The World Takes

MaxKatsarelas.com

2010-06-23T21:16:00.003-04:00

There you can find my writings (click Blog Posts link in top left corner), Twitter feed and links.

Nectar of a City

2010-06-22T06:32:00.001-04:00

The stench of New York is not really a stench at all. See, there's a series of smells one's nostrils pick up while walking down any street or avenue. That's not to say it's bad though. They are neither invasive nor subtle. The whiffs are usually fast and fleeting. They don't cause dry heaves or those Febreze induced nose-inhales from their commercials. Unless you're walking in China Town where the smell of raw fish sticks to clothing like a dried burdock plant, nothing gets my stomach churning because the scent never lasts. It is all a coincidence actually that I don't smell the odor of the city. Why you ask? Because typically each block has a bakery, coffee shop, pizza parlor, laundromat, or Subway Restaurant which does wonders for the quality of air. In most cases the smell of garbage or sewers are masked or effectively eliminated by these businesses which all have a distinctive scent of their own. And now that McDonalds' McCafe has taken off, they don't smell so bad either. Of course on days when the temperature is pushing the mercury up into the 80's, a trip on the subway can get unbearable, especially when the majority of people on the train have made some sort of unofficial social protest against showers or deodorant. I guess for the most part it's easy breathing.

NYC Quick Tips

2010-06-18T08:51:00.001-04:00

Only women and tourists wear shorts. It's unfortunate, because I love shorts and will wear them anytime it's 65 degrees or warmer. Jorts you ask? What is this, Nascar?
Don't wear t-shirts with any sort of Spanish writing on it or a shirt that says you were or are a member of a Spanish club. Next thing you know, Mexican/Spanish speaking tourists will start donde esta-ing your ear off.
Eat food from a street vendor, but steer clear of the white sauce.
Don't look at the people trying to sign you up for this petition or get you to become a member of that club. You'll get trapped into a four hour long conversation which inevitably always ends with, "and that's why Africa needs our help" or "we don't need much, but $20 would be great." In fact, don't look or stare at anybody for that matter.
Inform your credit card provider you'll be traveling because if you're like me and don't know your social security card number, they'll cancel your card.
Don't ride a motorcycle anywhere in SoHo. The roads are comprised of uneven and cracked cobblestones, though pretty, unless you have metal teeth or wear a mouth guard, you're in for a costly dentist visit. I personally would prefer the the Plaxico Burress variety of mouth guards.
For goodness sake, get a smartphone or a phone with a damn good map because unless you are Lewis and Clark and have a native guide like Sacagawea, it's way too easy to walk three miles in the wrong direction and get lost in a maze of refrigerator and office furniture stores.
Wear the most obscure and mismatched types of clothing together in one outfit. Throw in a Plaxico Burress mouth guard if you're really looking to get noticed.
Cross the road regardless of traffic and other road signs.
I'll mention it again, steer clear of the white sauce unless you're getting legitimate tzatziki sauce from Tony the Dragon. Yes, it's ridiculous to trust a man who calls himself "Tony the Dragon" but for real, his tzatziki is delicious.
Argue and yell when having a cell phone conversation while walking down a busy street. Maybe it's just me, but I always feel so B.A. when I have angry phone conversations.
Don't listen to music when walking down the street. Listen to the city. Listen to the people you walk past and the music coming from inside stores. Listen to the sounds of beeping horns and screeching tires.
This is more statement of fact than a tip, but most young native New Yorkers don't know how to drive. Not the "wow, he just cut that guy off" or "why is she going 55 MPH in the fast lane" but more literally. They don't know how to drive. No more than five people I worked with last summer even had their licenses. Craziness!
Take time to look at the city. There is always something to see.

A Morning Run

2010-06-16T07:38:00.003-04:00

In consecutive days of waking up early and hitting the streets for what some onlookers might call speed-walking, I took a run. I set my alarm at 6:27 AM. I was expecting the city to be different at that hour. I thought it wouldn't be so bright...so lively. I thought it would be a little more vulnerable, almost like a lost child in a department store. I thought I'd be the only one out in the streets. On some quiet blocks there wasn't a soul to be seen, but on every avenue, people were bustling.

During the fleeting moments when I felt alone or slowed to a walk because my chest felt like it was going to come out of my throat and give me a lecture on why I should never run, I stared at my surroundings. When the streets are empty, the city looks like it is dilapidated or destitute. When businesses close at night, they pull down big metal doors that shield all the windows and entrances. Effective for security purposes, but also effective for making a city look deserted. I expected to see hobos with gimpy legs standing outside with brown paper bags, but I didn't. Kids, families and business men dressed in suits walk down the road as if it is nothing. Do they take the time to look at their city?

I think some of these people have lived here for too long. They don't notice certain things about New York City that makes New York City so exotic and so foreign to visitors. Yet, at the same time, there is no place they'd rather be. Not many people can appreciate one place so much that they never have an urge to travel at all. When I told people from work I was going to Baltimore, they looked bewildered. "Why leave?"

The city at daybreak was alarming. Not because there were more people than I thought should be walking around at 6:30 AM but because it smelled like early morning and I haven't smelled early morning since I was in Michigan. And don't let air freshener companies fool you, the smell of early morning cannot be replicated. The smell of morning is sort of like the taste of water. Some people say water is tasteless, but water has a flavor. Water is the flavor. The smell of morning is the amalgamation of clean, night air which has settled upon the streets. It is the result of fewer cars on the road and less people walking about. The smell is like shot of re-invigoration for the nose which travels straight to the brain.

My mind was trying to decipher so much different information that I had to stop running. Astoria, Queens at daybreak is a whole new city. The smells are different. There are different food karts and delivery trucks along the roads. Even the people are different. Remnants of workers coming from the late shift in the city scatter the roadways when they get off the subway. I thought I have seen everything is this little neighborhood of Astoria. In reality, I've seen barely anything.

This City will Destroy You

2010-06-13T18:04:00.008-04:00

New York City is anything you want it to be, but no matter how you make it out be, it can destroy you. It can turn a person into a mental cripple as fast as it sends them to the top. Some people can hack it, others can't. It's the same way out West or in the Mid-West. But this city, Gotham, the Big Apple, whatever you want to call it, will turn people into orange juice pulp. And it gets worse- people hate orange juice pulp.

I heard a professor theorize about how the city's homeless got homeless. One day they were just average, everyday people who worked and had a life. But then, something inside them snapped. It is supposed to be a glorious sight. Screaming, yelling and throwing punches at the air. Ripped shirts and broken glass. Confusion. Anguish. Little kids cry. Old ladies gasp. Teens laugh. An animation of colors swirling in the air.

The cause? The city. 10-15 years of this place can turn the kindest soul into a black hole of impatience and anger. Maybe it was a bad cup of coffee, a dented bumper, the weather or getting heckled by a kid on a scooter. It could be anything that sets a person off and it could happen at anytime. I've witnessed portions of the breakdown, but never an entire collapse.

Today there was a man wearing a hiking backpack. It was the kind of bag as long as a torso with metal support braces. He wanted to make a subway transfer to my train, but as his train was pulling up, my train was leaving. I witnessed the spectacle of his fists beating on the subway doors and what only could have been very angry words reverberating from his mouth. See, maybe this man knew he was getting towards his breaking point and that's why he had a hiking backpack to escape the city. He was going to explore upstate New York and experience the fresh air of nature. The city didn't let him make it.

Then there's the after-affects of the collapse. Men selling stickers in the street and wearing Ed Hardy shirts or old ladies smoking cigars. And if the city doesn't get you, it'll pit another person on you who will. I've heard two old ladies arguing about which foreign languages were prettier and children debate on the best shoelace color. The city creates a world of foes, nemeses, enemies and competition around each person.

New York City is an adventure. And while it may destroy some people, it can't get everyone. It's an epic tale playing out in front of my eyes everyday. I couldn't ask for a better place to absorb life, creativity and ideas. This is place people go to find themselves and figure out who they are. This city is human nature's story.

A Few Words on Advice

2010-06-10T09:21:00.002-04:00

A few days ago, I was told something profound while waiting for a urinal in the bathroom of a bar. Yes, this doesn't sound promising but stick with me. Gustavo De Mello, a super cool guy from the ad agency Lapiz told me "only take the advice I believe in." I spent some time thinking about this and I realized, taking the advice I believe in involves confidence. It's all on me and this takes balls, even a little recklessness. It takes mistakes and bad choices.

Advice is something people are taught to heed, almost abide by religiously, especially when it comes from someone we respect and admire. But I wonder, should it really be that way? When someone is respected to the point that each time they offer a piece of advice and people immediately follow like sheep, what is going to happen? Sameness. And success isn't about sameness. It's about doing something different and constantly recreating that route to success.

Advice should be looked at critically. It's not universal. Even though it can help steer me or anyone in the right direction, what works for one person doesn't necessarily mean it will work for another. I think it's our interactions with other people, conversations, questions, passion and hard work, that culminate into experiences. And it is these experiences that grow and develop into success. And, here comes the cliche, it all boils down to taking whatever advice I believe in.

A Handful of Hours in Baltimore, MD

2010-06-06T10:32:00.010-04:00

On June 5, 2010 I went to Baltimore Maryland. Here's all the pictures.

- - -
7:15 AM. Wake up. Run into the shower. Get out. Check e-mail. Make breakfast. Do I want coffee? Yes. Should I pack a lunch? No time. My phone's ringing. Stop calling me whoever you are! OK, coffee's done. Too watery. Time to roll. Wait for subway. Talk about weather. 90 degrees in Baltimore expected. Lovely. No sun block either. Lovely. 9:15 AM. Chinese dude driving the bus. I've heard the rumors, will I be safe? Probably not. Walt Whitman Service Center in New Jersey? Nothing says transcendentalism like fast-food and dirty bathrooms I guess.
- - -
Delaware and New Jersey are filled with trees. Trees are everywhere. Shades of green are prevalent in my peripheral vision as I chat with my friends. Trees line the highways and I feel like I'm driving in Northern Michigan. There's nothing around, no suburbs, no billboards, just the occasional rest-stop. This is the way driving should be.
- - -
Maryland has Cirrus credit cards. I was beginning to wonder if a company called Cirrus even existed until now. I've occasionally seen the logos in Michigan, but never knew companies beside Master Card, Visa, or American Express existed in the world of credit cards. Add Cirrus credit cards to the list with football and crab cakes of what Maryland does. They even have Waffle House! Perhaps the greatest discovery of the day so far and it's only 11:30AM. And yet the green-streak continues. Maryland is hilly, the expressways are smooth, and trees continue to line the expressway. When the bus reaches the tops of hills, the only thing I can see for miles are huge, green trees.
- - -
The outskirts of Baltimore, MD are depressed and empty. Boarded and bricked up windows and doors line streets the same way trees lined the interstates on the route here. People sit on the front porches and stoops of these empty, burned out buildings as if their families are still inside cooking lunch or watching television. It's like they're actors, pretending everything is normal and each house is inhabited by a family. And yet, the people here don't look so sad. They're laughing and pushing strollers. Kids are playing ball. Neighbors are talking. I'd still feel more comfortable walking around this part of Baltimore than most places in Detroit.
- - -
It's halfway past noon and I'm stepping off the bus. We're in a rundown neighborhood of Baltimore. My friends are thinking they were idiots to come to Baltimore. We start walking South towards downtown. The city begins to change. More people are walking around, exposed storefronts sell art, furniture, and anything else imaginable. Subway seems to be a popular fast food restaurant as we passed no less than five in a twenty block radius. But it's the architecture that makes me notice what Baltimore has to offer. The architecture in Baltimore is like nothing I've seen before. There are tiny details above every window, door frame and roofline. These pictures do no justice.

- - -

And while most of our time was seemingly spent at some restaurant called J. Paul's, the crab cakes tasted pretty good. Unfortunately I don't eat enough crab cakes to know what's good, but my friend did say his burger was delicious. And they even served soft pretzels with mustard before our meals which I thought was quite a novelty. Sitting to the left of us, to the right of us and in every direction possible were Boston Red Sox fans. The only sign Baltimore even had a baseball team were the flags attached to street posts proclaiming, "This is Birdland." And the only Oriole fan I saw was a homeless guy wearing an Oriole shirt. Even then, I wasn't sure if he was an actual fan or just wearing whatever shirt he could find.

- - -

It felt like seconds later we were leaving Baltimore. We saw the mall and harbor. A stand with a person selling snow cones in every flavor imaginable, yes, even cantaloupe. Where the Baltimore Orioles play and a World War II submarine called the USS Torsk. I tried to take a lot of pictures, but didn't really like the way any turned out. Then it was back on the bus. This time there was no anticipation, no excitement. I just sat in my chair and stared at the trees which reminded me of home.

How to Handle Any Situation

2010-06-02T07:37:00.003-04:00

Depending on whatever action I'm in the midst of doing, I find myself creating a series of scenarios. Like how to escape from a lecture hall if an armed gunmen enters or how to react when a creepy lady gives me "the wink." For some more elaboration, take the drunken party scenario. During my first two years of college, I was convinced it was only a matter of time until I got an underage drinking charge. Thankfully I never needed to run from the cops but, just in case, I developed a strategy in which to evade the cops and appear to be either a curious bystander while the cops were making arrests or an innocent fitness junkie. So let's say the cops start targeting a house party and everyone inside freaks. At this time I'll simply meander into the backyard, whip off my clothes, revealing a pair of running shorts and unassuming t-shirt. I'll jump the fence and begin a run back to the dorm. The next day of course, I'd retrieve my clothes, but to be frankly honest, a few missing articles of clothing can be sacrificed versus paying nearly a thousand dollars in fines, tickets and fees.

I've also developed a way to evade predators. If my muscular and intimidating physique doesn't deter a would-be attacker, I'll offer up a series of quick facts about who I am and why I should be avoided. Depending on the look of the attacker which my mind would decipher in milliseconds, I'd softly explain to the perpetrator in a calm voice that I have IBS (this is false of course, but he/she won't know) and the fear of a mugging would not only cause me to lose control of my bowels but also tag the criminal with a distinctive scent. Or I'd start yelling, screaming, and acting like a crazy man. I'd be so crazy, Christopher Lloyd would pale in comparison, and no one would even think about mugging me unless, that is, I'm stabbed almost instantly because my screaming startles the perpetrator into an attempted-murderer.

Let's say the world is about to end and I'm the only person who knows. Some people might blow all their savings at the casino, extravagant vacations, or other types of luxuries, but I would shower the world with money. I may not have a lot of money per say, but I'd have enough singles to make the evening news. First I'd drop a single here on the road and a single there in the grocery store, doctors office, bar, or library. Then I'd start heaving money out of car windows. Next, I'd drop money from tall buildings. Not coins though, that can almost kill people. Then from a helicopter and later, from an airplane. I would stay undercover of course so my identity would remain unknown. I'd get called cool nicknames like "Moolah Man" or "The Dollar Bill Delivery Man" or "That one guy who dropped $358 out of a plane." People will question my generosity and motives. I'll become a media sensation until, all of a sudden, the world's gone.

And this is only scratching the surface of strategies in my possession. I excel in excuse creation and execution and non-aggressive road rage. Sure, all these scenarios are a little out there, unlikely to occur and maybe even useless in one's daily life, but at least I'm prepared. I'm like a Boy Scout without the silly badges and funny hand signs.

The Astoria Apartment Virtual Tour

2010-05-30T13:14:00.002-04:00

Now with voice over, sound effects, and manpris?

Life Restarted

2010-05-28T19:06:00.006-04:00

My summer vacation lasted two weeks. Once finals were put to rest I went into high school summer vacation mode. In other words, I did a whole lot of everything which simultaneously meant a whole lot of nothing. Golf on Wednesday? Sure. How about on Thursday too and then again on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. I mean, I probably won't golf for the three months I'm out in the city so I had better get in as much practice as possible. Yeah, it makes perfect sense. And while driving around metro-Detroit before hitching a plane ride out to NYC I got all nostalgic about high school summers. I went to Royal Oak, Ferndale, Detroit, East Lansing, Ann Arbor, and Northern Michigan. I golfed, did a whole lot of driving, and recollected on the days when nothing mattered more than drinking slurpees, going to the movies, getting fourth/fifth/sixth meal at Taco Bell and trying to do something off-the-wall.

Now that I'm back in the city, my life is sort of jump-started back into reality. Packing for a three month trip and praying I didn't forget anything will do that to a person, especially when it can save me major coin, like $50 in toiletries for instance. Waking up at 4:45AM when ghosts still haunt people in horror movies to board a plane at 7:20 AM is reality. Arriving at the airport an hour and a half before my departure and still having to cut 100 very angry people in line doesn't only make me blush, but gets me freaking out like a drunk college freshman walking past a cop. Taking a cab ride, well check that, taking a ride from a weird Jamaican dude who is clearly not authorized by the City of New York to transport anyone for that matter will get me fearing for my life. In the single most stressful, interesting, and heart-wrenching day since finals two weeks ago, I find it difficult to acknowledge all my emotions. It's like I'm eating Indian food and instead of my taste-buds trying to distinguish flavors, it's my mind trying to figure out what the heck is happening.

One minute I'm driving a golf kart and shanking tee shots into opposing fairways and the next I'm surrounded by more foreigners than a United State Immigration agent. All of a sudden the whirlwind of jumping from home in Michigan into the city with its beeping car horns, emergency sirens, crazy languages and weird looking people is all coming back to me. I almost forgot what it was like living here after being away for nine months. This time, I want to remember everything- from start to finish. I want to remember my first conversation with my Austrian roommate whose only words I could comprehend was, "Oh, hello" even though a ten minute conversation ensued. I want to remember the Greek baker who didn't like me eating all the samples of cheese and proceeded to take away the sampler platter. I want to remember the old man walking down the street pushing his dentures in and out of place. Actually, that may be something I don't want to remember even though he did have some fine chompers. I want to remember how good my mom's peanut butter and jelly sandwich tasted on raisin bread 44,000 feet in the air while flying over God knows what state. I want to remember how much my family loves me back home in Michigan and the feel of their hugs when I said good-bye at the airport.

I've traded in slurpees for tasti D-lite. Wendy's Chili for street meat with BBQ and white sauce. One daily cup of coffee for a few...or more. The bars for beer gardens. And my car for the subway. I have to think differently, become a little sharper, a little faster, and a little wiser. I have to rely on myself to cook and clean. I'm a free man, but at the same time tied down with responsibilities...sorta, I mean, I never really had to take the time to cook and clean until now. This is my new-life completely and totally restarted, at least until I go back home.

A Fizzled Grand Scheme

2010-05-27T15:56:00.011-04:00

I planned on creating a detailed account of my morning that started in Michigan and ended in New York City. While lying in bed, wide awake, a few hours before my alarm was set to go off, I concocted something that only a sleep deprived person could conjure up. A grand plan involving pictures, short quips and what I thought would otherwise be nothing less than pure hilarity. However, due to a series of unexpected circumstances including a near missed flight and an actually very nice North Terminal in Detroit, my grand scheme fizzled out like a Chinese sparkler.

Here is what I had developed until the fear of missing my flight into New York City scared me so bad I couldn't touch my camera until I uploaded these pictures. Plus, the weather was sort of cloudy and dull today in Queens; not the most conducive backdrop for picture-taking. I guess if I were more artistic I could do something all cool looking or whatever involving the gray clouds in my pictures but I'm not, so I pretty much gave up. Anyways, here is a look in pictures at the morning of May 27th in between the hours of 4:39AM and 5:29AM.

(Notice I woke up before my alarm went off. Real men don't need silly things like alarms.)
(A stocked fridge is something I've missed ever since high school when I lived at home on a more permanent basis, well, and that one semester I dropped out of school.)
(A stocked cupboard of essential carbohydrates complements any stocked fridge.)
(The coffee is to clear up any confusion as to whether it's 5:02 AM or PM. So yeah, it's the AM.)
(I'm going to miss driving my car. I love car.)
(I'm going to miss lamp. I love lamp.)

Following these pictures I planned on documenting all the cups of coffee I would be drinking to keep me wired, but I had no time in the airport to nab a cup and a cup on the plane would have cost $3. Spirit Airlines, I'm calling you out, are you serious? I also wanted to document the drastic price change of coffee in Michigan versus New York, but the cup I'm sipping on at Brooklyn Bagel is $1.47, a far cry from a price hike. I also wanted to take pictures of what I thought would be a dilapidated North Terminal at Metro Airport, but it was actually nice as I wrote earlier. In my ignorance, I figured no one takes pictures in the North Terminal and my candid photos would help make airport employees proud of their work because it is largely overshadowed by the state-of-the-art McNamara Terminal next door. To my surprise, the North Terminal even had those cool escalator-without-the-stairs, conveyor belt things that make people walk super fast. They do pose an issue for old ladies trying to get off though. So the plan fizzled for the most part. It was a dumb idea and now it's best I move on to documenting some other sort of stupid scheme or, I don't know, maybe prepare for a summer of work.

What to do now?

2010-05-06T10:05:00.009-04:00

The moments leading up to final exams are a whirlwind of anxiety, nerves, but most of all, anticipation until the last one is finished. Now that my finals are over and this semester is in the history books, I miss it already. The whirlwind for some students is continuing and will continue until tomorrow, but I'm done. All those sleepless nights, cans of Red Bull and cups of coffee are irrelevant now. There's no phase to transition out of school and frankly, it's not healthy. After jogging a few miles, a runner doesn't just hop on their couch and watch television, they do a cool-down, some stretches and maybe chug some Gatorade to regain some electrolytes. Thing is, students are like the runner who doesn't do a cool-down or any stretches after a run. We've been running an academic marathon for the past nine months and now what?

Nothing.

I see students moving out of the dormitories, signs informing people when buildings are closing for the summer, and the constant reminder, everyone's leaving. I'm leaving too, in a week or so, and I have a pit in my stomach. My anxiety and nerves that were so prevalent the last two days are still on high alert. They don't just turn off immediately after the last final exam. They have segued into the anxiety of departing East Lansing. I have this feeling people get when they stare out a plane's window after a vacation. They watch as it fades off into the distance. Or the feeling Michiganders get when they close down their cottage for the winter. Or the feeling at the end of a party when everyone's gone and you're sort of just like wondering where everyone went.

My backpack is still filled with my books from class. My desk still is covered with review guides and pens, the detached tops of those pens act as bookmarks. Empty cups of coffee fill my garbage can giving my room a nice subtle coffee aroma. Time to face it, I guess. Time to clear up the junk, sell back the books, empty out my back pack and say goodbye to the finals, homework, papers...the semester.

A Month of Seclusion

2010-04-24T12:22:00.006-04:00

There was the guy who ate McDonalds everyday for a whole month. The dude who recorded everyday of his life on camera. The guy who tried staying awake for 264 hours. For some people, doing this type of thing is an effort to fight boredom and the humdrum of daily life. I guess some people like the routine, but I’m not one of those people. Mixing up the norm makes everything a bit more interesting. It is the reason we take vacations and go to museums or baseball games.

Even though I would probably never do this, I wonder what it would be like to not leave the house for an entire month. First of all, I would need to try this in a pretty cool house with video games, satellite television, maybe a stationary bike to get some sort of exercise, a live-in cook, and well stocked bar. Then again, wouldn't that sort of defeat the purpose? And now that I think of it, wouldn’t this get sort of routine? I mean, I’m at one spot for 30 days, where is the excitement in that? And what would I write about? I imagine a blog post would read something like this:

I got up today at 8AM. It was sunny outside. I saw a squirrel running along an electrical wire and he didn’t even fall. Saved by the Bell was on so I watched that until I made some cereal. I like cereal. I want a chicken sandwich for lunch from Wendy’s. Oh yeah, I can’t leave the house. I watched Weather Channel for a bit. A storm's a brewing outside not that it matters to me. I also spent four hours on Facebook. You wouldn't believe how much time some people spend on Facebook. Don't people have work? OMG, there's a sexy chick walking past my house. Wait, is she hot? I can't tell, she's too far away. This sucks.

And it would probably be like that everyday…for an entire month. So just forget I ever mentioned trying to live in a house for a month without leaving. It sounds like the most boring thing on earth, well maybe second to going to church. No offense, God.

Where is home?

2010-04-13T10:21:00.005-04:00

When someone asks you where you're from, what do you say? It should all depend. I get asked in class and I say, Farmington Hills. I get asked in Arizona or New York and I say Michigan in a city just outside Detroit. But the thing is, East Lansing is my home. I have spent more time in East Lansing, going to school at Michigan State the past three years than anywhere else. And it has taken me quite some time to embrace this city. Maybe I'm caught up in spring fever, the grass doesn't look so brown, the trees are sprouting buds and color is appearing everywhere. Beautiful girls are coming out of the woodwork (I still would like to know where they go during winter) and short sightings are more common than MSU t-shirts.

I have officially embraced the quirks of East Lansing. The broken glass on sidewalks, seeing the lonely walks of shame early in the morning, homeless people eating ravioli, ridiculously long lines at the bar, police officers preying on the under aged, and lots and lots of sweatpants. I think I like East Lansing better than Farmington Hills, a place I still technically call home. Sure, being at my house in Farmington Hills is great. The refrigerator and cupboards are chock full of delicious food, but more importantly, the house is actually clean. There are also downsides. Everything involves driving. Back in the 50's, when everything was sort of backwards and cigarette companies claimed to cure sore throats, city planners probably thought walking was unhealthy. So they spread out every business and restaurant. I'd say walking is pretty much extinct back in Farmington Hills.

That's why I like East Lansing. I walk to class, to the store, to my friends' house, and to the bars. Plus, I'm saving major money because I don't have to buy gas for the whip. It may take some time at first, but I think no matter where I live, I can call it home. It has taken me three years to reach this conclusion because last year or even the year before, I thought East Lansing was a hole of franchised stores and restaurants. It is, but I'm stuck living here until I finish college, so why not make the best of it? In my Civil War history class, I'm reading a book called The Killer Angels. In one of the chapters, Tom Chamberlain, a union lieutenant talks about his home in Maine which I think sums up everything I feel about home.

Home. One place is just like another, really. I was born up there but I'm no stranger here. I was at home in England. I would be at home in the desert. All mine, it all belongs to me. My world.

The Reinvention of Highway Driving

2010-04-07T07:49:00.008-04:00

There's something about driving on state highways and expressways that is relaxing. If traffic builds up, sure, it can be aggravating, but driving alone in the early morning as the earth begins to warm and fog settles or dusk, when the world slowly cools down, I find myself at peace. It's a time to be with thoughts and hundreds of miles of farmland and trees. I never find myself stuck staring at miles of concrete for long because we are a country a farmers. I've seen farmers tilling fields, hawks circling in the blue sky, car accidents, and billboard after billboard after billboard. I've listened to different radio stations and I'm pretty sure in northern Michigan every radio station is either called the "Moose," "Fox," or "Bear."

In my lifetime, 21 years, the highway hasn't changed. Speed limits fluctuate and the roads go under construction, but otherwise, everything is always the same. Is this a good or a bad thing? The well-known and unchanging parts of life are always the most reassuring. Yet, maybe something needs to be changed. Michigan never diversified the economy and now the state is in a black hole of unemployment. Maybe we need to change the way we view travel. We have become desensitized to the world around us while driving. Our concrete highways used to remind us there are actually farmers who grow food and animals and plants that thrive in areas humans develop the least as we drive across the state or country. But most of us don't even take the time to recognize what we are driving past. Driving has become so routine, so mind numbingly boring, we have nothing else to do besides think.

I have no grand ideas for the reinvention of highway driving. I don't know how to make driving any less boring or how to get people to appreciate the little towns that aren't known for anything more than being Exit #XXX. Maybe if state governments want to promote interstate travel or tourism, an unbiased team made up of out-of-staters should stop at every single city off the expressway and rank the scenery, restaurants, downtown appeal, etc. Then, that ranking is put on their respective highway exit so people know if Exit #XXX has more to offer besides a gas station and McDonalds. And rest stops, isolated pockets of toilets and vending machines, should be built and incorporated into the tiny cities scattered along an expressway. It gives travelers the option to go out to eat, rest at a park, or walk through a quaint downtown. Thus, stimulating the local economy. Why didn't the state think of this stuff sooner?

I know there are bigger ideas for the reinvention of highway driving. And I'm glad because it's time for a change. There should be strategically placed billboards that give off a wi-fi signal so navigators/co-captains/wingmen (AKA other passengers) can surf the web. Or, what if fast food chains developed a way to deliver food to a person driving without even having to turn off cruise control? A driver would simply call ahead to a McDonalds, make an order and a specially designed vehicle would deliver the meal. The opportunity to reinvent the highways are around, they're just hidden in between the acres of farmland, exit ramps and signs. These concrete veins that string the United States together are waiting to explode with innovation and it's just a matter of time.

Fascinating History

2010-03-30T16:03:00.009-04:00

Even though I'm an English major, I have two cognates, which are like minors. One is advertising and the other is history. After taking a couple history courses I sort of wish I was actually a history major because the past is fascinating. Like more fascinating than probably anything else in the world except cars, at least to me. I can't even think of a good metaphor to describe how fascinating history is because nothing compares. Just last week in my American Civil War course I started daydreaming in the middle of the lecture. No big deal really, but I wasn't daydreaming about playing video games or what I was going to do after class- I was thinking about what it would be like to fight another American who happened to live in the Southern states. The fact I was daydreaming about something pertaining to school was absolutely new to me.

The American Civil War would have been weird. I mean, I have such a hard time envisioning fighting another American. Even though America is filled with such unique, creative, and different people- essentially we're the same. Take college students. We pretty much all have a Facebook or Twitter account, we listen to the same music, use the same slang, and wear those gaudy Nike kicks. Heaven forbid another Civil War ever broke out, but just imagine what it would be like. On one side there would be the Americans listening to their Kid Cudi and Green Day on iPods, sending tweets about the NFL draft and on the other side it would be the exact same thing. The death and violence during the war would have been so much different too....it would have been more real. In World War II, it was the allies versus the Germans and Japanese. Back then, what G.I. knew how to speak Japanese or German? The dying words of a Nazi or Japanese soldier is gibberish and we were able to keep our distance. But in the Civil War, the dying words of another American were understood and probably never forgotten.

And history is nothing but a billion individual stories that cross paths, get tangled up and so on. In my Civil War class I learn about the strategies of generals and how politicians handled the war, but in all actuality it's just one big story. And within the story of each class, there are some gems. Like the one about enemy pickets. During the war, there was no technology to track troop movement so each side had pickets which were infantry men posted far from camp to keep an eye on the enemy. On one evening, a commanding officer decided to have a discussion with the enemy commanding officer. This meant he had to carry a white flag and cross the picket line. I find it fascinating the commanding officer wanted to talk to his enemy. But it shouldn't be totally surprising because commanding officers of both the North and South went to the same military school, West Point, so most of these guys were actually friends. Anyway, as the commanding officer began his trek to the enemy's camp he noticed his picket infantryman was missing. As he got closer to the base he came across a campfire with a bunch of men huddled around playing cards. Within the huddle was his own soldier, playing cards with the enemy. The surprised officer told his picket to go back to the line, but when the picket asked if he could play a little longer the officer gave in.

That's just one of so many stories that keep me going back to my history class. And to be frankly honest, it's one of the reasons why I never want to leave college. Sure, I come across some awful classes, but it's worth it when I come across a class that I regret skipping. A class that gets me thinking about I relate to not only others but the world. A class that gets me daydreaming about academic subjects. A class that makes me realize stories, writing, and experiences keep the internal clock of this entire earth ticking.

One-Upping

2010-03-24T10:15:00.010-04:00

"I was going 93 on the expressway when I saw the cop. I slammed on my brakes, rolled down my windows so he couldn't see my tints, never mind the fact it was 8 degrees in January, and I still managed to avoid the ticket."

"Yeah, well I was going 105 in a 45MPH zone at two in the morning when I saw three cops. I wasn't 21, I had four cases of beer in my car, my neon lights were on under the car's chassis, I had an unregistered gun under the backseat, my license was suspended, and I picked up a hitchhiker who was clearly an illegal immigrant but he helped me pay for gas and bought me a bag of chips. And I still didn't get pulled over."

That's called one-upping. It's the constant struggle to claim righteous glory over everyone else and their experiences. Another example:

Person A: "My grandma had cancer twice but she beat it both times."
Person B: "My grandma had cancer four times and lost both of her ears in a sewing accident. While fighting with her last cancer bout, a comet fell through the roof of her house destroying everything. She's fine though."

But then there's product and brand one-upping. For example, I could eat regular wheat or white toast, but then I discovered raisin bread. Why would I ever want to eat plain toast again when I can be eating raisin toast? Rice Krispies? Ha, I'll take Cocoa Krispies please. Adding elements to an existing formula of success doesn't always work, like New Coke or Shrek the 3rd. But one-upping can be surprising and get people to recognize a brand's work and products. I'm definitely not a fan of Domino's new pizza recipe, but the damn commercials touted it up so much I couldn't help but try it. Their efforts to show off how they one-upped themselves got me to reexamine my relationship with Domino's pizza. (Can't say the same thing about those bread bowls though.)

People are on this subconscious quest to experience and find the next and best of everything. It's why we like to brag about listening to Vampire Weekend before anyone knew them or talk about moving to Colorado. So how does brand loyalty fit into this? Think about it. Someone drives a Chevrolet Impala for their entire life. They trust the reliability and safety of the car and expect as they buy/lease each new Impala it'll one-up the last one. It'll have a better suspension, stronger looks, nicer rims, etc. Brands have to one-up themselves constantly. Some brands do it well- Apple or BMW for example. Some brands struggle- Starbucks has been a bit rocky lately and I still don't know how I feel about Pike's Place Roast. Other brands sort of just rely on tradition without changing virtually anything. They refuse to challenge themselves. Tradition is important, but innovation is just as important, if not more important. It doesn't always yield the best results, but for a company to deny innovation and attempts to one-up themselves, is like a refusal of human nature.

But I guess there's two approaches people can take once they finally reach the pinnacle of success. They can either accept it, succumb to success and ride it out or they can take those successes and build on top of them. Reaching that success in the first place is no easy task, but trying to one-up that success is even harder. Especially if you're the dude who took seven shots and three beer bongs in ten minutes.

St. Patrick's Day Aftermath at MSU

2010-03-18T10:21:00.005-04:00

Here are some pictures from the morning after March 17, 2010- a day which will never be fully recollected.

The Man Laws

2010-03-16T10:56:00.009-04:00

A few years ago Miller Lite had a series commercial with a bunch of dudes sitting at a table debating "Man Laws." I always liked these commercials and felt they never made enough of them. The writing was spot-on and got me laughing every time. When I was driving up to school on Sunday, in the middle of a light rain shower, I noticed the windshield wipers on the cars around me and came up with a new Man Law. Even though it was more like a light drizzle, other drivers insisted on setting their windshield wipers to the "high on cocaine" setting. You know the setting. It's the one used by people who sit hunched over their steering wheels frantically trying to see between the speeding wipers which inhibit visibility more so than the rain. Their the people who have three or more bumper stickers on the car. Their the people who drive twenty miles per hour slower than the posted speed limit or slam on their brakes when they see a police officer even when they aren't speeding. To be frankly honest, I'd get dizzy sitting behind the wheel with windshield wipers moving so fast. And this got me thinking about how a man would handle the situation.

When there's light rain, a driver has no reason to set their wipers to a setting that could potentially tear off a hand if it got in the way or impale a tree (or person) if the blade was improperly attached. Not only does it pose a potential hazard to trees, fingers or curbside novelties i.e. roadkill, billboards, parked cars- it just makes the driver look like a fool. The measure of a man is how slowly he sets his windshield wipers during times of inclement driving conditions. Is this smart? Safe even? Not at all, but when it comes to Man Laws, prudence doesn't exist. I remember sitting in the backseat of my mom's car after leaving my grandma's on one rainy Sunday afternoon. At a red light we got stopped next to a dude in a Ford Taurus. There's nothing manly about a late model Taurus so his man card was practically non-existent, however, in the middle of a torrential downpour this guy's windshield wipers were at a steady intermittent setting. It was at this young age I realized the impact windshield wipers have on a man's image. While everyone else around had wipers on the "OMFG I can't see for crap," setting, this guy was calm and composed. So right after "Eat a Taco Bell Grande Meal (#10) by yourself" or "Never use acronyms such as OMFG or LOL in daily conversation" add, "Never use windshield wiper on the highest setting, ever" to the Man Laws.

The Reality of Dreams

2010-03-08T14:56:00.004-05:00

Do our dreams really mean anything? What makes us disregard some dreams as "just a dream" and others as something more? Take a dream I had the other night. I was hanging out in an unknown house with unknown people eating some sort of unknown snack food. The most vivid memory of that dream was that unknown snack food. It was a mix between a Fruit Roll Up and a pretzel looking churro. Does this mean I will one day invent a cinnamon pretzel fruit snack shaped like a churro? Or perhaps they'll be a time in my life where I am in that house with those people, but until then, that dream is nothing but a fantasy with really weird cuisine.

Everyone has those dreams that are so vivid when we wake up we could have sworn they were real. Take the classic dream where you win, buy or are given something. In most cases for me, I get a car. If I had every car given to me in a dream I'd make Jay Leno's car collection look sillier than his chin. There's nothing more demoralizing than realizing the classic muscle car you were given for helping an old lady across doesn't exist. I'm pretty sure my entire week was ruined after I woke up and discovered my basement wasn't turned into a car port and my personal mechanic, chef, and butler who looked exactly like Kelly Ripa didn't exist at all. I'm still reeling from that slap in the face.

But then there are the dreams where we see or talk to someone we lost. The conversations are so real, lifelike and natural that they had to have happened in some sort of alternate reality. And if dreams aren't an alternate reality what are they? Just a figment of our imagination? Can't be, I'm not that creative to be frankly honest. And I doubt most people can even conceive of their dreams unless they aren't asleep. I mean, how many times do I think about eating a pretzel fruit roll up thing in a house I've never seen before? Exactly my point.

Life After Video Games

2010-03-02T07:57:00.003-05:00

I was originally going to write a post about all the distractions I face in a given day. Because there's really a series of things I usually end up doing instead of studying. That's not to say I'm procrastinating, per say, but it seems whenever I need to hit the books something equally or more important pops up.

-Vacuuming and dusting my bedroom.
-Refolding my clothes.
-Checking Twitter, then refreshing the page, then checking Twitter again.
-Reading all those stupid Facebook Notifications since my e-mail updates don't seem to be working anymore.
-Grocery shopping at Meijer which is practically a day long event.
-Checking the Michigan Subaru Forum
-Deciding what cafeteria has the best menu and what time I'm going to eat.
-Reading ESPN, The State News, Detroit Free Press or NY Times.

This is my life after video games. When I had a television and XBox 360 in my room, if I wasn't doing homework I was gaming. I was completely isolated from the world and I liked it. I'd watch ESPN or CNN in the morning and in between classes but at the end of the day I'd play video games. Sure, I had a Sega Genesis for a few years as a kid, but it was never an integral part of my life. Same with Nintendo 64. But when we got a decent computer at home, probably in like fourth or fifth grade, I became a gaming fiend. First it was Command & Conquer, then Roller Coaster Tycoon, and then I got Madden 99. Running a successful NFL franchise on Madden 99 became a job. I tracked the stats and schedule of each team, attempted trades, and took notes on player progression. My analysis of the virtual 1999 Madden draft made me look like a wunderkind. In the mornings before school I would even watch NFL Films on ESPN Classic hoping to gain tips and strategies on running a winning program. Then I got The Sims, a game where people can create a virtual world, which could probably be one of the most addicting games in history (along with Command & Conquer). And I really did love The Sims.

So there I would be, eating Cheetos and drinking Coke, while my virtual self in the computer game was pumping iron, learning how to cook and making money at his job. If only life really was that easy I used to think. Nonetheless, the virtual world of The Sims is probably one of the most amazing accomplishments in video gaming history. And I take equal pride at my ability to reach the top of any career path in the game. During the later years of high school, my video gaming waned. Even though I had XBox 360, my brother would typically bogart the system for lengths I still can't even fathom. Video games became more infrequent than a college kid's showering schedule. I was lost. Video games were my reward for finishing homework. They were the retreat from my seemingly boring and ordinary suburban life as a Cheeto-eating, Coke-drinking, slightly above average student. Life without video games was a confusing and scary time- like puberty all over again.

Later, I would try to salvage my relationship with video gaming. I bought an XBox 360 and experienced a temporary secondary wave of video gaming addiction. It started with Call of Duty 2. I became more deadly with the British Lee-Enfield than the throwing star champion from Morocco, if such a person exists. My life took a drastic turn and fighting the Nazis in Call of Duty 2 became my job. After dinner, I'd punch in and save the flailing Allies in North Africa and on the beaches of Normandy. I'd say. "Mom, I'm going off to war, I'll see you in a few hours." Then school got harder and my job was becoming tedious so I quit. I came out of retirement once or twice to once again help the Allies against the Third Reich, but not for much longer than half a day. Sure, I had my bouts with Call of Duty 4 and Call of Duty 5, but none of them grappled my attention like games The Sims or Command and Conquer.

And now I'm a third year college student, so embattled with school, professors, clubs, winter, writing, sore throats, and beer I've thrown my talents away. My video gaming skills have fallen dramatically. My whits and reflexes aren't as sharp, my fingers no longer have the callouses that allowed me to play for hours, and I don't even eat Cheetos anymore. I can't even call myself a gamer. I experience short lived gaming renaissances, but they don't last long. Video games gave me a personal battle for over a decade. The accomplishments were solely mine and to be relished by only me. The absence of video games in my life has caused a hole to develop in my subconscious. I sometime ask myself what I have to look forward to at the end of a day of studying or homework? A feeling of gratification? The hopes of getting a good job because I have a decent work ethic? Give me a break- making it to the next level in a video game would be good enough for me.

I Love College

2010-02-24T10:37:00.005-05:00

I used to think college was a distraction from the opportunities that lie outside the walls we let society build around us. We are told to think that a college degree is the means to money, family and happiness. We're told college is supposed to be the greatest part of our lives. Some of us buy into it, but a few years ago I didn't. I wanted to get out of this place. I hated all the stupid prerequisite courses and paying thousands upon thousands of dollars to a place that saw me as A39979445, my student ID number. For God's sake one of my classes on the evolution of American thought was taught by a Ghanaian immigrant who had been in the State's for three years. I knew more about American thought than him! So I got up and left. School wasn't for me- it's nothing but a distraction preventing me from becoming a wunderkind.

And it's because of my departure I realized college isn't all that bad. Maybe I'm getting older or maybe I've bought into the idea of a degree but I don't mind college. I like learning, but what I like more is knowing that because of these four years in college I'll be smarter and better equipped for life in the "real world" no matter where I choose to go. I'll be a stronger communicator, a harder worker, more competitive, and determined. Yeah I know it sounds cliche but it's the truth. I like to think of college as a match and students as fireworks. College ultimately sends us out "there." I've always been good with words and I've always been conscience of the world around me so I figured I didn't need college. Yet college has made me even more conscious and even more curious about, well, everything.

Just the other day, one of my friends said he was wasting four years of his life at school. He said his life would amount to nothing if he was to die tomorrow. Just because we're in college and seemingly insignificant college kids doesn't mean our lives amount to nothing. We have the opportunity to do great things, but it's easier not to anything and simply blame it on college getting in the way. We pass up opportunities and hold ourselves back. I did it and I made excuses why college is preventing me from getting this job or preventing me from seeing that place. And if it wasn't college getting in the way, it was money or my family. Nothing but excuses.

The only way for me to realize I wasn't wasting away at school was to leave. I missed out on the little things I loved about college. Going to the cafeteria in the dorms, staying up late playing video games, hanging out with my friends, studying with the cute girl from class, playing intramural sports, etc. All those little things make up the stuff I just love about college. College is my life. Is that so pitiful? What else have I got to do? I could quit school and try to get a job, but right now I'm happy learning, arguing with kids in class about the Middle East, and partying on the weekends. I take pride in my writing, when I score a 4.0 on a test or hold down my liquor after going to the bar. These are rights of passage. I still want to see and do so many things, but right now I'm a college student. And it's because of college I'm going to have the confidence and skills to do whatever the heck I want.

Should've Knocked on Wood

2010-02-22T10:44:00.004-05:00

Remember my last post? About spring and such? I should probably delete it after waking up to this.
No birds chirping this morning. I didn't even see a squirrel. I saw an empty McDonald's cup in an alley way, but that is irrelevant to the changing seasons. Even more of a morning buzz kill was the amount caution people in cars were taking. I didn't see any spin outs, fender benders or hear any beeping horns. Then again, my face was being pelted with snowflakes so even if there was automotive carnage I wasn't likely to notice it.

Spring, Already?

2010-02-18T10:08:00.004-05:00

It's 8:15 AM, I'm walking to class. It's cold, but not really that "winter" cold. The sidewalks are wet from the melting snow and I'm squinting because the sun is blindingly bright. There's a hop in my step and I don't know why. Squirrels are out doing squirrel things, like spreading rabies and getting hit by cars I suppose. There are birds streaking across the sky, flapping their wings and chirping. Is it spring already?

I bet it went something like this. All the birds flying around campus should be in the South right now where it is all warm and nice. It is their instinct to fly South when the bitter cold and ice freeze over Michigan. But I'm sure they got to like Tennessee in about mid-December and decided, "What's the point?" They stayed in Tennessee until January when the weather was still relatively warm, at least compared to Michigan. They probably watched the football playoffs with their bird cousins and maybe got geared up for the Olympics. Then they figured it would be best to just fly back up to Michigan, before the Super Bowl and the start of the Olympics. Because seriously, migrating south is just an annoyance and plus, they probably thought, half of us die trying to fly South anyways, it's a suicide mission.

So that's my explanation why there is an abnormal amount of birds already flying around East Lansing in the middle of February. I'm not really sure why there are so many squirrels milling about. I thought they were supposed to hibernate, but maybe they too asked themselves, "What's the point?" There lifespans can't be too long, so why spend a few cold months wasting away in a hole eating your own body fat when they can be out in the world running away from hawks or feral alley cats. They're opportunity seekers and it's a combination of the ambitious squirrels, chirping birds, and decline of winter that makes me optimistic. Maybe because I know the days are getting longer and February is almost over. The days will soon be warmer and I dream about not having to wear a winter jacket. It will be a welcomed spring.

Good Tunes

2010-02-17T10:28:00.005-05:00

Here's some music I've been listening to lately while studying, reading, or just being lazy. I tend to replay the songs over and over again which means in about a weeks time I'll probably never be able to listen to these songs ever again. Perhaps you'll enjoy them too.

Seasonal Depression

2010-02-10T10:29:00.006-05:00

It's called Seasonal Depression or quite fittingly, SAD. People in the North apparently suffer from this glum and temporary illness when the weather is cold and the clouds are gray- winter. People have no real reason to go outside other than to walk from their car into a store or shovel snow I guess. But I sort of like winter. I like when it snows and the ground becomes blanketed with mother nature's version of marshmallow fluff. I like seeing a few lonely footsteps in the untouched snow above a sidewalk. Even better yet, a few animal tracks crisscrossing the backyard. I like the hot chocolate and the snowmen and the scarves and of course growing up I loved the snow days.

And there's plenty of entertainment in watching people struggle to drive their cars through the snow. Tires spinning, snow shooting from under cars, people slipping, curse words flying- winter is a spectator sport. Sure, it's cold and yeah my face hurts after walking to class, but what do you expect? In Michigan, we have to live with four seasons and winter always feels the longest. It's time we just embrace it. I bet people would like snow more if instead of just schools closing down after a storm, everything closed down. The day after a storm should be like a Sunday in the 1950's. Nothing should be open and the most work anyone should have to do is cart sleds up a hill or push a snow blower. Those would be the days.

Morrill Hall

Grand River Avenue, Downtown East Lansing

The Life of...

2010-02-01T10:32:00.009-05:00

The lifestyles some people lead are absolutely fascinating. I sometimes wonder what type of person I'd be if I grew up in a different town. If I grew up in rural Michigan would I go shopping at Cabela's or Jay's Sporting Goods for everyday apparel? Would camouflage sweatshirts, pants and boxers fill my dresser drawers? What if I grew up in a big city? Would I wear scarves when it's 75 degrees outside or have five different pairs of Converse All-Star shoes?

I'm constantly influenced by the lifestyles of other people so I like to think I'm one big anomaly. I like Nascar and American cars, yet I drive a foreign car. I like rally racing and skeet shooting. I own one pair of Converse shoes, but I usually only buy Asics. I watch sports on television, but don't always like going to the actual sporting event. See, I like all these different types of lifestyles, but I don't fully embrace any of them. I like skeet shooting, but I don't wear funny skeet shooting hats or own a gun. Nascar races are always a good time, yet I don't have a Dale Earnhardt Sr. #3 sticker on my car or wear cut-off jean shorts. However, if I was to fully take on a certain lifestyle, here is what I'd do.

Nascar Fanatic: I wear Nascar licensed apparel like t-shirts, pants, and wife beaters. My shoes and cologne would be made by the same brand- Everlast. I only drink Budweiser or Mountain Dew. I tailgate at Nascar races in an old school bus painted grayish that has blankets as blinds and a banner along the back that says, "This is America, mother f******, speak English, drink beer, buy American, and watch Nascar."
Tech Geek: I have two different cell phones, one for calls/texts, the other for browsing the web and responding to e-mails. I have an iTouch too, but I use a PC because Windows 7 is superior to any Apple software. My backpack and watch is made by Swiss Army and they both have built in compasses. My belt has a calculator and my shoes count how many steps I take in a day.
Weekend Fisherman: I have bumper stickers, hats, t-shirts, throw pillows, wall hangings, plates, and spoons that say, "I'd rather be fishing." Instead of fancy art and bowls on display in my living room, I have fishing lures, old reels, and a fat sunfish my second cousin caught 15 years ago. Even though the closest lake is 20 minutes away from my house, I keep a carton of Canadian nightcrawlers in the fridge in case there is a flash flood in the backyard.
Suburban Teen: My life is ridiculously boring, so I go to the mall a lot and spend way too much money on clothes and shoes. Even though I go to the mall, I only buy clothes that look like they came from a second hand store because consumerism is bad for the environment. I only wear Nike kicks and I like my pants to fit super tight. If everyone on the West coast is wearing stunner shades, then I have to too. My life would be way better if I was living in a big city or Colorado. Bush sucks. Go Obama!
European Sympathizer: America is in bad shape and I don't like the direction we're going- that's why I want to move to Europe. They get free health care and they all drive cool little cars. Pubs over there are real, with wood and fancy glass mugs. I bet their beer is much tastier too. Football, basketball, and baseball? Soccer is a million times better and I bet you don't even know the rules to cricket. Hah. The British version of The Office is hilarious, the American version just sucks. English accents are so proper, I wish I had one.

Abbott Hall

2010-01-30T10:52:00.008-05:00

I'm sitting in a study lounge at a dorm called Abbott right now. I'm the only one here. There's about fifteen tables or so surrounding me, but no one is sitting at them. There's some crumpled paper on one table and a tissue on another. Occasionally a maintenance worker will walk past humming a song or talking to themselves but I'm practically isolated in a dorm building with hundreds and hundreds of kids. There's a steady hum coming from the heating vents and some laughter echoing from down the hallways. I'm easily distracted, but I'm glad it's a Saturday morning. There couldn't possibly be anyone having fun right now, because if there was I'd want to join them. That's why I can't do much studying at my house. There's always something going on, card/video games, movies, etc.

When you live with ten people, you're never alone. I don't mind it, but sometimes I like to get away. Abbott is a perfect spot. Usually I'll throw on some headphones and listen to a few songs on repeat while I sit and study. I like the fact the building is old and not the trendy spot to get work done like the library or something. The chances of bumping into someone I know and getting caught up in conversation is rare. Abbott is like an old worn out car that still works, but no one really wants to pay to have it fixed up. No one thinks about coming here to study and I like to think I'm pioneering the art of finding obscure places to study on campus. The Abbott study lounge is actually an old cafeteria. The table I'm sitting at used to be a place students ate their breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for decades. The empty and dusty fireplace behind me at one time probably warmed the room most winter evenings and I bet the crackle of firewood was a common sound twenty or thirty years ago.

Around the fireplace is the remnants of a counter where students probably served themselves typical cafeteria fare like spaghetti or chicken. The cupboards are empty and some tables sit without chairs. It's always eerie to see empty rooms, absent of life, that once used to be a hub of activity. The only food now comes from a vending machine and nothing costs less than $.55 cents. It's weird to think in one year, a place that used to serve hundreds of kids dinners each day is now reduced to a few tables and vending machines. In one year, something can be bustling with life and the next, a long and empty hallway lined with tables.

Cars of East Lansing

2010-01-26T15:12:00.005-05:00

Following the recent purchase of my 2002 Subaru WRX, I’ve become obsessed with cars. Now, this isn’t to say I wasn’t obsessed with cars before I owned a Subaru, but it certainly has re-stimulated my passion for cars. Growing up I was convinced my first car would be a Camaro. I started saving money when I was about 12 or 13. That idea never came into fruition and now that I think about it, I don’t really mind. Trying to drive a car with rear wheel drive in the winter or paying for the gas expenses of a V8 engine (come on, if I’m going to buy a Camaro, it will definitely not be a V6) sounds like overkill. My first car was a 2002 Chevrolet Impala. Even though it wasn't the Camaro I had once dreamed of, the thing was a tank. As a young 16 year old with plenty of money saved up, I added more modifications than Lil Wayne has tats. SS spoiler, cold air intake (which actually was just a round air filter in place of the box), blue accent lighting, tinted windows, subwoofers, amplifiers, rain deflectors and the list goes on.

I was immature back then. My tastes have changed considerably since the days I thought bosco sticks were man’s greatest gift to, well, man or a Chrysler 300C with vogue rims was cool. Check that, I never thought vogue rims were cool, but you get the idea. These days, I like to be tasteful and smart about my decisions with modifications. And even though I don't like many of the modifications I see on cars rolling around in East Lansing, they certainly add a level of personality to any car. And this is where my new idea comes in and I call it, “Cars of E.L.” Basically, the idea is to create a website where people snap a picture of a cool car they see and upload it to the website. If an owner sees their car they can leave a comment with the specs and modifications.

The bigger idea that stems from “Cars of E.L.” is the possibility of local repair shops, dealerships or companies sponsoring the website so temporary stickers can be placed on spotted cars. As a result, spotted cars will get a deal at participating garages, oil/lube shops, dealerships or part stores. Then, by linking the “Cars of E.L.” website with the MSU Racing Club’s website and forum, membership will increase, meets will double and local businesses will see increased revenue, but then again this is Michigan- things don't always go as planned.

Regardless of whether the big ideas work out, I love cars. When I’m walking down the sidewalk, my eyes are transfixed on the road looking for fellow Subaru drivers. Before I check the Free Press or NY Times in the morning, I read Jalopnik, a blog about cars. With my life totally revolving around cars in between my life as a student, a place like “Cars of E.L.” should be a nice addition to my list of bookmarks.

How to Design a Car

2010-01-21T11:48:00.010-05:00

After just going to the Detroit Auto Show on Monday, I'm optimistic about the future of cars. Companies are only putting out the best of the absolute best they have to offer. And every brand is getting better, except for maybe Chrysler. Whether it's good or bad, Kia and Hyundai are now big time players really going toe to toe with Honda, Chevy, Ford or Toyota. Thing is, the cars might be nice and all, but most of the cars out right now don't really speak to me. In high school I'd sit on websites designing car after car. Not anymore.

I'm not a car designer and I don't know how the process is done. I imagine a company will think to itself, "we need a car for a 20-25 year old female who likes pop culture and listening to Lady Gaga." From there, the designers will build a car like a Toyota Matrix or Jeep Liberty. I guess there's nothing wrong with that, but if I was a car designer I'd do it a bit differently. I'd design my car the same way a screenwriter writes a movie or novelist writes a book. These writers create a comprehensive biography for every character in their works. The character's have fears, anxieties and lives...moreover, they have stories. It doesn't matter if the piece is fiction, each character has unique traits that influences their decisions in any film or novel. Therefore, I'd personify the car.

Alright, so let's say I've got to design a car for young adults, here's a biography I'd write:

He appears confidant on the outside, but inside are deep, dark fears of the future. The world is apparently falling apart around him. Companies filing for bankruptcy, people losing their homes- it's a tumultuous time to be anyone. He sometimes wishes he could be a kid again. At least then all he had to worry about was knowing the difference between a nickel and dime. Growing up, he played almost every sport imaginable and later, bought every video game imaginable. It all started with simulation games on Windows 95 that got him hooked onto gaming. It eventually led to the purchase of Sega Genesis, then Nintendo 64, then PS2, then PS3. He's loyal to friends, but not necessarily brands. He may have grown up using Windows computers, but when he finally saved enough money he bought an Apple. In 3rd grade he had to get prescription glasses. He was self-conscious at first, but when the cutest girl in the fifth grade got a pair of glasses too, he felt better knowing someone else was in the same shoes. In 9th grade he fell down the main stairwell at his school in front of, well, everyone. He vowed never to embarrass himself again which has prompted him to take extreme cautions when driving, walking or riding a bike. Even though he may care too much about what other people think, he is unique in his buying habits and hobbies. He likes outlandishly colored coats and refuses to hang anything on his walls unless they are drawings by obscure artists. He has heavy metal, classic rock and classical music on his iPod. He is heavily influenced by outspoken celebrities and people, yet loathes them at the same time.

So even though this is a rather short biography, assuming I'm still a car designer, I'd read this biography and start constructing a car based around what I know. Each element of the vehicle would somehow relate back to his personality. For example, I'd put foglights on the car so he knows what impediments lie in front of him so he doesn't slip on a patch of ice or snow. Built into the radio would be a fully functioning computer for him to upload his music. The car will also come with two sets of wheels. One set of wheels will be your standard alloy, the other will be a little more expressive. Buyers would have the option to choose the color and size of their "alternate" set of wheels.

The idea here is that before a car is even designed, before there is a brushstroke on a piece of paper- a biography is written about the car. So instead of designers creating a car for one mold of people, they design the car specifically around its own biography.

Get Comfortable Behind the Wheel

2010-01-19T15:34:00.014-05:00

I was originally going to start this post about the time and effort it takes to find dumb laws in the annals of city code. Then I realized there's a website called dumblaws.com which is probably the most comprehensive list of asinine laws across the world. At first I only looked at Michigan laws like the one that says women aren't allowed to cut their own hair unless permitted by her husband or how cars cannot be sold on Sunday. These laws are certainly dumb, but after further investigation I found these gems:

In California it's illegal to shoot at game from a moving vehicle, that is, unless it's whale.
Games considered "electronic" are illegal in Greece.
In the UK, young boys under the age of 10 cannot see naked mannequins.
Nose picking mustn't commence in Israel on the Sabbath.
Only electricians can replace burnt out light bulbs in Australia.

Yet, how come the illegality of tinted automotive windows isn't on the list of dumb laws? Never mind the aesthetic appeal of tinted windows because in all actuality, window tint serves vital purposes. For one thing, they protect one's skin from harmful UV rays which may lead to skin related disease. High school and college coeds frequenting tanning salons openly embrace their future battle with skin cancer or melanoma, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't go unprotected from harmful UV rays when driving. Stock windows only keep out 50% of the sun's UV rays, but with window tint, UV ray penetration falls to under 1%. As if people behind the wheel don't have enough to worry about already. Trying to drive while texting, changing radio stations, answering phone calls or eating double cheeseburgers coupled with the anxiety of skin cancer is a pairing for disaster.

In addition to UV protection, automotive window tint adds a dimension of privacy to driving. Think about it- you're surrounded by at least four or more windows in any given car. You're exposed and there's nothing you can do. People can see every angle and curve of your face and depending on the make or model of your car, people can easily infer your race, driving style, job, handicaps and so on. With tinted windows, you can keep your fellow drivers guessing and their stereotypical and racist thoughts at bay. Just because you drive a Toyota Corolla doesn't mean you harken from East India or work for the DMV. With tinted windows, for all anyone knows, you could be an earless dwarf sitting on a stack of phonebooks just to see over the steering wheel. Isn't it time something as intimate as driving got the privacy it deserved?

So how come in places like Hawaii tickets for tinted windows can reach an astonishing $600? Shouldn't that be considered unconstitutional? Cruel and unusual punishment even? People are carrying around guns, knives, arrowheads, pepper spray, nunchucks and other concealable weapons, all the while local law enforcement officials try to spot window tinting offenders. Something needs to change. Maybe when people get tired of skin cancer caused by UV rays the laws will change. Maybe when the fed up foreigner driving a Corolla goes on a shooting spree at the local pet supply store because he's tired of appeasing the racist stereotypes associated with his nationality and choice of car the law will change. Maybe when a Supreme Court Justice decides his black Lincoln Town Car would look totally pimped out with a nice set of window tint the laws will change. Until then, skin cancer will run rampant, foreigners will continue to face stereotypes because they won't have tinted windows to hide their faces and the Supreme Court Justice's Lincoln Town Car will just look, well, like a car without tinted windows.

Life without School

2010-01-14T08:03:00.006-05:00

I've worked full time and I've gone to school full time. Neither at the same time of course, but I have experienced both worlds. After last semester, I came to the conclusion that going to school for the rest of my life really wouldn't be that bad. Sure, I pile up massive debt, but I'm constantly learning and gaining more knowledge. I'm fascinated with pretty much anything so I'm almost positive that as long as I'm taking intriguing courses I could go to school the rest and my life and be happy. Now work is something completely different. Depending on the job, my daily responsibilities could be challenging and unique or completely boring and menial. That is, if I ever get a job.

But the same can be said for those awful college courses that offer little educational value. I know everyone says these classes will be important "down the road," but that's just dribble because some classes are truly pointless. I can say, with 110% confidence, the 5 credit math class I took two years ago will be of little value when I apply for jobs. However, I'm not going to rant about useless college pre-requisites because they have only helped further my belief that:

1. I'm not good at math and therefore I don't like math.
2. The idea of taking a science class is better than actually taking a science class.
3. Even in boring and awful classes, there's always something cool or interesting to learn- I just have to look/listen super hard.

I know I can't go to college forever. At some point I'm going to have to find a job and start my life, get a couch, buy a lawnmower, probably have some kids, etc. My embrace towards college means I'm comfortable...maybe too comfortable. I've come to accept a daily schedule that doesn't change, a cafeteria that makes all my food for me and bills that I don't have to worry about paying. There are some things I can do to step outside my comfort zone, but to be frankly honest, Michigan State University is all too familiar. I'm an hour away from home and if I ever need anything, all I got to do is hop in my whip and drive down I-96. I know this place backwards and forwards for the most part. It's pretty much the closest thing to a second home I have. And as much as dread the thought of leaving college/home, in a year from now when I'm the cusp of graduation, it will be about time.

Building the Routine

2010-01-12T15:29:00.004-05:00

Last semester, on any given day, I had the same morning routine. Got up around the same time, took a shower, ate cereal, read the paper, grabbed some coffee, and so on. This semester everything is different. My classes and professors are all new. The weather is insanely cold and I can't even imagine walking to class without so much as a parka, scarf, hat and gloves. I'm trying to resurrect bits of my routine from last semester that proved to be successful like using a suitable study lounge to get work done in between classes. Or figuring out the best time to get up in the morning so I still have time to read a bit of the newspaper.

I know all this talk of routine makes me sound rigid and inflexible. Thing is, I need this routine because I'm not naturally a morning person. I thought I was a morning person at one time, but not anymore. When I wake up, I don't want to see, talk, or look at anyone for at least a half hour. In that half hour, my body needs to adjust from sleep to activity and prepare for a day of walking through snow and sitting in uncomfortably warm classrooms. And because I'm not a morning person or found the right morning routine, these last two days have been a drag. My teachers are all foreign to me and my walks to class go through previously unchartered territories. I wonder how long it will take until I'm comfortable with my schedule this semester because it certainly doesn't compare to the last one.

I was spoiled last semester. My schedule couldn't have been more perfect, no class on Friday and studies across science, English and history. My four month long morning routine not only kept me focused, but actually excited about a day of classes. For the first time in my life I actually looked forward to a day of classes, writing, and homework. I know, it's really unbelievable. Especially when I look at this semester.

I'm in a limbo. My daily schedule is chock full of classes and I have no less than four on Friday. It's the closest thing to a scheduling disaster I could have ever created and there's nothing I can do about it. My only hope is to construct a morning routine that can push me through the days. Otherwise, it's going to be one long and sad semester.

Car Wash Disaster

2010-01-09T15:45:00.003-05:00

Went to get a car wash today- just one of those quick gas station ones to clean the underbody and a weeks worth of salt and ice. I pay the $6 which I thought was pretty expensive but whatever. Anyways, there's a line so after waiting ten minutes it's my turn. The light turns green and I pull in. Then the light turns yellow and tells me to back up.

I back up.

The yellow light keeps blinking instructing me to back up. I go back as far as I can without hitting the car waiting behind me. The yellow light is still flashing. The car behind me moves back an inch and the woman just throws up her arms. I sit there in reverse hoping she will move back so I can restart the process but she just sits there. I drive back up to the light hoping it will turn green and start the washing process. It doesn't. I reverse again. The light changes and I'm thinking I've done it, I can finally get my wash.

Nope. The doors on the other side open and the flashing light tells me to pull out. Mind you, this whole process has taken about 10 minutes and there is now a line of about 8 cars waiting for a wash. I considered the day a loss and as I'm pulling out some idiot in an Acura MDX nearly t-bones me pulling into the gas station at 30 miles an hour.

Now I'm upset and my left foot hurts from holding in the clutch for so long.

Black Out Gravy

2010-01-05T10:12:00.005-05:00

In the silent hours late at night while lying in bed, while washing my hair in the shower or sitting in class an idea will hit me. I'll write it down, thinking at the time this idea could be the greatest idea ever conceived. Sometimes I can be hit with waves of ideas and I become overwhelmed trying to make these ideas reality in between homework and classes. Then there will be times when I'll go on idea droughts. My creativity will wan and I'll feel useless. You see, for me to feel productive and as if I'm accomplishing stuff, I need to continually come up with ideas.

The ideas don't need to be anything spectacular- but I need to tap into my brain for ideas to feel content. Each one of these blog posts work sort of like that. Even something like reorganizing my desk or trying to see what I can fix or add to my car uses a portion of idea creation. Sometimes my ideas don't go anywhere. I thought it would be cool to create a Twitter account for Sugar Bear, Post Golden Crisp's spokesperson, but I never got it off the ground with the followers I wanted. Or I had an idea to review all the different types of candy canes this holiday season. You know, the Spanglers, Hershey's, etc. And since a person can only eat so much candy, after barely finishing two boxes of canes by Christmas, I realized I should have started earlier.

This year, a lot of my ideas have been around partying. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not some sort of party animal, but themed parties have interested me for sometime. Everyone has heard of the ugly Christmas sweater parties or an 80's party. My latest themed party idea involves jungle juice, typically a mixed-liquor beverage filled with large quantities of alcohol, spanning the sub genres like beer, gin, rum, vodka, or tequila. However, I want my jungle juice to be thick- I'll call it "Black Out Gravy." In addition to serving Black Out Gravy, there will be instant mashed potatoes being served up all night in case the gravy concoction proves to be too much for some people. The party would be a success, but this amount of effort will most likely prevent the fruition of "Black Out Gravy." Oh well, at least I was able to come up with an idea.

Max Katsarelas VS The State of Indiana

2009-12-17T08:05:00.012-05:00

I'm driving to Arizona in a week and half. Until then I've got to get my car fixed, go back up to school so I can work and then, assuming I have enough time, buy all those Christmas gifts. It could be worse I guess, I could still have finals to take or projects to finish, but that's done with, the semester is over. Now that my car's in the shop and I have no means of going back up to school and working or getting to the mall and Christmas shopping I'm stuck to fret. I'm from Michigan and I have to drive to Arizona. This is a big country, Arizona might as well be on another continent. My planned route travels through some hard-knock states like Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, Illinois, New Mexico and even Indiana.

Indiana is probably the worst state in the country. I'm not saying Michigan is anything special, our economy sucks and Detroit isn't exactly polished, but it's my home and it's certainly a billion times better than Indiana. First of all, they're probably most famous for Gary, Indiana and the Music Man. Both terribly uncool things to be known for. Plus, my couple of run-ins with Indianians have nearly led to disaster.

While driving to Cedar Point a few years ago, a group of teens from Indiana thought they were just the coolest because one, they were from Indiana, and two, they were driving a late model VW Jetta. Since I was riding shotgun, I directed my buddy to drive parallel with them so I could whip out a sign that read, "Indiana sucks." This prompted the VW Jetta-driving teen to punch the gas. With five people filling up this clown car, the Jetta lurched forward pretty undramatically. After gaining speed the Jetta proceeded to change lanes and break away from us. After nearly rear ending one car and clipping another, the Jetta driver almost caused two wrecks, all because I called him out for living in such a crappy state. Grow up dude.

Another time while driving back to Detroit from Chicago with my high school's business club, we were caught just outside Gary in a snow storm. The driving was painfully slow. While trying to pass a Fed Ex truck with Indiana plates, the truck began merging into our lane. It was like he knew I hated his state and he wanted to punish me. Most likely in an effort to kill me and the ten other people in our rented Ford Econoline, the truck driver forced us on the shoulder. The van which was neither equipped with a plow or four wheel drive began driving through a foot of snow wedged between the median and far left lane. And it didn't help when the Indiana truck driver began swerving between lanes forcing us to get within inches of the concrete median. Luckily I didn't die.

It will be interesting to see what happens next week in round 3 of Max Katsarelas versus The State of Indiana.

A Capitalist's World

2009-12-15T11:41:00.001-05:00

Capitalism has gotten a bad rap lately. For some reason, people automatically blend capitalism with corporate greed, bank bailouts, that movie made by Michael Moore and the reason behind the growing gap between rich and poor. Thing is, the U.S. may show capitalistic tendencies, but our country isn't truly capitalistic. If it were, I think life would be a little different. The idea of anything being free simply wouldn't exist.

It would cost money to talk to people, even your grandma would charge a nominal fee. Hold open a door for someone and expect to be paid at least a quarter. There would be a parking meter at virtually every parking spot and to drive down your neighborhood road you'd have to pay a buck or two. Cars would be like vending machines and every time you have to take a trip, you'd have to put money in a slot near the ignition. If you want to use the radio, heat or air conditioning, you'll have to pay extra. Actually, pretty much everything would work like a vending machine. Specially made cell phones will come equipped with a credit card swipe because phone plans aren't as profitable as paying by the minute.

Bartering would become commonplace. Let's say a woman catches a man staring at her breasts. Normally this would cost money, but he refuses to pay. In this capitalistic society, she'd sue the man and presumably win the case. To pay for her lawyer fees she'd allow her hired attorney to ogle her for free and for life, no less. With the addition of bartering into the equation, everything can get a little more interesting. New industries and regulations would form to oversee the exchange of goods between companies. If General Motors needed a new factory built, they could pay in Chevrolet Cobalts. Or if the local Catholic Church needed renovations, they could trade the labor and materials for, say, life in heaven or a free pass to skip church for life.

It would certainly be an interesting world.

Uses for the Left Hand

2009-12-11T11:11:00.002-05:00

I'm not ambidextrous. In fact, my left hand is almost so useless, it could technically be considered crippled. I'm surprised it has the capability of typing. For my entire life the left hand has been neglected. It can't write, it can't brush my teeth and it can't dial a number on my cell phone. If we're going to get nit-picky, then yes, I guess my left hand can do all of those things, but it certainly can't do them well. While sitting in class today I began writing with my left hand and it looked like the handwriting of a child. Maybe I was getting particularly nostalgic, but I couldn't stop writing with my left hand. In my assignment notebook, margins of papers and even when signing checks and receipts.

Memories of going to Alameda Elementary, pizza days, learning about adding up pennies and nickels, recesses, the ball pit in gym class and field trips rushed back to me. I remember the girls I used to have crushes on, Mackenzie, Kristen and that crazy chick a grade younger than me who wore Ozzy Osbourne sunglasses. I experimented writing in all upper case and lower case. I tried to take notes using my left hand but it couldn't keep up with my brain or the lecture. And the more I examined my handwriting, the more I began to remember the signatures I saw on invoices when I worked at a medical company. They were sloppy, lopsided and squiggly, as if a person's non-dexterous hand were writing the signature. The handwriting of the old and young is practically identical.

Then I realized handwriting is one of the only things that connects us to the past and future. We lose ability to think, imagine and create like a child, yet when we swap the hands we write with, it's like going back in time. Our brains can't tap into the thoughts of our childhood, but our hands can. And then there will also be a time when our handwriting returns to a state of perpetual sloppiness. We get older and begin to lose pieces of our youth like patience, the ability to taste food, hear, drive and yes, write. I guess, what I'm trying to say is, that cliched thing called the "cycle of life" is present even in our handwriting.

Conversations with My Car

2009-12-09T07:13:00.004-05:00

With my new job making pita deliveries, I've learned a lot about my car. Each one of its creeks, knocks or sputters tells me something. Isolate the sounds of my car and I can tell you when it's below freezing outside, if it's windy, if its brakes are going to start acting up or if the engine light is on. I might not drive a manual transmission and have that ability to “feel” my car, but after five long years, I know my car better than anyone. I could practically have a conversation with my car. On the hour drives between home in Farmington Hills, MI and college in East Lansing, MI, sometimes the only person to talk to is my car.

In some ways, I’m a great owner, I get oil changes regularly and make sure I get washes every week or so. I’ve replaced parts when they have needed to be replaced, patched up leaks when they needed to be patched up and gotten tires when the rubber wore off the old set. But that’s just on the surface. One on one, I’m sort of a jerk because to be frankly honest, my car is annoying. It makes dumb decisions. Like, why does it engage the anti-lock brakes for no reason? If my coolant was just filled, why is the warning message flashing? How can my car have low tire pressure when they were just filled yesterday? Other times, when I’m downright angry, I stomp on the pedals, take turns too fast and jam the car into gear too quickly without making a complete stop. Whereas other people take out anger on animals, little kids or drywall, I take out anger on my car.

But maybe that's why my car has such a good sense of humor. It knows how to make fun of itself. With the recent weather shift to blistering cold winter, I'm hearing all sorts of noises come from my car. To the casual passenger, these noises may cause concern. But I like to think it’s my car being silly, as if to say, “Don’t you worry big fellah, I got this under control.” And that’s why I’ll never sell my car. The bond between the two of us is too great. I don’t care if it stops running or breaks down. I don’t care it looks like the hubcaps have been stolen. I don’t care the majority of people who own my model of car is over the age of 70. At least it was made in America and at least I can say, “Yep, that car right there is mine.”

Caution: Reading Can Strain Eyes

2009-12-06T10:47:00.001-05:00

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

2009-12-02T07:47:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-24T10:59:00.007-05:00

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

2009-11-19T11:00:00.011-05:00

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

2009-11-17T10:56:00.011-05:00

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

2009-11-10T11:10:00.006-05:00

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

2009-11-05T10:55:00.010-05:00

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

2009-11-01T13:05:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-28T15:31:00.004-04:00

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

2009-10-21T10:08:00.004-04:00

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.

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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?

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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

2009-10-13T11:32:00.005-04:00

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

2009-10-02T10:51:00.005-04:00

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

2009-09-27T12:01:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-20T15:23:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-02T21:17:00.005-04:00

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

2009-09-01T11:11:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-09T15:41:00.007-04:00

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

2009-08-06T20:45:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-30T08:00:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-29T19:38:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-28T20:26:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-27T20:58:00.011-04:00

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

2009-07-26T15:31:00.011-04:00

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

2009-07-23T20:22:00.006-04:00

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

2009-07-22T20:39:00.003-04:00

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.

Scouting GREY NY

2009-07-21T20:26:00.006-04:00

On the GREY NY Creative Intern Blog there are a series of posts called, "Scouting GREY NY." The idea is to compile all the most interesting things seen around the office. Like the letter posted in the mens bathroom regarding toilet seat etiquette. Or, how about The Bedroom, a meeting space with a fully functioning bed and piano inside. The list is still small, but with about 20 floors left to explore, I have found my final frontier. There are endless amounts of posters, desks, bathrooms, and curious pieces of furniture yet to be discovered. The hunt has just begun.

New Yankee Stadium

2009-07-20T09:19:00.009-04:00

I was expecting to be haggled and taunted. Verbally assaulted or pelted with hot dog wrappers. A Tigers fan in the middle of 50,000 Yankees fan. Donning a bright orange Magglio Ordonez shirt I was asking for it. If being from Detroit wasn't enough, wearing an Ordonez shirt, a player in one of the worst slumps in baseball certainly would get some response. Yet, nothing. No boos, no witty remarks about Verlander giving up a home run, and no errant curse words bashing Detroit. I was actually a little disappointed when it took six innings and a few beers for the Yankees fan behind me to say, "Ordonez? What is this 2003?" Where were the diehards, I wondered. I was sitting in the bleachers out in central field. Albeit, it was the first of two rows so it's not like I was surrounded per say, but that shouldn't matter. In Detroit, we'll give you a hard time for anything. We'll pick you apart, even if you are wearing a Detroit jersey. We're ruthless.

To be honest, I was nervous going to New Yankee Stadium decked out in Tigers gear. I thought for sure I would get pushed around a bit, but nope. Maybe I'm lucky. I mean let's face it, I was in the Bronx. I'm not sure how "hard" of an area the Bronx is, but with a name like, "The Bronx" it just resonates with greasy Italians looking to "mess" somebody up. Alas, the Yankees fans probably thought I was clueless about baseball as I walked around wearing an Ordonez shirt. I probably just smelled like a tourist. Apparently a true New Yorker can sniff out a tourist. Therefore, they probably decided it was best to leave me alone as I aimlessly wandered in awe about one of the most beautiful stadiums I have ever seen. And yes, I did call Yankee Stadium beautiful. With a price tag of $1.5 billion, it was everything I expected and more. Beer, $9. Hot dogs, $5. Water, $5. They also had fruit, sushi, peanuts, pizza, fries, and basically every type of victual imaginable, all priced at $5 or more. Expensive, but worth the experience. Now if only I had the world's deepest pockets and happened to be a few months older, like, 21 or so. Yeah, that would be nice.

I Don't Drink That

2009-07-15T19:47:00.009-04:00

It's Wednesday morning and I've already drank three bottles of water. This means I have frequented the drinking fountain a handful of times already. While waiting to fill up my water bottle behind a fellow water drinker, I strike up a conversation with a maintenance man. At the water fountain there is the conventional fountain for drinking by mouth, but there is also a spout for filling up water bottles. Being a fan of efficiency at the water fountain to reduce a back up I use the spout designated specifically for water bottles. The maintenance guy goes, "Don't use the spout, the water isn't cold." I tell him it doesn't matter to me, I'd drink hot water. And that's the truth. I know people who refuse to drink anything but ice cold water. Not me though. Lukewarm, ice cold, or scalding hot, if I'm thirsty I'll drink the water.

After a few seconds he responds, "I don't drink water." Expecting him to laugh after such a ridiculous statement I chuckle. Straight faced he says, "I drink milk sometimes," then points at me, "fat free, of course, but not water." I'm thinking to myself this guy is a lunatic, what is he doing here? I don't see anything that needs maintaining, this man is certainly crazy. Perhaps he snuck up here through the service elevator. I tell him that's extremely unhealthy, he must drink something. Nope, sometimes coffee, apple juice, if it's fresh, and that's it. I want to ask how one procures "fresh" apple juice, but he continues, "my doctor, now, he doesn't like it. I mean, I don't go to the bathroom and he keeps telling me to drink water, but I don't." I tell him, just drink water, it's not too hard, take a sip of it here and there, it's a natural thing. You know, keep your body hydrated.

With a matter-of-factly tone and completely straight face he states, "I don't like the way it tastes." I've had enough, I slowly begin to step away. I'm not getting into it with the maintenance man. "Yeah, it's bad, I don't go to the bathroom, maybe once a day, and my doctor is all over me about it," he says. I can't help it, I insist water has no taste, how can someone drink or eat anything at all if they don't like water? He rests his hand on the wall, I'm blocked in, "Oh yes, water has a taste alright. And I don't like it." I give up. I take the cap of my freshly filled bottle of water, take a swig, tell him good luck with the whole "no water thing" and scoot around him back to the intern table.

The Day That Was

2009-07-14T20:24:00.003-04:00

I lifted weights less than an hour ago. My body hurts. Is it possible to actually get weaker after working out? I swear I was stronger two days ago when I lifted last. Now all I want to do is watch the All-Star Game and play Games for Change. I don't feel good because I went to some Caribbean place and ordered chicken with curry. The chicken, well, if you can even it call it chicken was all fat. In fact, there were more bones and fat in my curry than chicken. I'm lucky if I got any protein at all. So much for trying to rebuild muscles after a workout. Being self-conscious about not getting enough protein I just chugged a bunch of milk and now I have a stomach ache. And as a result of my stomach ache I thought it would be a good idea to chug some water to settle my stomach. That didn't work. All it did was leave me feeling totally full and uncomfortable.

That is all. I can't write like this.

Peddlers

2009-07-13T19:30:00.007-04:00

Street vendors, official loiterers, amateur used-car salesman, peddlers, whatever you want to call them, people trying to make a quick buck are everywhere. Hours after the announcement of Michael Jackson's death, vendors selling t-shirts, posters, albums, and anything associated with the, "King of Pop" sprouted up across the city. Rightfully so, the man was a legend and deserved to be honored for his accomplishments in music. But some of these vendors were making a mockery of his death. It was like they had some sort of bet going on to see not only who could find the most unappealing photo of the late MJ and turn it into and poster but more importantly, sell said poster. It would seem to me people remember Jackson best during the 70's and 80's when he still looked fairly normal. After his disease took over and countless plastic surgeries later, it was pretty rare to find a decent looking picture of the man. I guess that simply doesn't matter to the people trying to make an extra couple of bones.

Today while standing outside my office building a man holding a single pair of Dickies work pants with tags comes up to me and says, "ten bucks." No thanks, I don't wear a size 40X30. It's sort of ironic though because I do love wearing Dickies work pants. They go great with t-shirts and button downs and I'm pretty much known to wear them 24/7. But something about buying a single pair of Dickies from a short old man is off putting. Unfazed and determined to sell this pair of pants, I watched him scurry off to another set of people holding out the pants, "ten bucks, ten bucks." This reminded me of the time I was on vacation in the city a few years ago. While walking through SoHo there was a man standing on the corner with his arm outstretched talking in practically a whisper. "I got spidey stickas, I got your spidey stickas he-ay." My dad and I got a good laugh out of this and repeated the dude's sales pitch as many times as possible the next few days.

Tasteless posters of MJ, a single pair of Dickies work pants, and "spidey stickas," I'm interested to see what other oddities people will try to peddle. Where do people draw the line? Moreover, is there even a line people won't cross? I doubt it. I wouldn't be surprised if people tried to sell a celebrity's hair clippings or a potato chip in the shape of a crucifix. Oh wait, you can find that kind of stuff on eBay. But it is so much funnier if someone is trying to make the sale directly, not behind the veil of the internet. Because selling a pair of pants on eBay isn't funny, but trying to sell a pair of pants while walking around 3rd Avenue, however, is downright hilarious.

Funday?

2009-07-12T11:37:00.009-04:00

I have had a few posts about Sundays in years past that really examine my complete and utter distaste for the seventh day of the week. Considering it lands after Saturday and right before the start of a new week, Sunday is a downright abysmal day. Regardless of weather and all other factors, Sunday is truly the trashiest day of all. Whoever decided the worst day of the week should rhyme with "funday" pulled off one of the cruelest jokes this earth has ever heard. That is, except for the guy who created the little plastic ball hamsters roll around in because that can't be humane. Initially, I didn't like Sundays because it was the day before a long school week. And school meant tests, anxiety, and long practices for track or cross country after school. But over the years my general distaste for Sunday has developed into deep-pitted hatred. And, mind you, I don't really hate anything.

When I try to pin point when and where this dislike all started I have to take a serious leap back in time. It was probably in middle school when the education system was starting to get harder and a little more rigorous that I started to appreciate the simpler things in life, like a relaxing weekend. But Sundays would be anything but relaxing. I can remember trying to finish the weekend math packet in between the Sunday dinner and the four o'clock NFL game. Before middle school, everything from 5th grade and earlier was enjoyable. I got to hang out with my buddies all day, homework made us feel like "big kids," and "hot lunches" from The Hut, formerly known as Pizza Hut were some of the greatest times in my young life. Back then, my biggest fear was missing the bus or facing disciplinary action like getting my name written on the board.

Sometimes a little depressing and other times just an inconvenience, Sundays eventually would feel like one big bummer. For some reason I used to lie in bed on Sunday nights and just think how I will never be able to relive the weekend. Everything that happened the past two days, all the conversations and experiences were gone forever. That probably wasn't something a lot of middle school kids thought about and all this dread I have mentally built up towards Sunday stems from those nights years ago. In high school I hated Sundays because it meant forensic tournaments and the scramble to finish homework. In college, the scramble to finish homework on a Sunday afternoon ensued while fighting procrastination. And today, as I sit here writing this post on an early Sunday afternoon I cringe. Fact is, I'm not dreading anything this week. I like work- actually, I love it and I'm looking forward to going back tomorrow morning. It takes my mind to a different place and gets me thinking about stuff outside of my own life. It's refreshing. Yet every Sunday it feels like I'm battling my own demons and it doesn't end until I go to bed. Sunday has turned into a 24 hour long personal struggle.

Taking the Subway

2009-07-09T21:09:00.006-04:00

In my first few experiences on the subway I was hooked up to my iPod listening to music with the volume blasting on high. I was off in my own world listening to tunes by RJD2 or Ida Maria as the world whizzed past me. But recently, I have left the ear buds and iPod in my backpack. I enjoy listening to fleeting conversations as I walk past people on my way in and out of the subway. I enjoy hearing the sounds of the subway rattle on the rails as it accelerates to cruising speed or screech to a halt. I don't want to be disconnected from the living and breathing City of New York. Everyday is an experience already, but being in New York City is like taking this experience and pumping it full of growth hormones. If I'm wired to an iPod, I might miss something. I feel anxious just sitting here writing this blog post- there is always something happening here.

And that's my issue. I'm always anxious. Anxious to get on the subway so I can get to the office so I can get to work. Anxious to leave work so I have time for dinner, laundry, working out, getting groceries, or writing a blog post. I'm always in a rush. The only time I'm completely relaxed are the seconds before I fall asleep and even then my mind is racing. Thinking about the next big idea and how brands can transcend television, internet, cell phones, and beyond. It's a never ending cycle. I guess listening to my iPod wouldn't be that bad of an idea after all. Being disconnected from everything, even for a couple of stops on the subway, would probably do me some good. Then again, that's completely uneconomical.

Thoughts Off My Head

2009-07-08T19:58:00.007-04:00

I want some ice cream.
I'm pretty tired. I slept great last night, but I'm still tired
I hope I don't need to iron the pants I wore today. I don't even have an iron.
Why am I watching the O'Reilly Factor?
I feel bad for MJ's kids.
I probably read more blogs and tweets today than ever in my life.
My brain is turning into to mush and seeping down throat. It's gross I know.
I like black paint. Everyone uses white pain. And it looks so boring, but black paint, no one uses black paint.
I wonder if I could handle a two hour commute for twenty years straight.
I can't wait until I get a paycheck.
I'm going to make my lunch in the morning.
Reading books digitally on the iPhone or Kindle would never work for me.
I need to move around and get some exercise before I sleep.
Up North Michigan sounds pretty nice right about now.
When I went to Staten Island on Monday, I loved the smell of the water.
The office is so cold I break out into goosebumps.
I want to put my pajamas on and just watch television in bed.
I need to think less and just read and write more.
Does this even count as a blog post?
I love New York City, but it will never take Detroit's place.
I really want to go to restaurant used in Seinfeld.
I wish coming up with ideas was easier.
I just ate yogurt. Is yogurt only for women? I feel like if a man is going to eat yogurt it's got to be Go-gurt or frozen yogurt which is more like ice cream anyways.
I'd like to go golfing.
I'm all about the underdog. Even though Google has Microsoft beat, I don't feel like using Bing. Google is too easy.
I think I have exhausted all my thoughts. Now it's bed time.

The Bathroom at Work

2009-07-07T21:16:00.006-04:00

There's something just inherently funny about the bathroom. Every time I step into the mens bathroom on the second floor, I'm expecting to laugh. But first, one of two things has to happen. One, a person must be taking a "sit down," two, they must be either in the beginning or middle stages of their "business." Being in such tight quarters, even the slightest release of air rattles and echoes across the room. Bouncing off one tiled wall to the other, the sound slowly drifts off leaving either awkward silence or laughter to commence. I tend to burst out laughing prompting the executor of such sound to claim their fame or continue to remain silent. That gets me wondering, if you can't even laugh at one of nature's punchlines, what do you laugh at? Old people falling? Random animal attacks? Urinating on toilet seats?

In fact, I think it's the very people who remain silent after a natural release of air that urinate on toilet seats. Maybe to them this comedy at its best, but honestly, it's just gross. That isn't nature's punchline. We're adults, not high school students. Throwing wet toilet paper over the stall unto unsuspecting victims, that's funny. Cracking a one-liner about fiber, that's funny too. Urine on the toilet seat, not funny. Grey NY should create a database that keeps tabs on the whereabouts of all employees during the work day. I suppose this could work as a way to locate anyone in the office at any given time, but more importantly it would help investigators seek out the perpetrator. Yes, Grey would need to hire investigators because someone would have to run the database, but, thinking long term here, everyone would benefit. Men would get cleaner bathrooms and the women would find solace in knowing our bathrooms are clean. At least that is what I think.

Making a Change and Taking Action

2009-07-06T22:09:00.005-04:00

I want experiences. I want to see and explore different places, meet different people, share stories, laugh all the time, never be unhappy, and live every moment to the fullest. It is sounds cliche, but my goal in life is to never settle with boredom. A few months ago I was working at Cedar Point, a place where I thought my lofty goals could be temporarily fulfilled. But I was mistaken. I did laundry, tediously picking through dirty napkins and sheets, wishing I could be somewhere else. I was homesick, bored, and on the verge of a breakdown. One of the girls I worked was from Moldova and she barely spoke any English. Every lunch break she stood outside the laundry facilities and cried. She literally would sob for her 30 minute lunch break. I knew how she felt.

I couldn't work at Cedar Point all summer. I couldn't surrender my freedom to mind numbing boredom six days a week. Would it have been admirable to stick it out and work 10 hour days doing laundry? I guess some people would say absolutely because it builds character and shows commitment. But I didn't feel that way. I'm twenty years old, in the formidable years of my life, and I was stuck at a job I hated. My job left me empty and sent me in a downward spiral of anger and sadness. I was upset with myself and angry I wasn't doing something about it. That's why I think it takes more courage to follow your dreams and act upon them, regardless of consequences, than to simply accept. I succumbed to the fact I was throwing away my summer.

Never again. I never want to compromise. I don't want to feel unfulfilled when I go to bed at night. And when I do go to bed at night I want to be content with the choices I made yesterday and have a sense of optimism for tomorrow. I don't want to accept the answer, "no" and I don't want to limit myself, ever. I want to use my creativity, my skills as a writer, thinker, and communicator to bring about change. I don't know what kind of change I'm capable of initiating or how I will do it, but I know I can. It took me almost a month of working at Cedar Point to realize the potential slowly slipping out of my fingers. I'm not going to say my short stint at Cedar Point was a mistake because in the process I learned so much about myself. I met interesting people from across the world, stepped outside the comfort zone I rarely left, and concluded the only laundry I want to do is my own.

Now, a month later, I'm working at an advertising agency in New York City. The very city whose skyline has graced my desktop background for over a year. When I left Cedar Point I didn't know where I would end up, if I would find a job, let alone an internship, but that's the way it works. Life is what you make of it and sometimes all it takes is a little luck, a lot of courage, and recognizing where you want to go.

Short Story: The AM

2009-07-05T15:32:00.007-04:00

It's three o'clock in the morning. The only reason he knows this is because he looks at his cell phone and it reads, "3:00 AM." To the phone, there is no difference between 3 AM and 3 PM. It doesn't know that anyone in their right mind is asleep at this hour. If it did, he imagines it would have a message like, "Go to bed," or "Who cares what time it is? Just fall asleep." His phone, it seems so impersonal, yet connects all the pieces of his life together like tape. He can text or call friends, browse the web, and write messages to himself. It is like an extremity, always in his pocket or hand. But why is he thinking about his phone in this way? Moreover, it's 3 AM, why is he awake, sitting at his computer, and thinking about his phone? What a waste of time, then again, what else is there to do? He doesn't feel like lying in bed or thinking about his personality-less phone so he thinks about something else. Something else, something else, what other else is there? There is no breaking news and the same story he read before attempting to fall asleep about scrambled eggs is still the headline. Even the news media has went to sleep. Am I the only person awake, he thinks? He opens the front door of his house, looks down the street. No lights. No sound. He is the only person awake. He isn't afraid because he reassures himself someone, somewhere is awake, just nobody close by. He looks at his phone again, "3:04 AM." Time is at a standstill. It's like somebody poured concrete on time. It isn't moving. Is it going to be 3:04 forever? Can't be. The clock turns, it's 3:05 AM. He exhales pent up relief. Everything will be alright, 3:05 is going to be so much better than 3:04.

Noted Differences

2009-07-03T13:04:00.003-04:00

Separated by only a thousand or so miles and a handful of states, New York and Michigan aren't really all that different, right? They both have suburban cities, rural towns, and their share of hobos. They both have failed sports franchises like the Lions and Knicks and successful sports franchises like the Red Wings and Yankees too. But Detroit and New York couldn't be anymore different.

I'm sure in Michigan there are stores that sell soap, but they are a rarity and most likely found in boutique hotels somewhere in Birmingham. In New York, soap stores seem to be all the rage. Just in my commute to work I pass no less than four or five stores devoted to just soap in the bar and liquid variety. Think of a soap store in NYC as like a strip club in Detroit. On my drive to high school every morning I would probably pass close to seven or eight strip clubs, just on one road. I guess it's all relative.

Another anomaly I have found in New York versus home in the 'D' are New Yorkers undying love for Poland Spring Water. Everyone drinks Poland Spring. I only bought a bottle to fit in, but as far as I can tell it tastes like any regular water. The problem with Poland Spring isn't the fact they have a monopoly on the NYC water market, but the fact they are named after an Eastern European country who tried to fight World War I with cavalry. It's a true story. Plus, Poland Spring would never fly in Detroit. Most people in Detroit, especially old people, are too racist to buy water named after a country. My grandma won't even enter a restaurant unless it's owned by an Italian, Greek, or a friend of a Greek so the chances of her even touching a bottle of Poland Spring simply would never happen.

But the most important difference between New York and Detroit is mass transit. Subways, trains, buses, cabs, bikes, rickshaws- you name a type of transportation device, New York has got it. And even more importantly, everything runs on time. Buses don't just "show up" like in Detroit, in the Big Apple, they are on a tight schedule. And I sure hope so because when I'm paying $88 for a 30 month mass transit pass, everything better be on schedule when my internship-livelihood is on the line. You know, I got to make a good impression and I never want to be late. Speaking of my internship, if you have an inkling of curiosity to see the inner workings of a Grey intern check out the Grey NY Intern Blog. Enjoy the read and check out the photos from inside the office.

Tex-Mex and Chinese Food

2009-06-30T21:24:00.014-04:00

It's late, I'm tired, and ready for bed. Yet, I still can't believe the discovery I made only a few hours ago. I'm still asking myself in my mind if what just happened actually just happened. So it's 7 PM, I'm done with work, I hop on the subway, and make it back to my building where I decide I should start working out. Considering I finally made it to Jamba Juice and ordered a smoothie with one of their "Boosts of Protein" it would only make sense I utilize all the protein flowing through my veins. Does protein flow through veins? Check that, it flows through muscles. So anyways, I had all this extra protein flowing through my muscles, therefore I went to the gym in the basement of my building and pumped iron. After working out, taking a shower, and clothing myself I decided to explore nearby restaurants. Before I left I checked out Google Maps to see what direction I should take. While looking at nearby eateries I saw the name of a restaurant called Good Time. Except Good Time isn't like any normal restaurant. They serve Chinese and Mexican food. Quite possibly making the greatest find in my lifetime I scurried out my building speed walking like a slightly overweight middle aged woman to determine if Google Maps was toying with me.

After getting to the corner of 101st and Lexington, I found New York's secret gem. I was in ecstasy. A restaurant that serves Chinese and Mexican does, in fact, exist. I don't know why they are listed as Good Time on Google Maps or Yelp, because the sign read, "Forever Best" but I didn't care. I stepped in through the welcoming doors with more swagger and confidence than any man should have upon entering a restaurant. The smells of a Mexican fiesta and Chinese fireworks filled the air. I stared at the menu along the wall- do I order Chinese or Mexican, I asked myself. I couldn't decide. But with the help of the pictures posted next to each item on the menu I decided to go with the Mexican chicken and rice. It cost me less than $5 and I even got to sit near a real New York City Transit bus driver.

Check out what other restaurants I have frequented in NYC and how they rate by looking at the Yelp Map (to the right) with all my reviews. And, to see what life is like as an intern at one of the world's largest advertising agencies, Grey NY, check out the Grey Intern Blog or follow us on Twitter for breaking news from the intern table.

First Day in the City of New York

2009-06-28T21:33:00.011-04:00

Today I flew into New York City. Before I even left Detroit though I had a celebrity sighting. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure I saw a WNBA basketball player. She was tall, had a tattoo, and was wearing a hot pair of kicks. Anyways, while on the plane I enjoyed peanuts in between extreme bouts of turbulence's. It is amazing how clouds which look so calm and peaceful can toss around a plane like it's a leaf blowing in the wing. Unbelievably, we made it through what felt like a tornado and arrived at LaGuardia around 3 PM, over half an hour early, leaving me with an entire day of exploration. After getting off the plane and following the directions towards baggage claim I see what appeared to be a nice Chinese man roughly 5' 6" holding a sign that reads, "KATSARELAS." I approach the driver and we get off to a great start. For one, he has a funny accent, and two, he carried my bags even after I insisted I was quite capable of carrying them myself.

Once we get in the car I tell the driver, let's call him Ping, I want the crash course of New York City. Ping starts off by saying, "Well, if you're a party guy and enjoy smoking pot..." which then proceeded to cause an awkward silence and a frantic Ping to scramble in broken english, "but you're not a party guy I can tell, but it's alright. The city is expensive. You have an internship, right? Good. Yeah, the city is expensive. You like table tennis? I watch it on television occasionally. I don't live in the city though, too expensive. I own this car. It's a Lincoln Town Car. Taxi drivers don't own their cars. I used to watch basketball but then M.J. retired. I saw a lady get hit by a taxi driver. Don't stand too close to the curb." Because Ping drove around 70 MPH on the 278, an expressway with a speed limit around 50, I was at the front steps of my building in about 10 minutes. After saying farewell, Ping scooted off and I checked into my new digs.

Apparently I'm a hybrid of a Greek and a Albanian because my last name is in the records as, "Katjarelas." Note my I.D. card. It is kind of cool if you're into the smelly and hairy south eastern European thing. After signing in and becoming the newest resident of 1760 3rd Avenue nestled between East Harlem and Yorkville, I went to my room on the 6th floor overlooking 3rd Avenue (view my Flickr page for the pictures). The room isn't bad, plus I have digital cable, a flat screen television, a lounge with a stove and oven across the hall, a fitness center, internet library, laundry facilities, my own bathroom, and am only a few blocks away from Falafel Express, the coolest little Middle Eastern restaurant. After dinner, which was really cheap, $8.50, I dropped down around $40 on shampoo, soap, a toothbrush, and cereal. It was worth it though because how many times will I walk into a corner grocery store and see a obese man take out a stand of Kashi crackers because the aisles weight and size limit were exceeded? Maybe never because that didn't happen, but it is completely plausible with how cramped these stores can get. They need to enforce size restrictions on their patrons.

Because I consistently forgot the side streets my building was located and generally how to get around at all without getting lost, I spent a good 30 minutes on Google Maps trying to virtually familiarize myself with the city. From there I spent another 30 minutes researching the subway so I could figure out how to get myself to work and back. Throwing down another wad of cash on subway fare, I began my trek downtown to 51st and Lexington, a few blocks away from my office. Luckily the subway is easier than I thought, but finding a Jamba Juice proved to be a little more difficult. My phone had already pointed me in the wrong direction twice, so I started searching. I asked people who looked like city slickers, "Do you know where Jamba Juice is?" Nope. Nobody did. Twenty blocks later I found my coveted juice bar, but it was closed so I bought myself an apple. At least I snapped a few awesome skyline shots during the aimless wandering. After trudging back down the grimy stairs into the subway, I made my way back up town promising myself I will get Jamba Juice soon.

But first I start my internship. 10 AM, Monday morning, 777 3rd Avenue- Grey. I like to think of it like I'm a moderately overweight person trying to shop in one of those tiny grocery stores or a someone who rides around in rickshaw which just enchants white people. In other words, it is going to be interesting and I can't wait.

I Won This Camera

2009-06-22T18:40:00.008-04:00

Over the weekend I went to my high school's alumni golf outing and in the raffle I won a digital camera (Olympus Stylus 1050 SW). Interestingly, the camera is waterproof. I didn't even know digital cameras could be waterproof. Plus, it is "shockproof" meaning it can withstand a five foot fall and it has more settings and functions I will ever need like a mode for fireworks, cement statues, wooden statues, copper statues, and pictures taken in between 5PM and 5:12PM. Anyways, I wanted to try it out so I took some random pictures. My favorite is of the chicken salad dish a family friend made for my house. I have never seen cornflakes on top of or around anything else except for milk. Imagine, for a second, if there was a carton of milk around while this lady made the chicken salad. Also imagine that the milk and cornflakes had feelings. Then imagine how the milk would feel after seeing the corn flakes totally having an affair with the chicken salad. Yeah I know, it's terrible.

Fifty Things I Like

2009-06-17T13:03:00.010-04:00

Most blog posts are comprised of stuff that annoys people. I do it, just look at my last post, but stuff that annoys people can get, well, annoying to read. Instead of focusing on what I don't like, I decided to recognize the things I do like.

Slurpees
Grilled Chicken
Onitsuka Tiger
Kashi cereal and granola bars
Funny commercials
Movies
Writing
Paul Arden
Reading
Interesting food
Laughing
Classic rock
Michigan State University
Stuff White People Like
U.S.A.
Apple (Both the fruit and company)
Artists
Detroit
Exploring
Asking questions
American Apparel
Advertising
AgencySpy
Driving
Up North Michigan
Boating
Manual Transmissions
General Motors
Seinfeld
Sleeping
Big cities
Subaru WRX STI
Talking to little kids (in a non-pedophile kind of way)
Golfing
Topolewski
Natural Light Beer
Using Wikipedia to write college essays
Getting inspired and motivated
Detroit sports
NY Times
Weather.com
My family
Greeks and Czechs
Making fun of the Polish
Tailgating
Nascar
Dale Earnhardt
Dreaming
Writing inappropriate words out of numbers on a calculator.
Driving with the windows down

The People Next Door

2009-06-15T23:56:00.008-04:00

I don't dislike my neighbors, but they get on my nerves. Think of my neighbors as a messed up grocery cart with a bum front tire that makes it less nimble than a Mercury Grand Marquis trying to make a u-turn. For one, it seems like they are always outside. I'm all about the outdoors, soaking in some rays, watering grass, whatever, but there's got to be a point where it is just excessive. I probably go out to my car a dozen times in a day and 80% of the time I see the lady next door. It wouldn't be such an issue if our garages didn't face each other, but they do, and I always get caught up in conversation with this lady. And for some reason my legs, almost by instinct, walk towards her driveway which ultimately prolongs a conversation by a few minutes. The closer I get to the neighbors, the longer the conversation becomes. Since we don't talk of anything important I feel myself actually losing minutes off my life. I think our most profound conversation was about what type of container she should use to send over the cookies she baked my family.

Secondly, the lady next door is tall, like 6' and some change tall. Albeit, she is quite possibly the nicest lady in the world and makes some of the best pies I have ever eaten, but I don't like the fact she is taller than me. I try to suppress this anger though. Thirdly, they set up a badminton net in their backyard for the entire summer. I love badminton. Nothing revs my engine like a shuttle cock whizzing from one side of the net to the other except when it's played exorbitant amounts. The neighbors' kids play more badminton than any normal human should play, even people of oriental descent. And what is really weird is that they suck. While walking through the backyard, I noticed the neighbors partaking in a game of badminton, go figure. Considering I woke up to their yells and screams, I gathered they had been badmintoning for well over three hours. I stopped to gander at their skills, however, as it turned out they left their skills in the house somewhere. Most likely in a part of the house they don't frequent very often like the basement closet or something. Anyways, so they had probably been playing for a few hours by the time I started watching and while attempting to serve the shuttle cock, the kid whiffed. Not once or twice, but five times in a row. WTF! If you're going to wake me up in the morning because you can't control your screams during a badminton match, you sure as hell better be good so when I get up to watch you're not whiffing like the most uncoordinated person in the metro Detroit area.

Honestly, my neighbors aren't really that bad, but since I'm around the house all day, all night, day after day, I begin noticing things. Like how my cat uses the litter box at exactly the same time every morning or how my little brother can successfully go through an entire day without washing his hands. It's observations like these that are rarely seen unless I take time to breath, relax, and creep around the neighbors yard.

Untitled

2009-06-11T11:39:00.006-04:00

Two weeks ago today my dad had a heart attack. A week and one day later, he died. Now I'm home and struggling to figure out what to do with just about everything. Who do I talk to about my golf game, cool magazine articles, the advertising business, or Michigan State? I guess I didn't realize how integral my dad was to my daily routine. Yesterday while playing golf I hit a great shot. From 110 yards out, I pulled out my pitching wedge and took a few practice swings. I stepped up and struck the ball. It came off the club head a bit thin and I worried it would rocket past the green. While I stood watching the ball it landed inches from the hole and dropped right in. Immediately there after I took a mental picture in my head so I could tell Dad when he got home from work. Then it hit me, I can't tell him. Sure, I guess I could tell him telepathically or with my thoughts or something, but I can't physically tell him. I can't hear his voice. I can't get the actual feedback of having a conversation him. Ever again.

When this blog was updated on a near daily basis my dad would always let me know what he thought about my writing. What posts he enjoyed, what he thought was stupid, and posts I should develop some more. Those e-mails won't enter my inbox from now on. I'm going to miss just sitting around the bonfire at our cottage and waiting for him to say, "You know, I don't care if you drink beer up here" so I could run up to the fridge and grab a can. I'm going to miss golfing on the weekends and his muffled swear words when he chunked his gap wedge. I'm going to miss spending the weekend mornings and early afternoons doing yard work. I absolutely hated yard work and made sure everyone knew it, but when I think about it, I guess it wasn't that bad.

The idea my dad has left my life doesn't seem real. It's not like I feel as if I'm living in some twisted dream or I'm numb to the pain. I'm not angry or confused. I don't feel like a robot just moving through time. The feelings I have are really indescribable. It's an odd sensation to really think about how I won't see or speak to my dad for a long, long time. I remember all the awesome times we had watching golf, football, or Nascar races. And when I take the time to think about all the wonderful memories I realize they can never be relived. All the questions I would constantly ask him after he finished work or while driving around to golf courses, dinner, movies, or school will go unanswered. I suppose I could ask other people, but it seemed so much more legitimate when it came out of my dad's mouth.

Dad, you were the greatest man in the entire world. You were my inspiration and biggest role model. When I made decisions I asked myself, "What would dad think about this?" I never heeded all your advice or listened to everything you said but whenever I had to take a breath and make a choice, I heard your voice as if you were next to me. I'll miss you a lot. Love you dad.

The Intern Auction

2009-05-26T08:08:00.007-04:00

While clicking through Wikipedia I randomly got the urge to check out Crispin Porter's page. There was nothing I didn't already know to be found so then I wondered if they had updated their website because I'm pretty sure it hasn't changed since I was like a sophomore in high school four years ago. I was right, except in the top right corner there was an icon that I never noticed before. After clicking it I made a jump to an Ebay Auction where I read the auction's description:

In the past, our interns have created work for companies like Burger King, Volkswagen, Guitar Hero and Microsoft. And now they can do the same for you. Bidding starts at $1 for three months of service with all proceeds going to the hardest working people we know - the CP+B interns themselves. So bid early and often, and world-class advertising can be yours for a fraction of the going rate.

I have been out of the advertising loop for some time now and thought this was a really, really cool idea. Especially if I was an intern for CP + B because at least it means I'll make some money this summer. Then again, Crispin does everything differently so they may already pay their interns. And according to Bogusky, all the money will go to the interns for their three-month long efforts. I guess there are about 30 to 40 interns meaning each intern could make about $250 to $330 if the current bid doesn't go up. In an interview with the local Colorado media Bogusky said he expected bids to peak around $30,000 or $40,000. With the auction ending tomorrow I highly doubt it will achieve this lofty projection, but what do I know? Maybe Bugosky will start bidding on the auction to trigger a bigger sale.

On the Job: Day 7

2009-05-23T20:02:00.005-04:00

Not much happened on the job yesterday except that I came down with a cold and fell asleep at around 10 o'clock. I missed the Wings loss to the Blackhawks, but it is probably better I didn't get in a foul mood before bed anyways. Even though that shot by Lebron was historic and I do wish I saw it live. It's all good though, ESPN has showed the replay so many times I'm almost sick of it. Note that I said "almost," because unless you're an Orlando Magic fan, it doesn't get old.

When I went to work for the first time a few days ago, a lady I work with told me it will only be a matter of time until I lose track of the week. I thought to myself that would be ridiculous, how could you lose track of the days in a week? Well, she was right and it happened already. When I was making myself a tuna sandwich around six o'clock PM I tuned into ESPN and found myself watching girl's softball. I'm not a sexist, I like anything that involves physically fit women, that is, except women's sports. I started flipping through the channels and I couldn't understand why nothing good was on- it was 6PM for goodness sake, then I realized, it's Saturday. Working on the weekends makes Saturday or Sunday seem like any other day of the week. The only difference is the weekends are busier in the linens department.

After giving up on trying to find anything good on the tube, my friend Frank from Tanzania walked into the lounge. The first time I ever met Frank he told me about going to school in Russia. I asked him if the Russian girls are beautiful and he motioned over his face with his hand and said, "very beautiful" then he motioned over his crouch and said, "smells bad." Today though, we started talking about futbol as he ate a premade roast beef sandwich. Anytime I have ever seen Frank he is eating something he got out of the vending machine like a microwavable sandwich or burger. I tell him about The Munchery, a small convenience shop in the dorm building. He asks if they have dinners and I tell him they have microwavable stuff that he might like. I walk him into the store and he immediately begins asking me about every type of food in the store. "Is this good?" or "Would you eat this?" After examining all the microwavable dinners, he told me he was really craving rice. Luckily for him there were Taco Bell Salsa Bowls with rice and beans. He then told me he really loved Taco Bell. Yet, for whatever reason, he ended up choosing Stouffer's Meatloaf with mashed potatoes.

After helping him read the directions on how to properly microwave his meatloaf he told me about what it was like growing up in Africa. He told me about how education is very important in his country. He said in grade school he never did really well and his teachers thought he was stupid. As he got older he started wondering what made the kids in the top of the class the best. He said if you ever want to achieve the same success as the people you emulate, look at what they're doing and determine what you're not doing. He went on to say the reason Bill Gates got so rich or why America is richer than other countries is because they are did or are doing something other people are not. I thought it was a pretty interesting way of looking at success.

On the Job: Day 4 & 5

2009-05-21T22:48:00.006-04:00

Yesterday was Wednesday and my second day on the job loading and unloading the industrial sized washers and dryers. Aside from stacking bar towels in groups of 50 for four hours I was able to make some pick ups and deliveries in the box truck. My boss was giving me pointers on the best way to get around the park in the box truck which makes me think I might be doing deliveries sometime this summer. That would be cool, I guess. I like driving and by having the skills to maneuver a box truck around the tight roads in the park, I'll have a great resume builder, assuming I ever want to be a box truck driver.

Because I had Thursday off I decided to head home, pick up some more groceries, and relax for a day. It was during the drive home I have confirmed long held beliefs that Ohio drivers don't actually know how to drive. Or, they are never in a rush and enjoy the simpler things in life, like driving behind semi-trucks for 45 miles on a one lane highway. Despite having dotted yellow lines for 80% of the time, meaning they can pass, Ohio drivers have no interest in making imperative passes on slower moving vehicles. If more Michigan drivers took interstate 2 in Ohio, they would have a mental breakdown- I guess that's why there is the turnpike, but who wants to pay that $2?

After getting back home and planning to relax, I got up early and walked nine holes on the golf course. So much for resting my legs and knees. I probably should have, I golfed terribly, but it was nice to sort of keep up my game before I don't have any time to play at all. After doing some grocery shopping and eating dinner, I embarked on my drive back to Cedar Point. While driving on the outskirts of Toledo I noticed something odd. People here like their drive-thrus at liquor stores. From what I can gather, it is possible to pull your car into a car wash type looking party store and get all your alcoholic beverages without leaving your car. It was the coolest, yet saddest observation I made all day. Cool because I want to open one in Detroit and make some coin, but sad because if they can make a drive-thru liquor store, they can make a drive-thru out of anything. And they have. Drive-thru Chinese restaurants. Drive-thru pizza places. Drive-thru strip clubs. It is mystifying.

On the Job: Day 3

2009-05-19T00:03:00.010-04:00

My job at Cedar Point isn't glorious. I'm not a ride host or a merchandise associate, I'm a linens specialist. What this means is I do laundry, for the entire park. All the restaurants, uniforms, hotels, and resorts go through my department. This includes sheets, blankets, pillowcases, dishrags, towels, and every sort of Cedar Point apparel imaginable. Originally I thought I would be apart of the deliveries and pick-up of the linens, but I have yet to step into the linens box truck my cohorts drive around. Today, my first day on the job, consisted of loading and unloading hundreds of pounds of laundry into the machines. I never realized how heavy laundry actually is, especially wet laundry. I feel like I actually endured a minor workout which prompted me to spend an extra $5 on yogurt and a ton of milk so I could protein-load even after my $6 lunch. Maybe, just maybe, for the first time in my life, I'll get myself some of those things called muscles.

The interesting thing about working linens are all the machines that are straight out of the 1970's. Stepping into the warehouse this morning was like taking a step back in time. In between folding up dishrags for the park's restaurants I found myself staring at these old and massive machines in awe. If I get the opportunity I'll take a picture of my "office" because if you didn't know any better, I swear you'd think it was 1974 again. It is actually sort of cool working in this environment, that is, minus the music. In the corner of the warehouse where I work, the radio gets no reception so this morning my Malaysian coworker Swee put on a CD. I'm assuming the CD was already in the stereo and not created by Swee because the only songs on the CD were of the Bon Jovi, Nickelback, and 3 Doors Down variety. Mind you, I can't stand any of these bands, but if they have notoriety halfway around the globe amongst twenty-something Malaysian chicks, I seriously underestimated each and everyone of them.

After eight and half hours of work from 7:30 AM to 4:15 PM and getting up extra early at 6 AM to pick up my uniform, pleated black pants that attract every piece of lint floating in the air and a yellow polo shirt, I'm beat. And this is the easy schedule. In two weeks I start working from 3 PM until around 1 or 2 AM. I'm hoping in two weeks from now my body will be conditioned to muster up a six day work week. It's not like I'm dead tired or I'm struggling to move, I mean after work I rode the Raptor and Blue Streak, but this is only my first day at work. I'm thinking long term here, after five or six days the condition of my body may not be in exactly great shape. This may or may not be attributed to the cafeteria food I have been consuming lately, namely the sweet and sour chicken. This is where I neglected to think long term. Sweet and sour chicken always sounds good at the time, but I'll pay for it later.

And here I am, listening to the Red Wings game on 97.1 The Ticket on the eve of my fourth day in Sandusky. I'm continuing to meet new people and looking forward to my day off on Thursday. I'm already planning on getting up early and hitting the more popular roller coasters before lines get exorbitantly long. Later in the day there is a Cedar Point Employee "ride night" which means a roller coaster will be open after the park closes for employees . This Thursday I'm pretty sure the Maverick will be open and I guess hot dogs will be served too. They better not be Hebrew Nationals. Until then take a gander at my dorm room #1/#2 and the community showers. Trust me, it's not as bad as it looks.

On the Job: Day 1 & 2

2009-05-18T21:34:00.007-04:00

As I previously said in the last post, this summer I'm working at Cedar Point in the town of Sandusky, Ohio. I have known since April that I would be working down here, but it didn't sink in until I was driving down some Ohio interstate. An hour and a half into the drive I looked out my windshield and thought to myself, "this is it, my summer is over." Until that moment of realization, my summer job was more like a fantastical story I told friends and family who would barely believed me. I think I barely believed me. Now, it is a reality. No more summer excursions to my cottage in Northern Michigan. No more movie nights to Emagine Novi and no more early morning tee times at the golf course. I'm in a dorm room without heat and air conditioning that used to be an old hotel room. I stood in a line for two hours waiting to process in yesterday. I had to walk from one building to the next checking into housing, checking into the my employment department, unpacking my car, and then re-parking my car in a lot fifteen minutes away from my dorm. Luckily, though, Cedars, my dorm, neighbors the Blue Streak and a side entrance to the park. This morning, I woke up to the shrieking cries of girls shooting down the drops on roller coasters across the park.

But yesterday was an experience. Coming to terms with my summer employment is something I'm still struggling to fathom. As much as I tried to avoid time to myself in my room, it was inevitable. During this time I pulled out my Moleskin and started writing everything. I wrote about the guy standing in the two hour long line to process in at H.R. who pulled out his phone and called H.R. to ask if he needed to wait in line to ask a question. Then there was the H.R. girl who told me I needed to shave my face because the one or two whiskers on my cheek meant I wasn't "neatly shaven." I recounted my experiences walking around the park with a guy from my floor and riding on the wooden roller coasters that totally threw my neck out of alignment. That was Sunday and it ended when I rolled into bed, wrapped in a t-shirt, sweatshirt, shorts, and even socks under two blankets because apparently a closed window doesn't keep out the morning frost.

Amidst the hollers and screams coming from inside the park, I got up out of bed and stared about my room Monday morning. It was odd and just a further reminder this isn't home. I immediately felt better after getting under a hot shower in a community bathroom with probably twenty-some showers. After getting changed I realized it was ten in the morning and I had until 1:30 before my first orientation began. One of the perks of being a Cedar Point employee includes free admittance to the park so of course I got together with a couple of guys from my dorm and headed to a few rides. It probably wasn't the best idea to go on a few rides because my adrenaline was rushing right before I had to sit through five hours of training. I learned about the Cornerstones of Cedar Point- Cleanliness, Service, Safety, and Courtesy, all founded on Integrity. It was pretty much a bunch of jargon, but they drilled the message into me - excellent customer service is imperative. After a two mile tour of the park I grabbed a quick dinner from the cafeteria before I had housing orientation. It wasn't like my college orientation with ice breakers and introductions it was basically summed up like this- if you're going to drink, keep it to 72 ounces and make it beer or a malt liquor. Overall, day two at CP was much better than day one. Orientation beat sitting in a three hour lecture and after we finished I was able to ride on the park's best coaster, the Maverick.

Now I'm sitting in the lounge area, trying to write and keep up with the conversations of my new friends around me. And honestly, I guess this place isn't so bad. Everyone seems normal enough and I know I'll sleep easy after a long day of roller coasters, tours, orientation, and a trip into town for groceries. Tomorrow my day starts at 7:30 AM and it will be my first day on the job in linen services where I will basically doing laundry for 10 hours a day. I'm optimistic.

Going to Work

2009-05-17T00:25:00.002-04:00

This summer I'm working at Cedar Point. I process is the 17th of May. Experiences to follow.

Finals Week

2009-05-04T11:52:00.000-04:00

It starts today. Posting will be sketchy.

Thermometer

2009-04-30T09:23:00.000-04:00

I know this guy and he calls me Thermometer. I don't know why exactly. I never played any sports like football or hockey where a nickname like Thermometer would be mysterious and cool. Even then, it doesn't even come close to a nickname like The Icebox that chick had in Little Giants starring Rick Moranis. And I'm not into meteorology or anything weather related so I struggle to find the connection between me and my nickname. Fact is, I don't even own a thermometer. Well I guess the weather widget on my Macbook's dashboard could be considered a thermometer, but that's not the point. My nickname is Thermometer and it couldn't be anymore irrelevant.

Then I get to thinking, how do I know this guy that calls me Thermometer? I see him around campus, mostly in the vicinity my dorm, but I don't remember ever talking to him. When I see him he'll usually holler, "Hey! Thermometer!" Sometimes he will point, say the nickname, and continue about with his business. Since I have no idea, at all, who this fellow is I usually stick to a "Hey" or "What's going on?" I don't think I had class with him, I'm pretty sure he doesn't live on my floor, and, moreover, he doesn't look like a kid I'd hang out with. Anytime I happen to see him, he is wearing cargo pants and a pair of those hiking shoes that are also sandals. I'm not judging, but I'm just saying, dudes who wear dragon t-shirts and hybrid sandals usually don't make their way into my friends list. My only explanation is I met him at a party where I was slightly to moderately inebriated. Still, what kind of party was I at if this guy was there? That question aside, in that state I presumably struck up a conversation with this dragon t-shirt aficionado and said or did something to deem the nickname Thermometer. And now it's stuck.

Lecture is Boring

2009-04-28T16:36:00.001-04:00

I have two massive lectures with almost two hundred students in each. Despite the varied topics, one being astrology, the other a social science, the majority of students do the exact same thing in each class- stare at their laptops. I don't have a problem with students cracking open their MacBooks or Vaios because usually as the boredom of class becomes unbearable, it is nice to casually observe the handful of laptops surrounding me. Most people log into Facebook and look at their friend's, or friends of friend's photo albums. In rarer cases, I see someone sign into Myspace. That's usually a treat because then I tap someone next to me, point at the person using Myspace, and laugh a little. Who even uses Myspace anymore?

I also notice a good amount of students doing some online shopping. Without fail, every time I have ever seen a girl shopping online, she has been looking at purses and jackets. And every dude is looking at snowboarding gear. And if it's not Facebook or shopping online, I see games. From my observations girls tend to stick with the more traditional games like hearts or solitaire. Sometimes I see them getting into a word puzzle game or sudoku, but dudes, well, they pretty much play every one of the 3000 games at AddictingGames.com. Interestingly, there is a new game of increasingly popularity, Bubble Spinner. In the past week I have seen more kids playing Bubble Spinner than anything else which is a rarity. Considering the sheer amount of games available on the web, it is interesting sight when over a handful of students are trying to destroy their own batch of bubbles.

So if students aren't playing Bubble Spinner, checking Facebook, typing away on AIM, or shopping, then what else is their to do? Occasionally I will see people reading articles on the State News or College Humor. A lot of people constantly check the weather, don't like what they see and proceed to check a different weather website like AccuWeather or Weather Undergound. One of my buddies reads his car forums religiously and spent the entirety of last lecture (two hours) looking at pictures of tricked out tuners, exotic super cars, muscle cars, and old school whips. Today, though, I was sitting behind a girl looking at houses for sale in Bloomfield Hills, an upper class city outside of Detroit. I thought it was odd she was looking at houses for one thing, but when I looked closer and realized she was looking at houses costing millions of dollars with more squarefootage than a Wal-Mart was another. For nearly an hour, this girl just clicked through pictures of houses for sale. Occasionally she would look at the interior shots of the house and read more about the house's nine bathrooms with nine accompanying bidets. I guess her parents are in the market for a new house. Or, maybe, she plans on winning the lottery sometime soon. Either way, I left class feeling a little smarter, not because I learned a whole bunch of stuff during my social science lecture, rather, I now know things like bidets actually exist and people actually use them.

What People are Talking About

2009-04-27T12:37:00.000-04:00

Finals. That's what people are talking about. What's left of school i.e. papers, projects, tests and quizzes, is shoved and bullied into this week before finals start next week. While walking to my English professor's office where she would inevitably tear apart my paper leaving me a day to practically rewrite five pages, I felt the anxiety start to take hold. Maybe because it's Monday and I have a list of things to do before the week ends or maybe it's because I already see the tell tale signs of finals. It is literally striking fear into people and causing them to do things they wouldn't normally even consider. Students are already spending their evenings and nights in the library. Sifting through endless amounts of information before their final exams they sit at wooden tables, on top of wooden chairs, staring at words, numbers, and formulas out of text books and course packets. Not me though. I am not going to be the victim of finals and let them strangle my last week and a half of freedom.

I won't be found in the library or study lounges. Fact is, I haven't even been to the library since first semester when I wanted to waste some time in between classes. Wait, what is a study lounge? I jest, of course, but I'll most likely be in my dorm room, writing at my computer or watching a movie. Sure, I'll study for my finals, but during the day- I'm not big on studying late into the night. I don't want to become a robot, with my unblinking eyes transfixed ahead and the world on mute. I won't let myself succumb to such madness because I'm seeing it every day. Students are in a perpetual speed walk because in their minds, unless they are at the library or in a study lounge, it won't be there if they waste even a fraction of a second. They constantly check their grades on the internet, complain about professors and how they grade papers or tests, and stay up studying longer than kids during a middle school sleepover. (My record in 8th grade was 5:45 AM).

The problem is, as much as I try not to stress out, the anxious and stressed out students spread their fear on to me like a cold or the swine flu. I try not to be swayed by others emotions, but I can't help it. That's why while walking to meet with my professor, I had to do everything in my power not quicken my step into a speed walk and not open my assignment planner to see what I had to get done before class. I was seconds away from turning into the very thing I loathe. Luckily, I managed to slow down my pace, enjoy the sun, and take my mind away from finals. Finals are not going to be easy and it will take patience, but I know how I work and how I study. And, sometimes, convincing myself of this is the hardest thing of all.

My Facebook Name

2009-04-25T10:30:00.000-04:00

I want to change my name on Facebook. Correction, I want to make an addition to my name on Facebook. What self-respecting person doesn't include their middle name on Facebook these days? A year ago my name was Max Tigolbitties Katsarelas. Get the play on words? It took me a while to get around the rules and regulations Facebook sets out against middle names, but one day I think they gave up trying to lock me out of the system. I was Tigolbitties for a good couple of months, until I realized Tigolbitties didn't suit me. I don't have tigolbitties and I definetely don't want people who can't see my Facebook to think I have supersized mammaries. So I dropped the Tigolbitties and went on a search for a new middle name. I did the Maxwell George Katsarelas thing for a little while, but that just sounds arrogant so I went back to Max Katsarelas a few weeks later.

In my search for a new middle name I have found inspiration from other Facebook users. If any of these got approved by Facebook, I'd be satisfied.

Max PureSwagger Katsarelas.
Max ShittinondaInfants Katsarelas.
Max CntouchThis Katsarelas.
Max Datwhiteguy Katsarelas.
Max Tearindownwalls Katsarelas.
Max Choolikewhatyoulookinat Katsarelas
Max ChowinonCereal Katsarelas

Now if only Facebook will let me change my name and stop locking me out of the system for two weeks.

For The Love Of Cereal

2009-04-23T09:45:00.000-04:00

I've said it before here, here, and here. I'm a cereal guy. I appreciate all kinds really. I don't think there is a type that I won't eat, except for Reese's Puffs. Now, don't read this the wrong way, I like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, but the cereal form tastes nothing like the candy. I guess if I didn't have a choice I could muster my spoon through a bowl of Reese's Puffs, but it definitely isn't my cereal of choice. Because I like cereal so much I have decided to make an effort and try as many different kinds as possible while documenting the journey. That's where my newest creations comes in- I Eat Cereal Everyday. Plenty of people already take a picture of their lunch or dinner and post it on their blog or flickr page, but I haven't seen too many devoted to just cereal. I'm going to change this. I'm not going to write reviews like Cereal Buzz or ratemycereal.com. I'm just going to take a picture of the bowl and leave it at that. Enjoy.