The World Takes

Caution: Reading Can Strain Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Max Katsarelas) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 15:47:00 +0000

While drinking my morning cup of coffee I read the warning label on the lid and cup, "Caution: Contents May Be Hot." Thing is, I know it's hot, that's why I wanted coffee because it is meant to be taste-bud singeing, piping hot. Thing is, the warning sign is a bit ambiguous, like, why is it even there? The way I see it, if they're going to the trouble of warning me the contents are hot in a hot cup of coffee I ordered or poured for myself, I need to know the other repercussions. Instead of fruity designs on those styrofoam cups, maybe there should be a list of dangers associated with coffee like the discoloring of teeth, caffeine jitters or cavities if you use too much sugar. Moreover, if we put caution, attention or warning signs on coffee cups, why not anything and everything possible of posing a disaster.

Yesterday while walking to class I saw a phone tangled up in a pine tree. If that phone were to fall, it could leave a pretty nasty bump on someone's head. I say the university should put up a sign warning people walking under the tree there's a phone up there that could potentially fall and cause brain damage. What about stairs? Talk about a good way to twist an ankle or, if you're a senior, break a hip. Every stairwell should warn people to watch their step in the event they want to keep their limbs in working order. Shoes. They cause blisters, how come there's no warning on/in the box? What about running shoes? I think the shoes should warn people of the potential dangers with running, i.e. messy hair, kneecaps falling out of place, or loss of breath. All paper products should come with a warning reminding people to use proper care when handling paper as to avoid paper cuts. Shaving gel should come with a warning, "Caution, hair will grow back."

Maybe I'm taking things a little too far, but these unforeseen consequences need to be addressed. If people are suing over burnt tongues because of hot coffee and the lack of proper warning, then honestly, where do we draw the line?

Failed Investment

noreply@blogger.com (Max Katsarelas) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 12:47:00 +0000

Every Monday and Wednesday morning I get coffee from a local convenience store named Quality Diary. I also go here for a cup of coffee in the early afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays and a cup of hazelnut decaf most nights of the week. I've been doing this now for about the past month and a half and tend to see the same handful of people working. Today, I was chatting up with an older lady, most likely late 50's, about her Thanksgiving holiday. We've always been cordial to one another, but just recently we began talking about this or that, you know, small talk. Today I said something that changed her opinion of me. I could tell by the way she batted her eyes, almost taken aback like I was spurting out blasphemies.

I've always felt like when I interact with adults working outside of the university I have already been judged as "that college kid." They probably think I get drunk, yell obscenities at passersby, taint their quaint East Lansing streets, and am an all-around spoiled snot-nosed kid. I personally make it a goal of mine to separate myself from this mostly true stereotype. I'm friendly, I ask people about their days with sincere interest, smile at the person checking me out at McDonalds and the person bagging my groceries at Meijer. I always feel particularly useless though when the landlord comes to our house to fix a screen, unclog a drain, or patch up a leak. That's the stuff I should be doing for myself, I mean, I'm a man and all. And every time I have to make the call to the landlord I feel like I've messed up my responsibilities as a man. But yesterday, I messed up, messed up my responsibility to myself...big time. As I replay the conversation in my mind, I am probably over thinking the whole situation. After my middle-aged lady friend told me her Thanksgiving was a nice break I responded, "I'm not happy to be back at school."

I mean, I guess I am sort of happy to be back up at school. Truthfully, I like getting up early and walking around campus in the early morning when I can see my breath. I feel like I'm apart of something bigger than just me. It sounds cliche, but passing the business people driving to the office while I sip on my QD coffee gives me a sense of purpose. I feel "in the mix," like I'm doing my part. I don't like the stress though. The stress of papers, homework, tests and missed notes. It gets me anxious and uncomfortable. That's all I meant by, "I'm not happy to be back at school." Thanksgiving break was a tease. It was toying with me by saying, "You like this? Yeah, you do? Well, hah, you still have three weeks of class, papers, and finals, little man." It hurts. So it's understandable I wouldn't be completely optimistic on an early morning before my 8AM class.

Come on, everyone needs a break now and again...I just wasn't ready for mine to be over. And because of this, my relationship with my middle aged lady friend at QD is ruined. Now I'm the snot-nosed college student again. She probably thinks the only reason I drink the coffee is for the caffeine buzz, not because Quality Dairy's coffee actually borders perfection. A month and a half of hard work ruined. It's like going to class for two months straight, skipping it one time and missing the pop quiz worth 40 points. It's an awful feeling and now I'm fully invested in this project. Operation Turnaround Opinion of Me will begin, full force, tomorrow morning.

Outside My Window #4

noreply@blogger.com (Max Katsarelas) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 15:59:00 +0000

In homage to the old Outside My Window posts #1, #2, #3, here is the fourth installment from my current residence. When I lived in Holden Hall on the other side of campus last year, my sixth story window offered some spectacular views of the campus. Well, not exactly spectacular, but better than my window this year. I could see girls waiting to ride the bus out to their sororities during "Rush Week." I saw dudes on bikes nearly get hit by cars and garbage trucks as they raced to class. I saw and heard verbal altercations between cafeteria employees and students vying for parking spots. I saw the leaves change color in the fall and their buds flower in spring. Last year, my backyard was campus and I miss the view.

This year my backyard is the local homeless and bum population hangout. It's a urinal and a collecting point of all things garbage, cigarette butts, and aluminum cans. There are patches of dirt where grass refuses to grow. There are patches of grass that commit euthanasia. The neighbors behind me don't even have a backyard, they have a parking lot. There's nothing pretty about this, I guess that's why I just leave the shades drawn.

Assignment Notebook OCD

noreply@blogger.com (Max Katsarelas) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 16:00:00 +0000

I call it Assignment Notebook OCD. I’m sitting in class, just minding my own business when I reach for my backpack. I grab my assignment notebook and start flipping through the pages even though I'm pretty sure it hasn't changed since the last I opened it a few minutes ago. This is typically what I do before class starts. Look at my assignment notebook and try to figure out how I’m going to get all that work done before I can relax at the end of the day. It can be intimidating actually. Especially when I get exceedingly studious and write down, “Start Paper!” even though it’s not due for a month. This paper shouldn’t even be on my mind, yet I wrote it down in the assignment notebook. It will bother me. It lingers over my head. It will make my heart beat faster. I can’t get comfortable in my seat. I cross my legs, then switch and cross my other legs. It's not working. Gosh, why did I do this to myself? I have to get this paper done now.

I want to leave class. I have too much homework to do. I can’t possibly get any of it done if I sit in this class and I certainly won’t be able to, “Start Paper!” But then if I leave class I’ll worry about what I missed and there might be a quiz. OK, I’ll stay. I close my assignment notebook, take a sip of water, and try to relax. The lingering minutes before class is the only time I can daydream. When I was kid I daydreamed for probably 8 hours, at least. School was easy enough where I could daydream through classes, while doing homework, or even reading. I had a wicked good imagination then and I was better at Madden too.

Now I don’t have much of an imagination and I'm not all too good at video games either. I’m too serious. I’m not practicing my daydream skills anymore. This upsets me. Aside from the few minutes before class, I don’t even know when I daydream or what I daydream about. Walking from one class to the next would be a perfect time to daydream, but usually it’s too cold to think of anything else except, “Are my nipples so hard they’re sticking through my fifteen layers of clothing?" I could always daydream in the bathroom, but even there I'm conscious about about my aiming and making sure water doesn't spill all over my pants after washing my hands.

So here I am, sitting in class, waiting to start taking notes so I can find a study lounge and start cranking out all my homework when someone sits down next to me. I’m not surprised, I smell pretty good and there isn’t much room anywhere else in this lecture hall. I use my peripherals and examine who is sitting next to me. Well, he’s big. Check that, real big. Big enough that it looks like on weekends he travels from one pie eating contest to the next. Maybe that’s why he is breathing so heavy, he probably just came back from a pie-eating contest over in Mason or Dewitt. Oh jeez, I have a pumpkin pie flavored candle in my bedroom back at home, I wonder if he can smell it on me. Of course he can, I think, that's why he sat next to me in the first place. If he has good day dreaming skills he is probably imagining I look like I big ol' pumpkin pie. Thank God he is on my left side. I'm right-handed, I can afford to lose my left arm, I guess.

Where I lack in daydreaming abilities, I make up for with good peripheral vision. I notice he is looking at his own assignment notebook. I can’t see what’s written, I’m assuming it’s something about pie eating contests but I’m not sure. He is crossing stuff out, re-writing stuff, and flipping through papers all at once. Maybe this guy has Assignment Notebook OCD like me too. Yep, he must, because he puts it away for a minute then grabs it again. Next thing I know, he is crossing his legs, looking at his watch, looking at his assignment notebook. Oh, this guy has got it bad...worse than me. I bet his mind feels like it’s about to explode. Shoot, I hope he didn’t write down, “Start Papers!” If it’s more than one paper on his mind, there is no way he can sit through this class.

And I’m right. With in minutes, my neighbor with the hearty appetite is gone leaving me alone with my out-of-prime daydreaming skills and an assignment notebook holding me in its clutches.

Experiments with a Word Cloud

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 15:56:00 +0000

While putting off homework, reading, and basically anything related to work, I came across The Iowa Review's website. And on their page they had a really neat feature that compiled all the words from one of their issues into a word cloud. They used a website called Wordle.net so naturally, I began experimenting. I typed in the address for this website and here's what they churned out.

But I didn't really like these so I made my another batch of clouds using some of my own words, color combinations, and fonts.

Experiences of a Live Reading

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 16:10:00 +0000

My experiences following a live author reading.

I really didn’t know what to wear. Is this a formal event? Do I dress up? Khaki pants and a dress shirt? Do I keep it casual? Jeans and a sweatshirt? I figured there’s nothing wrong with being comfortable so I opted for the jeans and a sweatshirt. When I arrive at Morrill Hall, a building as stately as it is dilapidated, my nerves are settled when I see another student wearing jeans. At least I won’t be the only person looking like a bum. Then again, I’m an English major, who am I trying to impress?

I grab a seat towards the front. Well, more like the middle. Sitting in the very front would put me in close proximity to the author and I don’t even know this woman. I wouldn’t want to make it awkward between us. I also don’t want to sit in the back either where I’m more likely to doze off. Even though I will later learn during the first reading, sitting in the middle of the room can’t protect me from the sudden onslaught of sleepiness.

At first, I was hoping to hear a new piece of the author’s work. I had already read two of her pieces previously and I had enjoyed them very much. Thing is, I like reading instead of being read to, but I didn’t know this at the time. I began daydreaming during the first reading.

Were those pretzels on the refreshment table?

Shoot, my jeans have a black stain on the knee.

Why is it so hot in here?

After concluding I’d have to wash my jeans, but still debating whether I had actually seen pretzels, the first reading ended. What did she even talk about? Talent. Yes, something about talent I thought. Then she began her second essay and her words were familiar. I just read this piece a week before. I sat back and enjoyed her words. After she answered some questions I rushed out of the room. It was hot and I could feel the perspiration building on my brow. I quickly glance at the refreshment table on my way out. The aforementioned pretzels were actually coffee stirrers. No worries, I grab a peanut butter cookie.

Ben Franklin's Schedule

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 15:55:00 +0000

After taking a closer look at the schedule I noticed something. Aside from the fact the dude never slept or ate snacks, he began each day with a question, "What good shall I do today?" He ends the day with a similar question, "What good have I done today?" It seems like people have no time to answer these questions. I wake up and immediately I'm in a rush to get ready for class. I don't have time to think about what good I could possibly do. The same can be said for the end of the day. By the time I'm winding down, the last thing I want to do is relive the day, unless it was Christmas.

Ben Franklin was an interesting guy. He invented stuff. Like the Franklin Stove, bifocals, and lightning rods. He played instruments and chess and even wrote books. He was a politician. He signed the Declaration of Independence and served as an ambassador in France. He was the first Postmaster General and ran his own newspaper. He was an activist. He started clubs so people could meet and discuss how to make their cities better. He had a moral compass guided by the same 13 virtues he wrote as a 20 year old. Tell me this guy wasn't legendary. I mean, he did just about everything. I can't help but wonder what kind of coffee he drank in the morning.

I want to have a life like that. I want my skills, accomplishments to transcend industries. I want to own businesses or a racing team, be a politician, write books, contribute to a newspaper, be a college professor, and work in advertising. I'd like to become a better cook, learn how to fix cars (or anything for that matter), drink all different types of coffee, try all different types of food, and live in different countries. I'd like to spend and waste less, learn to channel my thoughts, angers, and emotions, and be a better person. Ben Franklin died way back in the 1700's yet the man is still teaching me a thing or two about a fulfilling life.

The World Will End Because of My Luck

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 18:05:00 +0000

I will probably never do anything very admirable. I will never fight in World War II or the Korean Conflict like my grandfathers. I won’t live on a farm, grow crops, and feed people like my grandmother. I won’t work for the state advocating for the rights of senior citizens like my mom. The most admirable thing I’ll ever do is probably have kids. Even then, everyone has kids, so what’s admirable about that?

Even if I grew up during World War II or the Korean Conflict, I wouldn’t have done anything admirable anyways. Mostly because I’m unlucky. I know how luck works and in that understanding I know I don’t have any. I can see it now. I’d be drafted and like the millions of other optimistic Americans, poised to save Europe from fascism. Unfortunately, I’d get food poisoning while at basic training. Doctors at the time would misdiagnose my food poisoning for some rare disorder. They would use experimental drugs as treatment and I’d lose the use of one of my eyes. I wouldn’t be able to fight in the war, I’d never see action, and I’d return home after being discharged and work in hardware store.

Heck, what if I didn’t get food poisoning and was never discharged? I’d probably get shipped off to some country where people only eat potatoes and cheese. Already I’m unlucky, I hate potatoes. Even here I wouldn’t see action, but at least I was serving my country, right? After my first week in this country, I’d eat a bad piece of cheese. I’d get dysentery. With this dysentery I would somehow lose the use of one of my eyes. I would inevitably be medically discharged, return home after never seeing action, and most likely end up working in a hardware store.

Let’s say I was on the Titanic. After drinking too much coffee, I’d scold myself as I searched for a lavatory. I would find a small bathroom in the hull of the ship with a quaint nautical theme. As it would turn out, this particular lavatory would be in the direct line of the infamous iceberg. While standing at the urinal, appreciating the nautical art, the iceberg would rip through the walls. I would be the first casualty of that infamous night. I wouldn’t even have the chance to carry terrified women and children into lifeboats. So much for trying to be admirable.

Sure, this is all speculation, but I’m unlucky. Things like this happen to unlucky people. I’m amazed I haven’t been hit by lightning, attacked by a shark while swimming in a lake, or trampled by a herd of rickshaws. If the world ends in 2012, as it’s predicted in the Mayan calendar, it’s because of my bad luck. I would be the sole reason all life as we know it would cease to exist. Even then, I wouldn’t be able to witness the world imploding in on itself because I’ll be asleep. See, it would be just my kind of luck to fall asleep during the end of the world.

Like I said, I’ll never do anything admirable and my excuse is simply bad luck. I want to do something amazing, I really do. I daydream about saving someone’s life, stopping a bank robbery, or helping an old lady walk across the street. I imagine winning the lottery and then donating the millions to charities across the world. Thing is, I would never win the lottery. And if I did win the lottery, it would be revoked after a glitch in the lottery system is revealed. See? I can’t even donate money to help others because I’m unlucky. Before I can even do something admirable, something unlucky happens. A fluke? A coincidence? I don’t think so.

The Author's Picture

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 19:31:00 +0000

One day, some bored employee who worked for a book publishing company decided they should put a picture of the author at the end of a book. Sometimes the author's picture can be found on the back cover or the inside sleeve of the book's jacket. I can understand the need for a short biography at the end of a book. I'm interested in knowing how many kids he/she had, where they live, and what their dog's name is. Because you never know when interesting factoids like these can be brought up in conversation. Think how scholarly you'll sound when you reference R.L. Stine to Bexley, Ohio or Dr. Seuss, also known as Theodor Geisel, to Springfield, Mass.

Thing is, people are judgmental. We're rude, ignorant, and superficial. We do judge a book by its cover. Freshman year I was taking a class on the evolution of American thought taught by a Ghanaian immigrant. He had lived in this country for two years and was teaching me about the evolution of my country's thought. I couldn't take the man seriously. The same can be said for my high school gym teacher who was the coach of the chess team and could barely walk. I swear, I'm not making this stuff up. We develop answers to questions we don't understand. Everyone does it. Why is she fat? Well, she ate too many cookies one day. Why does my neighbor never wave? He's antisocial of course.

In a society where we make judgments in a matter of seconds- why do we insist on including pictures of authors with their books? By nature, authors and writers aren't very attractive people. The men are usually short, started balding at an early age even though they have plenty of hair on their arms, have disproportionate noses, super big or super tiny ears, and you can practically smell their coffee breath by just staring at the picture. And women authors/writers pretty much look like men anyways. OK, I'm exaggerating. But for real, you're at a bookstore casually walking through the aisles and a certain paperback catches your eye. Maybe it's the design on the spine or its title. You look at the synopsis on the back and become disgusted when you see the author's picture. Maybe it is a crusty old man wearing a cardigan sweater or maybe it is hot babe.

I guess if the writer is good looking, having their picture isn't a bad thing. I know if I had to choose a book between some ugly dude and a dime-piece I'll take the latter. But if a writer is ugly and has yet to establish themselves in the literary world, a picture is nothing more than a massive deterrent to the casual buyer. It can make or break their potential career. Imagine if Stephen King hadn't established himself as one of the greatest horror novelists of all time and you saw his picture on the back of some innocuous book. Would you buy it? You don't need to answer. I already know. That's why it's time publishers face the facts. The people who write their books are ugly and the people who read them are superficial. Take out the author's pictures and make every book a mystery no matter what the genre. Let me try to imagine what they look like as I conjure up images of the Marlboro Man or Meryl Streep. It certainly wouldn't hurt.

Small Thoughts on Adolescence

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 14:08:00 +0000

In middle school I had a job working with a painter named Joe. My family hired him to paint the outside of our house and do some work on the inside as well. He was a terribly slow painter. It took him months to get all the work done at our house. He practically turned into a member of our family, eating dinner with us on many occasions. That’s probably why he felt obligated to give me a job when my mom asked. So much for summer vacation. The job was boring and I didn’t know what I was doing. I probably misplaced every paint brush and roller the guy had. And for some reason, Joe loved Long John Silvers and hated when I snapped my fingers. Even though I never saw him stop at Long John Silvers, he always had a bag of fried chicken leftovers nearby.

---

The toy department in stores these days is nothing like they were when I was a kid. I could spend hours fingering through the different Matchbox or Hot Wheel cars in search of a rare find. Back then, Lego hadn’t transcended into the video gaming industry and Lincoln Logs weren’t a novelty. That was a long time ago. And I wonder, when was the last time I actually went up and down the aisles looking for a new toy? At what point did I think I was too old or too cool for toys?

---

After I grew out of my toy phase and began buying video games I wanted to get the brand new Game Boy Color. It was going to change my life. Instead of having to play Sega in the basement, which was the scariest place in my house, I could play the Game Boy anywhere- it was hand-held. My parents said they wouldn’t pay for it so every few weekends I’d go to my aunt and uncle’s farm and help them mow the lawn or weed the garden. While mowing along the chicken coop I was faced with a decision. Do I cut the big chunk of grass near the hornets nest or skip by it? Skip by it of course, this is the country, wasps, horseflies, bumblebees, and hornets are bigger than my face out here. After finishing up the mowing, I went inside when my aunt pointed to the patch of grass near the chicken coop and said I had missed a spot. No I didn’t, I thought to myself. As I lugged the lawn mower back to the coop I prayed I wouldn’t get stung. Then when I started the lawn mower and began chopping down the blades of grass, nothing happened. I wasn’t stung and a week later I got my Game Boy Color.

Writing About Art

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 15:32:00 +0000

I went to the Kresge Art Museum and looked at a few different pieces of art. This writing was inspired by a piece of American and Asian Art.

American Art

My grandma grew up in Minnesota. She lived on a farm with hundreds upon hundreds of acres. Even though she lives in suburbia and her life in rural Minnesota is a thousand miles away and decades in the past, she still calls it, “store-boughten bread” and goes to the farmers’ market almost every weekend. I often wonder what it would be like living in the country, working on a farm, and if I would have the hands, muscles, and testicular-fortitude to cut it. I once helped out my family’s contractor at his house doing yard work. He said I didn’t know what hard work was. So did my dad. Funny thing is, they never lived on a farm and my grandma never told me I didn’t know what hard work was. Hopefully she’s right

Asian Art

Two and a half walls of art surround me. Colors clash revealing stark images of body parts, anguish, and terror. How can something be so angry and look so angry, yet take the color of bright yellow and pink pastels? This is the visual representation of patience. Seemingly calm and cool, then in an instant- BOOM! Anger. It is like the scariest woman I ever knew, my elementary school piano teacher. The gray haired old lady looked fragile and gentle in her cardigan sweaters, but when she spoke it was like a dinosaur screeching from a Jurassic Park movie. “That’s the wrong note! The note is ‘C!’ ‘C!’ A 'C' I said!” She’d yell over and over until I corrected myself. Amidst the tick-tock of her grandfather clock and the pitter-patter of her cats running around the house, I’d sit in fear hoping not to make a mistake. Then, out of nowhere I’d hit the wrong black note and with my deflated body and cringing face, I’d listen to her yell, “you played ‘B’ flat! Play ‘A’ flat!"

Something Smells Funny

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 14:51:00 +0000

Until yesterday my room smelled like cleaning solution, man, and a wet towel. To call the smell unwelcoming would be an overstatement, but it wasn't welcoming either. Each time I opened my door I was hit with a wave of emotionless odors. It was a constant feeling of nothingness. No smells to remind me of blooming flowers in spring, baking pies in the winter, or freshly cut grass in the summer.

But today, oh but today, my room has been transformed. After a purchase of two small candles my room now smells of a wooden barrel aging apple cider with fresh cinnamon. It is the welcoming smell I have been yearning for since moving into my new digs. The smell evokes happy memories of fall, raking leaves, and pumpkin pies. If candy or ice cream are comfort foods, than fall-themed candles are comfort smells.

Perhaps the sense of smell is more powerful than I ever imagined. Then again, it would make sense. I have never tried sauerkraut because it smells so terribly disgusting I couldn't possibly enjoy eating it. The same could be said with okra. My room has evolved into a sanctuary of sorts. Everything just seems more relaxed. Homework isn't so hard and my stupid plastic chair isn't that uncomfortable anymore. The stresses of my college aged life seem to melt away with the wax surrounding the burning wick.

The Olden Days

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 16:01:00 +0000

There was a time that was “before my time.” The Vietnam War, the Space Race, the 60’s, Woodstock, and I could go on. Thanks to history class and Wikipedia I’m moderately versed on most of these subjects. Pictures, they say, are worth a thousand words, but only the sense of sight can be tapped while looking at a picture. I guess you could smell it, but what’s the point? And by touching it, smudges and fingerprints taint the image.

One of the true, lasting and authentic pieces of history are buildings. They have smells. Musty, mothballs, damp, mildew, crusty, and sometimes nauseating. They can be touched and felt. They definitely can be heard. Old buildings have more creaks and moans than a motel at 2 o’clock in the morning on a Saturday night.

The East Lansing/Okemos area is an interesting place. While cruising down Grand River Avenue, it can feel like I have walked into a time machine and then spit back out to a time decades before I was born. There are buildings that remind me of a time I never knew. A time when muscle cars roared up and down the streets, kids still played baseball, and beer cans had cool designs.

Sometimes, if I wasn’t driving in my own late model car, passing the hundreds of other late model cars, I could swear it wasn’t 2009. Architecture from the 60’s and 70’s dominate the area. It’s like there was some sort of contract made between bell bottomed, leisure suit wearing architects and city officials stating buildings built during the Kennedy, Nixon, Ford, and Carter administrations shall not be torn down nor renovated.

In some ways, it is sort of cool. These are the same buildings that generations of people have walked through. There is so much history under the slant-less roof and in the coral tiled walls. Sure, many of these buildings have that “prison” look going on. Not a whole lot of windows, ridiculous paint schemes, parking lots located under the building, and all sorts of architectural oddities/anamolies. They certainly don’t command the same respect as their 20’s, 30’s, and 40’s counterparts; maybe it will just take time. Compare it to a classic car. In the 80’s, a muscle car probably had the same aesthetic appeal as a 1992 Buick Century today. Give it twenty years or so and that 1992 Buick Century will be a classic soon enough. Or not, that car is kind of ugly.

Going Greek with My Grandma

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 19:23:00 +0000

Here's an early draft of an English paper I'm writing:

I’m half Greek and half Czech. Technically I got a little German, Irish, and other scattered European ethnicities flowing through my veins, but it is easier to just say Greek and Czech. My grandma is currently on the search for my future Greek wife and every week she begs me to come to church with her. She’s always has some new, young, Greek girl aged between 12 and 17 for me to meet. Despite the fact I’m almost 21 and not really into that whole pedophilia thing, she persists. Every few months my mom will make me go to church with her which inevitably turns into a show.

To my grandmother, I’m like a fine piece of jewelry- a spectacle. We have to sit in the front row because we wouldn’t want Father Teodore to think we didn’t make an appearance. Following the Divine Liturgy, as they’re called in the Greek Orthodox Church, we head over to George’s Senate, a coney island, where all my grandma’s old lady cronies gossip about church politics and the homily. If it’s a special service like Easter we go to Greek Town in Detroit. And this has been going on my entire life.

I like to think I’m an expert on Greek food by now. You know, the lambs, spinach pies, flaming cheeses, gyros, and baklava. Because of this I feel coney islands are actually underrated. Most people stick to omelets or coney dogs, but every coney joint has a whole host of Greek entrees. These lesser known choices include moussaka, pastitsio, kapama, or souvlaki. My grandma doesn’t cook a whole lot of Greek food. It’s sort of sad actually. Her mom, my yia yia, could cook an entire five-course meal with a two charcoal briquettes and a Coleman cooler. Not my grandmother though.

While my grandmother is in the pursuit of my Greek wife, I’m on a life long quest to find the greatest Greek food. A quest for the Greek food I’ll never experience because my grandma’s culinary skills have failed me. Her spaghetti is typically made with five different types of noodles and despite cooking since the last World War she has yet to master the art of non-burnt garlic bread. Don’t get me wrong, she isn’t the worst cook in the world, she does a make a mean set of Greek meatballs and always buys the most delicious donuts, but I find myself yearning for the real authentic Greek food I’ve never truly known.

Recently I have made a point to frequent all the local Greek eateries and I noticed something startling. Not like a nail in my food or hair in my soup, Greeks are the cleanest people in the world, my grandmother has told me, but it’s that I have never had a bad Greek dish. I love them all, especially because each Greek restaurant does their specialties a bit differently. They all use their yia yia’s recipe that made the long journey from a tiny village in Greece to suburban Detroit.

Maybe I feel inclined to like the food before I even enter the doors. Almost an obligation. I’m Greek, the restaurant owner is Greek, my grandmother is Greek, Jackie Kennedy married a Greek, and there was a movie made about a Greek wedding- it all makes sense. It’s sort of like when I get stuck going out to dinner with my family to celebrate my kid brother’s birthday. If the restaurant’s name is like P.J. Maloney’s or Bogarts Eatery, I automatically know I won’t like the food. I don’t care that they bake their meatloaf with ketchup or deep fry Oreo cookies; my mind has been made up. I guess I could never be a food critic because my preconceived notions overtake whatever sensibility I have.

When I walk through the door of a Georgio’s Coney or Pete’s Stardust Diner, breathe in the smell of second hand smoke mixed with fried eggs and buttered toast I know there isn’t anything I could possibly dislike. Except onions, I hate those. It’s places like these that bring my grandmother and I together. A woman who, despite all of her quirks, gets me to laugh and realize just because she burns garlic bread doesn’t mean she isn’t the greatest grandmother in the world.

First Day of Classes

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 01:17:00 +0000

I'm entering my third year at this place. Michigan State University in East Lansing, Michigan. I've had semesters of experience with the first day jitters and last week I thought I had overcome all my fears. Going to bed I was confidant and ready for my first day of class. Fast forward a few hours later, I'm frantic. Waking up before my alarm jolted me out of bed I run over to my phone and wonder, "did I oversleep my alarm, how come it isn't buzzing?!" Realizing I'm just getting up before my alarm, I check to make sure I organized my schedule properly. Everything looks to be in working order and I didn't miss a class because of oversleeping. I check again, just in case. In the clear.

I shower, dry off, change, check my e-mail, read the paper, eat some cereal, and then I'm off. For the past two years I lived in the same residential hall. By the middle of my second year I was bored with my walks to class, let's face it, I took the same route for two years straight. I'd make slight variations to add excitement to my spectacularly boring walk like cutting through an old building or attempting to find the quickest path, but last week I relished my walk to class. I left early to take my time walking down Grand River as people driving their cars rushed to work. Instead of smelling the stench old beer left permeating at the tennis courts near my building from the weekend tailgates, I smell the grease and fryers of McDonalds serving up Sausage McGriddles with McPancakes and McScrambled McEggs. I walk under hundred year old pine trees and duck beneath their branches that beg to be trimmed. I step over crab apples and other red berries, staining the soles of my shoes.

I'll get used to this and this walk will get boring too, but for now, I'm loving it. I pass a bustling street which reminds me there is a life outside college and I'm not living in a bubble. I pass a McDonalds which reminds me why I go to school in the first place, so I can make it out there in the real world. I pass trees, grass, and flower gardens which don't really remind me of anything, but they sure do look nice. I even pass a 7/11 which reminds me that I could really go for a Slurpee. Who cares that it's eight in the morning?

Michigan State University

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 15:11:00 +0000

From East Lansing to Farmington Hills to Sandusky, OH then back to Farmington Hills then over to New York City, then back to Farmington Hills, and now East Lansing once again. Summer ends tomorrow. Classes start back up and I need to go buy my notebooks.

The $2 Reading

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 19:41:00 +0000

It seems like every weekend I stumble upon a street fair somewhere in the city. I never seek them out, they're all the same for the most part, but without fail, every Saturday or Sunday one will practically just appear. They got your $5 pair of sunglasses, handmade scarves and jewelry, various forms of art, and New York shirts or hats. They have food vendors dishing out kebabs, gyros, Pad Thai, smoothies, falafel, tacos, watermelon-in-a-cup, and giant cobs of grilled, buttered corn. They've got hot dogs, sausage, deep fried Oreos, and funnel cakes. It's very "carnival-like," without the "carnival-like" people. Unlike weekends past, I did some research and found out where the street fair was taking place. When I discovered it was within walking distance I decided to make my way down and enjoy the festivities. Heck, nothing whets my whistle like some BBQ shish kebab.

While meandering through the crowd eating their buttered ears of corn, I saw a sign that read, "$2 Psychic Readings." Why not? But I would have to head to the bank first because I had already blown all of my money on a foot long kebab and watermelon-in-a-cup. After making my withdrawal, I headed back the little tent, fully expecting an eye-opening reading for a measly two dollars. Well, I should have known, a measly two dollars constitutes a measly reading. After sitting down she's like, "What do you want know?" I reply, "Let's just talk." She explains the $2 reading entails a face analysis based off my astrological sign. Alright, a $2 reading it is. I tell her I was born in November and I'm twenty. Her response:

You're going to live to be 97. Girls find you to be attractive. You're in for some turbulent times, don't be alarmed though, it's nothing serious. This year will remain pretty much the same and next year you'll be traveling a lot.

The Middle School Debacle

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 00:45:00 +0000

When I was in seventh grade my friend's mom planned a trip for the entire class to walk through a haunted house on a Friday night in October. This was going to be a boy/girl event so, of course, the entire grade was excited. Despite seeing the same people everyday for like six years straight, (I did go to a small Catholic school) there was something about seeing each other outside of school that made the experience mysterious and exhilarating. In the days before the haunted house, it became apparent every guy, actually more like adolescent boy, had to ask an adolescent girl to be their "date." The gossip train rolled in and notes began circulating around the classroom. One girl coined the term, "snuggle buddy," and from then on the question was, "who's going to be your snuggle buddy?" Yes, I re-read that last sentence and I gag, I mean, we were like 12 or 13 years old and talking about "snuggle buddies."

I don't remember how it all went down but I was supposed to be going into the haunted house with this one girl. Dressed up in an American Eagle visor with obnoxiously spiked hair, I thought I was the hottest thing since the yo-yo boom in 4th grade. It didn't help when some other girl came up to me and said she wanted to, "lick my tips," referring to my spiked hair. Once again, we were like 12 or 13 years old, what the heck were we doing talking about this stuff? And who in their right mind finds "licking tips" to be a satisfying experience? Either way I was floating on cloud nine because here I was, some chubby, pimply faced kid getting dug on by girls. Plus, I left my shoes untied which was also the "cool thing" to do in middle school. No one was going to mess this up for me I thought.

After pairing up with my "snuggle buddy" we trekked into the haunted house with another "couple." Whenever I felt nervous or scared I'd try to laugh it off. But the farther we got into the house, the scarier the dudes in masks became. Laughing it off was no longer an option- screaming and pushing my "snuggle buddy" in front of me became the only option. On that night I went from being at one of my highest highs until rock bottoming at one of the lowest lows a middle school kid could hit. I lost the girl. I lost whatever manliness I had gained from puberty. In the car ride home I stared outside the window thinking to myself, this is so embarrassing, I'm never going to live this down. The only thing part of me that survived through the night were my razor sharp tips, jetting out from my visor.

Extreme-ness

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 12:00:00 +0000

I've never been a close follower of the X Games. In the past, if it was on, I'd watch for a little bit, but not for any extended period of time. Extreme sports are pretty cool, but they fascinated me way more as a little kid. I find myself sort of over that wild and crazy phase when I though jumping out of trees was the craziest thing a kid could do. I don't particularly relate to these guys who are basically attempting suicide every time they lace up their blades, hop on a motocross bike, or fly on their skateboard.

I bet X Games viewership in places like Chicago or New York is amazingly high. Not because they're die hard skaters or extreme sport fanatics but they want the excitement. So few of us drive cars. We don't get the rush of driving down an open highway. We're trapped in a perpetual world of concrete boredom. Perhaps that's why crime in cities is so high. Forget about unemployment, the homeless, and all that- crime is caused because people are bored and need to get their kicks elsewhere. They need some stimulation, a way to put their body and mind to its limits- but how? Walk through a bad neighborhood at night? Rob a store at gun point? The X Games fills the hole a city leaves in people. This instinctive desire to push ourselves to the limits. Since most of us don't have that opportunity on a daily basis, we watch the X Games. Living vicariously through the lunatics who attempt quadruple back flips on roller blades. We watch in awe thinking to ourselves, "If only I had the guts to actually do that."

And because of this, I have a new found appreciation for extreme sports. I have made it a goal to watch the opening of ESPN's 15th Annual X Games tonight at 9 PM. I want to see Travis Pastrana tear up the moto-X track, but more importantly watch him battle it out with Ken Block on the rally circuit. Starting last year I got really, really into rallying. To me, it calls for the best, most versatile drivers in the world. And right now, there's nothing I miss more driving. I'm no rally driver, but nothing beats being able to hop in my own car, with the windows rolled down and cruising around my old stomping grounds while listening to Foghat's Slowride.

Big Things

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 23:38:00 +0000

I'm not an overly flashy person. I don't need the biggest or fastest car. I don't eat much sushi or drink specialty lagers. I don't wear the Ralph Lauren shirts with the obnoxious, larger than life, polo guy. Lacoste or Burberry? Hah. The flashiest thing I probably own is a reflective green jacket by Nike and that serves a vital purpose when it's raining. While brainstorming/Twittering/blogging/writing/sipping coffee today at work I looked over at picnic-sized intern table and thought to myself, this is pretty nice. If I ever make it big, I'll scrap the corner office or massive cubicle, all I want is a big table.

Just a massive chunk of wood on a stand or couple of trestles. I'm talking the size of a board-room table. Well, not quite that big, but close. It would have to be big enough for me to lay out all my stuff and then have room to spare. Big enough for a nice external monitor synced to my laptop. Big enough so I can hold impromptu meetings on the fly. No file folders, no problem- I've got a desk the size of Florida. I don't want to feel constricted and that's what happens when I work on a desk suited for a toddler. And if I feel constricted then my mind feels constricted which means I can't think properly. Therefore, a big desk wins and a small desk loses.

Generosity

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 00:26:00 +0000

I ignore the homeless. I don't have extra cash to hand out and even the change in my pocket is a valuable commodity. I'm a college student living in one of the most expensive cities in the world. A small chicken Greek salad can set you back $12. You're lucky to find soup for under $6. A decent cup of coffee for any less than $1.60? Yeah right. And don't even get me started on the cost of groceries and basic amenities. Every nickel and dime counts.

An intern I work with, also a college student, never hesitates to give someone a buck or two, spare change, or a smoke- especially the homeless. Over the weekend I said, "Dude, why do you do that? How do you know they aren't going to just spend that money on beer or drugs." He looked at me and said, "Imagine what it must be like to be in their shoes. To have to ask people for money? That would suck. I hope I never end up like that." His explanation wasn't particularly articulate but it's the most profound thing I have heard since moving to the city.

So here I am, clutching at every nickel and dime so I can pay for an exorbitantly priced Greek salad, while someone right outside the door is just looking for that same nickel or dime to buy a bottle of water. It doesn't seem right.

Handling Rejection

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 00:58:00 +0000

In New York there are always people trying to get something out of you. The homeless want money, the host wants you to come into their restaurant, and the peddlers want you to look at their fake watches. These people face more rejection than a middle-aged man at a dance club and they look it too. They wear the rejection on their sleeve and they approach you as if you have already crashed their dreams. It's a negative cycle that continues to churn everyday until, I'm assuming, one day the rejected people have had enough and go crazy. With every rejection and disapproving head nod, they fall deeper into the mindset that failure is imminent.

Everyday while walking to work I pass a well-dressed older man handing out menus to a local restaurant. He's another one of those people trying to get something out of you. And, like everyone else trying to get to work, I ignore him, walk past and shake my hand as he tries to hand me the menu. Undeterred, he continues to smile, politely nodding his head as people pass while wishing them a good day. He doesn't let the rejection weigh him down as if it was pulling on his necktie. He simply shrugs it off with a smile and probably thinks to himself, "no worries, I'll get the next one."

I guess this works with ideas too. At work, when an idea gets rejected I can give up and conclude I'm never going to come up with another idea. I can tell myself the idea that got rejected was the best one I'd ever come up with and trying to top it would be impossible. I could wear the rejection on my sleeve and let it suck the confidence right out of me. Or, I can be like the man I pass everyday to work. He knows eventually some hungry person will grab a menu. So why take rejection personally? Why not smile and stay positive? No matter how many times I'm rejected I know an idea will hit me. It's just a matter of realizing I just have to keep working, experimenting with ideas, and staying positive. And smiling more probably wouldn't hurt either.

Getting My Ears Lowered

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 19:31:00 +0000

Yesterday I concluded it was time for a haircut. According to my calculations, it would be my first haircut since May when I opted for the buzz cut. The buzz cut is great because it means fewer trips to the barber. It also means the odds of the barber or stylist making a spectacle out of my hair is greatly diminished. Starting last summer after a failed mohawk, I adopted the low maintenance lifestyle associated with the buzz cut. Plus, buzzed hair just feels cool. But summer is almost over and I have a big presentation at work in two weeks. I don't want to look like Travis Bickle, the man was a maniac. This put me in a tight spot. Do I forgo the haircut and walk into the boardroom as the quintessential creative with disheveled hair or do I break the mold and get a nice trim? I took the latter.

Without doing any research, I left my building and found a uni-sex barber shop a block away. If it wasn't for the flat screen television mounted to the wall, I would have thought it was 1987. Two of the three barbers had long and flowing mullet-type haircuts and tight salmon colored polo shirts. They were eastern-European and didn't speak much English- just like the barbers who butcher hair back home. Oh well, hair always grows back I reassured myself while taking a seat. My Slavic-Prussian stylist asked me how I wanted my hair. I tell him a trim, with scissors, and not too short. He seemed to understand because he got all Edward Scissorhands on my hair and went to work, while taking breaks to watch the Harrison Ford movie on the television.

He didn't say much, in fact, he didn't say anything until he saw a bump behind my ear. After explaining I was born with it he became fascinated. "What's in it?" I don't know. "I bet it's blood." I'm pretty sure it's just fluid, no big deal. "Looks like there might be some meat in there." Yes, I have meat behind my ear. "I've been cutting hair a long time- never seen anything like that." Hmm, really? "Yep. Never." Oh, that can't be good. "I'd get it removed." It doesn't really bother me. "No? Oh." Then he lost interest and resumed watching the movie on the television. For $17, I had an interesting conversation and haircut that isn't half bad.

The Random, Small Ideas

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 00:22:00 +0000

Yesterday I posted about my struggle to come up with any ideas. Well, I wasn't telling the entire truth. I have a bunch of little ideas, I just don't know what to do with them. And then when I read about other really cool ideas I write them down and build on it. Like the idea of creating a resume using 160 characters or less. Now, that's pretty tough, but I'll make it tougher. A Twitter-style resume in 140 characters or less. I think mine would go something like this:

"I'm a writer/creative thinker. I'm all about ideas, design, movies, advertising, cars, and cereal. My ultimate goal- experience everything."

Then I start thinking about using Twitter. How come Cap'n Crunch or Count Chocula don't have accounts? I want to start a Twitter account for everyone of those cereal personalities, Toucan Sam, Tony the Tiger, and the Quisp alien too. Those ideas in themselves are pretty labor extensive. I mean, trying to manage that many Twitter accounts would be a full time job. But, I'm not done yet. None of that stuff is exactly portfolio material. For my portfolio I want to create a fake company with a logo, slogan, and advertising campaign that crosses all the platforms: television, print, outdoor, social media, guerrilla, and public events. From there I decided I would need to create a fake advertising agency for this fake company. The agency would be called The World Takes Creative Dept. and my title would be "Head of Awesome." I'm not really sure how much I like my title though.

Then I realize these are pretty lofty ambitions, therefore, I'll start a real company. A restaurant, in fact. I'm not getting into the details, but by coupling my ideas with a business-minded partner, I have something. Now it just takes some research, investigating, and a whole lot of start-up capital. But I'm not worried. I've got some time to get everything sorted out.

Searching for the Big Idea

maxkats88@gmail.com (Max Katsarelas) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 00:39:00 +0000

The more I read about the business of advertising, the more I realize it's all about being different. Presenting information in a way people aren't used to or getting them to do a double-take. How do I do that? Break and ignore all the rules, I'm told. Funny thing is, most of the greatest advertisers in the business have written a book about the "rules." Now, I enjoy reading about their experiences and how they grew in the business, but inevitably they turn these experiences into a series of "laws" or "anti-laws" of advertising. They send mixed messages. Are there rules or not? What worked for one adman doesn't always work for the next. I guess I can't always do what was right for them, I have to do what is right for me. I have to do what I think is the right decision and stick to it without regret. And it is after learning about their break through ideas that really helped them make a name, I realized something.

I have been coasting along. I haven't done anything that satisfys my hunger to do something big. What really bothers me is that I don't know what this "big thing" is at all. I want to create something. Write something. Start something. Do something. Or do anything for that matter. In high school when I felt like I had accepted mediocrity I joined the business club and later started a blog. From there I got offered to write for this blog and during the summers took an internship here, here, and here. Nevertheless, I'm not doing anything different than anyone else. I feel like I have fallen back into a negative loop of mediocrity. Sometimes a random idea will pop in my head and I'll pursue it. Like my blog about cereal, for instance, or the creation of a Twitter account and blog for the Grey NY interns. Problem is, these only curb the hunger temporarily. I need to find the big idea. It's out there. Just playing a game of hide-and-seek on me.