Yup, I'm an ADK 1'er

If you’ve climbed all 46 mountains in the Adirondack High Peaks, situated in scenic upstate New York, you earn the title of ADK 46’er. I climbed my first peak, Mt Marcy, with my boyfriend (Paul) and one of his college friends (Will) this past Saturday. It was a 15-mile, 11 hour day hike along a rocky trail immersed in lush forests and rushing creeks. At the bottom of the trail, passing hikers would offer a friendly “hello”; unearthing a sense of comfort I’m not used to feeling in the cities I’ve lived in. Near the top, other hikers coming down from the peak would cheer you on with motivational lines like “You’re almost there” and “You can do it”. 

The funniest, and perhaps most challenging moment, was when I encountered the first pile of rocks thinking I’d reached the top. Seconds late, Paul pointed to the real summit — still about a mile away underneath a sheet of blue gray crowds. 

"Oh, fuck me." I said and pushed my aching legs to the edge of their limits.

When asked later on by Paul’s aunt, whose lovely summer home rests in the town of Silver Bay, just north of Lake George, what my favorite part of the trip was, I could only answer “Reaching the top of the mountain.”

But the journey itself — both to the top and back down — was an amazing learning experience. Though growing up between the stretching plains of suburban Illinois and the flat swamplands of Florida’s gulf coast did little to prepare me for such a lengthy and elevated hike, I felt inspired to rise to the challenge. At the top, we ate tortillas stuffed with mild cheddar cheese and smoked pepper salami. A friendly park ranger took these pics:

After the hike down, we had a beer at the Adirondack Loj. It was the best beer I’d ever tasted, despite being a domestic ale. Cheers to the ADK 1’ers!

 

My Cosmic Shift

We’re all in the middle of some grandiose cosmic shift. It seems like everyone around me is moving on to bigger and better things. Yet, here I am, with one more year left in Smallbz if I’m lucky. 

To be clear, I actually like living in Albany. But I also haven’t had much of an opportunity to travel since living here, other than to NYC (which doesn’t count because it’s two hours away). I like the idea of keeping a cheap home-base here, where I have many, many wonderful friends and traveling to larger cities when Albz really gets too boring (which it often does). 

I’m conflicted because on the one hand, I know that I’m destined to be a writer. But every time I want to write a short story or work on my novel, I am gripped with this overwhelming storm of anxiety. I’m not sure what to do with it. 

I expressed this to a man who gave me a tarot reading at Madame X in NYC a few weekends ago. He told me that I should look into writing screenplays. I pondered the reading for a while. When I stepped outside for a breath of air (since I no longer smoke cigarettes), I looked at an ivory building standing proudly underneath the setting sun. On it’s side, I saw the word “screenwriting”. 

Confusion set in. What about my novel? What about my short stories and poems? Then I thought, who cares? They are all stories and the medium through which people enjoy them does not matter. I am a storyteller and an artist. There are no limits for people like us.

Florida: Land of Racism & Misogyny

A few days ago, I created a vlog that expressed my discontent over the Trayvon Martin verdict. Moments before the upload, I put a status on FB and was amazed at the amount of whitesplaining going on from people who I'd thought were my friends. Take a look:

This argument went on for 28 more comments. Needless to say, I deleted and blocked him. Then, I subsequently posted a status about how I would block anyone else who defended Zimmerman with "soft" racism. Two people from Florida deleted me: one, a girl named Hannah who is uber-religious to the point of nausea and Leila (below) who also defended Ezekiel Gillbert, the Craigslist escort murderer, on another status. Here's her version of whitesplaining:

Bear in mind, that this is a girl who, at my age, still lives with an overbearing military father who drove her into a deep, dark state of depression that I and another friend had to help her out of years ago. But the women of Florida have Stockholm Syndrome and will continue to support misogyny because its all they've ever known. I don't hate them; I pity them. It's really sad that they will likely live the entirety of their lives in one place; never venturing out to see the beauty and love that the world has to offer. They will continue to wear their willful ignorance like a badge of honor.

You see, as a biracial girl growing up with white parents, I didn't understand racism until I moved out and started living on my own in Florida. I'd get pulled over for no reason by cops all the time, hassled for walking around in certain neighborhoods by lecherous old men and redneck racists, and on the rare occasions that I did get work, I was fired for no reason due to Florida's stupid "right to work" laws. As a child, I was often singled out for over-the-top disciplinary actions by lying teachers who had nothing better to do than profile. This was Florida. This is still Florida.

At 19, I moved to New York and started college. I could walk down the street or ride a bike alone without being hassled. I could learn something in class instead of just regurgitating shit I already knew. I could finally pursue a career in a creative field. These people remind me each and every day why I will never, ever go back.

The Acquittal of George Zimmerman: No Justice for Trayvon Martin

Should I Get a Computer Science Degree?

Ugandan Virgin Guy

Mother's Day Vigil

Main Character Biography Development Guide

A ran into a friend of mine from a tutoring class on the bus to school. It turned out, he also writes creatively. I created this guide for those who need help creating characters.

On Character Development

Character development can make or break the success of a story. People like characters that are both intriguing and relatable. This condensed guide is meant to give you a jumping off point for creating unique and interesting characters.

Appearance: One of the most important aspects of character development lies in their physical appearance. The way a character looks will say a great deal about their personality. What kind of clothing does the character wear? What color and length is their hair? Are they heavy set or rail thin? Describe their physical appearance in as many words as you can.

Tip: Some writers find it helpful to create a rough sketch of their characters for visual affirmation.

Goal: Every character should have a primary goal that fits within the plot or narrative of your story. For example, in a science fiction novel, your main character may desire to get back to their home planet because they got stuck on Earth through a shuttle crash. Come up with at least three goals for each character and determine which one takes priority. Remember, situational roadblocks can alter your character’s main goal. Showing character growth through the change of a main goal can be one way to create more dynamic characters.

Hobbies & Recreation: We can often gauge someone’s personality by the hobbies that they participate in. What does your character do for fun? What kind of music does your character enjoy? Where does he/she spend his/her free time? Does he/she have a gambling problem? Create a list of at least three things that your character would do for recreation.

Aversions: Everyone has pet peeves. What turns off your character? Does he/she hate loud belching? Does cold weather bother him/her? Create a list of at least five aversions for your character.

Interpersonal relationships:  The personality and feelings of your character will determine how they interact with other characters. When developing your character, consider how the character thinks about the other characters in your story.

•          What character(s) does this character conflict with? Why?
•     What character(s) does this character get along with, like, or even love? Why?
•     What character(s) does this character hold neutral feelings for?

Tips:

•     You can ask your character questions and write down the answers you think they would give.
•     Try acting out your character and record it. Play it back to determine believability. 
•     Create a brief monologue for your character and read it aloud. Does it seem real?

My Ideal Government

I try to stay away from political posts these days because I know that many people find my views "radical". However, some interesting conversation last night led me to investigate my own beliefs about anarchy and expand on what I think. I was asked, "What is your ideal government?" After a while, I realized that the question proved impossible to answer. I have always and will always view government as a necessary evil; an entity that works to ensure it's own survival above all else. Yet, I know that without it, society cannot function or advance. A well-oiled machine does not equal fairness or justice. A government can, as ours does, profit off of extreme inequality; the slavery that is poverty.

When you're poor in the United States, it is almost guaranteed that you will always be poor. The only way to escape poverty is to lie, cheat, and steal. For that, you are later punished through a for-profit prison system which works frantically to maintain the status-quo. You see, if rich people lie, cheat, or steal it is socially acceptable according to the system. The banker isn't going to jail for his theft, but the bank robber will spend half his life or more in prison if caught. Therefore, you must passively witness the enormous amounts of wealth surrounding you without a word of protest against those who oppress you. If you dare to reach out to it, you are chastised. The ghettos here do not differ much from the ghettos in other lands. The people who live there almost always spend the entirety of their lives in abject poverty - a fate handed down to them by the powers that be.

Race is a factor but not as much as it used to be. True, nobody cares about the little black boy who was shot or the black teenager who was violently raped. But, nobody cares about the poor white folks in the trailer parks, either. Children from poor families seldom end up on Amber alerts. No one cares about the racial/gender/class profiling of the TSA, the NYPD, and most law enforcement agencies where the soldier class is taught to view difference with suspicion at best and utter disdain at worst.

It is no surprise then, that the military industrial complex feeds on the lack of job opportunities for poor kids in rural areas in the same way that the prison industrial complex satisfies itself with the fresh blood of black youth. "Army Strong" advertisements target rural, white teenagers and young adults who know for a fact that the military is their only job option. They will be taught how to be good little foot soldiers who kill brown people in foreign lands for the sake of stealing resources as they plunge a once-thriving nation into the brutal depths of colonial subservience. God bless American imperialism.

The middle class is the most ingenious invention of the twentieth century. What better way for the government to divide the working class than by creating and implementing the educational industrial complex which spreads the false idea that some workers are more "special" than others because they dutifully acquired an expensive piece of paper. What they don't tell you, however, is that if you decide to self-educate through public libraries and other free paths to knowledge, you will never be taken seriously by the elitists who partied their way through Ivy league colleges for lineal bragging rights. Nor, will you be allowed through the fiercely-guarded gates of corporate enterprise into what is deemed by our society as "respectable work". Many geniuses are paupers.

What is my ideal government? One where the clutching chains of economic slavery are broken and all are truly free to take part in society in a way that is meaningful, absent of class, gender, and racial considerations. Maybe this is too utopian for you. But I will strive for it until the day I die. That is what it means to be an anarchist.

Crossdressing in NYC

School Blues

A Response to Bethany Black's "They call it climbing and we call it visibility"

My best friend is trans and without her my life would be resoundingly empty. She gave me a place to stay when I had nowhere else to go, helped me realize my support for anarchism, and understands me on a level that I know that no one else ever can or will. After 22 and a half years of beating myself up for being "weird" -- so far removed from society's definition of "acceptable" -- I can now say that I am proud to be gender nonconformist, pagan, bisexual, polyamorous, and biracial. I can say that because I have the support of some great people in my life, many of whom are trans, gay, lesbian, or poly. But what about those who have not found themselves so fortunate?

When I read about the death of Lucy, a trans school teacher from the U.K., I couldn't believe it. I knew that the "b" and "t" in LGBT receive far less acceptance than the "l" and "g". Let's face it, we still get a lot of shit from straight people and we even get crap from some members of the gay community. This tragedy highlights an issue that still remains underlooked. Sure, we've all read the stories about the devastating suicides of gay and lesbian teenagers who were bullied and abused simply for being the way that they are. But how often does one read about a trans person who commits suicide? And why is it okay for a national newspaper to invade Lucy's privacy during an incredibly tumultuous time with no regard for the consequences which ensued?

I am outraged at Richard Littlejohn's careless, insensitive, and irresponsible journalism practices which resulted in the death of an innocent trans woman -- a school teacher and a loved member of her community. I encourage my readers to email The Daily Mail to request the termination of Littlejohn's employment.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bethany Black: They call it climbing and we call it visibility: It's been a while, and I've been trying to think about starting to blog again.  I enjoy it and I find it really helpful, but every ...

Is Nothing Sacred?

I am on this train in a state of shock, so numb that I can barely feel my own fingertips as they press up and down on these keys. What began as an innocent and exciting potential trip to Toronto ended in mental rape and physical molestation by the Canadian border officials.

It took me a while to organize my scattered thoughts, to recollect exactly how and why I have been wronged. Every few weeks, I read all these horror stories about the TSA; how they treat everyday travelers like criminals and single people out who aren't "approved" to exist freely in our society -- mainly, those who are non-white and poor. I am here to tell you that it isn't just the TSA. It's the border officials on both sides, its government both local and federal, and to them you are nothing more than a piece of meat ripe for ridicule and mental torment. You are not innocent until proven guilty. You are guilty until proven innocent.

I am writing this because I want people to know just how totalitarian Western society has become. I am just one person, someone they wish to silence. But I refuse to be voiceless any longer. And I want to give my voice to the other voiceless.

My first train departed from Albany, New York at 10AM. Six hours later, we arrived at the Canadian border. I took some pictures of Niagara Falls before customs told everyone that we had to get off the train. Most people went right through without a problem. When I got up to the counter, a quirky, young brunette woman asked me where I was going and why. I said Toronto and for Spring Break. She asked if I knew anyone to which I responded that I did not. I put my bag through the Xray machine as they requested.

"What's in there?" said one heavy set middle aged female officer to another.

"Just a lot of stuff." a blonde officer responded.

Of course, they seated me in the additional screening area. What else is new? This happens every, single time that I travel probably because I look Middle Eastern or something.

"What are these?" said the first officer as she thumbed through my plastic vitamin bag.

"Multivitamins, gingko biloba, and biotin. I try to stay healthy." I responded.

She continued by going through my wallet, credit cards, pockets, and everything else. Another officer motioned me to come up to the counter.

"So we have to run a background check on everyone who comes through Canada." She said. "And it shows here that you have an assault charge in Michigan from 2007 and another in Florida."

"I was a minor." I replied. "And I don't have any convictions."

"Well, here in Canada anything over the age of 14 will remain on your record for life and count towards your application for entrance. If you have one charge or conviction that's more than ten years old, then you can enter. However, two means that you can never enter unless you receive a pardon from the Canadian Embassy. Do you want to tell me what happened so I can make a decision?" she asked.

"I was married at 16. Divorced at 18. My ex husband beat me and the police took us both to jail without asking very many questions." I replied.

"Usually in a domestic dispute, the police will arrest both parties."

"That's exactly what happened."

"The problem is they never entered what happened to these charges. So I will need to see deposition paperwork."

"I wasn't aware that I had any charges."

"Did you go to jail, pay a fine, or see a judge?"

"In Florida, no. In Michigan, I was arrested and jailed for seven days before being released. The day after I was arrested, I saw a judge in the morning and plead 'no contest'."

"Do you know the outcome of that case?"

"Unfortunately, no. I was 17, homeless, broke and scared. I didn't have anywhere to go but back to my aunt and uncle's house in Florida."

"Okay, can you just step into this room please?"

I walked into the room and they asked me to remove my coat, shoes, and arm warmers. To my horror, the burly lady walked in with my laptop as the young brunette had my open diary on the table.

"Those are very personal writings."

"I know but I have to see if there's anything in here that could be cause for concern."

"I don't want my diary read." I insisted. "It's personal."

"We see this kind of thing every day, don't worry about it. A lot of young girls come through here and they're desperate, like you."

After the burly woman patted me down, groping me everywhere from my breasts to my butt to my ankles, she asked if I had any drugs.

"Not hiding anything in your bra are you?" She asked, taking an extra long time to feel around my breasts, swollen from the onset of menstruation that day.

"Okay, you can put your shoes back on." They both seemed to say in unison. I hate how cops have this sort of hive mentality. Groupthink, or whatever its called. Bullies.

"Can you enter the password to this laptop?"

My stomach dropped.

No. No. No. NO! Please, God, please tell me this is all a bad dream and this is not happening. I can wake up at anytime. I can wake up...

"I have explicit pictures of myself on there." I stammered.

"That's fine. We're just trying to make sure you don't have any child porn or anything illegal."

 I had no choice in the matter at all. I entered my password and they started clicking around my desktop.

"I write creatively in my spare time. It's a passion of mine." I said after I saw her click on the poem Sleeping Ugly that I'd written for a creative writing class.

They all came by and glanced at my laptop screen. I wanted to know what they were looking at besides that poem.

"Okay, I'm just concerned. I saw something in your journal about suicide and bipolar. Are you on medication or anything?"

Great, they must have misread the entry about [my friend] who has bipolar and now they think I'm mentally ill on top of everything else.

"I haven't been hospitalized in over six years and that was for PTSD. I have no current diagnosis and I don't need medication."

"What happens if you go manic or something?"

"I'm not bipolar." I repeated calmly.

"I have several causes for concern." She said. "Normally, when we see pending charges like these we would deport you. However, I know you've had a hard life because people who have an easy life don't do what you've had to do for money."

I simply stood there in shock. I couldn't figure out which was worse -- the fact that this woman was patronizing me or the fact that she was accusing me of being a sex worker.

"We see a lot of young girls come through here. I know you're desperate."

Where does this woman get off acting like she knows me personally based on a few misread diary entries? What on earth would she know about desperation, looking as white and middle class as she did?

"These gentlemen are going to escort you back to the United States. This doesn't mean you can never come back to Canada but leave all that stuff at home and get deposition papers for those charges next time you apply for entry."

Why? So you people can put me through hell again? No, thanks. Canada's got a giant red "X" through it on my world map.

Two male officers took me to a police van and drove me back over the border. The U.S. officers were much friendlier. They asked if I needed a cab or anything and chuckled about how ridiculously strict the Canadians are about entry.

"Yeah, we see it all the time. People get sent back for everything."

"Apparently." I replied.

They pointed me to a Days Inn across the street near a Casino in Niagara Falls, NY. I booked a room for the night and opened my laptop to let some people know what happened. Afterwards, I went to the Denny's downstairs. Even though I was starving, I found it difficult to eat.

The waitress greeted me with a smile and quick service. She complemented my black and white tipped nails as she dropped off the menu. I was the only customer in the entire restaurant and one of the few hotel guests. Her kindness was sorely needed that day so I left her a $9 tip on my $11 check. Gotta pay it forward.

When I ran a bath for myself in the hotel room, I felt nothing but numb. I thought the warm water would comfort me but it did not. I thought the biscuits and gravy would comfort me but they did not. I thought some music would comfort me but it did not. Then it occurred to me that this is exactly how I felt after I was violently raped at 11 years old by the 13 year old girl living up the street.

Those female officers mentally raped me. I was treated as if I were less than human. Sub-human, even. I was humiliated in front of dozens of people; interrogated for over an hour only to be sent back over the border to the U.S. -- my vacation and spring break ruined. My uncle, a fellow traveler, would always rant and rave about Canadian customs and for the most part, I tuned it out -- thinking it would never happen to me until it did.

The After Effect (Funny NSFW Podcast in Albany, NY)

The Boy Who Cried "Strap On"

Since my roommate Clarese and I are starting a podcast this upcoming week, I figured I'd put some teaser material out here early. This is an experimental section we'll call "Craigslist Winners". And yes, that title is dripping with sarcasm.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is freaking hilarious!

Guess he found this pretty intimidating.

-----Original message-----

From: 
To: q2jzp-3628582578@pers.craigslist.org
Sent: Wed, Feb 20, 2013 02:51:12 GMT+00:00
Subject: strap on - m4w - 23 (518)

Hello,

My name is --- and I absolutely love strap on play. I have experience
as a professional dom and some sub experience (as a female switch). I've
attached my pic. Feel free to email me back yours.

-----Original message-----

From: 
To: "lakers518@gmail.com" <lakers518@gmail.com>
Sent: Wed, Feb 20, 2013 19:39:52 GMT+00:00
Subject: Re: strap on - m4w - 23 (518)

Hey what's up ---..nice pic..would u be interested in using a strap-on on me?

-----Original message-----

From: 
To: "lakers518@gmail.com" <lakers518@gmail.com>
Sent: Wed, Feb 20, 2013 19:39:52 GMT+00:00
Subject: Re: strap on - m4w - 23 (518)

Do you have a pic? 

-----Original message-----

From: 
To: "lakers518@gmail.com" <lakers518@gmail.com>
Sent: Wed, Feb 20, 2013 20:51:28 GMT+00:00
Subject: Re: strap on - m4w - 23 (518)

Yea I do..but id like to talk a little more before I send it..what r u into and what kind of a thing would u like to do..sry im just new to this and don't know what to expected but im basically just looking for a girl who would fuck me with a strap on

-----Original message-----

From: 
To: "lakers518@gmail.com" <lakers518@gmail.com>
Sent: Thu, Feb 21, 2013 02:01:01 GMT+00:00
Subject: Re: strap on - m4w - 23 (518)

I am serious I really want to do this..cool im from ---- to


-----Original message-----

From: 
To: "lakers518@gmail.com" <lakers518@gmail.com>
Sent: Thu, Feb 21, 2013 02:01:01 GMT+00:00
Subject: Re: strap on - m4w - 23 (518)

Pic?

-----Original message-----

From: 
To: "lakers518@gmail.com" <lakers518@gmail.com>
Sent: Thu, Feb 21, 2013 02:01:01 GMT+00:00
Subject: Re: strap on - m4w - 23 (518)

How do i know your pic is u? If u send me another pic of u ill send u mine

-----Original message-----

From: 
To: "lakers518@gmail.com" <lakers518@gmail.com>
Sent: Thu, Feb 21, 2013 02:01:01 GMT+00:00
Subject: Re: strap on - m4w - 23 (518)

Oh, well, then I suppose you have the ability to shove a strap on in your own ass. Too bad your head is already there. Good luck finding a mistress with that kind of annoying, flaky demeanor and endless series of emails where you waffle back and forth like a sissy bitch.

A Dream Realized

Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of seeing the world. I started saving for my passport when I was 16, starting with the first job I worked at Cici's Pizza in Texas. Unfortunately, I never received that paycheck and didn't find work again until I was 18. I tried again with the daycare job in Florida, but got laid off two months after working and needed every last penny for my rent. Six months later, I got a job in a bar but needed a vehicle to get there and back, which ate into my tips heavily. Shortly after, conditions proved negative for my mental health and I decided to go back to school for Web Design. After earning my associates, I tried getting freelance work but what little I got was always just enough to cover expenses.

Everything changed about one month ago when I got out of a shitty relationship and living situation. One of my best friends gave me a safe place to stay for the semester. Within a week, I got a job where I earned enough tips to apply for my passport.

I eagerly grabbed all my documentation and headed for the bus stop with my bestie, Clarese. The Route 100 took us to the post office downtown where, upon entering, I saw one of the friendly employees from the post office I normally frequent on Central Ave.

"I didn't know you worked here too!" I exclaimed.

"Meh, they move me around." He said.

"Today is a happy day. I'm applying for my passport. I'm going to see the world!"

"Congratulations." He said. "Talk to that lady over at the first counter. She'll help you out."

He turned to the middle aged brunette woman and said "She's my favorite Fort Orange customer. Take care of her."

I couldn't help but smile. For once, everything seemed to be falling right into place. I handed the woman my documentation and reached into my wallet for the $150 in cash.

"You're just missing one thing." She said.

My heart sank. I wondered if yet another obstacle had set up on my path.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Your application." She smiled.

Relief washed over me.

I'd almost completed my application with the pen I'd borrowed from the floating clerk before the woman came over and told me that I couldn't use blue ink. After spewing several expletives, I finally pulled myself together enough to fill out the damn thing all over again with a black pen. I didn't know all of my mother's information, but the female clerk at least found out that she'd entered this world in 1962. I stretched a smile for my passport photo and just accepted the fact that I looked like a dork. A very happy dork.

"You'll receive your passport within 4-6 weeks." She said.

Clarese and I counted down the moments until we walked out the heavy glass doors and back onto Pearl St. We hugged each other tightly as tears welled up in our eyes. My dream had come true. This poor, orphan girl is going to see the world.

Nuts, Bolts, & Wires: Oh My!

As a little girl, I'd watch my dad -- a humble maintenance man working a factory job down in Florida -- fix anything from cars to air conditioners with seemingly little effort.

"How did you do that?" I'd ask.

"Years of practice." He'd reply.

It took me several years to realize that his practical wisdom of "practice makes perfect" applied to anything. Both of my adoptive parents, who I'd taken to calling "Mom" and "Dad" since I could speak, didn't understand most of the words that came out of my mouth or the drawings scattered across the floor of my bedroom. Yet, they encouraged me to continue with whatever made my heart happy. Pulling random, science fiction-esque critters from out of the ether did just that.

At twelve, I wanted nothing more than to be a graphic novelist. A friend from middle school got me Chobits for my birthday one year. The style and story encapsulated me. American comics had nothing on the care, detail, and interesting plots of their Asian and European counterparts. I completed the rough draft of my own graphic novel at eighteen while working in some Christian daycare facility in St. Petersburg for a crummy minimum wage under the constant worry of ever-dwindling hours. On my half-hour lunch breaks, I'd scribble character dialogues and settings, page by page, into a dark blue college ruled notebook. After work, I'd go home to my then-boyfriend and we'd eat dinner while he watched TV-- glancing over at me every now and then as I worked for three hours straight on the night courses for my teaching certificate. When I went to sleep, I'd do a roach check with the cat and spray pesticide and/or bleach water (depending on what we had at the time) all over the counters, sinks, and electronics.

One day, some kid from work got me so sick with pneumonia I couldn't walk to the bus stop or even the bathroom. It took every ounce of strength in my body just to crawl across the floor of the bedroom and grab my phone off the charger. I didn't have a choice, so I called in. The director decided to fire me as I did, stating that my "performance had been poor". At that moment, I knew exactly what happened. The day before I'd gone to work despite feeling the nasty precursors of sickness, just because I couldn't afford to take a day off. One of my fellow co-workers noticed my struggling to walk, my incessant coughing and nose-blowing, and the unusually low intonation of my voice. She commented that I shouldn't work while sick. I remarked that not all of us possessed the privilege or the option of staying home from work. I really wanted to tell her to mind her own damn business and fuck off. Considering the way they acted, pretty typical of Southern Christians, actually, it wouldn't have hurt to say what was on my mind in the first place.

I never found another job for the remainder of the next two years I'd spent in Florida. The economy is still god-awful down there. Unless you're retired and rich, it's a sucky place to live. So, I moved away to Upstate NY, got a job and car, and enrolled in University. People in NY, for the most part, understand my thought processes a little better. Plenty of equally tough, absolutely wonderful creative people encourage me to keep going.

If there's anything I've learned through my travels and discussions with various people from all walks of life, it's that you can't let the douchebags get you down. I'm not gonna use a "bootstrap" metaphor here, not only because its offensive but because it fails to accurately define the intense personal struggle involved in trying to reach a hard-to-accomplish dream. Famous singers, writers, actors, etc. all have one thing in common - long-term struggle. An increasingly-technological, numbers-driven world does not appreciate people like us and will do absolutely everything in it's power to make us conform or destroy us. Don't. Fight. Always, always, fight. Always, always, create. It's in your heart. It's in my heart. It's the single most powerful force of human nature.

Creative people flow with ideas. The physical nuts, bolts, and wires required to bring our dreams and goals to life don't show themselves without conscious effort. When I felt down and couldn't write last week -- when the frenzy that is life tried to get in the way -- I remembered the words of my Dad. I'd spent so much time fretting about the quality of what I was writing that nothing would come out; almost like how amateur performers might experience a paralyzing sense of stage fright. In fact, ever since I wrote that huge paper for one of my English classes, I'd gotten so nervous about writing that the whole process felt less like fun and more like aimlessly twisting nuts and bolts.

Writing a book or a story, acting on stage, or singing in front of an audience all have a nuts, bolts and wires process. It's much less nerve-wracking when you realize that the process which at first seemed so daunting is actually laid out for you like a map. For example,

Writing

• First draft (Nuts)
• Second draft (Bolts)
• Editing (Wires)

Singing

• Vocal Warm-Up (Nuts)
• Practice (Bolts)
• Performance (Wires)

When I thought of it like this, everything fell into place. While I didn't make my goal of 10 pages a day, I got enough done. A friend suggested a little bit every day will go a long way. Taking that approach and keeping nuts, bolts, and wires in mind can bring me just a little closer to my goal of publishing this year.

Violent Video Games : Foamy The Squirrel

Jim Mathers' Foamy the Squirrel pretty much summed up my thoughts on people blaming video games for violent crime. Preach it, Foamy!

Lust or Love? A Valentine's Rave Affair - Brought to You by PyroTechnik

Hello, Albany muffins! My good friend, PyroTechnik, is hosting a super fun rave on Valentine's Day and you're all invited. I'll be blogging LIVE from the event on 2/14/2012.

In the meantime, don't forget to RSVP on Facebook!

Here's the text info:

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!! ITS FEBRUARY AGAIN!! LOVE IS IN THE AIR!!! BUT WE ALL HAVE A WILD SIDE, COME OUT AND FIND YOURS!! AT LUST OR LOVE FEBRUARY 14TH!!!

@ THE FUZEBOX !!! WITH AMAZING LIGHTS!!, FROM LAZERS TO STROBES TO FOG MACHINES!! WITH THE CAPITOL REGIONS BEST DJ'S!!!

ALSO CELEBRATING LOCAL PUBLIC FIGURE MichaelAngelo Forbes's/ PYROTECHNIKS 22ND BIRTHDAY!!

PyroTechnik will be performing live back to back with some of 518's best djays and your host for the night!!

LETS RAVE AND HAVE A GOOD TIME!! GOOD VIBES GOOD PEOPLE , OFF THE WALL AMAZING MUSIC AND A NIGHT TO NEVER FORGET!!!

LUST OR LOVE? WHICH ONE WILL YOU PICK.....
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18+ TO ENTER 10$ - 21+ TO DRINK $5

MUST HAVE I.D READY AT THE DOOR! NO EXCEPTIONS!!

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LINE UP TBA


NO DRAMA NO WEAPONS NO BAD VIBES!!!!


PERFORMING LIVE PyroTechnik!!!!

CHECK HIM OUT @ reverbnation.com/pyrotechnik

BECOME A FAN @ Facebook.com/PyroTechnik518

FALLOW HIM ON TWITTER @PyroTechnik518

FIND HIM ON INSTAGRAM @pyrotechnik21