Watch: “Run Fatboy Run”

A good simple laugh that can brighten any cloudy day. Co-written by Michael Ian Black and that guy from Sean of the Dead (Simon somethingorother) and directed by David Schwimmer (yet to confirm whether or not it’s actually Ross from friends or just some guy with the same name) it was light hearted, cute, VERY funny at some points, but in true Simon whatshisface fashion, never to be taken too seriously. Enjoy.

Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?

In kind of a gray cloud today.

Revelations are a funny thing. It’s unclear where they come from or why they happen. Mine are usually spontaneous – not in any way inspired by God – but happen when eating baby carrots, lighting a candle, or putting on sunglasses.

There are few people in my life that I truly love; these are the people in my life I could not survive without, who know me in my darkest hours. However, I do love a lot of people. I don’t believe that my love should be reserved for few, because everyone deserves to be loved, and the people who need it most are the ones that believe they don’t. I’ve found love in weird places. I’ve found it in aperma -stoned criminal who listened to me cry and told me that it would be okay when I needed it most. I’ve found love in a friend who shared his bed when it wasn’t even big enough for him alone, held me when I cried (even when he was attacked and accused of causing it), and brought such simple joy into my life that my gratitude cannot be measured in dollars, pounds, or gallons – only calories, the energy and light that he brings into my life. I’ve found love in a group of ducks by the side of the Willamette River, who discussed philosophy , coffee, cigarettes, and how to rate a girl on a scale of one to ten. (I found love in a tender kiss that haunts me in a way that only true caring can cause.) I found love in an absentminded prodigy, who’s creativity and spark inspires me to be the best artist I can be; his love never falters, never fails, never seems to waiver, even when I push it away. And last but not least, I’ve found love in a group of friends who seem to pull me out of the cave I’ve dug for myself with a glass of wine and uplifting spirits.

Somewhere in side, I still seem to question love and what it represents to me. Whether it’s just a bunch of chemicals, or it’s just a light bulb that’s turned on or off, depending on the weather.

I’m making a list, and checking it thrice; I’m never sure where love will hit me, but I am sure that I will hold my loves dearly to me. Even when I’m lost and can’t be found.

Practicing Medicine

My mother met my father in western Massachusettes in the 80s. My mother was working in a private practice as a hand therapist and my father was just completing his residency at Boston Medical Center in the South End. They married in 1984 and moved to Oregon, where my father was offered a position. Although my mother quit her practice when they moved west, I was conceived into a world where medical care was generally free and was practiced in my parents bathroom or on the living room couch.
My father was a surgeon and would sometimes work long hours to fit multiple surgeries into one day. He was the only spine surgeon in the area, and patients would travel hours to seek treatment. My mother had taken on the role of housewife and made sure dinner was ready when he got home. Like clockwork, he would appear at the dinner hour and help with the final touches on the meal.
He was generally in charge of carving the meat. Lamb. Pork. Steak. Poultry. Regardless of the size of my father’s mammoth hands, the knife would become the scalpel, and perfectly portion protein was prepared.
I stopped eating steak by the time I was 14. At dinner, my father would explain the procedure of the day (if any) in detail.
“We had to deflate his lungs.” He said through bites of beef. “They were like marshmallows. After we fused his spine back together, we reinflated them. Like marshmallows in a microwave.”
He would make another cut into his steak, and red juice would flood the plate. The rice would absorb it, and the plate would be soaked in symbolic blood. It was surgery at the dinner table.

When I was fifteen, there was an outbreak of whooping cough at my high school. My parents were quickly informed by the administration that I had been sitting next to one of the infected students in French class, and I should be tested. When I started displaying cough-like symptoms, there was a Sunday morning trip to the hospital for a test.
“Isn’t the lab closed?” I asked.
“I’m going to take care of it.” My dad replied.
All sorts of lab tests had been conducted in my parents’ bathroom, so it wasn’t clear why a trip to the hospital was necessary for this one. As a child, these tests taught me not to fake sick.
“Maybe she has strep throat…” my parents would whisper in front of me. I knew what that meant. It meant a peel of a sterile plastic cover, a crack of chemicals in the handle, and the longest q-tip ever being scraped against the back of my throat. By later that afternoon my parents would know if we were infected. However, on “I’m (cough cough) sick…” the threat of a strep throat test was enough to get my siblings or me to the bus stop on time.
“Do you have to take my blood or something?” I asked.
“Nope.” My father was surprisingly tight lipped about the procedure I was about to experience. He unlocked the lab and led me inside. Sterile and dark, it was like a psychopath’s killing room. He turned on the lights, revealing special tools and examination equipment. He pulled some sort of testing stick out of a drawer I hadn’t noticed and peeled off the sterile cover. It was like the strep throat test, but on a curved metal wire; like an aluminum q-tip.
“So this is like the strep throat thing?”
“Nope. Sit here.” My father pointed to a counter top. I hopped up and it made me about eye to eye with my 6′2″ father. “Tip your head back.” He put his hand on my forehead and tilted my head away from him. “Take a deep breath.”
Inhale. Exhale. Now there is a giant q-tip in my nose.
I screamed and my father removed it from my nose.
“What?!”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“This is the test!”
“Are you testing my patience? What the fuck are you doing with that thing?!” I didn’t usually curse at my father, or any employee of the hospital for that matter, but sticking a 5″ q-tip all the way into my nose was not an awesome Sunday morning.
“I have to stick this all the way into your nasal cavity.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. Sorry, Nate.” My father had a look on his face as if he was being forced to torture puppies. “Lets just get this over with and then we can go home.”
“You stick that thing in my nose again and I will kick you in the balls.” I was a terrified cat. Ears back. Hissing. I guarantee that if my parents had just sent me to the hospital to get the test done by myself, I wouldn’t have threatened any other doctor with ball kicking. Something inside gave me permission to throw a fit because it was my dad.
“Come on, Nate.”
“Dad, I don’t have whooping cough.”
“We have to test you. Your mom…”
“Fuck what Mom said.” Ears back. Hissing again. I started to cry. I really didn’t want that q-tip in my nose.
“Lets just get it over with. I’ll do it fast.” He promised.
“Nooooo…” I whined. I was fifteen going on four.
My father tipped my head back as I gripped the edge of the counter. The little q-tip bumped the inside of my nostrils as it explored my nasal cavity. It finally hit the back of my throat, that spot where you can feel snot dripping right before it slides down the back of your throat. It’s a part of your throat that things don’t usually touch, nor are you aware that it actually exists. It made my head feel hollow, empty inside. I think that was scarier than the test itself.
He took the q-tip out and patted me on the shoulder. I wiped tears from my eyes.
“See? That wasn’t so bad.” He knew it had been. Tears stained my cheeks. “Let’s go get a frappachino.”

I’m finding I might be incapable of completing projects. And that’s frustrating.

I finished a feature film my freshman/sophomore year of college, which was a big accomplishment. But lately, I feel that everything I start, I stop soon after:

- there was the tshirt project… I started drawing out all of these tshirt ideas and bought some materials to start making them. Fell apart as soon as I left New York.

- the shoes. i made a pair of custom vans and some people saw them and thought they were amazing and wanted a pair. They were willing to pay me and everything, but I just ran out of time I guess. I’d do them if I was motivated I guess. They were pretty baller shoes.

- this blog. I mean, I started it, forgot about it, and came back to it. I’m doing a shitty job coming up with things to write about.

- the music video. I started working on a music video and putting together all of this art stuff for it. postponed indefinitely at this point. I spent about $300 so far, and some production stuff really fell through which was irritating. I just lost motivation as soon as things weren’t happening. That was cryptic. Sorry.

I just started a new art project today, and I’m not sure if I’ll even finish it. I hope so. I really like where it’s going and I just have to buckle down and finish it… one second at a time.

Once during my freshman year of college I returned home and visited my old high school. It wasn’t really my old high school because they had knocked down the old building and built a new one in it’s place. It doesn’t feel like high school, but going back to visit my old teachers I cared about was important to me.

I went back and visited Ms. Carman, my old writing teacher and mentor. She seemed happy to see me, interested in what I was doing with my life, and kind. She didn’t have a lot of time to spend with me, so I left and went to visit another one of my English teachers.

I entered the classroom, exchanged hellos with her, and sat down. We talked, I told her about what I was doing at school, and she let me know what was going on in her world. She was acting a little funny and I asked her if something was up.

“We don’t really think about you after you leave here.” She said.

I didn’t know how to respond. It was a weird thing for her to say to me, especially after I made an effort to come visit and told her how much I wanted to see her.

Do they really not think about us after we leave? We think of them sometimes… they’ve had such an impact on our lives. I spent almost every year of high school with this teacher and I’ve had no impact on her? (I’d have to say I probably did.)

I think about what she said every once and awhile, and remind myself of how she hurt me with those simple words. I make an effort to remember the people I’ve met and make sure to acknowledge them in the future. I guess she’ll always have an impact on my life then, whether make an effort to remember her or not.

With a Twist

I went to see “Vantage Point” with Hallie last night, and I went in with low expectations.  Even after the consessions guy, K.C., suggested we sneak into “Boleyn Girl” instead (and let Hallie try the pretzel bites for free – what movie theater does that?!) my expectations only sank more.

In the theater, some guys got in a shouting match during the film about “shutting the fuck up” and I got really excited because I thought maybe we’d get to see a fist fight in the theater, and to put it into perspective, I wanted to watch the fist fight more than the movie.

“Vantage Point” was far more dissapointing then I expected. A over-the-top 9 minute car chase, a completely unrealistic plot, superflouous characters, horrible script, and a lame twist I could see coming from the beginning, I couldn’t believe that someone actually agreed to produce it.

In the end, I was glad I used a coupon to get into the movie for free, but wished I could have the hour and thirty minutes of my life back.

My new favorite pen: A Haiku

Unintentional

I took a pen from someone

It writes pretty well

Worlds Ago

I’ve done a really terrible job maintaining the site. My beezy. I’ll try in the future to keep a little more up to date. Just a quick rundown of what’s happened since then:
- moved back from New York, to Oregon (got my wisdom teeth removed), and then back to Boston.
- still very much in a happy relationship
- survived first semester and moved into the second
- decided to move back to new york this summer

Overall, things have been pretty fantastic. I’m taking an amazing non-fiction writing class this semester and hope to post a wee bit more. Been getting in some great reading and watching as well. Here’s some recommendations for those following along…
Watch:
- Hot Fuzz
- Law and Order (always a classic. always fantastic.)
- Flight of the Conchords (omg.)
- There Will Be Blood
Read:
- E.B. White (nonfiction short stories)
- This Boy’s Life
- House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III
- W magazine  

Keep enjoying life. The sun is starting to return to Boston and it does nothing but make me smile.