I don't get what it is to be a writer. People agrandize it some sort of way out for those less fortunate. The realization is that being normal, having a house, a pair of married parents, is someone that is normal. This is horribly inaccurate.
Most people suffer from the fact that their parents are divorced, separated or atleast have moved on. The reality is that the last time you read a great novel or piece by a book from an author that is not emotionally restrained or set free that you turn a blind eye and because of that ignorance a potentially brilliant writer reneges on his or her promise.
The writers that overcome normality are more impressive than those that overcome abnormality because they have something to write about.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
I'm recently returned from Canada, disappointed, inspired and contemplative. I went up to Canada to talk to Patrick, who is the impetus of my recent expeditions into authorship and the mentor to my mentee. I had hopes of hearing great news about "AF" and to get some feedback on the script I have been writing and rewriting for the past two months.
I had anticipated writing sessions, with Haz (Patrick's last name is Hasburgh, so...) giving me some insight as to what I've been doing wrong or right. What I need to further develop and what I need to change. But it was not that sort of trip.
I arrived in Calgary International Airport having read half of Michael Chabon's "Wonder Boys" and I couldn't help but notice the similarities between the story and my current life. It narrates and describes the life of a middle age writer who is trying to reharness his abilities and in doing so, befriends one of his students (prized?). His student is all potential, having written only a few obscure short stories, nothing in the great scheme of things. It's just a singular smudgey fingerprint amongst hordes of other fingerprints on the door handle of literature.
I saw myself as that student, James Leer (minus the latent homosexuality and forgettable handsomeness) and Patrick as Grady Tripp (more of the mellowed, later in life version). I had envisioned this relationship, in the book as well as in life, to be much more formal. The discussions full of advice and criticism. But that's not the case in either. Grady just seems to like to hang around James, in spite of his eccentricities, and not act to professorial to him. Patrick had a similar relationship with me. Because I hadn't put "Fade Out" on the script he felt that his time, after telling me that I was doing alright, was best spent playing golf. I thoroughly enjoyed this, especially since I had just come full circle with golf and his home course (Grey Wolf) is such a fantastic place. However it was quite a bit different from what I had anticipated.
But that's not to say that I didn't come away without some insight. I get now, that the most important thing, in the short term, is that I finish the script. That I type Fade Out. Because without that difficulty can arise due the the vagueness and unpredictability of the ensuing possibilities.
I think the most important part was to hear Patrick tell me that, should I truly desire to be a writer, I need to give myself a chance. It's not like other jobs where you can just start up without too much experience. It's much more of a craft, like carpentry, or a talent like guitar in so much as it has to be continually practiced to improve the basics and the intricacies.
with that thought, it forces me to ask myself "Do I want to be a writer?" Patrick didn't even get in the business until he was thirty, which would mean, were I to be so lucky, that in five years I could/should/would be there. It seems like a simple question, and in someways it is, but for a guy who has a lot of expectations heaped on himself it can be difficult. I come from an upper middle class family who expects that I become self sufficient and my life lucrative as soon as possilble. I'm not sure that exactly coincides with writing. It seems like it could be something where I could give it a go for 5 or ten years and get no where due to lack of committment or, worse yet, chance.
The reality is that I want to make this whole writing thing work. Since I was little, I worshipped books. It is something that has always been enormously important in my life. But I was an awful writer. I was just a depressing site with the pen... until recently. I'm here hoping that things will go right. That I will at least make enough to get by. But who knows, sometimes the love of it is all that counts. And right now, I feel it.
I had anticipated writing sessions, with Haz (Patrick's last name is Hasburgh, so...) giving me some insight as to what I've been doing wrong or right. What I need to further develop and what I need to change. But it was not that sort of trip.
I arrived in Calgary International Airport having read half of Michael Chabon's "Wonder Boys" and I couldn't help but notice the similarities between the story and my current life. It narrates and describes the life of a middle age writer who is trying to reharness his abilities and in doing so, befriends one of his students (prized?). His student is all potential, having written only a few obscure short stories, nothing in the great scheme of things. It's just a singular smudgey fingerprint amongst hordes of other fingerprints on the door handle of literature.
I saw myself as that student, James Leer (minus the latent homosexuality and forgettable handsomeness) and Patrick as Grady Tripp (more of the mellowed, later in life version). I had envisioned this relationship, in the book as well as in life, to be much more formal. The discussions full of advice and criticism. But that's not the case in either. Grady just seems to like to hang around James, in spite of his eccentricities, and not act to professorial to him. Patrick had a similar relationship with me. Because I hadn't put "Fade Out" on the script he felt that his time, after telling me that I was doing alright, was best spent playing golf. I thoroughly enjoyed this, especially since I had just come full circle with golf and his home course (Grey Wolf) is such a fantastic place. However it was quite a bit different from what I had anticipated.
But that's not to say that I didn't come away without some insight. I get now, that the most important thing, in the short term, is that I finish the script. That I type Fade Out. Because without that difficulty can arise due the the vagueness and unpredictability of the ensuing possibilities.
I think the most important part was to hear Patrick tell me that, should I truly desire to be a writer, I need to give myself a chance. It's not like other jobs where you can just start up without too much experience. It's much more of a craft, like carpentry, or a talent like guitar in so much as it has to be continually practiced to improve the basics and the intricacies.
with that thought, it forces me to ask myself "Do I want to be a writer?" Patrick didn't even get in the business until he was thirty, which would mean, were I to be so lucky, that in five years I could/should/would be there. It seems like a simple question, and in someways it is, but for a guy who has a lot of expectations heaped on himself it can be difficult. I come from an upper middle class family who expects that I become self sufficient and my life lucrative as soon as possilble. I'm not sure that exactly coincides with writing. It seems like it could be something where I could give it a go for 5 or ten years and get no where due to lack of committment or, worse yet, chance.
The reality is that I want to make this whole writing thing work. Since I was little, I worshipped books. It is something that has always been enormously important in my life. But I was an awful writer. I was just a depressing site with the pen... until recently. I'm here hoping that things will go right. That I will at least make enough to get by. But who knows, sometimes the love of it is all that counts. And right now, I feel it.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
The Obvious Diamond in the Rough
It had been a long time since I'd been to Holmby Park. It's not a place most people have heard of or that anyone would notice. It's mostly just used as a running place for playboy bunnies, a place to conspire with old cronies or somewhere that you're dog can take a big dump. The people that live around the park are insanely wealthy as the homes on the northern side of the course back up to Los Angeles C.C. Aaron Spelling's house looms over one of the corners like a medieval fortress, lacking in nothing but a moat and a catapult (although I've never seen the other side of the wall so I can't be conclusive about the catapult). It's an oversight at best.
But for three years of my life it was my personal heaven. When I went to college I entered on a golf scholarship. Golf was my life, it was one of the ways I defined myself. And since I didn't have a girlfriend and didn't have many friends that were not on the golf team, golf was a large part of my self definition.
I got introduced to Holmby Park on one of the first days of September when I first moved into my dorms. The golf team would always get called back early and after practice we'd nap, watch tv or whatever. But some days we'd go to Holmby Park.
It was more than a park for us though, because it had and still does have a small golf course consisting of 18 holes. All of the holes are under eighty yards and most under 50 and the greens are miniscule and crowned like oversized buttons. We had a few beers, Parker would take his shirt off and we'd go play.
I was hooked on the place immediately, and that wasn't even because it only cost two dollars to play but because of how amazingly obvious that this was a hidden gem. I never have seen much play on it. Occasionally I'll see some parent taking their child out to play, or the L.A.C.C. caddies betting money in the summer after noons, but it largely stands unplayed.
While i was on the golf team it became a place for me to hang out, develop my short game but also to let it sink in. It never ceased to amaze me that all these people were using the park but it was rare to see many people if any actually playing the course.
The last time I played it was after a round in the last part of August in 2004. My coach at the time, OD Vincent, had told me that I had to requalify for the golf team and so there I was at the end of August Making an attempt to requalify.
The task seemed simple enough, shoot par over five rounds in three days and I'd be back on the team. It was even held at one of the courses I tended to play well, Robinson Ranch.
I had patched together a decent round on the first three round in two days. I was a couple under. But I went to Holmby just to calm myself down after the second day. We had only played one round that day and so I decided to play around there just to calm myself down.
Like all the other times, it worked. I felt better about it. Somehow playing in that family park just allows me to drop the tension that I am feeling and just play. Only that wasn't good enough for the next day.
I played alright in the morning but I needed to solidify my spot with a half way decent round in the afternoon. I was close coming in, and needed a birdie on the last hole to finish. Unfortunately I dunked the ball in the water on the last, bogeyed and just like that I'm off the team.
To make matters worse, my spineless coach isn't even there. No thanks for playing for the last two years. No good bye, I was just done.
Sometimes I envision him, sitting in the clubhouse watching everyone come in. Only he sees me hit it in the water on the last hole and, instinctively, he knows. I didn't make it. But he's such a coward that he walks directly to the car and drives home.
That's probably not true, but the fact is that he didn't even call or return my calls was upsetting. After that, and the fact that most of my teammates on the team wouldn't talk to me, I became really upset. Not just at the fact that I had screwed up, lost part of my identity. Breene the UCLA golfer was no more. It was just how fucked up the whole situation was.
After that I've probably played less than 15 rounds of golf in the last four years. I used to play that during a week in the summer. And because of that I had forgotten about Holmby Park.
I still go up to LA a lot. To see friends, go to Dodger games, UCLA games, etc. It's been a long while since I even thought about Holmby though. I think I became so numb to the whole golf thing that I forgot what I really liked about it in the first place.
Yeah, I knew that I loved the competition, to beat someone. But I was lying to myself when I thought that the love of competition was all it was. There was something, a simplicity and a beauty to it that I had misplaced.
So a couple days ago Salman Rushdie (an amazing writer and one of my favorites) was speaking up in LA. He was also signing books at a bookshop nearby so I tried to get there on time and get a signed copy.
It took me forever to get out of Laguna and I knew I wasn't going to get there in time for the book signing so I called my friend, Marissa, and asked if she might get me one while she's there. No big deal she said so I wasn't worried.
It did, however, pose the problem of having a couple hours to kill in between the book signing and his talk. So I didn't know what to do.
But I had my golf clubs in the car because I was to go to Canada to see Haz about a script I'm rewriting for him. He just happens to love golf so I thought I'd bring the sticks along.
So the clubs are in my car. Tucked away in my travel bag, but I figure "oh, what the hell. Might as well."
I had an awesome time, completely by myself, just pitching the ball around the course. I have gone and played real courses with friends before, but only to enjoy their company. I had never really gotten over the whole golf thing and secretly just sort of tried to stave off my distaste for it.
But this was not how my Holmby day was. I relaxed and enjoyed swinging the club, the solid contact and the crisp feel of a good wedge shot. I liked listening to the tiny little brook gurgle and amble through the park. That the putts missed or a shot was thinned didn't even seem to bother me because I had uncovered what I had once loved.
But for three years of my life it was my personal heaven. When I went to college I entered on a golf scholarship. Golf was my life, it was one of the ways I defined myself. And since I didn't have a girlfriend and didn't have many friends that were not on the golf team, golf was a large part of my self definition.
I got introduced to Holmby Park on one of the first days of September when I first moved into my dorms. The golf team would always get called back early and after practice we'd nap, watch tv or whatever. But some days we'd go to Holmby Park.
It was more than a park for us though, because it had and still does have a small golf course consisting of 18 holes. All of the holes are under eighty yards and most under 50 and the greens are miniscule and crowned like oversized buttons. We had a few beers, Parker would take his shirt off and we'd go play.
I was hooked on the place immediately, and that wasn't even because it only cost two dollars to play but because of how amazingly obvious that this was a hidden gem. I never have seen much play on it. Occasionally I'll see some parent taking their child out to play, or the L.A.C.C. caddies betting money in the summer after noons, but it largely stands unplayed.
While i was on the golf team it became a place for me to hang out, develop my short game but also to let it sink in. It never ceased to amaze me that all these people were using the park but it was rare to see many people if any actually playing the course.
The last time I played it was after a round in the last part of August in 2004. My coach at the time, OD Vincent, had told me that I had to requalify for the golf team and so there I was at the end of August Making an attempt to requalify.
The task seemed simple enough, shoot par over five rounds in three days and I'd be back on the team. It was even held at one of the courses I tended to play well, Robinson Ranch.
I had patched together a decent round on the first three round in two days. I was a couple under. But I went to Holmby just to calm myself down after the second day. We had only played one round that day and so I decided to play around there just to calm myself down.
Like all the other times, it worked. I felt better about it. Somehow playing in that family park just allows me to drop the tension that I am feeling and just play. Only that wasn't good enough for the next day.
I played alright in the morning but I needed to solidify my spot with a half way decent round in the afternoon. I was close coming in, and needed a birdie on the last hole to finish. Unfortunately I dunked the ball in the water on the last, bogeyed and just like that I'm off the team.
To make matters worse, my spineless coach isn't even there. No thanks for playing for the last two years. No good bye, I was just done.
Sometimes I envision him, sitting in the clubhouse watching everyone come in. Only he sees me hit it in the water on the last hole and, instinctively, he knows. I didn't make it. But he's such a coward that he walks directly to the car and drives home.
That's probably not true, but the fact is that he didn't even call or return my calls was upsetting. After that, and the fact that most of my teammates on the team wouldn't talk to me, I became really upset. Not just at the fact that I had screwed up, lost part of my identity. Breene the UCLA golfer was no more. It was just how fucked up the whole situation was.
After that I've probably played less than 15 rounds of golf in the last four years. I used to play that during a week in the summer. And because of that I had forgotten about Holmby Park.
I still go up to LA a lot. To see friends, go to Dodger games, UCLA games, etc. It's been a long while since I even thought about Holmby though. I think I became so numb to the whole golf thing that I forgot what I really liked about it in the first place.
Yeah, I knew that I loved the competition, to beat someone. But I was lying to myself when I thought that the love of competition was all it was. There was something, a simplicity and a beauty to it that I had misplaced.
So a couple days ago Salman Rushdie (an amazing writer and one of my favorites) was speaking up in LA. He was also signing books at a bookshop nearby so I tried to get there on time and get a signed copy.
It took me forever to get out of Laguna and I knew I wasn't going to get there in time for the book signing so I called my friend, Marissa, and asked if she might get me one while she's there. No big deal she said so I wasn't worried.
It did, however, pose the problem of having a couple hours to kill in between the book signing and his talk. So I didn't know what to do.
But I had my golf clubs in the car because I was to go to Canada to see Haz about a script I'm rewriting for him. He just happens to love golf so I thought I'd bring the sticks along.
So the clubs are in my car. Tucked away in my travel bag, but I figure "oh, what the hell. Might as well."
I had an awesome time, completely by myself, just pitching the ball around the course. I have gone and played real courses with friends before, but only to enjoy their company. I had never really gotten over the whole golf thing and secretly just sort of tried to stave off my distaste for it.
But this was not how my Holmby day was. I relaxed and enjoyed swinging the club, the solid contact and the crisp feel of a good wedge shot. I liked listening to the tiny little brook gurgle and amble through the park. That the putts missed or a shot was thinned didn't even seem to bother me because I had uncovered what I had once loved.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
This week could mark the beginning of the end of my aimless meanderings. The creator of the TV show that I am a prospective part of is coming in to town. He's been pretty upbeat about the whole shebang so I'm hoping that things will start to precipitate.
I love my current life right now, surfing writing whatever and whenever I want, watching sports, hanging out with friends, but that sort of lifestyle doesn't seem to lend itself well to making money. I'm not exactly pressed, seeing as my current savings are being stretched out from not having to pay anything for rent and most food (thanks mom and dad) but it'd be nice to get to a point where I could be living on my own. I know that may sound too ambitious coming from me, but everyone's gotta have a dream.
Not that it's been bad living with my parents, they're both great people and immensely patient with their directionless 25 year old son. But the connotations that surround living with your parents seem to inhibit a lot of interest from the fairer sex. Loser. Bum. Washout. Not things that I'd like to be associated with, but, that's my cross to bear.
The strange (great) thing is that some people see it as admirable, that I'm going out to do what I really want to do. And, this garners (or as Reggie Miller would say "garnishes") a little respect. Something, at this point, to which I am mildly unaccustomed.
But I'm loaded with (good?) ideas right now, very few that fall in line with the same subgenre in writing, but I like it. Maybe I'll find my niche in that, or that the balance of things is my niche. Whatever that may be, it should at least get marginally clearer in the next week.
I love my current life right now, surfing writing whatever and whenever I want, watching sports, hanging out with friends, but that sort of lifestyle doesn't seem to lend itself well to making money. I'm not exactly pressed, seeing as my current savings are being stretched out from not having to pay anything for rent and most food (thanks mom and dad) but it'd be nice to get to a point where I could be living on my own. I know that may sound too ambitious coming from me, but everyone's gotta have a dream.
Not that it's been bad living with my parents, they're both great people and immensely patient with their directionless 25 year old son. But the connotations that surround living with your parents seem to inhibit a lot of interest from the fairer sex. Loser. Bum. Washout. Not things that I'd like to be associated with, but, that's my cross to bear.
The strange (great) thing is that some people see it as admirable, that I'm going out to do what I really want to do. And, this garners (or as Reggie Miller would say "garnishes") a little respect. Something, at this point, to which I am mildly unaccustomed.
But I'm loaded with (good?) ideas right now, very few that fall in line with the same subgenre in writing, but I like it. Maybe I'll find my niche in that, or that the balance of things is my niche. Whatever that may be, it should at least get marginally clearer in the next week.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
I'm Filling these Shoes
Goddam it's been a while. I've been actually trying to apply myself to a given project and it has been taking up way too much time. But tonight something was wrapped up for me.
One of my favorite television shows ever has been "the Wire" and it just recently ended. Possibly as eloquently as a tv show has ever ended. I got the whole replaceable motif. Gangstas are replaced by ganstas, cops by cops, but for what ever reason I couldn't put my thumb on how they did it in such a positive light. I remember finishing the series and being inspired by it, like there was a greater hope for humanity that I hadn't seen. I didn't understand how this was possible because the bad guys usually won, the good guys got fucked over but somehow it over came all that to give me some overwhelmingly positive response to that. I had no way to articulate that until I saw a film "Beautiful Losers" tonight.
"Beautiful Losers" is a documentary film on the underground art movement that burgeoned out of New York in the early 1990s. I didn't realize how much influence these guys had over my current generation's style and culture. Aaron Rose, the director and one of the contributors of the movement, interviews all of the people involved in this subculture. He speaks to an assortment of many people that were involved in this whole agglomeration of street subculture that blossomed in his art gallery "Alleged."
How it potentially ties to cops and robbers plot of "The Wire" may seem stretched but it somehow clicked for me. Both these shows stressed these cast aways, degenerates, focusing their energies and collective conscience into something. Druglording from "The Wire" holds a certain dark pedigree so it's hard to see the same thing, but in "Beautiful Losers" they really focused on the fact that these people chose this lifestyle. They were different, knew they were different, and yet, they embraced all that and made the decision to be who they are. That is what I failed to see in the closing episode of "The Wire." Sure, we're all fucked, bound to be replaced but it also showed that we control what we do and can decide who WE replace, what shoes we fill. And that is so fucking empowering. Yeah, we may all be dust or whatever someday, but right now I'm going to decide what I do.
One of my favorite television shows ever has been "the Wire" and it just recently ended. Possibly as eloquently as a tv show has ever ended. I got the whole replaceable motif. Gangstas are replaced by ganstas, cops by cops, but for what ever reason I couldn't put my thumb on how they did it in such a positive light. I remember finishing the series and being inspired by it, like there was a greater hope for humanity that I hadn't seen. I didn't understand how this was possible because the bad guys usually won, the good guys got fucked over but somehow it over came all that to give me some overwhelmingly positive response to that. I had no way to articulate that until I saw a film "Beautiful Losers" tonight.
"Beautiful Losers" is a documentary film on the underground art movement that burgeoned out of New York in the early 1990s. I didn't realize how much influence these guys had over my current generation's style and culture. Aaron Rose, the director and one of the contributors of the movement, interviews all of the people involved in this subculture. He speaks to an assortment of many people that were involved in this whole agglomeration of street subculture that blossomed in his art gallery "Alleged."
How it potentially ties to cops and robbers plot of "The Wire" may seem stretched but it somehow clicked for me. Both these shows stressed these cast aways, degenerates, focusing their energies and collective conscience into something. Druglording from "The Wire" holds a certain dark pedigree so it's hard to see the same thing, but in "Beautiful Losers" they really focused on the fact that these people chose this lifestyle. They were different, knew they were different, and yet, they embraced all that and made the decision to be who they are. That is what I failed to see in the closing episode of "The Wire." Sure, we're all fucked, bound to be replaced but it also showed that we control what we do and can decide who WE replace, what shoes we fill. And that is so fucking empowering. Yeah, we may all be dust or whatever someday, but right now I'm going to decide what I do.
Monday, April 14, 2008
What I do
It's the day before everyone's favorite day, Tax day. It springs on everyone far too quickly and rudely reminds us of all the money we should have kept and spent on hookers or blow or both. Well it wasn't like that for me this year. Not even close. I found out that the GOV is going to pay me 700 bucks to jumpstart the economy (?) in addition to my refund (which is meager due to my meager earnings from last year). But this wasn't the part that made me truly smile.
I had to fill out job occupation. Which seems standard enough. What ever you do for your hooker and blow money will suffice. But this year I boldly, brazenly put down "writer."
You naysayers will be quick to remark truthfully that I haven't actually been paid for, in any way, my writings. So what? I mean I have been spending an inordinate amount of my time doing it (although whether it's being done well is up for grabs, but lots of people do things poorly) and should make some money doing it in the somewhat near future.
It seems that this whole Canada shebang might actually get off the ground. I am not one hundred percent on that, but optimistic. And that could lead to me actually moving to do this. I could be living in a place, writing t.v. episodes and serving donuts and coffee. Isn't that exciting?
Okay, maybe not that exciting for some of you, but screw you, for me it is. I have found something that I like doing and doesn't require me to give up surfing and, if I do it well (Big Question Mark) it could lead my fiscal responsibility and not having roommates named Mom and Dad. I mean what kind of weird names are those, can't beleive I even share a place with this nutjobs.
So anyway, I'm happy, inspired and writing.
I had to fill out job occupation. Which seems standard enough. What ever you do for your hooker and blow money will suffice. But this year I boldly, brazenly put down "writer."
You naysayers will be quick to remark truthfully that I haven't actually been paid for, in any way, my writings. So what? I mean I have been spending an inordinate amount of my time doing it (although whether it's being done well is up for grabs, but lots of people do things poorly) and should make some money doing it in the somewhat near future.
It seems that this whole Canada shebang might actually get off the ground. I am not one hundred percent on that, but optimistic. And that could lead to me actually moving to do this. I could be living in a place, writing t.v. episodes and serving donuts and coffee. Isn't that exciting?
Okay, maybe not that exciting for some of you, but screw you, for me it is. I have found something that I like doing and doesn't require me to give up surfing and, if I do it well (Big Question Mark) it could lead my fiscal responsibility and not having roommates named Mom and Dad. I mean what kind of weird names are those, can't beleive I even share a place with this nutjobs.
So anyway, I'm happy, inspired and writing.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
So last Summer I Went to...
I think it's really easy to talk about travelling and sound like a douchebag. Not that I'm rallying against travel, but it seems to be very easy to make it sound super elitist (which it is). Because of it's natural exclusivity it makes for a tough topic to handle with tact or grace.
I was at a dinner/wine drinking thing tonight and between me making awful jokes and talking about online dating and norwhales, the subject of travel was broached. It seemed innocuous enough, but in the wrong hands it can make you want to vomit. Tonight was one such night. I kinda suspected it, seeing as India was the locus of the conversation. I'm not sure what it is about India but it seems to draw out people desire to make a profound statement.
This one guy, who apart from this moment, seemed alright. But he was even talking in that soft, philosofical tone to make it sound like he was the Dalai Fucking Lama. I mean give me a fucking break. I know that this place has some spiritual background, what with yoga/meditation/Ghandi/sacred cows, but it's still a place. An experience. And this guy goes on to try to explain India (and how he had been everywhere, in three weeks no less. Not sure if you are aware, but it's a big fucking place) and the best he could do was to say that "you feel the highest highs and the lowest lows there." Really? Is that all there is? You can't give me a better description than that. And that Mahatma Ghandi voice seemed to implicate some sense of completeness, like I was the retard missing out on his perfect description of the place.
Then he goes on to tell about a letter that Ghandi wrote to Hitler, and how extremely "profound" it was. And while I'm sure it was an inspirational peice of writing, his elaboration seemed to ring hollow, like he'd read about it in a tour book but hadn't actually sat down to read it.
The thing is, this guy isn't necessarily an asshole, it's just really easy to make yourself look this way when speaking about aimlessly wandering the globe. Few people get that opportunity so to treat it with any sort of overdramatization can make it feel elitist and shallow and make the speaker look like a dick.
I was at a dinner/wine drinking thing tonight and between me making awful jokes and talking about online dating and norwhales, the subject of travel was broached. It seemed innocuous enough, but in the wrong hands it can make you want to vomit. Tonight was one such night. I kinda suspected it, seeing as India was the locus of the conversation. I'm not sure what it is about India but it seems to draw out people desire to make a profound statement.
This one guy, who apart from this moment, seemed alright. But he was even talking in that soft, philosofical tone to make it sound like he was the Dalai Fucking Lama. I mean give me a fucking break. I know that this place has some spiritual background, what with yoga/meditation/Ghandi/sacred cows, but it's still a place. An experience. And this guy goes on to try to explain India (and how he had been everywhere, in three weeks no less. Not sure if you are aware, but it's a big fucking place) and the best he could do was to say that "you feel the highest highs and the lowest lows there." Really? Is that all there is? You can't give me a better description than that. And that Mahatma Ghandi voice seemed to implicate some sense of completeness, like I was the retard missing out on his perfect description of the place.
Then he goes on to tell about a letter that Ghandi wrote to Hitler, and how extremely "profound" it was. And while I'm sure it was an inspirational peice of writing, his elaboration seemed to ring hollow, like he'd read about it in a tour book but hadn't actually sat down to read it.
The thing is, this guy isn't necessarily an asshole, it's just really easy to make yourself look this way when speaking about aimlessly wandering the globe. Few people get that opportunity so to treat it with any sort of overdramatization can make it feel elitist and shallow and make the speaker look like a dick.
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