monday, school began for most of the little kiddies around town. I've noticed, and I'm sure I'm the only one, that the weather seems to change almost as soon as school starts. The air gets considerably cooler, the sky turns a different shade of blue, and the sun shines just a tad less bright than before. It's not easy to describe, but you can just tell. Everything looks different. And it is distinctly more noticeable on school year Saturdays. As a 22 year-old who has experienced being home for school year Saturdays as both a student and now an adult-of-sorts, I can see and understand all of the previously unnoticed nuances of these special holidays. There are standard sights that you will see, mostly in the suburbs, on each and every school year Saturday and usually between the hours of 10:00 and 4:00. Here they are, in order of appearance:
1) Demon spawn.
- Singing birds may wake you up in the summer, but when the school year begins there is a decidedly more annoying foe - screaming children. You look out the window and there they are, doing God knows what in droves of God knows how many. Are kids ever actually doing anything? At most times it appears to be a game of "stand in a designated area and be loud for an inordinate amount of time". And they're REALLY fucking good at it. They have spent the previous five days locked in a personal private hell eating macaroni salad and anything that comes in loaf-form, pent-up childhood rage begging to explode out of every orifice at each and every moment. Only recess and lunch keep the demon spawn satisfied, but only temporarily, until they awake on Saturday with an immense hunger for your very aged soul. Before you curse their very existence and retire to the couch to watch the Little League World Series and laugh at 12 year-old tears, you have to understand where these little bastards are coming from. Saturday is their Mecca. It's all they have. Well, actually their youthful exuberance and disgustingly simple lives are all they have, but they're too young to know this. So we have to know it for them. And we know it for them with a simple under-the-breath muttering. "Fucking kids."
2) Father in the driveway.
- In the suburbs, there is a customary practice that occurs each and every school year Saturday morning. A father will inexplicably hang out in the driveway of his home for an extended period of time, usually removing and replacing items in his garage. But, again, he never really does anything. It's almost like the father has either stolen or taught his children the mantra of "stand in a designated area for an inordinate amount of time". The only difference being - the father is silent. After five days of coffee, cubicles, and caught-with-the-secretary, this is his Mecca. He can explain to his wife, who may or may not have already left him, that he has to "do some work in the garage" and then only return indoors for dinner and/or college football depending on his old lady's lenience with him partaking in televised sports. If we lived in a world of Pokemon, which we undoubtedly do, the demon spawn would evolve into the father in the driveway. It is one of the saddest aspects of a school year Saturday, to see the father in the driveway walk among the demon spawn, a perpetual zombie with little to no recollection of how to be LOUD while standing in a designated area for an inordinate amount of time. If you're reading this and your father is in the driveway right now, go give him a hug. He's got more problems than the math textbook those demon spawn are neglecting.
3) Cars.
- the number of cars in your neighborhood will increase ten-fold on school year Saturdays. Every car will be parked outside and no car will move during the hours of 10:00 and 4:00.
4) School-related sporting event.
- Every school year Saturday there is a school-related sporting event taking place at the nearest open field to your house. It may not even be a recognized sports field, but there will be an event taking place on its grounds nonetheless. If you live near the school, as I do, this is more immediately recognizable. Otherwise you may have to hop in your car and take a short drive to locate the school-related sporting event. But just know - it's taking place between the hours of 10:00 and 4:00 at a field near you.
Okay, the awful inevitability that is blogging has finally defeated my normally lazy and half-interested brain. I'm the kind of person who will let a good idea fall by the wayside if there isn't a pen and paper in the general vicinity to document what I will eventually just think was a stupid idea to begin with. I, like Mitch Hedberg before me, just have to convince myself that the idea wasn't that funny. (RIP Mitch.) Anyway. I'd like to begin my autobi-blography by shamelessly admitting that I am typing this while sitting on the toilet. Nothin' like a good log-n'-blog, as they say. But really - a cyberspace high-five to anyone who has actually ever said that, just as soon as I wash my hands.
Poop jokes aside - which pretty much eliminates half of the things I meant to blog about - I do enjoy writing. I described starting a blog as an "awful inevitability" for this very reason. I've always found myself writing in some medium. I had a xanga in the past, albeit during the angsty teenage years that found me pining for girl after girl. In high school, I took a World Cultures class with my best friend Dan in which his uncle was our teacher. Dan's uncle thoroughly enjoyed giving extensive writing assignments that were to be completed with a partner of your choice - good news for the best friend of said uncle's son. Dan and I partnered up, the envy of others, churning out such wonders as "How the Three Musketeers Got Their Name" and and our personal favorite "Letter from the Trench" in which we turned Pip from Great Expectations into a Dickensian prisoner of war. Some things you can get away with when you're related to the teacher. Doesn't explain why I couldn't practice atheism in eighth grade CCD though. They were SO anti-fun. But I digress.
Point is, I like to write. I would consider each of Chuck Klosterman, David Sedaris, Dave Eggers, and Michael Ian Black an inspiration to my writing, and I'd even be willing to give a little of my A+ credit to Chuck Dickens for the aforementioned "Letter from the Trench". Seriously, it's that good. I might just have to post it on here one day. Gold. Comic gold, I tell ya. Anyway, I have to admit that whenever I'm reading someone elses blog, it really bugs me when someone doesn't post for like three weeks. There is so much going on in the world that if you cannot find substance enough for one measley blog post in a three week period then...why are you keeping a blog in the first place? Be observational. Be introspective. Most of all, just be yourself. Everyone's got something to say, whether they open their mouth or not. Can that be my mantra? I think I'll make that my mantra. Yeah. Nice mantra.
SCHOOL YEAR SATURDAYS
This previous Monday, school began for most of the little kiddies around town. I've noticed, and I'm sure I'm the only one, that the weather seems to change almost as soon as school starts. The air gets considerably cooler, the sky turns a different shade of blue, and the sun shines just a tad less bright than before. It's not easy to describe, but you can just tell. Everything looks different. And it is distinctly more noticeable on school year Saturdays. As a 22 year-old who has experienced being home for school year Saturdays as both a student and now an adult-of-sorts, I can see and understand all of the previously unnoticed nuances of these special holidays. There are standard sights that you will see, mostly in the suburbs, on each and every school year Saturday and usually between the hours of 10:00 and 4:00. Here they are, in order of appearance:
1) Demon spawn.
- Singing birds may wake you up in the summer, but when the school year begins there is a decidedly more annoying foe - screaming children. You look out the window and there they are, doing God knows what in droves of God knows how many. Are kids ever actually doing anything? At most times it appears to be a game of "stand in a designated area and be loud for an inordinate amount of time". And they're REALLY fucking good at it. They have spent the previous five days locked in a personal private hell eating macaroni salad and anything that comes in loaf-form, pent-up childhood rage begging to explode out of every orifice at each and every moment. Only recess and lunch keep the demon spawn satisfied, but only temporarily, until they awake on Saturday with an immense hunger for your very aged soul. Before you curse their very existence and retire to the couch to watch the Little League World Series and laugh at 12 year-old tears, you have to understand where these little bastards are coming from. Saturday is their Mecca. It's all they have. Well, actually their youthful exuberance and disgustingly simple lives are all they have, but they're too young to know this. So we have to know it for them. And we know it for them with a simple under-the-breath muttering. "Fucking kids."
2) Father in the driveway.
- In the suburbs, there is a customary practice that occurs each and every school year Saturday morning. A father will inexplicably hang out in the driveway of his home for an extended period of time, usually removing and replacing items in his garage. But, again, he never really does anything. It's almost like the father has either stolen or taught his children the mantra of "stand in a designated area for an inordinate amount of time". The only difference being - the father is silent. After five days of coffee, cubicles, and caught-with-the-secretary, this is his Mecca. He can explain to his wife, who may or may not have already left him, that he has to "do some work in the garage" and then only return indoors for dinner and/or college football depending on his old lady's lenience with him partaking in televised sports. If we lived in a world of Pokemon, which we undoubtedly do, the demon spawn would evolve into the father in the driveway. It is one of the saddest aspects of a school year Saturday, to see the father in the driveway walk among the demon spawn, a perpetual zombie with little to no recollection of how to be LOUD while standing in a designated area for an inordinate amount of time. If you're reading this and your father is in the driveway right now, go give him a hug. He's got more problems than the math textbook those demon spawn are neglecting.
3) Cars.
- the number of cars in your neighborhood will increase ten-fold on school year Saturdays. Every car will be parked outside and no car will move during the hours of 10:00 and 4:00.
4) School-related sporting event.
- Every school year Saturday there is a school-related sporting event taking place at the nearest open field to your house. It may not even be a recognized sports field, but there will be an event taking place on its grounds nonetheless. If you live near the school, as I do, this is more immediately recognizable. Otherwise you may have to hop in your car and take a short drive to locate the school-related sporting event. But just know - it's taking place between the hours of 10:00 and 4:00 at a field near you.
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