Yawn. Stretch. Repeat. My lazy Sunday continues, only now it is Monday. Meaning that I've really just become lazy. Not in a bad way, it is not like I'm putting things off, or ignoring responsibility; I just have nothing to do, and I am in turn doing nothing. Today I left the apartment for the first time since arriving home Saturday evening, I needed to buy more Tropicana pink lemonade. Unfortunately C-town was out of said lemonade, but being that I was already in the grocery store, I spent about $30 on other food/beverages that I didn't really need (yes, I needed pink lemonade). This was quite a task, considering the amount of effort I have yet to use on anything constructive in the past two days, it surprisingly involved many steps. I first had to put pants on (real pants, I have been living in some very comfortable PJ pants), this was kind of a bummer, as wearing clothes suitable for public viewing made me feel more like a contributing member of society (this was not my goal for the weekend). Along with pants, I had to put shoes on, though not wanting to have to also put socks on, I opted for flip-flops, which don't really count. I then threw a 2 sizes to big for me sweatshirt on over my wife beater, and hit the road for my two block trip of actually doing something. By the end of my journey to the store, after carrying my 4 bags of groceries up two flights of stairs, I had almost broken a sweat. Almost. It may have been the sweatshirt. It has been cool lately, cool enough to pull off jeans and a sweatshirt, provided you aren't doing anything more than walking at a moderately slow pace. I've gotten off topic though, I intended to talk to you about reading, and coffee.
I am, not surprisingly, on my couch right now, with an empty cup of coffee and a half read article for the New Yorker. Not only is my cup of coffee out, but all my coffee is out. I usually have 2ish cups in the morning(afternoon/evening), today I only had enough for on cup though. This leads me to the half read article. It was pretty good, about one of the many people who decided to go totally green and write about it. So far it seems like a huge pain in the ass, and make his life suck, and begs the question, "for what good?" I assume they answer that at the end of the article, as I am sure the New Yorker wouldn't completely bash going green, even if all this one guy really did was make his life a pain in the ass for a year. But now that my coffee is gone, so is my desire to keep reading. Not to mention the writer of the article keeps talking about Thoreau in a very unforgiving light, repeatedly saying his time spent on Walden Pond was little more than I stunt to break him into the literary world. Makes sense I guess, but it's just far more interesting than a stunt. But that is a subject I am not really qualified to speak on. I think I'm getting off topic again, I was saying something about coffee and reading.
Right. I remember similar situations in Maine, more importantly in Rock City Coffee, where I used to work, and where my love of coffee and reading grew exponentially. Now when I return to Maine I go there everyday to sit and read while drinking coffee. That's really all I want to do when I go home. Mostly because I can't do it here, at least I can't do it as well. There is a coffee shop called the Archive just a few minutes walk from my apartment here in Brooklyn, but it's just not the same. Rock City was full of real people. There was Captain Neal, the published writer, and the arrogant pain in the ass. There was Joe, rest in peace, who was crazy, probably due to years of alcohol abuse, who would dance to the music, while sipping his dollar cup of coffee. Either that or he would talk about his days as a sailor, I'm still not quite sure that he ever was a sailor, he had some good stories though. And of course there was KT, working behind the book counter, always there a new recommendation, and an infectiously loud laugh that could convince anyone they were funny. At the Archive there are just two people: some worker, and then some hipster. These two people multiply enough to fill most of the seats, and cover the tables with Apple products, but really, they are all the same person.
Really I think everything about the Archive is just less appealing than Rock City. Instead of endless cases of books, they have a few shelves of movies. Rather than a good selection of papers to read, they carry a few copies of the Onion. It's never a gamble of which of the 15 or so different roasts they will serve that day, it's always the same roast of Gimme, which is of course delicious, but my least favorite roast from Gimme. And also, they don't have whip cream. That means a con panna party just isn't possible. Not that anyone there would really appreciate it anyway (that is kind of irrelevant, I think myself and my good friend River, also from Rock City are the only two people who like con panna parties).
I am being pretty hard on the Archive though, the people are nice, and the coffee is good. Which is really all you can ask for from a coffee shop. And even still, I have brought my book in there to read before, and as long as you can concentrate well enough in the hipster hangout, then you're ok. And I've never had the problem I'm having now, because it's a coffee shop, they don't run out of coffee. And now I've reached another point of empitness, my cup of Irish Breakfast tea is empty, and my desire to keep writing is quickly fading. I have lost the motivation to end this well, but seeing that I am still on my lazy Sunday, I'll end with the same advice I gave to a friend yesterday: It's Sunday, and no one needs motivation on Sunday.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Waiting for my hair to change color.
Iced tea: Check
Fan: Check
Music: Check
Boxer shorts and wife beater: Check
Michael Weston style sunglasses: Check
Pirated copy of MSWord:Mac: Check
I am sitting listlessly at my kitchen table, a small white table that would be better used as more of a desk, in a room that is not the kitchen. As it happens though, for lack of any other option, this small white table that I stole from my old apartment building is my kitchen table. I have escaped, from the horrors of the day, to this table here in the kitchen. There are few other options in my apartment to sit and write, one being my bed, which typically leads to me endlessly checking Facebook and playing with shuffle on my iTunes; needless to say very little gets accomplished in my bed. Ever. It is also dreadfully hot in my room, even with my fan turned on high is just seems to wrap thick hot air over me like a blanket. My other option would be the living room. It’s a pretty nice room, I won’t lie. There is a big blue bookshelf full accomplishments, and things for me to show off when company is over. That is if I really feel like showing off my large comic collection, explaining that Powers, or The Walking Dead might be some of the best things I’ve ever read. There is also a couch, and a nice coffee table with a glass center, and shelf underneath containing numerous copies of various metal music magazines, and The New Yorker. Mostly just to show that yes, I read The New Yorker. Only after I take it from work when I don’t finish reading it during my shift. This room is usually a good place to write, today, however, it is not. There is a park across the street from my living room, it provides a nice view of trees, and park goers making the best of the heat. Today it also provides some Christian bands that got together to send their God awful music straight through my open window. It is impossible to even watch TV as the words, “GET UP, GET UP, GET UP AND BELIEVE!” drown out even my thought process accompanied by thunderous drumbeats and shitty guitar leads. I’d shut my window on God if it wasn’t so damn hot out. Maybe he has something to do with that. Instead I run to my kitchen, set up my fan, and write, passing my time patiently waiting to go gray, and not so patiently to be happy.
I watch a lot of the Travel Channel, No reservations mostly. I don’t often get a chance to go to unexplored areas of the city of New York, and even less do I get a chance to leave the city all together; for me the Travel Channel is almost like actually traveling. Today’s episode of NoRes sent its host, Anthony Bourdain, to Canada, spending a good amount of time in Montreal. A commercial came and I couldn’t bare the wait for it to end, instead I hit record on my DVR and decided to come back later. I had, only moments before, been talking to a real sweet girl from Montreal, and felt a strong need to get out of New York and see her. This girls name is Alexis, a name that always seems kind of like a fairy tale to me, along with her slender build, pale skin and long dark hair, she gets me in an almost dangerous way. The last time I saw her I threw caution to the wind determined to make the best of her short stay in New York. The result was something that still brings me chills when I think about it, and all the ways I just wish life were just as simple as it once was. This one simple relationship, built out of bad romantic comedy, embodies so much about myself it’s difficult to realize. It is far easier to want things that are out of reach than it is to try and make the best of what you can reach. Basically, I’m lazy (and incredibly selfish), and relationships are hard. I can’t be bothered to wonder and worry every time some girl doesn’t call me back, it is simply beyond my capabilities. Maybe her phone is off. Maybe she doesn’t like my plain black tee shirt. Maybe she was on the subway. Maybe she is out with another guy. Maybe I’m a bad kisser. Not true, I’m a fantastic kisser. Maybe, just maybe, she just doesn’t like you. It makes me neurotic, and it’s a bother. It is far easier when I know the answer, It’s because she lives in another country. This is probably the easiest example of what I have become, but it is something that affects not only my human relationships, but everything. I know what I want, I want to be E.B. White, grow old with my wife (should I ever let myself get that far) in some desolate area of Maine, going gray, doing little other than writing about how important my daily life is (to me at least).
I remember a time when things were fairly simple, wake up when I’m supposed to, go to school, go play, get in trouble, make mistakes, fall down, get up, try again, go to sleep. There was probably a good amount of eating in there too, though when I was a child I weighed much less than I do now. Oh how my life has changed, it is the way the body works. I remember when I was a kid, I spent most of my time with my friend Tyler, who was, still is, and despite how ever far we grow apart, probably always will be my best friend. Out on Rabbit Farm Road, that long dirt road that Tyler lived on before moving in with his grandmother, was his home. A large building the color of stained wood, with a large deck that wrapped the house from one side and around the back. The house sat down a winding dirt driveway, surrounded by a large lawn and a thick forest. I remember there was a rock in his back yard that was bigger than the houses of some of the kids I went to school with, we appropriately named it, “The Big Rock,” and spent hours of our lives sitting up on The Big Rock with GI Joes. Happiness was so easy in those days. Tyler also had this ball, sort of resembling a baseball, but softer, and attached to a long multi-colored ribbon which was used to swing and throw the ball great heights and distances. We would push the limits of how high, or how far we could heave this ball, until one day we started to throw the ball over the house. With one person on each side we sent the ball rocketing over the chimney, the ribbon sizzling loudly in the wind, in the hopes that just once the person on the other side would be able to catch it. We rarely accomplished this, maybe out of fear of getting hit in the face with a ball from at least 30 feet up. This small goal though, was enough to keep us outside, keeping us young and hopeful, and completely unaware of just how easy we had it.
Being all grown up now, my life has taken me far from dirt roads, and buildings that one could throw a ball over. For the time being I am on an adventure in the Big Apple, not unlike another James who was taken on an adventure is a big peach. Only this is no place for children, this is a place where one needs more than a best friend, or nothing at all. Happiness here is an endless struggle, easily achieved on a day-to-day basis, but hard to keep constant. Everything in New York is so easily accessible, transport, booze, movies, plays, parks, fun is literally around every corner; what’s hard to find are the people, the keepers at least. This city is not geared toward relationships, more flings; it is meant for selfishness, finding happiness and keeping it personal, rather than sharing it with others. It is a sad fact, with huge exceptions, but in a city where everyone is here for themselves, it is hard to really let anyone in. I’ve had infinite numbers of relationships built, though they have all been more like networking, some lasting weeks, days, or even just hours. I have my odd group of solid friends, friends from work, and best friends from family to a musician from a band I listened to while still in Maine trying to figure myself out. Everyone else though, the millions of people here, are just acquaintances that I meet in bars, through work, or passing on the street late at night. People I will love for minutes, maybe hours, and then probably never see again. All these random people, random things, are what keep me going here. The easiest way to get by here is through loneliness, to just do your own thing, whatever makes you happy. Close your eyes and dive head first into chaos, hoping only to come out the other side. There is simply too much going on to stand still with someone, too little time to feel anxious or neurotic. To little time to feel loved, or to give it. Should I ever need a moment to slow down, I do it alone, not by choice, but because everyone else has things to do. What I need now, the thing that this city seem to almost work against, is someone to spend that down time with. Some girl that I could open the door, and let into my selfish, personal bubble.
It is hard for me to put my time here into words, as I don’t feel I’ve really had enough time get a good handle on what it is to live here. I feel like my thoughts here have grown scattered, and I hesitate to try to center them, because I feel like this explanation that hardly makes sense is the perfect example: Life here is complicated. So I continue to sit here at my kitchen table, a few hours latter, still trying to figure it out all over again, but just as lost as when this began. The Christian bands have been replaced with some motivational speaker/ex-drug addict. He tells his story about he was lost, until he found Jesus, and how great his life is now. His faith has clearly made him a better person, ready to help those in need. Instead of finding something that I have faith in (it is clearly not God), I sit wondering why that redhead never called back about my dinner invitation? Didn’t she say she would? Didn’t our first date go well? Is she really even worth wondering why? Haven’t I always had trouble with redheads? What will I say to her if I see her at work? Probably nothing. I wait, with my brain on a neurotic treadmill of thought, for one of those acquaintances to prove me wrong about this city, and give me a few moments of her time to stand on the other side of a house, awaiting whatever I throw her way.
Fan: Check
Music: Check
Boxer shorts and wife beater: Check
Michael Weston style sunglasses: Check
Pirated copy of MSWord:Mac: Check
I am sitting listlessly at my kitchen table, a small white table that would be better used as more of a desk, in a room that is not the kitchen. As it happens though, for lack of any other option, this small white table that I stole from my old apartment building is my kitchen table. I have escaped, from the horrors of the day, to this table here in the kitchen. There are few other options in my apartment to sit and write, one being my bed, which typically leads to me endlessly checking Facebook and playing with shuffle on my iTunes; needless to say very little gets accomplished in my bed. Ever. It is also dreadfully hot in my room, even with my fan turned on high is just seems to wrap thick hot air over me like a blanket. My other option would be the living room. It’s a pretty nice room, I won’t lie. There is a big blue bookshelf full accomplishments, and things for me to show off when company is over. That is if I really feel like showing off my large comic collection, explaining that Powers, or The Walking Dead might be some of the best things I’ve ever read. There is also a couch, and a nice coffee table with a glass center, and shelf underneath containing numerous copies of various metal music magazines, and The New Yorker. Mostly just to show that yes, I read The New Yorker. Only after I take it from work when I don’t finish reading it during my shift. This room is usually a good place to write, today, however, it is not. There is a park across the street from my living room, it provides a nice view of trees, and park goers making the best of the heat. Today it also provides some Christian bands that got together to send their God awful music straight through my open window. It is impossible to even watch TV as the words, “GET UP, GET UP, GET UP AND BELIEVE!” drown out even my thought process accompanied by thunderous drumbeats and shitty guitar leads. I’d shut my window on God if it wasn’t so damn hot out. Maybe he has something to do with that. Instead I run to my kitchen, set up my fan, and write, passing my time patiently waiting to go gray, and not so patiently to be happy.
I watch a lot of the Travel Channel, No reservations mostly. I don’t often get a chance to go to unexplored areas of the city of New York, and even less do I get a chance to leave the city all together; for me the Travel Channel is almost like actually traveling. Today’s episode of NoRes sent its host, Anthony Bourdain, to Canada, spending a good amount of time in Montreal. A commercial came and I couldn’t bare the wait for it to end, instead I hit record on my DVR and decided to come back later. I had, only moments before, been talking to a real sweet girl from Montreal, and felt a strong need to get out of New York and see her. This girls name is Alexis, a name that always seems kind of like a fairy tale to me, along with her slender build, pale skin and long dark hair, she gets me in an almost dangerous way. The last time I saw her I threw caution to the wind determined to make the best of her short stay in New York. The result was something that still brings me chills when I think about it, and all the ways I just wish life were just as simple as it once was. This one simple relationship, built out of bad romantic comedy, embodies so much about myself it’s difficult to realize. It is far easier to want things that are out of reach than it is to try and make the best of what you can reach. Basically, I’m lazy (and incredibly selfish), and relationships are hard. I can’t be bothered to wonder and worry every time some girl doesn’t call me back, it is simply beyond my capabilities. Maybe her phone is off. Maybe she doesn’t like my plain black tee shirt. Maybe she was on the subway. Maybe she is out with another guy. Maybe I’m a bad kisser. Not true, I’m a fantastic kisser. Maybe, just maybe, she just doesn’t like you. It makes me neurotic, and it’s a bother. It is far easier when I know the answer, It’s because she lives in another country. This is probably the easiest example of what I have become, but it is something that affects not only my human relationships, but everything. I know what I want, I want to be E.B. White, grow old with my wife (should I ever let myself get that far) in some desolate area of Maine, going gray, doing little other than writing about how important my daily life is (to me at least).
I remember a time when things were fairly simple, wake up when I’m supposed to, go to school, go play, get in trouble, make mistakes, fall down, get up, try again, go to sleep. There was probably a good amount of eating in there too, though when I was a child I weighed much less than I do now. Oh how my life has changed, it is the way the body works. I remember when I was a kid, I spent most of my time with my friend Tyler, who was, still is, and despite how ever far we grow apart, probably always will be my best friend. Out on Rabbit Farm Road, that long dirt road that Tyler lived on before moving in with his grandmother, was his home. A large building the color of stained wood, with a large deck that wrapped the house from one side and around the back. The house sat down a winding dirt driveway, surrounded by a large lawn and a thick forest. I remember there was a rock in his back yard that was bigger than the houses of some of the kids I went to school with, we appropriately named it, “The Big Rock,” and spent hours of our lives sitting up on The Big Rock with GI Joes. Happiness was so easy in those days. Tyler also had this ball, sort of resembling a baseball, but softer, and attached to a long multi-colored ribbon which was used to swing and throw the ball great heights and distances. We would push the limits of how high, or how far we could heave this ball, until one day we started to throw the ball over the house. With one person on each side we sent the ball rocketing over the chimney, the ribbon sizzling loudly in the wind, in the hopes that just once the person on the other side would be able to catch it. We rarely accomplished this, maybe out of fear of getting hit in the face with a ball from at least 30 feet up. This small goal though, was enough to keep us outside, keeping us young and hopeful, and completely unaware of just how easy we had it.
Being all grown up now, my life has taken me far from dirt roads, and buildings that one could throw a ball over. For the time being I am on an adventure in the Big Apple, not unlike another James who was taken on an adventure is a big peach. Only this is no place for children, this is a place where one needs more than a best friend, or nothing at all. Happiness here is an endless struggle, easily achieved on a day-to-day basis, but hard to keep constant. Everything in New York is so easily accessible, transport, booze, movies, plays, parks, fun is literally around every corner; what’s hard to find are the people, the keepers at least. This city is not geared toward relationships, more flings; it is meant for selfishness, finding happiness and keeping it personal, rather than sharing it with others. It is a sad fact, with huge exceptions, but in a city where everyone is here for themselves, it is hard to really let anyone in. I’ve had infinite numbers of relationships built, though they have all been more like networking, some lasting weeks, days, or even just hours. I have my odd group of solid friends, friends from work, and best friends from family to a musician from a band I listened to while still in Maine trying to figure myself out. Everyone else though, the millions of people here, are just acquaintances that I meet in bars, through work, or passing on the street late at night. People I will love for minutes, maybe hours, and then probably never see again. All these random people, random things, are what keep me going here. The easiest way to get by here is through loneliness, to just do your own thing, whatever makes you happy. Close your eyes and dive head first into chaos, hoping only to come out the other side. There is simply too much going on to stand still with someone, too little time to feel anxious or neurotic. To little time to feel loved, or to give it. Should I ever need a moment to slow down, I do it alone, not by choice, but because everyone else has things to do. What I need now, the thing that this city seem to almost work against, is someone to spend that down time with. Some girl that I could open the door, and let into my selfish, personal bubble.
It is hard for me to put my time here into words, as I don’t feel I’ve really had enough time get a good handle on what it is to live here. I feel like my thoughts here have grown scattered, and I hesitate to try to center them, because I feel like this explanation that hardly makes sense is the perfect example: Life here is complicated. So I continue to sit here at my kitchen table, a few hours latter, still trying to figure it out all over again, but just as lost as when this began. The Christian bands have been replaced with some motivational speaker/ex-drug addict. He tells his story about he was lost, until he found Jesus, and how great his life is now. His faith has clearly made him a better person, ready to help those in need. Instead of finding something that I have faith in (it is clearly not God), I sit wondering why that redhead never called back about my dinner invitation? Didn’t she say she would? Didn’t our first date go well? Is she really even worth wondering why? Haven’t I always had trouble with redheads? What will I say to her if I see her at work? Probably nothing. I wait, with my brain on a neurotic treadmill of thought, for one of those acquaintances to prove me wrong about this city, and give me a few moments of her time to stand on the other side of a house, awaiting whatever I throw her way.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Lessons Learned Through Other People Mistakes.
I had this friend growing up, let's call him Phil, and Phil taught me a lot about life. We were at one point good friends, though Phil was never particularly nice to me; he was never really nice to anyone actually. He was one of those kids who always did stupid things at the expense of other people, and it was really funny when it wasn't you.
Once while skateboarding Phil thought it would be really funny to throw my skateboard out in front of passing cars. He thought this was hilarious, he had that look of a toddler playing with his food, utter joy at the mess he was making. Me being the scrawny passive aggressive kid that I used to be, begged him to stop, but really didn't do anything about it. He continued to do this until my older brother showed up and told him he would beat the shit out of him. Good old Sean. He hated Phil, and although I've never seen Sean hit anyone, I'm pretty sure he would have beaten the shit of Phil. Needless to say, Phil was stupid.
There was another time, years later, where Phil's stupidity was again steered in my direction. It was a party at a friends house, by this time Phil was heavily into smoking pot. The end of the night came, everyone passed out, and Phil thought it would be funny to pee in my shoes. He may sound like he was a bully, but that wasn't it; Phil was just really, really dumb. Like just really not smart. You know when people ask if "you were dropped on your head as a child?" Well, those sayings had to come from somewhere, and I really do believe Phil was dropped several times, maybe his father just pushed him down the stairs. So anyway, when I awoke to find my shoes soaking wet with urine, I was furious, and found Phil passed out of the couch downstairs. At this point I wasn't so much the passive kid, I hit Phil repeatedly with a piece of wood. The exercise really did wonders for my hangover. Phil was then thrown out of the house into the pouring rain to wait for his mother to come pick him up, a good 45 minute drive. I feel like it was worth a pair of shoes, they had holes in them anyway.
I think it's pretty reasonable when I say that Phil and I grew apart very quickly. He rarely went to school, and when he did, he had classes for stupid people. He was friends with my friends though, I still heard the stories. He never changed. His pot somking became far worse, and I'm almost certain he didn't graduate highschool, at least not with the rest of our class. I think he got an apartment, partied and yada yada. He really wasted his life to it's fullest potential. Then he turned around, sort of. He tried to "stop smoking pot" and failed. He stopped because he wanted to join the army, he failed because the army said no. This was just a few years ago, deep in the heart of the Iraq war. And the army refused his enlistment. I didn't actually know that was possible.
Because I'm me, and generally think the worst of people, I thought it was really just because Phil was a loser. A loser beyond the help of a drill sergeant. Turns out that's not the whole truth(it must be part of it though). I guess it was because of a good old fashioned head injury that Phil had gotten himself(dropped as a child?). I guess Phil fell off a moving car. I think he was sitting on the tailgate of a pick-up truck, and they hit a bump, and well, you get the idea. Those kind of accidents happen a lot in Maine. Stupidity related accidents. What part of any rational human being thinks it's a good idea to sit on the tailgate of a moving truck? As far as I'm concerned, serves you right. Did you get shot because you were drunk playing with guns? Serves you right.
Stupidity is usually a choice, and well, that's what I learned from Phil: Don't do what he does. I can't say I've done a whole lot with my life, unless you count a year and half of college, and moving to New York. Thats the extent. But what I've taken away from going up with people like this is to think before anything. If it seems like a dumb idea, it probably is. If I think to myself, I might fall off that tailgate if I sit on it while the truck is moving, I'm not going to sit on it. And well, because of that, it is very possible that Phil may have saved my life, in a round about way. Having stupid friends teaches one to be not stupid.
Once while skateboarding Phil thought it would be really funny to throw my skateboard out in front of passing cars. He thought this was hilarious, he had that look of a toddler playing with his food, utter joy at the mess he was making. Me being the scrawny passive aggressive kid that I used to be, begged him to stop, but really didn't do anything about it. He continued to do this until my older brother showed up and told him he would beat the shit out of him. Good old Sean. He hated Phil, and although I've never seen Sean hit anyone, I'm pretty sure he would have beaten the shit of Phil. Needless to say, Phil was stupid.
There was another time, years later, where Phil's stupidity was again steered in my direction. It was a party at a friends house, by this time Phil was heavily into smoking pot. The end of the night came, everyone passed out, and Phil thought it would be funny to pee in my shoes. He may sound like he was a bully, but that wasn't it; Phil was just really, really dumb. Like just really not smart. You know when people ask if "you were dropped on your head as a child?" Well, those sayings had to come from somewhere, and I really do believe Phil was dropped several times, maybe his father just pushed him down the stairs. So anyway, when I awoke to find my shoes soaking wet with urine, I was furious, and found Phil passed out of the couch downstairs. At this point I wasn't so much the passive kid, I hit Phil repeatedly with a piece of wood. The exercise really did wonders for my hangover. Phil was then thrown out of the house into the pouring rain to wait for his mother to come pick him up, a good 45 minute drive. I feel like it was worth a pair of shoes, they had holes in them anyway.
I think it's pretty reasonable when I say that Phil and I grew apart very quickly. He rarely went to school, and when he did, he had classes for stupid people. He was friends with my friends though, I still heard the stories. He never changed. His pot somking became far worse, and I'm almost certain he didn't graduate highschool, at least not with the rest of our class. I think he got an apartment, partied and yada yada. He really wasted his life to it's fullest potential. Then he turned around, sort of. He tried to "stop smoking pot" and failed. He stopped because he wanted to join the army, he failed because the army said no. This was just a few years ago, deep in the heart of the Iraq war. And the army refused his enlistment. I didn't actually know that was possible.
Because I'm me, and generally think the worst of people, I thought it was really just because Phil was a loser. A loser beyond the help of a drill sergeant. Turns out that's not the whole truth(it must be part of it though). I guess it was because of a good old fashioned head injury that Phil had gotten himself(dropped as a child?). I guess Phil fell off a moving car. I think he was sitting on the tailgate of a pick-up truck, and they hit a bump, and well, you get the idea. Those kind of accidents happen a lot in Maine. Stupidity related accidents. What part of any rational human being thinks it's a good idea to sit on the tailgate of a moving truck? As far as I'm concerned, serves you right. Did you get shot because you were drunk playing with guns? Serves you right.
Stupidity is usually a choice, and well, that's what I learned from Phil: Don't do what he does. I can't say I've done a whole lot with my life, unless you count a year and half of college, and moving to New York. Thats the extent. But what I've taken away from going up with people like this is to think before anything. If it seems like a dumb idea, it probably is. If I think to myself, I might fall off that tailgate if I sit on it while the truck is moving, I'm not going to sit on it. And well, because of that, it is very possible that Phil may have saved my life, in a round about way. Having stupid friends teaches one to be not stupid.
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