Motorcycle Fetish

Just too fucking hot. Now that summer is slowly settling in, I see motorcycles parked everywhere and taking photos of them is fast becoming my artistic afternoon delight. Enjoy.

From Black Sand Journal

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Climate Incongruent To My Current Condition

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A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

From Black Sand Journal

When I am confronted with an unbearable situation, I make unfeasible promises to myself as a way of coping. I will not let my guard down, again. No one will ever reduce me to tears, again. My heart - now cast in steel - will not feel so much as a scratch, again.

I spent months directing masses of anger towards the world for building barriers that I hesitated to tear down. The walls were too formidable and too familiar, and I felt too frail to fell them. Once the debris began to tumble and the dust clouded my judgment, the last thing I should have been feelings was safe.

All that honeyed anticipation - conceived in a single beautiful, terrifying and utterly forgettable moment - has rotted instead of ripened. My anguish seems thoroughly unjustified. How do I tell people I lost something that I never really had and never said I wanted?

This illegitimate love, it haunts me.

Do You Discriminate Against The Mentally Ill?

If I were to reveal to you that I am mentally ill, would you be less inclined to hire me? Less inclined to date me? Less inclined to trust me? Less inclined to even associate with me?

The issue came up in a class of mine this week, when my professor contended that people with mental illness are considered unreliable sources. In fairness, I did not quiz him on his views after class, but I think it's worth discussing the misconceptions about mental illness that have led to discrimination based on it to become a well accepted practice.

Mental illness is an umbrella term - it includes everything from schizophrenia to anorexia to depression to Alzheimer's. Simply describing somebody as mentally ill is just as useful as saying someone suffers from a physical ailment - are we talking paraplegia or influenza? The extent to which a mental illness can/should be considered a disability is highly contingent on its specific type.

Mental illness is by no means rare - it affects 1 in 4 adults, which is roughly 57 million Americans - but its prevalence and nature are not immediately apparent from its frame of reference in mainstream news. 25 percent of the adult population are neither inept nor dangerous, but more often than not you will find the term 'mentally ill' in the company of criminals, the homeless and drug addicts.

Sensational stories that characterize the mentally ill as violent misfits scare not only the general public, but also the mentally ill themselves. Given its low standing in the public imagination, it's no wonder that people who experience a mental illness are reluctant to associate themselves with the term. The poor reputation of mental illness may prompt a person to hide his or her condition instead of deal with it openly, and those who do not seek help are more likely to suffer explosive breakdowns, which in turn supplements the poor reputation. The fear of being classified as mentally ill can manifest itself into the denial that creates this vicious, self-perpetuating cycle.

Thankfully, there are organization working to demystify mental illness. In its mission statement, The Icarus Project maintains that "we have mad gifts to be cultivated and taken care of, rather than diseases or disorders to be suppressed or eliminated." Mental illness should not be a source of shame and viewing it as condition to prosper from and not merely cope with is a powerful shift in emphasis that I strongly support.

I implore you to seek help if you think you may be experiencing a mental illness. If you are in college, counseling is usually free and confidential. I also hope reading this post has forced you to reconsider dismissing a person's worth based solely on his or her history of mental health. There are darker sides to the diseases, but it's unfair and unnecessary to relegate people to the shadows for having the courage to manage their mental illnesses in the public light.

From Black Sand Journal

In Twenty Years....

You turn up at my front door with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in hand and a smirk. Twenty years after college and I still only grudgingly drink gin in your company. I get two glasses, lots of ice, a little tonic. For the duration of our night-long conversation, every time I take a sip I grimace, every time I grimace you smile, and every time you smile I need to take another sip. This vicious circle is probably the most benign one we've seen during our long friendship.

Our eyes drift to the newer pictures plastered across my walls. The ones from our younger days are still my favorite - of us laughing at each other and all the sublime qualities of the city we both fell in love with. There are photos from my travels. You ask for the stories lurking behind the more startling images. I start by retelling an event in graphic detail, say crashing an inglorious motorbike - nothing like the ones I compulsively photograph - off a dirt path in central Asia. I quickly lose myself in describing the more memorable people I encountered - faces, accents, attitudes, idiosyncrasies. The days and years since college swiftly slipped away, we conclude after pouring over hundreds of photos together.

Now we're a little drunk, which inevitably leads us to playfully argue about how and why we first met. We skirt around some sensitive ground. You wield your trademark eye-locking glance and Cheshire cat smile; I stay silent for a moment longer than makes you comfortable. Somethings never change, we think to ourselves.

We begin to scrutinize each other for alterations. I wear a pair of 1950s black-rimmed glasses now, because after forty years my vision finally began to blur. I remind you, to rob you of your satiated look, that my sight will never approach legally blind like yours. It's impossible to pinpoint what exactly has changed about you with age; you always reinvented yourself on a monthly basis. But your eyes, thankfully, haven't lost a degree of intensity.

The rising sun dyes the sky blue with streaks of pink. We decide to grab coffee to sober up for the day. Though it is a trek, there is only one place our feet will take us, only one place worthy of capping off another classic night of catching up, only one place where our friendship began. I make sure to bring my camera, and I take what must be my 10,000th photo of you as you saunter down the cascading steps.

From Black Sand Journal

Yeah Yeah Yeahs secret show

I'm still out of breath. The tantalizing voice of Karen O continues to reverberate through my body the day after a secret Yeah Yeah Yeahs show in Chinatown. I have no words. Actually, I have a few.... after you watch this:



Karen O splutters beer like a geyser and exudes sounds as if perpetually on the brink of orgasm. She paired her thick blue eye make up with a kimono, which she stripped off to reveal a leather dress clad in chains and safety pins all tied together with a neon green bow. She looked like the goddess of punk and sadomasochism; her bewitching, creature-like movements at times paralyzed me. And Nick Zinner actually smiled.

The audience included an intoxicated Drew Barrymore and the delightful Andy Samberg. Those of us not of the guest list waited nearly two hours to gain entry. Lauren, Mike and I huddled together for warmth and chatted to a 25-year-old NYU alum who offered to share her weed and buy drinks for us under-21-year-olds (little did she know she was talking to some of the most relatively straight-edge college kids you're likely to find). Alex bailed on work 20 minutes early and ran 10 blocks to make it to the show in time. Her, "God, it's so hot" comment didn't go down well with those of us who had been freezing to save her a place in line for an hour and a half.

Mike actually touched Karen O's hand when she extended it over the crowd. Lauren shoved a fumbling Drew Barrymore, whose smokey-breath came at times too close for comfort. Alex talked directly to Karen O when the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were taking song requests (she asked for 'Date With The Night,' which they did indeed play). Mike got a sweaty towel and a chain that flew off Karen's dress. Alex actually climbed on stage to grab a set list, then tangled her foot in a cable on her way off and nearly toppled a monitor (Lauren was there for to save it).

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs definitely played their part in capping off the best weekend of my life, but none of it would have meant a damn if I couldn't share the moment with three of my favorite people in the world. I'm still radiating joy - my bones were tingling this morning and I keep rupturing the cut on my lip because I can't stop grinning.

Every time I've been screwed over, every horrible insult I've suffered, every moment I've felt let down and every scar on my body was worth enduring to lead me to the most spectacular night of my life. This is the rapture Blondie was rapping about.

Blue Spring

The weather in April has been nothing short of schizophrenic. One day I'm sweltering in my skinny jeans, the next I'm shivering in my rain-soaked hoodie. Why are transitions never smooth...

My moods have been as erratic as the weather. Yesterday, for instance, I felt tormented by irrepressible thoughts all afternoon, then went on to have the most spectacular evening out drinking Sangria and dancing till 4 AM. I cannot maintain a frame of mind long enough to write out a post about how I feel about anything, which is why I haven't blogged in forvever.

I did take a few photos during the sunnier days of the last fortnight. The photos this week remind me of my best friend Stefhan.

From Black Sand Journal

He and I studied the Italian Unification together in history class senior year.

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During history class, apart from taunting our teacher, we'd talk about movies, morals, anime, religion, video games and cars.

From Black Sand Journal

And his favorite film is "Big Fish."

Soccer Ball and the City

It all started Thursday night when I uttered an embittered - "Oh, fuck me" - in the laundry room. I anticipated toasty clean clothes, but found only drenched ones. It dawned on me that after paying for the dryer an hour earlier, I had forgotten to hit the start button - hence the cursing.

I have absolutely no shame (reference my tattoo, that time I went to a singles event at Babeland in the name of journalism, etc.) and vented my pent up frustration in front of a fellow midnight laundry-doer. To my surprise, she asked me what was wrong. I told her. To my even greater surprise, she swiped her card and paid for my dryer. My astonishment left me to stutter out a thank you with a longer delay than a live TV appearance by Russell Brand.

I'm not the I've-always-relied-on-the-kindness-of-strangers type, but cynicism isn't necessarily preferable to naivety when it comes to an outlook on humanity. Downtown Manhattan certainly hammered that point home during a enchanted Friday afternoon. My new prescription for fighting big city blues in New York is to amble through supple West Village streets or loiter around divine parks with a soccer ball in hand or by foot. I promise, magical things will happen.

The afternoon started on a very isolated note. At East River Park, with my soccer ball, I took 17 penalties in a row - aiming for the right side netting of the goal every time. It was my way of disciplining myself for moments when nerves tend to get the better of me. A group of twenty-somethings borrowed my pump for their American football. I bantered with the man who made my lunch about the indifferent attitude Americans have towards the beautiful game. I played a pick-up game of soccer with some Mexican guys at the John Walker Park in the West Village, until a platoon of 9-year-old's ousted us with parents and permits. I watched on with delight as four middle school kids at Sugar Sweet Sunshine played cards and ate cupcakes. Bouncing the ball as I waited to cross Chrystie Street, a truck cruised by and the driver yelled out to me - "I'll play with you!" - I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. I played a passing game on the First Avenue sidewalk as I chatted to some eastern Europeans. Walking along the periphery of StuyTown, I saw a construction worker with an array of tools beside him and an open bottle of Yuengling.

All afternoon, as I roamed between 18th and Canal from the West Side Highway to the FDR Drive, people would shoot me a puzzled smile and ask, "Soccer ball?" as if I were holding a mystical creature previously thought to be extinct. I garnered many a longing gaze from the profusion of young children scampering out of schools.

I've always considered this city a playground, but in a strictly adult way. There is an anonymity about partying in New York that allows people to freely indulge in public intoxication, fornication and pupil dilation. But Friday afternoon's slice of spring showed me a softer side of New York that encouraged me to relax the guarded stance I've adopted as of late. How easily I found playmates made me feel like a small kid. No worries apart from the embarrassment of a miskick; no pain apart from sore legs; no fears apart from goal tending next. All this liberation because of a soccer ball.

That night, I stood on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry with two of my best friends as we drifted from the tip of Manhattan. The Statue of Liberty flanked us on the left, the Financial District illuminated our view ahead and ruffled water marked the path we'd taken. My mind shut out unpleasant thoughts and focused fully on the splendor in front of me. That's the way I hope it stays.

A Blossom Fell

From Black Sand Journal

I felt nostalgic this morning. I put on some Nat King Cole to cheer myself up after three measly hours of sleep. Until the age of four, my Dad used to slow dance to Nat King Cole in the living room as I slipped into sleep on his shoulder. It is tragically appropriate that the song 'A Blossom Fell' conjures up the most vivid memories of those early childhood nights.

From Black Sand Journal

I don't have the right to reveal too many details about my family's checkered past, but when my insecurities get the best of me I wonder to what extent my relationships are doomed by the fact I grew up without role models who completed or complimented each other. I'm not quite sure I know any better than to be an ostensibly strong individual, who can do little more than paper over gaps in the relationships I have been involved with that too often have not been mine own.

From Black Sand Journal

Feminstinct

From Black Sand Journal

I should have stolen this moped. I imagine a woman parked it at the steps of Gould Plaza after absconding from the 1950s. My guess is she took full advantage of modern day America by purchasing a metro card, throwing on a pair of jeans and letting herself loose at some sapphic bar in the West Village.

Or at least that's what I hope she did. My man-hate as of late has hardly been covert. Not that I actually hate men - off the top of my head I can name eight that I consider my closest friends, two of whom I've dated. Though they broke my heart last weekend, the men who pull on the red shirt of Manchester United will always command my love and respect.

But my entire life I've found myself frustrated with gender roles and what people label as 'ladylike'. Long before I could even conceptualize sexuality, I was a tomboy. I liked the ninja turtles and played soccer religiously. I never liked pink or wore anything remotely girly, and those habits stayed with me throughout adolescence. I like vintage Adidas trainers, not Nine West high heels (though I own a delightful 3.75" pair that I wear when I'm feeling masochistic). I love my button-downs, jeans and new blazer more than I ever could a dress. My androgynous style is what I am comfortable with, but it hasn't always garnered the most respect. As a soccer-playing and foul-mouthed 16 year-old, how to attract boys became a huge source of anxiety.

Instead of trying rebuke the unnecessary expectations heaped on me to look and act 'ladylike' (really, wtf does that mean? Cooking? Cleaning? Nodding enthusiastically in silent agreement with whatever my boyfriend just said?), I conformed - kinda. I think I was still myself on the inside - outspoken and unrelenting - but I just looked more like what people wanted on the outside. Ears pierced, hair straight, short skirts, make-up done. This new expression of my femininity was for the sole purpose of attracting men.

These insecurities about my perceived sexuality held me back from embracing something that should have come naturally to me - feminism. In fact, I think my short-lived burst of femininity was innately anti-feminist. Why was I aspiring to be something that made me feel uneasy and awkward? Why did I believe confining myself to mainstream femininity was a prerequisite for male affection? Of course, being feminine is perfectly fine... when it is what you want to be.

Honestly, the misandry is misdirected hate. I got more criticism from girls while growing up than I did from boys, but boys were what I was after. Oddly enough, now that I'm in college and the years of high school restlessness and fake-femininity are behind me, I am the most narcissistic son-of-a-bitch you are ever likely to meet. I wear what I want and choose the way I behave regardless of whatever gender-rules people of either sex may think I'm violating. That is feminism. This all comes back to the reasons I got my tattoo; I fucking wanted it - end of story.

One small but significant caveat to an otherwise liberating story. All this misplaced misandry is inspired by probably the only man I've been involved with who relished the real and raw me. Gotta love the irony.

Missing Words

From Black Sand Journal

Midterms week put this blog into a near fatal coma, so I better start the resuscitation now that spring break has finally arrived.

One morning (well, technically afternoon) this week, I woke up and glanced at my arm, saw that my tattoo was not there - yelped! - then realized once consciousness settled in that I was looking at the wrong arm. I've probably spent too much time gazing adoringly at my tattoo (you know, after figuring out left from right). My eyes are repeatedly seduced by the embossed lettering - an affect that will wear off once my skin fully heals. I think I've outdone myself with this subcultural narcissism.

I'm fairly certain not everyone who sees my tattoo will be as smitten with it. I just emailed my mother and I am nervously awaiting her reply. A few friends have expressed their reservations about the particularly exposed location. My tattoo is hard to hide, but that is kind of the point. This wasn't an act of rebellion; I got these 14 letters tattooed on the inside of my left forearm with only the intention of staying faithful to myself. My response to people who have a problem with who I choose to be will never involve conforming to their image of what is acceptable. To anyone who feels the urge to chastise me for my tattoo, my only reaction will be a slight shrug of my shoulders, a quick flash of my smile, and perhaps a subtle roll of my eyes.

Walking through Alphabet City yesterday afternoon, I felt compelled to lower my gaze to the ground and delightfully discovered the words "Obedience Is Not Patriotism" stenciled in black on the pavement. How resonantly true - obedience shouldn't be an element of identity in which anyone takes pride.

Then he said, "Welcome to the club."

Long time, I know. Lets recap an eventful week.

Starting with the bad - what the fuck is wrong with South Asia? Seriously - terrorists hijacking Mumbai hotels, air striking downtown Colombo, and now shooting up the cricketers in Lahore. The news has not sunk in. For the love of God - they are sportsmen. Not soldiers or politicians or anybody who carries clout beyond the boundary ropes. Targeting them was cowardly - like all terrorist acts - but the fact the attack was so naively unexpected makes it all the more embittering. David Hopps wrote an immensely moving article that was published in the Guardian today.

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Now, the good - actually, the dazzling. My sister got married over the weekend. Coincidentally, all the bottles in the picture above mysteriously disappeared. I may have been responsible, but honestly I did not commit much to memory that night.

As always, my flight back to New York was delayed. When I eventually made it to the city I came home to this wonderful view. Strangely enough, I haven't found the freezing temperatures or snow all that inconvenient, though that may be because I used both as an excuse to skip all my classes that don't take attendance.

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All the snow-allotted free time gave me the opportunity to finally go through with something I've wanted for the past two years. The first two months of 2009, amidst all the unexpected and at times disturbing occurrences, have instilled in me the common sense not to deny any aspect of myself - which is why I got a tattoo.

I sat calmly in the waiting area of an Alphabet City tattoo parlor, with a man who no superlative could ever live up to. He was jittery. In anticipation of getting inked, I didn't think about the pain or the needles or the possibility of future regret. The tattoo became a part of me in the moment that I decided what, where and why I wanted it. While we lingered, inhaling that oddly satisfying sterile scent, I knew the tattoo was already done - I was merely going through the motions and time to arrive at a place I had reached long before. The real surprise lay in my sudden hankering for an avocado as I looked at the ink seeped into my skin for the very first time.

From Black Sand Journal

FYI: Week from hell coming up, so sadly bye-for-a-while again.

The Wise Words of Wilco

You could accurately tell the story of my year by splicing together lyrics from an assortment of Wilco songs, but you'd have to include this one in full - We're Just Friends.

Lessons From Last Week

Writing is one addiction I cannot abnegate for life. Last week turned out to be monumental, and it would be remiss if I did not reflect on all that I learned here.

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On Wednesday night, a radical student group called "Take Back NYU!" barricaded itself inside the cafeteria of the NYU student center with a list of 13 demands. What started out as some wholesome dancing and poster painting turned into a highly contentious debate on influence and effects of student protest by the time day broke on Thursday. Property was damaged, a security guard suffered injuries, two female sophomores walked around topless in the middle of the day and at night two males were arrested as NYPD cops and cars lined the outside of the occupied building.

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And I got to cover it all for NYU Local, a student run blog I've been writing for since the start of the semester. My section editor had the forethought and enterprise to place himself inside the barricaded area with a camcorder and laptop to document the entire occupation from the inside, and update his coverage on the NYU Local site every few minutes. NYU students, faculty and administrators followed NYU Local to get a clue about what was going on. The rest of us ran around taking/acquiring photos, interviewing people, and publishing all the information we could with as short as a two hour turn over. We blew the "official" school news source out of the fucking water. You can read my summary of the ordeal here.

From Black Sand Journal

Of course, TBYNU! decided to gift me the most significant journalism experience of my life thus far the day before an economics midterm. I cabbed it home from the student center at 2AM - roughly 9 hours before my exam - with ice blocks for hands and a feeling of utter exhilaration. I found out later NYU Local received half a million page views over the course of the occupation and our coverage was linked by The New York Times, Gothamist, The Village Voice, Gawker and New York Magazine. It blew my fucking mind to be a part of something so exceptional - something that so many people followed.

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I had a moment of clarity. I want to be a journalist because it makes me feel alive. I absolutely loved working with the rest of the NYU Local staff, who are a group of incredibly witty and talented writers. I was able to push all my personal tribulations to the back of my mind in order to get the story out as quickly as I could. Paradoxically, this restless journalism gave me the patience I required to properly comprehend the more unpleasant issues I'm currently facing.

I can report on the circumstances, but I cannot rectify them. I'm a much happier person for acknowledging and accepting my situation than I would be hopelessly trying to alter it. I know which causes are worth the fight, but I'm not about to needlessly barricade myself in regret.

Edit: Just wanted to add, despite the fact somebody in the comments section of my TBNYU! summary called me an "illiterate douchebag," I have never felt more at ease with who I am, as a journalist and a person.

Let It Die

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