Still Not Holden's Cousin

The End of An Era

2008-12-03T14:09:00.000-08:00

Base, contemptible , deceitful, devious, disingenuous, double-dealing, duplicitous, furtive, guileful, indirect, low, malicious, mean, nasty, recreant, secretive, shifty, slippery, sly, sneaking, snide, stealthy, surreptitious, tricky, underhand, unscrupulous

I’ve been had. I am ashamed. I’ve fallen prey to your motives. I am aghast.

Our first class, I was relieved to find out that my final semester at St. Francis would involve absolutely NO PAPERS! I have been at this college thing entirely too long to devote any more of my time writing about topics that aren’t related to my major. Is Professional Studies a real major, anyway? Oh well, no papers regardless! Until I printed out my blogs and realized I had written a heck of a lot more than I would have in a five page paper!!!!

Then I considered that blogs would be fun, a way to utilize my creative writing skills. You see, in the Catholic schools I attended you weren’t really allowed to express yourself creatively on paper; if you weren’t citing someone, your paper wasn’t worth reading. Perhaps writing blogs will be time consuming, I thought, but the positives outweighed the negatives.

When I began writing my blogs, I honestly didn’t know where to start. For me, expressing myself for the entire world to see was a daunting task – partly because I’m somewhat of a perfectionist, but mostly because I loathe pressure situations. Having to complete three blogs a week and meet a deadline was stress I didn’t necessarily need. I’m overreacting, I know. Drama queen: guilty as charged.

As the weeks rolled by, I really took interest in my classmates’ blogs; I was eager to see what everyone thought about the texts, our class discussions and in addition, their own life experiences. After the first few weeks of class I was certain that this class represented the best group of students I’ve ever had class with at St. Francis. I respected many of the students in the class for their intelligence, a representative group I’ve been hard pressed to find in my many years here.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading your blogs as well, professor. All semester long, I thought you did an amazing job of presenting the material before, during and after class, via your own blog. I liked to quickly refer to it each week before class to get myself “in the zone”. I thought it was a savvy alternative to the antiquated Blackboard system that most teachers fail to make use of. Kudos.

To be honest, what I found most interesting about writing my blog was how difficult it was for me to do it at set points during the week, in lieu of most often writing all three a few days before class. I tried my best to do it in an organized fashion: on a Thursday, Sunday and Tuesday. I found it incredibly difficult to do so, which brings me to what I would change about my blog if I had the chance to do so.

Besides doing my blog on a set schedule, I would refer more frequently to the blogs of my classmates in my own. I truly did appreciate having the option of indirectly gaining insight from others who have knowledge about topics that might have confused me. I regret not giving them the proper credit they deserve.

Dopey Fucked a Penguin

2008-11-19T13:15:00.000-08:00

I literally laughed out loud when I read that part of Tom's journal.
Dopey. Having sex. With a penguin.
Priceless.

What would Snow White have said?

Will and Tom, and their relationship altogether, made me think about a good friend of mine. She is an identical twin who grew up in her sister's shadow in every way possible. Nothing she ever did compared to her sister's long list of achievements and accolades. She was forever runner up, even though she was born a minute earlier.

I could never imagine having a twin, nor do I think the world would have been ready for something like that in 1981. I was trouble enough without a mirror image of my psychotic self.

Having a twin does come in handy, no doubt. The girl to whom I'm referring is actually getting married in a few months. Any normal girl would try on her dresses and choose her favorite, you know, the one she has dreamed about her entire life. Well, my friend is a special case.
When she goes this weekend to look for a wedding gown, her twin sister is actually wearing the dresses for her, so she can have a better view of what she'll look like walking down the aisle.

Tom, by giving his life for the sake of his brother, and practically saving his brother's marriage, did everything short of trying on gowns for him.
That pervert probably would have.

If Walls Could Talk

2008-11-19T10:36:00.000-08:00

I am a child of the 1990's; I remember when KTU was new to the airwaves, when wearing t-shirts with cartoon characters in baggy clothes (from front and back) was cool, and when there was still some signs of order in this crazy world.

I know that sounds pessimistic, but after working with middle schoolers since 8:00 this morning, it happens. Am I alone? I'm sure someone else must remember when, if you were running at full speed down the hallway and a teacher opened their door and yelled stop running, you would. I'm sure someone must recall a time when you went to church on Sunday because if you didn't, someone would be disappointed. Anyone. And that mattered.

In House of Leaves, as the relationship between the Navidson's deteriorated, and in turn, an expansive void appeared, a culture defined by its loss of morality came to mind. I was there when it appeared, and now I'm suffering the consequences: their children. For Navidson, Zampano, and everyone else who tried to figure out the reason for the nothingness that occupied those dark, immeasurable hallways, we as a culture must also look for answers.

When will respect be "in" again?

When will it be "cool" to listen to a teacher when they ask you to do something?

When can I wear my t-shirt again? You know, the one with Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd in baggy jeans and gold chains?

Avoidance at all costs

2008-11-19T08:48:00.000-08:00

For three years, I've been asking myself the same questions on my way home from work/school: What am having for dinner? Do I have homework? What's on TV tonight? Is there enough wine in the apartment?

Four weeks ago, after much thought, I decided to make a conscious effort to cease all drinking during the work week. Why?

I was a wino. A lush. A poor man's Amy Winehouse, decidely not in rehab.
I was wasted. I was boxed. I was my liver's arch nemesis.
I was trashed, I was twisted, I was one martini short of Karen Walker.

But, why?
Avoidance.

I started drinking every night three years ago when I moved into my first apartment. My first night there I became close friends with the man who owned the liquor store on the corner. To be honest, I'm not sure if that relationship could be defined as friendship, considering the only thing he knew about me was that I liked when he had gallon bottles of Carlo Rossi Sangria in stock.

So recently, when I viewed my progress over the past three years in every aspect of my life, I realized that, while in my coulded state of mashed-grape euphoria, I was a loser. I am still making shit money; I still have little idea of what i'd like to do with my life, or at least haven't made many moves to clearly define it, anyway; I'm still a child at heart, in all the wrong ways.

I can relate to Johnny Truant. I see why he lived the life he did, full of boozing, promiscuity, and drugs. After his distressing childhood, he created a life for himself devoid of responsibility, a world I can relate to. It's a fun life; a sad life really, and therefore, I had to make a change.

I am proud of Johnny for ending his substance abuse so that he could remember the small details that make life worth living; the details that help everything make sense.
I hope he would be proud of me.

Skip It

2008-11-12T19:56:00.000-08:00

The only parts of the novel I skipped, and I'm being completely honest, were the long lists of references and the scientific garble that appeared a small number times throughout the novel.
For the most part, part of my difficulty reading the book was that there seemed to be so much more to read than the page appeared to contain. I am usually a ridiculously fast reader - no such luck with this bad boy. It took me hours to read less than 35 pages. NEVER IN MY LIFE! It was beyond frustrating!

********************

Terence tried to find every opportunity he could to read The House of Leaves. From the outset, the book intrigued him, as he quickly flipped through it on the elevator ride upstairs after purchasing it in the bookstore. After reading the back of the text, Terence though for sure, he'd enjoy the book as much , if not more, as he had the others read during his final semester at St. Francis College. That night after class, while impatiently expecting the R train, he finally dove head first into the readings and was immediately concerned. Was this going to be one of those books that doesn't really have meaning but makes you think it does until the very end when you come up empty?

After shaking off such pessimistic thoughts, he started to realize that although it wasn't an easy book to read, he found it surprisingly interesting. At that point, anyway. As he read, Terence began to realize that the analysis of the film, without the footnotes provided by Truant, was reminiscent of an academic paper, a thesis almost, and that sat well with him. When he felt compelled, however, to read the footnotes in courier, he became confuse, discouraged, and annoyed. Why is Truant such a mess?, he thought, while forcing himself to read on. The answer never really came. And that didn't sit well with Terence.
Before he knew it, Wednesday rolled around and the reading had only gotten more difficult. There were fifty pages left to read, and trying to make sense of it all was a painstaking process that Terence almost didn't have time for. "Onward!", he reminded himself, but to no avail, he repeatedly found himself rereading passages that had irked him before, and no change, they did once again. Please God, he thought, please strike lightening on this book and make it disappear! But you do appreciate the book, don't you, the little angel on his shoulder said. YES! Unfortunately I do! But that still doesn't make it any easier, he replied.

When a house is not a house

2008-11-12T19:16:00.000-08:00

For the Navidson's, their house was a sort of new beginning; time away from modeling for Karen, the children could have a grounded home life with both parents present, and Tom, could see to all matters familial, for once and for all. When they returned form vacation, the change in the house triggered a change in them, or a return perhaps, to a place they were before the move; distance again separating the two partners as it had before. This time however, the distance lie behind a door that apparently appeared from nowhere, a dark void like that in the relationship between Karen and Tom.

What lies behind the door at this point is one thing: a secret. Is there a being behind the door, growling in the darkness? Will it eventually attack those who enter the dark space? Or is the space a metaphor for the darkness inside, the beast within, another biblical reference to join the many in the novel. Secrets are no stranger to the inhabitants of that house: Was Karen truly unfaithful? We witness a moment of weakness when a kiss is exchanged in the house while Tom is preoccupied. Is it true that Navidson is a closeted homosexual, as suggested in a footnote early in the novel? There is certainly no evidence of this accusation, but is an interesting angle none the less.

I wish I could decipher more about the hidden meaning behind the book. The truth is there's so much happening at once that it makes it difficult for me to narrow it all down. I'm hoping in the second half of the novel the secrets are revealed and there is some closure to such an open-ended piece of literature.

Character Sketch

2008-11-12T18:59:00.000-08:00

Karen Green

Former model

Pg. 11: "Once a model with the Ford Agency in New York, she has since put behind her the life of Milan fashion shoots and Venetian Masques in order to raise her two children.

Practical to a fault

Pg. 30: "Karen refuses the knowledge (of the inconsistency in measurement of the house). A reluctant Eve who prefers tangerines to apples. "I don't care," she tells Navidson. "Stop drilling holes in my walls." Later in the text, she resorts to phone calls to her mother and friends to deter thinking about what is occurring in the house.

Gatherer

Pg. 37: "She remains watchful and willing to let the bizarre dimensions of her house gestate within her. She challenges its irregularity by introducing normalcy: her friend's presence, bookshelves, peaceful conversation. In this respect, Karen acts as the quintessential gatherer".

Video

2008-11-12T18:51:00.000-08:00

Page 64: "Finally, Navidson stops in front of an entrance much larger than the rest. It arcs above his head and yawns into an undisturbed blackness. His flashlight finds the floor but no walls, and for the first time, no ceiling. Only now do we begin to see how big Navidson's house really is.

As with the optical illusion posted above, what appears to be one dimensional, when manipulated properly, takes on an entirely new appearance.

House

2008-11-12T18:27:00.001-08:00

Pg. 119, Footnote: "Aside from the practical aspect of fishing line,- a readily available and cheap way to map progress through that complicated maze-there are obvious mythological resonances. Minos's daughter, Ariadne, supplied Theseus with a thread that he used to escape the labyrinth. Thread has repeatedly served as a metaphor for an umbilical cord, for life, and for destiny.

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words. Or is it?

2008-11-05T12:45:00.000-08:00

I was shocked. I was disgusted. But I couldn't look away. Was it a wax figure in that bag, a Halloween decoration of sorts? When I realized that this young woman was really giving a thumbs up in front of a dead body, I was horrified. I thought about how many wakes I had been to. I remembered the smell of death masked by cheap flowers arranged in various shapes reflecting the hobbies and interests of the stiff.

A friend of mine, when posing for a picture, is known for naturally making squinty eyes right before the flash goes off. On a whim a few years ago, by adding the peace sign, she was a Japanese tourist, and has been known to make that pose in one out of three pictures since. It's funny to everyone who sees it because of the obvious association one makes with tourists in general. Then I thought of someone, who for all purposes is a tourist, used by the American government to "investigate" the probable causes of death to our Middle Eastern opposition.

In the Times article it fascinated me how the muscles in one's face can give deeper insight into the emotions that are taking place. I never thought about the complex system our bodies use to express our thoughts. It's pretty amazing.

Thoughts on Graffiti...

2008-11-05T08:47:00.001-08:00

As a kid, I remember growing up in a middle class family on a middle-class block in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. Mostly Irish, many Hispanic, and a few Asians families lived harmoniously and up kept our street, a joint effort. In the summer of seventh grade, a few of my middle class friends wanted to tap into a culture that was alien to our own; a graffiti culture with its roots in lower class neighborhoods and claws taking a hold on Hip-Hop. I remember racking my brain for a tag name: something that summed up my personality but could also give a nerdy, effeminate Irish kid some street cred. I decided upon Do-Do, like the bird. They were known to be a little off-center, as was I. It was also easy to write in bubble letters, something I was pretty terrible at.

Together, my friends and I would walk around the corner of our street and "tag-up" on the brick walls of the sweat-shops that lined the abandoned block. Truth be told, having a father who was patrolling the area in his police car was quite a deterrent, and therefore, my tag-up was more of a tag and run. I chuckle as I think of how I'd react today to see myself, an Alfalfa lookalike at the time, running from the authorities.

I didn't fit into the culture, I knew that. When I read "Bombing Brooklyn...", I, for the first time, opened up to the acceptance of the expression/outcry that graffiti provides certain groups of people. (the paper was super-enjoyable, a great read!) What struck me as interesting was how graffiti as a paycheck-producing art form has replaced the tagging up I once tried to do.

Whenever I have the opportunity to walk past the house I once lived in, no longer my parents' property, I'm amused by what an amateur I was. Who in their right mind would right "Do-Do" on their own house? Yep, that'd be me. Just don't tell my mom.

The Pillowman: Act III

2008-10-29T13:40:00.000-07:00

What an ending. I truly can't write much because I don't know what to say. Does that make any sense? I know it looks bad, but not even that concerns me; I'm speechless for the first time ever! He is a murderer, he isn't, the girl may be dead, but she's alive, the switching of stories. The zombie narrator. Jesus K. Christ.

It figures Ariel had something to avenge by interrogating Katurian the way he did (Now it really reminds me of SVU, how Elliot is a dad and hates child molesters, and Olivia is a rape victim, etc.). Tupolski was a prick, too, don't get me wrong. One day, I hope to be half the "writer" as Tupolski is. :)

I'll write more after class. I need to hear other people's interpretations.

The Pillowman: Act II

2008-10-29T11:29:00.000-07:00

Nothing seems to be true, factual, or anything that resembles the expected. When we learn that Michal was never really even tortured, it reminded me of the famous psychological experiment where people pushed an inactive button and willingly tortured other humans for the sake of conforming. Why Michal lies about the third death and its connection to the third story beats me, but it's an interesting twist when it is revealed that this too is but a lie.

Third story:
"The Tale of the Town on the River" (Act I) - I thought it was cool how McDonagh linked the tale of the Pied Piper with Katurian's third story. So I guess that kid wasn't playing this little piggy anymore after that hooded man left town. I suppose the story meant that fate has a funny way of playing tricks; that something that seems a hinder may be a help in another situation. Ok. So then what?

Fourth story:
"The Little Jesus" - Pretty sick. Parents can be cruel, but hey, put the girl on pills. I know having a daughter who is delusional can't be fun, but hey, that was a nasty punishment for a girl who thought she was Jesus. Could have been worse. She could have told people she was the devil.

Fifth story:
"The Little Green Pig" - So sweet. I loved how it ended. I was relieved that for a moment, the stories weren't Aesop Fables translated by this creep.

The Pillowman: Act I

2008-10-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

*****The Pillowman: Finally, something worth reading! Entertainment! Deliciousness.

Although I was waiting for Detectives Benson and Stabler to jump in and rescue Katurian during the interrogation, I was relieved when they didn't show up. I thoroughly appreciated the jumping from present to narrative. It's more my speed, reminiscent of a good thriller.

First story:
"The Little Apple Men" - So, like everyone else, I was shocked by how gruesome the tale turned out to be. I certainly wasn't expecting it to turn out like a bad Trick or Treating experience. What do I think it means? Well, initially I thought that perhaps the message behind the story was to heed suggestions or face serious consequences. Then I thought maybe the message was the things/people you foster may be the ones who turn on you. I'm not sure which, if either, is the correct interpretation. After reading thus far, there may not even be any rhyme or reason. I guess I'll find out tonight in class.

Second story:
"The Three Gibbett Crossroads" - The obvious: being punished for a crime you don't know you committed. That sucks. After reading the novel the only connection I could find between this story is Katurian adding fuel to the fire by unwillingly letting his brother in on his twisted world. He provided an outlet for him to release his years of frustration onto other children, as he once had been, with the stories as a guideline for his murders.

Thoughts on Blackwatch (Music and Temperature)

2008-10-20T06:06:00.000-07:00

The music really hit home for me, being of Celtic descent myself. The sounds of traditional bagpipes meshed with modern ballads was a masterful combination. The pertinent lyrics and haunting melodies added dramatic interest to the show, fully immersing the audience in a sensory experience of the audio and visual. The gunshots fired several times throughout the play were well placed and startling, further providing an uncomfortable environment for the viewer. At times, one almost feels as though they are transported to the dangerous sands of the Middle East.

Which rbings me to my next topic: THE HEAT!!!!! Wow. No intermission and no air conditiong; that's an idea! As I sat and watched the show, the whole time regretting I had worn my tanning cream, I realized that perhaps the director put us in that position so we could in some way, if even for an hour, be exposed to the elements as these soldiers are in times of war. As I watched upper class New Yorkers fan themselves throughout the peorformance it occurred to me that if such a decision to cut the air was premeditated, it was BRILLIANT, even if my collar looked like I was attacked by a pumpkin!

Thoughts on Blackwatch (Acting and Blocking)

2008-10-20T05:54:00.000-07:00

I have a confession: I actually LIKED Blackwatch after I had the pleasure of seeing it performed. In retrospect, I guess my main reason for hating it in the first place was because of the distraction of the language, thereby forcing me to not really give the play a chance from its outset. When the language no longer was an issue (Irish and Scottish brogues are no stranger to me), I was able to entertain the true meaning of the play, identify the characters more clearly, which allowed me to relate to them more than when they were a bold word at the beginning of a long line of garbled English.

The layout of the theater was also interesting, and watching the actors parade down what resembled a runway and all the space it provided was no easy task. Luckily, the direction and choreography was dead-on and each inch of the floor was skillfully utilized. The two-tiered platforms on each end of the theater further utilized space, this time vertically, and engaged the audience from what seems like every angle possible. Furthermore, the television sets, although small, related a sense of the media's affects on the War in Iraq, which was a prevalent theme throughout each of our war pieces.

2008-10-08T11:31:00.000-07:00

"It takes 300 years to build an army that's admired and respected around the world. But it only takes three years pissing about in the desert in the biggest western foreign policy disaster ever to fuck it up completely".

This quote, taken from the middle of page 71 of this terrible play, actually meant something to me. It made me realize that, as an ignorant American, I was unable to truly take something from this play that I regarded as meaningful. To these men, and since it is based on a true story, real people, they were fighting for something bigger than themselves because they lived in a "peaceful country". They really were, in effect, fighting for world peace, which is the reason any nation goes to war. As Americans, we forget at times that war is not a solution to most problems. Not only that, war is most often, in this country, a facade for our selfish alterior motives. It's difficult for me to comprehend what it must be like to risk one's life for the benefit of a country that could care less about the survival of the little people. These men's stories are worth reading because we are able to see from another perspective how a war, especially an unnecessary one, can ruin the lives and reputations of even those who have the best intentions, without anyone caring.

Just ask them.

Torture.

2008-10-08T07:29:00.000-07:00

So, Black Watch. Hmmm.

My complaints:
1) I haven't read Shakespeare in some time, but after the first few lines of Black Watch I thought I was. I remember being in grammer school and reading Romeo and Juliet and Othello with the classic version on the left page and the modern English translation on the right. I wish Black Watch was released like that. It wasn't so instead, I began to make a glossary of terms with translations on each page so I could more easily follow along. To no avail, it was still a terrible read.

2) Ask which character said what and I couldn't honestly tell you. Did I read the play? Yes. Was I able to identify with any of the characters? No. Do I know which character is which? Hell no. It was a jumbled mess of swearing and slang. Reading plays isn't the easiest thing to do, even when written in English (our English). The Mercy Seat was obviously easier because it dealt with two characters, it was written in America English, and it dealt with topics of which I have interest.

3) There was very little action. For the majority of the play, the discussions focused on what I consider fluff. It was like a Seinfeld episode set in the desert. I am totally open to admitting that this play may have gone over my head since after having read the reviews I felt like a moron for not loving it. I didn't.

4) A pool table that turns into a tank? Really?

Unmarried. Unsingle. Unloved?

2008-10-01T08:02:00.000-07:00

The freedom to love since childhood nursed in a mother’s womb

Cradled by the life of another a breakthrough an extension of the love of two people

A realization of that fact and the need for duplication a sense of ownership

Owning and being owned a glance a tingle under the skin goose bumps

And standing hairs the world at a standstill

Love does exist in oneself between family and friends without boundary

Some say sadly mistaken for the invisible line an unspoken law

For a child deciding to choose an object of affection a partner a lover

More than that beyond the corporal indulgence the warmth of two bodies

Joined by a heart a mind a choice not mother to child but the result of a search

A process dictated by the trinity of heart soul mind

It is said one must love oneself before being loved or loving another and as

More and more children are being born deprived of the intention to love until

Death do us part a sense of true love within is but a myth born into the world where

Love is too complicated a feeling to rely on how can one learn to love oneself when

Role models are becoming more and more few less visible in a culture of reckless sexuality

I choose love I am love I see touch and hear love can you hear the tingle under my skin

Hear the hairs standing on my arm when love is inside my soul can anyone

See how my mind races when I think of the feelings inside that most people choose to deny

I am capable of a time long ago a time of hidden romances and “roommates” and unrequited love

I choose to love without thinking pondering penance

Is love a white gown the inside joke among friends when purity is a forgotten term

Does a judge’s signature decide if what I feel is normal or appropriate sanctity and poverty and

Emptiness ignored but present is a subtle punishment for being oneself no more than

A Child born out of love learning to love over time a feeling a subconscious decision

A life without marriage no less but love throughout

On death and dying, on life and loving..

2008-10-01T07:46:00.000-07:00

This week has most likely been the most bizarre I've ever experienced. I usually lead a simple life, devoid of traumatic goings-on and therefore, live vicariously through the lives of the characters on the pages of any good novel/memoir. This week was different. Fuck different, it was terrible. Here's why...

This week, I learned that one of my good friends hung herself in her boyfriend's bathroom because he found out she was cheating. She had gotten laid off, used the boyfriend to pay her bills for many months, began seeing someone else on the side, got caught --- the boyfriend naturally wanted every dime she borrowed from him, he threatened her, shouted, and left angry and went out for a much needed drink. Well, that drink turned into a 12 pack and five years of therapy when he came home to find the money she had borrowed on his kitchen table and the now ex-girlfriend dead in his bathroom.

I then learned that a co-worker, another good friend of mine who is a former Catholic school principal, a former Brother, who had the balls to come out in the late 80's and leave the order, died from what we think is a heart attack in his apartment yesterday morning; probably not the way he wanted to start the Jewish New Year. Now we are left to sort things out with his partner since most of his family never came to terms with his sexuality. Assholes.

Writers have always used traumatic experiences as a catalyst for important work. We saw that with both the Mercy Seat and with Jarhead. So, amidst all of my shock, surprise, numbness, anger, fear, retrospection, and hope, I came across a poem I had written over the summer that could have been written by me yesterday. The true background of the poem is it allowed me to pour out my feelings on my inability to be married legally in the majority of the US. I felt this poem was now even more appropriate because life is short, too short, and denying someone the right to be happy in a life where life may not last much longer simply pisses me off.

And so, without further ado, my poem.

Kristina Got More Action Than He Did!

2008-09-24T13:23:00.000-07:00

Throughout his memoir, Swofford makes several references to lies, deceit, and those who partake in such extracurriculars; we further realize how honest he, himself, is and how it seems he has been surrounded by those who are akin to those types of behavior (i.e. Kristina, his brother, Fowler, etc.). On page 245, Swofford closes a chapter describing how he and his comrades take fir at anything beyond the firing line in sight, using enemy weapons perhaps to prove his point that "Their weapons didn't fail. They failed their weapons". When the Americans display their firing prowess and then begin to shoot upward, Swofford seems to duck under his Humvee and begins weeping.

It is at this point he states, "I hear my screaming friends, those men I love, and know we'll soon carry that mad scream home with us, but that no one will listen because they'll want to hear the crowd-roar of victory". Since he is clearly concerned with upholding the integrity of both himself and the Suck, he takes his experiences, puts pen to paper and allows us to see inside the daily goings-on of "Active Duty" combat. What is delivered is an anticlimactic account of what I perceive to be his actual contribution to the war. Not even close to as much action as Kristina got in that hotel.

2008-09-24T06:17:00.000-07:00

"We're bait. And for the first time since my arrival
in-country, I feel completely dispensable. Countless other times I have
felt worthless and unimportant, but never completely dispensable".

I've always felt that it takes a certain type of person to serve in the armed forces; the fear of death has deterred me from ever showing interest in such a lifestyle. A woman in my building has a son who is home from Iraq after a two year tour. In the elevator one afternoon, she filled me in on her little secret to coping with the stress of being a parent of a marine. "As long as there's liquor on the shelf, I can sleep at night."

I remember that afternoon and my first thought was what kind of idiot would put their life in danger for a country that, in my opinion, has such unclear intentions in the Middle East? Why would one throw their life away to protect a country that can't even rebuild itself after a natural disaster that happened some four years ago? Then I thought, what kind of person would make their parents miserable from worrying about their safety like that? I would never be able to imagine my sleepless mother crying every night, awaiting my safe return to the states.

For Swofford, escaping his family life was certainly a part of his decision to enlist: his father, a philanderer, his mother sighing away, his sister in her padded room, and his brother, the imaginary player of the year. I then realized that the woman in my building seems like a kook, and perhaps that's the reason he fled the country - piece of mind. But does one find that in the military? I think so. But not the way one would hope. I believe you find someone else's piece of mind, another's opinion, belief system and thoughts. You are a tire and the armed forces the air that pumps you up and ultimately deflates you, lacerated by post-traumatic stress or the list of hospital bills the miliraty's insurance plan was supposed to cover.

That being understood, why would a fresh-faced American suit up for a machine that, as Swofford put it, makes you feel worthless, dispensable? Maybe it's patriotism. Maybe it's insanity. Or maybe, it's the empty bottle of liquor on the shelf.

Egghead or Jarhead?

2008-09-23T14:22:00.000-07:00

I remember being an adolescent and finding great joy in throwing raw eggs at factory workers from the rooftop adjacent to my backyard in my childhood home. Every now and then the idea would come to us, purely out of boredom, to ruin the day of an unsuspecting, most often Asian, sweat-shop employee. Sure, I've come a long way from that yoke-hurling ingrate to a more refined version, a twenty-something who is now aware of just how much money a carton of eggs costs. Oh yeah, and assaulting people from above is rude, too.

I guess what I loved about doing such things was that in every other situation, I was a goody-two-shoes, star student, performer, and all around kiss-ass. It was during those brief flashes of mischief that I felt like I was a part of the subsect of society that often did that sort of thing, the bad-boys, the delinquents. As I continued reading Jarhead, one of the minor characters with whom I sympathized, and not necessarily agreed with, was Fowler. He was a soldier, a self-proclaimed master marksman who never really got to display his prowess but on the likes of innocent camels trotting helplessly through the blistering dunes.

He had an opportunity to do something great, and sure, to most people serving in the Marines and coming home safely is enough. For others, like Fowler, he was deeply saddened by his lack of excitement and experience and therefore, fabricated heroic tales of war; civilians saved by his own American hands, a example for all.

I guess the reason why I understand where he was coming from is because when I look back on those shell-slamming days of my youth, I realize how boredom affected who I was as a person. A kid with nothing to do has an easy time finding countless ways to waste away an afternoon, but for a soldier who carries a weapon and ammunition and never has the opportunity to use it, that must be the pits. It's no wonder to me he used those poor camels as target practice, although I don't agree with murder being the only source of release.

As I read Jarhead, I realize how much free time these poor guys had and I'm fully aware of the insane thoughts that can run through one's mind when there is plenty of time for them to sneak in (i.e., my summer of hating myself). Fowler was a loser, and it takes one to know one. Egghead.

Lord of the Jarheads

2008-09-17T13:34:00.000-07:00

To clarify my comparison of Jarhead with Lord of the Flies I am borrowing an excerpt from the Spark notes website discussing the boys' loss of innocence because it is concise and easier than trying to explain it myself.

Loss of Innocence

As the boys on the island progress from well-behaved, orderly children longing for rescue to cruel, bloodthirsty hunters who have no desire to return to civilization, they naturally lose the sense of innocence that they possessed at the beginning of the novel. The painted savages in Chapter 12 who have hunted, tortured, and killed animals and human beings are a far cry from the guileless children swimming in the lagoon in Chapter 3. But Golding does not portray this loss of innocence as something that is done to the children; rather, it results naturally from their increasing openness to the innate evil and savagery that has always existed within them. Golding implies that civilization can mitigate but never wipe out the innate evil that exists within all human beings. The forest glade in which Simon sits in Chapter 3 symbolizes this loss of innocence. At first, it is a place of natural beauty and peace, but when Simon returns later in the novel, he discovers the bloody sow's head impaled upon a stake in the middle of the clearing. The bloody offering to the beast has disrupted the paradise that existed before—a powerful symbol of innate human evil disrupting childhood innocence.

It is in this regard that I see a comparison between Anthony as a 20 year old just beginning his career as a Marine to the person he becomes later on in the novel (we see a slight glimpse of his new self in flash-forwards in some sections). This is why the quote "...never be young again..." set off a little flashlight in my head.

Youth in Jarhead

2008-09-17T10:32:00.000-07:00

"It occurs to me that we will never be young again."

Before this summer, I 've never had much interest in any media related to war or violence in general; I've never enjoyed watching war films, reading books involving war, or anything related to gunshots, bloody corpses, or realizing the awful conditions that soldiers at war must endure. I'll always prefer a chick-flick, however, this summer I had the pleasure of studying Film with Lynne Jackson at SFC and I saw such media from a different perspective.

When I perused the syllabus and read that we would be studying "Full Metal Jacket" I was definitely a bit bummed, but "Moulin Rouge" thankfully evened the playing field. My thought? It was WONDERFUL. It was beyond that, even. I was so impressed it actually changed my opinion on that genre of film, and thankfully so. It is for that reason that reading Jarhead seemed like no big deal. And through the reading thus far, it has been a big deal - in a really good way!

The novel captivated me from the outset, and I was immediately able to sympathize with the hardships that soldiers must endure. On page seven, the above quote stuck out like a sore thumb for me and really set the tone for the first half of the novel. I became aware from that point of exactly how young the characters were and what they were being asked to do. As I wrote in my previous blog, I have luckily never experienced anything like my mother had by the time she was my age. And now having read most of Jarhead, it amazes me what people are capable of doing regardless of age when left with no other choice. For me this novel has a Lord of the Flies feel to it, and I look forward to completing the second half.

Dear Mom,

2008-09-15T18:34:00.000-07:00

On Friday night I had the pleasure of meeting for the first time a real-life superhero. No, she hasn't ever won a gold medal, defended our country, or been written up in the newspaper.
"Oh God, Terence. When I was walking upstairs I started to realize how much I had to drink; I hope I didn't say anything stupid".

On the contrary, mom. That night, hearing you dish about your past: your
experiences as a young mother and wife, your years struggling to keep your
children in Catholic school while living with the pressure of making
ends meet, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, etc, etc, etc, made me realize how
a 21 year old girl who had the world at her fingertips became the 48 year old
woman who sat before me Friday night, a hero in my eyes.

Since I'm the oldest of three, I've always had a very close relationship with my mother. Maybe it's the first born son thing, but I have a hunch it's because I'm so much like her she can't help but love me as she does. Halfway through her second apple martini, the floodgates opened and mom began to talk about her pregnancies. She was recently married when I was conceived so there was little time to enjoy married life without the stress of babies crying and diaper changing. Also, my mom and my mother had received some bad news the week I was born. The week before, my father was diagnosed with a touch of MS and was completely numb on the left side of his body. He was 24, she was 21.

As she went on, I couldn't help but think of who I was at 24, what seems like an eternity ago. I had just begun living on my own and was making only $23, 000.00 a year teaching, forced to eat tuna fish or bagels with cream cheese each night because I couldn't afford anything else. Something clicked: I began to realize how strong-willed and special a person my mom is, even more than I ever have before. Would I have been able to handle the stress of a new born, a recent marriage, and a husband who could potentially be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life? No. Would I have been able to handle a baby that didn't stop crying for three years, a second child a year after the first, and the work schedule of a recuperated husband on the graveyard shift as an NYPD rookie, forcing her to sleep alone most nights if she slept at all? Hell no.

At 27, I haven't experienced ANYTHING close to what my mother had by the time she was my age. A memory: I remember making fun of her perm when she got home from the beauty salon that day when I was 6 because I had never seen her hair curled. Looking back, that was one of the few things she ever did for herself; I laughed at her. She was beautiful. Another thought: At times watching her argue with my father and not knowing how an easy-going optimist could become so angry with him, and with us, and now wondering how she didn't kill the lot of us all together. Incredible.

I love you, mom. I love you for everything you ever wanted to be and never were, everything you wanted to do for us and never did and most importantly,
who you have become and all that you did for us. Thank you for giving your children the opportunity to know you not only as a struggling twenty-something with the world on her shoulders but also as a 48 year old woman with a wealth of experience to share with her now twenty-something children.

I LOVE YOU, LADY.
Your oldest son, Teddy How

Thrown into yet another locker...

2008-09-10T10:16:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty tired of being spoken to like I'm a piece of shit simply because I'm gay.
Twenty seven years and people still can't accept I'm never going to have feelings like "that" for a woman, regardless of their opinions.

My entire life has been an attempt to go under the straight guy's radar, hoping to catch him on a good day when the need to throw me into a locker was an afterthought. In H.S. I learned that even the Honors Program couldn't save me from the torture that ensued throughout my four years held prisoner in an all-boys Catholic high school. I initially thought the concept of travelling from classroom to classroom with the same group of kids all day would allow me to blend in with the crowd, but alas, as I discovered, I'm the poor man's "Where's Waldo?"

As an impressionable frosh struggling to identify why I felt different, reluctant to grasp the thought of "my feet not touching the ground" for the rest of my life, as my father would say. A remedy?: I followed my instincts and auditioned for the Spring musical, for some reason thinking it would renew the confidence that had been violently stripped from me by innumerable shouts of "fag", "queer", and "homo" in between classes. Well, you can imagine the rest.

Now at 27, an employee of the Department of Ed., having somewhat recovered from the years of incessant name-calling, I once again feel bullied every now and then! In reality, not much has changed besides my age; schoolkids are still shitty, and I'm still just as gay as I was when I pranced across my H.S. stage proclaiming my love for "Rosemary" in "How to Succeed in Business...".

On any given day, a possible conversation with a kid goes something like this:

~"Excuse me, can you please pick that paper up and put it in the trash?"
~"Why?"
~"Because you threw it on the floor and it doesn't belong there."
~"You pick it up. Faggot."

Lovely.

This year, the mayor has begun a school wide anti-bullying program that protects kids like me from being harassed, assaulted, and threatened. Where was Bloomberg the Monday after the talent show after strutting my stuff for the herds of oblivious mothers who thought I was being "cute" and the disgusted blue-collared fathers who went for a bathroom break as I started shuffling off to Buffalo? Each time I walk down the hall of my school I notice the newly posted "Respect for All" initiative posters adorning the walls; I hope and pray, for gay students and teachers alike, that we will someday truly be safeguarded against those nasty, most likely closeted, bullies. Until then, I must do as I learned in Catholic school, to turn the other cheek and dance like no one's watching.

2008-09-09T07:08:00.000-07:00

It has been a few days since my last blog so I apologize to all my fans who have been holding their breath; may you rest in peace. There's really no excuse for why this second blog has taken so long other than the fact that time has become less available over the last few days. After working with middleschoolers all day, attending classes three nights a week, and playing in the New York City Gay Basketball League, the time I have is most often spent doing things such as showering, eating and sleeping. Blogging is really new to me, so hopefully it will become second nature and my readers will have more access to my rants.

So I finished the play "The Mercy Seat" in what seemed like fifteen minutes yesterday and I have to say, it wasn't particularly the best quarter of an hour of my life. Truth be told: I was immediately put off by the bickering I understand was near impossible to avoid under those circumstances. I grew tired of reading all the (beat)s that were added to Abby's lines to blatantly express her, for lack of a better word, bitchiness. I didn't want their relatyionship to work from the outset of the play because there were so many words in "quotes" that their conversation offered a view into the falsity of their relationship. I was never truly convinced and ultimately proven right, of their love for one another. Furthermore, the Doggy style conversation sent me over the edge.

The teacher with whom I cohabit a classroom lost her older brother in the 9/11 tragedy. Hearing her stories and seeing the pain in her eyes this past week when she recounts that day and the years of therapy brought on by her loss made this play seem trite in the grand scheme of things. It was a well written play that does offer insight into the darker side of tragedies and the exploitation that may ensue. But overall, it made me feel pretty shitty.

What "Back to School" blues?

2008-09-04T15:07:00.000-07:00

As my first week back to work after the summer off comes to a close tomorrow, I am grateful that I finally have something more to do with myself other than stalk Michael Phelps and sleep until 3 p.m. Don't get me wrong, everyone needs a vacation now and then, especially those who work with children. But two months? Most people are clearly envious when I'm the last one to leave Thursday Happy Hour in the middle of July; others wish they could have the tan I acquired naturally in lieu of their ten minute sessions at the tanning salon. Sadly, what they fail to realize is that having too much time on one's hands can be compared to a person with poor vision finally getting glasses - that first look in the mirror is a startling one, a Monet from a nose-length away. Inevitably I began to hate myself.

Something is terribly wrong when the only items on my daily agenda are clearly listed for all to see on my DVR. Sure, occasionally I'd take out the trash and polish my furniture. I had to eat. I had to drink; not as much as I did, though, but what else is a Kennedy to do? Meaningless walks around my neighborhood only made me long for the sound of MiddleSchoolers cursing each other out. By mid-August I developed a routine of looking at myself in my bathroom mirror and helplessly spouting Yo' Mama jokes; to no avail, I was only offended.

Last night in class as we discussed Time, I thought about my summer. I realized how much time I wasted these past two months: my feet never felt sand, museums were left unvisited, and my liver now hates me. One positive, however, I took from this summer was the realization that teaching isn't for me - I'll soon hand over my vacation and affection for adolescent disrespect to someone else. I probably should have realized that earlier, but as they say, there's no time like the present. And presently, I think I need a vacation.