Monthly Archives: April 2013

Chair Stare

A lady in a wheelchair asked me “are you using this chair?” A part of me wanted to say, “don’t you already have a seat?” But the bigger part of me just stammered and shook my head; more so in confusion than in reply. She towed the wooden chair across the tile floor of the coffee shop, turning heads and whatnot, and then plopped it in front of a cushy armchair in the corner. She neither sat in the wooden chair, nor the cushy armchair. She was waiting for a friend, which cleared up my confusion about someone chair-bound asking for a chair, but when her friend came, she sat in the cushy armchair and the wooden chair just stood there, staring at them. After a few minutes the woman in the cushy armchair set her purse down on the wooden chair. I was still confused as to why the chair had been brought over, but at least it had a purpose, so I got back to work.

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“When you’re young, you forget that every old person used to be young; but when you get old, you somehow remember.”

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Unwrapper

You know when it’s super quiet at the library, or a quiet spot in a movie, there’s always that one person that thinks if they unwrap their crinkly candy wrapper   r e a l l y   s l o w l y   then you won’t be able to hear it? It’s more distracting when you’re trying not to draw attention to yourself. It’s going to make a noise either way; don’t drag it out. Just do it quickly and get it over with.

I am now promoting my twitter account, @allmostrelevant. It’s funny and keeps you notified.
…There

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Ice Cream

I was thinking about ice cream the other day. Not about how I like Ben and Jerry’s half-baked or cherry garcia or anything like that, but more about how ice cream can save the day.

Society seems so compartmentalized and separated sometimes. You got different income brackets, demographics, different jobs, and even having so many ‘communities’ and subcultures can bunch us up and put us in little boxes. I mean, I get it — it’s understandable that we want to be with similar people with similar interests, because that makes us comfortable, but at the same time we shouldn’t feel uncomfortable or out of place if we hop in another box.

Whether we like it or not, we (people) love comparing. So we got all these boxes that we’ve put our selves in, and so naturally we put them on this ‘existential shelf’ and start saying “this box is better, that one sucks,” “I’m glad I’m not on the bottom shelf,” “Why is the top shelf way less crowded than the bottom? That’s not fair!” So then we start clawing our way to the top, pulling others down, biting ankles, stabbing backs, and the worst part is some actually succeed, however most will fail, and it becomes this big race we’ve made it out to be, and…

We just need to slow down.

There is no race. It’s not a competition. No one can win or lose. We forget that we’re all on the same level; there is no shelf.

This is where I think we just need to give everyone an ice cream cone. Just imagine if you did–for real. Everyone would have to stop what they’re doing and eat it. Big wig business executives in a board meeting, gang bangers meeting up on a street corner, soccer moms buzzing from place to place to place; everyone would stop, look around and see that everyone else has ice cream too. We are all on the same level. We might like different flavors and have our own unique way of eating our favorite cup or cone, but everyone likes ice cream. Relax. No one’s going to jump in front of you and cut you off because they’re also savoring a delicious frozen treat — because that’s what you do when someone gives you ice cream.

You take a moment… and enjoy it. You can’t afford to wait — or it’ll melt.

I am now promoting my twitter account, @allmostrelevant. It’s funny and keeps you notified.

…There

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Cake

Analyzing a joke is like telling someone cake is unhealthy. You don’t ever hear a comedian say, “does this joke make me look fat?” Just laugh and eat the cake. You can’t talk and chew at the same time.

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“There’s something about quotation marks that makes something you said seem more important than you thought it would be.”

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Baggage

You know at baggage claim when a bunch of the people from your flight are all waiting around because your bags haven’t come yet because maybe one of the baggage cars got unhitched and meandered onto the runway or something. Either way, everyone’s kind of in this daze, but not because they don’t have their bags–I think it’s because there’s always that one big bag that looks kind of old or is a bright gaudy color, that keeps doing laps around the carousel. And so everybody just watches it, licking their lips, half jealous to the point that they consider grabbing it so they have something to go home with, but really you just can’t help but wonder, “what’s that guy doing?” I know they didn’t miss the flight ’cause it was full, and it’s been a half hour, did he get stuck in the lavatory or something, or did he have to finish his in-flight entertainment ’cause he just had to see how Lincoln was going to end. And they couldn’t have taken someone else’s bag because there’s no possible way two pale green corduroy suitcases were ever made. This one was certainly a mistake. Maybe that’s why it’s been abandoned. There’s probably nothing in it. The owner probably just checked it so they could leave it at the airport and not have to deal with it anymore. If I ever try to leave my baggage at an airport like that I’ll at least have the decency to tape a “4 Sale” sign to it so someone else can grab it.

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The Process

I consider myself a writer, but when someone asks me if I’ve written anything, I can’t give them a straight answer. I say “kind of” or “I’m working on something right now” and then go into explaining a project or making something up on the spot. The truth is I’m writing all the time in my head, in my life, and with my life. I see the narrative every day; the irony, the suspense, the folly, the heartbreak, the joy, the triumph, and sometimes even the foreshadow. Writing isn’t about how you can put words on paper, but how you take in and interpret the world so that others, and you yourself, can see it in a new way… so I’m writing every day, but what do I get for it? I don’t get paid for it. I feel like I work so much, but so little makes it on to paper, and the stuff that does isn’t even near my best work, isn’t close to what I see every day. It’s like the thrill and challenge of writing is discovering the story as it happens, whether that be in your life or fictionalized in your head. Once I’ve discovered the story I feel as though there’s nothing left to gain or learn from simply by transcribing that discovery on to paper. Obviously that is false, and others can learn from the same discovery of the story, but I’m just saying that’s how it feels to me. Now I’m trying to figure out if that means I’m just a selfish person if I don’t trudge through the monotonous work of writing things down. Other functioning members of society work the same routine and weekday schedule most of their lives just to get by, but for some reason I can’t sit down for an afternoon an focus enough to write out a story. Do I somehow, deep down, think that writing is superior to other occupations? Is that why I’m like this? Or do I, deep down, think that the world is going to end and I’m going to die and the sun will turn into a black hole and all of human history will be lost, so ‘why should I even bother writing a little story?’ I may never figure out why I do the things I do, or why I write all the time, yet still have written nothing; but at least I still have the ability to write, and hopefully one day, trudging through all these roaming thoughts I can find a reason for all this writing—a narrative… a discovery…

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Mona Lisa

The Mona Lisa is really beyond art at this point. It’s kind of turned into a monster, or rather, turned the common viewer of art into a monster. You can’t even see the Mona Lisa anymore because it’s behind so much glass, and you can’t even take a picture of it because they’ve put some sort of anti-picture technology in the glass… that is to say if you can even get a decent view of it and manage to hold the camera still amongst all the elbows that are bumping into your elbows. There is a huge crowd around the Mona Lisa fighting their way to look at her that she has to be put behind bars in order to be kept safe. That isn’t art. She can’t even be seen anymore. How is that art? Or at least, now she isn’t even being used for her intended purpose, or being seen in the same way the artist imagined. Other painting in the Louvre you can just go up to and even touch if no one is looking, but the Mona Lisa is trapped; with an armed guard even! Now she’s a freak show–some sort of sick performance piece. People don’t want to take the time to appreciate her anymore, they just want to get a glimpse of her just to say they have.

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Creepy

There was some group that showed up in my facebook newsfeed called “I’m not creepy, I just have a really good memory.” Thinking about it for a minute, how can you say you’re not creepy? I know on occasion I have pointed out details to people from years in the past, and people find it kind of creepy that I can remember such randomly specific details. To me it’s not creepy, but to others it might be. But one thing I can’t do is tell that person that it’s not creepy; then I’d just be asking them to lie to themselves. I can’t tell someone that reciting 100 digits of pi makes me smart, I can’t tell someone that my jokes are funny, and I can’t tell someone that giving them flowers is romantic. You do what you do, but you can’t tell other people what you do; it’s up to them to see it, and it’s up to you to show them.

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