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.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The last week in March and the first week in April combine for my favorite sports time of the year. Recently, the Bruins have been involved in the Final Four, the Lakers' regular season is getting ready to climax into the playoffs and the lovable Dodgers kick off their year, hopeful as always.
This mash up of sports programming usually leads to a general uselessness on my part, as I spend most of my days watching games, replays, highlights and reading up on the teams. So of course I'm on top of my sports at this point and not just as it pertains to my teams but the leagues as well.
One of the sadder storylines this year has been the snatch up of the Seattle Supersonics by a midwesterner, with plans of relocating them to the burgeoning metropolis that is Oklahoma City. It seems ridiculous because Seattle, despite having one of the worst teams in basketball has one of the best (albeit currently morose) fanbases of any team. Just check out this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EW19D4qXStI&feature=related
You can barely hear the announcers over the crowd and this is BEFORE the game. I know a lot of you have heard or seen this before but it bears repeating. I have attended many sporting events and never have I heard anything like this before the game starts.
It makes me sick to think a franchise that has this kind of history is leaving and I almost became bitter to the people in Oklahoma City until I realized one thing the other day. I'm a Dodgers fan. I can't be mad at these prospective Sonics fans because I am a fan of the worst sports divorce in history (close second is the Baltimore/Indianapolis Colts).
I didn't completely grasp this until I watched the Dodgers documentary on cable the other day. I always knew about the Brooklynites and their undying hatred of Walter O'Malley. I had heard the joke "You have a gun with two bullets and are in a room with Hitler, Stalin and O'Malley. Who do you shoot? O'Malley twice." But despite this I was one to side with O'Malley saying that the New York Construction Coordinator was the biggest asshole that was responsible for the Dodgers transition to the West Coast.
Well that was partly true.
But then I began to think about all of this in terms of today. So the Dodgers were the Red Sox before the Red Sox completely evolved. They were the loveable losers who would make a run every now and again (a lot in the Jackie Robinson years) but could never quite make the jump. So while the pre 2004 Red Sox fans had that indelible moment of Buckner, the Bucky Dent home run (whose name is legally Bucky Fucking Dent in the greater New England area) the Brooklyn Dodgers shared just as many of those moments as well as the common hated enemy that always defeated them, the New York Yankees. So when they finally overcome all of this in 1955 and win the World Series, the fans are just as jubilant as the 2004 Red Sox fans. The thing is, they shared some other characteristics as well.
Both were playing in VERY old stadiums. The difference comes here. While both Ebbots Field and Fenway park were/are venerated facilities, their owners took markedly different approaches to them. The owners of the Red Sox have found ways to keep Fenway park relevant, refusing for as long as possible to leave (although I will contend, no stadium has a worse section to watch a baseball game than the high field level section along the first baseline. It is impossible to see fly balls and if you are unlucky, like I was, second base.) while Walter O'Malley, cashing in on the team's recent successes, holds the fans and the city hostage in an attempt to get a new, more viable stadium.
So while the Red Sox Fans would have stomped all over that asshole Robert Moses and forced him to cave and keep the Sox, that doesn't mean that Robert Moses held the most responsibility for the Dodgers' departure. That responsibility is O'Malley's because he was the instigator of the entire debacle. And now I understand, to a minor degree, the pain that the Brooklyn Dodger fans continue to endure and have a good idea at what Seattle will be like once their team finishes everything and moves.
So now the Seattle Supersonics are facing a similar fate as the Brooklyn Dodgers. Like the Dodgers they are being asked for unrealistic stadium demands (although in reverse, the Dodgers wanted to be able to buy and own while the Sonics want to have the public pay for it) and the prospect of losing their team because of the public officials failure to comply.
All this mess will leave a trail of bitterness. And just as there still exist Brooklynites that are still angry at O'Malley and, to a lesser extent, the LA Dodger fans, there will be bitter Sonics fans that will be angry at ownership and the OKC fans. And while I understand the hatred for the owners and the city officials, I hope that people realize that the new fans don't shoulder any responsibility other than to care for the team as much as the previous fans. That's why I think that there should be a break given to the OKC fans because, if last year is any indication, they will be a rabid worthy fan base.
This mash up of sports programming usually leads to a general uselessness on my part, as I spend most of my days watching games, replays, highlights and reading up on the teams. So of course I'm on top of my sports at this point and not just as it pertains to my teams but the leagues as well.
One of the sadder storylines this year has been the snatch up of the Seattle Supersonics by a midwesterner, with plans of relocating them to the burgeoning metropolis that is Oklahoma City. It seems ridiculous because Seattle, despite having one of the worst teams in basketball has one of the best (albeit currently morose) fanbases of any team. Just check out this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EW19D4qXStI&feature=related
You can barely hear the announcers over the crowd and this is BEFORE the game. I know a lot of you have heard or seen this before but it bears repeating. I have attended many sporting events and never have I heard anything like this before the game starts.
It makes me sick to think a franchise that has this kind of history is leaving and I almost became bitter to the people in Oklahoma City until I realized one thing the other day. I'm a Dodgers fan. I can't be mad at these prospective Sonics fans because I am a fan of the worst sports divorce in history (close second is the Baltimore/Indianapolis Colts).
I didn't completely grasp this until I watched the Dodgers documentary on cable the other day. I always knew about the Brooklynites and their undying hatred of Walter O'Malley. I had heard the joke "You have a gun with two bullets and are in a room with Hitler, Stalin and O'Malley. Who do you shoot? O'Malley twice." But despite this I was one to side with O'Malley saying that the New York Construction Coordinator was the biggest asshole that was responsible for the Dodgers transition to the West Coast.
Well that was partly true.
But then I began to think about all of this in terms of today. So the Dodgers were the Red Sox before the Red Sox completely evolved. They were the loveable losers who would make a run every now and again (a lot in the Jackie Robinson years) but could never quite make the jump. So while the pre 2004 Red Sox fans had that indelible moment of Buckner, the Bucky Dent home run (whose name is legally Bucky Fucking Dent in the greater New England area) the Brooklyn Dodgers shared just as many of those moments as well as the common hated enemy that always defeated them, the New York Yankees. So when they finally overcome all of this in 1955 and win the World Series, the fans are just as jubilant as the 2004 Red Sox fans. The thing is, they shared some other characteristics as well.
Both were playing in VERY old stadiums. The difference comes here. While both Ebbots Field and Fenway park were/are venerated facilities, their owners took markedly different approaches to them. The owners of the Red Sox have found ways to keep Fenway park relevant, refusing for as long as possible to leave (although I will contend, no stadium has a worse section to watch a baseball game than the high field level section along the first baseline. It is impossible to see fly balls and if you are unlucky, like I was, second base.) while Walter O'Malley, cashing in on the team's recent successes, holds the fans and the city hostage in an attempt to get a new, more viable stadium.
So while the Red Sox Fans would have stomped all over that asshole Robert Moses and forced him to cave and keep the Sox, that doesn't mean that Robert Moses held the most responsibility for the Dodgers' departure. That responsibility is O'Malley's because he was the instigator of the entire debacle. And now I understand, to a minor degree, the pain that the Brooklyn Dodger fans continue to endure and have a good idea at what Seattle will be like once their team finishes everything and moves.
So now the Seattle Supersonics are facing a similar fate as the Brooklyn Dodgers. Like the Dodgers they are being asked for unrealistic stadium demands (although in reverse, the Dodgers wanted to be able to buy and own while the Sonics want to have the public pay for it) and the prospect of losing their team because of the public officials failure to comply.
All this mess will leave a trail of bitterness. And just as there still exist Brooklynites that are still angry at O'Malley and, to a lesser extent, the LA Dodger fans, there will be bitter Sonics fans that will be angry at ownership and the OKC fans. And while I understand the hatred for the owners and the city officials, I hope that people realize that the new fans don't shoulder any responsibility other than to care for the team as much as the previous fans. That's why I think that there should be a break given to the OKC fans because, if last year is any indication, they will be a rabid worthy fan base.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
AB3
Last Saturday was one of the coolest days ever. Tommy, Steve, Dan and I drove down to Seaside reef in San Diego for the "Anything But 3." AB3 is just a bunch of shapers showing up at the same beach and letting other people try out their new boards that aren't like the standard three fin thruster set up.
There must have been at least 100 boards one the beach of all kinds of shapes and sizes. I saw styrofoam twin fins, battail quads, a half quad half twin fin, bonzers, five fins, single fin eggs and so much more. I spent five hours surfing, switching from boards every few waves and I still didn't try all the boards that I wanted to ride.
I wasn't the only one either. There were little kids with their dads trying out quad fins and girls out trying to get something with a little bit more jump for the summer. The organizers made sure the word got out and they chose one of the best waves to do it on.
Seaside is a rivermouth/reef/beachie that has multiple sections and take off spots so it could handle all the people out there. There were a few times that people were burnt by someone, but the area was big enough that most people got enough waves to keep themselves cool. It didn't hurt that everyone was trying out new boards.
There were some hassles by the park rangers, because they said that the shapers needed a permit because it was an event to promote future sales. In a sense they were right, but not really. This event was more about seeing what other people were doing. I was talking to the shapers and all of them had been walking around checking out other guys boards and giving them a surf. I didn't hear many people talk about buying boards, everyone was talking about what board was the most fun, strangest looking, most surprising or the worst. It was cool to hear the comparisons between boards that I would never, ever have a chance to ride had I not gone to this event.
There must have been at least 100 boards one the beach of all kinds of shapes and sizes. I saw styrofoam twin fins, battail quads, a half quad half twin fin, bonzers, five fins, single fin eggs and so much more. I spent five hours surfing, switching from boards every few waves and I still didn't try all the boards that I wanted to ride.
I wasn't the only one either. There were little kids with their dads trying out quad fins and girls out trying to get something with a little bit more jump for the summer. The organizers made sure the word got out and they chose one of the best waves to do it on.
Seaside is a rivermouth/reef/beachie that has multiple sections and take off spots so it could handle all the people out there. There were a few times that people were burnt by someone, but the area was big enough that most people got enough waves to keep themselves cool. It didn't hurt that everyone was trying out new boards.
There were some hassles by the park rangers, because they said that the shapers needed a permit because it was an event to promote future sales. In a sense they were right, but not really. This event was more about seeing what other people were doing. I was talking to the shapers and all of them had been walking around checking out other guys boards and giving them a surf. I didn't hear many people talk about buying boards, everyone was talking about what board was the most fun, strangest looking, most surprising or the worst. It was cool to hear the comparisons between boards that I would never, ever have a chance to ride had I not gone to this event.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Grandpa Borges
I thought I was going to write more down here in Chile than I had been writing than I had written back at home. Well, that wasn't even close to the case. I spent most of my time hanging out with the family and friends and surfing. I guess I had time at night to write, but I was so exhausted from surfing that I'd just fall asleep before I could even get the computer out. Not that it's a bad thing but that's what happened.
I didn't even finish a book. I don't know the last time I went on a trip of two weeks, especially with this much travel time and didn't finish a book. I started out reading V. by Thomas Pynchon, but I don't think I was quite in the mood for him. He's more of a guy that I like to read when the surf isn't good. I'm not sure what that means, but most of my reading of him has occured when the surf isn't very good. I read Gravity's Rainbow last year while I was in Chile, but in Viña where the surf is no where near as good as Pichilemu. I think it's a book that I like to be at full attention to read, and during the day seems to be the best for that, save the 45 minutes after lunch when I am utterly worthless.
It's not a book that I can read in the 30 minutes before I go to bed every night. I find that I just end up rereading the same four pages because I don't remember a thing that has happened. It's really annoying, I think I'm going to start it back up after I finish the book to which I switched, Ficciones por Jorge Luis Borges.
He's a much better read for those thirty minutes before bed because, despite being in spanish, I find that the short stories and the wonderment of each tale seems to keep me more closely tied into the story. Yeah, I still go back and re read stuff, but it's usually a lot quicker rereads, so I can get a story in every night. Of course, I wasn't noticing this until the end of a very short trip so I've only read the first three stories in Ficcionnes.
I think Borges is one of my favorite writers because he emits this wise grandfatherly voice. The kind of voice that would keep me spellbound when I was a kid (and does now). It's definitely not a fatherly voice, because it lacks the fidelity to realism. Grandfathers (not mine really, but in general) have a lovely way to embellish things until they are no longer anything remotely close to what the real story was, but it doesn't matter because they can see it so well and so enrapt in it that their charisma envelopes you like blankets fresh out of the dryer. It's lovely, and sweet and laced with fantastic ideas and philosophies. All this is why I love Borges. He makes me feel like that enchanted kid again. He inspires me in spite of the fact that I know I could never write like him. He inspires because I know that he'd be happy that I am writing. Maybe that sounds simple but in my head he's grandfatherly, and grandfathers seem to emit a gentle pride with their grand children.
I didn't even finish a book. I don't know the last time I went on a trip of two weeks, especially with this much travel time and didn't finish a book. I started out reading V. by Thomas Pynchon, but I don't think I was quite in the mood for him. He's more of a guy that I like to read when the surf isn't good. I'm not sure what that means, but most of my reading of him has occured when the surf isn't very good. I read Gravity's Rainbow last year while I was in Chile, but in Viña where the surf is no where near as good as Pichilemu. I think it's a book that I like to be at full attention to read, and during the day seems to be the best for that, save the 45 minutes after lunch when I am utterly worthless.
It's not a book that I can read in the 30 minutes before I go to bed every night. I find that I just end up rereading the same four pages because I don't remember a thing that has happened. It's really annoying, I think I'm going to start it back up after I finish the book to which I switched, Ficciones por Jorge Luis Borges.
He's a much better read for those thirty minutes before bed because, despite being in spanish, I find that the short stories and the wonderment of each tale seems to keep me more closely tied into the story. Yeah, I still go back and re read stuff, but it's usually a lot quicker rereads, so I can get a story in every night. Of course, I wasn't noticing this until the end of a very short trip so I've only read the first three stories in Ficcionnes.
I think Borges is one of my favorite writers because he emits this wise grandfatherly voice. The kind of voice that would keep me spellbound when I was a kid (and does now). It's definitely not a fatherly voice, because it lacks the fidelity to realism. Grandfathers (not mine really, but in general) have a lovely way to embellish things until they are no longer anything remotely close to what the real story was, but it doesn't matter because they can see it so well and so enrapt in it that their charisma envelopes you like blankets fresh out of the dryer. It's lovely, and sweet and laced with fantastic ideas and philosophies. All this is why I love Borges. He makes me feel like that enchanted kid again. He inspires me in spite of the fact that I know I could never write like him. He inspires because I know that he'd be happy that I am writing. Maybe that sounds simple but in my head he's grandfatherly, and grandfathers seem to emit a gentle pride with their grand children.
Friday, March 7, 2008
I feel like I'm home. It's weird to be in a foreign country and get that feeling. Where you know exactly where you are going and how things are going to work out before you even get off of the plane. There is a pre established routine that comforts you and some other small reminder that you are home. For some people this sensation may only be for one place. But for me I have 4 places in 3 countries that will always give me this sensation.
Obviously, flying into LAX gives me that feeling because, well, I am going home. But it always seems to hit me once I get picked up. The reason being my mother, she almost always picks me up from the airport with eyes watering. It's just one of the most comforting sights to see, and especially because it just means that I'm done doing anything for the rest of the trip home. Mom scoops me up, we might stop by Taco Bell and then we drive straight home. I look forward to that in a week an a half.
Hawaii also has this sensation. I was born there and lived there for 6 years, so that shouldn't be enough, it's the smells. To be honest, I don't have too many memories from my early days in Hawaii: a green bike that I'd ride everywhere (and crash once, successfully, and frighten my parents horribly), a enormous leather football, some friends, and the smell of ginger. I guess that last one isn't a memory, but something that permeates through all of my memories like the red clay in Hawaii. But it is what most reminds me of Hawaii because there are so many leis and flowers around, the smell hangs thick in the air. It's almost visable, like a pleasant smoke. One of the few smells that I can imagine clearly and it's definitely my favorite and most comforting. So naturally, I feel alright at Honolulu Airport.
Ireland. I know that I'm a mongrel, my blood so mixed that it's probably brown, but for some reason I really identify with my Irish heritage. Partly due to my surname, Murphy, and partly because my grandfather (from whom I inherited my first name, Breene) has been such an important part of my life. There's probably more reasons, but as soon as I saw all the green hills, leaning next to the Atlantic I had that rush of going home, in spite of never visiting Ireland prior.
Lastly is Chile. I think this place has been a more earned position than the rest. There wasn't any instant connection with Chile. When I first flew in, I was overwhelmed with trepidation, for I was embarking on a nine month journey. But I grew a confidence and an understanding of spanish and I flew in and out of the Santiago Airport many times in my stay here, and it became routine. Eventually the lilting accent of Chilean spanish put me to ease. Just hearing all the "sípo," "nopo," "cachai" and "huevon" bubble through the air made me think of the family that I somehow earned down here. I will think of Pati, and her sailor's mouth, from which I have learned more curses than I will ever know what to do with. I think of Pati Sue and Pati Paz and their incessant banter and play, like two puppies. Of Claudio and Pato, who will always be the first to sing karaoke with you. I love all the people at the school.
It's weird having earned a spot here. Like Hawaii/California I was just born into that. And Ireland, is just heritage. I had no prior connection to Chile, and yet, it holds as much importance, maybe more, than all of them except California. It's crazy to think of it, but it gives me confidence that I could make my home anywhere I want (providing there is surf, of course).
I do wish that Chile was closer because it pains me to think that I could only have two or three weeks to travel a year and that doesn't seem like nearly enough time here. But that gives me extra motivation to have my project in Canada work out. I've got to think that being a writer affords way more free time than a normal job.
I'm just going to have to enjoy this time, enjoy my time back in California and maybe I'll create another place of comfort if/when I go to Canada.
Obviously, flying into LAX gives me that feeling because, well, I am going home. But it always seems to hit me once I get picked up. The reason being my mother, she almost always picks me up from the airport with eyes watering. It's just one of the most comforting sights to see, and especially because it just means that I'm done doing anything for the rest of the trip home. Mom scoops me up, we might stop by Taco Bell and then we drive straight home. I look forward to that in a week an a half.
Hawaii also has this sensation. I was born there and lived there for 6 years, so that shouldn't be enough, it's the smells. To be honest, I don't have too many memories from my early days in Hawaii: a green bike that I'd ride everywhere (and crash once, successfully, and frighten my parents horribly), a enormous leather football, some friends, and the smell of ginger. I guess that last one isn't a memory, but something that permeates through all of my memories like the red clay in Hawaii. But it is what most reminds me of Hawaii because there are so many leis and flowers around, the smell hangs thick in the air. It's almost visable, like a pleasant smoke. One of the few smells that I can imagine clearly and it's definitely my favorite and most comforting. So naturally, I feel alright at Honolulu Airport.
Ireland. I know that I'm a mongrel, my blood so mixed that it's probably brown, but for some reason I really identify with my Irish heritage. Partly due to my surname, Murphy, and partly because my grandfather (from whom I inherited my first name, Breene) has been such an important part of my life. There's probably more reasons, but as soon as I saw all the green hills, leaning next to the Atlantic I had that rush of going home, in spite of never visiting Ireland prior.
Lastly is Chile. I think this place has been a more earned position than the rest. There wasn't any instant connection with Chile. When I first flew in, I was overwhelmed with trepidation, for I was embarking on a nine month journey. But I grew a confidence and an understanding of spanish and I flew in and out of the Santiago Airport many times in my stay here, and it became routine. Eventually the lilting accent of Chilean spanish put me to ease. Just hearing all the "sípo," "nopo," "cachai" and "huevon" bubble through the air made me think of the family that I somehow earned down here. I will think of Pati, and her sailor's mouth, from which I have learned more curses than I will ever know what to do with. I think of Pati Sue and Pati Paz and their incessant banter and play, like two puppies. Of Claudio and Pato, who will always be the first to sing karaoke with you. I love all the people at the school.
It's weird having earned a spot here. Like Hawaii/California I was just born into that. And Ireland, is just heritage. I had no prior connection to Chile, and yet, it holds as much importance, maybe more, than all of them except California. It's crazy to think of it, but it gives me confidence that I could make my home anywhere I want (providing there is surf, of course).
I do wish that Chile was closer because it pains me to think that I could only have two or three weeks to travel a year and that doesn't seem like nearly enough time here. But that gives me extra motivation to have my project in Canada work out. I've got to think that being a writer affords way more free time than a normal job.
I'm just going to have to enjoy this time, enjoy my time back in California and maybe I'll create another place of comfort if/when I go to Canada.
Monday, March 3, 2008
I'm in LA but I'm not
I hate having to put pants on to use the internet. It's so frustrating. I mean, I guess I could have left the pants off, but I'm not sure everyone in the lobby would be too pleased to see me in my skivvies.
I shouldn't have to be in this situation, staying at a hotel in LA waiting for my flight. But for the second straight time, LAN has done fucked up. They start by saying that there is only going to be an hour delay and then the next time they announce notice the delay is for a whole day. If my flight home does the same thing, this might be my last time flying LAN. It's just way too annoying.
I guess it could be worse. I mean last time I was shuttled two hours away for a four hour sleep in a mediocre to poor restaurant with only breakfast included. This time, we got lunch, dinner and breakfast and the hotel is nice and only two minutes away from the international terminal. It's close enough that I could walk there if it weren't for the fact that I could get mugged on my way.
That's not to say that this is all that exciting. Being at the Sheraton Gateway hotel is definitely a businessman's hotel (read: 35-50 year old white dude heaven). It's seriously the most unbelievable thing. Which lead me to understand why there are so many strip clubs in the LAX vicinity (I have one that is right across the street from my hotel, its the one by the Carl's Jr. on Century with the sweet NUDE NUDE NUDE signs). That is to say, there is absolutely NO female presence here. It seems to be the only situation where it's okay to randomly chat up some dude at the bar because it's either that or silence. I gotta figure that most these guys are in sales or some representative role of some sort, so they probably have some proclivity to babble and with the dearth of women the guy next to them at the bar is the victim. It's really annoying to sit next to all these guys at the bar, because, honestly I chose silence rather than to converse with these douchbags. I have never heard guys more openly talking (embellishing?) about banging chics (regardless of whether or not they are married) in all my life. It's gross. Possibly the most slovenly thing since sloppy joe day in second grade. I think I want to puke.
This is a pretty new thing for me, because I normally don't hang out too much in the lobby/bar area of these types of hotels. But being that it's the only area that internet is offered, here I am. I'm beginning to get a new perspective on businessmen. It would not surprise me to find that there is a higher percentage of gay men in this group, although this might be influenced by the fact that a man in a green argyle cardigan ordered a raspberry cosmopolitan. Really? Other than the fact he likes men, that has to be the gayest thing about that guy. Incidentally, because he was obviously gay, he was the least annoying because he wasn't trying to prove his manhood in front of all these other half drunk men. I swear the ratio of men to women here is at least 12-1. And the few women that stroll in are older than me by at least 20 years and are probably married to one of the guys. I think it's official, airport hotels are the worst places to meet women (especially in my age bracket) or to meet someone worth talking to (although, I've heard many women claim that this is just a generality).
Anyways, I can't wait to blow this taco stand and head on down to Pichilemu, Chile, the land of endless left pointbreaks and underage women. I can say that I'll be surfing quite a lot, due to the fact that I have an aversion of doing any sort of jail time, especially in third world countries. Although, I should be fair, I am going to catch the tail end of summer so maybe, just maybe I meet some college girl back for the holiday. That's just wishful thinking though, because I'm really going down to see my Chilean mom, the crazy Pati, because she developed hyperthyroidism and her body decided that being 4'10'' and 110 was too big, so it dropped 30 pounds. I'm nervous to see her because I'm hoping she is doing better. She had an allergic reaction to the normal treatment of hyperthyrodism (which I'm told is relatively simple and painless), so this second treatment coming up is really important. I know she has to go to Santiago for a couple of days right when I first get there to check up on her second treatment, so I'm hoping things go well.
So now I'm going to go back to what I do, Scrabulous and reading.
I shouldn't have to be in this situation, staying at a hotel in LA waiting for my flight. But for the second straight time, LAN has done fucked up. They start by saying that there is only going to be an hour delay and then the next time they announce notice the delay is for a whole day. If my flight home does the same thing, this might be my last time flying LAN. It's just way too annoying.
I guess it could be worse. I mean last time I was shuttled two hours away for a four hour sleep in a mediocre to poor restaurant with only breakfast included. This time, we got lunch, dinner and breakfast and the hotel is nice and only two minutes away from the international terminal. It's close enough that I could walk there if it weren't for the fact that I could get mugged on my way.
That's not to say that this is all that exciting. Being at the Sheraton Gateway hotel is definitely a businessman's hotel (read: 35-50 year old white dude heaven). It's seriously the most unbelievable thing. Which lead me to understand why there are so many strip clubs in the LAX vicinity (I have one that is right across the street from my hotel, its the one by the Carl's Jr. on Century with the sweet NUDE NUDE NUDE signs). That is to say, there is absolutely NO female presence here. It seems to be the only situation where it's okay to randomly chat up some dude at the bar because it's either that or silence. I gotta figure that most these guys are in sales or some representative role of some sort, so they probably have some proclivity to babble and with the dearth of women the guy next to them at the bar is the victim. It's really annoying to sit next to all these guys at the bar, because, honestly I chose silence rather than to converse with these douchbags. I have never heard guys more openly talking (embellishing?) about banging chics (regardless of whether or not they are married) in all my life. It's gross. Possibly the most slovenly thing since sloppy joe day in second grade. I think I want to puke.
This is a pretty new thing for me, because I normally don't hang out too much in the lobby/bar area of these types of hotels. But being that it's the only area that internet is offered, here I am. I'm beginning to get a new perspective on businessmen. It would not surprise me to find that there is a higher percentage of gay men in this group, although this might be influenced by the fact that a man in a green argyle cardigan ordered a raspberry cosmopolitan. Really? Other than the fact he likes men, that has to be the gayest thing about that guy. Incidentally, because he was obviously gay, he was the least annoying because he wasn't trying to prove his manhood in front of all these other half drunk men. I swear the ratio of men to women here is at least 12-1. And the few women that stroll in are older than me by at least 20 years and are probably married to one of the guys. I think it's official, airport hotels are the worst places to meet women (especially in my age bracket) or to meet someone worth talking to (although, I've heard many women claim that this is just a generality).
Anyways, I can't wait to blow this taco stand and head on down to Pichilemu, Chile, the land of endless left pointbreaks and underage women. I can say that I'll be surfing quite a lot, due to the fact that I have an aversion of doing any sort of jail time, especially in third world countries. Although, I should be fair, I am going to catch the tail end of summer so maybe, just maybe I meet some college girl back for the holiday. That's just wishful thinking though, because I'm really going down to see my Chilean mom, the crazy Pati, because she developed hyperthyroidism and her body decided that being 4'10'' and 110 was too big, so it dropped 30 pounds. I'm nervous to see her because I'm hoping she is doing better. She had an allergic reaction to the normal treatment of hyperthyrodism (which I'm told is relatively simple and painless), so this second treatment coming up is really important. I know she has to go to Santiago for a couple of days right when I first get there to check up on her second treatment, so I'm hoping things go well.
So now I'm going to go back to what I do, Scrabulous and reading.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Actually I do stuff
So I don't exactly do nothing, I just don't have a job. And for someone like myself that doesn't seem to pose any sort of problem of being boring. Some people will whine about not having something to keep them occupied, but those people are not as active as I am, nor as nerdy, nor creative. By no means do I need a job to keep me busy or entertained, because even though I am without responsibility I am still busy.
Surfing is probably the single largest consumption of my time. And not only just the act of surfing but everything involved. A typical surf session probably lasts between two and four hours dependent upon the quality of the surf, but there is so much preparation involved. At night I'm always planning where to surf the next day, so I'll be on the internet checking out the swell directions and the tide. I am always looking for the days when some of my favorite fickle surfspots (like Zuma, or Rights off Point) might awaken. I'm very prepared for everyday. I'm not one of those guys that shows up to the same beach every day at 8:30, I like to surf the best spot around. True, I never really become a local of any break, so I might not get the deferential treatment that some locals get. However I'm a good surfer and have a beard so it is very rare for me to get hassled at any spot, regardless of the protectiveness of the local crew.
The surf does go bad though, so that leaves days like today where the surf is really small or it could be stormy, which means that I have to do stuff other than just surf. Although some of it is surf inspired. A few weeks back I met Skip Frye, a famous surfer from North San Diego and on top of being excited to meet him I was taken aback by how rolled over his shoulders looked and I decided that I didn't want to turn out like that.
So, I've started to do yoga, which is a huge time commitment. It's insanely hard because my shoulders are unreasonably tight from surfing so much. I'm in these classes and all these beautiful, svelte girls and they have their arms perfectly over their heads in these acute isosceles triangles and I'm standing there, elbows bent looking like a pentagon. It's pretty routine for me to be the worst one in the room, but I gaurantee that I'm trying as hard as anybody in there. I can tell that it's helping me out a lot and it's turning out that I might actually do this for my life. I already feel the effects of surfing and other sports being corrected in the first month.
So yoga and surfing, but that is not all. I've been playing pick up hockey with my friends and if I get the rest of my equipment, we're going to be playing pick up ice hockey a few nights a week. It will be the first time I've played ice hockey since I was a preteen and I can't help but be incredibly excited about it. And there is the added advantage that this will help me prepare for my stay north of the border. I know I'm going to have to do something besides surf when I'm in Canada so I've already decided to pick hockey up while I'm up there. I'll just have to switch from Pacifico to Molson and start saying "eh" and my transition will be seamless.
But that's just my jock side. I'm also extraordinarily nerdy. I love books, but more than that, I love words. How weird some origins are (like surfing came from sailors saying that the ocean would sough or make a hushing noise and it eventually evolved into surf), semantics (I always tell my mom that I'm coordinated but not athletic, I can surf, play ping pong, shoot a basketball, but running and especially jumping I am not very good at), and just flat out fun words (i.e. shenanigans, curmudgeonly, tomfoolery, shindig, bamboozle, etc.). Combine my love of books and words with the fact that I am very competitive and love games, it is no surprise that one of my favorite things of all time is Scrabble. I have the deluxe edition with the turn table but I find that I play the most on Scrabulous. Scrabulous is an application added to a profile on facebook.com. It's different from normal scrabble because a normal game does not include challenges so an accepted word has to be played. However, with those rules you can place tiles on and check it out until you find a word that works. This is especially helpful for the two letter words to fit into little spaces. There are people, like my friend Dave, who cheat rampantly on scrabulous with using the dictionary and word generators so it is not as straight forward as normal scrabble but I think most people play honestly (I never, NEVER use the dictionary). So if you ever want to play me online just friend request me on Facebook (I'm Breene Murphy, in the UCLA network) and send me a message to play.
And then there is my loyalty to the UCLA Bruins, Lakers, and Dodgers so anytime a game is on I'm somewhere watching the game. So as you can see I hardly even have time for a job because I'm always busy. But once the money runs out (which is rapidly approaching) I'm going to have to squeeze in a job. Fingers crossed that my prospective job in Canada comes through so at least I can have my desire to muck around with words satisfied.
Surfing is probably the single largest consumption of my time. And not only just the act of surfing but everything involved. A typical surf session probably lasts between two and four hours dependent upon the quality of the surf, but there is so much preparation involved. At night I'm always planning where to surf the next day, so I'll be on the internet checking out the swell directions and the tide. I am always looking for the days when some of my favorite fickle surfspots (like Zuma, or Rights off Point) might awaken. I'm very prepared for everyday. I'm not one of those guys that shows up to the same beach every day at 8:30, I like to surf the best spot around. True, I never really become a local of any break, so I might not get the deferential treatment that some locals get. However I'm a good surfer and have a beard so it is very rare for me to get hassled at any spot, regardless of the protectiveness of the local crew.
The surf does go bad though, so that leaves days like today where the surf is really small or it could be stormy, which means that I have to do stuff other than just surf. Although some of it is surf inspired. A few weeks back I met Skip Frye, a famous surfer from North San Diego and on top of being excited to meet him I was taken aback by how rolled over his shoulders looked and I decided that I didn't want to turn out like that.
So, I've started to do yoga, which is a huge time commitment. It's insanely hard because my shoulders are unreasonably tight from surfing so much. I'm in these classes and all these beautiful, svelte girls and they have their arms perfectly over their heads in these acute isosceles triangles and I'm standing there, elbows bent looking like a pentagon. It's pretty routine for me to be the worst one in the room, but I gaurantee that I'm trying as hard as anybody in there. I can tell that it's helping me out a lot and it's turning out that I might actually do this for my life. I already feel the effects of surfing and other sports being corrected in the first month.
So yoga and surfing, but that is not all. I've been playing pick up hockey with my friends and if I get the rest of my equipment, we're going to be playing pick up ice hockey a few nights a week. It will be the first time I've played ice hockey since I was a preteen and I can't help but be incredibly excited about it. And there is the added advantage that this will help me prepare for my stay north of the border. I know I'm going to have to do something besides surf when I'm in Canada so I've already decided to pick hockey up while I'm up there. I'll just have to switch from Pacifico to Molson and start saying "eh" and my transition will be seamless.
But that's just my jock side. I'm also extraordinarily nerdy. I love books, but more than that, I love words. How weird some origins are (like surfing came from sailors saying that the ocean would sough or make a hushing noise and it eventually evolved into surf), semantics (I always tell my mom that I'm coordinated but not athletic, I can surf, play ping pong, shoot a basketball, but running and especially jumping I am not very good at), and just flat out fun words (i.e. shenanigans, curmudgeonly, tomfoolery, shindig, bamboozle, etc.). Combine my love of books and words with the fact that I am very competitive and love games, it is no surprise that one of my favorite things of all time is Scrabble. I have the deluxe edition with the turn table but I find that I play the most on Scrabulous. Scrabulous is an application added to a profile on facebook.com. It's different from normal scrabble because a normal game does not include challenges so an accepted word has to be played. However, with those rules you can place tiles on and check it out until you find a word that works. This is especially helpful for the two letter words to fit into little spaces. There are people, like my friend Dave, who cheat rampantly on scrabulous with using the dictionary and word generators so it is not as straight forward as normal scrabble but I think most people play honestly (I never, NEVER use the dictionary). So if you ever want to play me online just friend request me on Facebook (I'm Breene Murphy, in the UCLA network) and send me a message to play.
And then there is my loyalty to the UCLA Bruins, Lakers, and Dodgers so anytime a game is on I'm somewhere watching the game. So as you can see I hardly even have time for a job because I'm always busy. But once the money runs out (which is rapidly approaching) I'm going to have to squeeze in a job. Fingers crossed that my prospective job in Canada comes through so at least I can have my desire to muck around with words satisfied.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
I'm Not Doing Anything
Well, that's not entirely true, but it would sum up my father's feeling about my current state. What is true is that I am 25, I live at home with my parents, I do not have a job and I am not going to school of any kind. This isn't to mean, that this is some state that will not have change, just a current description of what is currently true about my life.
This should come with a bit of backstory, seeing as this makes me sound exceptionally pathetic and useless. My name is Breene Murphy and I was born in Oahu, Hawaii during Hurricane Ewa. I'm not sure how that has affected my life, seeing as no injury or malady happened upon me from that event. The reality is that I just slept right through it, or so I'm told. I just included it because it is one of those random factoids about people that seem give particular enjoyment.
Now that you have that little nodule of knowledge, I figure I'd give a more recent history so as to explain my current existence. I lived in Chile last year. I had gotten fed up with working in advertising and needed a change in career path. I had been an International Development Studies major (kind of a cross between international business, history, political science and a foreign language) in college and wanted to seek an opportunity down that career pathway, however the fact that I wasn't fluent in spanish (as that was the language I chose) was quite an impediment to the potential jobs for which I could apply.
Becoming fluent in spanish, or any language I suppose, requires that you can speak it right when you wake up in the morning. If you are tired or hung over (or both) and you can flow in conversation that means you're alright. I know it sounds weird, but if you can speak under those conditions it means that you are no longer thinking through the language, it is more of a reaction than a thought process. And the only way you can create that situation is to live abroad where the language is spoken
For that reason, I lived in a small fishing village/seasonal getaway town with a family where no one (save the eldest son, but he was at college) spoke any English. I could have done it a much more formal way, by going through a university or some private school in Santiago, but I figured a university would have me live with other english speaking students and a private school would probably just be an english student tutoring spanish to gringos to pay the bills. I figured this person wouldn't be any more qualified than another spanish tutor somewhere else and there was the additional fact that I wanted to surf.
At first, living with the family was really hectic because there was so much family staying at the house and the two teenaged daughters spoke so fast and with such unique slang that they were rendered completely unintelligible to me (it also didn't help that three quarters of the women in the house were named Pati). However, with the help of my spanish teacher, the diminutive Tati, I made progress. And after a while the extended family returned to their homes and extra time with just the family and the girls allowed me to finally understand what they were saying the whole time. Apparently I'm going to marry one of the daughters.
But more on that another time (I'm going back to visit the family in two weeks so the subject will be revisited), I'm making an attempt to stay on track. So, back to why I don't do anything. While I was staying in Chile I decided to write a blog about all the craziness that occurred (should you be interested http://breenesadventures.blogspot.com/ ). I had planned to come back and find a job that would allow me to use my spanish and travel like a state department job or working for the international division of a surf company but a really good family friend liked my blog. This may seem inconsequential but he is in show business and is currently working on a project where the main character is a early-mid twenties kid who has traveled...2+2=4... so he invited me to work on his project with him. Only thing is, the project hasn't quite been greenlighted, so I'm basically hanging around waiting to see if it's going though. I'm not going to apply for other jobs because I'm an honest guy and I would feel like an asshole if I quit after two weeks if I found out the project was going to start up. And for similar reasons, I'm not going to get an apartment because I wouldn't want a lease a place knowing that I would have to leave it behind. So where does that leave me? 25, jobless, living with my parents and writing about it.
This should come with a bit of backstory, seeing as this makes me sound exceptionally pathetic and useless. My name is Breene Murphy and I was born in Oahu, Hawaii during Hurricane Ewa. I'm not sure how that has affected my life, seeing as no injury or malady happened upon me from that event. The reality is that I just slept right through it, or so I'm told. I just included it because it is one of those random factoids about people that seem give particular enjoyment.
Now that you have that little nodule of knowledge, I figure I'd give a more recent history so as to explain my current existence. I lived in Chile last year. I had gotten fed up with working in advertising and needed a change in career path. I had been an International Development Studies major (kind of a cross between international business, history, political science and a foreign language) in college and wanted to seek an opportunity down that career pathway, however the fact that I wasn't fluent in spanish (as that was the language I chose) was quite an impediment to the potential jobs for which I could apply.
Becoming fluent in spanish, or any language I suppose, requires that you can speak it right when you wake up in the morning. If you are tired or hung over (or both) and you can flow in conversation that means you're alright. I know it sounds weird, but if you can speak under those conditions it means that you are no longer thinking through the language, it is more of a reaction than a thought process. And the only way you can create that situation is to live abroad where the language is spoken
For that reason, I lived in a small fishing village/seasonal getaway town with a family where no one (save the eldest son, but he was at college) spoke any English. I could have done it a much more formal way, by going through a university or some private school in Santiago, but I figured a university would have me live with other english speaking students and a private school would probably just be an english student tutoring spanish to gringos to pay the bills. I figured this person wouldn't be any more qualified than another spanish tutor somewhere else and there was the additional fact that I wanted to surf.
At first, living with the family was really hectic because there was so much family staying at the house and the two teenaged daughters spoke so fast and with such unique slang that they were rendered completely unintelligible to me (it also didn't help that three quarters of the women in the house were named Pati). However, with the help of my spanish teacher, the diminutive Tati, I made progress. And after a while the extended family returned to their homes and extra time with just the family and the girls allowed me to finally understand what they were saying the whole time. Apparently I'm going to marry one of the daughters.
But more on that another time (I'm going back to visit the family in two weeks so the subject will be revisited), I'm making an attempt to stay on track. So, back to why I don't do anything. While I was staying in Chile I decided to write a blog about all the craziness that occurred (should you be interested http://breenesadventures.blogspot.com/ ). I had planned to come back and find a job that would allow me to use my spanish and travel like a state department job or working for the international division of a surf company but a really good family friend liked my blog. This may seem inconsequential but he is in show business and is currently working on a project where the main character is a early-mid twenties kid who has traveled...2+2=4... so he invited me to work on his project with him. Only thing is, the project hasn't quite been greenlighted, so I'm basically hanging around waiting to see if it's going though. I'm not going to apply for other jobs because I'm an honest guy and I would feel like an asshole if I quit after two weeks if I found out the project was going to start up. And for similar reasons, I'm not going to get an apartment because I wouldn't want a lease a place knowing that I would have to leave it behind. So where does that leave me? 25, jobless, living with my parents and writing about it.
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