How many people in your life have told you, "I love people watching. It's the best." A lot, right? I mean, I can't go days without someone voicing that silly cliche while sitting at a bar, train stop, school library, or airport. The whole idea of watching some dweeb spill coffee all over their crotch, witnessing a mother actually use one of those child leashes, walking on to a purposal, or any other random scenario that happens every day is an idea that covers the entire spectrum of human emotion. We feel humored, we feel pained, we feel sympathetic, and, more importantly and more times than not, we imagine and feel ourselves in the same exact situation. However, how do we feel when people are "people watching" us?
*Play "Twighlight Zone" music in head*
For the most part we don't even recognize it happening. Hell, there is probably some creepy middle-aged man sitting behind me right now watching what I'm doing. For those scoring at home: I'm drinking a Coors Light (soft), writing this rambling post, and ocassionally checking the TV at this airport bar. Pretty normal, right? Right. If I were to see someone looking at me right now I would most likely give them the What the fuck are you looking at look and continue with my evening. The creepy middle-aged guy would be "Pre-People Watching."
BUT, say my Coors Light slips from my hand, crashes onto the floor, and (for the hell of it) I start crying it automatically becomes one of the greatest "People Watching" sightings of all time. This weird older guy is going to tell his wife, who is going to have him re-tell it at dinner - inadvertantly telling the whole story for him - and I become an asshole without even knowing. Trust me, whether we're the story teller, having the story told to us, or the subject of the story, we've all been here. When the perfect moment of emotion happens, "People Watching" is one of the coolest activities you can pick up when killing time at, oh I don't know, San Jose Airport.
So, what's my point? Don't be the creepy middle-aged guy who has no story to tell his wife. In fact, don't be the creepy old guy who probably doesn't have a wife. Alright, I'm off point... What I mean is, don't sit and stare at various people in a public setting waiting, hoping, praying for some story to unfold. Yeah, you might catch a goofy outfit or two, but no one wants you sitting at a train stop looking people up and down. You don't want that for you. A few glances here and there are fantastic. When something hilarious like me spilling my Coors Light everywhere happens, a glance will do just fine.
Any way, have a wonderful weekend and, as always, play at least one Prince song.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Ramblin' 'bout Writin'
Hello there. I am certain this is about the third time I have gotten back into blogging and I am even more certain that the few who gave a damn have long since wondered where my words escaped to. Don't worry, Mom, I still have some creative writing inside this salesman head of mine. I single out my Mother not in the intention of actually singling her out, but because she is probably the one available to single out. Which, in retrospect, kind of defeats the purpose of even using the term, "single out."
Anyway, even though I do not have anything too terribly insightful to drop on you, it has been awhile since I have publicly posted any writings. That's just a fact. By the way, I say "publicly" because I actually write every single day. These writings range from short stories, mostly unfinished, monologues/asides, kind of half and half on the finished/unfinished spectrum, and, as some people know, poetry. Each individual poem is always finished, but they are never truly done. That last sentence was lame, I know.
I guess the poems themselves are much like song lyrics. I have never followed the poem structure of the likes of Frost, Poe, or Bill Shakes. Rather, I usually have some melody in my head and either start with some sort of chorus or verse and role with it. So really these binders and typed up pieces of paper I have are just lyrics with no music. Damn, guess I should have focused more on those piano lessons you used to have me take, Mom.
The toughest part about writing these rhymed sentences is attempting to share them with other people. Some read them, others have read ones written about them, and most, like I said, don't even care. It's funny though, because as I get older I am starting to care less what people's reaction would be to them and care more that they have any reaction at all. I want to start sharing it with people. Funny, how easy it is for me to crack a joke or make a prepared speech about a topic, but how it takes me an entire blog post to let you know I may or may not post current memoirs. Maybe it is a bit attention-whorish of me, but at least I am being honest. I write op-eds, attempted to host a pirate radio show (that is not dead yet...I think), and tweet mostly shitty stuff about my daily observations...but there's not much serious material I put out there.
Please do not get me wrong, I am not saying I am some poetic master penning the world's existence to paper. Some of it's about girls, some of it's about a long day, some of it's about a dog (that's actually true). However, there are important aspects of my life I have been able to remember - for better or worse - because I wrote it down. The passing of friends and love ones, failing miserably and searching for clarity in social and scholastic endeavors, ending friendships, starting new friendships, truly falling in love with someone, trust felt, personal (and social) reflection, and advice. What is so great about it is I do not feel like a member of the "Woah Is Me Club" while I write, either.
This is not a justification to anyone. It's basically a journal. Many of my close friends and family members know how seriously I take and use my writing. Getting out a lot of serious emotion allows me to not take other things in life so seriously...such as myself and all the petty shit we, as people, go through. But to the people who have just read posts about kiosk workers and fantasy football roster-bation, or the ones who enjoyed the "Drunk of the Week" on Tito and Barry Live, or for the people who think my twitter is ridiculous and should be deleted, know I do write about important stuff. Well, stuff that is important to me.
This is a really fun thing to do in every aspect. Maybe I'll expand each "personal journal entry" or "current memoir" into a well though out blog post...going forward of course. Hey, there's an idea. I hope I can think of some interesting topics between now and tomorrow night so I can stop talking about my own hobbies that you don't read.
Faucet, anyone?
Anyway, even though I do not have anything too terribly insightful to drop on you, it has been awhile since I have publicly posted any writings. That's just a fact. By the way, I say "publicly" because I actually write every single day. These writings range from short stories, mostly unfinished, monologues/asides, kind of half and half on the finished/unfinished spectrum, and, as some people know, poetry. Each individual poem is always finished, but they are never truly done. That last sentence was lame, I know.
I guess the poems themselves are much like song lyrics. I have never followed the poem structure of the likes of Frost, Poe, or Bill Shakes. Rather, I usually have some melody in my head and either start with some sort of chorus or verse and role with it. So really these binders and typed up pieces of paper I have are just lyrics with no music. Damn, guess I should have focused more on those piano lessons you used to have me take, Mom.
The toughest part about writing these rhymed sentences is attempting to share them with other people. Some read them, others have read ones written about them, and most, like I said, don't even care. It's funny though, because as I get older I am starting to care less what people's reaction would be to them and care more that they have any reaction at all. I want to start sharing it with people. Funny, how easy it is for me to crack a joke or make a prepared speech about a topic, but how it takes me an entire blog post to let you know I may or may not post current memoirs. Maybe it is a bit attention-whorish of me, but at least I am being honest. I write op-eds, attempted to host a pirate radio show (that is not dead yet...I think), and tweet mostly shitty stuff about my daily observations...but there's not much serious material I put out there.
Please do not get me wrong, I am not saying I am some poetic master penning the world's existence to paper. Some of it's about girls, some of it's about a long day, some of it's about a dog (that's actually true). However, there are important aspects of my life I have been able to remember - for better or worse - because I wrote it down. The passing of friends and love ones, failing miserably and searching for clarity in social and scholastic endeavors, ending friendships, starting new friendships, truly falling in love with someone, trust felt, personal (and social) reflection, and advice. What is so great about it is I do not feel like a member of the "Woah Is Me Club" while I write, either.
This is not a justification to anyone. It's basically a journal. Many of my close friends and family members know how seriously I take and use my writing. Getting out a lot of serious emotion allows me to not take other things in life so seriously...such as myself and all the petty shit we, as people, go through. But to the people who have just read posts about kiosk workers and fantasy football roster-bation, or the ones who enjoyed the "Drunk of the Week" on Tito and Barry Live, or for the people who think my twitter is ridiculous and should be deleted, know I do write about important stuff. Well, stuff that is important to me.
This is a really fun thing to do in every aspect. Maybe I'll expand each "personal journal entry" or "current memoir" into a well though out blog post...going forward of course. Hey, there's an idea. I hope I can think of some interesting topics between now and tomorrow night so I can stop talking about my own hobbies that you don't read.
Faucet, anyone?
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