Culture, Sports, Writing…or whatever
I decide to continue the feels fest. No one demands it, though that wouldn’t have had an effect. More onions to peel back; still don’t cry.
Spontaneous adventures. Wake up and leave town. To another town, 45 minutes away. I don’t tell anyone. Eat lunch at the same spot I always do here.
I wonder if the waiter recognizes me. Gives cues but doesn’t say it. Last time he liked my Notorious B.I.G. shirt. He rapped “Up in restaurants, in mandolins and violins / We just sitting here tryna win, try not to sin”—I smiled. Big was his favorite rapper, had tickets to see him in Panama City Beach. Then Biggie was murdered. Dreams die quickly. Just like people.
I don’t wear that shirt today. He strains to remember me, doesn’t. The restaurant’s busier. Retired, rich Georgians who require exquisite service. Men wear crisp plaid button-ups and khakis. Some wear New Balances, others loafers. I make harsh critical judgments based on their shoe choice. The women dress how you expect.
Unfair self-loathing over not wearing my Biggie shirt. How large a difference stitched fibers make. This is a symbol for the frailty of human connection.
I go for a walk. Dreary day, gray, pavement wet from previous rain. I bring an umbrella but it never rains. ILOVEMAKONNEN’s “Loose With Me” is the soundtrack. Thought movement would spark some genius or life guidance. Instead I took pictures of myself.
Not myself, reflections at an abandoned glass house. Billy Joel would be proud. No rocks to throw, just a camera to shoot. Weapons are relative; my ammo is infinite. Sadly realizing I’m the millennial Bill Joel. Glass Houses was released on my birthday. This is real. Don’t ask me why. I don’t want to be alone.
Another job rejects me. They remind me it’s a competitive world out there. I tell few people. Try not to let it get to me. It does. People die slower than dreams.
Hipster high schoolers stare at me. I’m in their dope coffee spot. I occupy prime real estate; big table, all spread out. I don’t need this, but I don’t give it up. They sit outside, I stay inside. I don’t like the outside as much anymore.
Intentions on returning. Stop to buy Wild Turkey. Cheaper in Georgia than Florida. Man at the counter nods when I approach. He offers me respect, thanks me sincerely. I receive better service in Georgia than Florida. Probably because I’m white.
Enter living quarters. Friends watch TV, I sit down, join. Entertainment ensues, laughter happens. We go to bed. No one knows how I spend my days.
I’ve been dreaming again. Usually it involves someone from my past. It’s non-recurring, different people each time. I won’t go into any more detail.
I hold a new desire to share How I Feel. Not all the way and not with everyone and not about everything. Limited revealing. Peeling back one piece at a time. Banal comparison to layers of an onion, but Shrek already did that. Yet I use it anyways. This says more about me than I wish it did.
I will hide this post from family and (some) friends on Facebook because we’re all connected. This is distinctly a first-world problem. Worrying over the manner in which I express my feelings. No one ever has enough control. Maybe it’s just a white-people problem. Most of my ‘anxiety’ distills down to that, basically. Not having enough followed by guilt knowing I should feel I do.
The world tries to convince me otherwise. The lie goes I’m connected to a seven-year-old, starving Sudanese boy. I’m not. My day-to-day actions and angst don’t affect him, though I wish it did. I remind myself this is why Christians go on retreats. I worry my Christian friends will find this ‘offensive’. Connections on the network don’t die that easily. The Internet’s the biggest troll.
But I will post this on Facebook. No one hears you in a vacuum. Everything worthwhile is niche; the niche is dead. It isn’t profitable. Grantland died. Did you hear? You might’ve heard the thousands of millennial white boys masturbating posts of #sadness. Or you heard the thousands of media members blistering this is How It Is Now. On some real revolutionary Join or Die shit. Or you heard nothing because you ‘don’t care’. That feels good I suppose. I am sad, though.
My parents celebrate more than me for Halloween. A party the night before with rich people, handing out candy on the holiday. They drink; they scare children. I drink; I scare myself. Not specifically, just generally. I buy a bottle of Hpnotiq to create the illusion of turn-up. Over half the bottle goes down. Friends help. We are TURNT. We are the TURNTest. The Hpnotiq tastes artificial, as expected. That’s not a metaphor, though perhaps it should be. I don’t hate it.
The night goes smoothly. We watch The Purge 2: Anarchy. I prefer my title, America: We Kill People Here. My title card would have the anarchical “A” for stylistic effect since I’m an artist. Spoiler alert for this C-level ‘horror’ movie you’ll never see: Humans would do bad things if you let them. Except not all. So the government helps. Because the government hates poor people and wish they died already, this time specifically not generally. The plot’s simultaneously highly plausible and implausible. It’s all an allegory.
I download Tinder and Bumble, mostly for attention. No intentions of meet-ups. Too worried I’ll end up in an extortion plot. So: Swipe right, swipe right, swipe right, swipe right, swipe right, swipe right, except a few lefts on some big girls. Okay. Pretend the outrage, that disguise of self-disgust you do so well. You’re righteous, I’m not. Cool. One girl asks what I’m doing tonight, this Hallow’s Eve. “I’m wearing a different hat,” I respond. Now that’s a metaphor. I delete both apps within the hour.
I go to sleep but don’t dream. I find it comforting.
Brad and Amil sit at a bar alone but together, biding time for their friends to join. Their group wanted to do this 5 o’clock happy hour down in Greenwich Village. It’s 4:40 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon; Brad and Amil arrived early because they prefer to pre-game the actual game of social drinking.
Generally, they can sweet-talk or convince the bartender they bought that first round during the happy hour, so their early inebriation doesn’t financially hurt them. The bartender serves Brad his Stone IPA pint and Amil a Leffe Blond bottle. Brad checks Snapchat while Amil scrolls Twitter. Then, Amil bursts into giggles, the type of giggles someone only giggles when they want attention. So…
Brad: “What?”
Amil: “Nah…you wouldn’t—you seen Daredevil, bruh?”
B: “Nope. Waiting for the hype to die down so I can binge in peace.”
A: “What about that Kelly Schmidt shit?”
B: “Uh-uh.”
A: “I know your ass has seen Bloodline.”
B: “Actually no.”
A: “Bruh. You’re from Florida.”
B: “So?”
A: “The show’s based in Florida, you idiot. And it’s not only about how fucked up your state is.”
Both boys sip their beers in unison.
Amil: “Like, what do you do with your life? Do you even Netflix, bruh?”
Brad: “Yeah…obviously. I just don’t watch those dumb shows everyone says I have to watch.”
A: “Fine. What’s the last cool-ass ‘Brad’ shit you seen?”
B: “Oh. Well, last night I saw that Life Itself doc. The one about Roger Ebert?”
A: “And?”
B: “It was v good. I almost cried—like a bitch—at the beginning. Ebert’s in this hospital bed as like this shell of himself but his eyes are all wide and alive…it spooked me, man.”
A: “That’s it?”
B: “What do you mean?”
A: “That’s all you have to say about this two-hour documentary?”
B: “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess.”
A: “Okay.”
Amil picks the gold foil at the neck of his bottle.
A: “Yep. Your shit’s sooo much cooler, Brad.”
B: “Oh fuck you and your garbage Netflix TV shows.”
A: “At least I could tell you what happened in mine!”
B: “What—and that’s somehow important? Fuck, man. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
A: “Tired of what?”
B: “This bullshit, man. This perpetuating, incessant, gotta-keep-up-with-what-everyone’s-talking-about culture, man. Like I’m somehow lesser or not relevant anymore because I didn’t watch Daredevil. Why is everyone so keen on devouring whatever bullshit they shove in our faces? Oh and the conversation, the ‘conversation.’ We have these tools to talk now and instead of sharing our thoughts and genuine emotions or, I don’t know, the actual important issues going on in the world, we clog everything with dumb content.”
A: “Bruh…chill.”
B: “No, it’s frustrating, Amil. I feel like I’m the only who feels this way and it drives me crazy. And everyone just makes a joke about everything all the time. If it’s not a joke about the show, no one cares. And if you did happen to watch the show, and wanna discuss its merits or message or something like that, everything’s gotta be prefaced by spoiler alert, spoiler alert. Well here’s a spoiler alert: I don’t give a shit.”
Neither boy says anything for a moment. Brad gulps his pint to obscure the silence.
A: “Brad?”
B: “Huh?”
A: “You ever think I like the conversation? That I enjoy making dumb jokes with people I’ve never met about this show we find entertaining?”
B: “Yeah, sure.”
A: “Nah, seriously. Like why can’t it be cool to be entertained and laugh? We both know the world’s full of shit. And full of even shittier people. I think it’s dope people care and laugh at my Daredevil tweets and I think that people want to talk to me about them is even doper.”
B: “Yea, yea. I guess.”
A: “You’re upset because your dumb Brad shit isn’t popular all the time. Or that it’s not constantly central to some online conversation like my awesome shit is.”
B: “Yeah but what about what’s important and people need to see?”
A: “Ah, who gives a shit. It’s only Netflix, bruh.”
Amil motions the bartender for another Leffe, gulping down the rest of his bottle. Brad chuckles, similar to Amil’s giggle earlier.
A: “What?”
B: “I realized you’re totally Roger Ebert in this situation and I’m Gene Siskel.”
A: “These dudes from your doc last night?”
B: “Yeah.”
A: “So you did watch it!”
B: “Ha. Guess so. I guess so.”
[a] millennial reservations 