Tag Archives: youth

and we don’t care about the young folks, talkin’ ’bout the young style

One day I wanted Coco Puffs, the next, Apple Jacks. I was eight or nine, and this was a prelude into my future as an indecisive assface. At that age, an identity crisis happened as often as I saw my dentist and what kid would know how big of an impact either of those would be? Puffs or Jacks, I was lactose intolerant anyway, but c’est la vie.

The best way to cope and make sense of it now was to take the guise of the jester. Lighten the load of the heavy stuff. Showing you were conscious of the matter at hand, even mocking it, shows you know something. That something you know, regardless, allowed you to look like you felt less shittier than everyone else. I knew what that something was, I always did, never told a soul, cause I’d look less cool if I let you have my cigarette.

Maybe I didn’t know how to tell it. I didn’t know all the words in the language to convey it or shit, would you take a vague analogy instead? I’m better at those, but they’d seem like a joke in itself, got room for comic relief while you’re in a pit of despair? Of course you do. It’s one of the most important roles in the movie, and you’re not going to audition. Everyone was Don Lockwood, but not me, I was everyone’s Cosmo Brown. I was good at it.

I’d never feel comfortable as Don Lockwood, and I couldn’t be both. Cosmo Brown would never be allowed to sing in the rain because of Kathy Seldon. The things that make us happy; you can have that and it’s fleeting nature. (Sometimes, I think Cosmo should have gotten Kathy, but can you imagine how history would’ve turned out if the ginger won the girl?! Once was a good movie, but I couldn’t exactly believe it’s not butter. Worse, what if Cosmo was an oriental, Jackie Chan bloopers during Make Em’ Laugh.)

Fuck, I’m going off on a tangent now. Are we agreed the multiple identity crisis I braved in my youth has affected me? Good back to the weird Singing in the Rain analogy.

I’ll goad my syllabus further in defense of my bigotry in stating I hate all races equally,  indiscriminately. Happy face. I’m even surprised sometimes when someone reminds me (they remind me) of what my race is supposed to be. Identity crisis can start here.

Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify one by their race, and I’ll tell you why the human race is my favorite joke. Smoking cigarettes and smoking barrels, mama Earth’s got a smoker’s cough; going green and choosing the diet of a bunny ain’t gon’ cure her cancer. We are the cancer. Sad face.

I think Dracula would make a great candidate as Surgeon General. Remake the Karate Kid and Singing in the Rain with Jackie Chan. And Daniel Day-Lewis would bring back the spirit of the World Wrestling Federation, make the people believe again. Alright, I’ll go to bed.

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Filed under allegory, non-fiction rambling, rhetoric

licentious liberteens

When two people argue about beliefs it resembles two monkeys arguing over a banana. Who ever screeches loudest wins the banana. In better terms, fighting over whether a 24-pack of Bud Light can get you more trashed than a 24-pack of Coors Light. They are unaware their passion does not make them extraordinary. The reality is, no one in their circle is, let alone can they define what an extraordinary person is like. They’re probably convinced they are the extraordinary one.

Man was subject to becoming stereotypes in the past, but have now been faced with having to become something other than being a stereotype. Then there are those complacent with a life of low expectations; those being the survivors. Their children will survive. The determined and the wishful have no idea how bleak the future has become, a future propelled by contentment and simplicity. Hopes and dreams extinguished by hopes and dreams.

The youth of our Aquarian dance chooses where he or she can apply themselves and, at the very least, are sensible enough to know their place. We all employ our escapism tactics in order to help it go down smooth. Be it: booze, marijuana, aderal, cocaine, your garden-variety eviction notice stipulations. It matters little which medium is chosen, (promiscuity and elitism can be tossed in this muck salad) it’s their need for escapism that is the clue.

We’re born into a world where, even, the educated don’t have many options for survival. Who you know and how many friends you have in your social network, is seemingly more important that your qualifications or your major. (I’ve been hired for my friend count as it proposed more targets to promote towards on multiple occasions, and have been fired for publicly mocking them on that same network.) Romantic hopes and fluttery dreams just aren’t going to cut it. Every specialist would be out of a job if everyone was already a specialist.

You pair the grimness of our world to come with our inability to moderate our escapes and that gives you, the half divorced seniors, the freedom you fought for on our behalf, the Aquarians. And you bet your sweet ass when we say we won’t exactly fancy fighting for freedom for our kids like mama and papa did. We’ll just worry about it when it happens.

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Filed under non-fiction rambling

if only Diderot

I walk down a busy metropolitan street
it’s night and the lights from the shops
are burning on
the night
showing the people the
clothing stores
closed stores
the lights show everyone’s faces
not their real faces but
the faces they want us
to see
to believe

the light lights the night but not as bright
as the sun would
You can’t tell if that man’s suit
is black
dark blue
You can’t tell if the woman walking
toward you from 15 feet is
22 or
32 or
42 etc.
the faded women hide their
under the part-time bulbs
because they feel
and the men realize they are not
ten years younger
twenty years too

I see it all the time and say to myself
joining their ranks

why do they do this?
for friends?
for fun?
for love?

if love can be everlasting
can you find it in those
already in

the women I’ve gone with
were terrible lovers
terrible companions
terrible fucks
but I don’t go with women
as often as
I’ve gone with all the women you’ve gone with
I did that as soon as
about her
women, this concerns you and your
men too

hear it all
see it all
feel it all
all the time

I don’t have to complain about all the
bad dates I’ve gone
simply because
you’ve gone
all the bad dates
for me

those who believe they’ve found
their soulmate
just haven’t lived long enough to
find a better one

Diderot says,

“oh snap!”

and gives me a

Of course I believe true love is
but that is a belief that is always
but if history has taught us one thing
not applied
it was this,

“if only…”

I continue walking down the half-heartedly lit
past all the
clothing stores
closed stores
the lights on everyone’s faces
the faces they want us
to see
to believe

and sullenly wish upon a lightbulb

that all of it could
fool me.

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Filed under poetry

Ghouls of Christmas Past

We age and gain wisdom by the second; it’s a simple truth of life. Though, the cynical side of me finds that annoying, but only because it makes this inevitably slow crawl to our own individual demise, seem pointless. Yes, that’s the classic, cliché existentialist mantra too, but can you refute that? Don’t feel bad, my best response was, “for love… but that comes with suffering too, doesn’t it?”.

I didn’t suffer too much but there were I need a shot moments, and the said, shot, will alleviate the moment.  The worst moments were when I had to deal with people from my past that, somehow, seemed never to have aged. They got older physically, but their level of wisdom had not left where it began about a decade ago. A peeve of mine, I suppose, but it was always exacerbated because I couldn’t understand why it annoyed me, leaving to me to feel I had blossomed, over time, into a fucking asshole (no, I won’t sugar-coat it). I had down everything down to the letter in the textbook; hypocritically gone to school, worked spontaneous jobs, gotten into, both, terrible and unbelievable situations, and then some. I wanted to fly, and I flew. Sometimes into brick walls but sometimes into the crisp, hopeful blue skies, every brush of wind that hit my face was like a high-five of encouragement. …Well, like a slap in the face of encouragement. Of course, however, I’ve wanted to cut my own wings off and bleed to death huddled next to the dumpster behind a Wendy’s or a 7-Eleven. Just sometimes. I’m sure we all know which emotion is the culprit for nudging a person into such a state. L-o-v-e.

I had always blamed it on her youth. We both did, and agreed only because it seemed correct. She wasn’t capable of dealing with such an important matter as love. File the reports, cover sheets, dotted i’s and crossed t’s. She wanted to egg houses, float to the parties like a butterfly, skateboard through the House of Senate for laughs, she had the youth in her heart. I felt more like an arrogant asshole, blaming a kid for being a kid, than I did getting annoyed by my Benjamin Button friends.

The reality is, it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t mine either. Look outside that coffee shop window, or your apartment window, take a walk outside; look for the next two people you see in love. Any age, they’re there, and will always be, and have but one thing in common. They are young at heart, despite your age. If that bloodpump inside your chest is beating, you can get into that club. The real grown-ups in the world, the workers, busy reaching that deadline, in order to sustain their lives; they’re grown ups. They don’t make farting noises in the subway. They work, then try to play at night, gripping onto whatever youth they have left, in an civil, orderly fashion. Dinner parties, over-age nightclubs, Vodka Redbulls, first and fucking last name, please. Laugh at the mere idea of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, unicorns, and ultimately, love. Not the proverbial love, but the love you had when you were a child; innocent, honest, unconditional. You have never been more honest with your heart than when you were a child.

We weren’t afraid of death because we didn’t know what it was. We didn’t know what love was either, but we saw it translated everyday in smiles, hugs, kisses, hellos and goodbyes. You and I may be through with the past, but no one said the past was through with us.

Love and Death are very real things, and we will meet them both by the end of the party, but it’s a matter of which asshole you’d like to meet first.

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Filed under non-fiction metaphor

Cannonading pace of His Choo Choos.

The young never look past the beginning, that’s why they’re so eager for sex, drugs, and money. The old are closer to the end, and procrastinate the truths they really want to finish with. This is the age of the cannon that inevitably fires at the next. A dust cloud of mangled lost souls, hopes and dreams in smithereens. We beg, moan, cry and groan about it, but we can all feel it coming, that’s the only thing we’ve all had in common, like rats scurrying towards the end of a flooding sewer.

Unassailable demise on train tracks into a mountain and we’re aboard with one-way tickets. …The irony of it all is longing for death when the right person wrongfully breaks our hearts. Lonesome, crushed hearts shoveled into the furnace, for a train race of a humane pace. Young and old alike; convalescent daycare taught lust before love; as always, the young never got it right because the former promised excitement before the value of their hearts’ contentments are unfurled. In hindsight, the old seldomly paid attention in class as well. Swell.

We all want a form of it, a piece and proof of it, and willing to die if it fails; what do you want, quick, we’re not getting off of these rails.

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The Sweet ain’t as Sweet without the Sour

I was 23 when it happened. “Fell in love,” as most would say. Don’t worry, I’m well aware that I’m too young to fall in love, even younger to think about marriage. Yet, every now and then you hear of a story that starts out like this and that story, til this day, hasn’t finished, and perhaps I was coerced into believing it could happen to me through hearsay. And it did. She proposed to me during my vacation to Chicago, on a frigid horse-carriage ride through the South Loop. I said yes, kissed her, and ended up fondling each other for the duration of the ride across Michigan Ave. Beneath the blankets.

Two seraphically blessed months later, she passed away. I never got the chance to go through the whole wedding ceremony, never got the chance to hate my step-parents, never even got a chance to fight so bad, one of us would scream, “I want a divorce!” She just packed, and caught the next flight to St. Peter’s gate.

I didn’t feel so surprised, I felt like how I had my coffee. Unsweetened, no cream, and overcharged. I kept the ring she gave me, Juicy Coutour was etched on it. No she wasn’t so perfect, we seldom are, but her alchemy fit mine just enough to make fire. Except the departure was not as warm. Her vitality, her memory, her sweetness, her little hidden mole, stripped by the inevitably sour course of life. Was I still too young to have fallen in love, or thought about marriage? Or was she too young to die? I feel her with me, in everything I do, and it’s terrible. It’s not as sweet as they make it seem in the movies.

i got dumped twice that night by the same indecisive girl

we both died

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