Question:

How long must one be gone to require a "be right back (or the less formal 'brb')" in an online conversation?

Why Does Pedophilia Sound Like "Pet and Feel Ya?"

I know, I know. I let you know that I've been hired as a carnie (carni? how precisely does one spell something that isn't actually a word? carni looks like shorthand for carnivore, something I also am, but is far less interesting then a ride operator, unless of course being a carnivore included actual hunting and pouncing...or if I was both a hunting carnivore and a carnival worker, feasting upon the unsuspecting children...wow, anyway...) and then I don't update again for what I'm sure what must feel like forever. The thing is, nothing's happened yet. I had to sit through a very generic four hour orientation last weekend, the kind that emphasizes that we constantly think about what the customer wants, and then direct them to the Guest Services building (which I was told over twenty times was located by the ferris wheel next to the carousel), because apparently they're the only ones capable of answering questions (or media should we, as humble ignorant ride operators be bombarded by questioning anchor men and women wannabes about the mysterious construction that plagues the west end of the park, or what it's like to work in a theme park that was at one point filled with iconic Minnesotan figures but is now littered with Spongebob and Dora the Explorer, like anyone really cares...). I have training both tomorrow and Friday, so I'll be sure to keep you updated.

So I'm sick of this happening. During orientation I met this attractive female who was sitting through the same process to start her job of cashier in the same park as myself. We chatted, we smiled, and I asked where she went to school. She replied with the name of a prominent hyphenated name high school in the twin city area (I'd like to make it known that it was not the same hyphenated name high school I went to, thus preventing me from already establishing her age). I'm twenty years old, and I've been told I look a little older, but I still have these moments when I'm out and about where I notice a good looking woman and am then instantly hit by my mind saying, "hold up, that's a high schooler." Maybe my ability to judge age is slipping, maybe it's because humans are maturing faster and as such blending what used to be the obvious lines between what level education you have completed, maybe it's because I'm still at the age where dating someone over three years younger than you is taboo, or maybe it's because males are always stereotypically attracted to high school girls. (I would say maybe it's because high schoolers are showing so much damn cleavage nowadays, but that would make it seem like I'm against it, which my manhood informs me I am not.)

I went to a hip-hop festival last weekend where this scenario occurred, well more than once. By this point, I actually appreciated the girl whose t-shirt was meant for the emcee of headliner Atmosphere and read, "Slug, I'll be legal in 2 years" and had her phone number inscribed on the back. As Dos Equis (the pen name for the man formerly known on this blog as Otte) said, at least she's honest.

(I have a habit of nicknaming my friends, something I've integrated into this blog. On one hand, it's to keep an element of anonymity [although I'm sure almost of the readers of this blog know me and the people I'm talking about already], but it's also to keep my creative juices flowing. I've had to come up with nicknames for people solely because I was going to mention them here. It's interesting, I think)

That same festival has me thinking about commercialism/consumerism, but I think I'll save that for a later post. There are dishes to be done.

You Know What I Mean

You are now reading the blog of an official ride operator (unofficial carni) of Nickelodeon Universe in the Mall of America. I start training on Saturday morning. Early. This will be interesting. It's paid though.

I need to read more. Suggest books for me. Do it. Please?

I'm generally frustrated with things. It'll pass.

I Bless The Rains Down in Africa

This post will challenge some of the stereotypes you have come to rely on as truth. It will portray as truth something that has long been thought false. I'm going to shake the earth with this one.

I, as a straight male (no, that's not the revelation), love to dance. For centuries the straight male has been portrayed as a wallflower, too cool to shake his tail feather (I said it) on the hardwood floor. I think it was Dane Cook who said you never see guys saying, "Fuck girls tonight, I just want to dance." While it's true that I would never turn down a female in order to dance, the truth is I would probably bring her with and we could enjoy our time busting move after move until the sweat pouring off our skin didn't matter anymore.

Those who know me know that if they play anything that could be considered danceable music around me, they run the risk of me making a complete fool of myself in the middle of their dorm room/makeshift discotheque. It's something that happens quite often in my life, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

As with most broken stereotypes, I am not claiming that this is the same for every male. Many of my friends don't get the thrill out of instrumented tomfoolery as I do, and that's fine for them. I would never dream of claiming that they were any less in touch with their feelings than I am, they simply don't enjoy the same things I do. Shockingly, it turns out everyone has different hobbies.

I want to clarify that I am in no way, shape, or form an even somewhat decent dancer. I am spastic, uncontrollable, energetic, and absolutely insane when the tune catches me, as I'm sure some of you have witnessed. I can't keep it in me. (That's what she said.)

I was thinking about my high school experience in the Twin Cities alt/punk scene. Otte and I would hit up concerts, sometimes on a weekly basis, and I would always end up in the middle of a mosh pit getting absolutely thrashed and feeling that sense of connection with the music. Otte was always a bit more sensible than I, but I remember him joining in more than once. Grinaldo was always in those messes too. I could (and very well may) do an entire post just on our teenage concert stories. Good times.

Anyway, I remember the first time Otte and I went to a show and decided, a couple bands in, to move towards the back. I believe one of us may have even said, "We're too old for this." It was true, this wasn't how we wanted to enjoy the music anymore. It makes me laugh that I've grown from moshing at punk shows to undulating sporadically to eighties music and top forty hip hop. I have no shame.

All this comes because I've had "Africa" by Toto stuck in my head all day. I blame Grinaldo for that youtube video he showed me (see below), as well for Scrubs for featuring the track in one of the, I don't know, probably four episodes I tuned into today.

Neigh-bor(ed)-hood

I'm sitting at a coffee shop right now. It's something I've done often since returning home from my second year of collegiate education in a land far from here. This is one of my favorite coffee shops, as it roasts it's own plethora of beans on location, has a gorgeous outdoor patio with electrical outlets (where I currently sit), and has some of the prettiest and most conversational baristas around. (Firefox doesn't recognize the word barista. As I'm fairly sure I'm spelling it correctly, this saddens me. I thought the coffee shop culture had taken over enough to input words into our vocabulary. I guess I was wrong. Luckily there's that "Add to Dictionary" option. Take that Firefox.)

This coffee shop is about three blocks from the high school I graduated from just two years ago. Current students are walking by and some are stopping in for a drink. I can label them as patrons of my alma mater not because I recognize them, but because they are wearing the required garb of that particular institution. I am instantly reminded of a quote from Chasing Amy. "As it stands I have no '...and then she unzipped her jumper' stories." I realize that, though I did have a couple girlfriends in high school, this is true for me as well. I feel like I missed out on something that could have been truly great. Suppose we could all say that about a lot of things in our lives, couldn't we?

About twenty minutes ago this patio was jammed with people sitting at the various tables but communally conversing, as though this was a normal practice. I don't doubt that it was just that. I spotted in the crowd the owner of this particular espresso emporium. This is the first real place I ever played music in front of people, back in the days of the old folk trio Studio C. He came and talked to us after the show and invited us to come back and play whenever we liked. We never did. Every once and a while I throw on our CD and feel like, had we worked at it (also, had we not been seniors in high school, soon to disperse unto various colleges in various parts of the midwest), we could have made some serious quality music. Maybe these are delusions of grandeur mixed with nostalgia, but I say we were pretty badass. Anyway, I don't think he recognized me

A cloud cover has come, which has eased the task of actually seeing my laptop screen drastically. It has also cooled the breeze and lowered the temperature on the surface of the keys I am tapping. I am thankful.

I am getting a small taste of what post-collegiate life will be like, and I'm not entirely excited about it. It is still the case that all of my friends (including the mysterious female I have been mentioning) are still busy with school and won't be returning until this weekend. It's been a long two weeks, and I'm looking forward to having people I can call again.

While this area may later regain it's former title, it has grown painfully obvious that this just isn't home anymore, which I know I've said before. I'm starting to occasionally feel like I'm not actually real anymore. It's not a serious thing, more a fleeting thought. The world spins and sometimes I feel like maybe I'm taking a revolution off. It happens when I catch a glimpse of someone I do recognize from back when this was, without a doubt, the only home I'd ever had. Rarely do our glances meet and I usually continue on my way without establishing any sort of reunion. This is a comfort thing. Although I can often chat with ease with almost anyone, I find it immensely difficult to attempt any sort of reconstruction of past relationships. I don't know where to find the words to say and I often feel tat there's a required apology to be made for not keeping up the contact that neither of us realistically expected.

Personally, I can't stand it when someone who I maintained minimal if any contact with during my time living here wants to grab a cup of coffee and catch up. On the surface, that may sound pompous and egotistical, but when you think about it, what would we talk about? There would be no "remember when" stories and any telling of how our post secondary education is going would be forced and generic. I've been in those situations, awkward conversations at parties and other like scenarios. I dislike it, and as such avoid them whenever possible. This could be why I am so damn alone here though.

I fear more than almost anything, that I'm growing weak. I'm less likely to make bold moves, less likely to talk to a stranger or even friend if I feel the slightest bit uneasy about it. It's not that I second guess myself more now, it's that those feelings of "maybe I shouldn't..." come earlier and my growing unease makes me succumb to those nerves. While this is surely beneficial, I don't want it to take away from the spastic, uncontrolled edge that I've always had. I'm glad that this is developing because, to be honest, I'm sick of that spastic nature allowing me to say and do things that hurt the people I love, but I don't want it to disappear completely. I used to be ballsy and arrogant. I'm fine with losing the arrogance, but I want to maintain my courage.

Living alone is a disaster for someone who over thinks situations as much as I do. I'm caught in the introverted part of myself, something I usually have to purposefully devote time to find. Now, due to the complete absence of other voices, the only one I hear is my own echoing against each nook of my mind and, like a childhood game of telephone, that original message or thought gets warped and twisted and becomes something completely different. Sometimes I can't remember which was the original and which I manufactured. At least I realize that this is happening. That helps.

I have slight qualms about ending a post on something like that, but I'm going to do it anyway.

Oh To Be A Kid Again

This past weekend has totally reinvigorated me. My visit to Grinaldo's college gave me that little jolt I've needed since I moved back home. Something about being around people my age as opposed to the silence and solitude that is my house right now just serves to, I don't know, wake me up again.

My house is quiet now because my mother is vacationing in South Korea. What a twerp. But back to my life...

Not even kidding, we watched Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I forgot how much I love entertaining action movies. Sometimes I get so caught up in over thinking life and art that I forget how to be entertained. Sitting on a carpet and letting Harrison Ford thrill me, it was great. I watched Raiders of the Lost Arc before I went to bed last night. I am so excited for the new one.

There was a giant Capture the Flag Nerf Gun Style game at Grinaldo's college this weekend. We took over their Student Center and ran around for three hours post-midnight, sleuthing around, sniping unsuspecting enemies, and sprinting to avoid the shots of those hellbent on preventing our victory. It was, to revert to a term from my youth, bomb.

A certain female took it as her responsibility to reintroduce that word into my vocabulary. For those curious, this is the same girl I spoke of last time. I took the advice of M.W. on my last post and went for it. It's gone surprising well so far, keep your fingers crossed for me. Please.

The job search is coming along. I got past the first step in becoming an employee of the new Nickelodeon Universe theme park in the Mall of America. That's right, I may soon be a scruffy carny (as KTB referred to me today). Look out mallrats.

I think I may go watch Jurassic Park.

Question Mark Is Apparently Two Words

So it's summer now, which is interesting. I've been home for about a week and a half, searching for some kind of meaning in the word "home." I'm quickly learning that, though I told myself I would never consider Cedar Rapids, Iowa a home, it has become one none the less. At this point I feel like maybe I identify more with that home than I do my Minnesotan life.

This could possibly stem from the fact that no one else is home right now, and I still don't have a job to provide me with financial support for the next twelve months. This is worrisome, and means that my days currently consist of television, reading, guitar playing, making mix cds, and a whole lot of time alone with my thoughts, which is terrifying.

I think about relationships a lot, probably because I am in that interesting place known to most as college. I've come to the realization that there are very (very) few women at my college that I have an honest interest in when it comes to my romantic side. That is not to say there are none, but I can count those that do walk my campus on one hand with more than one finger to spare. Am I just too picky? Is that a bad thing?

The bigger question is this. Every time I come home, my long interest in a female here crops up again. I finally decided to just tell her how I felt and was met with optimistic responses. But I'm going to be gone from home again in just over three months. After that, I'm not sure I'm coming home for the following summer. Is this really the best time to push the cart that is this possible romance along? Is there such thing as a best time? Can I write a blog that doesn't include an asinine amount of questions?

This year's graduation hit me harder than I expected. I kept telling myself that, like the female prospects of my campus, the graduating seniors this year that I was close friends with were minimal in number. That however didn't ease the fact that, though there were fewer of them, I was far more emotionally connected to them then those who left me last year. My goodbyes were quick and in many cases non-existent. I'm a big boy and I'll peddle through it, but it still pulls at me.

I am beginning to believe more and more that the Tralfamadorian time Kurt Vonnegut describes in Slaughterhouse Five is entirely accurate. I've used in in countless conversations with friends about why we make the seemingly rash decisions that we make. I've used it, at times, to justify my own actions. It works. Read up.

And for the love of god, where can I find a job?