Me, Don't Fail Me Now

“It so happens that idealism enough for anyone is not made of perfumed pink clouds. It is the law! It is the U.S. Constitution.” – Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country

For the first time in my brief post-undergraduate career, I have gotten a job – admittedly a non-paying position – without having to bullshit. I simply found the organization through some good people and just told the truth. By all forms of measurement, I have zero experience with the work I am about to begin – outside of high school phone-a-thons and few other ephemeral activities, I have no fundraising experience; I have never worked in or around an orphanage; and I have only one and with great regret changed the diaper (and that was for my niece whom I love, though a little less after the experience). And yet, I am stuck here for six months having promised the highly capable and extremely admirable “Mama” of the Ubuhle Babantwana Care Center in the township of Mfuleni, a formidable yet instantly endearing woman named Pumla Gigi, that I am here to be her support as we work together to establish a sustainable home for children.

With zero sentimentality and a mind flooded with anxiety for the possibility that I will prove entirely incompetent in this task, I know that my idealism will have to serve me loyally during these coming months. Hope I don’t screw it up.

I Arrive in Cape Town

I have now spent a full two days in Cape Town, South Africa. Upon arriving, after a long day’s journey into the South African sunset, my one checked bag deciding to take the scenic route and catch up with me later, I had managed (even though I had been bumped onto a later flight from Johannesburg) to catch the last embers of dusk fade behind Table Mountain. I have never been to Africa before and the sight was as portentous as any I could have hoped for. I was tired, vicariously smelly from the man I had sat next to on the 15 hour leg from Washington D.C., and I had no distinct idea what the next six months would entail. I still don’t, but the peripheries are beginning to show signs of focus.

I now am the first “Project Liaison” for the newly established non-profit organization, CHOSA (short for Children of South Africa). After one has worn the same clothes for 72 hours, one’s humility has surfaced and taken form – a sort of exoskeleton of open-minded and smelly shame. And after today, having spent 10 hours touring three of CHOSA’s orphanages and visiting four nearby townships (poor communities of blacks and coloreds (not of the outdated American vernacular, but those of dark skin and mixed heritage) created during the mid-twentieth Century when these races were exiled from the city), I would not have wanted to be dressed in any other exoskeleton.

I have witnessed poverty when traveling to Thailand, China, and the Ukraine. Most of it troubling, some disheartening, but few have awakened such a sense of pathos. This was mainly due to the children that welcomed me literally with open arms. At our first stop (I was led around magnanimously by one of the founders of CHOSA) I opened the door to our 1990 Toyota and no sooner was the can of juice in my hand snatched by a little boy and two of his companions climbed into the car on top of my lap. Of course, having been wearing the same underwear for three days who was I to rob the boy of his new drink? Within minutes my arms were filled with two little boys, no older than 6 or 7, each treating me like the best climbing tree they had just found. They pretty much had me at hello.

Random Ideas for Public Consumption: Part Two

As in the first post in this series, Random Ideas for Public Consumption: Part One, I offer to anyone who wants these ideas. Use them as you will. I don't mind.

1. General Life Rule: When someone says that they are addicted to chocolate, they are actually not addicted.

2. The Dyslexic Palm-Reader: A story, documentary, mockumentary, or whatever concerning the sometimes sad, yet often ribald consequences of those who habitually and unwittingly (optional) rely on the advice of The Dyslexic Palm-Reader.

3. Not My Best: A search engine that runs on alternative fuel. Think about it.

Mtv and Growing Old Before My Time

On my occasional returns to my home in Boston, I tend to fall back into old habits -- checking the fridge too often, eating the same subs from the same old pizza places all of which go by a first name in the possessive (Bill's, Danny's, Mark's, Peter's, etc.), and endless stints on the couch -- some of these activities are comforting reminders of my formative years and others are upsetting revelations at how much has remained the same while I have been away (growing, presumably).

The most upsetting moments occur in front of the television, which I haven't watched habitually since high school, specifically when my fingers unconsciously click through my old favorite channels: Mtv, Vh1, ESPN, NESN, E! and the rest. Each time I stop on Mtv -- perhaps pausing to see what mindless countdown show is airing (maybe if I keep watching, I'll find out who received the most Staralicious Makeover) or who has been the most recent victim of a Punking (who the hell gave this Kutcher guy a show?) -- my heart and ears long for those hours-long chunks of music videos that used to occupy the daily program schedule. I return with a Proustian rush to John Sencio and his "Rude Awakening"; to Kennedy and that killer Gen-X attitude; to Dr. Dre (the very chubby one) and Ed Lover on "Yo Mtv Raps", "The Headbanger's Ball" and the first beach house.

"Those were the days," I think to myself, when torn flannel shirts flowed like wine and the people on "The Real World" were actually real -- had jobs and lives of their own. I remember being in 5th grade and sitting for hours with paper and pen at the ready, writing down the songs and bands that I liked; Mtv was a fixture in my musical exploration. I even witnessed the first airing of the video for "Smells Like Teen Spirit." True Story. At thoughts like these, however, as each memory takes on a nostalgic air, I begin to question the validity of this retrospection and of my perspective on the years between then and now.

In my mind, the popular music of the era was of distinct quality. Grunge was the new movement in Rock and Roll; Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, and Alice in Chains (my least favorite of the bunch) were all over the tube. Other types of bands were there as well: Guns N' Roses with their epic trilogy of "Don't Cry", "Estranged", and "November Rain"; a solo Tom Petty gave us "Mary Jane's Last Dance" and "Free Fallin'"; Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic, The Chronic and Get a Grip were nothing to scoff at either; even one or two hit wonders like Ugly Kid Joe, 4 Non Blonds, and The Spin Doctors provided quality filler. All this leads me to wonder, "Are these just misty, water-colored memories, stripped of the poorer examples of this era's music"? Did I just lose touch with whatever the kids started listening to when TRL got huge? Is this the inevitable disenchantment suffered by all Mtv viewers after the age of 15? Have I, at 24 years old, grown old before my time?

Without argument, Mtv has done away with its bread and butter, the music video -- a gradual trend away from large timeslots (which don't fair as well in share ratings and thus advertising dollars) and into neat, half-hour shows like "The Real World" and all its bastard offspring. While the channel has continued to produce and promote pop idols like Britney Spears, Boy Bands, et al., I have to contend that the overall quality of these products suffers within the new system. Even Jack Black, in a Rolling Stone interview before hosting last years VMA awards, questioned the basic need for such awards, because he couldn't remember the last time he even watched a video on Mtv.

There is a very real possibility that I could go on and on about this, but I won't. I would love to hear from my small readership on this issue and possibly gain a little slice of solace in our commiseration. Until then, I gotta get back to the tube and "True Life" is aaaaaaaaaaaawwesome.

On a More Personal Note...

I just have to admit that I cannot look at this picture without laughing. The giraffe just looks so knowing; it's eerie and yet completely hilarious.

Breakfast Club Says: "Don't You Forget About Me."

It seems that every year Hollywood provides for the American audience a jaunt into the world of teenage angst, sexuality, and alcohol abuse. The annual barrage of often formulaic and uninspired “teen flicks” routinely falls short of evoking actual emotions; they choose instead to settle for the bizarre and contrived, usually incorporating overly-used stereotypes (nerds, jocks/bullies, outcasts, and beauties) and throwing them together in the alcohol filled melee of a house party that closer resemble a Dionysian orgy than the actual, awkward and redundant weekend nights of high school students -- those who don’t have bands performing in their living room or participate in mass-choreographed dance sequences. These teen movies are no recent phenomenon; for more than twenty years America has depicted its suburban youth in this fashion, and before there were Can’t Hardly Wait or Ten Things I Hate About You, there was Clueless, and before that the 1980’s gave us Fast Times At Ridgemont High and the collection of teen films by John Hughes, most memorably Sixteen Candles, Weird Science, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and, the subject of this article, The Breakfast Club.

While Hughes’s movie about five students serving their detention together retains the common and clichéd elements shown in the rest of these movies, it also stands apart as the popular misfit of its group. We are presented with standard archetypal characters, but their presence is not purely for comic relief or satire. Placed together on a quite and all-too-sober Saturday morning detention, each character achieves a kind of redemption uncommonly found in its genre that comes not from some plot driven triumphal accomplishment – getting the prettiest or unattainable girl, losing one’s virginity, getting accepted to their first choice college,…etc. – but by the connections each character makes with the different representatives of the high school social hierarchy. Each character enters the film with a label, constantly aware of their own and each other’s, but over the course of their day, during those few hours which we observe, their redemptive accomplishments lie in the discovery of their shared troubles, the commonality of being young and naïve and without all or any of the answers.

To watch it now, The Breakfast Club appears somewhat dated; the characters are so very representative of the 1980’s fashion and popular culture (the film itself a defining icon of its decade), but in the flood of present day teen comedies these characters serve as a refreshing depiction of suburban teendom. However, I do not wish to place this film so far from other teenage movies, as it does incorporate strange and improbable scenes of dancing, and the obvious antagonist figure of the assistant principal, who sporadically proctors their detention, his inability to govern providing comic relief. What does set the movie apart is the respect it shows all of its characters -- balancing their moments of embarrassment or ridicule with pathos and understanding. Even the assistant principal does not succumb to one-dimensionalism, as the film provides us with scenes that illuminate his perspective on the plot, showing his moments of strict discipline -- the manner in which he proctors -- as symptomatic of his growing awareness of his own impotency as a disciplinarian; the movie does not simply vilify him, but justifies his overly compensatory strictness by sympathizing with his dilemma.

As the teenagers of the 1980’s have now become the parents of today, The Breakfast Club takes on a greater significance. For those who were young when the movie first appeared, it should be viewed as a reminder of their frustrations as children, who once commiserated with its characters who state, “When you get older, your heart just dies.” And, perhaps more importantly, for those high school students of today, the movie should be watched, because it portrays the life of a teenager with realism and respect; and its themes, in contrast to its characters’ fashion, still hold true today. Ideally, the teenager of today should find solace in this less glorified depiction of their world, proving that the sensationalized reality of other teenage movies do not offer expectations or examples for their own teenage years; that their lives are not as dull as they seem when compared to these newly glorified characters; and that the categories and labels of high school society are not permanent or even precise, but arbitrary and meant to be broken. The truth that comes to each of us when we graduate from high school comes as a soothing realization that it was not as important as we had thought it to be. The Breakfast Club reminds us of this, while still maintaining the respect for its characters and its young audience, by understanding that however pointless it may seem in one’s later memory, at the time, those years were awkward and arduous and very important.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

I like my kids cute and precocious.

Random Ideas for Public Consumption: Part 1

Here are some random thoughts that have popped into my head during the course of my daily life. Take them or leave them, but I don't have time at the moment to do anything with them, so do what you will.

1. Compulsive Liars Anonymous: First, print up a bunch of business cards that read simply:

Compulsive Liars Anonymous
Meeting at 8 PM, Tuesday
(Specify a Location of Your Choosing)

Now, distribute them anonymously around your hometown, neighborhood, dorm, campus, office, etc. Some may find them and, while they are not actually compulsive liars, find them so intriguing that they show up at the designated time and locale (incidentally they are lying if they show up, because they are not compulsive liars, but just regular liars). Others, who are in fact compulsive liars, may decide that they need help and support and show up as well. Now, here is the kicker: you show up and lie about being a compulsive liar, claiming that you found the card as well, just like the rest of the liars there. Now, no one will actually know what the meeting is about and who is in charge; the group then grows suspicious, for while all are anonymous, each of you has already admitted to being a liar, so any of you may be in charge.

2. A Comedy Sketch (either for a show or recording), "Phone Sex Ed": The skit is merely a phone conversation between two sexual education teachers. They have phone sex, but follow the guidelines and lingo of the classes that they teach. I shouldn't have to fill you in with the details, but they will probably not be very steamy, especially if they are teaching "abstinence plus."

3. General Life Rule: The words "No, I love him/her to death" are always followed by a behind the back insult about him/her.

4. General Life Rule #2: Do people who pontificate using rhetorical question that they quickly answer feel a overblown sense of self-importance? Yes.

All for now, more to come...

Framing the Debate

"You're either for stampeding the village or you're for the poachers."

My Doomsday Clock is Ticking Like This...

" In a purely symbolic but still unsettling move, the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists has moved the minute hand on its Doomsday Clock two minutes closer to midnight. On the 60-year-old Doomsday Clock, midnight is nuclear destruction, the end of life as we know it..." - Read the rest of the article.

So we are now five minutes to midnight, and from what I learned at the Eric Clapton concert, we're soon gonna let it all hang out. After the last six years of code reds and a base level of public paranoia, this announcement (which is purely symbolic, yet should be taken seriously) seems to have fallen on deaf ears. I couldn't even find a decent article on it in the New York Times. But here is an interesting reaction to the announcement, which should be taken seriously. In it, Stephen Hawking states:

"As we stand at the brink of a second nuclear age and a period of unprecedented climate change, scientists have a special responsibility once again to inform the public and advise leaders about the perils that humanity faces." Read full article.

We are entering a new era, a second nuclear age, in which the problem that we face and their hopeful solutions stem from the technological advancements and science. The solutions lie entwined within the root of the problems, and to dismiss science as theory would be to disregard any hope for the answers. As JFK said in his inaugural address, "Let both sides seek to invoke the wonders of science instead of its terrors."

Somehow, though I can barely remember the cold war outside of endless viewings of Rocky IV, the US and Russia still have over 26,000 nuclear weapons at the ready. The idea that these stockpiles were composed for the purpose of a deterrent comes off as fallacious. Nevertheless, the 18 nobel laureates who have moved the minute hand of the Doomsday Clock also cite the impending dangers of climate change as factors in this decision. With need to find alternative energy sources, nuclear options will grow widely available and allow for nations to use the technology to form nuclear stockpiles.

If you're not concerned about this, or at least titillated by the "24"esque scenario that we could be facing, then I doubt that you'd be the type of person to get this far into this blog. If your reaction includes nausea, sleeplessness, mood swings, or all of the above then you are either hungover or may want to look into ways to curb your energy intake, keep electing officials who take this threat seriously, and maybe pick up a copy of Dr. Strangelove. Whatever you do, I suggest that you get to it soon, because according to the clock, it's just a mater of time. And I feel fine...Six o'clock - TV hour. Don't get caught in foreign tower. Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn. Lock him in uniform da da da da da...

Clapton is God

Last night, I went to see Eric Clapton in his first, and possibly his last (as this was his final official tour), appearance in mainland China. What made the night even better than it would have been was that I was a VIP of sorts. In no official setting, outside of my own head, do I exist as a VIP; I am reminded of this often, most recently when an old lady spit on my foot (though I blame myself for this, as I should have reacted in time to the sound of her gearing up to spit). Last night, however, I had the VIP treatment because I was lucky enough to be born into the same family as my brother, who promoted and organized the show, a bangup job on his part.

From this perspective I had the opportunity to wait backstage with my brother and follow Eric Clapton and his band onto the stage. We stood in the back hallway when the band came out of their dressing rooms. I scanned the group, about a dozen in number. At first, I guess assuming that Clapton would stand out in some way (either walking regally behind his band or surrounded by some sort of Golden (God) Glow), I didn't recognize him. Then as he walked not a few feet from me, I caught his eye in the latter stages of my double-take. He smiled at me and nodded. While this look was meant merely to convey an acknowledgement of my presence, in my buzzed state, I sensed that it transmitted a mutual appreciation and respect -- not for my VIP status, but because I like to think this was the case.

After he passed, we followed him through the backstage area, along the path set by taped arrows, and watched him play his first song from the wings of the stage. My apologies for the blur of the photo above, but it was dark and I was excited.

Question: If you shake hands with Eric Clapton, do you shake Slow Hand or do you shake hands slowly?

...It's More of a Manifesto

It was February of 1497, when a monomaniacal, Dominican monk, named Savonarola, called for the citizens of Florence to gather those possessions deemed artifacts of human sin and congregate in the Piazza della Signoria. And in this L-shaped piazza, on its large and puddled slabs of stone, a stock pile of vanity -- mirrors, cosmetics, dresses, musical instruments, books, pictures, and even masterpieces of Renaissance art – were set aflame. This event, known since as “The Bonfire of the Vanities,” stands as a violent reminder of the destructive nature of a society that allows its religion to infiltrate its politics and manipulates its citizenry with fear-mongering and deeply instilled paranoia.

And holding fast to the memory of this historic lesson, we ignite a flame of our own, not to the vanities but to the inanities of our culture – to the drivel, the hypocrisy, and the ineptitudes of those short sighted, long winded few in charge of and responsible for far too many. Savonarola’s was blinding, anarchistic; ours will be illuminating and electric. His darkened the world around it by contrast; ours will be lit by a 4^th of July sparkler and its rejuvenating glow will warm the tired bones of a country growing old before its time. The flames of our conflagration will strip off the subterfuge of partisan ideologies and layers of enmity and apathy, so that we can once again glimpse the lessons of our past and the wisdom of our elders. And from these ashes will rise a new Renaissance, for just as with every upcoming generation, we carry a banner and on it reads, “Hope.” No matter what calamitous and self-propelling evils have been set in place, we carry a banner; despite bleak outlooks and “Ask Again Laters” from our Magic 8 balls, we carry a banner to signal a new era in which all things point towards novelty and originality. From out of the teachings of history the future will be ushered in, glowing with the embers of our bonfire.

Bob Dylan said, “An artist must always be in a state of becoming,” and so, as we steady our aim and crystallize our might we stand as the artists of our country’s future, one born anew in our minds as a rich tapestry of multifarious and strange forms. Dylan’s generation, the generation of the 1960’s sought their revolution under a limiting blanket of anti-establishment sentiments, their rhetoric marked by a swirling psychedelia of vagaries and indignation. Theirs was a movement of unparalleled optimism but overwhelming futility. Their legacy is more a cautionary tale than a template on which to base ours, for we do not seek to oppose the establishment, but remold it in our image. We are a generation forged from a capitalist mold – our pragmatism will succeed where their flower power could not; our education and ambition will guide us to where their musicians and aging beatniks and psychedelic shamans could not. There will be no turning on, tuning in, and/or dropping out for us. There will be no rest for the weary, because we are hungry; there will be no Zack Morris “time outs,” because we do not need a mid-episode recap; there will be no half-time to our quarter-life crisis, because we have crammed for the tests that life brings and are ready for them. And those of us who believe themselves unprepared for the task at hand will know no discouragement nor hindrance. We must begin now, but none will be left behind.

We are young… and we are teeming with hope and idealism, full and fearsome, with reckless curiosity and open minds. We are only too aware that no one creed or demographic holds the answers for us all, that not from a single slice will we define our American Apple Pie, but only from the confluence and synthesis of clashing and antithetical opinions will the solutions take shape. Never before have we seen our world so filled with injustice, corruption, and artistic scarcity, yet never before has the world seen such a unique period of hope and possible redemption. With the promethean flame of the internet we are closer than ever – to each other, to the means and information with which can realize the fulfillment of our potential.

We are young… and we will not stand pat, arms dragging idly by our sides, soaking up the endlessly radiating signals, calling to us like sirens of lethargy from our televisions, while the next wave of ideologues and careerists flood our nation and our world with their closed mindedness deeply rooted, their ears (and eventually their hearts) too clogged to hear the voice of our nation gasping for change and new direction. We will cut them off at the pass. Ours will not be to confront those of our generation whose beliefs and opinions differ; no, ours will be to welcome them with a fabric-softened embrace into our ever burgeoning numbers. “You are one of us. We are some of many,” we will say, though we know that in the now dim, soon blazing light of our future there will be no “us and them” -- no opposing sides locked in continuous stalemate, but one vast and interconnected, enmeshed and borderless blob of Humanity, pulsating to the tempo of our passion.

We are young… and we are strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Though we may not yet be able to glimpse the ends of our means, progress needs action, change needs motion, and the embers of our bonfire need the winds of all our exhaled opinions to stoke its flame. Together, let us sing of the body eclectic, the body politic, and the body electric (boogie woogie woogie). Together we will edify, electrify, spark and proliferate, congregate and commiserate, so that our beautiful polyphonic rants and unflinching awareness will spread throughout the land, like purple horseshoes, red balloons, blue moons, and magic rainbows, giving life and taste to the bland and indigestible toasted oats of the current culture. As we begin our quest, our voices will not be silenced or misheard for we will speak directly to power, casting aside the mediating mechanisms that hear with selective ears and speak with personal agendas. We will settle for nothing less than full frontal democracy, stark and naked, beautiful and new.

On Umbrella Etiquette

Currently and for the next few days I am living in Shanghai, China. It's easy living with my brother and sister-in-law, and I don't pretend to be roughing it in any form. Tonight, however, I saw in all its naked horror, the true danger of Shanghai. First, let me set the stage a little...

Shanghai is an odd place for a westerner to take in, though I'm aware that it is probably the most western of Asian cities. Out of my window right now there are abandoned buildings, overgrown parks, futuristic skyscrapers, and by the looks of the many cranes on the horizon there are more to come. Shanghai is what I think of when I picture Gotham -- sprawling and intimidating in its grandeur. But I'm getting away from myself here. The point that I wanted to make was about umbrellas. Did I mention umbrellas yet?

So, it rained tonight and I was out doing some work for my brother -- hitting the pavement. Now I'm not an exceptionally tall man, but living in Asia these past months has shown me what a relative statement that is. In a city this crowded, with drivers this nuts, being a pedestrian with a language barrier is tough enough, but throw in tens of thousands of short, umbrella totting Asians during rush hour and you got a stew going, baby. And now to the etiquette...

If, hypothetically, you had a head that was 4-5 ft. in diameter, with sharp poles sticking out around the perimeter, you would probably be pretty careful on a crowded sidewalk -- especially if your head was prone to erradic movements caused by even the slightest of wind gusts. I'm right, right? Not in Shanghai, they don't. I was out there tonight, bobbing and weaving, burst of running to avoid a stab to the eye or neck; basically, I looked like Apollo Creed out there but without the trash talking and fake punching.

I came to a realization, however, when I saw an old woman get bonked in the head hard and both parties, the umbrella weilder and the woman, just kept on walking without a flinch. What I came to understand at that moment was that if everybody doesn't care then nobody has to be careful. All the people can't be all right all of the time -- maybe so -- but all the people can be all wrong all of the time when it comes to umbrella etiquette. Just please watch out for the relatively tall American kid whose jumping and jiving evokes the memory of a heavyweight champ.

Note: Looked up "Umbrella Etiquette" and while I found no formal set of rules, there is another blog posting. Take a look.

A Defensive of Idealism

Alright, so I like to think of myself as an idealist. And while I would prefer this description to let's say the hard-bitten realist or the world-weary cynic or the flatulent pessimist, I've noticed over the years that I and my kind get a few more eye rolls than those other guys. So on behalf of my fellow idealists, I thought I just write up a short defense of our shared outlook.

To some, idealism is for the dreamers, the silly-hearts and merrymakers -- we are young, shamefully innocent, leaking naivete on all fronts. To a degree, this is a fair assessment. I'll admit that I tend to get carried away by my ideals; I like to think in Kennedy quotes, seeing things how they could be and asking why not; but (and maybe this is a symptom of my idealism) I like to think and feel this way and I like people who think and feel similarly. It's inspiring and we're in good company. Think of some of the idealists who have come before: JFK, MLK, Kramer with all his business ventures, and those kids from the old Chicken and Stove Top ads (because most kids would eat their one portion of that delicious breaded chicken and ask why, but those boys weasled their way into two chicken dinners shouting "Why not?" all night long between bites of drumsticks).

For those who will still find our ideals useless and our sentiments saccharine, I just want you to know that our passion is not born of inanity and that most of us have a grasp of the objective realities. Philosophically, Idealism relies on the notion that reality exists through our perception of it. The skeptics, those that promote common sense philosophy, find fault with idealism, claiming that it relies too heavily on a reality that cannot be proven. But that's the point; what separates the idealist from the rest is the ability to tirelessly take leaps of faith no matter how many times reality falls short of the ideal. On a side note: I don't have to tell you that you don't want to be stuck on a long plane ride with a common sense philosopher.

Okay, maybe I didn't do the best job defending idealism, and most likely I just offered another example of typical idealist rhetoric -- lofty yet empty -- but I just want to let other idealists out there to know that you got one more of you out there asking, "Why not?".

A Self-Reflexive First Post

It's been a bit overwhelming these past few days -- hours reading blogs, blogging tips, blogging how to's, and watching an unending marathon of "24" (unrelated to blogging). It was enough to get me to set up one of these guys myself. I sense that I have actually taken it all in, digested the thick stew of the blogosphere, and if I have (most likely not the case) then it sits more like a 2 AM hotdog after a night out at the bars -- I awake to a distinct aftertaste, but no memory of the actual ingestion.

Prior to my blogtism, I viewed the whole enterprise from a safe and admittedly condescending perch, seeing the whole blogosphere as some geeky cousin to reality television, an exercise in self-explotation whose members acted out their personal demons as they hurled venom at one another from behind their keyboards, in their stained undershirts. It seemed a pseudo-reality, populated by pseudonymns -- something to be experienced by a Don DeLillo character, not by me.

Much of this perspective most likely stemmed from my early days on the internet, goofing around on AOL chat rooms with my 8th grade buddies, baiting the members of "fatvampires3" or posturing as a gerbal fanatic on "rodentpetlvrs." The other members of these chat rooms formed together in my mind as a massive cultural underbelly, fetid and festering for years until the world wide web allowed it to surface in all its inglory. Clearly this last description was not cooked by my 8th grade mind, so a closer approximation of how I once envisioned this subculture (though still a bit too metaphorical for a 14 year old) would be the figure of the gimp in "Pulp Fiction," shackled in some gun store basement, only to be let out by the internet, who I guess we'll call Zed in this metaphore. To be honest though, my parents wouldn't let me see Pulp Fiction until high school, so that probably wasn't accurate either.

But just as I was to find out years later, over the course of many hilarious nights of reminescing, that the chatrooms of my youth were most likely populated by a bunch of 8th grade kids, I have now discovered that this whole blogging deal isn't as subversive and alien to me as I had assumed. In fact, I'm hoping to fit right in.

So, come one, come all, sit back, pull up an ergonomic mouse and keyboard, and let's see if we can't think of some new, strange, and inspiring ways to make sense of this world that we're growing older with.